Claws That Catch

CHAPTER SIX

“Ship status, XO?” Captail Prael asked.

“All personnel returned from shore leave,” Bill said. “All critical systems functioning. We’re clear for take-off, sir.”

“Straightboard shut?” Prael asked.

“All hatches closed and locked,” the COB replied.

“Pilot, make course for HD… 242896,” the CO said after a moment’s pause. “XO has the conn. XO, please call Miss Moon to my office.”

“Thank you for your assistance on Cheerick,” Prael said as Miriam entered his office. “Sit, please.”

“Just doing my job, sir,” Miriam said, sitting down.

“And now we don’t have one for you until we potentially encounter another alien race,” the CO said. “And that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I’m aware that on your previous cruise you spent a goodly amount of your time working on maintenance. But the ship is working perfectly well. It’s practically brand new, after all.”

“I was there when it was built,” Miriam said.

“And then there’s the matter of the crew,” the CO said. “While the older crew is perfectly used to dealing with you, the others are from the sub service. For some very good psychological reasons, women have never been allowed in subs.”

“That is arguable,” Miriam said. “But I’ll take it as a given for this discussion, since I can see where it’s going.”

“There is a large and fully functional science wing in the ship,” the CO said. “And we’re not carrying a science team. It is also directly connected to the wardroom and the officer’s areas. I do not mind you interacting with the officers, however after much thought on yours and Captain Weaver’s arguments to the contrary, I’m going to require that you stay out of the crew and Marine areas. If necessary, we will return to Earth to drop you off.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Miriam said, standing up. “But I’m going to make a pronouncement, Captain. The day is going to come, and probably soon, when you are going to regret this conversation.”

“I’ll live with that,” Prael said, gesturing at the door. “Thank you for your time.”

“Hey, Port-man,” Eric said, walking into the Wyvern Room.

In the Blade I the Wyverns had been housed between the remaining missile tubes of the converted sub. In the Blade II, a special room had been constructed. Still three stories high, it was easier to get the massive armor in and out of the room than it had been in Sherwood Forest, for which everyone was grateful. Lifts raised the armor up and down and in the central floor there were multiple airlocks for deployment. There also was a broad corridor to the underbelly ramp on the ship for ground deployments.

“Hang on!” Portana said, tossing a ball through the hatch. “Quick! Shut the hatch!” he added as a white streak went through Eric’s legs.

Eric did as he was ordered, despite being an officer, and then looked at the armorer quizzically.

“What was that?” Berg asked.

“Tiny,” Portana replied, growling. “Damn t’ing.”

“Why is there a giant cat on the ship?” Eric asked. “And when we’re alone it’s okay to forget the ‘sir,’ Port-man, but…”

“Sorry, sir,” Portana said. “Somebody brought it on to catch those chee-hamsters you picked up the first trip. It mostly take up time playing fetch. An’ I don’ see no chee-hamster, ever.”

“They’re nocturnal,” Eric said after a brief pause. “It’s like cockroaches; they only come out when there’s no light. So you’d only see them right after you turn on a light in a compartment. Glad to see we finally got something to keep them down. Now, I’m up for simulator training.”

“Got it licked, sir,” Portana said. “Runner’s World. Been there…”

“Did that from the front, Port-man,” Eric said, accepting the mission-chip. “Now I got to learn how to manage the battlefield.”

“Come!” Bill shouted at the knock on the hatch.

“XO, we have an issue,” the Eng said.

“And that is?” Bill asked, not looking up from the consumption report. They were going to have to stop by a gas giant and pick up some water and pressurized O₂ within the next five days…

“Number Two air recycler just dropped offline,” the Eng said, swallowing. “Number One is down to eighty percent. If it drops below sixty percent efficiency, it will drop off, too.”

They were in deep space more than four days from the nearest known habitable planet, the air of which was only barely breathable. And even with one recycler at eighty percent, they’d be breathing soup in no more than a day.

“I sure hope you’ve figured out how to fix this thing by now, Chief,” Bill said, flexing his jaw. “Or we’re all going to be breathing off spare O₂ by tomorrow morning.”

“If you can tell me what a covalent shear screen is, sir, I can probably fix it,” the chief snapped, holding up the printed out manual for the Hexosehr system. “But since I’ve got no clue how it works, I’m having a hard time even figuring out what’s wrong.”

