Category: Serialised

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Two types of robots.

There are ones who have tried to fit in with the pirate routine. They’ve become pirates, they can sail ships, do a useful job of work, and perhaps even board other ships and steal things. They get to live aboard one of the BlackCircle’s pirate ships, where the conditions are vaguely more tolerable than the conditions ashore.

The second class of robots is the group comprising the new arrivals and the dunderheads, people like SpudGunn. They tend to do what they’re told, but they’re a flight risk so they’re kept in the Asylum until they settle down. MickeyWarr has no idea why they’re hanging on to SpudGunn. He’s the sort of chap who should be pushed out of the gate and left to fend for himself. Though if they did that, he’d probably come back in again, the next time the gate is opened.

That’s it! The gate opens! Sometimes food and water is delivered, sometimes the middle men take away the bounty.

Looking around at the apathetic faces at the breakfast tables, MickeyWarr wonders if it might be best to work on a solo escape attempt. The ideal time to escape is when the gates are open for horse drawn carts to come and go.

A mass break out through the main gate is not going to work well, but one or two could slip through.

If only there were somebody else that he could count on for help. Somebody to help him reach the perimeter, and then maybe help to navigate the unfamiliar town of Boot.

It won’t be SpudGunn, that’s for sure, he would be more of a hinderance than a help. Nobody should be lumbered with him.

“Wait!” thinks MickeyWarr.

“Wait for what?” says SpudGunn.

“Oh, nothing!”

Thinking that he has to be more careful not to vocalise his thoughts, MickeyWarr concentrates.

He’s thinking that SpudGunn is the route to freedom. He can screw up anything. And with his abundant stupidity he can occupy several pirates at once. He’s the perfect candidate to

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to reveal her face. Morning is breaking. The face disappears, and the hat whispers, “kiss me, beneath the milky twilight.”

With a generous helping of grump from TallyBen, the hat in MickeyWarr’s tantalising dream vanishes. The firm kick to his hip drags him back into consciousness.

“Yes, kiss me,” he says.

“You what?” says SpudGunn, as he wakes just in time to avoid the next customary kick.

MickeyWarr’s luxurious dream is instantly destroyed as he sees SpudGunn looking at him quizzically. Where’s that wonderfully luscious journey, the one with the mystery girl leading him into the woods? Can he fall asleep again? Can he pick it up again? Just where he left off?

“Oatmeal again!” says SpudGunn.

A measure of watery sludge is dolloped onto his chipped, enamel plate, “wouldn’t mind some potato sometimes! Bubble and squeak even, with lovely tender cabbage, the way mum used to make it.”

Looking at MickeyWarr he says, “you know, cabbage, with just a bit of bite to it. And some steam gently rising, as the butter begins to melt and ooze over the top!”

“Butter!?” demands MickeyWarr, “when did you ever have butter? In your dreams mate!”

MickeyWarr doesn’t wait for an answer. He takes his breakfast and sits down at one of the long, uneven trestle tables at the far end of the Asylum. Like a lost puppy with no friends SpudGunn follows him, waddling like a British Bulldog. He sits at the opposite side of the same table.

“I’m getting fed up being stuck in this building!” says SpudGunn, “it would be nice to get out today, I’d be happy to be on a ship, doing a raid or something!”

“It’d be nice to get out, full stop,” replies MickeyWarr!

“How’s the escape plan going?”

“Pah! Look at these people! No ambition!”

The escape plan is going nowhere, because MickeyWarr hasn’t yet met anybody with enough gumption to do anything about their imprisonment. It’s as if they’re all robots.

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Chapter 21
Bubble and Squeak

TallyBen is not a morning person. And when it’s his turn to muster the crew he does it the only way he knows how. The grumpy way! With an extra helping of grump!

An extra helping of potatoes would be welcome according to SpudGunn’s dream! It’s a recurring theme. Sometimes with a bit of cabbage, or carrots, or even sprouts! Meat and potatoes would be nice. But potatoes seem to be the main feature.

Night after night. In SpudGunn’s dreams!

Sometimes it’s monotonous, occurring every few minutes in even one single dream. SpudGunn is not an imaginative fellow!

A flowered hat seems to be talking and walking by itself in MickeyWarr’s dream. Telling him to “take the trail marked on your father’s map” whatever that means. The ghostly body is not guiding the hat, but the wide, floppy hat is guiding the formless, shadowy body. Gradually and calmly, passing along a moonlit trail through the middle of a field of oats, towards some pine trees in the distant woods.

MickeyWarr isn’t fully participating in this dream, and nor is the body beneath the pale blue, straw hat. The hat is lightly peppered with occasional white daisies, alternating with little florets of mature oats, and it seems to be on the head of a long haired figure who’s wearing a long flowing, magnolia silk robe. The colours of the hat and its decorations are clear, though everything else remains indistinct in various shades of grey. Traces of moonlight create a ripple effect in the folds of the robe making it resemble the surface of a gently flowing stream with ever changing shadows.

