Claudia outdid herself this time. When the small canisters the owl carried hit the ground, the resulting explosion ripped the night apart. The bird's aim was perfect. The first fireball took out the guards, the wrought-iron gate and a good section of the stone wall around it. The second hit the main door of the house and blew it inward, along with a large chunk of the front veranda and the surrounding walls.
So much for stealth! Myka just had time to think, and then Wells was up and running and the shadows came alive as the crew followed her. After that, time for thought was a luxury she could not afford. There was only the action and reaction of battle, nerves and muscles trained by exhausting hours of practice and experience working in concert without seeming direction by the mind. Myka's senses at once stretched and narrowed; every cell in her body alive as her world narrowed to only what was in front of her, leaping a smoking pile of stone and sprinting across the small courtyard. Even now she could hear shouts and an alarm being raised inside the house and an instant later, men in various stages of dress boiled up from the rear of the dwelling. They were inside too, clattering down a grand winding staircase and emerging from other areas Myka couldn't see. She had only time for a fleeting realization that they were facing a verywell-armed and organized adversary who was fielding nearly a small army of his own, then gunfire split the night followed by yells and the clash of steel.
Glancing to her right as she ran, Myka caught a glimpse of some of Wells' crew breaking off their charge and engaging the men in the courtyard, but an instant later her feet found the uneven remains of the wide marble steps and she was forced to concentrate on running.
Myka drew her pistol and distantly registered those crew around her who were so armed doing the same as they burst through the smoking remains of the entry way. The attackers found themselves in a grand, marble floored room that resembled nothing so much as a small ballroom. Indeed, crystal chandeliers glittered above and there was a great bank of windows off to the left that looked to lead to a veranda and possibly gardens. Myka had only a fleeting impression of gleaming white marble, gold fixtures, polished wood, the bright lights above and then her battle trained mind pushed it all away and she focused on the men rushing down the staircase and coming from farther back in the house.
Those not wearing bed-clothes were attired in a bland uniform of dove grey with various insignia in silver braid on the sleeves or shoulders. In essence then, it really was a private army. There was no time to dwell on the implications though, many were kneeling and aiming or trying frantically to load rifles or pistols. The crew of the Time Machine used their advantage well, however, and a ragged volley of shots rang out, Myka's own among them.
Quarters quickly became too close for guns and blades were drawn. Bending down without slowing, Myka yanked her dagger from her boot and drew her sabre. Around her, Wells' black-clad crew collided with the defenders like a wave against the breakwater. The clash of steel and the sound of boots striking marble filled the air, accompanied by the screams of the angry and injured. The noise echoed off the stone and wood paneled walls, making it even more chaotic.
Myka found herself engaging a burly man with his night shirt hanging out of his belt and no boots, clearly roused from bed. For all his size and strength (and her arm stung from the force of his blows where he closed with her) she was quicker and used her boot heels to her advantage. A well placed stomp and he yelled as she broke his toe then used his distraction to twist his blade between her dagger and sabre. She used the hilt of her sword to smash his temple. If he had a hard skull, he would be fine. In his place sprang two more men, both in that grey uniform with very little silver on their sleeves – foot soldiers then. Myka had no time to think after that. She merely fought.
And fought.
And fought.
Men came and went before her blade and every parry, thrust, dodge, riposte, attack and retreat began to run together. All that mattered was winning.
Quick glances around her showed the enemy dead or wounded mounting but they were fighting Wells' crew to a standstill. Where on earth are they all coming from? The question flickered through her mind as she dropped to her knees in a desperate attempt to avoid her opponent's slashing attack and used her advantage to stab his thigh. With a scream he dropped and Myka jumped up, kicked his sword away and looked around for another quarry. Myka found herself at the rear edge of the conflict, still only halfway across the hall. A movement out of the corner of her eye brought her around to her right where she saw Sarah battling a man twice her size. Myka was moving instantly. The defender was in full uniform as well and it was clear he had not been called from slumber. He was steadily forcing Sarah back toward the rest of the fighting. It was not only the small crewmember's plight that had Myka forcing her legs to move faster, however; it was the ring of keys at the soldier's belt and the stone steps she saw leading downward behind him.
