Truth and Beauty 14-7

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“Have any of you any salvage experience,” he asked, once he had their attention again.

To Jack’s surprise, Sergeant Strasser saluted and spoke. “I served on a first-entry crew for Chapham Recovery, off Sirius, then on a sweep team for Coventry, eventually leading an S team myself.”

“I see,” said Jack, to whom none of this made sense. “Well, I suppose this is a first entry mission, so why don’t you start your remarks there - for those who may not have been on a mission of this type, before.”

“Plastite,” said the sergeant without hesitation. "The plastic thermite cuts right through the hull, just like butter. You preload it onto a forced-entry sleeve, stand back, and ‘boom,’ you’re in. Assuming, of course, that you can’t just access an airlock - ‘try before you pry,’ you know. Then, once you’re in, it depends on the nature of the catch,” he went on, falling back into the jargon of his old profession. Stephen noticed a certain relaxation to his posture, too, which somehow made the marine seem more dangerous.

“If it’s a strait RA - roadside assistance - then the crew typically let you in and show you what’s needed. Coveralls’d be all you’d need, and work boots and a hard hat. Dead ships, they’re fairly straightforward, too. Everything has to be started up, perhaps repaired, but it’s all balanced, and of course you’re in survival suits until you have the life support back up. The half-dead ships, those are the widow-makers. Some of the compartments are pressurized, others aren’t any more, see. You get these pressure differentials across the bulkheads, and they can blow out without warning. That can be deadly no matter which side you’re on,” he said with a grim smile. “Survival suits, of course, though that isn’t always enough, if a blow-out catches you."

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Truth and Beauty 14-6

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He met his team in the hangar, along with one of the gunner’s mates checking over their small arms. In the background, their shuttlecraft pilot wiped down all of the control surfaces as he worked his way through his pre-launch checklist. “Doctor, how do you do?”

“Very well, sir, and you,” said Doctor Russ, transferring his bag to his left hand so he could salute with his right. This revealed one of the Roth’s pistols in a holster on his right hip, Jack noted as he returned the salute, handle foremost.

Pulling his attention from this unexpected detail, Jack surveyed the rest of the group. Three men (one a woman, actually) wore the heavy gloves and helmets of a forced-entry team. The road box at their feet do doubt held their equipment. Two marines under Sergeant Strasser held their rifles in a stiff, at-ease posture, their bayonets sheathed in thigh holsters. Five other men held their weapons uncertainly - though basic training included small arms training, the knowledge had clearly not stuck; Jack made a mental note to begin training when the storm settled down.

“All right,” said Jack, and the away team fell turned their attention to him. “We have an unknown vessel, seemingly adrift. She don’t respond to hails, shows nothing on the IFF, so she could be derelict and therefore fair prize, or she could be a trap, so don’t lose your heads,” he added; at the mention of prize money, an almost unheard of thing for a transport’s crew, his team had broken into an excited babble.

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Truth and Beauty 14-5

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The klaxon blared out. The mood lighting turned red. Jack’s officers dispersed to their various quarters, his premier and the gunner waiting for him on the landing so that he could enter the bridge first.

“What have we got, Mister Henreid,” Jack asked, stepping onto the bridge with his premier and the gunner immediately behind him.

“Engine signatures but no radio, sir,” said the master’s mate, moving from the center of the bridge to a position behind the helm.

“One of ours?”

“I can’t tell, sir. Engines are powered down to idle, so there’s not much to work with, and of course the storm interference.”

Roth gave a particularly sudden lurch and Jack, caught in the act of sitting down, missed the seat and sprawled on the floor, tumbling into the locked-out mystery console. Not for the first time he noted the peculiar inscriptions on its controls; a large dial labeled “warp cannon (TJ)” caught his eye, and he thought of the four 4-GW plasma-arc cannon that were his only armament against this potentially hostile unknown vessel. “Have their been any distress signals,” he asked as he picked himself up, waving off the offer of help from Mister Greenstreet.

“No, sir,” said Mister Henreid, who had automatically moved to the watch-officer’s station. “Though it could have been lost in the interference.”

“Thank you, Mister Henreid, I have the bridge,” said Jack, allowing the master’s mate to return to his position by the helm. Jack moved over to the radar station. His elbow hurt cruelly and he suspected that it was bleeding. “This is her?” he asked the radar operator, gesturing at the screen with the hand of his good arm.

“Yes, sir,”

Jack considered the display. “Shee seems to be adrift.”

“Yes, sir,” said the radar operator again, “I believe so.”

“Try for a handshake,” Jack told the communications operator.

“Too much interference, sir,” said the woman, having worked her controls and waited for a reply.

Jack considered. “Prepare an away team,” he told Mister Greenstreet. “Include a forced-entry team. If we have anyone with salvage experience, include them, too. And the doctor, or his mate if he is busy.”

“Yes, sir,” said Mister Greenstreet, saluting. “Who shall lead the team?”

“I will.”

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Truth and Beauty 14-4

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They were saved from futher awkwardness by a genteel ringing of a bell, followed by the voice of the Marine sentry at the door to Jack’s quarters, cracked and tinny through the intercom, “Mister Barus to see the lieutenant, sir,”

“Mister Henreid’s compliments, sir,” said the midshipman on being admitted. He stared hungrily at the banquet before him: high living and a general lack of planning meant that the midshipman’s berth was already reduced back to standard ship’s rations, and the sight of so much food - real food - drove the master’s mate’s message from his mind.

“Yes,” prompted Lieutenant O’Brian.

Barus jumped, saluted, and began the message anew. “Mister Henreid’s compliments, sir, and there is an unknown vessel off the port bow. He said, nothing on the I-F - um -”

“The I-F-F?”

“Yes, sir, and doesn’t respond to voice transmissions either.”

“Beat to quarters,” said Lieutenant O’Brian, standing, and Stephen noticed that he seemed to swell in size as he stood. “Gentlemen, ladies, forgive me for cutting this short.”

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Truth and Beauty 14-3

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This was three glasses of wine in quick succession, and when another lurch made them grab their plates and glasses, the engineer observed, “this reminds me of a nine-days blow we had off Sirius in the Savage.”

This was near-enough of a reply to Commander O’Brian’s toast to be allowable, far enough from shop talk to be discussed at table, and everyone had a similar story to share. They all politely listened to Jack’s reminiscence of a two day’s storm that he and a dozen crewmen survived in a shuttlecraft, tossed about “like BBs in a can of spray paint,” then the conversation became general. Courses came and went, the bottle went round and round, and jack, for a moment not engaged in conversation with either his right-hand neighbor or his left-, looked down the table and saw the smiling, convivial faces of his officers, truly enjoying themselves; his officers enjoying themselves at his table.

“Of course,” said Mister Humphries, “her name really is Wrath.”

The remark fell into one of those peculiar silences that punctuate even the most boisterous of gatherings. Ms Lund, to whom the remark was made, looked embarrassed and said nothing; and all other conversation came to an awkward halt, and the engineer found himself facing a full audience. “Mister Humphries,” began Mister Greenstreet, but Mister Humphries, who had by now had an additional two glasses in addition to those of the toasts, was already defending himself.

“Look at the lettering across the counter,” he said. “S'not centered. Too far to starboard, because the W, the first letter, is missing.”

“But the raised letters,” said the carpenter.

“Half of them are gone. W’s gone, half of the O, I mean A, most of the T. ‘S jus’ paint. The O is an A, see? Part of i’s missing and they painted it wrong. Records don’t go back more’n ten years -”

“Mister Hum…,” began Mister Geenstreet.

