Hellfire (THEIRS NOT TO REASON WHY) (10 page)

“Yes, Private; I’ve only served in two locations. One of them was the Blockade. We’re about to serve in over two hundred, with an intensity that will match the Blockade, if not outstrip it.” The lift stopped. Gesturing for the chaplain to exit first, Ia followed her, turned, and flashed a grin at the dubious private. “It should be exciting.”

Turning away, she led Bennie down the hall and around the corner. The redhead studied her in a sidelong look. “That was awfully cheerful-sounding of you. I thought you preferred doom-and-gloom.”

“They have to know I’m not a monster, Bennie. That I can be serious when needed, but that I’m also a fellow Human, deep down inside—that I was raised to be Human, and consider myself one,” she amended. “Even if I’m only half of one.”

Their destination wasn’t far, just to the starboard end of the deck. Hooking her fingers into the controls for the gunnery-pod door, she triggered it with a flex. The door hissed open, startling the occupant. He started to rise out of his seat, dropping his legs from the console to the floor so that he could bolt upright…then
oofed
and thumped back down, held in by his restraint straps. On the console of his control panel, a trio of tiny little robots whirred and moved, exploring the surface with the child-like patterns of simplistic artificial intelligence.

“Ah! Captain! Aah…how can I help you?” the soldier in the seat managed to ask, scrambling for dignity.

Ia took a moment to look around the gunnery pod, letting him recover. Everything in these pods was fire-by-wire, remotely controlled by analysis computers. Banks of monitors surrounded the gunner’s seat, which looked like a modified eggshell, designed to slide and rotate so that the gunner could face and fire along the same fields of view as the weapons themselves. Currently, the screens were active, though they only showed the interior of the huge dry-dock bay holding the
Hellfire
in place for her retrofits. The curved span of that view made the gunnery-pod chamber look large, but in reality it was barely two meters square.

The actual weapons’ towers for this projectile pod and its missile bays lay on the other side of a couple of storage bays and triple-thick armor plating, all designed to protect the gunner from what many weapons techs across the Space Force half-grimly, half-jokingly referred to as “projectile reflux.”
Given the distances involved in ship-to-ship combat, it was still possible, if rare, for an enemy laser to impact a missile on its way through the external launch tube of a P-pod. The resulting chain reaction could be lethal, particularly if the security measures failed to detect and seal off the main missile blast from the rest of the attached storage bay in time.

On some of the smaller, older ships, the actual control seat was part and parcel of that pod tower, sacrificing some of the usual extra layers of protection in exchange for greater flexibility, lower construction costs, and the ability for the gunner to manually load projectile missiles in case of power failures or battle-plan changes. The usefulness of having the gunner and the missiles in the same location allowed many gunners to “fire by the seat of their pants,” using their physical sense of the ship’s movement in addition to the targeting computers.

Ships on the Blockade had extra plating and fire-by-wire controls like the
Hellfire
’s, but many of the ships on the more peaceful Border routes didn’t need it. Even so, on the fire-by-wire vessels, most construction placed the gunners at the same point along a ship’s hull as the tower, so as to preserve some of that kinesthetic, seat-of-the-pants advantage. Because of the extra slave-driven pods, any one gunnery pod along the length of this ship could be used to guide the rest linked in tandem with it, with most meant to sit empty until needed.

In other words, this was an out-of-the-way location for one of her pilots to slack off from his training duties and pretend for a few minutes that he was just a simple gunner.

“Yeoman Fielle,” Ia finally stated, sharpening her tone slightly beyond normal. “While I realize it is currently your rest hour, I shouldn’t have to remind you that the gunnery pods are for gunnery techs to familiarize themselves with, and not normally the position of pilots and navigators…or at least, not according to your schedule, it isn’t. And if I were to take
official
notice of this potential breach in Company-Bible protocol, I would also have to take
official
notice of any unauthorized robotics on board.

“I shouldn’t have to remind you that the majority of this ship is Ultra Classified, which means
any
deviation in equipment from the authorized list would have to be viewed as a breach of security.
If
I were to notice such things officially,” Ia
finished dryly. “Breaches of security at this ship’s level of clearance usually involve far more than two strokes of the cane.”

