When we finished and I was taking off the gloves, I said, “I think I prefer socials.”
“Me too,” she said with a wink. Looking at Galloway, she asked, “Same time tomorrow?”
“You know it.”
“You want to be one of the dancers?”
He shrugged. “Sure, why not.”
So that became my life for the next three days as they tried to get me ready. It made me pretty sore, which I hadn’t expected, but I think I was more nervous about what I might expected to do afterwards. I talked to Katy about it at night. It was nice to see her face on the screen, and know she was fairly close. She could tell I was anxious, but let me work my way up to it. It took a couple of days, but Friday night, I blurted out, “They expect me to make a baby with some stranger.”
“That’s kind of why they do these things, yes.” She didn’t laugh, but her eyes showed an awful lot of merriment about my dilemma.
“Doesn’t anyone get married in space?”
“All the time,” she said. “But especially for sailors, it’s too easy to leave a port and never get back.”
“It’s just… weird.” I couldn’t meet her eyes. “And I don’t want you to be mad at me.”
“For a one-time thing, that has a very specific purpose?” She laughed, but seeing my face, quickly got herself under control. “This is space. It’s one of those things that we know about, we don’t make a big deal about, and we try not to hold against people.”
“So guys are treated like studs—the 4-H version. What about women?”
“What’s 4-H?”
I shook my head. “An agriculture club. You know, farming, animal husbandry, and rodeos.”
“That’s a real thing?” she said. “Were you a part of it?”
“Spent my sophomore year raising a short horned Hereford to show at the county fair,” I said.
“A short horned what?”
“It’s a breed of cow,” I said.
“Okay,” she said slowly. “So you’re not just a Texan, you’re a cowboy, too.”
“Technically,” I conceded. “But you didn’t answer my question.”
“Oh, sure, females.” She cocked her head. “Are you sure you want to know?”
“Yes, I want to know.”
She laughed again, but not unkindly. “Females get bonuses if we get pregnant and bring the baby to term.”
“So there’s incentive.”
“Sure,” she said. “That’s why there are professional parents, too. I can have a baby, and either choose to raise it or let someone else do that part.”
“And that’s not weird to you?”
“Space is a weird place for people to live,” she said. “Yet somehow we’ve gotten a half billion of us up here after fifty years. I was born on the moon, but it’s similar, so it’s what I know.”
“I was born on Earth,” I sighed. “I feel out of my depth.”
“That’s what you’ve got me for,” she said. “I’ll help you navigate.”
“Including this… whatever it is we have?” I said.
“Definitely,” she said. “And if you don’t give me plenty of attention at the social next week, I will be upset. And if you find someone else I will be jealous.”
“Yes ma’am,” I said.
“Don’t call me that,” she said. “I don’t call you a bastard, do I?”
We laughed, and I signed off. She had eased my mind, at least where she was concerned, but I still had adjustments to make, obviously.
As it turned out, the cotillion wasn’t too bad. Felt kind of like a prom back on Earth, but definitely a little weirder, although the sexual tension was almost the same. No the weirdness came from all the formality. I wore dress blues, complete with Dixie cup hat and neckerchief, as did Meyers and Galloway. But all the officers were in that suit looking uniform they have (both male and female), while the civilians... let’s just say they took advantage of the fact that we were monochromatic. Everything was jewel-toned and peacock flashy, even the few civilian men in attendance. And so the whole thing had the air of some exotic bird courtship.
As for me, I just tried not to stare too much, say too much, or drink too much. The last was harder than I expected, as the wait staff tried to refill my glass after every sip, but there was no way I was going to face all that with even a slight buzz.
Did I mention that all the women were gorgeous? Yeah, I could feel the tingle on my wrist every time I touched a woman’s hand, which was quite often, of course. But despite the physical interest, I didn’t really click with anyone specific, not so much that I felt inclined to pursue matters. It didn’t help that I overheard a group talking about me, and how wonderful it would be to bag the hero. And just like that I felt like a sack of meat again.
So I did the Waltz, ate some fancy hors d’oeuvres, and tried to enjoy the scenery at least. And being the center of attention of many women can be flattering, even if it made me more uncomfortable than anything else. I amused myself by watching the women giving each other the evil eye when they thought I wasn’t looking. But I seriously thought I was going to be the exception to the rule.
And then Sophia came in. She was late, but owned the room with a glance. She wore a dark maroon dress, had long brunette hair, and she didn’t even notice the other women in the room. She raked the line of men with her eyes, and raised her eyebrows when she got to me. I never had a chance.
And I really don’t have much more to say about that. What, you thought I would give you graphic details? I may be a sailor, but come on. That’s just not the way I am.
I will say this, though: Sophia kept in touch. Nothing major, just a note every now and then. She had a son, verified mine, and named him Joseph, after her father. I didn't know how to respond at first, but after talking it over with more experienced people than myself, I decided to respond in kind. So I send him gifts on his birthday, and we've emailed back and forth. It's not exactly your typical father/son relationship, but it's fairly common out here.
