NOTE: This story is complete at my livejournal. All links to chapters can be found here: pink-bagels./27153.html

Longitude--chapter one

Author: pinkbagels

Summary: Lord Cutler Beckett may believe his powerful position is secure, but he's about to discover some unsettling facets of the future thanks to the business of Historical Reconstructionism.

A cheerful stream of sunlight bathed the flagship Endeavour in golden hues, and Lord Cutler Beckett surveyed the regal beauty of his ship, his hands clasped firmly behind his back as he approached the upper deck. A formal tea setting had been prepared for him as per his instructions, and he seated himself at the small table with all the restraint and delicacy that would befit a man of royalty. As rightly he should have, Beckett thought, for with each step he took in the right direction, the closer he came to those higher, inner circles of power. His current position as Commander of the Endeavour was already a coveted one, yes, but it was still a position of flux depending on his success at sea. No, Beckett thought, what he duly needed was the stability of a permanent post, and to obtain this he need gain even further favours from those in power above him.

The company was as close to the king as he was currently going to get, and though he had no wish for such lofty political office, he did have a longing for a governor's post and considerable land as recompense for being so far from his English shores. A warm climate would be welcome, perhaps somewhere in India. This latest mission ensured a sizeable reward, one made of a sprawling, successful estate that he could boast of in quality company. The morning air was still cool on his skin, and he turned his face towards the breeze. These were good ambitions.

They were in warmer waters now, and this early morning sun gave the ship's current enterprise a positivity it didn't deserve. By mid afternoon the true nature of this warmth would come about as a searing heat which would no doubt blanket them in its suffocating insistence. The Endeavour crew would suffer beneath the thickness of their wool coats, the warm waters and air refusing to collect even the slightest breeze for their relief, wrapping them instead in a pickling humidity. The forecastle of the ship would be bathed in their sweat, the stench of human contact unbearable.

Beckett sipped his tea, thankful for the fact his private cabin managed to always find a wayward breeze.

It was this small, insignificant detail that had become a point of interest for the black clad figure that moved, unnoticed, behind Beckett and his officers in the far vicinity of Beckett's private cabin. As Beckett sipped his tea, thinking on the spoils of his efforts and the future visit he must pay to his favoured tailor in France to adjust the cut of his trousers, the unknown stowaway picked open the window that so kindly often let in that welcome air, and slipped over its sill and into the confines of Beckett's cabin with all the grace of an underfed leech.

"Sir."

Annoyed that his morning tea ritual had been disturbed, Beckett placed his cup carefully back on its saucer, the corner of his mouth daintily dried with a crisp, lace-edged square of white linen. A thin shadow cut across his table, obscuring that delightful morning light.

"It's done, sir," Norrington said. Though he had used the proper words, there was no measure of respect in his address. 'Sir' had been spat from his gut at Beckett like a hag's curse.

Beckett was unmoved by the sentiment. "Excellent. I trust you have taken care of the body?"

Norrington's mouth was a twisted sneer. "Governor Swann deserves no less than a a proper burial," he said. "He was a good man."

"On the contrary," Beckett said, pouring himself a fresh cup of tea. "He was a traitor who associated closely with pirates. So closely, in fact, his own daughter has opted to make a career out of lawlessness. If he were on land, he'd have been thrown onto the traitorous heap with the others of his ilk. As we are at sea, toss his carcass overboard, and let the fish give him his eulogy."

Norrington's upper lip quivered in rage, but he wisely held his tongue.

"He's just dying to kill me," Beckett thought with no small amount of amusment. "Yet he won't because it would mean his final ruin."

"Admiral Norrington, as has so clearly been made evident, you did make your choice," Beckett reminded him. "Though perhaps you are still tainted by your experiences, I don't think I have to remind you that a fresh set of clothes and a piece of paper do not constitute what currently gainfully employs you. As an officer of the Endeavour, you are expected to act on behalf of her interests, and especially the interests of the company who owns her."

Norrington could hardly hold back his sneer. "The East India Trading Company has yet to show me something worth respecting," he said. "In fact, it seems hell bent on murdering the concept of decency."

