He had to say something—because somebody would, back in barracks. “Say the Fleet has that new program—say they came up with this tape stuff…”
“You mean what they gave us wasn’t reg?”
He was supposed to be a fast thinker. He wasn’t doing well this morning. Mute as a rock, he was.
“Look, Moonbeam, what in hell are they up to? Gives a guy a real uneasy feeling, that look of yours, and you’re the lousiest Har I know of.”
“It’s supposed to work, that’s all I know.”
Ben gave him a long, suspicious stare.
“All I know,” Dekker said; and Ben said,
“Hell if. What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” he said. “Nothing but they want results. Fast. And the heat’s on my tail. But it doesn’t get to you guys. It doesn’t.”
“Yeah? They put you in command, did they, of the whole friggin’ Fleet?”
“No. Porey said it. They don’t want to lose another ship. And I swear to you, —I won’t lose another crew.”
Chapter 12
GLOVING lines converged. Dekker blinked sweat and the simulator manufactured an uncharted rock on split second Imminent for the carrier. Missed the bastard and redirect to take it out on the fly-Got it, got the beta target before the bloodflow caught up with his knees. Targets coming.
Carrier showed up on the scope. That was the priority— your carrier showed and you got the come-home, and you were done, far as you could clear it a path, granted you could get through the effect shield without glitching.
Soft and smooth—you got the slight buffet as you came through the shield, momentary LOS of everything on the boards and you had to know its v, the extent of those shields, how close you were going to be when you came through the envelope—damned close, damned close. Touch. Slight mismatch. Within tolerance. Probe caught. Mate.
Power down.
Good run, solid run. Not flashy, except that UO and making that shot. He could cut the sim, meltdown and unbelt, he’d earned it and a hot shower. Fine control when you’d been hyped was hell, and switch-off was the copilot’s job, if there’d been a co-pilot this sim—he wouldn’t lose points on that. But he was a fussy sumbitch. He set his switches. He set every effin’ one.
Damn, it felt good. Felt solid.
Home again.
He shifted his legs as the pod opened and he could unbelt and drift out. Breath frosted, while sweat still ran under the flightsuit.
Take that in your stats, Tanzer.
Card game went on, Ben and Sal running up favor points on Almarshad’s and Mitch’s guys, and the spectators drifted down there. “Hey, Dek,” came back, but Dekker tried to ignore it and concentrate on his math and his set-targets for tomorrow’s run.
Conversation floating back from the table said, “It’s one thing in sims. Live fire’s going to be something else.”
“You just hit ‘em,” Ben said, and took a card. “Dots is dots.”
“No way,” Wilson said. “Ask Wilhelmsen.”
“They don’t have to,” Mitch said, and a chill ran through Dekker’s bones. He was thinking what to say to shut that up when Meg said, acidly, “Dunno a thing about Pete Fowler, mister. Nice guy, I s’pose, and I highly ‘predate his help, but he’s not the one does the thinking.”
“Still not live fire, Kady.”
“Ease off,” Dekker said, and shoved his chair back.
“Hey,” Mitch said. “No offense.”
“Doesn’t bother me,” Meg said, and dealt out cards. “Testosterone’s not the only asset going. Shepherds seriously got to rethink that.”
“Meg,” Sal said.
“Hey. I’m easy.”
“You been easy, Kady.”
Meg pursed her lips. “You a virgin, Mitch? I swear I don’t know.”
“Hold it, hold it,” Ben said.
“The program’s making a serious mistake,” Mitch said, “putting you girls in here. Tape can’t give you the wiring, Kady, there’s a reason they never pulled women in on this program—“
“Yeah,” Meg said acidly. “Look at the scores, Mitch.”
“Meg,” Dekker said.
“Tape off a real pi-tut, Kady.”
That tore it. “Mitch,” Dekker said.
“No, no,” Meg said coolly, “not a problem, Dek. Man’s just upset.”
“Bitch.”
“Yo,” Sal said. “You want to match score- and score, Mitchell?” –