by J M D Reid
Zori’s grin shone with so much mirth Chaylene thought it should blind her.
“Maybe someone saw us,” Ary said, giving Chaylene a look, arching his eyebrows.
If someone saw us fighting, why didn’t they help us? Chaylene wondered. Unless . . . does the captain know about Ary?
“I need details,” Zori said. “You have to tell me everything!” She peppered them with questions about positions and techniques. Chaylene had, after hearing Zori describe them, experimented with her husband to usually enthusiastic results. However, listening to the girl say them in public, with her husband staring straight ahead like a statue, had her cheeks burning as hot as a pottery kiln.
Is that last one even possible? Chaylene wondered. What did her ma teach her?
“Have you ever heard of shame?” Chaylene finally blurted.
“Not sure,” Zori said, grinning. “Don’t think he was one of my ma’s customers. Though she had one regular who liked to—”
“Zori,” groaned Chaylene.
Raucous laughter burst from Zori as Ary wrenched open the door to the medical building. Then she gasped in pain and clutched her side, the joy vanishing as her face contorted. Groans issued from between clenched jaws.
“Serves you right,” Chaylene muttered.
“Worth it . . . to see you two . . . squirm,” Zori panted. “Mostly.”
Two rows of sick beds, nearly all occupied, lined the walls, the central aisle clear to the back where Lieutenant Jhech had his office. They helped her into the vacant bed. Chaylene drew up the sheets and gave her friend a quick kiss on the cheek.
Zori sighed, her eyes fluttering shut, all the energy bleeding out of her. In moments, sleep claimed her. Despite the embarrassment warming her cheeks, Chaylene smiled. Zori was recovering. The arrow hadn’t robbed her of the joy she found in living. She still shone.
Once outside, Chaylene made sure no one was nearby before whispering to her husband, “What does the captain want?”
Ary shook his head, his lips tight.
“But . . . no one saw us, right?”
“It’s a busy camp.”
“Maybe . . . it has nothing to do with last night. You’re the acting commander of the marines. I’m sure she needs to talk to you about . . . marine stuff.”
“But why does she want to talk to you?”
Chaylene opened her mouth, hesitated, then closed it. “Maybe . . . she needs a scout for something. There’s only me and Velegrin.” The scout commander, Breston, had taken a Stormrider arrow during the Cyclone. She sighed at the memory of the affable and patient man. He’d taught her how to fly, how to navigate, how to examine problems from different angles. Scouts had to be flexible. They were often on their own away from their ships. Marines and sailors were taught to obey, a necessity. A sailor who balked at an order might doom the ship, and a marine who didn’t react without thinking might freeze in the midst of combat.
“There’s no going to Shon until after the funeral,” Ary muttered. Third arc, traditionally the third hour after dawn before clocks had formalized timekeeping in the skies, was in an hour. If they moved fast, they could just make it to Shon and back, but they wouldn’t have time to look for Wriavia.
“I guess we wait,” Chaylene sighed, her body trembling.
“Breakfast?”
A nest of eels writhed in her stomach. “I guess.” She sighed. “Though I don’t think I’ll keep any of it down.”
Chapter Four
Ary fought his nerves as he and Chaylene reported to Captain Dhar’s office at third arc.
Despite Ary’s churning stomach, he found himself famished when they sat down for breakfast, gulping down the bland fish stew. Chaylene hardly touched hers. He ate it, feeding a fire in his belly demanding fuel.
Before leaving the mess hall, Ary inspected his uniform to make sure it was spotless, brushing off a few breadcrumbs. Chaylene left her light-blue coat unbuttoned, her blonde hair tied back in a simple tail. The sun warmed the morning with the memory of summer; Ary’s wool clothing trapped in the heat as they walked through camp. He envied Chaylene’s linen coat and britches. But the wool helped to build his Lightning charge faster. He hardly noticed the tingling on his skin these days. Like all Autonomy Marines, he possessed the Blessing of Moderate Lightning. With a touch, he could discharge a blast of electricity into a person to stun or kill. Using a thunderbuss, he could fire bolts of lightning.
Why does wool have to be more effective at building up our charges? Once, Estan had explained it, but Ary couldn’t follow. It only mattered that his flesh held about ten discharges and his uniform restored it faster.
