He felt a flicker of guilt as he felt the cold glass touching his bare flesh.  The crew needed him, he knew, yet he was useless.  They would be better off with Commander Fitzwilliam or even an untrained newcomer from the Academy, not a drunkard like himself.  Fitzwilliam had proved himself, in the end, to be more than just a well-born little bastard who had thought his connections would prove sufficient to take command of a starship.  He’d make the Royal Navy proud.

Or he would, Ted considered, if he ever made it home.

Bracing himself, he took another long swig.

The buzzer sounded, but he ignored it.  Let someone else worry for once.

***

The Captain’s quarters were inviolate, James knew, as he came to a halt outside the hatch.  A press of the buzzer brought no response.  He hesitated, unsure of what to do.  Technically, he could relieve the Captain of command ... but he was surprised to discover that he didn't want to assert his authority.  It would destroy his career, no matter how many friends and family he had in the Admiralty, yet that wasn't what was bothering him.  He'd come to respect Captain Smith too much to want to destroy his career too.

He hesitated, then reached into his pocket and produced a standard multitool.  One of the less standard classes at the Academy had shown the cadets how to bypass certain systems, acknowledging that sometimes the non-standard approach was necessary.  James flipped open the panel beside the hatch, found the locking system and carefully removed it from operation.  The hatch clicked as it unlocked itself, but didn't open.  James cursed his decision to come alone as he pushed the door open, then squeezed through the gap into the Captain’s cabin.  Inside, the Captain was sitting on the sofa, halfway to drunkenness.

James swore out loud as he saw the bottle in the Captain’s hand, torn between being impressed and being horrified.  He’d never heard of anyone drunk on wine from Mars before, but that was because it was hideously expensive, even by aristocratic standards.  James had tasted a small glass of it once, years ago, and had been left with the impression that it was grossly overrated.  He certainly hadn't drunk enough of it to affect his feelings.  Putting the memories aside, he walked over to the Captain, pulled the bottle out of his hand and placed it on the side table.  The Captain looked up at him, blearily.

His mouth opened, but his lips worked incoherently for a few minutes before he managed to produce a few words.  “Piss off.”

“No,” James said.

“Piss off,” the Captain repeated.  His voice sounded stronger this time, suggesting he wasn't as drunk as he looked.  “That’s an order, mister.”