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Episode 1: Part 4

“Alright,” says Captain Warring, placing both hands firmly on the handrail that guards the ledge she’s standing on, above the rest of the crew.

It’s an unseasonably cold night, and the wind rushing by the ship doesn’t exactly help matters, but Captain Warring looks unfazed as always. The cold wind doesn’t even seem to rustle her hair as she speaks. Cold as ice.

I put down my bow and lower my fiddle to my side, and the rest of the crew assembles. Clairvoyance is here, in a hulking squarish body built for muscle over anything else, along with Gratitude (clutching his wool cape around him for warmth), Mikael, and Athens. It’s hardly the warmest place for a crew meeting, but hey. I can’t say I don’t appreciate the gravitas.

“Alright?” Athens echoes, her tail whipping just a bit from impatience.

Apparently, the captain has been no less cryptic to her first mate than to the rest of us.

“So,” Captain Warring continues, unfazed, “I’ve touched base with one of my contacts inside the Guard, and they confirmed, more or less, what was on the note Joane recovered during yesterday’s…hubbub. There is, indeed, a transport vessel by the name of the P.A.S. Condor docking in West Compassion at the end of the week. I wasn’t able to get a good report on what, exactly, the Condor is carrying, but it appears to be ammunition of some kind, headed for the capital. Whatever it is, the haul could be worth a killing. No word on what kind of security we’re looking at, but I know the Principality. The possibility that someone might intercept their secret shipment probably hasn’t even crossed their minds.”

Clairvoyance leans forward a bit, resting her chin on the back of her hand.

“You want this to be our next job,” she observes with a hint of a smile in her voice.

I don’t blame her. I trust the captain and all, but I think we can all tell we’re in desperate need of some profit.

“If it’s only munitions, I suppose it’s not so bad,” muses Gratitude out loud, his discomfort plain for all to see. I nudge him a bit, and he shoots me a glare.

“Well,” I chip in, “I, for one, think it’s a great plan. And Captain, if you’re open to it, I think this could be an excellent time for me to get in some real ground work-”

“Absolutely not,” says Captain Warring flatly, and I wince.

“Captain,” I say softly. “I know I’m still, uh…in trouble, but I was the one who got the intel in the first place, and I really think I’m ready-”

“You also got yourself hurt and got separated from the rest of the crew,” she points out, unmoved. “Joane, we’ve discussed this several times, and I still don’t think you actually understand why you’re in trouble.”

Despite my best efforts to keep my cool, I can feel hot blood rushing to my face. My grip on the neck of my fiddle tightens.

“With all due respect, Captain,” I say slowly, between clenched teeth, “I wouldn’t be such a liability in the field if you ever actually gave me the chance to hone my skills.”

“Tal,” Gratitude interjects with an air of detached politeness that makes me want to leap out of my skin, “I think perhaps what the captain is saying is that your problem is not your inexperience, but your abject recklessness in the face of danger and your complete inability to plan ahead.”

“Fuck off, Gratitude,” I snarl. “What do you know, you grew up in a convent.”

“A better upbringing, I’d say, than living amongst the gutter trash.”

My hand balls into a tight fist, but before I can slug Gratitude in the face, a firm grip closes around my wrist. I glance up.

Athens is standing there, her usual cocky grin replaced by an air of thick disappointment. One hand is restraining my punching arm, while the other maintains a tight grip on Gratitude’s shoulder. If looks could kill, hers would be drilling a coin-sized hole through the center of my skull.

“Actually, Captain,” she says sweetly, turning her attention up to where Captain Warring is standing, massaging her temples. “I have a much better idea of how to deal with this situation, if you’ll allow.”

Captain Warring looks up, and the dark circle under her eye is more visible than ever.

“I’m listening.”

“Fuck this,” I moan, pulling the brim of my Principality Navy regulation hat down over my face. If the other night was unseasonably chilly, midday at the docks of West Compassion is overbearingly muggy. If Arcadia V really does have a living spirit, as some claim, clearly She missed the memo that it’s supposed to be September.

“Language,” Gratitude mutters next to me.

Not that he’s in any place to judge. He’s doing no better than me, judging by the irritated way he keeps tapping his foot on the rough cobblestone of the harbor. His Navy uniform is a tad ill-fitting; the shoulders hang a bit loose and the double-breasted jacket doesn’t quite sit right. I imagine mine doesn’t look all that good either, if the tightness around my hips is anything to go by, but I suppose that’s what you get out of last-minute disguises.

West Compassion is a small city, only about a day’s trip from Greater Mercy. By and large, it’s a trading outpost, and few people aside from an odd collection of merchants, traders, and those who make money off travelers actually live here. But the view from the harbor is extraordinary. Even with the sunlight beating down in waves on both our heads, it looks just as lovely glinting off the clouds below the jutting, stone docks, making the sky below shine just like I imagine the real ocean might. And all along the way, rows and rows of airships line the docks, ranging from small birding vessels to enormous, hulking freighters. And in front of us, an iron-sided freight ship, held aloft by a large and unwieldy balloon, with its name stamped in regulation type on the side.

