A Manual to Mutiny
Roughly twenty-something years before Earth’s grand and spectacular demise—back when humanity still thought they were the pinnacle of intelligence—events had already been set in motion. Not that anyone noticed.
It was morning, or at least the ship’s clocks insisted it was, and the newborn light of a distant star traced its golden fingers across the fractured hull of the HMS Immaculate Virtue. This starship floated on through the void at exactly five hundred eighty-two million, seven hundred sixty-seven thousand, and one knots, completely indifferent to the existential crisis unfolding within. Though why Her Majesty’s Army insisted on using knots in space—rather than the vastly more sensible, widely accepted, and infinitely more fashionable Parsecs Per Galactic Hour—was one of those bureaucratic quirks that no one quite understood but everyone had learned to stop questioning.
Lieutenant Commander Jackson Whipsteeple—not yet the roguish "Captain Jack Whipsteele" who would later terrorize the Unified Stellar Command—was gliding confidently toward a mental breakdown at precisely the same speed (however you chose to measure it).
The crew toiled about their work, adjusting inertial dampeners, recalibrating thrust vectors, fine-tuning gravitic stabilizers, and engaging in numerous other distractions that Jackson found excruciatingly dull.
The artificial horizon of a rather tall glass of whiskey (officially logged as "medicinal spirits") shifted about listlessly in his hand as he paced his quarters, clutching a crumpled piece of holo-sheet-paper. He paused, took a nervous sip, and continued pacing with the deliberate intensity of a man who has just discovered his underwear is on backward but is pretending that he doesn’t care.
Lieutenant Commander Whipsteeple wasn't a particularly brave man, nor was he very cowardly. He stood at a proper five-foot-eleven and a half, with the kind of physique that suggested he had once been athletic but had since developed a close personal relationship with desk work and cream-filled pastries. As a child, he ate three meals a day and one apple, because his mother insisted. As an adult, he ate three meals a day and one apple, because by now his digestive system had developed a sort of contractual expectation.
There were, however, two things Lieutenant Commander Whipsteeple did not particularly enjoy, nor was he especially good at:
One—being a space naval officer. And two—making decisions.
Though, at this exact moment, he found himself in the deeply unfortunate position of being forced to do both, seeing as his commanding officer was currently engaged in a brief but enthusiastic episode of madness—a condition that was, regrettably, fairly common among ship captains of the time.
This unfortunate reality was further exacerbated by the holo-sheet crumpled in his hand.
URGENT
To: Lieutenant Commander J. Whipsteeple
From: Chief Stenographer to Admiral Porter
Message Reads:
You are hereby ordered to transport diplomatic envoy Lady Ashana to the Colonial Negotiations in Blito Four. Absolute discretion required. Failure to comply will result in immediate court-martial.
All planetary docking privileges are hereby revoked until the successful completion of this vital and most urgent mission. We appreciate your patience and that of your crew during this critical operation.
Ship-leave is suspended due to heightened port security concerns. HMS Atlantis is to remain active and on standby, with all external craft access prohibited until further notice.
Sincerely,
Admiral of the Royal Alliance First Fleet, James E. Porter
This was the kind of thing that made a reasonable man consider desertion and a wilder man consider piracy.
Jackson was neither. He was about as wild as a library catalog and only slightly less predictable than a Swiss watch.
Three rotations. Three times now, ship-leave had been canceled at the last minute due to one crisis or another. The crew’s nerves were already fraying, their patience stretched thinner than the ship’s hull during an FTL jump. And now? Now they were glued to their posts once again, with no port, no shore, and a court-martial threat dangling over their heads like a goddamn guillotine.
He swore, they were trying to break them.
He ran a hand down his face, exhaling sharply.
"Until further notice," he muttered, rolling the words over his tongue until they lost all meaning—much like his career prospects and last shreds of personal autonomy.
They had picked up Lady Ashana not more than a few hours ago, her personal passenger ship docking with the precision of a diamond cutter into their vastly oversized bay. She had barely set one aristocratically clad foot aboard before they were already cutting across the sector, engines howling like they were fleeing a tax audit rather than performing a routine transport. Captain Whipsteeple stared at the mission parameters for the fourteenth time, hoping they might magically transform into something that made a lick of sense.
Why, exactly, did they need a vessel with enough firepower to glass a small moon just to ferry one silk-wrapped diplomat across perfectly civilized space? And why had docking privileges been suspended with the finality of a marriage to a Vrexian death-priest?
"All external craft access prohibited until further notice," the orders read, which was bureaucratic shorthand for "until the heat death of the universe." It was also military-speak for "don't ask questions," "we don't need to tell you more," and "your personal plans are hilariously irrelevant to us" all rolled up together like the galaxy's most depressing burrito.
He reminisced about meeting her, an activity roughly as pleasant as recalling his last dental surgery or the time he'd accidentally sent his commanding officer a message meant for his ex. The memory unfurled in his mind with the special kind of clarity reserved exclusively for moments of supreme professional discomfort—the kind that wake you up at 3 AM years later, causing you to stare into the void and wonder if it's too late to change your identity and become a moisture farmer on some backwater moon where no one's ever heard of the Alliance.
