A Just Determination

by John G. Hemry

  "Then you're an agnostic on space ghosts?"

  Carl grinned again. "Human spirits can seem a long ways away out here, but it's too damn cold and empty to be comfortable with atheism. Call me a space ghost pragmatist."

  "Aye, aye, sir."

  "Hey, Sinclair!" Paul winced slightly as Ensign Sam Yarrow stuck his head in the stateroom. Turning, he saw Yarrow standing in the hatch to the ensign locker and smiling at him with apparent commiseration. "I just wanted to give you a heads-up. Commander Garcia was checking how his junior officers were doing on their Open Space Warfare Officer qualifications." Paul barely kept from wincing again. With everything else demanding his time, he hadn't even looked at his OSWO qualification requirements in over a week. "He wasn't too happy. Sorry to be the bearer of bad news."

  Yeah, I bet. I also bet you were the one who got him thinking he should check on my OSWO quals, after you'd gotten a bunch of your own OSWO stuff signed off. Outwardly, Paul just nodded. "Thanks."

  "No problem. Just—"

  "Coming through. Make way," Kris Denaldo barked, elbowing Yarrow to one side. Ignoring Yarrow's glower, she focused on Meadows. "Carl. You promised to check off some of my OSWO qualifications. I've got maybe half an hour before all hell breaks loose again. You free?"

  "Free enough." Carl gestured to Paul. "And, by sheer coincidence, Paul here is also ready to get some of his OSWO stuff signed off. Right?"

  "Uh . . ."

  "Right. Come on." Meadows and Sinclair crowded out past Yarrow, then Denaldo flattened herself against the bulkhead to let Meadows take the lead as he headed for the compartments near the outer hull.

  Paul steamed silently until Kris tapped his shoulder. "What's up?"

  "Oh, our supportive bull ensign just screwed me again. I suppose he's screwed you plenty of times, too."

  "He'd like to." She laughed as Paul reacted to the double-meaning. "Not that he has a hamster's chance in hard vacuum of getting his wish. But as for the sort of screwing you're talking about, don't let it get to you. Life's too short. Days are too short."

  "How do you keep going, Kris? Every time I see you, you're in motion."

  "My mind's always five minutes behind the rest of me. By the time I realize I'm exhausted, I'm already past that point and doing something else."

  Carl Meadows stopped at an access hatch leading toward the outer hull, keying the monitor next to it. "Lieutenant Meadows, Ensign Denaldo and Ensign Sinclair accessing maintenance trunk B-205-E."

  An engineering watch stander responded, his voice tinged with boredom at the routine. "Purpose of access, sir?"

  "Officer qualification review."

  "Anticipated duration?"

  "Fifteen minutes."

  "Permission granted to access maintenance trunk B-205-E, Lieutenant Meadows. Notify the Damage Control watch upon exiting the space."

  "Affirmative." Carl cracked the hatch, its squarish dimensions betraying the constricted nature of the maintenance trunk it guarded, then waved Kris Denaldo through. "Ladies first. Paul, you follow me." Paul fought down a tinge of claustrophobia as he watched the other two swing inside a tunnel-like access trunk with sides measuring only about a meter wide. As if sensing Paul's misgivings, or perhaps remembering his own experiences, Carl grinned back at Paul as he swung in. "We're lucky, you know. If they didn't have to make these things wide enough for someone in a full protective suit to squeeze through they'd be a lot narrower."

  "Lucky us." Paul followed cautiously as the small party moved several meters along the trunk before Carl called a halt.

  "Okay." Carl Meadows pointed to the outer surface of the trunk they were in. A pattern was visible there, of hexagons joined at every side and repeating as far as could be seen. "Ensign Denaldo, what are we looking at?"

  "The water-blanket."

  "That's its nickname. The official nomenclature is . . . ?"

  "Sorry. That's the Ship's Inner Hull Thermal Absorption Barrier System. Mark Four."