The Administration building rose like a squat pile of stone surrounded by the whitewashed warehouses. A pair of marines from the Adventurous nodded to Ary and Chaylene. Like Ary, they wore looted Stormriders’ blades, the metal weapons more effective than the bone sabres the Autonomy issued. Without sources of metal in the skylands, Ary’s ancestors used other materials. Inside, they marched past the puffy-faced clerk manning his desk and stomped up the stairs to find Captain Dhar’s office door. Ary rapped smartly, his back straight, his shoulders set.
Chaylene slouched. Ary’s lips tightened; none of the scouts properly stood at attention.
“Yes?” Captain Dhar called.
“Corporal Jayne and Scout Jayne reporting,” Ary responded.
“Enter, Corporal.”
Ary seized the bone handle, twisted, then pushed the door open. Shelves lined the walls with leather-bound books and a dark-polished desk dominated the center. Captain Dhar sat behind it with other chairs set out around it. Sunlight streamed through the window, highlighting the rich blue of her coat. She wore her light brown hair pulled back in a short braid, smoothing her tan-brown forehead. She straightened, her bloodless lips curling in a tight smile. Today, she wore her medals. Ary blinked at the Merit of Gallant Bravery, the highest honor awarded, dangling between a Merit of Dauntless Poise with two pips and a Veteran of the Zzuk Aggression War.
“Have a seat. You’re the first to arrive,” she said, smoothing papers on her desk.
“There are others coming, Captain?” Ary asked.
She nodded her head, opened her mouth to speak only to be caught off by a knock. Lieutenant-Captain Pthuigsigk, the first officer, swept in, marched around her desk, and took a seat beside the captain. The stone-faced Vaarckthian flicked his light eyes between Ary and Chaylene. No emotion crossed his ebony features, his back as straight as any marine’s at inspection.
Ary’s blood shivered. Punishment always fell to the first officer. When the fire burned down Ary and Chaylene’s cottage nearly two months ago, Captain Vebrin, the camp’s assistant superintendent, oversaw their discipline.
The room quickly grew cramped as others followed the first officer. Lieutenant Chemy, the ship’s master-at-arms and third officer, squeezed into a chair on the other side of Chaylene while the gruff, one-eyed Bosun sat next to Ary, a glower on her face as she glanced at Ary and his wife. A thick, puckered scar slashed across her temple, vanishing behind the leather eyepatch that was painted with a red eye, before continuing across her cheek. The situation worsened when when Nskuapz, the hulking commander of the Zzuk Auxiliaries, squeezed in. The lizardman ducked his tall, blue-scaled form through the doorway. His pink, forked tongue flicked out as he folded his arms across the wide-banded, yellow scales that ran down his chest to his groin covered by a loincloth. Chaylene stiffened beside Ary, her cheek throbbing.
Ary patted his wife’s hand beneath the desk. She loathed the Zzuki. A lizardman killed her father during the war a few weeks before Chaylene’s birth. The Zzuk Aggression War had ended badly for the Tribe. Defeat forced them to become a Protectorate of the Autonomy. Most naval ships sailed with a compliment of their auxiliaries. During the Cyclone, the brutal strength of the Zzuki had kept the Stormriders from destroying the Dauntless.
Chief Fossein, the chief of the boat and the highest ranking NCO of the Dauntless, arrived last
. The big Agerzak stood right behind Ary, reminding the younger man of the Sergeant-Major’s looming intimidation with the chief’s similar pale, angular face covered by a fiercely thick beard.
Ary fought against squirming.
“Why they here, Cap’n?” the Bosun asked, voice stern. She glanced askance at Ary. “Thought we was havin’ a senior officer meetin’.”
“We are,” Captain Dhar said. “The Dauntless will be sailing understrength in two days.” She lifted a piece of paper from her desk. “Our casualties stand at twenty-four dead, nine unfit for duty and will be discharged with honor, and another three on light duty but will be fit in a month or so.”
Ary’s blood chilled thinking of the numbers. The Dauntless had sailed with eighty-seven sailors, marines, scouts, officers, and auxiliaries to face the Cyclone.
“We’ll be receiving nineteen replacements from the Spirituous.”
Of the three ships at Camp Chubris, the Spirituous had suffered the worst losses. Ary heard over sixty were killed or wounded out of their eighty-seven.
“How’s the deck crew making out?” the Bosun asked.
