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NORTH AMERICA
Beachrock, Massachusetts
Dave Wilson sat out in the parking lot.
All those sleepless hours sitting at home, he’d been eager to come back to work. Now the time was here and he found himself struggling to find the strength to even get out of the car. The longing for a return to some semblance of normalcy replaced by anxiety over what he’d find when he looked at the faces of the people he interacted with. Trapped in a tiny, little town in the armpit of Cape Cod.
His hand rested on the door handle. He took a breath, telling himself that he’d go in a minute. Then that minute came and he stayed.
Scared? Frightened? He wasn’t sure what he felt, or even how he was supposed to feel. Guilt. Lots of guilt. That much he did know.
A deep breath in. As he exhaled, the man finally steeled himself and dug deep to find the strength to finally open the door.
The sun wasn’t up yet. The parking lot a myriad of darkness and shadows broken up by the harsh street lamps that hung overhead, lighting the path toward the building that seemed to loom ominously before him.
The sign read: Beachrock County Sheriff
The desk sergeant started to stand as Dave passed through the door. “Welcome back, Dave,” the sergeant, Bill O'Shaughnessy, offered as he passed.
Instead of welcoming, it felt damning. Dave found he couldn’t meet Bill’s eyes, instead offering a weak wave as he held his breath and shuffled past.
“Welcome back, Dave.” Joe Rushing that time. Then Mark LaFontaine. As Dave Wilson tried to get to the locker room as inconspicuously and quietly as possible, he was assailed time and time again by people reaching out to him.
And each time they did, he just wanted to withdraw further.
A hand caught him by the arm, pulling him back. “Dave,” Shondra Ramirez, giving his arm a squeeze as she got his attention and said, “I am so, so sorry. Let me know if there’s anything that Rick or I can do for you.”
Dave’s mouth fell open to reply, but words just dried up on his tongue. Instead, he just gave a wordless nod before he turned away.
“Wilson!”
He was almost to the door of the locker room, but the voice that had called out was one he couldn’t ignore. Couldn’t run from.
Taking a breath, Dave turned toward the open office and found his way blocked as the unmistakable pillar that was Shannon McTaggert stood like a mountain, waiting.
Waiting for what? Dave looked up at Shannon’s face for just a moment as he offered, “Hey, Shan...”
A pair of tree trunk-like arms pulled him in. Before his mind had even registered just what had happened, Dave Wilson found himself in a crushing man-hug. “Yeah,” he offered, as soon as he could breathe again. When the hug lingered, Dave reached up to pat Shannon on the back and pulled away. “Yeah. Thanks, Shannon,” he offered, awkwardly fumbling for something to say as he moved around the mountain of a man and finally stepped inside of the open door.
“You wanted to see me, Sheriff?”
“I checked with the county HR,” the sheriff began, looking up as Dave entered, as he turned his full attention to the man now standing in his office. “We can give you more time if you need it.”
“No, Sheriff,” Dave stated softly. Then, swallowing, found his voice a little firmer as he offered, “I’m ready to go back to work.”
“Very well,” the sheriff answered, as he started to turn back to what he’d been doing.
As Dave turned to leave, he heard his name called again.
“Wilson.”
“Sheriff?”
Removing his reading glasses, the sheriff looked up at Dave and offered, “Grief’s not an easy thing to process. It’s okay to have a bad day. You do, don’t be afraid to say something.”
Dave just gave a silent nod of his head, before passing back out of the sheriff’s office.
All those sleepless hours sitting at home, he’d been eager to come back to work. Now the time was here and he found himself struggling to find the strength to even get out of the car. The longing for a return to some semblance of normalcy replaced by anxiety over what he’d find when he looked at the faces of the people he interacted with. Trapped in a tiny, little town in the armpit of Cape Cod.
His hand rested on the door handle. He took a breath, telling himself that he’d go in a minute. Then that minute came and he stayed.
Scared? Frightened? He wasn’t sure what he felt, or even how he was supposed to feel. Guilt. Lots of guilt. That much he did know.
A deep breath in. As he exhaled, the man finally steeled himself and dug deep to find the strength to finally open the door.
The sun wasn’t up yet. The parking lot a myriad of darkness and shadows broken up by the harsh street lamps that hung overhead, lighting the path toward the building that seemed to loom ominously before him.
The sign read: Beachrock County Sheriff
The desk sergeant started to stand as Dave passed through the door. “Welcome back, Dave,” the sergeant, Bill O'Shaughnessy, offered as he passed.
Instead of welcoming, it felt damning. Dave found he couldn’t meet Bill’s eyes, instead offering a weak wave as he held his breath and shuffled past.
“Welcome back, Dave.” Joe Rushing that time. Then Mark LaFontaine. As Dave Wilson tried to get to the locker room as inconspicuously and quietly as possible, he was assailed time and time again by people reaching out to him.
And each time they did, he just wanted to withdraw further.
A hand caught him by the arm, pulling him back. “Dave,” Shondra Ramirez, giving his arm a squeeze as she got his attention and said, “I am so, so sorry. Let me know if there’s anything that Rick or I can do for you.”
