Introduction to 'Ensign Bowles'

These are the first six chapters of a military science-fiction novel. It follows the early career of a Solaris Fleet officer, Ensign Tom Bowles, as he leaves the Academy, is commissioned as an officer, and joins a destroyer. It's intended as the first of a series, following his career through the ranks from junior to senior level. In that sense, it follows in the footsteps of naval anthologies such as C. S. Forester's 'Hornblower' series, or (in science fiction) David Weber's 'Honor Harrington' or David Drake's 'RCN' series.

The Solaris Fleet is portrayed as an amalgam of the traditions of the Royal Navy of Great Britain and the United States Navy. Those who've served in either Service will recognize many elements of the Solaris Fleet in terms of rank, structure, discipline, etc. A detailed Appendix will be provided in the first book (and possibly split over subsequent volumes), giving relevant background information to those lacking such service.

Of particular importance to me is that the combat scenes be authentic and realistic. I've read many fictional depictions of combat that simply don't work - it's clear that the author(s) haven't experienced combat themselves, and it shows. I'm not in that position, so I've tried to draw on my memories and experiences to make the combat scenes in this book (and those to come in the series) as realistic as possible. I'd appreciate the feedback of other veterans as to whether I've succeeded.

I've been previously published in non-fiction, and I've been writing SF and fantasy manuscripts for almost three years, trying to learn the craft of fiction-writing in these genres. I'd be very grateful for reader feedback on these six sample chapters, to let me know whether they capture your interest, hold your attention, and leave you wanting more. Please comment beneath each individual chapter, if you wish, or here in this summary post.

You can simply scroll down to read further, or click on the links below to go to each individual chapter. At the end of each chapter, you can scroll down to the next, or use the link to the next one, or link back to this introduction.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Thanks for reading, and for helping me with your feedback. Click here to return to my main blog site, Bayou Renaissance Man.

Peter

Ensign Bowles: Chapter One

The cadets struggled through the loose shale of the seafront, panting with the effort as they hauled the heavy whalers up the stones, clear of the high-water mark. Each crew swiftly checked that all oars were laid at the regulation angle in the rowlocks and all life-jackets and other equipment were stowed properly, then sprinted for the parade-ground. They fell into formation and dressed their ranks as the sun broke free of the frosty horizon, their breath puffing in white clouds before them.

The leather-lunged Senior Chief Petty Officer (known with universal loathing to the students as the Chief Tyrant) bellowed, “At-teeen-SHUN!” The cadets snapped to a brace, shoulders back, arms straight down their sides, eyes fixed on some invisible point directly in front of them.

“Attention to orders! When you fall out, proceed with normal morning routine. After Colors, cadets with surnames beginning with the letters A through F inclusive will report in Number One uniform to the waiting-room in Admiral Newcombe Hall.” The Chief paused, his long-suffering eyes looking up and down the ranks. “Gawd knows why, but the Fleet's let you get this far, so the time's come for you young ladies and gentlemen to hear where you'll be assigned after graduation. Don't make a muck of it and disgrace your instructors! The rest of you, carry on to your normal class assignments. Further group schedules will be announced at lunchtime. Got it?”

Eighty cadets replied in unison, very loudly, “Yes, Senior Chief!”

“Very well. Royal Maintop Division, diiis-MISS!”

The formation made a crisp, sharp right turn, took three paces, then dissolved into a mass of figures, running for their barracks, hastening to be the first to get under the showers. Latecomers would find the water no more than lukewarm.

Tom struggled out of his working blues, wrestling with the sea-wet webbing, and made it to the showers with the first batch. He hung his plastic toiletry bag over the tap, tossed his towel over a hook on the opposite wall, and gasped as the hot water surged through the pipes and scalded his skin. Hurriedly adding cold water to the mix, he reached for the shampoo bottle.

“Where d'you think you'll be going, Tom?” Axel inquired from the neighboring shower-head. As midshipmen – the lowest form of animal life in the Fleet, as they were frequently reminded by their hard-bitten NCO instructors – they didn't rate private shower stalls or curtains. The throng of naked male bodies (the ladies of the Division had their own barracks next door) ebbed and flowed from view in the clouds of steam.

“Heaven knows,” he replied shortly. “I've no interest or influence, so I guess I'll have to rely on the luck of the draw. And you?”

“I'm hoping for planetside duty for a spell,” Axel answered, a trifle smugly. “The Débutantes Ball is two months away, and Mother wants me to escort Ingrid. She says I'll set off her beauty perfectly in my dress uniform.”

Axel's father was a very successful businessman, and his mother the daughter of a Senator, so he had influence to spare. Doubtless his parents had already dropped a few words into receptive ears, to ensure that their son got what he – or, rather, they – wanted. Such 'interest' was common enough, of course, and Tom had long since resigned himself to taking a back seat to those who had it.

“I hope you get it, then,” he replied through a curtain of bubbles, frantically scrubbing at his hair to rinse out the shampoo, then wiping the rest of his body with a soapcloth. “I'll probably see pictures of you and your sister in the Society pages of the Tatler And Observer while I'm policing mining boats in some backwater system far away.”

“Only if pirates haven't killed you by then!”

“Gee, thanks so much!”

Chuckling, they shut off the water and vacated the shower-heads, two more midshipmen moving in immediately to take their places.

Tom hurriedly toweled himself dry, wrapped the cloth around his nudity, and trotted back to his bed. There, while most of his division-mates donned Number Two uniform for their normal class routine, he and others in the first selected group carefully removed their Number Ones from their protective covers, brushed and smoothed them, checked their dress shoes to ensure that no speck or blemish marred their mirror-bright finish, and dressed carefully. They inspected themselves and each other, tweaked black neckties to a central position, took their best caps from the top shelf of their lockers, stowed their toiletries, dropped their working blues in the laundry chute, checked to ensure that their beds were precisely and uniformly made against the inspection that was sure to follow later that morning, and headed for the mess hall.

Tom felt the anxiety in his stomach as he took a tray and walked down the buffet line. Instead of his normal hearty breakfast, he decided to take rather less, in the hope that his innards wouldn't rebel at the wrong moment. Settling for a plate of scrambled eggs on toast, accompanied by coffee, he sat down in his assigned place, added salt and pepper, and set to.

He listened to the roar of conversation around him as he ate. Breakfast was the only meal of the day when the Royals – those in their final year at the Solaris Fleet Academy – could speak and behave freely. Lunch and dinner were far more regimented, as the future officers learned to conduct themselves in a manner befitting their status. Wryly he recalled the torture of his first few months at the Academy, when his lack of merchant- or upper-class upbringing had betrayed itself in table manners that did not measure up to the required standard. He'd spent many a meal standing facing the wall in disgrace, his food untouched on the table behind him, having to endure the jeers of his classmates while his empty stomach growled in protest. Still, he'd learned, and learned fast. He'd had to, if he wanted to survive the merciless environment of the Academy. You either learned, or resigned, or were ejected. No allowances were made. The Academy was no place for the faint of heart.

His thoughts were distracted as Louise sat down next to him, her tray laden with porridge, eggs, bacon and half a grapefruit. “Not hungry today, Tom?” she asked airily, placing the plates before her as a steward took the tray.

“Not very, no. I guess I'm nervous about the interviews.”

“Oh, yes! You're in the first batch, aren't you? Lucky devil! I have to wait until the very last! Sometimes I wish Mom had married someone with a surname that didn't begin with 'W'!”

He joined in her wry chuckle. “Yes, if you want to make a career in the Fleet, it's definitely an alphabetical handicap! Perhaps you could persuade your father to change the family name?”

Louise spluttered through a mouthful of grapefruit. “Fat chance!” She glanced across at him. “You haven't requested a particular assignment, have you?”

“No. I'll take whatever they give me. With so many trying for the best assignments, and with the interest and influence others can call on, I won't stand a chance of getting one of them.”

She had the grace to blush slightly. Her mother was a doctor, working at the Fleet Rehabilitation Center on Eduris, and had doubtless already put in a word on her daughter's behalf. “I – I suppose not. I'm hoping for a slot with the Eduris System Patrol, so I can be with my parents for a while. It's been five years since I've been home, what with the initial spacer year and then four years here at the Academy. That's too long away from my family!” She hesitated, frowning as she remembered. “I'm sorry, Tom. I shouldn't have said that, should I?”

“It's OK, Louise. I'm used to it by now. After all, I've been in either an orphanage or the Fleet since I was five. I don't even remember the family life I'm supposed to be missing.”

Finishing his meal, he drained his coffee-cup, rose from the table, and collected his cap from the rack. Stepping outside, he flinched slightly as the crisp-cold morning air slapped against his warm cheeks, adjusted his cap, and glanced up at the clock on the tower. Ten minutes to Colors. He headed for the parade-ground, joining the other figures moving in that direction.

The five thousand-odd cadets of the Fleet Academy – divided into Lower, Topmast, Topgallant and Royal years, and each year into ten divisions – were all assembled in their respective formations by one minute before the hour. Each Division's Chief Petty Officer Instructor called it to attention, counted his charges, stood them at ease, and faced front.

As eight bells rang, the Officer of the Day, Lieutenant Crowther, called, “Parade, at-teeen-HUT!” Five thousand pairs of boots and shoes cracked together as one. A bosun's mate sounded the 'Still' on his pipe, and Crowther saluted stiffly as the Color Party raised the Federation Standard to the yardarm of the tall mast at the head of the parade-ground. The bosun's mate sounded the 'Carry On', and Crowther's arm snapped back to his side. He turned about to face the parade.

“Chief Instructors, take charge of your Divisions and carry on!”

Senior Chief Watkins saluted, along with all the other Instructors, then turned to face his youthful charges. “Cadets with surnames beginning with A through F inclusive, fall in on my right. The rest of you, fall in on my left. Royal Maintop division, faaall . . . OUT!”

A hurried scramble, those in Number Ones trying to avoid some clumsy ox treading on their immaculate shoes in the clutter. The two groups fell in and dressed their ranks, then faced front.

The Chief scanned the smaller group. “Mr. Anderssen, take charge of your detachment and march them to Admiral Newcombe Hall, smartly now! Report your arrival to the Clerk of Sessions.”

“Aye, aye, Senior Chief!” Axel fell out of ranks and took station in front of them. The cadets hurriedly re-dressed their ranks to take up the empty space.

“Detachment, at-teeen-HUT! Left . . . TURN! By the right, quick . . . MARCH!”

#

The hard wooden benches of the waiting-room were crammed full of cadets, with some forced to stand awkwardly against the walls at the end of the rows. The air of anticipation was almost palpable. Tom forced himself to sit still, restraining his feet from nervous tapping, holding his cap firmly in both hands, fingers closed around the brim to keep them still.

The intercom on the desk of the Clerk of Sessions buzzed, and he bent to it. After a muttered conversation, he picked up a folder, opened it, and reached for a microphone.

“The following cadets will report to the rooms indicated. Achmed, Midshipman Ibrahim Jebril, Room One; Agnetha, Midshipwoman Solveig Marie, Room Two . . . ” His voice droned on through more surnames. “Bowles, Midshipman Thomas Andrew, Room Sixteen.”

A rustle of interest and wordless speculation swept through the cadets. Forcing himself to display no reaction, Tom rose with the others whose names had been called and filed past the Clerk's desk, going through an archway behind it into a corridor.

Tom stopped at the door of Room Sixteen and knocked. He heard the voice of his Divisional Officer, Lieutenant-Commander Andreotti. “Come in!”

He twisted the handle, stepped inside, closed the door, and snapped to attention before the desk. “Midshipman Bowles reports to the Lieutenant-Commander as ordered, Sir!”

“Ah, yes, Bowles. Relax, Midshipman. Take a seat.”

He sat gingerly in the armless chair set before the desk, placing his cap on his lap. He'd never had much contact with the Commander, but that was normal. An Academy Divisional Officer usually saw his students individually only when they were in serious trouble. All routine matters were handled by an Assistant Divisional Officer, or the Chief Petty Officer Instructor and his assistants.

Commander Andreotti inspected him carefully. The Midshipman was one-point-eight-five meters in height, of medium build, his face not particularly handsome, but strong and determined. His eyes fell to the young man's chest, noting the four medal ribbons in a single row on his left breast. Below them was the gilt-edged blue ribbon of the Battle Effectiveness Award, with a single Battle 'E' device, showing that one of his previous ships had won that Award in competition with the rest of her Division, Squadron or Fleet. His gold name-tag was clipped over the lip of his right breast pocket. Above it gleamed the platinum Space Combat Badge, with two bronze stars at the bottom showing two combat engagements. Below the Combat Badge were three Expert badges denoting the highest level of skill in rifle, pistol and hand-to-hand combat.

“Let's take care of the formalities.” Andreotti clicked on his keyboard, opening Tom's personnel file on the holographic-projection display above the desk. “I see you joined the Fleet as an apprentice Spacer at the earliest possible age, on your sixteenth birthday. That's unusual in an Academy student. Most join only at eighteen or nineteen, to serve the regulation minimum of one year in enlisted ranks before admission to the Academy. Why did you join earlier?”

“Sir, I'd been living in an orphanage for eleven years, and I'd had enough of it. By entering under the Apprentice program, I could complete my schooling while training with the Fleet, and gain experience at the same time. I figured that could only help me when it came to the Academy, Sir.”

Andreotti nodded thoughtfully. “That was a good idea, Bowles, particularly considering that you don't come from the usual social background for a Fleet officer. I understand your admission to the Academy was as the result of your father's decoration, rather than a Senatorial appointment?”

“Yes, Sir. He was posthumously awarded the Solaris Star of Valor for his actions at the Battle of Corunna. That gave his children the right to enter the Academy when they came of age, without needing a Senatorial appointment. I was his only child, and my mother died two years after him, of cancer. That's how I ended up in an orphanage, Sir: neither had living relatives to take me in.”

“I see. Certainly, Petty Officer Bowles' heroism fully deserved our highest decoration for valor in action – and it didn't hurt that in the process, he saved the lives of Rear-Admiral Methuen and his staff! Still, you must have found it a handicap here, competing with other students who'd come via the normal route of applying to their Senators for appointment, with all the advantages of a regular education, plus access to special 'cramming' schools.”

“Well, Sir, two of the Chief Petty Officers aboard my second ship had known my father in their younger days. When I applied to the Academy, they gave me after-hours coaching in Fleet matters for several months, and they arranged for me to have additional access to the ship's educational library and self-study courses. My Divisional Officer also obtained permission for me to access some of the officers' course materials in the library, to get a head start on subjects where I had no previous exposure, and he tutored me in them. That helped make up for my lack of academic preparation.”

“You were fortunate. I note that you list this planet, Solaris, as your domicile, even though you were born and raised on Levisse. Why is that, Bowles?”

The young man flushed. “Well, Sir . . . I had nothing there. My parents were immigrants to Levisse, so I didn't have any other relatives there; and my only home for my last eleven years there was an orphanage. I've no real ties to that planet, Sir. I figured that since Solaris is the center of the Federation, and of the Fleet, it would probably be a better planet of domicile for me than anywhere else: so I registered as a resident citizen of the Federation when I arrived here. Of course, I don't have a home here, apart from the Academy – not yet, anyway.”

“I understand.” Andreotti felt a sudden flicker of sympathy for the young man. He couldn't imagine what it must have been like, growing up without the warm, intimate family atmosphere he'd known. To disguise his emotion, he clicked through a couple of screens of the file in front of him.

“You did well in your enlisted service. You entered as an Apprentice Spacer, and graduated from that two-year program with marks so high as to bypass Spacer Third Class and be appointed straight to Second. You received an accelerated promotion to Spacer First Class after only nine months, then were promoted to Petty Officer Third Class just before you came here. That's excellent progress. To attain Petty Officer grade only two years after graduation is most unusual.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

Tom didn't mention his certainty that Master Chief Renaud had arranged his PO3 promotion as the last tribute he could pay to his father's memory, and to give him the advantage of NCO status when reporting to the Academy. It had certainly helped to smooth his path with the Chief Petty Officer Instructors and their assistants, all Petty Officers themselves, who had taken due note when he'd reported aboard with two chevrons on his sleeve, and four medals and a combat badge on his breast. He'd certainly had far more enlisted experience than most Academy entrants.

“I see you hold the Fleet Good Conduct Medal, the Fleet Achievement Medal, the Combat Injury Medal in Bronze, and the Fleet Commendation Medal with Valor device, plus the Battle Effectiveness Award ribbon. I've read the citations, but that's just formal language. Tell me about them, Bowles.”

Tom flushed slightly. “Sir, the Good Conduct Medal was a routine award, for three years' service with no disciplinary offenses or demerits. Then, I found a significant defect in the stabilization system of newly-installed lifeboats aboard SFS Rotorua, Sir. We were the first in our Sector to receive the new design, and our report resulted in the Fleet suspending acceptance of further units until the manufacturers fixed the problem. Captain Rankin awarded me the Achievement Medal for that, plus an accelerated promotion to Spacer First, Sir. We also won the Battle 'E' Award in our Squadron that year, which is where I got that ribbon. Nine months later, we had a fight with some smugglers over a shipment of contraband in the Thetis system. I was in the boarding party that discovered it. The smugglers resisted, but we took them down and arrested their ship. My Divisional Officer, Lieutenant Gonzales, commanded the boarding party, and he recommended me for the Commendation Medal after the fight. I think that also helped with my promotion to PO3, Sir.”

“Don't be so modest, Midshipman. Lieutenant Gonzales' report is in your file. He says that after Petty Officer Sokolovski was wounded, you helped him rally the less experienced members of the boarding party under fire, and played a leading role in overcoming the smugglers' resistance – hence the 'V' device to your medal. You were also wounded, I understand?”

“Yes, Sir. That's where I got the Combat Injury Medal.”

In his mind's eye Tom could still see the struggle that had raged up and down the cargo hold where their boarding party had discovered the greenhouse containers of plants, all high-value protected species illegally harvested on Thetis. The smugglers had desperately tried to overpower the boarding party, hoping to get away before anyone else arrived to ask questions. They'd killed two Fleet spacers and wounded five, including putting a slug in his leg, before they'd been taken down. Those smugglers who'd survived the fight had all been sentenced to death, or long terms of imprisonment.

Andreotti smiled. “I hope the prize money for the confiscated goods and ship was some compensation for your injury, along with your Commendation Medal.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Tom grinned faintly at the memory. He'd received just over thirty thousand credits as his share, equivalent to a year's salary as a Spacer First, and had carefully banked it against future need. That, plus what he'd been able to save during his enlisted service, had helped considerably during the lean years at the Academy, where many students had private resources to supplement a Midshipman's salary. He hadn't been able to match their level of expenditure, but at least he'd been able to contribute his share to the Gunroom's common entertainment fund.

“That accounts for one of the stars on your Space Combat Badge. What about the second?”

“That was just before I reported here, Sir. I was transferred to a destroyer, SFS Geronimo, for the trip to Solaris, along with a couple of other cadets. We happened to be in the right place to intercept a pirate vessel as she tried to seize a cargo ship in the Victrix system, and exchanged fire with her. As a result, all aboard qualified for a combat star, Sir, even us cadets. We all helped out as best we could during the fight, as supernumerary members of the ship's Damage Control team.”

The Lieutenant-Commander nodded. “Well, Bowles, your performance here has certainly been satisfactory. Academically, you've consistently ranked in the top half of your class, despite your disadvantages in that area. I note that while most other students went on holiday during scheduled leave periods, you often used them to study the forthcoming term's work and get a head start on it. We look for initiative like that, and approve of it. Your Chief Instructors also state that your enlisted service background was of great value in the practical side of our training, as you'd had much more experience than most of your Division-mates. They report that you were generous in helping, encouraging and teaching them. Again, we look for that, and we're always pleased to see it. It bodes well for what we expect of our junior officers when they assume command responsibilities.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

“You'll be graduating on Friday, along with the rest of the Royals. I note that you haven't indicated a preference for your first Fleet assignment. Why is that?”

Tom flushed again. “Well, Sir, I've no interest or influence. I know the plum postings usually go to those who do, so I didn't see much point in asking for anything, Sir. I'll take whatever the Fleet sees fit to give me.”

Andreotti suddenly grinned at him, almost like a small boy with a new toy. “I wouldn't be too sure about your lack of interest or influence, Bowles. I have a personal message here for you.”

Tom blinked. “A message, Sir?”

“Yes. Watch this.” The Lieutenant-Commander inserted a message chip in the slot on his keyboard, reversed the holographic display so that Tom could read it, and pressed 'Play'.

