Ironclad

by Daniel Foster

  “We used to burn alkali metals in water at the university,” Wilkes said quietly. “We used to laugh. Try to set each other’s coats on fire. We didn’t understand. No one did.”

  Garret raised the spyglass to his eye.

  It would have been much better if the Astra was simply the most powerful explosive the world had ever seen, laying waste in a blast radius larger than anyone had thought possible. But it wasn’t.

  “White cesium,” Mr. Wilkes said quietly, as if that explained a damn thing.

  Garret watched in horror as the entire convoy came apart. One shot. Twenty mighty warships spread out over miles—and fifteen thousand men—all burning to death. The Brahmanda Astra was, just as had been foretold, boiling the ocean around it.

  The ship that had been hit was obliterated, thousands of tons of steel shredded in an instant and flung to the four winds. Only an oil slick, burning with the white fire, remained to mark the spot. The 700 men crewing her had been torn to pieces by the force of the blast before the white cesium had time to ignite. They were the lucky ones.

  Whatever the hell “white cesium” was, most of it had been converted to a gas, or something near to it. It had ridden the shock wave out from the detonation site, spreading a thin layer of itself all over every ship in the convoy. It was burning with wreathes of dancing whiteness, like a welding arc. Screams began to rise as it consumed thousands of men.

  The white cesium glowed, eating through their organs, charring through their bones even as they shrieked for mercy. Steel became putty. Modern warmachines became broken relics, made obsolete the moment the Astra detonated.

  The white cesium glowed and flickered ever brighter as it went about its work, chewing through steel armor plates as easily as a surgical blade parting flesh. It melted bulkheads into puddles, making them drip and run. Conning towers the size of ten story buildings collapsed, sliding down onto themselves in heaps and rivers of molten steel and white flame.

  “History divides here,” Mr. Wilkes said. “All that came before this great war, and all that will come after.”

  Wooden decks went up quickly, puffing into flame like chaff. And all the while men screamed in agony, stumbling here and there while their flesh curled and slid from them in charred heaps.

  The white cesium burned brighter and brighter until it hurt to look at, even over miles of water. Despite its frantic nature, it seemed as if it was taking its time, like a pride of lionesses who had just downed a young giraffe and began to strip the flesh from it while it lived.

  But these were not animals. They were young men Garret’s age. Thousands of them. They groveled on what was left of the decks as the white fire crawled through their bodies. Garret watched through the glass as limbs burn off and torsos melted. He watched skulls explode, superheated by the white cesium until the expanding fluid inside them made them rupture.

  As the young men died, they made sounds that Garret would never forget. His hyper-sensitive wolf hearing treated him to every one of them. They were wretched, strangled screeches and thready wails, like dogs being gutted alive. Their cries tore out of their scorched throats and peelings lips as if even their souls were burning up before they could escape their ruined bodies.

  Another explosion rocked the air. A few hours ago, it would have seemed earth-shattering. Now it seemed insignificant. The Astra had ignited the powder magazine in one of the French ships and blown it in two. The broken halves of the ship were wallowing, tilting upward, beginning to slip away under the frothing sea.

  The few remaining men who could walk or crawl began throwing themselves off the tilting decks of their ships, trying to drown themselves rather than burn. The water only excited the white cesium, making it explode. The men dotted the frothing ocean with small plumes. Each spray of water and blood was the last marker of a life cut short.

  Ships rolled this way and that, sinking and breaking up, their sides burned out by the white cesium fire. The last few tripod masts, hundreds of feet tall, fell apart like charred twigs, collapsing into the ocean.

  At last Mr. Wilkes spoke again, as if making a final confession. “Mark this moment in your heart, boy. They will tell you this is the moment man became equal with God. But it’s not. It’s the moment God washed his hands of us.”

  At long last, mercifully, it appeared everyone was dead. The broken, molten husks of the once grand convoy were slipping beneath the waves. As they did so, they took their fervently burning crusts of white cesium with them. The ocean roiled as each disappeared beneath the surface, then the cesium began to explode, marking the demise of each ship with a column of white water and a boom that bounced off the sky and rolled across the Mediterranean.

