Ship of the Line - Diane Carey [2]
“Then we’ll have steemizz and crackizz with scraaad,” Bush finished, exaggerating for his captain’s amusement, and around him the bridge crew chuckled.
“What’s ‘scraaad’?” the communications officer asked.
The captain swung around. “That’s the thing that comes up from the sewage dump with a head like a hammer and it’s got just the one eye—”
“Baby cod,” Bush interrupted before he lost total control. “Get it right, pikers.”
“Is it anything like ‘potatoes of the night’?”
Despite the drowsy moment, there was a hint of gallows in the humor. Bush baptised his grin with a sip of warm rum and shuddered down a lingering rag of dread. Oh!—that shudder was still with him, left over from the recent collision and fight with smugglers. The conflict had left him with a broken ankle and the ship with several crew members dead, including the science officer and second lieutenant. The bridge still smelled of burned circuits, raw insulation, and a heavy blunder of lubricants that were never meant to be mixed. A few steps away from where he stood, the empty command chair reminded him of the fight. Still ripped near the front, the seat was a sly reminder that his captain would’ve been killed if he’d been sitting there when the upper bulkhead caved in. Bush would be in command.
Oh … shudder. His stomach clenched. He pressed his mind away from that.
Two weeks of round-the-clock work had cobbled the cap bulkhead back together, but the command chair’s leather remained torn. Many other conveniences had gone wanting for repair as the more critical systems were pasted back to some echo of working order. The interior of the border cruiser looked like a junk sale. Her outer hull was scorched and even missing plates. She was operational, but only generally.
Yet the captain resisted returning to Starbase 12 for repairs. He wanted the crew to do the work.
The captain’s methods often mystified Bush, but then Bush knew himself to be a simplistic and utilitarian fellow who often missed the unseen purposes of Captain Morgan Bateson, a decidedly unsimplistic man.
“Captain,” the communications technician said, turning from his board, “the Enterprise is coming up on our port side.”
“Open a channel, Wizz.”
“Channel open, sir. Oh, and let’s have port side visual, boys.”
Bateson stepped in behind Bush and took the command chair, changing instantly from a casual rum-sipper to a more proper gentleman. The captain had both of those in him. His musketeer’s beard and high forehead framed a pair of airbrushed gray eyes that were constantly working. At first meeting Morgan Bateson had seemed standoffish, but that had turned out to be merely one of Bateson’s many operational personae, which he donned and doffed like theatre costumes.
In fact, the captain’s fingernails were still dirty. He’d done his share of the hands-on repair work and only scrubbed up when he heard the Enterprise was passing through.
Stepping to Bateson’s side, Bush was suddenly aware of how motley he must appear. Captain Bateson had stolen a moment from the repairs to freshen up when he heard the Enterprise would be transferring two bridge specialists, but Bush hadn’t shaved in two days. He’d only managed a moment to change out of his utility suit and into his day-dress maroon uniform jacket.
Of course, unlike Bateson, who could buff himself up and shed the cragginess when he needed to, Bush could polish his skin off and still look like a shuttle mechanic. His hair was nondescript brown, a little darker than the captain’s, and he had a forgettable face. Tended to say, “Who are you?” to the fellow in the mirror every morning.
The ship’s half-patched bridge systems found their way to the forward screen and flickered up a portside visual of a stunning silvery starship. The famous Enterprise was on final approach.
“Holy Jerusalem,” Bush gasped. The starship had come up almost abeam already.
“What a sight!” Captain Bateson cried out, laughing with boyish cheer. “Look at her! Everybody turn and have a look at the Enterprise. Wizz, turn around.