Burden of Proof

Chapter Two

On the third pick-up, as the Michaelson swung in less than two minutes from intercept, the escape pod suddenly fired its own thrusters, jinking off at an angle. "What the hell is that moron doing?" Carl seethed.

Captain Gonzalez made an angry face as well. "Being a pain in the butt. I guess they're trying to complicate our pick-ups just to screw up things a little longer."

Carl tapped his panel. "Boats, can you still get that pod?"

"Negative, sir. It's heading off too fast, now. Even if I managed to get latched on, the line'd part for sure under the strain."

"Understood. Captain, recommend launching the gig to recover this pod and continuing on ourselves to the fourth."

Gonzalez nodded. "Very well. Get the gig going. And work up a message to broadcast to the pods that if they keep playing games, we might not be able to get them all recovered before their life support gives out."

"Aye, aye, sir. Ensign Diego, launch the gig and recover the pod designated Contact Alpha Charlie Three."

Ensign Diego sounded startled when he replied. "Yes, sir."

Paul breathed a silent prayer that Diego had been smart enough to follow Carl's advice and remain aware of what was happening. If he's been buried in his training records, Diego might be dangerously disoriented until he gets himself up to speed. I hope there's a good helm driving that gig. "Do you want me to draft the warning to the pods, Carl?"

"No, I'll do that. Tell the ship to head to intercept the fourth pod."

"Head for the fourth pod, aye." Paul ordered the maneuver, wincing as the latest thruster firing pushed his straps against a bruise caused by an earlier firing. Okay, that particular part of sailing around nabbing these guys isn't fun.

The thrusters fired again briefly to counteract the launch of the ship's gig. A moment later, Carl pointed to his display. "What d'you think, Paul? Give me a sanity check on this statement before I run it by the Captain."

"Sure." Paul read quickly. To all escape pods. Be advised that you have limited life support. We are attempting to recover your pods, but if you maneuver away from us when we attempt recovery we may not be able to bring in all the pods before some suffer from life-support failure. I repeat, any measures you take to avoid or complicate recovery may result in the deaths of some individuals on some of the pods. "Can I suggest adding something?"

"That's why I asked you to read it."

"Sorry. Okay, I'd add something along the lines of 'Anyone who complicates and delays the recovery of their and other pods will be held criminally liable for any deaths which occur as a result.'"

Carl looked surprised. "We can do that?"

"We won't. Civilian law enforcement types can, though. And I'm betting the captain will want to threaten these people with more than guilty consciences."

"Okay. Thanks." Carl rapidly added the sentence, then transmitted the message to the captain's display. "Captain, I've got a draft warning for your approval."

"Thank you." Gonzalez read intently, then nodded. "Looks good. Go with it."

"Yes, ma'am. Sending message to the pods now." Carl keyed an emergency broadcast circuit reserved for search and rescue functions, one which he knew the escape pods would automatically monitor, and repeated the statement slowly, then set the communications system to retransmit the warning at ten minute intervals.

The fourth and fifth pods were nabbed and reeled in by the time the Michaelson 's gig had caught up with and snagged the third pod. The Michaelson 's thrusters and drive rolled and shoved the ship onto her intercept course with the sixth pod while the bridge watch began concentrating on keeping their breakfasts down. The fairly rapid series of accelerations, vector changes and abrupt returns to zero gravity had even the most veteran crew members feeling increasingly queasy. Paul made another unsuccessful attempt to adjust his harness straps so they'd hold him firmly and not aggravate any existing bruises, wondering once again why the Navy couldn't seem to design comfortable harness systems. Rumor had it that if aircraft aviators back on Earth rejected a harness as substandard it got sent to a spaceship.

" Michaelson, this is the gig. We have secured the pod. Request scheduled course and speed activity so we can plan an intercept."

Carl made a slapping forehead gesture, then quickly sent the requested data. "This is the Michaelson. Our current course and speed projections are attached to this transmission."

"Roger. We copy full transmission. Preparing intercept plan. Request advise disposition of pod."

Carl glanced at Captain Gonzalez. "Ma'am?"

Gonzalez gave him an arch look in reply. "When's the gig going to get back to us?"

"Uh, I'll find out, Captain." Carl checked with the gig, waiting with visible impatience until the reply came. "They project intercept in forty-five minutes, halfway between our pickup of pods eight and nine."

"Good. Ask the bosun where he'll want that pod at that time."

"Yes, ma'am." Carl looked cross as he called the bosun and got the reply, then sent the instructions on to the gig.

