Burden of Proof

by John G. Hemry

Carl looked toward Captain Gonzalez, but before he could repeat the question she nodded sharply. "Permission granted."

  Carl echoed the command. "Boats, permission granted."

  He gestured to the bosun mate of the watch, who sketched a salute, keyed his all-hands circuit, then blew a wail on his pipe to get the crew's attention. "Secure the gig and grapnel details. I say again, secure the gig and grapnel details."

  Lieutenant Diem looked from Carl to Gonzalez. "What do we do now?"

  "Good question." Carl gave the glowering captain a look out of the corner of his eyes. "I really don't want to do this, but I have to."

  "I can ask . . ."

  "No. It's still my job." Turning to face the captain, Carl spoke with careful precision. "Captain Gonzalez, request further instructions."

  Gonzalez took a moment to reply. "Prepare a course back to Franklin Station. Standard speed. Hold off executing it until I get confirmation from the Commodore, but I expect we'll need to drop off our 'guests' and wait for the test firing to be rescheduled." She turned a hard face toward Carl, then made a visible effort to relax. "Well done, Mr. Meadows. You and your bridge team handled things well." Ripping her harness loose, Captain Gonzalez pulled herself off the bridge.

  "Captain's off the bridge!" The bosun of the watch made the announcement as Captain Hayes, his face betraying no emotion, followed in Gonzalez's wake.

  Carl Meadows inhaled deeply, then exhaled with relief. "I still live. Can you cook up that course for the captain?"

  "Piece of cake," Diem assured him. "What else you got?"

  Carl and Paul quickly filled in their reliefs on other information, then Gabriel offered Paul a salute. "I relieve you, sir."

  Paul returned the salute gratefully. "I stand relieved." Raising his voice once more, he announced the change. "On the bridge, this is Ens-" Dammit. "Lieutenant Junior Grade Sinclair. Ensign Gabriel has the watch and the conn."

  "This is Ensign Gabriel, I have the conn." Gabriel lowered her voice and made an apologetic face. "Sorry we relieved you guys so late."

  "It's not your fault. Taking over in the middle of picking up those pods would've been asking for trouble, and the captain might've raised hell if you'd tried."

  "Thanks, Paul. Hey, congrats on the promotion."

  "Thanks back at you. There's hope for everybody, I guess."

  Gabriel laughed. "I think you earned it."

  Paul looked over at Carl, who'd also been relieved of the watch but was spending a few minutes unwinding by chatting with Lieutenant Diem. Paul waved at the other officers. "Later, guys." He pulled himself wearily off the bridge, using the easily reached handholds in the overhead. Before I got to a real ship, I used to worry about getting stuck in the middle of a big compartment with no way to reach a handhold. I never stopped to think that there isn't any reason at all to have big, empty compartments on spacecraft. They'd be just a waste of space inside the hull. He floated for a moment outside the bridge hatch, eyes closed, feeling the tension from being on watch slowly draining from his muscles.

  I wonder how the Greenspacers are behaving? Aw, geez. That's my job, too. Got to get going. Reaching for another handhold, Paul hastened down to the gig's dock, where the Greenspacers were still being held in a tight bunch by the presence of a menacing-looking Master-at-Arms Ivan Sharpe and his six deputy master-at-arms. Paul paused as he got his first look at the Greenspacers, most of whom were grinning like kids who'd gotten away with a clever stunt. They do look like hippies. "Any problems, Sheriff?"

  Sharpe kept his eyes on the Greenspacers as he shook his head. "No, sir."

  Paul saw he'd become the center of attention for the Greenspacers. One, a tall man with a beard who carried himself like some sort of secular saint, moved forward slightly before halting as Sharpe and his nearest deputy made warning gestures. "Are you in authority here?"

  "I'm the ship's legal officer." Which has been nothing but a pain in the neck since I got assigned that extra job the day I reported aboard this ship. Why did I have to have had a two-week gap in my orders which somebody decided to fill by sending me to the ship's legal officer course? Being the Combat Information Center Officer is more than enough work without needing to deal with all the junk being legal officer tosses my way.

  The Saint looked at Paul sternly. "We expect to be released immediately. This detention is unlawful."

