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The next day, Vector opens his eyes to the dimness of the brig, and it takes a second before he remembers where he is. As he sits up, the stiffness of the previous night’s rest hits him, every joint and muscle protesting. He groans quietly as he rolls his head around on his shoulders, every dull pop giving a bit of relief. He looks to Phyr’s cell, nearest the entryway: Phyr is still asleep, flat on his back with one hand laid over his belly and the rest of his limbs splayed out on the floor, breathing deep but not snoring. No one has taken up the post at the desk yet. He looks the other way and sees Pannych, sitting cross-legged, her hands palms-up on her knees and her eyes closed.
He stands up and then stumbles as the galleon gently rocks in port. The creaking and sloshing registers then, all at once, and he steadies himself before taking two tentative steps to the wooden bench along the bulkhead and sitting down. He looks over to Pannych again, sees her eyes are still closed, and exhales sharply through his nose.
“I’m awake,” she says softly. “You don’t need to try to be so quiet.”
“Oh,” Vector says. “Did you… sleep like that?”
“No,” she answers. “Just passing the time.”
“Ah.” He leans back against the bulkhead and stares at the ceiling. As he sits still, the soreness settles into him. After a couple minutes of increasing discomfort, he asks, “Hey, are you sore?”
“No, I stretched. Worked out the kinks.”
“Smart,” Vector says. He stands and moves back to the center of his cell, and does some stretches of his own. “Oh, man,” he says at one point, “That really helps.” Pannych nods silently. After stretching, he does a few sets of push-ups, crunches, and jumping jacks; then he sits down on the bench again. He takes a deep breath and stretches his arms out to the sides, reaching through both opposite sets of bars at once. “Not a lot of room in here,” he mutters, looking to Pannych. She shrugs and tilts her head, but does not open her eyes or otherwise move.
After a few more very boring minutes pass, he says, “Hey, my hips and back are still kinda sore - do you know a stretch for those?”
“Yeah,” she says, opening her eyes and uncoiling herself. “Here, let me show you. Just sit down, put your left leg out straight, and now put your right foot over it, next to your knee. Good. OK, now turn your left leg so you can bend your foot toward the right - you got it. Now your left elbow goes on the other side of your right knee, and you put your right hand back behind you - yeah, there you go. Now relax your core while you press your elbow against your knee, and-” Vector grunts in satisfaction as audible pops ripple up his back. “There you go. That’s the ‘Seated Dragon’ stretch.”
“Where’d you learn that,” Vector asks, as he settles into the stretch and finds the right amount of tension.
“An ex-Marine who teaches English at my high school started giving kung fu lessons this past year,” she says.
“You know kung fu?”
Pannych chuckles a little bit and says, “Not a whole lot, but yeah. I just got the second stripe on my yellow belt. I also know karate and jeet kune do.”
“Holy shit,” he exclaims, waking Phyr with a start. He looks over, then says more quietly, “No wonder you wiped the floor with me!”
Pannych looks at him quizzically and says, “What are you talking about?”
Vector says, “Well, in a couple years, we meet up and hang out. And when you were at college, you met some actual ninjas, and started training with them.”
“What? That seems made up.”
“No joke, you showed me your rank certificates and everything.”
“Why would ninjas bother with rank?”
“I don’t know,” Vector says as he leaves the stretch position. He tries to mirror it, but freezes, and says, “Hey, show me how to do the other side?”
As Pannych shows Vector how to get into position one step at a time, she asks, “So how does this become ‘wiping the floor’ with you?”
“Well, I asked you to spar, because I wanted to see how a ninja fights, and yeah. It was over in one punch.”
“That doesn’t seem like me.”
“No, you didn’t punch me, I punched you. Or tried to. I threw a haymaker as a feint, but you blocked and just flicked your knuckle up into my elbow. But you hit a nerve, and it felt like I’d been tasered. I went down like a sack of rocks, and the fight was over - it took a full minute for me to get feeling back in my hand.”
“Have you been hit with a taser,” Pannych asks.
“Couple times,” Vector says with a shrug. Then he’s in the stretching position, and little pops ripple up his lumbar vertebrae again. “Oh, yeah - that’s the stuff.”
Phyr says, “Are you telling Pannych about how she becomes a real-life ninja?”
