Alex smiled, thanked her and dismissed the lecture, advising them all to take a tea break before going back to work.
‘That,’ he told Silvie, as they left the theatre together, ‘was excellent – thank you.’
‘It was pretty intense,’ Silvie admitted, since having a discussion with the crew en-masse like that had been rather like giving a lecture to an emotional tornado. ‘But I enjoyed it.’ She sounded a little surprised. ‘They are,’ she commented, ‘a very good crew.’
Alex grinned, standing back to allow her to go up a ladderway ahead of him.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I think so too.’
Four
Four days later, Bonny informed Alex that every member of the ship’s company had completed the ‘Why I poke people’ module, and that she’d had many requests for the next lecture to be brought forward.
‘No,’ said Alex.
There was a slight pause, then Bonny raised her eyebrows enquiringly.
‘Because..?’ she prompted.
‘Because,’ said Alex, with perfect good humour, ‘I’m the skipper and I say so.’
‘Oh.’ Bonny gave a crack of laughter, recognising immediately that Alex was using this opportunity for a command school experience. It was not supposed to be a set-up training exercise, but an experience which it was felt that all command school trainees would encounter naturally at some point in their training; that of a superior officer asserting their authority by declining to explain a decision. That was, indeed, the norm on most Fleet ships, but it would never happen normally aboard the Heron. ‘Understood,’ she said, and having thought for a moment, glanced at her comm and called Hetty Leavam.
‘I have,’ she said, ‘concerns about a command call.’
Alex was intrigued. The Fleet had only two recognised ways to deal with a skipper refusing to explain a decision – the first and most strongly recommended was simply to accept it as the skipper’s prerogative. The second, only to be employed if there were serious concerns about the skipper’s judgement in that call, was to involve the ship’s IA officer. He would have expected Bonny to go for the third, unofficial option, to ask to speak to him in private and discuss the matter off the record. That happened a lot more often than IA was at all happy about.
Hetty Leavam was there in seconds.
‘It is necessary to request a private meeting, sir,’ she told Alex.
Alex looked at Bonny.
‘I would prefer,’ Bonny said, ‘to do this here.’
Alex nodded and looked at Hetty. ‘We’ll hold the meeting here.’
Hetty accepted that without much surprise and sat down, opening a case-file screen and addressing Bonny with her usual impersonal efficiency. ‘Please state the nature of your concerns.’
Bonny did so. ‘Captain von Strada has refused permission to advance the second module in the Introductory Quarian course, though everyone has already completed the first module and there have been numerous – thirty seven – requests made to advance the second lecture. Captain von Strada then declined to explain that decision. My concern is that the decision itself is contrary to established Fourth’s policy of allowing and enabling training on an unrestricted basis, subject only to health and safety workload limitations. Further, his refusal to explain that decision is contrary to Fourth’s established policy of full disclosure on operational matters. I am, therefore, requesting Internal Affairs guidance on the matter.’
‘Thank you, Commander Leavam.’ Hetty looked at Alex. ‘I am required to ask for your response, sir.’
‘My response,’ said Alex, ‘is that I have all the weight of two thousand years of Fleet regulation and tradition to support my right to make a command call, that I am not obliged to explain such decisions to any subordinate and that I will not be harried by insolent demands from an officer who in my view has none of the qualities necessary to achieve command rank.’
The command deck went very quiet. Hetty Leavam’s lips did not twitch because she had no sense of humour, but she certainly recognised that blighting speech as one which had been given to Alex himself when he was in command school. As one of his command school instructors, she had graded the analysis he’d made of the incident and discussed it with him in detail.
‘Thank you, sir,’ she said, and was occupied for a few seconds, writing and looking up references on her screen. Then she looked up, addressing Alex. ‘I find,’ she said, ‘that while you are correct in asserting your right not to explain a command decision at the request of a subordinate, Commander Bonatti is correct in her assertion that the decision itself is contrary to the letter and spirit of the Fourth’s policy on training, effectively denying training opportunities to personnel who are requesting them, and on that basis, it is necessary for me to request an explanation as to why a counter-policy decision has been made.’
