“Thought you’d be taller, sir,” he said finally.
Six
7 September, aboard HMS Nightingale, Zariah System
“You’re a hero!”
Alexis tore her gaze away from Villar to look at Spindler.
Her instant of amusement at Villar’s comment, and his look of consternation, faded as she saw the look on Spindler’s face. First the look of shock and adulation, followed quickly by embarrassment at his outburst.
Spindler winced visibly and looked down at the table, but for a moment, it was another midshipman entirely looking back at her. A midshipman who’d followed her to Giron.
Don’t look at me like that.
She wanted to take Spindler by the shoulders and shake him.
Don’t look at any officer like that. We’ll use you up. The Service will use you up. Don’t you understand?
But she couldn’t, wouldn’t. For, hard as it was and as young as Spindler was, she also knew that the Navy needed him — needed the young officers who’d one day command ships, no matter the sacrifices they made to get there. The thought of Midshipman Artley and his loss aboard Belial was like something inside her had been ripped apart.
Those who survive, at least.
Spindler flushed and looked away. Perhaps because of his outburst or perhaps because of the look on Alexis’ face. The moment passed and she tried to relax her expression into something less stern.
“I wouldn’t say that, Mister Spindler,” she said. “If anyone in the Fleet was a hero at Giron, it was a midshipman not much older than yourself. He brought the fleet of civilian ships that made the evacuation possible.”
Spindler’s eyes widened.
“Really?”
Alexis nodded had to restrain a wince. What she’d said to honor Midshipman Artley’s memory had spawned that same look on Spindler’s face again. A look of wonder and almost hope — and she knew his thoughts were turning to some grand deed he might do that would earn him the same description one day.
They’ll use that too, your yearning to do great things. I’ll do it myself, if duty demands it. God forgive me.
“Could you describe the action for us, Lieutenant?” Poulter asked.
Alexis turned toward the surgeon, glad for the interruption. Even describing that action and the loss of Belial would be a relief from thoughts about Artley. She was used enough to doing so after her time aboard the packet.
“Certainly, Mister Poulter.” She set her tablet on the tabletop and transferred her data on the engagement to the table’s display. The Naval Gazette had published much of the ship movements from the action, reconstructed from the ships’ logs that were available, but she’d augmented her own copy with her recollections and notations.
“Isom,” she called. “We’ll have a bit of port now, but clear the center of the table.”
“Aye, sir.”
She examined the others’ faces while Isom and another spacer cleared the table and set glasses before them.
Once everyone was served, she started the display, beginning with Belial’s transition to darkspace.
“The last of the transports were away with what troops and civilians could be carried by them,” she said. “Belial was the last to transition and our orders were to simply play herd on the civilian convoy back to New London space. The two fleets, Hanover’s and our own under Admiral Chipley, were near — quite near —”
She indicated on the display.
“They had already formed their lines, in fact, and were close to beginning their own engagement. By all rights we, Belial and the convoy, should have made it to Giron’s shoals and been on our way before any Hanoverese could break through the New London lines.”
Those shoals, the halo of dark matter that surrounded systems, marked the point where the dark energy winds became more variable. No longer blowing directly toward the system’s center, but changing somewhat.
She let the display continue for a moment, accelerated to pass the time. On the tabletop the two fleets edged ever closer. Massive line-of-battle ships preparing to come to come into firing range with each other, some edging up or down in relation to the other line, hoping to encircle their target, their smaller consorts, frigates and sloops, behind the respective lines to relay signals.
Communication in darkspace being limited to messages passed via lights on a ship’s masts and hull, as no electronics or radios would work with so much dark energy permeating the space. Not even lasers could be used for communications, as the dark matter, which made up most of the mass in the universe, permeated everything and the gravitational effects changed how even light behaved. The coarse, steady light of a beacon on a ship’s mast would be distorted, but still visible, while a thin communications laser would be warped and bent. Likely never finding its target receiver and, if it did, the timing would be so off that no message would be decipherable.
“That’s him, then?” Villar asked pointing to a Hanoverese frigate which had begun falling back and above the opposing fleets.
Alexis nodded. It wasn’t a particularly perceptive comment on Villar’s part. What they were watching now had been included in the accounts of the battle in the Gazette, so he would have seen which frigate had bypassed the lines and fallen in amongst the unarmed transports from other reports.
“Yes,” Alexis agreed. “If we’d spotted him right then, perhaps we might have signaled another ship to cut him off.”
It was the one thing she’d found in her own endless reviews of the action. She’d watched the action a hundred times after her return to New London space, and the only thing she’d ever found that could have gone differently was to identify what the frigate was doing earlier than she had.
“They’d not have been looking toward the convoy for signals,” Villar said absently, his brow furrowed as he watched the action unfold. “Their attention would have been on the fleets.”
Alexis nodded again.
“It was. This is where we noticed him,” she said softly, marking the time display. “We made those signals, requested assistance, but, as you say, no one was looking toward us.”
