Pirates of Vallahar, Chapter 2

Chapter 2
Upgrading the Odin

         Juryrig spent the next day with the ship’s engineer working underneath the keel of the Odin. She was parked about seven feet off the ground in a small prairie just outside the cool, sun-bathed Jannik Forest just east of Zander’s Gorge. Several ropes moored her to the earth as Juryrig and his men worked diligently all day to unravel the mystery of the strange artifacts that the monstrous race of insects, known to humans as stags, had uncovered four years ago in the ancient wreckage of one of their ancestors’ starships which had crashed to the earth over a millennium ago. They had already ascertained that the control panel given to them by the pirates had been sabotaged, and Juryrig was now attempting to build one from scratch.
         He’d wanted to install some of the now famous “repulsor pads” in the Odin for months now. Ever since The Death Mark pirate brigade had pulled off the insanely dangerous and infamous raid on a stag military convoy, known everywhere as “The Repulsor Raid,” they had dominated the human controlled skies with ships that could fly without the need of a gas filled balloon. They were much faster and could outmaneuver any militia ship that still relied on the tried and true ‘balloon and prop’ system. After outfitting all of their own best ships, the pirates had stored away the remaining stock of plundered repulsor pads deep in their home base, knowing full well the price they’d bring on the black market. The subsequent deals had made The Death Mark the premier military and criminal power in northern Vallahar. It had been hell trying to get a meeting with his former employers to discuss purchase, but at last Juryrig had pulled it off. And gotten rid of the old slaver Toecutter to boot. Juryrig sneered in disgust at the memory of taking orders from him as a kid in The Death Mark as he picked up one of the repulsor plates and examined it for the hundredth time.
         The repulsor pads were heavy, flat rectangular plates about five feet by three feet with a gray rib around the edges. Inside the thin black plating they had discovered three sets of thin but remarkably heavy disks stacked one on top of the other. These disks seemed to spin independently of each other when supplied with some kind of energy by the control node; somehow generating a field that simulated gravity, only unidirectional and reversed, thereby producing lift. The repulsor field was thought to be generated in the shape of a cone and operated with no detectable downward thrust, responding only to the mass of the earth, enabling the devices to be installed under thick armor.
         Juryrig guessed that the ancient starship they were salvaged from must have been massive, as the field was immensely strong. After experimenting with the plate by itself, he calculated that even when installed in a fully loaded wooden airship with all pads operating at full power, the central node would barely register two percent power usage. This was especially beneficial considering the fact that there seemed to be no possible way to recharge the node once it had burned up all of its mysterious energy reserves.
         The central distribution node turned out to be the most vital component to the use of repulsor pads. Using an advanced alien computer system, the central node monitored and controlled the power output of each individual repulsor. Whether the pads were supporting the tonnage of a ship, or simply holding a small pallet sled afloat, the stabilizer kept the lift/weight ratio equal. Each repulsor was connected to the node via a long cable that could be threaded through the hull of a ship. There were twelve jacks attached to the base of the instrument for the corresponding repulsor pads.
         Juryrig planned to install the central processor in the exact center of the ship’s belly, under heavy ventral armor after what had happened to the pirate ship when its node was subjected to an explosion, thanks to Juryrig’s little courtesy package of C4. The node would be surrounded by six “lift” repulsors arrayed below in the superstructure of the Odin: Two to each side, one in the bow and one in the stern. Three more pads were already mounted in the bow for maneuvering purposes: One facing forward for reverse and two to either side for quick turns. The last three repulsors were the “drive” pads fixed in the stern, all facing straight backwards: Two vertical pads side by side for cruising and one horizontal in the middle and below the others for ‘emergency getaways.’ This was one more drive pad than any repulsor-powered ship Juryrig had ever seen used. In this business you need all the ass you can get… he’d explained to Axel. Now Juryig only hoped that he could get the system installed and working before The Death Mark discovered him out here.

*          *          *

         Night had fallen and the silvery face of the full moon had just crested the black leaves of the forest canopy fifty yards away. Juryrig wiped his arm across his forehead in the torchlight as he walked over to his makeshift workbench, grabbed a bottle of water, and wetted his dry throat. He watched his engineer Axel as the mechanic rooted around his belt for a tool, and then went back to fiddling with the device affixed above his head in the keel of the Odin. The bright stars were invisible under the ship’s massive belly, and Juryrig wondered how much more time he’d have to spend parked out in the open as they were. He hadn’t forgotten the ominous warning from Captain Toecutter. Piper’s in the area… There was no doubt in his mind that he was at the top of the Death Mark hit list. Especially once Piper got wind of his latest little stunt. Most people who cross The Death Mark only do so once. Juryrig had done it twice and still managed to get away with no extra holes to speak of.
