Sunset gradually fell over the Float. For five square miles the cluster of ramshackle trading and repair outposts stretched out across the rippling liquid gold. The slowly waning sun pulled at the shadows of the workshops and outhouses until they resembled the black tentacles of some ancient beast exploring the water's surface.
The Float was one of the few places on the waters where the sounds of combat and war were but a distant echo. It was neutral ground, a place for ships and tribes to go about their business freely, to parlay and lay down their swords and guns for treaties and alliances to be forged, however temporary.
The docks were quieter than usual, although still too busy for Locke's liking. Tider ships in all sizes and classes came and went, and the noises of repairs and aggressive bartering disturbed the otherwise peaceful ambience. There was too much activity, too many sets of eyes and mouths. Even with the quarter mile square perimeter that Knight and Chen had spent two weeks emptying and securing with the unwilling help and constant protests of current Season Wardens - a ramshackle collection of Foamers - there was no way that meeting Jackson could be done discreetly, as the grandeur of the man's vessel and his penchant for showmanship would make such a thing impossible. It was a sacrifice Locke had to make. Even with the banners of several Tider tribes swearing fealty to him and his vision, Locke could not afford any overheard piece of confidential intel, as the oceans were rife with spies and traitors. The nature of the Float meant that strategically speaking, it was still the safest place to meet and exchange the bondboxes - the final customary union of inter-ship collaboration. Neutral ground with the risk of danger was better than no parlAying ground at all.
The Ocean Ghost was docked at the Western most quay, dock twenty-seven. Locke stood in the shadow of his hulking ship, staring out at the fiery horizon, looking for the telltale outline in the clouds that would indicate Jackson's arrival. On his right, Woody stood, occasionally shuffling out of impatience. And behind them stood three crewmen whom Locke did not recognize, with the exception of the larger of the three who's mangled left eye was hidden under a patch embedded with a fake pearl. All three men had been handpicked by Woody for the meet and thus Locke had no cause for concern that things wouldn't run smoothly on his side of the proceedings. He had the utmost confidence in his Bo'sun. It was why there were after all. Knight and Chen were nearby, radios in hand coordinating the workers they'd enlisted to maintain security.
The Float was one of the few places on the waters where the sounds of combat and war were but a distant echo. It was neutral ground, a place for ships and tribes to go about their business freely, to parlay and lay down their swords and guns for treaties and alliances to be forged, however temporary.
The docks were quieter than usual, although still too busy for Locke's liking. Tider ships in all sizes and classes came and went, and the noises of repairs and aggressive bartering disturbed the otherwise peaceful ambience. There was too much activity, too many sets of eyes and mouths. Even with the quarter mile square perimeter that Knight and Chen had spent two weeks emptying and securing with the unwilling help and constant protests of current Season Wardens - a ramshackle collection of Foamers - there was no way that meeting Jackson could be done discreetly, as the grandeur of the man's vessel and his penchant for showmanship would make such a thing impossible. It was a sacrifice Locke had to make. Even with the banners of several Tider tribes swearing fealty to him and his vision, Locke could not afford any overheard piece of confidential intel, as the oceans were rife with spies and traitors. The nature of the Float meant that strategically speaking, it was still the safest place to meet and exchange the bondboxes - the final customary union of inter-ship collaboration. Neutral ground with the risk of danger was better than no parlAying ground at all.
The Ocean Ghost was docked at the Western most quay, dock twenty-seven. Locke stood in the shadow of his hulking ship, staring out at the fiery horizon, looking for the telltale outline in the clouds that would indicate Jackson's arrival. On his right, Woody stood, occasionally shuffling out of impatience. And behind them stood three crewmen whom Locke did not recognize, with the exception of the larger of the three who's mangled left eye was hidden under a patch embedded with a fake pearl. All three men had been handpicked by Woody for the meet and thus Locke had no cause for concern that things wouldn't run smoothly on his side of the proceedings. He had the utmost confidence in his Bo'sun. It was why there were after all. Knight and Chen were nearby, radios in hand coordinating the workers they'd enlisted to maintain security.
In the centre of Locke's group sat a large plain wooden chest with a heavy lock bolted to the front. The bondbox combination code had been transmitted to Sky a few hours before.
