by P J Strebor
“I did what I thought best for all concerned, ma’am.”
“Yes, according to your record you make a habit out of doing what you believe to be right and damn the consequences. Any more of these childish vendettas and you will be looking down the barrel of career suicide. Well, what do you have to say for yourself?”
“It has been my experience that every time someone backs away from a bully, their position is weakened and the bully’s is strengthened.”
“A sound point but not one that will save a promising career.” Waugh sighed and shook her head. “There will always be someone in a position of authority who is less than fair or reasonable. That’s the way life works. You’d better learn to deal differently with the Tivendale's of the world. If you continue these outrageous frontal attacks on those whose opinion you disagree with, your luck will eventually run out.” Waugh paused for a moment and stared at him. “What are your long-term military ambitions, Nathan?”
“I want to be a boat jockey, ma’am.” This conversation was sounding all too familiar to Nathan.
“Well I'm here to tell you, young Mister Telford, considering your recent actions that will never happen. It takes more than talent and guts to rate a command. A monitor captain must be a leader who possesses sufficient political savvy to use force as a last resort. Captains do not indulge in this type of disgraceful schoolboy vendetta. They find ways around confrontations wherever possible.” A faint smile touched her mouth. “You should be ashamed of yourself. Allowing yourself to be goaded into brawling with a senior officer. What did they used to say about that sort of confrontation, Luis?”
Cmdr Demianski’s eyes remained focused on his comp-pad. “It is not considered sporting to engage in a battle of wits with an unarmed opponent.”
“That's the one. Now-hear-this, Telford. You will cease all harassment of Lieutenant Tivendale. I don't care what he does to you and your friends you will grit your teeth and take it. Do I make myself clear, Midshipman Telford?”
“Aye-aye, ma’am.”
The captain tapped her epaulet. “Tivendale may be a poor excuse for an officer but he is also a person with friends in high places. If you are to survive and prosper in the Corps you need to consider such factors. And it wouldn't kill you to call him sir now and again. Remember, it’s the rank you acknowledge not the man.”
“I shall take all of your advice onboard, ma’am.”
“See that you do,” she scolded, “I shall expect to hear no more reports of such outrageous behavior. Now, get out of here.”
As Nathan slipped into the drop shaft he wondered if the commodore actually said what he thought she said. Perhaps he had misinterpreted her meaning. His mind still worked the problem when he entered the wardroom.
Urgent appeals assaulted him. “What happened?” “Did you get in the shit?” “What happened to Tivendale?” “Are we in the clear?”
Their chatter died when the hatch opened. Leo Saunders stepped into the wardroom. He nodded amiably to the middies as he poured himself a cup of cold lemon juice from the dispenser. Taking a seat next to Nathan he ran his gaze over the middies
“You miserable lumps of bovine droppings,” he said, his lips tightening. “For those unacquainted with the vernacular, I believe the colonial equivalent to the expression is turds.” His mouth turned grimace-like when his teeth locked together. “You turds have dropped me right in it, haven't you?”
In the six weeks Nathan and Leo had shared quarters he had never heard Leo curse, even mildly. He rounded on Nathan.
“I suppose you are the ringleader of this insolent, mutinous mob who so vilely tormented poor Lieutenant Tivendale?”
“I care to think of it as a team effort.”
Leo snorted. “Well thank you so very much. You really shorted Tivendale out, didn't you? And guess who’s been appointed as the new midshipman training officer?” All four middies grinned at the news. “Yes, well you might smile. Starting right now there will be changes to your training schedules. Tivendale let you four pirates get away with murder. That ends, right now. And don't even think about contacting me during downtime unless the boat is on fire. Now get out your comp-pads. We have much to review.”
CHAPTER 36
Date: 20th July, 320 ASC.
Location: Monitor Truculent.
Status: Marine orientation.
The day following the captain's mast, Nathan reported to the marine detachment. For some reason, known only to the former MTO, none of the middies had cycled through marine orientation. Nathan wondered if Tivendale harbored a prejudice against marines as well as those from the academy.
Those few regular marines who survived the ninety-day ordeal known as Marine Special Forces training were few in number. Their reward came when they affixed to their left shoulder the patch with the black five on a grey background, denoting the elite Fifth Marine Division. Spartans. Although small in number, their reputation for being the masters of bedlam was unequaled.
Nathan stepped through the pressure hatch into the marine section. Both marines sat on short stools examining a 'droid that lay face down on the two meter long bench. Sergeant Redpath made fine adjustments to a long narrow probe he had inserted into the CPU at the back of the 'droid's head. Lt Jakovich monitored the variations on a screen.
“That's got it Rusty. Button him up.”
Redpath grunted a confirmation.
Nathan browsed the marine's quarters, failing to find a space not occupied by some form of marine accoutrements. 'Droids, suits of armor and masses of weapons lockers were packed deck to overhead.
Nathan had been so fascinated by the marine's lair he forgot the etiquette. Lt Jakovich glanced at him.
“Reporting for orientation, Mister Telford?”
He snapped back from his inspection. “Aye-aye, ma’am.”
“Take a seat.”
