The First Casualty

Chapter Sixteen

His stomach under control, but no less a pain, Ray began to struggle to his feet.

“Let me help you, sir.” Santiago was back, the door pushed aside.

“I can do it myself,” Ray snapped.

“Not today, sir.” Santiago reached down and deftly removed the power supply from Ray's walker.

Ray collapsed back onto the stool. “What?”

“Quiet. Please, sir. We don't want anyone alarmed.” The young officer came to attention, briefcase hanging from his left arm. “Thank you, Major, for giving me this chance. Tell Rita this is my gift to her and the baby. Make the peace worth all we've paid for it.”

Santiago saluted, did a smart about-face, and marched out of Ray's view. Ray tried to get to his feet. Now the walker fought him. He was still trying when the explosion came.

Santiago marched down the corridor. In only a moment, he entered the briefing room. Keeping his cadence perfect, he marched for the table where everyone was gathering.

He felt no fear. If anything, he was elated. Ever since the major had shared the second combination, he had known this moment would come. The fleet orbiting Wardhaven settled any question of necessity for him. Rita's announcement this morning settled who would open the briefcase.

Using the confusion of people finding their seats, Santiago paused across from the President. Two guards immediately turned toward him, guns at the ready. “My President, my Major is indisposed at the moment. His war wound is not healing as quickly as he would wish. He has done a very brief presentation with pictures of the defenders of Wardhaven preparing to destroy the invading Earth scum. May I run it for you?” Santiago rested the briefcase on the table. He'd put the combination in during the stop at the restroom.

“Yes, yes.” The President beamed. “I love to—”Santiago flipped the case open. The President didn't have time to say what he loved.

Mattim glanced at the clock. Four hours 'til launch. He gritted his teeth. If he survived this, he'd be buying a new set of caps. At his elbow, his comm link beeped. “Captain, we've intercepted a message. It's confusing, but it sounds like there's been a bombing on Rostock and the President may have been killed or injured.”

“Give me the raw feed,” Mattim snapped.

“Yes sir. Sir, we've got a coded message here from the admiral. He wants it sent to someone on Wardhaven.”

“Wardhaven?” Mattim exchanged a frown with Ding.

“That's right, sir. Someone on our target.”

“If the admiral says send it, send it.” Mattim sighed and began reading the first message. According to it, President Urm could be dead, wounded, or on vacation. Mattim remembered why he rarely bothered reading the general news.

“What do we do?” Ding asked.

“What do we do with this mess, sergeant?” Two soldiers looked down at Ray. His gut was suddenly cold steel. Like so many other heroes, Santiago had died for him. Now these guards were about to shoot him rather than look at him.

“Just part of the rest of the mess.” The sergeant eyed Ray. “This one's the visitor. Didn't we hear his wife's waiting in his car? See if you can put a call through. She'll be glad to hear he missed the ...” Both soldiers glanced in the general direction of the great hall.

“How'd someone get by us?” the private asked.

“Sure it wasn't us?”

“But wouldn't the general have gotten us all out?”

“Rats leave the ship, people start thinking it's sinking. Besides, Red and Titra weren't exactly the general's favorites. Hey, you.” The sergeant nudged Ray with the toe of his boot. “Ain't you done yet?” Both snickered.

Maybe Ray wasn't done just yet.

“Isn't he a cripple, or something?” the private asked. “Didn't walk too well when he came in. Metal detectors didn't like him, but the screens only showed what he was supposed to be wearing. Think his braces were bombs?”

“Naw, he's still got them on. Okay, Mister Major, looks like we'll have to take care of you. Hope you don't need your butt wiped, 'cause you ain't getting it by us. Let's take him to the car park. That ought to keep us out of worse details.”

They lifted Ray none too gently. He barely managed to get his pants belted. As they reached the main corridor, they had to pause as a gurney was wheeled by. Medics and guards surrounded it. The front top half of the body was a bleeding pulp, but there was no mistaking the President's space marshal uniform. Santiago had succeeded.

At the limo, they tossed Ray into the back seat.

