Willie cleared his throat. “All right . . . let’s get down to business. By now all of you realize that Q-25 is something of an experiment. Nobody’s done this before . . . not since World War Two anyway . . . and conditions were a bit different to say the least. That means there’s no rulebook, no manual, no set of instructions telling us what to do.

  “We do have an adviser however, a Captain Forbush, who among other things is a well-known professor of military history. You might also be interested to know that Captain Forbush played a role in choosing some of you for your present assignment.”

  Perko frowned, Christoferson looked mildly interested, and Shimmura tightened a screw.

  “As Captain Forbush likes to point out, our main defense is deception, and that will require a certain amount of acting. By now you have noticed that while the Alice B.—excuse me, the Q-25—has undergone extensive modification, her outward appearance remains essentially unchanged. She still looks like the beat-up freighter she once was.

  “That’s important, if we have any hope of luring Federation war ships in close enough for Guns to put them away. But that’s just the beginning. In order to convince the enemy that we are what we appear to be, we must act the part at all times. We may even allow ourselves to be boarded.

  “At the conclusion of this meeting each of you will surrender your uniforms, plus all personal items of military issue, and anything else that might suggest your actual identity. You will receive civilian clothes plus any other items you may need.”

  “Excuse me, sir,” Perko put in, “but doesn’t that qualify us as spies, and entitle the enemy to execute us if we’re captured?”

  Willie smiled grimly. “Number One is quite correct. That’s why all of you are entitled to withdraw at this time. You will be kept on Big Red for the duration of hostilities, or until the end of the Q-ship program, whichever comes first.”

  Perko considered Lawson’s words. It was an approach-avoidance situation. What good was escape if he ended up stuck on Big Red? No, it was better to stay on the Q-25 and see what happened.

  Willie looked around the room. “No takers? Okay, there’s more. In order to make sure we don’t screw up when the chips are down, you will no longer use military rank when addressing each other. In addition, do your best to avoid the use of military jargon.”

  Willie smiled. “I demand sloppiness aboard this ship, and I’ll tolerate nothing less.”

  Christoferson put a boot on the edge of the table and pushed her chair back. “You can count on me, skipper. This is my kind of ship.”

  Willie nodded approvingly. “Excellent. Our second officer shows a real aptitude for civilian sloppiness. Now, for a review of operations . . .”

  The meeting lasted another three hours. When it was over everyone retreated to their quarters, where a selection of civilian shipsuits and other gear had been laid out on their bunks.

  One by one Perko folded his uniforms and placed them in the duffle provided for that purpose. It didn’t seem fair. He’d worked so hard to earn the uniform, and the rank that went with it. Now, when he should be wearing it with pride, they were taking it away.

  As Perko placed the last uniform in the bag, light glinted off of something and caught his eye. It was a holo cube. It showed Perko in dress blacks, his father at his side, and the Academy in the background.

  Graduation day. It was a picture of how things were supposed to be. Perko shoved it toward the back of a drawer. Maybe it would bring some good luck.

  With the exception of a last-minute visit from Captain Forbush, who toured the ship shaking hands with everyone and wishing them luck, the Q-25 slipped away with little or no fanfare.

  No one knew the full extent of Fed intelligence operations but they assumed that Big Red harbored at least a couple of spies, and it seemed wise to draw as little attention as possible.

  Thanks to Forbush, all the base records still listed the Alice as a freighter, and substantially understated the vessel’s defensive as well as offensive capabilities.

  Their orders were simple. Find technical problems and solve them, give the crew a chance to practice their jobs, and defeat any Feds who took the bait.

  Willie hoped the Feds wouldn’t take the bait and stayed within U.N.-dominated space as much as possible. The ship’s sensors brought them to battle stations frequently over the next couple of weeks, but with the exception of some signals too weak to identify all the traffic they encountered was friendly.

  Thanks to her new drives the Alice B. could give a destroyer escort a run for its money, but it wouldn’t do to have a beat-up freighter making that kind of speed, so Perko and Christoferson had orders to keep it down. As a result it took them the better part of twelve standard days to reach Battle Station Gorbachev.

