A/N: Ready for the third installment? I sure am. You might want to set some time aside to read this through, because this is going to be a long one, detailing in full the story of Maximilian Straussky and his cruiser the Firefly in the River War. Without further ado, let's get going.


Chapter Three: Family Ties

In a small building in the corner of the school campus, a small inconspicuous meeting was being held by a small inconspicuous club, with no more than five core members, all sitting around a coffee table on red sofas. Five of the members were present; a sixth was late for whom they were all waiting.

The newspaper club had a knack for finding mysteries to solve unexpectedly, usually ending with the members getting mixed up in business they would do better staying out of. Regardless, they had a very good reputation among the school population for bringing in good stories for the students to read, even if it did occasionally sink into the realm of gutter press with the fruitless stories of high school gossip. Seron refused to associate with the newspaper at those times, and abstained at all instances from interviews to divulge information about his romantic life.

Seron sat in the corner of the room in a red armchair reading a book detailing the history of the River War between Roxche and Sous-Beil that lasted for five years until the armistice. He figured he would need the knowledge to contextualize whatever Meg had to offer the club about her grandfather and his ship. She contacted him early the next morning after he found the scroll, saying how she found something that might prove useful, but refused to give the full details unless everyone was present. Seron did not object, as he reasoned that everyone's help was needed to crack this case and it was important for them to be put in the loop of what had happened to them thus far.

Across from Seron sat Larry, but out of his school uniform for the day and instead in his usual sleeveless black shirt, military green trousers and black training boots, with the look of a soon-to-be soldier. He was always seen in this outfit outside of class, usually found on the physical training grounds practicing with an air rifle or running through an obstacle course. Even in the realm of the newspaper club room he mentally and physically trained himself for the life of the soldier, a dream that seemed quite out of place with the peace that had been firmly in place for more than 15 years. He proved to be the muscle of the group and the necessary backup when it came to firearms, though there were few instances when their adventures called for their use. Still, he had given Seron rudimentary training in the use of a pistol and a small carbine, so it was not a complete waste of time.

Besides Larry, three other persons occupied the room with them, all dressed in their respective school uniforms. On a sofa across from Larry sat Nicholas Browning, the only other male in the club though one look at him would deceive anyone. He wore his light brown hair long, almost down to his waist making him look more feminine than the most petite and dainty noblewoman on either side of the river. A small lock of his hair hung in his face between his bright and eager green eyes that looked always and everywhere for a new challenge to face. Like Seron, he had a high level of popularity among female students for his reliability and charm, to say nothing of his feminine appearance.

In fact, he too was very reticent about who held his affections and his reputation was also one of continuously rejecting confession after confession from admirers and adoring fans. Some even speculated that he and Seron were closer than just ordinary friends and classmates, something that both of them fervently and adamantly denied at every given opportunity.

Next to Nicholas sat a tall girl wearing her long brown hair up, wearing black pantyhose over her statuesque legs. Dark brown eyes scanned the room behind her thin reading glasses, eyes that seemed rather disbelieving of the whole story Seron had laid out before them. Her body was leaning forward as if in the midst of an interrogation with a suspect who was about to crack.

Her name was Natalia Steinbeck (or Naata as some called her), and her position amongst the small club was one of observer and editor, frequently pointing out anything of interest in the club's searches for new and exciting stories. Her ad-hoc position in the club that would be considered low standing hid her status as the daughter of accomplished Roxchean musicians, from whom she had inherited considerable skill and frequently showed in school orchestra. Her wily intellect was well regarded in club, but her assets were offset by her biggest liability to this little band of students: her appetite, which was voracious to say the least. Her eating habits were enough to drive their club bankrupt in the worst of circumstances.

On the other sofa completing the circle sat a small girl of short red hair and matching eyes that spelled trouble for anyone who dared catch her gaze. Her head was flanked on either side by violet butterfly-shaped hair ornaments that held her short mane in place, only calling further to attention her diminutive appearance, making her seem more a doll than an actual living and breathing human. One eyebrow was raised in suspicion of Seron's tale, though one could recognize that she was actually intrigued, seeing the potential of such a hair-raising story published for the school paper.

This girl's name was Jennifer Jones, though she preferred to be called Jenny. Her unpretentious appearance veiled her position in this small organization: the club director and manager. Her high position meant that she ultimately made the call of whether to pursue a story or not, depending on her own self-interest in the project. It was usually she who led them all on their different assortment of cases ranging from searching the ruins of an old castle to investigating gang-related murders. Her curiosity and pipsqueak-like nature always bested her in their adventures, and frequently got all of them deeper into cases they would do better to stay out of. Despite this, all the others still treated her with the due respect of a club officer, and her enthusiasm for getting juicy stories was unlike any found by Seron or anyone else.

"So let me get this straight, Seron," Natalia asked for what must have been the umpteenth time, still considering the circumstances dubious. "Are you asking me and the others here to believe that because some guys try to get your model ship and you find a musty scroll, there's supposed to be a treasure?"

"You are all free to think what you like," Seron retorted not looking up from his book, "but that's what I think is at work here."

"You've read far too many pirate stories. There's no treasure of that kind in this day and age. We would have long found it by now…"

"That's my point. We haven't. And at least one other ship contains a clue to the location of the treasure. We just need to find it."

"Well, I'm still not convinced of the whole thing…" Natalia said, sinking back into the sofa with an apprehensive glare.

"It's a bit farfetched, I agree," Nicholas said in Seron's defense, "but I can't think of any other way to explain it. Why would someone drive to the campus and shoot at Seron if it wasn't over something valuable? Why go through all of that trouble if they already got the model?"

"Exactly," Seron concurred. "Whoever attacked me and looted my dorm must have known the scroll was in the ship."

"If Meg could just show up," Jenny broke in with a note of impatience, "we might be able to figure out this mystery. Did any of you see her?"

"I spoke with her earlier," Natalia responded, "and she said she might be late. She was getting something really important to show us, she said."

"It must be important to make us wait this long."

Jenny then turned her ruby eyes to Seron's cobalt ones and an impish smile ran across her face.

"Still, it's a pretty amazing story if it turns out to be true, Seron. Can you imagine the publicity we would get from all this? I can just picture the headline: Ship Model Holds Secret Treasure. We'd get readers in no time flat!"

"That's more something for an adventure novel than a newspaper, Jenny," Natalia cautioned her.

Seron too was worried, seeing as how he had not seen Meg all day since early in the morning. When Larry called everyone for a meeting, Meg had said to Seron she found something that might be useful in finally deciphering the puzzle. What it was, she gave no hint and she did not intend to reveal any time before the meeting. The only hint she gave was how it had to do with the history of the cruiser Firefly, which did not evoke much information. He wondered if she was sick, or perhaps someone else had kept her engaged.

At that, a gentle knock on the door came, and Seron reasoned it was Meg, finally ready to reveal the true secret of the model ship and give an insight as to what this whole business was about. He opened the door and found her decked in her school uniform, but she had added a flair to it: on her head of pigtailed violet-tinged hair she had a captain's hat of the kind found in the Navy, embroidered and decorated with the crest of Sous-Beil. Seron's chest ached at how endearing Meg looked with that one additional piece of clothing on her person as he showed her in. He also noticed in her hands she carried an large brown book, worn around its cover edges with age. What that book contained he could not even venture to guess.