The P.A.S. Condor.

“Welp,” I say with as little enthusiasm as possible. “We better climb onboard. We’re going to miss orientation.”

Gratitude swallows and pauses to adjust his head covering (the ornate veil swapped out for a simple blue bandana) before stepping forward onto the dock. A long moment passes where there’s no conversation but the faint sound of feet on stone, the cries of cliff-dwelling birds and the whistling of the wind.

“I imagine you’re also mad at me over this Hellfire business,” Gratitude says finally.

I frown.

“No,” I reply. “Why would I be?”

Gratitude gestures vaguely in the air, as if grasping for the words he needs floating around his head.

“You...haven’t exactly made a secret of your disdain for me, and given our…incompatible faiths, it seemed pretty obvious that you would side with Athens on the matter.”

I roll my eyes.

“Gratitude, I don’t not get along with you because I’m Jewish.”

“That-” He stumbles over his words quickly. “Tal, that is not what I meant. I just thought that-”

I smirk a little and shove him, making him windmill a little to avoid falling into the guardrail. He exhales in a little puff of irritation.

“I understand,” I say. “You figured that because I don’t share your religious beliefs, I’d be totally gung-ho to jump in on ‘bash the Exodist’ hour. Rest assured, buddy. I don’t care even a little bit about Hellfire except that I’d prefer not to get killed by it. Hell, there are places where fire is really important to Jewish worship. So like. Keep your weird magic god fire, I really do not care.”

“It’s not my-” Gratitude mutters. “It’s not like I can summon it-”

He clamps his mouth shut as we finally approach the gangplank at the end of the dock. The Condor looms above us, and I find myself correcting my posture instinctually. There’s something about a ship like this that really makes you wanna play soldier. Luckily, that’s exactly what we’re here to do.

We stand at the foot of the plank for what feels like forever until we finally hear the unmistakable sound of heeled boots on metal approaching us. Out of the shadows, we can see a figure climb down the ramp and set foot, finally, in front of us.

The figure is a woman, seemingly, tall with light skin and amber eyes, and a spattering of freckles across her long, sharp nose. She looks in her early thirties if I had to hazard a guess, and her sandy brown hair is swept into a neat style at the back of her neck. Her clothes look...decidedly unlike the standard naval uniform of the Principality: a slightly open white button-down shirt with an unbuttoned brocade coat that sweeps behind her as she walks. Her trousers are high-waisted and adorned with brass buttons that look...pretty expensive.

“You two the ballast we’re picking up here?” she asks flatly, fiddling with a toothpick in one hand. “I gotta say, real weird that the Principality is sending its goons to babysit us, but as long as we get the paycheck…”

I glance sideways at Gratitude, who is already glancing at me. I shrug.

“Um,” I say eloquently. “Yes sir. I’m Ensign Lee Mirage, and this is Ensign Merriment Sign-Your-Agreement-Eternally-Binding.”

The woman raises one thin eyebrow.

“I’m, er, I’m a medical officer, sir,” says Gratitude. “Here are our papers, they should check out alright.”

Gratitude hands the woman a brand new set of fakes, which she scans quickly. She exhales, seemingly satisfied.

“Sir,” I venture. “I apologize, we were under the impression that this was a Principality naval vessel.”

She laughs out loud and hands our papers back to Gratitude. The sun glints off something shiny in her mouth- a single gold tooth.

“Aw, sweetheart,” she says with a hint of glee. “They really don’t teach y’all anything over there.”

She sticks out a hand, and I shake without thinking. The enthusiasm in her handshake nearly pulls my arm out of its socket.

“Mirage, Merry, it’s good to meet you. My name’s Adonis Fleetfoot, but that’s Captain Fleetfoot to you.” She grins. “Welcome aboard the Condor, and welcome to my privateering crew- the Last Stand of Dignity!”

Gratitude and I shoot each other another bewildered look.

This is gonna be a long mission, isn’t it.

[Episode 1 Part 3] - [Episode 1 Part 5]

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Episode 1: Part 3

The sun blaring through the porthole shakes me from sleep, and I groan and bury my face in my pillow. An extra hour or so of rest would be really appreciated, but months of living on an airship have set my internal clock in stone. Dawn? Time to get up.

My arm still aches furiously, but it's a lot better since Gratitude popped it back into its socket. Despite his...everything else, he’s at least a decent doctor. Still, nun magic aside, he’s not a miracle worker.

That in mind, I take more care than usual in rolling out of bed and getting dressed. Rotating my shoulder enough to fasten my binder in place hurts like hell. Even after last night’s bout of healing magic, the ache is enough to make me put off putting on a shirt for now, or at least until I can do something about the pain. Instead, I stumble into the bathroom to get on with my morning routine.

The Vega Vespa has two bathrooms, or “heads" as Athens insists is the proper parlance. The one I share with Gratitude is small and cramped, and it only has one shower. Technically, it's the kids' head, shared between me, Gratitude, and Clairvoyance V, but constructed intelligences don't really need to shower, and Gratitude is usually up and ready before sunrise. That usually leaves me a precious fifteen minutes of solitude. Usually.

