Mutiny (17 page)

The Teroni ship flitted from one system to another like a bee looking for honey. Twice more during the next three days Cole urged Podok to destroy it, and twice more the Polonoi refused.

"You're going to get yourself in serious trouble," remarked Forrice as he and Cole sat in the mess hall during another white shift. "How many times can you tell her to do something she doesn't want to do?"

"She's going to get the
Teddy R
in serious trouble," replied Cole. "If there was ever any doubt that the Teroni ship was hunting for the fuel depots, it's got to be gone by now. Just what the hell does Podok think she's going to do when the Fifth Teroni Fleet shows up?"

"Ask her."

"I have. Frequently. All she does is say that she's going to obey her orders—but damn it, repeating it over and over like a religious litany doesn't make it possible!"

"I don't know what we can do about it anyway," said Forrice. "Wait till she sees how many of them there are and how many guns they've got and then run like hell, I suppose." Suddenly he frowned. "You don't think she'd consider going up against them in the
Teddy R,
do you?"

"If there's one thing in the whole damned galaxy I don't understand, it's officers," said Cole. "And if there's one officer I especially don't understand, it's her."

"You're an officer yourself," the Molarian pointed out.

"Let me win a couple more medals and you can bet your alien ass they'll bust me down to sergeant or yeoman," said Cole. "I think when we get to the next blue shift, I'll harass the shit out of that little ship and see if I can get it to fire on me. Then even Podok can't complain if I blow it away."

"Have you ever considered that it might blow us away?" asked Forrice.

"Which would you rather face—one scout ship or the whole Fifth Teroni Fleet? Because as sure as we're sitting here, we're going to have to face one or the other."

"The only thing I can think of is to contact Fleet Command, explain the situation, and suggest in the strongest possible terms that they countermand our orders and issue new ones."

"I am not Fleet Command's favorite officer," said Cole. "I could swear that when Admiral Garcia was pinning my Medal of Courage on me she was trying her damnedest to stick the pin into my chest."

"Come on, Wilson," said Forrice. "The damned medal was bonded to your uniform. They haven't used pins in a millennium or more."

"Well, if they did, she'd have driven it into me," muttered Cole. "Anything I tell them will just be written off as the usual insubordination."

"Don't look at
me"
replied the Molarian. "I'm here because I refused an order to execute a wounded prisoner. If I complain, they're going to be sure I'm begging to be allowed to cut and run."

"That's some brass we work for, isn't it?" said Cole.

The holographic menu came to life, then gradually morphed into a written message from Sharon Blacksmith:

If you're going to criticize every officer in the Fleet above the rank of Ensign

who isn't named Cole or Forrice, try to keep your voices down.

"You think anyone cares?" asked Cole softly.

The menu displayed a new message:

Do you think you're the only officer with friends in Security?

"Okay, point taken," said Cole.

"You really think she's got spies in Security?" asked Forrice.

"She's the Captain. Anyone who does her bidding aboard her ship can hardly be considered a spy. But to answer your question, yes, I think she's probably got loyalists in almost every department. Wouldn't you, if you were the Captain? I certainly would."

"I don't understand you at all," said Forrice. "Every time I'm convinced you hate her, you say something like that."

"I don't hate her," answered Cole. "I just wish she had a little more common sense, since all of our lives depend on her judgment."

"Don't remind me."

Cole got to his feet. "I'm too restless to just sit here. I've got to walk around."

"Ensign Marcos was released from confinement about an hour ago," said Forrice. "You could pay her a visit and make your friend in Security very jealous."

The menu displayed a new message:

It has come to Security's attention that there is a Teroni spy aboard the ship,

posing as a Molarian of command rank. I think we may have to incarcerate

him without food or water for the next six hundred years.

"On the other hand," said Forrice without missing a beat, "I'm sure Ensign Marcos would rather cohabit with a handsome vigorous young man rather than an elderly, decrepit senior officer."

The menu changed messages again:

Okay, you can live. But watch your step.

The Molarian hooted a laugh. "I
like
her," he said.

"Come to think of it, so do I," replied Cole. He faced the menu, although he knew that Sharon could hear him no matter where he was.

"But I wish she'd spend less time protecting her sexual turf and more time watching that Teroni ship. Is it getting any closer to New Argentina or the Benidos system?"

Hard to tell. It's not moving in any recognizable pattern.

"Is there any way we can monitor its transmissions?"

We're trying—but it can use an infinite number of frequencies. We haven't

pinpointed which one it's using yet—and it could be that it isn't sending

any messages at all.

"We ought to blow the goddamned thing to pieces before it does," said Cole.

I believe we've all heard this song before.

"You know, come to think of it, Rachel is looking damned good," said Cole. "Young, round, earnest, trusting. I wonder why I never saw it before."

The menu vanished.

"I think we're free from cynical commentary for a few minutes anyway," said Cole with a smile. "And I'm still feeling restless. I'm going to walk around the ship a bit."

"Good," said Forrice. "Now that you won't be here to make caustic remarks, I'm free to eat a
real
meal."

Cole walked out of the mess hall. He went up to his room, decided he was too wide awake to take a nap, spent a few minutes visiting with Pampas, walked down to the science lab (which was empty, as usual), dropped in at the infirmary to check on Kudop's condition, and finally went to his cabin.

He shaved, took a Dryshower, got dressed again, checked his timepiece to see how long he had before blue shift began, called up a book on his computer, found he couldn't concentrate, and replaced it with a holo of a nightclub performance on Calliope III that featured magicians, singers, and a lot of near-naked chorus girls. It held his attention for almost two minutes before he shut it off.