  "No, sir, it is not. United States law authorizes us to take you into custody if you deliberately violate a restricted area."

  An intense-looking woman laughed harshly. "Space is free!"

  "You'll have to discuss that with the United Nations, ma'am. Now, if you'll -"

  The Saint raised a demanding palm. "We will not tolerate being held by military forces. This is a violation of our human rights."

  Paul glanced at Sheriff Sharpe, whose expression made it obvious what he thought of the Saint's human rights, then addressed the group. "You would have all died if we hadn't rescued you. It's our duty to rescue humans in distress in space. Our humanitarian duty." Some of the Greenspacers glowered back, while others smiled as if they were sharing a joke with Paul. "You will be held in protective custody until we can turn you over to civil law enforcement authority."

  "You're jailing us?"

  "No, sir. A warship is a dangerous place. Even a misplaced hand could cause serious repercussions. For your own protection, you'll be kept in two compartments, one for the men and one for the women."

  The intense woman laughed again. "We're all equals! We've no need for your archaic cultural codes."

  "Ma'am, I regret to inform you that your needs are not this ship's priority. You will follow Petty Officer First Class Sharpe as he leads you to the compartments. Anyone who attempts to damage the ship or leave the group will be dealt with as necessary to ensure the safety of everyone on board." The last sentence of Paul's statement had been boilerplated in fleet guidance for handling situations like this. It simplified Paul's task and helped ensure he wouldn't say something potentially embarrassing or illegal.

  Fortunately for all concerned, the Greenspacers followed Sharpe quietly. Some of the protesters obviously lacked much experience in space, having difficulty moving smoothly through the cramped passageways of the Michaelson in zero gravity. Paul had to suppress a couple of smiles as Greenspacers bumped painfully off of pipes, wiring, cabling conduits and other equipment lining the sides and overhead of the passageway.

  As the Greenspacer men were shepherded into their compartment, grumbling over the tight quarters in the tiny crew recreation room which had been commandeered for their confinement, the Saint looked back toward Paul and smiled once more, this time triumphantly. "This shows the difference between us and militaristic fascists such as yourself. We don't believe in criminalizing peaceful acts of protest, or confining those who care only for the well-being of others."

  Paul fought down his first biting reply, then smiled back. "That's your interpretation, sir. I think the difference between us is that every once in a while I'm willing to consider the possibility that I might be wrong." He swung around to leave, catching a wide grin on Sharpe's face as he did so. "Let me know when they're snugged down, Sheriff."

  "Aye, aye, sir. May I make a suggestion, sir?"

  "By all means."

  Sharpe indicated the alarm panel next to the hatch leading into the temporary prison. "I wouldn't count on those, sir. Sometimes people figure out ways to mess with automated controls and alarms, and we've no idea what skills these prisoners might have. I want to put my deputy masters-at-arms on watch outside these compartments."

  Paul paused to consider the suggestion. The Sheriff's deputies weren't masters-at-arms by specialty. They were petty officers from other ratings, such as fire control technicians, gunners mates and bosun mates, who'd volunteered for the extra responsibility. Putting them on a watch here would take them away from their primary duties, and make at least a few of their division officers and department heads unhappy. But Sharpe's suggestion made sense.
Paul had a vision of Greenspacers with unknown skills and idealistic foolishness loose within the ship for even a few minutes, and had to fight down a shudder. "Do it, Sheriff."

  "Aye, aye, sir. I'm sure the XO will approve."

  Paul cocked an eyebrow at Sharpe, then smiled. It'd been one of the smoother means of proffering advice he'd received from enlisted sailors since joining the Navy. "I'm sure he will, too. I'll brief the XO right away, so if anyone complains refer them to me so I can refer them to the XO."

  Sharpe's reply sounded perfectly serious. "Excellent idea, sir."

  "Thanks. If you need me after that, I'm going to get some coffee."

  "Another excellent idea, sir."

  "Yeah, I'm full of them today."