“This one yours?” they asked the driver.

“Oh, Ray, when I heard the explosion, I thought... I was afraid ...” Rita's tears covered his face.

“Get them out of here. We got bigger problems.”

The driver slowly wound his way past other parked cars, moving security rigs, and arriving emergency vehicles.

They were the only one going out. They might not have made it, but Rita had been memorable on the way in that morning, and now her tears and Ray's condition opened gates that might otherwise have remained closed. Thirty minutes after the explosion, Ray was being settled onto his bed.

Rita reached for the phone. “Give me the captain of the Oasis in orbit.”

“Ma'am, calls are restricted to national security issues.”

“This is a national security issue. I am Senior Pilot Longknife and I must speak to the captain of my ship.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Captain Rose” came quickly.

“Captain, there has been an explosion at the Presidential palace.”

“How is the President?”

“I do not know.”

“The President is dead.” Ray cut the words hard. “I saw his body. He is dead.”

“The major says he saw the President's body. He is dead.”

“I will send a shuttle for you and the major immediately.”

“Thank you,” Rita said as the line clicked. There were words Ray wanted to say, but they were not for the listening mikes. Rita held him close, painfully tight. Ray began to shake. Once more he and death had brushed elbows. Once more others had done the dying for him. The future had damn well better be worth the lives paid for it.

Mattim jumped as his comm unit beeped. “Captain, we've got another message intercepted from Wardhaven's Beta jump gate transmitter. It's in the clear and very explicit. Some major saw the President's body. He's dead.” Mattim eyed the admiral's door. Three hours until launch; the door stayed closed. The marines sat their posts.

“Comm, pass the message to the admiral. Keep me informed of planetary intercepts.” Whitebred might reserve to himself the power to decide what the messages meant to them, but Mattim was damned if he would let himself stay in the dark.

Sooner or later, he would have to make his own decision.

The car, the shuttle, and the yacht were all waiting for them. They broke orbit only minutes before a hold was put on all traffic. The captain scorned his orders back to dock. “My planet is about to fight for its life, and you want to keep me tied safely up at your pier. I'm headed for the fight.”

“We'll shoot,” they threatened.

They didn't.

“We'll never get there in time,” Rita sighed.

“We already have,” Captain Rose assured her.

Admiral Whitebred rolled onto the bridge as the clock went to zero. “My ultimatum having expired and the Wardhaven government not having surrendered, you may fire, Captain.”

“With the death of the President, things may be a bit confused,” Mattim observed.

“So you've picked up those rumors. That's all they are, rumors. Probably started by someone to buy time. They have no more time. Launch, Captain.”

A billion people had run out of time, and so had Mattim. Slowly, he studied the bridge crew, the admiral, and his guards. Their guns were pointed out. The younger three looked all too ready to use them. Mattim had played for time, and it had run out. Well, maybe not all of it. It’s not over until it's over.

“Bomb accelerator, this is the captain.”

“Standing by, sir,” said Commander Gandhi. “I have a bombardment pattern ready. Passing it through to you.”

“Main screen,” Ding ordered. A green globe appeared to the left of the screen, a single dot to the right. Red vector arrows departed the ship. The globe grew as the arrows approached. In a matter of seconds, they covered it with red splotches.

“Very good.” The admiral grinned.

“Commander, begin autoloading bombs now.”

“Say again, sir. Your message is breaking up.”

“Autoload bombs now.”

“Sir, I can't follow you. Static is breaking you up.”

Mattim glanced at Ding. “Comm,” she said, “we're getting a complaint from damage control of static on our line to them.”

“You're coming through five by five to us. Wait one while we check with them.” The pause was hardly long enough to take a breath. “They had no problem talking to us. Sir, I've never had static reported on an internal comm line.”

“You have now. Ding, you have the conn.” Mattim headed his cart for the hatch. Whitebred followed on his bumper.

“OOD, you have the conn.” The exec passed it along and joined the parade. Now it ends, Mattim thought to himself. Now it all ends—but will it be with a bang or a whimper?