This time, I barely have time to splash a handful of water on my face before I hear the sharp crackle of radio static from the speaker behind me. I sigh and reach for a bar of soap.

'Morning, Clair," I mumble as I start to scrub at my face. “What’ll it be, today?"

Clairvoyance ponders that for a moment.

“Y’know what, Tal?" replies the voice from the speaker. "Dunno. Surprise

me."

I splash my face with water once again, washing away the suds and dirt. My own face stares back at me from the mirror, flushed from the brutal scrubbing I just gave it. It's the same old face, though; still rounder and softer than I’d like it to be, still tanned from constant sun exposure. Still me, I guess.

"Um," I say out loud. "How do you feel about Miss Clairvoyance today?"

"Works for me!" chirps Clair from the speaker. I can't see her face, but she sounds practically beaming. I sigh and reach for the razor balanced precariously where the faucet meets the wall.

“How’s my stubble looking?” I ask, still studying my face in the mirror. It’s...difficult not to focus on all my flaws when they’re right there.

“Do you want the honest answer, or the one that will make you feel better?” Clairvoyance replies.

I furrow my brow.

“Honest.”

“You had five o’clock shadow when I met you. And that was waaay before you started taking T.”

I snort and chuck a bar of soap over my shoulder, where it bounces off the speaker grate and rolls uselessly to the floor. Clairvoyance erupts into canned laughter that sounds like she ripped it off a radio show or something.

“I’ll never understand you humans,” Clairvoyance continues, watching me apply shaving cream over my shoulder. “If you want to grow facial hair, why do you go to the trouble of shaving it off every morning?”

“Cuz,” I say, doing my best not to cut myself with the razor while holding this conversation. “I don’t want a beard. I just want to know I could grow one if I wanted to.”

“You are so weird,” Clairvoyance replies matter-of-factly.  “Bold words from someone whose ideal gender expression is a small metal bird,” I mutter.

Shaving doesn’t take long. Despite my best efforts to grow it, there really isn’t much there to shave. It’s more about the routine of it. I wash the remaining foam off my face and smooth a layer of lotion on.

“I don’t understand why you’re so insecure about the facial hair thing, anyway,” says Clairvoyance as I head down the hall, my boots making short thuds on the hardwood decks. “Mikael went through a similar gender transition to yours, and he has a magnificent beard.”

“Mikael has a different body from me,” I explain, rolling my eyes. “Everyone’s bodies respond differently to hormones, y’know.”

“I’m told most adolescents of your age have difficulty growing facial hair, regardless of hormone type” Clairvoyance says.

I round the corner of the corridor, heading towards the galley. The sweet smell of fresh-baked bread is already starting to wash over me, and my mouth waters involuntarily. I can hear, clear as day, the sound of something frying in butter.

God bless Mikael Pages.

The next thing I make out is the racket of two voices arguing. Also pretty par for the course. I can’t quite process the words, but by the cadence, it sounds like Gratitude and...Athens? Weird. Athens doesn’t usually get involved in petty shipmate drama.

The words start to filter in the closer I get to the galley.

“-the INDIGNITY of your people to bring fire here is frankly unconscionable, and I have no idea how you can continue to defend it having so much as met me-”

Athens’s voice is pitched up a full octave from her usual tone, her words taking on an odd growl I’ve only ever heard on her once or twice. She sounds well and truly pissed off.

“Hellfire is a sacred facet of Christian worship,” retorts Gratitude’s calm voice. “You can’t simply expect the entire church to simply abandon-”

“Sacred!” Athens interrupts, indignant. “Hellfire- fire where there should be no fire- that’s the furthest thing from sacred! To defy the material will of the planet we call home is the most damned profane thing I can think of, and I’ve seen some shit in my day. You know, there’s a reason Arcadia V disallowed combustion when humanity arrived, and you can bet it wasn’t because of a goddamn smoke allergy.”

“I’d thank you not to take the Lord’s name in vain,” Gratitude replies, just as indignant, “and none of us can presume to know the will of the planet, but if we have been given Hellfire, it must be for a-”

I enter the galley and the debate abruptly grinds to a halt. Athens and Gratitude are leaned over the dining table, practically butting heads, while Mikael bustles about in the kitchenette, pointedly ignoring the argument brewing outside. I don’t blame him; it’s pretty common to have to overlook a screaming match or two around here, although usually, it’s Gratitude giving me hell for some petty misstep or breach of decorum. He has such an enormous stick up his ass, I’m not surprised Athens has an issue with him now.

Gratitude glances up and immediately yelps in horror and covers his eyes. He’s lucky his skin is so dark. because otherwise I’m sure he’d be turning bright red.

“Goddess’s sake, Tal, put a fuckin’ shirt on,” Athens says, covering for Gratitude’s sudden speechlessness.

“Wh- Athens, I am wearing a shirt.”

“A binder is not a shirt!” she insists. “It’s underwear!”

“Are my tits out?” I retort. “No? I’m wearing a goddamn shirt.”

Gratitude winces, and I roll my eyes in a wide arc.

