Blackjack Wayward

Chapter Two

They brought me onboard the Black Ship, and I called her that because I couldn’t decipher the scrawled language on her stern. Above the illegible name were the five windows of captain’s cabin adorned with a long ribbon over and around the windows, and two red stars. Beneath, where there would normally lay a tiller on an earthbound sailing ship, was a battery of thrusters and engines, some small and others large, that supplemented the ship’s forward speed.

The black ship was an anachronistic representation of a 17th century sailing ship, squared-rigged and lay out like a brigantine straight out of Earth’s history. Yet there were obvious differences, like masts and sails. She had a fore, main, and mizzen along the centerline of the ship, but each individual mast split into two just a few feet above the deck, looking more like overgrown slingshots. The rigging of each mast was attached to its neighbor with chains and the sails draped continuously along the twin masts, maximizing the surface area. Another difference was her hull, painted black and lacquered to a high polish, and up close I couldn’t discern the edges in the planking. Could the entire hull be carved out of one gargantuan piece of wood?

I wanted to stop and look at everything, absorb each detail. Especially those thrusters. I wanted to talk to whoever worked with them, but I remembered one of the basic axioms from my first trip: in Shard World, you didn’t ask questions.

The Black Ship lay close-hauled to an eddy of wind, the effect of which was to keep her relatively still in space. They couldn’t just drop anchor when there was no sea beneath them. Despite the oddness, the ship was a thing of beauty, with a brass figurehead adorning the bow just beneath the bowsprit; though she may have lacked the distinctive edging of the plank work, her bow was etched with a swirling pattern, as if waves were crashing on her sides. A dozen men worked the rigging, though the Black Ship only sported topsails, with her main and mizzens lufted away on their yards. We came alongside on the small launch, attracted to a magnetic docking port that we settled into with a sudden lurch.

The captain was the first to come aboard, barking orders to her crew as she hopped over the gunwale to the main deck with grace and agility one wouldn’t expect from such a large creature. The ship was alive with activity, with aliens of all sorts rushing to the rigging, crew swabbing the deck, and yet more of the pirates painting just about every nook and cranny aboard the ship. Others stowed ropes and rigging or brought them forth from the holds below. A carpenter and his assistants worked over the stairs up to the quarter deck, forcing the captain aloft to the rigging to reach the wheel. At the tiller was an octopus-like reptilian creature that acknowledged the captain landing beside it. With just a nod from the captain as command, the reptile turned the wheel, firing thrusters that rotated the ship and opened the sails to the gusting winds. The sails billowed out and sent the ship reeling off into the depths of Shard World.

I would have stayed in the launch, in awe of all the shipboard commotion, if not for a strong shove from behind from the skull-faced fellow I had fought just a few minutes earlier. For a moment, I feared he might toss me overboard, but he twisted his face into a skin-less smile and gave me a hand onboard.

The ship was clean, something you might not expect from a band of pirates, particularly this rough bunch. Every inch of the deck was scrubbed and cleaned, the masts were sanded down and painted, the rigging was properly greased and coiled, and the unused sails were shipped away in their yards.

The sundry of creatures that kept the ship going reminded me of my prior experience in Shard World, of the small village we fought to protect, and the variegated creatures that called the place their home. The difference was one of functionality: there were few aliens aboard the Black Ship that couldn’t avail themselves in a scrape.

None gave me more than a cursory glance as I came onboard. They were more concerned with their duties than with the weird-looking newcomer. Besides, they were probably used to new crew joining all the time.

I had to admit, it was exciting, getting to live through a childhood dream, sailing onboard a pirate ship, cutlass in hand and a scarf on my head, swinging from yard arm to yard arm, while fighting a boarding action. It hearkened back to all my favorite movies as a child, the 1940s Errol Flynn and Tyrone Power classics that I would watch with my brother, then act out using a ruler as a sword and a kitchen towel as a cape, tucked into the collar of my shirt. We’d fight and prance around the house, drawing the ire of my stepmother and her brother, Bennett. Even knowing we’d get a beating from our masochistic uncle was worth the fun, and once the pain of the whipping belt would fade, our minds would wander through the night, fighting off nefarious Spanish villains across the quarter deck of the pirate ships in our dreams.