  The XO agreed immediately to the wisdom of using Sharpe's deputies to ensure the Greenspacers didn't wreak any havoc onboard, leaving Paul a few minutes to unwind. He headed for the wardroom, squeezing back against the sides of the passageways to let those on more urgent errands pass, then swung through the hatch into the relative haven of the Michaelson's small wardroom. The chair normally occupied by Commander Steve Sykes, the Michaelson's Supply Officer, sat uncharacteristically empty. However, Lieutenant Sindh was strapped into a seat at the small wardroom table, holding a drink the Navy hopefully labeled 'Near East Tea' but sailors referred to as 'Nastea', and staring contemplatively into space.

  Paul grabbed some coffee and strapped himself into another chair. "Hey, Sonya."

  Lieutenant Sindh focused on Paul, then raised her own drink in a mock toast. "Are our new passengers taken care of?"

  "For the time being at least. They shouldn't be able to screw up anything else before we offload them." Paul shook his head. "It's kinda strange."

  "What?"

  "Well, I saw those Greenspacers, and I'm thinking, 'get a haircut, for pity's sake. Stand up straight, get a shave, and get your clothes neatened up.' I mean, they did look like hippies to me, but when I stand back and think about it, I realize I used to look a lot like that."

  Sindh grinned widely. "Ah. Culture shock."

  "I've been around civilians since I entered the Navy."

  "But not recently. When's the last time you were home?"

  Paul only had to think a moment. "After graduation from the Academy. I haven't been back since I got orders to space duty. You know how hard it is to get a shuttle home, especially when we have so little time available to take leave."

  "Uh huh." Sindh leaned back, a meaningless gesture in zero gravity yet one which every human still attempted out of habit. "I've been back. Let me tell you, it's tough. My little brother, I thought he looked like some sleazy thug. He wasn't. He was just a typical teenage civilian. And my parents . . ." She laughed this time.

  "What about your parents?"

  "They thought I was insane."

  Paul eyed her to see if Sindh was serious. "Why?"

  Instead of answering directly, Sindh pointed to the drink in Paul's hand. "Are you going to put that down?"

  He frowned down at the coffee. "I'll dispose of it when I'm finished."

  "And until then you'll either keep one hand on it or clip it to your belt. Right?"

  "Of course! If I just left it sitting it'd be a missile hazard when the ship maneuvered."

  Lieutenant Sindh laughed again. "Okay. Right. So I go home after being in space for close to two years. And I'm neat. I'm really, really, really neat. Just like you are, now. I don't leave anything lying around, because it might be a missile hazard, or float off and get stuck in something important. We all do that because it's an essential part of the survival skills up here and it's drilled into us as habit. But at home . . . my parents were just thrilled at first. She's neat! She cleans up her room!" Sindh grinned, wickedly this time. "My little brother thought I'd been taken over by an alien life form. Before I left for the Navy we had a contest once over who had the oldest piece of forgotten food in their room. I won. Do you want to know how old it was?"

  "Uh, no, thanks."

  "I don't blame you. Anyway, my parents are happy as clams. For the first twenty-four hours or so. Then it starts to worry them that if mother puts down a drink, five seconds later I'm securing it in the dishwasher. Like the house is ever going to accelerate unexpectedly and make it a hazard. But I can't help it. They worried about me for maybe another twenty-four hours, then they called a psych to see if the Navy had fried my brain."

  Paul laughed with her this time, assured by Sindh's tone that the story didn't have an ugly ending. "What'd the psych say?"

  "'Don't worry,' she said. They know all about this. Psychs' even have a name for it now. Learned Work Pattern Universality Syndrome or something like that. The psych reassured my parents that I was still at least technically sane, and the best way to cope was by keeping everything put away so I wouldn't get all twitchy around them."

  "Wow." Paul contemplated his coffee for a moment. "Is everybody like that?"

  "What do you mean by 'everybody'? All of us in the Space Navy? Pretty much. Just look around some time. Oh, that reminds me of another thing that drove my parents crazy. I kept grabbing on tight to anything solid within reach."

  "Sure you did. That's just common sense." Paul caught himself. "I see what you mean. It's common sense in a spacecraft."

  Lieutenant Sindh sighed. "There's all sorts of things like that. There always is between military and civilian, you know, but us being in space for so long makes the differences even bigger. We adopt habits that are necessary up here but unnecessary down there, and all we see for months on end is each other."

