Looking Glass 4 - Claws That Catch (24 page)

“So you took the problem to Miss Moon,” the CO said, nodding.

“And she pulled up the design of the system, told me what the problem was, a bad power module of all things, and I could fix it, sir!” the seaman said. “I'm sorry, sir. I know I violated orders by associating with her, sir, but I got the sensor system working again. And it's not like I'm the first one to do it!” He clapped his mouth shut on that, a horrified expression on his face.

“So just how many visitors has Miss Moon had?” the CO asked dryly.

“Sir, at this point I'd really like to stand on my rights,” the seaman said. “If anybody finds out I told you . . .  Sir, they can get brutal out there, you know that!”

Horrible practical jokes were endemic to the sub service. As one submariner put it, “If we don't like somebody, we will drive them completely insane. And get away with it.” On the previous cruise a particularly disliked crewman had been found strapped to the hull. He'd been there for at least three days, effectively in sensory deprivation, and had to be kept sedated for the rest of the voyage.

Much like a prison, “squealers” were particular targets. The seaman was in for a psychological pounding applied by masters of the trade if the word got out he'd informed on anyone else.

“I'll let you stand on that one,” the CO said, nodding. “If you let slip what this conversation was about, I officially know nothing. I don't like it, but I know nothing. Out.”

The seaman seemed to break the speed of light out of office.

“Damn,” the CO said. He knew what was going to happen, eventually; the question was how to do it so that it didn't make him look like an ass. Normally, he didn't care about that sort of thing. But with a crew, they had to think their CO always knew what he was doing. In an emergency, in combat, they could not be questioning his judgment. And he was beginning to realize he'd made a monumental error in that area. Come to think on it, that was almost precisely the term that the XO had used. Damnit. “Conn, CO.”

“Conn,” the watch officer replied.

“Get me the COB.”

“So half the crew's been visiting Miss Moon to get their technical problems resolved,” the CO said.

“Half would be an exaggeration, sir,” the COB said. “The missile techs understand their systems just fine. And laundry and mess aren't having any issues. Well, Mess is, but the XO's on that and I doubt Miss Moon can cook.”

“I'd say that's half the crew,” the CO said sarcastically.

“Well, all the rest haven't been to see her, sir,” the COB pointed out. “Just the ones that have hit a brick wall with something.”

“They couldn't ask the XO?” the CO said. “He's a whiz-kid.”

“With all due respect to both you and the XO, sir,” the COB said, “the XO's usually really busy and is generally one grouchy son-of-a-bitch on this cruise. The crew steers clear of him if they can. And, frankly, I think Miss Moon has a better technical understanding of a bunch of the systems, sir. She's also a lot easier to talk to and pleasant on the eyes. I mean, seriously, sir, if you had the choice of asking Commander Weaver a question or Miss Moon, which would you choose?”

“And you don't have an issue with that, COB?” the CO asked angrily. “Direct disobedience of orders? Private time with a female on a submarine?”

“As to the first, sir,” the COB answered, his face hard, “Officially, I don't know maulk and will say so in front of any court you care to send me up before, sir. And unofficially, which I was thinking we were talking, the stuff's getting fixed, sir. We'd have turned around two weeks ago when Fusion Two was acting funky if it weren't for Miss Moon. And you and the XO barely heard about that one, sir. You responded to the SCRAM then went back to your regular work and got a report it was fixed. All done. Not how it got fixed, which was people who shall remain nameless trooping in and out of the science quarters the whole time and an hour run on the fabricator to fix a busted injector and some magnets that nobody but Miss Moon could figure out. And didn't the Eng hear nothing nor wonder about the engineering guys running in and out of the compartment every five minutes! For that matter, it all started because we wanted to be able to breathe, sir. You'll recall when the recyclers went down, sir? And nobody knew how to fix them?”

“Except Miss Moon?” the CO asked.

“She at least could figure it out, sir,” the COB said “As to the second, sir, I've been keeping an eye on it really close. The whole crew considers her something between a mascot and a good-luck charm. More than half the crew worships the ground she occasionally trods. If anybody thought about raising a hand to her, the rest of the crew would space him and you'd have one guy permanently AWOL.”

“Christ, COB,” the CO said, shaking his head. “This has got to get under control. The problem is I gave that order and maybe it was stupid but the Navy's got to have orders.”