Dave’s mouth fell open to reply, but words just dried up on his tongue. Instead, he just gave a wordless nod before he turned away.
“Wilson!”
He was almost to the door of the locker room, but the voice that had called out was one he couldn’t ignore. Couldn’t run from.
Taking a breath, Dave turned toward the open office and found his way blocked as the unmistakable pillar that was Shannon McTaggert stood like a mountain, waiting.
Waiting for what? Dave looked up at Shannon’s face for just a moment as he offered, “Hey, Shan...”
A pair of tree trunk-like arms pulled him in. Before his mind had even registered just what had happened, Dave Wilson found himself in a crushing man-hug. “Yeah,” he offered, as soon as he could breathe again. When the hug lingered, Dave reached up to pat Shannon on the back and pulled away. “Yeah. Thanks, Shannon,” he offered, awkwardly fumbling for something to say as he moved around the mountain of a man and finally stepped inside of the open door.
“You wanted to see me, Sheriff?”
“I checked with the county HR,” the sheriff began, looking up as Dave entered, as he turned his full attention to the man now standing in his office. “We can give you more time if you need it.”
“No, Sheriff,” Dave stated softly. Then, swallowing, found his voice a little firmer as he offered, “I’m ready to go back to work.”
“Very well,” the sheriff answered, as he started to turn back to what he’d been doing.
As Dave turned to leave, he heard his name called again.
“Wilson.”
“Sheriff?”
Removing his reading glasses, the sheriff looked up at Dave and offered, “Grief’s not an easy thing to process. It’s okay to have a bad day. You do, don’t be afraid to say something.”
Dave just gave a silent nod of his head, before passing back out of the sheriff’s office.
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SHAYERIS
3,600 feet below sea level
The steward paced in the palace hall that bridged the royal apartments to the landing where their arrivals and departures were coordinated.
At last seeing one of the royal guards, Vulko snapped in an uncharacteristic burst of anger. “Why hasn’t the prince left yet?”
“There was a delay in the carriage house.”
“There’s no time for delay,” the steward rebuked bluntly. “Get him on a transport, now!”
“Vulko.”
The aging sorcerer turned, seeing King Thar making his way from out of chambers. As he bowed, he heard the king’s voice touch his mind again. “You seem tense.”
“I can’t shake this feeling,” Vulko remarked, straightening back up as he looked at the king. “Like we’re too late.”
Thar seemed to regard his longtime teacher with an almost skepticism. Finally, the king answered, “There’s no danger here.”
With a heavy heart, the steward sighed and answered, “None that we see, my king.”
At last seeing one of the royal guards, Vulko snapped in an uncharacteristic burst of anger. “Why hasn’t the prince left yet?”
“There was a delay in the carriage house.”
“There’s no time for delay,” the steward rebuked bluntly. “Get him on a transport, now!”
“Vulko.”
The aging sorcerer turned, seeing King Thar making his way from out of chambers. As he bowed, he heard the king’s voice touch his mind again. “You seem tense.”
“I can’t shake this feeling,” Vulko remarked, straightening back up as he looked at the king. “Like we’re too late.”
Thar seemed to regard his longtime teacher with an almost skepticism. Finally, the king answered, “There’s no danger here.”
With a heavy heart, the steward sighed and answered, “None that we see, my king.”
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NORTH ATLANTIC
200 miles off the coast of North Carolina
“All ships, all stations, be advised that active sinking of a U.S. Navy warship is taking place in the vicinity of...”
Strom sat in a chair on the bridge wing of the USS Ford. The smell of the salt spray and the sight of the open sea calling him back to his many times throughout his career when he served aboard a warship. Had command of a warship. Could shut out the noise and just focus on the mission or task at hand.
”Captain on the bridge!”
Strom looked back on a reflex trained from familiarity, then felt a slight pang of regret for the fact that they weren’t announcing him. He wasn’t the captain.
He hadn’t been for a long time now.
The one simple truth of growing old in the military. You either got told to retire or else you got yourself promoted out of a job. Opportunities to sail to sea like this were the exception. Strom commanded a desk at the Pentagon, where he sailed the political currents of Washington and traded the fickle whims of the ocean’s breeze for those of the White House.
“Sir.”
That was the captain. Pivoting around in the chair, the admiral gave a nod of acknowledgement as the enviable officer stepped out onto the bridge wing with him. Motioning to the aging carrier that sat in view of the horizon, the captain continued, “Trafalgar’s in position. We can detonate on your order, Admiral.”
“Very well,” Strom replied. A formality. Then, his eyes locked on the once stately vessel of the United States, said, “Sink her.”
“Aye, sir.”
Strom swiveled back around as the captain stepped back onto the bridge to carry out his order. The man’s gray eyes lingering on the silhouette of the Trafalgar. He could hear the commotion from inside the bridge of the Ford as ordered were passed and personnel snapped into action.
The pyrotechnics were invisible to the naked eye, contained within the ship and buried under the water line. From this distance, the old sailor could see the ship begin to list. Trafalgar was going down.
“Sir.”
Strom swiveled around, somewhat surprised at the interruption. As he turned, the man looked up to see the captain there. “Status report?”
