Alexis flushed. From Euell’s tone she hadn’t been a pleasant surprise either.
“Not your fault, Carew. It’s just that I left two fine lieutenants and a midshipman behind in the Core for no better reason than their gender might offend some Fringe worthy’s thoughts on how the world should be. Half my crew shuffled off to other ships with destinations where they’d not be found offensive for one reason or another. One man’s religion, another’s preferences.” He paused while his steward returned with the wine and took a long drink. “I’ll tell you, Carew, there’s no few in Core Fleet who are tired of the whole mess and think it’s past time Her Majesty told the entire Fringe to by God suck it up and accept the men and women of the Fleet as they are. With a war on, you’d think they wouldn’t be so bloody particular about who stands between them and the Hanoverese, would you?”
“No, sir,” Alexis said, face fixed and hoping to show no reaction. She wasn’t sure what shocked her more, the thought of fleet captains discussing so blatantly what they thought Her Majesty should do or the image of the Queen telling anyone in any way to ‘suck it up’. She did know that when faced with a captain of such strong opinions, the best course of action a lieutenant had was to react as little as possible, whether she agreed with him or not.
Which she found she did, come to that.
Euell regarded her for a moment, then laughed. “Drink up, Carew. One of the prerogatives of command, you’ll someday find, is the privilege to go on a right good rant while junior officers sit there wondering whether it’s best to agree or simply behave like they’re part of the chair.” He drained his glass and gestured for more. “It’s grand fun.”
“I’m sure it is, sir.”
Euell sighed. “But enough of that — this business with Artley merely brought it to mind again and it’s irksome still. Does he suspect the full nature of why he was sent away?”
“I don’t think so, sir. It doesn’t seem he’s thought through the implications his absence will have on his inheritance.” She caught her lip between her teeth. “Do you suppose we can find some way to send him home when we reach the French capital?”
Euell blinked as though shocked and shook his head. “No, that’s simply not possible. Firstly, it’s three months travel, at best, to his home, but more difficult is that he’s in the Navy now. With the war on, he can’t just resign — oh, they’d allow it, I suppose, but how would it look? A young gentleman resigns in the midst of war? There’d be talk of cowardice being the reason. A judgment which would follow him in all he tries to do.”
Alexis nodded, her hopes for Artley falling. Such a thing would indeed follow him, and haunt him. Possibly not if he were to gain his own shop back, but certainly if he ever wanted to do something else with his life, such as university or a position in government.
“And more troubling,” Euell went on, “what happens to him should he return home?”
“Sir?”
“Well, Carew, if this man was willing to send him away once, and into the midst of a war at that, he’ll certainly do so again, and possibly to someplace worse.”
Alexis stopped herself from asking what could possibly be worse than the Navy for a lad such as Artley, but the question must have shown on her face.
“If this truly was some plot to get the boy out of the way so that this man might somehow steal his inheritance, then it’s a cold fellow we’re dealing with. To send the lad aboard ship in time of war, there had to have been some hope that he’d never return.” Euell paused to let that sink in. “Thwarted in that, might he not turn to some plan with a more certain outcome?”
“Do you think he’d do the boy harm?”
“He wouldn’t have to, not directly at least. There are any number of schools an unwanted lad might be sent away to, some of them quite harsh. And some, I’m sure, where a hope may be made a certainty if the proper sum is paid.”
Alexis’ shock must have shown on her face for Euell nodded confirmation.
“Oh, they exist, I assure you. For all most schooling is best done through a tablet and proper learning core, there are still some who prefer a more traditional means. And where there’s coin to be had for a vile deed, you’ll find men willing to get at it. All of which is moot, for we’ve no way of getting the lad out of the Navy without harming him in the first place, and no safe way to send him home in the second. No, the lad’s stuck and we’re stuck with him.” He sighed. “Would you like me to transfer him to another division? Hollingshed’s, perhaps?”
“No, sir,” Alexis said immediately. “I suspect he’d find that more of a rejection and there’d be harm from it.” She frowned. “If our speculations are correct, sir, then I assume the stepfather will have provided him no funds, nothing on the ship’s account? To purchase a new vacsuit, I mean — a proper one.”
Euell shook his head. “I don’t recall that he came aboard with anything but the most basic kit.” He sighed. “Damn me, but it was a hectic time and I wish I’d paid more attention to the lad.”
Alexis nodded. She felt much the same.
“I’ll speak to Mister Grummer, sir? About the suit?” Shrewsbury’s carpenter would be able to cut down a spare spacer’s vacsuit, one of the suits the ship carried for the crew, for Artley to use in the meantime, but those suits had all seen long, hard wear.
“Yes,” Euell said, “he’ll need something better until we get to Nouvelle Paris, at least.” He frowned, brow furrowed. “And well past Nouvelle Paris, come to that. I doubt there’ll be a solution for our Mister Artley other than for him to make the best of a bad berth. He wouldn’t be the first officer for whom the Navy wasn’t a first choice.”
Eleven
Shadows closed in on her from every side. Dark, flowing masses, reminiscent of the darkspace clouds outside the ship.
