An aim in life is the only fortune worth finding.
- Robert Louis Stevenson
(o0o).o.(o0o).o.(o0o).o.(o0o) .o.(o0o)
The RLS Victory was sailing close-hauled directly into the solar winds, causing an unfortunate drop in speed—though it was necessary. The merchant-class Pinnance was earthbound, just inside of the atmosphere of Cape's Lost Moon and coming about to Port Carib from the south. Though her make was usually small and utilized as a tender, the Victory was a bit larger type, though she still had little in the way of heavy armament. Having just left the Horseshoe Nebula en route from Porto Bello, a less than reputable isle, she was ready to make port and deliver cargo to an accredited buyer who, risk-taker he may be, was legitimate enough for her captain to trust.
The captain of the vessel couldn't be called anything less than an intrepid risk-taker himself, in fact. During what came to be called the Battle at Procyon, he had risen through the naval ranks remarkably fast, earning a medal or two along the way and seeing much more of the fighting he had been anxious for than previously expected. No longer at arms with the Procyons, there seemed to be no other entity that posed an immediate threat to the Empire, and this being so, Commander Hawkins left the Interstellar Navy.
Amelia Smollet had once done the same thing, though her reason was more because of a disagreement on the importance between protocol and results, and just as she had returned when the Ironclad raiders had appeared, he had no doubt that he would join once again when the time called for it. But, with the Procyon's identity as the mysterious Ironclads being revealed, the horizon held no visible threat in sight, and he didn't see it happening any time soon. After all, the past eight years had been quieter than a breeze off the Tamarind Islands.
The breeze today, however, was more like a gale.
"Haul in that sail a bit more!" The booming voice of the first mate rang out over the roaring wind. He was a tall Cragorian, still fairly young in his mid-twenties with hard skin an ashen-gray. With his usual stoic-expression, he turned to the captain just slightly, sharp eyes keeping watch at the progress with the sails, saying, "I fear we are close to being stalled, sir, with these unpredictable winds."
"Not much we can do—not during this time of the year," James Hawkins said to him, the two of them looking the same as they had when fighting under the Navy's flag, old uniforms and all. "And with the dock directly upwind… well, I've never even seen a ship this size winched into dock, personally. It'll be interesting to see if we make it."
Mr. Onyx regarded the captain's smile with a raised brow. "Your sense of humor is as displaced as ever."
"You know me. Anything to quell the boredom." Captain Hawkins chuckled, catching the slight grin tugging at his first mate's stern face. Perhaps that statement was a bit of exaggeration. Cargo runs like these may have been quieter, but they were still lively enough, what with the strange ports they got to see. It was the less frequent commissions that he liked best, however, usually by mapmakers or other adventurers who wanted to journey to the edges of the civilized empire—those were when things got interesting.
Mr. Onyx continued shouting orders as they neared port, as usual, and Jim, feeling oddly unnecessary on deck, wandered toward the side, looking down at the green surface below. Cape's Lost Moon was a dwarf planet and an uncommonly inhabited one at that. It was rich with oxygen, water, and plant life—all obvious prerequisites—but also extremely fertile soil, having at one time been the hubbub of crop cultivation for the entire Denebola-system side of the Empire. The cities now were flourishing more than anything else, and the sight below was actually somewhat impressive. Port Carib had man-made channels dug deep into the earth, allowing large ships such as the RLS Victory to dock, and with the city itself hugging the side of the chasm, the whole thing looked like a wound on the planet's green surface.
Coming in closer to the main channel, the ship continued to drop altitude as a harbor tug boat came alongside, its pilot shouting further instructions. Docking was normally a simple enough procedure when in space, since solar winds were a tad bit more manageable than earth winds. Here, the ship would come down into the artificial canyon, instead of docking above the surface of, say, a spaceport where a docking platform could be raised up to it. The dock at this port was horizontal and more in the style of a marine port, but at least if the winds were less than favorable, the ship couldn't swing down and smash onto the boardwalk itself—or any other buildings.
The RLS Victory docked without issue under Mr. Onyx's careful eye, the fair-sized ship looking quite large next to smaller transport vessels. Jim scanned the crowd for the familiar face of Creighton Wilcott, the man whose shipment of silks and other textiles sat in the cargo hold. After several minutes, though, it was clear he was nowhere to be seen in the mess of crowds.
