by Garon Whited
I was proud of myself. I was thinking like a Dad. Good sign.
And, on the subject of what I wanted the place to be like for my kids… I tapped the terminal and called up the citizenship résumés.
* * *
“Good morning, gentlemen,” I said. The four men in my sickroom nodded back at me. Peng and Chang were among them; the other two were Li and Chuck. Chuck looked just as Asian as the other three, but I didn’t have a clue how he got his name.
“I understand that you have all applied for citizenship on the planet Luna.” They nodded again. “Good! Because your background in space maintenance stands a good chance of getting you through the wringer.” I leaned up a little further and stuffed another pillow behind me.
“Here’s the deal,” I began. I’d asked the Captain about what we were supposed to look for and he sent me his classified document on the selection process. “Right now, Luna Base doesn’t have civilian citizens. We’re a military outpost of a nonexistent country. Given that we’re a lifeboat for humanity, the Captain sees it as his duty—the duty of all human beings—to see to it that humanity does survive.
“Tabling for the moment the issue of whether we deserve to or not, this means we have to work together as a unified group, not as a bunch of individualists each looking out for just himself. We need enlightened self-interest, discipline, and the willingness to work for something bigger than any one man.”
I looked them over. “Gentlemen, your medical checks say you can stay. Your educational backgrounds say you’re worth the effort. But the thing that your résumés do not tell us is whether or not you have what it takes to be an effective, integrated member of a small, close-knit society. Granted, we know you’ll pull your weight and be valuable additions to our community—but are you going to be trouble we don’t need? That’s the tough question.
“Since we don’t have a jerk detector, we’ll have to take you on probation. Have you read the oath that the Captain published on the network?”
They nodded. Li looked pensive. “Mister Hardy?”
“Li, my name is Maxwell Hardy. My salutation is either ‘Lieutenant Commander,’ usually shortened to just ‘Commander,’ or ‘sir,’ depending on how formal we are. You’ll have to get used to that, at least until after the probationary period. Then we may manage a more informal sort of address. Are you with me?”
“Yes. Yes, Sir. I understand.”
“Excellent. What’s your question?”
“How long is this probationary period?”
“And smart enough to ask good questions. I like you more and more, Li. Okay. The probationary period is a minimum of six Earth months. This lets us train you on our equipment and test your knowledge. But, more importantly, it lets us learn about you, your quirks and idiosyncrasies. It allows all of us to see if you can get along.”
“And who decides that?”
“A board sits on you to decide. It has at least two people from your chain of command—in this example, Ensign Galena and myself. The Captain or the XO would chair it, but wouldn’t vote. We’d have one more voting officer, drawn at random, to sit on the board. You’ll note that the board is weighted two-to-one toward the people you work with; you have to associate with your co-workers, so you have to get along with them.
“If the vote goes for you, all well and good. If you don’t pass the vote, but at least one person on the board thought you were tolerable, you get an extension of another six months in the hope you can be taught manners.”
Li nodded. “So the board can’t just arbitrarily keep someone from being a citizen?”
“Actually, yes. It can. But it takes a unanimous vote.
“Say, for example, you did something really wrong, covered it up, and thought you got away with it—but I spotted it and said nothing. If you’d come forward and admitted your blunder and worked with me to fix it, that would be another story. But the cover-up—the dishonesty and the untrustworthiness—would mean you’re not getting my vote.
“And,” I continued, “worse for you, I’d be required to make sure everything I knew was presented to the board—the Captain or XO will be arbitrating, just to get the facts. In this example, let’s say you did something that could have been life-threatening to yourself and others. In such a case, combined with hiding it, you’d likely wind up demoted to civilian guest and never again eligible for citizenship.”
There was a thoughtful silence.
“How do we know that the board is honest?” Chuck asked. “I mean, what’s to keep you guys from deciding who you want and who you don’t and just pretending that we have a chance?”
I sighed. “Well, there really isn’t. If I were willing to lie, cheat, and conspire with fellow officers, you’d just have to find a way to convince me that I should like you.”
I put on my Serious Face and pinned him with a look.
“I don’t have to like you, Chuck. All I have to do is get along with you. You have to fit in on a team, work together with the team, and be willing to take orders you may not understand nor like. I’d hope we can avoid hating each other, because that kind of friction is bad for a team.”
I grinned at them. “But that shouldn’t be a major problem. I’m easy to get along with. Right, Peng?”
Peng blushed. Poor guy. “Sir! Yes, Sir!”
“At ease, Peng. You’re not under my command yet.” He relaxed a little. “See? If I can make a joke out of being shot—by mistake, anyway—I’m pretty sure we can all get along, even if we don’t become particularly close. Does that answer your question?”
“I guess so,” Chuck admitted. “I guess it boils down to the fact that we have to give it a shot and hope.”
“Please don’t mean that literally,” I chuckled. Chuck looked startled, then laughed.
“Still, is anything worthwhile ever different?” I asked. “I wanted to have this little talk with you because I need people to help me while I’m laid up. There’s a lot to do and I only have one pair of hands—which are attached to a body that isn’t allowed out of bed. You guys go away until tomorrow. Think it over. Re-read the oath sometime today and send me a note on what you think it means. If any of you still want to try it, we’ll talk at oh-six-thirty tomorrow. Dismissed.”
