by Peter Grant
"Thanks. How do they calculate each person's share of the prize money?"
"Everyone gets two point ratings, one for their rank, one for their length of service. There are also special point allocations, but let's ignore them for now. Both point ratings are added together to produce an individual prize point score. With me so far?"
"Yeah."
"OK. The scores for everyone in each share - officers or enlisted - are totaled. Each share is divided by its point total to produce a money value per point, which is then multiplied by each person's score to calculate their individual share. For example, if the enlisted share of a given prize is one million credits, and eligible spacers and NCO's have a total of two thousand points between them, you divide a million by two thousand. That means each point will be worth five hundred credits. Someone with, say, six prize points will therefore receive three thousand credits in prize money."
"I get it. So officers get more prize money on an individual basis, because there are fewer of them to divide their share, right?"
"Sure, but there's a downside for them, too. Officers carry much more responsibility than enlisted personnel. They may even face court-martial if things go pear-shaped. Prize money takes that into account. The greater the responsibility, the greater the award."
"I've got to admit, that seems fair."
The recruiter indicated a bench beneath a tree. "Let's sit over there." They sat down in the shade as he continued, "I presume that, since you're already a merchant spacer, you want to enlist in the Fleet's Spacer Corps?"
"Yes. I know you have the Marine and Service Corps as well, but I think I'd better stick to where I can best use my qualifications and experience."
Gilmore grinned. "Since that's my Corps too, I'm not about to try to argue you out of it!" They chuckled softly together.
"Does the Fleet recognize my merchant spacer service in any way?"
"In your case, yes, thanks to the Admiral's memo last year. You see, the Foreign Service Program is always heavily oversubscribed, because lots of people want to earn Commonwealth citizenship. Because of that, we don't provide recruitment incentives to attract candidates - in fact, we make the process more difficult so as to winnow the wheat from the chaff, if you see what I mean. The FSP offers fewer options for specialization than regular recruitment, and entrants can't use prior qualifications or experience to negotiate a higher starting rank or salary. They all start at the bottom of the ladder as Spacers Third Class, grade E-1. However, thanks to Admiral Cardew's memo, those restrictions don't apply to you. We'll give you the same incentives as if you were a Commonwealth citizen applying through normal channels."
"Thanks very much."
"How long have you been a Spacer Second Class?"
"Only a month. I was promoted with effect from the first of May."
"Oh! I didn't know that. We normally only offer matching rank if you've held it for a minimum of six months, but - hey, wait a minute! You're going to need several months to heal and get fit again, aren't you?"
"So they tell me. I also want to visit Bosun Cardle's kin on New Brisbane. He asked me to see them if anything happened to him."
"You can do that while you're convalescing. That makes it easier, because your merchant service rank remains valid even if you're not serving aboard ship. Let's allow you six months to get well, get fit, and get back from New Brisbane. If you enlist in January next year, you'll have accrued more than six months' seniority as a Spacer Second Class. That means we can offer you the same rank and E-2 grade in the Fleet once you graduate from Boot Camp."
"Thanks a lot." Steve looked at him quizzically. "Excuse me for asking, but aren't you being very generous? Last year, when I went through the initial application process, I got the feeling I was just another candidate being shunted through the system. This time it feels more like you're trying to help me in every way you can."
"I am." Gilroy looked him in the eye. "You saved Fleet lives, and damn nearly lost your own in the process. It could have been any of us aboard that communications frigate - it might have been my life you saved. The Fleet doesn't forget people who help us like that, and we do our best to show our appreciation. When my boss assigned me to your case this morning, he reminded me of what you've done and told me simply, 'Give him the best deal you can'. That's what I'm doing. We owe you."
Steve flushed. "I... All I can say is, thank you very much! In all honesty, I was trying to save Bosun Cardle and myself as much as your spacers."
"I'm sure you were, but that doesn't diminish what you did for Fleet spacers at the same time. Don't worry. By the time you've been in Boot Camp a week, you'll feel a lot less grateful. In fact, you'll probably hate me for putting you there!"
Steve laughed. "The Spacers in my ward have been telling me horror stories about it. Is it as bad as they say?"
"It can't be, if you think about it - if it was really that bad, no-one would enlist! Boot Camp's designed to be tough, but it's not malicious or sadistic. It's intended to first break you down, then build you up. We want strong individuals, and we test for strength of character amongst other attributes before we recruit them; but they've got to learn to work as a team, to function as part of a whole. In a society like ours, with so much emphasis on the individual rather than the group, that's a tough lesson to convey. Boot Camp's our way of getting it across as quickly and efficiently as possible. It works - that's why we keep using it.
"There's another reason for Boot Camp. Every single member of our combat services - the Spacer and Marine Corps - has been through it, from the five-star admiral commanding Fleet Operations to the newest, rawest Spacer or Marine Third Class. It's our 'lowest common denominator', if you like; a glue binding us together. We've learned the hard way there's value in that. For example, there's traditional rivalry between Spacers and Marines, but because we're a unified service and we've all been through the same Boot Camp, it tends to be pretty good-natured and laid-back. It's not like historical inter-service antagonism, which sometimes turned really nasty, even vicious."
