"You don't even know what that is."
"Do you?"
"No."
"Then how do you know it's not?" Carl bowed triumphantly to acknowledge applause from several of those present. "Who needs another drink?"
The evening wore on with everyone recounting favorite stories about Carl Meadows' time on the Michaelson. After they ran out of real stories, they started inventing new ones that had Carl involved in various heroic and frequently obscene exploits. Captain Hayes stopped by, not in uniform, and offered Carl a handshake along with regrets he'd be leaving the ship soon. Everyone then toasted the new captain, who begged off after two rounds.
At some point, Paul and Jen found themselves alone with Carl, at a point where gaiety had subsided and weariness had set in. Paul noticed Carl gazing somberly at nothing in particular. "You okay?"
Carl shrugged. "I guess. Worn out's more like it. I'm glad I'm leaving the ship before I got bled too dry. I've never been Mister A-Number-One Supersailor to begin with, but I've been feeling tired with everything more often these days."
Paul nodded. "I could tell something was bothering you."
"I haven't been acting any different. Have I?"
"You've ridden a couple of the new ensigns pretty hard. That's not like you."
Carl frowned down at his drink. "No," he finally admitted, "it's not. I guess I feel sort of bad leaving them. You know, it's like we're wise elders trying to teach them and protect them."
"Wis er elders, maybe."
"I won't argue that. But I'm leaving. Those new ensigns, and the Merry Mike, they'll be on their own without me. Maybe I'm trying to teach them as much as I can as fast as I can."
Paul thought about it for a little while. "You still feel responsible. For whatever happens after you leave."
"Paul, the Mike 's my first ship. I've spent three years dedicated to that demanding bitch, three years of almost constantly being aboard, three years of seeing her bulkheads and passageways and learning every little quirk of her equipment. Three years working with people like you, sharing our life on her twenty four hours a day for months on end sometimes. I can't just walk away from that. Ever."
Jen nodded, her face solemn. "She's in your blood, Carl. You'll never shake her, or the space she sails in."
Carl eyed her skeptically. "How'd you get so wise about this?"
"I've watched my dad go from ship to ship. The one he usually tells stories about is the first. And I split-toured to the Maury, so I felt the same thing already."
"Great." Carl drained his drink. "It's like some curse that's going to follow me the rest of my life. If I have to have a woman haunting my dreams, why'd she have to be the Merry Mike?"
"Hey, first kiss, first love, first ship. Sailors don't forget them, no matter how old they get."
Carl sighed, watching some ensigns a few tables over laugh among themselves. "Do you guys ever listen to old music? The classics? I was skimming the ship's library and I heard this really ancient song where this young guy was singing about how he hoped he'd die before he got old."
"Sounds inspiring."
"Yeah, really uplifting. But I don't think it was really about aging. It was about getting old inside. Do you ever worry that someday you'll wake and find out you've become a senior officer?"
Paul smiled quizzically. "I thought we all wanted to be promoted."
"I'm not talking about being promoted. I'm talking about becoming a senior officer."
"Oh. You mean one of those guys whose civilian clothes are twenty or thirty years out of date, and gets real nervous every time they have to leave a ship or a base and actually interact with people who aren't also senior officers?"
"Yeah. You know the type."
Jen shrugged. "I don't see it happening to me."
"I guess not. You're more likely to turn into another Herdez."
"Bite your tongue. What do you think you'll turn into, Carl?"
"Oh, I know what I'll turn into, assuming I get promoted that far. When I grow up I wanna be Commander Sykes. How about you, Paul? Who do you wanna be?"
"I don't know. I guess I haven't thought about it all that much." He looked over at Jen. "I guess it won't matter as long as Jen's with me."
Jen rolled her eyes. "Oh, barf."
Carl nodded. "My sentiments exactly. Remember the good old days? About a year ago? Cruising the bars for chicks — "
Jen's eyebrows shot up. "I don't recall cruising for chicks."
"Or studs, as the case may be. Playing darts and drinking beer until the sun came up — "
"The sun's always up in this orbital location."
"Then staggering back to the ship to get screamed at by our department heads while Commander Herdez plotted to get a standard day expanded to twenty-five hours so we could work that much longer. Ah, the good old days. Now, you two are practically domesticated. I bet Jen's starting to cook and knit and stuff."
"You lose. I get drinks sometimes, and I punch buttons on a microwave if we're at a self-service place."
Paul nodded. "But she does both of those real well. I always said there's nothing like a home-microwaved meal."
Jen eyed Paul suspiciously. "The ice you're skating on is getting thinner every moment. If you wanted to marry a cook, you had plenty of other choices."
Paul laughed. "I guess, but… did you say marry?"
Carl looked toward Jen. "I heard the word 'marry.'"
Jen shook her head. "Not from me, you didn't."
"Did the other Jen Shen say it?"
"No, and neither did this one. You're both victims of wishful thinking."
"I don't want to marry you. Paul does."
"I do?"
Jen glared at him. "You don't?"
"I didn't say that."
Carl laughed. "Okay. So far Jen and Paul have both not said they want to get married. Anybody else want to not say it?" He stopped laughing when he noticed their discomfort. "Hey, lighten up, you two. Somebody's tongue slipped. Big deal."
Paul looked back sourly. "This from the guy who's worried about being haunted by the Michaelson."
"Exactly. And I have a really snappy comeback to that. I just can't think of it at the moment." Carl glanced at his empty drink. "Well, there's the problem. Excuse me while I take on more fuel." He stood up, wobbled slightly, then grimaced with discomfort. "Maybe I ought to pump bilges, too. Pardon me while I use the head." Carl set off on a slightly weaving course toward the bar's restrooms.
Jen tapped Paul's hand. "Let's go talk."
"Jen, I didn't mean — "
"I know. But I need to walk around a bit, and I could use a break from the noise in here."
They left the bar, strolling out onto the wide passageway which served as the station's main street. It was late enough now that few people were about and all the benches along the walkway were empty. Paul and Jen picked one out of line of sight of the bar entrance, then sat silently for a little while.
"Are you okay?" Paul finally asked.
"Uh huh." She leaned against him, her head resting on his shoulder. "I'm going to miss Carl."
"Me, too. It's like you said. We'll always be tied to the Michaelson, but we'll really be tied to our Michaelson, with the people we knew and the places we went. Ten years from now, I'm sure if I visited her I'd feel like a stranger."
"You can't go home again. Who said that?"
"I don't remember." They were quiet again for a while. Paul felt Jen leaning against him, realizing how good it felt, not simply to be touching her but to be part of her life. What the hell am I waiting for? Do I really think anything else even half this good will ever come along for me? "Uh, Jen?"
"What?"
" Will you marry me?"
She raised her head from his shoulder, then turned slowly, eyeing him. "Just how drunk are you?"
"Not all that much. I mean it."
"Sure you do."
"Dammit, Jen — "
"Okay, okay. You mean it. And I'm just drunk enough to consider saying 'yes.'"