moment, under rotation, ceiling down the rare times they were docked. Two of the
eight crews were here, Quevedo’s and Almarshad’s, of Odin and Thor; four were
off duty; two were riding null up in the frame… or inside their ships, because
locking crews through the special lift out of the rotation cylinder took one
rotation of the hull, and they could not spare that time if they jumped into
trouble. Riding null through jump—she recalled that experience well enough. Not
the pleasantest way to travel, but it was always someone’s job. They had no
intent to deploy the riders here at Omicron, or two more sets of them would have
been up there in the can, as they called it, in that exile. “All’s as it should
be,” she said to those in demi-prep. “Rest, relax, keep off the liquor; we’re
still on standby and will be while we’re here. Don’t know when we’ll be ordered
out or with how much warning. Could have to scramble, but far from likely. My
guess is we don’t make mission jump without some time for rest. This operation
is on our timetable, not Union’s.”
There was no quibble. She took the lift up to main level, walked the shorter
distance around to number one corridor, her legs still rubbery, but the drugs
were losing their numbing effect. She went to her own office/quarters, paced the
floor a time, finally lay down on the cot and rested, just to shut her eyes and
let the tension ebb, the nervous energy that jump always threw into her, because
usually it meant coming out into combat, snapping decisions rapidly, kill or
die.
Not this time; this was the planned one, the thing to which they had been moving
for months of small strikes, raids that had taken out vital installations, that
had harried and destroyed where possible.
Rest a while; sleep if they could. She could not. She was glad when the summons
came.
It was a strange feeling, to stand again in the corridors of Europe, stranger
still to find herself in the company of all the others seated in the flagship’s
council room… an eerie and panicky feeling, this meeting of all of them who had
been working together unmet these many years, who had so zealously avoided each
other’s vicinities except for brief rendezvous for the passing of orders ship to
ship. In recent years it was unlikely that Mazian himself had known where all
his fleet was, whether particular ships survived the missions on which they were
sent… or what mad operations they might be undertaking solo. They had been less
a fleet than a guerrilla operation, skulking and striking and running.
Now they were here, the last ten, the survivors of the maneuvers—herself; Tom
Edger of Australia, lean and grim-faced; big Mika Kreshov of Atlantic,
perpetually scowling; Carlo Mendez of North Pole, a small, dark man of quiet
manner. There was Chenel of Libya, who had gone on rejuv—his hair had turned
entirely silver since she had seen him a year ago; there was dark-skinned Porey
of Africa, an incredibly grim man… cosmetic surgery after wounds was not
available in the Fleet. Keu of India, silk-soft and confident; Sung of Pacific,
all efficiency; Kant of Tibet, another of Sung’s stamp.
And Conrad Mazian. Silver-haired with rejuv, a tall, handsome man in dark blue,
who leaned his arms on the table and swept a slow glance over them. It was
intended for effect; possibly it was sincere affection, that open look. Dramatic
sense and Mazian were inseparable; the man lived by it. Knowing him, knowing the
manner of him, Signy still found herself drawn in by the old excitement.
No preliminaries, no statement of welcome, just that look and a nod. “Folders
are in front of you,” Mazian said. “Closest security: codes and coordinates are
in those. Carry them back with you and familiarize your key personnel with the
details, but don’t discuss anything ship to ship. Key your comps for
alternatives A, B, C, and so on, and go to them by that according to the
situation. But we don’t reckon to be using those alternatives. Things are set up
as they should be. Schematic—” He called an image to the screen before them,