If we splice the mainbrace on the bell for the next fortnight, perhaps we can keep the crew drunk enough to accept it.
“I am open to suggestions, gentlemen,” Alexis said.
“So there’s really to be no money?” Spindler asked.
Alexis shook her head. “Little. None for the gallenium at all.”
“You’ll do alright,” Villar muttered.
“I beg your pardon, Mister Villar?”
Villar hunched his shoulders and set his glass down as though he’d already had too much to drink. “I’m sorry, sir, I just meant that the captain’s share of this isn’t nothing.”
Alexis watched him for a moment. Perhaps he’d been counting on the windfall as well — even a midshipman’s portion of what they’d thought the prize might be worth would set a man up for life. Villar wouldn’t have had to worry about making lieutenant, he could simply leave the Navy and do whatever he liked. Or perhaps he was simply irked that it was Alexis, not himself, who commanded Nightingale at the time the Greenaway was taken.
“No, it’s not,” Alexis agreed, “nor is what you and Mister Spindler and the warrants will share, but we’re speaking of the men now, not our own fortunes. They were expecting … well, lord knows what they were expecting, but it certainly wasn’t the two hundred pounds or so their two eighths of this will bring — what will it be for each man? Four pounds?”
“A bit more, but not so much,” Ousley said, “enough for a few good drunks in our next ports.”
“They wished for more than that,” Villar said.
“‘If wishes were fishes we’d all have twelve blokes following us about writing down our every word,’ as my mum said.” Ousley scratched his neck. “They’ll forget, given time, as they never had the coin in hand.” He nodded to Alexis. “Tell ‘em, set sail, and work ‘em at the sails and guns until they’re too tired to think of it. A fortnight of that, a bit of grumbling, and they’ll forget it.”
Fifteen
31 October, aboard HMS Nightingale, darkspace, Dalthus System
“Pilot boat’s signaling that we’re in the transition zone, sir.”
“Thank you, Mister Spindler.”
Alexis swallowed and took a deep breath, clenching her hands behind her back. She shouldn’t be nervous. This was simply a return home, after all.
A return after nearly three years away.
She’d been just fifteen when she’d gone aboard Merlin and still fifteen when she’d sailed off aboard Hermione from this very system. Now she was eighteen, and so much had happened to her in that time. Much had happened on Dalthus, as well, and she wondered if it would still feel like her home after so much time away.
“Make transition,” she ordered.
Inside the quarterdeck, there was no sense of the change other than the sudden appearance of new activity on the monitors. Even before the spacer at the helm responsible for transitioning the ship to normal-space could announce that it was complete, Nightingale’s sensors woke after their long sleep in darkspace and began receiving signals from around the system. The navigation plot changed from its display of only the ship’s course and an estimation of Lagrangian points near them to a plot of the Dalthus system itself.
Alexis almost gasped in shock. When she’d left home it had been rare to have two ships in-system at the same time — a half dozen at most. Now there were dozens. Not all of them were for sailing the Dark, but there were still more contacts on the navigation plot than she’d ever thought to see in Dalthus.
The biggest change was the partially assembled station in orbit around the planet. Two merchant vessels were docked to it, probably delivering more materials for its construction. Another three merchantmen — big, wallowing ore carriers such as they’d encountered in the straits — were in orbit around one of the moons. Her grandfather had written her that they’d decided to use that moon for the transshipment of gallenium mined in the system’s asteroid belt.
There’d be a second station going into orbit there soon. Small, with just enough space to house a proper customs house to deal with the gallenium shipments. Loading merchantmen there instead of directly in the belt would avoid some of the smuggling, since several of Dalthus’ first settlers had already proven themselves willing to do that.
The majority of the ships were small miners, made for intrasystem work and not intended to sail the Dark at all. They’d be owned by the miners themselves, broken down to fit in the holds of ships capable of traversing darkspace, then reassembled here as their owners hoped to make their fortunes.