Mattim did not give the order to start as he crossed the coaming into the launch bay. He waited until his parade had arranged itself facing launch control.

“Commander Gandhi, you may begin when ready.”

“Beginning autoloading now, sir,” she said immediately. There was a brief pause. “Autoloader is not responding, sir.”

“What?” Whitebred yelled. “What do you mean? It's testing as fully operational. I've reviewed every report. I've ...”

“We've thrown a breaker on the main bus. I got my chief working on it. Just a moment.”

Whitebred was fuming. “This woman is stalling. First she says she can't hear us. Now she says a fully tested and operational weapon system isn't working. She ought to be shot.”

“Just a moment, Admiral.” Mattim interrupted the first time Whitebred paused for breath. “Bridge. Give me a slow count.”

“Yes, s ... on ... tw ... th ...”

“Thank you, bridge.” Mattim turned to Whitebred. “There's something major wrong with the electronics in this bay.”

“But only to the bridge?” Whitebred wasn't buying.

Behind him, Mary studied the ceiling. The sergeant beside her looked around, hunting for someone. Guess sailors weren't the only ones opposing this launch.

“A bit strange, sir,” Mattim agreed, “but this launcher was installed our last yard period and never tested.”

“Hundreds of people have crawled all over it. Maintaining it, you told me.” Red was rising on Whitebred's cheeks.

“Yes, sir,” Mattim agreed. “But without operating it, we can't be sure. This first launch is its test.”

“Captain,” Gandhi interrupted softly, “we've recycled the breaker. It will not hold. We are replacing it. We have a spare standing by, but at three gees it will be risky.”

“Captain,” Whitebred snapped, “get this ship to one gee.”

Mattim so ordered.

“Sir.” Commander Gandhi frowned. “That'll change all my trajectories. Will we be going back to three gees?”

Mattim raised a questioning eyebrow to the admiral. “No,” he snarled. “We will stay at one gee for the launch.” Mattim wondered how many sabots had depended on three gees for the sabotage. At least they could get out of the damn high-gravity carts.

“Sir,” Gandhi said as she stood up, “I'll need access to the ship's full network to redo my calculations.”

Whitebred was distracted as he undid his harness; for once, Mattim was not interrupting. “Bridge, we need all computing power down here.”

“Yes, sir.” A moment later the PA system announced, “Knock off all nonessential net access. Stand by to load priority assignment in thirty seconds.” A minute later, the computer was happily chewing on the new trajectories.

Five minutes later all lighting went off on the left side of the launch bay. “What?” Whitebred squawked.

“Engineering,” Mattim said.

“Ivan here. We just cut power to number three main so they could pull a breaker. Is that a problem?” he asked innocently.

“No problem,” Mattim assured him. Whitebred relaxed.

“Bridge here,” blared from the PA. “We have a problem.”

“Captain here. Yes?” Mattim said as Whitebred turned to face him.

“We just lost power to a third of the distributed network,” they informed Mattim and the entire crew. “That crashed the project we had running. We tried a restart, but it's corrupted. We're purging it and will restart as soon as we can.”

“Thank you,” Mattim answered evenly.

“What's going on? This is sabotage!” Whitebred yelled.

“Sir.” Mattim spoke softly, trying to sound reasonable. “We are attempting a major project with no planning. With all the complex sub-activities we've got going here, even the best team is bound to have a few social errors. They're a good team, and they're improvising the best they can,” Mattim concluded. They were a damn good team and they were improvising as best they could—just not in the direction Whitebred wanted.

In the next five minutes, they restarted the trajectory problem, but using only one third of the net in case it was necessary to take down the second main that also supported the launcher. The new breaker box came on line—and immediately popped. That started a slow walk down of all the power cables in the bay.

“I watched carts go up and down those cables. What the hell were they doing?” Whitebred demanded.

“Just what we're doing now. Testing and looking for any trouble,” Gandhi answered. “But from a cart, there is only so much you can see. Our problem is not something the tests show.”

