Paul quickly searched his brain for any action or inaction which might have ticked off the chief engineer. "Ma'am?"
"I've just been informed by my main propulsion assistant that one of her petty officers is no longer available to stand watches in engineering because he's been reassigned to watches as a deputy master-at-arms. By order of a certain Mr. Sinclair."
Paul tried to keep from wincing. Bypassing the chain of command tended to really aggravate those officers who'd been bypassed, especially if the offender was also junior to those who'd been bypassed. "Ma'am, the XO approved the assignment of the deputy master-at-arms to guard duty." Thank you, Sheriff, for tipping me off to brief the XO right away. "It's to ensure the Greenspacers don't get loose."
Commander Destin twisted her mouth. "Did the XO tell you not to bother informing the department heads and division officers whose personnel were affected by this decision?"
Ouch. And here I am sitting in the wardroom instead of working when Destin asked me that. I couldn't have screwed this up worse if I tried. "No, ma'am. I regret failing to inform all those officers as soon as possible."
"I would appreciate it," Destin stated with heavy sarcasm, "if in the future you didn't fail to let me know about actions impacting on my personnel."
"Yes, ma'am."
" Thank you, Mr. Sinclair."
Commander Destin swung out the hatch, leaving the wardroom temporarily silent. Paul glanced at Lieutenant Sindh and made a helpless gesture. "Oops."
Sindh flashed another smile. "Don't forget, Paul. For all you've learned, and believe me you have learned a great deal since you came aboard, there is still much to learn."
"I've already been reminded of that a couple of times today. I think I'll go run down some officers and brief them on the deputy master-at-arms issue."
"Good idea. Make sure you're at a tie-down when the final maneuvering warning sounds."
"You don't have to warn me. I'm a psycho Space Navy type like you, remember? Besides, I've already got my full quota of bruises for today. I don't want a concussion on top of those." Paul unstrapped, then offered a salute to Commander Sykes. "By your leave, sir."
Sykes gave Paul a sidelong look. "You don't need my permission to get to work, young man. I'm not in your chain of command like the good lieutenant sitting over there."
"I know, Suppo. I just made the gesture as a sign of my deep respect for you."
Sindh snorted into her drink, continuing to laugh as she cleaned up the mess. Sykes cocked an eyebrow at Paul and then shook his head. "I'll assume you're serious, of course, since otherwise I'd have to believe you were mocking your elders. John Paul Jones never would've stood for that kind of behavior in junior officers."
Sindh finally got her laughter under control. "How can you be sure, sir? Did you know John Paul Jones?"
Sykes smiled. "Of course. Quite a bright young lad. Now, he listened to my advice. Except the part about getting tasks started on time. One day he ended up in a battle and partway through it he hadn't even begun to fight yet." Sykes sighed and took another drink. "But it turned out all right in the end. As things will for you, young Sinclair, if you learn from your mistakes instead of repeating them."
"Believe me, Suppo, I intend continuing to do just that." Paul left, pulling himself rapidly through the ship. He had six officers to run down, including the Main Propulsion Assistant who already knew Paul had shafted her. But he had to formally advise even that officer, because he owed it to her.
Most of the officers grumbled mildly but took the news in stride. Personnel were often pulled off for extra duties with little or no notice. Lieutenant Kilgary, the main propulsion assistant, even joked that she was usually the one borrowing other division's personnel.
But, then there was Lieutenant Junior Grade Sam Yarrow. "Sam, I wanted to tell you that Petty Officer Geraldo has been assigned by the XO to watches on the compartments holding the Greenspacers until we get rid of them."
Yarrow glowered back. "I need Geraldo."
"Sam, he's a deputy master-at-arms, and the XO — "
"He won't be any longer. I'm pulling him out of that."
Paul glanced over at Chief Hadasa, Yarrow's senior petty officer, who was attempting to appear unaware of the dispute between officers which was being played out in front of him. "Sam, Geraldo has to make a request to be pulled off the deputy master-at-arms duties, and the XO has to approve it." So why don't you stop making a major issue out of this in front of your chief? What are you trying to prove here?
"We'll see what my department head says about you drafting people out of her department."
"I've already talked to her, Sam." And Commander Destin wasn't happy at all, but I'm not about to tell Sam Yarrow that right now.
Yarrow seemed to be trying to find something else to say, then shifted his glare to Chief Hadasa. "Chief, what's the story on these maintenance records? What's with these discrepancies?"
Paul backed out of the hatchway. And goodbye to you, too, Sam. First he picks a fight with me in front of a enlisted sailor, and now he's chewing out his chief in front of me. Did Yarrow go to some sort of anti-leadership school?
The starboard ensign locker, so named because it held four junior officers and their meager belongings crammed into every available square centimeter of space, offered a brief refuge. Paul pulled himself to his tiny desk, strapped in, then called up the personnel records for the enlisted sailors assigned to his division. I need to have performance evaluations done on all my sailors in four more days. And the XO's screening every evaluation with software designed to detect cut-and-paste copying, so every evaluation has to contain original wording. It'd be easy if I didn't have a hundred other things to worry about.
He'd barely begun writing when a hand rapped on the hatch. "Paul?" Lieutenant Mike Bristol, the Michaelson 's junior supply officer, leaned partway into the ensign locker. "Suppo told me to let you know the feeding schedule for the Greenspacers is all taken care of. They'll get three squares a day until we offload them."
"I thought they were getting soon-to-expire battle rations."
"They are. Those are sort of square." Bristol spread his hands apologetically. "The Navy says it'll feed people. It doesn't say how well it'll feed them. Say, do you know why Randy's in a snit?"
Paul rolled his eyes. "Ensign lessons. Carl warned him to get the gig's fuel topped off, but he didn't, so the captain took a bite out of Randy."
"Oh. Randy owns the gig?"
"Yeah. It comes with him being First Lieutenant."
"Oh," Bristol repeated, then looked puzzled. "Paul, why is he the 'First Lieutenant'? Randy's one of the most junior officers on board, and he's not even a lieutenant, come to think of it."
Paul grinned. "Ancient history, Mike. Back in the days when ships had sails, the guy in charge of the deck stuff, that is the sails and the rigging, was really important. They assigned the job to the most senior lieutenant on the ship, so he was literally the First Lieutenant in terms of rank. Since then, the importance of deck stuff has gone way down. It's still important, of course, but it's not nearly as important as it used to be in sailing days. But we still call the guy in charge of it the First Lieutenant."
"That makes absolutely no sense, Paul. Why not change the name to reflect the way the job's changed?"
Paul shrugged. "Because this is the U.S. Navy, and that's the way we've always done it, and that's the way we'll always by God do it until hell freezes over and forces us to change. How long have you been in the Navy, Mike?"