A Just Determination

Chapter Four

Lieutenant Jan Tweed slowly reached forward, gently tapping a few controls on her watch station console. In the dim lighting of the bridge, the gentle radiance of the illuminated control panels seemed to glow like small candles behind colored glass. On the screen displaying an image of the outside, nothing could be seen but endless dark spotted with countless stars, each bright and hard as a diamond. Somehow that vision of emptiness sucked the warmth from the bridge, leaving Paul shivering slightly, even though he knew the temperature inside the ship was comfortable for both humans and their machines.

The ship's night had been in effect for hours now, with reddened, minimal internal lighting which helped keep human sleep cycles on track. When sunrise officially arrived in a few more hours, the internal lights would brighten to mimic daylight on Earth. But for now, darkness ruled both inside and outside the ship, as did a quiet aimed at aiding the sleep of those crew members fortunate enough not to be on watch.

One month out of Franklin Station, weeks away from routes frequented by humans (though frequented often meant little in the vast spaces of the solar system) the Michaelson proceeded on a patrol marked so far by isolation and emptiness. Paul glanced at the time as Tweed worked at the casual pace of someone who knew they had hours of boredom yet to endure. The midwatch had started at midnight, ship's time, even though Paul had actually been on the bridge a half-hour earlier for turn-over with the officer he was relieving on watch. It would run until four in the morning, or 0400 on the twenty-four hour military clocks. Paul's thoughts idly wandered back to the days when he'd called that time 4 A.M., back before the Academy had rearranged the way he thought about time and a lot of other things. Back then, the eerie quiet of a world where almost everyone and everything else was asleep had been foreign to him. Now, the low lighting, the hushed silence aboard the Michaelson and the cold-beyond-cold outside the ship's hull combined to leave him chilled and subdued.

Tweed leaned back again. From the speaker near her position, odd sounds began issuing. Something like whale song, veering wordlessly up and down the scale, snatches of almost-words growing to near-audibility then fading away, bursts of random static that somehow seemed to formed patterns just beyond his grasp, and beneath it all a low hiss of background noise.

Paul shivered again. "What is that?"

"Space ghosts." Tweed's lips quirked in a smile that was only half-humorous. "That's what they're called, anyway. You lower the noise filters for your radio receiver and expand the frequency reception band. Then you hear them."

A long, low moan whispered across the circuit. "Jeez. That's weird. I guess it's actually really weak signals, Earth-origin and like that, too weak and distorted to be understood? And background radiation and stuff like that?"

"Technically, yeah. A physicist can give you a full run-down of the likely origin of every sound you hear. But… if you listen to it, out here, you hear other stuff. Stuff that doesn't seem to fit technical models." A sound like a whisper, seemingly just a fraction too quiet to be understood, echoed softly, then vanished into a series of static bursts that almost sounded like Morse code, but weren't. "That's why they're nicknamed space ghosts. If you listen long enough, you start to hear things. Long lost ships calling for help, maybe. Aliens sending messages, maybe threats or maybe greetings. Other stuff." Jan Tweed half smiled again. "I served with a warrant officer once who swore that one night he heard his name called, clear as a bell, by an old shipmate. A shipmate who'd been dead several years."

Paul fought down another shiver. "He was probably just messing with you. You know warrants. They love to play games with the minds of junior officers."

"Maybe."

"Mr. Sinclair?" Paul turned as his name was called. Petty Officer Juniro, the quartermaster of the watch, was nodding solemnly. Usually, the quartermaster and the bosun mate of the Watch sat in the rear of the bridge, conversing among themselves in a social world separate from that of the officers until professional duties required communication. "Sir, there's stuff out here that doesn't belong in any technical manual. That's a fact, sir." The bosun nodded as well, her face somber. "You heard of the Titan Expedition, right?"

"The Titan Expedition? Which one?"

"The second, sir. Where they lost those people?"

