Read Online Burden of Proof by John G. Hemry - Free Book Online
Authors: John G. Hemry
Tags: Science-Fiction
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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
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
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