Truth and Beauty 8-3

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“Well,” said Jack’s father, casting about for something to say, “What was your thesis on, or did they do away with that requirement, too?”

“They still have theses, sir. I wrote mine on the Truth and Beauty experiments.”

“Truth and Beauty,” asked the vice admiral.

“Yes, sir. In ‘39, Doctor Hein proposed a long-distance teleport system using hyperspace. The core of the idea was to beam matter through hyperspace, using specially designed warp gates that were calibrated to the teleporters’ frequency. Sending the beam through hyperspace drastically cut the distance that the beam had to travel, enabling it to reach much farther without degrading. Special Projects picked up the idea, but didn’t want to build any more gates than were necessary for an unproven theory, so they decided to refit a pair of T2s, which they named Truth and Beauty, as gate generators, progressively moving them further apart for longer-distance trials.” He went on for some time, growing warm to the subject, until a familiar coldness in his father’s eye told him that he had lost his audience, and he concluded lamely.

The silence roused the Admiral. “Mm,” he said. “What became of her - them?”

“Truth and Beauty? Many of the records are still classified, but it appears that they were decommissioned and held in ordinary for a while. By then the T2s were showing their design flaws, of course. Beauty is mentioned as being ready for scrapping on an internal memo from ‘49 or ‘50, and I expect that Truth was scrapped at about the same time.”

“Probably for the best,” said the admiral. “The T2s were all junk anyway. ‘Floating coffins,’ we used to call ‘em. Ain’t that right, Willis?”

Vice Admiral Willis gave Jack an apologetic smile. “The class did have a troubled history, it is true. But some of them did quite well, doubled and braced, and the G1 T2s-”

“You always was a prevaricating son of a bitch, Willis. Junk. The boy knows it. I know it. You know it." He turned to Jack. "Get out of this brig as soon as you can, son, before she breaks her back on you.”

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Truth and Beauty 8-2

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Jack flushed. “Doctor Russ had to assist with some surgery ashore,” he said. “It appears that he was requested by name,” he added in the awkward silence.

This was true as far as it went, for one of the doctor’s friends from medical school, on learning of Doctor Russ’s presence at Neva-IV, invited him to scrub in on a knee reconstruction. But it avoided mentioning that Doctor Russ had failed to secure permission from his captain before stepping off of the Roth. No doubt this was a misunderstanding; there were no patients in the sick bay so Stephen could not be morally accused of deserting his duty; and as a new member of the Navy Stephen might not know that he needed permission to leave, while for his part Jack never thought to mention something so basic. But for the moment Doctor Russ was technically AWOL.

All of these thoughts flashed through Jack’s mind as he explained away Stephen’s absence, to be replaced a moment later by a different kind of dismay, and then a different kind again as the Admiral said, “finding himself a better craft, eh? Well, come on Willis, I’m clemmed,” and set off toward the great cabin, Roth’s skipper and the vice-admiral trailing in his wake.

In the cabin, Jack got three glasses of wine from the drinks machine and served his guests. Vice-Admiral Willis accepted his glass graciously, but Admiral O’Brian stared. “What am I, not good enough for private stock?”

Jack felt his face go red. “I haven’t had the chance to lay in private stores, sir,” he said.

The admiral grunted, but did not otherwise reply and they sat to their generic red wine.

Bollwerk knocked on the door and entered crabwise, bearing a steel tray with what looked to be meatloaf in brown gravy. “Thank you, Bollwerk,” Jack said when the man had served them. The admiral grunted again, while the vice-admiral nodded.

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Truth and Beauty 8-1

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Chapter 8
A few minutes before the appointed time, Jack posted himself near the entry port, his cheeks pink from shaving, his number one uniform freshly brushed, and his boots polished to a preternatural shine. Long experience had taught him that his father would be exact to the minute, and eight bells in the afternoon watch had not finished ringing before the jetway sentry announced a pair of visitors of flag rank.

Two, thought Jack, who the devil did he bring with him?

Sergeant Strasser came dashing down the gangway. “Couldn’t even give us five fucking minutes notice,” he asked as a tattoo rattled over the speakers.

“I beg your pardon,” said Jack, mentally kicking himself. “The fault is mine. I invited my father. No doubt this is him.”

“Your father’s an admiral?”

“A yellow admiral.”

The sergeant made no reply, turning instead to an arriving marine whose coat was strangely lopsided. “Perazzo, your buttons are a disgrace! Stick yourself behind Firman there and hope the admiral mistakes you for the drummer boy. Carrion, you slowbelly, hurry up!”

The entry port swung open, revealing Jack’s father and Vice-Admiral Willis, leaning on his cane. Admiral O’Brian looked much as Jack remembered him, with bushy dark eyebrows beneath close-cropped white hair, his oversized nose too close to his square chin because he hadn’t bothered to put in his teeth. Vice-Admiral Willis seemed to have shrunk some since Jack had last seen him, but was still tall, still thin. Some grey had seeped into his red hair and beard.

The admirals saluted the quarterdeck as the marines stamped and clashed, Private Carrion tripping over himself as he tried to both fall in and present arms at the same time. “Well, Jack,” said Jack’s father, as Sergeant Strassser berated the unhappy private, “your marines do you credit. You know Vice-Admiral Willis, I am sure. So this is your first command.”

Technically this was incorrect: Jack had commanded several prize vessels as a midshipman, and the admiral knew this. “Yes, sir,” said Jack. “How do you do, Admiral,” he said to the Vice Admiral, then turned back to his father. “Uncle Rufus was kind enough to put in a good word for me.”

“That ass? He doesn’t know a cutter from a cockroach. Never understood why Linda married him. Well, are we going to gabjaw all day? I though you invited us to supper. And where’s this doctor you told me about?”

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Truth and Beauty 7-8

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In the wardroom, the traditional soup gave way to a second course of unctuous red and white ribbons and steaming yellow loaves of what Stephen recognized as eggs.

“Facon, Doctor,” offered Sergeant Strasser, grasping several of the strips in a pair of tongs.

“Thank you,” said Stephen, offering his plate. “May I scoop you some egg?”

“If you please,” said the marine.

Stephen took the ice cream scoop from the nearest tray and served the sergeant and then himself. “I’m sorry to be obtuse, sir, but did you call these strips facon?”

Sergeant Strasser laughed. “They hardly deserve the name bacon,” he said, “though I suppose they taste well enough, in their way.”

Stephen picked up one of the pieces and tasted it. “Well,” he said after a considering pause, “at least it’s not rubbery.”

“Rubbery bacon is not worthy of-”, began the sergeant, but he was cut off by Mister Greenstreet.

“The wardroom does not eat with its fingers, Doctor,” said the sublieutenant. “We are gentlemen here and decorum must be preserved.”

Silence greeted this remark. Someone, perhaps Mister Lorre, cleared their throat. “I beg your pardon, Mister Greenstreet,” said Stephen, “you are quite right, and I do apologize.”

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Truth and Beauty 7-7

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“Well,” said the grey-haired woman.  “This beats the band.  I am Ms Bergman, the IT technician.”

“How do you do,” said Stephen, raising his wine glass and bowing as well as he could while seated.  Ms Bergman returned the compliment and they both drank.

This left the woman on the purser’s right as the only remaining unknown at the table.  “I am Miss Lund,” said she.  “Ms Lund.  I am the Electrician.”

Stephen bowed to and drank with Ms Lund as well.  He had now drunk several glasses of wine on an empty stomach, but the soup tureen had not completed its circuit of the table.  He urged it onward with a steady gaze and a clenching of his jaw and abdominal muscles, even bending the rule of manners by picking up his spoon as the carpenter received the bowl.




