HMS Prince Adrian
Manticore Binary System
August 19, 1907 PD
“Well, fancy meeting you here, Lieutenant. I mean, Lieutenant Commander,” Clint Hendren said as he stepped into the lift car. He checked the destination on the control panel, nodded, and stood back with his hands clasped behind him.
“Yes,” Lieutenant Commander Brandy Bolgeo said brightly. “I am your superior officer now, aren’t I?”
“No, you’re senior to me,” he replied. “I, after all, am a Marine . . . Ma’am.”
Brandy laughed.
They’d come a long way from that first unpleasant encounter, she thought. A long way. And too many of his Marines hadn’t completed the journey with them. But they’d done their jobs. By God, they’d done their jobs.
The laughter faded from her eyes as she thought about all the people they’d lost. Nineteen of Prince Adrian’s Marines had died, and three more had been wounded, two almost as seriously as Horace Harkness. That was a sixteen percent casualty rate, but they’d have lost a hell of a lot more without Clint and Gunny Babcock.
“Actually,” he said, leaning closer to her ear with a confidential tone, “a little birdie from BuPers just whispered in my ear, too.”
“Oh? Really?” She looked at him.
“Yep. They’re moving me when Adrian finally goes into the yard, of course.”
“Of course.”
She grimaced.
Rear Admiral Steigert’s task group had arrived home two T-weeks ago, and they should all have been in yard hands by now. HMS Memnon and Cyncnus had both taken damage in what had been dubbed the Battle of Slocum, although their casualties had been thankfully light . . . unlike the Peeps. None of their battleships had lived to make it into hyper, and their personnel losses had been massive. Citizen Commodore Androcles had been among them, and Brandy had found herself wondering what the Peeps’ final thoughts had been when she realized what she’d sailed straight into.
But the dreadnoughts’ damages had required surveys, and that had backed up everything behind them, and somehow, Prince Adrian had lost her slot in the queue in the process. Still, BuShips had rescheduled her, in the end, and Captain McKeon would hand her over to the yard dogs—finally—in ten days. Brandy was glad. The ship needed it—she deserved it—and it was damned well time she got it. Yet even that had a downside. Given the current operational tempo, the one thing Alistair McKeon could completely count upon was that his tight-knit, experienced ship’s company was about to be mercilessly raided and broken up for other assignments.
Brandy herself already had orders to a brand-new Star Knight-class heavy cruiser. HMS Conjurer wouldn’t commission for another five T-months, though, which would at least give her time to tuck Prince Adrian away in HMSS Hephaestus’ capable hands and hand off to her replacement.
And at least they’d gotten those three extra T-weeks first, she thought.
“And where are they moving you to?” she asked.
“Camp Edward,” Clint said.
“Training duties?” Brandy stared at him, knowing how much he’d hate an assignment like that.
“Sort of.” He smiled broadly. “Actually, I’ll be standing up a new battalion. And the next time you see me, that ‘major’ won’t be a courtesy promotion anymore.”
“That’s wonderful, Clint!” She reached out and squeezed his upper arm. “And you damned well deserve it!”
“We tried, anyway,” he said in a softer tone, and she squeezed his arm again, then released it as the lift car came to a halt.
The doors slid open and they walked down the short passage toward Prince Adrian’s sick bay.
“And I’m telling you, Doc,” an exasperated voice said, “I’ve got better things to do than lie around here. And I sure don’t need a transfer to Bassingford!”
“Senior Chief—” Surgeon Lieutenant Ansari began.
“Will you please shut the hell up?” another voice demanded. “I swear to God. Even for a Navy puke! Do the words ‘vaporized lung’ mean anything to you? What the hell do you use for brains, Harkness?”
“Oh, that’s rich, coming from a Marine.” The first voice was less forceful than its norm, but it rose gamely to the challenge. “On the other hand, guess it’s not too surprising you don’t know what anybody uses for brains. Not that many of them going around in Marine Country!”
“At least our senior NCOs don’t have negative IQs. How the hell d’you find your way around that boat bay every day without cutting your other arm off?”
Brandy stifled a chuckle, her eyes laughing up at Clint as they entered the ward. Surgeon Lieutenant Evelyn Ansari stood to one side with folded arms and a resigned expression. Horace Harkness—unshaven, one arm missing, his battered prizefighter’s face more than a little gaunt, but very much a going concern—sat up in one of the sick bay beds while Sergeant Major Babcock stood at that bed’s foot, hands on hips, glaring at him.
“Unlike some people, I know how to do my job,” he retorted.
“Oh, yeah? Then how come you’re the one in the body shop?” Babcock demanded, but her voice had softened, and there was an odd light in the gray eyes which had smitten generations of Marines with terror.
