Chapter Eighty-Four: Storm's Coming
Aristophanes sipped some water from the wooden cup on his desk, taking a moment to listen to the nighttime crickets chirping outside the tent.
Thunder rumbled quietly in the far distance.
Several different charts were spread out on the desk, each keeping track of its own category of supplies: wine, food rations, water, powder and ammunition, medicine, and all the rest.
Each chart told the same story: Remember when you had these supplies? Don't you miss that?
Aristophanes most certainly did. It was difficult to continue making these calculations without wincing.
"How do the numbers look?" asked Nothon from the other side of the desk.
"Dismal," Aristophanes replied. "At our current rate, supplies will run completely dry in less than a week, and we're already stretching everything as thinly as possible. We will be living off the mango trees and fish. Assuming, that is, the crew has not mutinied by then. A highly optimistic assumption." The one-eyed turtle-consort looked up from the charts at his bosun. "How is the crew? I believe I heard music earlier."
"The crew ate food tonight that wasn't larvae-ridden hardtack," Nothon said. "Give it time. The sun will be hot, the taste of mango will grow resentfully familiar, and each successive night the Witch fails to find the Library we'll hear less music around the fires."
The day old Nothon sugarcoated his opinion would be the day Skaia went dark.
"The Witch will come through," Aristophanes maintained. "The Library Key will lead us where we need to go. In the meantime, we should begin preparing for-"
The tent's entrance flaps suddenly swished aside.
"Captain, sir." Brygos ducked in, allowing the flaps to fall closed behind him. "You need to come with me."
Aristophanes chuckled. "Is that so?" Underneath the laughter, however, he was on high alert. What would give a lowly gunner's mate cause to barge uninvited into his tent? Nothing good. "May I ask why I should do such a thing?"
"Because you are already a dead man," Brygos asserted.
Nothon's hand strayed to the hilt of his saber.
"Unless," Brygos continued, "you come with me now."
"And why am I a dead man?"
"If I tell you, you will not believe me. So I want you to see for yourself."
"This cryptic act does not suit you well, Brygos," Aristophanes remarked, his patience wearing thin. "How do I know you are not leading me into an ambush?"
"…ambush?" Brygos tried and failed to suppress his laughter. "If I wanted you dead, I would not be here asking you to come with me. All I would need to do is go to sleep for the night and enjoy your execution tomorrow morning."
"Watch your tone," Nothon warned. "You're still addressing the captain."
"Why help me then?" Aristophanes asked next. "You would not help me if you had nothing to gain."
"When's the last time you examined the Library Key?" Brygos inquired.
"Early this morning," Aristophanes answered. "When we first spotted this island. What's the relevance, here?"
"Was it glowing white?"
"Pardon?"
"The Library Key. Was it glowing white?"
Aristophanes thought about it for a second, shook his head. "No, it was violet."
"The Witch showed me the Key late this afternoon, while we were gathering mangos," Brygos disclosed. "She keeps it in her wallet. And when she took it out to show me, it had a faint white glow, which was something neither of you have ever seen it do before. Don't you see? It means we're very close. What else could it mean? And if the rest of the crew has its way with you, my chances of ever seeing the Library of All go up in smoke and sunshine."
"Enough," Aristophanes declared. "I believe you." He drained the water remaining in the wooden cup and retrieved the rapier leaning against the desk, sliding it into his thick leather belt. "But if you are not telling the truth, Brygos, I will kill you myself. Nothon, you're coming too."
"Is that wise?" Brygos asked, glancing over at the bosun.
Nothon stared back, face completely blank.
"If my bosun has turned against me, then we have already lost," Aristophanes replied. "Asking him if his loyalty has wavered would be a supreme insult. He is coming. Lead on, Brygos."
"Right this way, then." Determined not to waste any more time, Brygos turned around and swept the tent flaps aside, stepping out into the night.
"Keep your eye on him," Aristophanes murmured to Nothon as he brushed past.
Nothon exited last, maintaining a loose grip on the hilt of his saber.
