Chapter 3

The officers’ wardroom aboard the Illustrious was functional. It was a space defined by polished metal bulkheads and practical furnishings, lacking the carved wood and honored banners of the Academy’s dining hall. It was a working ship’s mess, running twenty meters long with a single table dominating the center, its surface polished but marked with the small scars that came from years of use.

Captain Barrett was already there, standing behind her seat at the head of the table, hands clasped behind her. As Innes filed in with the rest of the day-shift officers, he already knew where to go. As the lowest-ranked officer in the room, he took the place exactly opposite the captain, at the foot of the table.

The remaining fifteen officers, mostly department heads, found spots between them in order of seniority, with the highest-ranked closest to the captain and the lowest-ranked closest to him.

They all remained standing since protocol required that no one sat until the captain did.

“Ensign Kingsford, the honors,” she said once everyone was in place.

Every eye at the table moved down toward him. He tried not to swallow too hard or look nervous. He knew the tradition, since this was done at the Academy too, but he hadn’t had to do it since first year, and even then, it didn’t feel as momentous as this.

Even the stewards, the enlisted ratings who served them, paused in their duties as he lifted his wine glass.

“To the Protector and Parliament,” he said. “To Concordia, the Fleet, and the charge we’ve sworn.”

A ripple of motion as the officers raised their glasses. Crystal kissed ceramic and steel. He drank, felt the dry bite of the fortified wine bloom and fade, then set the glass down and eased back against his chair.

“Be seated,” Barrett said, taking her own sip. “Mr. Dechaine, begin.”

The stewards appeared then, two crewmen in white jackets moving along the table like they performed a drill, placing bowls from the right, refilling water and wine from the left, hands quick and sure. Innes looked at the shallow bowl set before him. The soup carried sliced root and a piece of firm white fish, steam curling in the cool ship air. He lifted the spoon, tasted salt, anise, and pepper.

Conversation started in pockets. A junior lieutenant two places up leaned across to the woman opposite him.

“Ash tanks hit forty percent by midwatch again. If Engineering doesn’t get ahead of reclamation, we’ll be rationing showers.”

“Could stand it if the flyboys got a little dirty,” someone said from the middle third, getting a laugh from someone further down.

To Innes’s surprise, the joke had been made by Wexler, who he definitely wouldn’t have pegged as the kind of person to make jokes. Smiling as everyone laughed with him, it seemed like he’d morphed into a completely different person than the man who’d ripped Marchand apart that morning.

“They’re already complaining about the patrol rotation,” Lieutenant Allen said. “Apparently, eight-hour CAP shifts are ‘excessive’ when we’re the only ship in the system.”

“They should try standing a twelve-hour watch in Engineering,” Mejia replied. “See how they like real work.”

“To be fair,” Wexler said. “Fighter pilots have a unique talent for finding things to complain about. It’s practically a requirement for qualification.”

“Speaking of pilots and their complaints,” Brennan said, a grin spreading across his face, “isn’t that what started the whole mess during fleet exercises last year? You got tired of hearing them whine?”

“Oh, not this again,” Wexler said, but he was already grinning.

“No, no, the new ensign needs to hear this.” Brennan gestured toward Innes. “Go on, tell him.”

Wexler set down his spoon with theatrical reluctance. “Fine. So we’re running combined arms drills with the fighter wings, right? Standard stuff. Except someone, and I’m not naming names, but his initials are Kyle Wexler, decided the scenario was too predictable. The OpFor was running the same attack pattern they’d used in the three previous exercises.”

“Because that’s what the training manual specifies,” Mejia interjected.

“Sure, but it’s boring, and you don’t learn anything when you know how to react before you start. So ... I may have improvised. A little.”

“By a little, he means he reprogrammed the tactical display to show a ghost contact that looked like an entire unknown strike wing had somehow shown up and flanked us.”

“I wanted to see how the fighter jocks would handle an unexpected threat vector.”

“They panicked is how they handled it,” Lieutenant Allen added, grinning. “The flight leader ordered an emergency defensive formation and nearly clipped his own wingman.”

“In my defense, their response time was superb. Just ... pointed the wrong way.” Wexler spread his hands. “Commander Hayes was livid and made me write a twelve-page analysis on why ‘creative tactical thinking’ doesn’t mean ‘giving your pilots heart attacks.’”

The table laughed, even the more senior officers near Barrett’s end. Innes found himself smiling, while having an image of a red-faced Marchand staring at a blank spot on a wall, trembling, running through his mind. The story was well-told. If he hadn’t seen the other side of the man, he would have found Wexler genuinely likable.

“Lieutenant Clark, how’s your daughter settling in at the Academy?” Wexler asked, turning to the officer beside him with what appeared to be genuine interest. “First year, isn’t it?”

“Second, actually, and she’s doing well. She made the sailing team.”

“You must be proud.”

The warmth in his voice sounded real and the concern seemed authentic. The thing was, he didn’t think this was an act, any more than how he behaved this morning was. Innes was pretty sure this was who Wexler was with people who mattered, people of equal or greater rank, people whose opinions could affect his career. He’d seen the same treatment from nobles to commoners many times, but hadn’t considered how that mindset would transfer to the military. It made sense, higher-ranked officers had status and something to offer, enlisted didn’t, at least in the mind of people like Wexler.