Bilton - Working Title

Bilton Scenes to be expanded

Planet Side
The wounded prisoner fell to the ground, exhaustion and blood loss taking their toll. He could walk no further, earning a boot to his ribs. The trooper charged with guarding the captives taking all of his frustrations from the drawn-out battle on this one prisoner. Daring to intervene, a captive threw herself between them, the Sargent’s vicious punch to her head knocking her prone over her Lieutenant’s unmoving form. Drawing his foot back, the trooper aimed a blow at the stunned woman’s head.

“Sargent!” The unexpected voice panicking the Troopers. A tone that commanded respect and promised discipline. “Why are you beating prisoners who have surrendered? Who are these people?”

“Sir — Admiral — M’Lord” stammered the flummoxed noncom, “these are the last of the scum who held the enemy Command Center —

“You mean the troops who honorably defended their objective —

“err, yes Sir — M’lord, this one toeing the Lieutenants prone form fell and refused to get up when I urged him to move, this one interfered."

A wave of his hand commanded the medic in his party forward to check the prisoners. Looking up from the ground, the Doctor mumbled to himself as he performed his examination. Turning to face Lord Bilton, “blood loss and trauma, nothing that can’t be fixed, but he needs help now.”

“Harper, a medical shuttle, if you please, forthwith.” Taking in the beaten but still proud captives, “and a transport for our new guests.” Turning to face the offending Sargent, he finished, “see them cleaned up, fed, and well treated. Now, as for you, Sargent. What shall we do with you?”

Wilting under Bilton’s steady gaze, the noncom could barely speak, “M’Lord — I don’t — I didn’t —

Bilton cut him off, “did you recognize the woman’s rank markings?

“Ahh, no, Sir.”

“A Sargent, a Sargent just like you,” his voice almost fatherly, “a Sargent protecting her officer and troops. Troops who fought hard and lost yet still fought with honor. Did she do any different than you would have Sargent?”

“No, no Sir, I’m sorry Si —

Bilton waved away the apology, “you set a poor example for your troops, and you have abused your power over helpless prisoners, Sargent; you will report this incident in full detail to your commander. He is to forward to me his recommendation for disposition before implementing it. Am I clear?”

Strangely relieved, the Sargent managed a more trooper like “Aye Sir!”

As Bilton and his staff walked away, Doctor Willows caught up to Bilton, “you know that man expected to be stripped of his rank and whipped around the fleet.”

“I’m sure he did,” answered Bilton, “but I would have lost a battle-tested noncom, and missed an opportunity to enforce my standards more positively, Doctor.”

As a civilian put aboard Her Highness' Ship Canopus by the Hospital Board, the Doctor was one of the few who dared to question Bilton. “But, surely, his misdeeds can’t go unpunished —

At the ramp of his barge, “rest assured Doctor Willows, the Sargent will be punished, his commandeered will have him flogged, likely on the flight deck in full view of the ship’s company, and recommend a reduction in rank. I, of course, will reluctantly concur with the flogging but will reject the loss of rank. The Sargent gains the honor of atoning his wrongs. Rank means more to him than the six or so strokes he’ll receive.” Smiling as he walked up the ramp, “and I gain a more experienced noncom; who knows, I saved him from losing something he treasures.”
 
Education

Folding the last item he packed into his lightly filled duffle, he couldn’t help but think, ‘this is the last time I’ll see these quarters’. He sighed, his time at the Institute was done, a new chapter and new choices awaited. His mind drifted back in time …

He had excelled at the University, graduating early, not quite at the top of his class, but close enough to gain the attention of his world’s Military Institute. The training ground for military leaders that the fleet needed for the ever-growing machine protecting the Empire’s interests in space. It wasn’t just his grades. A multi-faceted degree in Analytical Mathematics and Political Science caught the attention of his soon-to-be masters.

The second son of a well-connected family of Nobel blood, Hiram Bilton was twice blessed. His name opened doors for him, and as long as he didn’t embarrass the family name, he was allowed more freedom over his destiny than his elder brother, the heir to the family title. So when he announced his intention to join the Empire’s military and become an officer in Her Majesty’s Fleet, his father showed the usual disinterest in Hiram’s choice.

