by Unknown
“Turns to port, eight-two-five, true, aye!” He pushed on the yoke, intent on the readouts of his console.
Robert picked up his handset, “CHENG, on my mark-initiate Anderson Drive…”
The helmsman counted off out-loud as they swung about. The moon and the harbor veered from view, until only stars greeted them. The numbers finally reached their goal.
“Eight-two-five achieved, Sir.”
“All Ahead, Full,” Robert ordered. “Give me a sweep.”
The radar/tracking tech situated next to the helmsman made a check of her screen, and sounded off smartly.
“Only a single contact to our starboard, three-three-one, off the bow. Six degrees lateral.”
“I.D.?”
“Exxon tanker, Sir, in-bound with a full payload. Flying European colors. She will be free of our wake field in three…two…one…mark. All contacts are clear.”
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Robert spoke into the receiver, “Alright, CHENG. Kick this mule in the butt!”
The moment the Anderson drive engines were engaged, there was no sensation of speed at all. The only thing that betrayed a change was the star field outside. It vanished, to be replaced by a wavering aura of brilliant, blue light around the periphery of the dark horizon. That effect would remain so for the duration that they remained traversing through the bend in space/time that Anderson technology produced.
“All systems show green,” the XO announced. “Estimated time of arrival, two days, standard.”
“That’s a wrap, ladies and gentlemen,” Robert said, rubbing his hands together.
The XO moved to the comm-box again.
“On the 1MC! We are now underway! All department heads muster with the commanding officer on the Quarterdeck in fifteen minutes!”
Mark felt comfortable leaving his spot by the front viewport, and approached the dias, “How do you remember all of that stuff?”
His father grinned, tapping a finger on the side of his brow, “Repetition, and brains.”
Mark could not hide another yawn, and Robert looked sympathetic.
“Long day?”
The corporal shrugged, “I can hack it.”
Robert reached for a clipboard, “Look, I have to review the plan of the day with the supervisors. Why don’t you catch a few winks, and meet me in the officer’s mess for supper tonight?”
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Mark nodded, “Can’t argue with that.”
“Eighteen-Hundred hours, then,” his dad told him.
After his dad and the XO left, Mark attempted to find his way back down to the hangar bay on his own, figuring from there he could get to the transient berthing with no trouble. It took only a few turns to get himself thoroughly turned around, and wondering just where in the heck he was.
In what the navy guy had referred to as a transient berthing, Minerva was taking in her newest surroundings with something akin to dismay. The narrow compartment was just wide enough to accommodate three rows of triple-decker bunks, each row twenty bunks deep.
She examined the one that she had chosen, a center rack, with only a draw curtain to provide privacy once she was inside. It reminded her of a metal coffin. The thin mattress had no sheet or blanket. No pillow. The other kids were pointing out other things that would take some getting used to. The restroom, which was located at the far end of the compartment, was situated in the same space as the showers. There were ten urinals mounted to one wall, all next to one another with no partition. Ten toilets sat beyond that, again, with no privacy. The opposite wall had twenty shower heads jutting from the wall. No partitions. A stencil above the entrance identified the area as the ‘Head.’
“What is with these Navy people?” Someone complained.
“Something else,” another stated. “No towels. No bedding. No change of clothes.”
Minerva was as bewildered as they were, but had nothing to
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say about it. She was so tired, that it was an effort to even think. That bare mattress was actually looking pretty good right then.
That was when the corporal arrived, accompanied by three sailors lugging cloth net bags. They delivered the very things that were being complained about having a lack of. Towels, bedding, and one-piece blue coveralls.
“One size fits all,” Mark announced, tossing the bag of clothing onto the nearest rack.
The kids dove into the bags, grabbing for stuff, passing it out to one another. While they sorted things out, the marine maneuvered around to where Minerva had decided to bunk, and leaned against the opposite rack, watching her tuck the sheets around her mattress.
“You look beat, girl.”
She nodded, “I’m worn out.”
Mark unfolded the rough, blue blanket and handed it to her, “We’re on ship’s time, now, so it’s like two in the afternoon. Think you can make it until the dinner bell without passing out?”
Minerva grinned, “I suppose a shower will keep me going, why?”
“I thought you might like a little tour of the ship. Maybe we could trade life stories, or something.”
Her grin widened. He was persistent. Which she was grateful for.
“Okay. Gimme a few minutes to freshen up, then.” She said, gently hitting him with the thin, hard pillow that had come with the sheets.
Minerva tried to avoid appearing too eager, taking her time in
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heading off to experience her first public shower. She was thankful that she was the first one in there, and did hurry to get through it before anyone else wandered in. It would take some getting used to, being so exposed around people she scarcely knew.
To her disillusionment, there was no soap or shampoo for them to use. In addition to that, the shower water was lukewarm at best, even with the hot handle opened all the way. She rinsed as best as she was able, running her fingers through her hair, wondering if it would come out all frizzy like it often did back home when she ran out of conditioner.
