No Honor in Death (16 page)

"One of the Engineer's mates working in a nearby compartment, Able Spacer Bertram, heard the container shift and crash, and reported it at the same time as the alarms kicked in.  But when the rescue party got there, Vasser and Melchor were dead."  Drex stopped halfway down the hold and pointed up.  "The container that fell was in the same place as the blue one, with the foodstuff markings."

"I understand the containers are fixed into place with three redundant systems, to prevent just this kind of accident."

"Aye, sir.  Three systems.  Magnetic clamps, lock-downs and tie-downs."

"Tell me, Mister Drex, what are the odds of all three failing at once?  Add to that a massive example of Murphy's Law, the fact that the container had shifted enough to topple over the very instant Vasser and Melchor were beneath it.  Like I said, two coincidences in a row, I'll take.  More than that..."  Siobhan let the words hang between them.

"Aye, sir," Drex finally replied, eyes on the stack of containers. "I don't know much about statistical averages, being only a simple mustang, but what I've told you is the way it happened."

Simple mustang?  Siobhan's eyebrows shot up.  Starfleet Chiefs were not renown for their humility, especially not old sweats who won a commission.

"Don't sell yourself short, Mister Drex," she replied, studying the older man.  "I've seen more than one mustang who had more real-life knowledge and brains than half-a-dozen splendid Academy graduates lumped together.  Thank you for the tour."  She nodded and turned towards the hatch, leaving the Second Officer standing among the towering stacks of containers, a thoughtful frown on his seamed face.

By the time she reached her ready room, the Captain's appetite had returned, and she called her clerk for the breakfast tray.  The quiet younger woman appeared a few minutes later and silently placed it on her desk.  All the while, until she was gone, Dunmoore watched her, the earlier incident with Shara still ringing false.

Suddenly, she had it.  Chewing on a slice of toasted nutbread, Dunmoore nodded, grinning darkly.  For someone as meek as Kery, the clerk had shown surprising nerve in her argument with Shara.  Now that she thought of it, Siobhan realized that an outsider would have believed Kery the superior and not Shara.  Interesting.  Very interesting.  So why was Kery putting on the quiet mouse act with Siobhan and the others?

Then, Guthren's words on that first day sounded in her ears.  "Beach her," the big Cox'n had said.  Maybe his advice hadn't only been for Kery's own protection.  There were too many dangerous undercurrents on this ship, and she was discovering more every day.  Thoughtfully, Siobhan took a forkful of omelette and began chewing.  Her face screwed up in a grimace at the taste, and she remembered that she'd promised herself to do something about the cooks.  This couldn't go on.  Pushing her tray aside, she called the Purser.

"Mister Rossum, how would you rate the food on this ship?"

"Average, sir," he sounded uncertain, and mopped his bald skull with his ever-present handkerchief.

"Wrong.  It's bloody awful.  Any reasons why?"

"Well, ah," Rossum glanced away, "I guess our cooks aren't the greatest."

"Then it seems the Navy has a problem, if all cooks on a single ship are lousy.  Would you say the Fleet's School of Catering is putting out duds?"

"No sir."

"Well, Mister Rossum?"

"Our cooks haven't been able to produce decent meals for a long time, sir."  The words seemed to cost the Purser a lot of courage.

"And why is that?"  Siobhan asked, her patience rapidly evaporating.

"I think it has something to do with, um, a lack of proper ingredients."

"You think?  You're the Purser.  Are we, or aren't we getting a full supply of foodstuffs?"  She had the satisfaction of seeing Rossum flinch.

"We, ah, have this time, sir."

"Meaning you didn't have before."

"N-no."  Now he seemed scared of something.  "Not always."

"When didn't you, Mister Rossum?"

"Odd times, sir."  He was lying, just as Luttrell, Pushkin, Drex and the others had been lying to her.  Dunmoore stared at him in silence, letting the seconds pass.  Rossum patted his scalp, face and neck again, the movements jerky and nervous.

"We have a full stock now, right?"

"Aye, sir."

