Sykes raised both eyebrows at the question. "We were just discussing rest, I believe. What do you do on Sunday mornings? When you're not standing a watch, that is."
"I usually try to catch up on some work…" Jen's voice trailed off. "I should be resting?"
"An alien concept to the minds of ship drivers, isn't it? Ponder it long enough, and perhaps the idea will take root. It is officially endorsed, you know. The Navy has provided you with a bed on this ship. You should make use of it every once in a while." Sykes paused, frowning at the two ensigns. "Naturally, I mean individual use. I wouldn't want to be accused of urging two impressionable youngsters down the path to unauthorized social interactions."
Paul covered his face with one hand to cover up his embarrassed reaction to Sykes' joke, while Jen looked pained. "Suppo, I hope no one's trying to spread rumors."
"If they are, I haven't heard of them. But one never knows. I'm simply trying to be prudent." Sykes sighed theatrically. "Young people these days. Meeting, getting married, having children. Nothing at all like when I was young."
The absurdity of the statement, paired with Sykes' tone of apparently sincere nostalgic regret, finally forced another smile out of Jen. "Suppo, just how long ago were you young?"
"It's been a while. Back then you could walk from South America to Africa. Oh, occasionally the land-bridge would flood at high tide, but that just added to the excitement of the outing. The continents have drifted much farther apart now, of course, so that little walk is gone the way of the wholly mammoth. Speaking of which, did I ever tell you about my childhood pet? We called him Harry. Sort of a pun, you see."
Jen laughed this time. "Please. No more. Thank you for the advice, Commander. Next time my department head finds me snoozing away, I'll send him to talk to you."
"My office is always open," Sykes assured her, waving his hand around the wardroom as if staking claim to the entire compartment. "Though tomorrow it will be dedicated to Thanksgiving dinner. See the decorations?"
Paul looked around curiously. "No, sir."
"Of course not. They're virtual decorations. When the display projector works. Which, at the moment, it does not."
Jen grinned. "And it's not going to be working soon. We're remanufacturing the control box to try to fix it. Maybe it'll be done in a few weeks."
"Take your time, Ensign Shen." This time Sykes shook his head. "The officially-approved, nondenominational, interfaith decorations, guaranteed inoffensive to any human regardless of personal mindset, are truly horrible in their bland mediocrity. You may take a moment to give thanks tomorrow that the projector remains broken."
Paul smiled. Okay. That's one thing to give thanks for. That and the fact that Commander Sykes cared enough about what happened to run Jen down and give her that talk. Like Jen told me, he's a good pork chop. And a better officer than I'd realized. I wonder what they're going to serve us for Thanksgiving? Something special?
"Hey, Suppo." Jen held up her portion of turkey loaf, which had been so heavily processed and reprocessed that its texture resembled tofu. "The scuttlebutt was we'd have real turkey for Thanksgiving."
Sykes smiled. "Ensign Shen. Ensign Shen. Close your eyes, young lady. How many real turkeys do you see? That's how many we have on this ship."
"Is it too much to ask that this crap actually taste something like turkey?"
"Yes." Sykes smiled again. "When you joined, the Navy promised to feed you, Ensign Shen. But it didn't promise how often it'd feed you, nor how well."
Carl Meadows swallowed a portion of his turkey loaf with evident difficulty. "Just be grateful they served us this and not one of those lamb roasts."
Lieutenant Sindh choked momentarily. "Why did you have to mention that? Those so-called roasts taste so gamey they ought to be banned under the chemical weapons treaty."
"Where do they come from, anyway? I can't believe that meat is actually from a lamb."
"Well, technically maybe not." Everyone eyed Lieutenant Bristol suspiciously. "They've really improved the solid waste recycling end products and-" Bristol made a futile attempt to dodge the turkey loaf packets hurled at him. "It's a good thing there's no bones in that stuff."
"Oh, I bet there's bones," Jen groused. "Ground up along with damn all everything else."
"Maybe they use something like the turbines, Jen," Paul suggested. "You know, feed a turkey in one end-"
"Feathers and all?"
"Feathers and beaks and all, yeah. Grind it all down and package the end product."