Nathan looked around the room. The other twenty-three 'droids ranged around the walls, laying on horizontal platforms stacked four high. Finding a chair in a nearby corner he took his place beside the marine officer. Her strong jaw and attentive eyes marked her as someone who took control of the moment.
“What do you know about the inner workings of the type K 14 combat 'droid, Mister Telford?”
“Only the basics, ma’am.”
“And I dare say a young man like you with his eyes set on a future of combat flying has little interest in such mundane activities.”
“Everything that happens aboard a monitor is of interest to me, ma’am.”
“Good to hear.” Redpath finished fitting the armored cover plate to the back of the ‘droid’s head. The marines wrestled the machine onto its back. The eyes stared lifelessly at the overhead. Although manufactured to approximate the veneer of their human masters, 'droids were not equipped with the luxury of eyelids.
“'Droid eight, sit up.” The huge machine complied, its head barely clearing the overhead. “Rotate head right. Rotate head left.” The 'droid responded. “I think your nimble fingers have once again sorted out the bug, Rusty. ‘Droid eight, return to your station.”
“Aye-aye, ma’am,” the machine voice said. It slid off the workbench, doubled over and moved to a vacant berth.
“So Mister Telford, you have a rudimentary knowledge of 'droids?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Tell me what you know.”
Nathan massaged the bump above his right eyebrow. “They are extremely strong and fast. They are assigned to duties considered too high risk for humans. They have multitasking abilities but they are primarily at their best deployment as combat units. Their programmable adaptability, combined with no requirement for bunk time or consumables make them ideally suited to a boat of this size.” For a moment he paused to consider anything he may have forgotten. They were an integral part of a monitor's makeup but as the lieutenant pointed out his interests lay elsewhere.
“Considering the advances in AI technology,” the L
T said, “why do you think 'droids operate with such limited mental capabilities?”
“Superstition, ma’am.”
“Explain.”
“'Droids could be designed and manufactured to incorporate thought processes closely equaling human beings. They could, but they are not. During the technology explosion on Earth during their late 20th century there was an almost paranoid fear, in some ways justified, that machines would take the jobs of human beings. The economic and technological realities of the time precluded such an eventuality but still the fear remained. That same apprehension has lingered within human beings ever since. As they used to say, machines make fine servants but poor masters.
“Although I don't advocate creating artificial sentience, I believe 'droids could reach their full potential by fitting them with a rudimentary AI brain. Even though the benefits would be great, the old fears lock the 'droids within these painfully tight parameters. It is my belief that, so called moral issues aside, the ancient superstitions with regard to the rise of the machine haunts the process of fully utilizing what could be an extraordinarily useful asset.”
“So why don't we do as you suggest and program 'droids to do all the work for us while we sit back on the beach?”
“You cannot program instinct into a machine, no matter how sophisticated it is. If you could do so you would probably be giving birth to a sentient machine. Something I do not advocate, as I said, ma’am.”
“Do you believe instincts separate us from machines?”
“I believe a range of special qualities separate us from machines. But in so far as our occupations go, a soldier without superior instincts may as well be a machine for all the good he can do. As a Spartan I'm sure I don't need to tell you, ma’am.” He felt the corners of his mouth tuck in. Nathan contained his amazement when Redpath snorted. Until that moment he had been all but invisible. I didn't know the old troll had facial muscles. .
“I think we've got a live one here, Rusty.”
“If you say so, LT,” Redpath mumbled.
“So, Mister Telford,” the marine continued in an easy tone, “now you have elucidated your sterling knowledge on the morality of 'droid sentience and your obviously strong views regarding their utilization, perhaps you would care to learn how they work?”
“Of course, ma’am.”
“Rusty, roll out number twelve. Let's see if Telford can figure out how to fix that gyro problem.”
CHAPTER 37
Date: 27th July, 320 ASC.
Position: Monitor Truculent.
Status: Ambivalent.
Nathan fully appreciated that Leo Saunders did not possess a hidden capricious side to his nature. However, someone had to be the first into the fire and Nathan's name was next on the roster.
Nathan exited the drop shaft on deck three and made his way to the supply department. He caught himself dragging his feet and corrected his pace. Nathan took several deep breaths, hit the hatch chime and after a lengthy delay the hatch opened. After stepping over the coaming he stood to attention before the desk.
“Midshipman Telford reporting for supply orientation … sir.”
Tivendale's head snapped up from his screen, his eyes narrowing.
“Sir? You are calling me sir?” The high tone of his voice held an incredulous lilt. “I suppose the commodore ordered you to say that, eh? Oh, forgive me, midshipman, please, stand at ease. I do not wish you complaining to the commodore that I brutalized you by expecting you to show respect for a senior boat's officer. Please, feel free to lounge about my office in any manner you like.”
Nathan had not expected a 'hail and well met my hearty', so the tirade washed harmlessly over him. However he did not expect to see the lieutenant in his current miserable condition. On closer scrutiny Tivendale’s overall body language showed as beaten an individual as Nathan had ever seen.
“I presume you are quite proud of yourself?” Tivendale whined. “I tried to instill some proper discipline into you and your associates and this is what I get for my trouble.”
