Pirates of Vallahar, Chapter 4

Chapter 4
Enter Bullseye

         The Odin descended quietly down the slopes of the Salakian Mountain Range overlooking a dark, twilit valley below. A lake of cool evening air at the foot of the mountainside swept over the deck and Juryrig pulled on his flight jacket. The sun had just set behind the mountains and there was just enough light to see the small village of Pedimar nestled in the heart of the remote valley.
         The forest-shrouded village of Pedimar was a fairly well-known settlement to those familiar with the area despite its isolation in the midst of a vast wilderness and an even vaster mountain range. While not as large as Rapids City, Pedimar was still a popular trading post for merchants and smugglers since its out of the way location kept it hidden from the ever searching stag patrols. It was lucky Juryrig had noticed the Salakians in the distance otherwise he never would have been able to find the small, poorly lit town. As it was, he'd run top speed the whole way there, so the chances of the stags tracking him in balloon ships were slim.
         The Odin's few remaining crewmembers were below deck nursing injuries and mourning the dead. Juryrig hadn't left the helm the entire journey. The more recent hire-ons had mostly survived the assault; it was Juryrig's personal friends and long-time partners who were killed. Bruiser, Axel, Sammy, Pedro... he miserably checked off the list of dead. He knew the survivors would probably be on the first transport south as soon as they landed in Pedimar. Most of the young men had never been this far north and had never even seen a stag before. Those who survived stag encounters generally saw to it that it never happened again, and here they were on the front lines of the war crossing known stag patrol lanes every day. Juryrig didn’t have much capital left, but he decided he'd make sure they all had enough to get them to Kinderhook, at least. He didn't expect to sell any of his cargo here in Pedimar anyway, and with the damage the Odin took over the Ubaries, the rest of his funds would go back into the ship.
         Juryrig cursed under his breath as he buttoned his flight jacket closed in the evening mountain breeze. He scanned the city below as the Odin slowly descended towards the dim and unremarkable docks of Pedimar. There were usually few lights burning at night in order to keep hidden from any stray stag reconnaissance; Mostly just the dimly lit docks and the warm glow coming from the tavern at the center of town. He brought the Odin in towards the four torches below that had just been lit for him, mindful of the new repulsors and the even newer damage inflicted on the old girl.
         As he surveyed the rising valley around them, a lone figure walked up onto the flight deck. Juryrig was thankful that it was still light enough to see her blue eyes. Vixie smiled tiredly as she walked up to him.
         "It's strange to see the stars. Makes me feel almost naked to not have the balloon up there, watching over us," she gestured towards the black, brilliantly starlit heavens that the valley was named for.
         "I prefer it," he said stoicly. "Visibility is unbelievable." He noticed her undershirt. "Aren't you cold?" She turned away and leaned against the railing.
         "Nah. I'm fine... Starlight Valley huh?" she asked, taking in the beautiful, mist covered town over the side.
         "Yeah. I'm thinkin' maybe we'll rest here in Pedimar for a while."
         "Maybe look into hiring some more crew?" Vixie volunteered quietly. Juryrig failed to hide his wince.
         "I can't believe I got caught with my pants down. By stags no less," he cursed himself.
         "It wasn't your fault, it was an ambush. They had to have been waiting for us."
         "They must've somehow found out about the repulsor deal." Juryrig was perplexed. "That blasted Toecutter was a pea brain... Guess that luck I'm famous for was bound to run out."
         "Well, we did manage to make it here in one piece. How many boats can you say were ambushed by nine stag destroyers and are still flying?" Juryrig didn't feel any better.
         "We could have outrun them," he continued. "Bruiser tried to warn me. He tried to warn me and I ignored him."
         "It's not your fault," Vixie repeated firmly as she touched his arm. "The crew doesn't blame you." Juryrig took a deep breath. Get a hold of yourself, 'Rig. It's just another night. Just another landing... He throttled back as the Odin glided in just above a grain barge parked on the foggy docks. The dark silhouettes of tall pines rose up over the deck to either side as the dock eased up toward the keel. Vixie squeezed his arm and made her way back down to the main deck to prepare the crew to disembark.
         "How many are leaving?" he asked her suddenly before she went below. The pause before her answer told him all he needed to know.
         "All of 'em except Galloway." She scoffed at the name. Juryrig had met Madric Galloway about three months back. He had seemed like nothing more than a drunk and a crook, but the man could handle a ship when he was hammered almost as well as Juryrig could sober. They had picked him up from a small militia base in the southeast. He had been selling militia patrol routes to the highest bidder, one of whom was Juryrig. When his commander discovered it, he sentenced Galloway to death by firing squad. The young soldier offered to work for Juryrig if the smuggler could get him out of the stockade before "check-out day."
