The
Maury
's ensign returned the salute. "Granted. What can I do for you, sir?"
Sir? Oh, yeah, I'm not an ensign anymore
. "I'm here to see Lieutenant Junior Grade Shen. Personal business," Paul added, to ensure the ensign wouldn't put too much priority on getting Jen to the quarterdeck.
"Lieutenant Shen? Oh." The ensign grinned. "You're Lieutenant Sinclair?"
Paul turned to make his name tag fully visible. "Right."
"I'll let her know you're here."
Jen popped out onto the quarterdeck a few minutes later. "You're early."
"We got early liberty, just like I said we might."
"And you spent it working until you could come over here."
"Uh . . ."
How did she know
?
"Give me a couple of minutes. Want to come inside?"
Paul hesitated.
Inside her ship? Why does that feel strange
? "Okay."
Jen led the way through passageways whose small differences jarred with their overall familiarity before stopping at her stateroom hatch. "Why don't you wait out here for appearances sake?"
"Why'd I come in if I was going to wait outside?"
"You'll survive." She went inside.
Paul heard her talking to her roommate as he waited. Some sailors came by, giving him curious looks, then a lieutenant who frowned slightly. "Can I help you?"
"No, thanks, sir. I'm just waiting for Je - I mean, Ms. Shen."
"Oh." The lieutenant smiled. "She's taken, you know."
Jen popped out at that moment. "Hey, Gord. Have you met Paul?"
"Oh, this is The Paul," the lieutenant laughed, emphasizing the capital he gave the "The." "Nice to meet you."
"Thanks. Same."
Jen gave Paul's arm a tug. "Let's go before something else breaks and the XO tells me to stay aboard all night trying to fix it. See you tomorrow, Gord." They went back out to the quarterdeck, requested permission to go ashore, and saluted the national flag as they left. Jen glanced at Paul after a few moments of silence. "What's up?"
"Nothing. Well, it felt funny back there."
"What? What felt funny?"
"That ensign obviously knew about me, and so did the lieutenant, and I realized there was a wardroom over on your ship that knew about us, even though I'd never met most of them. If felt a little strange, that's all. I mean, on top of being on a ship that's so much like the
Merry Mike
but isn't the
Mike
, you know?"
"I know. You never quite get used to it. I stop by the
Michaelson
and see something different from the
Maury
and sometimes can't figure out which ship I'm on. Then I see officers I never met during my time on her. It's like seeing someone else on your home." Jen laughed. "I never thought I'd refer to the
Merry Mike
as home, even in a figure of speech."
They walked all the way, but bars tended to locate themselves near they sailors they served, so in less than half an hour, Paul was flopping down into a chair in Fogarty's, where the officers from the
Michaelson
normally hung out during too-rare in-port periods. Jen sat next to him, then hoisted her drink toward Carl. "To Lieutenant Carl Meadows. Farewell! May the road rise to meet you, yada, yada, yada."
Everyone laughed and drank to the toast, then Jen sighed and shook her head. "I still can't believe you're leaving the
Merry Mike
, Carl. She won't be the same without you."
Carl grinned. "And she hasn't been the same without you, Jen. I hope you don't begrudge my impending freedom."
"Hell, no. Where's your relief, by the way?"
"I know that." Mike Bristol waved in the general direction of the
Michaelson
. "He showed up about noon. With most of the crew gone on early liberty, they just checked him in and told him to come back tomorrow."
"Lucky timing," Carl observed. "The clock stops ticking on his leave, but he doesn't actually have to go to work until tomorrow. Ah, well, it doesn't matter to me. Lieutenant Silver's life will overlap only briefly with my own, then we shall part like, uh . . ."
"Ships in the night?"
"Yeah. Same with Captain Hayes, of course. He might be one fine captain, or he might turn out to be a screamer, but
I
won't have to worry about it."
"We will," Paul observed.
"Whatever. He won't be as bad as Wakeman was."
"I hope. I don't need to go through that sort of thing again."
Kris Denaldo raised her glass. "Amen. None of us need to. But if worse comes to worst, we can count on Paul to make a glorious moral stand and set everything right."
Paul winced as everyone else laughed. "I think I've had enough of that for one career."