The night sky acquires a trace of greyish blue, no longer black. The stars are still clear, though less illustrious now, and the hat bobs up and down, slowly and gracefully ambling along its peaceful, unhurried journey towards the woods.

No nearer the trees than when the adventure started, the mysterious figure turns to look back, but doesn’t turn enough

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« Let me tell you something sunshine. Something that nobody’s told you before. The world doesn’t owe you a living. Your destiny will not simply fall into your lap. You have to go after it with a club! You’re not going to find your station in life by moping around here. Do something, go out, try stuff, make mistakes, learn. If you’ve been hanging around waiting for a sign, this is it. I am your sign! »

« That’s a bit blunt! But uplifting too! »

« You want blunt and uplifting? OK, I’ll give you blunt and uplifting! The future is carved out by those with the courage to act. The world isn’t all sunshine and rainbows you know. It’s a mean and nasty place. It doesn’t matter how tough you are, it will beat you to your knees. You gotta work hard, build resilience, stay strong. You gotta keep moving forward. That’s how freedom is won. »

Unsure what to make of this angry bird who’s trying to be helpful, Slender wants to end the conversation, but she doesn’t want to alienate Merlin. Another chat, another time, would surely be helpful.

« Thank you. Wonderful advice! »

« You’re welcome. »

« What did I do with my pancake? I’m still hungry. »

« I could bring you a worm if you like? »

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Probably all out at sea chasing fishing boats. But there are definitely smaller songbirds somewhere closer to hand.

Closer than she had realised! One inquisitive little bird perches on the caprail just ahead of her, turning its head to look at her. It’s not a sparrow. With its vivid colours it’s clearly a goldfinch.

Red and black plumage on its face, bold black wings with flashes of bright yellow and a variety of white and tawny feathers across its breast and back. It’s cocked its head to one side.

Slender thinks to herself, “oh, how I wish I could be free like you.”

« You are free? No? »

Stunned, Slender stares, and quickly adjusts her expression so as not to alarm the bird. She beams with an honest, beautiful, bright smile, and her eyes open wide. Opening as far as they can. She’s never communicated with a bird before. She didn’t know that she could. Perhaps she’s never been close enough.

The signal is a bit gruff though. This bird is now clearly an old man, and one who’s not afraid to be near humans.

Slender definitely wants to explore a dialogue, no matter how old and gruff this male goldfinch is.

« Freedom! I wish I could fly to freedom! »

« I’ve never seen a human flying! »

« You’re lucky, you have wings. And gorgeous feathers. »

« That’s your problem! You have the wrong type of feathers! »

« You’re somewhat abrupt aren’t you? We’ve only just met! »

« Merlin! »

« Jenifer. »

« I’m Merlin, I’m entitled to be abrupt! Anyway, your feathers are no good. »

« We call them clothes! »

« We call them feathers! Yours are no good. You’re going to have to find another route to freedom. »

« I’m stuck here. There is no other route. »

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Which is a bit rich, coming from a night watchman who’s been dozing in a canvas chair for nearly the whole night.

He snaps out of his slumber, “oh, Lieutenant Slender, it’s you!”

“Shhhh! I’m busy!” she says, waving her hand to shoo him away.

Slender stands amidships wearing just her night clothes and a robe! With the pancake still untouched, she sets the plate down on the top of a wooden barrel. Turning her head slowly, she’s trying to listen, trying to detect any noises which might help her work out which direction the faint signal is coming from.

It’s gone.

It didn’t feel like any crew member that she knows. Though new faces come and go all the time. It definitely wasn’t one of the officers. And even the officers don’t use a tablecloth, let alone a nice white one.

Loud and clear it comes back.

« Oatmeal! Again! »

And then the signal falls silent. Totally silent.

It must have been a crew member. They get oatmeal every day. Sometimes twice a day. Three times a day, if that’s all there is!

Time to get washed and dressed. Maybe her batman will be up by now? Maybe there’ll be some tea? As she returns to her cabin she glances to the shore, admiring the early morning sun, slightly higher in a clear blue sky, sitting above a ramshackle assortment of nondescript dock buildings.

The intermittent sound of some agitated sparrows suggests that they are less than pleased with their breakfasts. Where are those birds? There’s not a single tree in sight!

There is no scent of buds, nor seeds, nor immature flowers!

No longer is there any smell of DeepSigh’s sugary lemon juice. That’s already history.

As Slender reaches the steps down to her cabin, she takes one last look from the deck, trying to work out where the incessant chirping is coming from. The seagulls are all absent.

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« … where can I find some honey? »

Bingo! Erratic wavelength or not, Slender recognises what’s going on.

DeepSigh is making pancakes!

And that smell … it’s lemon juice! And it’s a sweeter than normal lemon juice, because DeepSigh has added plenty of sugar to it. Reaching for her robe, Slender puts it on, and slips her feet into her deck shoes. She makes her way downstairs to the galley as quietly as she can.

