by John Ringo
It was one of the most miserable times of his life. He seemed to be throwing up far more than he’d eaten. The captain’s chef had cooked a very nice chicken, heavily spiced with thyme, for lunch and he’d eaten more than his share. And it was all coming back to him.
The toilet was operated by pressing down on a foot pedal and then pumping a lever. The lever opened a seal at the bottom of the bowl and the pedal let it pump up salt water to wash the bowl clean. As Herzer slumped down to his knees he made the remarkable discovery that the foot pedal could, in these circumstances, become a knee pedal and the lever was operable from that position.
Over the next few hours he made several other discoveries.
The door of the head was difficult to operate while slithering around on the floor.
The foot/knee pedal could also be operated by hand if you couldn’t even get up the energy to get to your knees.
The underside of the sink was remarkably free of graffiti. He felt he ought to add a manual for future adventurers. Little truisms to hold dear in those special and private moments when you’re looking at the underside of a sink.
Seasickness was one of the most unpleasant experiences in the world.
The man who invented the flush toilet was one of the most important persons ever to live on the face of the earth.
Knee and elbow pads: They’re not just for sword work outs anymore.
No matter how many times you pull the lever, sevens are not going to come up.
After a while, it all tastes like fish anyway.
When all the food was gone, the thyme just kept coming and coming and coming.
It started with what he came to call “the three-second rule.” You had the sudden, intense, knowledge that in three seconds you were going to be seeing the contents of your stomach. You had those three seconds to make a will, pray to the gods that if they got you out of this you were going to lead a straight life from now on, swim for shore or make it to the toilet.
When the three seconds were up the vomiting started. That would go on for what seemed like an eternity, whether you had anything in your stomach to vomit up or not.
When the vomiting was done there was a moment of blessed euphoria. You weren’t vomiting anymore. In fact, you felt almost human. You could wipe your face, wipe up any spills, try to get the door open, and do all the usual things that humans do, like think about whether you were going to die or the ship was going to sink.
Then came the lethargy. Suddenly, it was as if none of your muscles would function. All that you could do was sit on the floor and wait for it to pass. It would, in time; sometimes it seemed like days, but it passed. A few times it was so strong he felt himself stop breathing and had to will each breath with all his remaining might. Then, there was a brief moment when you thought it might be over, a few seconds perhaps ten when you felt really human. And then… the three-second rule came into play.
Herzer wasn’t sure how long this went on but it was hours at least. Finally, as he passed out of a lethargic stage, his stomach, while protesting, seemed to be under control and the “good” period extended beyond all normal ken. He dragged himself to his feet, using the basin and his good friend the toilet, figured out how to operate the insanely complex lock on the door and staggered down the corridor to his room.
The bucket had spilled at some point but Rachel had cleaned up most of the detritus. The room still smelled foul. After careful consideration he grabbed the coat the kindly Navy had issued him, which was made of heavy wool, and staggered back down the corridor, out onto the deck and down to the mainmast. When he got there he wrapped himself around it and fell dead asleep.
* * *
Joel had never been so glad to go on duty in his life. It was apparent that most of the crew was relatively inexperienced with life at sea and a good many of them had succumbed to seasickness as soon as the ship exited the bay. He’d been sleeping and hadn’t really paid much attention to the change in motion until someone slammed into his tier of bunks. His eyes flew open and he started to roll off the bunk, expecting an attack, when he heard the retching.
“Get it out of the compartment for God’s sake,” he muttered, lying back down. But the smell was intense in the crowded compartment and others had begun to react from a combination of seasickness and sympathetic nausea. He could even feel himself starting to get queasy. Finally he rolled out of the bunk, grabbed his peacoat and headed up on deck.
The wind was fresh and clean, which was a pleasant change from below, but there were plenty of puking sailors up on the maindeck as well. He headed forward to the bowsprit and stood looking down at the ship’s “foot,” the wave that the ship pushed up in front of it. Sometimes dolphins would come up and ride in the foot but at the moment all there was was foamy white water, just visible in the gathering darkness. He had another few hours before he had to go on duty and what he’d like to be doing was sleeping. But given the conditions in the compartment, he’d have a better chance up here. So he curled up against the lines at the base of the bowsprit, pulled up the collar of his coat and nodded into a restless sleep.
The dinging of eight bells and the movement of the watch woke him up and he hurried to the small galley at the rear of the ship. It was mainly to keep hot cider going for the crew and officers on the quarterdeck. As he moved across the maindeck towards his duty station the companionway from the officer’s quarters opened up and a large figure stumbled onto the deck. He was one of General Edmund’s party, an aide or something, and obviously not enjoying the voyage.
Come to think of it, Edmund figured largely in that horrible “true-life tale” he’d been reading. If there was any truth to the book at all, this guy probably knew some of the people involved, maybe even the lousy writer. He’d have to pump him for information sometime. But not when he was so seasick he didn’t even notice the steward in the darkness. The guy stumbled across the deck and more or less collapsed at the base of the mainmast. If that was a Blood Lord, the book had to be pure fiction.
