Trial and Temptation (Mandrake Company) (5 page)

Er, so much for standing in the corridor. Val stepped toward the door, and it slid aside. She stopped on the threshold, though the busy and omnipresent decor distracted her from her resolve to simply toss the goggles and go.

She wasn’t sure what she had expected from Thatcher, but walls filled with spaceship, shuttle, and airplane models wasn’t it. Walls, shelves on walls, display cases on walls, larger pieces hanging from the ceiling… It was like walking into a ten-year-old boy’s room, except everything was fastidiously organized and labeled. And there wasn’t laundry on the floor. The sole deviation from the flying-things decor was a set of dwarf fruit trees potted in a grow system in the corner. They all had the same long drooping leaves, with one tree flowering and two others bearing fruit. The flowers smelled lovely even from across the room, and she recognized them from the big greenhouses she had worked in as a child.

“Mangoes?” she wondered aloud. Even though she could see and smell the evidence, she hadn’t encountered the trees in so long that she doubted her senses.

“Yes.” Commander Thatcher sat on the edge of his bunk, tying his boots. He wasn’t wearing a shirt, either—late night nudity was definitely a trend on this ship—though one was folded on the bed next to him, waiting to be donned. His hair was wet and not yet combed, and that gave her a start. She had never seen him with a lock out of place. Had she arrived a few minutes earlier, she might have caught him in the shower. That would have been… awkward.

Thatcher was giving her a curious look, and Val had a feeling he hadn’t expected her.

She held up the goggles. “Lieutenant Sequoia said to bring these to you, sir.”

“Ah.” He held out a hand.

She tossed them to him, not wanting to step into his personal space. Or have him in hers. He wasn’t leering at her the way that idiot in the hall had been, but he was her asshole instructor from the academy, not anyone she wanted to admire with his shirt off. Even if his torso was nicely muscled. Not so heavily as the captain’s or Striker’s, but he had a lean ropey build that went with his more cerebral air. She wondered if he held his own on the wrestling mat. He had always struck her as someone who would have had the snot beaten out of him regularly if not for the rank on his uniform.

“Is there something else, Cadet Calendula?” Thatcher picked up his shirt and pulled it over his head.

Val blushed. He hadn’t caught her staring, had he? The last thing she wanted was for him to think she had an
interest
in him. Or that she was thinking of sleeping with him to ensure she got the job or something else ridiculous and demeaning.

“No, sir. Goodnight.” Val turned for the door but flinched, flinging up a hand when she glimpsed something dangling near her head. When she realized it was stationary and high enough above her that she wouldn’t have hit it, she felt foolish and tried to cover her reaction. Maybe she would pretend that interest had been what made her pause. “That’s a strange one.” The model—some sort of bizarre airplane with a propeller and an extra set of wings—looked like it would be lucky to have the power and aerodynamic mettle to mow a lawn much less fly. “What is it?”

After she spoke, she remembered that she was supposed to be promptly leaving the cabin and not putting any strange notions about herself into the commander’s head. She should have simply ignored her flinch and hustled out.

“That is a Sopwith Camel.” Thatcher walked over and unclasped it from its hook so she could have a closer look. “It was an early biplane fighter from Old Earth, and it was used in the first big war after flight was invented. They say it was difficult to fly, thanks to the engine, pilot, guns, and fuel tank all being positioned close together within the first seven feet of the craft. In addition, the gyroscopic effect of the rotary engine provided a further challenge. Look at the machine guns. They were incredibly heavy, awkward, and primitive. The whole craft was, but I’ve often wondered what it would have been like for those early pilots, looking your enemies right in the eye, with the wind blowing in your face, engine oil spattering your goggles.”

Val had never heard Thatcher speak animatedly about anything, and she caught herself gaping at him. When he looked at her—expecting some cognizant contribution to the conversation?—she blurted the first thing that came to mind. “Seems like it’d be hard to see your enemy if you had engine oil all over your goggles.” Way to sound intelligent, Val. Nice work.