The air was still. Humid. Waves lapped quietly at the edges of the beach.
The Viridian Wind bobbed in the swells beyond the beach, visible only by its lanterns.
Most of the corsairs had gone to sleep. The day was long, and much work had gone into the construction of this camp. A few hardy souls remained awake, however, clustering around the embers, murmuring amongst themselves.
As Aristophanes and company walked past the embers, those gathered around fell silent.
Tycho, the Master Gunner, rose to his feet. He stepped away from the embers and moved to intercept Brygos, blocking his way. "Evenin', cap'n sir," the Master Gunner said. "Going somewhere?"
Aristophanes set a hand on Brygos's shoulder, nudged him aside, and stepped forward, standing toe to toe with the Master Gunner. "You're in my way."
"Am I?" Tycho's gaze was unblinking.
"Yes."
"I see. That's strange. Because according to the contract we all agreed to at the beginning of this venture, by now we should be back in port as rich men, feasting and drinking at leisure. Instead we find ourselves half-starved on an island dangerously close to Marauder waters. Seems more to me like you're in our way."
"If you wish to file a complaint, write it down on a piece of paper and drop it in the ocean," Aristophanes recommended. "If you want to fight, get your affairs in order. If not, then get the fuck out of my way."
Tycho did not budge.
Tension simmered through Aristophanes's sword arm. He calculated the ideal attack. In a perfect world, he would be able to draw his rapier and slash across the Master Gunner's throat with a single well-executed stroke.
Aristophanes saw similar calculations whizzing through the Master Gunner's mind.
Tycho then took a step back and moved out of the way, temporarily relieving the tension. "The time is not right," declared the Master Gunner. "It won't do to kill you in the middle of the night while everyone sleeps."
Nothon started to draw his saber, but Aristophanes heard the sound and gestured discreetly behind his back for the bosun to stop.
"It will happen in broad daylight," continued Tycho, "while everyone watches. And it will happen very soon. Sleep well, captain." As the Master Gunner returned to his spot around the embers, he added without turning around, "Oh, and Brygos? I urge you to reflect deeply upon whom you choose to associate with. Some people can be toxic to your lifespan."
Brygos took the lead once more and got walking, eager to put distance between themselves and the Master Gunner as quickly as possible.
Wind breathed through the camp, rippling the weathered fabric of all the surrounding tents, disturbing the stillness in the humid air.
Aristophanes felt a fleck of rain hit his cheek. He looked out over the ocean just in time to spot a series of white flashes on the horizon, illuminating the underbelly of a towering mass of storm clouds. Thunder growled a few seconds later.
"Think that storm'll hit us?" Brygos asked.
Another raindrop hit Aristophanes's hand. "Feels like it," he said. "I hope it does. Could prove useful."
Nothon grunted in agreement.
The trio of turtle-consorts made their way through the remaining clusters of tents, leaving the camp behind.
The Witch's house was a little further up the beach, just inland from the camp.
"That's where we're going, I presume?" Aristophanes motioned toward the house.
"Yes," Brygos answered, leading the way around the side of the house to the front porch. "The Witch is waiting for us upstairs."
Alarms pierced through Aristophanes's mind. "Why didn't she come get me herself?"
"Feel free to ask her."
The front door was already ajar. Brygos merely tapped it with his index finger, pushing it open and stepping inside. Aristophanes and Nothon entered after him, followed him up the staircase in the front hall to the second floor.
Aristophanes's eyes flitted warily from each corner to each doorway, looking for every possible place an attacker could suddenly leap out.
"In there," Brygos pointed at a door on the left side of the hallway. "Whatever questions you still have will be answered in there."
Aristophanes walked over to the door, hand on his sword, and peered inside the room beyond, saw what was lying on the bloodsoaked bed within. All the color slowly drained from his face. He opened his mouth to say something, but all that came out was a subdued, "…oh."
Nothon approached the doorway and looked for himself. He said nothing.
"You understand, now, why I was so tightlipped," Brygos explained. "If word of this gets out, you are finished. Our bid to find the Library is finished."
