Libertonian Servicemember's Bar & Grill

[Jane Hartman]

Harrison was entirely correct. However; to say Hartman was unhappy would have been like saying the planet Manhattan was bigger than a duck. Correct, certainly, but entirely lacking on the subject of scale. The situation had quickly degraded from merely frustrating to properly infuriating, and Hartman's mood was rapidly following suit. She had come in here to collect one, one, wayward crewman on the way back to her office. Dealing with a breakdown and a medical incident had not been part of the briefing.

Two officers, Graham included, crouched by the crumpled body of whatever unlucky soul had caught Sius' glass with the back of his skull, heedless of the spilled ale pooling around their boots as they hastened to reassure themselves that yes, the fallen officer was still very much alive. Sius had seemingly lost control of his basic motor skills alongside his composure and was, last time she looked, still clutching to his self-pity like a drowning man to a raft, her advice be damned. Always was the way. People asked for help and only cared to listen when you told them what they oh-so-desperately wanted to hear. Wanted to hear the truth bathed in words like sacrifice and honour, twisted beyond all recognition until it slotted nicely into that gap in your conscience. It was a lie, and one that grew increasingly hollow the more you heard it until it didn't do any more good plugging that gap than a sponge damming a waterfall. You had to face the truth of things, unpleasant as it was. That was the job. She'd thought Sius would have seen that. More fool her.

“Sit down and control your damn arms.” She hissed, doubted that Sius heard her through his muttering. If he wanted to wallow that was his own business, but there were a hundred better places for it than a restaurant crowded with subordinates. Least she could do was stop him drawing any more attention to himself. For now, she had another mess to clean up.

“You-.” Hartman rounded on the next problem. Kent was still waiting where Graham had left him, faintly stunned - like a man that had just walked into a combat zone on the way to fetch the morning paper - eyes flickering over the scene as though he had all of a sudden remembered somewhere else he should, urgently, have been. And only a half hour late. “Have a ship to be on, as I recall.”
Harrison muttered something that Hartman had to strain to hear over the low rumble of the bar. She scowled. “Louder, Serviceman.”
“Said I was on leave. Ma'am.” Kent met her eyes, a surprisingly bold move for a man who had just been dragged out of the latrines. “Lieutenant Serin said we'd be on shore leave after the New London -”
“You were misinformed.” The beginning of a headache pulsed into existence above Hartman's right eye. Another well-intentioned, short-sighted officer to look up, another call to a squadron leader. Another damned letter and another delayed transport. For some twisted reason, Hartman found the idea of the first far more frustrating. “Find the corpsman and sober up. Benham leaves in an hour.”
“But the Lieutenant-” Kent insisted. Hartman exhaled, slowly and deliberately, quietly cursing reservists, instructors and the universe at large.
“Doesn't have the authority to issue leave.” Which the rest of your crew seems to know. Under ordinary circumstances, she wouldn't have sent Kent back aboard at all. Not on corpsman issued dry-pills, but what choice did she have? The ship had to have a navigator, and Kent was the only one on station not assigned to another ship. The station was a stopover, not a base. It wasn't as though she could pull a replacement out of thin air, and somehow she doubted any of the officers in the bar were about to volunteer to crew a bison, if they even had the training. Kent had to fly, regardless of how little the pair of them liked it. “To you or anyone else. One hour.” Hartman resisted the impulse to raise a finger and demonstrate the concept of one. That would have been childish.

Kent's brow creased in a way that managed to effectively convey a frown without moving his lips before, finally, he gave a mumbled: “Yes ma'am.” The serviceman marched from the room in a manner that, though it could never be formally described as stamping, had much the same end result. Hartman let him go. Painful though the man was, there were limits to what she could do about it in a bar. You didn't issue reprimands in public. Her eyes flicked to Sius. Not unless you didn't have a choice. Benham would fly and, for now, that would have to be enough.

Two problems dealt with.

Graham and an officer she didn't recognise were still hovering over the fallen officer's body as Hartman elbowed her way through the drifting crowd. Most had gawked their fill and were filing back to whatever conversations or drinks had occupied their attention before Sius had started tossing glassware around. Those that hadn't begun moving quickly did so when they saw the frown on her face and the bars on her shoulder. No-one had thought to clear a path to the door, to move the unconscious officer out of the bar. A room full of damned officers, and not one had possessed the foresight or inclination to help. Somewhere behind her eyes the headache pulsed in time with her heartbeat, keeping step like a sadistic marching band.

“You two-” She jabbed a finger at Graham and the man next to him - another face she didn't recognise, but that was the rule rather than the exception these days. Graham, at least, seemed to be competent when it came to shifting bodies from one place to another. “Move him to the hall. Gently. Get a stretcher and shift him to medical if he don't come around in a minute or so.” She added, nodding at the crumpled figure - and paused at the man's face. Storms, but it's reunion night at the Bar and Grill. “Hudson Ravis.” She breathed. Hartman knew the man, had signed off on his recruitment paperwork, spoken to his brother when a tradelane had left Ravis hospitalised. Hardly mattered right now. One unconscious officer offered about the same conversation as any other. Hartman shifted her attention to the patrons still milling around the door, one group clustered around a high table almost directly between Graham and the exit.

“Clear a path!” Hartman had to shout to be heard over the rumble of the bar, voice scraping out of her throat far more screech than she would have liked. How long had it been since she'd stood on a drill square - really stood on it, not climbing some podium for another damn speech? Six years? Seven? Her second attempt was a little better, directed at the men clustered around the high table. “Are you blind? Get that table out of the way!”

---

| Character Sheet | Laws of Liberty | Hartman's Theme | Feedback |