sail3695

Firefly - Second 'Verse

"How 'bout we start off the day of light work lettin' Hook make ya breakfast, 'ey Abbs? Ain't need to pull a stitch 'fore ya had eggs."

Did it work? Judgin’ by that knowin’ look in Pen’s eye, the whole shootin’ match done gone down in flames. Abby found herself all surprised t’how the pilot come tah know her so quick...an’ how she kinda liked that. Fer a couple ticks she wondered if this was like what she read ‘bout sisters knowin’ each other...an’ callin’ out each other’s la shi. “Yer prob’ly right,” she give her head a tilt as she thought on it. “S’pose I should wait fer tha Cap’n...and have a bite.”

"I gotta get out of here if I'm going to get back in time for my own pre-flight punchlist. Hook, I'm puttin' ya in charge of wranglin' your fellow deckhand if she gets too lively."

There’s that look, ‘cept this time it’s more commandin’, Abby come back with her own expression, white flag wavin’ in her eyes. Message was clear. She done enough galavantin’ last night when she most like shouldn’t. Time tah shut up an take her medicine tahday.

Best she could tell, Hook conjured all this, ‘cuz he stepped right in ‘thout missin’ a beat.

“Good mornin’, Miss Abby. I trust you had a decent night’s sleep? Yes, Miss Penny, I will take care of Miss Abby. You lets me know ‘bout the new shipment. Ah will come with you and take care o’ that. You don’ need to be liftin’ heavy objects. That’s Hook’s job.”

Yep. She’s done for. Abby glanced about the galley; Cap’n hadn’t left the clipboard out fer her this mornin’. Mayhaps they all was in cahoots tah keep her jest layin’ about. “Howdy, Hook,” she give him a smile ever’ bit how she felt. “What I heard yesterday was we’s hoverin’ over a fishin’ boat haulin’ up two tons ‘o’ fish. I promise I’ll do somethin’ light...run tha hoist ‘er somethin’...” Way they’s all comin’ at ‘er this mornin’, most like best tah follow along. She didn’t know how the Cap’n paid them’s was hurt, but she wanted tah keep this job.

“Now, what you be havin’ fer breakfast?”

The girl pondered that. Fer years, breakfast was always protein paste an’ powdered eggs. But Hook had a way ‘o’ gettin ‘ tha genuine article. She took a minute, thinkin’ all serious afore realizin’ deep down somethin’ she wanted...somethin’ she only had once afore.

“Um...can I have waffles?”

<Tag Hook>

Firefly - Second 'Verse

Fer a minute there, Abby’s struck dumb. Pen said that all innocent like, but that Cheshire Cat grin ‘o’ hers was bright enough tah read by. Caught ‘er all flat footed, ‘til she ‘membered her trainin’.

”When you’re a spy…”

Quandary was, she couldn’t think ‘o’ nothin’ from there on. Had tah move...Hook weren’t stupid. He’d catch on she’s on tha spot right quick.

Abby grabbed tha coffee, raised the cup to her lips. She put an index finger up in the “jest one minute” sign as she pulled her wits from them sleep cobwebs. Finally, as the warmth spread through her innards, the girl had somethin’ tah come back with.

“Big day,” she cleared her throat afore speakin. “Got launch and a hover cargo pickup tah prep. Still ain’t got a mechanic so I may have tah run preflights, ‘less the Cap’n says different.” That piece ‘o’ wit put out there, she give Pen a smile of her own afore takin’ another sip.

<Tag Pen, Hook>

Firefly - Second 'Verse

Some nights she dreamed.

A shrink once tole her that folk dream every night, but jest don’t ‘member ‘em next mornin ‘. Abby could cotton that notion. Made sense. Way brains worked weren’t nothin’ she ever conjured, but seemed to her that even a brainpan needed regular cleanin’ out. Jest takin’ out the trash. Easy peasy. Still, some mornin’s afore risin’ she pondered on the lost dreams.

As she did, the old question come back around. Abby seen value pitched out in people’s trash all the time. Had been known tah crawl a dumpster once or twice fer somethin’ she could use, jest like she’d leave a perfect fine thing she’s finished with out fer others what might have need of it. But dreams didn’t work that way. If she couldn’t ‘member them as she had last night, how’s she tah learn their teachin’s?

She seen dreams talked about in one ‘er two of her books. Struck her odd that most she found ‘bout ‘em come from folk what lived on Earth-That-Was. Chalk she liked to buy fer her drawin’s was called “Little van Gogh.” One time she looked that van Gogh fella up on tha cortex an’ learnt he’s a painter from long, long ago. Abby liked his work; he painted what he wanted, an’ weren’t skeert ‘o’ things not lookin’ like the real world. Seein’ what he did give her whole confidence in her own chalk drawin’s. “I dream my painting and I paint my dream.” She weren’t one fer nitpickin’ quotes, but one thing Abby had figgered out was most times the simplest things could give yah what yah need. Like her drawin’s, an’ the dreams behind ‘em.

Abby pulled herself up in bed, bare feet hittin’ the deck. She worked the brush through ‘er hair once-twice, then grabbed a pair ‘o’ them new boxers fer slippin’ on over her unders. The sleepin’ tee she’s wearin’ was a man’s, an’ a few sizes too big, so she knotted it at the bottom afore risin’. Not set fer workin’, but she could git coffee without raisin’ eyebrows.

The steps come easier this mornin’. She’s still a might sore, but walkin’ an’ movin about felt tolerable good as the girl stepped inta tha galley. Only folk in the room was Pen an’ Hook. By the look ‘o’ things, he done set ‘er up with some breakfast. Musta been good, seein’s how her plate had naught but a scrap or two left.

“Mornin’,” she give a smile an’ a lift of her hand as she made for the coffee.

<tag Pen, Hook>

Firefly - Second 'Verse

And The Sea Shall Yield Up….

Part 5

For a time, the storm’s rage was actually a benefit. Now on her new course, the Mick was taking massive seas directly astern, adding a welcome push to her forward momentum. For a few blessed hours, she held a steady seven knots. Her aft superstructure offered some protection from the punishing waves, cleaving a gap which protected at least a portion of the beleaguered cargo bay hatches. Slocum’s Atoll lay ahead, a craggy volcanic opening whose high face would offer both calm seas and a needed windbreak. Sheltering off the atoll’s lee shore would afford the chance to pump out the water and pursue emergency repairs. With the Darryl Moncrief’s radars to guide her, the Mick had only thirty-five miles remaining. If these conditions would hold, she’d be dropping anchors just past dawn.

Unfortunately, hurricanes rotate.

The wind began to shift, clocking steadily around to angle across the deck. So moved the waves, twenty foot towers of water that dumped their tonnage in lengthy, rolling crashes which rumbled forward. The ship had taken an alarming amount of water, filling her bilges and piling up in the raceways to curtail any crew movement within. With her cargo deck riding low and the length of her hull twisting through perpetually rolling seas, the Eileen McSorley faced some very grim hours.

