Alexis Carew: Books 1, 2, and 3

by J. A. Sutherland

  “No, I can see you don’t. Let me think –” He took a deep breath again. “You understand how a mass in normal-space has an effect on space-time, yes? How a clock on the surface of a planet will tell a different amount of time passing than one in orbit?”

  Alexis stared at him.

  Caruthers grinned. “I believe you have a great deal of studying to do, Mister Carew.”

  “So it appears.”

  “In any case, it does. Not a great deal of difference, but being down the planet’s gravity well, closer to the mass, effects the time that passes. There is a great deal more mass in darkspace than in normal-space, and it’s concentrated where it may correlate with star systems. So the effective normal-space distance we travel while in darkspace is an exponential curve based on our speed and our distance from that mass, the combination of normal-space mass and its correlated mass of dark matter in darkspace.”

  Alexis nodded.

  “You see it, then?”

  “No, sir,” she said, “I was simply acknowledging that I do, indeed, have a great deal of study to complete.”

  Caruthers laughed.

  “Don’t ever fear admitting that, Mister Carew, there’s always more one has to learn.” He cleared the navigation plot and brought up a star chart. “So, navigation, then. What would you say if I were to ask you to chart a course from Dalthus –” He tapped the plot to highlight a system. “—to Eidera here.” Another tap highlighted the destination system.

  Alexis sighed. “As with the, what was it called? Log?” Caruthers nodded. “Yes, well, as with the log, I expect this will be wrong, but –”

  She ran her finger in a straight line from Dalthus to Eidera. The line showed up on the plot and Caruthers nodded.

  “A straight line is not always the shortest time when traveling in darkspace, though. It would be, save for these.”

  Caruthers expanded the view of Alexis’ proposed route and pointed out three other systems along the way.

  “These systems are uninhabited, but they still represent normal-space mass which will alter our darkspace movements.” He tapped the side of the plot and a twisted, curving path appeared between Dalthus and Eidera. “Here the computer’s plotted us a course which will keep us away from those systems and their influence on our speed. There’s an optimal distance that avoids the worst of the slowing, without the trip taking longer from the extra distance traveled to begin with.

  “As we leave Dalthus, the computer will note our position relative to Dalthus’ shoals and transition points, then point us in generally the right direction for Eidera.” He brought up their course so far to overlay what the computer had calculated. “It’s our job to use the log – our speed, any drift we can recognize, and anything else we may use to stay on that course as best we can once out of sight of those references.

  “This is why the sailing master, captain, and myself, all calculate the ship’s position independently and independent of the computer. It’s quite important that our estimates be as accurate as possible.”

  Alexis stared at the navigation plot with dawning horror.

  “Sir … are you suggesting that we truly pilot the ship between star systems by guessing?”

  Caruthers smiled at her. “The accepted term is dead-reckoning, but I do assure you, they are our very best guesses.”

  Alexis simply stared at him and Caruthers must have taken pity on her as he spoke again.

  “Sailing the Dark is a matter of compromise, Mister Carew. We have no stars to sail by, no permanent features of any kind that we may see at a distance, and so dead-reckoning is the best we can do for navigation. If one is truly lost, one may sail directly with the winds, I suppose. They tend to blow towards systems and, once there, a transition to normal space allows one to fix a position with the stars.” He frowned. “It’s thought a poor navigator who must do so, however.”

  Caruthers cleared the navigation plot and raised an eyebrow.

  “Do you think you have enough to study on from all that, Mister Carew?”

  “Enough and more, sir,” Alexis said, nodding, then frowned. “If I may, though, sir? You being in a mood to explain things and all?”

  “Of course.”

  “I understand the difficulties of working outside the hull in darkspace, mechanically, at least, but is there not some other way to go about it than so many men on the masts? Some engine inside the hull, perhaps, or something not affected by the dark energy, as the optics aren’t?”

  “That would be another of those compromises, Mister Carew. There’s a limit, you see, to how much mass a given amount of sail can pull through that morass of dark matter. A balancing act we must play between the size and mass of a ship, and its sails, in order to make any sort of progress. Which speaks to your question of why men, and not machines, work our sails.”

