The Outback Stars

by Sandra McDonald

  “I have enough friends.”

  “You can always do with more.” He leaned closer, his dark eyes intent. “Maybe the tension you feel when you’re around me is romantic. Maybe we should try it and see how we could be good with each other.”

  She leaned forward and said, “If you try to kiss me, I’ll grab your balls and twist them until they break off.”

  Quenger laughed but backed away. He waved the champagne bottle at her. “Oh, Jo. You don’t know. How far we could go—”

  Jodenny shut the hatch.

  The next day was Sunday. Jodenny slept late and ran into Francesco in the E-Deck gym. He was working out on a treadmill beside a blonde woman in green shorts.

  “I took your advice,” Francesco asked. “It is nicer working out down here than the officers’ gym. Have you met my Chief Vostic?”

  “We met the day you checked onboard,” Vostic said.

  Jodenny remembered the lifepod incident all too well. “Nice to see you again.”

  She did five kilometers on a machine, and after showering went to Underway Stores. Sunday routine didn’t shut the ship down, but working hours were reduced and Mrs. Mullaly, for one, had the whole day off to spend with her family. With Caldicot on watch, Jodenny had the whole office to herself and uninterrupted stretches to wade through paperwork. The AT evals had come back from the SUPPO’s office with a few corrections to be made. Sergeant Rosegarten had sent an imail saying the Loss Accounting report on Myell’s DNGO was still waiting to be signed by the Security Officer. It occurred to Jodenny that it was taking an abnormally long time. Around lunchtime Holland said, “Lieutenant, I was talking to Ensign Hultz’s agent and she said someone had queried her about you.”

  “Who?”

  “Dr. Ng from Space Sciences. He had queried me, but I refused to answer.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me before?”

  “Your security setting is medium, Lieutenant. You asked not to be disturbed—”

  Jodenny’s hands fisted. “Set it to high and ping the bastard.”

  Dr. Ng answered with a distracted air. “Yes?”

  “Dr. Ng, I’m filing that complaint I warned you about.”

  “Complaint?” Ng blinked owlishly. “But why?”

  “Do you deny trying to get information about me out of my agent?”

  “It’s not what you think—okay, look, here. Watch this, will you?” An animation flickered on the screen. She recognized the Point Elliot Spheres. Ng said, “Point A is the center of the triangle they form. If we zoom out to Point B, that’s the Wondjina drop point. If you draw a line from A to B—and look, here comes the Yangtze on its standard approach, which means you’ve got to maneuver a little, since you have to hit the drop at the right angle or skip over it entirely—okay, here! T6 swings around into the path of the Point Elliot track first—watch this. T6 explodes, parts of F-Deck are breached—”

  Jodenny closed her eyes, unable to bear looking at it. “It’s a coincidence. It doesn’t prove anything. Even if your data is correct, ships have been using the Alcheringa for more than twenty years now. I’m sure sometime, somewhere, ships departing Kookaburra have crossed this ludicrous track you’ve drawn.”

  “They have!” Ng said. The animation on the screen had frozen. “I’ve re-created at least ten journeys where ships cross lines between the Alcheringa and a set of Spheres, and none of them have ever resulted in an explosion until the Yangtze. Maybe something in her T6 was different or special—something in the hold, or the ammunition or explosives, or maybe something that wasn’t even on the official manifest. Team Space just wants us to think it was the CFP.”

  The animation rewound on the screen and started to play again.

  Unable to speak anymore, Jodenny hung up. The animation vanished into the milky darkness of her deskgib, leaving behind only the memory of a tiny ship on its way to destruction.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  AT Kevwitch, returned from the brig, had to bend over to keep from hitting his head on overheads. Jodenny decided he might be handy to have around if she ever needed someone to rip open a bulkhead with his bare hands. AT Barivee had a coiled tenseness that made her uneasy. AT Yee looked mortified when Strayborn reprimanded him for scuffed boots at morning quarters.

  “Sorry, ma’am,” he said to Jodenny.

  “They’re just boots,” Barivee muttered.

  Jodenny gave him a hard look. “There will be no sloppy uniforms in this division.”

