The Adventures of the HMS Harlot

Part 4: Ethel Blay, Navigator

I love scouting in the dingies. When I was young and first making plans to get away from home, off the colony and out into open skies, I planned on doing it all in a tiny little scouting ship. Of course I did! Why in heaven would I think I'd end up part of a pirate crew, let alone on one of the nicest (ex) Monarchy fliers? The Harlot is bigger and more beautiful than anything I ever thought I'd be flying in. It has nooks and crannies I've yet to explore, even though I've lived on it for years. I don't think I'll ever fully comprehend all of what the old girl has to offer, particularly when it comes to the engines. No one understands them like Witherford does; it's like he has his own world down there.

The Harlot truly is sleek and majestic and a force to be reckoned with. The scourge of the skies! Of course, that acclaim is aided by a most fearsome captain and a motley crew of some pretty big personalities. I know the Harlot, I have for years and she's big and bold and, as her name suggests, quite the lady of the night the way she glides through the air. She's also safe. And home.

At least that's what I was rambling on about to Seymour and Connor, as we approached the most menacing looking ship I have ever seen. It was clearly Armada with its harsh iron sides and cold green and silver banners. The massive ship loomed over our tiny dingy in the night air silent, deadly, and huge; thrice bigger than the Harlot and far better armed.

On Connor's orders I brought us into the colony dock where the Armada monstrosity was refueling. We had to be close both so that scout and sniper could easily scope things out and for easy escape once they finished. Not that if we three were noticed by this many Armada troops we'd have any chance in hell of getting out alive, but I tried not to think to hard about that as I docked our ship and prepared to wait.

I stayed with the dingy, exchanging pleasantries with the dock hands. Men stopped to chat with me for a minute or two. They were charming and entertaining, as dock men usually are, and I smiled and laughed along as best I could manage, but my mind was too busy to enjoy it. It was preoccupied with the sheer volume of my heart beat. It was thudding so hard in my chest I was sure anyone within a mile could hear it. We've taken on Armada ships in the past and won, but nothing, NOTHING has compared to the size and scope of this.

Blessedly, Connor and Seymour were back within an hour and we took off. They reported that the ship wasn't only refueling on the colony, but weaponizing. No one had to say what for. The Gabriel hadn't run; it had gone for reinforcements. The Michael was coming for us now. We flew back toward the Harlot in silence. Suddenly, I didn't want to be in a dingy anymore. We were too exposed, too unprotected, the winds could take us anywhere. The vast open skies were suddenly terrifying. What once made excitement rise in my chest like a flurry of wings, now, after coming face to face with the reality of what the crew is up against, sent a rock plummeting to the pit of my stomach. In that moment, the sky seemed too big; the dark unknown around and below us seemed to shrink this already tiny ship.

I looked back and forth between the two men, who I sat in utter stillness with. Seymour was somehow more stoic than usual. Whatever light had been there back when he, Connor, and I were laughing and enjoying our time together was gone, replaced now by his cold sniper mask. The mask of a man who kills at a distance and in the blink of an eye. Connor had a similar look, though softer, his brows knotted, clearly calculating. Connor had made clear his views on unnecessary killing, views that Seymour didn't have the luxury to share. Such different men, but both had a look of dread in their eyes for what was to come. I missed Connor's jokes and Seymour's stories and longed for the safety of the Harlot.

As I sailed our silent (quiet as death seems just a little too accurate) dingy back home I kept my eyes up toward the stars, the constant stars that remind me of my place in the sky. When I saw the shape of the Harlot, outlined in stars against the dark horizon, I let go of a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding. 

Ethel Blay