This is the start of my non-Talia novel involving Micki. The first section is the new section I’ve rewritten. The second part is the old section.

They say that protocol trumps everything in the military, that respect for the command structure and everyone in it is a soldier’s primary non-combat responsibility.

This simple little fact was what Micki Brandon kept telling herself over and over as she stared at the older man sitting behind the desk. She stood ram-rod straight, waiting for the order to relax, while the minutes continued to tick past.

What does he want this time? She thought. Is there something else he wants to lord over me? Or is there a fresh round of insults coming?

How someone with the disposition of a porcupine made command of any starship proved worthy of debate between Micki and her friends. While they glowed over the Captain and his teaching style, she had only negative stories to share. To her is seemed almost as if the man went out of his way to make her miserable.

“Micki you disappoint me,” he said finally.

Make sure to look at the prescribed six inches over his head, she thought.

“I’m sorry, sir.”

“I don’t get you,” Captain Alric Patton said as he rubbed the bridge of his thin nose. “Command has eyes on sending you through the command program and you act like it’s the plague.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” she said, “but as you know, I’m serving my required two years. I don’t, at this time, wish to make Fleet my career.”

And here’s the old:

Micki Brandon looked at the man sitting behind the desk and sighed. What did he want this time? Was there something else he wanted to either lord over her or insult her with this time?

How he ever became the captain of a starship, much less command the training ship Barton, beat the mud out of her. The Captain loved to let her know of every little mistake she made and then remind her of it a thousand times. Frankly she didn’t know if he was trying to make her a stronger cadet or cause her to cry. At this moment it looked like crying was the front runner.

A scar ran down his left cheek, which emphasized every facial gesture Captain Alric Patton made. His hair had turned gray long before Micki ever saw him and, in her opinion, age had done nothing but make the man crankier. Of course, she could be wrong, but at this point who knew?

“Micki you disappoint me,”

She looked at the wall the prescribed six inches above his head. “I’m sorry, sir,”

Patton rubbed the bridge of his thin nose. “I don’t get you. Command has eyes on sending you through the command program and you act like it’s the plague.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” she said, “but as you know, I’m serving my required two years. I don’t, at this time, wish to make Fleet my career.”