Invention, it must be humbly admitted,

does not consist in creating out of void, but out of chaos;

the materials must, in the first place, be afforded:

it can give form to dark, shapeless substances,

but cannot bring into being the substance itself.

For obvious reasons, the wisdom cube's most famous characteristic was its ability to give the breath of life to ships of war. It tended to overshadow everything else the cubes could do, and for good reason: shipgirls lasted years, or at least the Admiralty hoped they did, while the cube's other effects were a one-time thing.

Application of a cube enhanced the ship in addition to producing one (1) woman. This wasn't a miracle cure, but it was still worth looking into. No one was quite sure if a cube could be used for repair a second time, and cubes were too valuable to waste on such a test. Still, they could try to learn a bit more about the process while also getting a shipgirl out of it.

The ship this experiment was focused on was a special case, and it looked as if she would provide a lot of data. Or perhaps it was more fitting to say they. HMS Zubian was the front half of HMS Zulu and the back half of HMS Nubian stitched together. Assuming the cube didn't freak out and decide that the two were still separate ships, it would hopefully smooth out any kinks in their connection… with the possible side benefit of two shipgirls for the price of one? It was worth looking into.

An officer was selected, a cube was allotted, and a few tests were set up. The current plan was controls on port and tests starboard. Sure, you could do that on any ship, but they were making an effort to be scientific here.

There was a flash… and then shock. "Someone get the girl a proper shirt!"

Sure, she wasn't naked up top, but she was dangerously close. (And the short skirt issue reared its head yet again.)

After a busy day of introductions and tests with her ship, she was sent to a room. The sleeping clothes she had been provided with were a bit big, perhaps, but that was workable. She thought she could adjust them, but for now Zubian just wanted to sleep.

Lifting the shirt she had been given over her head, she could see her original top. (She felt herself start to blush. What was that?) In addition to tanned skin, she could see a line tracing around her stomach. It was raised scar tissue, dark and jagged… it was a reminder that she was a patchwork ship.

For what it was worth, there was no serious discontinuity on the other side of her scar. The skin of her legs and lower body was of the same color as that above the scar, everything lined up properly… well, everything in her physical body. In addition to the strange mismatch between a short but somewhat sane skirt and her top, there was the contradiction of a maid carrying arms.

Even her weapons were a contradiction, even if they were united in their primitive nature. A spear and a bow weren't fitting weapons for a modern war, were they? But she had an impi's assegai on her back along with a composite bow. She'd bet her next paycheck the bow was Nubian, considering.

Both weapons sat next to a quiver in one corner. Some part of her rankled at that, too: she needed a stand of some kind, the assegai's point really shouldn't be left to dig into anything… but that was a tomorrow problem. Her first day in existence had been dreadfully tiring, and she was starting to feel a headache coming on.

She set her old top aside, hoped that she'd never have to wear it again, and put on a sleeping shirt. As she brushed her teeth, she wondered whose bright idea the name Tribal class was.

The Zulus and the Nubians did technically share a continent, although the distance between Ta-Seti and Tongaland was double the distance between Lisbon and Warsaw. How about a European class? HMS Portuguese, HMS Polack, all in one big blob?

But that wasn't even it! HMS Amazon, HMS Cossack, HMS Saracen, Crusader, and Maori! There was no rhyme or reason to it! Throw Vikings in there while you were at it!

Urgh, she really shouldn't be getting worked up about this, she was feeling the start of a migraine… she rubbed her left temple as she spat and washed out her mouth. With that done, she reached back and tried to braid her hair. Nothing too fancy, maybe just a little something to prevent bed-head? There was work tomorrow, after all!

She was first of her kind in the Dover Patrol, although rumors about shipgirls had proceeded her. Showing up and immediately falling short of expectations wasn't a great feeling, she'd say that much. But all she could do was work hard at it!

There was a whole sheaf of paper from Harwich and another from Scapa regarding their condition, so she certainly wasn't lacking for reading material when she wasn't busy cleaning.

Not being busy with cleaning happened more often than she'd like, actually. Zubian had a good few days of cleaning at the start of her career before the officers started haranguing the men about letting a valuable shipgirl waste her time. From then on, hunting down dust and dirt was nearly as difficult a task as hunting submarines.

