
ady echatronic and the teampunked irates
y
rabella yatt
To Gill K
England has abolished slavery, but not all are willing to let the lucrative trade go without a fight. The Royal Navy is charged with keeping the Caribbean clean of slavers, pirates and privateers... but even in the Navy, there are those who put profit before principle.
Captain James Hartwell rebels against the abhorrent plans of his commanding officer to run a private slave trade. In doing so, he seemingly signs not only his own death warrant but that of his sister and loyal crew. All seems lost, until a blazing fireball hits the ocean.
Escaping on an obsolete galleon, Hartwell must evade the chasing English forces, protect his sister and his crew and deal with his near-overpowering attraction to a flesh and metal woman found floating in the ocean where the fireball fell.
Can they survive on the ancient, rotting galleon? What is happening to the crew as they develop frightening, almost demonic, powers? What part does the enigmatic Lady Mechatronic play in their transformation?
Pirates, flying saucers, a cyborg alien, steampunk and passion collide in the Caribbean. At least Hartwell has some absinthe to keep him sane. But this is just the beginning.
The first book of a brand new series.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Lady Mechatronic and the Steampunked Pirates
Copyright © 2011 Arabella Wyatt
ISBN: 978-1-55487-960-1
Cover art by Martine Jardin
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.
Published by Devine Destinies An imprint of eXtasy Books
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hapter ne
lthough the sun had risen in the blue Caribbean sky, it had failed to burn off the early-morning sea mist from around the wooden hulls of the Morning Star and the Pride of Plymouth, the largest and most powerful ships of the line of the English navy. The mist, according to the Plymouth's second lieutenant, Roger Fleetwood, was a portent of ill omen.
"It's a sign is what it is, a sign from the sea gods," he declaimed. "We'd do well to heed the warning and turn back the way we came."
"If you wish to signal Admiral Johnson and tell him of your concerns," replied First Lieutenant Reginald Fitch, who was looking out at the thick fog, "I'm sure Captain Hartwell will be happy to provide assistance."
"It's not right," insisted Fleetwood. He was on the upper deck with the rest of the crew, attending to the ship and their duties. Despite being told by the captain that he should set an example in discipline and hard work, Fleetwood spent most of his time complaining and provoking the superstitious fears of the crew. Their overactive imaginations populated the mist with sea devils, mermaids, sirens and, of course, the slave traders and pirates they had been charged with hunting down.
"It's not right, being sent out here alone," continued Fleetwood, a small weasel of a man who owed his position to family connection rather than ability. "Why are we out here, away from the rest of the fleet? We'd be a sitting target for any pirate."
The majority of the men agreed with a low rumble.
Fitch gave up trying to see anything in the fog and glared at Fleetwood, who smirked and turned away. The second lieutenant had long been a source of anxiety and tension on board the ship, but he had the protection of Admiral Johnson, the head of the English fleet in the Caribbean and there was little Fitch could do about the man's determined attempt to stir up trouble. Besides which, Fleetwood did actually have a point. Why had Admiral Johnson ordered the flagship of the fleet, and its sister craft, out into this deserted area?
"And I'll tell you what else isn't right round here," said Able Seaman Warren Richmond, taking up from where Fleetwood left off. The two often worked as a team, each man encouraging the other.
"And what might that be?" asked Danny O'Rourke, a small, cheerful Irishman, who was determined to keep his spirits up despite the oppressive atmosphere.
"You know as well as I do," said Richmond as he looked round hurriedly, fearing that the captain was in earshot. His voice sank down to a conspiratorial whisper. "It's not right having a woman on board."
"The captain's sister?" shrugged O'Rourke. "She's just a girl. Nothing but skin, bone and gristle."
"It's against nature," muttered Richmond darkly.
"And it's against sense," added Fleetwood, his eyes hungry with his troublemaking. It was no secret that he yearned to be in command. He loathed his lowly position of second lieutenant. He wanted total control over the crew, not to work under the watchful eyes of Fitch and the captain. "But what should we expect from a captain who drinks so much of that devilish green liquid each and every evening, and who---"
"Ship ahead!" cried a voice from the bow of the ship, cutting off Fleetwood's insurrectionist mutterings.
The crew jumped and looked ahead. Perspiration dripped down the faces of the men as they strained to see what lay ahead through the wet, heavy mist. The dangers they faced ranged from slavers to pirates to privateers, who were often little more than officially recognised pirates, paid by various governments to do work considered too dirty for official business.
"Status, Mister Fitch," said a quiet voice. The crew jumped afresh. Despite the months at sea, they still hadn't adjusted to the captain's disconcerting quietness as he prowled the vessel.
"Unknown ship sighted, Captain Hartwell," replied Fitch, nodding his head in respect to the man who stood taller than any of them. Hartwell's long hair, drawn back in a ponytail, was almost white despite his relatively young age, while his navy uniform of dark blue was always crisp, clean and unruffled, much like his demeanour, despite the burning heat of the Caribbean.
"What is the admiral's course of action?" asked Hartwell.
"What's happening, Mister Tench?" bellowed Fitch to the man at the bow. Tench had the best eyesight on board and was often used by the captain as an early warning system.
"A boat has been lowered from the ship and is heading for the admiral's vessel," Tench shouted back.
"Whatever it is, it's turning toward us," said Fitch, squinting into the fog. "We should get a better view of her soon." As he spoke, the mist parted and the crew caught a glimpse of the strange vessel as the sun hit it and illuminated the craft in silhouette.
Hartwell caught his breath. For a brief second, he saw the ancient shape of a galleon, Portuguese or Spanish given the size, with the old-fashioned castle design prominent. Four huge masts reared up into the fog and the massive sails fluttered in the wind. At the very front of the ship, a faded carving of a mermaid looked out over the sea. The figurehead looked as incongruous as the rest of the vessel when compared to the modern and more powerful design of the Plymouth and Morning Star.
"Look at that wreck," sneered a voice. "It must be a century old."
"We'd blow that out the water with one cannon," laughed another voice.
"No need," added a third. "Look at the way its listing---the thing is half sinking already!"
Hartwell and Fitch exchanged glances. The sight of the old galleon had moved both men, valiantly ploughing through both the ocean and time despite being left behind by developments in ship design and naval warfare.
"Orders, Captain?" asked Fitch gently.
"We wait," said Hartwell quietly. "Ensure the ship is ready for any eventuality, Mister Fitch."
"Aye-aye, sir," replied Fitch smartly, who in their time together had come to respect the captain's learning, ability and character, as well as his ability to down several glasses of absinthe each evening and remain vertical.
hapter wo
ome two hours later, the small rowing boat that had crossed from the unknown vessel to the admiral's ship reappeared and struck out toward the Pride of Plymouth. As it neared, the crew saw in consternation that Admiral Johnson himself was in the boat, along with Lieutenants Flavell and Bennett. At the other end sat a tall, well-muscled black man and it seemed to Captain Hartwell that the navy men and their passenger were anxious to leave as much space between themselves as possible. Hartwell turned his attention to the muttered speculations of his crew.
"The admiral coming aboard? That is a bad sign."
"It is a sign from God!"
"Yes, Pastor White, it probably is." The crew had already found that the best way of dealing with the pastor was to agree with all his theological pronouncements.
"Ar, the admiral never leaves his command ship unless he has to," said another voice hurriedly, before the pastor could say anything more.
"And why bring the two lieutenants with him? I've never heard of such a thing."
"You've never heard of most things, William Sporrit."
"And who is that Moor with him?" asked another voice as the nervous laughter faded. "He must have come from the other ship."
"Darkies on our ship? It shouldn't be allowed."
The crew fell silent, apart from a few muttered agreements or protests at the last statement. Hartwell had no problem recognizing the slimy voice of Edward Fleetwood as the originator of the remark and he resolved to have a quiet word with Mister Fitch to have a quiet word with Fleetwood about his attitudes.
By this time, the rowing boat had reached the Pride of Plymouth. A rope was thrown down, the craft was tethered and the admiral, followed by his lieutenants and the incongruous passenger, climbed aboard. Hartwell briefly wondered if the admiral would observe etiquette in asking for permission to board. He wasn't surprised when he did not.
"Ready your crew, Captain," said Johnson as soon as he was on deck, where he began prowling in agitation. The admiral was almost as tall as Hartwell, but whereas Hartwell was lean and taut, Johnson was running to excess flesh. His great, beak-like nose dominated the small, beady eyes and thin lips, in contrast against Hartwell's green eyes, full lips and handsome, symmetrical face.
"Our orders, Admiral?" enquired Hartwell.
"Your orders are as they always have been---to do as I tell you," snapped the admiral. Flavell and Bennett snickered quietly while the dark man stood silently observing everything in front of him.
"But specifically, our orders?" enquired Hartwell, levelly.
Johnson looked at him sharply, suspecting that the captain was being disrespectful, but his smooth face showed no hint of emotion. Johnson bared his teeth as he turned on the two tittering lieutenants. "What's so funny?" he demanded, sweat dripping from him. The two men stopped giggling and looked dead ahead, standing stiff and upright. Johnson swung around and glared at the black man, who folded his arms and stared back impassively.
"This, Captain Hartwell," sneered Johnson, "is Madrigal. It is through his betrayal that we have the location of the pirate cove. Honour is not known amongst these people." A few muttered agreements went round the crew behind Hartwell, whose scalp was beginning to tingle in an
unpleasant manner.
Madrigal bridled. "What I have revealed to you was done to help put a stop to the slave trade. We are being taken from our homes, cut off from our families and sent to work as slaves. What I have done is for our protection and to give us our independence."
"Independence?" echoed Johnson in disbelief. "The day the Negro race can determine its own future will be the day that all sense disappears."
"The day is closer than you think," growled Madrigal. "And that is partly why the English government has deployed you here, to oversee the abolition of the slave routes."
"I know why I'm here," snarled Johnson. "And it has nothing to do with the weak policies of a weak government. You are fit only to be a slave and a slave you will be. Why do you think I organised the rendezvous so far from the fleet? I am starting my own slave trade, right under the nose of the navy and once I have eliminated the competition, the monopoly will be mine!"
"I will never be a slave," replied Madrigal, his voice low with suppressed fury and disgust.
"Then you have no purpose in life," hissed Johnson. "Lieutenant Flavell, hang this dog from the yard arm. Now that we have the location of the pirate cove, we have no further use for him. Then you can blow his ship from the water."
"I will not permit that, sir," said the quiet voice of Captain Hartwell.
hapter hree
strange calm fell over the scene. The fog curled around the rigid players, entwining its way around legs and torsos, while below, more mist curled in toward the three ships, lapping against each hull and clambering up the sides.
"What did you say?" snapped Johnson finally, staring at Hartwell's impassive face.
Hartwell lifted his eyes and for the first time, Johnson was aware of the deep emotions flashing down beneath the calm exterior.
"I will not permit any such thing, Admiral," replied Hartwell. "I suspected something was wrong when you ordered us out here, but, fool that I am, I did nothing, instead trusting to the chain of command. No doubt the majority of each crew is with you as you chose them over other, more experienced men, but I will stand against any behaviour that is so repellent and against all codes of honour."
"I suspected you would take this attitude and I have prepared for it," snapped Johnson. "Both crews are mine and will obey me. Out here, I am the admiralty and can decide your fate as I see fit. That fate is execution as a traitor."
