Serial Saturday: "Clan of Outcasts" Season 3, Part 17 "Adrift"

Part 17

"Adrift"

"Trim the mainsail!" The bald boatswain bellowed. "Get that port jib laced, she's luffing!" His eye traveled to the young man with the scruffy red beard attempting to work up his nerve to climb the rigging. "Oi, lubber! What are you waiting for, an invitation? Get to where I tells ya, or you'll be eating barnacles off the bottom of this ship!"

Kaidan winced and scrambled to the top rail. From there he could step onto the ladder-like rope nets that stretched up to the topmost crossbars of the sails.
The rigger above him glanced over her shoulder. She balanced on one foot as the wind blew her long brown hair all around her face. "It's not so bad once you get used to it," she said. "You're lucky we're sailing on calm seas right now."

Kaidan watched the side of the ship sway to one side, and gripped the rigging tight with both hands as a rolling wave slapped the side of the hull. He made it halfway up when the call came down: "Done!" A second rigger, the one with short red braids, shimmied down the rope and swung from one side of the ship to the other as easily as teleporting. She sneered at him as he worked his way slowly down the rope ladder once more. "You're going to have to be faster than that if you expect the Captain to keep you around, lubber!"

"Give him a break, Cori!" Chided the brunette. "We're only a few hours out of port--and he doesn't look like his feet have ever left solid ground before."

Kaidan realized the truth of that statement when he finally reached the deck below... and it just kept swaying. He staggered and reeled, trying to find that constantly-shifting balance point and failing, until his very insides gave a lurch in the wrong direction, and before he could stop it, Kaidan felt his throat seize up and the dizzying, spinning feeling worsened, sending the contents of his stomach spewing out onto the deck before he could bend over the railing.

A few sailors jeered and whooped at the way he gripped the rail with shaking arms. His head throbbed so badly that he could barely hear the boatswain's commands to readjust the sails for the umpteenth time. When the fog cleared a little, he could see Beren--the former Crown Prince, and even King, temporarily, before he gave that responsibility to his younger brother and chose to remain a Prince.
Now the burly quartermaster sent him trudging across the deck with a mop and a bucket of mucky seawater, to wipe away Kaidan's vomit before it dried and rotted on the deck. They hurled insults at him, too.

"Better get it all this time, Harlock!"
"Betcher hands got soft since we last saw yer!"
"Oh look fellas, it's Harlock's Dinner again!"

Kaidan couldn't watch for too long, as the urge to vomit hit him again, and this time, he puked over the side of the ship.
"Uh-oh, somebody's got a case of the frogs!" teased a sharp voice.

The brown-haired rigger came to stand next to him. "Fix your eyes on the horizon," she said.
Kaidan wiggled his head and clenched his eyes shut. Surely it would be over soon! Surely things would level out!
Her hand gripped his arm just below the shoulder, and he felt the strength of it. "Do it," she urged. "Chin up, look out. There you go."

Kaidan struggled to follow her directions, lifting his chin and slowly peeling his eyes open. The whole sky was ablaze with pink and gold tones, as the sunset wasn't obstructed by mountains, buildings, or trees. He found a low-hanging cloud to focus on, and as he breathed slowly through his nose, the nausea subsided.
Finally, he turned to her. "Thanks," he muttered.

She smiled at him. "My name's Reva, by the way," she said. "You're Kaidan, right?"
Kaidan nodded, feeling more confident and able to anticipate the rocking rather than fight against it. "Thanks for the advice, Reva."
She snorted. "We riggers have to look out for one another--we depend on each other to keep the ship upright. One person can't do it all on their own; we each need everyone else."

Kaidan watched Beren make his way across the deck. Hearing the name Harlock reminded him of not too long ago, when "Harlock" was just another name on the roster of Outcasts, rumored to be the lost Crown Prince returned, but as long as he couldn't remember his true identity, Kaidan and his sister could continue holding sway over the Royal Council. His lips tightened as he remembered what it was like to hold the Gift of Charisma their father had forced on them--the thirst for preeminence it created, the hunger to always be the center of attention, and convince people to do their bidding. Thank goodness the imprisonment had rid them of the false Gifting!
Reva saw the change in expression, but she couldn't know what was going on in his head. She only noticed the way he watched his friend. "You and Harlock are pretty close, then?" she asked with a cautious hesitancy in her voice.

Kaidan blinked and shrugged. "Well, he's kind of--" He stopped just short of admitting that Beren was any kind of high-ranking person. No one on this ship knew of his royal connections. "I mean, I guess you could say that," he allowed. He leaned his head back and felt the cool, salty breeze on his face. "It's like you said--we depend on each other to survive." Never mind that Beren had more authority than any one else except Jaran and Azelie--but it was true: if they were going to make it off this ship alive, they needed to stay close.

