NationStates Jolt Archive

“Smoke on the horizon, skip!” called the young man hanging in Venture’s observation. “Nice, dark black coal smoke seventeen points to starboard!”

“Evaluation, Benson?” shouted back the Venture’s captain.

“Single trail, sir! I’ll bet on my life that she’s a merchie!”

“And if she’s not?”

“Then she’s either an Aegean or a Delton, and both ways it will be my life,” called back Benson with a careless laugh.

‘Captain’ Harold Dubois smiled thinly sweeping his telescope over the horizon, barely picking up Benson’s smoke cloud. “Then, Mr. Benson, we’ll just have to hope your luck is as good as your eyes. Mr. Goodman, thirty knots if you please and seventeen degrees to starboard.”

She may not be the biggest or prettiest ship in the world thought Dubois but, damn, is the Venture fast! She was an old five hundred ton revenue cutter, ironically enough, from the Tharian fleet that Dubois had happened across at an auction. Though her hull was rust covered and dilapidated, he also recognized her sleek shape and inconspicuous design. After several month of refit, mainly spent replacing her turbines, the rechristened Venture set out with her new crew to win fame off the west coast of Tharia.

In some ways, the war was a god send. The Royal Iansislean Navy’s need for every available ship had taken the worry of running into something really scary, like the battlecruiser Queen Jessica or the newest runs of cruisers and destroyers away. There were still the outdated Aegean class light cruisers, Delton class destroyers, and the myriad of patrol boats to worry about, Venture could outrun most of them. Those she couldn’t outrun or outfight, Dubois could outthink. With the new ship building program, most of the R.I.N.’s were needed to man the new battleships and mobile aeroflyer docks that were so useless against a clever seaman like himself.

On the other hand, the coming of the war hearkened the start of a system of convoy, at least to the west. Dubois had been forced from his traditional hunting grounds off Tharia and to the Noropian coast, where the rich cargo ships rarely tended to travel. He smiled at the remembrance of the first silk ship he had taken: its rich bounty had more than paid for the Venture alone. Now it seemed all he saw were iron ore ships.

“We’re in luck, skip!” shouted Benson. “Ship ahoy, painted in the colors of the East Gallaga Company!”

Dubois licked his lips in anticipation, focusing his telescope in on the merchant ship. Its brown and gold hull was a welcome change from the black and naval blue of Royal Mining and Manufacturing. “I see her, Benson!” he shouted. “Goodman, bring us up to thirty six knots and aim straight at her!”

Venture shuddered as her turbines spun up to full speed, flying the tiny raider across the water. “Unmask the battery and run up the colors!” ordered Dubois, his heart racing as crewmen hastened to deconstruct the false forecastle that hid Venture’s single 4.7” gun and the black flag was run up her mast.

“She’s spotted up, skip!” called Benson. “She’s turning to port and accelerating!”

“Flash the standard greeting, Mr. Jones!” shouted Dubois, his eyes never departing from the looming shape in front of them. Venture’s signalman started up: Merchant ship, you will come to and cut engines. We will board you and take your ship as a prize. All crewmen will be released at our first convenience. Failure to comply will result in the destruction of your vessel and your own death.

“They don’t seem like they want to cooperate,” commented Benson, observing the vain attempt to flee as Venture closed in.

“Convince them. Mr. Jones, if you please,” Dubois ordered, his earlier exhilaration fading into quiet competence. Venture’s gun barked at the ship, which was now close enough for Dubois to read the name ‘EGS Kanpur,’ sending a plume of water up just off her starboard bow. Dubois noted with pleasure that the water behind the Kanpur stopped churning at once. “Good; I hate it when they try and be heroes.” He nodded to Benson. “Prepare the boarding party. Jones and his men will secure the crew; Benson, you and I will inspect the cargo.”

“Are you sure that’s wise? I mean, there’s bound to be something protecting it...”

“That’s why I’m taking you, Mr. Benson. You’ll be able to spot any trouble before it lands on us.” The other man didn’t look convinced, but Dubois busied himself with other things. Benson would do what he was told, or find himself cut out of the prize money.

---

The deck of the Kampur was deserted, but that was something Dubois almost expected. He nodded towards the large Gallagaman’s bridge. “Off you go Jones. Try not to kill anyone.”

“Of course not, skip,” grinned the large Gadsanian, running a finger along the blade of his saber. “I’ll jus’ invite the whole lot o’ ‘em to tea.” Dubois laughed, then motioned for Benton to follow him, and vanished down into the Kampur’s bowels.

It just took him a moment to get his bearings. The Kampur was different from most Gallagamen he had come across. Up on deck, he heard a few muted shots and shook his head. Jones was just a little too bloodthirsty for his tastes.

“I don’t like this,” whispered Benson suddenly.

“Eh? What do you mean? Everything’s gone perfectly to plan. Besides, here’s the hold, right here.”

As Dubois swung the thick hatch open, another shot rang out on deck. “That’s not a Galveston at all!” he insisted. “That’s a god damn Camstol Mark Seven. There’s something wrong!” Before Dubois could stop him, Benson tore around the corner. Dubois forgot him, and glanced around the hatch, expecting to see all the riches of Gallaga at once. But Kampur’s main hold was deserted and empty. The captain swore and chased after his spotter.

They didn’t get very far. Just a few steps down the passage, Benson’s chest exploded and his body was flung back like a rag doll. With the CG Mk. VII’s crack ringing in his ears, Dubois started to raise his own gun at the olive coated figures ahead of him. Another shot rang out, and he felt a slightly delayed bust of pain in his left shoulder. Dubois was vaguely aware of dropping his cheap Galveston pistol as his momentum carried him forward, sword drawn. The man in front of him turned slickly, quickly brushing Dubois’ blade aside with his own and bringing his handgun’s butt sharply down on the captain’s head. The world went black.

---

Light thought Dubois suddenly as he swam back into consciousness. His wound was bound tightly, but so were his hands. He struggled to focus on Mr. Goodman, his helmsman’s face. “Wha...” he started, but it hurt too much to speak.

“The captain’s awake,” he heard Goodman say distantly. It was as if everything going on was on some distant plane of existence and none of it was real.

“Very well.” That voice was strange, and Dubois had to raise his head slightly to see the speaker. It was a young Shieldian, perhaps not more than twenty five or twenty six, clad in the olive green battle uniform of a Royal Iansislean Marines captain. “Mister Harold Dubois,” he started, his voice cold as he read off a pre-prepared statement, “you have been caught engaged in an act of piracy against His Iansislean Majesty’s Merchant Ship Pontica while in Iansislean waters. By Commonwealth law, your life and the lives of your crew are hereby forfeit. However, by the grace of His Majesty the High King, we shall take you to the fleet base at Chateau to be there tried for piracy by a naval tribunal. May God have mercy on your soul.”

The young officer snapped his parchment closed as Dubois dropped his head back on the deck. “Lieutenant Henderson, get this scum below,” ordered the captain to the nearest officer, who had his men heave the fifteen remaining men from Dubois’ twenty five up and march them below. The last thing Dubois saw before his world turned black again was the Cross of St. Patrick being hoisted on Venture’s mast as the two ships turned south east for Chateau.

OOC: Very nicely done, sir. Good to see there are others out there with a suitable nautical knowledge who are as "pirate-like" as I am. BTW, they (being my friends) call me Gentleman Jack.

ooc: yes I agree, being one obsessed with the time period of true sailing and piracy I have to say that this was very well done.

(Ooh, very interesting -wonders where this is going- )

[/tag]

(Thank you very much, everyone! I had meant to put the first part of the trial up tonight, but I don't think I'll quite have time...my apologies. And WoS, it's everything to do with Cap'n Dubois ;))

ooc: Tag

HIMS Tharia
At anchor in Chateau, Noropia, the Commonwealth

Commodore Sir Terrence Paul watched the freighter steaming into Chateau’s harbor from the comfort of Tharia’s confined flag bridge. It certainly didn’t feel right - the Commander Home Fleet, Northern Seas Area, holding his bridge aboard a mere heavy cruiser. Still, even now they were trying to grab Tharia away from him for convoy duty on the Gallaga run. So far, Admiral Sir Hunter Neville Kennington, Lord Commander Home Fleet, had stuck up him, but the pressure on the Admiralty from the East Gallaga Company was chipping away at his command.

Somehow, Royal Mining and Manufacturing - the company most affected by the increase in piracy around Noropia since the start of the war - had not been able to bring much influence down on the First Sea Lord. Paul’s ‘squadron’ consisted just of the Tharia herself, the light cruiser Andromache, and the destroyers Labrador, Dauntless, Copplestone, and Oasis. The Royal Iansislean Navy simply didn’t have enough ships, he reflected with a grimace. Its main battle squadrons were fighting on three different fronts: against Chiang Maï in the South Pacific, against Ercolana in the Gallagan, and against the Germans and Italians in the Mediterranean. Before war had broken out on every front, the R.I.N. had concentrated upon building up its capital ships. While that policy had seen three fast battleships and three modern battlecruisers join the fleet, the light units and screening ships had been neglected to the point of abandonment.

As a result, for an area of responsibility that stretched from Cape Jackson to the Effitian Horn, Paul had only six ships, three of which (Andromache, Copplestone, and Oasis) were older than he was. As a result, Paul had been forced to become ‘creative’ in some of the methods he used. Across the bridge, his wireless officer received a message. Paul pretended not to be interested in it, instead concentrating on the smaller craft that sat huddled in the freighter’s lee.

“Commodore, sir! We’re receiving from HIMMS Pontica - apparently, the were taking a company of marines up from Andromache to rotate with the base’s third company here, and they just happened to be boarded by some pirates!”

“Indeed?” asked Paul quietly with a smile, enjoying the young man’s amazement.

“Yes sir! Captured nearly a full score of ‘em!”

“Very good. Yeoman!” Paul called suddenly.

“Sir?”

“Make to Admiralty: ‘From Commander Home Fleet, Northern Seas Area. Have captured a group of scoundrels engaged in act of piracy against one of His Majesty’s Merchant Ships and have taken their vessel as a prize. Request permission to form a tribunal. Long live the King.’”

“Taken, sir. I’ll have it off right away!”

“Good man. See that you do. Mr. Walsh, signal the Pontica: I want them to have all prisoners in the bases brig within an hour.” Paul paused. “Oh, and Mr. Walsh: Send ‘Good work.’”

“Very good, sir.”

----

Dubois walked slowly. His arm was getting infected from that bullet wound - they hadn’t even bothered to dig out the lead - and would probably need to be amputated, hopefully before it spread to the rest of his body. Then again, maybe it didn’t matter. Their ‘trial’ had a predetermined result. Strangely enough, he grinned as he thought of the words he’d be hearing in a moment.

“Mr. Harold Dubois, we find you guilty on three thousand counts of rapscallonry and sentence you to be hanged by the neck until dead.”

A marine behind him gave him a rough shove, and Dubois stumbled forward awkwardly. He swore back at the man, which earned him a smarting jab to his wound. Dubois cried out as the pain lanced through his body, but he refused to be beaten by these officious bastards.

All along the walk, curious Noropians had turned out to watch the dead men walk. Dubois spotted one very pretty one, not much older than twenty. He lurched towards her, breaking into as best a run as he could, shackled hands reaching out for her sweet, young body. She screamed and stumbled backwards, her skinny lover trying to interpose his own body. It was too late - another second and Dubois would make up for this whole rotten week!

The butt end of an M74B rifle came swinging out of nowhere and caught Dubois sharply on the side of the skull. He grunted and fell hard just a couple yards short of his goal, which was now weeping softly. He dimly heard the marine apologizing for his lack of vigilance, and felt his own body being kicked by the same guard and spit upon by the crowd, but it could have been happening to someone else, as closely as he was connected to events.

A dark shadow loomed over him, and he tried to squint through the sunlight to see who it was. Suddenly, rough hands grabbed him, and he was hefted onto his feet. A shorter, dark haired naval officer stood in front of him. “Mr. Harold Dubois?”

Dubois said nothing until one of the marines holding him gave him a jostle. “Yes, that’s me,” he grunted. Again the marine shook him, shouting something about the respect due a King’s officer. However, the navy man held up a hand.

“Please, Corporal. Pirate or not, this man is a prisoner of His Majesty, and will be treated according to the Tablet’s dictums.”

“But sir,” protested the bulky marine. “’e’s nothing but a yellow-livered nogoodnick! Why, ‘e just tried to ... to do indecent things to that young lady!” The marines voice was shaking with rage, and Dubois wondered if he was glad for the navy-man’s presence.

The new man glanced at the young lady, who was cowering in her lover’s embrace, and bowed slightly. “Ma’am, you may only have my word as an officer and a gentleman that this man will see justice for his crimes. I assure you, the Navy will not let him hurt anyone else.” He turned back to Dubois. “Now, then, Mister Dubois, I am Commodore Sir Terrence Paul, Commander Home Fleet, Northern Seas Area. This is Captain the Honorable William Laughlin, commander of HIMS Tharia, and Captain Sir Arnold Mycroft, the base commander. We’ll be forming your tribunal. Now, then, if you’ll be kind enough to accompany me to the base’s lockup without further incident, please?”

Tag, tag and double tag. Great stuff.

Harold Dubois’ head impacted roughly with the end of his tiny cell, and he grunted in pain. Behind him, the door slammed shut roughly, and the marine who had thrown him sneered in through the bars.

“You’re damn lucky the Commodore was there today, wretch. If he hadn’t been, they’d have been hanging your corpse.” Dubois figured it was probably best not to reply in kind, though resisting the temptation was tough indeed. Instead, he raised a hand up to the right side of his head, wincing because of the pain in his shoulder, and it came back stained dark red with his blood. The marine laughed humorlessly to himself at the sight, and leaned closer to the bars. “That’s right, and the next time you get within a furlong of a civilian, it’ll be ten time worse.” He spat through the bars onto Dubois’ chest, the quickly turned and walked away.

Dubois wiped the wad of saliva off his dirty shirt and reclined on his mattress. So this was the famed Iansislean naval brig, of which he had heard so much talk in awed terms around drunken poker games. Somehow, he had expected something a little more impressive: skeletons chained to the wall, a rat infested pile of hay to sleep in, dried blood caked on the wall. But it had the dry, clean, sterile appearance of any of the other jail cells he had been thrown into.

Excepting, of course, that this one there would be no escape from. For most any of the Commonwealth’s piteously short list of crimes - murder, extortion, assault, theft, kidnapping, and so forth - he could expect to go before the joke of a civilian court. A few bribes, one to the judge, on the the prosecutor, one to the local sheriff, usually not more than a couple thousand generals each, and he’d be skipping along his merry way. Piracy, however, no: that was tried in the military courts by a naval tribunal! Of course, even King’s officers, for all their ‘honor’ and ‘duty,’ still had a price, just like anyone else in the Commonwealth. Granted, it was much higher than the average civilian judge, and there were many more people who had to be bribed, at a much larger risk if they should be found out, but it could be done by one with the proper resources.

The problem was, Dubois didn’t have the proper resources; not anymore. A string of poor prizes stretching over the last couple years had combined with the cost of fuel for Venture and bribes for certain harbor authorities in Noropia and Tharia to wipe out his cash reserves. He had flat run out of options, Dubois forced himself to admit as he lowered his aching body to the bed and used a sheet to stop his blood flow. Just as he lay there, a thought struck him, and he nearly fell off the bed in amazement. He had one card left to play, and God would indeed be smiling on him if it worked.

Trying to keep his calm by reminding himself that it was a slim hope at best, Harold shuffled to the door, peering about the edge at a marine sentry. “Oi, boot neck! I’ve a call to place!”

----

New construction work in downtown Ianapalis, especially at so valuable an intersection as Empire and Sarawak, was always a big deal. It was all the more so when the construction was in fact the brand new skyscraper home of the Royal Mining and Manufacturing Consortium’s Ianapalis headquarters. Sir Penton Dubois, only second to the Lord of House Whitman himself in RM&M’s management and the actual leader with Whitman’s growing senility, stood watching the excavation in what would be the tower’s foundation with pride. For years, RM&M’s headquarters had literally stood in the shadow of the Iansislean International Telegraph Corporation’s massive International Tower, which stood on the corner of Gallaga and Port Laughlin.

Sir Penton felt a tap on his shoulder, and turned to see his secretary, Miss Janet Winsett. He couldn’t help but smile - damn, she looked good in that work site garb, with her golden blond hair spilling out of the construction helmet...almost as good as she had naked on his summer house’s bed last weekend. Gradually, he became aware that she was asking him some sort of question, and a response might be in order. “Er,” he started, snapping back to reality, “beg your pardon, Miss Winsett?”

His secretary rolled her eyes. It was bad enough to have to deal with his groping and occasional sexual demands, but this constant leering was promising to one day become the straw that broke the camel’s back. “I have a phone call from the main office, sir. Would you like to take it?”

“Eh, who’s it from?” he asked, his eyes staying firmly fixed on her bosom.

“Your brother,” she answered with a shrug, still holding the phone.

“Harry?! Why, I haven’t heard from him in years!” grinned Penton, grabbing the receiver - and giving Miss Winsett’s fanny a pinch on the way. “Hello, Harry,” he beamed into the phone, always happy to receive calls from his younger brother. “It’s been damn near two years, brother! I miss hearing from you!”

“I know, Pent, and I’ve been meaning to call you for some time,” was the distant reply. “But...things kept getting in my way. Anyhow, I hate to call you now, but I... need your help. I’m kinda in over my head, and I need someone to get me out.”

“Legal trouble again, Harry?” groaned Sir Penton, holding his head. “Jesus, man, it seems like I was just bailing you out for that row in Fort Jackson!”

“That was eight years ago, Pent. Besides, Lindsay Westerton was a really fine piece of ass...”

“Can you try and stay focused!” shouted Penton is exasperation, drawing a couple stares from around the construction site. He quickly lowered his voice. “Now then, if I’m going to help you at all, I need to know where you are.”

“I’m in Noropia.”

“All right...that’s a good start. Where specifically in Noropia?” continued Sir Penton, his voice mildly patronizing.

There was a long pause on the other end. “I’m...I’m at the fleet base in Chateau.”

The information took a while to sink into Sir Penton’s mind. “That’s good, we have a lot of agents in...in...did you say at the fleet base!?”

“Er, yeah.”

“Oh, damn it, Harry, God damn it. Tell me anything. Tell me you killed an officer. Tell me you were sleeping with the Commodore’s wife. Just don’t tell me...”

“I’m the leader of those, ah, buccaneers they brought in earlier. They’re going to hang me, Pent.”

“God DAMN it!” shouted Penton, drawing the workers’ eyes to him again. Quickly re-lowering his voice, he continued quickly. “Jesus, Harry, do you know how many ships we’ve been losing in Noropia lately? If the navy hadn’t caught you first, Whitman was ready to outfit an expedition to go up there and bring you in ourselves. Damn it, can’t you ever just try to do anything legitimate with your life!?”

“Like whacking Scott Hudson?”

“Shut up, Harry, just shut the hell up. Look, getting you out of this shit storm isn’t going to be as east as one two three. First off, this is a God damned naval tribunal, not some half ass Dominion court. Second of all, if Whitman finds out I’m using Company resources to help a known pirate, he’ll send me to the gallows with you.” A foreman walked up, with a question that was too obviously an excuse to listen in to the conversation. “Look, Harry, I’ll be in touch soon, all right?” Before he found out if it was all right or not, the phone had been hung up.

---

Just a few blocks away, in the International Tower, Ernest Kensington stopped his recording and smiled. He was just one of the dozens of IanCorp employees who routinely monitored traffic to and from RM&M headquarters over their cables, but this recording would vault him high into the management’s favor. Kensington quickly began scribbling down a transcript of the conversation, imagining his corner office and three hundred-thousand general a year job.

Oh, the plot thickens! Can't wait for the next one.

Commander Sir Jonston Murphy, His Majesty's naval attache in Chateau, came to a stop at the desk of Commodore Paul's secretary. The young man sitting behind it looked up from his papers, then stood and rendered a quick salute, which Murphy returned.
"I need to see Commodore Paul at his earliest opportunity. I have a rather urgent matter to discuss with him."
Murphy handed the young man a small cluster of papers, which he placed on his desk.
"I'll ask if he can meet with you this morning, sir. Where can I reach you when the appointment is set?"
Murphy took a seat on the armchair across the hall.
"Oh, I think here should be quite alright...."

(I presume my officers would recognize Murphey? I'm playing it as if they do; I can always change it later.)

If the secretary was confused at all (which he in fact was), he didn't let himself show it. "Very good, sir. I'll let the Commodore know the minute he walks in." After a slight pause, the man returned to his work. For nearly a full hour, he remained typing at his desk, fielding the occasional phone call, and looking the model of an efficient office manager.

At last, the door creaked open again, a man in the uniform of a R.I.N. lieutenant commander holding it for the Commodore. Behind the desk, the secretary again rose saluting. He reported at once: "Commodore, sir, Commander Murphey to see you. He says it's most urgent." A brief nod at the British officer kept any confusion out of Paul's stance. He turned at once with a hint of a smile and an extended hand.

"Ah, Sir Jonston - I'm sorry if I've kept you waiting. Commander Thurman - you remember Lieutenant Commander Thurman, my Chief of Operations, of course? - and I were just answering a few questions for the media." Commodore Paul opened the door to his inner office himself. "Please, come in and make yourself comfortable." He nodded to the Commander as if to indicate that his presence would not be welcome. The man seemed to get the hint.

"Er, if you'll not be needing anything else, sir, I think I'll go have a word with Captian Laughlin."

"Very good, Commander. Good day." Paul sat down behind a large oak desk and gestured for Murphey to sit across from him as his secretary closed the door. "Now then, Commander, what can I help you with?"

OOC- Commander Murphy is the British naval attache to Iansisle for this area of operations. His duties include overseeing relations between the Royal Navy and the RIN, as well as the passing of information between them. So yes, your staff would be intimately familiar with him. He's only been at this post a few years, having replaced an old WWI veteran who retired due to heart complications and died shortly after. No offense, but the British Navy thinks this area a backwater, and this is just an administrative position, a holdover on the way to more important things. But important for the story.

IC- Murphy stepped into Commodore Paul's office, holding a folder of documents in his left arm. He waited for his superior to take his seat, then did likewise.
"Thank you for seeing me on such short notice, Commodore. I know you're a busy man, and I don't intend to take any more of your time than necissary."
"As I'm sure you know, some pirates were recently interned in the brig here on post. Admiral Beattey (Murphy's superior officer, commander of the British East Indies Fleet) would like to retain the services of one of those men, namely one Harold Dubois, as an advisor on the disposition and practices of pirate forces in these waters. With the majority of the East Indies Fleet out to sea, there is a real threat to our merchantmen from.... less conventional forces. Admiral Beattey, and myself as well, think that Mr. Dubois, given his familiarity and experience with the matter, would be able to save us a great deal of trouble."
"The terms are simple; the Royal Navy takes posession of your prisoner, where he will serve as a conscript onboard one of our fleet vessels in the area. At the end of the war, we'll repatriate him back to the Shield, where he can face whatever sentence your courts deem necissary."
Murphy stood, and laid the packet of papers onto Commodore Paul's blotter.
"If I may be perfectly blunt, Commodore? He'll certainly be facing a firing squad if left to the courts, so he's obviously of no use to the RIN. Let us hold onto him for you, for the meantime at least. Then, if you so chose, you can still have him shot. For now, lets save our bullets for Hitler."
"All the necissary papers are there before you, sir. If you like, I can have Mr. Dubois out of your sight within a week."

(darn double posts!)

Murphy stepped into Commodore Paul's office, holding a folder of documents in his left arm. He waited for his superior to take his seat, then did likewise.
"Thank you for seeing me on such short notice, Commodore. I know you're a busy man, and I don't intend to take any more of your time than necissary."

"Nonesense, Commander," replied Paul with a slight grin on his face. "We're always glad to see you."

"As I'm sure you know, some pirates were recently interned in the brig here on post. Admiral Beattey (Murphy's superior officer, commander of the British East Indies Fleet) would like to retain the services of one of those men, namely one Harold Dubois, as an advisor on the disposition and practices of pirate forces in these waters. With the majority of the East Indies Fleet out to sea, there is a real threat to our merchantmen from.... less conventional forces. Admiral Beattey, and myself as well, think that Mr. Dubois, given his familiarity and experience with the matter, would be able to save us a great deal of trouble."
"The terms are simple; the Royal Navy takes posession of your prisoner, where he will serve as a conscript onboard one of our fleet vessels in the area. At the end of the war, we'll repatriate him back to the Shield, where he can face whatever sentence your courts deem necissary."
Murphy stood, and laid the packet of papers onto Commodore Paul's blotter.
"If I may be perfectly blunt, Commodore? He'll certainly be facing a firing squad if left to the courts, so he's obviously of no use to the RIN. Let us hold onto him for you, for the meantime at least. Then, if you so chose, you can still have him shot. For now, lets save our bullets for Hitler."
"All the necissary papers are there before you, sir. If you like, I can have Mr. Dubois out of your sight within a week."

Paul arched a curious eyebrow. That certainly hadn’t been what he was expecting. Sir Terrence had so far built his career out of cooperating with everyone at every chance he got. The Royal Navy held a certain influence in Ianapalis, and Commander Murphey was held in fairly high regard by the First Sea Lord himself. The Commodore was looking forward to a promotion to Rear Admiral soon, and with it perhaps even a combat command. However, if he refused Murphey, and the Commander reported dissatisfaction with Paul’s handling of events, he could well find himself condemned to these backwaters forever.

On the other hand, he knew the only way to escape the Northern Seas Area command was to crack down on the growing piracy problem. So far, the sea rats had proved absurdley elusive. Granted, Paul’s shortness on ships and manpower and the thousand of tiny coves and fishing towns lining the Noropian coast hindered his operations. If the leader of that gang, the first he had managed to bring in, escaped the gallows (even temporarily) he may even find himself more out of luck than if Murphey reported his lack of cooperation to the Admiralty.

He reclined in his chair and unconsciously reached for a nearby Walmingtonish fountain pen. “I...I see, Commander,” he started, his mind clicking quickly behind his dark eyes. “Sir Jonston,” he said after a few minutes, “I trust you understand just how seriously we take piracy against a King’s merchant ship here in Iansisle?” Paul shook his head slightly. “While I certainly appreciate navy’s need, and would ordinarily be quite glad to grant the request, I’m afraid that it places me between a rock and a hard place.” Paul sat silent for another minute, his brain still clicking.

Suddenly, the Commodore’s eyes lit up. “Of course,” he started slowly, “of yet, no one outside this base - and only a select few within it - knows the name ‘Harold Dubois’ or the face it is connected to...” he trailed off, arching an eyebrow to test the Commander’s tolerance for intrigue.

Murphy had expected this, that the Ians would be too stiff-necked to allow any perceived slight against their empire to go unpunished. Still, he had to fight a brief battle with self control not to let his irritation show.
"I can understand your desire to set a strong example in this matter. No one wants pirates running rampant in these waters. I also understand that there are other considerations to be had, especially where.... his personal ties might be concerned. Things that no one, least of all the RM&M, would like to be reminded of.... or have made public knowlege."
Let's see how he likes that one, he thought.
"Consider this though, sir. Suppose this pirate captain does have his day in court, much to the relief of the locals and the pride of you and your command. Then suppose said captain suffers a turn of ill health; a flare up of infection in his wounds? Or perhaps a bout with pneumonia? Those cells are quite drafty, after all. You get to keep your reputation as the scourge of the pirate threat, and Great Britain gets to continue her merchant shipping through this area."
Commander Murphy found himself gripping the arms of his chair with hands that were not entirely still.
"Would that be more to the Commodore's liking?"

Paul had not quite yet made the connection between the name Dubois and the C.E.O. of RM&M, and he frowned. Dubois was a fairly common name, especially in Noropia, and with no true birth certificates or identification papers present in Iansisle, the only way to relate them was by one or the other coming forward with the information. "You don't mean that our little Captain Dubois is in some way related to Royal's chief?" he asked with an arched eyebrow. Foreign investigative services never failed to impress Commodore Paul, just as they did every other person in the Iansislean military and government.

"Well, sir, that would certainly change things," said Paul slowly as he sat up straight. "RM&M would be clammering for me to keep it silent, and they're not an insignificant faction in this part of the world." He twirled his fountain pen quickly as Commander Murphy made his proposal. "Well, Sir Jonston, that certainly is an interesting choice. Naturally, however, it would require a good deal of secrecy on your end of the bargain: if my Admiralty gets wind of a trick like that, I'd be finished."

OOC: This seems to be somewhat slow-starting... would you like me to enter?

OOC: This seems to be somewhat slow-starting... would you like me to enter?

(Well, I certainly wouldn't mind at all! It's always nice to meet new role players. There's just one little thing: D.K. and I are part of a massive WWII situation over in I.I., and the interaction between that and my regular country are a little funny. No modern nations exist in that world, but I also interact with tons of modern tech nations elsewhere.

However, if you'd like to take control of some characters of mine - another pirate crew, an independent merchant men, local police, the crew of a patrol boat, a group of marines, etc., then you're welcome to.)

OOC: If you'll recall, my nation's tech level is around primitive. The reason this caught my intrest is because my main RP character spent many of the early years of his life as a sailor, and I was hoping to build some backstory.

Well, then, by all means, feel free to join! The major ports in Noropia (west to east) are Turnish, Cape Deliverance, Rorie Landing, Chateau, and Enahaven. RM&M is the largest shipper in the region, mostly iron ore, though several independent firms and the East Gallaga Company ship there every now and then.

Feel free to jump in where ever you want!

The Argonian named Whiptail stood on the main dock of the East Gallaga company, looking out across the bay. It had been many years since he'd left home, to travel in the wide world. He was dressed simply, a baggy white shirt and loose-fitting tan pants. A red bandanna was tied atop his head, with holes cut in it to accomodate his ear-fins. At his left side hung a fine saber, a graduation present from his recent time in Hammerfel studying swordsmanship. He currently awaited employment of some sort, hoping to test his skills against the pirate bands that plundered the area...

An East Gallagaman was certainly the perfect place for a young man out to see the world. The Argonian had been given much grief when he'd first signed up for the Company: Iansislean corporations weren't noted for their equal oppertunity practices.

Compared to most freighters, East Gallagamen tended to be much sleeker, faster, and sometimes even armed. For the most part, their cargo consisted of silk, spices, rare gems, opium, and other such goods that didn't take up much space. They were the most tempting targets for pirates to hit, and also the toughest nuts to crack.

Alas for Whiptail, the Company in all its wisdom had assigned him to a Teaman, EGS Duoj. While still painted in and flying Company colors, teamen were larger, slower, more sluggish, and rarely carried any sort of guns. Granted, their cargo was much less valuable than the Gallagamen, and was needed in greater quantities, but that didn't help to allieviate the sense of exposure.

Duoj had started out as part of a massive convoy, but by the time she reached Turnish in south-western Noropia, she was all by herself. Her captain, a big Shieldian of perhaps six foot three, regarded the new crewman harshly.

"Ol' Beeman, my best crewman, dies, and you're the best they can send me?" He spat on Duoj's deck. "I suppose you think you'll be the right scourge of the Pirates of Noropia with yon blade, heh? Jus' a word of advice: if we do run into any trouble, wait for the navy. No use playing a hero and gettin' us all killed."

Whiptail nodded, and would have smiled if his anatomy had let him. His reply was simple:

"As you wish."

Whiptail had left home at the age of twenty, after his warrior's trials where complete. He was now seventy-two, twenty of those years spent under the expert instruction and full-contact training of several Redguard swordmasters in the region of Hammerfel. Like most Argonian males of his age, he was confident in his fighting skills, perhaps a bit too much.

Whiptail stood at the average Argonian height of six-foot-two, and weighed around one-hundred and eighty pounds, with a strong and agile frame. The occupation of sailor seemed an obvious choice for an Argonian: They where natural swimmers and where able to breathe underwater. Like most males of his race, Whiptail had green scales covering his body, and he posessed a tail. Unlike most males, Whiptail's tail was around five feet eleven inches long, as opposed to the four foot even that most males had. Taking the length, and Whiptail's useage of his tail in combat, into consideration, it was readily apparent where he got his name...

OOC- OMG, I had no idea that Commodore Paul, or anyone else involved, didn't already know that! That will certainly make things interesting, albeit a little akward.
And for what it's worth, I think adding some more players to this is a great idea too, provided it's ok with you too. I'm getting afraid to tell people it's ok to join anymore because every time I do, it always gets too crazy. I noticed that WA mentioned having to accomodate "ear-fins"; anything you can tell me about that, just to head off any potential RPing blunders on my part?

IC- Commander Murphy had a hard time hiding his shock at Commodore Paul's reaction to his remark about Dubois' possible relation to the head of RM&M; it had been pure speculation on his part, based on nothing more than a shared last name. But hide it he did; it was far to valuable a negotiating point to give up. And if it turned out to be true, so much the better; he had a feeling the pirate would be willing to play any chance he saw, no matter how far flung.
"British operational security will be as unparalleled, as always, Commodore. I suppose the only question would be, what to do with him once the war is over, or at least the pirate threat is eliminated."
"But, that is neither here nor there. We both know these pirates pose a very real threat to merchant traffic that would otherwise pay them as much heed as a flock of seagulls. With both of our navies unable to display more than a token presence in these waters, we need something besides strength of arms to keep those ships sailing, for both our sakes. If Britain cannot send me more ships, then I will use the ones I have to their fullest potential, but I cannot do that without good intelligence. And that, sir, is exactly what this Dubois fellow can give us, both of us. Your ships face the same danger as ours, as I'm sure you are aware."
Murphy took a moment to collect himself. He sighed, regaining his composure, then continued.
"Sir, forgive me if I have spoken out of place, or taken more liberty than is due me. But I have seen an opportunity here, and if possible, I would like to take it. The final decision, of course, is yours. If you like, I will leave you to it; you can, of course, reach me at my office any time."
Murphy stood, adjusted his coat, and saluted the commodore.
"Now, if there is nothing else you require me for, I will be going. I'm sure you have important matters to attend to."

"Well, don't just stand there," scowled the captain, wondering what he had done to deserve some...freak as a crewman. "Stow yer stuff down below, then get back up here. We're casting off inside of an hour, and I want to make sure we're ready." He considered Whiptail for another minute. "Eh, you can clean the heads, first off. Look fer Mr. Klassen, first off - Dianatranian, small sort of chap. 'E knows what 'e's about."

As the Argonian walked off, the captain gave him a quick holler. "An' leave that blade below! It'll only get in t' way!"

ooc: It’s ok, you played it brilliantly ;). Right now, the only people in Iansisle who know about the relationship are the two Dubois brothers and that clerk from IanCorp.
As for the accepting people, I think it’s just because that RP in I.I. has grown so large and epic in scale that it really has a life of it’s own. I don’t think the new-people-accepting thing is your fault at all; it’s just that, if we’re RPing the world, how does it stretch to accomidate these new people?

ic:

"British operational security will be as unparalleled, as always, Commodore. I suppose the only question would be, what to do with him once the war is over, or at least the pirate threat is eliminated."

Paul smiled softly at the ‘operational security comment. Like most Iansisleans, he took references to other’s security meathods as a calculated shot at Iansislean counter-intelligence services, which it almost never was.

