A Just Determination E-Book

Jack Campbell

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2012

Beschreibung

Ensign Paul Sinclair is assigned to the orbiting space warship the USS Michaelson as the ship's lone legal officer. When the ship's captain is accused of ordering the destruction of a civilian research vessel and commanded to return to port for court-martial, Sinclair must testify at the hearing. With his own future and that of his captain resting on a knife-edge, which side will Sinclair choose to fight for?

Leseprobe

ALSO BY JACK CAMPBELL

AND AVAILABLE FROM TITAN BOOKS

THE LOST FLEET SERIES

THE LOST FLEET: DAUNTLESS

THE LOST FLEET: FEARLESS

THE LOST FLEET: COURAGEOUS

THE LOST FLEET: VALIANT

THE LOST FLEET: RELENTLESS

THE LOST FLEET: VICTORIOUS

THE LOST FLEET: BEYOND THE FRONTIER: DREADNAUGHT

THE LOST FLEET: BEYOND THE FRONTIER: INVINCIBLE (MAY 2012)

COMING SOON

THE LOST FLEET: LOST STARS: TARNISHED KNIGHT

THE STARK’S WAR SERIES

(as John G. Hemry):

STARK’S WAR

STARK’S COMMAND

STARK’S CRUSADE

THE JAG IN SPACE SERIES

(as John G. Hemry):

BURDEN OF PROOF

RULE OF EVIDENCE

AGAINST ALL ENEMIES

JACK CAMPBELL

WRITING AS JOHN G. HEMRY

TITAN BOOKS

JAG IN SPACE: A JUST DETERMINATION

Print edition ISBN: 9780857689405

E-book edition ISBN: 9780857689597

Published by Titan Books

A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

144 Southwark St, London SE1 0UP

First edition: February 2012

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

The right of John G. Hemry to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

Copyright © 2003, 2012 by John G. Hemry

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A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

Printed and bound in Great Britain by CPI Group UK Ltd.

To Dianne, Douglas and Robert.

Sister and brothers, good times and bad.

Thanks.

For S,

as always.

“These rules are intended to provide for the just determination of every proceeding relating to trial by court-martial.”

RULE 102

RULES FOR COURTS-MARTIAL

MANUAL FOR COURTS-MARTIAL, UNITED STATES

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

1

ENSIGN PAUL C. SINCLAIR, USN

Upon completion instruction and when directed detach Duty Under Instruction; proceed port in which USS Michaelson (CLE(S)-3) may be, upon arrival report Commanding Officer for duty.

For perhaps the thousandth time since receiving them, Paul Sinclair reread his orders. Not for the first time, he thought how strange it was that one ship could be so many things. In the bland official wording of his orders, USS Michaelson was simply a destination for a newly commissioned officer. To the transportation personnel who had read those orders and arranged his arrival here at Franklin Naval Station, the Michaelson had been a moving target which Paul had to intercept at some point along the ship’s travels.

But in an order of battle, such as the one Paul had consulted as soon as his orders arrived, the Michaelson would be identified as the third ship in the Maury Class of Long Endurance Cruisers (Space). Armed with the latest weaponry, carrying over two hundred sailors and officers, armored against the hazards of space and whatever threats might be posed by other humans in the nothingness between planets.

No, Paul corrected himself, not just Michaelson. United States Ship Michaelson. A commissioned warship, part of the United States Navy and legally a small piece of the United States, floating free of the world that had birthed her.

Paul looked up and across the gap of metal flooring which was all that now separated him from the open rectangle marking the quarterdeck of the Michaelson. If the ship had been in dry dock, inside a huge pressurized hall, then Paul could have seen all of her smooth, elongated football shape in a glance. The apparent streamlining had nothing to do with speed but rather the need to hide military vessels from all the instruments that could detect reflections from angles, corners and flat surfaces. However, now Michaelson floated in open space, connected to the naval base at this one point, the rest of her invisible behind the heavy bulkheads which protected the base from empty space.

