Generation Z (Book 4): The Queen Unthroned

by Meredith, Peter

  At first, no one seemed to notice that they were not ex-Corsairs, though in Jenn’s mind it was painfully obvious. For one, they were a mismatched crew. The Queen’s men wore either black clothes or camouflage, while the tiny crew of The Wind Ripper had on the odd scraps that they had found in the lone house after their shipwreck. Mike wore a striped sweater under a downy blue ski coat. Jenn had on a purple skirt over jeans and two coats, one green and one white. Stu looked rather puffed-up due to the three sweaters he wore, while the brown corduroy pants he had on made a zwip, zwip sound every time he moved.

  Of course, the most obvious thing that made them stand out like a sore thumb was the bloody man tied to the deck. He looked like he was in the process of being tortured.

  “What’s going on down there?” someone on a nearby boat muttered when he saw Rob LaBar and the growing pool of blood around him.

  “Just an accident,” Mike said, his voice so high that he sounded half his age. “He fell down the, uh, the uh…” He began to choke on the end of the lie; he was having trouble trying to think of anything on board a person could fall down that would cause a wound of that size. As he groped around for words, The Wind Ripper continued sliding along the grey waters.

  “The stairs,” Stu finished for him, speaking quickly. “He fell down the stairs.”

  “And landed on a knife,” Mike added. A few of the ex-Corsairs were staring at him without comprehension. He fell on a knife? That didn’t seem likely. And why had they set their mainsail? They wondered if they had missed an order. Were we supposed to set our sails, too? Is it time to attack?

  Only one man among them noticed that The Wind Ripper was still flying the pure black Corsair flag. “Hey! I think that might be one of the Captain’s boats,” he called out, pointing an accusing finger. This had less of an impact than he thought it would—all the boats in the Queen’s fleet had been the Black Captain’s until very recently.

  Once more Mike began to trip over a lie, stammering out, “We-we-we had the uh. I mean we lost our old flag…no this is our old flag. I meant we…”

  “Just get us out of here,” Jenn whispered to him. She had a hand thrown across her brow, trying to shield her face. “Hurry, hurry.”

  Mike turned the wheel so that the wind was directly on their stern. The sail went as taut as a drum and they sped for the receding mists. Behind them, even the dimmest of the ex-Corsairs realized that something was wrong. There was a smattering of low cries as Jenn cut LaBar loose and dragged him to the stairs leading into the galley, and Stu ran up a pair of jibs.

  They all expected gunfire, however the confusion among the Queen’s fleet was too great. No one knew if it was okay to shoot, since they were trying to surprise the Corsairs. Only when it was too late were a few smattering shots unleashed. Mike already had The Wind Ripper in the clouds when the bullets zipped past, making little swirls in the vapors.

  Once more the chase was on, only this time they were hounded northwest by the five fastest boats in the Queen’s fleet. They weren’t faster than The Wind Ripper; though it was dreadfully close. On two occasions, their pursuers were able to swing by on opposite tacks and let loose torpedoes at them; one on the first pass, and three on the second.

  The first one came so close that Jenn heard the whine of its motors as Mike turned hard away from it. She didn’t really understand what she was hearing. “What is that?” she had asked.

  Stu leaned down from the deck and hissed in a strangled voice, “Torpedo,” as if simply being loud would set it off. When they fired the salvo at them, she had held her breath, her face scrunched in anticipation of the explosion that would break the back of the ship and send what was left of her body to the bottom of the ocean.

  Mike resisted the urge to turn about and race with the wind as it would put them even closer to the Queen’s ships. Instead, he willed his boat to go faster. When that didn’t work, he swung The Wind Ripper hard to port. The torpedoes had an edge in speed this way, however they weren’t able to deal with the growing waves which kept pushing them off course.

  It became an endurance test—Jenn’s heart, which felt as though it were about to explode, against the longevity of Jillybean’s batteries and the compressed air within the cylinders. Two of the torpedoes died after a few minutes, but the third slowly ate up the distance.

