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Worlds of Honor #3: Changer of Worlds

David Weber


Copyright (c) 2001


Ms. Midshipwoman Harrington

by David Weber

"That looks like your snotty, Senior Chief."

The Marine sentry's low-pitched voice exuded an oddly gleeful sympathy. It
was the sort of voice in which a Marine traditionally informed one of the
Navy's "vacuum-suckers" that his trousers had just caught fire or
something equally exhilarating, and Senior Chief Petty Officer Roland
Shelton ignored the jarhead's tone with the lofty disdain of any superior
life form for an evolutionary inferior. Yet it was a bit harder than usual
this time as his eyes followed the corporal's almost invisible nod and
picked the indicated target out of the crowded space dock gallery. She was
certainly someone's snotty, he acknowledged without apparently so much as
looking in her direction. Her midshipwoman's uniform was immaculate, but
both it and the tethered counter-grav locker towing behind her were so new
he expected to hear her squeak. There was something odd about that locker,
too, as if something else half its size had been piggybacked onto it,
although he paid that little attention. Midshipmen were always turning up
with oddball bits and pieces of personalized gear that they hoped didn't
quite violate Regs. Half the time they were wrong, but there would be time
enough to straighten that out later if this particular snotty came aboard
Shelton's ship. And, he conceded, she seemed to be headed for War Maiden's
docking tube, although that might simply be a mistake on her part.

He hoped.

She was a tall young woman, taller than Shelton himself, with dark brown,
fuzz-cut hair, and a severe, triangular face which seemed to have been
assembled solely from a nose which might charitably be called "strong" and
huge, almond-shaped eyes. At the moment the face as a whole showed no
expression at all, but the light in those eyes was bright enough to make
an experienced petty officer groan in resignation.

She also looked to be about thirteen years old. That probably meant she
was a third-generation prolong recipient, but recognizing the cause didn't
do a thing to make her look any more mature. Still, she moved well, he
admitted almost grudgingly. There was an athletic grace to her carriage
and an apparent assurance at odds with her youth, and she avoided
collisions with ease as she made her way through the people filling the
gallery, almost as if she were performing some sort of free-form dance.