Minerva was mortified when a couple boys entered, chatting and laughing, going in the direction of the urinals. There was instant silence when they spotted her, and she turned away, covering herself, realizing that it was merely giving them a view of her hind-quarters. To her relief, they quickly turned and left, saying nothing.
She closed the water valves, and toweled off at light-speed, barely even managing to dry her hair. It was imperative to just get into the coveralls that had been provided, not even caring that her underwear and bra were the same one’s she’d come in with. There was some measure of relief once that was done, and she had frame of mind enough to notice how silly her low-heel shoes looked with the jumpsuit. It was not a fashion contest, though. Every one of them would be mismatched with whatever they had made the trip with.
A trio of girls came in carrying their towels and jumpers as she was trying to straighten her hair with only her fingers; no hair brushes, or even tooth brushes yet for that matter.
“We made an agreement with the boys that the girls would have first dibs on using the restroom,” one of them told Minerva.
“Good,” she replied, still embarrassed. “I about died when those boys came in.”
The girls laughed good-naturedly, “You should see them!
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You could light a cigarette off of their faces!”
She had to giggle, feeling a little better that she wasn’t the only one having trouble adjusting to some of the more radical changes in their lives. That thought made Minerva realize that this group of kids, most of whom she knew only in passing from school, was now going to be her extended family for some time. Whatever lie ahead, they were going to go through it together.
One of the girls, a tall blonde, touched her on the elbow, and spoke low so as not to be over-heard.
“Hey, congratulations on your catch, by the way.”
“The marine?” Minerva asked, knowing full well that’s what the girl meant.
“Damn right, the marine. He’s waiting out in the main co
rridor. Must really like you.”
Shrugging, Minerva made a gallant effort to look only mildly interested, but it wasn’t fooling anyone. The girl made a point of staring right at her, saying nothing, grinning like a fool. She kept it up until both cracked, and laughed again.
“How’s my hair look?”
The girl shrugged, “Best you’ll be able to do without a brush. Go get him, girl.”
Minerva carried her dirty clothes out wrapped in the towel, and scurried off in the direction of her bunk, avoiding the area where the boys were gathered. Tossing it on the mattress, she took a moment to draw a breath, make a last effort to make her hair decent, and relax.
Stepping out into the passageway, she found that sure enough, the corporal was hanging out in the next hatchway down, talking to someone inside. He took notice of her right away, and
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came over, smiling.
“Ready for your tour?”
Minerva nodded, “Sure, let’s go.”
He offered his hand, and she took it after a moment’s hesitation. It was such an effort to refrain from appearing too eager. Her tension eased as they slowly strolled along making one turn after another in the seemingly endless corridors. He talked of his home, of his first experiences after he enlisted, and the places that he had gone. She listened, mesmerized more by the gentleness of his voice. His personality was so out of character for the image of a rough and tough marine.
After a time, he asked about her past, and she filled him in on her childhood in tranquil Winslow, and the events that had led to the present. Their conversation went on for a long time, as did their wanderings, and the more time that she spent with this boy, the more Minerva became certain that she liked him.
After a while, they came to a small compartment tagged ‘Forecastle.’ It was not very large, and had a lot of polished brass fittings. An ancient-looking ship’s wheel was mounted on a pedestal in the center of the room, which was also adorned with a real wood floor.
“Looks like some sort of museum,” Mark commented.
Still holding hands, they entered, and stood close to one another, gazing out of a viewport. While there were no stars to see, the Anderson effect was pretty to look at. They fell into an easy silence, at last comfortable in one another’s company. Minerva allowed herself to lean against the arm that held her hand, and he let go, putting that arm around her shoulders. They simply stood there, gazing out.
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A gentle tone sounded over the 1MC system, followed by an announcement.
“It is now sixteen-thirty! Secure all work, and set the first watch! The smoking lamp is lit throughout the ship! Sweepers, man your brooms!”
Minerva, her legs tired, had to regretfully break away from Mark’s embrace to sit down on a nearby steel beam, “What’s all of that jargon mean?”
“Oh,” Mark thought for a moment, recalling what his brother had explained to him once, when he had asked that same question. “Basically, working hours end at four-thirty in the afternoon.”
“Four-thirty!” Minerva exclaimed. They had been walking around for better than two hours!
“Yeah, each of the three shifts work only eight hours,” he answered, misunderstanding what she had meant. “Prevents fatigue. So, the duty section sets up the first watch, and people take turns every four hours until working hours begin the next day.”
Glad that he hadn’t caught on to her meaning, Minerva kept with the subject.
“What’s a ‘watch,’ exactly?”
Mark shrugged, “Depends on your department. For example, the Master at Arms is the ship’s police force. They do foot patrols. Engineers man the power plant. Techies run the Bridge, and CIC. The average joes gram mops and brooms, and clean up their working areas, and the berthings.
“So, even after-hours, there’s always someone running the ship,” she observed.
“Yup.”
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Her stomach growled loudly, amplified in the small space. Mark grinned at that.
“The chow line is open for dinner,” he told her. “How about it? Want to go on a date?”