Since Cape's Moon was an important way station for any traveler coming out of the RNSS Territory from the south of the Empire (and for those who had just crossed the broken territories that cut across the middle of it), the dwarf planet displayed a wide array of inhabitants in a collision of culture and commerce. A large portion of the middle class called this port home, though the dress of those here seemed extravagant enough just with its diversity. A number of men wore more traditional waistcoats, some long and narrow while others were short with large buttons, with or without colored wigs. Others wore anything from plain-colored frocks to sherwani jackets with standing collars to kimonos with loose hakama pants. The women varied greatly more; several wore trousers while others were clothed head to foot in flowing robes complete with head coverings in a flashy show of rare outer planet dyes.
After a moment of searching, Jim found the man's daughter standing at the railing at the edge of the channel. He had probably glanced over her several times before and had not even realized it was her—Elena Wilcott carried with her a timid posture, causing her to be easily overlooked, and was small besides. She was pale like her father with freckles splashed across her face, and her hair was pulled back as usual in a bonnet. Once the gangplank was up and ready and things in enough order, Jim stood out on the dock, hoping to catch her attention. Since it was captured by the bustle of the crowds and the docking of a nearby ship, however, he fought his way towards her.
"Miss Wilcott," he greeted her with a polite smile, hurriedly pulling off the hat he had forgotten he was wearing. She adjusted her glasses in her usual way before smiling back and curtsying just slightly.
"Captain Hawkins!" she said with a nod. "I hope your voyage went well? The star Rana did go supernova about ten parsecs from where you were, and I imagine without an atmosphere in the way, it must have been a fantastic sight!"
"I'm afraid we might have missed it. We were probably in the middle of the Horseshoe Nebula at the time."
Her face lit up at the idea of that. "Oh, she must have been a grand sight to see just by herself. Though I suppose to a spacer… nebulae are more trouble than a pretty sight is worth."
"That's true—I've had my own trouble in them, but this one is crossable with the right crew," he replied. "Having done it a dozen or so times before helps as well."
"I would imagine so, especially with a captain that is so expectorant—expiratory—I mean experienced!" she said with a nervous laugh, nodding and looking down at her feet as usual when the conversation dwindled down to nothing.
"Not to sound in a rush, Miss Wilcott, but is your father going to be late today? The man is usually so punctual."
She looked down, smoothing her dress with a gloved hand. "Father hasn't been feeling well, actually. He did want you to know that his men are on their way and would bring everything to our warehouse, and that once you were there, one of the managers would give you the rest of your papers—I mean payment."
"Of course, but—how is he?" He began to notice the absence of her usual pestering questions about the journey and what cosmological happenings they might have witnessed along the way.
"He… is sick," she replied, looking towards the Victory or perhaps the sky behind her. After a moment, she seemed to pull head back from the clouds. "Captain, did you happen to notice if Maia 20 was still visible? The scientific journal from the capital said she was close to becoming a black hole, and she seemed dark the last time we had a clear night, but then again the glass in my telescope tends to collect dust…"
"Sir." Onyx was suddenly standing behind him, handing him a small package. "You left this on the navigator's desk. Good morning, Miss Wilcott." He lifted his hat with a smile as Jim ran a thumb across the brown paper that covered the book in his hand.
"This is for you, actually," he said, handing the girl the package. Excitement washed over her face as she took it, running a gloved hand over its surface without opening it.
"…Oh. Many thanks, Captain Hawkins," she replied quietly with a smile, still looking surprised at the sudden gift when Jim had already made a habit of it—he always brought the girl something. "I—well, I suppose I should return home. If there is any trouble at the warehouse…"
"We'll find you at the shop."
She nodded, backing up and nearly tripping as she did so. Since both knew she'd catch herself, neither man even flinched—just smiled awkwardly.
"One thing, Miss Wilcott," Jim said as she was turning to go. "Would it be alright if I stopped in on your father, later?" He'd have to tell off the old coot for being sick—and give him a recount of all the things that went wrong on their route, of course, all the while listening to the man brag that he himself could have done it in half the time with half the crew back in his day.
"Whenever you're done, Captain," she said with a nod, disappearing into the crowd.
A moment of silence passed before Onyx gave Jim a knowing look out of the corner of his eye. "You're sweet on her," he said with a grin.
