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  They drive a bit further, approaching a building on the outskirts of the spaceport. “That’s gotta be it,” Kaminski says. “What’s that across the street?”

  “It’s a ship, Corporal.”

  “Well, no shit, Sarge. I mean, what kind of ship?”

  Kaushik takes a long, very studious look. “Old.”

  They drive up next to Building 1701 and look it over: your basic industrial beige metal box with an eight-meter roof, large doors, and a few windows. “Seems in decent shape,” Kaminski says. “Doesn’t look big enough.”

  “Drive around it, let’s see all sides,” says Kaushik. Kaminski takes off around the corner of the building, leaving a cloud of dust.

  Before the dust has even started to settle, a van pulls up across the road. The back doors open and a half dozen rough-looking gents in coveralls jump out. Seeless steps out of the front, and they all walk toward the ship, rounding the corner, heading for the open ramp.

  After their quick lap around the building, Kaminski and Kaushik park just behind and to the side of the van. “Looks like someone’s home,” Kaushik says.

  “Think Chief Stenson’d like to know about the ship parked across the street?”

  “Oh yeah. He loves classic ships. Let’s drop in, say ‘Hi’.”

  They hop out of their vehicle, check and sling their rifles, and head for the ship. They walk around the side and find Helton, standing on the cargo bay deck, surrounded by Seymore’s thugs on the ramp.

  “So, if you want anything done,” Seeless snarls, “you go through us, right? No more calls to anyone else that can’t do the job. Capisce?”

  Sergeant Kaushik clears his throat very loudly. “Ahem. I do not mean to interrupt any local issues, but who owns this ship?”

  Seeless wheels around in anger. “Who’s askin’?”

  Kaushik is polite but firm. “We are.”

  “Not your business.”

  “Yes,” Corporal Kaminski says, “it is.” He’s poised on the balls of his feet, hands casually close to critical parts of his gun. “We’ll be using the building across the street. We wanted to find out who’s blocking our spectacular view of the … view.”

  “I’ll talk to you when I am finished with him,” Seeless sneers.

  “Like I said, I just want to know about the ship. Then we’ll be on our way,” says Kaushik.

  “I’m the owner,” Helton interjects, “and they–”

  “SHUDDAP!”

  “Oh, I’m wishin’ Harbin was here,” Helton mutters.

  “WHO did you say?” Kaminski demands.

  “SHUT IT!”

  “Harbin Reel? Ninety-five kilos of lethal bad-assery?”

  “I SAID SHUT! IT!”

  “How do you know him?” asks Kaushik.

  “Saw some action together.”

  Seeless is about to have an aneurysm; he hates being ignored. His enforcers are confused, uncertain, and angry. This is not what they’re used to.

  Kaminski glances at Kaushik. Simultaneously, rapidly, and with practiced grace, they unsling their rifles; chamber rounds; low ready; move back and apart. Kaushik speaks in his crowd-control voice:

  “PLEASE DISEMBARK IMMEDIATELY! ANY LEGITIMATE LEGAL DISPUTES WILL BE DEALT WITH IN THE PRESENCE OF UNIFORMED LAW ENFORCEMENT AND WITH PROPER PAPERWORK PRESENTED FRONT AND CENTER! FAILURE TO COMPLY WILL BE MESSY! MOVE IT!”

  Seymore’s hired muscle moves quickly but awkwardly, unaccustomed to rifle-carrying professionals in armor. Seeless moves more slowly, accustomed to being the one who is scary and in charge. “You haven’t heard the last of this, Mr. Rich Guy. Not by a long shot.”

  “I wouldn’t be talking about shots when someone has a rifle on you,” Helton says. “It works out badly sometimes.”

  “I’ve got friends in high places!”

  “We are the friends in low places,” Kaminski threatens. “Now MOVE IT!” Seeless and his thugs slink away to their vehicle. Helton watches the two armored soldiers on his doorstep as they watch the van roar away. Then they relax.

  “Thanks for some very timely support,” Helton says.

  “No problem,” says Kaminski. “Top woulda killed us if he knew we let someone he served with get hurt and didn’t do anything.”

  Helton clarifies: “I didn’t say we served together, I just said I was in some action with him.”