“- but she’s a Syracuse class - no bilge keel, see. Has to be older than that -”

“Mister Humphries, a glass of wine with you, sir,” said Jack at last, raising his glass an bringing the discourse to a close.

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Truth and Beauty 14-2

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Jack’s dinner party, held the following day in still-heavy weather, began in a starched, formal fashion. He had only entertained the wardroom once before, of course, and the wardroom, following his lead, had not entertained him in return. His guests therefore sat quiet and correct, the buckles in their in their rarely-worn uniforms chafing cruelly, strictly following the court etiquette of not speaking unless Commander O’Brian (the King’s direct representative) spoke to them first.

Jack found it heavy going. Having exhausted the usual types of small talk without success, he turned to alcohol as a social lubricant. “A toast,” he said, raising his glass, “to wives and sweethearts.”

“To wives and sweethearts,” the wardroom dutifully replied, raising their glasses and draining them, but nobody dared add the facetious coda.

“To smooth sailing,” he proposed, when an unexpected lurch sent a (thankfully nearly empty) bottle out of Stephen’s hand, to smash a small red stain on the painted floor cloth.

“To smooth sailing,” the wardroom dutifully replied, raising their glasses and draining them again.

“To shore leave and fresh supplies,” he proposed, once the bottle had been replaced and everyone’s glasses refilled.

“To shore leave and fresh supplies,” the wardroom dutifully replied, raising their glasses and draining them yet again.

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STO'B 7-3

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After this, the gun crews exercised more care. Gun twelve hung for almost a full minute before going off with a muffled ‘thump’, and gun thirteen had to be wormed out and reloaded when it didn’t go off at all after three minutes’ careful waiting. Still, by the time all of the guns had been exercised (except for those still in the hold), the crews were regaining their rhythm, and at least some of them had first hand experience with a hang- or mis-fire. Philip stood them down from quarters and handed them over to the gunner, whose watch it was, and retreated to the windward side of the quarterdeck. Through the skylight, he watched a crew of seamen, under the direction of the carpenter, reassembling his cabins.

“Sir?”

Philip looked up. Mister Foster stood at the edge of the windward quarterdeck; Philip waved him over. “Mister Foster,” he said, “how do you do?”

“I don’t complain, sir,” said the surgeon, then, “I have taken a look at the men and I believe you are mistaken. Malingering, you may trust me on it. All of the men are receiving their antiscorbutics in their grog, of course, so scurvy is impossible.”

“Hmm,” said Philip. “Well, thank you, Mister Foster.”

The surgeon left, and Philip turned away to pace the windward side of the quarterdeck and consider. Not for the first time, he regretted the absence of Doctor M’Mullen.

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Truth and Beauty 14-1

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The radio operator set her controls and spoke into the microphone, trying several settings before looking up at her skipper. “Nothing, sir.”

Jack took another sip of his coffee to give himself time to consider. The sublieutenant, he noticed, was looking sullen. Well, Jack thought, if the damn’ fool had been doing his job, I wouldn’t have to. “Try for Taconite,” he said aloud.

“Nothing, sir,” said the radio operator, after two minutes of twiddling her knobs and careful listening.

Jack moved over to the radar station. Several vessels now showed in red: last known position, current location unknown. Scattered white blips indicated unclassified returns, probably the current locations of some of the lost vessels. “Zoom out,” he asked the operator.

The operator complied, and Jack studied the screen. “Two vessels are missing,” he said at last.

“They come and go,” said the operator. If you wait a few minutes they’ll reappear.”

“Mister Greenstreet, perhaps we should increase our distance.”

“Yes, sir. I don’t think we’ve received orders to that effect.

“I am issuing the orders, sublieutenant. You may enter that in the log. I want us at least two clicks from the nearest known or suspected vessel.”

“Yes, sir,” said Mister Greenstreet, saluting and making as if to leave the bridge.

“Where are you going?”

“The chartroom, sir.”

Jack stared. After two false starts to his premier, he turned his back on the man and addressed the helmsman instead. “Take us down and away,” he said, “and reduce speed by one knot.”

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Truth and Beauty 13-10

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“Have we heard anything from Vindictive since the order for loose formation,” he asked, taking a sip of coffee to show that his question was routine.

“No, sir,” said the radioman, sounding slightly resentful. “I would have passed that along as soon as it came in.”

“She’s said nothing to anyone,” Jack asked.

“Oh,” said the woman, thinking for a moment. “Shortly after eight bells I heard her talking to two of the merchantmen, Keystone, sir, and Elephant and Castle, but nothing since then.”

“What did she say,” Jack asked.

“She ordered them to specific stations. Shall I get you the specifics from the log?”

Jack shook his head. “Have we heard anything form anyone else since then?”

The sailor shook her head. “It’s been quiet for at least two bells, sir.” She thought for a moment. “There was some chatter at the fore end of the convoy, but it was pretty garbled, and I couldn’t make anything of it.”

Jack considered. A particularly heavy lurch on Roth’s part caused him to stagger.  “Mister Greenstreet, perhaps lifelines are in order,” he said, then, to the radioman, “see if you can raise Vindictive.”

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Truth and Beauty 13-10

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“Have we heard anything from Vindictive since the order for loose formation,” he asked, taking a sip of coffee to show that his question was routine.

“No, sir,” said the radioman, sounding slightly resentful. “I would have passed that along as soon as it came in.”

“She’s said nothing to anyone,” Jack asked.

“Oh,” said the woman, thinking for a moment. “Shortly after eight bells I heard her talking to two of the merchantmen, Keystone, sir, and Elephant and Castle, but nothing since then.”

“What did she say,” Jack asked.

“She ordered them to specific stations. Shall I get you the specifics from the log?”

Jack shook his head. “Have we heard anything form anyone else since then?”

The sailor shook her head. “It’s been quiet for at least two bells, sir.” She thought for a moment. “There was some chatter at the fore end of the convoy, but it was pretty garbled, and I couldn’t make anything of it.”

Jack considered. A particularly heavy lurch on Roth’s part caused him to stagger.  “Mister Greenstreet, perhaps lifelines are in order,” he said, then, to the radioman, “see if you can raise Vindictive.”

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Truth and Beauty 13-10

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“Have we heard anything from Vindictive since the order for loose formation,” he asked, taking a sip of coffee to show that his question was routine.

“No, sir,” said the radioman, sounding slightly resentful. “I would have passed that along as soon as it came in.”

“She’s said nothing to anyone,” Jack asked.

“Oh,” said the woman, thinking for a moment. “Shortly after eight bells I heard her talking to two of the merchantmen, Keystone, sir, and Elephant and Castle, but nothing since then.”

“What did she say,” Jack asked.

“She ordered them to specific stations. Shall I get you the specifics from the log?”

Jack shook his head. “Have we heard anything from anyone else since then?”

The sailor shook her head. “It’s been quiet for at least two bells, sir.” She thought for a moment. “There was some chatter at the fore end of the convoy, but it was pretty garbled, and I couldn’t make anything of it.”

Jack considered. A particularly heavy lurch on Roth’s part caused him to stagger.  “Mister Greenstreet, perhaps lifelines are in order,” he said, then, to the radioman, “see if you can raise Vindictive.”

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Truth and Beauty 13-9

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“The fiddle?” repeated Stephen.

“Yes, sir,” said the marine, grasping the edge of the table as the Roth plunged. “The fiddle.”