Aristophanes steadied himself against the wall, trying to control his breathing. His world was folding in on itself, suffocating him. "I've been in worse situations," he murmured. "I think."
"How did she die?" Nothon asked. "Plenty of blood, but no visible wounds."
"Poison, I'd say," Brygos replied. "The only other thing I can think of that would cause a person to bleed from so many places is some horrible form of plague, and I don't think the Witch had plague."
"We need to dispose of her body," Aristophanes resolved, the anxiety attack fading as he snapped into action mode. "Bury it someplace in the jungle. The sheets, too. We should wrap the body in the sheets and get rid of it all at once."
"You plan on hiding this from the crew?" Nothon's incredulity broke his silence. "Have you gone mad?"
"Yes, Nothon, delightfully mad. Being honest with the crew will not help our lifespans, so deception is the only way forward," Aristophanes concluded. "As long as we have the Library Key, we do not need the Witch. If we can find the Library fast, we will not have to hide her death long. Where is her wallet?"
"That's our only problem," Brygos said. He reached into a pocket and produced the Witch's wallet, opened it, removed a small card. Emblazoned on the card was an image of the Library Key. "The Key is contained somehow within this card. We can't access it. I've tried doing what she did and nothing happens."
"But…?" Aristophanes prompted Brygos, hoping fervently there was a 'but'.
"But, we could find another Hero and get them to extract the Key."
"Find another Hero?" echoed Aristophanes. "And how exactly are we supposed to get to another planet? The crew is sure to mutiny before we become a spacefaring people."
"I've met someone who could help us," Brygos claimed. He opened the door across the hallway from the Witch's, revealing another bedroom.
A squat, dark-shelled carapacian sat on the floor, leaning back against the wall, trussed up with articles of clothing. A gag covered its mouth. Fear glinted in its eyes.
"Caught this little bugger on my way back from pissing in the jungle," Brygos gestured to the tied-up carapacian. "He was sneaking out of the house. Tried to run, but he didn't get very far."
"You've caught a Dersite, my friend," Aristophanes said. "Have you questioned him?"
Brygos shook his head. "No, I came straight to you."
"Very good. Nothon, would you lend me your knife?"
The bosun unsheathed his knife, flipped it around, presenting it handle-first.
Lightning flashed through the room, followed closely by thunder. Light rain began to patter at the windows, droplets streaking down the glass.
Aristophanes took the knife and stepped into the bedroom. He crouched in front of the Dersite, holding the knife loosely. "Hello," he greeted the carapacian with a cold smile that did not reach his eyes. "I am going to remove the gag from your mouth. If you make a sound, I will also remove your fingers. Do you understand?"
The Dersite nodded.
Aristophanes untied the gag, allowed it to fall away.
The Dersite did not make a peep.
"My name is Aristophanes," the captain continued. "Let's have a little chat, shall we? You are free to refuse, of course, but if you do…" he held the knife under the Dersite's nose, teasing it with the knifepoint, "I will start cutting. Now, then," he lowered the knifepoint, "who are you? And exactly how did you plan on leaving this planet?"
"Who's the Brute?"
The Hegemonic Brute posed in front of the bathroom mirror, pointing at himself with two thumbs up.
"I'm the Brute."
The Brute studied the pose. The longer he looked at it, the more acute his dissatisfaction.
No, it wouldn't do. Try again.
"Who's the Brute?"
This time the Hegemonic Brute pointed dual finger-guns at the mirror.
"You're the Brute."
He studied the new pose, completely satisfied.
"Yeah, that's it. That's the one."
One more time.
"Who's the Brute?"
Finger-guns at the ready.
"You're the-"
BEEP-BEEP-BEEP-BEEP-BEEP-
"Shit…" the Brute muttered. He flushed his pee down the toilet, wiped his hands on his pants, and stepped out of the bathroom.
The beeping came from the shuttlecraft's COM console, located in the cockpit. A yellow indicator light flashed in tandem with the sound. Someone was trying to contact him. Probably the boss.
