Troy Rising 2 - Citadel (6 page)

“This didn't used to be a problem,” Chief Petty Officer Elizabeth Barnett said, bitterly. “We had nearly twelve percent female personnel and if a gal had to disrobe for duty's sake she damned well could do it in a room full of guys if she had to. God damned Horvath.”

Chief Barnett was tall and generally slender. The “not slender” part had Dana wondering what her handle was. “Elizabreasts” came to mind. Dana wasn't flat but she also wasn't stacked. She harbored a touch of jealousy about chests like the Chief's.

“Roger, Chief,” Dana said. She picked up the parts of her suit and began carefully checking the seals.

“Do you want a checklist?”

“I'd prefer to do this myself, Chief,” Dana said, pretty sure she'd done a good inspection of her glove seals. “The only person I'm going to kill screwing it up is me.”

“Not necessarily,” the Chief said, taking a seat at the desk. The “evolution” had been moved from the Division Bay to Dana's quarters. And it had required calling in the Coxswain Chief of Flight A and getting a navopak out of stores. "If you're performing a critical evolution when you have a failure, it cascades. You're going to hear this over and over: there is no small mistake in space. I'm spending half my time performing training and incident reviews. More than half. Suit failures. Boat failures. Bad driving. More bad driving. Half the damned drivers are down groundside right now testifying at an incident review because we lost another Myrm to what looks like bad driving. Just flew right into a SAPL beam. Called a mayday then zap!

“I used to think the sea was merciless. And now I'm having to fill in on suit quals because we've finally got another split in the squadron.”

“Roger, Chief,” Dana said. “Sorry, Chief.”

“Not your fault,” Chief Barnett said. “Like I said, blame it on the damned Horvath and their damned Johannsen virus.”

“Roger, Chief,” Dana said, paying even more attention to her boot seals than they were really worth.

“And that caused a penny for your thoughts moment,” Chief Barnett said, looking up.

“Chief?” Dana said.

“Big girls in this man's Navy don't cry,” Chief Barnett said. “And I see you're managing not to. Barely. Who?”

“I'm from Anaheim, Chief,” Dana said, setting down the boots. She took a deep breath and picked up the suit to check the seals on it. “Dad in LA. Mom committed suicide right after.”

“Brother and sister-in-law,” the Chief said. “Two nieces and a nephew. Mother. Father was already dead. Chicago.”

“Yes, Chief,” Dana said.

“How old?” the Chief said. “Never mind, I can count. Where'd you grow up?”

“Indiana, Chief,” Dana said. “Middle of no-where Indiana. Place called Tangier.”

“Best place to be,” the Chief said. “You handling it?”

“Haven't you heard?” Dana said, as lightly as she could. “PTSD is the new normal. Something like 80% of the US has lost someone close to them. 53% have had direct experience of a Horvath attack. And that doesn't begin to touch the whole Johannsen thing. The strange part about being in Tangier was that I was weird. I was the only person in my school who had been in a target city. They . . . didn't get it.”

“Bitter much?” the Chief said.

“Sorry, Chief,” Dana said.

“I actually understand what you're talking about,” the Chief said. “You're not old enough to know ancient history like the Cole bombing. So I won't go into it and compared to what's happened, since, it's a minor blip. But I know about being the only person around who has nightmares.”

“Roger, Chief,” Dana said, setting the suit down. Now for the neck ring seals on the helmet.

“These are brand new,” the Chief said, picking up the gloves and inspecting them. “And the fabber here doesn't seem to have the problems of the ship fabber in Wolf. They're generally perfect right off the line. But you need to make sure the seal material is on solidly.”

“Roger, Chief,” Dana said, suddenly panicking. She was pretty sure she'd checked the seal material.

“You checked,” the Chief said, looking up. “I watched. And I'm double checking.”

“Thank you, Chief,” Dana said.

“That was a pretty good job,” Chief Barnett said when Dana was done with her inspection. “You know the parts and functions. You did a good, quality, detailed, inspection. Technically, I could sign you off on parts and functions and inspection right here. Which is amazing considering most of the nitwits we've been getting. But I expect that, cause you're a split. Especially since this Johannsen's shit, we've got twice as much to prove as ever.”

“Yes, Chief,” Dana said, not sure what else to say.

