by Shae Hutto
Used to the ravages of war, the captain was not in the least affected by the sudden fricasseeing of his Second Lieutenant, but he was taken aback by the beeping coming from his corpse. He bent down and carefully flipped the lapels of the smoldering uniform to the side to reveal the butt of Amanda’s blaster pistol. He gingerly lifted it and held it before him between thumb and forefinger, trying to make heads or tails of what it was.
“Charge complete,” it said cheerfully in a sexless computer voice. The captain met Amanda’s gaze and proffered the weapon to her.
“Yours, I presume?”
“Uhm,” she replied as she took the blaster. “Yes, thanks.” She felt that was inadequate. “You’re too kind, sir,” she added in her best imitation of the mannerisms of the day. Captain Aubrey bowed. She looked closely at the weapon and noticed a power level indicator on the butt, next to what was obviously a charging port. The indicator showed a full green bar. Well, that changes things, she thought as she tucked the charged weapon back in her bag. “Captain, with this weapon ready to fire again, I can make short work of that robot. Please, let us open the door before the dragon burns your ship to the waterline.”
Captain Aubrey didn’t think very long at all. It was obvious no wooden sailing vessel could long endure against an airborne threat of this type.
“By all means, ma’am,” said the captain politely. “Let’s go to my cabin this instant.” He motioned for the two marines nearest him to accompany them below deck.
“Nick!” shouted Amanda. “We’re going below, come on!” Nick’s head peeked over the edge of one of the boats stowed on deck and he quickly clambered down and joined them as they trooped into the captain’s cabin once again. Overhead, they heard the roar of the dragon again and the replying muskets of the marines. The ship shook violently as something struck it.
“We have to hurry,” said Amanda as she pulled her blaster out of the bag and pointed it at the door. Nick agreed. They attacked with very little preparation. There was little ceremony and the cannon wasn’t loaded, but left in position as an invitation for the robot to waste a shot. Nick threw open the door again and dove to the side.
As expected, the robot fired at the cannon, hitting it with a bolt of energy and knocking it over on its side, where it sat looking like something drawn by M.C. Escher. Before it could find another target, Amanda fired her newly charged blaster three times in rapid succession, reducing the already battered ‘bot to a slag heap of smoking, sparking junk. Nick and Amanda made their cautious way into the cratered corridor, alert for any threats. Aubrey and the two marines followed, careful not to step too close to any of the ominously twitching and sparking pieces of the robot. There didn’t appear to be any more murderous robots, but there was also no sign of Gardener. From the ship side of the doorway, they heard Connix scream in recognizable frustration. Amanda guessed it was because they had vanished from the world and he somehow knew it.
The two marines took up a guarding position in the middle of the corridor facing either direction, muskets at the ready. They looked more than ready to put large holes in any assailants that might appear from around the corner. Confident that they had the situation adequately secured for the moment, Amanda moved past one of them and approached Jack Aubrey.
“Captain,” said Amanda to Captain Aubrey, but he didn’t acknowledge her right away and she noticed him intently studying the brass plaque next to the door they had just come through. She moved closer so she could read what was written upon it. Engraved on the brass were the words:
Aubrey/Maturin/HMS Surprise
Patrick O’Brian
“Who is this Mr. O’Brian, I wonder?” he mused aloud. Amanda thought that this was probably the author responsible for the creation of Captain Aubrey, Surprise, and a good deal of the world he inhabited but doubted whether it would be a good idea to tell him so. She was about to say his name again in another effort to get his attention when he moved over a few feet to look at the next door in line. He tried the handle, but it refused to budge under his hand. He and Amanda looked up at the plaque next to this door. It read:
Horatio Hornblower
C. S. Forester
Captain Aubrey said the names softly to himself, trying to make sense of them but besides a great approval of the name ‘Horatio,’ he didn’t recognize either man. The next door down was emblazoned with:
Richard Sharpe
Bernard Cornwell
These names were also unfamiliar to him. Amanda, likewise had no clue as to their identity. She felt a slight guilt at her ignorance.