“Beyond my paygrade, sir,” the COB said, letting his CO dangle.

“Thanks so very much,” the CO said. “I am now off my Captain high horse. I would entertain suggestions how to get out of this predicament. Because, yeah, we need Miss Moon on-board. I give. Uncle.”

“Let it slide for now,” the COB said. “Ignore it. I'll keep it to a dull roar. I've had to handle Miss Moon before and she's got more horse sense about people than you know, sir, pardon me. She sees what's going on and she's not going to make waves. First chance you get, let her off the hook and she'll let you off. If she backs you with the crew and I back you with the crew, well, sir, then you're golden.”

“And are you backing me with the crew?” the CO asked.

“That hurt, sir,” the COB said angrily. “You're the CO, sir. When I heard about the guys going to Miss Moon, I checked into it and realized there weren't no choice. When some maulk-for-brains complains about having to sneak around I dress him down right proper, sir. The chiefs are on it, sir, all of them. But, yes, you're going to need to climb down sometime, sir. This ship isn't going to make it to Rigel much less Taurus if we don't have Miss Moon's assistance. She's the only person that understands half the systems. We should have shipped with a full load of Hexosehr tech-reps filling the science quarters or at least a dozen human and Adar eggheads. Hell, even Tchar's gone! What we've got is Miss Moon and an XO that's new to his job and scrambling to figure it out. Do you know how to fix a busted particle sensor, sir? I don't. Or a covalent shearer? The nearest guy who's sure to be able to is about a hundred and twenty light-years off. So, yes, you're gonna have to climb down. It's just . . .”

“. . . Us,” the CO completed. “And Us includes Miss Moon.”

“Yes, sir,” the COB said.

“Message received, COB,” the CO said, nodding at the door. “Not that we had this discussion. But you can be sure I'll take the first opportunity to climb down. But it's still against my better judgment. Women shouldn't be on subs.”

“Sir,” the COB said, sighing, his hand on the latch of the hatch. “This ain't a submarine, sir. Sometimes I sore wish it was. Things were a grapp of a lot simpler.”

“Serious improvement, Eric,” Captain Zanella said, nodding at the results. “Serious improvement. The use of Bravo team was . . .  Oh, hell, it was damned brilliant.”

“Thank you, sir,” Eric said stoically. He'd checked on similar runs by the other officers in the company and found that, despite the CO's pronouncement, they lost the engagement on Runner's World on average 80% of the time, losses ranging from losing a full platoon to the entire company and attachments. And that average included the CO. Eric had gotten to the point where the engagement was becoming childishly simple. Of course, he wasn't about to tell the CO that he'd gotten advice on fighting crabpus from a Cheerick.

“Are you sure the blades on the armor work that effectively?” the CO asked. “Closing seems . . .”

“Well, sir,” the lieutenant said, “if you can't punch them on the snout, step on their toes. It works, sir. I've punched them myself.”

“How's the homework?” the CO asked.

“I'm four days ahead,” Berg answered. “I considered taking a break, but if I continue at the current pace I can be caught up at least one week before we reach the mission area, which will give me time to get back in shape. Right now I'm sorely out of reg for PT.”

“Don't exhaust yourself, Lieutenant,” the CO said. “Gung-ho will only carry you so far.”

“Wasn't planning on it, sir,” the lieutenant said. “I'm not even close to tired.”

“Does this cat ever get tired?”

Lieutenant Commander Clayton Oldfield was a long-service “nuke,” having primarily worked fast attack boats. However, with the changes made in the Blade, and especially in the Blade II, he was as good a choice as any for the job of engineering officer. Frankly, nobody really understood the Blade's new systems except the Hexosehr and while he was glad they finally had repair manuals, the sections on the ball guns were impenetrable to him despite a Ph.D. in nuclear physics.

The commander was also not a cat person. He currently had no pets but if anyone asked he'd probably admit to preferring dogs. So the intensity with which he'd taken to the Savannah was as much a surprise to himself as anyone else.

“Not that anyone has noticed, sir,” Sub Dude said.

“Where do you get one of these guys?” he asked, tossing the ball down the corridor.

“From a breeder,” Red said. “All you need is about four thousand dollars and a good home.”