“Indeed,” sad Stephen. The unperturbed demeanor of the marine and the master’s mate forced him to be equally calm or lose face. In a bid to keep the marine talking, Stephen quizzed him about the fiddle; a series of questions and answers that grew increasingly strange until the marine realized that while he was discussing the raised lip of the table, Doctor Russ was discussing a violin.

* * *
Two levels up, Bollwerk appeared with a spill-proof mug of coffee and a pocket full of cereal bars. Jack had not left the bridge, except for a brief trip to the bathroom, since the storm had started in earnest. This was partly from professional duty, partly from curiosity - this was Roth’s first blow under his command, and patly because he simply loved a blow.

“Sir,” said the radar man, “it’s getting very difficult to see the far side of the convoy.”

Mister Greenstreet, to whom the comment was ostensibly directed, nodded. Jack left several seconds of silence. He did not want to appear distrustful of his first lieutenant, a man with whom he was saddled for the foreseeable future. But eventually he moved over to where he could clearly see the radar displays.

Fuzzy waves swept across the screens, with many of the ships of the convoy shown in the yellow of extrapolated data, rather than the green of a solid return.

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Truth and Beauty 13-8

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The wardroom was only three-quarters lit for the overnight shift, but after the stygian gloom of his cabin it felt like an assault, and he closed his eyes. Two voices greeted him.

A hand took his, and he allowed himself to be guided into a seat. He opened his eyes into a squint, finding himself beside Sergeant Strasser. “Thank you,” he said.

“Not at all,” said the sergeant. “Difficult weather we’ve got - expect the skipper’ll be rigging lifelines any moment.”

“Ah,” said Stephen. He wished he could come up with something braver to say in the face of certain destruction; lifelines must mean that Roth was near the end. Casting his eyes about he saw Mister Henreid sitting in his usual place, quietly turning the page of a book. I’m sailing with the original group of stoics, he thought.

“There’s a chess board in one of the stern lockers, if you fancy a game,” said Sergeant Strasser.

“Chess?”

“Oh, the pieces screw in,” said the sergeant quickly, “just a quarter turn to keep them in place, and the board clamps to the fiddle.”

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Truth and Beauty 13-7

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The weather continued to mount and fall into disorder; two storm systems seemed to be colliding. Roth’s motion, already vigorous, became chaotic. Stephen, now buckled into his cot, was tightening his straps still further when a groan, then a series of creaks, filled his cabin. There was no corresponding call to quarters or rushing of feet, however, nor did the mood lighting around the cabin door illuminate, and he lay in the heaving darkness, pondering.

Perhaps the noise is only in my room, he thought, staring at the vague outline of the outer wall of his cabin. He wondered exactly how much steel, or aluminum, or titanium, or whatever it was lay between him and the void of space. If the wall ruptured, death would be near instantaneous.

He closed his eyes, but his ears fastened on every sound. When a particularly loud groan shook the metal frame of the bunk he unbuckled himself and tumbled from his bed, landing on all fours on the floor. A sudden lurch sent him into something, possibly his chair, but before he could grab hold he was sent into the door. He fumbled for the latch, and crashed through to the wardroom.

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Truth and Beauty 13-6

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Part of the grin was also because he had managed to use Mister Holley’s presence to instruct his premier on the proper handling of a crew, without the sublieutenant feeling personally slighted, but this was not to be spoken of aloud. Some hours later, after the combined crew had snugged everything down and the larboard watch had retreated below for a few hours of fitful rest, Roth began to rock.

The effect was subtle at first, but in the space of a single bell her gyrations became severe enough that the wardroom steward turned up the fiddles on the table, and transferred Stephen’s wine to a wide, low plastic tumbler, slightly chipped. An Erlenmeyer flask might be more appropriate, Stephen thought, perhaps with a rubber base.

Half a bell later, Stephen untangled his seat belt and buckled himself in. This was labor lost as far as productivity was concerned, however, for by now his papers were sliding freely across the table top, and tapping the correct portion of his tablet’s screen had become a matter of chance. He gave up, grabbing hold of his scattered notes as each slid by him, then gazing longingly at his glass of wine, marooned on the far side of the table.


On the bridge, Jack waited with increasing impatience for Vindictive to give the signal for the convoy to spread out. The idea of one of the convoy’s merchentmen blundering into them - most likely Taconite, stationed directly above them; or the Two Brothers, off their port beam - filled him not exactly with dread, but certainly with concern.

“Vindictive to all craft, ‘assume loose formation,’ sir,” said the radio man (a woman, actually), and Mister Greenstreet issued orders to the helm.

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Truth and Beauty 13-5

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“Come,” called, Jack, and Mister Midshipman Holley entered.

“Mister Henreid’s compliments, sir, and this just came through on the twix.” He handed a tablet to his skipper.

“Indeed,” said the skipper, reading the report. “Mister Greenstreet, it appears that we are in for a blow.” He glanced at the regulator: half a bell to go before the end of the watch. “Mister Veidt has the second dog, I believe,” he asked his sublieutenant.

“Yes, sir,”

“Mister Holley,” said Lieutenant O’Brian, and the boy took a more formal posture, “tell Mister Henreid to rig for heavy weather at four bells.”

“Yes, sir,” said the boy, receiving the tablet back. “Both watches will be on deck, do you see,” Jack added kindly, seeing the boy’s confusion. “Fifteen minutes will make no difference, we’ll still be ready and with time to spare before Mister Rains pipes ‘down hammocks’.”

The midshipman saluted and left. Mister Greenstreet, who had profited from the interruption by surreptitiously add some ice to his coffee, drained his mug and withdrew, leaving Jack alone.

A grin spread across his face as he returned to his now-cold meal. “I do love a blow,” he told the empty room.

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Truth and Beauty 13-4

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Jack’s meal, held in the great cabin one bell later than the wardroom’s, also showed the benefits of new stores - roast leg of Achillian lamb with green beans and long-grain rice, and bottled white wine, whose cap Bollwerk unscrewed with all appropriate gravity before pouring his skipper a glass.

The meal was solitary, though, and Jack found himself daydreaming of his years in the wardroom - even his years in the midshipman’s berth. He had yet to entertain the wardroom, he realized, though he had owned the Roth for - he worked backwards through the calendar in his head, “good heavens,” he said, “three months on - on Tuesday. A quarter of a year. Bollwerk! Pass the word for Mister Greenstreet, if he is available.”

The sublieutenant was available, and when he appeared, with formal bearing and clean-pressed uniform coat for his summons to the Cabin, Jack said, “Bollwerk, a glass of wine for the lieutenant - you’ll take a glass of wine? Oh. Coffee? Light? Sweet? Bollwerk, scrub the wine, make that coffee, black and bitter.”

Once Mister Greenstreet was seated, with coffee at hand, Jack went on. “I’ve been sadly remiss,” he said, “but I hope you and the wardroom will join me for dinner tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir,” said the sublieutenant, and indeed he could hardly have given any other reply, save for extra-ordinary circumstances. Custom dictated that the skipper refresh his premier, which he did; and custom dictated that the premier accept the refreshment, so having already taken the rare option of declining the first refreshment offered, Mister Greenstreet could hardly now decline the invitation.

Custom also dictated that the sub-lieutenant finish his refreshment with in five to ten minutes, and in this perhaps Mister Greenstreet was unwise to decline milk, since without it his coffee was quite hot. He was saved from the choice of a scalded throat or diplomatic faux-pas by a knock on the door.

