Midshipman Henry Gallant in Space (The Henry Gallant Saga) (2 page)

“Turn left ahead, then down the next ladder to deck four, and then right to compartment 4-150-0-L,” responded the comm pin voice. It added, “For future reference, the compartment number consists of four parts, separated by hyphens. It starts with the deck number, followed by the frame number, centerline position, and finally the compartment use, such as, L for living space.”

In a few minutes, Gallant was standing at the open hatch leading to the midshipmen’s berth. A table full of young men and women stopped what they were doing and stared at him, making their preliminary judgmental assessments.

He surveyed his surroundings during the brief silence. The midshipman’s common room was moderately roomy with a large central table. Along the starboard bulkhead were a dozen narrow two-person quarters for the men. A similar dozen were on the port side for the women. Two common washrooms were likewise distributed. Additionally, several small desks were jammed into the compartment's corners. At the head of the table was a large video screen, currently dark.

The midshipmen were participating in various activities; some studying, others playing games against the computer or each other. The overall atmosphere seemed relaxed and pleasant.

The entire group consisted of First Class Midshipmen about half of which were women. Their insignia indicated they were a mixture of pilots, astrogators, and missile officers.

“Does he speak, or must we use telepathy?” asked a redheaded giant at the foot of the table. His body-builder torso contrasted with his agreeable brow and mischievous grin. The deep booming voice he produced could have come from a baritone singer.

“My name is Gallant."

“Well Gallant, come closer and meet your brethren,” said the redhead. “I’m George Gregory better known as 'Red' for obvious reasons. This is Anton Neumann, noted for his manifold inherited talents, but most especially for his piloting skills.” Red was pointing toward the young man sitting at the head of the table who had been reading studiously before the interruption.

Neumann was in every way the prototypical example of Earth’s most advanced genetic engineering. He was tall, strikingly handsome, with a powerful frame and an appealing smile. He had the look of a leader and his position at the head of the table confirmed that he was the ranking midshipman.

“And that is Jerril Chui, noted for torturing musical instruments,” continued Red pointing to a tall, wispy figure with a drawn complexion. A lighthearted laugh twittered around at the table.

“Tell us a little about yourself Gallant,” interjected Chui, before Red could continue with more introductions.

“Well, there’s not much to tell. This is my first deployment. I’ll be taking advanced fighter training,” said Gallant with increasing discomfort.

“What's your genetic quotient?” interrupted Neumann. Everyone waited quietly for Gallant’s response. Actually, such a direct request for the evaluation results of Gallant’s genetic intellectual and physical enhancements was considered ill-mannered. If they were young businessmen at a social gathering, such a question would have been rude to the point of insult, but the directness of military disciple lent itself to more openness.

“I am unrated,” responded Gallant as he steeled himself for what he knew would follow. He was well aware of the affect he had on others from the reaction of his classmates at the academy and now he could see it once more in the faces of these young men and women. Each set of eyes told the same story and their facial expressions changed from open and good-natured, to guarded and disciplined.

Neumann opened his hands and turned them up as if to say, '
Look nothing up my sleeves,
' and then he said, “I thought I recognized your name. You’re the Natural?”

“Yes.”

From that moment, Gallant’s very existence seemed to evaporate from the consciousness of the other midshipmen. They simply went back to their previous activities completely ignoring him, their chatter excluding him.

Looking around the room, he noticed his duffle bag leaning against the last starboard cubicle. He walked to his new quarters and began unpacking his uniforms and few personal belongs. He could hear the others talking and laughing gaily late into the night.

It was his first night aboard. He had started the day with high hopes, but his previous experience with midshipmen had given him realistic expectations. Now he tossed sleeplessly, uncertain what awaited him, but determined to meet any challenge head-on. As he nodded off in the early hours, his mind drifted;
Did Kelsey really wish him 'Good Luck'?

In 2166, the days of summer were almost warm at the equator on Mars.