"I see. I guess it's the kind of experience you don't look forward to, but it's nice to look back on it."
Gilroy laughed. "That's not a bad way of putting it. Now, on to the next point. I understand you're a qualified small craft pilot. The Fleet needs them badly, so that's good news for us. What licenses and experience do you have?"
"I qualified as a cutter pilot only two months ago. I'm merchant-rated as second pilot, and I've got about a hundred hours stick time so far."
"That's very limited experience, but combined with your rank - you have to be a Spacer Second Class or higher to be selected for Small Craft School - it'll be enough to get you a guaranteed slot in pilot training, straight out of Boot Camp. The course runs for nine months. That sounds like a long time compared to civilian schools that take two to three months, but there are good reasons for it. We teach you a lot more than civilian pilots learn, including formation flight, underslung cargo handling, rescue, towing and salvage, combat deployments and so on. You also do a lot of technical training. Engineering techs handle basic maintenance and servicing of small craft in the merchant service, but in the Fleet our pilots and flight crews do it, because they may be deployed on operations, far from engineering support."
"Sounds good to me - very interesting, in fact."
"There are a few other things to think about. The Fleet requires those admitted to the pilot's course to sign a contract to serve at least three years after graduation. Of course, in your case, you'll still have three years left of your four-year enlistment at that point, so that won't make any difference to you."
"No, it won't. I'll sign it."
"Good. Next, the Fleet offers incentive promotions to top students on selected major courses. Small craft pilot training is one of them, so if you go in as a Spacer Second Class and graduate top of your class - and with your civilian qualifications and experience, you'll have a head start over most of the others on the course - you'll get Spac
er First Class rank right away. That's at least a year sooner than you could normally expect it.
"Then, you need a thousand hours flight time as second pilot to qualify as pilot-in-command in the Fleet. PIC rating goes to Petty Officers Third Class or above, so you won't get it unless you're in or ready for that rank. If you graduate as a Spacer First Class - E-3 grade - that's one level below PO3. You have to serve a minimum of one year in that grade before being promoted again. If you volunteer for every hour of stick time you can get during that year, to build up your thousand hours, and you work hard and smart, you could be a PO3 pilot-in-command two to three years after you enlist. That's half the time most spacers take to reach that rank."
"I have to admit, I like the sound of that. What sort of work will I do as a small craft pilot in the Fleet?"
Gilroy snorted. "Better ask what you won't be doing! Our bases and auxiliaries use big cargo shuttles to resupply other vessels, and all our ships use cutters and gigs for anything and everything - personnel and freight transport, boarding and search parties, hull maintenance, satellite deployment and orbital correction and maintenance, the lot. The Marine Corps uses assault shuttles too, and Spacer Corps pilots sometimes fly them."
"So there'll be plenty of variety to keep me interested?"
"That's for sure! Given your merchant spacer background, your first tour of duty after qualifying as a Fleet pilot will probably be aboard an auxiliary - a transport or depot ship. It's the closest thing we have to your merchant service experience, so you'll be productive as quickly as possible."
"That's reasonable."
"What about the longer term? Do you plan to serve just a single four-year term of enlistment to earn Commonwealth citizenship, or will you remain in service longer than that?"
"I originally intended to earn citizenship, then study gravitic engineering as a civilian; but our experience with pirates aboard Cabot, and particularly Bosun Cardle's death, has changed that for me. I want to do more to stop piracy, and to avenge him. I'd like to see about qualifying for a commission. If I do, I'd like to stay in the Fleet."
Gilroy nodded. "Four years' service while you earn Commonwealth citizenship will be more than enough time for us to assess your suitability. Candidates for commission must be citizens, of course, and also hold at least a Bachelor's degree."
"I have half the credits I need towards a Bachelor of Science. I'll try to complete the degree through Fleet University while qualifying for citizenship."
"Good idea. There's no reason you can't achieve that, if you work hard." The PO hesitated. "I have no problem with anyone having ambitions to rise in the Service - after all, I'm trying to do the same myself! - but I'm curious about your motivation. Why do you want to be an officer in particular? What is it about commissioned rank that interests you?"
Steve frowned. "I guess it's... well, I know that out in space, everyone's job is essential, and the ship can't function without everyone doing their job. In that sense, a spacer is as important as an officer. On the other hand... I guess the best way I can put it is, everybody's job is important to make things happen, but an officer directs what's going to happen, leads others to make sure it happens. He doesn't just 'go with the flow'; he directs and channels the flow."
"That's not a bad answer." Gilroy visibly relaxed. "I was afraid for a moment you might think of officers as 'cocks of the walk', ruling the roost over everyone else aboard ship. That's the case in some foreign military services, where if someone's born to the right parents, or has the right education or enough money, they can be commissioned with no enlisted experience at all. I've run into officers like that when visiting other planets. Too many expect automatic deference to their rank, whether or not they've earned it through proving themselves competent and worthy to command. Fortunately, the Lancastrian Commonwealth Fleet doesn't work that way."
"Why not, PO?"
