Truth and Beauty 3-9

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“Three cheers for Captain O’Brian,” said the sub-lieutenant, once Jack was read in.

The captain blushed, but managed to restrain a smile. “Very good, Lieutenant Greensteet, you may dismiss the men,” he said. Once this was done he continued, “I’ll need to synch my sextant, so perhaps our next stop should be my cabin - er - quarters, and from there we may go round the brig.”

* * *

The captain’s quarters were at Roth’s stern: a great cabin all the way aft, with two smaller cabins forward of that, side by side and separated by a narrow passage. With its deal planking and the noble spread of the stern windows (no stern gallery in anything less than a carrier or a liner), the great cabin was the grandest room in the Roth. Besides the captain’s coach and sleeping cabin, two quarter galleries opened off it; the one to starboard housing his private toilet and sink, and the one to port his private shower. Piping and ductwork, decently shrouded by more deal, hung from the quarterdeck overhead, but in most places Jack found that he could stand up straight.

His day bag sat on a chair in front of a fall-front desk, with a midshipman’s hat on top of it. Jack frowned at the hat, moving it to a table and then ignoring it for the time being. He pulled his sextant from the bag, opened the desk, then plugged the sextant into the cable he found there. Once the synch app successfully launched, he turned back to Lieutenant Greenstreet. “Let us go round the brig,” he said.

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Truth and Beauty 3-8

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At the jetway’s end a red-coated marine snapped to attention as Jack approached. Jack touched his ID to the reader, and when the door rumbled open he had his first up-close look at the Roth.

His first impression was of age, age and obselescence. The airlock was cramped, with fading paint through which several sores of rust spread, giving the space an unhealthy look. Extra piping had been welded along one of the bulkheads - the piping was stainless, but even this had begin to rust. Richmond style locks were fitted to the doors, a device that had been growing obsolete when Jack was no older than Barus and Holley. He kept his eye on the amber light on the bulkhead and when the airlock’s inner door swung open he took a deep breath and stepped through the hatchway to his new command.

As soon as he crossed the threshold the bosun’s whistle began, piping Lieutenant O’Brian aboard. “Welcome aboard, sir,” said a tall, thin man, wearing the uniform of a sub-lieutenant. “I am Mister Greenstreet, subLieutenant of the Roth.” He stood bareheaded and saluting in a sort of crooked way. After a moment, Jack realized that this was due to his unnatural height, which forced him to stoop, even here on the main deck gangway. Even the sub-lieutenant’s face was tall and thin. At present, it wore a respectful but otherwise blank expression; Jack was an unknown quantity as far as discipline was concerned, and the sub-lieutenant had no desire to antagonize a man who might be commanding him for the next several years, perhaps in very trying circumstances indeed. Behind Mr Greenstreet stood the rest of the Roth’s officers, including Midshipman Holley.

Lieutenant O’Brian returned the salute. “Thank you, Mister Greensteet. If you could introduce the officers.”

This began a ritual ceremony in which each officer was named and stepped forward in order of precedence. They each saluted their new commander and he in turn saluted each of them. He caught the names of the master’s mate (Henreid) and the gunner (Veidt), but then the names began to mix and blur, and he quickly lost track of whether the carpenter was named Leigh or Lorre, and whether the engineer or the electrician was named Humphries. Thankfully, there is the muster book, he thought, noting with some relief that Mister Greenstreet had now introduced almost everyone; Jack’s arm was growing sore from the many salutes. “Very good, Mister Greenstreet,” he said. “If you will assemble the men I will read myself in.”

The bosun’s mate blew his call and the weird piping blew over the Roth’s PA system, now playing cadence to assemble the men. Mister Greenstreet led Lieutenant O’Brian along the gangway to a typically steep, narrow flight of stairs that led directly into the men’s berthing, recreation, and dining area.

Most of the men were already here. Jack’s, or rather Lieutenant O’Brian’s arrival was no secret, nor was the fact that he would have to read himself in to assume legal authority over the Roth and her crew. The men assembled in their places, toeing scuffed lines taped on the floor, each standing where his designated number was handwritten on the linoleum tiling. Gaps showed where men were missing, either on duty at stations they should not leave, on their way from the more distant parts of the Roth, off-ship on leave, or perhaps on the sick list. Many of the men looked jaded and groggy, with tousled hair; and at least one sported a mis-buttoned shirt: the watch below had clearly been asleep.

Midshipman Holley pulled a chair over to a microphone hanging from the ceiling, climbed up to switch the microphone on, then moved the chair back out of the way. Sub-lieutenant Greenstreet stepped forward to the mike: “off hats,” he ordered.

The order was superfluous; none of the men wore head coverings of any kind, but it was necessary, too, as the time-honored preamble to the reading-in of a new captain. The men straightened their backs and fell silent, watching the Lieutenant O’Brian as he stepped in front of the microphone, unfolded his commission, and began.

“By the right honorable Lord X_____, Knight of the Bath, Vice Admiral of the White, and Commander-in-Chief of His Majesty’s Vessels employed and to be employed in the Home Sector,” Jack read, continuing through to the end, marrying himself to the Roth and her crew and making his orders to them death to disobey.

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Drew's Fighting Ships: T2 Tanker

The T2 superfamily of tankers and fleet oilers were part of the Pitt administration’s second building program. Like other designs of the program, the name reflects this, T indicating tanker, and 2 indicating the second program. The superfamily includes several prototype and demonstrator vessels, four classes of civilian tankers (many members of which eventually saw military use), two classes of Navy tankers, and one class of fleet oilers. All of these vessels were based on a common design, and most included a now infamous weakness between frames 72 and 201. Poorly understood metallurgy, coupled in some cases with rushed, inferior construction technique, exacerbated this weakness, as well as obfuscating its nature. Many T2 did live full, productive lives, but enough of them failed, and enough of the failures were spectacular, that the opposition seized upon the class to discredit Pitt and force him from office. Today, the T2 is most important for its engineering and design lessons.

Design and Evolution:
The T2 was envisioned as a vessel that could build up Britain’s merchant fleet, then shrinking and wearing out under wartime austerity measures, while violating neither the letter nor the spirit of those measures. The design was fully compatible with Naval facilities of the time, could keep up with convoy vessels, and allowed for easy conversion to Navy service. Partial government subsidy encouraged civilian operators to participate in the building program, and enabled many cash-strapped operators to afford to replace obsolete and worn-out vessels, with the proviso that the Navy could purchase the ship at book value on 30-days’ notice.

The initially-approved design met all of these needs, producing, after a few prototypes, the Syracuse class of T2s starting in 2732. Syracuse class vessels featured 9 cargo bays; bay 1, at the bow, held two tanks, separated by a midline bulkhead, each carrying about 80,000 gallons. The remaining bays held a center tank of about just under 400,000 gallons and two wing tanks, each of 160,000 gallons, giving a combined capacity of a little under six million gallons of fluids.

The stern was dominated by a two-by-two arrangement of 1 GW thrust engines at the corners (often Kingfisher Astro series, though roughly-equivalent Rolls-Royce and Viscount engines were also used), with twin 0.5 MW Kingfisher Director engines on a rotating nose ring for pitch, yaw, and roll. Bays, wiring, and magazines for two 14 GW plasma-arc cannon per side were fitted, though the cannon themselves were not. (Cannon would be supplied by the Navy if the tankers were appropriated. Some civilian operators installed dummy cannon as a measure of protection, or less-powerful real cannon; and some appropriated vessels retained their Navy-issue cannon on their return to civilian life.) Twin 70 GW reactors powered the whole.

Builders laid 173 keels of this class, of which 144 saw completion. Three were destroyed on the stocks by enemy action, sixteen were cancelled mid-production, and the remaining ten were appropriated by the Navy prior to their completion, being converted into various prototypes and experimental vessels. The class came to an end as a casualty of the emerging design for what would become the Gravelines class of supercarriers, which required greater quantities of coolants and lubricants than the earlier New Orleans and Trafalgar classes.

A hurried redesign increased cargo capacity by close to 16% by cutting back frames 72 through 201 and disrupting the beam belt in the same area. An external “bilge keel” was added to compensate for the disrupted beam belt, a visible feature absent in the Syracuse class and the most obvious external feature (i.e. feature in absentia) of that class.

Of the ten incomplete Syracuse vessels purchased by the Navy, seven were built as prototypes of the evolving T2a design (the other three saw such extensive alteration as Special Projects experimental vessels that they are frequently excluded from the class). The last of these, Chapel Hill, had all of the main features seen in the T2a group, and some scholars consider Chapel Hill to be the class leader. The Navy, however, named the class for the first vessel ordered to the design, the Mount Pleasant.