  Mike leapt up onto the stern rail and watched the little killing machine with growing resignation. There would be no escaping the torpedo and even if he managed to, he saw that his pursuers were readying more. Every dodge, every jig, every unexpected turn he had made, had only slowed the ship down, allowing his enemy to keep up. And if he tried anything drastic now, it would only put The Wind Ripper in the path for more. A fatalistic and deeply tired sigh escaped him.

  He probably would have watched the torpedo until it went off below him if it hadn’t been for Stu who limped up next to him with their one rifle in his hands.

  “You might want to look out,” he growled as he raised the rifle. He fired once, twice, three times, cursed, and fired again, missing for the fourth time. The heaving boat was causing havoc with his stance, and the slashing wind was driving rain into his eyes. Even his hands betrayed him; they were still crimped from the poison.

  Mike began to back from the rail. “Stu! Stop missing, dang it.”

  “It’s not my fault!” Just as he took his next shot, The Wind Ripper almost bucked him into the sea and the bullet went into the clouds. Mike grabbed him from behind to steady him and had a perfect view down the length of the AR-15. On a calm sea, Stu couldn’t have missed. On this rough sea, he had to shoot at a target that was moving in at least two different directions at once: forward-ish and up, or sideways and down, while his own platform was sometimes moving in sync and sometimes churning and yawing simultaneously.

  When the torpedo was twenty yards away, Stu began pulling the trigger as fast as he could.

  The eleventh bullet did the trick. It punctured the air tank, causing the torpedo to immediately turn in short angry circles. Stu sagged in relief and Mike let out a cheer which was drowned out by a shocking Throoom! The man controlling the torpedo had decided to detonate it, causing an explosion of brilliant fire followed by white water leaping high into the sky.

  Mike and Stu fell back in a tangle of arms and legs. “That was uncalled for,” Mike said as he helped Stu to his feet.

  “Jillybean might think she’s got them under her heel, but they are still Corsairs at heart,” Stu told him. “They aren’t going to change any time soon.”

  “I guess,” Mike agreed without much enthusiasm. His ears were still ringing, and his hands were shaking as he began tacking back and forth into the teeth of the same storm that would soon play havoc with Jillybean’s battle.

  It was not just the storm that would change the nature of the battle. Little did they know, but the appearance of The Wind Ripper, which was flying the black flag and had been mistaken for a Corsair ship, was the catalyst that sent the Queen’s fleet into battle before the entire Corsair fleet was in place.

  The trio was oblivious to this and even if they had known, they were just too tired to care. All they really wanted was to get south as fast as possible and start a new life.

  It turned out to be an impossibility. Two of the Queen’s boats dogged them endlessly, forcing them northwest until the sun set. In the dark, Mike tried to skirt around them by heading west, directly into the growing storm. Unfortunately, it kept heaving them back to where they had started. He would tack back and forth across the ocean to gain a few yards at a time, only to lose them to the irresistible tide.

  By midnight, Mike was too tired to go on. He had no idea if the ships were still out there. When he and Stu finally gave up and staggered down into the galley, stiff and numb from the cold, Jenn was sitting at a table, her red eyes staring at a single, spluttering candle.

  “I think the world, or the universe, or whatever wants us to go north,” Mike said once he had eased himself down onto the floor. Th
ere were leather couches, but he felt more like a sponge than a person and didn’t want to get everything all wet.

  “Don’t ya think signs are my thing?” Jenn asked, listlessly scratching at some dried blood that was peeling on the side of her face. She had spent almost the entire day trying to save Rob LaBar and had finally sown him up a few hours before. Considering the hatchet job she had done, it was a wonder he was still breathing. She would be the first to admit that surgery wasn’t her thing, no matter how much Jillybean wanted to make her into a younger version of herself.

  Telling the future was so much easier. The signs either came to her or they didn’t, she really didn’t have to work for them.

  Stu smirked and made a sarcastic grunting noise. Mike shushed him with the hardest look he could muster up sufficient energy for: a brief, one-second glare. He turned back to Jenn. “Of course. What do the signs say? Which direction should we go?”

