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Embarkation - Part 2

     Matthew looked dismally around the crowded room. There were eleven beds arranged around the circular room, each with a locker beside it, and in the centre stood two long tables with chairs. Their dining area. Beside him was the door leading out into the foyer; the narrow area containing the stairs leading up to deck three and down to the hanger deck and also containing the ship's fifth airlock. It was the ship's largest airlock, leading to the main hatch. The doorway through which the crew would enter and leave the ship in the unlikely event the Jules Verne ever landed on a planet.

     On the other side of the room were the sanitary facilities, including the single shower which was out of sight behind another door. Trying to keep soldiers clean and fragrant was a hopeless dream, though. Already the air was taking on the fragrance of sweat and mouldy socks, and not all the men were even aboard yet. What was it going to be like after a couple of weeks? A couple of months? He sighed. Well, it was better than sailors on long sea journeys had to endure, and four of the men who would be living here were indeed navy men. The brains behind the Rossem Project believed that they would be ideally suited to the confinement, since it was so similar to what they were already used to.

     In fact, life aboard the Jules Verne would be a considerable improvement over life aboard a typical navy ship. At least they wouldn't have to worry about scurvy, bad water and maggots in the biscuits. Compared to the average sailing ship, life aboard the Jules Verne would be paradise!

     "So, here we are," said Borlin, tossing his kit bag on the nearest unoccupied bed. Matthew was amused to see him looking around the room with pleasure and approval, sentiments that he just wasn't able to summon himself. Matthew himself was an aerial cavalry man, trained to fly pegasi and flying carpets and had therefore become accustomed to wide, empty spaces, both above and below. The aforementioned brains, however, thought that that made him ideal for duty aboard the flying scout ships, exploring and evaluating any planets they might come across during the course of their mission. Matthew didn't see it himself, but then, who was he? He just obeyed orders, like everyone else.

     "Yeah, here we are," he agreed with another sigh. "Give it a few days and it'll be home sweet home. Oh well, got to make the best of it I suppose."

     He walked across to the deck four pantry, opened it and removed a hot cup of Lydian tea. Another cup immediately appeared to take its place, kept hot and fresh for as long as might be required by the same magics that had created it. Matthew sipped at the strong, black liquid as Borlin strolled over to rejoin him.

     "Congratulations on your promotion, by the way," said Borlin. "If ever a man deserved it..."

     Matthew fingered the extra wing on his tunic. "Flight Leader," he said. "Dad would have been so proud..." He paused for a moment, looking sad, then shook himself out of his mood. "The anchor looks good on you," he said, indicating the shape sewn into the cloth of the other man's tunic. "I don't doubt there'll be another two or three to join that one in a few more years."

     "Oh no Sir," said Borlin, raising his hands as if to ward them away. "There's never been no officers in my family! Enlisted men's the only type the Bakklans ever produce. If I ever made officer, the spirits of all my ancestors would rise up in protest!"

     Matthew grinned, but he had the strong feeling the younger man was underestimating himself. He'd been keeping a close eye on him, both during the mission to the Southern Continent and their brief visit to the Agglemonian Empire, and he'd been impressed by what he'd seen. The man was quiet and unassuming for the most part, but he handled himself well in a crisis and adapted himself well to situations in which most people would have been left floundering. Lost and confused. When Matthew had been promoted and had had to appoint a deputy, there had really only been one choice.

     The only other man he might have chosen was Ihvon Presska, a cavalryman like himself. In a way, though, Matthew was glad that Ihvon showed just a trace less promise than Borlin. Had he been the better man, it would have put him in a somewhat awkward position. He could see the problem now, just looking around the room. Most of the men were now aboard, and the room was buzzing with conversation as they caught up on events since they'd last been together, but even a casual observer could see that they'd aggregated into three separate groups. The three infantrymen were gathered next to the pantry. Two of them sitting in chairs they'd pulled over. The other sitting on the edge of a table. Next to them were two cavalrymen, also chatting enthusiastically, but the two groups were paying no attention to each other, and might even have been said to be studiously ignoring each other. Two of the other three navy men formed a third group, holding themselves separate from each of the other two groups, and Matthew had overheard members of all three groups making cruel jokes at the expense of the others, sometimes when the objects of their ridicule were within easy earshot.

     Matthew knew that a certain amount of inter-service rivalry was both desirable and actively encouraged by their officers, being good for morale and encouraging competitiveness which increased their ability and efficiency, but when the men concerned were kept in such close proximity for such a long time there was a real chance of trouble breaking out, which he wanted to prevent at any cost. He thought he could do that, but only if none of the three groups had cause to think that one of the others was being favoured.

