A Just Determination

Chapter Two

Paul opened his eyes, staring blearily upward through the darkness at the dim images of ducts which seemed only inches from his nose. The shrill whine of the bosun's pipe echoed through the ship's intercom, its trilling notes gradually dying out. A moment later, a voice rapidly recited the words that officially began every day on every ship. "Reveille, reveille. All hands turn to and trice up. The smoking lamp is lit."

Paul lay still, unwilling to rise. There isn't any smoking lamp. There hasn't been a smoking lamp for who knows how long, and even if there were a smoking lamp people, haven't been allowed to smoke on ships for who knows how long. But every day we say we light the lamp in the morning and put it out at night. The Navy. Centuries of tradition unmarred by progress.

A groan from somewhere in the Ensign Locker announced one of his roommates rolling out his bunk. A moment later, a desk light flickered to life, bringing more groans from the other occupants of the stateroom. "Put it out, man."

"Sorry. Got to see if they fixed the port power distribution net last night. Hey, who had the mid-watch last night?"

Paul closed his eyes again even as he answered. "I did." The midwatch ran from midnight to 0400 in the morning, leaving little room for sleep on either side of it. Paul had spent most of the watch trying to stay awake, a task made slightly easier by the need to keep from dropping the long glass, the telescope which had to be carried by the officer of the deck.

"Did any contractors come on board?"

"Uh, no. A couple left, but no new ones came on."

"Damn! They don't give us enough technicians because they claim outside contractors can do the work, then they don't give us contractors! Damn!" The hatch swung open, then slammed shut as Ensign Sam Yarrow stormed out. Paul looked blankly at the closed hatch, trying to remember Yarrow's face. They'd crossed paths repeatedly in the last couple of days, but only for moments at a time, and every event somehow merged into the haze of too much happening too fast. He still didn't have any real personal impression of the fellow ensign he'd been warned against.

A heavy double-rap sounded, then the hatch swung open again and Commander Garcia stuck his head inside. "Sinclair!"

Paul hastily rolled out of his bunk, barely avoiding whacking his head on a support bracket, and stood facing his department head, still blinking against the light and hoping his guilt at being caught in his bunk didn't show. "Sir."

"Where's Tweed?"

"Lieutenant Tweed? I… I don't know, sir." And how the hell am I supposed to know right now? It's not like I'm sleeping with her. And if I was, I'd really be in trouble.

"Find her! Find her and then the two of you find me! Understand?"

"Yes, sir."

The hatch crashed shut, leaving the stateroom dim once more. Carl Meadows yawned. "Have a nice day, sir," he advised the hatch, then rolled out of his own bunk. "Hey, Paul. Welcome aboard."

"You already told me that, uh…" When? Had it only been the day before yesterday?

"Two days ago. Time flies when you're having fun."

"In that case, time must be approaching light speed right now."

"Yeah." Carl yawned again, scratched himself, then checked his scheduler. "Don't worry, though. It gets worse."

Paul sighed, then hurriedly dressed and shaved before heading out in search of Lieutenant Tweed. Several minutes into his search, he came face to face with Master-at-Arms Sharpe. "Good morning, Mr. Sinclair," the Sheriff announced cheerfully.

"If you say so."

"Don't forget, sir. XO's screening at ten hundred."

"Uh…" How can I forget something I didn't know? I've got to remember to read the plan of the day as soon as I get up. "Ten hundred?"

"Right." Sheriff Sharpe smiled. "That's ten A.M., sir."

Paul couldn't help smiling back at the audacity of the statement. "I know that. They did teach me to tell military time."

"Can't take anything for granted with a new ensign, sir. See you at the XO's stateroom at ten hundred."

"Sure. Say, have you seen Lieutenant Tweed anywhere?"

Sharpe paused, then used his thumb to point forward. "She might be in the classified materials vault."

"She might be, huh? Thanks, Sheriff." Paul hurried along, vaguely recalling that the 'vault' containing the most sensitive classified material on the ship was located next to the ship's Combat Information Center. After asking a passing sailor for directions, he found the door and rapped softly. Getting no response, he rapped again, harder.