"I am not! She… reminds me of a family friend." It was true. Had the girl been Canid, he actually would've questioned Doppler's faithfulness to his wife. "And she's a nice kid."
"She's a woman." Onyx chuckled, causing Jim to shoot him an irritated look. "And you could use a nice woman in your life."
"You—" Jim couldn't think of a response to that, still slightly stunned by his friend's sudden brashness. "…Well. Say, where are you off to in such a hurry?" He hadn't neglected to notice Onyx already had his things with him, and though it wasn't as if he was really needed here, Jim usually appreciated the company.
"I'm sure the postman has a stack of letters with my name on it—and by the time I get through them, I will hardly have time to write a response before the office closes."
Jim didn't really have a good counterargument to that—Onyx's wife was a woman that would put the fear of God into you, with a side of respect for herself as well. Instead, he just emphasized a sigh, rolling his eyes as he muttered, "Short leash." Just loud enough for his past classmate to hear, of course.
Onyx chuckled as he left, lifting a hand in farewell.
"One day," the man said in his gruff voice, sounding decades older than Jim despite their close age.
With a derisive snort, he turned back to the ship, heading down the dock to where the crew was quickly unloading heavy crates from below deck. That was one day that never had to come, he decided. This—the open etherium with a trustworthy ship under his boots—this was all he needed.
.o.(o0o).o.
The first of Nickolas Avery's frustrations began with an intricate scheme resulting from the narcissistic and kleptomaniac tendencies of the subsequent parties involved.
Or for simplicity's sake, it began three parsecs past the edge of the Denebola galaxy.
Four days ago.
The last sail of The Star of Celt fell dark against the backdrop of space, cutting vital energy to her engines as the speedy craft slowed to a crawl in light of the blackguards pursuing her. The merchant ship was a Barque, identical to her hunter in nothing—years of experience, the pirate's upper hand in the form of extra sail and weapon, or size—though the last was dominated by the merchant. Smoke jumped in a rapid dance from the second mast of the civilian ship, her first being the only one left intact seeing as how her below-deck sails had been carried away by an asteroid fragment only half an hour earlier—much to the pleasure of her pursuers. The Bloody Mary closed in on her prey, twin metal pincers on the starboard side extending and clamping down into the railing and deck of the later. With this last move, the battle was decided as The Celt ran up her white flag.
The pirate ship's captain had been standing at the helm only moments ago, a look on his face dark enough to suggest he was channeling the spirit of Flint himself. Though he could barely claim three decades—if even that he truly had—he kept an air of intimidation about him that few dared to say was unearned. Presently, he made his was down the staircase to the deck, his crew taking a sort of subconscious notice of him, shifting about so as to not be in his way.
"Same routine, lads!" Captain Avery shouted to the crew who responded in a spirited cry as they rushed the other ship's deck, surrounding the few merchant crewmen who stood with arms raised high. An eye-catching scar ran the length of the man's cheek from below his eye to his jaw line, close enough to mouth that it twisted his lips into half of a devilish grin. Were he looked at from his right, perhaps a woman could have fancied his scruffy appearance, and unlike his first mate, he cared little over orderly appearances. He regularly wore two disheveled coats over a loose shirt—all in varying colors of dark—and he kept a pistol at each hip with a rumored-to-be-lucky cutlass resting at his left. He kept a scarred hand resting atop it's gold hilt and slid the other across his forehead, catching sweat that clung to the blonde hair that hung above his eyes.
"Feel free, my fellow subjects, to empty your pockets while we empty your holds. Watches, rings—what have you. Be smart about it, too—my men have no aversion towards cutting fingers," Captain Avery shouted with a sneer across to the other ship, walking the length of the starboard side as his men clamored over the side.
"…Sir, is that an order?" A small, unsure man of perhaps four decades approached him with confusion plastered across his bony face.
"Certainly not, Mr. Jenson," the captain said aside to him in a lower tone. "The first man to spill blood on this deck gets keelhauled through a flock of zaftwings, and do you know why?"
"…Cap'n?"
"The minute you start cutting fingers, this deck'll look like ole Lucy's Graverobber after he slit all thirty men's throats. And what'll happen then? I shall get blood on my boots, Mr. Jenson, and then what would you have me do?" Avery gave the man a stern look, staring him down until he nodded quickly and scurried away.
