Military Democracy

[Petitioner]

Lieutenant-Commander Max "Barrelman" Schlesinger
Quartermaster, Acting Gunnery Chief

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While the crew raged and hurled fire and fury at each other despite all seemingly being in agreement, a man in his early thirties sat on a table-bench in the center of the room. Everyone knew him personally by now, even the newest arrivals like Jeong; his position and the seriousness with which he took it made sure of that. He had been thin once, with smooth skin and a downright girlish build, but now he was defined by the burn scars on his arms and the developed muscles needed to haul hundred-pound supply crates up and down flights of stairs long since stripped of guardrails needed to reinforce internal structural support beams.

Max Schlesinger, the Klaxon's quartermaster. Originally nicknamed "Barrelman" in a sarcastic joke about his formerly lanky, diminutive build and its contrast with his assigned position, now lovingly called "Barrelman" due to his well-earned girth and the constant hauling of supplies he so frequently refused to delegate to his juniors. When he stood up, raising his hand as he rose in a seemingly-insubordinate self-selection, everyone turned to listen. Not even Howe interrupted—after all, Schlesinger was his personal secretary, too. At the same time, nobody was foolish enough to think they could get away with the same stunt.

"Glenn, you know damn well I'll make sure each and every mate gets the minutes—thank you, Barb—" a gentle acknowledgment of an ensign serving as stenographer behind a counter "—and has their vote counted. Now, when I took over as Acting Gunnery Chief seven weeks ago, after the big man bit it when that bulkhead fell on 'im, I saw it as an extension of my duty as Quartermaster. That duty is making sure all of you have whatcha need to do yours, be it your own bullets or safety from the enemy's. I've been workin' with CPO Ortega back there in the kitchen to keep us fed, stretchin' out the last kilos of flour and doing you-don't-wanna-know-what to make sure our last remaining fighters have mines and missiles in case worse should come to worst.

"And worse ain't come to worst yet. But we're just about out of credits, and our boys have no more supply depots. Bristol's goodwill towards us is drying up faster than the blood of those poor fuckers down there what died takin' the Delaware with 'em. Some of you say that we've lost our home and can't afford losing our ideals with it. I say we best not lose our lives. We can only recycle oxygen so many times, but Crete's full of that sweet, colorless gold. For that reason and that reason alone, I vote aye. Take their offer and live to fight another day, even if it's as honorless pirates. Our duty as a ship, a crew, a family might change, but my duty as a Quartermaster does not."

Schlesinger's eyes narrowed, and a devilish grin crept onto his roughened face.

"And if they betray us, like the good CE suggested? All one-hundred-thirty-seven nuclear mines can be yanked outta storage and stacked on the cloaking device. All sixty-three remaining Firestalkers pulled outta the flyboys' Prosecutors and ignited on top of the hyperspace surveyor. Every last remaining plasma fuel cell, dripping radiation and toxic atmos, can be hauled up to the twenty-point-oh-three-klick scanner array and set ablaze. Every single last round in our sidearms discharged into the jump drive's bioresonant core. And speaking of the hyperspace jauntulator, the Cretan cretins offered us an alternative meet-up spot in the Omegas, near Gran Canaria. Ain't too hard to commission some third party to grab us the coordinates."

With that, Schlesinger retook his seat and pulled out a pack of smokes from his oil-stained vest's breast pocket as Howe chalked the first 'aye' onto the board.