003: WOODY - OCEAN GHOST - NIGHT 1

  The deck was rowdy. Amongst the gentle rock of the waves and the clement, salt-scented breeze the otherwise silent darkness was attacked by the shouts and yells of celebration, the raucous conversation of inebriation, and the occasional screams of terror and suffering.  

  Woody stood at the ship's stern, on the catwalk that ran the edge of the helm and navigation stations. The raised structuring also housed rear engineering access and part of the vessels munitions storage. The poop deck of the helm was a few metres above and extended outwards on all sides from the enclosed control space, offering Woody not only shelter, but shadows – which is where he felt the most comfortable. From his position the rest of the crew could not see him, but he could see them and observe everything if he so wished. It was a small square of tranquillity amongst the otherwise frantic din of ship life.
  Tonight however, he turned away from the ship and faced outwards, towards the ocean. He leaned on the rail, cup of wine in hand looking out at the blanket of rippling night that extended into the horizon. The sky was clear, the moon bright, and its reflection danced on the surface of the water, which was calm and seemingly infinite, full of possibilities. The ships sails were open - the mainsail, jib and sub-sails occasionally whipping in the wind. The irregular crack of cabling and sheets of silicon-composite slapping and ricocheting against the masts caused an uneven symphony of metallic clangs and pings above his head. Twas a soothing sound, the sound of life on the ocean. Life as a tider. The vessel had made good pace from First Province, retreating at full speed with the sails retracted but now the engine was quiet and the ship drifted using only the occasional whispers of the wind to usher it along the water's surface. The blackness of the sails made them almost invisible against the night sky and not even the ship’s putrid green sigil - the screaming skull that had come to define Woody's life so much over the last decade - was visible among the stars.  

    He took a final deep breath of night air and stepped away from the railing, tossing the remains of his wine overboard. He had never been much of a drinker, and a good commander needed to keep a distance, needed to keep a separation from the men under his charge - that was one of Locke's many lessons. Never dull your wits, he had said. No one on these oceans is your friend and any one of 'em would kill you an' claim what's yours in an eyeblink if they had the chance an' the nerve. Woody would never dull his wits, not even here, on a ship full of his own men. Dull wits meant weakness and on the waters any sign of weakness was disadvantage, and disadvantage was death.  

   He made his way along the port side of the navigation shed and down the small metal staircase onto the deck proper, it was filled with crewmen drinking, laughing, smoking and celebrating. It was traditional, their way of life. Raid, take, claim, revel. They had every right to celebrate, First Province had been a great success. The island had once been a regular stop off point for many a tider vessel and yet alas, their cowardly and weak government and gone begging to the Capital for scraps like starving dogs and the Parliament pigs had gifted them state of the art defence turrets - apparently impenetrable, seemingly unhackable and definitely capable of destroying any unprepared vessel that was stupid enough to get within firing range. However, time passed, and as various tribes and crews cut their losses and left the city be, the floating piece of scrap became older, rustier and more susceptible to attack, just waiting for a tider captain to have the foresight and resources to pay it a visit once again.  

   Captain Goodman's planning and execution had been nothing short of brilliant. The city was the only location that they’d any chance of acquiring the equipment they needed outside of the Capital itself and it was essential that the Ocean Ghost found a way to penetrate First Province's defences. It was the key to furthering their goals, and the virus they'd had developed to penetrate turrets software had worked better than expected; the hoppers and the domineering dogs in Equatorial District hadn't seen it coming and their own arrogance had cost them precious soldiers and a valuable Capital asset. It had been a good day, a good raid. It had been far too long since the ship had tasted such success, and the men had every right to revel in the glory of their victory. And yet, the greatest success was still to come.  

    Woody strolled amongst the crew, soaking up the elation and atmosphere. He swelled with pride, yet his narrow wiry frame remained shrunken and hunched.  