"Sir, forgive me if I have spoken out of place, or taken more liberty than is due me. But I have seen an opportunity here, and if possible, I would like to take it. The final decision, of course, is yours. If you like, I will leave you to it; you can, of course, reach me at my office any time."

“No, Commander, it’s quite all right,” Paul assured him with a wave of his right hand. “I realize that the Admiralty’s hard-line on pirates does cause us a few problems, and I apologize for that.” He rose alongside Commander Murphy and returned the salute. “I can promise you that I’ll take your request into serious consideration and get back to you as soon as possible. Good day, Commander.”

As the door closed behind Murphy, Sir Terrence did not return to his seat, but rather walked around his desk in an uneven circle, pausing to stroke his cleanly shaven chin. Murphy realized just what a bombshell he’d delivered by revealing Dubois’ connections, he reasoned. If Dubois turned out to be so intamently connected to RM&M, and he spilled the beans, there’d be hell to pay. He’d be lucky to wind up commanding a garbage barge.

But if it wasn’t true; if Murphy was just blowing smoke to confuse the issue and force Paul’s hand, he’d land in just as much hot water for letting Dubois escape Iansislean jurisdiction. There was only one soultion: he’d have to go put it in front of the pirate, and see what his reaction was.

ooc again: I got to shuffle off to bed, man...early day tomorrow. Sorry this is so slow-burn. Hopefully, I’ll be able to pick up the pace soon.

OOC- I don't know about WA, but the pace is fine with me. I sometimes think that the other threads I've been in go too fast, if anything.

IC- Later that night, Commander Murphy sat at his desk in his modest quarters. It had been a long, and very taxing day for him; the half empty bottle of scotch testified to that, as Murphy rarely drank. And when he did....
The young British officer growled, his glass flying toward the wall where it was shattered into a thousand gleaming shards.
Yes, bad things happened when he drank, didn't they?
Clink.
Commander Murphy whirled, his pistol already in hand. The shadowed figure standing next to the desk at the other side of the smallish room didn't so much as twitch, even though he had suddenly found himself staring down the barrel of a loaded gun. He simply sat down the small bottle of laudanum Murphy kept in the back of his desk drawer and swirled the bit he'd poured out into a glass around absently.
"Still suffering from headaches, Herr Murphy?"
The accent, however slight, was mocking..... and unmistakable. Smiling, Commander Murphy's visitor walked over to where the young man now slumped, pistol lying forgotten on the floor and head in hands.
"They say occupational stress is the leading cause of death in administrative positions. I've found that it's actually helpfull in keeping one's goals clear. Without stress, we would all become content, and never want for anything more."
The man sat across from Murphy and sniffed at the tincture he held in his hand. Smiling, he handed it to the Brit, who downed it quickly.
"What news of your mission? Has der kommodore agreed to release him?"
Murphy sighed heavily; the dope was already beginning to cloud his senses.
"Of course he will. He can't risk holding a prisoner who could create such a media fiasco; apparently, he's related to the CEO of RM&M."
The other man nodded his head, apparently unsuprised. Murphy, now too intoxicated to notice, continued.
"And he can't kill him; I'm sure his brother would protest, and with his influence, he could at least get the sentence commuted to life imprisonment. I'm sure Paul sees the logic in letting the Royal Navy "borrow" him, especially since our merchantmen are getting raided just as much as his own. Maintaining a working relationship with the British is going to weigh heavily on his mind. And I'm sure the pirate Dubois has no intention of rotting in a cell at any rate, so everyone wins."
The man stood, looking at Murphy for a moment. He seemed to make a mental note of something, then turned and headed for the door. Murphy turned, barely able to keep himself upright.
"Hey...... isn't it risky..... to meet like this?"
The man turned, and smiled slightly.
"Indeed..... for you."
Then he was gone. Murphy would awaken the next morning with only the foggy memory of his caller, which chilled him all the more. He dressed quickly; he had to pay a visit to Commodore Paul.

"I'm tellin' you, Capm'; I seen it, an' that's for twig!"
The fishing boat captain scowled at the grizzled sailor, who against all reason, emphatically claimed that he had seen a sea monster slither by off the port side. Such stories were fine in the pubs and brothels, but not while there was work to be done.
"An' were be yer hoary monster now, Mr. Squibb? Clear blue seas are all me eyes see, an' they ain't gone yet."
Squibb rubbed his stubbly chin with a hand missing half an index finger.
"Well, she clearly gone under when she heard all the fuss you was a'makin!"
The captain shook his head.
"Aye, clearly. Now get back to work ya bloody leeches. We got nets to be reelin' in!"

57 miles north-east, the Australian trawler Bounty lost one of her nets; her crew, after some speculation (and a fair number of "sea monster" tales of their own), came to the conclusion that a whale had most likely gotten caught in the netting and the rope had simply broken. New nets were cast out, and no one gave it a second thought.

Later that night, a dark shape broke the surface of the water. Soon, the forms of men could be seen clambering over the top of the outline; some slid into the water while others worked above. That morning, all that remained was the Bounty's net, cut in a score or more places, floating on the water.

Whiptail does as the captain instructs. His blade is stashed in his hammock, out of the way of what would become his usual duties. The young Argonian returns to the deck, to await further orders.

OOC: Ear-fins are a bit hard to explain without a pic. They're basically fins that are positoned on the Argonian head where ears are on human heads. They assist the Argonian in manuvering while underwater. They are somewhat large, and angle outwards. The interior skin flap is a pinkish color, and the skin that covers the bones that support the flap are scaly and the same hue as the Argonian's scales. Earholes are positioned behind the ear-fins, and are a bit more sensitive than human ears to compensate for the obstruction of the ear-fins.

What don't you know about me? I am curious.

What don't you know about me? I am curious.

I don't know what you think of the pace of this thread. I know that your initial post said something about it being off to a slow start. You and Iansisle seem to have a good relationship, and that's certainly enough of a voucher for me.

What don't you know about me? I am curious.

I don't know what you think of the pace of this thread. I know that your initial post said something about it being off to a slow start. You and Iansisle seem to have a good relationship, and that's certainly enough of a voucher for me.

OOC: I simply understand the frustration of having a well-thought-out thread posted and not having anyone respond to it. Myself, I can only participate in slower RP's as I post late at night, when few people are ever on. I usually don't have time to RP back and forth with someone during the day.

OOC: I simply understand the frustration of having a well-thought-out thread posted and not having anyone respond to it. Myself, I can only participate in slower RP's as I post late at night, when few people are ever on. I usually don't have time to RP back and forth with someone during the day.

Oh God, I know what you mean. A lot of times I only get to check the threads here when I'm at work, which is overnight as well. I do get pretty anxious for people to post, even though it's like 3am and not too many people are up.
So I also spend a lot of time at Homestar Runner's (http://www.homestarrunner.com) website. It's great for passing the time.

(I'd like to apologize for my lack of posting today. It has been a very, very long day, and I need a spot of sleep - I can't even think straight right now. Rest assured, I will respond to this and all other threads tomorrow, but I need sleep. Apologies to all involved!

This has been an automated message from IanCorp, Int. ;))

Don't make apologies for the constraints of your real life. Worry about that first, eh?
Besides, Homestar will keep me company. :wink:

There was much saluting and snapping to attention among the marine guards as Paul hurried to the base’s cell block alone. He found Dubois’ cell without much difficulty, and positioned himself in front of it. Within, the single occupant looked up from where he was laying on the bed. Bloody sheets were strewn about the room, though the one crudely tied to the prisoner’s head was in desperate need of a change.

“Harold Dubois?”

“Ah, commodore! How nice of you to remember. Here with my pardon already?” Dubois looked pale and coughed once or twice during his short speech.

Paul glanced at the corporal who was hovering just over his shoulder. “Marine, I’d like a few words with the prisoner. Alone, please.” The guard hesitated for a few more seconds. “That’s an order, marine!” The young man glanced from Dubois to Paul and back again, saluted, and retired around the edge of the block. Paul leaned in close to the cell. “There’s no subtle way to put this, Mr. Dubois: are you of any relation to one Penton Dubois?”

For a second, Harold seemed taken aback. He glanced away from Paul and out his cell’s small barred window. The face returned with a small smile. “Perhaps, Commodore. Why do you want to know?”

“For you, Mr. Dubois, it’s a question of life and death. I suggest that you perhaps give it a bit more thought?”

Harold stood on his feet slowly, the makeshift bandage on his head shifting awkwardly. “Why, Commodore, I didn’t know you cared if a lowly pirate like me lived or died. What’s the sudden interest?”

“Mr. Dubois, that is none of your concern. I suggest that you answer carefully. If you continue to refuse such, I shall enjoy seeing you hang, should the reaper not claim you before that.”

Dubois laughed, but it took just a couple seconds for the noise to turn into a hacking cough. “Mr. Commodore-whatever, are you perhaps under the influence of forces beyond your control?”

“Answer the damned question, Dubois!”

“If you must be so push, sir, yes I am. Pent’s my brother. Now, do you have some good news for me, perhaps?”

“No, Mr. Dubois, I have none.” Paul stood back from the cell, looked Dubois’ piteous form up and down, then retired back to his office. The rest of that afternoon and evening, all Commodore Paul could think about was the pirate in his cell and the British officer who was likely to be waiting in his antechamber the next day. How a decision like this had come to fall on a low-level area commander such as himself, he’d never be able to figure out. The entire future of his career could well in the balance, and he couldn’t ask any unbiased party for assistance.

----

As Whiptail heads back on deck, he is stopped by a young, browned Gallagan sailor.

“Hi,” the man - who is really practically a boy - says with a faint smile. “Welcome to the Executor’s service. I’m Paresh.” He holds out his hand in greeting. “Listen, don’t let the captain get you down. He likes to pretend he’s tough as nails, but he’s really a softie when you get to know him. Just watch out: he lost his last ship to pirates off the west Tharian coast, and his son was killed trying to defend it.”

The boy peers around a corner. “I suppose he sent you off to meet old man Klassen? Watch out - he’s the one you really have to be worried about on this ship. The skip’s all hot air, but if Mr. Klassen says to jump, you damn well already be in the air.”

OOC- Hope I'm not goin too fast for you Iansisle. It seems like you been pretty busy lately. :wink:

IC- The next morning, Commander Murphy was sitting in the waiting area outside Commodore Paul's office. The officer sitting at the reception desk might have noticed the dark circles under the Brit's eyes, and the slightly hollow look to his face. If so, he was at least professional enough not to say anything about it.
Underneath his calm, albeit slightly haggered appearance, Murphy's mind was racing; there was so much riding on pulling this gamble off, he couldn't afford NOT to think about all that might go wrong.
The minutes continued to tick by with maddening slowness. Murphy just sat there, hardly moving.

bloody double post!

(no, the pace is fine with me. It has been a little busy about here - winter break is drawing to a close - but I enjoy this too much to let it drop. ;) I'm sorry if my inconsistant posting causes any of you a headache; I try and post as often as I can, but there's about six or seven major RPs that need my attention right now, including this one.)

Commodore Paul had spent the entire night trying to think of an answer for Commander Murphy; now that the sun had peaked far to the east of Chateau, he spent his time trying to avoid Commander Murphy. Most of his time was spent aboard Tharia, but he couldn't spend too much time there without his receptionist or Captain Laughlin becoming suspicious.

For suspicion, his receptionist was probably the bigger of the two threats right now, as he beheld the ragged R.N. officer sitting in the area commander's office. Despite his ragged appearance, Murphy didn't seem ready to give up on Paul as the hours slowly ticked by. At last, as Laughlin's questions became more tinged by the worry that something was wrong with his commanding officer, the Commodore slipped back off the Tharia and wandered towards his office. He spent another hour wandering the base, until he passed the same marine sentry for the fourth time. Chateau may be a major R.I.N. base, but it was still nothing compared to the huge facilities in Ianapalis, Harbor City, or Port Laughlin.

Around one o'clock in the afternoon, Paul wandered into his office, not even daring to look behind him. There was a relieved glimmer in his receptionist's eyes, however, that made his heart fall a thousand miles. He knew what he'd see, but still he pretended to act surprised. "Ah, Commander Murphy! How good to see you again! I hope I haven't been keeping you long?"

After the response, Paul ushered Murphy into his office once more, and assumed his seat. "Now, Commander, I assume you're here about yesterday's, ah, proposal?"

OOC- Like I said, RL has to dictate what (and how much of it) you do here.Don't sweat it.

IC- I hope I haven't been keeping you long? Murphy knew that Commodore Paul would have been expecting him to be here, just as he knew that Paul would spend most of the day avoiding that meeting. In spite of the throbbing behind his eyes and the burning, churning sensation in his gut, and the fact that he had waited here for hours, he could not blame him; Murphy did not want to be here either.
The barest hint of a smile surfaced on his lips.
"No, not overlong, sir."
He followed the commodore into his office, and took his seat after Paul had been seated himself. The commodore's opening question was, again, painfully obvious. He knew that Paul already knew the answer to that; it was all part of the game. Commander Murphy had been playing this for long enough.
"In due time, Commodore. There is another matter I'd like to discuss with you first."
Murphy paused a moment, letting the commodore wonder what this new development that was more important than the fate of Dubois, before continuing.
"The Royal Navy is considering using Chateau as a home port for a number of destroyers that can operate in this area. The exact number hasn't yet been determined, but I imagine it will be three or four. However, there's no provision for a command for them; the ships will have their own captains and crews, certainly, but there's no fleet authority for them to follow. We'd like to place them under the command of the RIN here, untill they're deemed no longer necissary. I have all the orders prepared and ready, if you can find use for them."
Commander Murphy had actually been holding off on this proposal for a month or two, waiting for a good opportunity to use it as a negotiating tool. Three destroyers, while not a significant force against a modern navy, would make a dramatic impact on the security of Iansisle's merchant shipping. This seemingly routine assignment of a few ships to the area would place Commodore Paul at a disadvantage to refuse what Murphy was asking for relating to Dubois. An overly literal officer might think the former would remove the need for the latter, but Murphy rather thought Paul would understand that refusing to hand over the pirate captain might put the deal before him in jeopardy; maybe not of happening, but of happening quickly.
"As for the matter at hand, I understand that it requires a measure of discretion. No one wants this to be made public, which I'm sure a trial as sensational as this would become. The RIN surely wants to make an example of these pirates, after all. And consider what would happen should... concerned parties attempt to apply leverage on behalf of your prisoner. I certainly don't want to try and tell you your business, but you must admit that removing Dubois would go a long way toward solving the matter, sir."

Commander Murphy could see Paul’s face light up enormously at the mention of the possibility of Royal Navy destroyers being based out of Chateau under his command. At first, it was all he could do to stop himself from lunging at Murphy and wresting the orders away from him. Over a couple minutes, he managed to get himself under some degree of control, fortunately before he said anything.

“That’s ... certainly an ... interesting proposal,” said Paul slowly, just managing to keep his voice level through long pauses. His brain made the decision that had racked it for the last day and a half in three seconds. After all, there would still be fourteen people to try, and plenty more corsair crews he could capture with another three destroyers! 50 per cent again his numerical force!

“I’ve decided to release Mr. Dubois to British authority for the remainder of the war,” Paul stated simply. “It would be most convenient if we could do it as soon as possible, perhaps under the guise of taking him to the infirmary?”

Commander Murphy nodded.
"Certainly, sir; his wounds will surely need tending, and we don't want him to suffer a turn of ill health. I'll have transportation ready by tomorrow noon. I trust you can handle any questions that might be raised regarding his whereabouts, but any service of mine you might require is yours. Oh, and before I forget..."
Murphy handed Commodore Paul the packet of papers authorizing the transfer of the three British destroyers to Chateau. It was a wonder that the Iansislian officer's hand didn't fly from his wrist, as fast as he put pen to paper. The ships would take some time to arrive, but he had been correct in judging the effect it would have in the negotiations.
Once the business was complete, the two officers discussed some of the general details about the transfer. Murphy was content to let Commodore Paul handle the specifics of the story; let him think he was in charge here. Murphy had other things to concern himself with now; namely, how to explain what was going to happen next.
After collecting the paperwork and bidding Commodore Paul a good day, Commander Murphy left, heading back to his office. Once inside, he informed his secretary that he was not to be disturbed. From the top drawer of his desk, he removed an opaque, unmarked bottle much like the one he had hidden in his room. After a quick drink from the bottle, he took paper and pen and began to write. Once the message was finished, he placed it in a small glass vial and sealed the top with a rubber stopper. Placing the vial in his pocket, he walked back out of the office, heading for his car.
A short drive (somewhat risky considering the recent dose of laudanum) found him at a bridge spanning a shallow, slow moving stream. The vial soon dropped from the bridge, finding a new (if temporary) home amidst the rocks and fish. Once the deed was done, Murphy drove back to his office and fell asleep on his desk. His receptionist, used to seeing himself apparently working himself to death, spread his overcoat over him and turned out the lights; anyone calling for him would simply be told he was unavailable.

Paul didn’t wait about for long after Murphy had taken his leave. After giving the Commander a few minutes head start, to avoid any potentially incriminating coincidences, he wandered out of his office and informed the secretary that he intended to visit the Tharia. After spending so long on-ship earlier the same day, he was met with a rather intense gaze. Paul could only shrug and insist that he needed to have words with Captain Laughlin about recent gun crew efficiency ratings on his ship. The man behind the desk seemed to accept the explanation, anyway.

Once outside the headquarters building, Commodore Paul didn’t head down towards the Tharia’s slip, however. He angled away from the waterfront and made a bee line for the detention block, returning a few salutes along the way but obviously in a terrible hurry. The commanding officer didn’t think to look behind him, else he would have seen a rather interested pair of eyes tracing his progress from the window.

“Well well well,” chuckled Dubois as the commodore’s face appeared in front of his cell again. “Look who came crawling back. Got that pardon yet, chief?”

“No, Mr. Dubois, I do not,” stated Paul loudly, before checking over his shoulder quickly. He then stepped up to the bar and lowered his voice. “I do, however, have a proposal that will help you avoid the hangman’s noose.”

Dubois arched an eyebrow and slid along the edge of his bed, where he had been sitting, so as to better hear Paul. “How fascinating, sir. Please, do go on.” Despite his obvious interest in not dying, Dubois came off as slightly bored and very condescending.

“The Royal Navy has taken an interest in employing your services to help their anti-pirate campaign in this area,” Paul said bluntly. “As our own Admiralty won’t be pleased with anything less than your execution and subsequent use as a warning post, I’m sure you can see what a dilemma this puts me in.” The Commodore sighed, then waved his hand. “Now, then, I plan to escort you to the base’s infirmary, where after you be turned over to the proper Royal Navy authorities.”

“Sure, sounds great,” smiled Dubois, his tone still condescending. “Oh, one thing, though. It strikes me that sooner or later, the Brits aren’t going to be needing my help anymore, at which point I’ll be...” he shrugged. “Well, right back here. And, frankly, if I’m going to die, I’d like to make it as easy on myself as possible.” Dubois reclined slightly, tucking his hands behind his head while Paul fumed.

“Look, mister, I’ve had to pull a lot of strings to get you even this opportunity, and I hope you’re damn glad of it! You won’t, on my word as an officer of the King, be returned to Iansislean justice. And I need not remind you that British piracy laws are much more lenient than Iansislean, especially if you cooperate with them.”

Ah, so that’s it, Dubois thought with a grimace. Penton came through, all right, but not nearly as well as I was expecting. Still, they can’t really prove I killed anyone, especially not British nationals. What’s the worst that could happen? I rat out one or two hidey holes, do a couple years in a British prison, then make myself a citizen of the United Kingdom...doesn’t sound too bad at all. “All right, sah, you’ve convinced me,” grinned Dubois. “Lay on, if you will.”

Paul turned and summoned a nearby guard, who didn’t seem too happy at all to be escorting ‘that unrepentant scum of the sea’ towards medical attention.

---

Under a bush on a high hill behind the detention center, Duncan Upperman watched as his mark was escorted by three heavily armed guards. Using his high-powered binoculars, he watched as Dubois was taken to a small building marked ‘Infirmary.’ That had to be bad. The Navy’s medical technology lagged far behind even that in contemporary states, such as Walmington and Britain, and was downright primitive compared to Celebornian-assisted operations at Royal Standard University and its surrounding hospitals.

Upperman glanced at the sky. It was still much too early to do anything. Tonight was a waning crescent moon: not ideal, but much better than he had any right to expect, given the urgent nature of his business.

---

Back at the office, Paul’s receptionist picked up the telephone. While Tharia was in dock at Chateau, there was a direct line run from the Commodore’s office to the flagship. While she was at sea, Paul was with her. He dialed the appropriate number quickly and waited for the Tharia’s communication officer to answer.

“Tharia here, Sub Lieutenant Pinker here.”

“Hello, sir, this is Chief Steward Walker...I was wondering if I could speak with Commodore Paul briefly.”

“I’m sorry, the Commodore isn’t aboard right now. Should we be expecting him?”

“I don’t think so...Did he leave recently?”

“Several hours ago, I believe...may I ask why?”

“No important reason: just some scheduling details. I’m sure he’ll turn up soon. Thank you for your help, Sub Lieutenant.” Walker quickly hung up the telephone and tapped his fingers against the desk.

Commander Murphy found himself roughly shaken awake just before sunset. The man standing before his desk he knew only too well; his controller's lap dog, who he knew only as "Jerry". At over 6'2" and 210 lbs, he made a very imposing figure, and had put it to good use on Murphy in the past when he proved.... less than cooperative. Murphy sighed.
"So soon, is it? I assume all the preparations are in order?"
Jerry simply grunted; Murphy had never heard him speak a word of English, but he knew he understood him. He picked up his overcoat from the floor where it had fallen, and slid it on hastily. Soon the two of them were out the door and getting into the British staff vehicle. Jerry, or more rather his master, had seen fit to dress the part; a British uniform, complete with junior officer's rank that just barely hid the massive lines of his form. Jerry got behind the wheel without even a word, and they were soon bouncing toward the RIN base.
The gate guard passed them without a second glance; Commander Murphy was sometimes forced to keep odd hours, and it was not the first time he'd had evening business in Chateau. The car headed strait for the infirmary, pulling to a stop in front of the building. Jerry and Murphy got out and walked into the structure; the faint lingering scent of antiseptic made Murphy slightly ill. He'd always hated hospitals...
The desk clerk snapped to and rendered a salute to the two British officers he found himself facing.
"Can I help you, sir?"
Murphy cleared his throat. Here goes nothing...
"I was informed by Commodore Paul that a prisoner was scheduled to be moved here for examination. I wanted a chance to speak with him about recent pirate activities in the area, and I was wondering if he was available this evening. I should rather like to talk to him before he's hanged."
Jerry stood slightly behind and aside of Murphy, hands clasped behind his back; the picture of the disciplined British officer.

The desk clerk snapped to and rendered a salute to the two British officers he found himself facing.
"Can I help you, sir?"
Murphy cleared his throat. Here goes nothing...
"I was informed by Commodore Paul that a prisoner was scheduled to be moved here for examination. I wanted a chance to speak with him about recent pirate activities in the area, and I was wondering if he was available this evening. I should rather like to talk to him before he's hanged."
Jerry stood slightly behind and aside of Murphy, hands clasped behind his back; the picture of the disciplined British officer.

In the Commonwealth, people over five foot ten are fairly tall; people over six foot are abnormally tall. The desk clerk examined 'Jerry' up and down, more in admiration of the fine physique than because he expected any monkey business from the man. 'Jerry' passed the 'test' perfectly: he was just an abnormally tall British officer.

The clerk, after having satisfied himself about the Commander's assistant, went about the business of checking for the man Murphy was asking after. He knew perfectly well who it was - after all, Paul had stationed ten marines in the building just because of him! - but wanted to check anyway. The clerk didn't like marines very much. They were of a much more brutal stock than the typical Iansislean, and it was often at their hands that most of the people he saw came to need a doctor's attention.

At last, he selected a file. "Ah, yes, Mr. Harold Dubois. I remember the Commodore bringing him in. Up the stairs, down the hall to your left. Room 211 - the one with the marine guards outside it" he couldn't resist adding.

Outside room 211, Murphy and 'Jerry' would indeed find two marines; inside of it, they would find not only a Harold Dubois (tied to the bed post) but also one Commodore Sir Terrence Paul.

EDIT: I should probaby mention that I'm going to bed now. Loved the telegram, by the way ;)

OOC- Yes! My first attempt at the cloak-and-dagger business..... FOILED! Oh merciful God, what to do now?

IC- Murphy was non-plussed to find Commodore Paul keeping a personal vigil over his charge; still, it would remove the need to bluff, bribe, or (knowing Jerry) kill the guards.
"Ah, Commodore Paul. What a pleasant suprise."
Murphy paused, knowing Commodore Paul would have at least a vague idea of how the change of hands was to take place. He was prepared to follow his lead.... for the time being. He couldn't afford to make a mistake now.

OOC- Good night. I'll be looking forward to the next installment.

Commodore Paul, who had appeared to be dozing off when the British officer[s] entered, stood quickly. Their appearance was somewhat unexpected - he had thought the commander would simply send a lowly officer in the morning - but Paul was glad to see them. He nodded to Murphy's companion - he didn't recognize the larger man, though now was hardly the time to be thinking about it - and turned his full attention to the commander.

“Ah, I’m glad you’re here Sir Jonston. Mr. Dubois here has just been telling me the most interesting facts about local skullduggery. Now, then, I’ve brought my automobile right outside the building, where the guards can’t see it. I figure we just bluff that we’re taking him back, load him up and drive him out. I’ve a man who’s willing to testify that Harry here died enroute, and we buried him at sea. Sound like a good plan?”

A small scraping sound was heard outside the window, barely enough to be heard. It was probably just one of the big oaks outside scraping a branch anyway, and Paul didn't even hear it.

The RIN Commodore's words made Jerry rather upset; that wasn't how the plan was supposed to go. He was to deliver the package this same night, and he would have difficulty doing it with the Ians guard dogs hounding him. His secondary mission would also be complicated by the armed men he had found himself surrounded by. He didn't let himself become overly concerned with the details, however. A plan would come together, in due time. For now, he simply clasped his hands a little harder behind his back, in case they were planning some mischief. Like snapping the insufferable Commodore's neck.
Murphy simply nodded his head. He wanted things to go as smoothly as possible here, so he could go back to his regular, opium clouded routine.
"What happens then? How are we to take posession of Mr. Dubois? Certainly I won't be placed in charge of is, ahem, 'mortal remains'."
Murphy paused slightly.
"Am I to understand then, Commodore, that you'll be accompanying us the duration of the trip?"
That might be a problem, Murphy thought. He still had no idea how Jerry meant to get Dubois out of Chateau, and the more he thought about it, the more it worried him. Just what kind of disappearing trick were they going to pull, and how many pieces would he be left to pick up and put back into order?

Murphy simply nodded his head. He wanted things to go as smoothly as possible here, so he could go back to his regular, opium clouded routine.
"What happens then? How are we to take posession of Mr. Dubois? Certainly I won't be placed in charge of is, ahem, 'mortal remains'."
Murphy paused slightly.
"Am I to understand then, Commodore, that you'll be accompanying us the duration of the trip?"

"Oh, no, of course not," Paul smile, his nerves forcing him to crack his knuckles. "I'll drive the prisoner to some point outside the base - say, DuQuins Street Bridge - and you can follow a couple seconds behind me. Then we transfer him to your car, you stick him whereever it is that you're planning, I come back and fix everything up here, and we're done with the whole rotten affair!"

"This is the lousiest prisoner transfer I've ever seen," cut in Dubois suddenly from his bed. "And, mind you, I've seen some fairly lousy ones!"

Paul literally jumped - he had forgotten that Dubois was right there. "Thank you, Mr. Dubois, but I think that in your place, any further conversation would be unappreciated. Unless, of course, you'd care to remain here and face the gallows?"

----

As Whiptail heads back on deck, he is stopped by a young, browned Gallagan sailor.

“Hi,” the man - who is really practically a boy - says with a faint smile. “Welcome to the Executor’s service. I’m Paresh.” He holds out his hand in greeting. “Listen, don’t let the captain get you down. He likes to pretend he’s tough as nails, but he’s really a softie when you get to know him. Just watch out: he lost his last ship to pirates off the west Tharian coast, and his son was killed trying to defend it.”

The boy peers around a corner. “I suppose he sent you off to meet old man Klassen? Watch out - he’s the one you really have to be worried about on this ship. The skip’s all hot air, but if Mr. Klassen says to jump, you damn well already be in the air.”

Whiptail nods in compliance.

"I thank you for your advice, but I have recieved no orders as of yet. Should I meet this Klassen, then return to the Cap'n?"

The warehouse in Turnish just said Marx Brothers, Import and Export in reality it was somewhere between an importer of expensive food stuffs and furniture from the Klatchian Coast, and a secondary exporter of some what ‘hot’ merchandise back to the Klatch.

The warehouse had a small, front shop that offered items such as imported chesse, pickles, wines, and candies in a large set of display cases. A selection knickknacks, pieces of art and glassware arranged on imported furniture filled out the rest of the two, small rooms of shop. It was the kind of place one shopped for unusual gifts to keep a girl happy, or pick up something for the ‘hard to shop for’. Its location by the docks likely made it a bit of an adventure to shop there, as though the items were strait off the boat.

The shop’s sole occupant was the counter girl. Nothing remarkable about her, pretty with brown eyes and hair, a somewhat fine nose and mouth. Her body was fairly attractive, her only problem was she placed on too much make-up, which had gained her a reputation as being ‘easy.’

She made a decent pay packet from working for the Marx Brothers, and spent a good deal of time doing much of nothing. After all, most people found the prices in here extravagant, explaining the heavy iron bars over the windows. Today she was catching up on her reading. For some odd reason there was a tradition that the newest paper from home would be posted in one of the windows. Allowing any fellow Alconians to catch-up on the news. The local brother, Carl subscribed to a dry business paper called the Copper Harbor Times. It was mainly filled with business reports and the latest prices on commodities and stocks. The most recent arrival, almost two weeks old, had on the left hand column the headline Gold Still Missing Her eyes sparkled as she read the beginning of the report:

Barma Harbor- The recent recovery of 4 million Krondor in gold from the embezzlement scheme of Fidelity Trust Bank has been found to be a premature estimate. As of most recent tallies only 3.2 million in gold has been recovered. It appears that the embezzlers themselves were embezzled by a party yet unknown, however investigators are now sure that the missing gold was shipped out of Barma Harbor on a ship within a week of the discovery of the plot. Focus has now fallen on several bank employee’s who have recently quit or gone on extended vacations…..

“Gawd,” she said out loud “Think of dat, having 800,000 Krondor in gold. Bet right now their sitting back enjoying da good life. Caviar, Champagne, those chocolate covered truffles…” She started to day dream about that money and the dashing theif who had stolen it, after all the one thing she had learned was the value of a Krondor in real money*
********
He was not enjoying Caviar. He wasn’t dashing. He was laying down in cabin A-12 reading some police novel. A short, bald man in glasses oblivious to his fate as the ship he was on paddled across the ocean towards it’s next stop of Cape Deliverance.

Captain McGregor of the SS Seeandbee was unaware of the true nature of that portion of cargo in her hold. The bill of lading said 5 crates of granite sculpture, and it seemed to fit. Hell he hadn’t even heard of the Fidelity Trust business before they left port.

The Seeandbee was a well run, but old sidewheel ship that had found it’s third life running small lots of cargo and passengers from port to port.
Of course what was a ship her age still doing afloat, let alone toiling along as a mixed freighter hopping between ports? Well for all her age, she could still pull a respectable 12 knots on a good day. Her interiors hadn’t seen much more than new coats of varnish on the woodwork, and her hull’s regular coats of paint kept her from becoming a rusting hulk. Although her history was one of interest, she was actually a decommissioned naval vessel, which left her flying an Alconian Flag in place of some flag of convenience and a regular inspection routine. It had become a joke in some sense to her owners, the ship with thirty foot paddlewheels didn’t want to seem to die, or incur any major repair problems to scrap her. Well she paid for herself still.

If the Captain had known about the gold, well who knows he might not have decided to see what was for ‘sale’ in the commonwealth. Then again, most pirates knew that pissing off the Alconian navy had a way of quickly shorting one’s life very painfully.

edit: readability

OOC: I apologize, NS ate my post, which I was sure got through.

IC:

The young Argonian reguared the man with a puzzled look.

"I have recieved no such orders."

((Excellent, excellent writing. Taggishness.))

Commander Murphy breathed an internal sigh of relief; things were going to be ok after all. Jerry stepped aside, ready to follow the prisoner and whomever else was going along. The group stepped off, with marines in front and behind, followed by Commodore Paul, Dubois, and the two Brits. As they passed the desk, Paul gave his story about them returning Dubois to his cell. Murphy and Jerry kept right on walking, heading strait out to the British staff car. Again, Jerry took the wheel, and soon they were off for the agreed upon meeting point. Once they were out of sight, Commodore Paul and Dubois followed.
At the DuQuins Bridge, Murphy spent a few agonizing minutes wondering what had become of the commodore's car. He knew, knew that the deal was going to go off without a hitch, but untill he had Dubois in his car and was on the way to wherever Jerry intended to take him next, he couldn't silence that nagging little voice. Eventually, the car did arrive, and Dubois was ushered from one to the other by Jerry. Murphy and Paul passed a few words to seal the deal, and then the Iansislian officer was on his way back to his base.
Within a few minutes, Jerry had put their own car in gear and was driving off, heading away from the city proper. Murphy sat up front next to the driver, waiting for Dubois' questions to start...
OOC- Sorry if this post seems kinda rushed, but I had to pay my little debt to Uncle Sam this weekend, so I'm a little pressed for time. I'll make it better next time.

A+H, welcome to the thread!

Sorry I haven't had a chance to reply yet today..I've been pressed for time, as I'm leaving for Tucson tomorrow. I will (hopefully be able to post something tonight; until then, you have my most humble apologies.

Apocryphal, on part of everyone involved, thank you very much. It's always nice to know someone's reading our material.

Totally. I mean sure, I'm doing this for myself, but it's good to know that other people out there are enjoying what's going on here too.

very well done chaps if i do say so myself, i like your work..keep it up :D

She slowly sat up from the bed and looked over her shoulder. Once Sharon Dancing Cloud saw he was asleep, she slipped from the bed. She then slid over to the dresser and grabbed his pack of cigarettes. She nagged herself about smoking as she walked out onto the balcony. The cool wind blew across her face as she stared out into the blinking lights of the city. The situation was developing much more rapidly than she thought was possible. Tossing her long black hair over her shoulder, she drew a long cigarette from the pack and sat down looking out at the new construction of Ianapalis. Her government had tasked her with the study of Iansisle and it's economic power.

Sharon never expected to find love. At first, her relationship with Ernest Kensington was purely an attempt for information on Iancorp. However, the longer she spent with him, the more she realized that Ernest was growing on her. They had lived together in Ernest's apartment for a month now and it complicated matters. Sharon took another long drag on the cigarette and scanned rooftops for a signal.