"Oh, yeah. An ice quake, wasn't it?" He glanced at Tweed for confirmation. "They'd landed on what they thought was a stable section of the ice sheet covering that moon of Saturn, but then the sheet started breaking apart and throwing out plates of ice that could have sliced through the ship, so the lander had to do an emergency lift off to avoid being destroyed. Several members of the exploration team didn't make it back in time."

"Right, sir. And then the fourth expedition."

"The fourth? That had two landers, if I remember right. That's about all I know of that one."

Juniro nodded, his eyes intent. "Right, sir," he repeated. "The third expedition, that one went somewhere else on Titan, but the fourth came back to near where the second one had landed. And it had two landers. Well, they hadn't been down long, the first ship's night in fact, when the watch standers on the first lander spotted some people moving on the surface." Paul raised his eyebrows to indicate interest as Juniro continued. "They was surprised, you see, 'cause there wasn't supposed to be anybody out exploring just then. But they spotted these suits moving. After they saw the first couple of them they tracked back and spotted the others coming up out of a cleft in the ice. Then they watched 'em, six of 'em, walk up to the second lander and walk up the access ladder and into the airlock."

Paul glanced at Tweed, then back at the quartermaster. "So?"

"So, like I said, sir, there wasn't supposed to be anybody on the surface just then. The watch notified the expedition commander and he called the second lander and demanded to know who the hell had sent a party out. And the second lander says 'Nobody.' They said they hadn't sent anyone onto the surface. So then the commander asks 'em who just came aboard the lander and they said 'Nobody.' And sure enough, the auto-logs for the second lander didn't show anybody coming in through the airlock. But the three watch standers on the first lander, three of 'em, sir, all swore they'd seen six suits walk to that lander and climb aboard."

Juniro paused, looking from Paul to Lieutenant Tweed to the bosun. "That's when they remembered the second lander had been the same lander used in the Second Expedition. The one that left those crew members behind, sir." Juniro paused again. "And there'd been six of 'em, sir. Six crew left behind to be swallowed by the ice. Well, the instruments all said nothing had happened, but the watch standers on the first lander, they knew what they'd seen. Those six crew members, they'd finally made it back to their lander."

Silence stretched, before Paul became aware he was holding his breath and inhaled deeply. He glanced at Tweed, who was frowning at the deck, then at the two enlisted. The quartermaster and the bosun nodded at each other, apparently sharing in a knowledge born not of physics but of years riding the deck plates, no trace of covert mirth on their faces. A long, undulating rhythm of static rolled out of Tweed's speaker, ending in a brief shriek which seemed to choke off abruptly. Outside, the stars glittered coldly.

Carl Meadows chuckled softly. "Juniro's a bull artist, Paul. He can spin a great sea-story, but don't buy any bridges from him."

"So that stuff about the fourth Titan expedition isn't true?"

Carl shrugged. "I've no idea. Could be."

"The logs from the expedition-"

"Wouldn't prove anything. If the incident wasn't there, you could argue the commander ordered them not to log it, or that the logs had been censored afterwards."

Paul frowned. "I thought logs couldn't be altered once they were recorded."

"Oh, hell, Paul. Maybe I ought to try to sell you a bridge. Of course they can alter logs. They're just electronic data. I don't care what safeguards officially exist, I'll guarantee you there's ways to get around them. Stuff happens that no one wants to be in logs, right? So you change history a little. Click, click, click. Never happened. All is right with the world."

Paul laughed. "Okay. So I'm naive. I'm an ensign."

"You've been one for a few months, now." Meadows grinned. "You've got to start learning sometime."

"Yes, sir, Lieutenant Junior Grade Meadows, sir. So what do you, personally, think? Is that Titan stuff just a ghost story?"

Meadows pursed his lips, then shrugged again. "Hell if I know. Sometimes that stuff is easy to believe. Other times it sounds like nonsense. On the bridge, on the mid-watch, in the middle of nowhere, it plays real. But tell it in a bar on Franklin Station and you'd probably find yourself laughed out of Earth orbit."

