Burden of Proof (6 page)

"'Don't worry,' she said. They know all about this. Psychs' even have a name for it now. Learned Work Pattern Universality Syndrome or something like that. The psych reassured my parents that I was still at least technically sane, and the best way to cope was by keeping everything put away so I wouldn't get all twitchy around them."

"Wow." Paul contemplated his coffee for a moment. "Is everybody like that?"

"What do you mean by 'everybody'? All of us in the Space Navy? Pretty much. Just look around some time. Oh, that reminds me of another thing that drove my parents crazy. I kept grabbing on tight to anything solid within reach."

"Sure you did. That's just common sense." Paul caught himself. "I see what you mean. It's common sense in a spacecraft."

Lieutenant Sindh sighed. "There's all sorts of things like that. There always is between military and civilian, you know, but us being in space for so long makes the differences even bigger. We adopt habits that are necessary up here but unnecessary down there, and all we see for months on end is each other."

"I guess the way I saw the Greenspacers' clothes is an example of that."

"Yes. And the hair. You, me and everybody else up here keeps their hair short because they don't need long tresses floating into their eyes every five seconds, or long loose hairs drifting through their living quarters. But my mother wailed when she saw my short hair! 'Your hair was so long and beautiful!' Yes, it was. So what? I've got nice legs, too, if I say so myself, but I don't wear skirts up here, either, for what I hope are obvious reasons."

Paul briefly contemplated the vision of female sailors drifting through zero gravity in skirts, then shook his head to dispel the vision. "That'd be, uh, distracting."

"As well as embarrassing and impractical. Paul, you have to realize the way you see things, the way you do things, has changed. It changes for everybody who joins the military, and doubly so for everybody who serves in space." Sindh tilted her head as if examining Paul. "Which, in my opinion, made your decision to have a serious relationship with Jen Shen a good one."

"Since you know Jen, you'll understand a lot of it was her decision, and I was happy to go along with it."

Sindh grinned widely again. "That's Jen, all right. But, you see, you two can understand each other because of your shared experiences. You've both served on warships, both spent months in space, both dealt with similar situations. An outsider will wonder why you never let go of your drinks. But neither of you will ever question the other about it."

"No, I guess we wouldn't. But there's still friction between us sometimes."

"I'm simply shocked, Paul. Friction with Jen? Nice, quiet, compliant Jen?"

Paul couldn't help laughing. "You must know another Jen."

"Not I. Ah, our missing command presence has arrived." Sindh raised her drink in another toast as Commander Sykes swung inside the wardroom, somehow seeming to amble even while floating in zero gravity.

Sykes grabbed a coffee in passing, then settled into his seat before casting a jaundiced eye toward Sindh. "My good Lieutenant Sindh, please do not use the word 'command' when speaking of me. I am a limited duty officer. I command nothing but my little empire of ship's supplies and spare parts." Sykes smiled gently. "Without which, of course, you combatant line officers would all quickly perish."

Paul gestured for Sykes' attention. "Suppo, speaking of supplies, we're going to need to feed those Greenspacers."

"I suppose we are." Sykes took a slow drink, his face now thoughtful. "I have just the thing. We have a quantity of emergency battle rations which are due to expire in a few months."

Both Sindh and Paul failed to stop automatic expressions of revulsion. Sindh shook her head in evident disbelief. "Emergency battle rations? You can feed those to civilians?"

Sykes shrugged. "Why not?"

"I'd imagine there's some sort of inhumane treatment provision of the law which prohibits it."

"There's nothing of the kind, dear lady. Is there, Mr. Sinclair?"

Paul shook his head. "None that I know of. But, Suppo, those rations are really rank."

"Nonsense. The Navy has assured me the rations have been pronounced tasty, nutritious and downright yummy by selected service personnel chosen to taste test them."

"I've always wondered who those selected personnel are, and where they are now. I'd love to have some words with them on their definition of 'tasty.'"

"They're probably in some sort of witness protection program, safely hidden from their vengeful servicemates. No, I believe this is an excellent means to dispose of our soon-to-expire rations and keep our guests fed at the same time. Whatever their drawbacks in terms of taste, smell, texture and similar issues, the battle rations are compact, nutritious and produce no crumbs or sticky remnants. If our guests try to protest by, say, hurling their rations against the bulkhead, no harm will be done."

