The Street Survivors (The Guild Wars Book 12) by Ian Malone (great books of all time TXT) 📕

“Hyperspace transition successful,” Frank said. “Reactors one and two are synchronized into a shared workflow. Hyperspatial generator is online and operating well within safety parameters.”

“Nice job, y’all.” Taylor opened his eyes as the formless white void of hyperspace swept across the Tri-V. “Reset the emergence clock to 170 hours, then fall out to the conference room for church in five—”

“Ahem.” Billy coughed into his fist.

“What?” Taylor asked.

“All due respect, Chief, most of us have been on the clock, prepping for this mission, since 0600 this morning,” Billy said. “Would a few hours of R&R while we get settled in be too much to ask? I mean, we do have a week until we emerge at Karma.”

Taylor watched from his command chair as the subtlest of flirtatious glances bounced from the Eagles’ XO to the blonde Aussie captain at the science station, each of whom were wearing their shiny new wedding rings to go with their new ranks. Seriously? Taylor sighed and keyed open a ship-wide comm channel. “All crews, this is Chief Van Zant. Stand down and make ready for the cruise to Karma. Twelve hours of R&R is hereby authorized for all non-critical positions. Bridge out.”

“You’re a good man, Charlie Brown.” Billy grinned en route to the exit with his wife.

“Yeah, yeah,” Taylor said. “You owe me a beer later at chow. Now beat it.”

* * * * *

Chapter 3: Back in Church

The remainder of Taylor’s shift went off without incident, as everyone on the crew continued about their duties before packing things down in anticipation of the night to come. For some like Billy and Smitty—the latter still went by her nickname, even though her legal surname had changed from Smith to Dawson—that meant a one-way trip to quarters for a glass of wine and some much-needed downtime in private. For others, however, the break represented a chance to hit the showers, then reconvene in the Osyrys’ mess hall for the latest culinary tour de force, courtesy of the Eagles’ lead pilot turned master chef.

When he wasn’t flying starships, Tuzana Ibansk Phrankolith—or Frank as he was known—loved food. Moreover, he loved experimenting with various types and styles of preparing food, a fascination that often led to some of the most sought-after cuisine in Jacksonville, merc or otherwise.

“Hell, I’d come to work for ya just to hang out in the galley with the owl,” one applicant had said during his interview to join the Eagles’ roster. “I ain’t jokin’. I’ll take a demotion to specialist if it means I've suffered through my last pot of navy bean soup with my current outfit.”

Taylor awoke in his quarters the next morning, still dreaming of the most succulent ribs he’d ever eaten the night before, then headed for the shower to begin his day.

* * *

“Good morning, Chief Van Zant,” a scratchy voice said as Taylor floated into the Osyrys’ briefing room adjacent to the bridge. “I trust you slept well last evening?”

“Well and well-fed, Keeto. Thanks.” Taylor gestured the Athal to stay seated, then coasted across the room holding a bulb of fresh coffee and pulled himself into his usual chair at the head of the table. “I understand we’ve got some new recruits down in main engineerin’. How’s everybody workin’ out?”

“As well as one might expect, with most of the academy greenies,” the Eagles’ lead engineer said. “In the way of transfers, Lieutenants Daniels and Register have proven particularly capable since coming aboard from the Danville Express in Virginia. I expect they’ll make fine additions to the Stargell crew once she’s ready for deployment.”

In addition to an array of new personnel, facility, and hardware assets, the Eagles had also inherited two starships from the Steeldriver Defense Group. One of these, a Maki corvette dubbed the EMS Stargell, possessed the requisite prowess and heft in a fight to be a valuable addition to the Eagles’ lineup once she’d been re-crewed. The other vessel, an aging frigate named the EMS Bradshaw, had been sold at auction to help finance some other projects around the company’s new campus.

“Dear, sweet Moses in Heaven.” Quint let out a groan as he floated into the chamber, clutching his stomach. “I kid you not, fellas. I didn’t eat that much barbecue in St. Louis when the Braves faced the Cardinals for the National League crown back in ‘83.”

“Pro tip,” Taylor said. “Round three of banana puddin’ after you’ve already pounded down four plates of Memphis-style ribs with corn and seasoned potatoes? That typically don’t end well for anybody.”

The bald commander belched and found a seat at the table.

“Morning, all,” Billy said, entering ahead of Smitty. “How was Frank’s barbecue party last night?”

Quint leaned sideways as if prepping to break wind.

“Do it,” Smitty began, “and I’ll shove a cork so far up your ass, you’ll need Paul down in the infirmary to extract it with a bloody scalpel.”

Quint failed to offer his usual witty retort. Instead, he laid his forehead across his thick, tattooed forearms on the table and went on groaning.

“Aww. Does somebody have a wittle tummy ache today after he oinked too much barbecue at dinner last night?”

Everyone looked up as Frank pushed into the room ahead of Jack and Stan.

“Piss off, Feathers,” Quint muttered.

“Piss off, nothin’.” Frank pulled himself into a chair. “I’ll have you know poor old Corporal Cowart didn’t get any dessert on account of you, ya fargin gluttonous pig. I hope you spend the rest of this mission feelin’ like a herd of Sumatozou are stampeding across your guts for funzies. Gods know it’d serve ya right.”

Quint summoned the strength to raise his middle finger but not much else.

“Hey, guys?” Taylor put up a hand. “As much as I hate to bust up this quaint little bitch-fest of yours,