The display flickered, then came to life with the head and shoulders of a grey-haired man. His face was austere, commanding. The insignia on his uniform epaulettes showed him to be a full Captain in the Fleet. He gazed into the lens of the holovid camera and spoke.

“Midshipman Bowles, you don't know me. I'm Captain David Tarrant, Commanding Officer of SFS Agincourt, currently part of the Second Element, Third Battle Division, Alcestis Sector.”

Tom blinked again. Agincourt was a modern Battle-class battleship, one of the largest and most potent warships in the Fleet. Why would so august a personage as her Commanding Officer send an insignificant Midshipman a personal message through his Divisional Officer?

The figure on the display continued, “Twenty years ago, I was a Lieutenant aboard SFS Stuart, a Cavalry-class cruiser. As I'm sure you know, she was Rear-Admiral Methuen's flagship at the Battle of Corunna. Your father, Petty Officer Second Class Bowles, was in my Division aboard Stuart. She was heavily damaged by enemy missiles during the battle. He saved her and all aboard from destruction, by entering a damaged fusion reactor compartment and shutting it down before its mag bottle failed. He was fully aware of the risk he took in doing so: and, most regrettably, he received a lethal dose of radiation. It was my unhappy privilege to write his citation for the posthumous award of the Solaris Star of Valor.

“I tried to keep in touch with his widow, but lost contact after a couple of years. When I was finally able to find out what had happened, I learned that she'd died, and you'd been placed in an orphanage. I tried to arrange custody of you for my wife and myself, in recognition of what I personally owed to your father, but since we weren't any relation to you, our application wasn't accepted. Even without that handicap, we lived on another planet, and it's always difficult to arrange interplanetary adoptions, as I'm sure you know.

“I've tried to keep informed of your progress. I knew you'd joined the Fleet as a Spacer Apprentice, and did well. I was delighted when you took advantage of your father's SSV and applied to the Academy. I've kept tabs on your progress, and you're now approaching graduation. You'll rejoin the Fleet as an Ensign within a few weeks.

“I have no personal knowledge of you, and I'm not going to exercise undue influence on your behalf, because that might be a disservice to the Fleet if you don't turn out to be as good a spacer as your father. However, on the basis of your record thus far, and because I owe your father my life, I've sent a message to the Commandant of the Academy. I've explained the background to her, and asked her, as a personal favor, to see to it that you're given an appointment where you'll have a chance to shine. It'll be completely in your hands whether or not you make the most of it.

“That's all I can do for you, Midshipman Bowles, apart from a graduation present which your Divisional Officer will give you on my behalf. If you do well, I'll know that you are, indeed, your father's son, and I'll look forward to meeting you in person if our paths should cross in the service of the Fleet and the Federation.

“It's up to you now. Godspeed and good luck.”

Lieutenant-Commander Andreotti ejected the chip and handed it across the desk. “You'd better keep that, Bowles. You might want to watch it again sometime.”

“Th – thank you, Sir.” Tom's head was whirling at the unexpected message. He took the chip from Andreotti and pocketed it carefully.

“As Captain Tarrant said, he sent a personal message to Vice-Admiral Gretton concerning you, and enclosed that chip to be forwarded to you. The Admiral called me into her office to discuss your case, and I had to brief her on your service record and performance. She agrees that they merit the chance Captain Tarrant's requested for you, and adds that her family is distantly related to the Methuens over several generations, so she has reason to be grateful to your father as well. Anyway, she's found you an assignment that will give you an opportunity to excel, if you apply yourself.

“The Twenty-Third Destroyer Division is presently forming: four newly-refurbished Hero-class destroyers, plus a depot ship. It's being sent to the Midrash sector, where there's a pirate problem to be dealt with. The ships of the Division will track down and eliminate the pirates. It'll be a difficult assignment, because that Sector has plenty of empty star systems where no-one lives, and lots of dead planets where pirates can set up bases for themselves. There's likely to be a lot of small-craft action. The destroyers will be sending out shuttles to investigate likely hiding-places, search any vessels they encounter, and deal with any problems. The Division's likely to see combat – the perfect environment for a hard-working junior officer to make a name for himself. You'll be joining the flotilla leader, Achilles.

“You'll graduate on Friday, and be commissioned as an Ensign. You're entitled to two weeks' graduation leave before reporting to your new assignment: but the Division's leaving late next week, so you'll have to forgo that if you want to join them. I assume that will be in order?”

“Yes, Sir.” Tom had nowhere special to go, anyway.

“Very well. I'll give you the weekend to pack your belongings, and store planetside what you won't need aboard ship. I'll cut orders for you to report aboard SFS Achilles on Monday.”

“Thank you, Sir. I'll do my best to justify this opportunity.”

“I'm sure you will, Bowles. As Captain Tarrant pointed out, if you do well, you'll establish a firm foundation for your future in the Fleet. It's up to you from here on. Oh – he sent you a graduation present.” He took an envelope from his pocket and handed it over. “It's a payment voucher to Gibbs, the Fleet tailors, to pay for a doeskin Number One uniform.” He reached for a pad and pen, scribbled a quick note, and passed it over the desk. “Give this to Senior Chief Watkins before lunch. It excuses you from classes this afternoon. Take the shuttle into town, and have Gibbs take your measurements. Warn them to have your new uniform ready by Friday afternoon, after your graduation ceremony. You'll find your new Commanding Officer is a stickler for tradition and grooming, so you'll want to look your best when you report aboard on Monday.”

“Thank you, Sir. I'll see Gibbs this afternoon, and send a note of thanks to Captain Tarrant as well.”

“That would be very appropriate. Very well, Midshipman. On your way, and the best of luck to you.”

#

Back at the barracks, Tom took his time changing out of his Number One uniform, hanging it carefully in his closet, and putting on Number Twos for the rest of the morning. He went down to the common-room and poured himself some coffee, still internally dazed at the completely unexpected message from Captain Tarrant, and glowing with pleasure at his assignment. It wasn't the sort of thing that many midshipmen with influence would want, being out of the mainstream of Fleet activities, and anything but a sinecure. Nevertheless, an ambitious officer who was willing to work hard, and who had the luck to encounter the right circumstances, could make his reputation in such a posting – and perhaps some prize money, too.

He overheard Frank Ashton's snide, superior voice. “Oh, yes, I'm going to our country house next week, to get in some shooting before reporting for my assignment. I'm to join the staff of Admiral Jeffries on the Sirius station, you know.”

Tom grinned quietly to himself. Ashton's family certainly had more influence than most, and it would be just like that aristocratic snob to use it to get a posting to an Admiral's staff, in the belief that it would gain him valuable exposure. Tom knew he'd be disappointed. The most junior officers on such staffs were nothing more than 'gofers', fetching and carrying for their superiors, harried and harassed all the day long. He'd seen it as a Spacer Apprentice, when Rear-Admiral Gravina and her staff had taken passage aboard Rotorua. Definitely not something he wanted for himself! Besides, such officers had little opportunity to learn much about spacefaring and ship-handling, which was their primary calling, after all. They'd have to catch up with that later, in their next shipboard posting.

“What about you, Bowles?” he heard Ashton inquire. “Where are they shunting you off to?” He turned, to find Ashton and a couple of his cronies grinning at him, clearly anticipating a dejected answer.

“I'm to join SFS Achilles, part of the Twenty-Third Destroyer Division, assigned to the Midrash Sector. I report aboard on Monday.”

“Midrash? What'll you be doing there?” Izmash asked, frowning. “And what do you mean, reporting on Monday? We'll all be on leave!”

“The rest of you will be, but not me. The Division leaves next week.”

“A destroyer!” He hadn't heard Axel come in, but the real pleasure in his exclamation was audible. “However did you manage that? I was afraid they'd stick you on a transport or in some shipyard, somewhere out in the back of beyond!”

“I've no idea. Probably a rush of blood to the head by the Officer Assignments Bureau!” He thought it best not to mention Captain Tarrant's assistance.

“Lucky devil!” There was real envy in Axel's tone. “I'll bet that on a destroyer, you'll have more chance for combat than most of us!”

“Where are you going, Alex?”

“I'm posted to the Planetary Recruit Training Depot for a six-month temporary assignment. After that, who knows?”

“So you'll be able to squire Ingrid to the Débutantes Ball, then.”

“Yes, I will. I'll hoist a glass of champagne in the general direction of the Midrash Sector in your honor.”

“Better make it a bottle!”

Go to Chapter 2

Return to Introduction

Ensign Bowles: Chapter Two

The passenger pod slowed as it approached the Orbital Station, its climber groaning and creaking against the fullerene space-elevator cable. With a wheeze of pneumatic-hydraulic buffers, the car clanged into the locks. A concertina-style collapsible airlock extended from the Station to surround and clamp over its door frame. The airlock tube inflated until its interior was pressurized to the same level as the Station and the pod. The indicator lights over the door flickered from red to green, and with a clatter of releasing latches and a loud hiss the doors slid open. A mechanical voice intoned, “Airlock established, pressures equalized. Passengers may now disembark.”

The pod was half-filled with a couple of hundred spacers and Marines on their way to ships orbiting Solaris. Most were returning from day trips, so they dispersed quickly. Tom joined the few other passengers waiting at the baggage carousel, and retrieved his two suitcases and seabag as they were offloaded. He extended the handle of his large suitcase, clipped the handle of the smaller case to it, and strapped his seabag atop them both.

He wheeled them out of the baggage area into a shopping precinct, filled with tourist traps to entice the last credits from holiday-makers leaving Solaris. Craning his neck, he spotted a traffic board, and made his way over to it. Every ship using this Orbital Station as a transit point was listed, along with its allocated shuttle bay. Achilles proved to be using Bay 192, at the far end of the station, near the Down cable that took transients and freight planetside. He consulted a map, discovering that he'd have to use the high-speed trunk, known as the 'rolling road', to get there from here.

He pressed the 'Navigator' button below the display, and a small unit dropped into a slot. He picked it up and activated it, entering the bay number he wanted. Immediately a red dot showed his present location on the on-screen map, and arrows showed him where to go next.

He followed the directions into a transit area. Four walkways led out of it in different directions, and escalators and elevators led to upper and lower levels. The navigation unit led him to a walkway signposted, 'Rolling Road: Eastbound Traffic: On-Ramp. Board with caution.' He stepped onto the slow-moving walkway, which increased speed slightly with each successive segment as it curved to join the high-speed transit strip. By the time the two were parallel, they were moving at the same speed. Hurriedly he maneuvered his suitcases onto the rolling road before the walkway diverged again, to allow exiting travelers to dismount.

For almost fifteen minutes he stood to the right of the transit corridor, waiting as it zoomed through the huge Orbital Station. Those in a hurry passed him on the left, walking fast to add to their speed of transit. Tom grinned idly. He'd never understood how saving just a few seconds in transit time was worth the bother, except in emergency. Besides, the transit gave one time to appreciate how large the geostationary satellite was. It stretched a full ten kilometers between the Up and Down cables of the planetary elevator, handling thousands of passengers and tens of thousands of tons of cargo each day. It was one of six space elevators spread around the equator of Solaris, bustling testimony to the planet's political and commercial importance at the heart of the Solaris Federation. Most planets had only one or two space elevators.

He unobtrusively stroked the luxurious smooth doeskin fabric of his new Number One uniform. Gibbs had been as good as their word, and had it ready on time. He'd never been able to afford so fine a uniform before, and had sent his grateful thanks to Captain Tarrant, enclosing a picture of himself wearing it, and promising to keep in touch. He knew he'd never looked smarter. The single line of thin gold braid around the wrists of the jacket denoted his new commissioned rank, as did his gold-foliage-backed Fleet cap badge. He'd paid one of the Academy servants to upgrade his older uniforms, removing the midshipman's patches, sewing his new insignia onto the winter uniforms, and fitting epaulettes to his shirts and summer uniforms. They'd do for duty use until he could afford new ones.

Eventually the successive segments of the rolling road began to slow. A sign flashed, 'Eastbound Terminus. All Passengers Disembark At Next Off-Ramp.'

As the rolling road slowed to a crawl, Tom moved onto an off-ramp, which led to another transit hall. Stepping onto the solid floor once more, he saw a sign ahead: 'Shuttle Bays 181-200'. He dropped the navigation unit into a receptor slot and headed down a broad passage, wheeling his suitcases, counting off the bays until he reached 192.

A Petty Officer Second Class was standing at the airlock. “Passage to Achilles, Sir?”

“Yes, PO. I'm Ensign Bowles, coming aboard to join.” He handed him a copy of his orders.

“Aye, aye, Sir.” The Petty Officer inserted the chip into a reader, scanned its contents briefly, and returned it. “The cutter will depart in about twenty minutes, Sir. We're waiting for Command Master Chief Clark to return with a work party and cargo.”

“Very well.” Tom couldn't help but wonder why the Division's senior NCO was handling such a mundane task as bossing a working party. However, he asked no questions.

The Petty Officer called through the airlock, “Hi! You two! Officer's gear!” Two spacers hurried out, laid hold of Tom's suitcases and seabag, and carried them into the cutter, strapping them down in the cargo area. He followed them inside, looking around, sniffing the familiar, slightly musty aroma with pleasure. He opened one of the fold-down chairs along the cutter's starboard side, and sat down.

Time dragged on until the noise of an approaching utility transport was heard from the passage. It stopped at the airlock. Shortly the Petty Officer came in, followed by two armed guards and a number of spacers, carefully maneuvering carts bearing a score of large white plastic containers. They stacked them in the central cargo area, and tied them down securely before taking their own seats on either side. Tom suddenly understood why a Command Master Chief was in charge of the work party. From the stenciled legend on the side of each container, he could see that these were nuclear demolition charges, as yet deactivated, but nevertheless not to be entrusted to less senior personnel.

A short, blocky, muscular figure followed the last container through the airlock. His immaculate uniform's left sleeve bore Master Chief's insignia, with the star replaced by a ringed planet. The name-badge on his right breast pocket, beneath Space and Planetary Combat Badges ablaze with stars, bore the legend 'COMMAND' below his name; and six rows of service and combat award ribbons decorated his left breast. His face was expressionless, but his eyes were alert, checking the lashings of the warheads, flickering to Tom briefly, then examining the rest of the cutter.

He turned to the pilot. “Ready when you are, PO.”

“Aye, aye, Master Chief.”

The Petty Officer began securing the airlock as the transporter's electric motor whined into life outside, the sound receding down the passage. The senior noncom turned to Tom, braced to formal attention for a moment, then held out his hand.

“You'll be our new Ensign, Sir? I'm Master Chief Clark, Division Chief.”

“Ensign Bowles. Good to meet you, Master Chief,” Tom replied, rising and taking his hand. It was a firm, strong grip. “I hadn't expected to run into you this quickly. I have a note for you from Senior Chief Petty Officer Watkins at the Academy.”

“Oh?” Clark's eyebrows rose fractionally. “And how is Senior Chief Watkins, Sir?”

“In fine form, Master Chief, and running his midshipmen ragged, as usual!”

The Chief grinned, accepting an envelope that Tom took from his pocket. “That's his job, Sir. We can't have the wrong sort of young gentlemen becoming Solaris Fleet officers, now can we? Would you excuse me while I read this, Sir?”

“Of course.”

Clark tore open the envelope and read the note inside. Tom grinned inwardly. He'd been surprised when Senior Chief Watkins approached him last Friday, after the graduation ceremony was over.

Saluting his new commissioned rank formally, the Chief had said, “Sir, I understand you're headed for Destroyer Division 23. I know the Division Chief there. He and I go back a long way. Sir, if you'll give him this note, I think he'll be able to help you start off on the right foot.”

Surprised and touched, he'd thanked the Senior Chief for his concern, only for Watkins to wink at him. “Well, Sir, you came to us as an NCO – and we NCO's have to look after one another, even when one of us ain't an NCO any more!”

Clark finished the note and looked up, his eyes perceptibly warmer as they briefly scanned the four medal ribbons on Tom's left breast, and the Expert badges in weapons and unarmed combat below the gold name-plate clipped to his right breast pocket. “Senior Chief Watkins has some good things to say about you, Sir. I'm pleased you're coming to us as a combat veteran and an experienced spacer, not just another newbie Academy graduate. We need junior officers like you.”

“Thank you, Master Chief. I'll do my best – and please pass the word to your senior NCO's that if they notice me doing anything less well than it should be done, they should please approach me discreetly and help me get straightened out. I've got a lot to learn.”

Clark nodded approvingly. “That's the right attitude, Sir. You'll be reporting to Commander Mars as soon as we arrive on board and you've stowed your baggage. If I may suggest it, Sir, it'll be worth your while to take a minute or two to get your uniform into tip-top shape. The Commander's a stickler for that. I'll inform the Division Commanding Officer, Captain Hutchinson, of your background, Sir. All our ships are short a few officers, due to the haste with which the Division's been formed. I'm afraid you're going to be thrown in at the deep end from day one, but four years' enlisted experience should help you to cope with that better than most newly-commissioned Ensigns.”

“Well, you know what they say, Master Chief. You shouldn't have joined . . . ”

“If you can't take a joke!” The Chief finished the time-worn saying with him, and they chuckled together as they sat down and fastened their seat harness.

#

Tom looked around his new cabin curiously. 'Cabin' wasn't exactly the right word for it . . . more like a cubby-hole, just over three meters long by less than two wide. A small desk was bolted to the bulkhead just inside the fireproof sliding door, with a computer terminal, a chair, and drawers at one side. Above it were a bookcase at the rear and storage compartments to left and right. Above them a narrow bunk was mounted at head height, with drawers beneath it to store small items. A ladder was mounted at the far end of the desk. A hanging closet extended the width of the bunk at its foot, and a small wash-basin at the rear of the cabin flanked a single armchair. More storage compartments lined the bulkheads above them, and a cargo net hung from the deckhead to hold light, bulky items. Every available scrap of space was used for something. The bulkheads and deckhead were powder-coated in a soothing light blue, with variable-strength lighting from two diodes, one on each side of the cabin.

The grey-haired Petty Officer Steward said, “Sir, I'll assign one of the orderlies to unpack your suitcases and seabag, if you wish. You'll be needing to see the Commanding Officer at once.”

“Thank you, PO, but I'd prefer to do that myself. If you'll please have an orderly available when I return, I'll show him how I like things set up, and he can keep them that way in future.” He handed him a twenty-credit note.

“Aye, aye, Sir.” The Petty Officer pocketed the tip unobtrusively.

It was a long-standing tradition in the Solaris Fleet that the jobs of Wardroom NCO, stewards, and officers' orderlies were given to older spacers. The work was relatively easy, and they received monthly stipends from the officers in return for relieving the latter of the day-to-day drudgery of cleaning cabins, making beds, laundry, shoe care, and so on. As well as the extra money, the spacers avoided more onerous duties, and could entertain the rest of the crew with fanciful tales of what they'd seen and heard in 'officer's country'.

Tom spent a moment examining himself in the full-length reflective strip on the inside of the door, adjusting his tie, straightening his uniform and combing his hair. He took up his cap and went out, to find the Petty Officer waiting with a female Spacer First Class.

“This is Spacer Martzyck, Sir. She looks after our Ensigns and junior Lieutenants. She'll be waiting for you when you get back.”

“Thank you, PO. Pleased to meet you, Spacer.”

They shook hands, Martzyck grinning at him. She was clearly in her fifties at least, hair already streaked with grey, which was unusual in a long-life society. She glanced down, and tutted as she saw a mark on his right shoe.

“With your permission, Sir?” She didn't wait for an answer, but went down on one knee, took a polishing cloth from a pocket of her spacer overalls, and swiftly wiped both of his shoes, restoring their mirror-like sheen. Straightening, she said, “It'd never do to meet the Commander for the first time like that, Sir. She has an eye for such things.”

He grinned as he took out his wallet and extracted another twenty-credit note. “I appreciate your help, Spacer. I'll call you when I return, and we'll sort out my cabin.”

“Aye, aye, Sir. Thank you, Sir.” She slipped the note into her pocket.

Leaving the Wardroom annex, he turned forward along the main corridor. A Marine Private Second Class stood guard at the entrance to the Commanding Officer's quarters. The sentry braced to attention as he stopped before him.

“Good afternoon, Marine. Ensign Bowles requests permission to report to the Commanding Officer upon joining the ship.”

“Aye, aye, Sir. The Commander is presently meeting with Captain Hutchinson, OC DD23, and Captain Lefevre, DD23 Marine CO. I'll inform her of your arrival.”

