*
In the medical facility, Slirtmif, and several medical staff, all Keulfyd, checked the medical records on the pilots and the mercenaries. He knew by this time all would be out of cold sleep and it was those ones he was most concerned about. “What’s the readiness of the mercenaries and, especially, the pilots?”
“The usual,” answered a doctor. “Some have been in deep sleep for up to nine months and some for only four.” They all knew what that meant.
Slirtmif muttered, “All different races with their own leaders and their own languages. Never enough Translators to go around. That slows orders down.” He looked down the list. “Relogs; they’re hard to control at the best of times. At least there’s a fair smattering of decent races.”
The doctor agreed. “We netted quite a lot from the end of that little tiff between the Nashi and the Zeobani. That’ll help. Mercenaries and pilots mostly, plus the uncooperative as slaves. They will come in handy and they’re fresh, alert and fit. The opposite of these cold-sleep ones. This trip, the majority are fresh.”
Slirtmif was counting up. “Not pilots, though. More than half of them are from cold sleep.” Morosely, he said, “I’m somehow supposed to coordinate this chaotic mess. Gets to me, you know. I’m not the official Military Commander; I’m the one who does the actual work and makes most of the decisions pretending to be acting on orders from Welkidlifim, my politically savvy but militarily mediocre boss, who has the good sense to delegate. I guess I’m lucky in a way. Unlike many with expanded egos, he is aware of his strengths and weaknesses. My family has no political clout, so this is as far as I can get in this politically dominated military machine.”
It wasn’t fair he often thought. He was many times better than Welkidlifim in military knowledge, training, organisational ability, intellect and basic managerial and social skills. He was respected and his ability was subtly acknowledged. But his cut of the success of this Takeover would be one tenths of Welkidlifim’s. He sternly told himself to stop wailing and get on with it. And shut up. He was frustrated and exhausted, having been working constantly with very little sleep. All superiors knew their subordinates criticized them but if this doctor told Welkidlifim what he had just said, it would be awkward to say the least. Calling his superior incompetent, even though he was, could have nasty consequences. Small problem of a difference in power. He pulled his mind back to the current snafu.
There were many Races requiring different sized planes with different speed and manoeuvrability. Speaking different languages. And they were short of Translators. If he sat and though about the logistics it would drive him nuts. He didn’t have it as bad as his friend Tyrid. Tyrid had to wait till Lijfomid left the bridge to get things better organized without Lijfomid’s perpetual, incompetent interference. There were some things Lijfomid was good at, of course, or he wouldn’t be here. It wasn’t just bulk he was good at accumulating, he had an ample bank account as well. It was just his annoying habit of thinking he was good at some things that he was clueless about. A consequence of an ego as big as his circumference. It wasn’t just Tyrid that had had to suffer Lijfomid’s senseless orders. He had, too.
At least Welkidlifim left him alone to get on with the job, Slirtmif thought as he went over his orders so now he could reorganize the planes and get them matched up. Organizing pilots that could actually fit into them would definitely be helpful—a little problem Welkidlifim hadn’t remembered to factor in. Different races required different-sized cockpits and different control panels.
“Ah, we had to fail twenty-two pilots,” commented the doctor, interrupting Slirtmif’s thoughts. “All but one that failed have been in cold sleep.”
“Gee, what a surprise. That gives me only three more to be failed for any reason and we will be unable to keep up to schedule.”
“But at least now the action will start soon?”
“Yeah, the troop ships are due in shortly with most of the slaves. No problems are anticipated. I hear this planet has a very small population.” Slirtmif headed for the pilot crew’s quarters gesturing at the pilots to follow him. As they headed down to the flight deck to do their checks and move the planes around, they passed the decks where the slaves were that had come out of cold sleep, sluggish and disorientated. Slirtmif nearly gagged at the smell. There were always a lot of dead ones; the sick, old, injured or those allergic to the drugs. Sometimes the live ones smelled nearly as bad as the dead ones. Slirtmif hated any of his pilots or mercenaries going into cold sleep but it sure cut the food bill. Luckily, fighters, pilots etc only had to go into cold sleep if the journey was over four months.
He tried not to be sympathetic towards the slaves but he didn’t quite make it. They had three days to recover before they would have to work, and work very hard. Most would be so nauseous it would be at least a day before they could process food and fluids. They might feel hungry, although it was doubtful, but food or fluids would often sit in a sullen lump in a variety of upset gastro-intestinal tracts that had no intention of working. That usually left one inevitable consequence in two possible directions depending on which eject button got pushed. The really peeved stomaches ejected both ways. Slirtmif winced at the thought with mortification of his own unhappy memory of coming out of cold sleep. He had suffered it once and vowed never again. His stomaches had taken umbrage and gone on strike for three full days resulting in violent vomiting and diarrhoea. Usually at the same time. But the difference was that he was given a bag to sleep on, an en-suite with a bucket by the loo, nurses and doctors, a modicum of sympathy, intravenous fluids and medication. The slaves would get none of the above.