“Yeah,” Vector says.
“Well, that explains these class abilities I have, then - blocking counter, disarming dodge, positioning roll…”
“Hey, I’ve been meaning to ask about some of the stuff on my sheet,” Vector says. “Do you still have Alice’s book?”
“No, it’s in my bag of tricks,” she says. Vector produces the cell key, and she adds, “Oh, right. Yeah, better get that before they station a guard down here.”
“Grab my map, too, will ya,” Phyr asks as he starts doing stretches of his own. “Actually, just get my whole belt,” he adds as Vector rifles through the footlocker.
“Might as well have my bag,” Pannych says. Vector retrieves the requested items and locks everything back up.
Phyr reads the book and hands the map to Vector while Pannych mediates some more. A little before noon, they hear steps tromping down to the brig, too light to be Captain Starling. A lithe man traipses through the entryway, with deep blue hair and mismatched eyes, wearing a merchant marine uniform. He sees the “prisoners,” and starts.
“Ho, there! Didn’t know we had any prisoners. Hey, what’s that you’ve got?”
“Just a book,” Phyr says, hoisting it helpfully.
“No contraband,” the sailor grumbles, opening the desk drawer at his station and removing a keyring from within.
“Oh, relax,” Vector says. “It’s just a book.”
“No contraband,” he repeats emphatically. Pannych opens her eyes, but does not change her posture.
“Hold on,” Phyr says, getting to his feet. He dusts himself off and examines his character sheet, then holds it up to the bars for the warden to see. “You see the spells I have? I could escape any time I wanted. I’m cooperating because I choose to, not because I’m forced to. So let me read my book, and my map, and there’ll be no trouble. But with nothing to read, I’ll get bored, and then I’ll make trouble. Got it?” He rolls well on Speech, and the warden reevaluates his strict “no contraband” policy.
“I see,” he says, stroking his thin goatee as he looks over the character sheet with growing concern. “Very well, then. I suppose your… cooperation has earned you a special dispensation. Carry on.” He nods and hurries back to his station.
The galleon sets sail in the early afternoon, and while they can’t see outside from the brig, the map tells them their position and the time. Over the next three days, the “prisoners” speak freely in front of the warden, but not to him. He politely ignores them, in his turn - or at least doesn’t react visibly to anything they say. They pass the book and map back and forth between their cells, alternating who gets to read what. The salt pork and hardtack are not entirely unpalatable, but none of them is in any danger of overeating.
On the morning of the fourth day, there is a commotion on the decks above them. Pannych looks up from her meditation, and the others look up from their reading; the warden pays no mind. Many minutes later, there is a bump! of wood on wood to starboard, followed by another one soon after, and another immediately after - then the rocking pattern of the galleon changes, slower now. Shouting voices struggle through the sealed wooden planks to reach them, and then the clang! of clashing blades.
“Hadn’t you better get that,” Vector asks, looking to the warden.
“Just pirates,” he says dismissively. “No match for us. ‘Sides, what kind of sailor would I be, if I abandoned my post at the first sign of trouble?”
Vector shrugs, and the adventurers decide not to pursue the matter.
As the battle rages on above decks, there is another series of bumps to port, as a second ship settles against and is fastened to the Birthright. The warden’s look grows concerned, and he draws his pistol and saber before heading up.
Without a word, Vector unlocks their cages and the footlocker once the warden is gone. Pannych and Vector start changing, but Phyr starts fidgeting with one of his gadgets.
“Dude,” Pannych says, “You gonna leave your armor, or what?”
“No way!” Phyr hoists the gadget. “Purification ray. Do you know where these outfits have been?”
“Hey, you wanna hit me with that, too,” Vector asks. Phyr dutifully beams him up and down, then gestures to Pannych.
“Better safe than sorry,” she says with a shrug.
Once dressed, they head up top to see how they can help - and immediately see they are too late. The merchant marines are fighting to the last, but the pirates vastly outnumber them at this point.
“OK, guys,” Pannych says. “I have an idea - and you’ll like it.”
“Why am I not reassured,” Phyr asks.