"Hi, everyone!" Meg chirped in her usual upbeat and bubbly manner. "Sorry to keep you waiting so long."

"Not a problem," Jenny said, taking note to hush up Natalia when she tried to object to her contriteness. "So what have you got there?"

"I was thinking about this whole mystery with the ships," Meg began as she sat down next to Jenny, "and I remembered in my closet I had an old sea-chest belonging to my grandfather. In it, I found this hat, his officer's saber, and…"

"Treasure?" Jenny interjected, her maroon eyes hopeful.

"A treasure map?" Nicholas suggested.

"No, not treasure," Meg tempered them, "but something just as valuable."

She set down the large book on the coffee table for all to see and explained further as the rest of the club gazed upon it, as if it was a message from God.

"I found this old manuscript, penned by my grandfather. I started reading it last night and all day today. I was still reading before the meeting was called, so that's why I was a little late."

Seron opened the book and immediately found the frontispiece written in elegant cursive Bezelese…

Journal of Sir Maximilian Straussky

Captain in the Royal Navy of Sous-Beil

Commander of the vessel Firefly

"But good gracious," Meg continued vivaciously, "what an amazing story! Just listen to it!"

The others, as if by instinct, gathered closer to each other as they heard Meg spin the epic tale of her grandfather, and his many exploits in his service to King and Country. Meg smiled, pleased to see so many others interested in her stories of grand battles and acts of bravery as she cleared her throat and began.

"It's the year 3277. The River War has entered its second autumn, and the Firefly, a valiant battle cruiser of King Friedrich II's fleet, is sailing down the river to provide support for the amphibious landings on Green Island…"


September, 3277 World Calendar

Maximilian Straussky slowly climbed up the tall steps to the bridge where his entire crew was waiting for him. He had put in a complaint before the Admiralty to install elevators on the cruisers, and thereby provide less wear and tear on his aging bones, but the Admiralty purported they did not have the funds, as they needed all available resources for producing more ships to combat the Roxchean Federal Navy. Still, he would bear it, if it was what he could do for his country.

He was decked in his autumn service uniform: an ebony black greatcoat bearing his rank on the sleeves and shoulder straps. Underneath he wore his naval jacket and white dress shirt and black slacks, cutting the image of a diligent captain, loyal to his ship and his crew and his country above all else.

It was cloudy and biting cold day for autumn, yet the river was only slightly choppy and visibility was nominal, making it good weather for combat. He reasoned his ship and crew would see action soon enough, as they drew closer to Green Island. The Roxchean Navy had dispatched three flotillas of gunboats to support their ground forces defending the Island. Never mind, he thought. River gunboats are no match for a fully armed battle cruiser.

He reached the bridge and heaved a sigh of relief as he planted his foot on the top of the stairwell. Slowly, with his aged hand on the doorknob, he opened it and was greeted by the systematic clicking of heels and saluting of sailors and officers on the bridge, bidding a good day to their captain.

"Good afternoon, Captain Straussky," his crew chanted.

"Good afternoon, lads," Maximilian greeted with a slight ache in his arm as he returned the salute.

He came by the helm and consulted his chief officer on deck, a young and ambitious sailor who had fought with him throughout his career in the Navy and had seen the horrors of battle with him, Franz Westhus

"Mr. Westhus," Maximilian started, "situation report."

"All engines operating at normal, sir. Current speed is 17 knots. We should reach Green Island right on schedule."

"Any sign of the enemy?"

"None yet, sir. All's quiet on the river."

"Right…"

He turned to the other members on the bridge, all concentrated at their respective posts and gave his first orders of the day.

"Keep your eyes peeled for any smoke trails or mainmasts on the horizon. We're entering the warzone now, so be on your guard."

"Aye-aye, sir!" was the resolute reply of his crew.

Thus, the crew began their vigilant watch over the wide, deep and swift-flowing Lutoni River to spot any sign of their enemy. Hours seemed to pass as they gently and steadily sailed south, towards the island that was their objective.

The Firefly was one of the finest battle cruisers of its day, built and rigged in the military port of Donzig, where her keel was laid down more than three years ago in preparation for war, given the increasingly hostile actions around Green Island and the breakdown of negotiations over river navigation rights. She was one of the heaviest battle cruisers in the entire Royal Navy, weighing in at more than 14,000 tons, fully loaded. She boasted impressive armaments as well: 6 powerful 28 cm guns mounted on triple turrets complemented by 8 quick and maneuverable 11 cm guns on single turrets, along with 8 torpedo tubes. Her impressive armament and diminutive size compared to the larger capital battleships that dominated the waves led to her crew affectionately dubbing her their "pocket battleship."

Her crew and captain were seasoned veterans after two years of fighting on the high seas. In their many months away from dry land and the sights of home the Firefly had brought much clout to the Bezelese Royal Navy. She had performed exceptionally well as a raider, disrupting enemy armored convoys and engaging with destroyer and cruiser escorts trying to protect supply ships delivering essentials to the troops on Green Island. Despite being a cruiser and not designed to face a capital ship one-on-one, in one battle only six months ago she had delayed the Roxchean battleship Kolchak from attacking the main Bezelese fleet. Despite being heavily damaged in the battle and almost sunk, her efforts were not in vain as reinforcements arrived in time to save her from further assault, forcing the Kolchak away. By this critical point in the war, her kill count had amounted to 5 destroyers, 4 cruisers and 10 convoy ships destroyed.

Now, however, the most decisive and vital moment in the campaign, the Firefly was off to provide fire support for the amphibious landings of the Bezelese Royal Army on Green Island. It was a fairly low-key job compared to all the other tasks she and her crew had performed, but orders were orders, and they had to be carried out. Such was the edict of Captain Straussky to his crew.

Maximilian was well-respected at the Admiralty and by his crew. Despite being one of the oldest officers in the navy at 57, he still proved to be a brave, capable and shrewd commander. He was a veteran of the Great War almost 30 years ago, when he was merely a gunner on a small destroyer, protecting the harbor of Freundhaven from Roxchean attack. Through his bravery and skill of command, he had risen through the ranks had received a knighthood from the King and the rank of captain by war's end. He had now shown his prowess on the seas in action already, and only longed for one last chance of battle before finally returning to his country and his family estate, his reputation and future secured.

He held in his coat pocket a recent letter received from his wife, telling him to expect a third child in the Straussky family. He already was the proud father of two sons, and the news of a third on the way filled him with a great sense of pride, but at the same time, melancholy of having to be on the frontlines rather than be by his wife's side and raise his children.

He resolved that by the end of this conflict, he would ask for a retirement pension. Maximilian was certain the Admiralty would give it to him, since he had already rendered a great service. Further, there was talk that this might be the last war to be fought, since both Roxche and Sous-Beil were fast growing exhausted from decade after decade of conflict. Over what? He could barely even remember.

As his mind began to drift towards dry land and away from the open sea, a call came from a lookout, his voice crackling through the radio transmitter to the bridge.

"Smoke trail ahoy!"

Maximilian immediately ran to the phone and spoke directly to the lookout from the crow's nest, high in the forward mast.

"Where away?"

"5 points off the port bow, sir."

Maximilian looked through his binoculars and saw what looked to be a trail of smoke not more than 5 miles out. Soon his seasoned midnight blue eyes made out mainmasts, and finally the body of a ship. She was heading towards their position, and making a brisk pace at that. She looked to be a cruiser but of what class he was not certain. Perhaps it was the lead reinforcements coming up to join them before they moored outside Green Island.

