Truth and Beauty 10-10

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Jack was retreating down the companion from the bridge when he saw Dr Russ one level down, holding a bandage to the back of his head. “Doctor Russ,” he said, “are you okay? What happened?”

But Doctor Russ was oblivious, walking into the wardroom and out of sight, and after a few moments of considering, Jack continued into his suite.

* * *

Several days passed uneventfully. Jack had the armorer clean each of the Douglas M-79s and the Colt energy revolvers, including their caps. Many of the Douglas magazines had weak follower springs, but there was no solution for this until replacements could be obtained. Asked about printing new springs, the armorer shook his head. “They would still need to be tempered, sir, and we don’t have an oven. It’s a common part, though. We should be able to pick it up when we make port.”

Jack sighed. He was not sure that he wanted to ask the next question, nor was he sure that he wanted to know the answer. "When were these guns last reviewed, Moretti?”

The armorer shifted uncomfortably. He was an unassuming man of middle height, middle weight, middle age, medium brown skin, medium brown hair and medium brown eyes, remarkably only in his hands, which were scarred, calloused, and strangely small. “I’d have to check my records to be sure, sir.”

“Approximately?” asked Jack, determined to see it through to the bitter end.

Moretti cleared his throat. “Probably a year sir, or more. Probably more.”

“A year,” cried Jack. “You are playing with your duty, sir. This is very bad. Is there anything else that you’ve been neglecting? Look at me when I talk to you.”

“Yes, sir,” said the armorer, who was now looking pale. “No, sir. Nothing else.”

“You’re certain?”

Moretti said nothing, then, “the guns on the new shuttle need to be calibrated, sir.”

“Well then until these guns are as clean as the queen’s arse, those guns are calibrated, and you’ve attended to anything else you might have overlooked, you are not to engage in what is commonly known as leisure. Do you understand me, sir?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then get to work. And God help you, and God help us, if we run into the French before you’re through.”

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Truth and Beauty 10-9

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“What mood lights?” he asked, raising the pack to his head. “And what is that roll of gauze for?”

“To hold your cold pack in place.”

Stephen twisted away from her. “I am not going to look like I just escaped from the wars,” he said. More to distract his assistant than anything else he asked again, “what mood lights?”

“The mood lights, sir - the colored lights that outline the doors and such? You didn’t see them flash purple?”

“And what might that mean?”

“Rig for jump to hyperspace, sir. Or for the jump back to cartesian space.”

“Indeed. And are there any other colors that I should be aware of?”

“Flashing purple is rig for jump, and they turn steady just before the jump is made. Red is quarters, sir - battle stations. And green indicates that the engines are firing, but only in cartesian space. There are others, but those are the key ones. Cyan, for instance, means rig for silent running. Yellow is quarantine.” She looked at the instruments scattered over the floor and sighed. “All those will have to be resterilized, I suppose.”

“Oh,” said Stephen, “oh, I am so sorry. Let me,” and before Katya could stop him he had started to one-handedly load the fallen hemostats, retractors, and forceps into the bottom of the autoclave, his other hand still holding his cold pack to his head.

“Please, sir,” said Katya, inwardly cringing as the delicate instruments were tossed into a disorderly heap. “Please let me.” She grew increasingly agitated as the pile grew, finally elbowing him aside as he tried to swing the door shut. “Please, sir,” she stammered, “why don’t you go lie down. I’ll call you in your quarters if something comes up. You can come back in an hour.”

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Truth and Beauty 10-8

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The engines grumbled. In the sick bay examination room Doctor Russ looked up as the instruments he was sorting begin to rattle in their steel trays. “Surely this can’t be right,” he said. Then he was flung sideways, into the wall. No sooner had he picked himself up than he was flung into the wall again.

“Doctor?” called Katya from her quarters across the hall, “are you okay?”

“Yes,” said Stephen, climbing to his hands and knees. “I think so,” he started to say, but the room jerked again and he found himself lying on his side. “Why does the room keep moving?”

Stephen raised a hand to the back of his head. Yes, a tender lump was rising over the left leg of the lambdoid suture. Through the haze he felt the floor rocking gently, but before he could explore this phenomenon he heard a voice. “I’m sorry, what was that?” he asked.

“Are you okay?” asked Katya again. She helped him to his feet and sat him on a stool. “What happened?” she asked.

“The room moved unexpectedly - the ship moved, I suppose. We must have injured. Were we attacked?” He could tell that he was speaking somewhat at random and tried to pull himself together. There was blood on his finger, he noticed. Was that from his head? He raised his other hand to the lump on the back of his head and when he pulled his it away he found a stippling of blood on his index finger. “I appear to be bleeding,” he said, “though not severely. Are there injured?”

