The sea was glassy, and not one cloud bothered to trek across the vast, azure sky that stretched from horizon to horizon. At times like this, floating aboard a freighter in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, it wouldn't be difficult to imagine that it was suspended motionlessly in the middle of an immense, blue sphere - indeed, the occasional flapping of the American flag hoisted high above the starboard was the only indication that the ship was moving at all. The massive steam engine propelling the USS Cyclops forward was the only cause of the artificial breeze that almost imperceptibly weaved its way through the ship's deck.
In spite of the gentle calm of the sea, a volatile atmosphere currently plagued the USS Cyclops. Including the crewmen and their captain, the ship was carrying a little over 300 passengers. This particular ship had the misfortune of being commanded by one George Worley - a man who was (not even slightly affectionately) christened "The Damned Dutchman." This wasn't because of his German heritage (his real name was Johan Wichmann), or even because of his sympathies with the Germans (in spite of the turmoil raging across the ocean). It was simply because, modestly speaking, George Worley was one of the most wretchedly vexatious human beings to ever have lived. Ironically, while effortlessly maintaining the rigors of being a particularly horrible person, he was also a notably accomplished Captain - having served in the Navy just shy of 20 years. In fact, in spite of many attempts by his crew to remove him from his position through (mostly) official channels, Worley remained one of the most efficient and competent Captains of the auxiliary service. He was always infuriatingly there, Captain of the USS Cyclops, defiantly proving that one need not be pleasant, or even decent, to obtain and maintain a position of power.
Today especially had been a strenuous day aboard the Cyclops, as a minor disagreement about political views between Captain Worley and the surgeon's apprentice, Ensign Howard, had inexplicably resulted in Worley confining him to his quarters for the remainder of the Cyclops' nonstop week long journey. It, unsurprisingly, was no secret that paranoia wracked Worley's every thought, and even the slightest perception of disloyalty or mutinous action would likely involve him, for lack of a better term, erupting at the perceived source of the indignation (and anyone nearby). His nasty temper was so glaringly overt, the crew (and no small number of non-crew) began calling anybody with an unsavory disposition a "regular Worley." Suffice it to say, the phrase caught on quickly (as things often do on a crowded ship) and was eventually an integral part of nautical slang aboard the Cyclops. Usually, Worley's presence would have stopped the slang that was coined (not really) in his honor; however, increasing numbers of people using it emboldened others to do so as well. After all, he couldn't throw the whole ship in their quarters, could he?
George Worley was pissed.
It was bad enough, he reflected, that he had to deal with such gross, disrespectful incompetence throughout his crew. But now even the passengers were becoming disrespectful towards him - an honorable US Navy Captain no less – and, on top of that, assumed he would do nothing. As far as he was concerned, a Captain that allowed his whole crew (or anyone, for that matter) to treat him as a joke was a joke - and as soon as he was universally viewed as a joke, he would subsequently be viewed as weak. And a weak Captain didn't stay a Captain for very long.
They thought he wasn't intelligent enough to see where this was going.
They thought he wasn't clever.
He had to do something.
But first, he had to figure out what "something" was.
As his pallid face contorted deep in thought, Worley patrolled the hallways of the ship's quarters, only occasionally using his signature cane (an object wielded more commonly for "discipline" than balance, unless, of course, he was drunk). He suddenly stopped walking as he overheard boisterous laughter around the corner. Eavesdropping has always been one of my more... fruitful skills, he reflected, lying flat against the wall, just out of sight of the laughing crewmen. I look bloody ridiculous, hethought, a grown Officer of the US Navy spying on his own crew and passengers. But the need for information sometimes eclipsed the need for dignity. If there were, in fact, a mutinous plot, nothing would stop him from finding out about it.
Worley listened.
"And so I said, bend over and I'll show you what it does!" said one voice, with what he must have thought was perfect comedic flair.
The end of this joke that Worley was listening in on was met with further laughter from two men, including the one that told the joke. He was, however, able to stifle his laughter long enough to say "Oh, come on Hodge, have a chuckle. That was funny as hell. You don't have to be a 'Worley' about it!"
That was it.
Worley rather suddenly showed himself, surprising the two Ensigns that happened to be facing him. The other Ensign, the one telling the jokes, had his back turned. He continued talking, oblivious to reason behind the abrupt silence.
