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  Ellie Woetjans was six feet six and even stronger than she looked. She swung onto the inside of the shrouds so that she didn't brush them, doing all the work with her arms. She'd reached the platform at the first antenna joint before Mckinnon knew what was happening.

  There was a chance that the kid would try to do the same thing himself—and inevitably fall. Twenty feet to the steel hull would break bones, probably; but it wouldn't kill him, probably. Woetjans was teaching him a lesson, after all.

  Mckinnon hesitated a moment—Woetjans looked down past her dangling boots—but he stayed on the outside of the lines. His speed picked up considerably, though, which is what Woetjans had intended. She waited at the masthead, a hundred and thirty feet above the hull and waited for the kid to reach her.

  Mckinnon's face was red, and Woetjans could see tags of torn fabric hanging off the new utilities he'd put on for his first day on his first ship. He got onto the little platform and met Woetjans' eyes squarely, though he had to tilt his face up to do it.

  "What next, ma'am?" Mckinnon said. He managed to control his breathing, but he couldn't do anything about the rasp in his voice.

  "Now we go back down," Woetjans said, grinning. "Go ahead—I'll catch you up."

  Mckinnon started down, feeling for the ratlines with his boots. He wasn't good at it because he didn't have enough experience to know where the line was. The spacing of the ratlines was always the same, no matter how big or small the vessel.

  Grinning, Woetjans pushed off the platform, grabbed the first line ten feet below with her left hand, and pushed off again. She half-turned her body in the air so that she could catch the next line with her right hand instead. Woetjans was as fit as anybody, but this afternoon's workout was going to have her aching in the morning and no mistake.

  Two jumps later, she rotated her body again. She couldn't afford to have a muscle cramp when she was high in the rigging.

  Mckinnon watched with a desperate expression as Woetjans went past. He tried the same technique, kicking his body out from the shrouds and catching a ratline below. To Woetjans' surprise, the kid had the timing down already: twice, a third time—and then fifty feet above the hull, his hand cramped and didn't hold. It tipped him over, though. He plunged head-first toward the thick steel.

  Woetjans leaned out and grabbed him. She caught him around the upper arm and swung him free between the two sets of shrouds.

  Mckinnon flailed and tried to reach the aft ratlines, but Woetjans kept him too far out. Any input Mckinnon had in his current physical condition would make things worse. They were dangerous enough as it was.

  Woetjans resumed climbing down in ordinary fashion until she could set the kid on the hull and stand beside him. He tried to brace to attention, but the pain made him massage his left arm where Woetjans had gripped him. She'd thought she might've dislocated his shoulder, but apparently not.

  "Ma'am, what next?" he said in a husky whisper. If she hadn't been able to see his lips, she wouldn't have known what he was saying.

  Cheeky little bastard, Woetjans thought. She felt her lips smiling.

  "Next . . ." she said. She glanced around. As she'd expected, the twenty odd spacers who'd been on the dorsal hull while this was going on were all staring at them.

  If the kid had dropped on his head, every one of them would've sworn that it wasn't Ellie Woetjans' fault; but they'd be wrong. She'd been showing off, and she'd already known that Mckinnon was the sort who wouldn't quit.

  "Next," Woetjans repeated, "you get to the sick bay and see that you haven't torn anything, then you're off for the rest of the watch. Rudolf and Dimitrovic—" two senior midshipmen, among the present spectators "—you help the kid, all right?"

  She didn't really have any authority over the midshipmen, but she'd found that folks pretty much obeyed when Ellie Woetjans told them to do something. She'd have carried Mckinnon to the sick bay herself if there'd been any back-talk, but there wasn't.

  Woetjans watched the midshipmen stagger to the forward hatch. She hoped the kid had learned something. She bloody well had.

  ***

  Woetjans was long off-watch, but she'd gone back to the running rigging of Dorsal A. It wouldn't be past Runcie's sneaky little mind to claim that she hadn't completed the job the bosun—Marigny—had set her at the beginning of the watch, without mentioning that Runcie himself had taken her off it.

