Temporary Duty

by Ric Locke

  “I’m sorry,” said Joshua in a tone that made it clear the apology was perfunctory. “Ambassador Dreelig, this is Yeoman Chief Spearman. He has a legal specialty, and is here to advise me if necessary.”

  “I am pleased to meet you, Chief Spearman,” said Dreelig calmly.

  “And I you, Mr. Ambassador,” said Spearman, arms still folded, eyes slitted. “What is your position aboard this ship?”

  “We do not use the same structure you do, but in your terms my rank would be approximately Lieutenant Commander,” said Dreelig without any particular emphasis. “I am head of the division you would probably call ‘Alien Relations.’”

  “And as regards these men, sir?” Spearman persisted. “The situation is extremely unclear, and I for one could use some guidance. Commander Bolton won’t be here until next week. Can you provide us a way to communicate with our superiors?”

  “No. We have no way to communicate except by physical travel.” The two chiefs looked at one another, dismay showing, and Peters did his best to keep his face immobile. I tole you t’ bring radios, dammit! “At any rate, we are all responsible, intelligent beings,” Dreelig continued. “I don’t believe the situation is so complex that we cannot solve it ourselves.”

  Joshua closed his eyes for a moment, looking pained, then looked directly at the Grallt for the first time. “What is your understanding of the situation, sir?”

  “When the contract that permits your presence was being finalized, we concluded that we required the assistance of persons who were knowledgeable about the quarters and other conditions you would require. We requested that assistance, and your command authority was pleased to grant it, in the persons of Peters and Todd.” Dreelig indicated the two sailors with a gesture. “They were assigned to my division. Again in the terms you would use, I am their division officer.” Peters could hear the smile in Dreelig’s voice, and wondered what the chiefs made of his facial expression. “In fact, since you are also assigned to the Alien Relations division, I am your division officer also.”

  “I understand, sir.” Spearman shifted his gaze to Peters. “Have these men performed their duties to your satisfaction?”

  “Peters and Todd have been performing their duties to my complete satisfaction,” Dreelig said. “Those duties will not be completed before this vessel departs on its voyage, at which time I will assign them to Detachment One, as a transfer within my department. In the meantime, they are subject to your orders, as any sailor of similar rank would be, subject only to my override.”

  “Aye, sir,” said Joshua. “As a matter of interest, sir, do you have the power of reassignment over all the men in the detachment?”

  “An excellent point, Chief. I do not, by specific provision of the contract,” Dreelig replied. “However, as you have pointed out, Peters and Todd are not part of Space Detachment One until and unless I assign them so.”

  “Aye, sir,” said Joshua again. Spearman’s eyes were wide; he made a sound approximating “Ah!” When Dreelig sought eye contact he looked down at his shoes.

  “Did you have a question, Chief Spearman?” Dreelig asked mildly.

  “Only for clarification, sir. May I have permission to recapitulate the situation as I understand it, sir?”

  “Certainly, Chief.”

  “Aye, sir. We have here two groups of people, both assigned to your division. In the first are the members of Space Detachment One, who are here to fulfill the terms of the, ah, contract as you call it, between the U.S. Navy and yourselves. In the second, smaller group, are Petty Officers Peters and Todd, who are here to fulfill a separate request made by yourselves to the Navy.”

  “That is correct, Chief Spearman. An admirable summation.”

  “Thank you, sir. In that case, our ordinary customs and regulations are sufficient to cover the situation. The previous misunderstanding—” his hand twitched slightly “—was due to our failure to understand this.” He glanced briefly at Chief Joshua.

  “Very good. I trust those procedures will be followed in good faith, Chief.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  “Very good,” Dreelig said again. “There is one more thing, Master Chief Joshua.”

  “Sir?”

  “Starting with the first ande of the next llor, no human will be outside these quarters, except under escort, without wearing the kathir suit. I believe your term is ‘standing order’.” He gestured at Peters. “I see Peters has not worn his. I believe this is because he was concerned about this interview, and the kathir suit is not part of the uniform. Is that correct, Peters?”

