There wasn't any one place on the Michaelson even remotely big enough for the entire crew to gather, so the change-of-command ceremony took place in a special hall on Franklin Station which existed for just such functions. With the exception of a skeleton duty section remaining behind on the Michaelson to watch over the ship, every other officer and enlisted were gathered in the hall, the sailors ranked by their divisions, the divisions grouped into their departments, and the officers in charge of each standing out in front of their division or department. Chief Imari, the leading chief petty officer for Paul's Combat Information Center division, walked down the ranks of sailors in their unit, trying to form them into straight lines, align the ranks front to back, and correct any sailor whose idea of standing at attention didn't conform to Navy standards.
Grumbling under her breath, Chief Imari came up to Paul and saluted. "OI division assembled and accounted for, sir," she reported, using the shipboard designation for the unit.
Paul returned the salute, feeling stiff in his formal dress uniform. "Thanks, Chief. They look pretty good."
Imari glanced back at them. "For sailors, I guess. Just be glad there aren't any Marines around to make them look bad. And that they don't have to march anywhere." She shook her head. "Sailors don't march worth a damn, sir."
"I know." Paul remembered being a midshipman at the Naval Academy, where slightly sloppy marching was often considered a sign of distinction. Army cadets at West Point or Air Force cadets at Colorado Springs marched in perfect formations. But Navy midshipmen were above all that, except when the officers and senior enlisted training them cracked down. Paul turned his head and spoke in a clear but low voice. "OI Division, puh-rade rest!" With a slightly ragged movement, the sailors went from the erect posture of attention to the slightly more relaxed position of parade rest, their legs spread slightly and their arms crossed behind them with their hands overlapping at the base of their spines.
Commander Garcia walked rapidly across the front of the divisions in his department, glaring at each unit in turn. Apparently finding no problems he could hammer anyone for, Garcia took his proper position in front of the rest, his back stiff even at parade rest in an attempt to look very, very professional.
Paul and the rest of the crew waited. Aside from an occasional scuffing sound or a brief cough, everyone remained silent. The minutes crawled, and Paul let his mind wander. At least at parade rest individuals could maintain their stance for long periods without cramping anything, but inexperienced sailors could still pass out if they held themselves too tightly. Paul, with years of Academy experience of standing around at parade rest waiting for something to happen, didn't have any problem, but after a long enough time he came to attention, pivoted 180 degrees, and checked over his division carefully to see if anyone looked about to fall over. No one did, so Paul pivoted to face front again and resumed his parade rest stance.
Finally, a door at the back of the hall opened and Commander Kwan strode briskly to the front and center of the room. "Attention on deck!" he snapped.
The crew of the Michaelson came to attention, not with the crisp snap Marines would have easily achieved, but with a slightly drawn out rustle of uniforms. Kwan eyed them narrowly, then turned to face the door through which he'd entered. "Post the colors." From somewhere, the "Star-Spangled Banner" began playing. "Hand salute."
Paul brought his right arm up, his hand flat, the index finger against his right temple. If his sailors had been carrying rifles, they'd have been ordered to present arms, but since they didn't have rifles they stayed at attention. Three sailors entered, the front one carrying at a slight angle a short flag pole from which a brilliant American flag hung, the other two behind him with the flags of the US Navy and the US Marine Corps. The honor guard marched slowly across the hall to the front center, placed the flags into stands awaiting them, then stepped back and saluted as well. The music continued for a few more seconds, while Paul recited the words in his head.
Silence fell for a moment. "Two," Commander Kwan called out, and all those saluting brought their arms back down to their sides. Kwan saluted again as Captain Gonzalez and Captain Hayes started to enter.
A bosun mate standing at the door piped a full wail. Six other sailors, arranged three to a side on either side of the door, came to attention, fulfilling the ancient role of sideboys. Some of the "sideboys" were women, of course, but in the change-of-command ceremony they retained the name given back when ships traveled under sail and were built of wood. Another sailor bonged a bell four times in pairs of two bongs and announced "USS Michaelson, arriving" as Gonzalez passed through. Hayes was heralded with the announcement "Captain, United States Navy, arriving." The captains returned Kwan's salute, and Kwan marched to stand to one side.