  She'd just dropped down onto the hull when Rudolf came out of the forward hatch and strode over to her. He seemed concerned, so Woetjans said, "How's the kid? I know he had a bit of a jolt there."

  "Well, he says he's coming right back out in a couple minutes," the midshipman said. "He doesn't want anybody to think he can't take it."

  "Nobody bloody thinks that!" Woetjans said. "And if anybody does, send 'em to me and I guess I'll convince 'em another way."

  "Yeah, well, Woetjans . . ." Rudolf said, turning his head a bit aside. "Mckinnon's kinda funny, I guess because of his grandfather. Which maybe you don't know?"

  "I don't know a bloody thing!" Woetjans said. "So tell me, why don't you?"

  Has that bastard Runcie dropped me into something? Bloody hell!

  "Well, you see, his grandfather's Admiral Mckinnon, who was supposed to take over the Home Fleet—only Admiral Anston got Chairman of the Navy Board," Rudolf said. "They had a history. Mckinnon was posted Inspector of Supply and resigned instead. The thing is, Mckinnon wouldn't be the first officer to make a comeback when an administration changes, and my uncle says Admiral Mack has a lot of friends still."

  That bastard Runcie, Woetjans thought; not for the first time. She went back over the way she'd treated the kid. After a moment she barked a laugh.

  "Ma'am?" Rudolf said. It wasn't the reaction he'd expected.

  "Look, kid," Woetjans said. "The only way I know to do a job is to just bloody do it. That's training too, if that's the job I got. So thanks for the warning, but I guess not much is going to change. Except I won't push quite the same way on Mckinnon, now that I'm sure he's going to give a hundred and ten percent."

  Mckinnon with Dimitrovic behind him came out of the hatch. "So, kid," Woetjans called, strolling toward them. "The medic got you fixed up again?"

  "The Medicomp checked me out and says I'm fit for duty, ma'am," Mckinnon said.

  "Then let's take a look at the Dorsal A lifting cables," Woetjans said. "And if I decide they're worn, you and I are going to replace them. And I don't mind telling you, that's a bitch of a job—if you're up for it."

  "Yes, ma'am!" the kid said.

  It was a bitch of a job for an untrained midshipman, even with a top rigger as the other half of the team. But they did it.

  ***

  Woetjans was on boarding watch with Abnason, watching four spacers come across the extension catwalk from the quay. The huge bulk of the Sovereign loomed on the other side of Noyen Harbor. The Bulwark, third battleship of Force D, Admiral Vocaine commanding, orbited over Ciano. In two days the Renown would replace the Bulwark. The lesser ships of Force D, the Haywright District Protection Squadron, were either in smaller harbors or—two destroyers, and a miserable duty that must be—orbiting with the Bulwark.

  "I recognize Mulcahy," said Abnason, a Tech Two, peering at the returning liberty party. "The other three's riggers, aren't they?"

  "Balliol, Renzler, and I guess that's Dowd," Woetjans said. "They're aft-section crew, but I know 'em, sure."

  You could tell the riggers easy enough by the fact that, though probably drunk out of their skulls, they strode along the catwalk without hesitation. Mulcahy, a Power Room tech, would've been in the harbor if his rigger friends hadn't been helping him.

  The liberty party paused for a breather when they reached the boarding ramp. It was the hatch itself, pivoted down to the starboard outrigger.

  "Hey, who's that?" Abnason said when he saw another spacer pounding along the catwalk behind the first four. The newcomer was shouting something.

  "That's Rudolf, one of the
middies," Woetjans said. "What the hell happened to him? His tunic's nigh tore off."

  She picked up the length of pipe she kept handy and thrust it through her belt. "Come on, let's take a look."

  She started down the ramp. There were sub-machine guns and two stocked impellers in a locker behind them, but boarding watch in a friendly port didn't require guns and Woetjans had never been able to hit anything she shot at anyway.

  Abnason picked up his adjustable wrench and came with her. Something was up.

  Rudolf stopped with the liberty party at the base of the ramp. They were chattering at him but he seemed to be too out of breath to answer. When he saw Woetjans loom up, he lifted his face to her and said, "Ma'am, we need the Shore Police! Some Sovereigns 've got Mack!"

