Again the Captain went down the department list. Every station reported itself nominal, if a bit on the heavy side. That put them past test four’s failure point.
“Four g’s if you will, Helmsman. Keep her very steady on this course.”
“Reactor heading into one hundred and eleven percent overload,” Engineering reported, his voice heavy with strain. “One hundred and twelve percent . . . No problems. One hundred and thirteen percent . . . All stations steady. One hundred and fifteen percent and everything is as good as it gets.”
“Very good, Engineering. We will hold the reactor there. Let me know if anything changes,” the Captain said.
NELLY? Kris thought.
THERE ARE SOME INTERESTING ANOMALIES IN CERTAIN SYSTEMS, KRIS. NONE SHOULD BE A THREAT TO THE SHIP.
Interesting words for a computer. “I show all green,” Kris said after checking her own board to verify Nelly’s report.
“Strangely enough, so does mine,” the Captain answered.
“We are at four g’s,” the Helmsman announced weakly.
Kris watched the seconds tick away on her board for a full minute before Hayworth spoke, and then it was to the entire crew. “All hands, this is the Captain. The
Firebolt
has now done what no other Kamikaze-class ship has done before: held four g’s for a full minute. We will complete our scheduled quals after two more tests. Helm, turn right forty-five degrees smartly.”
The Helm whispered, “Aye, aye, sir,” as his fingers stabbed at his board. Kris did not feel the ship bank around her, accommodating its human occupants’ needs at four times their weight. “On new course.”
Everyone breathed a sigh. One more test to go.
“Helm, execute jinks pattern A.”
“Jinks pattern A, sir. Executing now.”
The ship rose suddenly, attitudinal thrusters adding more weight to Kris. It jinked right, then left, then left some more, dodging imaginary laser fire.
PROBLEMS ARE DEVELOPING IN THE . . . Nelly began. Kris’s board showed green. Sucking in air, Kris’s gaze raced from green gauge to green gauge, searching for any sign of something going wrong. Nothing!
SCRAM! Nelly shouted in Kris’s head.
Kris was weightless in the dark as the ship went dead around her.
“Where are those damn auxiliaries?” the Captain snapped. Ventilation hummed as Engineering corrected the problem with the backup power. The bridge took on light as boards came alive. Emergency lights cast long shadows. Systematically, Kris studied her board; nothing told her why Nelly had shut down the test.
“Engineering, are you on-line?” the Captain asked into his commlink.
“Yes, sir. We lost no test data. I’m organizing it while my team initiates a reactor start-up.”
“Am I to understand that you did not initiate that scram?”
“No, sir. We did not hit the button down here.”
“Thank you, Engineering. As soon as you have a rough handle on your data, report to my day cabin.”
“Aye, sir.”
“XO, you have the conn. When we get systems back on-line, set a one-g course for Nuu Docks. They should have our usual berth waiting for us.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Longknife, you’re with me.”
“Yes, sir.” NELLY, WHAT HAPPENED? Kris demanded as she pushed away from her station and swam, weightless, after the Captain to his day cabin off the bridge. Normally, that cabin was quite roomy. Under combat conditions, it was little more than a table and four chairs. The Captain settled into his place at the head of the table as a boson announced the ship was getting under way. Kris closed the door, rotated herself as she took on weight, and stood at attention.
“Have I missed something about my ship, Lieutenant? Last time I checked, there were three scram buttons on this boat. Mine and the Chief Engineer’s, the two every ship of this class has. I know the
Firebolt
has a third, authorized to you because of your job as coordinator of this smart-metal test, and, I suspect, because of your unique relationship with the yard.” That was a rather original way of saying her grandfather owned the shipyard that made all the Kamikazes.
“Yes, sir,” Kris agreed, stalling, praying the Engineer would show up with whatever reason Nelly had for stopping the test only moments before the Captain could have declared them done and over.
“The Engineer tells me he did not hit his scram button. I know I did not hit mine. Did you hit yours?”
Kris’s board would show no contact between her and the red button. No use claiming she had. “No, sir. I did not scram the reactor.”
Stall. Stall.
“Who did?”
Kris stood board straight, dreading the answer but unwilling to lie to her Skipper, certainly not going to tell a lie that would be disproved as fast as she said it.