“This, I think,” Red said, holding up what looked like a wire-mesh screen. Portions of it were a brilliant metal that reflected the overhead with shades of violet. But others were black and apparently covered with a tarry substance.

Three machinists had the failed recycler torn down and scattered across the deck, trying to figure out how to fix it while Red and Sub Dude were inside the guts up to their waists.

“I got more of that stuff,” Sub Dude said in a muffled tone from deep inside the device. “Do we have spare covalent shearing screens in parts?”

“Covalent…” the chief muttered, flipping through the book. “How do you spell that?”

“Polar corpuscle looks fried, too,” Ian said, holding up a metal piece that looked vaguely like a kidney. “What’s going to fry that?”

“Look, we don’t have time to figure this out,” Weaver said, grabbing his remaining hair. “Just pull the thing and put in the spare.”

“What spare?” the Eng asked.

“When we were having problems with it on Earth, I told the chief to pull that one and keep it around,” Bill said. “It was still working, it was just marginal. So where is it, Chief?”

“I had Red and Gants pull it,” the Chief said. “Red, where’d you store the spare recycler?”

“You told us to send it to depot maintenance, Chief,” Red said, back up to his waist in the recycler. “It’s in Norfolk.”

“I told you to store it and work on it in your spare time,” Chief Gestner said.

The clinking from inside the machine stopped and then both machinists slid out as if teleported.

“You told us, Chief, to send it to depot maintenance,” Gants said, gritting his teeth. “Send it to depot. That is what you told us to do, Chief. We sent it to depot. It’s in Norfolk. You didn’t say anything about working on it in our spare time. You said send it to depot.”

“I don’t like your tone, Machinist,” Chief Gestner snapped. “You will jack it up!”

“I don’t like yours, Chief,” Bill snarled. “I gave you a direct order which you, in turn, failed to ensure was carried out! So trying to shift the blame to a couple of petty officers is… Petty beyond belief!”

“Whoa,” the Eng said, holding up his hands. “What we definitely don’t have time for is to get into a he said/he said! The point is, we do not, in fact, have a spare onboard. Is that correct, Chief Gestner?”

“Yes, sir,” the chief said, glaring at the XO. Unable to take out his fury on the officer he rounded on the machinists. “You two, back to work.”

Gants gave him one more fulminating look then slid back into the depths of the alien machinery.

“Then we need to get this one working,” Weaver said. “And we then need to pull the other one down and get it working. And if you cannot figure out how to spell ‘covalent,’ Chief Petty Officer, you had better damned well learn. I’ll sell you a clue: It starts with a C, just like coc… Chief!”

“Eng,” Weaver said as they left the compartment. “I want it reflected on the chief’s evaluation report that he was given an order to maintain a critical component and whether there was a damned miscommunication or not, it was his responsibility to ensure that order was carried out.”

“I don’t think this is the time to be bringing that up, sir,” the Eng said. “When we’re past the crisis we can determine the mistakes that were made. I’ll remind you, sir, that as the person responsible for all aspects of this ship, it reflects poorly upon your own actions that you did not ensure that that order was fulfilled. I, for example, who is responsible for all the engineering aspects of the ship, was unaware of it, sir. Because you dealt with the situation directly, rather than working through the department heads. That is what we’re here for, sir, to ensure that all orders are carried out.”

“Duly noted, Eng,” Weaver said, grimacing. “But that order was given and it was not carried out. And I want that to be reflected in his evaluation report.”

“Also duly noted, XO,” the Eng said. “But on the subject of us running out of air, sir? I would entertain suggestions from my superior in this matter, sir. Because while I can spell covalent, I, too, have no grapping clue what a covalent shearing screen does.”

“Grapp, grapp, grapp…” Gants muttered.

“He’s gone,” Red said from outside the device. “The behanchod.”

“I was actually talking about this grapping Hexosehr piece of maulk,” Gants said, grunting then yelping. “Grapp! Work, you Hexosehr piece of maulk!” he shouted, banging on something in the depths of the machine.

“It’s not going to work with its guts spread all over,” Red said, looking at the system inventory. “Damnit, we don’t have any shearing screens! They’re listed as a capital item! They’re not supposed to break down, apparently.”

“Well, they sure as shit have,” Gants said, sliding out another piece of machinery. “And will you look at that?”

“What is it?” Red asked, picking up what looked like a painting canvas. Like the shearing screen, it was covered in a black tarry substance and holes had apparently been eaten in it in spots. Unless it was supposed to look like chemical moths had been at it.