Although truly delusional, Nathan found the bitterness of his recrimination to be pitiful. Despite his natural dislike of the man, he felt an obscure sense of remorse.
“I thought I would be, but is hasn't worked out as I expected.”
“Oh? The mighty superstar of the academy is admitting to a mistake? I do not believe my ears.”
“Well you should. You were right. I failed to show correct respect for your rank. For that I owe you an apology, sir.”
“Again with the sir? Is this another of your so called jokes, Telford?”
“No sir. You were right and I was wrong. It’s that simple.”
Tivendale eyed him skeptically for a time before slumping into his chair, his rage spent. Lost for words he brushed a dismissive hand through the air.
“May I ask what my duties are?”
“Duties?” he said dully, “Oh, I do not care. Do whatever you want.”
“I was born and raised on a freighter. Perhaps I could make some small suggestions that might, with your approval, increase efficiency?”
“So now you want to take over the supply department?”
Nathan pushed down a flash of anger. “That's not what I meant.”
“Oh, I no longer care what you do. Do whatever you want. Just leave me alone.”
“May I have access to the inventory and manifests?”
“I said you can do whatever you want, Telford.” The anger had left his voice along with any sense of self-respect. “Just leave me in peace.”
“Aye-aye, sir.”
Nathan spent the first two hours of his watch laboring over the manifests. Even without the requisite organizational courses he had undertaken at the academy he recognized a deranged mess when he saw one. Friends in high places or not, this idiot should never have been commissioned. A first year plebe could organize the distribution of supplies better. He examined the prescribed routines for onloading containers as detailed on the computer readout. Tivendale couldn’t have done a worse job if he were a saboteur. No wonder the department heads were baying for Tivendale’s blood.
For the rest of his watch Nathan inspected the cargo holds, checking the manifests against the container numbers and making regular corrections as needed. The stink in the holds came back to haunt him. At the end of the shift he reported back to Tivendale who told him not to bother to doing so in the future. Nathan lingered in a nearby drop shaft until Argento relieved Tivendale. When the supply officer stepped into the stern lift, Nathan entered the office.
Argento leapt half out of her chair before recognizing Nathan. He dropped into the chair opposite hers, tapped his left shoulder and laid his hands flat on the desk.
“What's your name, Argento?”
A smile touched her lips. “Heather, sir.”
“Nathan,” he said, offering his hand. She's been around long enough to know the drill.
“Very well, Nathan.”
“This isn't a date Heather, we have work to do.”
She blinked in surprise. “Work? I don't understand, sir … ah, Nathan.”
“Work, Heather. It's what we do for six hours, twice per shipboard day. Remember?”
The chief snorted.“Nathan, I am under orders from the supply officer to do nothing other than my usual requisition duties unless otherwise ordered.”
“Ah, but the supply officer has given me permission to, and I quote, do whatever I want. Therefore, if I wish to work your tail off until we get this department into some kind of order, I will.” Grinning wolfishly he added, “And Heather, I do indeed wish to work your tail off. Professionally speaking of course.”
“That would make a damn fine change. What have you got in mind?”
CHAPTER 38
Date: 5th August, 320 ASC.
Position: Monitor Truculent.
Status: Downtime.
Nathan fell into a deep sleep as soon as his head hit the
pillow. The double shifts were starting to get to him. It felt as if mere minutes had passed when the alert alarm blared. He sprung from his rack and crashed into the overhead.
The internal gravity was off and the room was in complete darkness. Nathan pushed against the overhead to regain his footing. In the absolute darkness he kept bumping into Leo and Allan but could not tell them apart.
The hatch slid open allowing dim green light from the corridor's overhead to spill into the room. Somehow Leo had found his way to the hatch and activated the override.
“What are you waiting for, Nathan?” Leo said.
Allan was already half into his flight suit, pressing himself to the deck by pushing his head against the overhead. Nathan donned his flight suit and slipped on his shoes. Leo and Allan had far more experience than he and beat him out the hatch by half a minute.
Nathan stepped into the corridor and made his way forward. Within the zero G environment he kept his feet planted to the deck by sliding his hands along the overhead. Reaching the forward drop shaft he made a quick check to ensure no one blocked his passage then hauled himself inside.
He reached his destination and swung from the shaft, onto the deck. The starboard torpedo bay was his assigned alert station. CPO Veivers noted his arrival with a short nod. Nathan remained where he was to allow the professionals do their jobs. In the time it had taken him to struggle into his flight suit, the pros had done the same, got to their duty station and loaded all three tubes. Yes young man, you still have a lot to learn.
Nathan strapped into the jump seat to observe how real experts conducted themselves. Such calm proficiency is what he expected on a boat commanded by Waugh. As he plucked a ball of sleep from the corner of his eye he absently checked the time: 0412 hours. At least he had gotten three hours sleep.
The gravity returned with a jolt and full illumination flooded the bay. Nathan blinked rapidly to adjust to the change. The weapons engineering officer stepped into the bay.
“Well done everyone,” Lt Cmdr Matrakas said. “Secure from alert. The drill is over.” He noticed Nathan. “So Mister Telford, you made it to the party?”