  “Yes, sir, it is,” Peters responded.

  “From this moment, while you are aboard this ship, the kathir suit is a part of the uniform. What you wear over it is up to you, but if I discover that any man of this detachment has been disciplined in the smallest way for wearing the kathir suit under any circumstances whatever, the consequences to you personally will be the gravest I can devise. Is that clear, Master Chief Joshua?”

  “Yes sir!”

  “Chief Spearman?”

  “Aye, aye, sir!”

  “Very good. You men, come with me. Peters, first we will go to your quarters for your safety equipment. Return to your normal activities, Master Chief.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” said Joshua with a decisive nod. He stayed erect, even stiff, as Dreelig shepherded Peters and Todd out the door. Todd, last one out, reached around and pulled it shut.

  There was an audience of four or five sailors in the corridor. Dreelig led, at a gait somewhat stiffer than his usual shamble. They stopped at Peters’s room, Dreelig and Todd waiting outside while Peters hurriedly shucked into his kathir suit and pulled his undress blues over it. They stayed stiff and formal down the stairs and as Peters signed out for himself and Todd, and almost marched across the ops bay. It was only when they entered the elevator and the door closed behind them that Dreelig collapsed against the wall and let go a forceful series of the staccato barks he used for laughter. The two sailors followed suit in human fashion; Todd, a little the less incapacitated, pushed the button, and the elevator started up with its usual clanks and groans.

  “That was fun,” said Dreelig.

  “You—hunh!—you might have warned us,” said Peters, feigned offense spoiled by chuckles.

  “I could not warn you. I was, as you might say, making it up as I found necessary,” Dreelig told him. “Kh kh! I begin to understand why your people use strict hierarchies so much. It is so much fun for the superiors in them.”

  “We’ve often suspected so,” said Todd.

  “Yes, it wouldn’t be nearly so enjoyable for the juniors, would it?” Dreelig had calmed and regained self-control. “I told them, or I believe I implied, that I have duties for you. How long must you delay your sleep time to satisfy them that they were real and have been performed?”

  “A couple utle should be enough,” Peters advised.

  “In that case, come with me. I will buy you a drink, and you can explain some of the rules Chief Spearman mentioned. They may be useful when Dee and I go to Washington again tomorrow.”

  “Actually, that’s a perfectly valid duty,” Todd informed him solemnly. “It’s an unusually enjoyable way of carrying it out, of course.” It set Dreelig to laughing again.

  * * *

  Chief Joshua had evidently decided to take a liberal interpretation of ‘under escort,’ because sailors were being escorted only by other sailors who were conspicuously wearing their kathir suits; conspicuously, because they had on dungaree trousers but no shirts. That failed to meet what Peters thought was the spirit of the regulation, and looked like Hell to boot, but Dreelig was off to Washington again with Dee and Donollo, and Peters wasn’t ready to make an issue of it without backup.

  Tee was back, but she did nothing but occupy her desk, depriving Peters of his command post. The others were less enthusiastic than before, probably more from fatigue than anything else, but worked well enough that that there were only seven and
one eight of sailors not yet measured, including all the Chiefs, when quitting time rolled around.

  A few beers, six hours of sleep, and twenty hours of duty that involved a lot of walking around, disinclined the sailors to anything but fifth meal and bunk time. The waiter brought the ‘human standard meal’ for this llor, and Peters realized dully that his stroke of genius was going to cause him more work. If he ever wanted to order another meal, he’d have to see to it that the rest of the sailors could, too. Give that the Scarlett O’Hara treatment; that’s what Granpap called it, although the reference escaped Peters.

  The sailors loafing in the corridor wanted to chat. That was all he needed, and what the Hell was Joshua about, anyway? Sitting in his quarters brooding? This crowd needed something to do. Letting them hang around playing grabass was going to snowball into something nobody wanted, but neither Peters nor Todd had enough chevrons on his crow to hand out assignments. They pled exhaustion, and were finally allowed to escape to their rooms.

