The Chigan ship’s engineer was a full head taller than the late, and by and large unlamented, Captain Lowden had been; and Lowden himself had been toward the upper limit of the Jurisdiction standard.
“There’s no room for misinterpretation in the ship’s comps. Not as though that ever stopped Fleet,” Wheatfields was saying, his eyes fixed on a monitor. “We were firing training rounds, even though they were live, so the explosive payload was reduced. That last target was destroyed well in advance of the explosion on the observation station. Whatever set the remote station off, it wasn’t one of our rounds.”
They were tracking the courier ship on its way to the vector. Three hours had elapsed since its launch; the exit vector security had yet to go on alert. Another half an hour and the courier would be on vector, functionally out of reach for days, at minimum. Out of Pesadie’s reach forever, if she had anything to say about it.
First Officer took a drink of bean tea and grimaced.
“This stuff gets nastier every day. We ought to press for resupply while we’re here, now that we’re going to have to wait an investigation out. What’s the Admiral up to, Two?”
Jennet shared Mendez’s sentiments about the bean tea. The Ragnarok had always had a certain degree of difficulty breaking stores away from Fleet depots — as an experimental ship it had always taken second best. Things had begun to deteriorate at a discouraging rate after Lowden’s death, though. Lowden had been as corrupt as imaginable in some ways, his personal misuse of interrogation records among them. But he had at least had the political influence required to keep the Ragnarok well stocked.
“No official communication.” Two had to stand in her chair; she didn’t sit at all in any conventional sense. Since she was fully two-thirds of Jennet’s own height she was unnaturally tall amongst the assembled officers as they sat, but the Captain’s office had no provision for Two’s preferred mode — which was hanging upside down from the ceiling. “Traffic suggests a full–scale inventory on all observation stations and several warehouses besides. We have some eights in which to decide what to do. Perhaps as much as two days.”
Two’s voice was mostly out of range of Jennet’s hearing. The translator that Two wore gave her an oddly accented dialect, but at least it was female, like Two herself.
The translator always took longer to process than it took Two to speak. Two sat there solemnly with her black eyes seemingly fixed on Jennet’s face, waiting for the translator to catch up. It was an illusion, that fixed regard. Two didn’t actually see any farther than the first flange of her wings’ extent — an arm’s–length, more or less.
“I’m still not sure what it is, exactly, that you mean to accomplish, your Excellency.”
Ship’s First Officer had always been very straight with her. There was no disrespect in his tone of voice; there was no particular change in his demeanor. Jennet could understand that. These people were all senior. She was the third person to be acting Captain of the Ragnarok in a year. And Mendez had never paid as much attention to rank and protocol as others in his grade class: that was the only reason he hadn’t been drafted into Command Branch himself, long since.
“I’m making it up as I go along.” There wasn’t any sense in pretending to be smarter than Ship’s Primes. She needed their agreement to do anything, rank or no rank. When it came down to it rank only existed so long as everybody agreed that it was there. “The best way I could think of to keep these crew out of Fleet’s hands was to get them out of the area. If Pesadie can’t get started on them, they can’t begin to touch the rest of the crew. They’ll have to try something else. A real investigation, maybe.”
“All they have to do is wait till the crew comes back.” Wheatfields was calm, dispassionate — uncaring.
“There’s no room for misinterpretation in the ship’s comps. Not as though that ever stopped Fleet,” Wheatfields was saying, his eyes fixed on a monitor. “We were firing training rounds, even though they were live, so the explosive payload was reduced. That last target was destroyed well in advance of the explosion on the observation station. Whatever set the remote station off, it wasn’t one of our rounds.”
They were tracking the courier ship on its way to the vector. Three hours had elapsed since its launch; the exit vector security had yet to go on alert. Another half an hour and the courier would be on vector, functionally out of reach for days, at minimum. Out of Pesadie’s reach forever, if she had anything to say about it.
First Officer took a drink of bean tea and grimaced.
“This stuff gets nastier every day. We ought to press for resupply while we’re here, now that we’re going to have to wait an investigation out. What’s the Admiral up to, Two?”
Jennet shared Mendez’s sentiments about the bean tea. The Ragnarok had always had a certain degree of difficulty breaking stores away from Fleet depots — as an experimental ship it had always taken second best. Things had begun to deteriorate at a discouraging rate after Lowden’s death, though. Lowden had been as corrupt as imaginable in some ways, his personal misuse of interrogation records among them. But he had at least had the political influence required to keep the Ragnarok well stocked.
“No official communication.” Two had to stand in her chair; she didn’t sit at all in any conventional sense. Since she was fully two-thirds of Jennet’s own height she was unnaturally tall amongst the assembled officers as they sat, but the Captain’s office had no provision for Two’s preferred mode — which was hanging upside down from the ceiling. “Traffic suggests a full–scale inventory on all observation stations and several warehouses besides. We have some eights in which to decide what to do. Perhaps as much as two days.”
Two’s voice was mostly out of range of Jennet’s hearing. The translator that Two wore gave her an oddly accented dialect, but at least it was female, like Two herself.
The translator always took longer to process than it took Two to speak. Two sat there solemnly with her black eyes seemingly fixed on Jennet’s face, waiting for the translator to catch up. It was an illusion, that fixed regard. Two didn’t actually see any farther than the first flange of her wings’ extent — an arm’s–length, more or less.
“I’m still not sure what it is, exactly, that you mean to accomplish, your Excellency.”
Ship’s First Officer had always been very straight with her. There was no disrespect in his tone of voice; there was no particular change in his demeanor. Jennet could understand that. These people were all senior. She was the third person to be acting Captain of the Ragnarok in a year. And Mendez had never paid as much attention to rank and protocol as others in his grade class: that was the only reason he hadn’t been drafted into Command Branch himself, long since.
“I’m making it up as I go along.” There wasn’t any sense in pretending to be smarter than Ship’s Primes. She needed their agreement to do anything, rank or no rank. When it came down to it rank only existed so long as everybody agreed that it was there. “The best way I could think of to keep these crew out of Fleet’s hands was to get them out of the area. If Pesadie can’t get started on them, they can’t begin to touch the rest of the crew. They’ll have to try something else. A real investigation, maybe.”
“All they have to do is wait till the crew comes back.” Wheatfields was calm, dispassionate — uncaring.
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