Hammerstein morphed into the older iron
man in front of me, more muscled, more scarred, more resolute.
Suddenly, I knew, he was still carrying his nineteen year old self
around, standing forever on that flight
deck watching his friends die, and an indescribable loneliness
taking their place for the rest of his life.
"Paramon and wormhole shock waves." I said,
breaching the subject like pulling a patch from a wound-quickly so
as not to drag out the inevitable.
Most people would have
barely perceived the slightest flicker in his eye. For me,
however , it was as if the line of ships
once again ruptured in violent sequence across his
soul .
He smiled, and I realized the old iron
Detective had been forcing that smile for a very long, painful
time.
"Yes. No one uses wormholes in combat except
pirates, madmen, and Paramon. Too dangerous. I was at the Baal One
Station disaster. In a lifetime of military and police service,
I've never seen anyone use them since, until now. I'd stake what's
left of my career on it-we follow the bread crumbs and there will
be a Paramon agent at the end of the trail."
I glowered, sick with the
sudden knowledge of how a nineteen year old cadet feels after
watching his comrades perish, and Fifty years of loneliness after
that, always stepping back from that personal bond that would leave
the soul wretched come the loss. Fifty
years of heavy metal shielding for the soul, and underneath it all,
a brutalized nineteen year old boy on flight deck.
"Don't let your desire to settle accounts
with Paramon prejudice your judgement, Detective," I offered from
the strange place of his memory.
A tech came in with a report; efficient,
cool, and detached-he handed the data to Hammerstein. The
detective's eyes widened and a name came loud to me as if the old
block had spoken it aloud.
"Colonel Herb Lahman, Black Devils." I
said.
Hammerstein looked about the room, "Cut that
out. Come on. We need a bigger boat."
Coco-butter looked at up
the mention of "bigger boat.” Hammerstein saw the eager
eyes.
"Pick out the best ship at the Fort, pilot,
and tell them we're requisitioning it, King's orders. You can fly a
bigger boat right?"
"I can fly any ship in this
Navy, Detective. I was born in flight, my mother at the helm,
single handed, strato-caster."
Hammerstein chuckled back
and winked. "Good! Then pick out a good one."
We stepped out of the
Officer's mess and I was struck with the realization that
Coco-butter's description wasn't hyperbole. He really had been born
in a flight dive with his mother at the helm. She'd lost his twin
in the struggle, but had managed to save Justin "Coco-butter.” She
was an amazing woman. But that is another story. I looked back at
Coco-butter as we left with a new found respect.
The wheels of his mind at
that moment were running through a mental inventory of ships he had
seen at the Base. Somehow I already knew he was going to pick
the--"Kanaafutura?!" Kemp was steaming. "That's my flagship
Hammerstein! I want to see a letter of requisition signed by the
King himself before you fly out of here with the pride of this
base!"
Fifty years of heavy metal shielding over
one's soul can be a particularly painful defense mechanism to
build. However, when he chose to use it, Hammerstein could crush
groups of trained men with it.
That smile. In your face. "Really,
Admiral Kemp-because I have a hypercaster right in the Hammerhead
and I can get the Royal family on the line right now, and you can
explain how you need the ship more than they need their
daughter?"
Kemp folded like a kitten, "No, no, no!" He
showed both palms, "Take it. Take it-and take a platoon of
Airborne. I don't want to see you, or that ship back at this base
again without a very attractive Royal personage by the name of
Clarissa on board. Alive, viewing historical tapes, and driving the
ship's cook crazy with peculiar dinner requests."
Hammerstein shrugged. "It's
a big Galaxy. Have those bots pick that Sunrider apart for
man in front of me, more muscled, more scarred, more resolute.
Suddenly, I knew, he was still carrying his nineteen year old self
around, standing forever on that flight
deck watching his friends die, and an indescribable loneliness
taking their place for the rest of his life.
"Paramon and wormhole shock waves." I said,
breaching the subject like pulling a patch from a wound-quickly so
as not to drag out the inevitable.
Most people would have
barely perceived the slightest flicker in his eye. For me,
however , it was as if the line of ships
once again ruptured in violent sequence across his
soul .
He smiled, and I realized the old iron
Detective had been forcing that smile for a very long, painful
time.
"Yes. No one uses wormholes in combat except
pirates, madmen, and Paramon. Too dangerous. I was at the Baal One
Station disaster. In a lifetime of military and police service,
I've never seen anyone use them since, until now. I'd stake what's
left of my career on it-we follow the bread crumbs and there will
be a Paramon agent at the end of the trail."
I glowered, sick with the
sudden knowledge of how a nineteen year old cadet feels after
watching his comrades perish, and Fifty years of loneliness after
that, always stepping back from that personal bond that would leave
the soul wretched come the loss. Fifty
years of heavy metal shielding for the soul, and underneath it all,
a brutalized nineteen year old boy on flight deck.
"Don't let your desire to settle accounts
with Paramon prejudice your judgement, Detective," I offered from
the strange place of his memory.
A tech came in with a report; efficient,
cool, and detached-he handed the data to Hammerstein. The
detective's eyes widened and a name came loud to me as if the old
block had spoken it aloud.
"Colonel Herb Lahman, Black Devils." I
said.
Hammerstein looked about the room, "Cut that
out. Come on. We need a bigger boat."
Coco-butter looked at up
the mention of "bigger boat.” Hammerstein saw the eager
eyes.
"Pick out the best ship at the Fort, pilot,
and tell them we're requisitioning it, King's orders. You can fly a
bigger boat right?"
"I can fly any ship in this
Navy, Detective. I was born in flight, my mother at the helm,
single handed, strato-caster."
Hammerstein chuckled back
and winked. "Good! Then pick out a good one."
We stepped out of the
Officer's mess and I was struck with the realization that
Coco-butter's description wasn't hyperbole. He really had been born
in a flight dive with his mother at the helm. She'd lost his twin
in the struggle, but had managed to save Justin "Coco-butter.” She
was an amazing woman. But that is another story. I looked back at
Coco-butter as we left with a new found respect.
The wheels of his mind at
that moment were running through a mental inventory of ships he had
seen at the Base. Somehow I already knew he was going to pick
the--"Kanaafutura?!" Kemp was steaming. "That's my flagship
Hammerstein! I want to see a letter of requisition signed by the
King himself before you fly out of here with the pride of this
base!"
Fifty years of heavy metal shielding over
one's soul can be a particularly painful defense mechanism to
build. However, when he chose to use it, Hammerstein could crush
groups of trained men with it.
That smile. In your face. "Really,
Admiral Kemp-because I have a hypercaster right in the Hammerhead
and I can get the Royal family on the line right now, and you can
explain how you need the ship more than they need their
daughter?"
Kemp folded like a kitten, "No, no, no!" He
showed both palms, "Take it. Take it-and take a platoon of
Airborne. I don't want to see you, or that ship back at this base
again without a very attractive Royal personage by the name of
Clarissa on board. Alive, viewing historical tapes, and driving the
ship's cook crazy with peculiar dinner requests."
Hammerstein shrugged. "It's
a big Galaxy. Have those bots pick that Sunrider apart for
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