Cyber-bumming around: a Mr. Beecher story

 

Cyber-bumming around

 

I’d had my surgery for my cyber bum – oh, all right, my prosthetic colono-rectal rediffusion filtration pack – and I was in isolation in the clinic. If you’ve ever been in post-surgical isolation, it was like that; if you haven’t, imagine being in solitary confinement in an uncomfortable bed, not allowed to move out of an uncomfortable position, well-fed whilst starving to death, because you are on a drip with nil by mouth, save water so sterile you could drink a toast with your compliments to the chemical factory. Add to this being kept ‘quiet,’ which is to say, no visitors or interactions with other inmates… uh, patients… whilst the frenetic hell which is hospital life broke like a wave around you. And no respite at night, because hospitals never sleep. Number 903 across the corridor from me was always receiving sudden visits of huge numbers of people with fancy machinery, or possibly huge numbers of machines with fancy people. I found out later he kept managing to undo his monitoring equipment in his sleep.

On the table, a box of homemade sweeties Bwephulp had made me sat, mournfully, until I was allowed them. And I was bored. And suffering data starvation.

So, I hacked into the hospital camera system.

Well, who wouldn’t?

I got my opportunity when the fellow in surgical gloves came into my cell… room… and looked around. He seemed unnerved that I was awake. I was unnerved by the gloves; I’m only too used to what that can mean. But I was thoroughly flushed out before all this began, and I swear they did it so high I could taste it. My insides were as clean and as scoured as a spaceship in the sandstorms of Shahara 4 left out a couple of years, and felt about as tissue thin. And it was why nil by mouth; they wanted the filters, rediffusers, additive centres, removal centres, mashers, grinders and pulverisers to settle in. I asked Jill, my proctologist, whether it would sound more like an industrial waste grinder or whether they would add circus music to cheer me up. She gave me one of those old-fashioned looks, and said, ‘James, it should not make any more noise than natural digestion.’ I locked onto those two little words, ‘should not.’ She told me off for looking cynical.

Don’t get me wrong. It could play Bootean rock music for all I care, so long as I can go out into less-than-fresh air and breathe in planetside newly minted pollution without starting to grow mould all over. Though that might limit my ability to pull.

Anyway, this chumski was looking at my notes.

“You might do me a favour and hand me my pocket box before you assault any part of me,” I said. I swear he jumped. But he handed me my box, which Jill had taken away from me, so now I was well away.

Did you know they have cameras in the surgical showers? I found out the times Jill was scheduled in surgery. That was a sight for bored eyes.

I started to eschew watching the medial staff off duty; some of them had some eclectic sexual habits, venues, sex toys, and games. I prefer participation to observation, not that I’ve had much chance since that fungal event. But there’s only so much perversion anyone can take. It would be a blackmailer’s dream… if I did not need surgical brain bleach.

Anyway, I started to see the chumski who had given me my pocket box, visiting other patients, regardless of their conditions. I knew a lot about their conditions. I also discovered that doctors add acronyms which are non-medical in nature to notes, like ‘WTM’ ‘will not take meds’; ‘DUN’ ‘double-up nutter,’ someone who thinks if one pill is good, forty is better; ‘MM’ ‘Moaning Murgatroyd’ – apparently a ‘Murgatroyd’ is a hypochondriac – along with some useful ones like ‘LPT’ or ‘Low Pain Threshold,’ and its counterpart, HPT which I imagine I don’t have to translate. There were noted by and for nurses, like ‘L8’ for ‘limbs, 8’, ie, wandering hand trouble, and ‘CB’ ‘Cheeky Bastard,’ which I found I had on mine. There’s some incomprehensible poem about having the gift to see ourselves as others see us. At least I wasn’t an ‘L8’ or worse ‘EW’, which as well as suggesting something nasty to start off with stands for ‘Effing wolf.’