  Heavily fortified, and protected by a carrier task force, the habitat was a refueling station and a logical stop for an itinerant freighter. Forbush had insisted that Alice B. maintain the appearance of being on schedule in case she was followed.

  So the days passed one at a time, full of mind-dulling vigilance and unending drills. Most of the crew looked forward to the drills, because something was better than nothing.

  There were all kinds, Weapons drills, in which Guns launched an unmanned drone and they tried to destroy it; damage control drills, in which Shim announced a pressure leak and people rushed to plug it; and medical emergencies, in which everyone took turns as both medic and patient. Then there were boarding drills, in which the crew practiced being boarded, evac drills, in which they pretended to punch out, and “ship in peril” drills, in which they simulated a tow.

  This is where Perko excelled, driving the crew harder than Willie would’ve dared and getting better results. Recognizing the other man’s superiority, Willie stayed out of the way. When push came to shove and the chips were down, the drills would save lives.

  Was the balance between his personality and Perko’s a matter of good luck? Or the result of careful planning by Captain Forbush? Willie suspected the latter.

  Time passed, and slowly but surely response times grew shorter and shorter, until even Perko had a hard time finding fault. Praise still tended to come from Willie, but the combination of personalities seemed to work and the crew became a team.

  As a result Willie was in a good mood when the Gorbachev filled the center of the viewscreen. From his command chair above and behind Christoferson and Perko, the battle station looked like an old-fashioned top, with a bulbous hull and a pair of spindly antenna towers pointing up and down.

  Like all habitats its size; the Gorbachev had been constructed in space. So, with no need to negotiate planetary atmospheres, the battle station’s designers had been free to cover its surface with solar panels, heat exchangers, weapons blisters, observatories, antenna arrays, access ports and other less identifiable installations.

  Long before the Alice got within torpedo range of the habitat they were challenged, recognized, and provided with an escort. Willie was under no illusions about the escort. It was there for the Gorbachev’s protection, not his. One wrong move and the freighter would be so much free metal.

  The escort consisted of two S-class assault boats, speedy little ships bristling with weapons and fast enough to run circles around a destroyer.

  Perko didn’t say anything, but Willie noticed the way he glowered at the screens and snapped at the Assault Boat pilots when they ventured too close. Much to his own surprise Willie found himself feeling sorry for Perko. Maybe Forbush would give him a transfer somewhere down the line.

  It took about four hours to dock, complete the usual raft of formalities, and clear the crew for liberty. It was, and would be, one of their few opportunities for some R&R, so Willie turned everyone loose.

  Given the strength of the Gorbachev itself, and the carrier task force that guarded it, there was little danger of being caught with their pants down.

  One by one the crew finished their duties and, still swathed in civilian clothes, made their way through the pressurized umbilical and into the battle station proper. Once there they were quickly caught up in the unending flow of foot traffic that filled the Gorbachev’s corridors, and were carried along.

  Although run by the military and used to guard an important sector, the battle station was much more than an orbital fortress. It was a center for trade as well and, because of that, boasted quite a few amenities, including restaurants, stores, nightclubs and more.

  Still, a military base is a military base, and Perko felt naked without his uniform and the rank that went with it. There were other civilians here and there, real freighter crews for the most part, mixed with a sprinkling of scientists and technicians. Having no desire to try to explain his way into one of the station’s officer clubs, Perko followed the path of least resistance and wandered into a civilian-style bar. The service was quick, the drinks were strong, and one hour later Perko felt pretty good.

  He was just about to order dinner when a couple of tech types entered the area arm-in-arm with a tipsy Jake Laferty. The same Jake Laferty who’d been the bane of Perko’s existence during his time at the Academy, and still rated only just above the rank of maggot in the naval officer’s personal hierarchy of life-forms.