It took fifteen minutes to find a bum tester unit. Its replacement quickly isolated the frayed insulation that popped the breaker. The autoloader powered up and stayed powered.

“Finally,” Whitebred breathed in exasperation.

“Load first round in test mode,” Mattim ordered. For once

Whitebred did not second-guess him. Maybe the guy was trainable. Mattim hoped not. The first round rolled slowly down a conveyor, hit the bumper at the end of the chute— and kept rolling as the bumper bent and broke. Work crews scattered.

“That's impossible.” There was awe in Gandhi's voice. “That unit is grown from a single crystal. It can't break.”

“Hope it's under warranty,” Mary drawled. “Sergeant, have a team look at that for sabotage.”

“I look at it first,” Whitebred shouted.

As a chief and work party set about corralling two and a half tons of stray steel, officers took a look. The shards were wickedly sharp. As Whitebred examined it, Mattim glanced around. Well back in the crowd was his tiny middie. Beside her stood a young fellow in coveralls carrying a tool kit. Mattim remembered him; the guy with the Ph.D. Guns said he had a lot to learn. Material properties probably wasn't among the lot.

Just how much of this contraption is sabotaged?

Having seen enough, Whitebred drew himself up to his full height. “Well, commander, it's broke. Fix it.”

“Sir, we don't have a replacement. It's not supposed to break. And if it does, only a yard can clean it up.”

The admiral and the damage control officer stared at each other. Mattim did not want to see what Whitebred's next move would be. The damn sergeant was edging toward the admiral.

“If I may have Chief Aso out of the brig, sir, I think we can solve this,” Mattim intervened.

“Sergeant, release him,” Whitebred snapped.

Five minutes later, Aso reported.

“Chief, fix that,” the damage control officer said.

For a half a minute, Chief Aso studied the problem; then he started bawling orders. Fifteen minutes later, shoring beams buttressed a new brake, and sand had been added to the chute to slow down the slide of the rounds.

“Ought to take care of it for now,” the chief muttered.

“Captain, launch those bombs,” Whitebred demanded.

“Commander, let's bring one out slow.”

“Sir, my firing solution needs recalculation. I'm way past the initial launch point.”

“Launch it, damn you!” Whitebred yelled.

“Recalculate,” Mattim said at the same time.

“Launch,” Whitebred repeated.

“Admiral,” Mattim spoke slowly, “the solution is blown. We could miss the planet, hit one of our ships. Who knows?”

“Recalculate.” Whitebred capitulated. “And make sure there's nothing else wrong with this damn thing. Commander, I want maintenance people over every inch of it. Sergeant, I want marines looking over every shoulder.”

“Yes sir” echoed all around.

As personnel scattered over the launch bay, Mattim found himself next to Mary. “Where'll it be safe to stand when that thing goes off?” she asked.

“Good question.” Mattim doubted the usual answers had any value. “The autoloader could take your hand off. The acceleration tube'll be loaded with energy.” He glanced around. “I suspect there's a reason for the shiny new handholds.” The bay and launch control were lined with railings at waist height.

“I hadn't noticed them. Strange what people miss.” They exchanged a smile. There were five crises as young marines demanded explanations from sailors for what they were doing. Whitebred was into those rows in a flash. Mattim, Mary, and Sergeant Dumont were right behind. The list of people Whitebred wanted shot if this didn't go right grew longer and longer.

Fifteen minutes later, they had a firing solution. Without orders, most of the work crews arranged themselves along the wall, handholds in reach. Only Whitebred and his pet Sergeant Dumont stood in the middle of the bay. “Fire, commander, and you're a dead woman if you fail me again,” the admiral growled.

Sergeant Dumont pointed his assault rifle around the room menacingly.

“I'm just doing my job the best I can,” Gandhi answered. “Launch one.”

A mechanical rammer shoved a round forward into a cage of cables and metal. For a second, the ugly slug just sat there—then it began to move. The naked eye could follow it for only a second as it shot down the launcher rail.

Then all hell broke loose.

