A Just Determination

by John G. Hemry

  "Probably. But he won't, because assaulting a subordinate would look real bad on his record. The best way to handle Garcia is to do the best job you can. If you do good, he'll lay off you. Nothing else will satisfy him except knowing you're not going to make him look bad."

  "There's that phrase again. 'Looking bad.' Jen, I don't get it."

  "What's not to get?"

  Paul waved a hand around to encompass the entire ship. "There seems to be such a mix of people on this ship. I figured the space branch would be, you know, sort of the best and the brightest."

  She laughed sharply. "Boy, and I thought I was young! You want the run-down Paul? There's basically three kinds of people up here. You represent one of them. You volunteered for duty in space. You're idealistic, hard-charging, ready to conquer the universe for humanity."

  "I'm not that—"

  "Hey, I'm using you as an archetype. When you're a symbol of something you can't quibble over details." Jen leaned back, gazing wistfully out the hatch. "I used to be like that. Now . . . I don't know. The second type up here are the Carl Meadows' of the Navy. They're just out to survive. Keep a low profile, get the job done, don't sweat anything that doesn't need sweating."

  "Carl's a real decent guy."

  "I didn't say he wasn't. What I said was he'll never make admiral. Carl knows that. He's not going to kill himself chasing a goal he wouldn't really want if he got there. Look around. He's not the only officer in the wardroom like that."

  "You mean like Commander Sykes, too?"

  "Oh, yeah. Suppo's the king of the slackers. If I ever convert to that religion entirely, he's the guy I'll worship." She sighed. "Then there's the third group, the unjustly exiled. In their eyes, anyway. They got stuck out here, far from all the plum jobs that just about guarantee promotion, far from all the admirals looking for adoring protégés, far from everything. The only way people hear about what you've done in space is if you screw up big time. And I mean big time." Jen flashed a smile. "Messing up an exercise message doesn't make the grade. So these exiles work their butts off, or make their subordinates work their butts off, in hopes they'll grab the golden ring and return home with glory, medals and promotion opportunities galore. In sum, they wanta look good. Problem is, they're not that good to begin with. Which is why they got exiled in the first place."

  "I see. That makes a lot of sense. Garcia's an exile, isn't he?" Jen nodded. "And so's the Captain."

  "Oh, yeah. Cap'n Pete would sell his mother for a ticket back to fleet staff, where he could impress the admiral with his social banter and devotion to the admiral's well-being."

  Paul smiled ruefully. "I believe it. But what about the XO? She doesn't seem to fit any of those groups."

  Jen frowned. "No. She's sort of an idealist, but not in the 'future of humanity in space' sense. For Herdez, it's the Navy. That's what she believes in. She doesn't give a damn what happens to her. She's here because they told her the ship needed a good XO. Don't ask me how I know that. But, fair warning, Paul, she supports the Captain. That's the Navy rule. Don't think because Cap'n Pete is doing something stupid that Herdez will step in and try to stop it. She's the XO, he's the Captain. That sets the rules of the universe as far as she's concerned."

  "Thanks. Warning duly noted." Paul let his face momentarily sag, once again overwhelmed. "Man, if I had any idea what I was getting into . . ."

  Shen grinned again. "Don't let it get to you. Endure. Find some hobby to keep the insanity and the big black outside at bay."

  "What's your hobby?"

  "I punch lockers."

  Paul smiled back. "I'm glad I'm not a locker." He looked over at his, suddenly concerned again. "I hope I packed everything right." In the morning the Michaelson would be maneuvering, and any object not properly fastened down would become a victim of physics.

  "I'll check it for you," Shen offered. She popped his locker, eyeing his gear, her face intent, transformed instantly into an experienced professional. "Looks good to me. If anything, you overdid some of the tie downs. But better that than underdoing them." Shen stepped back, glancing questioningly at Paul. "No pictures?"

  "Uh, no. No girlfriend."

  "Too bad. Or maybe good. Shipboard life is hell on relationships, if you haven't already figured that out."

  "I'd guessed. No time for them, right?"

  "Right. And if you found any time, you'd be halfway to nowhere when it showed up. You can't even phone home because the distances are so huge light-speed lag makes conversations a pain in the neck, and most of the time you can't send messages either because the ship's trying to keep emissions to a minimum so no one can detect us."

  Paul nodded wearily. "So good luck maintaining a relationship with someone off the ship. And I know what regulations say about relationships among crewmembers."

  Jen nodded quickly back. "Right again. Don't even think about that. If you fall in love, or lust, with someone else on this ship then keep it to yourself until you're walking off the ship for the last time enroute to your next assignment. Then you can share your emotions or whatever with the object of your affections to your heart's content. But don't try it while you're both still assigned to this ship. The XO's not amused when she finds out about that sort of thing."

  "Has it been a big problem on the ship?"

  Jen shrugged. "A big problem? No. But it happens. We had a couple of enlisted who got busted and fined, one of them subsequently being transferred to the US Navy's equivalent of Siberia. Then there was a Lieutenant some time back who couldn't keep his hands off a seaman in his division."

