Equilibrium at Gamma Apodis

Preface: "Battle Stations! All hands man your battle stations!"

The time is the twenty-eighth Century. It's another mundane Signal Intelligence gathering mission for the Confederation deep space survey ship CSS Blackthorn. At the Pavo/Ava turn around an urgent message was intercepted by the protagonists, Major McClintock and his navigator; a summons for assistance from the Sophistry's 'Time Minister,' Mistress Karina. To respond to her urgent call the crew would have them violate their mission parameters, entering into a region of interstellar space known as the Apus Quadrant.

Seeking to save the embattled members of the 'Nth Degree,' a crippled time ship set upon by eight vessels of the antagonists Morritite Federation, added by confederates within, Mistress Karina's loyal forces are waging a Temporal 'Civil War' within their realm of space time. Will the overmatched crew of the Blackthorn be able to render assistance to the Sophistry's lone Time Minister?

Once their mission had been completed could Major McClintock and his crew assist Mistress Karina in the closure of a so-called 'hole in space time' that will exist within their space once the Sophistry's time ship departs that region of space – and if so at what price?

Antoine P. Holliday

Ch. 1

October 19, 2777— 0645 hours according to our ship's chronometer: "Oh, Man!" I exclaimed as I thrust my feet towards the deck. I had awakened from the most incredible dream—or was it? How could I begin to recount its details before I forgot them? It seemed so real yet so surreal. Should I perform my morning prayers or chant some diamoku first? Well, I'll just have to wing it: "Computer: Start transcription!"

"Begin your narrative, Major McClintock," said a mechanical voice.

(Ahem!) – I'm Major Stewart McClintock, commanding officer of this Argyle-class of deep space survey ship christened the CSS Blackthorn (S-1010); a modern, more nimble version of the venerable and now decommissioned Sinclair-class of Expansion War-era battle cruiser/deep space survey craft."

That vessel had a long and very colorful service career, but now her class has been supplanted by this newer version that was heavily armed with a potent set of high energy 40 mm pulse cannons mounted forward and Amidships. We could fight if we had to, but within the ranks of the Deep Space Surveillance Corps discretion was considered to be the better part of valor. This class of deep space survey ship was capable of attaining anti-matter powered interstellar (IS) drive escape velocities in the high twenties with ease.

***

Our thirty day Signal Intelligence (SigInt) gathering mission was nearing its end. We have just completed the Pavo/Ara turn around and are now drifting towards the start point of our meandering mission in the vicinity of the star system of Circinus at level one impulse power. To say that this crew was mentally fatigued and bored out of their skulls at this point would be an understatement.

Currently we are two parsecs inside of the boundaries of the Ara and Pavo Quadrants bordering Soo-Erthra Space. It's one of the most uneventful areas of our monitoring mission. In over two hundred twenty-eight years of SigInt missions not a single incident had been documented occurring within this region of space that faced the parsecs distant Terran southern hemisphere polar region.

Yet, we still performed our mind numbing duties as if we could be attacked at any moment – or worse yet, get sucked into a raging conflict without a clue as to how to extricate ourselves. This situation had occurred in Terra's past with alarming frequency in these regions of interstellar space.

***

The Blackthorn was manned by a five person crew—an indication of the 'priority' these missions rated within the Confederation Armed Forces (CAF); our missions were barely noticed and our efforts at SigInt gathering ignored accept by the leadership of the Intelligence Corps.

The members onboard with five years or less of space/military experience under their helmets were our Space Machinist's Mate Petty Officer Second Class Allan Jamison of the CAF's Naval Wing—with two years onboard.

My navigator, Warrant Officer First Class Dan McIntyre of the CAF's Army Air Corps and our Stellar Cartographer – our resident navigator with five years onboard.

Our lone civilian, the voluptuous Ms. Claire O'Hara of CAF Logistics Command; known affectionately as 'Harelip' by the crew because it's what she sported (surgically repaired of course); this was her second year onboard.

Our fourth crewmember was Mark Anderson, a Space Hospital Corpsman First Class of the CAF's Naval Wing affectionately called 'Needles.' He has over eleven years of CAF space experience. This was his second year onboard.

