Chapter 5

The next few shifts were busy. In addition to all the stuff he was still training on for the tactical section itself, there was a lot of work to do, making sure he had accounted for as many possibilities as he could, deciding what equipment they needed and accounting for how much room they had to stow it all, while providing storage for the thirty people on the shift for clothes and other necessities.

It was a logistical challenge, to be sure, and one that he actually found he was enjoying.

He’d finished his list and had gotten it on the captain’s desk the evening before, and she was surprisingly complimentary at the thoroughness of it. Wexler had turned in his duty roster much more quickly, the day after their briefing with the captain, which Innes wasn’t sure if that was a sign that he was fast and efficient, or that he had rushed the job.

He had half hoped that Marchand, whom he was starting to get to know a little, would be on the station. The crewman worked very hard and, even though he did make another mistake in that time, he wasn’t making the same mistakes twice and he worked hard to correct them.

It wasn’t a complete shock, however, that his name wasn’t on the list. One of the tactical crewmen, who was from the second shift in their section, was on the list. Innes could pick out his face, but he hadn’t recognized the name of any of the other crewmen, marines, or the two chiefs assigned to them.

The day before they were supposed to hit the GATE point, Innes was leaving the section and headed to the mess to eat before he had to be in the bay to oversee the loading of the shuttle when Lieutenant Wexler called out his name.

“Ensign Kingsford.”

Innes turned and faced the lieutenant, who was one step into the corridor behind him.

“Sir?”

“We should talk before tomorrow; there are things we need to discuss before we transfer to Shiro.”

“Of course, sir.”

“Good. Meet me in my quarters in one hour,” he said, and walked away before Innes could reply.

The invitation was interesting. Wexler still rode him during shifts, and ripped into a crewman, usually Marchand, whenever he could. They had coordinated several times on the preparation for the detachment, with the lieutenant checking over his equipment list before he gave it to the captain ... and, of course, finding faults with it.

Other than that, however, they hadn’t spoken to each other, even when they were at dinner at the same time. Wexler had, if anything, been more distant after the briefing, and Innes wondered if there was a reason for that. Maybe he was working through the same political calculations that Innes had been and had come up with similar concerns.

Or maybe he just didn’t like Innes.

Either option made the sudden invitation to his quarters interesting, to say the least.

Innes stayed in his uniform, not wanting to give the lieutenant additional opportunities to criticize, and worked on reviewing the details of Shiro Station and its surroundings, very consciously trying not to speculate on what Wexler wanted. As he always said, speculation without information was just anxiety in disguise.

He assumed the fifteen-minute rule did not apply for a visit like this, but he still made sure he was at the lieutenant’s quarters with five minutes to spare.

“Enter.”

The hatch slid open, and Innes stepped into a space that was identical in layout to his own shared quarters, although this one wasn’t shared, allowing the lieutenant more room for his own things with a single bunk instead of a double. That, however, wasn’t what made it utterly different in character.

The man was fastidious; he had to give him that. The bunk was made ‘academy perfect’ and would have passed even the toughest inspection, and the small desk held a perfectly centered, single tablet. The personal effects visible on the narrow shelf above the bed were arranged with geometric precision, each item exactly equidistant from its neighbors.

Wexler waited by the desk, holding a glass of whiskey. A bottle sat on the desk beside him. Wexler lifted it.

“Portage Reserve,” Wexler said, pouring a second glass and offering it to Innes. “Twenty-year single malt from the highlands. One of the few things the Sirius system does exceptionally well. I find it helps when discussing difficult topics.”

Innes took the glass. It smelled of smoke and something floral. A bottle like this would cost more than a month of an ensign’s salary; probably cost more than a lieutenant’s as well.

Not that either of them had to worry about the price of things.

“Thank you, sir.” He took a small sip.

It was exceptional, smooth and warm. It wasn’t as good as what father kept, but it was better than most would have, and far better than any other bottle on this ship, to be sure.

“Please.” Wexler gestured to the room’s single chair and sat on the edge of his bunk. “We’re off duty. Kyle is fine.”

“Kyle, then.”

Wexler studied him over the rim of his glass. In this light, with the professional mask relaxed slightly, he looked younger than he seemed on duty. He looked relaxed, perhaps even friendly.