Free The Fleet 01 by David Drake (ed), Bill Fawcett (ed) Page A

officer felt already. This read, “I am sure you will make do in the finest tradition.”
    By the second time he had read that short, meaningless sentence Abe Meier’s resentment overwhelmed his despair. He was still dwelling on the unfairness of the universe and the Admiralty when he arrived at the door to the officers’ mess. A quick glance at his watch also confirmed that he was insultingly late.

    Not quite sure what to say, Commodore-of-three-weeks Meier pushed open the door. He gladly would have made a bold, inspiring entrance, a tall, lean figure with piercing gray eyes dominating his craggy features. Unfortunately he was short, paunchy, moonfaced and had big brown eyes that had watered constantly since landing on McCauley. He looked very much like what he was, a quartermaster in charge of a supply base.
    Still, as tradition required, the most junior officer present snapped out a loud, “A—lert,” bringing every man in the room to attention. It did not help Meier’s morale that much of his command was comprised of men from the nearby Valquez Sector, all of whom towered over his pudgy frame by half a meter.
    Stiffly, trying to not look as uncomfortable as he felt, the Commodore hurried to his seat. The back of his jacket felt clammy as the perspiration evaporated in the artificially cooled air. It made his back feel vulnerable, exposed. He rushed to his seat at the head of the long table before the liveried messboy, whom tradition dictated would assist him with his chair, could hurry across the room. Anxious to end the silence, Meier threw himself into the chair, scraped it forward, and looked up at the officers of his command. After a moment’s hesitation they also took their seats, a few glaring their displeasure. Quiet conversation began to buzz and waiters emerged to pour wine and place small crystal bowls of sliced fruit at each place. The Commodore busied himself with the tart fruit and no one nearby ventured to start a conversation.
    Abe Meier was so lost in his thoughts he barely looked up from his food. He ate slowly, forcing those officers who had finished ahead of him to wait in their seats, as tradition again demanded, until he was through. To pass the time these officers drank more wine or ordered glasses of the dark green liquor which had recently become popular at Port. A few drank more than might be considered wise and their voices became noticeably louder. Finally the young commander finished a tasty but unnoticed custard dessert and reluctantly looked up. With that he began another tradition, the Hour.
    For one hour at the Monthly Mess all the prerogatives of rank and command were waived. Here, with at least no direct consequences, any officer could question another. The commanding officer was not exempt, and he had been dreading this session for days. True, too impertinent a question from an ensign to an admiral had been known to stifle the young officer’s career, but Meier was painfully aware he held in reality no higher rank than most of the men and women in the room. Several had made it obvious they knew he was in command solely due to the influence of his grandfather.
    The first few questions were polite enough, primarily regarding personalities at Port. Then one of the tall, Valquez scoutship commanders who had been drinking more than usual rose carefully and braced herself against a chair. Gesturing widely, she weaved in place as she spoke.
    “When are you going to let us teach those Tripes a lesson? ... sir.” The “sir” came softly and after a long pause. “We’ve been here for two weeks an’ not lifted one ship off this pesthole supply dump. Ain’t it our duty to protect this sector, not your spare parts?” By the end of her little speech the officer’s voice sounded angry, even if her words were slurred. She sat down with a thump and took another long drink of wine.
    The commodore felt his face flush red. Itwas clear from the expressions around him that everyone else in