Firestar
Copyright© 2009 by Prince von Vlox
Chapter 17
Corey tipped the box back into the last locker in the row, then rocked back on her heels and wiped her forehead. That was it. The last clothing locker was inventoried. In the last five days she had pulled out every article of clothing in de Ruyter’s stores, inspected it, set it aside for mending if necessary, and then folded and put back in its proper place. The ship carried enough uniforms for a crew of 600, nearly twice the complement of the carrier. Per the regulations they only had to have a 50% overage, but obviously somebody believed in being prepared.
Corey took a moment to fill out the last sheet of paper on her clipboard and sign it. Straightening up, she made sure each locker door was secure, and then sat down at a desk to sort and consolidate all of her reports.
What new and glamorous adventures await the new staff officer today? she wondered as she took her report to the Supply Office. The clerk there grunted noncommittally and tossed it next to another pile of reports already on her desk.
A few minutes later Corey entered her berthing compartment and dropped on her bunk with a sigh of relief.
“Busy day?” Robbie Sinclair asked.
Corey put her arm across her eyes. “This tub has 638 pairs of boots, 601 shipsuits, 619 dress uniforms, 506 sets of rank badges for every rank up to and including Admiral, 840 berets, and 643 sets of underwear. None of that, mind you, includes the Marines, or what’s in individual lockers.”
“So that’s what you’ve been doing,” Robbie said. “I wondered.”
“And how was your day?” Corey asked.
“Typical. I got all of the paperwork for my two troops current, did maintenance on my powered armor, and then proved that I did it right by conducting a boarding drill in vacuum.”
“This isn’t what I thought it would be,” Corey said, staring at the ceiling. “I thought this job would involve planning, intelligence, operations, training, and learning how to coordinate ships; you know, things that involve fighting, things I was taught how to do and got to practice on my graduation cruise. I didn’t think I’d end up as an internal supply clerk.”
“Somebody has to do it, Corey.”
“My question is why does it have to be me? I’m an officer, but I’m doing a clerk’s job. I don’t have the official title of Supply Officer, that’s Charlotte Matsuoko, one of the Captain’s nieces. She gets the office and title, I get the work. And the topper? When I turned in my inventory report, there was a copy of the same inventory lying on her clerk’s desk. Somebody had done the exact same job six days ago.”
“Are you sure?”
“It was dated six days ago, and was signed by the clerk in the Supply Office. Not only am I duplicating someone else’s work, but I’m doing it soon enough afterwards that it’s obvious it’s just a way to keep me busy.” She rubbed her eyes and made a disgusted sound. “What did I do to get on Second Officer Markin’s bad side?”
“From what I hear,” Robbie said, “she doesn’t have a good one. Maybe she’s annoyed because you’re brand new.” She looked at Corey’s rank badge glittering on her collar. “Or maybe she’s annoyed because, after her, you have the rank on the rest of the staff. That, and you’re not related to Captain Matsuoko.” She snorted. “Only you, Officer Markin, and Fifth Officer Bridges in charge of the cats aren’t related to the Captain. If you were she’d treat you better.”
“Earlier today I was talking with one of the pilots in Second Squadron,” Corey said. “We both served on the Auldearn, and Suzie’s been on de Ruyter for over a year. She said that this ship reminds her of when she was a newbie and still in training. Everything is book work, very little actually takes place when you’re in flight. You orbit the ship a few times, and then land.”
Robbie glanced at the hatch. “The Marine talk is pretty much the same thing. It’s been months since we’ve even done a training landing or a field exercise, and nobody can remember when there was any ship-action training. The paperwork authorizing it never gets submitted. Did you know the same staff officers on this ship have been in the same slots for four years? I think that’s rather odd.”
“The last time de Ruyter was in action,” Corey replied, “was to meet a convoy. A few fighters traded shots with an Idenux raider. That was more than six months ago. That isn’t fighting, that barely merits a mention in a report.”
“The Marines have a similar problem,” Robbie said. “Most of us feel that de Ruyter is a rest assignment to let you unwind after an extended tour out where the real fighting is. It used to be the troops would switch in and out on an eight-month rotation. Four months of active duty some place where they shoot at you, then two months here to recoup and relax, with plenty of time for leave, and two months of transit time and qualifications. But in the last year none of the troops have rotated in or out, and leave has been impossible to come by. My girls are getting stale.”
“The pilots say the same thing in the Ready Rooms. They patrol, but they don’t even do very much of that. They’re lucky if they get three hours of flight time in five days, and they get chewed out if they get more than a light-second away from the ship. We’re ten light-minutes from Home, but nobody can get any leave.”
“What are they told?”