         Before he discovered alcohol, Galloway was an accomplished pilot and had even learned the Stagakhri language during his militia tour. He seemed like a great addition to the crew, but his habitual cowardice and his subsequent addiction often made him more of a liability than an asset. While Juryrig didn't necessarily regret hiring him on, the man had proven himself an ace pilot at least, he didn't consider him a very reliable member of the crew. Not like the rest. It was little wonder why a man like Galloway would survive the attack while men like Axel and Bruiser would give their lives to save their friends. True men. Not like Galloway... Not like me. Juryrig gritted his teeth and yanked back the throttle as the deckhand below gave him the signal to kill his descent. The Odin came to rest four feet above the wooden planks of the torch-lit docks of Pedimar.

         Juryrig closed the last access panel on the underside of the Odin. The repulsor probably wasn't as good as new, (what repulsor is, for that matter?) but it'd work just fine for his standards. He hoped that the damage wouldn't cause an increase in energy consumption from the stabilizer. Eight months wasn't anywhere near long enough to make his fortune. He angrily wiped his hands off on a rag at the sudden thought of Axel and shot a gaze around the shipyard. He could see his breath in the clammy air. The mist enshrouding the docks flickered orange in the torchlight, and parted only briefly enough to allow a tall young pirate with raven-black hair to appear. She briefly inspected his half-assed handy-work.
         "I got everything cleaned up," Vixie reported with a sigh. "The assault rifles are all accounted for. How’s she holdin' up?"
         "She'll live," Juryrig grunted as he forced a smile.
         "I take it we won't be staying long, what with the Rapids City run and all?" They walked away from the Odin and into the dark, sleeping town.
         "Maybe a couple of days. Give us time to unwind. If I keep up this pace I'm liable to arrive in Vaspur an unrecognizable lump of bruises." He gingerly touched the red welt on his throat, courtesy of the stag captain's bullwhip. Vixie self-consciously felt at her left eye. The swelling had gone down. The bruise wouldn't be too bad. The cobblestone street magnified the sound of their footsteps as they walked together under the dark and watchful gaze of the black, wood-framed windows in the stone buildings.
         "So we're going to Paradise City, then," Vixie said quietly.
         "I'm not going anywhere near Rapids City." Vixie didn't blame him. If the survivors of Rapids City, assuming there were any, found out that he was the target of today's raid, he'd be able to add yet another city to his ever growing list of places where he wasn't welcome under penalty of extreme death.
         "That's better in the long run anyway," she said. "Paradise City's a much better market to offload a bunch of firearms. For a decent price, anyway." She didn't mention that the trip was relatively long and notoriously dangerous. And with the stags apparently looking for them, they were liable to run into more trouble on the way.
         With the exception of the occasional staggering drunk, the streets were completely deserted. Most women and children were long asleep in their comfortable beds, erroneously imagining themselves to be far away from war and strife. Most of the men were packed into the famous tavern known as ‘The Spouter’ in the center of town, drinking their worries away with the crutch of humankind: Alcohol. Sounds like a plan to me, Juryrig thought.
         "I guess we got a lot of hiring to do tomorrow?" Vixie again asked tentatively. She watched him carefully. He didn't look at her.
         "I don't know," Juryrig said with a sigh as he shoved his hands into his pockets, "Maybe I won't hire as many on this time. I'm through with all this combat and death. I'm not a soldier, I'm a businessman, dammit. From now on we take safe, lucrative missions." Vixie had heard this every time they lost a crewmember, business partner, or friend to violence. Juryrig had never taken pleasure in death or killing like many people in his profession did. Not even stags. He was cursed and blessed, she realized. Cursed to despise the way the world forced him to survive: Blessed to be so damn good at surviving in spite of it. They'd certainly seen more than their fair share of death and despair. Even with the stags moving in from the east and the pirates crawling out of the wastes to the south, most people were lucky enough to go their whole lives without seeing the hardships and trauma that these two young adults had seen by their respective eighteenth birthdays. Still, his reputation as a death-defying pilot and legendary smuggler always sounded good to the potential hires.
