A message flashed onto Martinez’s displays. Relief danced in his heart as he reported it to Tarafah. “General message from flagshipMajesty.” The qualifier was to distinguish it from the heavy cruiser that was the flagship of the mutineers’ squadron. “Bombardment of Kashmahas failed to launch pinnace number three. All ships are to proceed as if the pinnace were launched.”
“Comm, acknowledge,” Tarafah said. He could barely contain his delight. Someother ship had screwed up, and furthermore, one in Fanaghee’s own squadron.
Coronacould look on the rest of the maneuvers with rising optimism. Even if they made some hideous mistake, they wouldn’t be alone.
The hideous mistake came twelve minutes later, when the simulated damage occurred to a bank of eight missile launchers. It was not to be repaired by actual members of the crew, because the powerful and unpredictable accelerations of a warship might fling them fatally against the nearest bulkhead. Instead weaponers, from the safety of their thick-walled shelters, cleared the missiles from the tubes with remote-controlled robots, massive machines built on the lines of spiders, with multiple arms that would clamp on stanchions fixed to the ship’s polycarbon frame, move from one stanchion to the next while the powerful arms secured themselves against accelerations, and smaller manipulator arms did the work.
The movements of the two robots seemed at first to go well. “Damaged” control systems were replaced, and the robots began to yank missiles from their tubes. Then somehow one of the multilegged machines fouled the other, and in an effort to break free, tore away the other robot’s central hydraulic reserve. Hydraulic fluid jetted out into the weightless missile compartment, forming a spray of perfect azure globes, and the second robot died.
Now both robots were useless, since the dead robot was blocking the one that still functioned.
Martinez watched the silent little video picture with the same fascination with which he would watch any other disaster he was helpless to prevent. The footballers Tarafah had stuffed in the weapons division might have just finished off their patron’s career.
Martinez glanced up from his screens to tell Tarafah what was happening, then hesitated. The captain couldn’t affect whatever was going in the weapons bays, not now, not from Command. Perhaps he would be happier not knowing.
And besides, Martinez wasn’t supposed to be spying on other divisions.
Then he looked back at the video at the sight of motion in the weapons bay. Little suited figures were shooting weightless into the bay. The figure in the lead seized a stanchion with one hand and, gesturing, directed the others to the work. From the leader’s erect posture, and something of his air of command, Martinez recognized his own orderly, Alikhan. The retired master weaponer was trying to set things right.
How long till the next acceleration?The terrifying question shot through Martinez’s mind. And suddenly his fingers were tapping his screens in an attempt to call up the script for the maneuver.
Unsuccessful, Tarafah had the whole thing under his captain’s key. Martinez glanced in claw-handed frustration at his displays.
Two of the suited figures had wrestled a missile out of its tube and were now guiding it through a tangle of robotic limbs between it and the disposal bay. At least the missile hadn’t received its antimatter, and was therefore relatively light.
How long?Martinez clenched his teeth. He thought about shouting out, “Crew in the weapons bay!” which would presumably halt any future accelerations.
No. No acceleration would occur without Tarafah’s command, and if Tarafah gave the order, he could announce the danger in time.
Or so he hoped.
Another missile was being wrenched out of its tube, by a single straddle-legged figure braced against the weapons bank. At least the footballers could be counted on for brawn.
A message flashed across screens. “Message from Flag,” he found himself repeating.“Second Division, alter course in echelon to two-two-seven by three-one-zero relative. Accelerate at four-point-five gravities. Execute at 28:01:001 ship time.”
He glanced at the time display. That was six minutes from now.
He was never more thankful for the regulation that made certain his helmet was sealed. He touched his controls and said into his helmet mic, “Page Crewman Alikhan.”
“My lord?” The answer came within seconds.
“You’ve got five minutes before the next acceleration.”
There was a moment of silence as Alikhan calculated the odds. “Three missiles remaining. We’re not going to make it.”
“No. Get the people to the acceleration couches, and I’ll tell the captain what’s happening.” Martinez looked at the hopeless situation, the awkward crew in their vac suits guiding a missile past the tangled arms of the robots, then said, “Halt that. Wait a minute.”
He paused to think his idea through. “No, what you do is this: get someone on the robot controls; have the others yank the missiles from the tubes and then just hand them to the robot manipulator arms. The robot can hang onto them till the maneuver is over. There’s no antimatter and no danger, and after the maneuver’s completed, you can finish the job manually.”
“Very good, my lord.” Alikhan cut his comm very fast, and from then on Martinez had to watch in silence. Alikhan himself bounded out of the frame, presumably to Weapons Control and the robot controls. The other crew popped the hatches, pulled the missiles, and boosted them gently in the direction of the functioning robot. In another few seconds the robot’s manipulator arms snatched the missiles from midair and then froze.
The suited figures bounded from the weapons bay in the direction of their armored shelter. Martinez looked at the time display:26:51:101.
Two minutes to spare.
“Oh, it was a shambles in the weapons bays, my lord,” Alikhan said as he buffed Martinez’s number two pair of shoes. “No one was in charge. The master weaponer was so drunk he couldn’t manage a single order that made sense or had anything to do with the situation. One of our two weaponer/firsts was a footballer, and so was one of the weaponer/seconds. And the two cadets who usually help out—nice young people, really, they’re learning fast—were stuffed into pinnaces and fired out of the ship.”
“I’m glad I thought to put you on the scene,” Martinez said. “But still, I could have got you killed.”
Alikhan put the shoe down and tapped the inactive communications display on his left sleeve. “I had Maheshwari on the comm. He would have aborted any accelerations if we’d still had anyone in the weapons bay.”
Martinez nodded slowly. The senior petty officers had their own networks, their own intelligence, their own way of surviving the officers who the Fleet had placed over them.
If you can find a master specialist who isn’t a drunk, isn’t crazy, and who retains most of his brain cells,Martinez’s father had told him,then grab him.
Martinez blessed his father for the advice, and helped himself to whisky from his private stash, the dark-paneled cabinet under his narrow bed. On taking command, Captain Tarafah had repaneled the officers’ quarters—and his own—with rich, dark mahogany, complemented by brass fixtures and dark tile with a white and red geometric pattern. Officers’ country was now scented faintly with lemon oil, at least when it didn’t whiff of brass polish.