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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