by Anna Burke
I thanked the bucket deliverer by not getting sick on her shoes. It seemed polite under the circumstances.
I was sick for an eternity. Eventually, the kraken knelt next to me with a jug of water and a dirty-looking handkerchief.
“Hey, Fleeter. You’ll be wanting to drink this, now. Man o’ War is ready for us.”
I wiped my streaming eyes with the handkerchief before pouring water into my mouth. I spat the first mouthful out, then choked down half of the jug.
“Easy, now,” he said, and patted me with a giant hand. “I’m Kraken. This here is Jeanine,” he pointed at a lanky woman with her hair shaved on the left side to reveal a decidedly hungry shark tattooed on her scalp.
“And this over here is Barney the Barnacle and Hammerhead Harry.” The two men grinned as he named them, revealing enough teeth between them for a complete set. “Up top is Annie. She’s the skipper of this tub, and Orca, who you’ve already gotten yourself acquainted with.” He stood up and offered a hand.
I took it reluctantly and rose shakily to my feet.
“We’re Miranda’s most reliable,” he added, eliciting a round of appreciative laughter, “and now we’re going to deliver you to the good captain.”
I braced myself against the wall as the seas bucked against us.
“She’s going to be sick again,” Jeanine said.
“No, she’s not,” Kraken said, looking at me. “She’s going to pull her little fleeter ass together, unless she wants a baptism.” This brought more laughter. None of it was friendly.
“And you can keep that,” he said as I offered him the handkerchief.
“She’ll need it when she cries herself to sleep tonight.” The woman with the shark tattoo smiled at me.
I decided I didn’t like Jeanine.
“Does the Man o’ War sub?” I asked in a weak voice.
“Sinks like a stone. Come up top now and see for yourself.”
Kraken stood up, filling the room, and I forced myself to follow him up the steep stairs despite the waves that slammed me into either side of the stairwell. He threw open the hatch door, and through the beginnings of the storm I saw my new ship breaching through the waves. Water cascaded off her in rivulets, revealing a hull that gleamed a steely silver through the sheets of rain. I blinked drops of blowing rain out of my eyes and tried to keep my jaw shut on both vomit and awe.
The Man o’ War was smaller than the North Star, but what it lacked in size and sophistication it made up for with its strangeness. It had none of a fleet ship’s narrow grace. The hull was rounder, blunter, built for handling waves on top of the water as well as beneath, and rust and weather damage had left its mark on every surface.
Directly ahead of us, a sea door opened, and our boat bobbed toward it like an errant cork. I could hear Annie cursing the wind and waves from the helm as she struggled to keep us on course through the swells. The sea door grew larger as we approached, and someone lit a torch in the darkness to guide us in.
My earlier confidence in my ability to navigate the coasts wavered as Annie forced the boat through the opening by sheer force of will, riding on top of a particularly rambunctious swell. A dozen hands rushed to catch the ropes thrown out by the crew of the parley vessel, and I braced myself for an impact that never came. Kraken, Orca, Annie, and the others shouted out commands while the sea door creaked shut behind us, blocking out the last of the light.
“Let’s get her back under,” Kraken bellowed. It echoed in the large chamber, and I wondered how many other leaky vessels lurked in the bay. The ship groaned all around me as the pumps started their reverse, and I heard the familiar rush of water into the bulkheads.
At least some things remained the same.
The crew’s chatter was full of unfamiliar slang, and it beat at my ears until I stopped trying to decipher it. Instead, I stood on the deck, clutching my duffel and a filthy handkerchief, while my eyes adjusted to the bio-light. It was greener than what I was used to, and the large porthole over the sea door needed a good scrubbing. The light it let in was tainted by dust and filth. I watched the waves foam up around it as we subbed.
“Are you deaf? Fleeter!”
I jumped as Orca shouted into my face.
“What?” I said.
“Follow me. The captain wants to see you, though once she gets a look at you she might change her mind.” Orca smirked.
