SWE09: A Dark Turn of Events

My creative glands were a little worn out after TNM’s crunch, and I felt like I had to actively do something to recharge them, so I set myself a goal for the summer break: every day of July, I will write one page of random fiction – anything that strikes my fancy, as long as it takes up at least – and preferably no more than – one A4 page in MS Word. I’ve roped Gelo into it as well, and even Nick has contributed a piece. For the purposes of grouping them together on this blog, I’m calling it the Summer Writing Exercise 09.

I won’t be posting all of it here, because some of it isn’t very good and a lot of it is directly related to Project Hyperion, the upcoming RPG I’m working on with the OTP team, which is under wraps for now. The short short I’m posting today (a bit of a steampunk pastiche written on the 14th) has nothing to do with Hyperion though, and I think it turned out pretty well, so I’m disregarding the fact that it went substantially over a page and posting it for your consumption. I hope you find it to be worth your time.

A Dark Turn of Events

Lord Wordsworth’s voice came in weak and tinny through the surface cable, “Agent London, your depth is nearly a nautical mile, do you have the goal in sight?” London squinted at the bow of the wreck in front of him, dimly illuminated by his electrical torch, “Affirmative sir, I’m disengaging in 10 seconds.” London activated the thruster pack on his back and cut through the murky water towards the wreck. “Understood,” Wordsworth replied gravely, “good luck, Agent. We’re all counting on you.”

London steered towards the half-rotten mermaid on the bow of the old ship, counting down the seconds in his head. The old figurehead was slippery with algae and difficult to hold on to, but he managed to pop the cable that attached him to the HMS Charles Dickens out from the back of his suit and wrap it firmly three times around the figure. Then he took his harpoon gun and a small transmitter off the cord and – having checked that the transmitter still worked – turned to face the deck.

The Richard III had evidently been an extraordinary vessel in its day. A massive ironclad ship-of-the-line, it had 50 gun emplacements and a deck very nearly the size of a cricket field. It was sunk only after days of bombardment, caught between three armoured frigates and the shore fortress that had once kept watch on the bay. Even then, it had remained in one piece. Somewhere in this ship were the dread pirate Charles Morgan and his gang, the Smiling Skull Crew. They had taken something important that the Queen wanted back, and Agent London was coming to get it.

He soared across the barnacled fo’c'sle, past the first mast towards a gaping hole in the deck. Approaching the edge of the hole, he angled his shoulder-mounted torch downwards to examine the chasm, when a harpoon shot out of the darkness and missed his face by inches. Acting on instinct, London punched his control lever and was thrust through the hole into the belly of the ship.

His torch illuminated the petrified face of a pirate through the man’s helmet for a split-second before London crashed into him and their momentum punched a new hole through the rotten wood behind him. The pirate struggled to regain his bearings, but London acted fast, smashing the glass of the man’s helmet with the butt of his harpoon rifle. He stayed on top of the drowning man until he was sure the pirate was dead, then London got back on his feet and surveyed his surroundings.

Weeds and barnacles had all but claimed this part of the ship. Looking up, the moon beyond the surface far above him was nowhere to be seen, and his own torch was all he had to navigate by. He turned it off tentatively, and now he could see a faint light emanating from a stairwell further into the ship. Leaving his thruster off, he moved through the upper cannon room as quietly as his clunky diver’s suit would allow, until he was standing at the top of the stairs looking down. At that very moment, another pirate turned the corner at the bottom of the stairs.

London moved to the right and pressed himself tight against the perforated remnants of the wall. Keeping one eye closely on the slowly ascending enemy and scanning his surroundings with the other, careful not to be surprised from another direction, London drew his knife – a long, jagged weapon that had tasted the blood of many pirates before this one. When the pirate’s heavy boots finally touched the top step, London struck swiftly, severing his air supply. London had the circumstances on his side: on the dark depths of the ocean floor, no one can hear your screams.

On the lowest floor, London found his quarry: an ornate jewel box carrying the royal seal. It seemed almost too fortunate that no more guards had been stationed to watch over it, and of course it was. As he turned around, royally crested box securely attached to the special magnet on the abdomen of his suit, he found himself suddenly face to face with the dread pirate Charles Morgan himself – and did his eyes deceive him? That was Lord Wordsworth at the pirate’s side, aiming a harpoon squarely at London’s head! What unspeakable betrayal was this? London discretely activated the transmitter attached to his thigh.

“I’m truly sorry old chap,” the Judas spoke over the short-range radio, “I do wish our professional relationship did not have to come to such a sad conclusion as this, but I fear there is only one way this can end.”

The filthy pirate captain sneered behind his suit’s visor as he finished the Lord’s sentence: “with you as fish food, London.”

The agent fixed Morgan with a piercing glare: “I should know that you would be too cowardly to face me in a gentlemanly fight, Morgan.” Then he shifted his eyes to Wordsworth, who found himself unable to meet his old friend’s gaze and looked instead at the floor, “But I underestimated your insidious influence. I won’t ask what heinous deal you two have struck, but if you expect me to simply lay down my rifle and let you execute me like some manner of honourless criminal, you are tragically mistaken.”

If the pirate had even an ounce of doubt about his own impending victory, his voice did not reveal it: “certainly not, Agent, I must say that would be a disappointment. Go on – reach for your harpoon and see if you can put a spear through me before I pierce your throat with my own.”

London shook his head, “what kind of reckless fool do you think me, Morgan? You have three men pointing harpoons at me, and you expect me to accept those odds?” Finally a flicker of uncertainty in Morgan’s eyes, he was no doubt wondering if there was an element of this situation that he had overlooked. London continued, “I have an altogether different outcome in mind.” Smiling defiantly, he detached the transmitter from his thigh and held it up in front of Morgan and Wordsworth.

Lord Wordsworth’s gasp was audible even through the distortion of the radio, but before he had time to warn the confused pirate at his side, an enormous tentacle crashed through the wall between them and swept the pirates off their feet, hurling them into the wood behind them. London punched the thruster lever and sped through the newly created exit as the tentacle withdrew from the shipwreck. Harpoons whooshed through the water past him from members of the Smiling Skull Crew now guarding the deck against London’s escape, but with his torch off, he was next to impossible to make out in the dark water, and soon he had disappeared.

Agent London would have to thank the brilliant engineers back in headquarters for their ingenious squid-attracting device, but first he would return to the Charles Dickens where he would have ample time on the way home to prepare his report to Her Majesty: He would be pleased to report that the mission was a success, but less pleased that Lord James Wordsworth had made himself a traitor to the crown of England, having sold his loyalty to the highest bidder, the dread pirate Charles Morgan.

Once again, Agent London had done his country proud.