"Wait." The lock on the hatch cycled open, then a lieutenant with a slim face and a guarded expression gazed out. "Oh. Paul, right? Whatever it is will have to wait. I'm doing an inventory."

Paul nodded in apparent agreement, even though he could see Tweed blinking sleep from her eyes. "Commander Garcia said he needed to see us both. At once."

"He did?" Tweed looked around as if seeking an escape route, then shrugged. "Okay. Let's go."

Garcia's temper didn't seem to have improved in the brief period since Paul had last seen him. Their Department head glared at Paul and Lieutenant Tweed, then shoved a portable reader at them. "Where's the pre-ex for the simulated tracking drill this morning?"

Paul stared at the reader while dread grew in him. A pre-exercise message laid out coordination procedures for drills involving more than one ship. Most of the information was canned, Paul already knew, and simply had to be spelled out again, but every exercise required a pre-ex message to every unit involved. "I… I…" Lieutenant Tweed was frowning in thought, then looking sidelong at Paul with a worried expression. She told me to take care of it. I remember now. Oh, geez. Commander Garcia's eyes were fixed on him, hard and angry. Paul swallowed, then spoke in a voice he knew sounded thin. "I was supposed to take care of it, sir."

"You were supposed to take care of it. Why didn't you?"

"I intended doing it today, sir-"

"The exercise is today! Didn't you review the exercise material as soon as you got told to take care of the pre-ex?"

"No, sir. I… didn't."

Garcia's face reddened. Paul's department head looked as if he were barely restraining himself, then shook his head like an angry bull. "You'd better not screw up like this again, Sinclair. Now, I personally will have to coordinate all this on the fly. Do you think I'm happy about that, Sinclair?"

"No, sir."

"Were you planning on leaving the ship this evening, Sinclair?"

Michaelson was due to get underway in the morning. Paul had already been invited out to a bar crawl with the other junior officers, but now he shook his head, knowing what his answer had to be. "No, sir."

"Good. At least you got that right." Garcia stomped away, leaving Paul and Jan Tweed alone.

Lieutenant Tweed tried to smile sympathetically. "It happens to everybody."

Paul held back a bitter reply, angry with her for not warning him the message had been a short fuse item, but also knowing it had been his own fault he hadn't checked on it before postponing action. And at least she didn't blame me for it right off. I guess Carl was right. You can't count on her, but Tweed won't mess me over deliberately. "Yeah. First time for everything. I'm sure it won't be the last. Should I try to help the commander with fixing this up?"

"Uh-uh. Bad idea. Garcia will cool down while he works, unless you're there to remind him you screwed up." Tweed checked her watch and smiled briefly again. "Hey. Breakfast time. Coming?"

"No, thanks. I'm not too hungry right now."

"Suit yourself."

Paul wandered down the passageway, his eyes fixed on the deck, feeling angry at his own failure but still resentful of Commander Garcia. It's my fault, but it's also not like that guy is providing any real guidance or support for me. What's that they say about officers on ships? They eat their young. I guess that's true.

A body blocked his progress, causing Paul to look up into the sympathetic face of Ensign Sam Yarrow. "Hey, Paul, I heard Garcia did a number on you."

"Yeah."

"Too bad." Yarrow placed a friendly hand on Paul's shoulder. "Garcia's a real hard-ass, isn't he?"

"Sure seems to be."

"He riding you hard?"

"Real hard."

"Damn shame. I bet you didn't deserve getting chewed out, did you?"

"Well, uh…" Paul let his words trail off, suddenly wary of Yarrow's apparent concern. "I don't know. I made a mistake."

"A big mistake or a little one? You've got to have a chance to learn. Right?"

"Uh, right. Look, I've got some other stuff to handle. See you later."

"Sure thing."

Paul spent the next few hours working through his to-do list, making sure nothing else would miss being done on time, then hustled to be outside the XO's stateroom prior to ten hundred. Sheriff Sharpe was already waiting, along with the familiar senior chief, who grinned in greeting. "Howdy, Mr. Sinclair."

"Hi, Senior Chief. What's your name anyway?"