     Matthew was an aerial cavalryman, and the 'high fliers' already enjoyed considerable status among the other services. If he were to choose another cavalryman to be his deputy... He would have hated to have had to turn down the best man for the job for such a reason, and he gave thanks to the Gods that he hadn't had to. Borlin was the better man. Ihvon was good, but not quite as good, or so he kept telling himself. So why did he keep finding himself so reluctant to look him in the eye?

     As chance would have it, the other cavalryman chose just that moment to enter, pausing in the doorway while he looked for his fellow pegasus riders. He grinned as he crossed over to them, plonking his kit bag on the empty bed next to theirs, the whole thing watched by Matthew with a frown.

     Ihvon stopped to pass a few words with his friends, then spotted Matthew standing with his newly appointed deputy and trotted across to join them. "So, here we all are again, and for real this time," he enthused excitedly. "We're off! Finally off! Into the unknown!"

     Matthew forced a grin, while inside he considered one option after another for getting the men to mix more. Some kind of competition, perhaps, with mixed teams. That would help to pass the time as well.

      "So, what parts of the ship are we allowed to enter?" asked Ihvon. "Is there any place we have to keep away from? I'd prefer to find out now, rather than in the brig."

     "The ship doesn't have a brig," replied Borlin. "They're counting on not needing one. I suppose one of the airlocks might serve in an emergency..."

     "The only places we're specifically forbidden to enter," interrupted Matthew hurriedly, "are deck one, the shae deck, and the bridge. However, the Captain wouldn't be pleased to see us hanging around near the officers' quarters or the labs and workrooms. We're welcome to use the lounge so long as we conduct ourselves in a civilised manner. No brawling, singing or getting drunk. Understood?"

     "You know me, flight," said the cavalryman, grinning. "The very soul of civilised behaviour. Don't worry, I don't want to make myself unpopular by getting us all banned. We'll behave ourselves."

     "Another thing," added Matthew, "don't loiter and look suspicious. That might also get you taken in for a stern questioning. Everyone's still on the lookout for saboteurs." He turned to the navy man. "We have orders. Captain Strong wants men posted on decks two, three and five. Sentry duty. They're to be on constant alert, for cats in particular."

     "They're still worried about felisians?" said the squad leader in puzzlement. "But everyone aboard knows each other. They're not like clay men, able to change their appearance..."

     "They just don't want to take any chances, and neither do I. Work out a rota system. Four men on, seven off. Including me."

     "Right away, Sir," said Borlin, and he hurried away to work on it, proud and delighted at the first use of his new authority.

     Matthew and Ihvon smiled at each other as they watched him go. "I'm glad you chose him," said the other cavalryman. "Everyone likes and respects him, even the older men. People get on with him."

     "That's always a bonus, of course," agreed Matthew, "but that's not why I chose him. I wouldn't care if he treated the men like shit so long as he was good at his job. Any man only concerned with popularity wouldn't be right for the job."

     "Yes, yes of course," agreed Ihvon, a little put down. "That's what I meant..."

     The door opened, and Matthew groaned under his breath when he saw Callan, the first mate, sweeping in, his sharp eyes scanning the cluttered room as if looking for something to be angry with. Every conversation in the room stopped and everyone found a reason to be intensely interested in some bit of equipment. Something they could focus their attention on to give them an excuse not to look up at the new arrival.

     "I don't care if he treats his men like shit," whispered Ihvon, grinning wickedly, "so long as he's good at his job."

     Matthew glared at the cavalryman as he slipped quietly away to allow the two officers to talk in privacy.

     "Good morning, Sir," said the Flight Leader as the first officer stopped before him. He checked his impulse to say more until he knew what kind of mood his superior officer was in. He would have omitted the greeting altogether if he could have done so without seeming rude.

     Callan finished his cursory examination of the room before fixing his full attention upon his subordinate, though. He didn't need to be polite, and Matthew forced himself to remain calm and steady as Callan then subjected him to an equally intense examination. Some instinct warned him that the first mate was looking for an excuse to bite his head off. Bad mood, he thought grimly. Bad news.

     "Inspection in five minutes," the first mate said flatly. He stared at Matthew for a moment longer, as if to guage his reaction, then turned to leave.

     Matthew had failed to react because he was frozen in surprise, sure he couldn't have heard him correctly. "Sir?" he ventured hesitantly.