         Axel finished his loud hammering and made his way over to the workbench, dirtying his hands on a black rag. Juryrig handed him the water bottle, which the mechanic dumped over his greasy, sweat-soaked head.
         “Any chance of getting this thing in before morning?” Juryrig asked as he leaned against the huge chain connected to the massive anchor that held the Odin to the ground. Axel gave a cynical grunt.
         “Another day at least. Probably longer unless you want me to go without sleep.”
         “You already slept through the whole raid didn’t you?” Axel ignored the quip and removed his tool belt.
         “It’s gonna be a bitch getting these bastards synchronized,” he complained as he again went over a few of their calculations anchored under a rock on the workbench.
         “That’s what the node’s for.”
         “But if we use the default synchronization code we’ll burn up what’s left of our juice in… probably by next spring. Those pirates really screwed us over; she’s already way in the red.”
         “Considering the whole system cost us a few disguises, a few minor injuries, and one plastic bomb I’d say we came out ahead,” Juryrig argued.
         “Yeah, until The Death Mark comes after us in a few months and we drop out of the sky like a stone pigeon. My advice is: see if we can’t find a way to arrange them so we can kill some of the lift repulsors when we’re not using them,” Axel suggested, handing him the rough sketch they had made of the planned system.
         “No. The Odin’s too big. Even spread out the way we got ‘em, we have to be careful. If we put too much stress on one she’s liable to bust her seams. This is the only layout the old girl will take and she needs every last repulsor besides the emergency throttle.”
         “Well, unless you plan on pulling another Repulsor Raid, we’ll be back to the balloon within eight months.” Juryrig contemplated his second mate’s dire prediction with a furrowed brow. Only eight months? The Odin had plenty of life left in her. We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it, he thought. After this little stunt I might not even be around next month… After going over the schematic again, he sighed and put it down. “You about ready to call it a day, boss?” Axel finally asked.
         “You go ahead. I’ll finish locking the stabilizer down,” Juryrig responded.
         “Suit yourself.” Axel made his way over to the rope ladder, glad to finally be getting to bed. They had closed the cargo bay at dusk to keep wild animals out and the only way back aboard was a long climb up a ladder hung from the upper deck. As much as the young mechanic relished the idea of working on one of The Death Mark’s famed repulsor systems, his mattress was calling to him.
         Juryrig grabbed a few tools, picked up a torch to see by, and headed for the exposed stabilizer core. He set the torch next to the one Axel had left and set to work on the alien system. The repulsor pads had been brought aboard at sunset so all Juryrig had to worry about at the moment was the distribution node.
It was hot work. After almost an hour of banging, jimmying, and cursing, Juryrig finally slipped and sliced into the palm of his hand with the survival knife he’d been using as a screwdriver.
         “Dammit!” he cursed at the open gash in frustration. A thin stream of blood made its way down his fingers and started dripping into the grass. Even though it was only his left, he still needed to be able to fly in case they ran into any trouble, as they often did. He raised his hand and flexed his fingers as the scarlet fluid began to dribble down his forearm. Suddenly, he heard a voice cut the darkness behind him.
         “Why don’t you knock off that racket so I can get some sleep?” He turned to see Vixie standing over by the workbench, leaning her head against the chain of the anchor. Her hands were shoved in the pockets of a brown flight jacket. “It’ll still be there tomorrow.”
         “So will we, it looks like.” Juryrig arched his head painfully and massaged his stiff neck with his less-bloody hand. When Vixie noticed his shining red fingers, her expression changed slightly. After a moment she began unbuttoning her jacket.
         “Turn around a minute,” she ordered. Juryrig had known Vixie long enough to know not to question her when she gave an order. He turned around.
         “Okay,” she said after a few moments. As he turned back to face her, she was buttoning her jacket up over bare skin, the white tee shirt she always wore under her jacket was now over her arm. He watched her face as she wordlessly grabbed the water bottle and poured the remainder of the liquid over his bleeding wound. Once his hand had been cleaned, she wrapped her small undershirt around his palm and tied it snugly over the knuckles.
         Juryrig winked at her and began to pick up his tools. “Aren't we gonna be out of here soon?” Vixie asked as she bent down to help him collect his wrenches and hammers.