"You do not have the right or authority to execute anyone without due process," replied Hartwell, his tone as precise and even as when he had ordered coffee that morning.
"I have the authority here and now and that is all that matters," replied Johnson. "Flavell, Bennet, hold him." Johnson's lackeys moved forward and took Hartwell's arms. They held him tightly despite the fact the arrested captain made no movement of any kind. Instead, he continued to gaze levelly at the admiral.
"This is illegal, second to the pirate curse we came here to eradicate," he said. "You are an officer of the crown and you owe allegiance not just to the crown but also to the mission that brought us here---the freedom of all peoples from tyranny and oppression."
"Hurrah!" cried a few voices, including Sporrit and O'Rourke.
"Disgrace," replied many other voices in dispute, led by Fleetwood.
"It is all God's Will," opined Pastor White nervously.
"And God would be ashamed of your actions, Admiral Johnson," snapped a young female voice. Everyone turned and saw Hartwell's sister and ward, Susanna, standing on the deck behind them. Her features were very similar to those of her brother, though rather softer in outline. The big difference lay in her eyes, which flashed with the fire and emotion, which her brother always kept ruthlessly suppressed.
"Miss Hartwell, it is your brother who is shamed, for he brings destruction upon you and the few fools stupid enough to follow him," shouted Johnson, who felt safer in bullying a young girl of eighteen than he did with any of the crew.
"Everything my brother has said has filled me with admiration," replied Susanna. "The esteem I hold him in has only grown with his actions today."
"His actions today have condemned him and you, too, if you are not careful," leered Johnson. Hartwell's head snapped up.
"My sister has nothing to do with this," he replied, his voice still quiet but now with a tremor hidden deep beneath.
"She and any of your crew who stand with you will be treated as they deserve," shouted Johnson. "And you deserve execution as treacherous dogs! But first," he added, his voice dropping low as he panted in excitement and lust, "but first, I shall taste of her. Oh yes, she shall be my sweet fruit!"
Bennett and Flavell looked away, seeing and hearing nothing. Behind, some in the crew leered in delight, while others looked in panic or disgust at the admiral and his lackeys. Hartwell stiffened, but he held his emotions in an iron grip.
"Repent!" cried Pastor White, shouting at the crowd in general. "All must repent!"
"All must choose," said Hartwell in a louder voice. "All must choose to die in honour or to live like dogs."
"I choose honour," shouted Susanna.
"Then you'll die," leered Fleetwood, licking his reptilian lips. He, like Admiral Johnson, had lusted secretly for the captain's sister since meeting her and had dreamed of the time when he could do to her exactly as he wished. That time had now come.
"And the rest of the crew must decide for themselves how they are to live," continued Hartwell. "But know that I hold no man in obligation, no man is to be forced down a path except by his own conscience."
Hartwell turned and looked up at his sister, who gazed back down. Not many could bear to look at the faces of two siblings silently saying how much they loved each other as they faced certain death. Susanna nodded slightly, giving her brother the strength to do what had to be done and stood proud, waiting for her fate.
"Then this day wears a dark mark, when justice was denied and good people slain by vanity and power," said Susanna. "Bear witness to these deeds, good people."
"Any who stand against me will die like dogs," screamed Johnson hoarsely. "Today is the last day you will breathe God's pure air! Any who defies me, marks himself traitor and fool!" He turned to the crew. "To arms! Kill them all!"
hapter our
s soon as the admiral turned, Hartwell thrust upward and pushed his two captors back. They staggered away just far enough for Hartwell to draw his sword in a single, smooth movement, which ended with the tip against the terrified throat of Johnson.
"Just remember that today your life was spared and think on it," said Hartwell quietly. "Reflect on your ways and improve them." He turned swiftly as Flavell and Bennett drew their swords and faced them down. Neither seemed eager to try to land the first blow and both timidly stabbed at Hartwell, who parried easily. Drawing bolder, Bennett leapt forward, but again, Hartwell easily deflected his stab.
Hartwell's thoughts centred on his sister. He regretted bringing her out to sea, for surely he had signed her death warrant in doing so, but the death of their aunt, their last surviving relative, combined with Susanna's reluctance to be parted from him, had conspired against them. Hartwell looked up and a chill engulfed him---Fleetwood was running straight toward Susanna, obscene desire stamped on his face. Savagely disabling Flavell before running Bennett through, Hartwell pounded along the ship, determined to reach Susanna first.
Fortunately, Susanna was well aware of Fleetwood's approach. She pulled a short length of heavy netting from the side of the vessel and swung it at Fleetwood's head. The netting enveloped him and he tripped and fell heavily, injuring himself. Susanna rushed over to him, grabbed his sword and swung it at the next man who tried to grab her, slashing his face open. He fell with a howl as Susanna wielded the sword with surprising skill.
Around them, a small insurrection was breaking out. The majority of the crew supported Johnson and his plans for a private slave trade, emphasising the forward-planning Johnson had put in motion. The few rebels, including Fitch, Sporrit, O'Rourke and Tench, were those who had served with Hartwell before and shared his values, but the small band of mutineers was hopelessly outnumbered.
As the fighting continued, Madrigal made his way to the side of the ship closest to his own vessel, pausing here and there to help the rebels in their battle. He tore his red waistcoat from his body and waved it up and down. Immediately, the ancient galleon swung about, her huge sails catching the minimal breeze and began to bear down on the Pride of Plymouth.
"Men!" screamed Johnson. "Execute that crew of damn black devils!"
The assembled sailors scattered, some running to the cannons while others grabbed their rifles. A fusillade of artillery flew out, striking the side of Madrigal's ship, piercing the sails and felling most of the small crew. The cannons boomed and caused further damage, blowing gaping holes in the upper parts of the galleon.
"No!" screamed Madrigal in anguish as he saw his friends and followers killed, shot down with no chance of survival. His ship carried upward of seventy cannons, but the crew was hardly large enough to sail the vessel and the cannons stood untended.
Hartwell swung his blade and killed another of his former crew as the man lunged at him, but as he fell, so another took his place. Susanna was flailing at another man who was threatening her, O'Rourke was pinned down by three burly sailors, Sporrit was trapped against one of the masts, while Fitch and Tench were pinned back against the starboard hull, their former crewmates grinning in derision, forcing them backward in the hope of watching the men fall into the sea.
Escape seemed hopeless, survival impossible, but at that point, the sky darkened, a scream unlike any ever heard on Earth silenced the sound of the battle and a blazing fireball appeared in the sky and hurtled straight down toward the Pride of
Plymouth.
hapter ive
veryone on the three ships gaped upward, many falling to their knees in fear. This surpassed any maritime legend of sea serpents or sirens. The enormous, blazing ball of fire hurtled toward them, trailing black smoke which covered the entire sky and sank down to meet the white mist of the sea, where the two elements twirled around each other and enclosed the entire area.
Just when all seemed lost, the fireball somehow overshot and smacked into the ocean some leagues distant, covering the distance in mere seconds. Almost immediately, the swell of displaced water rose up, a gigantic, terrifying roar of white spray and wave thundering toward the vessels.
The crews screamed in terror as the tiny ships were lifted by the raging sea as easily as if they were sticks on a river. Many sailors fell overboard and many more were flung onto the deck or against the masts, the forces snapping bones and crushing internal organs.
The ships lurched and spun as the sea continued to surge underneath, until finally the waves receded and all settled back to near calm.
Hartwell picked himself up from where he had dragged Susanna down for whatever protection his frail body could afford and helped his sister rise to her feet. She looked as bad as he felt after the turbulent movement, which had left even the most hardened sea dog violently ill. Hartwell, however, didn't have time to submit to the grinding nausea in his bones and dragging Susanna by the hand, he staggered toward Madrigal.
"Tench, Fitch, all others, to me," he roared, his voice reaching down and forcing all those loyal to him to move as best they could manage, either in a sideways crawl or even on their bellies.
"Captain Madrigal," bellowed Hartwell to the unresponsive figure. "Get up, damn you. You have a duty to your crew."
This roused the stunned man and he nodded, almost dumb from the hideous tidal wave, as he lurched to his feet.
The crew staggered around the Pride
of
Plymouth, trying to orientate themselves, a task not made any easier by the plumes of filthy black smoke which reduced visibility considerably.
Finally, Hartwell saw a vague outline of the old galleon in the smoke and he realized that Madrigal's ship had been carried by the waves to almost within jumping distance of the Plymouth. The rowing boat had been torn away from the side of the Plymouth by the forces of wind and water and Hartwell wasted no time in giving his final order on what had been his ship.
"Into the sea and swim," he commanded. "Powder monkeys," he yelled to the small used to tend and operate the cannons. "To me." The boys, who found the captain to be an enigmatic yet fair man and who had witnessed the actions of Admiral Johnson with much indignation, scampered out from their hiding places and joined their captain.
"Grab a boy," commanded Hartwell. His crew all grabbed at least one child each, as did Madrigal, while Hartwell took the smallest boy in one hand while holding his sister in the other. "Jump! Belay that!" The crew looked in fuzzy incomprehension as Hartwell ran to his cabin at the back of the vessel and emerged after a few moments with a bottle of absinthe. He grabbed the boy and Susanna once more as he re-joined the mutineers and shouted again, "Jump!"
They leapt out into the sea and noticed too late that the water was glowing red, a deep scarlet hue which flashed disturbingly beneath the waves. Fortunately, they all broke the surface of the water with no obvious ill effects. Apart from the strange glow, the sea was normal and the crew swam toward Madrigal's ship.
It took a while for them to reach the vessel, hampered as they were by holding onto the frightened boys. As they reached the galleon and began climbing the ropes thrown down for them by the crew, they all felt a strange prickling sensation that seemed to envelop the entire body, inside and out. Each person, however, thought it was probably the trauma of the past few minutes and said nothing about it.
Behind them, the sounds of the two navy crews being cursed by Admiral Johnson drifted through the black smoke and white mist. Hartwell knew they only had minutes to escape. "All hands, cut and run!" he roared.
"Do it," bellowed Madrigal at what was left of his crew. The men swung into action, bypassing the standard procedures by slicing lines to the anchor and rigging in order to expedite the escape of the galleon.
"Powder monkeys, make the cannons ready. Tench, Fitch, you're on gunnery duty," continued Hartwell. "Madrigal, where is your pilot?"
"Dead," replied Madrigal, his lips thinning in fury at the betrayal and slaughter of his crew.
"I understand," said Hartwell, quietly, "but we have no time for grief now. I need you at the wheel. You know this vessel better than us and your expertise can get us out of here."
Madrigal nodded, seeing the truth of Hartwell's words. Madrigal knew how low the galleon sat in the water, what her turn radius was, all the details required to pilot the ship through deep and shallow waters.
"Heading?" he asked.
"Anywhere that is not here," replied Hartwell. "We'll worry about a heading if we can outrun the Plymouth and the Morning Star."
"On this vessel?" said Tench, looking around at the creaking, rotten galleon. "They're faster, more powerful and new. We don't stand a chance!"
hapter ix
n explosion and spray of water seemed to confirm Tench's words. The admiral's crews had succeeded in getting organized and drawing a line on the fleeing ship. Fortunately, the thick black smoke from the mysterious fireball made it difficult to aim the cannons effectively.