  “How so, sir? It would seem to me that a motor would still be more efficient for a given mass.”

  Caruthers nodded. “All things being equal you’d be right, Mister Carew, but equal they are not. Back deep in the Core Worlds there are large merchant vessels with small crews and they work the sails mechanically. Though the radiations that come along with the winds interferes with anything electrical outside the hull, there are ways. Hydraulics, encasing the motors themselves in gallenium, much as we encase the capacitors for the guns’ shot.” He narrowed his eyes. “But this is a warship. And on the Fringe, even a merchant might face danger from pirates. When enemy shot cuts a hydraulic line or breaches a motor’s protective case, what would we do then?”

  “Repair it, I suppose?”

  Caruthers shook his head. “And be helpless all the while. Trimming sail in the midst of an action, would it be faster to weld a case and run new lines, or simply have a brace of hands grasp a line and pull? We must have the men in any case, you see, and if they’re already aboard?”

  “Why add the mass of the machines,” Alexis answered. “A compromise?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Very good, Mister Roland,” Gorbett said as the three midshipmen transmitted their navigation estimates from their tablets to the central plot. “Very good indeed. And Mister Easely — improving, at least.” He cleared his throat. “Mister Carew …”

  Alexis looked down at the deck as Captain Grantham stepped to the plot and snorted. “Mister Carew appears to have a desire to visit New London,” he said, eyeing the line of her plot that veered almost ninety degrees from the three others and speared its way toward the core systems. “An admirable goal, I’m sure, but not when our destination is Eidera.”

  Alexis felt her face grow hot and she bit her lower lip. The navigation exercises were a nightmare for her — she simply couldn’t fathom the fact that there wasn’t a more accurate way to determine the ship’s position than dead-reckoning. And though she understood the calculations involved in determining the ship’s distance from each system and how the distance it traveled at a given speed was related to how near the closest system was … well, understanding and acceptance were very different things.

  She’d been trying for the entire week she’d been aboard to be able to make the equations work properly, but had, so far, been unable to do so. Everything else about sailing the ship excited her, though. Even after the extensive reading and lessons she’d been assigned by Lieutenant Caruthers, she’d delved further into Merlin’s vast library on ship handling, staying awake well past when she should have been sleeping.

  “Mister Roland!” Grantham said suddenly. “You are captaining a sloop of fourteen guns in pursuit of a similarly sized Chase. You are flying mains and topsails on both the mainmast and the mizzen, running full downwind, when a squall of a size sufficient to encompass both ships forms to starboard. What will you do, sir?”

  Roland blanched and opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Alexis looked to Philip, but he merely grinned and nodded at Roland.

  “The squall is approaching, Mister Roland, it is nearly upon you!”

  “I …” he began,
but then swallowed and bit his lip, brow furrowed in concentration. “I would …”

  “You are dismasted, sir. The main has snapped below the crosstrees and all trails to leeward! Mister Carew! What action do you take — quickly now!”

  Alexis blinked, picturing the situation, almost able to see the dark, swirling mass of a darkspace squall engulfing her ship and what was needed – the damage cut away, obviously, but also something to avoid being blown too far off course, and then to somehow gain control again.

  “Drop the …” Damn, what’s it’s called, then? But Captain Grantham was already narrowing his eyes, preparing to turn away from her for not answering, and she knew she had to act. “Drop the bottom-thingie that digs in, sir, and cut away the debris. Take in all sail on the mizzen, instanter. How much of the main is left, sir?” she asked, narrowing her eyes trying to remember something she’d read.

  “A bare nine meters, Mister Carew,” Grantham said, his lips twitching, “just below the crosstrees as I said.”

  “And hoist a royal yard to the stub of the mainmast, sir, and fly a royal to gain some bit of steerageway.”

  “You have regained steerageway. Mister Easely,” Grantham called out, turning his attention from Alexis. “What will you do?”