A rush of static issued from the COM before it resolved into the gravelly tones of Jack Noir. "Spades to Hearts. Answer your damn radio."
"Hearts here," the Brute responded. "I hear ya, boss."
"Any signal yet from Clubs?"
"Not a peep, boss."
"He radioed me over five hours ago with news of the Witch's arrival. What the everlasting fuck is taking him so long?"
The Brute could only shrug. "I dunno what to tell ya, boss. His radio's off and it ain't turnin' back on 'til he's at a safe landing zone for me to pick 'im up. I imagine he's still tryin'ta sneak his way out. Stealth jobs like this can't be rushed."
Silence over the radio.
The Brute waited a few more seconds before giving a tentative, "…boss? You there?"
More silence.
Jack must've killed the channel mid-sentence.
The Brute shrugged again. The boss probably had only called because he was bored.
Still, Jack had a point. Five hours was a long time. It was unusual for the Droll to take so long.
A third shrug from the Brute. It was beyond his control. Nothing to do but while away the hours.
The Brute took a deep contented breath, swinging his legs up onto the console, careful not to jostle the thruster controls. There was truly nothing quite like down time. No skulls to crack, no mooks to hassle, no activists to disappear. Just the Brute, his thoughts, and the view.
Ah, that view…
It was breathtaking. The Land of Shores and Prisms loomed above, a vast globe of shimmering green ocean speckled with millions of twinkling prism-lights, quietly rotating in space. The Brute studied the curvature of the aquatic world, lost himself in the shifting cloud patterns.
He did not realize he was falling asleep until his head fell forward, jerking him back awake.
How long had he been staring out the window?
Hard to tell without checking a clock. As the Brute leaned forward to see the timestamp on the console, the yellow indicator light began to flash again.
BEEP-BEEP-
The Brute pounded a fist onto the COM, activating it and silencing that awful beeping. "Hearts here," he said into the mic. "Who's this?"
"This is Clubs," came the familiar high-pitched squeaky response. "Come pick me up."
The Courtyard Droll, at long last.
"What the hell took you so long?" asked the Brute.
"Trouble with consorts. Just pick me up. Clubs out."
The Brute ended the transmission, dropped his legs off the console, settled more comfortably into the pilot's seat. He engaged the shuttle's thrusters and moved the small spacecraft out of orbit, descending through the planet's atmosphere towards the emerald ocean.
He kept the shuttlecraft's trajectory at a mild angle to avoid burning up in the atmosphere. After maintaining a swift descent for about a minute, the Brute boosted the starboard thrusters ever so slightly, sending the shuttle into a graceful leftward arc through the sky towards the Droll's island.
The shuttlecraft eventually rounded LOSAP far enough to pass into the night, prompting the Brute to engage the shuttle's night vision settings.
As the shuttlecraft neared the target island's coordinates, the Brute had to ease off the thrusters and slow down to a crawl. He had no intention of crashing into any of those damn floating prism crystals. The load of paperwork would be immense, and he would be far too dead to even get a head start on it.
After descending to a safe altitude, beneath all the floating prisms, the Brute increased his speed once more, flying low, barely skimming the surface of the ocean. After a few minutes of steady flying, wind began buffeting the shuttlecraft, forcing the Brute to keep a firm hand on the controls.
A jagged bolt of lightning seared across the sky, whiting out the night-vision. Even through the shuttle's thick metal hull, the Brute could hear the resultant thunder crashes. He blinked rapidly, eyes readjusting after being momentarily blinded.
This was shaping up to be one hell of a storm.
The Brute kept his shuttle steady, pressing on.
Finally the island came into view.
The Brute slowed down as he approached, soaring over the beaches and trees. The Droll's transponder signal emanated from the jungle of the island's far side, a short distance inland from the beach. The Brute circumvented the prism crystal mountain protruding from the island's center, closing the remaining distance.
A clearing in the trees came into view. The Brute hovered above the clearing and checked the transponder again. Sure enough, the signal pulsed directly below.
This was it.
The Brute deployed the shuttlecraft's landing gear and eased it down, releasing the controls only when he'd made a gentle landfall.
