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  Sykes looked horrified. "You've discovered my secret. Now, of course, you must die. Sorry about that."

  "How are you going to do it? Are you going to serve some more of that Syrian beef stew for dinner?"

  "The captain's forbidden me to serve any more of that particular item, you insolent young pup. However, I do know where I can get some artificial shark steaks."

  Paul swallowed and gave Sykes a curious look. "Artificial shark steaks?"

  "Yes. The real article, the sharks that is, are rare enough that what steaks actually exist are far too expensive for the Navy to serve its wretched masses, so instead we have the joy of receiving artificial shark. Made from pure vat-cultured protein and assorted artificial flavors which I am assured produce a result at least superficially similar to the real article. In taste, at least. I understand the toughness of the artificial shark steaks is legendary."

  "You make it sound so yummy." Paul only partially faked a shudder. "I abjectly apologize, Commander Sykes, sir. Your secret is safe with me. Now, do you have an idea what this meeting is about?"

  Sykes grinned. "Matters dark and devious. I can say no more."

  Kris Denaldo entered. "I'm going to try to get a corner to wedge myself into before everyone else tries to pack in here." She glared at Paul. "And if I hear any comments from you like I did from Garcia . . ."

  "Chris, I'm not that rude. Or stupid."

  "I hope not." She grabbed something to drink and chose a corner, bracing herself in the angle where two bulkheads met.

  Ensign Taylor came in next and sat next to Commander Sykes without any regard for the technically more senior junior officers. "Hey, Paul, Chief Imari got with me about that priority list of yours." Taylor grinned. "Where'd get a good idea like that?"

  "I've learned to follow the example of mustang ensigns. You learn things that way."

  "Uh-oh. Do that while I'm on liberty and you'll learn a few things you probably never imagined."

  Paul felt his face warming and knew he was blushing from the way Taylor laughed. Fortunately, more officers started arriving and diverted Paul from having to come up with a response to Taylor's gibe.

  As Kris Denaldo had predicted, the number of officers quickly exceeded the capacity of the wardroom. The Michaelson's wardroom never felt like a large space, even when only a few officers were present. With one third of the compartment blocked off and every officer on the Michaelson crammed in, Paul wondered whether claustrophobia or lack of oxygen posed the greatest hazard. The department heads pushed their way in last, followed by the ship's executive officer, Commander Kwan. Kwan glowered at the small space remaining by the hatch. "Move back and make more room up here!"

  The grumbling from the junior officers was just low enough that Kwan couldn't make out the words. Ensign Taylor called out loudly, "Okay, people. Suck it up! Non-mustang ensigns onto the table!" The junior officers loudly exhaled and tried to push closer together as the ensigns climbed onto the table.

  Paul found himself wedged next to the table, his head almost touching the thigh of Ensign Gabriel. Gabriel looked down and grinned at him. I'm glad she's enjoying this. Too bad it's not Jen up there. No. I better not even start thinking about that.

  "Attention on deck!"

  At the XO's command, the officers straightened to attention as Captain Hayes entered the compartment, grinned lopsidedly at the crowded conditions, and took his seat at the only chair left unoccupied. "Carry on. Ops, let's get this done."

  Commander Garcia, standing near the large display screen mounted on one bulkhead, pushed one arm upward past the nearest bodies so he could point to the information which flashed into existence there. "The rumors you all may've been hearing are correct. When we get underway next Monday we'll be conducting a multi-national maneuvering exercise involving two US warships, the Michaelson and the Maury, and three foreign warships. They'll be a British ship, the Lord Nelson, a Franco-German ship, the Alsace, and a Russian Federation ship, the Pyotr Veleki." Garcia stumbled on the pronunciation of the Russian craft, glared at no one in particular, and stabbed one finger toward the name. "The Peter the Great. The Michaelson will be the flagship."

  Captain Hayes raised one hand. "Correction. The Michaelson will be on-scene coordinator. There is no flagship. The foreign warships will not be under our command."

  Paul strained to hear as the other officers around him murmured in reaction to the captain's statement. We could conduct this same briefing with everyone in their own staterooms linked into a virtual conference and we'd all be able to hear everything and see everything and be halfway comfortable so we could concentrate on it. But, no. We all have to pack in here and suffocate and wonder who the hell didn't get a chance to shower lately. Because this is the Navy and this is how John Paul Jones held meetings.

  Lieutenant Kilgary, the main propulsion assistant, tried to shove her own arm up, but failing at that just yelled out her question. "Then who will be in command, sir?"

  "Nobody." Another surge of murmurs. Captain Hayes gave the assembled officers a stern look. "This is diplomacy, ladies and gentlemen. Our allies—" Hayes broke off as Commander Garcia cleared his throat loudly. "Correction, our fellow 'participants' in the exercise want to send a message to the SASALs, but not too strong a message, and none of them want to make it look like they're placing their space combatant forces under U.S. command or control. We're all going to waltz around in the same general area to let the SASALs know we could work together if we really wanted to. That's it. Just a friendly get-together."

  Muffled but derisive snorts sounded throughout the wardroom. Commander Kwan glared around as if he had a chance of identifying individual offenders. "Belay that."

