Ok my story for February is one I have been working on for about a year now, its set quite bit prior to The Midwatch, and introduces some two characters who have been forming a bit part of the universe I have been creating.
I think I need to figure out a way to keep all the background in order and making sense though cause currently its all in my head.
Anyway, please enjoy this short story.
Lieutenant Katie Ó Treasaigh was nervous as all hell as the steward placed her plate in front of her; she felt physically sick.
The Chicken Kyiv looked wonderful, with mashed potatoes and steamed vegetables it would be delicious, but she was far too nervous to eat.
As she looked to the head of the table, Captain Hardeep Singh was chatting away to Lieutenant Commander Hadžić, his logistics department head. He noticed her looking at him, and he smiled at her with one of those disarming smiles he was famous for, the type that said it was all going to be alright.
Her nerves made it difficult to believe that, but she took a deep breath and asked Lieutenant Altyn Gurbanguly for the cheese sauce.
As she ate, her mind wandered back to the meeting with Captain Singh just a few days ago in his Day Cabin. He was filling in the paperwork for her Bridge Watchkeeping Certificate following her successful completion of the final exam a few weeks previously.
In his typical fashion, he also took the opportunity to go over her annual evaluation which was coming up. He was going over the milestones she had hit and asked her what she felt her weaknesses were.
She answered honestly; she worried about her ability to talk to the crew in a way that commanded the room; she always felt like a meek mouse.
“Just remember what it was like when you first gave the toast, I felt the same and it took a bit of practice, but I got there in the end.” He stood up and took down a picture from one of the shelves on the bookcase behind him.
It was a photo of a crew in a wardroom, and he handed it to her, she immediately recognised her Captain, he looked so young, but he wore his dastar, just the same way, and his smile hadn’t changed.
“That’s from the day of my first toast on the Trincomalee” he smiled, clearly remembering the day and thinking fondly of it.
”Commanding a ship is a lot of responsibility, but I miss the simplicity of those days, back when I was a midshipman.” as he sat back down in his chair as the leather creaked like a tired old sigh
He always came across kindly, like a teacher rather than the commanding officer of the CAS Frobisher, one of the Accords newer and most powerful cruisers.
And that’s when she said it, without thinking. “Actually sir, I have never given the toast before.”
He leaned back in his chair and nodded, “We best get that fixed then, Lieutenant,” he said, steepling his fingers as he thought for a moment. “You can give the toast on Thursday.”
She had wished the earth would swallow her up; she still didn’t feel like she should be an officer; she still felt like that girl from Benbulbin that opted to enlist rather than head off for the factories to work.
She never wanted to be an officer; a shortage of officer candidates had the Petty Officer supervising her, push her forward for the officer’s exam, and just a few weeks later she found herself at the Accords Naval College for 28 weeks, then another year at the Stellar Warfare School learning her trade as an electronics warfare officer, an EWO.
Throughout her year on the Frobisher, she had absorbed invaluable lessons, deeply appreciating Captain Singh’s mentorship. Like many of his young officers, she felt fortunate to have him guide her with such dedication and generosity of time.
The only reason she realised why she had never had to give the toast was that to serve as an EWO, you had to hold the rank of Lieutenant, and she never spent time on an active ship as a Midshipman or a Sub-Lieutenant; she was promoted to full Lieutenant on completion of her training.
They were currently undergoing a Freedom of Navigation Operation, a FONOP, in a group of neutral systems that had seceded from the Terran Confederation during the Liberation War a little over 300 years ago, but had not joined the Pan Colonial Accord.
These systems maintained relations with both sides, trading with both and upholding a strict neutrality. But that neutrality made them a hotbed for espionage and intrigue, as representatives from both sides would hold clandestine meetings and covert exchanges, weaving a complex web of double agents and hidden alliances that subtly influenced the course of the three centuries old Cold War.
And with them making their space open to all, both the Accord and Confederation made regular FONOPs, reminding each other that they could, and both sides used these operations to show off their ships and make sure they knew that they were a threat.
During a FONOP, the EWOs roles were nothing short of critical. Amid the quiet hum of the sensor arrays, they vigilantly scanned the electromagnetic spectrum for any hint of hostile activity. Every fluctuation in radiation, every stray signal burst, and every anomalous telemetry was scrutinized and cross-referenced against known enemy profiles.
The EWOs continuously parsed data from the ship’s sensors, tracking the subtle signatures of passing vessels from the Confederation and deciphering patterns that might indicate an attempt at electronic reconnaissance. Simultaneously, they coordinated with the CIC to adjust countermeasures, ensuring that any enemy data-gathering efforts were met with swift, calculated responses.
In essence, the EWOs engaged in a silent battle of observation and subterfuge, one that was as much about safeguarding their own ship’s systems as it was about piecing together the enemy’s capabilities from the faint whispers of their electronic signals.
In the wardroom, the officers chatted among themselves; she found herself relaxing somewhat. She couldn’t tell if the chicken was real or biofabricated; the longer she spent away from her families farm, the harder it became to distinguish genuine meat from that which was synthesized from printed protein. They had docked in port for a few days, and had taken in fresh food, the lasagna last night had been made with real beef, she was sure of that.
Just as she relaxed and started to forget what was coming, the stewards began to top up the glasses for the toast. Most of the officers chose the traditional rum; being an Irish girl, she preferred whiskey, not that she drank much at all, but today she needed it.
The toast was an ancient tradition, dating back to the times when ships were made of wood and sailed on oceans of water. At the evening meal in the wardroom, the youngest officer present would raise their glass, and give a toast, a different one for each day of the week.
Today’s toast was one with a bit of dark humour to it, in which the officers hoped for circumstances that would allow for rapid promotions.
The captain tapped his spoon to his glass, and the room hushed; he stood and raised his glass of apple juice, “Officers and ship’s company, I ask you to join me in a toast to the Accord and our Commander-in-Chief, the Chancellor”
The crew all raised their glasses and responded with “The Chancellor.”
This was it, her turn, her duty, her embarrassment. She stood, every eye on her. Her palms were slick with sweat, and for a moment, she feared the glass would slip from her grip. The weight of the moment pressed down on her, as if the gravity plating had suddenly increased tenfold.
She cleared her throat and said in as clear a voice as she could “A bloody war or a sickly season,” and the crew raised their glasses and then drank.
There was a raucous noise, and her fellow officer banged the table and cheered her; Gurbanguly slapped her back, and she smiled. It wasn’t so bad; she did it; her face felt red and warm, perhaps that was the whiskey, or perhaps it was relief from it being over.
She had spent the past two days dreading this moment, but now it was over, it really didn’t feel that it had been a big deal, it was just another one of the steps in her career in this grand navy.
Singh was smiling; his kind eyes made her feel like he knew she could do it, as always, he never doubted her for a second.
Perhaps this farmer’s daughter from Benbulin did belong in the officers wardroom; the room slowly started to calm; the stewards had almost finished clearing up the dinner plates, and jam roly-poly with custard was being served, with the tea being poured; the conversation returned, and soon she found herself chatting with Gurbanguly about the mundanity of life on a FONOP.
When she got back to her quarters, she fell on her bed and stared at the bulkhead and wondered what all the fuss and nerves were about.
But for now she needed to sleep, she was on morning watch starting at 0400, so she only had a few hours to sleep before she needed to be in the CIC.
