Captain Aames had his senior bridge crew review the plan, and we came to a unanimous conclusion: it couldn’t be done. The risks were too high. The captain reviewed our findings, and he concurred. He informed the Initiative that the crew did not have time to perform docking, integration, and two shakedowns in the Mars-Earth semicycle. He did not leave room for doubt: he said it was absolutely impossible.
The Initiative Council tried to argue him out of his position, but he wouldn’t budge. They tried to bargain with him, and he laughed. I laughed, too, at the idea that Captain Aames could be paid to violate his principles. A few council members tried to have him relieved of command, but his original contract from when he signed up with Holmes still protected him. The Council even tried to flat-out order him to accept the mission; but in that they were blocked by their own Admiralty office. Despite the captain’s frequent disagreements with admirals, they were all too professional to ignore his data and his arguments. They refused to issue orders that they knew would put the ship in jeopardy, and the Council couldn’t override their refusal without generating more bad publicity than they wanted to handle.
Finally the Initiative found another way to throw money at the problem: they couldn’t bribe Captain Aames, but they could hire an additional construction team to supplement the Aldrin’s own crew. The cost would be high, but it would save them the embarrassment of having Ares yard fail in its first major contract. When they proposed this alternative, Captain Aames had us reanalyze the numbers just as thoroughly as before. We concluded that this plan was still risky, but within acceptable margins. Captain Aames reluctantly accepted the plan, with the proviso that all terms of his contract still applied: between the gravipauses, he had the power to change work orders as he saw fit for the safety of the ship, its passengers, and its crew.
The cost for this new plan was pretty high. It was difficult to hire skilled spaceship construction workers on Mars—the Initiative had to entice many away from Ares yard itself—and it took a lot of fuel to get them into rendezvous shuttles to match orbit with the Aldrin. Comptroller Lostetter chewed the captain out when she saw what our share of those costs would be. The Aldrin by that point was fiscally self-sufficient, supported by tariffs and transport fees while paying an agreed-upon share of maintenance and growth costs. It was her responsibility as ship’s comptroller to make sure that we remained fiscally self-sufficient, and she said this added cost was more than our reserves could cover.
Their discussion took place on the bridge, right in front of the senior crew. After so many years, we understood that the captain preferred open disagreement over private disputes and schemes. He expected us to stand up to him and prove him wrong when we could; but this time he didn’t even look up from his comp as he asked Lostetter, “So we’ll burn through our reserves, and it will cut into our net; but will we lose money on this semicycle? Net?”
Lostetter frowned, but she had to answer, “No, Captain.”
“Then I don’t care. As long as we can pay our bills, we’re doing this. I made the Initiative back down until they found a way to reduce the risks. I can’t tell them no again, not over mere money. Besides, they’ll owe us a favor after this. Find a way to keep us in the black.”
The comptroller didn’t like his decision, but she knew better than to argue with the captain unless she had new data. So she kept quiet.
I wish she hadn’t. Maybe she could’ve talked him into turning down the new ring, and all of this mess could’ve been avoided.
Q: Chief, that sounds more like a conclusion than an observation. Please avoid any findings of fact. That’s the inspector general’s job, not yours.
I’m sorry, Inspector. I’ll be more careful.
So that was our revised mission plan for the Mars-Earth semicycle. It would still be a lot of work for our team, since they would have to divide up to do their own work and supervise the new crew. Captain Aames insisted on that, since there were too many things that an inexperienced team could get wrong. I think Chief Gale’s accident on the I Ring demonstrates—
Q: Recorder, strike that about the I Ring. Chief, that sounds like another attempt to slip a finding of fact into the record. I will decide when and how the I Ring incident relates to this case. Are you going to stick to your observations? Or are you going to make me regret granting you this leeway?
Again I apologize, Inspector. I’ll be more careful with what I say.