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Truth and Beauty 13-3

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“Do the crew do the same?” Stephen asked, lifting other covers to reveal real rice and steamed broccoli, a sight that made him salivate.

“They lay in butter and condiments,” said Mister Humphries, “cake and sweets for afters, and the like, but their meals are made in batch, so there isn’t the same opportunity for stores - private stores, that is. Nor are they allowed spirits outside the ration.”

“Speaking of which,” Sergeant Strasser said to Ms Lund, “the bottle stands by you.”

Ms Lund refilled her glass and sent the bottle on its way, but by the time it worked its way around to the marine it was empty. “Treason,” he cried, “rank treason! Steward!” But the steward was an insightful man, and was already reaching for the bottle to carry it over to the drinks machine and refill it. “My sister is on the Lion,” the sergeant continued, “Captain McGill, and they have two bottles, no waiting for refills.”

“We have two bottles,” said Mister Humphries.

“Two of red and two of white, I mean,” replied the sergeant. “Four bottles.”

“Lion must be a fifth rate or better,” said Mister Blaine.

“She’s a third rate. Tiger class. But that’s not the point. We could buy a second set of bottles. Whitehall need never know,” he added in response to the purser’s frown.

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Truth and Beauty 13-2

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There was indeed not a moment to lose, with 22 transports and the Vindictive champing at the bit to be off, while Roth still had to off-load all of her old cargo and take on all of the new, to say nothing of visiting the condensing dock to have her coolant recompressed, and then a seal blew on the master cylinder of the docking stanchion, requiring two space walks to repair. Eventually, though, eventually, everything was squared away, and the forced delay gave time for the gunner to replace all of his defective caps, the master to exchange the filters on the water circulators, the purser to replenish his stock of paper (toilet and writing), and both Jack and Sergeant Strasser (caterer to the officers’ mess) to lay in some private stores, as was explained to Stephen when he found real chicken under the first tray cover that he lifted that Thursday evening. “And you will find that your earnings have been docked accordingly,” explained the Purser.

“Really?”

“Yes,” said the Purser. “In some ships you have to buy in with ready cash, but Roth uses the payroll - so much easier, not having to make sure you have ready money when you depart, and never quite knowing how much to set aside, since you’d have to borrow otherwise.”

“Typically from the purser,” said Sergeant Strasser, “at a high rate of interest.”

“Well,” said the Purser, blushing, “not all pursers are created equal.”

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Truth and Beauty 13-1

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Chapter 13
The Achilles, and even the orbiting facilities scented with exotic spices, wafting into the very ships themselves, including the afterdeck cabin of the Moons of Jeopardy where Lieutenant O’Brian sat waiting for his interview with Admiral Lavery. Several small scuttles opened into the space beyond, and through one he could see his Roth, roughly centered, docked at another part of the sprawling station. She looked particularly shabby in comparison with the spit and polish of the flagship, but as his meeting with the unknown admiral drew nearer, Jack stole frequent glances at her.

The cabin door opened. “Commander O’Brian?” asked a Marine, resplendent in deep scarlet and bright white.

“I am Commander O’Brian.”

“The Admiral will receive you now. This way, if you please.”

The Marine led Jack down a carpeted, paneled corridor to the Admiral’s day cabin, where he knocked and announced Commander O’Brian on the wall-mounted intercom.

“Send him in,” replied a tinny voice, and the Marine unlatched and opened the door. “This way, sir. The Admiral is a little deaf, so you’ll need to speak up a bit.”

Jack stepped through and the Marine withdrew, closing the door. This was a spacious cabin - acres of space that separated him from the Admiral, who sat behind a richly carved wooden desk, his back to a noble spread of glass through which sunlight streamed, casting the great man’s face into shadow. Jack saluted.

The Admiral returned the salute and gestured to a chair. “So,” he said. “You’ve met the Libre.” Showed up about a month ago - god-damned nightmare. Took fourteen transports and merchantman, hulled Pallas when she was lucky enough to find her, or unlucky, given what a hash Compton made of it. Man’s an inveterate ass. But I digress. Nice sleight of hand, getting away from her like that, but don’t expect her to fall for it again. Never show the same trick to the same audience, and all that; and Dupree’s no fool.”

“Thank you, sir, I shall bear that in mind,” said Jack, relieved to to have to reply to the more charged part of the Admiral’s observations.

“You’re welcome. You deserve it. Just don’t let it go to your head. I’m sending you back to the Neva system as part of a convoy, with the Vindictive, Chambers. Between her guns and yours, and those of the rest of the convoy, if they aren’t captained by old women, you should have no trouble if you run into her again. The Libre, that is. And maybe if Dupree sees that we’re running convoys he’ll disappear, become someone else’s problem for a while. Have you any questions?”

“No, sir,”

“Good. Get your cargo off-loaded, you’ll have more coming aboard tomorrow early. I’ve held the convoy to fit you in; there’s not a moment to lose.”

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Truth and Beauty 12-8

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Their health was good, Doctor Russ, in this respect at least, meeting or exceeding Jack’s wildest dreams in keeping his crew sound. But Jack was obliged to admit - to himself if not in the report - that they were not entirely behind him. Minor crimes such as muttering were too frequent. Hands favored a bold, skilled commander, he knew, who was at the same time careful with his crew’s lives, and though he had shown himself to be bold in handling the French frigate, that jump into hyperspace did not suggest skill.

There was nowhere in the report to share these observations, though, even if he had wanted to. The punishment log did form a part of the report, “but they never look at that,” he muttered, “unless there’s an inquiry.” Perhaps he was misreading the situation. He leaned back and rubbed his eyes.

“Bollwerk,” he called, but in the five seconds before the man appeared he changed his mind. “Er, a glass of wine, red, if you please,” he said, not to have called his servant in vain.

Bollwerk drew off the glass and handed it to Lieutenant O’Brian, who took a large sip - almost a gulp - to prove that he really did want it, then said, “thank you. You may turn in.” Bollwerk excused himself and retreated, closing the door behind him, and Jack was alone.

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Truth and Beauty 12-7

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He did not find the Roth’s receipts on the table, and so crossed to the stern lockers, now mercifully shut and locked, the armorer and Mr Veidt having finished their work that morning. The sheaf of printed receipts lay on the pistol locker, bound with a red clip, and he returned with it to his table. 10,062 barrels grade AA carbon slurry, he typed, transp. XXX klicks Neva-IV to Achilles depot. The number of klicks he would fill in once he had actually off-loaded the cargo and had an accurate count off the odograph. He tapped through to the next part of the report: Roth’s Statement of Condition.

Originally a hand-written paragraph that would typically fit into a half sheet of foolscap, the Statement of Condition had over the years grown to a staggering 25 § monstrosity of checkboxes, radio buttons, and text entry blocks. For the check boxes, there were no ‘check all’ options; for the text entry, no copy-and-paste; for these might have bred laziness that might accidentally (or intentionally) ignore some trivial point of critical data. Instead, skippers numbly checked the 623 boxes, hoping to retain enough alertness to leave the appropriate boxes empty. By the time Bollwerk entered with supper, Jack’s hands had started to grow cold, a sure sign that he was spending too much time with the mouse and keyboard.

Nevertheless, after a hasty meal, he picked up where he had left off, clicking his way through the starboard gun deck gangway, the port gun deck gangway, the starboard spar deck gangway, the port spar deck gangway, the starboard boat deck gangway, the port boat deck gangway, pump room 1, pump room 2, pump room 3, the bridge, the rooms of the officers’ recreation suite, the hangar and each of its bays, the entry port, the cargo entry port, and the docking stanchion.

