Open Mettle: Indiscipline

[Cryle]

"Five would allow for thirty-one, but accounting for punctuation and a number signifier, it would fall short. So six is rather ideal. That would allow for sixty-three."

"That's almost double!"

"It's one just over double, actually. How-ever... If we're to add dashes, it would be nine. A three-by-three grid, dots in the corners and center, dashes at the cardinals."

"There's birds?"

"The directions. North, south, east, west. I like this, but then..."

"...then...?"

"Well, for maths, if the dashes represent degrees, then the dots can only go up to thirty-one. But there's eighty-nine between every cardinal degree, so to fit an entire angle within a single symbol would still be impossible with only nine. Unless the dashes represent multiplication of the whole number... hm, but that would require..."

"Is that important... I mean, it's not going to come up is it? Who is going to write to me about degrees? Unless you're going off to a university after you leave the ship?"

"If you're to be the code-breaker in my absence, the things that would need to be coded would involve degrees. Augh. Fine, if there's a symbol that represents the idea that the following symbol is a measure of degrees, that will work. With nine, we have five hundred and eleven combinations."

"Cryle... I'm not going to memorize five hundred things."

"Why not? You've learned over five hundred words."

"Words are sounds! You're talking about tiny dots on paper. I can't just swipe my paw over dots and know how many there are, and then remember all the... con... conflagurations - "

"Configurations."

"See, I don't know five hundred words! That's the five hundredth word, that's too many words."

"Alright. I'll keep it simple for you. It's just proof of concept, it doesn't mean we have to fill out five hundred symbols. The dots will be letters. Four dashes means the symbol is a whole number, and the dot arrangement can be in decimal. Four dots in the corners for a zero, one dot in the center for one, one dot on the top left for two, top right for three... something like that work for you?"

"Urff... I guess."

Silence settled over the pair for a while as Cryle scritched out ideas in her notebook. Korya's tail hung over her hammock, twitching idly, but the feline remained otherwise still, a sure sign that her thoughts were deep as the ocean.

It had been only a few days since they'd left Vulpinsula, and routine was starting to settle in somewhat, in a hazy, uncoordinated way, despite Frogears' best efforts. Korya's mood swings were nothing very new to Cryle, who had siblings, but it was obvious even to the socially oblivious rat that things were bothering her bunk mate. Yesterday, not even Griblo's most horrid puns could crack a smile. In an attempt to make the little leopard cat feel useful again, Cryle had opened up with her idea of a coded alphabet, not made of ink, but of indented shapes.

Now, in their off-shift hours not specifically allocated to sleep, the two schemed. Cryle had requested a few things from the ship's carpenter, to see what was even possible - her schematics for Korya's telescopic walking stick had been completed, but required hollow tubing with threaded ends, springs, and other such seemingly frivolous desires.

And for one glorious moment, nobeast was bothering them, allowing Cryle to work in relative peace. Although she had one of those portentous feelings that this was about to change. Rumors of a potato thief were already circulating and drawing unwanted attention to the skittish, curious crimson-hatted ratmaid who kept poking around muttering about hidden compartments everywhere - Cryle's other pastime. But she was definitely no potato thief!

"What if," said Cryle, "Some of them were words. Common ones, like 'the', 'and', 'it', 'there', 'why'... or names of things? Save on paper space, reading time, and be even more confusing to anybeast trying to decode it!"

"Crrryyyyyyleeeeeee..."

 

[Griblo Jankweed]

The hammock gave a faint creak as Griblo shifted, one gold hoop catching the lantern glow and scattering a wavering star of light above him. He stared daggers at the planks overhead. Those damn missing potatoes. Two dozen tubers short by his count now, and every time he so much as breathed near the stores he could feel the specter of suspicion creeping up his spine. Assistant Purser. Right. Hard to look assistant anything when a thief kept making him seem like he couldn’t keep track of a simple sack of spuds.

If he found the culprit… forget reporting them to the bosun. He’d string them up from the rigging himself just to prove a point.