He blinked a couple of times, as if this problem had never occurred to him. “I believe they wore scarves so they could wipe the lenses.”

“Practical.” Val glanced around at the dozens—hundreds?—of other models, wondering if Thatcher knew all the specifications and trivia for each one. Probably so. For some reason, an urge to quiz him on a couple came to mind. If only because it had been so odd to hear him speak with passion about something. No, what did she care about his passions? She needed to get out of there. “I better go.”

“Val—Cadet Calendula, wait,” he said.

She paused on the threshold, the door sliding open in front of her. “Yes, sir?”

He stood there, his model held gently in his hands, gazing at her as if he wanted to say something, but he merely shook his head and looked down at the ancient airplane. “There is nothing more. I will modify the ocular simulator to offer you a superior training experience tomorrow.”

“Uh. Fantastic.”

Val took a step and almost crashed into another chest. No, wait, it was the captain’s chest again, this time covered with a black T-shirt.

“Pardon me, sir.” She stepped back to let him enter.

“Sir.” Thatcher came into a rigid attention stance, his heels snapping together, and saluted.

Val hadn’t seen anyone else salute since she had been on board, but if anyone would maintain a rigid military professionalism, even out here on a mercenary ship, it would be Thatcher. The captain saluted back, though his eyebrow twitched at the model. Thatcher hurried to hang it back on the hook, missing the eyelet a couple of times in the process. Did the captain make him nervous? Good. No one ever had at the academy, insofar as she had seen. He needed someone who could squash that pompous arrogance of his. Though, granted, he wasn’t acting quite as self-important as he had ten years ago. Maybe being kicked out of the army, or whatever had happened, had dulled the edge of his conceit.

Val lingered in the threshold, curious as to what these two might be meeting about, but she had essentially been dismissed, so she turned back toward the corridor to leave.

“She the one you’re taking on the mission?” the captain asked.

Val halted. Her? Or were they talking about someone else? Maybe they had forgotten she was in the cabin. But when she glanced over her shoulder, both men were looking at her.

“She’s not officially in the company yet, sir,” Thatcher said. “It would be premature to take her on a dangerous mission.”

“It’s going to be a dangerous mission whether she’s on the
Albatross
or on a shuttle with you. I wouldn’t have approved taking on a trainee this week if I’d known we would be off to Icesphere, but we were close and they’re offering solid pay.”

Go on a dangerous mission with Thatcher? If she thought spending five minutes in his cabin had been awkward…

“It was my understanding that the
Albatross
would simply be fighting hard enough to provide a convincing distraction, sir,” Thatcher said.

“Against the Death Rush Fleet. They have seven ships and five times the men we have. Some will be down on the planet, true, but we’ll have our hands full surviving for three days and convincing them that we were brought in to do more than harry their supply ships.”

“I object to Admiral Pentalon’s declaration of his outfit as a fleet. Seven ships. That would scarcely qualify as a flotilla.”

The captain grunted. “Whatever it is, it’s a lot more than we’ve got.” He pointed at Val. “We need to see how she handles a shuttle in combat. It’s likely you’ll face obstacles, even with our distraction. If not on the way in, then on the way out, after you drop off your cargo. She can pilot, and you can take over if she needs help.”

Val rested her hand on the doorjamb, not sure if she was honored by this potential assignment—a chance to prove herself a capable pilot and to earn some combat pay, too—or horrified. It sounded like being invited into the bullring in the Mafiarcha Kingdom. You could impress the king and earn your way out of indentured servitude… or you could get yourself gored to death.

“I do not know if she is ready, sir,” Thatcher said.

Val might not be sure whether this was a good idea or not herself, but she resented his insinuation that she couldn’t handle the task. But then she reminded herself that she didn’t
want
to get in a shuttle with Thatcher for… however many hours—or days, ugh—this mission might take.