It was a good sign that they trooped out without a word. But the real prizes were Peng and Li; they saluted before they left. Not what I’d call good salutes, but at least they showed willing.
* * *
The Oath is designed to explain to the non-citizen that he’s not a member of some glow-in-the-dark country at the bottom of the gravity well. It’s designed to eliminate doubt about who he is and where he belongs. It lets him know that he’s one of us, that he’s part of a group, that there are people like him—or not like him—that will consider his skin as valuable as their own.
We’re all part of a tribe called “humanity.” Now, if only we had a way to make sure everyone felt that way.
Captain Carl once told me, privately, that he’d spent a long, sleepless night worrying over the wording of the oath. It was a combination of the oath we took on joining the military and the citizenship oath that naturalized citizens took when joining the North American Federation. The trouble was in finding how to phrase what was essentially an oath to take personal responsibility—through the chain of command—for the well-being of all mankind.
“I hereby declare, on oath, that I absolutely and entirely renounce and abjure all allegiance and fidelity to any foreign prince, potentate, state, or sovereignty of whom or which I have heretofore been a subject or citizen; that I will henceforth support and defend the race of mankind against all enemies, both internal and external; that I will obey the orders of the Commanding Officer of the Moon and the orders of the officers appointed over me, according to regulations and the Uniform Code of Military Justice; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; that I will bear arms on behalf of duly appointed lunar authority when required; that I will likewise perform noncombatant s
ervice when required; and that I take this obligation freely without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion; this I declare by that Name I hold most sacred.”
Note the order and phrasing. First, the oath-taker renounces all other commitments—not hard, considering most of them should be vaporized.
Next, he swears to support and defend mankind, not some nation. His primary allegiance is to his race, not to his superior officer or even his own skin.
After that, the Oath turns more military and nationalistic with fealty to the CO and to Luna as a whole. If and when we go back to our first planet, the Oath may need some new wording. Until then, I think it’s the best we can do.
* * *
I hate working by remote control. Hate it. Loathe it. I hated it when I was working with the guys in Mission Control, I hated it when I was driving a ’bot on practice runs, I hated it from the first day I tried it. But it’s the only way to get things done when laid up in a sickbed. At least I can delegate a lot of the coilgun construction; the boys can go out and actually eyeball what’s going on. With them right there on the ground and me on overwatch by remote, things have been going splendidly. I feel a little like God, watching everything they do.
They’re good guys, but nobody’s perfect.
Peng, for example, isn’t as technically skilled as the other three, but he’s a much better organizer. He knows what needs to be done even if he doesn’t know how to do it. I can give everyone a job to do and tell them to listen to Peng; it’ll get sorted out and done, double-quick. He shows initiative, as well; he borrows people from other departments without needing my say-so. He also follows orders with a lot of dedication. I think he’s still trying to make up for shooting me. I’ve got him pegged as a potential Chief Petty Officer, someday. I’ve talked to the Captain and he’s promoted Peng to Acting Petty Officer, Second Class. Chang, Li, and Chuck are acting petty officers, third class, for now.
Chang’s better than I am at putting broken things back together. He doesn’t seem to be much of an engineer—that is, someone who designs equipment—but he’s hell on wheels as a mechanic. The thing that really bothers me, though, is his lack of verbosity. When I ask for a report, he answers in the fewest possible words.
“How is ring six-twenty, Chang?”
“Good.”
“A little more detail, please.”
“On schedule.”
“Any problems?”
“Not now.”
“Anything I should be aware of?”
“No.”
It’s like pulling teeth. With rubber pliers. As far as I can tell, he doesn’t have social conversations; of course, I’m not in the best position to be sure about that.
Li is energetic, bright, and understands computers a lot better than I do. I may have to recommend him for promotion and a staff of his own. We need someone to try and fill Gary’s shoes. The only gripe I have about Li is that he seems to be so uncertain about everything. He won’t commit to an opinion. “I think,” “It could be,” “Perhaps it is,” and other qualifiers sprinkle his official comments. I’ve never heard him say, “This is our problem. This is what we need to do to fix it.” He’s never sure. That’s one thing we can’t have in an officer; he’ll never make Chief, either, unless he gets over it.
Chuck is my goldbricker. He’s sharp as a tack, fast on the uptake, and knows his way around with wrench, plasma torch, and laser cutter. He also has a knack for getting robots to do things. It seems appropriate, since he seems to be allergic to physical work. But he takes orders with a good attitude and doesn’t gripe until he thinks I’m off the comm channel. I don’t mind a little good-natured grousing; trying to avoid hard labor is every enlisted man’s ancient privilege.
Unless someone does something seriously stupid, I think all four will make citizens. A lot of the staffers are apparently used to following orders. Considering the people they were staffing for, that’s not surprising. Most of them will probably fit in fairly well.