“All historical fiction dealing with the Napoleonic Wars,” said Nick matter-of-factly. He had quietly joined them and had just read all three door plaques. Amanda gave him a sharp look and he shrugged in response.
“Fiction?” asked Captain Aubrey, who had a dislike for fiction in general. In his mind, fiction was read primarily by bored housewives and whiggish ne’er-do-wells. His idea of a good read was Gibbons’ Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. Nick shrugged again.
“I’m not judging whether or not you are real, sir,” said Nick. “Cogito ergo sum, and all.” Jack Aubrey frowned for a moment before his weak grasp of Latin lead him to something close to a translation. I think, therefore, I am. “Something has made you real in some sense,” continued Nick. “Whether it was the creative force of the man who imagined your story, or some magical properties of these corridors, the sheer force of your will, or even God, I don’t know. But exist you do, I’d say.”
“Of course I exist, sir,” said the captain, somewhat offended. “I have a membership in the Royal Society,” he added nonsensically. “I’m on the post captain’s list.” He trailed off, aware his arguments lacked force, before adding an emphatic, “I’m a member of Parliament, for all love.” He turned beet red, either from embarrassment or anger, it was tough to tell. He turned and stalked away from Sharpe’s door. “Fiction, forsooth!”
“Are you sure that was wise?” asked Amanda quietly after the captain stalked back down the corridor.
“No,” said Nick honestly. “But I would want to know. Wouldn’t you?” Maybe he had a point, thought Amanda.
“Gardener!” yelled Captain Aubrey with a voice full of command and impatience in equal measure. “Come on, man! Time and tide wait for no man! Tempest is a fugitive… or something very like it.” He stood tapping his foot impatiently for a few seconds before turning to Nick and Amanda who were quietly discussing their next move. He cleared his throat to get their attention and they turned dutifully to face him. “I must confess to some discomfort at being away not just from my ship, but it seems, my world as well.” There was an embarrassed silence as Nick just looked at him and Amanda nodded her head in sympathy. “I’m afraid I cannot wait for Gardener to make an appearance, assuming he will. I must trust in his considerable abilities as a King’s officer. I hope you will not think me rude if I take my leave?”
“Not at all, captain,” said Nick gravely and bowed to the captain who returned it as gracefully as his injuries would allow. Jack kissed Amanda’s hand and bid them a good day.
“Back through the door, you two,” he ordered the two marines who ported their arms and followed their captain back through the doorway which had gotten quite a bit quieter in the last few minutes. Connix must have given up his attack on the ship and left that world, as predicted. Amanda closed the door on the HMS Surprise, shoving the smoldering remains of the death-bot aside with her foot.
No sooner had the door closed, then a mechanical whirring sound came from around the nearest corner, and more distantly, the sound of barking. Nick groaned theatrically. Amanda hefted her blaster pistol, resolving to make herself some sort of holster to hold the awkward weapon. As the noises grew louder, Nick reached over and pushed down the muzzle of the futuristic weapon on Amanda’s hands. She looked a question at him.
“Harmless cleaning bot,” he said.
Indeed, a few seconds later, the cleaning bot trundled around the c
orner in a tearing hurry as it fled for its electronic life. It was followed by a horrid, slavering… playful Dalmatian. Weenie skidded to an abrupt halt upon seeing Nick and Amanda. His tail disappeared in a blur and he leapt toward them with an ecstatic ‘woof’ of pure joy, his playful tormenting of the cleaning robot forgotten entirely. Nick caught him in his arms and endured having his face licked for a few seconds. The cleaning bot cast one mournful glance at the hopeless mess by Aubrey’s door, then made its escape around another corner, followed by a trail of exhausted rats.
“Weenie,” said Nick after he grew tired of being slobbered on by good natured doggy welcome. “We need to find Claire and Roger. Let’s get a move on.” He looked at Amanda, who had hiked her red silk dress up to her thigh and was tying a piece of sailcloth around her leg as an impromptu holster. She let the hem drop again and straightened it with the palms of her hands.
