Rule of Evidence

by John G. Hemry

  Paul rose and bowed toward her. "Thank you, Master. I still have much to learn."

  Sindh smiled and made a brief bow back. "Much more than you realize, Grasshopper."

  About twelve hours later, Paul rolled out of his bunk, taking care to keep his body low so he wouldn't hit any of the pipes and ducting positioned just above his sleeping area. Yawning as he pulled on his uniform, Paul gave the digits on his watch a sour look. Half-an-hour until midnight, and I'm getting up to spend four hours standing watch. The glamorous life of a naval officer. Checking his appearance to make sure he looked fit to stand watch, Paul stumbled to the quarterdeck.

  Petty Officer First Class Fontanelli was rubbing his eyes as Paul came up. "Sir, I don't mind telling you that you're a sight for sore eyes."

  "Yeah. But you get to rest yours now and I don't. What's up?"

  Fontanelli ran through the status of the ship, telling Paul nothing he didn't already know, advised that Captain Hayes and the ship's current executive officer, Commander Kwan, had both returned to the ship after taps, and closed his turnover with a warning to Paul that there'd been Franklin Station personnel conducting unannounced security checks of quarterdeck watches. Paul listened through it all, then straightened and raised his right hand, touching his brow in a casual salute. "Okay. I got it."

  The petty officer returned the gesture. "I stand relieved." Fontanelli hoisted the heavy old-fashioned brass telescope called a long glass which signified his status as officer of the deck import and passed it to Paul. "Have fun, sir."

  "Thanks." Paul put down the long glass and leaned on the watch desk as the petty officer of the watch finished turning over with his relief.

  "Mr. Sinclair, I have the watch." The third class petty officer saluted Paul with the same kind of weary salute Paul had used earlier. "Any special instructions, sir?"

  "Yeah, if I start to fall asleep, kick me."

  The petty officer grinned. "Yes, sir. It'll be a pleasure."

  About four long and essentially uneventful hours later, the hatch onto the quarterdeck opened and Chief Imari stepped out, yawning. "Have a fun mid-watch, sir?"

  "They're always fun, Chief."

  "Oh, yes, sir. Anything happen?"

  "Nope."

  "Of course, if something did happen, we'd be a lot unhappier than we are with nothing happening," Chief Imari observed.

  Paul snorted and nodded. "Yeah, 'cause anything that happens at O-dark-thirty is bound to be bad." He briefed the chief just as he'd been briefed four hours before, exchanged salutes as Chief Imari relieved him, then walked slowly back to his stateroom and peered at the time. Zero four hundred. Two hours until reveille, when he and the rest of the crew would have to officially wake up, and when the lighting on the Michaelson and Franklin Station would brighten for the artificial day. Paul shrugged out of his uniform and pulled himself up into his bunk, ducking and rolling as he did so to avoid hitting the obstacles on the overhead.

  It seemed only moments later that the piercing sound of a bosun's pipe wailed through the ship, followed by the announcement made every morning. "Reveille, reveille. All hands turn to and trice up."

  One of Paul's four roommates in the starboard ensign locker staggered up and hit the stateroom lights. Three groans from those still in their bunks answered the brightness. Paul kept his eyes closed for a moment, trying to extend his sleep a few precious seconds longer. Trice up. Why do they keep telling the crew to trice up? That's what you do with hammocks. The crew doesn't sleep in hammocks. Crews haven't slept in hammocks for who knows how long. Centuries? But if they ever sleep in them again, they'll know now is when they're supposed to trice those suckers up.

  "Hey, Paul!"

  Paul kept his eyes closed. "Yeah, Sam." Lieutenant Junior Grade Yarrow, nicknamed Smilin' Sam by his fellow junior officers in recognition of his untrustworthy nature and false front of camaraderie, sounded unhappy, a fact which bothered Paul not at all given the many times Yarrow had caused problems for Paul.

  "Did the guys in my division who had duty yesterday get their spaces cleaned up like I told them?"

  "I don't know, Sam. Why don't you ask them?"

  "You had duty! You should know."

  "Sam, my duty responsibilities don't include supervising your division's internal tasking."

  "Lousy attitude, Sinclair. Thanks for nothing." The hatch opened, then slammed shut.

  Paul sighed, finally opened his eyes and rolled out of his bunk again, landing on the deck and groping for his uniform once more.

  Ensign Jack Abacha stared after Yarrow, then at Paul.

  Paul shook his head. "Don't worry about it, Jack. Once you've been screwed over by Sam as much as the rest of us have, you won't worry in the slightest about hurting his feelings." Abacha nodded, his uncertainty obvious. Was it only eighteen months ago that I reported aboard the Merry Mike and was exactly like Jack Abacha? Overwhelmed and stunned by everything, wondering what I'd gotten myself into. Hell, I still haven't figured out what I've gotten myself into. "Really, Jack. It's okay. Don't let Sam dump any of his work on you. He'll try to lay a guilt trip on you, but don't fall for it. Sam'll still try to take credit for whatever you did right and blame you for anything he does wrong."

  "Okay. Thanks." Abacha hesitated. "Do I have to tell him off like that?"

