About Black Sails to Sunward:
Excerpt:
The district around the space elevator bustled with activity. A few weeks since war had been declared and everything had changed. Whole new warehouses had sprung up. Trucks full of sheet metal and cables and hydrogen tanks and unlabeled crates waited to get close to the elevator, and shouting longshoremen passed boxes from hand to hand to get them onto the pier.
The pier was simply a broad concrete platform where cargo rested until more expert stevedores could pack it into an elevator car. Unfastened from the cables, one car was being loaded while a steam-driven crane carefully maneuvered a full one into place.
I couldn’t see where passengers could wait, and yet I’d been assured this was the place to report. I stood around awkwardly in my uniform, hoping someone would notice me and tell me where I was supposed to go.
“Lookit that toff!” cried a male voice, and I spun around. A number of navvies were looking at me, faces scowling, but I couldn’t tell which had spoken. They looked away again and a voice muttered, “Fucking useless prats.”
I stood stricken, staring after the men. What could possibly have gotten into them? I wasn’t accustomed to being addressed like that by commoners. Or anyone, for that matter.
“Do forgive them,” said an urbane voice beside me, and I turned to see a naval officer. He wore a dark blue coat, but no epaulets: a lieutenant. “There’s been some unpleasantness lately over the war. It isn’t personal.”
“Thank you, sir,” I said. “Is this where I should wait for the elevator?”
“It’s where I’m waiting,” he said. “No point in getting closer ‘til they finish hitching up the car. Once they’ve done that, we’ll get in that lower hatch.” He gestured.
“This is my first time, sir,” I admitted.
He raised a thin black eyebrow. “That much was obvious by your lack of a salute.”
I felt my cheeks redden as I switched my bag to my other arm to make an awkward attempt at one. “Sorry, sir.”
“You’ll have time to study the regs on the way up,” he said with an easy wave of his hand. “I’m Lieutenant Brown-Mahoney.”
“Prescott-Chin, sir.”
That earned me an evaluating stare. Had he heard of me? My family? But instead he simply said, “You want a piece of advice, Mister Prescott?”
“Of course, sir.”
“Always respect the chain of command. You’re from a good family, right? Pretty rare that someone tells you what to do. On the ship, you’ll have to learn to obey promptly. You’re old for a midshipman.”
“I know that, sir, but—”
“I was speaking. You’re old for a midshipman, and that means it’ll be harder to pick up the right habits. Some things have got to become instinct for you, and that means they’ve got to crowd out whatever instincts have gotten you through so far. Right now, your reflex when someone criticizes you is to interrupt. You need to have the reflex to sit tight, take your medicine, and then say, ‘Yes, sir.’”
I paused to be sure he was finished. “Yes, sir.”
“That goes the other way, too. You’re being trained for command and that means you can’t take any guff from the men. But I’m less worried about that. You’re a gentlewoman. You know how to manage your servants. It’s the same thing, though in the Navy there’s less leeway for insubordination. You’ll soon see why. Spacers are a rough lot and space is a dangerous place. A bleeding heart risks everyone’s skin. If something happens, we all die horribly in the vacuum.” He gave a friendly smile. “But I’m not worried about that. You’ll learn fast.”
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About Sheila Jenné:
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