He was mid-fantasy about which knots he’d use when Cryle’s voice drifted over as a relentless tirade of complicated jargon that made his muzzle scrunch.

Then came Korya’s thin, wilted plea:
“Crrryyleeeee…”

That was the classic sound of someone’s spirit folding in on itself in desperation.

With a long exhale through his nose, Griblo rolled sideways and slunk off his hammock like a poured out liquid. He snagged a wrapped cloth bundle from his effect, which were definitely not part of the official rations, and padded across the narrow berth. Reaching the talkative, gently swaying mass of their closely hung hammocks, he lifted a paw and gave the undersides a light poke.

"Pssst… oi, lit’le terrors."
Another poke.
"It’s yer fairy ferret purser, wit’ some extra vittles. D’ cookie on board ’taint feedin’ us’ns near enough t’think like ye is! Time fer a break an’ a snack."

He held up the offering: a few sugared nut clusters wrapped in the cloth, smelling faintly of cinnamon, alongside several glossy chunks of preserved pineapple.

Rocking back on his heels, he popped one of the crystallized pieces into his own mouth, smacking his lips like a naughty dibbun who’d pinched sweets straight from the kitchen.

"T'aint always gonna be free, so ye best shove it down yer maws ’fore I change m’ mind, now."

 

[Cryle]

Cryle had smelled him coming long before the whisper, the poke, or the horrible sight of his face peering over the edge of her hammock. Korya, too, had smelled him, but ignored it, because Korya smelled pretty much everything, whereas Cryle's pointed nose was fine-tuned specifically for the scent of pineapple; the combination of crisp fresh parchment, binding glue, and pressed ink; and the delightful aroma of gently-applied machine lubricant.

She sat up and stared at the pineapple chunks as if they were both a glowing offering from some celestial being, and like they were about to sprout black gooey tentacles and strangle her. Then she snatched them up anyway, stuffing not her maw, but the pocket of her coat that she was using as a blanket. The clusters were passed along to Korya, who didn't even sniff them before stuffing her cheeks like a hamster.

Cryle scowled at the memory of Mr. Pawminton.

"You told him?" she hissed at Korya.

"Maurnf," said Korya, and after several long crunches followed by a swallow: "H'only that you're a Pineratple. And that you smell like pineapple, and were sad because you weren't sure you'd have pineapple enough to last... Hi, Griblo! These are great, so crunchy. Thanks!"

Cryle grumbled and scrunched herself up inside her hammock. She gave a small nod and muttered a tiny "'ank 'oo" to Griblo, then sat up, a wild look flashing behind her large spectacles.

Purser!

"Mr. Jankweed," she said slowly, as if that wasn't his real name, "Is it possible that the pursuary has in its possession any number of metal rods thicker than one millimeter but thinner than six, preferably in the two-point-five range, ten small springs, a rolling pin, two sheets of loose paper, scrap wood measuring at least one by eight by twenty centimeters, and various small, malleable sheets of metal which could be bent with minimal effort and cut to size with basic engineering tools?"

The look in the ratmaid's eyes was the kind of look that saw lightning and chased after it into the skies themselves; or a wildcat who had spotted a little red firefly in the distance and had already done the rump-wiggle and couldn't simply un-wriggle the harnessed energy without catastrophic physical harm to itself.

Korya crunched away at her nut clusters and rolled back and forth in her hammock, until she simply rolled out of it and thumped to the deck below, landing on all fours. She stood up and began to rummage for her clothes.

"Yeah, Griblo! You got anything like... all that? Let's go get it. Rolling pin! Centipedes. Mandible metal. C'mon, c'mon."

Korya sidled over to the ferret and gently patted his arm, holding onto it for guidance - while also tugging at it impatiently.

 

[Griblo Jankweed]

Griblo lingered where he was, steel blue eyes flicking between the two hammocks as the snack exchange played out in full. Cryle pocketed the pineapple chunks like a miser banking coin, while Korya made short work of the nut clusters, cheeks bulging as she crunched away with single-minded devotion.