  Across from her was a calendar opened to December of 2012. Above the little boxes was a picture of a drunk Santa Claus having just crashed into the North Pole with his sleigh. Even though she had never really had the full Christmas experience, the image evoked a sense of nostalgia. “North,” she told them. Sometimes it was as simple as that. She needed a direction and there was the calendar picture, unnoticed until that very moment.

  This time when Stu let out a grunt of laughter, Mike didn’t bother with a look. He was confused. “But I just said north.”

  “Yeah,” Jenn answered, “but I gotta be able to do something around here. Think of it like I was just giving you…validation. That’s what Jillybean would have called it.”

  “Besides, even without the signs, north makes sense. West is turning out to be impossible. To the south are lurking ships. To the east are more of them and that leaves, north. If the Corsairs are all in San Francisco looking to fight Jillybean, we might be able to waltz right up to Bainbridge completely unseen and unharmed.”

  “Waltz? Validation?” Mike said with a smile. “Once a queen, always a queen. Just remember, I knew you back when the only thing you were queen of was hide-and-go-seek.” He heaved himself up and stood against the wall as if he couldn’t will his legs to go back out into the raw elements.

  Stu gazed up at him. “You need some help?” He hoped to God that the answer would be a truthful no.

  It was. “North is easy. Just as long as the storm doesn’t get out of hand, it’s just a matter of watching our leeward drift and we’re so far out it should be nothing. Someone spell me in a few hours.”

  Jenn took over for a three-hour shift after him and Stu came after her. By then it was morning, though it didn’t improve the visibility all that much. The clouds were fat and full, hovering a hundred feet over the grey swell, while rain and mist took turns hiding everything between sky and sea.

  It reminded Stu of the nasty weather they had endured while the Captain Jack was sinking under them only a few days before. Because that was still so fresh in his mind, he was always uneasy when he came up on deck to take his turn piloting the boat. In truth, he had little to fear. The Wind Ripper was as dry and as snug a boat as there was and Mike’s seamanship was second to none.

  Even the storm wasn’t one of those beastly creatures that seemed to have been created from the depths of hell to make widows out of sailor’s wives. It wasn’t good sailing weather by any means, but without the threat of being torpedoed, they made slow but steady progress northward.

  Shift followed shift, becoming a dull routine in which they froze for a few hours on deck and then rushed down as soon as they were relieved to huddle close to the little fire which burned nonstop in a stout unbelievably heavy black cauldron that hadn’t shifted an inch by the movement of the waves.

  Gradually, almost without notice, the pain from their poisoning and the many minor wounds they had received from the wreck of the Captain Jack, slowly receded. Only Stu had cause to limp about. His leg was stiff from the damp and his left arm weaker than Jenn’s. He might have limped, but he didn’t complain. In fact, he rarely spoke beyond the occasional grunt.

  Their weariness left them as well, mostly that is. It had diminished considerably from the terrible stupor they’d been in after the wreck; however the endless cold settled into their bones and wouldn’t leave. It made sleeping difficult and going out on deck a trial. By degrees, their exhaustion became a part of their daily lives; they could function, but just in a different way. They grew clumsy, tripping over stairs and lines. Their knots were limp, and their sails sagged. Answers to questions came slowly, if at all.

  It was this endless weariness that had Jenn proclaiming on the evening of the third day, “I’m sick of boats. Sorry Mike. If I never see another boat as long as I live, I’ll be happy.”

  He would never speak such blasphemy and yet, he too needed time ashore, if only to sleep for one full and uninterrupted night.

  “We should consider going to shore,” he said after a moment’s consideration. “We’re getting low on wood, and we should find out where we are.”

  “And Rob needs real antibiotics,” Jenn added in a hushed voice. She cast a glance the Corsair’s way in case he was listening. “His leg is definitely infected. If we don’t do something, he’s going to lose it.”

  The Corsair was the least of their problems, in Mike’s view, and Stu didn’t hide the curl to his lip as he glanced at the man. “We’ll see what we can do,” Mike said. “I’m going to head east, so that means we’re going to need to douse all our fires.”

