says.
“And?” he asks cautiously.
“He’s connected to the local mob and the city council, and he’s a big player in the Port Authority, so it will cost you an even bigger pile. He likely heard you paid the power bill and figured you were rich enough to want to bleed you personally.”
Helton makes an ah, shit face. “Just lovin’ this ship more and more.”
Helton sits at the table in the Officers’ Mess, now clean, though sparsely appointed, interviewing representatives from every ship maintenance and repair shop in the area. Most of them are already familiar with the white elephant on Pad D9.
Skinny guy in greasy overalls: “Not gonna be cheap. Engines shot, grav’s shot, life support’s on life support.” He continues with a litany of systems that need major overhauls or total replacement. His verdict: gut the ship and reuse the hull.
Well-dressed, plain, older woman: “Initial survey would cost at least a quarter mil to get a comprehensive audit on what needs to be done.” She refuses to even look at the ship without a contract.
Bemused fat guy: “Not even worth anything as a parts ship. Nothing on board is used anymore.”
Young guy, with a new shop and a thin résumé: “Looks worse than it is. Nothing here you can’t patch or buy replacement parts for.”
Nervous guy, with well-worn coveralls, and deep-set stains on his hands, and a tool-belt with a million miles on it: “Has Seymore turned it down yet? I don’t want to move in on him or anything.”
Allonia, with her hair up, holding an e-reader, wearing a neutral expression: “That’s everyone I could find who would even talk to you.”
Helton slumps back into his seat, depressed and grim.
Orders
Lag has a modest office with four desks, eight chairs, two doors, good lighting, and a number of generic shelves (which are almost entirely empty). Minimal, spare, industrial, and recently-moved-into. It’s early morning, and Lag’s behind one of the desks perusing an e-reader. He’s wearing a simple, but smart, dark blue military uniform.
There is a knock at the door, and he calls out loudly, “ENTER!”
A middle aged woman wearing a similar uniform opens the door and walks in. She’s slender and fit, her long hair restrained in a braid. Time and experience have done a poor job of hiding the beauty of her youth. She walks crisply to the front of Lag’s desk, comes to attention, salutes. “Reporting for duty.”
Lag casually returns the salute, waves to a seat in front of his desk. “Welcome back, Lieutenant.” “Good to see you again. Have fun on McCullum Prime?”
She smiles back. “Not nearly as exciting as working with you, of course, but no bullet holes, either. Good to be back, been too long.”
“Different sort of mission now, Kat.” He hands her an e-reader. “Wade through that and tell me what you think.” She takes the e-reader, leans back, and begins to read intently.
For the rest of the morning Lt. Kat wades through a mass of articles, notes, appendices, and cross-references. She fidgets and gets up to pace about the room nervously, increasingly agitated and confused. She starts flipping back and forth rapidly between sections, her frustration mounting, until finally she gives up in disgust and sets the e-reader down on the desk — rather hard — a little before noon.
“Sir,” she says, rubbing her face wearily, “as a long-time legal officer I’ve seen all sorts of orders. But I have never seen anything so poorly written, contradictory, confusing, and patched together. It looks like a copy and paste from a hundred different standard-form directives, put together by a demented third lieutenant, with random alterations of commas and periods, odd external references, numerous changes of ‘and’ to ‘or’ and vice versa. It is a bizarre mix of administrative budget cutting, logistics support, working with local contractors, recruiting, transporting of down-cycle troops, reconnaissance, border
“And?” he asks cautiously.
“He’s connected to the local mob and the city council, and he’s a big player in the Port Authority, so it will cost you an even bigger pile. He likely heard you paid the power bill and figured you were rich enough to want to bleed you personally.”
Helton makes an ah, shit face. “Just lovin’ this ship more and more.”
Helton sits at the table in the Officers’ Mess, now clean, though sparsely appointed, interviewing representatives from every ship maintenance and repair shop in the area. Most of them are already familiar with the white elephant on Pad D9.
Skinny guy in greasy overalls: “Not gonna be cheap. Engines shot, grav’s shot, life support’s on life support.” He continues with a litany of systems that need major overhauls or total replacement. His verdict: gut the ship and reuse the hull.
Well-dressed, plain, older woman: “Initial survey would cost at least a quarter mil to get a comprehensive audit on what needs to be done.” She refuses to even look at the ship without a contract.
Bemused fat guy: “Not even worth anything as a parts ship. Nothing on board is used anymore.”
Young guy, with a new shop and a thin résumé: “Looks worse than it is. Nothing here you can’t patch or buy replacement parts for.”
Nervous guy, with well-worn coveralls, and deep-set stains on his hands, and a tool-belt with a million miles on it: “Has Seymore turned it down yet? I don’t want to move in on him or anything.”
Allonia, with her hair up, holding an e-reader, wearing a neutral expression: “That’s everyone I could find who would even talk to you.”
Helton slumps back into his seat, depressed and grim.
Orders
Lag has a modest office with four desks, eight chairs, two doors, good lighting, and a number of generic shelves (which are almost entirely empty). Minimal, spare, industrial, and recently-moved-into. It’s early morning, and Lag’s behind one of the desks perusing an e-reader. He’s wearing a simple, but smart, dark blue military uniform.
There is a knock at the door, and he calls out loudly, “ENTER!”
A middle aged woman wearing a similar uniform opens the door and walks in. She’s slender and fit, her long hair restrained in a braid. Time and experience have done a poor job of hiding the beauty of her youth. She walks crisply to the front of Lag’s desk, comes to attention, salutes. “Reporting for duty.”
Lag casually returns the salute, waves to a seat in front of his desk. “Welcome back, Lieutenant.” “Good to see you again. Have fun on McCullum Prime?”
She smiles back. “Not nearly as exciting as working with you, of course, but no bullet holes, either. Good to be back, been too long.”
“Different sort of mission now, Kat.” He hands her an e-reader. “Wade through that and tell me what you think.” She takes the e-reader, leans back, and begins to read intently.
For the rest of the morning Lt. Kat wades through a mass of articles, notes, appendices, and cross-references. She fidgets and gets up to pace about the room nervously, increasingly agitated and confused. She starts flipping back and forth rapidly between sections, her frustration mounting, until finally she gives up in disgust and sets the e-reader down on the desk — rather hard — a little before noon.
“Sir,” she says, rubbing her face wearily, “as a long-time legal officer I’ve seen all sorts of orders. But I have never seen anything so poorly written, contradictory, confusing, and patched together. It looks like a copy and paste from a hundred different standard-form directives, put together by a demented third lieutenant, with random alterations of commas and periods, odd external references, numerous changes of ‘and’ to ‘or’ and vice versa. It is a bizarre mix of administrative budget cutting, logistics support, working with local contractors, recruiting, transporting of down-cycle troops, reconnaissance, border
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