“And I'm not going to sign you off,” the Chief said, picking up the gloves again. “Because what I'm about to teach you ain't in the book. Yet. It's how to really inspect your suit. By the numbers, to the task and standard we ought to be requiring. Pick up the other glove.”

“Yes, Chief,” Dana said.

“Place glove in left hand, palm up,” the Chief said, demonstrating.

“Glove in left hand, palm up, aye,” Dana said.

“Run the index finger of your right hand down the inner thumb of the glove, checking for any burrs, irregularities or cuts,” the Chief said.

“Run index finger of right hand down inner thumb of glove, checking for burrs, irregularities or cuts, aye . . .”

The standard for donning a full suit was thirty-five seconds, about the maximum time a person could hold out in absolute vacuum. The initial “evolution” took nearly thirty and by the end Dana was sweating in her suit and wondering if she really wanted to be in the Navy.

The new chief who had gone Dutchman in the main bay may have had some issues with attention to detail. Chief Barnett did not. Chief Barnett probably had a task, condition and standard for going to the head.

“And now you're a fine junior space eagle,” Chief Barnett said. “As soon as you learn to do that in thirty seconds.”

“Roger, Chief,” Dana said, her voice muffled by the bubble helmet.

“I've placed the inspection document in your mailbox,” the Chief said. “Use it. If you can demonstrate that you can perform the task, condition and standard I'll check you off on inspection and parts. Check back with me in a week.”

“Check back in a week, aye, Chief.”

“And now you're ready to see your boat.”

“I am going to do this with gloves and helmet off,” Hartwell said, cycling the lock marked 142/C Bay. “Because I'm qualed to get them on if there's a problem. You're going to have to stay in the suit, buttoned up.”

“Roger, EM,” Dana said.

The “leopard” suits were not the Michelin-man suits of yore but a marvel of modern technology impossible without Glatun support.

Made of extremely thin layers, they wore like a wet-skin rather than a puffy NASA suit. Normally that would mean that, due to vacuum dilation, the user would be stuck in a starfish configuration. Vacuum “sucked” on a person in a spacesuit and they tended to end up in a spread-eagle. The suits got around that by being, in effect, very low-powered armor. The inner layer was an earth-tech material that was used in high-end wetsuits. It was slick enough to slide on easily over bare skin, making donning the suits rapidly possible. The next layer was a complex of heat transfer tubes that looked not unlike the human capillary system. That permitted the wearer to maintain temperature control in the varied conditions of space. It also absorbed transpired CO2 and other gases from the skin and carried back O2 to prevent degradation.

The next layer was a thin layer of woven carbon nanotube. Beyond that was the Glatun “autoflex” material. Essentially, it magnified the movements of the user just enough to overcome the suction aspects of vacuum. It couldn't be powered up, much, but it was enough to overcome the problem of moving in space.

Over that were two more layers of carbon nanotube to prevent damage to the suit. They also were so finely woven, no volatiles like, say, blood and oxygen, escaped.

A wonder of modern technology and Dana was already starting to loathe it.

“Oh, yeah,” Hartwell said as the inner door cycled. “Micrograv.”

“Roger, EM,” Dana said as the yellow micrograv light started flashing.

The lock was in gravity. Hartwell reached into the corridor and grabbed a bar, pulling himself up and into micrograv.

“Be careful,” Hartwell said, going slowly hand-over-hand down the corridor. “Don't over exert. The shuttles are in grav but they're configured all over the place so they left the corridor in micro.”

“Roger,” Dana said, reaching up and, barely, getting a hand on the bar. But by just pulling forward out of the lock she was able to enter micrograv without much effort. And immediately found herself going out-of-control as the momentum more or less threw her into the corridor. She bounced off the bulkhead and had to make a quick snatch for another bar. Fortunately, all the bulkheads were lined with them like four sets of monkey-bars. She still bruised the heck out of her thigh.

“Like I said, don't over-exert,” Hartwell said. “You okay?”

“All good, EM,” Dana said, slowly moving around so she could orient in the direction of travel. She had had one familiarization flight in a shuttle in micro.

“Follow me,” Hartwell said, pulling himself down the corridor.

He stopped at an airlock marked 40.

“Flight C, Division One, Twenty-Nine,” Hartwell said, checking the airlock then cycling it.

“Roger, EM,” Dana said, following him through the double hatches.

