Halfway to Captain Gonzalez's cabin, Paul got another call from the XO diverting him to the wardroom. When he poked his head in, he saw Captain Hayes and Commander Sykes conversing casually. "Captain Hayes, sir? I'm supposed to brief you on ship's legal matters."
Hayes nodded, then smiled at Sykes. "It's good seeing you again, Steve. Let's talk again tonight."
"Certainly, sir."
"Gwen Herdez sends her respects. Apparently the Supply officers she's dealing with ashore aren't nearly so, uh, creative as you are."
Paul felt uncomfortable hearing senior officers bantering together on a first name basis. He could never think of the ship's old XO as "Gwen." She'd always be Herdez to him.
Sykes feigned regret. "Alas, my talents are somewhat unique." He waved toward Paul. "Have you met Lieutenant Junior Grade Sinclair, sir?"
Hayes smiled politely at Paul. "Not one-on-one, though I could have sworn he was Ensign Sinclair this morning."
"He was indeed, sir. I credit my own example with his meteoric rise in rank."
Hayes laughed. "I'm sure. See you around." As Sykes exited, Hayes gestured Paul to another seat. "Quite a bit of action on the bridge today, wasn't there?"
Paul made a small smile. He knew so little about Hayes so far. I need to be very careful how I talk to him. Not too casual, but not too stiff. I wish I was sure how to do that. The last thing I want is to poison his opinion of me the first week he's onboard. This is the guy who's literally going to be controlling my life for the next couple of years. "Yes, sir."
"You seemed to handle things okay."
"Thank you, sir. Carl Meadows and I are a good team."
Hayes nodded again. "It sure looks like it. Too bad Lieutenant Meadows is leaving us. Who'll be your underway Officer of the Deck after that?"
"I don't know, sir."
"How close are you to qualifying to stand watch as OOD yourself?" asked Hayes, using the Navy's abbreviation for officer of the deck.
Paul took a brief moment to form his reply as he ran down a mental list of what needed to be done. "I almost have that section of my Open Space Warfare Officer qualifications completed, sir."
"You've been onboard a year?"
"About fifteen months, sir."
"Hmmm." It was hard to tell what Hayes thought about that. "Okay. Tell me about the legal stuff. Your chief master-at-arms is Petty Officer Sharpe?"
"Yes, sir."
"What do you think of him?"
"He's an excellent master-at-arms and petty officer, sir. I can always depend upon his advice."
"Hmmm." Captain Hayes grinned. "I guess Ivan Sharpe hasn't changed. Say hi to him for me."
"Yes, sir." He knows Sharpe? Then he just asked my opinion to see what my judgment was like. I wish the Sheriff had given me a heads-up on that little item. What else does he already know?
"Anything major I should know about in the legal area?"
"No, sir, nothing major. No ongoing investigations or anything like that."
"How often do you talk to the JAGs on Franklin?"
Paul paused to think. The military lawyers on Franklin Station, usually called "JAGs" after the initials for the Judge Advocate General's Corps, were only called upon for serious legal matters. "Not too often, sir. Every once in a while I have a question whose answer isn't too clear from the Manual for Courts-Martial or the Judge Advocate General's Manual, and then I check with them."
"Are the ship's copies of the MCM and the JAGMAN up to date?"
"Yes, sir."
"Do you like being legal officer, Paul?"
Paul hesitated while he thought about that. I don't hate the job, but it's not my favorite past-time, either. "It's a big responsibility, sir."
"As big as your line officer responsibilities?"
Paul didn't have to look to know that Hayes was watching him intently. "Yes and no, sir. I mean, no one's going to die because I slack off legal officer duties, like they could if I messed up while on watch, but mistakes on my part as legal officer could hurt the careers of any sailor onboard."
Hayes smiled tightly. "Not to mention my career, Mr. Sinclair."
"Yes, sir."
"And yours."
"Yes, sir."
"Keep on top of things. I don't want to be bit by anything because we failed to cross a 't' or dot an 'i' on some legal requirement."
"Yes, sir."
"Thanks, Paul. You're the Combat Information Center Officer as your primary job, right?"
"Yes, sir."
"I'll have a separate session with you and the rest of Operations Department. We'll go over that stuff then." As Paul unstrapped and rose from his chair, Hayes smiled again. "Commander Herdez sends her greetings to you as well."
She did? "Thank you, sir."
"Apparently you impressed Commander Herdez. That's not easy to do."
What do I say in response to that? "Yes, sir."