“That much?” Commander Oldfield squeaked, provoking a cocked head from the cat. Tiny stopped and licked a spot hurriedly then paused, ready to pounce on the evil tennis ball.

“CO's coming!” Sub Dude whispered from down the corridor. He was tracing the fault on another part of the system and could see the approach from his chosen spot.

“Maulk,” the commander muttered, looking around. He flipped the ball into a supply compartment and Tiny bounded after it, tackling it as it bounced off one of the bulkheads.

The Eng quickly shut the compartment and leaned on it, flipping open the Hexosehr manual and perusing it with an intent expression.

“Good afternoon, Eng,” Captain Prael said, striding down the compartment.

“Afternoon, sir,” Oldfield replied. “Great weather we're having.”

“If you mean vacuum, yes,” the CO said, furrowing his brow. “Have you got the problem figured out, yet?”

“I think it's a quantum instability in the wiring interface,” the Eng said, frowning. “The pre-generator has to be kept online at all times and the dimensional flux field is destabilizing the strong force bindings in the wiring. We may have to back the molycirc interface away from the generation point. I'm also wondering about structural stability from the effect.”

“Could that be what was causing that strange bending noise on take-off?” the CO asked.

“Possibly, sir,” the Eng said, just as Tiny started a pre-yowl in the compartment. The hatch, however, was thick steel and Tiny never really sounded like a cat, anyway. “And then again, perhaps not. We're still getting it from time to time.”

“Air in the sewage lines, sir,” Red piped up. “I'm telling you, it's either air in the sewage or maybe in the water lines. I heard it on the Georgia one time.”

“It's a bit of a debate, sir,” the Eng admitted. “But so far there is no indication of structural damage.”

“I'm hearing it, now, aren't I?” the CO asked.

“Yes, sir,” the Eng admitted. “And that's one indication that it wasn't structural.”

“Well, track it down,” the CO said. “It's annoying.”

“Will do, sir.”

“Whew,” Red muttered as soon as the CO was out of the gun compartment. “That was close.”

“Air in the sewage lines?” the Eng asked. “Air in the sewage lines?”

“Hey, sir, I could tell you were frozen,” the machinist said. “And I think I found the problem.” He held up a wire and pulled. The insulation stretched and then tore, revealing that the copper was just dust. “You were right.”

“What do you mean I was right?” the Eng said.

“That maulk about quantum flux, sir,” Red said. “This stuff is being degraded by something. Want to bet it's a side effect of the generators?”

“But I was making that up!” the engineering officer said. “Maulk, maulk, maulk, maulk, maulk. That means we have to completely redesign the damned interface! And get it installed in transit! On both sides of the ship! How in the hell are we going to do that?”

“You're joking, right?” Red said. “Not about what we've got to do, sir, but about how we're going to do it. You're joking.”

“No, I'm not,” the Eng replied. “We're shorthanded as it is and the only person on this ship who could do a complete redesign is me. And I simply do not have the time.”

“Okay, he's not joking,” Sub Dude said, sucking his teeth. “Sir, who designed this thing in the first place?”

“The Hexosehr,” the Eng snapped. “But we didn't get the tech reps we were supposed to have!”

“Let me rephrase,” Gants said, shaking his head. “Who was in every single meeting handling the translation of our needs and interjecting her, and that's a hint, comments on modifications. Who did most of the conversion of Hexosehr three-d sonar imagery into CAD? Who, sir? Who, for that matter, made all of the blueprints. Take a guess.”

“Damnit,” the Eng muttered. “Okay, I need to talk to Miss Moon. And the CO.”

“So now you want my help?” Miriam asked. “I've been going stir-crazy in my cabin since we left Earth and now you want my help? Is that what you're saying?”

Captain Prael clenched his teeth and carefully did not point out that he knew for a fact she was getting at least daily visitors.

“Yes,” he said. “I, we, would like your help.”

“Shiny,” Miriam replied. “I'll get right on it.”

“That's it?” the CO asked. “No request for grovelling? No snide remarks?”

“I don't do snide,” Miriam replied. “And just asking is probably killing you. Don't worry about it. I'm used to men thinking that just because I'm pretty I have to be stupid. So I do the redesign and you have to, at least to yourself, eat crow. Being good is the best revenge anyone can have. Make that extraordinary.”