Chapter 5
After all the drama of getting ready for the cotillion, the social was much simpler. I had been to a couple during my A and C schools, but this one was both more relaxed, and more friendly. If the cotillion felt like prom, the social felt like an informal high school dance. The Lincoln had a lot of people in attendance, of course, but it was still dominated by station staff. It ended up being a good mix of old friends meeting each other as well as strangers meeting for the first time. I got to wear civvies for the first time in forever, and I almost didn't recognize Meyers out of uniform. He still maintained that stiff formality, though.
The cotillion had its dance ball, but the whole room was spherical at the social. People danced on the ceiling, tables filled the floor, and wall flowers huddled together literally on the walls. No alcohol was allowed at these events, although several sailors had clearly had their fill before they came, and the chaperones eyeballed them closely, looking for trouble makers. They also watched the couples who slow danced no matter what was playing, gently steering them towards the door before things got too overheated.
Meyers and I came in just after it got started. The crowd was still sparse, and I looked around for Katy, but she wasn't there. I did see Leslie, though, who came over.
“This is a good place for you, I'd imagine,” she said by greeting.
“How so?” I asked.
“People are less likely to recognize you,” she said. “You get to just be yourself.”
I thought about what that meant, but just then Katy appeared at my shoulder. “Hey sailor,” she said by way of greeting. Noticing Leslie, she said “Who's this?”
“PS3 Leslie Turner.” The two women sized each other up, and I said, “She was my dance instructor for the cotillion.”
“Oh really?”
I steered her away towards the buffet table, where we picked up pouches of non-alcoholic punch and some bags of chips. Katy was still keeping an eye on Leslie, who was talking to Meyers. I b
rought her around by touching her arm, and I said, “I've been looking forward to spending some time with you like this ever since we docked.”
The jealousy I had seen melted away, and we had a lovely evening. We didn't dance much, but I didn't mind. Being close enough to touch her hand and see the light in her eyes made me happy, and I stopped worrying about anything. I did notice Leslie and Meyers seemed to be interested in each other, which amused me somewhat. And around 2200 hours, when things started winding down, I got nervous all over again. But Katy took me by the hand and led me away. I wasn't sure where we were going, and I'm not sure how we got there. Of course, she could have led me out the airlock and I wouldn’t have cared. All I know is that the bed was soft, and she was warm. It was the best night I had since enlisting.
But Meyers was there at 0600 the next morning, getting me up and moving in the right direction, which was not more time with Katy, but more time with Galloway. Not a good trade.
I stumbled into the studio, and Galloway said, “We've got approval for your first interview.”
“When?” I yawned.
“Now,” he said. “Stop yawning.”
“Sorry,” I said. “Up late.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“You do?”
He shrugged. “Part of the job. Sorry.”
“So I can't call in sick for this one?”
“Sure you can,” he said. “And I'll send you to sick bay, they'll give you some ibuprofen, and send you back to me. Or, I can save you the running around and just get you a cup of coffee. I know where to get some really stiff stuff.”
I don’t know what kind of coffee that was, and he never told me where he got it, but it left me wide-eyed for the next four hours. My first interview went pretty well, with a medium-sized vlogger who was pretty friendly towards the military in general, but Galloway pulled me aside after it was over.
“Not too bad,” he said. “But the nerves were obviously a factor. Your eyes were darting all over the place.”
“More the caffeine than the nerves, I think,” I said.
“Probably a little of both,” he said. “You ready for round two?”
“There’s another one?”
“Dude,” he said. “If you did one a day, you wouldn’t be halfway through before you hit your twenty-year mark.”
I sighed. “Okay, let’s do it.”
And we did. And then some more. For those first two weeks, I was doing ten to twelve interviews a day, mostly over vidcom, but a few with live people. Mark Alverez came all the way from the moon, and that guy has like a half billion subscribers. I asked him before we went live why he had made the trip, and he told me that people wanted to know more about the lone survivor. It actually made it one of my better interviews, because all I could think of was how many men had died, while I had lived.
And when it was over, I left the space, walked down to an empty conference room I knew of, and just started crying. It came out slow at first, but soon I was almost hysterical, and I couldn’t think, and I didn’t care. And Meyers just sat beside me, handing me tissue after tissue.
When I finally got myself under control somewhat, I looked at him. “What the hell is wrong with me?”
He shrugged. “Is this the first time you’ve really let loose like that?”
I thought back. “To that extent, yeah.”
“That’s probably part of it,” he said.
I sighed. “Okay, what’s the other part?”
“Survivor’s guilt.”
I thought about it for a minute. “You mean I feel guilty for being the only one who lived?”
“Affirmative,” he said. “And even if you hadn’t been the only one, you might still feel guilty. When other people die, and you don’t, you... feel like it should have been you too. Or you instead. Either way, it sucks.”
He had rarely said so much at once, and I think he suddenly realized it, because for a brief second, I saw the terror in his eyes. But I didn’t know if he knew that I knew about him being a survivor too, and it didn’t feel like the right time to ask. So instead I said, “Does anything make it better?”
“Some guys drink. I wouldn’t recommend it.”
I nodded. “Okay, so what else?”
“Time,” he said. “And don’t avoid your feelings.”