As for me, the 'commanding officer,' I'm always called by my first name: Major. I have the most tenure in the Confederation Armed Forces over all of them combined at fourteen years. This was my first deep space SigInt mission as a commanding officer.

***

It seems as if this crew had been chewing at each other's butts since our entry into this region on October 8, 2777. Incidents of 'unwanted physical contact' have been leveled by Ms. O'Hara against my space snipe and navigator; the second such time such allegations have been directed against both men since entering the 'turn around.'

If I didn't get a handle on this issue it had all the earmarks of pending sexual harassment charges being filed upon our return to Puyallup colony. It seemed as if my 'perceived inaction' to Ms. O'Hara's plight may have emboldened the alleged perpetrators to carry on. So, I have made it a point to address the entire crew during this leg so this behavior would cease.

I could have placed both men on report. This action would not only mean a 'black mark' on their performance evaluations, but upon mine as their 'rookie' commanding officer. There was a saying that heavy was the head that wore the crown. I had yet to form the persona of most of my former commanders who would roar self-righteously that while on a mission 'their word was law!'

Somehow, those sterling words refused to fall from my lips in light of my paucity of command expertise—just would not sound as 'inspiring.' I never brought this subject up with the navigator, who was also my first officer. With him being one of the accused it would serve no real purpose. If anything had to be done in regards to framing an admonishment it would have to be done by me, but at a time of my choosing.

***

September 30, 2777: We had just finished running an unannounced casualty drill: Hull breach on the third deck, frame eighty-nine. The personnel involved were Needles Anderson, Petty Officer Jamison, and Harelip. Mr. McIntyre was the monitor. During our drills the four of them seemed to mesh well. They performed the required remedies for this casualty drill like the pros they were.

It was afterwards that their personalities got into the way. Once again the loud, complaining voice of Ms. O'Hara could be heard throughout the vessel. It seems as if she had once again been 'touched inappropriately' and wanted to make sure that I heard her strident complaint.

"Enough of this childishness! All crewmembers muster on the flight deck," I ordered over the comm system. The sound of shuffling boots could be heard treading the deck as all three personnel found an area within its confines to plant their butts.

"Shipmates! This situation that currently has us by the balls has got to end! Now Harelip—ugh! Excuse me; Ms. Claire O'Hara has brought to my attention that she is being sexually harassed by the males of this crew. We all know how the CAF frowns on such behaviors—especially among mixed crewmembers on its combat vessels! Just what is the problem? Why can't you men leave this woman alone?" I asked.

"Major! It was just horseplay!" said Jamison sheepishly, "I meant no harm, Major! I mean, we'd just nailed another drill and I felt like giving her a gentle slap on her . . . butt," said the space snipe.

But O'Hara took acceptation to his description of events: "Oh, bullshit. You cupped your hand against my crotch, from behind, mister!" she shrieked.

The fact that her voice went up three octaves nearly caused my glasses fall from my face. Then the other male involved spoke up: "Sir! I may have gotten a bit overzealous in my actions, but I assure you that the touch I gave her wasn't meant to disturb her," said Warrant Officer McIntyre.

Again, O'Hara ardently protested his assertion: "You groped my breasts! I think that was a 'bit excessive' if you ask me," she said, staring at both men as if she wanted to castrate them with a dull knife.

I just looked at the deck. I shook my head from side to side in contemplation; then I formed a response to what I heard. All Petty Officer Anderson did was gaze at us, his eyes filled with bemused indifference.

"We are only a five person crew! This type of behavior was what one would expect to occur on a ship with a much larger complement, not one this size. Let me cut to the chase. Here's what I want to see happen: You two will apologize to Ms. O'Hara for your 'inappropriate touching' of her . . . person. Then, I'll follow up on that. Go ahead – do this now," I ordered.

It was Petty Officer Jamison that led off: "Ms. Orwell. I profoundly apologize for causing you such distress. I didn't mean to have this situation rise to this level. I will be on my best behavior for the remainder of this mission. I promise."

Then, Warrant Officer McIntyre added his Mea Culpa: "Look, Claire—Ms. O'Hara. Um-m-m, I am sorry as well. Look. Your mounds err—you are so beautiful and my emotions got out of hand. For that I am so sorry. I hope that you will accept my apology as well."