"They might dent the bulkheads," Paul suggested. "Do you really dislike the Greenspacers that much, Suppo?"

"Dislike them? Not at all. I believe any society needs those who are willing to question assumptions and challenge our beliefs. I also believe any society which feels unable to tolerate their mere presence, as opposed to outlawing unsafe acts on their part, has problems beyond those the protesters highlight. No, the use of the battle rations is purely a matter of pragmatics. After all, Mr. Sinclair, I'd feed you those rations if necessary, even though I confess a slight fondness for your touching youthful naiveté."

"Thanks."

The bosun's whistle wailed across the all-hands circuit. "All hands prepare for maneuvering in ten minutes."

Sindh glanced at Paul as the bosun continued her recital. "Any idea where we're going?"

"Back to Franklin is my guess. That's what the captain was talking about when I left the bridge, and we have to off-load all those escape pods and our Greenspace guests."

"We'll be back early? What a shame."

Paul turned at the sound of someone else entering the wardroom, and found himself meeting the eyes of the chief engineer. Commander Mae Destin, as usual, wore a cloak of melancholy like an extra uniform. No one on board knew if the melancholy had been born of personal or professional tragedy, and Commander Destin had apparently never confided in anyone in the five months she'd been onboard the
Michaelson
. This time, though, her bearing also displayed exasperation. "Sinclair. Just the officer I was looking for."

Paul quickly searched his brain for any action or inaction which might have ticked off the chief engineer. "Ma'am?"

"I've just been informed by my main propulsion assistant that one of her petty officers is no longer available to stand watches in engineering because he's been reassigned to watches as a deputy master-at-arms. By order of a certain Mr. Sinclair."

Paul tried to keep from wincing. Bypassing the chain of command tended to really aggravate those officers who'd been bypassed, especially if the offender was also junior to those who'd been bypassed. "Ma'am, the XO approved the assignment of the deputy master-at-arms to guard duty."
Thank you, Sheriff, for tipping me off to brief the XO right away
. "It's to ensure the Greenspacers don't get loose."

Commander Destin twisted her mouth. "Did the XO tell you not to bother informing the department heads and division officers whose personnel were affected by this decision?"

Ouch. And here I am sitting in the wardroom instead of working when Destin asked me that. I couldn't have screwed this up worse if I tried
. "No, ma'am. I regret failing to inform all those officers as soon as possible."

"I would appreciate it," Destin stated with heavy sarcasm, "if in the future you didn't fail to let me know about actions impacting on my personnel."

"Yes, ma'am."

"
Thank
you, Mr. Sinclair."

Commander Destin swung out the hatch, leaving the wardroom temporarily silent. Paul glanced at Lieutenant Sindh and made a helpless gesture. "Oops."

Sindh flashed another smile. "Don't forget, Paul. For all you've learned, and believe me you have learned a great deal since you came aboard, there is still much to learn."

"I've already been reminded of that a couple of times today. I think I'll go run down some officers and brief them on the deputy master-at-arms issue."

"Good idea. Make sure you're at a tie-down when the final maneuvering warning sounds."

"You don't have to warn me. I'm a psycho Space Navy type like you, remember? Besides, I've already got my full quota of bruises for today. I don't want a concussion on top of those." Paul unstrapped, then offered a salute to Commander Sykes. "By your leave, sir."

Sykes gave Paul a sidelong look. "You don't need my permission to get to work, young man. I'm not in your chain of command like the good lieutenant sitting over there."

"I know, Suppo. I just made the gesture as a sign of my deep respect for you."

Sindh snorted into her drink, continuing to laugh as she cleaned up the mess. Sykes cocked an eyebrow at Paul and then shook his head. "I'll assume you're serious, of course, since otherwise I'd have to believe you were mocking your elders. John Paul Jones never would've stood for that kind of behavior in junior officers."

Sindh finally got her laughter under control. "How can you be sure, sir? Did you know John Paul Jones?"

