Take The Star Road (The Maxwell Saga) (24 page)

"I get it."

"Heads up," Tomkins warned again. "Admiral Cardew, his flag-lieutenant and the Captain are coming this way."

The First Mate and Bosun instinctively stiffened, glancing over their shoulders, then turning to face the new arrivals.

"Relax, please, lady and gentlemen," Cardew said genially. "I asked Captain Volschenk to introduce me to the young man who started all this consternation and monkeyhouse in my back yard."

"That's a good way to put it, Sir," Volschenk replied, grinning. He indicated Steve. "This is Spacer Third Class Maxwell, whose idea led to Operation Sweet Tooth."

"Pleased to meet you, Maxwell," the Admiral said, holding out his hand. "You did very well, not only for your ship, but for this Sector of the Fleet as well. As I said during the award ceremony, we've gotten a great deal of useful publicity out of all this."

"Er... thank you, Sir." Steve hesitantly took the Admiral's hand, grateful that he'd transferred his plate to his left hand earlier. He wondered if he should salute, but noted that the Bosun and Tomkins, both veterans of military service, were simply standing straight, not quite at attention, but still respectful. He tried awkwardly to do likewise.

Captain Volschenk introduced Scarlatti, Cardle and Tomkins as well. "Spacer Maxwell has begun the process of enlisting through the Foreign Service Program, Sir," Tomkins added as he shook the Admiral's hand.

"Oh?" Cardew looked at Steve with renewed interest. "We can always use recruits with a good merchant service track record. How far along is your application?"

"My initial application's been accepted, Sir. I've passed the psychological and emotional profile tests, and the security truth-tester examination. The Recruiting Office is waiting for the results of a background check inquiry to the authorities on Earth. As soon as they receive them, provided they're also in order, they tell me I'll have to enter a competitive selection process with other approved applicants."

"Yes, there's always intense competition for a place in the FSP intake. Last year, if I recall correctly, there were thirty-seven applicants for each place! However, your idea has been of considerable benefit to us, so I think it's incumbent upon us to return the favor." He glanced over his shoulder. "Flags?"

"Yes, Sir?" The Flag-Lieutenant had been standing unobtrusively, one pace to the right of and behind his boss. He stepped forward.

"Draft a memo to the Recruiting Office for my signature."

The Lieutenant took a pen-like object from an inside pocket and touched a stud near one end. "Recording, Sir."

"Get Spacer Maxwell's details from his ship, including his recruiting file number. In recognition of his contribution to the Fleet during his merchant service aboard LCAS
Sebastian Cabot
, he's to be exempted from the competitive selection process for the Foreign Service Program. Provided that his application is otherwise in order, he's to be accepted into the FSP and offered a place - when will you be available, Maxwell?"

"The ship will release me in January 2839, Sir."

"Very well. He's to be offered a place in the first available entry program in or after January 2839, or earlier if his ship releases him before then. Furthermore, he's to be recruited on the same terms as Commonwealth citizens, bypassing FSP restrictions. His then-current Merchant Service rank, experience, qualifications, awards and salary are to be taken into account in determining his level of appointment and desired specialization. All that's on my authority as Sector Admiral."

"Recorded, Sir."

"Thank you, Flags. There you are, Maxwell. That should ease your path, provided you enlist here on Vesta - my writ doesn't run in other Sectors, I'm afraid! I don't think we need to evaluate you against other candidates. You've already demonstrated your ability."

"Thank you, Sir." Steve knew he was flushed with excitement, but he didn't care. "I'll do my best to justify your confidence in me. I plan to qualify as a small craft pilot next year, Sir. Will I be able to continue that specialization in Fleet service?"

"We never have enough pilots, so it's likely you will. I daresay your ship needs pilots as much as we do, though. They'll be sorry to lose you."