“Alright,” she announced. “Let’s go.” She hefted her bag and started walking in a random direction down the hallway for all the world like she knew where she was going. Nick shrugged and followed her, brushing stray dog hairs from his borrowed midshipman’s uniform. Weenie looked at both the crazy humans but was just happy to be reunited with them and could barely contain his glee as he trotted after them, tail wagging at a furious rate.
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The Surprise sailed along under a single reef topsail breeze, its prizes distant specks on the horizon and its captain trying to forget the unsettling incidents of the past few hours. The holes in his cabin did nothing to help in that regard. His disapproving frown whenever Nick or Amanda were mentioned quickly led to them not being mentioned at all. On board his ship, the captain was the second most important entity next to God himself. The damage she had sustained in her most unorthodox encounter with a one-eyed dragon was already repaired to a degree that would make it impossible for an untrained eye to tell what a horrid mess the ship had been just a short time before.
“Sail ho!” sang out the forward lookout, then amended his call. “Not sail, something, though. Hard on the starboard bow! Approaching fast! Ack!” His shouted comments were cut off with a strangled grasp of surprise as the shuttle craft Cleo rocketed past them at three hundred feet off the water and just over Mach 2. The shuttle passed overhead in eerie silence as it outran its own ear-shattering compression wave. In fact, it was so close to the ground that the compression wave could be seen approaching over the water behind it. When the wave of compressed air hit the ship, it ripped every canvas sail to tatters, snapped off two of the topmasts, shattered every window pane in the stern windows and knocked the lookout, insensible, into the sea. The ship very nearly foundered and probably would have had the shuttle passed over at a right angle instead of for to aft. Twelve sailors suffered ruptured ear drums that led to permanent hearing loss, total deafness for two of them.
The male twin growled in anger on board the shuttle. There was no sign of the dragon. He gestured to the pilot to turn around.
“Take us back to look at that boat.”
Obediently, the pilot slowed the craft and brought it around in a tight circle. He was technically the co-pilot, but since the Pilot in Command had his anatomy rearranged into a configuration incompatible with human life by the twins when he refused to fly the ship for them, he was the only pilot. He was sure nobody else on board could fly the shuttle, but not willing to bet his life on it. The Cleo slowed to hover a thousand feet from the Surprise. The three people on the flight deck stared at the wooden sailing vessel through the view screen and the men running about on its deck like angry ants. A puff of smoke bloomed from its side and a cannon ball careened off the metal hull of the shuttle with an angry clang and a whine before plunking into the ocean with a subdued splash.
“Return fire,” snapped the female twin. “Turn them to cinders.”
“We don’t have any weaponry,” protested the pilot, conveniently ignoring the mining laser which would have made short work of the wooden ship. Several more puffs of smoke announced the imminent arrival of more hostile iron. The screen fuzzed with static briefly as another hit dented the nose.
“Get us out of here,” ordered the male twin. “Forget the little boat. Steer that way,” he pointed off to the south where he could feel the dragon had gone. The shuttle turned and accelerated at a pace that had it over the sound barrier in just over five seconds. It appeared to shrink rapidly as it screamed away and then abruptly dived into the ocean as the sailors looked on incredulously. A low, resonant gong-like noise filtered through the humid pacific air.
CHAPTER TWELVE: From Basement to Attic
“May you find your Tower, Roland, and breach it, and may you climb to the top!”
- Stephen King, The Dark Tower
Claire opened her eyes and immediately regretted it. Although it was dark wherever she was, what little light there was penetrated her eyes and went straight to her brain like a lightning bolt. She hissed in pain and rubbed the side of her aching head. Her hand came away bloody. Claire had no idea how she got to wherever she was, but it was a good bet that someone hit her on the head and then dragged her there. She tried to make sense of her surroundings. Unfortunately, they seemed to be spinning slightly. She tried to sit up, but the effort made her nauseated. She put her head back down on the hard stone floor, that was at least cool, and tried to not throw up.