"Cannon crew," roared Hartwell, pointing at the rear most cannon, "prepare and fire." The crew responded, hastily checking the barrel was clear of any residue or obstruction, loaded in the powder and cannonball, both of which were lying next to the cannon, lit the fuse and leapt to the side. The small, antique cannon coughed and the cannonball almost floated from the mouth and plopped into the ocean. Hartwell looked at Madrigal, who shrugged.
"The cannons are old," he said simply.
"And rusted," said Fitch, looking critically at the cannon. "We'd have to be right on top of a ship to hit them with these things." Unfortunately, this wasn't a problem for the Morning Star or the Plymouth, both loaded with seventy-four cannons of the latest design. Another shot exploded into the ocean, much closer than before.
"Hard to starboard, into the smoke," ordered Hartwell. "We'll put distance between us if we can lose them in the inferno."
Madrigal spun the ship's wheel and the old vessel, groaning in protest, swung about, pursued by the two swifter navy ships. The black smoke was still pouring upward from the sea, unlike anything the crew had ever seen before.
"We can't risk going straight through," coughed Tench. "We don't know what that thing is."
"We can't risk going around either," replied Hartwell. "If we do, we will be caught. Everyone, wrap a wet scarf or cloth around your face and take a deep breath. We're going through the middle."
The crew hastened to obey, some removing jerkins or shirts and swirling them around in the barrel of drinking water, others grabbing cloths from below decks.
Susanna used her short jacket, wrapping the sleeves around her head to make a strange mask. Her eyes stung in the thick smoke and she wished she had something to protect them. Something like a pair of thick reading glasses, perhaps.
A few nervous coughs sounded out and soon became a crescendo as the thick smoke settled around the crew. Visibility was reduced to a few inches in the black, choking smoke.
Madrigal held the course as best he could, hoping they were going in something approximating a straight line. Inside the cloud, it was impossible to determine any sense of direction, movement or distance.
Many of the crew moaned in horror and fear as coloured lights flashed eerily in the black smoke. Reds, greens and purples seemed to pulsate in the air, flitting lightly to and fro. The powder monkeys cowered under the rear castle, while O'Rourke was reminded of the many folktales his grandmother had told him years before of strange and devilish creatures that lured men to their doom.
Hartwell held his hand up and saw tiny, multicoloured lines of light spreading out over his fingers. Small sparks erupted from his skin, reminding him of the sensation he had felt whilst in the ocean just a few moments before. The strange tracing light seemed to be enveloping everything and everyone, but it wasn't harming the crew or ship, simply entwining around them.
A shout drew his attention. One of Madrigal's crew was pointing in amazement up ahead of the ship. Squinting through the smoke, Hartwell saw that a small patch of the ocean was boiling a bright silver colour. The crew rushed forward and stared at the small patch of iridescent light which fluctuated in intensity, dimming then glowing stronger before dimming again. Thankfully, the smoke was finally clearing---they were past whatever the strange fireball had been.
Hartwell gazed at the patch of boiling sea, trying to discern some recognizable shape or form, until the light moved once more, the perspective changed and he saw that in the centre of the brilliant radiance was a human figure, apparently floating face down. "Nets," he bellowed.
The crew stared at him.
"Fetch the nets and get that person on board," he commanded.
"He must be dead," argued a member of Madrigal's crew. "We don't have the time to stop."
"Then give me the net, damn you, and I'll do it myself," snapped Hartwell. "Mister Madrigal, hold a steady course past that figure, then make all speed away from here."
Madrigal thought about arguing, saw the look on Hartwell's face and decided against it. "Yes, sir," he replied, twitching the wheel slightly.
Hartwell gathered a fishing net, hastily unravelled it and then in one smooth movement, threw it over the side of the ship. The net fell perfectly and scooped up the floating body and what looked like several gallons of silver fluid which somehow swirled around the prone figure rather than dripping through the mesh. Hartwell heaved on the line, assisted by Susanna, but the figure was too heavy. Even taking into account the water enclosing it, the weight was astonishing.
The powder monkeys ran out and grabbed the lines and heaved, gritting their teeth as their tiny arms pulled on the solid weight. Hartwell swore under his breath, repositioned himself and with a superhuman effort, pulled the netting free from the sea's embrace. The net jerked and its mysterious cargo was slowly raised up, hand over hand. Hartwell grabbed the net and gave one last heave, but misjudged the weight and fell back to the deck, the netting and the body falling on top of him.
He bellowed in pain at the weight crushing him. He lashed out with his arms and legs, trying to free himself. In doing so, he tore the netting from the top of the figure and found himself looking at a silver skull.
hapter even
artwell gazed at the silver face cupped in his large, strong hands. Despite being an undoubted skull, he felt no horror or repugnance. Instead, he stared in rapt fascination at the fine structure and highly polished head. Somehow, he knew he was looking at a woman and he found the sight beautiful.
He squinted through the folds of rough netting and saw the body was likewise silver and skeletal and riddled with mysterious brass devices including a great many cogs and wheels, much like the intricate mechanism from the finest clock. The gearing seemed designed to allow flexibility at the elbows, knees, hips and all other joints besides. It flashed across his mind that he could be looking at some sort of automaton, but he immediately discounted this because he somehow knew that the unearthly figure lying on top of him was alive.
Inside the skeleton were muscles and organs which appeared to be human rather than mechanical, though he noticed that the heart seemed to have some sort of device, again rather like clockwork, built into the muscle and chambers. As his wonderment rose, the heart convulsed, quivered and began to beat. As it did, the machinery within began to rotate and oscillate, working perfectly with each rhythmic thud of the organic heart. As the heartbeat grew stronger, the cogs spun faster, the noises of the machinery increased and the silver residue caught in the netting coalesced and flowed like drops of rain on a window, forming, splitting and reforming as though seeking out the right configuration.
Hartwell felt the strange liquid run over his limbs, the touch light yet hot as it spread over his hands, ran up his arms and across his chest, caressing him in a sensual embrace under his clothes, winding its way around his torso and down his legs before lapping at the top of his thighs.
As quickly as the fluid had enveloped him, it withdrew and poured itself, faster and stronger now, over the silver skeleton, running in and out of the exposed bones and around the internal organs before stretching and distorting, spreading out over the ribs, enveloping the stomach, running down the legs and across the arms until the sheen covered the entire figure and was revealed as a snug, glistening, silver skin.
The skin rose up over the long, graceful neck of the creature, lapping around the skull and forming a fully detailed, beautiful face, with sensuous lips, a pert nose, fine cheekbones and trembling eyelids. As the skin met at the top of the head, it rebounded and rippled, as though a stone had been thrown into a clear pond. All that was missing was hair and that soon sprouted from the bald head, a mass of soft silver fibres which spread out in wild abandon.
A fine downy covering, shaped almost like a perfect triangle, sprouted between the thighs, while the silver breasts and nipples were also forming, reaching out and pressing against Hartwell's chest as though aroused by his mere presence. The fingers of the woman laced through his own as the body began to undulate gently, softly rubbing against him, the hot silver skin sending a frisson of pleasure through his body. He felt a sense of tender desire for the beautiful, otherworldly creature seep through him, but he clamped his mind down against the unwanted feelings. Then the eyelids sprang open and Hartwell gazed into her perfect ice-blue sapphire eyes and he knew he was lost.
hapter ight
" ister Fitch, Mister Tench!" roared Hartwell, for although he was lost, he did not intend to give into his feelings. He could not afford to. The welfare of his sister and his crew took priority over his own desires---anything else would be dishonourable. Besides, whatever was lying on him was clearly not human and therefore, she could not be for any human.
"Captain?" goggled Tench as he and Fitch ran forward. He could only see the odd glimpse of the naked, silver back through the netting, but what he could see hinted very strongly at a woman. And an attractive one at that. Silver women being dredged from the ocean was not what he had been expecting when he got up that morning, but then, it had been a rather unusual day all round.
"Be so kind as to release me and this... lady from the net," said Hartwell with as much dignity and authority as he could manage with a naked silver woman purring on top of him. At least, it sounded like she was purring. Maybe it was the cogs and gears inside making the thrumming vibration. Or perhaps it was his heart beating painfully within him.
"Aye, aye, sir," replied Fitch as he and Tench began to untangle the net. Even in the situation they were in, he couldn't help grinning. It was the first time he had ever seen the captain flustered in any way.
"And what of the admiral?" demanded Hartwell. "I can't see a damn thing from down here."
"No ships in view, sir," replied Fitch. "I think your manoeuvre has succeeded in shaking them off. For a while, anyway." He continued to pull at the netting, trying to unravel the captain and the woman. Is it a mermaid the captain has dredged up? he wondered to himself. Can't be, no tail, he added as a long, shapely leg was revealed.
"If we have given them the slip, we'd better all get dried out," decided Hartwell. "Sort some clothes, will you?"
"Er, yes, Captain," said Fitch, wondering where he was going to find any clothing at all.
"There are some clothes in the captain's cabin," called out Madrigal from the wheel. "Including some dresses for the young lady and that... thing you pulled from the ocean."
"Do a lot of entertaining, do you?" enquired Tench.
Madrigal shrugged. "The clothes were there when I acquired the ship," he replied. "I don't know who they belonged to originally."
"And how long have you held this vessel?" asked O'Rourke, who was keeping his distance from the woman.
The sun glinted brightly off her skin, dazzling the crew, who were all clearly frightened of the strange creature. Some were mumbling prayers, while others were holding holy relics of dubious provenance for protection. Being sailors, they believed implicitly in old mariner's tales of lost souls, kraken, sirens, mermaids and many others besides and although a naked, silver woman was a new one to their superstitious minds, they had a mental space for her built into their perceptions of the world.
"I've only just got her," answered Madrigal. "I needed a ship for the rendezvous with Admiral Johnson and this one was available."
"What do you mean by available, exactly?" demanded Fitch suspiciously.
"I mean it was available for purchase," replied Madrigal, levelly.
"Really? And what is the name of this vessel?" Hartwell asked with a raised eyebrow. "You stole it, didn't you?" he continued as Madrigal hesitated. "We are on board a stolen pirate ship."
"Oh, marvellous," muttered Tench. "As if we didn't have enough to concern us, what with half the admiralty after us and a demon from the sea on board and now we can expect a pirate to be after us to reclaim his ship."
"The ship was abandoned long ago," said Madrigal. "I doubt the owner, whoever he was, will care very much."
"Long ago?" asked Sporrit in alarm. He had already noticed the worrying tilt to one side. "This hulk is barely seaworthy!"
"It will get us back," announced Madrigal with more confidence than he felt. In truth, he had been hoping to get passage on one of the admiralty ships back to a safe port. He hadn't been expecting the old, battered galleon to have to make the return journey, never mind survive a flaming meteor and a miniature tidal wave.
"If there's nothing we can do about it," interrupted Susanna, "we can at least carry out my brother's suggestion of changing out of our wet clothes."
Madrigal nodded, appreciating Susanna's practical term of mind.
"Would you like to accompany me to the captain's cabin to search for some clothes?" asked Susanna uncertainly of the silver woman.
The woman, who had been looking around at the ship and crew, apparently completely unconcerned at being naked, cocked her head to one side as though wondering what the smile meant.