"Mr. Benaris," Maximilian called again to the lookout, "get on the signal lamp and ask for identification."

"Aye, sir."

Maximilian again brought his binoculars to his farseeing and weathered eyes, wondering just who this ship was that was steaming towards them at such a fast pace. She didn't seem to be responding to the signal calls. He wondered if they had already seen action and were heading to port for repairs. Soon, however, colors were hoisted to the mainmast, showing just who this fast girl belonged to.

One look at the flapping banner was enough to make him gasp.

"My god…"

Streaming in the strong and stiff sea wind, the flag bore the crest of their hated enemy, the spear intended for the hearts of all westerners sloping down and to the left in the middle of a yellow disc with a brown ring in a blue field. That was all he needed to determine the next course of action.

"It's Theron's Arrow, lads!" Mr. Westhus exclaimed. "It's a Roxchean cruiser!"

"Clear the decks for action," Maximilian calmly ordered in reply. "Order all personnel to general quarters."

Westhus relayed the orders through the radio transmitter to all channels on the ship.

"All hands make ready for combat! This is not a drill. Repeat: this is not a drill!"

The alarm siren sounded as all across the deck and on every level, men of different ages, backgrounds, families and raisons d'être for participating in a war that no one could remember beginning, beat to their quarters and stood ready to defeat the enemy that they had always been told to fight until their last breath. On the bridge, all officers and sailors took their respective positions in readiness for combat, whether it be communicating with gunners, sighting targets or simply steering the ship to avoid fire. No levity shone through any of their eyes and a great quiet prevailed over the crew, with only the blaring sirens filling the air.

"Quartermaster Voss," Maximilian called, turning to his helmsman, "Hard a'port."

"Hard a'port, sir!"

As Voss turned the helm to port, Maximilian shifted his hard midnight blue eyes to his first officer who was manning the communication valve to the gunnery room. The main guns had to be ready if they wanted to win this battle, and said as much to him.

"Mr. Triebig, bring main guns around 90 degrees starboard. Prepare for broadside."

"Aye-aye, sir," Triebig saluted before calling down to the gunners. "Main guns, rotate 90 degrees starboard! Prepare for broadside firing."

Maximilian could make out the whirring of the turrets as the guns were brought about in readiness to fire. Looking down through the windows from the bridge, he saw the guns, tall as trees, slowly rise at an increasing angle, waiting for the command to fire. He then turned his eyes to their Roxchean cruiser, who still was coming at full speed. Then he saw through his binoculars the flickering of a signal lamp from the crow's nest of the ship.

"They're signaling us, sir!" Westhus exclaimed, pointing to the ship in the distance.

"Anyone have an idea what they're saying?" Triebig asked, not well-versed in Roxchean.

Another sailor looked through his binoculars and slowly formed a sentence based on the flashing code transmitted from the ship, relaying it back to his captain.

"They're asking for identification sir. They think we're a Roxchean ship."

"Well then," the captain smiled, seeing a prime opportunity to get the jump on their enemy, "let's give them an answer they'll never forget. Prepare guns to fire. Triebig, relay coordinates as I call them out."

"Aye, sir."

"Helm's hard over to port, sir," Voss called.

"Voss, maintain our new course. Let's maintain our firing position. Engines slow ahead."

"Slow ahead engines, sir."

As another seaman transferred the engine speed through the moving of the telegraph, Maximilian kept a watch on the ship as it drifted closer to them, still unaware of their true identity and intentions. He counted each second that went by and myriad calculations of when the right moment to fire would come whizzed through his head as he patiently and quietly enticed their unsuspecting enemies towards them.

"That's it, lads…closer…closer…load armor piercing rounds."

"Armor piercing rounds!" Triebig repeated.

Not more than a minute later, the gunners responded that the cannons were loaded and waiting for the order to fire. Maximilian then relayed the coordinates of the target to Triebig, who sent them on to the gun crews.

"Range: 3500 meters."

"3500 meters," Triebig repeated.

"Projection: 42 degrees."

"42 degrees."

"Fire!"

The main guns spoke with the deafening roar of a large thunderclap as the shells were lobbed from the cannons, smoke covering their trails. Maximilian watched the cruiser as it continued to move toward her before being stopped by and explosion on deck, near the bow.

"We hit her, sir!" a sailor cheered looking through his field glasses. "She's turning!"

"Well, that got her attention, lads," Westhus observed, noting the change in direction, seeing the cruiser moving to engage. "Her guns are coming about. Looks like she wants a fight, Captain."

"Then let's give her one, my hearties," Maximilian chuckled, never taking his eye off the ship.

Triebig recalled the guns and gave new directions to concentrate fire on the cruiser's main guns. If they were to win this fight, they had to render the cruiser unable to fire and damage the Firefly.

"Range: 3375 meters."

"3375 meters."

"Projection: 38 degrees."

"38 degrees."

"Fire!"

The guns opened up again as if the wrath of God Himself was manifested in these guns and shells as big as trees, however the results were less than what was expected. Less than half of the shells lobbed hit their mark, and only did minimal damage, as the Roxchean cruiser took that salvo as her cue to return fire. The two turrets sporting two 6 inch guns swiveled about before rising. Maximilian wasted no time in evading the ship.

"Voss, starboard 35 degrees!"

"Starboard, 35 degrees, sir."

The ship veered to the right just as their enemy opened fire, the distant booming reaching their ears a few seconds later. 2 shells landed missed their intended target and threw sheets of water into the air like large powerful geysers. The water splashed on the surface deck and as the vibration from the explosions rocked the ship to port and then starboard. All on the bridge were tossed about like clothes in a washing machine before finally leveling. Voss had managed to hang onto the helm, keeping the Firefly steady while Maximilian lay dazed on the other side of the bridge with Westhus beside him, thrown against the Plexiglas windows looking out over the wide and deep Lutoni river.

Maximilian staggered back to his feet and tried to find his target, looking across the open sea in search of his prey. In the meantime, he called upon another seaman who was manning a radio with the crew.

"Kropp, damage report."

"One of our secondary guns is damaged."

"Can it still fire?"

"No, sir, the barrel's been shot. She'll need to be replaced. We have a fire near the medical bay, and some of our boys are working to put it out now. We also have some hull damage near the forepeak, but nothing serious. We'll soon repair it."

Maximilian nodded, and ordered all men back to their stations. The fight was not over yet, and he would be damned if he lost this battle and a major opportunity to return home to his family waiting ever patiently for him to finish the duties of a soldier. He turned to Triebig again and ordered a shift in direction of the guns.

"Main guns rotate port, 20 degrees."

"Rotate port, 20 degrees."

Maximilian looked down to see the formidable turrets on his beloved ship slowly revolve into position, each gun trained on the Roxchean cruiser that now seemed to be wondering if this was a fight worth pursuing. It was evident in her uneasy and wavering pattern of direction, dithering between pressing the fight or running away as the Firefly quickly bore down on the indecisive cruiser. Maximilian's soldier instinct knew this was the prime moment to strike a crippling blow to their enemy.

"Range: 3100 meters."

"3100 meters."

"Projection: 35 degrees."

"35 degrees."

"FIRE!"

