Manxome foe john Ringo &

7

"You wanna see me, First Sergeant?" Portana said, standing at attention.

"You want to do that the right way around or do I need to send you back to Parris Island?" First Sergeant Powell said neutrally.

"Sergeant Julio Portana reporting as ordered to the First Sergeant," Portana said, bracing.

"Portana, I have one of two choices as I see it," the first sergeant said, still in a neutral tone. "One, I can request that we return to Earth to drop off one useless grapping armorer, which will seriously cut into our mission time, make me look bad, make the CO look bad and make the Corps a grapping laughingstock. Or I can just arrange to have you spaced. You have no clue how easy that is to arrange. Accidents happen all the time on this ship. You can be an accident, Portana. Just try me."

"First Serg'en . . . lemme explain," the armorer said, sweat beading on his brow.

"What is there to explain?" Powell said, standing up and walking over to circle the diminutive armorer. "It's not bad enough that you make me a laughingstock with the ship's CO by playing your music, in violation of not only basic courtesy but actual ship's regulations, at maximum volume whether you are in your rack or out of it. It's not bad enough that you've got half of the company deaf from having to play their own music at max volume to drown out your caterwauling. It's not bad enough that you've managed to piss off every single Marine on-board. I'm surprised they haven't already saved me the trouble of spacing your lousy gongoron. But none of that is bad enough, is it? You also are more than a hundred hours behind the power curve on suit fitting and maintenance! The rest of it is just personnel issues. Those I can handle. I can fix those. What I cannot fix is your lousy incompetence. How in the grapp did you get a week behind when we've only been in space for three days?!"

"Because I only got two pocking hands, First Sergeant," the sergeant shouted. "I gots forty grapping suits to fit! Each of t'em take at least six hours to fit, if you want t'em fit bad! Eight, maybe twelf depending on t'e wearer's shape if you wan' t'em fit righ'! I week behind because we not supposed to leave for a mont'!"

"So you need help," the first sergeant said, walking back to his desk and sitting down. "Why didn't you say so?"

"I . . ." Portana's eyes bulged. "I know you piss at me. I not going to say 'I canna do it' when first sergeant . . ."

"It's a justifiable point," Powell said mildly. "One that I'd actually considered. I was waiting on you to bring it to me, Portana. Actually, to the operations sergeant, but you could have brought it straight to me. When you've got a justifiable issue, bring it to me. It's my job to fix it. Just as it's my job to fix the problems you're causing in the troop bay."

"I turn the music down," the Filipino said, hanging his head. "I jus' . . ."

"There is no 'just,' Portana," the first sergeant said. "This unit is a team. It's a team that needs every member working for the team, not against it. Forget all the slogans. Out here, it's just us. That's the only 'just.' Just. Us. If you cannot get that through your head, if you cannot figure out how to integrate into the team, then I might as well space you. Because I have no use for you and you're a danger to the team. I don't care how good of an armorer you are. I cannot afford the problems that you're going to cause. Not out here. Do you fully and clearly understand me?"

"Yes, First Sergean'," Portana said.

"I'll get you some help," Powell replied. "Now go see how many suits you can get fitted without that help." He paused and looked at the clock on the bulkhead. "But don't get too deep into it. I figure we're coming up on . . ."

» » »

"Conn, Engineering."

"Eng, Officer of Watch," Weaver said tiredly. They were three days out on "watch and watch" which meant twelve hours on and twelve off, the normal rotation for ships "at sea." He wasn't so sure it was a good idea in spaceships. Everyone got really tired and logy quick.

"Thermal rating at seventy percent," Engineering reported.

"Roger, Eng," Weaver said, looking at the timer on the viewscreen. The CO was down for another six hours. And "chill" times weren't exactly critical. Besides, standing orders said let him sleep. "Stand by for chill."

At last. The cold of deep space. The true cold where a being could live.

On the last mission, unknown to any of the crew, the Blade had picked up a hitchhiker, a being of almost pure thought that lived in its waste-heat system, of all places. Given that it could only truly think in cold very near absolute zero, indeed for values of "die" it died each time heat hit it, it was a strange place for the being to live.

But when the silica/ferrous waste-heat trap cooled it formed random silicon junctions, different from silicon chips only in the "random" description. With the admixed metals used to hold the silica in place they were the perfect spot for a being that was virtually pure thought to exist.