Susanna felt a rush of pity for the friendless creature. Besides, it hadn't escaped her notice that the woman---and whatever she was, she was certainly a woman---never let her brother out of her sight. Susanna held her hand out, her fingers outstretched and smiled warmly.
Hartwell held his breath, wondering what the silver woman would do, fearing for his sister. He relaxed as he saw the strange creature, after a moment's hesitation, reach out and take Susanna's hand.
"Gosh, you have a cool touch," said Susanna, much to Hartwell's surprise. Perhaps the strange skin had cooled from its molten form?
The silver woman held Susanna's hand tightly and then, after a pause in which she wrinkled her nose up in a very pretty manner, said in a perfect replica of Susanna's voice: "Gosh, you have a cool touch."
"She sounds just like you, miss," gasped Tench.
The woman glanced at him and then grinned. "Then I shall lower the pitch," she said, her voice dropping and becoming disturbingly husky. "Is that better, Mister Tench?"
"How do you know my name?" demanded Tench in fear.
"I heard the captain call to you just now, though I did not understand the words then," replied the woman. "That has only come through my Tactile Communication Transfer Protocol."
"Your what?" asked Tench in bemusement.
"Never mind. I believe we were going to sort some clothes?"
"Indeed," replied Susanna a little nervously. "Let's see what we can find."
"Let's. And do not fear me. I intend you no harm." She squeezed Susanna's hand slightly as she spoke and Susanna squeezed back, both women accepting and trusting each other.
"What's your name, my lady?" she asked as they walked toward the cabins.
"Mechatronic," replied the silver woman after a slight pause.
hapter ine
usanna led their strange visitor through to the rear of the ship and paused. She was used to the layout of the Pride of Plymouth and was confused by the design of the old galleon. More worryingly, the tilt of the vessel was rather more obvious inside than on the deck.
"Let's try this one," said Susanna, opening a door at random. Inside was a bare room---dark, wet and dingy. They moved on, trying more doors, until they reached the back of the ship and found a much larger, brighter cabin with several windows at the back.
"Ah, this must be it," said Susanna. Inside the cabin was a screen, some cupboards and drawers and a huge chest. She approached the chest, swung back the heavy lid and gasped at the huge range of old dresses and shoes shoved into the wooden box. "This is definitely it," she said as she pulled out a dark blue velvet dress and held it in front of her. "What do you think?" she asked Mechatronic.
"I think it is an item of clothing," replied the silver woman.
Susanna looked carefully at her companion and saw no sarcasm was intended---Mechatronic was clearly bemused by the question.
"I mean, do you think it will suit me?"
"I do not know. I have little experience of clothes."
"Yes, well," coughed Susanna, going red in the face, "that much is clear from your, ahem, natural state."
"I wear clothes," clarified Mechatronic, "but for functional purposes only. What do you look for when dressing?"
"Something pretty, something stylish," said Susanna eagerly, who was something of a fashion slave despite her independent spirit. "Something to emphasize my eyes and figure."
"In that case, the blue dress is too heavy and severe," said Mechatronic. "It will hang off your frame and disguise your figure."
"What of this one?" asked Susanna, as happy and as unselfconscious as a child as she rummaged through the chest and pulled out another dress.
"Better. Perhaps you should try it on."
"I shall." Susanna blushed again as she realized that Mechatronic was waiting for her to begin dressing. "I'll go behind the screen," she said shyly.
Mechatronic again looked bemused as Susanna dashed behind the heavy wooden screen and began undressing. She turned to the chest and began pulling clothes out at random, uncertain regarding their form and function.
"So," asked Susanna from the safety of the screen, "why do you wear only functional clothes?"
"It is the way of things where I come from," said the silver woman, looking at a flouncy creation trimmed with much lace. She couldn't imagine how to begin getting into such a garment.
"And where is that, if you don't mind me asking?"
"A long way away."
"China?"
"I do not know China. I come from another world."
"The world below?" asked Susanna slowly, pausing as she shrugged off her wet dress.
"No, from above."
"Above? I don't understand."
"Neither does the crew out there."
"Were they talking earlier? I'm sorry about that if they were, but I never heard them."
"Why should you be sorry?"
"Well, it's not very nice, is it, being spoken about?"
"Isn't it? I would not know. But they did not talk about me earlier, apart from exclamations of surprise when they saw me. They are talking about me now."
"How can you know that?" asked Susanna, resuming her dressing.
"I can hear them."
"You mean you can hear the crew from here?" gasped Susanna, striding out from behind the screen despite the dress falling around her body.
"Of course," replied Mechatronic in surprise. "Can't you?"
"No."
"Have you a problem with your audio system? Perhaps you need to reinstall your source files?"
"Source? Audio? I don't understand what you mean." Susanna looked in turmoil at the silver woman, who was looking equally confused at Susanna's ignorance.
"You don't have cybernetic implants?"
"I don't know what that means, either."
"Of course, I should have realized from the lack of technological advancement evident on this vessel," said Mechatronic, to Susanna's further bafflement. "I have landed on a grade two planet."
"Grade two? Landed?" wailed Susanna, feeling completely lost.
Mechatronic saw she was upsetting the young girl, the girl who had smiled openly and genuinely at her and she felt a strange stab of remorse. She crossed the cabin and took Susanna's face in her hands.
"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I didn't mean to upset you. I should not burden you with concepts you cannot comprehend." She gently wiped Susanna's face with her thumbs. "Your brother held me much like this just after rescuing me from the sea," she observed.
"And did it make you feel safe and wanted?" asked Susanna, smiling at the strange woman in front of her.
Mechatronic hesitated, chewing on her lip. "It made me feel... something," she said finally. "But what, I cannot say. I am uncertain. I... I..."
"I think my brother felt the same way," blurted Susanna before going red once again. "No, I'm sorry. I should not have said that."
"Why ever not?"
"I should not presume to speak for his feelings or to make presumptions about yours."
"Feelings are irrelevant," said Mechatronic, a look of bitterness on her face. "They cannot affect me now. Maybe at one time, but not after... No, never mind. Quickly, let us finish dressing. I believe the argument outside has abated and we are about to begin our journey once more."
hapter en
" rgument?" asked Susanna in surprise. "Yes, concerning me, the state of this vessel and our next destination. I believe it has been decided that we are to head for a small island where we may find a crew."
"You heard all that while still being able to talk to me?"
"Easily."
"But, but... well, what's happening with James?" asked Susanna finally, resolving that as she had no idea what was going on, she may as well take advantage of the silver woman's extraordinary abilities and find out if her brother was safe.
"I believe he is coming to find us. From what he has said to Mister Fitch, he is worried at our absence."
"What? Quick! We have to finish dressing. Well, I need to finish dressing. You need to start. Could you do me up at the back?" Susanna
pirouetted gracefully around.
Mechatronic laced up the back of the dress. "This is a very impractical garment."
"That's fashion for you. Thanks. Now quickly, find a dress and put it on while I look for some shoes." The two women busied themselves, Susanna finding some dainty and well-fitting shoes while Mechatronic eventually settled on a purple dress of simple design.
"It will allow free movement," she explained.
"Aren't you going to put a corset on? Don't you have them where you come from?"
"Not quite of this type, but we do have similar garments. Ah, your brother is here."
Susanna bounded to the door of the cabin and opened it even as Hartwell raised his hand to knock.
"I wasn't aware I made any sound," he said, smiling lightly at his sister.
"Lady Mechatronic has very good hearing," said Susanna, trying to send her brother a covert message.
"What Susanna is trying to tell you is that I can easily hear the crew talking from anywhere on the ship," smiled Mechatronic. "I fancy she is worried that I may use this against you in some manner." Mechatronic laughed as Susanna blushed and looked ashamed. She seemed to be as surprised at the sound as Susanna and Hartwell. It was as though she hadn't laughed in a long time, or even at all.
"Do not worry," she said, laying a hand on Susanna's sleeve. "I will not eavesdrop if it distresses you."
"Such ability could undoubtedly come in useful," observed Hartwell dryly, "but for the sake of propriety, I think it best if you do try and refrain from listening to private conversations."
Mechatronic turned her head sharply and there was a strange clicking noise. "Done," she announced.
"Thank you," replied Hartwell.
Mechatronic looked at him closely and saw that he meant it.
"You are aware of the conversation on deck?" he continued.
Mechatronic nodded.
"I'm not," interrupted Susanna, anxiously. "Has something happened?"
"Just a rather vigorous debate on what our next move should be," said Hartwell. "Those left of Madrigal's crew wish to return to their homes. Madrigal himself is against this, as he fears that their betrayal of the pirate's hiding place will make them all marked men. My crew wishes to clear their names of Johnson's calumnious claims of treachery. They feel that the admiral has betrayed everything that is right and good about
our mission."
"So, what are we going to do?" asked Susanna.
"The only point we all agreed upon is that it is impossible to pilot this ship with so few crew members on board. Rather than head for the current pirate cove, Madrigal has suggested we make for the abandoned pirate town of Domlusa, where, apparently, many sailors are discarded if they are held to be of no further use to their crew because of old age or infirmity. There, we hope to find enough decent hands to enable us to fix this leaking, rotting vessel and plan our next move."
"Won't it be rather dangerous to go to a known pirate town?"
"No more than staying here with too few men on a dangerously unstable vessel. O'Rourke is already doing what he can to shore up the bulkhead, assisted by Fitch and some of Madrigal's crew, but we need more men and more resources. Indeed, we need a new ship."
"This vessel is in danger of breaking down?" asked Mechatronic.
"If by breaking down you mean breaking up, then, yes, it could happen," replied Hartwell, looking placidly at the silver woman, which took a great effort. He was determined not to show the strange feelings Mechatronic stirred deep inside him. "The chance of the hull giving way is quite high."
"And what of Mechatronic?" asked Susanna, fearing the answer she would receive. "Is she safe with us?"
"The crew has been concerned with the exact opposite. They are afraid that we are not safe with Lady Mechatronic." He looked at the source of the crew's fear as he spoke, his green eyes gazing steadily into the astonishingly blue eyes of Mechatronic, refusing to waver or look away. "Are you a danger to us?" he asked.
"Only if threatened," replied Mechatronic after thinking for several seconds.
"Do I have your word on that?"
"You do," said the woman. Privately, Mechatronic doubted she was truly a danger to anyone. She was still too badly damaged from the crash. Her repair systems were working beyond capacity to rebuild her internally and only her technologically advanced intelligent skin kept her externally in one piece and allowed free movement.
She didn't appear damaged, however, so she had to rely on bluff for her immediate protection. Once she had fully regenerated, she could easily kill the entire crew... except that she had just given her word that she would not harm them and she found herself anxious to keep the promise she had given the grave, enigmatic captain in front of her.
"Very well."
"Do you believe me?" asked Mechatronic, her voice sounding slightly incredulous at how easily Hartwell accepted what she said.
"I do," replied the captain, his eyes showing the sincerity of his words.
Mechatronic held his gaze but internally cursed that he seemed able to look into her innermost character and see the truth. She even suspected he knew she was hiding her injuries from them. She could see it in his eyes, despite his guarded nature. Never before had anyone been able to look through her in that way. Not even her masters who could reduce her to... She shut out the thought, and the past, from her conscious mind. She was no longer in the old place. That was behind her. Here, she could be something new. She hoped. If not, why bother with anything at all?
