“Has she got circuitry diagrams memorized?” Ensign Lewis growled, nursing a tall beer.
Landers shrugged. “She looked at the blasted thing and knew it was jury-rigged. Amazing…I’ve never seen anyone just look at something and know it wouldn’t hold.”
“Spooky…downright spooky,” protested Lewis, “and what’s worse, she was right. It would have failed at some point.”
Chief Mansfield set his empty glass on the bar and wordlessly started for the door, leaving Starboard-Seven, the officers’ lounge.
First Officer Nichols oversaw the departure from Four, and authorized a course that would put Lancer back on their regular patrol route. Captain Macao never reappeared, though he called orders up from below.
For Dana, the six-hour shift — like six days — drew ever so snail-like slowly to a close. At the sight of Specialist Matthews at her elbow, a lanky, young Betelgean Exchange Officer with sleepy, silver eyes and dark blue hair, Cartwright let out a sigh and vacated the chair.
Shifts at base had never dragged on so long.
She took a last look about the Main Bridge before crossing to the lift. Once inside, she shut her eyes and requested, “Deck Six.” She decided on a relaxing shower and a light meal, then would head down to supply and ream them over the ill-fitting uniforms. The Captain had other plans. He paced in the corridor outside her quarters. Hers would have to wait.
“Sir?”
“Mister Cartwright? Yeoman Napa relayed your request for an interview. Will now be suitable?”
She didn’t let his pleasantries dissuade her. Dana had taken on tougher men; Macao at his worst would never match Doctor David Cartwright, her guardian.
“If the Captain wishes, now is quite acceptable.” She led inside her quarters, letting him follow.
He paid her meager belongings some attention and even thumbed through the list of reading material on her personal padlet. “Physicians Desk Reference?”
She shrugged, regretting that, in her haste, she’d left the device precariously on the edge of the desk.
Macao noticed the trio of vintage books — the three Shakespearean tragedies — stacked there, and settled down, sitting on the edge of the desk, about at arm’s length away.
“Well, what is it, Mister Cartwright?” he finally asked, though he didn’t bother to make eye contact.
“Permission to speak freely, sir?”
“Please do…” He set the padlet aside.
“On the Bridge today, you made three clearly inaccurate statements, which may severely undermine my effectiveness in the eyes of the command crew.”
She had his attention now. He came back, defensively, with a glare in his blue eyes. “I cited you for being late. Don’t bother denying it.”
A Galaxean could not have responded with more composure. “With all due respect, sir, the record will show that I was one point two minutes early, but was summoned to Engineering, Deck Twelve, to perform a mandatory inspection of computer circuitry after a malfunction was reported and corrected. I went to prevent a departure delay, since Commander Mansfield was unavailable.”
His eyes finally met hers and stayed there.
“Nichols will have to verify that.”
“The Bridge log will confirm it,” she said, continuing calmly, “your second inaccuracy was the insinuation that I might fall into the category of ‘squeamish females.’ I thought I made it very clear down on the Shuttle Deck at Four that I do no fall into that category. And, lastly, the innuendo that somehow I lack combat experience, which gains, how you say, ‘no sympathy.’ I have, if you will review my complete history, a great deal of experience, though I have never served a heavy cruiser before. I was top of my class in mixed martial arts and marksmanship. In fact, my record at Coronado has yet to be surpassed.”
He showed no sign of being recalcitrant. “I have not read your complete history, Mister Cartwright. In fact, what Four gave me told me very little about you, and failed to justify why they substituted you for the war hero they promised. Perhaps I will owe you an apology, once I have verified to my satisfaction that you are as you say.”
He then looked away. “The truth of the matter is, the Star Service promised me Neville Brandt, an exemplary officer I know well and trust. I have no idea who in the galaxy you are, and whether you are worthy of my trust.”
“Commander Brandt has an impeccable reputation, I’m sure,” Dana returned, “I understand your…disappointment.”
Macao heaved a sigh, “Indeed.”
