Only they’d been wrong.

“Got it!” Lethridge announced suddenly, and Metcalf found herself back beside his chair. “It says here—” the Erewhonese officer began, then paused in surprise as he looked up and discovered that Metcalf had somehow teleported herself across to him without making a sound. He blinked, then shook himself.

“It says here,” he resumed with a slightly lower volume, “that Proxmire failed to check in with Shilo Sector SS for his next assignment. They sound concerned, but not terribly so; this is just a request that Camp Charon confirm that he hypered out on time. But it also says his replacement won’t be here for another two T-months—which means he’ll be almost four months late by the time he actually gets here.” The Erewhonese officer smiled wryly. “Whoever drafted this message seems to’ve figured Tresca would be bouncing off the walls by now over the delay. He went to some lengths to explain the courier net’s been all screwed up lately. Apparently StateSec doesn’t have as many boats of its own as we’d thought. They seem to rely on Navy couriers a lot, but the Navy’s been whipping their own boats all over the PRH to coordinate all the ship movements Citizen Secretary McQueen’s been ordering.”

“Well thank God for small favors,” Metcalf muttered.

“Agreed. But that leaves the problem of what I tell this courier,” Lethridge pointed out. “Should I go with the canned response?”

“Um.” Metcalf frowned again, hands still clasped behind her, and bounced slowly up and down on the balls of her feet while she thought. It would have been so much nicer to be able to ask Admiral Harrington about it, but that was impossible for the same reason she couldn’t ask Commodore Ramirez or Captain Benson: none of them were on Hell at the moment.

Ramirez and Benson were off reacquiring their command skills aboard Krashnark in company with the ex-StateSec light cruiser Bacchante, and Admiral Harrington had gone along to observe and possibly throw a few unplanned tactical problems at them. That was one reason Metcalf had designed the courier boat’s inbound routing so carefully—to keep her well clear of the exercise area—and she hoped the CIC crews she and Senior Chief Ascher had been training aboard Krashnark had made use of the opportunity to run a passive plot on a live target. And that they weren’t embarrassing their teachers.

Her mouth moved again, this time in a grimace. They were making enormous progress, but aside from about four thousand Manticoran and Grayson POWs, none of whom had been dirtside on Hell for more than five T-years, the best of their personnel were at least a decade out of date. Some of them, like Benson, were more like half a century out of date, and blowing that kind of rust off their skills required something on the order of an old-fashioned nuke. Of course, Benson was a special case, Metcalf admitted. The captain had a genuine gift—she might even be as good in the captain’s chair as Admiral Harrington was reputed to have been—and her skills were coming back with astonishing speed. But a lot of the others were still pretty pathetic by RMN standards.