"Doohan, James & Stirling, S M - Flight Engineer 01 - The The Rising 2.0" - читать интересную книгу автора (Doohan James)

The fall of the Commonwealth could still happen, of course. Scuttlebutt had it that the stockpiles of anti-hydrogen were sufficient for only eighteen months of naval operations, a stockpile only sporadically replaced by daring raids on Mollie processing plants. The newly reopened synthetic anti-hydrogen plants were capable of producing virtually nothing at ten times the cost.
"The plug's out of the bathtub and there's no more than a trickle coming out of the tap," one of Peter's friends had said.
Raeder raised his glass in memory of that particular buddy, killed in the same battle that had taken Peter's hand, his Speed, and his glory. He'd made four "kills" in that action, but the recording computer had been destroyed by the heavy particle beam that tore him out of the sky. Those four victories would have brought his total to seven, making him the first and highest scoring ace of the war.
Never rains but it pours, he thought, not without humor. He'd had a dream about it when he was recovering in the hospital. A crusty old admiral was about to pin a medal on him for becoming an ace. Peter was standing there proud as a peacock, when someone came hurtling onto the stage screaming, "Stop! It's a mistake. We've checked all his recordings and they show him shooting down the same Mollie every time." "That's ridiculous!" Raeder exclaimed.
"Gimme those," the admiral growled, and grabbed the holostills from the little man. Then he glared at Peter. "We had a cake baked for you," he said. "Decorated and everything. My wife ordered it. I had my mouth all set for that cake. Now I can't eat it."
"But he's lying," Peter insisted. "That's not proof, it's only seven identical photographs. The least you should do is review the recordings themselves," he pleaded.
"Nah! It doesn't matter now," the admiral grumped. "It's all spoiled anyway." He turned and left the stage beside the little guy who'd handed him the holos and clearly wanted them back. The admiral. tossed them into the air and they fluttered stageward.
Peter turned and the band was packing up its instruments, the audience was pushing back their folding gathering their belongings and departing as this was a perfectly normal ending to the ceremony.
"But I did shoot them," Raeder insisted.
"G'home," the admiral shouted. "And take yer damn cake with ya." Then the stage lights went out and after a confused moment he woke up.
Loud, exuberant voices brought PeterR head around. A gaggle of fighter jocks had just come in, laughing and joking. They looked Raeder over, noting his engineering tabs, and dismissed him, taking their seats at a table and calling out their orders to the pretty bartender.
Peter turned back to the bar feeling slighted. "Jeez! Was I that arrogant? Well, yes, in all probability."
Piloting a Speed was grace and glory, and massive power literally at your fingertips. To a fighter pilot life consisted of Speeds and the rest of the world. No matter how hard you fought the feeling, you couldn't help but know that everything else lacked... something~ Color, texture, meaning, Peter thought gloomily. Engineers, for example, were valued and respected for their service to you and your machine, but they just weren't on the same plane as fighter jocks at all.
Raeder suddenly wondered if it should be fighter jock or fighter jerk. Ah, you're just feeling left out, he told himself. Missing the excitement, the camaraderie. When he reached his assignment and felt part of something again, he wouldn't be so inclined to take offense where none was meant. You'll be acting like the old man, next, he warned himself, if you don't watch out. His father had been good at finding reasons to get angry---when he'd been drinking--though he was the kindest of men when sober.
There was a sudden burst of laughter from behind him, almost certainly having nothing to do with him at all. Even so, Raeder felt heat rise up his neck as though he'd heard them mocking him and his sudden ship-bound status. He carelessly picked up his glass with his right hand and it popped like a soap bubble. Fortunately it had been almost empty. "I'm sorry," he said to the bartender.
"Not a problem," she said, smiling. "You want another?" "Sure," Raeder said. "You got a plastic glass?"
"Nope, something much better." And she yanked a heavy frosted mug from the freezer, filled it with good draft brew, and placed it before him with a flourish.
"Now that," he said, gratified, "is almost as pretty a sight as you are, ma'am."
She laughed. "That's the first time I've ever been compared to a beer."
"But this is more than a beer," Raeder asserted, "it's an experience to treasure." As I'm sure you are, the devilish glint in his green eyes said.
She read that message as easily as if it had flowed by in digital letters and gave a little toss of her head, a dimple peeping on her cheek. She opened her mouth, but before she could speak a massive crowd of pilots and mechanics burst through the doors howling for attention. She gave Raeder a regretful smile and rushed to serve the happy mob.
Peter gave an inward sigh. Oh, well, he thought. So much for their enjoyable, light flirtation.
Raeder looked around at the patrons of the bar and wondered how long it would be before he was once again part of such a group. The other members of his engineering class had departed two weeks ago, but he'd needed to finish up his physical therapy program. Until now he'd kept himself too busy to notice that he missed them.
Raeder speculated briefly about just where he was bound and what form his new duties would take. There was an important job waiting for him wherever it was, and Peter knew he could do it better than almost anyone in the Fleet. He'd attacked his retraining as he had the Mollie rebels, and had enjoyed it, too. Learning more about the machines he loved was no great hardship. It's watching them fly without me on board that hurts. He'd graduated at the top of his class; those he couldn't best were the men and women who'd taught him to be a flight engineer. And once I get a little more experience under my belt, watch out folks.
So he'd still be around Speeds, and he'd be part of the war effort. After all, it wasn't just a matter of fighting a bunch of religious fanatics anymore. Raeder's eyes strayed to a holographic poster on the wall behind the bar.
Know Your ENEMY! it demanded, and it showed a Fibian soldier in an aggressive pose. The Mollies had found themselves an alien ally lurking at the far edges of their space. Rather like a long ago Irish king who'd sought aid from the English in fighting his battles. The Mollie Interpreters were discovering that their allies had no more intention of peacefully going home again than Strongbow's Norman knights.