  The gabble from the little group picked up like so many chickens being fed, but Woetjans said, "Shut up, all of you! Rudolf, where they got him?"

  "We were drinking in a little pool room just the other side of the Strip," Rudolf said, "and must be a dozen Sovereigns come in, pretty well oiled already. We tried to get out but they grabbed us."

  He swallowed. "I broke away, but I guess they still got Mack. We gotta get him back cause they're pretty mad."

  "Right," Woetjans said. "Can you find this place again, Rudolf?"

  "Yeah, sure," the midshipman said. "We didn't know it was a Sovereign place, we were just playing pool and having a couple beers."

  "Well, let's go then," Woetjans said. "We don't need the cops."

  She started toward the quay, her arm around Rudolf's shoulder just in case he needed support of one kind or the other. She couldn't quarrel with not wanting a fight against that kinda odds, but she didn't figure you left a shipmate behind to save yourself some bruises.

  "Woetjans!" Abnason said. "We're on bloody watch, we can't just leave the ship open."

  Woetjans turned. Abnason added, "I'm not afraid of a fight, but this is a job for the Shore Police."

  Woetjans looked at the hesitating liberty party. She made a face but said, "All right, Abnason. Give your wrench to Balliol—" a black-bearded rigger with arms almost as long as Woetjans' own "—and take Mulcahy to fill the watch."

  Relieving off the watch book was a bloody serious offense, but that didn't count for much right now. And Mulcahy was legless, so he wouldn't be much use in a dust-up.

  "Balliol, you got the balls?"

  "Sure, Ellie," he answered, taking Abnason's wrench. "Come along, you guys. We can find something for you when we get there, but with just some pussies from the Sovereign to worry about, we may not need to."

  Woetjans knew that the quicker they reached Mckinnon, the likelier it was that he'd be able to walk back under his own power. She also knew, though, that it wouldn't do any good to push her people beyond what their bodies could do.

  Come to think, Mckinnon himself had reminded her of that lesson. She grimaced. She really hoped they'd get there in time. She didn't let herself dwell on what "in time" might mean. They half walked, half jogged, along the next street back from The Strip facing the water.

  "They wanted us to sing while they recorded us," Rudolf said. He'd got his breath and seemed to stand taller now that he was backed by four veteran riggers. " 'We're middies from Renown, and we love to bugger sheep.' "

  "That was when you took off?" Woetjans said.

  "Well, Mack yelled run for it and I did," Rudolf said. "Only he started laying about him with the butt of his pool cue instead of following like I figured. I decided I'd better get help."

  Woetjans didn't say anything. She might've done in a moment, but the midshipman pointed down a side-street and said, "It's just along here. On the left side."

  Several spacers stood on the pavement, facing a shop whose sign read FROSTY'S above a pair of crossed pool cues. The clothing store to the left was closed, and a pair of bouncers guarded the door to what was probably a knocking-shop to the right. The bouncers kept careful eyes on the rescue party, but they didn't intervene when Woetjans led the rush.

  A quick right and left from her baton laid out two of the Sovereigns, and Renzler and Dowd pitched the third through the pool hall window. One of the panes had already been broken from inside.

  Balliol was a hair ahead of Woetjans going in the doorway, but there were plenty of targets left for her when she followed swinging. The spacers in the pool hall were taken completely by surprise. They'd clustered in front of the manager's office on the opposite wall. When they turned, it was the spacer flying through the window who drew their attention rather than the Renowns coming in the door.

  Balliol was mostly right about not needing weapons, though he didn't drop the wrench. Woetjans kept laying about with her tubing as long as there was a head raised. Dowd and Renzler were used to working as a team in the rigging. They did the same thing here, hurling Sovereigns into whichever was the nearest wall. One human missile went halfway through the partition beside the door marked MANAGER.

  "Where the hell is the kid!" Woetjans bellowed, looking around. She stooped to make sure he wasn't lying under one of the three pool tables.

  "Renown!" somebody shouted. The office door was sturdier than the wall it was set in; it flew open.