I always knew Meyers was an incredible admin. I never expected him to be a friend. But that day, and the simple, laconic compassion he gave me—and the blunt truth—changed how I saw him. And the fact that I accepted it is what I think changed how he saw me.
Shortly after that, I was transferred to the Lincoln. I got my orders, and the news that we would get underway in three days. I took leave, and so did Katy, and we spent it together. I hate goodbyes in the Navy. I promised to keep in touch, and so did she, but we knew that the chances of us being together again—physically—were pretty slim. There’s just too many miles, and too many needs of the Navy. I woke up alone the day we were set to leave, which we had decided together the night before. It’s just too hard otherwise.
So I schlepped down to the Lincoln, was saluted on board, and made my way not to berthing (my stuff had been on board almost a week already), but to the studio on board. Galloway sat in front of his sound console, very similar to the one where I first met him, with the only difference being that he wore his full steel suit, including helmet, and his acceleration straps, which are like a five-point seat belt. I asked if it was all necessary.
“Only if the admiral orders full steam, which he always does,” Galloway said.
So I sat down, buckled up, and got quite a ride. When the Lincoln cast off, she maneuvered around to get the engines clear, and then sure enough, kicked it into high gear. It felt like a roller coaster going downhill for an hour. Not enough gees to be harmful, but enough to make it hard to move, or even to speak much. Finally, the pressure decreased to the standard feeling of going slightly uphill when walking forward that means the ship isn’t really cruising yet. That always lasts a few days as the ship comes up to full speed.
And the interviews continued. I was officially assigned to the Information Division, which encompasses quite a bit. Not that I ever saw much. Hell, I rarely saw anyone but Meyers and Galloway most days. And that was my first week on the Lincoln.
What changed? Well, to put it simply, I had a huge anxiety attack. The onboard docs said it was because I had gotten used to the quiet in my months alone, and it was all catching up to me, but I don’t think that’s what is was at all. I think it was the emails I started getting from the families of the sailors who died. Wives, parents, siblings—those were bad enough. But what hit me worst, and nearly broke me, was the letter from a little girl who wanted to know if I had ever met her daddy, who had been on the Hampton. I hadn’t. And I don’t know if I did her any favors telling her the truth, but I couldn’t lie, either. Survivor’s guilt isn’t just about how you see yourself sometimes, but how other people react to you, and expect you to give them closure in a way that most of us just can’t.
So the second week I spent in sick bay, sedated at night so I could sleep, and the rest of the time doing more interviews, but this time by doctors. Most prescribed various anti-anxiety or anti-depression meds. And they helped, kind of. It didn’t help that my communications with Katy were sporadic due to her work schedule and our opsec. But it was Meyers who watched it all, and finally introduced me to the people who helped the most.
It was Saturday evening. I felt exhausted, even though I had been mostly left alone. I just couldn’t stop dreaming when I fell asleep, and mostly it was about the mangled bodies of my shipmates, floating in the wreckage of our ship. And often times looking down to find myself mutilated beyond recognition as well. So I was in my bunk, leaning up against the bulkhead, nodding off occasionally, but mostly just trying not to think. Yeah, that doesn’t work.
Meyers came in, took a look at me, and said, “Let’s go. We’ve got a meeting we need to be at in 10 minutes, and it’s damn near on t
he other end of the ship.”
“I don’t want to go to a meeting,” I said.
“Not an option, sailor,” he said. “It’s an order.”
Giving what I hoped was a sufficiently aggrieved sigh, I hauled myself to my feet and followed him out of sick bay, and ever forward, frame after frame. “Where the hell are we going?”
He didn’t answer, just went up a ladder well, forward a few more fames, and up another ladder well. He stopped in front of a door marked “Boatswain’s Locker” and knocked before lifting the handle. And we stepped into what immediately looked like a group therapy session.
If there were folding chairs in space, these guys would be sitting in them clutching steaming coffee cups. Instead, they sat on boxes arranged in a rough circle, and they all held brown coffee pouches. The guy by the door, a chief, passed two to Meyers, and he handed me one of them.
“Pull up a box,” the chief said. “We’re about to get started.”
Meyers grabbed two and set them up for us. I sat and looked around. Every rating was there, and even an officer. Just a two bar lieutenant, but still. But he didn’t appear to be running the show. The chief did. Then he stood up and said the last thing I ever expected to hear in the Navy: “Remember, in this space, there are no ranks, no rates, no ratings. We’re all shipmates, and we’re all equal. Meyers, you want to introduce the new guy?”
“Sure.” He stood up and said, “This is Pete. I vouch for him to be here, and that he’s a good guy that wants to be better.”
“Welcome, Pete,” the chief said. “I’m Rod, and I’ve been on this ship, going to these meetings longer than anyone else here, so that makes me kind of the speaker for everyone. But again, we’re all equal.”
I looked around. “I don’t understand. What is this group?”
“You didn’t tell him?” the lieutenant asked Meyers.
“I was worried he wouldn’t come if he knew,” Meyers said. “I even had to get it made an official order.”
Several nodded. “Fair enough,” Rod said. “Pete, this is a survivors group.”
Till the Conflict Is Over Page 4
