If I owned any of this, would I be writing fanfiction? I think not. It's all Disney's.
*****
At first he hadn't known what to think. Then, an instant later, the thoughts came almost
more quickly than he could bear.
'He'll come back he always comes back remember when he left and he was gone for real
long but he came back then too and he'll come back again and he. . . he. . . breathe. . .' Jim
suddenly exhaled a ragged breath of air, realizing that he'd been holding it for as long as he'd
been holding onto that post on the dock. He gasped in breath and exhaled it in quick pants for a
moment as another thought came to his eight-year-old mind. 'But he always waved g'bye, too.'
Jim sank to his knees on the dock.
Dad hadn't waved 'bye this time.
"He was in a hurry. . ." Jim whispered to the empty quarry below. "Had to go 'cause he
was in a hurry. . . 's'all. . ."
**
"Nighty-night, sweetie."
"I'm not a sweetie!"
"Of course you aren't, honey."
"Moo-ooomm. . ."
**
"'Night, Daddy. . . . Dad. Dad. 'Night, Dad."
"Seeya, kiddo."
"Hey, Dad?"
"Hm?"
"You're gonna be back soon, right?"
***
Jim was awake long before his eyes opened. His mind slowly faded into awareness. It was
still black, but now. . . well, now Jim was aware of it. It wasn't unconsciousness, anyway. But oh
man. . . his head had a spot of red, pulsing pain on the back, more on the right side. You'd think
he'd been knocked with a. . . with. . .
Oh. Yeah. The butt of a gun.
He tried to clear his thoughts (for some reason, his mother's voice echoed in his head)
and stopped to listen, all the while keeping his eyes shut. He was lying on an old bed. It smelled
disgusting. Wonderful. He heard dripping water. From a broken pipe. THE broken pipe. Even
better. Wow, what a great day this had been.
Jim cautiously opened one eye. He was met with more darkness, only slightly brighter
than the backs of his eyelids. The blinking purple-green-white stars cleared from his vision and
his surroundings came into view. He was in a cell. He stared out to the place where the fight had
taken place however long ago. There was no sign of any scuffle on the stone floor. At least not
that Jim could s-
"What the. . ." Jim spotted a few dark reddish-brown circles, barely the size of coins. His
hand quickly felt the back of his head and the stars flashed again as Jim hissed, quickly taking a
sharp breath at the pain. He shook his head slightly with his eyes tightly shut, then opened them
again with his hand held out in front of him. There was some blackish, dried blood mixed with
fresh red on his middle and pointer finger.
Faaantastic.
"Jeeze, they didn't have to hit me so hard. . ." muttered Jim. "What were they trying to
do, kill m-"
Well, actually, they had been, in the beginning. Jim sighed, sitting up and leaning
forward, his elbows rested on his knees and his face buried in his hands. He slowly mumbled into
them, "I am SO-"
"DEAD! We're dead, we're dead, we're dead!"
Jim looked up suddenly, this time ignoring the throbbing protest that his head put up.
"Mo-" Jim stopped at the sudden volume of his voice. He started again in a hushed whisper.
"Morph, ya gotta stop doin' this to me!"
Morph chirped happily and did a back-flip in the air, out of sheer ignorance as to the
situation that Jim was finding himself in.
"Where- well. . . *What* were you? I mean, how did you even. . ." Jim trailed off (which
was not saying much; he was barely audible as it was). "Never mind. I think on this one I'm
better off not knowing."
Morph chirp-chuckled and proceeded with another back-flip.
"Okay, now I *know* I'm better off. . ." Jim whispered, turning his head away from
Morph, looking at him out of the corners of his eyes. He turned to look out the cell, into the dark
hall. At least there weren't any other prisoners. That'd be an advantage later, no doubt.
'An advantage for WHAT?' hissed a cynical voice at the back of Jim's mind. 'You're
acting like someone's actually gonna come back.'
Jim shook his head. Of course they'd come back. They just. . . well. . . they had to.
'Oh, yeah, brilliant reasoning there. They have to come back about as much as Dad had
to.'
***
Doppler paced back and forth on the deck of the Volitant, muttering to himself.