  Paul gave the new ensign an encouraging smile. He only reported aboard two days ago. Two days after I joined the ship I still couldn't find my way around. "Naw. When you realize he's trying to do it, tell him that you're too busy to talk and run off. He won't like it, but we're all usually too busy to talk, so Sam won't be able to tell if you're blowing him off." Carl Meadows used to give me that kind of advice before he was transferred off the ship. I wonder how Carl's doing in his tour at the Pentagon?

  Zero seven hundred. Paul walked into Combat, where the rest of the officers from the Operations Department had already gathered for officer's call. Commander Garcia looked up from his data unit and scowled at Paul. Oh, great. Now what'd I do?

  "Nice to see you made it, Sinclair."

  "Sorry, sir. The XO—"

  "I didn't ask for an excuse."

  Paul took up position near the other officers. Ensign Taylor, the Electronic Materials Officer, gave Paul a sardonic wink. Taylor was a mustang, an officer who'd worked her way up through the enlisted ranks to officer status, and as a result knew her job and the Navy so well she could run rings around much more senior officers. Kris Denaldo, like Paul a lieutenant junior grade and now serving as the Michaelson's communications officer, glanced toward Garcia and rolled her eyes meaningfully. Paul nodded to both of them. And so another Monday in the glamorous Space Navy begins. How come in the movies Captain Hardy Stud of the Starship Spurious never has Mondays?

  Garcia glowered at the three officers. Paul and Kris looked back with carefully neutral expressions, while Taylor returned a respectful but unmistakably not-intimidated gaze. "There's been a schedule change. Instead of spending the next two weeks in restricted availability to catch up on equipment maintenance, we have one week. The week after that, we're going out on as-yet-unspecified operations."

  Paul barely managed to keep his exasperation from showing. Kris made notes on her data pad and shook her head.

  Taylor raised both her hands heavenward. "Sir, just how am I supposed to get two weeks of work out of one week? We've got gear that's overdue for upkeep now."

  Garcia focused directly on Taylor and intensified his glower. "You prioritize and you work as hard as you have to. These ops next week are high-priority and high-interest. That's all I can say right now, but saying we can't get underway for them is not an option."

  Taylor shrugged as if unaware of Garcia's expression. "We'll be ready to get underway, but everything's not gonna get done. I'll shoot you my prioritized list and if there's anything that hasta be moved up on it, you tell me, sir."

  "Fine."

  Paul surreptitiously glanced from Garcia to Ensign Taylor. Odds were nobody but Taylor r
eally knew for sure how important each item on that list was, and odds were Garcia knew that. Unfortunately, Garcia does know a lot about all the items on my division's work list.

  "Do either of you two have any comments?" Garcia eyed Paul and Kris, but both had learned enough by now not to say a word. "There's an all officers meeting in the wardroom at ten hundred."

  "Sir?" Kris Denaldo looked like she'd instantly regretted blurting out the word.

  "What?"

  "Uh, sir, about a third of the wardroom is sealed off today while they work on gear on the other side of one of the bulkheads."

  "So?"

  "It'll be very hard to squeeze all of us into the remaining space, sir."

  "What's the matter, Denaldo? Putting on weight?" Garcia grinned humorlessly. "The meeting's in the wardroom. Period."

  Denaldo flushed but kept her voice level. "Yes, sir."

  "Sinclair."

  Paul braced himself mentally, shifting his stance slightly as if he were preparing for actual physical attack. "Yes, sir."

  "Where's that operational events summary? It was due yesterday."

  "I'll have to you before the meeting in the wardroom, sir."

  "It was due yesterday."

  Paul nodded, even though he felt like snarling back at Garcia. "Yes, sir." An excuse wouldn't do any good. In fact, it'd be certain to just make Garcia madder. Not trying to make excuses was one thing the Naval Academy had taught him that had proven important in the fleet.

  Garcia wasn't calmed by Paul's reply. "The XO already asked me where it was this morning."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Is anything else going to be late, Mr. Sinclair?"

  "No, sir."

  "It better not be. Get to work. I won't tolerate any excuses for not having every important piece of equipment on this ship ready to go before we get underway next week." Garcia spun on one foot, moving away with his habitually angry stomp.

  After Garcia had cleared Combat, Paul glanced over at Taylor. "Akesha, is there any piece of equipment on this ship that isn't important?"

  Taylor pretended to consider Paul's question. "Can't think of any. But I'm sure as hell going to talk to the snipes in engineering about making sure that little dingus that heats up the coffee containers in the wardroom is working. As far as I'm concerned, that's the most important thing on this ship. See you kids later."

  Denaldo stared after Taylor's retreating back. "God help the supply department if this ship ever runs out of coffee."

  Paul shook his head, laughing. "No worry. Commander Sykes wouldn't survive without coffee, either, so no way he's going to let us get underway without enough caffeine to float a cruiser back on Earth."

  "Yeah."

  "You okay, Kris?"

  "I'm pissed off. It's Monday. I'm working for an ass. How are you?"

  "The same. And I had the mid-watch last night."

  "You win."

