She hadn't spoken with James since that day. Well, not outside of the bridge or wardroom meetings, anyway. The silence between them off-hours now only further emphasized the loss of their truce or tentative friendship or whatever had brought them close on Christmas evening. She didn't bother trying to define it further. She couldn't linger on the nagging attraction and gnawing interest, so giving it a name was a moot point. She had a job to do. It was just that simple.
Friends were a luxury she couldn't afford and James in no way qualified as a discretionary lover. So, there was nothing for it.
She glanced over at him from where she sat on the bridge. He paid her no mind as he continued making notations in the logbook. The sunlight caught in his messy hair, highlighting the silver streaks set in amongst the dark strands. If he were to glance up, it would catch in his green eyes, too. His broad shoulders sat in a tense line as he scribbled, his posture conveying all confidant authority as he occupied the captain's chair.
Someday, this mess would all be sorted out. The sooner, the better really. For the sooner she could put James Norrington behind her, the sooner life would return to normal. Back to West Africa. Back to managing the most successful trade routes for the good of the company, the Crown, and the Empire.
"Contact." Jenkins called out, drawing her attention. "Three points abaft the port beam. Four klicks out. On a northerly course."
Norrington looked up with a nod. "Thank you, Jenkins. Simmons - to the viewport, if you please. Let's get eyes on her." The orders were relayed and a comms channel opened to Simmons' radio.
"Distance closing." Jenkins said. "Three klicks, coming fast."
Norrington's face tightened. "Simmons, report?"
"She's a heavily modified frigate. Looks like a…black hull. Difficult to spot."
A shiver of anticipation raced down her spine. Was this…what it him? Sparrow, at last?
Norrington's eyes sparked. "What colors is she flying?"
"No colors raised, sir – no, wait. " A tense silence fell over the radio. "Black and white – a jolly roger, sir. And guns on the move!"
Norrington threw open a ship-wide channel. "All hands to stations. Brace for impact and prepare to return fire." He muted the connection. "Helm! Come about – new bearing two points on the port bow. Swing our stern around."
Her heart started to race, adrenaline pumping. "Is it Sparr—"
A gun shell exploded off the port side, the ship rattling and rocking with the explosion.
Jenkins' voice could just be heard. "Not a direct hit."
Norrington shook his head, taking no comfort. "More will follow."
And he was right. Another shell exploded further aft, the floor of the bridge shuddering violently and the smell of smoke permeating through the open windows. A second followed close behind, and her hand darted out to brace against her station as she jolted forward on the impact.
"Martin, report?" Norrington called into his radio.
"Locked and loaded, si-"
"Open fire!"
The Icarus' guns roared to life, returning the volleys that seemed endless. Another jarring boom shook the bridge to its core, knocking a few men from their consoles and sending her staggering. God, how many more hits could they take?
"Commodore!" Theodore's voice cut over the din of the bridge as he swept in, coming over to Norrington's console. "Your orders?"
"Get down to engineering – fire up the auxiliary controls and secondary array. Sync to the bridge's live feed data. Open a channel once aux nav has our course and bearing locked."
"Yes, sir." Theodore nodded sharply, turning for the door, focused on his orders.
Her gaze followed him out, eyes wide as she took in the billowing smoke, the ship's position changing as it continued the turn. Her brow furrowed to realize the ship's bow was now pointed in towards the oncoming gunfire. It didn't make sense, did it? She couldn't believe it. Her ears rang with the sound of another explosion, gripping the edge of Norrington's console to stay on her feet.
"What are you doing?" She yelled over the fray. "How does turning into their shots possibly help us?!"
"I'm not going to –." Another shell exploded with bone-rattling force over Norrington's words and everyone on the bridge started shouting at once.
"Radio communications down, sir."
"Sir, I've lost navigation!"
"Helm responsive, but I've lost display."
"Primary comms array is offline, sir."
Norrington's face sharpened with a grimace. "Then, we'll just have to do things the old-fashioned way. Get Roberts and Mulligan working on repairs. Keep returning fire. Jenkins – fetch your compass and write out our last known bearing. Beckett." She started at his use of her name. What could she possibly do? "Find Groves in engineering, pass along our position. Report back with status of the secondary array."
"What?" She stared back, bewildered. Surely, there was someone else? "I don't –."
"Sir." Jenkins interrupted, handing off the slip with bearing and position coordinates noted.
"That's an order, Beckett. To engineering. Now." Norrington's voice was uncompromising, his gaze hard as flint. Everything within her wanted to flex her own commanding muscle back at him. Show that he had no ability to order her about. But as the ship shuddered from another blast, and more calls echoed about the bridge, she swallowed hard and reached out for the paper.
"I'll be back." She refused to deign and call him 'sir'. But she took the paper and turned for the door, the smell of smoke stronger as she emerged onto the hazy, sun-soaked passageway.
