by Amy Spahn
Oh yes. This was going to be great.
* * *
Once everything was finally repaired (Matthias assured him it would be at least a week before the panel blew up again), Thomas called a staff meeting for later that evening. He wanted everyone to hear the new standards he was instituting directly from him so that there could be no confusion about them. The meeting was set for 1900 hours in the rec room.
At 1917, Thomas decided he should have chosen to stay a lieutenant forever. Of the twenty-three people in the crew, only sixteen had arrived. Given that the ship was in space dock and didn’t require a crew to man it, this was ridiculous.
Matthias and Maureen were present, the former swiveling his seat back and forth while the latter patiently sat with perfect posture. Archibald Cleaver had made his appearance at 1908, shambling in with vacuum in tow. The other crew members talked quietly in small groups, though Thomas could feel their gazes on him when they thought he wasn’t paying attention. No doubt everyone was wondering about the temperament of their new commanding officer.
Viktor Ivanokoff was noticeably absent, as was the chief of the defensives department. Thomas was livid. Neither of his two most senior officers could be bothered to show up to his first staff meeting? It was unheard of.
“Ahem,” Thomas cleared his throat, instantly silencing the room. At least they knew enough to let him talk. “It seems not all of the crew feels it is important to attend briefings. Has anyone seen Lieutenants Ivanokoff or Praphasat?”
“Excuse me,” a soft voice said from behind him. Thomas nearly jumped out of his skin. He turned to see a woman looking up at him with dark brown eyes. Her black hair was cut short so that it fell around her ears, and she looked to be somewhere in her mid-thirties. “Lieutenant Areva Praphasat, sir. I’ve been here since 1850 hours.”
“Uh ...” Thomas was lost for words. He hadn’t seen her enter the room, which he was certain had been empty when he arrived. Where could she have come from? “You were here when I came in?”
Areva nodded. “I like to stay out of sight, sir.”
“Where were you?”
She pointed to a plant that sat in the corner. “May I go back?”
“Um … yes, I suppose so.”
The very millisecond Thomas released her, Areva darted back behind the plant and disappeared from view. Thomas had to admit, he was impressed with how well she managed to hide herself, though her choice of seating was pretty weird. He cleared his throat again. “In that case, has anyone seen Ivanokoff?”
Matthias raised his hand. “He doesn’t do briefings,” he answered loudly, without waiting to be asked to speak. He continued to swing his chair back and forth.
“He doesn’t do briefings?” Thomas repeated. Matthias nodded, his ever-present grin still fixed in place. “And the other five missing crew members are ...?”
Eager to please, Matthias rattled them off. “Nina has the flu, Bernardo is on space dock visiting his mother, I think Paresh went with him, Rupin is always thirty minutes late for everything, and Grace is trying to fix a door that got stuck in the engineering section.”
Thomas repressed a sigh. “Why doesn’t she fix it after the briefing?”
“She’s on the other side of it.”
Of course she was. “Very well. I’ll have a talk with each of them individually after the meeting.” He straightened his posture. “I wanted to introduce myself to all of you ...”
“Excuse me?” The voice belonged to a middle-aged sergeant with short blond hair, a sharply pointed nose, and a three-stripe science patch on his shoulder. “What’s the official position on how Captain Davis died?”
Before Thomas had a chance to answer, a female scientist spoke up. “Shut up, Chris. You already know it was old age.”
“So they want us to think,” Chris said before fixing his attention back on Thomas. “What is United Earth saying?”
Thomas was about to reclaim the situation when the other scientist answered again. “Old age is what United Earth is saying. I’m telling you, there’s nothing going on.”
“I just want the details from someone with official authority,” Chris said. “There’s no way to tell who’s a part of it, so we have to get every side of the story, Joyce.”
Thomas’s curiosity got the better of him. The more he knew about this, the faster he could return to the topic at hand. “A part of what?”