Mount Pleasant class tankers differed from their predecessors primarily through their increased cargo volume, but other changes were also made, including dividing the crew’s berthing area into several smaller compartments for better gender harmony, and rearranging the bulkheads of the officers’ quarters. The class is also the parent class to the Navy’s Ticonderoga tankers. These vessels received cannon during fitting out at their builders’, featuring either Armstrong pattern cannon before about 2745, or Blomefield pattern cannon after. Since the Navy did not appropriate any Mount Pleasant class tankers before the middle of 2746, Armstrong pattern cannon are almost exclusive to the Ticonderoga class of T2s. Ticonderoga class craft were also equipped with 2500 gpm cargo pumps, rather than the 2000 gpm pumps seen on their civilian-built sisters, or the 3500 gpm pumps of the later Wichita class of fleet oilers. Builders completed 372 Mount Pleasant craft, plus another 77 Ticonderoga vessels for the Navy.

The New Hyde Park class of T2s were built, through Lend-Lease, in American yards. In many respects they were identical to the British Mount Pleasant class, with the important distinction that all structural (and many other) members were built to SAE dimensions. These dimensions gave the New Hyde Park craft a curb weight about 2% less than that of the Mount Pleasant craft, and about 3% greater efficiency, as the engines were the same for both classes. The Navy’s Melbourne tankers were also American-built and SAE-dimensioned, being related to the New Hyde Park civilian tankers much as the Ticonderoga tankers were related to the Mount Pleasants. Production numbers for these classes were 198 New Hyde Parks, and 42 Melbournes.

Thus far, the power plant and engines of the original Syracuse design had met the modest needs of a tanker, but by 2750 the T2s often found themselves as the slowest vessels of the convoy, and a re-engining and redesign was in order. Five Ticonderoga class vessels were refitted with 1.5 GW engines, but this was really more than the installed power plant could handle, and none of the conversions were deemed successful. After a catastrophic fire on board one of these vessels, thought to be related to an overtaxed reactor, the remaining four vessels were decommissioned and scrapped. Eleven incomplete Mount Pleasant tankers were appropriated before the installation of their power plants. Experiments with these vessels yielded the T2b series, fitted with synergy-linked twin reactors (then a new technology) each capable of putting out 75 GW independently, or 165 GW together. Four 1.2 GW engines (typically Curtis Industrie Shakespeares), still in a two-by-two at-the-corners plan, provided about 15% extra thrust over the T2 and T2a designs, enabling the vessels to keep pace with their convoys. The Manchester was the first T2 to be ordered and built with the new power plant and engines, and so became the class leader. Manchesters were identical, in other respects, to the Mount Pleasant class vessels they superseded. 98 were built.

The final member of the T2 superfamily is the Wichita class of fleet oilers. Intrest in using a T2 design as a fleet oiler had originally risen in 2736, when Curtis’s buyout of Julio-Novak threatened continued availability of J-N’s Red Ball oilers. Under heavy pressure (the government threatened to block the acquisition), Curtis agreed to continue producing the Red Ball, renaming it the JN-3, but increasing dissatisfaction with Curtis’s product led the Navy to revisit the idea of a T2 oiler in 2741, and again in 2743. Several prototypes were made by converting existing T2s, but none proved satisfactory and the government struck a ten-year contract with Wang instead.

In 2752, this contract was coming to an end, and the Pitt administration pressed the Navy for an in-house design. Electronic Transport Controls’ Source Four Engines were selected, rated at the same 1.2 GW as Curtis’s Shakespeare engines, but delivering 30% more thrust (drawbar). This was enough to enable the prototype vessels to easily keep up with the main battle fleets of the time, and the substitution of 3500 gpm cargo pumps and a second, larger hangar area (added at the expense of a sick bay, and by shrinking the avionics bay - functions assumed by the capital ships of the battle fleet in any case) produced a vessel capable of replenishment under weigh operations. The first vessel in which all of these features appeared, Wichita, became the class leader (not the first vessel ordered to these specifications from the ground up, in breaking with past T2 tradition). In total, the Navy launched 45 Wichita oilers.

Problems, and Retirement:
All members of the T2 superfamily, with the exception of the Syracuse class, had in common a structural discontinuity at frame 72, and again at frame 201. External bracing (the so-called “bilge keel”) was intended to compensate for this, but T2 tankers suffered structural failures at a higher rate than many other vessels of the time. Rushed, substandard construction was blamed at the time, and did have a role in some incidents (e.g. the Yarm-on-Tees), but others occurred on vessels built in careful, well-respected yards where the standard of work was high. Various additional theories were put forth, including the sulphur content of the steel used, and “built-in stresses,” but none of the proposals led to successful amelioration of the problem. Computer analysis completed in the early 2800s, based on improved understanding of the physical stresses of a craft in space, showed that the “bilge keel” bracing failed to adequately address the loss of structural integrity caused by the interruption of the beam belt when the liquid storage tanks were expanded, and this is now the accepted reason for most failures.

Regardless of the reason, by 2755 the T2 had earned a reputation as a poorly-built craft, prone to catastrophic structural failure, and various inspection and repair programs were initiated. Some of these helped, to a degree; but others perversely exacerbated the problem by focussing stresses on already weak areas of the hull. Orders for the design fell off. The last T2 launch (Owston Ferry, a Wichita class oiler) occurred in May of the following year.

Of all five classes together, approximately 1,000 T2 craft were built and launched over the program’s 24 years. The Navy divested itself of all of its T2 by 2762, though many continued with the Transport Board and civilian operators for many years after than time.

Truth and Beauty 3-7

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Jack, still busy with thoughts that made his face unnaturally grave, stared back, noting the blue coat, white collar facings, and unadorned shoulders that had so recently been the marks of his own rank.

“What’s your problem, Barus?” asked another boy, coming around a corner in the jetway, “did you fall down again, you -,” before he stopped, too.

“Holley,” said Barus, still sprawled upon the ground, “it’s him.”

But Holley had already reached this conclusion on his own. He ran back up the jetway and disappeared, shouting, “he’s here! Mister Greenstreet, he’s here!”

Jack stepped through the gate and allowed it to close. Barus looked to be about ten years old, Jack guessed, a little chubby, with unkempt brown hair and black eyes and a round, face, currently pale with shock. He sat unmoving, except to swivel his head to continue to stare up at Jack, who began self conscious. “Mr Barus,” he said, to break the tension, “you belong to the Roth?”

“Yes, sir,” said Midshipman Barus, moving to remove his hat and realizing that he was already bare-headed. Apologetically, he saluted, still absurdley sprawled on the ground. “Carl Barus Midshipman second class H-M-Brig Roth Lieutenant, uh, Lieutenant O’Brian sir.”

Jack returned the salute. “I am Lieutenant O’Brian. Perhaps you would be so good as to take my bag?” he said, hoping to induce the boy to stand, but Barus merely reached up from where he was. “I think you will find your hat just outside the gate,” Jack continued. “Once you have found it and put it on, please place it in my cabin and meet me on deck.”

The midshipman nodded. “Yes, sir," he said, saluting again, and Jack proceeded down the jetway to H-M-Brig Roth.

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STO'B 5-3 Captain Fitton

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Badger plucked her anchor from the ground and set sail out of the harbor. Less nimbly, Chasseur did the same. Philip sat in his cabin and sulked. “Yes,” he said when the sentry again announce Mr South.

“Steam is up, sir,” said the master, saluting and carefully looking over his skipper’s shoulder rather than at his tear-lined face. “Begging your pardon, but our coal bunkers are only about a third full, like, and our quarterly allowance is spent.”

“Spent?”

“Yes, sir. We refilled from the Cranberry, then half full from Chasseur, plus what came before your time, so to speak, is our full allowance. And we’ve burnt most all of that, sir, between the donkey and the main - we only carry ten ton or so. We might be able to argue that a new commander rates a new allowance but that doesn’t always take - and any way that won’t be till after we gets to Malta, at earliest. Best guess is most of a day of steam, at six knots, our most efficient speed.”

“I see.” Philip pulled a pencil from a drawer in his desk and scribbled some hasty multiplication on the corner of a piece of paper. “I will buy more coal in Malta, Mr South, there will certainly be time. Burn what we have. And Mr South?”

“Yes, sir?”

“In the future, er, please ask how to enter captured supplies.”

The master cleared his throat, but then his eyes glassed over and he saluted: “yes, sir,” and left.

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Truth and Beauty 3-6

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“Carry your bag for you, sir?” piped a small voice at his elbow.

Looking down, Jack saw a boy of perhaps eight or nine, dressed in a once fine jacket and shabby trousers. “Why not,” he said to the boy, pulling his sextant from the side pocket before handing the bag over (he had been robbed before, though never in a Naval facility). “I am bound for the Roth, he said. “Do you know where she is?”

“Oh, yes, sir,” said the boy. “She’s on gate five at terminal A. We’ll have to take the shuttle, sir, this is terminal C.”

Jack resisted a frown. All five terminals met in a central hub to form a lop-sided star. Gate numbers began at the hub. The shuttle circled around the far ends of the terminals. “How about I just give you the two shillings,” he said to the boy, “and we walk through the hub instead?”