Sharon was the head of the small cell located in Ianapalis, and in reality, all operations in Iansisle. She was proud of herself, having already supplied information straight from the offices of the East Gallagan Trading Company to the state department. She had also been instrumental in helping get contacts at the various military intstallations. That was how she got into this current predicament. Ernest had told her excitedly about his recording of a conversation between the Dubois brothers. Honestly, Sharon was amazed that the famed pirate Dubois could be at all related to the pretentious Sir Penton Dubois. Sir Penton Dubois had been particularly difficult to get close to. He was directly responsible for the construction of the brand new skyscraper home of the Royal Mining and Manufacturing Consortium’s Ianapalis headquarters. RM&M was one of the business models that Sharon was charged with analyzing and reporting back on. This news alone would have been helpful for the potential blackmail possibilities.

However, the real reason Sharon was standing outside in the cold was the news she had paid generous sums of money for. The British naval attache in Chateau had been displaying a large amount of interest in the recent capture of certain "scallywags." Sharon had realized earlier, after a flurry of coded messages in one of the highest levels of Iansislean cipher, that a major pirate captain was being held at Chateau. The commander in Chateau was going to wash his hands of the captain.

Sharon slowly put out the cigarette on the railing. She saw the signal. She sighed and slowly walked back inside to change from her robe to more appropriate attire. Once she was changed and certain documents stamped and coded messages sorted, Sharon slipped a couple of parcels into her pocket. She leaned over Ernest and whispered into his ear.

"Ernie, darling. I am going to take the dog on his constitutional. You need to get moving for work. You know you go in earlier. I am also going to drop off your grey pinstripe at the cleaners. The paper is on the kitchen table and a pot of tea is brewed. I will see you at work, dear."

After Ernest mumbled a good morning and acknowledged her comments, Sharon kissed him on the forehead. She had a very busy day ahead of her. She had to walk the dog, drop off the dry cleaning, make a secret drop, secretly stop by the consuls office, and then catch a trolley to the corner of Gallaga and Port Laughlin.

As Sharon finally walked through staff entrance of the massive International Tower, she heard the first of many ringing phones at her desk.

"Thank you for calling the Iansislean International Telegraph Corporation. How may I direct your call? {pause} May I ask who is calling? One moment please."

(Welcome aboard, Tribal Gods! I'm really pleased with the amount of research you've done - that's one of the most informed posts I've seen on Iansisle! - but there's just one tiny sticky point. I don't think it's too central to your story, but Commodore Paul is working without the Admiralty's knowledge. Excepting him, Murphy, Dubois, Jerry, and the guy Paul paid off, I don’t think there’s a person in the world who knows about a plot...yet. We still have a wild card or two left to play.

In the meantime, go ahead and control Kensington for now, and invent any sort of background you want for him. Oh, and I think you may already know, but Iansisle works with an early 1940s technology base and Victorian era social outlook. Just so you know for the future. In the meantime, is there any information I can give you?

Once again, welcome aboard!

Everyone else: I’m working on my post right now. It should be up inside of an hour or so (hopefully, ‘cause that’s when I’m going to bed :)))

Commodore Paul drove back to the base with a definite sense of satisfaction evident on his face. Terrence Paul, you’re an absolute genius! You’ve rid yourself of that Dubois menace, without even tipping off the Admiralty, RM&M, or anyone!

It was just then that all four of his tires blew out. Paul’s Mark III Jackrabbit skidded out of control - he had been going at much too fast of a clip for the lonely country road - and crashed into a largish oak tree. The commodore quickly stumbled out of the car, coughing as smoke billowed from the front of the car. After a minutes hacking by the side of the road, he was ready to investigate the cause of the accident, but suddenly, he felt cold steel on the back of his head. He just barely had time to recognize it as the jack he kept in his car’s boot before he was down.

Above him, he heard two men’s voices talking - or maybe it was just one to himself.

“Dubois isn’t here.”

“They must have killed him and left him down the road.”

“Why? They could do that legally at the base!”

“But here, they could do it without all the commotion. I doubt even the Navy wants to cross swords with Royal.”

“Agreed. I’m going to check down the road....wait, first...”

Paul felt some liquid being poured down his throat, then sprinkled liberally on him. He was too far gone to care what it was. Then the men - or man - left, and he lay motionless.

----

Cape Deliverance is the third largest city in Noropia, after Chateau and Fort Dawes. Many have speculated how the city could grow to be such, as all the RM&M trade went to Turnish, the Hudson to Rorie Landing, and the legitimate goods to Chateau. Those official sources are also the same who have not taken into account the bustling underground market that riddles the city.

Cape Deliverance is also the center for all pirate activity on the Noropian coast, though they like to pretend they aren’t. The captains - or at least, the smart ones - are always very careful not to take a ship in the vicinity of the Cape, and the stupid ones don’t live past their first pub after raiding too close to the haven.

The Royal Iansislean Navy suspected the heavy ‘fishing’ trade in Cape Deliverance, seeing as how low the actual take values were compared to the number of fishing ships registering it as their home port, but they couldn’t do any more than station an aged destroyer in the harbor. The Oasis tried to keep track of the massive fleet that sallied from the Cape every day, but she was only one ship - one ship absolutely limited to twenty seven knots at that, well over nine knots slower than the newest runs of destroyers - and some of the vessels actually were legitimate merchant concerns.

Only a few noticed when an old paddle wheeler came steaming slowly into town; she was already in the exclusion zone.

(A+H, feel free to make up any locations - import/export shops, dirty pubs, slimy rooms for rent - that you want, and I’ll control the characters in them.)

---

Paresh smiles. “Don’t worry; if he didn’t tell you that, he meant to. We’re going to be casting off inside of half an hour, and you’d best know Klassen by then. Trust me.”

The Gallagan looks around one last time. “I’m supposed to be cleaning the captain’s quarters. You’ll find Mr. Klassen up front. Good luck!”

(OOC: I’m going to model Cape Deliverance after an old shipping port)

The SS Seeandbee pulled into the harbor with a toot of a steam whistle. The local tug got her snug to a small, overused jetty on the southern part of the harbor. Her size likely caused some eyes to go wide. After all, a paddlewheel steamer that large wasn’t a usual item. As the gang plank was lowered onto the dock, the short man with a bowler hat, and looking somewhat of a dandy on walked down and started off down the road.
Captain McGregor noticed him leaving…
“Ah, Mr. Moyer where are you off to?”
“I need to make some inquires locally Captain McGregor.”
“Ah, this ain’t the best port….”
“You shall conduct your business Captain, and I shall conduct mine…”
McGregor just shook his head and thought bloody fool

About ten minutes later the man in the bowler carrying his cane rather than using was receiving stares by the locals as he marched up the muddy, littered street that was the main thoroughfare. He came to a local establishment called The Five Arms.
It was a two story building with small windows punturing the cobble stone walls on the bottom and top floor. Strangely it had a very good view of the harbor, as the other side of the street was clear of any and all obstructions, just a small stretch of shingle that seemed to have become a parking lot of small craft.

It was a place only ‘locals’ ever entered, and the small man in the bowler.

He walked strait to the bar, ignoring almost everyone else in the room, which seemed to be filled with rough looking men and beer. He stood by the bar, and stated in a dry tone. “Bar Keep, whiskey please…”
*****************
Milita Commander Patterson looked at the report on his desk and the man standing in front of him. “Anything new…”
The young detective sergeant nodded his head and said. “I’m taking Moyer and Hillbee will take Tompson. I’ve sent in a call to the Admiralty about searching ships, and well they gave me a bugger of a response.”
“What?”
“Told me to be at Old Dock 4, at 11:00 this morning sir, I’ve got a meeting with Logistics command…”
“Hmph, 800,000 Krondor in gold on the lose, and these boys want to send logistic ships out to find him…Ah, well tell me what their up to after your meeting Thorm.”
“Yes, Sir”

edit: double post???

The dark waters off Chateau were unusually calm that night, so a few local fishermen took the opportunity to conduct a little late night work. The calm seas would also serve the needs of another group of sailors that night. A few hours after sunset, U-173 finally surfaced after nearly 2 entire days of submerged sailing, thanks to its innovative schnorkel. Within minutes, the crew had readied their rubber launches and the Flottenkommandos they had spent over a month bringing from France were ready to depart. The black rubber rafts slid silently into the water, and the German commandos were soon rowing to the coast, a little over a mile away. The next morning, several of the local fisherman who had been out to sea the night before would report to the Ianislian garrison that they had seen a strange ship and men in rowboats make a trip out to the coast.

(D.K. - sorry, I forgot - Dubois does have some questions for you. I've only got a couple minutes right now, so sorry if this is sort of brief)

"Well, that was some job," grinned Dubois as he observed Paul's car speeding away. "I really thought you two were British officers for a minute there." He lounged as best as he could and ran a hand through his hair. "Where to now? Ianapalis?"

ooc: Boo, Iansisle! Guess who has returned! in any case, Marche Islands is gone, JOIN MY RP.

--D-man

(hey, Daez! I don't have much time now, but I'll be sure to check it out when I can!)

ooc: Righto. In any case... Can Waughslind Merchant Marine Corps get in on this RP here?

(if they care to...like I said, anyone's welcome, as long as it's half-way reasonable. All right, I'm off. See ya later tonight / tomorrow)

"Well, that was some job," grinned Dubois as he observed Paul's car speeding away. "I really thought you two were British officers for a minute there." He lounged as best as he could and ran a hand through his hair. "Where to now? Ianapalis?"

OOC- No problem. I'm kinda pressed for time too.

IC- Murphy smiled thinly.
"Yes, I think some explanation is in order. My name is Johnston Murphy, and despite what you may believe, I really am the British naval representative in Chateau. While it is true that you aren't headed for British hands, neither are you heading to Ianapalis, or anywhere else within the Shield. I'm not here on your brother's behalf."
Murphy held up his hand, silencing Dubois before he could speak.
"Someone has taken an interest in your survival, because they need information only you can give them. Provided you cooperate, you'll be released to whatever future you can make for yourself; I don't care if you go back to piracy or not, or where you go. It's not my concern."
Jerry rounded a corner, opening up onto a deserted stretch of road overlooking the sea. He brought the car to a halt, and opened the door. Murphy turned to Dubois.
"This is the place. Time to make good your escape, Mr. Dubois."
Jerry opened the rear door, allowing Dubois to exit the car. He did so apprehensively. Jerry led the way off the road, with Dubois following and Murphy bringing up the rear. About 40 meters off the road, the group came to a clearing, where Jerry took a seat on a fallen tree. Murphy scowled; apparently, this was the meeting place, but he had no way of knowing for sure. He didn't speak German, and he had never heard Jerry speak English, although he knew he understood it. He turned to the pirate captain.
"Have a seat, Mr. Dubois. Your transport will be here soon."

"'Someone,' Mr. Murphy?" asked Dubois with a half-cocked grin. "Must be someone rather important to get that bugger back at the base -" he jabbed back over his shoulder in the direction of Chateau "- to let me go." Beneath his outer calm and careless shell, Dubois' mind was racing a mile a minute. He wasn't headed for British hands; that much was obvious. But he also wasn't going to Ianapalis or any other Royal stronghold. And if this man wasn't working on his brother's part, or that of the Royal Navy, who was he working for?

Dubois followed Jerry as they reached the rendezvous. He temporarily considered making a break away from them and running off into the Noropian wilderness, but he knew he wouldn't get very far. His entire body, especially the shoulder, was aching and that brute in front of him was a fine physical specimen. No, it would be best just to see what came of this.

"I can't wait, Mr. Murphy," grunted Dubois, sitting gingerly on the ground cross legged. He coughed violently and quickly wiped his mouth off. "Perhaps you're ready to tell me now where I am going, rather than where I'm not?"

---

Back at the bridge, Duncan Upperman had found the meeting place. The air about him felt insufferably thick; there were heavy clouds rumbling in from the mountains to the south. It was going to start raining soon. And if he didn't find Dubois before it did, he probably never would. Upperman gazed down the lonely country road with a grimace. It was an old pass, hardly ever used, and was only paved part of the way. It soon ran into the main road from Chateau to Rorie Landing and Cape Deliverance, but took longer and ran much closer to the ocean.

He set off with hardly a grunt, jogging effortlessly down the path. Soon the thud of asphalt below his feet gave way to the crunch of gravel, and he noted with pleasure thinly imprinted vehicle tracks. Upperman picked up the pace; he had to rescue Harold Dubois.

---

The barkeeper at the Five Arms was an older man with a jagged scar down on cheek. He looked over, as did most of the people in the bar, at the new arrival. What had once been a rollicking noise festival quickly bled away into an eerie silence.

The man with the scar slowly advanced on the newcomer with squinted eyes. "Ah'm sorry," he said, though the words could easily have been mistaken for a grunt, "Did you whant a whiskey?" The low tone reverberated in the silence of the room.

Sharon tried her best to slink down the stairway, but Iansislean propriety and basic ill-formed fashion made it hard to be sexy. However, Sharon knew that he was watching. As she made her way over to have a drink she reminded herself that she was Natasha tonight. When she had watched spy movies as a child, the women were always Natashas. She took her drink with a wry smile on her face as she thought about how she had acquired tickets to this charity ball. The risk of blowing cover had certainly been worth the look on Humphrey Biggles face. To think that a man could run a staid accounting firm and still be into-

"Excuse me, milday. I was struck by your apparence from across the room and had to make my way over to meet you. I must say you are positively radiant. May I-"

"Look, buddy. I am not in the mood to be charmed right this moment. What was your name?" Sharon spat out.

"Well, I . . . ummm . . . Well . . . Winton, ma'am"

"Winton, Winton, Oh. You must be Charles. You are the third son, right? If I remember correctly, you recently had your trust rescinded, right? Why was it again? My name is Natasha, by the way. Never meant to be rude. So, Why was it ag-"

Before Sharon could finish, Charles Winton was scurrying away as fast as possible. She shoke her head and wondered her mark was. If she had come to the ball, wore this ridiculous wig and dress, and had to put up with insuffereable people like the Winton idiot, she would be furious. Charles Winton could not even hold a job at IanCorp, where his father was a major shareholder. Sharon had recently given notice at Iancorp. One of her good "friends" had just been hired for a position in Personnel and Hiring. They would only be responsible for hiring lower personnel and secretaries. No one requiring any high security clearances. Just the people typing the reports, taking phone calls, and the like. She was being called back to home. She had to debrief her government and start new operations. Sharon tossed the fake blonde hair of her wig, as she scanned the room. What would she do with Ernest? She sipped her drink, the current in-drink. She was really starting to like him. And then she noticed someone walking into a privaste office. That was him.

She made her way through the crowd. She glared at Charles Winton as she passed him. He quickly took an interest in his shoes. She had to speak with the one man who would make the entire operation in Iansisle worthwhile. She eased closer, as she mulled her proposal in her head again. It would probably work. Of course, it could land her in a jail, with an angry Iansisle diplomat talking to her small nation in a not so pleasant way. Of course, if he took the bait, Tribal Gods would have an immediate benefit. Sharon has decided to take action before she could get a report back from State.

She slipped into the private room, apparently a library and stared at the back of a man. She noticed his suit fit him better than it did last time. It seemed to have lost weight and also seemed to stand taller. She took a step forward and noticed the other man in the room.

"Herbert, please step outside the door and keep this room private. I need to have a word with ummm- Your name, Miss?"

"Natasha Leonidge" Sharon replied as the burly Herbert quietly moved by her. He must have been in the rrom since before she got here. Sharon would have definately noticed Herbert's hulking presence. She was left alone in the room with him. He motioned her closer and started pouring her a fresh drink. She sat in the chair opposite his and took her drink. After waiting for him to sip his port, she took a sip. After a lingering pause, Sharon was about to start the conversation when he started talking.

"I truly believe you have something to tell me. Your message was cryptic, but obviously necessarily so. Please tell what you want."

Sharon sighed. Here went everything.

"Sir, I have two things of interest to you. One might be more personal. One is a threat to your livelihood. The real question is what you would do for assistance." Sharon grew tense, realizing she had put the entire operation on the line.

"Look, call me Penton. Do you have news about my brother, Harold? The military has been surpringly hard to talk to."

"If we are going to be honest, call me Sharon. I will give you all the information I have accumlated about your brother to prove I am sincere. However, on the second issue, I will need information in exchange."

Sir Penton Dubois sat back in his chair and smiled. He liked this woman. She was honest enough. If only he knew what she was after. Sharon smiled back at him. He seemed much less pompous than the last time she had seen him. If only she knew if she could trust him.

(Tribal Gods, I hate to sound anal retentive, but in the future I'd appreciate if you didn't play as my major characters. Don't get me wrong, I love having you participate in this thread and you're welcome to RP my minor characters, but just, in the future, let me play as Sir Penton. It would both allow me to play his character as close to my picture of him in my mind as I can, as well as let me respond to your posts. Thanks for your understanding, and I really did enjoy reading your posts.)

"'Someone,' Mr. Murphy?" asked Dubois with a half-cocked grin. "Must be someone rather important to get that bugger back at the base -" he jabbed back over his shoulder in the direction of Chateau "- to let me go."
Commander Murphy smirked.
"It was important to him, Mr. Dubois; as such, it became important to me. Luckily, I had something that Commodore Paul valued more than your life. That being said, I don't know where you're headed from here, and I frankly don't care. My part in this is done once you leave."
"And so it shall, Herr Murphy. So it shall..."
Dubois jumped at the sound of the voice, coming from almost right behind him. Whirling, he found himself faced with a man standing behind him, a few scant feet away. My God, he thought. I didn't hear a damn sound.
Jerry, on seeing the newest addition to the group, snapped to attention. Throwing out his hand, he rendered an odd, strait-armed salute and barked out something Dubois didn't quite understand. (OOC- I guess I'm just assuming at this point that Dubois doesn't speak German, and would have at best limited familiarity with German armed forces.) Murphy too clambered to his feet, but didn't bother with any formalities.
"Commander Murphy, I want to thank you for your work in freeing our friend here."
Murphy offered a grim smile.
"We both know full well that I had no choice, Lindemeier. Even if this was the first little task I'd done on your behalf, you could pull enough skeletons from my closet to destroy me."
Lindemeier laughed. Yes, the incident with the bar girl in Amsterdam. My, he thought, how eager you were to keep that a secret... To be sure, there had been other things; the morphine addiction, the drinking, the gambling. Any one could have cost Murphy his career, but murdering someone in a drug-induced stupor? That would have put him in a very tight spot.
"Yes indeed. Luckily for you I was there to clean up your little.... mishap in Amsterdam. Wasn't that lucky, Herr Murphy?"
"Conveniently so, almost like it was planned to be that way. Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to finish this."
Lindemeier nodded. Yes, this would be his last assignment for Commander Murphy, just as they'd agreed; it would be difficult to put him to further use after this, in any event.
"Your payment is waiting in your car, Commander. As we agreed, this is the end of our professional relationship. I wish you luck in the future, for whatever that's worth."
Murphy started walking back to the car. Lindemeier let him go a few feet, just to make it look convincing, then nodded to Jerry. Jerry knew what was coming next; had known all along, in fact. Pulling a silenced Walther pistol from within his jacket, he took aim and, before Dubois could even say a word, put a bullet in the back of Murphy's skull. The report was no louder than a cough politely muffled by a fist, so it was unlikely anyone on the road would have heard anything, unless they heard the sound of the British officer's body hitting the ground. Moving quickly, Jerry replaced the weapon and moved to Murphy's corpse. Picking him up as if he weighed nothing, he started back to the road. Lindemeier turned back to Dubois.
"Well, now that's out of the way. Let's take a walk, captain. I'm sure you have lots of questions, and we've little time to answer them all."
Back at the road, Jerry deposited his burden next to the car. Circling to the trunk, he quickly looked around to see if he was alone. Seeing no one, he turned back to the task at hand. Opening the trunk revealed another body; some nameless face he had picked off the street earlier that day, chosen for the height and build and the similarity it bore to Mr. Dubois. The fact that they had little else in common would soon matter not at all. He removed it, a can of gasoline, and the car's tire iron before closing the trunk.
A few minutes work put Murphy in the front seat and the other corpse in the back. Jerry reached in and started the engine. Working fast, he put the car in gear, holding in the clutch with his foot. The tire iron came next, wedging the accelerator down. The engine responded, sounding angry at being pushed to such limits. Jerry took a quick step back, releasing the clutch as he did so. The car lurched violently, threatened to stall, then relented and began to pick up speed. It was still accelerating when it left the road and plowed into a tree. Jerry picked up the gas can and jogged to the car, its engine still idling roughly. He doused the interior liberaly, then lit Murphy's cigarette lighter and tossed it in. Once the fire was going nicely, Jerry ran back to the car's starting point, then retraced his steps, heading past the clearing toward the beach. He didn't want to miss his trip out of this God forsaken country.

Jerry knew what was coming next; had known all along, in fact. Pulling a silenced Walther pistol from within his jacket, he took aim and, before Dubois could even say a word, put a bullet in the back of Murphy's skull.

(Oh, those rotten Nazis! ;) The crash/fire should be enough to throw Upperman off your trail; he's good, but not perfect. That is, unless Jerry happened to leave behind some sort of clue? If not, that's ok. However, I have class (early) tomorrow, so I'm going to have to call this an early night, I'm afraid. See you tomorrow for more intrigue!)

Moyer just returned a steady gaze to the bar keep and said.
“Yes, I said whiskey. And anyone here who can tell me the fate of Black Nail Pete.”
*********
Lieutenant Detective John Thorm sat back in the chair and looked out the window as the aircraft lifted off into the air. He sat back and attempted to understand the Admiralty.
At first he had thought that they considered the whole matter unimportant. The small, old man behind the large desk had listened politely, asked for a copy of the file, and then picked up the phone.

“Areo Transport? I need to send someone up to follow a ship.
Yes, the SS Seeandbee….
Fine, I’ll send him over….” He hung up the phone and pulled out a small map, circiling the location of the next office.
“I hope that the Navy can be of more service in the future. I think you should head to the local fleet base and ask for their help. After all, I doubt if they really want to have that much bullion in the hands of their criminals either.” The Back Admiral raised himself and offered his hand. The interview was over.

Thorm rose and just shook the man’s hand. And then found himself in the lobby. And stopped cold. He thought he saw a ghost. I mean they had drawn and quartered her handn’t they was his first thought. The blue eyes and blond hair were a dead match. But memory recalled it was Laura Edwards, not her older sister who was waiting to see the Admiral.
I’m surprised she still is in the Navy at all, after what her sister tried. He left the waiting room passing the old, one armed Master chief who was somewhat typing effectively.

Now he was on an airboat heading for Chaptu. Wherever in the bloody hell that was.

(Oh, those rotten Nazis! ;) The crash/fire should be enough to throw Upperman off your trail; he's good, but not perfect. That is, unless Jerry happened to leave behind some sort of clue? If not, that's ok. However, I have class (early) tomorrow, so I'm going to have to call this an early night, I'm afraid. See you tomorrow for more intrigue!)

OOC- Your man probably won't find too much at the scene; Jerry's ever so careful about this kind of thing. If he's an observant fellow, he'd notice the furrows in the road where the car took off. There will be some stories floating around amongst the locals about some odd things they saw during the night, so he might get some ideas from that. Add the fact that there are only two bodies in the car, and there might be some questions left unanswered.

(ooc - Sorry about stealing Sir Penton. I wasn't going to do anything farther IC with him. I just wanted them to meet. Also, you hadn't mentioned him except in passing, what with the excitement down in Chateau. *shrug* I understand completely though. I should be able to have Sharon proposal to Sir Penton ready tomorrow night. You respond for him.)

Dubois watched without blinking as Jerry shot the British commander. It seemed a damn shame - the man had been nice enough - but it hadn't been Dubois who had caught the bullet, so he didn't care too much. And at least he knew who he was dealing with - the big one had done everything short of shouting 'sieg heil!' on his commanding officer's approach.

While the thick one ran off to create the ruse, Dubois eyed the newcomer, this...what was it Murphy called him? Lindemeier. Somehow, he could tell that this one was the tiger's brain, while the other was just the muscle: very intimidating, perhaps, but unable to function without a proper impulse.

"Well, now that's out of the way. Let's take a walk, captain. I'm sure you have lots of questions, and we've little time to answer them all."

Dubois smiled thinly. "I suppose my first question would be to enquire after a smoke, if you have one handy. My second would be how long it is before I, ah, get lead poisoning?"

----

Still a good ways down the road, Upperman witnessed the bright flash of the car igniting and gas tank cooking off.

"Shit." The curse rolled off his tongue roughly, and his heart froze. Granted, there were a few things that could be exploding up here, but this was too damn much of a coincidence. He broke from his easy, energy conserving jog into a dead run, drawing his C.G.Mk.VII in the process.

When Upperman arrived on the 'accident' scene, the Germans had been long gone. The fire had largely burned out its fuel and died down, but there was still an oppressive heat to the entire area. The RM&M special operative searched about for nearly an hour, but needed nothing other than the Dubois-sized body riding shotgun.

There would be quite a few questions to answer come the next morning, and they started with the groaning Iansislean officer those miles back who was probably just now coming to. Upperman would have to maintain a super-low profile for the next couple of days.

----

"You want to see Black Nail Pete?" asked the bartended quietly. "In that case, you're either crazy or a cop. An' both ways, you'll be dead." The whitehaired old seadog nodded towards a table in the back of the room, where a couple of toughs sat gathered around a poker game. "Requiescat in pace."

(thanks for understanding, T.G. I hate to be picky about those sort of things, but...[/shrug])

Lindemeier couldn't help but laugh as he reached into the inner pocket of his rough tweed jacket and removed his cigarette case. He handed one over to Dubois, then produced a lighter for him as well.
"Provided you don't do anything incredibly stupid and force me to leave you here for the RIN to recover, you're safe enough. In fact, I'd worry more about the wounds you already have than ones you've not yet received. Besides, I've put too much effort into getting you this far to just kill you."
"As for us, we'll be leaving shortly; our transport is just a short walk down the beach. From there, we head south, where we'll unfortunately be parting ways. I've other things to attend to, whereas you are still needed in this part of the world. Ah!"
Lindemeier turned as Jerry came trotting up, panting lightly. A quick exchange send the hulking German on ahead of them. Dubois and Lindemeier followed at a more sedated pace, saying little. A short while later, they came up on the beach itself. The waning moon cast just enough light for them to see Jerry wading out into the surf toward a dark shadow on the water. A pair of low voices were barely audible over the lapping of the surf. Soon Jerry was heading back to shore, hauling in a black rubber raft carrying a half dozen black-clad men. A spash a bit farther out caught Dubois attention, and he turned in time to see another dark figure towing a second raft into shore.
"Come along, Mr. Dubois. We mustn't keep Lt. Keller waiting."
(Iansisle, you should remember Lt. Keller from the incident with the Capable. :D )
One of the men in the second raft offered Dubois his hand.

Dubois took a long draft on his cigarette before exhaling a large cloud of smoke in satisfaction. "Me, do something stupid? Why, whatever gave you the impression I'd be stupid?" he asked with a half-grin - and only half as a joke - while he tapped the ashes off the end of his smoke.

"Well, you can tell Lt. what's-his-face that I'll be there as soon as possible," grumbled Dubois, being careful to offer his left hand to man in the second raft. He glanced around his new occupants. "I don't suppose this would be the best time to ask just what in hell you plan to have me do?"

EDIT: ugh, I've tried to block out that entire memory ;) Seriously, though, we ought to look into having that thread archived - it had Capable, Queen Jessica/Graf Spee, Queen Mavis/Bismarck, everything...

EDIT: ugh, I've tried to block out that entire memory ;) Seriously, though, we ought to look into having that thread archived - it had Capable, Queen Jessica/Graf Spee, Queen Mavis/Bismarck, everything...

OOC-There's no way that's NOT going to make it in there. I mean if that British propoganda flyer (http://www.nationstates.net/forum/viewtopic.php?t=70418&highlight=) that had about 40 replies made it in there, the Liberty thread (http://www.nationstates.net/forum/viewtopic.php?t=57626&highlight=) is a sure thing. At least, I hope it is... that was a lot of work for all of us, not to mention about half the back-story to what's going on now!

IC-The kommandos hoisted Dubois into the raft, being mindfull of his injuries. Once all was done, they turned and began rowing back to U-173. Dubois was confused at first; certainly they didn't expect to row all the way out, did they? He scanned the dark water, seeing nothing for the longest time. Finally, there was a brief flash of light off the port side of the raft, then another. The light became more frequent untill he could make out the silouette of the U-boat's conning tower against the moonlight. A man on the boat's deck, waving a flashlight in a long, slow arc, guided them in untill the crew could grab a line thrown from the rafts and haul them in. The men, fatigued after the two miles round trip, pulled themselves aboard and stashed their gear before heading below. Dubois was assisted up the ladder and then down into the U-boat's control room. The ship's medic guided him to the front of the boat, where he sat him down in the petty officer's quarters and began tending his wounds. As he worked, the sailors went about getting their ship ready to depart. The diesel engines growled to life, and U-173 headed south toward the open sea. The captain, wanting to make good time, ordered the boat to run on the surface untill nearly sunrise, then raised the schnorkel and submerged.
Dubois found himself being shaken awake; apparently, he'd dozed after the medic had finished with him. How long it had been was anyone's guess; it might have been minutes or hours, there was no way to tell. He looked up expectantly at the sailor who had awakened him, who simply cocked a thumb over his shoulder. Dubois stood, and the youth, who looked about 20, promptly flopped down on the bunk and went to sleep, leaving the pirate to his own devices.

OOC: I'm going to take a few liberties with Black Eyed Pete in this...As for threads, unfortunately the one I’m refering to was deleted. But hopefully the whole thing makes sense. One small problem, I use modified BV 138’s for long range flying boats!

Moyer picked up the whiskey and took the shot. He then walked towards the table and the men. Well the thug in the middle looks like Matt He stopped and reached into his coat pocket, and threw down what looked like a silver watch. In fact it was an early 19th century ships chronometer that someone had added a chain to.
Black Nail Pete was bit taken aback, after all that watch had vanished with his younger brother when a panicked Captain abandoned him in a foreign port. He had heard rumors that his brother had then signed on to some misadventure in the South Pacific involving attempting to free some wog king, but most said the adventure had been a complete failure, with all aboard killed.
The man stated in a dark voice, "Mr. Abernaty, I've come to return your brother's watch, as he asked me to before his death on the China Wright raider Vixen almost twelve years ago.”

*****
A letter was sent from the Alconian Embassy in Iansopolis (sp?) to the Foreign Office of Iansisle.

To: The Foreign Minister
From: The Outer Ministry, The Dual Duchy of Alcona and Hubris
Subject: Your cooperation in an investigation.

At the present time there has been a large theft of bullion from a Bank in the Dual Duchy. At the present time, one of the prime suspects has vanished into Noropia. We would be pleased if you could notify your Admiralty of this and gain their help in the matter. We have sent an investigator to find the suspect.

The investigator is Lieutenant Detective John Thorm. We have been informed that he is in route to Chateau.


edit: That Liberty Thread was very, very good.

(I hope you'll all excuse my lack of posting this evening. I had to catch up on another thread or two - the world cup was a prime example - and had to neglect this one. I thought there would be time now, but I'm about to keel over from exhaustion. Until tomorrow, I'm afraid.)

Yeah, I been trying to keep pace on a couple other threads too, so no problem. See you later then. :twisted:
A&H, I'm glad you liked that thread. A lot of people put quite a bit of effort into it, and I think it went pretty well.

OOC: Well, yes but then it began at such a high quality it forced others to reach that level. Far better than some threads which are nothing more than statistical 'fire fights' and characterless operations. Well I hope this Rp and my contributution are as good...

OOC: Well, yes but then it began at such a high quality it forced others to reach that level. Far better than some threads which are nothing more than statistical 'fire fights' and characterless operations. Well I hope this Rp and my contributution are as good...

I'm sure they will be. If Iansisle can draw himself away long enough to wrap this up, that is...

(I'm sorry about the long response time...my computer has been stupid of late. Rest assured this is on the top of my reply list as soon as I can ;))

No problem. I was just ribbing you. :wink:

Ending up on a German submarine had been about the farthest thing from Dubois’ suppositions of what would happen to him after Paul released him to Murphy’s control. It was rather a shame what had happened to the young British officer, but somehow Dubois figured that the commander wouldn’t have lifted a single hand to help him had not Lindemeier intervened. At any rate, his wound had been properly dressed, even if the bullet wound still ached, and his prospects here couldn’t be much worse than staying and facing the gallows in Chateau.

Just what the Hun did want with him was far beyond Dubois’ current ability to reckon. The Commonwealth in general, and Noropia in particular, was very out of the Germans way, or so it seemed to him. Someone fairly high on the command scale must have taken a personal interest in him.

No, that was a little too presumptuous. Someone fairly high on the command scale must have taken an interest in something he knew.

So what did he know that the Germans might be interested in? He thought for a couple minutes as he wandered out of the crew chambers, picking his course more or less at random. At once the thought hit him - I know how to make a ship vanish in Iansisle. I know every secret cove between here and the west Tharian coast. I have connections with the authorities in all the port cities and fishing villages. They’re planning to step up raids on the Noropian coast, and they need my help to do it!

Dubois smiled and hugged the information about him like a warm, secure blanket. He may be a stranger in a strange world, but perhaps this realization would give him a leg up on that Lindermeier when next they met. And Dubois would need every leg he could get; that no-nonsense kraut, unlike Paul and the fops who ran Iansisle’s excuse for a navy, was not a person to be messing about with.

---

(A+H, please feel free to take any liberties you want with Black Nail Pete and the other occupants of the bar. I’ll play them when you want me to, but the back history and all is up to you.)

Pete froze momentarily, then grasped the watch in one meaty hand. His finger traced across the back to see in the initials were still there; they were. His eyes never parted from the former chronometer. Those of his companions, however, darted from Pete’s face to the shiny object he held to the 98 pound weakling who had brought it in.

“Matt?” was the only word Pete could manage past the crumbling façade of belligerence he had been trying to hold up.

---

(close...Ianapalis ;))

As was fairly usual, the Alconian message didn’t make it quite to Sir Archibald S. Hughes, D’Carlonia’s Minister of Foreign Affairs, but rather to the very able hands of one Mr. Edwards, his top assistant.

Foreign Affairs didn’t deal directly with the dominions’ governments - that was Commonwealth Relations’ job - but he had heard of the pressure the Noropian legislature had been putting on the Admiralty. Somehow, he wasn’t sure that even this new development would convince either party to back down or attempt a compromise.

Still, the Alconians needed a response, and he quickly pecked them out one on his typewriter.

The Outer Ministry, Alcona and Hubris,

The Commonwealth is most distraught to hear of your missing bullion. Detective Thorm will be extended every bit of help the local government can extend to him; I shall see to it personally. We shall have a man waiting for him at the Chateau aerodock.

Best of luck in your quest,

Sir Archibald S. Hughes, MoFA

Edwards had long since gotten over the somewhat noxious concept of signing his superior’s name to his work; after all, it was all he had done during the slip-shod days of MacIntyre’s tenure. He sealed it with a copy of Hughes’ ring and send it off at once, before getting in touch with the fleet base.

A thin man in a ragged jacket nd a long jimberjam goes rowing over the scene. "Millenium hand and... I told 'em!" He stops for a bowl of green-mouse-and-telephone ice cream, and scoots away with a growl.

Moyer looked at Pete for a moment and then at his companions. "Hmm, I think you may need a stiff drink." He turned and motioned to the bar keep. "Sir, please bring me and these good men a bottle of whiskey and five glasses....Oh, and a round of good stout for everyone here, in honor of those who shall never return." The flash of a 100 bill in local currency (I can't recall the name) seemed to get things moving quickly.