Paul leaned close to him and spoke in a whisper. "What's the matter?"

"What's the matter?" Carl muttered back. "I should've realized the bosun needed that information before the captain asked me for it. At least Gonzalez was nice about it, but she could've burned me and I wouldn't have had any grounds to complain."

Paul nodded. There's so many details to handle in such a short time. It's a good thing we've got multiple people watching everything. "Coming up on the sixth pod." The first couple of pod intercepts had been exciting, but by now the process was beginning to feel tedious. Paul's mind drifted a bit, as he imagined his upcoming reunion with Jen, but he jerked himself back to full attention. This is still dangerous. I've got to stay sharp.

Six, then seven, then eight. As the Michaelson was pushing over to her intercept with escape pod number nine, the ship's gig called in. "We are closing on you at this time. Request further instructions."

Paul glanced at Carl. "They had quite a stern chase to catch up with us."

"Yeah. I'm sure they burned a hunk of fuel doing it."

"Did Randy top off the gig before they launched?"

Carl indicated his read-outs with one extended finger. "Nope."

"Oh, man."

As the acceleration eased again, Carl pivoted his chair to face the captain. "Ma'am, the gig has the pod and requests further instructions."

"So I understand, Mr. Meadows." Captain Gonzalez pondered the question for a moment. "What's the gig's fuel state?"

Carl rechecked his remote read-outs on the gig. "I read 51 percent fuel remaining, ma'am."

"Fifty-one percent? How can it be that low already?" Gonzalez thumbed a communications switch. "Gig, this is Captain Gonzalez. Confirm your current fuel state."

Ensign Diego's voice held a hint of worry when he replied. "The gig is at 51 percent fuel, ma'am."

"How'd you get down to 51 percent this quickly? Is there a problem with a fuel tank?"

"Uh, no, ma'am. We, uh, launched at 75 percent — ."

"You didn't launch with one hundred percent fuel?"

"N-no, ma'am."

Gonzalez glowered at her display, her face reddening, the fingers of one hand drumming on her chair arm. "Mr. Meadows, order the gig to come back aboard. Have the Chief Bosun Mate personally supervise getting the gig and the escape pod secured inside the dock. Mr. Diego, in the future you are to ensure the gig's fuel is topped off prior to launch so that I have the option to use it as needed instead of bringing it back almost immediately. Is that clearly understood, Mr. Diego?"

"Y-yes, ma'am."

"It had better be."

Carl turned toward Paul and let a flash of exasperation show on his face.

Paul nodded briefly back. Carl told Randy to fuel up the gig. Randy didn't listen, probably because he'd stayed focused on getting his training records reviewed. Now Randy's in the captain's dog house and the captain is probably looking for someone else to screw up so she can rip their head off. I hope Carl and I don't run into any more problems until Gonzalez calms down again.

Fortunately for Paul, Carl, the rest of the bridge watch and any other sailor within Captain Gonzalez's sight and hearing, no further problems hampered the recovery of the remaining pods. Whether cowed by the warning the Michaelson had sent out, or simply exercising an uncommon degree of common sense, the demonstrators avoided any other maneuvering, so their pods could be snapped up in tense but problem-free intercepts.

"Knock it off!" Carl gave the enlisted watchstanders a hard look to accompany his order, and both ceased their conversation instantly.

Paul raised an eyebrow at Carl. "They weren't that loud," he noted in a whisper.

Carl frowned, then nodded. "No, they weren't. I'm a little on edge."

"Me, too. We sit here for half an hour, then for a few minutes everything's tense as we grab a pod, then we get beat up by the ship maneuvering and get to wait a while again. I'll be real happy when we either get that last pod or our watch reliefs get here."

"They're here, Paul." Carl hooked a thumb toward one corner of the bridge.

Paul glanced that way, surprised to see Lieutenant Diem and Ensign Gabriel attached to tie-downs there. He checked the time, shocked to discover he was already past due for relief. Heck, I've been so wrapped up in each stage of this I lost track of how long we've been chasing these damn pods. "Why haven't they relieved us?"

"In the middle of this goat rope? I wouldn't want to take over under those conditions, and neither would you. We'll finish this out, then they'll relieve us."

Paul nodded reluctantly. "I guess that's true. What if we'd only been halfway through snagging the pods when our relief time rolled around?"

"We weren't. Different situation. Don't get locked into fixed procedures, Paul. If everything could be handled by formulas they'd have a couple of robots doing our job." Carl paused, his expression thoughtful. "Of course, my robot would be a lot better than your robot."