"What time we on?" Locke asked, turning slightly to Woody.
"Two minutes past," he said, checking his timepiece.
"He's late," Locke replied simply.
"He'll be here," Woody replied. "It's part of his...er... how'd you say, image?"
"He's flashy, and I don't like it. Flashy often means disrespect. We agreed a time."
"He's keen, Captain," Woody chuckled. 'Ain't nobody turnin' this down."
Locke merely grunted in response, it was full of disdain and anger, more growl than grunt. There was still so much that could go wrong, and at this late stage when he was so close, it was hard to keep a cool head. Every fibre of his body seemed to vibrate with a barely controlled mix of anxiety and impatience. The way of life on the waters was built on mistrust, betrayal, and brutality; and here he was, violating his own mantra and putting his faith in strangers. Trusting the word of pirates. He felt a fool, but he needed what Jackson could offer, without it, they had no hope of succeeding.
Reaching out to tribes of sky-tiders would have been unthinkable even a few months prior. Despite being a slowly dying culture, they remained somewhat detached from the water folk below them. They had their own codes and customs, laws and practices and yet still waged war against each other as much as they did the water folk. It was a universal tider mentality. Violence, crime, deception. It was the culture that bound them. Sky and sea. Wind and water. Two opposing sides of the same coin and the closest thing their kind had to a class system. But times were changing, and Locke was the one changing them. He'd spent years cultivating tenuous relationships with tribe heads and captains, building reputation and notoriety that would allow him to approach a sky-tider of Jackson's status without instant fear of his ship being blown to shrapnel.
He knew Jackson must be laughing at him though, knowing that he could bring Locke to ruin with a change of mind as sudden as a change in the wind. If he went back on his word, or caused Locke any undue fuss then Locke would make it his new life goal to kill the man - if he survived the betrayal. And after Jackson was dead, Woody would be second - or maybe before, depending on what he could offer as recompense - he'd recommended the arrogant wind-waif after all.
Locke pushed the thought from his mind and tried to stay focused on the task at hand. The negotiations had long been complete, the bulk of the correspondence happening over network messages and broadcasts. Every ship had to keep moving, keep sailing or flying. For safety and for profit. It made any long term negotiations almost impossible, hence their rarity. Now, all that was left was to exchange payment and look his temporary ally in the eye, each man examining the other. Then the final stage of the truce would be agreed, with nary a word spoken. Or, they would slaughter each other on the spot.
The minutes ticked by and Locke's impatience grew, his increasing anger simmering underneath. He could hear the slow, almost inaudible shuffling of boredom from the three crewmen behind him. It was distracting, and irksome.
'Hold ya positions,' he said, not even turning around.
The minutes continued to tick by and just when he thought he would give in himself and pack up to leave, Locke saw it. A shape on the horizon just above the surface of the water. A small black silhouette that had appeared and was growing gradually larger. Locke shielded his eyes against the setting sun and squinted.
"Ah, this looks to be him now," Woody said from behind him. "Told you Captain, he ain't stupid enough to pass this up, no one is. Besides, he put his name to the truce charter. Ain't no going back on that. "
"Until we're sailing west with her in my hold, I ain't gonna relax. Fingers on triggers at all times." Locke released the safety on his own weapon as the sounds of the skyship's great generator grew steadily louder. The rhythmic chopping and roaring of the vessels rotor engines would have already been causing commotion at surrounding docks had they not been cleared. He could imagine further out on the Float attention was already being turned towards dock twenty seven. He'd bet a whole ship's of worth of loot that every single pair of eyes and ears would be splitting attention between their own duties, and the meeting that was about to happen. He tried to push his agitation aside. Agitation, not nerves. Never nerves.
There were, comparatively speaking, very few skyships left traversing Lemuria's atmosphere. Many had been early transport designs, symbols of status and wealth, with only the richest and most powerful tiders being able to acquire and upkeep the craft. Their size, relatively slow airspeed, the possibility of bountiful loot within, and the fact that there were almost no docks left suitable for landing them safely made them easy and high priority targets among both Parliamentary and tider forces. Only the most well armed skyships and the most well connected captains stood any chance of maintaining any sort of longevity. Like their inhabitants, the ships were a dying breed, and consequently many tiders - or continent dwellers for that matter - could go their whole lives without ever seeing one, hence the current rubbernecking and wave of chatter that would be spreading along the quays. It made him all manner of uneasy.
