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  "A Mark Four has a maximum range of about six meters," Mr. Methvin said, cutting off the beam. "Which is just a stupid design. There's a way to set the beam for any length you want, from either a tiny little beam that's not much thicker than a hair to one thick as a finger and six meters long. Which you monkeys are probably going to cut each other up with once you get in space. But I don't get to tell the people that design these things they're idiots. So I'm telling you. They're idiots. You're idiots. And if you ever use a long beam on one of these things, you're probably gonna kill some other idiot..."

  —|—

  "Welcome to your final exam," Mr. Monaghan said. He'd been Butch's instructor for "theory and practice of space movement," and he'd been an absolute bastard. Now he was the "faculty advisor" for the "extreme confinement environment test."

  They'd been warned that the test wasn't just "can you handle an extreme environment?" It was "can you handle an extreme environment under enormous stress?" Stress wasn't just cumulative, it was multiplicative. General stress, is everything okay at home, got multiplied by other stress, am I going to make my car payment, got multiplied by other stress, is my air working, until just about anyone had a break point.

  The ECET wasn't designed to find that break point. Everyone has a break point and if you hit it what you have afterwards is what's called PTSD and generally you were busted for space work. It was designed to find people whose break point was too low.

  Nate had flunked out on the ECET. The ECET was the last major test before you went to the "space environment" portion of the training, going out in the Black. Because they weren't going to spend the money on boosting and planting you if you couldn't pass the ECET.

  "The first thing I want to stress," Mr. Monaghan said. "Is that this test is perfectly safe. The reality is that you will never be in danger. Since the grabber material does not allow for movement, you can't even get the mask off. And if you can't get the mask off, you—probably—can't die."

  The ECET was simple. You got loaded in a steel tube, put on a mask, a bunch of gunk got poured in on you that prevented you from moving, at all, and you got asked questions. For hours.

  Most of the answers were less important than how you handled them. The point was that you had to be hard, not impossible, to get upset in the test. The ones that were important were the ones that related to your field. There were two hundred of those alone and you had to have the answers at the tip of your tongue.

  "In the likely event that you totally freak out," Mr. Monaghan said, "you will be sedated, decanted and wake up in recovery. You will then be given your final check and a ticket back to whatever miserable hole you crawled out of. There is no appeal. You pass the ECET or you don't. Period. We will be taking four at a time. I would suggest that those of you who are not called at first study your test question booklets. Allen, Armstead, Ashline and Beckett."

  Damn.

  —|—

  "Good morning, Mr. Allen. Are you comfortable?"

  Just my luck I get fracking Monaghan. As to the question, the grab-goo was pressing on his chest so he could barely breathe. But since he liked confined spaces...

  "Just fine, thanks, Mr. Monaghan," Butch said. "It's sort of comfy."

  One of Butch's favorite games growing up was hide and seek. As the runt of three brothers, it gave him some time when he wasn't getting pounded on. It was amazing the spaces you could squeeze into with a little will.

  "List all the major parts of the navopak of a Mark Fourteen Space suit," Mr. Monaghan said.

  "Recycler..."

  "In alphabetical order. Take your time..."

  —|—

  Butch wasn't sure how long he'd been in the tank but he was sure the recyclers were messing up. He wasn't getting enough breathable and he was getting a carb panic. The CO2 was up.

  "I've got a picture of your sister here," Mr. Monaghan said. "Cute. Clarissa, is it?"

  "I've got a sister named Clarissa, Mr. Monaghan."

  "So why'd you have a naked picture of her on your iPod, Butch? Don't you know that's child pornography."

  "I don't have one, Mr. Monaghan," Butch said.

  "Well, I'm looking at one," Mr. Monaghan said. "Cute. Nice little picture. Nice girl. You think she's hot?"

  "She's six, you sick bastard!" Butch said.

  "She's six, Mr. Monaghan," Mr. Monaghan said.

  "Anybody that talks about a guy's six-year-old sister like that don't deserve the title Mister, Mister."

  "Do you want to pass the course, Butch?" Mr. Monaghan said mildly.

  "Yes," Butch said.

