Read Online Against All Enemies by John G. Hemry - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: John G. Hemry
Tags: Science-Fiction
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Sinclair?"
"Yeah, Boats. Let's go."
" Michaelson , this is the gig. Request permission to get underway."
"Permission granted." Paul had no trouble recognizing the XO's voice. Commander Kwan's going to keep a personal eye on this little mission. Great. I'd better pray nothing goes wrong in even the smallest way .
The chief bosun tapped her controls. Paul felt force pushing him to one side as the gig's cradle pushed it gently out and away from the Michaelson . Then he was back in a zero-g state again as the gig drifted out of its dock. Only when it was well clear of the ship did the bosun once again reach for her controls, using thruster firings to bring the gig up and around, then triggering the gig's main drive to propel it forward.
Paul craned his head to see the maneuvering display. The gig's systems were well capable of auto-piloting their way to the Prometheus , but he could tell the bosun was controlling the gig manually. Officially, that was frowned upon except during training for loss of automated control. Unofficially, experienced spacecraft drivers loved to eyeball their way through maneuvers, depending on experience and skill to do everything any automated control system could do, but often with more style.
Paul leaned his head back again and closed his eyes once more. The flight should take about fifteen minutes, and no experienced sailor would let that time go to waste.
"Reveille, reveille, Mr. Sinclair."
Paul popped open his eyes at Sheriff Sharpe's droll wake up call, yawned and then stretched as well as the straps holding him to the seat would permit. "I think I just doubled the amount of sleep I've had in the last twenty-four hours," he remarked.
Sharpe put an expression of exaggerated interest on his face. "Sleep, sir? What would that be, sir? Some privilege restricted to the exalted ranks of junior officers?"
"Sheriff, you sleep more than anyone on board except the supply officer."
"That, sir, is the worst insult I've ever received." Sharpe grinned. "And even if I did, at least I work for a living when I'm awake."
"Is that what you call what you do?" Paul peered at the maneuvering display again. The bulk of the Prometheus loomed close by now. Even as he watched, the bosun hit the main drive again, braking the gig to bring it to a halt relative to the freighter, then using gentle taps on the thrusters to bring the gig close to the freighter's dock. A magnetic grapnel launched from the freighter, slowly heading for gig while its line trailed out behind. Then the grapnel locked onto the gig's mooring plate and the line began very gently retracting, pulling the gig behind it.
The Michaelson 's chief bosun watched intently, ready to react if the gig started moving too fast toward the dock or if anything else went wrong. Navy sailors never trusted their merchant counterparts to do things right. But the gig came to rest gently against the padded surface of the dock cradle. They could hear a humming transmitted through the hull of the gig as the freighter's air lock moved to mate with the gig.
The bosun finally turned and nodded to Paul. "All secure, sir. It's okay to crack the hatch."
"Thanks, Boats. Good driving." Paul unstrapped, pulled himself to the hatch, and cycled it open.
There were three people awaiting him. One, obviously the captain of the Prometheus , wore a bright coverall betraying the sheen long use. He grinned at Paul. "Did you drive that gig in here?"
"No, sir." Technically, the civilian captain of the Prometheus didn't have to be addressed as "sir," but Paul felt it was only appropriate when dealing with commanding officer of another ship. "That was our chief bosun."
"Any chance I can hire her off of you?"
"No, sir. Sorry."
The captain extended one hand. "Grady Perseus."
The commanding officer of a ship named Prometheus Rising is himself named Perseus? Figure the odds . Paul shook hands. "Lieutenant Paul Sinclair."
"I really appreciate the help from you guys." The captain of
"Yeah, Boats. Let's go."
" Michaelson , this is the gig. Request permission to get underway."
"Permission granted." Paul had no trouble recognizing the XO's voice. Commander Kwan's going to keep a personal eye on this little mission. Great. I'd better pray nothing goes wrong in even the smallest way .
The chief bosun tapped her controls. Paul felt force pushing him to one side as the gig's cradle pushed it gently out and away from the Michaelson . Then he was back in a zero-g state again as the gig drifted out of its dock. Only when it was well clear of the ship did the bosun once again reach for her controls, using thruster firings to bring the gig up and around, then triggering the gig's main drive to propel it forward.
Paul craned his head to see the maneuvering display. The gig's systems were well capable of auto-piloting their way to the Prometheus , but he could tell the bosun was controlling the gig manually. Officially, that was frowned upon except during training for loss of automated control. Unofficially, experienced spacecraft drivers loved to eyeball their way through maneuvers, depending on experience and skill to do everything any automated control system could do, but often with more style.
Paul leaned his head back again and closed his eyes once more. The flight should take about fifteen minutes, and no experienced sailor would let that time go to waste.
"Reveille, reveille, Mr. Sinclair."
Paul popped open his eyes at Sheriff Sharpe's droll wake up call, yawned and then stretched as well as the straps holding him to the seat would permit. "I think I just doubled the amount of sleep I've had in the last twenty-four hours," he remarked.
Sharpe put an expression of exaggerated interest on his face. "Sleep, sir? What would that be, sir? Some privilege restricted to the exalted ranks of junior officers?"
"Sheriff, you sleep more than anyone on board except the supply officer."
"That, sir, is the worst insult I've ever received." Sharpe grinned. "And even if I did, at least I work for a living when I'm awake."
"Is that what you call what you do?" Paul peered at the maneuvering display again. The bulk of the Prometheus loomed close by now. Even as he watched, the bosun hit the main drive again, braking the gig to bring it to a halt relative to the freighter, then using gentle taps on the thrusters to bring the gig close to the freighter's dock. A magnetic grapnel launched from the freighter, slowly heading for gig while its line trailed out behind. Then the grapnel locked onto the gig's mooring plate and the line began very gently retracting, pulling the gig behind it.
The Michaelson 's chief bosun watched intently, ready to react if the gig started moving too fast toward the dock or if anything else went wrong. Navy sailors never trusted their merchant counterparts to do things right. But the gig came to rest gently against the padded surface of the dock cradle. They could hear a humming transmitted through the hull of the gig as the freighter's air lock moved to mate with the gig.
The bosun finally turned and nodded to Paul. "All secure, sir. It's okay to crack the hatch."
"Thanks, Boats. Good driving." Paul unstrapped, pulled himself to the hatch, and cycled it open.
There were three people awaiting him. One, obviously the captain of the Prometheus , wore a bright coverall betraying the sheen long use. He grinned at Paul. "Did you drive that gig in here?"
"No, sir." Technically, the civilian captain of the Prometheus didn't have to be addressed as "sir," but Paul felt it was only appropriate when dealing with commanding officer of another ship. "That was our chief bosun."
"Any chance I can hire her off of you?"
"No, sir. Sorry."
The captain extended one hand. "Grady Perseus."
The commanding officer of a ship named Prometheus Rising is himself named Perseus? Figure the odds . Paul shook hands. "Lieutenant Paul Sinclair."
"I really appreciate the help from you guys." The captain of
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