  With the white cesium at last expended, the ocean ceased to boil. Fifteen thousand young men were dead. The sun still shone brightly over the emerald water. All that remained was a burning oil slick, three miles wide.

  Oil, water, and blood.

  Without another word, the old man climbed weakly up onto the rail, and fell over it. Maybe he’d aimed for the ocean, or maybe he hadn’t. He hit the deck like an egg. Kearsarge broke him without even knowing she’d done it. She didn’t even wait for the last of the flames to flicker out on the oil slick. She began to turn back to the east, powering quickly away.

  W

  That night, Velvet, Pun’kin, Burl, Oscar, and Garret all lay in their hammocks. They were talking intermittently, just a few words at a time. Even Pun’kin was subdued.

  “That was incredible,” Velvet said.

  Garret replied, “I watched them burn. It wasn’t.”

  “I didn’t mean it was wonderful,” Velvet said indignantly, coming up on an elbow. “The power was incredible. And the way it reacted with the water. What do you suppose it was?”

  Garret rolled over away from him. “I don’t know,” he lied.

  None of the other guys had had binoculars, so they’d only seen what their naked eyes could tell them from the deck. They’d seen a convoy destroyed by a single shot, and they’d watched the light show, but they hadn’t seen the men burning to death, their flesh sliding off their bones like rank pudding. Their perspective was akin to feeling the vibrations of an avalanche and watching it slide down the mountainside, without knowing anyone who lived in the little town beneath it.

  “I didn’t think nothin’ could blow up like that,” Pun’kin said, still in awe. He’d been in awe all day. Garret was starting to think he’d be in awe for the rest of his life. Garret was going to get tired of it long before that.

  Several of the officers had had binoculars, or course, but thanks to Garret’s wolf ears, Garret was the only one aboard who had heard the men die. Their screams had rung in Garret’s ears all day.

  He’d been dreading his hammock since he’d watched the last ship in the convoy disappear beneath the Mediterranean. He was afraid the screams would follow him into his sleep, or worse yet, that they would become Theo and Sweet Cheeks and Twitch and Curtis’s screams. Thanks to the creature, and now Captain Maxwell, Garret had simply seen too much death.

  That was when Chief Greely rounded the dented blast shield. With him came the little British guy. The Chief did not look pleased.

  “Gentlemen,” he said to Garret and his friends. “You are a pain my ass.” He gestured towards the little British guy beside him, who looked substantially better than he had when they’d hauled him out of the drink, though he was now sporting a black eye and a bunch of fresh bruises. A spark of his old defiance still glimmered in his eye, though.

  The Chief glared at Garret and his friends, but continued conversationally. “They strapped him to his sick bed, but he heckled the other patients until one of them tried to smother him with his pillow. He called his male nurses Sally and Janie until they taped his mouth shut. Then, he held it until he was about to burst so he could pee on the doctor when he came to change his dressings.

  “Someone in maintenance had the brilliant idea to remove the c
ell doors in the brig and use them like a steel net to help brace up some of Kearsarge’s damaged structure. When I find that man, it will be a dark day. So we can’t put him in the brig, and the doctor threw him out of sick bay. You men fished him out. That makes him your problem.”

  They all looked at the Chief, then they looked at the little Brit. He cooked up a glare and shot it back at them.

  The Chief continued. “Captain said that if we can’t lock him up, we’re at least going to work him. We need every hand we can get.”

  “Sir, he’ll throttle us in our sleep,” Fishy protested angrily.

  “No, I don’t think so,” the Chief replied. “Captain Shearer has free run of Kearsarge now, and when he heard how badly this one had treated the men who’d saved his life, Shearer caught up to him, demoted him, gave him a tongue lashing that would have made a dog shit itself, and ordered him to obey every American officer as he would a British officer if he ever wanted to serve in the British Navy again. After that he settled down.”