"There are several reasons. The average intelligence of our society across the board is pretty high, thanks to the screening effects of migration from Old Home Earth when our member planets were colonized. Intelligent people don't take kindly to being treated like idiots. That's why all leaders in our combat Corps, from NCO's through warrant and commissioned officers, must serve in enlisted ranks at first. They learn what it's like to take orders before we trust them to issue orders. That's a very important part of who we are.
"Next, we've learned from the example of past militaries. Too many of their officers were useless in a fight. They could pass the exams, and present the right visual impression on parade, and brown-nose the right people to get ahead in peacetime; but when the proverbial brown substance hit the rotary air impeller, they couldn't cut it. Worse, their failures cost the lives of good people. We value our Spacers and Marines too highly to allow that, so we test our officers as thoroughly as we can, to be as sure as possible they've got what it takes. Enlisted service and junior NCO experience allow us to evaluate them much more thoroughly over time. We also don't promote to senior rank - NCO or officer - without combat or expeditionary experience.
"Finally, our selection process is really tough. To make it over all the hurdles to earn a commission, you've got to be the best of the best - the kind of person people want to follow. To even be considered, you've got to have at least two years of enlisted service, top scores on your fitness reports, the approval and recommendation of the senior NCO's and officers under whom you've served, and an excellent track record with no major disciplinary problems. All that's just to make it as far as the Selection Board, which only chooses a third to a half of those it interviews to attend Officer Candidate School."
"That sure sounds tough!"
"It is. The Fleet's very choosy indeed about its officers - that's why we never have enough of them to fill all the slots available. Still, don't get ahead of yourself. You'll have to finish your degree and become a citizen before you can even start the application process."
"Thanks for telling me all that, PO - and you're right. No sense in trying to run before I can walk! What's the next step?"
"I'll process your application, based on all we've discussed this morning. I'll bring you the documents for signature when they're ready, then you can go ahead and get fit and healthy again, and visit New Brisbane as you planned. Before you enlist in January we'll have to arrange another medical exam, to certify that you've fully recovered from your injuries. Other than that, it's just a matter of waiting for your basic training to start. Do you have a Vesta comm code?"
"Not yet."
"Get one as soon as you can, and let me have it. Here's mine." He reached into a pocket, took out a notebook, scribbled a code, tore out the page and handed it over. "I should have asked earlier - do you have enough to live on in the short term? I know you must have had piracy insurance through the Merchant Spacers League. Have they paid out on that policy yet?"
"I haven't contacted them since I was admitted here, but Captain Volschenk's keeping me on the payroll until I've visited New Brisbane."
"Good. I'll let the League know where you are. I'm sure they'll send someone around within a day or two. They're pretty good that way."
Gilroy rose, and helped Steve to his feet. "Get as fit as possible before Boot Camp. It runs for twelve very hard weeks, but after your performance aboard Cabot, I'm sure you'll make it." He grinned evilly. "You just won't enjoy it much!"
Chapter 22: June 29th, 2838 GSC, morning
Steve peered at the holoscreen of the terminal in his hotel room, and nodded in satisfaction. The Merchant Spacers League had just deposited another monthly payment to his account, matching his salary and pilot's professional skill supplement. Last week they'd paid out twenty-eight thousand credits for his insurance claim on his professional gear, all of which had been forfeited to the Prize Court.
Not bad at all, he thought to himself. I've got money coming in every month until November from my piracy insurance. My savings will see me through December, and basic training starts in January. I've got almost
thirty-five thousand put away, counting what's left of my Radetski profit-share and that insurance payout; and then there are those gold taels from the Dragon Tong reward, and the Lotus Tong man's jade knife. Strange to recall that eighteen months ago, I was a dirt-poor busboy in a saloon! He had to smile at the memory.
Tomkins tapped on the door, which was ajar. "Hey, Steve, how's the ribs?"
He looked up, stretching. "Feeling good. I did my first full workout in the gym yesterday. They hurt a bit, and the muscles between them and around the entry wound are kinda tight, but that's no surprise. I'm definitely on the mend."
"That's good. Listen, I just went down for breakfast. There were two guys at the desk, waiting for the clerk to finish talking to one of the rooms. One said to the other as I passed, 'Reckon Maxwell's here?' I came back to give you a heads-up."
Steve frowned. "I'm not expecting anyone. What did they look like?"
"Gray suits, kinda rumpled, black shoes. One was standing with his back to the counter. He was tall and skinny, hatchet-faced. The other was facing away from me, looking at the clerk. He was shorter, heavier-set, looked stocky and muscular rather than fat."
"OK, thanks for telling me. I guess I'd better go see what they want."
"Want company? If they're more newsies, trying to squeeze every drop of sensation out of you... "
Steve glowered. Since his release from hospital he'd been hounded by a few persistent, annoying journalists trying to wheedle out of him more gory details about the fight aboard Cabot. He'd refused to talk to any of them. The death of Bosun Cardle, and the vicious abuse he'd learned had been inflicted on the female members of Cabot's crew, were too fresh and raw in his mind to speak calmly about them.
"That might not be a bad idea, but we don't know if they're journalists."
"I was just going to eat, but that can wait if you'd like some help."