  Garcia's glare matched that of the XO. "Every maneuver by the warships involved will be according to the preplanned exercise time line. Standard maneuvering interval between ships will be two hundred kilometers. Closest Point of Approach between ships is to be no less than one hundred kilometers at all times. Ship collision avoidance systems will be programmed to warn of collision if any CPA goes below fifty kilometers."

  Paul would've shrugged if he'd had the space for it. With the individual spacecraft traveling at speeds measured in kilometers per second, fifty kilometers seemed a reasonable distance to really start sweating.

  "Sir." Lieutenant Junior Grade Yarrow indicated the display screen. "With a standard interval of two hundred kilometers, the formation will be spread across a thousand kilometers."

  "Hey, he's learned to add," a barely audible voice whispered.

  Yarrow flushed, then flushed a deeper shade as Garcia focused his glare upon him. "We're only to be strung out in a line when the exercise starts. Review the plan, Mr. Yarrow." On the screen behind Garcia, representations of various formations popped into view as another round of murmurs sprung up.

  Paul stared at the geometric shapes of the formations the warships were to assume. One resembled a pentagon with a warship at each corner, another seemed to be a sphere with the ships spaced evenly around it, and yet another a forward-tilted oblong shape.

  Captain Hayes raised his hand again. "Okay, people. I know. It looks goofy. Let's face it, fleet maneuvers haven't been the norm up here. Ship combats are one-on-one and assuming neat formations like this would just make it a lot easier for someone to detect us and target us. But this isn't about effective war-fighting tactics. It's about sending a message. Professional space officers like ourselves will know this stuff is nonsense. But politicians and the general public will be impressed. That's the bottom line. It's going to be a little odd working with foreign spacecraft like this. It's a big solar system and it just hasn't happened much because no one really wanted it. Now they do."

  Commander Sykes, until now silent somewhere in the back, spoke out clearly. "Sort of."

  Hayes grinned as laughter erupted. "Right, Suppo. Sort of. Let's put on a good show, keep it safe, and let the SASALs know screwing around with us up here would be a bad idea."

  More murm
urs, this time of agreement. Paul saw Sonya Sindh and they locked eyes for a moment, sharing an unspoken understanding. She remembers the last time the SASALs screwed with the Michaelson. She was officer of the deck when Captain Wakeman gave orders to fire on that unarmed SASAL ship that he thought was attacking us. This exercising together stuff to send a message might work, if everybody involved deals with it rationally. But we're all human, so nothing's certain.

  Captain Hayes pried the hatch open to leave. Commander Kwan bellowed out "attention on deck" again in a voice well-suited to a parade ground but which echoed painfully inside the small compartment. Paul and the other officers once again did their best to straighten to attention as the captain left. Instead of releasing them from attention immediately, Kwan favored the group with a long, stern look. "Remember what the captain said. We'll be operating with foreign warships. I want the Michaelson to be the most impressive ship out there. Carry on." Kwan struggled out the hatch as well.

  With two fewer bodies in the compartment Paul found he could breath easier. Most of the department heads, talking softly among themselves, headed out next, then the other officers began following. Paul took a moment to stretch in place before moving, then looked to where the ensigns, the most junior officers on the ship, were still standing on the table. "Dismissed," he echoed Kwan with exaggerated sternness.

  "Yes, sir, Lieutenant Junior Grade Sinclair," Ensign Gabriel piped back. "This would've been a lot easier in zero gravity. We could've hung off the overhead and left room to breath."

  "Easy, Ensign Gabriel? You want things easy?"

  Commander Sykes dropped gratefully into his usual chair and made a shooing motion with one hand. "Thank you for chastising Ms. Gabriel, Paul, and saving me the trouble. Now, all of you line officers run off and do your line things. You shouldn't be hanging around the wardroom during working hours."

  Lieutenant Denaldo grinned. "Yeah. What do you guys think you are, supply corps officers?" Sykes managed to look wounded. "But Suppo's right. We better get out of here before one of our department heads pops back in, sees us and decides we're all underemployed."

  Chapter Two

  Paul checked over the list of completed maintenance items morosely. Not enough. Garcia's going to bite my head off. Again. "Chief, what're the odds any of the stuff we didn't get done is going to hurt our performance during this underway period?"

  Imari shrugged. "Sir, the really critical stuff is done. Anything else goes, it'll give us some trouble, but we'll be able to work around it."

  "Thanks, Chief."

  "Are you going to be in Combat when we get underway, sir?"

  "Yeah. For once." Paul felt he'd drawn more than his share of getting underway watches. Observing the process from Combat wouldn't be stress-free, but at least he wouldn't be giving maneuvering orders to the Michaelson. "Maury's getting underway first this morning."

  "Yes, sir."

  And you already knew that as well as I did, didn't you, Chief? Maybe I ought to tell you something you don't already know. "The XO's acting pretty edgy about this exercise, Chief. He really wants us to look good, so assume he's going to be prowling the ship monitoring everything."

  Chief Imari didn't quite contain her reaction. "Yes, sir. No problem. I'll make sure the guys look good whenever the XO pops in."

