Dinner with the Captain

You do not own a dress uniform, so you chose a sharp suit instead. Dark fabric and a starched shirt, your boots shined to a mirror sheen. You are clean-shaven, and you take the time to tie your meddlesome cravat into a pleasing shape.

She does own a dress uniform, you have seen it before, but she welcomes you wearing an evening dress and dark slippers over her naked feet. Her earrings are feysilver and rare stones, and a golden necklace snakes around her paler neck. She offers you her hand and grins like a cat when you kiss it.

Her dark hair is ordered back, only two freer strands frame her face. She hails from one of the small isles that dot the Oursea around Barenhaven, but not a hint of that bucolic innocence shines in her amber eyes. There is a hint of mischief instead, and subtle paints have turned her wind-bitten face into the visage of a mythical warrior queen.

The Tar Lanterns are cold, and a sea of candles bathes her cabin in soft light instead. A wine-red bedspread hides her cot. All her books, tomes on navigation and borderline illegal romances, are arrayed, single-file, on the shelves. On the table, real silverware glitters in the shine of a golden candelabra.

The food, however, is adequate at best. The lack of fresh vittles and a dedicated cook means that the meat is overcooked, and you cannot tell what kind of vegetable the green mass on your plate is supposed to represent. But even overcooked meat is meat, and the drink selection is excellent.

”Have you ever been to Sector Aleph? Seen the Colony there?” she asks over coffee.

You have not, and she thus explains:

About the ancient tree which climbs, mountain-like, towards a secret sun. ”Or so they say.” Its roots are said to be granite, and they may reach down to the earth’s hidden, sulphuric core. A race of intelligent ants has tunnelled through the hallowed trunk.

You do know that Worker Mash is the partially digested sap of this ancient tree, and you have heard stories about the insect people that produce it. You had not previously considered their capacity for debauchery.

The Captain lowers her eyes, and her tongue touches her lips. ”I should not tell you this.” And she doesn’t -- not yet. She instead discusses the Orcrist, the mushroom network that connects them to each other. ”Some say it rules them,” she says, ”but this is not true. Or maybe...” She pauses.

”There are humans who have joined them. I do not know whether you can free yourself, and I did not ask, but they told me that they joined of their own volition and did not regret their choice. Then again, that’s the lie I would have wanted to hear. They can certainly remember their past, and they retained their individuality along with opinions and interests. Or the Orcrist feigned just that to make me lower my guard.”

The Captain smiles, maybe answering your unasked question. ”And I did. And I survived the encounter. Obviously. And I am thus inclined to trust them. But – you know.

I’ve been told that communication was hard before. They did speak – their nobility did – but humans could not hear them, much less mimic the sound of their mandibles. And their workers could not, something about the shape of their heads. Think about it – a whole class incapable of making themselves heard, but perfectly capable of thinking. Capable of understanding, but never understood.”

You clear your throat.

”The Joiners, yes. They brought human desire with them – or maybe the Orcrist did. Because – never you mind. On my first visit, I went with one of the Joiners. A handsome man, and rather well-hung. The eyes – the mushroom stalks – were strange at first, but I was young and wanted to try everything once.

And they were watching without watching. I could feel them feel us, and when we came the clacking stopped. Stopped, then changed.” The Captain raises her cup, finds it empty, and sets it back down again. ”That is my story, anyway. Probably not one for polite company – I do apologize.” A smile plays on her wine-stained lips, and her cheeks are coloured red. She giggles a girlish giggle.

You raise an eyebrow. Neither of you ever showed any embarrassment about mariner talk before. And her dress.

”A Lady should show restraint, don’t you think?” she purrs.

You mutter some reassurances, and you make sure to address her with her rank.

”You are a gentleman,” she says, then pauses. ”Or a good friend. And a good friend.” She refills her cup, tastes, and sighs. ”It is late. Goodnight, good buddy?”

You look at her, and she looks at you. A question burns in her eyes, and she adjusts her dress. You catch a glimpse of white peaks and stiff nipples, and she cocks an eyebrow. The coffee pot shakes in her hand as she holds it close to your empty cup.

”Or did you want more?”