Lady Ashana stood at the airlock threshold like someone who'd never had to wait for a door to open in her entire life. Her sapphire-blue uniform—a thing that probably cost more than Jackson's annual salary—hugged a figure that seemed deliberately engineered to make starship captains forget security protocols. Her skin was the warm bronze of someone whose ancestors had evolved on a planet with a gentler sun than Earth's harsh glare, and her eyes held the particular brand of confident boredom that only comes from centuries of aristocratic breeding.
When she'd extended her hand for Jackson to kiss (not shake, kiss—who even does that outside of period dramas?), he'd noticed her fingernails were the exact same shade as her uniform. Coordinated down to the cuticles. The smell of something expensive and botanical had wafted from her skin—not quite perfume, more like she naturally exuded the essence of rare flowers that only bloomed once every century on planets normal people couldn't afford to visit.
"Captain," she'd said, her voice carrying the precise amount of warmth required by diplomatic protocol—which is to say, approximately none. "I trust our journey will be uneventful." It wasn't a question. It was an imperial declaration disguised as small talk.
Now, back in his cabin, Jackson stared at the ceiling as if it might offer some explanation for why his perfectly respectable military career had devolved into chauffeur service. The recycled air hummed through the vents with its familiar mechanical lullaby, but sleep remained a distant theoretical concept, like retirement benefits or the possibility of a promotion.
"Captain Jackson Whipsteeple," he'd said, extending his hand in the universally accepted gesture of professional greeting that had served humanity well for approximately five thousand years.
Lady Ashana had stared at his outstretched hand as if he'd offered her a dead rodent. The silence had stretched just long enough to become its own separate awkward entity—one that probably deserved its own name and citizenship papers.
"One doesn't shake hands with Lady Ashana of House Meritius, Fourth Scion of the Elysian Consortium," her aide had interjected, materializing from behind her with the supernatural timing of someone whose entire career depended on preventing diplomatic incidents caused by handshakes. "The traditional greeting is a slight bow, followed by the honorific 'Exalted Journey.'"
"Ah, of course," Jackson had replied, smoothly transitioning to a bow that somehow managed to be simultaneously too deep and not deep enough. "Exalted... Journey."
Lady Ashana's perfectly sculpted eyebrow had risen approximately two millimeters—the aristocratic equivalent of howling with laughter.
"You've never transported Elysian nobility before, have you, Captain...?" She'd trailed off, despite having heard his name not fifteen seconds earlier.
"Whipsteeple. Captain Jackson Whipsteeple," he'd repeated, feeling like a particularly dim-witted cadet on his first day. "And no, I can't say that I have."
"Well," she'd said, her smile suggesting that she found his existence somewhat charming in the way one might find a child's crude drawing charming, "I suppose there's a first time for everything. Even for the..." She'd glanced around his ship with the subtle distaste of someone who'd just discovered their five-star hotel room had been previously occupied by a family of enthusiastic raccoons. "...Alliance Military."
"We're honored to have you aboard," he'd managed, the words sticking to his teeth like particularly stubborn caramel.
"Yes," she'd replied, not bothering to conceal a delicate yawn. "I imagine you are."
Her aide had shot Jackson a look that somehow communicated both pity and disdain, a facial expression that must require special training at whatever finishing school churns out professional sycophants. Then they'd swept past him toward their quarters, Lady Ashana's boots gliding across the deck with such minimal contact it was as if she found the very concept of floor offensive.
"Your luggage will be delivered to your quarters immediately, Lady Ashana," he'd called after her, trying to salvage some fragment of his dignity.
She'd paused, turning just enough for him to see her profile—a gesture calculated to remind him he was receiving only a fraction of her attention. "Do ensure it's handled with appropriate care, Captain. Some items are quite irreplaceable. Older than your ancestral line, I suspect." Then she'd continued her procession down the corridor, leaving behind the lingering scent of exotic flora and crushing social superiority.
No sooner had the words left her lips than the airlock doors hissed open again, revealing what appeared to be an antique wooden box that had somehow achieved sentience and muscular development. It took Jackson's brain a full three seconds to realize he was looking at a treasure chest—a gloriously impractical monstrosity of burnished copper and some exotic hardwood that probably came from a planet where the trees were worshipped as minor deities. The thing was festooned with intricate carvings that told what looked like an entire civilization's creation myth, inlaid with precious stones that winked mockingly at his military salary.
More alarming than the chest itself were the two men carrying it—a pair of human refrigerators whose biceps had biceps. Their expressions suggested that smiling was something that happened to other people, preferably people they were about to intimidate. One had a scar that started somewhere near his left eyebrow and disappeared into his collar, as if to say, "You should see what happened to the knife."
