A Tale of Two Captains – Chapter 1
By Khylaren and CinnamonGrrl
Shrieks of alarm are rarely attractive-sounding things, but when they are voiced by men with their tongues cut out, it's particularly odd.
"Garghaiee!" shrieked the unfortunate Mr. Cotton.
"Avast!" shrieked his parrot, hopping excitedly up and down on his master's shoulder. "Avast, ye sea dogs! Avast!"
After that was a moment of dead silence, followed by the din of feet overhead. Captain Jack Sparrow lifted his head from where it was buried in his pillow and stared blearily at the ceiling, as if it might speak to him and tell him why his crew was running about and shouting like madmen, thus waking him from his richly-deserved and desperately-needed sleep.
It had been but a day since his not terribly dangerous, but extremely dramatic, exit from Jamaica, and he was still a little dazed that he was here, in the enormous bed that was the privilege of the captain of the Black Pearl, instead of swinging from Norrington's gibbet back in Port Royal.
Ah, dear Will, he thought, and rolled over onto his back, promptly becoming tangled in the covers. Without Bootstrap's young son he'd never have been able to escape. "Shame he's not here to rescue me from the bed," Jack muttered as he wrenched at the soft cotton encasing his legs. The racket above had not only continued, but increased in volume, and if there were something upsetting the crew-- something that could effect his precious Black Pearl—Jack Sparrow wanted to be on top of it.
With a last yank, he lurched from the bed and toward his clothing. The untidy pile of dirty laundry he'd left in the corner upon undressing the previous night had been removed and replaced with an untidy pile of clean laundry, and Jack allowed himself to note how pleasant it was to be clean and in fresh togs for once—another perk of being captain, and one he'd missed more than most others.
Barely had he fastened the fly of his trousers, however, when Anamaria began hammering on the door to his cabin with her perilous little fists. He knew it was her because, even more telling than her higher-pitched, feminine voice was the scope and breadth of the obscenities she used whenever she addressed him.
"Jack! Take your hands off your pintle, you worthless drooling slackabed, and get out here!" she yelled. "We've a situation!"
Jack couldn't help but smile. Such a way with words, had that one. Reminded him a bit of his mum. He shrugged into his shirt, not bothering to button it, and grabbed his boots before pulling the door open.
Anamaria's next bout of thunderous door pounding lit instead on his chest. "No need to pummel me into submission, love," he purred at her, enjoying the spark of fury that lit her dark eyes. "I'm yours for the taking."
"Take this," she snapped, and grabbed the front of his shirt to drag him after her.
"Easy on the delicates," Jack protested, blinking against the glare of the sunlight pouring down through the sails and staggering a little as he tried to pull a boot on. Ah, 'twas a lovely day in the Caribbean, with nary a cloud in the sky. A good day to be a pirate, and especially good to be captain of the Pearl.
But even Jack's determinedly good humor was susceptible to the crew's mood, and as he was pulled past them by Anamaria he noted the apprehension on their faces. Gibbs stood on the foredeck, shoulders tense in a way that bespoke trouble. Jack forgot his other boot, dropping it carelessly to the deck with a thud, and pulled free of Anamaria's clutching hand.
He'd only just gotten the Pearl back, and he wasn't going to let anything get in the way of his prolonged, permanent, and irrevocable captainship of it. He strode toward Gibbs with absolute purpose in his step, the majesty of his gait in no way diminished by the fact he only wore a single boot.
"Gibbs, what's—" Jack's words were cut abruptly off as Gibbs stepped to the side, revealing a female. Held on either side by stout sailors, she was struggling fruitlessly to be free. She was not young, but not old, attractive and healthy-looking. Dark red hair had been neatly tucked into a prim little knot but now straggled out around her face from her exertions. She wore a strange garment of stretchy black and red fabric that clung in interesting ways around the parts that most women went to great pains to hide. Anamaria notwithstanding, of course.
"It's fearful bad luck to have a woman aboard," Gibbs said mournfully, tugging at his ragged neckerchief and wincing when Anamaria turned her violence to him, slugging him in the fleshy part of his upper arm.
"Who's this?" Jack asked Gibbs after he'd gotten Anamaria to leave off by widening his eyes warningly at her. "We didn't stop at a port last night." He was reasonably sure he'd have remembered if they'd picked up whores for the night's entertainment. "Did we?"
"No, cap'n," Gibbs replied with a last wary look at Anamaria. "I was just standin' here, supervisin' the swabs, when there be this flash o' light in the air, and there she stood, bold as brass." He eyed the woman sternly. " 'Tis a good thing the Frenchman's quick. She aimed… something… at me, but he took it from her." He nodded approvingly at Matelot. "When we searched her, we only found this." He held up a strange, rectangular contraption.
