Fleet of the Damned (14 page)

"We want you to come back."

The spindar chuffed and sat back on its tail. "To the fleet? Hardly likely. During the years I served, I experienced enough courts-martial to find the experience irritatingly redundant."

Sutton was telling the truth. There probably had been no supply specialist in the Imperial Navy who had been tried so many times, almost always on the same offense: misappropriation of imperial supplies and equipment.

There also probably had been no supply specialist who had been promoted back up from the ranks so many times, again almost always for the same accomplishment: Due to the outstanding performance and support of (insert rank at time) Sutton, (insert unit or ship name) accomplished its mission well within the assigned limits in an exemplary fashion.

"We need a thief," Kilgour said.

The spindar chuffed twice more. Alex explained the problems that he and Sten faced.

The spindar, thinking, extruded claws from a forearm and raked part of the carpet beside him into shreds. Alex noted that the carpet was torn up in other parts of the room.

"What about the present charges that, shall we say, made it desirable for me to absent myself from my last duty station?"

Kilgour took two fiches from inside his shirt and handed them to Sutton. "Tha first's y'r real service record. Tha original. Consider tha a present."

The spindar scratched himself.

"Tha second's a new record, which, dinnae wish't' be't braggin't, Ah helped create. Couldnae be cleaner. You report back, and Ah'll hae tha in th' records in minutes."

"An entirely fresh beginning," the spindar marveled.

"M'boss say't there's a slight condition. If y' thinkit y' could be worryin't th' same scam on us, bad things c'd happen. About those, Ah'll say nae more."

"The mechanics of pandering and prostitution," the spindar said, almost to himself, "have become most predictable. You humans have such a limited sexual imagination. Return to duty." He chuffed. "What a peculiar proposition." Chuff. "Tell your commander I shall provide an answer by this hour tomorrow."

CHAPTER THIRTY

S
ten lolled back in his chair. His feet were stretched out lazily, crossed at the ankles, measuring the width of his desk. Inside he was tense, coiled, waiting for the hammer to fall. Outside he was doing his best to appear to be the cool, uninvolved navy commanding officer.

Personally, Sten thought he probably looked like a damned fool. All he needed right now was a knock of urgency on his door to spoil the entire persona.

The door
was
knocked upon. The raps were urgent; equally urgently, the door slammed open. Sten nearly compacted his knees getting his feet off the desk. Wildly, he thought for an instant which face he should present—bored CO indifference or calm CO concern. There was no stop-action camera there, or time to show the twists in his face as Alex and the spindar, Sutton, burst in.

"What seems to be the—" Sten started.

"Sir!" Sutton blurted. "We've been taken!"

Sten reflexively glanced about. Was the
Gamble
being boarded? Was Cavite being invaded? The admiral's daughter violated? Taken? By whom? Sten skipped the why and where and assumed the now.

Mostly, what Sten was really worrying about was how he was going to untangle his feet and leap into position. Alex saved his behind by sort of explaining.

"Wha' Mr. Sutton, here, is sayin't, Commander, is we been busted. I dinnae care't' guess wha for, but we been pushin't the motive a wee bit a' late."

Sten buried a laugh. He had a pretty good idea what was going on. But Alex had been running on his luck a great deal. It was time for Sten to run it back. He placed a look of great concern on his face. He almost
harummphed
. With as much dignity as could be mustered in a three by two-meter space, Sten rose to his feet.

"What, gentlemen, could possibly be the problem?" His voice was very casual and cool.

"We're trying to tell you, sir," Sutton said. "We're being invaded by the cops!"

Sten allowed himself to be drawn out the door.

At dockside, drawn up before the
Gamble
, was a phalanx of Black Marias with five police gravsleds per side and two cops per vehicle.

"I told you, sir," Sutton said. "We've been taken." He turned to Alex with accusation in his eyes and an angry quiver in his voice. "You turned me in."

"You? Who th' clottin' hell are you? Dinnae hae reference of grandeur, lad. They're bleedin' bustin' us all!" Alex gave Sten a glance. "I dinnae suppose we hae good graces here. But, if w' do, Ah'd be serious usin' them now, Sten!"