Sorry, I got sidetracked there. But anyway, Chumski is wandering around, reading notes, and I am starting to wonder if he’s a blackmailer as he never goes to the doctors’ lounge or the nurse’s lounge, it being a small enough facility that they all know each other.

I decided to call Jill.

“James! What are you doing with your box?” she demanded. “You’re supposed to be resting!”

“I can’t rest when I’m so bored, it makes me want to scream,” I said. “I’m used to processing data at high speed, cross-correllating things, and it’s literally torture to have nothing to do. I’ve been able to sleep since that whatever-he-is gave me my box. Who is he, anyway? And why is he poking into everyone’s records?” I sent his picture to her.

Jill actually stopped telling me off and got very quiet.

“He came into your cube?” she asked, sharply.

“Yes,” I said.

“I’ll need to do a complete rundown of your antibodies, he is not in steriles,” she said. “And poking around other people? How do you know?”

“Oh, please, Jill! Surveillance is my business,” I said. “I love that cheeky mole of yours.”

“You are in so much trouble, Mister Beecher,” said Jill. “Why has nobody else mentioned this man?”

“Because he has an air of being where he is supposed to be,” I said. “He wears surgical gloves, so you won’t get any finger prints. I was afraid he was going to examine me. But I can see if I can use facial recognition on him.”

There was a long pause.

“Do it,” she said. “We’re being billed for drugs we haven’t bought, backed up by prescription number.”

 

Once I and my pocket box were cleared to search outside of the hospital, a lot of things started falling into place.

Kimmo ‘Chemo’ Asukeeraa was suspected of being a drugs dealer, but nobody had been able to trace down a source on him.

If I’m a cheeky bastard, what does it make the man who has his own mail pigeon hole in the hospital, who is having drugs mailed to him while the hospital is billed?

The cops became involved, and the hospital was very grateful to me.

Not grateful enough to prevent Jill from taking samples from me from everywhere.

And I mean everywhere.

 

I waited until I was discharged, which was after three long months, and I was allowed to do some work during the last month, as well as to eat and drink and duly discharge, all of which was bagged up, collected, and some lucky sod got to test it.

Anyway, I was walking out of there, and Jill saying goodbye.

“Which should be the last time I see you,” she said.

Did I imagine the regret there? She did not have to point this out.

The flowers I had ordered arrived then, the ones I would not have been allowed to be with in the same room before surgery.

“Jill, I know we’ve been intimate in a way which is not necessarily romantic, but will you go out with me?” I asked, rather diffidently, as the delivery robot thrust flowers at her.

“Do you want to go out with Jill, the person, or Jill with a good figure and cute mole?” she asked.

“I’ve been in love with you since you put me back together when my backups failed the first time, and in lust with you since I saw you in that tight black slinky jumpsuit when they shipped you out to my pod when I had my next emergency,” I said. “I want to go out with both, and stay in with both, and find out about the ins and outs of both.”

She squealed with delight.

“Right answer!” she said.

“I’m not rich,” I said. “I have a good scout pension with benefits I haven’t been able to take up before, but my salary is pretty good.”

“So’s mine,” said Jill. “The world is full of arseholes, but most people like theirs functional, and it pays well. You wouldn’t come over all Wiłanu and want me to stop working because I see other men’s nethers?”

“Sweetheart,” I said, “I don’t care what you do to other men’s bottoms, so long as you love me despite my bottom.”

“I do,  James,” she said.

She said those two important little words again a couple of months later when we got married.

 

 

 

 

William Price and the Thetis 1

 

Chapter 1

 

“Colin, do you know what our orders are?” asked Emma Green.

“Have patience, Mr. Midshipman Green,” teased Colin Prescott, as Emma was still electing to learn the ropes dressed as a Midshipman. “No, I don’t know for sure, but I can make a few guesses.”

“So what have you guessed?” asked Emma, standing on one leg and fidgeting with her stocking top with the free foot.

