Chapter 55

[Jim Vassilakos]

After Bim left in apparent disgrace, both Cmdr. Nizlich and Dr. Willin remained silent. While I was certainly within my rights as Captain, from their point of view, they must have viewed his dismissal as rather abrupt and perhaps unwarranted. Yes, there would now be an extended delay in leaving port, but it was apparently unavoidable. In any case, my psi-curtain was closed, so I couldn’t sense exactly what they were thinking, but their silence spoke volumes.

Let me know if you say anything to them before you start making your rounds.

[Conrad Rader]

"Commander. Doctor. I apologize for bringing a cloud over the celebrations. Please continue to enjoy the goodwill of the crew. I am going to make a circuit of the room  to show the flag, as it were, before retiring. It has been a very long day. Doctor, I'll be making an appointment tomorrow as per your request. Until then."

I nodded to Stefani, and then made my way towards the nearest crowd of singing and dancing spacers.

On Fri, Aug 15, 2025 at 1:23 PM Jim Vassilakos <jim.vas...@gmail.com> wrote:

After Bim left in apparent disgrace, both Cmdr. Nizlich and Dr. Willin remained silent. While I was certainly within my rights as Captain, from their point of view, they must have viewed his dismissal as rather abrupt and perhaps unwarranted. Yes, there would now be an extended delay in leaving port, but it was apparently unavoidable. In any case, my psi-curtain was closed, so I couldn’t sense exactly what they were thinking, but their silence spoke volumes.

Let me know if you say anything to them before you start making your rounds.

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[Jim Vassilakos]

Sorry about the delay. We had a service for my Mom, and then my brother had the nosebleed from hell, and we ended up in the emergency room. He and his wife are staying with us, so it's putting a crimp in my free time. Will get back to the pbem as soon as I can.

[Conrad Rader]

Once again, my condolences for your mom and emergency room nosebleeds can be scary. It is the beginning of semester for me so I am hip deep in hiring and producing electronic reserves for absent minded faculty. I'll be ready when you are.

Teamwork, it's what's for breakfast... or something like that...

Conrad

On Wed, Aug 20, 2025 at 12:03 PM Jim Vassilakos <jim.vas...@gmail.com> wrote:

Sorry about the delay. We had a service for my Mom, and then my brother had the nosebleed from hell, and we ended up in the emergency room. He and his wife are staying with us, so it's putting a crimp in my free time. Will get back to the pbem as soon as I can.

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[Timothy Collinson]

Hi there,

I was very sorry to read about your Mum and about the ongoing stresses.

As ever, real life should take priority, but do take care and my thoughts and prayers (or is that now a too spoiled phrase?!) go with you.

All the best

tc

---

From: plankwel...@googlegroups.com <plankwel...@googlegroups.com> on behalf of Conrad Rader <conrad...@gmail.com>
Sent: 20 August 2025 19:41
To: plankwel...@googlegroups.com <plankwel...@googlegroups.com>
Subject: Re: [Plankwell PBEM] Chapter 55

 

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[Jim Vassilakos]

“Commander. Doctor. I apologize for bringing a cloud over the celebrations. Please continue to enjoy the goodwill of the crew. I am going to make a circuit of the room to show the flag, as it were, before retiring. It has been a very long day. Doctor, I’ll be making an appointment tomorrow as per your request. Until then.”

I nodded to Stefani, and then made my way towards the nearest crowd of singing and dancing spacers. Pretty soon one of them noticed their captain’s approach, and after saying something to the others, they all quickly turned around, mostly of them smiling nervously, as none of them knew me beyond my being the descendant of one of history’s most consequential figures.

(Let’s just play this out and see where it goes. Does Gus say anything to them? Feel free to describe them if you wish. He would have had his choice of people to approach. And again, my apologies for not getting on this sooner. My brother’s nose managed to mend after considerable effort on the part of the ER doctors. Why this happened at a service for our mother is something my wife is still trying to work out.)

[Conrad Rader]

I walked away from my two officers pulling the psychic curtain tight as I moved into the crowd. I nodded, waved and loosely returned a couple of salutes from some slightly inebriated ensigns who had not yet figured out the difference between official and social situations. I vaguely remembered being like that on my cadet cruise. I wove through the crowd, smiling like I enjoyed being there, stopped to look at the very impressive beverage station being manned by some flight op techs, and shook my head at the offered grog in the plasform cup that someone in Manufacturing had pressed out with my face in bas relief. I had been to a number of these parties in flight hangers, had even organized a few in my time. I was looking for something specific. Ah, there they were. Tucked away in one of the machine shop alcoves, there was a small purple light, dimmed down to low. Three older crew, in grey uniforms, hovered around the space, clutching the small cups that were almost hidden in their hands.

"Good evening sahmain."

The faces of the two I could see relaxed, and one gave me the return greeting. "Haman, good evening."

The third one was busy at a small table, there was an open chest, and I saw a hand putting two bottles back into the padded containers.

The third crew turned to me and I was not at all surprised to be looking into the eyes of the Combat Master.

"Haman, it is good and just that you have found us."

"Sahmain, it is good and just that you receive me."

This was an old, old ritual said to go back to the early days of the Rule of Man. This was a ritual of spacers, we who live in the deep dark between the stars, we who brave the dangers of jumpspace. The way I learned the ritual was that the longest serving member of a crew was made sahmain, keeper of the box and recipient of the network of favors. They were to be approached by the newest member of a crew, one who was aware of the ritual, one who has been given the knowledge. In this case, I was Haman, the questioner.

