By the time he finished arranging all the clothing in the cabin’s cupboards and drawers, he’d begun to regret sending the batman away so precipitously. He fell onto the bed, and dimmed the lights. When he next woke, he should be on his way to Jackson’s Whole… .
He’d just begun to doze when the cabin comm buzzed. He lurched up to answer it, mustering a reasonably coherent “Naismith here,” in a sleep-blurred voice.
“Miles?” said Thorne’s voice. “The commando squad’s here.”
“Uh … good. Break orbit as soon as you’re ready, then.”
“Don’t you want to see them?” Thorne said, sounding surprised.
Inspection. He inhaled. “Right. I’ll … be along. Naismith out.” He hurried back into his uniform trousers, taking a jacket with proper insignia this time, and quickly called up a schematic of the ship’s interior layout on the cabin’s comconsole. There were two locks for combat drop shuttles, port and starboard. Which one? He traced a route to both.
The operative shuttle hatch was the first one he tried. He paused a moment in shadow and silence at the curve of the corridor, before he was spotted, to take in the scene.
The loading bay was crowded with a dozen men and women in grey camouflage flight suits, along with piles of equipment and supplies. Hand and heavy weapons were stacked in symmetrical arrays. The mercenaries sat or stood, talking noisily, loud and crude, punctuated with barks of laughter. They were all so big, generating too much energy, knocking into each other in half-horseplay, as if seeking an excuse to shout louder. They bore knives and other personal weapons on belts or in holsters or on bandoliers, an ostentatious display. Their faces were a blur, animal-like. He swallowed, straightened, and stepped among them.