away from the station as he spoke, Lek stood up and bowed to his officer of assignment. Koscuisko could see perfectly well for himself. The publication of the fact was a mere formula, but ritual was important, especially in the lives of bond–involuntaries. “Three days, Standard, to the Dasidar exit vector, Azanry space.”
Koscuisko nodded briskly in appreciation. “Thank you, Lek, ably piloted. Now. Let us all to the main cabin repair, so that I may put you on notice, the ordeal which you face when we are at home on my native world.”
Koscuisko was considerably relaxed, from a few hours ago; but not for the otherwise obvious reason, because Koscuisko didn’t look or sound as though he’d been drinking. Recovered a bit from his going–away party, then. Lek followed his fellows, taking advantage of his position to linger for just a moment in the wheelhouse.
It was a pretty little courier, and it spoke his language. Or at least it spoke a language he had learned as a small child, before his trouble with the Bench, before his Bond. He’d understood why Koscuisko had selected Security 5.3 to take home with him on holiday, given that Koscuisko could take only one team; Koscuisko had tried to get as many of his Bonds in one basket as he could, and there was nothing personal about Lek’s situational exclusion from the privileged party.
But none of the others were Combine folk. It made Lek so homesick to be talking to Koscuisko’s courier that he wished he was back on the Ragnarok , rather than going with Koscuisko to Azanry. So close to home. So far away from his own people.
Distracted for a moment by the strangely painful familiarity of the courier’s accent, Lek lingered a bit longer than he had intended. Someone stood in the doorway between the wheelhouse and the rest of the ship; someone big and solid and silent, patiently waiting. Stildyne.
“Sorry, Chief.” It wasn’t Stildyne’s fault that Lek was Sarvaw, after all. “Daydreaming. Coming directly.”
Stildyne could easily have made a point about it, but he simply turned and left the room. Stildyne had mellowed since Koscuisko had come on board; he’d been considerably rougher to deal with when Lek had first met him — though he’d never been abusive. He’d taken some of the customary advantages from time to time, true enough, but he’d always been a reasonable man, and fair. Koscuisko was too hard on Stildyne. Koscuisko didn’t understand how much worse than Stildyne warrant officers could be, when you put some of them in charge of bond–involuntaries.
Glancing around quickly to make sure that everything was in order Lek followed his Chief out of the wheelhouse and into the main cabin, where the officer of assignment was sitting on a table at the far end of the cabin, swinging his feet. He’d changed his dress boots for padding–socks, Lek noticed.
The rest of the crew were seated in array in front of Koscuisko, except for Stildyne standing in the doorway. Lek found a place at Smish’s left; Koscuisko nodded at Lek and began to speak.
“We have not had a chance to talk, gentles, because we were in such a hurry to be gone before someone could change their minds again, and send me away with people of Wheatfields, from whom all Saints preserve me.”
That was by way of a joke. Ship’s Engineer was a moody and difficult man with very particular reasons to detest Ship’s Inquisitors; Koscuisko was a proud and self–assured officer who was accustomed to having his own way. The personalities had not blended well on board the Ragnarok . Over the years a species of truce had gradually evolved between them, but it was still a fragile sort of detente.
“We are to be on holiday, gentles, and yet the environment into which I bring you is not one in which we can all equally be comfortable.” Koscuisko didn’t look at Lek when he said it. Koscuisko didn’t need to. They both knew who Koscuisko’s thrice–great–grandfather had been.
Koscuisko nodded briskly in appreciation. “Thank you, Lek, ably piloted. Now. Let us all to the main cabin repair, so that I may put you on notice, the ordeal which you face when we are at home on my native world.”
Koscuisko was considerably relaxed, from a few hours ago; but not for the otherwise obvious reason, because Koscuisko didn’t look or sound as though he’d been drinking. Recovered a bit from his going–away party, then. Lek followed his fellows, taking advantage of his position to linger for just a moment in the wheelhouse.
It was a pretty little courier, and it spoke his language. Or at least it spoke a language he had learned as a small child, before his trouble with the Bench, before his Bond. He’d understood why Koscuisko had selected Security 5.3 to take home with him on holiday, given that Koscuisko could take only one team; Koscuisko had tried to get as many of his Bonds in one basket as he could, and there was nothing personal about Lek’s situational exclusion from the privileged party.
But none of the others were Combine folk. It made Lek so homesick to be talking to Koscuisko’s courier that he wished he was back on the Ragnarok , rather than going with Koscuisko to Azanry. So close to home. So far away from his own people.
Distracted for a moment by the strangely painful familiarity of the courier’s accent, Lek lingered a bit longer than he had intended. Someone stood in the doorway between the wheelhouse and the rest of the ship; someone big and solid and silent, patiently waiting. Stildyne.
“Sorry, Chief.” It wasn’t Stildyne’s fault that Lek was Sarvaw, after all. “Daydreaming. Coming directly.”
Stildyne could easily have made a point about it, but he simply turned and left the room. Stildyne had mellowed since Koscuisko had come on board; he’d been considerably rougher to deal with when Lek had first met him — though he’d never been abusive. He’d taken some of the customary advantages from time to time, true enough, but he’d always been a reasonable man, and fair. Koscuisko was too hard on Stildyne. Koscuisko didn’t understand how much worse than Stildyne warrant officers could be, when you put some of them in charge of bond–involuntaries.
Glancing around quickly to make sure that everything was in order Lek followed his Chief out of the wheelhouse and into the main cabin, where the officer of assignment was sitting on a table at the far end of the cabin, swinging his feet. He’d changed his dress boots for padding–socks, Lek noticed.
The rest of the crew were seated in array in front of Koscuisko, except for Stildyne standing in the doorway. Lek found a place at Smish’s left; Koscuisko nodded at Lek and began to speak.
“We have not had a chance to talk, gentles, because we were in such a hurry to be gone before someone could change their minds again, and send me away with people of Wheatfields, from whom all Saints preserve me.”
That was by way of a joke. Ship’s Engineer was a moody and difficult man with very particular reasons to detest Ship’s Inquisitors; Koscuisko was a proud and self–assured officer who was accustomed to having his own way. The personalities had not blended well on board the Ragnarok . Over the years a species of truce had gradually evolved between them, but it was still a fragile sort of detente.
“We are to be on holiday, gentles, and yet the environment into which I bring you is not one in which we can all equally be comfortable.” Koscuisko didn’t look at Lek when he said it. Koscuisko didn’t need to. They both knew who Koscuisko’s thrice–great–grandfather had been.
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