Monitor reviews would later show the round departing the track at midpoint and tearing a wide gash in the port side of the Maggie D , exactly as Mattim and Chief Aso had planned it. At the moment it happened, Mattim was busy holding on to keep from being sucked out by the air rapidly evacuating the launch bay. Any space this large in a starship had to be designed with this in mind. Even as Mattim struggled to hold, the ship acted. Doors sliced shut along the launcher, sealing the damage and holding in the fleeing air.

Unfortunately, it also sealed Whitebred and his favorite sergeant in as well. Before Mattim could get a report on the Maggie 's situation, Whitebred was screaming at the top of his lungs, “Shoot them. All of them. Shoot them all.”

While Dumont looked around, trying to catch his bearings and decide whom to shoot first, Mattim and Mary hustled to put themselves in the line of fire.

“Don't be stupid,” Mattim snapped. “You can't start shooting people when we've got a damaged ship to handle.”

“Shoot them!” was all the answer he got.

“We won fair and square,” Mary said softly to her sergeant. “Marines don't shoot marines.”

“Fair and square,” Mattim and Whitebred both echoed.

“You had full rein to search. You didn't catch them,” Mary continued slowly.

“We caught them. We just couldn't make it stick.”

“It's the same thing, Du.”

“Shoot them!” Whitebred screamed.

“Captain!” blared from the speakers in the launcher bay. “Comm here, I have a message for you from Captain Ramsey of the Sendai . He has orders for you.”

“I'll take it in my quarters,” Whitebred shouted.

“It's not for you. It's for the captain. Putting it on the screen down there.” The wall across from the launcher control lit up. There was Buck Ramsey.

“Matt, this message is for you. Whitebred is released from command and rank immediately. All his orders are countermanded. Skobachev will assume command. I repeat, Whitebred is no admiral and he gives no orders. The orders promoting him are being looked at real close. I know nothing about that. What I do know is I have official orders from the military commander at Pitt's Hope to return him immediately. I will wait for your response. We would have been here sooner, but I don't know how Sandy found that point so fast. We've spent the last three days trying to pin it down. By the way, I think the war is over. I will await your answer. Ramsey out.”

“Wait one, comm,” Mattim said, then turned to Whitebred. “I don't know what this is about, but it's over.”

Like so many things lately, Mattim had that one wrong too.

“You bastard. You lying bastard.” Sergeant Dumont was so enraged he ignored his rifle and went for Whitebred's throat with his bare hands. As Whitebred fended him off with one hand, his other went for the assault weapon.

Even in defeat, Whitebred still wanted to “shoot them all.”

Mattim hardly saw her coming. Kat the Zap came in fast and low. One moment the two men were struggling; the next second they lay ten feet apart and the middie stood between them not even breathing hard. Whitebred was screaming, clutching his knee. When this was all over, Mattim wanted to know two things: how his crew pole-axed up the launcher, and how one tiny young woman put two men twice her size down so fast.

“Mr. Crossinshield, you have a problem.” Trevor gulped; when his client knew he had a problem before Trevor did, something had gone terribly wrong. Today, his client met him at the edge of a pond in a pleasant park. The noise of the city was held at bay, whether by the trees or more exotic means Trevor did not need to know. The big man fed crumbs to white swans. To Trevor, he fed gall. “You have been out of touch with your man, the one who knows the door to the galaxy.”

“Yes, sir. He is in the Navy and does sometimes go aboard ship. Communications through those channels are often strained.”

“Yes, but do you know where he is? I am picking up strange rumors. I do not like rumors, Mr. Crossinshield. I like facts.”

From across the pond, two ebony black swans knifed through the water to scatter the white ones. Trevor's client smiled and tossed them corn as their reward. Trevor glanced around. From the path through the trees, three men emerged and walked toward them. The one in the lead looked straight ahead. The two behind him signaled. People whom Trevor would have sworn were part of his client's security detail nodded and began to close in.

His client continued to feed the swans, both black and white. “Sir.” Trevor was surprised to hear himself squeak.

“Speak up, boy.”

“Sir, I believe you have company.”

