Mervis Castling, admiral of Iron Sun - Part 1
By Alex Eldridge
He looks out over the landscape: the yellowy-red sand dunes blank and scabrous. It mocks him. This whole accursed place mocks him. The locals mock him in their chattering tongue. The few gaunt birds in the sky mock him with their shrieks. Even his men seem to mock him , their eyes gleaming with what can only be contempt. He hates them all.
Admiral Mervis Castling turns from the bridge of his ship. And a ship it is: a hulking dune frigate complete with cargo and sails - though the ship gleans it's power and momentum from the latter of these somewhat less than literally. He turns back and observes the fleet behind him. Two cruisers and a caravel hold up the rear. The bulk of the men travel on foot. As well they should, the knaves. You didn't come to this God-forsaken country because you were serving your King and Country well and justly. They have earned their lot here. And him? Well, that is a little more complex.
"Admiral!" First Mate Bollard is at his side, great rolling rivulets of sweat course down his neck to form estuaries on his chest and armpits. He's a great fat boy but a hard worker and Castling likes him despite his smell and constant air of general overwhelm. "The natives have been sighted up ahead. Due west about fifty clicks. They're armed and they mean to hold the position."
"What position?" Castling sneers. "We're in a desert, boy. They have no position to hold."
"There's a pass, sir, a valley really. They mean to ambush us. The scouts uncovered them," the lad's chest is heaving with the effort of running to the bridge.
"For the sake of the Gods, boy, take a seat. I'll not have you swooning on my bridge," then somewhat wryly he adds, "I couldn't very well budge you myself."
Bollard grins in sheepish acknowledgement and perhaps a little gratitude at this morsel of familiarity.
"Yessir, thank you sir," and he parks his bulk on one of the benches. It groans warily.
So, they mean to ambush us, the Admiral ponders. A fat lot of good that would do. Piercing the hull of this ship alone would be a half hour job for most of the aboriginal tribes, certainly Dust Flag, and it's not as if we're just going to stick our noses up against the portholes and wait to be boarded. But something in it makes him uneasy. It's too obvious.
"What do they call themselves, these natives?"
"Thousand Spears, sir."
Thousand Spears. The lizard men.
"Those were the chaps who downed our catamaran twelve moons ago, yes?" He says it coolly, almost disinterestedly, though his heartrate has quickened. Devilish fast buggers. Not shy either. He remembers waking in a cold sweat to the lowing of a klaxon. He had been dreaming of his Martha. Sweet, proud Martha, voluptuous in her satins and furs, back home in Tordassia. But the dream had been cut short by that sound and he'd rushed to the deck, still in his nightgown. He had not even needed his bi-focals to see the creatures. Great hairless beasts that stood on two legs and snorted as they leapt upon the listing cat. They lashed out with huge jaws as men screamed in terror. Tossing them into the air like a child's ball and swallowing them whole. He remembers the sound of the twin-cat as it tore in two straight down the middle, an ugly rending screech. Then they were gone. Like they'd never been there. Thousand Spears. Thousand Spears for a thousand years, he thinks incoherently.
He groans inwardly but displays no sign of disturbance.
"Yessir. They've been attacking us in skirmishes, getting bolder and bolder. I think this is a full assault on the Dartmoor regiment."
Admiral Castling snorts in derision. "I'll do the thinking here, First Mate," The words are deliberately slow and mocking. "Head below decks and tell the men to fire the engines to sixty percent. Stay dead on course."
"But sir, surely the -"
"What did I say about thinking, Bollard?" the Admiral snaps, turning sharply toward him. His long hooked nose flares in indignation. "Don't forget your station." The boy hangs his head in recognition of his own hubris, salutes without making eye contact and turns away, leaving his superior to brood.
On to part 2...
He looks out over the landscape: the yellowy-red sand dunes blank and scabrous. It mocks him. This whole accursed place mocks him. The locals mock him in their chattering tongue. The few gaunt birds in the sky mock him with their shrieks. Even his men seem to mock him , their eyes gleaming with what can only be contempt. He hates them all.
Admiral Mervis Castling turns from the bridge of his ship. And a ship it is: a hulking dune frigate complete with cargo and sails - though the ship gleans it's power and momentum from the latter of these somewhat less than literally. He turns back and observes the fleet behind him. Two cruisers and a caravel hold up the rear. The bulk of the men travel on foot. As well they should, the knaves. You didn't come to this God-forsaken country because you were serving your King and Country well and justly. They have earned their lot here. And him? Well, that is a little more complex.
"Admiral!" First Mate Bollard is at his side, great rolling rivulets of sweat course down his neck to form estuaries on his chest and armpits. He's a great fat boy but a hard worker and Castling likes him despite his smell and constant air of general overwhelm. "The natives have been sighted up ahead. Due west about fifty clicks. They're armed and they mean to hold the position."
"What position?" Castling sneers. "We're in a desert, boy. They have no position to hold."
"There's a pass, sir, a valley really. They mean to ambush us. The scouts uncovered them," the lad's chest is heaving with the effort of running to the bridge.
"For the sake of the Gods, boy, take a seat. I'll not have you swooning on my bridge," then somewhat wryly he adds, "I couldn't very well budge you myself."
Bollard grins in sheepish acknowledgement and perhaps a little gratitude at this morsel of familiarity.
"Yessir, thank you sir," and he parks his bulk on one of the benches. It groans warily.
So, they mean to ambush us, the Admiral ponders. A fat lot of good that would do. Piercing the hull of this ship alone would be a half hour job for most of the aboriginal tribes, certainly Dust Flag, and it's not as if we're just going to stick our noses up against the portholes and wait to be boarded. But something in it makes him uneasy. It's too obvious.
"What do they call themselves, these natives?"
"Thousand Spears, sir."
Thousand Spears. The lizard men.
"Those were the chaps who downed our catamaran twelve moons ago, yes?" He says it coolly, almost disinterestedly, though his heartrate has quickened. Devilish fast buggers. Not shy either. He remembers waking in a cold sweat to the lowing of a klaxon. He had been dreaming of his Martha. Sweet, proud Martha, voluptuous in her satins and furs, back home in Tordassia. But the dream had been cut short by that sound and he'd rushed to the deck, still in his nightgown. He had not even needed his bi-focals to see the creatures. Great hairless beasts that stood on two legs and snorted as they leapt upon the listing cat. They lashed out with huge jaws as men screamed in terror. Tossing them into the air like a child's ball and swallowing them whole. He remembers the sound of the twin-cat as it tore in two straight down the middle, an ugly rending screech. Then they were gone. Like they'd never been there. Thousand Spears. Thousand Spears for a thousand years, he thinks incoherently.
He groans inwardly but displays no sign of disturbance.
"Yessir. They've been attacking us in skirmishes, getting bolder and bolder. I think this is a full assault on the Dartmoor regiment."
Admiral Castling snorts in derision. "I'll do the thinking here, First Mate," The words are deliberately slow and mocking. "Head below decks and tell the men to fire the engines to sixty percent. Stay dead on course."
"But sir, surely the -"
"What did I say about thinking, Bollard?" the Admiral snaps, turning sharply toward him. His long hooked nose flares in indignation. "Don't forget your station." The boy hangs his head in recognition of his own hubris, salutes without making eye contact and turns away, leaving his superior to brood.
On to part 2...
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