"Are you doing as well as she'd expect?"
That one was easy, if Paul was going to answer it honestly. "I'm trying, sir."
"But not always succeeding? Don't worry. You gave the right answer. If you'd told me you were doing that well, I'd figure you for a liar."
Paul hung in the passageway outside the wardroom for a minute, one hand on the nearest tie-down and the other rubbing his forehead. Did that go well? I wish I knew. It's nice Herdez told him something good about me, but that might mean Hayes now expects me to be the greatest junior officer since John Paul Jones. Well, so far this has been one hell of a day. I wonder what else -?
The Bosun's pipe sounded on the all-hands circuit. "Lieutenant Junior Grade Sinclair, your presence is requested in the executive officer's stateroom."
I had to ask. The XO's stateroom wasn't far from the wardroom, so Paul made it there within a couple of minutes. Paul knocked, waited for the XO to call out an invitation to enter, then pulled himself inside. "You need me, sir?"
Commander Kwan gave Paul a sour look. "The prisoners insist upon talking to an officer. Is that right, by the way? Are they prisoners?"
"Detainees, sir."
"Fine. The detainees insist on talking to an officer. The captain doesn't want to do it and I don't want to do it. Guess who that leaves, Mr. Sinclair?"
"Uh, sir, if it's a food or berthing issue, Commander Sykes -"
"Doesn't want to talk to them, either. No, this sounds like another job for the ship's legal officer. Have fun."
"Yes, sir." Paul tried not to sigh heavily as he turned to go.
"Oh, Sinclair, make damned sure you don't promise them anything."
"Aye, aye, sir." Paul headed toward the temporary confinement areas, trying not to get too angry over the XO's parting instruction. Does he think I'm an idiot? Ever since I've been on this ship I've been dealing with people making unreasonable demands on me. These Greenspacers ought to be easy compared to that.
Petty Officer Williams was standing watch outside the confinement area, her deputy master-at-arms patch in place to signify her status. Paul took a moment to wonder how even in zero-gravity sailors found ways to lounge against bulkheads. Williams noticed him, brought herself mostly to attention, and sketched a salute. "Good afternoon, sir."
"Not for me." Paul's answer brought a grin to Williams' face. "I understand our guests want to talk to an officer."
"That's right, sir. They've been banging on the hatch and calling on the intercom every few minutes."
"Okay. Pop the hatch, and let's see what's up."
Paul and Williams both stood back, ready for any tricks the Greenspacers might have cooked up, as the hatch automatically released and swung open. But it revealed only the detainees hanging in the compartment, looking toward them expectantly. Paul came forward, stopping at the hatch. "I understand you wish to speak to an officer."
The secular Saint nodded. "We wish to speak to the captain, to be precise."
"I'm sorry, but the captain is very busy. What do want to say?"
"We want to speak to the captain."
"The captain is busy. I'll listen to whatever you have to say."
The Saint eyed Paul for a long moment, then apparently decided that Paul could keep up the back-and-forth as long as the Saint could. "Our accommodations do not meet legal requirements for prison facilities. Are you familiar with those requirements?"
Not familiar enough to know precisely how many square meters of space each prisoner is supposed to have, but I know these compartments don't meet whatever standard that is. Come to think of it, the sailors' berthing compartments on this ship probably don't meet those standards. Outwardly, Paul simply nodded. "These are not prison facilities. They are temporary accommodations, so they don't have to meet prison standards."
"We are prisoners!"
"No, sir, you are not. You are being temporarily detained until you can be transferred to civil law enforcement authorities. You are being kept in these compartments in order to ensure your own safety."
"Surely you don't expect us to believe that."
"I can't control what you believe, sir, nor do I want to try. I'm simply answering your question. Is there anything else?"
The Saint held up a blocky-looking, fibrous mass. "Is this supposed to be food?"
"Yes, sir. Those are emergency rations. They meet all nutritional requirements."
"We demand to be fed as well as the crew of this ship!"
Paul pointed to the ration. "Sir, the crew's eaten those in the past and surely will again. I've eaten those. But I'll pass your complaint on to the ship's supply officer." Over the next few minutes, complaints were registered again regarding the size of the compartment the detainees occupied, the fact they were detained at all, the food, the lack of means to occupy their time, the food, the quality of the bedding they'd been issued, the food, the ventilation, and the food. Paul fended off each complaint until the Saint ran out of steam, then watched thankfully as Petty Officer Williams resealed the hatch. The intercom next to the hatch almost immediately erupted into a babble of insults.