“Oh, I dunno.” Harkness’ voice was softer, too, and the corners of his mouth twitched. “Just seemed like the thing to do. Probly because I’ve been hanging around with too many Marines. Sort of thing a jarhead would do, now that I think about it.”
Brandy shook her head. For some reason, Iris Babcock had been spending a lot of time in sick bay on the trip back to Manticore. She’d checked in conscientiously on her three wounded Marines, each time she visited. But somehow, inexplicably, she always ended up here, giving Harkness grief.
Harkness turned his head as they entered the ward.
“Oh. Good to see you, Ma’am—Major.”
Babcock turned and came to attention.
“Sir. Ma’am,” she said.
“Gunny,” Clint answered for both of them, then looked at Harkness. “My God,” he said. “If I’d realized what a useless, idle layabout you were that first day, I’d’ve really given you grief, Harkness!”
“Don’t know if you want to admit that kinda prejudice with the Lieutenant standing right there, and all, Sir.” Harkness grinned, reaching out with his remaining hand, and Clint shook it firmly.
“No lieutenants here, Senior Chief.” He nodded at Brandy. “Just found out on the way down. Somebody’s a lieutenant commander.”
“Outstanding!” Harkness held out his hand again, and Brandy gripped it firmly.
“To what do I owe the pleasure?” the senior chief continued, looking back and forth between the visitors.
“Just thought I’d tell you that in addition to your wound stripe, you’ll probably be picking up a Navy Star,” Brandy said. “I told them you lacked the sterling character for that sort of recognition, but the Major here and the Gunny sort of insisted. So—”
She shrugged, and Harkness’ eyes widened ever so briefly. Then they narrowed and darted to Babcock.
“You already know about this?” he demanded suspiciously.
“Who? Me? Recommend an award for somebody so stupid he couldn’t even get out of the way of a batch of pulser darts?” Babcock shook her head, her eyes bright. “Must have me confused with somebody else, Spacer.”
“Yeah, sure I do.” His voice had softened, and he smiled at Babcock.
“Well, anyway, just wanted to let you know,” Brandy said. “And to mention that by the time you get done regenerating and finish PT, Conjurer will be in service. Competent boat bay chiefs seem scarce just now, but I suppose I could make do with you, instead. Somehow.”
“I think I’d like that, Ma’am. Unless”—he looked at Babcock again—“something else comes up in the meantime.”
“Just keep it in mind, Senior Chief.” Brandy patted his good shoulder and looked at Clint. “Guess I’m about done here. How about you, Major?”
“Actually, I was just looking for the Gunny,” Clint replied.
“Yes, Sir?”
“When you’re through here, Gunny, we’ve got some equipment inventories to beat into submission.” He rolled his eyes. “I can hardly wait for BuSup to start going over the paperwork.”
“Oh, wonderful . . . Sir.” Babcock rolled her own eyes. “I’ll be along in—fifteen minutes sound about right, Sir?”
“That’ll be fine, Gunny.”
Clint nodded and waved for Brandy to precede him back toward the lift shafts. She gave Harkness another nod, then smiled at Babcock and led the way out of the ward.
“Couldn’t get out of the way, huh?” they heard Harkness behind them. “Listen, at least I don’t fall over my own two feet the way some people do. Not naming any names, but—”
The closing hatch cut off his voice, and Clint shook his head.
“I don’t think the galaxy is ready for this,” he said.
“Ready for what?” Brandy asked innocently.
“Babcock and Harkness.” He shook his head again. “You know, Gunnery Sergeant Water and Senior Chief Oil? I mean, listen to them! There’s not a single Marine anywhere in the Star Kingdom who’d believe what you and I just heard. Not one! Well, not outside Prince Adrian, anyway.”
“You can’t possibly be suggesting that there’s anything going on between the two of them,” Brandy said severely. “That would be a betrayal of . . . of generations of spacers and jarheads! The heart attacks would come fast and quick in the chiefs’ messes. And I hate to think how your weaker, frailer Marines would handle such a seismic shock!”
“You’re right. You’re right!” Clint pursed his lips. “I don’t know what I was thinking. Obviously all nonsense. Besides, it’d never work. A Marine and a navy puke? A travesty of nature!”
“Absolutely.” Brandy nodded firmly as they stepped into the lift car. The door closed and she tucked one hand lightly into his elbow. “Unthinkable. A perversion of all that’s right and good.”
“Precisely what I was thinking.”
He looked down at her, and she smiled.
“Well, now that we’ve got that settled, Major . . . buy a girl a cup of coffee?”