The Marine stepped back into the entrance alcove, motioning to Tom to do the same, out of the way of other traffic. He picked up a comm handset, pressed a call button, waited a moment, then spoke in a low voice. He listened, replaced the handset, and turned to Tom.

“The Commander will see you now, Sir.”

“Thank you, Marine.”

As the sentry opened the door, Tom settled his cap firmly beneath his left arm. He marched through the door, and came to attention before the desk as the three occupants of the cabin rose to greet him. He nodded briefly, formally, to the senior officer on his right, wearing the four stripes of a Spacer Captain, then turned to his front, facing the woman behind the desk. “Ensign Thomas Bowles, reporting aboard to join, Ma'am.”

Commander Mars proved to be an attractive lady, looking to be in her mid-thirties, dark-haired, olive-skinned, relatively short, almost petite. Three stripes on her epaulettes confirmed her identity. She braced to attention in acknowledgment of his introduction, and ran her eyes over him. A brief flicker of approval crossed her face as she held out her hand.

“Welcome aboard, Ensign. This is Captain Hutchinson, our Division Commander, and Captain Lefevre, the Division's Marine Company Commander. Both are embarked aboard Achilles, as we're the flotilla leader.”

Captain Hutchinson was tall and burly, with a craggy, austere face, but with a light in his eyes that suggested intelligence and drive. Captain Lefevre – a Marine Captain, equivalent to a Spacer Corps Lieutenant – was sandy-haired, open-faced, with what looked like a permanent grin on his features. Each greeted him as they shook hands.

Lefevre smiled at him, his eyes flickering to his left breast. “I see you're wearing Expert badges in rifle, pistol and unarmed combat. That's most unusual for a Spacer officer. Such skills are normally the province of the Marine Corps. What prompted you to qualify in those areas?”

“Sir, I was part of a boarding party that had to deal with some smugglers, a year before entering the Academy. I was wounded in the fight. It seemed to me that if a spacer could get into a close-quarters brawl like that, he'd better know how to take care of himself, so I started joining any available Marines for weapons and unarmed combat training whenever I could. I kept that up at the Academy, Sir, with the Marine cadets, and I hope to do so here as well.”

Lefevre' eyebrows rose in respect. “That's excellent!” He glanced at Mars. “Ma'am, with your permission, as and when Ensign Bowles' duties permit, I'll be happy for him to join my Marines at our training sessions.”

“He's not likely to have much time for that, Captain, but we'll see what can be arranged. Please sit down, Ensign.” Tom took the only spare chair as the others sat down together.

Hutchinson commented, “Master Chief Clark called me a short while ago. He's heard good things about you, Ensign, from a friend of his at the Academy, and seems to think you're a more experienced spacer, and less of an eager-beaver novice, than most newly-commissioned officers.”

Mars added, “Yes, I was pleased to hear that, because we have a tough and demanding job ahead of us, and our wardroom's short-handed. We won't be able to spare much time to hold the hands of inexperienced junior officers, Ensign, so you'll have to find your feet as quickly as possible.”

“I'll do my best, Ma'am.”

“I'm sure you will. My Executive Officer, Lieutenant-Commander Tomczak, is preparing your duty assignments. He'll brief you about them this evening. Meanwhile, let me have your orders. I'll forward them to him after I've looked through them.”

“Aye, aye, Ma'am.” He took the order chip from his pocket and handed it to her.

Hutchinson said thoughtfully, “Commander, we were discussing the shortage of suitable officers to command search and boarding parties. Given his enlisted experience in that area, plus his weapons and unarmed combat qualifications, Ensign Bowles might be a suitable candidate.”

“Yes, Sir. What's your experience with small craft, Ensign?”

“During my enlisted service I qualified as command pilot on assault shuttles, cutters and gigs, Ma'am, and as second pilot on the larger cargo shuttles. My ratings expired while I was at the Academy, of course, but I'm sure it won't take me long to renew them, given a few simulator sessions and a little stick time.”

“Very good. You won't need to do much piloting, of course – we have enough enlisted pilots – but you clearly understand small craft operations. What do you think, Captain Lefevre?”

“I agree, Ma'am. If we use Ensign Bowles to command one team, we can assign an experienced NCO to head up the section of Marines in his crew. That'll free the ship's Marine platoon commander to lead another team, if necessary.”

Mars looked at Hutchinson. “I'll discuss it with my Exec, Sir, and we'll set up some training exercises. If Ensign Bowles does well at them, we'll certainly make use of him.” She turned back to Tom. “Thank you, Ensign. You can carry on now. Use what's left of the afternoon to stow your gear and begin finding your way around the ship.”

“Thank you, Ma'am.” Tom stood and braced to attention. “Sir . . . Sir,” he nodded formally to the other two officers in order of their rank, then turned and marched out of the cabin.

#

After supper that evening in the wardroom, an informal meal given the absence of a number of officers on shore leave, he was summoned by the Executive Officer, Lieutenant-Commander Tomczak. The Exec was a thin, harried-looking man, with a permanent frown on his face. He nodded briskly in response to Tom's formal brace at the doorway to his office.

“As you were, Ensign. Sit down. I've already heard about you from Command Master Chief Clark. He tells me you had several years' experience as an enlisted spacer, and won't need as much hand-holding as most new Ensigns. I don't mind telling you, that bit of news is a Godsend to us right now! We're short one Lieutenant, one junior Lieutenant and two Ensigns, so the rest of us are going to be stretched to the limit to cope with the workload. You'll be our only Ensign on this cruise, and at least I won't have to assign another officer to supervise you constantly.”

“Yes, Sir.” Tom felt he was safe with a non-committal agreement.

“Let me tell you more about our mission. The Division will be in the Midrash Sector, as you know, where there's a growing piracy problem. Our job is to identify the individuals and/or groups responsible, hunt them down and destroy them, or bring them back for trial. The nature of our patrols and their destinations won't be known until we get there.

“Achilles will proceed to the Sector Base at Midrash, so that Captain Hutchinson can report our arrival to the Sector Admiral. The other three destroyers will go to three other planets in the Sector that have had particular problems with piracy, to collect the latest intelligence, and then rendezvous with us at Midrash to plan our operations. While we wait for them, our boarding and search parties will work with Midrash's System Patrol and Customs officials, to learn how smugglers and pirates have operated there in the past, and what to look for. We'll brief the other ships' boarding parties when they arrive.”

The Exec pushed some papers aside, and pressed a button on a control panel. A three-dimensional holographic image of the destroyer appeared over his desk.

“For this mission, our ships have been reconfigured. Like most Solaris Fleet warships, the Hero class is of modular design, as you know, making that easy.” His hand traced the elements of Achilles' systems as he described them. “Three of our six missile cells have been removed, leaving us with sixty vertical-launch-system main battery missiles and sixty penetration aids. Since we're not expecting to come up against fully-fledged warships, we probably won't miss the extra weapons. In place of two of the VLS cells that were removed, we have pods for two Marine assault shuttles, each with associated airlock, docking bay, armory for shuttle weapons, and maintenance facilities. Along with the ship's cutter, they'll carry our boarding and search parties, of which we're likely to send out a great many. The third VLS cell has been replaced by a communications drone module.

“Each ship's Marine platoon has been brought to full strength. The section and platoon NCO's have been specially selected for their knowledge and experience of small-craft operations and small-unit independent action. Each boarding and search party will comprise a section of a dozen Marines under a Staff or Gunnery Sergeant, and a similar number of spacers under a Petty Officer First Class or Chief Petty Officer. A Spacer or Marine officer will be in overall command.”

He shut off the display. “A team will be sent to investigate any ships we intercept. When investigating uninhabited star systems, we'll do a quick survey of every likely planet and orbital body from space. If we spot something interesting, we'll drop off a team to check it out while we tackle the other bodies in the system. The shuttles and cutter will carry sensor pods and other gear to help with that. If a team finds something, and it's small enough, they'll investigate it themselves: otherwise they'll holler for help, and stand off until we get back there with our heavier firepower.

“We'll probably split up the division for that sort of investigation, with each ship checking half-a-dozen systems, then rendezvousing to report to Captain Hutchinson and plan our next moves. For larger and more complex systems, like those with multiple suns, we'll use two destroyers. If one of our ships finds a major pirate base, she'll use her communications drone to send word to the rendezvous. Each ship will check the rendezvous site weekly via drone for messages. If a ship reports finding something of importance, the whole division will move to join her. While she waits for the others, she'll try to interdict the system and intercept any arrivals or departures. As soon as all our ships have come together, we'll mount a joint assault on the target. Any questions?”

Tom shook his head. “No, Sir. Looks like it's going to be a long and arduous search.”

“You can say that again! Why Midrash Sector didn't nip this in the bud long ago, but let it fester, I just don't . . . but that's beside the point.” Tomczak rubbed his tired eyes. “Anyway, let's get to you personally. As I said, given our shortage of officers, if you can cope without needing too much hand-holding, that'll be an enormous help to us. I'll give extra time to oversee you and our junior Lieutenants. You'll have multiple duties.

“First and foremost, Commander Mars wants you to renew your command-pilot qualifications on shuttles and cutters before we leave orbit, if possible. You'll spend the next three days on that exclusively, working in the simulator and with Chief Petty Officer Saint-Jacques. She's a Fleet-certified examiner, so if you pass her check-rides, we can issue you with renewed licenses.

“Once we're under way, you'll have two main tasks. We want you qualified as a watch-stander within six months, although of course you won't be allowed to act alone as Officer of the Watch until you're a Lieutenant Junior Grade. You'll spend a couple of weeks at each OpCen console, learning its operation and how it fits into the overall command and control of the ship. Then, it's been Commander Mars' experience, and mine, that many young officers get too focused on one area of a warship's systems or activities, and neglect others. You need a rounded education in all of them. Therefore, apart from spending four hours in the Operations Center each day learning watch-keeping responsibilities, you'll also spend three to four hours a day in Engineering, learning how things function down there. In due course, once I'm satisfied with your progress, I'll move you to Weapons, then other departments in turn, to do the same thing.

“You'll be our Welfare Officer, in charge of the ship's Commissary Store and Welfare Fund. In that capacity you'll work with the Division Chaplain, who'll be aboard as part of Captain Hutchinson's small staff, in assisting members of the crew with personal problems. I'm also going to make you Assistant Wardroom Officer, working with Lieutenant Hendricks. The two of you will look after the officers' mess, and make sure that our orderlies, stewards and other staff are up to scratch. Furthermore, you'll be appointed as Officer In Charge of a messdeck, and be responsible for its cleanliness and the welfare of the enlisted spacers living there.

“Finally, Captain Lefevre has offered to allow you to join his Marines during their unarmed combat and small-arms training. Commander Mars has agreed that you may do so if, and only if, it won't conflict with your duties. I strongly advise you not to attend a Marine training session at the expense of your responsibilities, or permission to do so will be immediately withdrawn. Clear?”

“Yes, Sir.” Tom wasn't about to reveal his trepidation at having to cram so many new responsibilities into a twenty-four-hour day. He'd just have to learn to cope.

“Good.” The Exec relaxed. “Do you have a full kit issue? The Academy Quartermaster's not renowned for his generosity in equipping graduates before they leave.” They both grinned.

“I've got all I need in terms of Number Ones and Twos, Sir, but I need more working uniforms and a few other items.”

“Very well. Give a list to the Quartermaster first thing tomorrow morning, and make sure he draws them from Stores before we depart. It'll probably be months before you get another opportunity.”

Go to Chapter 3

Return to Introduction

Ensign Bowles: Chapter Three

Tom's memories of the next four weeks blurred into a haze of endless work and not enough sleep as he settled into his new responsibilities. However, certain incidents would forever remain clear in his memory, some uncomfortable, some bright with promise.

There was The Case Of The Capacitor Conniptions, as Lieutenant-Commander Ergal, the Engineering Officer, christened it. The two shuttle pods installed in place of VLS cells Three and Four each had banks of capacitors, to provide power to their shuttles when the latter's fusion micro-reactors were powered down. The capacitors were designed to trickle-charge themselves from the ship's circuits during periods when they were not in use, and make their stored charge available to the shuttles when required, thus avoiding an overload on the destroyers' reactors and wiring harness.

That was the theory, anyway. Unfortunately, theory did not translate into practice for one of the shuttle pods. Without fail, its circuit-breakers would trip ten to fifteen minutes after the capacitors were placed on charge. The ship's engineering staff stripped down every circuit, checked the wiring, installed new breakers, tried different combinations of settings . . . all to no avail. A week into the voyage, the problem was no nearer being solved.

Tom found himself working on it with a team of technicians, as part of his introduction to the Engineering Division. They'd just finished checking every circuit for the seventeenth time, and started the charge, only to have the breakers trip once more after the same time interval.

Wails of profane protest rose from the technicians, some of whom looked almost ready to mutiny. Chief Petty Officer Technician Suleiman threw his tool belt to the deck in disgust. “Just what the hell did those monkey-brained, ham-fisted, addle-pated, cross-eyed, squat-assed, cloven-hoofed, cloth-eared clowns in the dockyard do to this damned pod? It's jinxed, I tell you!”

“Enough of that, Chief!” Lieutenant-Commander Ergal snapped. “We're all tired and frustrated, I know, but that's no reason to blame others for our problems. It's up to us to fix them. Let's get started stripping the covers off the wiring duct again. Ensign Bowles, take charge here while the Chief and I go through the schematics once more, to see if there's anything we've missed.”

“Aye, aye, Sir,” Tom answered automatically.

As the technicians grumpily set to work, Tom racked his brains. There had to be some explanation for the inexplicable behavior of the circuit-breakers. They'd been through the schematics many times before, and checked the wiring even more often, and it had always come up clean . . . so, if the problem wasn't internal, what other factor, external to the pod, might be causing it?

He tried to visualize the connections between the pod and the ship. Any pod inserted in one of the six stations along the spine of the destroyer, three on either side of it, had to interface with the ship's systems. Missile pods were linked to the fire control system; shuttle pods such as these drew power and utilities from the ship, as did personnel pods; and command, minelaying, survey, reconnaissance and communications drone pods each had their own requirements. All of a pod's internal equipment was connected to interfaces at its base, which were linked to the relevant systems of the ship during installation of the pod at the dockyard.

The ship's pod-interface panels were laid above a row of ballast tanks on either side of the keel. These held additional reaction mass for the fusion reactors. It could be pumped from tank to tank to maintain the ship's longitudinal stability – vital to keep her correctly aligned during a hyper-jump – and was available as an emergency reserve supply if the main tanks ran low. If used, it would be replaced in the ballast tanks by water for the rest of the voyage. That meant no-one would be showering very often: but at least they'd get home, albeit somewhat smellier than when they'd set out.

Thinking about the ballast tanks, Tom was struck with a sudden idea. The connections between this pod's capacitor banks and the ship's wiring harness were in a panel right next to an emergency pressure release valve above one of the tanks. What if that valve was leaking intermittently? If the heat from the electrical connections, which built up during the charging process, warmed the valve to the point where it would emit even a little moisture, that might be contaminating the contacts in the connection. That, in turn, might be enough to trip the pod's circuit-breakers. If the leak were very small, any liquid in the connection panel would probably evaporate from the warm metal before it cooled, so that when they tested the circuits after the fact, all would appear normal.

He grabbed the nearest bulkhead comm unit and called Lieutenant-Commander Ergal's office. When the Engineer Officer answered, he swiftly explained his idea. “What do you think, Sir? It's the only explanation I can see for this sort of problem – and if I recall correctly, the connections for the other shuttle pod aren't situated next to an emergency valve like that. That could be why only this pod is displaying these problems.”

“Ye-e-e-s-s . . . You may have something there, Ensign: but how can we confirm it? We can't get at those interfaces ourselves. That would take a dockyard to extract the pod, or at least lift it enough for us to get underneath it.”

“There's one way, Sir. Every ballast tank has an access plate, to allow battle damage to be repaired. If we drain that tank, we could get inside it through the access plate, wearing protective suits, and pressure-test the valve. If the test shows any leakage whatsoever, we can seal the valve from the inside, then try the charging routine again. There's another emergency pressure release valve on the other side of the tank, so sealing this one shouldn't pose a major risk, Sir. If that cures the problem, it'll be a solid indication that the valve is the root cause. In that case, when we get to Midrash, we can have the Sector Orbital Dockyard pull the pod so that we can replace the valve.”

“Ensign, I like the way you think! Tell the work party to secure the covers on the wiring ducts, then bring them back here. I'm going to notify the OpCen, then start draining that tank.”

Tom wasn't able to join the team that entered the tank, three hours later. He was back in the Operations Center, understudying the Plot Officer, mastering the intricacies of the three-dimensional holographic display of surrounding space. The Plot was central to the OpCen's mission, showing each and every contact from close range to tens of millions of kilometers away; relaying target range and bearing to the Weapons console; aiding the Navigator in conning the ship; and providing tactical control of the Division to Captain Hutchinson. It was by far the most complex station in the OpCen.

Captain Hutchinson and Commander Mars chose that afternoon to put the OpCen team through a tactical exercise. All information about the 'hostile force' was provided by the battle computers, which fed it to the OpCen consoles as if their own sensors had detected it. The team plotted the approach of an 'enemy squadron' whilst observing stealth precautions themselves, worked out a firing solution, 'launched' a full salvo of missiles, and guided them through a blizzard of 'enemy counter-measures' to strike their targets. By the time the exercise was over, everyone was perspiring freely. The last 'target' destroyed, they looked up hopefully at the Command console.

“Not too bad,” Commander Mars said slowly, “but it could have been better. Plot, you were too slow in forwarding new information to Weapons as it came in. You've got to be faster. Don't wait for a request, send the updates automatically. Without them, our targeting information is out-of-date. We want our missiles to turn into hittiles, remember!” A murmur of amusement ran around the OpCen.

“Aye, aye, Ma'am,” Lieutenant Rashid acknowledged.

“EW, you have to anticipate what the enemy may throw at our fire control systems to blind or jam them, and have countermeasures ready. On two occasions, our mid-course guidance corrections couldn't reach our missiles in flight. You compensated for that with later corrections, but they shouldn't have been necessary.”

“Aye, aye, Ma'am,” Lieutenant Ellis replied crisply from the Electronic Warfare console.

“Still, not a bad effort overall,” Hutchinson said judiciously. “We didn't have a regular division workup period, thanks to the haste with which we were formed for this mission. Despite that handicap, you've all improved markedly since we started this series of exercises. By the time we reach Midrash, I'm sure you'll be on top form.” The Opcen team smiled with relief at his praise.

The door slid open and Lieutenant-Commander Ergal strode into the Opcen, still wearing overalls, face glowing with triumph. He braced to attention beside the Command console.

Commander Mars looked up at him. “You seem happy about something, Lieutenant-Commander?”

“Yes, Ma'am. I'm pleased to report that, thanks to a brainwave by Ensign Bowles, we've found the cause of the problem with Shuttle Pod Two, and put in a temporary fix. We'll need the services of the orbital dockyard at Midrash to make a permanent repair, but it shouldn't take more than a day or two.”

Mars looked across at Tom, her eyebrows raised. “What was your brainwave, Ensign?”

Flushing slightly at having to explain in front of the entire OpCen team, Tom described his idea about the relief valve. Ergal confirmed it enthusiastically.

“It was just as Ensign Bowles suspected, Ma'am. There was a minor pressure leak through that valve. Under normal operating conditions, with a missile cell installed, it wouldn't have been noticed at all. However, when the shuttle pod began charging its capacitor bank, the heat generated in its connection to the ship's wiring harness was just sufficient to warm the adjacent valve, to the point where the metal expanded enough to release a fine mist of reaction mass. That, in turn, shorted out the connection. I'll have to write this up for the Fleet Technical Bulletin, Ma'am. It's a very unusual combination of circumstances, and without Ensign Bowles' idea, we'd still be groping for the solution.”

Mars nodded at Tom, a slow smile spreading over her face. “Well done, Ensign. I'm pleased to see that you're making good use of your time in the Engineering Division.”

“Thank you, Ma'am,” he managed to say.

Ergal strode over and wrung his hand, smiling at him. “And a personal 'thank you' from me, Ensign, plus a collective one from the rest of the Division. I was beginning to worry that I'd lose what little remains of my hair over that damned shuttle pod!” Grinning, he turned back to the Commander, braced to attention, and hurried out.

The warm glow of satisfaction stayed with Tom for the rest of the afternoon.

