The petty officer returned the gesture. 'I stand relieved.' Fontanelli hoisted the heavy old-fashioned brass telescope called a long glass which signified his status as officer of the deck import and passed it to Paul. 'Have fun, sir.'
'Thanks.' Paul put down the long glass and leaned on the watch desk as the petty officer of the watch finished turning over with his relief.
'Mr. Sinclair, I have the watch.' The third class petty officer saluted Paul with the same kind of weary salute Paul had used earlier. 'Any special instructions, sir?'
'Yeah, if I start to fall asleep, kick me.'
The petty officer grinned. 'Yes, sir. It'll be a pleasure.'
About four long and essentially uneventful hours later, the hatch onto the quarterdeck opened and Chief Imari stepped out, yawning. 'Have a fun mid-watch, sir?'
'They're always fun, Chief.'
'Oh, yes, sir. Anything happen?'
'Nope.'
'Of course, if something did happen, we'd be a lot unhappier than we are with nothing happening,' Chief Imari observed.
Paul snorted and nodded. 'Yeah, 'cause anything that happens at O-dark-thirty is bound to be bad.' He briefed the chief just as he'd been briefed four hours before, exchanged salutes as Chief Imari relieved him, then walked slowly back to his stateroom and peered at the time. Zero four hundred. Two hours until reveille, when he and the rest of the crew would have to officially wake up, and when the lighting on the Michaelson and Franklin Station would brighten for the artificial day. Paul shrugged out of his uniform and pulled himself up into his bunk, ducking and rolling as he did so to avoid hitting the obstacles on the overhead.
It seemed only moments later that the piercing sound of a bosun's pipe wailed through the ship, followed by the announcement made every morning. 'Reveille, reveille. All hands turn to and trice up.'
One of Paul's four roommates in the starboard ensign locker staggered up and hit the stateroom lights. Three groans from those still in their bunks answered the brightness. Paul kept his eyes closed for a moment, trying to extend his sleep a few precious seconds longer. Trice up. Why do they keep telling the crew to trice up? That's what you do with hammocks. The crew doesn't sleep in hammocks. Crews haven't slept in hammocks for who knows how long. Centuries? But if they ever sleep in them again, they'll know now is when they're supposed to trice those suckers up.
'Hey, Paul!'
Paul kept his eyes closed. 'Yeah, Sam.' Lieutenant Junior Grade Yarrow, nicknamed Smilin' Sam by his fellow junior officers in recognition of his untrustworthy nature and false front of camaraderie, sounded unhappy, a fact which bothered Paul not at all given the many times Yarrow had caused problems for Paul.
'Did the guys in my division who had duty yesterday get their spaces cleaned up like I told them?'
'I don't know, Sam. Why don't you ask them?'
'You had duty! You should know.'
'Sam, my duty responsibilities don't include supervising your division's internal tasking.'
'Lousy attitude, Sinclair. Thanks for nothing.' The hatch opened, then slammed shut.
Paul sighed, finally opened his eyes and rolled out of his bunk again, landing on the deck and groping for his uniform once more.
Ensign Jack Abacha stared after Yarrow, then at Paul.
Paul shook his head. 'Don't worry about it, Jack. Once you've been screwed over by Sam as much as the rest of us have, you won't worry in the slightest about hurting his feelings.' Abacha nodded, his uncertainty obvious. Was it only eighteen months ago that I reported aboard the Merry Mike and was exactly like Jack Abacha? Overwhelmed and stunned by everything, wondering what I'd gotten myself into. Hell, I still haven't figured out what I've gotten myself into. 'Really, Jack. It's okay. Don't let Sam dump any of his work on you. He'll try to lay a guilt trip on you, but don't fall for it. Sam'll still try to take credit for whatever you did right and blame you for anything he does wrong.'
'Okay. Thanks.' Abacha hesitated. 'Do I have to tell him off like that?'
Paul gave the new ensign an encouraging smile. He only reported aboard two days ago. Two days after I joined the ship I still couldn't find my way around. 'Naw. When you realize he's trying to do it, tell him that you're too busy to talk and run off. He won't like it, but we're all usually too busy to talk, so Sam won't be able to tell if you're blowing him off.' Carl Meadows used to give me that kind of advice before he was transferred off the ship. I wonder how Carl's doing in his tour at the Pentagon?
Zero seven hundred. Paul walked into Combat, where the rest of the officers from the Operations Department had already gathered for officer's call. Commander Garcia looked up from his data unit and scowled at Paul. Oh, great. Now what'd I do?
'Nice to see you made it, Sinclair.'
'Sorry, sir. The XO-'
'I didn't ask for an excuse.'
Paul took up position near the other officers. Ensign Taylor, the Electronic Materials Officer, gave Paul a sardonic wink. Taylor was a mustang, an officer who'd worked her way up through the enlisted ranks to officer status, and as a result knew her job and the Navy so well she could run rings around much more senior officers. Kris Denaldo, like Paul a lieutenant junior grade and now serving as the Michaelson 's communications officer, glanced toward Garcia and rolled her eyes meaningfully. Paul nodded to both of them. And so another Monday in the glamorous Space Navy begins. How come in the movies Captain Hardy Stud of the Starship Spurious never has Mondays?
Garcia glowered at the three officers. Paul and Kris looked back with carefully neutral expressions, while Taylor returned a respectful but unmistakably not-intimidated gaze. 'There's been a schedule change. Instead of spending the next two weeks in restricted availability to catch up on equipment maintenance, we have one week. The week after that, we're going out on as-yet-unspecified operations.'
Paul barely managed to keep his exasperation from showing. Kris made notes on her data pad and shook her head.
Taylor raised both her hands heavenward. 'Sir, just how am I supposed to get two weeks of work out of one week? We've got gear that's overdue for upkeep now.'
Garcia focused directly on Taylor and intensified his glower. 'You prioritize and you work as hard as you have to. These ops next week are high-priority and high-interest. That's all I can say right now, but saying we can't get underway for them is not an option.'
Taylor shrugged as if unaware of Garcia's expression. 'We'll be ready to get underway, but everything's not gonna get done. I'll shoot you my prioritized list and if there's anything that hasta be moved up on it, you tell me, sir.'
'Fine.'
Paul surreptitiously glanced from Garcia to Ensign Taylor. Odds were nobody but Taylor really knew for sure how important each item on that list was, and odds were Garcia knew that. Unfortunately, Garcia does know a lot about all the items on my division's work list.
'Do either of you two have any comments?' Garcia eyed Paul and Kris, but both had learned enough by now not to say a word. 'There's an all officers meeting in the wardroom at ten hundred.'
'Sir?' Kris Denaldo looked like she'd instantly regretted blurting out the word.
'What?'
'Uh, sir, about a third of the wardroom is sealed off today while they work on gear on the other side of one of the bulkheads.'
'So?'
'It'll be very hard to squeeze all of us into the remaining space, sir.'
'What's the matter, Denaldo? Putting on weight?' Garcia grinned humorlessly. 'The meeting's in the wardroom. Period.'
Denaldo flushed but kept her voice level. 'Yes, sir.'
'Sinclair.'
Paul braced himself mentally, shifting his stance slightly as if he were preparing for actual physical attack.
