The Death of Wisdom Page 5

  "A Phyrrus, huh? That's a fine looking tank, sir." in his commander's cupola, Drop Kick looked down at Crowbar with surprise, only realizing after a moment that the comment was directed toward him. As big a man as could comfortably be a tanker. Drop Kick possessed a tanned, muscular frame that somehow seemed out of proportion with the small turret of a vehicle that no one could sensibly call a tank, unless he was trying to be polite.

  "Excuse me, sir. Are you talking to me?"

  "Yes, sir. I was saying what a fine looking tank you have there."

  Despite his best attempt at a serious expression, Drop Kick had to chuckle.

  "Sir," he said, "it may be a fine looking vehicle, but it sure isn't a tank. By the way, try to keep from kicking the side armor—you might dent it."

  Drop Kick then intensified the contra-grav left of his AFV until the vehicle was two meters off the ground, and then steered it gently into Hornet's forward hatch on a flare of plasma thrust. After it was completely inside. Crowbar jogged up the forward ramp after the craft, looking for the safest way to lash it down for travel.

  Physic, meanwhile, stood off at the edge of Berth 57 beside Coeur, scratching her head.

  "What's he mean, it's not a tank? Looks like a tank to me."

  "Marines like precision," Coeur said. 'That vehicle doesn't have the gun or the armor to fight with real tanks, so it's actually a support sled. Anyway, if it was a real tank, the Marine Corps wouldn't be sending it off to Ra."

  Physic made an understanding nod, and Coeur returned to a study of her clipboard computer manifest. Now that the ship was declared spaceworthy—fingers crossed—by Crowbar, the loading of cargo had proceeded apace. Fuel had come aboard during the evening, followed by five mammoth cargo crates from the Technical Nest during the morning, and finally the AFV in the early afternoon. AN that remained was the rest of the crew—a Schalli navigator and two human gunners— who weren't formally invited aboard until they graduated from the Academy two days earlier.

  "Hard to imagine it's just been a week/' Physic went on.

  "I've been too busy to notice, really," Coeur said. "Although there's always jump space to relax in. With any luck, we'll be there inside 72 hours."

  "Ever been to Ra?" Physic asked.

  "No, Physic. But I'm sure it's very nice."

  "They say it's the cleanest environment in the Coalition—no smoke, no pollution. You'd think they'd develop a resort industry there, to sort of take advantage of it."

  Coeur sighed inwardly. Given any encouragement, Physic could talk incessantly about nothing at all better than anyone she knew.

  "Physic, don't you have something to do?"

  "Yes, sir, I'm doing it—waiting to greet the new crew. A doctor ought to know her crew, shouldn't she?"

  A beep on her wrist radio saved Coeur from comment.

  "Red Sun. Co ahead."

  "Red Sun, this is Scissor, Incoming air raft with remaining crew is preparing to land."

  "Roger, Scissor. Out."

  "So how did Cicero get that callsign anyway: Scissor?"

  "I suggested it went with his razor-sharp mind."

  "Ah. Clever,"

  But then the air raft was upon them, descending on noiseless contra-grav but signaling its approach with the whine of its HEPlaR thrusters. Though their black body sleeves were not uniforms in a strict military sense, and the Exploratory Service had no formal customs concerning saluting or military discipline, both Coeur and Physic brought themselves up to respectful attention as the government ferry set down at the end of Hornet's ramp.

  The first two passengers to debark, a pair of young women, emerged from a side hatch, while the third rolled down the back cargo ramp—the Schalli in his rollerchair. Since the streamlined sea creature didn't wear clothes, and therefore hadn't packed any, his personal effects were substantially lighter than those of the women. As they hoisted their duffel bags over their shoulders, he was already rolling across the concrete tarmac toward Coeur and Physic.

  "AkakEE Siltriver," he announced, "callsign Deep Six, reporting for duty."

  Having read his record, Coeur suspected the Schalli's callsign derived from his deep-diving origin. Unlike the sleek, shallow-water Schalli, light gray and flecked with spots, Deep Six was a darker dapple-gray, with a body perceptibly more massive with insulating blubber. Helpless as he might be without his rollerchair, Coeur knew he must be a strong swimmer in the deep ocean where light did not reach, and where an instinct for navigation was less a luxury than an outright necessity.