Williams looked at Paul, her face hopeful. "Can I disable the intercom, sir?"
"No. We have to hear what they're up to."
"Damn."
"I hear you, but make sure that intercom stays on."
"Yes, sir."
Paul pulled himself along a series of passageways and ladders, ducking objects that protruded down from the overhead and flattening himself in the narrow passages to pass other crew members, and on into the wardroom, where the junior officer dinner shift had already begun. "Hey, Suppo," he called to Commander Sykes, the senior officer assigned to provide adult leadership to the junior officers during this meal shift. "The detainees don't like the food."
Carl Meadows examined the mysterious meat in his meal. "My heart bleeds. What were they expecting? And what is this stuff, Suppo?"
Sykes beamed back at him. "Syrian beef stew, Mr. Meadows."
"They didn't use a real Syrian in it, did they?"
"I don't think so. But you know the rule, Mr. Meadows. If you can't recognize something you're eating, don't ask what it is. As for you, Mr. Sinclair, I trust you soothed the irate detainees."
"Suppo, there ain't enough soothing here or on Earth to convince someone that those emergency rations are decent food." Paul paused at his seat. "Request permission to join the mess, sir."
Sykes waved one hand grandly. "By all means. Permission granted."
Paul strapped in, eyed his own meal dubiously, then focused back on Sykes. "They also complained about their quarters, their bedding and their lack of entertainment."
Lieutenant Sindh raised her eyebrows. "Lack of entertainment?"
"Yeah, you know. Reading material, games, videos."
Sindh smothered a laugh. "Commander Sykes," she advised with exaggerated solemnity, "you may be in danger of losing one of your stars in the Space Accommodations Guide."
"Really?" Sykes shrugged. "Ah, well, I probably only had one star to begin with. Mr. Sinclair, I shall see what I can provide our guests in the way of entertainment."
"You're kidding." Paul glanced around, seeing the other junior officers also watching the supply officer with surprised faces. "Why? We don't owe them a good time."
"Ah, Mr. Sinclair, this isn't about what's good for them, it's about what's good for us. If our guests have nothing to occupy their minds and time, what will they do?"
Kris Denaldo answered the question. "Think and talk and think some more."
"Yes, indeed. And what will they be thinking and talking about?"
"How to make life more difficult for us?"
"Bravo, Ms. Denaldo. I see lieutenant's bars in your future. Perhaps long in your future, but surely someday."
"Thanks." Kris bowed in her seat while the other junior officers applauded her. "So you'll hand them enough stuff to divert their attentions from plotting."
"Exactly. Idle hands and all that." Whatever else Sykes might have been intending to say was cut off by Captain Gonzalez sticking her head through the hatchway.
"Attention on deck!" Lieutenant Sindh called out, but before the officers could unstrap, Gonzalez waved them back.
"Carry on," she advised. "Commander Sykes. This Syrian beef stew we had tonight. You're not going to serve it again, are you?"
"Ah, well, ma'am, we do have some more onboard -"
"Commander Sykes. You're not going to serve it again, are you?"
"Uh, no, ma'am. I wouldn't dream of it."
"Good. Captain Hayes and I are of one mind on this issue, just in case you were planning on using it after the change of command." Gonzalez smiled briefly around the wardroom, then departed.
Sykes shrugged again. "I try. I try."
Paul grinned. "Cheer up, Suppo. Now you don't have to worry about being sued for libel by the Syrians. Hey, has anybody heard when we'll be back at Franklin?"
Kris gave Paul an arch look. "Oh, eager to get back to port, Paul? Could it be the USS Maury is in port there now?"
"She could be."
"Ha! As if you don't know. I'm sure you're heartbroken at seeing Jen again a day early. Count yourself lucky the captain didn't listen to the department heads."
"Why? What'd they want?"
Kris rolled her eyes. "They suggested we drop off the Greenspacers and then conduct some extra underway drills instead of docking. The XO thought that was a good idea, too. Fortunately, the captain reminded them we had to drop off the contractors as well, and their contract calls for in-port off-load except in emergencies."
Carl Meadows shook his head. "Gah. What do they do to peoples' brains when they get promoted to commander? No offense, Suppo."
Commander Sykes smiled. "None taken."
"I'm just glad their evil plans were foiled. I never thought I'd be this grateful to a contractor."
"Speaking of people awaiting us inport," Kris added, "I saw some administrative messages. A certain Lieutenant Silver is there, no doubt eager to relieve Carl of his many burdens."