And now I was aboard a real pirate ship.

The sexy little imp reappeared from behind me and took my arm, taking me to the aft gangway leading down just beneath the quarter deck. Above me, the captain was speaking to an impressive-looking humanoid whose eyes bored upon me. He was a tall, golden-skinned man with wide, powerful shoulders and long black hair, wearing nothing but a small loincloth and a shoulder armor rig, along with a scabbarded sword at his hip. His eyes followed me until I was out of sight, headed below decks.

The imp was in a rush, and heading down the gangway led us to a darkened underbelly of the ship. First was a sweeping gun deck, with a row of eight heavy cannon on either side leading forward, crisscrossed with the crew’s sleeping hammocks. I got only a passing glance of the whole thing before being led further down to the berthing deck.

The main room was replete with more creaking hammocks hanging from the ceiling, many taken up by the snoring crew from other watches. They circled a central area where a few quiet crewmen sat on boxes and benches around a cooking stove from which emanated a rich meaty smell. Again, I wasn’t able notice much as she dragged me around the kitchen bustling with activity and a small room with stores, and then further aft to a hold that was partitioned with canvas to give the place the appearance of several rooms. She slid the canvas door aside in one room to what were her quarters, and pushed me inside. Once inside, her demeanor changed from rushed to seductive and provocative. She circled a bed large enough only for her, tracing her finger across the ruffled sheets, then over her curvaceous figure, before leaning on the bed itself and speaking to me in a voice much softer than before. She pointed at her chest and said, “Kivara.”

“That your name?” I said.

Kivara nodded and knelt on the bed, taking off her top and revealing herself to me. She crossed the bed to me and looped her arms around my neck, pressing her chest against my bare flesh, boring her mouth into mine. I could see all the reasons to resist, the dangers of allowing myself to get close to someone I barely understood, but as her hands caressed my back, probed beneath the fabric of my jumpsuit, feeling her touch over my body, I surrendered to my baser urges. I can’t say I regret it.

The dreams that followed were disjointed, the chatterbox-like sleep that comes after too much drink. Faces and places were framed by flashes from a camera, there one moment and gone the next, only leaving slight afterimages to remind me. They were my memories, my life in fast-forward and reverse, a few frames at a time in disjointed fashion, past and present intermingled.

Then Cool Hand came to me. It was a stark contrast to the life-flashing-in-your-eyes backdrop. He stood above it, as if he had torn himself from the madness and stepped forward, his cheesy grin intact. Cool wore the same clothing as ever, unmarred by the wounds that had taken his life. He fought against that backdrop, as if it threatened to swallow him in. It was too much for him to overcome, and his form was forced back, blending into the scenery

“You done yet?” he managed, struggling against the inevitable, sucked back into a vortex like a butterfly against a tornado. Then he was gone, and I heard a voice, like a caressing whisper, waking me. I looked for the source, but it was beyond me, while at the same time all around me.

“Help me,” it cried.

Then I woke.

Sharp pain radiated through my forearm. Long, thin cuts marked the flesh where Zundergrub had stabbed me with Shivvers’ dagger. Overcome with agony, I grasped the forearm about to scream when a figure threw the canvas walls of my room aside, shocking me out of my waking dream. The figure carried a bundle of clothing that concealed his features, until he threw it at the deck beside me. Once freed from the burden, it revealed itself to be the behemoth I had fought on the rock shard earlier. I looked over at my arm and it showed no new injury, just the old wound the doctor had given me.

I was still in the room the imp had brought me to, sitting on the same bed, stark naked. I looked at the big guy, who showed no animosity for our previous fight, feeling awkward at how close we were in the cramped space. He nodded to the bundle of clothes, then to me, as if for me to get dressed.