Up close, here and now, the small visible portion of the ship loomed as both the most wonderful and the most frightening thing Paul had ever seen. Four and a half years since I held up my hand and swore the oath of service. Four years at the Academy. Six months at various specialty schools. It all comes down to this. I’m supposed to be prepared for anything. Hah. Right now I’m too nervous to think straight.

“Sir?” Paul fought down an impulse to jerk in surprise at the question, instead turning with careful deliberation to see a mildly curious senior chief petty officer standing nearby. “Do you need something on the Michaelson?”

“Uh... no. I mean, yes.” The senior chief’s expression became a little more questioning. “That is, I’m supposed to report aboard her. She’s my new ship.”

“Well, that’s good for you, sir. She’s my ship, too. Ready to go aboard?”

“Uh, thanks, ch— senior chief.” Paul, wincing inside at almost addressing a senior chief as if he were a regular chief petty officer, grasped his small allowance of luggage firmly and followed in the senior chief’s wake as he strode across the short distance. It never occurred to him not to follow. Chief petty officers didn’t technically run the universe, but long-standing rumor held that heaven’s CPOs did all the real work that kept the universe from falling apart.

Closing on the quarterdeck, he could see another ensign standing watch there along with a junior petty officer. The ensign carried a long, archaic brass telescope cradled under one arm, a sign of her status as officer of the deck. Paul came to rigid attention at the foot of the ship’s entryway, turning to face the aft end of the Michaelson, and rendered his best salute to the national flag invisible in its compartment near the Michaelson’s stern. Turning again, he faced the other ensign and saluted once more. “Request permission to come aboard.”

The other officer returned the salute casually. “Granted.”

The senior chief repeated the ritual, then nodded toward Paul. “Got you some fresh meat here, Ms. Denaldo.”

The ensign brightened, while the petty officer looked on warily. “A new body? Great.” She thrust out a hand. “Kris Denaldo. Welcome aboard.”

Paul shook the offered hand. “Thanks. Paul Sinclair.”

Denaldo bent over to take an obvious look at the US Naval Academy ring on Paul’s hand. “Aha. A ring knocker, eh?”

“Yeah. You?”

Denaldo grinned. “Notre Dame.”

“You don’t look Irish.”

“So me sainted mother always said. Senior chief, my messenger is off escorting a contractor. Do you mind running Mr. Sinclair aft and handing him over to Mr. Sykes?”

“No problem, Ms. Denaldo. Oh, yeah, here’s them ribbons you needed.” The senior chief dropped a couple of small rectangles of colored silk into Ensign Denaldo’s waiting hand while she smiled with delight. Paul tried to glance at the ribbons unobtrusively. Every ribbon an officer or sailor wore on their left breast represented an award or a medal. The awards they’d received gave a thumbnail glance at their achievements and career to date, and Paul couldn’t help wanting to know something of what his new shipmate Ensign Denaldo had done so far. “National Defense Medal and Space Service Deployment ribbons,” the senior chief continued. “That’s what you needed, right?”

“Senior chief, you’re a wonder. Nobody can get these two ribbons up here. How’d you find some?”

“Geez, Ms. Denaldo, if I told you, I’d have to kill you.” The chief smiled broadly at his own joke, then beckoned to Paul. “You ready, Mr. Sinclair?” At Paul’s nod, the senior chief led the way through a hatch into the ship’s interior.

Instantly, it felt different. Outside (if you could call the inside of a space station outside) had been metal and recycled air, and the interior of the Michaelson was more metal and more used and re-used air. But everything felt tighter. The passageway they were in was barely wide enough for two people to pass. Overhead and on either side, cables, ducts and pipes ran off in both directions, every item labeled with cryptic codes indicating its function. Paul found himself hunching together for fear of hitting his head or arms against something or someone, feeling as if as much people and equipment had been crammed inside the hull as physics would permit. Paul suspected that might be literally true, especially after the senior chief popped open a smaller hatch and peered inside a space not much larger than an average Earth-side bedroom. “Mr. Sykes?”

A tall, lanky commander with a studiously relaxed expression looked up, waving a cup in their direction. On one lapel he wore the silver oak leaf of his rank and on the other lapel the multiple-oak-leaf insignia of the Supply Corps. “At your service, senior chief. What brings you to my lounge?”