Moyer then pulled up an empty chair and sat down, removing his bowler as he did so. A very observent man would have noticed the gun conceled under his jacket, most just noticed his very bald head. He then pored himself and Black Nail a shot of whiskey each and motioned the others at the table to serve themselves from the bottle. Black Nail took his whiskey and was about to nail it down when Moyer raised his glass and said,
"To the best damn gunner I've ever known, Matt Abernathy."
There was a general statement of "Aye" from around the table as everyone drank their shot of whiskey.
"So do you want to know what really happened to Matt?" He asked as he watched the others pour themselves another shot.

----
The message was relayed back both to the Admiralty and The Alconian Central Investigation Department. The Admiralty sent the message on to Thum and a ship in port.

****
Thum was reading the letter as he streched his legs around a small dock in some god forsaken port along the coast. He could here the ting to the desiel fuel pump as it filled the tanks of the flying boat behind him. Well they are going to send someone, who? likely someone who's job is to keep me out of the way. The pilot, Lt. Commander Parsons was inspecting the central engine. She was a cute blond who looked like she had been on the diving team at the Naval Academy. She waved at Thum and indicated that he needed to get back on the plane. Well, I wonder if I can convince my guide of telling me if there are any good restraunts in town....

He was trying to mentally undress her as he walked back towards the flying boat. Better than thinking about the somewhat stale sandwich he was going to be having for dinner in transit...

****
The ship was technically still in port, but only if you considered being 'in port' almost eight miles out of her berth. Her present paint scheme was all black and white with no writting on her at all. It had become common practice not to add the cover name until well out of home waters. In case spys were paying attention to the leaving of such vessels. As she made the turn into the channel between South Point and Grass Island the captain smiled for the first time that day.

Or that is what the well built man in jeans and a blue shirt thought. Strange, They kept Commander Edwards around after executing her older sister. Of course she is stuck in the Q-fleet...why had the Admiralty sent her on this mission? Now I'm going to have too worry about snagging back a fortune in gold but also keeping an eye on her...

OOC- Erm.... hey Iansisle. I don't suppose I could borrow your baseball bat for a minute, could I?

IC- Lindemeier stood on U-173's bridge, talking quietly with Capt. Horten. He'd shed his civilian disguise almost as soon as he got below, and was now garbed in his black SS uniform. Joining the SS had been a calculated career move; he cared little for the Nazi party, and had even less ideological loyalty to Hitler, but the SS was the road to power in the new Germany. He already wore the rank of Sturmbannfuehrer on his collar; most men his age were still junior officers, clerks, or administrative aides. Besides, the uniform was useful in avoiding the scrutiny of the Gestapo, who watched all outside the party for the slightest hint of disloyalty.
Capt. Horten was dressed as most of his position were; leather trousers and a plain cotton shirt. Indeed, the only distinction between him and the rest of the crew was the white-crowned cap reserved for ship's captains perched slightly askew on his head. The man was unassuming; medium height and build, a few weeks growth of beard shadowing his face. The normally strict regulations over military dress and conduct were lax among the U-boatwaffe; there was little room for formality when you might be killed at any moment.
Both turned as Dubois stepped through the forward hatch. Capt. Horten smiled slightly; it was obvious the man had never been aboard a U-boat. He had almost forgotten how difficult newcomers found it just moving between compartments, since it was second nature to him by now. He turned to Lindemeier, still smiling.
"How do you think he's going to like life on a U-boat?"
"He's a pirate by trade, herr Captain. I imagine he should fit in just fine."
Horten threw back his head and laughed loudly; he had always been a man of good humor. Still chuckling , he started up the ladder to the U-boat's conning tower. Lindemeier turned to Dubois, who barely managed to clear the forward hatch as one of the crewmen went trotting past him. Barely slowing, he caught the grab bar above the circular entry and swung himself through with ease born of repetition.
"Mr. Dubois. I trust you slept well? If you'll come with me please, you and I have some things to discuss."

OOC- I'll reply whenever I get the chance, but my ISP's been kinda flaky the past couple days.

((ooc: With my blessings, D.K. Sorry my responses in this thread have been so irregular...I hate to say "I'll get to it tomorrow" but I'm afraid I'll have to. A+H, please don't take my extended silence as any sort of insult; I love the plot you're developing, and hope that my lack of participation isn't putting you off of this thread.))

(OOC: That's alright...I have to kick someone's behind about getting them to sign a treaty on another thread...and the way our schedules work one post per 24/hours is about the max rate.)

IC: The man returned to standing on the outer bridge and looking down on the deck before him. The 8 inch gun crew had pulled forward the hatch over the lowered gun to let in light as they cleaned and oiled their weapon.
The Captain herself noted and barked out an order "Get that hatch back in place. I don't want any snooping aircraft to get any pictures of that."

He huffed, he had been in the Hull division for years and Q-fleet captains seemed to all worry about being exposed. By nature they had charges that pushed the envlope of 'legal' fleet craft. They sailed under false colors, dropped of and picked up special forces, and generally were designed to pretend to be a cargo vessel when they were really better defined as a protected cruiser. The fact that they had armor protecting the engine, fuel, and part of the gun deck made them able to survive a fight with an auxilery cruiser or an errant shell or torpedo hit. If some navy got really annoyed, well she might take a few frigates with her, but it was unlikely that the Martin would survive.

Of course Commander Edwards was being a b***, they weren't even out of home waters yet.

It was pitch black when Paul awoke. Though he closed his eyes again at once and groaned, he really should have considered himself lucky to have awoken at all. The night temperature was dropping rapidly, and laying unconscious in a puddle of whiskey next to an accident site in the woods probably wasn’t the best course of action.

With a dull groan, he managed to get his elbows under him and lever up a bit. The elevation made his head spin, and he collapsed back into the mud at once. He didn’t know what the hell Murphy though he was up to, assaulting an Iansislean area commander and all! Boy, would he have a report to make when he got back to Chateau.

Paul tried to lever himself up again, and collapsed in a heap after a few seconds. He could see his jacket, just inside the open car door; a good two and a half yards away.

Perhaps that report should be made if he got back to Chateau.

----

Somehow, the alcohol managed to clear Black Nail Pete’s head. He blinked once or twice after shooting back the shot, and was just reaching for the bottle when the rather unusual question hit him.

“Yeah, matter o’ fact, I would. And, say, friend: just who are you?”

---

Mr. Claude Mercil hated his job. It had seemed like an easy enough way to make twenty five generals a week, five times the average working-class payroll, plus tips, but repeated errands soon grew tiresome. At age thirty nine, he was already more than ready to retire, but there were more mouths than just his to worry about. And it’d more if he wanted to send his now-sixteen year old son to a proper school like Royal Standard or the University of Gadsan.

And so he found himself waiting on one side of the ‘visitors’ side of the Chateau international aerodock, holding a sign that said “Detective Thum” aloft. Just who this Thum character was, or why he needed to be met by an official representative of the Dominion’s government, was frankly beyond Mr. Mercil’s imagination.

((I'll have D.K.'s response up later tonight.))

"Mr. Dubois. I trust you slept well? If you'll come with me please, you and I have some things to discuss."

"Very well; thank you..." Dubois searched Lindemeier's uniform, found no distinctive marks, and settled for "...sir."

He followed the German wherever he went, evaluating the u-boat every chance he got. Submersibles were not a natural concept to anyone on the Shield, even a man like Dubois, and he was often struck by curiosity.

When they reached their final destination, he sat down. "I'm a man who appreciates straight forward conversation, Lindemeier. I hope you don't mind my bluntness; don't take it to mean that I'm not grateful for my deliverance. However, I do wonder: what is it you want with me?"

Dubois was careful to keep his face as neutral as possible; he didn't have as much practice at that as did some politicians in Jameston, but a lifetime of poker games had taught him the basics.

(meant for it to be longer, but I need to be off to bed. Sorry.)

Somehow, the alcohol managed to clear Black Nail Pete’s head. He blinked once or twice after shooting back the shot, and was just reaching for the bottle when the rather unusual question hit him.

“Yeah, matter o’ fact, I would. And, say, friend: just who are you?”


Moyer smiled for a moment. “I’m sorry, I forgot to introduce myself properly. My name is Vaughn Moyer, I was the first officer on the CWN Vixen.. I meet your brother when wandered into our landing party on some forsaken island in the South Pacific. His story was that he had been stranded when his captain had gotten a bit too involved with one of the local heavy’s girl. Well the mobster in question had decided to vent his frustration on a few of the remaining crew. Matt decided to head to the small fishing village where we were refitting the forward 150mm guns.”

He pours himself a drink, and continues “Well Matt was desperate to get off the island, and we needed more crew. We had lost a few men in our last raid on some nameless sloop who had been armed, a covered six pounder with grape. Bloody mess that had been. Matt signed on to the crew, and the Vixen headed off the next phase of the mission. Really unimportant now, and likely doomed from the start.”

He looks down into his empty glass for a moment contemplating how to continue,
“Well, the Alconians had cut a massive swath of land out of my home nation of China Wright during the war, and they had named it China Wrighty. We had a few spies in the refugee camps in China Wrighty and our next stop was to pick one up. On our way there we raided two more vessels, fairly easy work. Especially with Matt, he could knock out the wireless shack on most boats with one shot of the 150mm. So I bucked him up to being the gun captain on the forward port gun.”

He smiles at the memory, looks at Pete and returns to the subject, “The location of meet was a small, unpopulated bay near the border of China Wright and China Wrighty. But it was not empty when we sailed past, there was a whaleback sitting pretty with a Alconian naval flag flapping in the breeze. Well the Captain had enough sniping neutral merchantmen and decided to take out the whaleback and pick up our spy.”

He just shakes his head for a moment, and then looks into the distance, his voice slightly horse. “We turned around and hit them in the dark. It started off well enough, we actually got into close gun range without the enemy hearing us, but then we fired a warning shot across their bows. I can still see the Captain standing on the bridge telling them to strike their colors and surrender. Their response was to rake our port side with heavy machine gun fire. Matt’s crew responded in kind…put a shell into the wheelhouse and took out their machine gun. Unfortunately it exposed Matt’s crew to the machine gun in the enemy’s forecastle, which opened up on them. Matt lost both of the other men on the gun. I ran up to help him turn the gun, as Matt sent a shell through the forecastle and that blasted Alconian gunner. Hell we just opened up on her after that. We were signing our death warrants and didn’t even know it.”

He takes another drink and shakes his head, “Hell, we should have asked ‘why is there an Alconian naval oilier sitting by itself here?’ We got the answer when the starboard lookout screamed Torpedo. They hit us midship and the magazine. The Vixen blew into two when the ammo went. Massive white flash…metal all over the place. I got smacked into the forecastle bulkhead and went out cold. Matt got smashed between a part of the wheelhouse and his gun. When I came to, the Vixen had been torn into two with the blast. We were sliding under. Matt was still alive, although obviously with internal bleeding.” He stops and shakes his head for a moment…”Matt, well…Matt wanted me to end the pain. I couldn’t, more from the fact that my Luger was somewhere in the wreckage…then he demanded that I take his watch and return it to you…I promised. I…well…Matt lost consciousness a few moments later while I was trying to find anymore survivors among the crew. Most of them had attempted to get away in a lifeboat. As far as I know they were all captured and hung. I swam to shore, my career in the China Wright navy at an end…”
_____
Mr. Claude Mercil hated his job. It had seemed like an easy enough way to make twenty five generals a week, five times the average working-class payroll, plus tips, but repeated errands soon grew tiresome. At age thirty nine, he was already more than ready to retire, but there were more mouths than just his to worry about. And it’d more if he wanted to send his now-sixteen year old son to a proper school like Royal Standard or the University of Gadsan.

And so he found himself waiting on one side of the ‘visitors’ side of the Chateau international aerodock, holding a sign that said “Detective Thum” aloft. Just who this Thum character was, or why he needed to be met by an official representative of the Dominion’s government, was frankly beyond Mr. Mercil’s imagination.


The Alconian flyingboat landed at the areodock with a bit of a problem. They had spent the last thirty minutes repeating that they may look like a German aircraft, but they were not. After all, did the Germans paint blue crosses on white circles, and have a large green griffin on the tail? Well the radio operator was thankful when they finally landed.

Detective Thorm (OOC: I miss spelled earlier ) got out of the aircraft and waved at the crew. He wasn’t sure about several things, but he had his passport and badge in his coat pocket. Everything else, including his firearm was in the suitcase he lugged to the terminal. There he didn’t see all that much except the sign that said ‘Detective Thum’ well that may have been him. The detective, in his gray linen suit filled out with his fairly large build, and the closely cropped brown hair that said ‘military’, approached the man holding the sign.

“Are you looking for a Detective Throm?” he asked in his low islands accent.

OOC- Not at all. Between the crappy night I'm having and the
cold/flu/whatever that's creeping in on me, I don't feel very
ambitious myself.

IC- Lindemeier headed back forward, where he and Dubois seated themselves in the officer's mess, such as it was; nothing more than a table cornered on two sides by a bench. Still, it was out of the flow of traffic, and about the only spot on the whole boat where one could sit without smacking his head on something.
"The reason you're here, Mr. Dubois, is because Germany has never held much interest in this part of the world. We've never had a presence here, military or political. And we know nothing about our enemies here; their habits, the strength of their forces, how those forces are used, nothing. You, however, have made it a point to know as much about those things as you can, which is why you lasted as long as you did. It really was unfortunate that you would attack a transport full of troops heading for garrison."
Lindemeier leaned back in his seat slightly. He needed the man's help, but to show how much he needed it would shift the power to him, and he couldn't allow that. Dubois would be hard to control if he thought he had the upper hand, even if only for a moment.
"What we primarily need from you is the information you have on the local naval forces; specifically, on the merchant shipping traveling through the area. What lanes are most often used by which ships, their cargo, the escorts that follow them, and the schedules they follow. Things that a man in your position would be able to put to good use. Only we won't be attacking just the merchants, mind you. We'll have a bit more at our disposal than a single pirate raider..."
"It will be a few days before we get to where we're headed. In that time, aside from working on making a swift and full recovery, I'd like you to spend some time reflecting on those things. We'll need anything you can contribute once all is ready. Now, is there anything I can do for you in the meantime?"

After the hassle getting the flying boat down, Thorm may have been surprised by how easy it was to get through Iansisle’s excuse for customs. A single, bored-looking and pimple-pocked teenager asked his purpose for visit, if he had brought any exotic animals or plants with him, country of origin, and how long he intended to stay. Any attempts to present a passport were waved away with a yawn, and the new arrivals were waved through regardless of how they had answered the questions; one wondered if they weren’t simply for show.

Mercil glanced down at his sign. “You’re from Alcona and Hubris? Yeah, I guess so. The department must have mucked up and gave me the wrong sign again.” The portly little Noropian tucked it under his arm and stuck out his hand. “I’m Claude Mercil, attaché to Department of Civil Affairs.” He turned and started walking towards the exit. “Welcome to Noropia, detective.”

----

((sorry to hear about your poor health, D.K. I hope that whatever it is clears up soon.))

Dubois listened to Lindemeier’s introduction with a completely passive expression. So it was what he had been expecting. He tried without luck to get any sort of read on where the German was going next and gave up at last.

“Yes, Herr Lindemeier, those are all things I know,” Dubois said bluntly. “Though the first thing I’ll tell you is that you’ll not find any good hunting off this coast. The East Gallagamen are the prizes most worth taking, and they almost never venture north of the horn. The best you’ll find up here is a Royal Mining and Manufacturing iron or steel ship. If you want the Gallagamen, the best place to go is off the west Tharian coast, but they’ve that whole area tied up with convoys.

“Still, it seems as if you know where you’re going. And, if you don’t mind, my shoulder is bothering me. Do you know where I could find an open bunk?”

---

Pete listened to Moyer’s story in silence. It sounded like every commerce raider’s worse nightmare. During the end, he found himself unconsciously rubbing the watch with his thumb. Some of the other men around the table watched the scene carefully; they had never seen Pete display this much emotion.

“Thank you,” he said quietly as the story drew to a close. “I know..I know how much this watch meant to him.”

There were a couple seconds of complete silence as everyone remembered Matt and the men of the Vixen. At last, Pete looked up. “Moyer, I...I know how much trouble you must have gone through to get this here. If there’s anything I can ever do for you...” Even Pete didn’t know if he was making the offer in all honesty, or if it just seemed the right thing to say given the circumstances.

OOC- Not a problem. I'm feeling better already.

Dubois listened to Lindemeier’s introduction with a completely passive expression. So it was what he had been expecting. He tried without luck to get any sort of read on where the German was going next and gave up at last.

“Yes, Herr Lindemeier, those are all things I know,” Dubois said bluntly. “Though the first thing I’ll tell you is that you’ll not find any good hunting off this coast. The East Gallagamen are the prizes most worth taking, and they almost never venture north of the horn. The best you’ll find up here is a Royal Mining and Manufacturing iron or steel ship. If you want the Gallagamen, the best place to go is off the west Tharian coast, but they’ve that whole area tied up with convoys.

“Still, it seems as if you know where you’re going. And, if you don’t mind, my shoulder is bothering me. Do you know where I could find an open bunk?”

Lindemeier cocked an eyebrow; there wasn't, as a general rule, much free space of any kind onboard a U-boat. All the bunks had two sailors at least assigned to them; while one was on duty, the other would typically be asleep. Long-range boats like U-173 had even more severe limitations, but Lindemeier thought they might be able to string up a hammock in either the forward or aft torpedo room. He stopped a passing sailor and asked him to make the necissary preparations. The young man, probably no older than 20, eyed his uniform and rank uneasily; when Lindemeier had finished, he lingered a moment, as if confused about something. He then snapped a nervous Nazi salute, barked out "Heil Hitler", and trotted off toward the forward compartment. Lindemeier shook his head slightly; he knew that most people within the German military were distrustful of the SS.
After Dubois had left, Lindemeier continued to sit at the table, thinking about what he had said. He hadn't expected to see much activity around Chateau, and knew Deutschland's captain wouldn't want to attack so close to a RIN base in any event. The convoy traffic to the west was tempting, but he was sure the Calarcans would have a presence there to defend such a vulnerable link in the Allied supply chain, although there had been little news of that nation for some time. After having lost Admiral Scheer to a Calarcan cruiser squadron, Fleet Command would be leary of placing Deutschland in the same position. Lindemeier decided to send a message to Raeder's office once the boat was further out to sea, asking him for his advice.

Mercil glanced down at his sign. “You’re from Alcona and Hubris? Yeah, I guess so. The department must have mucked up and gave me the wrong sign again.” The portly little Noropian tucked it under his arm and stuck out his hand. “I’m Claude Mercil, attaché to Department of Civil Affairs.” He turned and started walking towards the exit. “Welcome to Noropia, detective.”

“Well…ah…thank you…” Thorm responded as he started to follow the man from Civil Affairs he kept looking back towards the dock wondering about the young pilot. Well she was assigned to this mission. Customs here is as leaky as bottomless pail. Hell no wonder Moyer came this way. I bet I’m on the right b**** after all.
“Ah what is on the agenda? The only reason I ask is I could really use a drink and some decent food. The navy isn’t known for it’s hospitality towards the militia…”

***
Moyer looked at Pete and smiled. “Well, now that you mention it, I could use your help. You see I have a little project to pay back the Alconians for their kindness and generosity ..” He stated the last part with oozing scorn.
“ I am looking for a group of sailors who don’t mind crossing the law for the profit. I am going to remind the Dual Duchy of the crimes it has committed against my liege lord and his subjects, and hopefully make a great deal of profit in the bargain. I am looking for a crew of cutthroats like your brother Matt and I need someone to help me find them…” his eyes seemed to be a blazingly blue. His voice had almost become lyrical in nature. He was a man with a mission, one he had been plotting for almost 15 years.

OOC: Yes well I guess Clarca is stuck on the farm till March? Also did he use is modern crusiers or back date? (I ask since he happens to be my largest naval supplier)

Black Nail Pete thought he was pretty clever, in a small-town bigwig sort of way. After all, he had been on crews that befuddled the R.I.N. up and down the Commonwealth’s western and northern coast. And like most Iansisleans, he certainly didn’t mind crossing the law left, right, or center for a handful of generals. Moyer here offered not only a chance to pay him back for delivering the watch but also the chance to make a tidy profit in the meantime.

“Well, Mr. Moyer, you’ve come to the right place if that’s what you’re after.” Pete glanced around the bar quickly. “Just tell me how many men you need, and I can have the rustled up by the morrow.”

----

Dubois wanted to laugh at the near-comical trepidation and fear in the young German sailor’s mannerisms, but it did give him pause. He wouldn’t recognize an S.S. uniform if it came up and bite him in the ass, but something told him that wasn’t merely the respect due an officer. He thanked Lindemeier, although he was (if possible) even more distrustful of him now, promised to come up with all the information he could, and shuffled forward to his makeshift bed.

He attempted to strike up a conversation with a couple crewmen, before coming to the sudden realization that most Germans didn’t speak English, and if they did it was only a couple broken phrases before they hurried off to look busy. German was actually one of the more common second languages spoken in Iansisle, trailing only latin, Bengali, and French, but Dubois had never been one for foreign languages.

He settled into whatever had been rigged up for him and divided his thoughts almost precisely between wondering where they were going and holding up his promise to Lindemeier.

----

“The agenda?” asked Mercil as he held a door open for Thorm. “Well, I was going to take you back to the office to talk over this business of yours, but I suppose we could always do it over some food.”

There was a touch of pride in his voice as he added “After all, Chateau is one of the Commonwealth’s primary culinary centers. What sort are you after? We have everything from Gallagan to Tharian to anything else you could think of within twenty minutes.”

(ooc: RE: Calarca. From what I’ve heard, yeah. I believe he was back-dating as part of our combined Gallaga/WWII saga)

Moyer here offered not only a chance to pay him back for delivering the watch but also the chance to make a tidy profit in the meantime.
OOC: But he doesn't care about the avenging-his-brother part?

OOC: Thanks, well I'll have to just use a WWI version then...(cryptic but you’ll understand later)

IC:
Moyers looked at the remains of the whiskey in the bottle for a moment and thought
Ah yes, the lure of money always has them doesn’t it?
He then sat back for a moment and stated dryly. “Well, we need four or five men who are good with oil fueled engines, six men who’d work well as gun captains and another 30 or so to help them handle them. And well a general crew of about 60 I’d say….
Oh, and some boys who know how to handle torpedoes and small craft or are quick studies. We need the engineers and a skeleton crew by tomorrow a few boys who can take orders and remove problems quickly, the rest we can pick up after we get back from our shopping trip. Also, we need to pick up some handguns and a few sticks of dynamite for tomorrow evening’s activities.
---
“The agenda?” asked Mercil as he held a door open for Thorm. “Well, I was going to take you back to the office to talk over this business of yours, but I suppose we could always do it over some food.”

There was a touch of pride in his voice as he added “After all, Chateau is one of the Commonwealth’s primary culinary centers. What sort are you after? We have everything from Gallagan to Tharian to anything else you could think of within twenty minutes.”


Detective Thorm winced a little. Most people in Thunderbay found food from the Commonwealth to be a bit on the heavy side at times. Of course he could have to go and eat Vrakian. Actually he wondered if they had that and if it was real Vrakian. “Oh, hmm I hadn’t realized that Chateau was so cosmopolitan. Well, really I want a good beer and someplace that gives receipts. Got to keep the accountants at headquarters happy if I want to keep my expense account.” He shrugged for a moment and then tilted his head. “Just a general question, but people actually eat Vrakian around here willingly?”

(ooc: Well, I’m guessing avenging Matt isn’t that big a deal, since he must have assumed his brother was dead when they left him on that island. Plus, you have to remember that all other concerns are secondary to money in the eyes of most any Iansislean. :))

Pete tried to keep up with Moyer’s reckoning. “Lesse..four engineers, with the diesel experiance,” he muttered under his breath, “six gunners...thirty gun crew...six, no sixty sailors. Torpedo experts...”

At last he sat back. “To be frank, Mr. Moyer, that’s a lot of men. Are you putting together an entire navy or something?” He shook his head. “I wouldn’t advise it. We keep alive by being subtle: something as big as you’re describing would draw out Tharia, and then we’d all be doomed.

“Still, I can do it, but it’ll take a bit more time. Call it engineers and specialists by tomorrow; the rest the day after. And myself, of course.” Pete leaned in closer. “But I’d sure like to know what you’re up to, Mr. Moyer.”

---

“North Tharian, probably,” said Mercil, leading Thorm out to a beaten up Westerton Jackrabbit. “I hear they brew a fine beer on the south end of Sentry Island. I’m not much of one for beer, though: I prefer a good Gadsani wine if I drink at all.” He started the car, which took a bit of convincing, and pulled out.

“Luckily, I know the perfect joint just down the street,” he continued. “Haven’t been there in years, but I remember them cooking a pretty mean side of ham. As for Vrakian, I know that I don’t hold with it. I think there’s a place out of town, on the road to Fort Dawes. I suppose they do a fair trade, unless they’ve closed since last I checked...” He continued to ramble on about food; Thorm could only guess that their stomachs were among the Noropian’s top concerns. If he wanted to get onto any sort of business, it soon became evident that he’d have to shut Mercil up first.

(ooc: Well, I’m guessing avenging Matt isn’t that big a deal, since he must have assumed his brother was dead when they left him on that island.
OOC: Knowing that your brother is dead doesn't mean you enjoy it...
Plus, you have to remember that all other concerns are secondary to money in the eyes of most any Iansislean. :))
OOC: Okay, you win. I give up.

OOC: Triple post...

OOC: Evil forum! Die!

Moyer looked at Pete for a moment and then became deadly serious. His eyes seemed to glow from intensity. “Listen, there is an old saying that there is no reward without risk and we are taking things up a notch from some of the local activity, and in some ways we will be safer. You see…”
He pulls a set of cards out of his pocket and starts placing a few on the table.
”Most men think in predictable patterns…”
He places down the queen of hearts…
”They see things in the predictable terms that they know…”
He places down a seven of clubs…
”When something doesn’t fit the pattern…”
The next card (taken from the bottom of the deck) is a tarot card of death. He picks it back up and twirls it in the air, the card that hits the table is the king of diamonds.
“…They assume it follows the pattern, up to their own doom.”
He points at the card and then flips it again, the tarot card of death reappears.
“As for your worries about the local naval forces, the more info we have about them and their officers the better off we are going to be.” He picks up the cards and replaces them in his jacket.

“As for what our task is, well lets just follow operational security. Get the engineers, and a few of the others and yourself to the Alconian paddlewheeler in port by tomorrow afternoon. I doubt if she’s going to leave before the day after next, but I don’t want to push it.” He turns his glass over and places it on the table.

“Once we are on board, I’ll let you in on the plan. Oh, and remember to bring handguns, we are going to need them in the first step of our journey. If you’ve got someone you can trust to round up the others while were gone on our little shopping trip, I would suggest you bring them on in.”
He picks up his hat, and brushes off some dirt. “If you have any worries about this well, if you doubt my plans then you can get off when she reaches the next port of call which I think is…Fort Dawson. I just don’t want to…well let the walls get anymore dirty.”

Thorm let the man ramble on about food as he rode in the Jackrabbit. He didn’t own a car, but then like most people living in Thunderbay, he rarely needed one. He occasionally leased one on the rare occasion from a livery on Furmer Avenue. He just listened to the man talk about restaurants and filed possible date locations in his head, which was also attempting to phantom what the Lt. Commander looked like without anything on. Strangely, it came up with a mental image of her in a very odd pose with his ex-girlfriend looking on as though it were a performance piece. It was both erotic and slightly disturbing at the same time*. His vision ended when they arrived at the eating establishment.


*OOC: Actually I must thank the editors of the New Yorker for placing that image of Charlize Theron in my head yesterday. I think their photographer has become a bit disturbed. And revenge is the motivating factor of my character, who isn’t actually a sane human being anymore. Then again I’m not sure China Wright bred any sane individuals. (What in the hell am I talking about, I’m a member of the FKC, we define insane around here!)

Moyer looked at Pete for a moment and then became deadly serious. His eyes seemed to glow from intensity. “Listen, there is an old saying that there is no reward without risk and we are taking things up a notch from some of the local activity, and in some ways we will be safer. You see…”
He pulls a set of cards out of his pocket and starts placing a few on the table.
”Most men think in predictable patterns…”
He places down the queen of hearts…
”They see things in the predictable terms that they know…”
He places down a seven of clubs…
”When something doesn’t fit the pattern…”
The next card (taken from the bottom of the deck) is a tarot card of death. He picks it back up and twirls it in the air, the card that hits the table is the king of diamonds.
“…They assume it follows the pattern, up to their own doom.”
He points at the card and then flips it again, the tarot card of death reappears.
“As for your worries about the local naval forces, the more info we have about them and their officers the better off we are going to be.” He picks up the cards and replaces them in his jacket.

“As for what our task is, well lets just follow operational security. Get the engineers, and a few of the others and yourself to the Alconian paddlewheeler in port by tomorrow afternoon. I doubt if she’s going to leave before the day after next, but I don’t want to push it.” He turns his glass over and places it on the table.

“Once we are on board, I’ll let you in on the plan. Oh, and remember to bring handguns, we are going to need them in the first step of our journey. If you’ve got someone you can trust to round up the others while were gone on our little shopping trip, I would suggest you bring them on in.”
He picks up his hat, and brushes off some dirt. “If you have any worries about this well, if you doubt my plans then you can get off when she reaches the next port of call which I think is…Fort Dawson. I just don’t want to…well let the walls get anymore dirty.”

Thorm let the man ramble on about food as he rode in the Jackrabbit. He didn’t own a car, but then like most people living in Thunderbay, he rarely needed one. He occasionally leased one on the rare occasion from a livery on Furmer Avenue. He just listened to the man talk about restaurants and filed possible date locations in his head, which was also attempting to phantom what the Lt. Commander looked like without anything on. Strangely, it came up with a mental image of her in a very odd pose with his ex-girlfriend looking on as though it were a performance piece. It was both erotic and slightly disturbing at the same time*. His vision ended when they arrived at the eating establishment.


*OOC: Actually I must thank the editors of the New Yorker for placing that image of Charlize Theron in my head yesterday. I think their photographer has become a bit disturbed. And revenge is the motivating factor of my character, who isn’t actually a sane human being anymore. Then again I’m not sure China Wright bred any sane individuals. (What in the hell am I talking about, I’m a member of the FKC, we define insane around here!)

(I’m sorry if I wasn’t clear, but Fort Dawes (the third largest city in Noropia) is actually well inland, south-east of Cape Deliverance. The next two large ports are Rorie Landing to the east and Turnish to the south. Actually, here’s a map. If all else fails, feel free to make up a name - there’s quite a few small fishing towns and one-horse trading ports along the Noropian coast.)

http://img.villagephotos.com/p/2003-9/390074/city.jpg

(ps: sorry about the poor resolution)

Pete grinned at the Moyer. “Say, that’s a pretty clever trick. I’m not sure how much good a deck of cards will do you against eight inch guns, but what the hell? I’ve done crazier things before in my life.” He stood, extending one meaty paw for Moyer to shake.

“I’d best get started now. Tomorrow, by the docks with the engineers and as many others as I can round up. And handguns.” Grabbing one of his drunk companions by the collar and dragging him from the room, Moyer headed out of the bar.

The next day, around two o’clock in the afternoon, Pete approached the Seeandbee with a baker’s dozen of other men. He glanced about the dock, keenly aware of the muttering going on behind his back. What were so many men going to do on such a small, antiquated ship?

---

Mercil brought the Jackrabbit to a stop outside a small establishment. It looked moderately expensive, which normally would have put the portly little Noropian off of it, but he was on a government account today. True, the Dominion government was perpetually strapped for cash, but evidently they considered this Detective Thorm important enough to donate a few hundred generals to showing him the top courtesy.

Once again, Mercil made sure he was holding the door, which was under a sign reading ‘Emperor’s,’ and led the way to the front desk. As they waited for a table, Mercil arched an eyebrow up at Thorm. “So. I assume you didn’t just come here to tour the cuisine...” he started slowly, wondering if Thorm was ready to get down to business.

"What do you mean, the starboard electro-motor is a total loss? What in God's name happened!"
Capt. Horten stood, arms crossed, in the rear of his ship, looking at U-173's chief engineer. The man was crouched next to the motor in question. Thick, acrid smoke was drifting up from under the steel plate covering the inner workings, which was not a good sign. He looked up, clearly upset but trying his best to hide it behind a mask of professionalism.
"It's the primary shaft seal, just like before, sir. It's been leaking ever since that depth charge attack off Iceland, when we put Lt. Polansky and his men ashore. It was scheduled to be replaced when we got back to port, but we were on our way here before they could do more than a quick patch on it. Sea water must have leaked into the case and shorted it out; it was dead within seconds of turning it on, sir."
The engineer got up, wiping his hands on a rag he pulled from his pocket.
"And there's not a damn thing we can do about it here; it'd take a dry-dock to fix it, the whole thing has to be replaced."
Capt. Horten snached his cap off and threw it onto the deck, cursing loudly. The engine crew flinched; the captain rarely lost his temper, and it was a fearsome thing to see. With only one engine, U-173 would be almost helpless if forced to dive deeper than her schnorkel would allow. Still, Capt. Horten couldn't claim the situation was a total loss; the boat had been conducting a test dive when the engine failed. Had it been an emergency, if they'd been avoiding an attack, there would have been no warning at all. He picked up his cap from the floor and replaced it on his head.
"Very well. Secure the starboard engine; we don't want it to cause us any future problems. The rest of you men, back to your stations."
Capt. Horten headed forward. The loss of the starboard engine meant that if he was forced to dive, he was as good as dead; his ship would hardly be able to overcome the ocean's current, let alone allow him to evade any kind of attack. He was suddenly overcome with the need to get out of these waters as soon as possible, meet with Deutschland, and be on his way back to France.
Horten ducked through the control room hatch and went to the periscope. A quick scan of the seas above revealed no ships on the horizon, and a rapidly fading sunset. Good, he thought. I can make up for some lost time.
"Surface the boat. Once we're up I want full watch posted at all times. I don't want some pilot flying overhead and catching us napping."
U-173 broke the surface as dusk faded into night. Her diesels were soon pushing her along at a brisk 16 knots. Most of the men were glad to finally be able to see the open ocean again, although none was foolish enough to say so.

OOC: Ah sorry, but let’s just put it as Moyer screwing up Chateau with Ft. Dawson. It is somewhat, but not very important plot point. I should note that the Seeandbee in RL was one of the largest paddlewheelers ever built. It was converted in WWII into an aircraft carrier, the USS Wolverine, along with her sister ship. In NS, I have turned the lower deck into more cargo space, replaced the upper deck with a texas style deck, and changed the promenade deck, but she is still large. Let’s just have Pete looking at the wrong craft, since it’s hard to tell that the Seeandbee is a paddlewheeler.
http://www.voodoo.cz/ww2car/pics/new1/wolver1.jpg
(when she worked for the navy, I haven’t found any pics of her before the conversion)

IC: Moyer had shaken hands with Pete and left the pub, and found a local apothecary shop on the main street through town. He purchased a few syringes and several bottles 100 mL of 0.01% Hydrochloric acid in a brine solution. He had also purchased a few other drugs such as a bottles of chloroform. He returned to the ship and purchased several tickets for steerage and first class for Chateau.
By two the next day Moyer was lounging in a deckchair on the promenade. He noticed the arrival of Black Nail Pete and his associates, as had the Captain. However they were looking at the wrong ship. The Seeandbee’s wheels were hard to notice at first due to the layout of the upper decks.
Moyer stood and whistled, grabbing the attention of those below. He then addressed them in a more cultured manner than their earlier meeting. His voice now had a pleasant lit to it, “Ah, Mr. Abernathy so good of you to come. I have your tickets for you and your employees. Let me come down and give them to you.”
The Captain vanished above, obviously going about to other tasks, he wasn’t sure about the new passengers but he only had to haul them to the next major port.

