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“Starboard cannons, prepare! Come on, ya lime-starved planet-huggers; put your backs into it! Sails taut; turn us Port!”
Men swarmed over the rigging, clambering around one another with the dextrous ease of long practice. They crawled like Ganuga Worms before the backdrop of glistening stars and pulsing nebulae, and Ramone Cruz wondered how they concentrated on their work with such a stunning sight spread out beyond. Sails snapped tight and Ramone grabbed the ledge of the casement from which he watched as the timbers groaned and the ship pitched forward, then twisted to port as though pirouetting on its nose.
As his war galley danced beneath him, Ramone closed his eyes and revelled in the feeling. He knew he was safe in his quarters, looking over the deck; indeed, should the rest of the ship be rendered into a million chunks of driftsam, his noble's section would keep him safe, and convey him home. Nevertheless, Ramone liked to pretend he was free, adventuring through space with everything at stake, every encounter potentially his last. He breathed in deeply, his throat emitting a metallic wheeze, and opened his eyes once more.
Captain Brash, steady as though he strode across the marble floor on the throne room of Ramone’s palace, stomped into view, arms waving as he gave orders. “Steady, lads, steady. If one of you dogs shoots his load early, you’ll all be on salt sarnies for a day!”
Ramone smiled inwardly as he took in the captain. Brash had a huge black beard so bushy it doubled the size of his head and completely covered the breather embedded in his Adam’s Apple. His black leather doublet bulged around his middle, opening over his chest where skin outlined stark slabs of muscle. Baggy black trousers were held up by a belt that also housed a scimitar and a long pistol. Brash was pushing sixty years of age, but still he cut a formidable figure. Ramone could well believe the violent (if impressive) tales he’d heard of the Captain’s youth.
He looked down at his own attire; the latest in court fashion, comprising a bright purple silk shirt with puffed shoulders and green tights that were so form-fitting Ramone was glad shirt fashion currently favoured thigh-length garments. Like the Captain and all the Essmen, he went barefoot; when on ship, fashion took second place to common sense.
A roar from the Captain caused Ramone to start, and a splinter burrowed into his finger from the casement. “Starboard cannons, arm!”
A clutch of Essmen, all wearing the purple and green of the Cruz family, dug primers into their cannons and sighted at the enemy ship. Ramone transferred his gaze to the target as it floundered. The solar currents favoured the Cruz vessel but the battle was not yet won. Their foe was a hundred-foot destroyer with half the length and a quarter the firepower of Ramone’s galley, but it was armed enough to be dangerous. Its sails, resplendent in red and yellow patterns, marked it as a Stanzi family vessel, and the Stanzi would get no mercy from the Cruz.
The Stanzi ship wobbled as its helmsman tried desperately to avoid their inevitable turn and essmen filled the rigging, trimming sails. Inexorably it turned, losing its elemental battle with the currents, and the Cruz ship drifted resolutely closer. As the target turned entirely broadside, its gunners rushing to prepare its weapons, Captain Brash brought his fist forward resolutely.
“FIRE! All weapons!”
Ramone closed his eyes so the powder flash would not impair his vision and an almighty cracking noise filled his ears.
“Reload! Fire at will!” roared Brash.
Ramone opened his eyes to watch the shells arc across space, ethereally quiet now they were away from the ship. The tracer dust, required by law so planetary defences could easily screen stray shots, cast luminous tales. Glowing pink death angled toward the enemy ship. Ramone shuddered; the sight was all the more sinister for the jolly tracer colour and the utter silence of space. The mechanics of a working ship required that artificial air be created across the deck; it allowed vocal commands and meant the cannons functioned correctly, but it was too thin to breathe and extended no further than the tallest of the masts.
As a result, what was deafening to Ramone would have been a silent light display to those on the target ship. The pink streaks dipped in their flight, and slammed into the Stanzi ship. As always, Brash's crew had an infallible aim. As the pink dust puffed into clouds on impact, sections of the enemy vessel crumpled in upon themselves and the entire rear half of the ship imploded. Ramone imagined the ear-bashing cacophony of death that his hated enemies would be experiencing right now as he watched their silent and beautiful demise.
"Freeze and die, you Stanzi bastards," he muttered under his breath.
Several more concussions filled their air with their suddenly violence, and further pink streaks sped away from the Cruz ship.
"Cease fire! That'll be enough," roared Brash. A scattered cheer went up from the essmen around the ship. "Clam it, you yellow-arsed rope-jockeys! You didn't do that great. Resume course for home port."
As the last bits of the Stanzi destroyer crushed to nothing, leaving behind faint pink clouds, the Captain disappeared from view, and shortly Ramone heard the man's steps on the stairs outside his quarters. He opened the door as Brash was preparing to knock.
"Well done, Captain. They did not even fire a return shot."
"Pah!" snorted Brash. "They were commanded by a planet-hugger with less brains than deck scrubber. Had he been ready - as he should have been - when his ship came broadside, we'd be pluggin' some gaps right now."
"Well, nevertheless, I commend you on a job well done." Ramone indicated the Captain should sit, and they took opposite chairs at his small table. "Rum?"
Brash grinned. "Aye, sir, I'll take a slug o' that. And thank you."
"For the rum, or for the compliment?"
"I'll not thrust my chin at either, your Lordship," said Brash with a chuckle. They clinked glasses. "The Vespertine's a great ship, Lord Cruz. It's my honour to be entrusted with her command."
"You do her justice, Captain Brash, though you turn her air blue with some of the insults you hurl at your essmen. I am amazed that I have not witnessed a mutiny during this voyage. Is it really necessary to be so abusive?"
The grin dropped from Brash's face. "I been sailin' the Seven Suns since before I could walk, your Lordship. There's things out here no sane man wants to face, and voyages that go so wrong you'd swear you're sailin' the icy plateaus o' hell. Essmen are a hardy bunch, but they like things to work a certain way. A right evil ol' bugger fer a Captain goes with the territory. If I go soft on 'em, I'm lettin' the cold, deep dark of space take their souls, and we don't want that to happen, oh no sir. I'm hard 'cause I have to be. I'll see you to home port safe, Lord Ramone. That's my job; to keep you safe so you can run yer family. But leave sailin' the space lanes to me; it's a dirty, dangerous job best left to dirty, dangerous people. That's why you hired me!"
Ramone studied his Captain thoughtfully, but said nothing. He raised his glass, and they clinked a silent toast. Brash downed his rum and stood, grinning down at the young Lord.
"Thanks for the rum, yer Lordship, and for the compliment. Now, I got some cussin' to be getting on with." With that, he left the young noble to his thoughts.
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