Author's Note: I sincerely appreciate the reviews so far, I love being told how I'm doing! This is my first multichapter fanfic in a while so it really helps to know people like what I'm writing. Reviews keep me going, you could say - so feel free to leave one if you have any tips, constructive criticism, or just want to shout out! - Ell
Fate was indeed a fickle creature. One moment it was pulling his strings and dangling him precariously over the edge of certain doom, the next it was dealing him an unexpected kindness. Jim felt he should be used to this treatment by now, after everything he had been through, but it didn't stop him from savoring his good luck.
Phillips had sent him to the kitchen for the duration of the day. It was the closest thing to child's play Jim could think of in the way of chores, and he was extremely grateful. It was like returning to an old and cherished pastime, something he associated with fondly-remembered bygone days. Once he had loathed helping out in any capacity when it came to cleanup, but now he washed and scrubbed and polished as if it came naturally. And in a way it did; at his core he was still a cabin boy, after all.
Valerie, on the other hand, was Not Happy with the arrangements.
"This is servants' work," she groused. She refused to take off her uniform jacket and her sleeves were soaked up past the elbows.
Jim didn't even bother looking at her. He was perfectly fine where he was, his jacket slung over the back of a chair while he worked in his undershirt. Sweat beaded on his brow but he didn't slow his pace as he worked his way through the huge pile of dishes on his side of the room. Valerie's side displayed much less progress in contrast.
Neither of them had brought up last night's events yet. Jim wondered if he even wanted to. On one hand he was extremely curious as to why Valerie, who professed to want nothing to do with him, had been spying on Triona and himself. On the other hand he dreaded the possibility that her father wanted her to keep an eye on him. And given the circumstances, it wouldn't do to start a tiff when they still had a great deal more to accomplish stuck in the same room.
"Ugh. Where is the staff, anyway? Did they just leave us alone in here, hoping we'd do all the work they get paid to do? Lazy good-for-nothings," Valerie continued. She grimaced as she picked up a large pot covered in dried grease.
"The Commodore gave them the day off," Jim told her, hoping against hope it would shut her up.
"How very devious of her," Valerie sighed. "This is... this is utterly demeaning."
"Maybe that's your problem right there." Jim reached up and slicked his sweaty bangs back, not caring that he got soapy water in his hair in the process. "What's demeaning for you is what other people, normal everyday people, do to get by. Somebody's gotta do it. Doesn't make them second-class."
The conviction in his tone was firmly rooted in memories of how his mother had slaved for years trying to keep the Benbow Inn up and running. He saw Valerie's mouth pop open as her eyes flashed, a retort plainly about to come shooting his way, but she clammed up and made an exasperated noise instead. "I suppose you think I'm a spoiled princess, then?"
"Dunno. Maybe. We're not friends, so I haven't really decided yet."
So much for not starting a tiff. Jim half expected her to throw something at him. But instead she went back to scrubbing, effectively ignoring him. Jim shrugged and resumed his own work, enjoying the newfound silence.
His thoughts wandered as his hands seemed to move on autopilot. He had already imbibed half a pot of coffee to keep himself alert since he was running on barely two hours of sleep. Maybe if I quit officer training I can stay on as kitchen staff, he thought with a humorless grin. Maybe a janitor or somethin'...
"Mr. Hawkins?"
Jim looked up as an aide, one of the many ensigns stuck serving as a messenger and errand-runner at the Academy, entered the kitchen. The Benbonian blinked at him, probably surprised at his disheveled appearance, then assumed a more formal stance. "Commodore Phillips requests your presence, young master."
"And what about me?" Valerie asked, hopeful.
"I believe you are to remain as you are," the Benbonian told her. "Follow me, Mr. Hawkins."
Jim got to his feet and set aside the plate he had been working on. He grabbed his jacket and slipped it on as he exited the kitchen. He glanced back at Valerie and saw her bleak expression as she picked up her scrub brush and went back to chipping scum out of that enormous pot.
When he entered the Commodore's study he was treated to the scent of fine tea, chamomile with a hint of something stronger. Phillips was waiting for him in her chair and did not rise to meet him. Jim recalled her episode earlier that morning and tried not to appear concerned despite himself. She looked better than she had on the parade ground and seemed to have shed her foul mood... for the moment.
