by Alan Black
With a nod of acceptance, the captain said, “Ensign Sixteen, I am assigning you to temporary duty on second shift environmental. It’s not much, but we need an officer inspecting showers and toilets.”
York nodded his acceptance, keeping his reluctance buried deep in the pit of his stomach. “Thank you, sir.” He didn’t care if he inspected toilets or scrubbed pots and pans, however second shift would make it impossible for him to attend any dinners at the Browns. Not attending would mean upper class officers wouldn’t have to be offended by his presence at their social gatherings. He was going to be on his own again.
The shift change benefited York by putting him out of casual contact with Lieutenant Bartol Samdon. Maybe Karma would step in with an assist if he couldn’t provide the fates with a little boost in removing Samdon from other human contact. Whatever happened, not being around the man provided an alibi, should he need one. Setting up an accident for Samdon might take a little more imaginative thinking and planning than usual, but York was nothing if not careful, thoughtful, and above all, patient.
EIGHT
York stood alone in the space station access tube waiting to step foot on Em.T-Sp8s. He was used to being alone. It had been a lonely trip with the exception of the fondly remembered dinners at Harp and Sadie Brown’s cabin. The final two months of the voyage had isolated him from everyone. He even missed the harassment he’d received from other Yard cadets, not so much from the human contact point of view, but it provided a certain level of motivation to his days. Who he didn’t miss was Blade Balderano. Balderano had taken simple hazing to the level of physical hostility. Nevertheless, human contact was good and necessary and he had long ago decided he liked it better if the interaction wasn’t quite cordial.
His two months working second shift in the environmental department involved simply inspecting bathrooms after the enlisted teams cleaned them and departed. His reports went to a first shift supervisor he never saw. Working second shift meant meals occurred when only cooks and dishwashers were in the galleys and on many days, they were off duty before he arrived, leaving him with only sandwiches or meal packs.
The Gambion was a big ship filled with thousands of personnel and their families. Officers, even low ranking ones, had private cabins. York’s cabin was extremely small and working second shift minimized all human contact. He easily remembered days without seeing anyone except for a brief passing in the corridor. In some areas of the ship it was possible to not see anyone for an entire day. If he had been assigned to third shift he could have seen the Browns during the evening hours, late nighttime according to the ship’s clock. Evening hours were prime entertainment times. While York was working, the theaters ran movies and live performances. Junior officer mixers seemed to always be scheduled during his duty hours. Even civilian activities on the promenade were in full swing during his shift and closed before he got off work.
He was really looking forward to duty on a space station. Em.T-Sp8s was a huge station, older, yet still in its prime. He hadn’t been able to find any information about the number of personnel in its complement. The lack of information wasn’t a surprise considering operational security requirements. Military from both branches of service, all ranks, and every specialty would pack a station this size. There may even be military detachments from allied or neutral governments on such an outlying station.
The scant information he had found showed pictures of the station’s promenade deck on the civilian side of the station filled with a wide variety of shops, restaurants, bars and other entertainments. Primarily, being a military facility kept it off any civilian travel guide sites, however he found an old reference about a nearby planet using the station as their commercial traffic port. Civilian commercial use meant any extended liberty would be on a crappy-looking third-rate colony planet. Any civilian presence would spice up life on a station. In fact, the planet below was named Liberty, so if leave from the station was available, he would take liberty on Liberty.
The Gambion’s captain announced they would only be stopping long enough to drop York off. The ship didn’t have any need to take on supplies and he wasn’t making station facilities available to any crew. With no one else getting off, it left York as the only person in the access tube. He was glad to be leaving the Gambion behind him. It hadn’t been a bad time on the ship, despite Blade Balderano and his pack of followers. But, it had been lonely, despite his time with the Browns. He sometimes wondered why loneliness didn’t bother him as much as he thought it should, certainly not as much as the popular psychological treatises of the day indicated it should in any well adjusted individual.
The air pressure in the access tube made a slight adjustment causing York’s ears to pop and a miniscule gravity shift caused his stomach to give a little alley-oop as the environment in the tube switched from ship to station standard. He’d been led to believe there were such minor changes between every transfer, shuttle to ship, ship to ship, ship to station, and even shuttle to planet. The change wasn’t unpleasant and it made for a good signal. He was on the station.
The Gambion disengaged and pulled away from the station before the airlocks made their final adjustments. York wondered why the captain hadn’t just put him in a space suit and asked him to jump out as they cruised past. He had his few personal affects in minimal baggage. The navy supplied most of the things he needed. Resupplies of upgraded uniforms happened on a more-often-than-needed basis, always giving him perfectly fitting clothing with exact upgrades in his QR code patch. His books were loaded in his navy supplied e-reader. He didn’t have any family so he didn’t have any family mementos. Awards and decorations were all electronic and stored in his dataport, although he had no awards. Even if the Gambion’s captain had made him jump, he could still have carried his personal possessions without much effort.
The hatches cycled open and York stepped into the station proper. He snapped to attention and saluted per regulations. “Ensign Junior Grade York August Sixteen, reports for duty, sir.”
