“I notice your companion has spent the entire meal on the back of your chair, Ms. Harrington,” he observed. “I was under the impression that ’cats usually ate at the same time their people did.”
“Uh, yes, Sir,” Honor said. She felt a warmth along her cheekbones and drew a deep breath. At least his bantering with the more senior officers present had given her some opportunity to adjust before he turned his guns on her, and she took herself firmly in hand. “Yes, Sir,” she said much more composedly. “Nimitz normally eats at the same time I do, but he doesn’t do very well with vegetables, and we weren’t sure what arrangements your steward might have made, so he ate in the berthing compartment before we came to dinner.”
“I see.” The Captain gazed at her for a moment, then nodded at his steward. “Chief Stennis is a capable sort, Ms. Harrington. If you’ll be good enough to provide him with a list of foods suitable for your companion, I feel confident he can arrange an appropriate menu for his next dinner engagement.”
“Yes, Sir,” Honor said, trying unsuccessfully to hide her relief at the evidence that Nimitz’s presence was welcome, and not merely something to be tolerated. “Thank you, Sir.”
“You’re welcome,” Bachfisch replied, then smiled. “In the meantime, is there at least something we can offer him as an after dinner snack while we enjoy our wine?”
“If Chief Stennis has a little celery left over from the salad, that would be perfect, Sir. ’Cats may not do well with most vegetables, but they all love celery!”
“Jackson?” The Captain glanced at the steward who smiled and nodded.
“I believe I can handle that, Sir.”
Chief Stennis disappeared into his pantry, and Captain Bachfisch returned his attention to Commander Layson and Lieutenant Commander Hirake. Honor settled back in her chair, and the pleased buzz of Nimitz’s purr vibrated against the back of her neck. If she’d been a ’cat herself, her own purr would have been even more pleased and considerably louder. She watched War Maiden’s captain chatting with his officers and felt a sense of ungrudging admiration. This Captain Bachfisch was a very different proposition from the formal, almost cold CO who had presided over the meal itself. She still didn’t understand why he’d seemed so distant then, but she readily appreciated the skill with which he drew each of his officers in turn into the discussion now. And, she admitted, how effortlessly he had made a mere midshipwoman feel at ease in their company. His questions might be humorously phrased, and he might display an almost dangerously pointed wit, yet he had all of them involved in discussing serious issues, and he managed it as a leader, not merely as a captain. She remembered once more what Captain Courvosier had said about the need for a captain to know her officers, and realized that Bachfisch had just given her an object lesson in how a captain might go about that.
It was a lesson worth learning, and she filed it away carefully as she smiled and reached up to take the plate of celery Chief Stennis brought her.
“…and as you can see, we have the Alpha Three upgrade to the emergency local control positions for our energy mounts,” Chief MacArthur droned. The sturdy, plain-faced woman bore the hash marks of over twenty-five T-years’ service on her sleeve, and the combat ribbons on her chest proved she’d paid cash to learn her weapons skills. It was unfortunate that she’d never mastered the skills of the lecture hall to go with them. Even though Honor was deeply interested in what MacArthur had to tell her, she found it difficult to keep from yawning as the dust-dry instruction continued.
She and Audrey Bradlaugh, War Maiden’s other female middy, stood in the number four inboard wing passage, peering over MacArthur’s shoulder into the small, heavily armored compartment. It didn’t offer a lot of space for the men and women who would man it when the ship cleared for action, and every square centimeter of room it did have was crammed with monitors, readouts, keypads, and access panels. In between those more important bits and pieces were sandwiched the shock-mounted couches and umbilical attachment points for the mere humans of the weapon crew.
“When the buzzer goes, the crew has a maximum of fifteen minutes to don skinsuits and man stations,” MacArthur informed them, and Honor and Bradlaugh nodded as if no one had ever told them so before. “Actually, of course, fifteen minutes should give time to spare, although we sometimes run a bit over on shakedown cruises. On the other hand,” the petty officer glanced back at her audience, “the Captain isn’t what I’d call a patient man with people who screw up his training profiles, so I wouldn’t recommend dawdling.”
One eyelid flickered in what might have been called a wink on a less expressionless face, and despite herself, Honor grinned at the petty officer. Not that on-mount crew duties were the most humorous subject imaginable. Honor knew that, for she’d logged scores of hours in simulators which recreated every detail of the local control command position in front of her, and her grin faded as she envisioned it in her mind. Her excellent imagination pictured every moment of the shriek of the general quarters alarm, the flashing lights of battle stations, and the sudden claustrophobic tension as the crew plugged in their skinsuit umbilicals and the hatch slammed shut behind them while powerful pumps sucked the air from the passages and compartments around them. The vacuum about their armored capsule would actually help protect it—and them—from atmosphere-transmitted shock and concussion, not to mention fires, yet she doubted anyone could ever embrace it without an atavistic shudder.
Nimitz shifted uneasily on her shoulder as he caught the sudden edge of darkness in her emotions, and she reached up to rest one hand lightly on his head. He pressed back against her palm, and she made a soft crooning sound.
“If Chief MacArthur is boring you, Ms. Harrington,” an unpleasant voice grated unexpectedly, “I’m sure we can find some extra duty to keep you occupied.”
Honor turned quickly, shoulders tightening in automatic response, and her expression was suddenly a better mask than Chief MacArthur’s as she faced Elvis Santino. It was obvious the OCTO had come quietly around the bend in the passage while she and Bradlaugh were listening to MacArthur, and she castigated herself for letting him sneak up on her. Now he stood glaring at her, hands once more on hips and lip curled, and she gazed back at him in silence.
Anything she said or did would be wrong, so she said nothing. Which, of course, was also the wrong thing to do.
“Well, Ms. Harrington? If you’re bored, just say so. I’m sure Chief MacArthur has better things to do with her time as well. Are you bored?”
“No, Sir.” She gave the only possible answer as neutrally as possible, and Santino smiled nastily.
“Indeed? I would’ve thought otherwise, given the way you’re humming and playing with your little pet.”
Once again, there was no possible response that would not give him another opening. She felt Bradlaugh’s unhappiness beside her, but Audrey said nothing, either. There wasn’t anything she could say, and she’d experienced sufficient of Santino’s nastiness herself. But MacArthur shifted her weight, and turned to face the lieutenant. Her non-expression was more pronounced than ever, and she cleared her throat.
“With all due respect, Sir,” she said, “the young ladies have been very attentive this afternoon.”
Santino turned his scowl on her.
“I don’t recall asking your opinion of their attentiveness, Chief MacArthur.” His voice was harsh, but MacArthur never turned a hair.
“I realize that, Sir. But again with all due respect, you just came around the corner. I’ve been working with Ms. Harrington and Ms. Bradlaugh for the last hour and a half. I just felt that I should make you aware of the fact that they’ve paid very close attention during that time.”