  Five minutes later Paul stood before the enlisted sailors in his division, Chief Imari taking notes from Paul's words just as he'd earlier taken notes from Garcia's. Not very efficient, I guess. But redundancy beats efficiency when lives depend on it. Might as well get the worst over with first. "Ladies and gentlemen, we'll be getting underway in one week." He paused to let it sink in. "Our orders are to get all necessary maintenance carried out before then."

  A chorus of groans erupted. "There goes the whole damn weekend," someone in the back said.

  Chief Imari sighed. "Okay, sir."

  The voice in the back came again. "It ain't all gonna get done!"

  Imari turned slightly. "Fastow, see me after morning quarters." The grumbling from the other sailors faded away. She faced Paul again. "What else, sir?"

  Paul cleared his throat, grateful that the Chief had backed him up. "We haven't been told what we'll be doing when we get underway, but that it's something high priority."

  "We going to war?" another voice asked, this time in a tone that was hushed instead of angry.

  "I don't know." Paul looked at the faces before him. All of them looked back with varying expressions, some worried, some curious, some eager as if they were heading for a softball game. "I've got a meeting at ten hundred. I'll let the chief know if I find out anything I can tell you." He caught a brief flash of disapproval on Imari's face.

  A few minutes later Paul wrapped up his instructions for the day. "That's it. Chief, can I see you for a minute?"

  "Sure, sir." Imari gave the sailors a hard look. "You all be waiting here when I get back."

  Paul led the way out into the passageway. "Chief, I noticed you seemed a little unhappy in there at one point."

  Imari screwed up her face. "Yes, sir. Uh, telling the division about that meeting of yours at ten hundred. I wouldn't have done that, Mr. Sinclair. Now the guys are gonna be expecting to hear something this morning. They're gonna be pestering me about it, and they're gonna be thinking and talking about what you might tell them instead of concentrating on their work, and we've got a lot of work to do and not much time to do it in. If you do hear something and can't tell them, they're gonna be even more wound up."

  Well, hell. Paul felt himself getting angry at the chief and forced himself to backtrack. And she's right about all of it. Dammit. "Sorry, Chief. That didn't occur to me."

  "You don't have to apologize to me, Mr. Sinclair. But you asked and I told you."

  "And I appreciate that, Chief."

  Chief Imari hesitated. "Sir, you do know all that work ain't gonna get done."

  "We need to try, Chief."

  "Yes, sir. But it's either do it all half-assed or do a bit more than half of it right."

  Paul closed his eyes while he thought. Let's see. If I report to Garcia that maybe half of the planned maintenance hasn't been done, he's going to go into screamer mode on me. I don't want that. But if I say I got it all done and some of the 'fixed' stuff doesn't work when we need it while we're on these high-priority ops, then Garcia, the XO and the captain will all be after my hide. Maybe nothing'd break, though. Then I'd be in the clear and my sailors would have time to fix everything right. Yeah, right. When would I be sure they could do that? And if something doesn't work that I said had been fixed . . . people remember stuff like that.

  Oh, great. I'm thinking of this all in terms of covering my butt. Hey, LTJG Sinclair, you jerk, maybe it oughta be about getting the job done? So what should I . . . hell, I ought to do what Taylor said she'd do. He opened his eyes. "Chief, put together a priority list for me. What we intend doing in what order given that we know we're getting underway in a week." Do I send a copy of the list to Garcia? He'll be sure to raise hell and rearrange the list just for the sake of asserting authority. But if he signs off on that list, he'll have to admit it to the captain. I think. At least I'll have proof I told Garcia about it all.

  Imari nodded. "Okay, sir. I'll have it to you as soon as I can."

  "Thanks, Chief." Paul spent the next two hours sweating over the operational events summary. He knew from painful experience that every officer superior to him in the chain of command was certain to remember any event he might neglect to include, but he also was required to only include "significant" events in the summary. No matter what I put in, Garcia or the XO is going to say I didn't put in something significant or did put in something insignificant. Okay. Fine. Paul punched the command to send the report to his department head. If I'm going to lose no matter what, why waste any more time on it? It's as good as I can make it.

  Paul glanced at the time. Enough remained before ten hundred for him to get into the wardroom and suck down some coffee to help stay awake through the meeting. Hopefully the subject would be interesting, but even interesting subjects could be sleep inducing when presented in a dull way in small, warm compartments.

  "Commander Sykes." Paul greeted the supply officer, who was seated in his usual place, drinking coffee.

  "Good morning, young Sinclair. Bright and early this morning, I see."

  Paul shook his head. "Just ear
ly, Suppo. It's already been a long day."

  "Ah." Sykes leaned back a little more and took a slow drink. "The travails of line officers. I feel for you. Truly."

  "Yeah." Paul grinned as he got his own coffee. He'd learned from experience that Sykes only pretended to be lazing about the wardroom, and only pretended to revel in his status as a limited duty officer without the command and combat responsibilities of line officers like Paul. At least, I think he's only pretending to revel in it. "Any idea what the meeting's about, Suppo?"

  "How would I be aware of the meeting's subject?"

  Paul sat down. "Because you know everything important that goes on so you never get caught unable to meet the ship's supply needs."