She had full lips and high cheekbones, but I would drown myself before I admitted that someone who looked at me like I had recently crawled out of the sewage tank was beautiful.
I stiffened in indignation, but Orca didn’t wait to hear if I had a response. She leapt over the railing and to the dock below, leaving me standing alone. My ankle throbbed preemptively as I glanced over the side. It was a long way down.
“Please don’t let me fall,” I whispered, sending a brief prayer to the cardinal directions.
It was an awkward jump and a clumsy landing, but I didn’t lose my balance. Orca was waiting for me with the same little smirk on her lips. I made a silent vow to wipe it off one day, preferably with my fist.
Kraken peeled away from the docking crew and loomed above me. I took an involuntary step toward Orca.
“Put this on her, Kraken,” she said, tossing a length of cloth past my left ear.
Kraken caught it in a massive fist. It took me a moment too long to register that it was a hood.
“Try to keep up,” Orca said to me, in a voice that suggested she didn’t care if I fell into the compost chute.
Kraken looped a thin cord around my wrists before dropping the rough sack over my head. It smelled like salt and stale breath. I bit my lip to fight back a surge of panic and followed them, struggling to hide my limp as my boots stumbled blindly over unfamiliar ground.
Light pulsed and faded through the sacking. That was the only indication I had of my progress through the bowels of the ship. I tripped up stairs and scraped against walls, listening for the quick tread of Orca’s boots ahead of me and the thud of Kraken’s heavier step behind. Orca held the rope that bound me. She didn’t jerk it, but she didn’t slow to accommodate my cautious steps, either.
I was shaking by the time I stumbled into Orca. She gave an irritated sigh, then ripped the hood from my head, along with several strands of hair. I blinked at the blinding light.
We were in a round room. Worn red carpets covered the floor, and the wood paneling on the walls gleamed in the light of a huge chandelier. Paintings leapt out at me, some of ships, others of landscapes that were as alien to me as the surface of the moon. Everything in the room was a direct contradiction to the aesthetics of fleet command, and I wondered, with a surge in my heart rate, where in all seven seas Admiral Comita had sent me.
“Compass Rose.”
The voice cut into my panic. I turned, briefly noticing the long table covered with maps before I saw the woman leaning against the end of it. Her toned, bared arms were crossed over her chest and a thick, dark braid hung over one shoulder, gleaming warmly in the firelight.
My mouth went a little drier. I knew her eyes were blue before I met them, and the sudden chill that shook my body had nothing to do with my lengthy bout of sea sickness.
“Welcome aboard,” she said.
I didn’t need an introduction. This was Miranda. I could tell by the reverent looks on the faces of Orca and Kraken, and by the dangerous heat that radiated from the woman like the light from the lamps above her.
She nodded at Orca, who undid my wrists with significantly more courtesy than she’d previously shown me. I rubbed the mark where the cord had cut into my skin and tried to calm my rapid heartbeat as I stole another glance at the mercenary captain. She couldn’t have been that much older than me, mid-twenties maybe, and I thought twenty-five was pushing it.
Blue eyes met mine with all the unexpected force of a rogue wave. My breath caught, and for a split second I was back on the parley vessel, plunging down into the trough of a passing swell with the ocean opening beneath me.
North, east, south, west. I clung to my cardinal points and tried not to drown.
“Rough seas?” Miranda asked, holding out her hand.
I reached for it, still reeling. Her grip was firm and warm and I felt an unusual callus on her palm as she withdrew, almost like a scar.
“Nothing Annie couldn’t handle.” Orca’s voice held none of its earlier contempt. It was almost pleasant. “Gave Rose here a little upset, though.”
Miranda raised an eyebrow.
“We prefer to avoid waves, where I’m from,” I said.
“No surprise there,” said Orca under her breath.
“You’ll adapt.” Miranda’s words held no room for alternatives.
She reached below the table and pulled out a flagon of what looked alarmingly like rum. My stomach flopped. More rum was the last thing I needed after a sail like that.
