Taken Liberty v5

by Steven H. Wilson

  "Crewman...?" Aer'La asked.

  "Shan. Felicity Shan."

  "You have a problem?"

  "You can't withhold bonuses, just because we haven't been trained! Some of us have debts to pay, and –"

  "What you do with your pay is your business, Shan," Aer'La interrupted. "I don't care whether you have debts or not. The Navy didn't agree to pay your debts for you when it hired you on. It agreed to pay you a fair amount for the work you did. If you're not prepared to do your best work, you're not worth as much to us. It's that simple."

  "But some of us have never had an opportunity to train in zero-G!"

  "And I'm giving you one. On the Navy's dime. Now that I think about it, that's pretty unfair to the people who got their training on their own time, isn't it?" She set her jaw hard and glared up at the taller girl. "Any other questions?"

  Aer'La knew she was being harsh. She couldn't help it. She didn't like Felicity Shan. She carried herself wrong. She looked too soft. She smelled wrong. She'd never known what it was to suffer hunger, violence or loss.

  Aer'La stopped herself. Was she treating Shan unfairly because she envied her the easy childhood of an inworlder?

  No! Aer'La had always trusted her instincts and her first impressions. Unless Shan did something to prove herself otherwise, Aer'La would consider her a liability and treat her as such.

  The inner hatch at the far end of the hold opened. With considerable difficulty, a man hefted his body inside. He was tremendously overweight, and the standard-issue blue coverall he wore strained to the point of splitting its seams at his waist and buttocks. Having completed the improbable task of entering the room, he began to waddle toward the crew in their formation.

  Aer'La suppressed a gasp. She knew this man. She wondered if he would recognize her, or if he had struck his head too hard when Metcalfe had thrown him to the floor in the tavern. As he made his way to her, she checked his arm. She had thought Metcalfe might have broken it. It seemed all right now, so perhaps he'd found the time to see a doctor before reporting aboard.

  The man stopped in front of her and saluted sloppily. "Sorry I'm late, Bos'n. Volster's my name, I –" He had been looking at the deck while muttering his apologies. When he'd raised his eyes, he'd recognized the Bos'n, although she, too, had changed into a coverall while en route to Titan, covering her more obvious assets.

  "Volster?" Aer'La asked politely. She checked her roster for his name.

  Volster stuttered over a few profane, if quiet, words of surprise.

  "Something wrong, Volster?"

  "N-n-no, ma'am. It's just –"

  "It's just that you're late reporting. Got an explanation?"

  "I was injured, ma'am."

  "You were fighting."

  "I was just havin' a few before we shipped out, Ma'am," he protested. Then he added, very quietly. "I didn't know who you was, Ma'am. I wouldn't a –"

  Aer'La smiled, wondering if she was enjoying this too much. "You assaulted an officer."

  "Aw, Ma'am, be fair, now! He broke my bleedin' arm!"

  "After you damned near crushed the life out of him. What do you weigh, Volster?"

  "A - about two... eighty.... ma'am."

  "Try something that begins with a three. I don't think you're in shape for this work. Has the doc seen you?"

  "He has, Ma'am. He did say I should drop a few pounds. But my weight's no trouble to me in zero-G."

  "You're... checked out in zero-G?"

  "Seventeen years in space, Ma'am. Fourteen of 'em right here on Titan."

  "Amazing," said Aer'La. "All right, Volster, get in line. I'm docking your pay two hours –"

  "What?!" the man demanded.

  "Be glad Mister Metcalfe isn't pressing charges! Your behavior station-side was a disgrace to the ship."

  "But, Ma'am, I didn't know you was the Bos'n! I thought you was –"

  "I know damned well what you thought I was, Volster!"

  "I thought those... gentlemen... was harassin' ya!"

  Aer'La laughed out loud. "Believe me, Volster, I'll let you know if I need you to rescue me. In the meantime, try not to sit on any more officers."

  Volster, properly chastised, made his way into the line. As he did, Felicity Shan stepped forward. "'Scuse me, but you can't do that."