The grin widened. "Senior Chief Kowalski, sir. Leading chief on the Michaelson. That's why I'm here for XO's screening."

"Right." Paul nodded absently, trying to dredge up his memories of the XO screenings he'd attended during his limited fleet experience. Most violations of military rules and regulations weren't handled by courts-martial, but by Non-Judicial Punishment. NJP had its own rules and limitations, and allowed a commanding officer to deal with the great majority of breaches of good order and discipline in a quick and effective manner. But not every offense technically referred for NJP needed to be handled even in that fashion, which led to the XO's screening, where the executive officer reviewed each case and decided whether it should go on up to the Captain or could be disposed of without taking that step.

Two more chiefs arrived, each with a sailor in tow, then Sheriff Sharpe rapped on the XO's hatch and received permission to enter. Paul, Senior Chief Kowalski, and Sharpe crowded into the stateroom, Paul following the others' example by flattening himself against one bulkhead to leave a small space clear in the center. Commander Herdez nodded in general greeting, then pointed toward the hatch. "Let's start with Alvarez."

Sharpe leaned out, signaling to one sailor, who entered along with her chief. Alvarez stood at what could technically be called attention, though she somehow imbued the stance with an air of insubordination. "Attention!" Sharpe snapped, then stepped back as Alvarez tightened her stance marginally.

Herdez scanned her reader, her face as hard as the metal deck, then looked up at Alvarez. "Seaman Alvarez, you are charged with two violations of the Uniform Code of Military Justice. Article 86, failure to go to an appointed place of duty, and Article 91, insubordinate conduct toward a petty officer. Chief Thomas."

The chief petty officer accompanying Alvarez wedged herself slightly forward.

"What happened?"

"During morning muster, Seaman Alvarez was not present, ma'am. She had still not appeared at the completion of muster, so I went down to the berthing compartment and found her in her rack. I ordered her to get up immediately and, instead of complying, Seaman Alvarez made a number of obscene remarks directed at me."

Commander Herdez' face somehow seemed to harden even further. "It seems to me that Seaman Alvarez should also be charged under Article 91 with disobeying an order from a petty officer. Is that correct?"

Chief Thomas chewed her lip for a moment before answering. "Seaman Alvarez did get up and proceed with her duties after I, uh, motivated her, ma'am."

"Hmmm." Herdez shifted her gaze back to Alvarez. "Seaman Alvarez, what do you have to say?"

Alvarez displayed an apparently insincere mix of regret and earnestness as she spoke. "I was sick, ma'am. Real sick. I could hardly move at all. I tried to tell Chief Thomas, but she wouldn't listen. So I got up anyway, but it was real hard. But it wasn't my fault, ma'am."

"Real sick?" Herdez looked back at Chief Thomas. "Did you send Seaman Alvarez to sick bay?"

"I did, ma'am. The doc reported Alvarez had a bad hangover, that was all."

"A hangover."

Alvarez spoke again, licking her lips nervously. "I didn't drink that much the night before, ma'am. Just a little. It was some bad booze. Real bad. Or somebody slipped me a Mickey. You know, to rob me or somethin', but I got back to the ship anyway. The doc wouldn't listen, though."

Herdez shook her head slowly, her eyes fixed on Alvarez. "Neither will I, because your story is not very believable. Sick bay would have spotted any traces of drugs in your system from a Mickey, but you refused such a test. Why?"

"I, uh, they coulda taken my word-"

"They also could have detected other drugs, perhaps. But I can't charge you with offenses I only believe you committed." Herdez looked toward Sheriff Sharpe. "This case is referred to Captain's mast. Dismissed."

Alvarez, her head down so no one could read her expression, followed Chief Thomas out. Commander Herdez nodded to Sharpe. "Next."

Sharpe leaned out the hatch. "Seaman Franco."

Franco entered with his chief, then stood at rigid attention, almost quivering with nervousness. Herdez favored him with a stern look, then checked her reader. "Seaman Franco, you are charged with violating Article 86, failure to go to an appointed place of duty. Chief Blucher?"