         “Nah, we ran into more problems than I expected. I have to rebuild the entire control panel. I was going to do that anyway, but now I have to do it totally by the seat of my pants. It’ll probably be at least a couple of days. I can get those…” he told her as she began picking up a set of wrenches. “Grab those torches for me, will ya?”
         Vixie carried the two tall torches back to the workbench and extinguished one of them after Juryrig had everything packed up.
         “So we’re going to be grounded for two more days?” Her worried brow was all the more pronounced in the dim, dancing torchlight. “You know The Death Mark. They’ll be on you like flies on Toecutter when they find out you’re up here.”
“Ah,” Juryrig said reassuringly, “I don’t think anybody will be missing old Bernard Toecutter anytime soon…”
         “They will when they remember he was transporting a twelve-jack repulsor system!”
         “No way there’s any more Death Mark ships this far north. Too many stag patrols to scare off the merchants. They like to stay south where the game is good and the green-boys are easier to bribe. By the time they get anybody up here to look for us we’ll be long gone.” Juryrig slung his tool pouch over his shoulder.
         “What are you gonna do about those slaves?” Vixie asked, jerking a thumb upward. They were having a hard enough time keeping the rest of the crew away from them. Juryrig may have technically been a criminal, but he was no slaver.
         “Figure I’ll drop ‘em off somewhere safe once I’ve put the Odin back together and before we head out for Rapids City. I don’t want them wandering around shooting their mouths off until we’re fully mobile and armed.” He started to head for the rope ladder, but Vixie apparently wasn’t ready to get back on board. She leaned back on the workbench and eyed him in the flickering light.
         “Do you really think we’ll find someone willing to buy all those AK’s and able to outfit a battle cruiser the size of the Odin in Rapids City?” she asked. She’d spent three months as a navigator for the Rapids City militia during one of her ‘responsible phases’ as Juryrig called them, and was in no hurry to see her old coworkers. Juryrig walked back over to her and set his tools down with a sigh.
         “We better. Rapids City is the second biggest trade center in the Northern Wilds. The only other place big enough is Paradise City, and that’s all the way out in Vaspur. I wouldn’t dare make that run without more guns and better armor… And to get those, we’re stuck with Rapids City.”
         He half-sat on the workbench and watched her through the yellow shimmer of the flickering torch. She turned her head towards the dark, breezy woods to the starboard side of the parked ship. He admired her profile. She had slim but strong cheekbones and a shapely, handsome jaw-line, features that had developed fairly recently in the young woman’s life. The baby-face of the young girl he had met close to seven years ago had transformed before his eyes into a powerfully beautiful countenance of strength and confidence. Her large, pretty eyes still seemed to betray her youth, however, and despite the premature wisdom noticeable in her perceptive gaze, a physical quality she shared with her equally prematurely-experienced partner, she was still obviously in her early twenties.
         Juryrig listened to the song of the crickets in the cool, damp night air. His heart warmed as an old memory flooded into his head. It was something that had hovered on the edge of his awareness ever since he’d started working on the ship by only the light of a torch and the full moon. Now it came back to him all at once, in a surge of sudden affection for her. Affection that seemed to be more frequent these days. He looked over at Vixie’s billowing black hair silhouetted against the bark of the ship and smiled nostalgically. He reached out and took her by the hand. She looked at him in mild surprise as he walked her away from the light of the giant airship and into the grassy field under the sparkling blanket of sapphire stars stretching to the horizon. Vixie found that his wounded palm was warm to the touch, even through the bloodstained wrap. “Vixie, do you remember when we first met…”

*          *          *

         Nestled in the heart of the Sayloo Cliffs, at the lower end of a valley of the same name, a small pool of water sparkled serenely in blue starlight, its noisy inhabitants chirping their nightly symphony across the vertical rock walls surrounding the small lake. A small crayfish jetted across the murky bed after a tadpole. The crystal clear pond would soon be a mirror; opaque as ink, once the rising moon peered its silver gaze into the secluded spot.
         The reflected starlight abruptly gave way to blackness as the belly of a small airship splashed gently into the glass-like water, distorting the reflection of the midnight sky and sending waves lapping to the shore. A large iron anchor rattled downward and plunked into the water as a young man holding a length of rope hopped down from the deck of the small scout ship and onto a large outcropping of rock that jutted out into the middle of the small lake. The boy was a tall, lanky lad with shaggy brown hair and wore heavy, grease-stained work gloves that seemed to match perfectly an unkempt looking jacket and dirty pants. He quickly threw the end of the rope around the only small tree still clinging to life atop the thin bridge of granite.
