Burden of Proof (5 page)

"And prone to delusional thinking. Okay, we're about to snag the last pod."

Carl tapped his communications panel. "Boats, any problems with stowing this last pod?"

"No, sir. It'll fit. The gig's not going anywhere else 'til we off-load these pods, though."

"Understand the gig's penned in by the pods in the dock. Thanks, Boats. Here comes number twelve."

Another pass, another lurch, and
Michaelson
had the last pod in tow. Carl gazed upward thankfully. "Mission accomplished. Captain, we have the last pod in tow."

Captain Gonzalez nodded shortly. "So I see. Notify me when the pod is secured."

"Aye, aye, ma'am."

Lieutenant Diem stole a glance at Captain Gonzalez, still stewing in her chair, then unlatched himself, quickly swung over to Carl and spoke in a low voice. "What's with the CO? She looks ready to chew some serious butt."

"It's a long story, starting with the Greenspacers screwing up the test firing. Just be real careful around her for a while."

"You don't have to tell me twice." Diem watched intently as the last escape pod was hauled in toward its resting place in the gig dock.

After several more minutes, the Chief Bosun called the bridge. "All pods secured, sir. Request permission to secure the gig and grapnel details."

Carl looked toward Captain Gonzalez, but before he could repeat the question she nodded sharply. "Permission granted."

Carl echoed the command. "Boats, permission granted."

He gestured to the bosun mate of the watch, who sketched a salute, keyed his all-hands circuit, then blew a wail on his pipe to get the crew's attention. "Secure the gig and grapnel details. I say again, secure the gig and grapnel details."

Lieutenant Diem looked from Carl to Gonzalez. "What do we do now?"

"Good question." Carl gave the glowering captain a look out of the corner of his eyes. "I really don't want to do this, but I have to."

"I can ask . . ."

"No. It's still my job." Turning to face the captain, Carl spoke with careful precision. "Captain Gonzalez, request further instructions."

Gonzalez took a moment to reply. "Prepare a course back to Franklin Station. Standard speed. Hold off executing it until I get confirmation from the Commodore, but I expect we'll need to drop off our 'guests' and wait for the test firing to be rescheduled." She turned a hard face toward Carl, then made a visible effort to relax. "Well done, Mr. Meadows. You and your bridge team handled things well." Ripping her harness loose, Captain Gonzalez pulled herself off the bridge.

"Captain's off the bridge!" The bosun of the watch made the announcement as Captain Hayes, his face betraying no emotion, followed in Gonzalez's wake.

Carl Meadows inhaled deeply, then exhaled with relief. "I still live. Can you cook up that course for the captain?"

"Piece of cake," Diem assured him. "What else you got?"

Carl and Paul quickly filled in their reliefs on other information, then Gabriel offered Paul a salute. "I relieve you, sir."

Paul returned the salute gratefully. "I stand relieved." Raising his voice once more, he announced the change. "On the bridge, this is Ens-"
Dammit
. "Lieutenant Junior Grade Sinclair. Ensign Gabriel has the watch and the conn."

"This is Ensign Gabriel, I have the conn." Gabriel lowered her voice and made an apologetic face. "Sorry we relieved you guys so late."

"It's not your fault. Taking over in the middle of picking up those pods would've been asking for trouble, and the captain might've raised hell if you'd tried."

"Thanks, Paul. Hey, congrats on the promotion."

"Thanks back at you. There's hope for everybody, I guess."

Gabriel laughed. "I think you earned it."

Paul looked over at Carl, who'd also been relieved of the watch but was spending a few minutes unwinding by chatting with Lieutenant Diem. Paul waved at the other officers. "Later, guys." He pulled himself wearily off the bridge, using the easily reached handholds in the overhead.
Before I got to a real ship, I used to worry about getting stuck in the middle of a big compartment with no way to reach a handhold. I never stopped to think that there isn't any reason at all to have big, empty compartments on spacecraft. They'd be just a waste of space inside the hull
. He floated for a moment outside the bridge hatch, eyes closed, feeling the tension from being on watch slowly draining from his muscles.