"And prone to delusional thinking. Okay, we're about to snag the last pod."

Carl tapped his communications panel. "Boats, any problems with stowing this last pod?"

"No, sir. It'll fit. The gig's not going anywhere else 'til we off-load these pods, though."

"Understand the gig's penned in by the pods in the dock. Thanks, Boats. Here comes number twelve."

Another pass, another lurch, and Michaelson had the last pod in tow. Carl gazed upward thankfully. "Mission accomplished. Captain, we have the last pod in tow."

Captain Gonzalez nodded shortly. "So I see. Notify me when the pod is secured."

"Aye, aye, ma'am."

Lieutenant Diem stole a glance at Captain Gonzalez, still stewing in her chair, then unlatched himself, quickly swung over to Carl and spoke in a low voice. "What's with the CO? She looks ready to chew some serious butt."

"It's a long story, starting with the Greenspacers screwing up the test firing. Just be real careful around her for a while."

"You don't have to tell me twice." Diem watched intently as the last escape pod was hauled in toward its resting place in the gig dock.

After several more minutes, the Chief Bosun called the bridge. "All pods secured, sir. Request permission to secure the gig and grapnel details."

Carl looked toward Captain Gonzalez, but before he could repeat the question she nodded sharply. "Permission granted."

Carl echoed the command. "Boats, permission granted."

He gestured to the bosun mate of the watch, who sketched a salute, keyed his all-hands circuit, then blew a wail on his pipe to get the crew's attention. "Secure the gig and grapnel details. I say again, secure the gig and grapnel details."

Lieutenant Diem looked from Carl to Gonzalez. "What do we do now?"

"Good question." Carl gave the glowering captain a look out of the corner of his eyes. "I really don't want to do this, but I have to."

"I can ask…"

"No. It's still my job." Turning to face the captain, Carl spoke with careful precision. "Captain Gonzalez, request further instructions."

Gonzalez took a moment to reply. "Prepare a course back to Franklin Station. Standard speed. Hold off executing it until I get confirmation from the Commodore, but I expect we'll need to drop off our 'guests' and wait for the test firing to be rescheduled." She turned a hard face toward Carl, then made a visible effort to relax. "Well done, Mr. Meadows. You and your bridge team handled things well." Ripping her harness loose, Captain Gonzalez pulled herself off the bridge.

"Captain's off the bridge!" The bosun of the watch made the announcement as Captain Hayes, his face betraying no emotion, followed in Gonzalez's wake.

Carl Meadows inhaled deeply, then exhaled with relief. "I still live. Can you cook up that course for the captain?"

"Piece of cake," Diem assured him. "What else you got?"

Carl and Paul quickly filled in their reliefs on other information, then Gabriel offered Paul a salute. "I relieve you, sir."

Paul returned the salute gratefully. "I stand relieved." Raising his voice once more, he announced the change. "On the bridge, this is Ens-" Dammit. "Lieutenant Junior Grade Sinclair. Ensign Gabriel has the watch and the conn."

"This is Ensign Gabriel, I have the conn." Gabriel lowered her voice and made an apologetic face. "Sorry we relieved you guys so late."

"It's not your fault. Taking over in the middle of picking up those pods would've been asking for trouble, and the captain might've raised hell if you'd tried."

"Thanks, Paul. Hey, congrats on the promotion."

"Thanks back at you. There's hope for everybody, I guess."

Gabriel laughed. "I think you earned it."

Paul looked over at Carl, who'd also been relieved of the watch but was spending a few minutes unwinding by chatting with Lieutenant Diem. Paul waved at the other officers. "Later, guys." He pulled himself wearily off the bridge, using the easily reached handholds in the overhead. Before I got to a real ship, I used to worry about getting stuck in the middle of a big compartment with no way to reach a handhold. I never stopped to think that there isn't any reason at all to have big, empty compartments on spacecraft. They'd be just a waste of space inside the hull. He floated for a moment outside the bridge hatch, eyes closed, feeling the tension from being on watch slowly draining from his muscles.

I wonder how the Greenspacers are behaving? Aw, geez. That's my job, too. Got to get going. Reaching for another handhold, Paul hastened down to the gig's dock, where the Greenspacers were still being held in a tight bunch by the presence of a menacing-looking Master-at-Arms Ivan Sharpe and his six deputy master-at-arms. Paul paused as he got his first look at the Greenspacers, most of whom were grinning like kids who'd gotten away with a clever stunt. They do look like hippies. "Any problems, Sheriff?"