In the great cabin, Bollwerk brought in a fresh pot of coffee, retreating with the empty one and leaving the captain alone.  Jack topped off his mug (it seemed rude not to, even if Bollwerk didn’t see) and retreated to his desk.  He pulled up the most-recent of Roth’s logs from before he had take over command, to see how the Roths typically spent their days.

He tapped quickly through the logs from Jevons’s time; Jevons had had command for less than a month and had spent all of that time in port in a home system.  Aside from a brief note that the previous surgeon, a man named Lakey, had been discharged dead, nothing of note had occurred during that time.

Prior to Jevons the enteries had been equally brief: course made good, arrivals and departures, crew employed ATSR - as the service required, cargo taken on and discharged.  Roth’s jobs befitted her rols as a transport: oxygen to Earth, desalination machinery to Creighton II, construction equipment and steel beams to Halsey interlocking.  Early the previous year she had visited the yard at Mars for unspecified work to the number three thruster.  Few records indicated any crew discipline; either the Roths were a quiet bunch or their captain had been one of the many who punished off the books.  Of course, as a transport, the Roth would not have had any prizes for her crew to celebrate, nor any prize money for them to celebrate with.

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Truth and Beauty 7-6

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“A pleasure to meet you, sir,” said the man on Stephen’s right, wiping his head again with his handkerchief. “My name is Blaine, and I am the purser. I must say I am pleased to see you - normally it takes months for a new surgeon to be appointed. In unrated craft, that is - on liners one of the mates can step in. But when old Mister Gideon died I thought we’d be relying on Merck, with the carpenter for amputations, ha ha ha.” He paused to ladle some soup into his bowl and pass the tureen. “No offense, Mister Lorre, but I expect you’re happier with steel than with flesh and bone.” He smiled at the carpenter, then turned back to Stephen. “Is this your first appointment?”

“No,” said Stephen. “I completed a fellowship at Oxford, in cardiology, having first done my residency as a hospitalist at the Mayo Clinic, and of course a transition year at Columbia, in the United States.”

This was met with a shocked silence. Even Mister Greenstreet froze, his spoon halfway to his open mouth. Eventually Mister Humphries, presuming upon his knowing their surgeon better than anyone else present, asked, “are you a real doctor, then?”

“Yes,” said Stephen.

“Well,” said the purser, “then I am even more pleased to meet you. What a comfort to have a real doctor to look after us. A glass of wine with you, sir.”

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Truth and Beauty 7-5

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“Would you like some soup, doctor?” asked Sergeant Strasser, taking the tureen and its ladle. “The skipper has prevailed upon Doctor Russ to stay with us, to sew us up when the King’s enemies have occasion to tear us apart,” he explained to the table at large. This was meant with remarks of welcome, all of them civil, and in many cases quite warm, and Stephen felt strangely touched by their welcome.

“Thank you,” said Stephen to their greetings, and, “yes, sir, if you please,” to the Marine, who filled Stephen’s bowl before attending to his own.

“I’m glad to see you here, sir. Thrilled, I might even say, after the care you gave poor Franklin,” said Mister Humphries. “I thought I was going to have to write a letter, like, to Mrs. Franklin but here he is, good as new.”

“You are very kind, sir” replied Stephen, accepting the soup tureen and passing it to his right. “A glass of wine with you, if I may?”

* * *

One deck up, Jack was discovering that captains and commanding lieutenants ate alone if they did not issue invitations for guests, and that this spared them the sometimes trying nature of stale witticisms and grating personal habits (as a midshipman he had had to endure a messmate who constantly fondled her pimples), it could also be boring and lonely. Bollwerk, though present to remove empty dishes and serve fresh ones, resisted any attempt at conversation, and Jack was forced to admit that his steward was right to do so. He looked about the great cabin: yards of space, exponentially larger than any of the cabins he had occupied as a lieutenant under a skipper, or those he had shared as a midshipman, but all of it empty. No wonder some of his captains took along wives or mistresses, in spite of the regulation against it.

“May I take your plate, sir,” asked Bollwerk, see that Jack had stopped eating.

“No, no,” said Jack, but in fact he only took one more bite, chasing his food around with his fork for another minute or so before giving up and pushing the plate away.

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STO'B 6-9

Author's Note|First Post|Previous|Next| last episode with Dr M’Mullen GLOSSARY

He descended into the maw of the magazine, trying as always to ignore the near panic of being surrounded by those deadly copper-hooped barrels. He deliberately counted the kegs in order to spend a reasonable amount of time in his inspection, then he entered the filling room and looked over the copper tools hanging from the overhead beams, already aware that he had no idea how many barrels he had counted. Then he complimented the gunner and escaped back up the ladder, taking some comfort in the knowledge that he had the gunner’s report in his cabin, and feeling immediate shame that he might need such a crutch.

The felt-lined hatch cover to the magazine fell shut with a muffled thump. Mister Horrace turned the brass key in its lock, and handed the key back to Philip. “Thank you, Mister Horrace,” said Philip, “very ship shape.” He realized that he was speaking somewhat at random and paused a moment to think of something intelligent to say. “Remind me how much powder we received from the prize?”

“Four barrels of red powder, sir, three full and nine half-barrels of white. Much of the white is rotten, sir, I mean no disrespect, but it looks like they neglected to turn the barrels. I’ve recovered it some but I don’t know that it’s fighting powder, so to speak.”

“But it should be good for practice, yes?”

“Oh, yes, sir,” said that gunner. “Yes indeed. I would say that’s the best use for it, and the sooner the better. I mean, for the sake of the powder, against further spoilage. I suppose you could use it for salutes, but you wouldn’t get that rich sound, sir.”

Author's Note|First Post|Previous|Next| last episode with Dr M’Mullen GLOSSARY

Truth and Beauty 7-4

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Stephen had taken supper ashore last night, due to his visit to the admiral, so this was his first meal in the wardroom. He knew enough about the space-faring navy, and about men in general, to know that seating was likely to be habitual, if not rigidly assigned, and he hovered in the corner as the other officers entered, waiting to see which seat was left empty.

“Have a seat, Doctor,” said the carpenter, indicating a spot on the bench in front of Stephen’s own cabin.

“Thank you,” said Stephen, sitting where Mister Lorre had pointed. Stephen looked up once he had sat, thinking perhaps to engage the carpenter in light conversation, but Mister Lorre seemed preoccupied, and Stephen said nothing.

To Mister Lorre’s right, Mister Greenstreet sat at the head of the table, staring down at his hands, looking unnaturally tall even when sitting. Marine Sergeant Strasser climbed into the seat between Stephen and the sublieutenant, smiling at Stephen as he did so and smelling slightly of whiskey. He wore the only red coat in a sea of navy blue.

On Stephen’s other side sat a balding, corpulent, almost spherical man, pouring over a spreadsheet and doing sums on his fingers. Looking closely, Stephen saw columns for lamps, yards of duck, and batteries, among other sundries. The man felt in his pockets but did not find what he wanted, so he climbed back over the bench and almost collided with a slim, dark-haired woman coming to take her seat on his other side. She had a middle-eastern look to her and was exceptionally pretty.

The seat at the foot of the table was empty, but across the table from the young woman sat Mister Veidt, the gunner, engaged in conversation with a woman on his right, who wore a young face but grey hair. Stephen caught the phrase six-phase power and guessed they were discussing the morning’s discovery about the guns.

Between the grey-haired woman and Mister Lorre, across the table from Stephen sat Mister Humphries, the engineer. Stephen knew him reasonably well from Humphries’ visits to sickbay while Franklin had remained inpatient. The smile the engineer wore expanded as he saw Stephen, but before he could say anything eight bells began to ring and the table fell silent.