         Pulling in the slack, he anchored the small ship to the rock. The high cliffs prevented any breeze and the humid night air was as stagnant as the water blackened by the shadow of the small ship’s balloon. He pulled a hefty buck-knife from a boot sheath and used it to pry open a large access panel on the side of the gently bobbing ship. Peering into the exposed compartment, he quickly located the engine housing. I know you’re the culprit. It was hard to see anything in the dark. Pulling a small, homemade flint lighter off his belt, he flicked it, bathing the boy, the rock, and the wooden hull of the ship in a flickering orange glow. Despite his youth the boy had deep intelligent eyes and a strong, handsome face as he leaned close to the exposed parts.
         The young man examined the faulty engine in the orange light for a moment, then carefully set his lighter on the rock and pulled a hammer and an iron nail off his tool belt. He drove the nail a third of the way into the wooden hull of the ship just above the access panel, and then went to retrieve a glass lantern from inside the ship. When he returned, he touched the lighter inside the lamp and hung the handle on the nail, providing ample light on the visible section of the engine. He shrugged off his flight jacket in the warm, still night air and laid it on the rock for a place to sit, then unbuckled his tool belt and laid it against the small tree behind him.
         Sheathing his hammer he went to work, pulling out various tools while occasionally shooting a quick glance around the quiet glade. Surely no one would bother him here while he made a quick repair. He was exceptionally lucky, he knew, to have found this little pond. If he’d had to put down out in the open, he’d be easy prey for stags, pirates, or even the local militias. His was an occupation that afforded no friends.
         After a few moments, he had successfully removed the housing and set to work on the inner guts of the engine compartment. The dim glow of the lamp was a pain to work by but it beat working by moonlight, which was what he’d have had to do were he to have landed out in the open.
         He was on the verge of deciphering his problem when a high-pitched voice suddenly chimed out of the darkness across the water to his left.
         “What are you doing down here?” The kid’s heart skipped a beat as he whirled around in alarm, dropping a screwdriver at his feet in the process. There was a young girl standing on the bank about thirty feet away. Through the soft glare of the lamp he could just barely make out her face. She had long black hair and bright, pretty eyes. She looked about thirteen or fourteen. The girl looked at him expectantly; no fear in her perceptive features. If I let her leave, the boy thought nervously to himself, she could alert the town before I can get out of here…
         “Go away! Militia business,” he called gruffly, trying to lower the pitch of his voice. The girl responded almost immediately.
         “Well if it’s militia business then I’ll just go get my father and he can help you,” She had her hands planted on her hips defiantly. Shit! He thought. If her father was the constable…
         “Why don’t you mind your own business, kid!” he barked in his ‘adult’ voice. He turned back to the engine.
         “I am minding my own business! And who’re you calling a kid? You’re way too young to be flying a ship. I know the law in Carrion Flats.”
         “Get lost, pee-wee… I been flyin’ since you were in diapers.”
         “Gimme a break! You can’t be any older than seventeen!” The girl was obviously a smart-mouth. Not only that, but it was obvious that this small valley was as backwater as they came. Probably hadn’t seen an actual combat ship in years. All he had to do was call her bluff. By the time she actually got anyone from town to believe that an unknown ship was grounded in the lagoon, he’d be long gone.
         “Your parents let you fly?” the girl asked crossly.
         “My parents are dead. Now beat it.” The more he told her to scram, the boy thought cleverly, the longer she’d stick around, buying him valuable escape time. What’s wrong with this stupid intake valve?
         “Who takes care of you?” she demanded, as though she planned to find them and tell on him.
         “I take care of myself.”
         “Well you don’t seem to be doing a very good job! You crashed in the lagoon!”
         “I didn’t crash! I just landed for a few engine repairs. It might not be so bad if I didn’t have someone asking me stupid questions while I’m trying to put my ship back together!”
         “Fine!” huffed the girl. She turned around and marched quickly up the bank towards the trees. He turned abruptly. Uh oh!
         “Wait!” he called after her. She turned; apparently surprised he still wanted to talk to her. “Umm… What’s your name?” The girl eyed him distrustfully. Her malicious blue eyes moved over his squatting frame backlit by the lantern light. He was wearing those baggy tan pants that pilots usually wore and a tee shirt, and he was wiping his dirty hands on a dirtier rag. He was thin, but still fairly well-built for a boy his age: Wiry, like the boys in town who worked at the shipyards.