"Then you're an agnostic on space ghosts?"

Carl grinned again. "Human spirits can seem a long ways away out here, but it's too damn cold and empty to be comfortable with atheism. Call me a space ghost pragmatist."

"Aye, aye, sir."

"Hey, Sinclair!" Paul winced slightly as Ensign Sam Yarrow stuck his head in the stateroom. Turning, he saw Yarrow standing in the hatch to the ensign locker and smiling at him with apparent commiseration. "I just wanted to give you a heads-up. Commander Garcia was checking how his junior officers were doing on their Open Space Warfare Officer qualifications." Paul barely kept from wincing again. With everything else demanding his time, he hadn't even looked at his OSWO qualification requirements in over a week. "He wasn't too happy. Sorry to be the bearer of bad news."

Yeah, I bet. I also bet you were the one who got him thinking he should check on my OSWO quals, after you'd gotten a bunch of your own OSWO stuff signed off. Outwardly, Paul just nodded. "Thanks."

"No problem. Just-"

"Coming through. Make way," Kris Denaldo barked, elbowing Yarrow to one side. Ignoring Yarrow's glower, she focused on Meadows. "Carl. You promised to check off some of my OSWO qualifications. I've got maybe half an hour before all hell breaks loose again. You free?"

"Free enough." Carl gestured to Paul. "And, by sheer coincidence, Paul here is also ready to get some of his OSWO stuff signed off. Right?"

"Uh…"

"Right. Come on." Meadows and Sinclair crowded out past Yarrow, then Denaldo flattened herself against the bulkhead to let Meadows take the lead as he headed for the compartments near the outer hull.

Paul steamed silently until Kris tapped his shoulder. "What's up?"

"Oh, our supportive bull ensign just screwed me again. I suppose he's screwed you plenty of times, too."

"He'd like to." She laughed as Paul reacted to the double-meaning. "Not that he has a hamster's chance in hard vacuum of getting his wish. But as for the sort of screwing you're talking about, don't let it get to you. Life's too short. Days are too short."

"How do you keep going, Kris? Every time I see you, you're in motion."

"My mind's always five minutes behind the rest of me. By the time I realize I'm exhausted, I'm already past that point and doing something else."

Carl Meadows stopped at an access hatch leading toward the outer hull, keying the monitor next to it. "Lieutenant Meadows, Ensign Denaldo and Ensign Sinclair accessing maintenance trunk B-205-E."

An engineering watch stander responded, his voice tinged with boredom at the routine. "Purpose of access, sir?"

"Officer qualification review."

"Anticipated duration?"

"Fifteen minutes."

"Permission granted to access maintenance trunk B-205-E, Lieutenant Meadows. Notify the Damage Control watch upon exiting the space."

"Affirmative." Carl cracked the hatch, its squarish dimensions betraying the constricted nature of the maintenance trunk it guarded, then waved Kris Denaldo through. "Ladies first. Paul, you follow me." Paul fought down a tinge of claustrophobia as he watched the other two swing inside a tunnel-like access trunk with sides measuring only about a meter wide. As if sensing Paul's misgivings, or perhaps remembering his own experiences, Carl grinned back at Paul as he swung in. "We're lucky, you know. If they didn't have to make these things wide enough for someone in a full protective suit to squeeze through they'd be a lot narrower."

"Lucky us." Paul followed cautiously as the small party moved several meters along the trunk before Carl called a halt.

"Okay." Carl Meadows pointed to the outer surface of the trunk they were in. A pattern was visible there, of hexagons joined at every side and repeating as far as could be seen. "Ensign Denaldo, what are we looking at?"

"The water-blanket."

"That's its nickname. The official nomenclature is…?"

"Sorry. That's the Ship's Inner Hull Thermal Absorption Barrier System. Mark Four."

"Mod?"

Denaldo twisted to look back at Carl, her expression exasperated. "Why do I need to know the mod? This is a, uh, Mod Two. But that doesn't matter, because the only difference between the different models is superficial."