Moyer appeared on the gangway with little fuss and handed out tickets. The ships steward, having nothing better to do gave a breif tour to the new arrivals.
Several of the men were shown their steerage compartment, which were nothing more than a small, white painted room with no windows. Eight bunk beds lined the walls. The single steward indicated a common bath and shower for men tucked in next to the funnel. Moyer also had purchased two “first class” cabins for the engineers and one for Pete. The first class cabins were the same size as the steerage cabin and on the same deck, but with only two beds and a small desk filling the space. One corner of the first class cabin was filled in with part of a shared bathroom. Pete found he was going to share a bath with Moyer. Actually there wasn’t anything else different between the two cabin types.
Both were served meals buffet style in a large, well kept but worn dinning room amidships with the crew.
There was also a large lounge with a wall of windows looking out from the stern of the ship. The room was paneled in some dark wood and filled with worn oriental rugs and dark green wicker furniture. The steward indicated a few heavily built card tables, racks of tattered magazines and books under the windows, a single slot machine, and a billiard table were the available forms of entertainment.
The steward wandered off after that, leaving the arrivals to mull around with the few other passengers in the lounge. There was a woman reading a magazine that was apparently five years out of date, a foursome was playing bridge at one of the tables, and an elderly gentleman could be heard snoring from one of the windows open to the promenade.
Moyer smiled at the assembled party and said,
“Well relax for the moment, I need to talk to Mr. Abernathy for a moment on some business.” In a slight whisper he added “Ah, please don’t unnerve your fellow passengers, just be polite for the moment.”

Moyer showed Pete to his cabin and followed him in, shutting the door behind him. “Well, thirteen men will do nicely. Although, the Captain was only waiting on a delivery of some more freight before casting off, he seems anxious to leave port. Now, do you have the weapons I asked for?”

***
Detective Thorm liked the place, it was the sort of establishment one went to in Thorpe Hill or on Barl Street. He was mulling in thought when the question struck him. “Hmm, Ah I don’t know how much they told you. I’m investigating a man named Moyer who appears to be connected with a bullion theft. At present, he appears to be taking haven in your neck of the woods. His last reported destination was Cape Deliverance.”
As they were seated at their table, Thorm stopped for a moment and glanced at the menu. Then continued, “Moyer is a Vaux out of one of the refugee camps in China Wrighty.” He placed an picture on the table, it was black and white and showed a middle-aged bald man who seemed harmless with the thick rimmed glasses on his face. It didn’t do the pint-sized ball of energy any justice.
“Moyer has slowly risen in position to be a senior investment accountant at an independent bank. One of their specialties was bullion trading and storage. There was a large amount of pilfering by a group of lower level directors. They were trying to sell some gold bullion while prices were high during the war scare and then repurchase the gold at lower prices, pocketing the profit. Most of the bullion was recovered, but some is still missing. Two midlevel employees are also taking a fairly long vacations including our Mr. Moyer. So I’m trying to find him and determine if he has anything to do with the gold theft. I’m also supposed to recover the bullion if possible.”
He ordered a lager when the waiter finally appeared.


***
Captain Edwards looked out over the early morning dusk, the faint outline of the Home Islands behind her as she turned towards her destination and her orders…

edit: Kill the double post...

Death to the double posts!!1!!!1

Um.... that's all for now.

Sorry everyone...I really meant to get this out today (honest I did! I even got about a third of D.K.'s typed out), but I'm crashing fast and tomorrow morning's not looking forgiving. My apologies.

No prob. My night's quickly taking a turn for the worse, so I don't know how active I'm gonna be on this either. :evil:

Pathetic bumb since this is/was the best thread I have been involved in recently....

I know...I hate continually apologizing, but I'm really enjoying this thread too. I meant to type out a response last night, but getting one to Knootoss kind of zapped me. I'll work on it right now - call it an hour?

((Hey, D.K., I’m assuming this isn’t the same day? Dubois’s ready to talk whenever Lindemeier’s ready to listen.))

It took a lot of work for any Iansislean to get used to working underwater. It took Dubois a while to acclimate to the cramped conditions, stuffy atmosphere, and knowledge that he couldn’t open a window, had there been one anywhere. He spent most of his time trying to come up both with things to tell Lindemeier and of things to make this situation as profitable as possible to him. The second list was sadly very short.

----

If Pete had been embarrassed at all at identifying the wrong ship ((which I really am :oops: )), he did a good job of hiding it. The men took their tour in relative peace, only cracking out a crude joke or loud ‘guffaw!’ every now and then. In the lounge, being quiet and polite didn’t seem the thing they were best suited for, but Pete and Moyer didn’t hear any screams, at least.

In the cabin, Pete opened up his jacket. A low-end Camstol pistol, that still looked to be of significant caliber, was tucked in his belt. “I could get us some other equipment fairly easily, but am I right in assuming stealth is one of the primary aspects of this mission?”

---

“Cape Deliverance, eh?” asked Mercil, taking Thorm’s clue and not ordering any food. He considered the picture a moment longer, and then handed it back to the detective.

“That’s a bit of trouble; I was hoping to keep this contained to Chateau only. Cape Deliverance is all the way out on the west end, which means it’s outside local jurisdiction.” He sighed, thinking of the painful paperwork this case was going to bring down on his head. In fact, the man was keen to drop Thorm out on his own, and if his boss’ instructions hadn’t been so explicit, he may well have. This case just damn well better be worth the headache.

“Well, we can’t let him run about with a bunch of hot bullion, if he’s the one who stole it. I am curious, though, detective: you mentioned something about, uh, China Wrighty, and an, er, Vaux? I’m afraid I’m not familiar with those terms.” Mercil shrugged. Iansisleans weren’t known for their extensive knowledge of outside geography and history.

((By the way, thanks for the compliment, A+H!))

If Pete had been embarrassed at all at identifying the wrong ship ((which I really am )), he did a good job of hiding it. The men took their tour in relative peace, only cracking out a crude joke or loud ‘guffaw!’ every now and then. In the lounge, being quiet and polite didn’t seem the thing they were best suited for, but Pete and Moyer didn’t hear any screams, at least.

In the cabin, Pete opened up his jacket. A low-end Camstol pistol, that still looked to be of significant caliber, was tucked in his belt. “I could get us some other equipment fairly easily, but am I right in assuming stealth is one of the primary aspects of this mission?”

Moyer looked at the gun for a moment then replied, “More intimidation at the moment, we can replace them beyond this first part of the plan. “ He indicated that Pete should sit in the chair by the window as he tossed a set of worn blueprints across the cabin to him. The first page looked like the port side drawing of an ordinary cargo-passenger ship, the kind built for hauling fruit and meat. They were faster than most, with a cruiser like bow and stern. There was a second deckhouse across the amidships where the passengers cabins would go. Nothing seemed strange about the craft except for the odd rake of the hull beneath the waterline, and the label Class Q, Protected Motorship The second page was more of a shock, it appeared to be the same side with various hidden doors now exposed and part of the passenger deckhouse walls pulled back. The plan indicated three locations for 6” inch guns on that side, one under the forecastle,one hidden in a fake portion of the passenger deckhouse and a third under the stern cabin. (six in total)

The most remarkable page was the one that said armor diagram. It appeared as though there was an armored deck of 2” just above the water line over the engine room and magazine. At the same time the sides of the ship along the deckhouse and wheelhouse were armored on the inside of the ship. Also two armored bulkheads rose up to form the front of the wheelhouse and the rear wall of the passenger deckhouse. The ship's center was formed around an armored box with extending sides.

Pete found Moyer handing him a glass with some scotch in it. “That Pete, is to be the Vixen’s Revenge and the real twist of the knife is that she was built by our capable friends of Alcona and Hubris. Obviously not for us, but that little gem found herself being replaced by larger, more capable ships.” He sat down in the chair next to the desk.
“ So when the Alconian Militia lost one of their torpedo boats to a bunch of overgrown rats, well someone handed them this gem. The Militia, tired of being foisted off hand-me-downs, sold it for scrap and got the government to buy them a whole new set of heavy PT boats. Our little girl is now sitting, waiting to be scrapped, or so our friends in the Alconian Admiralty think.” He raised his glass and gave a mock toast “God Preserve the Duchy and The Duke…” and took a sip of his scotch.

“Cape Deliverance, eh?” asked Mercil, taking Thorm’s clue and not ordering any food. He considered the picture a moment longer, and then handed it back to the detective.

“That’s a bit of trouble; I was hoping to keep this contained to Chateau only. Cape Deliverance is all the way out on the west end, which means it’s outside local jurisdiction.” He sighed, thinking of the painful paperwork this case was going to bring down on his head. In fact, the man was keen to drop Thorm out on his own, and if his boss’ instructions hadn’t been so explicit, he may well have. This case just damn well better be worth the headache.

“Well, we can’t let him run about with a bunch of hot bullion, if he’s the one who stole it. I am curious, though, detective: you mentioned something about, uh, China Wrighty, and an, er, Vaux? I’m afraid I’m not familiar with those terms.” Mercil shrugged. Iansisleans weren’t known for their extensive knowledge of outside geography and history.

Thorm was looking through the menu still. And puzzling about what might be good at the moment. He returned to the subject. “Well, we may be able to keep it in Chateau, if Moyer stays on the S.S. Seeandbee out of Cape Deliverance then we can just pick him up when it’s convenient. I mean he is supposedly somewhat of a dandy and my initial impression is that Chateau may be more to his liking. I’ll telegram the S.S. Seeandbee about his status after they have left port tomorrow morning. If he’s on board then we’ll just head out to meet her on the flying boat the Admiralty so graciously loaned to us for this mission and interview him out there. How close to Chateau do you think we’ll need to be in local jurisdiction.” He could understand jurisdiction problems, he doubted if Mercil had needed to fill out a prisoner transfer form with the Vrakians, six copies of ten pages each with enough certifications by various low level government officials to kill a whole week.

He finally got the waiter back over to order, he decided on ham and a potato dish that he wasn’t too sure on but sounded good in the menu, drank some of the lager and settled back.

“As for the terms you’ve just heard of well, the first is a label. The Vaux are…the best term for them are land less peasants directly leagued to the central government. In reality they represent a social and political ‘underclass’ of migrant workers and immigrants who either haven’t earned or applied for full citizenship.” He stops for a moment and then considers how to answer the next part.

“China Wrighty is a large peninsula in the South Pacific once off the coast of China Wright. Almost two decades ago the King of China Wright, King Jaffa Jaffa illegalized poverty…yes, poverty. He made is a capital crime to be poor. So the King made them all slaves and then attempted to sell them. A group calling itself the ‘Advanced Western States’ threatened war and well Duke Alexander III got involved. He offered to take them off China Wright’s hands and make them peasants. Of course, King Jaffa Jaffa didn’t notice that the Vaux land reform laws had made all nobles and gentry willingly hand over their peasants to the government over a hundred and twenty years before. King Jaffa Jaffa, after agreeing to the offer, but being a mindless bastard that makes that gutter snipe Hitler look like a genius…started throwing the said Alconian peasants into death camps.” He shakes his head for a moment and then continues the tale. “Obviously his Grace didn’t stand for that and well ‘intervened’ on behalf of his peasents. In the end, a population of 4 million souls became 250,000 living in refuge camps on a peninsula secured by Alconian Marines, King Jaffa Jaffa was handed over by the new government of China Wright after the capitol was invaded by several angry nations, not long after, China Wright fell into anarchy…” He stops and then summarizes.
“So what we have here is a person who started off life poor, or was at about age 22, survived his nation making him an outlaw and then attempting to execute him, worked his way back to a fairly comfortable life style, and then may have robbed his employers of several hundred thousand krondor in gold. Of course that goes fairly far around here, being just about two million Generals. Although, the question remains where did he learn some of the skills he need to be an accountant? And some of the deals that are apparently started by him over the last several years are quite nuianced in both international trading and martime law. The only though I had was he was born well off but must have been cut off or gambled the family money away so that he was broke when the sweep occured.”
He smiled slightly when the large portions of good smelling food arrived.

((OOC: No problem, we both just made erronous assumptions, but then our characters are just as faliable as we are :wink: I just want to keep the Seeandbee large for her future, or have a reference to her when my government decides that having a training carrier is a good idea. Oh and the Vixen's Revenge is based on a cross of a WWI auxilery cruiser and an outmodded design for a protected cruiser.))
edit: major typo...

((hey, man. I'd just like to let you know that I haven't forgotten about this thread. It's just I have a houseguest right now, and it's hard to find time between that and school to jump on NS. Come Wednesday, or Friday at the latest, I should be able to catch up in all the threads I've been neglecting.))

OOC- Most of Dubois questions are going to come when he gets to his final destination; he may or may not know that he's not going to be cooped up on a U-boat the whole war. He might find Deutschland more to his taste, anyway.
Plus, I want to move this facet of the story along, so we're going to skip a head a bit, if that's ok.

IC- "ALARM!"
Capt. Horten sat strait up in his bunk, eyes wide. He knew something was wrong; it took him a few seconds to figure out what it was. He could hear something happening in the control room, but his head was still too foggy to figure out what it was. The dive alarm screamed to life a split second later, and he could hear the sound of water rushing into the ballast tanks. Oh, shit.....
Capt. Horten swung out into the corridor just in time to meet the first of the crew as they went charging to the front of the boat. He barely managed to get out of the way without being knocked to the deck; the crew simply passed him by in a long blurring line. Finally, he was able to make his way to the command room, with some difficulty; the boat had taken on a pronounced tilt toward the bow as she sped toward the bottom. The control crew was at their stations, and the dive appeared to be well under control, so Horten pulled his way to the boat's chief, standing behind the dive station.
"What the hell's going on, Chief?"
The Chief of the boat turned to the captain, obviously nervous. He knew the boat was seriously crippled underwater.
"Lt. Haptfield spotted two destroyers on the horizon. He didn't think they spotted us, sir."
Capt. Horten forced himself to unclench his jaw before his teeth snapped. Two destroyers. If they had any kind of ASW capability whatsoever, he would never be able to escape them. Not if there were two of them, and not at less than 6 knots.
"Rig for silent running. Chief, make our depth 45 meters, course 120. Pass the word forward; we're now going silent."

OOC: Ah good, I have not become Alcona The Killer of Threads

TBIII-XIV, affectionately known as Ol’ Deathwish by her crew (though her captain actively discouraged that name), and her companion were hardly what could be considered ‘destroyers.’ The Torpedo-Boat Mk. III had grown out of the Admiralty’s need to fill the gap between its small, primarily brown water patrol boats and its larger blue water destroyers. By some standards, at more than a thousand tons deep load, it was large for its original tactical role, which had been the interception and torpedoing of enemy capital ships. In fact, she hadn’t even been ideal for that, as no sane commander would have wanted to expose himself to heavy gun fire at less than five thousand yards long enough to empty the three torpedo tubes on either broadside.

Rather than admit its mistake and scrap the class, the Admiralty had refitted most of the boats to carry out an imperial patrol mission. Two torpedo tubes were taken out of either broadside, the forward turret became a 4.7” double mount, her 24 mines were removed, and a 3” triple mount was added aft. Most importantly, the crew compliment was changed from three navy officers and seventy two enlisted to two naval officers, thirty nine enlisted, and forty marines. The marines served both as a landing party and the primary crew for the boat’s primary armament.

When the current war broke out, the TBIIIs found themselves thrust into an ever more important role as patrol routes increased and light tonnage decreased. A few of XIV’s sisterships had even found themselves escorting low-priority convoys, though the short legs of the class required them to have a refuel every thousand nautical miles or so, despite the slow speeds. They didn’t, however, have access to the more advanced depth charge, hydrophone, and ASDIC technology of newer ships, and dockyard space was too limited to allow for the extensive refits required to install the new systems.

As such, TBIII patrols were increasingly undertaken in conjuction with one of the newest weapons in the R.I.N.’s inventory, the Halswick-class sloop. The Halswicks were very clearly inspired by Calarcan style corvettes, but admitting that Calarca had been right about something was simply an cross Iansisle couldn’t bear. However, more than just the nomenclature was different; the Iansislean sloops were larger than the Calarcan corvettes; they mounted significantly more powerful engines, though why one would ever be running at nineteen knots was never explained; and they carried fewer depth charges, in order to keep the fuel supply on par with the Calarcan ships.

There were only about twenty seven Halswicks in R.I.N. service, and HIMS Dalenford was the first one to see service away from the convoys in the Gallagan and Atlantic oceans. Already, the Admiralty’s ship design gurus had a newer version of the Halswick on the boards, with an entirely redesigned sloop in the planning stages.

Commodore Paul had rallied hard against having the Dalenford assigned to the Northern Seas Area. He had argued that it was far too slow to catch any of the pirates he had to deal with, and too poorly armed to do anything if it should catch them. “Keep the Dalenford,” he had said, “and send me another Tiger.” But the Admiralty had been too obsessed with its theory that an independent shipbuilder like LaRue, Inc. (the designers of the R.I.N.’s one and only submersible, HIMS Invisible) had sold an underwater torpedo boat to some buccaneer in Noropia to listen to reason.

And so Dalenford and Ol’ Deathwish found themselves paired together, motoring along the northern Noropian coast at a luxurious twelve knots. Paul had figured that if he was to be stuck with a white elephant like Dalenford, he may as well use the weak radranger on her to keep on the look out for any contacts, and then have XIV chase them down and inspect the cargo.

Ordinarily, the person watching a radranger screen would have been a sub lieutenant at least, but the limited amount of personnel available on Dalenford meant that there wasn’t an officer to spare for the duty. Instead, Petty Officer Jacob Langston took the duty. Right now, there wasn’t much to be doing. He spent most of his time tapping his fingers against the board and watching a dispassionate ten mile radius sweep. Then, for half a second, his eyes caught something in the corner of the screen: a tiny blip! One more sweep and it was gone.

Langston paused. Had he even really seen anything? After a minute’s hesitation, he motioned over Lieutenant Boxman, the watch officer, and explained the situation to him. A few minutes debate, the matter was forwarded up to the Dalenford’s captain, one Lieutenant Commander Charles Fieldsmith. After a brief discussion with Lieutenant Newman of the XIV, Dalenford motored over to the suspect area, taking about three quarters of an hour at her maximum speed. There, despite pinging about with her newer model ASDIC for twenty minutes, Noropia’s powerful thermal currents prevented the sloop from picking up the German submarine. Langston chalked up the blip to his long shift, and Dalenford moved away to rejoin Ol’ Deathwish on her way to Rorie Landing.

((A+H, sorry I don’t have a response for you tonight. I still have quite a bit of work to do, and it’s getting late. I didn’t mean for D.K.’s reply to be so long when I started it, but I’ve been meaning to introduce some of Iansisle’s ‘other’ ships for a while, and this was the perfect opportunity to do just that.

In other news, I am now (as of three hours ago) officially houseguestless, so I should be able to dedicate much more time to NS. And don’t worry about ‘killing’ the thread. I love how much effort you’ve put into participating so far, and only regret that I’ve not been able to show you the respect and commitment you deserve so far.))

OOC: 19 knots that seems a bit slow when pre WWI armored cruisers would do about 23 or so knots...

((I know...it seems rather slow to me, too. I based the Halswicks on the British Black Swan (http://uboat.net/allies/warships/class.html?ID=2) class of sloop. They're not really meant to be operating in the way Paul has them here (they were designed as convoy escorts, and the convoys usually don't break twelve knots); that's why they have the large fuel tanks and so forth.))

Sorry I don't have much time to post; I'm kinda in a rush right now. This post (http://www.nationstates.net/forum/viewtopic.php?p=2700759#2700759) should hopefully explain things. Shitty, I know.

I'm sorry to see you go, man. It's been a good time.

Before you go, however, I keep thinking there was some sort of hideous twist planned for Dubois that I haven't figured out yet. Am I just being paranoid?

Pete glanced over the plans with an intense, if perhaps untrained, eye. Even if he couldn’t grasp the finer engineering aspects, the overall design was certainly impressive enough. He then turned his full attention to Moyer. If there was one thing Pete had learned from the boats he had served on, it was that you didn’t dick around while the commander was speaking. Not if you expected to outfox the navy, anyhow.

He grinned at Moyer’s sarcastic toast and mumbled something that sounded vaguely like an acknowledgment. However, Pete wasn’t quite ready to get distracted by things such of levity. “I can see why you needed so many men. Am I correct to assume that this thing is waiting back in Alcona and Hubris, and you intend to use myself and my men to procure some sort of transport for all of us back there in order to take her out in search of prizes?” he asked, somewhat winded by the run-on sentence.

--

“Well, if we can keep ‘em inside the Duchy itself, we should be fine,” said Mercil, who put in an order for some sort of fish dish. “In fact, your plan would be nearly ideal. The only thing I have to ask, though, is if the company that runs the Seeandbee will be terribly upset at us? One time, a Noropian-flag cutter stopped some RM&M freighter suspected of carrying Nazi spies. Let me tell you, we didn’t hear the end of it from Thorntree!” Mercil rambled on about the story, using elaborate hand gestures in a vain attempt to make the bureaucratic sniping seem somewhat interesting. Thorm may even start to wonder just what Mercil’s job was; that he wasn’t a police officer or detective was evident quickly enough, and he never seemed to be the primary actor in his stories of the Noropian Ministries.

At last, he shut up long enough, perhaps distracted by his drink, to let Thorm answer the Vaux/China Wright[y] question. Mercil looked a little disappointed (after all, he had just been getting to the ‘exciting’ part), but a combination of genuine curiosity and professional mellowness won out. He listened to the entire spiel, though his eyes glazed over slightly in the middle.

They snapped back into focus fast enough to raise a welt when the words “two million generals” were uttered. He sat up a little straighter, as did any other Iansislean in earshot. “That’s quite a bit of money, Detective,” said Mercil quietly. Dreams shot through his head of what he could do with two million generals...he could buy his family a nice estate somewhere out of town, send his kids to the finest universities, never have to work again and go fly fishing every day...

The pleasant dreams faded back into harsh reality. He wasn’t here to claim the gold for himself; he was here to help its rightful owners recover it. No matter how painful that might be. Mercil poked absentmindedly at his plate, his love of food tempered by his passion for money and the frustrating reality of the situation.

“Well, Detective,” he started again after a moment, his voice a little more melancholy than it had been again. “I’m sure the Dominion’s government can provide you with access to all the facilities you need in tracking down this criminal.” If the portly Noropian had any opinions on Moyer’s background, he didn’t seem eager to express them.

Eventually what I'd hoped to do was put Dubois aboard Deutschland and have them go rampaging around in Iansisle's western convoy routes. A poorly thought out plan, to be sure, but when your enemy's half way around the world, there's not many options, especially at this period in time. Between Deutschland and the few disguised raiders like Atlantis things might have been tense for the RIN for a while, but being so far from home puts these ships in a bad spot when it comes to the operational freedom of their captains. They can't take some of the risks they might otherwise if there were a friendly port nearby were they could escape and make repairs.
Anyway, the relative success or failure of Deutschland's cruise would have been largely dependant on how much the RIN and the other allies could divert to keep her out to sea and away from the merchants. She could probably have caused quite a bit of havoc as long as she chose her battles very carefully and not taken too much damage to return home. A battle like that between the Graf Spee/Queen Jessica would have been out of the question, as the Navy now knows.
Anyway, I still have a few days to see what happens here, but I'm not going to be around with any kind of regularity. It was suggested that I turn Der Kriegsmarine over to someone who could keep it active enough while I was gone; I might still do that.

((OOC: Since I can’t get that post to open…I’ll just say that I was hoping to interact with you on this thread. –Alcona))
The Seeandbee

Moyers nodded and tilted his head for a moment, looking at his second in command. “Well you are partially correct. Not even I am daring enough to attempt to enter Klatchian waters with a hijacked Alconian vessel. Between the Pirates of Jiggady, the Vrakians, The Durakians, and the Alconians themselves… that is one place we do not want to be. Lucky for us, the old girl went to a salvage yard in the Grand Islands, owned by Quincy Mining. I’ve got some contacts in the underground unions that have suddenly started to use her as a meeting location." He put down his drink. And they both felt the ship shutter as Seeandbee was pulled away from the wharf and began to turn her own wheels to start the voyage out of the harbor.
Moyer became more serious as the deep thump of the engines started to actually be felt through the ship if not heard.
“Now, here is the first step in the plan. Tomorrow morning at 600 hours I want everyone up and in position. We need to have two men at the stern and two at the bow on the deck below. I need to talk to the two men we are sending to the bow since they will also be prisoner control. There are two crates down on each deck centrally located, we must not let any of the crew reach them or open them. Second we need two men on each of the ship’s ladders to keep the crew from reaching the purser’s cabin. At the signal, which will be two gunshots over the ship intercom, everyone pull out their gun and ready themselves. You and a second man are to enter the pursers cabin the instant the signal is heard. Don’t mess around with him, just blow his brains out. You should find the keys to the armory on him. The armory is the steel door behind the purser’s desk. Whatever you do next, leave an armed man in the armory at all times. “ He takes a sip of his drink…
“ The next part is simple, when I have control of the bridge I’ll signal by hitting the whistle three times. You get some of the belt ammo out to the boys on the bow and then come up to the bridge. We’ll start directing the prisoner round-up from there.” He pauses for a moment and then smiles…
“Oh and don’t let yourself or the men eat the brownies tonight. I’ve mixed in a bit of epsom salt in with the confectioner’s sugar, so most everyone who eats one will be spending the night in the toilet. By 600 hours tomorrow, the crew and our fellow passengers will be feeling better but be quite tired.”
“Damn, I forgot about the cooks…well I'll deal with that I've got a pad an chlororm ready, but don't leave her and the scullery boy lying about. Any questions?"
*****

Thorm seemed to pay attention, after all that was the life of a detective. You listened to criminals and witnesses babble on for hours if need be. He answered the first question with a bit of a smile and shrugged shoulders,
“They might get annoyed at us. But they are a small outfit that mostly involves itself in Inter-Klatchian trade and not very strong ties within the Court or the Cabinet. And I doubt you’ll see much of the fuss since your assisting a legal search by a member of the Alconian Militia." He winked and then continued. "And making a polite inquiry to the ship’s Captain before we come out and interview Moyer will help smooth over most ruffled feathers.” Thorm appeared confident, in reality he knew who’s gold had been pilfered. You did not want to piss those people off too much. God help you if one of them called you out. There was not going to be much stink about the matter due to self preservation.

He also realized that he had been given the equivalent of a government flunky. Someone, whose services were not massively needed and would smooth over things with Thorm’s superiors and mollify the Admiralty. He noticed the response from the man about the amount of gold to be recovered. Thorm thought about stirring the pot. Mercil seemed to know how the various mechanisms and red tape fell. After his massive discussion about the bureaucratic infighting showed someone who was fairly low on the totem pole but knew how to oil a few wheels when needed.
“Yes it is, which is why the bank is offering a five percent reward to those who help recover the stolen bullion.” He eyed Mercil as he continued in a voice of mock disgust. “I’ll never see a dime of it because I’m in the Investigative Division of the Militia. Damn integrity codes…” He appeared to be toying with his food, in reality he was watching to see if Mercil would bite.

bump it boompity boo
(I'll be out of town for a bit)
Now I'll just hit submit

Hey, man. Haven't had time to type out anything fairly involved lately, because of work. Sorry; I should have something by the time you get back in town.

-I

bump again...

Hey, man, I was browsing about and I found this:

http://www.andrle.com/vintage/watboa06.jpg

Seeandbee

If the idea of “just blowing” the purser’s brains out what in the least repugnant to Pete, he showed no sign of it. “I think Parente would be the best for the job,” he said, mostly to himself and in reference to the wiry Tharian he had brought on. Leo may be scrawny, but he also had the reflexes of a cat. That’d be useful in case anything unexpected happened.

“0600; Two shots over the intercom, shoot the purser, get to the armory an’ leave an armed man there at all times, get belt ammo up top and make for the bridge...” He grinned before finishing the last bit of his clarification repeat. “And don’t eat any brownies.” After a moment’s thought, Pete nodded. “Yeah, I think I got that all, Mr. Moyer,” he said. “I’ll spread the word to the boys, ‘specially about those brownies. Hell, maybe it’d be best to let some idiot eat one, prove to the other lunkheads what a bad idea it is,” Pete grinned. His tone was on the border between joking and serious.

Emperor’s

Mercil laughed. “I suppose that, what with all the liberties the government’s been allowed to take since the war started, one more won’t hurt anything. I mean, like you say, this isn’t Royal.” He glanced over his shoulder suddenly, with an expression that could even be considered nervous, was evidently calmed by whatever he saw.

“Now then, detective, I have some friends down in the revenue service. There isn’t much for them to do near such a large fleet base - because there’s really no import laws of tariffs, all they have to do is try and find any ships pirates have taken as a prize or track down wreckers and other such scum, and the navy largely handles that around here. - and I’m willing to bet we could get them to send out a cutter to assist.” He shrugged. “It won’t be much, and I hope it won’t be needed, but always good to keep the boys on their toes, eh?”

The truth wasn’t so much that Mercil didn’t trust that Moyer could be brought in as he didn’t trust the float plane. Like most Iansisleans, he regarded aeroflight as a new, dangerous field. It was much better, and in his opinion certainly safer, to stick to things one knew, like N.R.S. cutters.

If Mercil noticed that Thorm was fishing for a reply with the ‘5%’ bit, he didn’t show it. Sure, he was cautious, but Thorm might be noticing that Mercil wasn’t an instinctively assertive or quick-witted man.

“I wonder, detective,” he said slowly, turning his cup in his hands, “if you’re not allowed to claim it, then what does the bank do? Just keep the money and send you a thank you note?”

OOC: Hmm, I hadn't seen that one. I did recently come across a picture of her sister sailing through a great lakes Port. (I've turned the lowest cabin deck into an upper cargo hold in this RP, Since lake freighters always were a bit lacking in cargo room. Actually I think the artist got a bit carried away with him(her)self there. She is not that long... :?

IC:
Moyer listened and nodded his head. "I would allow a man to eat one of Ms Bethal's Brownies tonight if we had a few hands to spare for this endevor. It won't kill anyone but there is going to be a good deal of diareha on board. By morning people are going to be tired and still not feel like eating anything." He stood, "Well unless there is some emergency, I will see you and our replacement crew at dinner this evening. I myself am going to take a strole to the stern and observe the sunset."

Emperors
Thorm listened to the suggestion of the revenue cutter. "Hmm, well that may actually complicate things. But give your freinds a hail that we may need their help tommorrow. If Moyer has any cargo on board we may need them to help remove it."

The Detective looked around the place for the waiter. He wanted a second beer. "Ah, what exactly is your title Mercil? I must have missed it when you introduced yourself. I only ask because in general the recovery payment follows naval prize law. All those that assist and are present for the capture have a share Of course rank does also have it's privilages. Some unfortunate incidents in the investigators division has removed my chance at a share."

[damn it the forum kills all my attempt to edit and add this part!]

The Seeandbee
At 7:45pm (local time) a gong sounds over the ship intercom and an elderly woman announces. "The dinning room is now open for the evening meal, thank you" The cabin appears to have a few elderly stewards carrying pitchers from table to table, it appears the choices for drink are, water, sweet tea, tea, lemonade, and something called 'rock and rye'. The food is served from a long steam table at one side of the room. The entree's have small tags above them with phrases such as Hell Hassen Hash, seseme klatchian croc, Steamer Stew, Hubrarian pot roast, Fried Chicken, Vrakian Susi Rolls. There are also corn and carrots, rice, and corn muffins. A second small table has several small bowls of green pudding and a massive pile of brownies. The passengers wander in, find a seat and wait for some fellow passengers to gather, they sit at a set of round tables with linin napkins and flowers. Crew members also enter, grab a plate, ladel some food on and sit at a set of long tables and benches on the far side of the room.
Everyone seems to be grabbing one or two brownies. One of the crew members makes up several plates for somewhere. One plate is absent a brownie.
A woman in her late fourties arrives and takes an empty table. She spends the meal eating Hassen Hash and reading out of a large, leather bound book. She also does not eat a brownie.

((Heh, I was thinking she looked a mite long ;)))

Seeandbee

Pete nodded. “Gotcha. No examples.” He checked his own watch, which was of course the one Moyer had brought back from Matt. “I’d better get back and tell everyone everything. I’ll see you at dinner.”

Pete seemed to have been particularly efficient at distributing the information, or else his crew was very good at listening. All the men refused the brownies. Some may have carried themselves in a manner slightly less polite than might be considered normal for their surroundings, but none seemed to be so abrasive that they would warrant closer inspection. A quick glare from Pete shut up those that threatened to upset the balance.

He also noticed the woman sitting alone. Pete had been trying to get a gauge on most of the passengers, but she seemed to his eyes at best a harmless old eccentric (after all, in a country where the average life expectancy is less than forty five, fifty was positively old!). As Pete was trying to identify possible people who may want to play the role of hero, she was quickly disregarded.

Emperor’s

Mercil seemed a little disappointed that his offer had been, if not outright refused, at least brushed to the side. The honest truth was that he was slightly afraid of aeroflight, and thought maybe if he had to go that he could catch a ride out with the revenuers. On the other hand, he also didn’t want Thorm to see that he was afraid and hid his disappointment with a grin, though his eyes didn’t match the facial expression. “Yeah, I can understand that, detective,” Mercil heard himself say. “I’ll let them know.”

However, greed always overpowered any other emotion in the Iansislean psyche, and Mercil was no exception. Fear of aeroflight was shoved to one side to make way for a potential reward. “My official title? You didn’t miss it detective. I don’t like to rattle it off too often, because it runs me out of breath,” he laughed. “I’m Claude Mercil, the Senior Assistant to the Vice Director of International Affairs in the Department of Law Enforcement.”

The waiter wandered over to check on them. Mercil had had enough to drink for now. “‘All those that assist,’ Detective?” he asked after the man had wandered away. “I must say, that sounds almost too good to be true!” Already, he was tempted to cancel his call to the Revenue Service. “That’s too bad that you’re not allowed a share,” he said, already doing some quick mental calculations. He wasn’t the sharpest cookie in the drawer, and Iansislean education had been more traditionally slanted towards the liberal arts than mathematics anyway, so he didn’t come up with any solid numbers in terms of generals, but got the general impression that his cut may be a year or more’s salary. “I’m guessing someone in your department abused the system and ruined it for everyone?”

Seeandbee
Moyer had spent dinner with two elderly gentlemen at a nearby table. His seat allowed him to veiw the crew tables and take note of anyone there who had not. He was feeling very good about the fact that the brownies were proving to be as popular as previous evenings. He missed noticing the woman not eat a brownie. Having spent most of his life at the bottom of the soci-political ladder of the Dual Duchy he really did not understand some of the finner points. Like why a somewhat attractive woman who showed no outward signs of wealth or breeding would be allowed the discression of sitting by herself.