  "Sorry?" said Aer'La.

  "You can't dock our pay without the Deputy Captain's approval," Shan explained smugly. "This is a Union crew, see, and there are regs which govern pay. You have to cite grounds clearly defined in the M.O.U., and, furthermore, something like this requires a third offense –"

  "Shan," said Aer'La, "I'll ask for advice if I need it, and I won't ask you."

  "It's not me, Bos'n. It's the Union you have to –"

  "Get back in line."

  "I'm just saying –"

  "Crewman Shan, get back in line!" Aer'La barked.

  The girl stood her ground, pointing her chin upward in defiance.

  Her defiance vanished, replaced by outrage and a surprised yelp as Aer'La picked her up by the elbows and set her, not gently, back in line.

  "What the hell – ?" Shan demanded.

  "Quiet!" Aer'La shot back at her. "Under my command, you will follow orders, or I will make you follow orders. Is that clear?"

  Shan only glared back at her.

  Shaking her head, Aer'La called out, "Duty assignments will be posted after launch. I'll be selecting a team of Bos'n's mates by the end of the week. Those of you who need zero-G training, report here at oh-six-hundred next cycle. Dismissed."

  They filed away, Shan and Volster, clearly old friends, muttering to each other. Aer'La heard Volster urging Shan to go to the Deputy Captain.

  "Those two are going to be trouble," said a quiet voice by her ear.

  Aer'La turned to see Ceres Smith standing beside her. She nodded agreement. "I'll deal with them. I've handled worse cases."

  "I know," said Smith. "I pulled your public record. Hope you don't mind."

  "No. You do your homework. That's good."

  "You need to watch yourself here, if you don't mind my saying so, Bos'n. It's not like the Border. A lot of these idiots have been here a long time, and plan to be here a long time after you're gone. They know how to work the system, and they'll work it against you."

  Aer'La laughed, happy to feel comfortable in the older woman's presence. "The system's been against me all my life, Smith."

  "Call me Ceres, if you will."

  "I will. Thanks. And I'm Aer'La, in private, anyway." She looked after the departing crew, particularly Volster and Shan.

  "Ceres? Was I too harsh?"

  Ceres Smith chuckled. "By your rep, I'd say that's not a question you ask."

  "Maybe not," Aer'La agreed.

  "Aer'La," said the older woman, "I don't happen to think it's possible to be too harsh to rabble like that. I wouldn't think someone like you would either. Is something bothering you?"

  Aer'La considered the question, and the implied offer of friendship behind it. She decided she wasn't ready to open up yet. Besides, new friends would just be more people who could get hurt. "Nothing I can't handle," she lied. "See ya 'round, Ceres."

  * * *

  "Hey, earth-trash, where's your master?"

  Metcalfe was climbing the arch – the passageway through one of the massive arms which encircled Titan's passenger, gently tugging it along with the rest of the ship. The sphere was not, in fact, physically anchored to the rest of the ship's structure. Rather it was held captive within a cage formed by the arms, and prevented from colliding with them, during changes in acceleration, by a system of force fields and buffers. These same force fields maintained the spin of the sphere, and minimized the impact of sudden course changes on those who lived within.

  The arch was a zero-G space, generally, and Metcalfe was relieved to be in this more comfortable environment again. The hurled insult, and the presence of those who issued it, ended any blessed sense of relief or privacy that he'd hoped to fin
d by traveling this little-used passage.

  "Hello, Five," Metcalfe said, although the taunt had come from the other, Blaurich's companion. This second man was, like all inworlders, a healthy and handsome specimen, though his attitude was decidedly ugly.

  "My name is Blaurich. Mister Blaurich to you."

  "Whatever you say, Five. But while you're giving lessons in manners, it seems your friend could use some. Who is he, anyway?"

  The other, older, taller, wore the plain coverall of one of the casual crew. Of course, so might an officer, when on duty away from the command deck or public areas. Metcalfe knew he wasn't a midshipman.

