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?'
''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 naivete.'
'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