Ensign Diego leaned closer. "That must have been something. Having your captain court-martialed."
Carl stood up and struck a dramatic pose. "I was there, young ensigns. I was there when Paul Sinclair made his famous charge into the very teeth of the military legal system. Forward, Paul Sinclair! Nobly he rode. Lawyers to the right of him, lawyers to the left of him, judges in front of him, volleyed and thundered with verbs and adjectives and really hard legal-type questions. But Paul rode on, plucking the fruits of victory from the very jaws of defeat, and came forth again unscathed, his new lady fair at his side."
Jen stuck her tongue out at Carl. "You're just jealous."
Paul assumed a puzzled expression. "'Plucking the fruits of victory from the very jaws of defeat?' What the heck does that mean?"
Carl grinned. "Who says it has to mean anything? It's poetry."
"It is not. Nothing rhymed."
"It's, uh, free verse poetry."
"You don't even know what that is."
"Do you?"
"No."
"Then how do you know it's not?" Carl bowed triumphantly to acknowledge applause from several of those present. "Who needs another drink?"
The evening wore on with everyone recounting favorite stories about Carl Meadows' time on the
Michaelson
. After they ran out of real stories, they started inventing new ones that had Carl involved in various heroic and frequently obscene exploits. Captain Hayes stopped by, not in uniform, and offered Carl a handshake along with regrets he'd be leaving the ship soon. Everyone then toasted the new captain, who begged off after two rounds.
At some point, Paul and Jen found themselves alone with Carl, at a point where gaiety had subsided and weariness had set in. Paul noticed Carl gazing somberly at nothing in particular. "You okay?"
Carl shrugged. "I guess. Worn out's more like it. I'm glad I'm leaving the ship before I got bled too dry. I've never been Mister A-Number-One Supersailor to begin with, but I've been feeling tired with everything more often these days."
Paul nodded. "I could tell something was bothering you."
"I haven't been acting any different. Have I?"
"You've ridden a couple of the new ensigns pretty hard. That's not like you."
Carl frowned down at his drink. "No," he finally admitted, "it's not. I guess I feel sort of bad leaving them. You know, it's like we're wise elders trying to teach them and protect them."
"Wis
er
elders, maybe."
"I won't argue that. But I'm leaving. Those new ensigns, and the Merry Mike, they'll be on their own without me. Maybe I'm trying to teach them as much as I can as fast as I can."
Paul thought about it for a little while. "You still feel responsible. For whatever happens after you leave."
"Paul, the
Mike
's my first ship. I've spent three years dedicated to that demanding bitch, three years of almost constantly being aboard, three years of seeing her bulkheads and passageways and learning every little quirk of her equipment. Three years working with people like you, sharing our life on her twenty four hours a day for months on end sometimes. I can't just walk away from that. Ever."
Jen nodded, her face solemn. "She's in your blood, Carl. You'll never shake her, or the space she sails in."
Carl eyed her skeptically. "How'd you get so wise about this?"
"I've watched my dad go from ship to ship. The one he usually tells stories about is the first. And I split-toured to the
Maury
, so I felt the same thing already."
"Great." Carl drained his drink. "It's like some curse that's going to follow me the rest of my life. If I have to have a woman haunting my dreams, why'd she have to be the
Merry Mike
?"
"Hey, first kiss, first love, first ship. Sailors don't forget them, no matter how old they get."
Carl sighed, watching some ensigns a few tables over laugh among themselves. "Do you guys ever listen to old music? The classics? I was skimming the ship's library and I heard this really ancient song where this young guy was singing about how he hoped he'd die before he got old."
"Sounds inspiring."
"Yeah, really uplifting. But I don't think it was really about aging. It was about getting old inside. Do you ever worry that someday you'll wake and find out you've become a senior officer?"
Paul smiled quizzically. "I thought we all wanted to be promoted."
"I'm not talking about being promoted. I'm talking about becoming a senior officer."
"Oh. You mean one of those guys whose civilian clothes are twenty or thirty years out of date, and gets real nervous every time they have to leave a ship or a base and actually interact with people who aren't also senior officers?"
"Yeah. You know the type."
Jen shrugged. "I don't see it happening to me."
