Starfist: Blood Contact (13 page)

Snodgrass learned about the
Fairfax County's
mission to Society 437 from an uncle in the Ministry of Colonization. "Argie," the uncle had said, "this might be your chance! Dr. Morgan is one of the most highly regarded scientists in the Confederation. If you were a member of the expedition that rescued him..."

Immediately, Snodgrass's ambition fueled his imagination. "Dr. Morgan, I presume?" he could hear himself saying when his party rescued Nikholas Morgan from—from—whatever it was. He'd be famous!

That line would be quoted forever! "Dr. Morgan, I presume?" Like that other guy a long time ago—what the hell was his name?—never mind, "Snodgrass" would be more famous than he. And all other things being equal, he fully expected a below-the-zone promotion to lieutenant commander as recognition for participating in the mission.

"Argie," another uncle; a captain in the Confederation Navy Bureau of Personnel, had exclaimed, "you are a line officer! You belong on a battle cruiser, not—not a goddamn scow like this troop carrier. You'll be gone almost a year! I can get you a job as aide to a Fleet admiral. Do you realize how valuable a fitness report signed by a Fleet admiral would look on your record? What the hell's gotten into you anyway?"

Eventually Snodgrass prevailed on his recalcitrant uncle and was assigned to the expedition as its special communications officer. "Uncle Jerry," he insisted, "you know they'll need a special communications officer on a mission like this. I'm qualified in deep-space communications, especially after my work with Project Golem. It'll only be temporary attached duty, after which I can get on with more important things. I really want this, Uncle Jerry." So at last the uncle, who really liked Argal and wanted him to succeed, was persuaded, but only after the ambitious lieutenant faithfully promised to accept as his next assignment a billet as a flag officer's aide.

What Snodgrass didn't tell his uncle was that he planned to write a book about the adventure when it was over. And when he discovered that the Marine element was to be commanded by a mere noncommissioned officer, he positively chortled. Everything was going his way! He'd somehow swing it to accompany the Marines planetside—the captain of the
Fairfax
, an odd old bird but an officer nevertheless, would never allow an enlisted man to be in charge of such an important detail. And naturally he would take over.

Commander Hank Tuit was captain of the
CNSS Fairfax County
because nobody else wanted the job and nobody else wanted Hank Tuit. He had been in command of the
Fairfax
for over a dozen years.

Frankly, he hoped the navy had simply forgotten about him. A heavyset, gruff, but capable professional, Commander Tuit intended to spend the rest of his life commanding small vessels. He'd stick with the navy until they didn't want him anymore—which he thought would be any day now, once BUPERS

remembered where he was—and then he'd happily get his master's certificate revalidated and command a merchant vessel. He'd continue his life on the bridge of a starship of some kind until he died there.

The
Fairfax County
was a superannuated scow. Commander Tuit knew that and was proud of it. He preferred "scows" to first-class ships of the line anyway, with all the spit and polish and naval folderol that made life with the Fleet such a pain in the ass. Nevertheless, Commander Tuit was a strict traditionalist when it came to the ancient customs spacefaring men had adopted from the seafaring navy. A ship's bell was struck on the bridge every thirty minutes to mark the passing segments of each watch, and at eight bells the next watch had damn well better be completely at stations.

And the
Fairfax
was a spaceworthy vessel—he'd made sure of that. As long as she got him where he was going and back again, he didn't give a damn if there was dirt on the bulkheads and cockroaches in the wardroom. Besides, the
Fairfax
was a troopship. Troops were the best cargo a captain could have.

They never complained about anything, and they pulled all the nasty details on board that the sailors would otherwise have to attend to, which made for a happy crew. And Marines were the best cargo of all. They liked cockroaches.

Commander Hank Tuit didn't mind a cockroach or two himself. What he despised—in his view the perpetrators and perpetuators of the martinetism that made an otherwise exciting and worthwhile career mind-numbing drudgery—were Naval Academy graduates.

Rachman Claypoole despised wardroom duty, but when the shipboard details had been passed out, that's what he'd drawn. Well, there was always plenty to eat when the officers weren't around, and he had plenty of time off, and best of all, wardroom duty kept him off the really nasty details like waste ejection party.