Most people returned to the salon after dinner. It appeared that a group of passengers were putting on skits. They had run several sheets across one end of the cabin. The group consisted of three men and a woman. Most appeared to be Monty Python inspired. The real troubles began when the 'actress' became violently ill and rushed off stage. One of the men tried to take it in stride with..."Well, then I guess I shouldn't have asked the way to Montazuma..." Several of the people watching also appeared to have found that they needed the bathroom suddenly.

11:00 PM
Captain Macgregor was holding on to the port bridge rail with a look of warmed over death. The ships medic, a portly gentleman named Black who was also the second mate trumped up the bridge ladder, he looked somewhat green also.
"Ah, Captain I'd say we have a serious case of food poisoning on our hands..."
"Damn, something wrong with the canned Hassen?"
"I'm not sure sir, general nausa, diareha. I can't quite put my finger on the bug..."
"I wish we had a real doctor..." He turned to see the pain in the subordinates eyes..." Not to disparage you, but someone with more experience in dealing with foreign bugs..." The hurt dimed but didn't disappear.
"You think we caught this from the last port..."
"Yes, most of our new arrivals seem to have not gotten it, nor Ms. Barthy or Mr. Moyer..."
"Well, yeah the Ians, the black tab, and the Vaux from Wrighty...they may all be more immune to some foreign bugs..."
"Black, didn't you serve with the Black Tabs?"
"Yeah, but only for a time in some god forsaken tropical island chain. I was part of a torpedo boat crew doing a quick in and out. Of course the old girl ran into a shoal and sank. We had to hide out waiting for the pull out. I spent most of the time being a cook in base camp."
"Black, are we out of the low piracy zone on that ISD chart?"
"Ah almost....there are a few red marks about three miles out from where we are..."
"Let's drop speed to steerageway and get the Edson guns on the decks ready...."
"Sir?"
"We're going to be a sitting duck if any of those pirate bastards back there decide we're going to make a nice prize. If this doesn't clear up soon I'm going to raise a quarantine on the ship and make for safer waters."
"Sort ah hard to sell a boat like the Seeandbee Captian...and a quarantine may be a bit much for food poisoning..."
"I think the locals are ruthless, and deviant. Not buisness savy. I need to protect the ship and her passengers..."
"Aye, aye Captain. I'll get Ruthford to gather some of the boys who dealing the the bug better then most to man the guns. Ah should I arm the crew?"
"No, just have an extra hand on look out for the moment. I'm going to see if I can get some sleep now..."
"Goodnight Captain, I'll releive the first officer at four bells."
"Carry On"
Captain Macgregor made for his cabin as Black went to round up Rutheford....

((OOC: I never do make things easy do I? ))

Emperor's
Thorm ordered a second beer. I wonder what his problem with my plan is. Thinks were going to get shot down by pirates? Or have they had some recent enemy activity in this area?
He started in on the food (which I think we ordered by never started eating) and was thoughtful for a moment. "Hmm, that is a long title. I'm going to eat up a lot of ink with that when I have to submit my report."

Thorm noted that Mercil finally appeared to 'get it'. Although the question of why he didn't get a share was a bit of a painful spot. His eyes showed anger, not at Mercil but a percived slight. "Hmm I've got two things working against me here. You see the Milita has had several long standing disagreements and arguments with the Navy. That is especially ugly when it comes to prize fees for recovery. The the Marshall of the Miltia wanted to royally screw Admiral Bankstock eighteen years ago and refused to share a reward with the Admiralty after the navy helped in the recovery. Things got even more ugly after that. A few former members of the investigators division sold confidential information on the Pack Hall art collection to a group of art theives. They then captured their former partners with the stolen goods for the reward. Of course the theives were killed resisting arrest to shut them up. Someone in Navy Intelegence figured the out the scam and exposed the whole mess. In the end, now the Admiralty Prize Board divies out who gets what from a reward fee. And the investigators division is usually excluded from any share, since they don't want to restart the precident that led to the Pack Hall fiasco. But they do tend to be fair towards assisting nations, likely because they like to make freinds." Of course your going to get a midshipmen's share with that title of yours. He thought to himself as he continued to eat his meal.

((Hey, man. I know I seem to spend more time apologizing than I actually do posting, but I just wanted to say sorry I didn't get a response up yet. I have a big test in a couple of hours, and have not had time for much other than the occasional check-and-quick-reply since yesterday.

I'll hopefully be able to get something up later this evening.))

Hmm, no one shows up for my office hours in the morning. Which is why I usually can respond then...but no problem...

After dinner was over, Pete sent most of the men to their cabins to rest up for the next day. So many tough figures retiring so early might be seen as slightly suspicious, but he figured the sooner they figured out where the bar was, the more danger Mr. Moyer’s mission was in. However, he wanted to maintain his own eyes and ears about the ship, and sent a couple of his most trusted lieutenants to keep track of goings on in the salon and other key locations.

Pete himself wandered up on deck, in part to watch the ocean he had spent so much of his life on top of and in part to watch what the crewmen were about. He saw one crewman walking past, and attempted his best friendly smile, which really wasn’t very friendly at all.

----

“I’ve talked to Mr. Espenshade, my boss, about having it shortened,” Mercil said conversationally, though he was unable to determine if Detective Thorm was making fun of him or not. The waiter took Thorm’s order and soon returned with the drink.

Mercil tutted at the report of infighting between the navy and the militia. Truth be told, it reminded him very much of the Noropian internal administration, never mind the eternal mud-slinging between Dominion and Commonwealth level authorities. It wasn’t as bad in Noropia as it was in, say, Tharia, especially since that foreigner was elevated to Duke of Chateau, but it was bad enough.

“That’s too bad, Detective,” he said for lack of anything more profound. “Do you ever think that not getting rewarded tends to, ahm, take away from the quality of your work?” He meant the question innocently, and it probably would have been taken that way by another person who had been raised in the dog-eat-dog world of the Commonwealth. Mercil didn’t realize that other countries had other systems of ethics, including those in which things moved along smoothly without the liberal greasing of palms.

Pete himself wandered up on deck, in part to watch the ocean he had spent so much of his life on top of and in part to watch what the crewmen were about. He saw one crewman walking past, and attempted his best friendly smile, which really wasn’t very friendly at all.[quote]

The crewman looked at him, then seemed to have a sudden desired to waddle quickly away, holding his stomach. Epsom salt was a muscle relaxant, and well eating it tended to relax the muscles of the intestinal tract. As a good number of people were now discovering across the ship. The queue for the bathrooms was now seen as a severe problem.

11:30 two men, looking the worst for wear appeared on the stern and bow open cargo decks. the areas were clear except for a large crate in each. The men opened the locks on the crates and pulled them back. The squeal of unoiled wheels reveled two machine guns. Both guns were water cooled and with a low cycle rate and a heavy caliber. They were designed to make a pirate have second thoughts, capable of punching holes through people and even light metal plates. (A Vickers .5" Mk. V really)



****

----
[quote]
“That’s too bad, Detective,” he said for lack of anything more profound. “Do you ever think that not getting rewarded tends to, ahm, take away from the quality of your work?” He meant the question innocently, and it probably would have been taken that way by another person who had been raised in the dog-eat-dog world of the Commonwealth. Mercil didn’t realize that other countries had other systems of ethics, including those in which things moved along smoothly without the liberal greasing of palms.

Although the U.N. had declared Alconian Government 'corrupt' because of understanding Alconian morals from the outside was a bit hard. The basic problem was that Alconians tended to see industrious activity as a good thing, for example the Wolverine mining company had been started by a government official to open up tungsten deposits in the Eastern Marches. The whole affair was looked on with little comment, after all hadn't both the official and the Dual Duchies both benefited? However the idea that someone would shirk his or her duty unless bribed was abhorrent. Which explains why the Navy could lord over the militia after several incidents. (Including the theft of a Militia torpedo destroyer by a Militia captain).

Thorm didn’t know how to take that comment actually, he was experienced enough to understand the differences across the Klatch. About things in the Commonwealth, well that was just a puzzle at the moment. He thought a warning might be best way of steering away from this area, and keep Mercil from having some Outer Islands Adel from removing his head from his shoulders.

“Ah, Mr. Mercil is dueling still permitted in this country? I’m afraid the implication of what you just said would get you called out onto the field of honor in the Dual Duchy. Just be happy that I realize we are not in the Dual Duchy” He said it very dryly, with no anger in his voice.

Pete smiled as the apparently sick crewman shuffled off. He wasn’t exactly familiar with Epsom salt, but it had seemed to do the trick perfectly, and he filed it away for future reference.

Later that night, he was leaning against the rail - by that time, it had turned quite cold on deck, but Pete had a heavy jacket and a long built up immunity - and heard the crewmen setting up the machine guns. That troubled him; Moyer didn’t know about them, and if they were turned against Pete and his crew, there’d not be anything he could do.

As quickly as he could without attracting the sailors attention, Pete slipped back below decks to search for Moyer.

---

Mercil blanched. He knew full well that dueling, by the gun or the blade, was perfectly legal in Iansisle, providing both parties were willing; however, he had no desire whatsoever to meet Thorm on the field of honor. He hadn’t quite realized what he’d said wrong, but instead tugged at his collar, mumbling something that sounded like a general apology.

There may not have been anger in Thorm’s voice, but the dry threat was more that enough for Mr. Claude Mercil. He was starting to sweat profusely, but still couldn’t seem to articulate either an apology or an explanation.

Moyer was reading in his cabin. The book was The Baron Onboard which seemed to greatly amuse him. When Pete entered, through the shared bath, Moyer looked up from his book with consernation. "Is there a problem Pete?"

*****

Thorm realized he had probably over done it. He attempted to give a smile and a small laugh. "I can see that no insult was intended, but you may have to deal with either the Marines or the Navy in the future and they don't tend to be as...understanding. And whatever you do not even whisper the concept of 'rewards' to a Vrakian, especially a Wal-Vak they'll just sit on you and be done with it..." He also made a mental note that the man was going to be completely worthless in any fight.

Moyer was reading in his cabin. The book was The Baron Onboard which seemed to greatly amuse him. When Pete entered, through the shared bath, Moyer looked up from his book with consernation. "Is there a problem Pete?"

*****

Thorm realized he had probably over done it. He attempted to give a smile and a small laugh. "I can see that no insult was intended, but you may have to deal with either the Marines or the Navy in the future and they don't tend to be as...understanding. And whatever you do not even whisper the concept of 'rewards' to a Vrakian, especially a Wal-Vak they'll just sit on you and be done with it..." He also made a mental note that the man was going to be completely worthless in any fight.

Moyer was reading in his cabin. The book was The Baron Onboard which seemed to greatly amuse him. When Pete entered, through the shared bath, Moyer looked up from his book with consernation. "Is there a problem Pete?"

*****

Thorm realized he had probably over done it. He attempted to give a smile and a small laugh. "I can see that no insult was intended, but you may have to deal with either the Marines or the Navy in the future and they don't tend to be as...understanding. And whatever you do not even whisper the concept of 'rewards' to a Vrakian, especially a Wal-Vak they'll just sit on you and be done with it..." He also made a mental note that the man was going to be completely worthless in any fight.

"Maybe," Pete shrugged. "I'm not sure if you included it in your plan or not, but there's some ship's crew up top setting up machine guns. Pretty good sized ones, by the look of them, too."

---

Mercil smiled back at Thorm, but it was an on-edge, forced expression.

"Don't mention rewards to a Vrakian or a marine or a sailor, right," he whispered, as if trying to sort everything out in his head.

"Well, if you're ready detective, um, sir," he said suddenly and with an almost exaggerated tone of respect while jumping up. Both their plates were still half full.

Moyer's face showed disappointment, "I'm afraid that I was hoping they would keep the Edson guns stowed. Has there been any sign of a raider on the horizon? And has the general crew started walking around armed? Damn...." He stopped for a moment and closed the book. "He rose and left the cabin, motioning Pete to follow him.
They soon found themselves in the galley. It was lit but empty and Moyer strolled over to a large semavore on the counter and filled two plain white china cups with steaming tea. He handed one to Pete and stood in a far doorway. He looked across the (hall isn't right word here but ?) at the Pursers office. The upper potion of the dutch door was open so that Moyer could make out that the purser was attempting to sleep on a small cot, a light fell on him from an open door beyound.

"Well Pete have you ever heard the phrase, to the Bold Goes Victory? Well you are about to see it. It looks like Captain Mcgregor is worried about an outside threat. We need to move before he realizes that this may be a hijacking Go raise the boys and send them in here. I'm going to need a lookout at this spot to keep an eye on things."

He turned and walked back along the galley towards the stern of the ship. "Remember, keep the noise level down..." They could then hear someone running by the pursers office to the common baths of second class.

***
Thorm looked at Mercil for a moment, and then at his watch. "Am I keeping you from another appointment?" He sipped his beer and moved as thought preparing to leave. Although in his mind several questions of propriety and how do you pay your checks in this country came to mind. He was also trying to figure out how much to tip the waiter.

OOC: Hope your in a better frame of mind....

"The crewmen are still unarmed, as far as I saw," said Pete. He followed Moyer about. "Yeah, I've heard that one." He clamped his meaty hands on his waist.

"Just give me ten minutes to round up all the boys, and I'll be back." He glanced in at the sleeping purser. "And I'll be as quiet as a cat." Then Pete slipped out the back of the door and headed for the men's rooms.

((sorry this response is so short..it's your story and location, so it's a little hard to come up with longer responses. Oh, and I am in a much better mood, thanks much for asking. The other afternoon...well, just general no good.))

-----

Mercil frowned. "No, no particular rush," he said, laughing. "It's just, um, that I, uh, just remembered that my boss wanted to see you, er as soon as possible. That was actually a gross exageration; Espenshade was the one who had writted 'Thum' on the sign in the first place.

For one supposedly so involved in the international side of crime, Espenshade didn't really care on lick for the Dual Duchy or its new representitive. In fact, the Internation Affairs branch of the Noropian Law Enforcement Department was currently much too busy tracking down some Gadsani murderer who had fled the Dominion to think about any supposed gold bullion off its coast.

The waiter quickly took notice of their apparent intention to leave, and made his way over quickly. "Can I get you gentlemen a check?"

Moyer also left the galley for a moment and found his way to his cabin. He grabbed the pillow off the bed, and placed the automatic that had been under it in the small of his back. He then returned to the galley.
The passage between the galley and the pursers cabin was empty again. Moyer walked over to the door, and reached down on the inside to open the bottom portion of the door.

He entered, and walked over to the Purser. The man started to stir as Moyer approached.

The purser, a man in his mid fifties with a handle bar mustache had been trying to get some sleep. Ah, yes we need to get the pickles in the nude girls or...click. The purser opened his eyes, What was that, is someone in the room with me? He turned his head towards the door. His eyes went wide as he noticed a figure looming out of the darkness. The face was in shadow but a large object moved towards his face. He started to scream, but his mouth was suddenly filled with cloth and feathers. Hel... was the last thought before two 9 millimeter bullets displaced brain matter.

The muffled sound of gun shots was fairly acute on the queit ship. But those who were awake were in too much agony to notice. Most of those asleep just stirred. One woman suddenly came awake. She listend for more sound but only heard the old man from next door thrashing around. Major Barthy just listened to the sounds of the ship. The thump of the engines was...slow. She had heard movement of equipment earlier. The retired officer pushed off the sheet and rose. She was not wearing much of anything, but she threw on a bathrobe.
She walked to the head and began to cross to the other room when she stopped, and pulled a small object from her desk. It went into the pocket on her bathrobe.

She knocked on the door. The old man answered, "Is that you Major...come in."

(Yeah the Seaandbee is my boat I guess. Action sequences tend to be full of shorter posts...nature of the beast)
***
"Ah, yes, well I can't let you annoy your boss too much..." He continued to rise and noted the waiter. "It appears so, the ham was excellent." well they do know to keep an eye on their patrons Thorm thought as he waited for the bill. He wasn't sure who was going to pay for this meal, although since it was his idea he really felt it should be him.

((&@%$!!!!))

Pete counted noses again, but he was still only coming up with twelve. It only took him a moment to notice who was missing.

"All right, where's Leo?" he growled.

"You sent him to keep track of the passangers in the salon," replied one of the grunts in confusion.

"He hasn't come back yet? Damn." Pete sighed. He hated dividing his forces. "All right, Sam, you go get Leo. And be damn subtle about it, understand? We need to keep this quiet, unless you want to end up on the wrong end of a noose." He nodded to the rest of the assembled men. "All right, y'all - this way. And keep quiet, damn it!"

The men heard the gun shots, and one or two almost took out their own sidearms in an automatic response. Fortunately, a harsh glance from Pete and an infusion of common sense kept all the concealed weapons concealed.

----

"I'll be sure to pass your compliments on to the cook," said the waiter, vanishing around a corner before returning with the bill. Mercil didn't say anything while they waited, but grabbed the check as soon as it came. Thorm might have been able to make out the total - 2 generals 54 kens - befoe Mercil folded it in half. The Noropian dug into his coin purse and withdrew three one general coins to pay for the meal.

"Thanks. Keep the change."

The young waiter smiled broadly. "My pleasure, sir! Come again anytime!"

((&@%$!!!!))
(Ah, I hope that just double post fustration )

By midnight the salon was fairly empty. As most of the guests had long ago fallen to the effect of the laxative. The windows were open to the cool night air to help remove some of the smell of people's unexpected bowl movements. (Rp who/what you like there--The promanade and salon is a deck above the stern with the machine gun. So the gun crew could hear something but not see anything unless you are by the rail)

Moyer turned the body of the dead purser back towards the wall. He walked over to the open door of the armory. The room had two gun cases along the wall. On one side were some old Naval rifles (Think short Enfeilds here). The other contained eight submachine guns. They were American Thompsons. The end of the room had several large built in cases. They were green with painted numbers such as 0.50,0.45, 9mm. Moyer grinned, he pulled a submachine gun from the rack and opened the storage case for the 45 caliber round and put four 20-round magazines into his pocket. He placed some of the some of the larger, circular 60-round magazines out on a small bench, easily found. He walked back out across the pursers cabin, and into the darkness near the door. He looked up and down the passageway and waited for the men to appear in the galley doorway.

---
The Major entered the gentleman's cabin and stood at the bathroom door. The small, wiry figure looked up from his bed. He was nothing more than shadows, illuminated by moonlight from the cabin window.
"Captain Parks, have you noticed an odd..."
"change in the handling of the ship, yes. Tonight's entertainment was cut short....due to a severe bout of Oompa Loompa revenge..."
"Hmm, I should go ask the Captain if they need my assistance...."
"My dear, you have only been retired a few months. I've been on reserve duty for some fifty years before I fully mustered out, just like Jamison...."
"I know, but...ah I feel...useless..."
"Your not, just because you've become epileptic due to combat trauma makes you a risk for military duty..."
"I've spent my entire, life..."
"Damn it woman! I've had enough of this belly aching and sulking attitude. You maybe my superior, but I'll give you a good old fasioned tongue whipping if you don't stop this..."
She smiled, and gave a short laugh. "Your right, Do you want to come to the bridge with me? If there is trouble I may be able to at least keep the crew from firing widly in the air..."
"Hmphmh...Yes, I will. The walk might do me some good. Although what help an old water bird pilot can give?" He shrugged his shoulders.

The old man raised himself from the bed and put on slippers and a bathrobe. Together they left the cabin and made their way up a nearby ladder to the top deck.

***
Thorm did sort of see the bill, but had not really grasped the price. He just placed a three general coin down on the table as a tip since that was the smallest denomination he was carrying.
He followed Mercil out to the waiting car.

(Inverse problem I had in Italy, when 50,000 Lira was about 20 bucks. Which means I sometimes tipped people twenty cents!! (500 Lira))

(Ah, I hope that just double post fustration )

(oh, yeah. sorry, heh.)

"There you are!" Leo looked up sharply. He had been sitting in a corner leafing through one of the magazines that had been lying about.

"'Lo, Sam. What's shaking?"

"Pete wants to see you. Now," said Sam quietly, but insistantly. If he noticed the open window right above Leo's chair, he didn't seem to care.

"Right, then," replied the wiry Noropian, tossing his magazine aside. "After you."

----

Pete heard a snicker behind him, and looked back to shut up whatever idiot made it. They rounded the corner and made for the purser's office.

(are they going to be intercepted by the reserve officers? If so, ignore this last bit.)

Pete nodded to Moyer at the door. "Leo was still up in the salon," he said quietly. "I sent Sam out to get him; they'll be back soon."

One of the men let out a low whistle at the sight of the purser, maybe not so much out of shock but out of admiration for Moyer's stealth. A kick in the shins shut him up.

Pete instinctively reached for one of the rifles; after all, he was a gunner - single, controlled shots appealed much more to him than a mess of unaimed lead. Most of the other men, however, seemed more inclined towards the Thompsons.

----

Mercil piloted his car swiftly through the increasingly narrow streets of Chateau with skill born of experiance. He didn't seem terribly eager to make conversation.

Just as the buildings seemed to be able to come no closer together, their motor-car burst out onto a broad avenue. Large Noropian firs lined a wide lawn between the north-bound and south-bound lanes, and Mercil used a cut-through lane to deposit himself among those heading north.

Though they were at last on a large street, the driving time was comprimised by heavy traffic.

"That's the assembly house there," said Mercil suddenly. His voice was not unlike a bad tourist guide's, dry and uninterested. He pointed at a large heap of Renaissance-inspired architecture which sat at the end of the street they were currently on. The building was a clear attempt to make something fairly new fit in with surroundings that were very old. "Behind us is the Ducal Palace," Mercil continued dryly. Their car was very low, and it couldn't been seen through the trees and traffic.

In front of the Assembly House were seven flag poles, arranged with two taller ones behind five shorter ones. The Commonwealth's flag, the Cross of St. Patrick, flew on the left of the taller ones and the golden evergreen of Noropia on its navy blue background flew from the right. On the front five, starting on the left, the red-and-blue of Tharia, the orange and white of Troobodia, the green and blue of the Empire of the Shield, and the blue-on-blue of Gadsan. The fifth flagpole, on the far right, was empty.

The group only ran into an elderly lady who’s comment was. “It’s so nice to see the crew working this late….” whatever she was up to, she just wandered down the passageway…

Moyer was quick about the whole business, “Pete, send three men to the bow and three to the stern with thompsons. When they hear the signal, they need to fire on the Edson gun crews. I’m heading to the radio room to remove a few problems, I should signal in about ten minutes. Otherwise, I think the original deployments as we discussed should work.”

Moyer had attached a strap to the Thompson and headed down the passageway to the nearby ship ladder. He ran into the old lady….

“My boy have you seen the cook, I’m hoping to get…my lord your armed to the teeth!”

“Yes, there was a sighting a few hours ago. Suspected pirates, the crew and some passengers are being armed.”

“Oh, dear…do you think Chairman Meow will be safe…”

“Why don’t you go check on him…”
“Yes, I’ll do that….”

The old lady turned and went down onto the upper cargo deck.

Moyer just shook his head and made a note to himself Kill old lady and cat

He reached the upper deck and crossed over to the door of the radio room. It was unlocked, the young radio operator was sitting looking tired but very much into the girly magazine he was ‘reading’.


***The Bridge***
The two retired officers had found only Black and a crewman at the helm on the bridge. Black was scanning the horizon, and seemed to be in conversation with someone on a small black phone.

“Ah, Mr. Black….I hope were not interfering but some recent activity…”

Black being in a somewhat bad mood cut them off “Ah, well with most of the crew sick and having just left a known pirate hangout. Captian Mcgregor decided to take some precausions.”
The Major responded
“I knew several passengers were sick, but most of the crew…”

“All of the crew, some worse than others…”

“And all of the passengers except me…”

“You, Mr. Moyer, Mr. Abernathy and his group…”

“Wait all of the new passengers and Mr. Moyer are unaffected…”

“Well, yes…I just assumed it was some bug that you were all resistant too…”

“Mr. Black what did you have to eat tonight?”

“Ah, Hell Hassen Hash, carrots and corn, bread, and a brownie…”

“Captain?”

The old man was a bit puzzled…”Ah fried chicken, slaw and two brownies…”

“Neither I, nor some of those Ian’s had a brownie…what kind of food poisoning gets into a brownie”

“Ah, bad flour…”

“I suggest that Captain Mcgregor arm the crew and seize Moyer and those Ians before morning…”

Black wasn’t sure what to do. He didn’t want to disturb Mcgregor but then arguing with a black tab might not be a good idea. He decided to let Mcgregor deal with the problem. He walked off the bridge and down an interior ladder into officer country. Knocking at a near door.

***
Detective Inspector Thorm watched the architecture pass by with some interest. He couldn’t understand why the streets here were so narrow. Thunderbay had been founded in 1652 but had been laid out by a classically minded Florentine who had gotten on the wrong side of the Medici. That didn’t help congestion of those roads by automobiles however. He looked at various buildings along the boulevard and decided to ask the obvious question.
“Ah what is up with the empty flag pole in front of the Assembly building?”

“Right,” nodded Pete as Sam and Leo came walking quickly into the purser’s cabin. “You heard Moyer; we’ve all got a job to do.” ((I’ll let you control their actions from here on out - you know what Moyer relayed on better than I ;)))

---

The Jackrabbit inched its way forward. “The empty flagpole?” he asked, though not so much for confirmation as to consider the question a little longer. “It’s hardly even something we think about anymore. There’s been one like it in every capital city in the Commonwealth - here, Ianapalis, Lakeriverwood, Troobodia City, and Thesia - ever since the revolt.” He paused. The late conflict had been largely localized in the Commonwealth’s south-east. Noropia had had its fair share of bodies sent home in boxes, but not enough to feel the true impact.

“It used to be where they hung the Dianatranian flag,” he continued after a minute. “But the crown retracted their home-rule after the attempted separatist movement. I’d imagine sooner or later they’ll be regranted Dominion status; when that happens, we’ll run their flag up again.”

Mercil turned the Jackrabbit down another street at last. He drove down it for less than minute, then pulled into a small above-ground parking lot. “We’re here,” he announced simply. Just what he meant by ‘here’ was a little ambigious; they were on a block of older office buildings that looked just like any other of a half-dozen they had passed.

((I'll hand them back after this post. As it will be somewhat complete chaos...))

Pete handed out six thompsons to those he thought wouldn't waste an entire clip without hitting anything. Leo led three of the men to the salon and listened. They could hear two people talking below.

The second group, led by a less skilled ambusher went forward and down onto the cargo deck. They moved quitely between the boxes and crates. Somewhere nearby they could hear the an old voice go..."who's a good kitty, yes you are...yes, you are....yes. Chairman Meow you are..." The responses were loud bangs against the cage. Either Chairman Meow was really excited or a mite big for a normal cat. They had split into two and one, each approaching along one of the 'alies' between the cargo. As they approached the forward bulkhead time ran out...

Black awore Mcgregor who finally said in a weary voice...what the "f*** does she think she is...Hull Castle for God sake. What does the woman wan..." His thoughts were cut short.

Moyer stepped in the door to the radio room. In one hand was a rubber band, in the other his automatic. The young radio operator looked up from drooling over a brunette to realize that he had a gun pointed at his head. He watched, wide eyed as Moyer wrapped the rubberband over the 'speak' switch on the wall mounted intercom and a screw in the painted case. "Ah what..." was the last thing he said as Moyer fired two rounds into his skull.

Leo heard the sound and moved onto the promanade at the end of the ship through the french doors. The rest of his men followed him. They walked up to the rail, leveled their guns and opened fire on the confused group. All four of the gun crew were dead in seconds...

The second group was startled as the the crew members at the Edson gun. Both stood there for a second...the Edson gun crew saw two of the men with tommy guns first. As they scrambled the two pirates opened fire. Two crewmen fell with red blood spraying from their bodies. The Edson gun was swung around, and opened fire. The heavy rounds turned both pirates into pulp. The third pirate was on the port side. He opened fire with his tommy, killing the remaining Edson gun crew. The Edson swung back across the ship towards him, firing wildly. It was the last act of the dying man holding onto the trigger. A scream could be heard as a ricociet hit the old woman. Then the gun became silent as the hand slipped from the trigger. A moment later a large growl could be heard from amongst the cargo. The pirate picked himself off the deck and heard something move behind him. A flash of a small orange stripped body vanished in amongst the crates.

Everywhere in the ship passengers and crew awoke to the sounds of gun fire. Some had still been awake desireing the pain to go away. Several passengers poked their heads out of their cabin doorways to see what was going on. A steward appeared at the door to the purser's cabin. A phone on the wall of the purser's cabin began to ring...

Captain Mcgregor stood on the bridge. His face was white. He was ringing the purser who was not answering. He stopped and looked at the Major. "I'm a fool...they've got the purser..."
Black was hitting the intercom, it was just broadcasting static.
"And your armory...those were submachine guns we just heard," the Major said in a cold voice.
"I'm a fool...I've lost my ship..."
She turned to Black, who wasn't in much better shape..."How many guns in the armory..."
"Ten rifles, eight submachine guns..."
A submachinge gun opened up again. A body fell over one of the front windows. It was one of the lookouts, his body riddled with holes. The Major glanced out the starboard door. She saw Moyer striding forward towards them. The submachine gun in his hands.

"We've lost the ship....they appear to have taken out both the Edson guns and have the armory. The only thing we can do is fire a flare and hope for assistance as we evacuate as many passengers from these Iansisle bastards as we can..."

Captain Mcgregor stood, "Major, I ask that you take over the evacuation. I will attempt to cover your retreat as best as possible." He was stiff and formal, but he pulled a revolver from his pocket. "As long as they don't have the bridge we have time..."
The Major pulled out a Luger from her bathrobe pocket and handed it to the Captain. "May God and Athena be with you..."
"God Save the Duke..."
Then all shouted "God Save the Duke!"
Several more officers and crew members appeared at the bridge. Four more died when they walked out onto the upper deck where Moyer was.
(crew left:15, Passengers left: 23, Klatchian Tiger Cubs:1, Pirates left: 12)

***
Thorm got out of the car and looked around. He made a mental note to try an pick up as much as possible about the revolt. After all, the Federation was even more divided and insular that the Commonwealth. The fact that it had survived at all was considered a miracle by most, others just thought that the other states of the Federation were scared of the Vrakians. ((The Federation = rebirth of the Holy Roman Empire!))

((I'll hand them back after this post. As it will be somewhat complete chaos...))

Pete handed out six thompsons to those he thought wouldn't waste an entire clip without hitting anything. Leo led three of the men to the salon and listened. They could hear two people talking below.

The second group, led by a less skilled ambusher went forward and down onto the cargo deck. They moved quitely between the boxes and crates. Somewhere nearby they could hear the an old voice go..."who's a good kitty, yes you are...yes, you are....yes. Chairman Meow you are..." The responses were loud bangs against the cage. Either Chairman Meow was really excited or a mite big for a normal cat. They had split into two and one, each approaching along one of the 'alies' between the cargo. As they approached the forward bulkhead time ran out...

Black awore Mcgregor who finally said in a weary voice...what the "f*** does she think she is...Hull Castle for God sake. What does the woman wan..." His thoughts were cut short.

Moyer stepped in the door to the radio room. In one hand was a rubber band, in the other his automatic. The young radio operator looked up from drooling over a brunette to realize that he had a gun pointed at his head. He watched, wide eyed as Moyer wrapped the rubberband over the 'speak' switch on the wall mounted intercom and a screw in the painted case. "Ah what..." was the last thing he said as Moyer fired two rounds into his skull.

Leo heard the sound and moved onto the promanade at the end of the ship through the french doors. The rest of his men followed him. They walked up to the rail, leveled their guns and opened fire on the confused group. All four of the gun crew were dead in seconds...

The second group was startled as the the crew members at the Edson gun. Both stood there for a second...the Edson gun crew saw two of the men with tommy guns first. As they scrambled the two pirates opened fire. Two crewmen fell with red blood spraying from their bodies. The Edson gun was swung around, and opened fire. The heavy rounds turned both pirates into pulp. The third pirate was on the port side. He opened fire with his tommy, killing the remaining Edson gun crew. The Edson swung back across the ship towards him, firing wildly. It was the last act of the dying man holding onto the trigger. A scream could be heard as a ricociet hit the old woman. Then the gun became silent as the hand slipped from the trigger. A moment later a large growl could be heard from amongst the cargo. The pirate picked himself off the deck and heard something move behind him. A flash of a small orange stripped body vanished in amongst the crates.

Everywhere in the ship passengers and crew awoke to the sounds of gun fire. Some had still been awake desireing the pain to go away. Several passengers poked their heads out of their cabin doorways to see what was going on. A steward appeared at the door to the purser's cabin. A phone on the wall of the purser's cabin began to ring...

Captain Mcgregor stood on the bridge. His face was white. He was ringing the purser who was not answering. He stopped and looked at the Major. "I'm a fool...they've got the purser..."
Black was hitting the intercom, it was just broadcasting static.
"And your armory...those were submachine guns we just heard," the Major said in a cold voice.
"I'm a fool...I've lost my ship..."
She turned to Black, who wasn't in much better shape..."How many guns in the armory..."
"Ten rifles, eight submachine guns..."
A submachinge gun opened up again. A body fell over one of the front windows. It was one of the lookouts, his body riddled with holes. The Major glanced out the starboard door. She saw Moyer striding forward towards them. The submachine gun in his hands.

"We've lost the ship....they appear to have taken out both the Edson guns and have the armory. The only thing we can do is fire a flare and hope for assistance as we evacuate as many passengers from these Iansisle bastards as we can..."

Captain Mcgregor stood, "Major, I ask that you take over the evacuation. I will attempt to cover your retreat as best as possible." He was stiff and formal, but he pulled a revolver from his pocket. "As long as they don't have the bridge we have time..."
The Major pulled out a Luger from her bathrobe pocket and handed it to the Captain. "May God and Athena be with you..."
"God Save the Duke..."
Then all shouted "God Save the Duke!"
Several more officers and crew members appeared at the bridge. Four more died when they walked out onto the upper deck where Moyer was.
(crew left:15, Passengers left: 23, Klatchian Tiger Cubs:1, Pirates left: 12)

***
Thorm got out of the car and looked around. He made a mental note to try an pick up as much as possible about the revolt. After all, the Federation was even more divided and insular that the Commonwealth. The fact that it had survived at all was considered a miracle by most, others just thought that the other states of the Federation were scared of the Vrakians. ((The Federation = rebirth of the Holy Roman Empire!))

((Take your time with ‘em; they’re as much (or more, even) your characters than mine ;)

And if there was one thing I learned from the Diamond thread, it’s that you don’t screw around with Klatchian wildlife!))

Mercil waved for Thorm to follow him and walked in one of the office buildings. The Second Empire building, the fad of which had hit Noropia just as the new Dominion was expanding its bureaucracy, looked just like any of the others surrounding it. Faded red brick ascended four or five stories, depending on the building, until it hit the mansard roof and its gables.

The only way to tell which building they were entering was a small, perhaps six foot by three foot, sign, which proclaimed in simple letters ‘Department of Law Enforcement’. Mercil went through the inward swinging door first, hesitated, and then held it for Thorm. The receptionist said something to him; probably a greeting, and Mercil replied in a friendly manner. The little man then led Thorm to a bank of elevators, all of which looked equally unsafe. The Noropian, however, climbed straight in and ordered ‘fourth floor.’

