A Just Determination

Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve

"These rules are intended to provide for the just determination of every proceeding relating to trial by court-martial."
Rule 102
Rules for Courts-Martial
Manual for Courts-Martial, United States

Upon completion instruction and when directed detach Duty Under Instruction; proceed port in which USS Michaelson (CLE(S)-3) may be, upon arrival report Commanding Officer for duty.

For perhaps the thousandth time since receiving them, Paul Sinclair reread his orders. Not for the first time, he thought how strange it was that one ship could be so many things. In the bland official wording of his orders, USS
Michaelson
was simply a destination for a newly commissioned officer. To the transportation personnel who had read those orders and arranged his arrival here at Franklin Naval Station, the
Michaelson
had been a moving target which Paul had to intercept at some point along the ship's travels.

But in an order of battle, such as the one Paul had consulted as soon as his orders arrived, the
Michaelson
would be identified as the third ship in the Maury Class of Long Endurance Cruisers (Space). Armed with the latest weaponry, carrying over two hundred sailors and officers, armored against the hazards of space and whatever threats might be posed by other humans in the nothingness between planets.

No, Paul corrected himself, not just
Michaelson
. United States Ship
Michaelson
. A commissioned warship, part of the United States Navy and legally a small piece of the United States, floating free of the world that had birthed her.

Paul looked up and across the gap of metal flooring which was all that now separated him from the open rectangle marking the quarterdeck of the
Michaelson
. If the ship had been in dry dock, inside a huge pressurized hall, then Paul could have seen all of her smooth, elongated football shape in a glance. The apparent streamlining had nothing to do with speed but rather the need to hide military vessels from all the instruments that could detect reflections from angles, corners and flat surfaces. However, now
Michaelson
floated in open space, connected to the Naval Base at this one point, the rest of her invisible behind the heavy bulkheads which protected the base from empty space.

Up close, here and now, the small visible portion of the ship loomed as both the most wonderful and the most frightening thing Paul had ever seen.
Four and half years since I held up my hand and swore the oath of service. Four years at the Academy. Six months at various specialty schools. It all comes down to this. I'm supposed to be prepared for anything. Hah. Right now I'm too nervous to think straight.

"Sir?" Paul fought down an impulse to jerk in surprise at the question, instead turning with careful deliberation to see a mildly curious senior chief petty officer standing nearby. "Do you need something on the
Michaelson
?"

"Uh . . . no. I mean, yes." The Senior Chief's expression became a little more questioning. "That is, I'm supposed to report aboard her. She's my new ship."

"Well, that's good for you, sir. She's my ship, too. Ready to go aboard?"

"Uh, thanks, Ch—. Senior Chief." Paul, wincing inside at almost addressing a senior chief as if he were a regular chief petty officer, grasped his small allowance of luggage firmly and followed in the senior chief's wake as he strode across the short distance. It never occurred to him not to follow. Chief petty officers didn't technically run the universe, but long-standing rumor held that heaven's CPOs did all the real work that kept the universe from falling apart.

Closing on the quarterdeck, he could see another ensign standing watch there along with a junior petty officer. The ensign carried a long, archaic brass telescope cradled under one arm, a sign of her status as Officer of the Deck. Paul came to rigid attention at the foot of the ship's entryway, turning to face the aft end of the
Michaelson
, and rendered his best salute to the national flag invisible in its compartment near the
Michaelson
's stern. Turning again, he faced the other ensign and saluted once more. "Request permission to come aboard."

The other officer returned the salute casually. "Granted."

The senior chief repeated the ritual, then nodded toward Paul. "Got you some fresh meat here, Ms. Denaldo."

The ensign brightened, while the petty officer looked on warily. "A new body? Great." She thrust out a hand. "Kris Denaldo. Welcome aboard."

Paul shook the offered hand. "Thanks. Paul Sinclair."

Denaldo bent over to take an obvious look at the U.S. Naval Academy ring on Paul's hand. "Aha. A ring knocker, eh?"

"Yeah. You?"

Denaldo grinned. "Notre Dame."

"You don't look Irish."

"So me sainted mother always said. Senior Chief, my messenger is off escorting a contractor. Do you mind running Mr. Sinclair aft and handing him over to Mr. Sykes?"

"No problem, Ms. Denaldo. Oh, yeah, here's them ribbons you needed." The Senior Chief dropped a couple of small rectangles of colored silk into Ensign Denaldo's waiting hand while she smiled with delight. Paul tried to glance at the ribbons unobtrusively. Every ribbon an officer or sailor wore on their left breast represented an award or a medal. The awards they'd received gave a thumbnail glance at their achievements and career to date, and Paul couldn't help wanting to know something of what his new shipmate Ensign Denaldo had done so far. "National Defense Medal and Space Service Deployment ribbons," the senior chief continued. "That's what you needed, right?"