A short man greeted him. He wasn’t strangely short, just about a head shorter than York. The man’s overall appearance was shocking. The man was obviously military as witnessed by his slacks and his cover. York wanted to shout at the man to take his cover off inside the station, but the man’s rank, against regulation, was pinned to it, indicating he was a junior grade commander. Those minor uniform pieces were the only concession the man made to the uniform code … any uniform code. He was wearing old bright orange plastic flip-flops instead of shoes. His shirt was the gaudiest green floral shirt York had ever seen.
The most obviously unmilitary thing about the man was that he was fat. Not just chubby, husky or a little heavy around the middle, but strawberry ice cream and chocolate chip cookie, couch potato, sloppy fat. York put on his best poker face, working hard to control the little tell the Yard’s commandant had warned him about. He wondered why or even how this man could be so sloppy. A simple regimen of one pill a day easily controlled excess fat. It didn’t even take diet and exercise, although a little of each would have done the man a world of good.
The short man grinned without any humor. “I am Commander Junior Grade Allyn Leigh Blaque, Second Shift Supervisor.” Instead of returning York’s salute, he tipped his hat, revealing a bald head with a short fringe of hair around the ears and neck. He was amazed the man remained bald. The cure for baldness was less painful and much less difficult than keeping his weight down. York noticed the man had more hair in his ears than on his head. He wondered if the man was mentally unstable and attempting to look his worst. How could the station commander let any officer exhibit such a poor personal appearance?
York dropped his salute, took the man’s extended hand, and shook it. He realized he had yet to be saluted by an enlisted rating as saluting wasn’t done under ceilings and roofs inside buildings, ships or stations. His time spent at BuPers had limited his activity to officer’s country. And this was the first time he had actually shaken hands with
anyone … ever. Budgers didn’t shake hands, preferring the more widely accepted knuckle bump, fingertip diddle, or forearm cross. He’d saluted other ranking officers when reporting, saluting was a practiced activity at both prep school and the Yards. It looked as if Commander Blaque didn’t go in for military courtesies any more than uniforms.
Blaque said, “You’re the budger officer, right? Welcome to Empty Space. Come on, Ensign, let me get you settled in.” He turned and walked away, leaving York to grab his own bag and follow quickly. He hadn’t expected to have a reception, yet this was less of a reception than any enlisted rating would get. He wondered about Blaque’s welcoming him to ‘empty space’, had he been alone he would have slapped his forehead in disgust. Empty Space was the phonetic pronunciation of the station designation Em.T-Sp8s. Empty Space appeared to be appropriate.
Blaque waved a dismissive hand around the military gates. The wave simply gestured through open air, as the docking area was empty of people. There were dozens of gates disappearing into the distance around the curve of the station. Each gate had clear spaces, desks, a consoled dais, a hundred perfectly arranged plastic molded chairs and luggage carriers of every size, yet there wasn’t a human in sight. The only movement came from lazy, slow moving automated cleaners.
“The military freight decks are the next three decks down, ship consumables relay decks are the next three decks above, munitions reloads are below the freight docks and shuttle bays are below that. Or at least, they were there the last time I wandered down that-away, although there isn’t much reason to make personal inspections. The station commander says video reviews meet station requirements, so he occasionally runs video scans to make sure those parts of the station are still here … or at least, I think he still does it.”
York was shocked at Commander Blaque’s casual disregard of station facilities. He was sure his face lost its composure, nonetheless Blaque didn’t seem to notice or even care.
Blaque said, “Military warehouse spaces are above the consumables relay decks, but they’re as empty as a fat man’s butt after a colonoscopy.”
York didn’t know what a colonoscopy was and he wasn’t sure he wanted to know if it had anything to do with a fat man’s backsides.
“Ensign … um …”
“Sixteen, sir.” York supplied. He was surprised the man had forgotten his name already.
“Right, Ensign Sixteen, you have your dataport on?”
“Yes, sir.” His dataport was on as a matter of course, regulations required it, something Blaque should obviously know.
“Good. Then you already have your incoming station information download. It’s password and biometric protected secure information. The password is ‘password’. I am required to tell you not to share the password with anyone. Your biometrics are already uploaded on your reader.” Blaque rolled his eyes up, obviously thinking of what else he was supposed to say. “Oh yeah, we’re on first shift now. Commander Senior Grade Steven Paul is the station commander, the communications section commander, and first shift commander. I suppose he’ll hunt you down when he’s off shift to give you his greetings … or not. Come to think of it, I haven’t seen Stevie is a couple of weeks or so.”
York asked, “My duties, sir?”
Blaque nodded, “You are the third shift commander. Being the shift commander covers everything happening on the station during your shift, but mainly we keep an eye on the communications relays.”
“Yes, sir. I was told I would be assigned to communications, however not at a command level. This is my first assignment.”
Blaque made a rude noise and said, “We don’t do real communications. When you go on shift later today, you just read the manuals and don’t touch anything until you know what not to touch.”
York nodded. He assumed he would have senior enlisted ratings to show him the ropes while he read the manuals.