     Callan paused and looked around, his dark eyes smouldering. "Is there something wrong with your hearing, Flight Leader?"

     "No sir!" said Matthew, snapping to attention. "Inspection in five minutes! Aye sir!"

     Callan glared at him for a moment longer, then stalked out of the room, leaving Matthew cursing under his breath. The man could see the chaos and disarray that reigned here as everyone sorted themselves out, unpacking and arranging their belongings in their lockers and the small chests that some of them were keeping under their beds. The men had thought they'd have all morning to finish settling themselves in. Giving them just five minutes to prepare for a full inspection was, was... But the clock was ticking and Matthew knew his men would pay dearly if they hadn't finished in time. He clapped his hands to gain the men's attention, therefore. "Inspection in five minutes!" he called out across the room, and winced inwardly at every protest and cry of dismay he heard in reply. There were parts of this job he loved, but being caught between the officers above and the enlisted men below wasn't one of them.

     By some miracle they got the job done just in time, although some of the men were still putting a few last touches to their equipment when Callan returned exactly five minutes later. They snapped to attention beside their beds and Matthew marched over to the officer, snapping to attention himself and saluting. "Ready for inspection, Sir! All men and equipment present and correct, Sir!"

     He was delighted by the expression of surprise that appeared momentarily on Callan's face but struggled not to show it. He then had to endure another critical examination as the first mate looked him over for the second time, noting the condition of his sword and uniform, the length of his hair and the state of every buckle and button. He scowled as he found them all to be regulation perfect. He then moved to his bed to look over the equipment laid out on it. He picked up the Flight Leader's fire box, opened it and eyed the contents critically. "Is this how you always keep your firebox, Flight Leader?" he demanded scathingly.

     Matthew had been in the army too long to be taken in by that trick. "Yes, Sir!" he snapped brightly. "Everything by the book!"

     Callan scowled again. "Have you ever considered going beyond the book, Flight Leader? I see the book as a set of minimum standards, to be exceeded wherever possible." He thrust the fire box into Matthew's hands and stalked on to the next man, leaving the Flight Leader smirking in victory behind him.

     Every man had a slightly different set of equipment to suit their secondary skills. Borlin, for instance, was a skilled carpenter and his equipment included hammers, chisels, drills and sharpening stones, although his larger tools were stowed elsewhere, ready to be fished out the moment they were needed. The man next to him, Tayl Makral, also a navy man, was an ironsmith and beside him was an infantryman who had considerable skill as a scout and a ranger.

     That gave the men some leeway, since if they'd all had identical equipment, differences in care and quality would have been immediately apparent. Callan nevertheless found several opportunities to scream and shout at one or another of them, which the Flight Leader could only endure with gritted teeth. The men endured it stoically, though, most of them having had to endure commanding officers far worse than him at some point in their careers.

     "I have never, in my entire life, had the misfortune to meet such a sorry bunch of washouts!" he spat at the Flight Leader. "Are they really the best our illustrious leaders could come up with?" He didn't wait for an answer but went on to list their shortcomings in lengthy detail while Matthew and the men remained rigidly at attention. They waited him out, and eventually the long tirade blew itself out, leaving the first mate looking as though he'd just run a mile under a hot sun.

     "Yes, Sir," replied Matthew simply, although he hadn't been listening too carefully after the first dozen 'slovenlies' and 'bone idlers' and so had little idea what he was agreeing with. It doesn't matter, he thought. Just agree with him. Whatever he says, just agree with him.

     "I want to see some improvement, Flight Leader," Callan snarled, sneering the rank as if he thought Matthew better suited to some less demanding role, such as cleaning the lavatories. "If they don't buck their ideas up there's going to be trouble. I'll be holding you personally responsible for turning this bunch of apes into fighting men fit to grace the Jules Verne." He then stalked out of the room, leaving them to breathe sighs of relief behind him.

     "Have we got to put up with that for the whole mission?" demanded Borlin angrily. "I'm pretty thick skinned, but I expect to be treated with a certain amount of respect."

     "He was just testing us," replied Matthew, hoping it was true. "He just wanted to know whether we had the discipline and self control to endure it. We proved we do, and we'll go on proving it. You saw how disappointed he was. That's how we'll get back at him, by not giving him what he wants."

     The men grumbled unhappily, so Matthew authorised a tot of Kal spirit all round as a reward for their forbearance. We can handle him, he thought, but he helped himself to a tot of the strong, green spirit to help calm his nerves as he contemplated how the mission was likely to be in the weeks and months to come.

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