“It’s three shillings, sir,” said the boy unashamedly, “and an ice cream.”

“Three shillings and an ice cream it is,” said Jack. Together, they walked down to the hub, Jack stopping from time to time to chat with people he knew, and buying the boy an ice cream at the soft-serve stand. By the time they reached gate 5A, both the boy’s hands and the handles of Jack's bag were sticky. Jack paid the boy his three shillings, plus the fee for carrying the bag, and the boy ran off to find another customer.

Jack considered the gate. On the far side of it lay the jetway to his command, and he was still sorting out his varied feelings on the matter when it opened to discharge a boy of perhaps twelve years old. The boy ran bodily into Jack, losing his hat and bouncing back through the gate into the jetway, where he fell to the floor.

“Can’t you watch where the-” the boy began, but as he looked up to see who he had run into the words died in throat, and his mouth and eyes spread into a trio of large, silent circles.

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STO'B 5-2 Captain Fitton

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By the time Phillip returned to the sloop that was barely still his, he was pale and shaking. He made the sketchiest of salutes as he was piped aboard, told the master (the officer of the watch) to make all steam for Malta, and retreated to his cabins, refraining only with difficulty from slamming the door.

He barely had time to order coffee before the Marine sentry announce Mr South. “Yes,” Phillip said, then rather less forcefully, “how may I help you, Mister South?”

The master coughed apologetically, but steam was not up. The wind served, however, if Philip wished to start under sail.

“Yes,” said Philip. “Whatever combination of steam and sail will get us there the quickest, in your professional judgement.”

“Yes, sir. And the Chasseur, sir, shall we signal her to follow?”

Philip nodded, not too curtly, he hoped. The master left, and Philip sat down on one of the stern lockers. Badger would probably need some weeks in the yard at Malta, more than enough time for Admiral Whyte’s orders to arrive in Gibraltar and for the lucky commander to sail back to Mahon to claim Philip’s sloop. And the Chasseur - even if the old dog refused to believe him on the Spaniard and the merchantmen, the Chasseur was tangibly true, but here Simkin brought in coffee on a steel tray. Philip poured himself a cup, wonderfully hot and strong, and stared through the stern windows at the tangible Chasseur, floating at single anchor.

Badger’s capstan gave a few preparatory clunks that echoed through the sloop. In his mind’s eye Philip saw the Marines assembling at the capstan bars, with the usual pushing and shoving as the men distributed themselves. Perhaps if he color-coded the bars, each with a matching colored dot on the capstan head, the Marines would have less trouble; perhaps he could find paint in Malta.

The Chasseur began to glide from left to right across his stern windows as Badger crept over to her anchor. “Up and down, sir,” he heard a seaman report; Wight, by the sound of the voice; and Mister South’s reply, “thick and dry for weighing.” In the window, Chasseur settled in the last pane on the right, rising and falling in the swell.

The fife laid in, and in his mind’s eye Philip could see the Marines straining at the capstan, Wight and the party at the cathead, the men in the hold coiling the anchor cable.

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Truth and Beauty 3-5

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The victualing wharf lived over New South Wales, about a 90-minute flight. Jack loosened his seatbelt enough to pull his phone free. He wrote a short text to Jevons, describing his misfortune. The message took a surprising amount of time to compose; bitterness and blame kept creeping in.

He sighed, saving the message instead of sending it. Over on FaceTime he updated his status, adding several exclamation marks to show his excitement. He thumbed through friends’ pages for a while, ignored congratulatory replies to his updated status, then reread his message to Jevons. It was as good as it would be; he tapped send.

Various other craft passed them. Some were wherries, but others where lighters, carrying cargo to and from the planet surface. Several ships’ cutters tore past, racing for bragging rights. A barge, bearing the revolving green lights of a flag officer; an ambulance with flashing lights; several black-hulled buoy tenders. They overtook a cluster of station tugs guiding a wounded frigate; Jack saw carbon scoring and twisted metal, and noted that the frigate’s engines were dark. Orion was her name - Captain Wilcox’s ship.

Once they were past the frigate and its retinue, Jack made out the victualing wharf. Several vessels were tied up along side it, loading and unloading. One was clearly a T-2 - Jack recognized the long, somewhat rounded profile, not unlike a loaf of bread - and clearly, as Jevons had described, in need of a paint. Faded lettering across her stern, some of it raised, read ROTH.

“Bravo-oscar-six-five-three, Roth.” said the wherryman into his microphone, telling the victualing wharf’s traffic controller that he had Roth’s commanding officer aboard. Jack’s eyes searched his craft, picking out details, assembling a sense of her condition and capabilities: old, high-mileage, and overdue for a refit. The engine nozzles were dark since she was plugged into the wharf’s power grid, and looking into them Jack noted that they were not original: Algonquin-Electric 300 series, probably 375s. Premerger, based on the tail cones. Reasonably maintained, though that bluing at the number two nozzle's inner edges suggested that the fuel mixture was too lean. He tried to remember whether the T-2s used a single- or multi-point injector setup. He had read a case report of a multi-point system being retrofitted, but that had been on a private vessel; would Whitehall be willing to spend the money on a T-2?

The wherry slowed as it drew close to the gate, and the wherryman began fiddling with his docking controls. With no more than the usual jolt the docking rings mated and locked, turning the wherry’s mood lighting blue. “Here we are, sir, gate C-9,” said the wherryman, “and an uncommon fast and smooth trip it was."

“So it was,” said Jack, tapping his ID to the reader, then typing in the value of his tip and swiping his thumb. He removed his headsets and unbuckled his harness, grabbed his hat and daybag from the seat beside him, and climbed through the hatch into the wharf.

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Truth and Beauty 3-4

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At the launch pad the tractor backed them into the catapult, guided by a yellow-shirted handling officer. Two green-shirted launch jockeys fitted the bridle and surcingle and verified the launch weight with the wherryman. The wherryman wiggled his control surfaces as the jockeys looked on, and once they were satisfied that everything was in working order they gave the thumbs up to the catapult officer.

“Seat belt,” said the wherryman, “all items away”. Jack stuffed his phone in his pocket and pulled each of the harness’s five belt tails to tighten them further. A dull whine escaped the catapult as it tipped the wherry back, back, back, a full 60 degrees back, so Jack lay in his seat.

Outside, the catapult officer gave everything a final look-over, then saluted the wherryman, who blinked his landing lights in response. Jack turned up the volume on his headsets.

“Bravo-oscar, six-five-three. Proceed next in queue for departure.”

“Bravo-oscar-six-five-three next in queue ten-four,” said the wherryman, loud in Jack’s ear.

Two moments’ silence. The wherry’s bell rang three double strikes for six bells: eleven o’clock. “Bravo-oscar, six-five-three” said the radio, “You are clear for take-off, path alpha-zero-five-two.”

“Bravo-oscar-six-five-three, alpha-zero-five-two, ten-four,” replied the wherryman. A rumble and hiss as the catapult charged. The catapult captain gave the signal, and the wherryman dimmed the windows, then moved his throttles to start.

Orange light filled the cabin, faint and flickering at first, then brighter and stronger as the wherryman pushed his throttles toward their stops. Tongues, then full sheets of flame raced past the windows. The wherry rattled and shook as the engines spooled up; Jack braced himself for launch.

The catapult flung them skyward, pressing Jack into his seat; the flames, the spaceport, the planet fell away.

Jack swallowed to pop his ears. The windows turned clear again, and soon the wherryman began to throttle back. The ride smoothed enough for Jack to make out the curvature of the planet in the patterns of light below. When the wherry banked into a turn he made out the arcing flame of the next launch.

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Truth and Beauty 3-3

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Half an hour later he was showing his ID at the Navy Yard gate, and ten minutes after that he was boarding a wherry for the victualing wharf. He strapped himself into his seat, put on the headphones given to him by the wherryman, and selected the Yard’s traffic departure control channel to listen to as a sort of background to his jumbled thoughts.

“Seven-victor-X-ray, seven-two-niner. You are clear for take-off path delta-three-two-seven.”
“Seven-victor-X-ray, seven-two-niner, delta-three-two-seven, ten-four.”
“Alpha-quebec, seven-seven-niner. Proceed next in queue for departure.”
“-lpha-quebec, seven-seven-niner. Next in queue, ten-four.”
“Alpha-quebec, seven-seven-niner. You are clear for take-off path beta-one-one-four.”
“-lpha-quebec, seven-seven-niner beta-one-one-four ten-four.”
“Zulu-sierra, six-three-seven. Proceed next in queue for departure.”

The wherry shook slightly as the pushback tractor engaged, then shook again as the wherry’s grounding clamp detached and retracted, and they were in motion, trundling across the cracked tarmac to one of the launch pads. Through the windows Jack watched the slow dance of the Yard traffic, dark shapes with flashing lights gliding between the steady beacons that marked the taxiways. In spite of it all, a smile found its way to his lips: he was going back to space.