“You’ll get your stockings dirty and then Mr. Hardy will wax most irritable,” said Colin exactly as if he had not been doing the same thing up to a few months before.

Emma flushed and stood back on two feet. Abel Hardy, the gunner, was aware she was a girl and would hand her to Mrs. Price, the captain’s wife and ship’s surgeon for any canings deemed suitable, but he would not hold back any verbal excoriation.

“I don’t think you guessed anything,” she said, with a toss of her golden curls.

“Well if you try to goad me, I won’t tell you,” said Colin.

“It works on most boys,” said Emma. “Please tell me, Colin.”

“Well, we have medicines for the tropics, and provisions for a long cruise,” said Colin. “We are said to be set for nasty duty, and we have a marine lieutenant, not a sergeant so small a ship would usually rate.  We have extra spare masts and spars in case of hurricanes, so it is apparent that the Admiralty has given orders that we are to seek, cut-out and subdue a hurricane and bring it back for court martial.”

“Colin!” complained Emma.

The senior midshipman took pity on his friend.

“I think we’re going after slavers,” he said.

Emma’s mouth rounded into an ‘oh’.

“Because the ‘Thetis’ is an American-built schooner with typically American lines, and it’s Americans mostly doing the slaving?” she asked.

“Exactly,” said Colin.  “And some French but they won’t regard an American ship until we are too close to them to do anything about it.”

“Is that important?” asked Emma.

“With slavers? Yes.  We need to be able to board and storm to stop them throwing all the slaves overboard.  We can’t do anything about them unless catching them with an actual cargo because that’s the law, but if we smell the cargo, and apparently they stink for the awful condition the slaves are kept in, Mr. Price will take that as a good reason to board, and then they can be stopped from disposing of the evidence.”

“Throwing them overboard?  That’s horrible, but can’t we pick them up?”

“They throw them over in irons to weigh them down.  Mr. Price spoke about it once,” said Colin, soberly.  “You may need to go into skirts to help care for and reassure the women; you and Molly both.”

“And if it helps, I certainly will,” said Emma. “What villains!”

“I wager Mr. Price will be happy to treat them like pirates and kill on sight,” said Colin. “Of course he’s more aware of the problem, with Mrs. Price being the granddaughter of a black slave.”

Emma nodded. The captain’s beautiful mulatto wife had been rescued from pirates, and the whole ship knew the romantic story and how William had rescued her, and fell in love, and in consequence was a wealthy man, as Mrs. Amelia Price’s father was a wealthy ship-owner and merchant. She was petting Tabitha, the ship’s cat, who had firmly come aboard on one of the provision boats, took up residence in the gun room and proceeded to give birth to four kittens.  She killed more rats than she and her brood needed and insisted on presenting any excess to the midshipman’s berth, which was, as Colin said an embarasse des riches.

 

William Price looked around his assembled officers. He smiled lovingly at his surgeon, his lovely wife Amelia. She had gained a certificate from the Royal College of Surgeons, by the expedient of dressing in men’s clothing, under her maiden name, A. Finch.  Next to her was John Scully, his first officer and good friend.  Nathaniel Erskine was the second lieutenant, a pleasant young man, who had taken under his wing William’s younger brother, Sam, now one of the midshipmen, and though the eldest, subordinate to the others for his lack of sea time. William looked around the midshipmen, glad he had some excellent lads. Colin was worth as much in William’s eyes as most grown passed lieutenants.  He was on good terms with Sam, fortunately, and with young Seth Porkins as well as with the unofficial midshipmen, Emma and Molly, who were surgeon’s mates.  Colin had also formed a rapid friendship with George and Albert Cosgrove, whom William had met on a rather dangerous journey to London. They had been willing to cut short leave to join ship in order to serve with him, being likely to be ‘beached’ otherwise.

