Le Morte d'Arthur

  Le Morte d'Arthur

  by Tristan Gregory

  Copyright 2012 Tristan Gregory

  Cover art by Graham Hanks

  https://www.grahamhanks.co.uk/

  Table of Contents

  Le Morte d'Arthur

  A Preview of "The Swordsman of Carn Nebeth"

  About the Author

  Le Morte d'Arthur

  The captain saw that his new machinist's mate was wearing a standard-issue uniform. Immaculately clean, starched and pressed with crease lines you could cut sheet metal on. Either he hadn't read the addendum his captain had sent with the assignment, or he had thought it was a joke. He'd learn. If he lived.

  "First Bosun's Mate Archibald Thompson reporting for duty, sir!" the man said, performing a salute that was as crisp as his uniform. They were so cute when they were new. This man's profile indicated he'd been serving aboard a medical galley. Safest place in the fleet, those ships. This posting would be quite a change.

  The captain returned the salute. "Step aboard, Mr. Thompson. Welcome."

  Despite the warning he had received with his assignment, Archibald seemed puzzled that his captain was dressed all in thick leather clothing with his rank and duty patches hastily stitched on. The Captain knew he looked much like a barbarian warrior from thousands of years earlier in history, especially given the scars that crossed his face.

  As the Captain escorted the new man to his quarters, Archibald's head swiveled about - taking in the corridors, the piping through the ceiling, the open access hatches. They passed men working on a cluster of wiring, all dressed like their captain except for the thick leather gloves that covered their entire forearms. One man was doing nothing but hold the wires in place - firmly.

  "The Arthur looks like a ship with a lot of character, sir," said Archibald off-hand to his captain. "I can't wait to get to know her."

  The captain winced, looking cautiously at a steam valve as they passed it. New crew members were usually given a grace period of a couple days - rather sporting of him, when you came right down to it - but you could never be sure when the rules would change.

  "First of all, it's he, not she. We think calling him a her is part of what pissed him off in the first place," the captain explained. "Second, we don't call him the Arthur. Around here, he goes by Morte."

  Archibald chuckled. The captain fervently hoped Morte was in a good mood. He wanted to explain a few things to the new man, but the hallway was not the area to do it in. Crew quarters were the safest rooms in the ship - few exposed wires, no steam pipes, and all were far from the vacuum of space. Very little could go wrong. Not to say that you didn't have to be careful - you just didn't need to be paranoid.

  Upon arrival, he indicated that Archibald should enter the closet-sized space that would serve as his quarters. On a ship this size, it was a generous accommodation. The captain stepped in after him - there was barely enough room, but the captain didn't want any of his bits sticking out into the hall while he explained the facts of life on Morte.

  "Mr. Thompson. Have you read the, er, supplementary materials I sent you?"

  Archibald broke into an unsure grin. "Yes, sir. That's an interesting story. Funny prank."

  Always the same. "Listen to me very carefully. It is no prank. Everything I said, I was serious about - deadly serious. Look at what I'm wearing. Every man on this ship wears full leather, even to bed. It's no joke. None of it."

  Archibald said nothing for a moment, clearly weighing the absurdity of the story against the evidence of his eyes. The captain sighed.

  "Look. You're probably safe for at least a couple of days. New guys usually get cut some slack. Be careful of everything around you. Get some leathers, we've got plenty of extras. Just talk to the cue-em." The ship quartermaster was also getting handy at making the leather suits more comfortable. He'd been on the ship awhile.

  "So what you're saying that this ship is -" Archibald was cut off as the captain leapt at him, covering his mouth with one hand while using the other to grab the back of his neck so he couldn't escape.

  "Don't! Don't ever say it. Every man who comes right out and says it dies fast, and dies ugly. The last one was trapped in a torpedo room when all the valves cut loose and the room depressurized. Took us forever to clean up in there. Just understand that you need to be very, very careful around here. He'll cause mischief whenever he gets the chance."

  The captain turned to step back out into the corridor. He couldn't waste all his time babysitting the new man - there was always plenty to be done aboard this ship.

  Just as he left the room, Archibald spoke up again. His voice quavered slightly - it got that way, when you first started to think it could be true. He'd get used to it. "Captain," he said. "Why is this ship still flying? How can we be crazy enough to take it into combat?"

  The captain stepped back into the room before answering. He didn't think the door servos had enough power to hurt him, but he didn't want to find out. For all he knew, they could bisect him.

  "Are you kidding? Mr. Thompson, combat is the safest place we can be. Haven't you seen this ship's record? The only thing Morte likes better than killing us is killing the enemy. No other two ships in the fleet can match us in confirmed kills. The bean-counters may not understand it any better than we do - and they sure as hell don't believe our explanation - but they aren't about to mess with a good thing, not with the war so close."

  The captain left Archibald standing there to digest that information. He'd come around, the captain was pretty sure. Seemed a solid sort, the new machinist's mate. There'd be a pool on him, like there was on every other man on the ship, but the Captain imagined the bets would be low. It was only the 'sure things' that got a lot of money hanging on their heads. You knew they were goners, but the fun was in guessing just when - and how - Morte would get 'em.

  As the captain made for his own cabin he took the most recently maintained corridors. The crew couldn't entirely stop him from causing trouble, but careful precautions were taken to ensure there were at least somewhat safe routes to the main areas of the ship.

  Unseen to the captain, a wisp of steam was escaping from a pipe valve up ahead. Water beaded along the metal, like the sweat of a sports player just before a big play. As the captain walked past the valve gave way - perhaps faulty installation, perhaps corroded fastenings. Perhaps there had been a sudden spike in steam pressure. It didn't matter. The valve handle shot off the pipe, jettisoned by a spray of scalding water vapor. Both were aimed directly at the captain's head.

  Nimble as a cat, the captain jerked out of the way. The side of his face grew hot as he caught the edge of the steam blast, but he was unhurt. The valve handle clanged off the opposite side of the corridor and fell to the floor. The steam continued to spray into the hallway until the captain slapped a button and planned backups rerouted the system past the damaged pipe.

  The captain looked down at the handle on the floor, then up at the valve.

  "Nice try," he muttered, and continued on the way to his cabin.

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