First Meeting
A vignette by Dave Bryant
Characters and background created by MCA Hogarth and used with permission
This work is copyright 1998 and is not in the public domain
We have done with Hope and Honor, we are lost to Love and Truth,
We are dropping down the ladder rung by rung;
And the measure of our torment is the measure of our youth.
God help us, for we knew the worst too young!—Rudyard Kipling, “Gentlemen Rankers”, fourth stanza
(from Ballads and Barrack Room Ballads, 1892–1893)
“Sir. Ashley Browning is here, as you requested.”
Captain Alysha Forrest looked up from behind her desk at the sound of the guard’s voice. Framed in the doorway and nearly eclipsing the armed and helmeted trooper was an Asanii man, his demeanor uncertain. There’s no way I’ll mistake this fellow for an officer, she thought, her glance summing him up. Tall and thin, he stood straight-backed, though his soft waist betrayed a sedentary lifestyle. His long, wavy scalp hair was bound back in a neat ponytail, the color little different from the glossy black fur of his pelt. He was dressed more simply than she’d have expected of an artist, wearing a plain dusky gray turtleneck and slacks and carrying only a flat shoulderbag, presumably containing his art supplies.
Browning seemed a little younger than the age listed in the file she’d been sent, which indicated he was just entering middle age. Then his eyes met hers and she corrected that impression. They were a warm orange and steady, but looked as though he never got quite enough sleep.
She indicated the chair in front of her desk. “Take a seat.” As he did so, she nodded to the guard standing by the door, who reached in silently and closed it.
Without preamble, the captain asked, “Why are you here?”
Her guest didn’t miss a beat. “I volunteered. After the orientation, I was assigned to Star Dancer.”
Captain Forrest tapped a gleaming black claw in mild impatience on the flatscreen of her desk. “I can see that. Most of the artists in this program were all but dragged into it kicking. You walked in and signed up. That’s very unusual, and in my experience the unusual often leads to—” She broke off, remembering she was talking to a civilian, not a junior officer. Civilians frequently didn’t react well to bluntness. The Asanii, however, remained politely attentive, ears perked toward her, hands on knees.
“—Trouble,” she finished in a quieter tone.
Just as quietly, Ashley replied, “And you want to make sure I’m not trouble.”
Alysha nodded. “That’s right. I need to know what brings you to my ship.”
“Patriotism, I suppose,” he answered briskly. At her look of disbelief, he shook his head. “I’m serious. I’m not an active citizen, but I pay my taxes willingly, I vote in every election, I’ve served jury duty. I believe in the Alliance and what it stands for.” He essayed a slight smile. “Most especially I believe in the fact that it stands between the enemy and my world.”
The officer studied him for a long moment. Plausible, but something was missing. Many of the artists professed patriotism just as this man did . . . but they hadn’t felt it ardently enough to put themselves in harm’s way; they’d had to be conscripted. Absently, another claw of super-hard breathnache flicked out, and the personnel file scrolled slowly upward. The date of his enrollment in the artist-observer program leaped out at her. He hadn’t signed up early, before the draft reached him.
Intrigued now, and ignoring the artist’s obvious increasing uncertainty, she studied certain cells in the file more closely. Finally she looked up again and stated flatly, “You have no background in the service, and your listed profession is publication designer, not artist.” She sat back, holding his gaze with her own. “How did you get into the program?”
The man’s jaw tightened and his ears went back at her cool tone, but his voice was controlled. “That is correct. I have no professional credentials as either a military expert or as an artist or writer. That’s why I wasn’t called up.” He sighed and looked away. “When I finally tried to sign up, I had to convince the board I had the skills.”
“I see,” the captain said in a tone that clearly indicated she did not, and that he had better clarify things.
Taking the hint, he went on, “They’re hobbies. But they’re hobbies I’ve pursued all my life.” When his audience showed no reaction, he reached down and rummaged through the art bag he’d set down by his chair. He pulled out a paper sketchpad, riffled through it, then paused, nodding. He turned it around, showing a page to her.
It was a rough, but very accurate, depiction of Star Dancer sitting in dock—the very dock in which it currently lay. The details were lovingly rendered, though the linework was very sketchy, obviously done in haste with an eye to later refinement. Drawn despite herself, Alysha reached out and took the pad.
She read the small notations written in a neat, bold hand here and there on the page. Class, designation, crew complement . . . all the unclassified specifications were listed, and all of them were accurate, free of the minor errors that crept into the general press. She flipped through the pad, glancing at its contents.
Many were equipment or vehicle sketches. Some bore legends naming the items, others more complete notes like those on the Star Dancer piece. But what caught her eye were the thumbnail portraits. Many were of officers in uniform—correctly identified by branch and rank if not by name. Some were from Star Dancer herself.
Alysha closed the pad and proffered it to its owner. “All right, you’ve convinced me you know what you’re talking about,” she admitted grudgingly. “But that’s all.”
His eyes met hers again as he reclaimed the pad, and he said softly, “You have my file. You know as much about me as you do about any new crew member who comes aboard.”
It was hard to take offense at such a gentle tone. The captain relented. “That’s true. But you’re a civilian. You haven’t gone through the same screening or training. I can’t be as sure of you as I can of my officers and crew.”
Ashley replied with unexpected candor. “No, you can’t. There’s nothing I can do about that. I can make all sorts of promises to be brave and capable . . . but we both know they’re meaningless until I’ve actually gone through the real thing. I’m sorry.”
Touched by his manner, but unwilling to show it, Alysha said gruffly, “There is one thing you can tell me, though. Why did you join the program? You didn’t have to, and somehow I doubt that love of country was enough by itself.”
The reaction was startling. He looked down, a complex series of expressions flitting over his face, and his ears twitched back and forth almost comically. When he finally spoke, it was in a colorless murmur. “When I was young, I wanted to be a famous writer and artist. Well, I wanted a lot of things, really. And I have achieved none of them. I’m an undistinguished man in an undistinguished life, because I wasted my best years.” He raised his head again, and his tired eyes burned. “Maybe I thought this was my last chance to do something, to make a difference. I’m too old to enlist. Does that help?”
Alysha was silent. She knew that look in his eyes all too well. It was not all that long ago she’d seen it every time she looked in a mirror. Perhaps his hurt wasn’t as deep or as hard, but it was there. Suddenly she saw it was possible for a life to be as overly empty as hers had been overly full. She cleared her throat. “Yes. More than you realize. Thank you. The duty officer will help you settle into your quarters.”
Without another word, the Asanii stood, slinging his bag over his shoulder. He turned and opened the door, then paused and nodded to her respectfully before stepping out and closing it behind him with a soft click. Ω
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