Time began to stretch for Myka, each beat of her heart suddenly loud in her ears, like the ocean crashing over the noise rising around her. She could feel the pull of the large muscles in her legs and the limits of her lungs as she struggled to draw more from her body. She was still yards away when the big man swung hard at Sarah, the sheer power of his arms knocking one of her knives away from her. She saw the instant Sarah's attacker knew he had her, watched Sarah realize it too.
Myka was still four strides away.
The soldier raised his sword.
Three strides.
Sarah dove to the side.
Myka dropped to one knee and slid, her hip taking the brunt of her weight as she slipped across the last bit of space and came in under the soldier's raised guard. Her sabre in front of her like a lance, she ran him through.
The giant man looked down in shock at the metal protruding from his body, then his eyes dimmed and he collapsed, barely giving Myka enough time to get out of the way. Tugging at her blade, Myka's senses suddenly screamed a warning and she whirled, only to see her would-be assassin clutch his throat and stumble forward, his momentum carrying him to a boneless heap at Myka's feet.
Grinning savagely, Sarah darted forward and yanked her bloody knife from the dead man's throat and – wiping it on his clothing – saluted Myka before running off to rejoin the fight.
There was no time to appreciate what had just happened, however. With a final yank, Myka freed her sabre and then sliced the tie holding the set of keys to her dead opponent's belt. With a last glance at the melee going on behind her and quick prayer to whatever god might be willing to listen to her, Myka plunged into the darkened stair well.
Either her luck was holding or it was simply that every available man in the mansion had responded to the attack by the Time Machine's crew. Whatever the reason, Myka met no one when she finally emerged at the bottom of the stairs and found herself in a short, dank stone hallway. A wooden table with a scattered deck of cards and a half eaten dinner signaled that at least one person had been stationed here.
Presumably the dead man with the keys.
The walls were slick, almost dripping with condensation and the lamps that sat in iron holders did little to dispel the gloom.
It must be under the water level down here, Myka realized as she walked forward. She could only hope that this was her destination. The hallway ended in an 'L' junction and turning the corner, Myka felt hope flare. On either side of the longer hall, there were heavy metal doors with bars across tiny windows.
Cells! Now if only…
"Pete? Artie?" She called hesitantly, heart in her throat. If they weren't here…
"Pete?" She called louder, her voice sounding oddly flat in the space as the stone absorbed it.
Myka's heart began to sink. She would never forgive herself if something happened to her partner and Artie…
"Myka? Mykes is that you? MYKA!"
"PETE!"
There was a pounding at one of the doors at the end of the hallway and Myka ran to it, fumbling with the keys to find the right one. Pete's excited face was pressed against the tiny window and relief made Myka's knees weak. In her haste, her fingers felt clumsy and it seemed to take forever for the shaped piece of metal to slide home and the tumblers to click into place. At last she was turning the handle and then Pete was grabbing her and pulling her into a hug so tight she felt her ribs creak. Myka didn't care. She was holding him just as tightly.
"Oh Mykes, thank God you're alive, we thought you lost to the sea!"
"Pete! You're okay right? You look okay, they didn't hurt you…"
"Where have you been, we thought you were dead! Where is the rest of the crew…"
"Alright! That's enough of that." Artie, it appeared, had not changed one bit in Myka's absence. It made her smile, giddy with relief.
Except for their clothes being rumpled and dirty and having a rather unwashed aroma around them, the two Agents looked none the worse for wear and Myka felt a huge weight lift off her chest; one she had carried for so long she had ceased even being aware of it.
Their celebrations, however, were cut short as Artie all but stormed out of the cell.
"Where is he? Where is MacPherson? Do you have him in custody yet?"
"MacPherson?" Myka queried, the name only vaguely familiar. "Wasn't that…"
"Yeah, Artie's old partner. Kinda went round the bend and decided he'd rather just sell Artifacts and make himself piles of money," Pete muttered darkly. "He's the one running this little circus."