A corner of the ferret’s mouth twitched.

"Oi," he muttered toward Cryle, tone dry as old rope.
"Yer s’posed t’ eat dem, not pocket ’em like coin. Ain’t my fault if ye’re pickin’ lint outta yer teeth later, haw haw."

He caught the tiny, muttered “‘ank ’oo” all the same. It earned a small nod, satisfied and unremarked upon.

Korya, meanwhile, swallowed and beamed up at him.
“Hi, Griblo! These are great, so crunchy. Thanks!”

Griblo straightened a touch at that, pride warming his chest like a good nip of free grog. He rocked back on his heels, hands hooking briefly at his belt as if to keep from preening outright.

"Aye, well," he said, feigning gruffness that didn’t quite stick.
"Figured ye deserved summat decent."

That was when Cryle sat up properly and spoke his name like a title.

“Mr. Jankweed…”

The list came out of her in a rush, a precise and relentless onslaught that nearly bowled him backward. Rods. Springs. Paper. Wood. Metal. Numbers and measurements that meant nothing to him, all delivered with a look that dared the world to tell her no.

Still, Griblo listened. His posture shifted, spine straightening as the scrungly ferret receded and the Assistant Purser stepped forward in his place. He didn’t interrupt. Didn’t scoff. But he didn’t promise anything yet, either.

Behind him, there was a sudden thump as Korya rolled out of her hammock and landed on the deck, already moving, already rummaging for clothes.

“Yeah, Griblo! You got anything like… all that? Let’s go get it!”

She was on him a heartbeat later, small paw wrapping around his arm, tugging insistently toward motion and adventure. Griblo let her hold on. Let her pull. But he didn’t move just yet.

"Oi, take it easy ye spitfire!" he said, not unkindly, but anchoring himself in place.
"We’ll get there. Jus’ gotta discuss dis proper, firs'."

He looked back to Cryle then, expression measured.

"Right. Here’s how this goes:"
"I'll help ye where oi can, but we ain’t nickin’ nothin’. Everythin’ we take gets wrote down, an’ everythin’ that ain’t ours gets asked fer first!"

His gaze flicked briefly to Korya, then back again.

"Paper I can spare. Got wrappin’ enough t’ share an’ still keep me own bits dry. Wood we can get from an empty crate in stores. No beast’ll miss one o' dem."

He jerked his chin toward Korya.

"Rollin’ pin’s galley business. That one’s on you, kitten."

Then he hesitated, scratching lightly at one ear ring as the metal part of the list settled in.

"Now… rods an’ springs? That’s trickier. Don’t know nothin’ ’bout them fancy numbers ye’re spoutin’, but I do know metal ain't a t'ing we kin take wit'out some beast noticin'."

Pausing briefly, he led Korya back toward his own hammock, he pulled a fairly sizable metal tin from his wares, carefully transferring its wrapped contents into the space it left before returning to the sour-faced mouse’s bunk with kitten in tow.

"I got this, mind. Ain’t good for keepin’ tobacco dry no more, but it’s metal enough if ye just need somethin’ t’ bend or cut."

The tin was orange and dusty on its exterior from surface rust, a result of it taking a bath in Bully Harbor the day before they shoved off, but it still appeared solid enough otherwise.

"But rods an’ springs proper? That’s a word with the smithy. An’ I won’t say yes ’til they do."

He let out a satisfied grunt, relishing the unfamiliar weight of authority settling comfortably on his shoulders.

"Now," he added, a thin smile curling at one corner of his mouth.
"If ye’re both still keen after hearin’ all that… we can start lookin’."

Only then did he shift his weight, ready at last to let Korya drag him wherever she pleased.

 

[Cryle]

Cryle listened patiently to Griblo's explanation of procurement, with the occasional huffy interrupt from Korya along the lines of "...not a kitten..." and "...galley's off limits..."

