Martial Law 1: Patriotic Treason

by Christopher Nuttall

  We relaxed, just slightly. None of us dared slouch. “My name is Lieutenant Deborah Hatchet, First Lieutenant Deborah Hatchet,” she said. The name fitted her perfectly, I decided. As the First Lieutenant, she was effectively the second-in-command of the starship. “You will address me as Lieutenant, nothing else. I am, for my sins, the officer charged with breaking you down and rebuilding you into useful and productive crewmembers. Work with me, listen and learn from me, and you will go far in the Peace Force. Don’t listen to me and you will probably end up being discharged at the end of your first five-year term, assuming I let you live.”

  I winced. It might have been a joke, but I wouldn’t have placed money on it. “You are the lowest of the low on this ship,” she continued. “You may believe that as Ensigns, Commissioned Officers, you have the right to issue commands to crewmen and others not in the chain of command. You will earn that right in time, but for now, listen carefully and learn. The Academy did not prepare you for life on a starship. When you understand just how unprepared you are, you will also understand why.”

  She stepped back. “If you have problems, you bring them to me. If you have questions or issues, don’t hesitate to ask. I will be far more annoyed with you if you don’t understand something and you don’t ask than if you do ask, understand?”

  “Yes, Lieutenant,” we chorused. My feelings were confused now and I suspected that the others were in the same boat. I think I understood the subtext, but the Academy had told us that we were mature adults…and officers. The Lieutenant was telling us something different.

  The Lieutenant smiled. “You don’t, yet,” she said. “Now, stand to attention.”

  On cue, the hatch hissed open and a man wearing a Crewman’s uniform stepped through. “Captain on the deck,” he announced. His voice wasn't loud, but it carried. I heard him easily and forced myself to straighten even further. The Lieutenant, I realised suddenly, had also stood to attention.

  The Captain stepped through the hatch and studied us appraisingly. He reminded me a little of my grandfather, I realised, but he was definitely younger and fitter. He was scarred, like the Lieutenant, by experience, but he held himself firm and showed no sign of weakness. His dark hair was tinged with flickers of white, but his face showed no hint of doubt that he was in charge. I was impressed right from the start. He had command presence, all right. I had wondered who could command the Lieutenant, but now I knew. The Crewman, standing slightly behind the Captain, seemed to fade out in my mind. The Captain absorbed all of my attention.

  He wore a simple white dress uniform – commanding officers were the only ones allowed to wear white uniforms – with gold braid and a line of service pins marking time spent in the UNPF. I counted them mentally and was astonished to realise that the Captain had spent nearly fifty years in the service. He must have taken a formidable doze of anti-aging drugs, despite the cost, and I felt a flicker of anger. If the drugs hadn’t been reserved for ‘socially useful’ people, my grandfather might have remained alive longer, long enough to see me don the uniform myself.

  “At ease,” he said, finally. His voice was calm and very composed. I had the impression that he never lost his temper, or even raised his voice. “I am Captain Harriman. Welcome onboard my ship. The UNS Jacques Delors has a long and proud history and I expect each and every one of you to comport yourselves in a manner befitting that history. I also expect you to give the ship and crew one hundred percent of your time and attention. You volunteered for the UNPF and it has invested considerable resources in each of you. You will spend the first years of your career repaying it for your training, as…worthless as much of it was.”

  He looked around the compartment and I lowered my eyes. I couldn’t face his gaze. “We are under orders to cruise out to Terra Nova and then to Albion as part of a general anti-piracy patrol,” the Captain continued. “We will be beginning an extensive period of training for you as soon as we have departed Orbit Seven and entered Jump Space. By the time we reach Terra Nova, I want all of you to be confirmed qualified to operate any of the consoles on the bridge. Those of you who had problems at the Academy will be given remedial training. You will qualify.”

  I had no doubt of it. Somehow, the thought of disappointing the Captain was more than I could bear. “The Lieutenant and the Senior Crew Chief will see to your immediate training,” the Captain concluded. “I expect, however, to see you all on the bridge for departure.”

  He nodded to the Senior Crew Chief, turned, and walked back through the hatch, which hissed shut behind him. “Stand at ease,” the Lieutenant barked. We relaxed, somehow. None of us quite dared to breathe. “This is Senior Crew Chief Markus Wilhelm, the senior Crewman onboard this vessel. He will show you to your quarters.”

  Her gaze swept over us again. “Tell me something,” she said. One finger pointed at Ellen. “How many demerits have you all earned today?”

  “Fourteen,” she said, rapidly adding them up in her head. “That’s…ah…”

  “No need to break them down,” the Lieutenant said, dryly. “How did you work them off at the Academy?”

  “Exercise, Lieutenant,” Ellen said. I nodded. In theory, twenty demerits meant a more severe punishment, but I had never heard of one actually being carried out. There had even been Cadets with far more demerits who had never worked them all off. Somehow, I was sure that it was going to be different here. “We had to work out for at least an hour in the gym under supervision.”