“For me, huh?” I said and he seemed to understand, nodding again.

Rolling over, I rummaged through the bundle, which stank of mold and must and looked overall like it had been kept deep in a wet hold for far too long. I spotted a pair of boots that might possibly fit my huge feet, and brown leggings that I threw on. All the while, the big guy stood there, watching me with that expressionless skull-face of his. I think he was going for non-threatening, but it was impossible to carry out practically, with how small the room was.

“You gonna just sit there and watch?” I said, but he just pursed the sliver of skin above his eyes, confused. It was a miracle I could move at all in the small space.

He replied in a language that was surprisingly elegant and florid.

“I didn’t get any of that,” I said, finding a long-sleeved white shirt that must have once been white or cream, but now was a slew of shades, ranging from gray to ocher. Atop that, I slung a leather vest and a brown, moth-eaten trench coat that was perfect for my wide shoulders.

“There,” I announced with a flourish. “All I need now is a feathered hat and a cutlass.”

We may have been two creatures from separate parts of the universe, as different as night and day, yet my laughter made him chuckle, a high pitched, whiny sucking of air that escaped as he clutched his chest in a full-bellied guffaw. He pounded my shoulder in approval with his strong arm. He hit me on the same shoulder his mace had struck me not just a few hours ago, yet there was no pain in the joint, no memory of the shattering blow. My arm was as good as new, and that was strange. Perhaps the same qualities that had given me powers were at work. In my previous visit to Shard World, I had felt an expansion of my powers. Part of this was natural, from hitting new plateaus as I explored my limits, but I could also feel some force at work making me stronger, faster, and tougher.

The skull-faced alien took my arm and motioned for me to follow, breaking my train of thought. He led me through the berthing deck, now more populated with crewmen and women of all sorts of species. Most slept on canvas hammocks, swaying with the slow, rocking motion of the ship. Others gathered around a central stove, keeping warm in the chilly below-decks air, wrapped in blankets and speaking in hushed tones as my companion and I walked past, keeping their curious gazes on me.

“You got a name, big guy?” I asked Skullface as we moved to the stairs leading to the gun deck. He stopped and looked at me, shaking his head.

Pointing at myself, I said “Blackjack,” then touched his chest and shrugged.

He understood and pounded his chest. “Zann,” he announced, then said something to the group that watched us, eliciting a round of laughter, no doubt at my expense. As the laughter died down, he looked at me, nodded in approval, and continued moving. We rounded up the stairs, passing the relatively unoccupied gun deck where only a few crew worked with the carpenter to repair a damaged wheel lock for one of the massive guns. A few acknowledged me as I walked past, but they quickly went back to their work.

Coming to the main deck was like walking out of a dark pub in the middle of a bright, sunny day, a stark contrast of illumination from the dimly lit below decks. Zann seemed unaffected and shooed me forward when I paused to let my eyes adjust to the light.

Only a few crewmembers were above deck. Earlier, the main and quarter decks were jammed with crew, ready for action; now just a few were scrubbing the deck or coiling rope; another two or three were above in the rigging, tending to sails. Waiting for me on the quarterdeck were the Captain, the gold-skinned fellow, and an insectoid crewman having replaced the octopus-thing at the wheel. As we came up the stairs, the golden man’s stare never once left me.

Zann announced me, then was excused. He walked over to the far bulwark on the quarterdeck. The golden fellow was actually more bronze than anything else, and he was one of the most impressive beings I have encountered in my travels. Though I was a full head taller than him, he was as imposing as I was not, wearing the ridiculous Blackbeard costume.