"Sahmain, do you hold to the compact?"

"Haman, we hold to the compact and offer you our pledge that we do so."

So saying, the small cup was extended to me. The contents varied from ship to ship, but I could smell the distilled spirits, potent and earthy.

I took the cup, and inhaled deeply, then looked at it, then dashed it back. It represented the power of humanity to create by personal effort something inside the fierce machinery that we used to keep space at bay. It burned on the way down, but settled into the pit of my stomach like a glowing coal.

I handed the cup back. "Potent."

The Combat Master smiled, "I had to find something suitable for our new lion. That was a blending of the three main stills on the ship."

I nodded. Every ship had an underground economy. There were too many hours in jump transit and naval crews were always overstrength due to likely combat. The best ships had organized shadow markets and strict rules enforced by the members of the compact. The Navy was a society of people primed for violence, and it did not stint on the pleasures that helped keep people in line. By seeking them out and submitting to the ritual, I had acknowledged their existence and woven myself into the fabric of the compact. Sahmain would fill me in on the other details should it become necessary, but I had the feeling it would be well in hand. That too was part of the compact, as captain, my law was absolute, no one, not even the compact denied it, but as Haman, I was also now obliged to let the compact work. Thousands of years had settled the arrangement. Sometimes Haman would be asked to do a favor for the compact, sometimes I would ask a favor of the compact. Not every captain had the honor, but they were here, with the purple light, so another step for me in the compact.

I nodded again and watched as the light was switched off, and the box packed away. I turned to rejoin the party and just noticed the crew that had formed a barrier to enclose the nook melt away into the crowd.

I caught the eye of some of the bridge crew and moved towards them and smiled again as the crew started singing the shipsong.

[[Hope you find this intriguing, part religion, part secret society, part intrigue machine, the compact is what I imagine the mafia and yakuza have evolved into]]

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[Jim Vassilakos]

After Bim departed in disgrace, both Cmdr. Nizlich and Dr. Willin remained conspicuously silent. While I was certainly within my rights as Captain to tell him to get off my ship, from their point of view, it was apparent they viewed his dismissal as somewhat abrupt and perhaps even vindictive. Yes, there would now be an extended delay in leaving port, but as he’d described it, this was largely unavoidable. In any case, my psi-curtain was closed, so I couldn’t sense exactly what they were thinking, but their silence spoke volumes.

“Commander. Doctor,” I said, getting up from the table. “I apologize for bringing a cloud over the celebrations. Please continue to enjoy the goodwill of the crew. I am going to make a circuit of the room to show the flag, as it were, before retiring. It has been a very long day. Doctor, I’ll be making an appointment tomorrow as per your request. Until then.”

I nodded to Stefani and then made my way toward the nearest crowd of spacers. Soon, one of them noticed their captain’s approach, and after saying something to the others, the rest quickly turned toward me, nervous smiles all around, as none of them knew me beyond the fact that I was their new captain and a Plankwell to boot.

“Sir,” one said, “happy birthday.” Oh, if only it were. (or change this thought, if you wish)

(Does Gus nod, wave, and move past them, as your last update indicated he might, or does he put out his hand and let them introduce themselves? Regarding The Compact, I have mixed feelings about this idea, and so I initiated a discussion about it on the TML. See https://lists.simplelists.com/tml/msg/32383657/. Feel free to partake, if you wish, but don’t feel you need to if you’d rather not. In any case, my ruling on this at present is that if it exists, and it may, it won’t be so easy to find as you made it out to be and may also be somewhat different than as you described. Indeed, it may take some telepathy to uncover. But, of course, for Gus to open his curtain would be to possibly reveal himself as a psion, so it is understandable that he might not want to take this risk. But you need to let me know if he does, because were he to do so, greeting people w/ his telepathy active, he might learn much.)

[Conrad Rader]

{{Upon further reflection, the Compact might have evolved from the frontier crew that supported the original Plankwell in his drive to the Capital. Having an organized crew to keep the ships running makes a little more sense for Gus to know about. That moves its origins a little closer to the present and might actually account for the Plankwell. Eh, not all ideas are great, and it's enough to deal with psion infested NI and nobles let alone a shadow union among the people.}}

{{I am going to continue NOT greeting people with telepathy open as I am already reeling with stuff I learned about others, and don't want to get quite more complicated yet... haha I know in the light of the Compact bit that seems funny, but the creativity bug happens where it will ...}}

"Thank you. It's an honor to be celebrated by you all."

I shook a few hands and nodded to many, continuing around the perimeter of the bay. I took in the sights of a crew relaxing. There was laughter and dancing, and, I did a double take, was that body painting? I shook my head, that was a new one on me.

Finally, I had made a full circuit, shook many hands, and made my excuses to dodge out through the maintenance port, rather than the main hanger. I made my way past people loitering outside the party, waving them off when they saw me and began to straighten up to salute. "Thank you for the party, Enjoy the off duty." I repeated that several times until I made it to a lift and keyed in my quarters.

I closed the hatch behind me, leaned on it and let the exhaustion creep up on me. I set my privacy setting to prevent all but the most dire emergencies to rouse me, stripped off the uniform and fed it into the cleaner, and slipped into the shower.

"That was the longest birthday I've had in a while."

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[Jim Vassilakos]

I nodded to Stefani and then made my way toward the nearest crowd of spacers. Soon, one of them noticed their captain’s approach, and after saying something to the others, the rest quickly turned toward me, nervous smiles all around, as none of them knew me beyond the fact that I was their new captain and a Plankwell to boot.