"Careful," Beckett replied, his teaspoon dipped in sugar. "Your anarchy is showing. Perhaps you are regretting your decision to give up being a 'free' man." He closed his eyes as he brought his steaming teacup to his lips, its contents laced with fresh sweetness. "The concept of 'freedom' is for people like Jack Sparrow--People who have no hope for the future and nothing in the present. It is far more comfortable to live a civilised life like ours, Norrington." He took a delicious sip, his eyes closed in bliss. "No one can call you a coward for understanding that."

A large splash could be heard from the stern of the ship, and Beckett placed his tea cup back on its saucer, his demeanour cool. "It seems your little problem has already been resolved," Beckett said. "Mercer, bring me my logbook. I shall be sure to record the event, and have a death certificate issued immediately."

His logbook was dutifully placed in front of him, his quill and ink ready to inscribe with officious, cold purpose. But Norrington refused to leave, his presence casting an uncomfortable shadow that blotted out Beckett's much needed sunlight.

"Governor Swann is being put to rest starboard," Norrington said.

Beckett didn't touch his quill and ink. The blank pages before him remained in dark shadow, their sepia edges curling in the soft, morning breeze. On the far starboard side of the ship, Governor Swann's body was still shrouded, waiting for its burial beneath the unforgiving waves the sea.

"Alert the crew," Beckett said to Mercer, keeping his eyes riveted on Norrington as he spoke. "Find the stowaway."

"Interesting term," Norrington said to Beckett. "Is that what you call the lackeys of Davy Jones who keep crawling onto this ship?"

"No one comes onboard the Endeavour without my clearance," Beckett said to him. "Anyone who tries will hang."

Norrington smirked at this. He descended the small flight of stairs that separated Beckett from the main deck. Sunlight bore down on Beckett with a vengeance, blinding him.

"You can't hang the dead," Norrington said.

It was quite an effort to pull the creature from the water, and it certainly put up enough of a struggle to escape. In the end, it was two nets that caught it properly, and like the partial fish the monster was, the unholy soul found itself trapped within the woven squares of a sailor's knots, ready to be pulled onboard and gutted.

Beckett was incensed. The ownership of Davy Jones's heart had sealed a deal between them, one which said, unequivocally, that Beckett was in charge of the vile, undead pirate and his influence over the seas. The arrangement was not meant to be an opening for the miserable dead bound to Jones's ship to opt for mutiny aboard the Endeavour. It had become an increasing problem as of late, especially among Jones's newly dead, who still had ignorance over the confines of their otherworldly fate.

This creature seemed to be more seasoned, however, if its ghastly appearance told anything. Shining, oily looking black skin covered it from head to toe, making it look like a slimy eel. The skin itself was difficult for his men to hold onto, and the creature kept slipping from their grasp. A clank of metal aroused Beckett's morbid curiosity as they his officers worked to untangle the unfortunate soul from the nets, and he saw that the thing had two large cylinders made of what appeared to be steel growing from its back. It turned its face towards him, and he had to fight the gasp of disgust at how its eyes were fused into a solid panel of black glass, and its mouth a complicated mess of black tentacles that grew out from it. It rolled frantically within the nets as it tried to free itself, an ominous hiss pouring from the cylinders that cruelly dug into its back. A compass lay embedded between them, pointing due East--perhaps this unfortunate soul's last destination. There was no semblance of man left in this thing, Beckett knew. Its soul was now nothing more than a vehicle for Davy Jones's rage.

"If you are searching for mercy, you won't find it here," Beckett announced to the struggling creature. "Though I suspect that is not the reason you have tainted my ship with your presence. When you return to your place in the bowels of The Flying Dutchman, I suggest you give Davy Jones a message--One more insurgency against my vessel and I will slowly suffocate that miserable heart of his and give him a taste of what oblivion really feels like. There are to be no more visits from such disgusting, rotted sea rats such as yourself--Understood?"

