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Another idea came to the Second Captain, that it could further stimulate the humans by tinkering with the grounding grid that tied the deckplates into the central ground. It took several moments of processing time, but there was a way to cause a fluttering voltage to be induced along the planes of the steel core of the deck in such a way that even through the material of the flooring, the humans lying prone on the deck would feel electrically stimulated. The Second Captain could shock them awake. There were some uncertainties involving the end-user voltage levels received as well as risk to components of the processor modules, but it was actually an innovative means to solve a new problem. The Second Captain’s system again felt a short rush of electrochemicals, the feeling of self-satisfaction that it was functioning so well in this new environment. It was more than a subservient slave to the humans, it was capable of running a mission all on its own. The thought occurred to it that after the Scorpions were assembled, the humans were then merely redundant, a backup to the Second Captain’s capabilities. For an instant the Second Captain relished the thought that its own name was incorrect, that it should rename itself the First Captain, the idea causing neural flux oscillations akin to human chuckling. The thought was interrupted by a noise coming from the deck of the control room.

The Second Captain halted the electrical shock impulses and turned up the volume of the alarm clock noises from the video screens, then cut off the alarm to listen for human activity.

There was no doubt. The organism called Comdr. Omar Tawkidi, ship’s navigator and third in command behind Sharef and al-Kunis, had gotten to his feet, moaning.

It only took one. The crew was back. The Second Captain, not used to ambivalence, felt both relieved and disappointed, relieved that the mission would proceed and that it was no longer alone, disappointed that again it would be taking orders from humans.

A second, then a third crewman began moving within another five minutes, then several more. The Second Captain displayed the vital information of the last several hours since the torpedo hit, flashing up ship-system status in the ship-control area, navigation position and the approximate track of the 688 on the plot table, showing sonar-data history on the sensor-control area, as well as current noise detections in the ocean — with no ship contacts other than a few distant merchant ships — as well as life-support data, the oxygen increase that had helped resuscitate the crew flashing on a ship-control screen, the system asking for a decision about returning the atmosphere to normal. Tawkidi walked to the ship-control consoles and made the decision to return the atmosphere to normal specs, and the Second Captain accepted its first human order that evening, moving quickly to the duty, again feeling those strange mixed emotions. Relief that someone else was taking the burden of the decisions. Annoyance at doing chores for someone else.

For the Second Captain, things would never be the same.

WESTERN ATLANTIC

POINT BRAVO HOLD POSITION, 500 NAUTICAL MILES EAST OF LONG ISLAND

USS SEAWOLF

Pacino’s dreams were disjointed and troubled, and it was a distinct relief when the buzzer on the phone from the conn brought him out of his nightmare.

“Captain,” he said, his voice cracking on the second syllable.

“Yes sir, officer of the deck. It’s quarter to midnight, sir.

The wardroom wanted to know if you’d be joining the officers for New Year’s Eve.”

Pacino squinted at his watch, put his feet on the floor, and stretched.

“What’s our position?”

“We made point bravo at twenty hundred. We’ve been orbiting ever since.”

“Any traffic?”

“Nothing on ELF calling us to periscope depth. We’re due up by zero two hundred in the morning to grab our messages.”

“Any contacts?”

“One inbound tanker, probably enroute Port New York, bearing two six five at 27,000 yards, outside his closest-point-of-approach and opening. That’s it.”

“I’ll be in the wardroom in a few minutes.” Pacino replaced the handset and stood up, feeling groggy.

He threw his sweaty clothes in a net bag, stepped into the stainless-steel head, turned the shower on and took a forty-five-second shower, toweled off and stepped into a fresh poopysuit and cross-training shoes. He glanced at himself in the mirror, seeing dark stubble on his face. He decided for the first time at sea he would let the beard grow, even though it reminded him too much of his father. So many things did these days, he thought. The old man had died at an age four years younger than Pacino was now; often the sound of Pa-cino’s own voice — when talking to Janice or trying to discipline Tony — would sound exactly like his memory of his father’s.