  "I asked you a question, wog," the stranger blurted, kicking off from a support strut and drifting toward his intended victim. "I said, where's your master?" He punctuated his question with a jab of his palm to Metcalfe's solar plexus.

  Five watched, amused.

  Metcalfe resisted the urge to strike back at the oaf. Clearly, they were thrilled to catch him alone. It wasn't the first time he'd met up with their kind in some dark corner. He hadn't had to contend with this kind of ambush since the academy, but he should have been expecting it. Inworlders resented his presence, because he was Terran. Young, male inworlders tended to be more demonstrative and aggressive about it. It hardly surprised him that Five, for all of his obvious political savvy, was just a schoolyard bully when the cameras were pointed somewhere else.

  He decided to try the high road, or at least the military equivalent. "I'm on business for the Captain, and you just shoved a superior."

  "Superior? You'll never be superior to one of us, mongrel."

  Metcalfe's anger was creeping up his neck, turning his face, he knew, bright red. He wondered if they'd notice, in this dim light, and comment on his lack of bio-control.

  He tried to keep his voice even, and speak clearly, though his mouth was drying out, as it did in these situations. "The Navy disagrees with you. You understand that my authority comes from them... or was enabling that particular synapse left unchecked on your carefully researched genetic blueprint?"

  "Watch your mouth, wog... There are laws against your kind taking shots at us, just because we're engineered."

  And there were laws, passed long ago, when the genetically engineered could still remember the oppression they'd suffered before leaving earth. Inner World laws made it a hate crime to denigrate a person based on any aspect of his genetic heritage, but the laws only applied to the genetically engineered, in practice.

  From Metcalfe's perspective, it seemed that inworlders could say whatever they liked about the earth-born "mongrels." And they did. They said Terrans had children by impulse and sex drives like savages. Their very existence wasn't screened and approved by an almighty genetic council, and so they were inferior. Because they were inferior, they harbored ill feelings towards the genetically excellent beings of the outer worlds. That made Terrans bigots. So, even though inworlders had better living conditions, higher incomes, more advancement potential in the interstellar employment arena, Terrans were legally forbidden to dislike them.

  Metcalfe was used to the situation by now, and tried not to let it hold him back.

  "The only shot I'm taking," he said, " is a shot at keeping you off report, mister. I am your superior officer. If you don't believe me, ask your silent partner here."

  Five shrugged. "I didn't even see you here, Metcalfe. I'm not here at the moment. I'm in my cabin. I have witnesses who will say so."

  "And I am on business for the Captain," said Metcalfe again. "You are in my way. Move aside. Now."

  They didn't move. Five's companion said, "Why do some Terrans get so damned uppity? Doesn't he know that the only reason any Terran gets into the Academy is that they have to fill a quota? If you had to get in according to your abilities, like we do, you wouldn't make the first cut."

  "It's an excellent point," said Five. "What quality makes you fit to lead your betters?"

  "The same quality that keeps me from loosening your friend's teeth right now," Metcalfe said. "I'm not interested in what you think of me personally. In fact, I'd rather not be liked by either of you. I have a job to do, and I intend to do it."

  "As long as the Captain keeps finding jobs to suit your limited talents," observed Five.

  "Blaurich," Metcalfe said evenly, "I didn't come here looking for a fight. But if you don't get out of my way –"

  "Is there a problem here, gentlemen?"

  It was Darby, floating several yards away from them, having come up behind Metcalfe.

  Metcalfe opened his mouth to speak, and intended to tell Darby that he was handling the situation. Five cut him off.

  "Mister Metcalfe saw fit to accost us. It seems he's insecure in his position as executive officer, and wanted to secure it via threats against our persons."

  "Mister Metcalfe! What do you have to say for yourself, sir?"

  "Nothing you'd believe, Mister Darby. Your protege is lying, of course."

  "Mind your tongue, sir!"

  "Very well, sir. I respectfully request that we drop the matter. Mister Blaurich's complaints against me are unfounded."