  The next morning—the Grallt word was thullor; he decided that morning would do, being tired of circumlocutions without knowing the word existed—Peters jerked a thumb toward the stern. “Well, lookee there,” he remarked sardonically, and Todd just grinned.

  A start had been made on the idle-hands problem. Sailors in dungarees formed a line all the way across the bay; they were working their way slowly forward, picking up junk and passing it to the guys on the ends, who had plastic bags. Much of the junk was metal, so the bags already lined along the side weren’t very full. Peters snorted. Another prediction fulfilled. Brooms and dustpans next, no doubt.

  It didn’t take long to get the last few people measured. Chief Joshua and Chief Spearman gave Peters and Todd black looks but cooperated without verbal protest, and the others went along. They’d made Chief Gill’s suit Navy blue, rather than the khaki Chiefs normally wore for “undress”; the natural tan color was pretty close to khaki, but was also pretty close to skin color for five of the six, and Peters didn’t think that would work for a skintight garment. Finally he decided to not mention the option, and ‘suggested’ to the Chiefs that they wear their dress blues to fitting. Keer was amused at the gaudy arrays of stripes, but generated the designs anyway.

  The fabricator was again running full blast, and sailors were coming in for test-fitting of suits made during the off-ande. They sent the Chiefs off, suggesting that they return after third meal, and got the juniors all suited up and checked out on a more leisurely schedule. Something occurred to Peters, and he put it to Veedal as Todd was trying to convince a First Class ET that skivvies weren’t necessary. “We have been moving quickly,” he said to the tech. “Is possible that wrong suit give—was given—to two persons. What happens?”

  “That is bad,” said Veedal with a worried expression. “The suits are babble.” When Peters looked blank, he tried again: “One suit, one person, OK? No correct function.” Like most people who associate much with English speakers, after three llor Veedal was using “OK” as if it were part of his native tongue.

  “Dangerous?” Peters asked in English. Of course that didn’t get through, so he illustrated the concept by grabbing his own throat with both hands and simulating choking, eyes rolled up.

  “No, not babble,” Veedal said. “Very babble.” He pulled his blue jumper tight around his chest and moved around, twisting as if constricted and making faces. “Uncomfortable” would do for that until a better definition came along. Further contortions and mime established that a kathir suit on the wrong person would make air, but the movement controls wouldn’t work, and it would be extremely unpleasant to wear.

  He had something else to ask and didn’t think it would come through in dumbshow, so he excused himself after secondmeal break and went in search of Znereda, leaving Todd to finish up the test fitting. The language teacher had a class, but came to the door when Peters gestured. “I’m very busy,” said the older Grallt with a frown. “What do you want?”

  Peters shrugged. “Sorry, I didn’t know who else to ask. How do we reserve the suit practice room? I got two hundred sailors needin’ some pointers before too long.”

  Znereda rolled his eyes up. “I can’t help you. You need to talk to the ship operations people.”

  “Yeah. Two problems,” Peters told him. “I dunno where to find the ship operations people, and I bet they ain’t gonna care too much for me wavin’ my arms around tryin’ to explain what I want. I ain’t exactly fluent, you know.”

  “You’re making remarkable progress, Mr. Peters, but you’re right, you probably couldn’t do that very well yet.” Znereda wrinkled his forehead. “I can’t go, but there’s someone who can help you. Just a moment. Se’en,” he said to the room in general, “Would you mind helping Mr. Peters? He needs a translator to talk to the zerkre.”

  Se’en stood up. “I don’t mind,” she said. “Will I need to repeat this class?”

  “It will count as practical experience,” Znereda said benevolently. “You have a head start on the rest of the class anyway.” Se’en looked a bit puzzled. “Oh, you don’t have that idiom yet, do you? It means an advantage, because you began before the others.”

  “Yes, I had a little experience,” Se’en said as she came up. “What do you need, Mr. Peters?”

  “Need to reserve the kathir suit practice room for two hundred sailors,” Peters told her. “Don’t call me Mister, you’re gonna be dealin’ with officers and they’re likely to get bent outa shape if they hear you.”