"Senior Chief, you're a wonder. Nobody can get these two ribbons up here. How'd you find some?"

"Geez, Ms. Denaldo, if I told you, I'd have to kill you." The chief smiled broadly at his own joke, then beckoned to Paul. "You ready, Mr. Sinclair?" At Paul's nod, the senior chief led the way through a hatch into the ship's interior.

Instantly, it felt different. Outside (if you could call the inside of a space station
outside
) had been metal and recycled air, and the interior of the
Michaelson
was more metal and more used and re-used air. But everything felt tighter. The passageway they were in was barely wide enough for two people to pass. Overhead and on either side, cables, ducts and pipes ran off in both directions, every item labeled with cryptic codes indicating its function. Paul found himself hunching together for fear of hitting his head or arms against something or someone, feeling as if as much people and equipment had been crammed inside the hull as physics would permit. Paul suspected that might be literally true, especially after the senior chief popped open a smaller hatch and peered inside a space not much larger than an average Earth-side bedroom. "Mr. Sykes?"

A tall, lanky commander with a studiously relaxed expression looked up, waving a cup in their direction. On one lapel he wore the silver oak leaf of his rank and on the other lapel the multiple-oak-leaf insignia of the Supply Corps. "At your service, Senior Chief. What brings you to my lounge?"

The Senior Chief grinned, edging back to let Paul squeeze forward and into the room. "This here's Ensign Sinclair reporting aboard. Mr. Sinclair, that there's Commander Sykes, ship's supply officer." Paul nodded, trying not to let his uncertainty show as he tried to fix names to faces. "And this here's the wardroom, actually. You can almost always find Mr. Sykes relaxing here with some coffee."

"Not always," Sykes denied. "Sometimes I'm drinking tea. Thanks, Senior Chief." The senior chief sketched a half-salute and left, making the small space feel even smaller as he closed the hatch behind him. "Have a seat, Mr. Sinclair." Sykes waved grandly toward one of the other chairs grouped around the rectangular metal table. "Don't worry about strapping in. That's only required while we're underway."

Paul glanced at the chair as he sat, noticing harness straps lying at the ready. "The ship maneuvers during meals?"

"Not if we can help it. Or, rather, not if the line officers actually driving the
Merry Mike
can help it." Sykes smiled again, this time conspiratorially. "Being a limited duty supply specialist, I'm just a passenger of sorts."

Paul smiled back. Sykes' rank as commander probably put him on par with the other department heads and the ship's executive officer, but those others were all line officers, a term derived from the days when such officers commanded sail-powered warships which exchanged broadsides in the line of battle with other warships. Unlike the line officers, Sykes' status as a limited duty officer meant he exercised no authority over the actual operations of the ship. Even if the executive officer (another commander, if Paul remembered right) hadn't occupied a superior position in the command hierarchy of the ship compared to a department head, she still would've been senior to Sykes on operational matters. For that matter, line officer Ensign Paul Sinclair would also be senior to Commander Sykes for operational purposes (a daunting prospect Paul tried not to dwell on) even though Sykes was his superior officer otherwise.

Paul let his gaze wander around the small room. A slightly stylized painting of the
Michaelson
in near-Earth orbit was fastened to one wall. Another held the small opening through which meals could be passed to the officers from the tiny food prep area beyond. On the third . . . Paul blinked, looking again as if his eyes had betrayed him. "A skull and crossbones? Why is there a pirate flag in here?"

Sykes followed Paul's look, then chuckled. "Why is it here? Because neither the executive officer nor the captain has yet seen it and ordered it taken down. Some of your fellow junior officers stuck it up this morning."

"Why?"

"Why? Ah, there you're getting into 'line' issues. Operational stuff. You'll have to ask a fellow ship driver." Sykes rubbed his forehead, momentarily serious as he frowned in thought. "Well, welcome aboard and all that. You'll eat, um, second shift."

"Second shift?"

"That's right." Sykes looked around the wardroom himself, then shrugged. "This space can't hold every officer at once. Well, it can if they're hanging off all four bulkheads and the overhead, but not for a nice sit-down meal like the Captain prefers. So, you get second shift."

Paul nodded, repeating
second shift
in his mind several times to ensure it wasn't forgotten.

"Have you heard much about food in the space fleet?"