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STO'B 5-1 Captain Fitton

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Chapter 5

“And so, sir, having been unable to locate Doctor M’Mullen, in spite of a thorough search, I proceeded back to the rendezvous for further instructions. That is, given the condition of the sloop I have the honor to command.”

Philip stood bare-headed in Rear Admiral Whyte’s day cabin in the London Bridge, giving his report to that man and his secretary, Admiral Halsey being with the inshore squadron off Toulon. Rear Admiral Whyte was one of Philip’s steady, reliable enemies, and Philip had known that he was in for a rough time of it ever since the lookouts had reported that Admiral Halsey’s Viceroy was absent from Mahon’s harbor, leaving the broad pennant to fly from London Bridge instead. Duty was duty, however, so a little before two bells Philip had had himself rowed over to where London Bridge lay moored with a steady stream of water discharging over her side.

The admiral, a fair-haired man with receding hair and almost comically oversized ears and nose, allowed the silence to stretch out. His secretary made use of the time to catch up with his notes, his pen squeaking as it worked across the page.

Philip wondered what questions the admiral could possible have left to ask. He had already quizzed Philip on everything from the set of Philip’s sails to how much wine Philip had drunk with his meals. The secretary’s pen ceased squeaking, and the admiral roused himself. “Remind me of your orders, Mister Fitton?”

Here it comes, thought Philip. “To safely and swiftly convey Doctor M’Mullen to Gideon’s Bay, sir, and any other locations as he might request, and then to rejoin the fleet here at Mahon.”

“Yet instead I find that you have lost Doctor M’Mullen, almost lost your sloop and another brig that you somehow managed to obtain, lost several of your men in a series of inconsequential affairs, expended a great deal of powder and shot for water that you could have obtained for free at Gideon’s Bay, and delayed the turning in of enemy signal books, am I correct?”

“In fairness, sir, we did destroy a Spanish frigate.”

“So you say. Which you outnumbered two to one. But you haven’t a scrap of evidence to back this up - not even the name of this supposed frigate. And as for fairness, Mister Browne of the yard tells me that there is not a sloop on the station, not a frigate nor yet a ship of the line that has called for half as many spars and timbers as you have. We give you a brand new sloop and you knock her to pieces with nothing to show for it and you speak to me of fairness? Remind me of how many Commanders there are on The List, Mister Fitton?”

“563, sir, as of last month.”

“And how many sloops for them to command?”

“112, plus another 37 in ordinary and 16 fitting out new, sir.”

Admiral Whyte allowed another silence to fill the cabin. Four bells struck. The secretary dipped his pen and wiped the nib, waiting for the admiral to begin again. “Unfortunately,” said the admiral, eventually, “I have no spare commanders within reach. And as we have need of the Badger, it will have to be you who takes her to Malta for a refit, and to return without delay. You will not dilly-dally about, nor will you go whoring after prizes, and to underscore the need for dispatch I will tell you that I am at the same time writing to Gibraltar for any of several commanders who are presently on the beach there, and if they arrive before you return I will turn the sloop over to them. Do you understand me, sir?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Are you certain?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I won’t find you here in a month’s time telling me that you need another refit because you single-handedly destroyed the French fleet?”

“No, sir.”

“You will wait on the gangway for my secretary to write out your orders and then depart for Malta without delay. You are dismissed.”

Philip bowed, his face burning. As he waited on the gangway for his orders, watching the stream of water that continued to run over the ship’s side, he reflected that London Bridge suited Admiral Whyte perfectly: neither was particularly seaworthy.

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STO'B 4-14 Captain Fitton

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Fragments of the Spaniard rained down, crashing into and through the splinter netting - balks of shattered timber, spars with ropes still attached, part of a gun carriage, the upper half of a man, not quite dead yet. Sailors ran about with buckets, dashing out the burning debris as it came aboard, and then a massive wave yanked the Badger from her moorings.

Gravity vanished. Water, wood, iron flew around and into Philip. A rope passed by. Crushing weight that pressed the air from his lungs. Someone’s arm. Noise: roaring, shouting, crashing; a cacophony that crested and receded, flinging him onto something broad and flat where he could at last draw breath again.

Time backed up and restarted, so that “Grab hold!” took place before the deck lurched, before he rolled over and found himself on the mole staring up at the sky across which tendrils of smoke drifted lazily in the breeze. He sat up.

His two brigs lay low in the water, leaning drunkenly into each other, curiously bare of their masts. Spars littered the bay, and bodies.

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STO'B 4-15 Dr M'Mullen

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He began to swim awkwardly toward the mole, pushing the crate before him with two hands, ducking as low into the water as possible as bullets and cannonballs continued to fly about him. The cat supervised haughtily, then turned about and leapt onto the mole as soon as it was close enough.

Abandoning the crate, Patrick swam over to the stairs, scrambling up them to find the cat sitting at the top, grooming itself beside a rusted bollard. “This is absurd,” Patrick muttered as a half-spent cannonball smacked into the stonework below him. A cluster of dilapidated stone buildings offered shelter along the land side of the mole; Patrick ran for the nearest one, scurrying in behind its far side and sitting down with his back against its wall. Eventually the firing would stop. Then he could see who won, rejoining Philip or melting into the countryside as appropriate.

For the meantime he felt his pockets for his rosary. It wasn’t there. A handful of pebbles made an unequal substitute.

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Truth and Beauty 3-2

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Jack stared at his orders. The blood ran from his face. “Roth?” he said, “Roth!? Porter! Porter there! Those two letters I gave you, do you still have them?”

“No, sir,” said the porter, looking up from his tablet. “I sent them directly, like what you said.” Seeing Jack’s face, he went on, “the boy may have dawdled at the corner, though, so I may be able to get them back.”

“Yes, yes!” said Jack, now starting to pace. Was he better off writing to Uncle Rufus or the Undersecretary? He was still working through the reasons for either when the porter returned.

“No, sir,” the porter said, “the butcher’s daughter is out on a delivery so the boy didn’t have reason to stop. I should think he’d have them delivered in forty-five minutes or so, depending on the tube. Are you okay, sir,” he added, for Jack now leaned against the wall, one hand to his forehead. “Would you like to sit at the bar? Allison is on her break but I could fetch you a glass of water?”

Jack said nothing, but allowed himself to be led to the bar, and when the porter placed a glass of water in front of him he mechanically took a sip. A vision of Jevons’ rosy, slightly drunk face flashed into his mind: “I’ve been superceded! Some fool used Parliamentary influence to get appointed to the Roth, probably thought she was a frigate, ha ha ha!”; followed immediately by the table in his copy of Darcy’s Sheet Anchor, where the fleet oilers were classified as brigs for command purposes, along with transports, small exploration vessels, and some experimental vessels; then Jevons again, before he had been superceded: “perhaps I’ll be promoted, some day.” And bumbling Uncle Rufus, so pleased with the miracle he had performed.

“Who is more the fool,” he asked aloud, “the fool, or the fool he leads?” He pulled out his phone again, queried the current location of the Roth, and found that she was still at the victualing wharf.

“To the swabs,” he said, lifting his his glass, draining it, and replacing it on the bar. Then he picked up his day bag, left a tip for the absent Allison, and left the inn.

Outside, the streetlamps were burning brightly. He checked his phone: two minutes after ten o’clock: plenty of time to get aboard the Roth before midnight, when Sunday became Monday and lawful arrests for debt could again be made.

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Truth and Beauty 3-1

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Chapter 3

Jack did have to report aboard that night, but first he had to forward his mail, arrange for the return of his library books, write and post a letter of thanks to the Senior Undersecretary for the appointment, write and post another letter of thanks to his uncle, and finally settle his account at the inn with his now elastic credit, so they would release his chest when he sent a midshipman (one of his own midshipmen, he thought with a smile) for it. This entailed packing, which in spite of his enforcedly frugal lifestyle included a phenomenal amount of possessions - no sooner had he strapped his chest shut and fitted its lock then he spied one of the trays sitting brazenly on the corner of the bed, forcing him to undo the lock and buckles and unstrap the chest to fit it in. And once he had figured out how to fit in the tray and was half way through strapping the chest up again it occurred to him that his sextant, presently in the lowest drawer of the chest, cushioned in a pair of socks, would probably be better off in his day bag so that he could sync it to Wrath’s central computer as soon as he was aboard and read in. Finally, during his last sweep of the room before exiting it for the last time he found one of his pistol’s spare batteries in the drawer of the bedside table, where he had carelessly left it after cleaning and charging it last night. Eventually, though, the trays were all situated in the trunk, the trunk was strapped, buckled, and locked; his sextant was safely in the side pocket of his day bag, his pistol and its batteries were all accounted for and packed; and he hauled the chest down to the lobby where he settled his bill and left instructions for the chest to be released when his (his!) midshipman called for it.

