The pilot complied, finally, but ended up with the last laugh anyway, as his shuttle’s navigation system was so far out of date that it couldn’t integrate with the Ansari’s software.
Which is how Susan and half of her senior staff found themselves standing around the observation gallery crossing fingers and mouthing silent prayers that they weren’t about to bear witness to their ship getting blown in half.
“How thick is this glass?” Broadchurch asked.
“They don’t make glass thick enough,” Warner answered.
“Thanks.”
Little puffs of steam shot out of the shuttle’s nose like a snorting bull in the vacuum and micrograv of the boat bay, slowing it to a crawl as it approached the capture cradle. Fortunately, the shuttle’s hotheaded pilot proved to be a cool hand at the stick, and it nestled gently into the waiting arms of the cradle without incident.
“Somebody punch that guy and then buy him a drink,” Susan said idly.
“Is that an order, Captain?” Miguel asked.
“I said it out loud, didn’t I?”
The assembled officers and senior enlisted chuckled, releasing the tension in the gallery even as the universal docking collar extended from the boat bay’s bulkhead like an esophagus to suck onto the shuttle.
Once all the lights turned green to signal a solid lock and a good seal, the hatch popped and three people crawled out into the accordioned sections of the transfer tube. Governor Honshu led the procession, trying to look as dignified as one could while hunched over in a meter-and-a-half-tall transfer tube.
They reached the airlock leading into the observation gallery and cycled through the double sets of doors. Nesbit straightened his spine and applied his most polished corporate smile. Honshu had the slight build of her Asian ancestry exacerbated by the extra height of a youth spent on a low-g world. Which, Susan wasn’t sure. The woman’s hair was cropped short and angular in the style of the core systems these days.
“Margo,” Nesbit said as the governor set foot in the compartment.
“Javier,” she replied. They leaned in and kissed cheeks in the French tradition that had survived the centuries among a certain set of the faux-cultured before she turned and nodded to Susan. “Commander Kamala.”
“It’s captain, Administrator Honshu.”
“It’s actually governor, Captain.”
“Of course. Forgive me.”
A flicker of irritation passed over Nesbit’s face, which gave Susan no small amount of satisfaction.
“I suppose this is the part where I’m supposed to say, ‘Permission to come aboard?’” Honshu said.
“Yes,” Susan answered. “To both.”
Honshu giggled. “I’ve always thought it was funny that we ask to board after we’ve already boarded. What a strange tradition.”
“Well, you can go back outside and try to shout for permission, Governor. I don’t think you’ll have much luck, though.”
Honshu stared at her. “I don’t think that’s very funny.”
Nesbit cleared his throat. “You’ll have to forgive my colleagues, Margo. Military life breeds a more … biting sense of humor than we’re used to in the civilian world.”
“Of course.” Honshu gave herself a little shake, then held her hand out to the two people standing behind her. “These are my assistants: Kaleb Daily, who, appropriately enough, handles the day-to-day operations down the well, and my niece, Patricia, who manages our orbital installations.”
“Welcome, and obviously the permission to board applies to all three of you. Will your shuttle need replenishment?”
“Ah, sorry?” Honshu asked.
“She’s asking if the shuttle needs to be serviced, Auntie,” Patricia interjected. “And yes, we should probably top off on reactant mass for our maneuvering thrusters at the very least.”
Susan nodded. “I’ll have my boat bay supervisor coordinate with your pilot during the meeting. I’m sure he’ll have you squared away by the time we’ve finished … whatever it is we’re doing.”
Honshu put a hand on Patricia’s shoulder. “Ah, my darling niece, always talking in vectors and velocities. Obviously got all that nerdy stuff from her mother’s side.”
“Obviously,” Broadchurch muttered. Miguel elbowed them in the ribs, but Susan would have to have a word with them later. But really, she needed to have a word with herself. Susan hadn’t signed on to be a diplomat. She had a constitutional dislike for answering to anyone outside of her chain of command that had been beaten into her since basic. But that wasn’t an excuse. A captain set the tone for her crew, and she’d let her personal animosity for this pushy politician leak over into her professional conduct. And that just wasn’t kosher.
“We’ve set up refreshments in the officers’ mess,” Susan said. “We can have a little privacy there.” She held a hand out to the elevator.
“Yes. Let’s,” Honshu said.
EIGHT
“What in the chasm is this?” Thuk asked, shaking the rolling scroll with the latest encoded dispatches from home.
“Our song for the rest of this expedition,” the recording alcove attendant said uneasily.
“We’re to remain in system, without resupply, and test the limits of the eyes of the humans’ new husks and, if possible, antagonize the human cruiser into crossing into free water?” Thuk passed the rolling scroll back to the attendant as if it was covered in something unmentionable. “If they want a war, why not just sing us into attacking the mound on their new world? It would save us all time.”
“I’m n-not … q-qualified … to…”
Thuk ignored their stammering. “We’re down three decoys, a predator husk, and a third of our annihilation fuel reserves. If the Chorus is making a joke, I’ll have to dig deeper to find the humor in it.”
“Yes, Derstu.”
“Has anyone else seen this dispatch?”
“No, Derstu. Only the two of us.”
“So if I threw you out a doubled-portal…”
The attendant stiffened. “If you’re making a joke, I’ll have to dig deeper to find the humor in it.”
Thuk sighed, then put a primehand on the attendant’s skullplates. “Forgive me, it’s not you. I’m just reminded of an old fable, and it gives me pause.”
“Which fable, Derstu?”
It was late in
