patrol zone.
"Where're the plug-ups?" the Commander demands. "Damn it, where the hell are the plug-ups?"
"Oh." The man doing the relay talking hits a switch. Little gas-filled plastic balls swarm into the compartment. They range from golf-ball to tennis-ball size.
"Enough. Enough," Nicastro growls. "We've got to be able to see."
A new man, I decide. He's heard about the Commander. He's too anxious to look good. He's concentrating too much. Doing his job one part at a time, with such thoroughness that he muffs the whole.
The plug-ups will drift aimlessly throughout the patrol, and will soon fade into the background environment. No one will think about them unless the hull is breached. Then our lives could depend on them. They'll rush to the hole, carried by the escaping atmosphere. If the breach is small, they'll break trying to get through. A quick-setting, oxygen-sensitive goo coats their insides.
The cat scrambles after the nearest ball. He bats it around. It survives his attentions. He pretends a towering indifference.
He's a master of that talent of the feline breed, of adopting a regal dignity in the face of failure, just in case somebody is watching.
Breaches too big for the plug-ups probably wouldn't matter. We would be dead before we noticed them.
Satisfied with the hatch, Yanevich rises and leans past me to thumb a switch. "Ship's Services, First Watch Officer. Commence conversion to patrol atmosphere."
The ship is filled with the TerVeen mixture, which is nominal planetary. Ship's atmosphere will be pure oxygen at twenty percent of normal pressure. That reduces hull stress and potential leakage and eliminates useless mass. Low-pressure oxygen is standard Fleet atmosphere.
The convenience has its drawbacks. Care to avoid fires is needed.
That madman, the Commander, brought a pipe and tobacco. Will he actually smoke? That's against regs. But so is a ship's cat.
"Radar, you have anyone from the other firm?"
"Nothing immediate, sir."
That's a relief. I won't get my head kicked hi during the next five minutes.
Why does Yanevich bother? In parasite mode the vessel's only usable weapon is mat silly magnetic cannon.
Out of nowhere, Junghaus says, "The Lord carried us through. He stands by the Faithful." It takes me a moment to realize that he's returned to our earlier conversation.
A trial shot, I suppose. To see how I react. It'll build to full-scale proselytization if I don't stop it now. "Maybe. But it seems to be he spends a lot of time buddying up with the other team."
"That's 'cause they've got the aged whiskey," someone hoots. Junghaus stiffens. I glance around, can't identify the culprit. I didn't realize that our voices carried that well.
It's very quiet in here. The equipment makes almost no noise.
Junghaus persists. I guess that's why they call him Fisherman.
It seems like forever since I've encountered a practicing Christian. They just don't make them anymore. The race has nd need for its old superstitions out here. New faiths are still in formative stages.
"We're being tried in the crucible, sir. Those who are found wanting will perish."
That same voice says, "And the Lord saith unto him, verily, I shall tax you sorely, and tear you a new asshole."
Nicastro snaps, "Can the chatter."
Was Fisherman a believer before his toe-to-toe with death? I doubt it. I can't ask. The directive to silence includes myself, though the Chief would never be so irisubordinate as to tell an officer to shut up.
"Increasing acceleration to point-two gee in two minutes."
"Contact, by relay from tender Combat Information, desig Bogey One, bearing one four zero right azimuth, altitude twelve degrees nadir, range point-five-four million kilometers. Closing.
Course..."
Here we go. The beginning of the death dance. They've spotted us. They'll throw everything but the proverbial sink. They don't like Climbers.
I missed something while trying not to panic. From the talker's information Yanevich has
"Where're the plug-ups?" the Commander demands. "Damn it, where the hell are the plug-ups?"
"Oh." The man doing the relay talking hits a switch. Little gas-filled plastic balls swarm into the compartment. They range from golf-ball to tennis-ball size.
"Enough. Enough," Nicastro growls. "We've got to be able to see."
A new man, I decide. He's heard about the Commander. He's too anxious to look good. He's concentrating too much. Doing his job one part at a time, with such thoroughness that he muffs the whole.
The plug-ups will drift aimlessly throughout the patrol, and will soon fade into the background environment. No one will think about them unless the hull is breached. Then our lives could depend on them. They'll rush to the hole, carried by the escaping atmosphere. If the breach is small, they'll break trying to get through. A quick-setting, oxygen-sensitive goo coats their insides.
The cat scrambles after the nearest ball. He bats it around. It survives his attentions. He pretends a towering indifference.
He's a master of that talent of the feline breed, of adopting a regal dignity in the face of failure, just in case somebody is watching.
Breaches too big for the plug-ups probably wouldn't matter. We would be dead before we noticed them.
Satisfied with the hatch, Yanevich rises and leans past me to thumb a switch. "Ship's Services, First Watch Officer. Commence conversion to patrol atmosphere."
The ship is filled with the TerVeen mixture, which is nominal planetary. Ship's atmosphere will be pure oxygen at twenty percent of normal pressure. That reduces hull stress and potential leakage and eliminates useless mass. Low-pressure oxygen is standard Fleet atmosphere.
The convenience has its drawbacks. Care to avoid fires is needed.
That madman, the Commander, brought a pipe and tobacco. Will he actually smoke? That's against regs. But so is a ship's cat.
"Radar, you have anyone from the other firm?"
"Nothing immediate, sir."
That's a relief. I won't get my head kicked hi during the next five minutes.
Why does Yanevich bother? In parasite mode the vessel's only usable weapon is mat silly magnetic cannon.
Out of nowhere, Junghaus says, "The Lord carried us through. He stands by the Faithful." It takes me a moment to realize that he's returned to our earlier conversation.
A trial shot, I suppose. To see how I react. It'll build to full-scale proselytization if I don't stop it now. "Maybe. But it seems to be he spends a lot of time buddying up with the other team."
"That's 'cause they've got the aged whiskey," someone hoots. Junghaus stiffens. I glance around, can't identify the culprit. I didn't realize that our voices carried that well.
It's very quiet in here. The equipment makes almost no noise.
Junghaus persists. I guess that's why they call him Fisherman.
It seems like forever since I've encountered a practicing Christian. They just don't make them anymore. The race has nd need for its old superstitions out here. New faiths are still in formative stages.
"We're being tried in the crucible, sir. Those who are found wanting will perish."
That same voice says, "And the Lord saith unto him, verily, I shall tax you sorely, and tear you a new asshole."
Nicastro snaps, "Can the chatter."
Was Fisherman a believer before his toe-to-toe with death? I doubt it. I can't ask. The directive to silence includes myself, though the Chief would never be so irisubordinate as to tell an officer to shut up.
"Increasing acceleration to point-two gee in two minutes."
"Contact, by relay from tender Combat Information, desig Bogey One, bearing one four zero right azimuth, altitude twelve degrees nadir, range point-five-four million kilometers. Closing.
Course..."
Here we go. The beginning of the death dance. They've spotted us. They'll throw everything but the proverbial sink. They don't like Climbers.
I missed something while trying not to panic. From the talker's information Yanevich has
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