  “Very good,” the Lieutenant said. Ellen blushed slightly. “You will discover that things are different here. A demerit is worked off by hard and embarrassing duties, including cleaning the ship’s toilets with a toothbrush, and you will do it. If you earn more than five without working them off, you will be disciplined firmly. The golden rule on this ship is simple. Don’t fuck about, understand?”

  She didn’t wait for our answers. “Markus, show them to their quarters,” she ordered. Her voice darkened slightly. “I believe that the Political Officer will want to speak to them later and we don’t wish to disappoint him, do we?”

  “No, Lieutenant,” the Senior Chief Crewman said. He smiled at us and I found myself liking him instinctively. He had a very trustworthy face, although I wasn’t blind to the muscles showing under his uniform. “Follow me.”

  Chapter Two

  The reasoning behind the demand for political reliability is simple. The UN relies on its officers and men carrying out orders without question, as questioning officers might question the very value of the UN itself, or the nature of the war they are forced to fight on the UN’s behalf. Therefore, every care is taken to ensure that not only are the officers and men exposed to UN propaganda regularly, but that they are also watched carefully for subversive leanings. This is the task of the Political Officers.

  -Thomas Anderson. An Unbiased Look at the UNPF. Baen Historical Press, 2500.

  “My God,” Roger said, after we’d been shown into our quarters and informed that we would be expected on the bridge at 1400. “These quarters are small!”

  I laughed dryly. “Are you going to go and complain?”

  “Not really,” Roger said. His demerits would take him time and effort to work off. We’d been given so many between us that the toilets were probably going to be permanently spotless until we reached Terra Nova. “Maybe Sally should do it. She only got two demerits.”

  “Fuck you,” Sally said, annoyed. “We’ve got twenty-one minutes until we’re expected on the bridge. Choose your bunks now, please.”

  I looked around. There were eight bunks and only seven Ensigns. We might get someone else assigned to the ship, but I rather doubted it. We’d been ordered to report as a group and no one else had turned up. The cabin was barely large enough for us all to share and as for privacy…forget it. There were only two showers, a handful of drawers for our private possessions, and a small terminal. I tapped it absently and it lit up with a diagram of the ship.

  “I’ll take this one,” Roger sai
d, picking a high bunk. I shrugged and picked the one next to him. I didn’t really care if I got the higher or lower bunks, but it was the principle of the thing. “Who’s going to be First Ensign?”

  We looked at each other. Traditionally, the First Ensign – or the First Lieutenant – was the officer who had held that rank the longest. Lieutenant Hatchet’s service pins had suggested that she’d been a Lieutenant for at least seven years, surprisingly long. She should have been promoted to Captain or rotated out of the zone years ago. We, on the other hand, had received our commissions together and we had all served an equal amount of time. It might have been barely two days, but even so, we were matched. There was no obvious First Ensign.

  “Sally probably has the best claim,” Muna said, from her bunk. She was already stripping down to put on her standard uniform. I carefully didn’t look at her. “She’s the only one who didn’t earn so many demerits.”

  “Yeah, but that’s not tradition,” Roger said. I rolled my eyes. It was evident that Roger was angling for the post himself, and equally evident that Muna and Sally were against it. I didn’t know why. As far as I knew, we all got on fairly well, even though we came from very different backgrounds. “Tradition says…”

  “Tradition says that we need someone who has served longer than the others,” Sally pointed out. “Remind me; which of us has a fair claim to serving longer than the others?”

  “No one,” I said. “Why don’t we just pull straws for it?”

  “John, that’s not going to work,” Roger said. “We might as well play cards for it.”

  “Not bloody likely,” Rolf said, from his bunk. “I’ve seen you pulling an ace from your sleeve before.”

  “Enough,” I said, tightly. “None of us has a real claim to the position. If we cannot elect someone, then we need to go to the First Lieutenant and ask her to rule on the subject. Does anyone have more than two votes?”

  There was a brief argument, which concluded with Sally and Roger having two votes each, me having another two, and Muna having the last one on her own. “I nominate Sally for the moment,” I said. “I dare say that we’ll have a clear First Ensign soon enough with the Lieutenant, right?”

  “True,” Roger agreed. One of the more significant punishments was retroactive beaching for a short period of time, effectively wiping out someone’s service record. A man who had served for ten years might end up having legally served only eight – and therefore was no longer senior to nine-year officers. I had no doubt that the Lieutenant would be quite happy to use the punishment if she felt we deserved it. If she carried on, we’d end up being legally children, or unborn babies. “Shall we get dressed?”

  I nodded, stripped myself, and pulled on my standard uniform. Unlike the dress uniform, it could be dirtied without incurring any penalties, although I doubted that the First Lieutenant would allow us to pass without at least a sharp reprimand. I checked myself in the mirror and was relieved to see that I looked reasonably neat and tidy. Roger made a great show of removing his talisman; Muna removed her headscarf without saying a word. Her dark eyes were unreadable. I opened my carryall and transferred the remaining clothing and equipment into the drawer. It was unlocked, but by long convention no one apart from the Captain could demand it opened. I trusted my fellow Ensigns. Besides, there was nothing valuable in my drawer.

