NationStates Jolt Archive

((ooc: I hadn't meant to post this before completing part one and proof-reading, but the temptation has proven too great. The first three quarters of chapter one or so have been proofread once, but after that it's probably pretty awkward; I'll get around to that later. I also tend to stumble into the passive voice when I'm writing late at night, as I did during much of this, then put it straight in later versions.

If you have any comments that aren't about grammar boo-boos or excessive passive voice, I'd love to hear about them, positive or negative!))

Chapter One

The smoke hung particularly thickly today even in Turnish’s normally toxic air. Lieutenant Commander James Redford forced himself to stifle a cough as he stepped off the light cruiser Hector, which had been his home for the past eighteen months. Hector spent his time aboard cruising back and forth from MacMillan on the southern tip of Sentry Island and Fort Ash in Gallaga, usually as the flagship of a medium sized convoy, but now she was long overdue for a refit. Though he hadn’t been expecting a reassignment when she was first tugged into her berth in Turnish, James now knew that he wouldn’t be joining Hector when she sailed back out in nine months. Despite the sense of nostalgia begging to well within him, James found himself far too excited about his new assignment to give more than a passing thought to his last.

James was on the older side side for his rank in these times, although he had only graduated from the Troobodia Martial Academy nine years earlier. He hadn’t, however, enjoyed the patronage of many of his classmates, as his commission had been paid for by a lowly Lakeriverwood banker. During the early years of his post-academy career, when he had left him stagnated as a sub lieutenant on a tiny frigate while some with lesser talents but greater pedigrees had torn through the ranks, he had in fact grown quite jaded.

No one admitted it, but the Royal Iansislean Navy really moved upon the patronage of the Shield’s great families. A career as a naval officer was seen as an honorable pursuit for a young nobleman; it was a way of preparing the eldest son for the rigors of taking up his father’s title and the pressures of the peerage, or a way for a younger son to carve out a destiny of his own. Nothing could advance a new officer’s career faster than an official whisper in the correct ear at one of the Grand Balls Shieldian high society was so fond of throwing. By the same coin, nothing could retard one’s progress faster than having no connections among the upper crust.

Not only was James not a nobleman by any stretch of the imagination, he was also not even a citizen of the Empire of the Shield. True, the Dominion of Gadsan had been a charter member of the Iansislean Commonwealth of Nations; true, culturally, it was the most assimilated of the dominions; true, the Gadsani had proven their worth in battle and loyalty to the High King time and time again, but they would never be seen as true equals. When James had first enlisted in the martial academy, he wore his shoulder patch - sky blue, with a navy blue stripe running from the upper right to the lower left - that denoted him as a Gadsani with pride. Quickly, he had learned that his national flag was not a badge of honor, but rather the marker of a social outcast. Instructors worked him twice as hard, and new friends had been scarce and most often fleeting. Many of a weaker constitution may have even quit under the pressure, but James wasn’t one to give in like that. He had compensated by simply working three times as hard as any of his classmates, and was vindicated by graduating seventh in his class (fourth among R.I.N. cadets).

After the Academy, James had been posted to the His Iansislean Majesty’s Ship Oasis, an ancient frigate of the Delton class. There he had toiled for two long years as a sub lieutenant, the second-shift navigation officer. The exile onto one of the King’s lowliest ships had been degrading and humiliating, but it had eventually gotten him notice. The ship’s captain, who was in rank only a commander, took notice of the efficiency with which James performed his duties and put him in for a promotion at the end of the cruise. As a full lieutenant, James had been shuffled over to the battleship Undauntable just before she left on a tour around the world to show the flag. Despite his new seniority, he still only acted as second string navigation officer, though he had found the massive war horse a much better place to showcase his talents. By the end of the tour a year and a half later, Captain Woodlark had been sufficiently impressed to put him in for another promotion. As a lieutenant commander, James served first as navigation officer aboard the heavy cruiser Noropia and then as gunnery officer aboard Hector. All things considered, a tidy little start to his career, even if it paled in comparison to half a dozen noblemen who graduated with him.

It had been much to James’ surprised when, a week ago, he had stepped off Hector’s gangplank to find a nervous-looking rating holding a sign with his name on it aloft. The young man couldn’t have been much more than twenty years old, and he had the distinct look of someone who had drawn the short straw back at the office. James had approached and identified himself, much to the enlisted man’s relief. A few seconds of stuttering later, James discovered that Commodore Sir Terrence Paul, the Commander Home Fleet, Northern Seas Area, was in Turnish and should very much like to discuss something with him, as soon as was humanly possible.

The enigmatic message, even in the unorthodox and somewhat clumsy manner in which it had been delivered, intrigued James. The Northern Seas weren’t one of the navy’s biggest priorities right now, as indicated by Paul’s relatively low rank, but it wasn’t very often at all a mere lieutenant commander heard that an area commander wished to speak with them. He had told the rating that he could go right now (from the expression on the man’s face, it was obvious no other time would have been acceptable, but James’ immediate agreement saved the man from insisting uncomfortably) and he found himself shuttled straight to the headquarters building of Turnish’s naval base.

He hadn’t been quite sure what to expect when meeting the Commodore. Some reports James caught wind of had Sir Terrence was one of the most brilliant officers in the King’s navy; in others, he was a foolish incompetent often given the run-around by petty groups of thieves. James found the man to be on the shortish side, with a nervous expression and a uniform that was almost too well kept. After a brief exchange of salutes and the introduction of a base officer or two who happened to be in the room, Paul had handed him an envelope.

“Your orders, Lieutenant Commander. From their Lordships in Ianapalis.” Paul’s smile emphasized a nervous tick in the left corner of his mouth. “They’re seeing fit to deliver a torpedo boat, hull number Three-Nineteen, into your hands.” Paul had carefully studied James’ expression, which the younger man fought to keep perfectly neutral. Apparently satisfied, Paul had clapped him on the shoulder.

“I know this must be exciting for you, Commander Redford: I remember my first command.” He shrugged. “Granted, I was a commander at the time, but we can’t all be as lucky as you, can we? Now then, Three-Nineteen has just been reassigned to the Northern Seas after a tour of duty out in Galla-Wight. That gives me a full four boats of her class under my command, and I intend to utilize them for a new strategy in our own private war.”

James remembered being confused at that line, “our own private war.” Only later did he realize that Paul referred to the pirates along the Noropian coast which had become the plague of the Northern Seas Area command. Normally, piracy was an obsolete profession: there were always reports of the odd East Gallagaman being knocked out in the Western Marches, or a navy raid on a suspected hideout, but by and large a man could have spent an entire naval career without having to divert any thought to buccaneers. All that changed with the coming of the war. Suddenly, every ship in the Royal Iansislean Navy was needed for convoy duty on the Gallaga run or service in the line of battle, and there simply hadn’t been enough hulls to protect everything adequately. As a result the Northern Seas Area found itself neglected, and it soon became a magnet for every type of low-life in the Commonwealth. It was an unhappy truth, but one that couldn’t be avoided.

During the whole of Commodore Paul’s speech, James had been standing stiffly at attention while he considered the implications of his new command. Granted, it was aboard one of the R.I.N.’s smallest vessels, but he had been too elated at the prospect of an independent command to feel any disappointment at its manifestation. Paul had ordered him to report to Three-Nineteen in one week and then take her north to the fleet base at Chateau, where she would join the other three boats in her squadron, then dismissed him. James hugged the orders like a warm blanket as he saluted again and walked briskly from the room, though he was very careful not to show any sign of his internal elation while still in Paul’s presence. The marine guards outside the building may have wondered some at the lieutenant commander half-running from headquarters and grinning like a madman, but he hadn’t cared. After nine long years in the navy, James had made it at last: he was going to be in command of a King’s ship!

Even now, as he was walking in the direction of Three-Nineteen’s slip and preparing to take command, James allowed himself a broad grin. He had spent the past week, minus the time spent either sleeping or concluding his duties aboard Hector, getting as familiar as possible with his new command and her crew. There hadn’t been much to go on: the Turnish archives had a couple of her ship’s logs buried in the back and a list of her refit history and current specifications, but not much more. In the off-duty officer’s club, he met one Lieutenant Ronald Garland, who apparently was to be his navigation officer. Both men hit the drinks pretty hard, and he now remembered little of the evening.

As James turned a corner, Three-Nineteen came into view from behind the bulk of a Royal Merchant Marine freighter. It wasn’t the first time he’d looked upon her two hundred and sixty-eight long rust-streaked hull, but there was something special about this time. To anyone else, the ancient and slightly run down ship wouldn’t have drawn a second look, but James stood on the pier for a second and just admired her. Even in her present bedraggled state, Three-Nineteen’s smooth lines and racy appearance simply smacked of speed and power. Her forward double 4.7” gun mount stood watch over a host of smaller caliber anti-aircraft guns like a mother duck over her hatchlings. Her superstructure was low and stylish, at least to James, who was starting to feel rather like a proud father. Her hull number was etched on her bow, TBIII-XIX, and James saw a rating restoring the jet black paint, even if the gray mass surrounding it was peeling and crusted. Inwardly, the new captain nodded: even if they couldn’t afford proper maintenance, at least they bothered to uphold their pride. This must be a good crew.

James forced his eyes straight ahead and maintained a slow, dignified gate towards the gangplank. I am a King’s officer, he reminded himself, and I shall bear myself as such. That meant no more gushing over his new command, no more random bursts of smiles, and certainly no allowing his officers or men to know just how elated he was at this opportunity.

Calm, cool, and collected: that they had drilled into him repeatedly at the Academy. At all times he was to bear himself as a gentlemen; the captain of a King’s ship was aloof from his crew, and yet needed to be intimately connected to every man of them. There needed to be a delicate balance between lordly distance, paternal rewards, and judicious discipline: any tip in one direction would invariably lead to dissatisfaction or unruliness among the crew, and therefore disaster. These remembrances from the leadership courses he had taken in the Academy played tag inside of James’ head as he forced one foot in front of the other, ever higher towards his ship.