Slirtmif entered the hanger deck, which was frantic with noise and preparations. The pilots coming in looked unwell. He watched as they checked for the right-sized planes and boarded. He said to the Flight Sergeant, “I’m sorry. I have tried repeatedly to explain that it takes some pilots nearly a month to regain any fitness after cold sleep. So putting them in it is pretty pointless. The least time it takes some races to gain enough fitness to function safely is two weeks. But the idiots in charge can only see the immediate expenses like food and accommodation. They cannot understand that unfit, disoriented pilots are not safe ones. Nor are they effective.”
“You mean little problems like cold sleep adversely affecting brain function?” she asked. “Minor things like speed of thought which affects reaction time, reasoning ability, eyesight, multitasking ability and spatial organization?”
“Yeah, and unhelpful side-effects like vertigo, dizziness, nausea and fine motor tremors. Little things which could result in a pilot being unable to pass the medical.”
“And delayed symptoms,” said the sergeant, “which can occur when the pilot is flying and can result in the plane not continuing to fly in control, descending or spinning out of control and landing with much more force than is recommended for pilot or plane. Otherwise called crashing. So neither fly again. Little symptoms of cold sleep.”
She continued, softly now so only Slirtmif could hear, “What’s the point in trying to explain to people who don’t want to hear? To the planners, these pilots are simply expendable. A little fact some of these pilots and mercenaries haven’t factored into their future goals. Much cheaper than paying them. All our Keulfyd pilots will be well paid but some of the other races will get a nasty surprise on payday.” Her tone revealed her disapproval.
Slirtmif looked around but no one had heard. He said softly, “This trip is a little different in other ways. I sneaked in an extra twenty simulators from the hold. I’ve got nearly a hold full of simulators removed from Oberterk!”
The sergeant’s eyes lit up. “What a gift! That’ll help on the return journey!”
“Yep. That’ll keep the pilots trained, fit, occupied, distracted, amused and competitive. There’s one for every four pilots, plus some extras. I don’t care if they fly other simulator programs for a variety. It’s the flying that counts, so they can train and qualify at the same time.”
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“But what puzzles me,” said the sergeant, “is why were the Nashi such arrogant idiots as to attack Oberterk? Even more than usually arrogant. As a mercenary recruiter, I could have told them that the Zeobani are no pushover. I’ve frequently worked with them.” She paused, acknowledging her pilots as they one by one reported the status of their planes and their readiness. “Any amphibian race that can accumulate five planets and superpower status should not be taken lightly, despite their tiny size. But no one asked me.”
Slirtmif grunted. “True. I was not in the least surprised when the Nashi didn’t manage to defeat the Zeobani and had to make a deal with us to get clandestine help.” They looked at each other in amusement. “Very expensive clandestine help. I arrived in time to watch the booty being stripped off Oberterk. Like these simulators. Not the latest, but very good. Especially for us. Their programs include almost every ship and plane we use and their training programs are among the top group of the Accepted Interplanetary Qualifiers. Most trainees go from passing the simulator training, to three or four lessons on the real thing, to co-pilot qualification or full qualification on small private planes.”
“That good? That’s better than the ones I trained on.”
“Yep. Normally, I have three or four to train 135-odd pilots. Now, I have twenty-four, near latest models, plus a lot more I can probably purloin later and I intend to. I’m very good friends with the quartermaster and she owes me a favour. They’re worth a small fortune.”
“But to me, they are worth even more to get my pilots fit, happy and flying. Pity a lot of the pilots can’t be reused. They will be very well trained already.” She and Slirtmif looked at each other in silent acknowledgement.
She went on. “I can’t understand some of those that volunteer for this. For cold sleep and unknown jobs. The accident and death rate among those recently out of cold sleep is three times that of fit pilots. And to me that’s a cost in planes and pilots plus whatever they hit. To the pilots it’s playing with their lives with poor odds. But there is no shortage of recruits. Amazing how the promise of a large payout stops people thinking about little things like security risk. How could most of the non-Keulfyd even think they could be let loose on the galaxy with a promise to shut up, with money for drugs and alcohol, a proven lack of morals and very doubtful truthfulness? Yet they think they will be able to collect their pay and leave? With what they know? Idiots!” She moved off among her pilots, seeking out the seniors and supervising. She too was very tired but now was her busiest time until the pilots took off.