Quoted By:
One thing you learned while being a journalist was that first impression does count. Especially in such a large ship as yours where the rank and file are at least three levels of command removed from their captain and would most likely never see her face-to-face again for the rest of the sortie. If they think you a lenient, or worse, uninvolved captain, discipline is sure to suffer. You must drill some respect into them, but how? The men would just laugh if a soft Coreite landlubber like you try to intimidate them.
As the entire crew gathered before you in the common hall, you decide on a middle course. Silas does not want you to deviate from his notes, but he never said anything about maintaining order. You take a deep breath and raise a fist. The rowdy crowd simmers down to a few mutters. Now the show can begin.
Your index finger extends from the curled fist and points at a young chap, the most impressionable target you can find, "You there, seaman. What are you chittering on about?"
The offender soon has the entire crowd staring at him. He nervously gulps, "No-nothing madam." A hand rests from his shoulder, belonging to the second officer whom you just met. Lieutenant Johnson gives you a reassuring nod. The poor boy is now blushing to his ear, "I'm so-sorry madam, it won't happen again, I swear on me mum."
Although you feel bad for him, an example still needs to be made. "Latrine duty for the next week, and that's the Coreite in me being soft. Next time I will be far harder, do you understand?"
His words quake and trip over themselves, but eventually string together into a complete sentence, "Understood, ma-dam. I... I meant, Or-order acknowledged."
The whole room is entirely quiet now, and not a soul dares interrupt your speech. Even so, most of the vets must realise you have been picking on easy prey. It will take much more than empty posturing to convince these vacburned toughs.
The test run went by uneventfully, giving you plenty of time to get used to the command structure of the ship. Right under you are the Lieutenant Commanders Silas O'Keefe and Temerick Johnson, and it is to them that all other officers deliver their reports. This arrangement thankfully limits contact between you and the rest of the crew and gives you plenty of free time to continue your ad-hoc training. One day as you are reading a book on naval history in your office, officer Johnson gently raps the door. Second-gen Liteian with UN bureaucrats for parents, he certainly has some of that Coreworld charm with him. Much less talkative and much more agreeable than Silas, too.