Time ground on. Bells rang. Occasionally, Jack stood to collect a glass of wine or mug of coffee, as much for the interruption as for the drink. Eventually, he reached the section regarding the crew.

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Chaos is Law

It is the nature of all things to move toward chaos. Disorder. Entropy. Energy may be spent to instill order, but ultimately chaos prevails.* And ultimately, again, order prevails - everything is evenly distributed. Order crumbles to chaos, which crumbles to order.

*There are multiple truths to this statement. First, the work done to instill order generates heat, which moves particles faster, melts solids, boils liquids, accelerates activity: chaos increases. Second, the use of fuel to perform the work of instilling order generally splits the fuel molecule into more molecules (gasoline is combusted into multiple molecules of CO₂, a single molecule of glucose combines with six molecules of oxygen to form six molecules of CO₂ and six of H₂O, etc). Third, once energy ceases being spent on instilling order, chaos resumes its advance; and fuel is finite in quantity.

Truth and Beauty 12-6

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One level up, Jack was also sitting at his table, but in his case it was due to the greater spread of space it offered, compared to his desk. Roth was now only a day or so from the Achilles system, where he would have to submit copies of all of her logs and her statement of condition, itself containing condensed reports from each of his line and warrant officers. When Roth had approached the Neva system, Jack had used his computer for the laborious task of fitting everything together (any disagreement between the reports was liable to mire him in years of meetings and correspondence), but the screen was really too small for him to see everything at once, and he was now attempting the process in hard copy.

“No wonder so many captains are bitter, crotchety old men and women,” he said, laying down the master’s records of coolant consumed and rubbing his eyes again. He surveyed the piles of paper, trying to recall which held Roth’s receipts from her last port of call. Perhaps the carpenter could make him color-coded, labeled paperweights, as he remembered one of his previous captains having.

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Truth and Beauty 12-5

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There were no injuries.

More correctly, there were no injuries that reached the sick berth, though when Katya made her rounds of Roth’s first-aid kits at the end of the week she had several bandages and one or two cold packs to replace. Roth’s skipper made a brief note in her log (Three bells first watch, engaged French Juno class frigate @ approx. post 27.34º02’16”. Fired 12 rounds, driving off same. Received 1 broadside; no casualties or damage.), while the midshipmen made rather more dramatic descriptions in their personal journals (kept against the time when they were to be evaluated against possible promotions to lieutenants), some reaching several pages in length.

Stephen, on the way to his own dinner several days later, heard Barus’s voice float out through the open door of the starboard midshipman’s berth, describing the encounter as if the midshipman had personally held off the entire French fleet. Stephen was lingering in the hall out of a curiosity to hear how far the midshipman would stretch the truth, and how far his mess mates would allow him to stretch it, when he realized that he had unconsciously used the term mess mates.

“I am becoming a space-faring creature,” he observed to himself with some complacency, and he entered the wardroom at last.

Inside, he found seven of his own mess mates, joined quickly by an eighth, the purser, stepping from his cabin and wiping his forehead. This left Mister Veidt’s as the only empty seat; presumably he was up on the bridge. Stephen and the others took their accustomed places, and Mister Greenstreet said his formulaic grace.

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Truth and Beauty 12-4

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Roth’s guns went off for a last time, and Jack watched the bolts reach across the gulf to the now visibly retreating enemy. Both bolts reached this time, but there was no cascade of lightning as the shields collapsed, no flare as one of the engines was struck square-on, no million-to-one shot that destroyed the Frenchman, scattering her into dozens or thousands of pieces. Just the dancing splash of the plasma against the shields, and the continued dimming of the engines as the enemy retreated ever further away. He stared after the ship, not sure if he was disappointed or relieved, not sure if he should be disappointed or relieved.

A throat cleared, and turning, Jack saw the master. “Mister Henreid?”

The master cleared his throat again. “Shall we stand down from quarters, then, sir?” Behind Mister Henreid, Jack saw the officers and crew in smiles and relief.

Jack smiled back. Yes, he could afford that. He had bluffed the enemy and won. And he had a sense that, having won this bluff, his men were more solidly behind him than they had been before: he had shown his mettle, it appeared. He turned to the radar operator. “How far off is she?”

“Approaching forty clicks sir, and still accelerating.”

“Keep tabs on her, and save all our data on her to a file for the Admiralty. Label it with today’s date and send me a copy. And yes, let us stand down from quarters. Mister Greenstreet, I believe it is your watch?”

“Yes, sir,”

“Very good. I shall be in my quarters. I am to be notified of any changes. Have the carpenter sound the well, of course, though I doubt he’ll find anything, and check with sick bay regarding any injuries.”

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Truth and Beauty 12-3

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Stephen picked himself up gingerly. Nothing seemed to be broken, but one knee hurt in a way that suggested a bruise in the making. Ignoring his tipped-over chair, he limped into the hallway, from where he could see into the waiting room where Katya still sat. “Yes, sir?”

“I think we were shot.”

“Yes, sir, but the shields absorbed it.”

Stephen considered this. Yes, he had heard of shielding. “Do you suppose there are wounded?”

“I’ll let you know if they come, sir.”

Stephen couldn’t decide if he was being overly concerned, or Katya was overly blasé. “Ah,” he said. “Well. In that case.”

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Truth and Beauty 12-2

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“Hard-a-starboard,” Jack ordered, picking himself up. “Mister Veidt, hit them as they reload.”

Roth’s head came round, and her two-gun broadside fired again. They were at the edge of their effective range now, and one of the bolts dissipated into nothingness before it reached the target; but the other struck, splashing along the shield in a brilliant phosphorescent display. “Turn to pursue,” ordered Jack, “straight at her.”

On the view screen the Frenchman continued to turn, growing until she was broadside-on, then shrinking as her engines came into sight. “Sparks,” said Jack, “send off another Ajax-2 message, ‘request permission to pursue’.” After a minute’s consideration, he asked, “can you turn down the range of the transmitter?”

“No, sir.”

Jack crossed to the communications console. “This knob here,” he gestured.

“That’s been bypassed, sir.”

“Very well.” Jack turned back to the view screen, where the enemy was in full retreat, her engines burning brightly. He clenched his fist absentmindedly and relaxed it. “Very well,” he said again. “Sparks, make the signal for 'received'. Helm, slow us to one quarter and bring us to port. One last broadside, Mister Veidt. Give them something to remember the Roth by.”

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Truth and Beauty 12-1

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Mister Lorre was another puzzle, though to be true the puzzle was more his position than his nature. He had introduced himself as the carpenter, which Stephen had originally taken to mean the person responsible for repairs to Roth’s meager woodwork. But when the Roth had been damaged during her jump to hyperspace (Stephen closed his eyes at the memory), her evaluation and repair seemed to have been Mister Lorre’s responsibility. Welder or metal worker might be a better title, or even foreman, since he oversaw several other people in their work to repair the ship.

Regardless, the carpenter was of that cast of person whom Stephen had met several times before: knowledgeable within his field and somewhat street smart without it, reliable in everyday situations and likely in some extraordinary ones, and willing to join one in a drink though never one to propose one. He was solid, but not special. His way of speaking betrayed a lower-class upbringing, which was no demerit in Stephen’s eyes, though it may have stunted Mister Lorre’s creativity through want of nurturing.