Sharpe kept his eyes on the Greenspacers as he shook his head. "No, sir."

Paul saw he'd become the center of attention for the Greenspacers. One, a tall man with a beard who carried himself like some sort of secular saint, moved forward slightly before halting as Sharpe and his nearest deputy made warning gestures. "Are you in authority here?"

"I'm the ship's legal officer." Which has been nothing but a pain in the neck since I got assigned that extra job the day I reported aboard this ship. Why did I have to have had a two-week gap in my orders which somebody decided to fill by sending me to the ship's legal officer course? Being the Combat Information Center Officer is more than enough work without needing to deal with all the junk being legal officer tosses my way.

The Saint looked at Paul sternly. "We expect to be released immediately. This detention is unlawful."

"No, sir, it is not. United States law authorizes us to take you into custody if you deliberately violate a restricted area."

An intense-looking woman laughed harshly. "Space is free!"

"You'll have to discuss that with the United Nations, ma'am. Now, if you'll — "

The Saint raised a demanding palm. "We will not tolerate being held by military forces. This is a violation of our human rights."

Paul glanced at Sheriff Sharpe, whose expression made it obvious what he thought of the Saint's human rights, then addressed the group. "You would have all died if we hadn't rescued you. It's our duty to rescue humans in distress in space. Our humanitarian duty." Some of the Greenspacers glowered back, while others smiled as if they were sharing a joke with Paul. "You will be held in protective custody until we can turn you over to civil law enforcement authority."

"You're jailing us?"

"No, sir. A warship is a dangerous place. Even a misplaced hand could cause serious repercussions. For your own protection, you'll be kept in two compartments, one for the men and one for the women."

The intense woman laughed again. "We're all equals! We've no need for your archaic cultural codes."

"Ma'am, I regret to inform you that your needs are not this ship's priority. You will follow Petty Officer First Class Sharpe as he leads you to the compartments. Anyone who attempts to damage the ship or leave the group will be dealt with as necessary to ensure the safety of everyone on board." The last sentence of Paul's statement had been boilerplated in fleet guidance for handling situations like this. It simplified Paul's task and helped ensure he wouldn't say something potentially embarrassing or illegal.

Fortunately for all concerned, the Greenspacers followed Sharpe quietly. Some of the protesters obviously lacked much experience in space, having difficulty moving smoothly through the cramped passageways of the Michaelson in zero gravity. Paul had to suppress a couple of smiles as Greenspacers bumped painfully off of pipes, wiring, cabling conduits and other equipment lining the sides and overhead of the passageway.

As the Greenspacer men were shepherded into their compartment, grumbling over the tight quarters in the tiny crew recreation room which had been commandeered for their confinement, the Saint looked back toward Paul and smiled once more, this time triumphantly. "This shows the difference between us and militaristic fascists such as yourself. We don't believe in criminalizing peaceful acts of protest, or confining those who care only for the well-being of others."

Paul fought down his first biting reply, then smiled back. "That's your interpretation, sir. I think the difference between us is that every once in a while I'm willing to consider the possibility that I might be wrong." He swung around to leave, catching a wide grin on Sharpe's face as he did so. "Let me know when they're snugged down, Sheriff."

"Aye, aye, sir. May I make a suggestion, sir?"

"By all means."

Sharpe indicated the alarm panel next to the hatch leading into the temporary prison. "I wouldn't count on those, sir. Sometimes people figure out ways to mess with automated controls and alarms, and we've no idea what skills these prisoners might have. I want to put my deputy masters-at-arms on watch outside these compartments."

Paul paused to consider the suggestion. The Sheriff's deputies weren't masters-at-arms by specialty. They were petty officers from other ratings, such as fire control technicians, gunners mates and bosun mates, who'd volunteered for the extra responsibility. Putting them on a watch here would take them away from their primary duties, and make at least a few of their division officers and department heads unhappy. But Sharpe's suggestion made sense. Paul had a vision of Greenspacers with unknown skills and idealistic foolishness loose within the ship for even a few minutes, and had to fight down a shudder. "Do it, Sheriff."

"Aye, aye, sir. I'm sure the XO will approve."

Paul cocked an eyebrow at Sharpe, then smiled. It'd been one of the smoother means of proffering advice he'd received from enlisted sailors since joining the Navy. "I'm sure he will, too. I'll brief the XO right away, so if anyone complains refer them to me so I can refer them to the XO."

Sharpe's reply sounded perfectly serious. "Excellent idea, sir."

