relieved." Fontanelli hoisted the heavy old-fashioned brass telescope called a long glass which signified his status as officer of the deck import and passed it to Paul. "Have fun, sir."
"Thanks." Paul put down the long glass and leaned on the watch desk as the petty officer of the watch finished turning over with his relief.
"Mr. Sinclair, I have the watch." The third class petty officer saluted Paul with the same kind of weary salute Paul had used earlier. "Any special instructions, sir?"
"Yeah, if I start to fall asleep, kick me."
The petty officer grinned. "Yes, sir. It'll be a pleasure."
About four long and essentially uneventful hours later, the hatch onto the quarterdeck opened and Chief Imari stepped out, yawning. "Have a fun mid-watch, sir?"
"They're always fun, Chief."
"Oh, yes, sir. Anything happen?"
"Nope."
"Of course, if something did happen, we'd be a lot unhappier than we are with nothing happening," Chief Imari observed.
Paul snorted and nodded. "Yeah, 'cause anything that happens at O-dark-thirty is bound to be bad." He briefed the chief just as he'd been briefed four hours before, exchanged salutes as Chief Imari relieved him, then walked slowly back to his stateroom and peered at the time. Zero four hundred. Two hours until reveille, when he and the rest of the crew would have to officially wake up, and when the lighting on the Michaelson and Franklin Station would brighten for the artificial day. Paul shrugged out of his uniform and pulled himself up into his bunk, ducking and rolling as he did so to avoid hitting the obstacles on the overhead.
It seemed only moments later that the piercing sound of a bosun's pipe wailed through the ship, followed by the announcement made every morning. "Reveille, reveille. All hands turn to and trice up."
One of Paul's four roommates in the starboard ensign locker staggered up and hit the stateroom lights. Three groans from those still in their bunks answered the brightness. Paul kept his eyes closed for a moment, trying to extend his sleep a few precious seconds longer. Trice up. Why do they keep telling the crew to trice up? That's what you do with hammocks. The crew doesn't sleep in hammocks. Crews haven't slept in hammocks for who knows how long. Centuries? But if they ever sleep in them again, they'll know now is when they're supposed to trice those suckers up .
"Hey, Paul!"
Paul kept his eyes closed. "Yeah, Sam." Lieutenant Junior Grade Yarrow, nicknamed Smilin' Sam by his fellow junior officers in recognition of his untrustworthy nature and false front of camaraderie, sounded unhappy, a fact which bothered Paul not at all given the many times Yarrow had caused problems for Paul.
"Did the guys in my division who had duty yesterday get their spaces cleaned up like I told them?"
"I don't know, Sam. Why don't you ask them ?"
"You had duty! You should know."
"Sam, my duty responsibilities don't include supervising your division's internal tasking."
"Lousy attitude, Sinclair. Thanks for nothing." The hatch opened, then slammed shut.
Paul sighed, finally opened his eyes and rolled out of his bunk again, landing on the deck and groping for his uniform once more.
Ensign Jack Abacha stared after Yarrow, then at Paul.
Paul shook his head. "Don't worry about it, Jack. Once you've been screwed over by Sam as much as the rest of us have, you won't worry in the slightest about hurting his feelings." Abacha nodded, his uncertainty obvious. Was it only eighteen months ago that I reported aboard the Merry Mike and was exactly like Jack Abacha? Overwhelmed and stunned by everything, wondering what I'd gotten myself into. Hell, I still haven't figured out what I've gotten myself into . "Really, Jack. It's okay. Don't let Sam dump any of his work on you. He'll try to lay a guilt trip on you, but don't fall for it. Sam'll still try to take credit for whatever you did right and blame you for anything he does wrong."
"Okay. Thanks." Abacha hesitated. "Do I have to
"Thanks." Paul put down the long glass and leaned on the watch desk as the petty officer of the watch finished turning over with his relief.
"Mr. Sinclair, I have the watch." The third class petty officer saluted Paul with the same kind of weary salute Paul had used earlier. "Any special instructions, sir?"
"Yeah, if I start to fall asleep, kick me."
The petty officer grinned. "Yes, sir. It'll be a pleasure."
About four long and essentially uneventful hours later, the hatch onto the quarterdeck opened and Chief Imari stepped out, yawning. "Have a fun mid-watch, sir?"
"They're always fun, Chief."
"Oh, yes, sir. Anything happen?"
"Nope."
"Of course, if something did happen, we'd be a lot unhappier than we are with nothing happening," Chief Imari observed.
Paul snorted and nodded. "Yeah, 'cause anything that happens at O-dark-thirty is bound to be bad." He briefed the chief just as he'd been briefed four hours before, exchanged salutes as Chief Imari relieved him, then walked slowly back to his stateroom and peered at the time. Zero four hundred. Two hours until reveille, when he and the rest of the crew would have to officially wake up, and when the lighting on the Michaelson and Franklin Station would brighten for the artificial day. Paul shrugged out of his uniform and pulled himself up into his bunk, ducking and rolling as he did so to avoid hitting the obstacles on the overhead.
It seemed only moments later that the piercing sound of a bosun's pipe wailed through the ship, followed by the announcement made every morning. "Reveille, reveille. All hands turn to and trice up."
One of Paul's four roommates in the starboard ensign locker staggered up and hit the stateroom lights. Three groans from those still in their bunks answered the brightness. Paul kept his eyes closed for a moment, trying to extend his sleep a few precious seconds longer. Trice up. Why do they keep telling the crew to trice up? That's what you do with hammocks. The crew doesn't sleep in hammocks. Crews haven't slept in hammocks for who knows how long. Centuries? But if they ever sleep in them again, they'll know now is when they're supposed to trice those suckers up .
"Hey, Paul!"
Paul kept his eyes closed. "Yeah, Sam." Lieutenant Junior Grade Yarrow, nicknamed Smilin' Sam by his fellow junior officers in recognition of his untrustworthy nature and false front of camaraderie, sounded unhappy, a fact which bothered Paul not at all given the many times Yarrow had caused problems for Paul.
"Did the guys in my division who had duty yesterday get their spaces cleaned up like I told them?"
"I don't know, Sam. Why don't you ask them ?"
"You had duty! You should know."
"Sam, my duty responsibilities don't include supervising your division's internal tasking."
"Lousy attitude, Sinclair. Thanks for nothing." The hatch opened, then slammed shut.
Paul sighed, finally opened his eyes and rolled out of his bunk again, landing on the deck and groping for his uniform once more.
Ensign Jack Abacha stared after Yarrow, then at Paul.
Paul shook his head. "Don't worry about it, Jack. Once you've been screwed over by Sam as much as the rest of us have, you won't worry in the slightest about hurting his feelings." Abacha nodded, his uncertainty obvious. Was it only eighteen months ago that I reported aboard the Merry Mike and was exactly like Jack Abacha? Overwhelmed and stunned by everything, wondering what I'd gotten myself into. Hell, I still haven't figured out what I've gotten myself into . "Really, Jack. It's okay. Don't let Sam dump any of his work on you. He'll try to lay a guilt trip on you, but don't fall for it. Sam'll still try to take credit for whatever you did right and blame you for anything he does wrong."
"Okay. Thanks." Abacha hesitated. "Do I have to
Similar Books
Join
Steve Toutonghi
A Tale of Highly Unusual Magic
Lisa Papademetriou
Incoming Freshman
Carol Lynne
On the Move
Catherine Vale
Savage Art (A Chilling Suspense Novel)
Danielle Girard
Berserker (Omnibus)
Robert Holdstock
Crazy Paving
Louise Doughty
Black Sunday
Thomas Harris
Maggie MacKeever
Quin