He saluted. Phillips waved at him dismissively. "Don't bother with formalities, I haven't the patience," she said dryly. "Have a seat, Hawkins."
Jim helped himself to the nearest chair. "You wanted to see me, ma'am?"
"Of course. I wouldn't have sent Toby otherwise." She picked up her teacup and took a sip, then made a face. "Bah. Too weak, too watered down. I can't abide tea done wrong." She fixed him with her one-eyed stare, and for the first time Jim noticed how her brandy-brown iris was flecked with topaz. "This school has the same problem. Blake lured me in with promises that I was coming to the finest officer school in the galaxy, not a three-ring circus populated by coddled children."
Here we go again. "Your speech this morning was, uh, very thorough," he said with a pasted-on smile. "Wait, the Vice Admiral invited you here?"
"Yes, and what of it?" Phillips asked bluntly.
"He, er..." Jim hesitated, then decided to just say what he felt was right. "He acted surprised the day before you got here. Amelia – uh, Admiral Smollett had no idea until she found a letter."
The Commodore stared at him. "Did he now," she murmured. She stirred her tea with a tiny spoon. "You surprise me, Hawkins. One moment you're squirming and refusing to give a straight answer, the next you're informing me of matters which could land you in hot water with a certain Vice Admiral if he knew you were snitching. Why is that?"
Jim felt pinned again. But he knew that avoiding the question would only make things worse. "I guess..." He hesitated only briefly as he tried to figure out what to say and how to say it best. "No offense, ma'am, but I think I needed to figure you out first."
It was partially true; he still hadn't fully ascertained whether she would prove to be friend or foe, but some part of him wanted to trust her.
"Oh but you are cheeky," Phillips said with a dangerously intrigued look. Her posture remained subdued, however, as if she didn't want to waste energy leaning forward or using her arms. "You've caught on to the politics here, then. Better now than later I say. So tell me: why do you think the Vice Admiral kept my coming here a secret, hm? Humor me with your insight."
Jim honestly didn't know what to say. Something felt off about this entire discussion. Phillips was bending protocol severely to her will by confiding in him and asking him to confide in her in turn. His better judgment, or perhaps his sense of duty, urged him to avoid embedding himself any further in the matter. But his curiosity pushed him onward, begged him to keep going. Besides, Phillips was brand new here, newly arrived and seemingly unhappy with her position. Stuck with him and Valerie, and suffering from a mysterious ailment to boot.
It wasn't the first time Jim had been made someone else's problem. The first few weeks with Silver had been touch and go at best, neither of them exactly eager to get to know each other. Jim had come a long way since then as far as people skills were concerned. What the Commodore was doing wasn't exactly typical, but then again, she was hardly a typical instructor. Jim wondered if privateers even bothered adhering to half the regulations the Navy stuck to.
"I don't know, ma'am," Jim answered. "I really don't. But I wish I did."
If the Commodore was disappointed she didn't show an ounce of it. "A mystery to be solved another day, I suppose," she mused. "Now then, to the business at hand. I'm sending someone else to help Blake out in the kitchen; I wanted you for a separate task, one that requires a more technical skillset. Don't bother acting surprised, I've read your file. There's something I'm keen on showing you, so follow me."
She got to her feet. Her motions were steady but deliberate, lacking the swagger of the previous day. Jim almost offered her his arm, then thought better of it; she might just glare at the gesture instead of thanking him. She seemed like the sort of person to value pride over receiving help.
Her cane was certainly interesting up close; it bore several notches, one of which looked almost as if it came from blocking a blade. He couldn't tell if it was simply thick wood or a layer of wood over metal. Like the rest of her, it was refined yet rough.
Somehow his sleep-deprived brain mustered a memory from yesterday's breakfast; he recalled Finch mentioning something about six months. At the time he had been too distracted to think on it, but now he wondered what his teammate had been referring to. It was only six months ago that... what? Phillips' careful movements and her slipup earlier raised his suspicions.
She was still favoring her left side as they left her study. From behind it was more obvious than from the front. As they traveled around corners and through doorways Jim felt his concern growing with nearly every step.
"Have you devoted any thought to the question I asked you?" Phillips inquired, not bothering to look at him as she did so.
Jim knew exactly which question she was referring to. "A bit," he admitted. "Don't think I'm ready to give a straight answer yet, though."