“Now,” he said, pulling out his phone to log into the Navy’s data site, “let’s see where she is.” A smile spread across his face as thought of the Wrath, that sweet little brig, his sweet little brig - to be replaced by a moment later by a frown. “That can’t be right,” he said, pocketing the phone, pulling his commission from an inner pocket, and reading it closely for what was in fact the first time:

By the right honorable Lord X_____, Knight of the Bath, Vice Admiral of the White, and Commander-in-Chief of His Majesty’s Vessels employed and to be employed in the Home Sector, &c., &c.,

You are hereby required and directed to proceed on board His Majesty’s Brig Roth to accept the charge of Officer-in-Charge of Her, at the same time directing all those Persons belonging to Her to accept You as Her Officer-in-Charge, and to conduct their Selves in their employments with all due respect to You, her commander; and likewise shall You conduct yourself in accordance with the General Instructions and with and Orders and Directions as You may receive from your Superior Officers in His Majesty’s Service.

For so doing this shall be your order and your Commission.

Neither You nor Any of You shall answer to the contrary, as You shall do so at your Peril.

Given this, the 22 day of October, at 0900 hours to John Richard O’Brian, Esquire, hereby appointed Commander of His Majesty's Navy.

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Drew's Fighting Ships: Curtis JN-4

Curtis Industrie (often misspelled Curtis Industry or Curtis Industries) bought out Julio-Novak in 2736. In typical Curtis fashion, most of J-N’s product line was discontinued, with customers of unfilled orders being offered an “equivalent” Curtis product or their money back. Most elected to have their money back, which seems fair comment on the perceived value of Curtis’s offerings at the time.

Four J-N offerings survived the acquisition, however. The federal government refused both options, threatening to block the deal under anti-trust law if J-N’s Space Train troop and cargo transports or the related Red Ball fleet oiler were to be discontinued or substantially altered. The ships were renamed, though, to be consistent with the rest of Curtis’s lineup: the Space Train troop transport became the JN-1, the cargo transport JN-2, and the Red Ball oiler became JN-3. These ships continued for another 7 years, seeing only minor changes until they were replaced in the government’s lineup by variants of Wang’s Stratolifter series.

The fourth J-N product to survive the buyout was a yet-unnamed light reconnaissance vessel. Reasons given for its survival vary, but survive it did, though Curtis’s engineers managed to saddle it with a governing subroutine that severely limited its engines’ performance. As the fourth former J-N product in the Curtis catalog it was named the JN-4, but it quickly became known as the Curtis Jenny.

Factory-standard Jennys featured twin Rolls-Royce Vega Mark IV engines mated to an equally robust Allison P-63 “Voyager” transdifferential, directed by an Intellicorps DN-5 CPU with Intellibus; and an FBW modular body-on-frame design that, unlike the more-common unibody designs of the time, separated structural integrity from hull integrity. The result was a fast, powerful, widely adaptable vessel that could absorb a great amount of punishment, all of it choked nearly to death by Curtis engineers’ software.

The obvious solution was to do away with the software, and a small industry sprang up to do exactly that. Within less than a year after the Jenny’s launch in 2737, no fewer than ten such companies existed, offering software designed for operations as varied as military reconnaissance, fire suppression, and courier service. Aftermarket body modules were a natural extension of this theme, and by 2739 it was possible to purchase new Jennys from secondary manufacturers, already fitted and optimized for fields as diverse as emergency medical services and resource exploration. In 2741, Curtis, belatedly recognizing the uses that its JN-4 was being put to, began offering option 5a, an incomplete vessel containing chassis, cockpit, engines, and drivetrain, designed for sale to secondary manufacturers for fitting out.

Thus, by the second half of the 28th century, Jennys were found as campers, ambulances, light and medium reconnaissance vessels, police patrol and intercept vessels; as tenders to larger vessels, as lighters, as light freighters in their own right, as communications and control lorries, as mobile offices and as mobile laboratories, to name just a few of the over 100 registry types in the Helios system alone.

Curtis gave the JN-4 a facelift for 2740, visually harmonizing the vessel with the rest of the Curtis fleet. Changes included a general softening of the vessel’s profile, reshaping the faceplate to an oval form, and consolidating forward lighting into a “cyclops” arrangement typical of the company’s in-house designs of the time. Other cosmetic changes were also made, all minor, yielding a second-generation JN-4 whose operating characteristics were essentially unchanged, and which could trade modules with first-generation vessels.

Other entries in this series

Truth and Beauty: First Post|Latest Posts

Truth and Beauty 2-10

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Molly returned with their entrees, breaking the flow of their conversation, and Stephen applied himself to his dinner with the attention that it deserved: the sirloin was indeed excellent, a bone-in cut; and was accompanied by lightly-steamed vegetables, still crunchy; and mashed potato with brown flecks of potato skin mixed through it, perfect for greedily mopping up the steak’s juices and consuming them, too. Only once his meal had been reduced to a wreckage of bone and scraps of fat did he return to the subject of serving as a ship’s doctor, “I presume that the Navy provides its ships with instruments, equipment, and so on? These would not have to be provided by the physician?”

“Oh, yes,” said Jack. “Mercury Hall sends a chest aboard, which belongs to the ship. Saws, knives, hooks, that sort of thing. And a medicine cabinet of sorts - I think sloops generally get the kind that prints drugs to order - what’s the learned term?”

“Compounds?”

“Yes, that’s it. Confounds each medicine as needed, so you don’t have a proper cabinet, just the printer.”

“You can bring your own tools if you wish, though,” said Jevons, “In the Juno, Captain Weiss, Mr Richards was a lefty, and he brought a selection of left-handed saws and such.”

“So why not come along?” said Jack. “We won’t be able to get you an appointment from Mercury Hall before Wrath ships out, but come along as my guest. The surgeon’s cabin should be free, and even if it isn’t, we’ll make room.”

“Well,” said Stephen, “I believe you’ve convinced me. I believe I could take a month or so away from my duties here on land.”

“Excellent!” said Jack. “I will need to report aboard tonight but I could send a midshipman for you, shall we say 4pm here at the inn?”

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Truth and Beauty 2-9

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Stephen paused, picking up his glass to give himself time to consider and unthinkingly tipping the amber fluid into his mouth. Was Jack truly serious? There seemed to be no reason to think otherwise, yet he had been deceived before. Was he, Stephen, being overly cautious? “It is an occupational hazard,” he admitted to himself quietly, “a professional deformation.”

“I beg your pardon?” asked Jack, who had seen Stephen’s lips move but hadn’t made out the words.

“Merely thinking aloud,” said Stephen. “If I was to join you, when would we depart, and when would we return?”

“We have no orders yet,” said Jack. “Customarily a new captain is given 72 hours in harbor before shipping out for the first time, and then the first cruise is typically only for a month or so - a shakedown cruise, so to speak, for everyone to get to know each other and the captain to get to know the vessel, how fast she is, her crew’s strengths —” when the arrival of their appetizers cut him short.

The clash of cutlery on crockery dominated the table for several minutes, punctuated briefly by comments as “how is your soup, sir, I think you have the chowder?”, and, “very good, sir, and your salad?”, but Stephen, deep in thought, said nothing. Banks would be the only barrier, he thought, and as his work has hardly been constant, he could hardly object. Nevertheless—, “I would have to see about coverage,” he said to Jack. “I presume that normal phones do not work deep in space?”

“I am afraid they don’t,” said Jack, putting down his spoon. “Email neither. We can write them, of course, but for anything more than an AU or so we have to wait for a vessel bound in that direction.”

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Truth and Beauty 2-8

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“I am an internist,” said Stephen. “I also do some surgery.”

“Really?” said Jack. “Really?” He picked up the bottle and poured for Jevons and himself, let the spout hover over Stephen’s glass; then, having not been waved off, poured for him as well. “I suppose it would be too much to ask of luck for me to find a new ship’s surgeon just as soon as I lose the old one. You’d think the Sick and Hurt representative for the home sector would be an upstanding, God-fearing fellow but no, I expect I’ll have to ship out without one.” He raised his glass, Jevons did the same, and without thinking, Stephen did, too. “You have no idea what a hypochondriac you common sailor is,” Jack went on, “and suspicious, too. Sailing without a surgeon is terribly bad luck, they feel.”

“But I am in no way qualified to be a ship’s physician,” said Stephen. “Surely there must be special classes, examinations, that sort of thing?”

“If you’re a physician then you’re overqualified,” said Jevons, pouring another round. “Sloops and other unrated vessels typically get med-school drop-outs, or else RNs tired of working at the old folks home. Drunks, most of them, too, though the sailors worship them just the same. Roth’s surgeon was regularly speechless by lights out, the sot.”

“I remember in the Perdition the surgeon drank himself to death off Tortuga y Coney,” said Jack, then, changing tack, “but it is not all so melancholy, think of this prize money! With his share, the surgeon of the Ethalion is setting up his carriage and retiring! Come, sir, cannot I tempt you to come to space?”