Gonzalez let her gaze wander over the crew for a moment. "Parade rest." Another prolonged shuffle followed. "I am here today for one of the most painful tasks any officer must face, the need to say farewell to a ship and a crew who have served me and their nation well. My superiors tell me I'm leaving the Michaelson with a good record, that while I was in command the ship performed well and her crew performed better. But I know the only reason I look good to my superiors now is because of the crew I had the honor to lead for the past year. I thank you. I could talk at length about your sacrifices, about the deeds you accomplished, about how well you met every challenge. But I'm not a big talker, as you know. I hope I have nonetheless offered praise each time it was merited to each of you who merited it. Now, rather than hold you in formation for an extended period while I reminisce about the good old days and go over my career day-by-day, I will cease this speech and let my actions, and yours, speak for me."
Captain Gonzalez pulled out her orders, but stopped as Senior Chief Kowalski stepped forth, carrying a large object. "Ma'am, with the compliments of the crew of the USS Michaelson."
Gonzalez smiled slightly and took the object, then carefully pulled off its wrapping. A gleaming model of the USS Michaelson emerged, its football shape shone to a high-polish instead of the vision-defying dullness of the real ship. Captain Gonzalez's face lit up. "Thank you. This will be the center of my love-me wall, I promise. Thank you very much."
Paul found himself smiling as well. A "love-me wall" was the slang for the place where a sailor hung up all the pictures, plaques, and medals acquired in the course of a career. Paul's own "love-me wall" (if he'd a wall to use that way) would be very sparse at the moment, limited to his Academy diploma and his ensign bars. He imagined Gonzalez's wall, made up of the achievements and assignments of more than twenty years in the Navy, with the model of the Michaelson shining in the middle. It felt nice to think about.
Kowalski went back to his position and Gonzalez returned her attention to her orders, reading them aloud as tradition required. She went through the boilerplate in every set of orders, to the heart of these. "When relieved as Commanding Officer, USS Michaelson, proceed to duty on staff, Joint Chiefs of Staff, Pentagon, Washington D.C." Gonzalez licked her lips, her eyes lowered, then stepped back.
Captain Hayes stepped forward and held up his orders. Paul watched, barely listening, until Hayes reached the important part. " . . . Proceed port in which USS Michaelson (CLE(S)-3) may be, upon arrival assume duties as commanding officer."
Commander Kwan pivoted to face the crew. "Attention on deck!"
Captain Hayes faced Gonzalez and saluted. "I relieve you, ma'am"
Captain Gonzalez returned the salute. "I stand relieved."
Instead of leaving at that point, Captain Gonzalez faced the crew again. "With Captain Hayes's kind permission, I have been allowed to issue one more order to the crew of the USS Michaelson. Early liberty shall be granted today, commencing immediately upon the completion of this ceremony." A brief murmur of excitement rose up, quickly quelled as officers and chiefs turned their heads and glowered back at the enlisted ranks.
The two captains headed for the door. As Gonzalez departed through the channel between the sideboys, the bosun piped again and the bell bonged four more times. "Captain, United States Navy, departing." A moment later, Hayes followed. "USS Michaelson, departing." The Michaelson, and her crew, had a new master.
Commander Kwan faced the crew again. "Officers and crew of the USS Michaelson, you are dismissed except for those members of the duty section present."
Paul relaxed, taking a deep breath and letting it out as a babble of voices arose around him and the neat ranks started to dissolve into their component sailors. "Chief, they're all yours."
Chief Imari saluted him with a grin. "Only for a moment, Mr. Sinclair. OI Division, duty section personnel return to the ship. Directly to the ship. All the rest of you are dismissed until expiration of liberty at 0700 tomorrow."
Paul started walking back to the ship himself. He didn't really have any place else to go for a while, and there was still plenty of work to catch up on.
But he still found himself leaving the Michaelson as soon as he could reasonably head for the Maury, docked one section over from his own ship. The Maury and the Michaelson were sister ships, part of the same class of spacecraft built from the same plans. Yet there were subtle differences to the Maury's quarterdeck, the results of years of minor changes. A fitting that on the Michaelson shone with polished metal, on the Maury revealed nothing but a smooth coat of paint. The Maury's bell had been set perhaps a half-meter to one side of where the Michaelson's bell rested. Paul stood on the brow leading to the Maury's quarterdeck, saluted aft to the national flag, then saluted the officer of the deck. "Request permission to come aboard."