  The Wind Ripper came about so quickly it was almost as if she was looking forward to the break as well. Her sails filled, and the rigging sang as she raced for the unseen beach. They had no idea how close they were…or how far. Everyone went on deck, including Rob LaBar.

  They sat wrapped in blankets that smelled like old socks and campfires.

  No one said much of anything, and if they did speak, it was in whispers. They were listening intently for any “beach-like” sounds: the cry of gulls, the crashing of waves, even the gentle lapping of water on sand.

  The four of them were also listening for the telltale sounds of other ships. There wasn’t a ship abroad this far north that they wouldn’t run from.

  They were further from land than any of them expected, and even with the slowly diminishing wind pushing them along, it was hours before they heard the first sounds coming through the dark: it was the distant crash of waves rolling into rocks. “Watch the boom,” Mike hissed, as he swung The Wind Ripper from an easterly course to a north-north-east heading. “Stu, check our depth, please.” The boat had a state-of-the-art depth finder that was useless without batteries or an engine. Instead they had to rely on a two-hundred foot length of twine attached to a hunk of metal.

  Stu dropped it overboard and let the line run through his fingers for what seemed like a long time before it thumped into the sandy bottom.

  “A hundred feet, at least,” Stu said, softly.

  Mike had him drop the line every few minutes; little by little, the bottom seemed to swell up at them. When the depth was fifty feet, Mike ran them straight north, running parallel with the shore. The sound of the waves had become unnervingly close, though it was hard to tell just how close they were with the dark.

  Now, they listened for the waves as if their lives depended on it; a sudden shift in the unseen shoreline would doom them, and yet, they needed to get as close to the shore as possible to find a suitable place to make a landing. Because of the darkness and the storm, they had to get very close, foolishly close, or so it seemed. With Stu tossing the depth finder overboard continuously and calling out the measurements in an ever increasingly hard voice, Mike eased the ship gently back toward the sound of the breakers.

  He was so cautious that it was an hour before Stu called out, “Twenty-five feet,” just as they broke out of the clouds and into the clear. They had a perfect view of the foaming breakers rolling over with thunderous crashes, not seventy yards off their starboard side. From seventy
yards, they could feel the unnerving pulse of the ocean through the hull.

  Far worse, from Mike’s perspective was the shudder coming up from the rudder. Although the ship was heading north, the winds and tide were also pushing it east, right at the rocky shore.

  “Easy now,” Mike whispered, mostly to himself as he edged the wheel over a quarter turn, away from the breakers and back into the clouds. When the shudder coming up from the rudder faded, he let out a laugh that was all relief. “Now, all we have to do is find a place where the sound of the waves drops away. It’ll mean an inlet or a…”

  In the middle of his sentence a bell rang somewhere ahead of them, causing Mike to go stiff at the wheel. Instinctively, he turned The Wind Ripper further away from the hidden shore. A bell at sea meant a buoy was nearby. These were set to warn boaters of peril. Fearing hidden rocks or a reef, Mike waited for the next ring, so he could pinpoint the location; however, the next bell that rang came from behind them.

  It was a perfectly clear chime, not the clunky sound of the old, rusting buoy bells he was used to hearing. Confusion and a growing fear vied for supremacy within him as he turned to squint back behind them. All he saw were the dark mists and the foam trailing from the…

  A third bell sounded, this time from far back behind them. In shock, he realized these weren’t buoy bells, these were ships and whether they were Corsair ships or the Queen’s ships made no difference. Either side would kill them without hesitation.

  Chapter 21

  “This can’t be happening,” Jenn whispered, after more bells began to ring ahead of them. Each let out a slightly different note so that it was almost like a song.

  Now that they were not so dangerously close to the breakers crashing onto the shore, the sounds of ships around them could not be missed.

  Although most of the ships were being sailed by sullen, half-beaten skeleton crews who knew better than to call attention to themselves when the Black Captain was in a towering rage, the ships themselves made all sorts of subtle noise that was becoming more and more apparent as the storm died and the winds slackened.