The vessel grew closer within the orange clouds. The Crimson Sunrise was of standard skyship design. Its open boat-like hull was lit from underneath by four glowing engine nodes and navigation lights. Its solar-wings, currently retracted, created dark shapes of bulky intimidation running along its port and starboard sides and its two main sails, facing edge on to the stern were at full mast, displaying the ships sigil, which Locke knew was a flaming sun with it's bladed beams extending left-to-right in a fan of crimson red.
The ship settled into a controlled hover over the Ocean Ghost's adjacent dock. Four crewmen emerged from the hull, abseiling downwards harnessed to heavy ropes. In one smooth motion they descended, detached and began tethering the ship to docking posts, communicating to each other in surftongue hand signals over the roar of the ships engines. The updraft created by the generators made it impossible to speak normally and the wind threw up any nearby scraps of detritus, blowing them asunder in a snow storm of litter.
When the ship was tethered in position, it gradually lowered its stern ramp which rather than a single hinged platform was a series of telescopic interlinking steps. The ship hovered inches above the quay, barely moving up or down or side to side. Locke couldn't help but admire the altitude control of the vessel and its helmsman. It had been many years since he'd laid eyes on a skyship, and even longer since he'd been up close with one. He took in the vessel's details with the keen eye of an amateur historian.
As the four abseiling tiders took up casual positions nearby, two more tiders came lumbering down the ramp, heavily armed in quality armour and carrying top of the range rifles. The immediate and overt show of wealth and status did nothing to alleviate Locke's simmering anger and his admiration of the ship was quickly over. It was down to business. He watched the two guards take up position at either side of the ramp, facing him and his small contingent.
From behind them, swaggering down the ramp with an arrogance that made Locke physically clench his fists came Sky Jackson. A slight man of ancient oriental descent, his neatly cut hair and clean shaven face framed a pair of reflective sun-lenses. His long leather coat swayed in the updraft and the two platinum plated pistols that hung around his shoulders on dark purple ribbon glistened in the sunset. Although Locke had never before met the man face to face, he hated him on sight. Two more armed guards trailed behind him, completing the flank of protection.
Eight escorts. As cowardly as he is rich. Locke could not hide the sneer on his face. Woody sensed the man's building fury and stepped in closer, both as a gesture of support and an effort to calm his captain.
Jackson gestured in flamboyant, exaggerated surftongue, the growls and whistles of the intonations barely audible over the sounds of his ship's engines. It was still nonetheless far clearer than actual speech had any hope of being.
"Captain Locke Goodman! What a pleasure it is to finally be in your company. How fare you? I must say, when I got the call to say the most infamous and disreputable tider on Lemuria wanted to meet me, I was, well, I was -"
"You know why you're here, Jackson," Locke cut him off, responding with surftongue in kind.
Sky smiled, paused for thought. "Nothin's final until I get my Chroma."
"Chroma ain't the be all of the situation, you signed a truce charter, sent over by my Bo'Sun here. Don't make me regret havin' him by my side."
Sky looked at Woody and fired over a nod. "Woody. How's the lung?"
"Still breathing," Woody responded with the barest flick of the hands.
"He tell you I stabbed him in the lung once?" Sky said with a laugh. "Bondbox. Please."
Locke gestured over to the three men behind him and they carried the chest over and settled it at his feet, directly between him and Sky.
"As per your terms on the charter." Woody gestured. Sky clapped his hands and two of the unarmoured tiders came running, one held a grubby datapad and bent over the chest, entering the combination. After a few moments, the lid popped open with a hiss.
"What time we on?" Locke asked, turning slightly to Woody.
"Two minutes past," he said, checking his timepiece.
"He's late," Locke replied simply.
"He'll be here," Woody replied. "It's part of his...er... how'd you say, image?"
"He's flashy, and I don't like it. Flashy often means disrespect. We agreed a time."
"He's keen, Captain," Woody chuckled. 'Ain't nobody turnin' this down."