The warmth came from over a century of terraforming that released carbon dioxide from the ice and created greenhouse gases that warmed the planet as they built up the atmosphere. Rivers of water flowed as the ice melted. Chemical oxygen generators used perchlorate and metal oxides in the Martian soil to create a breathable atmosphere. With each passing day, Mars became home to a growing dynamic United Planet’s citizenry. To meet the daunting challenges, they worked and sacrificed for 687 days a year.

That summer, Gallant reported to the UP Space Academy on Mars. It was his first day. The first time he was on his own.

Looking across the academy yard from the main gate, he saw a tiny patch of cherished green lawn with manicured shrubbery in striking contrast to granite buildings and marble monuments. Symbols of history, both ancient and recent, stood to punctuate the hallowed nature of the institution. A few rare trees lining the walkways, casting long shadows.

A red-bricked walkway brought him toward a group of new arrivals. They greeted him and made him feel welcomed. Everything ahead of him might be uncertain, but for that one wonderful moment, he relished the achievement of just getting into the academy.

Soon, he stood among his fellow classmates taking the Oath of Office as an officer in the UP Space Force. He felt he belonged, despite his heritage. All he needed was a chance to prove it.

At least that was how Gallant was remembering it when he was awakened by a buzzing alarm over his head.

He had slept fitfully on the coffin-sized bunk-bed within his tiny cubicle quarters. His was the bottom bunk along the metal bulkhead. The cubicle also included two tiny storage lockers, one for his clothes and personal belongings, and the other, like its associated bed, was unoccupied.

He could hear others stirring outside. Like the other tiny midshipmen living spaces, his cubical opened into the midshipmen's common room where Gallant had met his shipmates the previous evening.

A virtual computer display popped up over his bunk.

“Attention Midshipman Gallant, you have fifteen minutes to complete your morning ablutions and dressing. Report to the Executive Officer (XO) at 0600 hours in office 3-250-0-Q.”

“Great,” he said in exasperation as he jumped out of bed. He felt the cold hard metal of the deck and quickly stepped into his slippers. He grabbed a towel, dashed through the common room and into the officer’s showers even before the computer's voice faded away.

The shower splashed icy water over his body for the prescribed thirty-second allotment. He recoiled as the cold permeated his flesh. A twenty-second antiseptic cleaner and a ten-second rinse followed.

Showered and shaved in four minutes, he stood before his own reflection in the mirror. It revealed a face possessing steely determination, but he couldn’t deny the inexperience of youth that lingered there as well.

He donned his uniform and jogged to find the XO’s office - his comm pin bleeping out a series of right and left turns as he navigated the corridors.

“Midshipman Henry Gallant, reporting as ordered, sir,” he said when he reached the XO’s open hatch.

A single word greeted him from within, “Enter.”

Commander Eddington, the
Repulse’s
XO, sat with his face buried in a virtual computer display. His entire office was cluttered with large and small pieces of broken or damaged equipment. In one corner, brand new parts of hardware in unspoiled packaging peaked out. A few pieces of uniform were also sprinkled in the mixture. Either the XO’s office was substituting for a garage, or he was moonlighting as the ship’s supply officer in his ‘spare’ time.

His pallid bloated face matched his oversized body. His ruffled hair and scraggy beard could have signified a muddled individual, but Gallant suspected they might be the product of a harried work schedule with frequent crises.

The XO looked up at the ship's chronometer, and sighed. He was apparently occupied with some issue of minor or major significances. It was hard to tell. Nevertheless, he put aside the problem to focus on Gallant.

He looked through the computer information, “Gallant ..., classes ..., grades ..., mmm..., flight training ..., fighter qualifications ..., fitness reports ..., harrumph.”

This went on for several minutes while Gallant remained at attention, trying to keep his 'eyes-in-the-boat'. He knew that letting his attention wander would draw a rebuke.

Finally, the XO sat back in his chair and picked up his coffee mug. Sipping the hot mixture, he said, “How did you get assigned to
Repulse
? Did you request this duty assignment for your two year space deployment?”