"Who told you that?"

"Jen."

Carl nodded. "Jen's right, but you're wrong. Why do have to know the mod number? Because your qualification standards say you have to know the mod number. And that means when you go up for a screening board they'll ask you the mod number."

"So I have to know it not because it's important but because I'm going to be asked anyway?"

"Exactly. Sometimes it is important to know the mod number, so they make you know it all the time. Okay, here we have a Mark Four Mod Two Ship's Inner Hull Thermal Absorption Barrier System. What's it do?"

"What it says." Kris waved her hand at the hexagonal honeycomb. "Every one of those hexagons outlines a cell filled with water and interconnected to every hexagon next to it. That water barrier forms the inner hull of the ship, and absorbs all the heat generated by the crew and equipment."

"What else does it absorb? Paul?"

Paul swallowed, thinking through his answer before replying. "It also absorbs any incoming heat or radiation striking the outer hull. That protects the crew from radiation, and our reflected heat signature is reduced to a minimum, making the ship harder for anyone to spot against the background of space."

"Right. Why do we use water for that?"

"Because water is the best heat sink in the known universe?"

Carl nodded. "Right again. It also stops radiation pretty darn good, and using it as a barrier gives us a place to store water we need for the ship and crew anyway. But what happens to the heat this stuff absorbs? Kris?"

"It gets circulated by pumps, with higher temperature water cycled toward the main machinery room. Once it gets hot enough there, they run it through a low pressure tube-"

"Which is actually named?"

"A Venturi tube. Increases velocity and reduces pressure. The hot water flashes to steam, and the steam gets shunted to counter-rotating turbines which supply some of our electrical power. We convert our own waste heat into another source of energy we can use."

"And recycling everything out here is a real good idea. Unfortunately, as Ensign Shen will tell you, those turbines like to break down just when you need them the most, and if one goes down you have to take down its partner as well. Paul, why do we need counter-rotating turbines?"

"Because if we just had a turbine going in one direction its torque would force the ship to rotate."

"Uh-huh. And what happens if something knocks a hole in the inner hull? How many water cells do we lose?"

Paul hesitated, then spotted Kris Denaldo waving her hand at him, one index finger extended. Oh, yeah. I know this. Thanks, Kris. "One. Seals activate automatically on all six sides to isolate a cell if there's a pressure drop."

"And why is having a shield of water armor real useful in combat?"

"Because the water flashes to vapor when it gets hit. That dissipates the energy of the hit on the ship as well as anything could."

"Excellent. What a fine crop of ensigns we have these days." Carl, pretending to ignore the rude responses of Paul and Kris to his sarcasm, hauled out his personal data link and tapped in some information. "Congratulations. You two have just signed off some of your damage control and engineering OSWO qualifications."

"Thanks, Carl." Kris gestured down the way they'd come. "Can we egress the exit now? I've got things to see and people to do." Moments later, they were out of the access trunk, Paul luxuriating in the suddenly expansive-seeming confines of the corridor, and Kris Denaldo was swinging rapidly away. "See you guys around," she called, before vanishing around a corner.

Paul shook his head. "Does she ever slow down?"

"Not that I've ever seen." Carl sighed audibly. "That babe is too damn driven. No off switch and her main drive is battle-shorted on full speed ahead. She's going to run into a brick wall someday and fly into lots of little pieces."

"Can't anybody get her to slack off before then?"

"They've tried. I've tried. The only one who might be able to work it is the XO. She could stop a good-sized moon in its tracks just by glaring, I think, but so far she's letting Kris run. I guess Herdez wants her to set her own limits instead of having them imposed."

"I hadn't thought of that." Paul suddenly found himself yawning hugely. "Sorry. I had the mid-watch. I think I got about four hours sleep last night."