         “…Vixie,” she said reluctantly.
         “I’m Juryrig.”
         “That’s a funny name,” she quipped coldly. Juryrig bit his lip. She was in control now. His only chance was to make friends.
         “Well, I’m good with engines and electronics and stuff,” he explained. Vixie glared at him and craned her neck to see what he was doing. The exposed engine compartment in the ship was a mess of crossed wires and half-assed soldering.
         “It doesn’t show,” she stated flatly. Juryrig darkened.
         “It works doesn’t it?”
         “No.”
         “And I suppose you could do better?” Juryrig dropped his greasy rag irately onto the rock. Vixie just shrugged her shoulders as her eyes moved across the rest of the ship.
         “This doesn’t look like a militia ship,” she remarked as she noticed the modified bow and old bullet holes climbing across her bulwarks.
         “It’s a new model,” he grumbled. “Scout class.”
         “Doesn’t look like it.”
         “Well you just have an opinion about everything don’t you?” Juryrig sneered at her. Vixie approached the water, eyeing him suspiciously.
         ”Are you a pirate?” she asked without a hint of fear.
         “And what’s that to you, short stack?” Vixie huffed and folded her arms.
         “I knew it! And I was actually starting to like you, too!” She spun on her heel and stormed back towards the trees, heading for the village. Juryrig’s eyes widened and his stomach sank.
         “Hey! Wait a minute!” She ignored him as she started up a trail through the trees in the direction of town. Dammit! “Wait!” As he tried to jump to his feet, he slipped on the screwdriver he’d dropped, fell brutally against the rock and rolled into the water with a splash.
         Despite the warm air, the little lagoon was cold. He thrashed to the surface still sputtering at the girl and quickly glanced around, praying she hadn’t made it into the trees yet. She had stopped just short of the woods and was looking at him. Juryrig’s eyes burned with humiliation and frustration as he frantically paddled his way to the shore. Vixie stood staring at him thirty feet from the water; her hand firmly pressed against her mouth, her sapphire eyes glowing in suppressed laughter. Juryrig dragged his soaked limbs out of the water and limped his way purposely towards her. She started to back away.
         “Look!” he called out, splattering water over the rocks as he waded out of the shallow end. “I’m not here to hurt anybody and I didn’t do anything to you!” His voice broke as he neared her and he prayed that the water running down his face would hide his tears of frustrated shame. “I just don’t see why you have to go and turn me in.” He sat down gingerly on a nearby rock, favoring his left hip. Vixie pulled her hand away from her mouth. She was no longer laughing.
         “Well, what are you doing here then?” Though raising a challenging eyebrow with her small hands on her hips, she had obviously sensed how upset the young man was. The amusement had disappeared from her eyes and her voice lost the edge it had earlier. Juryrig wiped wet strands of hair out of his eyes and tried desperately to calm himself.
         “The Death Mark… the pirate band I belong to, doesn’t even know I’m here. I borrowed that recon boat so I could sneak off and go exploring and my engine went out on me. I thought this little lagoon would be a secure spot to make repairs and a safe place to sleep, if I have to.” Seeing him up close, Vixie was surprised at how handsome the young man was. Her fear seemed to melt away under his surprisingly warm and intelligent eyes.
         “…Well, besides me no one ever comes here, so you’ll be safe,” She said softly. Juryrig looked away self-consciously. Look at me! What a sorry excuse for a pirate. This is what I get for running off… he fought back another surge of frustrated tears and, after an awkward moment, he pulled himself to his soggy feet, and took a deep breath to push the emotion from his voice.
         “Well, I better get to work if I’m gonna be home by morning,” he muttered bashfully. He began to limp back in the direction of the ship.
         “Are you all right?” Vixie instinctively reached her hand out for his arm but caught herself before she touched him.
         “I’m fine.” She kept pace with him.
         “So what’s wrong with your engine?” she asked gently as they made their way up the bank and across the narrow rock outlet to the open access panel on the port side of the ship.
         “Ah, it’s just old,” Juryrig said cheerfully in an attempt to reassure the girl that he was no threat as he sat down at the engine port. “I’ve jury-rigged it so many times it doesn’t know who it is anymore.” Vixie giggled.
         “So I guess ‘Juryrig’ is just a nickname, huh?”