Then all hands just looked about at each other. The tension in the air was so thick you could chew it. After an extended period of silence it was my turn to add the capper to this informal gathering: "Let it be known that as of 1208 hours I am declaring this matter resolved!"

"However, if it should happen again I will document it and place the guilty parties on report! That will mean that this crew will be disbanded upon our return to Puyallup and I will lose my command! If that should happen I don't think any of you would want to face me after the fact. Savvy?" I said—with authority.

"Yes Sir!" they voiced quietly.

"Outstanding! Keep your hands to yourselves. That goes for you too, Ms. O'Hara. Let's not nail these males to the cross here, understood?" I asked.

"Fully Major," she said.

"Okay fine! Knock off ship's work. Lunch for the crew," I said.

With that said I turned to take my seat on the flight deck to become embraced by the solitude of the Blackthorn's cockpit.

***

October 6, 2777: The ship's chronometer read 0234 hours. Six days had passed without further incident. Everyone seemed to be on their best behavior. Shipboard routines were once again being performed in a professional manner. Mac and I were having a conversation on the bridge and that situation with his groping of Claire O'Hara had become the main topic: "Mac. I am very surprised that you were engaging in this happy horseshit. Why are you pulling on Harelip's chain?" I asked.

"Are you blind, Major? She's so gorgeous! I just can't help wanting to touch her—to hold her. You know what I mean?" asked Mac in a juvenile manner.

"Yes, I do; but you and I are officers in the CAF, McIntyre! You of all the members of this crew should realize that such actions place your career in jeopardy – mine as well!" I scolded him.

"Yes, you're right Major. But, Sir, since we entered this sector of space every time I see her walking about I just want to hold her, to kiss her and —oomph! You know?" asked the navigator, "Which is funny, Sir, because at Puyallup we never interacted. But, here in this enclosed environment I've developed this sudden, uncontrollable urge to touch her Major," said Mac.

That last bit of self-serving crap had raised my hackles, but it was the best I could expect to hear from Mr. McIntyre. I felt the 'urge' to walk about the ship: "You have the bridge, number one," I said.

"I have the bridge, aye Sir," said the navigator.

Ch. 2

I had made my way to the second deck medical section. Sitting at his post was Needles Anderson was going over his medical stores inventory. I stood by his hatch watching him professionally perform his mundane task. If the rest of the crew was bored doing their exacting routines this man should be in a coma. He really had no other function onboard but the medical treatment of our crew members and as part of our damage control team.

"Needles. A word with you," I said. The petty officer immediately launched to his feet.

"Yes Major!" he said.

"At ease, Needles—I need to know things. I am asking this of you this because next to me you have the most experience in space. What the matter with these crewmembers?" I asked.

Giving my interrogative sober thought he offered an answer: "They're acting like they want to get laid, Sir. The level of adult maturity on this command has deteriorated as of late," said Petty Officer Anderson.

"Go ahead, continue with you observations, Needles," I said.

"Well, if I may be frank, Sir; one of the reasons I accepted orders to this posting was that the crew was small. Being on a vessel with a larger compliment was a pain in the ass, Major. I do better when things are slow, Sir. That fact was the most enjoyable aspect of my duties onboard the Blackthorn," said Petty Officer Anderson.

"That was indeed something I've taken note of. Yes, I've been watching you perform, Needles. Just as no doubt you've taken note of mine. So, be honest. I want a direct answer: Do I suck as a commanding officer?"

"Sir. To be brutally honest: You are doing the best you can with a suddenly dysfunctional crew. Last week was the first step in the many you will have to take if you intend to corral their respect, Major," said Needles.

I just sat and looked upon his features. He did not flinch: "So I take that to mean that I do suck," I said.

"Major. You don't 'suck,' Sir. I've served under some officers who have—you aren't even close. If anything you're trying to 'befriend' everyone. That's not necessarily the best course of action to take either, Sir," said Needles with a straight face.

"All right then. I'll leave you to your duties. Thank you for your candor, Petty Officer Anderson," I said.

With that I rose to leave his space, the corpsman rose from his seat and assumed the position of attention as I departed the sick bay.

***

The next destination I ventured to: The SigInt station located on the cavernous third deck, amidships—the center of that space. This super secured vault like space covered an area on the port side from frames fifty to sixty-four. It was crammed with a sophisticated sensor array console and data processing equipment.