   “Woody! Grab some mead!” A voice yelled from somewhere within the rabble. He raised his empty cup in response and merely nodded. A few more cheers and gruff yells of praise were hurled his way as he passed through the crowd of stink and depravity. He overheard various tales of victory and combat, yarns being spun about hopper defeats and wars with other tider tribes. Men re-enacted their encounters, drawing their weapons and laughing. From the bow came the crack of a pistol shot and Woody craned his neck sharply to see but could only hear a fresh wave of laughter and congratulations.  

   A small group stood in centre deck underneath the boom; they clustered around a makeshift arena where several starving, feral rats fought and tore at each other. Numerous piles of cash and belongings sat nearby - the stakes ready to be claimed by the victor. The group cheered and yelled as their chosen vermin furiously cannibalised each other. One crewman, disgusted by his rats' poor performance, drew his blade, impaled the creature and flung it overboard as the rest of the group erupted in a cacophony of mocking laughter.  

   Woody saw crewmen periodically pissing overboard, vomiting on the deck or punching each other in drunken disagreements. Two men hurled a bloody corpse overboard – the last of today's mortal wounds that had finally claimed its victim. Acceptable losses, always. Fodder was easily available.   

  Further down, on the starboard side, a young woman and a young man were tied to the railings by their wrists. Woody didn't recognize them so assumed they both must have been recent acquisitions from the mornings raid. The young man's breeches were around his waist, torn and tatty, the woman's skirt had been ripped away entirely and lay nearby, now just a pile of cloth scraps. Each of the Provincers had a queue of crewmen behind them who patiently, and systematically waited their turn. The young man screamed and wept as he was brutally raped, the rest of the group cheering and encouraging. Woody could see droplets of blood spattering the deck beneath him. The woman meanwhile, had collapsed onto her knees, her face was tear strewn and bloated with bruises but she remained quiet, all fight gone from her. The next man in line slapped her around the face and forced wine down her throat before lifting her up, bending her over and forcing himself into her.  

  Near the group, one of several large tables had been set up with pitchers of wine, bottles of rum, whiskey, ale and mead; and an assortment of fresh produce and dried meats procured from First Province. Woody poured a cup of bitter, cheap whiskey and continued on his walk, now unnoticed and undisturbed amongst the drunk, distracted crew.  

  The power of Captain Goodman's vision, his belief and faith in the mission of the ship and those who joined it had united tiders from across the seas. Woody looked around and saw men from all tribes and backgrounds; Reefers, War Buoys, Crustaceans, Sand Devils, Krakenites, Children of Poseidon and many more. All together. All loyal. Or as loyal as a tider could be, at the very least.  The melting pot of tribes would be unheard of any other vessel, but not here. Locke had rallied tribe leaders, captains, and ships from across Lemuria. All of them waiting for the final greenlight when they would amass against the common enemy. It may be a year away, or two. But it would come. Of that Locke (and Woody) was certain.   

  In the middle of the deck, a large, rickety trapdoor was set into the metal floor. Woody walked over it and approached a nearby cage that sat on portside, positioned next to the sturdy base of a small crane that hung idle over the water.   

  Inside the cage sat a beaten, malnourished man. His lips were cracked and his skin spotted with occasional sores as the scurvy and exposure to the sun had taken its toll. His clothes were rags, encrusted with his own blood and excrement.  

  Woody stood over him and the man looked up helplessly. He managed only one, raspy word. 

  “...thirsty...” 

  “Got some whiskey for ya, figured you might wanna drink seen's as everyone else is celebratin.' Here.” he held out the cup. The man looked at it.  

   “….water...” 

  “It's this or nothin,' make your choice.” 

  The man reached out, he could barely lift his arms. Woody handed the cup to him.  