#

There was The Case Of The Chocolate Addict.

As Welfare Officer, among his other responsibilities, Tom was in charge of the Commissary Store. Petty Officer First Class O'Grady, who managed its operations, came to him with a problem.

“It's our supply of Cranbury's Dark Chocolate with cherry liqueur, Sir. It's a favorite with the crew, so I laid in a stock of thirty cartons before we left Solaris. When I did an inventory this morning, I checked all thirty. A carton at the bottom rear of the pile was half-empty, Sir.”

“Who has access to the store-room entrance code, PO?”

“Only you, I and the Exec are supposed to know it, Sir, but if we're not responsible, someone else must have learned it, or found another way in.”

Tom checked the store-room with O'Grady, but could find no obvious signs of illicit entry. He arranged for a full stock-take the following day. While at the store, he bought three bars of the chocolate in question for himself, signing for them on his Commissary account.

He took the chocolate bars back to his cabin, obtained certain supplies from a compliant orderly in the Sick Bay, and spent half an hour in the Wardroom kitchenette, ensuring that no stewards saw what he was doing. His work done, he waited until the store-room area was deserted, then replaced his chocolate bars in the half-empty carton, making sure he was unobserved.

Next morning Petty Officer O'Grady reported to the Sick Bay, complaining of severe diarrhea. Tom had been expecting something like this, and privately informed the Medical Officer of the cause of the Petty Officer's malaise, asking her not to publish it or take any action just yet: then he went to see Command Master Chief Clark.

The Master Chief was in his small office, and rose to greet him. “Good to see you again, Sir. How can I help you?”

“May I have a private word, off the record, please, Master Chief?”

“Sure, Sir. Please sit down.” Clark slid the door closed, then took his seat behind the desk.

Tom explained what had happened. “I booby-trapped the bars of chocolate I bought, Master Chief. I got some laxative concentrate from the Sick Bay, plus a very thin, fine hypodermic needle and syringe. I heated the needle, injected some of the laxative into the liqueur-filled chocolate squares, then smoothed them over so there was no trace of what I'd done: then I re-sealed the chocolate bars in their foil wrap, heat-sealing it again, and replaced them in the half-empty carton. I found two of the bars were missing this morning. O'Grady clearly ate one or both of them last night, producing the expected results.

“My problem is this, Master Chief. I'd hate to destroy a man's career over one stupid mistake. I'm sure PO O'Grady simply developed a sweet tooth and over-indulged it. I know that goes on in many Commissary Stores, and in many ships' galleys, where cooks have access to supplies. Any missing supplies are usually marked down to wastage. However, I'm keeping rather stricter inventory control than normal over the Commissary Store. PO O'Grady must have realized that he'd have to account for the stock discrepancy somehow. I guess he panicked, and didn't think of entering a back-dated transaction on his commissary account to pay for the missing bars. That would have been unusual, but our stock balance would have squared with purchases, so I'd not have questioned it.

“I think I have enough evidence to bring charges against him, but I've had a look at his record. He's served for fifteen years, and has never had any major disciplinary problem before. In fact, there are commendations on his record from ships and establishments, attesting to his good work. If I charge him with theft, even over something so small as half a box of chocolate bars, a conviction will mean at least a reduction in grade, and a permanent black mark on his service record. It'll affect the rest of his life, even after leaving the Fleet. On the other hand, I can't trust him in charge of the Commissary Store any longer. Have you any suggestion as to how I can handle this so that justice is done, but in proportion to the crime, rather than as a blunt instrument?”

A look of wry distaste crossed the Master Chief's face. “I take your point, Sir. Certainly he's got to go as Commissary Petty Officer, that's for sure.” He thought for a moment. “Sir, if you'll leave the matter in my hands, I'll have a private chat with Petty Officer O'Grady. If he requests reassignment to another position, will you let matters lie there? There'll be additional punishment, I promise you, but nothing that'll require or attract official attention.”

“I'll leave it in your hands, Master Chief. Thank you very much.”

“That's not all, Sir.” Clark's face and voice were stern. “I don't think you realize how stupid, not to mention potentially dangerous, your actions were in this matter.”

Tom froze, astonished. A reproof rose to his lips at such impertinence to an officer . . . but he suppressed it. He'd asked for an off-the-record chat, hadn't he? And for the Command Master Chief to speak to him in such terms must mean that his actions had been well and truly out of line. He settled for, “I'm not sure what you mean, Master Chief.”

“There are medical risks involved with concentrated laxatives, Sir. If someone has any systemic medical problem or weakness, an overdose of that stuff might cause a serious reaction. That might have left you open to a charge of causing grievous bodily harm, Sir, or perhaps even culpable homicide if the victim had died. Furthermore, what if the thief hadn't been Petty Officer O'Grady, but someone else? What if it had been the Exec, who also has the access code to the store-room? Oh, we both know he's not that kind of officer, Sir, but we also know that there are such officers out there – few and far between, to be sure, but they're there. How would you have been able to explain or defend your actions under those circumstances?”

Tom's jaw dropped as he realized, for the first time, how much might have gone wrong. His face twisted in chagrin and embarrassment. He said slowly, “I hate to admit it, Master Chief, but you're right. I guess I was trying too hard to be clever.”

“Yes, Sir, you were. You didn't think this all the way through. It would have been much better to handle this in the regulation way, reporting any discrepancies uncovered during stock-taking, and proceeding with further investigations under the authority of the Exec. That might not have revealed the identity of the thief, but it also wouldn't have incurred the risks you ran.

“Fortunately, Sir, your actions haven't caused any lasting damage this time, and I think you're intelligent enough not to make the same mistake again. If I didn't think you have the makings of a good officer, given time and experience to season you, I'd not waste my breath pointing this out to you. You'll just have to learn to slow down a bit sometimes, and think beyond the immediate consequences of your actions, and consider their wider potential impact.” He smiled as he said it, softening the sting of his earlier rebuke. “A lot of newly-commissioned officers are eager-beavers, Sir, and sometimes too full of themselves, as I'm sure you recall from your own enlisted experience.”

Tom wryly returned his smile. “I do indeed! I'm afraid I didn't consider that I might be guilty of the same error. I should have paid more attention to that.”

“You're learning, Sir. Don't forget, that's why the Solaris Fleet insists that all its officer candidates serve at least one year as an enlisted Spacer or Marine before entering the Academy. They need to understand what it is to take orders before they try to give them, and see for themselves how an officer's conduct is perceived from below before they try to act as leaders from above. Those are very important lessons. You're fortunate, Sir. You won't forget this reminder, and it hasn't cost you anything except a little embarrassment. That's something for which to be grateful.

“I'd also like to say that I appreciate your willingness to consider a spacer's record before taking action, Sir. I agree that whilst PO O'Grady's actions were out of line, to punish him by laying a charge of theft would be overkill in this case. He's done no more than generations of supply PO's have done before him, and on a much smaller scale than most. Thank you for taking that into account, and being willing to consider other forms of redress: and thank you for approaching me, Sir. That's what we senior NCO's are here for, but some officers never bring such issues to us, so we can't help them. It speaks well of you that you were willing to do that, Sir.”

“Thanks for saying that, Master Chief, and thank you for setting me straight. Please continue to do so whenever you think it necessary.”

“I'll do that, Sir. Thanks for stopping by.”

Sure enough, as soon as he was released from Sick Bay, O'Grady requested reassignment. He exchanged jobs with Petty Officer Second Class Sasumi in the Spares department of the Engineering Division. She soon proved every bit as efficient as he had been. Tom noted that Master Chief Clark had a private conversation with her before she moved over, and was sure he'd have no further problems with disappearing stock.

O'Grady's last act before moving over to the Engineering Division was to use his Commissary Store account to log, back-date and pay for the purchase of half a carton of Cranbury's Dark Chocolate bars with cherry liqueur.

Some days later, an anonymous donation was made to the Ship's Welfare Fund. Tom knew of it, as the officer in charge of the Fund, and noted that it was, to the centicred, precisely ten times the value of the missing chocolate bars: but he made no attempt to identify the donor.

The Case Of The Chocolate Addict was closed.

#

Shortly before they arrived at Midrash, Tom was faced with the first serious test of his leadership as a commissioned officer.

The Solaris Fleet had very strict regulations prohibiting gambling aboard ship. It had long experience of the tensions, frustrations and disruptions that such activities could generate among a ship's company, and took vigorous steps to prevent them by banning their cause. However, the fact remained that in every crew, a certain number were inveterate gamblers. Despite the official prohibition, they'd find a way to indulge their vice, concealing themselves in nooks and crannies during off-duty moments, or disguising their real activities under the appearance of doing something else. The Fleet waged a never-ending battle to detect and shut down such gambling operations, but some always succeeded in slipping beneath the radar.

Tom had been appointed Officer In Charge of Echo Messdeck, a compartment housing thirty spacers in five six-berth cabins plus a common area. Their on-the-job performance was the responsibility of their superior officers in their respective Divisions, but their activities in their messdeck, and their living conditions, fell to Tom's account. He took his responsibilities seriously, visiting the messdeck at least once daily, inspecting it casually each time and in greater detail before Captain's Rounds each weekend, insisting on high standards of cleanliness, and getting to know the spacers living there. After his conversation with Master Chief Clark, he recalled areas where, as an enlisted spacer, he'd been dissatisfied with his Messdeck Officers, and took pains to ensure that he didn't repeat their mistakes.

He was surprised to receive a call from the Medical Officer one morning, asking him to come to the Sick Bay. He hurried over, to find the doctor, Lieutenant Petrovski, in her office, entering notes on her terminal. He knocked at the door.

“Good morning, Ma'am. I came as soon as I could.”

Petrovksi looked up and smiled distractedly. “Thank you, Ensign. Please take a seat. I'll be with you in a moment.”

She tapped in a few more sentences, then turned her chair towards him. “Spacer Third Class Morby, from Echo Messdeck, was admitted to Sick Bay a short while ago. He didn't come of his own accord – Petty Officer Dunlap brought him in. She said he'd been looking unwell. We checked him out, and found bruising on his torso and back, as if he'd been kicked and punched heavily. He claims he fell awkwardly, but there's no way those injuries could have resulted from a fall. I'm informing you as his Messdeck Officer, because his injuries were suffered while off-duty. It's up to you to decide how you want to handle it from a disciplinary point of view.”

Tom frowned. “How recent are his injuries?”

“They were probably inflicted yesterday evening, judging by the extent to which the bruising has developed. Fortunately, he hasn't suffered any broken ribs or other major damage.”

“Thanks for informing me, Ma'am. May I see him?”

“Of course. I've admitted him for today, so that he can be kept apart from whoever did this while you conduct your investigations. In fact, I recommend you hand over the matter to his Divisional Officer and the Exec, and let them deal with it. This could be a complicated situation.”

Tom resented her implication that he, as a junior Ensign, probably wouldn't be able to handle it, but he refrained from comment. After all, she might be right.

He went through to the ward, where Morby was lying on one of the beds. He was the only person there. Closing the door, Tom walked over to him.

“Good morning, Spacer. How are you feeling?”

The man – very young, on his first tour of duty after graduating from Spacer Basic Training – flushed slightly. “I'm OK, Sir, just a bit sore, is all.”

“Lieutenant Petrovski has described your injuries to me. How did you come by them?”

“I – I fell, Sir.”

“No, you didn't, Morby. I remind you that I was a Spacer, and a Petty Officer, before being commissioned. I've lived on messdecks like yours, and I know what happens there. What was it? An argument over something?”

“I – Sir, I can't say. Can't we just leave it that I fell, Sir?”

Tom was remorseless. “No, Spacer, we can't. I'm not going to have anyone under my command treated like this, or treating others that way. I want answers. You can tell me now, in private, with my guarantee I'll tell no-one, officially, that you're my source: or you can be on Executive Officer's Mast tomorrow, and face punishment if you won't answer his questions. What's it to be?”

“B – but, Sir, if they find out . . . they'll kill me!”

“Who'll kill you, Spacer, and why? What's been going on? After hearing you say that, there's no way I'm going to let this drop. Out with it!”

Slowly, haltingly, the story came out. There were several hard-core gamblers in Echo Messdeck, who met regularly during off-duty hours to indulge in poker, hearts, spades, uckers, or other games of chance, according to their fancy. One of them had sensed in Morby a pigeon ripe for plucking, and had introduced him to the group. They'd already cleaned him out of all his savings, and he was heavily in debt. Some of them had beaten him up the night before, when he'd been unable to pay what they demanded towards his debt.

Tom kept on pressing him, and finally got the names of those involved. To his astonishment and outrage, they included two Petty Officers, one a First Class whom he knew was almost in the zone for promotion to Chief Petty Officer. He also learned the location where the gamblers met after hours: one of the ship's lifeboats, supposedly off-limits to all personnel except for maintenance purposes, or in emergency. They'd jury-rigged the access panel to be able to let themselves in and out without sounding any alarms.

He reassured Morby that he'd keep the source of his information confidential, and left him in the Sick Bay for the day to rest and recover. He called Lieutenant-Commander Ergal and asked permission to absent himself from his scheduled shift in Engineering that morning, in order to deal with a problem in another area of his responsibilities. With memories of Tom's detective work in solving the shuttle pod problem fresh in his mind, Ergal genially agreed.

Tom went back to his cabin, sat down, and thought. He could lay charges against those involved, but that would require proof – more proof than Morby's unsupported word. He thought he knew where he could get it, too. He picked up his comm handset and called Lieutenant Brooks Shelby, Commanding Officer of the platoon of Marines attached to the ship.

“Lieutenant, this is Ensign Bowles.”

“Hey, Tom! Nice to hear your voice. When are you coming down again for some rough-and-tumble fun?”

Tom chuckled. “After the way your boys and girls used me for a punch-bag last time, I think I'll insist on wearing armor before I get back on the mat with them!”

Brooks made a rude noise. “So, what can I do for you?”

“I've got a little problem. I need to secure Lifeboat Seven, just abaft the last missile cells on the starboard side, for twenty-four hours. I'm trying to deal with a problem through unofficial channels, but if that doesn't work, I'll need what's in that lifeboat as evidence. Could you arrange for the Marines on damage control watch to seal its entrance, and set up cameras to monitor it at all times? If anyone tries to get in, they should challenge them over the intercom, and intervene if necessary: but I don't think it'll come to that.”

The ship's Marine platoon handled extra-vehicular combat duties, including boarding and inspection operations, landings on planets, and small craft combat (although destroyers weren't large enough to routinely carry assault shuttles to engage in it). Aboard ship, they formed the core of the damage control party at Action Stations. One of their permanent duty stations was in the Damage Control Center at the stern of the ship, constantly monitoring sensors to detect any damage or breakdown, ready to summon the rest of the damage control party on orders from the OpCen. Since the DCC was operational around the clock, it would be no additional burden for the duty watch there to monitor an additional display for a day or two.

“Sure, Tom, I can do that. I'll have Gunnery Sergeant Kowalski pass the word at once.”

“Thanks, Brooks. I appreciate your help.”

“You can show your appreciation by coming down tonight and letting me beat up on you. I need to look good to my platoon for once!”

“Yes, after seeing Gunny Kowalski twist you into a pretzel last time, I imagine your authority is suffering!”

They signed off with a few more cheerfully rude retorts.

Tom replaced the handset and pondered. He'd secured the evidence he'd need. Now to try to resolve this with as little damage as possible to the ship's company as a whole.

He made two more calls, picked up his cap, straightened his uniform, and left his cabin. He walked the length of the main corridor, to the office of Senior Chief Petty Officer Luculle. She was the 'Chief Of The Ship', the senior NCO among the crew. She supervised all the enlisted personnel, reporting directly to the Exec and Commanding Officer about anything that required their intervention.

As he approached her office, Tom caught up with Command Master Chief Clark.

“Here I am, Sir, as you requested. What's up?”

“I'll tell you inside, Master Chief.”

They knocked and entered. Luculle was expecting them, and offered them seats and coffee, closing the door behind them. She took her seat behind the desk.

“What can I do for you, Ensign?”

“We have a problem, Senior Chief – a big one. I've asked Master Chief Clark to be here as well, because I think it'll take both of you to fix it.”

He explained to them what he'd learned, and continued, “We all know that gambling goes on aboard ship, even with all the rules and regulations against it. I'm not such an idealist as to believe that I can nip it in the bud. However, this case has two very aggravating elements. First, one of my spacers has been injured by these scum. He's young and impressionable, admittedly, and is partly to blame, but we've got plenty like him aboard. Second, I have the names of those involved. They include a Petty Officer Third and a Petty Officer First, the latter with sufficient service to be eligible for promotion to Chief Petty Officer in the near future.”

His listeners sucked in their breath between their teeth. Like him, they couldn't countenance NCO's setting such a bad example, and certainly didn't want them promoted to senior NCO level.

Tom gave them the names. “I have all the evidence I'll need to nail each and every one of them. Where Morby's unsupported testimony won't convict them, a DNA analysis of that lifeboat will. I've already had our Marines seal it and place it under surveillance, to prevent any cleanup. The gamblers will have left traces of their presence on its seats, tables and floor. We'll find those traces. Combined with Morby's testimony, that'll be enough to convict them. What's more, faced with that evidence, I daresay some of them will testify against the others, to minimize their own punishment. They'll probably tell us where the gambling money's to be found.” The two senior NCO's nodded soberly.

“I'm angry enough to want to charge the whole damn lot of them, and see them spend a long time in Detention Barracks, followed by dishonorable discharges for the ringleaders.” Both NCO's stirred uncomfortably in their chairs. “However, I'm not blind. I know that many of our spacers are still Third and Second Class, young and impressionable, like Morby. If this comes out in a public disciplinary forum, they'll learn that some of their Petty Officers – and, by implication, perhaps some of their senior NCO's as well – have been involved in wholesale flouting of the regulations, even to the extent of beating up one of their shipmates. We'll have one hell of a morale problem on our hands.” The two nodded vehemently.

“Therefore, I propose a four-part solution. I'm prepared to forgo formal charges and disciplinary action if those involved will agree to it. If they don't, they'll spend time behind bars.

“First, I want every centicred of that gambling money repaid to its original owners. The winners lose their winnings, the losers get back their losses, and everything reverts to the way it was before this whole mess blew up.

“Second, I want all personnel involved to be severely chastised. We all know there are ways to accomplish that outside normal disciplinary channels, but I don't want to know about them officially. I suggest extra cleaning duties, a lot of them, involving hard, dirty work – preferably while their shipmates are enjoying shore leave.

“Third, the two Petty Officers involved must leave the Fleet. I've checked their files. Their current enlistments expire over the course of this year, within a few months of each other. They are not to sign up for another term of enlistment. I don't know what they're going to do in civilian life, and I don't care – just so long as they don't disgrace our uniform any longer. I also want them off this ship at the earliest possible opportunity. I suggest that when we get to Midrash, they arrange to exchange posts with a couple of good Petty Officers from the Sector Base there. If anyone asks, they can give the excuse that they're not going to re-enlist, and want to be in a shore posting so they can arrange passage back to their home planets more easily when their present enlistments expire. I don't want them aboard this ship, or any other ship of our Division. They can't be trusted.

“Finally, I've got an idea to sort out our gambling problem, and I wanted to ask your opinion before I take it to the Exec. Regulations forbid gambling for money. However, if card games don't involve money, they don't violate regulations. That's how the Wardroom can play a game of bridge now and again. I'm prepared to issue a bag of washers to each Messdeck, for use as tokens. Spacers can play for a washer a point, or something like that. They can become washer millionaires as far as I'm concerned,” – the Chiefs chuckled – “just so long as the washers aren't used to represent money or anything else of value. I'm willing to leave it to our senior NCO's to make sure that sort of substitution never happens. That way, too, our spacers can play openly in their quarters, without having to run off and hide in corners. We could even set up a ship's poker tournament, with token non-cash prizes for the winning Messdeck.

“What do you say, Senior Chief, Master Chief? Will these measures, taken together, solve our problem? Are they feasible? Can you – will you – help me to enforce them?”

Luculle and Clark looked at each other. To Tom's relief, he saw smiles on their faces as they nodded. Luculle turned to him.

“We'll do it, Sir. Thanks for thinking of a non-regulation solution like this. It makes things easier to handle, and as you said, it avoids what might otherwise become a real disciplinary problem. I'll come with you to see the Exec about the washers, Sir. He'll have to clear it with the CO, but I don't think it'll contravene regulations.”