  The Chief inspected his fingernails. “Oh, and that was right about when Captain Maxwell showed up, took him aside, and told him what would happen to him if he didn’t work, or if he laid an ill finger on the crew or the ship. Captain didn’t let anyone else hear it, but this one was white as a nun’s skivvies when he came back. Weren’t you?”

  The little Brit looked down. He was still a bit pale, now that the Chief mentioned it.

  The Chief turned his glower on Garret and his friends. “Well, what are you waiting for? Get acquainted with your new berth mate.”

  After a moment that included a lot of blinking, frowning, and awkward staring, Velvet took the lead. “I’m Velvet,” he said politely.

  “I hate you,” replied the British guy.

  “I’m Pun’kin,” Pun’kin said with a grin, probably not even having listened to the British guy’s reply to Velvet.

  “I hate you too,” the British guy said conversationally.

  Oh hell why not, Garret thought, and said, “I’m Lover Boy.”

  “And I’m Burl,” Burl added quietly.

  “And I hate you both,” the British guy responded.

  “I’m Fishy, you killed my brother, and as soon as I have the chance, I’m going to kill you.”

  The Brit paused, then nodded. “Maybe you and I can get along,” he said.

  “Pun’kin nicknamed you Barney,” Fishy said, lying back down. “So that’s what I’m calling you. Until I kill you, that is.”

  “My name is Butterworth,” the little Brit said hotly.

  “Barney Butterworth,” Fishy said, smiling with his eyes closed. “Good job, Pun’kin.”

  The Chief uncrossed his arms. “Good. Now that everybody’s friendly, get some sleep.” He turned to go.

  “Chief…” It was Burl. His voice was always hard to hear, but since the Audacious went down and they’d lost people, they’d all become particularly attuned to the sound of one another’s voices. Maybe it was nothing. Or maybe it was the knowledge that any word a friend spoke could end up being the last word they ever heard from him.

  Apparently the Chief was attuned as well. He stopped, even though he was far enough away that he shouldn’t have been able to hear it. “What is it sailor?”

  “Will you…” Burl faltered in embarrassment and glanced around at his friends. They all watched, giving him the floor, except Butterworth, who crossed his arms.

  Burl began again. “Will you… tell us a story, sir.”

  “What kind of blimey—” Butterworth began in contempt.

  He didn’t get another word out.

  Garret was out of his hammock, strength pouring through his body, his limbs shaking with the desire to do violence. From the peripheral of his greyed-out vision, he was surprised to see that everyone else had done the same. Pun’kin was out of his hammock and had taken two steps towards Butterworth before the boy had wisely broken off mid-sentence. Even Velvet was red-faced and ready to murder, his hands in front of him, finger curled like claws.

  Fishy had moved faster than anyone. He’d moved almost like Twitch. He had Butterworth by the throat.

  “Not another word,” Fishy seethed. His face was drawn and feral, cat-like. His eyes glinted with desire for death.

  The uniform, Garret realized. Butterworth was still wearing one of Theo’s old uniforms, and Fishy didn’t want to tear it up. That was the only thing keeping Butterworth alive right now.

  What little remained of the Brit’s bravado evaporated. His eyes were wide as he took in the five of them. The Chief stood to the side, arms crossed, obviously not planning to intervene. Butterworth raised his hands. “No worries mate,” he wheezed.

  Slowly, Fishy uncurled his fingers from around Butterworth’s neck. Butterworth sucked in a breath. Fishy lowered his hands to his sides and stalked back to his hammock. Garret watched him all the way, awed at the strength it took for Fishy to walk away.

  Only then did Garret realize Fishy had introduced himself as Fishy instead of Oscar. Fishy! Warm relief flooded through him. One of his friends had come back to him. Garret resisted the urge to tackle Fishy with a hug.

  “Yes, Chief,” Fishy said stiffly as he climbed back into his hammock, giving Butterworth the evil eye all the way. “We’d love a story.”

  “We sure would!” Pun’kin said, back to his happy self now that the Brit had been silenced. Pun’kin gave Burl an encouraging rub on the back that was almost violent in its enthusiasm.