“Several of the charges in the aft failed to detonate,” the captain reported simply. Clearly, not surprised at the news he was delivering. “The ship is going down with a different dive profile than we’d planned for. I think we’re going to miss the ridge.”
The admiral just gave a grunt, as he turned back toward where Trafalgar was starting to disappear. Her bow section was submerged, the flight deck slipping beneath the water as the supersection vanished from view.
And thus passed the mighty warship Trafalgar.
With her, so ended his time away from the Potomac.
“The order was to sink it, Captain. You sank it,” Strom answered gruffly, bristling at the thought of trading his underway khakis for Pentagon dress blues. “Take us back to Norfolk.”
Strom sat in a chair on the bridge wing of the USS Ford. The smell of the salt spray and the sight of the open sea calling him back to his many times throughout his career when he served aboard a warship. Had command of a warship. Could shut out the noise and just focus on the mission or task at hand.
”Captain on the bridge!”
Strom looked back on a reflex trained from familiarity, then felt a slight pang of regret for the fact that they weren’t announcing him. He wasn’t the captain.
He hadn’t been for a long time now.
The one simple truth of growing old in the military. You either got told to retire or else you got yourself promoted out of a job. Opportunities to sail to sea like this were the exception. Strom commanded a desk at the Pentagon, where he sailed the political currents of Washington and traded the fickle whims of the ocean’s breeze for those of the White House.
“Sir.”
That was the captain. Pivoting around in the chair, the admiral gave a nod of acknowledgement as the enviable officer stepped out onto the bridge wing with him. Motioning to the aging carrier that sat in view of the horizon, the captain continued, “Trafalgar’s in position. We can detonate on your order, Admiral.”
“Very well,” Strom replied. A formality. Then, his eyes locked on the once stately vessel of the United States, said, “Sink her.”
“Aye, sir.”
Strom swiveled back around as the captain stepped back onto the bridge to carry out his order. The man’s gray eyes lingering on the silhouette of the Trafalgar. He could hear the commotion from inside the bridge of the Ford as ordered were passed and personnel snapped into action.
The pyrotechnics were invisible to the naked eye, contained within the ship and buried under the water line. From this distance, the old sailor could see the ship begin to list. Trafalgar was going down.
“Sir.”
Strom swiveled around, somewhat surprised at the interruption. As he turned, the man looked up to see the captain there. “Status report?”
“Several of the charges in the aft failed to detonate,” the captain reported simply. Clearly, not surprised at the news he was delivering. “The ship is going down with a different dive profile than we’d planned for. I think we’re going to miss the ridge.”
The admiral just gave a grunt, as he turned back toward where Trafalgar was starting to disappear. Her bow section was submerged, the flight deck slipping beneath the water as the supersection vanished from view.
And thus passed the mighty warship Trafalgar.
With her, so ended his time away from the Potomac.
“The order was to sink it, Captain. You sank it,” Strom answered gruffly, bristling at the thought of trading his underway khakis for Pentagon dress blues. “Take us back to Norfolk.”
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Over a thousand years before, Atlantis has been part of the surface world. Their ways, their culture, had been no different from any number of societies in neighboring regions of the globe.
Then it fell into the sea.
Their ways, their culture, adapted. Yet, the more things changed, the more they tended to stay the same. In many respects, they were as alike as they were different from their surface dwelling counterparts.
Not the least of which was a fixation on the royal family.
Vulko’s efforts to see the prince off in expeditious fashion were stalled by a media frenzy that had sprung up outside the royal landing. It made the steward wonder if the so-called delay at the carriage house hadn’t been a convenient ruse to give the undersea paparazzi time to circle the proverbial sharks.
“Thanks, Osin. I’m Pora with Atlantean News First, reporting to you live from Shayeris. In a surprise announcement this morning, Coral Tower revealed that Prince Garth would replace Queen Berra as the royal sponsor for the opening of a hospital in Crastinus later this day,” A blue-haired Atlantean woman stated, under the floating bioluminescent lights that helped illuminate her for the imaging magic that then projected the report across Poiseidonis. “No reason for the change has been provided, but this marks the first time that the young prince has been assigned official duties and makes him the youngest working royal on record.”
Tucked just out of sight of the sea-going vultures, Queen Berra clung to her son. Letting him go only to pull him back in.
“Mom,” the boy lamented.
“Last hug,” she promised, her own voice sending chills down her spine as she was suddenly overcome by a foreboding. Like she’d just spoken truth. A truth she very much didn’t want to be true.
“Mom!” Garth uttered, rolling his head and his eyes as he started to swim away.
Her hand caught his, pulling him back as she offered a final word. “Be safe.”
The boy’s purple eyes just blinked, his head cocked to one side as he quipped, “Mom, I’m just going to Crastinus.”
Her stomach in knots, Berra let her son go. As the child swam out to greet the waiting feeding frenzy of reporters and fans, the queen took a breath to try and steel herself.
A familiar presence moved behind her. “Are you all right, my love?” Thar asked, as the king watched their son depart.
“I feel it now, too,” Berra warned. Turning her eyes up to meet her husband’s, the woman asked, “What if Lemuria isn’t Attuma’s target?”