"We will be personal guard to her Ladyship and her… belongings," the slightly larger of the two demanded, his voice the auditory equivalent of gravel being poured over more gravel. He didn't bother introducing himself, because men built like planetary defense systems rarely felt the need for social niceties.
"No one informed me of any additional guards…” Jackson started but they were already moving, carrying the chest with the effortless grace of two men who could bench-press a shuttle craft. The chest passed by close enough for Jackson to see that some of the jewels actually pulsed with inner light.
"But that’s fine… no one tells me anything anyway," he muttered to their retreating backs, noting that they moved with perfect military precision despite wearing what were ostensibly civilian clothes. Not mercenaries, then. Something official. Something with training that made Alliance Special Forces look like a preschool playground.
That whole scene was hours ago, though Jackson's dignity was still somewhere back on the loading dock, presumably being loaded onto Lady Ashana's personal shuttle to be taken home and mounted as a trophy. With each passing hour, the interaction had fermented in his memory, aging like a fine whine—not wine, but whine, the kind that would eventually become an anecdote he'd tell at officer gatherings after his third drink, when the barriers between professional decorum and therapeutic venting became perilously thin.
Now, he was back in his cabin, pacing restlessly, trying to grasp something just on the edge of his mind—tangible enough to feel, yet slippery enough to evade him entirely. It was like trying to scratch an itch in the exact center of his back, or recall the name of that actor from that movie about the thing with the guy who did the stuff. The sensation hovered in his consciousness like a particularly annoying ghost, refusing to materialize fully but absolutely unwilling to move on to whatever afterlife awaited half-formed suspicions.
He'd turned down shore leave on Centauri Prime for this now endless tour—actual, legitimate shore leave on a planet with beaches and drinks served in hollowed-out exotic fruits. Somewhere, in some grand cosmic ledger, Jackson was convinced there was a column labeled "People Whose Plans Don't Matter" with his name right at the top, possibly highlighted and underlined for emphasis.
He took another swig of his drink and crumpled the holo-sheet-paper harder in his hand, as if that might help. He was so involved in the thought, in fact, that he almost didn’t notice the emergency klaxons blaring a moment later.
Eight short, rapid tolls for enemy ship, pause, two slow ones for “from behind”. Jackson knew it well from routine drilling, though never from real life—there was no going war around.
But there was no mistaking it—the warning meant "hostile ship inbound."
Why the Galactic Royal Alliance Navy insisted on blaring horn signals instead of using a simple voice intercom was beyond him. Life may be fleeting, but bureaucratic inefficiency? That was forever.
If he ever made captain, he’d run his ship differently. Fewer horns, more common sense.
Absently drifting toward the rear observation port, he gazed behind them—into the endless void trailing back of the ship. A speck on the distant backdrop of stars caught his eye.
At first, it was nothing more than a pinprick of darkness against the galactic glow, but as he watched, it swelled—first into a distant blur, then into a blackened mass moving at an unsettling rate.
He lowered his optics visor from his head, focusing in.
It was another ship. Similar in design, but with darkened plating, and most distinctively—a grand array of solar sails, unfurling like wings of woven obsidian, their crimson filaments catching the distant light.
The crew responded with the level of dignity, poise, and aplomb that would be expected of a warship of the Royal Alliance Navy. Which is to say, all hell broke loose.
"Get calm, men! All is under control," Jackson exclaimed with all the authority of a substitute teacher on their first day.
He simply had to get some order in place. He thought back to his training.
Volume 17 of the Ship's Manuals and Protocols dictated an Advisory Council be held, featuring the Bosun, Master at Arms, Militia Officer, and chaired by the highest-ranking officer. Minutes later, such a meeting was held in Jackson's quarters, which were embarrassingly decorated with motivational maritime quotes he'd purchased from a street vendor last time he was planetbound.
A fleeting thought crossed his mind—that they should convene on the Bridge—but he dismissed it just as quickly.
Protocol dictated that before any action, a formal meeting was required to confer, and as the acting captain, he had no intention of deviating from regulations, especially in times like these.
Only after the meeting would they proceed to the Bridge and issue commands.
The four officers sat uncomfortably around a rather small cedar table. The table itself was quite comfortable, however, bearing only the weight of one conspicuously clean and well-kept book laid open neatly in front of Kreg, the Militia Officer. Its title:
What To Do If In Possible Danger Of Enemy Ship
Ship's Manuals and Protocols – Volume 17
They set the room to “Do Not Interfere”, as was protocol for official meetings.
"Well," began the goosely-looking Bosun, whose name Jackson had never bothered to learn despite serving together for three years. "What do we do?"
"First order, it says here we are to call roll," Kreg gruffed out, his finger tracing lines on the page with the delicacy of a butcher deboning a chicken with a sledgehammer.
Everyone agreed this seemed reasonable, in the way that rearranging deck chairs on a sinking ship seems reasonable when you've run out of better ideas.
"Does it say who should call it?" asked the Master at Arms, a man whose dedication to protocol was matched only by his inability to remember where he'd left his hat.
