Ship of the Line - Diane Carey [33]
They had run, and not bothered to be more humiliated. A man could only be so bruised. After so many blows, there was no feeling left in the nerves of the soul.
Seven grim years they had been wandering. The mission was supposed to last only five years, but those contacts with Command had extended their assignment each time. Now the ship was full to its braces with bits of trash in stasis. There simply was no room left with which to keep exploring.
Kozara looked old. He had looked old for decades now. Gaylon glanced at his commander—Kozara was tight with his small hopes.
“He may be here, Commander,” Gaylon said. “Since our approach was not secret, he may have been notified.”
For years Gaylon has trained himself not to care what was in Kozara’s mind. Today, though, he wanted to know.
“He will be here.” Kozara’s voice, scratching from the old throat, made Gaylon flinch. “My son Zaidan will be in that station to greet us,” the commander muttered on. “Forgiveness will be on his lips. We have done our jobs without question. We went where we were told without protest. We did a job no one wanted. Charted space no one wants to go to. We have paid our penance and earned back our place among warriors. Zaidan’s open arms will welcome us back to honor.”
Hope fired through Gaylon’s chest. He saw each of the bridge crew swell a bit with the new chance, the flicker of logic in Kozara’s voice. They had done all that had been asked of them, done it without protest. Yes, yes—they could return!
Sitting like a stone carving, Kozara stared at the forward screen, which now showed a view of the other side of the station ring from their docking place. The tank ship was plugged in afterend first, so her cargo hold could be unloaded. Gaylon could tell by the clanking of clamps and buzz of adjusting gussets that these docking ports had been updated. The ship, of course, had not. Out of range. Out of date.
They could see from here all the other ships being worked on or loading. They could see the three warships, so different from the one they had piloted … how long was it now?
Those new ships were much more like the blunt-winged birds-of-prey that soared Klingon skies, but more massive and stronger, and to look at them was a pain in the heart. They were painted with feathers and had only the slightest echo of the long-necked warships of Kang and Kor. In fact, they reminded Gaylon of Romulan wing-attackers.
But to look was hurting his eyes. He saw too clearly all they had been missing.
Obviously they had missed a considerable rearmament of the Klingon fleet. Why was there a rearmament? What was happening in the galaxy today?
Seven years …
Sharply a hunger for advancement gushed through Gaylon, a sensation he thought he had long ago banished. What a strange unbidden thought! His chances for promotion had been smothered long ago on that day with the dog captain. Many months had dragged by before he understood fully what he had lost and how much all the men of Kozara had lost their reputations that day. Gaylon had only been able to cling to his rank by staying with Kozara. Whatever his second thoughts had been, they had occurred in the middle of the Great Waste, and what did it matter out there? He had to stay with Kozara. At times even speaking to his commander was the most mocking effort of his life, worse than battle, worse than wounds, yet he had made himself do it, keep the ship going, one more system, one more planet. Keep going. Keep going.
Today there would finally be another choice. Finally, finally, he could leave, and melt into the faceless masses.
Were they still young enough to build their lives again? Gaylon hardly knew anymore. How much had things changed? Were there nothing but young men in charge now? Or were elders more respected? Who was in power