Yuri had direct control of the reactor. The dog watch mate’s knife-edge manual control dance had ended predictably, resulting in a panicky overcorrection to contain a power spike. Now, the Engineer’s Mate struggled to raise power while the reactor itself was trending toward reduction.

His walkie was alive with constant chatter. The bridge intercom had been locked open, permitting all aboard to hear the realtime deliberations of the Captain and his officers. Chief Edwards was doing what he could, marshalling damage control teams to what might be remedied in the fore and aft sections of the ship.

LOG ENTRY FROM THE NS DARRYL MONCRIEF:

05:45 AM. Lat. 43.4N, Long. 65.2W. Course heading 315. Speed 4 kts. Seas running 20-25’. Wind shifting S 128mph, gusts to 135. NS Eileen McSorley 10 miles ahead, speed 3 kts. Taking water, but capt. reports “holding their own” en route to anchorage at Slocum’s Atoll. Our plan to come alongside and offer assistance until conditions once again passable.

“Four-point-seven megawatts,” he cursed under his breath. “The core is poisoning itself.” Yuri tapped at the control sequencer. Inside the struggling reactor core, the three control rods he’d inserted were now lifted by an inch. In desperate silence he watched the readout, pleading for a slow uptick in the power.

Nothing.

Xenon gas, a by-product of the fission process, was building within his reactor. Unless he could increase the power...boost the reaction with its’ subsequent rise in temperature, the gas would not burn away. It would accumulate, eventually strangling the core and forcing the safety overrides into a scram. The Mick would be powerless, losing steerage until the hurricane’s fury broached them to the onslaught.

Chief Engineer Edwards understood the crisis in his power plant. From the master panel he’d thrown breakers which cut power from every nonessential system. Yuri had also taken quiet note that the man had circulated among his crew, handing out inflatable life vests and doling out tasks to place them near exit hatches. For Yuri, there was no such remedy. Both men knew the closing chapter...the job Yuri would have to accomplish if fate came calling. “Twenty-two miles,” the old man placed a trembling hand upon his shoulder. “Just keep her going for twenty-two more miles.”

LOG ENTRY FROM THE NS DARRYL MONCRIEF:

06:02. Lat. 43.4N, Long. 65.2W. Course heading 315. Speed 4 kts. Seas running 25-30’. Wind shifting S 140mph, gusting to 145.. NS Eileen McSorley 10 miles ahead, speed 3 kts. At 06:01,this vessel struck in rapid succession by two large waves, est. height 50+ feet, gauged by damage sustained to wheelhouse aft windows.

Watch reactor output. Adjust control rod position... It seemed maddening that with such calamity in the wings he couldn’t take more action. A steady stream of bridge chatter fueled the adrenaline pulsing through his body.

“Zero freeboard, Captain. Cargo deck is completely awash…”

“Moncrief reports our position as twenty miles from Slocum’s…”

“Number Two Hatch is ajar! Collapsed into the hold!”

Yuri’s eyes lifted at the news. A hatch failure now opened the Mick to the mountainous seas. He heard the terror in Gallegos’ voice as the First Mate moved to a kneejerk remedy.

“Gantry crew, close up!”

“BELAY THAT!” the Captain roared. “NOBODY GOES ON DECK!” The channel fell silent. The Engineer’s Mate studied his readout. For a moment, the urge to calculate the sheer volume of water pouring into the exposed hold busied a corner of his mind. He tried another calculation, weighing the positive buoyancy of the watertight bow and stern sections against the flooded hold. Nineteen miles to go. If Slocum’s Atoll meant nothing else, it could provide a modicum of safety for the crew to abandon ship.

The deck tilted beneath his feet. Yuri grabbed the console to steady himself as the stern lifted. He felt a mighty push, as if a great hand delivered a forceful shove. The Eileen McSorley plunged ahead, riding the wave’s face downward. “One...two...three,” he counted aloud, waiting for the reassuring lift of her bow. “Four...five...six…”

He didn’t anticipate the hammer blow that sent him cartwheeling over the control console. Yuri tumbled through sudden darkness as a great, rending scream of tortured metal echoed up through the bowels of the ship. The compartment pitched downward, breaking his fall against the forward bulkhead. There were no more speculations...no more worries about maintaining the dwindling chain reaction. Whatever had just happened was cataclysmic. His job was now clear.

Fishing the hand torch from a pocket, Yuri hauled himself upward, toward the reactor’s upper housing. Without power to run the automated scram, his task was now the manual reinsertion of all twelve control rods. He sat atop the containment vessel, engaged the clutch to the first, and hand cranked it all the way into the unruly core. A hasty reset, and he pedaled the second into place.

When death becomes certainty, inner peace is life’s final gift. In this moment Yuri found no regret, no pang of love lost, or the faces of those he held most dear. There was just the work, simple, beautiful, and as each control rod struck home, satisfying.
After the final rod was cranked into place, Yuri Antonov reached for the knife valve. The reactor compartment would soon flood with sea water. Sometime...months, perhaps years from now, the reactor would cool. It’s pressure would decrease...and the sea would finish the job.

A violent shudder arose from below. Air pressure built around him, forcing his ears to pop as he clawed his way up toward an exhaust vent. She was taking her final plunge, the invading sea forcing out the last air as it pulled the great ship down. The mounting pressure gave rise to bitter pain in his ears. Yuri crouched before the vent, fingers pressed into his eardrums until the world exploded.

He felt a rush of wind, the scrape of metal as it tore at him from all sides...and then, the icy shock of the sea as it swallowed him. Yuri tumbled, his body limp as the violent currents pitched him about. Disorientation slowly ebbed, robbing him of precious oxygen until he realized the Mick had thrown him clear of her...a farewell gift. He forced himself to pause, relying upon the buoyancy of his body to point the way upward. Finally, with ferocious kicks and lungs burning burning for air, Yuri burst to the surface.

His fight to survive had just begun.

LOG ENTRY FROM THE NS DARRYL MONCRIEF:

06:10. Lat. 43.5N, Long. 65.3W. Course heading 315. Speed 3 kts. Seas running 25-30’. Wind shifting S 140mph, gusting to 140. Have lost contact with NS Eileen McSorley. Disappeared from radar, and fails to answer our calls. Issued a distress call on her behalf. Doubled our bridge watch to search for survivors

***********************To Be Continued*********************

Firefly - Second 'Verse

And The Sea Shall Yield Up….