Carl smiled broadly. "My relief is at hand. That news is almost enough to make this meal taste good."
Commander Sykes smiled back. "Indeed?"
"I said 'almost,' Suppo."
Paul had barely left the wardroom after the meal when his data pad buzzed urgently. He checked the page, then gritted his teeth. Garcia wants to see me. Right away. Great. The perfect cap to this day, no doubt. I wonder if I offended the universe yesterday?
"You needed to see me, sir?" Commander Garcia, Paul's department head, looked up with a frown deeper than his habitual bad humor. Uh oh. Now what?
"I need the personnel evaluations for all the enlisted in your division."
"Yes, sir. They'll be to you by Thursday."
"I need them tomorrow. Tomorrow morning."
Paul stared at Garcia, trying to imagine where he'd find time to get the evaluations done that quickly. "Sir? Tomorrow morning? But -"
"Tomorrow morning." Garcia unbent enough to add an explanation. "Because the test firing was postponed, we're heading back to Franklin Station. That leaves a hole in our operating schedule. The XO wants the evaluations done through the department head level before we get to Franklin so everyone can concentrate on preparing for heading out for the rescheduled test firing."
Oh, great. He's got a hole in his schedule, so I have to spend the next twelve hours straight writing like a madman, in addition to little things like standing watches and taking care of my other duties. Thanks for thinking of us, XO. "Yes, sir." It wasn't Garcia's fault, so there wasn't any sense in complaining to him. Not that complaining about stuff to Garcia ever makes much sense.
"Where's Ensign Taylor?"
Ensign Taylor had been assigned as the ship's Electronic Materials Officer when she reported aboard. For some reason, perhaps because much of Taylor's work supported Paul's job as Combat Information Center Officer, Garcia had decided Taylor worked for Paul. "I don't know, sir."
"Make sure she gets her evals in on time." Garcia turned away in obvious dismissal.
Paul fought down an impulse to make a rude face at Garcia's back. Taylor's a mustang, for crying out loud. Former enlisted, worked her way up the ranks, has been in the Navy almost as long as I've been alive, and I'm supposed to ride herd on her. Yeah, that makes sense.
Paul pulled himself rapidly back toward his stateroom, paging Taylor as he did so to pass on the new deadline for the evaluations. Taylor's response came almost immediately, and included a few obscenities Paul hadn't heard before. I wonder if I should ask her what those mean? That'd probably be a bad idea.
Kris Denaldo dodged to one side and looked alarmed as Paul darted past. "What's up, Paul? You look like general quarters is about to be called."
"Close enough. You didn't hear? The XO wants the enlisted evals done before we get back to Franklin. Mine are due in tomorrow morning. I'll bet you'll soon get word yours are, too."
"Oh, no. I've got the mid-watch! I was about to grab a few hours of sleep before I go back on watch at midnight."
"It's going to be a long night, Kris. I'd lay in some extra coffee if I was you."
"Yeah. Thanks for the heads-up." Denaldo reversed her own course and hurried back toward the port ensign locker as Paul continued towards his own stateroom.
Ensign Diego was watching a movie on his desk display when Paul swung in. The video was some old war movie, apparently set during the Twentieth Century. On screen, a grizzled war horse of an officer glared at a motley collection of soldiers and announced "Reveille tomorrow morning is at 0600" as his soldiers groaned.
Diego laughed. "How come they get to sleep in?"
"They must be on holiday routine," Paul replied. "Unlike us. Bad news, Randy. Be advised the enlisted evaluations in my department, and probably yours as well, will be due tomorrow morning. I'd get to work writing if I was you."
Diego looked horrified. "Tomorrow morning? Why are our department heads doing that to us?"
"The XO wants it that way."
"But I thought our department heads were supposed to look out for us."
Oh, man. Was I ever that naïve? "Let me pass on some wisdom, Randy. I got told this right after I reported onboard. Officers in the Space Navy tend to fall into three categories. There's the exiles, guys who think they've been unjustly consigned to isolated duty in which they've little chance to maneuver for promotion. So the exiles tend to ride their subordinates hard in hope of somehow gaining favorable recognition for themselves. Then there's the survivors, officers who are merely trying to endure their tours without killing themselves or anyone else. They're usually relatively easy-going for Space Warfare Officers, but I imagine you can already guess there aren't that many survivors at department head-level and above."
Randy Diego grimaced. "Yeah. I haven't met any I'd call easy-going. Except for Commander Sykes."