  "Welcome aboard, Deep Six," Coeur said. "Professor Freefall spoke highly of you."

  "I hank you, sir."

  'This is Physic, by the way, our surgeon."

  "I specialize in xenomorphic disease pathology," Physic added. "Hiver disorders, mostly, although I've also worked on Schalli cadav,.,um, cases."

  "Right," Coeur said. "So you'll be in good hands,"

  Then the women arrived, coming up alongside Deep Six seconds after the air raft lifted off.

  "Johanna Solomon, callsign Gyro, reporting for duty."

  "Denise Valencia, callsign Snapshot, reporting for duty."

  From a distance the two young women were strikingly similar in general appearance, shorter than Coeur but taller than Physic, with strong and stocky bodies—a shape ideal for spacers. Their faces, however, were quite distinct; Gyro's face was round and airy, with lively blue eyes and short blonde hair bleached almost white—like Drop Kick's—by Aubaine's tropical sun, while the Oriflammen redhead Snapshot wore an expression perpetually stern and reserved, distorting a freckled, youthful face into something seemingly older than its 22 years.

  "Welcome aboard," Coeur said, shaking the hands of each woman in turn. "Ready for the real graduate course?"

  "Absolutely," both agreed.

  "So, these two were in your tactics seminar?" Physic asked.

  "Yes, but they didn't use the same strategy in the final examination. For Physic's information, how did you two solve Problem 61 C?"

  "I made a hazardous misjump," Gyro answered.

  "And I blew up my ship," Snapshot added.

  "Were you supposed to do that?" Physic asked.

  "It's important to have people aboard with diverse methods of problem-solving," Coeur commented to Physic, though keeping her attention directed to the new crew. "This is Physic, by the way, our doctor. Since she isn't busy at the moment, she's going to show you to your staterooms and help you stow your baggage."

  Which prompted a raised eyebrow from the doctor.

  "Carry on, Physic."

  In relation to Coeur's last ship, Lirgishkhunan—where hotbunking crewmembers shared staterooms in eight- hour shifts—Hornet was luxuriously spacious, offering a separate stateroom for each of her seven crew and four passengers, with three to spare. As a practical expedient, Coeur considered double-bunking to get the four new spacers accustomed to it, but they'd get plenty of that later when the mission was over and they transferred to other ships.

  in the meantime, it didn't hurt to be comfortable. Coeur's only orders to the top deck seven—the Marines, the two gunners, and Crowbar—were that they stay out of the two staterooms adjacent to the bow, just in case Hornet ever suffered a bow-on collision. Similar advice didn't wash with Scissor on the lower deck; his port- forward stateroom/electronics workshop was his regular duty station, and he was disinclined to relocate his bunk for a marginal increase in safety.

  What Coeur didn't realize at first, until she double- checked the stateroom assignments, was how she'd divided the crew into three informal sections. Except for the engineer, the crew topside were combatants by occupation—gunners and cavalry troopers; the crew in the port fork were technicians—Scissor, Physic, and Deep Six; and the crew in the starboard fork was herself.

  But, killers or fixers, they were all going to be together for at least a month—until the cargo and Marines were dropped off on Ra. VVhile Coeur had tried to pick the very best people she could, there was no way to kno
w how they'd perform until they got under way.

  Yet a good omen of future success was their first mess together, two days before launch. The Arses, in black body sleeves, and the Marines, in green body sleeves, made amiable small talk as they congregated with their prepackaged dinners at the circular galley table, the only individual missing being Gyro at harbor watch on the bridge.

  "People," Coeur said, lifting her coffee cup, "to absent friends."

  "To absent friends," the other crew members seconded. Scissor, sitting on a toadstool chair, and Deep Six, sitting high in his rollerchair, were at human eye level, and therefore shared social equality with their mates at this solemn moment.

  "Captain," Drop Kick said a while later, after they'd tucked into their processed fish and seaweed cakes, "the crew and I were wondering if there's any work you'd like us to do around the ship. We know we're on gunnery watch with Snapshot and Gyro, but we'd still like to help with any other projects you have."

  "Actually," Crowbar said, "I can think of something. How's your laser welding?"

