Donald Moffitt - The Jupiter Theft

Jameson shook his head wonderingly. “Rescue balls! They stuffed them into rescue balls! Skipper, we can’t nursemaid a bunch of beginners like those! Not when they’ll be working with dangerous materials outside the ship and in zero-g conditions! It’d compromise the safety of the ship.”

“We’re not going to nursemaid them, mister,” Boyle said. “We’re going to instruct them in the presence of their executive officer and stay away from them. Those are the orders.”

“Captain, that’s crazy! You can’t let a bunch like that wander around unsupervised! There’s too much trouble they can get into!”

“Look lively now! They’re here!”

There was a bump outside that sent a tiny shiver through the spinlock antechamber. Jameson, sweating in his full-dress greens, drew himself up in an approximation of a formal stance, hands clasped behind his back, feet spread, one toe hooked surreptitiously under a baseboard projection to keep himself from drifting away. The spin for the entire ship had been stopped for several days now so the additional modules could be bonded to the rim without having workers and materials fly off into space. The trim of the ship had been altered by the new, awkwardly placed mass, and the computers were working overtime to shift weights and balance the new stresses.

Kay Thorwald, the second officer, was floating in parade position just beside the captain, her large jaw set firmly, her formidable bust swollen to semiglobular shapes in the absence of gravity, her wide mannish shoulders held back squarely. Like Jameson, she’d been tapped as one of the execs to help Captain Boyle pipe the nuclear-bomb crews aboard.

Clustered against the opposite wall was the Chinese delegation, spruced up for the occasion in fashionably wrinkled blue cotton Mao jackets and baggy trousers. Captain Hsieh was in the middle, a chunky, smallish man with a round, pedantic face, hands held stiffly at his sides, straining to stretch his spine. His first officer, Yeh Fei, was at his left. Yeh was a big, hulking fellow with a sloping shelf of forehead and a lantern jaw. The third member of the welcoming committee was Tu Jue-chen, the new Struggle Group leader sent up from Earth. As unacknowledged political officer, she carried more clout than Captain Hsieh. She was a terrifying harpy with hollow cheeks, malicious monkey-eyes, and a mouth crowded with big square teeth.

All three of them were wearing the round badges that showed a stylized representation of Lady Ch’ang-o ascending to the Moon with the help of the antigravity pill she’d stolen from her husband. The three-thousand-year-old legend had been the symbol of the Chinese space program since their first manned flight, in the 1980s.

The red warning light winked out as the lock was pressurized, and the latch in the center of the door spun round. The hatch swung open. A man in Army fatigues emerged in an apish crouch that probably was his conception of how to move about in no-g conditions. He had a small round head covered with short blond stubble, and very wide shoulders. The leaf on his lapel said he was a major.

Grogan, still in his spacesuit but with his helmet off, was hovering helpfully just behind him. Behind Grogan Jameson could make out the shape of one of the bosun’s mates extracting a ruffled-looking noncom from a collapsed rescue ball. There was a lot of activity inside the lock. They’d probably squeezed a third of the bomb crew inside. The rest presumably were bobbing around outside in their inflated balls while the other bosun’s mate held on to the tether.

“Welcome aboard, Major,” Boyle said. Across the chamber, Captain Hsieh nodded his head just perceptibly; as protocol dictated, and echoed Boyle.

The major saluted smartly—too smartly—and got himself into trouble. Behind him, Grogan shot out a big meaty paw and grasped his upper arm to keep him in contact with the deck.

“Hollis,” the man said, flushing. “Major Dexter B. Hollis, in command of Special Nuclear Strike Group Lambda One, reporting.”

Before one of the Chinese could object, Boyle said, “I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you for your sidearm, Major. No firearms allowed aboard.”

Hollis stared at the captain a moment. A knot of muscle worked at the hinge of his jaw. Finally he said, “I’m under independent orders, Captain. You know that.”

Boyle held out his hand. “And I’m in command of this ship, Major. Along with Captain Hsieh here. Your command comes under our authority in everything concerning the safety of the ship. There’s no use for a handgun here. Hand it over.”

Tu Jue-chen was watching expectantly, her monkey eyes bright. Hollis glanced at her and shrugged. He unbuckled the heavy gun belt and gave it to Boyle.

“Thank you, Major,” Boyle said. “I’ll give you a receipt for that. It’ll stay in my safe. You’ll get it back at the end of the voyage.”

The bomb crew began to file out of the lock, big unfriendly-looking men with hard-bitten faces, shuffling awkwardly in their Velcro socks. They all had specialist ratings, patches with an eagle clutching a missile in one claw sewn to their sleeves. All of them looked miserable from their fetal confinement in the three-foot rescue balls, and one of them had a uniform covered with vomit; the trip across from Eurostation must have been pure hell for him, but he was keeping his head up and his jaw tight.

“I can have one of our officers show this group down while we’re waiting for the rest of your men,” Boyle said to the major. “They’re welcome to use the crew facilities to clean up—we’ve got a few more amenities than in the prefab modules they’ve assigned to you—and we’ve got coffee and refreshments waiting for them in the lounge.”

“We’ll go directly to our own quarters, Captain,” Hollis said tightly. “Thanks anyway. I’ll wait here until they’re all inside. I’ll keep them together, and I’ll see that they stay out of the main part of the ship except on official business.”

“It’s going to be a long trip,” the captain said. Those prefab modules are cramped.”

“We’ll manage,” Hollis said. “And we’ll stay out of your way.”

The antechamber was filling up with the second group. A couple more of the men had been sick on the way over, and the aroma in the enclosed space was getting a little hard to take. Hollis watched through narrowed eyes as his men tried to shape up in a military manner. He’d turned his back pointedly after the initial introductions.

Grogan sidled up next to Jameson. “What d’you think of those apes?” he said in a low tone.

“I don’t like it,” Jameson said. “Twenty-four additional men cooped up with us for a year and a half. It changes the ratio of men to women to about two to one. There’s going to be trouble, you can count on it. I just hope none of those men goes prowling for Chinese women, that’s all.”

“You don’t have to worry, Commander,” Grogan said sardonically. “They brought along a girl with them.”

“A girl?” Jameson said incredulously. “One girl for the bunch of them? What the hell is the Army up to? That’s right out of the dark ages, like the sort of thing they were trying after the first Mars expedition!”

“You should see her, Commander,” Grogan said. “A real tough cookie. Wearing specialist’s stripes, too. Some specialty, huh?”

Jameson tried to suppress a grin. “Let’s hope she doesn’t get sick.”

“Commander, if she gets sick, they get sick too.”

The lock cycled again. Hollis waited long enough to make sure that his group was complete, then herded them in twos and threes toward the lift shaft, where a noncom stoically shepherded them to an assembly point at the rim. It took Jameson a moment to pick out the girl. She was as big and tough-looking as the men, dressed in the same shapeless fatigues, but her cheeks were shiny-smooth and she had a thick braid of blond hair hanging down her back. Then they were gone, Grogan and the bosun’s mates with them, leaving nothing but a smell of sweat and stale vomit behind.