April 13th, 1892, seven weeks before my birthday.
It's been six days since I was last able to sit down and update this journal, my deepest apologies for that. As my ill-luck would have it, I had the misfortune to be under an officer most eager to please the higher-ups and repeatedly accepts additional tasks for his team to complete. Suffice to say, I haven't had much time to sleep let alone write!
Fortunately, I wound up falling ill with a light case of the astral flu. Nothing serious, don't worry; it was discovered before it could gum up my pipes too badly. Regardless, while the surgeons figure out if I'm patient zero or if there's some moron out there walking around a crowded ship while sneezing up a storm, I've got plenty of time to write!
I've been struggling on how to approach this iteration of the journal. Previous thrusts tend to be more 'stream of consciousness' than anything else as I just write down whatever comes to mind, but I suppose this is as good a chance as any to practice other styles of it.
The first day aboard the Summiteer was spent in orientation, as one can only expect. I and the other new arrivals were given a tour of the ship and shown where we'd be resting our heads. Nothing out of the ordinary so far. I even managed to get my hands on some spare oil to lubricate my old cartographical array, so I had a pretty good mental map of where everything was.
However, something rather... Concerning stood out to my eye. I'd noticed a certain issue in the design while studying it, one that suggested rather unsightly things of the design team. As the blueprints I was reviewing were six months out of date, I'd supposed that surely someone would have caught it before construction.
Evidently not, as the Summiteer has only a small pair of parts-forges. If she were a third- or second-class cruiser, that would be no issue at all. Cruisers of those classes and smaller vessels are often accompanied by parts-barges meant to supply the fleet with plenty of parts for the cultivation of the crew.
A first-class cruiser, though, is supposed to operate independent of supply lines. It shouldn't need to baby a barge because it can handle the parts needs of the crew by its lonesome. The parts-forges should be big, bustling places full of men hard at work, not these dinky, little, dimly-lit, cramped closets of a room.
With well over a thousand sailors, officers, and marines aboard the Summiteer, high-quality parts will be in short supply. It seems, however, that someone thought that was a bit odd and so made certain the Summiteer had plenty of resources in her stores, so running out of raw material won't be an issue.
As I'm only in the middle-stage of First Heat, getting parts rated for my boilersoul's strength shouldn't be overly difficult. Still, if there's anything I've learned from Master Clarkersen's teachings, it's that "ships are stupid and stupid things happen on them"—a direct quote from Master Clarkersen. If I go in expecting things to always be the same, I'm going to look properly stupid when stupid things happen.
And speaking of stupid things, whose grand idea was it to put a nascent shipsoul in an active combat role? You're supposed to give them time to grow, to gestate, before you ship them off to war! Stupid damned war planners, always rushing things along.
All things considered, though, the Summiteer is still a beautiful ship. She straddles the divide between the old wind and the new steam in a manner most peculiar. Rigging runs up and down her twin masts as her quartet of funnels fill the gap between. A prow like an axe carves through the astral sea as she sails, shiny and new and ready for war.
Summiteer's guns are many and her ammunition stores are plentiful. While she's got about thirty-four 6- and 3-inchers, the real prize is in the four 10-inch cannons mounted two to a turret on the fore and aft. Steamshells from those'll put holes in any Concordat ship smaller than a battleship, that's for certain!
Heck, even then we might have a chance if it's an older tub. If it's a newer one... Well, with twenty-one knots, we'll be able to outrun just about everything bigger than a cruiser! The technology simply isn't there yet to make a battleship go faster than twenty knots without making concessions in firepower or armor—both unthinkable to the admiralty.
Besides, it's not like anyone else save the Empire even has the dockyards to make a ship heavier than ten-thousand tons go faster than twenty knots. Well, the Archonate might, but they don't count.
I don't know when it is that you are reading this, but maybe I should give you some context? I've been assuming you're also an Imperial citizen, but maybe you're not? Or maybe you are and you just don't know your history?
Regardless, the best word to describe the Archonate is 'scary'. Specifically, the Archon is scary. The Archonate itself isn't anything special; they're just people like you and me. The Archon, though, isn't just like you and me. He's the one that brought the Empire to its knees. He's the one who killed the Red Emperor, ending the thousand-five-hundred-year-long golden age in a blast of steam, and still rules the Archonate to this day.
But maybe he's dead in your time? Eh?
...Well, a man can dream.
Anyways, after orientation I was then introduced to the people I'd be working with for the next three years. That is, unless anything unfortunate happens. War is chaos, after all, and anything could come to pass in my tenure aboard the Summiteer.
"And this is where we'll be staying!" The cheerful, overly chipper voice of Petty Officer Gideon Gallows—the man in charge of our motly motley crew—followed a waving hand as he showed the others and I to where we'd be resting our heads.
Gideon Gallows—a scion of an offshoot of some noble family—was someone I'd have been terrified of in another life. Tall, with broad shoulders and an even broader grin, Gideon was the kind of man I'd have been certain had some kind of ulterior motive to his otherwise friendly exterior. His chiseled jawline would have haunted my dreams as I desperately tried to figure out his angle.
Now, though, I know that freaks like Gideon exist, even if they're not especially commonplace. Master Clarkersen, after all, is similar enough to Gideon that I could feel at ease around him. Sure, Master Clarkersen is a far more gruff and grizzled soul, but that doesn't change the core of kindness lurking deep within.