Blaque continued, “As you know, interstellar communications are all done by instantaneous gravimetric push by line of sight An-G beams. However, since we’re so far back on the ass end of nowhere, by the time a beam reaches us, it has spread wide enough to blanket half a planet. Our receptors, about the size of my fist, automatically capture said signals.” He emphasized the word automatically as if it was a prayer to some divine space host. “It automatically refocuses and automatically resends them to their intended recipients around this gods-forsaken part of the galactic arm.”
York understood from his physics classes that gravity wasn’t a wave as previously thought of by every physicist since Newton. A scientist named Duke Wainwright had discovered gravity was an energy force that could be captured and focused just like wind and water on a planet’s oceans. It didn’t respond to Newtonian laws. It allowed push, but it didn’t demand the inconvenient opposite and equal reaction. A tight An-G beam went from here to there with no loss of time, unlike ships using anti-gravity propulsion that had to move physically from place to place. Ships ignored the little speed of light limitation by going around it, actually straddling gravity energy, just as a sailing vessel moves across an ocean faster than current wind speed by multiplying the wind’s force with its sails. An-G beams ignored all space-time rules with the exception of spreading in the shape of a cone. A cone that grows larger the farther the signal travels.
The military had communications relay stations clustered close together in the inner planets to maintain operational and communications security, keeping the beam tight and aimed securely only at other military An-G receptors. Communications sent this far out into empty space would require encryption. York doubted he would be involved in any decryption, as most likely it was automatically managed as well.
Blaque pointed down a short corridor. “The red hatch on the port side is the communications bay. That’s your primary duty station. Read the manual if you have any questions. Officer’s quarters are across the corridor through the blue hatch. Your official quarters are marked on the station map downloaded to your dataport.”
York nodded as if he understood. He didn’t. Why would he read a manual if he had communications questions? Why not ask an experienced enlisted rating? He was ready to admit to anyone that he didn’t know anything about communications other than the most simple theories. Still, if he wasn’t supposed to ask an enlisted person, why not ask another officer? Commander Paul and Blaque should be available to ask, assuming their duties didn’t keep them tied up elsewhere.
“Sir, how many enlisted ratings on the third shift will I be supervising?”
Blaque laughed with genuine humor. “Damn, Ensign. We have a total count of three bodies.”
York nodded knowing it would give him at least two people on his shift to rely on. “Thank you, Commander Blaque. I hadn’t expected to supervise anyone on my first assignment. Two should be a good place to start practicing the leadership skills I was taught.”
Blaque laughed again. “You misunderstand me, Ensign Sixteen. There are three military personnel assigned to this station in total.” He ticked off the names on short stubby fingers. “You, me, and Commander Paul. No more. Used to be less, but now we have you.”
York was aghast. “Three! I thought this was a complete station?”
“The station is. We ain’t,” Blaque said. “This used to be a hot place to be. Liberty … the shithole of a planet near us, was thought to have large deposits of transuranics and nearby alien ruins. The planet boomed with miners and astro-archeologists. The Republic built the station and it boomed. This corner of human space looked to be the next bubble of growth into unknown space. Like all good bubbles, it burst. Now we got shit. No. That’s not true. We got less than shit ‘cause you can always make fertilizer with shit. What we got is what’s left over after the galaxy gets a big gas bubble and farts. It gets real stinky for a while and then it all goes away.”
York nodded. “But, what about the civilian side?”
“Hell, Ensign, the civvies left before the military did. When I say there are three of us on the
station, I mean three. That’s it, from stem to stern, port to starboard, top to bottom, and bow to butthole. That’s it for sixteen decks with ten square miles per deck.”
“Should I settle into my quarters and prepare for my first shift?”
“Crap on a consule, Ensign. Third shift has been automated for the last year. Show up or not, it doesn’t matter. And your official quarters … well, let’s just say I reside in the penthouse at the Royal Diamond Suites over in the civilian sector. Food storage is in the galley behind the white hatch. Cook it there yourself or take it anywhere you want to. Clean up behind yourself in the military sector. I don’t care about the civvie side. I do a mad hatter at the tea party kind of thing. When my suite at the Royal Diamond gets too dirty, I just move to the room next door. Pick a spot and squat. I don’t care.”
York was too stunned to speak and wondered how dirty a place would have to get before this slob moved to another room.
Blaque said, “Oh, be careful. There are automated medical facilities scattered all around the station, and you’re free to use any one you want, most still work. If you need help, just send out an emergency call. But, if I’m busy, it might be a while before I come find you and I doubt if Commander Paul will bother to come looking for you. So if you fall down a ladder and break a leg, well, drag your own ass to a med lab.”
“Commander Paul won’t ...” York didn’t even know how to phrase the question.
“Nope. Didn’t you know this is where they send officers to die? Paul will never be promoted. I don’t know what he did or who he pissed off or on, but his career is all but over. He’ll just sit here until his time is up and then he’ll go retire on some backwater planet to sit on a beach near some ocean that smells like a bucket of pig shit.”
“And you … sir?”
Blaque laughed. “I’m the second son of a third son of a fourth son of a mean old bastard who ain’t never going to die. I’m so far away from inheriting enough to even support me that I’ve already taken out an option on the beach hut next to Commander Paul’s place.”
