Alexis Carew: Books 1, 2, and 3

by J. A. Sutherland

  Williard tapped his tablet to the podium and the man glanced down.

  “Ah, Lord Atworth, a table for you and your guest?”

  “Perhaps,” Williard said. “But first someplace for a private conversation. The library?”

  “Of course, sir.” He stepped away from the podium and motioned them to follow him. “This way.”

  They followed him, Williard still not releasing his grip on her arm and she staring around in wonder. The narrow corridor they were walking through was lined in paneling with the distinctive purple swirl of varrenwood from her own home on Dalthus, and it appeared to be real. The cost of so much varrenwood, even were it a veneer, would be quite high.

  They left the corridor and entered a large room, large for the limited space of a station, in any case, with low lighting and groups of heavy, leather-covered chairs. The walls were lined with glass-fronted shelves and behind the glass were books. They look real – must be a fortune in antiques there.

  The man leading them stopped at a pair of chairs in the room’s corner and raised an eyebrow to Williard. “Refreshment, sir?”

  “No, thank you … yes, in fact, now I think on it.” Williard glanced at Alexis. “Scotch, two. Something decent.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  When he’d left, Williard shoved Alexis toward one of the chairs and sat himself in the other. The library was empty, save for them. Alexis looked around, fascinated.

  “Are you a fool, Carew?”

  She returned her gaze to Williard and found him staring at her.

  “I do not believe so, sir, no.”

  “Standing around the Port Admiral’s office as though you had some business there? You don’t find this quite a foolish thing?”

  “I …”

  “No, don’t tell me what you intended. I can quite imagine, but I don’t want to hear it. Were I to hear it, I might have to act.”

  Seems you’ve acted already, dragging me in here.

  “What is this place?”

  “Dorchester’s, it’s a gentleman’s club. No,” he said as her eyes widened, “not the sort the midshipmen speak of. It’s a club for actual gentlemen.”

  “And you are a gentleman?” Alexis asked, rubbing her arm where he’d gripped it.

  Williard had the good grace to look uncomfortable at that. “Lord Atworth, Baron, at present, through an accident of birth and the untimely death of my brother — Earl of Iota Talis, should I outlast my father.” He paused as a servant arrived with two glasses. “Thank you.” When they were alone again, Williard raised his glass and took a sip. “I will suggest to you a … hypothetical situation, Mister Carew. An entire phantasm of events, you understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Very well, then. Suppose an officer, a very junior officer — a sniveling snotty of a midshipman, perhaps — aboard a ship were to approach a far more senior member of Her Majesty’s Navy, a Port Admiral, for the sake of argument, about some … things which concerned him aboard ship. What do you suppose might happen, Mister Carew?”

  “I …”

  “She’d be bounced out on her arse and her impertinence reported to her captain, you naive, bloody fool!”

  Alexis stared at him in shock. “Sir, I …”

  “Do you not know how the Navy works, Carew? Well, I shall tell you. A captain is the representative of Her Majesty’s Government in space. Do you understand what that means? It means his actions are those of Her Majesty. There is a reason a ship’s captain is referred to as the ‘sole master after God’ — and God, Carew, seldom bothers Himself with frigates.”

  “But …”

  “Drink your drink, Carew, and listen closely, without interrupting me.”

  Well, and I wouldn’t, if you’d stop asking questions. She raised her glass and took a small sip for courtesy’s sake, then widened her eyes and took another. She’d never really enjoyed liquors, but this was quite good. It set her tongue tingling and drew a line of warmth down to her belly.

  “The Navy will only acknowledge a captain’s misdeeds in the most grievous and public circumstances … or if they have need of a scapegoat, of course,” Williard went on. “And anything that can be covered up, will be. To do otherwise would destroy the discipline required to man our ships months from home. And they do not take a kind view of those who try to force their hand. So, to return to our little hypothetical, the junior officer who reports a senior is likely to find herself in a much worse position than she was before.”

