Maxim Nikomedes saw the other man rushing towards him, but there was no room to dodge in the crate-packed corridor. He braced himself for the impact. The other man pulled up short, his face blanching in the pallid half-light of the "night" rotation. It was Kulakov, the Chief Petty Officer. He went rigid and snapped a salute.
"Sir! Sorry, sir!" His voice trembled.
"At ease, Kulakov," Max said. "Not your fault. It's a tight fit inside this metal sausage."
Standard ship joke. The small craft was stuffed with supplies, mostly food, for the eighteen month voyage ahead. Max waited for the standard response, but Kulakov stared through the hull into deep space. He was near sixty, old for the space service, old for his position, and the only man aboard who made Max, in his mid-forties, feel young.
Max smiled, an expression so faint it could be mistaken for a twitch. "But it's better than being stuck in a capped off sewer pipe, no?"
Which is what the ship would be on the voyage home. "You've got that right, sir!" said Kulakov.
"Carry on."
Kulakov shrunk aside like an old church deacon, afraid to touch a sinner less he catch the sin. Max was used to that reaction from the crew, and not just because his nickname was the Corpse for his cadaverous and dead expression. As the Political Officer, he held the threat of death over every career aboard: the death of some careers would entail a corporeal equivalent. For the first six weeks of their mission, after spongediving the new wormhole, Max cultivated invisibility and waited for the crew to fall into the false complacency of routine. Now it was time to shake them up again to see if he could find the traitor he suspected. He brushed against Kulakov on purpose as he passed by him.
He twisted his way through the last passage and paused outside the visiting officers' cabin. He lifted his knuckles to knock, then changed his mind, turned the latch and swung open the door. The three officers sitting inside jumped at the sight of him. Guilty consciences, Max hoped.
Captain Ernst Petoskey recovered first. "Looking for someone, Lieutenant?"
Max let the silence become uncomfortable while he studied Petoskey. The captain stood six and a half feet tall. His broad shoulders were permanently hunched from spending too much time in ships built for smaller men. The crew loved him so much they would eagerly die--or kill--for him. Called him Papa behind his back. He wouldn't shave again until they returned safely to spaceport; his beard was already quite full, and juice-stained at the corner with proscripted chewing tobacco. Max glanced past Lukinov, the balding "radio lieutenant" and stared at Ensign Pen Reedy, the only woman on the ship.
She was lean, with prominent cheekbones, but the thing Max always noticed first were her hands. She had large, red-knuckled hands. She remained impeccably dressed and groomed, even six weeks into the voyage. Every hair on her head appeared to be individually placed as if they were all soldiers under her command.
Petoskey and Lukinov sat on opposite ends of the bunk. Reedy sat on a crate across from them. Another crate between them held a bottle, tumblers, and some cards.
Petoskey, finally uncomfortable with the silence, opened his mouth again.
"Just looking," Max pre-empted him. "And what do I find but the Captain himself in bed with Drozhin's boys?"
Petoskey glanced at the bunk. "I see only one and he's hardly a boy."
Lukinov, a few years younger than Max, smirked and tugged at the lightning bolt patch on his shirt sleeve. "And what's with calling us Drozhin's boys? We're just simple radiomen. If I have to read otherwise, I'll have you up for falsifying reports when we get back to Jesusalem."
He pronounced their home Hey-zoo-salaam, like the popular video stars did, instead of the older way, Jeez-us-ail-em.
"Things are not always what they appear to be, are they?" said Max.
Lukinov, Reedy, and a third man, Burdick, were the Intelligence listening team assigned to intercept and decode Adarean messages--the newly opened wormhole passage would let the ship dive into the Adarean system undetected to spy. The three had been personally selected and prepped for this mission by Dmitri Drozhin, the legendary Director of Jesusalem's Department of Intelligence. Drozhin had been the Minister too, back when it had still been the Ministry of the Wisdom of Prophets Reborn. In fact, he was the only high government official to survive the Revolution in situ, but these days his constellation was challenged by younger men like Mallove, who'd created the Department of Political Education.
"Next time, knock first, Lieutenant," said Petoskey.
"Why should I, Captain?" returned Max, congenially. "A honest man has nothing to fear from his conscience, and what am I if not the conscience of every man aboard this ship?"
"We don't need a conscience when we have orders."
"Come off it, Max," snorted Lukinov. "I invited the Captain up here to celebrate. Reedy earned her comet today."
Indeed, she had. The young ensign wore a gold comet pinned to her left breast pocket, similar to the ones embroidered on the shirts of the other two officers. Comets were awarded only to crew members who demonstrated competence on every ship system--Engineering, Ops and Nav, Weapons, Vacuum and Radiation. Reedy must have qualified in record time. This was her first space assignment. "Congratulations," said Max.
Reedy suppressed a genuine smile. "Thank you, sir."
"That makes her the last one aboard," said Petoskey. "Except for you."
"What do I need to know about ship systems? If I understand the minds and motivations of the men who operate them, it is enough."
"It isn't. Not with this," his mouth twisted distastefully, "this miscegenated, patched-together, scrapyard ship. I need to be able to count on every man in an emergency."
"Is it that bad? What kind of emergency do you expect?"
Lukinov rapped the makeshift table. The bottles rattled. "You're becoming a bore, Max. You checked on us, now go make notes in your little spy log, and leave us alone."
"Either that or pull up a crate and close the damn hatch," said Petoskey. "We could use a fourth."
Lukinov waved his hand in clear negation, showing off a large gold signet ring. "You don't want to do that, Ernst. This is the man who won his true love in a card game."
Petoskey looked over at Max. "Is that so?"
"I won my wife in a card game, yes." Max didn't think that story was widely known outside his own department. "But that was many years ago."
"I heard you cheated to win her," said Lukinov. He was Max's counterpart in Intelligence--the Department of Political Education couldn't touch him. The two Departments hated each other and protected their own. "Heard that she divorced you too. I guess an ugly little weasel like you has to get it where he can."
"But unlike your wife, she always remained faithful."
Lukinov muttered a curse and pulled back his fist. Score one on the sore spot. Petoskey reached out and grabbed the Intelligence officer's elbow. "None of that aboard my ship. I don't care who you two are. Come on, Nikomedes. If you're such a hotshot card player, sit down. I could use a little challenge."
A contrary mood seized the Political Officer. He turned into the hallway, detached one of the crates, and shoved it into the tiny quarters.
"So what are we playing?" he asked, sitting down.
"Blind Man's Draw," said Petoskey, shuffling the cards. "Deuce beats an ace, ace beats everything else."
Max nodded. "What's the minimum?"
"A temple to bid, a temple to raise."
)