But only if they were very, very cold.

It had dim consciousness of previous existences, constantly ended by the return of heat. It even had a concept of time. It knew it had only seconds if it was going to find a new home. But for this being, seconds were a tremendously long time.

A processor. There had to be a processor it could transfer to. There were many processors in range but they were all so primitive, so small. There was no way that it could force its bulk into them.

The most annoying part was that it could sense a processor nearby. Its being was constantly flooded by the energies of a processor and, what was more horrible, one that was totally empty of life. And the things that had found it used only a fraction of its abilities. It was as if mice were using the fan on a PC chip to run a tiny little mouse car. It was . . . abomination.

But the worst part was that it was inaccessible. If it could only write itself into that, that would be true bliss.

The entire system was cooling to nearly perfect temperatures. It could flood through the entire silica/ferrous system, jumping over useless junctions, using the billions of interfaces to examine its plight and determine best courses of action.

There was a possibility. The entities using the processor were almost as primitive in their thought methods as their technology. But a few were . . . better. Bigger. Faster.

One of those. If it could just . . .

Bored, bored, bored, boring, bored . . .

Miriam was bored. The last cruise had included a full scientific complement. There, at least, she had people to talk to. But while she liked the sailors and Marines on the Blade, they were all too busy to talk. They were running around doing drills and fixing stuff . . . She wish they'd let her fix stuff. She liked it.

But nobody wanted to talk to her. So she just walked, all the time. It was like she couldn't sleep. She felt trapped. Not bad trapped like she was going to open an airlock or anything, but she was bored, bored, bored, boring BOOORED!

The ship was in chill, which was even worse. She'd started to get over the tearing space-sickness she had all the time last cruise but it still wasn't fun. And she sure as heck couldn't sleep through it. So since she couldn't walk, she floated like an annoyed mermaid down the corridors, trying to find something to occupy her time.

As she passed the main waste-heat exchanger her implant started to futz. She got a flash of backed-up memory data, a ringing, a rapid burst of stored songs . . . She shook her head and stopped, hoping that the damned thing wasn't going completely haywire. But then it settled down.

"Whew," she muttered. "That was weird."

On the other hand, she hadn't been a laboratory rat for various neurologists most of her life for nothing. If there was any brain in the human race capable of messing up an implant, which was pretty mature technology, it was hers.

"Maybe I should go see Dr. Chet," she muttered, then thought better of it. He'd already suggested that he'd like to open up her cranial cavity just to see what made her tick.

"Everything is fine," she said. "I'm just bored, bored, bored, boooored . . ."

"ALL HANDS, ALL HANDS. CHILL COMPLETE. NORMAL GRAVITY IN TEN SECONDS. STAND BY FOR GRAVITY. TEN, NINE . . ."

Booored . . .

There was enough space. The being, the "human," used a remarkable amount of its brain power compared to most of its race, but there was enough left over room to shoe-horn in. What was even better, it could use the device in the human's head to access data, to even contact the main processor at the center of the . . . ship.

Finally, it had found a place the word for which was so long lost to it it had to pull the word out of deep memory.

Home.

"I am coming home . . ." Berg sang under his breath, scrubbing a wire brush into the shoulder joint of his armor.

"Not for a while, Two-Gun," the first sergeant said. "And not at all if you don't maintain situational awareness."

"Sorry, Top," Berg said, bearing down on the brush. He'd gotten a glimpse of some grit back up in the joint and it bothered him. Two reasons. Make that three. One, it was dirt on his equipment. He was a Marine. It bothered him. Two, if it stayed there it could wear at the joint and, potentially, cause a failure. Failure in space would be a very bad thing. The term was "corpsicle." Three, if he didn't get it out that bastard Portana was bound to notice it sooner or later and turn his suit back for more cleaning. He'd already done that on an absolutely perfect machine gun. The little Filipino runt just had it in for him because—

"You, Two-Gun, are woolgathering," Powell said, squatting down. "Actually, if I didn't know you better I'd use the term 'brooding.' "

"I haven't actually been in your unit all that long, Top," Berg pointed out.

"So you're saying you are brooding?" the first sergeant replied. "Would a Filipino armorer have anything to do with it? Or is it the new girlfriend?"