  "So, repeat after me. You are a sick bastard, Mr. Monaghan."

  "You are a sick bastard, Mr. Monaghan," Butch snarled.

  "And then there's... Susie. Beautiful hair. Both ends."

  Butch snarled and ground his teeth but didn't say anything.

  "She's really blossoming, don't you think, Butch? I require a response, Butch."

  "I have a sister named Susie," Butch said. "And you don't have a naked picture of her. Or Clarissa."

  "Susie, I note, has a mole on her butt," Mr. Monaghan said. "So, yes, I am currently looking at a picture of your naked sister. Your naked, twelve-year-old..."

  "I still don't think you've got a picture," Butch said.

  "She's probably got Johannsen's with hair like that," Monaghan said. "If you catch them at just the right time, girls like that are just putty in your hands..."

  "When I get out of here I'm going to rip your head off and shit in your neck," Butch said. "Mister Monaghan."

  "That would cause you to fail the course, Butch," Mr. Monaghan said, in that same mild tone.

  "Screw the course," Butch said. "You don't go around looking at pictures of a guy's sister. You don't talk about popping 'em. And you sure as hell don't tell him about it."

  —|—

  "How's he doing?" Monaghan asked, looking over at the vitals tech.

  "Angry, that's for sure," the tech said. "But his heart rate and BP aren't up all that much. He's balancing as well as he can. Or he's just a natural."

  "You're not going to top him on this track," the psychologist said. She was monitoring all four tests and making suggestions.

  "It's his main hot-point," Monaghan said. "He's very protective of his sisters."

  "It will require counseling," the psych said. "He's marginal. He's very wrapped up in that emotional attachment. I'd say you've gone about as far as you can. I'd also say that with some training he's a pass. That's my professional opinion."

  "Concur," Monaghan said.

  —|—

  "Okay, Butch, we're letting you out, now," Monaghan said. "We're also going to up your O2 and get rid of some of that carb. When you come out, you can take a swing at me or we can talk. Your call. Take the swing and you're going home to see your sisters."

  —|—

  "Sit, Butch," Monaghan said, tossing the probationary trainee a half-full pack of Marlboros. "As long as you were in the tank you could probably use a smoke."

  "Thought there was no smoking in the building," Butch said, still glaring.

  "There are rules and rules," Mr. Monaghan said, shrugging. "They're waived under certain conditions. Get the nic fit under control so we can talk. To start, no, I never had a picture of your sisters. I am, in fact, a very sick bastard. But not on duty.

  "The next question at the top of your head is did you pass. The answer is... sort of. You got all the fixed answers solid. You did your homework, that's obvious."

  "Thank you, sir," Butch said, his jaw working.

  "But you need to get that temper under control," Mr. Monaghan said. "There's a time and a place for it. But if you get put on a crew they're going to test you. They won't have all the information we have, but they'll wiggle it out of you. And they'll find your hot points. And they'll poke. They test the hell out of the FNGs that come up there, much harder than we can here. The best I could do was talk dirty about your sisters. They'll find a picture of one of them, Pho
toshop it onto a real piece of child porn and stick it in your locker just before you go on shift. Then call the nosies to tell them you've got child porn in your locker."

  "That's sick," Butch said.

  "They are, we are, a very sick crew," Mr. Monaghan said, still in that same mild tone. "There's actually a reason for it. The same reason we do it here. You know about the ninety-day probationary period and the penalties for failure if you don't pass it?"

  For the first ninety days of actual work, the trainee was on "hard probation." They could be dismissed with or without cause. And they owed the full cost of their training, preparation and suit, nearly three quarters of a million dollars. It was more money than Butch could ever repay and one of the tiny little codicils in the contract he'd barely read.

  You could quit at any point in training and not owe a dime. But once you got implants and a suit, the company owned you.

  "What is not mentioned in the contract," Mr. Monaghan said, "is that every crew has the right of refusal over a new member. Oh, they don't abuse it. There's just too much damned work. But if two crews refuse to work with you, you get dismissed. And then you owe more money than you're ever going to see in your life.