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Truth and Beauty 2-7

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The table fell silent as Stephen and Jevons consulted their menus. Jack, already familiar with the menu and knowing what he would order, checked his email to give his companions time to decide, humming quietly to himself as he did so.

Stephen found the sirloin near the top of the second page, but also found a pasta dish of about two-thirds the price, not quite the cheapest entree listed. He stared at the specials listed on the chalkboard over teh bar, not seeing them (all were far more expensive than the pasta dish), torn between hunger and manners, trying to make up his mind.

The waitress returned. Jevons ordered fish, Jack ordered the sirloin, and Stephen, freed by his hosts example, did the same. Jack and Jevons ordered appetizers as well but Stephen, feeling that he had tested jack’s hospitality enough with the sirloin, tried to demur.

“Nonsense,” said Jack, who was a big, well-fed man who never missed a meal if he could help it. “The clam chowder here is particularly good if you prefer the England style. Or a caesar salad? You can’t just sit there and eat nothing while Jevons and I eat.”

In the end, Stephen agreed to a house salad with Russian dressing, but he drew the line at a drink. “I have surgery later,” he heard himself say, “and must have a clear head.”

“But we’re wetting the swabs,” Jack protested, and “Come sir, just one won’t hurt,” said Jevons. Jack went on, “just the one, then you can revert to water or a soda to be set for your surgery. Molly,” he said to the waitress, “a shot of the black label for the doctor, please, and I’ll have the same. Jevons? Yes, Jevons too. In fact, just put a counter on the bottle and bring it with three glasses, please,” and when Molly had left, “I dare say being a doctor keeps you quite busy?” he asked again.

“Well,” said Stephen, shifting in his chair. “I do occasionally have time to dine out with good company,” he said as Molly returned with the bottle and glasses.

Jack and Jevons smiled, and Jack hastily poured three shots. “To good company,” they toasted, and when they had clinked their glasses and drained them Jack asked, “what kind of a doctor are you, if you don’t mind my asking?”

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Truth and Beauty 2-6

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"The swabs," said Jack to Stephen, "are these," touching his epaulettes, "and when we ship them - put them on - for the first time we have to wet them with a drink. It is an old, and old tradition."

"It is also a tradition to burn those midshipman's marks," said Jevons, pointing to the white facings on Jack's uniform, "or hasn't it been an hour yet?"

"Oh!" cried Jack, "I forgot! I have the orders right here!" He grabbed the express envelope from the table, raped the wax seal on its back, and tore out the contents. Skipping the time-honored, formulaic opening he came right to the heart of the matter, reading it out to his companions, "given this, the 22 day of October, at 0900 hours to Jack O'Brian, hereby appointed Commander of His Majesty's Navy. Ha," he slapped the table, "Oh nine-hundred this morning, the hour has passed. Help me with these facings, will you?" He pulled off his coat, spreading it on the table and producing a pocket knife. Jevons did the same, and the two sailors attacked the stitching that bound the shameful facings to Jack's lapels.

Stephen, who lacked a knife and in any event only dimly understood what the sailors were doing, privately slid a piece of bread into his pocket. Dinner was all very well, assuming that Jack did eventually get to it (and Stephen could hardly prompt him); but what then? He ran along several possibilities, none very realistic, sneaking more bread into his pockets from time to time until the repeated cry of "doctor" brought him back to the present. "Doctor?" he said, looking about and standing up, "I am a doctor. Who needs a doctor?"

"Well it is the damnedest thing," said Jack, looking up at Stephen, "a Marine just delivered this note - my ship needs a doctor, it seems the old one has taken ill and invalided, has to take physic. How I'll replace him I don't know, the Sick and Hurt representative for this sector is a mere villain. But sit down, sir, and let us call for menus. Bartender, there, three menus, if you please, and perhaps some bread. I did not realize that you are a doctor, sir," he said, turning back to Stephen, "I dare say you're quite busy, sawing off limbs and the like?"

"Always this sawing off of limbs," said Stephen, resuming his seat, "I was at my boarding house just the other day and one of the other residents asked me how many arms I had sawn off, as if that were the sort of thing one keeps track of. If you were to ask about how many times I had seen situs inversus, or even situs inversus with levocardia-" but the arrival of the waitress with menus and the daily specials cut him off.

"With my promotion comes a pay raise," Jack told Stephen privately, "enough to cover my immediate debts and then some, so order anything you like. The sirloin is particularly good here."

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Truth and Beauty 2-5

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“My name is Russ,” said Stephen.

“Jevons, this is Russ, who I so rudely bowled over twice today. Russ, Jevons and I went to the academy together, and he was just telling us that he has been superseded. Hopefully they will give you something real this time.”

Stephen and Jevons exchanged pleasantries and Jevons continued, “yes, superseded and assigned to the Fury, the orders came through just after you left. It’s only a jobbing post until the end of session - Fury’s captain is an MP - but I’m free of the transport board. Why anyone would want to be appointed to a transport is beyond me.”

The two cosmonauts shook their heads in bewilderment. Stephen did the same, though in bewilderment of a different sort.

“Wiltshire might do it, he never did know his ass from his elbow,” said Jack, then after a barely-decent pause he said,” but I have been promoted, too, into the Wrath, ha ha ha. Perhaps we can go cruising together!”

“Fantastic!” said Jevons, peering through the smokey gloom, and the gloom of his earlier visit to the Goat and Compasses, at Jack’s epaulettes. “Bartender, Bartender, there, a bottle of whiskey and three glasses! You’ll join us, Russ, yes? Three glasses! What sort of brig is she?”

“She must be a Vengeance class, probably one of the later ones, maybe a type three? I only just go word an hour or so ago.”

“The Toledo class are all named for cities, and the Churchills after politicos,” said Jevons, filling their glasses. “Russ,” he passed a glass to Stephen, “Jack,” he passed another to Jack. “To the swabs!”

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Truth and Beauty 2-4

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With one yank Jack pulled the man up to a standing position. “Let me help you- oops,” he bent over to pick up the man’s bags and stumbled, falling down onto the platform. “Ha ha,” he said,” now I am on the ground and you are standing! We could be a circus act! But come,” he said, standing up again, “twice I have knocked you over now, may I buy you a drink, or something to eat?”

Stephen took his time gathering his parcels. Pride has its places, he eventually told himself, but perhaps this is not one of them. “I have rather a full schedule this evening,” he heard himself say, “but perhaps I have a few minutes.”

“Excellent!” said Jack. “My inn is just around the corner.”

At Jack’s inn they checked Stephen’s parcels. “Congratulations on your promotion, Lieutenant,” said the porter, a retired navy man who recognized Jack’s new epaulettes at once. “The swabs look good on you. But there’s a gentleman been asking for you, sir, another lieutenant. He said he’d wait in the bar. And this express came for you.”

“Excellent!” said Jack, taking the envelope, which could only contain his orders, and discharging a silver coin into the porter’s hand. “We are bound for the bar ourselves, bound for the bar to wet the swabs. Come, sir,” he said to Stephen, “right this way.”

In the bar they immediately ran into Jevons. “Jack!” said Jevons, “I’ve been trying to call you. Did you get my texts? I’ve been superseded, moved over to the Fury, who needs a jobbing captain.”

“Have you, by God!” said Jack, pulling out a chair at a free table. “Well that puts you back in the Navy. Jevons, this is - I’m afraid I don’t know your name, sir,” he said to Stephen.

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Truth and Beauty 2-3

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Jack coughed over his cigar. Frigates might weigh 40,000 tons, but lieutenants did not command frigates; captains did. Lieutenants didn’t even command sloops, which were the domain of commanders and whose weight generally topped out at around 16,000 tons. Uncle Rufus must have misheard or misread: the Vengeance class brigs all had anger- or revenge-themed names; Wrath would certainly be one of those and so would also weigh around 4,000 tons, the same as Fury. The difference being that instead of a temporary jobbing post he had a true appointment. “Thank you, sir,” he said again, “thank you very much.”

Uncle Rufus waved his hand. “No, no,” he said. “It’s nothing, nothing at all. Willard owes me a few favors, I called one of them in. Ah,” he said as Natalie returned with a wrapped parcel, “thank you, Natalie. The orders are already written, Jack, I had him write them out and submit them before I left so there would be no mistake, no sudden need for someone else to command, and you are sadly underdressed.” He held up the parcel. “Your squibs! Put them on and let us wet them!” He passed Jack the parcel, Jack tore off the paper and there, wrapped in jeweler’s cotton like the precious things they were, lay two golden lieutenant’s epaulettes, wonderfully heavy, beautifully worked, the shining symbols of his new rank.

* * *

Some hours later, Jack, wonderfully conscious of the epaulettes gleaming on his shoulders, caught the subway back down to his inn. He had a hazy recollection of several rounds of Scotch, of proposing to Natalie, and of several more rounds of Scotch, which, combined with his earlier drinks with Jevons left him with a certain tendency to slur his words, to stumble as he walked, and to bestow handshakes and even hugs on random strangers.