The Institute afforded no early graduation, and its five years were a grueling marathon intended not only to train future officers but to cull out the chafe unworthy of service to the Empress and the Fleet. In the classrooms, Instructors insisted on the highest of standards from cadets. All of the students held the rank of Cadet for the first four years. Only those surviving into the fifth year of the grinding ordeal were granted the title of Midshipmen and allowed to serve aboard her Majesty’s training ship, the Brittania.

Midshipmen, caught in the hellish purgatory between ordinary spacer and officer, made the first four years at the Institute seem a longed-for paradise. More than half of the Midshipmen would fail to survive the training cruise. Some would fail academically, and others would fail physically. Some would die, the victims of shipboard accidents, conflicts, or their incompetence.

Hiram shook off the memories. He had survived. The new rank pips on his sleeve proclaimed that to the world. He was a Lieutenant in the service of Empress and Empire. In thirty days, he would report aboard his first ship, his real training to start, if he survived and flourished, perhaps he’d command his own vessel one day — if not, he’d be another death recorded in some ships log, fodder for Her Majesty’s Fleet.

But first, Hiram Bilton would return home. Home to the drafty, cold halls of his family estate. A place he hoped to escape, his reason for joining the fleet. The shadowy politics and intrigue held little for him. Let his brother have them, all of them. Hiram’s father was ill and failing. This might be the last time they met, given the circumstances. As distant as his father held himself, Hiram still felt some connection to his father, a link that dragged him home one last time.

Slums

Bilton was amused by the wary glances cast his way as the spacers packed up the last of the recruitment gear. Their thoughts, of course, were on whether he’d send them back to the ship on the shuttle or dismiss them to an evening’s shore leave in the planetary systems capitol. Captain Bledsoe had already decided to grant shore leave, but Lieutenant Bilton kept that to himself, lest the detail got sloppy in their hurry to get down to business.

The Capitol was a delightful city, even though it was an outlier, almost on the frontier. A cultured city with many fine shopping and dining establishments. Its clean air smelled of flowers and freshness. The people were friendly and outgoing, eager to please, and happy to accept Fleet Credits.

The spacers weren’t looking forward to those, though. It was the city’s red-light district that most planned to visit, taverns, bars, and dives for all tastes beckoned, even Bilton was looking forward to a bit of free time there, not that he drank. Still, a visit to one of the upscale brothels that catered to men of means was in order after months traveling into the deep.

The last of the gear stowed, the Chief in charge of the detail approached Bilton. “Aye, Sir, and that’s the last of it, Sir.”

“Very well, Master Chief Spere’s, as per Captain Bledsoe’s orders and wishes, you may dismiss the men to a 72-hour shore leave —

The man beamed, both at the shore leave and that an officer had noted not just his rank but knew his name. “Aye, Sir! A blessin’ on Captain Bledsoe and yerself, Sir.” A slight look of concern clouded the Chief’s face.

Bilton smiled. “Yes, Chief, the shore leave extends to you.” His tone was heavier and stricter. “Be sure the men know not to embarrass me, Chief. Any behavior unbecoming a member of my section will be dealt with — quickly.” Bilton had never been quick to resort to physical punishment to instill discipline, but he hadn’t shied away from it either.

As the Master Chief walked away with the good news, Captain Bledsoe came up behind Bilton. “You did well today, Mr. Bilton.”

“Thank You, Captain.” Unable to stop a hopeful look from coloring his face.

The Captain chuckled. “I’m afraid not, Bilton, you will be joining the First Lieutenant, a chance to see the other side of recruitment into Her Majesty’s Fleet.”

Bilton couldn’t disguise the disappointment in his voice. “Aye, Sir, I guess I’ll return to the ship with the shuttle, Sir.”

“That’s best, Mr. Bilton, no worries, you did well, even pleasing the First, especially since this was your first recruitment.”

“I tried, Sir, I only convinced ten to sign up —

“Ten quality candidates, four that will end up at the Institute if they’re lucky, three skilled spacers, two that already made ratings, and a cook to replace that deserting dog, Barstow.”

Bilton winced at Barstow’s name. It was the first execution he had witnessed; watching Barstow struggle to stay in the airlock had left an image he’d never lose. “I hope I didn’t over-promise —

“Not your problem, Mr. Bilton.” Laughing outright. “If grown men fall for a line of space blarney, that’s on them! You had a job, and you did it well, Thank you.”