  “A mite unfair if you don't get a drink yourself, huh?” Woody pulled up a bucket and sat on it, watching as the man slowly gulped, struggling with each swallow. He winced and gasped after every fiery intake of the liquid. The man's facial tattoos identified him as a Child of Poseidon and that his birth ship had been called the Hate & Glory, aside from that, Woody had known nothing of the man. He was a seemingly regular tider recruit who needed work and money and was happy to claw his way through a few raids until he either jumped ship or died. The names and faces were irrelevant when the fodder was so numerous and so cheap, and thus Bo'Sun Woody Smytheson paid most of his men no mind, and this one had been no different. However, three weeks prior when the ship had made port at the Husk for maintenance and a re-fit – which had happened to be the scheduled installation time of the mortar launcher - the now-caged man, whose name had allegedly been Chuck Black had been found at a long-range comms terminal attempting to broadcast encrypted information to Parliament. Unfortunately for him, the decades old terminal had short circuited and ignoring 'Chuck's' protests the allocated engineer had forcibly rebooted the terminal and discovered the Parliament issue data key plugged into the memory-jack. Hours later, Chuck was caged, and it had taken Locke less than forty minutes of torture to break the pathetic worm. He was Parliament Intelligence, one of their spies - a Gull as they were known colloquially – and had been allocated specifically to the Ocean Ghost to send back his little bursts of hearsay and tattling. Research had turned up that there had indeed been a Child of Poseidon vessel by the name of Hate & Glory, but this man had not been born on it, he was no tider, and now he was no Gull. He was now less than a man. He was a commodity, a plaything, an animal. Perhaps unfortunately for the man Locke had decided against execution in favour of something more relevant to the coming weeks plans. However, to dissuade any other potential spies and hostiles, the Captain had executed three crewmen at random, declaring that all men are rife with dishonesty and treachery and that odds declared eventually one of them would have betrayed him anyway.      

   The caged man finished the whiskey, gasping, his eyes hollow and dead. He returned the cup to Woody who took it and set it on the deck gently.   

  “Kill me, please,” the man sobbed.  

  “No. We told you. Not yet.” 

  “I have...nothing else...I've told you everything I know...” 

  “We know. Quite sad how quick we broke you actually, don't they teach ya to withstand torture an' all that?” 

   “Just let me starve...or put a bullet...” 

   “I came to offer you a drink and show you some decency but to be honest with ya, Mister Gull, ya killin' my mood.” Woody stood up, stretched out his back and adjusted his jacket.  

   “...then...” the man managed. 

   “What was that?” Woody leaned down, hand to his ear in exaggerated mockery. 

  The man just looked up at the crane, sobbing harder.  

   “Oh, that." Woody winked and tapped the cage. "Maybe, but not yet. Have a pleasant evenin’ fella.” 

  The man's sobs gradually faded as Woody made his way to the lower deck's bow entrance. He descended down the spiral staircase to deck two, the upper crew deck. Although the bulk of the revelry was happening up above, down here on crew quarters level he could still hear the occasional sounds of celebration and pain amongst the open and closed doors. 

  He continued downwards towards the workshop, ducking through the small door to be confronted with racks and shelves full of tools and spare parts, glowing screens and terminals, and filthy cutlery and crockery. Any spare wall space was adorned with an assortment of pornographic posters. At the centre of the room, a long workbench covered in much the same mess was bolted to the floor and in the middle of it all, sprawled on a bench and holding a tool that’s function Woody couldn’t hazard a guess at was Rusty Finch, the ships technician. He pointed the tool at a circuit board, occasionally firing off bursts of light and then checking readings on a nearby monitor. His deputy - the ship's former technical chief - a hulking beast of a man named Brass, worked nearby soldering unknown components. They worked in silence, mainly due to the beats and screeches of industrial orchestra music blaring over the speakers.  

  “Rusty!” Woody yelled. Nothing. “Rusty!”  

  The men ignored him. A half-full bottle of mead sat nearby, Brass reached for it without turning around.  

   “Rusty!” Woody picked up a scrap of metal and threw it at the man. It crashed down in front of him sending components scattering every which way and jerking the man out of his work induced trance. He looked up, panicked and angry, and turned off the music. Brass turned around before seeing Woody then quickly busied himself even more.  