At Washington Square he crashed into the doorway as he left the train, rebounding into someone on the platform and knocking them over. Looking down he saw the same man he had crashed into earlier in the day. “My dear sir,” he said, extending a hand and pulling the man up, “a thousand apologies. Are you okay? Let me help you.” He knelt down to collect some of the man’s bags. “Can I buy you a drink, or something to eat? I have just been promoted, you know!”

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Truth and Beauty 2-2

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Jack’s attention had been diverted by Natalie; Uncle Rufus generally managed to have young, good-looking maids, and either the whiskey he had shared with Jevons had given him beer goggles, or Natalie was no exception.

Uncle Rufus laughed. “You won’t have time for her, anyway,” he said as Natalie left the balcony. “You have a ship, and you’ll be up in space before the end of the week.”

“A ship, sir?” Jack turned his attention back to his patron.

“Yes, and no mean midshipman’s berth for you, either, a lieutenant’s commission and you’re in command!” Jack’s heart began to swell and he put down his drink. “Willard said you were up for second lieutenant on the Bakeneko, but I said ‘no, no, we can do better than that. Think of the Thebes-”

“The Thetis, sir?”

“Exactly, ‘and the Santa Brigada.’ Would you like a cigar?” he asked, taking one from a silver box and offering the box to Jack.

“Thank you, sir.”

Uncle Rufus returned the box to its table at his elbow and went on. “‘Think of the Thebes and the Santa Brigada, it has to be a command.’ So he hemmed, and he hawed, and went on about how lucky I would be, with the Bakeneko, but he came up with the Fury, who will need a temporary captain while hers is up for the Parliamentary session, a few weeks or so.”

Jack knew the Fury well, having served a short stint in her as a midshipman, and while Uncle Rufus paused to cut his cigar and light it from a fussy little table lighter, Jack considered his new, albeit temporary, command. One of Julio-Novak’s Vengeance class of brigs, she was fast, nimble, well armed for her size, and carried a superb electronics-and-measures suite. Just the ship to distinguish himself in and earn a permanent appointment. A smile spread across his face and he cut his own cigar. “Thank you, sir, she sounds ideal,” he said.

Uncle Rufus blew out a cloud of smoke and shook his head. “No, no,” he said. “Nonsense. She’s a silly little thing, barely four thousand tons. And only a few weeks before you’d be back on the shore. No, no. Not to bore you with the details, I convinced him to take me through the ships he had available and found you just the thing, the Wrath, 40,000 tons.”

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Truth and Beauty 2-1

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By the time the subway hissed to a stop at 86th street Jack was feeling definitely nauseous. He joined the queue of people filing through the doors to the platform, forced himself through a turnstile, and climbed the stairs two-at-a-time to the street, where he reemerged into the sunlight and found a trash can to throw up into.

Now feeling somewhat better he wiped his mouth on his handkerchief and fished a stick of gum from his pocket, took in his bearings, and set off down the street at a brisk walk.

Five minutes later he was spitting his gum out into another trash can, and walking through the front door of his uncle’s building. He gave his name at the front desk and was waved through to the elevator.

“Twenty, please,” he told the elevator man.

At the twentieth floor the elevator waited as Jack crossed the hallway to knock at his uncle’s door. The door flew open as Jack raised his hand, opened by a jolly-faced man of about middling height, slightly overweight, but otherwise looking remarkably like Jack, if Jack had been a few inches shorter, a few inches rounder, and had white hair instead of yellow. The blue eyes were the same, as was the smile. “Jack!” said Uncle Rufus. He hugged Jack warmly and pulled him into the apartment. “Thank you, Charles,” he said to the elevator man, who bowed his head and allowed the elevator doors to close at last.

Uncle Rufus closed the front door. “Jack!” he said again, “good to see you at last. How have you been keeping? Will you have a brandy? Munchen!” he called to his butler, “two brandies, the Regency with the yellow seal, I think, we’ll have them on the veranda. Come, Jack, come. The uniform looks good on you, but you’re really getting too old for it.” He led his nephew through the foyer, down a hallway, across the blue library, and so out onto a wide balcony and back into the sun. “Yes,” he said, “too old. So I spoke to Willard, at the Admiralty, and I think the time has come for you to wet the squibs!”

“The squibs, sir?” Jack asked politely, taking the seat his uncle offered him.

One of his uncle’s countless servants appeared with brandy and glasses on a silver tray. “Leave the bottle, please, Natalie, and bring me the package from my desk in the study, please. Yes, the squibs! You have a ship!”

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Truth and Beauty 1-8

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Truth and Beauty 1-7

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* * * Stephen squinted as he looked up at the tall main building of the eminently respectable Gantry and Shipworkers Medical and Mental Health Center. He was a thin man, a little under middle height, with straight, dark hair, and at the moment his sunglasses were inadequate against the mid-morning sun. Using the hospital’s front windows as a mirror (the room in which he rented a bed contained none) he combed his hair and starightened his tie. His person as immaculate as he could make it, he checked his watch again, waited for the second hand to reach the 6, brushed some imaginary dust from his coat, and stepped through the lazily-revolving automatic door to the hospital atrium. “I am here to see Doctor White,” he told the receptionist as the clock on the wall began to strike the hour, “I have an appointment. My name is Russ.”

“Doctor Russ, yes,” said the receptionist, consulting her tablet. “Yes,” she said again, “I’m afraid that Doctor White is not available, but he did leave a message.” She handed Stephen a thin envelope.

The envelope was cheap and flimsy, and did not fully disguise that the note within consisted of a single, short paragraph. “Thank you,” said Stephen, his voice oddly hollow in his ear. He lifted his hat to the woman, who had already returned to her tablet, and stepped back out through the revolving door to the street. Now what?

His stomach rumbled unpleasantly. He had spent his last penny on the cab ride to the hospital, so as to arrive unrumpled for his interview, skipping breakfast to do so. Perhaps I should have apologized and not given a tip, he thought, then I could at least buy some coffee for my headache. He directed his feet to the subway. But could I do such a thing?

Back at the boarding house his shared room was blessedly empty. He closed the door and sat on his rented bed for a while, shaking, his head in his hands, stifling his tears. A noise from the hallway brought him back to the present. Mrs Parsons will be asking about the rent again, he thought. Quietly, he collected those of his possessions that he could carry, waited for the hall to fall silent, then crept out the back door. The park on the corner was unoccupied and he sat on a bench, staring woodenly ahead of himself as he tried to work out his next steps. Harrison’s and Robbins I can sell at the Strand, but can I get by without them? And then what? When a security officer came by he left before the woman could approach him.

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Truth and Beauty 1-6

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Out on the street the sun shone brightly. Jack blinked and squinted, crashing into a lamp post and leaning against it to consider his bearings. Yes, there was the Goat and Compasses behind him, the cab stand at the corner, and beside it the familiar green-and-white globe of the subway. He felt his coin purse in his pocket - no, not enough for a cab. But I do have my farecard, so I can take the tube. That should get me there in time. He stood up, and concentrating on his feet, propelled himself through the mid-day crowd, managed not to topple down the stairs into the subway, and waved his farecard at the turnstile just as a growing rumble announced the imminent arrival of a train.

On the platform a particularly strong jolt broke through his whiskey-fog. Someone shouted at him, and he discovered a crumpled figure on the ground in front of him.

“Well don’t sit there on the ground, then,” Jack said, “if you don’t want to be trampled.” The train entered the station with its usual shrieking roar, drowning out whatever the man might have said in reply, though the anger and rudeness were clear enough. “Fuck you,” Jack replied, his attention on the train to see where the doors would come to a halt.

The train stopped, its doors opened, and several people exited. Jack and several other people boarded, but the man on the ground was still collecting his bags when the door chime sounded, and before he could collect them all the doors hissed shut. On the platform the man stood up, saw that the doors had already closed and cursed loudly. Several people turned around but Jack, trying to brace himself for the jolt as the train started, paid no attention.

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Truth and Beauty 1-5

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Jevons squeezed his eyes shut and after a moment the urge passed. “Yesh,” he said, putting his hands down on the bar to steady himself, “bad luck till my next promo, promoshu, shun, and who knows when that will be. Or if. Damn’ my father for supporting the radical intrest.”

Jack pulled his own hands back, accidentally knocking over his drink as he did so. “Damn,” he said, watching the whiskey run down onto the sawdust-laden floor. He was starting to feel the effects of the whiskey himself and he shook his head to clear it.

“Not that I don’t love him,” said Jevons.

“Of course you do.”

“But why did he have to be sho, so vocal? He could have thought what that would do to my career. Ah, well. To family, and where we would be, where would we be, without them,” he tipped his empty glass back into his mouth. “It appears that my glass is empty. Ah, well,” he picked up his cigar again, “perhaps they’re wet enough.” He puffed at his cigar and fell to smiling at his epaulets, even more beautiful than he remembered them.