Part 4

Martinez cast a dubious eye upon his handiwork. “Not gonna hold.” With Yuri’s prompting, the machinist had fashioned a square cap to fit over the duct opening. The hasty TAC welds had given way twice during their efforts until several four by four shoring beams were wedged into place. A further attempt at reinforcement was an ad hoc lattice of ⅛” stripping, which formed a crude basket to anchor the cap in place. The whole arrangement still leaked, but if the mechanic could offer a positive thought it was the fact they’d contained the rhythmic torrents down to a regular trickle.

“Just need it for a few hours,” Antonov replied.

Martinez set to packing his rig. “Eighteen inch duct at twelve feet...that’s alot of water volume, Yuri. We’d better have another plan for when it starts splittin’ the seams.”

He responded with a simple “aye.” The Mick wasn’t rolling quite as heavily as she’d been earlier, but com chatter told him that if anything, Hurricane Daniel had grown more tenacious. They hadn’t changed course, which meant the towering waves were still coming over the port railing. The subtle easing of the vessel’s rear and plunge could only mean one thing. She was settling.

Their walkies came alive. “Engineering, bridge.”

“Engineering.” Yuri could sense the quiet alarm in Edwards’ voice. The old chief was holding it together, but as the afternoon succumbed to night and the pumps slowly lost ground to the rising water in their bilge, the tremor in his voice became more pronounced.

“Chief,” First Mate Gallegos spoke, his voice raised to combat the roaring maelstrom that pummeled the Eileen McSorley’s bridge. “Just lost our radars, NAVSAT, and radio. Got a mate you can send?”

“Golly,” Edwards’ voice cracked a touch. “Got any electrical faults? Any idea what happened?”

“Negative electrical. Portside lifeboat,” the First responded. “Pulled right off its’ davits. Wind picked it up and rolled it over top of the wheelhouse.”

Yuri, Martinez, and Chrissy all reacted as a chorus. “Shit.” The account offered a clear picture of the lifeboat, broken free and bludgeoning its’ way through the rooftop radar and satellite transceivers, before snapping the radio mast like a toothpick. “Chrissy,” Yuri spoke as he sorted through their collection of tools, “think we can sway up the aux antenna?”

He saw the incredulity in her eyes. “Son of a bitch,” she muttered to herself. “If it’s still there, it’s pipe clamped to the underside of the comms mounting grid...good chance it didn’t take a hit from the lifeboat.” he could see her, working the problem, weighing it to the risk of his proposal. “We gotta try.”

“Holy cow,” Edwards’ voice told them he was onto the same conclusion. “That means sendin’ somebody up top…”

“Captain here. Chief, we’re blind and deaf right now. Storm’s gonna take us way off course. If there’s even a chance of getting something back, we’ve gotta take it.”

Yuri keyed his mic. “Chief, Antonov. Meet me on three.” Without awaiting a response, he flipped to channel three and waited for his boss.

“Edwards here.”

“Chief,” Yuri replied. “I’m here with Stephens and Martinez. Chrissy’s got a plan to restore radio at least. We’re selecting our tools right now.”

The Chief Engineer asked, “you’re going with her?”

“Yes, Chief.”

“I can’t...won’t...order that,” the older man’s voice openly quavered. “You wear harnesses...head and eye protection…”

“Aye, Chief,” the Engineer’s Mate said. “I’ll report when it’s done.” Without another word, he and Chrissy filled their tool pouches.

Martinez started pulling his own kit together. “You’re gonna need help.”

“No. We’re taking too much water. You’ve gotta keep welding patches.”

“Bilge is too deep,” the machinist argued. “I can’t get to the stress cracks anymore.”

“Su Yi’s a diver,” Yuri stepped into his foul weather gear. “Pair up with her.” He appraised their handiwork. The air duct, now blocked, was holding, though water pressure within was forcing a bulge which foretold of eventual failure. “You got a couple ratchet straps?” he asked. “Run ‘em around those shoring beams..that’ll keep ‘em from splaying out.”

*********************

Chrissy’s plan was a good one. “Like mountain climbers,” she told him. “We’re gonna crawl the deck, roped together. Keep your head down. Don’t try to talk. At that windspeed, a drop of rain or salt spray can break a tooth.”

The First Mate stood by, his expression grave as she guided Yuri through the steps of their plan. “Only move when you’ve got a sure hand or foothold. The deck’s easy. Plenty of grips, and it’s painted with no-skid, which’ll help. The aft facing ladder,” she cautioned, “is the tough part. You gotta go up the port side. Let the wind push your chest right into the side rail. That’s where you’re most exposed, so you’ve gotta hurry...but Yuri! Remember...three solid holds before you move! You half-ass that and we could both go for a ride.”

“I understand.”

”Ku. Once you’re topside, we’ve got the mounting grid for our holds. Go all the way port; we’ll be sheltered by the roof coaming. From there, we can take a breather and scope out the damage.”

“Copy,” he replied as he checked the fit of her harness. Satisfied that all was secure, he presented himself for her inspection.
Chrissy tugged at his straps. “We’re most like to solder a new connector onto whatever cable’s left up there. Then we release the aux mast. Tricky part is pulling it up through the grid...like threading a needle. We’re gonna take our time..move, tie wrap, cut. Move, tie wrap, cut. You with me?”

He gave her a single nod. “Yes.”

“Most important,” she cinched a final strap down snugly, “we don’t sway up til we’ve got a hard connect to the grid. Wind’ll strip that mast right out of our hands. We’re gonna wrench the mount down, and we’ll both check it for tightness. Then we sway her up, screw on the connector, and be double careful on our way back down. You got that?” Her brows lifted.

Yuri responded with an appreciative smile. “You must be an amazing mountaineer.”

Chrissy’s focus didn’t waver. “A climb’s not a success until you’re home and safe. I’ll lead.” After checking their connecting rope, she exited the bridge through the starboard door. Yuri followed.

Even on this sheltered leeward side, the hurricane’s roar made conversation impossible. The deck they’d use for their traverse was little more than a balcony, roughly three feet wide down the starboard side, widening to perhaps four feet as it cut across aft. He watched the woman ahead as she first dropped to hands and knees. She crawled toward the corner as Yuri played out the rope between them. Chrissy turned, offering him a thumbs up. Though Yuri couldn’t see her eyes behind the goggles or the face wrap, he presumed she’d offered a smile. The greeting exchanged, she dropped onto her belly, flattening herself to the deck as she rounded the corner into the teeth of the hurricane. This would be the last time he’d see her until the top.

At one hundred forty miles per hour, a drop of water becomes a projectile. Despite the padding of jackets and foul weather gear, it strikes with sufficient force to bruise deep tissue and denude a bare knuckle to the underlying tendons. The shock and power of the wind was enough to completely disorient, but an onslaught of freezing ocean spray and rain would transform a frightening experience into a hellish nightmare.

Yuri kept his head turned, an instinctive act that didn’t seem to slow his progress, if the slack between them was any indication. Move. Find your grips. Check them. Wait for the slack to play out. Move. The pain was blinding, but he couldn’t dwell on it. Follow her lead. Move. Find your grips. Check them. Watch the slack. Move.