Lieutenant Sindh choked again. "This food is disgusting enough without you guys making it worse. Serves me right for getting stuck eating with the junior officer shift."
Bristol smiled. "You'd prefer eating with the senior officers? Present company excepted, of course," he added, bowing slightly toward Commander Sykes.
"No. No way. Present company excepted, of course." Sindh mimicked Bristol's gesture to Sykes.
Sykes smiled in return, unbuckling his seat strap. "It's nice to receive proper obeisance, but I must leave prior to the dessert course."
"Why?"
"Discretion is the better part of valor. Please just keep in mind that I was not allowed any input to the menu. It was fixed by the gods of supply, loaded onboard in prepackaged lots, and I am merely the messenger who delivers it."
"Suppo." Jen snagged Sykes as he tried to pass her. "What's for dessert?"
"I wouldn't want to spoil the surprise."
"Spoil it. Please. Sir."
"I believe the dessert is commonly known as cannonballs."
"Cannonballs?" This time Paul choked. They were an infamous dessert at the Naval Academy. Officially an apple baked in pastry, cannonballs were actually small portions of apple locked deep within thick doughy shells. Anyone foolish enough to actually consume one ended up with their stomach feeling as if they had ingested a cannonball in truth.
"Get him!" Meadows howled, but Sykes had already slipped away from Jen and swung expertly out the hatch. "Never mind. We'll never catch him now. Suppo's pretty agile for an old guy. Is anybody going to eat their dessert?"
"Are you kidding?"
"No. I just figured we could sort of deliver any leftovers to Commander Sykes' stateroom." Carl looked inquiringly at Bristol. "Which we could do, if we could get the help of a certain assistant supply officer."
"Say no more." Bristol shook his head in mock horror. "Cannonballs. This is a crime against humanity." He turned to Paul. "Correct, ship's legal officer?"
"I'm sure it must be illegal under some provision of the Uniform Code of Military Justice. Or international law. Or something." Paul spent the next half-hour mostly listening and laughing as his fellow junior officers spun ever more fantastic plots to dispose of the cannonball desserts. So. Happy Thanksgiving. And I am thankful for something. As bad as things can be, at least I've got some shipmates who are literally in the same boat, and together they make things not only endurable, but sometimes even fun. At the moment, the investigation of the incident with the SASAL ship and the threat of whatever awaited them back at Franklin seemed very far away. And that was fine.
The next few weeks passed in the odd limbo of underway time. The ship's interior lighting cycled on and off to mark the passage of human days, but Paul's life remained defined by the hours spent on watch and a ship's workday which seemed to cover most of the time not devoted to watch standing. Sleep fell where possible into the cracks of that schedule. With morale on the ship sinking lower with every kilometer covered on the way back to Franklin, holiday celebrations normally constrained by tight spaces and lack of materials for decoration received even less attention than usual.
One morning, Paul stared at his personal calendar for long minutes before realizing that December 25th ought to have a special significance beyond another processed turkey meal. It's not like I could go out shopping for presents or anything. Moments later his data link beeped, announcing the arrival of a sentimental e-card from one of the other officers. Hey, t
hat's cool. Paul called up some of the card formats in the ship's data base, hastily crafting his own card as other beeps announced the receipt of further holiday cards from other officers in the wardroom. Later, he spent a fairly happy half-hour, clicking through his collection of received cards several times as if they represented a pile of gifts under an elaborately decorated tree.
New Year's Eve didn't quite sneak up the same way. Paul, due to go on watch at 0400, decided not to stay up to mark the moment, instead choosing to grab a few precious hours of sleep. Unfortunately for Paul, Senior Chief Kowalski had other plans.
"Mr. Sinclair! On deck, sir!"
Paul hastily shrugged into his uniform, blearily checking the time. Half an hour to midnight. What the hell does the senior chief need me for right now? Poking his head out of the stateroom hatch, he saw Kowalski floating nearby, holding an object in one hand. "Is that a fruitcake? A real fruitcake?"
"Very good, sir!" Senior Chief Kowalski beamed happily at Paul, then pointed aft. "With your permission, I will lead the way, sir."
