20 Million Leagues Over the Sea (17 page)

"Oh?"

Was she wrong about Nigel's being a
gentleman? She tensed, waiting for what would come next. She was
used to times like these, but she did not enjoy them.

"You probably are aware that Caroline is very
fond of you. She has not had many friends of the female persuasion.
We met in a factory. Do you remember me telling you about the
Jacquard looms?"

Gemma nodded, and he continued. "She was so
bright and clever. I couldn't bear her being stuck on the floor
with the other factory girls. It was so dirty and dangerous! But
the owners were not part of our new Enlightened Age. They only
wanted boys for apprentices for loom card coding." He rested his
hand on the window for a moment and went on. "So I turned her into
a boy. On the outside, at least. I cut her hair one night to look
like mine and gave her my other set of trousers. She was young
enough to still resemble a boy then, if you take my meaning."

Gemma nodded. She, too, had looked rather
boyish before she had blossomed.

"They didn't care that one orphan girl had
run away, only to be replaced by a very capable boy. So we trained
together. I taught her how to walk and talk like a boy. It helped
her survive long enough that by the time it was obvious she was
something else, it did not matter. She was brilliant at coding the
machines. When the TIA started recruiting Booleans for the
Admiralty Computing Service, they were so hungry for code that they
didn't care. One of our instructors insisted she was Lady Lovelace
reborn! All the same, I had to discourage other cadets from
harassing her too much. But I think the costs of her boyish
mannerisms are going to outweigh the benefits, should we make it
back home. She's like a sister to me, Gemma. I'd like to see her
happy, with a family of her own, someday." He gazed out the window
again. "My wife has tried to teach her some etiquette. They are
thick as thieves when we're all home. But it's going to be a while
before they see each other again." He smiled at Gemma. "What I'm
trying to say is this: I hope you return her fondness. She needs a
lady friend while she is out here in space. I think she's a bit
intimidated by Frau Knopf, and Knopf's assistants are shy of her.
Would you do me a great favour and teach her -- teach her to be
ladylike? She may still need to be tomboyish around the crew, but
with some practice, perhaps she can be a proper lady when she gets
back home?"

Ah, so he was still a gentleman. Gemma was
secretly relieved at that. It was a simple enough request, and it
might keep her occupied, should Pugh allow her any downtime. At the
thought of the scientist, she had an idea.

"I would be happy to help in any way I can,"
she replied. "I do have some questions of my own, if you can answer
them."

"Yes?"

"Is there some sort of relationship between
the captain and Dr. Pugh? They seem so much alike that I thought
they might be related."

Nigel smiled at the query. "I will admit to a
certain grouchy affection between them, but as for the rest, I
couldn't say. Mr. Humboldt is the true expert on ship's
scuttlebutt. I'm sure he will gladly regale you with what he knows.
But it will be up to you to decide if he's telling the truth, or
spinning a yarn to impress an attractive young lady. I will say,
though, that your thought has occurred to more than one
person."

Gemma returned his smile. He seemed a worthy
ally, after all. His concern for his fellow Boolean spoke well of
him. Gemma wondered if he was aware of Caroline's other
problem.

Gemma knew a "crush" when she saw one, but
usually it was the other way round -- usually it was the man who
was smitten with her. Caroline was going the right way for a broken
heart with her admiration of Moreau. Even if he were attracted to
the yeoman -- and Gemma was of the opinion that he preferred a
different type of girl -- there were kilometres of fraternization
rules between them.

The TIA could take a page or two from
Brightman's handbook. She had told her Girls to expect such things
to happen from time to time. She had given them the signs to watch
for and the means to expunge any such sentiments from themselves
before they got out of hand. They did not serve her benefactress
and thus had no useful purpose. Gemma found it silly -- and rather
unfair -- for the TIA to make such grand rules without teaching the
skills needed to avoid breaking them. She would give her new asset
a few pointers if she could do so without risking Discovery. As it
was, she would need to be prepared for much weeping and gnashing of
teeth from the poor girl in the near future. It was unfortunate
that Gemma had left most of her handkerchiefs behind. She was going
to need them before they returned.