“You’ll be short five sailors.”
“That’ll keep them lazy carp busy.”
“I’m promoting Ensign Ompfeich to master-at-arms.” The captain glanced at Lieutenant Chemy. “Fethene, you’ll be the navigator and frocked to lieutenant-captain.”
“Thank you, Captain,” she answered with a nod. Her long nose gave her a hawkish aspect.
“Scout Jayne, we’re down to two active duty scouts. I’m told Scout Thenay will not be fit for duty for at least a month, so I’ll be counting on you to take Warrant Officer Veld’s spot.”
“You’re giving me Breston’s job?” Chaylene gasped. “I mean, thank you, Captain.”
Dhar nodded. “You’re also promoted to warrant officer, junior grade.”
Ary grinned, wanting to give his wife a hug as a wave of exhilaration buzzed through his veins. Instead, he gave her hand a supportive squeeze.
Captain Dhar’s eyes fell on Ary. “Corporal, you’re the highest-ranked marine on the Dauntless. A Corporal Huson and two marines are transferring in. I’m promoting you to sergeant. Since we won’t be at full complement of ten marines, you’ll keep them as one detachment with Corporal Huson as your second.”
“Aye, Captain,” Ary nodded, a sober weight crushing down his excitement for Chaylene. Command? Him?
Chaylene squeezed his hand back.
“I want that same passion and leadership you showed during the Cyclone. You led the clearing of the foredeck. Lieutenant Tharele’s after-action report spoke most highly of you.”
Swallowing fear, he answered, “I won’t let you down, Captain.”
“I know you won’t, son.” A broad grin spread on her pale lips. Captain Dhar was once a marine herself. “You have a mean frenzy of sharks to command. I want them hungry for action. We’ll be seeing plenty of it.”
“The Bluefin Raiders, Captain?”
She fixed him a sharp eye. “You were guarding the door yesterday?”
Ary flushed. Yesterday, he and Estan had stood watch outside the meeting between Admiral Grelen, commander of the Eastern Fleet, and the other senior officers. “Sorry, Captain. I couldn't help overhearing.”
“Then you know what we’re facing. The Bluefin Raiders have ships, possibly Vaarckthian warships. Our tour of duty will not be easy. We’ll be seeing action. The entire Eastern Fleet will be hunting down these pirates.”
“Ships, Cap’n?” the Bosun objected. “Since when do those savages have ships? None of ‘em even worship Riasruo.”
Chief Fossein cleared his throat.
“I meant the savages that dwell in the Petty Kingdoms,” the Bosun added, “not those who’ve chosen to become citizens of the Autonomy. How can the pirates power a ship without Riasruo’s Blessings?”
Lieutenant Chemy nodded her head. “Is this just sailor talk? Those whalers gossip and moan as much as my aged greatmother.”
“The number of successful raids has gone up the last year,” Captain Dhar answered. “Fewer ships are making it through Thugri Sound. Civilians report seeing Vaarckthian ships plying the Sound, their hulls painted black and their sails dyed blue.”
“That’s their colors,” Chief Fossein nodded. “Just like the bluefin sharks. After the war, I did a tour fightin’ them pirates. The Bluefins were the worst. They’d even attack our ship. Ol’ Masrein was a fierce barracuda. They sing songs ‘bout him in Dhony. I’ve heard his successor, Nrein, is crueler.”
“Doesn’t answer how they’re powering their ships without Windwardens,” the Bosun muttered. “Still sounds like sailors gustin’ the breeze to me.”
“Well, there are Agerzaks who’ve received Riasruo’s blessings,” Chaylene said, her voice timid. She froze as everyone stared. “I mean . . . It’s just . . .”
“But you think an Agerzak who received Major Wind has joined the pirates?” Captain Dhar asked.
“Yes, Captain. Either that, or they have found some Vionese sailors. Maybe they hold them prisoner.” Chaylene shrank. “It’s a dumb idea.”
“It’s not,” Ary said, keeping his back straight against the weight of the experience in the room.
“That fits in with Admiral Grelen’s thoughts, Warrant Officer,” Captain Dhar said. “I want each of you to study the charts of the Thugri Sound, the Fringe, and the Southern Agerzak skylands. I want ideas on our tactics, where we should patrol, and where you think the Bluefin Raiders are sailing from. Warrant Officer, you’ll be our eyes. I’ll want you spending as much time on your pegasi as possible.”