Clark added, “I said to you a week ago, Sir, that you had the makings of a good officer. You've just demonstrated that again. We'll handle this discreetly, and make sure your four points are implemented. Between the two of us, the Senior Chief and I will put the fear of God into those idiots. As for the two PO's, Sir, I'll deal with them personally. They won't dare re-enlist by the time I'm finished with them! I'll make sure we get good replacements for them at Midrash.”

Luculle observed innocently, “There's only one problem that I can foresee, Sir.”

“What's that, Senior Chief?”

“I don't think the Engineering Division will have enough washers to meet the demand, Sir!” All three burst out laughing.

“In that case, Senior Chief, I know what'll be first on my list of stores to draw from Supply at the Midrash Sector Base!”

Still laughing, he left them to make their plans.

All went smoothly. Tom learned through channels that both of the Petty Officers involved requested planetside transfers within a day of his talk with Luculle and Clark. The spacers involved in gambling suddenly found themselves with lots of extra duties to occupy their free time off-watch, and their names didn't appear on the list of those eligible for liberty during the forthcoming visit to Midrash. Spacer Morby returned to his messdeck, and despite being included among those doing extra duties, became visibly more cheerful and relaxed over the next few days. Tom didn't ask, but he presumed that his losses had been returned.

Finally, as Senior Chief Luculle had predicted, Commander Mars approved his idea to issue washers as tokens for card games. There was a flood of requests for washers by grinning spacers, so much so that the Engineering Division's stocks became dangerously depleted. Smiling to himself, Tom indented for a fresh supply from the Midrash Sector Base. Card games became a feature of almost every messdeck after hours, with piles of washers changing hands, to mingled shouts of glee and moans of disgust. Tom was given permission to arrange a ship's poker tournament, and messdecks lined up to compete against one another. He offered a prize of a chocolate bar or equivalent treat to every member of the winning messdeck, sponsored by the ship's Welfare Fund. That got everyone involved, either as players or as highly vocal supporters.

The last Tom heard of the matter was on the night before they arrived at Midrash. The Exec called him into his office for a review of his activities over the past month. They went over his duties, and Lieutenant-Commander Tomczak pronounced himself satisfied. He sat back in his chair and sipped his coffee.

“Lieutenant-Commander Ergal has submitted a formal letter of commendation for your file, for your work on our problems with Shuttle Pod Two, which is very gratifying. He doesn't write many such letters. You've also made excellent progress in learning the Plot and Communications consoles in the OpCen, and you're well on your way to qualifying as a watch-keeping officer. In your other duties, you've made a very good impression on both Commander Mars and myself by using your initiative, and working with our senior NCO's, to resolve certain problems before we had to take official notice of them. That's unusual in a junior officer, and we appreciate it. It saves us a lot of headaches.”

Tom knew that Senior Chief Luculle, at least, would have been duty bound to mention their interaction to Commander Mars, even if only informally: and he guessed Master Chief Clark had done the same through Captain Hutchinson. He said simply, “Thank you, Sir.”

“No, thank you, Ensign. Furthermore, we're very pleased with the effect on morale of your suggestion about using washers as tokens for card games, and the inter-messdeck poker tournament. You've made an excellent start with us. As you know, an Ensign must serve a minimum of a year in grade O-1 before being eligible for promotion. Most spend up to two years in that grade. However, if you maintain this standard, I daresay you'll be wearing a second and thicker stripe on your sleeve by this time next year. Keep up the good work.”

Go to Chapter 4

Return to Introduction

Ensign Bowles: Chapter Four

Tom joined a few other 'rubberneckers' next morning in the observation deck behind the planetary navigation bridge, one of the few compartments in a warship fitted with viewports. They watched in silence as Achilles made her final hyper-jump to the Midrash system boundary. The starlight flickered, died for an instant during the jump, then re-emerged in a new pattern. The nearer of the Midrash system's two suns shone brightly, compared to its far distant twin. The few planets large enough to be visible as specks to the naked eye reflected their light.

After a few moments, most of the observers filed out. Tom glanced at the tall, burly man at his side, and decided to ask something that had been on his mind for some time.

“Chaplain Myles, I've been wondering. There are relatively few full-time Chaplains in the Fleet, and almost all of you operate as part of a staff – a Division or Squadron of ships, or at Fleet or Sector level. Each individual ship relies on part-time chaplain-assistants, who are also Spacers or Marines in the ship's company: yet many of them are also ordained ministers, like you. Isn't that discrimination, to give you the status of a full Chaplain, but not them?”

Myles smiled at him, a warm, fatherly look. He settled back into the parade rest stance that came naturally to him after twenty years in the Marines, before he'd taken the cloth.

“It might seem that way at first, Tom, but think about it. A warship doesn't have room for supernumeraries in its crew. Every single person on board has to help operate and fight the ship, deal with damage, and so on. Anything and everything else is secondary – even for chaplains.

“It wasn't always, that way, of course. Right up to the early days of interstellar flight, chaplains weren't allowed to bear arms or fight. There were even international conventions forbidding it!” He shook his head. “That was fundamentally hypocritical and dishonest, of course. After all, how can a minister bless, and encourage others to do, something that's considered morally wrong for him to do himself?”

Tom nodded, his eyes dropping to the medal ribbons on Myles' chest. They included the rare 'hat-trick' of the Solaris Star in all three grades, Bronze, Silver and Gold. For good measure, the Bronze ribbon bore the rosette of a second award. The gold Planetary Combat Badge on his right breast bore two silver stars, signifying five engagements each, plus three bronze stars, each for a single engagement, and the silver Space Combat Badge beside it bore one silver and four bronze stars. Myles had earned them all the hard way during his years in the Marine Corps. No-one would ever accuse this Chaplain of lacking experience or understanding of combat.

Myles continued, “Gradually a new approach emerged. Today, if a religious denomination wants to provide pastoral care to its members on active service, its ministers must serve on the same basis, and perform the same tasks, as service personnel. Their provision of ministry is secondary to that, and only when they can be spared from their primary duties. That's why they're called chaplain-assistants – they're not full-time chaplains and aren't paid as such.”

“I get it. So where do you fit in, Chaplain?”

“The relatively few full-time Chaplains, such as myself, aren't in the chain of command, and we have no combat responsibilities. That's why we're commissioned in the Service Corps, rather than as Spacers or Marines.” He held out his sleeve, on which were the three stripes of a Commander, but in blue, rather than in gold like the thin single stripe on Tom's sleeve. “Our sole task is to act as representatives of our denominations or religious alliances, and by proxy for any and all others represented in the Fleet but without local Chaplains. We're given officers' rank only for the purposes of protocol and discipline.

“We facilitate the work of the chaplain-assistants, make sure they have all they need, and deal with any problems and issues they can't handle at a lower level. We're there for officers, who frequently can't turn to their chaplain-assistants for counsel due to chain-of-command considerations. We also deal with humanitarian and welfare issues that might otherwise be neglected. You might say we're the Fleet's conscience. We're like oil in machinery. We smooth the friction of life.”

Tom grinned. “I'm not sure about oil, Chaplain. Since you're a Christian, wouldn't that make you the Holy 'Ghost in the machine'?”

“Aaargh!” Chuckling, Myles pretended to wince at the literary pun. “In a way, though, you're right. Koestler postulated that hate, anger and other self-destructive impulses were the fruit of what he called the 'ghost in the machine' of the human brain. A pastor's job is to counteract that, I think: so your joke may be more true than you suspect. Certainly, we should be the Anti-Ghost in the machine, and hopefully holy as well!” Now it was Tom's turn to chuckle.

Myles looked at the young man affectionately. “You don't have any particular faith yourself, do you?”

“No, Chaplain, I don't. An orphanage upbringing isn't the greatest introduction to religion: and as I grew to adulthood, I saw an awful lot of those who professed to believe – of almost any religion or denomination – 'talk the talk', but not 'walk the walk'. They'd sing their songs on their holy days, and look pious: but as soon as they were out of church, they'd carry on in the same old way.” He shrugged. Myles was the first minister he'd ever met to whom he felt able to speak so freely. It was good to get the doubts and questions off his chest.

“I've met only three people who seemed to really try to live their faith. They made a very deep impression on me as profoundly good people: but they were three among hundreds. I'm still not convinced it was their faith that made them that way. I mean, wouldn't they have been the same good people if they didn't believe in God, as they understood the Deity? Wasn't their goodness part of their personalities, rather than imparted by their beliefs?”

Myles nodded thoughtfully. “To some extent, I'm sure it was, Tom: but a man needs a guiding light. One of the ancients, Cammaerts, once pointed out: 'When people stop believing in God, they don’t believe in nothing – they believe in anything.' How many people have you known who've had no focus in their lives, no belief in any higher Power or purpose, but who were nevertheless what you would describe as a really good person, like the three you mentioned?”

“Hmm . . . a couple came close: but I take your point, Chaplain.”

“You might want to think about that. If you'd like to talk about it at any time, I'll be around.”

“Thanks, Chaplain. I may take you up on that one day.”

“I hope you do.” Myles looked out of the viewports once more. “Just look at the wonder in front of us, Tom. The astronomers tell us that in half a millennium of interstellar travel and exploration, we've never found two star systems even close to the same. We're still discovering things about them that amaze us. They can have single or multiple stars, each one of a different type and age and density; dozens of planets, or only a few, or none at all; asteroid belts ranging from so dense they're almost impenetrable, to so diffuse they're hardly noticeable. The variety is endless!

“No-one knows how it all began, whether through what the holy books call 'Creation', or scientists call the 'Big Bang', or some other event: but I believe it's certain that at some stage, there must have been a beginning. Left to itself, nature tends to entropy. Given that fact, the universe can't simply have existed for all eternity. It must have been fresh and new sometime . . . and that's the quest of both faith and science, the search for source, for origin, for purpose, for meaning. Science can't do that alone, for all its vital importance.”

“Once again, Chaplain, I take your point.” Tom glanced at his watch. “I've enjoyed our talk, but if you'll excuse me, I have to report to Engineering. I'm on watch in ten minutes.”

Myles watched him go, smiling fondly.

#

Tom arrived at his duty station, to be greeted by Warrant Officer Backhouse, who had the Engineering watch.

“Good morning, Ensign. Change of plan for you, I'm afraid. The Exec called, and wants you to report to his office at once.”

“Thank you, Warrant Officer.”

Tom retraced his steps up the ship's main passageway and knocked at Lieutenant-Commander Tomczak's office door. He saw that Lieutenant Shelby was already seated inside.

“Ah, Ensign, come in and sit down. We've been waiting for you.”

The Exec waited until he was seated, then went on, “We're going to detach two boarding and search parties, each with an assault shuttle, while we're in orbit around Midrash. You'll each command a party, and report to Midrash's System Patrol Service aboard the planet's Orbital Control Center. They're going to show you the smuggling problems they've had to deal with in this system. The idea is for you to learn what commodities are in particular demand among the criminal fraternity, both here and across this Sector; where and how they conceal them aboard spaceships; and any particular risks you may face. You'll spend a week with them, participating in their patrols, until all our ships get here. When the Division's reassembled, you'll convey what you've learned to the other ships' boarding and search parties, so that we all start out as well-informed as possible. At that time, we'll also share any updated intelligence we've received from the Sector, and the planets visited by our other ships.

“Lieutenant, arrange two sections of your Marines, with their armor and weapons. Ensign, detail two sections of a dozen Spacers, each including three junior NCO's, plus a senior NCO to command it. Liaise with Senior Chief Luculle about that, and have her select Spacers who can be spared. Each of you will take one section of Spacers and one of Marines to form your parties. They're to pack for a week's independent operations, sleeping at the Orbital Control Center. While you're getting ready, Captain Hutchinson will be making arrangements by signal with the System Patrol Service. As soon as we approach the planet, we'll launch your shuttles and send you on your way: then we're off to the dockyard, to have them pull Shuttle Pod Two so we can make a permanent repair to that leaking valve.”

Shelby grinned. “Looks like we're all going to be busy, Sir.”

“We are indeed! A word about liberty. I know our Spacers and Marines are looking forward to some shore leave, but that'll have to wait. Captain Hutchinson says that while we wait for our other ships to join us, liberty won't be granted except short passes to orbital stations. You're free to grant the same to your parties. Only after the Division has reassembled will we allow longer liberty on the planet itself, so that we can all have the same opportunity.

“Any further questions? No? Then get to it, gentlemen. You'll be launching this evening.”

As they hurried down the passage, Tom asked, “Brooks, would you please see to it that I get a really good NCO to head up my Marine section? He'll have to help me figure out how to make best use of them. I've never before had Marines under my command.”

Lieutenant Shelby nodded sympathetically. “I'm in the same boat, Tom – I've never commanded a section of Spacers! We'll both be learning a lot, I guess. I'll give you Gunny Kowalski, and ask him to help you as much as possible. Will you do the same for me, and get me a good Chief Petty Officer to hold my hand?”

“It's a deal.”

Tom made for Senior Chief Luculle's office, and told her what was required. “I particularly want people who can be spared for the same duties in future, Senior Chief,” he informed her. “Don't assign anyone who has a critical job aboard ship, or who's in a vital post at Action Stations. Of the dozen Spacers in each team, I want four from the Engineering Division, four with OpCen console and ship control experience, and the remaining four should have shuttle and small craft experience, including at least one qualified pilot. You'll have to liaise with the relevant Divisions to pick the right people. We'll designate them as boarding and search party members, and make it their alternate Action Station on the ship's Watch and Quarters Bill.”

“Aye, aye, Sir. What about weapons?”

“The Exec said that the Marines were to have armor and weapons. He didn't mention the Spacers, but I'm going to assume we should be armed as well. We can't wear Marine powered armor, of course: we have the same neural implants as Marines, but we're not trained to control it. We can't wear armor inside our spacesuits, but we can use soft body armor for operations within ship's pressure. Ask the Armory to issue a set, and a bead carbine, to every Spacer. I'll draw a pistol and armor for myself. The Spacers should bring a seabag apiece, with all they'll need for a week's detached duty.”

He explained Lieutenant Shelby's request for an experienced NCO to assist him, and Luculle grinned. “I'll send Chief Bhakti, Sir. She piloted a supply cutter during the attack on Bergaria, and was shot down. She ended up spending a month on the planet with the Marines until the operation was over. She swears to this day she's never recovered from being carried on their backs like a sack of potatoes, when she couldn't keep up with them in their armor!” They chuckled. “With that much experience of Marines, she'll be able to fit right in.”

“Sounds good, Senior Chief. Thank you very much. Please have the selected Spacers assemble at the staging port, with their gear, at thirteen. Have them eat before then. We'll begin integrating them with the Marines at that time. Meanwhile, I'll begin setting up the shuttles. We'll be launching sometime this evening.”

“Aye, aye, Sir.”

Tom hurriedly packed his seabag, drew soft body armor and a pistol from the Armory, stowed his gear in a shuttle, then set about the long checklist of preparations that had to be made before the two craft could be used operationally for the first time. Lieutenant-Commander Ergal assigned two of his techs to help with the process, for which Tom was duly grateful. Meanwhile, Senior Chief Luculle and Lieutenant Shelby selected their personnel, got them organized, made arrangements for them to eat an early lunch, and – in Luculle's case – soothed the ruffled feelings of Division and Department heads who didn't want to lose their people. She had to use the Exec's name a few times to get them to see reason. Grumbling, they complied.

The selected Spacers and Marines reported at thirteen. Tom thanked Chief Luculle, then asked Lieutenant Shelby if he could brief both teams before they split up. Brooks readily agreed.

Tom gathered the group together, and explained where they were going and what they'd be doing. “We'll be the guests of the Midrash System Patrol Service, so I want you to be on your best behavior. Remember that you're representatives of this ship, and the Division, and the Solaris Fleet as a whole. Midrash is one of our Sector Bases, so they'll have had plenty of contact with our people before. We'll be judged against that standard. Don't disgrace us!

“Now, as to organization. Each shuttle will have a section of thirteen Marines, and one of thirteen Spacers. I'll ask Lieutenant Shelby to briefly explain to the Spacers how a Marine platoon is made up. Lieutenant?”

Brooks stepped forward. “Thank you, Ensign. Our basic unit is a four-person squad, led by a Corporal. The squad operates in two pairs. A Marine always works with his or her buddy, covering each other, working together. It's a lot safer that way. Three squads form a twelve-person section, led by a thirteenth, a Sergeant or Staff Sergeant. Three sections form a platoon, with a First or Second Lieutenant as Commanding Officer – that's equivalent to the Spacer ranks of Lieutenant Junior Grade or Ensign, respectively. He's assisted by a Gunnery or Staff Sergeant as Platoon Sergeant. In our case, that's Gunnery Sergeant Kowalski, over there. He'll be leading the section of Marines assigned to Ensign Bowles' shuttle.”

Tom took over again. “Thank you, Lieutenant. I want each section of Spacers organized along the same lines as a Marine section. Each has a Chief Petty Officer, who'll be in charge of the section. The three Petty Officers will each lead a squad. The squads will comprise the four Engineering personnel, the four OpCen and command personnel, and the four shuttle and small craft specialists. Within each squad, I want each Spacer to pick his or her partner, and form two pairs.

“A word about weapons. Spacers, you're all technically qualified in the operation of bead carbines, but opportunities for us to practice are few and far between. Lieutenant Shelby has arranged two one-hour familiarization sessions this afternoon. His third section will take each Spacer section in turn, and run them through a series of exercises on the simulator. Make sure you know how to handle your weapon safely! I won't accept any excuses if one of you has a negligent discharge. We'll try to arrange some live-fire practice while we're at Midrash, so that all of you can improve your accuracy and speed. In this job, the odds are pretty good that sooner or later, you'll need to use those carbines the hard way: so take this training seriously!

“I know some of the junior Spacers aren't familiar with assault shuttles. Chief Bhakti, you probably know more about them than any of us. Would you please give everyone a quick overview?”

“Sure, Sir.” Bhakti stepped forward, a short, petite woman with dusky skin, ebony hair and a strong, vibrant, attractive face. She turned to face the assembled teams.

“Each shuttle's about the same size as our ship's cutter, but it weighs much more, about a hundred tons. Its hull is built of layered composite armor, strong enough to withstand even a low-power laser or charged-particle beam for a few seconds. During that time, at least in theory, the shuttle should be able to take evasive action to prevent the beam burning through the armor. In practice that's not always possible, as a few of my scars will testify – and before you ask, no, you can't see them!” Laughter. “It can't withstand anything heavier, of course, like a plasma cannon bolt. A smaller missile will damage it, a big one will destroy it.

“The pilot and Weapons Systems Operator sit at a command console at the front of the vehicle, behind thick protective viewports. The interior's large enough to accommodate twenty Marines, half a platoon, in their bulky powered armor and mission gear, or up to fifty unarmored personnel. There are fold-down seats lining each side, with a secured cargo space between them. Beneath the floor and inside the walls are a fusion micro-reactor, a small gravitic drive unit with inertial compensator, reaction mass and water tanks, environmental systems, the control computer, and storage units. There's a relief station at the rear.

“Externally, the shuttle is shaped to deflect enemy radar and lidar, making it partly 'stealthy'. Small active electronically-scanned radar array panels are situated at front and rear, on the left and right sides, and on the roof and belly, giving global coverage. We use them to guide our weapons, for electronic warfare, and for navigation. There are other sensors as well. A plasma cannon is mounted in a turret at the front of the roof. It incorporates a tubular force-field projected around the plasma beam, so we can use it planetside at ranges of up to thirty kilometers without worrying about atmospheric 'bloom'. In space, it's effective at up to five hundred kilometers. There are stub wings on each side of the shuttle. They carry reconnaissance and electronic warfare pods. Each wing also has two missile stations, each holding from one to four missiles, depending on their size.

“At the base of each side of the shuttle, you'll see eight evenly-spaced bulged housings. Reaction thrusters swing out and down from them to lift and propel the shuttle in atmosphere. Yes, Spacer?”

One of the junior Spacers had raised his hand. “Chief, why don't we use the gravitic drive in atmosphere? Isn't it much more powerful than reaction thrusters?”

“Yes – too much so! It can't be de-tuned sufficiently for slow-speed flight in atmosphere. The stress of gravitic-drive speeds against the resistance of atmospheric drag would rip the shuttle apart, so we have to use reaction thrusters. Once we climb to where the atmosphere is thin enough, we transition to the gravitic drive.