I was in the process of preparing a polite refusal when Miranda laid a slender knife and a clean bandage by the bottle. I traced the blade with my eyes. It was old, and carved from the bone of some ancient sea creature with a blade that had been honed so often that it was barely more than a sliver.
“So,” Miranda said, running a finger along the blade. “This is a rare opportunity. The Polarian Fleet’s most promising navigator aboard a mercenary vessel.”
I saw Orca smirk out of the corner of my eye.
“I run a tight ship. It might not look like much to you, but we follow a code, and with that code comes rules. You, however, pose an interesting dilemma. I have a deal with your captain, but deals at sea are rarely weather-tight. If you are going to serve on my ship, then you and I need to come to an agreement.”
“Admiral Comita,” I began, but Miranda cut me off.
“Admiral Comita is a long ways away. I need your word, not your admiral’s.”
I looked at the blade on the table again, wondering what would happen if I refused. Comita had bid me to do whatever Miranda ordered, no matter how strange it might seem to me.
“What kind of agreement did you have in mind?” I asked.
She unstoppered the rum bottle and let two drops run down either side of the knife blade. I watched them drip off the tip and onto the stained wood table. In the silence, I heard them hit the surface with a faint plop that sounded disturbingly like dripping blood.
Comita better make me second mate for this when I get back, I thought.
“This is how we seal a contract.” Miranda placed her right hand on the table next to mine, palm up. A curious scar marked the surface, interrupting what Cassiopeia’s fortune tellers called the life line, the heart line, and the head line. I tried not to dwell on the superstitious significance.
A curved line underscored her fingers, and three squiggly lines branched out from beneath it. The name of the ship suddenly made sense. The scar resembled a simplified jellyfish, rather like a man o’ war. I felt my eyes widen and tried to stop them. The scars were deep, as was the irony. I would never escape the nickname now. I looked at my own smooth palm, and back to Miranda’s, then to the knife.
There was no mercy in Miranda’s eyes.
“Give me your hand,” she said.
In the light of the burning lamps, I noticed a thin tracery of scars covering her face. They stood out from her suntanned skin in ghostly lines, and continued down her neck. I looked at her hands, and her bare arms, and saw the faint scars there, too.
I knew better than to ask. Instead, I stuck out my right hand and tried not to tremble. My little finger quaked traitorously. When she offered me a drink of the rum, I took a long swig.
“You have strong hands,” Miranda said, running her thumb across my palm. “Orca, read her the articles.”
“The whole thing?”
“The important parts.” Miranda kept my hand trapped in hers while Orca’s voice recited the ship’s articles from memory.
“One. Every crew member has a vote, which you may cast as you see fit whenever a vote is called. Any crew can call for a vote at any time, provided they are seconded by another crew member.
“Two. Every crew member is issued two sets of clothes, one pair of boots, a ration of rum, and two meals a day, plus pay. If you steal from a crew member, you will be punished according to the severity of your theft. If you steal twice, you shall be lashed. Steal thrice, and the captain reserves the right to maroon or walk you, as she chooses.
“Three. Don’t gamble. Just don’t. Especially you, fleeter. You’ll lose. Four. Deserters will be killed. So will spies. Five. You will be ready at all times to defend your ship, your captain, and your fellow crew, and you will keep your weapons sharp and close at hand. Six. Any and all disputes between crew members will be settled on the deck at the hour of the First Mate’s choosing. Brawling shipside is punishable by three lashes. Seven. In exchange for loyal service, the captain will care for you and your family. Since you don’t have a family, I’ll skip this part with your leave, Captain.” Miranda nodded.
“Eight. You will suffer no rat to live upon this ship and you will treat ship cats as crew, knowing that at all times they are more essential to your captain than you are. Nine. You will perform your duties with pride and efficiency. Ten. Rape is punishable by death or castration, at the discretion of the captain. Murder is punishable by death. All crimes will be tried by random jury, and you vow now to uphold their verdict.”
I struggled to digest Orca’s words.
