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The Governor’s gaze was frosty as a whitecap on a wild southerly, and just as inviting. He leaned across the table, the reek of soil and fire hanging off his finery.

“So, Miss Wheaton… ”

“Captain Wheaton.” The response was automatic. She wrinkled her nose against the claustrophobic smell, wishing for salt air.

“Er, yes, you have claimed that title, but it’s hardly legitimate. Much like your profession.”

“That would be my alleged profession.”

His eyes got colder still. “Please, Captain Wheaton, we caught you red-handed! A ship, laden with pilfered silks, and a chest of stolen doubloons.”

“Who is this ‘we’ you refer to, Governor? I didn’t see you on the docks! And your agents ‘caught’ a ship devoid of a crew!”

“It makes no matter if you deny it, Captain, we both know the Ranunculus is your vessel, but that’s not what we’re here to talk about. Let me be blunt with you a moment.”

“If you were speaking in subtleties before, I’m a little afraid.”

“Stow your sass, Captain, I’m offering you a chance. The reality is that you’re a girl playing dress up – a two-bit pirate at best – and I’m after bigger fish. I’m prepared to offer you a deal.”

“A deal.” The voice was flat, but managed to twist the two words into something obscene, writhing into the air.

The Governor ignored her tone and continued, “Yes, and I’m sure you’ll find it to your benefit.”

“I don’t trade in lives.”

“Don’t be naive, Captain: every bolt of fabric you steal claims lives, whether directly or not.”

“I said trade. Hypothetically speaking, there’s a difference between forcing a few underwriters to do their jobs and selling out a friend.”

“Just hear me out, Captain – nobody said anything about friends.”

“Who are you after, then?”

“The Dread Pirate Smith.”

Her mouth twisted into a genuine smile, followed by a long chuckle. “The Dread Pirate, huh? I didn’t think a Governor would place much stock in fairytales.”

“Oh, Smith is no phantom, Captain. We’ve captured two ships operating under his orders already. And your own vessel was charting the same course as both of them.”

“My alleged vessel. So you’re saying I’m here due to coincidence? Here I thought it was a free ocean.”

“Not quite. We managed to get the crews to talk, but they were too addled to give up anything beside the name. They’re all scared, Captain, and more scared of Smith than of our, er,  persuasion.”

“How unfortunate for you.”

“I hadn’t finished, Captain. If you give up any information you have on Smith, I’ll spare you and your crew. We’ll confiscate the fabrics and gold, of course, but will give you leave to take your ship and go.”

“And a letter of marque.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’ll also require a letter of marque if you want me to go against Smith. And we keep a hundred of the coins.”

“Just like that? Fifty coins and the letter, then.”

“Seventy, agreed. You’d best make yourself comfortable, and call in your secretary. I’ll tell you all I know, but it’s a sordid tale, full of murder and mutiny, and best kept far from the ears of babes…”

—

“Cap’n? Tits on a tortoise, we thought you were lost! It’s been hours.”

“Have some faith in your Captain, Threep; I’ve been spinning yarns with our Governor.”

“Our Guv’nor? Then you did it, Ma’am?”

“I did indeep. A shiny new letter for our next shipment, and leave to depart.”

“So he bought the story?”

“Better, yet – he bought information on the Dread Pirate Smith.”

“Cap’n! You’re bolder ‘n boiled brass, you are!”

“Thank you, Threep. Assemble the crew and prepare to set sail. We’re ready to start the second phase.”

“What awaits us, ma’am?”

“Destiny, Threep, destiny and death, same as ever. But first we sail to rally the ships.”

“But what if the Dread Pirate is after us, Cap’n?” He shook in a parody of fear, eyes alight with laughter.

“I won’t be after you if you do your damn jobs!” She winked at the old sailor, “But stow the Dread Pirate talk for now, Threep, the Governor approaches to bid us farewell!”

This piece was written for Nika Harper’s Wordplay #9. The challenge was piracy, with the prompts “deception” and “chasing shadows.”

Security is about dealing with worst-case scenarios. To take down one person, for example, two officers should suffice, according to simple odds. In security, though, the details matter. What if that one person is well-trained in combat, has a weapon, or is simply a bloody good runner?

That’s why they sent three for me: just in case. Three for her, too, so four masked agents burst single file through our front door, while another two guarded the rear. No knock first, no warrant required, just a controlled explosion of steel meeting wood, followed by the rapid thud of boots into the house and the soft hiss of gas.

As it happened, we were both into martial arts, although not to action-movie standards. No training, however, is likely to be of much help when armed soldiers interrupt the act of coitus. Where my mind should have been planning a way to isolate each attacker and improvise, it instead mourned my rapidly dwindling erection.

Through the unnecessary groping and the cold click of handcuffs, my treacherous thoughts mused on the gender balance of the invaders. As dictated by protocol, they had sent men for me, women for her. Who did they send for transgender, or ambiguously-gendered targets? Why did it matter, at this stage of things?

She looked pensive, too – a neat trick while stark naked – and neither of us made a sound as they escorted us outside and shoved us into the back of a truck. The door rolled swiftly closed behind us, and within seconds we both began to giggle helplessly. The Nitrous would do that to you, apparently, and cause dissociative thoug… Oh.

—

With that final consequence branded deep into my mind, I abandoned all hope of escape.

My ideals, my pride, had been torn from their pedestals and dragged through the dirt and grime until their lustre was worn away. And all for a voice I no longer wanted. Want itself was a fond memory, and I survived, if that’s what I did, on some primal level; eating what was given, doing as I was told, and carrying the dead to those beautifully engineered furnaces, all blood and shit, heavy limbs and gassy stench surreal against an antiseptic backdrop.

I wondered what had happened to her, usually in the dark of night, when the past swam almost into focus. I loved her, had promised her so many things. She was always stronger than me, so she was probably dead by now. I mourned without tears, without need, simply because I remembered that it was the thing to do, one last shred of my former life.

When she came, my mind refused to work.

Shouts, an explosion, gunfire. I am stone.

Air rushing past me. The guard’s head exploding quietly, like an egg hitting the kitchen floor.

I watch, I observe, but I do not yet see.

I am told to walk, so I walk. Or try to.

I am carried strangely, gently. Placed on a stretcher.

There are words I recognise, but do not comprehend.

Revolution? The rotation of an object around a central pivot point.

Freedom? A myth, a fantasy. A dream.

Her face pulses into view between each heartbeat, and I know that I am dying.

And yet I live.

This piece was written for Nika Harper’s Wordplay #7. The challenge was to write a beginning and an ending, without a middle, using the prompts “fragile desire” and “someone has to clean this up.”