“Roger?” she asked, hoping he was close enough to hear her and in good enough shape to answer. He wasn’t. Worry for Roger forced her to try to sit up again and this time she succeeded. She opened her eyes and looked around. Her efforts yielded results. She was now certain where she was. She was in a dungeon; a cold, damp, dark dungeon. Great. Her stone cell was barely large enough to lie down in without touching a wall. One side was rough iron slats hammered together and crudely riveted into a cross hatched pattern, with no opening big enough to fit her head through. Light filtered through the bars from one lonely oil lantern suspended from the stone ceiling in the space outside her cell. She could make out another cell opposite hers but not what was in it. It was too dark. Her backpack was missing. She searched her pockets for some form of weaponry, hoping whoever had searched her had missed a knife or a wand. No such luck. There was nothing in her pockets more dangerous than lint, and a gum wrapper that smelled vaguely of cinnamon. “Roger?” she called out again, a little louder. Maybe he was hidden in the shadows of that other cell. There was no answer.
Claire shakily pulled herself to her feet, forcing down the gorge that rose in her throat as the room spun lazily and finally steadied down like a merry-go-round with rusted bearings. Without taking her hands off the damp stone wall, she made her way to the bars and grasped them firmly. They resisted her feeble attempts to shake them. She angled her eyes through one opening, straining to see what was in the cell opposite hers. It was uncomfortable having to squint to keep out the light and trying to see into a dark corner. She thought she could make out a foot just peeking out of the darkness. Or maybe it was a discolored spot on the floor. She wanted to believe it was a foot but couldn’t, not really.
With her back against the slimy stone wall, Claire let herself sink slowly to the floor. Once on the damp stone, she prepared to give herself over to despair and have a nice, useless but cathartic, cry. From this angle, the weak light barely glinted off of something in the corner of the room, on the other side of the bars. Maybe it was just the refraction of light through the tears already forming in her mismatched eyes. No, it was something shiny outside the bars. She stopped her crying jag before it got started and inched her way over to the bars closest to the glinting and peered through. Well out of reach was a pile of junk. She had hoped that their jailers had been stupid enough to leave Claire and Roger’s adventuring gear in the room, but apparently they weren’t that stupid. The shiny thing was a pile of metal that looked like chains and manacles. They glistened wetly as they lay on the floor in a heap. Out of curiosity, she reached through the bars to see how close she coul
d get to the heap of metal. Not close at all. Maybe she could reach it with something. She looked around her cell and as expected, found nothing. There was nothing in the tiny stone room except Claire and the clothes she was wearing.
“Aha!” exclaimed Claire dramatically as she discovered that they had left her belt. She quickly removed the belt and, her aching head momentarily forgotten, leaned out of the bars with the belt and tried to snag some of the iron implements. The belt didn’t reach far enough. It wasn’t even close. She would have to find some way to extend her reach even farther. Her socks weren’t going to do any good. With a mental shrug of resignation, she took off her pants and got to work.
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Roger ached all over. It felt like the time he had made fun of a kid smaller than himself at school, only to find out the hard way that the little kid had a big brother. He was pretty sure his bruises had bruises. It didn’t help that whatever he was lying on was hard as a rock. In fact, it was rock. Realization crashed into his foggy consciousness like the proverbial ton of bricks. He sat up in his dark, dank cell with a start. He sprang to his feet, ignoring his aches and pains and moved out of the darkness to the dim light near the bars that formed one wall of his cell.
“Claire!” he yelled as he shoved his face against the bars and peered out hopefully. He was slow to process what he was seeing, it was so unexpected. He had certainly found Claire. From a pile of metal chains in the corner, snaked some sort of rope made of clothing. It led into the cell opposite his, and into the hands of Claire who stood in her own cell looking back at him in shock. Shock was just about all she was in; that and her underwear. And socks. Her face went from shock to embarrassment to predictable fury. Her mind progressed fast as lightning through a series of regrets, predictably beginning with ‘why did I take my clothes off?’ and ending with ‘why can’t I ever wear a bra and panties that actually match?’ Of course, she told herself, I’m not actually showing any more skin than a bathing suit. Her rationalizations didn’t help much. Wonder Woman underwear seems like a fine idea when you don’t think anyone will actually see them but lose some of their appeal standing in a medieval dungeon being stared at by a cute Irishman.