"Well, there's your problem, Ensign. You aren't getting enough done because you're spending too much time in your bunk." Carl grinned, then sobered. "Seriously, though. I know there seems to be four times too much to do every day, because there is four times too much to do every day, but if you'd take a bit of advice from an elderly lieutenant junior grade you'd set aside enough time each week to get two or three OSWO qualification standards signed off. It may seem to be adding another complication, but by keeping your Department Head happy it's actually simplifying your life no end."

"Thanks, Carl. I appreciate the advice." Paul's own data link chose that moment to chime urgently. He checked the display, reading carefully since he didn't trust himself to scan text after so little sleep. "MA1 Sharpe is asking me to meet him at my stateroom."

"Well, it's not high noon, so I guess the Sheriff doesn't mean you ill. It's sort of odd he's paging you, though. That doesn't happen too often, enlisted paging officers."

"It doesn't?" Paul felt a chill run down his back. "Something tells me I better find the Sheriff fast."

"Good idea."

Paul emulated Kris Denaldo, swinging through the corridor far faster than he'd have dared a few weeks before. Rounding a corner, he saw Master-at-Arms Sharpe floating at parade-rest next to the ensign locker. "What's up?" Paul demanded as he braked so swiftly that Sharpe flinched from a possible collision.

"I was just on my way to captain's mast, sir. Which is scheduled to occur real soon, now."

"Captain's mast." Paul closed his eyes momentarily, then opened them to check the time. "I've still got five minutes to get there."

"Yes, sir. And you really wouldn't want to miss captain's mast, sir."

"No, I wouldn't." Wakeman would rip my head off if I wasn't there on time. "Thanks for looking out for me, Sheriff."

"My pleasure, sir."

Sharpe smiled broadly as he turned to go, which for some reason exasperated Paul's overstrung and overtired nerves. "Sheriff, why the hell are you always so damn cheerful?" Paul demanded as he followed Sharpe down the corridor.

Ivan Sharpe looked back over his shoulder for a moment, grinning wider. "Because I get to work with fine, young officers such as yourself every day, sir."

"You know where you can stick that reply, Petty Officer Sharpe."

Sharpe's grin didn't waver. "Yes, sir."

The passageway outside the cramped space officially designated the crew's mess was crowded with personnel. Those awaiting their turn before the Captain weren't hard to spot from their expressions and body language, which ranged all the way from sullen defiance in some cases to the sort of look you'd see on a deer caught in headlights in others. Every sailor awaiting Mast had at least two companions as escorts, their division officer and their leading petty officer. Paul hesitated a moment, amazed at the number of sailors who'd been able to get into enough trouble to face the Captain even though they were a million miles from anywhere, then followed the Sheriff into the mess.

Senior Chief Kowalski was already there, nodding casually to Sharpe in greeting, then sketching a half-salute to Paul. "Top o' the morning, Mr. Sinclair."

"Good morning, Senior Chief. Where do I stand?"

"You mean float?" Kowalski gestured along the bulkhead. "You and me hang here, sir. The Captain's gonna be up there, the witnesses and division officers and such on the bulkhead opposite you and me, and the accused right in the middle."

"Sounds like fun." Paul positioned himself carefully. A careless choice might leave him without nearby leverage to quickly halt any drifting his body might attempt, and Paul had no intention of letting his feet float between the captain and a mast case.

Kowalski nodded to Sharpe again. "MA1 Sharpe, please notify the Captain we are in readiness for mast."

"On my way, Senior Chief."

It left a few minutes for Paul to look around, feeling awkward. This is my first real captain's mast. Funny. They call it that because the captain used to stand in front of the ship's mast while he rendered judgment. Up here the ships don't even have radar masts, but we still call it that. He tried to focus on his all-too-brief legal training and experience. Okay. This isn't really a legal proceeding. Captain's Mast is nonjudicial punishment. That means no rules of evidence or right to a lawyer or things like that. Heck, why do they even need me here? Somehow, he knew better than to ask that question.

