7
CSS Hector, Warp Transit
When Sikander got up the next day, he felt every one of the kicks Randall had landed on his legs and ribs, and he discovered that he had a very noticeable black eye. He had Darvesh dress it up as best he could with a medical spray. However, he noted with great satisfaction that Randall failed to appear for the morning officer’s call. In fact, it was all he could do to stop himself from grinning like an idiot when Commander Chatburn gave him a long and thoughtful look after Dr. Simms, the ship’s medical officer, announced that Mr. Randall was in the sick bay and unable to muster this morning.
After the muster, he went up to the bridge to assume his watch and found Sublieutenant Karsen Reno occupying the command station. As one of the older junior officers on board Hector, Reno took a turn in the officer-of-the-deck watch rotation. “Good morning, Mr. Reno,” Sikander said. “Anything I should know?”
“Good morning, sir,” Reno replied. He stood and stretched for a moment. “No significant dust out here. The bow shield hasn’t sparked once, engineering reports all equipment on-line, and we’re still eleven days from arrival. Should be a quiet watch.”
Sikander nodded. There usually wasn’t much to do during a warp transit; ships in warp did not maneuver, they coasted. All the velocity ships achieved for faster-than-light travel had to come from acceleration in normal space before they activated their warp rings, since physical thrust from inside a warp bubble had no measurable effect on the ship’s course or speed. The only decision to be made was when to deactivate the warp rings and return to normal space—a simple matter of very precise timing based on the ship’s course and velocity at the moment the ship entered warp. Sikander certainly wouldn’t cut the warp generator early during his watch. Recharging warp rings with exotic matter—in the case of an Aquilan warship, a molten lithium alloy made from pentaquark matter—was terribly expensive, so a ship stayed bubbled unless something disastrous occurred. Every now and then a ship in warp transit struck a speck of interstellar dust large and dense enough to generate a nasty burst of radiation as the leading edge of the warp bubble ripped it apart, but the heavy armor shielding the cruiser’s bow could handle a routine impact—or “spark,” as Aquilan watchstanders described it.
He checked the display screens for status reports on the ship’s systems; everything was well within normal parameters. “I am ready to relieve you, Mr. Reno.”
“I stand relieved,” Reno replied. “Thank you, Mr. North. Have a good watch.”
“Thank you,” Sikander replied. He took the command couch as Reno headed down for a late breakfast, and studied the ship’s estimated position for a moment. The bridge viewscreens showed nearby stars drifting slowly sternward against the luminous glory of bright nebulas and dazzling globular clusters in the distance. The navigation system generated the image, of course. A ship encased in a warp bubble could perceive nothing of the universe outside, and even if it could, the apparent velocity of the ship would have stretched the stars into tiny streaks ahead or behind. The viewscreens simply showed what the galaxy would have looked like to a ship moving past the stars, ignoring the distortions of faster-than-light travel. While wildly inaccurate as to the real conditions of warp transit, it did do a good job of showing where the ship was in relation to the rest of human space. More to the point, it never failed to mesmerize Sikander.
The bridge watch passed quietly, with only one spark to speak of. To distract himself from his general stiffness and soreness, Sikander drilled the bridge crew on basic battle maneuvering problems for most of the watch, using the ship’s tactical computer to conjure up squadrons of phantom allies and adversaries. Only a handful of the crew members currently standing watch were actually assigned to the bridge for battle stations, but one never knew when someone might have to stand in at an important station. Additional aches and pains announced themselves as the day wore on; Sikander was forced to admit that he hadn’t gotten away completely unscathed from his encounter with Hiram Randall.
When Sublieutenant Keane relieved him at the end of his watch, Sikander headed for his quarters, hoping that a hot shower might help to soothe his sore body. Instead, the ship’s info assistant pinged him as soon as he left the bridge. “Lieutenant North, your presence is requested in the captain’s quarters,” the computer announced.
“I will be there in a moment,” he replied. The hot shower would have to wait a little longer, it seemed. He took the passage leading toward Captain Markham’s cabin instead of his own; it was quite close to the bridge, the customary arrangement on any warship Sikander had served on. He paused at the door, collecting himself; then he knocked and went in. “You wished to see me, ma’am?” he said.
Captain Markham looked up from her work. “Mr. North. Please, have a seat.” She nodded at the chair in front of her desk, and regarded him in silence. She had a stern set to her mouth, and a line creased her brow; Sikander realized that he was about to be called on the carpet, and braced himself for it. The captain studied him for a long moment, and then asked, “Can you explain to me why my ops officer is on the limited-duty list today?”
I should have guessed this would come up. Whether or not Hiram Randall had said anything, a mysteriously injured officer would naturally attract the captain’s curiosity within a matter of hours. “Mr. Randall and I engaged in some full-contact sparring last night in the gym, ma’am,” he said. “I am afraid we got a little carried away. I dislocated his shoulder.”
“Dislocated his shoulder,” she repeated. “Why in the world did you do that?”
“I caught him in a hold he didn’t know how to get out of, ma’am. Mr. Randall tried an escape he wasn’t in position to pull off, and I reacted without thinking.” Sikander squirmed—he did not like being dishonest with his commanding officer, and that skated close to the line.
“Is unarmed combat one of your duties aboard Hector?” Markham asked. “Or Mr. Randall’s?”
“No, ma’am. It was sport—exercise.”
“So, your hobby leaves me with a key officer unable to perform his duties for several days. Did you think about that before you and Mr. Randall decided to work out your differences by brawling after hours in the gymnasium?”
“We agreed to a freestyle sparring match, ma’am, not a brawl. And Chief Trent was present to make sure the rules were enforced.”
“Don’t insult my intelligence, Mr. North. I had Chief Trent retrieve the gym’s security vid; Mr. Chatburn and I have already watched it.” Captain Markham kept her eyes fixed on Sikander. “The XO thinks I should bring you up on malicious assault charges and have you arraigned for court-martial. The only reason I’m not doing so is that Hiram Randall refuses to press charges for the shoulder injury, and if I charge you on any lesser assault, I’d have to charge him, too.”
“I see.” It seemed like the safest thing Sikander could say. He was surprised that Randall would pass up the opportunity to press a charge against him. The operations officer certainly hadn’t been shy about his opinion of Sikander before their bout in the gym. Either Randall had a better-developed personal character than Sikander had realized, or he’d decided that neither of them would look good if the whole business came out in a formal inquiry.
“While there won’t be any charges filed, Mr. North, you may rest assured that I will make a note of the incident in your service jacket. And I’ll tell you this, too: Whatever ill feeling exists between you and Mr. Randall, you will put an end to it now. I don’t care if you like the other officers on Hector or they like you, but I expect you to work together as professionals. When you put another officer in sick bay, you’re making your personal disagreements my problem, and I won’t stand for it. Do I make myself clear?”