"Well, isn't this the day for former Warehouse Agents," Myka replied dryly.
"What?" Artie asked sharply, then shook his head. "Never mind. Where is Mrs. Frederic, MacPherson needs to be handled carefully."
"Uh. Mrs. Frederic isn't exactly here, Artie." Myka offered.
In return she was witness to another of her captain's wild gesticulations and his voice went up at least an octave.
"What do you mean she's not here? Who is commanding this mission?"
"Well…." Myka decided that perhaps now was not precisely the best time for the whole truth. "Me."
Artie's eyes nearly bugged out of his head.
"Then we have to get out of here. We need to find MacPherson! He cannot be allowed to get away!" And with that, Artie darted – with a shocking amount of dexterity given his rather round form – past Myka and Pete and ran back down the hall toward the stairs.
Blinking, Myka and her partner just looked at each other. "After you," Pete said.
Myka grinned, mock-bowed, and together they ran after their Captain.
The chaos had not lessened much in the moments spent freeing Pete and Artie, though casting an eye over the fighting, Myka felt a fierce surge of pride at the number of downed enemy soldiers. Wells' crew were clearly gaining the upper hand. A fact even the defenders were apparently realizing as here and there, Myka saw men throwing down their weapons and surrendering. Even Artie seemed to be taken aback by the sight that greeted them when the three Agents made it to the top of the stairs.
The stunning effect was momentary, however, and Nielsen quickly reached down and grabbed the sword from the guard Myka had killed, motioning for Pete and Myka to follow. "We need to get to MacPherson's office. If he hasn't escaped yet, we might get lucky. He could be trapped there." And with that, Artie took off at an angle that set him skirting the edge of the fighting and toward the back of the mansion. Pete followed suit, pulling a knife from another dead man's chest and stealing his rapier. Myka, already armed, nonetheless stooped to snag an unfired pistol.
The group was nearly through the main hall when a squeal cut across the din and a red blur nearly tackled Pete.
"Pete Artie oh my god you're okay we're so glad you're okay I missed you so much!" Claudia really did have a knack for talking without breathing.
Pete spun Claudia around, both of them laughing until Artie's angry motions forced him to put her down. "Yes, yes, we're glad to see you too, now come on!"
Claudia raised one eyebrow and looked at Myka as the group jogged off after their Captain. "Well he sure hasn't changed."
Myka could only snort in agreement.
Dodging individual fighters here and there, Myka recognized Wells' crew, instinctively counting faces as they made their way toward what appeared to be the kitchen and servants' areas. She saw Hawk and Sarah forming an effective and deadly team, Jinx and Katherine with their backs to each other and several others in similar positions. It wasn't until Artie turned sharply and started clambering up a small, almost hidden staircase that the Agent realized she had not seen Helena in the fray. Pausing for a moment, Myka let Pete and Claudia rush up after Artie, torn between her duty and the desire to just make sure Helena was alright…
A commotion behind her whirled the Agent around, her sabre at the ready. Myka could only watch in surprise as two of the grey-uniformed defenders stumbled backward through a door that appeared to lead to the kitchen. Chasing after them was none other than Wells herself. Helena looked utterly wild, her teeth bared in a vicious smile and though Myka could see a slash in the black fabric of Helena's sleeve and a trickle of blood at the corner of her mouth, she looked otherwise fine. More than fine as with a gleaming satisfaction in her dark eyes, Helena dispatched the first of her opponents and then kicked the other in the head, knocking him out cold.
"Agent Bering!" Helena smiled broadly. "I was just cleaning the kitchen. Did I hear the dulcet tones of your Captain Arthur?"
Myka could only nod, unable to stop herself from returning Wells' smile. "Yes, Artie and Pete are fine. Artie's after Macpherson."
"Well then by all means, let's go!" Helena gestured and Myka wasted no time, turning and running up the stairs after Artie, her heart and feet suddenly light.
The two women rounded a sharp corner that opened onto a landing and found Artie and Pete trying to batter down a carven oak door while Claudia looked at them with resigned exasperation. The door was clearly not budging.