Suddenly Sharon's image appeared before him.

"You're driving me crazy!" she said. "Can't you just stay in one place and relax?"

"I'm trying."

"You're not trying hard enough. If the Teroni fleet actually shows up during a blue shift, you're going to be too sleepy to react."

"It's the other shifts that get to me," said Cole. "I'll be fine once blue shift begins."

"You're wound up like a spring," she said.

"Haven't you got something better to do than watch me?"

"We're in a dangerous military situation and you'll take over command in an hour. So no, I haven't got anything better to do." She lowered her voice, presumably because there was someone in her outer office. "I suppose I could get away for about twenty minutes and ease your tensions."

"Shoot down that fucking ship," he said.
"That'll
ease my tensions."

She shrugged. "Well, I offered."

"I'm sorry. I'm not mad at
you."

"Even so, maybe next time I'll charge you."

"Maybe I'll pay," he said. "Hell, I've got nothing else to spend it on. Besides, someone as pretty as Rachel is probably out of my price range."

"1 know heroes like to live dangerously," replied Sharon, "but you're really pushing your luck."

"All right," he laughed. "I feel better. Thanks."

"And I didn't even have to get out of my clothes."

"I think I might as well go to the mess hall and grab some coffee before I go to work."

"Wilson, you've had five cups of coffee already."

"It'll keep me alert."

"It'll keep you running to the bathroom."

"That'll
keep me alert, too," he said, getting to his feet.

He spent a boring half hour at the mess hall, played twenty minutes of chess with Mustapha Odom, the seldom-seen engine chief, and finally went up to the bridge.

"Request permission to come onto the bridge, Captain," he said, saluting.

Podok checked the chronometer atop the main viewscreen.

"You're three minutes early, Commander Cole."

"Better than being three minutes late, Captain."

"True," said Podok. "Permission granted."

He walked over to where he could see the main screen at a better angle.

"Looks about the same as it did yesterday," he commented.

"Possibly you were mistaken, and it is not an advance scout at all," suggested Podok.

"It's got to be," responded Cole. "It's been in the cluster for three days now. If it has any purpose other than finding the depots, why hasn't it landed?"

Podok merely stared at him, looking alien and inscrutable.

Christine Mboya arrived and walked to her station, as did Malcolm Briggs. The chronometer struck 1600 hours.

"You're relieved, Captain," said Cole.

Podok saluted and left the bridge.

"You look unhappy, Mr. Briggs," said Cole.

"I was watching the murderball game between Spica II and Far London, sir," replied Briggs. "It was tied with five minutes to go when I had to leave and report here."

"Nothing much is happening," said Cole. "Put the game on the main screen if you want."

"Thank you, sir," said Briggs. "It'll only be a few minutes, even with time-outs."

He uttered a command to the computer, and suddenly the murder-ball stadium filled the screen. The scene focused on the field, and the activity became more and more frantic. Injured players were carted off the field and replaced by the few remaining healthy ones. Finally the crowd began counting down the seconds, and when they reached zero, they let out an enormous cheer.

"Far London 4, Spica 3," read Briggs. "They must have scored after I left my room. Oh, well, that's the price one pays for making the galaxy safe for overpaid athletes."

Another command and the screen reverted to the Cassius Cluster.

"Something's wrong, sir," said Christine Mboya, frowning.

"What is it?"

"I can't find the Teroni ship."

"How far can it have gotten in four or five minutes?" asked Cole.

She shrugged. "I don't know. I'm still searching for it." Then: "Got it, sir!" She turned to him. "I think we have a problem, sir."

"Explain."

"The Teroni ship, sir—it's in orbit about Benidos II. In the three days it's been in the cluster it hasn't gone into orbit anywhere else."

"That's it!" said Cole decisively. "Pilot, get us to Benidos II, full speed. Mr. Briggs, tell Four Eyes to get his ass down to the gunnery section and supervise the crew. I want to know that our weapons are working."

"What are you going to do, sir?" asked Christine.

"What we should have done three days ago. Mr. Briggs, has Four Eyes responded?"

"Yes, sir," said Briggs. "He says he'll be there within a minute."

"Another problem, sir," said Christine. "A big one."

"What now?"

"I'll put it on the main screen."

He found himself looking at the edge of the Cassius Cluster. For just an instant it looked as it had for days—and then, suddenly, the screen was filled with dozens of ships, then hundreds, all sporting the insignia of the Fifth Teroni Fleet.

"How long will it take them to reach the Benidos system?" he asked.

"Perhaps ten minutes, sir. Eleven at the outside."

"Shit!" said Cole. "There's no sense blowing up the scout ship now. It would just give them another reason to be mad at us."

"Shall I sound the red alert?" asked Christine.

"Yeah, I suppose you'd better. Then pipe your voice throughout the ship and call all hands to battle stations, just in case some of them have never heard a red alert before and don't know how to respond to it. Mr. Briggs, contact Four Eyes again and tell him if his battle station is anywhere except the gunnery section to ignore Lieutenant Mboya's instructions."

"Yes, sir."

"And release Sergeant Pampas from confinement and tell him to get the hell down to the gunnery section."

"But sir, he's not due out for—"

"We haven't got time to argue, Mr. Briggs," said Cole. "If we're going to start shooting, I want at least one technician I trust overseeing the weapons."

"Yes, sir," said Briggs, issuing the orders via his computer.

The red-alert siren bleated three times, fell silent for half a minute, then burst into earsplitting sound again.