         “It’s the only name I got.” He leaned over and picked up several tools he’d dropped on his way into the drink. He was glad he hadn’t been wearing his tool belt when he fell. Again he burned in embarrassment as he thought of how stupid and clumsy he must have looked. When he found what he needed, he went back to work on the engine with Vixie watching annoyingly over his shoulder. A part of him wished she would just leave so that he would never have to face her again. But as long as she was here, she wasn’t back in town telling people about him.
         “So your dad is a pirate, then?” she prodded.
         “I told you. My parents are dead… Dammit!” Juryrig cursed as he dropped a small wrench down inside the open compartment.
         “Oh. Sorry.”
         “I’ve been with The Death Mark for as long as I can remember,” he explained as he poked his fingers into the narrow gap between the engine pistons. The little wrench was visible, but stuck just behind two of the cylinders. “Guess I started as a mechanic’s assistant when I was about six years old. They used to drop me into ships’ engineering crawlspaces so I could do quick repairs without having to pull the whole system out. I got really quick. Guess that’s when they started calling me Juryrig.” He grunted as he mashed his fingers into the machinery.
         “But… what happened to your parents? You couldn’t have been born a pirate! What was your name before?” Juryrig cursed and pulled his hand from the access port, his skin white and blotchy from the strain. “Here, let me do it,” Vixie ordered. Before he could object, she ducked under his arm and reached her hand into the access port. Juryrig looked at her with a mix of amusement and contempt; the staple of a young man nursing a bruised ego.
         “What are you gonna do, pester it until it dives into the lake out of aggravation?” Juryrig planted his greasy palm on the side of her head and gave her a good shove. With a tiny squeak, the young girl toppled head first into the water. She came up coughing. Juryrig allowed himself a cruel chuckle.
         “JERK!” She swiped the long black hair from her face and shot him a nasty glare. Juryrig noticed the little silver wrench clamped in her right hand catch the moonlight as she was treading water. Well I’ll be a son of a… She steadied herself on the rock with her left hand and held the tool up for him to take. As Juryrig grabbed the wrench, Vixie used his arm as leverage to haul herself up with her right arm and grab a handful of his hair in her left. Juryrig shouted in pain as she braced her feet against the rock and pulled him into the lagoon alongside her with a splash. The young man’s head once again popped up out of the dark water.
         “You knucklehead! I lost the wrench!” he gurgled.
         “Serves you right!” Vixie said furiously as she began paddling towards the shore. As she took a stroke, Juryrig noticed the metallic shine of the tool still clasped in her right hand. Why you little… He immediately went after her. As they got to the shallow end, Vixie began to slog through the waist deep water.
By now the full moon was bathing the entire lagoon in a dull silver light, making the transparent water reflect like a black mirror. Juryrig bounded toward Vixie as soon as he found his feet.
         “You stay away from me!” she shouted at him. She struggled to pick up her legs against the resistance of the water. Juryrig’s longer legs won out. He reached out and grabbed at her right arm, but Vixie was quick. She kept her body between the boy and the tool, constantly making her way towards the shore as she swept the wrench just out of his reach.
         Finally, as she managed to get her knees above the surface of the water, Juryrig grabbed her around the waist, picked her up and tossed her backward into the pond. As she came to the surface, Juryrig snagged her right arm and tried to pry the wrench from it with brute strength, but the girl had a death grip. He noticed the involuntary smile on her face as her head broke the surface of the water. Almost immediately she adopted her stern expression and slapped him repeatedly on the shoulder with her free hand.
         “Let go! I mean it!” she shouted, trying hard to look angry.
         “Or what?” Juryrig laughed harshly. In answer, Vixie began kicking her legs at him under the water, trying to force herself away. Juryrig grabbed her leg and hauled upwards, once again forcing the girl’s head underwater. As her grip slackened, he finally managed to pull the metal implement from her grasp.
         Vixie came up coughing and wiping her face. Juryrig ignored her completely and immediately started calmly through the shallows back towards the rock outlet. He ignored the loud splashing approaching from behind. He started whistling a tune as he felt a heavy weight suddenly slam onto his back. Two skinny arms wrapped around him, one around his neck, the other groping wildly for the wrench that he held just out of reach. He slowly made his way back to the ship carrying the flailing young girl piggyback, paying no attention to the grunts of frustration in his right ear as she pawed madly for the wrench.