Another successful landing.
"Who's the Brute?"
The Brute flashed the finger-guns at his faint reflection in the front window.
"You're the Brute."
He engaged the outer door release before leaving the pilot's chair.
Behind the airlock door in the back of the shuttle, the external hatch had opened. All the Brute could see through the door windows was the dark outlines of trees. It was raining lightly, decreasing visibility even further. The Droll was out there, according to his transponder signal, but it was impossible to see where exactly he-
"I'm here!"
The Brute nearly jumped out of his own carapace when the Droll suddenly emerged from the darkness, jumping into the airlock.
The Droll tapped on the inner door with his index finger. "Hullo? Brute? You in there? Open the door!"
"Yeah, yeah, gimme a sec." The Brute touched the control panel adjacent to the inner door. It glowed an inviting green. The inner door opened with a hiss, splitting across the middle and retracting into the floor and ceiling.
Wind blew into the shuttle, carrying stray droplets of rain.
The first thing the Brute noticed was the dried blood streaked across the Droll's left arm and wrist, originating from the stump of his left pinkie finger, which appeared to have been forcibly amputated. "Clubs? What the hell happened to-"
A turtle-consort sprang up from underneath the lip of the outer hatchway, vaulting itself into the airlock. The instant its boots gained traction, the consort sprinted towards the Brute, shoving the Droll aside.
The Droll slammed headfirst into the airlock wall, crumpling into an unconscious heap.
By the time the Brute could even process what was happening, the turtle-consort was plowing directly into his stomach, knocking him off his feet.
The Brute went down hard, the back of his head striking the shuttle's metal floor.
White stars exploded across the Brute's vision and his ears rang. He was dimly aware of a scaly fist punching him in the jaw, then the temple.
Anger flared in his gut. Anger that he was getting bested by a damn turtle.
The Brute lifted one of his legs and scrunched it inwards. The moment his foot found purchase against the consort's stomach, he kicked with all his strength.
The turtle-consort went flying out of the shuttle, sailing neatly through both airlock doors without smacking into any metal. The consort's good luck ran bone dry, however, when it landed shell-first in the grass. The precious few seconds spent trying to get off its shell could easily prove fatal.
The Brute gave himself a running start and leapt out of the shuttle into the rain, determined to deny the turtle-consort an opportunity to recover. He didn't need a weapon to finish this job.
A gunshot cracked through the night.
The Brute felt the lead ball punch into the right side of his chest.
He blinked once, his vision slowly blurring. He was lying in the grass, which he found odd. He did not remember hitting the ground. A second ago he'd been running, and…
Standing back up seemed out of the question. The Brute discovered he'd lost all feeling in his right arm and could not use it. Blood continued to flow from his bullet wound, which probably accounted for why he was feeling so dizzy.
The Brute's mouth set in a hard line.
No way was he giving in to a bunch of turtles.
Screw these stupid reptile fucks.
The Hegemonic Brute pushed himself up from the ground with his left arm, struggling onto a knee.
Nothon's saber came slicing down, lopping the big brute's head clean off.
"Whoa!" exclaimed Brygos, watching the decapitated body crumple back to the grass. He stowed his still-smoking pistol back into his belt. "That's how it's done. Didn't even give him a chance."
Nothon wiped both sides of his blade against the headless brute's clothes, getting rid of the blood before returning the saber to its sheath. Then he walked off into the trees.
Aristophanes climbed back onto his feet, having just managed to get up off his shell. He checked quickly to make sure the Droll was not trying to barricade himself inside the shuttle. There was nothing to worry about, however – the Droll lay unconscious on the floor of the airlock. "We've taken the ship without even denting it," he said to Brygos. "Thank you for shooting that brute before he landed on me."
"It was a reflex shot," Brygos admitted. "Lucky it didn't hit you."
Aristophanes stared blankly. "Why would you tell me that? Next time it happens, don't tell me."
"Ignorance is bliss," Brygos agreed.