  Se’en looked at Znereda. “I understood part of that,” she said. “He needs to speak to the zerkre.”

  Znereda looked benevolent again. “Mr. Peters has a strong accent, in the idiom of his home region. It’s quite understandable if you listen closely, and it will be good practice for you. He objects to your saying ‘mister’ to him, on the ground that his superiors will not like to hear it applied to him as well as themselves.”

  “That is what I think—thought he said,” Se’en agreed. “Thank you for explaining.”

  Peters flushed. “I’ll try to smooth it out a little,” he assured her. “I can generally make myself understood if I try.”

  “Thank you,” Se’en murmured.

  They parted from Znereda, the little language master peering around the door like a grinning elf before pushing it to with a snap. Se’en gestured toward the bow, and they set off in search of ‘ship people.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  ‘Ship people’ were to be found higher up and farther forward in the structure than Peters had been before. The stairwells were worn but clean, and there was no trash or dust; the corridor they came out in after a long climb was pale blue, floored with something resilient, and very quiet. Se’en led him forward to the end of the corridor and rapped sharply on the double doors that closed it off.

  A girl in the four-part blue-and-whites he’d seen on the engineers opened the door and held a short conversation with Se’en, ending by gesturing go-ahead and nodding. She looked at Peters with interest as they walked in but didn’t follow, instead seating herself at a desk near the door. Wrong species, wrong uniform; nevertheless, Peters felt a lot less alien here than he’d expected.

  The passageway was narrower, and doors led off it to right and left. Most of the doors were open, and Grallt in blue-and-white kathir suits occupied desks, shuffling papers and doing incomprehensible things. A watchstander with his suit divided eight ways, like the senior engineer they’d met briefly, was seated at a desk outside another set of double doors. He chatted with Se’en for a moment, then presented a book and indicated a blank line. Se’en bent to write something with a pen the—officer?—gave her, and suddenly Peters was homesick for the first time since coming aboard.

  That feeling doubled on the other side of the doors. The space wasn’t big; it had windows on three sides, with stars visible through them. Earth wasn’t in view, but the Moon shone through the portside windows. In the middle of the room was a pipe or post with gadgets att
ached to it, one of them a larger version of the blunt arrowhead Gell used to drive the dli, with vertical handles at the wide part. A Grallt in a four-way suit sat on a little round pad behind the binnacle; beside him a girl, wearing a suit colored white above the waist and blue below, was looking at a book. The helmsman—had to be!—was explaining something in low tones. Another apprentice, male, looked on from the side.

  All the way forward was a sloping counter with larger versions of the white-cross instruments. Two Grallt, male and female, stood in front of it, the woman looking off into space through a pair of ordinary-looking binoculars. To port, another sloping desk had buttons and levers, with a male Grallt seated at it and a female apprentice looking on. To starboard, the counter had only one instrument, a complex circular device thirty centimeters across; the Grallt seated at that, in a comfortable-looking armchair, was portly and white-haired, and wore a suit whose pattern was cut so many ways it was like a checked tablecloth. Another guess confirmed; the Captain did indeed look like a checkerboard.

  Everyone but the woman with the binoculars looked around as they came in; two of the apprentices stared. The woman’s companion tapped her on the shoulder, and she looked around, put the glasses in a holder, and came over. “Pleasant greetings,” she said briskly, not hostile but questioning. “What do you want?”

  Peters understood, but waited for Se’en to respond. “Greetings,” she said. “We are from the babble department. Peters—” she gestured at the sailor, “—needs to babble the suit practice room for babble his people.”

  The officer looked him up and down. “You are a human,” she said.

  “Yes,” Peters agreed when Se’en didn’t answer.

  “You understand the language,” the officer commented. Her eyebrows went up.

  “A little,” Peters said cautiously. He was uncomfortable; his Grallt didn’t include the equivalents of “sir” and “ma’am”. “I learn slowly.”

  “I have not met humans before. You have a good babble,” she told him. “You will learn quickly.”