“Before you say anything,” I continue, “You can only police my blasphemy in your designated zone. This is not the infirmary.”

“Food,” announces Mikael loudly, sliding several plates across the counter. The tension abruptly shatters, although Gratitude is still conspicuously avoiding looking at me. I grab my plate and move it closer, already reaching for a fork.

Credit where credit is due, the food looks delicious. The thick slice of French bread on the plate is still warm to the touch, and a generous helping of eggs and bacon spill over onto it. The side of the plate is lined with a pile of skyroot homefries, with their delicious buttery, garlicky smell and their familiar purple color. I dig in even as Gratitude is busy saying his Grace.

“Where’s Captain Warring, anyway?” I ask with a mouthful of food. “I figured she’d be the first up.”

Mikael chuckles and looks above my head. I sigh.

“She’s right behind me, isn’t she?” I ask flatly. Mikael nods.

“Good morning, Recordkeeper Joane,” says Captain Warring’s voice from over my shoulder. Despite already knowing she was there, I can’t help but jump a bit. “Doctor Where-The-Sun-Sinks-Below-The-Sea. First Mate Devon-Korat. Chef Pages. Mechanic Clairvoyance, wherever you are.”

Unusually formal. Not a good sign.

I swallow my mouthful of food.

“Captain, about yesterday-” I begin, but she cuts me off.

“Needless apology will get you nowhere, Joane,” she says flatly. “My decision is final.”

I frown.

“But Captain-”

“Am I the captain of this ship?” she asks sharply.

I nod mutely.

“And are you not severely injured?” she continues.

“It’s just a dislocated shoulder-”

“Deck duty, Joane,” she says with an air of finality. I lower my head. “Are you fit to work?”

My shoulder twinges in pain as if to spite me.

“No,” I admit. “Unless Gratitude has another one of those healing spells in him.”

Captain Warring glances at Gratitude, who is still conspicuously staring at the wall, covering his mouth with one hand. He looks up.

“Er,” he says. “No, I really need a good eighteen hours of rest before I can heal again. Maybe if I still had all my powers, but since I’m excommunicated-”

“Noted,” Captain Warring interrupts. “Joane. You’re on music until your shoulder is fully healed. And no away missions.”

Clairvoyance lets out a low whistle. I shoot the nearest speaker grate my most withering look, and go back to shoveling food into my mouth.

“You’re all dismissed for duty when you’re done eating,” Captain Warring continues. “But reconvene topside at 1900 hours. I want to have a crew meeting.”

I move to pick up my meal and go.

“And Joane?” Captain Warring adds.

“Yes, Captain?”

“Put on a shirt.”

[Episode 1 Part 2] - [Episode 1 Part 4]

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Episode 1: Part 2

Chaos ensues almost immediately. I think I see Mikael hopping on Clairvoyance’s back piggy-back style out of the corner of my eye, but it’s hard to keep track of them for longwith people rushing this way and that. Between everyone scattering and the shouting of the Guard over the bar noise, it’s difficult for anyone to keep track of their surroundings.

That’s good for me.

I sprint across the room like a bat out of hell, ducking briefly under the arm of one of the Guards. My legs sweep glasses to the floor with a clamor of sound as I vault over the bar, but I hardly have time to stop and apologize. I can smell ozone in the room behind me, and that smell never precedes anything good.

Hellfire in a bar full of alcohol? What the fuck are they thinking?

I don’t intend to stick around and find out.

A cluster of fearfully huddling serving staff blocks the way to the kitchen, and I don’t have time to ask them to move. I barrel right through, knocking two of the more lightweight of them to the floor.

“Sorry!” I yell over my shoulder, already halfway through the kitchen.

Elbowing the last of the kitchen staff out of the way, I emerge through the kitchen door into the golden light of the fading sunshine.

I hear shouting and heavy footfalls behind me. Shit. I still have a tail, although I don’t dare look over my shoulder to see who’s pursuing me. Instead, I pick up the pace, my worn shoes skidding over the rough cobblestone street as I turn a sharp corner.

All this running is not doing wonders for my lungs. My chest contracts in sharp pain. It feels like a weight is pressing down on my lungs, squeezing out the oxygen like so much toothpaste. It’s not a comfortable feeling. My breaths come shallow and half-filled.

The pedestrian path ahead rounds the top of a hill, and the city of Greater Mercy lays itself out before me. It’s an enviable city, all golden minarets and silver spires. Vertically built, with walkways between the buildings at even the highest levels, the city feels more like a spider’s web than something man made. I swing myself onto a pedestrian ladder at full force and climb like my life depends on it, in the vain hope that maybe all that armor will weigh the Guard down some.

I should be so lucky.

The path at the top of the ladder hits a crossroads, intersected by a magnetic levitation track. I strain to sprint past the crossing in time,, but I feel a deep panic well up in my throat as the pedestrian gate falls closed, signaling that a train is coming. I can’t breathe at all now, and I can feel heat rising to my face as I skid to a sudden stop.