Hartwell frowned slightly as the distress rippled across the smooth skin of Mechatronic and he felt his heart give another tug. He slammed an ironclad barrier down on his churning instincts and was grateful to see that Mechatronic had done the same. Her control was easily as great as his. That she had a past was clear---so had he---but that was unimportant. They needed to concentrate on the present if they were to survive.
"We should arrive at Domlusa at nightfall," he said. "We shall go ashore then, as this will give us better cover."
"Good," replied Mechatronic. "We don't want the locals to be scared by a silver woman in their town."
"Are you going to go ashore?" asked Susanna incredulously.
"Of course. I wish to see this town and its people."
"James, do you think this wise?" asked Susanna.
"No, but I doubt anyone could stop Lady Mechatronic once she makes up her mind and in any case, it would not be my place to do so."
"Then I'm coming with you," said Susanna defiantly. "It will be dangerous and I don't want either of you coming to any harm."
"Do not worry, I will look over your brother," smiled Mechatronic.
There, at least, I have no doubt, thought Susanna with mischievous certainty.
hapter leven
ater that night, the unnamed galleon limped into the decaying harbour of Domlusa. Hartwell had paced the vessel several times during the journey, downing glass after glass of absinthe and checking for any sign that the hull was about to give way. It was a relief to reach dry land.
The relief was short lived. The harbour was a small, crumbling stone basin with no evidence of any maintenance work being done on the many cracked, slipping and missing stones. A series of long wooden jetties reached out from the basin and into the sea. All were greasy, filthy and broken, hence the better jetties were already taken up by other ships, forcing the galleon to use a jetty so badly damaged it had several missing sections along its entire length, while one corner facing the sea had collapsed and hung down at a drunken angle.
Dotted around the harbour were several piles of timber, barrels, old rope, old sails, oars, the rotten hulks of rowing boats, broken swords and cutlasses and even crates of old pirate plunder. All had been left to rot and were covered in filth and neglect. Any conscientious harbour master, on seeing the rotten wood and rusted iron, would have put a match to the place. In short, the harbour seemed to match the condition of the ship perfectly, yet Hartwell found himself glancing back at the galleon as though reluctant to leave.
The town above the harbour, picked out by the moonlight and the flickering oil lamps in the windows of the many pubs and brothels, seemed to be in an even worse state. There was a sense of dilapidation and desperation everywhere. There was no drunken carousing, no drinking songs, just the sounds of men trying to find oblivion through drink or violence.
"I think some should remain with the ship in case we need to make a quick escape," observed Hartwell. "Any volunteers?"
"Aye," rumbled most of Madrigal's crew. Lazlo Nani, who Hartwell suspected of being a straightforward replacement of the loathsome Lieutenant Fleetwood, led them. Just as he got rid of one self-serving agitator, another one crawled out of the woodwork.
"O'Rourke, you stay here and see if any of the lumber is worth salvaging," said Hartwell. "Tench, Sporrit, you stay with him and have a look through that abandoned plunder in case anything useful has been missed. As no one else wants it, I feel we are justified in taking anything helpful."
"Aye, sir," said the three men immediately.
"And please look after the powder monkeys and see no harm comes to them," added Hartwell as the small group began the walk into the town. Behind them, Nani's lips twisted in hatred at Hartwell's assumption of command.
hapter welve
adrigal took the lead as he knew a little of the town, guiding the group through dark, twisting alleys where beggars asked for change and evil eyes lurked in the shadows, gauging the strength of the group, wondering whether to attack. The two women, both wearing oversized hoods that completely hid their faces, were of special interest to the denizens of the dark shadows.
What prevented an attack were Hartwell's uniform and Madrigal's size and grace. A rear attack was considered, but Fitch, striding along at the back, was a burly figure in the gloom, and again caution drove the rodents away.
Eventually, the group reached an inn, much larger than the others and better lit. The battered, faded sign swinging over the door announced it to be The Devil's Head.
"Charming," murmured Hartwell, looking at the sign.
Madrigal shrugged. "This is where the sailors gather that want to find work on a ship. Everyone else sinks down and waits for death. Believe me, Captain Hartwell, this is the best place to find a willing crew."
"Very well," replied Hartwell. "I think it best if I and Mister Fitch stay with the ladies, while you, Mister Madrigal, as you know the people, can make discreet enquiries and find us a crew. I'll engage a private room where we can talk to each applicant."
"No Mister, just Madrigal," said Madrigal as they walked into the inn. "I'll get started straight away and meet up with you as soon as possible."
After the dark night air, the flickering candles and oil lamps made the crew squint slightly as they walked into the building. Susanna tried looking around from under her hood and began to regret suggesting she and Mechatronic wear such clumsy headgear. It had seemed a good idea on the ship---the hood would help to hide the silver skin of Mechatronic and both women wearing them would look more natural than just the one.
As such, Susanna could only manage a few glimpses of the inn. She got the impression of a large room with several iron chandeliers hanging down over the many battered, dirty tables, dribbling hot wax onto the clientele below. The tables around the edges of the room were long and rectangular, while those that stood in the middle were all circular. Each table was covered with tankards of every shape and size, as well as the odd plate of unwholesome-looking food.
Opposite the door was the bar, which stretched fully half the length of the room. Women with painted faces and dirty corsets served frothing tankards of cheap beer, rum and gin to the customers, who drank them without much evidence of enjoyment. As they threaded their way through the crowd, Susanna caught glimpses of beards, three-cornered hats, open shirts, gold earrings, gold teeth, scars and a mismatch of clothes and styles going back at least a century, if not more.
They reached an empty table and settled down. A serving woman, aged about fifty and with at least two of her own teeth, approached them with a leer. "What can I get for you, dearies?" she rasped, her voice floating in pure gin.
"A bottle of rum and some glasses," replied Hartwell, raising his voice slightly to be heard over the noise of the other drinkers.
"Right you are, dearie," said the woman, staggering off through the crowd to their right. After a brief pause, she reappeared from the left, startling them all, with a tray full of glasses and a single bottle of cheap rum which she managed to get onto the table at the second attempt.
"Anything else you want, dearie?" she asked, more in hope than expectation.
"We need to hire a room," replied Hartwell, his lips twitching slightly. He appreciated the woman's eternal optimism, even though the alcohol she had imbibed probably fuelled it.
"Coo, you're a quick worker aren't you?" breathed the woman, raising the alcohol level considerably.
"I'm afraid it is for business purposes," said Hartwell.
"You sure?" asked the woman, hitching her bosom up a little higher, though she was fighting a losing battle with gravity.
"Enchanted as I am by your kind offer, I must put business before pleasure," said Hartwell. And
I'll run like bloody hell after the business has been
concluded.
"Aw, bless you, cuptain," slurred the woman. "You is a toff, you is a real gent and I'll see to it, cuptain, that you has a best room here, you leave it to old Ruby, cuptain, I'll see you right. You just follows me this way."
"Thank you, Ruby, you are too kind."
The group made their way behind the staggering woman, threading through the crowd toward the wooden stairs that led up to a balcony that ran around the building, offering access to the various rooms.
"Here," muttered a sailor who somehow managed to look even rougher than the rest of the clientele. "There are two new strumpets going to the stairs. What say we go and introduce ourselves?" His companions leered in delight. They waited until the group was on the stairs before moving over and surrounding Lady Mechatronic, who had strayed to the back as she looked about her.
"Good evening, my dear," smiled the sailor. "Now don't you make a noise or cry out, little lady, or else it will be the worse for you. You're going to slip away with us and before your friends even notice you're gone, we'll be out the back and enjoying ourselves and they won't even know where to look for you in this crowd of vipers. One scream and it's all over for you.
"I like a woman well wrapped up," he added, looking at the long gloves and heavy hood that hid all of Mechatronic's silver skin. "It makes the unwrapping so much more enjoyable."
Mechatronic turned slightly and drew back her hood just enough so that the man could see her face. "You scum," she hissed. Although her cold blue eyes burned into the sailor's terrified face, she was focused on the past as the man's tone and intentions stirred up yet more memories...
The sailor's mouth flopped open and his colour drained to a pasty grey as he gazed in horror at the silver demon in front of him, until with a squeak of terror, he turned and fled. His friends followed close behind.
Mechatronic adjusted her hood and followed the rest of the group up the stairs and into a side room containing a table and a few chairs, where she was just in time to see the barmaid make yet another play for the captain's attentions.
"Sure you don't want a taste of old Ruby on account? I don't mind if your friends stay or go, old Ruby has done all shorts, I mean sorties, I mean sorts in her life, has old Ruby."
"I'm sure and he does not want your attentions," snapped Mechatronic, emotions flooding through her at the sight of the woman pawing pathetically at Hartwell's blue coat. She was disturbed to identify jealousy as the primary feeling.
"Ooh, listen to the cat's mother," slurred Ruby, staring in dislike at the hooded figure. "No need to get in a twist, dearie."
"Perhaps we should sit down and wait for Madrigal?" said Susanna loudly, holding her hand out to Mechatronic. The silver woman crossed the room and sat down at the table, her eyes never leaving Ruby, who returned the stare in kind, reminding Susanna of two cats getting ready to fight. She was glad when a knock at the door interrupted the scene and Madrigal peered into the room. "I have the men, Captain," he said.
hapter hirteen
" ery well," replied Hartwell, crossing to the table and taking a seat facing the door. "Ruby, if you wish to serve, please keep this room private while we are here." He pulled a coin from his pocket. "Privacy is important to us." He passed the coin over to Ruby, who managed to take it at the third attempt.
"Right you are, sir, you leave it to old Ruby," she simpered as she backed out through the door. "Don't you worry, sir, old Ruby won't let you down, old Ruby knows what's what, old Ruby..." The rest of the monologue was cut off as Madrigal shut the door.
"Where are the men?" asked Hartwell.
"Just outside the door and as fine a body as you can hope to find," said Madrigal, his face wooden.
Hartwell immediately felt his suspicions rise. Madrigal was wearing the same expression that Fitch used when trying to hide something from his captain. "Bring them in," he said, wondering what he was going to be faced with.
Madrigal stepped back to the door and pulled it open. "Old Ruby knows the game, old Ruby will keep watch," floated in. Madrigal shut the door and counted to ten before re-opening it. "Old Ruby is on her toes, old Ruby will watch your backs, so she will." He closed the door, counted again, pulled the door open and silence met him. He opened his mouth to call the men through but was interrupted once more by the interminable monologue launching itself afresh. "Old Ruby is on the lookout, old Ruby knows who a villain is, old Ruby..."
"The men, Captain," said Madrigal, giving up. He gestured to the crowd outside who rushed in through the tiny door, many of them getting wedged in the process. With a heave and a pop, the retinue fell through the frame and staggered into the room, colliding with people, furniture and each other as they did so, until eventually the scrum piled up at the table.
Hartwell closed his eyes as though in pain and looked disappointed to find the scene still in front of him when he opened them again. "Perhaps, Madrigal, you should organise them into an orderly line outside the door until called for? Thank you. Now, first man, please."
"Tom Blake, reporting for duty, sir," said the first, stepping forward smartly and saluting.