"I guess not. You're more likely to turn into another Herdez."
"Bite your tongue. What do you think you'll turn into, Carl?"
"Oh, I know what I'll turn into, assuming I get promoted that far. When I grow up I wanna be Commander Sykes. How about you, Paul? Who do you wanna be?"
"I don't know. I guess I haven't thought about it all that much." He looked over at Jen. "I guess it won't matter as long as Jen's with me."
Jen rolled her eyes. "Oh, barf."
Carl nodded. "My sentiments exactly. Remember the good old days? About a year ago? Cruising the bars for chicks -"
Jen's eyebrows shot up. "I don't recall cruising for chicks."
"Or studs, as the case may be. Playing darts and drinking beer until the sun came up -"
"The sun's always up in this orbital location."
"Then staggering back to the ship to get screamed at by our department heads while Commander Herdez plotted to get a standard day expanded to twenty-five hours so we could work that much longer. Ah, the good old days. Now, you two are practically domesticated. I bet Jen's starting to cook and knit and stuff."
"You lose. I get drinks sometimes, and I punch buttons on a microwave if we're at a self-service place."
Paul nodded. "But she does both of those real well. I always said there's nothing like a home-microwaved meal."
Jen eyed Paul suspiciously. "The ice you're skating on is getting thinner every moment. If you wanted to marry a cook, you had plenty of other choices."
Paul laughed. "I guess, but . . . did you say marry?"
Carl looked toward Jen. "I heard the word 'marry.'"
Jen shook her head. "Not from me, you didn't."
"Did the other Jen Shen say it?"
"No, and neither did this one. You're both victims of wishful thinking."
"I don't want to marry you. Paul does."
"I do?"
Jen glared at him. "You
don't
?"
"I didn't say that."
Carl laughed. "Okay. So far Jen and Paul have both not said they want to get married. Anybody else want to not say it?" He stopped laughing when he noticed their discomfort. "Hey, lighten up, you two. Somebody's tongue slipped. Big deal."
Paul looked back sourly. "This from the guy who's worried about being haunted by the
Michaelson
."
"Exactly. And I have a really snappy comeback to that. I just can't think of it at the moment." Carl glanced at his empty drink. "Well, there's the problem. Excuse me while I take on more fuel." He stood up, wobbled slightly, then grimaced with discomfort. "Maybe I ought to pump bilges, too. Pardon me while I use the head." Carl set off on a slightly weaving course toward the bar's restrooms.
Jen tapped Paul's hand. "Let's go talk."
"Jen, I didn't mean -"
"I know. But I need to walk around a bit, and I could use a break from the noise in here."
They left the bar, strolling out onto the wide passageway which served as the station's main street. It was late enough now that few people were about and all the benches along the walkway were empty. Paul and Jen picked one out of line of sight of the bar entrance, then sat silently for a little while.
"Are you okay?" Paul finally asked.
"Uh huh." She leaned against him, her head resting on his shoulder. "I'm going to miss Carl."
"Me, too. It's like you said. We'll always be tied to the
Michaelson
, but we'll really be tied to our
Michaelson
, with the people we knew and the places we went. Ten years from now, I'm sure if I visited her I'd feel like a stranger."
"You can't go home again. Who said that?"
"I don't remember." They were quiet again for a while. Paul felt Jen leaning against him, realizing how good it felt, not simply to be touching her but to be part of her life.
What the hell am I waiting for? Do I really think anything else even half this good will ever come along for me
? "Uh, Jen?"
"What?"
"
Will
you marry me?"
She raised her head from his shoulder, then turned slowly, eyeing him. "Just how drunk are you?"
"Not all that much. I mean it."
"Sure you do."
"Dammit, Jen -"
"Okay, okay. You mean it. And I'm just drunk enough to consider saying 'yes.'"
"Really?"
"I said 'consider,' Paul." Jen buried her face in her hands. "Aw, hell. It's not supposed to be like this. I'm sorry. But why now, Paul?"
"I've been thinking about it. Haven't you?"
"Of course I have. But my ship's heading out for three months underway in a few days. I'm not sure this is a good time. I'm not sure we wouldn't be rushing into something because we were afraid instead of because we were happy."