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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