  “Shake out a reef or two in the mizzen topsail, sir, now that I’ve some control,” Philip responded confidently. “As much as she’ll take and resume the chase, if she’s in sight. Put the ship on the previous heading, but a bit to port, if she’s not.”

  Grantham was silent for a moment. “Very good, gentlemen. Mister Roland, you must be decisive if you wish to command. Mister Carew, I suggest you work more diligently at your navigation.” He cleared his throat. “And it is a keelboard, Mister Carew, not any sort of ‘thingie’, if you please, sir.” Alexis felt her face grow hot, but with it came a bit of pride. Whether she’d named it or not, it must have been the correct thing to do. “Mister Caruthers, I’ll be in my cabin.” He nodded to them and left the quarterdeck.

  Alexis let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding and turned to Philip. “What was that about?” she asked, eyes wide.

  “Preparing you to stand for lieutenant, Mister Carew,” Caruthers answered instead. “Should such a time ever come.”

  “Is that what it’s like then?”

  “Worse,” Roland moaned. He was still pale and his hands were shaking. “There’re three of them barking at you and you’ve no time to think. And they’re all the time changing it on you. No sooner do you think you’ve got the answer, but they’ve added something to the mix. Fusion plant failures, shoals to leeward … they’re bloody in love with shoals to leeward, I tell you. Never a moment to think!”

  “Much like life in the Dark, Mister Roland,” Caruthers said gently.

  Ten

  “‘Clarity’, my arse,” Alexis snarled in a very unladylike and, quite probably, unofficerlike tone. It seemed as though every object aboard the ship and every task necessary to keep it running had some obscure and nonsensical name she was to learn. The reason for which, when she asked, was given either as the need to keep things clear or “tradition”. That tradition and clarity were, of times, at odds seemed to be clear only to Alexis and didn’t bother the rest of the crew at all. She was prowling Merlin’s hold, wending her way through the maze of passageways created by the provisions and supplies needed to support the crew through months of space travel. It was a task set her by Lieutenant Caruthers, which was called “learning the ropes”, and the tablet she held had just informed her that the edge of the hatchway she’d just passed was called the “Forward-ten-port, hatch coaming”.

  She accessed the ship’s inventory to see what was stored here and found that it was mostly tons of raw thermoplastics for the ship’s fabricators. At least she appeared to be out of the food stores and into something different. She’d grown tired of reading the list of ton after ton of frozen and freeze-dried food, as well as thousands of liters of nutrient solution for the ship’s hydroponics and cultured-meat vats — not to mention the alcohol stores. Nineteen tons of beer, over two thousand liters of wine, and five tons of rum — yet drunkenness aboard ship was considered a serious offense. When she’d asked about this, Philip had told her it was due to both tradition and necessity (she’d noted, wryly, that clarity wasn’t in it). Both a tradition dating back centuries to the founding of the kingdom and a necessity to give the men some way to either avoid the ship’s water, recycled over and over again throughout a voyage, or alter its taste and their perception of it.

  After passing several large tanks storing the thermoplastic, Alexis decided to find out the name of one of the odd ridges that crossed the floor — deck, she reminded herself — every meter or so. She pointed the back of the tablet at one of them and pressed the query icon.

  “‘Forward-twelve-port, first futtock’?” She glared at the tablet in disbelief. “Now you’re just making things up!”

  From ahead of her, she heard a flurry of sound and footsteps and, as she rounded the next corner, found a man sprawled across the corridor.

  Alexis hurried forward to see if he was injured, the spacer staggered to his feet, murmuring, “Where’d me mates go to?”

  Alexis recognized him as the one who’d made a comment when she’d tried to volunteer to Lieutenant Caruthers back on her grandfather’s farm. Alan, she remembered. And drunk, from the look of him.

  “Here now,” Alan said, catching sight of her, his head swaying back and forth. “Yer the girl.”

  Quite drunk. “You’d best catch up with your mates, Alan,” she advised.

  Alan smiled and took a staggering step toward her. “They’s left. But you might be a bit more interesting,” he slurred, then grinned widely. “A little bit.” He held a hand up at about her height, palm flat to the deck. “Little bit … d’yer get it?”

