“Such violence and bravery, Captain.”
The elegant woman’s voice feigned admiration. She sat across a worn oak table from the grizzled man. The dim tavern’s flickering oil lamps danced a bloody shimmer on the surface of her wine. She sipped. Sighed.
“But your pretty story does little to explain why you are here, in my domain.”
The old man’s rough sea-weathered brow may have wrinkled at the gentle chastise. Tough to tell, with something so very weathered and wrinkled. He smiled through a roughly graying beard.
“I’ve not finished my story, m’lady. I do love to go on, don’t I?”
She returned the smile. Decades of camaraderie, anger, hope, and disgust conveyed with such a tiny gesture.
“You are ever the man I knew.”
“How could I ever change?” He sipped from his mug of beer. “Now, where was I?”
Her eyes flared. “They were all dead.”
“Ah yes, they most certainly were.”
I tugged on the cutlass hilt, my leather boot providing forceful leverage against the beast’s shattered chest. With a great jerk, the blade escaped, sluicing past inhuman organs and grating against ribs as it came free.
“That’s a blade made for slashing, Captain. Stabbing like that will get you killed.”
My Master-at-Arms wiped the blade of his own sword free of blood. It was a single-edged thing, less cumbersome than my cutlass, and much more suited for a variety of fighting styles. He slammed his blade home into its scabbard. Slapped the pistol on his hip with a battle-scarred hand. Tapped the magazines on his belt, feeling their weight. Under his loose-fitting black combat fatigues, he was a lean man, with muscles like the bamboo groves of his homeland. Those muscles were relaxing now that the danger had passed, but they would never fully ease.
“I could get you a better sword. That’s what I’m saying.”
“I’m comfortable with this old blade.”
My Master-at-Arms nodded. “As you say.”
There is tranquility after battle. When the chemical bursts that allow us to perform such violence have ebbed, and before full comprehension of what has happened and what it must mean for the future has risen to the surface of our thoughts. Redeeming Fancy rocked gently upon the calm Antarctic seas, propelled through the chill waters by humming fusion motors. Creaking timbers and fluttering sails sang together a peaceful background melody. Sloshing waves and the distant wail of gulls hummed along in harmony.
This tranquility was only occasionally interrupted: By scaly scraping as my sailors dragged the corpses of our adversaries to the gunwales; by hungry splashes as they hurled the bodies into the voracious depths; by creative profanity that seasoned the cleanup effort like ground glass from a pepper mill.
But eventually, the chemicals recede, and the thoughts rise, like the unforgiving tides.
“This was not a total loss.”
I held up the stone, a glimmering piece of obsidian as large as a ship’s logbook. The Antarctic twilight shimmered off the runes carved into the stone. I squeezed the knife-sharp edges until my own blood dripped from fresh cuts to spatter on the deck.
“A costly mission, but there was much gained.”
“The stone?”
She asked as though it were nothing, just mild curiosity, an almost nonchalant lightness in her tone. But her eyes widened ever so much more than they should have.
The old man’s eyes squinted in return. “Let me tell my story, m’lady. Please.”
“The Underdwellers expected us, Captain.”
My Master-at-Arms was ever a calm man, but his words held barely sheathed fury.
“Somehow, they knew where and when we’d be. And next time, they’ll be even more prepared.”
The squeak of rubber shoes on wooden decks alerted us to my Quartermaster’s arrival.
“Well, fuck them. We’ll be more prepared, too.”
She nudged her way between us. Her electronic tablet nestled in the crook of her elbow. The screen’s glow illuminated her bloodied t-shirt, highlighting the faded Starfleet logo. Her neon green Crocs squeaked on the wooden planks as she shifted from foot to foot.
“I already have some ideas about how they found us. We’ll talk about that later, but for now we have some more urgent needs.”
I nodded. The last of the bloodlust seeped from my brain and opened room for sorrow. We had slain many of the attackers, but not all the battle’s losses were on their side.
“Who did we lose?”
“Ortega is gone.”
My Quartermaster looked hard at her computer, avoiding eye contact. Jimmy Ortega, the ship’s carpenter, was a close friend. My Quartermaster knew she had a job to do, but the pain waited just below the surface.
“Simons and Edgar aren’t looking good. Many more injured.” She coughed past brimming emotion. “Doc says she needs supplies. Med-nanites if she can get them, but at least early 21st century quality stuff, regardless.”
“Then let’s get them.” I rested my hand on her shoulder. I surveyed the ship, noting the damage from the attack. “And we need to replace Ortega. A ship without a good carpenter isn’t fit to call itself a ship.”
“And now, finally, we get to the purpose of your visit.” Another slow sip of wine. “Captain, you do chart the least direct course to your destination.”
“The best stories happen on the journey, Countess. Why hurry to the destination?”
She nodded and cast her eyes down. “Flippant as I may act, I am sorry for your losses.”
