Read Online The Reaches by David Drake - Free Book Online
Authors: David Drake
Tags: Science-Fiction
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before the artificial intelligence would have done so.
The Sultan hit with a ringing impact. Gregg staggered but didn't fall against the workstations around him.
"Not really dangerous," Ricimer murmured, to Gregg and to himself. "The lower hull may want some reglazing . . . but after a long voyage, the torquing of so many transits, that'd be a good idea anyway."
Vibration continued even with the Sultan 's powerplant shut off. A huge dome rolled to cover the landing pit. When the pit's centrifugal pumps had dumped the Venerian atmosphere back into the hell where it belonged and the hull had cooled sufficiently, conveyor belts would haul the vessel into a storage dock. Betaport was a major facility with six landing pits, but the volume of trade she handled required that the pits be cleared as soon as possible.
The men at the attitude controls stood up and stretched. "C'mon, c'mon, c'mon," Jeude said toward a bulkhead. "Get that personnel bridge out here."
"I got my pay," Dole singsonged, "and I want somebody to spend it with. I do want that."
Lightbody looked at Dole. Ostentatiously, he took his Bible out of the pocket where he'd placed it on landing. He began to read, his lips forming the words as his right index finger traced the line.
The bridge console beeped. The CRT, blanked when Choransky shut down, filled with characters.
"What?" the captain demanded. "Are we getting hard copy of this?"
Bivens squinted at the screen. "This is message traffic from Captain Mostert," he said as he watched the data scroll upward.
"I know what it is," Choransky said angrily. He opened a cabinet beneath the CRT and threw a switch with no effect. "Are we getting hard copy of it, that's what I want to know?"
The duty of a ship's crewman was to do whatever a superior ordered him to do. It wasn't clear that a gentleman like Gregg had any superior aboard the Sultan; but he knew a great deal more about office equipment than anybody else on the ship did, and he didn't care to sit on his hands.
Gregg stepped past Choransky, knelt to study the installation for a moment, and reconnected the printer. It began spewing out copy as soon as he switched it on.
"There you go," he said to the captain. "Somebody probably got tired of the way it clucked every time the board switched mode." To the best of Gregg's knowledge, the printer hadn't been used at any previous point in the voyage.
The Sultan rocked.
"About d—" Jeude began. He caught Ricimer's eye. "About time the personnel bridge got here," he finished.
The vessel shuddered softly as ground staff evacuated the seal which clamped the enclosed walkway to the starship's hull.
"That message," Gregg said to Ricimer quietly. "Captain Mostert is summoning Choransky and his top officers to a meeting and party at his house in Ishtar City tomorrow morning. He's going to have potential investors for a larger voyage present. Some of them may be from the Governor's Council."
"Are you going?" Ricimer asked.
Gregg looked at him. "I suppose Uncle Benjamin will already have a representative chosen," he said. "If he's interested, that is."
"I doubt my cousin Alexi would leave you on his doorstep, though," Ricimer said.
A hatch sighed open. The air pressure increased minutely. Crewmen—none of them on the bridge—shouted "Yippee!" and "Yee-ha!"
"Why are you asking?" Gregg said. "Are you going yourself?"
"I'm not sure Alexi really expects me . . ." Ricimer explained. His grin flashed. "Though he is my cousin. I'm pretty sure his servants wouldn't bat an eyelash if I came with the nephew of Factor Benjamin Gregg, though."
Gregg began to laugh. He put his arm around Ricimer's shoulders again. "I'll tell you what," he said. "We'll go see my uncle. He's in Ishtar City and I need to report anyway. Then we'll play it by ear, just as we've been doing"—he gestured upward—"out there."
Gregg wondered as he spoke whether the reality of high-level politics would be as far from his expectations as the
The Sultan hit with a ringing impact. Gregg staggered but didn't fall against the workstations around him.
"Not really dangerous," Ricimer murmured, to Gregg and to himself. "The lower hull may want some reglazing . . . but after a long voyage, the torquing of so many transits, that'd be a good idea anyway."
Vibration continued even with the Sultan 's powerplant shut off. A huge dome rolled to cover the landing pit. When the pit's centrifugal pumps had dumped the Venerian atmosphere back into the hell where it belonged and the hull had cooled sufficiently, conveyor belts would haul the vessel into a storage dock. Betaport was a major facility with six landing pits, but the volume of trade she handled required that the pits be cleared as soon as possible.
The men at the attitude controls stood up and stretched. "C'mon, c'mon, c'mon," Jeude said toward a bulkhead. "Get that personnel bridge out here."
"I got my pay," Dole singsonged, "and I want somebody to spend it with. I do want that."
Lightbody looked at Dole. Ostentatiously, he took his Bible out of the pocket where he'd placed it on landing. He began to read, his lips forming the words as his right index finger traced the line.
The bridge console beeped. The CRT, blanked when Choransky shut down, filled with characters.
"What?" the captain demanded. "Are we getting hard copy of this?"
Bivens squinted at the screen. "This is message traffic from Captain Mostert," he said as he watched the data scroll upward.
"I know what it is," Choransky said angrily. He opened a cabinet beneath the CRT and threw a switch with no effect. "Are we getting hard copy of it, that's what I want to know?"
The duty of a ship's crewman was to do whatever a superior ordered him to do. It wasn't clear that a gentleman like Gregg had any superior aboard the Sultan; but he knew a great deal more about office equipment than anybody else on the ship did, and he didn't care to sit on his hands.
Gregg stepped past Choransky, knelt to study the installation for a moment, and reconnected the printer. It began spewing out copy as soon as he switched it on.
"There you go," he said to the captain. "Somebody probably got tired of the way it clucked every time the board switched mode." To the best of Gregg's knowledge, the printer hadn't been used at any previous point in the voyage.
The Sultan rocked.
"About d—" Jeude began. He caught Ricimer's eye. "About time the personnel bridge got here," he finished.
The vessel shuddered softly as ground staff evacuated the seal which clamped the enclosed walkway to the starship's hull.
"That message," Gregg said to Ricimer quietly. "Captain Mostert is summoning Choransky and his top officers to a meeting and party at his house in Ishtar City tomorrow morning. He's going to have potential investors for a larger voyage present. Some of them may be from the Governor's Council."
"Are you going?" Ricimer asked.
Gregg looked at him. "I suppose Uncle Benjamin will already have a representative chosen," he said. "If he's interested, that is."
"I doubt my cousin Alexi would leave you on his doorstep, though," Ricimer said.
A hatch sighed open. The air pressure increased minutely. Crewmen—none of them on the bridge—shouted "Yippee!" and "Yee-ha!"
"Why are you asking?" Gregg said. "Are you going yourself?"
"I'm not sure Alexi really expects me . . ." Ricimer explained. His grin flashed. "Though he is my cousin. I'm pretty sure his servants wouldn't bat an eyelash if I came with the nephew of Factor Benjamin Gregg, though."
Gregg began to laugh. He put his arm around Ricimer's shoulders again. "I'll tell you what," he said. "We'll go see my uncle. He's in Ishtar City and I need to report anyway. Then we'll play it by ear, just as we've been doing"—he gestured upward—"out there."
Gregg wondered as he spoke whether the reality of high-level politics would be as far from his expectations as the
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