"Not per se. Just says, 'officer calls roll.' If you look right here," Kreg pointed to a line with the reverence one might reserve for sacred text.
"Well, that clearly means the Lieutenant Commander," retorted the Bosun.
"Clearly not!" the Master at Arms belted, slapping the table with enough force to make Jackson's whiskey ripple ominously. "It clearly states, 'Officer'. If it intended the Lieutenant Commander to call roll, it would have said, 'Lieutenant Commander', now wouldn't it?"
Everyone furrowed their brows. The effect on the look of the group was astounding, like a collection of particularly perplexed bulldogs confronted with a philosophical conundrum. After several minutes of arguing and a number of additional furrowed brows, crinkled noses, and even a few pursed lips, it was decided that the manual itself was too vague on this point to be properly adhered to, and an official inquiry would be made in writing to the Naval Headquarters in the capital. In the meanwhile, Jackson's judgment would be defaulted to, much to his existential horror.
The Master at Arms called roll, each name ticked off with the enthusiasm of a man cataloging his tax deductions.
"Right then, that being out of the way, have we run the appropriate bell toll?" Kreg bored out in his most gruffly official voice.
"Yes," Jackson answered, feeling oddly like he was taking a test he hadn't studied for.
"And we've marked its distance on the sextant?"
The row silenced with the sudden awkwardness of a group realizing they've collectively forgotten someone's birthday.
The sextant was brought to the starboard side of the cabin, which overlooked the vast, calm ink of space. But the ship was nowhere in sight. It was just... gone.
"Where'd it go?" asked the Bosun, peering through the glass as though the missing ship might be hiding behind a particularly ambitious wave.
"Not sure. Seems to have left us. Probably too scared," offered the Master at Arms with the baseless confidence of a man who has never been correct but remains undeterred by facts.
"Let me see that scope," Jackson said, taking the instrument with hands that betrayed a slight tremor. The alarms were no longer blaring, which only supported their discovery.
Each officer took turns scanning the space where the ship had been through the scope, and in turn, each officer let out a sigh of relief that carried the distinct odor of brandy. After a thorough examination, everyone was quite pleased that the whole situation was resolved and patted themselves on the back for such devotion to duty and fastidiousness.
Quite the merry men they were as they exited the cabin to inform the crew that all was well.
And inform them they would have, if it had been the case.
But in place of panicking crewmen, they were greeted by a motley assemblage of space pirates whose fashion sense screamed "we raided seven different civilizations before breakfast." Half-cybernetic eyes whirred and scanned them with mechanical precision. One particularly imposing figure—whose species seemed somewhere between a human and a potato that had experienced an unfortunate evolutionary detour—sported bioluminescent tattoos of fish that swam across his lumpy skin.
"Gentlemen," drawled a man whose right arm appeared to be a repurposed mining excavator, "your weapons would be more comfortable in our possession." His smile revealed teeth that had been replaced with what looked suspiciously like salvaged starship hull material.
The Master at Arms reached for his sidearm with all the misplaced confidence of a toddler attempting quantum physics. His hand moved toward his holster in what felt—to him, at least—like a heroic slow-motion sequence worthy of commemoration in whatever passed for action holovids in this sector.
Unfortunately, before his fingers could even brush the weapon's grip, three different energy weapons hummed to life around him. The weapons discharged in perfect harmony, creating a light show that briefly turned the Master at Arms into the most reluctant constellation in the galaxy. His body crumpled to the floor, leaving behind only the lingering smell of ozone and poor decision-making.
The disarming of the rest of Jackson's team proceeded with the practiced efficiency of beings who had turned robbery into performance art.
"Captain wants to see you," the man said through gritted starship teeth.
Jackson found himself being marched through corridors that, until five minutes ago, had been the pristine halls of a Royal Fleet vessel—all polished steel, symmetrical architecture, and the faint scent of bureaucratic self-importance. Now, chaos had set in like a virus.
The once-gleaming bulkheads bore hastily scrawled pirate insignias, carved in with blades or burned in with plasma torches. The ship’s elegant lighting had been ripped out, replaced by flickering strips of neon and exposed wiring, casting erratic shadows.
Holographic graffiti now flickered where status readouts should have been, some flashing crude gestures from at least seventeen different cultures, others running mocking, looping messages—"Her Majesty Sends Her Regrets," "Mind the Gap—Also, the Mutineers," and "Royal Dogs Walk Free No More."
These people worked fast. Efficiency. Jackson couldn't help but admire it in the same way one might admire a particularly well-designed predator right before it rips your throat out—professional courtesy, even in the midst of being spectacularly outmaneuvered. His military training manual had conspicuously failed to include a chapter on "What To Do When Space Pirates Disarm You With The Choreographic Precision Of A Ballet Company That Specializes In Armed Robbery." The omission felt personal now, as if his instructors had specifically avoided preparing him for this exact scenario just to enjoy the cosmic irony from their comfortable retirement outposts.
