Operation Chimera (4 page)

“What is wrong?” Zavex’s silken voice vibrated from the walls.

Aaron glanced at him. “For a ship this size, these cabins are small.”

“Which side of the room do you want?”

“It doesn’t matter.” Aaron chucked his bag on the bed to his left. “They’re both tiny, but I guess it will have to do.”

Zavex emitted a series of noises reminiscent of an air hose leaking through a bucket of gelatin. The translator made a creepy emotionless version of laughter. “I don’t imagine we will be spending much time in here.”

“Attention all combat pilots,” said a voice that seemed to come from nowhere in particular.

Everyone froze in place, gazing at the ceiling.

“All combat pilots are to report to Briefing Room A by 1600 hours. For you Academy cadets, that means four p.m.”

“So soon? What do you think this is?” asked Zavex.

Aaron waved at the wall. “Oh, it’s probably just some butt-kissing ‘you are our last hope’ pep talk or something.”

“You do not seem to be taking this very seriously.” Zavex leaned on the wall, tapping the three toes of his right foot.

“We’re going to win.” Aaron hung the last of his uniforms in the wardrobe.

Zavex leaned in, narrowing his eyes to thin vertical stripes of blue. “How can you be so certain?”

“Because.” Aaron turned with a used-starship-salesman smile. “I’m here.”

aptain Nicholas Driscoll was accustomed to the looks as he strode toward the airlock that would take him from Horizon Station to the
Manhattan
.

He was more than familiar with the ship’s design, but to see her with his own eyes―beyond the viewports, awaiting his arrival―was something else entirely. From the observation level of the station, where a half hour before he’d sat and had coffee, it had seemed impossibly large. However, the size was more a necessity than an act of showmanship on the part of the designers. The
Manhattan
was big because it had to be. Driscoll had never heard of a Terran Union ship carrying such a variety of starfighters before, nor in such quantity.

Indeed, the
Manhattan
was a self-contained fleet.

Driscoll approached the security desk but, as was so often the case, didn’t need to introduce himself. As he pressed his palm against an ident scanner and waited for the Milsec security personnel to clear him for entrance to the
Manhattan
, he couldn’t help but remember how he had thought his previous command―an Archon class called the
Sonata
―was impressively large. Next to the
Manhattan
, it paled in comparison. At the time, she’d been the biggest ship he had ever commanded. But now…

“You’re clear for entry,” the Milsec guard told him. “Welcome aboard the
Manhattan
, Captain Driscoll.”

Driscoll nodded curtly and stepped through the decontamination jets. The torrent of ionized air buffeted him from all sides like a tingly mist till he set foot on the
Manhattan
’s deck.

Commander Robin Teague stood there waiting for him already, hands clasped behind her back.

“Captain,” she said, and snapped to attention. “Welcome to the
Manhattan
.”

Driscoll returned her salute, glanced left and right. Men and women hurried this way and that. Unlike station side, they barely noticed him there with his carryall. This was how he preferred it. Away from the pomp and protocol, he was just a man leading others. That was all. But given his exploits in the past, people outside of a ship environment treated him as something different―a
celebrity
.

He hated it.

“At ease, Commander.”

“Yes, sir,” she said, almost embarrassed.

“Walk with me.” He hefted his carryall and headed left. “See if I remember where they stuck my quarters.”

“I believe we’re headed the correct way, sir,” Commander Teague said as she fell in step with him.

“Is everything on schedule, Commander?”

“Yes, Captain. We’re on target to depart within the hour,” Teague said. “Those were your orders, sir?”

Driscoll nodded once. “Yes. Any problems I should know about? Anything come up in the last couple of hours?”

“No, not at present,” Teague said. “Prep’s gone well. Though I dare say there’ll be a few hiccups, there always is.”

Now Driscoll gave her an appreciative look. “I like that, Commander. It tells me you’re thinking ahead and know we’ll have issues later. It’s a given. I also like that you’re not trying to blow smoke up my ass and feed me a load of bull. Keep it up. Tell me how it is. On the level.”

“Yes, sir.”

The Captain walked with determination, never breaking his stride. Crewmen and women swerved to avoid them as Commanding Officer and Executive Officer made their way toward the fore of the ship. Eventually they would be forced to take the elevator, but Driscoll seemed intent on covering as much deck by foot as he was able. The crew, for their part, paid little attention to who they were. They simply caught sight of the uniforms and made room.

Driscoll was everything Commander Teague had thought he’d be: muscular, deeply tanned, his hair more grey now than black. The man had an ever-present five o’clock shadow, even when he shaved. His famous scar ran all the way down his neck where, she knew, it continued out of sight beneath his uniform to cover the whole right arm. Driscoll’s jaw was squared off, his walk confident, but the one thing about him that stood out―made an impression on everyone he met―were his eyes.

They burned.

“Every ship has its problems. But we’ll iron those out. Just be sure to tell me when you have one come up that you can’t deal with on your own, you hear?”

Commander Teague smiled. “Of course, sir.”

“I’ll drop my things off at my quarters, then meet you up on the bridge,” Driscoll told her.

They turned a corner. A crew of engineers were dealing with a split in a coolant line. Driscoll didn’t stop to inquire. He didn’t need to waste minutes standing there talking to them, in turn inhibiting them from what they were already in the process of doing.
Let them get on with it.

“Captain, may I speak candidly?” Commander Teague asked.

“Go ahead.”

They finally came to an elevator. Commander Teague called it, and a second later they were inside, rushing up through the many levels of the ship. The Captain set his bag on the floor by his feet.

“A lot of our systems haven’t been tested yet, sir. The
Manhattan
has not had a shakedown cruise. I don’t want to sound impertinent when I say this, sir, but I do wonder if we’ve been rushed out the door without a proper chance to make sure everything’s in order,” Teague admitted.

Captain Driscoll didn’t answer right away. Although his rugged face remained impassive, Commander Teague saw he was chewing it over. Evidently she’d not spoken out of line, or else she’d have expected an immediate reproach. The elevator hummed around them. Captain Driscoll faced her.

“Do you
trust
me, Commander?” he asked in a calm, level voice.

“Yes, sir. Implicitly.”

“You make a fair point about the ship. But know that I would not put this ship and its crew in any danger I myself wouldn’t be willing to face. Trust my judgment, Commander, and we’ll do well together. I have a way of doing things that might not sit well with what you’re used to.”

“Understood, Captain,” she said.

The elevator slowed to a stop as they arrived at the desired deck. Captain Driscoll lifted his carryall off the floor. For the first time since they’d met, the suggestion of a smile lifted the corner of his mouth. “Besides, I wouldn’t necessarily consider myself
untried
when it comes to leading a mission into deadly territory…”

Driscoll exited the lift and left Commander Teague stood there with her mouth agape, watching him go, unable to say anything at all in return.

Captain Driscoll found his quarters sparse, uninspired, and utilitarian.

Exactly as he liked them.

He set his carryall on the bed, then went about emptying it. He hadn’t brought much with him―a few keepsakes that he dotted about, two bottles of single malt he placed in the bottom of a drawer and other assorted belongings he didn’t waste much time on. The two bottles of scotch were his real cargo. His one vice.