He came abreast of the ladder. A thousand bullets struck his back as Yuri labored to climb. He had to hurry...but the punishment of wind and the icy sea had worn him to the bone. With a roar, a powerful gust dislodged both of his feet from the ladder. His body went completely horizontal, leaving but one arm draped around the siderail. Terror flooded through him. Yuri kicked at the aft bridge windows, his screams unheard beneath the tempest. He latched on, one hand clutching the other as the wind attempted to dislodge him.

While such an experience would be considered surreal, the sudden dissipation of the wind seemed to verge upon the fantastic. He fell to the deck, gasping for air, his body writhing in pain as the roar seemed to give way to an ominous quiet. This was when he knew this to be a dream. Peace, perfect peace. He would lie here, resting under a sky now aglow with flashes of lightning.

“Yuri? YURI!” Chrissy’s voice jolted him to sanity. “Are you hurt?” she called, unseen from atop the wheelhouse.

“No….yes….I’m okay.”

“THEN GETCHER ASS UP HERE!”

That did the trick. A hasty climb brought him to the rooftop, where he found Chrissy huddled on the mounting grid, a crosshatch array of welded metal piping intended to affix radio antennae, radar transceivers, and satellite dishes...none of which he could see as the lightning flashed overhead. Chrissy had hauled in the remnant of the antenna lead, which she was busily stripping to prepare a new connector. “You alright?” she asked.

“Yes. Wind tried to pull me off…”

“Here,” she shoved the torch into his hand. You hold I’ll solder.”

With the bared cable in one hand and the torch in the other, Yuri held still as Chrissy set the new coupler into place. “Not pretty,” she clinched her teeth to tear at a length of electrician’s tape, “but it gets us something. Now. The mast. We’ve gotta hurry. That eye wall’s maybe five minutes out.”

Under the brief respite, the pair worked quickly to get the replacement antenna mast into place. The sky above was filled with lightning, great spidery arcs that extended for miles in all directions, only to be devoured by greedy sweep of the approaching eye wall. As they completed their task, Yuri took a moment to gaze down upon the stricken vessel. Here in the eye, the waves were no longer breaking over the deck. He spotted the damaged vent, gaping open as a twisted handrail lay sprawled atop it. Further aft, the unloading crane had broken its moorings and collapsed atop their mobile hatch gantry. As his gaze traveled to the hatches themselves, Yuri’s blood ran cold. Of the few clamps that had been secured into place, he saw the jagged edges of some that had broken. “The hatches,” he gasped.

They made it inside to hearty congratulations from the bridge crew. Much to Chrissy’s relief, the chatter of radio communications greeted Yuri and herself.

“This is the McSorley,” the Captain answered an incoming call.

“This is the Darryl Moncrief,” crackled the radio. “Twelve miles astern of you. You okay, Captain?”

“Our bilges are high and we’re down by one pump. Lost radars and NAVSAT.” The Captain’s eye took in both his engineer’s mates. “Just got our radio back.”

After a burst of static, the Moncrief’s captain replied. “Aww, gee, Cap’n, that’s some tough news. We saw you right over Eight Fathom Shoal. Think you bottomed out?”

“Didn’t feel it if we did,” the Captain answered. “Moncrief, we wanna change course and head northwest toward Slocum’s Atoll. Figure we’ll ride the storm out on the lee side and get pumped out, but we’re blind as a bat. Could you use your radar to point us there?”

“Pretty good plan, McSorley. We’ll follow you in. Put your navigator on and we’ll work out a fix.”

“Copy.” The Captain glanced toward both Chrissy and Yuri. Then he smiled. “Good job, you two.”

Yuri spoke up. “Captain, I had a look at the deck. We’ve got some broken hatch clamps…” The ship groaned audibly as the eye wall struck, heeling her slightly into a list from which she didn’t seem to recover.

“New course! Three-one-five!” the navigator cried out over the sudden roar.

“Helm, three-one-five. Go,” the Captain ordered. He turned once again to face Yuri. “Reactor output has dipped. Cut our best speed to seven knots. Even that wonder boy from the dog watch can’t can’t coax it back up. I need ten knots, Antonov. Urgently.”

“Aye, sir.” Soaking wet, dog tired and bruised as he was, Yuri made all haste as he left the bridge, Chrissy Stephens at his side.

“What should I do?” she asked.

“Forward pump starboard,” he said. “Keep an eye on it. I’ll alert the Chief. And I want to go mountain climbing!” Yuri shouted over his shoulder as he descended toward the raceway that would lead him aft.

He was met there by three inches of water.

***********************To Be Continued*********************

Firefly - Second 'Verse

It's in there! Let your friendly deckhand know if you need cleaning supplies.

Firefly - Second 'Verse

”Travis. Abby Travis” - (Part 4)

The lorry bumped and bounced its’ way across town. Pensacola was lit up like a jewel, her streets full ‘o’ sailors, deckhands an’ fisherman all bent on that last hurrah before tomorrow’s King Tuna season took ‘em all out to sea. Slow goin’ fer tha lorry, which crept up Palafox Street through gaps opened by partiers or police. “So hey,” Thomas said, “while we’re makin’ such good time, you got any other places you need stoppin’?”

Abby thought on that a minute. Vodka done wore off, leavin’ her a tired brain what didn’t like the details. “Ummmmmm...yeah! Yeah I do,” she come around. “Know where there’s a toy store...or an arts ‘n’ crafts?”

“Not at this hour.”

“I figgered. Bookshop?”

“All that stuff closes at nine,” he took a wide berth around a knot of folk standin’ in tha street. “Whatcha lookin’ for?

She thought on the last three items of her list. “Sticky putty,” Abby said, “fer puttin’ photos an’ posters up. Tha second Mei Lin book, now yah ruined tha first,” she give him a playful shove.

“Hey!” he recoiled. “Not my fault you’re a slow reader. What’s next?”

“Chalk. They sell it in big tubs fer kids tah make pitchers on tha sidewalk.”

He turned his head for a moment. “Oh yeah? And what’s ‘Travis-Abby-Travis’ gonna do with that?”

She caught that crooked smile, that sidelong glance, and it struck her all right. “I like drawin’ chalk pitchers...on tha bulkheads in mah room. On my last boat, Uncle Bob...tha Cap’n...used tah let me go EV in tha black. I’d draw whatever I wanted on tha hull. Never bothered him, so long’s he didn’t need tah turn around ‘cuz I fell off.”

“And didja?” He’s all intrigued now. “Ever fall off?”

“No, dumbass,” Abby frowned afore her knuckles rapped soft agin’ his forehead. “I ain’t never fell off. Knock on wood,” she broke out a grin.

“So what do you draw?” he asked, “Outside, on the hull?”