His client turned. And maybe for a split second Trevor saw surprise on his face. Then he calmly turned back to the pond. This time, however, he tossed nothing to the swans.

“Good afternoon, Henry.” The man paused to smile down at Trevor's client. “I thought I'd find you here. There are things we must talk about. If you gentlemen will leave us alone.” The guards turned at his command—all of them— and returned to their alert meanderings.

Trevor turned to go. “Not you. You will stay.”

“Edward, is that any way to treat one of mine?”

Trevor had not recognized the man with his clothes on. Now he did. This was the other man, the man who had locked horns with his client in the sauna—and lost. He did not act like a loser now. “Henry, the question is, is anyone yours?”

Trevor's client made no reply. The new arrival settled comfortably on the other end of the bench. Then he reached over, took the small sack of grain from Trevor's client, and began feeding the swans. Behind the bench, Trevor wanted to run, but his legs were water. Unable to stand, he risked leaning his hands on the back of the bench. Surprise filled Trevor; despite the power shooting between the two men, he was not electrocuted.

After upending the sack, the man spoke. “Henry, the dogs of this war you released are chewing up some very unhappy legs. Your President Urm has met with an accident.”

Henry's usual aplomb vanished. His head jerked around to spear Trevor with hard, obsidian eyes.

“I have had nothing but normal reports about President Urm, sir.”

“When the general holding your security contract on Urm failed so miserably, Trevor,” Edward said, “he came looking for a new employer. We reached an agreement very quickly.”

Henry's glare was for Edward, but there was enough heat along its edge to burn Trevor down to cinder.

“I must thank you, Henry. Your man in Pitt's Hope has succeeded most admirably for me. By threatening all life on Wardhaven, he has driven the colonials to send emissaries, real emissaries with authority to negotiate. And by showing the planetary governments just how easy their own bureaucracy is turned against them, you have gotten their attention. Attention we do not want, Henry. None of us.”

“Governments are nothing!” Henry huffed.

Edward cut him off with a smile. “So you have said many times. We give the politicos money to buy the votes they need, but they still think those votes give them power. They are ready to turn that power to a scrutiny of us and this unpleasantness.”

“I can handle them.”

“Yes. Yes, you can. And we have decided to let you. But you will need time.” Edward sounded so solicitous. “With your many duties, you might have problems squeezing in the time you will need. So, Henry, we have decided that you should step down from most of your positions on boards of directors. If you do not, you will be voted out.”

“You can't.”

“You will find in the next week that we have. Not all, Henry. I have gone out of my way for you. Two boards you will stay on. Ones I direct. It will be a pleasure to see you sit through meetings quietly listening while others hold the reins. Watch you squirm when you can't get enough votes to even wipe your own ass. Yes, Henry, you will be an interesting diversion.”

“You have not seen the last of me,” Henry hissed, getting to his feet.

“Of that I am sure, Henry.”

Trevor's ex-client stomped away. Only two guards departed with him—the two that had come with Edward.

“Would you like a seat, Mr. Crossinshield?”

Trevor stumbled his way around the bench and sat on its edge; it felt more like a collapse. He awaited his fate.

“I don't hold Urm's death against your general. Henry failed to see the pressure building. We don't have nearly the power he thinks we have. You, however, are interesting. Initially, you provided Henry with information my own sources overlooked. That was good.” Trevor risked a faint smile.

“In the end, however, Mr. Crossinshield, you failed.”

“Words spoken, sir, are not always heard.” Trevor tried a gentle gambit.

The man sighed. “Yes, that is the problem. Whose words to believe, the ones you want to hear or the ones you need to hear? Damnably tough call.” For a long minute the man stared at the swans. “I will take you on, Mr. Crossinshield. At a reduced rate, mind you. We will all have to trim our budgets thanks to Henry. Some of your people are worth keeping.”

“Mr. Whitebred?” Trevor risked.

“Failed miserably,” Trevor's new client snapped, then seemed to rethink himself. Was that a personal trait, or was today a day for second thoughts? Trevor would wait and see. “However, his heart was in the right place. Find a window office for him. Who knows, he may yet do us a service.” Then his brow darkened. “Those others, the ones who stopped him.”