I wonder how the Greenspacers are behaving? Aw, geez. That's my job, too. Got to get going
. Reaching for another handhold, Paul hastened down to the gig's dock, where the Greenspacers were still being held in a tight bunch by the presence of a menacing-looking Master-at-Arms Ivan Sharpe and his six deputy master-at-arms. Paul paused as he got his first look at the Greenspacers, most of whom were grinning like kids who'd gotten away with a clever stunt.
They do look like hippies
. "Any problems, Sheriff?"

Sharpe kept his eyes on the Greenspacers as he shook his head. "No, sir."

Paul saw he'd become the center of attention for the Greenspacers. One, a tall man with a beard who carried himself like some sort of secular saint, moved forward slightly before halting as Sharpe and his nearest deputy made warning gestures. "Are you in authority here?"

"I'm the ship's legal officer."
Which has been nothing but a pain in the neck since I got assigned that extra job the day I reported aboard this ship. Why did I have to have had a two-week gap in my orders which somebody decided to fill by sending me to the ship's legal officer course? Being the Combat Information Center Officer is more than enough work without needing to deal with all the junk being legal officer tosses my way
.

The Saint looked at Paul sternly. "We expect to be released immediately. This detention is unlawful."

"No, sir, it is not. United States law authorizes us to take you into custody if you deliberately violate a restricted area."

An intense-looking woman laughed harshly. "Space is free!"

"You'll have to discuss that with the United Nations, ma'am. Now, if you'll -"

The Saint raised a demanding palm. "We will not tolerate being held by military forces. This is a violation of our human rights."

Paul glanced at Sheriff Sharpe, whose expression made it obvious what he thought of the Saint's human rights, then addressed the group. "You would have all died if we hadn't rescued you. It's our duty to rescue humans in distress in space. Our humanitarian duty." Some of the Greenspacers glowered back, while others smiled as if they were sharing a joke with Paul. "You will be held in protective custody until we can turn you over to civil law enforcement authority."

"You're jailing us?"

"No, sir. A warship is a dangerous place. Even a misplaced hand could cause serious repercussions. For your own protection, you'll be kept in two compartments, one for the men and one for the women."

The intense woman laughed again. "We're all equals! We've no need for your archaic cultural codes."

"Ma'am, I regret to inform you that your needs are not this ship's priority. You will follow Petty Officer First Class Sharpe as he leads you to the compartments. Anyone who attempts to damage the ship or leave the group will be dealt with as necessary to ensure the safety of everyone on board." The last sentence of Paul's statement had been boilerplated in fleet guidance for handling situations like this. It simplified Paul's task and helped ensure he wouldn't say something potentially embarrassing or illegal.

Fortunately for all concerned, the Greenspacers followed Sharpe quietly. Some of the protesters obviously lacked much experience in space, having difficulty moving smoothly through the cramped passageways of the
Michaelson
in zero gravity. Paul had to suppress a couple of smiles as Greenspacers bumped painfully off of pipes, wiring, cabling conduits and other equipment lining the sides and overhead of the passageway.

As the Greenspacer men were shepherded into their compartment, grumbling over the tight quarters in the tiny crew recreation room which had been commandeered for their confinement, the Saint looked back toward Paul and smiled once more, this time triumphantly. "This shows the difference between us and militaristic fascists such as yourself. We don't believe in criminalizing peaceful acts of protest, or confining those who care only for the well-being of others."

Paul fought down his first biting reply, then smiled back. "That's your interpretation, sir. I think the difference between us is that every once in a while I'm willing to consider the possibility that I might be wrong." He swung around to leave, catching a wide grin on Sharpe's face as he did so. "Let me know when they're snugged down, Sheriff."

"Aye, aye, sir. May I make a suggestion, sir?"

"By all means."

Sharpe indicated the alarm panel next to the hatch leading into the temporary prison. "I wouldn't count on those, sir. Sometimes people figure out ways to mess with automated controls and alarms, and we've no idea what skills these prisoners might have. I want to put my deputy masters-at-arms on watch outside these compartments."

Paul paused to consider the suggestion. The Sheriff's deputies weren't masters-at-arms by specialty. They were petty officers from other ratings, such as fire control technicians, gunners mates and bosun mates, who'd volunteered for the extra responsibility. Putting them on a watch here would take them away from their primary duties, and make at least a few of their division officers and department heads unhappy. But Sharpe's suggestion made sense. Paul had a vision of Greenspacers with unknown skills and idealistic foolishness loose within the ship for even a few minutes, and had to fight down a shudder. "Do it, Sheriff."