The problem started . . . I’m sorry, it is my opinion that the problem started with the new construction team. As I said, the Initiative had a limited pool of trained personnel from which to draw, so they had to hire who they could get. Normally Captain Aames is careful to screen new crew for problems. Not that he can override the Admiralty’s crew assignments, but once they’re aboard and we leave the gravipause, he can decide where they get assigned and what additional training they undergo. While the new crew was being selected and shipped up, we were all tied up with final integration on G Ring. Some tasks we might have left for the next semicycle now had to be done before our second passage of Mars. So in a rare moment of weakness, Captain Aames gave the Initiative’s list a cursory examination, and he approved the roster as they presented it to him.
So what we ended up with was—and this is not a finding of fact, Inspector, I’m just reporting Captain Aames’s words—“a team of SP clock punchers.” Every single one of them was a member of Chief Gale’s Space Professionals.
Q: Objection for the record. The Space Professionals are not Chief Gale’s.
I stand corrected, Inspector. Chief Gale is an organizer and an officer and spokesperson for the Space Professionals, a certifying and credentialing organization that has many members in the International Space Corps, but he is not in any sense an owner of the SPs.
Due to several past conflicts with the Space Professionals, Captain Aames is no fan of them. The Admiralty won’t let him dismiss a crewmember for SP membership, but he gives them extra scrutiny to make sure they measure up to his standards. The SPs advocate for more control of their work rules and more say in the chain of command, and that’s absolutely unacceptable to the captain. He has to have final say on his ship, period.
So the captain has a habit of weeding out SPs, and the SPs have learned that it’s less hassle to avoid the Aldrin, and everybody’s happy. But on that semicycle, we had a critical mass of SPs. And sure enough— I should say, inevitably in my opinion, they started making trouble by trying to do things their way instead of the Aldrin way. First, and this was no fault of theirs, there was the fact that they were making a considerable premium for doing the same work our crews were doing. That was the Initiative’s decision, not theirs. They just reaped the reward (though the SPs had negotiated precisely what that premium would be for unscheduled work like this). But second, their work wasn’t up to our standards. They got paid more, and our crew then had to come in behind them and correct their work as needed. And third, by SP work rules, seniority in space accrued with time in space, period, no matter what the posting. On the Aldrin, only two things counted: your time on the Aldrin, and your record on the Aldrin.
So we had a higher-paid crew doing lower-quality work, making more work for our own crew and trying to tell them what to do. That created significant morale problems by itself, in my judgment, but it was only half of what went wrong. The other half was that the SPs tried to sign up new members among the Aldrin crew. The captain and I never saw that one coming. We could understand the problems with pay rates and work rules, but we never imagined that the SPs would dig up low-level resentments—you know, the usual gripes you find in any work environment, stuff that usually works itself out over time—and then promise to solve them. They promised other changes, too, stuff that was beyond their power to deliver. Under normal circumstances, maybe these promises would’ve had no impact; but with the crew stressed and overworked, they were more open to persuasion. And the ship’s officers were too busy keeping operations running smoothly for us to recognize the pro
blem until it started affecting progress of G and H Rings.
Q: Chief Carver, this really seems to be getting off the track. I trust you’ll tie it back to 7 March soon.
I’m sorry, Inspector, but it really does bear on those events. I’ll get there.
Q: I trust that you will. We’ll reach Mars in four months. I would hope to be done with your deposition before then.
Understood, Inspector.
Q: So you say the crew had complaints. In your judgment, was there any merit to these complaints?
Inspector, when you command a large crew like the Aldrin’s, you learn two things: there are always complaints; and if you dig enough, you can always find some merit. If you’re fair-minded, you can always see the other side and see why they’re complaining. You probably don’t agree with their view, or you would’ve fixed the problem already, but you can see how they see it. Part of my job as second-in-command was to watch for those complaints and head them off before they turned into critical issues. People bring things to me because they know the captain doesn’t want to be bothered. Frankly, he doesn’t understand the problems most of the time. He just doesn’t see things that way. So he trusts me to deal with most of them; and he knows that if I bring one to his attention, it’s serious enough that it needs his attention.