If they returned. Gemma shrugged off the
thought. Even if the worst happened, at least it was all for Mrs.
Brightman's sake. She knew she could never repay her saviour for
rescuing her from a fate of cropped hair and trousers.

"Thank you," Nigel said. He closed the window
shield and wiped his hands on his dungarees. "I am relieved that
she will have a friend. If you'll excuse me, Gemma, I need to
change and check in with the Booleans on the second dog watch. It's
only a two-hour watch, but I'd like to make sure things are going
smoothly, it being our first day. Have a pleasant evening, Miss.
Oh, and please feel free to join us for breakfast again, if you
like."

He slipped out of the room, leaving Gemma
alone with the churning orrery. So many things were turning here,
more than just the little planets. They kept gliding along, little
by little, never stopping, and it made her a little dizzy.

She distracted herself with the glowing
splotches of light on the ceiling. She studied the figure of Orion,
wondering if it contained what Mrs. Brightman wanted. The weight of
the reticule on her wrist brought her mind back to her next task.
Soon after, she left the room, off in search of hungry goats,
leaving the miniature solar system revolving in the darkness
beneath the Hunter in the sky.

~~~~

Christophe

After seeing the glowing orb of the orrery,
Christophe missed the sun on his face even more. He kept waiting
for the sea breeze that never came. The air circulating past his
command chair stirred his hair a bit, but it was not the same. He
unfolded his tall frame from the chair and braced his legs as he
stood at the edge of the bridge, anticipating the rolling of
nonexistent waves. The Atlantic currents ran in his blood. The
Pacific salt was ground into his soul. He belonged on the prow of
his boat, bare toes clinging to the figurehead, with the freedom of
the unbounded sea.

He kept himself sane by reminding himself
that he was protecting those turquoise waters. He tried to convince
himself that now he had the freedom of the unbounded skies, but
that freedom did not feel real. On the
Kiwi Clipper
, he had
been the undisputed master of his world. There were always
opportunities for adventure at the next port, for meeting other
ships at sea, for imagining what was just over the horizon. Now he
was chained by regulations, so many that he thought his head would
burst. Out here, there was no horizon. Now there were no ports save
one, and there was nothing but Death awaiting him there. His hope
-- a slim hope -- was that it was the death of the Enemy and not
his crew.

He scanned the glass panels that lined the
lower ring of the bridge. The men examined them intently, making
notations here and there of the
Fury's
position and status.
Departmental reports flowed in over the speaking tubes and the
pipephone from time to time.

He had gone to the moon and back with most of
these men already. They had survived the flare that had killed
nearly half the crew on that maiden voyage. They had also seen him
choke back the panic and horror of it all so that he could lead the
rest of them back home. They seemed to trust him. He also knew that
once they knocked off for the day, their watch complete, they would
relax in the mess hall, quaff their daily ration of lager, trade
CDVs, and dream of the treasures they would find at the end of
their journey.

He would not quash their dreams of glory, but
he did not share them. His treasure was the sun sparkling on the
waves of the Caribbean and the warm smiles of the girls waiting for
him in Tahiti. His riches were in the oakum and teak of the
Kiwi
Clipper
, sitting in safe harbour, awaiting the return of her
master.

"Growlers ahead, sir," Cervantes said,
breaking Christophe from his reverie. "Most seem to be small, but I
recommend strengthening the forward navigational shields as a
precaution."

Growlers were the equivalent of icebergs in
the sky, and he refused to lose to a chunk of rock. Even dust could
damage a ship below the waterline at this speed; and in space,
everything was below the waterline. He was thankful for the
shields, even if their Martian origins gave Pugh conniptions.
Without them, this voyage would not make it past the first meteor
shower. They could maneuver around the larger growlers, but the
dust was much harder to see, much less avoid.

"I agree," Christophe replied. "Strengthen
the shields, Mr. Cervantes."