Chief Blucher tilted his head toward Franco. "Seaman Franco, he didn't show up for morning muster yesterday. He got back to the ship maybe a half hour late, after liberty had expired."

"What do have to say, Seaman Franco?"

Franco twitched, his face rigid. "Ma'am, I… uh… didn't… realize the time."

"What were you doing that made you so unaware of your duties on the ship, Seaman Franco?"

"I… uh… ma'am… um… a friend…"

The corner of Herdez' mouth twitched. "Chief Blucher, can you shed any light on this?"

"Yes, ma'am. I believe Seaman Franco has a new girlfriend ashore."

"Ah. Your first girlfriend, Seaman Franco?"

Franco nodded once, his face rigid, worried eyes fixed on the far bulkhead. "Yes, ma'am. Uh, I mean, first real girlfriend."

"I see. And you were engaged in some activities with this girlfriend which caused you to be late returning to the ship?"

"I… I'm sorry, ma'am. I really didn't realize…"

Herdez turned to Chief Blucher again. "What sort of sailor is Seaman Franco?"

"He's a good sailor, ma'am. Hard worker."

"Has he been in trouble before?"

"No, ma'am."

"Very well." Herdez fixed a stern gaze in Franco. "Then I believe this can be handled without referring the case to the Captain. Chief Blucher, ensure Seaman Franco understands the consequences of failing to attend to his duties because of… social activities. As for you, Seaman Franco, it's not hard to balance your social life with your professional responsibilities as long as you think with the upper part of your spine instead of the lower part of it. I don't want to see you here again. Is that understood?"

"Yes, ma'am. Th-thank you, ma'am."

"Dismissed."

Franco and Blucher trooped out, while Senior Chief Kowalski rubbed his face to conceal a smile. "Thanks, Commander."

Commander Herdez kept her own face solemn. "No thanks needed, Senior Chief. Franco is a good sailor, but more than one good sailor has wandered astray. Putting the fear of God in him at this point should ensure he stays on track. Alvarez, on the other hand… Senior Chief, I want you to be thinking about ways to get her transferred off this ship if necessary."

Kowalski nodded. "Okay, ma'am. She's a bad egg. But the shore establishment don't like it when we dump bad sailors on them."

"Since the shore establishment sends them to us in the first place, I don't see where they have cause to complain. See to it, Senior Chief. Thank you, Petty Officer Sharpe. Mr. Sinclair, I'll need to see you tomorrow afternoon."

"Yes, ma'am." Paul went cold inside, imagining his foul up with Commander Garcia had attracted even worse attention than he had imagined.

Herdez weighed Paul with her eyes, making him feel as if she were looking through him. "It's a legal issue, Mr. Sinclair. Thank you."

Paul followed the others out of the stateroom. "Sheriff, you got a minute?"

"Certainly, sir." Sharpe seemed to be in good humor.

"I guess you enjoyed that little act with Franco."

"That I did, sir. But it wasn't no act. The XO meant what she said." Sharpe inclined his head to indicate Commander Herdez' stateroom. "If you don't mind my saying so, sir, that was a good leadership lesson in there."

"I'd already figured that out, Sheriff. But tell me something. How much trouble do we have with sailors?"

Sharpe grinned. "They're sailors, bless 'em. They get drunk, they get in fights with girlfriends and boyfriends and bartenders and cops and other sailors, they get home late, they say or do something stupid. It happens."

"I know that much. What I was wondering was, do they get in much trouble when we're underway? I mean, are XO's Screening and Captain's Mast going to demand a lot of my time once we're underway?"

"Oh." Sheriff Sharpe grimaced. "Look at it this way, sir. You're gonna go out on a long patrol. You're stuck in a metal box for months. No liberty. No booze. What're they gonna do to you if you mouth off or steal a little food or try to jury-rig a still so you can get drunk? You can fine them, but what's less money mean when there's no place to spend it? You can bust them a paygrade, but so what? You wake up in the same little box of a berthing compartment, eat the same rotten food, and do the same job. Even if we stick 'em in the brig, that's just a private room. And bread and water? That's better than half the meals they serve on the mess decks. So, I guess your answer is, yeah, we get a lot of work underway. The good sailors don't act too much different, though even they know any punishment don't mean much compared to six months stuck inside this can, but the bad actors figure it's open season for the first few months. Once we hit the halfway point, they start cleaning up their acts. Ain't nobody wants to be on confinement when we get home. No, sir. But up 'til then, it's gonna be busy, Mr. Sinclair."