"And what experience have you on a vessel, Mister Blake?" asked Hartwell.
"Twenty years, man and boy," replied Blake.
"Sorry, I meant what position did you fill?"
"Very well, thank you for asking."
"Pardon?"
"Bardon? No, sir, he's next in the line. We've served together before, good man, a very good man."
"What position did you fill?" asked Hartwell again, looking perplexed.
"What proposition do I feel, sir?" asked Blake, looking in slight alarm at Hartwell.
"What position did you fill?" bellowed Hartwell.
"Did I ever mill, sir?"
"I presume you are hard of hearing, Mister Blake?"
"A shard of herring, sir?"
"Just go and wait in the corner, would you?" said Hartwell with a sigh.
"Thank you, sir, it will be a pleasure to serve," said Blake as he moved to the corner indicated by Hartwell. Being deaf, he was unaware of the tittering of Susanna, which she changed to a hasty cough as her brother looked at her.
"Francois Bardon, reporting for duty," said the next applicant in a French accent. His eyes were clear, his chin clean shaven and his posture beyond reproach. Unfortunately, to verify this, Hartwell had to stand and peer over the table, as did Fitch, Susanna and Mechatronic. In front of them was the smallest man they had ever seen. He was perfectly proportioned and neatly tailored, but all on a scale that seemed to be about one-third the usual.
"And what experience do you have, Mister Bardon?"
"Gunnery crew," replied the man promptly.
"Do you find the work easy?"
"Apart from the loading of the cannons, the raising of the cannons, the aiming of the cannons and the firing of the cannons."
"And why do you suppose that was?" asked Hartwell as he leaned back in despair.
"Poor cannon design," said Bardon, promptly. "I have filed several patents on a new design, but so far no one has had the foresight to see the inherent superiority. I have the plans here." He pulled from his coat pocket a square of paper, which he unfolded several times until he was almost hidden behind a set of dog-eared blueprints which threatened to engulf him.
Hartwell reached over and took the page easily in one hand. He glanced at the design. "I see you understand the subject, Mister Bardon. Firing mechanism, casting, even a new form of cleaning mechanism, too. However, if I am reading these scales correctly, this particular cannon would measure about twenty inches long."
"That is the future, sir," replied Bardon. "Miniaturization!"
"If you wouldn't mind taking a seat over there," said Hartwell, passing the plans back.
Bardon bowed, grabbed the designs and began folding them down to a manageable size as he walked across the room.
Hartwell gazed at Madrigal, who shifted slightly in embarrassment. "I think you'll be pleased with the next man," he said as he opened the door to let the next applicant through.
Hartwell, Fitch, Susanna and Mechatronic looked up at the huge figure towering over them. The man was almost six feet and six inches in height and almost twice as broad as a normal man. His hands were the size of dinner plates, while his arms and legs appeared to be made from several barrels strapped together. His skin was the colour of midnight and a formidable scar ran down the side of his face.
"Name?" asked Hartwell, feeling his hope rise. With a monster like this in the crew...
The man-mountain rumbled, coughed, shifted position and then squeaked in the highest voice Hartwell had ever heard from anyone, man, woman or eunuch, "Anatole du Lac de Poppydore, chef, at your service."
"Chef?" said Susanna in disbelief. Judging by appearances, the man should have been wanted in five countries for crimes against man and God.
"Via Lisbon, Paris and Vienna," squeaked Anatole. A misty look came onto his face. "Ah, Vienna, where a man could follow his trade. My specialty was the wedding cake."
"Wedding cake?" said Hartwell dully.
"Yes. And pastry."
"A good cook would be useful and welcome," murmured Fitch, looking speculatively at Anatole's broad shoulders and handsome face.
"Take a seat in the corner, Anatole," said Hartwell with a sigh. "Next man, please. Oh, good grief," he added at seeing the next applicant.
"Master Richard Keating, reporting for duty, sir," said the girl dressed as a boy. She had done her best by tucking her long, luxuriant hair into a small cap, covering her face with burnt cork to simulate incipient stubble and wearing a pair of trousers and shirt. Unfortunately, her lower figure bulged at the hips in a way that a man's rarely did, while the gap between the end of the trousers and the shoes showed the smooth leg of an undoubted young woman. The breasts swinging loose under the shirt were also something of a giveaway.
"Experience, Mister Keating?" asked Hartwell, massaging his brow.
"Cabin boy, Captain," said the girl, before realizing she had forgotten to keep up her gruff, manly voice. "Cabin boy," she repeated in a deeper tone after a fit of false coughing. "Sorry, sir, it's my smoking habit, thirty a day, did I say thirty? More like fifty, makes my voice go funny at times."
"Really?" said Fitch. "Never mind, have a go with my pipe, it's drawing nicely." He handed the pipe over with an evil grin.
Keating's face looked shocked, disgusted and horrified before the mask fell back into place. "Wouldn't hear of depriving you of your pipe, sir. Wouldn't be right."
"I insist," said Fitch. "I hate to see a young lad go without his smoke, it puts hair on your chest."
"Thank you, Mister Keating, over there with the others," said Hartwell, relieving the girl of her dilemma. She skipped over to the side of the room.
The interviews went on, with most of the applicants being revealed as murderers, thieves and lunatics. Finally, Madrigal opened the door and announced the last man wishing to volunteer for a life on the ocean wave.
"Kept the best till last, have you?" asked Fitch sourly.
"Gentlemen," said Madrigal, ignoring the comment. "Lucky Pete." The figure in the door frame didn't move. Eventually, they saw in the dim light that Lucky Pete was facing the wrong way. Madrigal tapped him on the shoulder. Lucky Pete turned, said "Mernarwn," and limped into the room.
As he moved to the light, the crew leaned back in consternation. Lucky Pete's face was a patchwork of scars from his neck to his brow. Both his eyes were missing---stretched skin, both marked with X-shaped scars, covered the empty sockets. His ears had gone, too, and most of his nose and half of his lips. As he limped across the room, the rat-tap-tap announced the presence of a wooden stump to replace the missing leg, while one hand was likewise a wooden replacement. His other hand was still attached, but was missing two fingers.
The figure continued to walk until it crashed into the table seconds before Madrigal could stop him. Despite being blind, Lucky Pete looked around him before saying "Wharnf?" His audience saw in increasing horror that his tongue had also gone.
"What in the name of God happened to him?" demanded Hartwell.
"Lucky Pete was on a ship which foundered off the coast of Bajea, the infamous Cannibal Island," said Madrigal. "The crew were brained and eaten. Lucky Pete was kept alive for the sadistic pleasure of the cannibals, who gouged out his eyes, lopped off his ears, took off his nose and mouth, deprived him of his fingers one by one, and then his whole hand and two fingers from the other hand, sliced off his nipples, broke his ribs and then broke and chopped off his leg."
"Why in the name of sanity is he called Lucky
Pete?" asked Hartwell incredulously.
"He was rescued before the cannibals could make a start at mutilating his... tender areas," said Madrigal.
Lucky Pete nodded vigorously.
"And what was your role as a sailor?" asked Hartwell.
"Euonrol noonies," replied Lucky Pete.
"Pardon?"
"He said "general duties'," translated Mechatronic.
"You can understand the poor devil?" asked Fitch.
"Of course. Can't you?" asked Mechatronic.
"Not a word."
"He still has the root of his tongue, the rest is interpretation and extrapolation," said Mechatronic.
"I think we are done here," said Hartwell. "Madrigal, did I or did I not ask you to find a crew?"
"You did, Captain Hartwell."
"Yet, at best, you seem to have found only parts of a crew."
"They are all willing."
"By which I presume you mean they are willing to escape this hellhole, by any means possible?"
"I'd say desperate to escape this hellhole," corrected Madrigal, a look of slight embarrassment on his face.
"I see. And you think these men and one girl are just right for the job?"
"Beggars can't be choosers, Captain. In life, you never know what is going to come through the door." As Madrigal spoke, the door burst open and a man appeared, holding Ruby roughly in one hand and pressing a knife to her throat with the other.
"Captain Hartwell!" spat the man. "I knew you'd come here, so I lay in readiness, waiting to spring the trap. You are under arrest and your next appointment is with the gallows." The figure moved into the room and they saw in the flickering candlelight the weasel features of Fleetwood.
hapter ourteen
he candlelight glinted off the evil blade pressed to Ruby's throat, as well as the glint of evil in Fleetwood's eyes. It also illuminated the captain's uniform he was wearing, as well as the hefty men clustered behind him at the door. Most were recognisable as being the crew from the Pride of Plymouth who had allied themselves with the authority of Johnson rather than the cause of Hartwell.
"I see you have been promoted, Mister Fleetwood," said Hartwell evenly. "Congratulations. I never knew rats could rise so high."
"Admiral Johnson appreciates quality and loyalty," snapped Fleetwood.
"And no doubt he doesn't object to a sycophant agreeing with every word he utters," interrupted Fitch in contempt.
Fleetwood's lips twisted in hatred. "Our goals are the same," he snarled.
"The goal of running a private slave trade under the cover of stopping the slave trade? Or do you mean your shared objective is the treacherous hypocrisy inherent in such an enterprise?" asked Hartwell.
"Oh, you may talk with all your wit and moral superiority, but the truth is that money talks loudest and man was put here to rule or to be ruled and I know on which side I belong."
"What is this about slavery?" demanded Mechatronic in an aside to Susanna, who quickly explained.
"And this man Fleetwood?" asked Mechatronic. "He was part of your crew?"
"Unfortunately," muttered Fitch. "He's clearly seized the chance to further ingratiate himself with Johnson."
"Disgraceful," snapped Bardon, snapping to attention. "Such behaviour is against all laws of common humanity and decency."
"Quite agree," squeaked Anatole, glaring at Fleetwood.
"Slavers?" said Blake, after Keating had repeated the gist of the conversation to him at full volume in his ear. "Scum!"
"Gerhv fnackern," agreed Lucky Pete.
Hartwell glanced around him and wasn't surprised to see that Anatole, Bardon, Keating, Blake and Lucky Pete had all allied themselves with him, while the majority of the men, who only moments before had been claiming to be ready to sign up as his new crew, had already melted away through a side door.
"How did you know we'd come here?" demanded Fitch.
"Where else would you go?" asked Fleetwood rhetorically. "I begged the Admiral the favour of taking the Plymouth from the fleet and getting here ahead of you, no hard task given that wreck of a ship you escaped on, and waited for you to appear.
"The Plymouth is hidden on the other side of the island. Once we have dealt with you, we shall scuttle that ship of yours and no one will ever know what happened here. The official record will show that Captain Hartwell mutinied and died a coward's death along with his crew."
"Your argument is with me, not my crew," said Hartwell. "If you let them go, you can do what you want with me."
"Don't you dare try and bargain with that rodent for our sakes," interrupted Fitch. "We all joined you for what was right and that hasn't changed. Right is still right."
"Well said, Mister Fitch," said Susanna, placing her hand on his arm. "Better die in honour than live in shame like Fleetwood."
"I will enjoy my shame, Miss Hartwell," leered Fleetwood. "And I'll enjoy your deaths so very, very much."
"You'd better get out," whispered Fitch to Anatole and the others. "This is not your fight."