Alexis spun around and tried to run, but knew it was hopeless. The shadows were behind her too, and to all sides.
She turned and figures began to coalesce out of the darkness.
Heads and faces simply masses of shadow, with barely the hint of features, but she could imagine them well enough.
Alexis clenched her eyes shut, murmuring to herself. The phrases and explanations from books she’d read told her that these figures weren’t real, that they sprang from her own guilt.
She whispered that to herself over and over, but still when she opened her eyes, what she saw were the figures of men she’d killed or, worse, failed to save still closing in around her.
“You’re not real!”
She opened her eyes, but they were still there. She squared her shoulders and faced the central figure. They were all known to her, at least the ones at the forefront, even though they had no faces. This one though, was the one that always drew her attention.
Horsfall, a pirate captain and the first man she’d killed.
He raised his arm to point an accusing finger at her.
“Not real at all,” she said. “You’re my bloody Id or whatever it’s called, that’s what the books say.”
The shadows remained unimpressed with her books, they never were.
Alexis felt her own arm rising to point and fought to keep it at her side. That was another thing the books said, try to alter the sequence of the nightmare, but again she failed. Her arm leveled with Horsfall’s figure, a pistol heavy in her grip.
“I had to,” she whispered, as her finger tightened and her arm jerked upward.
Horsfall’s figure disappeared in flowing mist and Alexis found her hand empty.
She braced herself. Now the other shadows would come for her as they always did.
Only this time it was different. The others remained where they were while only one stepped forward.
This figure was smaller, only a little taller than Alexis herself.
“Who are you?” she whispered.
Alexis woke thrashing in her bunk. Her blanket was tangled and knotted around her and her pillow had been tossed onto the floor sometime in the night. The compartment l
ights came on as she sat up, dim at first then adjusting slowly brighter. She leaned back against the bulkhead, breath coming in ragged gasps.
The dream wasn’t new; she’d had it off and on since the end of her time aboard her first ship. She’d even come to understand it a bit, or at least think she did after reading on the meaning of dreams and some psychology.
She knew well enough that she expected a great deal of herself and suspected, from her reading, that the dream represented that — her feelings that she’d failed the men those figures represented. Even Horsfall, the pirate she felt was the central figure of the dream — he’d have been doomed to hang if she hadn’t shot him, and yet she felt that she should have done something different, even though she couldn’t think what that might be.
The smaller figure was new, though, and she couldn’t think of who it was, who it might represent.
It could be Blackmer, she supposed, but she truly felt no guilt herself for his death. It was only a fluke of that particular action that he’d been killed, not any of Alexis’ doing or a result of her orders.
The possibility that it might be Artley, something she was becoming more certain of as she thought about it, disturbed her more, for she’d always before been certain that the shadowy figures were not only men she’d failed, but those who’d died as a result.
If that small figure was Artley …
The boy’s not dead. True, I’ve failed to teach him as I should these last weeks, but he’s still alive. Even the accident with his suit was more his stepfather’s doing than mine. She scrubbed her face with her hands and rested her head against the bulkhead. What’s enough? And what does it mean?
She had a sudden dread that it did mean something, that it meant Artley would die.
“That’s foolishness,” she muttered, standing. “Utter foolishness.”
She slid open the drawer under her bunk and pulled out fresh clothes. Her cabin was much the same as those she’d had as a midshipman aboard other ships. Two meters square with a bunk along one wall and a desk that folded down in the corner. It even had a second bunk above hers and a second corner desk, both of which were folded up against the bulkheads. An advantage of being a lieutenant was that she had the cabin all to herself. The extra bunk was there in case circumstances, such as unexpected passengers, forced some of the lieutenants to share a berth.
At least I’ve privacy, so no one can hear me when I have that bloody nightmare.
She checked the time on her tablet. It was just shy of six bells in the middle watch, not quite three in the morning. The morning watch would start in an hour and she’d have to be up and about anyway. She grabbed a towel along with her clothes and made her way to the wardroom heads. Another advantage of her lieutenant’s commission was a larger water ration than she’d had to make do with as a midshipman. Not as much as she could wish, but enough so that she wasn’t feeling forever itchy.
A hot shower usually washed away the remnants of the nightmare, but her concerns over the small figure lingered. She couldn’t shake the feeling that it was Artley, and it frightened her no matter how she told herself it was foolishness. It meant that she was going to fail him and cost him his life.
She told herself it was impossible to know such a thing, but stories her grandfather told came to mind. Stories of the grandmother she’d never known — a proud, fiery Scots from New Edinburgh — and her claims to have what she called the Sight.
If New London’s founders, with their hereditary aristocracy and insistence that the shilling and farthing were fine ideas, had been eccentric, then New Edinburgh’s founders had been barking — they’d seemed intent on bettering every bit of New London’s insanity.
Where New London’s aristocracy was relatively small, relative to the population, New Edinburgh seemed to have decided that noble rank should be the norm, not the exception. The head of every family styled himself a lord. New London might have instituted a rather liberal code duello to settle grievances, but New Edinburgh had elevated the feud to an art form all its own.
