by Aaron Yeager
“Oh, him? That’s Pops,” Mina said. “No one knows his story. He’s not even a real member of this crew. The Navy has no record of him anywhere.”
“So why is he wearing a Navy uniform?” Spirea asked.
Mina sighed. “He made it himself. He just showed up one day and started cleaning, and he’s such a sweet guy none of us had the heart to tell him to leave.”
Spirea stood for a moment watching the old man quietly mop the deck. “How do I put in for a transfer?” she finally asked.
“Okay,” Mina said, clapping her hands together and opening a hatch to a lower level. “Now that we’ve put that awkwardness behind us, let’s get you guys some uniforms.”
“But, you still haven’t answered my question,” Spirea insisted.
“Tomorrow we ship out on a big mission and we have a tradition,” Mina said as she climbed down. “The night before a big mission we always celebrate as hard as we can.”
“Hey, don’t ignore me,” Spirea called out as she followed the others down the ladder.
* * *
After some searching, Mina located a locked chest that kept the spare uniforms safe. Athel happily inspected the delicate fabric.
My Navy uniform, she thought to herself, suppressing the urge to giggle.
“Aren’t these skirts a little short?” Spirea asked doubtfully.
“You can thank Admiral Roapes for that,” Mina explained. “He has a reputation for having certain ‘preferences,’ if you know what I mean.”
“I’m not sure I do,” Athel said.
“Let’s just say that you don’t want to look too pretty when you meet him. Don’t wear any makeup and don’t do your hair all nice unless you want to end up on his staff.”
“I see.” Spirea said, nodding.
Alder stood up, looking flustered. He had already been through the chest several times.
“What’s wrong, do you need someone to dress you?” Athel accused.
“I don’t see any male uniforms in here,” Alder clarified.
Mina sighed and smoothed out the white fur on her face and neck. “I’m really sorry about this, but Ryin and the Captain traded a bunch of our spare uniforms for several cases of brandy. I guess all our male uniforms were part of that.” She looked up, trying to appear positive. “But, don’t worry, we’ll get some more soon enough. Until then, you can just wear your civilian clothes.”
“Dr. Griffin ruined this set of clothes, I’m afraid,” Alder said, pointing out the stains.
“Well, then you can just wear some of your other clothes.”
Alder said nothing as he shifted his weight uncomfortably.
“You don’t own any other clothes?” Mina asked disbelievingly.
“I don’t own anything,” he responded quietly.
“He can just wear that for now,” Athel dismissed as she happily held her uniform in front of her. Alder’s face pinched and he gave a look of sharp disapproval.
“May I have permission to speak freely?” he asked Athel curtly.
“Like it would matter,” Athel snorted.
“With all due respect,” he started slowly, trying to keep control of himself, “you are being neglectful in your duties as my matron.”
“Oh, look who decided to speak up. Do you really think I’ll treat you better if you make me even madder?”
“How you regard me is your pleasure to choose. However, it is your duty to make sure I am clothed, housed, and fed. I have every right to call upon my matron for the basic necessities.”
“Oh, you do, do you?” Athel said, putting her hands on her hips, her lips twitching with a sinister smirk.
* * *
Two hours later, Alder sat uncomfortably at his seat at the table with the rest of the crew, tugging lightly on the skirt of the female Navy uniform he was wearing, trying to cover as much of his pale skinny legs as possible.
The dance areas in the club were on raised platforms, like enlarged crows nests, with the tables for eating and drinking spaced amongst the columns. Hundreds of firefly nests had been meticulously cultivated in special recesses among the rafters, and the illumination they gave filled the room with energetic flickering light that accented the infectious live music that was being played. Athel squirmed in her chair with delight; it was exactly like what she had read about in The Hall of Vanderbeads.
“I can’t believe how cruel you are to make him wear that skirt in here.” Mina sipped her drink, her tail swishing happily behind her. “You’re very quickly gaining my respect,” she said with a wink.