“Comita has something similar, I understand,” Miranda said. I thought about the contract I’d signed when I joined the Polarian Fleet.
“Something similar,” I said in a voice that lacked conviction. It was vaguely similar to the North Star’s contract, in an abstract way. Minus the lashes, the death penalty, and the part about the cats, it upheld discipline and a loose interpretation of democratic principles.
It was hard to think with Miranda’s grip on my hand.
“What happens if I don’t take your oath?”
Miranda paused before she answered. I watched her blue eyes and regretted my question as they visibly cooled.
“Then we have no contract with Comita.”
My stomach wobbled. Comita hadn’t prepared me for this. I needed a moment to think, and that was impossible in this strange, windowless room with its red carpets, ancient paintings, and the three mercenaries waiting to hear my response. A refusal would please Orca, I guessed, and I suspected that something that pleased her would not be good for me.
If I agreed to Miranda’s articles, I was bound to her service as surely as I was bound to Comita, at least where her laws were concerned. That would protect me on her ship just as my position in the fleet had protected me on the North Star. It also meant that I would be violating Miranda’s Code if I went against her orders, with far steeper consequences than I was used to.
My mind chased itself in circles for another moment before coming to the only possible conclusion. As had been happening all too frequently of late, there was only one possible course that didn’t involve heavy bailing and turbulent seas.
I repeated the articles after Orca, stumbling over the unfamiliar language and trying hard not to look at the knife lying next to the bottle. I was shaking when I finished the recitation.
“This mark will protect you on this ship,” she told me as she picked up the blade.
The unspoken words echoed in my head. Protect me, maybe, but I’d heard enough stories about pirates and mercenaries to know the mark was more than a gesture of protection.
It was a brand.
Once marked, I would be hers. I glanced at the door, where Kraken stood with his arms crossed over his inked chest. There was no way out.
The first cut was bearable. It barely stung, and I stared in fascinated horror as the knife slid through my skin. Blood didn’t well up immediately, as if my vessels were too surprised at the violation to react.
The second cut hurt like a bitch. I bit my lip and clenched my teeth as sweat sprung up on my forehead. The blood followed, drippin
g down my wrist. I instinctively jerked away as she raised the knife for the third slice, but Miranda’s grip tightened as she made the final two cuts.
They were by far the worst. Bile rose in the back of my throat and a bead of sweat dripped from my nose onto the table. My jaw ached from clenching, and a mewling whimper fought to get out past my front teeth. Had Comita known what Miranda would do to me?
Breath hissed out of me as Miranda splashed a measure of rum over the fresh cuts. It burned like nothing I had ever experienced. It was still burning as she wrapped a length of bandage around my hand, and spots danced around the corners of my vision.
“Take her to her new quarters,” Miranda said, cleaning the knife off with a practiced flip of her wrist.
She glanced up at me, once, as Kraken and Orca gripped my arms.
I blamed the slow burning spreading through my body on the rum, and the lingering relief from pain.
South
Captain’s Log
Captain Miranda
Man o’ War
June 16, 2513
34, -66.7°
I don’t know what Comita is playing at.
The promised navigator arrived today, looking like something Kraken pulled out of the bilge water. If it wasn’t for her eyes I might have tossed her back. They are as golden as the center of the compass, and strangely compelling.
She tolerated the signing better than I anticipated. Marking her, I admit, could prove to be a mistake, but she won’t last a day without it, even with Orca keeping an eye on her.
On the other hand, she would not be the first Archipelago castoff to make a name for herself on this ship.
Let’s just hope she’s stronger than she looks.
Chapter Five
I woke with a dull ache in the front of my skull and a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. My mouth was dry and tasted like several rats had died in it, and my right hand throbbed menacingly. I tried to block the memories before they washed over me. I might as well have tried to stop a wave.
One of the downfalls of my unerring sense of direction was that I always knew exactly where I was, even when ignorance might have been preferable. It helped, of course, that Orca was shouting at me.