Starfarer's Dream (Kinsella Universe Book 4)

by Gina Marie Wylie

The young woman merely looked back at the captain with only the slightest sign she’d heard.

  When the last officer was ready, the captain spoke briskly to the room. “You are here for the Bridge watchkeeping certificate exam. There is no certification that is more jealously scrutinized by your fellow officers; the score you earn today will be the basis of your future with the Fleet. Without this certificate, you have no future in the Fleet, war or no.

  “Usually this exam is given to experienced full lieutenants, who, after their time aloft, are put forward by their commanders. Occasionally, other officers, who, for one reason or another, did not need such a qualification for the performance of their duties, are also examined.

  “It is immaterial in the Fleet, how you earn this certificate. Only that you do and with what score.

  “The exam consists of two parts. First, a general knowledge test, with written questions that you must answer within one hour from the time I tell you to commence. Then, one by one, you will be called before an officer’s board and examined verbally. The form of that portion of the examination is at the whim of the president of the board, or of the officer who convened the board.”

  The captain paused and looked around the room. “Is there anyone here not ready to commence?” There wasn’t a sound from any of them. “You have one hour. Begin.”

  Johnny worked steadily, not really expecting to have any trouble. He had a civilian bridge watchkeeping certificate, and he had many other certificates as well. He had, after all, been a navigator aboard an FTL freighter, and then a few passenger ships, and finally on a Survey mission. Most of the questions on the exam required lengthy written answers. There were all sorts of questions about procedures and methods.

  Buried two thirds of the way down the exam, though, were five true/false questions. He read the directions twice to be sure, but the directions were quite explicit. He read the first question and lifted an eyebrow. A bomb.

  “An officer of the Fleet is at all times to follow Fleet Regulations.”

  The next question was the same thing.

  “An officer of the Fleet, faced with a situation not covered by orders, should seek the guidance of his or her superior.”

  The next three questions were equally as bad.

  “An officer of the Fleet, standing watch, is responsible for the safety of his or her ship.”

  “An officer of the Fleet, given an order, shall carry it out at once, without question or hesitation.”

  “An officer of the Fleet may at no time express reservations concerning his or her seniors, the conduct of operations, the governance of the Federation or other civilian authority that at all times commands the Fleet.”

  Would they bust you for answering true to one of those questions? Maybe you could still pass if you marked true once. Each of those statements were in the regulations and obviously intended to be taken as gospel. In real life, of course, they were absurd. You could get people killed that way; you could very easily find yourself failing in your mission if you paid such as those too much mind.

  On the other hand, you very well couldn’t put into the regulations, “In a pickle, do as you must, ignore the regulations.” Or “Bother a senior officer with a decision that should be a slam dunk at your own peril.”

  And if you ever forgot it, the captain of a Fleet ship would remind you -- very firmly -- that he or she was the person ultimately responsible for the ship. And if a moron told you to get yourself killed, or to get others killed -- the more fool you for obeying the order. And even captains, admirals and politicians goofed now and again. One of the things you were paid for was to voice your opinion, if you saw something wrong. It wasn’t your responsibility -- not unless you were in command. But if you wanted to live long enough to retire from the Fleet, you had to speak up when something stupid was mooted abroad, no matter where the idea had come from. Or who mooted it.

  Johnny finished with a good twenty minutes to spare, and then spent another few minutes checking his work, before pushing the finish button, a quarter of an hour left on the clock.

  Johnny glanced around. The three ensigns were still hard at it, brows furrowed. The other lieutenants were finished, sitting still, mostly staring at their hands on their desk tops.

  The newest lieutenant had spread her hands flat on the desk, and she was lifting one finger after another, each one, a half dozen times, in unison, on each hand. It looked, Johnny thought, like some sort of exercise. Was she a pianist, maybe? He glanced at the Marine corporal at the back of the room; if the man had twitched, Johnny couldn’t detect it. Where was his gunnery sergeant? Johnny was sure that the word “close” applied.