The doors to the Bridge hissed open and Jackson found himself thrust inside with all the ceremony of yesterday's garbage being ejected into a compactor. He staggered forward, regaining his balance with the practiced dignity of someone who'd spent years pretending that embarrassing moments were actually tactical repositioning—a skill that had served him far better than any weapons training in his surprisingly accident-prone military career.
He looked to where his crew should be—where, in any sensible universe, uniformed professionals would be manning stations with the appropriate level of military decorum. Instead, Jackson found himself facing a collection of strange, tanned faces with expressions that ranged from amused to actively predatory.
A creature—whose species Jackson couldn't begin to identify beyond "vaguely reptilian with unnecessary number of appendages"—actually licked its eyeball while maintaining direct eye contact, a power move Jackson hadn't encountered since that disastrous diplomatic mission to Ceti Alpha VII where he'd accidentally proposed marriage to an ambassador's sentient houseplant.
Jackson briefly wondered if it was more efficient to report one's own death in advance to Fleet Command rather than waiting for these people to do it for him.
"Welcome aboard," purred a figure lounging in the captain’s chair. Her presence seemed to physically alter the atmosphere around her. Jackson had seen her before in wanted alerts—Captain Thain Altos, the Pirate Queen herself, whose reputation for ruthlessness was matched only by her impeccable fashion sense and whose wanted posters were rumored to be collector's items in certain questionable circles. "First time being captured? You're carrying tension in your shoulders. Very bad for long-term hostage health. Though I suppose 'long-term' is a relative concept in your current situation."
Jack's mouth opened and closed twice, performing an excellent impression of a particularly indecisive goldfish. His mind cycled through the standard military responses to hostile capture—name, rank, and serial number, perhaps delivered with stoic dignity—before promptly discarding them as being about as useful as a wooden canoe in a volcano.
"Lieutenant Commander Whipsteeple, I presume?" she asked, her voice carrying the kind of accent that suggested she'd learned English specifically to more eloquently threaten people in it. Her smile revealed teeth that were unnervingly perfect—the kind of dental work that suggested either an excellent healthcare plan or a collection of dentists kept somewhere against their will.
Jackson stared, mouth agape, his brain cycling through the Ship's Manuals and Protocols and finding absolutely nothing.
"I... yes. That's me. How did you—"
"Board your ship without a single shot fired while you were all huddled in your cabin discussing how to properly call roll?" She laughed, a sound like crystal breaking in a velvet bag.
She flicked her fingers at the control panel with the casual disdain of a socialite dismissing an underdressed party guest. Instantly, the view field ahead of the Bridge transformed into a live feed of the Jackson, displaying the others mid-meeting. It played just long enough before switching back to a view of space. "My dear Commander."
Captain Altos stood and circled Jackson with the casual menace of a shark who'd already sent out dinner invitations with his name as the main course. Her boots made no sound on the deck plates—a detail Jackson's brain unhelpfully filed under "reasons to panic more thoroughly."
"We've been trailing you for some time now," she continued, running a gloved finger along the navigation console with the familiarity of someone who might have helped design it. "The Alliance builds such predictable ships. Identical emergency protocols, identical security overrides... identical weaknesses."
Jackson's hand inched toward a hidden compartment by a panel with all the subtlety of a teenager reaching for the last cookie at a family dinner. Before his fingers could even introduce themselves to the emergency blaster within, he found himself staring down the barrel of an elegantly modified antique gunpowder pistol that was custom, expensive, and distressingly well-maintained. Altos stood at the other end of it, calmly staring into his eyes.
"Please don't," Altos sighed. "We are not your enemy, truly. And I’d hate to have to splatter your brain across my new Bridge floor."
Jackson felt a flush creep up his neck, hot and prickly like a rash made of pure embarrassment.
"I should inform you, madam," he managed finally, drawing himself away from the secret compartment, "that this vessel carries Lady Ashana, diplomatic envoy to the Colonial Negotiations, and any harm to her would constitute—"
"An act of war?" Captain Altos finished, tucking her weapon back into its holster before examining her immaculately manicured nails with theatrical boredom. "I like to think of it as an improvement to the galaxy at large." Altos suggested, holstering her weapon with a flourish that somehow radiated both confidence and contempt. "Or perhaps a service to humanity would sound better?"
Her smile was sharp enough to classify as a concealed weapon in most jurisdictions. "But we're not even here to harm your precious Lady Ashana. We're here to stop her. And possibly to save your career from becoming a cautionary tale they'll teach at the Academy under 'How To Become An Unwitting Accomplice to Genocide.'"
The word 'genocide' hung in the air between them like an unexploded ordnance, ticking away the seconds of Jackson's carefully constructed worldview.
Jackson blinked, suddenly unsure if they were having the same conversation. "I'm afraid I don't follow."
"Of course you don't." She stepped closer, the smell of exotic spices and gunpowder wrapping around him like a provocative question. "Your precious Lady Ashana is carrying bioweapons to the colonies. The negotiations are a sham. Your government plans to bring the colonists to heel through disease rather than diplomacy."