“Sir,” one said, “happy birthday.” Oh, if only it were.

“Thank you. It’s an honor to be celebrated by you all.”

I pretended to smile and stuck out my hand, letting each of them introduce themselves. This, in turn, brought more, the groups on either side of us seeing their new CO shaking the hands of officers and enlisted alike, accepting their well-wishes proffered as a matter of courtesy. Some tried particularly hard to ingratiate themselves, and I could sense the differences in temperament between them without opening my curtain.

“Ensign Dugek, sir. It’s a true honor to have a Plankwell descended from Olav as my Commanding Officer, and I very much look forward to serving with you.”

I maintained my fake smile and moved on, not wanting to explain how I really felt about Olav. And although I was curious if any of these people were psions, I didn’t dare open my curtain and risk one of them finding out I was one too. In any case, I was already reeling with what I’d already learned about certain other people and so didn’t relish the idea of things getting even more complicated. Likewise, there were so many hands to shake that I doubted I’d remember more than a few of their names. Under such circumstances, what good would it have been to open wide and learn all of their innermost secrets? No way my brain could ever retain it all. Their names alone were beyond my capacity.

Hence, even with my curtain pulled tightly over my — my psionic eye, essentially — blindfolding me to whatever I might have gleaned as I moved further into the crowd, it was all essentially a blur of faces. My initial intention had been to shake only a few hands and then nod to the rest, but once it started, everyone had their hand out like a feeding frenzy, and I didn’t want to be rude, so in this way, I slowly made my way around the perimeter of the bay, shaking hands and taking in the sights of my crew’s laughter and dancing, people yelling to each other over the general din, which, of course, only made things even louder.

“Petty Officer Meminaa,” one guy said, drawing in close to me, almost eyeball-to-eyeball, and holding my hand for a bit longer than was normal. Then it was on to the next.

Finally, I spotted the iris valve through which I’d entered, and rather than continuing around the main hanger, I took the opportunity to duck into the corridor at which point I stopped shaking hands and just nodded and waved, walking past a long line at the same fresher outside which I’d dressed down Spooky only three days ago. She’d mentioned some maintenance problem, something minor, and I’d chewed her out in front of Stef. Where the heck was Shish anyway?

Oh. Right in front of me.

“Happy Birthday, Combo,” she said as I moved past. (Or not. Gus can stop to talk if he wishes, but there’s always the chance he’ll get accosted by more hand-shakers, and if he’s really intent on circumnavigating the hanger’s perimeter, he’s going to need to go back in there. So does he stay on course and go back to his quarters, or does he stick around to say anything to Gubar?)

[Conrad Rader]

"Don't you start Goober." Deliberately mispronouncing her name was petty, but she knew how I felt about birthdays.

I pulled her over to the side of the corridor to get out of the way of the line to the head.

"Walk with me, I have some things to ask you."

Having another officer walking with me put me more in the persona of doing work so the crew gave us space and I made direct line to the nearest lift and picked up my walking tempo, Guber in tow, and her showing that enigmatic half smirk she used when indulging me.

Once we were in the lift.

"Are they always like this? The crew I mean?"

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[Jim Vassilakos]

"Are they always like this? The crew I mean?"

"Could you be less specific?"

[Conrad Rader]

I glared.

"So...enthusiastic."

"We were never this chuffed for a new captain, and yes I know there was a war on...."

"Look, I more or less expect this from the public, but this crew is something else...."

I realized that what I was saying could be construed as critical.

"It's not that I don't appreciate the enthusiasm, but, what was the last captain like?"

That was a dangerous question, but if I couldn't ask Guber who had saved my life on at least three occasions that I had not also saved her life. I half expected her to tell me to quit being full of myself and just accept it as your due, of high and mighty Plankwell. She was also aware of my family history.

On Tue, Sep 2, 2025 at 11:40 AM Jim Vassilakos <jim.vas...@gmail.com> wrote:

"Are they always like this? The crew I mean?"

"Could you be less specific?"

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[Jim Vassilakos]

 “Happy Birthday, Combo.”

“Don’t you start, Guber.” She knew how I felt about birthdays. (I believe Guber is pronounced Goober.)

I pulled her over to the side of the corridor to get out of the way of the line to the head.

“Walk with me. I have some things to ask you.” Having another officer walking with me put me more in the persona of doing work, so the crew naturally gave us space as we headed toward the spinal transport tube. Unfortunately, there was a substantial line outside the pod’s exit, and with only a few capsules running back and forth, it was sure to be slow-moving.

With the way back to my quarters effectively blocked, I felt a sudden stiffness creep into my neck, and Spooky made one of her enigmatic half-smirks.

“Phoenix Nest is flight personnel only,” she said. “As an ex-pilot, you’d be welcome provided you don’t pull rank.” (I’m going to assume for the moment Gus accepts her suggestion, but if not, let me know, and we can revise.)

Phoenix Nest? That had to be the pilots’ lounge. Every ship that carried fighter squadrons had one. And yes, pulling rank was definitely frowned upon, but it was a culture to which I was well accustomed.

“Lead the way.”

As we headed back the way we came, I asked her, “Are they always like this? The crew I mean?”

“Could you be less specific?”

I glared.

“So… enthusiastic. We were never this chuffed for a new captain, and yes, I know there was a war on.”

“Oh, you poor dear. Did somebody give you an ass-hickey?”

“Look, I more or less expect this from the public, but this crew is something else.” Walking by several of them, I realized that what I was saying could be construed as critical. “It’s not that I don’t appreciate the enthusiasm, but... what was the last captain like?”