  Sergeant Kaushik: “But he’s been in uniform since forever, so … how?”

  Possibilities

  Chief Stenson, wearing coveralls, drives a light truck down the dusty road leading to Pad D9. Colonel Lag, wearing camo, rides in the passenger seat. “They said I had to check the thing out,” Stenson says. “And that you had to meet the owner. They were kind of mysterious about it. But then, it’s not the first thing about Kaminski that is a little murky.”

  Lag pretends to be scandalized. “Are you implying one of our noncoms might have a less-than-pristine past?”

  “Guess it depends on how much of the official story you believe.”

  “It’s good to get out of the office anyway. Always useful to eyeball things in person when something unusual comes up. There’s the building. Big enough?”

  “Depends. Right now, we’re light on everything, so it should work,” says Stenson. “That ship, now. Looks like an old Meridian transport, all right.”

  “Emphasis on old.”

  “So much the better. Having an old hulk for training right across the street would be great. No worries about grounding it when some wanna-be private does something craptacular.”

  Stenson pulls off the road to the side of the ship, near the small door with the lowered ramp, and he and Lag hop out of the truck. A quick touch-check of their clothing and sidearms, then they walk up the stairs and in through the hatchway. Lag stops abruptly between the inner and outer airlock hatches. He holds his hand to his ear, then glances at the computer screen mounted on his forearm. He looks quizzically at Stenson, who meets his eyes, touches his ear, and nods.

  Lag: “Com check. One, two.”

  Stenson shakes his head, then tries: “Com check.”

  Lag starts to shake his head, then nods.

  Stenson: “Com check. One, two.”

  Lag nods again and responds: “Com check?” Stenson nods. “Weird,” says Lag.

  “Jammer, or interference?”

  “Check them when we get back.”

  They walk silently and cautiously into the cargo bay and across to the other side. Stenson sniffs the air, at first carefully, then deeply, nodding in appreciation. As they scrutinize the cargo bay, their eyes are drawn to a movement at one end of the row of middeck windows. Their eyebrows rise and appreciative smiles grow on their faces as they see, walking down the opposite middeck passageway, visible from the waist up as she passes each window, Allonia: naked, arms raised as she puts her hair up in a towel, her healthy full-figured feminine curves displayed to great advantage.

  She freezes, turns and sees them, shrieks, and drops her arms to cover herself as she drops out of sight below the window sill. Her embarrassed and angry voice rings out through the open window, “Helton! You HAVE to get my shower fixed TODAY!”

  Lag and Stenson grin widely, suppressing good-natured laughter. “Think I’m gonna like this ship,” says Stenson, mirth creasing the corners of his eyes.

  “You were right,” Lag replies, “Outstanding training value.”

  Helton has walked up from behind while they were distracted. “Shower might take a while, though.”

  In the Officers’ Mess, after a good meal, empty plates and glasses still on the table, sit Helton, Lag, and Stenson. “Let me get this straight,” Helton says, “You’ll help me fix some of these systems as training for your maintenance section; I buy the parts, you get them working. And once we renovate the quarters you’ll also pay me to use the ship as a barracks and training facility for a different batch of recruits?”

  “Correct,” Lag replies. “It keeps us out of town, gets a bunch of our people in o
ne place, and it’s not often we have a real ship to screen raw recruits on. You have over a hundred berths, and if you can talk Allonia into making company-sized portions of food like this, we’ll have no problem attracting qualified people. It’s been a while since I’ve been on a ship where the air smelled a healthy green.”

  Helton’s still skeptical. “Why? I mean, why me? It’s not millicredits you are talking about throwing my way.”

  Lag smiles at some internal joke. “Got a soft spot for people who have been screwed by security forces.” Helton raises an eyebrow; the colonel doesn’t look like the sentimental type. “You struck me as smart and principled when we met on the liner. That’s hard to find around here. That you’re acquainted with Harbin is a bonus I find even less often. And on the off chance that Stenson can work some magic, having a fully functional transport that isn’t on anyone’s radar could be … useful.”

