couldn’t even remember Johan’s face, even though they’d been married for fifteen years. Martin, so much more recent, seemed to overlay him in her mind’s eye. She blinked, angrily, and sat up.
Stupid girl, she told herself, ironically. Anyone would think you were still in your first century, falling in love with a tight pair of buttocks. Still, she found herself looking forward to seeing Martin again tomorrow night. The edgy hopeful excitement was winning over age and cynicism, even though she was old enough to know what it meant. Complications …
The interorbit shuttle unlatched from the naval docking bay and edged outward from the beanstalk, its cold-gas thrusters bumping it clear of the other vehicles that swarmed in the region. Ten minutes after it maneuvered free, the pilot got permission from traffic control to light off his main drive; a bright orange plume of glowing mercury ions speared out from three large rectangular panels hinged around the rear cargo bay doors, and the craft began to accelerate. Ion drives were notoriously slow, but they were also efficient. After a thousand seconds the shuttle was moving out from the station at nearly two hundred kilometers per hour, and it was time to begin decelerating again to meet the ship that now lay at rest almost sixty kilometers from the station.
In orbital terms, sixty kilometers was nothing; the Lord Vanek was right on the beanstalk’s doorstep. But there was one significant advantage to the position. The ship was ready to move, and move fast. As soon as the dockyard engineer finished his upgrade to the driver kernel’s baseline compensators, she’d be ready for action.
Captain Mirsky watched the shuttle nose up to Lord Vanek’s forward docking bays on one of the video windows at his workstation. He sat alone in his quarters, plowing relentlessly through the memoranda and directives associated with the current situation; things had become quite chaotic since the orders came down, and he was acutely aware of how much more preparation was required.
Middle-aged, barrel-chested, and sporting a neat salt-and-pepper beard to match his graying hair, Captain Mirsky was the very model of a New Republican Navy captain. Behind the mask of confidence, however, there was a much less certain man: he had seen things building up for a week now, and however he tried to rationalize the situation, he couldn’t escape the feeling that something had gone off the rails between the foreign office and the Imperial residence.
He peered morosely at the latest directive to cross his desk. Security was being stepped up, and he was to go onto a wartime footing as soon as the last shipyard workers and engineers were off his deck and the hull was sealed. Meanwhile, full cooperation was required with Procurator Muller of the Curator’s Office, on board to pursue positive security monitoring of foreign engineering contractors employed in making running repairs to Lord Vanek’s main propulsion system. He glared at the offending memo in irritation, then picked up his annunciator. “Get me Ilya.”
“Commander Murametz, sir? Right away, sir.”
A muffled knock on the door: Mirsky shouted “open!” and it opened.
Commander Murametz, his executive officer, saluted. “Come in, Ilya, come in.”
“Thank you, sir. What I can do for you?”
“This—” Mirsky pointed wordlessly at his screen. “Some pompous Citizen Curator wants his minion to run riot over my ship. Know anything about it?”
Murametz bent closer. “Humbly report, sir, I do.” His moustache twitched; Mirsky couldn’t tell what emotion it signified.
“Hah. Pray explain.”
“Some fuss over the engineering contractor from Earth who’s installing our Block B drive upgrade. He’s irreplaceable, at least without waiting three months, but he’s a bit of a loudmouth and somehow caught the attention of one of the professional paranoids in the Basilisk. So they’ve stuck a secret policeman on
Stupid girl, she told herself, ironically. Anyone would think you were still in your first century, falling in love with a tight pair of buttocks. Still, she found herself looking forward to seeing Martin again tomorrow night. The edgy hopeful excitement was winning over age and cynicism, even though she was old enough to know what it meant. Complications …
The interorbit shuttle unlatched from the naval docking bay and edged outward from the beanstalk, its cold-gas thrusters bumping it clear of the other vehicles that swarmed in the region. Ten minutes after it maneuvered free, the pilot got permission from traffic control to light off his main drive; a bright orange plume of glowing mercury ions speared out from three large rectangular panels hinged around the rear cargo bay doors, and the craft began to accelerate. Ion drives were notoriously slow, but they were also efficient. After a thousand seconds the shuttle was moving out from the station at nearly two hundred kilometers per hour, and it was time to begin decelerating again to meet the ship that now lay at rest almost sixty kilometers from the station.
In orbital terms, sixty kilometers was nothing; the Lord Vanek was right on the beanstalk’s doorstep. But there was one significant advantage to the position. The ship was ready to move, and move fast. As soon as the dockyard engineer finished his upgrade to the driver kernel’s baseline compensators, she’d be ready for action.
Captain Mirsky watched the shuttle nose up to Lord Vanek’s forward docking bays on one of the video windows at his workstation. He sat alone in his quarters, plowing relentlessly through the memoranda and directives associated with the current situation; things had become quite chaotic since the orders came down, and he was acutely aware of how much more preparation was required.
Middle-aged, barrel-chested, and sporting a neat salt-and-pepper beard to match his graying hair, Captain Mirsky was the very model of a New Republican Navy captain. Behind the mask of confidence, however, there was a much less certain man: he had seen things building up for a week now, and however he tried to rationalize the situation, he couldn’t escape the feeling that something had gone off the rails between the foreign office and the Imperial residence.
He peered morosely at the latest directive to cross his desk. Security was being stepped up, and he was to go onto a wartime footing as soon as the last shipyard workers and engineers were off his deck and the hull was sealed. Meanwhile, full cooperation was required with Procurator Muller of the Curator’s Office, on board to pursue positive security monitoring of foreign engineering contractors employed in making running repairs to Lord Vanek’s main propulsion system. He glared at the offending memo in irritation, then picked up his annunciator. “Get me Ilya.”
“Commander Murametz, sir? Right away, sir.”
A muffled knock on the door: Mirsky shouted “open!” and it opened.
Commander Murametz, his executive officer, saluted. “Come in, Ilya, come in.”
“Thank you, sir. What I can do for you?”
“This—” Mirsky pointed wordlessly at his screen. “Some pompous Citizen Curator wants his minion to run riot over my ship. Know anything about it?”
Murametz bent closer. “Humbly report, sir, I do.” His moustache twitched; Mirsky couldn’t tell what emotion it signified.
“Hah. Pray explain.”
“Some fuss over the engineering contractor from Earth who’s installing our Block B drive upgrade. He’s irreplaceable, at least without waiting three months, but he’s a bit of a loudmouth and somehow caught the attention of one of the professional paranoids in the Basilisk. So they’ve stuck a secret policeman on
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