The senior chief grinned, edging back to let Paul squeeze forward and into the room. “This here’s Ensign Sinclair reporting aboard. Mr. Sinclair, that there’s Commander Sykes, ship’s supply officer.” Paul nodded, trying not to let his uncertainty show as he tried to fix names to faces. “And this here’s the wardroom, actually. You can almost always find Mr. Sykes relaxing here with some coffee.”

“Not always,” Sykes denied. “Sometimes I’m drinking tea. Thanks, senior chief.” The senior chief sketched a half-salute and left, making the small space feel even smaller as he closed the hatch behind him. “Have a seat, Mr. Sinclair.” Sykes waved grandly toward one of the other chairs grouped around the rectangular metal table. “Don’t worry about strapping in. That’s only required while we’re underway.”

Paul glanced at the chair as he sat, noticing harness straps lying at the ready. “The ship maneuvers during meals?”

“Not if we can help it. Or, rather, not if the line officers actually driving the Merry Mike can help it.” Sykes smiled again, this time conspiratorially. “Being a limited duty supply specialist, I’m just a passenger of sorts.”

Paul smiled back. Sykes’ rank as commander probably put him on par with the other department heads and the ship’s executive officer, but those others were all line officers, a term derived from the days when such officers commanded sail-powered warships which exchanged broadsides in the line of battle with other warships. Unlike the line officers, Sykes’ status as a limited duty officer meant he exercised no authority over the actual operations of the ship. Even if the executive officer (another commander, if Paul remembered right) hadn’t occupied a superior position in the command hierarchy of the ship compared to a department head, she still would’ve been senior to Sykes on operational matters. For that matter, line officer Ensign Paul Sinclair would also be senior to Commander Sykes for operational purposes (a daunting prospect Paul tried not to dwell on) even though Sykes was his superior officer otherwise.

Paul let his gaze wander around the small room. A slightly stylized painting of the Michaelson in near-Earth orbit was fastened to one wall. Another held the small opening through which meals could be passed to the officers from the tiny food prep area beyond. On the third... Paul blinked, looking again as if his eyes had betrayed him. “A skull and crossbones? Why is there a pirate flag in here?”

Sykes followed Paul’s look, then chuckled. “Why is it here? Because neither the executive officer nor the captain has yet seen it and ordered it taken down. Some of your fellow junior officers stuck it up this morning.”

“Why?”

“Why? Ah, there you’re getting into ‘line’ issues. Operational stuff. You’ll have to ask a fellow ship driver.” Sykes rubbed his forehead, momentarily serious as he frowned in thought. “Well, welcome aboard and all that. You’ll eat, um, second shift.”

“Second shift?”

“That’s right.” Sykes looked around the wardroom himself, then shrugged. “This space can’t hold every officer at once. Well, it can if they’re hanging off all four bulkheads and the overhead, but not for a nice sit-down meal like the captain prefers. So, you get second shift.”

Paul nodded, repeating second shift in his mind several times to ensure it wasn’t forgotten.

“Have you heard much about food in the space fleet?”

Paul shook his head.

“Good. Try not to look at it or taste it, and you’ll do fine.”

Paul hesitated, then nodded again.

“I imagine you want a bunk someplace?”

“Uh, yes, sir.”

“Well, my young friend, you are in luck. It just so happens I have a vacancy. Come along, Ensign Sinclair.” Paul hastily scooped up his bag, following the supply officer out the hatch and down a short passageway, ducking as he passed through other hatches and trying to hug the bulkhead to his right as an occasional crew member squeezed past going in the other direction. Sykes finally halted before a hatch with three nameplates already stuck on it. “Welcome, Mr. Sinclair, to the starboard ensign locker.”

“Ensign locker?” Paul looked on with foreboding as Sykes rapped sharply on the bulkhead, then opened the hatch.

A bedraggled lieutenant junior grade glanced up from a tiny desk and raised one hand to wave two fingers in greeting. “What’s up, Suppo?”

“Got you another roomie. Meet Ensign Sinclair.”

“Ah, fer... Okay. I guess we won’t be able to stretch out in here anymore.”