Paul blew out air in a long sigh. "Thanks, Sheriff. I guess I'll be seeing a whole lot of you."

"That's because you're a lucky man, sir." Sharpe chuckled, then brought his right hand up in a salute. "By your leave, sir?"

Paul returned the salute, unable to fight down a smile of his own at the exaggerated military courtesy. "Go away, Sheriff."

"Thank you, sir!"

Paul was still smiling when he reached his stateroom, but the smile faded as soon as he saw the message from Commander Garcia demanding his immediate presence in the Combat Information Center. Paul hastened to CIC, finding the compartment jammed with enlisted operations specialists and Lieutenant Jan Tweed as well as Garcia.

"Where the hell have you been?" Garcia barked the question without taking his eyes off the tracking screen.

"Attending XO's screening, sir."

This time Garcia took a moment to glare directly at Paul. "Why?"

"Commander Herdez requested-."

"You're needed in here. Get to work."

"Yes, sir." Paul glanced hopelessly toward Tweed, who was slouched in a corner.

Tweed beckoned him over with a small gesture, then indicated two enlisted sailors operating a console nearby. "Hang around there, Paul," she advised in a whisper. "Just watch and learn."

Paul stole a glance toward Garcia. "But he said for me to get to work."

"This is work. Learning is work. Keep your eyes and ears open. That's the best way to avoid mistakes."

"Shouldn't I do anything?"

"If Garcia wants you to do something, he'll tell you. Until then, just stay out of his way."

Paul nodded, positioning himself near the enlisted. Great. My department head issues vague orders to do something while he runs this drill personally, and my division officer tells me to do nothing while she tries to hide in a corner. Well, I won't be happy doing nothing for long, but Tweed's right that I need to learn a lot about operations in here.

Paul had toured Combat Information Centers before, he'd taken courses on what happened in a CIC, and had even experienced a few CIC simulator runs during training. A CIC did exactly what its name said, collecting all available information to support combat decisions and carry out combat actions ordered by the ship's captain. Every sensor funneled readings and detections to this compartment. Every communications circuit was monitored here, either by humans or computers listening for keywords. Intelligence reports came here, their data and estimates added to the welter of information. Skilled personnel evaluated what they saw, monitoring displays that hopefully gave a ship's commanding officer everything needed to make critical decisions, decisions that might literally involve life and death. If those decisions dictated that weapons were to be employed, someone in this compartment might well fire those weapons.

Despite his training, Paul found being part of a real CIC to be daunting. Funny how much different it is to actually be expected to participate in a real CIC compared to some simulator drill. I'm actually part of this. What part, I'm not sure, yet. He glanced over at Tweed, hunched in her corner. The CIC Officer is supposed to be running all this, making sure all the enlisted specialists are doing their jobs well and making sure the information displayed for the Captain is clear and accurate. Everything seems to be running great. Is Tweed being smart by letting capable enlisted do their jobs, or is she just giving them free rein because she doesn't want to supervise them? Paul took a long look at Commander Garcia, hunched over a terminal and snarling commands. Or has Garcia effectively taken over Tweed's job and left her nothing to supervise, regardless of how she feels? The last possibility was particularly worrisome. Despite his misgivings, Paul had no doubt he could learn to carry out a CIC Officer's responsibilities. But he also knew he wouldn't have much chance of ever doing that if Commander Garcia insisted on personally running the show.

He watched and he listened, feeling a growing sense of reassurance at the ease with which the enlisted specialists handled their jobs, increasingly deciding that Tweed's passivity was a combined result of two of the factors he'd earlier considered: Garcia's involvement and confidence in her personnel. She wasn't being allowed to run things, but she didn't have to run things. The path of least resistance ran naturally right to the corner Tweed occupied.