Sykes smiled. "Of course. Quite a bright young lad. Now,
he
listened to my advice. Except the part about getting tasks started on time. One day he ended up in a battle and partway through it he hadn't even begun to fight yet." Sykes sighed and took another drink. "But it turned out all right in the end. As things will for you, young Sinclair, if you learn from your mistakes instead of repeating them."

"Believe me, Suppo, I intend continuing to do just that." Paul left, pulling himself rapidly through the ship. He had six officers to run down, including the Main Propulsion Assistant who already knew Paul had shafted her. But he had to formally advise even that officer, because he owed it to her.

Most of the officers grumbled mildly but took the news in stride. Personnel were often pulled off for extra duties with little or no notice. Lieutenant Kilgary, the main propulsion assistant, even joked that she was usually the one borrowing other division's personnel.

But, then there was Lieutenant Junior Grade Sam Yarrow. "Sam, I wanted to tell you that Petty Officer Geraldo has been assigned by the XO to watches on the compartments holding the Greenspacers until we get rid of them."

Yarrow glowered back. "I need Geraldo."

"Sam, he's a deputy master-at-arms, and the XO -"

"He won't be any longer. I'm pulling him out of that."

Paul glanced over at Chief Hadasa, Yarrow's senior petty officer, who was attempting to appear unaware of the dispute between officers which was being played out in front of him. "Sam, Geraldo has to make a request to be pulled off the deputy master-at-arms duties, and the XO has to approve it."
So why don't you stop making a major issue out of this in front of your chief? What are you trying to prove here
?

"We'll see what my department head says about you drafting people out of her department."

"I've already talked to her, Sam."
And Commander Destin wasn't happy at all, but I'm not about to tell Sam Yarrow that right now
.

Yarrow seemed to be trying to find something else to say, then shifted his glare to Chief Hadasa. "Chief, what's the story on these maintenance records? What's with these discrepancies?"

Paul backed out of the hatchway.
And goodbye to you, too, Sam. First he picks a fight with me in front of a enlisted sailor, and now he's chewing out his chief in front of me. Did Yarrow go to some sort of anti-leadership school
?

The starboard ensign locker, so named because it held four junior officers and their meager belongings crammed into every available square centimeter of space, offered a brief refuge. Paul pulled himself to his tiny desk, strapped in, then called up the personnel records for the enlisted sailors assigned to his division.
I need to have performance evaluations done on all my sailors in four more days. And the XO's screening every evaluation with software designed to detect cut-and-paste copying, so every evaluation has to contain original wording. It'd be easy if I didn't have a hundred other things to worry about
.

He'd barely begun writing when a hand rapped on the hatch. "Paul?" Lieutenant Mike Bristol, the
Michaelson
's junior supply officer, leaned partway into the ensign locker. "Suppo told me to let you know the feeding schedule for the Greenspacers is all taken care of. They'll get three squares a day until we offload them."

"I thought they were getting soon-to-expire battle rations."

"They are. Those are sort of square." Bristol spread his hands apologetically. "The Navy says it'll feed people. It doesn't say how well it'll feed them. Say, do you know why Randy's in a snit?"

Paul rolled his eyes. "Ensign lessons. Carl warned him to get the gig's fuel topped off, but he didn't, so the captain took a bite out of Randy."

"Oh. Randy owns the gig?"

"Yeah. It comes with him being First Lieutenant."

"Oh," Bristol repeated, then looked puzzled. "Paul, why is he the 'First Lieutenant'? Randy's one of the most junior officers on board, and he's not even a lieutenant, come to think of it."

Paul grinned. "Ancient history, Mike. Back in the days when ships had sails, the guy in charge of the deck stuff, that is the sails and the rigging, was really important. They assigned the job to the most senior lieutenant on the ship, so he was literally the First Lieutenant in terms of rank. Since then, the importance of deck stuff has gone way down. It's still important, of course, but it's not nearly as important as it used to be in sailing days. But we still call the guy in charge of it the First Lieutenant."

"That makes absolutely no sense, Paul. Why not change the name to reflect the way the job's changed?"

Paul shrugged. "Because this is the U.S. Navy, and that's the way we've always done it, and that's the way we'll always by God do it until hell freezes over and forces us to change. How long have you been in the Navy, Mike?"