Nothon reemerged from the jungle bearing two shovels. He tossed one to Brygos. They both got to work breaking ground at the edge of the clearing. They carefully removed the grass and topsoil, first, setting it aside for later before digging in earnest.
Aristophanes climbed into the shuttlecraft, examining the little ship's interior. He glanced into the bathroom and frowned at the toilet for a moment, wondering if it jettisoned pee and poop into space when used.
He moved past the bathroom into the cockpit, feeling the comfortable padding on the pilot's chair. He squinted at the console, bewildered by all the multicolored lights and controls. How was someone supposed to steer a ship without a helm?
Aristophanes turned around and walked back to the airlock, prodding the Droll with the toe of his boot. The squat Dersite did not move. Aristophanes picked the Droll up, flopping him over a shoulder. He exited the shuttle, heading across the clearing to where his companions were working.
Nothon and Brygos had already dug a sizable hole into the ground.
Aristophanes dropped the unconscious Droll next to a tree. "Make sure he doesn't scamper off," he said to the others. He then returned to the shuttle, leaning down and grabbing hold of the headless brute's ankles.
His first attempt at moving the corpse nearly resulted in a pulled back muscle.
On his second attempt, Aristophanes bent his knees, lowered his center of gravity, heaved a bit more gently. The corpse cooperated this time, sliding across the grass without too much resistance. Even so, Aristophanes was sweating by the time he reached the hole at the edge of the clearing.
The captain peered down the hole. He gave a single nod, satisfied by his companions' progress. "That's deep enough," he told them. "Let's drop our friends in and be done with it. I'll get this one's head."
Nothon and Brygos picked up the headless brute's corpse by its wrists and ankles, hauling it over to the hole and dumping it in unceremoniously.
The bosun ducked back into the trees.
Aristophanes reached down to pick up the brute's severed head, but hesitated before actually touching it. He then straightened up and instead swung his foot forward. The toe of his boot connected with the brute's head, sending it spinning through the air about halfway across the clearing.
The captain of the Viridian Wind chuckled quietly to himself, jogging up to the place where the head came to a rest and kicking it a second time.
The severed Dersite head sailed towards Nothon and Brygos's hole. It struck the ground several feet in front of the hole and rolled right in, plunking down to the bottom with an audible thud.
"I can't quite put my finger on specifically what," Aristophanes mused as he walked over to the hole, "but something about that was intensely satisfying. We should create a game out of it."
"You have a mutinous Master Gunner to contend with before you'll ever get the chance," Brygos reminded him.
"I'll deal with Tycho," said Aristophanes. "You, on the other hand, get to deal with him." He gestured to the unconscious Courtyard Droll. "You're taking the shuttle."
"What?" Brygos blinked. "Me?"
"Well, I certainly can't go," Aristophanes reasoned. "If I went, the crew would take the Viridian Wind and leave tomorrow morning when I am nowhere to be found. I need to stay and keep them focused on combing the island for the Library. For that, I will need Nothon's help. You're the one for the job, Brygos."
"But…" Brygos searched for the words, "How…? …what am I even supposed to do?"
"Force our friend, here," Aristophanes nudged the Droll's body with his boot, "to fly you to one of the other planets. It does not matter which one – we only need someone to access the storage card. Bring the first Hero you find straight back here. Study the Dersite closely; if you can learn to fly his ship, then you will no longer need him."
Nothon returned from the trees. The Witch's body hung from his arms, wrapped in bloodstained bedsheets. The bosun gently lowered her into the grave, resting her on top of the brute's remains.
Not the best burial one could possibly ask for, but also not the worst.
Nothon retrieved his shovel and started tossing the piled-up dirt back into the grave.
"Should someone say a few words?" Brygos asked. "She was a friend, wasn't she?"
Nothon's only response was his trademark grunt. No heartfelt eulogies from him.
Aristophanes stepped up to the edge of the grave, watching the dirt shower over the two corpses at the bottom. He waited for the monologue to bubble to the surface, but soon realized nothing was coming. His prided ability to create impromptu speeches on the fly had utterly deserted him.