“Look, we’ll get to play pirates for a while,” she clarifies, rubbing her gloved hands together. At that, the boys perk up. “Just follow my lead.” She cups her hands around her mouth and shouts for all to hear, “OI! TOSSERS! THIS IS YOUR NEW CAPTAIN SPEAKING!” The nearest combatants disengage and look at her like she’s stupid. “Hey, Phyr - I don’t think they heard me in the back. Give ‘em a warning shot, will ya?”
Phyr raises his hands and shouts, “FLAME!” He chooses a casting range in the shape of an enormous broad fan, bright and hot - it passes over everyone’s heads, but does not linger long enough to set anything ablaze.
“Thank you,” Pannych says with a curtsey, then turns to the crowd of suddenly attentive onlookers. “Right, then! This is your new captain speaking! I am Pannych, lesser goddess of fear and anxiety!”
“And I am Phyr, lord of destruction and chaos, whose wrath makes the very heavens tremble with reverence to my otherworldly might!”
“And I am Vector, their harbinger and standard-bearer!”
“Now that we have your attention,” Pannych continues at the top of her lungs, “We owe you kind souls a debt of gratitude for jostling us free with your boarding maneuvers! To repay that debt, we shall not kill you all - and we’ll even let you drop us off at port in Salinas. You can take these sailors prisoner, and divvy up any loot in the hold as you like - we’re not interested in such petty mortal trifles. But you will take us to Salinas, and you will all stop fighting right now, else we may not have enough living left to crew these vessels!”
She pauses to survey the effect of her speech on the crowd. They are visibly unimpressed, but not entirely lost to her. “Now,” she continues, “Does anyone have any questions, comments, or objections?” One of the pirate captains, obvious in his tricorner hat and epic green beard, raises his hand. Pannych points to him and says with a nod, “You, guy - go ahead.”
“Aye, an’ what’s to stop us slittin’ yer throats in yer sleep, ya wee pissin’ tykes?”
“That’s a good question,” Pannych says loudly, but in a deferent tone. “In fact, I think Lord Phyr can answer it best - though you may find his answer a bit shocking.” She turns to him with a flourish.
“First,” Phyr begins, clearing his throat and stepping forward, “Let me say, I deeply respect your beard, good sir.” The pirate captain strokes it self-consciously as he looks askance at the dwarf in the jaunty garb before him. “No, I mean that - green hair, green beard, we’re two peas in a pod, you and me. Also, I dig your sword. Very curvy.” The captain draws it back nervously as Phyr continues to approach him at a leisurely saunter. “Do you mind if I take a look at it?” The pirate captain doesn’t back down, but every bit of his body language is pulling away. “I’ll give it back. I promise. Just let me see it? I bet it has a comfy grip. Does it? Huh?” Phyr is standing face to face with the pirate captain now, who absolutely does not know what to make of him. “No answer, huh? Rude. Don’t worry, though - I got all kinds of manners. Here, let’s start with a handshake.” Phyr extends his hand and beams at the man.
The pirate captain looks around, but all his men are just as weirded out as he. So he swallows hard and decides to play along with the weirdo. He takes his hand, and while they shake, Phyr says, “See, now this isn’t so bad, is it? At this rate, we’ll be fast friends. Why, I bet you’ll let me see that sword of yours this afternoon! Ooh, and do you have a gun? Or what about a crossbow? Like with the little… it’s not an arrow…” He trails off, still shaking the captain’s hand at a relaxed pace, with a firm grip, and turns to Vector. “Hey, Vector? What do you call an arrow when it’s fired from a crossbow?”
“Then it’s called a bolt,” Vector says.
“Right,” Phyr says, turning back to the captain. “Bolt.” He had learned from reading On Humanity in the brig that he can modulate the voltage and amperage of his Bolt spell independently, and now he uses that knowledge to effectively turn his hand into a taser. The pirate captain stiffens as Phyr maintains the spell, then falls to his knees when Phyr stops casting - but does not release his hand. “Now,” Phyr continues, “The second thing I want to say, is Bolt again. The third thing is also Bolt. But the fourth thing, is that Bolt. It is not wise Bolt. To start a conversation Bolt. With a pair of demigods Bolt. By threatening their lives Bolt. And I know that doesn’t exactly answer your question, but did I at least satisfy your curiosity?”