The Maury's ensign returned the salute. "Granted. What can I do for you, sir?"
Sir? Oh, yeah, I'm not an ensign anymore. "I'm here to see Lieutenant Junior Grade Shen. Personal business," Paul added, to ensure the ensign wouldn't put too much priority on getting Jen to the quarterdeck.
"Lieutenant Shen? Oh." The ensign grinned. "You're Lieutenant Sinclair?"
Paul turned to make his name tag fully visible. "Right."
"I'll let her know you're here."
Jen popped out onto the quarterdeck a few minutes later. "You're early."
"We got early liberty, just like I said we might."
"And you spent it working until you could come over here."
"Uh . . ." How did she know?
"Give me a couple of minutes. Want to come inside?"
Paul hesitated. Inside her ship? Why does that feel strange? "Okay."
Jen led the way through passageways whose small differences jarred with their overall familiarity before stopping at her stateroom hatch. "Why don't you wait out here for appearances sake?"
"Why'd I come in if I was going to wait outside?"
"You'll survive." She went inside.
Paul heard her talking to her roommate as he waited. Some sailors came by, giving him curious looks, then a lieutenant who frowned slightly. "Can I help you?"
"No, thanks, sir. I'm just waiting for Je - I mean, Ms. Shen."
"Oh." The lieutenant smiled. "She's taken, you know."
Jen popped out at that moment. "Hey, Gord. Have you met Paul?"
"Oh, this is The Paul," the lieutenant laughed, emphasizing the capital he gave the "The." "Nice to meet you."
"Thanks. Same."
Jen gave Paul's arm a tug. "Let's go before something else breaks and the XO tells me to stay aboard all night trying to fix it. See you tomorrow, Gord." They went back out to the quarterdeck, requested permission to go ashore, and saluted the national flag as they left. Jen glanced at Paul after a few moments of silence. "What's up?"
"Nothing. Well, it felt funny back there."
"What? What felt funny?"
"That ensign obviously knew about me, and so did the lieutenant, and I realized there was a wardroom over on your ship that knew about us, even though I'd never met most of them. If felt a little strange, that's all. I mean, on top of being on a ship that's so much like the Merry Mike but isn't the Mike, you know?"
"I know. You never quite get used to it. I stop by the Michaelson and see something different from the Maury and sometimes can't figure out which ship I'm on. Then I see officers I never met during my time on her. It's like seeing someone else on your home." Jen laughed. "I never thought I'd refer to the Merry Mike as home, even in a figure of speech."
They walked all the way, but bars tended to locate themselves near they sailors they served, so in less than half an hour, Paul was flopping down into a chair in Fogarty's, where the officers from the Michaelson normally hung out during too-rare in-port periods. Jen sat next to him, then hoisted her drink toward Carl. "To Lieutenant Carl Meadows. Farewell! May the road rise to meet you, yada, yada, yada."
Everyone laughed and drank to the toast, then Jen sighed and shook her head. "I still can't believe you're leaving the Merry Mike, Carl. She won't be the same without you."
Carl grinned. "And she hasn't been the same without you, Jen. I hope you don't begrudge my impending freedom."
"Hell, no. Where's your relief, by the way?"
"I know that." Mike Bristol waved in the general direction of the Michaelson. "He showed up about noon. With most of the crew gone on early liberty, they just checked him in and told him to come back tomorrow."
"Lucky timing," Carl observed. "The clock stops ticking on his leave, but he doesn't actually have to go to work until tomorrow. Ah, well, it doesn't matter to me. Lieutenant Silver's life will overlap only briefly with my own, then we shall part like, uh . . ."
"Ships in the night?"
"Yeah. Same with Captain Hayes, of course. He might be one fine captain, or he might turn out to be a screamer, but I won't have to worry about it."
"We will," Paul observed.
"Whatever. He won't be as bad as Wakeman was."
"I hope. I don't need to go through that sort of thing again."
Kris Denaldo raised her glass. "Amen. None of us need to. But if worse comes to worst, we can count on Paul to make a glorious moral stand and set everything right."