Mister Humphries, the engineer, was a Surrey man, though he had been born on Earth’s moon. He had been raised by his grandparents - the reason was a little vague - and had run away to space after completing an M.S. in engineering in Boston (the reason for this was a little vague, too). But he was knowledgeable, and kind, and cared deeply for his people, seeing himself as the father to the family of the engineering crew, for whom the rest of the Roths were a great extended family. In his leisure time, he was likely to be found pacing the engine and mechanical rooms, trying to tease out another ounce of efficiency form his beloved ship.

Which left only the master, Mister Henreid. What exactly a master did remained something of a mystery to Stephen - or rather, what exactly what exactly his responsibilities were, since he seemed to do or oversee just about everything, and Stephen wasn’t sure whether the master or Mister Greenstreet held a higher position in the command chain. But here the Roth suddenly jerked - Stephen was reminded of the time as a boy when the Staten Island Ferry had rammed the pier - throwing him to the floor and shattering his reverie.

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Truth and Beauty 11-12

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On the view screen, the frigate suddenly bloomed, yawing to starboard and presenting her broadside. “I believe the Junos mount 36 16-gigwatt plasma-arc cannon, plus assorted smaller kinetic weapons,” said Mister Lorre, in a decidedly calm voice.

“Twenty-gigawatt,” said Lieutenant O’Brian. “Helm, turn toward her - give ‘em the smallest target possible.”

“Eighteen-gigawatt,” said subLieutenant Greenstreet.

“Do you not see the spotters guide in the Lieutenant’s hands?”

“Sergeant!” warned Jack, but, “IFF received, sir, she’s French,” said the communications man, and pale-blue bolts streaked out from the Frenchman, who was now broadside-to the Roth. The bolts grew larger and brighter, brighter and larger, blocking the enemy from view, filling most of the view screen, all of the view screen, “brace for impact!” and Roth stumbled, her lights flickered. Jack had grabbed the rail along the bottom of the view screen and so fell only to his knees. Behind him, he heard thumps and curses as the others fell, or didn’t.

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Truth and Beauty 11-11

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Stephen was roused from his reflections by a noise, something like a turbine quickly starting up and shutting down, twice in quick succession. Nothing else seemed to occur, though (he did not notice the change in Roth’s motion as she came about to her new course, having by now become largely insensible of the movements of a living deck), nor did Katya come or call for his assistance, so with nothing else to do (for he also failed to notice that the mood lighting now shone only red) he returned to his considerations.

The morbidly obese purser was something of a puzzle. He was corrupt, though Stephen was not particularly surprised at this: a great deal of money and material flowed through his hands, apparently without oversight; high character indeed would be needed for nothing to stick to his fingers on its way through. No, the puzzle was why he was in space, for clearly he was not happy in this position. This seemed not to be the result of a dislike of the Roth nor anyone aboard her: Stephen had considered the possibility that Lieutenant O’Brian, as a new captain - skipper, he corrected himself - might have upset Mister Blaine’s previously-content life with unwelcome changes, but he could find no evidence to support this theory, for while the lieutenant had certainly made changes, the purser’s unhappiness seemed to predate them; nor did the man seem to be on particularly bad terms with anyone aboard; nor did he tend to speak disparagingly of Roth herself. No, the truth seemed to be that Mister Blaine simply did not like space, or did not like being in space, and that being so, Stephen did not comprehend why the man had chosen a vocation that kept him afloat.

Aside from this puzzle and his corruption, he was a reasonable companion, if a certain shallowness were overlooked. Whatever Roth’s current emergency, Stephen wondered how the purser was taking it. “I hope he doesn’t stress himself into an MI or a CVA,” he muttered to himself: even a single flight of stairs was enough to leave the man puffing for breath.

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Truth and Beauty 11-10

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Roth’s guns went off, all two of them, lavender bolts that flashed toward the Frenchman, growing steadily fainter until they vanished entirely. Jack hadn’t expected a hit; the bold front of the attack was the point. “Helm,” he said, “lay in to intercept. Give me a 30 degree taking pattern with legs of 1 kilometer. Mister Veidt, fire a salvo each time we cross her bows - keep trying for the range.” He looked down at his nightshirt. “Mister Greenstreet, I’m stepping below to change into something more respectable. Call me if anything changes materially.”

He left the bridge and dropped down the companion to return to his quarters. In the great cabin he paused at the drinks machine. He dearly wanted a cup of coffee, but there was no such machine on the bridge itself, so his officers were without. “The long-term solution is to install a machine on the bridge,” he said to himself, “or perhaps in the officers recreation space there might be more room,” he added as he pulled his nightshirt over his head and tossed it onto a chair. he found a matching set of uniform pants, shirt, and jacket, and threw them on, stepped in front of a mirror to set everything more-or-less straight, and clapped a hat onto his head, Resolutely turning his back on the drinks machine, he returned to the bridge, trying to ignore the first twinges of what he feared to be a caffeine headache.

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Truth and Beauty 11-9

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Mister Veidt, the gunner, was another jolly man, though lately he seemed preoccupied. He had no great fund of things to say and seemed to know it, but unlike others with nothing to say, who inflicted that nothing upon everyone else with endless streams of prattle, the gunner stayed silent. He was not taciturn; he laughed easily, but had little in the way of opinions of observations to offer. It was more than possible to spend a pleasant Sunday afternoon sharing the wardroom with him, and Stephen had done so twice, catching up on his medical journals while the gunner occupied himself with his own tablet, trading no more than the occasional “coffee, sir?” “yes, thank you,” when one or the other of them rose to refill his mug in the prep room.

Also quiet was Ms Lund, the electrician, though in her case it seemed more a case of shyness than lack of imagination. She was not from the Middle East, as Stephen had at first supposed, but from somewhere in the Carribean, more specifically she did not say. When not actively at work she generally studied to pass an exam whose name was an acronym of some sort, the passing of which would qualify her to serve on a larger vessel. At other times she was a talented chess player, easily the best Stephen had played against in many years. Stephen had learned with surprise that she was close to 30 years old - he had thought her to be in her early 20s - but on reflection he realized that melanin was protective against sun exposure, so he should not have been surprised.

Ms Bergman, the other woman in the ward room, looked at first glance, to be older than she was, being grey-haired but only 28. She never seemed to have to study her trade; she knew the syntax and nuances of every programming language yet developed as if they each were her primary language. On most evenings she painted in the officer’s recreation suite or exercised in what passed for their gym, but occasionally she joined Sergeant Strasser in his bouts of drinking, matching him glass for glass, to his amusement and frustration, spinning increasingly tall tales (‘let me tell you about the space whales - we got rammed by one off Sirius-II’) and making increasingly scabrous remarks (‘they call it Orion’s sword but it’s really his dick’). Two or three nights ago she had launched into a lecture on Roth’s true name, which she claimed to be Wrath. “Look at the raised letters on the counter. They’re off-center ‘cause the W’s missing. And the O, what they’ve painted as if it’s a broken O, is really a broken O, I mean A.” On regaining sobriety the following morning, she never remembered any of the claims she’d made while inebriated.

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Truth and Beauty 11-8

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The radio man looked up from his console. “Message sent, sir.”

Jack pulled out his pocket watch. His eye on the second hand, he said, “Mister Veidt, are your guns ready?”

“Yes, sir,”

“Be prepared to fire a salvo in another minute or so.”

“Yes, sir. We’re out of range, sir; we can’t hope to hit her.”

“Try for the range nevertheless. Sparks?” he said, watching the second hand near the end of a complete revolution, “send the message, ‘received,’ and the raise the IFF. Show her our colors.”