“Aye, Sir, thank you, Sir.”

“Alright then, back to the ship with you.” The Captain turned to leave, calling back over his shoulder. “My pleasure to the First Lieutenant and let him know I will be staying at the Laurant tonight.”

Bilton groaned as he stomped up the shuttle’s ramp. The Laurant was his intended stop tonight, rumored to have the most beautiful and generous consorts in this quadrant of the deep.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This time the shuttle bay didn’t hold tables, chairs, or other recruitment aids. It contained a whole platoon of well-armed Troopers. All of them in full battle armor and equipped with potent but non-lethal weapons. Bilton’s nervous glance took them in. Both he and the First were wearing armor and had sidearms, though their laser pistols had no non-lethal setting; if used, they would at the very least maim and most likely kill their target.

“Chief Mathers set us down upwind of this sewer if you please.” His voice was tainted with disgust. “I’ll thank you that we do not have to smell it too soon.” A simple ‘aye’ acknowledged his order.

Softer, just loud enough for Bilton to hear, “Mr. Bilton, you and Sargent Morris will protect our rear as we proceed through this heaven-forgotten hole. It’s best if you take your lead from the Sargent —

“Aye, Sir, sergeants know best at times, Sir.”

“and this being your first experience pressing is undoubtedly one of those times. I hope you realize just what faith Captain Bledsoe is showing in you, Bilton.”

“I do, Sir.” Still a bit disappointed at missing shore leave.

“And, do stop pouting. I’ll see you get a bit of time ashore, provided you don’t screw this up.”

The smell, even upwind, hit them as soon as the shuttle door opened. Akin to an open latrine or sewage pit and the worst bar Bilton had ever been in, it made his stomach churn. Fighting down the urge to vomit, he waited for the Troopers to deploy outside the craft. When the Gunnery Sargent, the senior noncom of the detail, called the clear, he and the First descended the shuttle ramp.

“Are we ready, Gunny?” Asked the first, sometimes noncoms did know best.

“The drinking holes close in fifteen, Sir. We should move into the shadows now and set up.”

“Move them out, Gunny.” Turning to Bilton once again. “Remember, you are the rearguard and —

“Yes, Sir, defer to my Sargent.”

The smell of the place seemed to rise from the mud they tromped through. Tiny rivulets of sewage streamed into the craters left by their boots. Boots Bilton vowed to incinerate as soon as he returned to the ship.

Sargent Morris caught his eye, softly he said. “This looks like a likely spot, Sir, good cover and all.”

Bilton looked around and still in a hushed tone but loud enough for his squad to hear. “This looks like our place, Sargent. Set up a guard position.” Smiling his thanks to Morris.

Bilton watched as the forward squads took up hiding places in the alleys and nooks of the festering planetary boil. He knew there were places like this in every corner of the Empire. A place where people hid, criminals, escaped slaves, and any other dreg that the Empire shunned. Making them a prime hunting ground for Her Majesties press-gangs. None here could claim citizenship, nor the protections that came with that.

A man leaving a nearby building, an aging whore leading the way, signaled the tick of the closing clock. In a second, doors flung open and burly men began tossing customers, men and women alike out the doors. A single click from the First’s com unit started the show.

Troopers stepped from their hidden places, their first shots dropping the burly bouncers in their spots. The bouncers were likely armed and best disposed with first. The confused and drunken patrons milled about, not sure whether to run or stay to watch the fun. The confusion turned to panic when the Troopers moved in to cull out the best of them, stunning them with a quick bolt from the weapons they carried. The stunned, including the bouncers, were loaded on the hover-sleds that moved slowly behind the advancing Troopers. As the first three sleds reached their weight capacity, they began their self-guided return to the shuttle. The first sled slid past Bilton, unconscious bodies stacked like cordwood, waiting to be consumed in the Empire’s fires.

A commotion drew Bilton’s attention back to the press-gang. A more organized group was putting up greater resistance. A blaster shot rang out just before the First issued the recall back to the ship.

“It’s a bloody press-gang lads, have at’em.” A rallying cry from the mob. “They’ve no weapons, only little stunners. They can’t kill ya’, but you can kill them.”

Bilton heard Morris’ breathless “Lieutenant?”