  Strayborn went through the roster. Nitta read the list of daily announcements and told everyone to get their requests in for Mary River liberty. Her thoughts on Ng and his crazy theory, Jodenny almost missed it when Nitta gave a pointed reminder about not playing games at work. She ignored Lange’s glare and signaled for Amador and Ishikawa to haul out the boxes she’d brought down with her.

  “When I first came onboard, I told you that we’re a team doing a job together. I thought it would be nice if we had something that illustrated that. I’m not telling you that you have to wear these, but I hope you do and remember who your teammates are.”

  Amador and Ishikawa started handing out the T-shirts. The sports shop had done a good job with the Underway Stores emblem and she’d made sure that everyone’s name was spelled correctly on the back. The sizes had been easy to pull from the uniform records.

  “Are these dingoes?” Chang asked, holding his shirt up to scrutiny.

  “Never saw robots with muscles like that,” Gallivan said. “Or shit-eating grins!”

  “Dicensu drew it,” Jodenny said.

  Dicensu blushed. “It wasn’t too hard.”

  Myell took his with a blank expression. Nitta, who had told her he didn’t see the point, threw his over his shoulder and said, “I’m off to a Menu Board meeting, Lieutenant. See you.”

  Jodenny saw Lange hold out his shirt and mutter something to Barivee. Both of them snorted in private amusement. Dicensu might have overheard the comment, because his expression fell. Caldicot patted his arm and said, “I think they’re great, Peter. Will you autograph mine?”

  Bless Caldicot’s heart. Dicensu perked up immediately. Jodenny decided to ignore Lange and Barivee. As the division drifted off to work, she asked Strayborn and Myell to stay behind.

  “I like them.” Strayborn held his shirt at arm’s length. “No other division has them.”

  “That’s what I thought,” Jodenny said. Myell stayed silent and inscrutable, which annoyed her. “How’s the May inventory coming?”

  “The numbers are going to be good,” Strayborn said. “Ninety-four, maybe ninety-five.”

  “Good,” she said. “Every month, we’re going to do better.”

  Later that morning she went off to the Shore Leave Briefing, where she was pleasantly surprised to see Danyen Cartik.

  “You still owe me five yuros,” he said.

  “I’ve been looking to pay you off but you’re never at lunch.”

  “You know how Data is,” he said, but didn’t sound convincing about it. “I’ve been swamped.”

  After the room had filled with representatives from the various departments, Lieutenant Commander Senga from Security got up to give a review of restricted areas in Mary River’s capital city of New Christchurch. His gaze slid coldly past Jodenny as he detailed bars where drugs or venereal diseases were known to be prevalent, shops that sold illicit material, neighborhoods where unsuspecting crew members might find themselves at the wrong end of a knife. The review took exactly thirty seconds.

  “Not a very exciting place, is it?” Cartik said to Jodenny.

  “Not if you like fun.”

  His eye twitching, Senga said, “Tell your people to remember to dress appropriately. They shouldn’t get drunk or rowdy in public, and be careful of public displays of affection.”

  “What’s the punishment for spitting on the sidewalk?” someone drawled.

  Senga grimaced. “Don’t ask. Homosexuality is legal, they can’t do anything about that, but it’s fro
wned upon. Last time we visited, we had four instances of TS crew being harassed. I don’t want anyone missing movement because they’re stuck in jail for fighting or on some trumped-up morals charge.”

  “What about demonstrations?” someone asked.

  Senga smiled humorlessly. “We don’t think the CFP will dare. They’re strong on Mary River, but there’s still a lot of backlash. They don’t want the media attention.”

  Jodenny let her mind drift to Ng’s rubbish theory. She drew the Point Elliot Spheres and a small picture of the Yangtze on her gib. When the meeting broke up she asked Cartik, “Are you going planetside?”

  “Wouldn’t want to risk a morals charge,” he said with a trace of bitterness.

  She wondered if that was the cause of his disenchantment with Data. Some departments were less tolerant than others, despite strict rules about sexual orientation harassment. “Well, then, how about lunch on Friday? I know a good café on B-Deck.”

  “I’ll be there,” he said.