The ratmaid considered her options as she sat and swung in time with the ocean's movements deep below. She chewed pensively on a pineapple chunk - she had slipped one while they'd been briefly away, and made sure to check for the fifth time that day that there was no lint in her pockets. She would not stand for dirty pockets, but she had no need to explain this to anybeast. The pineapple would be safe if she remained vigilant.

"She's got that face again," said Korya, when Cryle took more than a moment to process Griblo's information. Both ferret and rat squinted at her, and Korya's own face remained politely impassive for an impressive amount of time before she broke out in a mad grin. Cryle resisted the urge to sigh in defeat.

This cat, sometimes. Honestly. Sometimes.

She turned Griblo's tin over and over in her paws. It could be flattened. It could be bent, and twisted, and hold shape just enough for a demonstration, but it would not likely manage any kind of sustained pressure. The design would require swiftness and momentum instead. That would make it larger. Not truly ideal in the circumstances. But for lack of materials, having a working prototype that could shatter itself would be better than nothing. The alternative, weightier and very capable of pressure, but thicker...

"Wood scrap is free?" said Cryle, eventually. That changed things. She could carve wood. Didn't need machines for that, just tools, and she had tools. Wood could be carved in such a way that it could slot together like a puzzle cube, with only one way to un-twist and disassemble. What she had in mind was more complex than a cube, however, and nails and screws - or at least glue - would be required.

She elegantly rolled out of her hammock, swinging her coat over her shoulders in one stylish movement, and was very pleased when it didn't smack anybeast or herself in the face. She grabbed her hat and put on her boots, tied on her tail ribbon, and was ready.

"A rolling pin can be made from wood scrap. I'll take the tin."

Korya was bobbing up and down with pent-up energy. She'd been locked in the galley too long, forced to make food that she didn't care about, and her off-time had been spent likewise cooped up in her hammock more often than not. Exploring the ship before the voyage, it had been so empty, with only a handful of active crewbeasts already berthed inside its belly. Now, packed like sardines, with drills and duty always afoot, it was barely safe for her to be hurtling down deck after deck in search of entertainment.

"C'mon, c'mon, c'mon, let'sgoletsgoletsgo-hooooo-hooooooohhhh...!"

She tugged at Griblo's arm, while also not actually trying to move him at all; he was her guide in this adventure, she had decided.

Cryle grabbed her notebook from her hammock and pattered after them, dreading and formulating an explanation for her fevered desires.

 

[Griblo Jankweed]

Griblo waited while Cryle dressed, letting the moment breathe instead of crowding it. He leaned against a stanchion with practiced ease, one paw loosely braced behind him, the other idly hooked in his belt.

"Fer what it’s worth," he said at last, voice pitched casual, "askin’ after metal proper ain’t off the table. I’ll do it on the books, an’ I’ll stand there with ye while ye explain wot ye’re after. Just don’t expect me t’ translate them fancy numbers. That part’s on you."

It wasn’t a promise. It wasn’t a refusal either. It was the kind of reassurance that came with terms attached, and Griblo seemed content to leave it there.

Once boots were tied and coats settled, he tipped his head toward the passageway and started off, letting Korya keep her grip on his arm as they moved away from the bunks. Korya leaned into that grip with undisguised enthusiasm, tail swishing hard enough to brush passing hammocks as if she were daring the ship to scold her for it. Every few steps she tugged again, not to hurry him so much as to make sure he was still coming, ears flicking toward every new sound they passed.

The farther they went, the quieter it became, with fewer hammocks, fewer voices, and the air cooling as the ship’s deeper bones swallowed them up. Lantern light thinned. Footfalls echoed.

It was somewhere between one ladder and the next that Griblo’s tone shifted.

"Since we’re already wanderin’," he said, glancing ahead rather than at either of them, "there’s somethin’ else I ought t’ mention."

He gave a soft, humorless huff.

"Ain’t just potatoes goin’ missin’."

He slowed a fraction, just enough that the words had room to land.