“Don’t worry about it,” Athel said giddily. “If anyone asks, we’ll just tell them that he’s from Iber like Hanner is. If the men have the babies they might as well wear the skirts too, right?” Athel burst out laughing at her little joke, but no one else joined in. She felt a dark presence behind her, and she turned around to see Hanner standing there holding a tray of ribs.
“What did you just say?” he asked.
“Uh, erm...um,” Athel stammered.
“No, really, what did you just say.”
“I am sorry,” Athel said, clasping her hands together. “I didn’t mean to offend you. Please don’t eat me”
Hanner scowled and folded the tray in on itself, squirting juices and sauce out the sides.
“Squat it all,” he cursed, pointing a finger at Alder. “Tell me what she said, pale boy.”
“She said we should just tell people that I’m from Iber like you,” Alder said with a smirk.
“Is that what you said?” Hanner asked, looking her straight in the eyes, his huge body hulking over her.
“Yes,” she squeaked.
Hanner burst out laughing. “Good one,” he said, slapping her on the back roughly, nearly knocking her out of her chair. Suddenly Hanner stopped laughing and grunted in pain, placing a hand over his belly. “Uh, the baby just kicked me in the bladder, I’ll be right back.”
As he walked away, Athel breathed a huge sigh of relief and the rest of the table burst into laughter.
“Alder, are you trying to get me killed?” Athel accused, embarrassed.
“Excuse me, but I’m not going to lie for you,” he stated.
“What did you say?”
“Did it ever occur to you that I might not be happy with this arrangement either? I was trained to oversee a noble household. I was the most honored househusband in the Bursage family. It was never my intention to be dragged through every armpit in the world by a defiant Forsythian.”
Athel’s lips pursed in a scowl. “I don’t need you to talk to me like this. I order you to shimmy up to that dance floor and dance until I tell you to stop.”
Alder stood up, looking infuriated, but did not raise his eyes to meet her gaze. Collecting himself, he bowed slightly and began climbing up the ladder.
“Careful,” Athel warned, “don’t let anyone look up your skirt.”
Alder paused resentfully before continuing up the ladder.
“Like we’d want to look up his skirt,” Ryin added as he grabbed a fresh mug of ale.
Athel grabbed a breadstick off her plate and gnawed on it, trying to abate her anger. It had only been a few days since she met Alder, but already he was getting under her skin worse than anyone else ever had, save only her mother, who could push her buttons like she had installed them. After a moment Athel noticed that Mina was looking at her playfully.
“You know,” Mina said, twirling the small paper umbrella in her drink, “I think you’re pretty lucky to have a nubile slave-boy at your beck and call.”
“He’s not nubile,” Athel complained, chewing on a rib.
“Wysteria must be a pretty wonderful place. If I had a boy like that, I’d want to make him like me; that way he’d try to serve me without even having to be asked.”
“If you want him I’ll sell him to you,” Athel offered.
“Oh no,” Mina said, “I’ve already got me a good man.”
Hanner sat back down and grabbed a handful of r
ibs, biting and swallowing the bones as well as the meat.
“Can he actually digest animal bones?” Athel whispered to Mina.
“No, he just thinks it makes him look tough to eat it like that,” Mina said, giggling. “He’s actually just a big teddy bear.”
The aging barkeep brought a full round of mugs to the table and began passing them out. When Athel reached out for one, he stopped her.
“Wait; is she even old enough to drink? How old are you, miss?”
“Eighteen.”
“See? She’s old enough,” Ryin said, raising his mug.
“Yeah,” Odger observed, “but eighteen years to her might not be the same as it is to us. What if her people count in dog years or something?”
“Did you just call me a dog?” Athel asked, offended.
“No, I uh,” Odger stammered.
“I’ll handle this,” Ryin said, placing his hand in between them. “How long do Wysterians usually live?”
“Around two-hundred,” Athel answered.