"Well, he's all alone. . . nothing on radar. . . no police vehicles. . . . . Coming soon
though. . . and then there's no-"
"Delbert, darling, do me a favor and calm down, before I shoot you," Amelia directed
from the helm. She was not in the best of moods. Today had been somewhat trying, to say the
least. Her role as the 'distraction' in the prison was still one of the single most degrading and/or
disgusting experiences of her life, she was tired, Hawkins was in prison, and to top it all off, she
was still wearing a dress. "Mr. Hawkins is quite the capable lad. He'll be alright, for now."
"But if that blasted *pirate* couldn't g-"
"Delbert. . ." She narrowed her eyes at him, arching one brow.
Doppler paused, then replied, "Right. . . you're right." He sighed. "It just racks my nerves
to think that-"
***
"-those blasted bilge-suckin' excuses fer guards could be doin' ANYTHIN' t' the lad!!"
Aaron watched Silver as he worked in the galley. Their first half hour in the small room
had consisted of muffled coughing and secretive glances at one another. Silver had nothing much
to say. Aaron had plenty, but was keeping silent for fear of having his neck wrung. Finally the
silence had been too much, and Aaron mustered up enough courage to speak.
"So. . . you're a cyborg. . ." He paused as Silver turned to look at him.
"Aye?"
"How's, uh. . . how's that workin' out for you?" Aaron suddenly felt a strong urge to
crawl under the table and die. However, he managed to hold his ground long enough to delve into
further conversation with the large man that presently occupied the galley with him.
Silver ignored Aaron's question and returned it with one of his own. ". . . . Friend o'
Jimbo's, are ye?" Aaron gave a slight nod. Silver returned it. "So now we know th' lad can't pick
'is fights OR 'is friends. . ."
"Huh?"
"Eh, just thinkin' t' meself."
"Ah."
***
Merriss stood at the helm, utterly and completely bored out of his mind. It had only been
three or four days since the captain had taken off with, for whatever reason, the two cadets and
the doctor. It was unusual, to say the least. However, he had no intentions of reading the letter
that the captain had left for him. It was only to be read in the case that the captain failed to
contact him within-
". . . Merriss. . . in?" the transmission crackled. Merriss simply stared at the
communications panel for a moment, then quickly recovered his composure. He flipped on the
screen, and saw the captain's feline-like face. The doctor was watching nervously from behind
her, but the static made him all but impossible to see.
Merriss responded. "Aye, Captain! When do y-"
"Not now! W. . . . some trou. . . . afraid we'll. . . late. . ." Merriss strained to catch more
of the captain's words, but it was no use. The Volitant was too far away, and the signal was just
too choppy. He could only try to make sense of what little he could hear from the captain's
transmission. "Minor. . . . nd we're heading n. . . . days, so. . . ."
There was a pause from her, then, "Is . . . clear?"
Now Merriss paused. "Well, actua-"
". . . ry good!"
And the transmission was finished. The captain's face had flipped off into a dark green,
thrumming electronic pulse. Merriss shook his head slowly and reached to flip off the
communications panel.
Well, she'd contacted him.
***
Jim sighed. "So. . . here we are. Just waiting for the *real* cops to come, and not a damn
thing to do about it." He looked up morosely at Morph, who was looking less and less cheerful
by the second. "So, Morph. . . got any plans?" He expected no answer. He got what he'd
expected.
"Perfect." He allowed himself to drop backwards onto the dirty mattress on the bed. Eyes
shut, he exhaled slowly through his nose. This was absolutely hopeless. Unless by some stroke of
luck the guards called off the reinforcements and then both left and/or died, and Morph knew the
key code for the exterior lock on the cell, things were looking bad. Ohhh, yes.
Jim sat brooding for a while, allowing his mind to wander. He saw the dark circles of red
on the hard floor outside and muttered a half-hearted curse to himself. "Jeeze, wasn't even a fair
fight. Two *big* guys against me? And, I mean, they had *guns*, for-" Jim stopped. They'd had
guns. The guy that had come in later had used his to knock Jim out, but the other guy. . .
Jim suddenly leapt up off of the cot and then kneeled quickly down again, facing into the
corner of the cell. He squinted his eyes, but couldn't get anything in the dim light. He sighed
quickly and then reached forward, groping in the dark for any sign of the flintlock he'd kicked
into the cell. All he felt was the grime that had collected over the years. There was no sign of- oh,
jeez, what was *that*?! Had he just put his hand in- ? No. . . no. Jim quickly wiped his hand on
the dirty mattress and tried not to think about the fact that whatever it was had felt a whole hell of
a lot like a rotting rodent corpse. He quickly moved on to the next corner.