The last bell had not faded into silence before Stephen’s right-hand neighbor reappeared, sheepishly clambering into his seat and wiping his glistening forehead with a handkerchief. Mister Greenstreet lifted his hands to the table - Stephen now saw that he had been watching the clock on his phone - and glared at the balding man, but merely said, “grace.”

Around the table everyone closed their eyes and took on a respectful expression, so Stephen did the same; Mister Greenstreet said a formulaic prayer. Then he served himself from the soup bowl in front of him, passed the bowl to the right, and began to eat.

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Truth and Beauty 7-3

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But no, “Doctor Russ,” came the captain’s voice, “are you seeing this? Six-phase power. Have you ever heard of such a thing?

“No,” said Stephen, with complete honesty. “Never.”

“They must have added a special transformer for the guns. Take note of that in your journals, both of you. You should probably take photos, too. Here, Doctor,” said Jack, emerging from the knot of people clustered about the gun to grasp Stephen’s arm and pull him in. “This will be something to tell your grandchildren about. Look at that!”

Stephen looked, and saw a six pointed star of electrical wiring in the partially dismantled gun, each arm of the star made of a different color of wire. He wondered how long he had to stare at it to seem properly impressed, and took a sip of coffee to draw things out. “Fascinating,” he said. He searched about for something else to say that wouldn’t sound foolish. “I’ve never seen this before, I do declare.”

“Beg pardon, doctor,” came a voice at his elbow, and turning, Stephen saw the chief engineer holding up a his phone to take a photograph. This was the perfect excuse; Stephen thanked Jack for the opportunity, specifically saying six-phase power to prove that he had been paying attention, then slipped away from the group and returned to the wardroom. Here he discovered that someone had already been through to make up his bed, so he refilled his coffee mug and retreated to the sickbay, where he filled the time before breakfast in reviewing the radiographs for the surgical case he had agreed to assist in later that day.

He was considering the implications of the patient’s abnormally large uncinate process when seven bells struck and he made his way back to the wardroom for breakfast.

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Truth and Beauty 7-2

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Lieutenant O’Brian led them out of the bridge and down the companion to the spar deck, where, Stephen reflected as he continued to rub tiredness from his eyes, he had been peacefully asleep until five minutes ago. He knew there was a basket of dinner rolls just inside the wardroom door, and a carafe of coffee, and wondered if he could sneak away from the group for two seconds to grab some of each. Everyone’s attention was focused on the ordinance people, with the captain narrating for the benefit of his midshipmen, who took notes; Stephen and all of the other officers were dressed similarly (Stephen, indeed, was wearing one of Mister Blaine’s coats, they being of much the same size and Stephen not having a chance to acquire his own uniform yet); and reasoning that his face would not be missed amongst the sea of blue coats and pale trousers he decided to risk it, slipping away for long enough to cram two rolls into his pockets and draw a mug of coffee, rejoining the group just in time to hear Mister Holley ask “why is she working with one hand behind her back?”

“That way, if she accidentally brushes something live it won’t jump across her heart,” explained the captain. “She’s disconnected the negative cable from the firing cap - the capacitor, that is - connecting it instead to the green pole of the sink, that draws off any charge in the cap, see?” The explanation ran on and on. Stephen stifled a yawn and pulled a roll from his pocket.

Some minutes later he had finished both of his rolls and his coffee had cooled enough to drink, if he was careful, but the ordinance team was still busy with the number three gun. The captain was making the most of the opportunity to lead his pupils through the anatomy and physiology of the gun, a subject Stephen knew nothing about nor, did he particularly care just now, half asleep and on a half-empty stomach. “It’s not as if I can even see the gun, through all of those people,” he muttered vaguely, wondering if he could sneak back into the wardroom for another roll or two, or even escape entirely and return to sleep. He had slept poorly in the unfamiliar room, and had agreed to help a colleague in surgery later today.

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Truth and Beauty 7-1

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Chapter 7

Dr Russ laid himself down to sleep that night in the surgeon’s official cabin in the wardroom, declining Jack’s offer of continued use of the coach (“it would be invidious, my dear, and I should hate to cause strife in your command”, to which Jack had no reply). He intended to sleep through till breakfast at eight bells in the morning watch, but he had reckoned without an early-rising captain, eager to show off the securing of his vessel’s meager armament by the ordinance people. At four bells in the morning watch Stephen found the door to his cabin knocking, with a muffled voice on the other side of it offering the captain’s compliments, and did Doctor Russ wish to see the ordinance team lock down the cannon?

“What are you blathering on about, Mister Holley? And what are you doing in my cabin,” asked Stephen, having slept through and ignored five minutes of the midshipman pounding on the steel door with a knocker designed for the purpose, finally using a pass key to enter the cabin and shake the wire ropes holding the doctor’s cot.

“Captain’s compliments and would you like to see the ordinance team lock out the plasma arc cannon,” repeated Holley, then, “oh do come, sir, it’s ever so much fun. Mister Veight and the skipper are with them on the bridge and if we don’t hurry they’ll have started,” and he chivied Stephen into his clothes, through the wardroom without so much as a cup of coffee, and up the companion to the bridge.

Here they found Mister Henreid, the officer of the watch, along with the helmsman, but many of the other officers were present as well, speaking amongst themselves and with the red-jacketed ordinance people. Everyone looked up as Stephen and Holley walked in. “Ah,” said the captain, “Doctor Russ. So glad you could join us, you wouldn’t want to miss this. Are we all here now? Where is Mister Barus?”

“Here, sir,” said the Midshipman, hurriedly stuffing his phone in his pocket, where it continued to chirp and chime. “Mister Barus,” said the captain, “what is the rule about phone use unrelated to duty when on duty?”

Mister Barus flushed. In his pocket, his phone uttered an unhelpful but fittingly mournful four-tone melody. “There is to be none, sir.”

“You will report to me once you are off duty to discuss this,” said the captain. "Gentlemen,” he said to the ordinance team and his assembled officers, “and ladies, let us start with gun number three.”

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Truth and Beauty 6-14

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Jack’s face, which he had been keeping determinedly neutral, broke into a smile. “Surgeon is the word we use to describe a ship’s doctor,” he explained. “May I see your commission? Good heavens, it’s entirely hand-written. Yes, acting surgeon,” he said, looking at Stephen with increased admiration. “Acting commissions are typically as a Surgeon’s Mate, you must have wowed him in your interview or you have some fantastic credentials.”

“As we have no surgeon for me to be a mate to, I don’t suppose he had much choice.”

“Eh?”

“I said that as the Roth doesn’t have a surgeon to begin with, there was no one he could appoint me to be the mate of. It is a logical impossibility.”

After a barest second’s pause Jack understood that Stephen had misconstrued the term mate. “My dear sir,” he said, “it is illogical, I do agree, but mate indicates subordinate to in rank. Smaller craft, with smaller crews, typically have only surgeon’s mates to look after them, with no surgeon on board at all. Most of our officers are in fact mates, too - Mister Lorre the carpenter is officially a carpenter’s mate, first class, for instance, and Ms Lund is an electrician’s mate, also first class. And on transport craft such as ours the surgeon’s mates are typically med-school drop outs or burned out RNs, if that. Full surgeons, such as yourself, are professional men and, ha ha, command a greater rate of pay.”

“Really?”

“Oh, yes. One and a half times as much, I believe, plus head money for the number of crew. And prize money, though of course as a transport we shan’t see any of that.”

“But I mean, an appointment as surgeon is a mark of confidence, a good thing?”

“Oh, yes,” said Jack again. “Absolutely.”