  Mckinnon stood in the doorway, the butt of a pool cue in his hand. His tunic had been ripped off and there was blood on his scalp—but on the pool cue also.

  When he saw Woetjans, he braced to attention, and said, "Ma'am! What next?"

  "Next we get our arses back to the ship before the cops arrive!" Balliol said.

  "That's a bloody good idea," Woetjans said. She paused to wipe the business end of her tubing on the tunic of a fallen Sovereign.

  ***

  Dashiell City on Mantanega wasn't Woetjans' first dismount, but she sure wouldn't be sorry if it was her last. They were guarding the headquarters of the Loyalty Party in the western suburbs, and the operation had been snakebit from the start.

  Lieutenant Bowerby was supposed to be leading the detachment of twenty spacers, but she'd screwed her knee up boarding the ground truck that was supposed to carry them to the site. Instead of replacing her with another lieutenant, Captain Ogawa had assigned the detachment's Number Two, Midshipman Dimitrovic, to command.

  Dimitrovic wasn't a bad kid but he didn't give Woetjans the impression of being the guy she wanted in charge if it started to go tits-up. Now she stood on the roof in the sheltered doorway at the head of the stairs from the second floor, eyeing the three-story building across the street. Balliol stood at the edge of the roof, looking down over the six-inch parapet into the street. Woetjans didn't hear any traffic.

  "You know . . ." Balliol said as he walked back. Like Woetjans, he held a stocked impeller. "This district is supposed to be all Loyalty Party, but they sure-hell don't seem very friendly to me."

  A volley of shots came from the building opposite, through third-floor windows and from the roof. Balliol's left leg went out from under him. He sprawled forward, then rolled onto his back and started shooting at the hostiles on the roof. He was likely to break his shoulder, using a full-sized impeller with a hard surface behind him, but Woetjans supposed Balliol didn't have much choice.

  She did, though. She stepped out onto the roof, pointed the impeller toward the opposite building, and shot off the entire magazine as fast as she could jerk the trigger. Huge clouds of beige stucco spewed up from every round. The wall must have been cinder block underneath because moments later a section you could walk through collapsed into rubble. Three or four slugs hitting pretty close together had crumbled it.

  The shooting from across the way stopped. Woetjans didn't figure she'd hit anything except the building, but the racket of the shots and then the slugs smashing blocks would make most folks drop their heads while it was going on.

  She tossed her empty impeller through the doorway behind her, then took Balliol under the arms and dragged him back out of sight in the stairhead. He'd kept hold of his weapon but he'd only gotten off a couple shots before the pain really hi
t him. His face looked gray.

  "Medic!" Woetjans bellowed down the staircase. The detachment hadn't brought a Medicomp along, but there was a good chance that somebody knew more about first aid than she did. "Balliol's got one in the leg!"

  The upper thigh of Balliol's trousers was sodden, but the blood wasn't spurting. Bloody hell, whose idea had this dismount been? Nobody close enough to hear the shooting, that was for sure—or who'd figured to be that close.

  The hostiles had started firing again, long bursts on full auto. Some slugs ripped high over the roof of the headquarters building. Woetjans guessed that the shooters were sticking their gunhands around corners or over walls and emptying the magazine. That way their heads were well under cover.

  Dimitrovic and Tech Three Sapony came up the stairs. The midshipman was wearing a commo helmet linked to the base unit in the main hall. The tech bent over Balliol and opened a medical kit while Dimitrovic huddled beside Woetjans.

  Rather than take the time to reload her own impeller, Woetjans took the one that'd finally slipped from Balliol's hands. She hadn't pulled the stairhead door fully closed, so she could see the building opposite while staying in shadow.

  The barrel of the weapon she'd emptied still glowed. Dimitrovic glanced at it and said, "Bloody hell, Voyt. Did you run the whole magazine through rapid fire?"

  "Yeah, I guess," Woetjans said. She rubbed her right shoulder with her left fingers; it hurt like hell. "I couldn't hit anything even if I aimed so I just blasted away to keep their heads down. I could get Balliol back then."

  She glared at the midshipman. "Say, what's all this about? I thought we was on their side?"