Paul took a moment before answering.
Boy, that's a loaded question. Either 'yes' or 'no' could get me in trouble. I'd best just be honest.
"Yes, ma'am, I could have ranked higher."
"Why didn't you?"
"Because I didn't try as hard as I could have the first couple of years. I had some growing up to do."
"That's not unusual in a young person, though not all of them actually manage to mature. What about the last two years?"
"The last two years I elected to take a few courses that ate up a lot of my study time but earned only passable grades."
Herdez pondered Paul's statement for a moment. "Why did you elect to take those courses, then?"
"They were subjects I thought I ought to know, ma'am."
"I see." Herdez glanced back at the record, then at Paul. "But you could have received better grades in other courses you could have taken instead?"
"Oh, yes, ma'am. No question. I already had a good handle on the stuff in those courses." The answer popped out without Paul's thinking, leaving him wondering if the reply had sounded vain or thoughtless.
"Hmmm. You certainly demonstrated academic skills, regardless. Why did you volunteer for duty on the
Michaelson
, Mr. Sinclair?"
Paul swallowed to give himself time to consider the question, electing again for the truth. "They said they needed somebody in this assignment."
"They?"
"The, uh, detailers, ma'am."
Herdez seemed amused by the reply. "Well, Mr. Sinclair, you seem to be devoted to neither puffing up your resume nor to demanding ticket-punching assignments. That bodes well for you. I see you've also attended the Ship's Legal Officer course."
"Yes, ma'am, but—"
"That's fortunate. The
Michaelson
needs a trained legal officer. You'll be assigned ship's legal officer as a collateral duty, effective now."
"Uh . . . yes, ma'am."
"As far as your primary duty, you'll be Assistant Combat Information Center Officer."
"Thank you, ma'am."
"The last postal officer just departed the ship. You'll have that collateral duty as well." She looked questioningly at Paul.
"Yes, ma'am."
"And we need to get a better handle on security issues. You'll be assistant security manager."
"Thank you, ma'am."
"You'll be expected to pursue your Open Space Warfare Officer qualifications. I like to personally track the progress of our junior officers in meeting those qualifications."
"Yes, ma'am." Paul tried not to flinch outwardly, thinking of the huge amount of material he would be required to master to earn those qualifications.
"Ship's office will assign you an inport and underway duty section. Do you have a stateroom?"
"Yes, ma'am, Commander Sykes—"
"Good. Have you met any of the other officers, yet?"
"Just Commander Sykes, Lieutenant Junior Grade Meadows and Ensign Shen."
"Good. You'll meet the rest of the wardroom soon enough."
"Yes, ma'am."
"Mr. Meadows can escort you around for the rest of your check-in procedure. While he is doing so, please inform Mr. Meadows that he'll regret it if I see that little flag of his again."
"Yes, ma'am."
"Welcome aboard, Mr. Sinclair. This is a challenging and demanding assignment. Give it your best."
"Thank you, ma'am. Yes, ma'am."
Commander Herdez rose slightly again, offered her hand once more, then waved Paul out.
Carl awaited him in the passageway outside. "How'd it go?"
Paul shivered. "Wow."
"Yeah. The XO's hell-on-wheels, isn't she?"
"She told me to tell you that you'd regret it if she saw that pirate flag again."
"Ouch." Meadows winced exaggeratedly. "It just fell into a black hole. Lost to the sight of humanity for eternity. How many jobs did you pick up?"
"My primary is ACICO, like my orders said, and I got, uh, three collateral duties. I think."
"Only three? She must like you."
"You're kidding."
"Nope. You meet Kris Denaldo, yet?"
"Yes. She's the officer of the deck, right?"
"Yeah. She picked up four collateral duties. And she's the assistant electronics officer." Meadows grinned. "Kris don't sleep much."
"I thought nobody slept much."
"They don't, but some sleep a little less than others." With one extended hand, Meadows indicated a route forward. "Well, shipmate, let's get you checked in with everybody else."
The next few hours were a blur for Paul. Names and faces went by, most disappearing from memory almost as soon as they did from sight. A blasé petty officer in ship's office downloaded a copy of Paul's service record and uploaded him a copy of the Ship's Organization and Regulations Manual. "Happy leisure reading, sir," the petty officer wished without any visible trace of irony. A pay clerk adjusted her database to reflect Paul's existence and newly qualified status for space hardship pay. A harried lieutenant arguing with a civilian contractor took a moment to flash a smile at Paul and welcome him to her duty section. A commander eyed Paul suspiciously, then plugged his name into the underway watch bill.
Then there was Commander Garcia, Operations Department Head, and therefore immediate superior in the chain-of-command to both the Combat Information Center Officer and the Assistant. Garcia, squat and stolid, glowered at Paul even as he grimaced a brief smile of welcome. "You work for me, Sinclair. Is that clear?"
"Yes, sir."
"Legal officer. Who said you should do that job?"
Paul had already stiffened his posture in response to Garcia's attitude, and now spoke with equal stiffness. "Commander Herdez, sir."
Garcia glowered again, obviously wishing to say more, then just shook his head. "Don't screw up, Sinclair. This isn't some Academy game. You've got a lot to learn. Screw up, and I'll dump your ass into vacuum."
"Yes, sir." Behind Garcia, Paul could see Meadows making a face. "I'll do my best, sir."
"I hope so." Garcia turned toward Meadows. "See if you can locate Tweed and introduce these two." Then he stalked off.
Paul glanced at Meadows. "Who's Tweed?"
"Lieutenant Jan Tweed."
"Garcia doesn't like her?"