  Johnny turned around, and again noted the expressionless regard of the Fleet captain meeting his gaze. President of the Board, eh? He had better be careful! That woman was no dummy! She seemed forbidding and devoid of emotion. He wasn’t certain if that was a guise or smokescreen.

  “Time,” the captain announced.

  Her eyes flicked down to her own comp. “Ensign Landry.” The young male ensign looked up. “You are excused. Report back to your duty post.”

  Just like that, Johnny thought. One down, eight to go. There were no quotas, he told himself; not like in the days of the old wet Navies. The examiners could pass all of them, some of them or none of them. Still, it didn’t help one’s self confidence to hear the rather succinct dismissal -- even if it hadn’t been him.

  The Marine held the door open for the young man, moving back out of the way. He never uttered a word, nor did the captain address him, not even when the door closed and the Marine resumed his position, intently watching those present.

  The Fleet captain regarded them silently for a moment. “Certification oral boards consist of three to five officers, normally appointed by either the Board President or in some cases, the convening authority of the Board. The only requirement for participation is that a board member must have at least five years of aloft watchkeeping experience and a rank of captain or higher.

  “I wish to remind you that no matter what you may think, officers of the Fleet, even senior officers, put on shipsuits one leg at a time. The main difference between a senior officer and yourselves is in your level of experience, which manifests as various and sundry duty assignments and levels of responsibility.” There was another short pause.

  “Lieutenant, you are first.” The captain’s eyes were on the young lieutenant who’d arrived last, not Johnny; that was yet another surprise. He was under the impression that the exam order was determined by date of rank, and if there was a tie, the last qualification score, and if that didn’t break the tie, a coin toss. True, he’d only been a lieutenant for a few weeks -- but how long could she have been a lieutenant? And in a position where she couldn’t test?

  He glanced at the other four full lieutenants. Who was going to be next? He had a feeling he was going to be last of the lieutenants to present himself to the board.

  The young woman stood and started towards the front of the room.

  The captain turned to the rest of them. “You will be examined one by one; each officer will return after their verbal portion of the exam and ask for the next officer. You may talk quietly while you wait your turn about any subject except this exam. You may never discuss this exam with anyone, at any time. As you should have been briefed by your recommending officer -- discussion of the exam contents is a court-martial offense.”

  Which was, Johnny thought, why he’d never heard of those five questions. And the reason for the draconian penalty that had aroused his curiosity.

  The captain led with the young lieutenant following, and the two of them went through the back door of the room.

  Again Johnny looked around. The remaining two ensigns, both women, looked nervous and uncomfortable. Johnny hoped his devil-may-care exterior wasn’t showing any signs of weakness. The four other lieutenants looked studiously unconcerned.

  His brain whispered to him: there were too many unknowns! Go slow, guy! Be
careful! This should have been a slam dunk! But it was tricky! Go slow! Think!

  The clock seemed to crawl, then the very tall, the very young woman came out and looked him in the eye. “Lieutenant Montezuma.” He stood, checked his uniform and went through the door.

  Why was he second?

  He stopped the required distance in front of the table with the five officers, and saluted the Fleet captain in the center. “Lieutenant John Montezuma, reporting, Captain.”

  “Stand at ease, Lieutenant,” the woman said softly.

  Johnny just barely relaxed. What was going on? The man to her immediate left was another Fleet captain, one Johnny didn’t recognize. But he surely recognized the wavy stripe and the five stars on the sleeve of the third person on that side of the chairman of the Board. Johnny also recognized his face. That was Admiral of the Fleet Ernst Fletcher, Deputy for Fleet Operations, the operational commander of the war! What on earth was he doing sitting here, on a routine certification board?

  On the other side were two more captains; one clearly Port and the other Fleet, complete with a wavy stripe -- he was on the outside.

  “Relax, son,” Admiral Fletcher told Johnny. “One of these days, you may be an admiral yourself. It gets tiring after a while seeing people shiver and shake every time you step into a room. Tell me, Lieutenant, what role do you see Fleet Regulations playing in the conduct of a battle?”