Slender and DeepSigh spot each other at exactly the same moment, and both instantly raise their fingers to their lips, whispering, “shhhh!”

“I don’t have your trays ready yet dear! Normally it’d be another hour before I do the officers’ breakfasts!”

“Don’t worry,” whispers Slender, “if you have a pancake to spare, I can eat it here. Any plate will do!”

DeepSigh reaches for a plate.

« I’d love one right now. »

“You’ve already had one, haven’t you,” asks Slender, “you’ve had at least one?”

« Laid upon a china plate, with a delicate, white, lace trimmed tablecloth. »

“A tablecloth?” says Slender, “no wait, that’s not you, that’s a man!”

“You having one of your fits again are you missy?” says DeepSigh, “you really should get that looked into. I don’t know what you youngsters get up to these days!”

“Gotta go,” says Slender, holding a pancake laden plate, but completely forgetting to smother the pancake with a spoonful of the sweet lemon juice.

Carefully keeping the plate level, Slender heads up onto the deck to see if she can get a clearer signal. There’s some interference though. There’s a night watchman on the deck. Asleep! Well sort of asleep, he’s definitely not quite awake, and his unrestrained subconscious transmits his true feelings.

« No! Not now. I want some more shut eye! »

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Chapter 20
The Unexpected Visitor

A mild, warm wind is quietly rustling the leaves of the trees at 05:00. It seems to carry with it a soft, white satin sheet which is cloaking the entire morning with a mild, natural scent of buds, or seeds, or immature flowers.

Lieutenant Slender is asleep in her cabin, though her dream is telling her that she’s already awake, and that she’s finding it hard to work out precisely what this half familiar smell is. It’s distant and imprecise, yet it’s tugging at her repressed childhood memories, and it’s quietly demanding an answer, as if to say “you know this smell … think harder!”

The sun rose half an hour ago. Playful flecks of light are promenading, in and out of the gaps in the roughly hewn curtains. She rolls over, running her fingertips through the soft satin sheets, though she’s beginning to suspect that what she’s actually feeling are just her simple cotton ones. A mischievous ray of light challenges her right eye. And now, she truly is awake!

Scanning the wavelengths to see who else is awake, she can detect only one solitary signal.

Below decks somebody is treating themselves to a favourite breakfast. By all accounts they are treating themselves to a little too much of it, according to this broken transmission!

« Sugar. How much sugar … without anybody … more …  wouldn’t it be nicer if I could have used some milk … »

The elusive scent is real enough. That much wasn’t a dream. Though the silky satin sheets were!

Reaching for the water jug on the vanity unit, it looks as if the batman has not yet been in. Slender’s simple ceramic mug has a trace of residue in the bottom. Too late to stop now, she’s already started pouring some water into last night’s mug! But the water smells good though. Or is that the soap?

« Honey … »

« … now that would be lovely …  »

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He explains all of this to MaxChaos. Who uncharacteristically listens patiently, and senses how HayWire’s story mirrors some of his own life story. A bit different. But quite similar in places, especially in the case of  Modern Native Languages.

HayWire repeats the question, “do we actually need a Garrison?”

He simply cannot be sure who said this, but he can remember the words exactly, because it resonated with him, then, and now.

HayWire thinks that the answer should be, “the darkest places in hell are reserved for those who maintain their neutrality in times of moral crisis.”

MaxChaos sits there thoughtfully for a moment. HayWire, has just delivered a most heartfelt explanation. Carefully studying his face, MaxChaos wants to understand his friend a little more.

“What really happened to your eye?”

 

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They were two years apart in the early years of secondary school and they didn’t know each other back then.

Then, one day, MaxChaos wasn’t there anymore.

When he was actually in school he didn’t really focus on studying much, he was labelled a day dreamer, and he was forever trying to work out ruses for not being there. It was inevitable, that eventually, he would just stop showing up.

Conversely, HayWire was always there, in body, if not in mind.

HayWire seemed to be a different type of day dreamer. Sometimes he would be completely focussed on studying, processing every word, asking probing questions, demonstrating an absolute immersion in the topic under discussion. At other times his mind was somewhere else completely, as if he was on a different planet. He was only ever interested in the things that he was interested in, and that did not include learning Welsh or Irish.

HayWire saved his spoons for the right occasions. Not wasting energy on things that he felt didn’t help him. Saving his energy and effort, for the things that he valued most. That included keeping one or two spoons to one side for his bedtime routine, to ensure that he cleaned his teeth properly, changed into pyjamas and slept in his bed, instead of in a heap on the sofa.

Even at primary school, HayWire had been struggling with certain lessons, and struggling with making friends. Many people just left him alone. Adults and children alike. Not getting involved. Suggesting, “it’s nothing to do with me”.

There was something from back then that HayWire now wants to share with MaxChaos. It would help to answer the question, the question about whether territories should have armies. It was something that had been said by one of the adults, maybe it was a teacher, maybe a support worker, or maybe even one of the visitors who had been brought in to try and help. HayWire is trying to remember the name, maybe it was DanTay?

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