  The Marines, three men and a woman, reacted as if they'd been asked if they could shoot a rifle or field strip a suit of battle dress. Mercy, the lean and dark-skinned female AFV driver, almost coughed up her fish cake.

  "We drive a support sled, sir," Drop Kick said. "If it's metal, we can fix it."

  "Super," Crowbar said, '"cause what I need is for someone to help build a bunk for Deep Six."

  "A bunk? For a Schalli?"

  "In fact," Deep Six interjected, "it would be more precise to call it a 4000-liter tank. However, I would not choose to inconvenience anyone who is otherwise needed elsewhere."

  As far as Coeur could tell, such negative anticipation was common in the Schalli race—whose mathematical genius was counter weighted by a generally melancholy outlook of the future. Nevertheless, a Schalli would not be comfortable for long cooped up in a rollerchair.

  "Do you have the supplies?" Drop Kick asked.

  Crowbar nodded. "Yes, sir—a plastic tub and moly steel bracing. What I need is someone to put it together before we hit space."

  "Not a problem, sir. Whiz Bang, Bon?o, Mercy, and I will examine the situation and have it under control before launch."

  "Outstanding," Crowbar said. "That'll give me time to finish calibrating the jump drive."

  Yes, Coeur nodded, it's good to have ship's troops.

  "What I'd like to know," Snapshot asked, changing the tack of their discussion, "is what you Marines are doing here. Isn't this just a cargo mission?"

  "Did Red Sun not clarify the situation?" Scissor asked, eerily speaking through its voder even as its cloaca slurped half-fermented fish entrails under the table.

  "She said this was a cargo ship, and she needed a gunner. I'm just curious."

  "Detachment A of the 3rd Marine Armored Battalion," Drop Kick said, "has been assigned to familiarize the indigenous fighting forces of Ra with modern combat tactics,"

  "So it's some kind Of political perk, then."

  "Excuse me?" Coeur asked.

  "Oh, I was just remembering that Ra is a lot closer to Oriflamme than Aubaine. I thought it might be some sort of political perk for support in the Assembly."

  In response, a table full of Aubani regarded Snapshot with a mixture of distaste and befuddlement.

  "Not that that's bad," Snapshot went on. "I mean, you probably need all the votes you can get."

  Voices, mostly of the Marines, raised in protest, but Coeur cut that short.

  "Hey, hey, hey, calm down."

  "What'd I say?" Snapshot asked.

  "Snapshot," Coeur said, "this is exactly how much I want to hear about politics on this trip..."

  Whereupon she picked up her empty coffee cup and tilted it so that the rim was pointed toward Snapshot.

  "Zero."

  "Or, you can leave."

  "Understood, sir."

  "Well, I'm sure full," Physic said, jumping into the awkward silence. "Who's the clean-up detail?"

  Whiz Bang, the squat, dusty-haired AFV gunner, gave a friendly glance at Bonzo, the sensor tech whose, jet- black eyes and hair were the only features lending weight to his slight but nimble frame.

  "Sir, I propose alphabetical," Whiz Bang suggested, a proposal that would have had Bonzo cleaning up the galley first and himself last, "Hey!" Bonzo said.

  "Excellent idea," Coeur said, "reverse alphabetical. Whiz Bang, you're on today; Snapshot tomorrow."

  'Thanks a lot," Snapshot mumbled to Whiz Bang, as the rest of the crew stood up and drifted over to the autogalley. The cleaning of the trays was automated inside the wall unit, but crumbs, splatter, and so forth in the mess could not be left free in the cabin—lest the ship ever lose gravity and those bits happen to float into contact with electronic circuitry. All of the crew would therefore take it in turn—beginning with the Marine corporal—to go over the galley methodically with a hand vacuum and sponge.

  Shortly thereafter, Coeur was back in her stateroom preparing to relieve Gyro, when a knock came at her door. Looking up from the log she was recording, Coeur invited the person in.

  "Crowbar, what can I do for you?"

  Filling up most of the doorway with his height, Crowbar folded his hands behind his back before reporting.

  "I just came in to report about the liquor situation, sir. All of the supplies have been relocated to the ship's locker, with your captain's code on the lock."

  "Well," Coeur said, leaning back in her seat and setting down her stylus, "that's good."