Locke merely grunted in response, it was full of disdain and anger, more growl than grunt. There was still so much that could go wrong, and at this late stage when he was so close, it was hard to keep a cool head. Every fibre of his body seemed to vibrate with a barely controlled mix of anxiety and impatience. The way of life on the waters was built on mistrust, betrayal, and brutality; and here he was, violating his own mantra and putting his faith in strangers. Trusting the word of pirates. He felt a fool, but he needed what Jackson could offer, without it, they had no hope of succeeding.
Reaching out to tribes of sky-tiders would have been unthinkable even a few months prior. Despite being a slowly dying culture, they remained somewhat detached from the water folk below them. They had their own codes and customs, laws and practices and yet still waged war against each other as much as they did the water folk. It was a universal tider mentality. Violence, crime, deception. It was the culture that bound them. Sky and sea. Wind and water. Two opposing sides of the same coin and the closest thing their kind had to a class system. But times were changing, and Locke was the one changing them. He'd spent years cultivating tenuous relationships with tribe heads and captains, building reputation and notoriety that would allow him to approach a sky-tider of Jackson's status without instant fear of his ship being blown to shrapnel.
He knew Jackson must be laughing at him though, knowing that he could bring Locke to ruin with a change of mind as sudden as a change in the wind. If he went back on his word, or caused Locke any undue fuss then Locke would make it his new life goal to kill the man - if he survived the betrayal. And after Jackson was dead, Woody would be second - or maybe before, depending on what he could offer as recompense - he'd recommended the arrogant wind-waif after all.
Locke pushed the thought from his mind and tried to stay focused on the task at hand. The negotiations had long been complete, the bulk of the correspondence happening over network messages and broadcasts. Every ship had to keep moving, keep sailing or flying. For safety and for profit. It made any long term negotiations almost impossible, hence their rarity. Now, all that was left was to exchange payment and look his temporary ally in the eye, each man examining the other. Then the final stage of the truce would be agreed, with nary a word spoken. Or, they would slaughter each other on the spot.
The minutes ticked by and Locke's impatience grew, his increasing anger simmering underneath. He could hear the slow, almost inaudible shuffling of boredom from the three crewmen behind him. It was distracting, and irksome.
'Hold ya positions,' he said, not even turning around.
The minutes continued to tick by and just when he thought he would give in himself and pack up to leave, Locke saw it. A shape on the horizon just above the surface of the water. A small black silhouette that had appeared and was growing gradually larger. Locke shielded his eyes against the setting sun and squinted.
"Ah, this looks to be him now," Woody said from behind him. "Told you Captain, he ain't stupid enough to pass this up, no one is. Besides, he put his name to the truce charter. Ain't no going back on that. "
"Until we're sailing west with her in my hold, I ain't gonna relax. Fingers on triggers at all times." Locke released the safety on his own weapon as the sounds of the skyship's great generator grew steadily louder. The rhythmic chopping and roaring of the vessels rotor engines would have already been causing commotion at surrounding docks had they not been cleared. He could imagine further out on the Float attention was already being turned towards dock twenty seven. He'd bet a whole ship's of worth of loot that every single pair of eyes and ears would be splitting attention between their own duties, and the meeting that was about to happen. He tried to push his agitation aside. Agitation, not nerves. Never nerves.
There were, comparatively speaking, very few skyships left traversing Lemuria's atmosphere. Many had been early transport designs, symbols of status and wealth, with only the richest and most powerful tiders being able to acquire and upkeep the craft. Their size, relatively slow airspeed, the possibility of bountiful loot within, and the fact that there were almost no docks left suitable for landing them safely made them easy and high priority targets among both Parliamentary and tider forces. Only the most well armed skyships and the most well connected captains stood any chance of maintaining any sort of longevity. Like their inhabitants, the ships were a dying breed, and consequently many tiders - or continent dwellers for that matter - could go their whole lives without ever seeing one, hence the current rubbernecking and wave of chatter that would be spreading along the quays. It made him all manner of uneasy.
The vessel grew closer within the orange clouds. The Crimson Sunrise was of standard skyship design. Its open boat-like hull was lit from underneath by four glowing engine nodes and navigation lights. Its solar-wings, currently retracted, created dark shapes of bulky intimidation running along its port and starboard sides and its two main sails, facing edge on to the stern were at full mast, displaying the ships sigil, which Locke knew was a flaming sun with it's bladed beams extending left-to-right in a fan of crimson red.
