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Authors: Stephan Wul
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taut with effort, like
flesh sprawled tightly on a metal vice, they kept in place giant bolts on the
last plate's lips. The ship was being finished as it travelled.
The Oms had
left behind all personal worries. Individual suffering did not count anymore.
They were one soul striving for one goal only. Occasionally, knocked out by a
wave's splendid slap, some lost consciousness, the others hardly taking notice.
Having lost their balance, others were hanging strangled by their rope, like
trinkets around the sides of the hull. The whims of the roll finished them off
as it soaked them sporadically. The ship dragged in its wake at least twenty
inert puppets skimming on the ocean's muscular back.
Inside,
others were labouring symmetrically and suffocating beneath the iron sheets as
the animal scent of effort mingled with the smell of heated metal. Strong backs
were bleeding, pressing up for hours beneath a screwdriver operated by
countless arms.
The water
periodically filtered through the slits, harshly spraying the wounds caused by
the exertion. Other workers were pumping relentlessly, throwing back in the sea
the brine of oxides and urea which rolled around their legs. All this in the
shadowy and sticky false light of vapours and in a great murmur of swearing and
effort giving rhythm to the screeching of the grating thread; an insane
symphony punctuated by the sea striking the vessel like cymbals.
***
When all was
finished, the night had long drowned the sunset's splendours.
Exhausted,
the outside teams went through the hatch one by one. The workers were relieved
as engineers started to fit the last reactor. The worst was over.
The foreman
informed the quartermaster who immediately announced the good news to Terr.
This was done thanks to a telecable stretched between the two ships.
'Excellent',
said Terr. 'How long will it take?'
The
quartermaster hesitated:
it's hard to tell precisely, Aedile. Between ten and fifteen hours, according to the foreman. Drying the coils will take time, not to mention the trouble caused by the
swell. If we had to do it again...'
'Yes, I
know', said Terr. We should have fitted the coils before leaving. Drying will
last longer than the time saved fitting them. Improvising is bound to lead to
errors. But let's not dwell on the past.'
Terr turned
to quartermaster 1 standing by his side.
'How long until we reach the Siwo?'
'Twelve
hours, at a steady pace.'
'Did you
hear your colleague from vessel 1?' said Terr leaning over the telecable. In
twelve hours we'll reach the Siwo current. Everything must be done by then.
Quartermaster
3's voice hesitated once again:
'I think
it'd be wise not to count on it, Aedile.'
'Do your
best. Keep me updated on your progress in ten hours. If you're late we'll
reduce our speed.' 'Right.'
Terr hung up
and paced up and down his cabin.
'We'll gain
a lot of time by taking advantage of Siwo's speed,' he said. 'This detour is
shortening the journey. But to keep towing at this rate is out of the question.
What gap are you planning between each ship?'
'Prudence
imposes a minimum of half a stadia .
But I've
just spoken about this with the engineers. They're worried the ships will not
bear up at one hundred stadia per hour.
'What's
Siwo's speed?'
in this latitude: thirty stadia. But the rate doubles at the southern
confluence. Besides, the current is strewn with egg-islands. The hulls will
suffer. We'll have to reduce our own speed to fifteen stadia. Fifteen plus
sixty, we'll still do seventy five. But our speed will remain at fifteen
compared with the eggs. We'll break them as we'll pass them. If we go faster,
we'll end up breaking our hulls.'
Terr
frowned.
'What about
the prongs?' he said
The
quartermaster made a reassuring gesture.
'According
to the specialised headsets, the eggs will not hatch there, especially in this
season. The incubation is still not over.'
He pointed
to the map, in the middle of the seas tinged with red:
'This is
where the
flesh sprawled tightly on a metal vice, they kept in place giant bolts on the
last plate's lips. The ship was being finished as it travelled.
The Oms had
left behind all personal worries. Individual suffering did not count anymore.
They were one soul striving for one goal only. Occasionally, knocked out by a
wave's splendid slap, some lost consciousness, the others hardly taking notice.
Having lost their balance, others were hanging strangled by their rope, like
trinkets around the sides of the hull. The whims of the roll finished them off
as it soaked them sporadically. The ship dragged in its wake at least twenty
inert puppets skimming on the ocean's muscular back.
Inside,
others were labouring symmetrically and suffocating beneath the iron sheets as
the animal scent of effort mingled with the smell of heated metal. Strong backs
were bleeding, pressing up for hours beneath a screwdriver operated by
countless arms.
The water
periodically filtered through the slits, harshly spraying the wounds caused by
the exertion. Other workers were pumping relentlessly, throwing back in the sea
the brine of oxides and urea which rolled around their legs. All this in the
shadowy and sticky false light of vapours and in a great murmur of swearing and
effort giving rhythm to the screeching of the grating thread; an insane
symphony punctuated by the sea striking the vessel like cymbals.
***
When all was
finished, the night had long drowned the sunset's splendours.
Exhausted,
the outside teams went through the hatch one by one. The workers were relieved
as engineers started to fit the last reactor. The worst was over.
The foreman
informed the quartermaster who immediately announced the good news to Terr.
This was done thanks to a telecable stretched between the two ships.
'Excellent',
said Terr. 'How long will it take?'
The
quartermaster hesitated:
it's hard to tell precisely, Aedile. Between ten and fifteen hours, according to the foreman. Drying the coils will take time, not to mention the trouble caused by the
swell. If we had to do it again...'
'Yes, I
know', said Terr. We should have fitted the coils before leaving. Drying will
last longer than the time saved fitting them. Improvising is bound to lead to
errors. But let's not dwell on the past.'
Terr turned
to quartermaster 1 standing by his side.
'How long until we reach the Siwo?'
'Twelve
hours, at a steady pace.'
'Did you
hear your colleague from vessel 1?' said Terr leaning over the telecable. In
twelve hours we'll reach the Siwo current. Everything must be done by then.
Quartermaster
3's voice hesitated once again:
'I think
it'd be wise not to count on it, Aedile.'
'Do your
best. Keep me updated on your progress in ten hours. If you're late we'll
reduce our speed.' 'Right.'
Terr hung up
and paced up and down his cabin.
'We'll gain
a lot of time by taking advantage of Siwo's speed,' he said. 'This detour is
shortening the journey. But to keep towing at this rate is out of the question.
What gap are you planning between each ship?'
'Prudence
imposes a minimum of half a stadia .
But I've
just spoken about this with the engineers. They're worried the ships will not
bear up at one hundred stadia per hour.
'What's
Siwo's speed?'
in this latitude: thirty stadia. But the rate doubles at the southern
confluence. Besides, the current is strewn with egg-islands. The hulls will
suffer. We'll have to reduce our own speed to fifteen stadia. Fifteen plus
sixty, we'll still do seventy five. But our speed will remain at fifteen
compared with the eggs. We'll break them as we'll pass them. If we go faster,
we'll end up breaking our hulls.'
Terr
frowned.
'What about
the prongs?' he said
The
quartermaster made a reassuring gesture.
'According
to the specialised headsets, the eggs will not hatch there, especially in this
season. The incubation is still not over.'
He pointed
to the map, in the middle of the seas tinged with red:
'This is
where the
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