“He suffered a fracture to his left femur, and a punctured lung from three cracked ribs, in a brawl on Deck Twelve two days ago.” She added, “He was set upon by two men in an otherwise deserted corridor. They fled when I happened along.”
Macao pounded a fist on the edge of the desk then winced at the painful reminder of the excessive use of force. “Why in hell would he allow that? Neville doesn’t drink. And he is one hell of a good fighter. It doesn’t make sense.”
Dana sighed. “He was followed, no doubt, from the civvy decks.” She left off the part about Brandt looking for her to deliver a gift.
Macao scowled. “Are you some kind of conspiracy theorist?”
“Station Four has a history of such things,” she said flatly. “After two years, I’ve heard all the rumors. The locals stalk officers and do their best to compromise…reputations.” She didn’t smile. “There are gangs of non-coms. I learned early on to avoid potentially dangerous encounters.”
“How does one do that?” The Captain demanded.
“By making sure one has Commander Dutch’s seal of approval.”
Macao scoffed. “Dutch is still a tyrant?”
“No one dares get on his…uh…list, shall we say.”
The Captain once again locked stares with her. It stretched on far too long. Then he demanded, “Are your eyes naturally mismatched? Or do you wear lenses?”
“All natural, sir…heterochromia iridia…one in three million or so have it.”
“Bloody disturbing,” he mumbled, finally tearing his gaze away from her blue, left eye and brown, right one, continuing down her petite frame and back up to a cord about her neck. Macao reached out and gave the cord a tug, touching the two-centimeter platinum pendant hanging on it. “An N-link? Where’d you get this?”
She reluctantly slipped the cord off over her head and let the pendant drop into his palm. “A classmate of mine at Academy gave it to me.”
“Why?” Macao demanded, frowning while staring at the chip. “These are very rare.”
“He was a telepath and...”
“An Alphan?”
“Yes, sir. He found it helped...”
“It blocks your telepathic thoughts,” the Captain finished for her. “I used to wear one until I completed mastery training.”
Without it around her neck, Dana felt a much stronger rush of conflicting energies coming at her. Some were from the Captain, but others were far more malevolent and distant. Only by instituting her empath training could she push them aside.
“Are you telepathic?” Macao handed the N-link back. “Do you wear it always?”
His tone puzzled her. “Regulations permit it,” Dana reminded, sensing his disapproval. “I have Eridani training, but I am not assigned to Lancer as a professional counselor.”
“Your file says you’re Enturian. Enturians are not known to be highly telepathic…Why would you have…” He let the thought trail off. “What other training do you have that’s not listed?”
She felt the need to proceed with caution. “I have a broad knowledge base, Captain, beyond the scope listed in my Star Service and Academy records, from anatomy to zoology, including linguistics,” she said, using the antiquated Alphan old tongue to emphasize her point.
His eyes narrowed. “Aboard Lancer you will confine yourself to Universal. Is that understood?”
She nodded, “Aye, sir.”
“You haven’t had orientation yet?”
“No, sir.”
<
br /> Macao stood and started for the door. “I’ll amend the log and delete the citation once I ascertain the facts.” He stopped after a few steps and turned back. “Why didn’t you call me on it right then?”
“And interrupt your tirade?” She chuckled, “It was not the proper time or place. You were not receptive, and I had work to do.”
Macao frowned. “Correct me when I’m wrong — that’s an order.”
“I will, sir, in the future, when the situation warrants. I don’t think it is good for morale to contradict you publicly. ‘Respect breeds respect’ I believe is the saying.”
Janz Macao once again stared, this time with a greater amount of respect. “My father used to say that all the time. It’s an Alphan maxim.”
“My guardian also used it quite often,” Dana replied.
“Was he Alphan?” he wondered.
“DOC? No,” she answered, shaking her head. “An Earth-human — old school though...”
His eyes narrowed further. “You are aware that I’m Alphan?”
Dana Cartwright looked at the deck. “Difficult to not be aware…You’re a 33rd degree Master of the Elect.”