"We will indeed, Sir," Volschenk confirmed, "but we approve of Maxwell's decision. With so many veterans in our ship's company - including all of us in this group except Maxwell - we like to steer promising candidates in the Fleet's direction. It benefits all of us in the long run."

"Thank you for doing that. Ships like yours are among our most valuable sources of recruits. We know that if they recommend someone, he or she is likely to make a very good Fleet spacer."

"I'm sure Maxwell will fall into that category, Sir."

Part Three: Hard Going

Chapter 16: May 3rd, 2838 GSC

Steve was halfway through a mouthful of bacon, eggs and toast when he saw the Bosun enter the restaurant. He waved to attract his attention while chewing faster to empty his mouth.

"Morning, Bosun," he managed to get out in a minor spray of toast crumbs as Cardle approached. "Have a good vacation?"

"Morning, Maxwell. Yes, I did." The Bosun sat down, nodding towards Steve's left chest, and smiled. "I see you passed the course. No surprise there, of course!"

Steve glanced down at the silver wings of a small craft pilot, which he'd worn since graduating the previous month. He was still feeling proud of them. "Yes. I completed it in seven weeks, thanks to Dale's rearranging the schedule so I could work late in the simulators every evening."

"Good for him - and you! What did you do for the remaining five weeks? Where did you get that tan?"

"I spent a week flying second pilot for Dale, so he could give more time to his students, then I went planetside for a month to a reef resort near the equator. It was pricey, but thanks to my Radetski profit-share I could afford it. It's the first real, extended vacation I've ever taken. I had a great time! Beaches that stretched as far as the eye could see, lovely warm blue water, brilliant sunshine, fantastic food, and warm, willing vacationers every evening. I took a gill unit diving course the first week. Once I'd qualified as a sport diver, I teamed up with a few others to hire a dive boat most days. We explored the reef and fished with spearguns. A restaurant would buy our catch if it was good, which helped keep costs down. It was summer holiday season, so there were lots of college students there. There'd usually be some girls on the boat with us. They seemed to find a spacer rather exotic compared to their fellow students."

"And I bet you were careful not to disillusion them, right? I'm surprised you came back. The temptation to stay must have been overwhelming!"

"Well, there was this rather spectacular blonde whose daddy owned a brewery - "

"Oh, shut up! You've become a regular spacer all right - you're full of it!"

Grinning, Steve complied while the Bosun scanned the menu, then beckoned a waiter. "Three eggs over easy, three soft-cooked rashers of bacon, fried tomato, three slices of wheat toast with butter and marmalade, a large orange juice and plenty of hot, strong coffee."

"Coming right up, Sir." The waiter scurried away.

Cardle stretched, then relaxed. "I had a great time on New Brisbane. Caught up with my brother and sister and their families, visited all my old haunts, and spent a week instructing at the Merchant Spacer Academy. They were running a course for Bosun's Mates, and seemed to think their students were insufficiently terrorized. I was happy to oblige."

"I must say, I never found you a terror while I was under instruction."

"I never needed to terrorize you. You work harder and smarter than most, and learn faster. That's why the skipper signed off on your promotion to Spacer Second Class before he left, to take effect at the beginning of this month. I see you've already put up the insignia."

Steve reddened a little, glancing down at the two stars now adorning his left sleeve. "It was a surprise when Dale gave me the certificate. I was pleased the Captain promoted him at the same time."

"You'd both earned it. He'd completed everything else needed for Bosun's Mate First Class, and we knew he'd have added the required instructional experience by then. In your case, you completed the regulation minimum of one year as a Spacer Third Class in April, and we all knew you'd pass the pilot's course - someone with your savvy wasn't about to fail! Qualifying as a second pilot warrants a promotion, and adds a pretty decent professional skill supplement to your salary, too - you'll make almost twice as much as before. There was no reason to make either of you wait until the ship came out of the dockyard."

"I'm very grateful, but I was still a bit surprised. Most Third Classes spend at least six months longer in that rate."