  Paul stared in disbelief. "In his division? He messed around with an enlisted sailor in his chain of command? How could he be that stupid? And unprofessional?"

  "If you'd ever met the guy, you'd know how he could be that stupid and unprofessional. Of course, if you wanted to meet him now, you'd have to visit the brig where he's serving hard time. Like I said, Herdez doesn't tolerate anything that threatens the chain of command. If you've got a roving eye, try to park it while you're onboard."

  Paul laughed. "Jen, to be perfectly honest, one of the few faults I can't lay claim to is a roving eye."

  "Not a Don Juan, huh?"

  "Nope."

  "Good for you. That'll make life onboard easier for you. And if you really need some photos for your locker, you could do what Yarrow does. He's got pictures of his sports car posted."

  "You're kidding."

  "Take a look when you get a chance." Ensign Shen clapped Paul on the shoulder. "I have to get back to pleading with my bosses for sanity to prevail. Vainly pleading, no doubt, but I have to try so I can scream 'I told you so' with my dying breath. Hang in there, Paul."

  "Thanks, Jen."

  "You're feeling lost and overwhelmed, right?"

  "Does it show?" The thought alarmed Paul, already worried over his performance onboard the ship so far.

  But Jen shook her head. "No. You're doing a good enough job of projecting confidence. But it wasn't all that long ago that I was new to the ship. I remember. Boy, do I remember. A lot of things don't get easier, but that part does. Trust me."

  "I sure hope you're right. Are you going out with the others tonight?"

  "I wish. I've got duty, and even if I didn't I'd be fussing over that damned osmosis device. You?"

  "Nope. I'm sort of voluntarily confined to the ship while I reflect on the error of my ways."

  "A wise man. See you around. Maybe we can catch a flick after dinner." She smiled again. "My treat."

  "I thought movies in the ship's entertainment system were free."

  "They are." Laughing, Ensign Shen headed out into the passageway.

  Chapter Three

  Paul sat, rechecking his seat harness and hoping his nervousness wasn't apparent to every other person on the Michaelson's bridge. He couldn't decide whether his assignment as Junior Officer of The Deck while the Michaelson got underway had been the result of malice or chance, but as he scanned the displays around him Paul w
as acutely aware that a major screw-up right now could cause extensive damage and cost lives. Not that it seemed likely he would be given such a responsibility right off the bat. However, Paul's discovery of the assignment when he read the underway watch bill had done nothing for his peace of mind. Nor had learning who would be supervising him in that assignment.

  He looked over at Lieutenant Tweed, occupying the Officer of the Deck position, outwardly calm as she ran down checklists. Outwardly calm, but Paul thought he detected tension in her movements. On either side of the bridge, the Captain and XO sat in elevated chairs, surveying all the activity around them.

  Paul reviewed his own checklist for the third time, then studied the maneuvering display. This close in to the station, it displayed a representation of the Michaelson in her berth along with details of Franklin Station itself. The station resembled a huge disc with a hollow center. That disc, Paul knew from his brief stay on-station, held everything from living quarters and administrative offices to repair facilities and bars. Above and below the disc were the dry-docks and berths for the ships the station existed to serve. The whole arrangement rotated just fast enough to generate a feeling of normal gravity in the mid-sections of the disc. When ships berthed at docks along the top or bottom of the disc, facing bow in toward the center and stern out, they joined in that rotation and gained the same feeling of gravity along the same axis that their main drives would accelerate in space. It was all extremely simple, except the part about actually berthing to the station and then leaving it without slamming into anything.

  Tweed looked over at Paul, smiled thinly with her lips sealed shut, then made a small thumbs-up gesture. Turning, she faced Captain Wakeman. "Captain, all departments report they are ready for getting underway. We have received clearance from station control to get underway."

  Wakeman peered around the bridge, as if suspicious of her report, then nodded. "Very well. Get the ship underway."

  "Aye, aye, sir." Tweed focused intently on her display. On ships that sailed water, the bridge sat high and forward, a place from which the conning officer could see and safely direct activity. On space ships, the bridge sat nestled deep within the hull, as safe from external threat as human measures could render it, every view of the outside provided by remote monitors. "All hands, prepare to get underway. Seal quarterdeck access and retract brow."

  "Seal quarterdeck and retract brow, aye," the petty officer of watch echoed in a routine designed to ensure he had heard the order correctly. "Quarterdeck sealed. Station has retracted brow. All seals confirmed tight."

  "Take in lines two, three, and four."

  "Take in lines two, three, and four, aye." On the outside of the station, grapples released their grip on some of the lines holding the Michaelson tightly to the station. As the lines were released, they were reeled in under constant pressure to prevent them from whipping about and damaging the hull. "Lines two, three, and four secure."

  "Port thrusters all ahead one third." Despite the breaking of some of the physical bonds to the station, the ship's mass conformed to Isaac Newton's old laws, one of which said mass kept doing whatever it had been doing until something else affected it. Without the thrusters, the Michaelson would have stayed drifting near the station. "Let out lines one and five."