"Lord Beckett, sir," Mercer said. He held out a large, black bag made of a shiny material. "It had this with it, sir."

Beckett took the bag from him, and frowned as he observed how the water beaded upon the bags surface like morning dew. He opened it and though it had been in the water the inside of the bag was perfectly dry.

"What new witchery is this?" Beckett dared to ask.

The creature let out a miserable howl. It broke free of the netting, and rose to its full height, an impressive stature that was a good few inches taller than Norrington. Six feet, perhaps, Beckett mentally measured, give or take an inch. A monstrous giant with long, black webbed feet that were clearly more accustomed to being underwater than on land as its wobbling gait suggested. It clawed at its own face with its black hands, a mournful, garbled growling being all that was left of its speech.

With one forceful yank the monster ripped the black tentacles from his mouth, an action that made even Mercer turn his head in disgust.

The thing took a long, hoarse, and seemingly thankful breath.

Beckett remained cool. "I have to wonder, just what is it in this bag that has so captured the attention of Jones that he sends his decaying lackey to find it? I imagine a pirate under the thumb of a dead man's curse for all eternity has more than just his heart up his sleeve. What shall I find here, I wonder? A lock of hair with unexpected supernatural properties? A gold tooth? An enchanted ring?"

Mercer reached into the bag and pulled out a large, white, rotund object. Beckett took it from him, his confusion transparent.

"A...Chamber pot?"

Beckett took it from Mercer and turned it over in his hands, noting with no small amount of consternation that not only was this hardly an item that would retain magical qualities, it was also his own. Curious, he reached into the black bag and took out more of its contents. A broken compass. Four death certificates of no one of import. An outdated map of Asia that he had been meaning to dispose of. A piece of loosened tile from his fireplace mantle. Nothing of value lay within the black bag, if anything it was all so much trash, and most of it his own. The silver tea set had been conspicuously avoided, as had his gold cuff links, his new chronometer and his safe that held the sums for their current expedition.

For reasons he couldn't quite define, the fact that his junk had been prized over that which he valued made him feel deeply offended.

"Toss that thing overboard," he said to his men, dismissive.

But before they could grab it, the creature reached up and pulled off its black window that had served as its eyes. Then, with alarming ease, it ripped its own black, slimy skin from its head, revealing not the contents of its skull, but a thick tumble of dry, black and red streaked hair.

Ignoring the blank stares it had earned, the creature, now significantly more human, slipped its webbed feet off, and stood barefoot and far more securely on the surface of the deck. Oddly tall and muscular, there was still no mistaking the tell-curves of hips and swell of an ample bosom to indicate that no, this creature was not a man, but a rather imposing woman. Large, intelligent green eyes shrewdly took in her surroundings with naked contempt.

"Ah, the eighteenth century. The Age of Reason, where superstition gave way to the obvious superiority of intellect and science," she said. "And yet they'll still hang you for stealing a piss-pot."

Her voice was sultry in its cadence, Beckett noted, but there was no cockney within it. Confidence had formed every word, and there was even an aura of privilege about her that Beckett couldn't help but respond to.

"I see Sparrow has sent us a fish of his own," Beckett said to her.

"Sparrow? No. Sadly, I've never met him. " She smoothed a thick lock of hair out of her sight, her eyes searching the deck around her. She let out a weary sigh. "Where is she?"

"Who?" Beckett asked.

"Mother," she said, a note of despondence in her speech. She kicked the nets that had previously bound her aside, her toes searching through them. "I seem to have misplaced her. Believe you me, much as I would love to jump overboard and be done with the lot of you, I'm afraid I can't go anywhere without her."

She sighed and placed a hand on her hip, the black skin of the suit she wore hugging her body so closely she might as well have been standing in the nude. She shielded her eyes against the morning glare of the sun, taking in her surroundings with all the ease of a well seasoned mariner.

"Is that tea?" she asked, pointing to Beckett's breakfast table.