Here he put his hand down much more cautiously, wanting to avoid any more encounters
of the necropsy-esque genre. He felt his fingertips graze something lightly. He pulled his hand
back at first (while thinking, 'If anyone ever finds out that I'm afraid to touch a damned dead
RAT, I'll shoot myself'), but reached forward slowly again. His fingers came in more direct
contact with the objects, and he found it to be smooth. Metal and warm, intricately fashioned
wood. There we go. Jim put his hand around the flintlock and lifted it out of the dark corner. It
glinted dully in the dim light and was covered in dirt, but to Jim it was the most beautiful work of
craftsmanship in the world. He particularly liked the trigger. Oh yes.
Morph made his presence known again with a small chirp, but Jim shushed him quickly.
"Not now, Morph, I'm busy, just hold on a second. . ." Jim quickly wiped away some of the
grime that had clung to the flintlock, and looked it over. It was a bit bigger than most that he'd
ever seen (which, truthfully, was none too many), and somewhat heavier. Other than that. . . same
ol', same ol'. Worked for him. He wrapped his hand around the barrel, testing the weight, and
decided that he had no real reason to do so. He set it down on the bunk and started pacing,
wondering how he could use the thing to his advantage. His first thought was that he could call
the guards in, shoot them, and then shoots a few bars out off of the cell and leave. The lock didn't
do much except tell the mechanism within when to open the cells, so shooting it off would be
useless. Jim sighed. He didn't want to kill the guards, either. He was in enough trouble as it was.
'If you're this far in, why not just finish it off?' a small voice flickered like a dim candle
at the back of his thoughts.
Jim sighed again. His cynicism would never be completely gone, it seemed. Whatever. It
gave him an advantage. He wouldn't be disappointed. Well. . . not *devastated*, anyway. He
shook his head and sat down on the cot, knees tucked up to his chin. He glanced down at the
flintlock and exhaled slowly through his nose, thinking to himself. 'And what-
***
'-am I going to DO,' thought Silver, 'about Jimbo?'
"Dunno. . ."
Silver looked over his shoulder at Aaron, not having realized that he'd been muttering
under his breath. The scrawny kid had heard him. He rolled his eyes slightly and decided to at
least put some glimmer of politeness into his response to the boy.
"Eh. . . sorry 'bout that, lad. I were on'y thinkin' t' meself."
"Oh."
'Oh'? What kind of an answer was THAT? Kids these days. . . no manners at all. . .
'Course, this was a Doppler kid. That lot had about as much sense conversation-wise as they did
spacing-wise. Which was little. *Very* little. Could shoot, though. How that daft doctor had
knocked out three or four of Silver's crew with one shot. . . but that was years ago, and-
"So, uh, are we gonna get Jim or what?"
Silver's thoughts were cut off by Aaron's sudden question. "Wh. . . what was that, lad?"
Aaron looked down, embarrassed. "I was just. . . y'know, just wondering if were gonna
go *get* him. I mean, he's all alone. . . and the cops are coming in soon. . . and if they get to him
before we do. . ." He shook his head, still looking down. "Sorry 'bout that. Guess I'm just
worried about. . . ugh." He turned around completely now, his back to Silver.
"Yer friend. Worried 'bout yer friend."
The young canian's muscles tense visibly, and he turned his head slightly back to Silver.
"Yeah. My. . . yeah."
"Y'aren't good with keepin' friends."
". . . . . No. I, uh, guess I'm not."
Oh, what a surprise. Silver couldn't help but role his eyes slightly. What Jim had seen that
was worth befriending in this idiot was beyond Silver's comprehension. Be that as it may. . . they
had to get Jim back, the kid was right. Silver especially owed him one. No way the doc or captain
would've come without his persuasion. Ha, Jim had potential. Why waste it in a prison cell? Or. .
. or at the gallows?
"So, lad. Got any ideas?"
"Eh. . ."
"No."
"No."
"Ah."
"Yeah."
"Eh?"
"Oh, uh. . . no."