“Too much luxury spoils the young. Everybody happy? Wonderful. I’m off to attend to my many and exhausting duties. He’s yours, Mr. Meadows.”

“Thanks, Suppo. I’ll take him from here.”

Sykes nodded and left as Paul carefully maneuvered himself and his bag into the ensign locker. The JG stuck out his hand as Paul dropped his bag. “Welcome to a tiny corner of hell. And I do mean tiny. I’m Carl Meadows.”

“Hi. I’m Paul. Paul Sinclair.” Paul looked around, taking in the three bunks stacked against one of the bulkheads, the four small desk and locker units ranked two-by-two on either side, and a fourth bunk wedged between the top of one set of locker units and the overhead. “I guess it’s a good thing I packed light.”

“A very good thing. You get the top bunk.”

Paul glanced upward, noting the power cables and ductwork overhead, which reduced the clearance above the top bunk to something less than the three feet of space the other bunks enjoyed. “Lucky me.”

“You’re junior ensign, my lad. Get used to the short end of the stick.” Meadows grinned to take the sting from his words. “Ship designers pack everything they can inside the volume of the hull. It makes for tight quarters. I hope you didn’t believe all those movies that showed space crews living in individual luxury apartment suites.”

“The ones with soaring ceilings and lots of floor space?” Paul laughed. “Heck, I’ve never lived that good back on Earth. I didn’t expect it up here, in living quarters provided by the government.”

“A wise expectation. For an ensign.”

Paul laughed again, then surveyed the small amount of personal storage space and shook his head. “If this is an ensign locker, why is a JG living here?”

“Because I’ve not yet achieved the exalted rank of full lieutenant, after which I can aspire to a two-person stateroom which is about half the size of this place. That’s supposed to be better. But it beats living in one of the ensign lockers. Your two other roomies are also men, by the way. I hope that doesn’t disappoint you. Aside from me, you get to share quarters with Ensign Sam Yarrow, and Lieutenant Junior Grade Bill Door. Don’t expect to see much of Bill. He’s the computer systems officer. Basically, Bill lives in the mainframe compartment. If you and he end up on opposite watch schedules, you may never see him except for rare sightings when he actually sleeps in his bunk. We send Bill emails occasionally to make sure he’s still with us.” Carl pointed out the hatch. “As for our female counterparts, the port ensign locker is where the babes live.”

“Babes? The female junior officers get called babes?”

“Sometimes. In private. If they’re in a good mood. And even then only among the other junior officers,” Meadows cautioned, “not around anybody ranked lieutenant commander and above, and never, not ever in front of the enlisted.”

“So, what do the, uh, babes call us? Sometimes, in private, among junior officers, that is.”

“Studs.”

Paul unsuccessfully tried to smother a laugh. “First time I’ve ever had that nickname.”

“Me, too. Enjoy it while you can. I have a suspicion the stud nickname is at least slightly facetious, though. I’m gunnery and fire control officer, by the way. Have you got any idea what your primary duty will be?”

“My detailer said I’d be assistant combat information center officer.”

Meadows raised one eyebrow. “And you believed him?”

“No, not really. When do I find out for sure what my job will be?”

“When you meet the executive officer.” Meadows canted his head in a direction Paul guessed to indicate forward and to port. “Commander Herdez. If she tells you that you’ll be ACICO, then you’ll be ACICO.”

“What’s she like?”

“She’s the XO. She works our butts off. Then she works us some more. But Herdez knows what she’s doing. The XO’s a very sharp officer. And, trust me on this, when you screw up you’ll find out just how sharp she can be.” Carl grinned. “You’ll note I said ‘when you screw up’, not ‘if.’ I’ve been the ensign route, and the best you can say for it is that it’s a learning experience.”

“Yeah.” Paul sagged into one of the free chairs. “I’m really looking forward to it.”

“Don’t worry. From the dawn of time, naval officers have gone through the ensign stage, and most have later gone on to lead happy, productive lives.”

“Most have?”