  "Mod?"

  Denaldo twisted to look back at Carl, her expression exasperated. "Why do I need to know the mod? This is a, uh, Mod Two. But that doesn't matter, because the only difference between the different models is superficial."

  "Who told you that?"

  "Jen."

  Carl nodded. "Jen's right, but you're wrong. Why do have to know the mod number? Because your qualification standards say you have to know the mod number. And that means when you go up for a screening board they'll ask you the mod number."

  "So I have to know it not because it's important but because I'm going to be asked anyway?"

  "Exactly. Sometimes it is important to know the mod number, so they make you know it all the time. Okay, here we have a Mark Four Mod Two Ship's Inner Hull Thermal Absorption Barrier System. What's it do?"

  "What it says." Kris waved her hand at the hexagonal honeycomb. "Every one of those hexagons outlines a cell filled with water and interconnected to every hexagon next to it. That water barrier forms the inner hull of the ship, and absorbs all the heat generated by the crew and equipment."

  "What else does it absorb? Paul?"

  Paul swallowed, thinking through his answer before replying. "It also absorbs any incoming heat or radiation striking the outer hull. That protects the crew from radiation, and our reflected heat signature is reduced to a minimum, making the ship harder for anyone to spot against the background of space."

  "Right. Why do we use water for that?"

  "Because water is the best heat sink in the known universe?"

  Carl nodded. "Right again. It also stops radiation pretty darn good, and using it as a barrier gives us a place to store water we need for the ship and crew anyway. But what happens to the heat this stuff absorbs? Kris?"

  "It gets circulated by pumps, with higher temperature water cycled toward the main machinery room. Once it gets hot enough there, they run it through a low pressure tube—"

  "Which is actually named?"

  "A Venturi tube. Increases velocity and reduces pressure. The hot water flashes to steam, and the steam gets shunted to counter-rotating turbines which supply some of our electrical power. We convert our own waste heat into another source of energy we can use."

  "And recycling everything out here is a real good idea. Unfortunately, as Ensign Shen will tell you, those turbines like to break down just when you need them the most, and if one goes down you have to take down its partner as well. Paul, why do we need counter-rotating turbines?"

  "Because if we just had a turbine going in one direction its torque would force the ship to rotate."

  "Uh-huh. And what happens if something knocks a hole in the inner hull? How many water cells do we lose?"

  Paul hesitated, then spotted Kris Denaldo waving her hand at him, one index finger extended. Oh, yeah. I know this. Thanks, Kris. "One. Seals activate automatically on all six sides to isolate a cell if there's a pressure drop."

  "And why is having a shield of water armor real useful in combat?"

  "Because the water flashes to vapor when it gets hit. That dissipates the energy of the hit on the ship as well as anything could."

  "Excellent. What a fine crop of ensigns we have these days." Carl, pretending to ignore the rude responses of Paul and Kris to his sarcasm, hauled out his personal data link and tapped in some information. "Congratulations. You two have just signed off some of your damage control and engineering OSWO qualifications."

  "Thanks, Carl." Kris gestured down the way they'd come. "Can we egress the exit now? I've got things to see and people to do." Moments later, they were out of the access trunk, Paul luxuriating in the suddenly expansive-seeming confines of the corridor, and Kris Denaldo was swinging rapidly away. "See you guys around," she called, before vanishing around a corner.

  Paul shook his head. "Does she ever slow down?"

  "Not that I've ever seen." Carl sighed audibly. "That babe is too damn driven. No off switch and her main drive is battle-shorted on full speed ahead. She's going to run into a
brick wall someday and fly into lots of little pieces."

  "Can't anybody get her to slack off before then?"

  "They've tried. I've tried. The only one who might be able to work it is the XO. She could stop a good-sized moon in its tracks just by glaring, I think, but so far she's letting Kris run. I guess Herdez wants her to set her own limits instead of having them imposed."