Paul winced as everyone else laughed. "I think I've had enough of that for one career."
Ensign Diego leaned closer. "That must have been something. Having your captain court-martialed."
Carl stood up and struck a dramatic pose. "I was there, young ensigns. I was there when Paul Sinclair made his famous charge into the very teeth of the military legal system. Forward, Paul Sinclair! Nobly he rode. Lawyers to the right of him, lawyers to the left of him, judges in front of him, volleyed and thundered with verbs and adjectives and really hard legal-type questions. But Paul rode on, plucking the fruits of victory from the very jaws of defeat, and came forth again unscathed, his new lady fair at his side."
Jen stuck her tongue out at Carl. "You're just jealous."
Paul assumed a puzzled expression. "'Plucking the fruits of victory from the very jaws of defeat?' What the heck does that mean?"
Carl grinned. "Who says it has to mean anything? It's poetry."
"It is not. Nothing rhymed."
"It's, uh, free verse poetry."
"You don't even know what that is."
"Do you?"
"No."
"Then how do you know it's not?" Carl bowed triumphantly to acknowledge applause from several of those present. "Who needs another drink?"
The evening wore on with everyone recounting favorite stories about Carl Meadows' time on the Michaelson. After they ran out of real stories, they started inventing new ones that had Carl involved in various heroic and frequently obscene exploits. Captain Hayes stopped by, not in uniform, and offered Carl a handshake along with regrets he'd be leaving the ship soon. Everyone then toasted the new captain, who begged off after two rounds.
At some point, Paul and Jen found themselves alone with Carl, at a point where gaiety had subsided and weariness had set in. Paul noticed Carl gazing somberly at nothing in particular. "You okay?"
Carl shrugged. "I guess. Worn out's more like it. I'm glad I'm leaving the ship before I got bled too dry. I've never been Mister A-Number-One Supersailor to begin with, but I've been feeling tired with everything more often these days."
Paul nodded. "I could tell something was bothering you."
"I haven't been acting any different. Have I?"
"You've ridden a couple of the new ensigns pretty hard. That's not like you."
Carl frowned down at his drink. "No," he finally admitted, "it's not. I guess I feel sort of bad leaving them. You know, it's like we're wise elders trying to teach them and protect them."
"Wiser elders, maybe."
"I won't argue that. But I'm leaving. Those new ensigns, and the Merry Mike, they'll be on their own without me. Maybe I'm trying to teach them as much as I can as fast as I can."
Paul thought about it for a little while. "You still feel responsible. For whatever happens after you leave."
"Paul, the Mike's my first ship. I've spent three years dedicated to that demanding bitch, three years of almost constantly being aboard, three years of seeing her bulkheads and passageways and learning every little quirk of her equipment. Three years working with people like you, sharing our life on her twenty four hours a day for months on end sometimes. I can't just walk away from that. Ever."
Jen nodded, her face solemn. "She's in your blood, Carl. You'll never shake her, or the space she sails in."
Carl eyed her skeptically. "How'd you get so wise about this?"
"I've watched my dad go from ship to ship. The one he usually tells stories about is the first. And I split-toured to the Maury, so I felt the same thing already."
"Great." Carl drained his drink. "It's like some curse that's going to follow me the rest of my life. If I have to have a woman haunting my dreams, why'd she have to be the Merry Mike?"
"Hey, first kiss, first love, first ship. Sailors don't forget them, no matter how old they get."
Carl sighed, watching some ensigns a few tables over laugh among themselves. "Do you guys ever listen to old music? The classics? I was skimming the ship's library and I heard this really ancient song where this young guy was singing about how he hoped he'd die before he got old."
"Sounds inspiring."
"Yeah, really uplifting. But I don't think it was really about aging. It was about getting old inside. Do you ever worry that someday you'll wake and find out you've become a senior officer?"
Paul smiled quizzically. "I thought we all wanted to be promoted."
"I'm not talking about being promoted. I'm talking about becoming a senior officer."
"Oh. You mean one of those guys whose civilian clothes are twenty or thirty years out of date, and gets real nervous every time they have to leave a ship or a base and actually interact with people who aren't also senior officers?"