The girl shrugged. “Lots ‘o’ stuff. We’s goin’ tah Greenleaf. Our pilot’s a barefoot...a native, She might lemme come along when she goes inta tha jungle. So I’ll most like draw what I see. Hopin’ fer a big snake, or mayhaps a puma.”

“Deathwish much?” Thomas cocked an eyebrow. “So, if you had chalk, what would yah draw after Pensacola?”

Abby smiled. “That’s easy. A bigass birthday drink,” she chuckled. “That pilot friend’o’ mine? She gimme this beautiful shell what I’m gonna put up in my room. I got plans fer drawin’ around that….an’...I dunno...mayhaps the look on yer poor dog’s face when I’s standin’ in his bowl!” She laughed at the pitcher in her head.

He joined in. “You got a cortex? I so want pictures of what you draw!”

“Can’t afford that jest yet,” Abby tossed her hair with a shake of her head. “But if’n them denims I bought really do 'wear like iron' as yah say, I’ll save muh way up to one a might quicker.”

“Oh they’ll last. And I think those new ‘unders’ of yours are bulletproof,” he quipped. “Serious, though, the moment you get one, look me up. You send me what you draw, and I’ll send you pictures of boats, dolphins, me striking heroic sailor poses, you name it.”

She’s fixin’ him with a fond smile. “Sounds good. I want pitchers ‘o’ yer boat, when she’s sailin’.”

“That’s a given. Hey,” he turned toward her. “How’d you like to go sailin’ tomorrow? I’ll take you, if you want.”

“Oh, I want. I want alot,” she nodded kinda sad. “But we’s castin’ off ourselves. Always work tah do aforehand. ‘Less I git fired or stuck in muh room fer sneakin’ out tahnight.”

He give her a quizzical eye. “You did that? Just to return General Chavez’s stuff?”

“Conjured she needed it.” The girl looked out the window as they drew near the spaceport. “An’ cuz I liked her.”

“Never met ‘er,” he said. “Just did my job. No questions.”

Abby thought on that. This palaver had tha lead spy scowlin’ at her in her head, but she weren’t carin’ much. They just had a minute left...an’...she found herself thinkin’ all manner ‘o’ ways to say goodnight. “Well, that’s muh first ever piece ‘o’ shady work,” she offered. “How’d I do?”

“Great! You did great, Travis-Abby-Travis,” he smiled. “But seein’ as it’s my first time also, I may not be fit to judge. Thinkin’ about buyin’ a nice suit an’ learnin’ to drink martinis, though!”

She played along. “Should I git one ‘o’ them ‘Carmen Sandiego’ hats an’ some sunglasses? Our First Mate says I need tah learn ‘dik-chun. That’d prob’ly help.”

Thomas steered ‘em through the gates inta tha port. “I play guitar...no, not great,” he stilled her question, “but I learned enough tah know that you gotta tune ‘em different ways for different kinds ‘o’ music. I like your tunin’, Abby.” They drove on fer a spell, quiet as row upon row of spacefarin’ boats slipped past the side windows. Soon enough, the headlights splashed over China Doll. She’s buttoned up fer tha night, personnel door locked an’ secure. “I’m kinda sad to see tonight end. But at least,” his face took a wolfish grin, “I got into your denims, huh? Oh wait,” he teased at her sudden frownin’. “Is that glaring, or pouting?”

“Both.”

The lorry shuddered to a halt just shy the ramp. Abby waited as Thomas jumped down to help ‘er. “Alright...careful..” His hands on her waist, hers grippin’ his biceps as he lowered her to the ground.

Once her feet touched, somethin’ happened tah stop her breathin’ altogether. Neither one let go. She’s lookin’ intah his eyes, seein’ somethin’ build behind ‘em. And she wanted...what did she want? “Thank yew, Thomas,” she finally come out. “Don’t conjure ever laughin’ so much all at one time.”

“You know?” His tone went sorta wistful. “I was just thinking the same thing. Thank you back, Abby.”

They ain’t let go. He’s right here, an’ that look in his eye? Excited? A little scared? Her heart’s like tah bounce right outta her chest. What’s tah stop ‘er? He ain’t the first boy she’d ever thought on kissin’, an’ this time ain’t no Uncle Bob about tah raise all hell over catchin’ ‘em. His hands still on her waist. Now or never. No question what she wanted. She’s gon’ do it. Easiest thing in tha ‘verse tah go up on tiptoe, lean toward ‘im an’...

“I should head in,” Abby said.

Thomas withdrew. “Yeah...I need to get back. Dad’s not through crackin’ the whip yet. But…” a sparkle ‘o’ wit gleamed in his eye, “at least you can say we had really good socks, dohn mah?”

She drew back, fightin’ the laugh what welled up. “Who writes yer jokes?” Abby demanded. “Fire ‘em!” Still, he’s so pleased with hisself she couldn’t play hard-to-be fer long. She give in an’ laughed, but it come with a shove tah his shoulder.

“Hey Crabby, next time you’ve got a super secret mission for you-know-who, count me in!”

She smiled as he give her the duffel. “Soon’s I git that cortex, we’ll come up’th our own spy code. Then you’ll git proper tired ‘o’ me fer sure.”

“Try me.” he give her a last smile, but she seen more in his eyes. “Next time we’re goin’ sailin’!” Thomas exclaimed as he headed round for the driver’s seat.

“Sure’n we are. ‘Night.” She walked slow an’ steady as the engine coughed alive. After the door code entered an’ she opened it, Abby turned around an’ give Thomas a final wave. He tapped the horn an’ sped off, the old lorry’s one workin’ taillight showin’ all the way down tha road.

She watched fer a spell, til she couldn’t see ‘im no more. She hauled the heavy door shut an’ engaged tha locks. Then, in the dim light of tha empty cargo bay, she kinda deflated agin’ a bulkhead. Best chance she’d had yet...an’ she completely chickened out. “I surely don’t conjure,” Abby whispered all disgusted, “jest how I can be so gorram stupid.”

Firefly - Second 'Verse

Happy Friday from the cargo deck!

So, the Day 2-o-thon is a few posts away from a close.

I hear that the Cap'n and the Doc are working up a post.
Abby's big night is about to end (And geez, but I had no idea it would be this long...)
Yuri's in a situation which truly blows.

Is there any more Day 2 night on the plan? Anyone? Lucky?

Just let us know and we'll hold the door.

DAY 3 MORNING starts early for our strange new pal Yuri.
I've heard there might be some shopping in Pen's future.
And some shoplifting for the Skyes.

Let us know if you've got prelaunch plans for Day 3. Once we wrap what we know, it'll be time to hightail it.