Thar gripped his queen by the shoulders, holding her tightly as the pair watched. And waited.
The peace that they’d fought so hard for, been so proud of, now seemed quite fragile.
Smiling, Garth sailed along the landing, circling over toward where a group of reporters were calling out to him as he waved to the crowd.
To his surprise, Vulko snatched him aside. “Your highness, you must go,” the steward snapped, shoving the boy into the waiting shuttle. Then, looking at the guards at the controls, snapped, “Now.”
Unsettled, Garth just shrank back into the seat at the rear. “Sure, Vulko,” he offered, as the canopy was sealed and the shuttle floated up and away from the landing.
Garth flipped around, standing on his knees in the seat as he peered out the back to watch as the Coral Palace fell away and the city of Shayeris came into view as the shuttle departed.
Standing there, Vulko didn’t feel any better for the departure. A shadow had fallen over Shayeris. At first, he’d thought it nothing more than a passing whale, but now, as the steward watched the shuttle depart, the old sorcerer’s eyes were drawn upward.
Toward the surface.
There, he saw the coming of the end.
The USS Trafalgar had been falling for more than five minutes. Centrifugal forces caused by the displacement of 60,000 tonnes of water had caused the ship to spin as it continued to descend. The Trafalgar had built up a head of speed, plummeting through the ocean depths at near fifty miles per hour. The ship had started to break apart. The superstructure shearing away from the flight deck as it began to shatter into a cloud of debris that trailed behind the main hull that was plummeting like a torpedo into the valley on the far side of the undersea mountain that had for so long been Shayeris’ protection from the surface world. From the submersible machines that avoided the mountain.
The Trafalgar slammed into Shayeris with the force of a nuclear bomb.
The undetonated charges in its aft section exploded with the collision and rapid implosion of its hull, sending secondary shockwaves across the city that spewed coral, debris, and sediment billowing outward in a dark cloud that cast the seafloor into murky darkness.
Garth collided with the back of the pilot’s seat, as the unleashed forces sent the shuttle spiraling out of control.
Then the trailing parts of the ships that had broken off began to rain down as the superstructure broke apart and rained down in a metallic hail.
As the shuttle was spinning out of control, Garth felt an object slam into them.
The smell of blood sent a panic through the boy, as the water inside the shuttle started to turn red. Bracing himself against the side of the transport, Garth looked up and realized that something had impaled the front of the shuttle.
The guards were dead.
Struggling to reach the back of their seats, the boy was tossed about as the shuttle continued to careen out of control. Desperately, he grabbed hold, pulling himself forward. An outreached hand tried to grasp for the pilot’s throttle, but the guard’s body and the metal pole barred his reach.
The shuttle was buffeted, colliding with a thermocline, throwing the boy to the back of the shuttle before it spun and he found himself rolling up along what should have been the floorboard.
An arcane circle formed at the boy’s hand. His eyes glowing as he reacted on pure instinct.
He had no idea what spell he was casting. It was wild magic. It was desperate.
The shuttle seemed to break apart as the child unleashed the arcane, a momentarily tranquility enveloping him before the weight of the ocean rushed back in to greet him in a swirling vortex of darkness that seemed to pull him under.
Then it fell into the sea.
Their ways, their culture, adapted. Yet, the more things changed, the more they tended to stay the same. In many respects, they were as alike as they were different from their surface dwelling counterparts.
Not the least of which was a fixation on the royal family.
Vulko’s efforts to see the prince off in expeditious fashion were stalled by a media frenzy that had sprung up outside the royal landing. It made the steward wonder if the so-called delay at the carriage house hadn’t been a convenient ruse to give the undersea paparazzi time to circle the proverbial sharks.
“Thanks, Osin. I’m Pora with Atlantean News First, reporting to you live from Shayeris. In a surprise announcement this morning, Coral Tower revealed that Prince Garth would replace Queen Berra as the royal sponsor for the opening of a hospital in Crastinus later this day,” A blue-haired Atlantean woman stated, under the floating bioluminescent lights that helped illuminate her for the imaging magic that then projected the report across Poiseidonis. “No reason for the change has been provided, but this marks the first time that the young prince has been assigned official duties and makes him the youngest working royal on record.”
Tucked just out of sight of the sea-going vultures, Queen Berra clung to her son. Letting him go only to pull him back in.
“Mom,” the boy lamented.
“Last hug,” she promised, her own voice sending chills down her spine as she was suddenly overcome by a foreboding. Like she’d just spoken truth. A truth she very much didn’t want to be true.
“Mom!” Garth uttered, rolling his head and his eyes as he started to swim away.
Her hand caught his, pulling him back as she offered a final word. “Be safe.”
The boy’s purple eyes just blinked, his head cocked to one side as he quipped, “Mom, I’m just going to Crastinus.”
Her stomach in knots, Berra let her son go. As the child swam out to greet the waiting feeding frenzy of reporters and fans, the queen took a breath to try and steel herself.
A familiar presence moved behind her. “Are you all right, my love?” Thar asked, as the king watched their son depart.
“I feel it now, too,” Berra warned. Turning her eyes up to meet her husband’s, the woman asked, “What if Lemuria isn’t Attuma’s target?”