Sten maintained his superiority of silence. Oddly enough, it did seem to have an effect on the two beings next to him. There was an agonizing moment, then a hiss from the lead sled in the column. The driver's door opened, and an enormous member of the Cavite police force unreeled himself out. There was another moment for brushing of tunic and flicking at stray hairs. Then measured bootheels advanced toward Sten. There was an official piece of paper held in his thrust-out hand.

"A warrant, Ah'll ween," Alex whispered.

Sten was silent.

The cop marched up to Sten, tossed him a smart salute, and handed him the document. Alex peered over at it, his face breaking into amazement.

"You dinnae?" he said.

"I did," Sten said. "Thank you, Constable Foss," he said formally.

"With pleasure, sir," Foss said. "Now, begging your pardon, sir, but we're all on Ten-Seven. Can you process twenty recruits in less than an hour? Or should some of us come back?"

Alex finally came through. "Twenty of you, aye? Come in, come in, said the cider to the fly."

Moments later, he and Sutton were lining up the cops.

"So, thae be what it's come to, then?" he whispered to Sten. "Recruitin' clottin' fuzz."

Sten gave Alex his best and most practiced CO look. "Ain't war hell?"

First Lieutenant Ned Estill was a miracle captured in amber. He looked sharp! Sounded sharp! Was sharp! And his résumé was as crisp and clean as his dress whites. He snapped Sten a knife-edged salute, heels clicking like a shot.

"If that will be all,
sir
!"

Sten had rarely been confronted with such perfection. Estill was the kind of officer who made even a commander feel the grime around his collar. The comparison was especially pertinent because Sten and Alex were dressed in filthy engineer's coveralls. Estill's interview had been impromptu—an interruption of a greasegun's-eye tour of the ship. Sten had as much difficulty in dismissing the man as he and Alex had in quizzing him. How do you deal with a naval recruiting poster?

"We'll be gettin' back to you, Lieutenant," Alex said, solving Sten's immediate gape. Sten almost had to physically hold up his jaw as Estill wheeled 180 perfect degrees and clicked—not walked—down the gangway.

Sten sagged back against the hull in relief.

"Who sent him?" Sten wanted to know. "He's gotta be a spy, or something. Nobody, but nobody that good would ever volunteer for our dinky little boats."

"He nae be a spy," Alex said, "alto' he be a Doorman lad his whole career. The wee spindar checked him out."

"Okay," Sten said, "but look at his record. Honors, awards, medals, prized exploration assignments. Personal commendations from every superior officer."

"All peacetime, lad," Alex reminded. "Also, nae
one
good word from his ultimate superior—Doorman himself."

"Estill's too good," Sten said. "I don't trust him."

"We got crew enough for the four ships," Alex said, "but we're still lackin' two captains."

Sten mulled that over for a bit, wondering if Lieutenant Estill was an answer to his prayers or the seeding bed for future nightmares. Besides, did Estill have…

"Luck, Ah wonder if the lad has luck?" Alex said, completing Sten's thought. "How desperate are we?"

"If I could put a good first mate with him…" Sten mused.

There was a thrumming of engines overhead, and a loud voice crackled through a hailer across the docks. "Hey, you swabbies get off your butts and give a lady a hand!"

Sten and Alex looked up to see a rust bucket of a tow-ship hovering overhead. The tow pilot already had one ship dangling from its cradle and was moving into position over the
Gamble
. Long, slender robo arms snaked out and started unfastening the dock lines.

"What in the clot do you think you're doing?" Sten yelled up.

The woman's voice crackled out again. "What's it look like? Moving your ship to the engine test stands. You are on the schedule, aren't you? Or doesn't your captain keep the ranks informed of what's going on?"

"You can't move two ships at once!" Sten shouted back.

"Wanna clottin' bet? Hell, on a good day I can pull three. Now, get cracking with that line, mister!"

A bit bemused, the two men did what the woman said. And then they watched in awe as she maneuvered
Gamble
into a sling below the first ship in a few seconds flat. The tow engines roared to full power, and she started away.

"That lass is
some
pilot, young Sten," Alex said. "Ah've rarely seen the likes of her."