* * *
Sometime during the night Herzer had made his way back to his cabin and when he awoke Rachel was already gone. She had cleaned up from the night before and the air held only a hint of foulness. He rolled out of the bunk, put on his last clean uniform and staggered down the corridor to the wardroom.
Besides Rachel, Duke Edmund and Commander Mbeki were seated at the table looking at cups of tea. Just… looking.
“Morning,” Herzer muttered, slamming into the hard seat as a wave caught him.
“Morning, Lieutenant,” the commander said. “Enjoying yourself?”
“It was great right up until we cleared the bay,” Herzer said. “After that a combination of that bastard Newton and some stomach bug has made it less pleasant.”
A steward stuck his head in the room and looked around.
“Food?” he asked.
“I’ll take a rasher of bacon,” the commander said. “And three eggs. Up. More tea and some for Herzer.”
“I think I could handle a bowl of mush,” Herzer muttered. “If you’ve got it.”
“Coming right up. Duke? Miss?”
“Nothing for me,” Rachel said.
“I’ll take some mush, too,” the duke replied. “I think I can keep it down. And if I can’t it’s at least soft coming up.”
“Is your throat as sore as mine, sir?” Herzer asked, his voice hoarse.
“I suspect so,” Edmund said. “I just realized that in my long and varied career, I had spent it all on land. I had no idea I was susceptible to seasickness.”
“Just about everyone is,” the commander interjected. “Most get over it after a couple of days at most. There are some, however, who never do. There are also those who say that keeping your stomach full helps. I think they’re cracked, frankly. Oh, and if you had shipped out before the Fall, you’d never have known; your nannites would have easily corrected it before the first symptoms.”
“I wish they would now,” Rachel moaned. “I d
on’t think I want to even be in the same room with food.”
“Head to the center of the boat,” Herzer said.
“Ship, Lieutenant,” the commander corrected. “The Richard is a ship, not a boat.”
“Sorry, head to the center of the ship,” Herzer said. “The ride’s smoother there.”
“For now,” Mbeki said. “And it will still be smoother than your cabin. But… have you looked outside?”
“No,” Herzer said. “Why?”
“Bit of a blow coming I think. There’s a hoary old adage that an Indian summer will be followed by the worst blow of the season. Didn’t really hold true with Mother controlling the weather, but I think the conditions might have reestablished themselves. The sky is quite black to the west.”
“Oh,” Edmund said. “Great.”
“Actually, it might be,” the commander said. “We won’t be working the wyverns, not that they’re up to it from what I’ve been told. But it will give us a fair turn of speed south. Assuming we can keep this tub upright; the way the sails are rigged will make fighting our way through a storm… interesting.”
“Is there any good news?” Herzer asked.
“Well, I hear that the ship’s betting pool has it three to one that you won’t dump your dragon the first time you try to land,” the commander said with a grin.
“Joy.”
* * *
The storm hit just after noon.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Herzer had heard the call of “All Hands! Shorten sail” and had made his way up to the deck to observe. The sailors were already aloft doing their high-wire act by the time he got on deck and he watched it again, in awe. To work with the sails required them to first climb to nearly the top of the mast and then work their way out on thin foot-ropes. All of this while he was having a hard time standing upright. He did notice, this time, that they were all wearing some sort of harness attached to a safety rope. If one of them slipped the harness would, presumably, keep them from falling to their deaths.
He’d noticed a lot of little touches like that on the ship. Danger areas marked off with yellow and black paint. Notices pasted up where hazardous materials were stored. Warnings about lifting heavy weights. The ship matched some of his expectations and violated others. He had read stories from the old sailing days and back then injuries and death were considered just the common lot of the sailor, like bad food, hammocks and no decent bathroom.
This ship had showers, even for the crew, functional toilets and sinks. The crew berthed in cots, albeit ones that were stacked four high. The food was well prepared and as varied as any that he had seen in the post-Fall period. They lived, come to think of it, better than Courtney and Mike. Better than Blood Lords on campaign.
But when he watched them shimmying on those ropes he had to admit that they deserved their improved conditions.
The first real blast of wind hit as the last of the crew were descending from the rigging, and despite the fact that most of the sails were “furled” the wind pushed the ship over on its side to the point that a wave washed up onto the deck. The ship, though, responded to it sluggishly. The wind was howling in the rigging but the ship was digging into the swells rather than running over them, water creaming over the bow on a regular basis. She was riding them out, but it didn’t look good to Herzer.
When the rain hit he decided that he’d like a bit more cover and headed up to the quarterdeck. There were now two men on the wheel and it was clear that they were needed; it seemed to be kicking like a live thing in their hands.
“Following sea,” the skipper yelled to him when he noticed the look. “The waves push into the rudder and try to push it aside.”
“Won’t happen with my hands on the wheel, sir,” one of the sailors called. “She gripes, though, she surely does.”
“The pressure of the wind is pushing her nose down,” the skipper translated. “We’ll have to move some stores aft to give her more weight back there.” He turned and called below for a party and gave some rapid instructions including calling for Mbeki.