"…Right, Sir."
"That was a lovely excuse, Captain." The first mate approached him with a slight smirk on his thin lips, the man in every way a contradiction to his superior. Markose Napier stood with his hands politely clasped behind his back, with a clean and shaven face grinning at Avery's unkempt hair and whiskered mug.
"No, I really meant that one," he replied, looking down at the dark black leather. "I got these boots in Lijiang, remember? Don't make 'em like that out thisaway."
Napier seemed to manage to nod without rolling his eyes, black hair slicked back in a tidy manner that made one think he kept most snide comments to his thoughts. If most thought the captain to be young, the first mate looked younger still, though his intelligence vastly outranked any jack aboard. He was dressed in a close-fitting, dark blue jacket that reached the top of his charcoal boots, and with not a weapon seen about him, he was commonly mistaken for the ship's doctor.
Avery smirked at the thought of how many times that had happened, his thoughts interrupted when he caught the sound of a woman's voice.
"That look on your face is only making it harder to look at," remarked a woman about their age, dressed less like a civilian today though still refusing to dress like a man, he noted. "I beg you to stop."
"I was wondering where you'd been off to, Lenny. I almost made it to mid-day with my self-confidence unattacked," he replied. She just sort of nodded, half-listening to him as she looked over his shoulder at the ruckus caused by the crew searching the other ship.
"Though I must thank you," Avery said, taking her hand and leaning down as if to kiss it. She pulled it away quickly, giving him some kind of stare that had several more words pinned to it. He let his fingers curl around the air as he shook it off with a laugh. "I suppose I'm in your debt for the time being. Beautiful ship, she is," he said, shifting the conversation with a glance towards The Celt.
"You know I hate to disappoint," the tall woman answered, bowing in an entirely un-womanly fashion and adding on a mock curtsy with a swish of her bright skirts. Her dark hair fell over her shoulders as she did so, the color much more natural than Napier's due to her tanned skin. "Though part of meself is admittedly disappointed when they up and surrender."
"You would rather our crew risk further injury for your own amusement?" Napier gave her one of his famously investigating looks, dark irises all but disappearing as his eyes narrowed to slits.
"I wouldn't waste my worries on your crew anyhow, but you know I've no control over the idle fancies my mind toys with."
"I find myself less than shocked," he said in a lower tone, glancing back to the captain.
"But I'll have my share, so I'll walk away no less happy for it," she replied. "Though I believe you owe me extra for putting up with your little eloquence act every time you pick up a new crew. It annoys me to the edge of the galaxy."
Avery pressed his lips together like he was suppressing a difference response. "Some women find it proper to respect a man," he said. "Or at the very least, a captain when you're on his ship."
"The sweet trade strips me of that title, and I being not part of your crew find it less than necessary to respect you."
"Ain't much surprised," he muttered, still looking at her with an intense look when he addressed his first mate, saying, "Napier, I believe—"
"Cap'n!"
The three turned around to see one of the spacers hailing them from the other ship, running up to the side with the look of a kicked dog—or one about to be.
"Cap'n, tisn't any trav'lers aboard her anywheres. Just her crew, alls on deck," the young man finished, nodding respectfully and taking a half-step back. Avery and Napier exchanged a look before turning around to Lenny, who also took a half-step in the other direction.
"Weren't it you who said The Celt'd be heading for Bonsang? Full o' the wealthy on their way back from summer estates in the Oiseau islands?" Avery tried to contain the frown twitching at his lips, returning her stern gaze. "I'm pretty sure that was you."
He turned back to the sailor on the other ship's deck, saying, "You there—Henry—what's she got in her hold?"
"Enough for a month 'least, cap'n."
Bonsang was only a week's journey from here, even taking into account solar winds—which would be early for this time of year. Turning back to Lenny, he didn't even get a word in before she started.
"No matter what you try to pin to me, tisn't my fault. Officially, they were supposed to be headin' for Bonsang. That's what her papers said when she left port," Lenny said, looking not the least bit unconfident despite her error. "If she's gone against her own plans, that ain't no problem of mine."
Avery opened his mouth to argue with her but shut it with a glare, figuring he would get more answers out of someone else. "I s'pose we should meet with her captain, don't you, Napier? Have him—"
"Captain!" A different voice shouted, making him roll his eyes. "There's one guest aboard, sir! Civilian!"