On William’s other side sat his Sailing Master, Hiram Gubbins.  William respected Gubbins without finding him as convivial as some of his officers. Next to Gubbins was Ziv Stark, the Jewish marine Lieutenant, who was doing a good job training both Michael Ashe, the young ensign, and Roger Wilson, son of the marine sergeant, who was drummer boy. Ashe was in attendance too. William had included in his invitation to dinner the supernumerary, Wilfrid Percival, the second son of a viscount, who was fleeing from an unwanted marriage as ship’s carpenter, and Thomas Stackfield, the boys’ dominie. Stackfield had also volunteered to act as chaplain to lead prayers at the monthly service, something William hated doing, and reading a short Bible passage in his undeniably beautiful voice.  Stackfield was also teaching any sailors who wanted to learn to read every Sunday for an hour. As a dominie, he had taken minor orders as was common.

“You will want to know the orders under which we are sailing,” said William. He had their attention immediately.   “As happy accident meant that the land-bound group of pirates and barraters were rapidly rounded up, we have only to seek out and destroy the pirates still at sea, and the ship or ships they are using to operate.  We are also to harry slavers and free all the slaves we may.  We are to be on a six month cruise and to cause destruction to any other pirates we may happen upon, so long as we destroy those sailing under British captains and stealing from the Post Office.”

“Sir, are they the ones who were trying to kill you on the way to London?” asked George Cosgrove.

“Yes, Mr. Cosgrove, the very same,” said William. “And I would like the rest of you to know that I owe my life to the Messers Cosgrove; and that’s going to be awkward, so I suggest we have Mr. Cosgrove for George, the elder, and Mr. Albert for the younger, if you lads are amenable to that?”

“Thank you, sir, yes, sir,” agreed Albert.

“How were you planning on looking for them, sir?” asked Scully.

“I was planning on making them look for me,” said William. “I know that the Post Office does purchase uniform ships designed by Marmaduke Stalkaart, purpose built for the Falmouth packet, but they do use other small, fast ships as well. They bought out the ‘Mosquito’; some of you might remember her.”

There was laughter from Scully, Amelia and Colin; and a rueful look from Hiram Gubbins.

“This sounds like a history some of us have missed out on, sir,” said Erskine.

“’Mosquito’ was my first command,” said William. “We cut her out from an American harbour.  And indeed we fought off this very ship who was chasing her. Though we did have the sloop ‘Thrush’ to assist.”

“I see, sir,” said Erskine, nodding.

“So are we flying Post Office colours?” asked Stark.

“Yes, and I also had a notice inserted in the paper  that captured prize ‘Nancy Beth’ would be operating on the Americas run very shortly, in case any of them still have contacts in England,” said William.  “She may be renamed ‘Thetis’, but it is possible some have heard of the navy refit of the ‘Thetis’ and will fight shy of her. She’s a little larger than is usual, but not so much that it would draw undue attention to the idea.  And as ‘Thetis’ originally had 6-pounders before we had our refit for the half dozen 9-pounders each side, we will pack a surprise.  Other than the ‘Post-Office Cannons’ as bow and stern chasers, which are 9-pounders of brass, the Post-Office packets carry smaller guns on the whole.”

“So we are a nice juicy fly out dangled to catch a trout?” said Colin.

“Yes; especially as I might have implied in the notice that we might be carrying bullion,” said William.

Scully laughed.

“I like that,” he said. “What about evolutions, sir? Half the hands are green, and few enough of the others have actually sailed a schooner.”

“If need be, you, Colin and the men I kept could sail her,” said William, dryly.  “I will, however, be running evolutions, it’s one thing to learn the rigging from books, and thank you all those who have been going through it with the men, and another to do it.  I warn you ahead of time, I will be running evolutions in which a significant number of the crew and officers will be considered dead or wounded, and I will have died in all of them, in order to see how well you do.”

“That will be rather challenging,” said Erskine.

“Certainly, Nat, but you never know whether an action will leave you as the senior officer in the middle of a fight, needing to take decisions,” said William. “I wager you’d rather find out how well you do in a situation which is not real.”