"He's a special case. Finally, there's the idealists, who believe in human destiny in space and are willing to put up with extra hardships to help accomplish that, even if it doesn't necessarily enhance their careers." Paul didn't say that he'd been pegged as an idealist early on by his then-fellow-ensign Jen Shen. "Now, my department head, Commander Garcia, is very definitely an exile, which doesn't make life for me any easier and means Garcia's number one priority is looking good. Trying to talk the XO out of some new deadline the XO dreamed up is no way to look good. What about your department head?"
"Commander Nimitz? Uh, I think he'd be an idealist."
"Okay, so would an idealist, willing to undergo hardships himself, beg off the XO's new deadline so you can get a halfway decent night's sleep?"
Randy slumped for a moment, then with a flurry of curses shut off the movie and pulled up his own evaluation files. The compartment stayed silent after that, except for the sporadic sounds of Paul and Randy working.
Kris Denaldo rapped on the hatch coaming and leaned in. "Got word on the XO's anti-cut-and-paste program. As long as you make sure at least every fourth word varies, even by one letter, it'll give you a clean bill of health."
"Really?" Paul looked at his work and grinned. "Oh, that'll make things go a lot faster. How'd you find out, Kris?"
"I ran into Senior Chief Kowalski, and he happened to mention it."
"God bless him." Senior Chiefs weren't technically fonts of all knowledge, but they were close enough that smart officers tried to work well with them.
"Later."
Kris vanished, followed a moment later by a red-faced Sam Yarrow. "What'd Denaldo want?" he asked the compartment in general.
Paul debated not answering for a moment, then decided that keeping silent would be acting too much like Sam. "She'd just talked to the Senior Chief, who said -"
"I haven't got time for whatever the Senior Chief told Kris Denaldo." Yarrow strapped into his chair and called up his own evaluation files.
Paul raised one eyebrow, then glanced at Randy Diego, who favored Yarrow with a "screw you" look. Paul smiled, shrugged and went back to work as Randy smiled in turn.
Hours later, Paul closed his files out and blinked at the time display. I have to go on watch again at 0400, which means getting on the bridge by 0330 to turn over with Kris, which means getting up no later than 0300. Hey, I might get three hours sleep tonight. What a deal. I sure hope tomorrow - Paul checked the time again, seeing it was now past midnight, and corrected himself. I sure hope today's better than yesterday.
* * *
About twenty-four hours later, Paul stood beside Sheriff Sharpe as the Greenspacers were herded off of the USS Michaelson by a bevy of security personnel. Some of the Michaelson's crew gawked at the protestors, while others like Sharpe eyed them disdainfully. The Saint offered Paul a fierce grin in passing then called out, "Until next time!"
Sharpe blew out a breath. "Looks like you made a friend, sir."
"Yeah. Do we get some kind of receipt for turning these guys over in one piece with no bruises?"
"They got bruises, sir. We maneuvered some after picking 'em up, remember?"
"Oh, yeah."
"But I got the receipt, sir. We're clear."
"Great. I'll tell the XO." Paul sensed someone nearby and turned to see Captain Gonzalez there. "Good evening, ma'am."
"Good evening, Paul." Gonzalez watched as the Greenspacers were marched away. "Never a dull moment, eh?"
"No, ma'am."
"Can you believe I'll miss it? Even this kind of nonsense. There's no other job like it."
"I won't argue with that, ma'am."
Gonzalez grinned. "I believe you have a visitor, Mr. Sinclair."
Paul followed her gaze, then smiled himself. Jen was a little hard to spot in the crowd on the pier since many of the others there were taller than her. She smiled brightly when their eyes met, walked to the USS Michaelson's brow, saluted the national flag at the aft end of the Michaelson, then saluted Ensign Gabriel, who was officer of the deck inport at the moment. "Request permission to come aboard."
"Permission granted."
Jen saluted Captain Gonzalez as well. "Good evening, ma'am."
"Good evening, Ms. Shen. Nice to see you again. I'll leave you two alone." With an indulgent smile, Gonzalez left the quarterdeck.
Jen grinned, then looked at Paul. "Hey, sailor. New in town?"
Paul smiled wider. "Yup, and looking for a good time. You know of any prospects?"
"I'm not busy tonight."
"Unfortunately, I am."
Jen made a face. "Duty?"
"Yep. I can't leave the ship. Can I interest you in a wardroom meal and a flick afterward?"