That was a dangerous question, but if I couldn’t ask Spooky, who could I ask? I half-expected she’d tell me to quit being a baby and just accept it as my due, being that I was of the high and mighty Plankwell clan, after all. But she was also aware of my feelings about Olav, who I’d once told her was my least favorite family member.

By now the corridor was too crowded for her to give me an honest answer, but we were already at the entrance of the Phoenix Nest, so we went inside. An autoserve was manning the bar along with a little, red-haired guy who looked like he might be blitzed from the way he was laughing with the people across the counter.

The place was worn but clean, and all around the bulkhead ran a narrow shelf with empty bottles. As per regs, each was secured by a polymer band in case of loss of gravity or sudden maneuvers. My best guess was that they were souvenirs of every port the ship had visited. Not every ship had bottles, but pretty much every ship I’d ever served on had a similar tradition of one sort or another.

As I surveyed the space, Spooky pointed out a gap on the starboard shelf, not far from the door.

“Two of them were apparently wedged in a bit tightly; too close to each other. When we came under fire and the ship was struck, they must have collided. The Algebaster Ale bottle broke into five pieces. The bottle formerly containing McKinney’s Thanberian Rum is barely nicked.”

She looked rueful. I could tell that, friendship or not, she was thinking twice about her next sentence.

“The crew wants to go back to Algebaster to complain.”

“What’ll you be having, Cap’n?” the red-haired guy asked as soon as we bellied up.

[Jim Vassilakos]

Of course, if Gus wanted to push his way to the front of the line, being the Captain, he'd be able to get away with it.

[Conrad Rader]

On Thu, Sep 4, 2025 at 5:10 PM Jim Vassilakos <jim.vas...@gmail.com> wrote:

 “Happy Birthday, Combo.”

“Don’t you start, Guber.” She knew how I felt about birthdays. (I believe Guber is pronounced Goober.) (it is but I lean on the 'u' as 'oo' for 'goooooobur', it has the roots in a ancint solomani military comedy that somehow was part of an entertainment package we were watching on down time (Gomer Pyle USMC cousin was Goober Pyle) It just stuck because she got so irritated that her name was similar to a 4000 year old solomai one...)

I pulled her over to the side of the corridor to get out of the way of the line to the head.

“Walk with me. I have some things to ask you.” Having another officer walking with me put me more in the persona of doing work, so the crew naturally gave us space as we headed toward the spinal transport tube. Unfortunately, there was a substantial line outside the pod’s exit, and with only a few capsules running back and forth, it was sure to be slow-moving.

With the way back to my quarters effectively blocked, I felt a sudden stiffness creep into my neck, and Spooky made one of her enigmatic half-smirks.

“Phoenix Nest is flight personnel only,” she said. “As an ex-pilot, you’d be welcome provided you don’t pull rank.” (I’m going to assume for the moment Gus accepts her suggestion, but if not, let me know, and we can revise.)

{{Ex-pilot stung more than I thought it would}} 

Phoenix Nest? That had to be the pilots’ lounge. Every ship that carried fighter squadrons had one. And yes, pulling rank was definitely frowned upon, but it was a culture to which I was well accustomed.

“Lead the way.”

As we headed back the way we came, I asked her, “Are they always like this? The crew I mean?”

“Could you be less specific?”

I glared.

“So… enthusiastic. We were never this chuffed for a new captain, and yes, I know there was a war on.”

“Oh, you poor dear. Did somebody give you an ass-hickey?”

“Look, I more or less expect this from the public, but this crew is something else.” Walking by several of them, I realized that what I was saying could be construed as critical. “It’s not that I don’t appreciate the enthusiasm, but... what was the last captain like?”

That was a dangerous question, but if I couldn’t ask Spooky, who could I ask? I half-expected she’d tell me to quit being a baby and just accept it as my due, being that I was of the high and mighty Plankwell clan, after all. But she was also aware of my feelings about Olav, who I’d once told her was my least favorite family member.

By now the corridor was too crowded for her to give me an honest answer, but we were already at the entrance of the Phoenix Nest, so we went inside. An autoserve was manning the bar along with a little, red-haired guy who looked like he might be blitzed from the way he was laughing with the people across the counter.

The place was worn but clean, and all around the bulkhead ran a narrow shelf with empty bottles. As per regs, each was secured by a polymer band in case of loss of gravity or sudden maneuvers. My best guess was that they were souvenirs of every port the ship had visited. Not every ship had bottles, but pretty much every ship I’d ever served on had a similar tradition of one sort or another.

As I surveyed the space, Spooky pointed out a gap on the starboard shelf, not far from the door.

“Two of them were apparently wedged in a bit tightly; too close to each other. When we came under fire and the ship was struck, they must have collided. The Algebaster Ale bottle broke into five pieces. The bottle formerly containing McKinney’s Thanberian Rum is barely nicked.”

She looked rueful. I could tell that, friendship or not, she was thinking twice about her next sentence.

“The crew wants to go back to Algebaster to complain.”

“What’ll you be having, Cap’n?” the red-haired guy asked as soon as we bellied up.

{{Algebaster, a Jump5 from Jewell, introduced issues, not the least being proximity to Cipango, an active forward Zhodani base. I understood that she was re-iterating the desire to get one back on the Zhos who sneak attack. I thought about what kind of storm could be ignited if I snuck attacked a Zho picket in their front yard...

"I'll take it under advisement." 

To the red-head blitzer

"I'll take something surprising please. It's been a day and I could use a kick me up."