"Let's have a look," Jack said, holding out his hand for both items.
"I demand to know who you people are," the woman said. Her voice was what Jack's father had once called (in one of his rare playful moods) a whiskey voice, low and husky. Her accent was flatter than the rest of them, causing Jack to mentally attune himself to it to understand her better. "I've done nothing to warrant being treated like this." She tried to pull away once more, then winced when the twin grips on her arms tightened.
"You, madam, are in no position to demand much of anything," Jack replied with trademark laziness, not bothering to lift his black-eyed gaze from the items in his hands. Both were strange, and looked to be made of some type of metal, but it wasn't any that he readily recognized. The weapon-type thing she had pointed at the crew definitely had a dangerous look about it, though he couldn't see where one could load it with ammunition. The rectangular object was just as odd, and he couldn't for the life of him think what it could be used for.
He finally looked up, pocketing both objects carefully. If they were weapons, it wouldn't do to have them misfire in his trousers. "This is my ship you're on. Did you think you could waltz onto it and start dictating?" He fixed her with a piercing look. "I'm not known to respond well to those who fancy themselves a better captain." She huffed angrily, drawing his attention to her chest, which heaved with exertion, and he grinned, revealing a golden tooth among the other pearly ones. "Though you've got what it takes to make a smashing figurehead, I'll warrant."
The woman's eyes widened and with a mighty heave, she managed to free one arm. She launched herself forward and would have punched Jack right in the face if he hadn't been faster. His hand grasped her wrist just a fraction of an inch from his nose, holding it fast.
"Now, now, madam," Jack said softly, "that's hardly the way to ask if you might sail with us, is it?" He shifted his grasp from her wrist to her fingers, then bowed low over it, brushing his lips over the back of her hand in an exaggerated greeting. "I am Captain Jack Sparrow."
He turned to the others. "This is my quartermaster, Gibbs, and the gents preventing you from mangling my handsome visage are Matelot and Moises. The shrew to my left is Anamaria—ow—and—" here he stopped rubbing the back of his head where Anamaria had just smacked him, and chuckled at the sight of Mr. Cotton's parrot releasing a stream of motes to the deck at the woman's feet "—that is Mr. Cotton's parrot."
"Where's yer articles, lassie?" the parrot cried. "Where's yer articles?"
"This," the woman fumed, her blue eyes flashing in ire, "is ridiculous."
"It might be less so if you told us your name, lass," Gibbs said in what he thought was a very polite tone.
Her eyes narrowed. "Very well," she conceded. "Perhaps we can make some sort of deal." She took a deep breath. "I'm Kathryn Janeway, captain of the sta— the ship Voyager."
"You're a captain too, are you?" Jack stroked the stubble on his chin speculatively. "Now that's… intriguing." He had not missed her stumble mid-sentence. "Very, very intriguing."
~ * ~
This was not the first time Admiral Edward Janeway's daughter had been in a weird situation. As she'd told Ensign Kim once upon a time, "Weird is part of the job description."
As weirdness went, this wasn't that bad. The aliens surrounding her looked very human, almost convincingly so, and the ship that pitched and rolled beneath her feet looked like something out of a history book of earth. Their clothing was very reminiscent of the late 1600's, as were the weapons she could see that most of them carried. As she regarded her alien hosts closer, she had to wonder what sort of shipping company they were.
The one who had introduced himself as Captain Jack Sparrow was looking at her with a thoughtful speculation she didn't quite like.
Until she knew more about what happened and where she was, she'd just have to play along. This planet was obviously pre-industrial, if their mode of transportation and weaponry was any indication. The Prime Directive, therefore, would have to be strictly adhered to.
First things first; she needed to get somewhere where she could try to contact Voyager and find out just what the hell had happened. But she couldn't do that standing on the deck of a ship in front of all these witnesses.
"Captain Sparrow," she said. "Would it be possible for you to drop me at the nearest port? I need to make arrangements to return to my ship."
"Here's the thing," he replied after a moment. "I know nothing of an English ship called the Voyager being anywhere in the Caribbean, the Spanish Main, or even the north Atlantic." His black eyes gleamed with satisfaction, knowing he'd caught her in a lie. "Unless you sail under a French flag? Or a Spanish one?"
She had the distinct feeling she was being toyed with, much as a cat would play with a mouse. It was not a feeling she particularly enjoyed.
Not giving her time to address his question, Captain Sparrow forged on. "And I've never seen a woman dressed as you're dressed, madam. Not," he continued with a leer that caused sunlight to glint once more off his golden tooth, "that I'm complaining, savez."