In my humble opinion, the Fibs've decided to grab all the fuel in the universe just for themselves, Peter thought. Which somehow makes me feel like an endangered species.
To human eyes, Fibians were . . . well, if some propagandist had set out to design a species which pushed all humanity's "horror" buttons, this would be it. They bore a strong resemblance to spiders, with a scorpion's pedi-palps evolved into an armored threefingered hand. Their bodies were a dull red, covered with leathery scales and sparse, coarse hair. They had eight beady, black eyes, two of which were able to see into the ultraviolet. Fibs had eight legs, as well, each tipped with a three-fingered claw. Their mouthparts were sharp, horny cutting implements accompanied by a formidable pair of pincers used for holding prey while it was being cut up and stuffed into a translucent digestive sack in the abdomen. Raeder shuddered. Messy eaters, he thought. Fibians spoke through a flexible tube, like an elephant's trunk, located in the general area that a nose would occupy in a human. At the end of their abdomen was a long, slender tail, tipped with an acid stinger.
Only a lunatic bunch of misanthropes like the Mollies would ever turn to these aliens for help in fighting their own kind, Peter thought. I wonder if the general population of Mollies even realizes that their Interpreters have lost control of the Fibs. Come to think of it, I wonder if the Interpreters realize it.
Raeder found it ironic in the extreme that the Commonwealth was now shedding its blood to free the rebels from their allies, while the Mollies killed their Welter saviors in the idiotic belief that by doing so they were saving themselves.
But then, to be a Mollie in the first place you're required to have the IQ of a glass of water. "Commander Raeder?"
Peter turned to find himself confronting the radiant grin of a ve~ young shuttle pilot. She was about five feet four, with a cap of curly blond hair and a face made pretty by youth and enthusiasm.
"I have your orders, sir." She presented the disk briskly and saluted with traditional pilot sloppiness.
Raeder gave her a better one in return. "Thanks," he said with a smile. I can't believe this infant can fly and I'm grounded, he thought. She looked young enough to be playing hooky from school. He slid the disk into his wrist reader. Yup. Report to CSF Invincible via blah blah, and so on and so forth. He didn't recognize the name, which was odd---even now, fleet carriers weren't all that numerous. The numerical code was definitely for a carrier, though.
Oh, please, please, not an escort carrier. Not a converted merchantman shepherding transports and supply ships . . . '5Ye're scheduled for seventeen hundred hours, sir." Three hours, he thought. And not much to do with them. The shuttle pilot still stood before him. Smiling expectantly. I feel like I ought to tip her. Except that you didn't do things like that. Not outright, anyway.
"Ah, if you have time, would you like a drink?" What am I saying? "Coffee, juice or something?" You're not sucking doton any ethanol just before flying my fanny to the moon, kid. Some regulations had good solid sense behind them.
She giggled. "I am over twenty-one, sir. But I would love some coffee. Thank you." She hopped onto a stool beside him. "My name's Gardner. I had a brother in your squadron."
"You're Be Gardner's sister?" She didn't look anything like him. "How is he?"
"Much better," Gardner said, her young face suddenly solemn. "They say he'll be wallring by the end of the year."
"If anybody can do it Be can," Raeder assured her. "Your brothers one of the best."
"He said the same thing about you." Her grin faded and she looked at him seriously, an expression that didn't suit her. "Tv~hy do you think it happened like that? Why were the Mollies at Riga Five in such numbers?"
Peter grimaced. His remaining palm turned slightly damp. "Good question. I wonder myself," he said. As a matter of fact, kid, I dream about it, far too oj%n.
By fights it should have been just another raid on the Mollie processing plants. Load up the anti-hydrogen and get out with minimal losses to both sides. "What did Bo say?' "He said it looked like they were expecting us." "It did." Peter nodded. "And they couldn't have dug in and gotten ready for business that quickly if their first warning came when we crossed the line."
Raeder could see it in his mind's eye. The processing plant was a big, gray-blue island floating above the orange-brown disk of Riga Five. There'd been a couple of freighters nuzzled up against the plant's docking tubes and nothing else was visible except the planet's two moons.
"They must have been there for a while," he continued softly. "There was nothing for the sensors to report. No Transit signatures less than a week old." Peter shook his head. "The place was as quiet and cold as it should have been. The captain sent us on a quick reconnoiter and we were well on our way when the Mollies struck. Two Space Command ships gone, just like that." He took a sip of his beer, his eyes far away, the screams of spacers months dead still tipped through his mind whenever he let himself remember.
"Bo thinks the service is fiddled with Mollie traitors," Gardner whispered. "He says you weren't spotted early, you weren't unlucky, you were set up."
Peter glanced at her; she was fairly twanging with outrage at what had happened to her brother. Hell, I'm pretty outraged at what happened to me, he thought. And she could be right. There'd be no easy way to tell a Mollie from a Welter.
Of course the Mollies might have calculated that Riga Five was the most likely of their processors to get hit and set up an ambush. Though I hate to think of them being that smart. Of course he hated to think of them being comfortably ensconced in the Commonwealth High Command, too. Although at the level of the Echelons Beyond Reality, lack of brains might not be obvious. Which was an outtight slander and he knew it, but that kind of thought was almost a tradition.
In reality, since the start of the war, accelerated promotion had brought many fine and competent officers into the upper ranks and the gold far outweighed the dross these days. It had become exceedingly rare to meet an officer who'd been promoted merely because there was nothing especially wrong with him.
"Gardner," Peter said kindly, "Bo might be right. So it's probably a good idea to be cautious and closemouthed. But we're neither of us in Intelligence, so I don't see any advantage to getting paranoid about it. That's got to be more aggravation than it's worth."