A quick glance behind me shows the Guard is mere moments away. It seems I only have two of them on my tail: a short Guard whose silver armor is still shiny and unscratched, struggling to keep up the pace, and the gold-plated Order member from before. Her hair is long, brown and plaited neatly to the back of her head. She has severe features, and I sincerely doubt she’ll be in the mood to let me bluff my way out of this. Which leaves me with one move left.

The supply train glides towards us silently, with the kind of stealth I’d expect out of a train that literally does not touch its tracks. I have only a split second to judge its speed, and I take the risk. Unfurl the rope on my belt, throw the hook at the end, and hold tight.

Real tight.

The force of the car passing nearly pulls my arms out of my sockets, but I maintain my grip. The momentum swings me upward, and my hands scream in protest, but find purchase on a ridge in the metal. And just like that, I’m riding the train. I’m RIDING the SUPPLY TRAIN.

The wind rips a whoop of joy from my lungs, adrenaline triggering waves of giddy laughter.

I exhale. Speaking of my lungs. I furiously untuck my shirt and reach underneath, carefully undoing the hook-and-eye clasps under my right arm until the tight fabric of my binder falls away and releases the pain in my chest. I cough loudly, willing air into my lungs until they fill up once again.

I’m just beginning to get comfortable, perched atop the speeding train, when a deafening noise erupts from behind me. I hit the deck before my brain has even processed the sound, reflex taking over my body and slamming it to the cart’s roof. My already sore chest smarts with blinding pain, my ribs smacking at full force into the harsh metal.

The front of the car in front of me erupts into blue flame, the smell of smoke and ozone acrid and unfamiliar against my nostrils. The Hellfire is a good ten feet from me, but I can still feel the heat on my skin as if I had been standing a foot from a heater. It burns through the solid steel the way I’m told ordinary fire might burn paper. Its uneven, flickering light casts everything around it, including my own face, in a cold, eerie sheen. My heart pounds in my gut.

That could have been me.

“Tal Nika Joane!” calls a booming voice from the direction of the caboose. It’s to the Guard’s credit that I can hear her at all over the rushing wind. “By order of Her Highness, Princess Arrellia Valonde, you are under arrest for crimes against the Principality!”

“I’m sure I am!” I shout back, clinging to the car for dear life.

“Come back with your hands above your head and you will be taken in peacefully! Continue to resist, and we will continue to shoot!” bellows the voice, not sounding particularly amused with my very funny quip.

“Serious question?” I yell back, still straining to make my voice heard over the wind. “How many people in high speed train chases actually go for that? I gotta know what percentage of the Principality are actually credulous schmucks-”

Another burst of Hellfire erupts about three feet to my left. This time the heat is close enough to irritate my skin, like a bad sunburn.

I have to get out of here, but I’m essentially trapped between two walls of cobalt flame. Both of which are slowly creeping in on my position. The only direction I can run is toward the Guard.

I glance over my shoulder toward the front of the train. It’s about to round a bend, then the track dips and heads through a small, curated forest-like area to a tunnel with about two feet of clearance from the top of the train. I’m on a time limit, and I need to make a decision fast.

My jaw clenches vise-tight, but I put my hands on my head and walk, slowly, towards the caboose. My heart thrums at hummingbird speed inside my ribs, but I will my outsides to stay calm. A deep breath: in for five seconds, hold for five, out for eight.

The Guard meets me halfway, climbing onto the roof of the train just in time to grab both my hands. She wrenches them roughly behinds my back and begins to fasten them with a pair of iron cuffs.

“Tal Nika Joane,” she booms, practically yelling in my ear. “you are under arrest for multiple counts of underage drinking, truancy, petty theft, vandalism, aiding and abetting a known fugitive, and piracy.”

She pauses to breathe. I don’t blame her, my rap sheet is pretty impressive.

“You retain your right to silence until an advocate can be acquired. If you cannot acquire an advocate, you are entitled to self-representation.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I reply, wriggling my hand a little as she struggles with the cuffs. I can almost feel something inside her bag, I just need to distract her long enough to reach it. “Listen, you couldn’t have done this like a year earlier when I was still a minor? I’m too young and pretty to spend my life in jail, yknow? Look at me, I wouldn’t make it two weeks.”

The Guard rolls her eyes and yanks my arm a little too hard in the wrong direction. I manage to bite down on the pain, but only just.

“You should have thought about that before you became a pirate,” the Guard says smugly. “But don’t worry, kiddo. With the crew you run with? I doubt jail is what the Princess has in mind for you.”

The train veers to the right, and I swallow. I’m not entirely sure what she’s implying, but I can make a rough guess, and I’m not a fan.

“Cool,” I say out loud, clenching both fists. “Well, as fun as that sounds, word of advice?”

“Huh?”

“Duck.”

I pivot on one foot and swing the steel cuffs at full speed into the side of her face. There’s a satisfying crack as her nose breaks under the force and blood begins to flow freely down her face. I desperately wish I had time to savor the hit, but time waits for no man. The train is swiftly approaching the tunnel and there’s only one way off this thing.

I pitch my body sideways, and briefly, I am weightless. The feeling doesn’t last long. I feel the familiar pull at my guts as gravity grabs me back and I fall, crashing my way through tree branches and brush until I finally roll to a stop on the leaf-covered ground.