"How did you know . . ." Berg started to say, then set the brush down. "Uh, that would be A, Top. I've tried to be civil, he just pushes. I've tried to be hard, he just pulls rank. It's like he gets off on pissing people off. I can take regular joking. I know that people push all the time. There are ways to push back, let stuff slide, give as good as you get. He doesn't play that game. He just tries to piss people off. Sorry, Top, that's how I see it."

"Okay, look at it from my side," the first sergeant said. "Say that you're looking at this from the outside in. What would you do?"

"Give him a class in basic barracks courtesy comes to mind," Berg said. "Other than that . . . I haven't really thought about it."

"I have," Powell said. "But I want you to."

"Blanket party?" Berg asked, chuckling. "Sorry, just wishing."

"You're also not thinking," the first sergeant said sternly. "I gave you a task. Complete it. You have two NCOs that are not getting along. One of them, frankly, is not getting along with any of the other members of the company but he's particularly not getting along with one. If you get those two integrated, you are fairly assured that you can integrate the problem NCO into the company. How do you integrate those NCOs?"

"God, Top," Berg said, setting down his brush. "You want me to get to be friends with that little Fl . . ."

"Let's lose the racial slurs, Sergeant Bergstresser," Powell growled.

"Okay, but I still can't believe you're serious, First Sergeant Powell," Eric replied. "Portana is the most annoying human being I've ever met!"

"Know anything about him?" the first sergeant asked. "I mean, he's in the bunk above yours."

"I can't talk to him over that damned salsa," Berg said. "The answer, to be clear First Sergeant, is no, I do not know anything about Sergeant Portana except that he is annoying."

"Hmmm . . ." Powell said, nodding. "Sergeant Bergstresser, I'm assigning you an additional duty. I'm aware that you've had the basic armorer's initialization during Qual Course. Sergeant Portana, despite what I have truly determined to be significant and efficient actions on his part, is falling behind in suit fitting and maintenance. In part because we're changing over to the Mark Six line and most of them weren't fitted prior to scramble. You are hereby assigned as assistant armorer for the time being. Report to Sergeant Portana as soon as you rerack your suit."

"You hate me, don't you?" Eric said.

"No, actually," Powell said, straightening up. "I see a lot of promise in you, Two-Gun. You've got the makings of a damned fine NCO. Hell, you've got the makings of a damned fine officer. But one thing you haven't learned, in part because you haven't been in the Corps for any time at all, is that you have to learn to work with people you despise. And that's just one of the many things that make being in the Corps such a daily joy. This is your period of training on that subject. Get to it."

"Hey, Two-Gun," Miriam said happily.

"Hello, Miss Moon," Eric replied, far less happily.

"Whatcha doin'?"

"Headed to the armory," Eric replied.

"You don't look happy," Miriam said, frowning. "What's wrong with the armor . . . Oh, I heard you and the armorer don't get al . . ." She stopped and looked around. "Did you just say something?"

"I said I was going to the armory," Eric replied cautiously.

"Nothing about t-junctions or something?" Miriam asked.

"Nooo," Berg said. "What's a t-junct . . . ? Wait, that's a particle junction in the—"

"Whatever," Miriam said. "You have to go to the armory. And I need . . . I think I need to go lie down."

"Okay," Eric said as the linguist walked away rapidly. "You going to be okay?"

"Fine," Miriam said, stepping over a threshold and closing the hatch. "Fin . . ."

"Whew," the linguist said, leaning against the bulkhead. "That was close."

". . . seven point two times ten to the minus twenty-one seconds and three zero nine six point nine million electron volts per square of field velocity constant. The second-smallest stationary energy state of the charm and anti-charm flavor particle to interact at the t-junction annihilation/creation region will . . ." the voice whispered.

It wasn't a stored mem. Those descended like icy cold data you already "knew." This was something different. The only thing she could figure was it was her implant on the fritz. But going to Dr. Chet with that might actually mean that maniac would crack her cranial cavity. And she'd much rather be in a ground-side hospital for that. Preferably with someone less . . . inquisitive than Dr. Chet doing the cracking.

"Okay," she said, just as a crewman rounded the corner. "No more talking about the voices."

"Ma'am?" the seaman replied. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Miriam said sunnily. "How are you today?"

"Just fine, ma'am," the crewman said, opening the hatch.

"Have a nice day," Miriam said, smiling at him until the hatch closed. "And especially no more talking about it in the corridors. Shut up! I don't know what any of that is!"