  On her way back to the office she swung by Supply crew berthing aft of the Flats. The rug in the lounge had seen much better days. The big-screen vid was cracked at one corner and the sofas had stains of suspicious origins. No one had emptied the garbage recently. Jodenny went down the passage to Lund’s door and rang the bell.

  He answered wearing his pajamas. “Ma’am!” he said. Behind him, Jodenny could see Izim open on his deskgib.

  “You weren’t at quarters, so I brought you this.”

  Lund examined the T-shirt she handed him. “Thank you, Lieutenant. I have a chit from my doctor for bed rest. I sent you a copy.”

  “I understand. You need your rest. I think you’d better scoot yourself into bed, though. You don’t want eyestrain, do you?”

  “No, ma’am,” he said.

  “I’m going to send Sergeant Strayborn around this afternoon to make sure you’re all right,” Jodenny said. “And Sergeant VanAmsal at dinnertime. Maybe I’ll ask her to bring you some soup.”

  “I don’t want to bother anyone.”

  Jodenny patted his arm. “You’re not a bother. You’re a member of this team. Oh, and before I forget, I’ve set you up with three highly recommended doctors on Warramala.”

  “Three?”

  “We have to pinpoint your ailments,” Jodenny said. “You need help.”

  Back in her office she tried not to gloat too much over the memory of Lund’s crestfallen expression. She sent Nitta an imail telling him to schedule berthing inspections for the end of the week. No sailors of hers were going to live in squalor. When she turned on her gib she saw the Wondjina Spheres she’d sketched.

  “Holland,” she said, “pull up the navigational logs from my last ship and plot its last flight for me. See if you can establish any relationship to the Point Elliot Spheres on Kookaburra’s surface.”

  “In accordance with Dr. Ng’s theory?” Holland asked.

  “Have you been eavesdropping?”

  “It’s not a secret, Lieutenant. Dr. Ng is not held in high esteem by his peers in the Space Sciences Department. Though this is only the first of three deployments he signed on for, there’s speculation his contract will be terminated at the end of the deployment.”

  “Re-create the data on your own and run a comparison against his,” Jodenny said.

  A few seconds passed before Holland filled the deskgib with data. “My projection of the Yangtze’s track matches Dr. Ng’s. But in the absence of other evidence, his hypothesis is illogical. Just because the ship crossed such a hypothetical track does not mean the explosion is somehow related.”

  The animation stayed in Jodenny’s thoughts. She was rewatching Holland’s version the next morning before the DIVO meeting when Al-Banna walked in and said, “I hope you’re not playing Izim, Lieutenant.”

  Vu coughed. Wildstein squinted at Al-Banna as if trying to decide if he were joking.

  “No, sir.” She put her gib aside.

  Wildstein asked, “Was it really necessary to confiscate RT Lange’s gib?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Jodenny said. “The whole division was warned, and he was playing while there was a hazardous operation under way in the tower.”

  “Bet he took it well,” Vu said.

  After the meeting Al-Banna said, “Lieutenant Scott. Wait one minute.”

  Both Al-Banna and Wildstein had grim looks on their faces. She braced herself, expecting more bitching about Lange’s gib, but after the room was clear Wildstein said, “Did I or did I not tell you that you couldn’t spend your division funds on T-shirts?”

  “I didn’t, ma’am,” Jodenny protested.

  “You bought the shirts,” Wildstein said. “I saw two of your people wearing them on the Rocks last night. How did you pay for them?”

  Jodenny was happy to hear at least someone was wearing them. “I’d rather not say.”

  Al-Banna tapped his fingers impatiently. “Answer the question, Lieutenant.”

  She supposed there was no avoiding it. “I asked the Morale Department for the funding, but they said no. So I did it myself.”

  “You paid for all of them?” Wildstein asked.

  “Yes, ma’am. While I was in the hospital, I was still pulling space pay—anyway, it’s just a small gesture from me to the division. But I thought you might like your own, too.”

  From the bag she’d brought she pulled out the shirts personalized for Al-Banna and Wildstein. Wildstein grimaced, but Al-Banna unfolded his and held it to his chest.

  “Good fit,” he said. “But you’re not paying for mine, Lieutenant. I’ll transfer the yuros to your account. Ten? Fifteen?”

  “No, sir,” Jodenny said. “It’s a gift.”

