Deliberations

It was a difficult job to extinguish the unrest that had ignited during the ghostly invasion, but the See, though bureaucratic and sluggish in most things, was quick with military discipline. Those who did not accept at face value the statements of the soldiers that everything was alright were thrown in the brig for the rest of the journey. Those who muttered under their breaths were beaten with batons, usually deckhands, and the rest of the civilians were commanded to return to their respective cabins and wait.

The entire Verdancy Pathogen party was called up to the captain’s office, a long compartment with one oblong table with bolted down chairs on each side, in addition to the higher ranking officers and Stick. The rest of the crew had been alerted and stationed to their respective battle stations. Now the entirety of the Melchizedek held its breath while the people in charge were deliberating on what to do next.

Buddy leaned by the wall, arms crossed, silently waiting for the bickering between officers to cease and trying to ignore the myriad icons and paintings of saints staring at him from all sides. They’d begun as soon as they had come up, and while Stick and the captain were vehemently against the demands of the hostile entity outside, the senior officers weren’t. They were all too willing to entertain the idea of handing over people as if they were livestock, and though Buddy had been a passive observer of more than one slave trade before, he bristled at the idea. How ironic that they were willing to do so even under the gaze of men and women who actively fought against such atrocious acts.

The captain and Stick threatened and snapped at the officers who banged on the table with demands or alternative bargains. Rousseau shouted out verses from a plethora of holy texts whenever one of the officers said something patently stupid or inhumane, and Lucia did her best to stay lucid through her nausea, eyes glazing over every now and again. Jean and Jaques sat politely by a smaller table in the corner of the room, looking like school children whose parents were being berated by an angry magister. Hound sat by Buddy, deep in thought, evident by his ears’ lack of twitching at the various expletives and crashes that resounded in the low ceilinged, incense laden room.

“Suppose they’ll come up with something?” Buddy asked in a low voice.

“Unlikely,” Hound replied. “We don’t even know what kind vessel or under whose command the Optima is.”

“Well, it’s clear it ain’t Conclave. We’d be dead by now.”

“Yes, and pirates tend not to bargain.”

“Hell of a pinch we’re in.”

“Yes, but I think I have an idea.”

“Oh?”

“I think we should parlay with the Optima.”

“Huh?”

Hound turned his neon eyes upward. “She’s a ship, right? So, shouldn’t we board her and parlay with the commander? Whoever is in charge clearly wants to avoid open combat, otherwise they wouldn’t have sent envoys in the form of those things. Maybe we can come to an agreement.”

“Hound, the crew is dead. They made that very apparent when they boarded us.”

“I don’t think they’re dead.”

“Oh, don’t go all Jean on me now, you saw them walk through walls. You saw the way that bald man flickered all ghost-like, then poof, gone,” Buddy said, waving his fourteen fingers in an eerie way for emphasis.

“I’m not saying I didn’t see that, just that what we think they might be might not be what we think they are. Maybe the phenomenon is explainable, and not otherworldly. I also think that the fog has something to do with it.”

“Okay, you ain’t making a lick of sense,” Buddy sighed, “you’ve clearly been huffing too much incense.”

Hound’s ears flicked in annoyance. “Buddy, ever since this fog came about I’ve had a strange feeling. Trust me, I think we need to go aboard the Optima, if not to parlay, then at least to try and gather intel on its capabilities. Besides, there has to be someone on board steering the vessel.”

Buddy worked his jaw. “You have a point there Hound-o, and if parlaying doesn’t work out, we overload its reactors. We’d be a sort of suicide squa—”

“What’re ye lickspittles yapping about over there!” Stick snapped, “the captain is speaking so crank yer hardware and listen up!”

The captain leaned on the table with both elbows, fingers crossed and in thought. “Wait a moment, Stick,” he said, then to Buddy and Hound, “I couldn’t help overhearing you two. Would you be willing to be the ones going aboard to parlay?”

“What about our own men?” one of the officers, a hawkish man, said.

“Well, Tackett, would you be willing to go aboard?” the captain asked.

Tackett stammered a bumbling excuse, citing paperwork and other bureaucratic nonsense that hampered him, even though he claimed to be quite willing. The other officers assented to this.

“As I thought,” the captain sighed.

“I’ll be going,” Stick shot and sneered at the officers.

