“I don’t see that there’s anything we could do directly,” Adele said, probably unaware of the relief her words gave Daniel. “I do think that we ought to warn Commodore Pettin, however. If you can think of a discreet way to do that, which I’ll admit I cannot.”
“Ah,” said Daniel. “Yes, I can see that. Well, perhaps I can find a way, though getting the commodore to listen to me is another matter. Even assuming he doesn’t order me removed from command at our first interview.”
Daniel found himself smiling faintly. There was a real risk of Pettin reacting with explosive anger as soon as the Princess Cecile joined the squadron, but for all that Daniel didn’t find himself particularly concerned. This voyage, even more than the record run from Cinnabar to Sexburga, was a piece of astrogation that Uncle Stacey and his friends would discuss for hours over mulled rum in the office of Bergen and Associates. Whatever happened to his career, Lt. Daniel Leary had a name that real spacers would always mention with honor.
Thinking of the coming interview with Commodore Pettin raised another question in Daniel’s mind. “Adele?” he said. “I gave you some tissue samples collected on South Land to run through the Medic’s analysis when an opportunity presented itself. Have you . . . ?”
“Yes,” Adele said. “Yes, of course. I did that before we lifted, but it slipped my mind to give you the information with the bustle since then. And my own researches, of course. Both were healthy at present, though Sample A showed signs of a recent viral illness.”
“I beg your pardon?” Daniel said. “The samples I gave you were for DNA matching to human beings. A portion of skull from the carnivore that attacked us, and some skin cells that Sun found under his fingernails after struggling with a, an herbivore in the cave we found.”
“Oh?” said Adele. “I misunderstood, then. I simply checked them for disease. They must have been human to five decimal places or the Medic wouldn’t have been able to proceed on the normal setting.”
“Good God,” Daniel said. People couldn’t have reached Sexburga under their own power back the forty, sixty, perhaps one hundred thousand years ago. It would’ve taken that long to modify humans into the creatures the expedition had found in the burrows under South Land.
Chickens hadn’t reached Sexburga under their own power either; but there were chickens there now.
“What do you think it means, Adele?” Daniel asked.
She laughed, the sound made metallic by being transmitted through the sides of their helmets. “I’m a librarian, Daniel,” she said. “I organize and retrieve information. As for what it means, I’m afraid you’ll have to go to some other kind of specialist.”
Daniel thought for a moment, then clapped her on the shoulder. “Let’s go in,” he said. “I need to make sure my 1st Class uniform is wearable, because I’m quite sure the commodore is going to expect me to make a formal appearance on the flagship.”
* * *
Daniel had never served on an Archaeologist-class cruiser, and this visit aboard one—even more than his first in harbor on Sexburga—made him thankful of the fact. The Winckelmann had been designed during a period when compartmentalization was the fad among naval constructors. The result was a squat cylinder divided into quadrants longitudinally as well as by decks on her vertical axis.
In theory the Winckelmann could continue to fight with at least a quarter of its strength after a direct hit by a missile anywhere except on the power room. In practice the class was inefficient in action even when undamaged, required larger crew complements than ships of comparable force, and broke down approximately four times as often as less complicated designs.
As usually happens, reality trampled a brilliant theory into the dust. Again as usual, the theory left behind detritus of which the Winckelmann was one of the more prominent clods.
Daniel grinned as a signalman guided him up a third armored companionway, this like the others half-lit and dank with condensate which sometimes formed rust-bright pools along the welded seams. He didn’t imagine he’d enjoy this visit to the Winckelmann if she were outfitted and maintained like Corder Leary’s townhouse.