Sharpe leaned into the mess just far enough to yell, "Attention on deck!" Paul and Senior Chief Kowalski stiffened in place, holding the posture as Captain Wakeman pulled himself into the mess. Wakeman took his position, peered at Paul as if uncertain as to his identity, then waved one hand. "At ease. First case."

"Aye, aye, sir." Sharpe leaned back into the passageway. "Petty Officer Arroyo."

Arroyo entered, visibly nervous, his uniform immaculate. Commander Sykes followed, somehow managing to appear to lean against the bulkhead even in zero g, along with his assistant Lieutenant Junior Grade Bristol and Chief Petty Officer Mangala. "Petty Officer Arroyo?" Captain Wakeman made a question of the name, squinting at the charge sheet displayed before him. "You are charged with violating Article 108 of the Uniform Code. That's Loss, Damage, Destruction, or Wrongful Disposition of Military Property of the United States." Wakeman's expression hardened and his chin jutted out. "That's a very serious offense, Petty Officer Arroyo." Looking back to the charge sheet, Wakeman read out loud. "In that Petty Officer Third Class Arroyo, on or about 1 September, 2098, did wrongfully dispose of military property of the United States by consuming same-" Wakeman glanced up and around the small room. "Consuming? Just what government property are we talking about?"

Commander Sykes cleared his throat. "A package of frozen peaches, sir."

"A package of frozen peaches?" Wakeman glared suspiciously at Arroyo. "You ate a package of frozen peaches? Do you know how much people look forward to having a few slices of peaches out here? And you ate a whole package?"

Petty Officer Arroyo gulped audibly before speaking. "Captain, I didn't eat any peaches. I swear. I told Chief Mangala when he signed for the shipment that it seemed short, but he didn't-"

"Chief Mangala?" Wakeman pivoted to focus on the chief.

Mangala shook his head with deliberate slowness. "No, sir. Captain, I been keeping my eye on Arroyo here. Guys like him always slip up sooner or later. When I ran inventory on those peaches and came up short, I knew who done it."

"Did Arroyo tell you the shipment seemed short before you signed for it?"

"I don't remember nothing like that, Captain."

Commander Sykes cleared his throat again, drawing the captain's attention. "Sir, Petty Officer Arroyo is an excellent sailor with a good record. I would suggest this is a case of misunderstanding or miscommunication."

"You don't think he ate the peaches?"

"No, sir."

"What about you, Lieutenant Bristol?"

Bristol spoke with such care he seemed to be forming each word as a separate sentence. "I agree with Commander Sykes, sir."

"Hmmm." Wakeman looked from Arroyo to the charge sheet and back again. "Your officers seem to think a lot of you, but your immediate supervisor doesn't. How do you account for that, Petty Officer Arroyo?"

Arroyo made to shake his own head, then stiffened as he remembered to maintain himself at attention. "I don't know, sir. Chief Mangala just doesn't seem to like me. I do my best, but he's never satisfied."

"Hah." Wakeman's glance swept across Commander Sykes and Lieutenant Bristol. "Let me tell you something, Petty Officer Arroyo. There's not a thing, not a single thing, wrong with demanding good performance from your subordinates. Some people seem to be afraid to do that. But a good supervisor," here his gaze flicked to Chief Mangala, "knows what matters is trust. Trust and good performance."

Commander Sykes spoke again, his voice even. "Captain, I believe this incident has been blown seriously out of proportion and would be best dealt with within my own Department. There is no need for non-judicial punishment of Petty Officer Arroyo."

"If you believe that, then why is he here in front of me?" Wakeman pointed his index finger at Arroyo. "Why is that?"

Sykes took a deep breath. "Chief Mangala insisted on charges being brought before this venue."

"Well, that couldn't have been an easy thing. But stealing peaches… that's bad."

"Captain, I'm convinced Petty Officer Arroyo did not steal any peaches."

"Then you believe Chief Mangala is lying?"

"No, sir. I believe he is mistaken."