((heh...the H.R.E. is actually something I tried to keep in mind when I was coming up with the concept for Iansisle..but then I chickened out and put in a somewhat-effective central government.))

((Take your time with ‘em; they’re as much (or more, even) your characters than mine ;)

((How about you keep Rping Pete...Since that is the central Iansisle character in this sub thread? I'll deal with the Ensign Expendables Pirate Version...))

((And if there was one thing I learned from the Diamond thread, it’s that you don’t screw around with Klatchian wildlife!))
((Oh that reminds me, after getting lost into a mass of spy wank with Vrak, I decided to 'reward' him with finding the dimonds and let your boys find a nice little gold deposit on the south side of the river. I think I penciled that down but never posted it. ))

The young man stood on the forecastle deck and listened as something small but powerful prowled through the cargo. He decided that caution was the better part of valor and to hold the Edson gun from being reclaimed by the crew. He especially made sure by switching from the tommy gun to the heavier caliber Edson gun. Of course he was too unfamiliar with the weapon to realize that the tear in the cloth ammo belt would actually jam the gun. And that it would quickly overheat without the water glycol solution that was leaking from a bullet hole in the barrel jacket.

Leo led his crew down the ladder to the stern deck. Four bodies lay in pools of blood. "Watch your step..." was all he had a chance to say before Uhh, bump, splat...splat and two pirates fell down into the mess on the deck. Leo pointed to the dead bodies, "Now that your all bloody, you can toss these carcases into the sea."

He proceeded to check the Edson gun. It was a nice unit, built to take on lightly armored units the massive weight of the object, and the liquid cooled barrel were prohibitive for anything other than a permenant post. Leo noted that he only had a single ammo belt for the gun. He looked at the two who's shirts and pants were now stained darkly from blood.

"You two get up to the purser's office, report to Black Nail that we have taken the machine gun at the stern complete. The two hurried off into the the cargo area heading for one of the interior ladders.

Leo sat down on a winch and started to roll a cigarette as the other pirate seemed to cuddle his tommy gun and take a seat on a nearby crate. Both heard the sharp crack of pistol shots from above.

Moyer was pinned. He had just finished putting a nice hole in the head of a female passenger who had stubbled out of an officer's berth, when a shot from the bridge almost took his head off. Now the body of the woman was his sheild as he exchanged fire with Captain Mcgregor only a few yards away. He couldn't use the tommy in fear of destroying the ship's compass which was what the Captain was sheltering behind.

Black, The Major and the pilot were on the other side of the texas trying to lower a lifeboat into the water below. The ship had stopped moving but Black seemed distracted by each crack he heard, and the Major was quickly becoming impatient. "Damn it, keep your line moving or I'm going to throw you to the sharks!"

The steward looked at the seven men standing around the purser's office and the body of the purser laying in his bunk and...had his head taken off by an older gent who pulled up the tommy gun he was playing with and fired off a burst. Several passengers heard and saw the body of the steward go flying into the far wall of the passage. Some realized that they were in serious danger. A few crawled into their cabins hoping to be rescued. Others ran towards the lifeboats on the decks above. A few, thinking that their duty lay in protecting their spouses or lovers attempted to grab a few heavy objects and warn their fellow passengers. One fellow began to scream and run in circles up and down the ship. A human emergeny siren, although he was really just had flipped his lid.

**

"Just a moment," Thorm replied as the exited the car. Why in the hell did he bring me to his apartment building. He thought dryly as he pulled a large leather book from his luggage in the back seat.
Oh, wait...there is the sign. So this is the department of Law Enforcement. Nothing special. I guess their govenment didn't go in for letting architects com' politico design their buildings. Oh, well no one can say Chancellor Sullivan designed bad buildings. It just always seemed like he wanted the job to keep designing buildings. Hell, we didn't need a new office complex for another eighty years and that was the new MERC building. They did it in a complemetary style....Oh well isn't he nice holding the door open.
"Thank You..."
Ah well receptionist. Hmm, can't read the name plate. Oh well...what the f*** they need someone to operate the damn elevator! What the hell can't they get people to push their own buttons around here. Wait, maybe he is a well planted guard. I wonder if he is armed....hmm, let's see if we can find any buldges in his clothes or is that jacket a bit large for him?
(I decided an internal monaloge here would be fun)

((Actually, it is quite fun to have to deal with some 14 seperate players on trying to maintain some sense of cohesion in your nation. Deal with getting things voted on in Parliment, etc. ))

Pete smiled. “Good, that’s very good. All right, here’s the pl-” Just as Black Nail said that, the steward appeared. Everything froze in place for a single second, then Ol’ Jack brought his gun and fired.

Sam, Jack, and most of the pirates just stood and stared for a second at the gore-streaked wall and the collapsing body. Then they heard the screams.

“Damn,” muttered Pete. “Double and triple damn! Jack, couldn’t you have been any less subtle about that!?”

“How’d you propose I done it?”retorted the older man. “Invited ‘im in fer tea?”

“Shut up. Sam, we need to round ‘em all up - go around from cabin to cabin, and take them all in here.” Pete rounded on Jack again. “You - stay here and guard the place. Bob, Laughy, help Sam.”

“What do we do if they resist?” asked Sam, checking the ammunition in the revolver he had brought.

“Shoot ‘em. Otherwise, round ‘em up in the salon.” He glanced about. “All right, all of you - I don’t want any more screwups!” Pete cast one last long look at Jack before they set about their task.

---------

“Fourth floor, Mr. Mercil?” asked the young man, who then smiled at Thorm. “Hi! It’s not often we get..”

“Fouth floor, Albert,” said Mercil sharply.

“Uh, right, Mr. Mercil, right away!” The attendant quickly ran the chain door closed, then levered the exterior door shut as well. Another lever pull, and the car started its slow climb. Mercil stood off to one side and tapped his foot impatiently.

The two pirates that were moving through the upper cargo deck, hear a “Muroww” from somewhere ahead. Then the same deep sound came from even closer. It was not something someone who had spent his or her lives on board ship really wanted to hear. They high tailed it to the ladder, but they heard something running towards them. They ran even faster, one dropped his tommy gun on the deck as they scurried up the ladder.

Jack sat on the purser’s desk and began to rifle through the items on the top. One moment he was attempting to understand the card with currency conversions, the next he was looking at a kitchen knife imbedded in the desktop. The thought galley passed through his mind as he pushed himself off the desk and onto the floor. A second knife hit something metal with a clang. He slammed shut the lower half of the door and heard a thump into the wood. He decided to use his revolver and fired a few wild shots across the passage and into the galley. No more knifes flew at him. He lifted his head just above the top of the lower door. A thin white figure appeared in the opposite doorway and a knife went sailing towards Jack. He dropped as the knife hit the door and spiraled onto the deck.

Sam’s group had rounded up five more passengers. One woman had just kicked as screamed after being pulled out from under her bed. A well placed bullet in the forehead had made the remaining four more docile. As he approached the end of the forward starboard passage, the human siren came around the corner. Sam didn’t pause but put a bullet into the siren’s mouth. At the end of the passage was a door with a porthole. A face appeared in it as it witnessed the execution. One of the others fired a round smashing the glass but missing the person. Bob ran out and looked out on the forward deck. He saw no one, he walked to the rail and looked down. All he saw was the single man at the Edson gun starring back down the length of the ship.

“Hey, Conan, did you see a passenger move through here…”

“Ah, well something is moving down here in the cargo. Something orange with stripes.”

Bob returned to the rest who were now working down the port side, second class cabins.

In the dinning room two figures piled plates up behind the steam table. The dishwasher and steward were attempting something but what was a mystery.

Eight passengers had appeared on the upper deck., as well as seven more crewmen, and the senior engineer.
“Damn it, I can’t leave my boys down there…the’ll be slaves…” The high pitched voice of the senior engineer screamed out. Her eyes were glowing anger at the Major.
“Damn it woman, the ship is lost. They appear to have the all the guns, and run of two whole decks.”
“I can’t….” the rattle of a nearby tommy gun caught her off guard again.
“Ladies perhaps we should think three dimensionally” the old pilot interrupted. He had a grin on his face as he watched Black and three crewmen lower the lifeboat with four crewman and eight passengers to the water below. It had already been decided that the Major would take command of them in a moment. He pointed to another lifeboat pushed out on it’s davits waiting to be lowered.
Two wounded passengers appeared from the forward ladders. They were the lucky ones.

Five more bodies lay in their blood on the starboard side. Two passengers and a group of crew had attempted to rush Moyer. He had cut them down with his Tommy gun. Moyer decided that his current position couldn’t be maintained. He gathered his strength and made a rush for the bridge, firing his automatic as he ran forward. Captain Mcgregor returned fire as best he could. He felt a sudden sensation in his shoulder as a ‘click’ informed him that he was out of bullets. He pulled himself back into the shadow of the ship’s wheel. He felt for the box containing a flare. Moyer was picking himself off the deck. A bullet had slammed into his right leg sending the pirate sprawling. He pulled himself up one handed using the rail. Moyer noticed that the man on the bridge had stopped firing. So I must have got him, or he’s waiting to see if I’m alive.. Moyer hobbled to the ladder up to the bridge and mumbled “Where the f*** is Black Nail?”

(Unaccounted for: Passengers 5, Crew 6)

**
“Detective Inspector Thorm, please to make your acquaintance Albert” He gave a small nod of the head to the elevator operator. He also gave a somewhat cool look to Mercil. Thorm wasn’t quite sure what the smaller man’s problem was. After all, being polite to one’s inferiors took little energy and usually made them easier to deal with when s*** hit the fan. Although it was obvious that the elevator operator wasn’t even On the totem pole, you never knew what someone standing in an elevator all day saw or heard.

[hits double post with 8 inch shell ***Boom***]

OOC: I place my bet on the tiger!

OOC: I place my bet on the tiger!
It's a Klatchian Tiger Cub...It is fairly harmless by Klatchian standards...

It's a Klatchian Tiger Cub...It is fairly harmless by Klatchian standards...

(Which means it really isn't all that harmless at all. Hell, I'll bet on the tiger, too!

Sorry about not having a response by now; there's really no excuse except for simply forgetting about it. I will have one up by this afternoon, however)

Just as Moyer was thinking about him, Pete was standing with the four passangers considering Bob’s report.

“Something orange? With stripes?” he wondered.

“Like a Gallagan tiger?” suggested Sam, who was trying in vain to wipe thick blood from his forearm.

“What the hell would a tiger be doing on a passenger liner, Sam?” asked Pete grumpily. That damn steward had ruined all their plans, and he was having a hard time concentrating on the current situation. Someone among the passangers whimpered, and Black Nail made a threatening gesture in their direction with his rifle. That shut whoever it was up pretty quickly. “I don’t like this,” he said at last. “There’s something funny at work - I think Moyer may have been a little optimistic about how easy this job would be.”

“What should we do?” asked Sam with a confused look on his face. It took a good deal of self control for Pete to keep from striking him.

“All right. Sam, take the boys and keep rounding up passengers.” He looked across at Bob. “Except you - come on; we’re going to see what’s happening forward.” That seemed to be the direction the most gun shots were coming from.

-----

“Hi, detective. Nice to meet you,” said the youth, but in a much subdued tone. The remainder of the elevator trip passed in relative quiet, until at last Albert pulled on his lever, then opened the doors. “Enjoy your day.” Mercil just grunted.

The Noropian led Thorm down a hallway, off to the left, and around another corner quickly enough to get anyone lost. At last, he stopped in front of a rather unassuming door and pushed it open.

A young, very attractive secretary looked up and smiled. “Why, hello, Claude.” Her blue Noropian eyes flitted over to the detective. “And you must be Detective Thum. Mr. Benicoeur is expecting you!”

“Thank you, Christine,” said Mercil in a very different tone than he had used in the elevator before Thorm had a chance to correct his name. “Shall we just let ourselves it?” Thorm noticed that Mercil had removed his hat and was now fiddling with it in his hands.

Moyer reached the bridge, it was in shadows since someone had turned out the lights. He leaned through the doorway and looked for any dangerous shadows. His left hand moved along the wall and felt the lightbutton on the wall, he turned on the lights. As he did so, something hot and white went sailing past him; through one of the starboard windows. The flare exploded a few moments later, about 60 ft above the water and 100 feet from the side of the ship. The brilliant white flash was seen by everyone on deck.

Moyer found himself looking down at a bleeding Captain Mcgregor. He hobbled over to the exausted man and ordered,
"Turn around..."

Mcgregor did as ordered, being pistol whipped by the pirate into unconsiousness. Moyer hobbled over to the port side to see the last of the evacuation group scurry down the lines to two of the lifeboats. Apparently, some of the crew and passengers had escaped.
Fools, they'll be dead from dehydration by tommorow afternoon, or the Edson gun tonight was Moyer's wry thought as he turned to more important matters.

One lifeboat sat in the water, a second was still several feet above the water, next to one of the lower cargo doorways. The cheif engineer had cleared out her remaining staff and they cut the lines to the davits, dropping the second lifeboat into the water below. The Major turned and shouted, "Alright, let's raise the masts and the sails." The passengers and crew in each of the lifeboats raised a small mast. After securing the masts they raised lanteen sails and caught the westerly wind, moving south west towards the coast.

Moyer, who was looking over the navigation charts saw the sails appear as the boats angled away from the SeeandBee. He hobbled to the front of the bridge, opened a window and yelled down. "You, open fire on those lifeboats!"

The young pirate forgot about the creature, who he hadn't heard or seen in several minutes and followed orders. He turned the edson gun towards both lifeboats and opened fire. He was actually a good shot; a line of bullets smacked across the nearest craft. Two rounds hit the mast and several more found themselves punching holes through the lifeboat's occupants. The mast collapsed sending the sail and four dead bodies overboard. The Edson gun jammed before it could do anymore damage.

Moyer swore some curse and ordered, "Damn it, use your tommy gun finish off the f***" The young man hesitated and fired a few rounds at the wounded ship, his mind was again on the orange fur and stripes. Moyer only cursed more, he grabbed an emergency latern, removed the protective cage, lit it and then tossed it at the wounded lifeboat. It hit the stern and exploded into flame. People started to yell as they attempted to put out the fire. Several fell from the boat covered in burning kerosene.
"Please no....God f*** you bastards....Help please help us..." could be heard from the wounded lifeboat.
The boat proved to be a fire trap and those still alive, wounded or not jumped into the water and tried to swim to saftey. The other lifeboat was trying to get out of range.

**Lifeboat 6**
The Major was forced to watch as Black's lifeboat was taken out by the Edson gun. She needed to get her boat and passengers out before they repaired the heavy gun and brought it to bear them. Her stomache turned when the figure on the bridge emerged and threw something at the other lifeboat. The burst of flame on the small, wooden craft was a sentence worse than death.
She shivered, and cursed the pirate who would do such a thing. She closed her eyes to the sight of people trying to swim for her boat. They couldn't take anymore, nor could she shut out their screams for help.
Someone said..."We have to go back..."
an angry reply was..."They'll just shoot us up and set this lifeboat aflame"
"But we have to do..."
"We can't do anything but get ourselves killed..."
Several people began to weep as they watched people flail in the water, their attempts to swim to them or shore illuminated by the torch of their own lifeboat.

**Back on the Seeandbee**
Pete and Bob walked into the dinning room. A hail of plates and cutlary came at them from behind the steam table.

The two men covered in blood were now running full tilt for the pursers office and saftey. The Something had followed them up the ship ladder (but then had gone back down to play with the toy someone had dropped :roll: )
When they turned the corner, they saw the door have several knifes of varying sizes inbedded into the door. A large bang sent one man flying over the lower half of the door while the other ran into the dinning room.

He wasn't watching where he was going. He hit the low wall of dishes and fell over onto the two men hiding behind the steam table.

***Mercil's Office***

Thorm just looked around the office, gave the secretary a smile, and held his hat behind him. Since that was proper manners in the Dual Duchy. He now understood the source of the screw up in his name though, cute girls tend to get away with such errors

(I’m sorry if I got this wrong - I was a little unclear if by ‘the two men hiding behind the steam table’ you meant Pete and Bob or whoever has been chucking silverware..I went on the assumption it was the later. Sorry, I just woke up and my synapses aren’t snapping quite as they should be!)

Pete swore violently and dropped into cover. Bob was a little slower, and nearly managed to get himself skewered by a large steak knife. Black Nail looked at him condescendingly for a moment, then quickly dropped the bulky rifle and withdrew his pistol.

He could hear two men running outside, then a large crack and something heavy fall noisily. Bob could just hear a violent curse and something about ‘bloody heroes’ issue from under Pete’s breath.

Then one of Bob’s friends, his pants slick with blood, came running in, tripped over something, and went sprawling behind the steam table.

“Now’s our chance!” exclaimed Pete, jumping up. He skidded around the steam table, pistol first, while Bob approached from the other side.

-----

“Of course you can, Claude,” smiled Christine, waving a hand towards the door. Mercil held the door to the inner office open, though Thorm might suspect that it was just an excuse to gaze at the secretary’s back for a few additional seconds.

Mr. Benicoeur, the Vice Director of International Affairs, was a portly little man with thick glasses and a thin comb-over that was seemingly maintained by the prodigious output of his sweat glands, even in the brisk chill of the Noropian climate. He looked up as the two men walked in, but did not stand.

“Ah, welcome back, Mr. Mercil. And Detective Thorm, I presume?” He smiled, which somehow managed to make the ugly face even uglier. “I just finished reading the brief your government was kind enough to send me.” Benicoeur waved at a seat in front of him. Mercil started towards another seat, but a well placed glare kept him standing. “From what I understand, all you really need from us is permission to use that contraption of yours to stop the, ah, ‘Seeandbee,’ correct?”

(I think it works actually...if they were heading for the shots Jack was firing taking cover on the otherside of the steam table was a good idea.)

Pete and Bob found a dishwaser and a steward underneath a somewhat dazed pirate who strung out an explination "Big thing....on deck below....followed us up....went to purser....knives in door....ow..."
His flailing arms and somewhat confused expression changed as a yell of "Ahhhhhh!!!" filled the air followed by the fast rat-tat-tat of two tommy guns opening fire. Looking down the passageway one could make out the flashes from the Purser's office as the two men emptied their magazines into the galley across the hall. The shooting stopped, and then a wing-cling could be heard as a butcher's knife went flying back across in response to the barage.

Bob pointed to the galley door off the dinning room and said "We could catch the bastard in the back from here. He pushed open the swinging door holding it against his back as he slid into the room. Suddenly he fired three rounds as a thump could be heard.

Bob turned back to Pete with a pained expression, "I got the old wench, but she got me too..." A bonening knife was stuck in Bob's shoulder, pinning him to the door.

***
Moyer watched as someone turned over the burning lifeboat, extinquishing the flames. But he had little time for worrying about such things. He yelled down to the pirate on the jammed Edson gun, "Get your tail up here. I need your help." The young man, ran up the outer ladders to the bridge and found Moyer needed his help to limp to the sickbay.
"What is your name?" Moyer asked as they hopped down the steps from the bridge.

"Eddie Blackwell...but everyone calls me Black Eddie..."
"Do they really?" Moyer gave the young man a look...
"No, but well..."
"Alright Mr. Blackwell, what has you so spooked down there..."
"I saw something orange with black strippes, furry..."
"It's a Klatchian Tiger Cub, perfectly harmless in it's cage..."
"Ah, it wasn't in it's cage..."
"What! What blooming idiot let a Klatchian Tiger run free? Ah, help me onto this cot. I'll tell you what to do. As to what to do with the Tiger...Damn...no morphine for me..."

**
Thorm took a seat placing his hat and leather notebook in his lap. "Well, that is the most likely outcome, Mr. Benicoeur. I am trying to interview Mr. Moyer..." he pointed to the breif. ".... who was known to be onboard the S.S. Seeandbee. However, he may have changed ships in the last port of call, we will not know that until tommorow morning. After the Seeandbee is scheduled to leave port. If Mr. Moyer is still on board then I can easily use my 'contraption' to fly out and interview Mr. Moyer and inspect some of the cargo. Since it's an Alconian flag ship that shouldn't be a problem. All I need to do is make sure that the rights of any Noropian citizens while in Noropian waters is protected as well as not ruffle any of your feathers." He gave a bright smile to the beucrat.

"However, if Mr. Moyer has found refuge in Cape Deliverance..." He had to open his notebook to read the place name. "...I will be requesting your assistance in finding Mr. Moyer in Commonwealth Territory or your help in directing me to the proper authorities to do so."

Pete had been tying up the two crewmen with their jackets (or other handy piece of clothing) while Bob went through the door and the third man - Larry - shook. He was just checking to make sure they were disarmed and the knots were reasonably tight when he heard the shots and the knife being throne, then went to see what had happened.

Pete made a face at the knife in Bob’s shoulder. “Damn...we’ll have to get you to the sickbay.” He walked over and kicked the body to make sure that Bob really had gotten her, then glanced over to the steam table. “Larry, take those two to the salon; I’ve got to get Bob here to some medical help.”

“I--I’d really rather not go alone. There’s someth--”

“Damn it, man, you’ve a gun. Just be careful turning corners. And if you’re so scared, make them walk in front of you.” Then he turned his attention back to Bob. “Ok, hold yer breath. I’ve got to pull this out of the wall, but I don’t want to pull it out of you until we’ve a proper bandage ready.” Bob didn’t look very happy about that arraignment. “Here we go--” And Pete slowly levered the knife’s tip out of the door, almost pulling too hard. Bob gasped in pain, but held himself all right.

---

Benicoeur nodded at the explanation. “All right. Well, detective, you’ll have all the help the Noropian government can give you, but it doesn’t seem as though we’ll be able to do much to help you until tomorrow.” He opened a little book. “Now, I hope you don’t mind if Claude looks after you for the rest of the evening? I’ve made you reservations at a hotel downtown, if that’s all right.”

It certainly didn’t look like the situation was all right by Mr. Mercil, but he didn’t - or rather, in the presence of his boss, couldn’t - say anything.

“I certainly hope it won’t come to a hunt across Noropia,” continued Benicoeur, standing up again, “But if it does, we’ll try and work things out the best we can.” His words were reassuring, but his tone left Thorm wondering if the Dominion was really prepared to go to all that effort for some foreign criminal, especially one who was just a thief.

Larry, only had his revolver but it seemed to have no problems as he led the group back to the salon. A few of the others were using some sheets (ropes) to tie up the rest of the prisoners. Ten Passengers and four crew members sat in silence around the floor of the salon. Larry went for the small bar off the room to get himself a drink. A few of the others hesitated trying to decide between following orders or getting a stiff drink.

Moyer laid back on the cot and gave directions to Eddie on how to clean up his would with salt water. "Now grab the packet labled 'Antomite Sulfa' yeah...open it and sprinkle some on the wound....Erck...Now put on the gauze
on the back and front....Now wrap the damn thing." He laid back exhausted from the fire fight and the pain.

"Now go get the Captain from the bridge and hog tie him....and then haul him back here..."

Eddie nodded....and was relativly quick about it. By the time Pete and Bob showed up outside the sickbay, Eddie was waddling backwards, hauling the much heavier man down the passage.


**Lifeboat 6**
Was now having serious problems....It was out of long gun range, but the wind had become blustry. Forceing those on board to run out the oars and start rowing for where shore was believed to be. Several people complained of being thirsty, and the water cans were missing.

**Chateu**
Detective Thorm nodded in agreement. "That's fine sir, and I doubt it will become a man hunt across Noropia. Moyer has some peculiarities but I doubt if he'd wander outside of a major city much. And the more I see of it the more I believe that his plan is to quitely vanish into Chateu with the stolen loot. Any thing else Mr. Benicoeur?"

Pete surveyed the scene outside the sickbay with an arched eyebrow. Eddie was dragging an enormous man - who looked to be the ship’s captain - bloodily down the hall.

“What’s going on, Eddie? What are you doing?”

“Mr. Moyer,” the young man panted, “told me to go get the captain and get him down here.”

“Where is Moyer?”

“He took a bullet to the leg; he’s in there.” Pete grimaced and pushed the door open.

“Lay down over there,” said Pete, pointing towards a cot near the room’s door. Bob, his expression still one of pain, did as he was told. In the meantime, Pete walked over to Moyer. “Hell. What happened to you, Mr. Moyer?”

-----

“No, I think that should be it,” replied Benicoeur with another of his smiles. “Best of luck tomorrow, Detective. If you or Mr. Mercil need any help, please don’t hesitate to call me.”

“Shall I show you to the hotel?” asked Mercil. He didn’t sound very happy about the entire arraignment.

Moyer looked up at Pete with a somewhat cool expression, "I'd say that I and the former captain of this vessel had a disagreement about my taking command of the ship. In the end I shot him in the shoulder, he shot me in the leg. My real problem was the number of crew members who decided to attempt and stop me unarmed. Well they found their foolishness to be most...deadly."
"And what do you have to report from your recent activity Mr. Abernathy? I see one of the men has been wounded..."

Moyer shifted himself towards a cabinet behind him and opened it. It was filled with hanging crutches. He pulled one down and raised himself, hobbling over to Bob. He inspected the wound and asked, "Are you allergic to poppy seeds or morphine?" Bob shook his head no.
Moyer leaned back up and hobbled over to one of the medicine cabinets and began to prepare a syringe full of liquid.

"This is primarily a local anethtetic and clot inducer, but it is morphine based and has a tendency to cause lightheadedness in a patient."

Pete had been quite for a moment watching Moyer. " And you can give your report while we wait for this to take effect."
He cut open Bob's shirt and placed two, 5 cc shots on each side of the knife. He then rose and looked at Eddie who was standing in the doorway. He just motioned his head to get more gauze and bandages. He began to make up some more sulfa drug paste, listening to Pete.

***

Detective Thorm rose, gave a polite bow and said "Well then, Good day." And walked out the office door leaving the minion and master a moment to discuss things if need be. He stopped and chatted up the secretary about where a good place to take a girl out in Chateu might be. He hoped that the woman would speculate about the date that she wanted to be taken on. He had found that some female derived dates appeared to have universal feminine appeal.

Pete grunted. “There was someone yelling about some sort of big .. thing running about on the lower decks.” He shrugged. “Didn’t know what to make of that. Otherwise, I rounded up a bunch of the passengers in the salon and detailed a man or two to look over them.”

Pete continued to watch Moyer work, in silent awe of the man’s efficiency with the medical equipment. “There was some ‘heroes’ -” he spat out the word “-in the galley, but we took care of ‘em.

“Other than that,” he shrugged, “I’d say there’s not much to report. There might be one or two more people running around - Bob here saw someone out one of the portholes - but I don’t know for sure. My men are looking about the rest of the ship.”

---

“A date in Chateau?” Christine smiled. “Well, Detective Thum, that depends on how much you want to impress the girl - and how much you’re willing to spend!”

She considered the thought for a moment, tapping the end of her pen against her lip and quite ignoring the prodigious pile of paperwork that lay about her desk.

“I suppose the theatre would probably be my first choice,” she said at last. “There’s a great new play that’s supposed to be in town, playing down at the Great Stallion.” She smiled again, radiantly enough to knock any man back a step or two. “Of course, you’d probably have to ask this lady friend of yours to be sure, but maybe I can give you a hint or two. Of what sort is she?”

Thorm might be starting to wonder what was taking Mercil so long. In fact, he could hear the noises of what sounded like a fairly mild argument issuing from inside the office.

Pete grunted. “There was someone yelling about some sort of big .. thing running about on the lower decks.” He shrugged. “Didn’t know what to make of that. Otherwise, I rounded up a bunch of the passengers in the salon and detailed a man or two to look over them.”

Pete continued to watch Moyer work, in silent awe of the man’s efficiency with the medical equipment. “There was some ‘heroes’ -” he spat out the word “-in the galley, but we took care of ‘em.

“Other than that,” he shrugged, “I’d say there’s not much to report. There might be one or two more people running around - Bob here saw someone out one of the portholes - but I don’t know for sure. My men are looking about the rest of the ship.”


Moyer nodded. "There is a Klatchian Tiger Cub supposed to be berthed down there in a cage. I'd assume someone let him out in the chaos. We will deal with that critter shortly. I am afraid that several people got aboard two of the ship's lifeboats and attempted to escape. Mr. Blackwell was able to prevent one from leaving, but the other is out of range." He walked over and looked at Bob's wound.

He then placed some of the sulfa mixture on two peices of gauze. He handed one to Eddie. "Now Eddie I want you to hold pressure on the wound in the back when I remove the knife, have you the banage?" Eddie nodded as Moyer looked at Pete and said. "Well, you get to do the honor of removing the blade. One quick motion is all we need..."

****


“Of course, you’d probably have to ask this lady friend of yours to be sure, but maybe I can give you a hint or two. Of what sort is she?”

Thorm might be starting to wonder what was taking Mercil so long. In fact, he could hear the noises of what sounded like a fairly mild argument issuing from inside the office.

Thorm walked over to the wall for a moment and leaned against it, as though considering how best to answer Christine. Of course he was trying to get some idea of what the argument was about.

"Hmm, well making an educated guess about your culture, I'd say that you would label her 'ultimate tom-boy'. After all she flies a navy flying boat for a living. But being from her culture I also know that she is likely to enjoy the finner things in life. She is the neice of Lord Angom and a great neice of Baron Westwood. I think she is the daughter of a cadet branch, but she has obviously been to a few Hunt Balls in her day."

He shakes his head slightly, "Hmm, I have a feeling that a girl with even a remoter family conncetions would be out of bounds to a commoner around here." He has a smile. In some ways he was more proding to see how the locals reacted to the semi-distant relatives of nobility which was actually a good guage on how powerful the nobility actually was.

In terms of the pilot, he had already decided that the threater was likely going to be his best gambit.

"A tiger cub?" asked Pete while he watched Moyer work on Bob. "I've seen tigers - well, at least, Gallagan ones - at the zoo before. Wonder why my man was quite so scared?"

Without a word of protest, he settled a hand around the knife's handle. "Ready, everyone?" the gruff pirate asked. After receiving confirmation, he whipped the knife out - perhaps a little too eager for 'one swift motion.'

--------

"A tomboy who's also a noble relative?" giggled Christine. "Well, that does put you in kind of a tricky place, doesn't it? Maybe you should go to the horse races before the play!" The idea was apparently quite humorous to her.

"I wouldn't say she'd be out of bounds around here," she said after a brief moment considering the question. "I mean, the High King himself is fixing to marry that Imitoran commoner." Christine shrugged. "All in all, I'd guess that the dashing young man would have to make a pretty darn good case - to her father as much as her - to be allowed to court her."

The door to the inner office opened suddenly, but not particularly quickly. Mecil walked out briskly, looked about, then spotted Thorm leaning up against the wall.

"Ah, detective. I was just wondering if I could show you to the theatre," he said with a slight smile. Thorm might be wondering slightly at the second major personality change in Mercil.

After Pete removed the knife both Moyer and Eddie clamped down on the wound. Moyer left Eddie to finish the bandages as he raised himself. "Alright we have work to do...I want to get this ship started..." As he exited the sickbay He turned to Eddie and said...'put a bandage on Mcgregor's wound. I'm not going to waste my time taking out the bullet."

He motioned for Pete to follow. "Alright, we need to get a pilot and a navigator up to the bridge and the engineers down to the engine room. Based on the fact that the lights are still on the boilers are working...so all we have to do is get the pistons to move again...." He stopped hobbling infront of the wireless room and entered it. He pulled off the rubber band on the intercom and looked at the body in the chair. "Also we need to detail someone to haul bodies off board and someone to help me clear out some material to make them think we were sunk. Damn, so many things I need good men to delegate tasks to."


He looks at Pete, "First, your going to take the bridge and set a course north by northwest for the moment....If your feeling up to it, chart a course to the Grand Islands. Now who should we get for the body and baggage detail? I'll take care of Mr. Tigger (not spelled wrong he said Tigger) and see that the Engineers are up to speed. I'll need a few nibble people for the Tiger job."

--------

"A tomboy who's also a noble relative?" giggled Christine. "Well, that does put you in kind of a tricky place, doesn't it? Maybe you should go to the horse races before the play!" The idea was apparently quite humorous to her.

"Oh you have steeplechase regularly here in Noropia?" was Thorm's response. That being the only form of horse racing that people went to in Alcona and Hubris. More generic horse racing had fallen out of favor after Elizabeth I declared that she found "training a creature to make left turns as fast as possible a bit dull. Having to avoid obsticals while racing is far more enjoyable.*"

He decided not to mention that His Graces officers could marry whom they so desired. Although being on the right side of the family was usually a very good idea. Although his goal was less courting and more strenous activity...


"Ah, detective. I was just wondering if I could show you to the theatre," he said with a slight smile. Thorm might be wondering slightly at the second major personality change in Mercil.

Well he wasn't sure if that was a good sign. Or Mercil had decided to show him the theater and then have him die in the prop room. But he smiled for a moment, "I would like to go to my hotel at the moment, Thank You."

*OOC Note: also more deadly. But the females of the Crawford line were always more dangerous than the males. (which also explains why females were allowed into service postions quite quickly in Alcona. After all, seeing Her Grace cut down a man with a broadsword in cold blood made most men tend to agree with many things said by her. Including allowing women to own property and vote.*

((oi...don’t write too late at night - I meant for Mercil to say ‘hotel’ not ‘theatre’. Oh well, what’s done is done ;)))


“Well, Jack’s guarding the purser’s office,” said Pete. “I imagine we could probably pull him off that duty now. In fact, by now, we should have rounded up just about everyone - check the salon, there ought to be a couple spare men lying about there who’d be happy to chuck debris overboard.

“Nor-nor-west,” he said after receiving his instructions. “Got it. And I’ll try on the course - navigation’s never been my strongest suit.”

After they split, Pete headed straight for the bridge to see what he could make of the instruments there.

----

“Well, not regularly,” said Christine. “There’s the Evergreen Handicap, though - that’s held fairly regularly right here in Chateau - and the Noropian Derby every year in St. Martin.” She smiled at Mercil as he walked out.

“What did I say?” asked Mercil at Thorm’s next comment. After having that explained he smiled. “Oh, pardon me! Where is my head? Of course I can!” He led Thorm back out of the office towards the elevator.

“Good-bye, Detective Thum,” smiled Christine as he walked out.

OOC: Oh, well...Thorm thought Mercil was listening in to the conversation and pissed off about him moving in on 'his girl' (although he is married this looks like an affair waiting to happen)

Thorm, gave a short bow and said "Good Day..." And followed Mercil back out to the car.

****
(OOC: I've kept my tech fairly 1940's or earlier in this...Oh well)

Moyer pushed back down the red switch on the intercom and said. "This is Captian Moyer, will Jack report to the bridge. Also, will all crewmen not currently assigned a task please assemble in the salon." He watched Pete leave and then began to hobble towards the nearest ships ladder.

