Even if he had, it wasn’t a subject he could discuss with a noncom. No matter how good she was. Gomez saw the frown start to form and held up her hand. “Please hear me out, sir. I know that’s a serious charge—but I can back it up. Hargo gave DeCosta some lip about an hour ago. The CO
put Hargo on the shelf, and the team’s pissed. The truth is that things are starting to get iffy down in the hold.”
Santana knew that cyborg Jas Hargo was partnered with bio bod Nikko Zavala. Hargo was a convicted murderer, and Zavala was an inveterate gambler, but both had performed well during the fi?ght in Deepwell. “A run-in?”
the offi?cer inquired. “What sort of run-in?”
“I wasn’t there,” the noncom confessed. “But the way I hear it, most of the team was in the hold, tweaking their gear, when the CO walked in.”
Thanks to the fact that the Eclipse was a freighter, and had nothing to carry other than the team and its gear, the main hold was the natural place for everyone to congregate during the long, boring trip. Especially given how large the T-2s were—and how cramped the rest of the vessel was. So Santana could visualize the slightly chaotic scene as the hyperneat DeCosta made his unannounced appearance. His eyebrows rose. “Yeah? So, what happened?”
Gomez shrugged. “Nothing at fi?rst. . . . Not until the CO began to walk around and scope things out. That’s when he noticed that Sato has a shotgun in addition to his table of organization (TO) weapon. Bozakov is packing four knives—and Tang was busy putting war paint on Hargo’s face. His head looks like a human skull now—
complete with bleeding eyeballs.”
Santana sighed. “Don’t tell me. . . . Let me guess. The CO went ballistic, ordered Tang to remove the war paint, and Hargo ran his mouth.”
Gomez nodded. “Yes, sir. And that’s when the major ordered Zavala to pull Hargo’s brain box and shelve it. Things began to get dicey at that point, but Sergeant Snyder was present, and she kept the lid on. But Hargo is a member of my squad, and your platoon. That’s why I’m here.”
But there was another reason, and both of them knew it. Because while common at one time, the practice of “shelving,” as it was usually called, had offi?cially been banned ten years earlier. And for good reason. Because without a war form or spider form to provide input to his senses, Hargo was effectively blind, deaf, and dumb while hooked to the high-tech life-support machine generally referred to as “the shelf.” A punishment that was not only cruel, but patently unfair, since there was no equivalent penalty for bio bods.
And that made Santana angry, very angry, which Gomez could see in his eyes. Something that made the noncom proud but frightened, too, because she was afraid the XO
would do something rash. It didn’t make sense because Gomez hated offi?cers—and had no reason to feel protective toward one. No legitimate reason anyway. But the cavalry offi?cer was oblivious to such concerns as he stood and ducked his head. “Thanks for the sitrep, Sergeant. I’ll have a word with the major. I’m sure we can straighten this out.”
“Sir, yes, sir,” Gomez replied obediently. “Can I make a suggestion?”
Santana paused. “Shoot.”
“I think it would be a good idea to post an armed noncom in front of the ammo locker, sir.”
Santana winced. “It’s that bad?”
“The team is pretty pissed, sir. . . . And we have plenty of hotheads. So why take a chance?”
“Point taken, Sergeant. Lieutenant Farnsworth is catching some Z’s—but it would be a good idea to roust him out. Tell him to arm Sergeants Snyder and Fox. Energy weapons only. . . . That should give any would-be mutineers reason to pause.”
“And Hargo, sir?”
“Leave him where he is for the moment,” Santana replied darkly. “I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.” Then he was gone.
Having found the cabin assigned to him to be too small for comfort, DeCosta had commandeered a larger compartment originally intended to serve as a lounge for Thraki merchants. As Santana entered the compartment, the halfnaked major was seated at one end of the long, narrow table that split the space in two, with his legs folded under him. DeCosta had short black hair, a single eyebrow, and a beard so heavy it would sprout stubble within an hour of being shaved. Though not a big man, the infantry offi?cer had broad shoulders, a well-developed chest, and a pair of powerful arms. Judging from the way the major held himself, and the fact that his eyes were closed, it seemed that he was meditating.
Karl Watkins was present as well. And given the fact that his right leg was laid out on the table in front of him, it appeared that the cyborg was performing maintenance on it. The civilian looked up as Santana entered, nodded politely, and returned to his work. A servo whined as his stylus touched a relay, and the waxy-looking foot fl?exed. Santana was just about to speak when DeCosta preempted him. “That’s a very distinctive cologne, Captain. . . . Perhaps it has escaped your attention, but God gave the Ramanthian race a very acute sense of smell. The average trooper could detect your presence from fi?fty feet away. . . . Something to think about, eh?” At that point DeCosta’s eyes snapped open as if to witness the other offi?cer’s reaction.
“That’s a good point, sir,” Santana allowed patiently.
“Although the average Ramanthian trooper could smell my sweat, too. . . . So I’m not sure it would make much difference. But it’s a moot point since I never wear cologne in the fi?eld.”
“I’m pleased to hear it,” DeCosta said self-righteously.
“Now, how is the latest edit coming along?”
“Most of the changes have been made,” Santana replied.
“But that isn’t why I’m here. . . . Sergeant Gomez tells me that Lance Corporal Hargo stepped out of line.”
“Yes, he did,” DeCosta replied gravely, as he methodically cracked his knuckles. “I took issue with the nonreg paint job that was being applied to his head. Then, after he told me to take the Legion’s regulations and shove them