“Steady men,” A not so steady Bilton said. “Let the last sled pass — as the fourth sled passed, Bilton switched his com unit to all call, rasping an order, “Friendlies – light up! The Troopers turned on their armors identifiers, separating them from their attackers. “Suppression fire if you please, Sargant Morris.”

“Aye Sir — open fire, watch the friendlies mind you, or you’ll be carrying them back!”

The friendlies began to pass through the line, taking up firing positions among the rearguard, but the mob was growing larger and more organized. First and the press-gang was pinned down, unable to move. Even after the First Lieutenant began firing laser shots, the mob was still moving in.

“Bilton to Cumberland.”

Cumberland C&C (Command and Control), hey Bilton, what’s up?”

Cumberland, we need the CAP (Combat Air Patrol) to sweep 60 meters ahead of my position.”

“Ummm — yeah, Bilton, I don’t think you’re authorized to call in an air stri—

“Now Cumberland!” The press gang and the First are about to be made a hash of by an armed mob. And, we might as well be throwing rocks at them!”

“Aww, shit, if this goes bad, both our backs are hash, Cumberland” CAP inbound, ETA 90 seconds.

Two shooting stars blazed in from the planets north, having left their protective orbit over the Cumberland, their path was marked by the ionized atmosphere as they burned through it. The two small fighters swept over the mob, stunning them with their sudden appearance, and the loud sonic explosion that heralded their arrival. The mob disintegrated, now a rabble seeking escape, no organization, dispersing in all directions, more a danger to themselves.
“Cumberland C&C, no fire run, repeat no fire run!” Bilton hoped he averted the fighters turn to blast the attackers.

Before Cumberland responded, the com crackled with a new voice, “Copy that ground, no fire run.” The voice of one CAP’s command pilot was still slightly distorted by the ionization surrounding his aircraft. “We will orbit until your shuttle lifts. Cap out.”

“Thank you, CAP. We’ll hustle out of this shi— location.” Bilton turned in time to see the Gunny and another Trooper supporting the First between them, a grimace on the First’s face with every step. “Sir, are you ok? Should I send for a medivac?

“More wounded pride then hurt Bilton, tripped over my own feet it seems —

“Still, Sir, if you’re in pain —

The first waved him off. “I can make it back. Gunny here has recalled one of the sleds, so we’ll all ride back in style.” Sitting down, the First motioned Bilton closer. “So, Mr. Bilton, you thought it was appropriate to call down an airstrike?

Trying to reply carefully, he had overstepped his boundaries by a leap. “We were pinned down by attackers who knew we had no real weapons

“Relax, Mr. Bilton, if my clumsiness hadn’t damaged my com unit, you would have heard me calling for the same.” Wincing as he sat back on the hover-sled. “You did well, Mr. Bilton, very well.

Water

Lord Bilton’s concentration was broken by tapping on the door to his ready room. He swallowed his irritation and replied, “enter.”

The trooper posted at his door entered and said, “Mr. Peterson, from Astrophysics, Sir.”

“Let’s have her, Corporal.” The young lady entering his ready room bore the signs of someone who spent far too much time in her labs. Noting that for action later, allowing crew members to soften, even those who might never find themselves in a fight, was never productive. “So, Lt. Commander Peterson, what mysteries of the universe does Astrophysics bring me today?

“M’Lord, we’ve found an uncharted system about three AUs off our current course.”

“Uncharted? Tapping his pen against his chin, “so is it unclaimed, any sign of a marker buoy or resident civilization?”

“No marker buoy Sir.” She was fascinated by the anachronism in Bilton’s hand, “we’re still too far away to see any signs of life.”

“And what makes this system of interest to us, Commander?”

“There are six gas giants in the system M’Lord —

“Six!” She now had gained his full attention.

“— and all six have several moons M’Lord.”

“Have you shared the coordinates with the bridge?” As he reached to toggle the desk’s intercom.

“Yes, Sir, as soon as we spotted it. We didn’t want anything jumping out of it and surprising us.”

“Bilton to bridge.”

“Bridge Aye,” the steady voice of the always reliable Captain Aferton.

“Good evening Captain, I understand you have the coordinates for a system our Astro Scientists find interesting.”

“Aye, Sir, that we do.”

“Very well, Captain, please set course for the system, best possible speed, if you please” —

“Aye, Sir,” indicating with his hand to the helmsmen to initiate the course that had already been laid in, “best possible speed Sir. And, Sir, permission to double the CAP and ready aircraft?”

