Snippet #1806243

Midshipman Dennis Heldane
EDF Atlas

The gauntly quiet metal corridors echoed with each step Dennis and the captain took as they made their way to the forward companionway. The hatch was located a mere twenty meters from CIC yet the agonizing walk there through the sudden silence seemed to stretch on for eternity. Normally every forward deck was abuzz with officers and crew whether it be intelligence and tactical officers ferrying documents, marines running CQB drills or maintenance and techs like Dennis himself doing their regular sweeps. For some reason though today was different. It was as if through some Byzantine conspiracy that Dennis was alone in the forward corridor with the captain. Deep-seated discomfort roiled within the scrawny-looking tech. He did everything he could to rationalize, distract and otherwise suppress the fear that was eating away at him by the second. He stared at the floor, he held his MUT in his hand, he reviewed his basic and technical training, and he mentally uttered his personal chants.

Walk the perimeter. Check your six. They invade your mind through your dreams. Samsung Technologies C4ISR Model B battle computer installed on capital ships as a fire control mechanism for directed energy weapons. Walk the perimeter. Check your six. They can't get in if you lock them out. Dennis reviewed internally as he fought his quivering upper lip with every step. Occasionally he glanced at his blank MUT as if checking a passive diagnostic suite. Dennis knew that if others saw him at work they were less likely to pay attention to him. It was a trick that worked in the past and it was working again now. He did it for himself as much as he did it for others, to distract himself from the reality that he was even being scrutinized in the first place. It was working.

The captain's question brought all that effort to a shuddering halt.

“Scuttlebutt across the CIC is that the civilian population is asking about the possibility of integration with the crew given our ‘difficult’ situation. Can you imagine trying to keep anyone’s head on straight?” The commanding officer's voice carved through Dennis's mental stasis like a pulse gun through paper. In one blinding second every coping mechanism he had been bringing online in order to maintain his concentration came crashing down in a ruinous collapse.

Then the other questions came to Dennis that he had been ignoring. What was the captain planning on having him do? What could he do beyond what he had been tasked to? What would be the consequences if he failed? Now another question came to his tortured brain. What was the captain asking him? Did she want his honest opinion or was it a rhetorical question? Was there a right or wrong answer if she was asking for Dennis's opinion.

Better safe than sorry. Dennis thought as he threw together a response for the captain. "No sir, I think tha-that issue is a-a-ABove my pay grade." Dennis mustered the most dignified answer that came to mind as his face contorted in labor with each stutter. He hoped the answer he gave was the right one. They came to the forward hatch where a marine, Pvt.Salinger, stood at attention. She saluted smartly to the captain and opened the hatch. The captain climbed in and Dennis followed. They made their way down the companionway, five decks to the lower maintenance corridors. They exited the companionway again with the captain leading the way. Within minutes they came to the guarded freight doors leading to the port side cargo hold or the "Slums" as they were becoming known. The two marines on station saluted, then opened the doors at the captain's order.

Upon entering the slums Dennis was assailed by the crushing atmosphere of the despoiled, festering living arrangements. Simply the presence of so many people wore on him, and the idea that for every person there was a pair of eyes that could be trained on him. Or rather would be trained on him; he was standing next to the captain after all, a glorious beacon of authority in a land of lawless squalor. He took in the angry pain of this place, felt it at a visceral level. Felt that pain and anger being directed at him.

His lip jumped a little.