         "'Safe' and 'lucrative' don’t belong in the same sentence when it comes to gunrunning, but you're right. I wouldn't want something like Rapids City to happen again." Vixie looked up at his dark profile in the light of the stars. She could see the silhouette of stubble on his chin and his dirty, messed-up hair sticking out in front and waving softly as he walked. She hated looking at him sometimes. It only made it harder to be with him. It was a cruel twist of her psyche, she thought. Too often it pained her to see his strong, handsome face. It pained her to be so close to him on the one hand, and so distant on the other. She'd tried to write him off time and again, yet she could never seem turn away from those eyes no matter how hard she tried. She could never abandon the kindest, most courageous man she’d ever known.
         "We could fly the ship ourselves," she suggested. "We've done it before,"
         "Well, maybe. It is a little hard to conduct business with only two people." Juryrig usually preferred a complete gun crew, a navigator, an engineer, plus a small army of bloodthirsty pirates with itchy trigger fingers at his back, but then again, the more friends you had, the worse a disaster it was when you got them into a no-win situation. And Juryrig seemed pretty good at getting them into those... "We'll hash it all out tomorrow," he finished. As they fell under the diminished glow of the lone gas lamp that marked the center of town, Juryrig noticed Vixie start down Tobit Street in the direction of the local inn. He stopped and turned to her. "Hey, how 'bout checkin' out the old watering hole?"
         "No thanks. I think I'm gonna hit the bricks." She managed a weak smile. In the lamplight, Juryrig noticed the tired slouch in her shoulders and the dark circles forming under her eyes. He suddenly felt intensely selfish and inconsiderate. The full weight of what had happened over the Lakes of the Ubaries began to sink in. He realized exactly how much Vixie had helped him through it all and how exhausted she must be. Despite his sudden concern for Vixie, he knew he needed to get behind a bottle soon. And he knew that she needed sleep. He hoped, at least, that she was feeling better than he was tonight. The best he could manage was a drained, half-hearted smile and a wisecrack of equal quality.
         "Okay... but be careful, there's a good-sized militia base in this town. I don't want to have to come bail you outa lockup for keeping those green-boys up all night."
         A mischievous grin softened her haggard features. "They don't lock you up for that anymore in this town..."

*          *          *

         'The Spouter' was exactly as Juryrig remembered it. Loud, friendly, and stinky. As he walked through the doorway of the crowded tavern his spirits immediately began to rise. It was nice to be around happy people, even if the happiness was alcohol induced. An imaginary good time is as good a time as any... The place was large and packed and he had to step over more than one unconscious body as he made his way towards the bar.
         "Well! Look who jus' popped in the door, lads! If it ain't our old mate Jerryrig!" a large, white-haired man bellowed from the bar. Juryrig almost didn't recognize the man. He'd gained about a hundred pounds and his hair was whiter than the Zaltor Peaks, but his wicked, ever-alert eyes, untouched by the mug of beer in his hand, and his broad white smile gave him away immediately.
         "Stubbs!" Juryrig exclaimed as he made his way over. "What’re you doin' in Pedimar?" The man grinned.
         "Why I'm 'avin' me a drink! Bottoms up laddie!" The man tilted his mug back and swallowed whatever foul brew it contained. Juryrig sat down as Stubbs ordered him a drink.
         "You still fly the Tiger's Claw?" the younger man asked.
         "Only when I go on vacation,"
         "Don't tell me you're a land lubber now?"
         "Aye. It's a crowded bi'ness bein' a dock-hopper nowadays. Too many green-boys and staggers. Gimme the old days when all a mate had to keep watch on was 'is ship 'n the stars unner her gasbag," the grizzled old pirate remarked. Juryrig scoffed.
         "As long as I can have my repulsor pads, I'll take any kind of days you can give me..." Juryrig collected his drink from the barkeep. "The time of the balloon is over my friend. Things change for the better." Stubbs eyed him with a suspicious, but almost fatherly smirk as he finished off his drink. He was retired and drunk, but he was still one sharp old pirate.
         "Shore lad! You wait an' see. In 'bout forty 'er so years you'll change yer tune, jus' like me.” Just then, a loosely dressed young redhead with glassy eyes plopped down to Juryrig's left and flung her arm over his shoulder.
         "Are you really him?" she slurred. "I mean, are you really Juryrig? The captain of the Odin?"
         "Take a hike, lass! We're catchin' up on ol' times, the cap'n an' me," Stubbs said gruffly. The woman only looked mildly offended as she moved down the bar to comfort another weary traveler. Stubbs hit him on the arm to get his attention. "'Ow long ya been in port, lad?"