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[Conrad Rader]

Nah, that would be rude....

On Thu, Sep 4, 2025 at 6:22 PM Jim Vassilakos <jim.vas...@gmail.com> wrote:

Of course, if Gus wanted to push his way to the front of the line, being the Captain, he'd be able to get away with it.

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[Jim Vassilakos]

 “The crew wants to go back to Algebaster to complain.”

Algebaster, a Jump-5 from Jewell, introduced issues, not the least being proximity to Cipango, an active forward Zhodani base. I understood she was re-iterating the crew’s desire to get one back on the Zhos for their sneak attack and thought about what kind of storm could be ignited if I returned the favor, say by attacking a Zho picket in their front yard.

“I’ll take it under advisement.”

“What’ll you be having, Cap’n?” the red-haired guy asked as soon as we bellied up.

“I’ll take something surprising, please. It’s been a day, and I could use a kick me up.” (did you mean a "pick me up" or you want to stick with "kick me up"?)

“Ah… okay. What about you, Spooky? The usual?”

“Sure. Cap’n, this is Rage. Rage, this is Combo.”

“Combo?”

“That was his call sign back when he was one of us.”

“Oh, you were a fellow zoomie? Nice!”

“Hey, Rage!” a bearded guy yelled from the other side of the bar. “Where are those dippers?”

“In the microwave where I left ‘em! I’ll be right back. What’s the matter with you? Can’t you see who I’m talking to?”

“Who?”

“The birthday boy, jackass.”

“It’s somebody’s birthday?”

“His call sign isn’t Jackass,” Spooky clarified for my edification. “But it might as well be.”

“It’s your birthday?” The guy got up from his seat. He was big and broad, especially in the shoulders, and as he approached, his eyes narrowed and he frowned. “Oh shit. Captain, uh… happy birthday.”

“You’re drunk,” Spooky scolded.

“No, I’m not. Although my judgment may be impaired.”

“Sir, this is Stallion. Stallion, this is Combo.”

[Conrad Rader]

On Fri, Sep 5, 2025 at 4:50 PM Jim Vassilakos <jim.vas...@gmail.com> wrote:

 “The crew wants to go back to Algebaster to complain.”

Algebaster, a Jump-5 from Jewell, introduced issues, not the least being proximity to Cipango, an active forward Zhodani base. I understood she was re-iterating the crew’s desire to get one back on the Zhos for their sneak attack and thought about what kind of storm could be ignited if I returned the favor, say by attacking a Zho picket in their front yard.

“I’ll take it under advisement.”

“What’ll you be having, Cap’n?” the red-haired guy asked as soon as we bellied up.

“I’ll take something surprising, please. It’s been a day, and I could use a kick me up.” (did you mean a "pick me up" or you want to stick with "kick me up"?)

 

{{I meant a kick me up, which is a pick me up with faster effects and often tastes surprisingly harsh}}

“Ah… okay. What about you, Spooky? The usual?”

“Sure. Cap’n, this is Rage. Rage, this is Combo.”

“Combo?”

“That was his call sign back when he was one of us.”

“Oh, you were a fellow zoomie? Nice!”

“Hey, Rage!” a bearded guy yelled from the other side of the bar. “Where are those dippers?”

“In the microwave where I left ‘em! I’ll be right back. What’s the matter with you? Can’t you see who I’m talking to?”

“Who?”

“The birthday boy, jackass.”

“It’s somebody’s birthday?”

“His call sign isn’t Jackass,” Spooky clarified for my edification. “But it might as well be.”

“It’s your birthday?” The guy got up from his seat. He was big and broad, especially in the shoulders, and as he approached, his eyes narrowed and he frowned. “Oh shit. Captain, uh… happy birthday.”

“You’re drunk,” Spooky scolded.

“No, I’m not. Although my judgment may be impaired.”

“Sir, this is Stallion. Stallion, this is Combo.”

"Stallion."

I racked my memory, but nothing memorable about the Stallion callsign came to mind. Still, he was a big guy, almost at the limit for fighter pilots. I guess he liked squeezing into cockpits or he ran the roomier heavy fighters or long endurance pickets.

"What's your ride Stallion?" I decided to satisfy my curiosity.

Rage deposited a metal tumbler within reach and winked at me as he popped a tablet into it, the red liquid in the cup began to bubble, and tiny wisps of steam rose from the gently roiling liquid.

"There ya go cap'n. Bilbroth and grum, with a Navy MilStem 235 for the kick."

MilStem was one of the standard stimulants for fighter pilots. Oddly for a military drug, it tasted like juicy fruity berries. Bilbroth was a component of the fighter long endurance meal packs, and grum was... some kind of alcohol...

Conscious of the eyes on me, I tipped back the drink and let the salty sweet fruity combination hit the back of my throat.

"Not bad."

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[Jim Vassilakos]

 “Sir, this is Stallion. Stallion, this is Combo.”

“Stallion,” I said.

As we shook hands, his eyebrows squishing together as he looked down at me, I racked my memory, but nothing memorable about the Stallion call sign came to mind. Still, he was a big guy, almost at the limit for fighter pilots. I guess he liked squeezing into cockpits or he ran the roomier heavy fighters or long endurance pickets.

“What’s your ride Stallion?” I decided to satisfy my curiosity.

“Rampart,” he answered, adding “sir” after a pause. “So your name is Combo?”

“No, you Jackass,” Rage interjected. “That’s his call sign.”

“Stop calling me Jackass! Who do you think you are? My wife?!”

“You’re married?”