         When they got to the base of the outcropping, Vixie gave up and dropped to the ankle-deep water, hands on her hips and face slightly flushed. Juryrig climbed up onto the rock and turned around to face her. Looking closely to make sure she didn’t screw up his wrench, he sat down on the huge lump of granite. He gave her a brief arrogant smirk and she reluctantly climbed up onto the rock and took a seat next to him. The two sat in silence for a few long moments, water dripping off their clothes and down the rock. Vixie shot a quick glance up at Juryrig then lowered her eyes and looked at her squishy shoes. Juryrig cast a sideways glance at her.
         “So what were you doing out here in the lagoon at this time of night anyway?” he asked her through slitted eyes.
         “I always come here. This is my spot,” Vixie declared. Juryrig watched her. “I come here to get away from my parents. I’m the only one who knows about this little lagoon buried back here.” The boy thought this highly unlikely, but hopefully it meant that few people ever bothered to come down here.
         “I know about it…” Juryrig reminded her.
         “Yeah well… As long as no one else finds out about it,” she replied.
         “How come you want to get away from your parents?”
         “They just fight all the time. There are so many pirates and stags nowadays that merchants don’t come around anymore and the villagers can hardly get any supplies. My mom wants to move west but my dad wants to stay and fight for the valley. They’re both hard-headed. So I come here to get away from all the shouting.” Juryrig looked at her in sympathy, and with not a little bit of guilt. “All they seem to do is shout at each other and at me ever since…” she trailed off. After a moment she turned and looked at Juryrig. He was really listening to her. “They lost my sister thirteen years ago,” Vixie suddenly said. “I was only two, but it seems like it was yesterday. I remember her completely.”
         “What happened to her?” Juryrig asked.
         “Our old hometown was raided by stags. They killed her before we could get away. She was only two years old.”
         “They killed a two-year-old?!”
         “Stags don’t spare anyone. They don’t take prisoners.” Juryrig looked back at the water with newfound sympathy for Vixie, and a newfound hatred for the stags. “My parents never got over it. But it’s like they resent me because I can get on with my life, you know? They can’t let her go. I mean for Kail’s sake, she was my sister! But I can let her go. I guess they just don’t understand that. She isn’t dead to me, because I remember her. My parents don’t think like that.” She sat for a few moments, surprised at herself for sharing such an intimate event with some skinny kid she’d just met. “So anyways, that’s why I come down here.”
         “Yeah… Whenever the pirates get too rowdy I usually grab a ship and just take off for a while. Like tonight.”
         “You were running away?” Vixie looked up at him with a glint of hope in her eyes.
         “Well… Not exactly. Just taking a little trip, you know? A breather from those animals I call my friends. But I have to be back by tomorrow morning.”
         “Why?” Juryrig thought about that for a moment.
         “The Death Mark feeds me and gives me clothes and a cot to sleep on, I guess. Plus they gave me a job when nobody else would.”
         “You’re a good mechanic aren’t you?”
         “Nobody would hire a pirate as a mechanic except maybe another pirate.” Vixie lowered her head. “The Death Mark may be thieves and murderers but they’re all the family I got.”
         “You could come live at my house in Tamelia?” Vixie offered. “And you could get a job at the port in town as a mechanic!”
         “Are you kidding? Your dad’d string me up faster than you could say ‘traitor.’”
         “No he wouldn’t!” she insisted.
         “Look Vixie, somebody would. Nowadays pirates are considered worse than stags. You can’t tell anyone you saw me here, okay?” he pleaded with her.
         “Pirates are worse than stags!” Vixie snapped. Juryrig looked over at her in hurt suprise. Her angry eyes met his. “Humans killing other humans! With all the stag attacks going on! It’s just greed, that’s all it is. People taking advantage of the war, capitalizing on the hardships and misfortunes of others…” she looked away. She was smarter than he’d thought. Juryrig struggled with a response.
         “Hey, everybody looks out for themselves. It’s just how life is. It’s natural,” he said after a moment.
         “Funny how most of us can do it without terrorizing innocent villagers and murdering merchants,” Vixie hissed.
         “Look Vixie, I’m not like that! Not at all! I would never kill an innocent person. As soon as I’m old enough, I’m gonna assassinate Captain Gagach and take over The Death Mark for myself. Then I’ll turn it into the biggest stag fighting fleet the world has ever seen. We’ll save whole towns from those monsters and we’ll open up whole new trade routes. And we’ll only steal supplies from the stags we kill,” Juryrig insisted.