"That's because they don't work as hard as you. You earned it the old-fashioned way."

The waiter returned with a heavily-laden tray, sparing Steve the ordeal of acknowledging the Bosun's compliment. He took up his knife and fork again as the Bosun unfolded his napkin, and they set to work to enjoy their breakfasts.

They were sipping their postprandial coffee when Tomkins made his appearance. He looked rather green and hung-over, and weaved his way unsteadily to their table.

"Morning, Tomkins," the Bosun greeted him cheerfully. "A heaping plate of bacon and eggs will soon set you right!"

Tomkins shook his head, then winced as the movement aggravated his hangover. He put his hand over his eyes for a moment.
"No!
That'd just about finish off what's left of me!" He looked at the waiter hovering nearby. "Black coffee, please, plus whatever you've got for an upset stomach and a hangover." As the man hurried away he turned back to his shipmates. "My final class held their graduation party last night. I don't want any food until I'm sure I won't bring it straight back up again!"

"Don't tell me the party was too much for your delicate spacer's constitution?" the Bosun asked with a grin.

"At least you had something of your own to celebrate, too," Steve said, nodding to the brand-new insignia of a Bosun's Mate First Class on Tomkins' left sleeve, crossed anchors inside an upturned gold laurel half-wreath. "I think your students are probably a lot worse off than you are - at least, we haven't seen any of them in here yet."

"I reckon someone must have slipped a mickey into my drink," the hapless Tomkins moaned.

"Which drink would that have been - the tenth, fifteenth or twentieth?"

"Oh, shut up!"

"Funny, the Bosun just told me to do the same thing!" All three laughed, although Tomkins had to clutch his aching head as he did so.

The waiter returned, bearing a tray carrying a carafe of piping-hot coffee and a glass filled with a steaming, bubbling, roiling, opaque liquid. Tomkins held his nose, tossed it back, and shuddered.
"Urgh!
That's
ghastly!
"

"It does the job, though," the Bosun pointed out as the waiter filled Tomkins' cup, then refilled his and Steve's. "Give it a moment to take effect before you drink your coffee."

"I'm surprised they had it available," Steve remarked, adding cream and sweetener to his coffee. "It's not on the menu, after all."

"They're used to hungover spacers in this joint," Tomkins said, already a little less groggily. "Most eateries in orbital terminals keep some on hand."

The Bosun glanced at the clock on the wall. "The skipper's shuttle should be getting in soon. When are they releasing
Cabot
to us?"

Steve paused as he lifted his coffee cup to his mouth. "They said fourteen today. She ran trials last week, including a hyper-jump, then they brought her back to the dockyard for a couple of minor adjustments."

"That's normal. Everyone should have arrived by then, so as soon as we've taken her out for a full-power test run and the skipper's signed off on the yard work, we can start loading. Any idea what the freight broker's lined up for us?"

"He said there was a small cargo for Rosalva," Tomkins said, sipping his coffee. "It's only a couple of thousand containers, but they've apparently got a lot of stuff there to ship to multiple destinations. He'd contracted with another freighter for the job, but a robotic cargo shuttle had a computer fart last week. It lost remote telemetry and collided with her, very hard."

Cardle winced. "How many casualties, and how bad?"

"By some miracle, no-one in the hold work party was hurt, but I bet they all had to sanitize their spacesuits afterwards!" Steve and the Bosun sniggered, but sympathetically. They knew how scared they'd have been under the same circumstances - and with good reason. Hard vacuum was utterly intolerant of error and devoid of mercy.

Tomkins continued, "The shuttle ripped off one of the ship's cargo doors and ended up jammed into her hull, buckling two frames and several stringers. It's still stuck there. She's waiting for an open dockyard bay to make repairs - in fact, she'll probably take ours when
Cabot
moves out. The broker says if we can get to Rosalva by the twentieth, we can take her place and fill our holds for a multi-leg delivery."