"Hah. Okay, then. Anything else? Petty Officer Arroyo, this is a bad thing. Very bad. I don't find you persuasive. You should devote more effort to satisfying your chief here. I hereby reduce you in rate to E3 and fine you half-a-month's pay for two months. You decide whether those peaches were worth that much! Dismissed."

Arroyo, looking stricken, exited, followed by Chief Mangala. Commander Sykes left last, looking daggers at Mangala's back. As Arroyo passed Sharpe, the Master-at-Arms helped him along with a firm hand on one arm and a nod of encouragement. Sharpe turned back to face the room, his eyes meeting Paul's but betraying no emotion. Paul shifted his eyes enough to see Senior Chief Kowalski's face and caught the same expressionless gaze. Paul wasn't certain what he'd just witnessed, but whatever it was, nobody but Captain Wakeman and Chief Mangala seemed happy with the outcome.

"Next case," Wakeman stated gruffly. A slow parade of seamen and junior petty officers followed, each linked to violations of the Uniform Code of Military Justice ranging from Article 86 (Absent Without Leave), through Article 112 (Wrongful Use, Possession, etc. of Controlled Substances), all the way to Article 134 (the General Article). The Captain interrogated each sailor, asked that sailor's superiors for their views, and then rendered judgments. He glanced toward Paul a couple of times, but never spoke to him or asked him questions. As time passed, Paul became aware of a growing crowd in the corridor as crew members gathered awaiting their noon meal, which couldn't be served until the captain's mast was completed. More than once, Sheriff Sharpe made threatening gestures to silence the crowd.

"Last one, Captain," Sharpe finally announced.

"Good. About time. What's wrong with the middle management on this ship? I shouldn't have to… never mind. Bring 'em in and let's get this over with."

Sharpe leaned back into the corridor. "Seaman Alvarez."

Alvarez came in, slightly better turned out than she'd been for XO's screening, adopting a posture as close to attention as could be achieved in zero g. Her division officer, Lieutenant Sindh, took up position opposite Paul and nodded to him in brief recognition. Chief Thomas came last, standing next to Sindh. As Sharpe's eyes rested in Alvarez, his face momentarily displayed dislike and contempt before settling back into formal lines.

Captain Wakeman scanned the document before him, frowning, then looked up at Alvarez and spoke quickly as if rushing through the procedure. "Seaman Alvarez. You're charged with being absent from a place of duty and insubordination toward a superior petty officer. Articles 86 and 91. What do you have to say for yourself?"

Alvarez licked her lips before speaking in a slightly pleading voice. "Captain, sir, I should have made it to formation on time and I shouldn't have mouthed off to Chief Thomas. I made some mistakes, sir. But, like I told the Chief, I think somebody slipped something into my drink the night before. It wasn't no normal hang-over. No, sir. I tried to get up and get to formation, but I couldn't. I really tried, sir."

Paul, his eyes on Alvarez, caught a glimpse of Chief Thomas and Lieutenant Sindh rolling their eyes toward the ceiling in mutual reaction to Alvarez's contrite statement.

Captain Wakeman frowned again, looked down at the charging document, then back at Alvarez. "Then you're saying you did it but it wasn't your fault? Is that it?"

"Yes, sir, Captain. I mean, I guess it was my fault I wasn't more careful where I drank. But I didn't ever mean to break no regulations, sir."

Wakeman looked over at Chief Thomas. "What exactly did Seaman Alvarez say to you that prompted this insubordination charge?"

Chief Thomas cleared her throat, then pointed her jaw toward Alvarez. "She told me to go to hell, sir. I told her to get up to morning formation, and she told me to go to hell."

"Hmmm." Wakeman shifted his gaze to Lieutenant Sindh. "How about you? What kind of sailor is Seaman Alvarez?"

Lieutenant Sindh spoke softly but firmly. "Seaman Alvarez is a difficult individual. She requires almost constant supervision and direction. Her appearance and military bearing are usually marginal. I do not consider her an asset to my division."