Groans from around the room informed him that he shouldn’t have asked this particular question. Chris stared at him, as if studying his reactions. “A part of the extraterrestrial conspiracy to conquer Earth. Or the government conspiracy to cover up the time traveling accident of 2087. Or the conspiracy between the education system and the big grocery store chains to …”
“I think he gets the idea,” Joyce interrupted, rolling her eyes. “I’m sorry, Captain. My husband thinks Captain Davis was killed for knowing too much about aliens. Or the government. Or grocery stores. Or all of them.”
“He was the highest-ranking officer to read all of my research,” Chris insisted. “It’s not a coincidence that he died.”
“He was 102 years old,” Maureen said. “People die at that age.”
Near the wall, Archibald Cleaver harrumphed.
“Present company excluded,” she added with a polite nod.
Chris shook his head. “I’m not convinced.”
“All right,” Thomas said loudly, “that’s enough. I’m not interested in conspiracy theories or questionable research ...”
“Questionable research?” Chris demanded, rising from his seat. “Do you have any idea who ...”
“Quiet!” Thomas’s tenuous hold on patience vanished. This was ridiculous. It was time to make an example. “Mr. Fish,” he said sternly, remembering Chris’s last name from a list he’d read, “you are going to walk out of this room and go directly to your berth, and you are going to stay there until I have the time to have a one-on-one chat with you about proper respect. I will not have this kind of behavior on my ship! Is that clear?”
Chris’s mouth hung open in surprise. “B … but …”
“And you’re suspended from working on any side research for the rest of the week.”
“But I have a grant from the …”
“I don’t care who’s backing you! You work for the UELE. Your primary job is to keep this ship running, use it to catch criminals, and come up with better ways of doing those two things. Any other projects you might have the time and authorization to perform are a secondary concern. They’ve clearly become a distraction, and that is not going to be tolerated. Is that understood?”
Chris swallowed and nodded. Thomas continued to glare at him until he slowly rose from his chair and backed out of the room. He tripped over the hatch as he stepped into the corridor, and his footsteps broke into a run as soon as he moved out of sight.
Thomas turned his attention back to the rest of the crew, all of whom were now staring at him as if he’d just shot a puppy. He could tell he’d scared them, but maybe that was needed to get things in order here. He had a lot of work to do. Hopefully he’d just taken a step in the right direction.
* * *
No one dared speak to Thomas after the staff meeting unless they absolutely had to, with the exception of Matthias Habassa, who seemed to possess the unsinkable cheerfulness of a rubber ducky. Thomas overheard some hushed conversations that ceased as soon as he passed by and caught furtive glances between crew members whenever he entered a room. Each time, he nodded to himself with approval. His bad-captain technique had worked. Everyone was comporting themselves with the proper level of UELE discipline. If he could keep it up long enough, Dispatch was sure to take notice and forgive him for his past mistakes.
In the last round of communications before they left space dock to return to the Endurance’s usual patrol, Thomas received a message from a Loretta Bailey. He didn’t recognize the name, but the subject line was too familiar: “Thank you.”
He’d receive
d a fair amount of fan mail since the rescue, admiring his heroism, thanking him for protecting the community … congratulating him on his promotion. “I’m so glad you received a proper reward for your bravery!” “You inspire us to do the right thing!” “The UELE must be so glad to have officers like you!”
Right.
He’d finally asked Dispatch to stop forwarding them, so why had they sent this one? He considered simply deleting it, but if they’d bothered sending it, it must have some significance. He clicked it open.
Dear Thomas Withers,
I know this is a little weird, but I felt like I needed to write to you. I’m the woman you saved from that gunman at the lunar plaza. I can’t imagine how hard it was to make the decision to shoot him …
He shut the computer before he could read any more. He didn’t need reminders that he’d made a bad call.
Especially from her.
They took the ship out into space two days after he arrived, returning to the Endurance’s usual patrol around Neptune. Empty space, empty time to kill, and nothing to do but maintain vigilance and let the scientists run their little projects. It felt like exile.