Gradually, the commands issued and information displayed began to make sense. He had to think in three dimensions rather than the two dimensional movement of surface ships on Earth, and radically change his perception of distances and speeds involved, but the basic process of detection, localizing and tracking wasn't really different from that used on the waterborne ships Paul had trained on.

The two enlisted at the console directly before Paul were responsible for evaluating sensor detections. For the most part, they spent the drill trying not to look bored as detections popped up in what was obviously a predictable sequence. Paul watched them with increasing frustration, wanting to ask specific questions but unable to interrupt the drill being run by Garcia.

Garcia finally stood, slapping a few control buttons, swung a narrow-eyed gaze around the compartment, then left without a word. The sailors visibly relaxed and began bantering among themselves. Paul looked for Tweed, but she was already heading out the other hatch. I guess the exercise is over. "Excuse me," he asked the two enlisted specialists at his console, "could you guys give me a run-down on this gear?"

The senior of the two petty officers smiled obligingly, but shook her head. "I'm sorry, sir. We've got to power it down for some scheduled maintenance. Maybe some other time?"

"Sure. Thanks." Feeling once more like excess baggage, Paul made his way out of the compartment as well, then stood for a moment in the passageway, uncertain. Okay, so I'm going to have to learn a lot of this job on my own. I can do that. And the first thing I'm going to do now is learn enough of the ship's organization manual to avoid any more unnecessary screw-ups.

Paul took his bearings. He'd figured out a few paths through the ship to different destinations, and didn't want to risk veering off his route and getting lost again within the maze of decks and passageways.

With increasing confidence in his knowledge of the way, Paul made his way back to the ensign locker, feeling a small measure of relief that none of his roommates were present. Carl Meadows wouldn't have been bad company, but Paul still wasn't sure how sympathetic he'd be to the travails of another junior officer. And he was still wary of Sam Yarrow.

Paul sat down, called up the ship's manual to check on procedures, then flinched as the hatch to the ensign locker boomed open. Ensign Jen Shen entered, her face dark, and punched the nearest locker hard enough for the metal to bow in temporarily. Waiting a moment, Shen slammed another blow at the locker, then dropped into the nearest chair and glared at Paul. "Idiots. Stupid, brainless, butt-kissing idiots."

"You appear to be a little upset."

"Just a little. I've got a piece of gear called a reverse osmosis device. It makes the water we recycle fit to drink. I've actually got three, but if only two work then eventually we run low on water and everybody gets real unhappy. Ask me how many working reverse osmosis devices I have."

"Something tells me the answer isn't three."

"It's not. Oh, I can make the piece of junk work in fits and starts by tweaking stuff and threatening it, but effectively it's broke. But can we report that? Maybe get a new one before we deploy? Heck, no, Ensign Shen! Because we can't deploy with only two working osmosis devices. We gotta have three! And heaven forbid we should upset anyone by telling them we only have two, because that might cause our deployment date to slip and the fleet staff would have a hissy fit."

Paul knew he shouldn't say it, but he did. "Two out of three ain't ba-" He ducked as Shen threw the closest available object at him. "I'm really sorry. That sucks. It doesn't make sense, either. I mean, what happens if one of the two working osmosis devices goes down hard?"

"We head home and pray we make it on time. Like I said, it's stupid." Shen buried her head in her hands. "But you have to get used to it. It's all about looking good. And not looking bad. Admitting something is broke looks bad. So everybody pretends everything is fine." Paul sat silent, at a loss for words, until she raised her head again to regard him. "Speaking of looking bad, I'm surprised you were in any mood to joke."

"You mean that exercise message I messed up? I can't believe how many people have heard about that. I'm not happy, but I've got to learn from it and move on. Right?"

She stared at him for a moment. "Do you want to know what I just overheard Ensign Sam Yarrow discussing with Commander Garcia?" Paul felt his blood chill, but nodded anyway. "Something along the lines of 'I can't believe Ensign Sinclair thinks you're a hard-ass who's riding him too hard.' Did you say that?"

"No! He did!"

"Yarrow?"