"I’ve checked every store I know about. Twice. Three times, some of ’em. An’ unless there’s a hold I don’t know packed full o’ rations from deck t’ beam… we’re cuttin’ it close."

Another pause.

"Real close."

He lifted one shoulder, careful, measured.

"Could be I’m missin’ somethin’. Could be there’s a stop planned no one’s bothered tellin’ me about. I ain’t sayin’ anybeast’s lyin’."

A sideways glance now, steel-blue eyes sharp but steady.

"I am sayin’ the sums don’t like the course."

He didn’t press the point further. Didn’t pile on theories or sharpen it into accusation. The thought was offered simply as gossip and then set aside, like a weight shared rather than dropped.

"Anyhow," he added, lighter again, "wood first."

The carpentry space opened up before them in a cloud of dense wood dust and lacquer fumes. Compared to the crush of the bunks, it felt cavernous, quiet, orderly, and worn smooth by long use. Old crates were stacked along the bulkheads, several already broken down into neat piles of planks. Barrels had been repurposed into stools, bins, braces. Nothing here went to waste; everything bore the marks of having lived at least one life already.

Griblo took it in with an appraising eye, the tension easing from his shoulders just a touch.

"See?" he murmured. "This lot’s honest. Scrap what knows it’s scrap."

Somewhere deeper in the bay, wood shifted. A faint scrape answered, slow and deliberate, followed by the soft knock of something being set carefully aside. The sounds weren’t loud, but they were purposeful. The kind that spoke of work already underway.

Griblo stilled, lifting one finger in a quiet, reflexive gesture for pause.

"We ain’t alone," he said under his breath, not wary so much as respectful. "Ye' see dat ol' molebeast innere?"

He stepped forward then, easing them properly into the space. Around them, the quiet hum of the ship settled back in as whatever worked beyond the stacks continued unseen.

 

[Cryle]

Paws pitter-pattered. Boots bip-bopped. Cryle slunk after the pair ahead of her, hat low against the glare of lanterns.

A bio-luminescent container at each temple, mirrors and lenses, built around a simple frame of disused spectacles, a latch - just the thing! A lever on the side, each side, to open and close the container. Even a small amount of glow would suffice, with the right refraction point, surely, and you'd have the perfect device for seeing in the dark! On and off, each side separate, perhaps a revolving container door to adjust levels just so... Oh, if only I could find the thing that would give the perfect glow, with none of the flicker...

But no. Focus. The stamp machine first.

What was Griblo on about... ah...

"If I may suggest," the rat said gently, more for Korya's benefit - the cat was so far prone to too many mood swings and bouts of regret and worry over everything - "The Captain and Admiral are well-aware of the ship's situation and heading, and are seasoned seabeasts. If they deem the stores sufficient, then I would not worry. And if they are not sufficient, then we must rise to the occasion, for surely it would be a test of our own mettle.* And if that is the case, I remind you that we are atop a vast bounty, and there are ways of diluting the salt-content of seawater to make it potable. If it would ease your minds I could devise an example filtration system and provide numbers for the time and amount of materials required per crewbeast. I am no stranger to consuming a smaller portion than I am otherwise used to, in order to make sure there is enough for all. We will persevere regardless."

"Cor," said Korya. Her voice trembled with admiration. She gave a petite little kitten sneeze-squeak; the smell of sawdust was heavy, and a sensitive little nose such as hers had picked up the dust even before Cryle's sensitive little nose had.

They crept forward, and something about the whole situation had Cryle's fur raising. If her tail had fur, it would have been as poofy as Korya's.

"I don't see him," said the little cat quietly, barely a whisper. Followed by a strangled pause and a snrkpbblt.

Cryle didn't notice. She was inwardly resisting decades, if not centuries, of Imperial propaganda. It was in her genes to dislike woodlanders; Rascallos the Imperium over had fought against them for as long as there had been Rascallos. They'd been enemies when she was born. And now it seemed like they were everywhere. Taking up important engineering positions, like that smelly old hamster and his stubby, dorky tail, Mr. Pawminton, back in Bully...