  Later, Johnny could not remember what had possessed him to do what he did. What he did was snap to attention. “Sir, no excuse, sir!”

  “No excuse for what, Lieutenant?” asked the board president, curious.

  “Admiral, I do not know the number of the regulation that says, “‘Win! Don’t get killed!’”

  There was silence for a second, and then the Fleet captain on the other end slapped his hand flat on the table and howled with laughter. Admiral Fletcher laughed as well, and there were just the faintest crinkles at the corners of the Board President’s eyes. The other officer at the table, a port captain, had a disapproving expression on his face.

  The Fleet captain on the end shook his head and laughed. “I believe most Aloft officers consider that Rule One, Lieutenant. Certainly all of the Rim Runners.”

  “I have, Lieutenant,” Admiral Fletcher continued, “been a party to promotion and certification boards more than a hundred times in my thirty-two years with the Fleet. You are the first officer in my experience who has ever had the temerity to essay a joke; even so, yours is the best answer I have ever heard for that particular question. And considering the situation we find ourselves in, the only alternative that gives us the least hope.” He glanced at the Fleet captain on the other end of the table.

  “Bill, do you have any questions for this officer?”

  The Fleet captain he referred to was the officer at the opposite end of the table from Admiral Fletcher. The man who, a second before, had laughed at Johnny’s answer, turned dead serious, saying quietly, “Look at me, Lieutenant.”

  Johnny did.

  The other reached up and lifted a blue and white ribbon from which hung a black star, over his right pocket, one of two medals on that side. A ribbon like the other four lieutenants carried.

  Johnny remembered abruptly that that was the side for the medals that really counted. Admiral Fletcher didn’t have any on that side, but rows and rows on the other. The board president had a few less on the left, none on the right either. And this captain had two on that side... None of the board officers had any medals on the right side, except for this one captain.

  The second medal on the right side was pure black, another black star hanging from the bottom.

  “Do you know what this award is?” the captain asked as he ran his fingers over the blue and white ribbon.

  “Sir, no, sir. Nor the other award.”

  The other shook his head. “Son, you’re not on parade, a simple ‘no, sir’ will suffice. You’re sure you don’t know what these are?”

  “No, sir, I do not recognize either of them. I’ll look them up as soon as I return to my quarters.”

  “I was curious is all, Lieutenant,” the captain said mildly.

  “I don’t understand, sir.” Johnny wasn’t sure, but he got the instant impression that his answer had pleased four of the five board officers.

  The other board members remained silent. Still, Johnny wondered, what had this to do with watchkeeping?

  The captain spoke simply. “This, Lieutenant, is a new award; Admiral Fletcher calls it the ‘Battle Star’ the official title is something close to that. It is awarded to Fleet personnel who have met our enemies in combat and survived. Care to speculate about the silver stars?”

  The blue and white ribbon had a black star at the bottom; two silver stars were centered on the ribbon above the star.

  “Additional awards, Captain.” Johnny replied with more confidence than he truly felt.

  This man had fought three times against the aliens? It boggled the mind! 99.99% of the human race who’d fought the aliens once were dead. 99.9% of the Fleet who had met the enemy, even once, had died. Three times? Awesome!

  “Exactly correct, Lieutenant,” the captain told Johnny. “And this medal here, you didn’t recognize what this one is, either?” His fingers had moved to the black ribbon next to the blue and white one. It had three stars on it.

  “No, sir, sorry sir. I don’t.”

  “Get used to them, Lieutenant. This one, Admiral Fletcher didn’t get a chance to rename; Fleet Aloft did it for him about one second after it was announced. Officially, it is the Federation Victory Medal; unofficially, the Death Star.” The Death Star was a plain black ribbon, except hanging from the bottom of the otherwise plain ribbon was a five-pointed black star, twin to the other black star. On the ribbon, there was a triangle of three silver oak leaves.

  “You earn this one, in my case, by being the commanding officer of a ship that kills a capital ship of our enemies. Or the officer that pulls the trigger,” Johnny was told.