As he reached the quarterdeck, he could see a pair of side boys waiting one either side. Before him stood a rather heavyset little man in the uniform of a lieutenant. To his right, the boatswain raised his pipe and piped James aboard. At once every hand came up in a salute, and James returned it while being careful to keep his expression neutral. As the whistle ended and all secured from the salute, James nodded to the stocky little man before him, who was evidently Lieutenant the Honorable Charles Yates, his gunnery officer. “Permission to come aboard?”

The other man also didn’t let a drip of emotion through. “Granted. Welcome aboard, sir.” The entire process had taken but a few seconds, and yet to James it had seemed a lifetime. “May I escort you to the bridge, commander?” asked Yates, using James’ rank rather than his title as captain of the ship because he hadn’t yet assumed command.

“I think I would like that very much, lieutenant, thank you,” replied James, clasping his hands behind his back. Yates waved a hand in front of them, then led James through a series of passages and ladders that eventually exited to the torpedo boat’s tiny bridge. In the twenty years since TBIII-XIX had been built, much had changed in Iansislean naval technology. The bridge, cluttered with additions, leant ample proof for that; new equipment had been grafted onto existing structures wherever it would fit.

Around the confined quarters were spread another three officers in R.I.N. uniforms (one James recognized as Lieutenant Garland; the other two must be Sub Lieutenants Gregory Walsh and George McCoy). Standing off to one side was a man in the hunter green of the Royal Iansislean Marines who wore the insignia of a lieutenant. James assumed this was Sir Daniel Clarke, commander of his ship’s marine compliment.

Few people would have assumed that a ship as small as TBIII-XIX would have carried a full platoon of marines. In fact, at thirty-six strong, marines made up almost half of James’ new crew. They served not only as soldiers, but also performed a number of tasks around ships that ordinarily would have been done by regular sailors. Their presence was explained by the history of the III class torpedo boat. Originally, the idea of mounting half a dozen torpedo tubes on something smaller and faster than a destroyer but still able to function in blue water had been very attractive to the Admiralty. However, the new ships quickly proved very vulnerable to destroyers in exercises, although twenty-two of the craft had been built. Rather than admit their mistake and scrap the vessels, the torpedo boats were reffitted to be gun boats which mounting three 4.7” guns and three 3” guns. The marines were added so that they could fill an imperial coastal patrol role and deposit men to protect Iansislean interests when needed. It wasn’t a perfect solution, but the new arraignment at least allowed their Lordships to save face.

From inside his mess dress uniform’s blazer James pulled a letter, sealed as always with wax and the ring of the First Sea Lord. “If I may read my orders, lieutenant?” James asked, deferring to the plump aristocrat’s orders hopefully for the last time. By reading his orders, James would assume command of TBIII-XIX.

The other man nodded, as he was required to do. Legally, even as the current master of the ship, he couldn’t block the reading of orders; to do so would mean a court martial. James broke the seal and withdrew the heavy paper.

“‘Lieutenant Commander James Solomon Redford,’” he read. “‘On this day, the Seventeenth of March in the Year of our Lord Nineteen Hundred and Forty, you are ordered to proceed to His Majesty’s Torpedo Boat Three, Hull Number Nineteen, and there assume command. Upon doing so, you are to take that ship to Fleet Base Chateau where you will sail under Commander Home Fleet, Northern Seas Area. Fail not in this task. Admiral Lord Maretown, Fifth Sea Lord, By the order of Grand Admiral Sir Richard Tri, First Sea Lord. Approved Lord Linhower, First Lord of the Admiralty, in the name of His Imperial Majesty High King James III.’” James folded the announcement and tucked it back into the envelope. “Lieutenant Yates, I hereby take command of Torpedo Boat Three, Hull Number Nineteen.”

“Lieutenant Commander Redford, I hereby relinquish command of Torpedo Boat Three, Hull Number Nineteen,” replied Yates, arching his back in preparation for the end of the ceremony. “Welcome aboard, Captain Redford.”

“Thank you, lieutenant,” said James, allowing the first hint of a smile to creep across his face. He focused on his last line in a desperate attempt to maintain his composure. It worked, to a certain degree. “Long live His Majesty the King!”

“Long live the King!” echoed the voices around him. There was a smattering of applause from the gathered officers at the conclusion of the traditional transfer of power aboard a King’s vessel. Though he tried to suppress it, James couldn’t contain his smile any longer. He was now, officially and without peer, the master of Torpedo Boat Three, Hull Number Nineteen.

Chapter Two

“A brilliant piece of work, Mr. LaRue, simply brilliant!” Lawrence Barker couldn’t help but rub his hands together in sheer excitement. “She’ll be the most formidable thing between Cape Deliverance and the Noropian Horn!”

Claude LaRue eyed the short East Shieldian with an arched eyebrow. He knew that Mr. Barker liked to present an image of incompetence, but this was honestly going too far. “I’m not so sure that’s entirely accurate, sir. I mean, Tharia is still anchored at Chateau; as the one who designed Entrepreneur’s armor belt, I can guarantee that you don’t want her to be on the wrong end of 8” gun fire.”

“I’ll worry about Tharia, Mr. LaRue,” replied Barker. His voice hadn’t changed in tone, but his words contained a frosty air of finality. “You worry about getting my beautiful ship ready for launch. I want to be able to start operations in -” he checked his watch, as if it would somehow help him remember dates “-two weeks.”

“Two weeks!?” asked LaRue in shock. He barely noticed the Westerton limousine pulling up outside the docks. “But, that’s not enough time! Why, it’ll take twice that just to get the paint job done properly!”

“Two weeks,” repeated Barker. This time, his tone did catch an edge of frost. “I’m not one who is used to disappointment, Mr. LaRue, not from anyone. Entrepreneur will be ready, fully ready, in two weeks. Is that clear?”

“Crystal clear,” whispered LaRue. Barker smiled and climbed into the Westerton.

“Splendid! In that case, Mr. LaRue, I have a dinner date in the city. I do hope you’ll excuse me?” Before LaRue could say anything, the door slammed shut and the Westerton roared off in a cloud of blue smoke. Claude watched as it vanished around the corner. Then he swore. And swearing felt so good that he did it again, slightly louder this time. And then again, and again, gaining volume with every reiteration. All around him workers looked up and wondered what had their chief in such a snit.

He strode along the side of the Entrepreneur as it sat on the stocks making quick calculations. If he was to have the final fittings done in two week’s, she’d have to be launched almost at once. Probably by tomorrow afternoon at the latest, in fact. He swore again, as loudly as possible straight out of the gate this time.

LaRue had the reputation of being a brilliant and innovative engineer, which may have been the single greatest reason he was working in the private sector rather than for the navy, but he couldn’t understand what it was that Barker expected of him. To pull a miracle from his ass like a rabbit from a hat? Entrepreneurhadn’t been under construction for more than two months; considering the complexity of plans which LaRue had been forced to draw up to satisfy Barker’s pie-in-the-sky instinct for design and unrealistic expectations, that wasn’t nearly long enough. He shuddered to think what sort of technical problems the craft would have even if he stuck to the original time table.

He shouted something at a man slacking off over by the block. So far, LaRue had been relatively tolerant of the sort of men Barker had insisted on hiring for this project. Specifically, Barker had wanted poor ones. He’d wanted the kind of man that one handed a contract to while they were lying in the street next to a bottle of grain alcohol. LaRue had tried to argue; after all that sort of man was the same type that had to be trained to use every sort of equipment in any shipyard; the same type that had the ever so annoying tendency to call an arbitrary tea (well, LaRue at least liked to assume that tea was what the average man kept in his thermos) break early and often.

The man blinked slowly back at him, and LaRue forced himself to count to ten. His response really wasn’t all that much more calm for having done so, but at least it let the man know he was in hot water. With one swift motion, the bedraggled wastrel tipped his beverage down his throat, the clear liquid dribbling out around his mouth, into his beard, and down his bare, emancipated chest. In all the motion took perhaps five seconds, which LaRue figured had to be some sort of record, before the man lunged back towards the section of Entrepreneur’s hull he had been painting. Satisfied that enough disciplining had gone on there, LaRue turned sharply and strode towards the aft end of the ship.

He really would have to talk to Mr. Barker about having some competent workers brought in, LaRue resolved as the gravel crunched under his feet. He noticed another man lazing about behind a pile of steel beams, and hurled abuse in that direction until the situation rectified itself. LaRue sighed loudly. This situation was intolerable, simply intolerable, especially if he was expected to have Entrepreneurfinished on its new schedule.

There hadn’t been anything terribly threatening in what Barker had said when he informed LaRue of the new circumstances; it was what he had left unsaid that was truly terrifying. Contract penalties were one thing; LaRue was in fact downright used to those. All too often, his projects had run over budget or over time, and he had seen his cut of the profits decline accordingly. Somehow, though, he didn’t think that Mr. Barker referred to financial hits when he implied an ‘or else!’ at the end of “the Entrepreneurwill be ready in two weeks.” And it wasn’t that LaRue was a coward, or that he had no backbone: it was simply that he had a wife and young children as well.

Barker’s cover story was that he was an independent agent procuring a Q-ship for the Republican Navy of Healdsburg. Their government, he had said, were worried about the growing Effitian submersible fleet and that they wanted some way to counter it in any future wars. Of course LaRue hadn’t believed him for one second.

Oh, the idea of the Healdsburgian fleet sending its work orders to an Iansislean contractor was common enough; more than three quarters of the ships in the Republican Navy had been built in the Commonwealth. The People’s Republic simply didn’t have the industrial base or the technical know-how to construct modern vessels on any sort of large scale basis. LaRue had even worked for them once before, and that’s just how he knew that they weren’t the ones ordering Entrepreneur. First off, if they wanted to lure submarine captains in, it wasn’t nearly a tempting enough target. The ship was hardly more than two thousand tons and Barker’s specific orders had been to make it appear as run down and ordinary looking as was possible for a brand-new ship. Secondly, Barker had specifically ordered, against all LaRue’s objections, a pair of cruiser scale 6” guns to be mounted aft. The regular 4.7” guns used by the destroyers of Royal Iansislean Navy would have been more than enough to overwhelm any surfaced submersible, and their higher rate of fire would have given the ship a better chance of scoring heavy damage before the u-boat could dive. Thirdly, why were such powerful engines required? Even a surfaced u-boat couldn’t make more than seventeen or eighteen knots, and why would any Q-ship be running away from her prey? Yet with her streamlined (under the waterline, at least) hull and powerful engines, Entrepreneur should be able to make damn near thirty four knots.