The salvo of Firefly's guns rocked the ship to her keel, almost knocking her over. Thankfully, she was a much stronger-built vessel than to fall victim to capsizing. Maximilian watched apprehensively, mentally hanging by his very fingertips, praying for a kill shot to finally do in their foe. He counted the seconds as the enemy ship slowly drifted along the river waves, as if waiting for the inevitable defeat to arrive.

What seemed like hours went by before a large crash sounded and all on the bridge spotted orange balls of flames on the horizon. Then came the cheering jovial cry of Westhus, which was then followed by the victorious chanting and whistling of the crew on the bridge and on the decks below.

"We hit her, sir! Her forward guns are gone!"

Maximilian then brought his binoculars to his eyes, seeing that the cruiser was out of commission and no longer fit to carry on with the battle. The surface deck was a blazing inferno as the crewmen scrambled about on deck trying to control the orange flames or took their chances in the depths of the river. The gun turrets were destroyed and rendered as large smoking wrecks of wrought iron and steel. Near the guns was a gigantic gaping hole on the forward deck, which he estimated to be four feet wide. It was clear the ship was fit to be sent home…provided she made it back.

"Let's finish her, lads," Maximilian ordered, not wanting to take chances, "before she radios our position. Secondary guns, target the communications tower. Main guns, target the hull."

"All able guns primed and ready sir," Triebig relayed, standing by the communication tube, awaiting the coordinates for firing.

"Range: 3050 meters."

"3050 meters."

"Projection: 35 degrees."

"35 degrees."

"Fire!"

All guns, including the 6 inch guns, opened fire on their helpless target, cutting through the air and finding their marks. The effects of the Firefly's barrage was soon made apparent as the communications tower quickly was blast to pieces, rendering the ship unable to signal for help. Then, one of the shells from the power 28 cm guns cut through the hull of the cruiser and struck the magazine in the hold of the ship. The magazine detonated, and the entire ship burst into one giant conflagration with a thunderous boom, before slowly sinking into the river stern first. Amidst the cheers and joyous shouts of the Firefly's crew, screams and moans were heard from the foundering Roxchean cruiser as all hands took their chances in the river, wishing to escape a fiery and much more merciless fate.

Maximilian smiled, seeing another victory for him, another step to ending this long war that had cost the continent so much. The officers and crew on the bridge showered him with praise and congratulation as he ordered a resuming of their previous course, hoping this to be the last combat before reaching Green Island.

"Quartermaster Voss, bring her around and head for Green Island. Mr. Triebig, get on the horn and inform the Admiral we have sunk another Roxchean cruiser and sustained light damage. Have the repair ships be ready to meet us at the Island. Kropp, head to the deck oversee all damage that is reparable. Mr. Westhus, keep an eye on out any more Roxchean cruisers. Those eastern bastards know we're coming, so keep your wits about you lads."

"Aye, sir!" the crew returned in unison and went to their respective assigned posts.

The Firefly banked to the right, the sharp bow cutting through the clear and deep waters of the river as she reassumed her course for their original objective. For a moment, it seemed like all would be smooth sailing until Green Island. But unfortunately that hope and wish among all the crew and Maximilian himself was dashed on the rocks when a shell from an unknown attacker landed near the hull of the ship as it turned to starboard…


"Wow," Jenny said, her ruby eyes wide as dinner plates in amazement of Meg's tale. "Your grandfather was really something else, Meg."

"He must have been a great man," Nicholas concurred, "to say nothing of his seamanship."

"Well," Meg tempered, blushing, "he didn't get a knighthood from the King of Sous-Beil for nothing."

Natalia adjusted her glasses, and sensed something amiss in this story as her dark eyes glinted with suspicion. She leaned over and interrogated Meg about her story thus far.

"But wait," Natalia queried, "if the Firefly had sunk that Roxchean cruiser and destroyed its com tower, where did that shell come from?"

"I was just getting to that," Meg explained. "The mistake my grandfather made was he didn't target the communications tower first. Just before he managed to cripple the ship, the crew got off a distress signal and relayed their position. When the Firefly destroyed the communications tower, it was too late."

"So the Roxchean fleet caught the Firefly off-guard," Seron reasoned.

"Yes, that's precisely it. Just as they were turning around to keep going for Green Island, a cry came from the crow's nest…"


"Cannon blasts ahoy!"

"Where away, Mr. Benaris?"

"10 points off the port stern, sir!"

Maximilian reasoned it was the remainder of the Roxchean squadron, coming to aid their stricken sister in arms. Sadly for them, they had arrived too late. With the cruiser dead, the Roxchean sister ships were surely intent on exacting revenge on the Bezelese warship. There was no time to waste if they wanted to dispatch their newest opponent. Maximilian nevertheless did not order an altering of course.

"Voss, steady as she goes. We've got to keep our guns aimed at whoever this new lass is."

"Aye, sir."

"Westhus, see anything yet?"

"Nothing sir…" Westhus reported, looking through the binoculars for any sign of their attackers. "Not even a seagull out there…"

"Wait!" a sailor shouted, pointing off to the horizon through his field glasses. "I see a destroyer…no, it's a heavy cruiser! And she's coming straight at us!"

Maximilian ran to the starboard side of the ship, and eyed through his binoculars what looked to be a Roxchean warship, more heavily armed than the one they had just beaten into submission. The ship was heading straight at his position and at a mindboggling quick pace. She would cut straight across their bows if they didn't get rid of her quickly!

"Triebig, make ready main guns."

"Guns ready to fire on your orders sir," Triebig replied, still firmly at his post near the communications valve.

Just as before, Maximilian relayed the coordinates for firing to him.

"Range: 4000 meters."

"4000 meters."

"Projection: 47 degrees."

"47 degrees."

"Fire!"

The guns boomed and sent six shells screaming through the air in a long arc, the entire crew hearing them whoosh like arrows cutting through to their targets. Soon, all the officers and men on the bridge saw a shell land on the cruiser's hull, rocking the ship from side to side and leaving a gaping hole in her side above the waterline. Four more shells landed in the water but close enough to jostle the cruiser and even toss a few men overboard. Still the heavy cruiser doggedly pressed on and fired a reciprocal volley from her guns.

Not more than a minute later, a whistling sound was heard by the men on the bridge. Then suddenly, the ship rocked as if a the earth was about to split in two and swallow up them, the cruiser and every other living thing in this wide and treacherous river. Kropp relayed through the radio the damage report, which, while not critical, was enough cause for concern.

"She struck us in the forecastle, sir! And another one of our 11 cm guns are out of action!"

Maximilian pounded his fist on the top of a control panel in frustration, cursing their failing luck. Damned be he and his entire crew if they failed to maintain their perfect record of victories now! This cruiser was not well-armed compared to the Firefly and yet it could still pack a punch! They had to dispatch that cruiser if they wanted to continue to Green Island unmolested. They needed to sink her.

"Voss, starboard, hard a'starboard."

"Hard a'starboard, sir."

"Captain," Triebig protested, his charcoal eyes dilated in surprise at his commanding officer's move, "are you seriously contemplating that we…?"

"If she wants to fight us, we'll fight her, Triebig. But we can't risk any more damage on the starboard. Voss, engines full ahead!"

"Full ahead, sir."

"Triebig, order guns to adjust their aim and fire when in sight of the target. All remaining starboard 11 cm guns, fire at will! Lets hit them with all we have!"

