human enough, but just be aware of it. Keep in mind that it might be visible to the crew.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll keep that in mind, sir.”
The Commodore leaned back, the holographic image adjusting to keep her visible. “Normally, officers would get years of extra training before being put in a command role, but it’s been dumped in your lap. All things considered, Commander, you're doing fine.”
Dillon nodded. “Thank you, sir.” He didn’t entirely believe the Commodore; he expected his faults were clear for everyone to see, and she was just reassuring him to keep things from getting worse. Which was really all he was hoping for: to get the ship and its crew home without making things a lot worse than they already were.
“Commander,” said the woman.
Dillon blinked and looked into her holographic eyes.
“Seriously,” she continued. “You’re doing fine, Dillon. You have good officers and NCOs backing you up. Count on them, lean on them, put them to work. Your job is to keep calm and keep everything moving. And you can contact me at any time.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
“Good. Anything else?”
“No, sir.”
“Very well,” said the Commodore, leaning forward toward her unseen terminal. “Sinclair out.”
Dillon sat back in his chair as the whine of the holoprojector began to wind down. He rubbed his hands against his face, trying to keep his mind from going in too many directions at once. He put his hands down, reaching out for his coffee cup. It had become empty somehow; he didn't remember drinking it.
Sighing heavily to himself, he grabbed the empty mug and stood up, tapping the door control as he left his cabin.
He had only taken a few steps toward the wardroom and its promise of fresh coffee, when he heard raised voices off to his right, in the direction of the bridge. It sounded like the Chief was giving someone some high-volume life lessons.
No, he corrected himself, there were two raised voices. Either two peers were having it out, or someone was being insubordinate. Neither idea sounded very promising to him, so he quickly took the few short steps toward the bridge.
“Deck!” shouted Seaman Pakinova from the helm. Everyone on the bridge stood to attention as he entered. “As you were,” he said curtly, and the crew returned to their posts.
In the centre of the bridge stood his two officers, Lieutenants Cho and Atwell. They were barely a pace apart from each other, both standing stiffly, faces flushed with red, chests heaving as they breathed quickly. They both looked at him with wide eyes; partly out of anger, he thought, but mostly out of fear. The bridge fell silent, quiet enough for him to hear the ticking of the mechanical clock on the aft bulkhead. His stomach sank, and he felt his shoulders begin to slump. Even as he sighed, he realised that everyone on the bridge could see his disappointment.
“Good evening,” he said quietly. “Mister Cho, Mister Atwell, is everything in order?”
The two officers responded in unison. “Aye, sir.” He could hear the tension in their voices.
He nodded slowly, looking from one to the other. “Glad to hear it,” he said simply. “We’ll talk later.”
Resisting the urge to throw his favourite mug, he turned and walked from the bridge. He needed a fresh cup more than ever.
9
Chief Black's voice made Dillon start. “Sir, you left your stylus with the paper log.”
“I did?”
Black pointed at the pen he held between his teeth. “Sir, you took the pen and turned it into a chew toy. I need the ink pen for the paper log.”
“There's a spare in the cabinet,” Dillon said. A defiant grin come across his face. “This one is mine.”
Black sighed. “Fair enough, sir.” She nodded at his datapad. “Anything good?”
Sighing, Dillon handed the pad to her. “Trying to find out
“Yes, sir. I’ll keep that in mind, sir.”
The Commodore leaned back, the holographic image adjusting to keep her visible. “Normally, officers would get years of extra training before being put in a command role, but it’s been dumped in your lap. All things considered, Commander, you're doing fine.”
Dillon nodded. “Thank you, sir.” He didn’t entirely believe the Commodore; he expected his faults were clear for everyone to see, and she was just reassuring him to keep things from getting worse. Which was really all he was hoping for: to get the ship and its crew home without making things a lot worse than they already were.
“Commander,” said the woman.
Dillon blinked and looked into her holographic eyes.
“Seriously,” she continued. “You’re doing fine, Dillon. You have good officers and NCOs backing you up. Count on them, lean on them, put them to work. Your job is to keep calm and keep everything moving. And you can contact me at any time.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
“Good. Anything else?”
“No, sir.”
“Very well,” said the Commodore, leaning forward toward her unseen terminal. “Sinclair out.”
Dillon sat back in his chair as the whine of the holoprojector began to wind down. He rubbed his hands against his face, trying to keep his mind from going in too many directions at once. He put his hands down, reaching out for his coffee cup. It had become empty somehow; he didn't remember drinking it.
Sighing heavily to himself, he grabbed the empty mug and stood up, tapping the door control as he left his cabin.
He had only taken a few steps toward the wardroom and its promise of fresh coffee, when he heard raised voices off to his right, in the direction of the bridge. It sounded like the Chief was giving someone some high-volume life lessons.
No, he corrected himself, there were two raised voices. Either two peers were having it out, or someone was being insubordinate. Neither idea sounded very promising to him, so he quickly took the few short steps toward the bridge.
“Deck!” shouted Seaman Pakinova from the helm. Everyone on the bridge stood to attention as he entered. “As you were,” he said curtly, and the crew returned to their posts.
In the centre of the bridge stood his two officers, Lieutenants Cho and Atwell. They were barely a pace apart from each other, both standing stiffly, faces flushed with red, chests heaving as they breathed quickly. They both looked at him with wide eyes; partly out of anger, he thought, but mostly out of fear. The bridge fell silent, quiet enough for him to hear the ticking of the mechanical clock on the aft bulkhead. His stomach sank, and he felt his shoulders begin to slump. Even as he sighed, he realised that everyone on the bridge could see his disappointment.
“Good evening,” he said quietly. “Mister Cho, Mister Atwell, is everything in order?”
The two officers responded in unison. “Aye, sir.” He could hear the tension in their voices.
He nodded slowly, looking from one to the other. “Glad to hear it,” he said simply. “We’ll talk later.”
Resisting the urge to throw his favourite mug, he turned and walked from the bridge. He needed a fresh cup more than ever.
9
Chief Black's voice made Dillon start. “Sir, you left your stylus with the paper log.”
“I did?”
Black pointed at the pen he held between his teeth. “Sir, you took the pen and turned it into a chew toy. I need the ink pen for the paper log.”
“There's a spare in the cabinet,” Dillon said. A defiant grin come across his face. “This one is mine.”
Black sighed. “Fair enough, sir.” She nodded at his datapad. “Anything good?”
Sighing, Dillon handed the pad to her. “Trying to find out
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