“An excellent suggestion, thank you, Captain, please make it so.”

“So, Peterson, back to your lab and instruments, keep Captain Aferton appraised of anything new before it has a chance to jump out and bite us.” Nodding towards the door in dismissal, “and thank you, Commander, good job.”

“Aye, Sir,” pleased that she had escaped without a comment about her unkempt hair or ruffled uniform, “thank you, M’lord.”

Bilton leaned back in his chair, an uncharted system, possibly unclaimed, a rare and valuable find. A system with six gas giants and their all-important moons made the system more valuable. If the system was unpopulated, or as it appeared, its population was undeveloped, it was a significant find, one that would earn himself and the crew many trillions of credits.

The system might have inhabitable or at least terra-formable planets. It might have a population the Empire could exploit. The planets themselves would have minerals to be mined, even the gas giants themselves would have extractable wealth in their atmospheres —

But the moons!

Gas giant moons promised the life-blood of the colonies. Given the proper orbit, at least one of the moons would be a small ice planet, hiding vast quantities of water beneath its frozen surface. Water needed to feed the Colony’s growth. It would terra-form desert planets, provide fuel for its fleet. Wars had always been waged and were still fought to control water; the last World War that had almost destroyed Earth was a vicious battle to control the precious resource. Bilton smiled at the last thought, that war wasn’t won by the strongest, most powerfully armed. The war had been won by the side that discovered the power of the dark, the magic of water — and how to throw rocks.

The Roast Beef Of Old England


Since the traitorous Barstow's last supper at the Captain's table, this would be the ship's officers' first Sunday gathering in the Wardroom. Barstow's attempt to poison Captain Bledsoe had earned him a trip out of the Cumberland's airlock without an environment suit, and without a Wardroom cook, the tradition of The Captain's Table suffered.

The First had spoken plainly and directly. "No way around it Mr. Bilton, you've found us this new cook, and the Wardroom will hold you responsible for his success or failure."

Heeding those words, Bilton cornered the new cook in the Pantry. "Cullen, a word, please."

"Is everything a'right, Sir? Is there a probl—"

"Your reply should be 'Aye, Sir', Cullen, then wait for the officer to speak —"

"Aye, Sir, this whole navy thing is a bit new, Sir. Was something wrong with yer breakfast, Sir?"

— "No, no breakfast was fine; the coffee was quite good, in fact."

"Thankee, Sir!" Cullen beamed at the compliment.

Bilton continued. "I wanted to speak with you about this Sunday's Captain's Table —"

"Ahh, yes, Sir. Cullen looked thoughtful. I've been plannin' the meal a'ready. A roast of beef, of course. It has ta be the Roast Beef of Old England, Sir"

— "it's our first since, well since the man you replaced left our employ."

"Aye, Sir, the cheeky bugger who got hisself spaced, bad business, that, Sir"

"Err, yes." Noting the fact that Cullen was already in tune with the ship's scuttlebutt. "Well, at any rate, Sunday needs to be special, quite special in fact."

Cullen looked a bit hurt. "Sir, I will do all—"

"Ahh, no Cullen, I wasn't commenting on your abilities, I was more referring to the ingredients at your disposal."

"Well, Sir, I am at me wit's end, the Pantry stores left me are, well, a bit sparse, Sir"

Bilton smiled. "Yes, my point entirely! We are fortunate that we still orbit a rich planet, with a fine larder."

Cullen's eyes lit up. "Do you mean I might set Sunday's meal from the planet's markets, Sir?"

"Indeed I do, Cullen," Bilton added. "It is my wish that you restock the Pantry to better standards, your standards."

Excited, Cullen answered. "Sir, that will be a might expensive. There ain't that much credits in the Panty's kitty, so to speak —"

"Not to worry, Cullen, I'll restock the Pantry's Kitty, you see to filling the Pantry proper."

"W’it pleasure!” At Bilton’s frown. “I mean, Aye, Sir”

“And, wine and cigars Cullen, be sure to procure a sufficient supply of both.” Before leaving the Pantry Bilton admonished Cullen. “Not a word about this to the other officers Cullen, no need for them to know."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The roast of beef, or rather two roasts were scrumptious, filling the Wardroom with aromas that had been absent during Barstow’s turn as cook — served with a traditional Yorkshire Pudding and a host of other sides. The quality of the cooking was attested to by a silence that fell over the room as the officers ate.

