"Right here," Pahner said, gesturing at the small open area. The patch of deck was the only open area in the bay, a tiny sliver of room for the shuttle crew to move around in. A ladder led up from it to a small landing with two hatches, one to the command compartment, and the other to the bridge. There was another hatch on the troop level portside. It was a pressure door leading to the exterior.
"Right here?" Roger juggled the helmet under his arm to give himself a moment to think while he looked around. Most of the guards were still doing their own things. A few had gotten up to move around, but most of those had headed to the rear of the bay where the palletized cargo afforded room to stretch out. It seemed awfully... public, though.
"I could get your valet," Pahner said with a faint smile. "He's back there," he continued, gesturing towards the rear of the troop bay.
"Matsugae?" Roger's face brightened. "That would be grea— I mean, yes, of course, Captain. Do you think you could fetch my valet?" he ended in a refined drawl.
"Well," Pahner said, his face closing down again, "I don't know about 'fetch.' " He banged the nearest sleeping guard on the shoulder. "Pass the word for Matsugae."
The Marine yawned, shoved the next Marine in line, passed on the word, and promptly went back to sleep. A few moments later, Roger saw the small form of the valet emerge from under a pile of rucksacks. He bent down and spoke to someone, then climbed onto the transom and made his way toward the prince.
Vertical pillars ran up from the transom to the roof every two meters, and if Matsugae was far less nimble on the uncertain footing than Captain Pahner had been, he had the overall idea down. He would hold onto a vertical, then move forward of it, using it to balance as he shuffled out on the transom as far as he could before making a hopping lunge for the next. Using this technique, he slowly made his way forward to the prince's position.
"Good—" the valet paused, obviously checking the clock in his toot "—evening, Your Highness." He smiled. "You're looking well."
"Thank you, Valet Matsugae," Roger said, much more careful to maintain his formality in front of so many listening ears. "How are you?"
"Very well, Your Highness. Thank you." Matsugae gestured to the rear of the compartment. "Sergeant Despreaux has been a mine of helpful information."
"Despreaux?" Roger lifted an eyebrow and leaned sideways to look down the line of troops, and caught the brief flash of a refined profile.
"She's a squad leader in Third Platoon, Your Highness. A very nice young lady."
"Given their resumes," Roger said with a smile, "I doubt that you could categorize any of the young ladies in The Empress' Own as 'nice.' "
"As you say, Your Highness," Matsugae said with an answering smile. "How can I be of service?"
"I have to get out of this armor and into something decent."
Matsugae's face crumpled.
"I'm sorry, Your Highness. I should've known. Let me go get my pack." He started to scramble up onto the transom again, preparing to retrace his route.
"Wait!" Roger said. "I have a uniform packed up in the command compartment. I just need help getting out of the armor."
"Oh, well then," Matsugae said, climbing back down. "If Captain Pahner could give me a hand? I don't actually know all that much about armor, but I'm willing to learn."
As they disconnected the armor's various latches and controls, Roger became curious.
"Matsugae? Am I to understand that you have spare uniforms for me in your pack?"
"Well, Your Highness," the valet said almost shyly, "Sergeant Despreaux told me that you weren't able to bring all your clothes. And why. I didn't feel it appropriate that you have only one suit of armor and a single uniform, so I packed a few extra outfits along. Just in case."
"Can you carry it?" Captain Pahner sounded skeptical. "Of course, if that's all that you're carrying..."
"I will admit, Captain," the small valet said in a pert voice, "that I'm not carrying the weight of ammunition most of your Marines are. However, I am carrying my full equipment load and a share of the squad load for the headquarters group. His Highness' gear is, so to speak, my ammunition allotment."
"But can you carry it?" Pahner repeated darkly. "Day after day."
"We shall simply have to see, Captain," Matsugae replied calmly. "I think so. But we shall have to see."
He returned to his task of peeling the prince, and Roger soon found himself once again standing in the midst of scattered pieces of armor.
"I'm forever putting this stuff on and taking it off." He brushed an imaginary fleck of dust from the singlet he'd worn under the armor as Matsugae scrambled up the steps to the command compartment.
"Not for much longer, Your Highness," Pahner pointed out. "Once we land on the planet, it will hardly ever be used. But if we need it, we're really going to need it."
CHAPTER TWELVE
"What else do we need?" O'Casey asked, thumbing through the list of supplies the Marines had loaded.
"Whatever it is, it better not weigh much," Kosutic replied. The sergeant major was doing a recalculation of fuel use, and she looked up with a grimace. "I don't think we have much margin."
"I thought you could glide one of these things in," Eleanora said uncomfortably. It was hardly her area of expertise, but she knew that the shuttles' swing-wing configuration gave them a tremendous glide ratio.
"We can." Kosutic's tone was mild. "If we have a runway, that is." She gestured at one of the monitors, where the small map from the Fodor's was displayed. "Do you see many airports? In glide mode, one of these things needs a nice, old-fashioned runway. You try to land without one, and you might as well give your soul to His Wickedness."
"So what happens if it were running out of fuel, then?"
"Well, if we were headed in for a standard atmosphere insertion, we could correct at the last minute and do some atmospheric skipping to slow down. The problem is, if we do an orbit, we'll be detected. Then the whole plan goes out the airlock, and we have a cruiser and the garrison hunting us dirtside.
"If, on the other hand, we do a steep reentry—which, by the way, is what we're planning—and run out of fuel, we'll just pancake."
"Oh."
"Make a hell of a hole," Kosutic snorted.
"I can imagine," O'Casey said faintly.
"I imagine that this is about where we should be detecting the Saint, Sir," Sublieutenant Segedin said.
"Understood." Captain Krasnitsky looked at the helmsman. "Prepare for course change. Quartermaster, pass the word to the Marines to prepare for separation."
"They should have detected us by now," Captain Delaney said. "Why are they still decelerating for the planet?"
"Could they still intend to land their Marines?" the chaplain asked, leaning over the tactical display beside him.
Delaney's nose wrinkled at the sour smell of the chaplain's unwashed cassock. Washing among the faithful was an occasional thing, since it used unnecessary resources. And such harmful chemicals as deodorants were, of course, right out.
"They must," Delaney mused. "But they're still too far out." He smiled as the display changed. "Ah! Now we have a feel for their sensor damage. There's the course change."
"Prepare for separation. Five minutes," the ennunciator boomed.
Roger looked up in surprise from his conversation with Sergeant Jin. The Korean was surprisingly well versed on current men's fashions, and after Roger had circulated briefly around the compartment (doing his best imitation of Mother at a garden party), he'd settled down for a long talk with the sergeant. Better that than a long talk with the fascinating Sergeant Despreaux. Something told him that getting "interested" in one of his bodyguards in a situation like this one probably was a bad idea. Not that it would have been a good idea under any circumstances, he reflected with a familiar moodiness.