  “You men sure about that?” the Chief asked stiffly, undoubtedly recalling the last time he’d tried.

  Fishy calmed a bit and sounded much more humble when he said, “We would sir, if it’s not too much trouble.”

  The Chief softened. “It’s no trouble, son.”

  They all settled back into their hammocks again, except Butterworth, whom they made sleep on the deck that night. The hammock bins were directly above him on the upper deck, but nobody felt like telling him that.

  The Chief walked around the corner to the galley and returned with a small salt barrel. He took a seat on it and thought for a moment. It took longer than it usually did. “Did I ever tell you about the time Kearsarge set the record from England to America?”

  They shook their heads.

  The Chief nodded. “In her day, old Kearsarge was the fastest battleship in the world. That was back in aught-three, or was it aught-two? She was still our squadron flagship then.” The Chief paused again, distracted by something.

  “We ran her hard all the way,” he resumed. “She made it from England to Maine in nine days, four hours, and fifteen minutes.” He kept stopping and starting in the story as if he couldn’t get into it. “We’d never been so proud and tired. We’d just been inspected by the Prince of Wales, too. He’s their king now.”

  Butterworth acted like he wasn’t listening, but Garret thought he was. The chief stopped. He took off his cover and ran a thumb absently around the band of it. His hair was thinning. He played with his hat some more then sighed, “Never mind all that.”

  He grew thoughtful, then frowned. “I’m gonna tell you a story that I’ve never told before. The first XO I served under told it to me when… well, when I needed it. I can’t tell it the way he did, but you boys need to hear it. All of ya. So listen up.”

  The Chief cleared his throat and sat back. They all listened.

  The Chief seemed ill at ease. Huh, Garret thought, surprised by his discomfort. First time for everything.

  “Have you boys ever seen the old maps?” He gestured with his hands, as if spreading out a large sheet of paper in the air. “The big old ones from the days of the wooden sailing ships. The ones that had sea monsters on them?”

  Velvet, Burl, and Fishy nodded. Garret didn’t and Pun’kin didn’t. Garret had never seen what the chief was talking about.

  Then, in a rare moment of social bravery, Burl slipped up a hand as if he was in his old school house and said timidly, “Yo
u mean the ones that have edges, Chief?”

  Velvet chuckled. “Every piece of paper’s got edges, Burl.”

  “Quiet, sailor,” the Chief said gruffly.

  Velvet subsided.

  “That’s exactly what I’m talking about, son,” the Chief answered Burl. “The old maps weren’t complete, the world faded out at the edges because they were afraid they’d fall off if they sailed too far.”

  He paused for effect. “Well boys, they were right.”

  A chorus of protests broke out.

  “Aw c’mon!”

  “No way, Chief!”

  “Chief, this is worse than the time you told us you lost a nipple when a giant squid ate your lanyard off your chest!”

  Velvet lifted a finger. “Columbus proved the world is round,” he said.

  The chief was unmoved. “I’m not joking or jesting. The world has edges.”

  The Chief received a barrage of skeptical looks, but he was unruffled.

  “The world has always had edges, if you know how to get to ‘em. Once, a long time ago, a Captain made it all the way to the western edge, where the sun sets each day. He wasn’t allowed to tell what he saw there. Someone, maybe it was God or even the Devil, I don’t know, but somebody put the fear into him about it. People tried everything to pry it out of him. They tried to bribe him, threaten him. They bought him all the whiskey he could drink so he’d talk, but he never did.”

  The chief sat back and waved his hands dismissively. “So ‘course, when they couldn’t get the truth out of him, they made up stories instead. They talked about the monster they thought he’d seen, and the beautiful mermaids who lived there, and promised that as long as he didn’t tell, they’d… well never mind what they said they’d do. Wasn’t a true story anyway.”

  “What did they promise to do, Chief? You can tell us,” Velvet said.

  Even Pun’kin chimed in. “Yeah, Lover Boy’s married, and he won’t tell us a thing!”

  “Wait,” Fishy said. “Aren’t mermaids fish, I mean, down there? How do they—”