“Let’s not talk about the others. You may meet some of them,” Carl added enigmatically. “A word of warning, though. We’re heading out real soon for a long cruise. We get underway in four days for a week of shakedown in the local operating area. Then another week back here to fix whatever breaks during the shakedown, and after that, we’re heading out into the big, empty black for a long time. All of which means you won’t have much luxury for learning the ropes onboard the Merry Mike. Hit the deck running, and keep your eyes and ears open.”

Paul fought down a wave of apprehension. “Thanks. I guess everybody calls her the Merry Mike?”

“JOs do.”

“Commander Sykes did, too.”

“Oh, well. Suppo’s a special case. I wouldn’t use the name around the captain or the XO.”

“I was starting to guess that. It seems to be said sort of... sarcastically.”

Meadows pretended shock, then laughed. “She’s a warship, not a fun ship! You know what we say after putting in twelve hours on the job? ‘Great, we only had to work a half-day!’ Mostly, it’s more like twenty hours a day of work and watch-standing under what you might call demanding supervision.”

“Huh.” Paul bit his lip. “So the XO is tough. What about the other senior officers? The department heads? What are they like?”

“Uh-uh,” Meadows demurred. “You make your own mind up on them. I don’t want to predispose you.”

“But—”

“Uh-uh.”

“Okay.” Paul glanced forlornly around the tiny stateroom. My new home. For months at a stretch, with people I don’t know yet who I may not like and who may not like me, working my tail off the whole time. Why did I ever volunteer for this? “You said we’ll be going out on a long cruise? Has the mission been announced?”

Carl grinned, one thumb idly rubbing the silver bar of his collar rank insignia. “Our mission? Arrrhhh, we be pirates, lad!”

“Huh?”

“We’re—” Meadows stopped speaking at a rap on the bulkhead, followed by the hatch opening. An enlisted sailor looked in, silently handed him a folded cloth, then left. Meadows unfurled the cloth, revealing the pirate flag Carl had seen in the wardroom. “Ah. It appears one of our humor-challenged seniors finally saw this.”

“Suppo told me they’d take it down.”

“Yeah, that’s what I figured. But, what the hell. Why pirates? That’s an open secret. We’ll be on sovereignty patrol. Enforcing the US claim on a very large volume of very empty space containing very valuable transit routes and the occasional very valuable rock.”

Paul nodded. “Yeah. I know about the sovereignty bit. We need to enforce our claim of control or it won’t have any legal standing.”

“Meaning what? That’s a real question. We’re all a little vague on the reasons for what we’re doing. Not that that’s so unusual.”

“Well...” Paul paused to order his thoughts. “You can’t just claim something and then leave it. If you claim you own something, but then let other people use it without hindrance for a while, then eventually your claim won’t be regarded as having legal standing anymore. You have to enforce your claim in some meaningful way. You know, it’s like if you have a trademark on some word but let everybody use it all the time and never complain. After a while the word is legally in public domain and you can’t enforce the trademark anymore. That’s really simplified, and I’m sure a lawyer could poke all kinds of holes in what I said, but that’s the general idea.”

“Interesting.” Meadows raised both eyebrows. “You know legal stuff, huh?”

“Sort of. I had a one-month gap in my orders, so they packed me off to a ship’s legal officer course. I guess you could say I now know enough to be dangerous.”

“Lucky you. Then you also know what ‘enforcing’ our claim means?”

“In theory...”

“In practice.” Meadows smiled, this time without real humor. “Like you said, we can’t let other ships just cruise through our space, can we? But we’re not at war with anybody, not officially anyway, so we can’t officially blow them away, if that should be necessary.”

“Blow them away?” Paul stared. “You mean we’ll be authorized to shoot at other ships?”

“That’s the scuttlebutt. How we can get away with that when we’re not at war with anybody, I don’t know, but then I’m just a dumb JG.”

“That’s better than being a dumb ensign. Our orders really say that?”

Meadows shrugged. “That’s the scuttlebutt,” he repeated. “You’ll see the actual orders when the rest of us do. For now, I better get you to see the XO. You don’t want her thinking she’s being dissed. No, sirree. Follow me.”