“Whoever scrammed my engines saved our butts,” the Chief Engineer said, opening the door . . . and saving Kris’s butt. “Pardon me, Captain, am I interrupting a private counseling session?”
“No, Dale, take a seat. You, too, Longknife,” the Skipper said wearily. Dale Chowski, Chief Engineer, a half dozen oversize readers under his arm, settled into one chair. Kris took the chair across from him.
“What went wrong this time, Dale?” the Captain asked.
“Specifically, the superconductors on the containment coil for plasma headed for our number-one engine were four nanoseconds away from losing the super part of their name when the reactor scrammed.” The engineer ran a hand through his crew cut. “I take it that it was that fine computer around your neck, Lieutenant, that we have to thank for this bit of grace.”
Kris nodded. “My personal computer spotted the developing problem. It tried to advise me, but the problem came on too fast for me to react.”
IT! Nelly spat in Kris’s head.
SHUT UP, Kris ordered.
“So your pet computer was working faster than the ones in my engine room,” the Engineer finished, not missing the Captain’s scowl as he did. “Skipper, I know you don’t much like the idea of nonstandard software roaming around the innards of your ship. Can’t say I like it much either, but rather than look the gift horse we got in the mouth, why don’t we tell BuShips that we need a computer like she’s got. Hell, if she transferred off the ship tomorrow, I swear I’d go out and buy one for myself. What would a gadget like yours set a guy back?”
Kris told him the cost of Nelly’s last upgrade, minus the surgery to get the jack into her head. He let out a low whistle. “Guess we keep you around for a while.”
The Skipper’s scowl got even deeper. “Dale, what exactly went wrong from a systems point of view?”
“This is just an old Engineer’s personal guess, but I’d say the calculations the metal is supposed to do automatically as to what this or that part of the ship needs for high g’s was off a bit for our rocket motors that are farthest from the center of the ship. Engine one and six got whipped around by the jinking the most. Number one failed. I think we’ll find six wasn’t that long for the world.”
“So we need to adjust the automatic algorithm for redistributing metal,” the Captain said.
“Could do that,” the Engineer agreed, his face going sour. “But I stand by my last recommendation. Take Engineering off the smart-metal regime. Set the specs for our reactor, machinery, and plasma containment fields, then freeze it in place.”
“You’d freeze Engineering in the tight combat structure?” Kris asked.
“No can do,” the Engineer said, shaking his head. “Right now, I can’t get to half of my gear to maintain it. Whoever designed the combat format for my spaces was either a midget or expected us to expand back out if we needed to repair or maintain anything. We’ll need a middle ground, something small enough to fight but big enough to work in.”
“How much bigger?” the Captain asked.
The Engineer slaved the skipper’s table to one of his readers. A schematic of the
Firebolt
’s engineering spaces now took up most of the tabletop. It quickly sequenced through the change from large and comfortable to combat-ready and cramped. As it expanded back out, Dale froze it. “That’s about what I think we’ll need.
“Computer, calculate the metal requirements to armor that area. Post it to the schematic.” A second later, Nelly added a list of weights to the graphic. Again, the Engineer whistled.
“A hundred tons of smart metal. You’d need that much to cover fifteen extra meters of Engineering space?”
“After the damage the
Chinook
took,” Kris said, damage she had done the targeting for, “BuShips wants the Engineering spaces well protected.”
“How much does a hundred tons of smart metal cost?” Dale asked.
Kris told him. He didn’t bother whistling at that one; he just looked at the Captain and groaned. “I guess I know why we’re out here trying to solve this problem.” The Engineer leaned back in his chair, stared at the lowered combat ceiling of the
Firebolt,
and took in several slow breaths. “Could we replace some of the smart metal with regular old metal? I mean, if I’m not going to go around rejiggering my engine rooms, we don’t need that fancy stuff.”
Captain Hayworth raised an eyebrow in Kris’s direction. She shook her head. “Nuu Enterprises has done some testing. Mixing regular and smart metal together on the same ship only seems to confuse the smart metal. They can’t recommend it.”