         "Just got in tonight. We were ambushed by stags over the Lakes of the Ubaries. They hit Rapids City and then dug in, waiting for us to show up, apparently."
         "Aye," he said solemnly, setting down his empty mug. "I 'eard the staggers been steppin' up patrols in this area." Juryrig huffed with wounded pride as he ordered his friend another beer.
         "Stubbs you know I could handle a patrol. This was about ten capital ships, all repulsor powered, came right up out of the forest and surrounded us. Barely got out by the skin of my teeth. I'm waylaid here until I can find a replacement crew to get me at least to- ...wherever it is I'm going." Juryrig shot the old Pirate a glance. "You wouldn't be interested, would ya?" Stubbs turned back to his mug.
         "Maybe ten years ago... or five beers from now!" He tilted back another mug-full. "Laddie, you know I'd help ya in a pinch. An' I ain't troubled by no staggers. But I'm afraid me old bones've seen the last o' the clear blue... Nay. You're right matey. Ol' b'loon dogs like me seen the last 'o thar days... Me an' the ol' boys'd jus' slow ya down." Stubbs shook his head sadly. "The Tiger's Claw canna keep up with the Odin no more, bucko..." Juryrig winced as he took a sip of his rum.
         "There are plenty of eight-jack repulsor systems on the market. Hell, there's a free one lying at the bottom of the Brendine canyon right now. Just upgrade the Claw. Get rid of that old balloon. It's nothin' but a liability anymore." Stubbs looked genuinely offended.
         "Nay, laddie! I'll not 'ave me ship go 'round naked!" Juryrig laughed.
         "Well, can you recommend anyone particular in town that's for hire?" Stubbs grimaced as he swallowed.
         "Nay! These green-boys wouldn't know a stagger from a bumblecrow... Well, there is one. Don't know if he's for hire, though. A local kid we call Bullseye. Surest shot this side o' Dead Fingers Marsh 'ee is. Bloody good pilot too."
         "Bullseye, huh? Where can I find this guy?" Juryrig asked.
         "Well ee's right over there!" Stubbs pointed in the direction of the dartboard. Juryrig turned to see a large crowd forming around the popular tavern game. He set down his drink and walked over, elbowing his way through shouting teenage boys and cooing girls to the center where stood a young man with his arms crossed and a dart in his hand.
         The kid was in his late teens and fairly well built for his age. Standing about six feet tall, he had blond hair and examined his dart with young but confident green eyes. Next to him was a lanky brown-haired kid; Bullseye's opponent. The crowd hushed and Juryrig watched as the second, skinnier youth flung the tiny missile. It struck about an inch from the center of the target. A few of the guys in the crowd grunted in approval, confident the bigger kid couldn't beat that. It was obvious that Bullseye was the crowd favorite as he stepped up for his throw. The crowd once again grew silent and this time the girls held their breath as Bullseye lined up his aim and concentrated. In an impressively quick and fluid motion, the kid released his dart. As the missile hit the board, it struck the other guy's dart and ricocheted into the bull's eye, sending the second dart tumbling to the ground. Cheers erupted from the crowd as Juryrig watched unimpressed.
         "That don't count!" the lanky kid barked. "That's against the rules!" Bullseye turned from his admirers and faced his opponent.
         "It lands where it lands, bird-legs. That's the rules." Bullseye slung another dart back over his shoulder sending it careening into the bull"s eye alongside his first. The crowd gasped in amazement. Even Juryrig did a double take.
         "Ho Ho Ho! Told ya the kid was good, eh Jerryrig?" Stubbs walked up behind Juryrig with mug in hand and slapped him on the back. The brown haired kid was fuming. His face was red with rage as the blond kid gave high fives to the guys in the crowd and grinned immodestly at the girls. Juryrig slipped quietly over to the dartboard and examined it closely. But he didn't examine the darts, he examined the board itself. Perfect. Finishing nail and a string...
         "My turn kid." Juryrig's quiet comment was heard nonetheless by everyone. He looked almost dangerously confident as he turned from the board and calmly walked into the center of the circle, unfazed by the attention of the crowd. The audience instinctively hushed. Bullseye turned to face him, not the slightest bit intimidated. Good.
         "Who the hell are you?" he asked suspiciously.
         "Ain't ye never heard o' Jerryrig, cap'n o' the famous Odin?" Stubbs asked.
         "Isn't he that smuggler that ran the Starfling blockade?" someone whispered in the crowd. Several of his more memorable accomplishments were mentioned before Stubbs continued.