It wasn't fair, her genes said. And her brain said: Shut up. Of course it was fair. Logically, it had to be.

Another part of her said: when has the Imperium ever run on logic?

She told that part to shut up, too. Right now, she needed to focus on the other thing that was difficult... Asking somebeast in a position of power for things and having to present her case for why she wanted or needed the things.

She tilted her hat up and gazed at Griblo with the look of a rat who was stuck in a glue-trap at the bottom of a steep ramp, with a runaway cart at the top of the ramp, and no burly ex-con mayor around for nautical miles.

"...I can write down the measurements, if... you could... erm... ask..."

"Hey, Mister Molebeast! Navigator-in-Training Cryle Rascallo wants some metal bits and a rolling pin and some other wood!"

Cryle very nearly did an about-face and ran back to her hammock. It's what she deserved for not specifying her request was for Griblo to handle it...

Korya beamed and waved at the wall.


* She said the thing!

 

[Griblo Jankweed]

Griblo listened to Cryle’s reassurance in silence, boots slowing as her words unspooled beside him. He didn’t interrupt. Didn’t scoff. When she finished, he gave a small grunt that might have been agreement, or might have simply been acknowledgment that he’d heard her at all.

"Aye," he said at last, noncommittal as a closed ledger.
"Maybe so."

He left it there. The sums still itched at the back of his skull, unresolved, filed away rather than discarded. Cryle was on the inside of things, after all. If there was more to it, she’d not be the one free to say so. Griblo made a mental note and moved on, eyes forward, paw steady under Korya’s still-tugging grip.

When Cryle faltered, hat tipped low and courage visibly mustered, he glanced her way just in time to hear the start of her careful request... and then Korya detonated it.

“Hells teeth!” Griblo hissed under his breath, followed by a sharp, instinctive, "Shhh!"

He pinched the bridge of his muzzle once, then straightened, professionalism snapping back into place like a well-worn coat. If the cat was going to announce them to the bulkheads, then so be it. He cleared his throat and raised his voice just enough to carry.

"Assistant Purser Jankweed," he called, measured and formal, "askin’ after scrap an’ stores."

For a moment, there was only the soft creak of timbers and the distant sigh of the sea pressing against the hull.

Then something shifted beyond the stacks.

A shape straightened slowly from behind a leaning tower of planks, wood dust shaking free from a broad, earth-toned coat. The mole blinked once behind thick spectacles, claws still braced on a stave he’d been inspecting.

“Oi be hearin’ voices, zurr,” Foremole said mildly, a pleased note tucked into his cadence. “Not heard another soul fer hours, ee haven’t. Thought oi were talkin’ to meself again, hurr.”

He set the wood aside carefully before padding closer, gaze passing over the little group with calm curiosity.

“Wot can oi do fer ee?”

Griblo inclined his head, respectful but brisk.

"Need scrap wood," he said.
"Crate planks, barrel staves. Nothin’ load-bearin’. On the books."

Foremole’s brow furrowed, just slightly.

“Those bits ain’t waste, zurr,” he replied, not unkindly. “Crates an’ staves gets partched back 'n when hull’s tired. Ship'll rot t' 'er bones if ee let ’er.”

The tension settled there. Griblo spread his paws a fraction, conceding the point without retreating from it.

"Aye. Figured ye’d say as much."

He tipped his head toward Cryle, stepping aside just enough to put the choice squarely where it belonged.

"It’s her contraption," he added plainly. "Oi’m just fetchin’ an’ writin’ it in th' books.."

Foremole’s attention shifted then, settling on the rat with patient expectation.

“Oi don’t mind helpin’ clever paws,” the mole said gently, “but oi likes t’know wot me wood’s bein’ asked t’be.”

Griblo folded his arms, content to wait, the faintest curl of anticipation tugging at one corner of his mouth as the question finally, inevitably, hung in the air. The ship creaked softly around them as if it too were listening.