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Dream Fragment: Metalsea
Oct. 13th, 2005 08:16 amOn the ninth day the _Showalther_ remains on a steady bearing. The noxious vapors rising off the silvery sea obstruct the stars and prevent accurate navigation; we are forced to orient off the auroral lines, which glow continuously like jagged neon stripes across the sky.
The wind is strong and steady from the west, sending our vessel scudding across the flattened and gleaming sea. The above-deck woodwork and rigging are much the same as any three-master on a conventional sailing vessel; the gallants and topgallants are all laid out to take maximal advantage of the benevolent breeze. Below the deck, _Showalther_ is more of a barge than a ship; its stainless steel bottom plate is built to toboggan over the surf instead of plow through it. And rightly so, too, for nothing could hope to cleave its way through a sea of hot mercury.
Almost two hundred men and women live and work aboard my ship. We have a commission from the Regency to circumnavigate the moon of Metalsea, charting and sounding where possible, and engaging in exploration and trade. Furthermore, as I hold a separate commission as a privateer, we shall capture or destroy any Safori vessels that might cross our path.
I am exercising my crew at gunnery. My well-seasoned veterans need little practice, for we have shared in many campaigns together, but of late their numbers have been reduced by combat action; almost a third of my hands are new, picked up at Gleystone Stardock barely a fortnight ago, many with no nautical experience to speak of. I object to waste, but expending some shot in pursuit of a well-trained crew is no frippery. The crews exercise using the starboard 12's, sending great iridescent spheres of diamond shards whistling out over the quicksilver. When they land they bounce, skipping and rolling over the surface like a spun flat rock, until the shards separate or the ball moves out of sight.
I stand atop the foredeck, the crest of my captain's hat visible through my respirator mask. I must look an outlandish sight to the natives, who stand several hundred yards to the port of _Showalther_'s course watching our passage. They are spindly and birdlike, and their transport consists of strapped-on footwear that resembles cross-country skis. Instead of poles they use a long double-scoop something like a kayaker's paddle. They are capable of balancing atop the mostly motionless mercury surf indefinitely, and when they eventually move on, they skim across the surface like waterbugs.
The watch calls down directions, and pilot makes a course adjustment. There is a storm cloud visible to starboard, and we must avoid the mercury rains at all costs. The liquid's core temperature is about 300 degrees F, but there are hot spots owing to Metalsea's tempestuous interior; when the mercury vaporizes, great geysers form and a storm can arise in a matter of minutes. Gouts of liquid mercury raining down will snap masts and tear down rigging, and so it is necessary in such cases to collapse the stays and raise the boat's canopy to weather the storm. As time is of the essence, we can accept no such delays.
A ship's boy is taking a sounding. There is something of a stir down on the mid-deck; several midshipmen are gathered around the cranequin and the uranium sounding-bucket. The boy is wearing his protective asbestos suit and digging in the pail with tongs. I come down to the deck, and my crew instinctively removes their hats.
"What have you got, Mister Shabot?" I ask. The boy removes his helmet and salutes.
"Lead, sir," he replies. "A fair vein at ten fathoms." He holds up a grey chunk.
I frown. "Solid or liquid?" I demand.
"Liquid, sir." He mops his brow; the bucket is still as hot as an oven. "The current almost pulled the cranequin's moorings loose. It be hot down there, sir!"
Could we have come so far east so fast? The Leaden Sea should yet be days away; could there be such a lead flow so close by? And if so, why isn't the mercury storming from the heat? Metalsea yet contains more mysteries.
"Sails!" comes the cry from the watch. "Two sails, nine and nine a-port!" I am atop the command deck in moments.
"Safori, sir," says my lieutenant needlessly, handing me a spyglass.
"Then they've found us. Rig for close quarters and open the arms locker." My second turns to leave, but I catch his arm.
"And this time no atomics," I insist. "The crew is spoiling for a bounty." Grinning ferally, he departs.
The wind is strong and steady from the west, sending our vessel scudding across the flattened and gleaming sea. The above-deck woodwork and rigging are much the same as any three-master on a conventional sailing vessel; the gallants and topgallants are all laid out to take maximal advantage of the benevolent breeze. Below the deck, _Showalther_ is more of a barge than a ship; its stainless steel bottom plate is built to toboggan over the surf instead of plow through it. And rightly so, too, for nothing could hope to cleave its way through a sea of hot mercury.
Almost two hundred men and women live and work aboard my ship. We have a commission from the Regency to circumnavigate the moon of Metalsea, charting and sounding where possible, and engaging in exploration and trade. Furthermore, as I hold a separate commission as a privateer, we shall capture or destroy any Safori vessels that might cross our path.
I am exercising my crew at gunnery. My well-seasoned veterans need little practice, for we have shared in many campaigns together, but of late their numbers have been reduced by combat action; almost a third of my hands are new, picked up at Gleystone Stardock barely a fortnight ago, many with no nautical experience to speak of. I object to waste, but expending some shot in pursuit of a well-trained crew is no frippery. The crews exercise using the starboard 12's, sending great iridescent spheres of diamond shards whistling out over the quicksilver. When they land they bounce, skipping and rolling over the surface like a spun flat rock, until the shards separate or the ball moves out of sight.
I stand atop the foredeck, the crest of my captain's hat visible through my respirator mask. I must look an outlandish sight to the natives, who stand several hundred yards to the port of _Showalther_'s course watching our passage. They are spindly and birdlike, and their transport consists of strapped-on footwear that resembles cross-country skis. Instead of poles they use a long double-scoop something like a kayaker's paddle. They are capable of balancing atop the mostly motionless mercury surf indefinitely, and when they eventually move on, they skim across the surface like waterbugs.
The watch calls down directions, and pilot makes a course adjustment. There is a storm cloud visible to starboard, and we must avoid the mercury rains at all costs. The liquid's core temperature is about 300 degrees F, but there are hot spots owing to Metalsea's tempestuous interior; when the mercury vaporizes, great geysers form and a storm can arise in a matter of minutes. Gouts of liquid mercury raining down will snap masts and tear down rigging, and so it is necessary in such cases to collapse the stays and raise the boat's canopy to weather the storm. As time is of the essence, we can accept no such delays.
A ship's boy is taking a sounding. There is something of a stir down on the mid-deck; several midshipmen are gathered around the cranequin and the uranium sounding-bucket. The boy is wearing his protective asbestos suit and digging in the pail with tongs. I come down to the deck, and my crew instinctively removes their hats.
"What have you got, Mister Shabot?" I ask. The boy removes his helmet and salutes.
"Lead, sir," he replies. "A fair vein at ten fathoms." He holds up a grey chunk.
I frown. "Solid or liquid?" I demand.
"Liquid, sir." He mops his brow; the bucket is still as hot as an oven. "The current almost pulled the cranequin's moorings loose. It be hot down there, sir!"
Could we have come so far east so fast? The Leaden Sea should yet be days away; could there be such a lead flow so close by? And if so, why isn't the mercury storming from the heat? Metalsea yet contains more mysteries.
"Sails!" comes the cry from the watch. "Two sails, nine and nine a-port!" I am atop the command deck in moments.
"Safori, sir," says my lieutenant needlessly, handing me a spyglass.
"Then they've found us. Rig for close quarters and open the arms locker." My second turns to leave, but I catch his arm.
"And this time no atomics," I insist. "The crew is spoiling for a bounty." Grinning ferally, he departs.