  Stenson chuckles dryly. “It’s going to take more magic than even I have to get this thing fully functional. Flyable, maybe. Maybe. Eventually. But, in the meantime, I really could not imagine a better training setup. Always liked classic ships, and this one is a gem.”

  “So: work with you guys and get my ship fixed for the cost of parts, while pocketing rent. Or get bled white by the local official shakedown crew.” Helton leans back and strokes his chin with exaggerated concern and thoughtfulness. “Hmmm …. let me see here … You drive a hard bargain, but you talked me into it.”

  The three men are walking down the cargo ramp together when Lag suddenly freezes mid step and turns his head to the side. Something has caught his eye. The others stop, turn back to look at him, then follow his gaze toward the side of the ship. Lag cocks his head. He walks over to the side where the loading ramp lowers out of the ship’s end. He holds up his arms to measure the thickness of the hull, which appears to be a meter or more thick.

  “That’s not right,” Lag says flatly.

  Stenson is incredulous. “Naw. Couldn’t be.”

  They hop over the side of the ramp to examine it from the side. Lag looks it over briefly, frowning, then looks up at Kaminski and Kaushik, who are standing next to a second light truck, now wearing simple camo fatigues, basic breastplate armor, and carrying suppressed compact rifles. Lag waves Kaminski over.

  “Rifle.”

  “Sir? … Okay, Sir. Full mag, empty chamber.”

  Lag pulls protective eyewear from a pocket, cycles a round into the chamber, flicks the selector to “F”, and aims at the angled underside of the ship, about waist level. He pulls the trigger. Muffled BANG. A bullet strikes the ship and splatters into the dust around the impact point and down onto the ground.

  Helton is more than a little surprised. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!”

  Lag ignores him, deep in thought. He reaches forward and brushes his hand over the impact point. Then he flicks the selector to “A”, takes a knee, aims at the same area, and pulls the trigger. Twenty-four more rounds rip out of the rifle and into the underside of the ship, first in one spot, then sweeping back and forth in a tight arc as brass showers the ground.

  Helton jumps back, covers his ears, and looks away. Dust and bullet splatter fill a new hollow under the angle of the ship’s side. The dust billows out, then blows aside in the breeze. Lag reaches in and dusts his fingertips over the impact points. They’re not holes, just bumps of bullet residue. There doesn’t appear to be so much as a new scratch on the hull.

  “WHAT’N’FRAK’ER’YOU’DOON?!”

  Lag speaks in quiet wonderment, “Apparently … nothing. Nothing at all.”

  Stenson's eyes are wide. “Holy Hindu’s pot roast.”

  “Yup. It is,” says Lag. Still eyeing the place on the hull where he shot, he absently flicks the safety back on and hands the rifle to Kaminski, who touch-checks the empty chamber, drops the magazine, puts it in a pocket, and inserts a new one, all without taking his eyes off Lag.

  “Well son of a bitch,” Stenson says.

  “WHAT?”

  “Looks like your ship isn’t a Meridian,” Lag answers.

  “What? But, you just told me–”

  “Nope,” Stenson confirms. “It’s an ALAT. Armored Landing Assault Transport. A very old, heavily modified one to be sure. But it’s definitely armored.”

  “Soooo…?”

  Lag’s tight smile reveals little. “That’s interesting. Very interesting.”

  Cleaning

  Half a dozen young men are on the cargo deck — some soldiers in camo, some wearing overalls — working at clearing the cargo bay. Two chain hoists run from the ceiling down to the ramp, which is now partially raised and slowly inching up. Each hoist has three soldiers hanging and climbing from the chains. They are just barely able to lift the ramp. Chief Stenson is in charge, signaling to one of the teams to climb faster. Outside is a single guard in light body armor with a rifle. Quinn sits on top of a pile of crates to one side, wide-eyed, taking it all in.

  Lag stands out of the way with Harbin, both wearing camo uniforms with sidearms, watching the progress. “What do you think?”

  “I can make it work,” Harbin answers, looking on critically.

  “When was the last time you had a real ship to train recruits on?”

  Harbin grunts. Question irrelevant.

  “Have a good leave?” Lag asks casually. Harbin nods. “Anything you need to tell me about?”

  “… No.”