  “But he’s a coward, sir,” she said in a rush, “surely they must care about that.”

  Williard took a deep breath. “Prove it.”

  “The ship’s logs …”

  “Yes, the logs. Again, our hypothetical captain and aboard our purely speculative ship, of course. What would the logs show, if such a man were careful? A series of entirely justified decisions, perhaps? Ships misidentified, but the identification concurred to by his senior officers? Pursuits not quite on the best point of sail, so that a Chase gets away? And, yet still, a not embarrassing string of Prizes – small, I grant you, but still ships taken from the enemy.”

  Alexis stared at him. That would, indeed, be what Hermione’s logs would show, now that he pointed it out to her. She raised her glass again, surprised to find it empty, but before she’d even set it back on the table the servant had appeared again with fresh glasses for her and Williard, whisking the empties away and withdrawing. Alexis raised this new glass and drank. The warmth filled her and loosened some of the tension.

  “The men, then, sir?” she asked. “There’s not a Captain’s Mast goes by that some man isn’t flogged. The flimsiest of reasons and the number of lashes.” She closed her eyes. “Sir, the regulations allow for no more than two dozen to be ordered by a captain, and yet Captain —”

  “Carew …” Williard said warningly.

  Alexis bit her lip. “And yet … I have heard of some captains ordering as many as four dozen. And that men have died of it aboard … some ships.”

  Williard nodded. “Admiralty cares that a captain is successful, Carew, not a bit about his methods. Punishments go into the log, but when that log is reviewed at the end of a cruise … assuming it actually is, of course … well, one does not argue methods with God when He’s successful, does one?”

  “The Devil, rather.”

  Williard shrugged. “Aboard some ships, they’re one and the same.”

  Alexis drained her glass, grateful for the sting and burn of the drink.

  Williard smiled. “I should warn you, Mister Carew, that’s an expensive taste to cultivate.”

  “I’m sorry, sir,” Alexis said, setting the glass down.

  “I wasn’t complaining about the reckoning. Only that I’d not start a fellow officer down the dark path of fine Scotch whiskey without fair warning.”

  Alexis picked up the glass again and smiled as she took a sip. “I’ll consider myself warned, sir.” She studied the glass for a moment, the dim light sparkling amber through the liquid and the crystal of the glass. “So there’s nothing to be done, then?”

  “Come,” Williard said, standing. As soon as he stood, the servant appeared. “We’ll go in to dinner now, if you please.”

  “Of course, sir. Follow me?”

  They followed the servant down another hallway and into a large dining room, again appointed in rich woods and leathers, the tables set far apart for privacy. Only a few of the tables were occupied, and those by older men, most in uniform and most of those had sleeves bearing the four narrow gold bands of a Post Captain. She was, Alexis noted, not merely the only woman in the room, but by far the most junior officer. A second servant appeared and held a chair for her at a table in a secluded corner.

  “Should I really be here, Lieutenant Williard?” Alexis asked, sitting.

  “I feel there may be unplumbed depths to that question.”

  Alexis smiled. “Nothing too philosophical, sir, only that I’m neither a gentleman nor of high rank.”r />
  “Dorchester’s was founded on New London. You’ll find them less than provincial, no matter where they’ve opened a branch — and they care far more about my peerage than naval rank.”

  “Well, neither am I a peer, for a certain.”

  Williard laughed and raised his glass. “That they care about. You’d not see the inside of the place without a title — or a very great deal of money, they do like that as well — and that would truly be a shame, for they’ve the best chops you’ll find.”

  The meal, when it came, was everything Williard had led her to believe it would be. Starting with a rich, creamy soup made with some sort of shellfish Alexis hadn’t encountered before. Her grandfather’s farm on Dalthus had been nowhere near the sea, and Denholm Carew avoided his coastal holdings for some reason that had never been explained to Alexis.

  “This is quite good, sir, thank you,” she said as the bowls were being removed and they waited for the next course.