There was only reason that Barker would have wanted two such heavy guns, ten hidden torpedo tubes, and six lighter 3” batteries: he knew that the ship, excepting in a most extraordinary circumstance, Entrepreneur would never attack or be attacked by an Effitian submarine. This ship was designed to go both sucker-punch and then either run of go toe-to-toe with the light surface ships of the Royal Iansislean Navy.

Somehow, the knowledge that Barker was some sort of pirate - the word felt dirty, even in his head - did little to comfort him. Even if he was to go to the local naval commander right now and proclaim his suspicions, the best he would get would be a pat on the back and a ‘thank you.’ Then the navy would send someone to investigate LaRue’s claims and they would find that Mr. Barker was an upstanding citizen who would never dream of committing a crime of any sort, much less a fealony, either on land or the high seas. The next day, LaRue would hear a knock on his door, and he’d never be heard from again. His family would be the only ones who cared, and if they cared too publicly, they’d vanish too. Any police officers who got curious would be paid off, and the world would forget that one Claude LaRue had ever existed.

He shook his head. No, sir, he was too prudent to fall for that trick. Not when the only witnesses he could call on was a gaggle of bums.

LaRue could already see the first man he had yelled at glancing about with shifty eyes, perhaps waiting for another chance to sneak some more of the cheap liquor into which he had converted his salary. With a subtly ironic hypocritical grin, LaRue struck a match and lit his cigar while mocking the man’s addiction mentally.

Chapter Three

The tiny officers’ mess aboard TBIII-XIX was absolutely silent. Lieutenant-Commander Redford had only been aboard for less than a full day, but he’d already proven that he wasn’t the vain, intellectually stained, futureless career vagabond sort of naval officer that one of His Majesty’s average torpedo boats might expect as her captain. There was something different about Redford; all of his movements, from the second he stepped aboard to right now, only six hours out of Turnish, proved that clearly enough. And yet, with all the energy and determination that he had somehow fit into that trim, short frame, he also had a cool head and calm logic to all of his decisions.

That had been proved merely one and a half hours out of port, when TBIII-XIX had damn near grounded herself on an uncharted sand bar. Throughout the entire ordeal, Redford had maintained his composure. Rather than panic and order engines reversed, where XIX might lose its momentum and become stuck on a patch that ordinarily wouldn’t have posed a problem, he had ordered rudder full to port and twenty five knots. There had been a couple heart-stopping seconds as the boat’s keel scraped sand (or, at least, if sure to hell felt like they did. Later, most were unsure if XIX had touched the bottom or not - “I’m telling you, there was nothing to be afraid of. We were ten fathoms, at least, from the bottom!” was the considered opinion of one leading rate, who ironically had been on liberty at the time - but all agreed that Redford had handled the situation in a calm and competent manner.

Now, his officers sat waiting for the customary introduction dinner. Though they all had their own duties to be doing, XIX’s small crew ensured that this was the only meal they’d all be awake for. Every man had showed up early and were now sitting about waiting for their captain to make his appearance. Even though they had been serving together aboard XIX for several years now, not a single man could think of anything to talk about. At last, Greg Walsh, who was perhaps the least willing of them to sit quietly despite his status as the most junior officer present, coughed into his hand and turned to Lieutenant Yates.

“Pardon me, sir, but do you have the time?” he asked lamely, though his voice seemed to echo endlessly in the steel compartment. Yates regarded the Sub Lieutenant with a severe expression, then withdrew his pocket watch and considered it.

“Eighteen forty-five,” Yates said, trying to retain all the dignity he could.

“That early?” asked Walsh, his face falling a mile and a half. “Hell. Dinner’s not until nineteen hundred.”

“Hell indeed,” cut in Lieutenant Garland. “Why are we all here so early?” There was a silence following the navigation officer’s question. “I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’d hate to see what happened if I showed up late!” There was a low chuckle around the table.

“I know what you mean, sir,” said Walsh. “I mean, Captain Redford’s been nice and all so far, but he doesn’t look like the kind to be crossed. Hell, did you see his expression earlier when Jonsey was dozing off on watch? I thought he was about to break out the cat o’ nine tails!”

“Jonsey got no more than he deserved,” scoffed Lieutenant Sir Daniel Clarke. “That man is the biggest slacker I know! Why, if he was part of my platoon, I’d have busted him down to head duty! Captain Inswood may have tolerated his insubordination, but I don’t think Captain Redford will.” There was a second of silence as the officers digested that.

“You’re right, of course, Dan,” said Garland. “This ship hasn’t ever been tip-top in terms of discipline..”

“What do you expect?” asked Sub Lieutenant George McCoy with a snort. “We’re a bloody torpedo boat: admit it, each and every one of you would rather be somewhere else right now, somewhere where you could make a real difference in this damn war.” There was a long silence. Then, quite unexpectedly, James walked into the room. The silence turned into one of surprise. At last, Yates stood up and saluted.

“Welcome to our humble mess hall, captain. I’m afraid we weren’t expecting you quite so soon.”

“No, I should expect not,” replied Redford with a smile. “Mr. McCoy, I know that ol’ nineteen is just a torpedo boat, but regardless, we are officers of the crown. And I expect every man among us, every man on this ship, to remember that. It may not seem we have to do much, but this ship’s patrols serve an invaluable purpose.” He smiled at the young officer, who’s cheeks had taken on a red tinge. “I don’t mean to single you out for that lecture, Mr. McCoy. However, I find that many on board have that attitude, and I’d like to change it, the sooner the better.” James assumed his chair, and Yates was a few seconds after him. “Now then, I know we’re all early, but I wonder if you wouldn’t mind starting the dinner at once? I’m positively famished.”

The other officers chuckled, and soon easy conversation broke out. In spite of himself, James had to grin. Growing up, he had always been terrible at these sort of things; casual conversation just came more easily to some people that others. And yet, as he sat here now talking with Mr. Walsh about some inane sports competition, he felt at ease. Courses came and went as TBIII-XIX plowed her way towards Chateau.

At last, James asked the one question that had really been on his mind the entire week since his conversation with Sir Terrence. It came while he was leaning back in his chair and enjoying both a cup of steaming hot coffee and a talk with Mr. McCoy.

“You were right about the morale on this ship, captain,” McCoy was saying. “It’s downright lousy. Everyone has the impression that they’re sent here on some sort of punshment duty.” He shook his head. “Did you know that in twenty years of service, two years, and countless patrols up and down every coast known to man, this ship has never fired her guns in anger?” James nodded. He remembered reading that somewhere. “That’s what’s got them all down in the dumps!” continued McCoy, using his finger to emphasize his point. “The men feel like their Lordships consider them insignificant, or else too stupid to be risked on a main ship.”

“Of course,” said Lieutenant Yates slowly while he chewed on an apple. “We do get a lot of the bottom of the barrel out here. Like that man Jones you reprimanded earlier; I’d swear he was the laziest man in the entire fleet.”

“We’ll have to change that, then, won’t we,” thought James aloud. “Does this ship have a name, Mr. Yates?”

“A name, sir?” asked Yates with a confused impression on his face. “No, sir, just a hull number.” One could almost feel a ‘surely you knew that, sir?’ die on his lips.

“No, Mr. Yates, I don’t mean the official name; I mean the actual name,” smiled James.

“A couple men down in the engines call her Clunky volunteered Walsh cheerfully. Everyone else looked at him. Instantly, the young officer’s fair complexion turned a dark crimson hue.

“That’s a good start, Mr. Walsh,” chuckled James, “but somehow I would prefer something...a little less, um, specific. By the way, do I have to come down there and investigate why they call her ‘Clunky?”

“No, sir,” said Walsh, though the red hadn’t left his cheeks yet. “We had some troubles a year or two back, but that’s all fixed up now. You know how it is with nicknames.” His voice ended in almost a whisper.

“I do indeed, Mr. Walsh. How about the rest of you?”

“We could always go for something awe inspiring and heroic,” said McCoy. “Something like Avenger, or Intrepid.”

“That’s not obvious,” snorted Clarke. The marine’s deep voice was dripping with sarcasm.

“What do you mean?” asked McCoy indignantly. “The Admiralty’s seen fit to name ships like that in the past; I think they’re as good as any you could come up with!”

“Mr. McCoy, Lieutenant Clark, please,” said James, waving his hands for calm. “We’re all adults and officers here; there’s no reason to get huffy. Mr. McCoy, I think what the lieutenant meant was that we oughtn’t to give a torpedo boat some name that would fit on a battleship. No, we need something uniquely ours.”

“We might as well stay with Clanky, then,” smiled Garland. Everyone else chuckled.

“How about Zicks?” suggested Yates suddenly. Everyone looked at him; the lieutenant hadn’t seem terribly into the idea of bestowing a name to the little torpedo boat before.

“Zicks?” asked James with an arched eyebrow. “Where on Earth did you come up with that one, lieutenant?”

“Well, sir, I was just thinking about our hull number in Roman numerals - Tee Bee Eye Eye Eye Dash Ex Eye Ex - and I thought, ‘how would you pronounce that?’ Well, ‘Zicks’ is just the Ex Eye Ex part, but I thought it would fit the ship.”

“I like it,” smiled James. He picked up his fork. “By the power trusted in me, I hereby dub Torpedo Boat Three-Nineteen His Iansislean Majesty’s Ship Zicks! Hear, hear!” There was much laughing and clapping from the assembled officers.