"Move aside!" Myka called, striding forward and drawing her pistol. She placed the muzzle in the lock and turned away, shielding her face and pulling the trigger. The lock exploded and the door swung open in a cloud of smoke and splinters.
Myka, Artie, Pete, Claudia and Helena burst into a richly appointed office. It was a beautiful space, well lit with oil lamps and a bank of windows behind a mahogany desk. Outside Myka was shocked to discover that the sun was well on its way to rising, the black of night fading to a soft grey and showing the ocean stretched beyond the south-facing windows.
It was the lean, handsome man with greying hair and rich clothes, however, who held everyone's attention.
James MacPherson, former Warehouse Agent and wanted fugitive, stood behind his desk, clearly interrupted in the last stages of gathering a variety of items into special-made thick canvas bags.
Artifacts, Myka realized. At the look of it, at least a dozen, and who knew how many more he simply hadn't had time to collect.
"Ah Arthur. I see the cavalry has, as they say, arrived. I'm sorry we didn't get to finish our chats old friend, but I doubt it would have done much good. You simply won't see."
"Don't you dare James," Artie ground out. "This isn't about me. This is about your betrayal of everything we hold dear."
Myka edged from behind Artie, taking a very slow step to the right. Perhaps if he could keep his former partner talking…
She suddenly found herself staring at the muzzle of a gun.
"That will be far enough Agent Bering. I must congratulate you on your resourcefulness. Getting Wells on your side…I truly did not see that coming."
Before anyone could respond to that (and Myka felt H.G. tense behind her) MacPherson tilted his head. "I'm sorry Arthur. It appears we shall be forever at odds."
And then he pulled the trigger.
The next think Myka knew she was looking at Helena and Claudia's worried faces and wondering how she'd gotten to the floor and why her shoulder stung.
"I'm fine, I'm fine," she assured a panicked looking Claudia, who helped her sit up and then smiled at Wells.
"And that's H.G. with the save. Again," Claudia said pointedly.
There was no time to respond though, a yell from Artie pulling everyone's attention to the window. Or rather, the ledge behind the window where MacPherson, with his bags of stolen Artifacts, was grabbing onto the frame of something out of sight and then jumping off the railing.
Except he wasn't jumping at all.
"Oh you have got to be joking," Pete groaned as he and Artie skidded to a stop at the edge of the railing MacPherson had just leapt from.
Myka had to echo the sentiments as she watched the former Warehouse agent gliding away over the rooftops of the neighboring houses, standing in the frame of what could only be called a 'contraption.' And even worse, looking out to sea, she saw a familiar outline on the water beyond the harbor.
"Is that…" Claudia pointed at the ship.
Myka only barely resisted smacking her forehead. "That damned frigate. So it was MacPherson the entire time."
Tilting her head, Claudia was considering the dwindling form of the rogue agent.
"So that thing he had was…"
"One of Leonardo DaVinci's flying machines."
"Wait, I thought none of those actually worked?" Claudia asked.
"No, no, they worked, they were just terribly unreliable and…" Artie shook his head. "It doesn't matter. What matters is that MacPherson got away. Again!At least this time the Regents have to take me seriously. They will have to see what a threat he is and then…"
But what would come next none of the people in the room would find out for at that moment, Artie realized that MacPherson wasn't the only former Warehouse Agent who had been present.
"You!" He pointed at Helena, who was standing rather stiffly near the door, attempting to tie a makeshift bandage around the sword cut on her upper arm with one hand and her teeth.
Helena looked up, her expression sliding from curiosity to utterly impassivity in the space of a heartbeat.
"What is she doing here?" Artie snarled. His tone was so vehement that even Pete actually backed up a step.
Helena's eyes glittered dangerously, but it was Myka who stepped forward, instinctively standing between Helena and her commanding officer.
"Artie it's okay, H.G. has been helping us - Claudia and I. She rescued me and it is her crew down there that made it possible for me to free you."
Nielsen, however, was clearly not buying the Agent's explanation. Resembling nothing so much as a small dog with its hackles up, the Warehouse Captain took a menacing step forward, his eyes fixed on Wells.