  “Remember to keep the room tidy,” Sally said, calmly. As First Ensign pro tem, she was responsible for ensuring that we took care of our quarters and drawing up the cleaning rota. It would be one of her tasks in the immediate future. “Ellen, put that bra away. We don’t want to see it.”

  “We do,” Roger said, innocently. Sally fixed him with a look that would have made a rampaging tiger back down. “Sorry.”

  “So you should be,” Sally said. The laws against sexual discrimination prohibited any awareness of differences between male and female cadets. I had often though that that particular regulation was stupid – I couldn’t help being aware of their femininity – but parts of it made sense. Sexual relationships between cadets and ensigns were forbidden. “Now, shall we go?”

  We made one final check of our appearance and allowed her to lead us from our cabin up towards the bridge. It was my first time on a real starship and I gazed around me with interest, drinking in the sights with open wonder. The noise of the starship’s engines as they built up the immense power reserves needed to trigger the Jump Drive seemed to be singing in my ears. It was something out of my dreams. We passed a handful of crewmen who looked at us oddly, perhaps envying us our smart uniforms and career prospects, before we stepped onto the bridge. The First Lieutenant inspected us carefully – no demerits this time, thank goodness – before presenting us to the Captain.

  The bridge itself was something of a disappointment. I had expected something out of the latest movie, showing a glistening place of magical technology. Instead, there were a handful of consoles and a single chair in the centre of the room. I felt my gaze linger on the chair, and the man seated in it, for a long moment. The Captain’s chair was only for the Captain. It was a serious offence for anyone else to sit in it.

  “Captain,” an officer I didn’t recognise said, “we have received clearance to depart from Orbit Seven.”

  “Finally,” the Captain said. He didn’t sound happy, but UNPF regulations were firm on the subject of disengaging from orbital stations. “Ensign Walker, would you care to take the conn?”

  Me? I thought. It took me a moment to realise that I was even being addressed, or that the Captain knew my name. “Yes, sir,” I said, trying desperately to remember the procedure from the Academy. I had never docked anything larger than a Flitter or Bug in real life. I’d done well on simulations, but…I swallowed my nervousness and leaned forward. “Pilot, confirm that we have disengaged from the locks.”

  “Not confirmed,” the pilot said calmly, although there was an undertone of nervousness in his voice. He knew just how badly I could fuck this up, all right. “We are still locked to the station.”

  I cursed my mistake silently. “Confirm that the docking tube has been evacuated and depressurised,” I ordered. I could hear my heartbeat thundering away in my ears. I was sure that everyone could hear it, right across the bridge. “Disengage from locks and order the station to retract the tube.”

  The display altered slightly. “Tube retracted, sir,” the pilot said. The starship was now flying free. “The station confirms that we are cleared to depart.”

  “Bring up the drive field and manoeuvre us away from the station,” I ordered, searching my memory desperately. “Clear two hundred thousand kilometres from the station, and then prepare to bring up the Jump Drive.”

  “Aye, sir,” the pilot said. I could feel a faint thrumming though the deck as the starship slowly moved away from the station. The drive field was pushing us towards the jump coordinate. “Target star?”

  “Terra Nova,” I said, firmly. The Captain had said that we were going there first. I also expected that he would countermand me if we were going elsewhere. “Select jump coordinates as appropriate.”

  “Very good,” the Captain said, warmly. I flushed. “Still…how many waypoints do you think we will need?”

  I hesitated and finally took refuge in the regulations. “UNPF regulations state that starships must have at least four waypoints between Earth and the destination star,” I answered, carefully. “Five, sir?”

  “Four will be sufficient,” the Captain said. He keyed his console. “Engineering, this is the Captain. Clear the Jump Drive for activation in…”

  He looked up at me. “Fifty seconds,” I said, automatically. I’d been watching the display as we moved further away from Orbit Seven.

  “Fifty seconds,” the Captain confirmed. He had to be aware of the sweat trickling down my back. “You have the conn, Ensign.”

  “Yes, sir,” I gulped. I wanted to flee the bridge and hide. “Pilot, bring up the Jump Drive and engage in…three…two…one…now!”

/>   The screens went black as the drive triggered and we vanished inside the artificial wormhole. “Secure from departure stations,” I ordered, automatically. “Estimated time of arrival at first waypoint; seven days.”

  “Acceptable,” the Captain said, calmly. I flushed again. “You were given the conn, Ensign. Not issuing the orders would have been unacceptable. I relieve you.”

  “I stand relieved,” I said, formally. The Captain nodded to the First Lieutenant. “Lieutenant Hatchet will take you to meet with the Political Officer now.”

  “Yes, sir,” Lieutenant Hatchet said. “Follow me.”

  “You did reasonably well,” she said, as soon as we were outside the bridge and walking down the corridor. We paused to allow a pair of crewmen to walk past carrying a large box of spares between them. “You could have been sent to the Captain’s Mast for forgetting to depressurise the tube, or forgetting to clear enough space between us and the station before opening the wormhole, but on the whole…good work.”