SCENE 6-XIII

Luke settles back against the forward mast, the solid wood a comfort after how topsy-turvy the last few days have been. Following the conference with Lawrence, captains had been given their orders, and people were to begin shipping out early the next morning, Haast included.

They’d been assigned to Ptok’s northwestern border, and to provide support for Luth-1, the Fighter in charge of Ptoken civilian preparation. He still wasn’t exactly certain what that would entail, but anything involving civilians was sure to be unpleasant, and personally, he was hoping there would be some huge weather ‘emergency’ he’d be needed for.

Unfortunately, so far the weather was exactly what it should be for a September day in Ptok: stormy.

They are perhaps half an hour out from Zii, which is itself only three hours out of Nihle. Luke doesn’t know much about Zii, just they have a decent hospital, but it is to be their first preparation expedition, and Luke thinks he’s just going to refuse to go to the one at Nihle.

He frowns, because did he even bother to tell his parents the name of his new ship? And how likely was it they’d deign to attend a Fleet activity? If he remembers correctly, that would be a big fat ‘no.’ Which, really, works in his favor; he won’t have to alienate the ship he’s been assigned to work with for the next month or so. Of course, there is every likelihood of that happening without him actively pursuing it, but that’s another matter entirely.

A warm breeze drifts aboard, and Luke inhales deeply, gathering the moist air deep in his lungs. As much as he’s come to consider Banse home, Ptok will always be first and foremost, and he knows it’s the same for everyone.

When Jase’s mother died, god, two and a half years ago now, Luke had gone with him to Ruske for the funeral. The minute they had set foot on the island, despite the reason for his homecoming, Jase had been just so much more alive, more vibrant. It had been… frightening, in its own way, to see the effect the Islands had on them. It makes him wonder what other people see when he returns to Ptok, even with all the fragments of nightmares that follow him there.

Lazily, Luke harnesses that natural tempest of Ptok, drawing it in, concentrating it, and Haast speeds on, wind streaming around them, through them, he thinks. This small increase in their speed, and water is flashing below them, rocky outcrops blurring with whitecaps until all there is to be seen is a wild stretch of thrashing blue, and then Ptok comes roaring up underneath them.

Zii is a port town, as most on Ptok are, and Luke sees it, settling in among the rocks, all blue and green and grey, and drops the wind right out of their sails, grinning as Haast jerks, and drops violently, steadying out only maybe ten meters up. Someone below deck is swearing violently, and he’s willing to bet its Paten Clark, insufferable bastard that he is.

Honestly, if he hates the Fleet as much as he projects, why the hell did he enlist? Luke thinks most likely he would have been better off as a dentist; just scary enough to keep people brushing in hopes of avoiding a visit for as long as possible, not quite scary enough to drive potential customers away. That or a tax collector.

Below, Luke sees the mad scrambling of ants at the docks, presumably the landing crew. He hopes Luth is already in town, because the sooner they get started with this whole thing, the sooner they’ll be done and free to just run patrol for a while.

A simply tilt of the wheel has them gently turning, still losing altitude. Luke leans with Haast, guiding the wind smoothly around them, the force of the nearby sheers dancing on the edges of his consciousness. Just as Haast is nearly directly overtop their assigned landing site, Luke pulls all the air out from underneath them, creating a momentary vacuum that sucks them down. The ground shakes as Haast slams into it, sails fluttering uselessly, and again there are angry words rising up from below deck. Luke grins widely, fingers dancing lightly over the carved wood wheel, watching as his crew begins to emerge.

“You,” Galligher announces, a bit red in the face. “Are a sick man. Do you know how many explosives we keep on the cannon deck?”

Luke rolls his eyes and jumps down from the top deck, holding a hand out to Atlas for the passports. His own is black, as they all are, but with dark blue rolling storm clouds and waves stamped on the cover, atop Summaris Islands and Ptok, both in silver. Atlas’s has a lavender spider web, and Thomas’s flickering flames, each emblem within the outer ring of the silver compass of the Fleet. The regular Fleet passports of Galligher, John, and Paten just have the full Fleet compass, embossed above the titles.

At the shout, John and Paten drop the ramp, and they stand watching the interior sections slot out until it comes to rest on the ground with a bump. The customs official begins up it almost immediately, broad grin on his face as he approaches.

“Howdy, Luke.” He says, passbook and stamp held loosely in one hand, and Luke returns the grin.

“Hey Donny, didn’t know you worked Zii.”

“Don’t usually, but their regular guy is at your training thing, and his second is sick, so they asked me to come down for a while.”

“Well, you’ll probably have to come see us yourself when we run Nihle.” Luke says, and he passes Donny all six passports.

“Lucky me. Alright, you’re all good to go; I’ll see you back in Nihle, Luke.”

“Sure thing.” Luke says, and they descend the ramp, where the crew of Luth stands waiting.

Sighing, Luke hands the passports back to Atlas, who stuffs them into his backpack, nearly tripping over his own feet at an unexpected dip in the path. Luke appraises the crew before then, and sets track for the captain, a sturdy fellow with almost a foot on him.

“Evening, Captain,” Luke says, slipping back into his natural Ptoki drawl. “How’s things?”

“Good evening,” He says primly, nose upturning just the slightest. “Captain Westerly, I presume?”

“That’s what they tell me.”

“I am Captain Smi—” He is interrupted by a loud sneeze from Luke, grabbing everyone’s attention.

Looking up, Luke waves a hand at him. “Go on,” He says. “I’m absolutely riveted.”

“Smithson. I—”

This time it is a series of staccato sneezes, and Luke is snuffling pathetically when he finally regains control of his nose. Atlas starts toward him, concern evident, but Luke jerks his head no, eyes hard, and the lieutenant obeys, stopping short, offering only a tissue.

“Sorry Captain; must’ve kicked up some dust when we dropped in on you.” Luke says amiably, and if Smithson’s eye is twitching a little, that’s probably just the dust again.

“Hmm,” He says, but doesn’t elaborate. “I assume you have arranged for lodgings?”

“Nah, thought we’d just kick it in someone’s hayloft.” Luke says, and his crew turns on him in alarm. He rolls his eyes. “Honestly, you lot… We’re in Woll House, top floor. You?”

“Grange House, ground floor.”

“Ground floor? Pity.” Luke shrugs his backpack up, stopping its slow downward slide. “We start tomorrow, yeah?”

“Seven AM in the Leka Building.” Smithson confirms, eyeing the glow-in-the-dark patches Jase had sewn on Luke’s backpack with distaste.

Seeing this, Luke scowls at him a bit. “So I don’t lose it.”

“Hmm.”

Luke again rolls his eyes, poor things, such a strain these people are putting on them, and turns to his crew. “Let’s go.” He says firmly, not at all eager to spend any more time with Smithson and his monkeys than he absolutely has to. “We’ll meet you there tomorrow, Smithy.”

“Smithson.”

“Sorry?”

“My name, it’s Smithson.”

“Course it is. What’s your point?”

It is about now that Atlas grabs Luke by the elbow and forcibly removes him from the scene, Thomas spouting apologies as he follows, Galligher and Johnson snickering, Paten scowling, but really, when did he do anything else? Luke sneezes again, violently, and Atlas is muttering something about hot presses and lemon tea under his breath, he thinks.

Lovely.

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Scene 6-XIII

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