A few of these were enroute from the belt to the moon with loads of gallenium ore, or on their way back to the belt from dropping one off. Still there were plenty of them in the belt itself. Enough even to make the empty sections of the belt stand out — those claimed by the families who’d been involved with Daviel Coalson in the secret mining of gallenium. Aside from the punishments handed out to those who were proved to be involved in that scheme, the families had been banned from mining their claims for five years.
“Make for orbit,” Alexis ordered, still staring at the plot.
“Aye, sir.”
“And I’ll have the mast unstepped as we make our way.”
A barely perceptible pause before Villar’s “Aye, sir,” let her know that he was as weary of that sort of order as Alexis. Unstepping the mast, taking in all sail, and laying the mast down flat against the hull, wasn’t strictly necessary in-system, nor were the frequent sail changes she’d ordered on their way here from Zariah, but it did exercise the crew’s sail handling skills, and lord knew they needed it.
She caught Villar’s eye and he flushed, looking away. They both knew the faults in the crew’s handling of the ship’s sails and guns, but Alexis wished there was a way to correct them that wasn’t seen as a constant criticism of Villar’s time in command. She felt that every drill she ordered increased the tension between her and her first officer.
“Signals away, sir,” Creasy said from the signals console.
“Thank you, Creasy.” Alexis nodded absently.
Nightingale’s signals computer would have sent off its messages automatically as they transitioned. With no other way to communicate across light-years, the messages had to be carried by ships. Automatically loaded into the ship’s secure storage by Zariah Station, any bound for Dalthus or for ships known to be in-system would soon be delivered. Those bound for other destinations might have copies sent to those merchantmen in system who were advertising their own destinations or at least the direction of their future travels. At any moment, the same message might be aboard a dozen or more different ships, to be delivered by whichever arrived at a destination first — and then further notices sent out to reach and delete-as-delivered as many of those copies as possible.
Her own message to her grandfather would be among those just sent, informing him that she was finally back and would be home soon. She wondered what might have changed there, as well.
“Will you be granting leave, sir?” Villar asked. “Or allowing boats to come alongside, at least?”
Alexis noted the quarterdeck’s crew’s sudden attention at Villar’s question and suppressed a smile. The entire crew was tired after the long trek from Zariah, made more so by the drills Alexis had set them along the way.
Near daily gun drills and sudden, random calls to change sail or tack the ship, had worn heavily on them. They’d improved — a bit — but were still the sorriest lot of spacers she’d ever laid eyes on. Some slow of body, due to age or weakness, others slow of mind — and those who weren’t either of those were often simply the laziest sods she could wish to encounter.
The extortionists were in the latter category, holding back, both she and Ousley were certain, but never more than the others. Instead of setting an example, they were taking advantage of the others weaknesses to lay off their own efforts.
Still, most of the crew had worked hard, despite the poor results, and deserved a bit of a break. There was just
something missing that she couldn’t put her finger on — some spark that would drive them to more than their best, as she’d gotten from crews on other ships.
She examined the unexpectedly crowded navigation plot. She’d been planning to allow the men leave in Port Arthur, thinking it would be much the same as when she’d left home, but there was so much new traffic in the system that she feared some of the men would run.
“Half a day for each watch,” she said, making a decision. “At my grandfather’s holding, not in port.” She sensed shoulders slump in disappointment all around her. “There’ll be good, fresh food and the village pub, but no … livelier establishments.”
Villar nodded.
“And no outbound merchantmen with a suddenly filled cot,” he murmured.
“Exactly.”
Alexis found the surface of Dalthus as much changed as the system’s space. She stopped at the bottom of Nightingale’s boat’s ramp to stare around her in wonder. She’d seen far more advanced systems in her travels, and Dalthus was still far from advanced, but this was home, and the changes were … disconcerting.
When she’d left, Dalthus had boasted of three antigrav transporters to ferry goods and people about the planet’s surface. Those and the two small craft attached to the system’s pilot boat were the only permanent aircraft.