  “You don’t give gifts to your superior officers,” Al-Banna said. He walked out admiring his shirt. Wildstein said, “I heard you wanted to conduct berthing inspections.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I asked Chief Nitta to schedule them.”

  “Berthing cleanliness isn’t your concern. Some of the other officers have complained about the prospect of you inspecting their sailors.”

  Who had complained? Quenger, she bet. Jodenny squared her shoulders. “The cleanliness of the common areas directly affects my people, ma’am. Last time I walked through there, the lounge was a pigsty.”

  “It’s still not your jurisprudence,” Wildstein said. “If there’s a problem, I’ll see to it. I’ll inspect the lounge Friday at oh-eight-hundred.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Thank you.”

  “I’m not doing it for you.” Wildstein passed back her T-shirt. “And you can keep this. Give it to someone who’ll wear it.”

  * * *

  Myell rose early, worked out for an hour, and swung by the mess deck for breakfast. Judging by the posters, overvids, and other colorful displays, it was time to celebrate Dragon Boat Week. Gallivan, Minnich, and Amador were in one booth, laughing at a joke. Chiba was in another, guffawing with some of his dogs. Myell sat far from all of them and skimmed over the May inventory while shoveling through his oatmeal. The numbers were definitely better than they’d been for April. As he forwarded them up to Strayborn a shadow fell across his table.

  “Trouble in Underway Stores?” Spallone asked with a smirk. “Poor little things having their gibs taken away by Miz Scott?”

  “Only if they’re dumb enough to get caught playing Izim on duty.”

  Spallone leaned forward. “I hear it’s all your fault, anyway. Scott only got pissed because you were in the shaft when she caught Lange. You’re her favorite. Are you fucking her? The two of you sneaking off to the slots to fool around?”

  To go from being the department scapegoat to Lieutenant Scott’s favored child would be too ironic. Myell brushed past Spallone and took his tray toward the scullery. When he turned the corner Chiba was blocking his way.

  Chiba said, “Sit down. Let’s chat.”

  Sitting meant listening to old threats and new crap. “Get out of my way.”

  “I just want to talk. Maybe a
dmire your brand-new T-shirt.”

  “You can kiss my ass,” Myell said.

  Chiba shoved him off his feet. The breakfast tray went flying and Myell landed with a solid thwack against his tailbone. Worse than the physical shock was the humiliation as people turned toward the commotion and a DNGO whirled their way, intent on claiming dirty silverware and sweeping up crumbs. He decided he didn’t care anymore what they might do to him for assaulting a chief, and scrambled to regain his footing and swing a punch. But then Chief Roush, the Assistant Food Services Officer, wedged himself between Myell and Chiba and demanded, “What’s going on here?”

  “He lost his balance and fell,” Chiba said. “Floor must be wet.”

  “Sure it is,” Roush said. “Get out.”

  Chiba wagged a warning finger. “Careful. You wouldn’t want to slip, too.”

  “Out,” Roush repeated. Chiba left with his dogs in tow. Roush asked Myell, “You hurt?”

  “No.” Myell brushed bread crumbs from his coveralls. He could feel something wet on his backside and hoped the stain wasn’t too obvious. Fucking Chiba, fucking all of them.

  Roush patted his shoulder. “They’re assholes. Best thing to do? You take Chiba down below and beat the shit out of him.”

  “Great idea, Chief. I’ll look into that.” Myell left before Roush could offer any more helpful advice. He went to T6 for morning quarters and hid until the last minute, unable to bear seeing Gallivan or the others who had witnessed his humiliation. Jodenny made some announcements, Nitta added something irrelevant, and Strayborn said that the ASUPPO would be inspecting the lounge at the end of the week. Stupid, stupid, stupid, he thought. Didn’t anyone on the ship realize there were more important things to worry about than inspections?

  After quarters, Gallivan snagged his arm. “Chiba’s a swipe. You know that, right?”

  “He’s a swipe who people believe.”

  Gallivan grimaced. “Not him. They believed Ford.”

  Her name still caused Myell’s gut to churn. Before her, he had never known exactly how much trouble a man could get into based on one woman’s accusations. “You believed her.”