RL NOTE: I am now officially on vacation! A free man until 10/10. We're headed to the beach ourselves on Monday, for a full week. (Never fear, gentle reader. Though FL is a major Covid hotspot, we're Air B&B'ing, packing our stuff in, and spending most of our time on the beach or our rooftop deck. Masks at the ready.) I will try to keep up with y'all, but my participation could be a bit sporadic over the week. Apologies in advance.

WWIF,

sail

Firefly - Second 'Verse

”Travis. Abby Travis” - (Part 3)

”...if the meet is set for a bar, then you should have a drink…”

One Vodka an’ Boom’Boom become three. Goin’ Dutch become Abby runnin’ a tab. Thomas jest got funnier an’ funnier, not tah mention easier tah look at. “Now I know yer lyin’!” she chortled as the band commenced another sea shanty.

Raise a Wreck

“My hand to Buddha!” He give a lopsided grin. “There is such a thing! We sell ‘em every day!”

“Whatcha take me for?” She give ‘im a playful shove. “Think I jest fell off tha boat tahday? Wait..don’t answer that...” They both broke out laughin’ on that flub.

Thomas landed an empty bottle on the bar. “We can settle this right now,” he grinned. “C’mon, we’re goin’. Pay the man, Crabby….you know somethin’? You’re kinda pretty when you pout like that..”

“I ain’t poutin’!” Abby went for her coin. “I’m...I’m...glarin’! See?” She give a fierce look, til her mouth started crackin’ an’ they both laughed. “Damndest thing ever,” she muttered. “Meet some yokel on muh birthday an’ I wind up payin’.”

Thomas had her duffel on his right shoulder. “I’ll take it out in trade,” he give her a wink, and his left arm to steady her. “Lorry’s right outside.”

With help from his arm, Abby eased herself off the stool. “This ain’t yer way ‘o’ gettin’ me back tah yer place...is it?”

“You conjured my evil scheme,” he chuckled as they made for the door. “Take you back home, show you what I got, introduce you to my mom. No doubt about it,” he chuckled. “I am the Makeout King of Pensacola.” He led her to an old green lorry what had stakeside rails on the bed.

Abby read the faded door sign. “Jinks Nautical Outfitters.”

He threw it open. “Gonna lift you up on the sideboard, so you can ease onto the seat. Afore she knew it, Thomas’ hands had taken her by the waist. He boosted Abby off her feet, toward the open cab. “Careful now.”

His hands was still on her. Not that she minded...much. “What’re yew doin’?” she asked.

“Keepin’ your drunk pi gu from fallin’ outta my truck.”

“I ain’t drunk!” Abby protested. “Am I?”

**********************************

Thomas was positively beamin’. “You see? I told you so!”

He’d been good as his word. ‘Stead ‘o’ walkin’ her inta some sorta makeout pad, he opened up tha fam’ly business. Took her right past all manner ‘o’ boat parts an’ tools tah their “Crew Clothes” section an’ set her right up. First come some new denims. “These wear like iron!” he pointed toward them’s he had on. She took two pair, an’ after some measurin’ an’ fittin’ his mom hauled ‘em off tah her sewin’ room.

Abby found herself some new unders. A six pack ‘o’ white cotton panties what come with a free stripey pair made up fer what she left on Mariposa. She also found some boxers, all decorated with ship’s wheels, compasses, lobsters, crabs, an’ them big fish with the pointy noses. Thomas tried sellin’ her on a black pair what read “The Man...The Legend” with arrows pointin’ up an’ down. She conjured Rex or the Big‘un would try’n steal ‘em, so they went back on tha shelf.

And now, here’s Thomas, all proud of hisself as she’s standin’ ankle deep in the dog’s water bowl. “Feet dry?” he give her a big, expectant smile.

She looked up, eyes fulla wonder. “Sure’n they are!” Abby exclaimed. “I’da never believed it! Waterproof socks!”

“They’re warm, too,” he added. “Been around since the war. Some purple scientist conjured ‘em up.”

‘Warm’ was definitely workin’ fer Abby, seein’s they had a right frigid trip ahead. But mention ‘o’ purple snapped her right back. Her eyes found tha duffel...already emptied of what she brung. “Where’d the gen’ral’s bag go?”

Thomas shrugged. “What bag?”

”...a competent spy never wants to know more than their own part of the operation. Never talk shop…”

“The one what I...oh,” she caught wise. “Sorry,” Abby stepped outta the water. “Meant muh duffel...an’ it’s right there.” She reached down tah squeeze one sock. “Holy la shi,” she gasped. “Already dry!”

“How many you want?” Thomas was punchin’ prices inta a clattery old cash register.

“Got seven panties,” the girl reckoned. “Sounds like seven pair ‘o’ socks.”

”Ku.” The boy tapped it all in. The register’s bell sounded an’ the cash drawer flew open. “You got the family discount,” Thomas snickered at the shock wrote all over her face.

Abby’s jaw near hit the floor. “You sure?”

“Girl buys me drinks on her birthday? If I didn’t cut you a break my Dad would whip tha tar outta me.” He opened her duffel and set to stuffin’ all her new socks ‘n’ unders inside. “Plus one of our tee shirts for your collection.” Thomas pulled a rolled blue tee from beneath the register. “Hey Mom!” he shouted. “MO-OM!”

“What?”

“How soon on Abby’s denims?”

“Ten minutes!”

“We’ll be outside.” After droppin’ her coin into tha till, Thomas led the way toward the back door. “I want you to meet my girl,” he held it open fer Abby. “C’mon...she’s right out here.”

She weren’t feelin’ none too excited ‘bout that, but he’d been so all fired nice that they’s no way she’s gonna turn ‘im down. But then it got curious when Thomas showed her out onta a big dock. They’s a fishin’ boat tied on the end, lights blazin’ an’ crew gettin’ their gear stowed. Tha name CHELSEA J stood proud on ‘er transom. Abby seen a girl on deck, haulin’ heavy buckets of somethin’ nasty down inside. “That her?” she asked.

The boy stopped. “Her? No, that’s my sister. Those’re my brothers,” he pointed out the other crew,” an’ that’s my Dad, up there on the bridge. “My girl,” he give her a smile, “is right here.” Beyond knowin’ she’s lookin’ at a sailboat, Abby couldn’t say a thing. She was long an’ low. Looked to have a tiny cabin on ‘er. Abby didn’t see no wheel, jest a long handle what come off the rudder. Boat had a single mast, with a boom trailin’ back. She had a grace about her. Looked fast, but Abby never seen how fast sailboats could go. Still, growin’ up in boats like she done, the deckhand could spot good care an’ hard workin’ upkeep. She also conjured how purty a thing’s workin’s could be, to boot. Then her eye caught the name.

“Day Tripper,” she read aloud. “That’s an old song, right?”

“Yes!” he laughed. “How did you know?”

“My Aunt Lupe loved a bunch of ‘em.” Abby studied tha boat’s curves, sussin’ out how things work by the ropes what run from ‘em. “So,” she guessed, “looks like it takes two folk tah sail ‘er proper?”

