Incursion Vector

040

[▲] INS Robert A. Heinlein, Caminha Waypoint

"Tiaha's using forty-year-old marauder modules. They can't use anything out of our caches. We should just hand them some new Proteus marauders. None of the pilot interfaces have changed, just the power distribution matrix across the main frame and cabling harnesses."

Lieutenant Jackson's barking laugh was the strangest thing Nim had heard in weeks—as was the fact that he was laughing at something she said instead of screaming at her for something she did. "The Navy's never going to give allies of convenience a wing of marauders fresh off assembly you dumb shit."

Moving to the last fighter from Tiaha that had been towed in missing its main engine assembly she said, "What, so we're taking them with us but we're not giving them the ability to fight on our level? Isn't that kind of like shooting ourselves in the foot?"

"Command probably thinks a self-inflicted wound is preferable to getting one in the back of the head from a gun we gave fair-weather friends," retorted Jackson with a chortle, tossing her a plasma cutter as though he had read her mind.

"Bullshit. Tiaha isn't going to back out of anything they've straight up said they'll do, and they've said they're allying with us at least until Churaumi is retaken. Those guys don't lie, like, ever." Climbing up the fighter's boarding ladder she seated herself just behind the cockpit and popped the panel concealing the aft diagnostic cabling. It was getting significantly easier to do one-handed considering her left arm would be encased in a homeostatic sleeve for the next day, mostly to keep her from itching as the skin was regrowing. Predictably everything beneath the plate had been melted into a shiny sheet of platinum and silver when the engine had been shot off. "Those Hashemites though... They're some uptight assholes."

"Tiaha said they're allying with Captain Michael," corrected the deck boss. "The man, not the whole Navy—big difference, probably caused a lot of people's panties to ride right up their asses. And we've already been told that the Hashemites can't ally with anyone because nobody's consulted their pashas, or whatever."

"Caliphs."

"Just another politician. Fuck 'em all or send them to boot camp." He glanced up from his inventory report. "Well?"

"Dead scrap," replied Nim with a shrug. She tossed the cutter back down to him having never fired it up. "Tertiary hit liquefied the wiring."

A well-articulated string of profanity exited the man's mouth as he input the result on his report. "That's the last one. Makes for three no-flys and just six we can fix."

Swiveling around on her rear Nim hung her legs off the side of the wrecked Proteus. "What else you need LT?"

Jackson thumb-keyed in a few more notes on his computer. "Get off that marauder and go see if you can get the first one up--"

The synthetic voice of her computer's pager interrupted the man. "Lieutenant MacNamara, report to the Captain's office on the bridge immediately."

The deck boss gave her a critical glare. "Now what did you do?"

Holding up her one good arm Nim hopped off the wrecked Proteus and landed neatly on the deck. "Nothing that can be proven and prosecuted."

"Uh-huh," said Jackson with a sneer that said he obviously didn't believe a word out of her mouth.

With a shrug Nim saluted the deck boss and took off at a jog towards the maglev. Packing into a car of shift-switching maintenance personnel she made it to the bridge somewhat later than 'immediately.' Noting that Captain Michael had yet to put up any of his old ship models or even put a book on his wall shelves she saluted the man as he beckoned her in and pointed to the empty chair next to Cooper Russell. Baskerville's project lead looked only slightly better than he had when she had met him for her suit recalibration. At least he had managed to brush his hair and his teeth.