Meadows went out the hatch, expertly ducking to avoid banging his head, and led the way through a maze of passageways in which Paul had already lost his bearings. His head brushed objects overhead twice, causing Paul to hunch even lower and envy the casual way Meadows ducked and twisted to avoid hitting things. A female ensign came around a corner, flattening herself against the bulkhead as Paul and Carl passed. “Hey, babe,” Carl offered.

“Hey, yourself. New stud?”

“Yeah.” Carl indicated the female ensign. “Jen Shen. Paul Sinclair.”

“Charmed.”

“Likewise.”

Carl pointed a thumb down, where the aft portion of the ship lay. “Jen’s the auxiliary machinery officer. She’s not bad, for a snipe.”

Jen bared her teeth. “That reminds me. I may need to have the ventilation in your stateroom taken off line. Maybe for several hours.”

“Oh, God, please, no—”

“Just joking.” She looked Paul over appraisingly. “Is Carl giving you the ten cent tour?” Paul nodded. “Did he warn you about Smilin’ Sam, yet?”

“Smilin’... ?”

“Sam Yarrow,” Carl amplified. “The bull ensign.” The official nickname indicated Yarrow was the senior ensign onboard. “Don’t call him Smilin’ Sam to his face.”

“But keep your eye on him,” Jen added. “He’s a snake.”

“Now, Jen—”

“Don’t ‘now’ me, mister. Paul, if Sam tries to pat you on the back don’t let him unless you’ve got armor strapped on between your shoulder blades. Otherwise, you’re likely to find a knife there.” She smiled with mock sweetness at Carl. “But that’s just my opinion. See ya. I got work to do, unlike some underemployed combat systems types.”

Meadows shook his head, smiling wryly, as Shen hustled down the passageway. “Jen’s got attitude to spare.”

“I can tell. She seems squared away, though.”

“Oh yeah, real squared away. You can trust Jen, on official business or on personal stuff.”

“Thanks. So she’s right about Yarrow?”

Carl hesitated before answering. “I don’t want to predispose you—”

“Come on.”

“Okay. The bull ensign’s supposed to look out for the other ensigns, right? Sam Yarrow mainly looks out for Sam Yarrow. That’s all I’ll say. Now, onward. The XO awaits.”

They went around another corner, ducking where cables and ducts came too far down from the overhead, until Carl stopped before a hatch with Herdez stenciled on it. He rapped twice, waited for an acknowledgement, then opened the hatch and waved Paul forward. “New officer reporting aboard, XO.”

“Thank you, Mr. Meadows.” Herdez rose from her chair just enough to shake Paul’s hand. “Please wait outside while I speak with Ensign...”

“Sinclair, ma’am.”

“Sinclair. Welcome aboard the USS Michaelson.” Herdez sank back into her chair, gestured Paul to the stateroom’s other seat, then held out her hand. “Your service record, please.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Paul hastily popped the data cartridge containing his service record out of his wallet and handed it over. As Herdez loaded the record into her terminal, reading it intently, Paul tried to surreptitiously study her and his surroundings. Herdez had a build that was slim, but even through her uniform seemed hard. She scanned her terminal with a stern expression which seemed habitual, radiating an aura of cool competence. Paul found himself hoping he never screwed up in her presence, yet simultaneously certain such an event was only a matter of time. Her stateroom, perhaps half the size of Paul’s new shared quarters, was almost devoid of personal decoration except for one bulkhead which held a small collection of medallions and pictures, obviously memorabilia from Commander Herdez’ earlier assignments.

“Impressed?”

Paul froze at the dryly phrased question, looking to see Commander Herdez gazing directly at him once again.

She pointed toward the memorabilia. “My ‘Love Me’ wall, Mr. Sinclair. Eighteen years of naval service are represented there. Perhaps you’ll have such a wall someday, should you succeed in this profession.” She paused, as if expecting a reply.

“I hope to, ma’am.”

Herdez twisted one corner of her mouth in a brief smile. “Hope counts for far less than performance, Mr. Sinclair. Do well, and success will follow.” She indicated the screen of her terminal. “You ranked two hundred and tenth from the top of your Academy class. Not bad. Could you have done better?”

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 onboard. 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.”

2

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 of 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 mid-watch 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 onboard?”

“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.”