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Truth and Beauty 6-13

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If that’s how you were dressed then I don’t doubt you made a poor impression, thought Jack, for Stephen’s coat had a dark square on its front where it had lost a patch pocket, and his pants had a certain shininess to them; and most admirals were sticklers for uniform. “Well,” he said, not sure how to share this observation without being offensive. Then, determined to hear the worst, “what happened?”

“I gave my name to the secretary, as you said, and was shown in. The admiral seemed a decent sort, asked after my health and offered me a drink, then asked why I had come. I told him that I intended to apply for the physician’s position on board the Roth, which I understood to be vacant. Do you mind if I get a glass of water?”

“Of course,” said Jack, gesturing to the printer.

Stephen returned with a glass of water, drank deeply, and sat down. “What a glorious thing it is to be properly hydrated,” he observed.

“Of course,” said Jack again. “What did the admiral say?”

“Yes, he kindly explained that a permanent appointment could only be made by the hurt and sick body-”

“The Sick and Hurt Board.”

“-but as an admiral he could make an acting appointment once he was assured of my abilities. Then he asked me a series of prepared questions of a medical nature, which I thought I had answered well, and then he asked that I wait with his secretary while he completed an obligatory background check. Finally he came out with this scroll and said that he was appointing me acting surgeon of the Roth - surgeon, as if I’m incapable of the medical side of things.”

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Truth and Beauty 6-12

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Still cursing under his breath, he pulled a scrap of paper to him and grabbed a pencil to compose an email to his father. Severity of work required him to remain with his command, he wrote, knowing the old man would see through the fiction at once, but would the admiral like to visit him on the Roth?

The email took a surprisingly long time to write, short though it was. Jack typed it in, ordered and drank a glass of whiskey, and clicked ‘send’ as seven bells rang. He leaned back in his wobbly chair and rubbed his temples.

“Liberty,” he said, putting his hands down and turning back to the computer.

Two minutes later he rose to answer a knock on the cabin door, but rather then Mister Greenstreet responding to his commander’s summons, Doctor Russ walked in, holding a roll of vellum. “I saw your admiral,” he said, laying the vellum on the table and taking off his coat to hang it on the back of his accustomed chair. “What happened to my chair,” he asked.

Jack flushed. “I, er, tripped. I’ll have Chips set it right, but use mine for now,” he said, taking Stephen’s coat and hanging it on a bulkhead peg.

Stephen sat and considered his new perspective on the cabin. “Hmm,” he said. “Strange how a different angle on something makes it unfamiliar. But I saw your admiral. I am not at all certain that I made a good impression."

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Truth and Beauty 6-11

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Jack left the interview in a mixture of shame and anger. He knew he should be relieved - grateful, even - beams-slipped-from-the-clamps was serious damage, and commanders had been docked pay or even lost their appointments for less. But shame, and not too deeply beneath it, anger, dominated. Standing in the busy passage outside the admiral’s office there was no outlet for any of these emotions, however, so he bottled them up, stepped into the admiral’s secretary’s office to submit Doctor Russ’s name, and caught the people mover back to the quay. From there he caught a wherry back to the Roth to see about unloading and docking her.

The emotions continued to work on him, however, and by the time he returned to the Roth he was thoroughly sour, looking for something to lash out on just to alleviate the tension. On the bridge he gave clipped orders to receive lighters to offload their cargo, and to have the guns locked down and inspected by the ordinance people in preparation for entering the graving dock. Then he retreated to his cabin, where he asked Stephen to report to the admiral. Finally alone, he swore loudly, kicking one of his chairs so hard that it broke free of the pins holding it to the deck.

“Damn it,” he swore again, nursing his now painful foot. He picked up the chair and set it on its feet again, where it sat lopsidedly, one of the legs being bent. Mastering the urge to hurl the chair across the cabin he sat down instead, wallowing in the discomfort of the damaged chair as punishment for his outburst.

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Truth and Beauty 6-10

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“I give you credit for honesty, captain,” said the admiral (come, thought Jack, that’s civil). "And, as I say, you made it. Are there any injuries?”

“One man is still on light duty, sir, but the doctor - my guest - tells me he’ll fully recover.”

“Well, I am going to ask that while you’re here you confine yourself to your ship unless official business takes you off of it, but if you keep your nose clean I think we may consider this affair closed. I’ve reassigned your oxygen shipment to the Newcastle, but I have a shipment of carbon slurry that you’ll be taking to the Achilles system. Not glorious, but it has to be done. Have you any questions?”

“No, sir. Thank you, sir.”

“The yard attendant will let you know once he has cleared a berth. You said that this doctor of yours wishes to be appointed your surgeon?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you are happy as to his conduct thus far?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Leave his name with my secretary and have him report to me before you depart for the Achilles. Not Wednesday, I’ll be taking the baths that day, but any other work day. Good day to you, captain.”

“Good day, sir.”

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Truth and Beauty 6-9

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Neva-4, and Roth tied to a buoy in the inner roadstead while her captain reported to the port admiral.  “We had a, er, we hit the first coil of the gate badly as we made the jump to hyperspace, and the jolt pulled some of the beams form the clamps and played havoc in the hangar.  We put in some extra knees to support things and we had to put a cap on one of the gangway hatches to make the jump back to cartesian space - the christmas tree wouldn’t turn green, sir - but the hangar will need to be pressure tested.  Engineering has a Robbins pipe fitted on the secondary loop of the prime mover, holding well, and the forward berth deck lighting is on an auxiliary panel.”

“I see,” said the admiral, who was a short, slightly overweight man with close-cropped grey hair and a hooked nose.  At present he wore a rather severe expression, but whether this was due to Jack’s incompetence or due to pain from the admiral’s prosthetic hand wasn’t clear.  “Well,” he said, “you’ll have to go in for a refit, clearly.  But, you made it, that’s the main thing.  How did you end up hitting the gate off-center?”

“Well, I have a guest, sir, a doctor, a physician, who has consented to stay aboard as our surgeon if you’ll appoint him.  But he’s not a sailor and inadvertently - that is, I shouldn’t have allowed him on the bridge for the jump, or at least cautioned him to the nature of the maneuver.”  Jack wasn’t certain the he was explaining himself clearly, and the admiral’s expression only seemed to be getting darker.

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Truth and Beauty 6-8

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“In fact, we should be dropping out of hyperspace sometime in the second dog.” He shifted in his seat and refilled Stephen’s wine glass before he went on.  “You may be more comfortable in the coach or here in the great cabin when we make the jump.”

Stephen felt the remark deeply, but he acknowledged its fairness. “Certainly,” he said, after the smallest pause.  He raised his glass. “A glass of wine with you, sir.”

“A glass of wine with you,” said Jack, raising his own.

* * *
Shortly before six bells in the second dog watch, and except for the forward gangway door on the starboard boat deck, Roth was ready to jump back to Cartesian space. Though the hatch remained jammed shut, its frame was warped, and the sensors continued to show an open condition.

“Put a cap on it, Mister Lorre,” said Captain O’Brian at last, he and the carpenter having tried to pound and pry the hatch back into alignment without success. “It’s only till we make harbor. And place those knees. Will you need more men to have us ready to jump by the end of the watch?”

“Yes, sir. The red cutter’s crew, if you please. They are some of the best welders in the barky and are used to working together.”

“Very good, Mister Lorre,” said the captain, pulling out his phone and entering an order for the requested men. He walked aft along the gangway, absently returning the salutes of the cutter’s crew, rushing past him in the other direction. Roth required at least two days in port, probably more, since there was no guarantee of an available graving dock when they arrived. As captain, Jack would have to call on the port admiral’s office, and probably meet with the port admiral himself to explain why his command failed to properly negotiate the jump and now needed graving dock space, but even a protracted discussion of Roth’s condition and how she was damaged couldn’t take more than a highly-unpleasant hour or so.

