Busby, FM Long View 1 Star Rebel

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fifty percent share, 20-15-10-5; the Engineering officers did the same with twenty
percent, 8-6-4-2. The other thirty percent went to the crew, with ratings getting
double shares. And now he also remembered that on Escaped ships you'd be "Second
Hat," not Second Officer. Any buildup of tradition, he supposed, was good for
morale.
Now he said, "That's good to know. You have any idea when I can get up and go to
work?" Because he didn't want to lie here, trying not to remember Phyls Dolan.
"Soon as the medics check you clear." The new captain looked at his chrono. "You
get your next look in about an hour, I think." He stood. "I have to go now. We're
shorthanded, you understand. Sixteen dead in the fighting, and something like
twenty diehard loyalists locked in Hold, Starboard Lower for safekeeping."
"You're not-" He couldn't say it.
"Spacing them? Not unless we have to. If we make it to a Hidden World, maybe
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the place can use some cheap labor."
Alone again, Bran tried to wall himself away from grief for
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the dead woman who, frozen now and far behind the ship, swept through the
interstellar gas. Slowing gradually, from the friction of that tenuous medium, to coast
forever-or maybe to make a small spark someday, against a star's glare.
But when someone standing by the bed coughed to get his attention, tears blurred
his vision.
Quickly, he wiped his eyes. "Who-?"
"Hain Deverel, sir. I wanted to say-hitting you and all-"
"Deverel!" Bran reached out a hand, and the man took it. "The First-I mean, the
new captain-told me. Said if you hadn't put me down, he'd've had to shoot me. I
owe you, man."
"No you don't, sir. But maybe now we're even."
It took Tregare moments to think what the rating meant. Then he said, "All right.
That's fine. And now you're safe, aren't you? You and-" The other name escaped
him.
"Anse. Anse Kenekke. Yes, we're safe now. And that I do owe you, because they
tell me it was you who pulled the trigger to force Escape."
Headshake. "Not me. A dead woman did that-or maybe the Police bastard who
drove her to killing him. All I did was-" Well, hell, he had forced the issue at that.
Change the subject. "Kenekke's all right too, I take it?"
Deverel grinned. "Anse? He's the one that secured the Drive for us." Now he
talked fast. "When the new skipper made his all-ship call, announcing Escape, the
Drive room had its problems."
"Mallory?" Sure, the older man could be a strong loyalist.
"Not him. But it was watch-change; the First and Second were both there. Chief
Mallory just stood back and said he was out of it; whoever won, he'd tune the Drive
for. The Second had a gun; he said we'd stand by UET or he'd blow the Nielson cube
and all of it. The First, the one they call Airedale, she yelled something about duty
and pleasure and illusion-Anse says she never did make much sense, except doing
her work right-and tackled the Second. He killed her, and Anse killed him, by hand,
before the man could get his gun free to use again. Stronger than he might look,
Anse is. And then he had Drive secured, and no more problems. The Third, when he
got there, he's solid with us-and up to First now, come to think of it." He paused.
"There's several Drive techs in line for
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the Second and Third openings. If you could put in a good word for Anse?"
"I'd like to. Two problems, though. I don't know anything about his training
scores, and I don't have all that much clout, anyway. But if Captain Monteffial asks for
my opinion, I'll try."
"That's fair. Thank you, sir." And Deverel left.
A little later, the Chief Medic came in. Not a full-fledged doctor, but trained well
enough. Bran knew her only slightly, from a physical exam during which she jabbed
like hell at all the tenderer spots she was supposed to check. Must have trained at
the Slaughterhouse, where cadets got used to cringing during physicals. Eda
Ghormley was thin, middle-aged, with iron-grey hair and a slight stoop. Aside from
the jabbing fingers she was easygoing enough, and spoke pleasantly despite her
chronic frown.
Right away she took the conversational lead. "Tregare . . . haven't seen you much,
in the line of business. Can't hurt an officer by hitting him on the head, but let's check
a few things anyway." So-some questions, while she measured pulse, temperature,
peered at his pupils, tested reflexes and coordination. And then said, "About an
hour from now, after you eat, you get a sleepy pill and one shift's snooze right here.
Then, unless you find something bothering you besides bruises and such, you're
cleared for duty. All right?"
"Right. Thanks, Chief."
"Yes. Well, thanks for your part, in getting us free of those shitbags. I've waited a
long time, for Escape."
Getting up after after sleeping and dressing, Bran found stiffness and soreness he
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hadn't noticed. Nothing- serious, though; he went up to Control to check the watch
sked, and found he had several hours free yet before relieving Farns-worth. He also
found that there'd been some fighting here. Needle projectiles and energy bolts had
clobbered some instruments. Well, that was his line of work-but first he needed
something to eat. He went down to the galley.
Alone at the officers' table, Monteffial was finishing his meal. Tregare filled a tray
and joined him. The new captain said, "Feeling better?"
"I'll live." He explained about the repair he planned to start, then asked, "Have you
picked a new Third yet? And the new Engineering officers?'
"Leaving that part up to Mallory. He knows his people
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better than I do. But for Third Hat-Tregare, I have a problem."
"Nobody's qualified? Or too many?"
"Neither. I could pick any one of three Chief ratings and justify the choice. Or
rather, we could, because you and Cleet get a vote each, too. But the best qualified
person isn't a Chief yet, just a First."
"So promote him, Leon. I'll vote your selection." [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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