Well, it was more a different problem entirely, wasn't it? There was no human mind behind the dust, no nefarious blood-letter sneaking under their watchful eye…

Just a person. A whole awful lot of people, actually.

When the indicator net caught and the buoy started dragging, she couldn't summon the bravado for any sort of comments about cleaning up the trash. She could barely bring herself to help estimate the depth the submarine was at.

They prepared a charge, dropped it… and boom! They verified the sinking as the strange feeling of a wisdom cube taking shape mingled with the churning in her gut.

(Her head ached. Some part of her wanted to holler for joy. For victory. She wanted to pull out her bow and see if she could land a hit to follow the depth charge. The rest of her felt sick.)

—-

The brand spanking new cube she produced was not sent as tribute to Scapa. Instead, Zubian was going to get a friend! After some discussion, it was decided that she was best joined by the destroyer Matchless. Zubian wondered if she'd be upshown. A name like that was rather hard to match, har-de-har.

(They were even having naming problems with the M classes, she thought. They were calling the new ones Prince, Petard, Pheasant, and the like. Did they run out of decent M names? They had already gone through M, N, and O. Or maybe they were trying to stress the differences between the various batches of M classes? As much of a difference as there was between the Crusaders and the Zulu, there was probably more between one of the Diadochi and a bird.)

Of course, she had taken a break from her – much abridged – cleaning duties to watch the process of cubing. Matchless was the fruit of her labors, in some sense, and she would probably be a bit more impressive than an immaculately clean floor.

There was a brilliant flash – dammit, was that another migraine coming on? – and Matchless nearly pirouetted into the world. She was like Zubian in stature, although her purple hair was probably a bit stranger than Zubian's own white. Once she had adjusted to the light of day (and the sudden feeling of existence) she smiled at the officer who manifested her.

"It's nice to meet you, sir. I'm Matchless, and I hope you'll take care of little old me."

The officer in question blinked and then held out his hand. "Charmed. I'm Commander Cooper-Key."

Instead of going for the offered handshake, Matchless latched onto his arm with a smile. "Can you show me around, Commander? I'm afraid I don't know much of anything when it comes to the port." She stuck out her tongue like she was recognizing (or playing up) her own silliness.

Cooper-Key didn't seem to like Matchless' attentions much at all, but being polite enough to not shake her off physically, he could only look for someone to foist her off onto. His gaze shot over to… "Zubian! Can you help Matchless?"

"Of course I can, sir!" Matchless pouted fiercely, but Zubian walked over and grabbed one of her hands anyway. "I'm HMS Zubian, and it'd be my pleasure to show you around."

For a moment, Matchless wavered, glancing over at the Commander before she freed the Commander's arm. "Okay. Escort me then, Miss Zubian!"

The tour wasn't much, considering that shipgirls were still a secret. Their freedom of movement was restricted by that even if the crew all knew. We eat here, get briefed here, and of course, we sleep here.

Somebody had crept into the room with clothes for Matchless, but that courtesy was counterweighed by the messy heap they had been left in. Zubian rushed over and started sorting them almost instinctually.

Meanwhile, Matchless found something else a bit more pressing. Leaning over, she reached out towards the quiver with an outstretched finger…

"Stop!" Zubian grabbed her hand and Matchless jumped a bit. "They're razor sharp."

"Right…" Matchless chuckled. "Silly me. You're my hero, Zubian."

"They're real weapons," Zubian warned, "You should be careful." Not to mention that cleaning up blood was a major pain…

"And they're all yours?" Matchless asked, following Zubian away from the weapons in question.

"Yeah. I had them the moment I was manifested."

"I didn't get anything like that," Matchless said. "Maybe I'm not the type?"

"We're all shipgirls, aren't we?" Zubian got back to tidying up the clothes and Matchless perched herself on the bed next to her. She made no move to help. "Doesn't matter if you're not the type."

"Yeah…" Matchless said. "I'm not entirely kidding about the look-out for me thing, alright?"

