A Pirate's Life for Mei

The Team & Marriage Woes

Lance

Lance did not wake up in a dungeon. He did not wake up in chains. He did not sleep in a tiny cot in a tiny house under a roof that leaks when it rains.

He was no longer a prisoner. He was no longer a clerk and a secret smuggler of various goods. He would not, could not, go back to living like a prisoner in the woods.

Not after last night. Last night had involved a hot, soapy bath in a tub built of Italian marble, where he'd been hand-washed by no less than three gorgeous beauties who had then followed him to his suite and joined him on his massive, king-sized bed, where he'd proceeded to enjoy himself in ways he hadn't since that horrible, terrifying day in the past that had led him into years of misery.

He woke this beautiful, happy morning surrounded by pillowy heaven, tangled in fine cotton sheets and nude companions. He then proceeded to dine on a breakfast of freshly laid eggs and freshly baked bread and fresh-squeezed guava juice and found himself feeling, for the first time in all-too-long, like a man again. His spirit felt lighter, and his being felt more whole.

Lance emerged into the street and found Governor Koopman already waiting outside the guesthouse with a pair of Dutch marines flanking him.

Koopman smiled with a knowing expression. "Ah. You look refreshed. A man restored."

Embarrassed, he smiled. "I feel that way."

"A taste of the life you should be living, not the months and years those idiot pannenkoeken have stolen from you."

Lance couldn't help but smile wider. "I have missed the good life. I'm definitely ready to get back to it."

"Excellent. Come. I will show you around town on our way to your first meeting, where I will introduce you to the team." He put a hand on Lance's shoulder and pulled him along.

The guesthouse Lance had slept in was in the Prestige Quarter, four culdesacs shaped like a four-leafed clover lined with fabulously decadent houses. Each mansion was three stories tall, painted white, pale pink, green, blue, orange, or yellow, fully staffed and outfitted with every amenity. It was where Koopman's chosen talent resided in extreme comfort, though they worked downtown.

The first stop on the way to the office was the bazaar.

"The retail heart of the island," Koopman waved towards the plaza.

The rectangular space was walled by two-story buildings and floored with tan paving stones. Stepped pyramids topped with umbrellas held mounds of fruits and vegetables and other edibles. But more than the usual foodstuffs, there were other goods as well.

Lance saw dozens of different brands of wine and beer and rum, stacks of cigars and pipes, bags of mushrooms and special herbs, and pistols and muskets and knives. While many items were daily necessities or useful tools, many were luxuries. He fingered dolls, knickknacks, trinkets, souvenirs, and the kinds of items he'd last seen in modern shopping malls. It was a haven of consumerism.

He picked up a figurine of a toy soldier, puzzled. "You sell this kind of stuff?"

The governor seemed surprised. "Of course! Why wouldn't we?"

"I used to work in a colony store. Most residents could only afford the bare necessities." He replaced the toy next to dozens just like it on the stall table.

Koopman seemed proud and smug. "We have a lot more wealthy citizens than most colonies. We also sell to other colonies." He rubbed his hands together. "Come, let me show you what else makes our lovely island a capitalist paradise."