"Be still my heart. Okay. Hey, what's this?" Jen pointed at the silver bars on Paul's collar. "You got promoted!"
"You don't have to sound so surprised."
"I'm not. Your name showed up on the promotion list a while back. But it's still cool. We'll have to celebrate."
Paul ached to hug Jen, but with them both in uniform and him on duty that would violate a number of regulations regarding public displays of affection. As if reading his mind, Jen reached out to squeeze his arm.
Petty Officer Sharpe cleared his throat. "My work here is done, sir. Request permission to get on with my life."
Paul returned Sharpe's salute. "Permission granted, Sheriff. Have fun."
"Thank you, sir." Sharpe flashed a grin. "You kids be good tonight."
"You don't have to worry about busting us. We both know the regs about no hanky-panky on ships."
Jen gave Sharpe an arch look. "Heck, Petty Officer Sharpe, I can't even kiss this guy. Do you know how hard it is not to do that?"
"Not ever having had the urge to kiss him, ma'am, I can't say I do."
"That's a relief." With another grin, Sharpe left the quarterdeck. "Paul, how do you put up with that guy?"
"The Sheriff? He's respectful when he should be, he never crosses the line into being too familiar, and he really knows his job."
"Works for me." They headed for the wardroom. "So, what's tomorrow look like on the good ship Merry Mike?"
Paul paused outside the wardroom hatch. "Change of command ceremony. After that, rumor says we'll get early liberty."
"Ohhhh, good deal."
"Then tomorrow night Carl's got his farewell laid on at Fogarty's. You'll be there, right?"
"I wouldn't miss it." Jen stared down the passageway. "It's funny. The Michaelson stays the same ship, the ship that was my home for more days, weeks and months at stretch than I care to remember, a place I knew like the back of my hand. But as the people I knew onboard transfer off she's slowly becoming like a place I don't belong. I belong on some past version of the Merry Mike, crewed by the memories of officers and enlisted who have gone on to other assignments. I wonder if this is how a ghost feels?"
Jen stood silent for a few moment, leaving Paul to think through her words. I don't understand. I guess because I'm seeing the changes happen one by one and they don't impact on me the way seeing a bunch at once would. Or maybe because the Michaelson is still home for me, all too often twenty-four/seven. I wonder what'll it feel like to watch her leave port, knowing I don't belong onboard anymore? He glanced at Jen's face, then reached out to squeeze her shoulder. "You feel real to me."
"Watch it, sailor. You're going to need that hand someday." But Jen grinned to remove any hint of real threat from her words. "Life goes on. Whether we like it or not."
"Yeah. Speaking of which, are you coming to our change of command?"
"Sorry. No can do. I served less than forty-eight hours under Gonzalez, so I can't convince my department head to let me go. But I'll bolt from the Maury the instant liberty call goes down. How's your new captain look? Is he another Wakeman?"
"Hell, no." Paul couldn't hide his reaction to the thought. "Hayes seems okay. Of course, he hasn't taken over, yet." As an observer, Hayes had been bound to follow the way Gonzalez wanted to run the ship. As captain, Hayes would be able to change things to suit himself.
"Speaking of captains, we're meeting for dinner on Thursday."
"Gee, Jen, that's three days from now, right before your own ship leaves. Are you sure it's a good idea to plan for that?"
"Excuse me, Paul. I didn't say 'can we meet.' I said we are meeting."
"What's so important about dinner that night?"
"The Mahan is in port. Long-term refit."
"Uh, yeah. So?"
"So that means her captain is in port, too." Jen paused, eyeing Paul as he looked baffled. "Captain Kay Shen."
"Captain Shen? Your father?"
"The only one I know of."
"Captain Shen?"
"You already said that."
"Your father."
"Oh, for heaven's sake. Look, I'll be at the Michaelson by 1730 that night to make sure you look decent. We'll be dining on the Mahan as guests of the captain so you'll need to break out your service dress. Mine's fresh-pressed. How's yours?"
"Uh . . ."
"Wadded up in the back of a drawer? Probably. We've got a couple of days to see what we can do with it. Although I don't know what you were planning to wear to the change of command. Are you okay?"
"Yes, I'm fine."
"You're not worried about meeting my father, are you?"
"What's he like? You've never said much about him."
"He's my father. Don't worry. It's no big deal."
Jen walked into the wardroom, exchanging greetings with the other officers there whom she knew, while Paul hung back for a moment. No big deal? Give me a break. Her father's the captain of the Mahan? Life just keeps getting more complicated.