But Sten was paying him no mind; he was already running along the docks after the tow as it wound its way toward the test stands. By the time he reached the yard, the pilot was already transferring the
Gamble
over into the work berth.

"Hey, I'm comin' aboard!" Sten yelled, and without waiting for permission he swarmed up the netting to the towship.

A little later, he found himself squeezed into the tiny pilot's cabin. In person, the woman was even more stunning than her obvious flying talents. She was slender and tall, with enormous dark eyes and long black hair tucked into her pilot's cap. She was looking Sten over, speculatively and a bit amused.

"If this is your way of asking a lady out for a beer," she said, "I admire the clot out of your gall. I get off in two hours."

"That isn't what I had in mind," Sten said.

"Oh, yeah? Say, what kind of a sailor are you, anyway?"

"A
commander
type sailor," Sten said dryly.

The woman gave him a startled look, then groaned. "Oh, no. Me and my big ensign yap. Well, guess there goes my job. Ah, what the clot! I was lookin' for one when I found this gig."

"In that case," Sten said, "report to me tomorrow at 0800 hours. I got an opening for first mate."

"You gotta be kidding." The woman was in shock.

"Negative. Interested?"

"Just like that, huh? First mate?"

"Yep. Just like that. Except from now on you gotta call me 'sir'!"

She chewed that over, then nodded. "I guess I could get used to that."

"Sir," Sten reminded.

"Sir," she said.

"By the way, what's your name?"

"Luz, Luz Tapia. Oh, clot, I mean Luz Tapia, sir."

With one shot, Sten had solved the problem of the
Richards
and his doubts about Estill.

Only the problem of a skipper for the
Claggett
remained. But so far the last hurdle seemed insurmountable. Alex and Sten gloomed over the few remaining names on their list.

"What a sorry lot," Alex said. "Ah wouldnae make ae of these clots cap'n ae a gravsled."

Sten had to agree. To make matters worse, he was quickly running out of time. And Doorman hadn't been making things easy for him. His aides had been swamping Sten with regular calls asking for status reports and issuing thinly veiled threats.

For one of the few times in his life, Sten found himself stumped.

There was a loud scratching at the door.

"In!" Sten shouted.

There was a pause, and then the scratching came again, louder than before.

Sten jumped to his feet. "Who the clottin hell…" He slapped at the button, and the door hissed open. Sheer horror looked him in the face. Sten whooped with delight.

"What the clot are you doing here?" he yelled.

"Heard you were looking for a captain," the horror replied.

And Sten fell into Sh'aarl't's arms and arms and arms.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

E
ven as he walked under the baroque gates into the officer's club grounds, Sten began calling himself several kinds of a dumb clot. Across the vast pampered garden—which Sten was sure was tended by poor swabbies pressed into service by their superiors—he could see the palatial and sprawling building that housed the club.

Even by Prime World standards it would be considered posh. The building was many-columned and pure white. It was lit by constantly playing lights. The central structure had a copper-yellow dome that looked suspiciously as if it had been gold-leafed. Sten gritted his teeth as he thought how many ships could have been outfitted at the obvious cost.

He could hear the sounds of his partying brother and sister officers. Somehow the laughter seemed a little too loud, the howls of enjoyment a little too shrill.

Sten almost turned back. Then he thought, To hell with it. He had come here to celebrate with a by-God decent meal and a few too many drinks. He walked on, determined to have a good time. Besides, everybody on van Doorman's staff couldn't be clots, could they? There were sure to be a few interesting beings, right?

Just to his left was a large tree, cloaked in darkness. As he passed it, a figure came out of the shadows toward him. Sten pivoted, his knife sliding into his palm. The figure seemed to lunge for him, and just as Sten was about to strike, he smelled a strange mixture of strong alcohol and heady perfume. Instead of striking, he caught—and his arms were suddenly filled with surprising softness.

The young woman bleared up at him and then gave a slightly twisted grin of faint recognition. "Oh, s'it's you," she giggled. "Come to give me a cuddle, huh?"

It was Brijit van Doorman. The admiral's daughter. And she was quite drunk.