"Coming through!" The warning came only moments before the sword blade flashed very near them, and Kaidan had to dodge out of the way to avoid the small, wiry body hurtling toward him.
A lithe Elfin deckhand with boundless energy and a savage temper crossed swords with the dark-skinned pirate who mostly served as the crew's reconnaissance man when they were on the prowl for loot or jobs. His long rat-tail--a thin queue extending all the way down his back--cracked like a whip as he dodged the Elf's attacks and responded with his own hits.

Reva leaned back against the railing, very nonplussed about the commotion. She winked at Kaidan. "You'll want to be careful around Sally," she warned, nodding to the pair.
The redheaded Elf vaulted from one deck to the next, and then back down again right behind her opponent, barely allowing him time to turn so he could parry her stroke.
Kaidan raised his eyebrow. "Sally?" he asked.

Reva gestured to the Elf. "Marsali is her name," she said, "but you didn't hear it from me. She goes by Sally, and you'll have a better chance of keeping all your body parts if you remember that."
Kaidan recalled seeing the dark-haired pirate slipping through the alleyways of the Harbor. "And the other one? What's his name?"

Reva's lips twitched a little. "That's Keaton," she said shortly. "He's new to our crew, and he keeps pretty well to himself... At least, when Sally's not picking fights with him."
Kaidan glanced around and saw money and small objects exchanging hands as the other pirates started loitering, distracted by the duel happening on deck.

A stray blow by Sally struck a taut line, and one of the sails promptly sagged, attracting the attention of the boatswain. "Awwright, that's it!" he barked, barreling down into their midst. Keaton backed away, absolving himself, but the burly man's thick hand caught Sally's arm. "If I've told ye once, I've told ye a thousand times--"
Sally wasn't having it. She wriggled and thrashed against him. "Get stuffed, Watson!"

Watson gave her a little shake. "Now you lissen 'ere, wench!" He growled, pulling her in close. Kaidan missed the rest of the conversation as activity around the ship resumed, riggers along with Reva climbing up to re-fasten the sail, and deckhands returning to their duties in the absence of distraction. He sighed and wondered how Denahlia fared, down in the galley of the ship.

Denahlia, as matters stood, was not having a good time.

The galley of the Brigadier's Ransom was cramped, smelly, moist, and too dark for comfort. She saw none of the rolling waves and brilliant sunset that Kaidan witnessed. It would help if she had somebody fascinating to engage with, but the galley maid, a girl by the name of Quilla, didn't seem to want to talk much, if she could help it.

Denahlia watched the young woman calmly move through the routine of cleaning, preparing, and cooking the food. Her implants were a little glitchy from the rough treatment they'd received upon being abducted, but at least there was enough of a signal to let her know that she would still be able to access the signals she was used to--but who knew how long that would last, the further they got from the Realm?

Quilla chopped vegetables with a practiced hand and a sharp blade. She barely moved as she reached over to stir the chunks of meat searing in a pan, and then as soon as she placed the last slice, everything went into the pot of boiling water to simmer. She took a sniff, and added pinches and sprinkles from small pouches of seasonings that Denahlia recalled seeing Tertus use on occasion. The galley, stuffy from the heat of the fire, soon filled with the tantalizing aroma--if a bit too much of it.

Denahlia's peripheral sensors kicked in, registering a single footfall that prompted her to turn. A slender woman stood at the foot of the stairs down into the galley, with fair hair and pointed earlobes. Denahlia recognized her as the Elf her soldiers had briefly apprehended in their efforts to quell the unrest sparked by the pirates. 

She sneered in her thoughts, rather than let the expression show on her face, when she considered how ironic it was that the newcomer who ended up in cuffs was probably the least troublesome of the lot. What she had observed of the Elf so far was that she was merely a guest on the ship, accompanying them on their excursions, but managing to avoid anything overtly illegal in her activities. On the whole, she seemed to be a calming presence among the raucous crowd.

"How soon is supper?" she asked politely. "The natives grow restless."
"Captain said he wants it by sundown," Quilla muttered without turning around. "He'll get it by sundown."

Denahlia vented her frustration by a small tightening of the lips. Sundown! They had already been traveling for an entire day! Had the others even figured out what had become of them? How far was the captain intending to travel? She stood up, eyeing the stairs and the opening onto the deck.

The Elf laid a gentle hand upon her arm. Earnest blue eyes stared into her own. "I would not risk it," she said, as if she knew exactly what Denahlia had intended. "This is where you are safest."
Denahlia felt the resentment building--who did this Faeling think she was?

"Leave her alone, Seline," Quilla grunted. "I ain't got use for her. Far as I'm concerned, she can go where she likes. Don't know why Captain sent 'er down here."
Seline; Denahlia logged that name away with the rest of the roster on the pirate crew that she was building in her mind.
Seline shook her head. "She's here to help you, Quilla," she said. "You were saying the other day that you could use an extra pair of hands around here. Well," Seline's fingers encircled Denahlia's wrists, brushing against the nearly-invisible scars of her implants. "Here are those hands."