"I'll do my best," Zubian nodded. "Here are your sleeping clothes."

"Thank you." Matchless smiled at her and took them. "Restroom?"

"Door over there." Zubian quirked her head, and Matchless went.

After a few minutes, Matchless came back out, all dressed in white. "Your turn? I can… take those?"

Zubian almost launched into a spiel about her system for clothing organization in wardrobes, but barely stopped herself. These were stopgap clothes until something proper could be furnished. She could impress the importance of organization on Matchless a little later.

(Matchless certainly wasn't her mistress, in a maidly sense, but they were to be coworkers and comrades in arms. Zubian would be the first to admit that she wasn't familiar with how these relationships were supposed to go.)

With the restroom free, she changed. Her scar remained, completely unchanged, but she was used to it at this point. It was as much of a part of her as her knees or toes. Maybe she could find someone who wouldn't mind it…? She shook her head. There was maidly business to be done and a war to be won!

Catching water from the faucet in her hands, she took a few gulps. Ice cold, but not enough to dampen the start of another headache. Urgh. She rubbed her head – a vain, useless gesture, unfortunately – as she left the restroom and frozen when Matchless gasped.

"Wha…?"

"Your scar!"

Oh. Her shirt had ridden up when she lifted her arm. "Something wrong?"

"It doesn't… hurt?"

She fought the urge to reach down and scratch it. It didn't even itch or anything, she had never managed to irritate it. It just… sat there. "It's fine."

As she settled into the bed Matchless kept on staring.

The war crept along. Matchless and Zubian both sent their next cubes to Scapa for Grand Fleet use. Their tribute was received gladly, but they never got to meet the ships in question. They heard bits and pieces, but their chances of a meeting were low.

The odds weren't quite so bad for Harwich, though, and a meeting was more liable to be actually useful. Their advice would probably be a bit more relevant to Dover than the girls at Scapa.

Of the lessons they learned from the Harwich Force, the first – and perhaps the one that stung the most – was the harsh contrast between destroyers and their seniors. Centaur loomed over Matchless and Zubian, all willowy grace and refined blonde beauty. On top of that, she was a maid!

(Both Matchless and Zubian couldn't help but feel a little envious of her. Refinement and beauty, the respect such a woman was owed…)

Fortunately, she felt no need to condescend as they made introductions. "It's an honor to meet you both. HMS Centaur, at your service."

"It's our honor to meet you!" Matchless smiled.

"Thank you for taking the time to meet with us." Zubian smiled, reaching out for a handshake. Centaur had a firm grip… and more calluses than Zubian had expected.

At the same time, Centaur's eyebrow rose. "A thumb ring… you're an archer?"

"Yeah. You…?"

"I've got quite the piece. Just… not for polite company, you know?" Centaur grinned, holding her hand up just a tiny bit above the top of her head (and those curiously pointy ears). Zubian's jaw fell slack. What a beast! A proper English longbow, not the Nubian composite she had.

"Mediterranean draw, then?"

"Yes. Strange, I thought the thumb draw was an Asiatic thing. Like the Mongols and such."

Matchless was looking back and forth between the two of them with a look of confusion on her face.

Critical support to Nubian in the fight against horny maids. I'll make it uncritical if she gets a decent top. (Her schtick is cute, she just has that problem a lot of the recent shipgirls seem to have, even in default skins. Cool your jets manjuu i beg of you.)

Tongaland/Amatongaland was Zulu territory eventually integrated into Natal while Ta Seti is an ancient Egyptian term for Nubia, literally meaning land of the bow. I wonder if ranger would have been a more fitting class than potion maker…

This isn't a super theme-heavy chapter but I wanted to write something Nubian-centric, I discovered the Zubian scenario… and voila. The headaches are supposed to be representative of a sort of suppressed Zulu/warrior half in contrast to happily domestic Nubian.

I had a specific idea about Nubian wanting to stand and fight. Like, "Suddenly, the chaos of battle agitated her headache no longer. The fog had lifted, and her mind was perfectly clear. She would hold her ground. She would fight, whether with spear or bow or torpedo. No matter their tribe, a noble brave did not run." Idk.