  "Port thrusters all ahead one third, aye," the helmsman echoed.

  "Let out lines one and five, aye," the petty officer added.

  Under the push of the thrusters, the Michaelson's mass began moving away from the station, the two lines still tethering her paying out slowly as she did so. Centrifugal force inherited from the rotating station began edging the ship outward and to the side as well, putting extra demands on the computers controlling the tension in the lines. They had to maintain just enough pressure to keep the lines taut, but not enough to pull on either the Michaelson or the station. Paul watched, feeling the many tons of mass that made up the Michaelson slowly gathering momentum, knowing that a wrong application of thrust or a misguided tightening of a line might bring the ship inexorably back into contact with the station.

  Tweed waited, watching her displays, the XO watching her, and Captain Wakeman watching his own monitors. "Standby to let go all lines. Let go all lines."

  "Let go all lines, aye. All lines let go."

  Behind Paul, the bosun's pipe sounded. "Underway! Shift colors!" Where a surface ship would have lowered its bow and stern flags and raised one from the main mast, the bosun on the Michaelson simply punched a key on his console, changing her self-broadcast identity code to indicate the ship was no longer tethered to another object with a fixed orbit.

  Lieutenant Tweed nodded stiffly, still watching her display, where the separation between ship and station grew steadily as the Michaelson swung out and ahead. Paul could see a fine sheen of sweat on her upper lip. "Port thrusters all ahead two thirds. Main drive all ahead one third."

  "Port thrusters all ahead two thirds, aye. Main drive all ahead one third, aye."

  Paul felt a kick in his back as the Michaelson's powerful main drive kicked in, shoving the ship forward even as the maneuvering thrusters pushed her farther away from the station. On his display, the ship's projected course now formed a beautiful arc leading away from the station.

  Tweed watched as the display showed the ship's actual path rising to match the projected path set by the station traffic monitors. Just before the two paths merged she called out more commands. "Secure port thrusters. Main drive all ahead two thirds."

  "Port thrusters secure, aye, main drive all ahead two thirds, aye."

  Tweed looked back to where the quartermaster sat. "Recommendation?"

  "I recommend course two three zero degrees absolute, up fifteen degrees, ma'am. That will take us toward the center of our assigned operating area."

  Tweed looked toward the Captain, who nodded brusquely. "Very well," she acknowledged. "Helm, bring us to course two three zero degrees absolute, up fifteen degrees. Captain, request permission to secure from getting underway."

  "Permission granted."

  Tweed gestured to the petty officer of the watch, who triggered the ship's intercom. "All hands, secure from getting underway. The ship remains in maneuvering status. All hands exercise caution in moving about."

  USS Michaelson shuddered as the helm orders caused thrusters around her hull to fire, killing drift in one direction, then bringing her bow around to the desired course. Paul watched the process unfold on his display like a piece of fine art, the current course track once again sliding gently into perfect alignment with the desired course.

  "The Captain has left the bridge." Startled by the petty officer's announcement, Paul looked around, suddenly realizing he had been paying attention to nothing but the track display. That's dumb. Even I should know better. I have to stay aware of everything going on while I'm on the watch.

  The XO unbuckled herself as well, moving carefully against the force provided by Michaelson's main drives. "Good job, Ms. Tweed."

  "Thank you, ma'am." Tweed watched Herdez leave the bridge, then sighed heavily, leaning back against the acceleration. "God. It's over."

  Paul eyed her with surprise. "You handled that real well."

  "It surprises people. I know."

  "That's not—."

  "Yes, it was. Don't worry about it. I understand. I'm just glad it's over." Tweed wiped her lower face with one hand, smearing the sweat, and breathed deeply several times.

  Paul watched her, unable to match what he'd already seen of Jan Tweed with the way she'd handled getting the Michaelson underway. "Were you really that worried?"

  She cocked one eye at Paul, then snorted a brief laugh. "Paul, I was scared out of my mind. I always am."

  "But you did it real well, ma'am. It was like . . . like, a piece of art."

  "Thanks. The key is to feel the ship. Don't just look at the displays. Feel how she's moving. Some of these clods just try to jerk her around and end up burning enough reaction mass to get us to Jupiter and back."
Tweed looked annoyed. "My name's Jan. Any lieutenant who needs to be formal with other junior officers needs an ego-ectomy."

  "Aye, aye, Jan."

  "Good. How about you take the conn now?" Paul felt his guts twist, then nodded. Having the conn meant he would be responsible for giving commands controlling the Michaelson's course and speed. Even with Lieutenant Tweed sitting nearby, and even with experienced sailors at the controls, it was a huge responsibility. Yet it was also a responsibility he should shoulder as soon as possible. You only learn to drive ships by driving ships.

  Tweed turned slightly, speaking loudly enough that her voice carried across the bridge. "This is Lieutenant Tweed. Ensign Sinclair has the conn."