"Thanks. If you need me after that, I'm going to get some coffee."

"Another excellent idea, sir."

"Yeah, I'm full of them today."

The XO agreed immediately to the wisdom of using Sharpe's deputies to ensure the Greenspacers didn't wreak any havoc onboard, leaving Paul a few minutes to unwind. He headed for the wardroom, squeezing back against the sides of the passageways to let those on more urgent errands pass, then swung through the hatch into the relative haven of the Michaelson 's small wardroom. The chair normally occupied by Commander Steve Sykes, the Michaelson 's Supply Officer, sat uncharacteristically empty. However, Lieutenant Sindh was strapped into a seat at the small wardroom table, holding a drink the Navy hopefully labeled 'Near East Tea' but sailors referred to as 'Nastea', and staring contemplatively into space.

Paul grabbed some coffee and strapped himself into another chair. "Hey, Sonya."

Lieutenant Sindh focused on Paul, then raised her own drink in a mock toast. "Are our new passengers taken care of?"

"For the time being at least. They shouldn't be able to screw up anything else before we offload them." Paul shook his head. "It's kinda strange."

"What?"

"Well, I saw those Greenspacers, and I'm thinking, 'get a haircut, for pity's sake. Stand up straight, get a shave, and get your clothes neatened up.' I mean, they did look like hippies to me, but when I stand back and think about it, I realize I used to look a lot like that."

Sindh grinned widely. "Ah. Culture shock."

"I've been around civilians since I entered the Navy."

"But not recently. When's the last time you were home?"

Paul only had to think a moment. "After graduation from the Academy. I haven't been back since I got orders to space duty. You know how hard it is to get a shuttle home, especially when we have so little time available to take leave."

"Uh huh." Sindh leaned back, a meaningless gesture in zero gravity yet one which every human still attempted out of habit. " I've been back. Let me tell you, it's tough. My little brother, I thought he looked like some sleazy thug. He wasn't. He was just a typical teenage civilian. And my parents…" She laughed this time.

"What about your parents?"

"They thought I was insane."

Paul eyed her to see if Sindh was serious. "Why?"

Instead of answering directly, Sindh pointed to the drink in Paul's hand. "Are you going to put that down?"

He frowned down at the coffee. "I'll dispose of it when I'm finished."

"And until then you'll either keep one hand on it or clip it to your belt. Right?"

"Of course! If I just left it sitting it'd be a missile hazard when the ship maneuvered."

Lieutenant Sindh laughed again. "Okay. Right. So I go home after being in space for close to two years. And I'm neat. I'm really, really, really neat. Just like you are, now. I don't leave anything lying around, because it might be a missile hazard, or float off and get stuck in something important. We all do that because it's an essential part of the survival skills up here and it's drilled into us as habit. But at home… my parents were just thrilled at first. She's neat! She cleans up her room!" Sindh grinned, wickedly this time. "My little brother thought I'd been taken over by an alien life form. Before I left for the Navy we had a contest once over who had the oldest piece of forgotten food in their room. I won. Do you want to know how old it was?"

"Uh, no, thanks."

"I don't blame you. Anyway, my parents are happy as clams. For the first twenty-four hours or so. Then it starts to worry them that if mother puts down a drink, five seconds later I'm securing it in the dishwasher. Like the house is ever going to accelerate unexpectedly and make it a hazard. But I can't help it. They worried about me for maybe another twenty-four hours, then they called a psych to see if the Navy had fried my brain."

Paul laughed with her this time, assured by Sindh's tone that the story didn't have an ugly ending. "What'd the psych say?"

"'Don't worry,' she said. They know all about this. Psychs' even have a name for it now. Learned Work Pattern Universality Syndrome or something like that. The psych reassured my parents that I was still at least technically sane, and the best way to cope was by keeping everything put away so I wouldn't get all twitchy around them."

"Wow." Paul contemplated his coffee for a moment. "Is everybody like that?"

"What do you mean by 'everybody'? All of us in the Space Navy? Pretty much. Just look around some time. Oh, that reminds me of another thing that drove my parents crazy. I kept grabbing on tight to anything solid within reach."

"Sure you did. That's just common sense." Paul caught himself. "I see what you mean. It's common sense in a spacecraft."

Lieutenant Sindh sighed. "There's all sorts of things like that. There always is between military and civilian, you know, but us being in space for so long makes the differences even bigger. We adopt habits that are necessary up here but unnecessary down there, and all we see for months on end is each other."

"I guess the way I saw the Greenspacers' clothes is an example of that."

