Drift Stories/Hands Off the Merchandise: Difference between revisions

Solivane strode towards them, the coati's immaculate white robes drifting gracefully behind them, and dropped an envelope on the bar in front of Ilyar. “This was delivered to the ship. The messenger was most insistent that you read it immediately.”

“Officers? There’s only us!” laughed Bentley. “Who is this Kyrie? Beautiful penwork, whoever they are.”

Ilyar drained the last of his brandy, flicked a few shiny silver marks into the empty glass, and stood. “Well then, we shouldn’t keep her waiting. Sol, fetch Quartz and meet us back at the ship; we ought to make a good impression.”

{{Sep}}

The glass-walled elevator car made its way slowly up the side of the High Spire, the luxurious crown perched atop the ''Cloud Archipelago''’s expanse. Inside, the four members of the ''Stationary Traveller''’s crew stood waiting. Though they tried not to show it, the tension was palpable.

Nodding, Kyrie stood up and walked over to the window. “My people have been observing you during your stay here on the ''Cloud Archipelago''. You seem a capable crew for a small… errand I require.” With a wave of her hand, the space inside the circle of pouffes burst into a cloud of glittering green particles, which coalesced into a holographic map of the charted Drift. Two points floated up from the mass of detail; one the Cloud Archipelago, the other a seam far away near the edge.

Ilyar nodded, staring into the shimmering map. “What is the cargo?”

Kyrie sat back down with her glass and raised it, a broad smile across her face. “To a job well done.” Ilyar, Bentley, Solivane and Quartz clinked their glasses against hers. “And to new friends,” Bentley added, sipping their glass and breaking into a coughing fit from its sheer potency. “Quite right,” Kyrie laughed.

{{Sep}}

Solivane walked through the main corridor of the ''Stationary Traveller'', thinking it was unusually quiet for a departure morning. A deck below, the hold buzzed with the chatter and rattle of dockers loading crates of provisions and Quartz complaining about the scrapes they left on the floor. Up here, however, the air was too still.

“Eh, some old tradition,” replied Bentley with a shrug.  

{{Sep}}

Bentley lay awake, staring at the ceiling. It was sometime in the dead of night and the lights were off, letting the gentle glow of the Drift illuminate the walls of the captain’s quarters. They carefully untangled themselves from Ilyar’s arms and slipped out, throwing on a dressing down on the way.

“Rail-pistol?” Bentley asked, confused. “Those are a mark a dozen—“

She squeezed the trigger, and instantly a beam of purple light shot from the barrel directly into the wood scraps with a loud crack that reverberated around the hold. Where it hit there was now a smouldering ring of purple-glowing wood pinned to the hold wall; the rest of the scrap was a fine dusting of ash scattered on the floor. Bentley walked over cautiously and inspected the remains; inside the glowing ring was a perfectly formed bullet, undamaged, suspended in the air. After a moment, the glow faded and the bullet clinked to the floor.

Quartz looked directly into their eyes, her bright blue irises shining in the dim light of the hold. “He approved it. Last resort. Just in case. Besides, Bentley, you’ve had to fend for yourself before. Haven’t you caused just as much harm?”

“Cease.”

With nothing more to say, Bentley walked towards the door. They glanced back at the cargo once more. “It’s trouble, I know it. More than it’s worth.”

{{Sep}}

Morning came as morning could only come on a seamship, with the lights coming up on a timer and the Drift remaining as dark and empty as ever. Bentley was at the drive console, sipping a cup of coffee in a vain attempt to gain back some of the sleep they missed the previous night. Quartz sat as ever on the far end of the bridge, pointedly ignoring everything around them, and for once Bentley was glad for it. Solivane, at the navigator’s desk, was busying themselves with course corrections and valiantly pretending nothing had happened. Into the midst of this tension strode Ilyar, fresh-faced and stretching his back. He stood by the front windows admiring the Drift for a moment, then turned to address the room.

“Time is fictional in the Drift,” he shouted back, his voice already disappearing down the corridor.