His chiseled physique was flawless, beyond the caliber of an Olympic athlete, but his musculature was taut and practical, and the scars across his chest, arms, and face were testament to a life led by the sword. And what a weapon he possessed. Even sheathed, the thing glowed with encrusted gems; the leather scabbard was engraved with pattern I had never seen. It was similar to a series of silver tattoos on his chest and arms: beautiful but so subtle that they were imperceptible except up close. His teeth were fanged, like those of a wolf, visible only from his scowl he intended to pass for a welcoming smile. Above it all, his most surprising feature were his eyes, fierce and gray, like those of a plains predator, ever watchful of enemies far and close.

And they were settled on me.

His intense demeanor almost led me to forget the Captain, standing beside him, and the tillerman just beyond. She introduced me to the newcomer in her strange guttural tongue, sweeping an open hand toward me. The only word I recognized was my butchered name. She then motioned to the bronze man and said one single word, “Drovani.”

I repeated the name, jutting my hand out to the alien, and said, “I’m Blackjack.”

He just looked at my hand as if I was holding a handful of chicken shit and then looked at the captain with confusion. I clasped my own hand.

“You do it like this,” I said and Drovani shrugged, shaking my hand with a clumsy but firm grip. “It’s from the old days, to make sure you don’t have a weapon at the ready. Also to say hello. So, hello.”

Drovani looked at his hand, trying to conceal his distaste.

“Sorry, mate. You shake ‘er like a man.”

Somehow he understood, and thrust his hand out at me again, this time giving it a good go of it.

“Better,” I said flashing a smile that he returned.

The Captain seemed both pleased and nervous, as the bronze fellow and I seemed to hit it off. Drovani spoke to the Captain, getting approval for something, then closed his eyes, whispering. His eyes snapped open but his mumbling continued, his melodic voice echoing even after his lips stopped moving, a rolling breeze on the wind. It was a wisp, floating in front of me, barely embodied. The sound swirled around us, like dancing smoke, going through a transformation, changing in timbre and decibel, and from one overall sound to another, until finally, I could understand it.

“Pleasure to meet you, Blackjack,” Drovani said though almost twenty seconds after he had spoken.

“Nice trick,” I said, hoping that his weird magic would translate backward, and it did, though only after an interminable delay. He nodded, understanding after a while and spoke again, now moving his hands to affect the spell.

“This will bring us together,” came from the smoke after a few moments, this time faster, and with his able ministrations, he narrowed the distance between us, little by little.

“Are you he?” he said. “Are you The Blackjack?”

I beamed. “The one and only.”

The gap between the sound and his voice almost imperceptible now, “Are you the one who toppled the Mist Army?” he continued, turning severe, finishing his spell, and for a second, I thought he might attack me. I’ve faced foes much larger and powerful, vanquished them all, yet this bronze-gold man gave me pause.

“Then it is you we have to blame,” he spat. “For all the war and bloodshed that has followed.”

I looked over at the Captain, but I couldn’t read her steely face.

“Is that a fact?” I said absentmindedly, feeling Drovani’s glare.

He nodded. “It is. Since the fall of the Mists, our world has fallen to chaos and civil war. There was peace and balance with the Mist Army, despite their many flaws; their presence alone would have averted the famine and war that followed your first coming.”

“Well, you didn’t see that shithole village we arrived at, and the abject squalor those people had to live in.”

“He speaks of Dorrakhan,” The captain shot in, identifying the village. I did a double-take on her, suddenly realizing that Drovani’s translation spell also worked on the captain.

“Yeah, them. They didn’t look too prosperous. Place was more like a gulag, you know what I mean?” I let that linger a moment before continuing. “Was that the Mist Army you were talking about?”

“There are those who always suffer,” he said.

“Besides, that’s not the point,” I went on, not caring that he was growing more and more severe. “They tried to kill me and my friends.”

“You were trespassing on their lands.”

I looked at the captain, who seemed to be enjoying our tit-for-tat. She smiled and shrugged, implying that I was on my own against my bronze adversary.

“They could have asked us nice,” I smiled.

The Captain laughed, clapping me on the back with far more strength than I gave her credit for.

“Little did they know it was Big Bad Blackjack they had come across!”