Devastation littered the open expanse of deck between the fore and aft sections of the ship's interior. Chunks of metal lay scattered, the occasional soft component still smoldering, water sprayed everywhere. She took to the stairs, taking in the scene with wide eyes. A shell exploded just off the port side, sending up a large burst of water. She gasped as it rained down on her, soaking through her clothes.
She shook the water from her eyes, sprinting across the deck, dodging the debris and wrenching open the submarine door. It slammed shut behind her and her face scrunched at the acrid smell of smoke, oil and fuel that filled the hallway. A hoarse cough rattled her lungs as she pushed forward, towards the end of the corridor and down the stairwell to engineering.
The smoke smell started to abate as she descended deeper into the ship, gripping the railing tight against the shockwaves of the Icarus' pounding guns that, hopefully, were pounding the Black Pearl in equal measure.
"Theodore!" She threw open the submarine door, quickly spotting him at work in a small booth, control panels flashing around him. She skirted around the equipment and the sailors, overhearing their calls and cries as they struggled to keep the engines and ship's systems online. The air was stale and heavy with various fumes as she gulped it down in quick, anxious breaths.
The next shell explosion rumbled through the ship with a deafening roar and a shattering quake.
"Theodore!" She wrenched the booth door open, drawing his concerned gaze.
"Cutlena? What –."
"The primary array is down." She cut him off, holding the paper out. "This is our last known position. Norrington wants to know the status of the secondary array."
"Just coming online. Undamaged, so far." A slightly more distant boom shook the ship. "I should be able to re-establish control from here. I'll radio up when control's transferred."
"How long?"
"Five minutes or less."
"Can…do we have five minutes?"
"Of course. Your Icarus is made of stern stuff. The commodore knew what he was doing with all that armored plating." He did his best to flash as reassuring smile. "She'll see us through. But you need to go and report back. Now."
"Alright. Stay…stay safe." The words left her before she could stop them.
He flashed a shade of his trademark grin. "Always. You, too."
She nodded, trying to muster up a smile but knew how stilted it must look. With a turn, she closed the booth door behind her, the noise of the engine room a loud cacophony as shots pelted the ship and equipment went haywire.
The smoke smell from earlier grew stronger as she re-ascended the stairs. She threw open the submarine door, hacking at the poisoned air, unable to see down the corridor ahead for all the smoke. God, there must be a fire burning somewhere. She took a couple of steps forward, eyes burning and her throat seizing, gasping for hacking coughs. This wasn't going to work.
She retreated back, slamming the door shut behind her and breathing the relatively freer air. Her gaze swept wide over engineering, remembering that there was another staircase out that lead directly on deck. It was further aft, but the passageway did connect to the main deck back to the bridge.
With rushed steps, she worked her way through the flurry of activity, taking to the other staircase and moving up through the decks. She ran across the top landing, taking to the dial on the submarine door, feeling it shake as the ship rattled again. Did it seem that the enemy's fire was going less regular? Did there seem to be a longer break in between shell explosions? Or was she just getting used to it?
The lock finally gave with a sudden groan as the door swung open to reveal the smoky destruction.
Shipping containers lay strewn about the aft deck – all empty, thank god – disturbed from their neat rows by the explosion impacts. The pounding of the large guns echoed overhead and behind, brief reprieves undercut by the yelling of sailors who reloaded and adjusted position.
Every sense screamed on high alert, overloaded as she could do nothing but take it all in. She forced a hard breath, pushing her feet forward, stumbling to the outer rail to take the connecting passageway forward. The sooner she got back to the bridge, maybe Norrington wouldn't ask her to leave again.
The gun overhead let loose another shell, and she lost her footing, slumping against the rail as the vibrations ran deep through her body. An answering explosion went up, again dousing her with water, but this time rocking the ship in a violent sideways motion.
She didn't know how it happened. Something hit her, knocked her off balance and loosed her grip on the railing. She tumbled freely for the briefest of seconds before splashing down into the water, inhaling a lungful of saltwater as she screamed. She kicked for the surface, her right leg screaming in agony. The saltwater burned as she coughed it up, loosely treading water and trying to get her bearings back.
The Icarus swayed violently from side to side, smoke rising in various plumes here and there along her decks. Her leg protested the movement as she swam between various floating debris, not even sure what had hit her.
"Help!" She waved a hand, splashing furiously in the water, eyes fixed on the gun turrets. She could only hope of the crew would spot her, if they couldn't hear her. "Help! Man overboard!"
Blessedly, the Icarus didn't seem to moving at a fast clip. Was it because the engines were damaged? Was it intentional? Neither thought was encouraging as she continued thrashing in the water, struggling to ignore the pain in her leg.
"Man overboard!" The distant call echoed out of the ship, impossible to make out from where or who. "Fetch the ropes! Haul –!"
A shell pierced the bridge windows and erupted in a big fireball. Her heart stopped as the explosion split her eardrums and seared into her vision. Shock seized her and only the invading rush of saltwater brought her back to her own precarious position. Her arms and legs started to move again, numb to everything, as her mind raced in a litany of just one word.
James. James. James. James. James.