         "This's him all right! Get ye a good look 'cause it'll be a month o' Sundays 'fore ya see 'im again." There were mutters of recognition throughout the crowd, and several of Bullseye’s female fans turned their attention to the slightly elder young man, which Juryrig ignored. By now most of the bar was gathered around in the hopes of seeing the famous Juryrig in action; especially against local hero, Bullseye.
         "So how 'bout it junior?" Juryrig asked as he flipped a dart nonchalantly in his hand. He knew the kid didn't like a stranger stealing his show. Bullseye sneered and walked over to the dartboard to fetch the rest of the darts. Grabbing his three, he handed two over to Juryrig. "Just one. That's all we'll need." This got a reaction from the crowd. Bullseye scowled at him in surprise. Juryrig couldn't tell if the kid was impressed by the older man's confidence or was just suspicious of his motives. The kid obviously knew how to handle himself even if he was a little bit cocky about it, and he certainly had an astonishingly good aim. But it takes a lot more than being a good shot to keep yourself alive out there. Juryrig cracked his knuckles. It had been a while...
         "Okay smart guy let's see whatcha got!" Bullseye challenged, arms crossed. "Put it wherever you want, 'cause I'll hit the bull's-eye dead center. Every time. Guaranteed." Juryrig took a breath and lined up his sights. He too was an exceptional shot, thanks to his stint in The Death Mark. Darts was his game, and he'd had the best (and worst) pirates teaching him all the tricks. He wondered if he could still do his old hotshot trick. If he could pull it off, it'd easily match this kid's tavern tricks. He couldn't count how many bets he'd 'won' with this one. Of course it only worked once... It lands where it lands kid...
         He lined up... concentrated... and let fly with a very hard throw. The dart hit the wooden wall hard above the dartboard with a metallic -tink- and bounced away, its tip bent and blunted. It struck the small nail that held the board to the wall by a flimsy loop, and the whole thing tumbled to the floor.
         In a move almost too quick to be seen, Bullseye whipped his dart sideways at the wall just under the falling target. When the dartboard clattered to the floor, there was a lone dart sticking up out of the bull's eye.
         The crowd was too shocked to cheer. "Holy shit!" someone yelled. "Did you see that?" Stubbs' beer spilled out of his slack mug onto the floor.
         "Looks like I win again," Bullseye said as he looked up at a stunned Juryrig. "Man I just can't be beaten."
         "You wanna be beaten?" The lanky brown-haired kid stepped in between Bullseye and Juryrig. "I'll give ya a beatin'!" The kid wound up and belted Bullseye in the face. The bigger kid went down with the skinny guy right behind him. The crowd erupted. Roaring out of control, they cursed and cheered at the two battling teens. Juryrig was quickly shouldered to the back of the crowd as the men grabbed one kid off of the other and vice versa. Bullseye, once again, seemed to be the crowd favorite.
         Just then, the burly bartender pushed his way into the circle, the man's bald, tattooed head in sharp contrast with his apron. "What kinda punk-ass bar you think I'm runnin’ here?!" The huge man pried the youngsters apart by their collars and held them one in each hand. "Know what I do to shoe-string potato mama’s boys who brawl in my bar? I boot their little sweetheart asses out the door!" He kicked open the side door to the bar and violently deposited them in the alley.
         As the crowd began to disperse, Juryrig started for the door to go after Bullseye when Stubbs grabbed him by the arm.
         "'Ey 'Rig! 'old on a second laddie." Stubbs took Juryrig back over to the bar. Juryrig marveled at how well the old man held his liquor. His wizened eyes were as bright and aware as they ever were. The old pirate lowered his voice.
         "A pirate come in here couple 'o nights ago. Said ee's from The Death Mark..."

*          *          *

         "HEY! Kid! Wait up!" Juryrig yelled as he caught up with Bullseye a few blocks from The Spouter. He had just passed Tobit Street; down which was the inn Juryrig was seeking. He walked briskly towards the young man, all the while wishing he'd had more time at the bar.
         Bullseye nursed a black eye as he turned to wait for Juryrig, looking slightly irritated. "Why are you following me around?"
         "I just wanted to tell ya good game back there."
         "That's it?"
         "And... that was one hell of a shot," he tried.
         "Yeah, yers too. I can't believe you actually managed to knock the board loose."
         "You could've."
         "Yeah but I can't believe you did." Juryrig raised an eyebrow at him. "Where'd you learn to throw like that?" Bullseye continued.
         "I used to be in The Death Mark. Of course, right after I popped the board loose I was supposed to punch you in the face," Juryrig replied.