“Request denied; we’re in the middle of ‘combat operations’ and the pilot cannot be spared. What combat operations? What have we done that anyone could call ‘combat’?”
“We’ve heard much the same thing,” Robbie said. “Two of the gals in my troop have sibs who are expecting. Everyone knows the best support a pregnant gal can have is her sibs. They’re afraid they’ll have to have their Eldest invoke ‘Good of the Family’ to be with them.”
“I didn’t think that regulation was still on the books. At least I’ve never heard anyone getting to go home because of it.”
“Here’s a lesson for you,” Robbie said with a laugh. “No regulation is ever taken off the books. They sit there in ambush, just in case some clerk has it in for you.”
Corey took off her prosthetic and massaged the stump. “I’ve been getting a lot of that. It seems like most of the mail I get is from the clerks, demanding this or that impossible thing.”
“Problems with your clunker?” Robbie asked.
Corey shook her head. “No, the medtechs said I should take it off from time to time. It gives me something to do.”
“Other than study?” Robbie asked. She glanced pointedly at the Command & Staff Journals Corey had tucked into a rack next to the cabin’s desk.
“Not really,” Corey said, “and that’s a little frustrating. There were many things I should have learned during my graduation cruise, and didn’t get a chance to because I was trying to keep everyone alive. I was hoping I’d find the answers to some of my questions in back issues.”
“Forget the standard tactical solutions,” Robbie said. “If I were you, I’d try to make up new ones. I saw your scores in Tactics. I wouldn’t try to recreate the past, I’d focus on the future. I’m counting on somebody coming up with a way to beat the Idenux every time we fight them, and right now, in my opinion, you’re our best hope.”
“I’ve had some ideas,” Corey said, “some of them from my graduation cruise. But I wanted to make sure somebody else hadn’t tried them before I--”
The door clicked. Robbie buried her face in a manual. Corey sighed and edged her feet off the bunk. There was no telling who this might be.
“So how are we this glorious day?” asked a loud voice. Fourth Officer Margaret Miyamoto, their roommate, passed through the open hatch as if she was making an entrance in a play. “What, Corey? You’re still in bed? It’s long past time to be up and at them, girl. You should have been on duty hours ago.”
“What are you dressed up for?” Robbie asked. Margaret had on her full-dress uniform with an impressive array of braid, shiny buttons, collar trim and other meaningless flash.
“Readiness Inspection,” Margaret said. “We did a surprise readiness test of the pilots in one of the squadrons, and I was on the inspection team.”
“Who got blessed?”
“It was the Third Squadron’s turn,” Margaret said, “Hendrickson’s Horrors as they call themselves.” She laid out a crisply pressed shipsuit and began changing.
“And what did you find?” Robbie asked.
“Squadron Lead Hendrickson has a lot to answer for,” Margaret said. “Her squadron doesn’t do things the way the Captain wants. We’ll change that.”
Corey bit back any response she might have had. Captain Matsuoko had never flown a fighter; her first combat command was a carrier. It probably wasn’t an accident that none of the gals going to the Strike Carriers were coming from de Ruyter. She put her feet back on her bunk and squirmed slightly. At times the missing piece of her butt made lying on her back uncomfortable.
“Don’t get too comfortable,” Margaret told her. “Second Officer Markin wants to see you. And she specified dress uniform, not the scuffed-up rags you’ve been wearing on duty the last few days.”
“You don’t wear a dress uniform to inspect lockers and stores,” Corey said.
“Officers on the staff have certain standards to maintain,” Margaret replied loftily. She zipped up her shipsuit. It was brand new, and Corey could see the sharp creases in the legs. “She said you were to report before dinner.”
Corey glanced at the clock next to her bunk. She had an hour before dinner. “Is she in her office or in her quarters?” She slipped off her bunk, opened her wardrobe and took out her best uniform. “How dressed up do I have to get?”
“She said dress uniform, so judge for yourself, and she’s in her office until dinner, just like always.” This last was said in a tone that implied Corey should have known that.
Corey nodded. She slipped into the ‘fresher for a quick shower. When she emerged, Margaret was humming to herself as she polished the buttons on her uniform. She looked critically at Corey as she finished dressing. “Are you going to wear all those decorations?”
“Of course,” Corey said. “Dress uniform means you wear all of the awards you earned.”
“I know what the regulations say, but some people feel, I don’t know, upstaged by people wearing too many decorations, if you know what I mean.”
“No, I don’t know what you mean,” Corey said sweetly. She glanced down at the few decorations she owned, and compared them to the meaningless flash that Margaret wore. This had to be veiled reference to her three birthrights.
