Lt. Leary, Commanding by David Drake

“Officer Mundy,” Daniel said in a carrying voice, “we’re preparing our initial entry into the Matrix. I’d appreciate it if you’d join me on the hull.”

As he spoke, Daniel felt a flash of resentment, an uncommon emotion for him. Having a passenger like Vaughn was almost as bad as—indeed, perhaps worse than—carrying a senior officer. He couldn’t feel that the Princess Cecile was really his, the way the officer commanding should be able to do. Although now that Daniel analyzed his feelings, he couldn’t see why he should react that way to a foreign civilian.

“Why yes, thank you, Daniel,” Adele said in pleasant, cultured impropriety. She rose from her console. “I suppose I should have that experience. Now that I’m an RCN officer, that is.”

A valued member of the RCN, Daniel thought, letting the grin reach his lips. RCN officer in the sense that instructors at the Academy would understand it, though . . . that would be going a little far.

Woetjans gave Daniel a thumbs-up. He nodded. The bosun tongued a control in her helmet and the cheery, four-note Riggers Aloft call rang from the PA system as the signal lights pulsed yellow.

Lt. Mon—dark, wiry and professional—was striding down the corridor, dodging obstacles both human and inanimate, mostly equipment stored there for lack of a better place. Daniel nodded to him at the hatchway, said, “You have the conn,” and slipped past with the ease of long practice.

Adele shifted left when she should have gone right and bounced off Mon’s arm, then bumped Daniel from behind. It was amazing that a person with the physical dexterity Adele showed at a console—or with a pistol—could so consistently move in the wrong direction when she had to get from one point in a starship to another.

And of course when she was on a starship it was worse. Daniel reminded himself to attach her safety line personally.

The Bow Dorsal airlock was cycling, sending Woetjans and five riggers onto the hull. Six more crewmen waited to follow the first watch: the initial deployment of antennas and sails employed all the riggers rather than merely the port or starboard watch.

Burridge, one of the waiting riggers, tossed Daniel a suit from the open locker. He slid into it like a body stocking, then glanced at Adele to help her if she was having difficulty.

She wasn’t: Dasi and Jonas held Adele by the arms while Burridge pulled the suit over her limbs and torso with as little ceremony or trouble as a cook has stuffing a sausage. From Adele’s expression of mild disinterest, the process wasn’t one that disturbed her. Vaughn, squeezed against the opposite bulkhead to keep out of the way, watched with a frown.

The light over the airlock glowed green, indicating the outer door was sealed. Dasi, the team’s senior man, slammed the crash bar with a gloved hand and led his riggers into the lock. Daniel latched Adele’s faceshield, drew her with him into the lock—it would hold a dozen in a pinch, times when speed was more important than comfort—and locked his own shield closed.

The world was silence except for Daniel’s own breathing, heavy and echoing until he caught himself and consciously slowed it. He met Adele’s eyes through the faceplates of optical-grade moissanite and grinned. She wouldn’t be able to see his lips, but the muscles around her eyes crinkled in an answering grin.

The outer lock opened. The first result of air venting into space was that the light went flat: there was no longer a diffracting atmosphere to soften and spread the illumination.

The riggers surged out of the lock, each one going to a predetermined post. Daniel followed, shuffling forward so that one electromagnetic boot was always flat against the steel hull. He kept his right hand on Adele’s equipment belt.

The Princess Cecile was spreading her antennas as quickly as the riggers could unlock them from their cradles along the hull. Hydraulic pressure extended and telescoped the masts and yards. Daniel noticed a dozen places where starlight blurred into iridescent fog. Some leakage was inevitable where new gaskets hadn’t worked in or old gaskets had worn, and the vacuum of space emphasized the flaws. A trained eye—and Daniel’s was—could tell the difference between a trivial seepage and a potential problem.

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