  "I hope it's not going to get anyone in trouble, sir. That the students snuck the Stuff aboard."

  "Oh, there'll be a report all right. But the Coalition needs engineers too much to follow it up too closely."

  "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

  "Sometime tomorrow I'll circulate an announcement that drinking will be in jump only, and strictly for off-duty personnel."

  "Damn," Crowbar said, "In jump, I'm never off-duty personnel."

  "Consider that your punishment. Oh, and I'd also like you to program the computer to recognize Gyro as our executive officer."

  "Yes, sir. Good choice."

  "I'd rather it was you or Deep Six," Coeur admitted, "but that rollerchair really cuts down his mobility, and I don't think you need any more work."

  "I'd have to agree with you there, sir."

  Coeur shrugged, "Oh, by the way, Snapshot's outside. Should! send her in?"

  The wrinkling of Coeur's brow belied her answer.

  "Yes. Carry on, Crowbar."

  "Sir."

  A moment later. Crowbar had left and Snapshot replaced him in the doorway.

  "Sir. Do you have a moment?"

  "One or two. Have a seat."

  Snapshot accepted the offer, sitting at the chair beside Coeur"s desk.

  "Sir," the gunner said. "I have a question. Why did you invite me to come on this mission?"

  "Strange question, I thought you were qualified."

  "Sir, there's no point in beating around the bush. I've got a list of demerits as long as my arm, so why did you select me?"

  "You're the second best gunner in my class, Snapshot, after Gyro."

  "That's it?"

  'That's it."

  "But what about my record?"

  "Actually, your record's very good, until you came to Aubaine a year ago. My hunch is you'll do your job, once we got off this planet you don't care for very much."

  "Sir, may I ask you a personal question?"

  "You can ask."

  "Why are you here? There must be a lot of companies that would pay a lot for a remnant to snoop out relic artifacts."

  Coeur shrugged.

  "You know," Coeur said, "it's funny. On my first cruise I thought i was going out to pay a debt I owed a friend of mine—a fellow who let himself die so I could have a good low berth—but all that ended when we took our first casualties. If you're going to risk your life, you'd really better believe in what you're risking it for, "Personal
ly, I believe that the Coalition's a little wobbly, and people have a lot of different ideas about what it should be—Federalist, F-Tech, anarchy—but it's the best hope any of us have for the future. Is that what you believe?" "Yes, sir."

  "Then that's good enough for me. Now why don't you get some rest, Snapshot. You've only got one day to train before we launch, and I've got to get to the bridge,"

  "Yes, sir," Snapshot said, rising together with Coeur, saluting and excusing herself. Already turned away, she didn't notice the hint of a satisfied smile growing on Coeur's face, an expression she would wear all the way to the bridge.

  As dawn broke over Berth 57 two days later, the ad- weather tarp over Hornet had already been rolled back, and every umbilicus had been retracted from her underside save one—the ground computer link.

  "Last thing before we launch," Coeur told Physic, as an incoming message scrolled up on a bridge console between them. "Our briefing from the Coalition Information Network."

  "Anything significant?" the doctor asked, as Coeur leaned in close to study the screen.

  "Not much. Mostly places to avoid. Take a look at this one, though."

  INTELLIGENCE DIRECTIVE

  RCES HQ AUBAINE , 3/111/l 201

  ATTENTION ALL CREWS:

  RCES crews operating in Thoezennt Subsector are advised to be alert to any weapons or technologies which can be linked to the Mercantile Guild, an association of traders believed to be responsible for distribution of weaponry to objective worlds throughout the Area of Operations. Human intelligence and concentrations of low-tech weapons suggest the location of a local manufacturing center in Thoezennt or adjacent regions.

  Any intelligence relating to the specific location or locations should be forwarded immediately to RCES HQ, Aubaine.

  "Is that close to where we're going?" Physic asked.

  "Close enough. Ra is adjacent to Thoezennt."

  "Do we know much about the Mercantile Guild?"

  "Not really. We probably wouldn't know anything about them at all if it weren't for the guns they keep selling the TEDs in the AO."

  "A big problem?"

  "For the Coalition, yes. For us, probably not. Anyway, why don't you press that print button over there and make 11 hard copies."

  "Yes, sir."