  “Sir!” he yelled. “You dense in the brainpan? These components are -” 

  “I’m sorry, technician?” Woody said coolly, placing his hand upon the butt of his pistol.  

  “These components are part o' what we took from First Province, they're too valuable to be hurled around the workbench. I’m sure if Cap’n Goodman -” 

  “Shut up,” Woody snapped.  

  Rusty fell silent before frantically gathering up the scattered pieces of hardware. After several seconds fumbling around the bench, he sat up and lifted the lenses of his work goggles, ensuring he gave Woody his full attention.  

  “On my way to see Captain Goodman now. I came for an update.” Woody kept his hand on his pistol, relaxed, but sending a clear message.   

  “We still runnin' tests, diagnostics, tidyin’ up a bit o' damage here an' there from the raid, but they’re perfect, Sir. They’ll do exactly what we need 'em to. They're more’n capable of the task at hand. Cap’n’ll be all manner of proud.” 

  “Good, what’s next?” 

  “Nothin’ but storage. Safely tucked in and ready for installin,” Rusty smiled proudly and with a hint of arrogance Woody didn’t care for. It was the only way Rusty seemed to know how to smile. 

  Woody knew that the ship was lucky to have Rusty, his engineering and technical know-how were unmatched on the waters and his reputation preceded him. It took a month of searching for his prior vessel for Locke to get his hands on him, and after a messy mix of negotiation and slaughter, Captain Goodman had claimed his bounty, demoted Brass, thrown Rusty into the workshop and told him he would obey or die. Rusty had cleverly chosen the former - with some resistance of course - but had vehemently fought for full disclosure on projects he was to be working on. After a full briefing from Woody, he had thrown himself in willingly and ecstatically. However, even months later, he still pushed boundaries where he could, knowing his expertise would shield him from any major harm. Brass however, took his demotion silently and without protest, working diligently under Rusty’s insolence.  

  “You’re done for the night,” Woody said. He pointed at the mead. “Take that up on deck an’ join the rabble, it's your celebration too. If the gear is that valuable then I ain’t having the pair of you getting' tanked up alongside it and spilling booze all over the place. Get out and lock up. It can wait 'til tomorrow.”  

  “Aye, Sir,” Rusty saluted mockingly.  

  Brass turned to Woody, his weary eyes downturned. “I’ll see to it Bo’Sun, don’t worry yaself.”  

  “Make sure you do.” Woody nodded and turned back up the stairwell. He stopped, poked his head back around. “Alternatively, if you really wanna make yourself useful, you can get a head start patchin' up the thunderfall. I don’t care which. Just be gone from here when I next come down.” He left them without another word and headed back up to the crew deck.
  The corridor split around to the port and starboard sides, leaving an open square in the middle of the deck that framed the very bottom of the Tank. That meant that the cabins on the inner run of the corridors were built snuggled right up to the 'Death Box' as it had affectionately been named, the crewmen who inhabited those cabins shared a wall with the horrors that swam on other side. Alas, someone had to sleep there, and bartering for quarters changes was often a stake in crew games. Woody turned port. 
  The doors along either side of the causeway, if not open, still offered small glimpses beyond through their hatches. Screams of torture in one, a card game in another, one of the ships concubines riding eagerly atop a crewman; door after door of the Ocean Ghost’s evening passed him by. On the right, he passed his own quarters, locked and secured as always; and there up ahead, at the end of the corridor and towards aft was the Captain's cabin – its hatch facing down the entire length of the ship - had the tank not blocked the view. Woody hammered the heavy knocker four times and waited patiently.  

  “Who is it?” said the voice like a saw on bones from within.  

  “Woody,” Woody said.  

  “Come in,” Captain Goodman said. The heavy clang of the remote lock disengaging signalled Woody's invitation, he lifted the handle, slid the door aside and stepped over the threshold.   