On the other hand, some of the former residents of the Liwei Habitat will be lucky to go home with all their body parts attached. Oh, a few of them seem to want to stay badly enough to try and get along. A few more actually have skills we might want. But what do you do with a man whose major skills include polo, golf, and picking good brokerage firms? Or with a lady whose former occupation was managing director of a wedding planning service? Or that one lady loudmouth, the lawyer?
They better get on the stick and show something useful soon. I don’t know what the Captain has planned—I don’t get to attend the daily briefing; I’m on the binnacle list—but I don’t doubt he has something planned.
About the only one that I’m sure will get to stay is Martin Wembleson. He’s a retired big shot from some church and is the only one I know of with more than a trace of quiet civility. He was a Navy chaplain in his younger days, and that pulls a lot of weight with the Captain. Martin is also the only clergy aboard and has started holding services in the base chapel.
It says something to me that enough people shelled out the cash to cover his retirement to a space habitat. He could never have afforded it on his own, and he needed to when the doctors told him he had a bad heart. Anybody that well-liked can’t have a bad heart.
I met him when he stuck his head in my door and smiled at me.
“Feeling better, young man?”
“Yes, much. Another day or two and the medical tyrant will let me out. What can I do for you?”
“Thought I’d drop in and introduce myself. May I come in?”
“Sure. Pull up a chair.”
“Thank you.” He did so and got comfortable. “I’m Reverend Martin Wembleson. And you’re Lieutenant Commander Hardy, the man who managed to bust a gut while yelling at us.”
I’m glad I had enough blood to blush. Now when I blush, does the whole crew feel embarrassed?
“Um. Yes, that would be me. And call me ‘Max,’ Father.”
“No, no. I’m not a priest; just a humble preacher. You can call me ‘Martin’.”
“Okay, Martin.”
He grinned at me. “See? Now that’s much better, Max.”
“I guess it is,” I admitted. I liked him. He had an easy manner and a friendly sort of air about him. “So, how are things, Martin?”
He shrugged. “The food’s more bland than in seminary, and I thought that was impossible—everything tastes like chicken. Aside from that, conditions are much improved over the habitat.” I tried to keep from laughing and he cocked his head at me. “What did I say?”
“It’s the quickie rations—reconstituted proteins and all that. It all tastes like chicken, padre.”
“Chicken. How odd that artificial, recycled nutrients should taste like one of God’s creatures.”
“Maybe chickens are God’s food recycling units?” I guessed, smiling. He chuckled at me.
“Part of it, certainly. He designed a fantastic world, and chickens had their role, I’m sure.”
“Yes, they did. Deep-fried, by preference.”
That got a laugh out of him. “Too much bad cholesterol for me. But baked with herbs and lemon?”
“That’ll do. I don’t suppose you have any lemons on the habitat? We could grow some lemon trees.”
“I have no idea. Frozen ones, probably, if the people still there haven’t eaten them.” He lost his smile for a moment. “I’ve spoken with Commander Edwards and with Ensign Mishenkova, and now I want to tell you. Thank you. Whether anyone else has said it or not, you deserve thanks for coming and getting us. Most especially you.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” I protested. “I can fly the ship if I have to, but Kathy’s the real expert. I wouldn’t want everyone’s life to depend on my landings. And I wouldn’t be here without Galena.”
“You’re the one who came aboard without knowing what would await you. That takes more courage than going into a known danger.” His smile came back. “Besides, you’re the one who got shot.”
I wince
d. “Yes, that’s a point. But I’d really rather people didn’t remember me for that. I can just see my monument—a heroic-looking statue of a man in a space suit, helmet off, looking up at the stars, hand outstretched… and the other pressed to his leaking side, with a plaque at the base that says, He came to the rescue of all mankind, and we shot him. How very messianic. Yuck.”
Martin chuckled. “Ah, of course! Yes, I can see what you mean. I’ll not mention it again, then. But you may not know that a lot of people respect you greatly for what you did.”
“What, not everyone?” I replied, grinning.
“No. A few hard-heads still seem to think that they’re retired and should be treated with deference and respect by the hired help.” He smiled. “I must say, your Captain Carl isn’t the sort to take that kind of thing.”
“I miss all the good stuff when I’m sick,” I noted. “Does being a minister mean you can’t gossip?”
“It’s not a sin, if practiced without malice. Besides, God will forgive an old man for wanting to talk.”
“I like the way you think, padre. Give.”
As long as the idiots kept their hands off the equipment, they were allowed to do pretty much as they pleased—which is to say that they were left strictly alone to be bored out of their skulls. Filling out citizenship applications and getting something to do became more and more attractive over time. Especially since it wasn’t guaranteed that we would allow them to be citizens. Anything you can’t have seems desirable.
Captain Carl is nobody’s fool.
One of these bored people decided that he was tired of being cooped up in a small corner of the base. He tried to go exploring through doors clearly marked as off-limits. He didn’t have a card-key or a code, so he decided to take the locking panel apart to hot-wire it.
Kathy and Galena seemed to be our main security while I was sick. They were sent to investigate an alarm. Kathy subdued the offender and brought him up before the Captain for mast. I was tempted to ask if the offender had any broken bones or merely lost consciousness unexpectedly.