“So too shall I,” Rousseau said, standing up, “I’ll take the word of our Laird straight to those ghastly things!”

Buddy pinched the bridge of his nose. “Guess me and Hound are going too,” he said.

“Alright,” the captain clapped his hands, “the matter is settled. You four are to go aboard the Optima and parlay with its master, whomever that may be, and if you’re not able to strike a concord with them that is advantageous to both parties, which should not involve the trading of lives, you are to sabotage its combat capabilities at the least, cripple it at the best. We have,” he checked his wrist chronometer, an archaic way of telling time, “a little under forty seven hours. More than enough time.”

“Um, hold on,” Jean raised his hand timidly from the corner. “Would it be possible that I too join?”

Everyone looked at the one armed Grower. Unfazed by the attention, he explained, “if they really are ghosts, I’d like to collect some data on them.”

“You ain’t coming with, and you damn well know why,” Buddy said.

“Mr. Limbo, with respect, if you were to fail I’d be dead anyway. That’s what you’re afraid of, right? Besides, wouldn’t you rather have me at arm’s length if anything were to happen, rather than leave me here where you can’t do anything if the Optima decided to attack anyway? Face it, I’m safer on the ship that has the bigger guns.”

“He has a point,” the captain said. “Though I don’t feel comfortable allowing you to go aboard, knowing that you’re important to the See for some reason, I recognize that if what the Optima says is correct, she’d sink us if we either fail to meet her terms or were to engage preemptively. You may go.”

Jean nodded, hiding a smile, and ignoring the sharp glare Buddy shot at him.

“Very well,” the captain continued, “you have until first light to gear up and refresh yourselves, then you will take one of the fast boats to the Optima. If they don’t let you aboard, you’re to return with all haste.” He stood up and clapped his hands. “Dismissed.”

---

Alia sat at the bar counter. The barkeep, Greg, on the other side, though undisturbed by her presence, glanced at her from time to time as he wiped down hoary glasses with chipped rims and handles. It was the wary glance that was a signature in his profession, a glance that asked, ‘is this person drunk, sad, or violent.’

“Shouldn’t you be off to the el-zee?” he asked after an appropriate length of silence.

Alia looked up at him. Those who knew her well would’ve noticed that something was off, her signature pep and smile had changed into a coy grin and an almost haughty air. Sadly, no such patrons were present. Greg knew her only as one of his best customers and a card shark, so he couldn’t tell. He’d known her parents though, and it had always surprised him that such quaint and homely folk had raised such an ambitious, beautiful young lady.

“I don’t know, should I?” Alia asked, propping her chin on one of her palms, looking up almost seductively.

“Did the booze short your memory engrams? You’re flight leaves in a few hours. Weren’t you going to go off and work in one of the bigger See cities? You know, make a name for yourself?”

“Maybe I changed my mind,” she purred, her eyes playing up and down his large replacement arm. “Say, you never told me where you got that. It’s not industrial or common grade. It almost looks military.”

Greg glanced at his exposed replacement, a black contoured arm with a disproportionately large palm that could crush stones or punch holes in concrete if he so wished. A stark contrast to his right arm hidden under his shirt sleeve, which was just a common grade replacement.

He raised the arm to better catch the light. The black plating above sheets of synth-muscle gleamed as he turned and flexed it. “It was my pop’s. He was a gladiator about fifty or so years ago. Top of his class and prized by the nobility. He had two of these, of course, the other went to my brother over up near the Alps.”

“Looks strong,” Alia said. She smiled and cocked her head. Her hair, a dirty blonde topknot fell over her shoulder.

If Greg still had his subdermal capillaries he would’ve blushed, but luckily he was old enough to be mostly machine. “Where’s this coming from?” he asked.

“What do you mean? Can’t a girl give a compliment? I know I’ve never done so, but I’m leaving today, and I just don’t want any regrets you know?”

Greg looked away and grabbed another glass to wipe. “Regrets?”

“Yeah,” Alia said in a half whisper.

Greg could feel her eyes glued to him, and though he had never thought of Alia in that way, it had been long since… well. It had been long since his wife had passed.

“Look at you, all nervous,” she said and placed a hand on his wrist. “You know, this is the last time I’ll ever see you and, well, I really don’t want any regrets. I’m going to leave now. No one’s up yet, so I’ll be waiting round the corner for about five minutes, then I’ll head to my hab and from there to the el-zee. Please follow me.”