Thar gripped his queen by the shoulders, holding her tightly as the pair watched. And waited.
The peace that they’d fought so hard for, been so proud of, now seemed quite fragile.
Smiling, Garth sailed along the landing, circling over toward where a group of reporters were calling out to him as he waved to the crowd.
To his surprise, Vulko snatched him aside. “Your highness, you must go,” the steward snapped, shoving the boy into the waiting shuttle. Then, looking at the guards at the controls, snapped, “Now.”
Unsettled, Garth just shrank back into the seat at the rear. “Sure, Vulko,” he offered, as the canopy was sealed and the shuttle floated up and away from the landing.
Garth flipped around, standing on his knees in the seat as he peered out the back to watch as the Coral Palace fell away and the city of Shayeris came into view as the shuttle departed.
Standing there, Vulko didn’t feel any better for the departure. A shadow had fallen over Shayeris. At first, he’d thought it nothing more than a passing whale, but now, as the steward watched the shuttle depart, the old sorcerer’s eyes were drawn upward.
Toward the surface.
There, he saw the coming of the end.
The USS Trafalgar had been falling for more than five minutes. Centrifugal forces caused by the displacement of 60,000 tonnes of water had caused the ship to spin as it continued to descend. The Trafalgar had built up a head of speed, plummeting through the ocean depths at near fifty miles per hour. The ship had started to break apart. The superstructure shearing away from the flight deck as it began to shatter into a cloud of debris that trailed behind the main hull that was plummeting like a torpedo into the valley on the far side of the undersea mountain that had for so long been Shayeris’ protection from the surface world. From the submersible machines that avoided the mountain.
The Trafalgar slammed into Shayeris with the force of a nuclear bomb.
The undetonated charges in its aft section exploded with the collision and rapid implosion of its hull, sending secondary shockwaves across the city that spewed coral, debris, and sediment billowing outward in a dark cloud that cast the seafloor into murky darkness.
Garth collided with the back of the pilot’s seat, as the unleashed forces sent the shuttle spiraling out of control.
Then the trailing parts of the ships that had broken off began to rain down as the superstructure broke apart and rained down in a metallic hail.
As the shuttle was spinning out of control, Garth felt an object slam into them.
The smell of blood sent a panic through the boy, as the water inside the shuttle started to turn red. Bracing himself against the side of the transport, Garth looked up and realized that something had impaled the front of the shuttle.
The guards were dead.
Struggling to reach the back of their seats, the boy was tossed about as the shuttle continued to careen out of control. Desperately, he grabbed hold, pulling himself forward. An outreached hand tried to grasp for the pilot’s throttle, but the guard’s body and the metal pole barred his reach.
The shuttle was buffeted, colliding with a thermocline, throwing the boy to the back of the shuttle before it spun and he found himself rolling up along what should have been the floorboard.
An arcane circle formed at the boy’s hand. His eyes glowing as he reacted on pure instinct.
He had no idea what spell he was casting. It was wild magic. It was desperate.
The shuttle seemed to break apart as the child unleashed the arcane, a momentarily tranquility enveloping him before the weight of the ocean rushed back in to greet him in a swirling vortex of darkness that seemed to pull him under.
Do you want ocelots?
Because that's how you get ocelots.
Because that's how you get ocelots.
Oh snap!
Apologies. Tomorrow. I'll dive into a post with both feet tomorrow.
You write posts with your feet?
Been without power for last 19 hours due to Hurricane Helene, so digging out and getting organized.
I'll have a post up next Friday.
I'll have a post up next Friday.
In the path of Helene, so Fish Friday may be delayed or postponed depending on if I have power or not.
Are You Ready, Kids!?
yes, I fixed his eye color. How TF do you screw that up when its the whole catalyst for his backstory and how he became Aqualad?
The royal kitchens were alive with activity, even before the two boys swam into the proverbial storm.
Gliding over the top of a platter, a scallop disappeared into the violet-eyed youth’s mouth even as he led his co-conspirator toward a table in one corner of the kitchens that was often where the prince received his meals whenever his parents were away. Or busy, as was often the case.
The two boys jerked backward as their path to the table was cut off by an imposing figure.
“I’m afraid there’s no fish nuggets in the kitchen tonight,” Vulko conveyed simply, motioning instead toward the door that led out to the royal dining room. “The king and queen request you join them for dinner.”
Garth’s face immediately betrayed his surprise. “Mom and dad are back from Tritonis?”
Vulko gave a bow of his head in reply. “They were originally going to go to Crastinus. Queen Berra is speaking there tomorrow, but decided they wanted to spend the evening with you.”
“Oh,” the young prince uttered in reply, before exchanging a look with the other boy. “Do they know Quisp is here?” he asked, looking back at the steward.
“Yes,” Vulko assured them both, before looking over at the green-haired boy. “They’re looking forward to speaking with you as well.”
That statement didn’t seem to reassure the other boy. “You think this is about that hydro-ball thing?” Quisp asked, looking directly at the prince. Who, for his part, was staring daggers back at the boy.