Probably because it was.
After four full days of sitting in his office reading spy novels, wandering onto the bridge once an hour to see if anything had happened (it hadn’t), and generally feeling useless, Thomas decided he might as well start tidying up the little points of order that were slipping in the ship’s daily routine. The musty smell of the carpet had grown annoying, so he chose to first tackle the old vacuum cleaner.
He found Archibald Cleaver on the lowest of the ship’s three decks, dutifully running his vacuum back and forth across the carpet at the end of a corridor. “Mr. Cleaver,” Thomas greeted him loudly so as to be heard over the machine.
Archibald turned around. “Hello,” he said with a nod. He carefully turned off the vacuum. “Are you lost?”
“No. I’m here to talk with you.”
Archibald did not look at all pleased with this news, but he remained silent.
“I wanted to discuss your vacuum. It’s very old.”
A nostalgic smile came over Archibald’s face. “Yes,” he agreed, “yes, she is. I’ve had her as long as I’ve been on this ship. She breaks down every so often, but Matthias always gets her running again. She does her job, that she does.”
“I’m sure.” Thomas suddenly realized this might not go as well as he thought. “I know this vacuum has worked well for you for a long time. However, I think it might be time for a new one.”
Archibald’s milky eyes grew very wide. “What?”
“As I said, this one is very old, and ...”
“You want to take her away from me?” The old man’s voice now had a note of panic. “Why?”
“Wouldn’t you enjoy using a new machine that works faster? I know there’s been one in storage for years.”
“Hah! Got no personality, those new devices. This vacuum and I know each other. We’re comfortable together. No, thank you, I’ll stick with what I’m used to.”
Thomas knew that, having initiated the conversation, he couldn’t back down. It would lead to all manner of discipline problems with the rest of the crew. “I’m afraid I have to insist,” he said, moving to place a hand on the vacuum handle.
Archibald positioned himself in front of it.
Thomas raised his eyebrows. “Mr. Cleaver, are you defying my order?”
“Well,” Archibald drew out the word, “I hope you won’t make it an order. But if you do, then yep, I suppose I’m defying it. If my vacuum goes, I go.”
Thomas actually congratulated himself on that. Dispatch had been trying to get rid of Cleaver for literal decades; if he could get the man to quit, he’d be doing them a huge favor. “I’m sorry if that’s your decision, but this really is long overdue.” He held his breath and waited for the old man to pronounce his resignation.
Instead, tears started to form in Archibald’s eyes. “You ... you think you can just come in here and change everything? You come and make one of your elders cry and leave his home of the past forty-seven years? Shame on you, young man! Show some respect.”
People began leaning out of the doors further down the corridor. When the crewmembers saw what was happening, they began whispering to one another. Thomas distinctly heard the phrase “thirty on Arch.”
Perfect. Gambling. Yet another problem he had to deal with.
Archibald was continuing to talk. “I worked this ship before you were even born! How dare you tell me to change my ways!” Murmurs of agreement arose from down the hall.
Thomas realized he’d played this horribly wrong. Instead of quitting in frustration, Archibald was turning the entire ship against him.
Before he could think of something to say, his first officer walked around the corner. “Is there a problem here?” Ivanokoff asked.
Thomas was about to tell him to leave when Archibald answered. “Ivanokoff, you know how important my vacuum is to me. Why, he’s already made you give up Dickens and Dante. Next thing you know, he’ll be telling Matthias he can’t carry any tools with him!”
“He has a point,” Ivanokoff told Thomas. “Dickens and Dante were not harming anything.”
Thomas didn’t think that was the janitor’s point at all, but Matthias poked his head out of one of the doors before he could say so. “I’m not allowed to carry tools anymore?” the engineer asked.
“Of course you are,” Thomas said hurriedly before he could be interrupted again. “This is only about the vacuum.”