It's where all the sensor inputs from our outside and inside our hull were catalogued and stored. In comparison to the older versions this suite was very much state of the art. This was Claire O'Hara's world. It kept her virtually isolated from intimate contact with her shipmates.

She was also one of the triggers for the ship's defensive capability: Our pulse rifle's tracking radar and synthetic optical sights. With the push of a button she could initiate the system's automated fire control system.

This function could also be performed from the bridge. Our navigator could command their function if Claire became swamped with other mission priorities during an encounter. After all: Our primary mission was signal intelligence gathering.

***

Normally, the weapons operator would be conversing with other crew members on the mess deck which also occupied this deck at the amidships section of this deck. Tonight no one was there. Advancing towards the super secured hatch I touched it, the massive door slowly opened.

Advancing to its threshold I caught sight of the sensuous form of Ms. Claire O'Hara draped across her console. As much as I hated to acknowledge it Mac was right: She was gorgeous! From the outer hatch entrance I addressed the soundly sleeping female civilian.

"Ms. O'Hara! You really should make your reports to the bridge on time," I said in a loud voice.

She immediately sprang to her feet: "Sir! I'm sorry! I must have dosed off."

Actually she had done nothing wrong. Our mission was for all intents and purposes over. The computers were now handling the sensor gathering role – comparing what we had vacuumed up on the outbound leg with the return leg's intercepts. This was just an excuse for me to violate her space because I was the only other person onboard who could enter it thanks to our genetically encoded hatch locks.

"As you were, O'Hara. I came to discuss matters with you in regards to your interactions with the crew post ass chewing by yours truly. How are things with you now?" I asked her.

"Major, I have had no further incidents with those men. I had a chance to think on things. They are 'men,' Sir. I doubt if this level of tension would be an issue on a larger command with more females onboard," said Ms. O'Hara.

I took time to really look at her with a critical eye. I have found that women, even in this highly enlightened era we now live, still fall back on those old tricks to keep males off balance. I called it 'gender blackmail,' a practice that fell out of practice in the mid twenty-second and faded from use through the twenty-fifth. Now, like most societal trends it appeared to be making a comeback.

"Okay. Now, I have a question for you: Why are you so tense around Allan and Mac but not Needles? I find that—peculiar. Does he disturb you? Do I 'disturb' you?" I asked her.

"No Sir! Petty Officer Anderson and you are 'mature men,' Sir! You both treat me with great respect. Those other two can't seem to keep their hands to themselves. Oh, I know how they are feeling, Major. I feel the same way—but not on duty, Sir! We are supposed to be shipmates, not dates on a lark," said Ms. O'Hara. We talked for an hour. When I rose Miss O'Hara reached out to shake my hand, and then impulsively hugged me!

"Oh, thank you, Major. I really appreciate your allowing me to vent my feelings to you. I promise that I will man my post more effectively in the future, Sir," she said in the most sincere tones.

I stepped back from her standing form. I gave her a harsh glassy-eyed stare: "You realize that you just committed what you stated Jamison and Mr. McIntyre had done to you: 'Unsolicited touching and show of affection?" I asked.

"Oh shit! Major! I meant no harm, Sir. I wasn't—"

"I believe the word you are looking for is 'thinking.' Just bear that in mind if another such incident occurs. This 'sexual harassment' crap can be a double edge sword, O'Hara – it can cut both ways. Carry on," I said.

***

The last stop on my ship's tour was the second deck aft Engineering console station located at frame 110 on the starboard side. At his post monitoring our ion powered impulse (IP) drive engine's performance parameters sat Space Machinist's Mate Second Class Allan Jamison.

While we had been on station it has been our prime mover of choice. It used less fuel to operate and could be immediately shut down if the antimatter powered interstellar (IS) drive were brought on line.

Our speed now was sub light plus one. Compared to our idle IS drive it seemed as if we weren't moving at all. However, 'speed' in interstellar space was relative. The distances are so vast that there was nothing in the areas we traversed to gauge our rate of travel against. As I walked towards his station space snipe Jamison rose to his feet. He came to rigid attention while I was frantically gesturing for him to relax.