“I have no grapping clue,” Gants said. “But I’m pretty sure it’s important.”

“We are so grapped,” Red said, slumping back against the recycler. “We have no grapping clue what any of this maulk is or how to fix it. How could we go into space not knowing how any of this maulk worked? Were we grapping nuts?”

“It’s Hexosehr stuff,” Gants said, sliding back out and sitting up. “It’s magic. It’s supposed to work like magic. Magic doesn’t break.”

“Well, if we’re not all going to die of asphyxiation, we’d better figure out how to fix magic,” Red said.

“And who is the most magical person on this ship?”

“It breaks the covalent bonds in ketones and esters,” Miriam said, not looking up from rubbing Tiny on the stomach. The linguist looked terrible. Her skin was gray, hair was frumpy, her tone listless and her eyes bloodshot. She was also wearing glasses, which Gants had only seen a couple of times in all the time he’d known her. “That breaks them down to CO₂, nitrogen, oxygen and water. When the covalent shearing screen broke down, you started to get organic acids which ripped up the carbon cracker, that thing that looks like a painting canvas. That breaks CO₂ and carbon monoxide down into carbon and oxygen then transports the carbon to a holding compartment. You did check the carbon holding compartment, right?”

“That’s a regular maintenance item,” Gants said. “But I never knew where it came from.”

“So the CO₂ and organics detectors recognized the system was broken,” Miriam continued, “and shut it down automatically. Otherwise we’d be breathing that black stuff.”

“Ma’am, we’re hours away from breathing pure carbon dioxide and days away from air,” Gants said gently. “We really need to figure out how to fix this thing.”

“I’m no use,” Miriam said. “I’m no use to anybody. Just ask the captain.”

“Ma’am, we really need your help,” Gants said, swearing mentally at the new CO and his stupid order. “Ma’am, if we can’t figure this out, we’re all going to die.”

“Everybody dies sometime,” Miriam said.

Oh, maulk, Sub Dude thought.

“Ma’am,” he said, carefully, looking at the cat stretched across her lap, “Tiny’s got to breathe, too.”

Miriam glared at him for a moment, then frowned, her brow furrowing.

“There’s not supposed to be build-up on the covalent shearers,” Miriam said. “The only way that you’d get that is if molecules with polar bonds were getting through. The covalent shearers can’t break polar bonds. Check the polar corpuscle. It’s probably detuned. Check the point and dwell settings. As to repairing the covalent shearer and the carbon cracker, you can’t repair them perfectly. But you can take them and cut them up and run it through the fabber on a recycler setting. The parts will come out clean. Use a melder to join them and you’ll get about ninety percent efficiency. See if that works.”

“Damn, Gants, you are a genius,” Bill said, looking at the humming recycler.

“The efficiency’s high enough I recommend tearing down the other one and repairing it, sir,” the Eng said.

“Concur,” Bill replied. “Good job, Eng, Machinist. Damned good. How’d you figure out the polar corpuscle was screwed up?”

“Oh, it was pretty obvious, sir,” Gants said, sucking his teeth. “I mean, that’s the only way you could get build-up on the covalent shearer, right sir?”

“Point and dwell settings?” Bill asked, shaking his head. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

“Not your job to figure everything out, sir,” Gants replied.

“Point,” Bill said. “Now I have to wonder what’s going to screw up next…”

“Well, that was different,” the CO said, setting down his fork.

Captain Prael felt it important that the ship’s officers have at least one meal together each week. It was an opportunity to talk shop and cover the minor stuff that might not be getting the attention that it deserved.

Normally, the meals were fairly good. Admittedly, shipboard fare was never exquisite; after a few weeks all the fresh food was gone and it pretty much came down to three-bean salad and chili-mac. But the sub service was well known for the quality of their meals. With nothing to see but steel walls, twelve on and twelve off, day in and day out, keeping up morale could only be done with good food. So if it wasn’t four star, it tended to be the best that was possible.

But there was a vast range of difference between a four-star meal and…

The current meal was listed as “Spinach Fandango.” Bill had never previously heard of spinach fandango and if this was spinach fandango he never wanted to hear of it again. He picked up some of the greenish-gray glop on a spoon and held it upside down. Despite repeated attempts, he could not, in fact, get it to fall off. No matter how hard he shook it. “Stick-to-your-ribs” was an understatement. This stuff could be used for spackling.