Chapter Four

“If we take a detour to Cape Deliverance, how long will that put us behind schedule for Chateau?” James was asking of Lieutenant Garland. Zicks was just starting her long swing out and around the Cape. After that was complete and she was in the lee of Burke’s Head, Zicks would continue due east along the Noropian coast for Chateau. However, the city of Cape Deliverance was also well known as one of the primary ‘free ports’ along the northern coasts; if there was any chance of rapscallions hanging about, that’s where they’d be.

“Not too long,” said Garland cautiously, tapping his finger against one of the charts he had spread out. “I’d call it three days at worst, sir, depending on how long we stay in See-Dee.” James noticed that the lieutenant was chewing his bottom lip and leaned in closer.

“Was there something else, lieutenant?” he asked, quietly enough so that only Garland could hear him. James could see the other man gulp down something in his throat.

“Well, if I may speak frankly, sir?”

“Go ahead.”

“Weren’t our orders from Commodore Paul to make for Chateau ‘with all due speed?’ I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t think that covers a diversion to Cape Deliverance.”

James smiled. “You’re quite right, of course. No, I don’t think this is covered by our orders. However, we’ve got to do something to break the men out of their apathy. I’m not expecting us to stumble across a pirate just waiting to be captured, but I imagine that the appearance of another navy ship should be enough to put the fear of God into those scalawags. We’ll just stay for a day, then strike out east again. I’m sure we can come up with an excuse to stop by.” He thought for a moment. “Say, are we sure that we brought on enough fresh fruit back in Turnish?” asked James with a sly grin.

“I don’t like this, sir,” said Garland. “Disobeying orders is bad enough, but lying about the reason for making port? If their Lordships find out, you’ll find yourself out of the service!” The navigation officer’s words, which carried a sharp edge, were slightly comical in the way they had been whispered.

“Well, lieutenant, first of all, it’s not breaking orders - we were told to make for Chateau ‘with all due haste.’ And secondly, we didn’t take on enough fresh fruit at Turnish; the cook just came up and told me a couple hours ago. We can’t be expected to continue on to Chateau under the constant threat of scurvy, can we?”

Garland frowned. “I’m sorry, sir. This whole business leaves me with a rotten feeling in my gut. I mean, you’ve only been in command for three days now; it would be too easy for the navy to remove you, even if we have a good reason, and stick you somewhere they can keep a closer eye on you. And...” Garland paused. “I don’t want some other useless hack in command, skipper,” he finished a few seconds later with his eyes downturned.

James was genuinely touched. It was the first time any of his officers or men had called him ‘skipper.’ The term of endearment had traditionally been reserved for once a crew got to know their new captain; to feel safe under his command. He didn’t have any statistics, but three days had to be some sort of record turnaround.

He smiled at Garland and shook his head. “Ron,” James started, using the man’s first name in return, “Believe me, there’s nothing that will happen. We’re just making a routine supply stop that won’t take more than a day. I’m sure Commodore Paul wants us in Chateau as soon as possible, but I think this is important.” Slowly, unwillingly perhaps, Garland nodded his head.

“If you say so, skipper,” he said distantly. “I’ll start making the appropriate plot corrections.”

---

“Smoke on the horizon! Bearing green-two-five!” was the look-out’s cry. James happened to be on the bridge when the call went out, and walked quickly over to the pointing watchman. There it was indeed, a high plume of dark smoke rising over the starboard bow. It was just a faint plume at first, but as they drew closer, it changed into a thicker cloud.

“That’s odd,” remarked a nearby sailor, squinting at the smoke. James recalled his name and rank as Leading Rank Goodman. Everyone looked at him, perhaps waiting for an elaboration. “What I mean is, look at that trail. It doesn’t look like the typical one you’d see from a ship.”

“You’re right,” nodded Redford, a slight frown crossing his faces. “It doesn’t look as if whatever’s putting that cloud out is moving at all.” He shook his head. “This doesn’t feel right. Helm, bring us over twenty-five degrees to starboard.” He gazed at the smoke cloud for another few seconds. “And bring us up to flank, Mr. Henderson,” he added.

Zicks came about smartly and accelerated through the dark waters of the North Pacific. She reached her maximum speed of thirty seven knots quickly; if the TBIII class of warships was known for one thing, it was handling like a sports car. At last, the shape of the ship emitting the smoke trail - which was really more of a cloud, as it wasn’t moving - came into view. James used his binoculars to survey the scene.

“Looks like a freighter - call it a thousand tons, maybe a smidgen more - sitting still. Her engines are cold - it looks as if that smoke’s coming from a fire on her aft quadrent..” He looked up. “She’s in trouble. Henderson, start deccelerating. We’re going to lend assistance.”

“Are you sure that’s wise, skipper?” asked Lieutenant Yates, who was standing at James’ elbow. “If that fire reaches her fuel stores, she’ll explode, and we’ll be taking some shrapnel.”

“I’m sure, Mr. Yates,” James said forcefully. “That’s an Iansislean flag merchant ship, and if she’s in trouble, it’s our duty as officers of the crown to give assistance in anyway we can.” He turned back towards the rapidly closing distance between Zicks and the merchantman. “There may be people hurt or trapped inside, and we’re the only chance they have now. Mr. Yates, I’d like you to prepare message back to the base at Cape Deliverance; report on this ship’s location and present situation, then have it sent out at once. Mr. Johnson,” he said, addressing a nearby rating, “If you could find Lieutenant Clarke and bring him here at once, I’d be much obliged. Yeoman! Signal the frieghter of our identity and our intention to close and assist.” James sat back at the end of the long string of orders and glanced the freighter up and down again. He couldn’t see movement along her decks - wouldn’t the crew be fairly desperate to contain that fire?

---

“We’ve got the fire under control now, sir,” reported Chief Samuel Hammond, who had been in charge of the impromptu rescue team James had sent over to the merchant ship. “You don’t care to know how close-run it was, though. It couldn’t’ve been much more than a couple of yards from the fuel stores.”

“How about the crew? Did you find anyone?” asked James while he shielded his eyes and gazed at the other ship, the independent freighter Peter S. Jackenstone if her name tag was to be believed. Although it only displaced about 500 tons more than Zicks empty, the freighter was much longer and broader, as she was designed to take on loads several times her empty displacement. “There should have been at least twenty people on that ship.”

“Sorry, sir,” shrugged Hammond. “I’ve had my men go up and down her, and she’s a ghost ship. Not a soul to be seen. And the damnedest thing: all her lifeboats are still there.” James raised an eyebrow. “I know: that’s what I thought, too, sir. Even if they had abandoned ship, they couldn’t have gotten far by now. I’ve got a couple men going through her captain’s quarters now, in search of a ship’s log, but I’m not optimistic.” The petty officer shook his head. “We’ve a right mystery on our hands here.”

If only Hammond had known what his men were turning up at just that minute, he may have bet more heavily on finding a solution to the Jackenstone’s mystery. Joe Dalenford, a rating who spent most of his time down working with the engines, was even then pulling his head out from below the captain’s bunk and glancing over at his companion.

“Bless you.”

“Eh?” grunted Norm Sanderson, who worked with the Zicks’ signal crew. He was presently lost in a tangle of clothes from the captain’s closet.

“I said ‘bless you.’ You sneezed.”

“No I didn’t. You’re hearing things.”

“Shut up, Norm. I heard it clear as day.”

“You know what they say about ghost ships, Joe?” asked Norm with a sigh as he extricated himself from the mess. “They have ghosts.”

“Shut up, fool. You’re just trying to unnerve me.”

“No, really! Didn’t you ever hear the tale of when my old ship found an old paddle-wheel East Gallagaman floating out in the Western Marches?”

“Shut up, Norm, I’m not listening!”

“Turns out that her entire crew had been brutally murdered by this sailor who had gone bonkers. Slit their throats in their sleep, he did, then snuck topside to shoot the men on duty. Lord only knows why he did it. An’ when we found the ship, he was crouching in one corner of the captain’s quarters, a room a lot like this one, actually, with an axe in his hand. Before him were two or three of the bodies, and he had chopped them to little tiny pieces.” Norm stopped talking and glanced over at Joe. “Of course, if you don’t want to hear the story, I can stop telling it.”

“Damn it, Norm, you know you can’t stop now!” exclaimed Joe bitterly. “I wish you’d stop starting these bloody stories, though. I think you just like to see me beg.”

“That does have a certain appeal, mate,” grinned the sandy haired signalman. “Now, where was I? Oh, right: the chopped up bodies!” Norm let his voice sink lower until it was almost a whisper. “Now, the guy when we found him was all cut up, like with a knife. He was still alive, and fairly healthy, mind, but there’d been a good amount of tourniquets self-tied about his body. He was jabbering something when we came in and actually leapt up an’ took a swing at one of the crewmen. Fortunately, he hadn’t had anything to eat in a week or two, and his aim was pretty poor.

“After that, we sat him down and he started jibberish. Said all the corpses had come to life and were trying to take revenge on him, and that chopping them into pieces was the only way he could stop them. We went all over that ship, and all the corpses we could find were at least missing a limb or two. Except one. Y’know where that one was, Joe?”

“No,” whispered Joe, leaning in closer. “Where was it?”

“It was up on top of the deck, Joe. It’d been one of the ones sleeping below deck, an’ had its throat cut ear to ear.” Norm made a motion to indicate the cut. “There were tools lying all over the place, and the stiff had a saw in its hand. There was a big ol’ hole in the deck.” Norm leaned in extra close before saying the last part. “Right over the captain’s quarters,” he whispered.

“Achoo!” A sneeze cut through the sudden silence following Norm’s story. Both men jumped up, almost bonking heads.

“What the hell was that?” screamed Joe, his voice reaching a comical high that would lead to many jokes over the mess table later. Even the normally unflappable Norm, who had no greater pleasure in life than upsetting his friend, was a little unnerved.

“I think it came from over there,” whispered Norm, pointing at an empty corner of the room, which of course set Joe even more on edge. “Shut up and let me listen!” A few seconds passed with only Joe’s near-hyperventilation breaking the quiet. Then they heard the noise again. Joe seemed like he was ready to bolt, but Norm advanced on the area. “Don’t run off on me, Joe. There’s no such thing as ghosts.” He looked around the area. “I think there’s someone hidden in there.”