  Alexis took a step back. She’d dealt with drunken men before in her grandfather’s camps and something in Alan’s look made her wary. “I get that you’re quite drunk, Alan,” she said, keeping her voice calm as she could and hoping the man would take the out she was offering. “But if you’re off after your mates now, I’ll take no notice of it.”

  Alan staggered toward her quickly, backing her against one of the plastics vats and bracing himself against it with one arm. “Have’ter be an officer noticin’,” he said quietly. “An’ you ain’t no officer. Just a girl. Little bit of a girl.” He laughed again and Alexis could smell the raw alcohol on his breath.

  Alexis pressed herself back hard against the vat, trying to avoid contact with him. “Stand back, Alan,” she ordered coldly.

  Instead, he edged closer. “Nah. Me mates lef’ us all alone. Shame t’ waste that, don’ ya think?” He raised his free hand to brush her cheek and she tried to bat it away, but surprisingly quick, he caught her wrist and forced her arm back to her side. “None o’ that,” he whispered.

  “Alan,” Alexis said, hoping to penetrate his alcoholic haze. “You don’t want to do this. It’s time to back off now.”

  “Two months.” He moved closer, pinning her against the side of the vat with his body and bent to put his mouth near her ear. Alexis could feel the heat of his breath on her as he spoke. “Two bloody months we’re in this ship and no liberty. No station in this poxed system, neither. Ship na’ even out o’ discipline fer a bloody day? Ain’t right.”

  Alexis twisted her arm painfully, but managed to break his grip and shove him away. She darted past him, but he was quickly after her and dragged her back. Alan’s arms wrapped around her, pinning her arms to her sides. He straightened and lifted her off the deck. Alexis threw her head back, hoping to connect with his face, but missed.

  “Ain’t right!” he insisted.

  Alexis’ mind raced. She was no stranger to a physical fight, having grown up wrestling with the boys from the village, but this was quite a different thing. She remembered some advice her grandfather’s foreman had given her as she’d grown older and begun visiting t
he working camps alone. “Most of the lads are decent,” Brandon had told her. “But there’s some as aren’t and others might not remember to be when they’ve been in the drink, so you remember this, Miss Alexis. If it comes down to you or him and he’s not listening, then, well, just hurt him. However it takes and however bad it needs to be, don’t you worry about it — not about him being dead nor maimed nor if he’ll put the law on you, just hurt him.”

  Alexis raised both her legs high, thighs tucked against her midsection, then straightened them hard. Her right foot grazed Alan’s thigh, deflected to the side, but her left heel struck his kneecap squarely, forcing it down with a loud pop, barely audible over his sudden shriek of pain. Alan released her to clutch at his knee and Alexis fell forward to land on all fours on the deck. Without thinking, she lashed out again, driving her foot backward and feeling her heavy boot connect with something that drew another shriek from the man.

  She caught her balance and prepared to run, but thought about the twisting maze of compartments, vats and pallets of goods that made up the hold, unsure if she’d be able to find her way and certain the spacer knew the hold far better than she. The rest of Brandon’s advice echoed in her head. “Once he’s hurt, though, if you can’t get away clean — sure and clear to you, bet your life on it, clean away — well then, you hurt him more. For sure as he catches you, he’ll have learned his lesson and you’ll not get another chance.”

  Alexis tucked her right fist into her left palm and holding both near her chin, she spun around, elbow swinging in a short, vicious arc that connected with the crouching man’s face. Alexis felt a sharp pain lance up her elbow and Alan spun around, his head impacting the bulkhead with a dull thwonk.

  Alexis leapt to her feet, breath ragged and heart pounding as she prepared to run.

  “What’s all this about, then?”

  Alexis glanced toward the voice and saw the bosun rushing toward them, face red and furious. He took in Alexis’ wide eyes and disheveled state, her beret and tablet dropped to the deck, and he paled. “Are you all right, Mister Carew? Are you hurt?”