“I’ve been hearing some rumblings from my department about the quality of the chow,” the Eng said. “Since it hadn’t been all that bad up here, I just put it down to the usual grumbling. If this is what they’ve been getting consistently…”

“Sir?” the gunnery officer asked, diffidently. Like children, lieutenants junior grade were meant to be seen and not heard and he knew it. “Shouldn’t we still have some fresh vegetables? We were on Cheerick three days ago and I thought we got a shipment of fresh stuff.”

“Yes, we should,” the CO said. “And I’m beginning to wonder if this isn’t some sort of prank. But I know how to find out. XO?”

“Sir?” Bill said, diffidently tasting the stuff. It didn’t taste nearly as bad as it looked, but that was just because it looked so very, very, very bad. It only tasted very bad. Filling, though. One taste was all it took to kill his appetite.

“In addition to your other duties, you will take random meals in the enlisted mess,” the CO said. “Morale of the unit depends, among other things, on the best possible food, all things being equal. I wouldn’t describe this as the best possible food, would you?”

“No, sir,” Bill replied. “And aye, aye, sir. I’ll get to the bottom of this.”

“That wasn’t what you was supposed to have,” Chief Petty Officer Duppstadt said. “You was supposed to have the spinach salad and goulash. I’ll find out where that went, instead, sir.”

The ship’s galley was not, admittedly, the most amenable compartment on the Blade. A steamy hell of boiling pots, sizzling pans and ovens running full blast, it recalled the Harry Truman expression. And Bill admitted that he was ready to get out of the kitchen the moment he stepped in.

“That’s not, in fact, the point,” Bill said, patiently. “Was the spinach fandango the meal for the enlisted mess?”

“Yes, sir,” Duppstadt said. “It’s a favorite.”

“It’s a disaster, Chief,” the XO said angrily. “The stuff should be used for vacuum sealer! It’s a noxious glue.”

“It’s one of my specialties, sir,” the CPO replied, his face tight. “I’ve been making my spinach fandango whenever I got fresh spinach for over twenty years, sir!”

“Wait, you used fresh spinach for that… that… glop?” Bill snarled. “You used precious fresh food for that indescribable, unholy mess?”

“I ain’t never had no complaints,” the chief replied, mulishly. “Captain,” he added, sarcastically.

“Was that an insult to my rank, Chief Petty Officer?” Bill said, quietly. “Because if you think you can be insolent because I’m not a ‘real’ Naval officer then you’d better think twice, chief or no chief.”

“No insolence intended, Captain,” the chief said.

“Then you’ll refer to me as ‘Sir’ or ‘XO,’ ” Bill said. “ ‘Captain’ in a surly tone of voice will not do, Chief. Now do you seriously think that that mess you just slopped up is a palatable meal?”

“This isn’t DC, sir,” the chief said. “There ain’t no four-star chefs on no sub. And I ain’t had no complaints in over twenty years.”

“Then consider this your first,” Bill said. “And you are about to receive orders, which you will abide by, chief or no chief. From here on out, the officers will receive the same food as the enlisted tables. No difference, Chief. I will be eating with the enlisted ranks by the order of the CO, who is your second complaint in ‘over twenty years,’ by the way. And you had better start cracking the books, Chief, because if this is your best dish, you’re going to find yourself sorry and sore by the end of this cruise. You are not going to poison this crew as long as I’m the XO. I’ve got enough troubles on this ship without having everyone down with a case of the ‘I’m dying from Chief Duppstadt’s so-called food!’ ”

“Jesus Christ,” Weaver swore under his breath as he left the mess compartment. “What else can go wrong?”

His eyes crossed momentarily and he shook his head.

“Tell me I didn’t just say that,” he muttered as a mess specialist walked by.

“You okay, sir?” the mess specialist asked, looking at him askance.

“Just fine, just fine,” Bill replied. “Carry on.”

“XO’s talking to himself,” the mess specialist said, shaking his head and spooning up something called “goulash” that Duppstadt said was a “speciality.”

“Never a good sign,” the PO next to him said.

“Heard the cooks talking,” the missileman said, sliding his tray onto the table. “XO’s talking to himself.”

“Damn,” the ship’s medic said, shaking his head. “We’re only three weeks in. Never a good sign.”

“Better get your syringe ready,” the missile tech said, grinning.

“Carry it with me always.”