Deliberately avoiding the question of whether the admiral would allow him to keep the Roth, after this near-disaster, Jack turned his thoughts to the question of laying in private stores with a further advance on his pay. Steak was out of the question, particularly on a planet where it have to be imported, but pork and chicken were likely available at a reasonable price.

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Truth and Beauty 6-7

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The swell persisted through the morning, and indeed none of the other sailors paid any attention to it, either, other than to help Stephen back to his feet when he stumbled, advising him each time to “keep one hand for himself, and one for the ship,” repeating the phrase each time like some sort of mantra.

“Take care, doctor,” said Jack after a particularly heavy roll knocked Stephen from his feet as he entered the cabin for dinner, rolling him across the deck so that he landed at Jack’s feet with his limbs splayed out like a starfish.  “You need to keep one hand for yourself and one for the ship.”

“Thank you,” replied Stephen as Jack pulled him to his feet.  “Surely this is abnormal?  I don’t remember ever being so tossed about in space before.”

“The commercial passenger liners do go heavy on the dampers, yes.  It makes for a smoother ride, which they feel the passengers prefer, but you’re less maneuverable, and of course the helm looses some of its feel.  I think this is supposed to be beef,” he said, having lifted the cover off one of their trays to reveal a reddish-brown loaf covered in a clear, slightly oily, brown gravy.  He leaned forward to sniff it.  “Yes, brisket, I think.  May I cut you a slice?”

“If you please,” said Stephen, passing his plate.  Lifting the other covers revealed a green paste that might have represented broccoli, and what they recognized as the printer’s take on buttered rice.

“We only have to make do with the printer for another day,” said Jack as they tucked in.  “We passed Martin’s Mark a little after two bells in the morning watch, so touching wood we should be docking at Neva 4 something before noon tomorrow, where we can take on some personal stores.”

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Truth and Beauty 6-6

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* * *

Stephen found that shipboard life pretty quickly fell into an ordered routine, regulated by the bells that rang through the speakers fitted into every corner of the Roth, including the lavatories (or heads, as he heard the sailors call them).  It soon seemed perfectly normal to rise each day at six bells in the morning watch, shower, shave, and dress, and then join Jack for breakfast in the great cabin at seven bells (Jack’s second breakfast, actually, he having been up since two bells, attending to the office work of commanding the Roth).  This meal was invariably a warm yellow loaf of what passed for scrambled eggs (“it tastes right, though perhaps the shape is a bit, well, unusual,” said Jack), accompanied by printed bacon, chilled juice, and hot coffee.

At eight bells the sentry announced the officer of the morning watch, who gave the formal report of the overnight watches before joining Jack and Stephen for his own breakfast.  Bollwerk entered at the stroke of one bell, chivying them away so he could clear and clean their plates, and Stephen made his way down to sick bay.  Thursday was a particularly special day in this regard, as he made the entire trip without making a single wrong turn.  Only Franklin remained as an inpatient, and after quickly checking the sign-in sheet posted by the medical suite’s outer hatchway (no new cases had presented), Stephen stepped into the ward.  “Good morning, Franklin, how do you do?”

“Good morning, your honor,” said Franklin in the at-death’s-door voice that had made Stephen’s heart skip a beat the first several mornings, but that now seemed almost mandatory.  “I don’t complain, though the pain is something cruel,” his usual comment.

Stephen checked the monitor’s record for the overnight.  Everything was within normal limits, with no abnormal trends, and though Franklin had a button he could press for analgesia he had not used it.  In fact, the button was lying on the deck, where it had no doubt fallen as Franklin slept.  Wiping it off with a sanitowel, he handed it to his patient.

“Oh, thank you, your honor,” said Franklin, now speaking normally, “but I dursn’t need no old pain button.  I don’t suppose my staples might come out today when you change my bandage, though?  The helmet presses on them fu- er, devilish hard.”

“Yes,” said Stephen, having inspected the wound.  “I think we might even dispense with the helmet itself tonight, though you’ll need it to get out of bed, of course.  We should try the steps - the companion - today, with suitable precautions.  Good heavens,” he said, steadying himself against the bulkhead as the Roth began to rock.  “What do you suppose this is about?”

“The rolling, your honor?  That’s just the swell, or perhaps the wake off a larger vessel, in which case it will peter out in another minute or so.  I remember in the Courageous, Captain Just, we had a three-day blow that spun us about like the pea in a can of spray paint.  Tore all of the boats from their clamps and shifted a motor mount.  Injuries, too, and grievous.  But a small swell like this I dursen’t worry about."

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Truth and Beauty 6-5

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“Yes,” said Jack, standing up and collecting a glass from the sideboard and inserting it into the drinks printer.  “Rye, scotch, beer, milk - just turn the knob to highlight the category you want - hard liquor, see?  Then push to select, turn again for the drink - you said rye?  And push again, select your volume.  Select you temperature.  Any extras - rocks?”

“Please.”

“And press run,” Jack finished, pressing the worn green button that started the printer.  The machine clicked, hummed and clicked several more times, and finally whined as something within it spooled up to speed.

“It sounds like a centrifuge,” said Stephen.

“Doesn’t it?  And there we are,” said Jack, raising his voice slightly over the clatter of falling ice cubes, one of which cracked as amber fluid drained into the glass.  The machine chimed and Jack retrieved the drink.  “To your health, doctor,” he said, raising the glass in salute and passing it to his guest.

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STO'B 6-8 Captain Fitton

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Having extracted himself from the engineer, Philip looked over the men on duty in the engine and boiler rooms, as much as he could in the weak light of the oil lamps.  These men were hard at work, sweating in the warm, damp air, shoveling coal into the boiler and raking it into place, minding the feed and the steam gauges, and reaching into the engine with oil cans.  The furnace door opened for the stoker to rake the coals and in the burst of light Philip saw that the crew’s clothes were grimy with coal dust and oil.  “Very good, gentlemen,” he said, before escaping to the comparative 90-degree coolness of the berth deck.

The only things that remained were the bread room, tin-lined against the rats and poorly-stocked though in good order, and finally the magazine, reached by a trap-door hatch in the floor of the officers’ store room, but only after lighting the lamp in the light room (again more of a cupboard, and in this case entered via a hatch in the deck of Philip’s personal store room).  Philip removed his boots, belt, coat, and sword belt, laying them carefully aside before donning list slippers and an apron and tapping on the hatch.

Mister Horrace opened the hatch immediately, greeting Philip as if he had never met him, rather than as if they had spoken a mere half a glass earlier, and stood aside to allow Philip past.

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Truth and Beauty 6-4

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Some time later, Stephen returned to the great cabin to find Jack sitting with an empty glass that looked to have held whiskey.  A tablet computer and a stylus lay on the table in front of him.
“Good evening, Doctor,” said Jack.  “Would you like a drink?  We have scotch, rye, wine, beer - anything generic, I’m afraid, it’s only what the machine can print.”

“You are very kind,” said Stephen, still standing awkwardly in the hatchway.  “I’m very sorry.”

“Oh, no,” said Jack, who had in fact until this moment been blaming Stephen for Roth’s clumsy jump into hyperspace.  “No, no.  Not at all.  You had no way of knowing.”  Stephen entered the cabin and Jack went on.  “I should have warned you.  Going into hyperspace is a ticklish thing in any event, especially once the sensor array is withdrawn.  That leaves us blind, you see, and you have to be lined up just so with the coils, but if you leave the sensors deployed they’re liable to snap off with the acceleration.”  He sighed.  “But how are your patients, Doctor,” he asked as Stephen sat down.