"Yes. And the hair. You, me and everybody else up here keeps their hair short because they don't need long tresses floating into their eyes every five seconds, or long loose hairs drifting through their living quarters. But my mother wailed when she saw my short hair! 'Your hair was so long and beautiful!' Yes, it was. So what? I've got nice legs, too, if I say so myself, but I don't wear skirts up here, either, for what I hope are obvious reasons."

Paul briefly contemplated the vision of female sailors drifting through zero gravity in skirts, then shook his head to dispel the vision. "That'd be, uh, distracting."

"As well as embarrassing and impractical. Paul, you have to realize the way you see things, the way you do things, has changed. It changes for everybody who joins the military, and doubly so for everybody who serves in space." Sindh tilted her head as if examining Paul. "Which, in my opinion, made your decision to have a serious relationship with Jen Shen a good one."

"Since you know Jen, you'll understand a lot of it was her decision, and I was happy to go along with it."

Sindh grinned widely again. "That's Jen, all right. But, you see, you two can understand each other because of your shared experiences. You've both served on warships, both spent months in space, both dealt with similar situations. An outsider will wonder why you never let go of your drinks. But neither of you will ever question the other about it."

"No, I guess we wouldn't. But there's still friction between us sometimes."

"I'm simply shocked, Paul. Friction with Jen? Nice, quiet, compliant Jen?"

Paul couldn't help laughing. "You must know another Jen."

"Not I. Ah, our missing command presence has arrived." Sindh raised her drink in another toast as Commander Sykes swung inside the wardroom, somehow seeming to amble even while floating in zero gravity.

Sykes grabbed a coffee in passing, then settled into his seat before casting a jaundiced eye toward Sindh. "My good Lieutenant Sindh, please do not use the word 'command' when speaking of me. I am a limited duty officer. I command nothing but my little empire of ship's supplies and spare parts." Sykes smiled gently. "Without which, of course, you combatant line officers would all quickly perish."

Paul gestured for Sykes' attention. "Suppo, speaking of supplies, we're going to need to feed those Greenspacers."

"I suppose we are." Sykes took a slow drink, his face now thoughtful. "I have just the thing. We have a quantity of emergency battle rations which are due to expire in a few months."

Both Sindh and Paul failed to stop automatic expressions of revulsion. Sindh shook her head in evident disbelief. "Emergency battle rations? You can feed those to civilians?"

Sykes shrugged. "Why not?"

"I'd imagine there's some sort of inhumane treatment provision of the law which prohibits it."

"There's nothing of the kind, dear lady. Is there, Mr. Sinclair?"

Paul shook his head. "None that I know of. But, Suppo, those rations are really rank."

"Nonsense. The Navy has assured me the rations have been pronounced tasty, nutritious and downright yummy by selected service personnel chosen to taste test them."

"I've always wondered who those selected personnel are, and where they are now. I'd love to have some words with them on their definition of 'tasty.'"

"They're probably in some sort of witness protection program, safely hidden from their vengeful servicemates. No, I believe this is an excellent means to dispose of our soon-to-expire rations and keep our guests fed at the same time. Whatever their drawbacks in terms of taste, smell, texture and similar issues, the battle rations are compact, nutritious and produce no crumbs or sticky remnants. If our guests try to protest by, say, hurling their rations against the bulkhead, no harm will be done."

"They might dent the bulkheads," Paul suggested. "Do you really dislike the Greenspacers that much, Suppo?"

"Dislike them? Not at all. I believe any society needs those who are willing to question assumptions and challenge our beliefs. I also believe any society which feels unable to tolerate their mere presence, as opposed to outlawing unsafe acts on their part, has problems beyond those the protesters highlight. No, the use of the battle rations is purely a matter of pragmatics. After all, Mr. Sinclair, I'd feed you those rations if necessary, even though I confess a slight fondness for your touching youthful naivete."

"Thanks."

The bosun's whistle wailed across the all-hands circuit. "All hands prepare for maneuvering in ten minutes."

Sindh glanced at Paul as the bosun continued her recital. "Any idea where we're going?"

"Back to Franklin is my guess. That's what the captain was talking about when I left the bridge, and we have to off-load all those escape pods and our Greenspace guests."

"We'll be back early? What a shame."

Paul turned at the sound of someone else entering the wardroom, and found himself meeting the eyes of the chief engineer. Commander Mae Destin, as usual, wore a cloak of melancholy like an extra uniform. No one on board knew if the melancholy had been born of personal or professional tragedy, and Commander Destin had apparently never confided in anyone in the five months she'd been onboard the Michaelson. This time, though, her bearing also displayed exasperation. "Sinclair. Just the officer I was looking for."