Denahlia pulled her hands away. What made Elves such intrusive beings? Seline walked off toward the sleeping quarters, and Quilla resumed ignoring Denahlia, at least until the stew finished cooking.
Quilla ladled some stew into a small pot, carefully placed a lid over the top, and put it in a small wicker basket with a chunk of dry bread. This she handed to Denahlia.
"Might as well make yourself useful," grunted the girl who was probably no older than Anahita--younger, more likely.
Denahlia accepted the heavy basket, while Quilla carried an open pitcher that smelled like fermented seawater.
"Follow me," the young woman said.

Quilla led Denahlia up the stairs and onto the main deck, where they had to cross the length of the ship to reach the Captain's quarters at the stern of the ship. Denahlia's implants picked up a bit more intel, detecting Kaidan on the rigging overhead, and Beren somewhere amidships, although by now it was so dark that Denahlia couldn't see much into the thick shadows all around the vessel. The pirates moved about in ever-shifting crowds, sometimes apart, sometimes too close. All the while, the ship rocked and rolled under their feet. Denahlia relied on her stability monitors to steady her legs, but Quilla seemed to move easily over the surface, as if walking on flat ground.

Just before they reached the Captain's door, one of the pirates reeled in their direction. Denahlia was able to step out of the way in time to distinguish his long, narrow rat-tail hanging down his back, but Quilla wasn't so lucky. She bore the brunt of his stumble, sending the pitcher of grog sloshing against his tunic. He staggered back, shoving her to the deck as he did.
"You witless hussy!" He snarled. "Now look what you've done!" He grabbed the back of her dress and yanked her up. "You've gone and messed my best tunic! I oughta teach you manners!" He brought his fist back, and Denahlia saw Quilla raise her arms to at the very least protect her face.
CRACK.

"AUGH! MY HAND!"

Pirates parted around them, and Denahlia stared in awe at the glittering suit of armor that had just appeared on every inch of Quilla's small body. The pirate who'd tried to beat her lurched away, cradling his limp and bleeding fist, spewing threats and epithets in her direction, but once Quilla began to move again, the armor dissipated, and she once again wore nothing but the dirty shift she'd been in since Denahlia met her. Quilla stopped when she realized that Denahlia hadn't moved since seeing her dramatic response to confrontation. She turned around.
"Coming, Handy?" chided the galley maid.

Denahlia willed her body into action, and caught up with Quilla. The rest of their movement went unhindered. Pirates whispered and pointed, but nobody got within arm's reach of Quilla or Denahlia all of the rest of the way back to the galley.
Once there, Quilla visibly relaxed, sinking onto the short wooden stool with a long sigh.
Denahlia took a chair nearby, resting her fingertips against each other as she tried to compute what she'd just witnessed. After a minute of tense silence, she noticed Quilla staring at her.

"You wanna ask me," Quilla observed. "Ask."
Denahlia swallowed, and phrased her question very carefully. "What... what was that?"

Quilla shrugged, standing up to commence cleaning up the soiled spaces in her kitchen. All in a day's work for a galley maid. "Don't much like to be hit," she stated.

Denahlia watched those deft hands at work. She would need to review her visual footage to see the crystalline armor all over again. She could only hope that her eyes registered clearly enough--it was hard to tell, now that her principal interface was in her hands, not her eyes. "But... I mean... You're not..." she stammered, trying to find the best way to ask a question that she had assumed only pertained to residents of The Realm. "I mean, it's not a Gift, is it?"

Quilla slammed down the pan she'd been carrying. "You gonna sit there and call me a freak all night, or are you going to help?"
Denahlia got up to assist with the cleaning, and the two women barely spoke to one another for the rest of the night.

Up in the secondary crew quarters, more exposed than the quarters down below, Beren sank onto the musty, mildewed bedroll, his arms aching from the scrubbing and mopping he'd had to do all day. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried not to think about how long they were going to make him keep doing the same thing over again. I don't have Jay to keep me company this time, either, he thought. But at least I know that I won't be losing my memories again. He didn't want to get too used to becoming Harlock all over again, falling into the bad habits he had developed when he had no recollection that he was meant to be king.

A soft clunking sound prompted him to open his eyes. Beren had to grip the bedroll to keep from flailing in terror and awakening the slumbering crewmates when he saw the mop, standing up straight in midair at the foot of his bed. As he watched, blinking and pinching himself into wakefulness, the mop slowly inched over of its own accord and tapped in a very deliberate pattern against the wall of his small berth.
Beren felt a surge of hope as he stared at that space beside the mop, as if he could will that person into view.
"Zayra?" he whispered.

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