I guess you could argue that I dropped the ball in that area: I got so busy with the extra crew that I lost touch with these low-level complaints.
Q: I appreciate your willingness to take responsibility, Chief, but that’s another finding of fact.
I’m sorry, Inspector. So we knew we were falling behind schedule, and we knew we had morale problems, but we were unclear just how large our problems were. We lost even more time ferreting out the root causes. When we finally understood the issues, we took two steps. First, we reassigned the SP crew to administrative tasks. They weren’t happy with that, but they had no choice: despite their protests, we were between the gravipauses, and Captain Aames’s word was absolute. When the SPs took their complaints to Chief Gale, the captain called their bluff: he informed the admirals that the SPs could do their assigned work, or their pay could be cut off. Over Gale’s objections, the admirals reluctantly conceded that the captain had that power, and the SPs went back to their assignments. They were surly and unproductive, but they were in jobs where we could tolerate that.
And then our second step was to gather our regular construction crew for a meeting, and the captain listened to their complaints, answered their questions, and got them back to work.
Q: Excuse me? The captain just talked with them and he changed their minds? That doesn’t sound like Captain Aames.
Inspector, I don’t think the details are relevant to the events of 7 March.
Q: I have to disagree, Chief Carver. You opened the door to this topic, and now I expect you to tell the story. The whole story.
All right, Inspector. To be precise, we didn’t gather the construction crew, I did. I asked them to meet with me up on the exercise track, one of the only places we could get all those spacers in one room. Then I asked for their complaints, and I listened, particularly to Bosun Walker, the construction boss. I soon got the larger picture, and I could see how broken their morale was. It would be a challenge, it might take another month, but I was sure we could patch up these differences. Meanwhile the schedule would continue to slip, but that was the best resolution I could imagine. I hoped it would be enough.
Then I heard the one voice I didn’t want to hear: from the access ramp, I heard Captain Aames say, “Out of my way, Ensign.” I looked toward the ramp, and Ensign Franks looked like he was about to lose control of his bladder as the captain pushed past him and onto the deck.
Walker crossed over to the ramp and pulled Franks aside. “It’s okay, Eddie, I got this.” Then he turned to Aames. “Captain, you’re not wanted here.”
Aames pulled himself up to his full height: nearly a head shorter than Walker, but Aames always carries himself as if he’s taller. “Walker, are you telling me where I can and can’t go on my own ship?”
Walker loomed over the captain. “This is a private meeting. Sir.”
From across the deck, Ensign Cho shouted, “Ah, let him through, Walker. He might as well hear: we’re sick of this mess, and we’re gonna fix it. We’ve made up our minds.”
“You’ve made up your minds?” Aames crossed to the middle of the crowd, shouldering his way through. His body was tightly controlled, but fury grew in his eyes with every step. “You’ve whined to each other, you’ve bitched to the SPs, and you even dumped on Carver. But not one of you chickenshits had the balls to bring your beefs to me.”
Walker stormed after the captain, got right up in his face, and said, “If you weren’t an officer, I’d—”
But Aames interrupted him. “You’d do what?” The captain pulled open his jacket, stripped it off, and tossed it down the ring. “There’s the bars, on the floor. It’s just you and me, no officers to be seen here. Now what are you gonna do?”
Walker shook his head. “No, sir, I’m not stupid. I take a swing, and next thing you know, I’m on charges for assaulting an officer.”
Aames laughed. “So, big man, you’re suddenly afraid of the rules? Fine, we’re between the gravipauses, so I make the rules here. You’re all witnesses, we have a new rule: anyone who the captain calls a chickenshit gets a free shot at him. No consequences, no charges, no questions asked. So, Mr. Walker, I say you’re a chickenshit. Are you going to take a swing at me?”