‘All right,’ said Alex, still straight faced. ‘Under protest, then – I am making that decision because the nature of the course material requires a paced delivery with time between modules to reflect and process. And I want it put on record that I consider Commander Bonatti’s manner in challenging my order to have been verging on impertinent.’
Hetty looked at Bonny.
‘I apologise, sir,’ said Bonny. ‘Such was not my intention.’
Hetty made a note and gave a satisfied little nod.
‘Thank you, sir.’ She said, and looked at Bonny. ‘Thank you, Commander Leavam. You will write up this incident for Module 16 in Regulations and Procedures.’
‘Ma’am,’ said Bonny, because in that regard, Hetty Leavam was her instructor.
‘Ah,’ said Alex, and gave Bonny an appreciative look, recognising that by handling the matter as she had, she’d managed to tick off a module in the Internal Affairs training, too. ‘And,’ said Alex, ‘for Command Issue 27, challenging a superior.’
‘Sir,’ said Bonny, and grinned. ‘Thanks, skipper.’
‘You’re welcome,’ Alex grinned back, and looked at Hetty. ‘For the record,’ he said. ‘I want it clearly stated that this was a role-play exercise replicating one of my own experiences in command school training and that no denigration or criticism of Commander Bonatti was intended.’
There was a little release of breath from one or two quarters where people had not been entirely sure if he was joking or not, and Hetty gave one of her pinched little smiles.
‘Thank you, sir,’ she said, and told them both, ‘it would have been preferable if it had been real, but in the circumstances I appreciate that it was as realistic a role-play as could be expected, so I will accept it as a genuine experience for training purposes.’
When she’d gone, Bonny spent a few minutes writing on a side screen while continuing to keep an eye on the watch screens – the Sub who was beside her was actually holding the conn, the junior officer of the watch allowed to do so under supervision. Once she’d finished writing up her report, she asked for a coffee and caught Alex’s eye as he looked up from dealing with his own paperwork.
‘So – really, why won’t you allow the lecture to be brought forward a couple of days?’
‘Just as I said,’ Alex assured her. ‘It is high impact material and has to be paced so that people have time to reflect on each module, absorb and process it. If you run through it too fast it will just become overwhelming and people won’t take it all in. And besides, there is no rush, no advantage to completing the course any sooner than we are intending to.’
Bonny gave a chuckle. ‘I have,’ she admitted, ‘been told so many times that you get your outstanding results by driving your crew to the edge of exhaustion. I knew that wasn’t true, of course – your training programme is published – but when I said that to a skipper expressing criticism of your methods, he said that you carried out a lot of drills off the record, keeping them under the radar.’ She grinned. ‘I would love to tell him how often you stop people doing unofficial drills.’
Alex gave a wry look. He’d spotted several incidents of crew attem
pting to run their own drills over the last few days. Officers had intervened every time, as Alex had insisted they must, and he’d had a word with the people concerned himself, asking them not to do that kind of thing again. Even so, he was asked every day, many times, if they couldn’t please have just a few more drills than they were doing.
‘That,’ he said, ‘is the biggest problem I have, keeping people to the optimum schedule. So many of them come in with this deep rooted belief that more drills equals better performance.’
‘You mean it doesn’t?’ Bonny feigned astonishment, and he grinned. ‘Seriously, though,’ she said, ‘I’m not surprised they think that – I served on a ship which was bucking for crack ship status and we had eleven action stations drills in one day.’
‘In the run-up to inspection?’ Alex queried, and at her nod of confirmation. ‘Thought so. Huge stress and pressure too, no doubt, charts and targets everywhere, morale low, disciplinary incidents high, a general feeling that half the wardroom might have a breakdown at any moment.’
Bonny laughed. ‘That describes about nine out of ten of any Fleet ship in the last month before an inspection,’ she agreed. ‘And it’s interesting – I was talking to a skipper who was laying on the drills five, six a day, and as we were discussing the methods used here, he said that was all very well, but if his ship performed poorly in inspection the first thing they’d pull him for would be inadequate preparation with less than the recommended training.’