The ship settled into a controlled hover over the Ocean Ghost's adjacent dock. Four crewmen emerged from the hull, abseiling downwards harnessed to heavy ropes. In one smooth motion they descended, detached and began tethering the ship to docking posts, communicating to each other in surftongue hand signals over the roar of the ships engines. The updraft created by the generators made it impossible to speak normally and the wind threw up any nearby scraps of detritus, blowing them asunder in a snow storm of litter.
When the ship was tethered in position, it gradually lowered its stern ramp which rather than a single hinged platform was a series of telescopic interlinking steps. The ship hovered inches above the quay, barely moving up or down or side to side. Locke couldn't help but admire the altitude control of the vessel and its helmsman. It had been many years since he'd laid eyes on a skyship, and even longer since he'd been up close with one. He took in the vessel's details with the keen eye of an amateur historian.
As the four abseiling tiders took up casual positions nearby, two more tiders came lumbering down the ramp, heavily armed in quality armour and carrying top of the range rifles. The immediate and overt show of wealth and status did nothing to alleviate Locke's simmering anger and his admiration of the ship was quickly over. It was down to business. He watched the two guards take up position at either side of the ramp, facing him and his small contingent.
From behind them, swaggering down the ramp with an arrogance that made Locke physically clench his fists came Sky Jackson. A slight man of ancient oriental descent, his neatly cut hair and clean shaven face framed a pair of reflective sun-lenses. His long leather coat swayed in the updraft and the two platinum plated pistols that hung around his shoulders on dark purple ribbon glistened in the sunset. Although Locke had never before met the man face to face, he hated him on sight. Two more armed guards trailed behind him, completing the flank of protection.
Eight escorts. As cowardly as he is rich. Locke could not hide the sneer on his face. Woody sensed the man's building fury and stepped in closer, both as a gesture of support and an effort to calm his captain.
Jackson gestured in flamboyant, exaggerated surftongue, the growls and whistles of the intonations barely audible over the sounds of his ship's engines. It was still nonetheless far clearer than actual speech had any hope of being.
"Captain Locke Goodman! What a pleasure it is to finally be in your company. How fare you? I must say, when I got the call to say the most infamous and disreputable tider on Lemuria wanted to meet me, I was, well, I was -"
"You know why you're here, Jackson," Locke cut him off, responding with surftongue in kind.
Sky smiled, paused for thought. "Nothin's final until I get my Chroma."
"Chroma ain't the be all of the situation, you signed a truce charter, sent over by my Bo'Sun here. Don't make me regret havin' him by my side."
Sky looked at Woody and fired over a nod. "Woody. How's the lung?"
"Still breathing," Woody responded with the barest flick of the hands.
"He tell you I stabbed him in the lung once?" Sky said with a laugh. "Bondbox. Please."
Locke gestured over to the three men behind him and they carried the chest over and settled it at his feet, directly between him and Sky.
"As per your terms on the charter." Woody gestured. Sky clapped his hands and two of the unarmoured tiders came running, one held a grubby datapad and bent over the chest, entering the combination. After a few moments, the lid popped open with a hiss.
Sky examined the three heavy sacks of coin nestled among various bottles of booze, all wrapped in cloth and foam sheeting.
"Seven thousand, as agreed," Woody said. "We've thrown in some extra bits of bounty as a good will gesture. You won't find them in the inventory."
The tider with the datapad was already working through the chest, checking off the items against the pre-provided inventory list.
"Oh, you shouldn't have," Jackson said with mock sincerity.
"The other ships loyal to our cause?" Locke asked. "I ain't seen any verification yet."
Sky reached into his jacket and removed a datapad, he handed it to Locke. The screen was already glowing with the electronic truce charter.
"You'll see the thumb print verifications of the captains are all present and accounted for. Starr and the Angels Hurricane, Montana and the Cloudhammer. As requested. Both agree. Both eager."