What was there to say?
"I'm sorry, Gwen." The dirt started to cover the bloodstained sheets. Aristophanes continued, "I'm sorry you ended up in this hole. It's not what you deserved."
Aristophanes picked up the second shovel and helped Nothon with the dirt pile, eager to fill the grave as quickly as possible and get the memory of those bedsheets out of his mind.
Within ten minutes the hole was filled. Nothon and Brygos retrieved the grass and topsoil they'd set aside earlier, placing the clods of earth back on top of all the dirt. Aristophanes walked over the clods, tamping them down.
By the time they finished, the grave was hidden well enough and the Droll's eyelids were beginning to flutter.
Aristophanes took his waterskin off his belt and opened it, splashing water in the Droll's face.
The squat Dersite awoke with a slow groan, tenderly rubbing the bruise on his head.
"Welcome back to the waking world," Aristophanes greeted his captive. "I trust you enjoyed your nap?"
The Droll shook his head slowly, regaining his bearings. "Are you going to kill me?"
"Kill you? Of course we won't kill you. Who else can pilot the shuttlecraft? You are quite safe. And if you cooperate, we will even let you live once this is all over," Aristophanes assured the Dersite, winking surreptitiously at Brygos.
"C'mon you little bugger." Brygos seized the Droll by the lapels, hauling him to his feet. "Time to go."
"You're about to become the first of our people to go to space since the War of the Nobles," Aristophanes informed the gunner's mate as they made their way back to the shuttle. "Does the prospect excite you?"
"Not particularly," Brygos admitted. "There's no ocean in space. No wine, either. Why would anyone ever want to go?"
"It takes a profound trust in mathematics," Aristophanes surmised. "Along with a delightful sort of insanity. Similar, one might say, to the qualities inherent within those willing to sail the open oceans in little wooden ships."
The group reached the shuttle. When the Droll started to climb into the airlock, Brygos jerked him back.
"Stay put, you." The gunner's mate shook the Droll by the collar. "You're not going in first. Do you think I was born yesterday?"
"No," replied the Droll, "you look much older than-"
Brygos smacked the Dersite across the scalp with his free hand. "Don't talk."
"Well, it seems you're already getting along," remarked Aristophanes. "I trust you'll enjoy your time together." The captain held out a hand. "Farewell, Brygos. Please hurry back."
"Yeah." Brygos shook Aristophanes's hand before hopping into the airlock, hauling the Droll up after him. He hit the door controls. "One Hero, coming right up," he said as the outer hatch hissed shut, sealing both him and the Droll inside.
Aristophanes and Nothon backed away from the shuttle as its thrusters engaged. It rose slowly past the treetops. Once clear, the shuttle's thrusters flared with energy and the ship accelerated away.
Thunder rumbled again, louder than before. The breeze started to pick up again, slanting the rainfall.
"Best be gettin' back to camp, sir," Nothon said. "Don't want to be caught in the woods when the storm hits."
Aristophanes lingered a moment longer, watched the shuttlecraft vanish into the night sky. Then he turned away and walked out of the clearing, followed closely by Nothon.
It took more than an hour of bushwacking through the jungle underbrush to return to the beach. Had the shuttlecraft landed any nearer, everyone in camp would have heard.
The light rain escalated to a steady downpour by the time they made it back to camp. No one lingered outside their tents – the cooking fire embers were all extinguished. Nothon muttered a farewell and went his own way, trudging off into the sea of tents to find his little niche for sleep.
Aristophanes continued on through the camp until he reached his own tent. He brushed aside the entrance flaps and stepped in, glad to be out of the rain. He removed his sword belt and shrugged off his oiled greatcoat, hanging both over the edge of his desk. He then removed his underclothing, leaving it in a pile next to the bedroll.
The captain of the Viridian Wind lay down on his stomach. He withdrew his arms, legs, and head into his shell, nestling into his own warmth and losing himself in it.
Time to sleep.
Heavy breathing could soon be heard within the shell.
When thunder clapped once again, the breathing continued unfazed, undisturbed.