He turned away without commenting and took another step toward the exit. “Carry on, Mister Cartwright.”
She bristled at the form of address. “Sir, I am not, ‘Mister’ Cartwright. My name is Dana.”
“I know,” he said, glancing back, seeing the faint upward, defiant curve of her lips. He didn’t smile. “New orders will be handed down tomorrow at 0900. All command officers are to report to One.”
“Aye, sir…Briefing Room One,” she returned, “I’ll reschedule my ‘orientation’ with Yeoman Warren from 0800 so I can be there on time.”
“Do that.” He nodded agreement, but made no further comment as he made his third start for the door. As an afterthought, he turned back and asked, “Have you had dinner?”
“No, sir.”
“Join me,” he invited, “I’m starving.”
Dana suddenly felt a wave of emotion directed at her; but it wasn’t coming from Captain Macao. She restored the N-link to its place about her neck and followed him out to the corridor.
He led to Starboard-Seven officers’ lounge. They sat by the main viewport, at a table with a magnificent panoramic view, though the window-wall was tinted a bright shade of green and gave the star field a surreal quality.
She noticed how the dozen or so officers present immediately curbed their conversations and lowered their voices with the Captain present. A few cast sidelong glances, mostly aimed at her.
Embedded into the table top was an order pad. Macao thumbed a few items. Dana glanced at it, but settled on vegan soup with noodles.
“Have your yeoman procure some properly fitting uniforms; that look will not do upon the Bridge. Please avoid suggestive apparel.”
Dana caught him viewing her assets. “I’ll keep that in mind, sir.”
“So, you read Shakespeare?” He quoted a few lines from Hamlet, admitting, “That’s about the extent of my recall.”
Dana offered a smile. “I have a photographic memory.”
“Just a walking computer then?”
She blinked and had to chuckle. “Just…”
“Is that why Four thought you could replace Mister Brandt?”
“I like to fly,” she admitted, and then, staring, added, boastfully and unabashedly, “I can fly anything.”
“On simulators…how about the real thing?”
“I captained Ambassador Solon’s shuttle for nearly a year before snagging the assignment to Four.”
“Oh, one of the big, Galaxean birds? Makes that little Blade Class seem like a peep.”
“Blade Class shuttles, like Trader One, are far more agile, and I’m rather fond of the drone escort program.”
“I am, too. When they’re functioning, it’s quite impressive.” Macao whispered, “I shouldn’t have given you back that N-link.”
“It blocks my telepathic thoughts and makes it impossible for you to read me,” Dana reminded, self-consciously fingering the pendant.
“Exactly.”
“You could order me to remove it.”
He stared then heaved a sigh. “I may just do that.”
Their meals were delivered by a petite yeoman.
“Thank you, Mister Napa,” the Captain said, giving the yeoman very little attention before slipping a cloth napkin over his lap and taking up a fork.
Dana waited for the woman to leave before taking up a spoon.
“So you’re a total vegan?” Macao commented, while stabbing a small curl of breaded shrimp on his plate amid a bed of fried rice. “I lean more towards seafood.”
“I normally follow a very strict vegetarian and low-carb diet, but I make exceptions now and then for treats, such as chocolay,” Dana said, taking up a cup of the Enturian beverage and savoring the first taste. “Not all duplicators offer it.”
The Captain chuckled. “That’s a bad vice of mine. I love that stuff. It’s been awhile since I visited Enturize. What continent are you from?”
“North America,” Dana answered stiffly.
His eyebrows shot upward as he puzzled over the response, “North America, Earth?”
She added, “I was raised on Earth, sir.”
“Really?”
“Estes Park, Rocky Mountains, Capitol City…”
He seemed truly surprised. “You are quite an enigma, Mister Cartwright. Why are you my C-O-C?”
“I have an uncanny ability with wiring schematics. I’m like a neurosurgeon when it comes to circuitry.”
For the first time since meeting the Captain, she saw Janz Macao offer up an unguarded smile.
