Ruler of Naught by Sherwood Smith, Dave Trowbridge Page B

doubtfully.
    “You’ve got nothing to worry about,” said Methuen. “Wolakota’s
a liberty port, not an out-octant hellhole like Smyrna or Breakpoint.
Tactical’s a sinecure on an emergence like this: Captain’s actually going easy
on you.”
    “Right.” Nilotis tipped his chin towards a short,
powerfully-built lieutenant watching two other officers playing L-4 Phalanx,
the Tenno version forbidden in tournament play but popular throughout the Navy
for both training and entertainment. “Mzinga, there, he’s on Nav—always
possible to screw up at that station, no matter where we come out.”
    Rom-Sanchez glanced in that direction, and his brows
contracted in a quick frown. Nilotis realized that Rom-Sanchez wasn’t paying
any attention to Mzinga. His attention was on the console, specifically the
Tenno evolution one of the players was attempting.
    Then Rom-Sanchez shook his head and turned back again.
“Yeah, but Mzinga’s been alpha before.”
    “He had a first time, too. We all did, at least on Grozniy .
Lot of ships you can’t say that about.”
    Rom-Sanchez grimaced but said nothing. As far as Nilotis knew,
the younger officer was largely apolitical, although it was hard to tell
whether that was innate or the regrettably necessary discretion practiced by
Highdwellers like him in a Navy increasingly dominated by the Aerenarch
Semion’s Downsider connections. Well, we don’t have to worry about that with
Margot Ng at the helm, even if it does mean we spend most of our time
out-octant.
    As if to belie his words, the wardroom hatch slid open, and
Nilotis didn’t need to look up to know who had just entered the compartment.
The sudden bubble of quiet and the wariness of the two young lieutenants told
him it had to be Lieutenant Commander Eisel ban-Tessler.
    “Uh, oh,” said Tang under her breath. “Stuffcrotch has that
brass-polishing look of his, and I’m on my tween watch, which means ‘available
for scut work’ as far as he’s concerned.”
    Accurate as the epithet was, Nilotis had to uphold the
respect for rank that made Naval hierarchy work smoothly, and he glanced Tang’s
way.
    She flushed. “Tell you what, Sergei, why don’t you take
another shot at convincing me that Warrigal’s L-5 Phalanx doesn’t rot your
brain?” Her gaze flickered to Nilotis. “Lieutenant Commander Tessler won’t
bother us there.”
    Nilotis suppressed a smile. He’d heard the faint emphasis on
Tessler’s rank and name. Tang was always trying for the lower orbit, trying to
keep ahead, which tended to cost her rank points that her ability would
otherwise garner.
    “How about you, Denil?” Tang turned his way.
    The other lieutenant shook his head theatrically. “Brrrr! No
way I’m letting that wire-dream blunge into my head—that would be all I need,
transposing her impossible Tenno into the middle of a real fire fight.”
    “Who’s going to be looking at the screen?” replied Tang.
“Not me. I like watching the players sweat.”
    The three juniors excused themselves just ahead of Tessler’s
arrival at the table.
    Tessler was carrying a compad as was his invariable custom.
As he sat down, he looked after Tang and Rom-Sanchez with a sour expression
that deepened the frown lines on his long face.
    “Our newest lieutenant seems pretty casual about his first
alpha,” he said. “Or does he think that fantasy Phalanx is a good warm up for
Tactical?”
    “I can think of worse,” replied Nilotis mildly, with a
glance at Tessler’s compad.
    Tessler’s lips tightened. Scuttlebutt had it that Tessler
had entered the Academy with high hopes for a fighting career, with patronage
linked to the Aerenarch. That he’d ended up in Supply was, Nilotis suspected,
in large part because he had found the Tenno tactical glyphs difficult to
master. There was nothing wrong with that—the Navy needed logisticians as good
as Tessler. But it wasn’t good enough for the man himself.
    “Well, he’ll hardly gain any rank