"Aye, sir. All guns, adjust aim as we turn. Notify when in sight of the target. 11 cm guns, prepare to fire!"

Firefly made a turn to the right again, intending to expose her unscathed port side to the danger of the cruiser's guns. Maximilian also intended for the ship to get closer to the cruiser as she was still heading straight at them at full speed. This would catch the cruiser unawares and unable to alter course, just as all the guns on the port side open up on them in a devastating salvo. It was an risky plan, but risk was always present in time of war. A war which the reason of conflict had long been forgotten…

As the Firefly came about and swiveled the main turrets to port, the remaining two starboard operating 11 cm guns opened fire. Although not lobbing as large a shell, they were quick-loading and maneuverable, able to lob off more than 3 times the number of rounds than their larger three-turreted cousins.

The two shells landed on the cruiser, striking it near her anchor and blowing a hole where the ship's registry number stood. Maximilian instantly knew the Firefly had to make or break this fight; the cruiser was damaged but wasn't sinking, and she still was approaching them at a spanking pace. Any faster and she would cut across the bows, so they needed to keep their distance from the ship. In the meantime, Maximilian would keep his ship moving away just enough to still engage and not risk fire.

"Voss," he ordered, seeing the ship had come round, "maintain present course. Don't turn until I tell you. Triebig, are the guns ready?"

"Guns are in position and awaiting coordinates sir."

"Right, then. Range: 3100 meters."

"3100 meters."

"Projection: 32 degrees."

"32 degrees."

"Fire!"

The main guns threw its shells as high as houses into the air and towards their foe, as each officer and crewman prayed for a hit, a single critical hit. Westhus saw a shell land near the bow of the cruiser but it fell harmlessly into the water, while two more landed further behind her on either side. Another shell, to the rejoice of the crew, landed near the superstructure of the ship and a fire erupted on the deck while two more shells fell into the sea, sending sheets of water upon the crew. The cruiser was simply too fast, and she was still bearing down on the Firefly at full speed. Maximilian saw only one option. The main guns were too slow to load and by the time they fired the cruiser would be gone. He had to rely on the 11 cm guns.

"Triebig," Maximilian ordered, his indigo eyes hard as the steel his ship was crafted from, "the main guns are firing too slowly. Order all secondary guns to fire at will on that cruiser. Target all important hard points!"

"Aye, sir!"

"Westhus, get on the radio and tell the admiral we require assistance. We're going to need something faster than us to take out that cruiser."

"Aye, sir," Westhus nodded, his brown eyes glinting with determination. "I've also confirmed presence of one of those new aircraft carriers trailing the cruiser half a click out."

Maximilian smirked, finding a way to work his powerful main guns back into the strategy.

"Triebig, tell the main gunners their new primary target is the aircraft carrier and engage at will."

"Aye-aye, sir."

"Captain, she's opened fire again!" Westhus exclaimed, pointing to their problem cruiser on the horizon, the smoke trails from their cannon blasts evident.

"Voss," Maximilian shouted, knowing that time was of the essence, "hard a'starboard!"

"Hard a'starboard, sir."

The Firefly turned hard to the right, managing to evade the gunfire, but one shell landed near the poop deck, and created a fire aboard deck. It turned out, according to Kropp, that the shell had barely missed the fuel storage, and a colossal explosion that would have turned the ship into a floating inferno was narrowly averted. In the meantime, Firefly's guns kept pounding the Roxchean warship as she drew closer and closer to the massive Bezelese battle cruiser. She was not more than 1 mile away from Firefly, and already she had taken a pounding; two fires on deck which the crew were desperately trying to control, a destroyed secondary gun, and a superstructure so riddled with shell holes that one would think it was struck by a hailstorm. And still, she sailed on, undaunted and infused with vengeful purpose. Why couldn't this ship just sink? What was keeping it from capitulating and turning from this fight it could not hope to win?

Suddenly, a cry came from the crow's nest through the speakers, calling attention to the states of their foes.

"Wings ahoy! Off the starboard quarter!"

"How many, Mr. Benaris?" Maximilian inquired hurriedly.

"I count 5…no, 7…no, 10…it's a whole squadron!"

"What kind of planes are they? Are they carrying any heavy weapons?"

"They look to be…yes, their Corsairs…and they're carrying rockets!"

"Dammit," he cursed, banging his hand on a control panel. "fighter bombers. Mr. Westhus, order the crew to man the AA batteries. Don't let a fighter get near us; fill the skies with tracers!"

"Aye, sir," Westhus saluted, turning to the communication valve. "All hands: man the anti-aircraft batteries and prepare for ground-to-air combat!"

Then, Benaris frantically called the bridge, indicating their swiftly advancing enemy.

"The planes are coming down straight for us! Two Corsairs with rockets banking towards the bridge. Their—!"

The transmission was abruptly cut off by static, as the line fell dead. Westhus tried desperately to contact Benaris, and ask him what was happening out there. Without their lookout, they had no way of knowing if another ship would be coming, or just where the airplanes would come from and if any would circle behind them. In the meantime, Maximilian ordered the cannons to open fire again on the cruiser.

"Mr. Benaris!" Westhus screamed again and again. "Mr. Benaris, do you hear me? What's happening up there?"

"Triebig, make ready main guns! Range: 570 meters."

"570 meters."

"Projection, 13 degrees."

"13 degrees."

Just as he was about to give the order to fire, a large explosion landed near the bridge. The windows broke open with the Plexiglas shattered like mirrors dropped on the floor. Orange flames invaded the bridge and the force of the explosion sent everyone, officers and men flying back and off their feet. Maximilian himself was thrown against a wrought iron wall and felt something heavy strike him about the head before collapsing near the stairwell. Everything went black.


The five youngsters were now gathered around Meg, entranced by her tale and her vivid imagery of the chaos of battle, the valor of her grandfather, and the gallantry of the Firefly's crew. Seron, however still kept a straight pokerfaced disposition, despite inside being as wide-eyed as a scout listening to a scary story being told by the light of a campfire. All were on the edge of their seats, awestruck and wondering what would happen next to Meg's late grandfather, the brave captain that fought so hard and so successfully against the Roxchean fleet.

"He was about to open fire and send the cruiser to the bottom when a rocket," Meg continued, her voice filled with anticipation and poise, "launched by a Roxcehan Corsair, landed near the bridge. The force of the blast knocked him unconscious for the rest of the fight, sending him falling down the stairwell to the bottom."

Everyone save for Seron gasped, enthralled by her epic yarn, waiting to hear the next part of the her story. Jenny spoke up, not wanting the club to be kept in suspense.

"So what happened after he was knocked out, Meg?"

"Naturally without her captain," Meg continued, her voice foreboding and dark, "the tables were quickly turned against the Firefly. The cruiser managed to damage her guns, and the Corsairs wreaked terrible havoc upon the crew on deck."

Meg paused for a moment, partly because she wanted that fact to sink in with her fellow club members, but also because the thought of her grandfather lying somewhere on deck unresponsive and comatose as his crew suffered in a struggle against the unrelenting foe was simply too great of her to think of. She held back a tear as she continued.

"By the time he came to, he found himself tied to a mainmast on deck, and his entire crew was gone. The Roxcheans had won and had seized control of the ship, and every last Firefly crewman that had survived the battle was executed or forced to take their chances in the river."

"That's awful!" Natalia remarked, removing her spectacles to rub her eyes. "What happened to Sir Maximilian then?"

