“Engineering Officer, sir.”
Carson stopped for a moment, then bulled ahead: “And what rank does he hold?”
“Approximately Commander, sir.”
“Commander,” Carson repeated.
“Yes, sir.”
“Which conveniently outranks me by two grades, right, sailor?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Speak the language, do you, sailor?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Very well. You tell your friend the commander to go back to the EM quarters and tell them your little joke didn’t work. Then get back to your post, and we will continue the exercise… Howell!”
“Yes, sir?”
“This man’s on report.” Carson looked back at Peters. “Move it, sailor!”
“Aye, sir.” Peters bobbed his head and took a step back. Carson flicked his hand against his hip and turned away, and that gave Peters a chance to turn and walk off.
Dhuvenig followed. “I take it from the tones of voice used that that didn’t go well,” he observed.
“Yes, that’s true,” Peters replied. “My superior didn’t believe me when I told him what post you hold.”
“What did you tell him?”
“I told him you were First for machinery and equipment.”
“That’s correct, of course. Where would that stand in your own social structure?”
“Such a person would occupy a position more or less equal to that of the Second, but would take slightly less precedence.”
“That’s very much the same way we see it. You say he didn’t believe you?”
“No, he did not. He imagines that you are one of my social acquaintances.”
Dhuvenig looked amused. “Let’s see if we can change his mind. Do the respect gesture, please.”
Peters saluted. Dhuvenig raised his arm, nodded, and took himself off. Peters shook his head and turned back, to discover every eye on him, including the choleric regard of Lieutenant Carson. “Ifwe may continue,” the lieutenant drawled sarcastically.
Peters flushed. “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”
The next half-hour was long. Lieutenant Carson returned to his original theme, alternating between demanding further information about the retarders—none of which was available, even if it existed—and propounding his theory that the retarder crews could have redirected the Tomcat if they’d known what they were doing. Now that Peters had come to his attention he paid especial attention to him, despite having forgotten his name again, addressing him only with a sharp sarcastic bark of “sailor!”. “This is the control for the mass of the incoming ship, is that right, sailor?”
“Yes, sir, it is.”
“And this one is for the velocity.”
“Yes, sir.” They’d only covered this ground about ten times so far.
“And you’re telling me there are no vector direction controls.”
“No, sir, I mean yes, sir, that’s what I’m saying.”
Carson started to speak again, but interrupted himself, looking off across the bay. “Well, sailor, your friends have shown up again. Tell ‘em to sheer off smartly, or I’ll see you get some brig time.”
Peters grinned; he couldn’t help himself. “Aye, sir,” he managed, and Carson glared at him. The approaching party was led by Znereda, and consisted of Dhuvenig, Heelinig, a pair of large zerkre with four-way designs on their suits and the air of bouncers, and a portly, white-haired individual in a dark gray suit similar to what Donollo had worn. Peters came to attention and ripped off the snappiest salute he was capable of, and the other sailors took a brace, leaving Carson with his hands hanging loose and a deep flush discoloring his face and neck.
Znereda marched up and inquired with mild good humor, “May we know your name, please?”
“I’m Lieutenant Samuel Carson, United States Navy. And who might you be?”
“Oh, I’m only a translator, lieutenant. My name is Znereda.” The little Grallt looked Carson up and down. “If you and your people could have been troubled to learn the language, I would have been your instructor. Apparently I lost nothing by the decision.” Carson flushed more deeply but didn’t respond, and Znereda went on, “I should introduce the people whose speech I will be translating. First are these gentlemen.” The two bruisers took station, one each side of the lieutenant and a little behind, arms folded. “They are from the shipboard police department, what my friend Peters would probably describe as the ‘Master at Arms’.” Znereda grinned. “Their names are not important, and if they need to communicate I’m sure they can make their meaning clear without my assistance.
“This gentleman is Dhuvenig, whom you saw fit to insult a short time ago. He is the Engineering Officer of Llapaaloapalla, and outranks you by two grades.” Znereda looked down at Carson’s sleeves. “Three, if the original roster supplied to us is to be trusted.
“The lovely lady beside Dhuvenig is Heelinig, who rejoices in the title of ‘Second of Llapaaloapalla‘, or ‘Executive Officer’ as you would understand it. Her rank is not superior to that of Dhuvenig, but with us, as with you, her duties include the solution of disciplinary problems.
“Shouldn’t you be saluting at this point? Ah, well, I suppose I don’t understand your system as well as I thought I did.
“And last, but by no means least, I introduce the distinguished and honorable Prethuvenigis, the chief of the trading organization which employs you and the man whose signature upon the contract permits you to be here. Have we assembled a group whose precedence you are satisfied with? Or would you prefer to deal directly with the Captain? Like any captain, Preligotis doesn’t descend to deal with every fiddling detail, but the gentlemen beside you would be happy to take you to him if you like.”
Carson was rigid, and his face wouldn’t be that pale again until the undertaker saw him. “That won’t be necessary,” he managed to breathe. He caught Dhuvenig’s eye and brought his hand up in a stiff salute. Dhuvenig returned it with a raised arm, eyes gleaming, and Carson returned to his brace. “Begging the Commander’s pardon, sir, but I wasn’t aware of the Commander’s status.”
“He wasn’t willing to be told, either,” Dhuvenig responded with amusement when Znereda translated that.
“Nor were you willing to accept the word of the person who told you,” Znereda rendered it.
Carson looked around, caught Peters in his view. “No, sir,” he admitted almost inaudibly.
“Why are you here, Leftenant?” Prethuvenigis asked reasonably, in the pseudo-British accent Peters associated with India. “The retarder consoles are part of the ship’s equipment, and operating them is the province of those engaged in the operation of the ship. Your contract specifically precludes your involvement in such matters.”
“I was assigned this duty by Commander Bolton…” Carson obviously couldn’t decide whether or not to add the “sir”.
“I see. And was Dreelig aware of that assignment?”
“He was present when it was made… sir.”
“I see.” Prethuvenigis looked the officer over. “Leftenant Carson, return to your quarters. Stay there. On the way, do me the kindness of telling Dreelig to see me immediately.” He held up a hand. “I will clarify the word ‘immediately’. If Dreelig is in the bath when you find him, I expect him to appear stark naked. Is that clear?”
“Yes… sir. Clear, sir.”
Prethuvenigis nodded and turned to Heelinig. “Is this bug sufficiently squashed?”
“Yes, I think so,” the executive officer replied with amusement. “Thank you for taking the time, Prethuvenigis. We appreciate your assistance.”
Prethuvenigis waved that off. “Nothing, nothing, I was bored anyway.” He turned, his eye falling on Lieutenant Carson. “Leftenant, why are you still here? If you need assistance, it is available.”