“If somebody is envious of these things, then they can go out and get their own. I didn’t ask to get them, but that wasn’t my decision to make.” Suddenly she felt stubborn. “Correct me if I’m wrong, Margaret, but the regulations say I’m required to wear all of these with my dress uniform. Nothing is said about what people think I should wear.”
Robbie hunched over, her shoulders shaking as she suppressed a laugh.
“You don’t understand how the system works,” Margaret said petulantly. “You come in here, ranking everyone and flaunting your decorations, decorations earned in fighter combat of all silly places where you can get an Award of Valor for just taking off and circling the ship.” She shook her head and went back to her button polishing.
For a moment Corey thought of pulling rank on Margaret, but that would be counter-productive. She had to share this compartment with the woman, and tradition said they ignored rank as long as the hatch was closed.
Corey glanced at Robbie, who was keeping her face firmly buried in her manual. “No, I guess I don’t understand how things work,” she said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to report as ordered.”
As she walked down the corridor she fingered her rank badge. Third Officer. She hadn’t noticed her new rank when she had finally been given her graduation papers. It wasn’t until she was reporting to the shuttle that was to take her to de Ruyter that a clerk had called her on it.
“I’m sorry, Ma’am, but I think you’re out of uniform.”
“I’m ... what?” She’d been half-asleep and slightly hungover. She had gotten back to her quarters at the school with barely enough time to pack, and so hadn’t had a chance to study her orders. “I’m out of uniform?”
“The paperwork says Third Officer,” the clerk said. “You’re wearing the badges for a Squadron Lead.”
“You’re sure?” Corey asked. The clerk merely held out a copy of the paperwork.
Corey fumbled through the packet of papers. Finally she found her Personnel File. She opened it with shaking hands. Third Officer? That had to be wrong. But there, in the middle of the paperwork from Command & Staff, was a single sheet informing her that her rank had been changed from Acting Squadron Lead to Third Officer, to date from Midyear’s day, 1,427 AL, After First Landing. She glanced at the calendar. That was two months before, just after she’d finally returned from her Graduation Cruise.
“Why didn’t somebody mention this to me before now?”
“Were you on leave or something?”
“I was attending Command & Staff School.”
“Well that explains it, Ma’am,” the clerk said, smiling. “They probably told you, but you were too busy to notice, and at C&S they don’t make much fuss about rank.”
“You’re right about that.” Students wore their undress uniforms nearly all of the time, and there was almost a fetish about not wearing rank badges. The only time anyone put on a full uniform was at the Official Graduation Ceremony.
That afternoon had been full of surprises. Tatiana, it turned out, was a Third Officer, and Robbie was a Fifth Officer. Both of those ranks would change with graduation. Robbie also had a birthright, while Tatiana had gaped at Corey’s three.
“We are in the presence of an actual hero,” she told Robbie as they waited to march in.
“And a crazy person,” Robbie replied. “Anyone with three birthrights should be at home raising babies, not going back on active duty.”
“My sibs are going to be mothers,” Corey said. “I’m not sure if I’m interested in the idea just yet.”
“I’d seriously consider it,” Robbie said. “You’ll be in a staff position. That’ll give you the time to have the kids and raise them for a bit. That’s not something you could do as a pilot.”
“True. I think I’ll see how it goes with my sibs, first.”
“Don’t wait too long,” Tatiana said. “I know I’m getting a Scout. That’s the only ship you can command without being a mother, and that’s because it’s unarmed. Unless I miss my guess, Corey, you’re headed for a command slot, and so you might want to work in some time to have kids. That’s a requirement for higher command.”
Corey reread her orders. She was going to be a Coordination Officer. That was always the route to a command position.
“You can get the correct rank badges at the Station Shop,” the clerk said, breaking her reverie. The woman flipped through the pages, stamping and initialing in all of the right places. “Here you are, Ma’am,” she added, holding out the sheaf of papers. “You’ll have a three-hour layover at Fleet Base 2. That should be plenty of time to get what you need.”
Dazed at her promotion, Corey took the papers and boarded the shuttle. Twenty hours later, her new rank badges glittering on her collar, she had reported to Second Officer Jessica Markin, Chief of Staff of the de Ruyter Battle Group.
Now she paused outside of Officer Markin’s office. So far the time from when the shuttle docked at the transfer station in the Ring until she officially reported for duty was the high point of her deployment with de Ruyter. This meeting probably wasn’t going to be any better. Straightening her back, she knocked. At the abrupt command “Enter!” she marched in and presented herself.
“Third Officer Andersen reporting, Ma’am,” she said, saluting.
Second Officer Markin was a rumpled, thickset woman with black hair and fingernails that had been gnawed to the quick. She looked up from her cluttered desk. “Third Officer Andersen,” she drawled. “How nice of you to drop in. I sent for you over an hour ago.”