  "They are, in fact, the final test. They don't want to work with anybody that can't hack it. Their lives depend on you being able to keep your cool, no matter what. So they're going to push and push and push and push, looking for a weak point. Your protectiveness of your sisters is admirable. I did have pictures of them, but only fully clothed. They are lovely young ladies and you are blessed to have them in your life. The crews are going to take that admirable emotion and rip it to shreds. That is why you are still considered marginal. You can probably hack the actual physical aspects of space work. The emotional part is your weak point."

  "So what do I do?" Butch said. The smoke was helping and he was smart enough to see what Mr. Monaghan was driving at. It made sense in a sick sort of way. He figured once he was a full tech, he was probably going to do the same thing. You didn't want somebody who was a hothead holding a laser that could cut through the suit of the guy next to him.

  "There are various techniques," Mr. Monaghan said. "Deflection: 'Yep, she's hot.' One-upmanship: 'Yeah, Susie's a nice piece. Unlike your wife.' Rolling with it. That, however, can make you look like a wuss and they'll be wondering when you're going to crack and go SAPL. Practice responses in a mirror. Come up with a list of good one-liners. You can often stop something like that with a good joke at the right time. There are books of practical jokes and that is another thing that will be practiced on you. Be prepared. And prepared to retaliate. The crews much prefer a smart come-back or a good counter to a joke over somebody who just smiles and takes it. They tend to keep upping the ante to see what will work. But mostly you need to find your hot buttons and get them under control. You with me?"

  "Yes, Mr. Monaghan," Butch said.

  "Good," Monaghan said, nodding. "I still think the best part of you dripped down your momma's leg."

  "At least I had a momma, Mr. Monaghan," Butch said, smiling pleasantly.

  "Ah, it can learn."

  CHAPTER THREE

  "I take it Sean showed you around?" Engineering Mate First Class David P. Hartwell was tall, 6'4, and heavy-set. Dana realized she looked like a china-doll next to him but it didn't bother her. Her cousins were all about the same size or bigger.

  "Yes, EM," Dana said.

  The engineering office of 142/C/1, First Division, Charlie Flight, 142nd Boat Squadron, was already cluttered. There were manuals stacked on every horizontal surface that didn't have bits and pieces of Myrmidons already there. A mug of coffee barely fit on the corner of the 142/C/1 ENCOIC's desk.

  "So he showed you the docking bays?" the EM asked.

  "We didn't quite get to that, EM," Dana said.

  "Knowing Sean, I can figure where he headed," Hartwell said. "During your next three months, you have certain specified duties. Until you get fully qualed on EVA, you're of limited use as an engineering tech, you understand that?"

  "Roger, EM," Dana said, glad that Hartwell hadn't pressed the question.

  "So in addition to your other duties, you need to get EVA qualed as rapidly as possible," Hartwell said. "Until you get full EVA qualed you can't even start on getting Eng qualed. As long as you meet the standard rate of qualification, you are more or less on your own on that. But I'll be keeping an eye on your qual rate. If you fall behind in qual rate, I will then have to become involved in your retraining. You do not want me involved in your retraining."

  "Yes, EM," Dana said.

  "The qualifications for EVA full standard are knowledge of the parts and functions of your suit," Hartwell said. "To be capable of donning your suit in a prescribed time to task and standard. To be capable of handling first and second level faults while suited to task and standard. And the last, and surprisingly the most tricky, to be capable of maneuvering your suit in microgravity to task and standard. I need a readback."

  "Knowledge of the parts and functions, aye," Dana said. "Capable of donning suit in a prescribed time to task and standard, aye. Capable of handling first and second level faults while suited to task and standard, aye. Capable of maneuvering suit in microgravity to task and standard, aye."

  "The way that you train is to get experience," Hartwell said. "You need to be working on donning and undonning in any free time you have. You also need to be studying not only the parts and functions of the boats but the parts and functions of your suit. You have to qual on your implants," he commed without actually opening his mouth, "which is mostly a matter of just using them. Last but not least," he continued, speaking normally, "you need to get familiar with micrograv. That's where personnel are falling down in qual. Where they're falling down after qual is forgetting the basics. Like checking their seals."