“S-someone hidden in where?” stammered Joe while his eyes darted from one side of the small room to the other.

“Just stand back and let me take care of it,” sighed Norm, shoving Joe out of the way. “Numskull,” he added under his breath. The other man watched as Joe walked up and down one side of the wall, pressing his ear to it. At last, Norm paused in front of a certain panel with a frown on his face. He knocked once, twice.

“What’re you doing?” asked Joe, keeping his voice quiet to match Norm’s concentration. A ‘shh!’ was the only reply he got.

“Hello?” Norm called. Joe started; he thought for a second that his companion was addressing him. But Norm was talking to the wall panel. “I can hear you breathing,” he continued. “There’s no more use in hiding. How do I get you out of there?” The wall started whimpering.

“P-pull the f-floorboard,” it replied meekly. Joe wished there was a tree he could climb to get away from these demonic talking and sneezing wall spirits; Norm simply pulled on the floorboard. There was a creak, the sound of some internal machine engaging, and the panel slid back and away. Both sailors took a step back in shock at what it revealed.

Standing inside a very small, very dusty compartment atop a pile of thousand-general coins was a young girl, perhaps no more than seven or eight years old.

((to be continued!))

Chapter Five

“A what?” asked James, his eyes growing wide.

“A..little girl, skipper,” shrugged Chief Hammond. “A couple of my men found her in a secret room, along with damn near half a million generals.”

“Um..did she say what she was doing in there? Or what happened to the rest of the crew?”

“She’s not said a single thing, sir,” frowned Hammond, “except to tell us that she’s not going to say a single thing.”

“Who has talked to her so far?” asked James while rubbing his jaw.

“Just me and the pair of men that found her,” replied Hammond, looking down at his roster sheet, even though he already knew exactaly who it was. He just liked to look professional, James thought. “Able Rates Norman Sanderson and Joseph Dalenford.”

“I see,” said James quietly. “Well, there’s only one thing, then. I’m going to have to go talk to her.”

“Sir?” asked Hammond with an arched eyebrow. “Are you sure that’s the best idea?” James regarded the grizzled old sailor, who was in fact nearly a decade and a half his senior. “I just mean, sir, there’s still a danger of explosion or..”

“I’m positive, senior chief,” he said quietly. The other man broke eye contact and glanced down at his clipboard again. James nodded. “Is the boat ready to return to the Jackenstone?”

“Yes, sir,” replied Hammond in a very quiet tone. James was surprised to detect a note of suppressed anger underneath it. He hoped that his hearing mistook the inflection; the last thing he wanted to do right now was make an enemy out of his senior NCO. But on the other hand, he couldn’t allow any enlisted man to question his authority in public, lest his authority be chipped away.

“Who is piloting the craft, chief?” James asked. Hammond looked up, but didn’t make direct eye contact.

“I believe Johnson was scheduled to make the next run or two.”

“I think Mr. Johnson has had enough work for the day,” said James, his deep brown eyes never leaving Hammond’s face. “I would appreciate it if you’d take me over, chief.” The chore could be seen as something of an insult, as shuttling a small craft between two ships was usually a task that fell to someone well junior of a senior chief. Hammond looked up sharply and met James’ eyes. It looked for a second as if he planned to refuse the task, but then something changed. The fire that had been present melted away, and Chief Hammond shook his head.

“Of course, sir. Johnson’s been working since we found this hull. I need to go back over there anyway.”

“Thank you,” said James quietly.

---

“Where is she?” James asked as soon as he set foot on Jackenstone. The burn damage was evident even this far forward, and he shuddered to think how close the entire ship had been from disaster. “In the captain’s quarters still?”

“No, sir: she looked pretty hungry, so we took her to the mess. Y’know, see if a little food might loosen her lips,” replied Chief Hammond as he climbed from Zicks’ primary motor-launch. The small craft could hold twenty-eight well armed men, and was usually used along with her sistership on the other side for shuttling the marine compliment back and forth from ship to landing zone.

James looked one way and then the other. He hated to seem continually at a loss, but had no idea which way the ship’s mess was. Fortunately, his talk with Chief Hammond seemed to have cleared the air between them somewhat, and the petty officer waved a hand. “If you’ll follow me, sir, we have the little tyke just down this hallway.” In the end, James was very glad of the chief’s assistance, as the Jackenstone’s mess was down a long, winding, and seemingly needlessly complicated path.

The little girl sat at a bench, across from the two ratings that had found her. There was a pile of food, just simple rations taken from what little the sailors could find in Jackenstone’s stores, in front of her, but she didn’t seem too keen on eating it. James removed his cap and placed it on the table next to her, then sat down on the bench.

“Hello,” he said. She didn’t say anything back. He tried again: “My name is James. What’s yours?” Still she was silent. He sat back and frowned. This would need a new approach. “You know,” he said, “unless you talk to us, we can’t help you.” Her eyes widened at that, and they darted to James’ face. He smiled. “And we really want to help you. Now, can you tell me what your name is?”

“No,” the girl answered meekly. James frowned.

“Why not?”

“I’m not supposed to.”

“Why aren’t you supposed to?” The question seemed to make the little girl very nervous. She took her eyes off James’ face and looked down at her food.

“Daddy said not to.”

That was just the opening James had been waiting for. He smiled gently. “You really love your father, don’t you?” he asked quietly. She didn’t look back at him.

“Yes.” It was more a murmur than a word, and James felt an instant stab of sympathy for her, as if she were his daughter.

“And you’d do anything to help him, wouldn’t you?”

She was crying now. “Yes,” came out between sniffs.

“We need you to help us help him,” whispered James, leaning in close. “We need to know what happened. We need to know your name.” She looked up at him with tear-streaked eyes and her bottom lip quivering.

“You can help?”

“On my word as an officer,” James replied, sitting back a bit, “I will help him.

“Marie,” she whispered. “My name is Marie.”

“There you go,” said James softly. “See, we’re here to help. Eat up, Marie, and then maybe you can tell me what happened here.”

James had never seen any eight year old eat as much as Marie did in the next half hour. Most of the food had vanished from Jackenstone’s stores, which weren’t that big to start with, as the ship was designed mainly to hug along the Noropian coast, but Marie eagerly tore into what was left. James wondered how long she had been in that secret compartment all alone, with no food or water. The very thought of it made him shudder involuntarily. At last, the mound of food had disappeared, and Marie appeared satiated, if tired. James hadn’t left her side for a single second; neither had Norm, Joe, nor Chief Hammond.

“Are you ready to tell us what happened?” asked James gently, his voice carrying the message that it was all right if she wasn’t. However, she turned her blue eyes, which were still red and puffy from crying, to James and nodded slightly.

“My dad was taking me to Chateau,” she said quietly, with only a slight tremor in her voice. “He needed to go there for business, but all the normal boats were full, so we had to charter this one. It was very uncomfortable.”

“That’d explain why there wasn’t any real cargo,” whispered Joe. Norm and Chief Hammond shushed him.

“Captain MacBrady let me and my father stay in his room,” she continued, without showing outwardly that she had heard Joe. “Then one day he ran in, waving his arms and shouting. I had been asleep, so I didn’t know what he was talking about, but father did. He shoved me in the wall, and dumped in a pile of coins. Then he said he loved me and closed the door.” Marie broke off, as tears were again streaming down her face. James waited patiently for her to be ready to continue again.

“I couldn’t see anything, but I could hear a lot. Captain MacBrady came in. He was screaming a lot. There were other men too, but they were just yelling. Then another man came in. He had a positively terrifying voice; I remember it very clearly.” She drew in a deep breath. “He said to bring the rat; that they’d already gotten everything they’d need. He said they needed to get back to Dessarine before the navy showed up. And then they left. It was dark for a very long time. I didn’t know how to get out of...out of...” Marie started crying again, and reached out for James to hold her. He did so tentatively at first, but she was so trusting of him.

While Marie cried on his shoulder, James looked up at Chief Hammond. “I want you to find out what or where ‘Dessarine’ is, chief,” he said quietly, then come back and tell me at once. And hurry man!” he whispered quietly but fiercely. Hammond nodded and walked briskly away. He was back inside of twenty minutes. Marie had fallen asleep on James’ arm, and he gently put her to bed in the captain’s quarters.

“I think I found it, sir,” Hammond whispered as the cabin’s hatch closed.

“‘Think,’ chief?”

“Sorry, sir. I found Dessarine. It’s one of the fjords between Cape Deliverance and Rorie Landing. A fairly sizable one, with a small village on the far southern end. And I’d be willing to bet there’s a pirate’s nest there, too.”

“As would I, chief,” said James with his lip curling. “I want you to detail six or seven men to wait here with Marie until they can get a tug out from Cape Deliverance. See about transferring some rations, too.”

“What about Zicks, skipper?” asked Hammond. “Surely you’re not...”

“I intend to take Zicks to Dessarine, find the scum who kidnapped Marie’s father and this ship’s crew, and make sure that they face justice,” said James coldly.

((still to be continued!))

Hmm, very good read...
The ship was hardly more than two thousand tons and Barker’s specific orders had been to make it appear as run down and ordinary looking as was possible for a brand-new ship. Secondly, Barker had specifically ordered, against all LaRue’s objections, a pair of cruiser scale 6” guns to be mounted aft. The regular 4.7” guns used by the destroyers of Royal Iansislean Navy would have been more than enough to overwhelm any surfaced submersible, and their higher rate of fire would have given the ship a better chance of scoring heavy damage before the u-boat could dive. Thirdly, why were such powerful engines required? Even a surfaced u-boat couldn’t make more than seventeen or eighteen knots, and why would any Q-ship be running away from her prey? Yet with her streamlined (under the waterline, at least) hull and powerful engines, Entrepreneur should be able to make damn near thirty four knots.