It was with some protest that his 'guest' took the wool overcoat offered her by Norrington, its sleeves ending a few inches above her wrist, the shoulders far too narrow for her healthy frame. The cotton shirt she wore beneath it was a better fit, if not due to the fact it was supposed to be loose. The trousers had, of course, proved a problem, and while they fit her somewhat snugly at the waist, the hem stubbornly curled over her knees, rendering them naked. Beckett did his best not to stare, though it was clearly an effort for many of the men of his crew who hadn't had the company of a woman for months. With an uncomfortable cough, Beckett removed the tablecloth from the tea setting, and placed it over the woman's scandalously shapely legs.

He poured her a cup of tea, but the woman ignored it, being far too preoccupied with scratching her arms.

"Damn, I knew this thing would be full of fleas.."

Beckett ignored the comment and placed a white napkin neatly in his lap. "I take it as a mortal being you suffer from the usual ailments--thirst and hunger." A large, silver domed platter was brought to the table its steaming contents of potatoes and heavily seasoned beef revealed with pompous flourish.

"A bit heavy for breakfast, don't you think?" his guest observed.

"One must keep up one's strength," Beckett replied, eagerly digging in. "Now, tell me again. Just what exactly is your employ?"

"Historical reconstructionist," she replied.

"Interesting term," Beckett said as he placed a healthy amount of potatoes on his plate. "I suppose it sounds better than 'pirate'." He smiled and dabbed at the corners of his mouth with his starched white napkin. "We seem to have forgone some of the usual formalities of guests who dine together, one of which being that I do not yet know your name."

"Larry," she said.

Beckett coughed, doing his best to hide his amusement.

"Larry is a man's name," he told her.

"It's the fault of my father's family traditions. My great-grandfather started it, he named all of his children after notable ancestors. This went on for a couple of generations, and of course the only name left by the time it got round to me was Larry." She poured herself a half a cup of tea, and inspected it carefully before drinking it. "Apparently, that ancestor lost both his arms and an eye in an explosion."

"So, I expect your family gave you the moniker One-Eyed Armless Larry," Beckett said, amused.

"No," she replied, staring back at Beckett as though he were an imbecile. "They called me Larry."

"Well...," Beckett said, raising a brow as he took another slice of beef. "I am..."

"Lord Cutler Beckett. Yes, of course I know who you are," she impatiently said. She stared at his fork, wincing at every chew he took of his food.

"Is there something wrong?" Beckett asked.

"I've been in your galley," Larry said. "There's enough flies there to start a plague and I don't think your cook has washed his hands since the century started." She made a face and gingerly poked at the food before her with a knife. "Just how old is this beef? It looks a little gamey to me."

"Not old," Beckett said, shrugging. "Only a couple of weeks."

Larry fixed him with a stony glare.

"I'll just stick to the potatoes, thanks," she said.

"Keeping away the scurvy," Beckett observed.

"Among other things," Larry replied. She sighed, poking her potatoes with her fork. "Without Mother I have no access to antibiotics and the vaccinations only take care of so much. Sorry if this offends you, but the eighteenth century is hardly a hallmark of cleanliness. It's all sweat, piss, lice and syphilis."

Beckett choked on his mouthful of food, and it was only after several indelicate gulps of tea that he managed to ease it down his throat.

"Yet, Mother, as you call her, sent you here," he said, regaining his composure. "Mother, who is still somewhere on my ship."

"Yes."

"You were sent..to steal my chamber pot."

Larry sighed, and pushed her food away from her. "I know it's impossible for you to understand, in all honesty even I don't understand it. I mean, sure, Colin and Justin now say Baroque is the thing, but personally, I find all that gaudy, curly gold gilded mess tacky." She leaned back in her chair, her arm draped over the back of it in a casual pose more befitting a man than a woman. "Let's put it this way--I'm a bit of a fortune teller. And hunter. I get a good look at what's valued in future markets, and I'm their main supplier. For me, the more devalued the items I pick up in their time, the better--I get a better profit margin that way. For instance, your piss-pot is just about worthless to you now, because to you it's common, everyday and maybe even a little embarrassing. But someday, piss-pots will be in very limited supply, specifically piss-pots from the 18th century. They are ceramic, and weren't exactly designed to last for four hundred years..."