  "Even Seaman Fastow?" Paul couldn't help asking.

  Imari's grin was slightly pained. "Even her. I may have to kill her and prop her dead body so she looks like she's doing something right, but I'll manage it."

  Paul grinned back. "Don't let the Sheriff hear you talking about that."

  "Ah, sir, Master-at-Arms Sharpe would understand. He's been watching Fastow."

  Paul's grin faded and was replaced by a questioning look. "Really. Anything in particular?"

  "You'd have to ask the Sheriff, sir. But I don't know of anything."

  "Thanks, Chief. I'll be back in here in about an hour." Paul dropped his tentative plan to review the exercise timeline once again, and instead went looking for Petty Officer First Class Ivan Sharpe. He found him standing near the mess decks, watching the crew file past as they grabbed their breakfasts.

  Sharpe touched his brow with one finger in an informal salute. "Mornin', Mr. Sinclair."

  "Morning, Sheriff. Got a minute?"

  "For my favorite ship's legal officer? Of course, sir."

  "I'm the only ship's legal officer." Paul led Sharpe away from the other sailors before speaking again. "I hear you've been watching Seaman Fastow."

  Sharpe rolled his eyes. "Me, sir? Perish the thought."

  "Come on. She's in my division. I know all too well that she's had an attitude problem since she reported aboard a couple of months back. Is there something else going on with her?"

  The master-at-arms rubbed his chin and looked back at Paul. "Nothing for certain, sir. I've just got a feeling there's something else. Fastow's got trouble written all over her."

  "Let me know if you find out anything specific."

  Sharpe grinned. "Why, sir, I thought you were dedicated to motivating your sailors and helping them maximize their potential."

  Paul gave the Sheriff a sour look. "Fastow doesn't seem to want to be motivated. Right now the only thing she's maximizing is the amount of supervision she requires."

  "Yes, sir. If I can bust the little lady, I'll make sure you know it."

  "Thanks, Sheriff. Anything else going on?"

  Sharpe looked around thoughtfully. "Not that I can think of. Things've been pretty quiet lately."

  "The XO's all wrapped up in making sure this exercise with the foreign ships goes perfect."

  "Everyone needs a hobby, sir."

  Paul just grinned, shook his head and walked back toward Combat. Might as well get there early. I can watch the Maury get underway. Jen's ship. I wonder how many more times we'll have to watch the other's ship leave?

  His sailors were already at their watch stations, too. Chief Imari nodded a greeting to Paul then went back to discussing something with one of the petty officers. Paul went from station to station, speaking briefly to each sailor, getting some personal idea of how they felt and were doing, and letting them know he was personally interested in them. Little stuff. But it makes a difference.

  His rounds made, Paul sat down at his own console, logged in, and centered the display on the Maury. The Michaelson's own sensors couldn't see the Maury with a big chunk of Franklin Station in the way, but remote feeds from Franklin's own sensor net provided a clear picture. Like the Michaelson, the Maury resembled a slightly elongated football, all smooth surfaces and gentle curves designed to minimize reflections that would help someone spot the ship in space. With her visual bypass system shut down, the Maury's hull was a dull gray that seemed to soak up light.

  Once the system of fiber optic cameras and visual screens covering the hull was activated, the Maury would seem to vanish as the cameras picked up whatever they saw, routed it 180 degrees around the hull, and displayed it on the other side. Effectively, the Maury would bend light around herself, making her very hard to see. But this time out Maury's not going to turn on her visual bypass system and neither are we. The whole point of this little exercise is to ensure that lots of people see what we're doing. Besides, hiding from the other ships that're going to be maneuvering close around us at high speed doesn't strike me as a very good idea. He wondered at what point in his time in space he'd begun to think of distances of fifty or a hundred kilometers as "close."

  As the time approached for the Maury to get underway, Paul could see the magnetic lines holding her tightly to Franklin being taken in. Precisely at the scheduled time, the last line left contact with Franklin and Maury's symbol changed to indicate she was a freely maneuvering object.

  With the last tie to Franklin gone, and her maneuvering thrusters providing gentle nudges, the Maury seem to drift up and away from Franklin. On Paul's display, symbols flashed on and off as the Maury fired thrusters or communicated with the station. Vector arro
ws displaying the Maury's current projected path shifted constantly as the ship maneuvered away from Franklin. Finally, clear of the station and with bow and stern both pointed in the right directions, Maury lit off her main drive. A new vector arrow sprang to life on the display, rapidly growing as it matched the increase in the Maury's speed and angling up and away as the ship settled onto her course to the operating area.

  A piercing whistle sounded over the Michaelson's general announcing system as the bosun mate of the watch on the bridge sounded his alert. "All hands stand by to get underway. All departments make readiness for getting underway reports to the officer of the deck on the bridge."

  Paul glanced over at Chief Imari, who gave him a thumbs up. He reached over and triggered the button which gave him communications with Commander Garcia. "OS Division ready to get underway, sir."

  A brief grunt answered Paul. He flipped a thumbs up back to the chief to let her know he'd passed on the information. We could call each other on the intercom, but this is faster and simpler. Sometimes the tech gets in the way.