  "I hadn't thought of that." Paul suddenly found himself yawning hugely. "Sorry. I had the mid-watch. I think I got about four hours sleep last night."

  "Well, there's your problem, Ensign. You aren't getting enough done because you're spending too much time in your bunk." Carl grinned, then sobered. "Seriously, though. I know there seems to be four times too much to do every day, because there is four times too much to do every day, but if you'd take a bit of advice from an elderly lieutenant junior grade you'd set aside enough time each week to get two or three OSWO qualification standards signed off. It may seem to be adding another complication, but by keeping your Department Head happy it's actually simplifying your life no end."

  "Thanks, Carl. I appreciate the advice." Paul's own data link chose that moment to chime urgently. He checked the display, reading carefully since he didn't trust himself to scan text after so little sleep. "MA1 Sharpe is asking me to meet him at my stateroom."

  "Well, it's not high noon, so I guess the Sheriff doesn't mean you ill. It's sort of odd he's paging you, though. That doesn't happen too often, enlisted paging officers."

  "It doesn't?" Paul felt a chill run down his back. "Something tells me I better find the Sheriff fast."

  "Good idea."

  Paul emulated Kris Denaldo, swinging through the corridor far faster than he'd have dared a few weeks before. Rounding a corner, he saw Master-at-Arms Sharpe floating at parade-rest next to the ensign locker. "What's up?" Paul demanded as he braked so swiftly that Sharpe flinched from a possible collision.

  "I was just on my way to captain's mast, sir. Which is scheduled to occur real soon, now."

  "Captain's mast." Paul closed his eyes momentarily, then opened them to check the time. "I've still got five minutes to get there."

  "Yes, sir. And you really wouldn't want to miss captain's mast, sir."

  "No, I wouldn't." Wakeman would rip my head off if I wasn't there on time. "Thanks for looking out for me, Sheriff."

  "My pleasure, sir."

  Sharpe smiled broadly as he turned to go, which for some reason exasperated Paul's overstrung and overtired nerves. "Sheriff, why the hell are you always so damn cheerful?" Paul demanded as he followed Sharpe down the corridor.

  Ivan Sharpe looked back over his shoulder for a moment, grinning wider. "Because I get to work with fine, young officers such as yourself every day, sir."

  "You know where you can stick that reply, Petty Officer Sharpe."

  Sharpe's grin didn't waver. "Yes, sir."

  The passageway outside the cramped space officially designated the crew's mess was crowded with personnel. Those awaiting their turn before the Captain weren't hard to spot from their expressions and body language, which ranged all the way from sullen defiance in some cases to the sort of look you'd see on a deer caught in headlights in others. Every sailor awaiting Mast had at least two companions as escorts, their division officer and their leading petty officer. Paul hesitated a moment, amazed at the number of sailors who'd been able to get into enough trouble to face the Captain even though they were a million miles from anywhere, then followed the Sheriff into the mess.

  Senior Chief Kowalski was already there, nodding casually to Sharpe in greeting, then sketching a half-salute to Paul. "Top o' the morning, Mr. Sinclair."

  "Good morning, Senior Chief. Where do I stand?"

  "You mean float?" Kowalski gestured along the bulkhead. "You and me hang here, sir. The Captain's gonna be up there, the witnesses and division officers and such on the bulkhead opposite you and me, and the accused right in the middle."

  "Sounds like fun." Paul positioned himself carefully. A careless choice might leave him without nearby leverage to quickly halt any drifting his body might attempt, and Paul had no intention of letting his feet float between the captain and a mast case.

  Kowalski nodded to Sharpe again. "MA1 Sharpe, please notify the Captain we are in readiness for mast."

  "On my way, Senior Chief."

  It left a few minutes for Paul to look around, feeling awkward. This is my first real captain's mast. Funny. They call it that because the captain used to stand in front of the ship's mast while he rendered judgment. Up here the ships don't even have radar masts, but we still call it that. He tried to focus on his all-too-brief legal training and experience. Okay. This isn't really a legal proceeding. Captain's Mast is nonjudicial punishment. That means no rules of evidence or right to a lawyer or things like that. Heck, why do they even need me here? Somehow, he knew better than to ask that question.

