Kris doubted the Hussy, an ancient wreck of a liner, had ever been a good ship. Although none of the merchant crew advised them to, Kris quickly learned to strap herself into her bunk at night and hold tight to her mess gear. It seemed that Hussy's engineers had trouble maintaining a steady burn. The ship's accelerations and decelerations were subject to wild excursions from a small fraction of a g to three g's and back again, without benefit of warning.
The civilian crew's laughs and jeers left the passengers feeling more like zoo exhibits than naval personnel on their way to save a planet.
A glance through their records showed Kris why the rest of her shipmates took so long to learn how to survive the Hussy's wild ways. For many, this was their first time in space. Most were raw recruits fresh from boot camp. Some had not even finished basic training, as their confusion on even how to wear the uniform showed. Kris flagged down one of her third-class petty officers and ordered him to square away a few of the worst offenders. He said, ''Aye aye, ma' am,'' and headed for the problem child. Yet when Kris looked back, the PO had taken a hard right into the bar, and the recruit was still as much a wreck as before.
Now Kris took a deep dive into the personnel folders at her disposal. She came up shaking her head and knocking on the door between her and Tommy's room.
''Come on in,'' he shouted. She found him deep in a reader.
''Have you seen our troops?'' she said, waving her own reader.
''I believe so. Sad to say.''
''No, I mean their records. We've only got two second class and four third class POs. All are in their second or third enlistment and were pulled from advanced schools for this job. Wardhaven dollars to donut holes, under the latest policies, they'd never have been shipped over.''
''Kind of makes you suspect that a posting to Olympia is the Navy's way of telling all involved to shape up or get out,'' Tommy said, not even looking up from his reader. ''Maybe just get out.''
Kris did not ask him what he thought that said about the two of them. Was Father trying another approach to getting her back where he wanted her? No way, Mr. Prime Minister.
''Did you know the Olympic system has seven jump points?'' Tommy asked as the pause lengthened.
''No,'' she said, coming over to glance at his reader. It showed Olympia and its surroundings.
''Thing is, from those seven jumps you can get to just about anywhere in human space in two or three more.''
''That would make it a great trading point,'' she mused.
''Would seem so, so why are they sending the dregs of the fleet here to do a bit of this and a bit of that for it?''
Now Kris did frown. ''Nelly, what's the organization on the ground for this mission?''
Nelly took longer than usual to start populating Kris's reader with an organization chart. ''I am sorry,'' Nelly apologized. ''The daily reports do not balance and change from day to day with no explanation.''
Tommy raised an eyebrow at that. Even as boot ensigns, they'd learned that the Navy took daily reports—or, for that matter, any reports—very seriously.
''Who's running this show?''
''Lieutenant Colonel James T. Hancock, SHMC,'' Nelly said.
''Him,'' Tommy breathed.
''Must be two of them,'' Kris assured him, but she didn't have Nelly check that out. There were some things better seen first. Instead, she glanced over the Table of Organization. Mercy missions like this one didn't have to follow any definitive structure; commanders were free to improvise on the ground. However, they usually followed the structure of a battalion or regiment, depending on the size of things. Olympia wasn't close to battalion strength, say 200 plus or minus the 30 the daily reports couldn't agree on. But the org chart looked like amoebas doing one of Tommy's Irish jigs around the CO's box.
''Communications, medical, intelligence, finances, supply operations, MPs,'' Tommy said, ''all reporting direct to the CO, and then there's this huge Admin section with most of the personnel.''
''Notice what's missing?'' Kris said.
Tommy looked up at her, then rolled his eyes at the overhead. ''All tail, no teeth.''
''Right, all tail, no hands giving a handout.''
''Maybe it's all in Admin,'' Tommy suggested.
''We wait and see.'' Kris sighed. Father might be right, today's troubles were enough to keep her busy. Maybe tomorrow's troubles would solve each other before they got to her.
Kris wondered if maybe her father really was an optimist.
***
Two days later, Olympia was large in the view port, giving Kris her first look at the mess she'd drawn. The orb reflected brightly, about what Kris expected when an island thirty klicks long and a dozen wide blew itself to dust. Despite the gunk in the atmosphere, she could see another line of storms blowing in from the ocean to add more to a ground already saturated from big, weeping clouds trying to make it over an inland mountain range. The desert behind showed recent signs of flash floods. Even the rain shadow was getting soaked.
''You the woman in charge of those hellions wrecking my boat?'' Kris turned to find a potbellied man who hadn't shaved in days lumbering down on her, what might pass for a grimy captain's hat barely hung to his head, a flimsy in his hand.
''I believe I am Senior Officer Present,'' Kris admitted.
''Sign here.''
''And this says…''
''I'm delivering ninety-six enlisted and four of you officers to the Olympia Emergency Services Command, per my contract.''
''Nelly, do we have ninety-six enlisted personnel?'' Kris had studied their files; she'd never done a count.
''Yes.''
''Kris, shuttle is loaded,'' Tom called over the net.
''Do you have ninety-six enlisted personnel on board?''
''I don't know.''
''Have' em count off.''
Tommy's voice disappeared for a long minute. Then he was back with a crisp ''Ninety-six enlisted personnel present, ma'am. Me and the other two ensigns are waiting on you.''
''Be there soonest,'' Kris said and signed. ''I want a copy.''
The captain produced a second flimsy from beneath the first. Kris's signature had carried through. ''Thank you, Captain. With luck, we won't be sharing a ride again.''
Kris hefted her bag. Marine battle dress was the uniform of the day, the night, and next week for this operation. The ancient warrant officer on Wardhaven who briefed them had taken great delight in pointing out that new ensigns were permitted to get their hands dirty on this tour. From the looks of things, there would be plenty of chances.
The shuttle ride was bad, made worse as one after another of the new recruits lost his or her lunch. If Kris hadn't strapped herself in so tight, she might have gone up front and relieved the pilot. Then again, flying a skiff was one thing, a hundred-passenger shuttle was quite another.
As it was, they were lucky; Port Athens was in between the worst of its daily parade of storms. The landing, however, was a whole new experience. Upon dismount, Kris found a rutted runway dotted with potholes.
''Don't these people have any pride?'' a recruit snorted.
''Back on Hardly's Heaven, we'd never let concrete get this bad.''
''Your runway might not look so sweet after a year of acid rain,'' a local unloading the cargo bay snapped back.
''Natives appear to lack a sense of humor,'' Tommy noted.
''I think it washed off with most of those buildings' paint.''
Between red streaks, the terminal showed patches of its original paint. It might once have been a gay jumble of blues, greens, oranges, and others. All were dull now.