“Now, where was I? The shuttle can land on its armored belly, or deploy ten wheels with gel-filled, wire-bound tires, each powered by its own electric drive motor, to propel it on the surface. The belly also houses two tractor beams to lift underslung loads. A shuttle can carry up to its own weight, a hundred tons, in personnel and cargo, internally and underslung. Yes?”

Another junior Spacer had raised her hand. “Chief, why not air-filled tires? Why gel-filled?”

“Because shuttles also operate in the vacuum of space. Without external atmospheric pressure to balance it, an air-filled tire would explode in space under its own internal pressure. A gel-filled tire doesn't have that problem. It also provides additional protection against land-mine blasts, absorbing a lot of the shock. Even if the explosion destroys the wheel, the shuttle's largely protected.

“Let's move on. The surface of each shuttle is covered with an electrochromic polymer coating, similar to a flat computer display, but much tougher. The color on any part of it can be set through the shuttle’s computer systems, by passing an electrical charge through it. That fixes the color until another charge is sent to change it. The shuttle has cameras all around it. In the field, each camera records the terrain colors and features close to it. The shuttle's computer analyzes each camera's view, then patterns the opposite side of the shuttle to look as similar as possible. Within thirty seconds of landing, a shuttle can be made almost invisible. An enemy will have a very hard time detecting or targeting it visually. The same can be done in space – the computer can pattern the shuttle to look like the blackness of space itself, or an asteroid, or a piece of space junk.

“Any more questions?” None came.

“Thank you, Chief,” Tom said as he stepped forward. “Spacers, our Marines are trained to handle the shuttles' weapon systems: but they may be needed to board a ship, and some of us will probably have to stay with our shuttle. Therefore, over the course of the next week, I want all Spacers to work with the Marines and learn how to operate the weapons systems. In an emergency, you may have to use them, so don't fool around! Take it seriously!

“For the rest of this afternoon we'll prepare and pre-flight the shuttles. This is the first time we've used them, so we'll take it slowly and do a thorough job. We'll get the Spacer teams organized and put them through refresher carbine training in the simulator, and make sure we're ready in all respects. We'll break for supper at seventeen, then stand by to launch as soon as Commander Mars directs.

“Chief Bhakti, please take your twelve Spacers and join Lieutenant Shelby aboard his shuttle. Gunnery Sergeant Kowalski, please bring your Marine section to join the Spacers in my shuttle. Let's get to it.”

#

Tom looked around the interior of his shuttle. The last of his crew were strapping themselves into their seats. The Spacers' seabags and the Marines' backpacks were piled in the central cargo area, along with the spacesuits and soft and hard armor, and all had been tied down. Weapons were securely racked. All systems had been double-checked, and had passed their test routines. He'd taken the Weapons Systems Operator's console seat for this first excursion, so as to monitor the shuttle's systems as carefully as possible.

He turned to the pilot. “Power up our reactor, please, PO, and disconnect from pod power when it's online, then seal the ramp.”

“Aye, aye, Sir.”

Petty Officer Second Class Hyun called up the reactor control display on his panel, pressed keys, and watched carefully as meters and gauges were displayed, showing the progress of the start-up. After a few moments he said, “Reactor active, Sir. Disconnecting from ship's power.” He pressed more controls, and with a muffled clunk! the power connection disengaged from the underside of the shuttle. After another few seconds, he announced, “Second exterior mag-bottle active, Sir. Ready to move.” He pressed another control, and with a whine the heavy armored rear ramp rose up and sealed itself tightly against the body of the shuttle. As the faint sounds of the airlock retracting came from outside, he switched to the piloting display.

“Very good.” Tom pulled up the communications display and pressed a button. “Shuttle One to Shuttle Two, report status, over.”

Chief Bhakti's voice came back over the circuit. “Shuttle Two to Shuttle One, hot and ready, over.”

“One to Two. Stand by to follow me out when we're released, then fall into trail formation. One out.”

He switched channels. “Shuttle One to Achilles Opcen. Our birds are ready to fly. Over.”

A brief pause, then the Exec's voice. “Opcen to One. Stand by for launch authority in sixty, I say again, six-zero seconds. Your initial course is being transmitted now. Report to Midrash Orbital Control Center on channel two-four-zero, I say again, two-four-zero, as soon as you're clear of the ship. They'll give you initial flight directions, and when you're close enough, they'll slave your flight controls to their systems and bring you in on auto. Over.”

“One to OpCen. Understood. Over.”

Tom and the pilot checked the console segment that displayed signals from the ship's systems. The figures '037, 025' appeared in one panel, and the pilot set his course controls to those horizontal and vertical values. The red light beneath the 'Launch' label glared for a few seconds more, then flickered to green. At the same moment, Commander Mars' voice came over the circuit.

“Achilles Six Actual to Shuttles One and Two. Good luck, and be careful. We'll see you in a week. On your way. Six out.”

Tom looked across at the pilot as the doors above them swung open onto the blackness of space. “OK, PO, take us out.”

“Aye, aye, Sir.”

Hyun disengaged the cradle arms, which swung back as the gravitic drive whined softly, lifting the shuttle slowly, straight up. Tom watched through the viewport as the destroyer's hull seemed to sink away beneath them. Looking to his left, he saw Shuttle Two doing likewise.

“Clear of the ship, Sir.”

“Very well. Set initial course, slow ahead.”

“Set initial course, slow ahead, aye, aye, Sir.”

The pilot dialed in twenty-five percent power, the standard setting for slow ahead, and the shuttle moved forward as it turned, leaving the ship behind, placing itself on the programmed course towards the Orbital Control Center. Some thirty thousand kilometers beneath them, the vivid colors of the planet glowed, clouds moving across continents and oceans. The stars glittered brightly around and above them.

Tom activated the transmitter on channel 240. “SFS Achilles Shuttle One to Midrash OrbCon. Departed Achilles at this time. En route to you with two shuttles. Beacon ID is Alpha-Two-Four-Romeo-Quadrant. Request instructions. Over.”

A brief pause, then a man's voice replied, “Orbcon to Achilles Shuttle One. Beacon ID plotted, confirm two craft. Maintain present heading. In about ten minutes we'll take over your systems and bring you in on auto. Can't have you spacer-boys hitting any of our satellites while you park, can we? Over.”

Tom could hear the condescending amusement in the operator's tone, and his lips compressed in irritation. He keyed his mike. “Achilles Shuttle One to Orbcon. Understood. We haven't done very well on hitting satellites lately, so we need the practice. Don't tempt us. Over.”

There was no reply.

#

In the OpCen of SFS Achilles, Lieutenant-Commander Tomczak, Commander Mars and Captain Hutchinson looked up alertly as they monitored the exchange. The Exec muttered inaudibly to himself.

Mars asked, “What was that, Exec?”

“I'm sorry, Ma'am, it was a private comment. I was just annoyed at that OrbCon operator's attitude. This is the Solaris Fleet he's dealing with, not some wet-behind-the-ears outfit! A bit more respect would have been in order.”

“I agree,” Hutchinson agreed from behind them, “but I think young Bowles responded appropriately. Let's continue to monitor that circuit and see what happens. Meanwhile, Commander Mars, I suggest we head for the dockyard. They're expecting us.”

“Aye, aye, Sir.”

#

Ten minutes into the trip, Tom felt the shuttle quiver slightly and change course as the automatic approach systems of the Orbital Control Center took control. Hyun looked across at him. “OrbCon has control, Sir,” he confirmed.

“Very well. Let's sit back and enjoy the ride.”

For a few minutes, he did . . . until he noticed, on his radar display, a satellite approaching rather too close to the line of their projected course. He noted its beacon, and keyed his mike.

“Achilles Shuttle One to Orbcon. Be advised that this course will take us within hazard distance of a satellite, beacon ID Bravo-Two-Seven-Four-One. Please reconfigure our approach. Over.”

The operator replied, smugly, “Orbcon to Achilles Shuttle One. Whassamatter, Fleet boy, can't take the pressure? Over.” As he spoke, the shuttle's course line veered even closer towards the approaching satellite.

Tom reddened with anger. It was a cardinal rule among all spacers, everywhere, that whilst humor, jokes and jibes were a part of their life, they were never, ever to be used in such a way as to endanger life or property.

He activated the plasma cannon panel, passed the radar data to it, and tapped in targeting instructions. Above their heads, the turret whined softly as the cannon trained around, muzzle rising slightly, and stood ready.

“Achilles Shuttle One to Orbcon. Listen, buddy, I don't know what the hell you think you're playing at, but this is the Solaris Fleet you're dealing with! I've just locked our fire control system onto that satellite. It'll cross our safety boundary in . . . two seven seconds, I say again, two seven seconds. You'd better change our trajectory before then, to keep it a safe distance away, or you'll be able to watch it turn into a fireball of expanding plasma! Over.”

As the operator depressed his 'Transmit' button, Tom could hear the shriek of alarms in the control center behind him. “Orbcon to Achilles Shuttle One, I'm moving you! I'm moving you! Don't fire! Jeez, can't you guys take a joke?” His voice was shrill, panicked.

The conversation had been broadcast over the console's speakers. Behind him, Tom could hear his Spacers and Marines laughing, thoroughly enjoying the moment. They, too, didn't appreciate their safety being endangered by an alleged 'joke'. He heard Gunny Kowalski call, “Give 'em hell, Sir!”

Tom watched his displays as the shuttle jerked suddenly, changing direction, and their projected course line moved away from the satellite. He keyed his mike again.

“Achilles Shuttle One to Orbcon. Put your supervisor on this circuit, right now! Over.”

A pause, then, “Orbcon to Achilles Shuttle One. Officer of the Watch speaking. What's the problem? Over.”

“Achilles Shuttle One to Orbcon. Sir, I request you review the record of how your operator handled our approach. I'll be filing charges of gross negligence and dereliction of duty against him when we arrive. Please have the necessary records preserved for the Court. I'll do the same with my shuttle's records. Over.”

Another pause. “Orbcon to Achilles Shuttle One. Understood. I'm reassigning your approach to another operator. Stand by.”

Pause. “Orbcon to Achilles Shuttle One. I have your approach. There won't be any more problems. Over.” The new voice was female, contralto, pleasing to the ear.

“Achilles Shuttle One to Orbcon. Thank you. Standing by.”

#

Aboard Achilles, Tomczak, Mars, Hutchinson and the Opcen staff had listened with disbelief and growing anger to the OpCen operator. Tom's blunt, uncompromising reply brought the Exec to his feet, and the team waited on tenterhooks until the situation was defused.

Tomczak sat down with a sigh. “Ma'am, I think I'm going to have to have a little chat with Ensign Bowles about the value of diplomacy.” A chuckle ran around the room.

Smiling, Mars answered, “That might not be a bad idea, Exec: but don't be too hard on him. He was fully justified in taking steps to ensure the safety of his craft and crew, after all. He may have been . . . less than diplomatic . . . in doing so; but under the circumstances, I might have done something similar myself.”

Behind her, Hutchinson guffawed. “Me too, Commander. Also, Ensign Bowles is young, and the young are typically a bit more direct and immediate in their actions than old fogeys like us!” Another ripple of mirth ran through the team. “Lieutenant-Commander, I agree: don't be too hard on him. On balance, I think his directness has done more good than harm.”

“Aye, aye, Sir, Ma'am,” the Exec acknowledged. “Still, if he treats OrbCon – not to mention Midrash's satellites! – with such cavalier disdain, I shudder to think what's he going to do to any smugglers he encounters!”

Laughing, the team turned back to their duties.

Go to Chapter 5

Return to Introduction

Ensign Bowles: Chapter Five

The two shuttles docked in adjacent bays, airlocks extending to their rear ramps and sealing in place. The ramps whined down and the teams disembarked, leaving their seabags, packs, armor and weapons aboard for now. They swiftly formed ranks in their two parties, and the senior NCO's in each group reported to Tom. Lieutenant Shelby was still aboard his shuttle, checking in by radio with the Marine office at Midrash Sector HQ, on the planet below.

He returned their salutes, then faced about to an approaching group of officers from Midrash's System Patrol Service. He saluted the senior, wearing the uniform of a Commander.

“Ensign Bowles, SFS Achilles, reporting aboard with two boarding and search parties for training, Sir.”

The Commander returned his salute. “Welcome aboard, Ensign.” He offered his hand. “I'm Commander Maram, Executive Officer of the Orbital Control Center. Please accept my sincere apology for the difficulty you encountered during your approach. No insult was intended to the Solaris Fleet. The operator concerned has been relieved of duty, and relevant records preserved, as you requested. Lieutenant Abromovitch here,” indicating another officer, “will take your statement and assist you to file your charges in the proper form.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

Maram introduced Lieutenant Junior Grade Miriam Sabran, who would be their liaison officer during their stay. She was an attractive brunette, tall and slim. She offered to conduct the rest of the team to their quarters, while Tom made his statement to Lieutenant Abromovitch and handed over copies of his shuttle's records. He thanked her, and arranged with Chief Petty Officer Andrus, senior NCO of his Spacer group, to have his seabag and gear taken to his cabin.

He arrived in the accommodation block to find the team eating a second, late supper, enjoying the food on offer, which was more highly spiced and savory than standard Star Fleet menus. He gladly filled a plate, poured a mug of coffee, and joined them.

Sabran moved over to make room for him at a table, where she was talking with Lieutenant Shelby, Gunny Kowalski, Chief Bhakti and Chief Andrus. “Hi, Ensign,” she greeted him with a grin. “You certainly put the cat among the pigeons in OrbCon tonight! I haven't seen such consternation and monkeyhouse there since the Admiral dropped in unexpectedly, late one night, and caught the operators watching a naughty movie on the master display console!”

“I'm sorry if I caused too much disruption, Ma'am, but I wasn't about to let an operator put the lives of my Spacers and Marines at risk, even in alleged fun.”

“And quite right too! That operator's caused difficulties before. He'll be out of a job after this, that's for sure! He'll never be trusted in any control environment again.”

They enjoyed their meal together, then everyone adjourned to their quarters. Sabran walked with Tom to the Officers Transient Quarters. As they walked, she said, “My name's Miriam when we're off-duty like this, Ensign, if you wish. No point in two junior officers standing on ceremony, is there?”

He smiled. “Thanks, Miriam. I'm Tom.”

“Would you really have blown up that satellite?”

“I'm not sure . . . but if it had come close enough to pose a real threat, I think so. I had fifty-three other Spacers and Marines to think of, after all. Lives come before property.”

“Yes – but the loss of that satellite would have blacked out half the holovid broadcasts on Midrash! My mother's a producer with Capital Holovid, and my father's an executive with the station, so I guess I should thank you on their behalf for not doing so.”

“I'm glad it didn't become necessary. What's our routine for tomorrow, Miriam?”

“We're going to give you two days here, with lectures by some of our more experienced search team leaders, a few practical exercises, and so on. We'll integrate your people into our search teams, so that you can go out with half-a-dozen different groups in their patrol craft. That way everyone's likely to gain exposure to most of the problems we face.”

“What sort of problems?”

“Two in particular: a lot of smuggling of exotic goods for luxury markets, particularly controlled goods from ecologically sensitive planets; and a certain amount of laundering, where stolen money and goods are transshipped through here before news of their theft has reached us. Some of our merchants aren't particularly scrupulous, I'm afraid. We also have the usual minor-league smuggling that every planet experiences, of course.”

“What about piracy?”

She shrugged. “Perhaps on other planets in the Sector, but we've seen very little of it here. We maintain a large and aggressive System Patrol. In the last decade, the only three pirate vessels to try something got blown out of space. We've had no pirate trouble for over a year.”

“Good! Anyway, it sounds like we're going to learn a lot.” He stopped at the doorway of the cabin she indicated. “Thanks for your help, Miriam. See you in the morning.”

“Count on it.”

#

The two days of training passed swiftly, everyone enjoying learning something new to all of them. Their teachers emphasized the ingenuity and cleverness of smugglers, showing them holovid records of previously-discovered hiding-places that aroused awed and admiring comment. Tom raised a laugh when he warned his Spacers and Marines that he'd be on the lookout for similar tricks aboard Achilles, just in case they had any ideas.

One important lesson was soon learned. The Marines were very good indeed at securing an environment, and dealing with any resistance: but they didn't have a Spacer's knowledge of the workings of a spaceship, so they were less effective at identifying likely hiding-places for smuggled goods. The Spacers, on the other hand, whilst very good at locating such hiding-places, even aboard unfamiliar spaceships, weren't nearly security-conscious enough, and all too often put themselves in positions where they'd be exposed to danger in the event of resistance. Tom and Miriam met with Brooks to discuss the matter.

“The only answer I can see is to cross-train the boarding and search parties,” the Marine said. “If we can teach your Spacers something of our tactics for combat aboard ships, they'll come to understand the positioning of members of the team, fields of fire, the use of cover and concealment, and things like that. You already have that, Tom: you automatically position yourself correctly, based on all the training you've done with Marines in the past. We need to teach that awareness to the rest of your Spacers as well.”

Tom nodded. “Sounds good to me. In our turn, we can teach your Marines more about spaceship architecture, and where contraband is most likely to be concealed, and how to recognize when something's out of place. Only problem is, when, where and how can we conduct the cross-training? Remember, it won't be for our two teams alone. The other ships of the Division will need it too.”

Miriam said, “I think Commander Maram might be able to arrange for your boarding and search parties to use planetary facilities for a week or so, if your ships will be here that long. That'll give you time to get everyone together and train them as a large group. We can conduct exercises with your depot ship, and a few merchant ships in orbit. I think he might even assign some of us to train with you. I'm sure the System Patrol Service would benefit from it.”

“That would be very helpful, Miriam,” Brooks agreed. “I'll send a signal to Achilles, asking Captain Lefevre to raise the matter with Captain Hutchinson. If he agrees that we'll be here long enough, and he's willing to authorize any expenses involved, we'll ask him to formally approach Commander Maram about it.”

Captain Hutchinson approved the idea, and Commander Maram agreed at once. In return for an equal number of Midrash System Patrol Service officers and enlisted personnel being allowed to share the training with the Division's Marines and Spacers, he offered free use of their training college on the planet. Arrangements were made for two hundred Spacers and Marines to spend a week there once the Division had reassembled.

Meanwhile, the two parties split into six nine-person teams. Each was attached to a Midrash System Patrol vessel, and joined its crew to search incoming and outgoing vessels for contraband. Miriam attached herself to Tom's team. As they spent time together over the next few days, he watched her, finding her attractive in many ways. He was fairly sure his interest was returned. Over supper on the evening of the fifth day, he decided to test the waters. He stood behind her as they went through the buffet line, but instead of joining others at a larger table, gently steered her to one set for only two persons.

As they ate, Tom asked casually, “So, Miriam, what do you do for relaxation? Do you spend most of your time up here at the Control Center, or planetside?”

“As a junior officer, I split my time about equally between them. You see, I'm still in training. We don't have a four-year Academy education like that offered by the Solaris Fleet. We spend a year as enlisted Spacers, then a year in Officer College. We don't use or train for hyper-capable warships, or the larger and more complex weapons and systems you use – only planetary and system patrol craft. We're then put to work, and learn the rest on the job.

“I've only recently been promoted to Lieutenant j.g. after two years as an Ensign. My first assignment after promotion was up here, as one of the Assistant Watch Officers. I was pulled off that job to help out as liaison officer for your group, and I'll go back to it when we finish. It doesn't leave much time for socializing planetside, and I live up here except for a monthly liberty period on the planet. I have a lovely apartment there, but it's wasted right now. Of course, if you get planetside liberty while your squadron's here, I'd love to offer you my spare room, and show you around.”

“I'd like that. Thank you. I'll let you know when I hear the official schedule. Apart from that, how do you entertain yourself up here when you're off-duty?”

She grinned. “I have a comfortable cabin, rather larger than the Transient Quarters, and I've, ah, made a few enhancements to it. I haven't had the opportunity to use it for . . . entertaining . . . yet, but it should be ideal. Would you like to see it?”

He felt a frisson of excitement. “I'd love to.”

They finished their meal, rose from the table, and left the Officers Mess. He walked beside her down the corridor, feeling the light pressure of her arm against his. She stopped at a door, pressed her palm to the lock, and led him inside.

He looked around. The cabin was certainly more spacious than his: and the bunk wasn't at head height, but on the floor, and much wider, almost the size of a double bed. He whistled in amusement as he saw it.

“I wish I could have a bed like that aboard ship, but they'd never allow it.”

She grinned. “They don't allow it here, either, technically, but I bribed the Wardroom Petty Officer with some vids from my parents – the kind you don't normally get up here. This cabin's designated for more senior officers, but he organized it for me, complete with bed. That's not all he arranged. Look here.”