"He might have died on the ship, too, but he did something no one would have expected."


Maximilian woke up, and found himself bound and immobile. He was tied to the mainmast, ropes running circles around his body. He found long lines of sailors, none of whom he recognized, transferring nondescript items of value to the ship from a lifeboat down at the waterline, out of his view. None of the sailors wore the standard uniform of the Bezelese Navy, which was regal white with a black collar, but instead they wore dark blue sailor suits with white collars…the uniform of the Roxchean Federal Navy.

"What happened?" he asked in a daze. "Where's my crew?"

No one answered him, nor did he expect anyone to. The eastern scum were as reticent and prideful as they were cruel. He wouldn't be surprised if the lot of them had keelhauled his entire entourage. He could not escape the fact; all were dead. Westhus, Triebig, Kropp, Voss, Benaris, they were all lost, more food to satisfy the appetite of the war. It was in moments like these that he truly wondered why in God's good name the war still continued unabated and with ever increasing brutality and ferocity. What were they fighting for? Who was to blame? Did it even really matter in the end? Even if he died in the next second, the war would just go on, and on, and on. Who would mourn him? Only his family. Maybe members of the Admiralty. But besides them, no one would give a passing glance to an old fool who had lived through and bore witness to the horrors of a continent gone mad.

His musings were broken when he caught sight of an brown-bearded officer approaching him decked in black, wearing the rank of Commodore on his sleeves and epaulettes. The officer's hat bore the symbol of that hated nation, the Arrow of Theron, piercing the heart of he and his western comrades with a searing pain worse than the Hell's hottest flames. As he approached him, Maximilian smelled his rancid breath which reeked of rum and whiskey, and even his facial features gave further evidence to his insidious and ambiguous nature. His cindering grey eyes still held a fire that seemed to scorch his very soul as he slowly spoke, his voice dark and threatening,

"Greetings, barbarian of the setting sun. I am Commodore Gregory Sirov."

"Your servant, eastern scum," Maximilian returned sardonically. "And I am Sir Maximilian Straussky."

Sirov furrowed his brow, his ash eyes smoldering as it shot fiery arrows that pierced Maximilian's heart.

"The name Sirov should make your blood freeze, seadog."

Maximilian lowly growled, still defiant even in agonizing defeat.

"Never mind," Sirov sloughed him off. "You and your ship have caused quite a fuss for us, Sir Maximilian. You've sunk the Huntsman and took down my friend Captain Frazier, and as we speak my ship is sinking because of your devilish gunners. My men are just transferring the necessary equipment over to your ship, as you can very well see."

"Did you come just to tell me that?" Maximilian posed, skeptically.

"No, you doddering old fool!" Sirov spat. "Your ship has earned quite the reputation since this war began, and now that we have your ship, we intend to make its secrets known."

He stepped closer and the stench of rum was overpowering for Maximilian as he issued his dire warnings.

"Now, we can't have you muddling up our little investigations, can we? So you best enjoy the hours of the night, Sir Maximilian, because tomorrow at dawn, you die."

Sirov promenaded off, laughing in triumph as the last sailor came up with his box, completing the transfer. Sirov made his way up the superstructure (which, Maximilian noticed, was bruised by shells and rockets) to the bridge. Maximilian felt the ship suddenly lurch and then begin moving away as the ship's horn blew. He looked off to the north, and saw the cruiser that had caused him and his crew so much ire sink into the depths of the river, stern first. Maximilian smiled in defiance as the sun slowly began to set casting an eerie and heavenly glow upon the ship as it disappeared beneath the waves. His crew was gone, his ship was captured and he may die in the morning, but he had at least wreaked terrible havoc on his enemy one last time before completing his career.

The ship sailed away, and the small feeling of pride that had once captured his heart was slowly pushed aside by shame as he heard the cheers and cries of joy from the raucous Roxchean sailors, celebrating their victory over the "barbarians of the setting sun."

Just who was right in this war? And what was the fighting all about in the end?

Those questions bit and chewed at his brain as the ship sailed away towards his uncertain future.


"That night," Meg pressed on, still trying to hold back tears of anguish at the mental image of her ancestor tied to a mast and at the mercy of the enemy, "the Firefly moored under Roxchean colors in a cove of Green Island. The plan of Commodore Sirov was to make rudimentary repairs to the ship before bringing her to a Roxchean port as a spoil of war."

Seron, for the first time since the meeting began, looked up from his book with his stern and hard cobalt eyes and spoke.

"Sir Maximilian obviously could not let the Firefly fall into enemy hands," Seron observed, having just finished reading the section on naval combat in the Green Island War. "That would have been a military disaster for Sous-Beil."

"Exactly," Meg concurred. "So he made a daring, but risky plan. The Roxchean sailors were celebrating, having raided the ship's galley and found the entire supply of rum. Little did they know that Maximilian was finding a way out from his bondages…"


The sailors knew how to tie knots, that was for sure, but Maximilian was a seaman first and foremost, and if there was anything a seaman knew how to do, it was tie and untie knots. His hands struggled out of his bonds, but he knew his way around the rope enough to get himself free and push the ropes off him.

The night echoed with the drunken cheers and carousing of the Roxchean sailors, intoxicated with their own victory. Some of them had even passed out from an overdose of liquor. Their inebriated state would provide the perfect smokescreen for him to put his plan into action. Their roistering continued as he scoured the deck for a weapon in case he was discovered.

Upon his way to a stairwell leading into the bowels of the ship, he found a Roxchean officer, passed out and sprawled on the floor from intoxication, the smell of rum sickening like a heavily applied cologne. Maximilian spotted a weapon that would suit his needs: a small sword, hooked at the hilt to his belt. He would no longer be needing it after tonight, he thought as he unhooked the scabbard and unsheathed the sword slowly.

The roistering and jovial singing of his enemies grew louder as he drew open the wrought iron door. He chuckled, and quietly wished his unsuspecting enemies well.

"That's right, my lambs," Maximilian laughed as he carefully went down the steps. "Keep to your drink. You shall soon have a surprise from me that none shall ever forget…"

He grabbed a flashlight from off the walls and began his descent into the depths of the ship with only the light from his torch guiding him. Keeping an eye out for signs leading him to the storage room, he contemplated just what he hoped to do with this ship as it now rested with the enemy.

The Firefly was the pride and very lifeblood of the Bezelese Navy, a jewel in the King's crown, so to speak. As such, its blueprints and layout were guarded with tight secrecy, never word breathed outside of the Admiralty. If Roxche knew all its secrets, it would not only be a coup for them, but they may prove to bring Sous-Beil's own weapons against them in the development of future ships. The Firefly would not be surrendered to anyone…except to one…

He found a sign on a metal door indicating the magazine. Chuckling to himself, he opened the door and soon set to work searching for a bomb. Roxche would not have her prize from the West. The war was not about to be lost because the King's most valued ship fell into enemy hands. No one would have the ship. Not even he would. No, instead Roxche would snatch defeat from the jaws of victory as Maximilian would sit off to the sides laughing at what was about to occur.

He soon scavenged some TNT and satchel charges, and produced a long fuse to be set. The fuse was set at 20 minutes, which should, he reasoned, give him enough time to get off the ship in safety and catch a glimpse of the spectacle he had prepared.