Now there were a dozen or more craft in the skies above Port Arthur, and more ships’ boats on the landing field than she’d ever imagined she’d see on her home world. Motorized, wheeled, and antigrav ground vehicles were more numerous as well, scurrying about the field and off down the town’s streets, most making to and from the nearby chandlery, but others merging with the traffic of the town itself.
She moved away from the ramp so that Villar could step onto the field. Ousley and the hands exited via the boat’s rear ramp and were already forming up to visit the chandlery for Nightingale’s resupply.
“It’s much changed since I left,” Alexis said to explain her gawking to Villar.
“How long ago was that, if you don’t mind me asking, sir?”
“Just a bit over three years.” She looked around again, taking in the bustle of activity and noting that the town itself had expanded to encircle more of the landing field and with more new construction visible at the edges. “It’s much changed,” she repeated.
“Much changed in the year or more I’ve been aboard Nightingale, as well,” Villar noted. He pointed to some of the new buildings encircling the field. “Chandlery’s put a second warehouse off over there some six months past, and with it came more pubs and br … er, establishments of interest to the spacers and miners.”
“I’m familiar with the sorts of establishments frequented by spacers, Mister Villar.”
“I … er, see, sir.”
Alexis glanced over to see what had discomfited him further and her lips twitched.
“That is,” she said, “I am aware of such establishments, if not familiar with them.”
Villar cleared his throat. “Of course, sir. I didn’t wish to imply that you’d … well …”
Now Alexis flushed, remembering more than one visit to such a place on Penduli Station while awaiting the return of her second ship, HMS Hermione. It had only been a bit of comfort and talking to a willing listener during a very difficult time, but the visit itself would likely not improve Villar’s opinion of her.
“So the chandlery has two warehouses now?” she asked quickly.
“It does, sir,” Villar confirmed, just as quickly. “Though the Naval stores are still served out of just one.”
“May I presume that’s where I’ll find Mister Doakes still?”
Alexis wasn’t looking forward to seeing the colony’s chandler and Crown representative again. When she’d last met the man just before joining her first ship he’d been not only been rude and dismissive of the idea that she might become a midshipman, but he’d outfitted her in the most ridiculously oversized kit she could imagine.
The spacers aboard Merlin could have made a whole other uniform from the material left after they tailored mine down to size.
She smiled at the memory of her first day aboard ship, jumpsuit sleeves and legs rolled up to fit while she waited for others to be altered. Her uniforms now had been tailored to order, specifically made up for her small frame on Lesser Ichthorpe while she’d awaited her next assignment.
Still, the memory of Doakes’ dismissive attitude burned a bit and she wondered if even properly fitting uniforms and command of a Queen’s ship would change it. If it weren’t necessary, she wouldn’t meet with the man at all, but he was the Crown representative, such as it was, on Dalthus.
When visiting other systems she might meet with a planetary governor or some other official, but Dalthus’ government, what there was of it, was quite decentralized. Most decisions were made by the three thousand original settlers, or their heirs, by vote of shares in the colony corporation, and within certain limitations each settler ran his own lands as he saw fit.
The few areas that were considered the property of the colony as a whole, such as Port Arthur itself, had government councils for internal matters; but trade and relations with the Crown went through the Doakes family, by virtue of the few colony shares they’d used to purchase the ninety-nine-year chandlery lease when the planet was settled.
Alexis took a deep breath. Ousley was already leading the men toward the chandlery warehouse to begin loading Nightingale’s supplies.
“Let us make our courtesy call upon the Crown representative, Mister Villar,” she said, starting toward the edge of the landing field and the street which led to the chandlery’s front entrance, then continued under her breath, “And see if his opinion of me has improved at all.”
Sixteen
31 October, Port Arthur, Dalthus System
“Miss Alexis!”
