Broken Bow - Diane Carey [10]
“I mean armory officers and helmsmen!”
Reed accommodated him by touching his own uniform front with an expression that said Moi? “I don’t think I’m quite ready to have my molecules compressed into a data stream.”
“They claim it’s safe.”
“Do they indeed ... well, I certainly hope the captain doesn’t plan on making us use it.”
“Don’t worry. From what I’m told, he wouldn’t even put his dog through that thing.”
Reed opened a canister and was engulfed in frustration that changed the subject. “This is ridiculous. I asked for plasma coils. They sent me a case of valve sealant. There’s no chance I can have the weapons on-line in three days.”
“We’re just taking a sick man back to his homeworld. Why do we need weapons?”
“Didn’t you read the profile on these Klingons? Apparently they sharpen their teeth before they go into battle.”
Mayweather shrugged. “Then don’t let them get close enough to bite you.”
“Personally,” Reed opined, “I suspect it’s all rubbish and lore. After all, with whom do they do all this battling they speak of? And who supports this constant tactical front? Someone must do the sewing, cooking, construction, repair, and run a supply line, correct? Someone must cobble the soldiers’ boots, as they say. One should think they must have some other flammable race which also prefers to battle constantly, or they would have to simply battle with everyone they meet. Sooner or later, someone will have shown them their own heads.”
“You really think it’s a myth?”
“Oh, yes. One simply can’t behave that way without ultimately coming up against a bigger dog, sharpened teeth or no.”
“And a more disciplined dog, sir?”
“Why, of course. Discipline ultimately beats all Celts and Huns. It’s the British way.”
Mayweather rewarded him with a stream of laughter as they exited the mystical transporter room and hurried down the corridor, through a scaffold of working crewmen engaged in the hustle of making the ship ready in record time. No one had been ready for the captain’s morning muster. Three days? They wouldn’t be ready, but there would be a passable pretense of readiness.
“No doubt Mr. Tucker will reassure me that my equipment will be here tomorrow,” Reed went on, satisfied with his performance for the day. He continued, imitating Trip Tucker’s Southern drawl. “Keep your shirt on, looo-tenant.”
Mayweather wasn’t listening. “Is it me or does the artificial gravity seem heavy?”
Reed took a few measured steps. “Feels all right ... Earth sea level.”
“My father always kept it at point-eight G. He thought it put a little spring in his step.”
“After being raised on cargo ships, it must’ve felt like you had lead in your boots when you got to Earth.”
“Took some getting used to—”
“Excuse me.” Though Mayweather took a breath to say more, Reed was on to something else, for he had spotted a crewman about to tune the power conduits to the lower levels with his magnetic coil reader. “You may find that if you rebalance the polarities, you’ll get that done quite a bit faster, crewman.”
The midshipman glanced at him.
“Thank you, sir,” the young lady said, not meaning it.
“Very well. Come along, Mr. Mayweather.”
As the two men continued hurrying down the corridor, Mayweather cast a glance back and chided, “What was that all about? She didn’t need the help, y’know. Did you enjoy a little venture into superiorizing?”
“Yes, I did. Of course, it also helps that everyone in earshot got a little jab that we are indeed in a genuine hurry.”
“Ulterior motives. Sneaky.”
“Anything for king and country.”
“Listen, Malcolm,” Mayweather began, more quietly, “If I didn’t thank you for recommending me for this assignment, let me do it right now.”
“Oh, all I did was drop a syllable or two into the captain’s ear. Your record spoke for itself. All your life aboard spaceships, able to fly nearly any make or model—”
“There’s no model like this one.”
“No, there isn’t. So take heart, for there’s nothing against which to compare you. No one will know whether you’re mucking up at the helm or not. Wait—engineering is this way. Always