Villar was silent, and Alexis took up her narrative, describing every bit of the action — Belial’s orders to the convoy, her own course changes, and those of the Hanoverese frigate. On the display, symbols for ships in the convoy disappeared, one by one, as the frigate passed them and fired on them, Belial unable to bring the other ship to action. Belial turned her stern to the enemy and emptied her guns into space — an expression of contempt. Then the frigate turned, the enemy captain’s pride finally pricked enough by Belial’s actions for him to acknowledge it.
Alexis described the battle as best she could remember it, for there was a large gap in the logs for most of the rest. Admiral Chipley’s fleet had eventually sailed off after the Hanoverese, taking their logs with them. Belial’s log had stopped recording due to damage, and it was only the arrival of Admiral Cammack’s fleet on the scene which resumed the recording.
By then, both Belial and the frigate were battered hulks. Mastless, mostly gunless, but still firing into each other.
“How?” Villar asked. “However did you manage it?”
“The frigate outgunned us, but Belial’s crew …” Alexis had to pause. “They’d been drilled beyond all reason during our wait at Giron. I believe at one point our guns were firing four broadsides in three minutes to the frigate’s two. They were outmatched and … while their casualties were not near Belial’s, they lost heart and became even more so.”
“Most of the crew were killed, were they not, lieutenant?”
Alexis looked up from the tabletop in surprise. She’d almost forgotten that Poulter was at the table.
“Yes, Mister Poulter. Only a few of the crew and myself survived the action.”
Poulter cocked his head to one side. “How does that affect one? As their commander?”
Alexis caught her breath. Poulter’s words echoed those of the Sick and Hurt Board’s Lieutenant Curtice, who’d
been tasked to evaluate her after the action. She had not liked Curtice’s questions at the time, and didn’t like Poulter’s now.
“I suppose such a thing affects everyone differently,” she said.
Poulter raised his glass and took a casual drink.
“And how were you af — Ow! Bloody —”
A streak of brown fur raced up Poulter’s chest from beneath the table, knocked the surgeon’s glass from his hand to spill into his lap, then circled his neck once before diving beneath the table again.
Poulter leapt to his feet, eyes wide. “What!”
“Isom!” Alexis called. “That damned creature’s loose again!”
Isom rushed from the pantry.
“I’m sorry, sir! I had his cage latched, I’m certain — I can’t see how he does it.”
“What is that?” Poulter demanded.
The creature in question rushed from under the table as Isom crouched to retrieve it. Long, lithe, and covered in brown fur, tail bottle-brush thick, it leapt onto the edge of Alexis’ cot, which was folded upright and latched to the cabin’s wall to provide more space, somehow managing to trip the latches as it scurried along the edge and sent the cot crashing down.
The cot swung open just as Isom arrived to make a grab for the creature, but it darted out of reach and began burrowing in the bedclothes.
“What is it?” Poulter demanded again, examining his clothes and touching a tentative hand to a scratch on his neck.
“A vile creature which will find itself put out the bloody airlock if it so much as messes once in my bedclothes,” Alexis said. She turned toward Marie who was covering her mouth with one hand in an effort to control her laughter. “It is not funny.”
“Non,” Marie said, lips twitching.
“I apologize, Mister Poulter,” Alexis said, though to a certain extent she wasn’t sorry. The creature’s antics had at least interrupted Poulter’s questions. “Are you badly hurt?”
“Not hurt, no.” Poulter examined a rent in his uniform jacket. “Just a scratch, though I’ll have to see a tailor about this.”
“Is it some sort of cat?” Villar asked.
“No.” Alexis sighed. “It’s a mongoose. An acquaintance’s idea of a joke, I suppose, before I left Lesser Ichthorpe for Zariah. The thing was delivered to my rooms and I’ve no real idea what to do with it. Perhaps I’ll see if my grandfather wishes it for vermin control on the home farms, once we arrive on Dalthus.”
“That’s what some colonies imported them for,” Villar said, “but it rarely works. We have a few on Chorthampton still, but those who brought them along found they had a much stronger taste for the chickens’ eggs than any vermin.”
“You must not abandon him, Alexis,” Marie added. “He would be so alone if there are no more of his kind on your world.”
“There are no more of its kind aboard ship, either.” Alexis grimaced. “And damned if I’ll bring another aboard to accommodate the thing.”
“Here he has you,” Marie said.
Alexis watched as Isom gathered up a struggling bundle of bedclothes and made his way back to the pantry.
“I’ll have a better lock on his cage before morning, sir,” he said over the sounds of chittering outrage from his bundle. “Don’t know what could’ve got into him to do such a thing.”
“See that you do.” Alexis turned to Poulter. “My apologies again, Mister Poulter, but Isom’s correct. The creature is a bit of an escape artist, but it’s never been violent or scratched anyone before. I hope you’re not too badly injured.”
“I see.” Poulter touched his neck again. “No, it’s not serious, but I do think the excitement has gotten the better of me and I will retire.”
“Of course.” Alexis glanced at the others. “Perhaps this would be the time for all of us to retire in preparation for sailing in the morning.”
Villar and Spindler rose at this, correctly interpreting her suggestion as an order.
Seven
8 September, aboard HMS Nightingale, Zariah System
“Take us out, Mister Villar.”