Wakeman blinked, then focused back on Seaman Alvarez. "You don't have a good record. Your supervisors don't think much of you. What do you have to say to that?"

Alvarez slumped slightly, as if feeling overwhelmed. "Captain, sir, I really want to be a good sailor. I'm trying. I am."

Captain Wakeman blinked a few more times. "Seaman Alvarez, I hate seeing a potentially good sailor go to waste. I think with a little more inspired supervision you might come around." He turned slightly to face Lieutenant Sindh and Chief Thomas, wagging one finger at them. "Seaman Alvarez is an opportunity to display your abilities as managers. I want to see what you can do with her." Wakeman faced Alvarez again. "Ten days extra duty. Forfeiture of one-half month's pay, suspended for six months pending good behavior."

"That's all? Sir?" Lieutenant Sindh blurted out, than snapped her mouth shut.

"That's right. That's all. Dismissed." Without waiting for Alvarez, Sindh and Thomas to depart, Wakeman plucked up his data link and headed out the hatch so quickly that Sharpe barely had time to yell "Attention on deck!"

Paul found himself relaxing after holding a tense posture he hadn't been aware of. In the center of the room, Alvarez had also relaxed, a smug expression spreading across her face.

"Alvarez." Chief Thomas, her face as hard as the metal bulkhead, spoke the one word, drawing the seaman's gaze, then crooked her finger in a come-with-me gesture. Alvarez's expression shaded quickly from smug to alarmed and then defiant as she followed the chief out of the mess.

"Mr. Sinclair." Senior Chief Kowalski said his own brief farewell then was gone. Paul followed Lieutenant Sindh out silently, judging it unwise to speak to her given the rigidity of her neck muscles. As he cleared the mess, crew members began rushing in, clamoring for their meal.

"Sheriff?" MA1 Sharpe turned at Paul's call, holding himself against the bulkhead as crew members pushed by into the mess. "Thanks again for making sure I made it to captain's mast on time."

Sharpe snorted, plainly out of sorts. "Glad you enjoyed it, sir."

"Uh, yeah. What was that bit with Arroyo, anyway?"

"Sir, with all due respect, I don't want to talk about it. Perhaps you ought to ask Commander Sykes."

Yeah, I should. I also ought to have more sense than to ask a petty officer to comment on something the captain did. "I saw Chief Thomas take Seaman Alvarez with her."

"That's right, sir. The captain told Chief Thomas to see what she could do with Seaman Alvarez, didn't he? Me, I'd love to see what I could do with Seaman Alvarez. I'd probably start by feeding her piece by piece through the solid waste recycler, then I'd dump the end result out the nearest airlock."

"I take it you're glad you're not Chief Thomas."

"Sir, if I may say so in confidence, right now Chief Thomas is so pissed off she's probably trying to pound a hole through the hull with her head. And if she succeeds, she'll plug that hole with Seaman Alvarez's worthless butt. Sir."

Paul exhaled heavily. "Then she won't get off as easy as it seems?"

"Not if Chief Thomas and Lieutenant Sindh can help it."

"Good. Just one more question, Sheriff."

"Is that a promise, sir?"

"Yeah. Why the hell was I there? The Captain barely looked at me, and he certainly never asked me for any legal advice."

Sharpe obviously couldn't help smiling at the question. "Mr. Sinclair, do you have a car back on Earth?"

"Yeah."

"Have you got a jack in the trunk?"

"Of course I do."

"Just in case you need it to change a flat tire, right? But even if you never have a flat and never need that jack, you've always got it handy in the trunk of your car. Just in case you ever do need it."

Paul managed a small laugh. "That puts my role in perspective, Sheriff. Thanks for the ego boost."

"My pleasure, sir."

Paul headed back toward officer's country. He'd become aware that his own stomach was growling with hunger, but he had fifteen minutes before his shift was served in the wardroom. That meant he could grab about ten minutes of sleep before then.