“Oh, hell no. Do I look stupid?”

“Ah… probably better I don’t answer that.” Grinning, Rage deposited a metal tumbler within reach and winked at me as he popped a tablet into it. The red liquid in the cup began to bubble, and tiny wisps of steam rose from the gently roiling liquid. “There ya go, Cap’n. Bilbroth and grum, with a Navy MilStem 235 for the kick.”

“So if you have a call sign,” Stallion said, “that means…”

“He’s one of us,” Spooky finished the sentence. “Or, at least, he used to be.”

(Any response from Gus?)

[Conrad Rader]

"Used to be? The Marines have officially warned me not to freeride the Jacky."

The kick me up hit the back of my throat like a salty suckerpunch.

"It may have been a while since I was in the hot-seat, but I think I remember how it goes..."

{{Freeride; fighter slang for disengaging from the formation control net, usually without permission, to engage in risky maneuvering}}

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[Jim Vassilakos]

I'm going to be gone for a week. Will try to post an update if there's time, but I'm not sure at this point there will be, so just thought I should let you know.

[Jim Vassilakos]

 “So if you have a call sign,” Stallion said, “that means…”

“He’s one of us,” Spooky finished the sentence. “Or, at least, he used to be.”

“Used to be? Well, the high command did warn me not to free-ride¹ the Jacky.” They mostly laughed, all but Stallion, who looked at me in such a non-expressive way that I momentarily wished I'd left my psi-curtain open so I could sense what he was thinking. "It may have been a while since I was in the hot-seat, but I think I remember how it goes..."

I tilted my head back and took the shot, Rage's kick-me-up hitting the back of my throat like a sweet suckerpunch.

“What birds have you flown?” Stallion asked.

(I seem to remember you'd already answered this earlier, at least in thought, so feel free to expand on it here. If you can't find it, let me know, and I'll see if I can find it. Note, these sort of conversation often involve delving into why one prefers one model of fighter over another as well as the details of their field performance on actual missions doing actual pilot-shit. And people will often talk about whatever actual combat they've done, and sometimes stories get a little stretched. So… uh… proceed.)

1Fighter pilot slang for disengaging from the formation control net, usually without permission, to engage in risky maneuvers.

[Jim Vassilakos]

Oh, if you want to change "High command" back to "Marines", that's fine. Just let me know.

[Conrad Rader]

On Sat, Sep 13, 2025 at 10:05 PM Jim Vassilakos <jim.vas...@gmail.com> wrote:

 “So if you have a call sign,” Stallion said, “that means…”

“He’s one of us,” Spooky finished the sentence. “Or, at least, he used to be.”

“Used to be? Well, the high command did warn me not to free-ride¹ the Jacky.” They mostly laughed, all but Stallion, who looked at me in such a non-expressive way that I momentarily wished I'd left my psi-curtain open so I could sense what he was thinking. "It may have been a while since I was in the hot-seat, but I think I remember how it goes..."

I tilted my head back and took the shot, Rage's kick-me-up hitting the back of my throat like a sweet suckerpunch.

“What birds have you flown?” Stallion asked.

I smiled and launched into my well worn diatribe on the use of sensor enhanced fighter screens. The Rampart was for sure a fine bird, especially with the avionics upgrade near the end of the war, but my true love was the SF-126 Furious Light Fighter. I had spent so many hours in that cockpit, I could still feel the location of all the manual interfaces. The Furies were desgined for high speed attack runs and had an extra fusion rocket for radically changing the delta-vee profile of the terminal attack run. It's secondary role was screening escort so it had a good sensor array and enough computing oomph to set up a secondary missile screen around whatever elements the squadron was escorting. The sweet bonus Spooky and I had been working on was to designate a Furious as a command mod and set up a chained anti-missile net in conjuction with a anti-missile cruiser for a extension in coverage and range at a fraction of the price. 

There was this one time when we were flying escort on the Fleet Admiral's pinnace as she was coming over for an underway inspection of the INS Derringer. This was during the Third Battle of Knorbes and the zhos were trying to place a refuelling beachhead. Anyway, there we were, a quiet transit so far and then my tac grid lights up with active searching heads. Everyone got real excited for a while. {Spooky might add in a quip about wearing the brown pants that day, or the unnerving high pitched squeal SOMEone let out when we got illuminated inside our detection envelope} It turned out that zhos had dropped a static missile emplacement with a pneumatic gas ejector. I saw the damn thing when the Engineering detachment pulled it on board afterwards. Anyway, stealthy activation, but something triggered it too early, or we had a better effective range with the Furious, but eight ship-killers got shredded that sortie, and we all got a commendation for active alert and response.

(I seem to remember you'd already answered this earlier, at least in thought, so feel free to expand on it here. If you can't find it, let me know, and I'll see if I can find it. Note, these sort of conversation often involve delving into why one prefers one model of fighter over another as well as the details of their field performance on actual missions doing actual pilot-shit. And people will often talk about whatever actual combat they've done, and sometimes stories get a little stretched. So… uh… proceed.)

1Fighter pilot slang for disengaging from the formation control net, usually without permission, to engage in risky maneuvers.

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[Jim Vassilakos]

 “What birds have you flown?” Stallion asked.