         "Yeah, Gordo took care of that part..." Bullseye gently rubbed his eye. "...The Death Mark... Aren't those the guys you supposedly stole all those repulsors from a week or so ago?" asked Bullseye skeptically. Juryrig looked at him wearily. I guess I shouldn't be surprised...
         "Stole the Odin from 'em too. Needless to say, they don't exactly send me flowers on my birthday."
         "I can see why."
         "Word travels fast around here don't it?"
         "Well, I got a bunch of buddies in the militia. Apparently you're big news in Zander's Cradle and Rapids City for blowin' up a Death Mark repulsor transport and evading a stag strike force."
         "Yeah," Juryrig responded in a resigned tone. "I just learned from Stubbs that I'm at the top of Captain Piper's list of 'people to beat severely.' Now after the ambush yesterday I need to hire on some more crew. Why don't you come along? You held your own pretty good back there in that scrap; not to mention you could hit the narrow end of a stag with a dart from a hundred yards." Bullseye laughed.
         "Sorry man, I'm not for hire and I'm not exactly fond of pirates even if I was. Besides, you don't exactly sound like a safe bet at the moment anyway. I'm joining the militia here in Pedimar. We leave tomorrow morning to intercept that strike force you ducked."
         "What?! And you say I'm not a safe bet? Kid! Don't you know that's a death trap? Most of those guys don't make it past twenty! Where I come from they're called 'target practice.'"
         "Yeah, yeah. I know good and well where you come from. Are you tryin' to tell me that I'll be safer running guns on a ship known throughout the Northern Wilds for getting the shit blasted out of it by stags, militia, and other pirates?" Juryrig waved away the kid's extreme and unfounded exaggeration with a scowl.
         "Shorty, I seen more combat against stags than you could stomach and I'm just a merchant..."
         "Is that what you call it?" Bullseye interrupted as he turned and started down the street. Juryrig kept up.
         "...Those green-boys actually go looking for stags! And that fleet that hit Rapids City is not leaving the Northern Wilds quietly I can tell you that right now. You're in for a short, unpleasant life with the militia. At least with us you'll have a fighting chance to get out of this hellhole and a cut of the profits." Bullseye turned angrily.
         "I don’t care about your stupid profits, and I don't care about keeping my ass out of trouble. I'm going to do my duty as a man of Vallahar and kill off these stag invaders once and for all. My dad started it; I'm going to finish it for him. When I'm done with them, the stags will never again set one claw in the Northern Wilds." Juryrig regarded his conviction with a mix of cynicism and respect. Bullseye leaned in close. "Humans will never be safe until every stag is wiped off the face of this planet. They aren't gonna rest until we're gone, so we can't rest until they're gone. We have a right to this land. It's always been ours and it will always be ours. They came here a thousand years ago to kill us off and they're still trying, so I think the duty of real men and women in this land is clear." Juryrig was disappointed in this pro-military propaganda that his friends had obviously filled his head with.
         "Are you finished? Look, the more money you make, the more ships and better weapons you can buy for your little crusade..." he tried one last time. Bullseye looked frustrated at the lack of impression his speech made on Juryrig. I heard it a thousand times kid... From someone who deserves my respect a lot more than you ever will...
         "Look, Juryrig, I gotta get some sleep. We ship out tomorrow at noon." Bullseye turned and started down the street.
         "Alright kid..." Juryrig said in unexpected disappointment. He felt a strange affection for the kid that he couldn't explain. "Just remember there's eight of them. They'll hide in the trees. Make sure you see all of 'em before you engage. And... nice game..." Juryrig turned and started back for the square.
         "Hey!" Bullseye called after him. "Tomorrow morning! The Spouter! How about one last game?" Juryrig smiled and saluted to say he'd be there. He turned the corner of Tobit Street and found what he'd been missing. He walked into the comfort of the Pedimar Inn, hoping for the sleep he feared would be hard to find.

*          *          *

         Under the cover of midnight, a small transport glided in quietly on repulsor pads and settled to the dock. The 'sport gently touched down in the dark, deserted Pedimar shipyards. As the soft repulsor engines died, the wooden cargo hatch opened and a dark silhouette emerged from inside. Walking down the ramp, the lone figure stopped and looked down the dock. Down the hill in the moonlight of the largest berth sat the great sleeping battleship known throughout Vallahar as the Odin. The figure turned and walked around the other side of the comparatively tiny ship and into the city. There, on the side of the transport was the unmistakable insignia of The Death Mark.