"It is," squeaked Anatole. "Though I know not how to fight, I will stand with any who oppose the slave trade."
"I'd rather meet my end for a good cause than be brutalised by some drunken thug in this place," said Keating with feeling, thus revealing why she was so desperate to escape. From the moment she began to develop physically, the dangers had developed also for the young girl trapped on the island.
"This is our fight," added Bardon. "This is the fight of every honourable citizen."
"Slavers," growled Blake simply, his hand on the dagger at his belt.
"Gurwan im euen omay unand," observed Lucky Pete.
"What did he say?" asked Susanna of Mechatronic.
" 'There comes a time when you must make a stand,' " said Mechatronic, a strange emotion on her face, though only Susanna could see it under her hood and only Hartwell could hear it in her voice.
"Gurwan im euen no nop oong,"
" 'There comes a time when you must stop running.' "
"The empty, meaningless words of the losers," screeched Fleetwood. "Have you nothing real to say?"
"Ouanargh oant!" said Lucky Pete to Fleetwood's face.
"I think you all got the gist of that one," said Mechatronic. "I am truly sorry, Captain, but I can do little or nothing to help you. I am still too badly damaged from the crash to be of assistance. I believe this is where my journey finally ends. I, at least, have the comfort that I spent my final day with you, your sister and your crew. I experienced something more than a mere continuation of life."
She gazed at Hartwell's face as she spoke and each saw the same sadness reflected there---a sadness that encompassed not only the impending death of all in the room, but also the fact that she and Hartwell would never get to know each other.
hapter ifteen
" his is the end for all of you," shouted Fleetwood, thrusting Ruby away with such force she was flung across the room and landed heavily on the floor.
"Men, ladies," responded Hartwell, standing and drawing his sword. "It has been an honour. Now, for honour, we die."
"For honour!" yelled his crew, drawing swords, daggers and short sticks from a variety of unlikely hiding places as they stood and faced the rush of Fleetwood's men into the room.
Outnumbered, the new crew fought bravely but badly. Keating was punching and kicking at any of Fleetwood's men who came too close, many of whom immediately saw through her disguise and pressed in toward her with evil leers on their faces.
Bardon was duelling well, but his diminutive stature told against the longer arms and taller bodies of his opponents, while Blake was hampered by his deafness, which affected his balance and weakened his defence. Anatole clearly had no idea how to fight and instead relied on his fearsome appearance and huge frame to intimidate and crush any who got too close. Lucky Pete was flailing wildly in any direction with his arms, unable to see his attackers or to hear them over the melee, and though Susanna fought well with fists and sword, her size counted against her.
This left Madrigal, Hartwell and Fitch to take the bulk of the fight. Madrigal was one of the dirtiest fighters ever to grace the Caribbean, Fitch was devious with a sword and Hartwell brilliant, but he merely defended rather than attacked, turning his blade left and right as he blocked and parried the increasingly infuriated Fleetwood and two of his henchmen.
Mechatronic, blocking the strike of one of Fleetwood's goons with a smooth movement before dropping the man with a vicious knee to the groin, wondered at Hartwell's tactics before having to face another attack by two more henchmen. She blocked the blow from the first man, though it rocked her back on her heels to do so and her counter punch lacked any real force. She cursed at the damage she had taken during the crash landing and the weakness it inflicted on her.
As suddenly as the violence had begun, it ceased. A few of Fleetwood's men lay on the floor, dead or dying, and while all of Hartwell's crew were still standing, they were all panting with exertion and fear, and most had livid welts or bloodied slashes about them from the enemy attack.
"It's no good," crowed Fleetwood. "You have been lucky, but luck will only take you so far. How long can you stand against the next attack? How long before we crush you with our superior numbers? You are finished, Hartwell!"
It seemed that Fleetwood was right. Both the exits were blocked, more of Fleetwood's men waited outside, unable to enter the fray simply because the room, though large, wasn't large enough to hold them all and Hartwell's crew was already tiring under the onslaught.
"Men!" roared Fleetwood. "Victory is ours! Prepare for the final attack!" He raised his sword, as did his crew, and they rushed once more at their prey.
hapter ixteen
ne of Fleetwood's men leapt forward and swung his sword down at Fitch, who didn't have time to jump aside and could only fling up a bare arm against the blow. The sword struck his forearm, but rather than sever the flesh, muscle and bone, the sword instead bounced off with a metallic shriek. Fitch roared in pain as his blood sprayed outward, but incredibly, the pain eased almost immediately. He stared and saw the damage was superficial. The flow of blood stopped as the muscle and skin grew back over a fine metallic mesh briefly visible in his arm.
Fleetwood's man drew his sword back for another swing. Reacting purely in selfpreservation, Fitch let fly a thunderous punch and again, a flash of metal was seen as iron studs erupted from his knuckles and smacked into his attacker's face. The man fell unconscious to the floor, his nose and cheek split wide open.
"Kill them!" screeched Fleetwood hysterically.
"Kill the demons!"
His men ran forward. Madrigal, with no conscious thought except to strike against his attackers, roared as the skin on his fingers erupted and strange rhythmic pulses of green light spewed out, leaping from his hands and into the five men rushing toward him. Each man screamed in pain as the power surged through them and they fell, burning, to the floor.
At the same time, another of Fleetwood's goons pushed Susanna back savagely and she instinctively swept out her fist in a backhand punch. As she did so, her hand speed increased exponentially as something erupted from her, something that whipped the man across the face, knocking him unconscious.
Hartwell caught a glimpse of what looked like a small, dainty cat o'nine tails retract into his sister's arm, leaving her white faced and shocked.
Fleetwood's men ran out of the room and clustered at the door as Susanna wailed in despair "I'm a monster!" and stared in horror and shock at her hand, which once more looked and felt completely normal.
Cries of "They're possessed!" and "They're demons!" sounded out from Fleetwood's crew. "Kill them and all their magic!" screamed Fleetwood in fear. "Kill them all, they are all damned!"
At that moment, another sound could be heard. It started as a series of faint vibrations like the notes played upon a tin whistle, though more regular and mechanical sounding. The noises grew, becoming more intense, the individual notes harmonizing from a discordant set to a regular rhythmic pulse, almost a tune, which undoubtedly came from the woman in the purple dress.
Mechatronic paused as her internal system's maintenance report activated and played out in her head and an astonished smile spread over her face. She reached up and dropped the hood from her face and cloak from her body, revealing her silver skin and unmuffling the sounds of her internal diagnostic system.
Fleetwood and his men slammed the door shut with yelps of terror, cries echoed by Blake, Anatole and the rest of Hartwell's new crew at the sight of the silver demon who seemed to whistle and chirrup without moving her lips. Eventually, the sounds ceased and silence fell once more.
"It's the first phase of my adaptive program," said Mechatronic. "The molecular technology that exploded outward when my craft disintegrated swarmed around me in the ocean and hence, you absorbed much of it when you jumped into the sea. The molecules have permeated you and have been building within you ever since, changing your body chemistry, improving, adapting, evolving you to new forms."
Fitch looked at Mechatronic and demanded hoarsely, "What has happened to us? What have you done? Have you cursed us, you silver demon?"
"Of course not," said Mechatronic. "It is technology, advanced technology from my world. It is upgrading you, changing you physically, but not in character or personality. Your will, as always, is your own."
"But what was that in my arm and in Fitch's skin?" asked Susanna.
"You have a molecule whip," replied Mechatronic. "Fitch is developing metallic subcutaneous armour, as well as attacking prongs. The rest of you will also develop similar upgrades soon, but your ability to handle them will vary until you learn control."
"You've infected us and control us?" demanded Fitch in fear.
"No!" shouted Mechatronic emphatically, her eyes flashing at the accusation. "I would never attempt that, not after what I---" The silver woman stopped and controlled herself, the look of anguish on her face disappearing as she bit down on her emotions. "You are not being changed mentally, you are still... you. Do not be afraid, but trust me," she said, imploringly. "Let go of all thought and simply react---your instinct and the technology within you will harmonize and work together. Let your thoughts go, be of the moment and we shall live!"
"So, we are affected by this technology but remain mentally unchanged," spoke Hartwell, his voice and tone calm and measured to reassure the crew, though he was as frightened as they were. He was also furious with Mechatronic, who was clearly in some way responsible for the changes within them. "We are the same people we ever were, you are still the same crew and I would not change you for any other, not now, not ever. You are still you," he added gently to Susanna. "I still love you as much. Nothing can change you on the inside. Your character, your courage, your loving nature---all these are the true Susanna Hartwell."
The door slammed open again and the crew looked to see Fleetwood, red in the face, exhorting his terrified crew. "They're still human!" he screamed. "They will still be split by good steel and die like vermin. Get in there and kill them!" Despite his words, his men still appeared undecided on entering the room of the damned.
"I will lead the way," shouted Fleetwood, finally realizing that a direct example was required. "Follow me!" He rushed back into the room, expecting to see that his opponents would be too demoralised by their demonic possession to fight back. Instead, he saw a crew scared but defiant and which looked as always to their respected captain for guidance and leadership.
"I'll kill you!" screamed Fleetwood, conscious even in his rage that Hartwell had somehow proved to be the better man again. His inferiority complex, nurtured day by day at seeing Hartwell's superb running of both ship and crew in peace and in battle, finally exploded as he saw that even when faced by the powers of Hell, the crew still believed in Hartwell and followed him willingly. He screamed in searing hatred as he bounded forward, swinging his sword.
Hartwell turned to meet him, suppressing all fear at what was happening to his beloved sister and crew, finding the central point of calm, rational logic and parried Fleetwood's frenzied blows, waiting until his opponent lunged so wildly he threw himself off balance, at which Hartwell impaled Fleetwood through the heart.
Fleetwood looked down in dumb amazement at the sword piercing his chest. He blubbered in fear and his bowels loosened as his body told his brain that it was split.
Hartwell pulled the sword backward and Fleetwood, denied the only support keeping him upright, crumpled to the floor. He landed full length, his face smacking off the bare, splintered floorboards, where he stared in astonishment as the light faded from his eyes.
hapter eventeen
" hey're demons!" shouted a voice from outside. "They burn with their hands and survive death!"
Hartwell saw that the rest of Fleetwood's crew, having witnessed the past few minutes, were unwilling to continue the fight without enlisting the help of the patrons of the inn.
"They have gold!" shouted one of the more devious thugs.
"And women!" shouted another.
"And they are damned!" yelled a third. "God shall protect us against them."
"Kill the demons!"
"Pray for the demons and let the Lord's light shine upon them," cried a familiar voice. The crew looked through the door and saw Pastor White, clutching his bible.
"As if things weren't bad enough," muttered Fitch to Susanna.
"Quickly," shouted Hartwell, looking speculatively at the trembling pastor. "We're leaving. Madrigal, can you summon those lightning bolts again?"
"I think so, Captain," said Madrigal, looking in a mixture of fear and bewilderment at his fingers.
"Then blow that wall down," commanded Hartwell, gesturing at the wall around the door.
Fleetwood's crew looked at Madrigal, looked at the rotting wooden wall and leapt back as Madrigal raised his hands.
Once again, a series of pulses erupted from Madrigal's hands, making him yell in pain as his fingers burned before immediately healing over. The wall blew backward, spilling Fleetwood's men out over the floor of the balcony and showering them with flaming timber and splinters.
