Hedges stepped from the gangway onto Tigershark. The warship’s expansive interior finally had an atmosphere.
Thick cables ran past his shoes, continuing in both directions as far as he could see. A passing worker handed Hedges an orange hardhat.
Orange, he knew, meant visitor. On construction sites, visitors were always treated as safety hazards.
An autocart pulled up. Hedges took a seat and told the cart to go.
He trundled across sweeping decks and rolled down broad corridors. He passed a dining hall that could seat a thousand. The cart pulled onto a service elevator and ascended several decks.
Everywhere he looked, technicians strung cable and installed workstations. Construction bots scuttled about like metal spiders.
The ship had a pleasant scent – new, clean, unspoiled by human use.
It wouldn’t last. Hedges recalled the time he attended the grand opening of a luxury hotel. The pristine smell had nearly intoxicated him. He returned to that hotel many times over the years, and although the staff kept it immaculate, its newness was forever gone.
The cart coasted to a halt and beeped. He got out and found himself standing in the foyer of the admiral’s stateroom.
“Ah, Mr. Hedges, please come in,” Ngura called through the open doorway.
The spacious room lacked any personal decor. There were no wall hangings or antique book collections, not even a desktop knickknack.
Hedges felt disappointed. A person’s belongings told much about them.
“Your tour is off to a good start, I hope,” said the admiral.
“Start? Feels like I’ve seen most of the ship already.”
Ngura smiled. “Hardly.”
They sat shoulder-to-shoulder in the autocart as it wove past clusters of busy workers. Ngura pointed out objects of interest, including a state-of-the-art medical bay.
“Our doctors can handle the most severe battle casualties,” he boasted. “Of course, we hope their services will not be needed.”
They reached a maintenance hangar, where a half-dozen tech teams assembled fighters. Hedges spotted Lieutenant Sterling – the young officer who would be Tigershark’s flight leader – prowling among the teams, monitoring their progress.
Hedges left the cart for a better look, making a slow circle around one of the nearly completed fighters.
It was matte black. Two diagonal pylons supported a single-seat cockpit. Two more pylons jutted high into the air. The fighter looked like a venomous insect, ready to strike.
“A new design,” said Sterling. “The P-23 Scorpion. Excellent maneuverability and firepower.”
Hedges shook his head. “How many?”
“Four squadrons, so 64 ships.”
“Gee, only 64,” Hedges mocked. “Think you’ll have enough?”
The lieutenant gave him a tight smile. “History has a name for those who over-prepare for battle.”
“Yeah? What’s that?”
“The victors.”
Hedges returned to the cart for the tour’s last stop. They arrived at the bridge, which was finished and fully staffed.
“This is the ship’s nerve center,” explained Ngura, as they ambled past various consoles and holograms. “All data flows through this place. All tactical decisions will be made here.”
The bridge pulsed with controlled energy. Dozens of specialists spoke in hushed tones, conversing with workers throughout the ship. The darkened room felt warm with the heat of electronics.
“The League spared no expense,” Hedges observed.
“The laws of commerce demand that we keep the shipping lanes open.”
“But you’re just one ship, and it’s a long way to Mars.”
“Mr. Hedges, you must think of Tigershark as a prototype. If the piracy persists, there will be more ships just like it.”
Hedges frowned.
At the opposite end of the room, a crowd gathered. Bridge officers huddled around a communications console. One turned toward the admiral and raised a hand.
“Excuse me,” said Ngura.
Hedges wandered among the empty workstations. Nearly everyone had joined the throng across the room, leaving him alone.
He walked casually but his eyes darted, seeking the perfect spot. When he found it, he stopped and scratched his ear.
Except he wasn’t scratching. He pulled from behind his ear a strip of clear tape. After a quick glance around, he pressed the nearly invisible tape onto the underside of a workstation, then meandered away.
“Mr. Hedges,” called Ngura from across the bridge. “My apologies but the tour must end now. The autocart will take you back to your tender.”
Hedges nodded and waved goodbye.
The cart carried him through the maintenance hangar, and past the sprawling dining hall, and down the service elevator.
As he rode, Hedges reached into his shirt pocket and took out a small disk. He pressed the tiny speaker into his right ear.
What is their current position? Ngura asked.
Ten thousand klicks from Waypoint Epsilon, a bridge officer replied.
Weapons systems?
Still active, but low on ammo.
Hedges removed the speaker from his ear and suppressed a smile. The audiotape was working perfectly.
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