"Oh so that's the game is it? You use my Agents so you can keep track of our investigation and then what? Warn MacPherson? Help him escape? What are you playing at, Wells?"
The Privateer could have been carved from marble. Only her dark eyes blazed as she replied with perfect civility.
"I assure you Captain, I have had no dealings with MacPherson." A cynical expression tugged at her lips. "Though I am quite sure you won't believe me, there is more than one reason to leave the employ of your precious Warehouse."
Arthur snorted in mingled disgust and disbelief. "Oh right. You just had an attack of conscience and decided to sail off on your own to get filthy rich. How noble," he sneered.
Helena's reply was clearly going to be blistering but Myka turned, placing her hand on the Helena's arm. Nothing more, yet the soft touch brought Wells up short and she took a breath and relaxed somewhat. Unfortunately, Artie was on a roll.
"Pete, go back to the cells and get some of the manacles. I'm placing you under arrest, Wells, and taking you back to the Warehouse."
Myka's eyes grew wide and fear shot through her like a current at Helena's expression. The last thing she wanted was a confrontation between the two captains. Myka's protest died forgotten, however, as an older woman with dark skin, a very complicated hairdo and an impenetrable aura of command walked through the shattered door.
"That will not be necessary Arthur. Ms. Wells' actions are not under suspicion at the moment." Commodore Frederic did not appear to notice the charged atmosphere of the office as she swept in. Nor was she alone, behind her strode a group of soldiers in the uniform of the Royal Navy and in their midst…
"The Regents?" Artie asked, pushing his glasses up his nose as if not quite able to believe what he was seeing. He wasn't the only one who was struggling to comprehend that four of the mysterious people whose connection with the Warehouse Helena still didn't understand had convened in one place and were even now looking around the office as if expecting MacPherson to still be there.
After that, matters became quite confused. The room filled very quickly with guards, and Helena found herself pushed aside. The volume rose significantly as well. Artie was haranguing one of the Regents – a balding man Wells remembered was called Valda – while Mrs. Frederic alternated between trying to calm him down and field the questions of the Regents themselves. One of them – a blonde woman Wells was unfamiliar with – pulled Myka and Pete aside and immediately began questioning them.
No one seemed particularly interested in Helena and she found herself standing near the door, suddenly very redundant in the little tableau being played out in a rogue Agent's former office. Helena could have laughed at the ridiculousness of it all. Apparently the Regent's policy of pretending that she did not exist extended, quite literally, to her very presence.
So, once again, I have done all that they could have asked from an Agent and more, and they will simply ignore me. So be it, she mused bitterly. With a final tug of her teeth, she managed to secure the bandage around her arm, ignoring the sting of the wound. It would likely need stitches. And will most likely scar, she thought darkly.
Shaking her head Wells realized what was happening and pushed the melancholy away. It was a weakness she could not afford. Across the room, Myka was deep in discussion with the blonde Regent. She didn't turn toward Helena.
Oh Katherine you were right. In truth, though, Helena had long known this moment was approaching. I just didn't realize it would come so damned swiftly. Still, she could recognize the need for retreat when it was staring her in the face. There is nothing for you here anymore Helena. Her words to herself were harsh, yet it took far, far too much effort to tear her eyes away from Myka's elegant profile and force her body to make the simple movements needed to place one foot in front of the other and walk out the door. In a turn of events that suddenly felt very convenient, Helena had taken a deep slash to her thigh. It was not life threatening, but the burning pain flared in her leg with each step. Helena clung to that pain, embracing it, letting the fire cleanse her mind until her surroundings blurred into the background.
That her sight blurred as well was a fact Wells simply chose to ignore.
Concentrating on moving as steadily as possible, Helena walked slowly out of MacPherson's office.
She did not see the unfathomable eyes of Mrs. Frederic following her.