"Yes, Yarrow! He came up and talked all sympathetic and asked me if I thought Garcia was a hard-ass and stuff, and all I did was kinda agree."

"Uh-huh." Shen hid her face again. "Sorry, Paul. I warned you."

"That slimy bastard! He actually put words in my mouth!"

"Uh-huh. How's the back feel?"

"Like I had ten inches of cold steel between my shoulder blades. I'll kill him! I can't believe he would do something like that."

"Usually, the victim doesn't know. I just happened to blow past and Yarrow didn't see me until too late. I could tell from the look on his face that he knew I'd tell you. Want some advice?"

Paul sat brooding for a long moment. "I guess I'd be an idiot to say no, and I already know your opinion of idiots."

Shen grinned. "That you do. My advice is, pretend it never happened. Keep Smilin' Sam at arm's length but don't ever let on you found out. That'll get him real nervous, wondering what you're up to. Maybe it'll make him nervous enough to lay off you."

"Is that what you do? Keep Yarrow nervous by not letting on what you're doing?"

"Me? Hell, no. I told Yarrow if he messed with me again I'd stuff him down the solid waste disposal chute. He's probably still playing games behind my back, but at least he's being cautious about it. You're a little more low key than I am, though, if I read you right."

"Yeah. I think so." Just about everybody's more low key than Jen Shen, if I read her right. "Okay. I'll take your advice. And thanks. What about Garcia? He must be ready to toss me out the nearest airlock."

"Probably. But he won't, because assaulting a subordinate would look real bad on his record. The best way to handle Garcia is to do the best job you can. If you do good, he'll lay off you. Nothing else will satisfy him except knowing you're not going to make him look bad."

"There's that phrase again. 'Looking bad.' Jen, I don't get it."

"What's not to get?"

Paul waved a hand around to encompass the entire ship. "There seems to be such a mix of people on this ship. I figured the space branch would be, you know, sort of the best and the brightest."

She laughed sharply. "Boy, and I thought I was young! You want the run-down Paul? There's basically three kinds of people up here. You represent one of them. You volunteered for duty in space. You're idealistic, hard-charging, ready to conquer the universe for humanity."

"I'm not that-"

"Hey, I'm using you as an archetype. When you're a symbol of something you can't quibble over details." Jen leaned back, gazing wistfully out the hatch. "I used to be like that. Now… I don't know. The second type up here are the Carl Meadows' of the Navy. They're just out to survive. Keep a low profile, get the job done, don't sweat anything that doesn't need sweating."

"Carl's a real decent guy."

"I didn't say he wasn't. What I said was he'll never make admiral. Carl knows that. He's not going to kill himself chasing a goal he wouldn't really want if he got there. Look around. He's not the only officer in the wardroom like that."

"You mean like Commander Sykes, too?"

"Oh, yeah. Suppo's the king of the slackers. If I ever convert to that religion entirely, he's the guy I'll worship." She sighed. "Then there's the third group, the unjustly exiled. In their eyes, anyway. They got stuck out here, far from all the plum jobs that just about guarantee promotion, far from all the admirals looking for adoring proteges, far from everything. The only way people hear about what you've done in space is if you screw up big time. And I mean big time." Jen flashed a smile. "Messing up an exercise message doesn't make the grade. So these exiles work their butts off, or make their subordinates work their butts off, in hopes they'll grab the golden ring and return home with glory, medals and promotion opportunities galore. In sum, they wanta look good. Problem is, they're not that good to begin with. Which is why they got exiled in the first place."

"I see. That makes a lot of sense. Garcia's an exile, isn't he?" Jen nodded. "And so's the Captain."

"Oh, yeah. Cap'n Pete would sell his mother for a ticket back to fleet staff, where he could impress the admiral with his social banter and devotion to the admiral's well-being."

Paul smiled ruefully. "I believe it. But what about the XO? She doesn't seem to fit any of those groups."

Jen frowned. "No. She's sort of an idealist, but not in the 'future of humanity in space' sense. For Herdez, it's the Navy. That's what she believes in. She doesn't give a damn what happens to her. She's here because they told her the ship needed a good XO. Don't ask me how I know that. But, fair warning, Paul, she supports the Captain. That's the Navy rule. Don't think because Cap'n Pete is doing something stupid that Herdez will step in and try to stop it. She's the XO, he's the Captain. That sets the rules of the universe as far as she's concerned."