"Yeah. You know the type."
Jen shrugged. "I don't see it happening to me."
"I guess not. You're more likely to turn into another Herdez."
"Bite your tongue. What do you think you'll turn into, Carl?"
"Oh, I know what I'll turn into, assuming I get promoted that far. When I grow up I wanna be Commander Sykes. How about you, Paul? Who do you wanna be?"
"I don't know. I guess I haven't thought about it all that much." He looked over at Jen. "I guess it won't matter as long as Jen's with me."
Jen rolled her eyes. "Oh, barf."
Carl nodded. "My sentiments exactly. Remember the good old days? About a year ago? Cruising the bars for chicks -"
Jen's eyebrows shot up. "I don't recall cruising for chicks."
"Or studs, as the case may be. Playing darts and drinking beer until the sun came up -"
"The sun's always up in this orbital location."
"Then staggering back to the ship to get screamed at by our department heads while Commander Herdez plotted to get a standard day expanded to twenty-five hours so we could work that much longer. Ah, the good old days. Now, you two are practically domesticated. I bet Jen's starting to cook and knit and stuff."
"You lose. I get drinks sometimes, and I punch buttons on a microwave if we're at a self-service place."
Paul nodded. "But she does both of those real well. I always said there's nothing like a home-microwaved meal."
Jen eyed Paul suspiciously. "The ice you're skating on is getting thinner every moment. If you wanted to marry a cook, you had plenty of other choices."
Paul laughed. "I guess, but . . . did you say marry?"
Carl looked toward Jen. "I heard the word 'marry.'"
Jen shook her head. "Not from me, you didn't."
"Did the other Jen Shen say it?"
"No, and neither did this one. You're both victims of wishful thinking."
"I don't want to marry you. Paul does."
"I do?"
Jen glared at him. "You don't?"
"I didn't say that."
Carl laughed. "Okay. So far Jen and Paul have both not said they want to get married. Anybody else want to not say it?" He stopped laughing when he noticed their discomfort. "Hey, lighten up, you two. Somebody's tongue slipped. Big deal."
Paul looked back sourly. "This from the guy who's worried about being haunted by the Michaelson."
"Exactly. And I have a really snappy comeback to that. I just can't think of it at the moment." Carl glanced at his empty drink. "Well, there's the problem. Excuse me while I take on more fuel." He stood up, wobbled slightly, then grimaced with discomfort. "Maybe I ought to pump bilges, too. Pardon me while I use the head." Carl set off on a slightly weaving course toward the bar's restrooms.
Jen tapped Paul's hand. "Let's go talk."
"Jen, I didn't mean -"
"I know. But I need to walk around a bit, and I could use a break from the noise in here."
They left the bar, strolling out onto the wide passageway which served as the station's main street. It was late enough now that few people were about and all the benches along the walkway were empty. Paul and Jen picked one out of line of sight of the bar entrance, then sat silently for a little while.
"Are you okay?" Paul finally asked.
"Uh huh." She leaned against him, her head resting on his shoulder. "I'm going to miss Carl."
"Me, too. It's like you said. We'll always be tied to the Michaelson, but we'll really be tied to our Michaelson, with the people we knew and the places we went. Ten years from now, I'm sure if I visited her I'd feel like a stranger."
"You can't go home again. Who said that?"
"I don't remember." They were quiet again for a while. Paul felt Jen leaning against him, realizing how good it felt, not simply to be touching her but to be part of her life. What the hell am I waiting for? Do I really think anything else even half this good will ever come along for me? "Uh, Jen?"
"What?"
"Will you marry me?"
She raised her head from his shoulder, then turned slowly, eyeing him. "Just how drunk are you?"
"Not all that much. I mean it."
"Sure you do."
"Dammit, Jen -"
"Okay, okay. You mean it. And I'm just drunk enough to consider saying 'yes.'"
"Really?"
"I said 'consider,' Paul." Jen buried her face in her hands. "Aw, hell. It's not supposed to be like this. I'm sorry. But why now, Paul?"
"I've been thinking about it. Haven't you?"
"Of course I have. But my ship's heading out for three months underway in a few days. I'm not sure this is a good time. I'm not sure we wouldn't be rushing into something because we were afraid instead of because we were happy."