Captain Altos leaned in, her voice dropping to a theatrical whisper. "They're calling it 'direpowder' in the official manifest. It's engineered with a delayed activation sequence—takes months, nearly a year to fully trigger. Absolutely untraceable by conventional methods."
She gestured vaguely toward the ceiling, as if the Alliance's moral bankruptcy might be physically visible somewhere above them. "Those negotiations your Lady Ashana being sent to so elegantly wrap up? They've been circling the drain for months. This is their insurance policy."
"The Alliance wouldn't—" Jackson began, the words feeling hollow even as they left his mouth, like trying to defend the nutritional value of ship rations to someone who'd just discovered actual food.
"Oh, but they would," Altos interrupted, her smile suggesting she found his naivety almost endearing, like watching a puppy try to intimidate its reflection. "Far as I can tell, the plan would be to introduce the agent, wait for it to silently spread, then when the colonies are properly desperate and dying, swoop in with the miracle cure. Nothing builds compliance like saving people from certain death, especially when you're the one who arranged it."
"That's absurd," Jackson sputtered, though a tiny voice in the back of his head noted that it would explain the excessive security measures and dire warnings.
Captain Altos arched an eyebrow with the precision of a master fencer delivering a fatal thrust. "Is it? Check the gift she is bringing, a chest, I believe. The evidence is in a false bottom. She's carrying enough engineered direpowder to wipe out three M Class planets."
Jackson stared at her, the world seeming to tilt beneath his feet in a way that had nothing to do with the ocean. "Why are you telling me this?"
"Because, Lieutenant Commander, I'm offering you a choice." She smiled, revealing teeth that seemed just slightly too sharp. "Continue serving corrupt masters who would use you as an unwitting accessory to genocide, or..."
"Or?" Jackson found himself asking, already knowing the answer would change everything.
"Or become something they fear instead of a footnote in their atrocities." She extended a hand adorned with rings that probably cost more than his yearly salary. "I could use a man who knows naval protocols inside and out. Especially one who could help me... reappropriate certain vessels in the future."
Jackson Whipsteeple stood at the crossroads of his life, the weight of protocol and duty pressing down on one shoulder, the promise of freedom and a clear conscience on the other.
"I'll need to verify your claims about Lady Ashana," he said, surprised at the steadiness in his voice.
"Of course," Captain Altos agreed. "And when you do, I'll be waiting for your decision. Just remember—there are no procedural manuals for the choice you're about to make. Oh, and Jackson, you should be warned; we've been having the most fascinating problem with Lady Ashana's quarters. Three of my crew attempted entry," she continued, examining her nails—practical, short, and surprisingly clean for someone in the business of violent acquisition. "Two are now decorating her doorway, and one is enjoying life with significantly fewer functioning organs than medical standards recommend."
"Lady Ashana values her privacy," Jackson replied, which ranked as possibly the most diplomatic description of homicidal defensiveness in galactic history.
The pirate captain's laugh was genuine, which somehow made it more terrifying. "Indeed she does. And now you're going to help us remove that privacy."
She gestured, and one of her crew approached with Jackson's sidearm, offering it grip-first with the ceremonial reverence of someone returning a family heirloom.
"Your weapon, Acting Captain."
Jackson accepted it, the familiar weight providing comfort that logic insisted was entirely misplaced. His fingers twitched with the momentary fantasy of raising it and ending the pirate's career in space banditry with one decisive pull of the trigger.
As if reading his thoughts, she added, "I should mention that my gunner has targeting solutions on the life support systems for decks three through seven. Heroics would result in an impressive but short-lived legacy."
"Not exactly protocol to try to kill your captors after surrendering, anyway," Jackson muttered, holstering the weapon.
"A man who follows rules even during a hijacking. Refreshing." She patted his shoulder with what might have been genuine approval. "Now run along and get that chest. Consider it your first assignment under new management."
The walk back to Lady Ashana's quarters felt like traversing a minefield in lead boots. Every step brought Jackson closer to a truth he wasn't sure he wanted to confirm. His mind raced through regulation after regulation, searching for some procedural guidance on how to accuse a high-ranking diplomat of bioterrorism without getting himself spaced from the nearest airlock.
Protocol Manual, Volume 7, Section 12: "When encountering suspected contraband aboard diplomatic vessels..." He mentally flipped through the pages he'd memorized during his Academy days, only to find they all ended with variations of "...defer to diplomatic immunity" and "...contact superior officers immediately."
The corridor to Lady Ashana's quarters stretched before him like a poorly designed metaphor for his career trajectory—straight, predictable, and ending abruptly at a wall of probable death.
Biceps and Scar had upgraded their door-flanking routine to a full combat stance, weapons drawn and positioned flat against the wall.
"Don't shoot!" Jackson called out, raising his hands. "It's Jackson."