“I wasn’t informed until 20 minutes ago, Ma’am.”
“You could have just come as you were when you received the order,” Second Officer Markin said.
“With all due respect, Ma’am, I was in the ‘fresher taking a shower,” she improvised. Margaret might catch her out in the lie, but Robbie would back her up. “I had been doing inventory on the clothing supplies, and I was cleaning up afterwards. Staff officers have certain standards we have to maintain.”
“I’m glad you finally realize that, Andersen. I have reports that you’ve been seen in your undress uniform while on duty. That may be tolerable in the Buccaneer Navy, but this is the Main Fleet. The Buccaneer Navy should be brought up to Main Fleet standards. I don’t know how the Navy tolerates...”
Corey quickly lost interest in listening as Second Officer Markin launched into her analysis of everything wrong with the Frontier Fleet.
In the whole time she had been on board, Corey had learned that Second Officer Markin had many conversations with herself while junior officers were present. All you had to do was stand at attention, stare straight ahead, and think of other things, such as helping pull maintenance on a fighter or practicing with a prosthetic. Occasionally you were expected to contribute to the conversation, so you had to pay just enough attention you could recognize those times when they came up.
“What am I going to do with you, Andersen?” Second Officer Markin said when she finished her rant. “We have a perfectly functioning staff on this ship. de Ruyter’s battle group had its full complement of staff officers before you showed up. I don’t need one more, especially one straight out of school and so young she’s almost a baby.”
“Yes, Ma’am,” Corey said.
“Normally it would take us at least a year to knock the nonsense Command & Staff teaches out of your head, but I don’t have that time. We’re on active operations, and I don’t have the time to coddle someone. Speaking of coddling...”
Second Officer Markin picked up a sheet of paper from the top of her stack. “I have here a request from the Acting Eldest of your Family for you to take Extended Leave. Normally I’d grant that request just to get you out of my hair, but that could potentially leave me short-handed if something came up. I’m sorry to disappoint you, but the needs of the service come first. I’ve denied the request.”
“I understand, Ma’am,” Corey said, keeping the emotion from her face.
Second Officer opened a folder and removed a sheaf of papers. “I have more requests concerning you.” She thumbed through the stack. “In this stack we have paperwork dropping your rank to Flight Lead and inviting an appeal of that decision; a request that you be transferred to the Survey Service; a request for you to return to some hospital for additional rehabilitation on your prosthetic hand; a request you return to your Family Home to attend some aunt’s memorial service; a request you return to First Landing to get an upgrade to your prosthetic; a request from a doctor that you return to your Family Home to start rehabilitation of your behind.” She stopped, chuckling for once. “Your behind. That’s just pure harassment, Andersen. I don’t know who has it in for you, but some clerk seems to have it bad. You must have gotten on the wrong side of one of them.”
She pulled one last page out of the folder. “And then we have this. It seems you haven’t completed some fool Squadron Leader course. One clerk, a worry-hen if I ever met one, is upset because you haven’t finished the course and is threatening to launch an investigation.”
She dropped the page in the trash. “You’re a real officer now, not a fighter pilot, and so that complaint is irrelevant. I’ve said as much to the clerks back in First Landing, but you know how they are. They want you to go on detachment for this course, but I’m not going to have you waste your time. I’ve overruled their request, several times, citing the ‘good of the service.’
“When I received this latest message I finally threatened to bring in the Navy’s Investigation Service and have them see why the clerks are wasting everyone’s time with this.” She grinned. “That appears to have finally shut them up. Here’s a lesson to remember, Andersen. The only way to beat back the clerks is to threaten an investigation like that. There are many things they do not want to see the light of day, and the Navy Investigation Service will expose them without pity.”
She paused, smiling. “Some times I think the Investigative Service is filled with people who’ve run afoul of the clerks and are out for revenge. They go after bureaucratic excess with what could only be described as sadistic glee.
“What is it about you, Andersen?” she went on. “You’ve been here only a few months, but in that time you’ve generated more paperwork than any 10 gals on this ship, and it’s still flowing in. But that can wait. The Captain and I have been called to a Command Conference. Ordinarily I’d have someone else accompany us, but you are the ranking officer on the staff after me, and I might as well start getting you educated about how the real navy works. Who knows, maybe you’ll learn something. When the Captain finishes what she’s doing she’ll summon you. Save your questions until then. Dismissed.”
Corey saluted, and returned to her quarters. That had gone better than the last six interviews. This was not at all what she had expected after graduation.
When she’d returned from Setosha she’d had to check with the base hospital in First Landing, and then put herself on the calendar to see Captain Taylor. She could feel a door opening in front of her. There was so much she could do she could hardly wait to get started.
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