Paul took her shoulders so he could look straight into her eyes. "Jen, I know I want to be with you. The only thing I'm afraid of is losing you, of not knowing you'll be there, with me, always."
"That's what you say now. What about in five years or so, when we're maybe stationed on opposite ends of the solar system, so far apart we can't even carry on a conversation because of light-speed lag? When you're surrounded by sweet young ladies with sugary dispositions whose idea of heaven would be to spend the rest of their living days gazing adoringly at you? Are you still going to think abrasive, outspoken Jen Shen is the end-all and be-all at that point?"
"Jen, if I wanted a sweet young lady with a sugary disposition, I wouldn't have been attracted to you from the start." Jen tried to glower but ended up smiling. "We were friends long before we got serious, remember?"
"You were just desperate. You'd have been friends with a spiny-backed lobster if it'd been willing to spend time listening to you."
"Maybe, but you're nicer to look at than any spiny-backed lobster would have been."
"Not by much."
"Jen, you're beautiful."
"You're so delusional." Jen shook her head, looking away. "Paul, things have been going pretty well between us. But this isn't exactly a normal life. We see each other for brief stretches when both of our ships happen to be in port, and we always have stuff to talk about because we're living the same lives as crewmembers on warships. What about once that's over? When we've both got different jobs?"
Paul spread his hands. "Jen, I really think we'll always have plenty to talk about."
"And what if spending lots of time together makes us crazy? What if after six months of being there for each other every day we're ready to choke each other?"
"The only way we'll know the answer to that is to try. Maybe we will need extra space for ourselves, but that's not hard."
"Not hard? Have you seen the size of married living quarters on this station? We'll be bumping into each other every time we turn around."
"I like bumping into you."
"Stop it! We really need to think about this, Paul. Need to think about whether there's more to you and me together than just lust and someone convenient to talk to. Don't say it. I know some people get married for those reasons. I won't. I'd rather you left me than stay with me just because you were afraid you'd never find anyone else to share a bed with you."
Paul shook his head. "That's not what I'm thinking, and I hope you aren't, either. What are you saying? That you're not happy? That if your ship gets back and I'm not waiting on the pier, and instead you get a note from me saying that I've found someone else and it's over between us, that you'd be fine with that, Jen?"
"No, I wouldn't be fine with that. I love you. So I'd hunt you down and rip your lungs out. But wouldn't you prefer getting that kind of treatment from an ex-girlfriend instead of an ex-fiancé?"
"I'll have think about that."
"You've got three months to think about it. And so do I."
Paul felt his jaw tightening as he stared at the deck. "This wasn't how I expected things to happen, either."
"You mean just now or in general? I'm sorry, Paul. I know you're this big-time romantic who deep-down believes in true love and dreams of happily-ever-afters, but that doesn't really happen. You haven't got Cinderella. You've got me."
"I'm not exactly Prince Charming, either."
"No, but you'll do." Jen giggled as Paul gave her a sour look. "Sorry. And I do love you for who you are. Really. But tell me something honestly. If you're afraid to wait three months for an answer, or maybe longer, doesn't that mean you're really not all that sure of things? What's the rush?"
"We've been dating for about a year, now."
"Not in real time, Paul. Add up the times my ship's been out and your ship's been out or we've been on duty and couldn't see each other and you probably have only a couple of months of actually being together."
"Jen, I don't want to lose you."
"No, you don't want to risk losing me. Right?" She came close to him, looking straight into his eyes. "Be the guy I fell for and I won't go anywhere. Okay, I'll go wherever my ship goes, but I'll always come back."
"So will I."
"Then what's the problem? Don't answer. I know. We're both not absolutely sure if that's always going to be true. Probably we never will be. But this isn't a decision I have to make tonight. That's Jen speaking, not Cinderella. If you love me, you'll respect my reasons."
"How could I respect and love you and not respect your reasons?" Paul threw up his hands. "Very well, Lieutenant Shen. I will stand-by for further instructions."
"You will not. You will live and think and take time to decide something important to both of us. Just like me. Problem?"
"No problem." He kissed her, the gesture lingering. "What have I gotten myself into?"