"Naturally. If you said you were, you'd be lying through your teeth," the Commodore said knowingly. "This form of education, this way of life, isn't the end-all be-all, you know. You could pursue a more domestic means of living without sacrificing an ounce of personal dignity. Have you considered a path besides that of an officer?"
"Actually, yes," Jim answered. Possibilities often crossed his mind; his skillset easily qualified him for work as a civilian spacer, a professional mechanic even. But the Academy was something he was loathe to let slip through his fingers, considering how much he had gone through to gain Amelia's sponsorship. Learning his time here might come to an end soon had reshaped his view of the situation and now he realized just how much of a dream graduating had become.
He could appreciate Phillips trying to assuage his worries with alternative suggestions. If you can't decide which side you're on, perhaps you shouldn't play the game at all. As well-intended as her words were, however, there was still a sting of personal offense present in his mind.
"I don't know how much of a bond you shared with the mutineer; I don't particularly care to know. What matters in the present is how you will best serve your own sense of duty. You owe it to yourself and those who will be relying on you, because personal feelings can endanger the lives of many if you're not careful." Phillips came to a halt in front of a reinforced metal door. "One moment, if you please. Bloody thing's got a code."
She hurriedly typed in the passcode and it unlocked with a series of loud clanks. The door swung open and Jim saw that they were entering one of the many engine rooms that powered the Academy. The generators ran on a mixture of externally-gleaned solar power and processed solar crystals, shards born in the hearts of stars and harvested regularly for their unparalleled energy output.
The chamber seemed a living thing to Jim, whose eyes wandered from the pumps to the valves to the turning gears as he took in all the details. It sighed and whined in between mechanical groans. Steam wafted through vents and formed a misty cloud near the ceiling.
Phillips didn't appear too pleased with all the noise but continued walking as if nothing was wrong. "Two days ago one of the pipes in here got clogged up and triggered a minor power fluctuation. Nothing too dismal, but a control panel got blown out from the surge. The Vice Admiral wants to bring in an expert to fix the problem. I devised a more... economical solution. That's where you come in."
She indicated the damaged control panel by pointing at it with her cane. Jim ambled over and frowned as he saw the blackened metal and protruding wires. "I've seen worse," he said casually. Flint's old bucket of bolts looked way worse and I got her spaceworthy again. "S'gonna take some elbow grease but I think I can get it working."
"There are tools over there on the shelf," Phillips told him. "Take what you need." She took a step back and leaned against the wall, seeming relieved at the newfound support.
Jim fetched an armful of tools and set to work after taking off his uniform jacket. "So what does a privateer do, anyway?" he asked, clipping away the frayed ends of damaged wires and twining them with replacement length. It felt prudent to create a conversation before she could seize the chance to continue bringing up Silver.
"There are those who call us legal pirates," Phillips replied in a sneer. "While I will admit that there are those who call themselves privateers whose ethical leanings leave much to be desired, such reasoning is inherently flawed. Letters of Marque authorize privateers to wage war on enemies of the Empire, creating a much more flexible and adaptable fighting force to patrol the most threatened trade routes. Don't let Naval arrogance fool you. We get paid to do our jobs just as they get paid to do theirs, except we do them much more... creatively."
This sudden talk of we and they surprised Jim. "And without as much financial backing, I bet."
"Precisely. Pirates raid and pillage for the sake of greed and mayhem. A privateer uses what they have at their disposal; if an enemy vessel contains useful goods, then said goods are commandeered as extra supplies."
Jim didn't say it aloud but he appreciated the lack of formality. Phillips certainly knew how to walk the walk when it came to presenting a proper image, but it seemed that she preferred to drop unnecessary posturing in private.
"Do privateers see a lot of action? Compared to the Navy, I mean," Jim asked.
"Oh, loads. There's a lot the Navy considers itself too good for. Going deep into contested territory, that sort of thing." A small half-smile had crossed the Commodore's face now. "Only downside is, the Crown can deny all knowledge of us if we make a mistake. Politics and all that. If your ship is scuttled there's a lower chance anyone will bother to come rescue you."
