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"You don't?" said Mike, startled.
"You don't?" said the NCO, if anything more startled.
Mike smiled at the tall enlisted man. The NCO smiled back.
"I understand that you have met Sergeant Wiznowski?" said the captain. "The sergeant is head of the company scout/sniper squad."
"Yes, sir, of course," said Mike, stretching out his hand. "How do you do, Sergeant."
"Oh, one below the other, Mighty Mite, like usual. How's 'bout you?" Wiznowski's hand wrapped around Mike's to the extent that he was more or less holding on with his thumb.
Mike snorted.
"Actually," said the captain, "I was given to understand that you were in prior service together."
"Hey, Stork," said Mike, "long time."
"Now that we're all friends . . ." said the captain, with a smile that quickly faded. He started to speak then stopped and looked around the cabin. "I was going to continue with my reason for coming here, but I have to ask a few questions. How the hell did you get this lighting?"
It took Mike a moment to realize what the commander was talking about. Then he laughed. The illumination of his quarters was not the sort of blue-green lighting found throughout the rest of the ship. It was more or less "Terran normal" but rather than looking like lighting from an incandescent bulb or fluorescents, it was the sort of pellucid light found only in the morning right after a snowfall. "Oh, well . . ." Mike started only to be interrupted.
"It's not fu
"I've been sleeping on the floor," said Wiznowski, sounding less than resigned.
Mike stared at the commander with amazement. "You're kidding, right?" he asked in horror.
"No, Lieutenant," said the upset commander. "I am assuredly not kidding."
Mike thought for a moment of the troops stuck in lighting from a bad sci-fi horror flick for the last month, living with accoutrements that were completely misdesigned for them, and felt physically ill.
"Jesus, sir," he whispered, scrubbing his face with his hands. "God dammit. I'm sorry." He shook his head. "Didn't anybody talk to the goddamn Darhel coordinators?"
"I have no idea, Lieutenant. As far as I know there are no Darhel on the ship."
"Michelle," Mike queried his AID, turning away from the commander abruptly, "where are the Darhel coordinators?"
"The Darhel liaisons cross-boarded to a Flantax class courier vessel at the Dasparda emergence. They are going to rendezvous with the Expeditionary Force on Diess."
"What!" he exclaimed. The liaisons, according to his briefing, had been explicitly directed to accompany the EF all the way to Diess. There was an advance party already on Diess to handle anything they might be needed for. The fact that a Flantax-class courier would get them there in half the time and much greater comfort should have been beside the point. He scrubbed his face again in rage and took a deep breath.
"Did the Darhel give any instructions regarding adjustment of quarters and training areas to Earth norms?"
"There is no record of such orders in my database," stated the AID with uncharacteristic bluntness.
Mike thought for a moment then nodded. "Are there any records of such requests between humans and the Darhel?" he asked carefully. He knew there had been virtually no Human-Indowy interaction.
"That information is proprietary to the parties involved or restricted by classification." Again the tone and response were abrupt. Mike had started to recognize that there were stock answers that were in some way "hardwired" into the AIDs and bypassed their "personalities." He probably had the overrides to gain records of the conversations in question, a function of his position on the Board, but that would send a record of the request to the parties involved. He was not yet ready to kick that particular dragon in the snout.
"Curiouser and curiouser," Mike murmured.
"What?" asked Wiznowski, quietly. The captain started to ask something but Wiznowski respectfully held up his hand for silence. O'Neal was, meanwhile, on another plane. He shook himself and seemed about to say something then settled into silence. After nearly a minute, Wiznowski prompted him again.
"Mike?" he said, "where are you?"
O'Neal shook himself again and looked up. "This is really fucked up," he proclaimed.
"Explain," said the captain.
"Well," O'Neal temporized, trying to figure out where to start. "Well," he said again. "First thing . . ." He looked at the lighting and started there.
"Everything on this ship is controlled by the Indowy crew," he said, fixing the captain's eye. "You understand that?"
"Yes," said the commander.
"Okay, everything, the water, the air, the food. Where have you been getting your food?" he suddenly digressed, puzzled.
"Well," said the captain, surprised, "we brought a mess section . . ."
"Oh, Jesus!" snapped Mike. "Sorry, sir."
"Well, I would prefer that you refrain from taking the name of God's only begotten son in vain in front of me," said the captain with a tolerant smile, "but I generally agree with the sentiment. What is wrong with using a mess section?"
"What are they using to heat the food?" asked Mike, dreading the answer.
"Field mess equipment," answered Wiznowski. "Propane stoves, immersion heaters. We've been eating a lot of T-rations."
"That has not been good for morale," noted the captain, dryly.
"Oh, man, sir, how fucked up can this get?" Mike asked then thought about what he said. "Sorry for the French."
The captain nodded tolerantly. "Perhaps you should tell me how this is supposed to go," he said.
"Okay," said Mike, focused back on track. "The Indowy control everything. The original plan—remember I was just peripheral to this so it's as I recall—but the original plan called for the Darhel coordinators to arrange everything for the units through the Indowy. The Indowy can selectively or generally adjust lighting, gravitation, air mix, what have you." He checked to make sure the two soldiers were comprehending his words and went on when the captain nodded his head.
"The entire human area of the ship should have been adjusted for humans long ago. Right after we boarded, as a matter of fact. The Indowy also control the primary food stores. Are you getting fresh fruits, vegetables, meat?" he asked.
"No," said Captain Brandon, shaking his head. He suddenly realized the implication of the question. "You mean there's fresh food on this tub?" he continued, starting to get angry.
"The mess sections should have been able to order stuff, just like they were back at Bragg. Jesus, if we're this fucked up, I wonder what the damn Chinese are like?" Mike mused.
"Can you get this corrected?" asked the captain, patiently bringing the distracted lieutenant back on point.
"I don't know," said Mike, scratching his chin again. "Maybe. What I don't understand is why Oberst Kiel isn't already on top of this."
"Who?" asked Wiznowski.
"Colonel Kiel, the head of the German unit of ACS," Mike explained. "He's a smart Kraut. I wonder why he hasn't jumped on this? Michelle?"
"Yes, sir?"
"Has Oberst Kiel been making inquiries in regards to Indowy support for human forces?" asked Mike.
"I am not . . ."
"Supervisory override, voice and general sensory recognition. Whatever priority you have to assign," he snapped.
"Yes, he has, Lieutenant," said the AID in a now waspish voice. It had recently decided to be bitchy about overrides.
"And survey says . . . ?" asked Mike.
"If by that colloquialism you mean `what has the outcome been,' the answer is `none,' " snapped the AID.