Hartwell led his crew out. Pandemonium had broken out in the main drinking area of the inn as the room above exploded. Some were screaming, some running, a great many were taking advantage of the confusion to slit a throat or steal a purse, but an ominous silence fell as Hartwell and his crew emerged through the smoking hole.
"Demons!" they shouted. "Kill the demons!" A roar of approval and encouragement went up from the crowd as they picked up swords and bludgeons and ran to the stairs.
"That makes it easier," said Hartwell. "No innocent bystanders to worry about. Madrigal, your lightning, please." He gestured as he spoke to the men and women pounding up the staircase toward them.
Madrigal held out his hands and the power surged through, smashing the mob backward and igniting the wooden stairs. The flames spread astonishingly quickly around the inn, burning brightly and hungrily.
"Sorry," said Madrigal in answer to Hartwell's eyebrow of admonishment. "I didn't expect it to be that powerful."
Hartwell looked round and saw that the front of the inn had a large circular window set within it. "This way and somebody bring Lucky Pete," he shouted, leading the crew around the balcony. He paused briefly by the figure of Pastor White. "Are you coming with us, Pastor, or are you going to stay here and burn?"
White looked at the flames, the dead bodies and Captain Hartwell standing tall in the middle of the chaos and decided the cursed crew of Satan was the lesser evil when compared to staying in the burning inn. He pulled himself upright and staggered after them.
A few of the denizens were still ready to put up a fight and they stood between the window and the crew. As the crew drew closer, the denizens pulled small crossbows out from under their coats and grinned in anticipation.
"Let's see your demon powers reach us from this distance," said the leader.
"Yeah, our arrows will slice you freaks into pieces," snarled another.
Susanna moved to the front of the crew. "Challenge accepted," she said. She drew her arm back and hurled it forward, as though throwing a ball. The strange whip-like device appeared once more, somehow erupting from within her arm and streaking over the distance before lashing the leader in the face, who yelled in agony and fell back.
Madrigal simultaneously unleashed more of his lightning, this time controlling the flow more effectively.
The men screamed as the power hit them and released their arrows, which flew off in random directions.
"Move," ordered Hartwell, leading his crew to the window. "If you please, Madrigal," he added as they drew closer to the huge circular frame.
The window erupted outward under Madrigal's improving skill and the crew leapt out onto the front porch. From there, it was a short drop to the ground, where another problem was waiting.
"I can't see anything," cursed Madrigal. "The moon's gone in and with no street lights, we'll never get back through those alleys to the ship."
"I think I can lead the way," said Fitch, fear and wonder in his voice.
"I've never doubted you before, Mister Fitch," said Hartwell, "but it is as black as Hades out here."
"I know, Captain, but I can see everything around us. It's all tinted red, but I can see."
"Infrared night vision," said Mechatronic, an explanation which meant nothing at all to the crew.
"All right, lead us to the harbour, Mister Fitch," said Hartwell. "Everyone hold onto the person in front and don't let go."
It took Fitch about ten minutes to guide them through the labyrinth of alleys, his footing always certain, the way always clear. Soon, they were back next to the unnamed galleon and had met up with Tench, O'Rourke, Nani and the rest of the crew. A babble of excited voices broke out as explanations and incredulous questions arose from the night's events.
hapter ighteen
" hat demon has infected us?" demanded Nani, once the situation had been explained.
"No, and I am not a demon," replied Mechatronic. "The molecular technology spread out in the ocean where I crash landed. Those who swam through that part of the ocean absorbed the technology, which is simply obeying its core directive to regenerate and upgrade its host. The technology cannot distinguish between one person and another---it will upgrade any who come into direct contact with it."
"I don't believe your lies!" spat Nani.
"Enough," said Hartwell. "I do not understand either, but it has happened---we are changed and we must adapt to it. Remember, we are still the same people, we still have the same character and the same sense of morality."
"So you say," replied Nani, "but we don't know that for sure."
"Then you have my permission to slaughter us should we one day turn into raging monsters," said Hartwell, staring Nani down. "Now, why exactly did you lead us to this God-forsaken spot, Madrigal? And this time, I want the truth."
Madrigal fidgeted under Hartwell's glare, saw the same expression on most of the crew and decided to tell the truth. "I needed to rescue my brother," he said, nodding toward Anatole.
"And for that you risked us all?" demanded Hartwell.
Madrigal nodded, looking defiant but also ashamed.
"Do not be too hard on him," said Anatole, stepping forward. "He is my elder brother and he has always looked after me, saving me from the slavers, finding me work as a chef. I'm just not very good on my own, you see. I need someone to look after me." His speech was short and delivered in his ridiculous high-pitched voice but had a simple dignity to it.
"The next time anyone needs to commit to a personal crusade, let me know first," said Hartwell with a sigh. He couldn't bring himself to chastise Madrigal. He would have done the same thing, and more, for his sister. "What's happening behind us, Mister Fitch?" he asked.
"Damnation!" exclaimed Fitch as he looked up at the fetid town above them. "There's a mob up there grabbing swords and rifles and I don't know what else."
"I can see them, too!" exclaimed Tench in astonishment as his vision adjusted with a precision unknown to organic eyes. "Most are pointing our way. They're lighting torches and lamps now." As he spoke, tiny orange dots illuminated the blackness.
"Then we don't have time to search for and to seize the Plymouth," said Hartwell, feeling a strange sense of relief in having an excuse to stay on the old galleon. "We must hope this ship is good for the time being. All on board and make ready to leave."
"You are seriously going to try and sail this hulk with a crew of the cursed and crippled?" spat Nani.
"I may be cursed, I may not be," replied Tench, still gazing about him in wonder as his new, improved vision enabled him to see into the darkest shadows, "but I am still loyal to my crew and captain."
"Well said, Mister Tench," replied Hartwell. "You will all do admirably."
"Do? And what is that blind, deaf, mute with one hand and three fingers going to do?" sneered Nani. "Be the figurehead for the ship? It's about all he's good for."
"If he's willing and true, that is enough for me,"snapped Hartwell.
"I guess she is also willing, though I would not put any money on her being true," said Fitch who was desperately trying not to grin.
Hartwell turned to the harbour, knowing what he was going to see, though he still groaned at the sight of Ruby staggering toward them, a small bundle over her shoulder.
"Wait for me," she cried, her hair still smouldering from the fire. "You burnt down my home, you bastards, so you're taking me with you."
"I believe the ship is full," snapped Mechatronic.
"I don't care if it's sinking," yelled Ruby, struggling to climb the gangplank. She fell to her hands and knees and wobbled along, her bosom heaving from side to side, almost spilling out of her dress in well-rehearsed movements. "And don't think I'm scared of you, you blue-eyed, silver devil!"
"And what role do you think you can play on board?" asked Hartwell.
"Old Ruby's been around a bit, she knows the score," panted Ruby as she laboured up the gangplank. She seemed to find it easier on the sloping greasy wood than she did on the firm ground. "Old Ruby can tie a knot and cook a broth and sing a song and make all the men smile and,
and..."
She stopped and snuffled, the words running out as she swayed from side to side on the gangplank. Large tears rose up from her red eyes and poured down her lined face. Great sobs heaved within her as she wailed "Old Ruby's been around and she knows the score, she's seen it all and done it all and had it all done to her, has old Ruby." She sniffed and wiped her nose on her dirty dress, oblivious to the embarrassed looks from the crew.
Hartwell sighed. He was a ruthless man when need be, but he was not a cruel man. "Then get aboard and start earning your keep. The deck needs cleaning, as do all the cabins, and clothes need stitching and the sails need mending. You'll work while you're on board this ship."
"Yes, Cuptain," slurred Ruby, staggering upright with a superhuman effort. She revolved around three times as she tried to orientate herself before tottering off toward the cabins, throwing a salute that missed her head by six inches.
"Why?" demanded Mechatronic in displeasure.
"We have indeed destroyed her home, so the least we can do is give her a new one," replied Hartwell, stiffly, not looking at Mechatronic.
"And how long do you think she'll last?" asked the silver woman.
"Not long, judging from her shaking and general health," replied Hartwell. "Hopefully, she can at least get her self-respect back in that time and face her death with a little dignity."
Mechatronic blew air out between her teeth as though in irritation, but secretly, the quietly spoken man impressed her. He really did seem to have a sense of duty beyond mere words.
"We are all part of God's plan," announced Pastor White.
"You haven't explained what you are doing here," observed Sporrit of the pastor, suddenly realising that he hadn't seen him since fleeing the Plymouth. Observation and thought were not things that came naturally to Sporrit.
"Captain Fleetwood had orders to leave me here," replied White with as much dignity as he could muster. "Admiral Johnson has abandoned God and God's representatives of this Earth."
"Had enough of you, had he?" muttered Fitch. "Now there's a surprise."
Hartwell turned away quickly to hide his smile. "Mister O'Rourke, what supplies did you manage to salvage?"
"Not much, Captain. We have some lumber, a few biscuit barrels and some salt pork. Oh, and good news---we found some crates of absinthe." He pulled a bottle from the crate. The light from the oil lanterns gleamed off the glowing green liquid.
"I like the colour," said Mechatronic. "It seems wonderfully decadent."
"Excellent. The voyage becomes more civilised by the hour."
"Don't you think you should use the absinthe for barter?" asked Susanna sharply. She was worried about her brother's drinking habits and there was something inexplicably eerie about the bottles of green alcohol.
"Liquor is a mocker!" added Pastor White.
"I only have one vice and I'll be damned if I'll let that one go," replied Hartwell. "Is the ship ready, Mister O'Rourke?"
"As she'll ever be, but I make no guarantee that she'll last too long," said O'Rourke in a worried tone.
"We have little choice, so we must take the risk," said Hartwell. "Cast off."
"Heading, Captain?" asked Madrigal as he took the wheel.
"Pirate Cove," replied Hartwell.
Tench gasped. "We can't go there! They'll kill us for sure, given who we are."
"We can't go back home, either," pointed out Hartwell.
"But, but, the pirates," stuttered Tench in horror.
"We cannot get anywhere with only a skeleton crew. We need at least fifty men just to sail a galleon, double that to operate at battle stations and I see only two dozen men, if that. And besides..."
"Besides what, Captain?"
Hartwell smiled but without mirth. "We're all pirates now."
"Even me?" asked Mechatronic.
"I don't know what you are or what you have done to us, but I do know that I don't trust you because of it." Hartwell turned and stalked away, leaving an expression of anguish on Mechatronic's face, one mirrored on the captain's face though she couldn't see it.
She turned and walked to the bow of the ship and stood by the figurehead, looking out to sea, alone with her thoughts and unusual feelings.
To Hartwell, when he risked glancing at her, it was as if the two figures belonged together---both looking out to sea, both immobile, one faded, battered and inert, the other gleaming silver, also battered, but very much alive. He felt a pang that embraced both of them, as though he couldn't bear to lose either and would fight to the death to keep them at his side.
With his hands clasped behind him and his chin down to his chest in thought, Hartwell descended into the depths of his new ship and new emotions.
bout the uthor
Arabella Wyatt lives in Upton Upon Severn, Worcestershire, where she gets flooded out a lot, possibly influencing her desire to write about the sea...
Table of Contents
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