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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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Tuesday, February 18, 2014
Saturday, February 15, 2014
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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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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Monday, February 10, 2014
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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“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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Tuesday, February 4, 2014
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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“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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