  Laferty was short, with a body that would turn to fat in middle age, and a beet-red face. As he entered, Laferty’s beady little eyes scanned the bar, looking for someone to put down or suck up to.

  Perko turned and tried to fade into the background. The last thing he needed was a dose of Laferty’s noxious personality. It was a wasted effort.

  “Hey! Wait a minute, guys! There’s Prick-head Perko! Hey, Prick-head! How’re they hangin’ ?”

  Perko groaned. It was like his worst nightmare come true. Within seconds Laferty was there, friends in tow, a big grin on his meaty face.

  “Well? Aren’t ya gonna ask us to sit down?”

  Perko got to his feet. “Sure, go ahead and sit down, I was leaving.”

  “Leaving? Leaving? What the hell you mean, ‘leaving?’ Me ’n’ the boys just arrived. We gotta have a drink with ’ol Prick-head.”

  Laferty swayed slightly, leaned forward, and tried to read the patch over Perko’s pocket through bleary eyes. As he did so Perko saw the silver pips on Laferty’s shoulder-boards. The sonovabitch had already ass-kissed his way up to Lieutenant Commander!

  Laferty laughed. “The Alice B.? What the hell is an Alice B., anyway?”

  Laferty’s eyes widened in sudden understanding. “A freighter? ’Ol Prick-head’s serving on a freighter? Oh, that’s rich, that is! Wait till everyone hears this!”

  Laferty broke into drunken laughter and the technoids looked bored.

  As Laferty’s laughter rang in his ears something snapped deep inside Perko. Something that had started at the Academy and built up over the years. A combination of resentment, frustration, and rage.

  The blow started low and came up fast. It hit Laferty on the point of his chin and rocked him backward. Stepping into this newly vacated space, Perko followed up with a series of quick body blows. They felt good.

  Laferty never had a chance. Caught by surprise, his reactions slowed by alcohol, the Academy’s part-time boxing champ and full-time bully slumped to the floor.

  Perko looked at the tech types and they backed away.

  Perko looked down, saw how stupid Laferty looked, and laughed. He was still laughing when the military police came to haul him away.

  By chance Willie and Christoferson left the ship at the same time, entered the flow of foot traffic, and were swept along together. Neither had a destination, so it seemed natural to drift along and talk. Or so it seemed.

  But as they walked along Willie noticed heads turn and suddenly realized why. Christoferson was strikingly beautiful. She had a heart-shaped face, a long athletic body, and moved with an arrogant grace that managed to be both intimidating and sexy at the same time.

  Willie gave an internal sigh. There had been a time when women, some anyway, liked to be around him.

  The dashing young rockrat, risking his life to supply earth-orbit habitats, his face on the news vids for weeks at a time.

  But not anymore. These days beautiful young women used him as a shield against younger men. Shit. Willie forced a smile and gestured toward a restaurant that proclaimed GOOD FOOD in foot-high yellow letters. “How ’bout it? My treat.”

  Christoferson smiled. “That sounds like the best offer I’ve had in about twelve days. You’re on.”

  They entered the restaurant, a cheerfully plastic place full of unusual color combinations, and chose a booth. The booth sensed their presence and a menu appeared in the tabletop.

  The menu offered a wide selection of choices, but the knowledge that most of them came straight out of the habitat’s recycling vats, and were processed to taste different, made the whole thing seem a little silly.

  Willie speared his choices with a stubby finger and they lit up brighter than the rest. Christoferson did the same and their drinks arrived a few minutes later.

  Willie held up his drink in a toast. “To us, the crew, and the ship we sail on.”

  Christoferson raised her glass as well. “I’ll drink to that.”

  A minute passed while both took a sip of their drinks. Christoferson broke the silence.

  “Speaking of the ship, skipper . . . what makes her so special? Or am I speaking out of turn?”

  Suddenly Willie was back there, conning a thirty-two-year-old ship into the belt, following the tone. It was a steady, mind-numbing sound that grated on his nerves.

  But what could they do? You don’t ignore a distress signal out in the roids, not if you want someone to come when it’s your ass on the line, a day that will almost certainly come.

