Icarus by Stephen A. Fender

she
lived and breathed. “You name it, sir. Whatever it is, whatever you’re looking
for, I can find it in the ship’s store. Is it stationery, or maybe more
comfortable sheets, perhaps even a thicker mattress, sir? I know how
uncomfortable these beds can be. I can even score a case of—”
       “Coffee.”
       She looked puzzled. “You need a case of coffee?”
       “Yes. No! I need a cup of coffee. A hot one. Do you think you
can manage that for me, Ensign?”
       “Yes, sir. Of course.” She seemed demoralized at such a trivial
request, but her merriment quickly returned. “Would you like cream? Sugar?”
       “No, just coffee.”
       “Jamaican? Antaran? Columbian? Estonian? Indian?”
       Shawn held out a staying hand in an attempt to halt the ensign’s
rapid-fire verbal onslaught. “Just coffee, McAllister. Plain old Terran coffee.
Nothing fancy and nothing frilly. Simple, unadorned black coffee.”
       “Yes, sir.”
       She turned her attention to her new mission, but was stopped when
Shawn added one more request. “And a donut, if you happen to pass one along the
way.”
       McAllister pivoted, but looked back sharply before leaving. “Anything
else, sir?
       “You could hand me my uniforms.”
       “Oh? Oh!” she stammered. “Of course, sir.” She handed him the weighty
clothes, then hurried on her way to find the items the lieutenant commander had
requested.
       Shawn poked his head out into the corridor, watching the ensign as she
bounded down the narrow passageway, nearly colliding with another crewman.
“Make way,” she barked at the young man, scaring the bewildered crewman right
out of his socks.
       At least she aims to please.
     
    * * *
     
       By the time Ensign McAllister returned with his flavorless coffee and
lackluster donut, Shawn had showered and shaved. In fact, he was just buttoning
up his uniform when the young woman arrived with his light breakfast. She’d
deposited it on the small table and left the compartment as quickly as she’d entered,
leaving Shawn to finish getting dressed. For whatever reason, McAllister hadn’t
said very much when she’d returned, which was just as well. Even though he was
far more cognizant of his surroundings by this time, Shawn felt it was still
far too early in the morning to be burdened with heavy conversation—especially
if it was one-sided.
       As he secured the last button on his shirt, Lieutenant Commander Shawn
Kestrel gave his appearance a final once-over in the full-length mirror on the
port bulkhead. The long black pants were slightly restrictive, the gray shirt
seemed a little loose, and the leather belt was far too long. After some minor
modifications, he tucked in the shirt and pulled it from side to side,
accentuating the military creases that had been ironed into them during their
initial dry-cleaning.
       A small plastic bag had accompanied the clothes, and Shawn spilled its
contents onto the top of the bed and gave the items their due respect.
Apparently, due to his reactivation, he was authorized to wear all the campaign
awards he’d earned during his initial tour in Sector Command. Thankfully,
current regulations didn’t require the wearing of such devices on his present
choice of uniform. However, in order to keep up appearance and look the part he
was being asked to play, he reluctantly decided to put on a single, four-inch
row of his campaign awards. He chose three awards of lesser distinction: an
award for five years of continuous service, a marksmanship award for hand
weapons, and a campaign ribbon denoting that he’d been part of a joint
operation in the Sage Nebula. The final award in the row was something special,
a rarity few officers had and one he was proud to display. It was a
distinguished flying award he’d received while flying with William Graves on
one of the many missions the two had flown together. This particular one,
however, hadn’t been just a run-of-the-mill