"You knew who I was when you volunteered for this relationship, sailor. Come on. Let's get back inside before somebody notices we're both missing and thinks we're, like, involved or something."
They went back inside Fogarty's and had a few more drinks. Then Carl got maudlin again and they all had a few more drinks. Then Carl cheered up and they all had a few more drinks. Eventually, closing time came around, Fogarty's staff threw them out, and the ragged remnants of Carl Meadows' farewell party staggered back to the Michaelson, pausing only to drop Jen off at the quarterdeck of the Maury.
The next morning, the strung-out survivors of the farewell discovered to their horror that a no-notice "fast cruise" had been scheduled so that Captain Hayes could evaluate how well the crew handled a variety of situations. A fast cruise involved pretending the ship was underway instead of actually getting underway, but otherwise involved plenty of stress, plenty of demanding work, and plenty of alarms sounding to simulate emergencies.
Paul, like the other members of the farewell, was still sobering up when the emergency drills began. His hangover building rapidly, Paul gripped his command console in the Combat Information Center so hard his hands turned white under the pressure as the strident clamor of the general quarters alarm pounded repeatedly into his brain. He imagined his face looked just as pale as his hands at the moment. The alarm finally halted, replaced by an amplified voice booming details of the "emergency" they were to practice dealing with.
"Paul?" The voice over the comm circuit was a pained whisper.
"Yeah. Kris?"
"I think so. I'm in incredible pain."
"Me, too."
"I'm going to kill Carl."
"He didn't know they'd have all these drills today."
"I don't care. When I feel this bad, someone has to die. And I can't very well threaten to kill the captain."
"No. That always looks bad. How's Mike Bristol?"
"Last I saw, he was pretending to be alive. He wasn't too convincing, though."
"How about Carl?"
Her answer was forestalled by another urgent announcement. "This is a drill! All hands brace for collision!" A moment later, the piercing squeal of the collision alarm drove daggers into Paul's head. The alarm finally halted, leaving Paul staring cross-eyed at his console as a follow-on announcement heralded the next phase of the drill. "This is a drill. Collision has resulted in decompression of all compartments on 01 level. I say again, collision has resulted in decompression of all compartments on 01 level. All personnel on 01 level assessed dead from decompression. Damage control parties prepare to reenter 01 level and reestablish air-tight boundaries."
Paul glanced up as Chief Imari tossed aside her headset. "You heard the announcement, folks. We're all dead."
I'm dead? "Really?"
Chief Imari looked at Paul, failed to conceal her reaction at his appearance, then shook her head. "No, sir. It's just part of the drill."
"Okay."
"Do you need some aspirin, sir?"
"How many have you got?"
Paul and the rest of the sailors in CIC spent the next hour lying on the deck pretending to be dead as survival-suited investigators, and then damage control teams, picked their way across the compartment. An occasional snore testified to some of the sailors taking advantage of the opportunity. Chief Imari's aspirin slowly brought Paul's pain level down to a tolerable level, and he managed to catch a few minutes of sleep himself.
All good things, of course, come to an end. "All hands secure from collision drill. Stand by for next event."
Chief Imari stood, stretched and roared at the sailors sprawled around CIC. "You heard the word! On your feet, you useless gaggle of neutrons."
Paul replaced his own headset, then called up the chief on a private circuit. "Neutrons, Chief?"
"Yes, sir, Mr. Sinclair. Neutrons got practically no mass."
It took Paul's still-hungover brain a moment to get it. "They're lightweights."
"Yes, sir."
"Thanks for the aspirin. I notice they've run drills in engineering, weapons and damage control so far. I bet we're next."
"I wouldn't be surprised, sir."
General quarters sounded once more, the bongs somehow penetrating the calming aspirin to hammer at Paul's head again. "This is a drill! Multiple contacts inbound."
Paul's console lit up with close to a hundred unknown contact markers, each on a different path and each radiating different information which had to be evaluated in order to guess at its identity. Oh, this is going to be ugly. "All right, everybody. I want a threat evaluation for all contacts based on current trajectories, then threat IDs for all contacts, then a threat hierarchy based on trajectory and probable ID. Don't depend on the targeting and tracking systems to get all that automatically. They're sure to have thrown in some curves that'll confuse the automated systems."