“By Jove, yes,” said Erskine.

“Sir, a suggestion?” said Scully.

“Suggest away,” said William. 

“There are ten messes of eight men,” said Scully.  “It seemed to me that if each had an officer or senior hand to whom they could turn specially for them, it would help them learn faster.  On ‘Thrush’ it made a difference having the watches assigned midshipmen.”

William nodded.

“Ziv does the same for his soldiers, so, John, that is you, Nat, Colin, George, Albert, Seth and Sam; I don’t think Mr. Gubbins should have a specific mess. Mr. Green, you are also learning the ropes, so you will make an eighth. Martin Beck as bosun and Abel Hardy as gunner have next seniority but I fear it would eat into their time.  Mr. Percival, will you be one?” he addressed his illicitly acquired carpenter.

“Certainly, sir, and I wish you will call me Wilfrid or Frid, as you do with the others,” said Percival.

“As you wish, Frid, in this room or if invited to the wardroom only, of course,” said William.  “That leaves one more.”

“Sir,” said Colin, “Everyone turns to Jeb Walden, and treats him like a warrant officer, and I reckon if you ask Mr. Smith as Master’s mate to help Mr. Green, then Walden would do as a tenth. As Quatermaster he has a lot of respect, and I don’t think anyone here would complain about him being here officially rather than just on the binnacle listening through the open skylight.”

William laughed.

“So you worked out how I let things leak to the men,” he said. “And Walden knows how much to let slip and how much to keep to himself. Very well, if nobody has any objection we shall invite Jeb to be one of the captain’s herrings in this little barrel.”

There was laughter.  The trestles of the tables in both boardroom and gun room had been borrowed, and the boards to top them for the officers to eat, filling most of the tiny great cabin; and the midshipmen were perched on cushions on a plank between the two sternchasers. The other officers had more or less comfort of individual seats ranging from a couple of chairs for William and Amelia, through William’s and Amelia’s sea chests, to a selection of barrels.

Colin muttered something to George Cosgrove, who sniggered.

“If that was anything to do with Tiberius and little fishies, Mr. Prescott, I will expect an ode in Latin from you on the beauty of fish,” said Scully.

“Oh, sir, can’t you just cane me?” said Colin, in dismay.

“Certainly not; King’s Regulations demand that I issue a punishment far more severe than that,” said Scully.

Colin sighed, but it was fair enough. He would have to watch his unruly tongue and even more unruly sense of humour. He was ready to sink into his shoes for being given the Look from the Captain, one eyebrow raised, wrinkling the scar on his forehead.  It had been rude.

“Sorry, sir,” said Colin, contritely.

“I can see the temptation,” said William.  “You can write the ode in English so we can all enjoy it, but make sure it is at least four stanzas.”

“Yessir,” said Colin, not sure whether to be dismayed or relieved. Four stanzas was a lot of ode to a thirteen-year-old, but was at least in his native tongue.

The news of evolutions was left to Walden to percolate amongst the company; Jeb would let it be known that there would be prizes of tobacco, tea, gold and other little luxuries for those who did well, and that it was the tradition of all the ships the captain had been on to pool all prizes, and find ways to reward those who did not smoke, for example.  Jeb murmured of fruit preserved in syrup, and the joys of a boiled egg for breakfast as the hens were laying well enough to make this prize for any individual mess a real possibility. He did not mention that the Mrs. Captain, as some people called Amelia, had already laid up some eggs in isinglass for when the hens were off lay. Amelia believed in eggs and milk to aid the recovery of any invalid.  Jeb, having been Amelia’s first patient, for having fallen from aloft and was lucky to get off with a broken leg, still recalled the delights of his rum ration being beaten with sugar into two eggs and hot chocolate to drink, the ‘Mosquito’ having had such luxuries.

Jeb had noticed a respectable amount of chocolate being loaded along with extra tobacco and tea.

Mr. and Mrs. Price took good care of their people.