“They will do,” said Stephen.  “The head injury is resting, I expect a full recovery but won’t know for sure until he wakes up.  The broken arm should be excused form duty for a few days - I’ll know better tomorrow, once the drugs have had a chance to work - then light duty for a week or so as the bone remodels, then we can add labors as his condition merits.  The rest I’ve told already that they can go back to their work.”

“You fixed the head injury,” asked Jack, who had already written to the admiralty to let them know of Roth’s accident, including the lamented loss of Franklin Whyte, engineer’s mate.  But Roth had yet to pass a beacon, so the message had yet to upload, and he could still amend it.  “You think he’ll survive?”

“I do.  It was a routine epidural bleed, and not terribly severe at that.  Once I’m satisfied that he’s stable I’ll put in a Hillman patch, and he’ll need a helmet until that ossifies, but there was no herniation.  With a little luck, there should be no permanent deficits.  I think you said that the printer can print rye?”

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STO'B 6-7 Captain Fitton

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Philip knew that the big-end of the rod would be warm without touching it, but he allowed the engineer to guide his hand into the engine. More than warm, it was hot. “Shut her down, Mister Stevens,” he told the engineer. “We will proceed under sail alone. Have you anything else to report?”

“No, sir. Just that the pins need to be checked, and the keys, and the stuffing box - the stern gland, that is - is taking an increased flow, though nothing the pump can’t handle, and of course the donkey still needs that key. And we’re overdue for cleaning the fire here, there’s too much clinker on the grate, it’s leaving holes in the fire and needs to be raked out.”

“Very good, Mister Stevens, you may shut her down.”

 “And the weep holes on the main bearing are starting to run dry. I suspect they’re merely gummed but won’t know until I’ve flushed the bearing, sir, and maybe dismantled her.” He sniffed and wiped the back of his hand across his nose. “Either way, I needs to shut her down.”

“Very good, Master Engineer, you may shut her down.”

“And the supplies of tallow and sulfur are running low, sir. I doubt we’ve got enough to run her another watch.”

“Thank you, Mister Stevens.” said Captain Fitton. “Please shut her down.”

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Truth and Beauth 6-3

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“That is his dura,” said Stephen, inserting a gloved finger into the bleeding hole and feeling for the source of the flow. Yes? No? Yes, that felt like it. He threaded a fiber-optic probe along his finger, watching the monitor hanging above Franklin’s chest: yes, probably. Still holding the probable site of the injury with his finger he withdrew the probe and inserted a Litvack applicator, applied the patch, and was withdrawing the applicator to reinsert the probe when Devon collapsed to the floor. “Ah,” said Stephen.


    Up in the great cabin, Jack was receiving the carpenter’s report. Mister Lorre was a short, balding, bear-like man, now looking slightly disheveled from his inspection of the Roth following her awkward jump to hyperspace. “The worst is between frames 12 and 16 on the starboard boat deck - beams slipped from the clamps. We’ve got some additional knees in there to support her, but I dursn’t use the hangar till the dockyard has taken a look. Also the forward gangway door in the same area is jammed. We could free it with a heavy persuader and a ram, but I doubt it would want to close again, so I think best is to pull out the hatch, straighten the frame, and rehang it sir - that would require the commander’s bypass for the christmas tree, in course. In the hangar itself, some of the boat clamps in the hangar were pulled out of alignment, and one of the shuttle craft took a tumble and looks to be a total loss. Ms Bergman reports that the lighting on the forward berth deck is all out, and Mister Humphries is fitting a Robbins pipe to the secondary loop for the prime mover. The rest is smaller stuff - one of the telescreens in the crew’s recreation fell off the bulkhead, and the universal machines shifted, like that.

“Begging your pardon, sir, and no disrespect meant,” continued the carpenter, now looking at his feet, “but Roth is an old girl, and that was a tough shake for her, going into hyperspace like that. I don’t know that she can take another.”

Jack looked up from his desk, where he had been taking notes on his tablet; this was no way to address an unfamiliar captain. He said nothing, however, as privately, he agreed with the carpenter’s assessment, and the man’s sincerity and deference were evident. “Well, Mister Lorre,” he said, “we must do what we can to patch her up for now. It’s only for a few weeks, until we reach Neva 4.” He looked at his tablet, reviewing the list of damages, “when you’re ready to rehang that hatch let me know, and I’ll bypass the christmas tree for you.”

“Yes, sir,” said Mister Lorre, saluting and departing. Jack stared at his tablet, not particularly seeing it so much as the damage it recorded, in his mind’s eye. Eventually he pushed back his chair and stood up, crossing over to the to the food generator and ordering a drink.

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Vacation

I will be on vacation for the next week; updates will resume 5/31.

 - B

Truth and Beauty 6-2

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Doctor Russ moved into the prep room, scrubbed and sterilized his hands, stepped into a surgical gown, and donned sterile gloves and a mask.  Then he stepped into the cramped operating room.

His patient, an engineering crew member named Franklin, was already on the table, unconscious but breathing, hooked up to the monitor and receiving oxygen.  The man’s friend looked up as the doctor entered, putting down the electric groomer with which he had been shaving Franklin’s head.  “Just his queue left, your honor.  I don’t need to shave that off, do I?”

“This is fine, thank you, Devon.”  Stephen cleaned Franklin’s head with soap, then isopropanol, then providone-iodine, and finally epi-stat; then considered the gash across the man’s right temple.  The tissue had swollen, but the bleeding had stopped, and Stephen’s palpating fingers found no crepitation.  “Very good,” he said.

Taking his point of departure from the superior temporal line at the zygomatic process, he directed Devon to press an emesis basin against Franklin’s head and began his incision, working quickly and carefully, dividing the skin and the superficial fascia, then then incising the temporal fascia and dividing the temporalis itself.  He had never performed surgery in space before, and the living deck beneath his feet was distracting at first, but by the time he reached the periosteum he no longer noticed.  “There,” he said to Devon, “see the crack?  That is our culprit.  Will you pass me the red-handled osteotome now?  The small chisel-like instrument on the left?”

Devon found and passed the osteotome.  “There may be some blood, now,” said Stephen, “so be ready with that suction catheter.”  He scraped the periosteum away from the bone, then traded the osteotome for the trephine.  “Hold the suction catheter here, now,” Stephen directed, and he pressed the diamond cutting edge to the bone, turning the handle and grinding into the living tissue.

He felt the subtle give as he entered the diploë, then the resistance again as he met the inner table.  Suddenly the blade plunged into the skull, releasing a spurt of gelatinous, semi-clotted blood that Devon siphoned away, the catheter slurping and gurgling as it worked.  Stephen peered into the hole, which rapidly filled with pulsing blood, then reached in with one finger to find the leaking artery.  “There is a square, blue button on the monitor,” he told Devon, “could you press it, please?  About the size of your thumb nail.”

Devon found the button, pressed it, and the blood pressure cuff cycled.  Yes - the pressure was coming down.  “Are you touching his brain, your honor,” asked Devon.

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Truth and Beauty 6-1

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Chapter 6
Some time later Jack found Stephen in the sick bay office, standing in the dark in front of a large computer screen. “There you are, Stephen,” he said. “Why are you standing in the dark?”

“I am evaluating my patient’s CT. He has an epidural hematoma, see the characteristic lens shape, limited by the coronal suture? I suspect a rupture of one of the branches of the middle meningeal artery, but I’d like to see it on the film.”

“The middle meningeal artery?” said Jack.

“Oh, no, one of its branches,” he scrolled to the next slice. “There,” he said, “just at the pterion. And a hairline fracture, too.”