"The way to where?"
"Why, Mr. Sinclair, you've never heard of parading the holiday fruitcake? You are in for a treat, sir, a rare honor. Please come along, sir."
Baffled, Paul followed in Kowalski's wake as the senior chief pulled himself one-handed along the passageway, holding the fruitcake prominently in his other hand. A weird shriek behind him shocked Paul, who turned to see one of the Michaelson 's petty officers with a bagpipe strapped to her and two assistants towing her along with the small procession. Despite the difficulties of playing a bagpipe in zero gravity while being towed through the constricted spaces of a warship, the petty officer made a creditable effort at Scottish marching tunes and hymns, the wails and screeches of the music following Paul and Kowalski as they traversed the ship, with only occasional interruptions as the bagpipes or the petty officer banged into an obstruction. Everywhere, groups of sailors gathered to cheer them on and fall in behind the parade.
Eventually, the group reached the bridge, where an increasingly mystified Paul found Commander Herdez awaiting them despite the late hour. Senior Chief Kowalski stopped directly in front of the executive officer, proffering the fruitcake in one hand as he saluted rigidly with the other. "Commander Herdez, ma'am, it is my honor and privilege to present the holiday fruitcake."
Herdez returned the salute, her expression, like Kowalski's, absolutely serious. "I accept the honor of receiving the holiday fruitcake. Have you examined the holiday fruitcake to determine if it is fit for human consumption, Senior Chief Kowalski?"
"I have, ma'am."
"And your conclusion?"
"I regret to report that the holiday fruitcake is not fit for human consumption, ma'am."
"Then you and Ensign Sinclair are ordered to consign it to Davy Jones' Signal Shack in the depths of space, Senior Chief."
"Aye, aye, ma'am." Kowalski saluted the executive officer again, a gesture Paul hastily copied, then turned and led the procession off the bridge, the bagpiper starting her musical accompaniment again as they went.
This time the procession and its crowd of hangers-on proceeded outward toward the hull until they reached one of the launch tubes providing access to outer space. A gunner's mate stood at attention by the tube, waiting until Kowalski came to a halt before him. "Mr. Sinclair and I have orders to consign the holiday fruitcake to the depths of space."
The gunners mate nodded, then popped the outer and inner seals of the launch tube, revealing the spring-loaded launch platform resting cocked at its base. "Davy Jones' Signal Shack is targeted and awaiting the arrival of the fruitcake, Senior Chief."
Kowalski offered the fruitcake to Paul. "Sir, if you would do the honors."
"Sure, Senior Chief." Paul placed the fruitcake on the launch platform, then moved back as the gunner's mate resealed the tube.
Kowalski indicated a chronometer on the bulkhead nearby, where the time was running down to midnight. "At exactly midnight, we will launch the fruitcake, Mr. Sinclair." The gunner's mate keyed open panels on either side of the launch tube, revealing the buttons for manual launch commands. Kowalski took up position at one, waving Paul to the other. Then they waited as the final minutes ticked off, the bagpipes having mercifully fallen silent at last, even though the buzz from the observers crowding the passageway in both directions provided plentiful background noise. Paul took advantage of the relative quiet to lean close to Kowalski. "Senior Chief, what the hell are we doing?"
Kowalski looked surprised. "Why, sir, you've never heard of the parading and launching of the holiday fruitcake? It's a naval tradition, sir."
"A tradition? This happens every year?"
"Every New Year's Eve, yes, sir. On every ship underway. It's been that way about as long as there's been a space Navy."
"And Commander Herdez is okay with this?"
"Sir, the executive officer understands the value of traditions. She also, if I may say so, understands the importance of keeping morale from sinking any lower, and even perhaps raising it a mite, with a harmless tradition such as this."
"Harmless? Isn't that thing going to be a hazard to navigation?"
"The fruitcake, sir? No, sir. The launch tube's oriented to fire the fruitcake up out of the plane of the solar system. Just like the launch tubes on every other U.S. Navy ship underway right now. There's about a dozen ships out now, Chief Imari informed me. Think of it as humanity's holiday salute to the universe, sir."