“Where are you from, Calendula?” the captain asked. “Originally.”

“Lakeridge Silva, sir. Southern Continent.”

“Any family make it off-world? Before the end?”

“Just my brother. He’d been accepted to Varsmouth University on Novus Earth, and it was his first year of studies.” Strange to remember what a scholar he had been, how much pride and hope their parents had possessed for him. Mom and Dad hadn’t expected all that much from their daughter, but her younger brother, for whom academics had always come so easily, had intended to become a banker or finance guru, someone who might effect change from within the system. But he’d never recovered from the destruction of their world, never cared to return to that “system” again. He’d had so much potential to be whatever he wanted, to determine his own fate. His descent into mediocrity—and below—had always seemed a greater crime than her own.

If the captain thought anything of her long silence or the misty look that must have entered her eyes, he didn’t say anything. Thatcher didn’t say anything, either, though his was less a look of understanding and more a look that said he didn’t understand, couldn’t. It was just as well. She had never been comfortable with profusions of sympathy.

“What do you think of the ship so far?” the captain asked. “Aside from the nudity?”

Thatcher’s brow wrinkled at the latter question, and he touched his shirt, then glanced back to the bed to where it had been when Val first walked in.

“It’s, uhm, fine, sir,” she said.

“A heartfelt endorsement.” The captain didn’t sound annoyed. “I’ve been told of late that I shouldn’t give free passes to people just because we come from the same place, so you’ll have to survive Thatcher’s tests if you want the job, but I’ll wish you luck.”

“Thank you, sir,” Val said and strolled out with a bounce in her step, despite the aching legs and throbbing knee. She had no idea what this mission was about, or if she could pass Thatcher’s battery of tests, but the captain’s words encouraged her.

She could deal with a day stuck in a shuttle with her overbearing commander if she had to. And if he didn’t want to spend a day in a shuttle with her? That was too damned bad. She could distract him by asking him about his models.

* * *

One of the ground crew had already packed the shuttle, but Gregor walked through it with a checklist pulled up on his tablet, regardless. Food and emergency rations for three, check. Extra fuel and battery packs, check. Charged lasers and loaded torpedo chambers, check. An idea of what he would discuss with Cadet Calendula during the several hours it would take them to get from the disembarkation point to the space station… no, he couldn’t check that one off the list. Which flummoxed him, because he had actually put it on his list, and not being able to complete the systems check would make it difficult to move forward and concentrate on further tasks.

He lifted a finger, intending to delete the silly addition, but he couldn’t. It was important. He wanted to talk with Calendula in a manner that would allow her to get to know him, to understand him. To not hate him. Actually, he wanted her to crawl into his lap and kiss him, but he couldn’t imagine what words might take their relationship from its current level to that lofty pinnacle. Something along the lines of we’re the last human beings in the galaxy, and it’s up to us to ensure the species survives, most likely. Even then, she might insist on in vitro fertilization.

Gregor scoffed at this line of thinking. His only goal for now should be to converse normally with her and put her at ease in his presence. Perhaps he should ask her questions that invited her to talk about herself. Some people liked to talk about themselves. Constantly. But he knew little about her. What would he ask? The captain had inquired about her homeland, her family. Her brother. Perhaps he could ask about that? Or would that be considered prying? He would be more comfortable talking about his own interests—he had always found it difficult to care about other people’s lives—but Calendula would probably not appreciate it if he blathered on about himself. In fact, Gregor had specifically been told that women did not find self-centered narcissism, as one lady had put it, appealing in a man.

“Sir?” came Calendula’s voice from outside the shuttle.

Damn, he had taken too long to finish his checklist. He hastily scribbled
brother
in the air above the tablet, then deleted it just as hastily. He did not want to make her uncomfortable by prying, so he wrote Basics of Space Flight Quiz instead. Yes, she could not fail to find a knowledge test useful. And it would serve the dual purpose of ensuring she was fit for this piloting assignment.