"Oh, what? Holmes, you too? It's not like the bugger is anywhere near us. He's probably out on deck, cursing the wind for not blowing hard enough -"
Ensign Holmes and Ensign Hodge's faces were pallid as they stared helplessly over the Ensign's shoulders, their eyes were frozen in abject horror. Having realized the implications of the unspoken words of his comrades, the joker reluctantly turned around.
"C-Captain Worley. Sir!" He tried to manage a salute, but his nerves made him smack his eye as his hand quickly assaulted what he could have sworn was supposed to have been his forehead.
This seemed to infuriate the Captain even further.
"Ensign.. Cain, is it?" said Worley, in an uncomfortably calm voice. The tall, lanky Ensign who was laughing just a few seconds earlier nodded more vigorously than, perhaps, was necessary to confirm that he knew his name. Worley continued, every word spoken slowly, deliberately: "It seems that you feel that I am a joke."
"N-no sir!" Cain's skinny face now glistened with nervous sweat. "It was just a bit of fun, honest! I would never -"
"BUT YOU DID!" Worley's voice boomed, suddenly thunderous. He inhaled noticeably deeply, then proceeded to speak calmly once more. "I'm sorry. Sometimes my emotions get the better of me." Indeed, Worley's round face was flushed red with anger, a vein beginning to pulsate in his left temple. Odd, then, that a slight smile would cross it as he continued to speak. "What I mean to say, Ensign Cain, is while you may view what you call 'a bit of fun' as just that, there are others -" his gazed now pierced at the two horrified Ensigns behind Cain "Who would take me, by extension of your 'bit of fun' joke as an actual joke. Tell me, Cain," he looked back at the lanky crewman, "If you were a Captain, and your crew was making a mockery of you, how would you handle it?"
Cain stammered – "Well… I-I didn't think -"
"I had noticed that," Worley spat, indignant. "Nonetheless," he continued, "examples must be made. If I am a joke to you, I am a joke to others. If I am a joke to others, they think me weak. If I am weak, then I am unfit to lead. If I am unfit to lead, there will be a mutiny." Worley paused as a foreboding silence hung in the air. "What you have done, Ensign Cain, is no less than conspiracy to commit mutinous actions." As he was speaking, Worley swiftly removed his revolver from his holster and aimed it at Ensign Cain, who then began to sob like an abandoned child. The other two Ensigns ran off, eager to live another day. Worley slowly pulled back the hammer, cocking the revolver, a larger, deranged smile now dominating his face.
"Let me show you what happens to people who want to stage a mutiny."
Before the situation progressed further, a steady voice spoke softly, but clearly, behind Worley.
"Ensign Cain. You do not look well. I must insist on using my authority as the ship's surgeon to immediately dismiss you to the infirmary."
"Y-yes sir!" replied a stammering Cain, as he immediately proceeded to run as fast as his legs would allow to the infirmary.
Worley spun around, gun in hand. "Asper," he sneered in an especially venomous tone. "Did you just undermine the authority of the Captain of this ship?" In an instant, Worley appeared to regain composure, displaying the type of calm you may experience while in the eye of a hurricane.
A short, hefty man of about 60 looked back at him, unfazed and sincere. "I would never presume to do that, my Captain. As I have told you on a few occasions, it is my primary duty as assigned by the great United States Navy to place the health of all the –"
"Shut UP. Just shut up." He now aimed his revolver directly at Asper's head, all composure leaving him. "You would lead them, wouldn't you, old man? They would follow you, march over my dead body and help you send it to a watery grave -"
Just then, a shout echoed through the hallway. "Captain! You are immediately needed on deck! It is an emergency!"
Worley stared for what seemed like an eternity into the eyes of Asper, who stared back, giving absolutely no emotion in return. Lowering and holstering the revolver, Worley took a few steps towards him, leaned into his ear, and said: "I am already 5 steps ahead of you and your mutiny, Asper. You will never have my ship. Not while I yet live." After another pause, Worley quickly strode down the hallway, towards the deck.
Worley emerged from the quarters onto the deck to find a large group of people doing nothing but gazing intently towards the horizon. No "wind" was blowing, so it would appear the USS Cyclops was at a complete stop. "What in the nine hells are you dogs looking at?" he yelled, spotting the crewmen towards the front of the queue. He was met with no reply, so he forced his way through the throng, cursing at anyone in his proximity just to remind them he was there. Then, as he emerged from the last cluster of people, he saw it.
"Impossible," he said, accurately.
Off towards the horizon, the sea ceased to be blue, and seemingly did this for miles and miles. Instead, it was a bright, nearly transparent, shimmering white.