He laughed. “You got a good eye. That’s right! I can single hand her, but manning the tiller an’ trimmin’ two-three sails is a serious handful.”

She give ‘im a sidelong grin. “That how yah lure yer girls?”

’La shi,” Thomas swore. “Haven’t found one yet would agree to go. They take one look at her and say “I don’t wanna get wet.” That last said in a high pitched, nasal tone.

Abby snorted. “Sounds tah me like yer askin’ tha wrong girls.”

“You think?” He lifted an eyebrow.

“I been accused.”

Thomas shrugged. “You could be right. I’ve been chasin’ debutantes. They were all at some high toned to-do last night while I was on the Chelsea J, settin’ trolling lines. Maybe I should take the hint,” he shook his head. “But what about you, Crabby? Spendin’ your days sailin’ the black? Got a boy in every port, do ya?”

“Nope,” she tossed her hair with a chuckle. “Truth of it is I ain’t really been lookin’. Spent muh whole life in tha black, so they’s never much time in any port we touch.” Abby’s eye swept off toward tha night. “ ‘sides, I seen I’m purty much tha one gits looked right past...what’s that over there?” She pointed toward the northeast horizon. The hazy sky looked to glow somewhat, a pale sorta pink what flashed an’ danced. Sight was purty. She’d never seen tha like.

“Hurricane.”

“Fer true?” Her head whirled on her shoulders. “Should I warn my Cap’n?”

He shook his head. “Nah. It’s about three hundred miles northeast. Last Mariner track had it movin’ on north. It’ll fizzle out when it hits real cold water in a couple days. For now, it’s a bad one,” he said. “Good news is it won’t trouble anyone but fish.”

“If it’s s’far away, how we seein’ it?”

“We’re not, really. That’s just haze in the atmo above it, reflectin’ the lightnin’.”

They stood quiet for a time, watching as the distant lights moved and flickered. “It’s beautiful,” Abby said. “Seen a storm in tha black once, looked sorta…”

She’s interrupted by Thomas’ dad as he come abreast. “Thomas, don’t forget, we need that DISBEAC unboxed and mounted before seven in the mornin’.”

“Yes sir,” the boy agreed. “I’ll do it tonight, after I drop my friend off. Dad, this is Abby. Abby, my dad.”

“Hiram Jinks,” he give his hand. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

She smiled back, shook his hand. “Abby Travis. Nice meetin’ yah.”

At first, he’s dismissive tha way she’d had other grown folk treat her when meetin’. But somethin’ went odd when she give her name. Abby could feel the man, studyin’ her face all intense. Like he’s sizin’ her up...but she couldn’t conjure the meanin’. “Abigail Travis,” Hiram released her hand. “I hope this young man’s treated you well?”

“Sure’n he has, sir.”

“Good.” Hiram’s all gobsmacked. “Good.” Afore too much air could leak inta the conversation, he turned. “Well, I have to hurry off. Fishing season starts tomorrow. We aim to be outta port by seven and on the grounds when the clock strikes. Nice to meet you.” He’s still lookin’ kinda funny as he rushed off up tha dock.

Thomas shrugged. “Sorry. My dad gets sorta Qíguài de the night before a cast off. Don’t take him serious.”

“It’s shiny,” Abby tilted her head toward the building, “but I think yer mom’s usin’ muh denims fer some kinda semaphore.”

Her denims were ready. After packin’ em in tha duffel an’ sayin’ her goodbyes, Abby let Thomas lift her back inta the lorry. As the old truck rattled off, Hiram Jinks joined his wife at the window.

“She the one?” he asked. “Brought the General’s bag?”

“Yes.” She turned toward her husband. “Name of Travis,” she observed. “Feel like you’ve seen a ghost?”

He cast a glance toward his wife. “Two of ‘em.”

*********************To Be Continued********************

Firefly - Second 'Verse

”Travis. Abby Travis” - (Part 2)

”When you’re a spy, you make tough personal choices to support the assignment…”

“Um…” Mickey offered as he pedaled his rickshaw through the streets, “you know everybody can see you, right?”

“They got time fer that,” Abby arched her back, shoulders pressed inta tha seat as she pulled them chinos up over her hips, “means yer not pedalin’ fast enough.” Trash bag was gone, stuffed inta tha duffel what she hid inside it. The gen’ral’s bag was tucked inside that’n, along with her boots, clothes, an’ pistol. A bag inside a bag inside a bag. Notion tickled her when she first thunk on it.

Mickey pushed on through the humid night air. “Not that I mind the eyeful I got,” he said, “but I saw that bandage on your bottom. Can I ask what happened?”

Abby bent deep, groanin’ soft as she pulled up ‘er boots. “Gunfight,” she grimaced, “with tha last fella stared at my pi gu.”

“Hope you brought lots of bullets.”

Pegleg Pete’s. She had a feelin’, and that feelin’ come out right.

The moment she laid eyes on the hemp rope an’ fishin’ nets all strung about, Abby knew she’s bein’ coerced inta a tourist trap. Joint was playin’ hard on old seafarin’ lore, with swashbucklin’ pirates an’ pitchers ‘o’ sailin’ ships scattered all about. Works, too, she conjured as she passed the gift shop afore bein’ waylaid by a smilin’ woman in pleated shorts an’ a staff shirt.

“Welcome to Pegleg’s! Wait for a table’s running about an hour.” That much was true, judgin’ by the tourist types all lined up on them benches out front.

“Meetin’ someone at tha bar,” Abby replied.

Woman eyed her curious fer a minute. Abby’s wearin’ her boots an’ dark chinos hid legs what looked like barber poles from gettin’ sun on one side only. She’s in her fav’rite shirt...grey mechanic’s button down hangin’ open over the sleeveless pink tee. Name of “Earl” embroidered above the breast pocket. Abby never met no “Earl,” but when she seen it in that thrift shop on Regina it just struck her funny. Had her duffel slung on her left shoulder, Ms. Baker’s….Marisol’s...bag all hid inside. She knew carryin’ it about’s like a big neon sign fer ev’ry footpad an’ con artist on New Melbourne, but leastways tha average Fed wouldn’t give ‘er a second look.

“Got ident?” the hostess asked.

“Sure ‘n I do.”

She’s still catchin’ a wary eye. “Sorry,” the woman, name of Mia on her badge, offered. “Your face is just so…youthful.”

Abby shrugged. “Git that alot...usually from them’s tryin’ tah bed me.” She didn’t bother with touchin’ the Colt on her hip. Deadpan expression an’ a flat tone of voice did the trick.

The hostess’ face started goin’ all crimson like. “Right through there,” she managed with a nervous point. “Follow the music. Bartender has menus, too, if you wanna order food.”

“Thank yew.”