Alexis clasped her hands at the small of her back and stared straight ahead. Nightingale’s quarterdeck was small, smaller than any of the ships she’d commanded, short of Grapple, the pirate pinnace she’d gone aboard on her first cruise.
The little cutter’s navigation plot was barely a meter across, half the size of that on the last ship she’d commanded and only a quarter of the massive plot on a ship of the line. Besides the small plot, the other stations were similarly cramped. The signals and tactical stations were side-by-side and the spacers stationed there were practically sitting on top of each other.
“Aye, sir.” Villar turned to the helmsman and began issuing the orders necessary to get Nightingale under way and moving from Zariah Station.
This will take some time to get used to.
Unlike the other ships she’d been in command of, which had been either prizes or ships she’d effectively stolen, she had a full command crew aboard Nightingale in the persons of Midshipmen Villar and Spindler. In addition to their watch standing, they had other duties, one of which was Villar’s position as her first officer. As such, it was her responsibility to give general orders about what she wanted and Villar’s to deal with the specific orders to the crew in order to achieve it.
True, it was Alexis’ prerogative as commander to give as detailed an order as she liked. She could even bypass Villar entirely if she wished, but she’d have to sleep sometime and then Villar, and even young Spindler, would be taking watches in command of her ship. Alexis wanted to have the man’s measure sooner rather than later.
For Alexis, who was still a bit unsure of Villar, the experience was not only new but more than a little nerve-wracking. She watched as Villar began giving orders and couldn’t help judging him against the orders she would have given. She also keenly felt the fact that she had yet to serve as a first lieutenant aboard any ship, so had never been in Villar’s position herself.
Also there was her unfamiliarity with the crew as a whole. In previous commands she’d had men she could trust and whose skills she’d known she could rely on. Nightingale’s crew was entirely unknown to her. She made a sudden decision.
“Mister Villar, I’d admire it did you utilize the lunar L1 point for our transition. And that the mast be stepped during our travels, if you please, so that we may leave orbit as soon as possible. One quarter speed on the drive, if you will, until the mast is stepped.”
Villar was silent for a moment and Alexis felt as though the others on the quarterdeck had paused as well.
“Aye, sir,” he said finally.
Alexis frowned as Villar resumed giving orders, wondering at the reaction. True, most ships transitioned to darkspace at the planetary/solar Lagrangian points, those spots in space where the gravitational pull of any two orbiting bodies created a relatively stable orbit around the point. The lunar points were considerably smaller and required more precise positioning to transition within them, but nothing a Naval crew couldn’t handle.
And how this crew handled it was exactly what she wanted to see, which was why she’d chosen L1, the Lagrangian point between an orbiting body and the mass it orbited. L4 and L5, which preceded and followed the orbiting body in its path were the norm for transitions, as they were larger. L1, which lay midway between the two bodies was closer to the planet for the lunar pairing, but was smaller yet.
She placed a video feed from the hull cameras on the navigation plot so she could watch the mast being stepped, raised from its position flush against the hull and with yards and sails attached and ready for use in darkspace. It was possible the reaction was from her ordering only one quarter speed on the conventional drive — other ships she’d been aboard would step the masts and raise the rigging while under half or even full acceleration in an emergency. For the crew outside the hull, outside the artificial gravity and inertial compensators they enjoyed here on the quarterdeck, the tasks would be
more difficult under acceleration. They’d have to brace themselves and apply force to those parts not directly attached to the ship. She’d thought to make it somewhat easier for them by ordering the lower acceleration, but had they taken it as a lack of confidence in their abilities?
Alexis pulled her tablet from her thigh pocket and ran her own calculations. She could have done it on the navigation plot itself, but didn’t want Villar or the others to realize she was checking them.
Under the conventional drive’s normal acceleration, it would take a bit under seven hours for Nightingale to arrive at rest in the center of the L1 point. Running at one quarter power until the masts were up would increase that, but not appreciably, she thought, as once the mast was stepped and the crew back inside, Nightingale could accelerate well beyond that speed.
Or I’m entirely wrong …
She watched in growing irritation as the minutes dragged on and work outside the hull continued.
First, the mast went up, unfolded from its resting place against the hull. Then it was lowered partway, as no one had pulled the pin which would lock it in its upright position and it was blocked from settling into place. Once the pin was out and the mainmast fully upright, a pair of men went to its top and began extending the telescoping segments which made up the upper masts … until the ship’s momentum outstripped that of the mast and the whole lot began a slow topple backward as no one had replaced the bloody pins to hold it in place.
Alexis turned her head to look at Villar, who flushed. She could see the muscles working in his neck as his jaw clenched and unclenched, much as she felt her own doing.
In defense of the men working outside, she supposed, was the fact that the helmsman appeared to be constantly adjusting Nightingale’s acceleration, so that the thrust the men must adjust to was forever changing. More than that, the ship’s course was constantly changing as well.
It’s a straight bloody line and one bloody button — what is he doing?
There was a flurry of activity on the hull and Alexis turned her attention from Villar and the helmsman to the images on the navigation plot. The mast’s fore and backstays had somehow become tangled, forcing the men to walk round and round each other in an effort to untwist them.
HMS Nightingale (Alexis Carew Book 4) Page 5