“No,” said Katya, “only you.” She donned a pair of exam gloves and delicately parted his hair at the back. “Contusion,” she said, “and a small abrasion. Didn’t you see the mood lights?” she asked, opening a syringe and loading it with gelled antiseptic. She held a gauze pad to his head to catch any drips, “this will sting,” and spread the antiseptic over his wound. The she activated a cold pack, taped the gauze to one side, and handed it to Stephen.

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Truth and Beauty 10-7

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Leaving the lockers open, Jack crossed to the drinks machine and ordered some tea, then returned to contemplate the weapons with his mug. It was not a bad arsenal; indeed it was far more than he had any right to expect, and though the weapons were old, they were not particularly worn, and he wondered if they had been the weapons provided to Roth during her initial fitting out.

No, he decided. That couldn’t be accurate. There were simply too many arms for a transport on routine duty. It was only as he lay down to sleep that night that it occurred to him that not only was Roth equipped with too many weapons, but her built-in arms lockers were abnormally large.

During the night, the thought evaporated, however, and with the arrival of the remainder of the Roth’s crew and her departure from dry dock, her small arms fell far from the front of her skipper’s mind. Shortly before noon, with a dispatch that made her officers stretch their eyes, the ordinance team had unlocked her mounted guns, leaving Roth ready to depart for the Achilles system. She approached the interlocking station, battening her hatches, securing all loose equipment, and generally preparing for the jump to hyperspace. Her mood lighting pulsed violet, casting and hiding ethereal shadows. Midshipman Kinskey stood at the christmas tree on the bridge, watching the indicators turn green one by one. “Sir,” he said at last, “christmas tree is green across the board.”

“Very good,” said the skipper. “Sparks, get the token.”

“Token received, sir,”

“Radar, are we steady on the gate?”

“Steady, aye, steady, sir.”

“Withdraw the array.”

“Standby . . .. Array is secured, sir.”

“Helm, ahead one quarter. Take us in.”

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Truth and Beauty 10-6

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The revolvers were Navy Colt double-action plasma pistols, with stainless-steel frames and black anodized cylinders and grips. They were stored unloaded, their capacitors lined up neatly in their charging racks. Most of the charging indicators were lit green, but several showed the pulsing red of a faulty cap.

Selecting a gun at random, he pulled it free. It was a heavy gun, just as solid and deadly as the Douglas. When he pulled the hammer back the cylinder turned smoothly.

He swung the cylinder out. The contacts were copper, slightly tarnished but not particularly worn. Choosing six capacitors, he loaded them: they slid easily into place, seating fully and snugly into place. He pressed the ejector pin, spilling the caps into his hand and replacing five of them in the charging rack.

In a small container, he found several sighting adapters. He snapped one onto the remaining cap and replaced it in the cylinder, swinging the cylinder closed so the cap was in the 2 o’clock position. Then he released the safety and raised the gun to firing position. Aiming for a knot in the paneling, he pulled the trigger.

The red sighting laser shot from the barrel, making a bright, crisp dot on the bulkhead perhaps one centimeter form the knot - more than reasonably close for a generically assigned gun. Satisfied, he removed the cap from the gun, returned it, the sighting adapter, and the gun itself to their positions, and looked at the miscellaneous weapons and parts. There were two M216 grenade launcher attachments for the Douglas SMGs, with most of two cases of tear gas grenades; half a dozen bayonets for the same guns; a Remington model C kinetic sniper rifle with close to 100 rounds; and a tripod that probably belonged to an M36 energy machine gun, though the gun itself was absent.

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End Table Build Thread 4: Sanding the Skirting

In my last post, I mentioned the age-related darkening of some of the fir (I assume it's fir) I used in the construction of the table. Here's a close-up; you can see a vertical pale patch running along the bolt hole a bit left of center. This was left by a neighboring piece of wood.

Before: Note how the skirting has an amber color

After some consideration, I took some 220 grit sandpaper to the outside surface of the skirting. I didn't try to fit the sandpaper deep into the corners, so if the patinaed areas stain darker, this darkness will seep into those corners, which should look good. Here's the 'after' picture:

After: Note the paler, less-amber look

The wood has lost some of its amber color, bringing it closer to the color of the table's edge as seen along the top of the picture. The vertical stripe hasn't entirely vanished, but it is paler; I think this creates a good compromise between making the fir uniform versus showing its recycled nature. Some of the sawdust has come to rest in the the nicks and scratches of the wood, refusing to be vacuumed out. I'll be wiping the table down with tack cloth before I stain it, so hopefully this will pull out that dust.

Also hopefully, the next post will show this table stained and sealed; i.e. finished.