"Ah." Silver paused. This conversation was getting them absolutely nowhere, and even if
the kid's heart was in the right place, he was still a scrawny thing that had no real right to be on a
ship at all. "So, first we gotta get the cap'n t' turn us 'round, eh?"
Aaron blinked, then nodded, turning around again to face Silver. "Yeah, uh, I guess so."
Silver didn't bother trying to get the kid to say any more. It was obvious that he was not
the most conversationally-inclined of all creatures in the etherium. That, and he had yet to
develop the skill of at least making agreeable replies like the doc had. Little git. Silver took off
his apron and tossed it carelessly onto the counter top, then turned and started heading up the
shallow stairs to the deck of the Volitant.
***
Jim heard heavy footsteps approaching as he stared glumly at the oversized flintlock lying
on the small cot next to him. He looked up and then quickly slid the gun under the mattress,
sitting on the spot where it lay for extra measure. He simply stared out, unsurprised, as one of the
guards, not the one he'd been fighting, but the big guy that had knocked him out, stopped in front
of the cell.
"Ey, not so 'igh an' mighty now, are yeh? Not fightin' 'ard now, eh?" He snickered
stupidly after his remark. Jim struggled not to openly sneer at the guy.
"No, sir."
The guard grinned at this. "Yeah, well, let's keep it that way. Officials'll be 'ere in an
hour, hour an' a 'alf, maybe."
Jim blinked. "How long was I. . . y'know. . . out?" The guard frowned, and Jim quickly
added, "Sir." The guard nodded appreciatively.
"Oh, I'd say yeh were out a good. . . twenty, thirty minutes, at least!"
Now Jim struggled not to burst out laughing. Twenty minutes?! You've gotta be kidding.
Wimp couldn't even keep him under for half an hour. I mean, come on, if you're gonna knock
someone out, at least do it *well*, right? So it'd have been maybe. . . thirty-five, forty minutes
since the Volitant had taken off at full burn. They'd probably slowed by now. At absolute top
speeds, they could be back in half an hour.
Plenty of time.
Right?
*****
Sorry this is cut a bit short. . . but I'm heading off to Colorado for a week, and thought it'd be
good to get something out. Whoo!
*****
At first he hadn't known what to think. Then, an instant later, the thoughts came almost
more quickly than he could bear.
'He'll come back he always comes back remember when he left and he was gone for real
long but he came back then too and he'll come back again and he. . . he. . . breathe. . .' Jim
suddenly exhaled a ragged breath of air, realizing that he'd been holding it for as long as he'd
been holding onto that post on the dock. He gasped in breath and exhaled it in quick pants for a
moment as another thought came to his eight-year-old mind. 'But he always waved g'bye, too.'
Jim sank to his knees on the dock.
Dad hadn't waved 'bye this time.
"He was in a hurry. . ." Jim whispered to the empty quarry below. "Had to go 'cause he
was in a hurry. . . 's'all. . ."
**
"Nighty-night, sweetie."
"I'm not a sweetie!"
"Of course you aren't, honey."
"Moo-ooomm. . ."
**
"'Night, Daddy. . . . Dad. Dad. 'Night, Dad."
"Seeya, kiddo."
"Hey, Dad?"
"Hm?"
"You're gonna be back soon, right?"
***
Jim was awake long before his eyes opened. His mind slowly faded into awareness. It was
still black, but now. . . well, now Jim was aware of it. It wasn't unconsciousness, anyway. But oh
man. . . his head had a spot of red, pulsing pain on the back, more on the right side. You'd think
he'd been knocked with a. . . with. . .
Oh. Yeah. The butt of a gun.
He tried to clear his thoughts (for some reason, his mother's voice echoed in his head)
and stopped to listen, all the while keeping his eyes shut. He was lying on an old bed. It smelled
disgusting. Wonderful. He heard dripping water. From a broken pipe. THE broken pipe. Even
better. Wow, what a great day this had been.
Jim cautiously opened one eye. He was met with more darkness, only slightly brighter
than the backs of his eyelids. The blinking purple-green-white stars cleared from his vision and
his surroundings came into view. He was in a cell. He stared out to the place where the fight had
taken place however long ago. There was no sign of any scuffle on the stone floor. At least not
that Jim could s-
"What the. . ." Jim spotted a few dark reddish-brown circles, barely the size of coins. His
hand quickly felt the back of his head and the stars flashed again as Jim hissed, quickly taking a
sharp breath at the pain. He shook his head slightly with his eyes tightly shut, then opened them
again with his hand held out in front of him. There was some blackish, dried blood mixed with
fresh red on his middle and pointer finger.