Matthias emerged fully from his room. “Oh, is it broken again? Let me see it, Arch, I’ll fix it.”
Archibald remained firmly planted between his vacuum and the rest of the group. “I’m not letting anybody near her until you apologize,” he told Thomas.
“They’re just weapons for self-defense,” Ivanokoff muttered to himself.
“It’s not broken?” Matthias asked, tilting his head to one side.
“No, she’s fine,” Archibald said.
Maureen came around the corner. “I heard yelling. What’s going on? You’ll wake up Nina, and it’s hard for her to sleep when she’s sick.”
“Maureen, doesn’t my vacuum do a good job cleaning your office?” Archibald asked.
“She still has that flu?” Matthias asked sympathetically.
“And weapons with artful names, too,” Ivanokoff grumbled.
“No, now she has bronchitis,” Maureen answered Matthias. “And Archibald, you’ve always done a wonderful job cleaning the office. Why?
“That’s enough!” Thomas finally shouted, hoping to employ the same strategy that worked in the conference. Everyone jumped. “All of you, return to your duties.”
“There’s no need to yell about it.” Maureen placed her hands on her hips and stuck out her lower lip. “I was just answering their questions.”
Thomas softened. Yes, he was the “bad captain,” but he also wanted to place blame responsibly. “I wasn’t yelling at you ...”
“You’ve seemed very stressed since you stepped on board, and now you’re showing signs of pent-up aggression. I think you could use some relaxation exercises. Just look at the way you’re carrying your shoulders. I want to see you in my office first thing in the morning to go over deep breathing and other stress relief techniques.”
Thomas decided to give up on the vacuum and try again when the entire senior staff wasn’t watching. “That won’t be necessary.”
He moved to walk past the group, but Maureen stepped into his path. “Sir, I insist. And if you don’t follow my advice, I’m legally required to file a report with Dispatch.”
Thomas barely bit back a swear. She was right, of course. While the captain could refuse non-emergency medical advice, the review process helped ensure no one abused that privilege. A report filed during his first week of command was not going to improve his opportunities for transferring. “Very well, then.”
Maureen smiled
, then turned and waved graceful hands at the rest of the people standing in their doorways. “It’s all right; everyone can relax. Take deep breaths and let them out slowly.”
Next to Thomas, Matthias obeyed her. Loudly.
Maybe he should have stuck with the spy novels.
* * *
At 0600, Thomas obediently arrived at Maureen’s office and rapped his knuckles on the metal hatch. A moment later, Maureen opened it. “Come in, Captain.”
He stepped inside and Maureen shut the door behind him. The office was slightly larger than an average two-person cabin, though it sported the same brown carpet and white walls that adorned the rest of the ship. Two plain metal folding chairs sat in the middle of the room, and a cushioned table stood against the opposite wall, probably to serve as a medical exam bed. There was a desk near the hatch, topped by an enormous first aid kit, and a box of stretching aids and weights in the corner. A sign next to the hatch read: “Remember to turn off the gravity when you leave.” That was it.
“This is the medical bay?” Thomas asked.
Maureen nodded. “I assume you were expecting something more elaborate, but since I’m not a doctor, I don’t use any medical equipment. Dispatch took out some outdated things a couple years ago and never replaced them.” She moved behind one of the chairs. “Please, sit down.”
Resigned, Thomas did so, and Maureen arranged herself in the opposite seat. “Can you describe how you’ve been feeling?” she asked.
“A bit stressed, but that’s typical for command officers.” Thomas fully intended to give answers that were honest enough, but would get him out of the office as soon as possible.
“What do you think is causing those feelings?”
He thought that was a stupid question, but he bit his tongue and answered politely. “Changing ships is always stressful, particularly when things are run so ...” Insanely. Crazily. Uncontrollably. Like-nobody-had-exercised-discipline-in-five-decades-ly. “... uniquely.”