Alex nodded. ‘You have to hold your nerve,’ he confirmed, ‘when you’re doing anything different. But it’s not really a fair comparison, is it? A regular Fleet ship has a whole range of crew of very different abilities and motivation – you know that.’
‘Ten ambitious, twenty keen, forty who will do okay,’ Bonny recited a mantra that was nearly as old as the Fleet itself. It was said to be the percentage of different kinds of crew that the Admiralty assigned to each ship to ensure that they all got their fair share of the good and the bad. ‘Twenty nine who are marking time and one little bullock who won’t go away.’
‘Well, here we’ve got a hundred per cent ambitious,’ Alex pointed out. ‘And every one of them rated exceptional, able or talented in some way. It isn’t fair to compare what we achieve with other ships, we have the finest crew in space before we even start. And with a new intake, too, bursting with enthusiasm to prove themselves, and a very exciting mission to prepare for – it’s a world away from the routine of a ship on homeworld defence service.’
‘True,’ Bonny conceded. ‘But still, a very new experience for me – to put it mildly – to see crew asking for extra drills and the skipper saying no!’
‘All about the pacing,’ Alex said, ‘Individual training feeding into team performance, and just enough full-ship drills to be beneficial practice without getting stale, pressured and counter-productive. One a day at this stage is about right, I think. Later, we’ll shift to just one or two a week.’
They discussed the training programme, and were still doing so when Silvie arrived.
‘You’ve upset people,’ she told Alex, as she took her seat at the datatable. ‘They really want more drills and you’re talking about giving them even fewer.’
Alex gave a resigned sigh.
‘Sometimes,’ he said, ‘you have to make the right decision for people even though they don’t like it.’
‘Okay,’ Silvie accepted that cheerfully. ‘They seemed to think that if I told you how strongly they feel about it you might change your mind.’
Alex considered this and looked stern.
‘That’s out of order.’ he observed. ‘Trying to use you to get around me could be considered manipulative to the point of insubordination. Anyone pulling that one again…’ he glanced around the ship with some severity, ‘had better be prepared to spend some time polishing the underside of deck plates.’
Silvie giggled.
‘Skipper-talk,’ she confided, to the rather alarmed looking junior officer of the watch. ‘He feels he has to say that kind of thing now and again. Don’t ask me why.’ She looked challengingly at Alex and he surrendered with a grin.
‘It’s called maintaining discipline and no, I don’t expect you to understand it,’ he said. ‘But it is, seriously, inappropriate to try to use you to get around my decision and I don’t want that becoming any kind of habit.’
‘Okay,’ Silvie repeated, with a sunny look, but she was already turning her head and looking across the command deck. Owun Gwyn was duty rigger again – it was one of the few jobs on the ship he was allowed to do until he was promoted back to able star, and that could not happen during his first, probationary month aboard ship. All of the newbies were technically on probation, a shakedown and evaluation period which was in itself putting a lot of workload on the officers. Owun was normally happy, these days. He was blasting away at his training, and had been delighted to find that several of the officers and shipmates he worked with had taken the trouble to learn a few words of Camag so that they could at least say ‘thank you’ and ‘well done’ in his home language.
Today, though, Owun was lurking at the far end of the command deck, to which he’d retreated the moment he saw that Silvie was coming there. He was attempting to hide in the little bucket seat tucked between the helm and life support consoles, his seat when not needed to be working around the command deck. He had got out his comp and was pretending to read, and that awkward pretence was so obvious that other crew on duty there were looking at him with concern.
‘What?’ Silvie asked, looking straight at him. He obviously knew that she was talking to him as he looked up guiltily and shot her an apologetic look.
‘Sorry – nothing,’ he said.
‘Come on,’ Silvie grinned. ‘Even other humans can see you’re about to go pop, and all I can see in amongst all that tangle of embarrassment is fizz-bang amazement. So what is it?’
‘Oh…’ Owun looked at the skipper and got a nod of encouragement. So, remembering the training from the work pack, he took a deep breath and made a strenuous effort to calm himself down. This was more like a tree imploding than a tree visualisation, but at least it helped him to focus. ‘It’s just… I started the quarian language course. And the thing is, I know it – I could understand it, most of it anyway.’ He drew another breath and told her the really thrilling bit. ‘It’s almost the same as Camag!’