"Thanks. Warning duly noted." Paul let his face momentarily sag, once again overwhelmed. "Man, if I had any idea what I was getting into…"

Shen grinned again. "Don't let it get to you. Endure. Find some hobby to keep the insanity and the big black outside at bay."

"What's your hobby?"

"I punch lockers."

Paul smiled back. "I'm glad I'm not a locker." He looked over at his, suddenly concerned again. "I hope I packed everything right." In the morning the Michaelson would be maneuvering, and any object not properly fastened down would become a victim of physics.

"I'll check it for you," Shen offered. She popped his locker, eyeing his gear, her face intent, transformed instantly into an experienced professional. "Looks good to me. If anything, you overdid some of the tie downs. But better that than underdoing them." Shen stepped back, glancing questioningly at Paul. "No pictures?"

"Uh, no. No girlfriend."

"Too bad. Or maybe good. Shipboard life is hell on relationships, if you haven't already figured that out."

"I'd guessed. No time for them, right?"

"Right. And if you found any time, you'd be halfway to nowhere when it showed up. You can't even phone home because the distances are so huge light-speed lag makes conversations a pain in the neck, and most of the time you can't send messages either because the ship's trying to keep emissions to a minimum so no one can detect us."

Paul nodded wearily. "So good luck maintaining a relationship with someone off the ship. And I know what regulations say about relationships among crewmembers."

Jen nodded quickly back. "Right again. Don't even think about that. If you fall in love, or lust, with someone else on this ship then keep it to yourself until you're walking off the ship for the last time enroute to your next assignment. Then you can share your emotions or whatever with the object of your affections to your heart's content. But don't try it while you're both still assigned to this ship. The XO's not amused when she finds out about that sort of thing."

"Has it been a big problem on the ship?"

Jen shrugged. "A big problem? No. But it happens. We had a couple of enlisted who got busted and fined, one of them subsequently being transferred to the US Navy's equivalent of Siberia. Then there was a Lieutenant some time back who couldn't keep his hands off a seaman in his division."

Paul stared in disbelief. "In his division? He messed around with an enlisted sailor in his chain of command? How could he be that stupid? And unprofessional?"

"If you'd ever met the guy, you'd know how he could be that stupid and unprofessional. Of course, if you wanted to meet him now, you'd have to visit the brig where he's serving hard time. Like I said, Herdez doesn't tolerate anything that threatens the chain of command. If you've got a roving eye, try to park it while you're onboard."

Paul laughed. "Jen, to be perfectly honest, one of the few faults I can't lay claim to is a roving eye."

"Not a Don Juan, huh?"

"Nope."

"Good for you. That'll make life onboard easier for you. And if you really need some photos for your locker, you could do what Yarrow does. He's got pictures of his sports car posted."

"You're kidding."

"Take a look when you get a chance." Ensign Shen clapped Paul on the shoulder. "I have to get back to pleading with my bosses for sanity to prevail. Vainly pleading, no doubt, but I have to try so I can scream 'I told you so' with my dying breath. Hang in there, Paul."

"Thanks, Jen."

"You're feeling lost and overwhelmed, right?"

"Does it show?" The thought alarmed Paul, already worried over his performance onboard the ship so far.

But Jen shook her head. "No. You're doing a good enough job of projecting confidence. But it wasn't all that long ago that I was new to the ship. I remember. Boy, do I remember. A lot of things don't get easier, but that part does. Trust me."

"I sure hope you're right. Are you going out with the others tonight?"

"I wish. I've got duty, and even if I didn't I'd be fussing over that damned osmosis device. You?"

"Nope. I'm sort of voluntarily confined to the ship while I reflect on the error of my ways."

"A wise man. See you around. Maybe we can catch a flick after dinner." She smiled again. "My treat."

"I thought movies in the ship's entertainment system were free."

"They are." Laughing, Ensign Shen headed out into the passageway.