Everything hurts.

I can feel the beginnings of some nasty bruises all over my body, and a dull throbbing pain in my shoulder tells me the bone is probably dislocated. I’m not sure what else is broken, but the continuing pounding in my chest tells me that I’m not dead, and that’s the most important part.

“You good, Tal?” calls a familiar tinny voice from just above me.

I struggle to my feet. It’s not an easy task, what with the pounding in my head, the world swimming around me, and my arm threatening to detach itself from my torso entirely.

“Clair?” I ask aloud. “Where are you?”

“Behind you, doofus.”

I turn. Indeed, hovering in the air behind me is a fist-sized orb made from intricately constructed bronze. It’s held aloft by a single spinning propellor, buzzing around me like a really weird, oversized bee. On the side of the orb facing me is a single blue eye.

“So are you dead now?” says Clairvoyance, hovering by my clearly injured arm smugly. “Because if you’re dead I get your stuff, that’s the arrangement.”

“I never agreed to that,” I grumble, massaging my limp arm. “And I’m not dead. Where are the others?”

“Back on the ship,” he replies. “It’s docked a few blocks west of here. Wanna head out, or would you rather go back and hang for your crimes against humanity?”

“Get fucked,” I groan, pushing past him in the direction of the slowly fading sunset. He chuckles behind me and speeds to catch up.

“Glad you’re not dead,” he says. After a brief pause, I grin.

“Course you are.”

--

The last rays from the setting sun slink down over the horizon by the time I reach the jutting rock where the good ship Vega Vespa has laid anchor. I’m immediately conscious of how much of a mess I am. My binder is still unfastened beneath my shirt, my hair disheveled (more so than usual) and the knees of my trousers are torn through. The one shackle that Guard managed to fasten still dangles from my injured arm, making me wince in pain every time I move.

Still, the landing point is nice. I can feel the thrumming of the enormous propellers keeping the city afloat beneath my feet, and beyond the sharp drop where the ship is docked, I see a sea of clouds and sky cloaking the distant treetops of Arcadia V’s surface. The ship itself looms far over us. An enormous metal contraption, held aloft by an enormous balloon filled with hydrogen, powered by massive solar sails that billow in the brisk, cliffside wind.

A figure on the deck grabs a loose rope and swings to solid land, bypassing the gangplank entirely. Captain Warring lands with the same grace as usual, although the flyaways in her hair and the sheen of sweat on her face give away a level of stress I haven’t seen on her in a while. I can imagine why; the Vega Vespa isn’t a small ship. There has to be a limit to how long she can leave it docked here.

“Joane,” says the captain, closing the distance between us in two short strides. “What the hell happened?”

“I ran into some...Guard-related problems,” I explain sheepishly, feeling my face go red. “I might have jumped off a train.”

“You might have-” Captain Warring looks literally the most tired I have ever seen her be. “Joane. You are on deck duty for the next two weeks once you’re healed and fit for manual labor. Go see Gratitude.”

“Captain-” I start.

“Do not test me,” she snaps. “You could have been killed.”

“Yeah,” I admit, rummaging with my good hand in my pocket. “But I also got this.”

From my pocket I pull a yellowed, folded piece of paper. I unfold it. Official Principality letterhead.

“Flight schedule of the P.A.S. Condor. Transportation of black bar goods.” I let out a shaky breath.

“Docking in West Compassion on October 1st.”

[Episode 1 Part 1] - [Episode 1 Part 3]

[balladserial]

Episode 1: Part 1

Okay, stop me if you’ve heard this one before. A one-eyed pirate captain, a cat-girl, a cook with wooden legs, an ex-nun, a robot with a bingo cage for a head, and a Jewish kid walk into a bar. Not just any bar, actually. The bar’s called the Rattling Terrier. Unbeknownst to our merry group of heroes, the Royal Guard has decided this is their new favorite hangout. The stench of cop is impossible to wash out.

Can you tell I’ve had a bad day?

Okay, sorry, back on track. So six pirates walk into a bar.

“Well, technically, I can’t walk into the bar, Tal,” says the robot. The bingo balls in his head rattle around a bit as his news announcer voice emanates from nowhere. “I don’t have any legs.”

Clairvoyance IV shakes one of his three wheels in my direction. It spins a little on its axle.

“It’s a joke, Clair,” I grumble. “It doesn’t need scientific precision.”

“Tal, be nice,” jokes the cat-girl, scrunching her nose a little as she leans over her shoulder to look at us. “You should really show more sensitivity towards his condition- ah, no offense, Mikael.”

The cook shrugs. He leans on his cane, more for rest than support. He’s a big man, round in shape, and his legs are hewn from the wood with delicate precision. He has a kind face.

“None taken,” he says. His voice is thick with the accent of Kolybel. “I am used to it.”

“Well, now you’re just makin’ me feel guilty,” Athens replies, her feline ears twitching a bit. “You’re gonna kill me one of these days.”

“Tragic loss,” Mikael deadpans. “I will bring flowers to your funeral.”