"Then you will inform the cooks that I expect proper food at all meals in all galleys at all times.  They will prepare menu number," she thought for a few moments, "two, and will keep on serving menu number two until it comes out to my satisfaction. I will eat the food from all three galleys, just to make sure.  Needless to say if they serve the same menu too often, the lower deck will give them sufficient motivation to improve their skills.  Is that understood, Mister Rossum?"

Lower deck justice was often harsh and swift, and the cooks lived there.  It should work.

"Aye, aye, sir."

"One more question.  Petty Officer Melchor was yours, wasn't he?"

"Aye, my supply PO."  His eyes took on a guarded look.

"What was he doing in the starboard hold the day he died?"

Siobhan literally saw the curtain fall, cutting her off from the Purser, as his face lost all expression.  She had seen the same reaction before, in Pushkin, Luttrell and to a lesser extent in Drex.

"Routine check, sir, after taking delivery of supplies from the tender."

"That'll be all, Mister Rossum.  Dunmoore, out."

Siobhan sat back in her chair.  The tender?  Now there was a variable she hadn't considered.  Each Battle-Group had its own tender, an armed freighter that delivered supplies to the patrolling ships on the line, extending their operational tour length beyond what they could carry themselves.  She wondered why some food items had been in short supply and not others, even though food deliveries by the tender were a standard load, based on crew size.  Each ship was entitled to a certain quantity of supplies, ranging from rivets to peppercorns, and she had never heard of anyone shorted by their tender.  Starbase 31's warehouse was filled to the rafters - she'd seen it herself during her raid.  There had to be a pattern somewhere, but she was damned if she could see what it was.  All she had now were unrelated pieces, and a deepening sense of frustration.

"So, d'ya think our new Cap'n's gonna kick butt any 'arder?"

"Sure she will, shithead," the burly Leading Spacer replied around a mouthful of bread.  "Cap'n Dunmoore's even gonna come and kick your sweet little ass herself."

Able Spacer Bertram made a rude noise.  "She don't even know I exist, otherwise, she'da made me Chief just on my good looks."

"The day you become a Chief, Nosey, is the day I become a fucking beauty contest winner," Rownes said, winking at Able Spacer Vincenzo who was chewing on a tough piece of reconstituted meat with a look of concentration on his swarthy features, "eh, Vince?"

Vincenzo nodded solemnly at the big woman. "And if you become a beauty queen, Banger, I become the Grand Admiral," he replied, the meat finally resting in his stomach where, he was sure, it would give him heartburn for the rest of the day.  "But hey, if our lovely
Capitano
wishes to drive us like slaves, I would not mind. I go for the pain and humiliation, eh."  Vincenzo leered at Ordinary Spacer Demianova, the fourth and youngest member of their mess table.  "Maybe you like some of that too, eh, Demmi?  If you ask real nice, maybe Banger will tie you up on her big gun and let you have it."

"Don't frighten the kid, Vince," Banger replied lazily, blowing him a mock kiss.  "If you really go for the domination stuff, how come you never joined Cap'n Forenza in her cabin for fun and games?"

Vincenzo made a rude noise in the back of his throat.  "Leave that to the little rats like Kery.  Where is the creep anyways?  I don't see her since we sail."

"Dunno.  Probably keeps to her cubby." Banger replied, chewing on a sour, red apple.  "Cox'n wanted to beach the rat, but the Cap'n wasn't going for it.  Cox’n said no one was to touch her, or anyone else for revenge, and that everybody on the old tub was in for a second chance.  Guthren sounded like he meant it too.  He ain't the kind I'd wanna get pissed-off.  Not like that fucking drunk we had before."

Vincenzo snorted.  "Not too difficult to be a better Cox'n than Riveroff."

"Yeah, but Guthren ain't just a better edition of Riveroff.  For one thing, he fucking
knows
what's going on.  It's freaking uncanny, if you ask me.  Hey Nosey, didn't you say Guthren was the Cap'n's Cox'n before this?"

The little ferret-faced man shrugged.  "So I heard.  An' I heard they're tight too.  Me, I'm not makin' up my mind 'till I know which way the plasma flow's goin'.  Survival, like.  Cap'n Dunmoore's a lot different from the old bitch. You're right, Banger.  We's gotta watch our step."