She got up and slowly walked to the door, her metal footsteps clacking on the wood. Her hips swayed in rhythm with her topknot, and before she left she looked back and smiled. After the door closed, Greg sighed and placed the glass he’d been wiping down on the counter. He walked up to the window and stared at the open-close sign for a long moment, then flipped it around.

He followed her out and found her where she said she was going to be. She grabbed his larger hand and pulled him deeper into the alley, giggling and prancing excitedly. Greg too began laughing, and soon they were by the recycle bin at the dead end. Beside it was a lump of trash covered by a heap of dusty fabrics, and although the milieu wasn’t the most erotic, the promise of intimacy with such a beautiful young girl far superseded such concerns.

Captivated by her proportions and dazzling turquoise eyes, by the shirt that slowly unbuttoned to reveal small white breasts with dark nipples, Greg failed to see the heap of fabrics shift. Only once the form beneath had risen did he realize that someone had been sleeping under there, and that their clandestine cordial meeting had disturbed them. He turned to Alia, embarrassed, expecting her to be likewise. Instead, on her face was an almost maniacal, malicious smile.

Before Greg could question what was happening, a large paw with serrated fingers grabbed his head, and all went dark.

Head crushed, the body of barkeep Greg fell limp onto the ground. Meridia clicked her tongue when oil, slime and blood splashed onto her bare chest.

“Couldn’t you have done it any cleaner?” she said, wiping away the grime.

“It was quick,” Unit Five-One said from under the hood of its dusty shawl.

“Now we have to clean up this mess.”

“Why?”

“Why? Are you seriously that dense? We don’t want to attract attention that’s why.”

“If that is so, why kill the barkeep? Surely we could have begun with someone more inconspicuous/unknown,” the assassin said, hauling up the corpse with its lower right arm.

“Amazing, you are able to form rational arguments, bravo. But to answer, this shithole town has only one spot where people congregate, and this way, his disappearance and death will be noticed, and the place will be locked up. The townsfolk will be further isolated. It will also most likely cause quarantine procedures which is a perfect excuse for Alia here to remain even though she was set to leave.”

“You are trying my patience, Meridia…” Unit Five-One growled, each overlapping voice dripping with anger.

“You’re trying mine. Besides, you need my help to get fixed, so don’t go threatening me.”

“I could eliminate/murder this entire town.”

“And then what? The See receives a distress call and sends a platoon of war mechs here to rip you to pieces. The master sure would like that wouldn’t he.”

Unit Five-One growled and walked to the manhole nearby, it removed the cover and tossed the corpse down, then dropped in after. Meridia rolled her eyes and followed, lowering herself on the rungs to the sewer system that hadn’t been in use for centuries. A perfect place to hide.

---

Buddy jostled as the boat carrying their little diplomatic party lowered on rusty cables which snagged a little too often for his liking. Hound lay flat on his stomach under the thin plank Buddy sat on, ears down and tongue out. Poor thing. He evidently hadn’t considered that being on a small boat was far worse for his seasickness.

Rousseau and Jean sat opposite the bounty hunter, the former held a large tome while the latter looked as placid and mildly condescending as always, despite missing an arm. Stick stood behind them at the small helm, squinting up at the deckhands who had already become mere shapes in the fog.

Buddy had barely hibernated after the meeting. The tension on the Melchizedek had been palpable, and he’d kept jumping at shadows. Hound had likewise been vigilant, so too had Jaques. Jean had snored his way till dawn, and Lucia had fallen asleep immediately upon returning. Rousseau had prayed until the white sun had risen, each declaration of faith and entreaty for protection audible through the wall. Once the long hours had passed, Stick had personally roused the party and guided them to the boat now lowering into the black waters of the Mediterranean Gulf. It seemed that he hadn’t slept either.

“Alright ye nitwits!” the cantankerous boatswain shouted, “I’m uncoupling. Don’t ye dare raise the cables until we’re back here and secured. Ramie’s in charge till I come back ye hear?”

A few groans echoed from above, a few muted thwacks resounded, then the moans turned into a chorus of aye sirs. It seemed like the dreaded Ramie was quick to take advantage of his temporary power.