“Oh, dear,” said Jack. “And how are your other patients,” he asked, determined to hear it through to the end in his responsibility as captain.

“The broken arm I have splinted and managed the pain. I’ll cast him after the operation. The rest are minor scrapes and contusions, which will do.”

“Oh, dear, oh, dear,” said Jack again. Only a few days into his first command and he had one hand dead of a head injury: no one could survive bleeding into the brain, that was certain. Not without the medical team of a shore establishment or a capital ship. And another man with a broken bone so severe it required surgery: weeks to recover, no doubt, and permanent disability. “Well,” he said, “I’ll leave you to it,” and he departed sick bay.

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Truth and Beauty 5-14

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Roth shuddered and was yanked sideways and forward; the lights dimmed, a some of the the control panels buzzed, small objects began to rise and drift, and Stephen felt his stomach rise as well. “Shit,” cursed the captain, “engines stop,” but Roth gave a groan, shuddered, and was yanked forward again. Stephen was reminded forcefully of a rafting trip he had once taken, where they had missed their put-out and accidentally entered the rapids. “Prepare the hyperdrive,” ordered the captain.

“Hyperdrive primed, sir,” and Roth shuddered and yanked forward again, then seemed to coast. The buzzing receded, lighting returned to normal, and the objects which had taken flight fell with a clatter, but the smell of ozone filled the bridge. Stephen fought down the urge to vomit. “Hyperdrive engaged, sir,” said the helmsman.

“Sensors deploying,” reported the radar man, then, “Jump is confirmed, sir.”

“Stand down from jump,” said the captain. “All stations report and have the carpenter sound the well.”

Deck reported scattered injuries and one hand in engineering who had struck his head and lost consciousness. “I am sorry to ask, Doctor, since you are a guest, but would you be willing,” asked Jack.

“Of course,” said Stephen, who in any event felt somehow responsible for the chaos, quite apart from an ingrained habit of treating anyone who needed it. “I take the companion all the way down?”

“Thank you, Doctor. All the way down but one, he’s on the upper engineering level, and remember to put on your headphones. The other patients will meet you in the sick bay on the same level, all the way forward.”

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STO'B 6-6 Captain Fitton

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Turning aft, Philip beheld the iron water tank, oiled on the outside against rust and fitted with a scale against which Mister South (or now Philip, the master being on the prize) routinely marked the water level.  Philip felt along the top of the tank until he found the soapstone, then pounded the side of the tank until he found the water level, marking it on the gauge.  Then standing back to consider the pattern of marks.  Was the tank holding its water?  Probably.  Mister South was so much better at this.  Philip frowned, but the tank was still close to one-quarter full, they were only a day or two from Malta, and nothing short of a catastrophic leak would be an issue before then.  For the same reason he gave their provisions, nestled on either side of the tank, no more than a quick glance; it wasn’t as if they were in the mid-Pacific.

The walk aft was blocked by the forward bulkhead of the coal bin, so Philip climbed back up to the berth deck, moved aft, and dropped down boiler room companion.

Here he met the Master Engineer and the on-duty boiler watch.  “Master Engineer, good afternoon, what is your report?”

“Good afternoon, sir,” said the Master Engineer, not bothering to salute and immediately leading Philip aft to the engine room.  “The crank pin bearing is growing quite warm, sir.  I doubt she’ll will make Malta without we give her a rest.”

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Truth and Beauty 5-13

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Cycling the door did the trick: the last light on the christmas tree turned green.  Informed of this by the crewman at the deck station, Jack consulted the checksheet for the jump to hyperspace.  Only withdrawing the sensor array remained.  “Radar, are we steady on the gate?”

“Steady, aye, steady, sir.”

“Withdraw the array.”

“Standby,” said the sensor man as he entered the commands.  “Array is withdrawn,” and Stephen felt the atmosphere grow tense.

Sublieutenant Greenstreet moved from station to station, checking the gauges and controls.  “Roth is rigged to jump, sir,” he reported.

“Helm,” said the captain, “ahead one quarter.  Take us in.”

The engines rumbled.  Roth, blind without her sensors, eased forward.  Stephen, feeling badly in the way, made to excuse himself.  “Pardon me,” he said.

“Silence!” roared the sublieutenant, and “Doctor,” warned the captain, and Stephen flattened himself against the bulkhead.

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Truth and Beauty 5-12

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“There you are Russ," said Jack.  "Stephen, that is.  I still can’t believe you let me call you Russ for so long."

“There seemed no need for correction,” said Stephen.  “It is my name.”

“You are a deep one, Doctor Russ.  But you are just in time for the jump to hyperspace, I was going to send a midshipman for you in a minute or so.  Deck, there, Miller, how are we coming?”

“Just the aft starboard gangway hatch on the gun deck, sir.  Sometimes it sticks, sir, we may have to send a hand to eyeball it.”

Jack paused.  Proper response if a hatch failed to read green before a jump was to pressure test it.  If the hatch passed, the vessel’s commander could then over-ride the hatch sensor to turn the christmas tree green.  But pressure testing was old-womanish, a six or seven hour procedure: not at all the image he wished to convey to the crew of his new command, or to Whitehall.  He glanced covertly at Mister Greenstreet, but the sublieutenant’s face was blank.  Mister Lorre and the acting master, whose name eluded Jack for the moment, were unconcernedly introducing themselves to Stephen.  Sending someone to check wouldn’t hurt - perhaps with a shove on the hatch, the sensor would read properly.  “Send a responsible hand to check the hatch, Miller.  Have him give it a good shove.”

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STO'B 6-5 Captain Fitton

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Philip left the medical men gathering their instruments.  Badger’s interior had been largely destroyed in the action which took her (several dozen raking shots through her fragile stern), and the dockyard had thoroughly disturbed what remained when they had fitted her steam engine and propeller, with the result that her internal layout was unlike any craft Philip had ever before seen.  Partial decks cut into the orlop at the bow and stern, and Philip dropped onto the forward one of these unnamed decks, meeting the carpenter and the bosun at the foot of the ladder, standing by their respective store rooms.

He looked into the carpenter’s store first.  The lamp in the light room (more of a light cupboard, really) cast a weak glow, but the carpenter had painted the space white, and enough light entered the space for Philip to make his inspection.  Like Mister Foster, the carpenter was apt to be cross-grained, but he was also highly conscientious and skilled, and Philip had full faith in him.  Mister  Scott had spent most of his stores in rebuilding the Badger after her various actions, but what little was left stood in orderly piles and racks, and the tools gleamed in the half light: clean, sharp, and well-organized.  “Very good, Mister Scott,” said Philip.  “Thank you.”

The bosun had not troubled to paint his store room (his sail room, actually).  He had folded all of his sails properly, including those damaged by gunshot and weather, but after the proud, careful arrangement of the carpenter’s store, the sail room looked a bit slovenly.  It was not criminally so, Philip had seen sail rooms in much worse state, and there was certainly no danger to the sails or the Badger, but the contrast struck Philip strongly.  “Very good, Mister McEwan,” he said.

Down again, to the bosun’s second store room and the cockpit.  The cockpit he gave little more than a glance as the bosun clambered down the ladder - its red-painted walls and timbers smelled of fresh paint but it was otherwise unremarkable, with saws and leather-covered chains hanging from their pegs in the near darkness.  No one was here, the surgeon and his mate being occupied with the men on the gangway.

Philip felt thoroughly depressed by the bosun’s lower store room, however, with its rope rack empty but for several coils of half-inch manila, swaying forlornly as Badger rocked.  Several buckets of tar and pitch stood in sockets along the aft bulkhead, spoils of the Tres Hermanas, but only a few worn or broken blocks hung from hooks.  “Thank you, Mister McEwan,” said Philip again.  “We certainly do need a restock.”