“No, sir. My three requested duty assignments were all for ships at Mars Station. I was told those positions were being filled by more qualified midshipmen, but that there was an opening for a replacement pilot with Jupiter Fleet. So, I sort of volunteered, sir.”

The XO almost choked on his drink. He spat, “Volunteered, eh?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, your primary duty here will be fighter pilot, but we've a great deal more to offer you, training-wise. Since you qualified basic fighter trainers on Mars, you'll first re-qualify on our Eagle fighters over the next three weeks."

The XO spoke very fast, "Eagles are two-seaters, so that’s a change from the training craft you’re used to. As a pilot, you will fly and handle weapons. Your astrogator will plot and feed you course and speed maneuvers. In addition, the astrogator will handle engine and environmental monitoring. Of course, you will have overall command of the craft and bear full responsibility for its performance."

The XO paused, and then said, "Once you complete re-qual, you’ll begin advanced flight instruction and prepare for your final flight exams in three months.”

"Aye, aye, sir.”

“Give me your comm pin. I’ll code you into a wireless connection for the ship’s library. It includes operational, technical, and repair manuals. It also provides course instructions and exams."

Gallant gave him his pin.

"You will complete all the online instructions and simulations. You will take the AI administered exams on the schedule it lays out. That covers your flight training. In addition, you will qualify as a duty officer on this ship within six months. Mmm..., let’s see... ” He paused and looked over the ship’s roster. “We have enough Engineering Officers of the Watch (EOOW) currently, so you will qualify as Officer of the Deck (OOD) first. That means standing watches as Junior Officer of the Deck (JOOD) until you qualify to Conn the ship. Next year, you can complete your engineering training. Also, you will relieve Mr. Neumann as Communication Division Officer within two days. I hope you remember something of your training from school. Your leading petty officer is Chief Howard. He’s a good man. Let’s hope he can keep you out of serious trouble.”

“I uh ...,” Gallant had a stunned look on his face.

“You got a problem with any of that?” asked the XO with a raised eyebrow.

Gallant set his jaw and furrowed his brow, “NO SIR! I’m going to do just fine …, sir.”

The XO managed a small approving smile, “Let's hope so. Your additional collateral duties, to fill up your spare time, will be assigned later.”

"Aye aye, sir.”

“That’s all, you’re dismissed.”

Midshipman Neumann spent all of thirty minutes turning the Communication Division over to Gallant. He quickly ran through the classified documents, equipment, and personnel files. He demonstrated the procedure for taking incoming messages, decrypting them and distributing them to the appropriate recipients. He explained how the internal ship communications interfaced with the Artificial Intelligence computers and personal comm pins. He took Gallant to the Combat Information Center (CIC) where radars, telescopes, communications, weapons, and data plots were collected, integrated and the intelligence analyzed.

“This is the division’s Leading Petty Officer, Chief Benjamin Howard. He’ll introduce you to the sixteen men in the division and give you a tour of CIC and the communication division’s spaces."

One look and Gallant could tell Howard was a seasoned veteran. The jaunty way he walked marked him as a man who had developed his ‘sea-legs’ navigating a varying gravity. His thinning brown-gray hair and a slight potbelly took nothing away from his immaculate uniform, well-creased trousers and mirror glossed shoes. The cluster of decorations on his chest delineated an illustrious career.

“I’m glad to meet you, Chief.”

“Pleased to meet you, sir,” came a reserved reply.

Impatiently, Neumann offered a tablet for electronic signature. It described the turnover status of critical elements of responsibility within the division.

Gallant began scanning it, but his gaze became riveted on the final column. His heart gave a jolt. It showed a perfect one-hundred percent operational readiness with zero outstanding deficiencies in any of the critical categories.

He looked directly into Neumann’s deadpan eyes. He knew what he should do; must do. Tempted, he took a deep breath. But he let the critical moment pass. He didn’t challenge Neumann's reported status for the division. Instead, he signed the tablet and returned it for countersignature.

Neumann signed and turned away smartly, marching rather than walking out of the compartment without further comment.

“Would you like a tour now, sir?” Howard asked with a pleasant smile.