"This little celebration wouldn't be complete without a few fireworks…"

"AHA!" cried a voice from somewhere behind him. "So you'd blow us all sky-high, would you?"

Maximilian turned around to see who was there, and saw on the stairwell, poised with an officer's sword unsheathed from its scabbard and aimed at Maximilian's face, Commodore Sirov. The ash grey eyes glinted in the poor light of the magazine and his silhouette stood tall, forbidding and dark against the gunmetal grey walls. Each step he made down the stairs echoed and seemed to shake the entire ship to its core. Sirov's beard parted and his deep voice spoke with the grave apprehension of an executioner awaiting the condemned.

"The night shall be short for you, my dear barbarian. Your death comes nigh, Sir Maximilian!"

"Have at you, braggart!" Maximilian retorted as he lunged forward, intending to strike him down quickly.

Sirov parried him and kicked him back down the stairwell, knocking him on his back. Sirov charged in poised for the kill, but Maximilian blocked hi attack and rose to his feet, fighting for every inch of the ship that had fallen into enemy hands. The clash of steel against steel echoed in the magazine as a battle of wills played out on the stage of an ongoing war.

"I'll shave off your beard, western slime!" Sirov taunted as he tried to slash his shoulder.

"And I'll pluck your feathers, vulture!" Maximilian retorted as he parried his attack.

Maximilian advanced swiftly and fiercely, never once letting up in his defense of the ship that had meant so much to him. He had forced him to the walls of the magazine, and continued to lay his blade on him to no avail and with much resistance from Sirov. Their blades were caught and Sirov asked Maximilian the damning question that surely Maximilian himself must be asking.

"Why do you bother fighting when you know you have lost, Sir Maximilian?"

"I have not lost yet. There is still one objective I have left in this fight."

"And what is that?"

"I won't let you have this ship!"

They broke apart and Maximilian surged forward aiming for Sirov's fighting arm. Sirov reacted fast enough to parry and made for a cut across the sleeve of Maximilian's free arm. Still, that did not deter the veteran seaman as he circled around, looking for an opening in his opponent to exploit. In the meantime Sirov went for his leg and scored a cut across his shin, but Maximilian refused to give in and continued to fight to the bitter end. Sirov laughed smugly.

"You say you will never let me have this ship, Sir Maximilian, but it seems your ship has already abandoned you…"

Maximilian charged him and lunged, but Sirov caught wind of his attack and their blades came together, warriors staring into each other's eyes with glares and glints of cold steel bayonets.

"You forget," Maximilian retorted, hissing. "A ship never leaves her captain."

He kicked him hard in the abdomen and sent Sirov onto his back. Maximilian saw this as his chance to end the duel and brought his blade down on him, but Sirov quickly rolled over and the attack barely missed him by inches. As he struggled to his feet, Maximilian came at him again and full throttle, hoping to exact revenge for his crew and his captured ship, and attacked towards his sides and fencing arm. Sirov parried with skill and finesse and landed another cut on his shoulder, parting the sleeve of his officer's coat revealing his white dress shirt. Sirov thought for sure the fight was his as he charged in for the kill.

Maximilian was not about to give in as he sidestepped Sirov and tripped him, sending him careening over himself and landed face first on the wrought iron floor. Maximilian sent his blade down on him in a slashing motion, but Sirov turned on his side and blocked it, unable to return to his feet. Maximilian in the meantime became more aggressive and ferocious in his attacks as time after time his sword clashed with Sirov's as the chorus of metal against metal formed a requiem for his fallen crew, his officers, his ship. The eulogy then turned into a coda for revenge as Maximilian knocked the blade out of Sirov's hand and stabbed his wrist, rendering it unusable. He stomped his foot on him, pinning him to the floor as he swiftly brought the blade down in a stabbing motion for the final kill.

With a sound of steel cutting into flesh, Maximilian landed a critical wound on Sirov, straight through his heart. Sirov cried out in agony as Maximilian twisted the sword, now lodged deep in his chest around and said his parting words.

"May Heaven forgive your wicked soul, Commodore Sirov."

He pulled the sword from his body with a sharp cry followed by a low quiet moan as Sirov felt his life slowly slip away from him. With the matter of Sirov done, Maximilian went back to work with the dynamite and set the fuse for 20 minutes, placing it amidst crates of explosive shells. Once the dynamite was set off, the entire magazine would blow and create a chain reaction destroying the ship. It was incredibly hard for him to part with a ship he had served on faithfully for two years, but such was the obligations that came with being a soldier as well as a sailor.

Without another word and with only the sound of the crackling fuse slowly burning, Maximilian made his way out of the magazine, knowing that time was of the essence, lest he be taken down with his ship as well. No, he intended to live on, if only for the new family that awaited him upon his return from service. And he would tell his sons of what transpired here.

Making his way to upper decks of the ship, he still heard the Roxchean sailors carousing and giddy with inebriation, completely unaware of the plight that befell their commodore and of the fate that awaited all of them in a little under 20 minutes. He reached one of the longboats stationed on the upper deck, and carefully launched, making sure not to attract the attention of the drunken sailors. With 10 minutes left according to his watch, he lowered the boat into the dark river waters below, the sounds of celebration and glee still breaking the still quiet of the night.

"That's right, my lambs," he laughed to himself as he gently loosed the falls on the boat, taking it lower and lower. "Drink and be merry, for soon you will all have a gift to remember me by…"

The boat touched the water and he quickly cut the falls with the cold steel of his sword. Then, slowly like morning mist and silently as the grave, he rowed the small boat away in the direction of Green Island. Thus he watched his beloved Firefly drift further and further from his view and growing smaller and smaller on the horizon. The explosion was due any second now as he committed to his memory what would be the last glimpse of the ship he had served and fought with for more than two years. A small tear dropped from his indigo eyes, wondering how he might break this to not just the Admiralty, but also his family, who took great pride in his life of a sailor. He would continue on after this fight, but never would he forget the great battles and triumphs that that ship brought him.

Then, at 3:30 in the morning, two wires on the hands of a clock touched.

The magazine of the ship exploded in a colossal boom that echoed the thunder of God's wrath. Just as he had planned, the rest of the ship blew itself apart in the subsequent chain reaction, creating a massive display night illuminations to rival any New Year's celebration. Maximilian shipped the oars of the longboat in and stood up as he watched his gallant ship take on water and sink into the dark depths of the river he had spent his whole life on, cheering at retribution being inflicted by the appropriate agents. In one heartfelt and jubilant cry as his stern eyes filled with moist and sorrowful tears, he called to his unfortunate comrades, letting each know of what had transpired this night, and of how they could all rest in peace.

"JUSTICE IS DONE!"


"So perished the Firefly," Meg concluded, taking off the captain's hat and examining it reflectively, "that valiant ship commanded by Sir Maximilian Straussky. And of all the Roxchean seamen aboard her, not one escaped with his life."

"What happened to Sir Maximilian after that?" asked Larry curiously.

Meg turned to everyone, seeing they still saw more to this story than she was letting on, and sighed, smiling. Even though the story might have ended in bittersweet tragedy within triumph, it still was a story she was swollen with pride of telling, a story of a hero in her eyes. She pushed back one of her pigtailed hair locks and set down the captain's hat, picking up the heavy manuscript which had all the secrets and exploits of her dear grandfather recorded for her and future family to see. Nevertheless, she was proud to share it with these, her dearest friends.

