Hellburner

And not a word even yet from the captain. Which might be because he didn’t rate one in their list of priorities. But which left him wondering again—what wasn’t perhaps wise to wonder.

Since Porey had issued no request for him, since Andrews and Tanzer were gone, he walked down to the intersection of corridors and to the messhall, only observing the temper of things. There were very few out and about, but Security, and aides.

Tone down the dress, he’d advised Mitch. Between you and me; but pass it on—things are going to shift. Minimum flash. Minimum noise for the next few days. Observe this man before you make any push at him. Do you read me? I’m not supposed to be telling you this. If it gets out mat I did, it will be to my damage. Do you understand me?

Longest solemn silence he’d ever gotten out of Mitch. Then Mitch had tried to ask him specifics—who is this guy? What in hell—excuse me, lieutenant, —but what in hell’s going on with the program?

Apparently, he’d thought to himself, politics of a very disturbing bent. But he’d said to Mitch, I don’t know yet. It’s a wait-see. For all of us.

He went to the messhall, as the most likely place to find anyone out of pocket, anyone who had missed the barracks order, or thought he was the universal exception—an attitude more likely with Belters than with UDC or merchanters, and he was resolved none of his trainees was going to get swept up by Security—

None of his had met Porey’s idea of Security. None of his own Security people got nervous at a joke. Ease off, they’d say. That’s enough. They’d call the Belter in question by name or nickname, like as not, and get a generally good-natured compliance—

Not now. Not with these men, not with Lynch. He didn’t know where they’d pulled this particular batch of marines in from, but they didn’t have the look of basic training—Fleet Command had pulled something in from the initial set-up squads, he’d bet on it, though he’d have to get into Fleet Records to find out, but these weren’t eighteen-year-olds, they weren’t green and they sized up an officer they didn’t know before they even thought about following his orders.. ..

Merchanters, maybe. But serving as line troops—when the Fleet needed every skilled spacer they could recruit? His stomach was upset. He carded a soft drink out of the machine and spotted a pair of marines at the administrative entrance, the galley office. What did they think, the cooks were going to take the cutlery to the corridors?

Exactly why those guards were standing there. Damned right. Tell it to Porey that the guys weren’t going to go for the knives. Tell it to Lynch. A sight too much real combat readiness and overreaction in the ambient, thank you. A sight too much readiness in these troopers for any feeling that things were safe or under control.

“J-G.”

Demas. Behind him. He took a breath and a drink, and disconnected expression from his face before he turned around. “We’re on standby,” he said, disapproving Demas’ leaving the ship unofficered, before he so much as realized they weren’t the primary ship at station any longer; Demas said, “LongJohn’s on. We’ve got a while.”

He nodded, tried to think of somewhere pressing to go, or something he had else to do, rather than discuss the situation with Nav One.

“You all right, Helm?”

As if he were a child. Or a friend.

“I’m tired,” he said, which might cover his mood; but it sounded too much like a whimper. He didn’t like that. He didn’t like Demas conning him. He said, point-blank: “How much of this did you know?”

Demas’ face went very sober, very quickly. It took a moment before he said, “Not who.”

He hadn’t expected honesty. He hadn’t expected that answer. So Demas wasn’t happy with the new CO either. And Demas was indisputably the captain’s man. That came clear of a sudden.

He asked, under the noise of the heat pumps, “When did this get arranged?” and watched Demas avoid his eyes. Or look anxiously toward the marines—who might have Security audio, he realized that of a sudden. Damn, he wasn’t thinking in terms of hostile action, it was their own damned side, for God’s sake. But Demas was clearly thinking about it.

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