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decorum?”
    “But you have assured me repeatedly that I have no decorum,”
she stated. “And why do you persist in this custom of calling me a ‘mister’? I
know that it is done in the British Air Navy, but as you can see we are not in
the BAN.” She gestured around the room. It was watch change and rapidly filling
with a sea of profane airdevils of both sexes, all wearing a rat bag of clothes
that in no way would ever be mistaken for a uniform.
    “Nor,” she continued, casually opening her vest wide to
expose her breasts, “could anyone mistake me for a ‘mister’, except perhaps
you.”
    “We have discussed this at great length,” Rogers replied
frostily. “If female veterans of the War can accept proper shipboard courtesy,
so can you. Not that you know anything about proper discipline; if you did you
would not have been off station today!”
    “If I had not the discipline to listen to the spirits
today, we would not be here!” She snapped back at him. “I was checking the side
guns when I just knew . She shrugged, “It is hard to explain to someone
like you. I ordered the port open and shot it down myself.”
    “Even when the ship was set to receive coil blasts!” Rogers
hissed. “You know what could have happened if you were wrong!”
    “I know what would have happened if I had not done so.” Saira
looked at him with a basilisk gaze
    “That was luck, blind luck!” Rogers retorted, forgetting the
surrounding mess crew. “Do not think that your hocus pocus is an excuse
for not taking your duties seriously.” Saira straightened in her chair, the
sound a hissing snake makes exploding from between her teeth.
    “I apologize for that last,” Rogers said, taking a hold of
himself in an attempt to keep his dignity, as he remembered where they were. 
“The fact remains that your shooting did save the ship today, and you do
deserve the recognition you’re about to receive.”
    “I do not want it,” Saira voiced coldly. “Who would wish for
fake ass-kissing?”
    “You will accept it,” Rogers replied equally as coldly.
“First of all, because it is your duty as a ships’ officer. Second, because it
is the Captains’ order.” He continued stiffly, “I suspect that the Captain
wished for me to use this as an opportunity to mend bridges between us. I
believe I have failed at that. Now, may we carry out the Captains wishes with
something like grace?”
    Saira nodded reluctantly, unaccustomed to Rogers actually
apologizing for his pig headedness.
    “With the Captains compliments,” Rogers placed a bottle in
front of her. “He apologizes for not being able to present it in person. Ship’s
business.” Saira noticed that the bottle was Russian vodka, one of her
favorites. He placed the second bottle next to it. “Please accept this from me
as well, for a job well done.” He held out his hand. Saira reluctantly took it.
Rogers stepped back.
    “I must return to the bridge now, Arms-Master.” He nodded
briskly, and turned to go. Saira held up a hand.
    “Wait,” she said. “Will you have a drink with me?”
    “Thank you, but I am still on duty,” Rogers smiled his tight
smile. He nodded shortly to her. “Enjoy.”
    It was only after he had left that Saira looked at the second
bottle’s label. It was a pre-war Scotch. She knew from her merchant days the
bottle was worth more than her ship−share for the entire mission. She
shook her head in wonder. The English were all insane.

Chapter Four
    Nightwatch, Bridge, Wind Dancer
    Rogers looked out into the darkness. He tended to visit the
bridge in the middle of the night when sleep eluded him, which was often. The
habit caused unspoken annoyance to the night watch who he knew listened on the
broadwave to that awful caterwauling they called music when he wasn’t present.
He saw no reason to ban the activity altogether, they were mercenaries, not
British Navy after all. If his nearly forty years in the BAN had taught him
anything, it was never