I expected Walker to mouth off some more, but he was smarter than that. Without wasting any more time, he wound back his fist faster than I could see, and he landed a solid punch on the captain’s jaw. In the one-quarter gravity, Aames flew backward and crashed into Franks, who had come up behind him. Aames slid to the deck, and then he gathered himself to his feet.
He rubbed his jaw. “Not bad, Mr. Walker. You got another one like that in you?” Walker took another swing, but this time Aames dodged it easily. “Uh-uh! I said the first one was free. You want another one, you’re gonna have to earn it. Come on, Walker, show me what you’ve got.”
The crowd backed away, leaving Walker and Aames with room to maneuver. In the low gravity, Aames dropped into a low, easy crouch. Walker did the same, and they started circling each other. Nick’s capoeira came out: he danced around, in and out, slapping and kicking Walker, and then springing out of range. The blows weren’t painful, but they were embarrassing, and they pissed Walker off. Oh, sorry.
Q: You just quoted Captain Aames saying “chickenshit” three times, Chief. It’s too late to worry about language in the court. Go on.
Walker landed a few shots, and eventually his powerful right hook connected again, sending Aames flying once more. But this time the captain used the momentum to spring off the wall, dance back, and land kicks on Walker’s face and gut. Slowly Aames wore Walker down, slap and kick and punch and dance away, until Walker found his second wind. He made a charge at Aames, but it was actually a feint: when the captain tried to dodge, Walker was there with a left jab that caught him a good one right in the ribs.
Aames went down. This time when he stood back up, he held up a hand. “Enough, Mr. Walker. Not bad at all. I guess you’re not a chickenshit. All right!” He raised his voice until it echoed around the track. “Any of the rest of you chickenshits want a shot at the old man? Franks?”
Franks took a step back. “Ummm, no, Captain.”
“No? Okay, we’ll come back to you. Lenard!”
Lenard, almost as big as Walker, hopped forward into the open space. Walker tried to hold him back, but Lenard shook his head. “No, I’ve been waiting for my shot at this for a long time.”
Just as Walker had, Lenard took a surprise shot with no warning; but Aames didn’t give him the free shot this time. They went through the dance again. Lenard was nimbler than Walker, and Aames was more tired. After several exchanges of blows, they ended up in a grapple on the ground, with neither having a c
lear advantage. The captain landed one solid blow to the face, splitting Lenard’s lip, but Lenard refused to give in. Aames finally had to tap for release. Lenard let go and rolled away, and Aames helped him to his feet. “All right, you’re not a chickenshit. But you’re bleeding all over my deck. Medic! See to Lenard. All right, who’s next?” He turned to me. “Carver! You’ve been listening to these chickenshits bitch about me for months, but you never brought word to me. That makes you a chickenshit in my book. Come on! This is long overdue.”
I approached the captain, leaned in, and whispered, “Nick! We can’t do this.”
Aames reached out and slapped me. Then he grabbed the back of my neck, pulled me in close, and whispered back, “Make it look good, damn it.” With that, he shoved me away, knocking me to my ass.
I let that get the better of me, and I got angry, though I didn’t want to. I leaped back to my feet, and I charged at Aames, fists swinging; but at the last moment I stepped right, pivoted on my left foot, and swung my right foot in a roundhouse kick that caught him square in the chest. The kick sent Aames down to his knees, but only for a moment before he popped back to his feet. He came at me, and this time I punched him with my right fist in the solar plexus. Aames caught his breath, leaned in, and whispered, “Didn’t . . . have to look that good.”
Then the shock of what I had done settled in. I stared at him; and Aames, being the dirty fighter that he was, took the opportunity to box my ears.
And it was on. I tried to knee him in the groin, but I caught his inner thigh. He pulled back, and he snapped a kick at my knee, but I was out of the way already. I might not have Aames’s Brazilian dance moves, but I could take care of myself, and he had already been through two fights. Soon I got a grip on his arm, and I turned that into a hip throw that launched him ten meters down the track, spacers scrambling to get out of his way.
The Last Dance Page 36