"You heard the lieutenant!" Chief Imari added, then she quickly divided up the tasks among the operations specialists.
The next fifteen minutes passed in a blur of activity. Paul tried to monitor everything his sailors were doing without trying to do their jobs for them. With all the information at his fingertips, it was entirely too easy to focus on the details of one small part of the job instead of keeping an eye on the big picture.
A majority of the contacts had been assigned identification when Operations Specialist Second Class Kaji called in. "Chief? I've got something funny here."
"Show me. Give the lieutenant a copy, too."
Paul frowned as his display focused on a small segment of the incoming contacts. "What's up, Kaji?"
"Sir, right here." Kaji highlighted an almost invisible contact. "It's very faint."
"What do you think, Chief?"
"I'd call it a system echo off the stronger contacts, sir. Except this is a simulation and they don't show echoes because the sims assume the systems work perfectly."
"Then what is it?"
Petty Officer Kaji spoke up. "It could be a warship, sir. With all masking systems operational."
Something clicked in Paul's memory. "It's a Pile On Maneuver."
Chief Imari sounded puzzled. "A what?"
"A Pile On Maneuver. It's a theoretical plan I got briefed on in one of my classes at the Academy. You shove a lot of debris toward your objective, then hide your own approach inside the apparently natural shower of space objects."
"Sir, how the hell would you get so much junk flying on the trajectories you need? That sounds cool in theory, but it doesn't sound very practical."
"That's why it's still a theoretical plan, Chief. But simulations don't have to worry about real-world practical considerations. I think Kaji's spotted the joker in this deck. Good job."
"Real good," Chief Imari agreed.
Paul tagged the faint contact with a 'possible warship, identity unknown' symbol, then called the bridge to verbally pass the information as well. The drill spun on for another thirty minutes of frantic activity before the screens displayed an "exercise completed" message. While Paul was still wondering how they'd done, the command circuit sounded with the voice of Captain Hayes. "Good job, Combat. You nailed that one."
Paul grinned at Chief Imari, who offered back a thumbs-up, while the enlisted trackers exchanged high fives.
After another hour of hearing drills being run elsewhere on the ship, the euphoria of doing well had faded for Paul. Man, there's so much else I could be doing right now, but I don't dare try in case Kwan or Garcia is checking our terminals to see what we're up to. How long are we going to have to stay at general quarters?
His headset sounded again. "Paul? Kris."
"Here. You sound better."
"I had to either get better or die. Thank God for aspirin. Have you seen Lieutenant Silver?"
"Who?"
"Lieutenant Silver. He's Carl Meadows' relief, remember?"
"Oh, yeah. No, I haven't seen him. Why would he be up here?"
"I don't know. But he's not anyplace else. Surely he reported onboard this morning."
"Why not try the quarterdeck? It's still crewed."
A brief pause followed. "Duh. I guess my brain's not working all that well, yet. Wait one." Paul waited, a task made easier by the fact he had nothing else he could do at the moment. "Okay. Chief Hadasa is officer of the deck inport. Lieutenant Silver showed up about half an hour after the fast cruise started. Since the brow had been sealed except for emergencies, they had to tell him to leave and come back later."
Paul found himself laughing. "Lieutenant Silver certainly has a remarkable sense of timing."
"You can say that again. At this rate, he and Carl may never meet. See you at lunch. If general quarters is secured by then. Maybe we'll have to eat battle rations at our combat stations."
"Ugh. Good thing Sykes got rid of the oldest rations."
"Do you really think that'll make any difference in how they taste? Later."
A weary half-hour later, the bosun mate passed the welcome word to secure from general quarters. A small cheer erupted in Combat. Paul took off his headset, rubbed one ear where the headset had rubbed it, then looked around at his division. "Good job, people."
Chief Imari nodded. "Thank you, sir. Now that drills are over we can get back to work." The other enlisted groaned at her words. "But I guess we can let 'em eat lunch first."
"Careful, Chief. You'll spoil them." A chorus of playful protests followed Paul as he headed for his own stateroom. He wasn't sure how he looked after hurriedly throwing on his uniform this morning, but he couldn't imagine it was all that great. I'd better make sure I look halfway decent before I run into Kwan or Hayes.