"Garcia doesn't like anybody." Meadows waved Paul forward again. "Technically, Jan Tweed'll be your immediate superior, so try to get along."
"Is that hard?" A headache, which had been building throughout the last few hours, began throbbing with renewed strength.
"Uh . . . "
"Carl, don't let me hit a mine."
Meadows grinned. "Good analogy. Jan Tweed is an okay person, she just don't do much. That can be real aggravating if you're depending on her. Copy?"
"So that's why the
Michaelson
needed an Assistant in CIC?"
"That's one reason. See, Garcia told me to 'try' to locate Tweed because sometimes she's real hard to find. Especially when she's needed. Like if she's supposed to relieve you on watch? Don't count on her showing up on time."
Paul's headache flared a little worse.
Great. Somebody I can't count on, and she's the person I'll have to work most closely with. Well, maybe she won't be that bad. Maybe she's just got a bad reputation. I hope.
"I guess I should try to find her."
"Yeah. Let's check a few places. After we finish this check-off list of yours."
"Who's left?"
Carl chuckled. "Dazed and confused, huh? Think about it, Paul. Who haven't you seen yet?"
"Umm . . . oh. The Captain."
"Right-o. So let's go see your new lord and master."
The Captain's cabin was located not far from the bridge of the
Michaelson
. Carl paused before the hatch, indicating the letters spelling out P. C. Wakeman on it, then rapped and waited. At the sound of a gruff "Enter," Carl swung the hatch open and gestured Paul inward.
Captain Wakeman, sitting before his desk in a stateroom that appeared slightly larger than that occupied by Commander Herdez, squinted at Paul as if examining an unwelcome pest. "Yes?"
Paul came to attention and rendered his best salute. "Ensign Paul Sinclair, reporting for duty, sir."
"Oh. Hmmm." Wakeman fiddled with his desk terminal for a few moments, scowling. "Your record's supposed to be in here. Why isn't your record in here? You checked in with ship's office, didn't you?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well, they didn't put your record in here." Wakeman glowered at Paul, then with an apparent effort relaxed his face into a semblance of camaraderie. "But we'll take care of that later. Welcome aboard, Mr. . . .uh . . ."
"Sinclair, sir. Paul Sinclair."
"Yes. Of course. Ah, Academy? Good. Good." Brief smiles flickered across the Captain's face, coming and going in a manner which suggested nervous twitches. "Well, let me tell you, this is a great opportunity for you. Outstanding. Lots of visibility. Chances to excel. But you have to be a team player. Are you a team player, Mr. . . . ?"
"Sinclair, sir. Yes, sir."
"Sinclair. Right. The team. That's important. And you know who the captain of your team is?"
"Uh . . . you, sir."
Wakeman nodded vigorously. "Right. Right. And you, you're a blocker. And a tackle. You tackle problems before they become problems. You block bad attitudes and bad morale. Because you're a team player."
"Yes, sir."
"Visibility. Yes." Wakeman relaxed slightly, leaning back and gazing upward. "Opportunity. That's good. Opportunity to succeed." He sat silent for a long moment, lost in a reverie, while Paul waited and tried not to show any sign of impatience until Wakeman abruptly focused his attention back on Paul. "Well. Welcome aboard."
It took Paul a few seconds, until Captain Wakeman frowned in displeasure, to realize he'd been dismissed. Paul hastily saluted again. "Thank you, sir." He closed the hatch carefully as he exited, afraid he might bang it shut and draw the Captain's wrath, then saw Meadows eyeing him. "Is he always like that?"
"Cap'n Pete? Oh, yeah." For the first time since Paul had met him, Meadows let his feelings for another officer show. "He talk to you about visibility?" Paul nodded. "Being on his team?" Another nod. "Be careful, Paul. Just try to watch your step."
"But what—?"
"I don't know. He's the Captain. That's all there is to it. Come on, let's see if we can run down Jan Tweed for you." Half an hour later, after several frustrating attempts to locate Lieutenant Tweed, Carl was called away to handle something pertaining to the ship's weaponry. Paul, left to his own resources, wandered through the ship, repeatedly losing his way and encountering officers and enlisted who eyed him with curiosity. He was standing before a large hatch with No Entry—Authorized Personnel Only stenciled on it in large letters when a familiar voice interrupted him. "Mr. Sinclair?"
Paul turned, seeing the senior chief who'd first brought him on board. The joy of seeing even that small familiarity caused a wave of relief to wash through him. "Yes, Senior Chief. How's it going?"
"Could be worse, sir. I been looking for you, but you've been moving around a lot." The senior chief eased back, indicating his companion. "First Class Master-at-Arms Ivan Sharpe, Mr. Sinclair. Being as you're the new legal officer, I knew you two should get together."
"Thanks, Senior Chief." Paul extended his hand even as the master-at-arms did the same. "Pleased to meet you, Petty Officer Sharpe."
Sharpe looked Paul over carefully while he shook Paul's hand. "Looking forward to working with you, sir."
The senior chief leaned forward, commanding attention immediately. "Sheriff Sharpe's a good petty officer, Mr. Sinclair. You can count on him. I gotta go handle some work, now."
"Thanks again, Senior Chief," Paul called after his retreating back, then faced Sharpe again. "Sheriff?"
Sharpe spread his hands, grinning fiercely. "A man's got to have his handle, sir. And I am sheriff of this here town."
"What's that make the legal officer? The town judge?"
Sheriff Sharpe shook his head. "Commander Herdez is judge and jury around here, Mr. Sinclair."
"Judge
and
jury? Then where's the Captain come in?"
"The Captain?" Sharpe kept his expression carefully noncommittal. "The Captain is God, sir."
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.