  Following naval custom, they’d not discussed “shop” once the meal started. Nothing about the war or Hermione. Instead, talk had turned to their pasts and families.

  Alexis learned that Williard was a second son, bound for the Navy from birth as his older brother would inherit. When his brother died in an aircar crash, Williard had become the heir, but had decided to remain in the Navy, much to his father’s displeasure.

  “I’d much prefer to make my way in the Navy and my younger brother would do much better at managing the estate, but father is a bit of a traditionalist,” Williard told her with a small smile. “But what of yourself? From Dalthus, was it? What brought you to the Navy?”

  “Yes, Dalthus.” Alexis hesitated. Once she’d seen what life aboard Hermione was like, she’d remained silent about her life before coming aboard. The other midshipmen would use anything they could against her and as for the lieutenants, well, personal conversations were few and far between. “One could say Dalthus is a planet of traditionalists, sir.”

  Williard frowned. “Not political or religious is it? I hadn’t heard it mentioned as one of those.”

  Alexis shook her head. With habitable planets so common, any group with enough funds to form a colonization company could buy a star system. That was how her grandfather had come to Dalthus, as one of the three thousand or so original settlers who’d bought shares in the company. Those settlers had all been of mostly independent mindsets, not like some colonies that were founded by groups with strong opinions that were then codified into the system’s laws.

  “No,” she said, “not one of those. Just … well, they turned their tradition into law and decided that a woman can’t hold lands there at all. And as I’m my grandfather’s only heir … potential heir, I suppose …”

  Williard frowned. “Yes, I’d noticed that about the Fringe. You’re the first woman I’ve seen in uniform since I was transferred from the Core. The colonies do sprout odd ideas, I suppose.” He grunted. “Not that the Core Worlds have room to judge, what with how some of them were founded.”

  Alexis smiled. “There’s a New London founder or two who’ve some things to answer for in the afterlife, if my grandfather’s oaths over the household accounts carry any weight. He’s certain their decision to bring back the shilling proves they were all quite mad.”

  “Yes, well one would almost have to be a bit mad to be a first settler,” Williard said. “Without offense to your grandfather, the thought of being dropped on a bare planet with nothing but the goods I could ship there is more than a bit unsettling.”

  “It was very difficult, I’m told,” Alexis agreed.

  The rest of the meal passed in idle talk as course after course was brought, and more than one bottle of wine.

  “You did not exaggerate, sir. Not at all.” Alexis sat back from the table as the last of the dishes was cleared. The meal had been truly spectacular. A thick, juicy slab of real beef, charred black on the outside and rare in the middle. So far removed from the provisions aboard Hermione that she could not credit them being called the same. The side dishes had been equally well prepared, and Alexis had allowed her enjoyment of the food to lull her into also enjoying far more wine than she should have — and this on top of her newfound love for the Scotch whiskey. The servants quickly scraped the tablecloth clean and set two glasses and a decanter of port between them.

  “I never exaggerate about fine food and drink, Mister Carew,” Williard said. “It is far too important.” He poured them each a glass of the port.

  Alexis took a sip and bit her lip. The conversation over dinner had remained innocuous, not touching on Hermione or Captain Neals, but both were still much on her mind.

  “About our … phantasm, lieutenant? You truly believe there’s nothing to be done?”

  “I truly believe it should not even be spoken of, Mister Carew. But as you seem determined.” He sighed and drained his glass. “There are, in truth, two Navies. The first, which if I am to believe all I’ve heard of him, you encountered aboard Merlin with Captain Grantham. It is a Navy of honor and duty, where your worth is measured by merit and your deeds.” He twirled his empty glass between his fingertips, watching the light through the remaining drops of port. “The other Navy is quite different, I’m afraid. It has gained much sway over the whole during the last few years of peace, and it measures worth in quite a different way. It is one of patronage and power, and it cares not for the rest. Our hypothetical captain would belong to the latter Navy, and he would certainly have many friends. Friends who, in addition to the Navy’s own desire to avoid scandal, would go to great lengths to protect him personally.”