  "He would seem to have a witness," said Darby.

  Metcalfe bit his cheek and counted to ten silently. "So he would, sir. I stand by my account."

  "And I stand by my conviction that officers will be treated with the proper respect aboard this ship. Consider yourself on report, Mister Metcalfe."

  "Yes sir. I will, naturally, appeal to the Captain."

  Darby stiffened. "I am in charge of discipline on this ship, mister! You may appeal every decision of mine to the Captain, but –"

  "I will, Mister Darby," Metcalfe promised.

  "Officers who abuse the appeal process often find themselves transferred to... disadvantageous posts," Darby said quietly.

  "Often they do," agreed Metcalfe. "But that will be the Captain's decision."

  Darby cast a sideways glance at his two fellow inworlders. No doubt he was keenly aware that he stood to lose face in this encounter.

  "Very well," he said finally. "I will discuss this matter with the Captain. But do not gloat, Mr. Metcalfe. I believe you will find that your days on this ship may be numbered."

  Historian's Note:

  The following passage from Midshipman Metcalfe's Prayer Journal is included for purposes of historical completeness. It may or may not have any bearing on the events chronicled in the balance of this account, but it is material from a contemporary source, written by one of the participants, while the actual events were occurring. It is therefore deemed to be of value to the student of history.

  Further passages from this same source are incorporated later in this text.

  For those students unfamiliar with the (principally Terran) practice of prayer, a brief explanation is fitting. Prayer is the Terran term for a one-way communication with a deity or deities. No evidence suggests that such deities exist or ever existed, yet prayer has continued for centuries.

  Prayer has manifested itself in many ways throughout Terran history, and it is not surprising that it has been brought into space. Early Terrans burned animals or even humans, or slaughtered them with knives, in order to attract the attention of the gods. Thus they hoped to make their prayers – their requests for favor and assistance – heard. As civilization took hold on Terra, the abuse of other creatures became less prevalent, and prayer became a matter of simply calling out one's requests to the gods. Sometimes this was done in a public forum, out loud. Sometimes it was done silently, and in private, as a form of meditation. Various sects at various times used drugs, alcohol, or the infliction of pain upon the body to alter the state of consciousness and find the spirit drawn closer to the gods. In the early days of interstellar travel, it became a fad to broadcast prayers via L-Space radio, in the hopes that the gods might actually occupy L-Space, and receive the messages broadcast. To date, none of the broadcasts thus directed have been answered by anyone.

  Metcalfe's prayers take on a
more benign form, though one not employed as often as the spoken or silent prayer in Terran history. He recorded his communications to his deity in data storage. They do give fascinating insight into the character of this important historical figure, into his philosophies and their evolution, and into the environments in which he lived.

  Why did you send me here?

  Did you send me here?

  Do you send us places? Do you intervene in our lives? People at home believed you did. I remember the old women on the farm telling us that all we had to do was listen, and you would tell us what we should do. Nothing we do is our own choice, or anybody else's but yours, they said, as long as we obey you.

  Does it offend you to be told that I don't believe that? Why would you give us the ability to make decisions, and then expect us to let you make the decisions instead? Is it a test? Some kind of trick question? Do you tempt us with the power of our own minds, give us free reign to use them, wanting us all along to discover that we can tap into the power of your mind instead, so ours really don't need to be used?

  Would you create a whole intellect just as a test device? That doesn't ring true. Oh, I suppose I could consider how crude and limited our intellects are compared to yours. Looked at that way, I suppose you might say they're a dime a dozen.

  But don't our intellects live forever? And don't our immortal souls join you when our bodies pass away? So you don't consider us disposable, do you?

  Then – why? Why create thinking beings, give them the ability to reason and develop a moral code, to invent and discover, put them in a testing ground and let them suffer hardships and learn lessons, and then give them the job of, essentially, L-space transmitters, broadcasting a pre-written message for the real intellect?

  Perhaps, lacking your wisdom, I don't understand the point. Perhaps there's a wonderful reason for doing just that.