She led him to the bathroom annex, and his eyes widened. Instead of a tiny regulation shower stall, barely wide enough to stand in, hers was at least twice as wide and deep, glass-paneled and tiled. It was luxurious in comparison to the plain metal plasalloy of normal spaceship fittings.

“You could throw a party in that!” he exclaimed, smiling.

She pressed lightly against him. “Indeed you could. You haven't had time to shower yet, have you?”

“No. We got back only just in time for supper, remember?”

“Yes. I need a shower, too. Care to scrub my back for me, if I promise to scrub yours?” She put her arms lightly around him, and he responded.

“Nothing I'd like more.” He kissed her gently, and she responded ardently.

“Then . . . if you take off my clothes . . . I'll take off yours . . . and we'll clean up . . . and then we'll find out whether the two of us will fit into this spiffy bed.”

#

The following morning, their patrol vessel was assigned to check an incoming freighter. Its Commanding Officer, Lieutenant Vikram, summoned his Inspection Officer, Lieutenant Junior Grade Melchin, to meet with Tom and Miriam about it.

“This one's a hot prospect,” he informed them, frowning. “SS Vargash is owned by the Fargin conglomerate. They've long been suspected of trafficking in smuggled goods. The problem is, their overall trading activities are on such a vast scale, they can easily conceal even large quantities of contraband beneath that cover. We've been trying to nail them for over a year now, without success.”

“What sort of commodities d'you think they're smuggling?” Tom asked.

“Precious metals, transuranics, and other high-value, low-bulk items. They deal in them legitimately, but their volume of transactions seems greater than the volume of imports they declare. However, they always come up with paperwork to explain any discrepancies. We're sure they're up to something – the difficulty is proving it.”

Melchin nodded. “The problem is that a very high value in such items can fit into a very small space. I'll have a word with the team, and we'll take particular care over this inspection.”

“I'll do the same with my Spacers and Marines,” Tom promised.

They boarded SS Vargash as soon as she entered orbit, to be met by her supercilious First Mate. “Of course, you're welcome to take as long as you wish,” he assured them airily. “We have nothing to hide. There's just one thing. We have a new inertial compensator aboard, a replacement for a defective unit on another of our ships, the Trudish. She's been immobilized for six weeks, waiting for it, and we really need to get her back into operation. She's costing us a fortune, sitting idle like that! Would you mind checking and clearing that first, so we can send it over? A cargo shuttle's already on the way to collect it.”

“I see no reason why not,” Melchin agreed. “We'll start in that hold.”

The three-million-ton freighter, mid-sized by modern standards, had several very large holds, opening along each side. They took the walkway down the long internal passage until they came to the airlock for Hold 5. Sealing the helmets of their spacesuits and powered armor, the team went through the airlock, accompanied by the ship's Bosun.

The hold doors were already open to the airless vacuum of space, stars glittering brightly in the background. The internal gravity field was on, so they didn't need the magnetic inserts in their boots to hold them to the deck. The Bosun led them to a pile of crates strapped down near the cargo doors.

“This is the inertial compensator,” he informed them over their spacesuit radios. “It's a standard unit, straight from the factory, still with their seals on it. I'll bring up the manifest on the cargo station over there, with the invoice, serial numbers and bill of lading.”

Tom looked around approvingly. His Marines and Spacers, weapons clipped to their chest harness, split up to accompany Midrash patrol representatives as they checked the stenciled markings on the crates. They moved smoothly and efficiently. He walked over to the cargo station, where Lieutenant Melchin was going over the documentation on the display. It all seemed in order: dates of manufacture, assembly and packaging, details of each crate, its dimensions and weight . . .

Weight. Tom had a sudden idea. Metals, particularly those that the Fargin conglomerate was suspected of smuggling, were high-weight and low-bulk. It would be relatively easy to conceal a large quantity by weight inside the casings of the parts for an inertial compensator. To the naked eye, nothing would appear amiss: and since the crates would be moved by tractor and pressor beams, operated by the ship's crew, they wouldn't be weighed by any other device.

He tapped on Melchin's shoulder. “Lieutenant, do you have equipment that can weigh these crates before they're shipped out?”

“Yes, but it'd be a hell of a lot of work. We'd have to set up an industrial scale in here, move a crate onto the scale with tractor and pressor beams, read its weight, then use the beams again to remove it and place the next crate on the scale. It's so much effort, and would take so long for a large cargo, that it's always been regarded as impractical.”

“You wanna weigh these crates?” The bosun was incredulous. “You gotta be kidding me! That'd take hours, and they want them aboard Trudish right away! She's been waiting weeks for them!”

Tom ignored him, looking towards the open doors. A hulking ten-thousand-ton cargo shuttle had slid to a halt just outside them, held in place by tractor and pressor beams mounted around the doors. A work party of a dozen stevedores, wearing spacesuits, floated across using personal thruster units, and landed on the threshold. Their magnetic boots held them to the deck until they could step across the demarcation line, showing where the ship's internal gravity took effect. They moved towards the crates containing the inertial compensator.

“Bosun, tell those stevedores to wait!” Tom ordered sharply. “We've not finished yet.” He turned back to Melchin. “Lieutenant, with the greatest of respect, shouldn't we try to weigh at least some of them, in the light of what Lieutenant Vikram told us?”

“You have a point, Ensign. Very well. I'll have him send over our scale from the patrol craft.”

The stevedores were casting loose the lashings on the first crate. Tom snapped, “Bosun, I told you to stop them! Do it! Now!”

“You gotta be crazy!” the Bosun blustered. “Why in hell would you suspect these crates of holding anything else? I've shown you the damn documents, and the Patrol's never questioned them before! You're costing us money every minute you hold us up like this! I'm gonna ask Number One to file an official complaint!” His hand went to the controls on his chest panel to change radio channels, without issuing any orders to the stevedores.

Tom looked at Melchin. “Lieutenant, he's stalling us! I'm more sure than ever that something's wrong. Can you stop those stevedores?”

Melchin turned to the Bosun. “You heard Ensign Bowles – stop them! What channel are their radios using?”

The Bosun didn't reply. Having already changed channels, he couldn't hear Melchin. His lips were moving as he spoke, presumably to the First Mate.

Melchin strode over to the stevedores, Tom following him. He held up his hand in a 'stop' gesture, then pointed to his ear, raising his hand in a gesture of inquiry. One of the workers indicated the figures 1-0-9 on his fingers, and Tom and Melchin set their suit radios to that channel.

“You men, stop that!” Melchin snapped. “We're not done with these crates yet, and won't be for some time. You'll have to wait for them.”

The man who'd signaled the channel stepped forward. “You can't hold us up like this! We've got a priority rush job to take these over to Trudish and get her back in service by tonight. She's supposed to leave tomorrow with a full cargo. Every minute you waste costs us money! If you mess us around, we'll sue the Patrol to recover every centicred!”

Tom saw the stevedores spreading out behind the spokesman, and his instincts screamed a warning. That wasn't a casual, random movement. They were getting into line, clearing each other's way. It strongly suggested preparations for a fight.

He switched his radio back to the channel used by his Spacers and Marines, and snapped, “Heads up, everyone! This could be trouble. Don't start anything, but don't wait for orders if they start something – just stop them.” As he switched back to channel 109, he saw his people begin to spread out, watchful, alert, ready to unclip their bead carbines from their chest harnesses at the first sign of trouble.

Melchin was still trying to argue with the foreman. Tom tapped him on the shoulder and said, “Lieutenant, I respectfully suggest you contact the patrol craft and call for backup. I'll deal with this.” Melchin nodded and stepped back, changing channels as Tom took his place.

“All right,” Tom snapped. “Enough of this nonsense! We're holding these crates until our investigation's finished. Get your workers over there, in that open space beyond the cargo station, and hold them there until I tell you otherwise.”

“And who the hell are you to give me orders, sonny? We're taking these crates, and we're taking them now!”

“Like hell you are! I'm Ensign Bowles, Solaris Fleet, and if you don't do as you're ordered immediately, we'll place the whole lot of you under arrest!”

The man sneered. “Spacer boy, are you? And a wet-behind-the-ears Ensign to boot! Well, your rank doesn't cut any ice around here, damn you!”

Without warning, in a single fluid motion, he plucked a crowbar from his tool belt and swung it viciously. As he did so, his workers swarmed forward, trying to get in among the inspection team. Tom realized instantly, even as he began to duck, that if they succeeded, they'd render the Spacers' and Marines' weapons useless. They wouldn't be able to fire into a pitched melée, for fear of hitting their comrades.

As the crowbar whipped over his helmet, and the foreman tried to recover from his wild swing, Tom lunged forward and drove a solid karate fist strike directly into the base of his neck, just below the hard collar of the spacesuit. He'd chosen the target deliberately, as he knew spacesuits were not reinforced there. He felt the collarbone snap beneath his blow, which drove on into the tracheae. The man gurgled, dropped the crowbar and sank to his knees, clutching at his throat as he desperately tried to draw breath.

The area around the crates broke into violent action. The Midrash personnel didn't react fast enough, and went down as the stevedores swarmed over them. Two of Tom's Spacers did likewise. However, the Marines and the other two Spacers had enough warning to scuttle backwards, out of reach, and line their carbines. Those stevedores who were exposed, unshielded by the mass of bodies, slammed to a halt and raised their hands. They may have been angry, but they weren't suicidal. Their captors motioned with their carbine barrels, herding them to one side of the struggling mass of bodies on the deck.

Tom didn't have time to draw the pistol from his holster. As the foreman sank to his knees, two of his workers charged past him and grabbed for Tom. Twisting away from one's grasp, he snapped a kick to the knee of the other, dislocating the joint and sending the man sprawling. Staggering, Tom dropped to one knee as he lost his balance, and put his left hand on the floor. It landed on the crowbar dropped by the foreman, and he grabbed it.

The worker he'd eluded was coming at him again. Tom drove forward as he rose, straightening his left arm, the crowbar jutting out like a spear, and slammed it into the man's chest. His victim's own forward momentum combined with Tom's strike to make the blow viciously effective. The control panel on the spacesuit's chest splintered as the crowbar's chisel point drove through, fracturing the man's sternum, sinking deeper. His eyes bulged and he opened his mouth, clearly screaming in pain, but his radio was no longer working. Clutching at the crowbar, he fell to the floor.

Tom spun around, one hand drawing his pistol, the other resetting his radio to the team's channel. Instantly his earpiece was filled with clamor as the Spacers and Marines all tried to speak at once. He couldn't make himself heard at all.

His eyes fell to the heap of bodies writhing in front of him, as half a dozen of the stevedores struggled with the Midrash personnel and two of his Spacers. Even as he looked, he saw one of the stevedores wrench a bead carbine away from a Spacer and begin to stand, reaching for the trigger as he swung the weapon around.

Automatically Tom dropped into a braced combat shooting stance, his left hand coming up to support his right as it snapped out at full extension, aligning the sights on the chest of the rising figure. He squeezed off three rapid shots, crack-crack-crack, unheard in the vacuum of the hold, riding the mild recoil of the bead pistol's electromagnetic mechanism. The hypersonic projectiles slammed into the chest of the armed man in a tight cluster, rocking his big, burly frame, and his eyes opened wide with pain and shock: but he didn't immediately fall. Still standing, clutching the carbine, he might still be a threat. Instantly Tom raised his sights, lining them at his helmet, and touched off another shot. The bead shattered a hole through the plasglass and drove on into the man's skull. His helmet's visor was suddenly splashed with ghastly dripping splotches of red and gray as hydrostatic shock blew the stevedore's head apart. He collapsed as if he'd been boned.

The clamor in Tom's earpiece was cut off as if by a knife, the sight making everyone freeze for a moment. He shouted, “Radio silence!” as he spun around, checking his six. The three he'd already dealt with were still down, the foreman clutching his throat, the second man cradling his dislocated knee and rocking back and forth, the third motionless, face-down on the deck. The other stevedores stood frozen, hands raised under the guns in the hands of the Marines and Spacers. Lieutenant Melchin was off to one side, lips moving, so he was obviously speaking on another frequency – most likely calling for backup from the patrol craft. The bosun was flat on his back, Melchin's foot on his chest and his pistol aimed straight into his face. There'd be no trouble from that quarter.

Tom swung back. The other armed Spacer wrenched himself away from his attacker and stood, stumbling backwards, his carbine coming up to line at his assailant. Tom called, “Don't shoot unless you have to!” The Spacer checked, stood tense for a moment, then relaxed slightly. His attacker froze under the threat of the muzzle, then slowly raised his hands.

Tom flicked his eyes around the area. The only fighting was now in the heap of struggling bodies on the deck. He called, “Sergeant Eckhard, you and one other Marine lay your carbines down behind other Marines, then use your armor to break up this lot. Haul the workers off. Clobber them if they resist – break an arm or a leg, then throw them over to join their foreman!”

“Yes, Sir! Private Donegan, with me!”

The two Marines set down their carbines behind their colleagues, who were still holding the other stevedores at bay, well out of reach, and set to work. The exoskeletal 'muscles' of their powered armor, ten times as strong as an unaided man, made short work of the melée. One by one the struggling workers were hoisted up by belt or limb, duly clobbered if necessary, and flung at the feet of their foreman. Those still able to do so looked up, saw the carbines lined at them, and wisely lay still.

As the Midrash personnel rose to their feet, Lieutenant Melchin broke in. “Tom, help's on the way. Lieutenant Vikram's alerted OrbCon, and our other patrol craft are coming at full blast. We're to hold in place until relieved.”

“Got it. Where's Lieutenant Sabran?”

“Here,” she replied, breathing heavily, rising slowly on unsteady legs. “I was caught underneath that crush of bodies. I'm OK, just winded – the shuttle! Behind you, Tom!”

He spun around again. A space-suited figure was standing in the mouth of the cargo shuttle's hold, lining a bead carbine at him. Tom didn't have time to assume a proper stance. He snapped his pistol up one-handed as he turned, got a flash sight picture and hurriedly squeezed off a shot. Even as he felt the pistol jump in his hand, something hard, hot and heavy smashed into his upper right arm. Agony roared through him as he jerked back, his pistol falling from suddenly unresponsive fingers. He felt the sting of vacuum as air and body fluids rushed out of the hole for a brief moment, before his spacesuit's self-sealing lining blocked it.

It seemed as if every Marine and Spacer in the hold turned their carbines on the figure in the shuttle at the same time. A hailstorm of beads slammed into him, his body jerking and twisting. He collapsed backwards, the carbine falling from his hands.

“Cease fire!” Tom yelled – or, rather, croaked, his voice coming out unnaturally strained and trembling. “Cease fire! Cover the others!” The carbines swung back to the prisoners, but they remained motionless. Having seen two of their number die, with several more down and injured, they'd had enough.

Melchin hurried over and scooped up Tom's pistol from the deck. “Miriam, get Tom over to the cargo station, out of the way! Call for medevac! I'll handle things here!”

Tom tried to say something, but the burning, throbbing, stabbing pain in his arm grew ever greater, stifling his words. He felt Miriam take his left arm, tugging him gently, and tried to resist, but Sergeant Eckhard said, “We've got it, Sir. You did real well! Go get that arm treated. We'll take care of this lot.”

Numbly, he obeyed, stumbling on suddenly nerveless legs towards the terminal. The hold seemed to swim around him, as if in a mist. A wave of dizziness surged over him.

The last thing he remembered was Miriam's voice. “He's going! I can't hold him! Help me, some of you!” He tried to say something, but it came out as a wordless scream of agony as his injured arm hit the deck . . . then darkness engulfed him.

Go to Chapter 6

Return to Introduction

Ensign Bowles: Chapter Six

Slowly Tom's consciousness returned, as if rising towards the surface after a long submergence. Faintly in his ears he heard what sounded like birdsong . . . but that couldn't be, surely? There were no birds in space! Even the air smelt different, fresh, clean, far better than the usual 'canned', filtered and recycled smell of air aboard a spaceship, that no amount of fresheners or deodorizers could completely mask. It was somehow different, though, carrying overtones of scents he didn't remember from Solaris.

He opened his eyes a crack. The room in which he lay was dim, light filtering through the curtains over the window . . . window? Curtains? So he wasn't on a spaceship! He opened his eyes wider, and carefully turned his head. He was in a white-painted room, lying on a high bed, its upper half raised slightly, his head resting on soft, plumped pillows. The window on his left was open, fresh air moving the curtains slightly in a breeze – and yes, that was birdsong, coming from outside. His eyes traveled to a steel stand next to the bed, from which three plasglass containers hung suspended, tubes leading from them to join in a triple-stranded line leading beneath his sheets.

He lay silent for a moment, then tried to move. Instantly a sharp pain in his right shoulder made him gasp. He looked around. His right arm was in an elevated cast, held up by pulleys. By the feel of it, the cast extended around his shoulder and chest. He gazed at it for a moment, puzzled, then slowly memory began to return. The freighter . . . the fight in the hold . . . he'd been shot . . .

The door opened quietly, and a woman dressed in a white uniform looked cautiously around the edge. Her face brightened. “Ah! You're awake!” She came in, bustling up to the bedside, beaming at him. “And how are you feeling?”

He tried to answer, but his mouth and throat were so dry that he could only utter a strangled croak. She seemed to understand. She turned away for a moment, then turned back, holding a glass of water, and put a straw to his lips. He sucked, and the most delicious nectar he'd ever tasted flooded into his mouth, soaking into the parched flesh. He swallowed, feeling the moisture spread down his throat, then sucked again, and again. She pulled the straw away, and he muttered in protest, trying to follow it with his lips.

“Don't drink too much at once. You've been asleep for two days. How are you feeling?”

He licked his still-dry lips with his newly-irrigated tongue. “T – two days? Where am I? Who are you?”

“I'm Lieutenant Osborne, a Solaris Fleet nurse. You're in the hospital wing at the Sector Base on Midrash. After you were shot, they flew you to the Sick Bay at the Orbital Control Center, but it was soon clear your injury was much too severe to be handled there. That bead shattered your arm pretty badly. They cleaned out your wound, began transfusions, and rushed down some of the chips of bone so we could start force-cloning a new section. After that, they kept you asleep, loaded you into an ambulance shuttle and brought you down. Your new bone was ready within a day, and we operated yesterday morning to insert it. We kept you asleep for another day, to let the pain subside and the healing get under way. Your arm's going to be just fine in about six weeks or so. You'll have to keep it elevated for a few more days, then we'll cut away the shoulder portion of the cast, so you can walk around with a sling.”

As she spoke, she checked his vital signs from the readout next to the bed, then pulled back his sheets to examine a needle in his left arm. The tubes from the stand next to the bed were plumbed into it. She straightened his bedclothes, and opened the curtains to let in more light. He looked at her more closely. She was about his age, blond, with a cheerful, open face.

“Do you know what happened after I was shot? Am I in any trouble?”

She giggled. “Oh, heavens, no! You're not in trouble, Ensign - anything but! The exact opposite, in fact! You did very well, and we're all proud of you. I'll let your superiors tell you about it. They knew you'd be waking up about now, and they'll be here shortly. Do you feel up to eating some breakfast?”

He suddenly realized that he was ravenous. “Yes, please – a lot of breakfast!”

“Not too much at first, and only soft foods. Your stomach won't thank you for a heavy meal right now! I'll order some scrambled eggs. Tea or coffee?”

“Tea, please.”

The food arrived shortly, and she sat at his bedside and fed him with a spoon. He wasn't sure he liked that, but she silenced his protests. “You've got a drip in one arm and a bloody great cast around the other – not to mention it's suspended in mid-air! Don't be silly, Ensign. Until that drip comes out, you can't use that arm very much. The doctor will decide later this morning whether it can be removed. Until the needle's out, you'll have to accept that you simply can't do most things for yourself. That's why we're here, to do them for you.”

Grumbling, he acceded, and enjoyed the meal, although he wished there had been more of it. She promised that tomorrow morning, if his stomach showed no signs of rebellion after a day on soft foods, she'd arrange steak and eggs. The thought cheered him considerably.

Another nurse hurried in. “They're coming!”

The two of them hastily put the remains of breakfast on the tray, checked to see that everything in the room was presentable, and scurried out. Within moments he heard footsteps coming down the corridor, and Commander Mars looked in.

“Ah, you're awake, Ensign! Are you receiving visitors?”

“Of course, Ma'am.”

She came in, followed by Captain Hutchinson. They sat down on the chairs the nurses had arranged for them at the left side of the bed.