Faaantastic.
"Jeeze, they didn't have to hit me so hard. . ." muttered Jim. "What were they trying to
do, kill m-"
Well, actually, they had been, in the beginning. Jim sighed, sitting up and leaning
forward, his elbows rested on his knees and his face buried in his hands. He slowly mumbled into
them, "I am SO-"
"DEAD! We're dead, we're dead, we're dead!"
Jim looked up suddenly, this time ignoring the throbbing protest that his head put up.
"Mo-" Jim stopped at the sudden volume of his voice. He started again in a hushed whisper.
"Morph, ya gotta stop doin' this to me!"
Morph chirped happily and did a back-flip in the air, out of sheer ignorance as to the
situation that Jim was finding himself in.
"Where- well. . . *What* were you? I mean, how did you even. . ." Jim trailed off (which
was not saying much; he was barely audible as it was). "Never mind. I think on this one I'm
better off not knowing."
Morph chirp-chuckled and proceeded with another back-flip.
"Okay, now I *know* I'm better off. . ." Jim whispered, turning his head away from
Morph, looking at him out of the corners of his eyes. He turned to look out the cell, into the dark
hall. At least there weren't any other prisoners. That'd be an advantage later, no doubt.
'An advantage for WHAT?' hissed a cynical voice at the back of Jim's mind. 'You're
acting like someone's actually gonna come back.'
Jim shook his head. Of course they'd come back. They just. . . well. . . they had to.
'Oh, yeah, brilliant reasoning there. They have to come back about as much as Dad had
to.'
***
Doppler paced back and forth on the deck of the Volitant, muttering to himself.
"Well, he's all alone. . . nothing on radar. . . no police vehicles. . . . . Coming soon
though. . . and then there's no-"
"Delbert, darling, do me a favor and calm down, before I shoot you," Amelia directed
from the helm. She was not in the best of moods. Today had been somewhat trying, to say the
least. Her role as the 'distraction' in the prison was still one of the single most degrading and/or
disgusting experiences of her life, she was tired, Hawkins was in prison, and to top it all off, she
was still wearing a dress. "Mr. Hawkins is quite the capable lad. He'll be alright, for now."
"But if that blasted *pirate* couldn't g-"
"Delbert. . ." She narrowed her eyes at him, arching one brow.
Doppler paused, then replied, "Right. . . you're right." He sighed. "It just racks my nerves
to think that-"
***
"-those blasted bilge-suckin' excuses fer guards could be doin' ANYTHIN' t' the lad!!"
Aaron watched Silver as he worked in the galley. Their first half hour in the small room
had consisted of muffled coughing and secretive glances at one another. Silver had nothing much
to say. Aaron had plenty, but was keeping silent for fear of having his neck wrung. Finally the
silence had been too much, and Aaron mustered up enough courage to speak.
"So. . . you're a cyborg. . ." He paused as Silver turned to look at him.
"Aye?"
"How's, uh. . . how's that workin' out for you?" Aaron suddenly felt a strong urge to
crawl under the table and die. However, he managed to hold his ground long enough to delve into
further conversation with the large man that presently occupied the galley with him.
Silver ignored Aaron's question and returned it with one of his own. ". . . . Friend o'
Jimbo's, are ye?" Aaron gave a slight nod. Silver returned it. "So now we know th' lad can't pick
'is fights OR 'is friends. . ."
"Huh?"
"Eh, just thinkin' t' meself."
"Ah."
***
Merriss stood at the helm, utterly and completely bored out of his mind. It had only been
three or four days since the captain had taken off with, for whatever reason, the two cadets and
the doctor. It was unusual, to say the least. However, he had no intentions of reading the letter
that the captain had left for him. It was only to be read in the case that the captain failed to
contact him within-
". . . Merriss. . . in?" the transmission crackled. Merriss simply stared at the
communications panel for a moment, then quickly recovered his composure. He flipped on the
screen, and saw the captain's feline-like face. The doctor was watching nervously from behind
her, but the static made him all but impossible to see.