“Like a neurosurgeon?” He chuckled over that all through the meal. He ordered a chocolay for himself and, after it arrived, sank back in the tub chair with it, relaxing for just a few minutes longer. “You really do need smaller uniforms. What were they thinking?”
“I’m guessing these were ordered for Commander Brandt,” Dana joked.
“Perhaps…” The Captain nodded then grew serious, setting down his empty cup. “They could have patched up Neville’s broken ribs.”
Dana knew his meaning. “One punctured a lung — mandatory three weeks of down time. I could quote the medical procedures manual.”
“Fane! I should have visited him in the med-center on Four. I wasn’t thinking.” Macao stood abruptly, bowed his head in her direction, and then said, “Mission briefing 0900.”
She didn’t have time to rise or respond before he was gone.
After dinner with the Captain, Dana went down to Deck Eleven to scold them about the uniform order. Yes, her yeoman could — and should — deal with it, but it gave her a way to vent, and an excuse to explore the lower decks.
The male yeoman called up the text of the order and the error became blatantly clear.
“Four, size small, two-piece, keyword ‘male’ uniforms.”
Dana stared at the man behind the counter. “As you can see, there’s been an error.”
Yeoman Mackenna eyed her from head to foot. “It would appear so, Commander Cartwright. I’ll take care of it. My sincere apologies… Bet they never dreamed a Bridge C-O-C would be...err...female.”
Dana shrugged. “I find it rather surprising we have no duplicators in our quarters,” she grumbled, watching and waiting as he processed the corrections.
“These older battleships lack quite a few amenities. Big L’s being retired in a year or so. No retrofit for Lancer…Going to moth balls.”
Dana chuckled at the latter, “Moth balls have been banned for a hundred years.”
“It’s just an old saying my grandfather used to…”
They both laughed.
Mackenna went to the digitizer to enter a request for six new, female, size X-small uniforms for her, promising, “I’ll have them delivered to your quarters. You can recycle the men’s uniforms, if you like, or set them out in the corridor for your yeoman.”<
br />
Dana shrugged, offered her thanks, and left, looking forward to having the new uniform shirts and pants before the morning briefing.
The moment she reached her quarters, she settled down on the overly firm bunk, suddenly exhausted, and closed her eyes. The dissonant pulse of the interstellar drive lulled her to sleep.
Once again, she dreamed of flying — of soaring — over Forever Pointe on Centauri Prime, with no logical explanation as to why.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
At 0700, Dana Cartwright dressed in one of the old uniforms, since the new ones had not yet arrived, and went down to Starboard-Seven, the officers’ lounge, for a meal.
The Captain was already there. He didn’t appear rested. She deliberated taking a seat farther away, but he motioned her to the empty chair opposite his at the same table they had shared the night before.
Dana ordered as the Captain finished his coffee. Neither broke the silence, until her meal and a cup of hot tea arrived.
Macao stared at the bowl of oatmeal, “I hate oatmeal. Every day at Academy they served us oatmeal, and eggs…reconstituted, powdered eggs.”
Dana chuckled, “I don’t eat eggs.”
He locked eyes with her.
She boldly returned his stare.
“Sir?”
“Have you ever been to Forever Pointe?”
She sucked in a breath, “Why do you ask?”
“I keep seeing an image of you flying over the canyon. Can’t put it out of my mind.”
“Did you see it telepathically?” she wondered, deliberately being evasive.
He nodded.
“That should be impossible, sir, with me wearing an N-link.”
“I saw it before you even came aboard, but after I first met you on Four.”
“Perhaps it’s precognitive,” she suggested, manipulating the conversation away from his inquiry.
“I hate Forever Pointe,” Janz admitted, “you would have to push me off the cliff.”
She chuckled, thinking he was joking. “I love flying. Gave up my medical career so I could. Declined a promotion to full commander, so I could stay on the small craft level and on the Mech-Tech flight crew.”
Dana Cartwright Mission 2: Lancer Page 6