  "Yes, EM," Dana said.

  "I'm getting really tired of training reviews," EM1 Hartwell said. "They cut into things like actually making sure the Myrms start. Or don't screw up in mid-space. They're straight from the fabber in Wolf but they've still got problems. So I need you EVA qualed. Fast."

  "Roger, EM."

  "But EVA qual is in addition to other duties," Hartwell continued. "Your primary mission is to make sure, to the extent you are currently capable, that Boat Twenty-Nine is up and running. So where you had better be when I come looking for you on duty hours is in the boat."

  "In the boat, aye, EM."

  "You'll also be on the watch schedule, of course," Hartwell said. "But we don't run watch and watch so you don't have to worry about that for a week or so. From here we are going to go to Twenty-Nine and you get to see your new home away from home."

  "Roger, EM," Dana said, trying not to smile.

  "You are glad to finally see your boat?" Hartwell said, standing up.

  "It's why I'm here, EM," Dana said.

  "You will come to be less enthusiastic," Hartwell said. "Among other things, Twenty-Nine is the command boat. Until you are fully qualed, it will not be 'your' boat. The current engineer is EN Andrew Jablonski. AJ will be overseeing your quals and overseeing your maintenance of the boat because CM1 Glass and the skipper, Lieutenant Commander Martin, aren't about to climb in a boat that has been rated by an EA. But keep that motivation as long as you can. To reduce it somewhat, among other things, we don't climb into those cockleshells without our suits on. Come back here with your suit. We'll start on basic quals now."

  "Roger, EM," Dana said, just a trace nervously.

  "Which, I just realized, is a problem," Hartwell said, clearly trying not to curse. "Because while donning suits is normally no problem..."

  "I don't have issues, EM," Dana lied.

  "The Navy has issues with naked people of opposite sexes in the same room alone," Hartwell said. "I'll figure something out by the time you get back."

  —|—

  "This didn't use to be a problem," Chief Petty Officer Elizabeth Barnett said bitterly. "We had nearly twelve percent female
personnel and if a gal had to disrobe for duty's sake she damned well could do it in a room full of guys if she had to. God damned Horvath."

  Chief Barnett was tall and generally slender. The "not slender" part had Dana wondering what her handle was. "Elizabreasts" came to mind. Dana wasn't flat but she also wasn't stacked. She harbored a touch of jealousy about chests like the chief's.

  "Roger, Chief," Dana said. She picked up the parts of her suit and began carefully checking the seals.

  "Do you want a checklist?"

  "I'd prefer to do this myself, Chief," Dana said, pretty sure she'd done a good inspection of her glove seals. "The only person I'm going to kill screwing it up is me."

  "Not necessarily," the chief said, taking a seat at the desk. The "evolution" had been moved from the Division Bay to Dana's quarters. And it had required calling in the coxswain chief of Flight A and getting a navopak out of stores. "If you're performing a critical evolution when you have a failure, it cascades. You're going to hear this over and over: there is no small mistake in space. I'm spending half my time performing training and incident reviews. More than half. Suit failures. Boat failures. Bad driving. More bad driving. Half the damned drivers are down groundside right now testifying at an incident review because we lost another Myrm to what looks like bad driving. Just flew right into a SAPL beam. Called a mayday then zap!

  "I used to think the sea was merciless. And now I'm having to fill in on suit quals because we've finally got another split in the squadron."

  "Roger, Chief," Dana said. "Sorry, Chief."

  "Not your fault," Chief Barnett said. "Like I said, blame it on the damned Horvath and their damned Johannsen virus."

  "Roger, Chief," Dana said, paying even more attention to her boot seals than they were really worth.

  "And that caused a penny for your thoughts moment," Chief Barnett said, looking up.

  "Chief?" Dana said.

  "Big girls in this man's Navy don't cry," Chief Barnett said. "And I see you're managing not to. Barely. Who?"

  "I'm from Anaheim, Chief," Dana said, setting down the boots. She took a deep breath and picked up the suit to check the seals on it. "Dad in L.A., Mom committed suicide right after."