At least for the moment, he was not under the
watchful eye of Mr. Wallace. The cultural officer was still at tea
with the officers from the first dog watch, ensuring that they did
not smash the china. Everyone had a purpose, but he was puzzled as
to why the TIA had wasted a precious billet on such a role. He was
sure they had their reasons, however unspoken. People rarely served
a single function on any ship. Even on the
Kiwi
, the cook
also trimmed the sailors' hair. On this ship, Herr Knopf would
shear their locks in addition to tending to the massive Gardens. If
Mr. Wallace served another function on the
Fury
, the TIA had
not seen fit to inform him of it.

He would do as he was ordered, he told
himself over and over again. He would do what it took to protect
the
Fury's
crew and live up to the valour and sacrifice of
her namesake. He would protect the Earth, and her bright turquoise
seas, with all his heart. But he would not enjoy it.

I am a sailor, not a warrior
, he
thought.

He wasn't sure that the TIA had picked the
right star to steer by. He had attended some of their councils, but
he had not been given a voice in them. That was unfortunate,
because he did have some thoughts of his own on the matter.

There were many schools of thought in the
Terran Industrial Alliance, and not all of them were beating the
drum for genocide. Some had advocated a diplomacy-first solution,
using the mere threat of violence to secure some kind of armistice
with the Martians. Others desired a reconnaissance mission, to
discover more about the Martians, albeit secretly, before making
any kind of move against them. Others -- captains of industry
rather than ships -- insisted that total revenge was called for and
that nothing less would be tolerated by the citizens of Earth.
Naturally, such an attack would need to leave their infrastructure
intact. Their voices had been the loudest, and their orders had
been for a full-on attack.

The crew had been inundated with mountains of
Sophie the Steamfitter CDVs and heady cries of
Terra vigila
.
He wondered if any of them wrestled with the orders the way he did,
if any of them stayed awake at night wondering if they were doing
the right thing. He didn't know if, when they finally reached the
Red Planet, he would be able to give The Order.

He inspected the stations as he strolled
along the rings of the bridge. He felt a bit sluggish as he
approached the point opposite his command chair.

"Mr. Cervantes, does the artificial gravity
feel heavier here to you?" he asked with a playful grin. "Would you
please have Mr. Nesbitt give the bridge plates a look-see at his
convenience?"

Cervantes replied in the affirmative, with a
knowing smile of his own at the corner of his mouth. He still had a
straight face, though, and that simply would not do.

"Mr. Nesbitt is inspecting the engines on the
dropship at the moment, Captain," he replied. "I'll add it to his
list."

"Oh, it can wait," Christophe said. "We
certainly want the
Iron Wind
in Bristol fashion!"

He continued to tour the panels, nodding
gravely as a captain should, as his thoughts swirled in eddies.
Would the heat ray come online after the issues encountered on the
lunar voyage? Would the Oberths continue to function smoothly?
Would they be able to defend themselves if the Martians attacked
first?

He brushed his fingers along the edge of a
station. He could only feel the hum of the Oberths, but it was
nothing like the thrum of the deck of the
Kiwi
when she was
in the groove. Tall ships were living beings to Christophe, and the
Kiwi
was an extension of his own limbs. The
Fury
--
technological wonder that she may be -- was just an enormous
mechanism. He had no bond with her; she was a stranger. She was
made of metal, not teak that had once pulsed with life itself.
Steel didn't even feel dead, for how can something that had never
lived be dead? How could he master something that had no heart, no
soul? How could he sail into battle on a ship that he didn't know,
and that didn't know him?

Everything so far was routine. He would stay
for the rest of the dog watch, complete his log entries, and then
retire for the evening. He would have enjoyed a conversation with
Miss Llewellyn, but after the events of the day it would be too
awkward to cross into Ladies' Country, captain's privileges
notwithstanding. Perhaps he could take a turn in the Gardens. If
this ship had a heart, it lived there.