Trawler Man

Saloon was kinda noisy. They’s a band in tha corner, all beltin’ out somethin’ she took tah be sailor songs. Few folk was parked at tables, all hootin’ an’ poundin’ rhythm tah tha music. One fella caught her eye. Looked tah be her age. Sorta purty, with blond hair in a couple curls. He give her a grin, then offered an open hand towards tha empty chair at his table.

Abby shook her head. No time tah dawdle. She’s runnin’ tha mission.

”...always read the room..."

Abby cut loose a fresh gasp ‘o’ pain as she got sitiated. Set herself all careful onta the barstool, leavin’ the bandaged right cheek tah hang in midair. Duffel’s parked at her feet, but she got the strap within reach. Not takin’ no chances. She looked about, checkin’ other folk at the bar an’ around the room. Ain’t nobody showin’ interest in ‘er, but she kenned that fer a ruse also. Like in that one super-spy book she tried readin’. Some fella named Dirk Piston. She’d give up on it after three chapters, ‘cuz Dirk Piston spent more time bird doggin’ women than he done any spyin’...but he always conjured tha way out. Most like, she figgered at tha time, tah escape pissed off husbands, way he’s taggin’ somebody’s wife ever’ other page.

But good advice was good advice, she couldn’t deny. Abby’s countin’ doors when the bartender come saunterin’ up. She durn near did a double take at tha sight. Rex never talked about no twin brother, but she conjured she done found ‘im. Big fella with a goatee, tats on his arms an’ a shirt what looked like a floral massacre. “Hiya, doll,” he offered all friendly. “What’s your pleasure?”

She woulda jest asked fer Captain Bob’s...but not tahnight. She’s on a mission. Secret handoff. Browncoats an’ tha like. Trouble was, she ain’t never ordered no drink in a saloon. “Ummmm…”

“While you’re decidin’, Babyface, let’s get John Law taken care of.” Barkeep whipped out his reader. “Lemme have your ident.”

”Ku.” She give her card over. Man slipped it inta the reader, caught the green light, an’ then give it a closer look, afore meetin’ her eye with a smile. “Well happy birthday!”

“Thank yew.”

“I’ll whip up a special cocktail...your first legal drink! Big occasion!” The bartender set tah work. Abby didn’t bother tellin’ him t’was her first ever drink. She turned her eye toward the band as they led a singalong.

John Kanaka

Didn’t see them blond curls there no more. He was purty, she mused afore the bartender set down somethin’ powerful scary.

“On the house!” he near shouted over tha ruckus. Drink was tall. Glass had a couple handles. An’ ever’where, stuff’s hangin’ off tha rim. Cut limes, cherries, even a fresh peeled shrimp. They’s toothpicks stickin’ outta the whole mess with fruit n’ olives, one ‘o’ them little parasols, an’ toppin’ it all off, coupla sparkers all fizzin’ an’ smokin’ away. Fer tha life of her, Abby wasn’t sure if she’s meant tah drink this thing or watch it break atmo.

A voice come from over her shoulder. “Drink like that,” he said, “sends a message. Tells folk ‘I’m not from around here.”

Abby turned a harsh eye what softened a touch when she seen it was her blond haired boy. “Oh yeah?” she raised an eyebrow, sendin’ a hand tah rest upon the Colt. “What’s this sayin’ tah yah?”

He spent a might longer’n she liked studyin’ her hip. “Party girl?” the boy smirked. “What’s of interest to me,” he raised his eyes, “is the way you’re side saddlin’ that barstool. Seen that before, every time my dad’s ‘roids are actin’ up.” He give her a charmin’ smile. “You got the ‘roids?”

She scowled. “What I don’t got,” Abby bristled, “is no time fer messin’ with some scrub. Step off, now. I’m meetin’ somebody.”

His smile went all crooked an’ amused. “I know. I’m the one you’re here to meet. Thomas Jinks,” he give his name as a hand come up tah shake. “Was hopin’ I’d meet you when China Doll landed, but you weren’t about when we picked up our crates.”

”...treat new contacts as if they’ve been compromised...”

“Jinx, huh?” She fixed him with an eyeful ‘o’ mistrust. “Never heard ‘o’ yew.” Abby left the hand hangin’. “Most like, yer jest another land shark out fer a…”

“Did Mei Lin and her ba ba cross the mountains yet?”

“What?” She looked at him all kindsa confused.

“Book you’re readin’,” Thomas’ hand remained up, patient as he give the proof. “They get chased by that bear yet?”

She looked him over, ponderin’ hard afore it all come back. ”My girls loved the ‘Mei Lin’ series,” Marisol tole her that one day. So this was it. That was tha code, tha secret ident. Nothin' fancy a'tall. This Thomas Jinks was her contact. Deep down, that pleased her a touch, but she weren’t gonna let that show. “Thanks fer spoilin’ it, jackass,” the girl grumbled as her hand joined his. “Travis. Abby Travis.” She ‘membered that from one ‘o’ them spy movies.

Thomas chuckled. “Well hello, Travis-Abby-Travis,” he answered. “Nice meetin’ you, too…”

“Hey Birthday Girl,” the barkeep interrupted. “Something wrong with that drink?”

“Birthday?” Jinks’ head turned. “It’s your birthday?”

Abby nodded sorta absent as she eyed the drink. The fireworks afore her was fixin’ tah set light to the parasol. “Not sure how tah drink it without I lose an eye.”

“You don’t drink that,” Thomas pushed the glass away. “C’mon, Nick, get her something that doesn’t scream “date rape,” okay?” He looked at her. “What’s your regular drink? Gin? Whiskey?” Apparently he seen the confusion on her face. “Ohhh,” he said, all understandin’. “Let’s start easy. Nicky, set her up with vodka and Boom-Boom...single shot. I’ll take a Barnacle Bill.”

“What’s a Barnacle Bill?”

“Only beer I can afford,” Jinks chuckled as an eyebrow lifted. “Less you’re buyin’? Oh, alright....can’t blame a man for tryin’,” he winked at the sudden thundercloud on her brow.

“Jest make sure yah don’t ‘try’ nothin’ else,” she answered...but somethin’s wrong. Words come out more playful soundin’ than she intended.

Nick set drinks down afore ‘em. Jinks lifted his brew. “You got nothin’ to worry about. Girls I like wouldn’t be caught dead in this place.”

She didn’t know she should be relieved or indignant like. But laughin’ out loud? Hadn’t banked on that. “Well, that makes it all right clear,” she giggled.

“My pleasure! Cheers!” After clinkin’ her glass tah his bottle, Abby tasted her first alcohol. Funny, she thought on it. Don’t really taste like nothin’ a’tall. The ‘Boom-Boom’ was nice ‘n’ sweet, with a right zesty sorta tang to it. Gorram, but this was good…

*********************To Be Continued********************