“Yes, well, now there’s war. And my people suffer. And I am left wishing that you had not come,” Drovani said softly. Then he turned and walked down the stairs and across the main deck.

“He’s full of piss and wind,” Zann spat, coming closer, apparently having heard much of the conversation.

“He is a Yellow Sun prince and our client, Zann,” the Captain retorted. “We must therefore treat him with the respect that should be accorded one of his station. Besides, he is paying for our latest foray.”

“I don’t know what all that meant,” he said, adjusting his crotch.

“Yellow Sun is what we call them because of the color of their skin, but they self-identify as the Vershani. In any case, they are the power among the drift, now that the Mist Army is gone. It means we play nice,” she said, giving me a wink. “I am Contessa Nicatrix, by the way, and my ship is called the Lady’s Nightmare. I introduced myself prior to Drovani incanting his magic, so I doubt you understood.”

“How long will it last?”

She shrugged, taking a few steps toward the tiller and giving the pilot a minor course correction.

“Let’s hope it lasts,” I said. “I don’t want to ask that guy for anything.”

“It is he that is asking us for something, Blackjack. We are presently in his employ.”

I leaned back against the railing that overlooked the main deck, gazing aft, watching the billowing wake left as the ship’s bow disturbed the swirling skies.

“It places you in a strange predicament,” she continued.

“I bet it does.”

“We saved you from being marooned and a not-so-pleasant end.”

Zann chuckled.

“And I guess now I’m in your debt.”

“You could say that, but more than that, I have a proposition for you. Help my crew with our upcoming mission and I will make you a rich man. If you wish to part ways at that time, then we shall drop you off in Mangalore, Stardock, or wherever you wish, safe and sound with your pouches full of coin.”

I didn’t know what these places were, though I could imagine them being Earth’s equivalent of 17 Century Nassau colony and Port Royal in Shard World. A pair of raucous places full of drinking and whoring.

“The other option...,” Zann began, making a falling motion with his hands, ending over the railing.

I didn’t want to go into the logistical difficulties the crew would experience trying to throw me overboard, but I understood the basic idea: join the crew, or it will get ugly. Then again, I had to push it; I wanted to see how easily they would turn against me.

“I beat you once, Zann,” I said, softening the menace with a smile.

He smiled too.

“It wouldn’t make me happy to do it,” he started, “and I don’t think it would be easy to lug your ugly arse over. But I’d get me and a couple of the boys, and yeah, we’d throw you over.”

“I guess that settles it, then. Count me in.”

Zann took me below deck and I joined the crew, and I can’t say I remembered a single one of their names as they welcomed me to their ranks. There was a guy with pinkish skin, like a naked bear with seething pustules around his ears, and a massive fellow that was mostly thick blue fur, a wide mouth, and eyes where a normal man’s chest would be, but he had no arms or head.

I also met an overly friendly anthropomorphic fox who had an additional second pair of limbs protruding from his face, and a creature with bold, black eyes that was tall and thin-skinned enough for me to see his muscles and inner organs. There was a stern orc, as if straight from Tolkien, except female, and just as tough as any of the others; and a wormy creature that appeared like viscous crimson fluid flowing in a watery solution, able to jet and move around with impressive agility. Another one was some sort of cheetah man, and I say that because of his pattern, because he was definitely a lion among lambs, tall and powerful. As impressive as Zann was, I was surprised they didn’t throw the cheetah guy at me. He was draped in sinewy muscle beneath the short fur, and at his sides hung a pair of cutlasses, which probably made him a dual-wielding skirmisher. His name, I caught: Skeetrix the Bold.

They led me to an open pit where a small stove heated the room poorly, and someone thrust a mug of a foul-smelling liquid into my hand. It tasted like refined dog piss and probably was. The others drank it too, and lots of it, for the stove upon closer inspection was a distillery, cobbled together from scrounged parts; but the alcohol was strong and plentiful.