"My grandfather beached his longboat on Green Island, where he was found by a Bezelese infantry patrol. He stayed on with them for three months, whilst trying to get in contact with the Navy. Before he could reach them, however, the patrol was attacked and destroyed by a superior Roxchean force, and he was forced to flee the island. From there, he made his way to the base of the Central Mountains at the confluence of the Lutoni River. He stayed on there for two more months before he was picked up by a ship that carried him home."

She then plopped the heavy manuscript into her lap and opened it, turning to the last pages of the book.

"That's where his journal ends," she continued, her eyes denoting something more mysterious to this grand tale. "But here is the strangest part of the whole story…"

She showed the pages, which looked to be official decrees of some sort written in cursive Bezelese by her grandfather. All the members of the club leaned in with keen interest as Meg tied up the last loose end in this long yarn.

"These last two pages are a sort of will and testament, in which he left to each of his three sons a model—built and rigged by himself—a model of the same ship he scuttled rather than leave her to the Roxcheans. There's one odd detail…"

She then extended her delicate forefinger to the last two lines of the will before his signature.

"…he instructs his sons to move the smokestack slightly aft on each ship. 'Thus,' he finishes, 'the truth will be revealed.'"

Meg closed the book and set it back on the coffee table, looking around at the awestruck and wondrous faces (with the exception of Seron), lost in the forests of amazement at the spellbinding and riveting tale Meg had passed onto all of them. They all leaned back into their seats the truly enthralling story still sinking into their memories as the Firefly sank all those years ago. Sir Maximilian was a hero, they all thought, and his deeds ought to live on in history for all to remember! What all of this meant for their little club, no one could tell just yet. That is, no one except for Seron who, as always gave no clue to his intentions.

"Your granddad was really something else, Meg," Nicholas said at last, breaking the silence.

"Yeah," Jenny concurred, her ruby eyes bright like glowing amber, "he sounds like a real hero to me! That's such a fascinating story!"

"It's really amazing to think all that happened," Natalia reflected, adjusting her spectacles, "and we learned nothing about it in class…"

"That settles it, then," Seron said with finality. "The treasure's as good as ours."

As if the world had come to a grinding halt thanks to the opening of his mouth, all eyes turned to Seron, who sat in his chair, comfortably with book in hand. Natalia still showed signs of doubt in her dark eyes magnified behind her spectacles. Jenny looked eager yet at the same time unsure of what he meant, and, for that matter, just what any of this meant. Nicholas was befuddled and confused as he scratched his scalp, running his fingers through his long brown hair. Larry, who was the only one out of all in the club who knew what it meant, sat poised and prepared to back his friend up in what he would deliberate to all of them.

And Meg?

Meg, who was connected to all of this from the very start, sat with mouth parted and indigo eyes glistening, knowing that Seron, her dear friend with his quick wit and sharp mind, had something to say about all of this, and knowing that only he could put all of what she shared in perspective and in the appropriate context, lest they lose track of the entire case that was panning out before them.

"What do you mean?" Natalia asked skeptically. "What has Meg said that proves there's some treasure at all?"

"In the last will and testament," Seron explained, "Sir Maximilian told each of his sons to move the smokestack on the ship. Why would he do that?"

"How can we know?" Nicholas said, throwing up his hands in loss. "Perhaps he was a particular man and wanted the ships to be perfect."

"If that's true," Meg started, Seron's point starting to become clear, "why would he ask his sons?"

"Exactly," Seron put in, supporting her. "He would have done it himself. So why ask his sons?"

He then fished his hand into the breast pocket on his shirt, as he continued to contextualize.

"Because if his sons did as he asked, they would have found a scroll hidden in each smokestack…one of which I happen to have right here, from the ship I bought at the Capital Market."

He produced the small scroll and handed it to Meg, not giving a smidgeon of intent to anyone else. Meg unrolled the parchment and examined it with her dark navy eyes. Jenny and Natalia leaned over and tried to decipher the strange message on the parchment along with their friend from across the river.

"What does it say on there, Meg?" Jenny asked curiously.

"'Three brothers joined…'" she began.

"That's the three sons," Larry put in.

"'…three Fireflies in harmony, sailing in the morning sun will speak,'" Meg continued slowly.

"That must mean we need to get the other two ships," Nicholas deduced.

"Yeah," Meg tempered them all, "but the rest of it isn't so easy. 'For 'tis from light that the truth will be revealed, and then shines forth the sword and the arrow.'"

"What could that mean?" Natalia queried, straining her eyes to make sure she was reading it right. "The last bit doesn't give any hint as to what the treasure is… and what does a sword and arrow have to do with anything?"

"That I don't know," Seron concluded, "but one thing I do know is that if we get the other two scrolls, then we shall find the Firefly's treasure."

Meg handed the scroll back to Seron and her eyes begged for guidance in this strange and alien world of deduction and reasoning that he had led them all into.

"Do you know where the other two scrolls are, Seron?" she asked.

"I know where one of them is."

"Well speak up!" Nicholas piped, his green eyes turning over to Seron in anticipation. "Where is it?"

"It's inside the second Firefly, owned by a certain Sergei Petrovich Kozin."

"Well, what are we waiting for?" Jenny cried, leaping to her feet. "Let's go into the Capital and get it!"

"A good idea," Natalia concurred, standing up as she brushed off her skirt. "If we get the second one we might have better clue of just what kind of treasure we're going after."

"I'll phone Mr. Kozin and let him know we're coming," Seron said finitely, putting away his book back into the shelf where he found it.

With that, the meeting was concluded and a new objective was assigned: obtain the second scroll. As Jenny led the entire club out cheerfully singing her own rendition of "Dead Man's Chest," Meg came to speak with Seron privately. Seron felt weak in the knees again as Meg acted closer than usual with him, speaking softly and her words tickling like butterflies.

"Thanks, Seron," she said with a smile that glowed golden.

"F-for what?" he asked, trying hard to suppress his nervous stammer.

"For helping me to remember!" Meg said with a hearty laugh. "If you hadn't bought that ship for me, I might never have remembered anything about my grandfather or what he did on his ship all those years ago."

She touched his shoulder with her fragile hand, her touch warm and soothing. Seron's heart beat at the rate of a hummingbird and thought for sure he would melt into jelly from her caring touch. If only he could tell her what he felt in his heart now, and just why he had bought that ship for her. If only he could tell her why he was going to all of this trouble solving a mystery that, in the end, was more about her than it was about him. He did not change one feature in his face as she leaned over and whispered,

"You help me rediscover my history, Seron, for that I thank you."

"I-I'm g-glad I could help," Seron said, trying to hide the immense happiness and euphoria he felt in his bones from her contact.

Why on earth wasn't he embracing her, as she practically begged for it?

"B-but Meg," he continued, "th-this hunt of ours means there's still more to your grandfather than any of us know."

"Yeah. So, let's go find our treasure, shall we?"

And with that, they walked out the door, and what came next in this new adventure of theirs was unknown. His guess was as good as hers, but there was one thing he knew to be certain: they would never be the same again after this escapade.


A/N: Whew. That took me a while to plug out, but I'm glad I got it. I'm sorry it took me so long to get this done, as college has really been eating into my time. Chapters might come slower because of all that's happening right now, but I hope you'll stick with me for the long haul, as this is going to be the biggest A&L fanfiction yet!

As always, read and review!

Until next time,

Jordan