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of datachips flipped up. No doubt the personnel records on his staff, as well
as reports on the functioning of his department. He started to draw the chair
up, then stopped and looked at his duffle.
I ought to at least unpack my dress uniform so that the wrinkles will smooth
out.
What the heck. He d unpack the whole thing. It would only take a few minutes,
then he could dive into the chips guilt free.
After an apparently short stint of working on those files, Peter checked the
time and was surprised to see that it was seventeen hundred. He d been hard at
work for three hours. Raeder stretched and rotated his shoulders, deciding to
take a quick jog before showering and changing for dinner.
It would take him hours yet to even give a brief scan to the five hundred
people who would be under his command, but the few he had studied in depth had
certainly given him food for thought.
Particularly his second-in-command, Second Lieutenant Cynthia
Robbins. She was a first-rate technician; in fact, some of her ratings were
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off the scale. But, reading between the carefully written lines her other
commanders had laid down, she lacked people skills. Big time.
Peter had checked the map of the ship on his data terminal and then directed
his jog to the Speed hangar. He hadn t even been near one of the sleek, deadly
birds in weeks and had felt a sudden impatience to wallow in the sight, sound,
smell of them. The fact that it came out to a run of almost four klicks was a
bonus.
Just enough to get the blood flowing, Raeder thought.
Not enough to wear me out.
He felt he ought to be on his toes for the captain s dinner.
Especially if he was supposed to find a saboteur. The problem was that it had
been a long time since the Commonwealth fought a human opponent with any sort
of real espionage capability. Things with tentacles and scales had trouble
infiltrating; Space Command had plenty of firepower, but counterespionage
capacity had gone to hell. Plus the Mollies were extremely good at
infiltration. Their faith allowed any amount of duplicity in a good cause.
He could smell the Speeds now, and it drove mysteries and frustrations from
his mind. Water and lubricant and burned metal, the scents came from the
hangar door up ahead. Peter speeded up a bit and then stopped in the doorway,
a slow, delighted smile spreading over his face like the breaking dawn. There
were so many of them crammed into the colossal hangar, lined up nose to tail.
They nuzzled together like battle-horses drowsing in a pasture, peacefully
waiting for the trumpets to summon them awake.
Peter stepped into the giant room and gloried in the sight. The sleek black
shapes towered over him, their heads tilted upwards haughtily. He could feel
their weight, their leashed power. Something in these magnificent machines
called to him, as though they were organic or he were part machine. There was
an undeniable connection, a sense that each was a missing part of the other,
each incomplete by themselves.
Raeder reached up to wipe the sweat from his brow and struck himself harder
than intended with his numb machine-hand. It brought him back to reality,
literally with a thump. Peter grimaced and pushed the feelings
away, continuing his run, continuing his covert inspection.
He began to hear a woman s voice, sharp with irritation, but as yet the words
were inaudible. Ahead a group of people in stained coveralls stood grouped
around the exhaust tube of a Speed. He quietly moved closer in order to hear
what was being snarled.
 If you re that worried about the AI, take the damn thing offline. This isn t
science fiction, y know, where the things turn themselves on and run amok. And
we sure as hell can t just ignore this part of the machine.
Raeder stood with his arms folded over his chest and watched the small crowd
of techs shift uncomfortably. He agreed that they couldn t just pretend that
Speeds didn t have a backend, but he sure couldn t blame them for feeling that
way after what happened to poor Okakura.

Look at this! the unseen woman shouted, and a blackened bit of metal came
flying out of the exhaust cone. Peter placed it automatically:
part of the wave-guide apparatus, the field extension that vectored the
exhaust.
The startled young tech who d almost dropped the thing glared at it sullenly.
 You were actually going to send this bird out with that crack in it?
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