Paul quickly searched his brain for any action or inaction which might have ticked off the chief engineer. "Ma'am?"

"I've just been informed by my main propulsion assistant that one of her petty officers is no longer available to stand watches in engineering because he's been reassigned to watches as a deputy master-at-arms. By order of a certain Mr. Sinclair."

Paul tried to keep from wincing. Bypassing the chain of command tended to really aggravate those officers who'd been bypassed, especially if the offender was also junior to those who'd been bypassed. "Ma'am, the XO approved the assignment of the deputy master-at-arms to guard duty." Thank you, Sheriff, for tipping me off to brief the XO right away. "It's to ensure the Greenspacers don't get loose."

Commander Destin twisted her mouth. "Did the XO tell you not to bother informing the department heads and division officers whose personnel were affected by this decision?"

Ouch. And here I am sitting in the wardroom instead of working when Destin asked me that. I couldn't have screwed this up worse if I tried. "No, ma'am. I regret failing to inform all those officers as soon as possible."

"I would appreciate it," Destin stated with heavy sarcasm, "if in the future you didn't fail to let me know about actions impacting on my personnel."

"Yes, ma'am."

" Thank you, Mr. Sinclair."

Commander Destin swung out the hatch, leaving the wardroom temporarily silent. Paul glanced at Lieutenant Sindh and made a helpless gesture. "Oops."

Sindh flashed another smile. "Don't forget, Paul. For all you've learned, and believe me you have learned a great deal since you came aboard, there is still much to learn."

"I've already been reminded of that a couple of times today. I think I'll go run down some officers and brief them on the deputy master-at-arms issue."

"Good idea. Make sure you're at a tie-down when the final maneuvering warning sounds."

"You don't have to warn me. I'm a psycho Space Navy type like you, remember? Besides, I've already got my full quota of bruises for today. I don't want a concussion on top of those." Paul unstrapped, then offered a salute to Commander Sykes. "By your leave, sir."

Sykes gave Paul a sidelong look. "You don't need my permission to get to work, young man. I'm not in your chain of command like the good lieutenant sitting over there."

"I know, Suppo. I just made the gesture as a sign of my deep respect for you."

Sindh snorted into her drink, continuing to laugh as she cleaned up the mess. Sykes cocked an eyebrow at Paul and then shook his head. "I'll assume you're serious, of course, since otherwise I'd have to believe you were mocking your elders. John Paul Jones never would've stood for that kind of behavior in junior officers."

Sindh finally got her laughter under control. "How can you be sure, sir? Did you know John Paul Jones?"

Sykes smiled. "Of course. Quite a bright young lad. Now, he listened to my advice. Except the part about getting tasks started on time. One day he ended up in a battle and partway through it he hadn't even begun to fight yet." Sykes sighed and took another drink. "But it turned out all right in the end. As things will for you, young Sinclair, if you learn from your mistakes instead of repeating them."

"Believe me, Suppo, I intend continuing to do just that." Paul left, pulling himself rapidly through the ship. He had six officers to run down, including the Main Propulsion Assistant who already knew Paul had shafted her. But he had to formally advise even that officer, because he owed it to her.

Most of the officers grumbled mildly but took the news in stride. Personnel were often pulled off for extra duties with little or no notice. Lieutenant Kilgary, the main propulsion assistant, even joked that she was usually the one borrowing other division's personnel.

But, then there was Lieutenant Junior Grade Sam Yarrow. "Sam, I wanted to tell you that Petty Officer Geraldo has been assigned by the XO to watches on the compartments holding the Greenspacers until we get rid of them."

Yarrow glowered back. "I need Geraldo."

"Sam, he's a deputy master-at-arms, and the XO — "

"He won't be any longer. I'm pulling him out of that."

Paul glanced over at Chief Hadasa, Yarrow's senior petty officer, who was attempting to appear unaware of the dispute between officers which was being played out in front of him. "Sam, Geraldo has to make a request to be pulled off the deputy master-at-arms duties, and the XO has to approve it." So why don't you stop making a major issue out of this in front of your chief? What are you trying to prove here?

"We'll see what my department head says about you drafting people out of her department."

"I've already talked to her, Sam." And Commander Destin wasn't happy at all, but I'm not about to tell Sam Yarrow that right now.