Recognition flickered across their faces, quickly replaced by the particular brand of suspicion reserved for superior officers who suddenly appear during a crisis.
"Lieutenant Commander," Scar acknowledged, weapon still firmly oriented in Jackson's general direction. "Remain where you are."
"I can't do that. I'm the acting captain of this vessel, and I need access to Lady Ashana's quarters. I am concerned she is in series danger."
Biceps' expression darkened to roughly the shade of a dying star. "Acting captain? The ship's been taken by pirates."
"Which is why I need to get in there," Jackson improvised, his brain frantically stitching together a narrative that might not end with him ventilated. He crept slowly forward. "Lady Ashana has—"
The rest of his carefully crafted explanation was interrupted by the distinctly undiplomatic sound of Scar's weapon discharging, sending a bolt of energy sizzling past Jackson's ear with what felt like personal animosity.
Something inside Jackson—possibly the part responsible for career advancement and reasonable life choices—clicked off like a defective light switch.
He dropped, rolled, and drew his sidearm in one fluid motion that would have earned admiring nods from his combat instructors. His first shot caught Scar in the shoulder, spinning him backward with ballistic ballet precision.
Biceps responded with a barrage that reduced a section of corridor paneling to its component atoms. Jackson dove behind a structural support, mentally recategorizing the guard from 'aggressive diplomatic personnel' to 'homicidal obstacle with aim issues.'
"This isn't personal; I just need to speak with Ashana!" Jackson shouted.
"Die slowly!" Biceps suggested in return, a customer service approach that would not have earned positive reviews.
Jackson exhaled, centered himself in that perfect stillness between heartbeats, and emerged from cover with the smooth inevitability of poor life choices. Three shots—precisely placed with the economy of someone who'd never failed a weapons qualification—and Biceps discovered the inconvenience of having vital organs in predictable locations.
The sudden silence felt like a physical presence, broken only by the distant hum of ship systems and the considerably closer sound of Jackson's own pulse hammering in his ears.
"Sorry about that," he told the unresponsive guards, a courtesy that would certainly be appreciated by their cooling bodies.
Lady Ashana's door yielded to his override code with ease, hissing open to reveal opulently decorated guest quarters.
"Lady Ashana?" Jackson called, weapon held low but ready.
A whimper emanated from behind an ornate dressing screen—the sound of refined terror packaged in expensive perfume.
"Lieutenant Commander Jackson?" Her voice quavered with precisely the right amount of aristocratic distress. "Is that you?"
"Yes, my lady. Are you hurt?"
She emerged, a vision of vulnerability in a shimmersilk robe that probably cost more than Jackson's yearly salary. Her hands were raised, trembling subtly.
"Thank the stars," she breathed, relief washing across features so perfect they verged on statistical improbability. "Those horrible pirates—"
"I know," Jackson interrupted, lowering his weapon fully—a decision his combat instructors would have viewed with the enthusiasm typically reserved for voluntary amputation. "I'm here to help."
Her relief transformed into gratitude with the practiced ease of someone accustomed to emotional quick-changes. "My chest—they mustn't get it. The diplomatic consequences would be—"
Jackson nodded, holstering his weapon in what would immediately qualify as the second worst tactical decision of his day.
Lady Ashana moved toward him with the liquid grace of expensive training, her eyes wide with manufactured innocence.
The kick came from nowhere and everywhere at once, her leg emerging from the robe's slit with the surprising speed of a contractual plot twist. Jackson's weapon skittered across the floor, accompanied by several choice profanities.
"Really, Lieutenant Commander," she purred, producing a blade from her garter with the smooth efficiency of someone who regularly stored cutlery in improbable clothing locations, "did you think it was going to be that easy?"
Jackson raised his hands in a defensive posture, mentally upgrading the situation from 'complicated' to 'comprehensively screwed.'
"I was hoping for a conversation," he admitted, circling warily as she advanced, the knife describing elegant arcs that promised extremely intimate perforations.
"I find actions so much more expressive," she replied, lunging with a precision that sliced the air molecules where Jackson's carotid artery had been approximately one desperate backward jerk ago.
What followed could generously be described as a dance, if one's definition of dancing included repeated attempts at causing exsanguination. Jackson blocked, dodged, and occasionally connected with counterstrikes that seemed to annoy rather than disable his aristocratic opponent.
A vase shattered against the wall, casualty of their trajectory. The dressing screen collapsed. A table surrendered its structural integrity with a splintering protest.
Lady Ashana feinted, twisted, and drove her blade toward Jackson's midsection with the determination of someone attempting to create extra ventilation in his torso. He caught her wrist, redirecting the momentum into an awkward grapple that sent them both crashing into her wardrobe with enough force to rearrange its contents by descending price point.
They rolled, separated, and resumed circling—Jackson now sporting a slice across his forearm that stung with the special enthusiasm of expensive poison.
"Your form is impressive," he acknowledged, breathing heavily.
"Your survival is irritating," she countered, her perfect coiffure now interestingly asymmetrical.