Glancing at his console, Fielle swallowed. “Ah. Well, I
can
explain—”

“Unofficially,”
Ia interrupted him, “I would recommend you confine any robots I do
not
officially see to your quarters until further notice…with the understanding that said notice won’t come anytime soon…and that you aren’t to discuss their presence with anyone other than your teammate until said further notice.”

“Of course, sir,” he murmured, hitting the release for his straps. Sitting forward, he scooped the pet robots off the dash and deactivated each one. “They never left my cabin, sir—in fact, they never even existed at all!”

“Good meioa.” Satisfied he would comply, Ia left the gunnery pod. Again, her actions earned her a curious look from Chaplain Benjamin, but her friend said nothing. “…You and I know those toys of his are harmless. I could even prove it to the Admiral-General in the timestreams…but I don’t want to overplay the precognition-protects-my-choices card.
Johns and Mishka versus the United Nations
covers a lot of what I’m going to do, yes, but I don’t need to use it up on the little stuff.”

“A wise choice,” Bennie agreed. “Pick your battles when and where you can.”

“Speaking of which,” Ia said, reaching for the lift buttons as they approached the door, “it’s time for you to show me
you
can handle battle.”

“You really want
me
to fire a gun?” Bennie scoffed. “Please. I’m a preacher, not a fighter.”

“I’ll spot you five points on the targeting range,” Ia promised.

“Ten,” she retorted.

Ia grinned. “Seven, and not a point more.”

Bennie gave her a dubious look. “Are you going to bother to win the shoot-off, or throw the game my way?”

“Considering the scores from your last visit to the targeting range back on the
Hum-Vee
are openly listed in your personnel file, you’ll probably beat me even without the points,” Ia quipped dryly. “I could dip into the timestreams to guide my aim, but
I won’t bother to do that for mere practice. You can’t learn how to be really good by cheating all the time, and we’re going up against machines that counteract some of my gifts. Without their edge, I am
not
the best shot on this ship, which means I need the practice.”

“Not with two Olympic-class Sharpshooters on board, you aren’t,” the redhead snorted, following her into the lift. She waited until the doors sealed, then looked at her friend. “Ia, about you and Harper…”

That rolled her eyes. Ia craned her head, looking at the other woman. “Nothing is going to happen, Commander. We’ve
both
decided that, and we’re both fine with it. Now that he’s had a chance to look over this ship, I’m confident he won’t want to do anything to rock his assignment.”

“You think this ship is better-looking than you?” Bennie scoffed.

Ia smiled, amused by the joke. “The love for a beautiful ship has cured many a captain of a broken heart.”

“He’s not the captain of this ship,” the other woman pointed out, swaying as the curved elevator shaft swung them the other way.

“No, but I’d think chief engineer also counts.” At Bennie’s chiding look, Ia dropped her mirth. She sighed. “You worry too much about a trivial matter, Chaplain. Worry more about making sure these men and women are comfortable about following my commands, however strange.”

“I’m just looking out for your best interests, Captain,” Bennie returned. “Besides, he’s one of those ‘men and women’ you need to follow your commands.”

“I have no doubt he will,” Ia muttered, grateful the lift was slowing for their destination.

NOVEMBER 29, 2495 T.S.

The chime interrupted her concentration. Sighing, Ia rubbed at her brow with one hand and touched the comm button on her workstation with the other.
“Come in.”

The door slid back to reveal the other redheaded officer in her crew. Delia Helstead sauntered inside, looked around at the
sparsely decorated walls, and dropped into one of the two seats opposite Ia’s. “So. Captain.”

“So. Commander,” Ia quipped back, focusing her thoughts again. Text started scrolling up the screens of her workstation, until Helstead shifted in her seat, thumping her bootheels on the edge of Ia’s desk. A glance at the shorter woman earned her a bright smile. Sighing, Ia didn’t pretend ignorance. “…Can I at least finish my thought?”

“It’s your office,” Helstead pointed out, fishing out one of her thin stilettos from her upswept hair.

“You don’t want to play that game with me,” Ia warned her lightly. “I’m immune to your mind tricks.”

The petite redhead snorted, twirling the sheathed blade between her deft fingers like it was a pen. “It’d be illegal for me to use my psychic abilities on a superior officer without an emergency of some sort.”