“It’ll take a while, though,” he added. “I’d appreciate it if you moved below, Lieutenant. This may look easy, but it’s not.”
“Yes, sir,” Herzer said, heading for the companionway. It didn’t look easy for that matter.
Instead of heading for his cabin, though, Herzer headed for the hatch to the wyvern area. The main hatch had been closed and “dogged down,” meaning that catches had been firmly sealed from the inside. There was a personnel hatch, though, and he opened that and went below, carefully setting the dual-side catches in place before he climbed down the ladder.
The scene below was a veritable Inferno. The wyverns were not happy at the change of motion in the ship and they were making their disquiet abundantly clear. They also had decided that since they weren’t going to be let out to go potty, it was time to do it indoors. Between the screeches and the smell he nearly climbed back out, but he stuck with what he considered his duty.
He saw Jerry slithering across the slimy floor and, grabbing a convenient rail, headed in his direction.
“Anything I can do?” he yelled over the squalling dragons.
“I dunno,” Jerry yelled back. “Can you either get the ship to quit pitching or find me a wyvern sedative?”
“No,” Herzer answered with a laugh. “Have they been fed?”
“Of course they’ve been fed,” Jerry answered. “Then they puked it back up. And I couldn’t believe it but it really did look worse coming back up. I’m starting to worry, they’re not getting enough water.”
“This gale isn’t going to quit any time soon,” Herzer said. He’d gotten close enough that they could carry on a conversation at normal tones. “What are we going to do?”
“Not sure,” Jerry admitted. “Whatever we can. Hopefully they’ll get their sea legs after a couple of days. I’m getting better; how ’bout you?”
“Yeah,” Herzer admitted. “At least before I came down here. Is there some way to clean this out?”
“I haven’t had time to find out,” Jerry admitted.
“I will.”
Herzer made his way back up the ladder and then paused when he reached the deck. The ship was still pitching and tossing and the wind was shrieking around him like a banshee. But from his experience of storms on land, the first part was usually worst. Once it passed over, if it passed over he temporized, it should get better.
He grabbed a passing seaman and was directed forward to where Chief Brooks was directing a party that was attending to the lashings on the longboat.
“Chief, you need to tell me who to bother when you don’t want to be,” Herzer yelled over the storm. The ship chose that moment to bury her nose in a wave and a flood of green poured over the side. Herzer instinctively shot a hand out and grabbed a rope, holding onto a young sailor that was passing by with his clamp. As soon as the flood had passed he pulled the sailor upright, noticing in passing that “it” was female, and tossed her back towards the longboat. “Back to work, seaman.”
“Well, you’re here,” the chief yelled back, grinning at the interplay. “Not bad for a bloody landlubber. What’cha need, Lieutenant?”
“The wyvern area is fisking horrible.”
“So I heard. But I don’t have a party to help you.”
“That’s not the problem. We just need some idea what to do with all the… stuff.”
“There’s a washing system down there. Didn’t anyone show the riders?”
“Apparently not.”
“Fisk!” the chief snarled. “Bosun! You’re in charge.”
“Got it, Chief,” a muscular woman yelled to him over the wind and rain.
“Let’s go, sir,” the chief said, working his way aft.
When they got through the hatch the chief said “Faugh” at the smell, then looked around for the riders.
“Warrant, weren’t you briefed on the cleaning apparatus?” he yelled over the screeching wyverns.
“No, Chief, we weren’t,” Jerry called back. “What cleaning apparatus?”
As it turned out there was a saltwater pump and a draining system that the chief identified. Then he gave a short class on its use. The pump could be operated by two people, but four was better. The water drained to one of four points in the compartment where it was collected in a pipe that led to the exterior of the ship.
“There’s a one-way valve at the end,” the chief explained. “But in this sea you’re going to have to pump it out as well.” He showed them that pump. “With only the two enlisted riders there’s no way you can clean all this up,” he finally admitted.
“I can help,” Herzer interjected.
“No, I’ll get a working party,” the chief said. “Could I speak to you two young gentlemen?”
He led them over to a corner of the compartment and put his hands on his hips.
“I appreciate as much as anyone when officers are willing to get their hands dirty,” he said, looking them both in the eye. “We’ve had some young gentlemen come on this ship and think they’re too good to do anything but walk around with their noses in the air. But you’re officers, sirs, and your job really is to supervise. That’s not another word for sitting on your ass, sirs; it means just what it means. And, frankly, this isn’t even a job for officers to supervise, it’s for a petty, one of your sergeants, to handle. Your job’s to figure out what’s going to happen next, sirs, while my job, your sergeant’s job, is to handle what’s happening now.”
“Understood, Chief,” Herzer said, grinning to finally feel back in the military. “Thanks for the kick in the ass.”
“I understand too, Chief,” Jerry said with a sigh. “I’m too used to being the doer.”
“Well, you’re a warrant, sir,” the chief said with a frown. “Warrants, really, are doers, too. But not cleaning up shit and piss and puke. That’s what enlisted men are for,” he added with a chuckle. “Have these boys been fed?”