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Truth and Beauty 5-11

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“Yes, your honor,” replied the sentry.

“Thank you,” said Stephen, stepping through and letting the hatch close behind him with a dull clunk.

An open door stood to his right, a closed one to his left, and step ladders - his strange new friend Jack had called them a companion -stood before him, leading up and down.  Beyond the companion two passageways snaked forward, probably around the hold.  Up was the bridge, he recalled: the command center of the ship.  This seemed an obvious place to find the captain, so he mounted the stairs - the companion - and climbed.

His theory proved correct.  Jack was on the bridge, standing next to a decrepit-looking instrument panel with Sublieutenant Greenstreet and another man Stephen had not met.

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STO'B 6-4 Captain Fitton

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Philip continued further along the gun deck, into the area most devastated in the battle at the Roman spring.  Several deep scars still marred the deck here, and though Mister Scott had planked-over all of the holes in Badger’s side, he had run short of framing, and had to improvise several of the repairs.

“This is gun seven here,” said Mister Horrace, pointing to where gun six usually sat, “the carriage for six being smashed and the framing for number seven not being quite set, yet.  Gun five I put in for number four.”

“Very good, Mister Horrace,” said Lieutenant Fitton once they had circled the gun deck and returned to the aft companion.  “It looks as though you and Mister Scott have pieced together a full broadside for us.”

“Yes, sir,” said the gunner, blushing slightly and saluting.

Philip dropped down the companion to the berth deck.  The deck was wide open at present, all of the hammocks being rolled up on the bulwharks, and the men’s chests (two men shared a single chest) secured against the sides; the low overhead beams made the space look even deeper and wider than it was.  The place smelled of unwashed men and stale air, but Philip didn’t particularly notice - the smell was familiar to him from childhood as the typical berth deck smell.  He did notice the darkness, however, after the sunlit gun deck above (the gun ports let in a certain amount of light, and amidships the space between the gangways was open to the heavens), and not for the first time he wondered if he should have the space painted white.

He worked his way forward to the sick bay, where he met the surgeon, who stood as he entered. 

“Good afternoon, Mister Foster, what is your report?”

“All present and accounted for,” said the surgeon; his customary reply, “and my patient’s as comfortable as can be expected.”

His patient, an elderly seaman still suffering from an arm fracture obtained during the battle for the Chasseur, lay as rigidly in his cot as if he had been carved there.  “How are you doing, Gibney,” asked Captain Fitton.

“Very good, sir, though the pain is something cruel,” Gibney replied in the faint, traditional, at-death’s-door voice required of an invalid.

“We’ll see you up and about in no time, I’m sure.  Mister Foster will hit upon the solution and you’ll be right as rain.”  Philip hoped his words carried conviction; the man appeared to be getting worse, not better.

Gibney made an appropriate reply, and the captain turned back to the surgeon.  “Mister Foster, some of the hands have the look of scurvy to me.  Could you take a look among them and see what you can discover?”

“Surely not,” said the surgeon.  Their lime juice is mixed in with their grog.”

“Well, something is not quite right.  Koslowski, in the starboard watch, and Dixon.  And Martin in the larboard watch.”

“Malingerers.  But I shall do as you ask.  Come, Holles, the lieutenant tells us we have scurvy aboard, forsooth.  Koslowski, Dixon and Martin.”

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Truth and Beauty 5-10

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Stephen, who still had leeway to make up in terms of sleep, in spite of his earlier naps, retreated.  In the coach he found his trunk and other possessions neatly lined up along one of the bulkheads, and a well-made  cot with one corner of the bedclothes turned down.  He stripped off his clothes and climbed into bed, with the words I am home not quite formed as he fell asleep.

He slept through the change of the watch at eight bells, when the Roth rumbled with the tramping of the men’s feet and Jack, now off duty, knocked lightly on the hatch; slept through the change of the first dog watch to the second dog at four bells and the hull shook again; slept through the beginning of the first watch at eight bells and its end at eight bells again; and finally awoke fully refreshed at a time that his internal clock told identified as mid morning.  He lay there for a bit, collecting himself and luxuriating on having no immediate responsibilities - not even to himself.  Then he stretched, climbed out of the cot and stretched fully, and rummaged in his trunk for some clothing.

In the great cabin a short but polite note on a folded towel invited him to shower, and another note beside a small bell invited him to order breakfast.  Jack had not appeared by the time completed both tasks, so Stephen hung the towel on a peg in the coach and set out to find his host, or perhaps start learning his way around the Roth.

At the hatch leading out of the suite he ran into a red-coated marine, standing sentry.  “Am I allowed to leave,” he asked.

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STO'B 6-3 Captain Fitton

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* * *

Divisions, and Badger held her breath for her captain’s inspection, the red-coated marines lined-up on the quarterdeck, her crew toeing their appointed seams along the gangway and foc’cle, every line just so and blacked, her cannon bowsed tight against her side; and all sweltering under the Mediterranean sun. Philip began his inspection aft, begain it alone because his first lieutenant was still on the absent Chasseur.  He was out of midshipmen, too, having sent Wilkins over to the Tres Hermanas along with Mister South.  And even with the new crewmen form the prize he was running short of men.

He put these thoughts from his mind and slowly inspected the marines.  As he expected, they were flawless, or as flawless as conditions would allow: they stood as straight as their ramrods, with brilliantly pipeclayed crossbelts over neat, but faded red coats, their pink, freshly-shaved faces staring straight ahead as though Philip wasn’t there.  Except that they swayed slightly as Badger worked in the swell, they might have been wax statues.  Part of Philip felt for them as men - Falk looked as if he was approaching cerebral congestion and Philip would have to erect awnings in the future - but as their captain under God and Queen he said no more than “very good, Corporal Quinn.  You may set your men at ease,” before turning to the sailors.

Here things were different.  No amount of lecture or discipline short of terrorizing the hands would ever convince a sailor to stand at attention like a soldier.  Marines were all very well; able to pull on a rope when needed or fire down on an enemy from the tops, and invaluable in boarding and amphibious operations; but the men were only three-quarters joking when they accused each other of ‘topping it the marine:’ better dead than red.  They nudged each other and shared private jokes, made grotesque faces at their comrades on the other side of the waist in hopes of provoking laughter, and stared at their captain until he was within three feet, when they would suddenly fall silent and somber until he passed them by. Philip stopped before a particular sailor.  “Koslowski, how do you do,” he asked, looking into the man’s sunken eyes.

“Prime, sir, quite prime,” said Koslowski, staring straight ahead, and Philip noted that his breath was foul.  He looked the man over, considering.  For the Mediterranean Sea, this was strange.  He would have to keep a lookout, and consult with Mister Foster.

Paying more attention now, Philip moved along the line of sailors: one or two more showed the same lassitude on the starboard side, none on the foc’cle, but one more along the port gangway.

He dropped down to the gun deck, joining Mister Horrace, who saluted and fell in behind him as he carefully looked over Badger’s teeth.  Several of the guns were still in the hold, but Philip saw that the gunner had prepared their tackle for their new carriages to come aboard in Malta.  Mister Horrace had also distributed replacement tools for those lost, and every station had its full complement arrayed in the Badger’s sides and overhead framing.

The galley sat between guns eight and ten on the starboard side, manned by Bathby, the one-legged cook.  Philip put on the traditional white glove and ran it along the pots, inspecting his fingers with ritual seriousness for signs of grease; Bathby was a conscientious man, a bosun’s mate until he had lost his leg, and he worshipped cleanliness.

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