Clearing his throat, Vulko stated, “I won’t inquire. But, you’ll need to get dressed for dinner. Quisp should be able to fit into your clothes.”
With that, the steward began to usher the young pair toward the royal apartments.
“This is great!” Quisp remarked as the pair started up the stairs.
“This is terrible,” Garth uttered, adding, “Mom’ll make sure we eat our seaweed salads.”
Gliding over the top of a platter, a scallop disappeared into the violet-eyed youth’s mouth even as he led his co-conspirator toward a table in one corner of the kitchens that was often where the prince received his meals whenever his parents were away. Or busy, as was often the case.
The two boys jerked backward as their path to the table was cut off by an imposing figure.
“I’m afraid there’s no fish nuggets in the kitchen tonight,” Vulko conveyed simply, motioning instead toward the door that led out to the royal dining room. “The king and queen request you join them for dinner.”
Garth’s face immediately betrayed his surprise. “Mom and dad are back from Tritonis?”
Vulko gave a bow of his head in reply. “They were originally going to go to Crastinus. Queen Berra is speaking there tomorrow, but decided they wanted to spend the evening with you.”
“Oh,” the young prince uttered in reply, before exchanging a look with the other boy. “Do they know Quisp is here?” he asked, looking back at the steward.
“Yes,” Vulko assured them both, before looking over at the green-haired boy. “They’re looking forward to speaking with you as well.”
That statement didn’t seem to reassure the other boy. “You think this is about that hydro-ball thing?” Quisp asked, looking directly at the prince. Who, for his part, was staring daggers back at the boy.
Clearing his throat, Vulko stated, “I won’t inquire. But, you’ll need to get dressed for dinner. Quisp should be able to fit into your clothes.”
With that, the steward began to usher the young pair toward the royal apartments.
“This is great!” Quisp remarked as the pair started up the stairs.
“This is terrible,” Garth uttered, adding, “Mom’ll make sure we eat our seaweed salads.”
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NORTH AMERICA
Naval Station Norfolk
Sailors and Marines lined the rails of the ship. The USS Gerald R. Ford was another aircraft carrier that carried the flag of the United States, this one launched in the current decade and the holder of the current title of supercarrier. Decorated in ceremonial livery, it seemed as though the ship was preparing for an inspection or parade, not ready to head to sea.
Eight bells rang out throughout the ship.
“Commander, Atlantic Fleet, arriving!”
Ascending to the top of the brow, Admiral Oliver David Strom gave a sharp salute toward the flag, then another to the waiting entourage of the ship’s captain and officers that were waiting for him there.
On the horizon, the silhouette of the USS Trafalgar could be seen. Its first time at sea in three decades, lashed to tug boats that were guiding the rusting relic of the Cold War past the Norfolk Sound.
A gathering of veterans who had served aboard Trafalgar during its many tours of duty had assembled along the pier, paying their respects to the sailors and ships that had gone down, even as they mourned their former ship as it was towed out to sea for one last cruise.
A sharp whistle cut through the air.
"Underway. Shift colors!"
As the admiral was shown to his visiting quarters aboard the ship, the captain tried to make conversation. “You ever serve on her, sir?”
“Christ, Bob, I’m not that old,” Strom fired back dryly. Then, softened slightly, as he added, “Knew guys who served on her. I think my first skipper had done his ensign tour as her Aux Officer. Or maybe the DCA. I just remember him talking about her last cruise in the Med.”
Hands clasped behind his back, the captain merely gave a respectful nod of acknowledgement before jumping to business. “We’ve got an OPLAN briefing scheduled for this evening, but in brief, we’ll escort the Trafalgar here,” he began, motioning to a nautical chart that had been left on the table in the admiral’s cabin.
As the two men peered over the map, the captain continued by pointing to an area off the Carolina coast. “Now, the ridge sits just over 200 miles off the coast, and for this half-assed idea to work, we’ll have to tow Trafalgar into a pretty tight box in order for the ship to dive with the profile they want.”
Strom gave a quiet grunt before he looked up at the man. “You don’t think it’ll work?”
“Too many variables,” the captain supplied neatly. “Sea state, currents. Nevermind their charges need to go off as planned. It’s a concept on paper, sir. I’ll eat crow if it actually survives contact with the real world.”
Strom gave the slightest hint of a smile at the man’s candor. It was a refreshing change from Washington. “To be honest, I think the boys in D.C. just wanted the PR of turning her into a reef,” the man offered gruffly.
“One way or the other, she’s going to the ocean floor. Who gives a damn if she lands in the right place or not?”
Eight bells rang out throughout the ship.
“Commander, Atlantic Fleet, arriving!”
Ascending to the top of the brow, Admiral Oliver David Strom gave a sharp salute toward the flag, then another to the waiting entourage of the ship’s captain and officers that were waiting for him there.
On the horizon, the silhouette of the USS Trafalgar could be seen. Its first time at sea in three decades, lashed to tug boats that were guiding the rusting relic of the Cold War past the Norfolk Sound.
A gathering of veterans who had served aboard Trafalgar during its many tours of duty had assembled along the pier, paying their respects to the sailors and ships that had gone down, even as they mourned their former ship as it was towed out to sea for one last cruise.