Why does that sound something like some of the same design princples used by Alconians for their Q-boats? (And I haven't reveled the plans for the Macbeth yet!) Which are designed to give a nasty surprise to commerce raiding frigates/deystroyers as well as subs.

Chapter Six

“This isn’t a good idea,” said Tom McTein quietly as Forlorn Maiden plowed through the waters of the Dessarine. “They’re not just going to forget about this, Henry. They’re going to hunt us down and kill every last one of us.”

“You worry too much, Tom,” said the Maiden’s skipper. His ship, a converted fishing trawler, didn’t look like much to the naked eye, but it mounted a 3” gun under a false forecastle and two old 18” torpedoes in hidden bays to the starboard. Theoretically, they were for sinking merchantmen that couldn’t be taken as prizes - like that last one they raided - or returned fire, but they had cost Henry Langheart too much to ever really use. “Do you know how much money this is going to make us?”

“Dead men can’t spend money, Henry!” whispered McTein fiercely. “I don’t know who you think you’re dicking around with, but this isn’t some half-ass local snot! This is --”

“I know just who it is, Tom,” replied Langheart, with a touch of frusturation in his voice, “and that’s just why I’m so excited. Sure, that ship wasn’t carrying anything material, but can you imagine the ransom on the Duke of Turnishire?”

“I can,” replied McTein dryly. “I can also imagine a lot of other things - like Royal Marines, warships, and...”

“I get the point,” interjected Langheart. “What you don’t understand, Tom, is that with a little careful manipulation, this’ll be the most impressive sortie we’ve ever mounted in terms of cash return. Hell, you know as well as I do that the Maiden isn’t the greatest ship around. Don’t you want the chance to make enough money that we can split it about ourselves, move inland, and live like respectable human beings?”

“There’s nothing I’d like better than that, Henry, but this plan won’t work.” McTien’s voice took on an element of pleading. “Listen to yourself! This entire plan is dependent on them delivering a large lump of cash to somewhere where we can get at it, but they can’t get at us! And then we’re to run to the hills, when he and half that ship’s crew have seen our faces as clear as day?” McTien shook his head. “No, Henry, here’s how I see this playing out: we’ll put in a ransom note. They’ll confirm it. We’ll go to pick up the money, and they’ll pick us up. A little persuasion, and we’ll be right back at the hideout, turning the prisoners over. Then we’ll go visit the hangman. Forgive me if I somehow don’t see that as the most brilliant plan in the history of crime!”

“Christ, Tom, keep your voice down,” said Langheart with a disgusted look on his face. “Now look: if you’d shut up and let me talk for twenty damn seconds, I could tell you how I plan to avoid just that situation. Now, first thing tomorrow, you and I are taking a little trip down to Rorie Landing.” Tom snorted, and with good reason: Rorie Landing was a two and a half hour drive away. “We leave Donald here,” continued Langheart, as if he hadn’t noticed his second in command’s reaction, “in charge of our guests, and make sure everyone stays on the ship with their mouths tightly shut. While we’re in Rorie Landing, we set up a nice, simple savings account. The type where we don’t need to fill out anything more than a name and a P.O. box. Then we come back here.” Langheart grinned, as if the whole plan was now crystal clear.

“...And when we go back to get whatever money they deposit in that account, they grab us and take their money back,” finished McTein for him, pursing his lips. “This leaves us right back at square zero, the short end of a hangman’s noose.”

“No, no, damn it, Tom.” Langheart was genuinely irritated now. “We don’t go back to Rorie Landing ever again in our lives. We take the boys and make for Gadsan or somewhere else far away, stop by the local U.B.C. branch, make a full cash withdrawal, and skeddadle off to another part of the Commonwealth. That way, even if they should somehow catch us, there’ll be so many conflicting jurisdictions that we never even make it to trial.” He smiled thinly. “And we use the remaining money to lead very comfortable lives somewhere very far away from the Noropian Horn.”

-----

The man who had once been Jacques Antonie Lacroix squinted against the sudden harsh light. He hadn’t been able to see anything for the last day and a half, but he could certainly smell something. It was mostly the stench of human body odor in a tightly confined space.

It wasn’t supposed to have gone like this. He and his daughter were just supposed to nip around the cape and to the capital city before the next Assembly meeting. It had all been so simple.

Marie. The thought of her, locked in that tiny compartment, adrift somewhere miles away, was almost enough to make him throw up again. But he - and the other twenty-six men locked in the hold with him - had already done enough of that for a lifetime. No scrap of food his captors had thrown down would stay in their digestive system. The Duke of Turnishire shook his head; he was having a hard time concentrating his thoughts to one end.

But when those thoughts were of his only daughter slowly starving to death on a tiny ship somewhere, maybe he simply didn’t want to concentrate them. His stomach heaved again, but there was nothing down there save bile.

“Good mornin’, yer grace,” called out a leering face from above. After having been in the dark for so long, Turnishire’s eyes couldn’t compensate for the sudden inrush of light. Not that it mattered; for what he had seen, all the ‘sailors’ on this ship were cut from the same mold - brutish, forceful, disrespectful, and utterly inhumane. “Didja sleep well?”

“You need to take me back,” croaked Turnishire. It was all he had said since the Jackenstone had been taken by the Maiden. In fact, the cry had become something of a joke among the Maiden’s crew.

“Sure you do,” came the scornful reply. “I’ll just tell the skipper that you asked me real nice, an’ he’ll haul us all right back there.” A chaser of laughter followed his comment.

“Look, it’s money you want, right?” cried Turnishire in desperation. “I’m telling you, there’s half a million generals in coinage aboard that ship! It’ll be yours! All you have to do is take me back!”

“You haven’t said anything about no generals,” said the figure crouching over the hatch with a suspicious air. “What about the girl?”

“She’s there too!” insisted Turnishire. “And a pile of gold generals, two feet high!”

“It’s true,” added Captain MacBrady with a wet-sounding cough. He’d had a hard time of it since the Jackenstone ran down her colors. “They’re in a secret compartment.”

“Shut up! You know as well as I that there’s a navy ship poking about there! You’re jus’ trying to get us all killed!” The hatch slammed shut. There was the noise of a pair of feet walking away on the wooden deck.

“He forgot to give us our dinner,” said one of the sailors despondently. “Suppose he’ll be back?” The defeat in the man’s voice answered his question. A good thing, too, because no one else showed any sign of responding.

Captain MacBrady coughed again.

----

“Land ho!” James looked up at the lookout’s cry.

“Mr. Garland?” he asked.

“I’m working on it, captain,” replied the navigator at once, perhaps a little snappishly. James could forgive him, however; charging off to investigate the Jackenstone’s smoke plume had played hell with the lieutenant’s computations. He’d only been able to provide a rough course back to shore until they had sighted a navigational buoy twenty some odd miles back. Ordinarily, they weren’t supposed to be lit in times of war, but the Noropian coast was a far stretch behind the front lines. The buoy had put Zicks nearly thirty miles off the course she thought she was sailing, and a hell of a lot farther from Dessarine than James would have liked.

“We should be coming up on Cape St. Martin,” said Garland at last, putting down the pair of dividers he was using.

“Um.” James raised his binoculars and peered out through the gathering fog. “I see some sort of peninsula. Does Cape St. Martin have a lighthouse?”

“Yes sir,” replied Garland, standing up and cracking his back. “We’re about fifteen minutes ahead of schedule. I’m going to look over my numbers again.”

“How far are we from Point Alpha?” asked James, looking over his shoulder at the navigation officer.

“Call it thirty five miles,” replied Garland, looking down at his calculations. “About an hour and a half at this speed. Then another twenty miles to the Dessarine.”

“Thank you, Mr. Garland.” James put down his binoculars and glanced back across the bridge. “You look like hell, lieutenant. You ought to go and get some rest; you’ve done all you can for now.”

Lieutenant Garland smiled. “You wouldn’t let me miss the action, would you, skipper?” James laughed.

“Of course not. But I’ll need every man on this ship wide awake and ready for action by the time we reach the Dessarine. That includes you, lieutenant.”

“I’d prefer to have the orders signed by Doc Morewood, bt I’d imagine I don’t have much of a choice, do I?” asked Garland with a smile. James shook his head. “Blast. I suppose, if I must, then I shall retire.” Garland withdrew a watch from his jumper and checked it. “I’ll see you in three hours, skip.”

I wasn't really complaining. I just found it a funny similarity that's all. There are actually a large number of diffrences. The post is more of a tag after all to keep track of your story. I want to know what happens to the little girl!!! (I was also thinking about how the Vixen's Revenge would deal with that craft or say the Macbeth I had been trying to figure out how to get two Q-ships into a fight with each other in the other thread.)

**shoots double post**

Chapter Seven

“Rick! Wake up!”

The man known as Rick simply rolled over and grunted. Incensed, his wife jabbed harder at him. “Rick, there’s something wrong!”

“Something wrong?” he coughed, waking up at last. “What d’ya mean, Molly?” Rick’s voice was still heavy with unfinished sleep.

“I think those brigands from the town are back again,” Molly said properly. She was already sitting straight as a rail in the bed. “I’m hearing all sorts of terrible sounds from outside.” As if to drive home her point, there was a loud crash. “See?”

“Yeah, yeah. Probably just some of those bratty kids,” grumbled Rick, slowly swinging his legs over the edge. “I’ll go out and scare ‘em away.”

These bloody kids - Noropian scoundrels, he thought as he slipped into a proper pair of pants. Raised by a bunch of no-good law breakers; small wonder they’re a bunch of smaller, no-good law breakers!

Rick and his family were something of an oddity in this part of Noropia. They were not from the Dominion itself, but rather homesteaders from the Shield. As such, his family was considered outsiders and, if the local parents didn’t encourage their children to harass them, they certainly didn’t discourage such behavior.

A quick check out the window - there were several shady figures running about in the dark - and Rick was climbing down the stairs. Molly had seemed terribly concerned for some reason; a bunch of young whippersnappers running about, while they’d certainly cause some small amount of largely annoying damage, wasn’t anything to really get in a fuss about.