Her grandmother had come from that environment. Fiery, proud, short-tempered, and fiercely protective of her clan — her grandfather’s stories had painted quite a picture, and Alexis had always regretted that she’d never known her grandmother. Those tales, also, had made it clear that her grandmother was only half-joking when she teased her grandfather about having the Sight.
Alexis shut the water off and dragged her thoughts back to the ship.
“Foolishness and rubbish,” she muttered. “The dream’s misplaced guilt and Artley, if it is him, is in it because I’m worried for the boy.”
She dressed and dried her hair, thinking once again that she should cut it short so that it would dry faster. Instead she pulled it back into a ponytail and checked her uniform in the mirror.
Well, I can fix the worry, I suppose.
If Artley was stuck in the Navy, and it appeared he would be, then she could do her best to give him the tools he’d need to survive, possibly even thrive if he could resign himself to his new life.
There are worse ways for him to make his way in the world, if he can’t go home.
She dropped her old clothing back in her cabin, balling up her bedclothes as well. Isom would see to laundering the lot for her and arrange for fresh bedding.
She lay down on the bare mattress and waited until the ship’s bell sounded eight times over the speaker. Loud enough to wake the men and not muted and dim as it was overnight. That was the end of the middle watch and start of the morning. The men would be up and about soon and set to cleaning the ship after a brief time for their necessary business.
Alexis left her cabin and made her way down to the hold. At the purser’s office, she waited while Plant, the ship’s cook, and his assistants gathered supplies for the crew’s breakfast. For the men it would be bread and eggs, though the eggs would be from powder reconstituted with the ship’s water. Alexis wasn’t sure which of the two benefited least from the association.
“Good morning, Mister Grayson,” she said as the others left.
“And to you, Lieutenant Carew, sir. What can I do for you this fine morning?”
Alexis glanced away from the purser’s counter after the departing cook. She’d learned to have a healthy skepticism of ship’s pursers and Grayson’s cheerfulness so early in the morning made her wary.
Likely he just got away with shorting the cook on the breakfast breads and looks forward to pocketing the difference.
“Midshipman Artley’s had a mishap with his suit,” she said. “I’m to see about him using one of the crew’s spares for a time.”
Vacsuits were expensive and far beyond the means of a common spacer. At between ten and twenty pounds for a decent suit, they could cost a year’s pay for a spacer. Officers, of course, purchased their own, but the crew were issued theirs by the purser — and charged a usage fee against their pay. When a man mustered out of the Service or the ship paid off after its commission he returned the suit to the purser — and was charged a fee for any unusual wear and tear, of course.
“Aye, I’ve some spares, I’ll allow,” Grayson said, “but is the lad’s suit not up to repair? I heard what happened of course, but —”
“Mister Artley’s suit is entirely inadequate.” She nodded toward the storage cabinets behind Grayson’s counter.
“It’s only that the boy’s so small,” Grayson said, spreading his hands. “Once it’s cut down for him, who’ll we ever have aboard again to wear it?”
“I have every confidence in your ability to find some use for it once we reach Nouvelle Paris and can obtain a proper suit for him.” She frowned. There was still the question of how Artley might pay for a new vacsuit once they reached that system.
“It’s only that —”
“Mister Grayson, a vacsuit for Mister Artley, if you please.” Alexis kept her voice level, though she found dealing with pursers and chandlers tiresome. “One of your newer ones, as it’s for an officer.”
Alexis accepted the vacsuit he selected and looked it over briefly. It wasn’t what she considered new at all. It was scuffed, stained, and showing more than one place where it had been repaired after a tear from either work or enemy action.
Some, perhaps many, of those repairs would mark where the suit had come back into Grayson’s stock with its previous owner marked DD, for Discharged Dead, in Shrewsbury’s muster book.
Still it was sturdier protection than what Artley had come aboard with. She suspected Grayson had something better back amongst his shelves, possibly even one or more suits new in the box.
Pursers, unlike the other warrant officers aboard ship, paid Admiralty for their warrants and received no salary. They made their wage on the difference between what they paid to supply the ship and what Admiralty would reimburse them for. As such, they were notoriously parsimonious with their supplies and often suspected of dishonesty by the crew.
As Shrewsbury had come from the Core, Grayson had likely had the opportunity to buy in new items like vacsuits at a very low price and could trade them at a profit in the Fringe. If he were to trade a new, Core-built vacsuit to a Fringe ship for an older suit and some other supplies, he’d be able to pocket the profit for himself.
Alexis ran a finger over a particularly long patch in the vacsuit’s arm.
“And when Mister Artley steps onto the quarterdeck in this, we’ll tell Captain Euell it’s the very best we have aboard, yes?”
Grayson opened his mouth, closed it, and swallowed hard. Without a word he gathered the suit up and went off amongst his shelves for a moment, returning with another vacsuit.
This one was better, though still not new. Alexis examined it carefully. She considered pushing more, but Grayson was correct that it would be no use to anyone else aboard once it was cut down for Artley’s use.
Alexis Carew: Books 1, 2, and 3 Page 64