A sharp whistle cut through the air.
"Underway. Shift colors!"
As the admiral was shown to his visiting quarters aboard the ship, the captain tried to make conversation. “You ever serve on her, sir?”
“Christ, Bob, I’m not that old,” Strom fired back dryly. Then, softened slightly, as he added, “Knew guys who served on her. I think my first skipper had done his ensign tour as her Aux Officer. Or maybe the DCA. I just remember him talking about her last cruise in the Med.”
Hands clasped behind his back, the captain merely gave a respectful nod of acknowledgement before jumping to business. “We’ve got an OPLAN briefing scheduled for this evening, but in brief, we’ll escort the Trafalgar here,” he began, motioning to a nautical chart that had been left on the table in the admiral’s cabin.
As the two men peered over the map, the captain continued by pointing to an area off the Carolina coast. “Now, the ridge sits just over 200 miles off the coast, and for this half-assed idea to work, we’ll have to tow Trafalgar into a pretty tight box in order for the ship to dive with the profile they want.”
Strom gave a quiet grunt before he looked up at the man. “You don’t think it’ll work?”
“Too many variables,” the captain supplied neatly. “Sea state, currents. Nevermind their charges need to go off as planned. It’s a concept on paper, sir. I’ll eat crow if it actually survives contact with the real world.”
Strom gave the slightest hint of a smile at the man’s candor. It was a refreshing change from Washington. “To be honest, I think the boys in D.C. just wanted the PR of turning her into a reef,” the man offered gruffly.
“One way or the other, she’s going to the ocean floor. Who gives a damn if she lands in the right place or not?”
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SHAYERIS
3,600 feet below sea level
The fork stabbed at the salad in front of him, moving the piece of seaweed around as Garth viewed it with no small amount of skepticism.
The boy was attired in his Sunday best. A fact that revealed itself in how both Garth and Quist shuffled restlessly in the formal suits that made them both look the part of royal pages. But dressing formally for dinner was royal custom.
"Garth tells me that your class is studying the Third Circle of Arcana," King Thar remarked, glancing over at the green-eyed youth at the table. Pausing to swallow a scallop, the king took a moment before he asked, "Tell me, what do you think of the Perse Paradox..."
The man trailed off, all eyes moving to the far end of the room as the doors to the dining room opened to reveal Vulko there.
Wordlessly bowing his apologies at the interruption, the steward straightened up and announced, “Your Grace, King Tha-Korr requests an audience.”
The king and queen exchanged a brief look, before Thar announced, “Inform His Majesty that I will attend him shortly.”
Vulko cleared his throat. “With respect, the request was for you both, my liege.”
Garth couldn’t help but feel as though the tone in the room changed in that moment.
“He said to inform you that the western sharks are massing.”
Another look shared between the king and queen. This time, it was Queen Berra who answered. “Very well,” the woman remarked, as the pair pushed back from the table.
“My son, I’m afraid our duty calls,” King Thar stated flatly, as the duo swam over to Vulko.
Turning to regard her son before departing the room, the Queen stated, “No more than the usual nonsense. I expect you to bed at the usual hour.”
As the trio made their way to the communications room, a holographic likeness of the Atlantean ruler was waiting for them. Bowing their respects, King Thar offered, “My king.”
“Get up, we’ve work to do,” Tha-Korr snapped, skipping the pleasantries as he stated, “Our spies in Venturia all report the same. Conscriptions. On a scale we’ve not seen since the Lemuria invasion.”
The king and queen of Shayeris said nothing at first, mulling over that announcement.
It was Thar who finally spoke. “Why now?”
“A question that we have no answer for,” Tha-Korr snapped gruffly. “But his purpose would seem clear. He will attack.”
“Attuma is a coward. His ego can’t suffer the idea of defeat,” Queen Berra observed in a matter-of-fact tone. “Lemuria has held them in a deadlock for more than a decade. He can’t possibly make gains before our reinforcements would intervene.”
Thar nodded his agreement. “He wouldn’t move unless he was assured that he had the advantage. Which suggests that there’s something we’re missing.”
Berra inclined her head to one side. “Another actor, perhaps. R’llyah’s in the Pacific. Could they have formed an alliance?”
As the queen was speaking, Vulko turned his head. His eyes narrowed as his grip tightened on the staff that he carried.
“All indications remain that R’llyah is completely isolated,” the illusionary figure of Tha-Korr stated. ”However, there are reports that Attuma has a new advisor. But details on who this figure is remain elusive. All we have is that he’s reported to have purple eyes.”
”A Shayaran?” Thar remarked, his voice betraying his surprise.
”There’s been no sight of Slizzath since the insurrection. Could he had found refuge in Venturia?” Berra asked.
”Venturia has always taken a poor view of magic. Attuma’s father would have had anyone with purple eyes executed,” Tha-Korr noted.
”Let’s not get distracted by theories for which we have no facts,” Thar countered. ”What we know is that Venturia appears to be preparing to go on the offensive, and we have some unknown mage accompanying Attuma.”
Turning back to the others in the room, Vulko spoke up. “Queen Berra, weren’t you scheduled to make an appearance at a new hospital opening in Crastinus tomorrow?”