“Right, so...for her...being eighteen is like being...nine years old for us.” Ryin said as he sat back, feeling pleased with himself.
“So...she's nine?” the barkeep asked.
“That didn’t come out right,” Ryin realized, scratching at the tattoos on his forearms.
“Thanks for the help,” Mina snorted.
The barkeep snatched the mug in front of Athel away from her. “I’m sorry, but minors are not allowed to drink here.”
Athel grabbed the mug in his hand and began pulling on it. “I am not a minor, you little worm.”
“By the seas, you guys are hopeless without me,” Mina complained. “Let me handle this. Sir, do you see this badge on her shoulder?”
“Yeah, it says, ‘If injured, do not send to Dr. Griffin.’”
“Where does everyone keep getting those?” Dr. Griffin complained.
“No, not that one,” Mina corrected. “The Federal Navy badge.”
“What about it?”
“Well sir, since she was recruited by the Federal Navy, does it not stand to reason that they found her old enough to recruit?”
“I suppose so.”
“Right, and since they are a Federal entity of the League of Kingdoms, would you not agree that they are indicating a federal guideline as to how to calculate her age?”
The old barkeep looked distracted and confused. Finally Hanner just slammed his fist onto the table, breaking off the corner. “Look old man, you’re not going to win this one, so just let the lady have her drink and shove off!” The barkeep set down the drinks and quietly slipped away, shaking his head. Mugs were raised and the crew of the Dreadnaught, minus one very uncomfortable dancing cross-dresser, enjoyed a toast to their upcoming mission.
“So what is our mission?” Athel asked, setting her empty mug onto the table.
“Oh, about that,” Mina mentioned, “we’re going to rescue our captain from a pirate stronghold before they execute him.”
Chapter Five
The Burden of Dreams
It’s a terrible thing to have a dream, Dev’in thought to himself as he set down a small crystal into the black tar that surrounded him.
“The island of Artice, they are the masters of sound.” He said softly in a hoarse voice.
To have something that drives you, compels you,he thought, placing an amber colored stone next to it.
“The island of Hoeun, masters of beasts.”
Overshadows every good and decent thing around you, until it is all you can see,he thought, placing a coral stone down.
“Ferrus, masters of metal.”
It grabs a hold of you and gets into your bones, and once you have it you’ll never be rid of it,he thought, placing down a white stone.
“Mesda, masters of ice.”
In the end, having a dream will leave you alone,he thought, placing down an obsidian stone.
“Advan, masters of healing.”
It will drive you away from those you care about, like an abusive lover, he thought, placing down a gray and a blue stone next to each other.
“And the two that started it all, Boeth, masters of stone, and Stretis, masters of the wind.”
In the end you wish nothing more than to have never had the dream in the first place, so as to be spared your grief.
Dev’in sat back, admiring his circle of stones.
“Seventy-eight in all, and when combined using the magic of the void, you restore the light of creation that was shattered so long ago,” he said to himself. He glanced over to an empty spot in the circle. “It should have been such a simple thing, but the water tribe was lost to us and with them their mastery of the seas. Soon, that too will be solved, my love.”
But I am not doing this for myself.
A door opened at the far end, allowing torchlight to enter the dirt walled chamber which was little more than a ditch filled with a pool of black liquid in which he sat. Mandi walked in, her energy and vibrance a stark contrast to both the gloomy surroundings and the coarse hooded robe she wore.
“Hey father,” she greeted as she stepped down into the tar, the flesh on her legs bubbling from the touch of it. “I like what you’ve done to the place. All we need is a nice ominous bass choir to sing in the background and complete the ambiance.”
“Why are you here?” he asked without raising his dull eyes.
“A new warship, the SS Resolute, has just been commissioned, and they will need a new keystone.”
Dev’in raised his gray hand, dry flesh flaking off the knuckles. For a moment the room was filled with hundreds of shrill voices, pleading in strange foreign tongues. The tar rippled with life and began collecting in the center of the pool where it coalesced into a single clear crystal. Mandi took it and inspected it carefully for flaws. Satisfied, she placed it in a sack then licked a little bit of tar off her fingers.