Laughing, she got up, and took his hand again, “Lead the way.”
Stepping out into the corridor, the corporal paused, a thoughtful expression on his face.
“What is it?” She asked.
Grinning guiltily, Mark replied, “I have to admit I have no idea where we are.”
After asking a passing sailor to show them the way back, Mark had taken her to the transient berthing, so that he could lead all of them to the galley. That was no hard task; all they had to do was follow the aromas of food.
Minerva, despite feeling like a zombie for lack of sleep, found that she was ravenous. There was already a long line of sailors in the corridor, leaning against the bulkhead, using the time to socialize. Some cast weary glances at the recruits, but no one said anything untoward. It was the typical reaction to the herds of what she by then knew was referred to as ‘Nubes.’ New people. Fresh meat. And, she was just that. A newbie. The feeling was not so different from being a freshman in high school, waiting in the lunch line while seniors threw dirty looks at you.
Upon reaching the beginning of the serving line, they were to take a plastic tray, a plastic drinking glass, and a set of silverware.
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Her eyes bulged at the buffet line. The selection of food was enormous, and it looked darned good! The servers glopped whatever one pointed out onto the trays, and in generous amounts. She noticed that the Attayans in line tended to select all meat products, while the Terrans wanted a bit of everything.
She did the same.
“Just fill it up,” she said.
The server did just that. Boneless BBQ ribs, mashed potatoes with gravy, corn, a pork chop, creamed spinach, and a roll. Her tray was nearly over-flowing, but Minerva cared not one iota. Her stomach was saying feed me! At any rate, every other person around her had trays with the same amounts, so there was no reason to feel self-conscious about it.
She did notice, though, that Mark’s tray had only a few slices of fruit on it.
“You on a diet?”
He laughed, “Do I look like I need one?”
Minerva allowed her eyes to settle on his shoulders, and the broadness of his chest. For a young guy, he was built.
“Actually,” he went on, “my dad is the ship’s captain, and he wants me to attend dinner with him later.”
“That’s such a rage,” Minerva told him, impressed. “You told me earlier your dad was in the navy, but I didn’t think he commanded this ship that we’re on.”
“Yeah, my older brother happens to be on-board, too.”
She dug in, too hungry to hold off any longer. The food was delicious.
“That’s amazing,” she said around a mouthful.
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Now, a few hours later, Minerva was at last lying in her rack, the privacy curtain drawn closed. It was quiet for the most part in the berthing, save for a few people talking in low tones. Some were snoring. She was fairly certain that she heard a fart from somewhere.
The low-key thrum of the power plant was soothing, lulling her ever deeper toward slumber. Her mind was numb, body pleasantly tired. Her full belly a Godsend. Some of her last thoughts before sleep stole her away were of the corporal’s smile, and the gentleness of his voice. Those green eyes.
She was smiling when sleep finally came.
Having dinner in the commanding officer’s mess was somewhat a semi-formal event.
Junior officers dined in a separate compartment. The eight senior-most officers on the ship were privy to eating at the coveted ‘White Table.’
In the C.O.’s mess, the table was draped with a spotless, white cloth, hence the name. Traditionally, the captain sat at the head, with the X.O. to his right, and each other officer in descending rank on around, with invited guests nearest the captain’s left.
That was where Mark sat, next to his brother. The corporal knew that it was a r
eal privilege to be seated there, looking down at fine china plates, and silverware wrapped in cloth napkins. The glasses were crystal, and damned if there wasn’t a steward pouring wine for everyone!
He felt distinctly uncomfortable among the officers, but they did not seem particularly put out at his presence. Anyway, they
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knew that he and his brother were the captain’s sons. It wouldn’t do for them to be snobby about it.
His brother Tim sipped at his wine, and waggled his eyebrows up and down. Being a lowly lieutenant, he had never gotten invited to dine there before, either, captain’s son or not. This was normally for lieutenant-commanders, and above.
Everyone was expected to arrive before the captain. When their father did enter, all stood at attention until he took his seat, after which they did the same, and were able to relax after that. Conversation began to flow while they waited to be served.
The wait staff came in with silver serving trays, and proceeded to pass out Maine Lobster, steak, baked potatoes, and a desert of some fancy custard. Mark couldn’t believe it. He decided that the meals alone should be incentive enough for people to strive to be a naval officer.
As the meal wound down, coffee and cigars were offered out. Nearly everyone at the table accepted both, including his father. Tim was the only person who declined the smoke, but Mark had been curious about the stogies. His father had smoked them for as long as he could remember during his childhood, filling his den with the sweet aroma of vanilla-scented coronas. Like the SafeSmoke cigarettes, the tobacco was infused with the nano-bots that kept one’s lungs clean. When Mark took one, his father gave him an astonished look, but made no comment about it. His brother just rolled his eyes.
During the meal, people had been more or less involved with their individual conversations, some about work; others about the last port-of-call. Robert had taken the opportunity to catch up with his boys. Tim had just recently been assigned to the ship, and Mark catching a ride by sheer chance. He was happy to learn that Tim was