Rownes grunted.  Despite their differences, for Yvonne 'Banger' Rownes had been an honest merchant spacer, and Nosey Bertram a smuggler and thief who'd been give the choice of enlisting or jail, they were good buddies and watched out for each other.  Just as they watched out for Vincenzo, the group's cynic and all-round conscience, and Demianova, whom Banger had sort of adopted since she became the other half of her gun crew.

"Coming from you, that is a strange endorsement," the fine-featured Russian said, wiping the remains of her meal from her plate with a chunk of bread.  The lower deck mess was nearly empty by now, most of the other spacers either drifting off to their quarters for a few hours rest, or leisurely heading for their duty stations.

"That's cause you ain't been with us when the Cap'n high-jacked a load a spare parts for the barky," Nosey replied, straightening his back and looking at the young woman with the air of someone who's in on a great secret.  "Downright impressive, she wuz.  Scary even.  'Had the Chiefy there eatin' right outta her hand.  She'd a made one hell of a good smuggler before the war."

"If I didn't know any better," Banger chuckled, "I'd say you had a thing for the Cap'n."

"So mebbe I do," Nosey replied, a sly grin spreading over his rodent-like face.  "She's a right looker."

"Too skinny and pale," Vince interjected.  "Now Banger here, she has the form I like."  He leered at the heavy-breasted Gunner's mate.

"Sorry, Vince," she said, a look of mock-disdain on her face, "but you ain't my type.  And even if you were, you'd still not be my type."  Then her face became serious again.  "One thing's for sure though, this old tub is turning into something different and I, for one, ain't at all unhappy about it.  When they drafted me off the
Johnny Reb
, I was expecting to serve in the Navy, and now, maybe I will.  I'd rather run drills every god-damned watch for the next month than sit on my duff the moment I'm off-duty, 'cause the fucking drills are gonna keep us alive.  Goofing off and grabbing our asses sure as shit won't.  Yeah, Dunmoore's a lot different from Forenza.  At least now we have a Cap'n who fucking cares about the ship, and us."

"I have not seen any evidence that she cares about her wonderful crew," Vince said, shrugging.  "Not that any good work will change a blessed thing aboard this jinx.  We are unlucky, and that is that."  Like most spacers, Vincenzo had a quiet, if healthy respect for old superstitions.  You never knew out here what could help or harm.

"Unlucky!" Banger snorted.  "Hell, only thing wrong with this tub is the previous management.  Ain't no such thing as unlucky ships.  Only shitty captains.  And if you can't see what she's doin' for us now, you never will, asshole," She made a face at Vincenzo.  "What d'you want?  Free beer at the end of every watch?  Ship-sponsored orgies?  Shit, you want Forenza to come back, is what you want.  You're fucking sick, Vince.  A good cap'n, who cares, is one who runs her ship tight-like and makes sure the crew knows their jobs, so they don't get killed by the first Imp we fucking run across."

Before Vincenzo could reply, Nosey held up his right hand and grinned at his buddies, a sly look making his face even more ferret-like.  "I've 'eard sumptin' that'll make you all think again 'bout the new Cap'n, and the way she cares about little us."

Knowing how Bertram liked to draw out his revelations, Rownes make impatient come-on signs.  "Spit it out, Nosey.  We gotta go on watch soon and don't have time for your screwing around."

Nosey put on a hurt look.  "I ain't screwing around.  An' if you don't wanna hear the story, let's go on watch now an' forget it."

"Nosey," Banger growled, raising a clenched fist.  It had become something of a ritual among their little group.

"Okay, okay, ya big-teated gun-whalloper,"  Nosey replied, his grin returning.  "Cap'n's told the Pusser them cooks is gonna be makin' the same menu 'till they get it right.  She said mebbe it'll give them buggers 'nuff in-cen-tive," he struggled over the unfamiliar word, "to make sure their cookin' gets better.  Said that the crew'll tell 'em right 'nuff if they don't get the message."

"And so we will," Vince said, rubbing his stomach mournfully.  "That meat was a real crime against humanity, if you ask me."

"You are too soft, Vince," Demmi interjected, "back home, that meat is considered a great luxury."

"
Si
, because back home, you are barbarians.  Vodka and cucumber.  You have no appreciation of the fine cooking.  Now where I come from, food is the most important part of life, and -"