The pirate captain says nothing, but seems like he might perhaps be nodding as he shakes and convulses on the wet, rocking deck of the ship. Phyr releases his hand, and he collapses in a heap. Pannych raises her hands to her mouth again, and shouts, “OK! Are there any other questions that my friend or I can answer, before you scurvy dogs start sailing us to Salinas?”
There are none.
The rest of the voyage passes mostly uneventfully, with the adventurers sleeping in shifts so that nobody can get the drop on them. Typically, one will sleep, one will watch the sleeper, and the third will wander about the ship (they choose to stay aboard the Birthright). However, Pannych only ever sleeps four to six hours at a time, so there is a good chunk of each day when all three of them are up.
On the night of the mutiny, though, Pannych talks to Phyr as he beds down and quietly demands of him, “What the Hell, dude? You weren’t supposed to torture that guy!”
“What was I supposed to do, then?”
“I dunno, I thought you’d just kill him!”
“I thought you didn’t like me killing people?”
“Yeah, I don’t like you killing NPCs for no reason - but this was one bad guy, to intimidate the rest, who definitely would’ve attacked us if we didn’t establish dominance!”
“Right,” Phyr says, “And I did all that, but without killing anyone. Shouldn’t you be, like, happy?”
Pannych is flabbergasted. “Happy,” she asks in a hoarse whisper. “Happy?! Dude, you violated the Geneva Conventions!”
“What Geneva Conventions,” Phyr asks. “There’s no Geneva Conventions here. Who cares?”
“I care,” Pannych insists, “And not because of the law - there’s mostly no law, I guess, since the empire’s fallen - I care because torture is always wrong.”
“More wrong than murder,” Phyr asks flatly.
“I - wait.” Pannych pauses to do some ethical calculus. “No, I… you can’t. Hm. Hold on. This conversation got away from me.”
“Whatever,” Phyr says, yanking the blankets over himself. “I’m going to bed.”
One night, Pannych comes to Phyr and Vector with a trio of sacks.
“So: I was on the One Horizon,” she begins, “Just snoopin’ around, seeing what they had. And down in the hold, there were these bags, and I reached in one and found… sushi! And when I looked inside again? More sushi. And I think these bags just make sushi.” She is beaming with what strikes the others as an entirely unnecessary amount of enthusiasm.
Phyr takes one of the bags and says, “No, these are bags of replenishing. They hold one meal in a timeless pocket dimension, and basically paste copies on demand for a set number of times. So yeah, that one makes sushi, but did you check the others?”
“I… did not.”
Phyr uses the Tablet of Identification to determine that one of the other bags holds burritos, and the last one has cheeseburgers. They each have about 30 meals left, except for the sushi bag, which has a couple less.
A few nights later, Phyr is poking around in the cargo hold while Pannych is asleep, and he finds a crate of mana potions packed in straw.
“Oh, sweet,” he whispers to himself. He double-checks that nobody is around, and digs through the crate. The potions come in various sizes, ranging from a pinkie-finger-sized corked vial, to about a twelve-ounce jar with a screw-top. They have no labels of any kind. He reasons that their dim blue glow probably distinguishes them from any other kind of potion. He takes the Tablet of Identification from his belt, and chuckles at himself as he realizes that he can’t look at the potion and read the tablet at the same time.
Then he has an idea. He holds the mana potion right up to his face, with the tablet just behind it, and focuses intently on the mana potion. Sure enough, he can see the glowing letters of the tablet - but they’re out of focus and doubled from the awkward perspective, and no sooner does he glance at the tablet than it identifies itself. He tries again, and this time he’s able to read the tablet with his peripheral vision by holding it up close, and in one eye’s field of view only.
The various sizes restore 25, 50, 100, 250, 500, and 1,000 mana. He’s been spending a lot, so he takes one of the largest ones and chugs it in a few large swallows. It tastes almost like a caffeinated water he had one time, which was sort of like mineral water but with a slightly bitter aftertaste. The mouthfeel is refreshingly cool like mint, but without any minty taste; tingly like it’s carbonated, but with no bubbles; and slightly burny on the way down, in the manner of hard liquor.