  “Oh, by the way. Did I tell you who the owner is?” Harbin grunts. “Guy by the name of Helton. Helton Strom.”

  “… Good man.”

  “Are you sure there isn’t anything you want to tell me about your leave?”

  “A bit more eventful than planned. We worked it out. Medical knows the relevant details. I’m fit for duty.”

  “… Good man you say?”

  “I trust his character. Flying … not so much.”

  “My thoughts too. How do you happen to know about his flying?”

  “I’d rather not go into details, sir…”

  The hard work of cleaning and refitting the ship begins in earnest, along with the training of new recruits. Everyone’s busy: the soldiers and the recruits, Stenson and his crew, Helton and Allonia, even Quinn pitches in.

  Kaminski drags a stack of thin, dirty, holey mattresses from one of the B-Deck berth rooms while another soldier sweeps out after him. A third oils the hinges on hatches and doors. In the galley, a pair of recruits scrubs down the serving line until everything shines.

  Helton carries a toolbox to one of the airtight hatches on the mid-deck passageway. It’s stuck, about three-quarters open. He shoves on the hatch, but it doesn’t budge. He produces a grease gun from the toolbox, sticks the coupler tip on a zerk fitting, gives it a pump. Repeat for all five hinges.

  He’s putting the grease gun back in his toolbox when Allonia walks up and, with a simple lean-and-shove, swings the hatch all the way open, then closes it. She nods in satisfaction and moves on.

  Chief Stenson lies on his back in a cramped space, a wrench in one hand, an oddly shaped ship part in the other, and a puzzled look on his face. He looks back and forth between the part and the diagram on a small wall-mounted screen next to him, trying to figure out a nonstandard system.

  Throughout the ship, Stenson’s men replace broken display screens, popping out the standard-sized units and locking new ones into place.

  Helton is intrigued by the bridge; it is different from any other he’s ever seen. The stations are positioned for standing. There are five spots: two in front, one angled at each side, and one in the center back. Each station has a variety of ordinary screens and old-fashioned hard-function switches, dials, levers, and controls. Each also has a swing-out chair with flip-up headrest and safety harness. He stands in front of one of the positions and swings the chair out, then swings it back. He runs his hands over the controls, checking the reach of things. Suddenly he starts gliding away as part of the floor moves backwards. It’s a built-in treadmill, so the crew
standing watch can walk or jog to keep in shape and stay alert while on duty.

  There are six massively thick windows, angled so the back center station can see out directly through them. Screens and projectors around the rest of the bridge allow a synthetic outside view to be displayed. There is considerable duplication of controls between the stations, but they appear to be set up for (from port to starboard): communications & sensors, flight control, navigation, weapons. The back center station is for command.

  Harbin inspects a ragged line of recruits, wearing civilian clothing, standing in the clean and tidy cargo bay. He reaches the end, does an about-face, looks down the line, and shakes his head in disappointment. It’s a mixed lot; fixed-duration, paid training-eval platoons always are. Kids with little formal education or real-world experience, without enough money to pay for a full training program, some with troubled pasts that preclude normal career and education paths.

  While repairs are underway, Harbin alternates training, testing, plain old work, and evaluation: Who can learn? Who’s willing to work hard? Who knows what? He has seen all kinds, and he sorts them with the harsh realism born of experiencing people at their best, and worst.

  Allonia makes good use of the clean and refurbished galley, baking and cooking for a crowd of very appreciative young men. She takes a pair of steaming hot loaves of bread from an oven and sets them on the now-spotless serving line. Two recruits look in the door, one eyeing the bread and the other eyeing her. She glares at them. One politely ducks out. The other licks his lips, then turns and walks away slowly.

  Stenson and his crew have made rapid progress on some systems and gotten nowhere with others. Quinn is fascinated with the process. If he’s not playing in the cargo bay (on a makeshift swing strung between chain hoists), or doing whatever it is he does when he can’t be found, he’s watching — from a safe distance — as Stenson works.

  Stenson plugs a diagnostic multimeter probe into a socket and pushes a few buttons. The socket sparks, surprising Stenson, then the tool sparks and a small puff of smoke rises from it. Stenson looks suspiciously at the ship and the tool.