"And they'll be there? Agreed time and place." Locke never moved his eyes from the man, never gave him the window to make any disagreeable look or hand gesture that would undo their agreement. He was pleased to see that Jackson not only returned the stare, but maintained it in kind, even removing his sun-lenses to prove a point.
"You'll find tracking signatures on the charter there. You can keep an eye on them yourselves, but I promise you, they'll be there. I've dealt a few deals, bargained a few bargains, boxed a few bondboxes. You'll have your ordinance, men and carrying space, however you want to use them."
"The understandin' is thirty percent of their plunder," Locke confirmed. He'd cover every detail of the charter and its agreed exchanges before even setting foot on the Sunrise for Capital airspace. He was leaving nothing to chance.
"I've read the terms and so have they. They've agreed. You can't see the thumbprints or something?"
Locke's hand went to his pistol in an almost unconscious reaction to the implication of any issue with his intelligence. Woody's hand came to rest gently on his arm. Locke relented. This did not go unnoticed by Sky.
"Look, Goodman, you got nothin' to worry about. No one would be churlish enough to pass up this opportunity. Not nobody. Oh, and as a little gesture of good faith..." He turned - finally breaking the mutual glare that Locke was so determined to win - and briefly whistled back towards his ship. Two of the armoured guards returned with a bigger, more ornate chest, which thudded on the deck at Locke's feet.
"Tis a gift. Think of it as a proposal for potential future business arrangements."
Locke looked at Sky, unwavering. He had no intention of going anywhere near the supposed 'gift.'
"Fine!" Sky cried aloud, breaking the surftongue exchange. He threw up his hands. "I'll open it. It's perfectly safe." He knelt down, pressing his thumb to the lock, then kicked the box open in a gesture too dramatic for the current situation.
"Just a few items I picked up," he said, reverting back to surftongue.
Inside the chest was a small banquet. Fresh fruit, fresh vegetables, prime cuts of meat, and quality cheese and bread. Locke thought he could see a bag of coffee and some rare spices in there too. It was at least three times the worth of the bondbox he'd prepared. He had to one up. Had to go one better. On my own truce.
"Thank you," Locke said through near-gritted teeth. Glad that any disingenuous tones that may have slipped through were obscured by the Sunrise's engines.
Jackson merely smiled a sickeningly cocky smile. He was pushing boundaries, testing his limits and enjoying every second.
One day, when this is all over, I'll kill you for this, Locke thought.
"My treat," Sky said, still smiling.
After a moment of stillness, each man debating how to end the meeting cleanly and without hostility, Sky finally spoke.
"Now, about the hoppers. Their military complex sits at the heart of the city, the defence turrets are -"
"Taken care of. A need to know basis," Locke replied sharply. "As agreed, you get us over the Capital, we'll do the rest."
"Does this have anything to do with that stunt you pulled at First Province? That was impressive. It's all over the broadcasts you know. I think you just went up a few places in Parliament's most wanted."
"I believe I'm already at number one," Locke said coolly. "They know who I am and what I can do. And what I do to those who dishonour me." He made the threat clear.
"Tis an admirable statement," Sky replied, picking up on the threat. All semblance of his shit-eating grin gone. "But if I'm flying my men and my ship into Parliament airspace with what they have available, I think I have a right to know."
Locke turned to Woody, his anger now morphing into a rage that was about to burst. He sighed in an effort to calm himself, his fingers twitching for his pistol. He rubbed his eyes, exasperated.
"We have someone on the inside," Woody gestured, breaking the tension "That's all you need to know."
Sky seemed satisfied with that, at least for the time being. He flicked a look to each of them.
"Well gentleman, we have an hour or so before we take off and a long day ahead of us tomorrow," he knelt down and rummaged in the banquet chest and emerged with a bottle of clear, thirty-year vintage rum. "So what say you both to a drink to toast our new found friendship?"
Locke looked at the bottle meant for him as a gift and turned to Woody, who merely gestured with a shrug. Locke managed a pained smile and held out his large, grubby hand, the other still hovering over his holster.
Just one, I suppose I can manage that.
"The other ships loyal to our cause?" Locke asked. "I ain't seen any verification yet."
Sky reached into his jacket and removed a datapad, he handed it to Locke. The screen was already glowing with the electronic truce charter.
