Chapter 2

The lecture theatre was stone quiet. So quiet you could almost hear the worry in the student's minds. The sign 'Final Examinations today' and 'Pre-Examination Study period' seemed to rule over them. They knew this was their last chance to possibly pull up their grade. This was their only chance. Time wasn't their friend now.

And Jim could smell their fear.

"Have you seen him?"

"No," Jim growled, little tufts of brown hair stuck out from his fingers as he gripped his head tightly. He was chewing his pencil. He could feel the little chips of paint on his tongue, but it didn't really matter to him now.

"There he is! Look, Jim, look!" Edmond gave him another nudge, this time so sharp it made him give a little yelp and drop his pencil.

"Hey!"

"Look,"

"No." He went back to his book, a little tired, a little vexed. How could they have covered so much stuff in just one year? It wasn't until he went to school and saw the exam hall rearranged – tables in straight, perfect rows, miles wide from each other, windows shut tight so no warm forgiving breeze could blow – that it dawned on him. Exams were here.
He didn't study.
He was going to fail.

"Jim, just look for a second, won't you?" The tall blonde boy picked his friend's head by his chin, pointing him to the frontmost of rows.
And then, Jim saw him. He wasn't sitting quietly. As a matter of fact he was up walking – no, strutting. He had never seen anyone so blatantly confident before. But the strangest thing about him was how he looked. He stood tall and almighty, like a statue carved from stone. It was probably because he was made of stone. That big chin and the crumbling, crusty skin wasn't hard to mistake. His back was erect, straight up, military style, but his steps waddle-like, just like a penguin.

Just like Mister Arrow.

And suddenly, the boy who had no interest at all in the new student was up, awake, but in a trance, walking slowly towards this stranger with a face he thought he'd seen the last of.

He could still remember the solar storm five years ago. On the ship to Treasure Planet. The air was red with heat, as the black hole edged closer into view. Captain Amelia was crying, not with her eyes, but to the world: "Fasten your lifelines, Gents, it's going to be a bumpy ride!"

Even though he was busy with the lifelines that day, he heard Arrow's scream. His dying roar. It was like a mountain crumbling from its roots, knowing it would never get up again. It was sand on a beach, washed, lost into deep waters forevermore. It was murder. Foul play. Death.
And he caused it.

It was all his fault. Scroop may have cut the line, but the Captain – that look she gave him – that look that told you, "I trusted you." It hung deep in his mind.

And with grief on her face, she sent him off: "Mister Arrow was a…" she'd paused, gazing into the stars as if she could have seen him there, "…fine spacer. Finer than any of us…" another pause. He knew she was willing herself not to cry, "…Would ever hope to be. "But he knew the risks. As do we all… Resume your posts. We carry on."

And that's what she did. She carried on with life. Got married. Had children. Carried on her traits to them. Jim could see her in their young eyes. But Jim, he carried on that guilt. That sad, sad feeling that maybe if he did something… stopped Scroop in time… grabbed the lifeline before it cut… anything. Arrow wouldn't be dead. And he could carry on his life, too.

Arrow seemed to have seen him. In a bold, valiant, sweeping move, he took off his hat and gave graceful, fluid bow. "Hello," The word was ridged, broken and paused, the same familiar way Arrow would have talked.

"Mister Arrow?"

His laugh was warm, raspy, but still warm. Like a pebble sunning in the sun; happy to be noticed. "You might be mistaken. You might be not. He was a hero in all ways, even in death. But I'm not him."

And Jim's mind was five years younger again, and mister Arrow was chuckling: "Shipshape it is, Sir. But I'm not the captain."

Five years later, his craggy boulder face was smiling again, saying: "Mister Arrow's aloft."
"Who are you, then?"

"I'm his nephew."

Now, most of the theatre was staring, textbooks and worry forgotten, at this giant of a rock man and the boy who carried on.

Lady Flint had sent her away once Silver could follow her into a room. In her cabin, Pell swung her hammock in a sad, lazy motion. Back to forth, forth to back. One leg was propped against the wooden wall, pushing against it to make her cloth bed swing. Even though Lady Flint's cabin was so close – just on the other side of the wall – she wasn't in the mood to eavesdrop.

Her neck was reddish, as if someone had just strangled her. She felt sick, too. The gill flaps on her neck were dehydrated. She needed some water before she threw up again. Either that, or she needed to get her mind off her thirst.

Reaching under her bed, she felt for a book, careful not to elbow the man next to her. Pell shared her quarters with many other men on the Walrus. Lady Flint gave each one a hammock, and barely enough room to swing it, and that was that. You stayed there and never thought of leaving.

Lady Flint had a harsh policy. Anyone who joined the crew stayed in the crew. You weren't allowed to leave. If you were caught, the Lady knew how much you felt like leaving. She'd give you a 'Why didn't you say so?' and you would be sent away by medium of the plank. Splash. You'd drown in the Etherium before you could even think of home.

And even if you could slip out unnoticed, where would you go? You're wanted as a pirate. There's a price for your head. Fugitive or Filibuster – your choice.

Lady Flint had a harsh policy.

Suddenly, the room next door was alive with screeches, yells and a large, resounding crash.

Lady Flint had a harsh personality.

Her gill flaps flaring in alarm, Pell scampered off her hammock to the wall, pressing her ear to the wood. What was going on in there? She hated the thought of sweeping Silver's large body overboard. It looked weighty.

The conversation seemed to have settled down by the time she managed to catch what they were saying. But their tone - it was so dark. Dangerously so. As if they were holding themselves back from ripping each other's throats apart… with their teeth.

Muttermutter.

"…murder…"

"…treasure.…"

"…the map…"

"…curses…"

"…loot…"

"…thieves…"

"JIMBO!"

Pell backed away from the wall in shock. Composing herself, she cautiously brought her ear to the wall again.

The final phrase – that Jimbo – was said with so much intensity, in Silver's full, angered voice. He'd yelled it out, and Pell heard the sounds of his beefy hands slapping Lady Flint's wooden desk to reinforce his statement. Whatever a Jimbo was, Silver really didn't want the Lady thinking about it.

She tried to listen in again but the conversation wasn't about Jimbos anymore.

"…treasure…"

"…thieves…"

She peeled her ear away from the wall, a little less forcefully than she'd done before. Wearily, she slipped back into her hammock and thought. 'Jimbo. What a curious name for a thing.' One day, she'd like to meet a Jimbo. They sounded short and hairy.

'Jimbojimbojimbo.' The more she said it, the more familiar it sounded. Like a friend. Or a person she'd yet to meet. There was such an affinity in that name. She closed her eyes and thought of meeting a Jimbo. If only to warn him about the Lady. The Lady was looking for him.

Lady Flint had a harsh policy.