Yarrow seemed to be trying to find something else to say, then shifted his glare to Chief Hadasa. "Chief, what's the story on these maintenance records? What's with these discrepancies?"

Paul backed out of the hatchway. And goodbye to you, too, Sam. First he picks a fight with me in front of a enlisted sailor, and now he's chewing out his chief in front of me. Did Yarrow go to some sort of anti-leadership school?

The starboard ensign locker, so named because it held four junior officers and their meager belongings crammed into every available square centimeter of space, offered a brief refuge. Paul pulled himself to his tiny desk, strapped in, then called up the personnel records for the enlisted sailors assigned to his division. I need to have performance evaluations done on all my sailors in four more days. And the XO's screening every evaluation with software designed to detect cut-and-paste copying, so every evaluation has to contain original wording. It'd be easy if I didn't have a hundred other things to worry about.

He'd barely begun writing when a hand rapped on the hatch. "Paul?" Lieutenant Mike Bristol, the Michaelson 's junior supply officer, leaned partway into the ensign locker. "Suppo told me to let you know the feeding schedule for the Greenspacers is all taken care of. They'll get three squares a day until we offload them."

"I thought they were getting soon-to-expire battle rations."

"They are. Those are sort of square." Bristol spread his hands apologetically. "The Navy says it'll feed people. It doesn't say how well it'll feed them. Say, do you know why Randy's in a snit?"

Paul rolled his eyes. "Ensign lessons. Carl warned him to get the gig's fuel topped off, but he didn't, so the captain took a bite out of Randy."

"Oh. Randy owns the gig?"

"Yeah. It comes with him being First Lieutenant."

"Oh," Bristol repeated, then looked puzzled. "Paul, why is he the 'First Lieutenant'? Randy's one of the most junior officers on board, and he's not even a lieutenant, come to think of it."

Paul grinned. "Ancient history, Mike. Back in the days when ships had sails, the guy in charge of the deck stuff, that is the sails and the rigging, was really important. They assigned the job to the most senior lieutenant on the ship, so he was literally the First Lieutenant in terms of rank. Since then, the importance of deck stuff has gone way down. It's still important, of course, but it's not nearly as important as it used to be in sailing days. But we still call the guy in charge of it the First Lieutenant."

"That makes absolutely no sense, Paul. Why not change the name to reflect the way the job's changed?"

Paul shrugged. "Because this is the U.S. Navy, and that's the way we've always done it, and that's the way we'll always by God do it until hell freezes over and forces us to change. How long have you been in the Navy, Mike?"

Bristol grinned as well. "Longer than you, but my Navy isn't the same as the one you nut-case line officers live in. I'm not saying everything in the supply system makes sense — "

"You'd better not try to claim that."

" — but it seems saner than some of the stuff you guys do. So is Randy going to catch major hell for this mistake?"

"Naw. It annoyed the captain, which isn't good, but it's not like Randy blew a hole in the hull."

"He won't be charged with some offense, then?"

Paul looked closely at Mike to see if he was serious. I guess he is serious. And as legal officer I'm the logical guy to ask. "No. Technically you could charge Randy with something like failure to obey a standing general order, of if you really wanted to nail him hit him with improperly hazarding a vessel. But nobody's going to do that because nothing serious happened, it wasn't that big an error, and Randy's not a habitual screw up. Randy got chewed out for making the captain unhappy, and that'll be all there is to it."

"I get it. No real punishment, then."

"What are they going to do to him? Cut his hair short and make him stand watches in the middle of the night?"

Bristol smiled wider, recognizing the irony of equating normal Navy requirements with punishment. "Or maybe assign him to a warship and send him out for a long patrol?"

"And then send his girlfriend out on another patrol as soon as he gets back."

"You're kidding. Jen's ship is taking off right after we return to Franklin?"

"Yeah. We've got about a week together, then the Maury 's heading off on a mission. I don't know how long, but it'll be a few months, at least."

"It sounds like a conspiracy," Bristol joked.

"I'd believe that, too, if I thought the Navy could manage a conspiracy like that without creating a book-length operations order that everybody and their brother would know about." The ensign locker's communicator buzzed rapidly in the tone pattern which meant the XO was calling. Paul made an "uh-oh" face to Mike as he answered. "Lieutenant Junior Grade Sinclair, sir."

"Paul, get up to the captain's cabin. She wants you to brief Captain Hayes on ongoing ship legal matters."

"Aye, aye, sir. I'm on my way." Paul unstrapped and swung out of his chair. "Sorry, Mike. Gotta go. Duty calls."

"Better you than me."