  “Sir, I meant no disrespect.” No wonder he’d asked Johnny! Johnny had never meant more respect in his life. Muy hombre!

  “And none taken, Lieutenant.” The captain nodded at the door behind Johnny. “Uniform for the exam is duty uniform, is it not?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I was not eligible to vote when the previous lieutenant stood before this board; I was her commanding officer on her last cruise.” He touched the two medals again. “While the lieutenant served with me, she earned the same number of these as I did.”

  Johnny stiffened. She’d pulled the trigger? She’d dropped the hammer on the aliens?

  “And Lieutenant,” this time the speaker was the Board President. “Lieutenant Wolf has another Battle Star, earned before she joined Captain Travers’ command. She has also received the Legion of Honor and a wound stripe.” The wound award and the highest award for bravery that the Federation had given, prior to the war! Good grief! No wonder she was a full lieutenant!

  “Lieutenant, the verbal portion of this exam is to determine if you have the poise and...well, call it stones... to function as an officer of the watch aboard a Fleet Ship.” The president was now all business. “Please, if you would, ask Lieutenant Terry Morrison to come in.”

  “Good luck and God speed, Lieutenant,” Admiral Fletcher added.

  Johnny saluted, and the Board President returned it, then Johnny turned and left, calling for the next person, the next oldest lieutenant.

  Instead of sitting in his original seat in the front row, he sat next to the young lieutenant with all of the awards. “Johnny Montezuma,” he said, extending his hand to her.

  She took his hand and shook it.

  “What ship?” he asked. Someone like the lieutenant would have to have a ship.

  “Warlock, so I’m told. I haven’t reported aboard yet.” Her grip was firm enough, but she didn’t meet his eyes.

  “I’m still in the replacement pool here,” Johnny said, and then nodded
at the Marine at the back of the room. “I don’t suppose you could use a cracker-jack assistant navigator? Any captain who sends along a Marine to carry one of his people’s pencils is my kind of a captain.” Not to mention, a captain who laughed at his jokes.

  He saw her hesitation. “You’re not the assistant navigator are you?” he asked, suddenly embarrassed.

  She shook her head. “No, I’m the weapons officer.” She paused. “You don’t know anything about me.”

  He shook his head. “Oh, duh! Like you’re not wearing weapons black! Sorry, I’m just a reserve commission, and I’ve only been in the Fleet for five weeks. I’m still a little new at it.”

  “I’m new, too. I always wanted to be Fleet... but this...” She shook her head and looked away.

  “I was on a survey out towards the Pleiades,” Johnny told her. “We found a half dozen really nice planets, really rich territory. Hardly any Crazy Ivans.”

  Crazy Ivans were the name humanity had given for gas giant systems where the star had a gas giant in a close orbit around the primary; those systems were only rarely habitable. “We dropped back too close to Earth; they launched the ready force after us. They nearly blew us to atoms. It was really scary.”

  She didn’t even blink. And Johnny’s former boss was currently under hack for dunderheadedness; even in peace time seven light seconds was too close to Earth for comfort, no matter how splendid a navigator you thought you were. And the reason Johnny was here and not like his boss? He’d complained in writing to his captain, who’d laughed and given Johnny the finger. A captain who would never, ever, command aloft again. At that, the captain had gotten off lightly -- they shot the navigator.

  “Seriously,” Johnny told her, “I really would like to get a ship. I like your captain, he’s cool.”

  “Bi..” She stopped and thought. “Captain Travers told you about Dreamer?”

  Johnny shook his head. “He only said that you and he had been on the same ship.”

  Dreamer? What kind of ship name was that? It didn’t sound much like something you’d name a Fleet ship! Every time he thought he understood anything about what was going on, he missed. This girl was young; he was sure of it. Just how young she was, he wasn’t sure. Not as old as he was. She was nervous -- diffident, almost. Yet, she’d won a raft of medals! She had dropped the hammer on four alien ships! How did that square with this picture? It didn’t! What didn’t he understand?