The waters were calm, black and foreboding. The boat cut a line through them, leaving an expanding wake that disappeared into the fog. Stick guided the boat expertly, keeping his eyes locked on the dark mass looming in the distance that became darker still as the party neared. Soon, a tall black wall blocked their way.  The portside hull of the Optima, scratched and weathered like every ship on the seas of Dead Earth, stood menacingly before them.

“Look there,” said Hound, pointing with his chromed snout and neon eyes.

Everyone’s gaze followed his, and they saw the ghostly remnants of lettering, the paint worn off many decades, if not centuries ago. The word Optima was clear, but the three letters before it were naught but random patches of faded paint.

Stick found an old marking indicating a ladder, and guided the boat alongside it, magnetically mooring it to the hull.

He drew a large breath, then let out, “Crew of the Optima, we’ve come to parlay with yer commander. Let down yer ladder!”

“I’m still not sure about this,” said Buddy, “who’s to say they’ll not just take us captive and use us as ransom.”

“We’re armed. We’ll give ‘em hell if they try,” Stick grumbled, patting his arm.

Everyone’s eyes were on the faint railing above. And for a long moment nothing happened. Then part of the railing swung open, and a pilot ladder lowered down until the two bottom rungs, black rubber where the rest where faded wood, were by the boat. None of them could make out who had done the lowering.

Buddy looked down between his legs, where a sullen Hound lay with his ears back. “Want me to carry you?”

Hound chuffed. “I can climb myself, thank you.”

One by one the party climbed up the gently swaying rope ladder until all stood on a flat black deck void of a single soul. Or perhaps, a single visible soul. Whatever make the ship was, even Stick couldn’t say. It was level and flat with an aft accommodation structure more akin to ancient merchant vessels, but the entirety of the weather deck, two hundred meters in length and forty in width by Buddy’s estimate, was filled with guns. More accurately, three massive domed artillery cannons on enormous pintle mounts, equally placed lengthwise, and a few auxiliary machine turrets between, all aimed at the Melchizedek.

 Stick, the last one to come aboard, gasped at the sight, making the sign of the cross. “If my eyes see true those be Earth Breaker cannons. We truly are outgunned…”

“Pardon me my ignorance: Earth Breakers?” Jean asked.

Buddy placed a loose palm on the grip of the atomizer. “Pre-cataclysm tech. Heaviest known ballistic weaponry the world has ever seen. Capable of doing just as its name says. Break earth. There are accounts of locations that were bombarded with same such cannons in the war ravaged years after the Great Cataclysm, and if they’re to be believed, they created a new inland sea on the continent across the Atlantic and even leveled some mountain ranges. One of the reasons, next to the atomics, why the sea-levels lowered. They also created the Far-East Divide, perhaps you’ve heard of it?”

“Fuck me…” Jean whispered. Then, cursed again when a brassy palm smacked the back of his head.

“I’ll be hearing no such vulgar words around me, Mr. Grower,” Rousseau said.

“Where be the welcome committee?” said Stick, eyeing his surroundings.

“Never heard of ghosts coming out during the day, so I expect we’ll have none,” Buddy said, making a point of looking at Hound, “so I suggest we do some searching. Maybe we can find out a little more about the Optima now that her crew is, well, incapacitated.”

“Who let us aboard?” Hound asked, “if your ghosts don’t come out during the day?”

Buddy rolled his eyes. “Automation,” he said, kicking the hydraulic drum that the ladder was attached to, “or the ghosts. See, though they can’t materialize during the day, they can manipulate their surroundings.”

“I say we go to the bridge right away,” Stick said before Hound could argue, “we’ve come to parlay so we should parlay.”

“Yes,” Jean said, “but can’t that wait? If we take Mr. Limbo’s words at face value, there’s no one to stop us from doing a little snooping.”

“Then again,” Rousseau began, clasping her book to her chest, “if the commander of this ship be alive, or if there be live crew members, we’d be in for it.”

“I say we split up and look for clues,” Buddy said. “Rousseau and Hound, check through accommodations and the aft deck, Jean and I will look about the engine room and possible cargo spaces. Stick, you can take the bridge. Radio only if something happens or if you find something. We’ll reconvene here in, say, two hours?”

Everyone nodded their assent then spread across the silent Optima. From the bridge, from behind tinted windows, an unmoving form watched the tiny invaders disappear down hatches or behind doors. It could, of course, see everywhere in the ship, but it decided not to intervene. For now.

 

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