“Aye, Captain.” Chaylene’s voice held more confidence this time.
“Sergeant, I want your marines drilling to fight pirates.”
“It’s like fighting Stormriders,” growled the first officer. “Only they won’t be armored, so they’ll be easier to kill.”
Ary nodded. “I’ll make sure my men are lean and hungry.” He hoped that sounded right. He shifted. I shouldn’t be here. I’ve only been in three months. I don’t know how to lead or train men. So Ary said what the dead Sergeant-Major would have: “We’ll show these pirates what real sharks are like and bloody the skies with ‘em.”
Captain Dhar’s grin was vicious.
“Okay, let’s talk about the cruise to Tlele. I want to go nice and slow. We have to integrate the new crew, so I think we should follow the Tloan Chain south and . . .”
Ary nodded as he listened to her plan, his thoughts dwelling on his new responsibility.
*
“So, do I have to salute you, Warrant Officer, Junior Grade?” Velegrin asked, cocking his head.
Chaylene fixed her eyes on her fellow scout. They stood on the parade ground, noon approaching. The sun shone hot, witnessing the funeral. The rest of the crew assembled nearby, the sailors forming a large square, the red-coated marines beyond them.
“Do you even know how to salute?” Zori asked from behind.
The slender scout limped up, leaning on a crutch, her round face twisted with exertion. Instead of the dressing gown from earlier, she wore her scout uniform, her light-blue coat unbuttoned and flapping in the light breeze. She appeared rejuvenated from her nap.
“I know how to salute,” Velegrin objected, his narrow face squinting as he stared at Zori. He would have had handsome features, but his nose was far too bold, as large as a hawk’s beak which clashed with his untidy nest of blond hair. Even today, it looked like a comb never touched it.
“Did you forget how to walk, Zori?” Velegrin smirked, the wind worsening his unkempt hair. “You used to be so graceful. Now you stump around like that big, smelly marine you hang out with.”
“I can walk better than you,” Zori huffed as she reached Chaylene. “Even limping, I walk with the grace of a dancing carp.”
Velegrin yawned his mouth wide like a fish. “Yes, I can see the resemblance when you speak.”
“That’s enough!” Chaylene hiss
ed, feeling eyes watching them from the rest of the crew. “We’re supposed to be standing at attention for a funeral.”
Velegrin shot her a salute.
The shorter scout glanced at Chaylene. “Why is Velegrin saluting you?”
“I’ve been promoted. I’m your commander now, Zori.”
“So you best watch out,” Velegrin said. “You try to steal her husband this time, she can shoot you and call it discipline.”
“I only tried to do that once,” Zori said, an innocent grin on her face.
“Take this seriously,” Chaylene said, her cheeks warming.
“Sorry,” Zori muttered, shifting her shoulders. “It's just . . .”
Velegrin sighed, his grin fading. “Yeah. Everything's different.”
Breston’s absence engulfed her. He always tolerated the banter between Zori and Velegrin, standing over it with the aloof amusement of a friendly father, not taking sides but just watching the chaos unfolding and intervening if he had to. Could she do the same? Today, the funeral helped to curtail them, but if their bickering swelled later on, could she put a stop to it when she had to?
Would they listen to her when it wasn't such a solemn occasion?
Beyond the sailors, Ary addressed the surviving marines, standing proud before his men. Her husband slipped into the leadership role with an ease she envied. She couldn’t handle Zori and Velegrin. His four marines stood at attention, their backs straight. Even the half-Agerzak, Zeirie, stood tall.
Why did good people like Ailsuimnae die while people like Zeirie survived . . .?
Flashes of the fight in the mess hall the morning Chaylene met Ailsuimnae danced through her thoughts. Her friend had come to her after Xoshia had called her a hussy and Zori had lost her temper. Both Xoshia and Ailsuimnae had died during the Cyclone. Zeirie survived to sling mud at Chaylene, whispering lies about her and Vel. Because of those rumors, Chaylene often imagined the male sailors salivated over her, hungry for a taste of her supposed fiery, Vaarckthian passion. Many of the female sailors possessed judging eyes, disdaining her “uncontrollable ardor.” All her life, Chaylene had heard the Vionese whisper about the depravity of Vaarckthian hussies.