  "I guess the way I saw the Greenspacers' clothes is an example of that."

  "Yes. And the hair. You, me and everybody else up here keeps their hair short because they don't need long tresses floating into their eyes every five seconds, or long loose hairs drifting through their living quarters. But my mother wailed when she saw my short hair! 'Your hair was so long and beautiful!' Yes, it was. So what? I've got nice legs, too, if I say so myself, but I don't wear skirts up here, either, for what I hope are obvious reasons."

  Paul briefly contemplated the vision of female sailors drifting through zero gravity in skirts, then shook his head to dispel the vision. "That'd be, uh, distracting."

  "As well as embarrassing and impractical. Paul, you have to realize the way you see things, the way you do things, has changed. It changes for everybody who joins the military, and doubly so for everybody who serves in space." Sindh tilted her head as if examining Paul. "Which, in my opinion, made your decision to have a serious relationship with Jen Shen a good one."

  "Since you know Jen, you'll understand a lot of it was her decision, and I was happy to go along with it."

  Sindh grinned widely again. "That's Jen, all right. But, you see, you two can understand each other because of your shared experiences. You've both served on warships, both spent months in space, both dealt with similar situations. An outsider will wonder why you never let go of your drinks. But neither of you will ever question the other about it."

  "No, I guess we wouldn't. But there's still friction between us sometimes."

  "I'm simply shocked, Paul. Friction with Jen? Nice, quiet, compliant Jen?"

  Paul couldn't help laughing. "You must know another Jen."

  "Not I. Ah, our missing command presence has arrived." Sindh raised her drink in another toast as Commander Sykes swung inside the wardroom, somehow seeming to amble even while floating in zero gravity.

  Sykes grabbed a coffee in passing, then settled into his seat before casting a jaundiced eye toward Sindh. "My good Lieutenant Sindh, please do not use the word 'command' when speaking of me. I am a limited duty officer. I command nothing but my little empire of ship's supplies and spare parts." Sykes smiled gently. "Without which, of course, you combatant line officers would all quickly perish."

  Paul gestured for Sykes' attention. "Suppo, speaking of supplies, we're going to need to feed those Greenspacers."

  "I suppose we are." Sykes too
k a slow drink, his face now thoughtful. "I have just the thing. We have a quantity of emergency battle rations which are due to expire in a few months."

  Both Sindh and Paul failed to stop automatic expressions of revulsion. Sindh shook her head in evident disbelief. "Emergency battle rations? You can feed those to civilians?"

  Sykes shrugged. "Why not?"

  "I'd imagine there's some sort of inhumane treatment provision of the law which prohibits it."

  "There's nothing of the kind, dear lady. Is there, Mr. Sinclair?"

  Paul shook his head. "None that I know of. But, Suppo, those rations are really rank."

  "Nonsense. The Navy has assured me the rations have been pronounced tasty, nutritious and downright yummy by selected service personnel chosen to taste test them."

  "I've always wondered who those selected personnel are, and where they are now. I'd love to have some words with them on their definition of 'tasty.'"

  "They're probably in some sort of witness protection program, safely hidden from their vengeful servicemates. No, I believe this is an excellent means to dispose of our soon-to-expire rations and keep our guests fed at the same time. Whatever their drawbacks in terms of taste, smell, texture and similar issues, the battle rations are compact, nutritious and produce no crumbs or sticky remnants. If our guests try to protest by, say, hurling their rations against the bulkhead, no harm will be done."

  "They might dent the bulkheads," Paul suggested. "Do you really dislike the Greenspacers that much, Suppo?"

  "Dislike them? Not at all. I believe any society needs those who are willing to question assumptions and challenge our beliefs. I also believe any society which feels unable to tolerate their mere presence, as opposed to outlawing unsafe acts on their part, has problems beyond those the protesters highlight. No, the use of the battle rations is purely a matter of pragmatics. After all, Mr. Sinclair, I'd feed you those rations if necessary, even though I confess a slight fondness for your touching youthful naiveté."

  "Thanks."

  The bosun's whistle wailed across the all-hands circuit. "All hands prepare for maneuvering in ten minutes."