Alexis stopped, eyebrows rising. She was a bare two steps through the chandlery’s door, Villar was still in the doorway behind her, and the chimes of the door’s arrival bell still rang in her ears, yet Doakes was already around his counter and heading her way, a wide, tooth-filled grin on his pinched, narrow face.
The chandlery itself was much as she remembered it, though now as busy as the town outside, with merchant spacers and more roughly dressed men Alexis took for miners milling about its aisles of shelves piled high with goods. This smiling, enthusiastic Doakes, though, was far different from the chandler she’d last had dealings with.
“Miss Alexis!” Doakes cried again, coming toward her with one hand outstretched to shake hers and the other raised as though to pull her into an embrace. “Been waiting for this since I read of your appointment in dispatches and the pilot boat announced you’d arrived!”
Alexis was about to pull back in alarm, regardless of Villar being immediately behind her in the doorway, when Doakes came to an abrupt halt. He squared his shoulders, head and neck straight and rigid, and lowered his hands to his side. His expression turned serious.
“Or should it be ‘Captain Carew’, now, eh? What with a ship of your own and all?” he asked, then his grin broke out again and he reached forward to grasp her hand in both of his before she could even think more about turning and running down Villar to escape. “No, no, it’ll always be ‘Miss Alexis’ to old Talmadge Doakes, it will.”
His beady eyes darted about the room and he spoke again, loudly.
“Known you since you were a wee lass, have I not, Miss Alexis?” Most of the shoppers had stopped what they were doing and were now looking toward Alexis. Doakes raised his voice even further. “Now you’re a grand Naval officer, and just imagine it was me what gave you your first midshipman’s uniform. Right in this very chandlery, it was — not three years past, I think.”
“Gave” is not exactly how I’d desc — but even her thought was cut off as Doakes continued. Nearly all the shoppers were watching curiously now.
“Read your doings in that dustup in those fruity French worlds in the Naval Gazette, I di
d.”
“The Berry March, Mister Doakes,” Alexis said.
Doakes waved a hand. “Called your grandfather straightaway I read it. Said to him, I said, ‘I knew that girl would do great things, ever since she brought in those little bushels of wheat from a field she’d sown all by her lonesome.’” He looked past Alexis to Villar, still not releasing her hand. “No more than knee-high, she was, and already working at what she put her mind to.”
Alexis flushed and cleared her throat, pulling against Doakes’ grip to retrieve her hand. She was having a great deal of trouble reconciling this Doakes with the one who’d threatened to put her over his knee when he believed she was playing a game with him by asking for a midshipman’s kit. The change in his attitude had her torn between amusement and irritation with the man.
“Thank you, Mister Doakes, that’s very kind of you to —”
“And look at you all grown up now,” Doakes went on. He looked down at her and his brow furrowed. “Well, older, as may be, at least.” He nodded to Villar. “With a bright, young midshipman of your own, I see. Not that you weren’t doing a fine job yourself, Mister Villar, since Lieutenant Bensley left us, but, well …” He reached past Alexis to pat Villar on the shoulder. “You just watch our Miss Alexis, young man, and she’ll show you how it’s done proper, I’m sure.”
Villar raised an eyebrow and Alexis flushed further.
“Mister Doakes, we really should —”
“Lo, but you’ve come a long way! Why, I remember how you looked coming out of my office in that first uniform, sleeves and cuffs rolled up to fit and beret sliding down —”
“Mister Doakes! We have the business of my ship and the port to discuss, if I’m not mistaken.”
Doakes broke off, then nodded sharply and spun to walk back toward his counter.
“Oh, indeed! Straight to business — you must be busy, what with your ship patrolling from Zariah on out.” He called loudly toward the back of the shop. “Thomas! Watch the counter, boy, I’ve Naval matters to discuss with these officers!” Then louder to the shoppers. “This girl’ll be Admiral of the Fleet one day, you lot mark my words and remember it was me what sold her her first beret, it was!”
HMS Nightingale (Alexis Carew Book 4) Page 11