He walked slowly outside, facing the shapes he’d seen from the window, and fired his rifle into the air. The sharp crack echoed about in the cold night air and the muzzle flash provided a brief second of illumination. And in that second Rick was able to see the mass of shapes had had thought were just rogue school children were actually six very large, very tattooed sea dogs.

“What the hell?” asked one, his own pistol at the ready at once.

“Must be the local farmer, Tom,” replied another. This one’s voice was deep and cold; in fact, downright frightening in the darkness.

“Y-you there!” managed Rick. “You’re trespassing! Shove off now, y’hear?” A harsh, grating laughter was the reply to his ultimatum.

“Now, now, land lubber. Unless I’ve very much missed my guess, you’ve got a Camstol Guns Model 1898 rifle there. Decent enough in its own right, but you’ll only get off a single shot before having to reload. And if I see you go for the action, lubber, I’ll have a round directly in your head.” This was the chilly voice again. Rick swore softly; the man was right.

“Now then,” the same voice continued, its large owner stepping forward. “I think we might just be able to make use of this house for the night, and carry on to the Landing tomorrow.”

“Y-you wouldn’t!”

“It’s a long walk to Rorie Landing, Mr. Lubber. I think my men would appreciate a rest before setting off. And maybe a chance to fulfill some of their other desires, if you catch my meaning.”

“No...” Rick had dropped his gun. “You can’t.” His voice had dropped down to a soft, pleading note.

“I can do anything I wish, and I wish to camp here tonight,” replied the bigger man harshly, holding his gun at arms length. “I also grow tired of the sound of your voice. So long, Mr. Lubber.” He pulled back the hammer. And then he twitched once and fell down.

Rick supposed there must have a report, but he never heard it. All he knew was that the big man who had been threatening him was not a problem any more. And then the follow-up hit him.

“Right! Not another one of you move! You’re all under arrest in the name of His Majesty the King!” The five other brigands weren’t quite sure what to do as they were surrounded by an under strength Marine platoon, their rifles at the ready. One by one, they dropped their weapons and raised their hands.

Rick slowly pulled himself off the ground, looking in shock at the olive uniforms filling his field. “W-what?”

“You, sir, I assume you’re the owner of this lot? A pleasure indeed! I’m Lieutenant Sir Daniel Clarke, Commander A Platoon, Sigma Company, King’s Second Marines Regiment.” The young, tall Marines lieutenant glanced at a pocket watch. “However, I fear that we’re currently rather late for another appointment this evening. I trust you have enough rope to deal with this trash for a few hours?”

“I suppose so,” said Rick. The news that the Marines were just about to depart made his stomach fall.

“I’ll leave a couple men here, just to make sure. Roberts! Forester!”

“Sir!” replied both Marines.

“Stay here with Mr...ah?”

“MacMillan,” supplied Rick.

“Mr. MacMillan and keep an eye on those five nogoodnicks. The rest of you, with me. Everyone got it?” There were nods all about. “Very good. In that case, forward!” And at a slow trot, the majority of the thirty eight marines trooped from Rick’s front lawn.

“Reckon you’d best get them ropes now,” said the one known as Roberts casually. His gun was pointed in the general direction of the five captured men. “The sooner this scum is under ‘em, the better for us, eh?”

-----

The Dessarine proved to be a typical Noropian fjord. The high hills on both sides, cut deeply by ancient river paths, provided a very scenic vista. Not, of course, that a single member of Torpedo Boat Three-Nineteen’s crew was paying much attention to the scenery.

It hadn’t been easy putting the Marines, who made up damn near half their crew, ashore. Even with every man awake, the beat to General Quarters left James with only three men in his damage control pool. Of course, he didn’t expect any sort of real action, so perhaps that wasn’t a complete disaster. And he’d needed the Marines to sneak up from behind the town.

“Come about five degrees to port,” said Lieutenant Garland suddenly.

“Five degrees aye,” replied the helmsman. Unlike most modern men-of-war, the TBIII class had its primary helm within hailing range of the bridge. The reasoning was that, since the class had no armor to speak of, there wasn’t much good to be done by isolating the control systems deep in Zicks’ bowels. In peaceful maneuvers, it was very convenient - the captain could take full advantage of Zicks’ agility and routine orders need only be relayed once. In battle, however, the disadvantages were obvious: a single hit on the bridge could take out the captain, the second lieutenant, and the helm. Lieutenant Yates - the gunnery officer and therefore first lieutenant - had a secondary helm control from his position in the forward turret, but that was of slight consolation. Zicks would be too far out of control at that point for it to make a damn bit of difference.

Besides, James told himself, A hit of any significant caliber on the bridge would trash Zicks’ upper works completely; we’d be blind, deaf, and dumb for Chuck. He sighed softly. Better not to think of it at all.

“We ought to be coming up on Jewel soon, skipper,” said Garland, glancing over at James. Jewel was the name of the small fishing town at the end of the Dessarine.

“Thank you, Mr. Garland,” replied James quietly. He was concentrating on the view over Zicks’ bow. Quite suddenly, the major trunk of the fjord vanished in front of them, replaced by two high and rocky hills split by an icy river.

“All reverse!” ordered Garland urgently, and the helmsman obeyed at once. After the relay hit Zicks’ engine room, the throb of her screws suddenly stopped, then started again in reverse. Slowly, the boat’s near-one thousand long tons decelerated, coming to a full stop not three thousand yards from the hazy line of fishing vessels before them.

“Well,” said James. “Now that we’ve let ourselves in, we may as well knock, eh?” He leaned forward to speak into the intercom from the bridge to the forward turret. “My compliments, Mr. Yates, and would you please fire starshell at maximum elevation?”

“Starshell aye,” was the tinny reply.

James had never been so excited in his life. For the first time, he was issuing combat orders to a man-of-war. No one would ever again be able to say Zicks’ guns had never been fired in anger.

Forward, the right gun on the forward turret elevated to nearly sixty degrees - the older surface only guns had been upgraded to dual purpose in a refit four years ago - and coughed once. The gun’s report was probably loud enough to wake the entire town. For good measure, the shell burst into a bright magnesium flare when it reached its apex. A tiny parachute popped open above the flare, slowing its decent and casting the entire town of Jewel and its harbor in light.

“Well,” said James as he watched the boats for any sign of movement. “Let’s see if the flushed out rats try to escape by land or by sea.”

----

Sir Daniel Clarke swore softly to himself as the starshell bust over the city. He thought he’d still had five minutes; between the early flush and that spot of trouble up the road, he was still far out of position behind Jewel.

“Come on, Marines,” he grunted. “Double time.” The sound of pounding boots doubled in tempo, and they soon rounded on the city of Jewel itself.

If there was such a thing as a one-horse town in this modern age of automobiles and railroads, Jewel would be it. A single road divided the burg into ‘right’ and ‘left’ halves, most of which consisted of single floor, perhaps even single room, houses. Out in the harbor, between the Zicks and the shore, lay a fleet of five or six fishing trawlers. All in all, compared to MacMillan’s place up the hill, Jewel looked especially pathetic.

The sudden appearance of a warship off Jewel’s coast had caused no small amount of panic in the small town. Doubtlessly, most were simple fishermen with nothing to fear from the manifestation of law and authority, but a few more irrational people doubtlessly assumed in was Jerry or the Chiangese.

As per Captain Redford’s plan, Sir Daniel set his Marines up off the side of the main road out of town, with a few spreading out to cover other possible exits. They didn’t have long to wait - within two minutes of their arrival, a small gaggle of men, many of them only half dressed, was dashing at full speed up the main road. Clarke recognized their type at once; those were no simply fishermen. He stepped out into the road, a half dozen rifles behind him, and held up a hand.

“In the name of His Majesty the King, you are all under arrest on charges of piracy on the high seas.” The men stopped in the headlong flight, disbelief bordering on absolute terror evident in every eye. Clarke reveled in the fear. “Perhaps, then, some of you gentlemen might be able to tell me the location of one M. Lacroix, the Duke of Turnishire and father of Marie Lacroix?”

Chapter Eight

“He looks rather uncomfortable, doesn’t he?” whispered Eloise Lowell to her husband.

“Who, Commander Redford?” he whispered back. Howard Lowell was a full commander and first lieutenant of HIMS Tharia. As the Tharia, a heavy cruiser and Commodore Paul’s titular flagship, scarcely ever had opportunity to leave the fleet base at Chateau, Commander Lowell and his wife had become very well acquainted with the Noropian capital’s high society. Currently, they were in the company of the Duchess Chateau herself, but Her Grace had stepped out for a trip to the powder room.

“The same; one would think that he ought to be ecstatic, considering this reception.”

“Quite agreed, m’dear. Most people in the exile would give their first born sons for a chance like Commander Redford had.” The exile referred to torpedo boat duty. “Bringing in a bunch of brigands will surely catch their Lordship’s eyes, or the Commodore’s at the very least.” Lowell shrugged. “Perhaps he’s simply awkward at these social functions.”

“A shame,” commented Eloise.

“Indeed!” agreed Lowell. “From what I understand, Commander Redford is a Gadsani without any sort of patronage. In the wartime navy, that’ll get you farther than in peace, but no matter how talented he is, he’ll not make it past a destroyer skipper.”

“Another shame,” said his wife quietly. “To hear the other men talk, he pulled off quite the operation.”

“Capturing a dozen pirates after their strike with the evidence to back it up, as well as bringing their ship in as a prize and rescuing the Duke of Turnishire?” Lowell looked impressed. “My dear, that is quite the operation, especially in these trying times!”

‘What about Sir Terrence? He seems to dote on Comander Redford.”

“The Commodore? As a patron, you mean?” She nodded. “No, I don’t think so. I was just in Ianapalis a few months ago; Sir Terrence doesn’t have much clout with the Lordships.” A laugh escaped Lowell’s lips. “Otherwise, I feel he’d be in the Atlantic theatre with Hansfield or the South Pacific with Admiral Rice.”

“But here he’s an Area Commander, the most independent command possible at his rank; that seems to indicate they think quite highly of his abilities.”