"You'll see the thumb print verifications of the captains are all present and accounted for. Starr and the Angels Hurricane, Montana and the Cloudhammer. As requested. Both agree. Both eager."
"And they'll be there? Agreed time and place." Locke never moved his eyes from the man, never gave him the window to make any disagreeable look or hand gesture that would undo their agreement. He was pleased to see that Jackson not only returned the stare, but maintained it in kind, even removing his sun-lenses to prove a point.
"You'll find tracking signatures on the charter there. You can keep an eye on them yourselves, but I promise you, they'll be there. I've dealt a few deals, bargained a few bargains, boxed a few bondboxes. You'll have your ordinance, men and carrying space, however you want to use them."
"The understandin' is thirty percent of their plunder," Locke confirmed. He'd cover every detail of the charter and its agreed exchanges before even setting foot on the Sunrise for Capital airspace. He was leaving nothing to chance.
"I've read the terms and so have they. They've agreed. You can't see the thumbprints or something?"
Locke's hand went to his pistol in an almost unconscious reaction to the implication of any issue with his intelligence. Woody's hand came to rest gently on his arm. Locke relented. This did not go unnoticed by Sky.
"Look, Goodman, you got nothin' to worry about. No one would be churlish enough to pass up this opportunity. Not nobody. Oh, and as a little gesture of good faith..." He turned - finally breaking the mutual glare that Locke was so determined to win - and briefly whistled back towards his ship. Two of the armoured guards returned with a bigger, more ornate chest, which thudded on the deck at Locke's feet.
"Tis a gift. Think of it as a proposal for potential future business arrangements."
Locke looked at Sky, unwavering. He had no intention of going anywhere near the supposed 'gift.'
"Fine!" Sky cried aloud, breaking the surftongue exchange. He threw up his hands. "I'll open it. It's perfectly safe." He knelt down, pressing his thumb to the lock, then kicked the box open in a gesture too dramatic for the current situation.
"Just a few items I picked up," he said, reverting back to surftongue.
Inside the chest was a small banquet. Fresh fruit, fresh vegetables, prime cuts of meat, and quality cheese and bread. Locke thought he could see a bag of coffee and some rare spices in there too. It was at least three times the worth of the bondbox he'd prepared. He had to one up. Had to go one better. On my own truce.
"Thank you," Locke said through near-gritted teeth. Glad that any disingenuous tones that may have slipped through were obscured by the Sunrise's engines.
Jackson merely smiled a sickeningly cocky smile. He was pushing boundaries, testing his limits and enjoying every second.
One day, when this is all over, I'll kill you for this, Locke thought.
"My treat," Sky said, still smiling.
After a moment of stillness, each man debating how to end the meeting cleanly and without hostility, Sky finally spoke.
"Now, about the hoppers. Their military complex sits at the heart of the city, the defence turrets are -"
"Taken care of. A need to know basis," Locke replied sharply. "As agreed, you get us over the Capital, we'll do the rest."
"Does this have anything to do with that stunt you pulled at First Province? That was impressive. It's all over the broadcasts you know. I think you just went up a few places in Parliament's most wanted."
"I believe I'm already at number one," Locke said coolly. "They know who I am and what I can do. And what I do to those who dishonour me." He made the threat clear.
"Tis an admirable statement," Sky replied, picking up on the threat. All semblance of his shit-eating grin gone. "But if I'm flying my men and my ship into Parliament airspace with what they have available, I think I have a right to know."
Locke turned to Woody, his anger now morphing into a rage that was about to burst. He sighed in an effort to calm himself, his fingers twitching for his pistol. He rubbed his eyes, exasperated.
"We have someone on the inside," Woody gestured, breaking the tension "That's all you need to know."
Sky seemed satisfied with that, at least for the time being. He flicked a look to each of them.
"Well gentleman, we have an hour or so before we take off and a long day ahead of us tomorrow," he knelt down and rummaged in the banquet chest and emerged with a bottle of clear, thirty-year vintage rum. "So what say you both to a drink to toast our new found friendship?"
Locke looked at the bottle meant for him as a gift and turned to Woody, who merely gestured with a shrug. Locke managed a pained smile and held out his large, grubby hand, the other still hovering over his holster.
Just one, I suppose I can manage that.
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