“Not to interrupt,” says the firm voice of Captain Praxis Warring from ahead of us, “but keep your eyes front and your hands to yourselves. Don’t think you’re above getting into messes in this place.”

The thick oak door of the bar swings shut behind us and we are surrounded with the sights and sounds of the bar proper. The place is loud, almost oppressively so, and the smell of alcohol is overpowering. Specifically, the sharp, sterile smell of vodka permeates the room, sinking into the dark oak furnishings. Somewhere out of sight, a piano plays a jaunty, swing-ish tune that even has Captain Warring’s foot tapping a bit.

The nun, whose actual name is Gratitude Where-The-Sun-Sinks-Below-The-Sea, has been largely silent through all this. He shifts uncomfortably from foot to foot, and holds himself a little bit too straight. His head covering and the gold adornment attaching it to his head stick out like a sore thumb here, and he knows it.

“Loosen up, buttercup,” I murmur, jabbing him lightly in the side with my elbow. “Barflies can smell fear.”

He gives me a reproachful look and shifts away from me, crossing his arms across his chest. For a moment, I almost feel kinda guilty for making him even less comfortable.

But then I remember that he’s a prick and I don’t care.

Captain Warring strides up to an empty table with confidence, pulling a chair from the end of a neighboring booth to make enough seats for our overloaded group. Naturally, she seats herself at the head of the table. Athens sits next to her, followed by Clairvoyance, Mikael, Gratitude, and me. Order of seniority, more or less, although Athens gets first mate privilege. Clairvoyance IV sits less than he folds, collapsing to sitting height, not unlike an accordion being pressed on both sides. It must be nice, I muse. To be your own chair.

A server strides up to our table with a deeply rehearsed air of cheer. To their credit, if the motley crew of weirdos that comprises our party intimidates them any, they don’t let it show. Instead, they pull out their pad of paper, and plaster on a practiced, customer service smile.

“Hello and welcome to the Rattling Terrier, bow wow!” they chirp. “My name’s Acheron and I’ll be your server tonight! What can I get for you folks? Our specialty cocktails are on the tent on your table, and our beer list is on the wall behind me.”

They rattle off the full greeting without pausing for breath, speaking so quickly that I have to rack my brain to remember if I’ve seen them breathe at all. The conversation does not wait for me

“A round of the House Rattler, I think,” says Captain Warring with genuine charm. “And some skyroot chips for the table?”

“Mmm-hmm!” says Acheron, nodding like a bobblehead. “Right up, ma’am! I’m just going to have to see some papers for, uhh…”

Acheron squints in confusion at Gratitude, who adjusts his head covering nervously. I imagine the Rattling Terrier doesn’t get much business from the Siblings of the Crossed Heart. The humor does not escape me.

“For you three,” Acheron finishes awkwardly, gesturing at Gratitude, Athens, and me.

It makes sense, I suppose. Gratitude and I are both under 21, and Athens...one could confuse her for twenty in a pinch. She’s actually closer to thirty, but looking like a cat really rejuvenates the face. I guess those nine lives really come in handy when it comes to managing wrinkles and fine lines.

“Oh, none for me, thank you,” says Gratitude, folding his hands on the table as I rummage in my pockets.

Acheron sighs in what I can only guess is relief and nods.

“Oh, of course, of course,” they reply. “That’s just two sets of papers I’ll be needing then…”

Athens hands over her own papers without any trouble. Captain Warring catches me struggling for my fakes in my pockets out of the corner of her eye. I almost think I see her confident smile slip. Or maybe it’s a trick of the light, it’s hard to tell in the faint bioluminescent haze of the glowworm lanterns.

“Come now,” she says, throwing one arm across the back of her chair. “You don’t need to see Tal’s papers. They’re perfectly of age, I can vouch for that.”

Acheron looks distinctly uncomfortable in the face of Captain Warring’s eyepatch-wearing, confidence-radiating presence.

“That, ah...that very well may be,” they stammer, rolling their pencil between their thumb and pointer finger, “but, you see...Principality law requires that we check papers for anyone who appears under thirty. I could be fired, or we could lose our liquor license... I’m sure you understand.”

“It’s no trouble,” I interrupt quickly, turning my threadbare pockets inside out by this point. “I have them, just one second…”

My fingers finally close around something through a hole in the lining of my vest: a worn, folded piece of paper with the distinctive linen-blend texture of official Principality documents. I pull it loose and slide it across the table. Acheron picks it up with an air of suspicion and scans the text.

There's no way anyone could find fault with it, I remind myself. It's a perfect forgery.

“Ah, just one moment, folks!” Acheron says in a futile attempt to regain their cheery demeanor. “I’ll just have to pop back to the kitchen to run these papers past my manager, and I’ll be right out with your drinks! We’re so, so sorry for the inconvenience.”

Captain Warring and Athens exchange a quick glance as Acheron scuttles off, my papers in hand. I can hazard a guess at what they’re thinking. The forgery is foolproof, sure, but if this place has a paper checker looped into the Royal Guard’s person of interest reel, there’ll be no disguising that my picture matches. The moment they connect me to the Vega Vespa, we’re all going to get made neater than a nun's bunk.