The gathered officers, satiated from the tasty meal, sat back. Happy and pleasantly full, the officers enjoyed a fine Port before dessert.

Captain Bledsoe tapped his glass for attention. “A toast, or toasts I must say; First, a hearty toast to Her Majesty and the Empire!”

A chorus of ‘here, here Her Majesty and the Empire’ rang out in the Wardroom as each man drained his glass in Her Majesty’s Honor.

“And, another to Lieutenant Compton.” Compton looked surprised. “Newly appointed First of Her Majesty’s Sirius.

Muted ‘here heres’ this time, as each of the other Lieutenants calculating what this meant for their own futures.

Before Bledsoe could raise his refilled glass again, Cullen entered the Wardroom with a decorated tray, an ornate crystal dish at its center.

“Ah Cullen – I believe —"

Swallowing nervously, his first time answering the Captain. “Aye err –. M’Lord?”

Bilton groaned, but Bledsoe laughed. “I thank you, my good sir, but there’s no peerage to be found here, just a simple ‘Aye, Sir’ will suffice. But, more importantly, what more do you think we can eat man? Now, what have you brought us?"

“Aye, Sir.” A bit unsure if the dessert was welcome. “A fresh strawberry trifle, Sir, the berries are in season below, and I handpicked each one meself, I did. But, if no one wants it —"

“Don’t be daft, man.” The First laughed heartily as he raised his glass. “A toast! To Lieutenant Bilton, may all his recruitments serve as well as our new Wardroom cook!” Casting an eye at the smiling cook. “And, well done Cullen, now let's have that trifle.”

Bledsoe winked and smiled. “But first, I think Lieutenant Bilton should lead us in a chorus or two of “Roast Beef of Old England.”

Bilton blushed. Singing in public was not a strong suit for him. But, with a voice made strong by the hearty port, he led the laughing group in song. A strange thought tickled his mind as he sang, twice now he had been referred to by rank, not the customary Mr. generally reserved for juniors. He shrugged the thought off. A manifestation of the port, perhaps?

“As a matter of course gentlemen, Compton’s good fortune means a bit more work for all of the rest until we receive a new officer.” Frowning, Bledsoe continued. “If fleet ever sees fit to give us a new one, but until then, there’ll some shifting about and changes. The First will fill you in as needed.”

Bilton enjoyed his port, and the trifle was delicious, fresh strawberries, freshly whipped cream and a homemade pound cake. He didn’t give much thought to Compton’s promotion. Yes, it moved him up a step. But, not until a new officer came aboard. There was no official Second, an unofficial pecking order based on seniority amongst the junior Lieutenants was traditional. The most senior Lieutenant, aside from the First, got to serve a watch unsupervised. That was Compton’s old watch, it marked him as the next officer to be promoted to First. The other, more senior Lieutenants vied openly for the spot, hoping to advance to the next level. Bilton knew, as the freshest and most recent officer to join, he had no chance for Compton’s old watch. He had hopes of who it would not go to, Rodgers was an egotistical ass who had made his life miserable, but not as bleak as he made life for the ship's section he commanded. Given the prestige of a new position of power, there was no telling what poison he might spread. Rodgers was the next most senior time-wise, though. ‘Well, we’ll know soon enough, First will ask someone to stay behind, and that will tell all.’ Bilton dismissed further thoughts from his head.

The signal to rise and leave was left to Captain Bledsoe, he rose a bit unsteadily, having enjoyed far more port than normal. “Thank you, gentleman, for a fine meal and better company, I look forward to many more Sunday repasts in your company. Lieutenant Bilton, my compliments, and please pass them on to Cullen.”

“Aye, Sir, and thank you, Captain.” Again with the Lieutenant, this was a bit intriguing. “I’ll be sure to, Sir.”

The officers began filing out, some to their duties and others to sleep off the meal in their bunks, all waiting and wondering who the First called to stay behind.

Shock, exhilaration, and a fair measure of surprise filled the officer whose name the First called. The shock and surprise were mirrored in the faces of the others. Distain and anger showed in Rodgers' face; this was to have been his, not this usurper to his promotion.

“Lieutenant Bilton, a word if you please.”

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