“Thank you.”
“Let’s see if the Roster has prepared anyone for us,” I said.
I stomped aft, across the bloodied deck, toward my cabin. My Quartermaster and Master-at-Arms fell in step behind me. I called for my Navigator and Engineer to join us. They hurried from their work, tending to the damaged ship and sailors, and met us as we entered the gloomy darkness of my abode.
Dim light shone through stained glass windows onto the unlabeled cover of an ancient book, which lay alone on a mahogany podium. As we approached, the book opened, flipping through several scribble-covered pages before settling on a clean one. A ghostly quill materialized above the blank page. It began to write.
My Quartermaster squeaked forward. She leaned over, balancing her computer precariously in the crook of an elbow. As she read the newly formed words, she cross-referenced what she read with information on her computer.
“We’re close to a candidate up on the east coast of North America, early 2000s. We can snag that dude, easy peazy.” She looked back at the tablet screen and scrolled up. “No big deal, right Nav?”
My Navigator grumbled in agreement and nodded, running a calloused hand through a beard that had never met a pair of clippers it couldn’t defeat. “I have Fancy sailing nor’east. I can take us around the hump, then we’ll steer for the northern New World. Don’t wanna push her too hard right now.” He tugged at his beard and the hint of a tear formed in the corner of his right eye. “Those ruffians beat her arse pretty naughty back there.”
“Thank you, Navigator. We will get her back to shipshape,” I said. “Engineer, will the propulsion systems hold that far?”
Standing at least a foot above the other officers, my Engineer crossed his metallic arms. His voice whirred like a mis-configured auto-tune program. “Damaged, but they will hold.”
The ship lurched. A grinding vibration shook through the floorboards before smoothing out again.
The human side of my Engineer’s face frowned. He continued, “They should hold. I will not push them. Use sail power as much as possible. Support structures need repairs soon.”
“That’ll do. Looks like…” My Quartermaster tapped at her computer. “So, Nav, if you get us outside the Chesapeake Bay in Virginia…” tap tap. “Looks like we can hit a convergence around 1862. If we can keep the engine systems up… And if…” tap tap. Her fingers danced fleetly across the screen with the exuberance of a child solving a puzzle. “Yeah, Nav, you get us to the Chesapeake around 1862. Captain, see if you can get the Tavern synced up.”
My mustache curved above an involuntary smile, and my mind turned to thoughts distinctly unrelated to the topic at hand. “Of course. I will notify the Countess of our travel plans. It has been some time since we corresponded.” With urgency, I forced my lips back into an appropriately stern and authoritative form. “I know she will prepare the Tavern for our arrival and recruitment needs.”
“So presumptuous,” she smiled.
The man reached across the table and took the woman’s hands gently in his.
“Have you ever let me down?”
Her smile broadened. “I would never dream of such a betrayal.”
My Quartermaster’s focused squint implied a mind spelunking to depths where she couldn’t bother with social niceties. She continued to scroll and tap. “So with the Tavern… we can leverage that… and…” She looked up from her screen. “So then we’re in Virginia in 2019. Get me midsummer or so. And then, boom! We’re recruiting a new carpenter and grabbing supplies!” she finished, breathless.
“We have a plan. Officers, you have your orders.” I stood. “Go forth.”
“Aye aye, Captain.”
The officers filed out of my stateroom. The Quartermaster was the last to leave, looking over her shoulder with an optimistic grin. I returned the smile until the door slammed shut.
I took the Roster from its podium and set it on my desk. With a deep breath, I slouched back in my chair for a moment. I filled a long-stemmed ivory pipe, tamped, lit, puffed, tamped, re-lit. Finally, I leaned forward, looking at the name my Quartermaster had so excitedly researched.
“Devin Cole.” I chewed on the end of the pipe as wobbling pillars of smoke snuck out past my nose hairs. “What do you bring to us, Mister Cole? What value and what troubles?”
“So here I am.” He leaned back in the wooden chair, fingers crossed over his generous belly.
“Indeed you are,” she said. “And soon, Mister Cole will be here as well.”
–CONTINUE READING Chapter 1–Cannery Blows
Copyright 2024 Abram Dress
Great comments from riinicat:
This phrase
"There is tranquility after battle. When the chemical bursts that allow us to perform such violence have ebbed, and before full comprehension of what has happened and what it must mean for the future has risen to the surface of our thoughts."
Does not have to pertain to a really battle fought in the field or on a pirate ship. It can pertain to an ugly argument, when emotion is high. It can be like an "Oh shit moment" Did I really say that?
Even if a person apologizes and is granted forgiveness, there is no undoing, is there? LIKE the physical battle.
And a little later in the story,
"But eventually, the chemicals recede, and the thoughts rise, like the unforgiving tides. "
Good job!
Waiting for Monday's addition to the story.
Riinicat