“Blackjack here’s going to lead us in the fight, boys,” Zann beamed once everyone was gathered, and a loud cheer went up. “We can’t lose now!” he added.

Someone brought me a stool and a strong arm sat me down. Skeetrix sat across from me, watching me with a feral grin. Beside him, the orc-lady took a spot, close enough to him to denote a more than passing friendship.

“Is it true you destroyed the Mists by yourself?” she asked, and the raucous crew died down, all eager to hear my story. After a few seconds you could have heard a pin drop.

I laughed. “Big deal, is it?”

There was disbelief at first, then Zann exploded into laughter, joined by a few others, and moments later the whole deck was awash in it.

“We can’t lose, boys!” Zann repeated, and I saw a few nodding in agreement.

“What’s this mission you’re talking about?”

“Oh, no,” spoke the fox fellow, with a soft voice that I was almost too low to be heard over the crowd. “First you must tell us about the Mist Army. We came to scavenge the battlefield two weeks after you had gone, but there was little left then.”

“Just a wide scar on the land,” said Skeetrix, his speech difficult due to a mouthful of overgrown fangs. “As if a great god had wrought his vengeance upon the land.”

I couldn’t help but smile at how the story was told, how my foolish ride atop a mechanical behemoth was now a legend for these people. Part of me didn’t want to burst their bubble, tell them the truth: that I had just been a passenger for the ride, barely able to control the huge monstrosity that did most of the damage.

“Is it true you bested all of their lords in single combat?” asked the orc woman, whose intense demeanor would not break even as the others were awash in laughter.

“If you mean Dethregas, Varshantas, and the other guy, yeah.”

The crew laughed at my nonchalance, and I couldn’t help but find my spirits lifted in their company. We drank and ate and smoked until the machine could spit out the clear, noxious alcohol no longer. Few were still awake, and I told them the entire story, from the skirmishes approaching the village, to the grand battle against the entire army, to my capture and ultimate escape from the Lightbringers’ fortress. I told them the whole story, without leaving out any details, except one: I didn’t mention Apogee or the others.

Once everyone was drunk or sleeping, I came aloft and roamed the quarterdeck. I regretted not giving Cool and Apogee and Haha their fair due for their part in the battles, to Haha for playing an integral role in building the machine to return us home, to Cool for always being there when things were most dire, to Apogee, whose warmth and kindness opened my eyes, helped me understand myself. I didn’t want them to know about my friends. The loss of Cool Hand still felt fresh, and Haha for all of his alien detachment had grown on me. Apogee, who was most likely alive and well, was just as lost to me. I felt those pains as acutely as any wound I’d taken. Strange enough, it was Zundergrub I’d wanted to talk about least. His betrayal had cost me everything, but that I understood. He was insane and a villain. It was something so fundamental: I didn’t want to remind myself that I could have associated with such a monster, called myself a member of his company. But in another way, I knew that Zundergrub represented the darkness that could have overcome me, the shadowy path that I was barreling down until I met Apogee, until she had saved me.

But I didn’t want to be reminded of her, either.

I loved her, that much was true, and I was sure she had feelings for me, feelings tainted by the fact that I had killed her former lover and friend. Accidental or not, it didn’t matter. How could she see beyond that to the man I was becoming, rather the man I was? I had no way of knowing what she felt now, after all we had gone through, after we stood by each other when the world was coming to an end, after I had saved her, and she had saved me.

I had to find out, to talk to her, to hold her hand and see my reflection in her endless green eyes, see her smile at one of my clumsy jokes, feel her warmth once again.

I had to.

It all seemed so far away, and not just literally, since I was many lightyears from Earth. That part of my life seemed like a lifetime ago, and this was a new Chapter, a new start for me. The clean start I could never get back home. On earth I was the villain, the cover boy for the ills of the world. I turned it around at the right moment and saved the world, almost in spite of myself, but that didn’t earn me anything except the blame. Who would give me another chance?

The fact was, I probably didn’t even deserve it.