17
“Righteous,” Ting-a-ling said as he dumped his pack in the small stateroom.
“You’ve got that right, my friend.”
Rev had been on quite a few ships during his career so far, from the modern Hégémonie Dixmude, which had been at the very top, to the support ship Alacrity. The MCS Takagahara was in another class altogether.
Rev realized that a good part of that was because the Takagahara was certified for carrying a brigade, but for this cruise, there was only a single company with attached support units aboard—sort of a mini-battalion. The end result was that instead of being assigned to SNCO berthing along with five other staff sergeants, Rev and Ting-a-ling were assigned to what normally would be a junior officers’ stateroom.
Between the two of them, they had as much if not a little more space than their cells back at Nkomo. The Takagahara might not be a cruise liner, but for a Navy ship, it was pretty darn close.
Rev dropped his seabag and plopped on the rack. What looked like a thin mattress formed alongside his pressure points, giving more and less support as needed.
Yes, this is a sweet ride.
Rev had thought that the Heg Navy was the finest in humanity, and by pure power projection, it supposedly was. But the Mezame Concordat evidently went for quality over quantity. It might be smaller than the Heg Navy, and the Takagahara might not have the same armaments, but from the first impression, their Navy plied the space lanes in style.
“So, what now? Naptime?” Ting-a-ling asked from flat on his back on the rack across from Rev. “We don’t have anything until the welcome aboard brief at seventeen hundred.”
Their orders had been to get to their berthing spaces, and if they were non-essential personnel, stay out of the working areas to allow the civilian stevedores to do their thing. Rev had a good excuse to take his friend up on that. But he couldn’t. He had to find and check out their assigned IBHU shop. Pashu was his weapon, and he needed to run a check to make sure she was delivered in good working order. Back at Nkomo, he could count on Daryll for that. But with only three of them on this deployment, he had to stay back on Enceladus where he could maintain the bulk of the IBHUs.
“You go ahead and catch a few Zs. I need to find my shop.”
“Take it easy. It’s not going anywhere. Hell, neither are we. We’re not getting underway until late tomorrow.”
“I know. But I need to check on Pashu. I’ll be back, and then I can relax.”
“Have at it.” Ting-a-ling pulled the bill of his blue Home Guard ball cap over his eyes as he settled in.
“Show me the quickest route to the IBHU shop,” he told Punch. His augmented navigation wasn’t worth much inside a ship.
Punch pulled up a route and inputted it into his optic nerve. It had initially taken some getting used to, having what was essentially an overlay in his field of vision, but it was second nature by now.
Once he left the berthing spaces, things were a little more hectic. He had to hug the bulkheads several times to let trundlebots with containers of supplies or equipment pass by. But eventually, he made it to the space. The hatch was already open, and Zacharia Filmore and Randigold were already there. Filmore was disconnecting the lance corporal’s IBHU, which she named Cruella de Vil, from his testing equipment.
“A little slow getting here, Staff Sergeant,” Randigold said. “Your officers’ quarters too far away? Or was it tea time in the solarium?”
“Gee, Top Barber was asking about a working party. You look like a likely candidate.”
“Which is why I’m glad I’m in Second Platoon, not First. You need to pull one of your own troopers.”
“And I’ve got friends in high places in Second Platoon, PFC.”
“Ooh, damn. That PFC hurts, you know.”
Rev gave her a wink. He usually used her Marine rank, lance corporal, but as long as she was being a wise-ass, he reverted to her Guard rank.
He turned to Filmore. “How’s Cruella de Vil?”
“Checks out green, sir.”
“I told you, I’m not a sir. I work for a living.”
“Sorry, sir.”
Rev rolled his eyes. He didn’t know what to make of Filmore yet. He was Sieben, just like Daryll. But where he trusted Daryll with his life, that trust had been earned over the years. This newbie was an unknown factor.
To be honest, if Daryll couldn’t make the cruise, he’d rather have a Marine tech. But billets in the Guard were limited by law, and for the Marines to send an IBHU tech meant that they would have to drop another Marine from their billet. The workaround was to have Sieben send someone. The vast majority of the Guards support staff were civilians, and it was nothing for Sieben to assign someone to the cruise.
Filmore wasn’t the only civilian aboard. Rev had heard there was over forty of them, ranging from techs like him to a diplomatic staff. The senior of them was the same rank as the Osnovnoy Alyanz rear admiral who was in overall command of the deployment, and she made all non-military decisions.
“Well, if Cruella’s all green, how about you checking Pashu now?”
“Yes, sir.” He punched in a code, and an overhead-mounted arm moved down a rail, opened a locker, and pulled out Pashu. It brought his IBHU to one of three racks, and Filmore hooked up the diagnostics.
“You doing OK?” Rev asked Randigold.
“Same as before. I’m still taking shit from the pit bull. Always wants to prove his superiority. But I’m handling it just fine.” She looked up with a bit of a guilty expression as she realized how that might sound.
Not like me, you mean.
But she spoke truth to power. And he knew that for all her being a smart ass, she wouldn’t be trying to ding him like that.
“What about S-O-R? You talk to him much?” he asked, shortening Sign of Respect to something more manageable.
“Not really. We’ve all been on crazy training cycles. But word is he’s pretty close to his pit bull. Like friends, even.”
With a Mad Dog? Hell, I guess we can work together.
“Well, will wonders never cease. I guess they aren’t all assholes.”
But he knew that. His meeting with Lieutenant Vreemish had been proof enough of that. He didn’t think his issues with Kvat had as much to do with Manifest Destiny Sphere vs. Perseus Union as much as it was just competition between two highly augmented types of soldiers. Both Rev and Kvat had pride in their nations and militaries, and it was natural for both to want theirs to be the best.
“We’ve got two more Mad Dogs in the platoon, you know. Not pit bulls, just regular ones. And one of them seems OK,” Randigold said.
“Like I said, not all of them can be assholes.”
“Is it OK if I take off now?” the lance corporal asked. “I want to make sure my personal stuff is stowed and no one screws with it.”
“Yeah, of course. And if you see S-O-R, remind him that I said that this takes priority.”
“Sure thing,” she said before she stepped out of the shop and disappeared.
“So, Filmore, how’s she looking?”
“So far, so good, sir. I’ll know in another minute or so.”
“And you’ve got everything you need here? It doesn’t look like there’s much room. And where’s your printer if you have to make new parts?”
“I don’t have a printer, sir. But I’ve got access to one of the RG-8000s they’ve got in the ship’s machine shop. Completely compatible. Not including the printer, sir, I’ve got everything I need right here.”
“Well, we’re counting on you to keep us up and running.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll do my best.”
I don’t want you to just do your best. I want you to keep IBHUs combat-ready. Nothing else is acceptable.
“I know you will.”
The last LED turned green. Pashu was ready for combat. Rev thanked Filmore, then walked out of the hatch. He contemplated poking his nose around to get the lay of the land, but it had been a long thirty hours or so—five or six during which he’d been feeling the Donat Azurco—and his rack was singing its siren call. He’d have plenty of time to explore the ship over the next six months, and a Marine’s credo was to sleep and eat whenever the opportunity arose.
“Naptime it is,” he mumbled as he started back to his stateroom.
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