“Then sit still, be quiet, and give me a few minutes to finish this,” Ia told her.

To her relief, Helstead did sit still. Well, quietly, at any rate. She fiddled with her sheathed blades, flipping them over and through her fingers multiple times.

Refocusing her thoughts, Ia resumed electrokinetically composing her correspondence. The last five years’ worth of practice made short work of her current round of prophecies. She then pulled up and added her thumbprints to two requisition forms, ones that Grizzle had flagged as urgent, then shipped them off with a tap of the controls.

A second tap lowered the screens back into the scrollbar edging her desk. Lifting her brows, Ia gave Helstead her attention. Helstead continued to twirl her blade until Ia sighed and gestured at her.

Thankfully, the smaller woman got straight to the point. “Your crew is getting restless. Bored, even. They’re overworked, and in need of a break,” Helstead stated bluntly. She slanted a look at the taller woman, her hazel green eyes sober. “I thought you should know. You’ve pushed them very hard with these tailored daily schedules. Unless you change something, you’ll probably push them too hard.”

“They won’t break. What do you think of having a party?” Ia asked her.

Helstead took the question in stride. “Better sooner than later. They’re learning to work together. If you really want as cohesive a workforce as you keep claiming, they’ll need to learn how to party together, too.” She grinned. “Though I don’t think these shipyards have a pub big enough to contain the resulting mess once they do.”

“We won’t be able to make a habit of stopping at whatever tavern we run across,” Ia stated, her gaze focused more on the future than on the present. “I’ve already made plans for weekly or monthly ‘parties’ depending on our schedules. Most of them will take place while we’re running between points A and B. We also don’t have enough time to hold a decent-sized party before we’re scheduled to leave dry dock.”

“That might cause some problems,” Helstead cautioned. She pulled a second sheathed pin-blade from her hair and started twirling it between her fingers as well, looking like a demented drummer with tiny, gilded drumsticks. Completing the illusion, her toes started tapping a syncopated beat, heels still propped on the edge of Ia’s desk. “Right now, they’re still exhausted enough each night to get along, more or less. Once they finish adapting to the high pace you’ve set, they’re going to have enough energy to be irritable instead of amiable.

“Now, you made me your chief discipline officer. As far as I see it, that includes heading off disciplinary problems
before
they become actual problems. Wouldn’t you agree?” Helstead asked. The sheathed blades came to a brief rest as she gave Ia a pointed look, though her toes continued to tap the air.

“Yes, I would,” Ia said. “But we honestly don’t have enough time on the schedule for a party before we leave dry dock. There is a compromise, though. How do you like the idea of dangling the carrot on the end of the stick?”

“Sir?” Helstead asked her, tilting her head a little in curiosity.

“Promise them a party
after
we leave dry dock. After we leave the Sol System. That should spur them on a bit longer in the cooperation and enthusiasm department. Wouldn’t you agree?” Ia asked, parroting her.

The shorter woman studied her for a moment, then started twirling her stilettos again. “I think that could work. I don’t suppose you’re going to make that announcement yourself?”

“I’d think it’d be a task more suited to an officer
with experience in balancing exhaustive expediency versus encouraging underlings toward their goals,” Ia countered wryly, eyeing Helstead’s wiggling boots for a moment. “That makes it your job. Give them vague assurances at first, then increase the specifics over the next two weeks. I’ll make the formal announcement at that time, but I figure you can lay the groundwork for it.”

The bejeweled blades fell still with a sigh, and her boots swung back down to the floor. “I suppose
planning
this party is also up to me, once you’ve waved your magic official-announcement hand?”

“Not the first one,” Ia said.

Opening a drawer in her desk, she fished out a datachip and tossed it at the other woman. Helstead caught it with her heavyworlder reflexes, one brow quirking. Her toes finally stopped tapping. Ia lifted her chin at the chip.

“You’ll find all the details you’ll need on that, along with the release codes for unlocking the rules and regulations for parties on board the
Hellfire
. They’re already loaded into each crew member’s Company Bible; they just haven’t been made available, yet. I didn’t want them distracted from their lessons by reading the, ah, unusual circumstances for such things.”