‘Really?’ Silvie was surprised too, and curious. ‘Well yes, I suppose – same root language. But I must admit I haven’t looked at Camag – here,’ she gestured to the seat beside her. ‘Come and sit and talk to me.’
Owun looked at Alex, who nodded and gestured to the seat with a smile. Then, as the crewman came over, Alex gave a brief smile of acknowledgement to the petty officer on the command deck for quietly calling in a relief rigger.
‘Tell me about your world,’ Silvie asked. ‘In Camag.’
He launched into that with enthusiasm, and had not been talking for more than a couple of minutes before Silvie interrupted with an exclamation of delight, speaking quarian.
For the next seven or eight minutes they were talking away excitedly, each of them speaking their own language but clearly understanding one another. It was, Alex felt, an education to just sit there watching them. And since he had long ago learned to speak quarian, he found that he could understand much of what Owun was saying as well. He was telling Silvie about the history of his world. They had been industrialised but pre-superlight when the League’s exploration ship appeared in their skies, transmitting messages of peace and friendship.
‘It was a hell of a shock,’ Owun confided. ‘Our scientists had been debating the possibility of intelligent life on other worlds but had said it was highly unlikely – standing joke on Camae now is that they turned out to be right – and they said that even if intelligent life had evolved on other planets there was no way that we would ever get to meet them because faster than light travel was impossible. So when this ship just popped up on defenc
e scopes and started talking about a League of Worlds it was, like, beyond. Some people say that even now we’re still struggling with the culture shock.’
‘Oh, I know,’ Silvie said. ‘You can draw a line across the history of Quarus, too – pre discovery, thousands of years of peace and quiet and then wham, the humans turn up and they’ve been there pretty much ever since, driving us nuts.’
‘Well we have the opposite problem on Camae,’ Owun said. ‘We have no important resources, we’re too far away to become a feeder for the central worlds and we’re not even on the way anywhere else, so we get very few visitors and our biggest gripe with the League is that they seem to forget half the time that Camae even is a League world. That’s why we developed Cwmbracha, as a bridge to a busy shipping route. It started as a trading post and liner stop-off, like an ISiS station but built on a planet. It’s got really big now, a city and other settlements developing. The idea was that we would lure people to make the extra hop to Camae but they never really have.’ He grinned. ‘Some people reckon we should all move to Cwmbracha – joke, obviously, we love our world.’
‘Of course,’ Silvie agreed. ‘But your people aren’t native to Camae, are they?’
‘Well, that’s a thing,’ Owun explained, ‘Because there is archaeological evidence for civilisation on our world going back hundreds of thousands of years – massive stone caves which are clearly not natural, totally smooth and with their surfaces, well, fused, by heat so intense they’ve turned the first few centimetres into metamorphic rock. Amazing to see, they’re one of the biggest sights on the planet – we just call them The Chambers. Ideas about who made them and how and what they were used for have been argued for ever, but they have been dated to four hundred and something thousand years back so we know there was some kind of civilisation around then. And there is a fossil record of life developing on Camae over billions of years – we had no idea then about terra-seeding, we just thought that life had started naturally by some process we didn’t quite understand yet. Then humans pop up in the archaeological record about ten thousand years back, living as hunter gatherers. The common scientific belief was that there must be other traces but that we just hadn’t found them yet. Only we did know the truth, really – my people are religious. Our main faith is called Salvationism, and the central belief of that is that we once lived on another world which was destroyed by plague and flood and fire – many people believe that to be another world within our system, which we know once had life but has been pretty much smashed up by impact with a giant asteroid. Anyway Salvationists believe that the old world was destroyed by God because the people there had turned to evil, but that God sent his angels to lead the righteous to a new and sacred world – Camae. In all our prayers, we thank God and the angels for saving us. So when I was told about the Olaret creating us as a survival colony that all just clicked, the angels were the Olaret.’
Quarus (Fourth Fleet Irregulars Book 6) Page 11