It didn't take long for the pain in Wells' leg to become something she no longer needed to embrace and instead had to struggle to keep from overwhelming her. Seeing more Royal Navy guards on the back stair, she walked carefully along the landing and paused at the top of the great staircase that descended to the ballroom. It was impressive really, how much damage her crew and Ms. Donovan had managed to wreak upon MacPherson's mansion. Seen in the brightening day, the ruins of the entry way and the gates beyond were even more vivid. Below her, men in the blue coats of the Navy had taken over guarding those defenders who had the sense to surrender, and laying out the bodies of those who had not. Outside she could see more royal officers dealing with the local constabulary that must have responded to the ruckus they were making. Her own people were grouped loosely near what had been the front door, keeping one eye on their surroundings and the other on the sailors. Helena was relieved to see that most everyone was at least sitting under their own power, even if many of her people looked exhausted and were sporting wounds. At least from a distance no one appeared in immediate danger of not returning to the ship.
Squaring her shoulders and blinking away the stinging in her eyes, Helena clenched her hand around her katana's hilt where it protruded from her belt, and began to descend the stairs. As her crew caught sight of her, whispers passed and gradually, sometimes with the help of others, every single one of them stood and managed to come to attention.
Helena could feel the eyes of the entire Naval contingent on her as she made her way slowly across the marble floors. Gritting her teeth she forced herself to walk perfectly evenly, refusing to show any sign of weakness.
Still several yards from where Jinx was standing at the head of her crew, Wells heard a gasp of surprise and turned her head to see Captain Holden of the Steadfast staring at her. Already anticipating another scene like the one with Arthur, Helena's hackles rose. She would be damned if this man who left members of his own crew to drown (that Myka was not technicallya member of Holden's crew had no place in Wells' moment of righteous moment of indignation) would waylay her.
Helena was spared such a confrontation, however.
As Holden moved toward her, his hand on his sword and a thunderous expression on his face, a voice rang from the top of the stairs.
"At ease Mr. Holden. Captain Wells is free to go."
Unable to resist, Wells turned carefully and looked at where Mrs. Frederic stood at the top of the grand staircase. Backed by marble walls and standing on the red carpet, she looked like royalty, and held herself as such.
Holden backed away, momentarily confused.
Helena stared at the imposing woman for a long moment, but she could not read the Commodore's expression. As always, she was a cypher - one Helena was too damned tired to attempt to figure out. Instead of her usual mocking salute, Wells just nodded, turning carefully and striding to her crew, head held high.
"Mr. Jinx."
"Captain."
"Are all present and accounted for?"
"Yes sir," her first mate snapped back in clipped tones.
Helena nodded sharply. "Very well. All hands return to the ship."
Jinx saluted with a military precision Helena had no idea he'd possessed and spun on his heel. "Crew of the Time Machine… Fall out!"He barked. And bless them, but they did just that. As if choreographed, every single member of Wells' crew executed a perfect about-face and began to march - rather slowly in deference to the wounded - out the door.
Wells could feel the shocked stares on her back, and in a moment of wickedness, she snapped to attention herself, turned on her heel, gave the Commodore a razor sharp salute, then spun about once more and marched after her crew.
The façade lasted till they were down the street and out of sight of the house. Helena's leg nearly gave out and she swore and the curse was a signal for her crew to return to their usual more pragmatic state. The injured leaned on their comrades (or in a few cases were simply picked up and carried) and they shuffled along as best as possible.
Jinx quickly moved to his Captain's side but she waved him off. "I'm fine, Steven," she said quietly, thanking him without words.
Jinx nodded, understanding. "Orders Captain?"
"Get the wounded taken care of and set sail. I want Venice to our stern as swiftly as possible. And Mr. Jinx?"
"Yes sir?"
"Make sure to get rid of that god damned figurehead."
Jinx grinned wearily. "Aye sir. It will be my pleasure."
The sun neared its apex up by the time the Time Machine's crew stumbled wearily onto her decks, tossed off her moorings and set the sails to make their way slowly out of the harbor. There was a stiff breeze coming off the sea and it was enough to carry the ship out of port without assistance of oars. The docks were already crowded and no one gave a second glance to another would-be merchant ship leaving for open waters.
Helena saw no sign of the French frigate.