Suddenly Phillips' entire attitude made more sense. If privateers were underdogs, they had to talk bigger and fight harder than their Navy counterparts to appear relevant. To get respect. Phillips' invitation to come teach here now bore much more significance in Jim's sight; he felt genuine admiration for her. It didn't lessen his annoyance over her meddling, but it was there nonetheless.
"Huh. Ya know..." Jim paused, then figured he had nothing to lose. "Do they take cheeky people, or is it an exclusive club?"
That actually got a laugh out of the Commodore. It was more of an abrupt cackle. "Yes, I suppose there's a fair amount of cheek that comes with the job. Always good to broaden one's horizons, I say. Keep in mind, however, that your loyalty cannot be compromised by-"
She stopped mid-sentence as the control panel came to life with a crackle. Jim stepped back as his crude repairs did their job, enabling power to flow back into the box. Pipes which had been dormant rattled as they were filled with air and steam. And from the sound of it, something else...
"I think something's stuck in there," Jim yelled over the din. "I'm gonna take a look-"
There was a loud pop as one of the caps on top of a long, narrow pipe blew off. That pop was followed by a shrill noise and Jim saw a blackened blob hurtling toward him. He caught the blob in his hands, amazed. "Morph?!"
"What is that thing?" Phillips demanded, coming to his side. She scowled as Jim opened his hands, revealing the pinkish creature – who looked pleased as punch to be out of the pipe. Morph trilled and took flight, and probably would have flown straight into Phillips' face if Jim hadn't reached out and caught him again.
"This is, uh, Morph," Jim explained lamely. "He's a... he morphs. But don't worry, he's completely harmless." Unless you get him pissed off enough to grow sharp teeth and bite you.
"A Protean polyform. Unbelievable." Phillips sighed. "I presume it belongs to you, yes?"
"If it helps, I didn't smuggle him here, honest. He hid in a package my mom sent," Jim offered. Morph blew a happy raspberry and Jim felt his self-confidence droop.
"I don't care if he sprouted from the hydroponics lab. No cadet is permitted to have pets with them at this school," the Commodore declared.
Morph let out a distressed wail upon hearing this. "But..." Jim felt panic well up in his chest. If they took Morph away he would never be able to forgive himself – it had been hard enough leaving the little guy back on Montressor when he started here. "I mean, he's just... he's not just a pet. He means a lot..."
His words stuck in his throat. How could she ever understand? The aftermath of Treasure Planet's destruction had left Jim with a lot of questions and doubts. As much as he had tried to, he couldn't just walk away from all the terrible things Silver had done. It was a time of sorting through truth and lies, and Morph had been a bright spot. Living proof to remind Jim of the good that came with the bad. It was like carrying a piece of those brighter times before the mutiny, and Jim cringed at the thought of being forever parted from that assurance.
"Please," he said quickly, trying to hide the catch in his voice. "I can't lose him. I just can't."
Phillips' mouth tightened into a thin flat line. Somewhere behind that fierce visage wheels were turning; finally she relaxed her posture and tilted her head slightly. "Hmph. What am I going to do with you," she muttered. "The rules are absolute, Hawkins. You can't keep that creature with you."
Jim felt heat flush his face as wetness stung his eyes. He fought to keep his composure and hugged Morph close to his chest. "Please-"
"Hush now, no need to make a scene," the Commodore snapped. "You heard what I said. Rules are rules – therefore it falls to me to take custody of this 'Morph' in your stead."
Jim stared at her. Bewilderment gave way to realization. "You mean you'll... I mean, this is great, but he's... he makes messes sometimes, and he likes to play, and he can be a little annoying..."
"Tch. Most things annoy me, Hawkins, be sure to keep that in mind. Yet I bear them." Phillips shook her head. "Now put your jacket back on, you'll go straight back to scrubbing dishes and I don't want to hear another word on the matter." She held out her right hand, gazing at Morph suspiciously. "Come along, you. Be grateful I'm in a good mood today."
If this is a good mood, I hope I never see the bad ones, Jim thought. He donned his jacket and watched as Morph cautiously approached the Commodore, gliding around her hand as if sniffing her. The blob cooed approvingly and darted in closer, and Phillips' eye followed his every movement. Finally she turned her head to say something to Jim... and Morph took the opportunity to lick her cheek.
Put out didn't even begin to cover how she looked after that. But then, as they left the engine room, Jim thought maybe he saw her fighting to hide a smile.