  Sharpe leaned into the mess just far enough to yell, "Attention on deck!" Paul and Senior Chief Kowalski stiffened in place, holding the posture as Captain Wakeman pulled himself into the mess. Wakeman took his position, peered at Paul as if uncertain as to his identity, then waved one hand. "At ease. First case."

  "Aye, aye, sir." Sharpe leaned back into the passageway. "Petty Officer Arroyo."

  Arroyo entered, visibly nervous, his uniform immaculate. Commander Sykes followed, somehow managing to appear to lean against the bulkhead even in zero g, along with his assistant Lieutenant Junior Grade Bristol and Chief Petty Officer Mangala. "Petty Officer Arroyo?" Captain Wakeman made a question of the name, squinting at the charge sheet displayed before him. "You are charged with violating Article 108 of the Uniform Code. That's Loss, Damage, Destruction, or Wrongful Disposition of Military Property of the United States." Wakeman's expression hardened and his chin jutted out. "That's a very serious offense, Petty Officer Arroyo." Looking back to the charge sheet, Wakeman read out loud. "In that Petty Officer Third Class Arroyo, on or about 1 September, 2098, did wrongfully dispose of military property of the United States by consuming same—" Wakeman glanced up and around the small room. "Consuming? Just what government property are we talking about?"

  Commander Sykes cleared his throat. "A package of frozen peaches, sir."

  "A package of frozen peaches?" Wakeman glared suspiciously at Arroyo. "You ate a package of frozen peaches? Do you know how much people look forward to having a few slices of peaches out here? And you ate a whole package?"

  Petty Officer Arroyo gulped audibly before speaking. "Captain, I didn't eat any peaches. I swear. I told Chief Mangala when he signed for the shipment that it seemed short, but he didn't—"

  "Chief Mangala?" Wakeman pivoted to focus on the chief.

  Mangala shook his head with deliberate slowness. "No, sir. Captain, I been keeping my eye on Arroyo here. Guys like him always slip up sooner or later. When I ran inventory on those peaches and came up short, I knew who done it."

  "Did Arroyo tell you the shipment seemed short before you signed for it?"

  "I don't remember nothing like that, Captain."

  Commander Sykes cleared his throat again, drawing the captain's attention. "Sir, Petty Officer Arroyo is an excellent sailor with a good record. I would suggest this is a case of misunderstanding or miscommunication."

  "You don't think he ate the peaches?"

  "No, sir."

  "What about you, Lieutenant Bristol?"

  Bristol spoke with such care he seemed to be forming each word as a separate sentence. "I agree with Commander Sykes, sir."

  "Hmmm." Wakeman looked from Arroyo to the charge sheet and back again. "Your officers seem to think a lot of you, but your immediate supervisor doesn't. How do you account for that, Petty Officer Arroyo?"

  Arroyo made to shake his own head, then stiffened as he remembered to maintain himself at attention. "I don't know, sir. Chief Mangala just doesn't seem to like me. I do my best, but he's never satisfied."

  "Hah." Wakeman's glance swept across Commander Syk
es and Lieutenant Bristol. "Let me tell you something, Petty Officer Arroyo. There's not a thing, not a single thing, wrong with demanding good performance from your subordinates. Some people seem to be afraid to do that. But a good supervisor," here his gaze flicked to Chief Mangala, "knows what matters is trust. Trust and good performance."

  Commander Sykes spoke again, his voice even. "Captain, I believe this incident has been blown seriously out of proportion and would be best dealt with within my own Department. There is no need for non-judicial punishment of Petty Officer Arroyo."

  "If you believe that, then why is he here in front of me?" Wakeman pointed his index finger at Arroyo. "Why is that?"