She rolled her eyes. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Well, it’s what I meant.”
She leaned back to rest on the edge of the crate behind her. “If you’re going to force me to engage in rampant misconduct—”
He rumbled a laugh mid-drink.
“—can we at least talk crew evals while we’re at it?”
“Void.” He sat on the crate beside him, sliding back to recline against the shelving. “All business with you, huh?”
“This really should not surprise you. Besides, the report’s due in two weeks. It has to be done before you ship out anyway.”
“Fine, fine.” He scratched at his beard. “Honestly, I could use a few more people.”
“You have fifteen now, should be plenty for a ship this size.”
“It’s not number, just talent—thinking I need to swap some.”
She scooted back to sit fully onto the crate. The few sips of whiskey in her stomach had already spread a dense warmth into her chest and cheeks. “Someone coming up short?”
“No one’s fault, merely shifting needs. Sullivan’s been sitting copilot, and he’s doing fine running the standard presets, but he’s not a math guy. Can’t adapt on the fly. No pun intended.”
“What needs adapting?”
“There’s constant fluctuations in the Divide’s density that affect our trajectory.”
“Since when?”
“Since always. The computer makes corrections, but it’s reactive—and not efficient. There’s got to be some way to chart it, anticipate it.”
“You’re one of the best pilots I’ve ever met, if you can’t figure it out…”
“It’s not about the flying, it’s the … nature part. The Divide’s just one big tract of dense gravity—I get that much. But the bodies of gravity I’m familiar with are generally round-ish, not flat-ish, and the computer’s simply not made for it. If we got someone on board that could really study it, crunch the numbers … maybe we could get in sync with it, find that gravitational sweet spot and move along it faster. Possibly a lot faster.”
“Back in three months instead of six?”
He smiled. “One week instead of two.”
“Yeah,” she agreed, “you probably need a physicist. But those types don’t tend to end up Sentinels.”
“Tell me about it. Can you recruit someone from the Typhos? Accora? There’s forty other Sentinel ships, someone’s gotta have an extra delinquent egghead lying around.”
“Last I checked, they don’t have shit for animus either. The Typhos has the biggest crew, I’ll ping them with a request. Though honestly, it might be faster for you to just dock there on your way upward this time, ask them directly. Kharon Gate’s been slow to deliver messages lately.”
“How shocking,” he mumbled, then took a long drink.
“In the meantime, I’ll talk to Mesa, see if she’s got anyone earmarked.” Adequin cringed as an obvious but painful option came to mind. “That new guy might be a good fit eventually.”
“Oh, Mister Imprints? Is that the one who came in on a private transport yesterday?”
“That’s the one. But he’s nowhere near ready.”
“He in need of a little reforming?”
“Really just forming, to start with. I’ll work on him—see if I can get him in shape by the time you’re back next.”