Gideon led the party into the room and I got my first look at where I'd be sleeping for the next three years. Four bunks lay two to a wall in carved out alcoves. Separating top from bottom and bottom from floor is a pair of drawyers drawers, more than enough space to stow one's personal belongings. Set into each corner is a wardrobe to be filled with uniforms both dress and active. Steam pipes run across the ceiling, leaving the electric lighting sitting offset from the middle of the room.
"Is... this it?" The slimy, grease-dribbled voice of James Cruxley came with a wet, wheezing cough as he followed in my wake. Somehow the tallest in a group containing Gideon and myself, Jimmy's forced to stoop well past the reasonable as he makes his way inside. I'd say he's got an ounce or two of giant's blood in him, if it weren't for the weird lankiness to his skinny frame. I'm not the biggest of men myself—certainly not when compared to Gideon—but even I can wrap a hand around his wrist.
"Oh, it's not that bad!" The fourth and final member of our work-team was a bubbly young woman by the name of Lauren—or 'Laurie', as she likes to be called—I wasn't quite sure what to make of her when we met, but she gave off a sort of 'friendly big sister' energy, if you understand my meaning. While Gideon talks because he always has something to say, I got the feeling that Laurie talks simply to fill the void, not because she has anything pertinent to say.
At the very least, she'll provide good background noise for when I'm working. I'm not the most personable of people, you see, so I can only hope that she and Gideon don't grind my gears too hard. People can be so exhausting.
Regardless, as we'd spent most of the day in orientation and getting to know the ship, it was soon light's out aboard the Summiteer. Tomorrow, we'd be going underway.
As I lay there in bed—having claimed the bunk above Laurie's for my own—listening to Gallows snore, I couldn't help but feel trepidation for the future. After all, rarely do good things happen when one is Chosen by the Scarlet Empress. At least, for the persons involved.
I was given no details on why I was Chosen. I can only hope that it was for some manner of heroics on my part rather than being placed on a doomed vessel.
As I drifted off to sleep, the gentle hum of a nascent shipsoul filled my ears with an oddly soothing, almost discernible tune.
The next few days were all the same. We'd wake up to a recording of a bugle call, eat breakfast as we received our assignments from the officers, and then head off to work on whatever we'd be doing for the day. One day it was cleaning astral slime off the decks, another it was ferrying materials to the forges, while a third was shoveling coal into the boilers. Boring, repetitive work, but it was easy enough to turn one's brain off during.
After that, we were supposed to be allotted a two-hour bracket of time to ourselves to eat lunch, maintain cultivation, and just generally relax before we set back to work for the second half of the day. I say supposedly, because, as it turns out, Gideon dearly desires to make a good impression on the higher ups. The best way to do that, as he figured, was by volunteering the team to work extra shifts during our time off.
That's where I caught the astral flu from, for the record. I handled a lot of star-slime these past few days and exposure is supposed to be staggered out to prevent infection. Course, Gideon was apologetic as only a man as earnest as he can be. A team of nurses had to bodily drag him away to stop him from giving me a 'get well soon hug'—that the nurses moved him at all is honestly quite impressive, given he stands in the middle of Engine Expansion.
After the second shift of the day, we'd usually be granted an extra hour of free time before lights out. Once again, Gideon volunteered us for extra duties. Which he's said he'll stop doing, now that I'm suffering in a more severe way than mere exhaustion. The monster even offered us for nighttime duties, though we managed to, thankfully, talk him out of it.
With all the extra work I'd been doing, it was nice to get some time to actually sleep. God only knows what might've happened had I gone on watch!
...Actually, I do know what would've happened. I would've fallen asleep. There's no doubt in my mind that that is the outcome of that particular tale. I would've fallen asleep and paid dearly for it.
Nominally, the Watch Captain is allowed to punish watchmen falling asleep with whatever measures he deems fit. Normally, I'm told, the punishments are severe but reasonable. Things like latrine duty for the rest of the voyage or a court martialing, that sort of thing.
Watch Captain Ambrose, however, ordered the capital punishment of a watchman caught asleep on duty. I didn't know him, but I knew his name—it was all anyone was talking about for the entire day after it happened. He was called Toddilly Jacksons and was twenty-one years old, three years older than myself. This was his third voyage and maybe that's why his punishment was so severe. He should've known better, nine whole years of his life was spent in Her Scarlet Majesty's service. He should have known better.
According to my teammates, a squad of marines dressed in red jackets and black helmets bound and bound Toddilly to the rigging, stood before him all in a line, and drilled him full of steamshot. I'd heard the report of the rifles all the way down in the sickbay.
I... I'm not really sure how I feel about it. Basic had drilled the importance of staying awake on watch into my head over and over. Toddilly had put us all in jeopardy by falling asleep and that is more than enough of a cause to give him just about every kind of punishment under the stars. But... Was death really the right punishment?
Scuttlebutt says that Ambrose was scolded over his choice—which is as reliable as a dimestore boiler—so somebody higher up the chain might agree with me on some level.
Well, I guess it's not really my call, at the end of the day.
...
The lights just went out and I'm writing these words by the light of my ocular illumination apparatus. I expect to be scolded by a passing surgeon any moment now, so I'll have to end this entry here.
In three days, we'll arrive at the Four-Fingered Nebula, leaving me roughly nine hours to myself. The only question is: what will I be spending my time on?
Will I;
[ ] A - Spend time getting to know my team in greater depth, so that I can better coordinate with them when stupidity occurs.
[ ] B - Refine my fighting skills, so that I might better handle myself in the battles to come.
[ ] C - Attempt to secure a supply of spare parts, so that I can replace and repair any damage systems may accrue.
0~0~0
No moratorium.
