Commander Rhodes answered, “He’s Polish, sir.”
“Polish?”
“Yes, Captain. May I present Lieutenant Commander Angus Sadowski, Chief Technical Officer. Here’s his personnel file, on the reader, sir.” Rhodes handed Wanker the clipboard.
“Angus Sadowski? A Polish Scotsman?”
“Mr. Sadowski comes from a planet settled by Poles and Scots, though the Poles are greatly outnumbered. The prevailing language and culture is Scots.”
“Very interesting,” the captain said. “Tell me, Mr, Sadowski, why does it sometimes seem that every last engineer in the Space Forces is a Scot? In your case a Polish Scot, but a Scot nonetheless.”
“Aye, sir, th’ thistle’s gang ta seed, an’ clink her bairns maun need, sir.”
Wanker stared blankly at Sadowski, then looked to Rhodes for help. “What did he say?” He swiveled back to Sadowski. “What did you say?”
Sadowski didn’t blink. “I said, sir, tha’ th’ thistle’s gang ta seed, an’ clink her bairns maun need, sir.”
Wanker shook his head. “I have no idea what this man is talking about.”
Rhodes said, “He speaks only Scots. The Scots dialect, sir.”
Wanker’s jaw dropped. He scratched his head. “But why does he speak only Scots? Why not Standard, too?”
“Ethno-linguistic self-determination,’ sir. It’s his right, under Space Forces regulations, to speak and communicate in the language of his culture.”
“It all comes back to me. Those new regulations just went into effect, didn’t they? I should pay more attention to my spam.”
“I guess everyone has a right to speak his own language and all that, sir.”
“Oh, absolutely! Who am I to speak against ethnic self-determination? But this presents a tiny… no, a wee problem. I do know some Scots.”
“Problem, sir?”
“How the hell are we going to understand him?”
“There are phrase books available, Captain.”
“And instructional software in the Language Lab? Never mind. Three cheers for regulations. Wonderful! Well, let’s look at his record. Ah, yes. The last ship he served on was the U.S.S. Intrepid, which underwent total systems breakdown and spent a year in the graving dock. Well, Mr. Sadowski, can you tell us anything about that?”
Sadowski shook his russet head. “Aye, there’s mony a weary airt in th’ solar wund, sir, for a’ that an’ a’ that.”
Wanker looked to Rhodes for help. “Number One, do you have any idea what this man is jabbering about?”
Rhodes shook his head. “None, sir. I don’t speak Scots, I’m afraid.”
Wanker said, “Neither do I. In fact, I think I pulled a D in Scots when I was in school.” His tone became ironically bright. “Well, we’ll just have to muddle through. Oh, what’s this? Three disciplinary actions in the last year… ’Intoxicated on duty’ … ’Intoxicated on Duty’ and”—Wanker squinted—”‘Unconscious on Duty’! Quite an accomplishment, that last. Anything to say for yourself, Mr. Sadowski?”
“Fegs, sir, antimatter’s a brawer thing ta mak ye fou than whuskie.”
“Isn’t that amazing, I just read that in a fortune cookie at lunch. Moving on… ”
Wanker sidestepped to the next officer, a petite woman with overlong brown hair, green eyes, and a pixie face. “Who’s this, now?”
Rhodes said, “Our navigator, sir. Diane Warner-Hillary, lieutenant, junior grade.”
Wanker smiled. “Diane Warner-Hillary. Nice name. Certainly an improvement over Angus Sadowski. Let’s see. Lieutenant, it says here that you missed your last assigned tour of duty as navigator because you weren’t there when the shuttle lifted off. Any explanation?”
Warner-Hillary grinned sheepishly. “I couldn’t find the spaceport, sir.”
Wanker frowned. “You couldn’t find the spaceport?”
“I got lost, sir,” Warner-Hillary said with a shrug. “When I drive I have this, like, totally bogus sense of direction. I get lost all the time, sir. It’s terrible.” She giggled nervously.
Wanker’s voice boomed, as if announcing to the world at large. “A navigator with a terrible sense of direction.” An aside to Rhodes: “Don’t you find a wistful poetic irony in that?”
Rhodes gave an inward grimace, but nodded dutifully. “Yes, sir.”
Wanker turned to Warner-Hillary. “Don’t you think a navigator having a bad sense of direction is a trifle ironic? Not to say impractical.”
“Oh, our last captain, Captain Chang, thought it was funny.”
“Oh, he did?”
Warner-Hillary said between giggles, “It was a she, sir. Oh, yes, sir. We had a little running joke about it. We’d get completely lost and she’d go, ‘Lieutenant Warner-Hillary?’ And I’m like, ‘How the hell should I know?’” She burst into elfin laughter.
This was apparently quite funny to the rest of the bridge crew. They could not contain their mirth, much to Wanker’s chagrin, which he concealed behind a broad, good-natured smile.
“So, that was your little joke’?”
Still tittering but fighting to control it, Warner-Hillary nodded. “Yes, sir.”
Wanker smiled through gritted teeth. “A laugh riot every light year. Who’s next?”
Rhodes said, “Darvona Roundheels. Rank: lieutenant, junior grade. Assignment: communications officer.”
Darvona saluted. Wanker automatically began to return it, but before he could follow through, Lieutenant Darvona wrapped him in her arms, gave him one colossal smooch right on the chops, and released him.
Wanker was flustered almost beyond recovery. “Well, that was decidedly unmilitary, but I appreciate the sentiment.” He straightened his uniform and tried to focus his crossed eyes on the personnel roster.
“You have lipstick on you, sir,” Rhodes told him.
“Huh? Oh.” Wanker rubbed his face. “Is it all off?”
“Right there, sir. No, other side.”
“Here? Okay, thank you.” Wanker exhaled, having regained his composure. “Darvona Roundheels, lovely name. Ah, I see her record is spotless. Not one merit or citation to sully the purity of her total incompetence. How did you land a job on the bridge, Lieutenant? For that matter, how did you make lieutenant?”
“I made an admiral,” Darvona said simply.
“I… Oh.” Wanker offered up an almost inaudible groan. “Well, at least you’re honest about it. Let’s see… Oops. Disciplinary actions aplenty.. ‘Fraternizing with enlisted personnel’… ’Fraternizing with enlisted personnel’.. ” Wanker did a take. His eyebrows arched. “Fraternizing with Space Base 27? Well, Ms. Roundheels, you certainly do have democratic principles, that I’ll say for you.”
Rhodes interjected, “Captain, Ms. Roundheels comes from a culture with very liberal sexual mores.”
“And where is that?” Wanker was eager to know.
Darvona broke in, “Altair Six, sir!”
Rhodes added, “A utopian religious colony.”
Wanker nodded. “I see.” He risked a guess. “Mennonites?”
“No, sir. The Madonnaites.”
“Oh, yes, I’ve heard of them. Something about worshiping an obscure popular entertainer of the late twentieth century?”
“Well, there are a number of those kinds of sects, sir,” Rhodes said. “You have your Lennonites and your Morrison Dancers. Then you have, I believe, the Elvisterians. There are a few more.”
Wanker made a disapproving face. “Strange, don’t you think? Worshiping ancient song-and-dance acts. Something odd about that.”