Avery was already heading towards his office, wiping sweat from his brow with a terrible scowl on his face. "Bring 'em, too."
The captain of The Celt was a largely overweight man of perhaps fifty—a canid, whose nose looked so squished back into his face that he appeared to be looking down at the rest of the room over it. His brown hair was pulled back, but bits of it had come loose, giving him a frazzled look. He stood with an outraged mien in front of the captain's desk, looking down at the man in every sense of the phrase.
Avery looked up at him with a polite smile which came off as a sneer, his boots resting on the desk as he slouched in the high-backed chair and gave up on any façade of formality. The light that poured in from outside did little to brighten the crowded room. Already small, Avery's stateroom was horribly cluttered, filled to the ceiling with odds and ends from every corner of every backwoods marketplace; empty cages with odd metal work, bottles with questionable contents, drapes and extra hammocks, and even a potted blue Celten plant that had taken over a corner near the door.
"Your men have done a smart job of emptying my ship," Captain Fletcher stated with contained rage, his ship's one lone guest standing awkwardly behind him with a disappointed expression. "And since I believe we have complied with you thus far, I believe it would be honorable of you to—"
"Shut up, please," Avery replied with a hand to his head, earning a sigh from his first mate who stood next to him, straight as ever. Ignoring the livid look on the man's reddening face, he nodded in his direction. "Where were you going?"
"Well, I-! That's not—we were heading towards Bonsang," the man said, glancing back at his traveler who clutched a book tightly in one hand.
"Not with that much provision," Lenny interrupted from the other side of the stateroom—the fact a woman added to the conversation making the other man's face turn almost purple with anger.
"I… how could—!"
"I commissioned the good captain and his crew," the young man standing behind him said, his voice light and everything about his appearance adding to the assumption that this boy—barely a man—had never seen hard work in his life. This fact would suggest he was wealthy, though being Crocutan, a hyena-like cousin of the Canid race that had seen better days, should have suggested the opposite.
"Ah, so you're the source of my troubles, then," Avery said, tapping his fingers on the arm of the chair. The boy, despite his awkward and bookish appearance, didn't look all too daunted. "And just where did you need to get so quickly, Master…?"
"Hastings."
"Master Hastings, that you commissioned The Celt so last minute and forced a lot of wealthy travelers to other modes of transportation?"
This was when the boy seemed to hesitate, shifting his weight in the silence and switching the leather-bound book from one hand to the other. "Family matters."
Avery picked up on something, though he couldn't be sure exactly what it was.
"Aye, family matters… say, let me have a look at your book there."
The boy's eyes widened just slightly, and Avery looked over to Napier since he sensed he was getting an odd look. Finding himself to be right, he just shrugged in response.
Hastings and Fletcher exchanged looks, and the former seemed to try to slink back towards the shadows by the door. "I… why?"
"Let me take a look at it, if you would," said Napier, stepping up towards the lad with a hand outstretched. Avery wondered if the boy seemed to know Napier had a love of books and such as well, for he seemed a lot less hesitant, handing it over with a disappointed look returning to his face.
Napier opened it carefully, flipping through a few pages slowly with his brows drawn together in confusion. Eventually, his expression shifted to amazement, handing it across the desk to Avery.
"How do you always know?"
Avery lifted a brow, taking it and looking over the diagram on the open page. It was a detailed drawing of a ship—a pirate ship, to be precise, seeing as how it had added weaponry and included a small drawing of the jolly roger atop the mast. The ship was also clearly marked with the name Hispaniola.
"Flint's ship?" he muttered, flipping the page as Napier elaborated.
"This is the journal of Henai Wycomb."
"I thought his name was Hastings," he said, half-listening as he flipped a few more pages.
"Henai Wycomb was a famous inventor," Napier said with a hint of irritation. "Richest woman on her planet, too, if rumors hold true."
"They are," Hastings said automatically, stopping himself after with an embarrassed look.
"She was also Flint's first mate," Napier added.
"What's she your grandmother or something?" the captain asked with a smirk, looking at the Crocutan boy who looked away shamefully in response.