She launched herself at him again, blade glinting under the cabin lights. Jackson sidestepped, caught her extended arm, and executed a throw that his combat instructor would have awarded full marks if he hadn't slightly overcompensated for the ship's artificial gravity.
Lady Ashana sailed across the room with the graceful trajectory of expensive luggage thrown from a moving vehicle, her head connecting with the door with a loud crack.
She slid to the floor, knife clattering beside her.
Jackson stood frozen for a moment, then approached cautiously, checking her pulse.
"Sorry about that," he murmured to her unconscious form.
The chest sat innocuously on its display stand. Jackson approached it with all the grace of a man whose internal organs were staging a revolt.
"Just you and me now," he slurred to the inanimate object, which was objectively not his most dignified moment in Alliance service. "C'mon now, you little piece of..." The world performed an unauthorized pirouette. He glanced down at the cut Ashana had slipped in during their earlier "diplomatic discussion" and saw the telltale green discoloration blooming around the blood. "Oh, that conniving, aristocratic little snake. She poisoned me." The revelation carried all the surprise of discovering that space was, in fact, rather large.
The room swam in a nauseating ballet of shapes and shadows. The poison from the blade was working its way through his system with the enthusiasm of a bureaucrat who'd just discovered an overlooked regulation.
Getting the chest off its stand proved manageable in the way that anything is manageable when you've lowered your standards to "not immediately fatal."
The chest scraped across the floor with the enthusiastic cooperation of inanimate objects everywhere—which is to say, none whatsoever. It seemed to find every microscopic ridge in the supposedly smooth flooring. He managed to get it halfway to the door before his legs, having filed a formal protest with his central nervous system, simply clocked out for the day.
"Having trouble?" A gruff voice came as two pirates he hadn’t seen before approached cautiously.
Jackson straightened, attempting to project authority while sweating through his uniform like he'd just run a marathon in a sauna. "Shhhh! Lady Ashana is... resting." His words slurred together.
The pirates exchanged glances, then shrugged in unison.
With that, Jackson succumbed to the void, drifting into the depthless black drink of unconsciousness.
When he woke, he found himself in the medical bay being attended to by zealous robotic arms that seemed to take their bedside manner programming from instructional videos titled "How to Make Patients Regret Consciousness." Probes monitored virtually every surface of his body, including several he'd rather not think about. His vital signs flickered on a nearby screen, the readouts suggesting his body had successfully evicted the poison, but not without leaving a strongly worded letter about future life choices.
He passed out again, his consciousness deciding that reality wasn't quite to its liking at the moment.
The next awakening brought an unexpected visitor. The Pirate Captain sat beside him, looking for all the world like someone who wanted nothing more than to say, “told you so”. The chest—their chest now, he supposed—lay ripped open beside her, its lining torn out with surgical precision, and in her hands was a simple pouch.
She tossed it to him, and he caught it against his chest with all the coordination of a newborn giraffe. "Don't worry, they're inert," she explained with the casual air of someone discussing weather patterns rather than potential weapons of mass destruction. "Takes a direct radiation current to activate them. Alliance science at its most charming."
He examined the contents—vials of liquids in colors that nature had never intended, substances that seemed to both reflect and absorb light simultaneously.
He passed out again. This time, more from raw exhaustion than anything else.
It took another day before he was fully recovered.
When he did, he found that Lady Ashana’s treachery was undeniable, and with the former diplomat now left to contemplate her life choices, marooned in the cramped confines of an escape pod—equipped with just enough oxygen for a proper reflection—Lieutenant Commander Jackson Whipsteeple made the decision that would change everything.
By the time he stepped onto the bridge of the newly reappropriated vessel, he was no longer Lieutenant Commander Whipsteeple of the Royal Navy—a man shackled by duty, protocol, and the whims of bureaucrats. No, from that moment on, he was Captain Jack Whipsteel—the smooth-talking rogue who would one day taunt Admiral Ashana (formerly Lady Ashana) across the cosmos and steal a ship named the Lady Luckless in a moment of cosmic irony even the universe had to respect.
As he transferred all unhacked command control of the Immaculate Virtue to its new captain—himself—he considered it, at worst, a lateral career move with unexpected benefits.
He took only one relic from his former life: the officer’s manual, Volume 17, Conduct and Protocols During Extreme Circumstances. Not because he intended to follow it, mind you, but because it served as a reminder—of the life he’d left behind and the one choice he was truly proud of. That, and it made excellent kindling when the nights got cold.
As his old Royal Fleet uniforms were unceremoniously tossed overboard, he watched them drift into the vast emptiness of space—remnants of a life that, much like a childhood outfit long outgrown, would never fit him again.
Until further notice," he muttered, thinking back to the final words of the recent dispatch he'd received before this whole fiasco began. Well, he had made his bed with precision military corners, and now he would have to lie in it with distinctly non-regulation company.
He was a pirate now, with all that it entailed—"until further notice."