  Goodman sat behind a large, ornate wooden desk. The bulk of it matching perfectly the powerful frame of the man sitting behind it. Numerous papers, books and hard drives adorned the desk alongside an old, battered computer that was jerry-rigged to improve its performance - cables and modifications spilled from inside it like technological intestines. A grimy tablet rested under one meaty hand as Locke read scrawling's from an old notebook. The walls of the cabin were adorned with charts, photos, weapons and various trinkets. A sleeping area – large by ship standards – was built into the cabin, above the door; whilst alongside the starboard side of the room was a small utilities area – encompassing a lavatory, shower, refrigerator and storage. A screen above flickered with static and poor reception, the images barely visible through the signal interference - Need to get Brass on that satellite repair - and underneath it sat two small speakers emitting an ebbing and flowing piece of acoustic folk music that Woody was unfamiliar with. The entire room seemed like a cluttered museum – not only of Captain Goodman’s life, but of all tider civilization.   

 Woody stepped in, closing the door behind him.  

  “The men havin’ fun?” Captain Goodman asked without looking up.  

  “We did good today, Sir. You did good today.”  

  “How’s our guest?” 

  “Still alive.”  

  “Good. He just needs to hold out a mite longer.”  

  Woody glanced at the tin mug that sat abandoned on the corner of the desk.  

  “Your cup is empty, be a shame not to toast our victory.” 

  “You’re right. I’ll take two measures of the usual with ice, and help yourself.” Goodman continued to read, barely acknowledging Woody’s presence. Woody moved over to the cluttered drinks cabinet and poured two measures of Goodman's favourite whiskey into the cup – a now seventeen-year-old Capital-made vintage procured from a transport rig off the coast of Harrowhill. He dropped in three cubes of ice from the chill unit and poured two fingers of cheap rum for himself into one of the worn glasses nearby. He took the seat opposite the captain and handed him the cup. Goodman took it, finally looking up from his work. Woody raised his glass.  

  “What are we toasting, Bo’Sun?” the captain asked him.  

  “A prosperous future,” Woody replied.  

  “Sounds 'bout right,” they clinked and drank, Goodman finished his in one whilst Woody put his glass down after one unsatisfactory gulp.     

  “Everythin’ set for Jackson?” Captain Goodman asked, fixing his gaze upon Woody. The scar tissue around his left temple gave his eyelid the slightest droop but that didn’t detract from the intensity of his stare and the cunning that hid behind the man's eyes. 

  “Aye, everythin’s in storage and will be inventoried tomorrow ready for shipping. I’m seeing to it personally alongside a couple of handpicked men. It’s taken care of. Starr and Montana have assured him the Angel's Hurricane and the Cloudhammer are a go, providing the bondbox checks out. Knight and Chen are triple checkin' the perimeter at the Float.”  

  “Good. And the hardware?” 

  “Rusty’s certain. I think we have everythin’ we need.” 

  “Not everythin,’ not yet.” Goodman smiled wanly and stood up. He strolled over to the drinks cabinet and poured himself another. He drank more slowly this time, savouring the stolen liquid. “But we’re close,” he continued.  

  He turned towards a large framed picture that hung in the middle of the port wall, it formed the centrepiece of the décor - the various pieces of detritus seemingly caught around it in static orbit. It was blurry, dark, and grainy as it had been blown up far beyond the capability of the lens that had captured it. To the uneducated viewer it was merely indistinguishable shapes and ripples, however Woody has been talked through it at length and he knew it was the choppy surface of the Expanse - the ripples and shadows of a far western ocean - and the almost formless shadow that seemed to float just below the surface.  

   “I ever told you when this was taken?” Captain Goodman said, his attention now fully on the frame and its hypnotic mystery.  

  “A few times. When you was a lad, aye. You and your pa out on deck.” 

  “Not out on deck. In a raft. The Saracen was a klick away. He’d taken me out fishin.” 