“Needs a twist of lemon,” she mentioned as she turned to leave.
“I have a task for you,” Dev’in said wearily, stopping her. “The Sotol clan on Wysteria has been toppled by the local authorities; their shipment of black shakes is most certainly lost.”
Mandi lifted her foot, testing the depth of the pool. “Hmm, we are getting low; I’ll call up the reserves from the treatment center on Iea.”
“The Sotol sacrifice is lost to us; now we will need a new Treemaster to complete the ritual,” he said, plucking up the green stone making a second empty space in the ring. “Bring me one of exceeding skill.”
“Still those same two tribes giving us trouble?” Mandi asked, shaking her head. “You’d think the Wysterians would have learned their lesson by now.”
“That was long ago,” he wheezed. “Kidnapping one of their own may prove impossible; their trees will sense you no matter what form you take.”
He paused for a moment, swirling a decaying finger around in the tar. “Perhaps you think me cruel to send you into such danger.”
“Well, of course,” she answered unabashedly, “but that is to be expected. What I find refreshing is that you are honest about it. It’s one of your more endearing qualities.”
“There is nothing endearing about me,” he corrected. “You should hate me.”
Mandi sighed. “Actually, I feel nothing for you. Even the way we use ‘father’ and ‘daughter’ is nothing more than a diverting formality to me.”
“I see.”
“Besides,” she said cheerily, “I just got word that their heir-actual has joined the Royal Navy.”
“Never attack the target in the fortress when one can be found on the road?” Dev’in coughed.
“Exactly,” she said, spinning around and exiting the room. “While I’m at it, I’m going to hire someone to round up some new bodies for you and the others.”
“Have I aged again?” he wondered, looking down in search of a reflection.
“Yes, and I can’t stand the smell anymore.”
Chapter Six
The Prison of the
Bitter Seas
Dr. Griffin opened up his medical pouch and a golden mist spun out forming a perfect sphere in front of him that he leaned into, breathing in the medicinal vapors deeply before coughing and grabbing the sides of his head.
“I swear, nothing I do is making a dent in this headache,” he complained as he pulled out a metallic scroll and slammed it on the table in front of him. Several of the crewmen who were seated covered their ears and winced in pain, their hangovers making the noise vibrate through their heads with the force of a sonic cannon.
“As you can see,” he explained, unrolling the scroll, “the penal complex is pretty isolated on the southern isthmus of the island. The map displayed a low-mound design with a battery of cannons at each of the cardinal points around its perimeter, and a single larger battery located at its center point.
“Why are the names and navigational points scratched off this map?” Athel asked, captivated.
“Let’s just say this isn’t an official map of any kind,” Dr. Griffin bragged, pointing to a dotted line. “This is the approach pattern for the supply ships that come once a week during the night watch. If we attach our ship in tow, we’ll create a blind spot by keeping the supply ship directly between us and the prison.”
Mina looked over the map and nodded approvingly. “We’ll have to disassemble and stow the lower part of the bottom masts so they don’t peek out and give us away.” Mina took a moment to meet the eyes of each person present, her lavender eyes communicating the gravity of their mission. “I know some of you are fresh, so I’m going to have to ask you to mature a little faster than a normal hand.” Mina paused on Spirea, who was fidgeting in her chair. “Something wrong, sailor?”
“Yeah, there’s something wrong,” Spirea spoke up. “I'm not even sure where to begin. One, this is a job for an assault flotilla, not a patrol boat. Two, we’ve got, like, what, a single cannon that barely works? Three, I was told that the Admiralty didn’t want to put miss perfect here in danger, so why do I feel like this is the most hazardous ship in the fleet?”
“Really, there's no other ship they could have put her on, given the restrictions,” Mina explained. “I’m afraid that’s her mother’s doing.”