"It would be a rather unusual inheritance for my lineage," Beckett agreed.

"You're not taking me seriously," Larry said, annoyed. "Imagine, if your narrow little brain is capable of such an act, one of the far removed ancestors freed from the Wicked Wench commissioning someone to find your chamber pot. Imagine, if you can, being paid over forty-thousand pounds for the purchase of your piss-pot so this distant ancestor can regale his company with the tale of how his forefather was rescued from Lord Cutler Beckett's slave ship--Lord Cutler Beckett, a man who now has no money, no life, no respectable legacy and not even, my dear friend, the very pot he pissed in!"

Beckett's appetite was effectively quashed. He pushed his plate away and snapped his fingers to have the table cleared. The cheerful morning sun had now given way to the ensuing onslaught of heat, but Beckett had no problem remaining cool beneath it.

"You can tell your 'Mother', otherwise known as Jack Sparrow, that his ridiculous ransom of forty-thousand pounds will never be paid. In fact, he will not get anything so much as a half-penny for the promise of your freedom."

Larry nodded her head, as if understanding. "What the hell are you talking about?" she asked.

"This coded language of yours, interesting though it is, is not so hard to decipher. Wicked Wench. Forty-thousand pounds. Mother and you. I wonder, just how important do you think you are to Jack when he would so easily abandon you to your fate? I hate to be the one to tell you this, but...You are not the first woman to be betrayed by him, just ask Elizabeth Swann..."

"You don't believe me," an angry Larry replied. Her sharp green eyes flashed with fury, and Beckett had to wonder just how she fit into the Jack puzzle. She certainly didn't give him the impression she was subject to naiveté, and though she was a tad ignorant of polite graces, she was no village wench. She was Jack's lover perhaps, though some instinct in Beckett told him this was unlikely. She looked far too capable of smacking Jack into oblivion.

"No wonder the books paint you so harshly. You really are an asshole."

Beckett motioned to his officers, and whispered over his shoulder to Mercer. "She's clearly insane. Let her finish her tea and then take her to the brig. Try to ensure the officers do not treat her too harshly." He set his napkin upon the table, his hands resting comfortably in his lap.

"Books," he said to her, knowing full well she could not possibly afford such luxuries. "What, pray tell, do they say of me?"

She grabbed the strange, waterproof and paper thin black bag she had crawled onboard his ship with, and pulled out a thick, flimsy yellow volume which she then slammed in front of him.

"See for yourself," she spat at him. "I've taken the liberty of bookmarking it."

Curious, Beckett picked up the flimsy volume, its cover made of a material that seemed to be paper, but was only slightly thicker. It was coloured in bright yellow hues, with a strange, childish black and white ink drawing of what appeared to be a man pointing at a slate board.

"18th Century History For Dummies," Beckett read aloud. Frowning, he turned to the page she had marked with a piece of thick, waxy paper. There were stains on the pages, rings of what looked to be tea in the upper right hand corner. The piece of paper she had used to hold her place in the book had the word 'starbucks' written on it in bold, green letters. He scanned the page, finding a small history of the East India Trading Company comprising most of its bulk and there, beneath it all in a typeface so small he could barely read it, was a footnote:

"Lord Cutler Beckett was a slave trader of minor note and is known most famously for his zealotry against pirates. Many innocent men, women and children were executed without trial under the suspicion of piracy for a period of two weeks. It is believed that Beckett's hatred of pirates began with his dealings with the infamous pirate Captain Jack Sparrow, who had freed a cargo ship of slaves while under Beckett's employ. Beckett's ire was short lived, however, as he died mere weeks after instigating his 'war on piracy', succumbing to a severe bout of dysentery in 1772.

see chapter seven, 'Noble Pirates', pages 37-48"

Beckett fumed. "What slander is this?"

"I tried to warn you," Larry said. "Don't get mad at me, I didn't write your history."

She gave Beckett a dismissive shrug.

"You did."