“The FL-128, the RF-128, the FF-77, and I spent a lot of time in the FF-81,” and those were just the Ramparts. I named several other fighters, but finally finished up with my true love, the FS-126 Fury Light Strike Fighter. I had spent so many hours in that cockpit, I could still feel the location of all the manual controls. The Furies were designed for high speed attack runs and had an extra fusion rocket for radically altering their trajectory. Their secondary role was as a screening escort, so they had solid sensors and enough computing oomph to set up a secondary missile screen around whatever elements the squadron was escorting. The sweet bonus Spooky and I had been working on was to set up a distributed scanning array, using the entire squadron as sensor nodes and therefore multiplying its power and resolution, which would help us determine exactly what we were looking at.

“There was this one time we were flying escort on the Vice Admiral’s pinnace,” I said. “She was coming over for an inspection of the Valkryie. It was immediately after the Battle of Rhylanor, so there was space junk essentially everywhere. Anyway, we were focusing on each piece of debris, just seeing what it was and if there might be any intel value, and then all of a sudden, my tac grid lights up. It turned out the zhos had dropped a torpedo emplacement designed to look like a piece of space garbage.”

“Eight ship-killers,” Spooky interjected. “If it hadn’t been for us, the Valk would’ve been shredded.”

“And Vasilyev would have had to find a new Vice Admiral,” I said. “But we ended up shredding the shredders. Fortunately, we had enough depth in our formation that there was time.”

“How close did they get?” Stallion asked, putting his empty glass on the bar and turning his head to Rage. “Hit me again.”

“Too close to the Vice Admiral,” Spooky admitted.

“How close?” he repeated the question, obviously wanting the details.

“They got close,” I confirmed before giving him the specifics as clear as I could remember. She’d taken awhile to come aboard after they’d docked, and we were all joking that she’d probably needed to change her pants. Brown stains in the buttocks don’t exactly inspire confidence in leadership. But hopefully she was just writing the speech she’d soon be giving when she came aboard, promising to put letters of commendation into each of our service jackets, which I have it good authority she actually did, being that I ended up with a combat command ribbon.

“Oh shit.” Stallion laughed, taking his drink off the table and downing it like it was water. “That is too close.” He turned his head. “Hit me.”

“You’re taking these a little fast,” Rage warned him.

“What are you, my mother? Just hit me.” Rage poured the drink, some sort of hard liquor by the looks of it. “That’s the thing about torps masquerading as flotsam,” Stallion said. “They make it so you have to treat every piece of space junk like a credible threat.”

“If they maneuver,” Spooky said, “they give away their location, so their only chance is to wait until the enemy comes to them. We just flew close enough to trigger their activation script.”

“I’m pretty sure our scans triggered them,” I said. “But once they activated, they locked onto the two biggest targets.”

“Yeah, well, fortunately for you, their onboard computers probably figured a squadron of Furies wasn’t worth their time,” Stallion said, downing whatever it was he was drinking. “Hit me.”

“You’re going too fast,” Rage warned him again.

“There’s no such thing as too fast. The Captain, uh… Combo will back me up on that, right sir? See, I remembered your call-sign. I think that proves I’m a thousand percent sober.”

(Please accept my apologies for being so overdue on this one. I wanted to do a semi-decent job, so I had to wait until I had some time, and this week has been… well, I’m not even going to try to describe it except to say I’m really looking forward to retiring someday.)

[Conrad Rader]

{No apologies needed, and thanks for the in depth, it feels nice}

"There is such a thing as too fast, Stallion, and I have seen the smeared bulkheads to prove it."

I rested my hand on his arm. and kept my voice in the conversational banter we had been using.

"A good pilot knows when to listen to the sensors and when to return to base." 

My other hand snaked out to snatch away the shot glass, and I drank it down.

"Thanks for the birthday drink."

I stood up and motioned everyone to stay. "At ease. I have had a long day but you all need to take advantage of me not being around to enjoy the celebration. Thank you for the party."

I made my way out, nodding to everyone who greeted me. I could feel the shot interacting with the kick me up, and decided finding a clear fresher might be a higher priority. I mused on the optics of pulling rank to get to the front of the line versus the security feed of the captain irrigating the corridor. I resolutely set course for my cabin and hoped for an opportune fresher the further I got from the party.

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[Jim Vassilakos]

 “There’s no such thing as too fast. The Captain, uh… Combo will back me up on that, right sir? See, I remembered your call-sign. I think that proves I’m a thousand percent sober.”

I smiled, and gauging my reaction, Rage shrugged and poured, but then I rested my hand on Stallion’s upper arm, keeping my voice steady so as to convey the same conversational tone we’d been using so far.

“There is such a thing as too fast, Stallion, and I have seen the smeared bulkheads to prove it. A good pilot knows when to listen to the sensors and when to return to base.” My other hand snaked out to snatch away the shot glass, and I drank it down, letting the liquor, whatever it was, scald the inner lining of my throat. “Thanks for the birthday drink.”

I turned to leave but then pivoted back. “I have had a long day, but you all need to take advantage of me not being around to enjoy the celebration. Thank you for the party.”

Then I turned again and made my way to the door, nodding to the few who greeted me on my way out, but I kept my pace steady, as though I had important business. To my surprise, the last of these was Commander Nizlich. She must have just come in as I began leaving, or maybe she’d been standing there for some time, watching my interactions with the crew.

“If you have a few minutes…,” she said.

[Conrad Rader]

"Do we need privacy? Walk with me."

The sight of the two most senior officers together should deter others from intercepting me.

I decided I needed a wee taste of what Nizlich was bringing me, so I risked opening the psychic curtain a bit, just to get a read on her bearing. I knew I shouldn't do it, but I was feeling a little guilty about all the work I had piled on Stefani while I did what I did for the last few days.

Plus, I rationalized, I needed to practice covert scanning, or at least say I was practicing, in case Abbonette gave me a hard time later for shirking..

