The Adventures of the HMS Harlot

Part 2: Roy Nightingale, Pilot

Shore leave is so rare a commodity in the life I have come to know. Victoria made the very wise decision to let the crew have the run of the Colony where we docked to restock and refuel. Crews get antsy after too much time together on a floating hunk of wood and tensions tend to boil over unless they are allowed to pursue whatever avenues of release they may.

Part of me, the part that is still a captain, wanted to stay and make sure that supplies were correctly requisitioned and that we found suitable replacements for the crew that Otto so casually disposes of. That part, reflex more than anything else, will never die I suppose. I realized some time ago however that I don't necessarily need to give in to that part or let its undeniable pull drag me under. More of me today, in fact, was excited about simply wandering the town and taking the measure of this particular piece of sky.

I also wanted to find a new guitar, having broken the last instrument I owned over the head of that inebriated, card-cheating lout in the Barbour Saloon. And while I don't regret the actions I took, music has been something that has been missing from my life for too long now and its absence is something I need to remedy.

Connor was of course beside me when we left the ship and headed into town, habit almost becoming ritual in the way we wander together during our free time, finding a quiet drink or more often a less quiet one. The first thing that struck me today though, after moving away from the docks, was how poor a state this colony was in. The docks were the first clue, but harbor districts are always the seediest, poorest parts of town where sailors, mercantile and otherwise, go to alleviate their chronic dry-throats and other desires of a darker nature. Basically to do what most of the Harlot would be doing now. This colony's harbor was poorer than most but it wasn't until we reached the heart of the town that I saw how bad it was here.

Most of the ramshackle homes were in disrepair and men seemed more drunk than sober, the clearest sign that work was scarce. Clothing was patchwork at best and torn at not quite the worst. Stray dogs were begging alongside men and women holding outstretched bowls, with passersby treating both to a nondiscriminatory indifference.

The worst part was that this may have been the very worst of the ports we've landed in, but not by overly much. The state of most of the world lately seems to echo this struggling colony. Surely a feather in the cap of the mighty and prosperous Empire of the Armada. For a while the mood imposed by our surroundings threatened to choke any pleasure (and perhaps rightly so) from our all too brief shore leave. Luckily for us though, we happened to run into Eldon.

More accurately Eldon ran into us. Or to be even more accurate, past us. Very fast.

The fun began when we heard some shouting a few lanes over and Connor insisted we check it out. Still affected by the wretched state of squalor in the area I tried to persuade him to leave it be, though I don't think I ever doubted we would end up becoming hopelessly involved. Quiet drinks are simply a luxury not for the likes of Connor and myself. So it was after hurrying towards the commotion that we found our fleet footed Eldon and about half a dozen colonial enforcers.

"Was that Eldon?" Connor asked, already turning to follow.

"Yeah, and he looks like he's in a spot of trouble!" I managed, turning hard with him.

"What should we do?"

"You give me cover and I'll try to grab him."

Not the most elaborate plan, but not every moment calls for the tacticians light touch and there really wasn't much time for anything more. Besides, one of the most gratifying parts of working with Connor for so long was that we don't need to devise elaborate plans. We may sometimes do just that for fun, I really should recount the snake in the brazier story one of these days, but it's hardly a necessity anymore.