of the other officers. Hey, that's cool. Paul called up some of the card formats in the ship's data base, hastily crafting his own card as other beeps announced the receipt of further holiday cards from other officers in the wardroom. Later, he spent a fairly happy half-hour, clicking through his collection of received cards several times as if they represented a pile of gifts under an elaborately decorated tree.
New Year's Eve didn't quite sneak up the same way. Paul, due to go on watch at 0400, decided not to stay up to mark the moment, instead choosing to grab a few precious hours of sleep. Unfortunately for Paul, Senior Chief Kowalski had other plans.
'Mr. Sinclair! On deck, sir!'
Paul hastily shrugged into his uniform, blearily checking the time. Half an hour to midnight. What the hell does the senior chief need me for right now? Poking his head out of the stateroom hatch, he saw Kowalski floating nearby, holding an object in one hand. 'Is that a fruitcake? A real fruitcake?'
'Very good, sir!' Senior Chief Kowalski beamed happily at Paul, then pointed aft. 'With your permission, I will lead the way, sir.'
'The way to where?'
'Why, Mr. Sinclair, you've never heard of parading the holiday fruitcake? You are in for a treat, sir, a rare honor. Please come along, sir.'
Baffled, Paul followed in Kowalski's wake as the senior chief pulled himself one-handed along the passageway, holding the fruitcake prominently in his other hand. A weird shriek behind him shocked Paul, who turned to see one of the Michaelson 's petty officers with a bagpipe strapped to her and two assistants towing her along with the small procession. Despite the difficulties of playing a bagpipe in zero gravity while being towed through the constricted spaces of a warship, the petty officer made a creditable effort at Scottish marching tunes and hymns, the wails and screeches of the music following Paul and Kowalski as they traversed the ship, with only occasional interruptions as the bagpipes or the petty officer banged into an obstruction. Everywhere, groups of sailors gathered to cheer them on and fall in behind the parade.
Eventually, the group reached the bridge, where an increasingly mystified Paul found Commander Herdez awaiting them despite the late hour. Senior Chief Kowalski stopped directly in front of the executive officer, proffering the fruitcake in one hand as he saluted rigidly with the other. 'Commander Herdez, ma'am, it is my honor and privilege to present the holiday fruitcake.'
Herdez returned the salute, her expression, like Kowalski's, absolutely serious. 'I accept the honor of receiving the holiday fruitcake. Have you examined the holiday fruitcake to determine if it is fit for human consumption, Senior Chief Kowalski?'
'I have, ma'am.'
'And your conclusion?'
'I regret to report that the holiday fruitcake is not fit for human consumption, ma'am.'
'Then you and Ensign Sinclair are ordered to consign it to Davy Jones' Signal Shack in the depths of space, Senior Chief.'
'Aye, aye, ma'am.' Kowalski saluted the executive officer again, a gesture Paul hastily copied, then turned and led the procession off the bridge, the bagpiper starting her musical accompaniment again as they went.
This time the procession and its crowd of hangers-on proceeded outward toward the hull until they reached one of the launch tubes providing access to outer space. A gunner's mate stood at attention by the tube, waiting until Kowalski came to a halt before him. 'Mr. Sinclair and I have orders to consign the holiday fruitcake to the depths of space.'
The gunners mate nodded, then popped the outer and inner seals of the launch tube, revealing the spring- loaded launch platform resting cocked at its base. 'Davy Jones' Signal Shack is targeted and awaiting the arrival of the fruitcake, Senior Chief.'
Kowalski offered the fruitcake to Paul. 'Sir, if you would do the honors.'
'Sure, Senior Chief.' Paul placed the fruitcake on the launch platform, then moved back as the gunner's mate resealed the tube.
Kowalski indicated a chronometer on the bulkhead nearby, where the time was running down to midnight. 'At exactly midnight, we will launch the fruitcake, Mr. Sinclair.' The gunner's mate keyed open panels on either side of the launch tube, revealing the buttons for manual launch commands. Kowalski took up position at one, waving Paul to the other. Then they waited as the final minutes ticked off, the bagpipes having mercifully fallen silent at last, even though the buzz from the observers crowding the passageway in both directions provided plentiful background noise. Paul took advantage of the relative quiet to lean close to Kowalski. 'Senior Chief, what the hell are we doing?'
Kowalski looked surprised. 'Why, sir, you've never heard of the parading and launching of the holiday fruitcake? It's a naval tradition, sir.'
'A tradition? This happens every year?'
'Every New Year's Eve, yes, sir. On every ship underway. It's been that way about as long as there's been a space Navy.'
'And Commander Herdez is okay with this?'
'Sir, the executive officer understands the value of traditions. She also, if I may say so, understands the importance of keeping morale from sinking any lower, and even perhaps raising it a mite, with a harmless tradition such as this.'
'Harmless? Isn't that thing going to be a hazard to navigation?'
'The fruitcake, sir? No, sir. The launch tube's oriented to fire the fruitcake up out of the plane of the solar system. Just like the launch tubes on every other U.S. Navy ship underway right now. There's about a dozen ships out now, Chief Imari informed me. Think of it as humanity's holiday salute to the universe, sir.'
'I see. Why am I helping with this?'
'The same reason I am, sir. Tradition says the most junior officer and the most senior enlisted on the ship will parade and then launch the fruitcake. That's you and me. Ah, almost midnight. Stand by, Mr. Sinclair.'
Paul placed his thumb on the firing switch, watching as Senior Chief Kowalski did the same on the other firing panel. The last seconds scrolled off, and as the time hit midnight, Paul and the senior chief both pressed their switches. The jolt of the launch was barely discernable, followed by a miniscule firing of maneuvering jets to compensate for the ejection of mass from the Michaelson. The gunner's mate checked his readings, then gave a thumbs-up to indicate the fruitcake had indeed been launched on its endless journey to Davy Jones' signal shack, the space Navy's equivalent to Davy Jones' locker at the bottom of Earth's seas.
Senior Chief Kowalski faced the crowd, his expression solemn. 'We have consigned the holiday fruitcake to the depths of space, to serve as a warning to all the universe of the awful culinary weapons available to the human race. Yet our motives are also noble. Mayhap in the far future, billions of years from today, some other race of spacefarers in dire need of provision will find the holiday fruitcake and be able to feast upon its substance, as edible and tasty after an eternity in space as it is at this moment. All salute the holiday fruitcake!' Senior Kowalski saluted, a gesture copied by Paul and everyone else visible. 'That is all.'
Paul waited for a few moments to let the crowd disperse, graciously accepting the congratulations of a number of enlisted sailors for his role in the parade and the launch. By the time he made it back to his stateroom, the year was another thirty minutes older, that period referred to by military personnel as o-dark-thirty to signify the darkest and most wearying portion of the night. What the hell. That still gives me two hours to sleep before I need to get up for my watch. Paul swung gratefully into his bunk, his visions before sleep set in filled with images of volleys of fruitcakes soaring through space, eternal monuments to the human sense of the absurd.
Franklin Station again. As their course had taken the Michaelson back into more heavily traversed portions of the solar system, they'd encountered more and more other shipping. The opportunity provided to relearn operating around lots of other spacecraft had been invaluable, Paul thought, staring at the clutter of ships and small craft buzzing around the massive orbital facility, but not nearly intensive enough to prepare them adequately for this. Did we actually go through this kind of mess when we left? He glanced over at Jan Tweed, who was visibly sweating. Thank heavens we're under station piloting control this close in, because the rules mandate automated docking. But if anything goes wrong, we're still supposed to take charge of the helm and somehow weave through all those other craft. Please, don't let anything go wrong.
'Captain's on the bridge.'
