“Oh, I had to kill him for the offense of striking me,” the colonel said. “But I did so sadly. He really was quite good at brushing fur. But he also made me realize that, yes, males were not sub-chee. They saw what was going on around them and responded on the basis of it. From then on I paid much more attention to my males and I was rewarded for it with performance. I’m not talking about Miss Moon at all, you see, Captain. At least, not directly. The problem is not Miss Moon, exactly. But you might want to have a quiet talk about her with one of your junior males. You would find something surprising.”
He was just about the most junior seaman on the ship, a sensor tech straight out of A school. He never would have been considered for the mission if it wasn’t for the fact that the Blade’s sensor systems were so new, nobody senior had any experience on them. Half the crew was like that, guys straight out of A school who were the only people with a clue how their systems worked and not much of one.
“Sit down,” Prael said. “You’re not in any trouble and you’re not going to get in any trouble for anything that’s said in this compartment. I’ll add that I’d like you to keep quiet about what we talk about, but I figure that will last three days and then you’ll let something slip. And you won’t get in trouble for that, either.”
“Yes, sir, Captain, sir,” the seaman said, sitting down at attention.
“I’d say calm down but I know you’re not going to,” Prael said, grinning. “Here’s the deal. I’ve been hearing some rumors about the crew and Miss Moon. I need to know the substance of the rumors. Again, no matter what you tell me, nothing will leave this compartment. No Captain’s Mast, no articles. That is guaranteed. Do you believe me?”
“You’re the CO, sir,” the seaman said, really sweating now.
“So, what’s going on with Miss Moon?” the CO asked then waited.
“Sir, I think I’m going to stand on my Article Thirty-Two rights,” the seaman said after clearly dredging the phrase out of buried memory.
“Look, seaman, nobody is going to get in trouble,” the CO said. “Unless I don’t get any answers. And I think you can give me those answers. So if I don’t get any answers, then there’s trouble. Simple as that. No trouble for answers, lots of trouble for no answers. Especially once I get to the bottom of what’s going on. So talk.”
“Sir,” the seaman squeaked. “It’s nothing… bad. Honest to God, sir!”
“So what is ‘it’?” Prael asked.
“Sir, I’m straight out of A school,” the seaman said, desperately. “I was distinguished graduate. I’ve got two years of college. I was getting a physics degree but my scholarship ran out. I figured, do a few years in the Navy, get the money to go back. When I took the tests they said I could pick anything and there was particle sensor tech! The description was like a dream! The transfer credits are going to wipe out my junior year! So I went for that and I did really good. I did, sir!”
“I’ve seen your evaluations,” Prael said sympathetically.
“But it’s not like I’ve got my masters, sir!” the seaman said. “And the damned petty officers don’t know chither, pardon my Adar, sir. They barely understand what the particles are, much less the physics of the interactions. So then the damned sensor starts giving me these really funky readings when we’re in deep space and I report them and they tell me to run a diagnostic and I’ve got faults that I don’t understand and they don’t understand…” He trailed off desperately, not wanting to admit that he’d violated a fully lawful order. Doing so, especially since the ship was in what was referred to as “combat condition” didn’t just mean Captain’s Mast, it could mean a full court-martial.
“So you took the problem to Miss Moon,” the CO said, nodding.
“And she pulled up the design of the system, told me what the problem was, a bad power module of all things, and I could fix it, sir!” the seaman said. “I’m sorry, sir. I know I violated orders by associating with her, sir, but I got the sensor system working again. And it’s not like I’m the first one to do it!” He clapped his mouth shut on that, a horrified expression on his face.
“So just how many visitors has Miss Moon had?” the CO asked dryly.
“Sir, at this point I’d really like to stand on my rights,” the seaman said. “If anybody finds out I told you… Sir, they can get brutal out there, you know that!”
Horrible practical jokes were endemic to the sub service. As one submariner put it, “If we don’t like somebody, we will drive them completely insane. And get away with it.” On the previous cruise a particularly disliked crewman had been found strapped to the hull. He’d been there for at least three days, effectively in sensory deprivation, and had to be kept sedated for the rest of the voyage.
Much like a prison, “squealers” were particular targets. The seaman was in for a psychological pounding applied by masters of the trade if the word got out he’d informed on anyone else.
“I’ll let you stand on that one,” the CO said, nodding. “If you let slip what this conversation was about, I officially know nothing. I don’t like it, but I know nothing. Out.”
The seaman seemed to break the speed of light out of office.
“Damn,” the CO said. He knew what was going to happen, eventually; the question was how to do it so that it didn’t make him look like an ass. Normally, he didn’t care about that sort of thing. But with a crew, they had to think their CO always knew what he was doing. In an emergency, in combat, they could not be questioning his judgment. And he was beginning to realize he’d made a monumental error in that area. Come to think on it, that was almost precisely the term that the XO had used. Damnit. “Conn, CO.”
“Conn,” the watch officer replied.
“Get me the COB.”
“So half the crew’s been visiting Miss Moon to get their technical problems resolved,” the CO said.
“Half would be an exaggeration, sir,” the COB said. “The missile techs understand their systems just fine. And laundry and mess aren’t having any issues. Well, Mess is, but the XO’s on that and I doubt Miss Moon can cook.”
“I’d say that’s half the crew,” the CO said sarcastically.
“Well, all the rest haven’t been to see her, sir,” the COB pointed out. “Just the ones that have hit a brick wall with something.”
“They couldn’t ask the XO?” the CO said. “He’s a whiz-kid.”
“With all due respect to both you and the XO, sir,” the COB said, “the XO’s usually really busy and is generally one grouchy son-of-a-bitch on this cruise. The crew steers clear of him if they can. And, frankly, I think Miss Moon has a better technical understanding of a bunch of the systems, sir. She’s also a lot easier to talk to and pleasant on the eyes. I mean, seriously, sir, if you had the choice of asking Commander Weaver a question or Miss Moon, which would you choose?”
“And you don’t have an issue with that, COB?” the CO asked angrily. “Direct disobedience of orders? Private time with a female on a submarine?”