  He refilled his glass.

  “Even when the nation is at peace, Mister Carew, our two Navies are at war, the one against the other. And as with any war, those of us in less exalted positions —” He smiled. “— and I assure you that lieutenant, no matter how far removed from your own position it may seem, is far from exalted. We must … survive. For we can do our side of the battle little good when we wield little power. No, Mister Carew, I will survive. I will do my time with … with any phantasm I am assigned to serve, and I will move on. When I am a Post Captain, myself, then I will have some influence over events, I think. This is what I recommend for you, as well.”

  Alexis staggered a bit as she wandered the station’s corridors. Dinner with Lieutenant Williard had gone long, and it was later than she’d thought. She considered, briefly, returning to the ship, but Captain Neals had granted all the officers liberty not only for the evening, but “all night in”, with no one required to be back aboard Hermione until the forenoon watch. For the officers, at least — the hands were not so lucky, being confined to the ship, and the ship not even Out of Discipline for them to have some release from the pressures of constant sailing.

  Her head was spinning more than a bit from the drink. Though dinner had been long, it hadn’t been enough for the effects to wear off, and she staggered as someone bumped her in the still busy corridor. She needed to find a room for the night and relax away from the ship. Someplace fine, not one of the many pod-complexes where one could rent a coffin-like, enclosed space to sleep for a few hours. No, it had been entirely too long since she’d slept in a proper bed and she wanted something larger than her shipboard bunk, someplace where she could stretch and roll about. Perhaps even a proper bath all to herself.

  There was a sharp tug at her sleeve and she looked down to find a young boy at her side.

  “You looking?” he asked.

  “Looking for what?” She paused and bit the inside of her cheek then blinked rapidly to try and clear her head a bit.

  He smiled widely. “You tell me, I help you find it!”

  Alexis smiled back. “How old are you? Should you be out so late?”

  “Station runs all the time. I’ll sleep later. Now, what you looking for?”

  Alexis looked around, she didn’t see any place that looked likely to rent a room for the night, and she could see the boy, like those in any village back
on Dalthus, was anxious to earn a coin or two.

  “A place to spend the night,” she said. “Someplace nice.”

  “Yes, nice,” the boy said, tugging her arm to get her moving. “Not here though — nothing nice on the Navy side. We go to the civvy-side. Nice places there for the nice lady, yes?”

  “All right, yes.”

  The boy led her down the corridor and up several levels to leave the pubs and shops that catered to Navy crews. She saw more and more women in civilian ships’ uniforms as they went, crew and officers on the merchant vessels in-system. Alexis nodded and smiled at those that met her eye and they nodded back, though some looked askance at her naval uniform.

  They turned into a small side corridor with hatchways that looked more residential than commercial and the boy stopped before one and held out his hand, palm up.

  “Nice place for the night. Very nice.”

  Alexis swayed a bit and eyed the hatchway. There was no signage to indicate it was a business or had rooms to let.

  “Are you certain?”

  “Very nice. Customers always pleased. Come back many, many times.”

  Alexis laughed. “All right, then.” She took a few coins and placed them in the boy’s outstretched hand. Apparently it was enough, because he clenched his fist tightly and smiled. “Nice lady have nice night,” he called and dashed away grinning.

  She watched him go, then looked at the hatchway again. If she had not had quite so much to drink she might go in search of another place. She pressed the call button beside the hatchway, expecting to find that it was, indeed, someone’s home and the boy had taken her coins for naught. Though why he might do so, instead of leading her to an inn of some kind, she couldn’t fathom. She smiled again. Well, and if he has, then I’ll look up the nearest inn with my tablet and be done with it.

  The hatch slid open and a well-dressed woman of middle-age peered out. “Yes, dear?”

  Alexis tried to look apologetic for bothering her. “Pardon me, ma’am, but I was told you might have a room for the night?”