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[Jim Vassilakos]

 “If you have a few minutes…,” she said.

“Do we need privacy? Walk with me.”

The sight of the two most senior officers walking together would no doubt deter anyone else from attempting to intercept me, so as we walked, I opened my psychic curtain and looked toward her, catching sight of her eyes as we walked, all in the hope of getting a wee taste of what she was bringing me. That plus Josefeen would no doubt want me to practice a bit.

All I picked up, however, was a snippet of the conversation between Nizlich and Dr. Willin after I’d left the table.

“What was that all about?” Kosy has asked.

“I don’t know,” Stef had answered, “…yet.”

Of course, the line was still there in front of the pod’s exit leading to the spinal transport tube, so she turned the opposite way, leading me to a row of four doors along the left side of the corridor, and selecting one seemingly at random, she pressed her palm to the electric lock, and the door opened, revealing a couple, a man and a woman, in a state of semi-undress. It was a sensor station, big enough for two people, and they obviously thought it a good place to make whoopee.

“Out,” Nizlich said, and they scurried like their lives depended on it, collecting their clothes on the way out and getting hooted and laughed at by all the people standing in line down at the other end of the corridor. No doubt, they’d long remember the day the Captain and XO walked in on them. It would make for a nice story, but for right now, they were mortified and humiliated, especially the woman who tried covering herself as she ran off.

We entered the now vacated room, and Nizlich turned to me as the door slid shut.

“It’s turning out of be a nice party,” she said with the ghost of a smile. “But this thing vith Bim…. You vant to tell vhat’s going on?”

[Conrad Rader]

"Bim exceeded the parameters of the assignment. It was a test and he failed."

I knew she wanted more but I was unwilling to complicate the issue more than it was already.

"Look, I knew it was a risk when I gave him the authority. I have feelings about Scouts in general, but was willing to learn. When I dug into the financials, and spoke to the shipyards crew and some... er... individuals on the planet, he had overrode qualified opinions and pushed the cost of the project. I confirmed the information and decided to cut to the quick. No reflection on the crew, but whatever relation Bim had with the previous captain, he decided to try for advancement in a time of change. My error, my fix."

I waited to see if she was going to say anything.

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[Jim Vassilakos]

 “It’s turning out of be a nice party,” she said with the ghost of a smile. “But this thing vith Bim…. You vant to tell vhat’s going on?”

“Bim exceeded the parameters of the assignment. It was a test and he failed.”

“A test?”

With her eyes focused so intensely upon mine, it was a situation where I could have burrowed into her brain, but I didn’t have time. I needed to think of what to say. I knew she wanted more, but I was unwilling to complicate the issue more than it was already.

“Look,” I finally said, “I knew it was a risk when I gave him the authority. I have feelings about Scouts in general, but was willing to learn. When I dug into the financials and spoke to the shipyard's crew and some… er… individuals on the planet, he had overrode qualified opinions and pushed the cost of the project. I confirmed the information and decided to cut to the quick. No reflection on the crew, but whatever relation Bim had with the previous captain, he decided to try for advancement in a time of change. My error, my fix.”

For a moment, she just stared at me with a pensive expression, but rather than continuing to explain, I waited to see what she would say. That she was confused was plain to see, and I could telepathically sense her trying to put the pieces together. She knew of Martinsen’s argument with the IISS engineer. She was the one who told me about it. But how exactly was Bim pushing the cost, and what did it mean for the pod replacement? And most importantly, what did her captain know that he wasn’t willing to tell her? Did it have something to do with his secret stash or the out-of-body experience he’d claimed to have had? No, she wouldn’t bring that up. Not not and not ever.

“Is there anything you’d like me to do?” she finally asked.

[Conrad Rader]

I sat back, a sudden bout of weariness passing over me.

"That is something I should be asking you. This has possibly been one of the craziest days I have ever had, and it being my birthday just added to the fun."

Stafani wisely said nothing as I had not answered her question at all. I shook off the weariness and ordered my thoughts. Readiness, departure, we need to be a warship again, not a limping casualty

"Keep our readiness up as much as we can. See if any other pods in the yard are mission ready, but work up scenarios when we depart with a short load. Let's set up a status meeting tomorrow morning with the command crew and see if we are free enough from the yard to do some underway trials and drills. After, of course, my gift of time off expires."

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[Jim Vassilakos]

 “Is there anything you’d like me to do?” she finally asked.

If not for the Milstem-235 in my system, I probably would have been ready to pass out, but being in such a tight space with her while a military upper was coursing its way through my brain, I couldn't help but recall how much of her I’d seen, particularly while she’d been in the shower, and so her question, while perfectly innocent, provoked thoughts that I had to immediately shove to the side.

“That is something I should be asking you,” I said. “This has possibly been one of the craziest days I have ever had, and it being my birthday just added to the fun.”

Stefani, of course, said nothing, as I had not answered her question at all. I took a moment to focus my thoughts. What did I want her to do?

“We need to be a warship again, not a limping casualty. Keep our readiness up as much as you can. See if any other pods in the yard are mission ready, but work up scenarios when we depart with a short load. Let’s set up a status meeting tomorrow morning with the command crew and see if we are free enough from the yard to do some underway trials and drills. After, of course, my gift of time off expires.”

“Sir,” Stef said, shaking her head, “ve can drill the crew, but my understanding is ve are now stuck here for seven veeks. The only vay I could see us being operational sooner vould be to tell G.P. to stop the severing and reattach the old pod they are currently removing.”