The Bosun's pipe sounded on the all-hands circuit. "Lieutenant Junior Grade Sinclair, your presence is requested in the executive officer's stateroom."
I had to ask. The XO's stateroom wasn't far from the wardroom, so Paul made it there within a couple of minutes. Paul knocked, waited for the XO to call out an invitation to enter, then pulled himself inside. "You need me, sir?"
Commander Kwan gave Paul a sour look. "The prisoners insist upon talking to an officer. Is that right, by the way? Are they prisoners?"
"Detainees, sir."
"Fine. The detainees insist on talking to an officer. The captain doesn't want to do it and I don't want to do it. Guess who that leaves, Mr. Sinclair?"
"Uh, sir, if it's a food or berthing issue, Commander Sykes — "
"Doesn't want to talk to them, either. No, this sounds like another job for the ship's legal officer. Have fun."
"Yes, sir." Paul tried not to sigh heavily as he turned to go.
"Oh, Sinclair, make damned sure you don't promise them anything."
"Aye, aye, sir." Paul headed toward the temporary confinement areas, trying not to get too angry over the XO's parting instruction. Does he think I'm an idiot? Ever since I've been on this ship I've been dealing with people making unreasonable demands on me. These Greenspacers ought to be easy compared to that.
Petty Officer Williams was standing watch outside the confinement area, her deputy master-at-arms patch in place to signify her status. Paul took a moment to wonder how even in zero-gravity sailors found ways to lounge against bulkheads. Williams noticed him, brought herself mostly to attention, and sketched a salute. "Good afternoon, sir."
"Not for me." Paul's answer brought a grin to Williams' face. "I understand our guests want to talk to an officer."
"That's right, sir. They've been banging on the hatch and calling on the intercom every few minutes."
"Okay. Pop the hatch, and let's see what's up."
Paul and Williams both stood back, ready for any tricks the Greenspacers might have cooked up, as the hatch automatically released and swung open. But it revealed only the detainees hanging in the compartment, looking toward them expectantly. Paul came forward, stopping at the hatch. "I understand you wish to speak to an officer."
The secular Saint nodded. "We wish to speak to the captain, to be precise."
"I'm sorry, but the captain is very busy. What do want to say?"
"We want to speak to the captain."
"The captain is busy. I'll listen to whatever you have to say."
The Saint eyed Paul for a long moment, then apparently decided that Paul could keep up the back-and-forth as long as the Saint could. "Our accommodations do not meet legal requirements for prison facilities. Are you familiar with those requirements?"
Not familiar enough to know precisely how many square meters of space each prisoner is supposed to have, but I know these compartments don't meet whatever standard that is. Come to think of it, the sailors' berthing compartments on this ship probably don't meet those standards. Outwardly, Paul simply nodded. "These are not prison facilities. They are temporary accommodations, so they don't have to meet prison standards."
"We are prisoners!"
"No, sir, you are not. You are being temporarily detained until you can be transferred to civil law enforcement authorities. You are being kept in these compartments in order to ensure your own safety."
"Surely you don't expect us to believe that."
"I can't control what you believe, sir, nor do I want to try. I'm simply answering your question. Is there anything else?"
The Saint held up a blocky-looking, fibrous mass. "Is this supposed to be food?"
"Yes, sir. Those are emergency rations. They meet all nutritional requirements."
"We demand to be fed as well as the crew of this ship!"
Paul pointed to the ration. "Sir, the crew's eaten those in the past and surely will again. I've eaten those. But I'll pass your complaint on to the ship's supply officer." Over the next few minutes, complaints were registered again regarding the size of the compartment the detainees occupied, the fact they were detained at all, the food, the lack of means to occupy their time, the food, the quality of the bedding they'd been issued, the food, the ventilation, and the food. Paul fended off each complaint until the Saint ran out of steam, then watched thankfully as Petty Officer Williams resealed the hatch. The intercom next to the hatch almost immediately erupted into a babble of insults.
Williams looked at Paul, her face hopeful. "Can I disable the intercom, sir?"
"No. We have to hear what they're up to."
"Damn."
"I hear you, but make sure that intercom stays on."
"Yes, sir."
Paul pulled himself along a series of passageways and ladders, ducking objects that protruded down from the overhead and flattening himself in the narrow passages to pass other crew members, and on into the wardroom, where the junior officer dinner shift had already begun. "Hey, Suppo," he called to Commander Sykes, the senior officer assigned to provide adult leadership to the junior officers during this meal shift. "The detainees don't like the food."
Carl Meadows examined the mysterious meat in his meal. "My heart bleeds. What were they expecting? And what is this stuff, Suppo?"
Sykes beamed back at him. "Syrian beef stew, Mr. Meadows."
"They didn't use a real Syrian in it, did they?"
"I don't think so. But you know the rule, Mr. Meadows. If you can't recognize something you're eating, don't ask what it is. As for you, Mr. Sinclair, I trust you soothed the irate detainees."
"Suppo, there ain't enough soothing here or on Earth to convince someone that those emergency rations are decent food." Paul paused at his seat. "Request permission to join the mess, sir."
Sykes waved one hand grandly. "By all means. Permission granted."
Paul strapped in, eyed his own meal dubiously, then focused back on Sykes. "They also complained about their quarters, their bedding and their lack of entertainment."
Lieutenant Sindh raised her eyebrows. "Lack of entertainment?"
"Yeah, you know. Reading material, games, videos."
Sindh smothered a laugh. "Commander Sykes," she advised with exaggerated solemnity, "you may be in danger of losing one of your stars in the Space Accommodations Guide."
"Really?" Sykes shrugged. "Ah, well, I probably only had one star to begin with. Mr. Sinclair, I shall see what I can provide our guests in the way of entertainment."
"You're kidding." Paul glanced around, seeing the other junior officers also watching the supply officer with surprised faces. "Why? We don't owe them a good time."
"Ah, Mr. Sinclair, this isn't about what's good for them, it's about what's good for us. If our guests have nothing to occupy their minds and time, what will they do?"
Kris Denaldo answered the question. "Think and talk and think some more."
"Yes, indeed. And what will they be thinking and talking about?"
"How to make life more difficult for us?"
"Bravo, Ms. Denaldo. I see lieutenant's bars in your future. Perhaps long in your future, but surely someday."
"Thanks." Kris bowed in her seat while the other junior officers applauded her. "So you'll hand them enough stuff to divert their attentions from plotting."
"Exactly. Idle hands and all that." Whatever else Sykes might have been intending to say was cut off by Captain Gonzalez sticking her head through the hatchway.
"Attention on deck!" Lieutenant Sindh called out, but before the officers could unstrap, Gonzalez waved them back.
"Carry on," she advised. "Commander Sykes. This Syrian beef stew we had tonight. You're not going to serve it again, are you?"
"Ah, well, ma'am, we do have some more onboard — "
"Commander Sykes. You're not going to serve it again, are you?"