Jack stared at the epaulets, too. A small, mean, jealous part of him reflected that while Jevons might have received his promotion before Jack, appointment to a transport meant that no further promotion was likely; Jevons would die a lieutenant. Whereas if Uncle Rufus came through, Jack would be appointed to a warship - a sloop, or maybe even command of a brig - with all of the liklihood of further promotion: Commander, Captain, and ultimately, maybe, Admiral. He forced his eyes from Jevons’ epaulets and they wandered around the room, the bottles on the shelves with their shiny spouts, the beer taps with their coats of frost, the peculiar clock behind the bar with its swinging pendulum. “What a peculiar clock that is,” he said to Jevons, “with a pendul - a swingy thingy.”

Jevons carefully turned to face the clock and they stared at it for a while.

“It’s fast, too,” said Jack. “Decoration, I suppose it’s for.”

Jevons felt his pockets for his phone. “No, it’s just about on, Jack,” he said, staring at its screen, “coming up on seven bells - eleven-thirty.”

“No,” said Jack, plunging his hand into his jacket pocket. He pulled his phone free and turned it right-side up, “No!” he cried, “I’m late!” He pulled a fistful of coins from his pocket, tossed several of them on the bar, made hurried apologies to Jevons, and ran out the door.

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Truth and Beauty 1-4

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“The white ship with the red stripe?,” Jack asked, “I was looking at her the other day. Beautiful ship. Never would have guessed she was a T2.”

Jevons shook his head and fished a cigar from his pocket, holding it to his eye to cut it before he went on. “No,” he said, “the rusty one in need of a paint. Damned if I know what the last comman, commad, co-man-ding occif- off- oh, fuck!” He placed the cigar in his mouth, succeeded in lighting it on the second try, pulled and let out a cloud of smoke. “Damned if I know what the last bastard was doing, but he wasn’t main - maintaining her.” He puffed on his cigar for a moment. “Simmond - Simmul - whasisname was probably exaggerating about the hulls, keels, and the rust will make us less of target for the Ircadians. Right? Right?”

Jack nodded solemnly.

“And seniority from two weeks ago. Wiltshire’s to be appointed to the Success, but his commizure, commission hasn’t been written yet and he’ll be junior to me and have to follow my orders. Right? Mine! Ha! The bastard. At least until he gets promoted to Captain. Then I’ll have to follow his. Bastard,” he said again, and emptied his glass, “Oh, dear,” he held his hands to his mouth.

“Don’t let it out!” cried Jack, putting his own hands over Jevon’s and somehow not burning them on the smoldering cigar. “Not when you’re wetting ‘em! It’s bad luck, you know, bad luck until your next promotion!”

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Truth and Beauty 1-3

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“Yes,” said Jack, “yes! You’re in! And that’s the big thing!” But the Transport Board was barely in the Navy, an administrative and promotional backwater where careers went to die. He hoped Jevons wouldn’t hear how forced his enthusiasm was - in his own ear it was startlingly obvious - and he made something of a show of forcing a path through the crowd to the Goat and Compasses, where they found space at the bar and ordered drinks. “To the swabs!” they said, draining their glasses. “To promotion!” they said, draining them again. “To prize money!” they said, draining them a third time. “To the Roth! To Lieutenant Jevons! To friendship!”

“What type of ship is she?” Jack finally asked, leaning on his friend for support.

“She’s a - a floating garbage can, actually," he said again. "A Curtis T2 fleet oiler, you remember them, Professor Simmons - Simu - Sim - the engineering professor - was going on about their hulls. Shitty hulls. But she’s a ship, still and all.”

“Well, maybe you’ll be assigned to Anson’s squadron, and with all the fighting there’s bound to be promotions. He’ll need oilers.”

“No,” said Jevons, pulling a cigar cutter from his pocket and accidentally dropping it on the floor. “I mean yes, he will. But we were refitted for general cargo. Pipes all over the place and half of them lead nowhere. Bulkheads. Rust.” He found his cutter, picked it up, and went on. “We’re carrying equipment, water purifiers, to Sephus, leaving as soon as we’ve victualed, day after tomorrow. She’s up against the victualing wharf right now.

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Truth and Beauty: 1-2

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“Of course!” said Jack, turning as he did so to see who was calling and recognizing the tall, thin form of his friend Jevons, whom he hadn’t seen since final exams.

“Haven’t seen you since finals, Jack, where have you been keeping?”

“Looking for a ship,” said Jack, "though I haven’t said ‘no’ to some of the delights of shore, neither. What have you been up to?"

“Looking for a ship. And I’ve found one, too!”

“Have you, you sly dog! That deserves a drink, a commission at last! What ship? Tell me about her.”

“She is the Roth,” said Jevons.

“Roth?” replied Jack, thinking hard, “Roth? What is she? I’m ashamed to tell you I don’t know the name.”

“She’s a floating garbage can, actually. But she’s a ship, still and all. Transport, but she means full pay and I suppose the chance of promotion, some day. Beyond Lieutenant. But come,” he said, brightening suddenly, “let us wet the swabs!” He gestured embarrassedly to his new gleaming epaulets, purchased that morning with an advance on his pay, wonderfully heavy on his shoulders.

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Truth and Beauty: 1-1

Today was Sunday, so it was without fear of arrest for debt that Jack set out from his inn, a shabby little place in the liberties of the Savoy, crossed the street, and turned left to begin the long walk to his uncle’s city apartment.  He was a large man, tall as well but perhaps too large for his height, with hair that as a child had been platinum blond but now, in his twenties, was drifting toward light brown in color. At present it was pulled back into a pony tail. He wore the simple uniform of a midshipman, his present rank, but he was now old enough to be a lieutenant. At a gap in the traffic he crossed the street and turned left to begin the long walk to his uncle’s city apartment. His uncle, the MP for the borough of O’Brian’s Ferry, carried all of the family’s parliamentary interest, and though he rarely thought of his nephew, when he did his thoughts were generally benign.  To Jack, this seemed perfectly fair, as Jack rarely thought of Uncle Rufus, though when he did, his thought were also generally benign, and thus the whole thing seemed to balance out rather well.

Jack’s last visit to his uncle (patron, he reminded himself) had been perhaps three years ago.  Uncle Rufus had asked after Jack’s career, presented him with two sextants (“always good to have a spare, you know, Jack”) and a bottle of scotch, and sent him on his way.  Neither of the sextants was as good as the one Jack had then owned (it was presently in pawn), but they were beautifully decorated, and more to the point they were from Uncle Rufus, so Jack had treasured them greatly until pressing debts had forced him to sell them both.  He regretted it still.  The scotch, on the other hand, was a fine old bottle, for though Uncle Rufus knew nothing of the navy he did know whiskey.  Twice Jack had considered drinking it, but each time he had desisted, saving it instead for when he might receive his first commission - for when he would metamorphose from a mere midshipman, rated or disrated at his captain’s will, to a god-like Commissioned Officer whose lawful order it was Death to disobey.

Today, he hoped, would be that day.  Commodore Anson, in the Success, was assembling a squadron of ships to sail against the French, and though Jack had no hope of an appointment to the flagship, he had applied for an appointment to one of the three sloops belonging to the squadron: the Griffin, Wyvern, or Bakeneko. He had fair chance of getting one, too, given the number of appointments and the number of candidates within easy reach, for the squadron had received sudden, urgent orders to put into space - French scout ships had been seen near Rigel IV and an attack was deemed imminent.

Almost as an afterthought, Jack had written to Uncle Rufus for help.  He wanted the appointment based on his real merits, rather than interest.  Eventually, however, reflecting that almost every appointment was at least in part due to interest, and that this was an essential step in his career, he had given in.  The service was corrupt, and high minded though he might want to be, there would be no promotion without interest.  Wiltshire’s father is no doubt pulling every string he can to get Wiltshire a berth in the Success, Jack told himself as he clicked ‘send’, and Higgins’ and Lister’s families are no doubt doing the same.  Besides, think of the Santa Brigada and the Thetis, which I was never promoted for.

Uncle Rufus had written straight back, telling Jack that he was setting his sights too low with a mere second lieutenancy, and that he, Uncle Rufus, would press for something more impressive.  Jack, who would have been more than happy to be a junior lieutenant in a one-gun brig, nevertheless saw no reason to contradict his patron, and sent back his thanks without delay, and Uncle Rufus, knowing what Jack’s fiances were likely to be (no half-pay for a midshipman), had invited him up to dinner on Sunday, when civil arrests could not be made.

Jack was lost in happy thoughts of promotion, pay raise, and the potential for prize money, and was rehearsing the names of the liners, those magnificent ships, when an insistent voice broke in upon him, “Jack there! Ahoy, there, Jack! Come join me for a glass!”

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