Merriss responded. "Aye, Captain! When do y-"
"Not now! W. . . . some trou. . . . afraid we'll. . . late. . ." Merriss strained to catch more
of the captain's words, but it was no use. The Volitant was too far away, and the signal was just
too choppy. He could only try to make sense of what little he could hear from the captain's
transmission. "Minor. . . . nd we're heading n. . . . days, so. . . ."
There was a pause from her, then, "Is . . . clear?"
Now Merriss paused. "Well, actua-"
". . . ry good!"
And the transmission was finished. The captain's face had flipped off into a dark green,
thrumming electronic pulse. Merriss shook his head slowly and reached to flip off the
communications panel.
Well, she'd contacted him.
***
Jim sighed. "So. . . here we are. Just waiting for the *real* cops to come, and not a damn
thing to do about it." He looked up morosely at Morph, who was looking less and less cheerful
by the second. "So, Morph. . . got any plans?" He expected no answer. He got what he'd
expected.
"Perfect." He allowed himself to drop backwards onto the dirty mattress on the bed. Eyes
shut, he exhaled slowly through his nose. This was absolutely hopeless. Unless by some stroke of
luck the guards called off the reinforcements and then both left and/or died, and Morph knew the
key code for the exterior lock on the cell, things were looking bad. Ohhh, yes.
Jim sat brooding for a while, allowing his mind to wander. He saw the dark circles of red
on the hard floor outside and muttered a half-hearted curse to himself. "Jeeze, wasn't even a fair
fight. Two *big* guys against me? And, I mean, they had *guns*, for-" Jim stopped. They'd had
guns. The guy that had come in later had used his to knock Jim out, but the other guy. . .
Jim suddenly leapt up off of the cot and then kneeled quickly down again, facing into the
corner of the cell. He squinted his eyes, but couldn't get anything in the dim light. He sighed
quickly and then reached forward, groping in the dark for any sign of the flintlock he'd kicked
into the cell. All he felt was the grime that had collected over the years. There was no sign of- oh,
jeez, what was *that*?! Had he just put his hand in- ? No. . . no. Jim quickly wiped his hand on
the dirty mattress and tried not to think about the fact that whatever it was had felt a whole hell of
a lot like a rotting rodent corpse. He quickly moved on to the next corner.
Here he put his hand down much more cautiously, wanting to avoid any more encounters
of the necropsy-esque genre. He felt his fingertips graze something lightly. He pulled his hand
back at first (while thinking, 'If anyone ever finds out that I'm afraid to touch a damned dead
RAT, I'll shoot myself'), but reached forward slowly again. His fingers came in more direct
contact with the objects, and he found it to be smooth. Metal and warm, intricately fashioned
wood. There we go. Jim put his hand around the flintlock and lifted it out of the dark corner. It
glinted dully in the dim light and was covered in dirt, but to Jim it was the most beautiful work of
craftsmanship in the world. He particularly liked the trigger. Oh yes.
Morph made his presence known again with a small chirp, but Jim shushed him quickly.
"Not now, Morph, I'm busy, just hold on a second. . ." Jim quickly wiped away some of the
grime that had clung to the flintlock, and looked it over. It was a bit bigger than most that he'd
ever seen (which, truthfully, was none too many), and somewhat heavier. Other than that. . . same
ol', same ol'. Worked for him. He wrapped his hand around the barrel, testing the weight, and
decided that he had no real reason to do so. He set it down on the bunk and started pacing,
wondering how he could use the thing to his advantage. His first thought was that he could call
the guards in, shoot them, and then shoots a few bars out off of the cell and leave. The lock didn't
do much except tell the mechanism within when to open the cells, so shooting it off would be
useless. Jim sighed. He didn't want to kill the guards, either. He was in enough trouble as it was.
'If you're this far in, why not just finish it off?' a small voice flickered like a dim candle
at the back of his thoughts.
Jim sighed again. His cynicism would never be completely gone, it seemed. Whatever. It
gave him an advantage. He wouldn't be disappointed. Well. . . not *devastated*, anyway. He
shook his head and sat down on the cot, knees tucked up to his chin. He glanced down at the
flintlock and exhaled slowly through his nose, thinking to himself. 'And what-
***
'-am I going to DO,' thought Silver, 'about Jimbo?'