"Avery," his first mate continued, leaning over and flipping back a few pages to a hexagonal diagram. "She left her whole fortune and highly advance technology—quite valuable, I might add—on her planet which no one has ever located."
"So you boys were on a treasure hunt, eh?" he asked with a chuckle, examining the drawing. It looked like an astronomical compendium, a standard-enough device for the average spacer. This one was box-like, with six sides. Each device was connected to one of the sides and swung out like pages in a book, apparently including calendrical tables, an astroblade, some type of universal clock, and different plates with other various charts and useful conversions. These however, appeared to only make up half of the device. The other half remained closed in the drawing on the page, but when he turned to the next, he could see what lay inside the other compartment. A depression with odd symbols lay inside, and the drawing depicted what looked like small stars coming from it, floating up above the device to form three small triangles.
"This thing is the map she used to get back," Napier said, a long finger tapping the surface of the text.
"This thing," Avery replied, flipping back to the page that showed the compendium's cover. "…looks familiar." The lid of the device had a sun carved into it with intricate line-work taking up the rest of the space. In the center of the sun were the initials H.W.
"…You idiot, Avery," Lenny suddenly remarked, stepping up behind him and looking over his shoulder.
"What'd I do?" He was abruptly aware of her presence hanging over him and consciously made an effort to keep his eyes glued to the page.
"You almost won this thing in a game of chance back when we were in Journuit, remember? Guy said half the thing wouldn't open. Idiot didn't even know what he had when he had it."
"You sure?" That last time in Journuit was mostly a blur, thanks to a local drink called a Starburst or Starblast or some other such name which contained ingredients of questionable legality.
This was going to pester him all night, to be sure. That carving was too terribly familiar. Why couldn't he put a place or time to it? "You—Hastings—you got the map?" Captain Fletcher was still fuming beside the lad, either from the fact he was being ignored, or his chance of getting a share of this bounty was as good as gone.
Hastings shook his head, saying, "That was what we were looking for."
Avery looked to Napier, asking nothing, but expecting his opinion on the matter.
"Nickolas," he said in a hushed voice, "If you want my thoughts on this, it is… perhaps foolish. It would take a lot of searching to find this thing, and if we did, the journey there would certainly be less than safe, and…"
"Worth it?" he asked with a brow raised.
Napier was silent for a moment before a grin broke through his stern visage. "I would believe so."
Avery returned the smile, his boots kitting the floor with a thud as he sat up. "Well, Captain," he said loudly, hand slapping the cluttered desk. "I'll have you escorted back to your ship, don't you worry yourself."
"And what of me and my men afterwords?" the man exclaimed. "Surely you intend to leave us some provision—the nearest port is at least four days away!"
"Haven't you heard of me Blood Mary? Why, she and a previous crew flew the abyss outside o' Lancashire lost for five days 'fore we found port," he said with a chuckle, standing and leaning across the desk with a smirk. "If we lowly, pirate dogs can handle that, surely you fine gentlemen can handle four little days in space. A few boots might be served for rations, but what's a life at the mast if you don't face a little hardship once in a while, eh?"
Fletcher's face turned red once more as Napier strode across the room to open the door.
"Oh, and have Master Hastings' things brought aboard to the guest cabin," Avery added as a tall Cragorian stood outside waiting for the good Captain Fletcher. Hasting's eyes widened at that, but so did those of the woman standing next to Avery.
"And where should you have me sleep?" Lenny demanded with a dark look, arms crossed as she stared him down.
"Well seeing as how you refuse to treat me like a guest would, and you ain't part of the crew, I suppose you can sleep on the deck, now, can't you?" He grinned evilly back at her, shutting the journal with a snap.
(o0o).o.(o0o).o.(o0o).o.(o0o) .o.(o0o)
A/N: All that nautical lingo. I have no idea what I was talking about, honestly.
This takes place after TP: Battle at Procyon by the way. You should play it (Jim has a goatee that is hysterical-crying-laughter-worthy), but I think most things will be explained well enough even if you haven't. A quick snippet (Um. Spoiler.):
"An on-again, off-again state of war has plagued both empires for the past ten years which began over a dispute of ownership concerning the Mucculough Etherium Current" (being ended with Jim's discovery that the mysterious metal ships attacking Empire ships were in fact the Procyons, whose diplomatic fleet was on their way to sign a treaty with the queen).