Pete found a room that had some damage to the windows. Blood on the floor and a faint odor of gunpowder. A large compass sat on the starboard side. It was the typical massive affair. An odd table, which he had no clue of understanding sat between it and the wheel. The ship's wheel was large, almost four feet in diameter and made of brass. On the port side was the Ship Telegraph. It had a green and white 12 inch face and a quick inspection showed that it worked two seperate engines. Under the windows was a set of cabinets that was filled with a variety of navigational tools. There was a central console that had a phone and various setting for say Purser, Galley, Engine Room. There was also a control for three watertight doors, they were all open and indicated with a white light. ((OOC the ship is just floating in the water with no steerage way)) Jack appeared with a bit of a grin...
"Say someone's turned the deck back there into a right mess. And they dropped their tommy gun. He had the weapon in one of his hands as the other was slung across his back."

Captain Moyer arrived in the salon and looked at the eight men now assembled. "Alright, first the engineers..." Two men held up their hands and Moyer stated, fine I need you two to get to the engine room of this tub but first we need to get the rest of you to be productive. He points to two more men and says your going to help me. And you two will keep the prisoners in here. The rest of you I need to get some deck chairs, all the dead bodies, some bedding, and some of the passenger's luggage untouched out onto the taff rail. Now..."
Leo interupted, "we want to look like we've gone under. So gather everything and then drop it at once..."
Moyer grinned..."your Right....?"
"Leo sir,"
"Well you just got the job supervising that. Oh, I will be sending up some of the lighter cargo also. I should note that the rear deckhouse above us is a wooden addition protecting a second emergency generator..."
"break part of it down and add it...doors and furniture to?"
"Yes, and see if we can light it up before we thow it all off..."
"Yes, captian..."

Moyer, the engineers and two men walked out into the galley. Moyer began to sing..."Oh let the tiger come..."

Leo looked at the situation and then gave a dark grin. "Well it seems I've become an officer. So this is what we are going to do. "You..." he pointed to the prisoners..."Are going to help. I want all the prisoners down on the stern deck. You two keep an eye on them, and man the machine gun. The rest of you I want to start grabbing stuff, tearing random items from rooms and throw it down to them. Their job will be to break it up...or be shot up."

((Hey, man. Sorry this response is taking so long. Between the revolution, the other RPs I'm in, and the fact we're driving hard on midterm season, I simply haven't had too much time. I do plan on continuing this story, and hope to continue it very soon.

In the meantime, here's (http://www.villagephotos.com/viewpubimage.asp?id_=8131638) a picture of those flags I was describing...I think I changed Troobodia's in the final incarnation, though.

Peace, Ian))

((understood...Like the flags...Although, I was intrigued by the royal castle being on it's own little island...is the entire Island a royal perserve as the Duke of Alcona have? Oh and where does the Alliance of New Highlands meet?))

((Thanks. Yeah, Dun Adien is on Ian’s Island. I did that mostly for OOC reasons - I needed some reason to call the place ‘Iansisle’ and simple self glorification wasn’t enough...’specially since Iansisle isn’t an island. IC, Ian’s Island is a part of the Crown Reserve and personal holding of the House of Callahan. The name comes from the strong personalities that ruled from there in the early eighteenth century. As for the ANH, we currently meet in Golden Agate, Larkinia...I dunno if that’s the ‘official’ site as such, but it’s where we’ve most always used. Oh, and if you don’t mind, I’m going to accelerate things in Chateau slightly.))

Chateau

The second ride through the city seemed to pass much more quickly than the first; again, Mercil piloted his Jackrabbit just a little too quickly down the narrow streets. One interesting thing that Thorm may or may not have noticed was the absolute lack of speed limit signs anywhere; it was impossible to tell if the Noropian was breaking any sort of laws.

Thorm supposed that the ride to the hotel was a little longer than the ride from Emperor’s to the office, but they didn’t hit much traffic. Slowly, the tall buildings (though, considering damn near the whole city was built of brick, ‘tall’ was a relative term) started to give way to a more residential block. The mountains behind the city, relatively low but still impressive, came at last into full view. Noropia was an astonishingly green country. Thorm could see massive stands of the famous Noropian fir climbing up the sides of every mountain, and a couple of the peaks were even snow-topped. Not surprising, given the chilly atmosphere at sea level.

At last, Mercil pulled the car in front of a low but long hotel’s parking lot, coming to a stop in front of a sign proclaiming it the ‘Atlantis Arms.’

“Sorry we had to put you so far out of the city proper,” said Mercil casually. “There’s a big gem convention in town, and hotel space has been at a premium. This was the nearest place with enough room for everyone in your party.” He shrugged. “However, I’ll be staying out here tonight, in case you need anything, and I can always drive you into town.”

----

Seeandbee

Pete grunted in frustration at the modern navigational equipment. Damn it, he had always been a gunner, not a navigator! This was a little out of his bailiwick.

Jack’s appearance did little to improve his mood. Pete had never been fond of the older man and his constant questioning of orders. This did make him slightly inclined towards ignoring Jack’s suggestions.

“What sort of mess, Jack?” he asked with a sigh while trying to figure out the arraignment of tools. “Like they threw up? No one better’ve been in the brownies!”

Chateau

“Sorry we had to put you so far out of the city proper,” said Mercil casually. “There’s a big gem convention in town, and hotel space has been at a premium. This was the nearest place with enough room for everyone in your party.” He shrugged. “However, I’ll be staying out here tonight, in case you need anything, and I can always drive you into town.”


"Ah, doesn't this town have Taxis? And It will just be me, the Navy air crew won't leave their flying boat in an un-allied nation."

Although he personally doubted that anyone around here would poke around too much, but the Navy was politely paranoid of everyone. They would say "Thank You" and "Please" but never stray too far from their guns. Hell, the joke was that the Marines used water tolerant Marvells was so they could take them into the shower with them.

He was definetly sure he did not want Mercil as a tag along for tonights romantic adventure. He climed out of the car and looked around for the bellboy, not seeing anyone he picked up his bags and walked to the registration desk.

----

Seeandbee
((OOC: How out of date is Pete? Everything there is 1920's tech. The engineers are going to be getting a shock...literally))

Jack placed his head in his hand looking at the obviously confused Pete. "Ay, what the bloom are you doing? Now then, tis obvious that you need teaching in the fine ort ah navigating and piloting...Dat be der wheel, dat be the compass and der be the rolly that tell the engine room how fast to go. Now, If yah read the red pointer on the rolly yall see dat der engines aren't ready. So, we can just wait till the boys in the engine room are ready."

He walks around for a moment and finds a broom, begining to sweep up broken glass. "Now, what do ya make of ar new Captain. I gove him a few black marks fur sending a piss pot gunner to do the work ah an ortist like myself, but den I think his first mate shoulda said dan't he don't know the diffrence between da compass and da Rolly..."

---
Moyer was now holding a plate, with something wet and moist from a can of Captain Kabul's Vampir Hassen. He had made a joke as the opened the can and said, "Flavored Meow for Chairman Meow..." but no one else got the joke. He led his party down the center port ladder and had two men open one of the cargo doors. He started saying, "Hear kitty kitty...and then they heard the 'roar'.

It was an odd sound, or would be if most people's instinctive reaction wasn't to cringe. Something primal, a deeply buried memory of the human species, or perhaps some unknown sonic noise caused most people to feel the hair on their bodies stand at attention.

The sound wasn't even very loud, but had a tone and tember which most people described as 'demonic'; as though whatever had just made that sound had come from the gates of Hades with full intent to drag you down for the sins of your life.

Moyer was visibly disturbed, but only for a moment. "Well, chairman Meow is unhappy...." He looked at the situation and then started searching for the cage. After locating it, he realized why the cub was wandering about; the cage and likely the cat were both splattered with the creatures late owner's brains and blood. He took a water bottle out of the cage and wipped off the blood. Moyer then walked near the open cargo door and said..."Hey Cat, would you not like a sip of...." as he sloshed the water before him.

The creature, only three feet tall and 120 pounds at it's young age, ran out of it's hiding place and for the water. Moyer grinned as he tossed the bottle out the door. The tiger cub followed and caught the bottle mid-air; with only sea below. As the realization that he was falling into the sea hit the creature, it to flipped as it fell taking a last look at the humans.

The red eyes, glowing with intelligence, seemed to say "You f***ers I hope you rot in hell for this." A few moments later the splash of tiger and his bottle hitting water could be heard. Moyer laughed as he led the engineers down two more decks and ordered the second two to..."Open up the boxes labled Hall and Sons and throw them and their contents into the debreis pile..."

The rest of the ship seemed to have items disappearing and reappering in two large piles near the stern. Dead bodies, deck chairs, wooden doors (most from the second class cabins) and clothing were piled up, by the prisoners who were very contious of the Edson gun at their back, And Leo lording over their work from the promanade above. One woman was cauguht under a falling desk and stuck.

Everyone stopped, except Leo said..."Keep going, we have a deadline..." The woman's whimpers were ignored.

((OOC: I was also thinking of speeding up things in Noropia...Also the Klatchian Tiger isn't that dangerous, just has a voice that is really scary. They would eat humans if it were not that they are allergic to human blood...))

edit: fix typos while fresh in the morning...

OOC: It's a meowtrage!

And if this triple-posts again, I may just have to keelhaul the forums...

((heh...I love the solution to the tiger problem.))

Pete thought for a moment about striking Jack - he was slightly bigger and much younger than the other man - but forced it down. “Keep your mouth shut,” he said, frowning in an attempt to be menacing. “Of course I know the difference between that stuff - I was just looking for how to plot the course.” That was a lie, an obvious one too, but he needed both Jack’s help and to try and save face.

“As for Cap’n Moyer, he seems like he knows what he’s doing. Resourceful, anyway.” He wondered if he ought to be mentioning the plans he received earlier, but decided that was probably need-to-know information.

After Jack had finished sweeping up - with no help from Black Nail - Pete waved him over. “See if you can give me a hand here. We need to go to the Grand Islands.”

---

“Taxis? Yeah, sure. I’m sure there’s something in the phone book you can call.” If Mercil seemed a little put off by being cut out of Thorm’s evening plans, he didn’t show it. More probably, he just wanted to bum around the hotel or something.

The room Mercil showed him was small, clean, and utterly generic. A double bed, telephone, small table and chair, dresser, and bathroom. There was no television (or moving picture box, as they may be better known to the desk clerk) of course, but the closet contained an extra pillow or two.

“I’ll be just down the hall, Room 272,” said Mercil. “Just in case you need anything. Otherwise, see you tomorrow - oh, what time should I set my alarm for?”

OOC: I will assume that Mercil and whatever Thorm are up to do not meet over the evening. I thought Mercil was married? Oh, and Quincy Mining is like the East India Company gone on steroids and declared itself independent of Alcona years ago. The other potential paths of history…

Jack just looked at the younger man with a bit of humor. When he heard the name Grand Islands he just stood for a moment. "Aye, and what perchance do ya want in dat little fiefdom? Half way to Gallaga and controlled by a company that makes the East Gallaga Company look like saints. My lord, were not planning on raiding a Quincy Mining ship with this here tug?” He shakes his head and walks around the hall into a nearby room marked ‘chartroom’. Then the telegraph (or Rolly as Jack called it) suddenly rang and the red indicator moved to a new position…

***
Moyer had shown the two engineers the engines and their basic controls. Told them what to touch and what not to touch to get the engine moving. In reality it seemed normal. Well the boilers used oil and were painted red and small for the amount of steam they generated to a traditional plant. The controls seemed to be either pushbuttons or well labeled valves. One engineer stood on the ‘platform’ with the large radial pressure valves. He opened the steam to the manifold and watched as the pressure in the manifold raised. He could here condenstate being ejected as a large wosh. Henry shut down the exit valve as the hot water stopped and steam escaped into the engine room. A few hits of the push buttons and drain valves slammed closed as the air pressure to them vanished.

The pressure reached the final 600 psig. Otto raised his hand to the telegraph above his head and ran the two indicators down and back to Engines Standby

***
The Tiger in the Sea
mommy dead….head blow up….mean men….tricked me off floating island….no land….just water….no…little floating something….me tired….need food….need water….go to white floating thing…. The Tiger cub found that by using it’s claws it could get onto the back of the half sunk lifeboat. It looked down at the submerged bow and the woman laying there. Her head was barely above the cold water. The young creature knew that the man female was going to die due to body cold. They couldn’t take cold water well. The cub reached down with a paw and pulled the woman out of the water.

In most situations that would have been worse, with the air being this chilly and a breeze blowing…but a wet tiger cub laid down almost covering her. The two drifted father away from the seaandbee

***
Thorm’s reply had been “Ah, try seven. I’ll get the radio operator on the flying boat to make a call out at six. ”

6:30 A.M the next morning
((Assuming Mercil hasn’t given himself a posh room…))

The phone rings at six thirty. On the other end of the line is the hotel operator sounding a bit flustered…”Ah Mr. Mercil? This is the hotel front desk, I have an urgent phone call from a Master Chief Abrams who is trying to find Detective Inspector Thorm. But Mr. Thorm’s phone is off the hook, and has been for a good part of the morning…”

“All I know is that Cap’n Moyer said to plot a course to the Grand Islands, and get us moving nor-nor-west,” said Pete somewhat peevishly, feeling a little bit like the slow kid in a schoolroom.

And then the telegraph buzzed. Pete stared at it for a second. “Um, Jack, I think the engines are ready...” He really didn’t want to delegate (some might even call it shirk) his responsibility, but the basic understanding he had of how the ‘rolly’ worked made it a necessity.

-----

((ooc: Yeah, he does. Kids too, if I remember correctly. That’s what he and his boss were arguing about; the boss thought it might be nice to stay at the hotel in case Thorm needed something, Mercil disagreed.

I’ve forgotten though - what month did I make it? I only wonder because it gets pretty damn cold in Noropia.))

Mercil rolled out onto his feet with a grunt. The early rays of the sun were already shining in his east-facing window.

“Ugh. Hold on, I’ll go knock on his door.” Don’t you have someone to do these sort of things? he thought grumpily at the desk clerk as he put on a light robe and walked three doors down to Thorm’s room.

From out of the chart room came the statement..."Ah, well he was right about that...after all we're going to have to get by the Cape to go south west... Although I think northwest would cut the time..."

He walked back in to the room and threw several rolled charts on a plotting table mubbling "If your going to the Grand Islands looking at Noropia's coast aint going to do yah s***" By this time Eddy had appeared with a look on his face.

"Ah sir, the Captian, I mean the ex-Captian is awake. He's tied up and lying on a bunk sir..."

Jack smiled, "Ah Eddy...good of you to join us. "Tell da engine room dat we need 1/4 speed on both engines"

Eddy walked over and pushed the two levers on the rolly fully forward and brought them back to the label 1/4. A bell rang as he did so. "Aye, sir 1/4 set..." A few seconds later the ship seemed to jerk as the massive paddlewheels began to turn....slowly faster and faster.

Jack stood at the wheel, just wiggling it until it seemed to stiffen...he smiled and then said..."Compass Check Eddie..." Eddie went to the compass and looked down...South by South East 130 degrees..."

Jack just said in a mild manner..."Ah Sir why don't ya see if in ya can get any infor from der prisioner..."

The older man and young scrub began to turn the ship north and west as ordered. Then pushed the engines to 3/4 speed....

***
OOC: I have no clue...doesn't really matter Detective Thorm is a true Alconian so he's going to be chilly but not complain after being stuck on the Nef once. She is Hubarian so she thinks snow in some quanities on occasion is a good thing...

IC: The door opened with a "Thanks, I was wondering where you had..." It was not Thorm, it didn't even remotely look like Thorm. Well maybe in a general way, with the tan...but she appeared to be wearing a kaki uniform top, a pair of panties and nothing else. "Ah, can I help you sir?" was the next thing out of the woman's mouth. The pair of elegant, naked legs crossed as the blue eyes seemed to drill into him.

The shower could be heard running in the background.

Pete just grunted. The idea made a lot of sense; he was obviously a liability among the more experienced seamen, and there were some things he’d like to discuss with the former captain, but there hadn’t been nearly enough face saved.

After he had held Jack in his gaze for a good few seconds, Pete turned his back to him and faced Eddie. “Mr. Blackwell, I’m going down to check on the prisoner. I’d appreciate it if you could look after things here while I am gone.” After Eddie’s response, he nodded and walked off the bridge with what little dignity he could muster, already thinking of several ways Jack might be able to ‘have an accident.’

“Hello, ‘captain,’” Pete said, careful to insert the proper amount of scorn and derision into his voice. “How’s the shoulder doing?”

---

Years ago, Claude Mercil had signed himself up for a first aide course. He remembered very little from it other than how to check someone’s pulse. Right now, however, he didn’t need to put his fingers anywhere - his heart felt as if it had suddenly grown tired of life down in the boring old chest cavity and moved due north to the temple. But the change of address had thrown his internal metronome for a loop; Mercil was glad he wasn’t trying to play any sort instrument.

One

“I, uh...I...”

Two

“Thorm - phone - front desk - Abrams,” he managed to stammer before his heart decided to make up all the beats it had missed in a single nanosecond. And then keep going at that pace.

It wasn’t that Noropian culture was as sexually repressed as that of the Empire, but even in Chateau, it was considered bad form even to kiss in public. And answering doors half-naked was certainly out of every form of decency Mercil had ever learned!

The gentleman inside of him screamed to look away until whoever this was had covered themselves properly, but there were..certain other considerations. Such as the one that was making him stand on his right foot while his left knee created some slack on the front of his robe.

Mcgregor only growled a bit..."You punky little wog. When the ARN finds your scrawny ass I hope they make you the bleeding siren. You and that f***** Moyer..."

"Aww, how nice...I didn't know you felt that way about me" the cultured voice had a moking note to it as Captian Moyer appeared behind Pete with two men in tow. "Gentlemen, would you please escort Mr Mcgregor to his new quarters..."

The two men pulled Mcgregor up and pulled him out onto deck. They threw him into the tiger cage that had been dragged up here. It was attached to one of the empty life boat davits.

The clang of the gate being shut as Mcgregor was thrust in echoed in the early morning. It appeared as if four large stone idols with massive heads and small bodies were also in the cage.

"Now, Mcgregor...why don't you tell me what the combation to your safe..."
"F*** off, Moyer you Vaux ingrate..."
"Or I'm going to dump you in the sea..."
"Go ahead...I'm not afraid of dying for my duty..."
"Ah yes, the Alconian sense of duty...started at age negitive nine months and the lessons never stop...you twits are the most annoying bastards in the world...you never cause a war, just sell everyone the guns...never Do much of anything other than act as some bleeding pressure regulator...Ack...hell you think it's your duty to treat the poor with dignity..."
"We saved your f***"
"You killed my King..."
"What, what....you b*****.....YOU F***** B*****!"
"Now then, from the likes of you I consider that a compliment...the combination..."
"Kill me you pathetic swine..."
"Or I haul up one of the female passengers and have a nice little in and out right in front of you..."
"Your bluffing...there are no female passengers..."

"Go bring up the girl..." As he waits for the two crewmen to fetch someone he turns to Pete. "I see we are moving...have any problems in getting her started?"

****
Abigail, or Lt. Commander Abigail Sutton just watched the man with increasing worry. All she did was bark "Sit," in an authorative voice and point to a chair inside the door. She proceeded to turn and walk towards the night stand where the phone lay...under a pillow. She walked over and removed the item, revealing a phone knocked off the hook.

She sat down on the edge of the bed and got the operator..."No, but I'll take the call....Alright Master Cheif...What!....Hell are you sure....well they could be lax....yeah....damn, idiot Milita boy....Don't remind me....stop scolding me like a damn swordmaster....Fine....Yes, continue to try and raise them but I'm not holding much hope....Get ready to move...Ah, we do have the locals....or someone..."

She turned and grabbed a pair of dark blue pants and started to put them on..."Sorry about not being decent but I've become a bit of a libertine having an all male crew and an officer's cabin made of blankets...Are you Mercil?...I am Lieutenant Commander Sutton, Alconian Royal Navy, Naval Air Division, Airboat Squadron Three. We have a problem, a serious problem. We can't raise the SeaandBee by radio. And it appears she left port yeastereday at 4:00pm, ahead of schedule."

Her blue eyes noted something and just brightened a bit. "And I appear to have caused you something of a moment..." She finished dressing by putting on a shoulder gun holster.

Pete faded into the background when Moyer appeared. He watched the entire conversation with a thin smile. He wanted to jump in at several points and recommend wittily that they wash out McGregor’s mouth with soap, but the right moment never quite appeared.

“Nope, not really,” said Pete. “After I got the engines started, Eddie seemed to pretty much have everything in hand, so I thought I’d head down here and see how ol’ loudmouth was doing.” He waved a hand vaguely in McGregor’s direction.

----

Mercil sat as ordered without a second of hesitation. Though he did cross his legs at once. He listened in mute silence to the entire conversation while his brain fought a valiant but futile battle with his baser instincts. In fact, he hadn’t been as acutely aware of his slight potbelly, almost double chin, or receding hairline as he was at this exact moment.

When the Lieutenant Commander suddenly set down the phone and started addressing him directly, a small but distinct bit of red crept into his pale Noropian cheeks. He couldn’t seem to make direct eye contact, instead focusing on the cheap painting hanging over the bed, which he couldn’t help but notice was rather askew.

“Er, yes, ma’am. Claude Mercil, Department of Law Enforcement.” Somehow, he didn’t feel like revealing his whole title. “That’s terrible news,” he said, in reference to the news about Seeandbee. “I’ll contact my department; see if they can’t get some search flyers and ships out.”

Her last comment made him glance in near-panic for the door. “Um, if you don’t mind, ma’am, I think I’d best go get fully dressed myself. I have a feeling we’re in for a busy day.”

“Nope, not really,” said Pete. “After I got the engines started, Eddie seemed to pretty much have everything in hand, so I thought I’d head down here and see how ol’ loudmouth was doing.” He waved a hand vaguely in McGregor’s direction.


The two men appeared with not a woman, but a girl. She didn't look much over than fourteen. Her eyes showed fear but the mouth locked shut. She was wearing a nightgown that showed she had little in the way of feminine charm yet.

A massive splash was heard from the rear of the ship as the 'debris' pile was dropped into the ocean. Then the remaining passengers were thrown off the ship into the cold water. You could hear the splashes and screams. The crys for mercy quickly faded as the ship left them to die in the icy water.

Mcgregor started screaming incoherent obsenites, in Welsh and a few choice Vrakian ones.

Moyer just pulled out a small pocket knife, took it to the girls throat, and then cut the neck of the nightgown. He continued by tearing open the dress and throwing the young girl on the deck. Mcgregor became silent.

"Now then, Mr. Mcgregor. Tell me the combination to the safe. Or your going to watch this girl be gang raped until you do..."

"You f***, you wouldn't..."

Moyer began to undo his pants as he placed a foot down on the girls bare chest. Her eyes were wild with fear.

"No please...No don't..." Mcgregor started pleading...
"The combination...."
"No, yes...82 15 27..."
"Good, Pete hold this..." Moyer just kicked the girl in Pete's direction. She wimpered at the blow, curling into a ball as she slid across the deck. Moyer walked over to the davit winch and kicked it. The cage and Mcgregor went spiraling down. As the splash of the cage could be heard and the lines slackened, Moyer resecured the winch. The lines became taught again as the cage and Mcgregor were dragged along the side of the ship. The cage seemed to skip on the water as it was pulled along. Mcgregor was covered by the mist generated by the ship and his water surfing cage. He hadn't been sent to the bottom...yet.

Moyer walked into the ship for a moment and then opened a porthole a minute later. "The fool gave me the right combination the first time, we don't need her anymore Pete, so do as you will."

----


Her last comment made him glance in near-panic for the door. “Um, if you don’t mind, ma’am, I think I’d best go get fully dressed myself. I have a feeling we’re in for a busy day.”

"Yes, dismissed...Ah, we'll meet in the lobby in fifteen." She seemed to have taken control of the situation and was eyeing the bathroom door as Mercil left.

The Lobby
Fifteen minutes later, like clockwork, Thorm and Sutton were standing in the lobby. Sutton was drinking tea out of a mug and eating a peice of fruit. Her officers cap and blue jacket seemed to be motivating the hotel staff; that or the nine millimeter poking out from under the jacket. A bellboy seemed to be trying to dance in place, both attracted and afraid of the female figure before him. The receptionist was a bit concerned but had decided being silent was the better part of valor.

Detective Thorm looked around a bit dazed. Unfortunatly, going from the height of ecstasy to the painful low of knowing you had royally screwed up had left him a bit shell shocked.

The tiger cub romps through the dead threads and bumps this to the top...

bumpage...damnit...

Pete used the inside of one foot to stop the girl’s flight. Iansisle had never seen fit to enact legislation regarding the age of consent, although arranged marriages without the child’s agreement had been, in theory at least, outlawed. Between that and the fact that most people died in their mid forties - if not earlier - fourteen was only a year or two earlier than a girl’s average age at marriage. In fact, Moyer and McGregor might be the only two in the entire ship - outside of the girl herself - who thought she was too young to be taken advantage of sexually.

“Thank you, skipper,” was all he said.

---

Mercil stumbled into the lobby just a minute or two after Thorm and Sutton. He was still struggling to pull on an overly large coat. It seemed a mite unnessecary; after all, the early morning air was hovering in the low sixties. Mercil knew, however, that it would get progressively colder as they got closer to the coast. He also only owned one really decent coat, and that had to protect against Noropia’s sub-zero winters.

“Good morning,” he said to them both but focusing his eyes on Thorm with a great deal of effort. Unfortunately his stomach rumbled, and looking for food brought him into eye contact with Sutton. He tried to smile, and quickly looked away.


((sorry that took so long...I'll try and reply to the umpteentrillion other threads I've let drop as today goes on.))

OOC: I'm going to say that Moyer and his new 'crew' get out of local waters without anymore incident. Unless you decide otherwise...but next scene with them is diving up the loot before reaching the Grand Isles...


Sutton only responded the the 'Good Morning' with a "humph"
Thorm smiled weakly and asked "Did you have a good rest?" He was attempting to sound normal.

Sutton turned and set out a list of questions in a dry tone..."First have you contacted the appropriate authorities about a search for the missing ship? Second, have we got transportation to the areodome? Third, have you had anything to eat yet?"

((ooc: no problem; the waters of the Northern Seas are very light on patrols))

"I slep-" Mercil started to reply to Thorm, before being taken aback by Sutton's flood of questions. Most of which he was quite unprepared for.

"I haven't had the chance to contact anyone yet," he said, with the expression of a kid who'd just realized he didn't study hard enough for this test. "Um, we have my Westerton..it shouldn't be too long of a drive. And no, I've not had anything to eat yet."

The entire time, he was busy looking over Sutton's shoulder, as if he were afraid to rest his eyes on her.

Sutton just tried to get Mercil's attention. "First, I need you to contact the navy, or whoever to help with the search...."Her eyes turned towards the receptionist with a glare..."I'm sure the front desk will accomidate you Mr. Mercil..."

The man responded with putting the phone on the desk and giving a nice broad fake smile.

She then turned and said to the bellboy "Mr. Mercil would like some fruit, an apple or bannana perhaps, and tea. Be quick about it and I'll give you another five Generals...ah honey do you want anything"

Thorm was looking like a deer in the headlights. He just mubbled..."Honey you called me honey?"

Sutton eyed the bellboy..."Some tea for the Detective, and toast with honey if you please..."

“Well, um, I’ll contact them as soon as possible,” said Mercil, wringing his hands briefly. He didn’t articulate his doubt that no good would come of the call; the Navy, a Commonwealth-wide institution, was loath to respond to the calls of a Dominion government official, even if their ships currently lay at anchor in that Dominion’s ports.

The mere thought of five whole generals was enough to send the bellboy scurrying away, only to have to trot back with his tail between his legs after it became apparent the order wasn’t complete. After receiving ‘Thorm’s’ order, he ran off with a brief but enthusiastic “Yes ma’am!”

Mercil, in the meantime, wasn’t quite sure what to do with himself. He didn’t want to be yelled at over the phone by an arrogant Shieldian right in front of the two people he was supposed to be helping; nor did he want to appear totally useless.

At last, he settled on a compromise. “I’ll call the Revenue Service as well,” he decided. He knew the Noropian Revenue Service, which doubled as a underdeveloped Coast Guard, would be slightly more receptive to his requests than would the Navy.

Sutton said nothing about the Revenue Service. Of course she didn't know much about the local politics either, in her mind and culture pirates represented an afront to the dignity of the Navy and her profession. The fact that the Iansisle Navy wouldn't attempt to stop armed pirates would have likely caused her to 'fly off the handle' and cause an incident.

Thorm who was now operating a little more coherently, and trying to salvage face realized what was up. "Ah yes, the Revenue Service..."
The Detective realized that they had been fopped off with a 'senior assistant' or translated out of beuracratese "overpaid gofer".

180 nautical miles north of Cresco…
The Seeandbee had made good time, although some crew members had found the fact that Black Eye had his own little bit of fluff locked up in his cabin a bit annoying.

The fact that she had been a fighter and left Pete limping with a serious scratchs on his face and then somehow broken one of his ribs hadn’t changed the feeling. After both patching up both Pete and Trixia for mutual wounds one night, Moyer took some drastic actions.

Pete found her a very “willing” concubine after Moyer had introduced the girl to opiates. If Trixia behaved, well she got her drugs, if not…the supply was cut off. A somewhat workable arrangement although it was now rumored she gave Eddie a quick toss in the sack on occasion.

A day before reaching the Grand Islands Moyer called the crew to gather in the dining room. Chairs had been set up and besides the lookout, the men on the bridge and a man in the engine room everyone was there.

Moyer was sitting at the front of the room behind a table. On his right was Pete and on his left was Jack.
Leo was sitting to the side with a large table filled with loot behind him. Trixia was attempting to serve coffee and tea, although her present state she was wobbling a bit.

“Gentlemen, welcome to the first meeting of the Wright Revenge Company as you may know, we are in effect a crew operating under a letter of Marquee. Under normal circumstances we would pay our loot to the government and the ship’s owners while getting a weekly paycheck, and an occasional bonus. However, this is not to be the case. Every man who serves with the Company gets a share. Myself as Captain gets two shares, Mr. Abernathy as First Officer gets One and a half shares, and Jack and Leo as master navigator and quartermaster respectively get one and a quarter shares each. The company will pay a death benefit of an additional share and all proceeds of personal equipment to the next of kin. Losing an arm or a leg will gain you an additional ½ share. All other disabilities shall be considered by myself. Leo if you would…”

Leo stands and reads off a sheet of paper. “At the current disbursement of funds there are 17 shares outstanding with an additional two issued for Tunk and Liem. Current cash and valuable holdings are
20,000 generals in coins, 10,000 Klatchian Krondor, 25,000 in Griffens from the ship’s safe. Also included are several pieces of costume jewelry, 21 wedding bands, 18 engagement rings, 8 additional diamond rings, also an assortment of gold necklaces and watches, and three officers swords. At the present time, cargo, salvageable materials and these valuables will be sold off in port. Only cash will be distributed at this time, with an additional two shares to again be issued to the estates of Tunk and Liem upon the next distribution.
Each share will be issued 526 Generals, 263 Krondor, 657 Griffens, in total a value of 7,762 Generals for each share.”

"I-I'll get right on that, then," said Mercil, backing away and leaving the room.

It wasn't so much that the Navy would be unreceptive to Mercil's information as it was the short Noropian was simply scared of any dealings with the arrogant, officious, and all too often incompetent men whom the R.I.N. shoveled off to deal with his department.

The Revenue Service, though undermanned even compared to the backwaters Northern Seas Area, was a much more attractive option to him. He knew people higher up in the command structure and wouldn’t have to be yelled at.

Mercil placed the call, but his friend on the other end of the line kept asking all sorts of complicated technical questions, like where the Seeandbee’s last reported position was and how he came across this information.

He didn’t really want to go back and ask Lieutenant Commander Sutton, so Mercil said he didn’t know.

---

A few men issued a low whistle at the amount of the shares. Seven - almost eight, really - thousand generals plus was a tidy sum of money back in Noropia; the sort of money that could lead a man to go live a respectable life away from the East Gallagamen somewhere. Or be wasted during a fortnight of living like a king in Cape Deliverance.

The bellboy returned with the food order and handed it to Sutton. She smiled and said. "Dear, pay the young man..."

Thorm appeared to grumble as he tossed a five coin at the bellboy and took his tost. Sutton then turned to fine Mercil and give him his tea and bannana.

****
Moyer smiled at the obvious thoughts of the men. He took back the thread of the conversation. "And boys that is just the beginning. Think what we can do with a real raider. Pick up the rich ships of the world with ease." He looked at the crowd, hoping to draw them to the fact that more wealth awaited.

"Which brings us to our next port of call. Europebay, on Morgan Island...I have some buisness to conduct in the name of the company with a group who will supply us with a truly magnificent ship. Of course, It makes no sense to force all of you to stay in port while I, Pete, eddie, and Frank conduct the buisness transaction preliminaries. Four of you will remain on board with Leo as a guard force. Jack?"

Jack stands up and says.."Take a marble boys, red or black are your poisons...black says you get leave, red says your a guard."

The City of Europabay looked like hell on earth. The red glow of blast furnaces and smelters could be seen filling the early morning sky of the valley in a red glow. The skyline was punctuated with flames from oil refineries. The sky was filled with smog and soot. The sound of thumping could be heard as steam hammers smashed rocks to get at metal. The high pitched screams of metal being torn apart was barley dulled by the distance the ship stood from shore. The whole place smelled of oil, burning chemicals, dead fish, and rot.

The industry of the area filled between two high ridges that were covered in small frame houses and massive mining operations. The City of Marva was actually a ‘free industrial district’ a place where contractors built factories and refineries to serve or make a profit from the corporate monster known as Quincy International. At The center of the city was a group of islands and bayous covered in rickety buildings mounted on stilts above the ground. Wharves and massive docks covered the shores of the city. Cranes almost eight stories tall dominated the near skyline, like monsters against the horrific background.

This was the place where the unions had become Mafia organizations, demanding loyalty by threating beatings or death if one did not become a ‘member’. For the unions didn’t control vice, they controlled all employment within their spheres of power. Some unions, constantly at war with each other to gain territory ruled whole districts. All businesses were union or had no employee’s to work. To work in a district of a rival union would likely get you beaten. Some poor men were forced to give up almost 2/3 of their wages just to keep working. Rather than die starving, on the Isle of the Lost.

What was not ruled by gangs of roving union men was ruled by the various corporations of the world from inside their wire fenced company ‘towns’. Some were fairly nice with hospitals, stores, even recreation facilities. Others were nothing more than long rows of shacks and a paltry little 7-11 taking company script at robbery rates. Here the law was either made by spilling blood or by Griffins. Enough of either would get you power. The companies kept security forces that seemed more like armed military units to keep the ‘unions’ out of their business.

Only one place was free from either corporate or unionized tyrany. The isle of the lost, where the unemployed and homeless went to spend their last few days of agony. Here, you might make a few griffins off bringing the dead to the TPD vats where human remains became water, fuel oil, and calcium supplements. At a 0.20 griffins a pound, a dead human could bring as much as a few hundread to keep a family alive.

Moyer spoke finally as the Seaandbee anchored in one of the lesser used inlets. “Alright, those of you going ashore. Stay together and avoid the union boys and company men as best you can, they only take Griffens here so best to leave the rest of your cash onboard. Those of you coming with me, we’ll be taking a boat over to Christmas Warf, and get a taxi up to the Vulcan.”

OOC: He he he, this is what socialists would call their nightmare…or a wet dream for CASE. I can see it now...

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