“Message sent, sir,” said the radio man, then, “colors aloft.”

“Helm, put us across her stem, broadside-to. Mister Veidt?”

“Sir?”

“On my mark, give her a salvo.”

“Aye, sir.”

Jack stepped up to the view screen, almost touching it with his nose. For the moment, everyone was with him, with the single exception of his grumbling sublieutenant. If his gamble worked, he could cement that loyalty, but if it failed, they would never fully trust his judgement again. He crossed his arms in front of his chest, hiding them from sight and crossing his fingers. With agonizing slowness the frigate’s nose crept across her bulk - “Mark!”

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Truth and Beauty 11-7

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Stephen, left with nothing else to occupy himself, fell to reflecting upon his shipmates. He had quickly grown to like Sergeant Strasser. Stephen was a keen judge of men and women - he would have been dead several times over if he had not been - and he pierced through to the man’s essential goodness: vain at times to the point of silliness (he shaved twice a day, and owned a pair of micropliers, Swiss made, specifically for plucking out errant eyebrow hairs), but steady, reliable, capable, and fun. He had consulted Stephen professionally for a GI complaint, and when he had removed his shirt for the wholly negative exam, Stephen had been surprised by the number of scars he had seen, evidence mostly of the King’s enemies, though also of one or two bar room brawls.

Stephen had been dismayed at the results of his exam, for they lent credence to his working diagnosis of PTSD. Even the many scars had supported this diagnosis - someone with this much battle experience should long ago have been rotated off of the front line, though now that he thought of it, Roth wasn’t exactly in the thick of the fighting. The drinking, so far only occasional, supported this diagnosis, too, Stephen thought ruefully.

Mister Greenstreet was the Yin to the sergeant’s Yang. He seemed to care nothing for his appearance, shaving only when his beard grew long enough to itch, and not always bathing on a regular basis. As he bitterly recounted, he had yet to see action, and believed that people held this against him. In truth, he was far more vain that Sergeant Strasser, as his chief concern in life seemed to be what various people thought of him, but though he was happy to complain of being passed over for promotion to anyone who would listen (and to many who would rather not), he did little to actually improve his station, seeming instead to believe that he was owed. Why exactly the sublieutenant was owed Stephen had yet to discern, not that he had truly applied himself to the issue. The sublieutenant was the oldest member of the wardroom, at 49, and the most religious. He ruled their proceedings with a dour hand, frequently conflicting with Sergeant Strasser, who Stephen (and the rest of the ward room, he believed) felt to be better company, and a better and more-reasonable person. Stephen had been more than a little surprised to learn that Mister Greenstreet was married, wondering who might possibly chose to bind their life to his.

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Truth and Beauty 11-6

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He returned to the bridge. “Mister Greenstreet,” he said, “do you think we can run the engines at flank for a few hours without damage?”

Mister Greenstreet made no reply, but picked up the phone and rang the engine room, spoke for a few moments, then offered the receiver to Jack.

“This is the captain,” Lt O’Brian said, “If the number three burns up we’ll have to deal with it as it arises. Unless you want to sit out the war in a French prison I need every revolution.”

“Anything more than three-quarters will run us in a circle, sir,” replied the tinny voice on the other end of the wire, probably Mister Humphries. “The fuel rail is too unbalanced. Even at three-quarters I have to run the nose ring at half just to keep her steady.”

Cursing would only bring bad luck, so Jack handed the receiver back to Mister Greenstreet wordlessly. He turned back to the viewscreen, where the Frenchman continued to grow.

“Radar, what’s the range?”

“36 clicks, sir. Still shortening.”

“This is maximum magnification?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Have we silhouettes?”

“Partial, sir. Onscreen?”

“Please.”

The radar operator worked his console, and after a moment the partial top, front and end of the Frenchman appeared along the bottom edge of the view screen. Jack crossed to the binnacle, pulled a spotters guide from the shelf and flipped through the pages, comparing the drawings to the images on the screen. After a minute’s searching, he said, “French corvette, Juno class.” he looked back to the ship, still slowly growing larger in front of him, a plan forming in his head. “Sparks,” he said at last, “using the Ajax 2 code, send the following message to the space on the far side of us from that Frenchman, ‘Enemy vessel of inferior strength in sight,’ and request instructions.

“You are forgetting, sir,” said Mister Greenstreet, “Ajax 2 was reported broken while we were at Neva-IV.”

“I have that in mind, Mister Greenstreet.”

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Truth and Beauty 11-5

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On the bridge, Jack scrutinized the image of the unknown vessel, which had turned to intercept the Roth. “Helm, keep us away. Sensors, magnify.”

“Beg pardon, sir, that’s maximum magnification.”

Jack stepped up to the view screen. The French vessel, if French it was, was bow-on, making her identity difficult to determine. “Rotate the image 30 degrees clockwise.” Yes, now she looked upright, more or less. “Is she showing an IFF?”

“No, sir,”

Not that it mattered. The law required that a vessel show her proper IFF before opening fire, but was silent on the matter before that time. And pirates and terrorists would ignore the law as a matter of course. Privateers had been known to do the same… .

“Helm, keep us away,” said Jack again, for the image had started to grow. “Mister Greenstreet, I am stepping down to the chart room, you have the bridge.”

“Yes, sir,”

In the chart room, Jack pulled up the local region of hyperspace, dropping in the positions of the Roth and the stranger. There really was nothing in area, no reason for anyone to be just waiting here, except to intercept British or allied shipping. The route between Pleiades and Hawthorne Circus ran close to French-occupied space, and if he, or she, was willing to risk the occasional armed transport, a French commander could make a pretty penny before being discovered and driven off. But Roth, with her Algonquin-Electric 375s, could probably outrun any French corvette or brig, and most frigates, if the engines could be run at flank. He would only need a few hours to disappear.

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End Table Build Thread 5a: More Pix

I got home before the sun set, so here's a few more pix:

In the above photo, there is a pallor where the left-most leg meets the skirting. This isn't on the actual table, but appears in several photographs. My guess is that it's an artifact of the gloss finish reflecting the light between the two neighboring pieces of wood. The next photo shows some of the depth of the grain, brought out by the stain:

Finally, a pic with Shadow, since she was there:

End Table Build Thread 5: Completed Table First Look

Just a quick post: it's done:

I'll have a few more pictures once there's some daylight coming in the window for light, but here it is for now.

Truth and Beauty 11-4

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At the companion he found the wardroom sentry still standing guard, the first normal sign since the alarm. “Perazzo,” he said, “what’s going on?”

“It’s quarters, sir,” whispered the marine, suspiciously, “and silent running. Why aren’t - that is, perhaps you should be in the cockpit?”

“The cockpit? The bridge?”

“No, sir, the cockpit, where the wounded go?”

“We have wounded?”

“Yes,” Perazzo lied. “Yes. Go to the wounded. But remove your shoes, sir, it’s silent running.”

Stephen ran stocking-footed one level down the companion, then moved quickly along the starboard gangway, meeting no one. At the sickbay, he found the door held open by a magnetic catch, and he hurried in.

Katya sat on a stool in the middle of that waiting room, her tablet in her hands, one foot tucked beneath her as she spun in a lazy circle. She looked up as Stephen entered. “Good morning, sir,” she said.

“Perazzo said we have wounded,” Stephen said uncertainly, something in Katya’s relaxed nature sowing doubt.

“No, sir, not yet,” Katya whispered.