"Aye, aye, sir. I'm sure the XO will approve."

Paul cocked an eyebrow at Sharpe, then smiled. It'd been one of the smoother means of proffering advice he'd received from enlisted sailors since joining the Navy. "I'm sure he will, too. I'll brief the XO right away, so if anyone complains refer them to me so I can refer them to the XO."

Sharpe's reply sounded perfectly serious. "Excellent idea, sir."

"Thanks. If you need me after that, I'm going to get some coffee."

"Another excellent idea, sir."

"Yeah, I'm full of them today."

The XO agreed immediately to the wisdom of using Sharpe's deputies to ensure the Greenspacers didn't wreak any havoc onboard, leaving Paul a few minutes to unwind. He headed for the wardroom, squeezing back against the sides of the passageways to let those on more urgent errands pass, then swung through the hatch into the relative haven of the
Michaelson
's small wardroom. The chair normally occupied by Commander Steve Sykes, the
Michaelson
's Supply Officer, sat uncharacteristically empty. However, Lieutenant Sindh was strapped into a seat at the small wardroom table, holding a drink the Navy hopefully labeled 'Near East Tea' but sailors referred to as 'Nastea', and staring contemplatively into space.

Paul grabbed some coffee and strapped himself into another chair. "Hey, Sonya."

Lieutenant Sindh focused on Paul, then raised her own drink in a mock toast. "Are our new passengers taken care of?"

"For the time being at least. They shouldn't be able to screw up anything else before we offload them." Paul shook his head. "It's kinda strange."

"What?"

"Well, I saw those Greenspacers, and I'm thinking, 'get a haircut, for pity's sake. Stand up straight, get a shave, and get your clothes neatened up.' I mean, they did look like hippies to me, but when I stand back and think about it, I realize I used to look a lot like that."

Sindh grinned widely. "Ah. Culture shock."

"I've been around civilians since I entered the Navy."

"But not recently. When's the last time you were home?"

Paul only had to think a moment. "After graduation from the Academy. I haven't been back since I got orders to space duty. You know how hard it is to get a shuttle home, especially when we have so little time available to take leave."

"Uh huh." Sindh leaned back, a meaningless gesture in zero gravity yet one which every human still attempted out of habit. "
I've
been back. Let me tell you, it's tough. My little brother, I thought he looked like some sleazy thug. He wasn't. He was just a typical teenage civilian. And my parents . . ." She laughed this time.

"What about your parents?"

"They thought I was insane."

Paul eyed her to see if Sindh was serious. "Why?"

Instead of answering directly, Sindh pointed to the drink in Paul's hand. "Are you going to put that down?"

He frowned down at the coffee. "I'll dispose of it when I'm finished."

"And until then you'll either keep one hand on it or clip it to your belt. Right?"

"Of course! If I just left it sitting it'd be a missile hazard when the ship maneuvered."

Lieutenant Sindh laughed again. "Okay. Right. So I go home after being in space for close to two years. And I'm neat. I'm really, really,
really
neat. Just like you are, now. I don't leave
anything
lying around, because it might be a missile hazard, or float off and get stuck in something important. We all do that because it's an essential part of the survival skills up here and it's drilled into us as habit. But at home . . . my parents were just thrilled at first. She's neat! She cleans up her room!" Sindh grinned, wickedly this time. "My little brother thought I'd been taken over by an alien life form. Before I left for the Navy we had a contest once over who had the oldest piece of forgotten food in their room. I won. Do you want to know how old it was?"

"Uh, no, thanks."

"I don't blame you. Anyway, my parents are happy as clams. For the first twenty-four hours or so. Then it starts to worry them that if mother puts down a drink, five seconds later I'm securing it in the dishwasher. Like the house is ever going to accelerate unexpectedly and make it a hazard. But I can't help it. They worried about me for maybe another twenty-four hours, then they called a psych to see if the Navy had fried my brain."

Paul laughed with her this time, assured by Sindh's tone that the story didn't have an ugly ending. "What'd the psych say?"