Acceptable Losses © Sigmund Werndorf
Fink is a born navy man. His parents were Cogs for the Omega mass driver of the RVF Piety, as were their parents before them. He was birthed between work shifts, in crew compartment 34DO, by a doctor who had spent his entire life working the chain lines, just as his parents had.
The Royal Void Force had discovered that allowing dynasties to thrive within the ratings lead to more competent sailors, that tradition, and family pride motivated them on to do their jobs better. It did. It also meant that Fink had never seen the outside of the ship, let alone set foot on a planet. As a child he grew up helping the work crews, ladling out water for the scrub gangs and scraping at the fungus that build up on the undersides of the Neutron Particle Collection vats. When he was fifteen he was assigned to Cog gang St. Roch, hauling the Port Halyard bracers back and forth. He worked it for fifteen years before being transfered to the Forward Port Lance, 13 Sigma. That was twelve years ago.
Fink sinks into his place on the bench at the cafeteria tables, exhausted from the double shift they had all worked. Barnaby, sitting across from him, having just woken up from a down shift, nods at Fink with an excess of energy.
“The hum is off, have noticed?” He asks.
“A bit. Figured may be in maneuver or something.” Shrugs Fink, and shovels more proteins into his mouth with his battered spoon. Each Cog has his own spoon and his own bowl, which get passed down through families. Most are tin and cheap, waring out after a few generations of continues use. Well off families have ones of iron, or pewter. Fink had even seen a steel one once that was supposed to have been in use for over twelve generations.
“Perhaps. Haven't felt this one in a while though. Obviously we're not in a battle, they haven't called the gun crews out, and the resonance isn't Clangy enough.”
Imperial Linguists had once estimated that Voidborn Cog ratings, crew members who had been born on and spent their entire lives on ships, had over thirty words for the background noises that the ship made. Fink found this hard to believe, seeing as he could count almost thirty two off the top of his head.
“Yea.... I dunno, it's like we're in evasion, but no one's been called to shutter the rear reservoir channels.”
Fink stops eating for a second, suddenly concerned.
“Now that is odd.”
A low murmur begins to rise in the room as the rest of the Cogs begin to notice the hum's pitch change.
“Somethings wrong.” Says Barnaby, looking around, the artificial light casting shadows on his angular shaved head, bleaching his already white skin.
“Do you hear that?” Asks Fink.
“Tearing.... Oh god, have we been hit or something?” Barnaby begins to sweat, panic creeping in.
“Can't have, we haven't been given battle orders!”
“It's getting louder!” Someone cries.
“Everyone stay calm! The ship protects!” Yells Shiftmaster Abraham.
Barnaby begins to gasp with fear, hands white on the table edge. Someone is reciting the Canticle of the Ship loudly. Then, the fire comes.
***
“Captain! We've lost forward port lances, from eight to fifteen, on row Sigma, as well as twelve and seven on Gamma. Another Torpedo barrage inbound!” Shouts the Shipman at his console. The captain curses.
“Losses?” He barks.
“Acceptable sir, we still have 82% capacity.” Replies the Shipman.
“Thank god.” Says the captain.
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