“Should, uh, should we make a break for it?” I hiss across the table, unable to disguise my unease.

Captain Warring shakes her head, still the picture of calm and confidence.

“No,” she murmurs. “We don’t know if we’re made yet. But if we leave now, we almost certainly will be.”

“And they still have our papers,” Athens points out.

She isn’t wrong. Fakes don’t come cheap, and as much as I love not dying or going to jail, getting new ones would be an enormous pain. I tap my foot anxiously against the metal of my chair’s leg, keeping one eye on the door to the kitchen.

“Loath as I am to agree with Tal,” Gratitude replies, “I do think we ought to get a head start on-”

He doesn’t even get a chance to finish his sentence before I catch, out of the corner of my eye, a flash of movement. Something shiny, gold. I whip around in my seat and catch the tail end of the movement- a group of Royal Guard, in their silver armor, have risen from their seats. But it gets worse. Amongst the group is a tall figure, dressed in the gold-plated armor of one of the Princess’s inner circle.

The Order of the King's Decree.  Still cops, but the most highly-trained of the bunch. An elite team of strike leaders and espionage experts, selected by the Princess herself for missions too risky to fail. Bad news for a party of ne'er-do-wells such as ourselves. Still, what one of them is doing in this run down dump of a tavern is beyond me.

The group is heading straight for our table. I make a moment of eye contact with the guard in gold, and my blood chills. So I turn back to the captain.

“So-” I start.

“Yes,” Captain Warring snaps, jumping to her feet. “NOW you can run.”

[Prologue] - [Episode 1 Part 2]

[balladserial]

Episode 1: Prologue

Ship’s journal of the Vega Vespa.

September Twenty-first, in the year Post Exodus 3095.

This entry is composed by Tal Joane, Recordkeeper Official for the good ship Vega Vespa, on the first day following the position's establishment.

Ugh. I feel like Captain Warring is only having me do this to keep me busy. Well. That, and I'm the only person on the ship, besides Gratitude and maybe Clairvoyance IV, who can read. But it remains to be seen whether any of this is strictly speaking necessary. If none of us can read, what exactly is the point of keeping a journal?

I've been an official crew member for a good month now, and everything is pretty much the same as ever. Who would have thought being a pirate would be so...banal? I haven't had the chance to go on any swashbuckling adventures, but in fairness, opportunities for jobs have been a bit few and far between. And I think the Captain is trying to keep me out of trouble, which feels a little patronizing, but I guess I get it. In the meantime, I've mostly been doing odd jobs around the ship and helping Clair out.

Here, I'm attaching an official crew roster, for the benefit of whatever historian finds this journal a gazillion years from now:

Captain Praxis Warring, ship's captain.

Athens Devon-Korat, first mate.

Clairvoyance IV, ship's mechanic.

Mikael Pages, extraordinary cook.

Gratitude Where-The-Sun-Sinks-Below-The-Sea, ship's doctor.

Tal Joane, recordkeeper official and general errand-doer.

My quarters are in the lowest area of the ship, near the motors that run the propellers, so there's a constant humming in my room. I can't imagine what the combustion engines they use on other planets sound like if this din is supposed to be the quiet version. I can hardly hear myself think, let alone write, and the light from the worm lanterns is so dim that I'm giving myself a migraine squinting at my own handwriting.

This isn't sustainable. I'm going to have to start writing during the day.

It's beginning to get a little worrying, how long we're going between profitable jobs. Captain Warring says we'll need to dock in Greater Mercy for supplies, so my guess is we'll probably put out some feelers in the local dive bars while we're there. Greater Mercy isn't exactly one of our usual haunts, and I'm sure the place will be crawling with the Guard, but we don't exactly have a choice. Mouths to feed and all that.

Still, I trust Captain Warring. She's been at this since long before I was aboard, and I know that she knows what she's doing. I'm sure everything is going to be just fine.

September 25th, 3095

Dear Mom and Dad,

Hi. I hope this letter finds you okay, the post can be a little touch and go between cities. I'm sorry I didn't get in touch earlier, but sending letters can be a little risky for us, and I don't want to put you guys in more danger than absolutely necessary.

I can't tell you much about life on the ship, other than it's...high up. Really high. If you stand on the deck and look down, you can see half the Principality! And Arcadia V really is beautiful down below. Have either of you ever been down to the surface? It's so green, and the air smells like honey and fresh-cut grass. I'd recommend it if it wasn't so dangerous.

I miss you. I've been trying to teach Mikael (that's our cook), how to make your challah, but it'll never be quite as good. And he's a system-renowned pastry chef! I'll let him keep trying, but I think the secret is that it's eaten at home. (That means don't try to send me any, either! It'll take weeks to get here and it'll be all stale and gross! Just eat twice as much for me.)

I don't know when I'll be able to write next. If you're going to write back, send my letters to the Jubilee Lounge and I'll be by to pick them up eventually.

I love you so much. I'll try to visit sometime, but I can't promise anything.

Love love love,

Tal

[Forward] - [Episode 1 Part 1]