  So, bit-by-bit, Willie had taken the ship inward, past tumbling rocks of all sizes and shapes, toward Interstellar Metal’s processor 46.

  Back in those days Willie had been both captain and pilot, unable to afford a larger crew, and unwilling to surrender control. Looking to the right he’d seen Alice, beads of sweat covering the broad expanse of her forehead, eyes narrowed in concentration, delicate white teeth biting the fullness of her lower lip. God, she was beautiful.

  The tone grew louder and Willie forced his attention back to the task at hand. They were getting close. Real close, there up ahead, a slowly spinning roid and a glint of reflected sunlight. Suddenly a burst of garbled sound.

  “All ships . . . all ships . . . buzz . . . crackle . . . pop . . . since 0815 standard. We have shut off all air to that portion of the plant in hopes . . . pop . . . pop . . . pop . . . crackle . . . All ships . . . all ships . . .”

  Alice turned the volume down. “It sounds like a fire, Willie. Put her down a safe distance from the plant and I’ll go in.”

  They argued the entire time it took to match speeds with the asteroid and set the ship down. As usual Alice won, and as usual she did it through sheer force of logic. Alice was already struggling into her space armor when she delivered the telling argument.

  “Listen, Willie, and listen good. You’ve got a six-person crew, remember? And you’re the only one good enough to get the ship out of here. You die and we all buy the farm. Got it? Good. Now give me a kiss and check my seals.”

  Willie kissed her, checked her seals, and watched her bound over the asteroid’s rocky surface to a domed-shaped processing plant. She would find the survivors and guide them back.

  Except she didn’t, because there were no survivors beyond the garbled tape, and because the fire reached a stash of explosives while she was still inside.

  Willie had seen it with his own eyes. Seen the surface of the dome sucked inward, seen it push out again as it blossomed red and orange, suddenly gone with the oxygen that had fueled it.

  No one ever figured out what went wrong at processor 46, or why Alice Brown had to die, and now some twenty-nine years later no one cared. Except Willie that is, and he was old enough to know it didn’t make any difference. Dead is dead.

  Willie looked up and realized that he’d been talking, letting the words pour out, baring his soul to a near stranger.

  A tear trickled down Christoferson’s cheek. She reached out to hold Willie’s hand. “I’m sorry, skipper. Life sucks, sometimes.”

  Willie nodded, and the food came, saving him from the necessity of a reply.

  They talked about other things after that, brighter, happier things. The food was awful, but it was the best meal Willie had eaten in a long, long time.

  Guns waved the weapons techs forward. It had taken all four of them to lift the heavy case and carry it through the umbilical and into the battle station. He would’ve preferred moving it through a cargo area but beggars can’t be choosers.

  “Come on, you airheads! We haven’t got all day! The captain wants this stuff moved, so move it!” Guns winked to show he didn’t mean it.

  The weapons techs, Skupa, Tarbox, Puente, and Orlander, smirked at each other. The whole thing was a lark as far as they were concerned, just one more episode in the never-ending annals of military theft.

  Guns was what the navy called a “cum shaw artist,” an expert in the necessary skill of unauthorized acquisition. It was a time-honored process through which excess is traded for shortage and everyone comes out happy. Far from legal, but winked at by commanding officers desperate to balance their supply inventories or hoping to stockpile critical spares.

  Tarbox, a young woman with red hair and lots of freckles, helped Puente, a dark-haired youth with black, sparkling eyes, to set up the cart. Moments later it was ready, and with the crate strapped in place they set off down the corridor. One wheel had an incessant squeak and was getting on the warrant officer’s nerves.

  Naisbit led the way, the perpetual frown of a testy officer firmly in place, scattering pedestrians right and left. It was an old trick. If you’re not supposed to be doing something look like you are.

  A pair of strolling military policemen appeared from around the curve of the habitat’s hull. They walked like beat cops everywhere, swaggering along, secure in the strength of their armor and the weight of their batons.