Now she was about to see her ship—her ship—for the first time. She had checked in when she arrived, so if her crew were alert, they’d know she was on the way, and she had taken a few moments in one of the lounges to make sure that her fringe of hair was as neat as it could be. The several weeks of accelerated growth had produced a surprising amount of hair, but it wasn’t what she was used to. Up ahead she saw the docking number and the name Rascal.
She squared her shoulders, felt in her pocket one more time for the command wand that would make the ship’s electronics accept her as the commander, and approached the smart-looking corporal standing guard at the docking tube hatch. He saw her, recognized the captain’s patch on cap and sleeve, and came to attention.
“Captain Suiza! Welcome, sir!” He sounded as if he meant it, and his salute was crisp. She returned it. “Is the captain coming aboard now?”
“Yes,” Esmay said. Why else would she have come along, just to see if they knew who she was?
“Very well, Captain; I’ve just notified the bridge. We have no officers aboard at present; Master Chief Humberly is in charge. The captain’s luggage?”
“They’re sending it when they’ve unloaded the transport,” Esmay said.
“Captain Suiza—welcome!” That was Master Chief Humberly, a lean older man whose hair was cropped so short Esmay couldn’t be sure if he was also balding or not. He had the same brisk, competent, cheerful look as the corporal. Esmay liked him at once, and noted that he had none of the blurry look that had signalled the older NCOs whose rejuvenation was failing. “I’m sorry Jig Turner isn’t aboard—he’d wanted to meet you, but he was called to the admiral’s office.”
“That’s all right,” Esmay said. She already knew that the formalities of coming aboard were minimal for captains below the rank of commander. But Humberly surprised her; he’d turned out the crew in Rascal’s rather narrow main corridor, and Esmay walked to the bridge to read herself in, feeling very honored indeed.
When that was over, and the status board lit with “Captain: Esmay Suiza” and “Captain Aboard,” she felt simultaneously fully happy and fully anxious. As on Despite—once she was captain, it was all her responsibility, every bit of it. But she’d wanted it. She would make good of it. She started at once, turning to Humberly.
“What’s our readiness, Chief?”
“Did they tell you about the refit and upgrades?”
“Yes—new drives, new weapons suites. I looked them over—we have thirty-four percent more firepower, half of it in beam weapons, and the drives to power that without dropping shields. But they didn’t say what that did to our microjump ability, if anything.”
“Ah. We haven’t tried it—haven’t had the chance. My best guess is that it may knock a few percents off our response time. Not good but—”
“Worth the trade, if that’s all there is,” Esmay said. “What about crew? I know that a lot of ships are being crewed with people just thrown together—”
“We were lucky,” Humberly said. “Because of the need for training with the upgrades, most of Drives and Weapons have been here throughout. We were between captains anyway, and about half of Environmental is new, but being as we have such a small complement, we were able to do a bit of weeding.” He looked smug; Esmay grinned at him.
“You went scavenging, didn’t you?” she said. “Good for you.”
“Patrols don’t have much in the way of clerical—mostly it’s the captain’s own staff,” he said, eyeing her to see if she knew that already. Esmay nodded. “We’ve got a couple of bean counters from supply that haven’t been out in a fighting ship before, but they should be all right.”
“Provisions?”
He frowned. “There we’ve had some problems—small ship, busy Station, and no captain aboard. Jig Turner . . . he’s a fine young officer, you understand, but a jig just doesn’t have the clout of someone more senior, and he’s not the type to presume on his position as officer in charge.”
“How bad is it?” Esmay said.
“Nothing we can’t fix in a few shifts with the captain aboard, I’m sure, sir. Nobody’s going to give you that much trouble.”
Esmay doubted that, but she knew she’d fight back if they did. Her ship wasn’t going into action on outdated rations or medical supplies. “What’ve we got in spareables?” she asked, using the polite term for items used in illicit trade.
“Not much—just a few bits and pieces from the refitting. I was saving some of those back for last-minute problems.”
“Good idea.”
Esmay found, to her surprise, that her name and image on the screen worked wonders with Supply, which promptly disgorged containers of fresh ration packs whose contents actually matched the lists on the containers. She had a little more trouble with Munitions, who tried to insist that patrol craft had no need to stuff themselves with missiles, multiple fusing options, and alternative warheads. Esmay finally had to go in person, with copies of the refit details, and argue her way up the chain of command to the admiral minor in charge.
“If they didn’t think we’d see serious fighting,” she pointed out, “they wouldn’t have upgraded the weapons suite. There’s no reason to have weapons and no ammunition—”
“Do you have any idea how much a 347-Xa warhead costs?” he asked.
“Yes—” Esmay quoted the figure. “And I know how much a patrol ship costs, and how much the cargo of the next convoy is worth to the mutineers. Do you want them to get that shipload of weapons going out to Sector VIII, just because I don’t have the weapons to protect them?”
He glared at her and she glared back. In the back of her mind was the rebellious thought that this was actually fun, in its own way. He had to resist, she had to demand . . . it was like a dance of sorts.
“All right,” he said finally. “But don’t tell the other patrol captains—I’m not giving out everything we have or there won’t be anything to ship to Sector VIII.”
“They don’t have our upgrades,” Esmay said. “Why would I arouse their greed?”
He chuckled, and shook his head. “Lieutenant, I’m glad you’re not any more senior than you are . . . that was worthy of a Serrano. Which I guess you are, now, eh?”
“I’m not sure they’d agree,” Esmay said. She didn’t want to get into that.
She had presented her name to the admiral’s staff, only to be told that for the duration the normal protocol of paying calls had been suspended. At first she wondered if this was aimed at her, but the few brief conversations she had with other captains made it clear it wasn’t.
“We’ve got—what, four admirals?—serving as convoy commanders, and who knows how many ships and captains coming and going. Way too many to hold formal calls. What she’s doing is holding a get-together before each convoy leaves, counts as calls from everyone.”
Rascal eased away from the Station with permission to proceed to the system’s practice sector for four days of maneuver practice. Esmay, on the bridge, watched as her crew ran through the sequences . . . no mistakes so far. Behind them, she knew one of the ships which had just finished its practice was nosing in for a last bit of supply.