He checks his mana, and is surprised to see that it has gone up by ten thousand points, not one. “The fuck,” he mutters. He takes another potion and double-checks the tablet, thinking that he must have misread it the first time, but there is no mistake: the tablet identifies it as a mana potion that restores 1,000 MP, but when he drinks it he gains 10,000 MP. “Weird,” he says quietly - and then he remembers his earring. “Huh. So it refunds when I spend mana, and I guess it also magnifies when I gain mana? But then why don’t I gain twenty an hour, instead of two? Shit, I haven’t been watching that closely, maybe I do. Or maybe it only works on potions and not regeneration.” He looks around, suddenly self-conscious of what he’s doing, but sees no one. “I’ll figure that out later. I gotta stop mumbling to myself in the dark while I’m lit from below like some kinda supervillain.”
He does some quick math in his head and drinks enough potions to top himself up. While he’s closing up the crate, he thinks to grab a few for Pannych - but stops himself. “She’d prob’ly say, ‘No, I can’t drink that, it’s someone else’s ass if these potions aren’t delivered’.” He imitates her in a mockingly snooty voice with his nose all wrinkled. “But these are just pirates, so it’s OK. Wait, no, the pirates are probably people who’ve been wronged by the empire, with legitimate grievances and towns to save from monsters. Shit, I prob’ly should’na drank those.” He cocks his head to the side for a second, then shrugs and closes the crate back up after putting the empty bottles back where he got them. He got what he needed, whatever comes next is someone else’s problem, and Pannych doesn’t even need to know. He dusts his gloves off as if to wash his hands of the worry while he makes his way out of the cargo hold.
Two weeks after leaving port, they arrive in Salinas. Pannych has the galleons approach each other and drop anchor when they’re in eyesight of the city, but well out of weapons range. She orders everyone aboard the Birthright for another speech - she stands just before the wheel, with Phyr and Vector on either side of her, and the combined pirate crews bunched together on the main deck below.
“OK, everyone,” she begins, shouting with her hands cupped around her mouth as before. “Great job! You got us to Salinas, and upheld your end of the bargain! And we are nothing if not fair demigods, so we’ll take a dinghy and row ourselves to shore. I don’t think any of us wants those city folk spooked by your jolly roger - isn’t that right, Captain Greenbeard?”
“His name’s Max Fightmaster,” Vector whispers to her.
“What? That’s the dumbest name I ever heard.”
“No, there’s a real guy in the Army Reserve with that name.”
“The fuck?!” Pannych shudders as if to shake loose the incredulity. “Why don’t you just name your kid, I dunno, fuckin’... Rad Heroman?”
“That’s another real life name, he’s in the Marines,” Phyr says. “You shared a listicle with us.”
“A what?!” She looks at the crowd, and can see that she’s losing them. She refocuses. “Look, I don’t care what your name is, I’m calling you ‘Captain Greenbeard’ because you’re now the captain of this ship, and your beard is green. If you aren’t happy about either of those, then I can change them for you.”
“No, no,” Captain Fightmaster says, “That’ll do, an’ thank’ya kindly.”
“See,” Pannych says loudly to Phyr and Vector, “Everything’s fine. We’re all happy. Oh, wait, there’s one more thing I wanted to know-” she turns back to the pirates “-what are you gonna do with the prisoners?”
The pirates all seem to suck in air through their teeth in unison. “The thing is,” Captain Fightmaster explains, “If we press ‘em into service, they’ll just mutiny at the first chance, as ol’ Edric doesn’t take too kindly to our piratin’ ways, an’ takes even less kindly to deserters or those who turn a blind eye. So for them, it’s kill us, or face him - even if we let ‘em go. An’ while a sea full’a pirates may provide anonymity enough for us to hide amongst our… colleagues, a known ship with known whereabouts is much easier to track down an’ retake. So if you be catchin’ my implication-”
“It’s kill or be killed,” Pannych concludes for him. “No, I get it. That’s cool.” She nods, and turns toward the dinghy at the rear of the poop deck. “We’ll be seeing you, then,” she calls over her shoulder. “And if you ever run into Nadab, just-”
“CHILL!” Phyr thrusts both hands over the deck, and an arctic blast soon freezes the pirates solid. As they swiftly die of hypothermia, the ones in range give each of the adventurers a total of 60 experience points.
“Dammit, Phyr! What the fuck,” Pannych screams.
“Now what? Are you telling me you were just gonna let them go, so they could kill Captain Starling, and take all this cargo for themselves?”
