“Dismissed.” Major Stella Jager snapped. She waited for the Class Three Spacer to brace to attention and leave her office — scurrying, as he should. Her tongue-lashing was only the start of Spacer Davos’ problems after getting so scuttled on station that he’d tried to steal one of the lifeboats. He’d waltzed in, trying to explain, as if he’d skipped right over flight safety training rather than what should have been instinct after five years in the service.
Come to think of it, she hadn’t seen or participated in a single emergency drill since she’d arrived last week. It should have been automatic as soon as she’d gotten to temporary quarters, let alone her permanent apartment. She’d assumed it had been the influx of new personnel overwhelming the system.
Stella turned away from the hatch opening. She took a few precious sections to rub the bridge of her nose and exhale sharply. Given the shenanigans that seemed the norm on Apezel Station’s weekends, the quick reset was the best thing to a break she’d get in the next few hours. Sparing a pang of longing for the homemade soup currently resting in the chiller alongside a glass jar of moldy jam and three packets of sauce from her predecessor, she called up the next file instead. “Send the next pair in, Lieutenant Petra.”
“So,” she began, and blinked. Both of the Spacers were covered in splattered grease, so much so that she could barely discern facial features or rank insignia. The female wore a makeshift sling. The male had a cut over his eyebrow, where the blood had smeared before it coagulated. “Have you been to medical yet?”
“We’re fine, ma’am!” came the chorus.
“I’m going to shorten this and cut you over to medical,” Stella said grimly. “I want the BLUF of what happened first, though.”
The one with the cut moved his lips through the acronym. Slowly.
“Bottom line up front,” hissed the sling.
Stella’s eyebrows were somewhere in the vicinity of the satellite ring above the station. What kind of military establishment had she encountered, to not recognize basic acronyms?
And how in the heavens would they get from this muddled state to be able to fight the war headed straight for the colony they’d sworn to protect?
“Uh, ma’am, the instructions were actually perfectly clear,” the male said. “Just misunderstood.
A quick look at the file said his name was Dean Zachiras. “So what happened, Dean?”
“My fault, ma’am,” came the female’s voice. “Afraid this is my first week on station, and I’m used to the Welder aircraft. The war declaration screwed up assignments and training, so I’m supposed to shadow-train on the Sylph with Dean and make up for it later.”
“You’re not the only one in that position,” Stella said to — Violet Dunham, apparently. “Go on.”
She swallowed. “I didn’t realize the psi it called for in the book was total pressure, not additional pressure.”
“And I’m not familiar with Welders, so I didn’t realize the manual didn’t articulate the difference.” It was Dean’s turn to swallow. “Kaboom, ma’am.”
“Very much kaboom,” Violet agreed. “Not just the Sylph’s tire, but everything nearby enough to get caugh.”
“We’ve got it sorted,” Dean offered. “Replacement tire’s on, the crew chief is inspecting for additional damage, and we’ve even got most of the hangar cleaned up already.”
“Crew chief’s orders.” The sling bobbed, its cloth the cleanest item Violet was wearing.
“Get to medbay.” Stella let out a sigh and followed the two out of her office. “Ell-tee.”
“Station’s not right, ma’am.” Lt Janine Petra studied her with wide eyes. “And all of us newbies aren’t helping figure out where the problems are. Forward deployment seems like less an adventure and more of a sitting duck situation.”
“Mmm.” She leaned against the chiller, then skipped over the memory of lunch. “And we need to make sure we don’t break what does work in the process. I can’t fix stupid, but that’s not the problem.”
“Not with those two,” Janine said. “The one before? Eh.”
Stella straightened and twitched a hand at the junior officer. “Let’s go find this crew chief.”
***
Thanks to AC for the prompt this week about a perfectly clear yet misunderstood problem! Mine went to Parrish Baker – see what she did with assassins avoiding handshakes here. And don’t forget to check out the rest of the MOTE crew!
