and then get our asses fried to a crisp, which will prove to the TW Council and the Navy beyond a doubt that there's no way to open communication with the Xenos, which will trigger a second Xeno War that humanity just might win, and will at least attempt to cover humanity's collective butt when we do run into some superior civilization." He leaned back against the wall. "Why do you ask?"
"Just curious." I looked over at Bar-El. "You're going along with this?"
"I . . . don't make those kinds of decisions, Lieutenant." Bar-El shook his head. "Not my department, sir."
"Second lieutenants don't sir first johns, jewboy." The Dutchman spat. "And you don't try to mess with Bar-El's head, Emmy. He's only provisional—his oath is to Metzada, not the Thousand Worlds. As long as he obeys orders and doesn't make any trouble, his paychecks and/or his Service life insurance goes to paying Metzada's trade deficit."
"Correct, Lieutenant." Bar-El nodded slowly. "I wouldn't want there to be any misunderstanding."
"Understood."
"Two hours to liftoff." The Dutchman stood, pulling a deck of cards out of his tunic pocket. "Let's get aboard, see if there's some money around. At least we don't get isolated on this one, thank God."
"Huh?"
The Dutchman handed the flimsy back to me. "Reread the orders, Emmy. Looks like Dom didn't want to either leave us alone for the voyage out or get locked in with us—suspending of nonintercourse rules doesn't mean you get to bed the girl. All it means is that we're human, for once."
III
There may be places where a Service officer is made to feel less at home than in a Navy battlecruiser's wardroom, but, if so, I don't want to know about them.
Part of it is prejudice. Perhaps on both sides: we tend to think of the Navy as a bunch of pasty-faced, soft-bellied, effete automatons; they think we're crude and rude past understanding or forgiveness.
Mmm . . . maybe that isn't prejudice, after all.
I think, though, that we put each other on, at least a bit. Sitting at the first officer's table, I decided that under normal circumstances, this assortment of ensigns, j.g.s, and full lieutenants wouldn't wear that much cologne; after just a couple of weeks, it'd surely foul Magellan's air conditioning.
But I did say it goes both ways.
"More roast?" Ferret-faced Lieutenant Hardesty smiled with patently false geniality, dabbing at the corners of his mouth with his napkin. "You seem to be dreadfully hungry, Lieutenant von du Mark, almost to the point of . . . oh, never mind." Since Commander Bender was on watch, the head of the table had gone to Hardesty, along with the obligation to try to make me uncomfortable under the guise of being a good host.
There really isn't a lot of precedent for social protocol between Navy and CS people aboard a Navy ship, but we were improvising just fine, thank you, to the credit of both services.
"Why, thank you, my dear Hardesty," I said, lifting my plate to accept his unintended offer to carve. "If you would, a bit of well-done? Blood-rare beef is so . . . dreadfully, dreadfully barbaric. Wouldn't you say?" Since the Navy was going to treat me like something that crawled out from the gutter, I had two options: either be sloppy enough to nauseate them, or even more after- you -my-dear-Alphonse than they were.
Now, while I can be messy, the Dutchman was holding up the Service's dignity from that end: over at the captain's table—as senior CS officer present, his status was with-but-after Captain Arnheim and the ambassador—puffing on a cigar, the Dutchman was hacking away a piece of roast with one of the spare Fairbairn knives. Not his own knife; you use your own assault knife only on something living you want to make dead in a hurry.
With a shadow of a scowl, Hardesty took up the carving knife and started slicing.
I guess I just could have let it all slide. Akiva Bar-El didn't care. He just eyed me soberly, with perhaps a hint of amusement, while he continued putting away
"Just curious." I looked over at Bar-El. "You're going along with this?"
"I . . . don't make those kinds of decisions, Lieutenant." Bar-El shook his head. "Not my department, sir."
"Second lieutenants don't sir first johns, jewboy." The Dutchman spat. "And you don't try to mess with Bar-El's head, Emmy. He's only provisional—his oath is to Metzada, not the Thousand Worlds. As long as he obeys orders and doesn't make any trouble, his paychecks and/or his Service life insurance goes to paying Metzada's trade deficit."
"Correct, Lieutenant." Bar-El nodded slowly. "I wouldn't want there to be any misunderstanding."
"Understood."
"Two hours to liftoff." The Dutchman stood, pulling a deck of cards out of his tunic pocket. "Let's get aboard, see if there's some money around. At least we don't get isolated on this one, thank God."
"Huh?"
The Dutchman handed the flimsy back to me. "Reread the orders, Emmy. Looks like Dom didn't want to either leave us alone for the voyage out or get locked in with us—suspending of nonintercourse rules doesn't mean you get to bed the girl. All it means is that we're human, for once."
III
There may be places where a Service officer is made to feel less at home than in a Navy battlecruiser's wardroom, but, if so, I don't want to know about them.
Part of it is prejudice. Perhaps on both sides: we tend to think of the Navy as a bunch of pasty-faced, soft-bellied, effete automatons; they think we're crude and rude past understanding or forgiveness.
Mmm . . . maybe that isn't prejudice, after all.
I think, though, that we put each other on, at least a bit. Sitting at the first officer's table, I decided that under normal circumstances, this assortment of ensigns, j.g.s, and full lieutenants wouldn't wear that much cologne; after just a couple of weeks, it'd surely foul Magellan's air conditioning.
But I did say it goes both ways.
"More roast?" Ferret-faced Lieutenant Hardesty smiled with patently false geniality, dabbing at the corners of his mouth with his napkin. "You seem to be dreadfully hungry, Lieutenant von du Mark, almost to the point of . . . oh, never mind." Since Commander Bender was on watch, the head of the table had gone to Hardesty, along with the obligation to try to make me uncomfortable under the guise of being a good host.
There really isn't a lot of precedent for social protocol between Navy and CS people aboard a Navy ship, but we were improvising just fine, thank you, to the credit of both services.
"Why, thank you, my dear Hardesty," I said, lifting my plate to accept his unintended offer to carve. "If you would, a bit of well-done? Blood-rare beef is so . . . dreadfully, dreadfully barbaric. Wouldn't you say?" Since the Navy was going to treat me like something that crawled out from the gutter, I had two options: either be sloppy enough to nauseate them, or even more after- you -my-dear-Alphonse than they were.
Now, while I can be messy, the Dutchman was holding up the Service's dignity from that end: over at the captain's table—as senior CS officer present, his status was with-but-after Captain Arnheim and the ambassador—puffing on a cigar, the Dutchman was hacking away a piece of roast with one of the spare Fairbairn knives. Not his own knife; you use your own assault knife only on something living you want to make dead in a hurry.
With a shadow of a scowl, Hardesty took up the carving knife and started slicing.
I guess I just could have let it all slide. Akiva Bar-El didn't care. He just eyed me soberly, with perhaps a hint of amusement, while he continued putting away
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