“Why am I not surprised?” Dale snorted. “When they can charge us an arm and a leg for smart metal, why figure out a way to do something on the cheap?” Both officers carefully avoided looking at Kris. That her grandfather Al was the CEO of Nuu Enterprises and that her own portfolio was centered on several hundred million of Nuu Enterprises’ preferred stock did not prevent them from holding the usual low opinion fleet officers held of corporate practices. The Skipper was good about not saying it to her face.
Kris saw no reason to pussyfoot around her birth connection today. “My Grandfather Al is working on something that might save my father, the Prime Minister, a chunk of the Navy’s budget if you decide, Commander, the Navy should freeze the Engineering space on the Kamikazes.”
The Engineer chuckled, and the Captain rolled his eyes at the overhead. “They warned me that neither cowardice nor common sense had ever been mentioned in one of your fitness reports, Lieutenant. So, what might save me from telling BuShips that it has to totally unbalance the Prime Minister’s latest budget proposal?”
“Nuu Enterprises is testing something it’s calling Uni-plex metal. This stuff holds its shape for the first two times it’s organized, then forgets it the third time you change it.”
“Forgets it. Metal’s metal.” Engineering frowned.
“Yes, sir, but the third time, it’s more like liquid mercury than armor plate.”
“Who would want such a damn death trap?” Dale growled.
Somebody who wanted somebody dead, Kris knew from all too personal experience, but she just shrugged for her fellow officers. She still was none too sure how she felt about Grampa Al’s making a profit from the stuff that had almost killed her.
“Produced in thousand-ton lots, the Uni-plex costs about one-sixth of smart metal,” Kris told them. “When you add in the savings by it self-fabricating itself on ship, its competitive.”
“Spoken like a true Longknife,” the Captain drawled dryly.
But the Engineer was eyeing the schematic. “How much of my engine room is smart metal?”
“Computer, answer the man,” Kris said aloud. Numbers appeared on the table.
“Three hundred fifty tons,” Dale said thoughtfully.
“Plus a hundred tons of extra protection,” Kris added.
“But if we gave back three hundred fifty tons of smart metal . . .”
“And drew four hundred fifty tons of not quite so smart metal . . .” Kris added.
“Then the Navy would actually be saving money by converting the Engineering space of the forty Kamikazes,” Captain Hayworth finished with a chuckle.
“Sixteen thousand tons of smart metal would build us five or six more boats, sir,” Kris concluded.
“Got to love it when you can make everyone happy.” Dale sighed.
“From way out in left field,” the Captain agreed.
“Maybe, maybe not.” The Engineer sat up. “Has your Grandad Al checked how smart metal gets along with its retarded cousin? If I can’t order this Uni-plex stuff to fix battle damage, I’m going to have to spray in smart metal around dumb metal.”
Kris shook her head. “They aren’t that far along.”
“We can’t have this Uni-plex migrating around the boat,” the Captain added. “It could make for thoroughly unpleasant surprises.” All three officers nodded at that conclusion.
Dale got to his feet. “I got to check on the rest of my snipes, see if they’ve dug up anything new on our test.”
“Keep me informed.”
Kris stood to follow the Engineer out. “A moment, Lieutenant.” A knowing smile crossed the Engineer’s face as he closed the door behind him. Kris turned to face her Captain, going back to a brace that would have made her DI at OCS proud.
“Once more, Lieutenant Longknife,” the Captain began,
“you have succeeded in turning insubordination into a virtue.”
Kris had no answer for that, so she kept her mouth shut. “One of these days, it will not be a virtue. One of these days you
will
discover why we do things the Navy Way. I only hope that I will be there when you discover that . . . and that too many good spacers don’t die with you.”
Again, Kris had no answer for her Captain, so she used the Navy’s all-purpose response: “Yes, sir.”
“Dismissed.”
Kris went. Once more she’d been raked over the coals for doing the right thing the wrong way. Still, the Captain hadn’t been as hard on her as he could have been. At least he had dressed her down as “Lieutenant,” not “Princess.”
2
NO surprise, the yard had saved the
Firebolt
’s usual space alongside Pier Eight. Tied up snug by 1530, the crew settled into the along-side routine while Kris followed the Skipper and Chief Engineer into the yard to their usual meeting with the usual dock managers at the usual conference room. After two months, too much of this job was becoming “usual.”