Mars said, “For a start, Ensign, congratulations on a good job, very well done! Your attention to detail detected what's proved to be a major smuggling operation, and your alertness to danger saved your party from being overwhelmed by the smugglers. The Marines in your team are admiringly – and rather profanely – describing you as a 'one-man wrecking crew'! You killed two smugglers with your pistol, seriously injured a third with a rather uniquely wielded crowbar, and disabled two more hand-to-hand.” She told him of the Exec's final comment after his interchange with Midrash OrbCon concerning the satellite. “He's now claiming to have a confirmed gift of foreknowledge!” She and Hutchinson chuckled, and Tom had to laugh at the thought, even though it hurt.

“Please tell the Exec, I respectfully submit he deserves extra pay for that, Ma'am,” he said with a grin, to renewed smiles. “You said I shot two smugglers. Did I hit the man in the shuttle, then, Ma'am? His shot struck me as I fired, and I didn't see the result of mine.”

“Yes, you did. Several of your Marines saw your shot strike his chest, and we confirmed that from the hold's security vid. He was hit more than twenty times by the others in your team – a case of overkill if ever I heard of one! Still, your bead hit him first, and would have been enough to kill him even without his other injuries, according to the coroner: so he goes on your scorecard.”

“Do we know who he was, Ma'am, and why he fired? It was all over in the hold by then. He couldn't have made any difference to the outcome, so why did he do it?”

“According to the prisoners, he was the pilot of the cargo shuttle, and the brother of the first stevedore you shot. He must have seen his brother go down and lost his head, because he left the controls, grabbed a bead carbine, and tried to kill you.”

Tom grimaced. “He came close to succeeding . . . but now their parents have two sons to mourn, God help them! Was there something illicit in those crates, Ma'am?”

Both his visitors laughed aloud. Hutchinson replied, “You might put it that way, young man. Your hunch about checking their weight paid off handsomely! When the dust had settled, the System Patrol found that some weighed almost twice as much as listed on the bill of lading. They tore down the components of the inertial compensator, and found some were full of solid gold briquettes – two tons of them! We've since learned from the prisoners that it was being smuggled through Midrash as part of a laundering operation, and would have gone on to another destination aboard another ship. Of course, the Patrol immediately seized Vargash as a smuggling vessel. She's carrying a lot of cargo, consigned to various companies, most of which is likely to be legitimate: but everything aboard will be scrutinized in exhaustive detail. If they find any more smuggled goods, they'll be seized as well.”

Mars added, “The ship and smuggled goods will be sold at a prize auction. Her owners, Fargin Shipping, have appealed Vargash's seizure: but since her crew and officers are implicated by their own confessions, they haven't a hope of success. The company's in very hot water right now, legally speaking. They'll be lucky to escape with a humongous fine, if not prison time for some of their executives. Your Spacers and Marines are very, very pleased with you! All of them ended up as part of the operation, either in your team, or moving to your support when things went pear-shaped. As a result, you'll all share in the prize money, along with Midrash's System Patrol Service personnel.”

He smiled. “That's great, Ma'am! Do you have any idea how much is involved?”

“The ship and the smuggled goods together should fetch at least a hundred million credits.” She grinned as his eyes widened at the sum. “Yes, you heard correctly. Vargash is a fairly old ship, but still in good condition, and freighters of her size are always in demand. On the open market, she should be worth sixty to eighty million: and the price of gold presently works out to over twenty million credits per ton. Not a bad morning's work, Ensign! Midrash has the same prize regulations as the Solaris Fleet, so forty-five percent of what's realized will be divided between those involved. It'll take a few months to sort it all out, of course, but you'll end up considerably wealthier.”

“I – I don't know what to say, Ma'am, except that it's a nice surprise! It'll go some way towards making up for this arm.”

Hutchinson said, “I think there'll be some additional compensation for that. The Sector Admiral, Vice-Admiral Pellew, has already received letters of commendation for you from the skipper of your patrol craft, and from Rear-Admiral Davan of the System Patrol Service. I daresay he'll do something about them as soon as you're mobile.”

Mars added, “Yes, and you'd better brace yourself for a media onslaught as well. Your name and photograph have been plastered all over the news, and journalists are clamoring for an interview. We've fobbed them off for now, on the grounds of your injury: but once you're mobile again, they'll not take 'no' for an answer.”

“Yes, indeed,” Hutchinson confirmed. “Speaking of public relations, there's something else, Ensign. You filed charges against the operator who endangered your shuttles and crew while inbound to the Control Center. You were quite within your rights to do so, of course. However, Commander Maram has a problem. The Patrol Service is naturally very pleased with the positive publicity that's come out of your encounter with the smugglers. They'd prefer not to detract from it by having one of the Patrol's operators publicly disgraced. The Commander asked whether you'd be willing to accept the man's resignation, plus an entry on his records that he's never again to be trusted in any similar position, and drop your charges, so as to avoid that.”

Tom thought for a moment. “Sir . . . I just don't know. I can see where Commander Maram's coming from, and I don't want to add to his problems: but if the operator's not charged, won't it seem as if he got away with it, at least to some extent?”

“It might, to the uninformed. On the other hand, Commander Maram is concerned with the overall welfare and reputation of his System Patrol. He's probably under pressure from his superiors. He's in a very delicate position, and I have a certain amount of sympathy for him in his dilemma. Ultimately, it's your decision, because you're the one who filed the charges. I could take the matter out of your hands by ordering you to withdraw them, but that wouldn't be fair to you and the others who were put at risk. You'll have to make up your own mind.”

“Sir, with respect, I'm too junior and inexperienced to be able to make an informed judgment. I'll be guided by you. If you think it's best for all concerned that the charges be dropped, I'll do so.”

“I do. Commander Maram can be trusted to ensure that this idiot never has the opportunity to do something similar again. That's the main thing, after all. It'll also have the side benefit of putting the Patrol further in your and the Fleet's debt, which should help future relationships all round.”

“Very well, Sir. Would you please tell him that I'll formally withdraw the charges as soon as I'm able? I'm afraid I won't be able to get up to Orbcon for a while.”

“I'll see to it, and ask him to send someone to obtain your signature on the necessary forms – left-handed, of course!” They both laughed. “Thank you, Ensign.”

Mars nudged the Captain and stood. “Ensign, you've talked more than long enough, and your eyelids are drooping. We'd better leave you in peace, to rest. You'll be here or on sick leave for several weeks. Relax, get well, and you'll be back with us soon enough.”

#

Tom's stay in hospital was brightened considerably by visits from Lieutenant Shelby and the other members of his team, who came each day in small groups. Other officers from the ship came as well, and he had daily visits from Miriam, who'd been assigned to be his full-time assistant while he was recovering. As she explained, chuckling, “The word came down from Rear-Admiral Davan that what Ensign Bowles wants, he gets! We always battle to get sufficient funding, and apparently there's already talk of a supplementary Bill in Parliament, to buy us more and better equipment to detect smuggled goods. That's all thanks to the publicity for the Patrol resulting from our action, so you're in very good odor right now. I suggested you'd need someone to look after you during your convalescence, and volunteered for the job.” She leaned over and kissed him gently, her eyes dancing. “Looks like we'll have an extended stay together before you head out again. Let's make the most of it!”

“Ha! Fat lot of advantage I can take of it, with my arm tied up like this!”

“Don't worry. The shoulder portion of the cast will be cut off tomorrow, and then you'll have several weeks of physiotherapy while you're on sick leave. You can spend it at my apartment, of course. I think we can figure out ways to get around your handicap, if we put our minds to it!” She rolled her eyes at him wickedly, and he grinned.

“I like that idea – but what if the Fleet want me back aboard ship?”

“From what I hear, your Division will head out in a few days, as soon as its Spacers and Marines have completed their cross-training. They'll investigate several star systems over the next month, then return here to resupply. You'll rejoin them at that point.”

“Works for me.”

Sure enough, next morning his shoulder cast was removed, leaving a hard cast from his upper arm down to and encasing his elbow. “You'll keep that on for another month,” the surgeon informed him cheerfully. “You'll do daily physiotherapy to keep your arm in as good a condition as possible, and we'll give you a series of exercises to do when you return to your ship. You should be as good as new within three months.”

Miriam came to collect him at eleven, and drove him back to her apartment. She showed him around the bright, airy two-bedroom unit, and he approved enthusiastically. “I'm going to enjoy staying here with you. Thanks so much!”

She swayed against him gently. “I'll be glad to have you to myself for awhile, even though we both know you'll be leaving again soon. Let's enjoy ourselves while we can! And, speaking of that, you're supposed to be getting remedial exercise, aren't you?”

“Yes. The physiotherapist spent time with me this morning.”

She nestled closer, putting her arms around his neck. “My dense darling! Do I have to spell it out?”

He put his good arm around her and kissed her.

“Damn sling!” he muttered peevishly. “The cast gets between us like this.”

“I bet it'll be less in the way when we're lying down,” she murmured, and pulled him into her bedroom.

Later, lying happily spent in each other's arms on the bed, he chuckled.

“What's so funny?” she asked.

“So much for being unfit for duty!”

She joined in his laughter. “Oh, well. We won't tell the doctor!”

“What's the plan for this afternoon?”

“I'm taking you to a tailor in town. Lieutenant-Commander Tomczak sent down one of your Number One uniforms from the ship, and he used it as a reference to make you another, adjusting the sleeve so that you can fit your cast inside it, and use a sling. He'll do the final fitting while we wait. You'll be needing it tomorrow morning.”

“Why? What's happening then? And do I have to pay for the uniform?”

“No, the bill's being covered by the System Patrol. At ten tomorrow morning there's an inspection of your Spacers and Marines, and our Patrol personnel, on completion of the cross-training. The big brass will be there in full force, and the news media too. I understand you may be mentioned as well, although everyone's awfully tight-lipped about it. You'd better brace yourself for something special! That's why we have to have your new uniform ready by then. Speaking of that, we'd better think of getting dressed to go into town.”

The tailor had done a first-rate job, producing a doeskin uniform as good as that made by Gibbs on Solaris, already fitted with duplicates of Tom's medal ribbons and badges. “I've made the right side and armpit adjustable,” he pointed out, “closing it with hook-and-loop fasteners, rather than a seam, so it can be opened wider than usual. The sleeve's also wider, and closed in the same way. When your arm's healed, bring the jacket back to me – or take it to a tailor on another planet, if necessary – to have the extra material removed and the seams sewn normally. That way you'll still be able to use the uniform once your cast is off.”

Tom thanked him gratefully, and took his original uniform and the new one with him.

The parade next morning at the Midrash System Patrol Service Academy was an elaborate affair, clearly staged for the benefit of the news media. Tom was met by Captain Hutchinson and Commander Mars, both smiling broadly.

“You're to be decorated for your actions aboard SS Vargash,” the Commander informed him. “Admiral Pellew has awarded you the Solaris Star in Bronze, and your Combat Injury Medal will be upgraded to Silver, to show you've been twice wounded in action. The investiture will be held immediately after the inspection. You'll sit with us on the reviewing stand, as you're still convalescing. We can't have you fainting on parade!”

“Th – Thank you, Ma'am,” he managed to say. He was a little taken aback by the swiftness of the award. Such things normally took weeks or even months to go through channels. However, a Sector Admiral had the authority to approve decorations up to a certain level, without referring them to Fleet HQ on Solaris. Clearly, that had happened in his case.

“I took the liberty of raiding your closet to retrieve your medals,” Mars went on. “Let's get you set up for the ceremony.” She'd brought her steward down, and he removed Tom's ribbons, mounted his medals on his new uniform, and affixed two hooks next to them for the new medals. Brushing the uniform clean, he inspected it critically before nodding his satisfaction.

The two hundred-odd Spacers and Marines, and a similar number from Midrash's System Patrol who'd trained alongside them, paraded in sections. They were inspected by the Solaris Fleet Sector Admiral, Vice-Admiral Pellew, and the Commanding Officer of Midrash's System Patrol Service, Rear-Admiral Davan. After the inspection, Rear-Admiral Davan said several highly complimentary things about SFS Achilles' Spacers and Marines, and thanked Captain Hutchinson and Commander Mars for making them available. To Tom's embarrassment, he praised his actions in lavish terms, drawing loud applause.

Vice-Admiral Pellew came to the podium with a folder, from which he withdrew two stiff parchment citations. “Ensign Bowles, front and center!” he commanded.

Tom marched to the front of the podium and stood to attention beside the Admiral, as best he could with his right arm in a sling, looking out over the assembled parade.

“Attention to orders!” Admiral Pellew read the two citations, the first conferring upon him the Solaris Star in Bronze for gallantry in action, the second upgrading his Combat Injury Medal from Bronze to Silver. The Admiral laid down the citations and turned to his Flag-Lieutenant, who bore the awards on a cushion. He took each medal in turn from its box, hung them from the hooks on Tom's uniform, shook his hand, stepped back, and returned his slightly awkward left-handed salute.

“Thank you, Ensign, for setting an example to your Spacers and Marines, and to everyone in the Solaris Fleet. We're proud of you.”

“Th – Thank you, Sir.” Tom felt a little dizzy.

The Admiral must have noticed, because he said softly, “Just a moment longer, Bowles, then you can sit down again.” He motioned to his Flag-Lieutenant to stand at Tom's side in case he needed support, then replaced the two citations in the folder and handed it to him, along with the medal boxes. Under the applause from those on parade, he said, “Normally you'd stand with me to take the salute, but due to your injury, we'll omit that. Flags, please escort Ensign Bowles to his seat.”

“Aye, aye, Sir.”

Seated once more beside Commander Mars and Captain Hutchinson, Tom watched the march-past and salute. He looked down at his breast with satisfaction, and made a mental note to send a photograph and copies of the news reports to Captain Tarrant, to reassure him that his intervention to get this posting for him had been justified by events.

After the parade there was a news conference. Tom was the star attraction, of course, but Commander Mars, acting as MC, kept the journalists in check. She reminded them, “This young man's just out of hospital after surgery to repair a serious injury. He'll be convalescent for several weeks yet. Please respect his weakened condition, and don't pester him too much! You already know what happened aboard SS Vargash, and you've all seen security vid of the action, so please don't re-hash the entire affair with him. That understood, he'll take a few questions. Please raise your hands, and I'll select each questioner in turn.”

Most of the questions concerned his health, and he was able to reassure the journalists that he was recovering as expected. However, one reporter threw him off-balance. She asked coyly, “Ensign, is it true that there's a romantic attachment between you and Lieutenant Junior Grade Sabran, of the Midrash System Patrol Service?”

He blushed slightly. “Ma'am, I've become good friends with Lieutenant Sabran. She was also involved in the fight aboard SS Vargash, so we're comrades-in-arms as well. She's helping me during my convalescence on this planet.”

He looked at Miriam as she stood to one side, and she laughed, drawing attention her way. Stepping forward, she said, “Ensign Bowles and I have become good friends, as he said, but he's in a different service, and he'll be heading back into space soon. One of the sages from the dawn of the space age, Heinlein, coined the phrase: 'When the ship lifts, all debts are paid'. I don't think either of us see our friendship as a long-term romantic commitment.” The reporter who'd asked the question looked disappointed, but didn't press the matter.

When the news conference was over, he and Miriam joined Mars, Hutchinson and the two Admirals for a brief conversation. “We won't keep you long, Ensign. I know you need to get back to bed and rest,” Vice-Admiral Pellew acknowledged. “Nevertheless, I wanted to thank you personally, as well as officially, for your actions aboard SS Vargash. You've done the image of the Solaris Fleet a power of good in this Sector.”

“The same goes for the Midrash System Patrol Service,” Rear-Admiral Davan added. “I understand you'll be staying planetside for at least four weeks, Ensign?”

“Yes, Sir.”

Mars added, “Sir, the Twenty-Third Destroyer Division will leave tomorrow to begin its investigations, and return here in thirty to thirty-five days for resupply. According to the doctors, Ensign Bowles should be sufficiently recovered by then to resume limited duties. Until that time, he'll be on temporary detachment from Achilles to the hospital at the Sector Base.”

“Very good. Ensign, I'm pleased you'll have the chance to see something of our planet while you're convalescing. Lieutenant Sabran, you'll continue to assist Ensign Bowles until he reports aboard his ship, of course.”

Miriam blushed. “Thank you, Sir.”

Rear-Admiral Davan smiled at her. “Look after him for us. Ensign, as you know, the Solaris Fleet normally wouldn't award you another star for your Space Combat Badge, because you were attached to the Midrash System Patrol Service, rather than a Solaris Fleet unit, during your fight. However, with Vice-Admiral Pellew's permission, I've written to the Board of Admiralty, requesting that all Solaris Fleet personnel involved in the recent incident be awarded another star, on the grounds that you were on official assignment from the Fleet at the time, and representing its interests. We'll hear their decision in two or three months, I expect.”

Now it was Tom's turn to flush lightly. “Thank you, Sir. I appreciate that.”

“That's not all, young man. You'll have a significant amount of prize money coming your way in a few months, once the Courts of Admiralty have auctioned the smuggled goods and the ship. I've arranged for all of our eligible personnel to be able to draw up to five thousand credits in advance from the Patrol Service Paymaster. Vice-Admiral Pellew has approved our extending the same privilege to the Solaris Fleet personnel involved.” He took a sealed envelope from his pocket and handed it to him. “Lieutenant Sabran will escort you to the Academy's Paymaster office. Give them this payment voucher, and they'll advance you up to that amount, interest-free. Anything you draw will be recovered prior to disbursement from the prize monies eventually paid to you.”

“Thank you very much, Sir. It'll allow me to see more of your planet while I'm here. I'm very grateful, Sir.”

Davan nodded. “Thank you, too, for withdrawing the charges you laid against our operator. If that had gone to trial, the negative publicity would have detracted from our success aboard SS Vargash. I'm glad we could avoid that.”

The senior officers took their leave. Mars said in parting, “Make sure you get as much physiotherapy as you need, Ensign, and get back into condition. We'll have plenty for you to do when you rejoin us.”

“Thank you, Ma'am. I'll see to it.”

Miriam took him to the Paymaster office, where he drew five thousand Solaris Federation credits in cash. Driving out of the gates, she smiled at him.

“You've got your prize money advance, and I drew mine a couple of days ago. With ten thousand credits to burn, I think we're going to have a month to remember!”

He laughed. “I hope so! I'm looking forward to spending it with you, Miriam. You're great company.”

She clasped his hand briefly before returning her hand to the wheel. “You too, Tom. We both know you'll be heading out again soon, and I'm not the sort of girl who can sit around, waiting for a husband on active service: so I don't think we'd make a good couple in the long term. However, we've got today, and the next month or so. Carpe diem, as the old saying goes! Now, how are you feeling? Are you tired? Do you need to rest? You're only just out of hospital, after all.”

“My body's tired, and a bit sore,” he admitted. “My mind's still whirling, though. I really hadn't expected a Star in Bronze out of this!” He glanced down at the medal on his chest. “The most I'd hoped for was perhaps another Commendation Medal with Valor device.”

“Most of the Solaris Fleet's awards for valor in action are in Star grade, aren't they?”

“Yes, a Star decoration is only awarded for valor. The Solaris Star is in Bronze, Silver or Gold, our fourth-, third- and second-highest awards for gallantry in action. The top award is the Solaris Star of Valor. The Solaris Cross is awarded in the same four grades, but for valor in non-combat situations such as life-saving, disaster relief, explosive ordnance disposal and that sort of thing. The Cross can also be awarded with 'V' device to allied service personnel for gallantry in action, unlike the Star, which is for Fleet personnel and Federation citizens only. It's also available to civilians, unlike Star awards, which are military-only. The Solaris Medal in Bronze, Silver or Gold is for outstanding non-combat military performance: leadership, command, or extraordinary achievement. Below Bronze grade, we have various medals for lower-level accomplishments. One, the Commendation Medal – this one – can be awarded with 'V' device, which makes it our fifth-highest award specifically for valor in action.”

“I get it. Well, if you think about it, you inflicted a heck of a lot of the damage done by our team, you know – more than all the rest of us put together! You also had command responsibilities, and foresaw the attack, alerted the team, and directed their actions. I think both of those factors, plus your courage and fighting spirit, plus the fact that you already have the Commendation Medal with Valor device, made the Star in Bronze almost inevitable.”

“Perhaps you're right.”

She grinned. “Well, let's get you home and put you to bed. I think I know just how to get your mind to relax as much as your body!”

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