“Very well.” It was crisp and unfriendly, but not an argument. “And where are we staying?” The real problem, Heris thought, was that Lady Cecelia had never been here before and wasn’t sure of accommodations. As well, those brats were probably whining and dragging their feet.
“You, milady, have a suite at the Selenor, where the shipping line executives stay. There’s limited space, and I had to book the young people into a different hostelry on another level. I realize that’s inconvenient—”
This time a trace of warmth in her employer’s voice. “I can survive that. Meet me for dinner, then; I’ll want a report. Twenty hundred, local time.” Six hours; they’d just have started, really. Heris had counted on supervising them closely all through the first shift. But she could come report, and return quickly. She would not have to stay for a meal, she was sure.
“Of course, milady. I’ll be at the maintenance access as you leave; please have Bates call when the staff has cleared the ship.”
“Very well.”
Heris gave her crew a stern look. “Mr. Gavin, you and Environmental will suit and observe the first shift. The rest of you are booked into transient crew quarters less than fifteen minutes from here; I expect you all to stay available. We’ll have at least two crew aboard the ship at all times, and you’ll rotate.” A stir, no more; they knew better than to protest by now. “Have you confirmed Station air supply to every compartment?” she asked Gavin.
“To all but the owner’s quarters, ma’am,” he said. “I was going to do that as soon as milady left the ship; computer says it’s fine, but . . .”
“Do that, then, while I go meet the refitters. Lady Cecelia is debarking now.”
She followed the crew off the ship, and met the crew chief of the refitters in the maintenance access. He and his workers already wore pressure suits to protect themselves from contamination and carried helmets tucked under their arms. By the sudden flicker of his eyelids, she saw that he recognized her origins.
“I’m Captain Serrano,” she said. “And you’re . . .”
“Key Brynear,” he said, a slow smile lighting his heavy face. “ ‘Scuse my asking, but you’re ex-Regs, aren’t you?”
“That’s right,” said Heris. She wondered if he’d ask more, but he merely nodded.
“Guess that’s why you managed to put fear into management. They don’t hear command voice real often. Well, Captain, let’s see what you’ve got.” He wasted no time asking for details she’d already sent, but ordered his crew into helmets, and nodded sharply to Heris. She suited up, locked her own helmet on, and led him into the ship.
“Let’s start from the bottom up,” he said over the suit radio. She could hear his voice, but not the clear words, through the helmets; it formed an irritating echo. “Worst first, and then we can give you an estimate.”
Heris had always hated suit drill, and even after the suit had saved her life she still disliked it; she hated being closed in with her own breath sounds and the hissing of the air supply. She had two hours of air in her own rebreathing tanks, and the exterior connector allowed her to plug into Station air in any compartment with a vent, but she felt smothered.
In the lowest environmental level, her own moles were already suited; they managed to look sheepish even in suits, as well they ought.
“Mr. Brynear,” she said to her moles. “He’s in charge of this overhaul.”
“And here are my shift supervisors,” Brynear said “Herak Santana, first shift; Allie Santana, second shift, and Miko Aldovar on third. Any time I’m not here, one of them will be; I expect to be here most of the time, but I may have to goose inventory control if you people are in as bad shape as you said.”
The shift supervisors, in bicolored orange and silver suits, stood out from the orange-suited crew, but nonetheless had name and position stenciled on front and back of both suit and helmet. By local time, it was now second shift; the first shift supervisor waved to Brynear, who nodded, and then left. The second shift supervisor’s voice came over the radio.
“Captain, would you have your crew secure compartments.”
“Certainly.” This command she could give herself, direct to the computer; the compartment hatches slid shut. Status lights changed, and they all moved to connect their suits to the compartment’s exterior air supply vent. From now on they would have to take care not to tangle each other’s umbilicals. “Confirm external air . . .” she said, and waited for each response before nodding to Brynear.
Brynear pointed to one of the ship’s moles. “Let’s take a look at the scrubber that’s looking worst on the computer.”
Inside the first protective shell, streaks of black slime marked the joints of the inner cover, and corrosion had frozen the bolts. Heris noticed that the gas sensors had gone red, instantly. One of the refitting techs grunted. “Who’d you say was supposed to have done the refit? And how far back?”
“Never mind, Tare,” Brynear said. He moved over to look; when he tapped the scrubber with a wrench, more black goo oozed out. The readouts on the scrubber shell were all offscale. “That’s the owner’s problem; ours is fixing this mess. And I can tell right off we’re going to need more equipment. You were right, Captain, this is an emergency refit if ever I saw one.” His orders to his crew were, Heris heard with relief, as decisive as she’d have heard in a Fleet dock, and his explanation to her assumed that she would understand the technicalities.
“We’re going to have to vacuum your entire system—and this Yard charges for hazardous storage. On the other hand, if it’s this thick it may generate enough methane to pay part of your storage fee. And we’ve got a repair job in, a big Overhull tanker, that’s going to need a whopping inoculation of its hydroponics. . . . I might be able to do a deal with them.”
“Safety first, then speed,” Heris said. “Money counts, but only third.”
“Fine. We suck everything out, sort it, clean and repair, and put back your basic inoculum. . . . How about the living quarters—did you have much contamination up there?”
“No, probably because of the oversized filters; I kept thinking I smelled it the last day or so, but the sensors didn’t react.”
“Then we’ll try a wet flush there—saves time—but the bottom end is going to be a bitch.”
“Estimate?”
“Full crews—and it’ll depend on whether we replace units or rebuild them—”
“Replace ’em,” Heris said. “Anything you can.”
“Forty-six hours,” he said. “And that’s spending your owner’s money flat out. Can’t be done in less than forty-two, if everything goes right, and it won’t. Might be a little longer. . . .”
“Do your best,” Heris said.
She had not expected real speed from a civilian refitting firm, but when Brynear’s crews moved into high gear, she realized that they made their profit from speed. By mid-shift, four great hoses were draining the muck from Sweet Delight into the Yard storage tanks. Half the damaged scrubbers were out; Brynear, she noticed, was meticulous about giving credit for those which could be rebuilt. She and Brynear had documented the condition of scrubbers, chambers, and pipes; Lady Cecelia should have no trouble making a claim on Diklos & Sons. Or for that matter a case against Captain Olin.
In the second half of the shift, new components stacked up in the access bay: scrubbers, environmental chambers, parts, controls. Brynear and Heris inspected them together helmets off.