“No, of course not!”
“Then did you want to take them alive, so we’d be outnumbered?”
“No, we needed to kill them all dead. Duh.”
“So what the fuck are you mad about this time?”
Pannych balls her hands into fists and is literally shaking with anger. With her eyes shut tight, she barely controls her voice as she says, “I was gonna make a really cool pun and then you just stole my thunder!”
Vector chuckles and says, “Except he didn’t use Bolt, so that explains why you have zero chill, right?”
“AUGH!” Pannych storms off in a huff.
After freeing the merchant marines, Captain Starling asks the adventurers for a word while the sailors restore the High Queen’s colors and survey the cargo for losses. She leads them to her quarters, her chestnut-brown hair swaying in a long braid across the back of her olive green frock coat. She doffs her bicorn hat and straightens the gold plume before setting it down on her desk, and bids them be seated. Her deep brown eyes and golden-brown skin have a satiny luster in the lamplight as she stares them down.
After a long beat passes, she says, “All right - I don’t take kindly to mutineers, but mutineers don’t usually do a double-reverse, save my crew’s lives, and make me an admiral in the process. So I’m willing to forget that the last week and a half happened, and my official report will say we took heavy losses killing pirates to retake the One Horizon and the Boundary Line by ourselves, and skeleton-crewed them until we could replenish our numbers. Any sailor who remembers different will be given extra rations of grog until they see it our way. Your presence will remain off the books. Is that agreeable to you?”
The adventurers all nod, and she continues: “So. Your reputations precede you. Sir Briansworth told me who you are - I believe his exact words were, ‘A reckless and undisciplined gang of cock-sure mercenaries with no respect for authority, procedure, property, or life.’ But what I just saw was a stark contrast to all that: you were cool, cunning, and coordinated, and as far as I can tell, our losses are only on account of you staying in the brig as long as possible on my orders. You did the right thing, at the right time, for the right reasons, and that’s a vanishing rare quality in my experience. And yet…” She trails off as she looks them over again, as if with new eyes. “I put little faith in gossip, but it usually forms around a kernel of truth. Tell me - what kernel sits at the core of this confusing clutch of calumnies?”
The adventurers look at each other, then Vector raises a hand and says, “If I may? My friends are new to this world. The rumors you heard are probably all true, at least for the most part. But Pannych is a quick study, and Phyr has a good heart - they just needed a couple days to catch on, is all.”
Starling looks to the “demigods,” and they nod gamely. She takes a deep breath and says, “Very well - I believe it is as you say.” She drums her fingers on her desk for a moment, then says, “Here’s how this works: half of all recovered booty goes to the treasury, and the other half is split evenly among the crew. I’ll give the three of you each a double-share, since you’re not with our outfit and you could’ve easily gone full pirate, and write it off as damaged in the battle. Then we part ways, and we never saw each other. That way, word doesn’t get back to Nadab that I’m letting demigods run loose - as if I could do anything about that - and you don’t have him on your trail. Do we have an accord?”
The adventurers nod agreeably, and they all shake hands. After the cargo is inventoried and divvied up, and the Birthright’s missing cargo taken into account, the adventurers liquidate their share of the booty so they don’t have to carry any extra gear. They end up with just over twelve grand apiece.
The ships raise anchor after restoring the High Queen’s colors and sail cautiously into the port of Salinas. The adventurers can see from the height of the ship’s deck that the city spreads along the shore and runs back in a semicircle from the coast into the surrounding desert. To the East, the vegetation of the scrub plains grows gradually denser over miles; to the West, the rocky terrain yields to sandy dunes. The city is a sprawl of yurts, shotgun shacks, and mudbrick buildings, sprinkled with the occasional cluster of shiny black solar panels. Here and there, sturdy guard towers dot the landscape, denser near the city limits and more thinly dispersed throughout the city proper.
Admiral Starling says to them, “End of the road, so to speak. It’s midday, so almost everyone is holed up inside to beat the heat. Good time to blend in, get the lay of the land, and act like you belong.”
Vector says, “Thanks for the advice. And for your hospitality. Bon voyage!”
She gives them a crisp salute, which they return, and says, “I’m of the mind that doing favors to demigods tends to pay off in spades - many seem to have forgotten that, though. Anyway. Happy trails.”
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