Just dismissed from mid-watch duty, he was hurrying to get back to the troop compartment when he bumped into a sailor in the companionway.

"Excuse me," the sailor, a petty officer third class, said.

"No sweat," Claypoole answered, glancing up briefly. "Hey, don't I know you from somewhere?" he said to the junior petty officer, a communications specialist, judging from the device above his rating.

They looked each other over. "Yeah." Claypoole snapped his fingers. "Humpty! You're Humpty. You were on the
Denver
when we were deployed on Wanderjahr, and we had a few beers together in a joint in New Oslo, just before the FIST shipped out to Diamunde. Yeah. Humpty! I'm Rock Claypoole. Put

'er there." He stuck out his hand and they shook.

"It's Hummfree, actually," the petty officer said apologetically.

"Oh, yeah. Sorry, Hummfree. Er, what ya doin' here? On this—this—?" Claypoole hesitated to insult the ship, since he knew sailors were ultra sensitive to jibes about their vessels, even a scow like the
Fairfax County
.

"Scow?" Hummfree volunteered.

"Yeah."

Hummfree leaned close to Claypoole; looking up and down the companionway before he spoke. "I'm with the special communications officer, Lieutenant Snodgrass." Claypoole made a face and nodded in sympathy. "I guess I can tell you about Project Golem now," Hummfree said.

"Yeah!" Claypoole answered. He remembered it now. Back at New Oslo, Hummfree had let it slip he was working on something called Project Golem, and then he'd clammed up right away and excused himself. Claypoole's attention was riveted on Hummfree.

"Project Golem," Hummfree whispered, "is a hush-hush signals-intelligence program designed to identify and track pirate vessels operating in deep space."

"Pirates!" Claypoole blurted out. With a hand, Hummfree signaled for silence.

"Pirates," Hummfree confirmed. "We get reports from merchant and navy vessels and police and military stations all over Human Space and we put them all into a huge data base. We have special units that do nothing but monitor message traffic between ships and their ports, and we have agents everywhere who watch what's going on. We're getting to where we can predict sometimes where the groups will hit next. Did you know there are over three hundred different pirate bands operating throughout Human Space?"

"Wow," Claypoole whispered. "Hey, Hummfree, do you think pirates—"

Hummfree leaned even closer. "Shhh. Maybe. That's why Lieutenant Snodgrass and I are along on this trip. Fleet intelligence and the Ministry of Justice think maybe an outfit called Red 35 might be involved..."

Claypoole sighed. Pirates! Now that was something new for the 34th! At least for him. "Hey, Hummfree, thanks, mate, thanks for the dump!" They shook hands again.

"Rock, promise me one thing."

"Sure. "

"Keep all this under your hat, okay?"

"You bet! Hey, gotta go now. Gotta get in some rack time."

Claypoole continued out of sight down the companionway. Hummfree moved toward the crew's quarters, shaking his head. "Tell it to the Marines," he sighed. Maybe he shouldn't have exaggerated so much. What had gotten into him anyway? he wondered. Oh, well. Project Golem had proved a bust so far. He and his dipshit lieutenant were along to supplement the
Fairfax's
communications department and maybe verify some Project Golem reports, but pirates on Society 437? He doubted it.

Back in the troop compartment, Claypoole couldn't wait to get MacIlargie aside. "Buddy," he whispered, "I was just talking to one of the sparkheads, and you won't believe what we're getting into!"

CHAPTER 11

On the inside, Claypoole was swearing up a storm. On the outside, he was pleasant and smiling. Pleasant and smiling because he had to be that way around officers to keep out of trouble; he'd gone aft and seen the tiny, metal-sided, bare room designated as the brig aboard the
Fairfax County
, and didn't want to spend any time in it. Swearing up a storm because he thought it was flat wrong that a Marine should be assigned to steward duty in the officers' mess. He was an infantryman, damnit, a fighter, not a waiter! He should be training with the sensing and monitoring equipment the Marines would be using when they made planetfall or studying the scientific reports from Society 437. He'd pulled steward duty since the
Fairfax
reached Beamspace and he was tired of it. The only good thing about steward duty was that most of the officers ate at the same time so there wasn't much to do between meals—and his shift would end before the next mess call. The only "customer" he had at the moment was Lieutenant Snodgrass, who was drinking coffee and reading on a personal vid.