Katherine and her assistants moved among the crew, passing out clean water, soap, alcohol and bandages. Those crew with minor wounds were tending themselves while others waited for the doctor's care and Helena sent a silent prayer of thanks she had lost no one this time.
Once her ship was past the breakwaters, Helena ordered only the mainsail dropped and a southerly course set. "We make for the horn of Italy. I want to head for open ocean," she told her current helmsman, a plucky English lad called Paris.
"And Mr. Jinx," she called loudly enough that the crew understood she was addressing them as well. "Would I be correct in assuming that several caskets of that very fine brandy we brought to trade are, in fact, still on board somewhere?"
Jinx pretended to consider. "I do believe there is a possibility of such a thing, yes Captain."
"Well and good. Have them brought up and broached. I for one, plan to get drunk."
The cheers of her people were weary, but heartfelt.
Hours later, the Time Machine was at least on her way back to her former state. The tacky figurehead had been quite literally hacked from the bow and the extra boxes and general garbage that had cluttered her deck had either been stowed properly or simply thrown overboard to provide a new home for some ocean dwelling creature.
They sailed south until nearly midday and then dropped sea-anchor barely within sight of the eastern coast of Italy. It was a beautiful day, the sky an endless, pure turquoise scattered with fluffy white clouds.
The wounded were tended, the ship as squared away as she would get until they could dock somewhere. Helena sat in her cabin, boots off, a bandage around her thigh and a mug of brandy in her hand. The sound of her door opening signaled Katherine's arrival. Helena said nothing, merely poured another mug and placed it across her desk for the exhausted physician. James sat heavily and brought the mug to her lips, saluting Wells before downing half the amber liquid with the ease of long practice.
Helena, who understood the urge all too well, merely waited.
After another healthy swallow, Katherine slumped in the chair, sighing. "The crew is fine. Mostly minor wounds. Sarah has a badly sprained ankle and Shawn broke an arm, and I've lost count of how many stitches I've placed today, but you have damned skilled people and you should be proud of them Captain."
Wells looked at her old friend. Even as tired as she clearly was, Katherine looked remarkably put together. She had found time to wash the soot from her hands and face and her hair was secured in its usual tidy braid. Had Helena any energy to spare she might have found the other woman's grace irritating. Now she just marveled at it.
"I know," was the Captain's quiet reply.
"And their Captain?" James' voice was soft.
Helena stared at her brandy, gently swirling the heady liquid. "I'm fine Katherine." With a sigh, Wells leaned back in her own chair and let her head drop back. "I just wish you hadn't been right."
James did not ask about what. Myka and Claudia were gone. The answer was obvious.
"I didn't want to be," Katherine said gently, empathy in her tone.
Wells shrugged one shoulder. "What is done is done."
Katherine was a very good friend and a wise woman and so did'ntpoint out the utter fallacy of Helena's words.
"So what now?" She asked instead, tactfully changing the subject.
Wells raised her mug and levered herself up, grabbing the jug of brandy and pouring another measure for herself. "Now I get exceedingly intoxicated and let the crew do the same, and tomorrow we nurse our hangovers and head for a friendly port. Perhaps Olhão. Alfonso owes us and if nothing else, it's a quiet place for some respite. We also need intelligence and in all honesty, I think tis time to hunt something ordinary: Like treasure or a troublesome pirate ship. To hell with chasing ghosts."
The two women raised their mugs in silent salute and then Helena set about doing exactly what she'd promised and got very, very drunk. Katherine shared one more drink and then went to find her own bunk, leaving her friend to try and forget alone.
Outside, the crew also celebrated. Few, however, drank to excess. Unlike conscripted sailors, the crew of the Time Machine knew that celebrations and rewards came, if irregularly, then not infrequently. The drinking continued all day, but it did not interfere with setting watches and tending to the injured.
The sun was beginning to lower itself from the sky when Helena stumbled into bed, not bothering to do more than change into a clean shirt. The room spun around her and she was asleep nearly as soon as her head hit the pillow.
For a miracle, that sleep was dreamless.