“Yes, sir.”

“We can not have people like that succeed, even in stopping Henry's blunders. Sets a bad example. Find a hole and make them disappear.”

“Yes, sir.” The meeting was turning out far better than he had any right to expect. He hastened up the hill. He had work to do. It would be good to impress his new client quickly.

The fleet was gone by the time Mattim brought the Sheffield into orbit around Wardhaven. Shedding energy had taken them on a grand tour of the system. Repairs would take longer. Orbit was a wreck; the squadron had really shot up the place on its first pass. Parts of stations and ships drifted everywhere, but shuttles were already back, bringing workers, parts—and a station manager.

“Earthie Navy ship, respond.”

“Let me handle this one. I know Owen.” Mattim switched on his comm. “Owe, it's me, Matt. Maggie D looks a bit different, but she's still the same old girl under all this extra gear.”

“I don't care who you are. While you wear that uniform, you don't park there. Back off five hundred klicks. One of your boats is waiting for you.”

“Boss, I've been meaning to talk to you about your bad breath,” Ding laughed.

“Can't get no respect. Thor, what's five hundred klicks back?”

“Old tub, looks rigged for passengers, but just barely.”

“Comm, can you raise a transport aft of us?”

“On the line already, Captain. Putting him through.”

“Captain Abeeb, I am ordered to relieve you of Captain Whitebred and Commander Stuart. I am also to take off your draftees and give them a lift home.”

“I figured we'd be going back to Pitt's Hope together.”

“I don't believe so, sir. My orders just relate to your junior personnel. I'll transmit your orders, now, but the scuttlebutt is that the Sheffield is too banged up. She's being scrapped.”

“Scrapped!” Sandy howled.

“You got to be wrong,” Mattim assured him.

“Could be, sir. They're your orders. Read them.”

Mattim did. “He's right. They're scrapping the old girl.”

“Her engines are in great shape,” Ivan roared as he came on the bridge. “Call 'em and tell 'em they're wrong.”

Mattim tapped his board. “Comm, get me the port master.”

“You got him.”

“Owe, this is Matt, I need to send a message to Navy Command, Pitt's Hope.”

“Who's paying?”

“Didn't the squadron set up an account at the armistice?”

“Yeah, and closed it when they left. You want to make a call, get me your charge code.”

“You think they'd take a collect call?” Sandy asked.

Whitebred limped onto the bridge surrounded by three guards, including the tiny middie. “I want to get my personal effects. I understand there's a liner here to take me home.” Mattim pointed to the transport on screen. “That? It's no bigger than an admiral's barge. Well, at least I'll have it to myself.”

“You and three quarters of the crew.”

“What? I will not be surrounded by a sea of... of...” Whitebred quit hunting for words.

Mattim grinned as he sputtered down. “You'll also go with only the brig suit you're wearing. I've got your gear under seal until a criminal investigator goes over it. Security, get this man off my bridge.” They did, none too gently.

“Ding, pass the word to all hands. This may be the only ride home. Anyone wants on that transport, we will find space.”

That led to a lot of griping, from Whitebred, from the transport's captain, and from the crew that got shoehorned into it. It took a day to load them all out. Zappa showed up halfway through the drill. “Sir, do we have to go?”

“May be the only ride for a while.”

“Yes, sir, but we'd like some time to look over our raw data on that little excursion. We got the fixings for some great papers. If we could take the time now, while we're still together, to get everything in order, we could hit the journals like a ton of cement.”

So the Sheffield or Maggie D or whatever she was today settled down in orbit. Without a station to swing her, there was no way to put gravity on the ship. What was usually only a momentary inconvenience became the norm. To the old hands, both Navy and merchant, it was something to adapt to. To the kids, it was fun. Part of the ship took on the look of a university, though one run by the students. The rest did what needed doing to keep the ship going. To some she might be scrap; to her crew, she was home. She'd taken care of them through some rough times; they wouldn't abandon her now.