“Ah, my dear, but he’s an area commander in the Northern Seas. If it were the Western Marches or the Bay, I’d quite agree with you. But the Northern Seas are often where those, ah, embarrassing to the Admiralty are sent.”

“Like us?”

“Not quite; I was first lieutenant on Tharia before Captain Laughlin became involved in that affair with Earl Inswick’s youngest daughter.” Lowell’s denial wasn’t harsh; it sounded more like a step in a waltz he and his wife had often danced.

She chuckled at the memory. “Ah, I thought Inswick would have had him drawn and quartered for that incident! Especially after IanCorp got it in the presses.”

Her husband smiled, obviously pleased that he had elicited such a happy reaction, especially with so unpleasant a memory. “Does --” he started, but never had the opportunity to finish his thought. Her Royal Highness Princess Elizabeth, by marriage the Duchess of Chateau, had returned from the powder room. “Welcome back, Your Grace,” Lowell said instead with a slight bow of his head.

Had they been on the Shield, ‘Your Grace’ would have been quite an inappropriate way to refer to the sister of the High King of the Empire; in Noropia, however, her role as the wife of the Duke of Chateau was much more important. After all, His Grace, by long and honored tradition, was the First Lord of the Assembly, and thus both the Dominion’s Head of State and Head of Government.

“Thank you, Commander,” she replied with a dazzling smile. “I hope I didn’t miss too much?”

“Not at all, Your Grace,” he insisted with picture-perfect etiquette, something that always made Eloise giggle. She had the right, of course: it was her who had taken a know-nothing midshipman from a farm on the upper Daldon and molded him into the spitting image of an Iansislean officer and gentleman. Eloise wasn’t a noblewoman herself, but she was from one of the most outstanding families in Troobodia. As Troobodia had no official nobility, the more well-to-do families acted in their place at official social gatherings. “I was just about to go and give Commander Redford my congratulations.”

“I wouldn’t dare keep you from that,” said Duchess Chateau. “I can hardly find words to express how happy my husband and I are that Jacques - ” even though she had every right to refer to Duke Turnishire by his Christian name, the informality still made Lowell wince inwardly. “- has been returned to us safely. Commander Redford has the thanks of the entire Dominion.”

“I’ll be sure to convey that to him, Your Grace,” nodded Lowell. “And now, if Your Grace will pardon me..”

“I’m afraid you’ll have a rather hard time giving your respects to Commander Redford, love,” said Eloise before he could leave. “I lost track of him; he’s not in the main hall anymore.”

“Indeed?” asked Lowell, arching an eyebrow and glancing about. “So he has left! How rare!”

“I wonder where he could have gotten off to,” agreed the Duchess. “It’s not like a man to run off at his own reward celebration.”

“Perhaps he just had to adjourn briefly to the men’s room,” suggested Eloise. Her comment treaded about as close as anyone could go to mentioning bodily functions in the presence of a social superior. “I’m sure he’ll be back quickly.”

“In the meantime,” said Lowell, who was anxious not to lose the Duchess’ attention, “I don’t suppose you’ve had a chance yet to try these artichokes yet? They’re simply delectable!”

----

Several hundred miles away, in the foggy darkness of an oncoming Noropian night, a clumsy-looking freighter cut through the dark waters off Cape Deliverance. Claude LaRue stood just outside her pilot house, watching the dispassionate sweep of the Entrewar Point Lighthouse’s beam fade slowly into the distance. He should have known that Mr Barker would insist he join the Entrepreneur’s crew; it was the oldest trick in the book.

He ventured a thought for his three children, all of whom were under six years old, sitting at home with his wife. “Is daddy coming home soon?” little Jacob would probably ask while Edwin played with his toy boat and baby Marguerite lay cradled in her mother’s arms. “I don’t know,” Joan would answer, gazing out the window at the walkway, “It’s not like him to be this late; he never misses dinner.” She wouldn’t be too worried, not yet. But as the hours drug on, she’d call the police and report him missing.

Not that it’d do a damn bit of good. The police didn’t care about a missing-persons report, they had bigger fish to fry. Little did they realize, of course, that tracking down Mr Claude LaRue would catch them one of the biggest fish of all.

Mr Barker wasn’t on board the Entrepreneur, of course. He’d never stoop so low as to become involved in the direct management of his own enterprises! No, he’d picked up some bunch of thugs from God knows where and placed the biggest and ugliest of them in charge. These weren’t the typical Cape Deliverance scum, either; at least the rats down by the piers knew how to work a ship properly. Of the one hundred and eight men Barker had dumped on Entrepreneur, there were maybe six or seven, LaRue not included, who had any previous sailing experience at all. It was a miracle they’d even managed to steam out of harbor at all.

The implication that it was LaRue’s job to train the men and make Entrepreneur ready for battle, storms, and whatever else fate might throw her way was clearly unstated. Barker was good at doing that: too good, in fact, for LaRue’s peace of mind. Even more unsettling, however, was the unintended implication that, once LaRue had trained these idiots into a crew of sorts, he’d be surplus. Somehow, LaRue didn’t fancy that would mean he was allowed to go back to Joan and the children.

----

James breathed a slow sigh of relief as he slid into the Ducal Manor’s large, well appointed library. The room had the distinct smell of ancient pages, most of which had probably sat unturned for decades. He glanced at the names on the book jackets as he walked along them: Virdis, Camnton, Rogers, Winkler, and Matteam - all the Commonwealth’s greats. He selected a volume at random and flipped it open. It was a collection of Virdis’ poetry; he pages were yellowed but not tattered. He had never really been a fan of any sort of poetry. Meter didn’t make much sense to him; James often wondered if perhaps there was some great significance to the lines that simply escaped him.

With a sudden shock, James realized just what he was doing. Normally, he’d avoid reading poetry anyway he could; now, he was doing it willingly. James sighed; was he really that afraid of brass and blue blood?

“Commander Redford?” James looked up from leafing through the book at the sound of his name. He recognized the Commodore at once and quickly put the book down to salute properly. “Don’t worry about formalities right now,” Paul chuckled as he walked into the room. James lowered his arm, but he was pretty clearly still not at ease. Paul ignored the straight back and picked up the discarded book. “What the devil are you doing in the library?”

“Sir?”

“You do know, Commander, that we’re having a party in your honor just a dozen yards that way?” Paul indicated the direction with a thumb.

“Yes, sir, I do,” replied James as he clasped his hands behind his back. “I just needed a brief break from the festivities, sir.”

“I was just talking with the Duchess of Chateau,” continued Paul in an apparent non-sequitur. “Apparently, she’s very pleased with your performance in Jewel.”

“I - I’m honored to hear that, sir.”

“Don’t you know what this means, Redford?” asked Paul, taken aback at how little James apparently cared. “She’s His Majesty’s elder sister, as well as the most influential woman in Noropia!”

“I know, sir, and I’m honored to hear that she’s pleased with my humble efforts.”

“You ought to be out talking to her right now. Redford, you’re a right personable man! Combine that with your command ability, and we could have you out of torpedo boats in six months; with the new construction, I’d say into a destroyer, maybe even an old Aegean, right after that!” Paul sounded awfully enthusiastic about advancing Redford’s career. “What do you say, Commander?”

James wasn’t sure quite what to say. Certainly, the possible patronage of so dignified a figure would help greatly in his advancement. On the other hand, did he really want to lower himself to the level of so many other career officers, who cared more about one more medal on their chest than their honor or pride, he’d seen along the way.

Paul noted the hesitation with a frown. “Commander Redford, take it from me. A chance like this only comes around once in an officer’s career, if he’s even lucky to have it appear that much. From here on out, I can guarantee you that no more opportunities will fall into your lap; you’ll have to go out and find them. And without influence at the court, I can guarantee they’ll be damned difficult to seek out.

“Damn it, man, you’re one of the best officers Their Lordships have ever sent out to the Northern Seas. Unless you plan on spending the rest of your career languishing in a dinky torpedo boat, much to the detriment of our war cause, I suggest you get out there and make connections! Don’t you want to post captain?”

“I want to do my best to serve His Iansislean Majesty,” replied James without hesitation.

“And do you really thing that commanding a dinky little torpedo boat is the best way to please His Majesty? Redford, I see great things in your future. We need you out there in command of a ship of the line at least, maybe even a squadron of them!” Paul clamped down on his mouth suddenly; he hadn’t realized how loud his voice had been getting. “So,” he continued, almost in a stage whisper, “for your sake and the Commonwealth’s, get back out there and get chummy with the aristocrats!”

“I...aye aye, sir.” He hesitated for a second; Paul stood watching him. At last, rather hesitantly, James turned and flung himself back into the world of Iansislean high society; he’d much rather be facing the business end of a Chiangese ten inch gun.

**End of Part I; keep your eyes out for Part II**

(Nice read, thus far. I've not finished reading the last section yet, but I will when my eyes are open.. too much re-organising of fleets and air defence authorities to-night. Carry on! (Did you know, at any one time the RWN may have up to 47,314 men afloat? Heh, ugh. -falls down-))

(*carries on*

Ergh...I know; this whole war-ending-thing's really playing heck with the fleet tracker. Half of the ships I completed between the last update and the latest announcment don't even have names! It's a disgrace, I tell you!

Um, right, thanks for the kind words! I'm bumping this because Chapter V is up!)

*oooooooooh!!! Tag!!! sweet read!*

Thanks, Lark!

(and no, this hasn't been a poorly disguised bump. ;))

[Chapter Six bump!]

[and a double post! whee!]

OOC: Arr. Ye will finish this story, or ye shall walk the plank.

Seriously though, I do want to know how this ends...

((Well, if you absolutely insist :P

Seriously, though, whenever I'm just about to drop a story because other RPs/temporary change of interest/whatever, just kick me in the butt.

There's probably one or two more chapters to be added to Part I, and then I'll be ready to start Part II. [/Chapter Seven]))

((aaand a Chapter Eight bump!))

(no new chapter for this bump; it's just there to satisfy my ego ;))