"Dunno. . ."
Silver looked over his shoulder at Aaron, not having realized that he'd been muttering
under his breath. The scrawny kid had heard him. He rolled his eyes slightly and decided to at
least put some glimmer of politeness into his response to the boy.
"Eh. . . sorry 'bout that, lad. I were on'y thinkin' t' meself."
"Oh."
'Oh'? What kind of an answer was THAT? Kids these days. . . no manners at all. . .
'Course, this was a Doppler kid. That lot had about as much sense conversation-wise as they did
spacing-wise. Which was little. *Very* little. Could shoot, though. How that daft doctor had
knocked out three or four of Silver's crew with one shot. . . but that was years ago, and-
"So, uh, are we gonna get Jim or what?"
Silver's thoughts were cut off by Aaron's sudden question. "Wh. . . what was that, lad?"
Aaron looked down, embarrassed. "I was just. . . y'know, just wondering if were gonna
go *get* him. I mean, he's all alone. . . and the cops are coming in soon. . . and if they get to him
before we do. . ." He shook his head, still looking down. "Sorry 'bout that. Guess I'm just
worried about. . . ugh." He turned around completely now, his back to Silver.
"Yer friend. Worried 'bout yer friend."
The young canian's muscles tense visibly, and he turned his head slightly back to Silver.
"Yeah. My. . . yeah."
"Y'aren't good with keepin' friends."
". . . . . No. I, uh, guess I'm not."
Oh, what a surprise. Silver couldn't help but role his eyes slightly. What Jim had seen that
was worth befriending in this idiot was beyond Silver's comprehension. Be that as it may. . . they
had to get Jim back, the kid was right. Silver especially owed him one. No way the doc or captain
would've come without his persuasion. Ha, Jim had potential. Why waste it in a prison cell? Or. .
. or at the gallows?
"So, lad. Got any ideas?"
"Eh. . ."
"No."
"No."
"Ah."
"Yeah."
"Eh?"
"Oh, uh. . . no."
"Ah." Silver paused. This conversation was getting them absolutely nowhere, and even if
the kid's heart was in the right place, he was still a scrawny thing that had no real right to be on a
ship at all. "So, first we gotta get the cap'n t' turn us 'round, eh?"
Aaron blinked, then nodded, turning around again to face Silver. "Yeah, uh, I guess so."
Silver didn't bother trying to get the kid to say any more. It was obvious that he was not
the most conversationally-inclined of all creatures in the etherium. That, and he had yet to
develop the skill of at least making agreeable replies like the doc had. Little git. Silver took off
his apron and tossed it carelessly onto the counter top, then turned and started heading up the
shallow stairs to the deck of the Volitant.
***
Jim heard heavy footsteps approaching as he stared glumly at the oversized flintlock lying
on the small cot next to him. He looked up and then quickly slid the gun under the mattress,
sitting on the spot where it lay for extra measure. He simply stared out, unsurprised, as one of the
guards, not the one he'd been fighting, but the big guy that had knocked him out, stopped in front
of the cell.
"Ey, not so 'igh an' mighty now, are yeh? Not fightin' 'ard now, eh?" He snickered
stupidly after his remark. Jim struggled not to openly sneer at the guy.
"No, sir."
The guard grinned at this. "Yeah, well, let's keep it that way. Officials'll be 'ere in an
hour, hour an' a 'alf, maybe."
Jim blinked. "How long was I. . . y'know. . . out?" The guard frowned, and Jim quickly
added, "Sir." The guard nodded appreciatively.
"Oh, I'd say yeh were out a good. . . twenty, thirty minutes, at least!"
Now Jim struggled not to burst out laughing. Twenty minutes?! You've gotta be kidding.
Wimp couldn't even keep him under for half an hour. I mean, come on, if you're gonna knock
someone out, at least do it *well*, right? So it'd have been maybe. . . thirty-five, forty minutes
since the Volitant had taken off at full burn. They'd probably slowed by now. At absolute top
speeds, they could be back in half an hour.
Plenty of time.
Right?
*****
Sorry this is cut a bit short. . . but I'm heading off to Colorado for a week, and thought it'd be
good to get something out. Whoo!