"I see. Why am I helping with this?"
"The same reason I am, sir. Tradition says the most junior officer and the most senior enlisted on the ship will parade and then launch the fruitcake. That's you and me. Ah, almost midnight. Stand by, Mr. Sinclair."
Paul placed his thumb on the firing switch, watching as Senior Chief Kowalski did the same on the other firing panel. The last seconds scrolled off, and as the time hit midnight, Paul and the senior chief both pressed their switches. The jolt of the launch was barely discernable, followed by a miniscule firing of maneuvering jets to compensate for the ejection of mass from the Michaelson. The gunner's mate checked his readings, then gave a thumbs-up to indicate the fruitcake had indeed been launched on its endless journey to Davy Jones' signal shack, the space Navy's equivalent to Davy Jones' locker at the bottom of Earth's seas.
Senior Chief Kowalski faced the crowd, his expression solemn. "We have consigned the holiday fruitcake to the depths of space, to serve as a warning to all the universe of the awful culinary weapons available to the human race. Yet our motives are also noble. Mayhap in the far future, billions of years from today, some other race of spacefarers in dire need of provision will find the holiday fruitcake and be able to feast upon its substance, as edible and tasty after an eternity in space as it is at this moment. All salute the holiday fruitcake!" Senior Kowalski saluted, a gesture copied by Paul and everyone else visible. "That is all."
Paul waited for a few moments to let the crowd disperse, graciously accepting the congratulations of a number of enlisted sailors for his role in the parade and the launch. By the time he made it back to his stateroom, the year was another thirty minutes older, that period referred to by military personnel as o-dark-thirty to signify the darkest and most wearying portion of the night. What the hell. That still gives me two hours to sleep before I need to get up for my watch. Paul swung gratefully into his bunk, his visions before sleep set in filled with images of volleys of fruitcakes soaring through space, eternal monuments to the human sense of the absurd.
Franklin Station again. As their course had taken the Michaelson back into more heavily traversed portions of the solar system, they'd encountered more and more other shipping. The opportunity provided to relearn operating around lots of other spacecraft had been invaluable, Paul thought, staring at the clutter of ships and small craft buzzing around the massive orbital facility, but not nearly intensive enough to prepare them adequately for this. Did we actually go through this kind of mess when we left? He glanced over
at Jan Tweed, who was visibly sweating. Thank heavens we're under station piloting control this close in, because the rules mandate automated docking. But if anything goes wrong, we're still supposed to take charge of the helm and somehow weave through all those other craft. Please, don't let anything go wrong.
"Captain's on the bridge."
Tweed and Paul, absorbed in watching the outside situation, jerked in surprise at the bosun's announcement. Tweed turned to the captain, licked her lips, then began a situation summary. "Captain, we are-"
Wakeman silenced her with a look and a gesture, belting himself into his chair with all the enthusiasm of a prisoner fastening the restraints on an electric chair. He sat silent, apparently staring at the main display, but with his eyes unfocused.
"Lieutenant Tweed." Jan spun around as Commander Herdez entered the bridge and made her way to her own chair. "Have all departments reported readiness for entering port?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"How long until we tie-up?"
"Thirty-five minutes to berth contact, ma'am, according to Franklin's piloting system."
Paul felt himself hunching down and made an effort to sit normally, sparing a sympathetic glance toward Tweed, who was sweating more heavily now. Wakeman's sitting over there like an unstable explosive. No telling what might make him blow up at us. And now Herdez is here watching us, too, like she knows Wakeman might not spot any screw-ups, or might order something stupid this close in to Franklin. I have a feeling this is going to be the longest thirty-five minutes of my life.
Exactly thirty four minutes and twenty seconds later, the Michaelson 's lines were shot out to waiting grapples as the ship came to a dead stop relative to Franklin. The grapples locked on, merging the Michaelson 's mass to that of the station. The feeling of a steady one gravity's worth of acceleration settled on the ship as it joined with the station's rotation. Tweed signaled to the bosun, who shrilled his pipe before making the age-old announcement. "Moored. Shift colors."
A Just Determination ps-1 Page 16