She'd spent dozens of hours in the Myrmidon mock-up at A School but to be in her Myrm was a shock. It was another of several shocks she'd had since signing up. The creeping realization that she was in the Navy. It wasn't just some strange dream or day dream. This was her shuttle. Well, hers and AJ's. She was responsible for the six hundred and eighty-seven thousand moving parts, electrical parts or electronic boxes that required checks and maintenance.

It was enough of a shock she nearly floated out into gravity.

“Whoa, space eagle,” Hartwell said, pushing her back into micro. “Grab the bar.”

Dana grabbed the safety bar and swung herself down into gravity with much more grace than she'd demonstrated going into micro. Her earlier screw-up was humiliating on several levels since she considered herself something of a gymnast.

The interior of the cargo bay of the Myrm wasn't much to look at. Six gray steel bulkheads—two point three meters high, four wide—most of them covered in access patches and latch points. At the rear was a hatch to the guidance section. In flight that was her normal station, manning the engineering and EW position.

“What do you think?” Hartwell asked.

“It looks brand new,” Dana said.

“It is,” Hartwell said. “It's straight from the Granadica Yard in Wolf 359. You have permission to temporarily undog your helmet. Because it also smells brand new. And it's never going to smell quite the same again.”

Dana carefully undogged her helmet and took a sniff. The EM was right, it did smell brand new. Not like a new car, just . . . new. Steel and oils with a touch of ozone. But . . . new.

“Don't get used to that smell,” Hartwell said. “Because in short order it's going to smell like stinky jarheads. And all the other crap we haul. There's no way to fully turn over the atmosphere and it just . . . builds up. The recyclers never quite clean it out. I thought about stiefing it, but I'm just getting all the crap that's wrong with Thirty-Three done and I didn't want to do that again.”

“EM?” Dana said.

“It's like a new car, isn't it?” Hartwell said. “A new car from an entirely new line. There's stuff that's just not right. So far, none of it has been absolutely critical, but most of our birds are deadlined about half the time. Most of it's warranty work, but Apollo is so backed up, we're handling it. And none of it's consistent. No, I take that back. Watch your port, lower, grav grapnel. For some reason those seem to be about half bad. AJ! Yo! Jablonski! Jablonski.”

“I heard you,” a voice commed back. “Micro in three
.
.
.
two
.
.
.
one . . .”

A couple of seconds after the power cut off, a suited but unhelmeted Engineer came floating out of the flight compartment towing a large capacitor.

“The Six-One-Eight is out,” Jablonski said, lifting his chin to point at Dana. “What's up?”

“This is your new EA,” Hartwell said.

“You're sticking me with a FUN?” Jablonski said, sourly. The EN was as tall as Hartwell but seemed to be slender from what she could tell in the suit. “What the hell did I do to you?”

“I'm not,” Hartwell said. “The Old Man stuck you with a FUN. Which brings me to the FUN's first mission.”

“Yes, EM?” Dana said.

“You need to do the thirty day, ninety day and six month PM on this bird,” Hartwell said. “That catches most of the major faults. Jablonski will supervise your checks and sign off on your quals on this analysis.”

“Thirty day, ninety day and six month PM, aye, EM,” Dana said, trying not to curse. That was going to take forever. But it sure would get her used to the bird.

“I'm going to have to be checking on Jablonski's sign-off,” Hartwell said. “I'll be either in the Division Bay or Thirty-Three or . . . well, here. You have the manuals on your plant?”

“Yes, EM,” Dana said.

“Dog your helmet and get to work.”

“Yo, Behanchod, you got the cut done, yet?” BFM commed.

Butch figured the company got the name of his job wrong. He wasn't an optical welding technician. That implied he occasionally joined two pieces of metal together. So far all he'd been was an optical cutting technician.

Robots did most of the actual welding. Putting things together, the way Apollo did it, was dead simple. Most of the parts were pre-fabbed on earth and generally went together like Legos. He hadn't been part of the crew that did the life-station on Troy but he'd heard enough about it. There were sixty different massive pieces which had fit in the plug cut out of the Troy like a three dimensional puzzle. But it was a puzzle the robots had in their guts and so no problem.

Almost no problem. The plans were never perfect and when it got to putting stuff together there were always problems. Sometimes a part needed to be joined that wasn't on the plans. More often, some joker on earth had left a bit too much steel here or there. The stuff on earth was supposed to be all robots, too. But Butch had seen enough of how dumb ass robots could be to not be too impressed.