Janeway stiffened under his leer. "I'm sailing with the French fleet," she answered quickly, her mind reeling with the implications of what he was saying. The names Caribbean, Spanish Main, North Atlantic, French, English….was she in some alternate universe that mimicked her own planet's time period? "The uniforms are a new design, to allow better freedom of movement." The situation had definitely gotten weirder, but she kept her face carefully neutral.
Captain Sparrow opened his mouth to speak, but must have decided against it, for he fell silent. However, the irrepressible naughtiness in his eyes informed Janeway that he was thinking something she just knew she'd find not only risqué, but likely highly offensive, as well.
"Sailing... with the French." His emphasis on the last word indicated the depth of his skepticism. "And here was me thinking that their navy existed for Frenchmen to get away from Frenchwomen."
The laughter of the crew surrounded them, and Janeway felt her face lock into the neutral expression she adopted when it was inappropriate to frown or otherwise show displeasure. "It's an experiment," she said flatly, refusing to rise to his bait. "Voyager is the only ship of its kind on the Atlantic."
"Well, the French are known for being far more liberal than the English where their women are concerned," Captain Sparrow allowed, but something told Janeway she was still being mocked.
The man was infuriating, to say the least, and Janeway closed her eyes a moment to calm her ire. It would serve no purpose to anger him. Until she could get her tricorder back and use it to discover just what had happened and where she was, she was, unfortunately, at his mercy. "Will you take me to the nearest port?" she tried again in her most reasonable voice.
"But your captaining a ship for the French navy--" he continued as if she had not spoken, and moved his hand in a curious gesture somehow conveying utter disbelief and patient tolerance, all at once— "does not address how you came to be upon my foredeck when there is no possible way for you to have come aboard. Gibbs!" he barked suddenly, startled those around them into twitching.
As Gibbs had been standing right next to the captain, the man winced at his volume. "Yes, cap'n," he replied.
"Has another ship been seen in the remote vicinity of the Pearl since our departure from Port Royal?"
"No, sir," Gibbs replied.
"In that case, Gibbs, I will assume that a squadron of angels on wing has not been seen, either." His head swung back to glance at Janeway, the beads in his hair clicking faintly in the silence after his words. She fumed silently back.
"No, sir," Gibbs replied, faintly, then bit his lips to keep from laughing at the spark of anger that lit in the woman's eyes.
"Ah, then it would appear we are in a quandary." Captain Sparrow cocked his head in mock curiosity, appeared rather birdlike himself. "And I am not a man who particularly enjoys quandaries, unless I'm the one causing them." He took a step closer to her; he smelt of sunshine and rum and something else that she recognized on a purely female level, and which made her angry with herself for noticing at all.
Janeway took a deep breath. "Captain, I assure you..." she began, only to be interrupted by him once more.
"Will you not tell me how you really came to be on the Pearl?" he asked, voice low, smooth and persuasive, and this time, Janeway actually shivered.
She stiffened her spine and was privately amazed that her teeth did not actually grind. "I have told you all that I can," she replied with forced evenness.
"Ah," was all he said. "Ah." Then he stepped back once more and swept his arms out to either side. "In that case, I am delighted to invite you to partake of all the hospitality the Black Pearl can offer."
Janeway blinked. Before she could entirely fathom exactly what that meant, Matelot and Moises had begun pulling her forward toward the stairs leading belowdecks.
"Wait," she cried, pulling against her escorts. "You're making a mistake." She set her legs against the deck and refused to move.
"A mistake?" His voice was soft, almost carried away by the balmy breezes that floated around them, but every member of the crew immediately went still, waiting for him to continue. "I'm not the one who just appeared on the deck of a pirate vessel, madam. You might want to reconsider your definition of that word." Then he nodded at the two who held her, and she was pulled unceremoniously down the stairs.
"Please, I'm not your enemy," Janeway shouted over her shoulder, though her blood froze at the word 'pirate'. "This is all just a misunderstanding."
The grip on her arms tightened painfully as they escorted her below. She was dimly aware of the sound of splashing, and noted that they were walking through water up to her ankles. Her mind was spinning, and she was only marginally aware when they shoved her into the brig. Only the sound of the key locking the door broke her out of her haze.
"Enjoy your stay," one of them had the wit to say as he pocketed the keys.
She waited until they left before tapping her combadge. Somehow she'd known, even before it gave a fizzled chirping noise, that it wouldn't be that easy to contact Voyager. Considering everything that had happened so far, it didn't surprise her that there was no response.
The only bright spot, to her way of thinking, was that even if Captain Sparrow had both her phaser and tricorder, at least they weren't destroyed. But there was the unsettling concern of what would happen if he poked around with them too much. No, she had to get them back as quickly as possible.
The only question was, how.