The queen was startled by the question. After a moment, she answered, “Yes, though I suppose we’ll need to cancel now,” she offered dismissively, turning back toward Tha-Korr.
The steward pressed the issue. “Why not have Garth handle that for you?”
The queen’s head turned. “Garth?”
Tha-Korr’s voice echoed in the chamber as he asked, “What is it Vulko?”
The steward started to speak, but seemed to hesitate. “I’m not sure, my king,” the aging sorcerer stated. “A feeling.”
“You think Garth should be moved elsewhere?” King Thar surmised.
Nodding, Vulko answered, “My instinct tells me there is a danger.”
“I would trust that instinct,” Tha-Korr advised.
“As would I,” Berra announced, before nodding to the steward, “Vulko..."
“I’ll see to it, my queen.”
The boy was attired in his Sunday best. A fact that revealed itself in how both Garth and Quist shuffled restlessly in the formal suits that made them both look the part of royal pages. But dressing formally for dinner was royal custom.
"Garth tells me that your class is studying the Third Circle of Arcana," King Thar remarked, glancing over at the green-eyed youth at the table. Pausing to swallow a scallop, the king took a moment before he asked, "Tell me, what do you think of the Perse Paradox..."
The man trailed off, all eyes moving to the far end of the room as the doors to the dining room opened to reveal Vulko there.
Wordlessly bowing his apologies at the interruption, the steward straightened up and announced, “Your Grace, King Tha-Korr requests an audience.”
The king and queen exchanged a brief look, before Thar announced, “Inform His Majesty that I will attend him shortly.”
Vulko cleared his throat. “With respect, the request was for you both, my liege.”
Garth couldn’t help but feel as though the tone in the room changed in that moment.
“He said to inform you that the western sharks are massing.”
Another look shared between the king and queen. This time, it was Queen Berra who answered. “Very well,” the woman remarked, as the pair pushed back from the table.
“My son, I’m afraid our duty calls,” King Thar stated flatly, as the duo swam over to Vulko.
Turning to regard her son before departing the room, the Queen stated, “No more than the usual nonsense. I expect you to bed at the usual hour.”
As the trio made their way to the communications room, a holographic likeness of the Atlantean ruler was waiting for them. Bowing their respects, King Thar offered, “My king.”
“Get up, we’ve work to do,” Tha-Korr snapped, skipping the pleasantries as he stated, “Our spies in Venturia all report the same. Conscriptions. On a scale we’ve not seen since the Lemuria invasion.”
The king and queen of Shayeris said nothing at first, mulling over that announcement.
It was Thar who finally spoke. “Why now?”
“A question that we have no answer for,” Tha-Korr snapped gruffly. “But his purpose would seem clear. He will attack.”
“Attuma is a coward. His ego can’t suffer the idea of defeat,” Queen Berra observed in a matter-of-fact tone. “Lemuria has held them in a deadlock for more than a decade. He can’t possibly make gains before our reinforcements would intervene.”
Thar nodded his agreement. “He wouldn’t move unless he was assured that he had the advantage. Which suggests that there’s something we’re missing.”
Berra inclined her head to one side. “Another actor, perhaps. R’llyah’s in the Pacific. Could they have formed an alliance?”
As the queen was speaking, Vulko turned his head. His eyes narrowed as his grip tightened on the staff that he carried.
“All indications remain that R’llyah is completely isolated,” the illusionary figure of Tha-Korr stated. ”However, there are reports that Attuma has a new advisor. But details on who this figure is remain elusive. All we have is that he’s reported to have purple eyes.”
”A Shayaran?” Thar remarked, his voice betraying his surprise.
”There’s been no sight of Slizzath since the insurrection. Could he had found refuge in Venturia?” Berra asked.
”Venturia has always taken a poor view of magic. Attuma’s father would have had anyone with purple eyes executed,” Tha-Korr noted.
”Let’s not get distracted by theories for which we have no facts,” Thar countered. ”What we know is that Venturia appears to be preparing to go on the offensive, and we have some unknown mage accompanying Attuma.”
Turning back to the others in the room, Vulko spoke up. “Queen Berra, weren’t you scheduled to make an appearance at a new hospital opening in Crastinus tomorrow?”
The queen was startled by the question. After a moment, she answered, “Yes, though I suppose we’ll need to cancel now,” she offered dismissively, turning back toward Tha-Korr.
The steward pressed the issue. “Why not have Garth handle that for you?”
The queen’s head turned. “Garth?”
Tha-Korr’s voice echoed in the chamber as he asked, “What is it Vulko?”
The steward started to speak, but seemed to hesitate. “I’m not sure, my king,” the aging sorcerer stated. “A feeling.”
“You think Garth should be moved elsewhere?” King Thar surmised.
Nodding, Vulko answered, “My instinct tells me there is a danger.”
“I would trust that instinct,” Tha-Korr advised.
“As would I,” Berra announced, before nodding to the steward, “Vulko..."
“I’ll see to it, my queen.”
Threat of alien invasion?
Thank goodness we're all human. Oh, wait...
Thank goodness we're all human. Oh, wait...
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