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Truth and Beauty 11-3

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The bridge was only half lit for the overnight shift, and the alternating red and cyan mood lighting showed strongly. Aside from Jack, who stood in his nightshirt, everyone wore their class B uniforms. “Just over 40 klicks, sir,” said the radar operator.

“On screen.”



Stephen’s awakening, one deck down from Jack’s cabins, was much more abrupt, much more violent. The first blast of the klaxon jerked him upright in his cot, tumbling him onto the floor, while the truncated second blast left him distinctly frightened. Clearly the alarm meant that something was wrong; its cutoff mid-shriek could only mean that Roth was severely, perhaps mortally wounded. The rushing feet outside his door did little to ease his anxiety. He was suddenly aware that mere inches of steel separated him from the vacuum of space and oblivion, a fact seemingly underscored by the pulsing red and cyan lights that provided the only illumination to his cabin.

The rushing feet subsided, and the whoosh of the ventilation system, along along with the myriad other background noises of the Roth fell away, leaving the silence of a tomb.

Whatever the answers were, they were not to be found in his cabin. Having thrown on clothes, he felt his door for heat. Finding none, he backed the door with his foot and eased the door open half an inch, ready to clap it to and shoot the bolt. The half-lit wardroom was empty.

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Truth and Beauty 11-2

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Two bells in the first dog, and the gunner and armorer returned, meek as mice. Holley and Kinskey returned as well, reasonably jolly. They worked steadily for an hour, when Jack released the midshipmen for the night. Morretti and Mister Veidt he released at the end of the second dog. The men left quietly, and Jack was alone at last. He stood over the arms lockers and stared.



The armorer was perhaps three-quarters of the way through when the French appeared. Jack awoke to the insistent shaking of his cot and his name, absurdly whispered as if the speaker was afraid of waking him. “Yes,” he said. “What is it?”

“Mister Henreid’s compliments sir and there is a vessel off the starboard bow, French, he thinks,” said a voice. “Shall he beat to quarters?”

“Yes,” said Jack, swinging from his cot, “and rig for silent running.”

“Quarters and silent running, yes, sir,” said the voice, a midshipman by its sound. Jack heard the patter of feet and made out the boy’s silhouette when he opened the door to the companion. Hurried footsteps scampered up the stairs and by the time Jack had grabbed his pistols and sword and made it to the companion himself he only saw a pair of feet disappearing into the bridge.

The klaxons blared out for quarters once, then cut out in the middle of their second shriek. “Who the devil set off that alarm,” asked Jack, buckling his sword and pistol belt around his nightshirt as he stepped onto the bridge. “If the French didn’t know we were here before then they certainly do now. How far away are they?”

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Truth and Beauty 11-1

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* * *

Eight bells rang: four double strokes on the Roth’s bell. “Beg pardon, sir,” said the gunner, standing in the doorway with his hat in his hand, “that’s eight bells.”

“I expect you back after supper, Mister Veidt.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Very well, you are dismissed.”

The gunner’s departure revealed Bollwerk, holding a large tray. “Will you be taking supper in the coach, sir?” he asked.

“I suppose the gunner has his work spread out over the the dining table?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then it will have to be the coach.”

Bollwerk entered, silently laid out the individual dishes, and withdrew. Supper was meatloaf again, the printer’s take on mashed potato with gravy, and a drab green mass that presumably represented a vegetable of some kind.

Jack tasted none of it. He was too angry. He ate mechanically, stopping when heartburn set in. Then he downed a full glass of tepid water and pushed his plate away. His father’s words, delivered long ago, echoed in his mind: “one of these days, that temper’s going to get the best of you.” If anything, this made him angrier. And there was nowhere for the anger to go. Even if he was to give in to the urge to scream at Morretti, the man had not yet returned from his meal.

Jack pushed back his chair and stood, then carried his glass to the drinks machine in the great cabin. He placed his glass under the spout and ordered up some red wine.

Halfway through the pour, he stopped the machine. He stared at the wine for a full minute before dumping it into the overflow trough. Finding a mug, he made peppermint tea instead.

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Truth and Beauty 10-12

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“Yes, sir,” said Bollwerk, entering again.

“Who is the midshipman of the watch?”

“LeBeau, sir.”

“Then pass the word for Kinskey and Holley,” he said, and when the midshipmen appeared, “Kinskey, Holley, you will assist Mister Veight and Morretti here in the reviewing of the small arms and the calibration of the guns on the new shuttle, along with any other duties they may assign you over the the next several days till Tuesday’s noon sight. You are relieved of your duties as midshipman of the watch until that time. Have you any questions?”

“Yes, sir,” said Kinskey. “Shall I coordinate a revised watch schedule with Mister Greenstreet?”

“Yes. Bollwerk!” Lieutenant O’Brian raised his voice again, and when Bollwerk appeared, “pass the word for Mister Greenstreet.”

“Yes, sir,” said Bollwerk, exiting softly.

“Holley,” said Lieutenant O’Brain, “you might as well get started. Kinskey, if you’d like to work up a preliminary schedule while you wait for Mister Greenstreet, there is a pen and paper on the desk.”

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Truth and Beauty 10-11

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The armorer touched a knuckle to his brow and made a convulsive half bow. Then he scuttled sideways down the corridor to collect his tools, determined not to turn his back on his commander.

Left alone, Jack lashed out at one of his chairs, kicking it across the room. Bollwerk stuck his head in at the noise, then tried to silently withdraw, but Jack saw him. “Send for the gunner,” he ordered.

“Yes, sir,” said Bollwerk, “right away, sir.”

In the brief delay before the gunner appeared Jack tried to get a grip on himself. This was slovenly work on the part of the armorer, very dangerous. Roth might only a transport, but she might still be attacked, might still need her guns. The marine sentry announced the gunner and Jack called for him to be sent in.

Mister Veidt appeared, looking politely puzzled, then apprehensive when he saw his Lieutenant’s face. “Mister Veidt,” said Lieutenant O’Brian, “I have just been going over the small arms with the armorer, Moretti, who I believe reports to you?”

“Yes, sir,” said the gunner.

“And Moretti has just informed me that he has not reviewed our small arms in a year. A year, Mister Veidt. Have you anything to say?”

It was not a fair question, and part of Jack felt ashamed for asking it, for there was no possible reply. That part of him was not presently in control, however, and he charged forward. “I have just prohibited him from taking any leisure until the guns have all been reviewed, along with anything else he may have neglected, such as the calibration of the guns on the new shuttle. I would like to see all of his books, and all of yours, sir, as I do not understand how this, this slovenly state of affairs could have come about in the absence, in the presence of proper supervision. I have half a mind to break him and appoint someone else in his stead, but we have no one else with the necessary skills. Do you understand me, sir?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then I will go on to say that in the interest of the Roth’s safety you will join Moretti at his tasks, not taking any leisure yourself until the work is done. I will assign - what?” he called, for the sentry had knocked at the door. “Moretti, sir.”

“Send him in.”

Moretti entered, his box of tools in his hand. He avoided the lieutenant’s gaze, avoided the gunner’s gaze, walking straight to the arms locker, pulling one of the M79s out, and beginning to methodically disassemble it.

Lieutenant O’Brian turned back to the gunner. “I will assign you one of the midshipmen to assist you, or two, and you will strip down every gun to its components, clean them, check them, and lubricate them before reassembly. Have you any questions?”

“No, sir.”

“Then get to work. Bollwerk!” he called for his servant.

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