Probably some top secret communication that isn't supposed to leave the comm shack, Claypoole thought sourly. With the lieutenant in the wardroom, he couldn't go back to the game he'd been playing on his own vid; he had to look busy. So he was slowly wiping down all the tables and chairs with a static cloth. Maybe if he maneuvered right, he could get around behind the lieutenant and read over his shoulder, find out things before anyone else in the platoon knew them. That thought cheered him up.

Claypoole sped up his movement around the wardroom. He didn't move fast, which might attract the lieutenant's attention to what he was doing. He simply didn't move quite as languidly.

"Get me some more, Private," Lieutenant Snodgrass said, interrupting Claypoole's maneuvering. He held out his mug without looking up.

Startled, Claypoole glanced around to see who the navy officer was talking to. They were alone in the room.

"Didn't you hear me?" Snodgrass said sharply.

Claypoole looked at the lieutenant. Snodgrass was staring at him hard.

"Sorry, sir, you said ‘private.’ I'm a lance corporal. I didn't think you were talking to me."

"Who else would I be talking to?" Snodgrass shoved his mug at Claypoole.

"Dunno, sir. That's why I looked around, to see who you were talking to."

A corner of Snodgrass's mouth twisted in disgust. "More coffee." He held the mug out at arm's length.

"And it's ‘lance corporal,’ Mr. Snodgrass."

Snodgrass glared at him and motioned with his mug. "It'll be private if you don't get me more coffee right now."

"Aye aye, sir," Claypoole said, all pretense at cheerfulness dropped.

A moment later he had the mug refilled. He managed to resist the temptation to spill hot liquid on the officer as he handed it back. Snodgrass resumed his reading, and Claypoole took a step around behind the officer and feigned cleaning the table to his rear. Cautiously, he peered over Snodgrass's shoulder and read:

...the Wombler war machine rolled slowly forward. Its organic treads rolled callously over the charred corpses of the Confederation marines who were killed in the brief, one sided fight. The war machine's twin blaster cannons swiveled from side to side in search of a living target in the ruins of the deutrenium factory.

Confederation Navy Lieutenant Horace Fairchild crouched behind a piece of laser-blasted machinery, watching the behemoth advance toward him. He hefted his hand blaster and wondered how he could disable the war machine with so flimsy a weapon.

His eyes darted around the cavernous assembly room, seeking something more potent that he could use. There it was, a

Claypoole had begun reading from the top of the page and missed what Lieutenant Fairchild saw when Snodgrass hit the turn-page button.

The intrepid navy officer stood over the husk of the Wombler war machine and blew the tendril of smoke away from the muzzle of the assault blaster he d used to kill it. Now to find the rest of the Wombler attack force and, Buddha's will be done, wipe it out.

Claypoole looked away from the vid and stood erect, a puzzled expression on his face. Wombler war machine? Tendril of smoke from the muzzle of an assault blaster? Buddha's will be done? One man—and a navy lieutenant at that—going up against an attack force to wipe it out? And every fool knew Marine was always spelled with a capital M when it meant Confederation Marine! He looked at the back of Snodgrass's head as though trying to see inside it. What on Earth was going on inside that man's head that he could read such drivel? He shook his head. There was no telling about officers. He sometimes thought that part of the commissioning process was the removal of several significant digits from the would-be officers' intelligence quotient. That was probably why Gunny Bass didn't want to get commissioned—he didn't want to get turned dumb.

"Are you through cleaning back there, Private?"

Claypoole jumped.

"It's ‘lance corporal,’ sir."

"Move around where I can see you. I don't like people lurking behind me." He hit the turn-page button again as Claypoole moved to a different part of the wardroom.

Claypoole wondered how Snodgrass got his commission. Oh, sure, the big ring he wore attested to his graduation from New Annapolis, but how did he get into the Naval Academy? That insulting thing Marine drill instructors yelled at their recruits early in training came to his mind: "Are your mommies and daddies rich, did they promise to buy a commission for you?" Lieutenant Snodgrass certainly acted like he was from an I'm-better-than-you background.