         “How did Captain Gagach get to be the leader of The Death Mark? Did he kill the last leader too? Why would you be any different than him? What makes one murderer better than another? And when do you get to be old enough to become a ‘good’ murderer?” Juryrig turned slightly pale. Vixie had hit a little too close to home with the mention of the Death Mark’s last leader. He turned his head away. Vixie pulled her wet, ropy hair off her neck and let it slap against her back, shooting a stubborn glance into the trees. Juryrig pitched a pebble into the lake. The expanding ripples disintegrated the reflection of the glowing moon into a hundred sparkling slivers. He adjusted his position on the rock and scratched his soaked head uncomfortably.
         “Thanks… for not telling anyone about me,” he managed. Vixie looked up at him.
         “So I guess this is goodbye?” she asked with the first hint of apprehension Juryrig had detected all night. He looked back out over the pond.
         “Well… This is a pretty nice little lagoon. I might come back sometime…” he said as he looked around. Vixie looked at her fingers uncomfortably. “When do you usually come down here?” he asked her.
         “Well, I don’t really have any set time. Just whenever I feel like getting away.”
         “Oh.” They sat in silence a moment longer.
         “When were you thinking of coming back?” she asked finally.
         “I don’t know… It’s hard for me to get away from the base. It depends on if there are any available ships in the hangar and whether or not Gagach or Piper are around at the time.” He looked at her resignedly. “So I guess this is goodbye.” Vixie sighed and looked back into the water. Then suddenly she hopped to her feet. Juryrig looked at her in confusion as she climbed up onto his ship, jogged across the deck and climbed up onto the prow.
         “I have an idea! Look!” She pointed up over the trees as she called out to him. Juryrig scooped up his flight jacket, climbed up onto the deck, and walked over to her. Just above the tree line to the west he could see the top of the mountainside that made up the western part of the valley in the distance, slightly darker than the sky behind it. There were a few visible houses built into the hills. “See that house just below the one at the top? That’s my house. If you have a lantern, I’ll be able to see you from my bedroom like I did tonight.” She smiled down at him. Juryrig’s heart warmed under that gaze. He’d never had so young of a friend before. Especially a young girl. His only ‘friends’ had always been pirates and smugglers who would just as soon punch him in the head as slap him on the back. Vixie’s attractive, disarming smile and kind eyes touched a part of him he never knew existed. Under the slightly gruff personality that she shared with virtually everyone in Vallahar these days, male or female, he could actually see a soft, vulnerable human being; unafraid of honesty and the truth, no matter how uncomfortable. A person who just wants someone to be with to help her forget about the power-hungry monsters to the east and the greedy, bloodthirsty pirates to the north.
         “All right. When I come back, I’ll hang a lantern so you know to come down.” He smiled awkwardly as he pulled on his jacket. Vixie hopped down and gave him another shy smile. The navy sky was just beginning to pale up above the eastern wall off the lagoon.
         “Well, it’s getting late. I better go,” the young pirate said.
         “Yeah. I better be in bed before the sun comes up.” Vixie hopped back down onto the granite peninsula and glanced up at Juryrig standing on the boat. “So, I’ll see you later then?” she asked with a silly half-wave. Juryrig scratched the back of his head bashfully.
         “Sure…” he replied. The young girl smiled and headed off for the trees. “Hey! Vixie! Wait a second!” Juryrig called suddenly. He hopped down off the airship and trotted across the rock and down the bank over to her. He pulled something out of the inside of his jacket wrapped in a white cloth. “Here,” he said as he handed her the heavy, cloth wrapped object.
         “What is it?” she asked as she began unraveling the wet fabric.
         “Binoculars. You can look through the lenses and see things far away.” Vixie’s blue eyes turned up to his. “To make sure that it’s definitely me down here before you come.” She looked at him for a moment, and then made her way into the trees without a word. Juryrig grinned at her back and turned to head back for the recon boat. Suddenly she called out.
         “Don’t forget me Juryrig…”

         The young pirate climbed back up onto the rock. He jumped aboard the ship and went to the helm. He whooped happily as the engine whined to life, only part of his exhilaration due to his mechanical skills.

         On the far side of the small basin, in the village called Tamelia situated on the south foot of the Sayloo Mountains, in a house high on the northern cliffs, Vixie knelt in her bedroom window and looked out over Sayloo Valley. She looked out over the three sleeping villages below and over the tiny shipping port and towards the distant, tree encircled lagoon at the bottom end of the valley. She watched through her binoculars as the small pirate transport lifted quietly out of the lagoon, keel dripping, and sailed silently into the starlit sky. She watched until the stars had faded away behind a blue haze and the tiny ship’s balloon had disappeared over the stretch of wasteland beyond.

*          *          *