   Woody remembered the story well of course, he’d heard it recounted numerous times but was happy enough to indulge the man again. He enjoyed hearing the tale. A part of him couldn’t help but be swept up in Locke’s enthusiasm, his majesty. The picture on the wall was the catalyst for everything that the Captain had done and was going to do. It was the single driving purpose of the man's entire existence. 

  “ 'If ya can’t fish then you can’t do nothin’ else' Pa said. Fishin’ is the most basic survival skill out here, if you can’t fish now then how you hope to survive anywhere else?” Captain Goodman continued, now talking to himself more than Woody. "That's what he said."
    He moved away from the picture, leaning against the cabin door but never really removing his gaze from the framed image. He took another long sip and sighed.  

   “Ya know, we supposedly got some sort o' obligation to this way of life - and that’s the problem - we ain’t got no obligation to it at all but that’s all we ever told. It's always felt like I was jus' passin’ the time til something better, ya know? Takin’ it day by day until...I could make a difference. I said to myself that one day I would have the power, the men, and the control so that we don't have to be chained to this supposed obligation...” he trailed off, moving back to the picture and stroking it like a beloved pet. “Until the day I can have this." He continued to explore the image with his fingers. "I’m just so close. So close.” 

  Woody stood, fascinated. This was new.  

  “When we were at First Province today I killed a hopper,” Goodman said matter-of-factly. “He ain’t the first and he won’t be the last, but he was...” he thought carefully. “An obstacle. Just like every other person I put down. All of ‘em - just obstacles in my path. Little bumps in the road to change. Obstacles. They ain’t no more than an inconvenient wind in a sail." He snorted derisively. " Fishin’? Pa was wrong, that ain’t the most basic skill you need out here. It’s fear. And vision. You wanna survive out here, that’s what you gotta learn. That’s what you gotta know how to wield, whether it’s in your nature or it ain’t. I don’t know if it was in my nature or not, I don’t ever know a time before it, but I do know this; with each bullet through the head, with each blood stain on my blade, I am a step closer to the ultimate plunder.” He pointed at the picture, pressing his index finger to its surface a little too forcefully.

  “How long?” Woody asked.  

  “Weeks,” Goodman said, finally turning his gaze to Woody. “I have everythin' I need. I know everythin' I need to make this happen. Then I’ll be able to put down my sword and stand proud. I’ll be done with this life.” 

  “It's the way things are," Woody said sombrely. "We're tiders, our voices don't get heard in Parliament.”

  The captain finished off his drink in one.  

  “But why?’” he asked, placing down the glass.

  “Why?” 

  “You ever really stopped and thought, why? How'd we end up here? Who decided? No one’s ever questioned any other way and that’s over. As of tomorrow. The world is gonna sit up and take notice.” 

   Woody could only nod. He raised his glass in a gesture of agreement.  

  “There any spare women, Woody?” 

  “I’m sure I could find you one -” 

  “Don’t matter, I’ll find one myself.” He strode to the door and opened it. “Oh, one more thing.” 

  “Yes?” 

  “Could you look into Darius O’Reilly?” 

  “Who’s that?” Woody asked. 

  “No idea, but that suicidal hopper was mouthin' off 'bout him today. Acted like I should know him or somethin.” 

   “He a tider?” 

   “I assume so.” 

   “I’ll see what I can do.” 

    Goodman turned and stepped over the threshold. 

  “You proud, Locke?” It was rare Woody didn’t address the man by his title, although he was free not to. He hoped the sincerity in his voice came through.  

  “What?” Locke stopped, not turning around,  

  “Of everythin’ you done.” 

  “We live in a world of reputation and expectation - so pride, sadly, ain't got nothin’ to do with it. You can see yourself out.” He left without another word and Woody watched him carry his hunched bulk down the cramped corridor. 

  Woody finished his drink. He wasn’t tired, nor in the mood for revelry, so he decided he’d head down to the brig and double check the preparations in the cell he’d picked out. He was, after all, very excited to meet their new guest.