Chapter 22 Firestorm part 1: Sparks Fly ---------------------------- God, I hate Phansha. "So, Lieutenant, what's with the dull, confused expression on your little face? Oh wait!" he pauses now, already laughing at his own joke. "You _always_ have that look on your face, don't you?" I could kill him right now. I'd just quickly grab my sword and slice his throat. His old, thin skin would break like cornhusk, flaking all over. It would so easy, and seeing his blood flowing over the jagged edges of his broken flesh... nah. I don't even need to go that far. All it would take would be a full-speed kick in the gut. Or, given me, a kick through the gut: I'd break the old bastard in half. Then I'd be captain. I start grinning at him. I suppose it's giving too much away, but god, the look on his face: he knows what I'm thinking. "Alltaire, don't be so obtuse. I'm not demoting you to janitor. You're too valuable for that," he tells me matter-of-factly. Bastard. I'll peel him like a grape, then spit out the pit. "What did you call me?" I ask him. I really shouldn't do this. There are probably over a hundred people on this ship, and if I kill him, not one of them would hesitate to slit my throat. "I told you to stop being obtuse: why don't you shut up for once and listen?" "Why don't you shut your wrinkled old mouth like your eyes are," I mumble to myself, and turn away. I can hear him seething behind me, but it doesn't matter. All I see is the clouds and sapphire skies stretched out in front of me like a great blanket. Silken wings beat softly; a small flock of gulls fly by lazily. Don't they understand what they're flying this close to? Don't they understand that they're dabbling with their lives? They could be killed as sport, as a joke! They're swooping right near a warship with no fear at all. No fear... "Alltaire! What did you say!" he yells. It isn't a question, it isn't a request. It's a demand, an exercise of power. Power that he doesn't have; not over me. "I said that you're nothing but a blind old man," I yell back. I'm not turning around. I won't give him that satisfaction. The gulls have nearly all passed now: only one straggler comes in behind, flapping his wings as though his life depends on it. Somehow, he's beating the odds; the runt is now moving faster than the pack, and now the leader. He's listening to the buzzing of danger all about him, like I used to. It's suicide to do that: we all need to keep moving forward. Faster. "You're facing a court martial, Alltaire!" Phansha screams from behind me. I hear some guards shifting around. They're scared: they're not used to someone pushing Phansha around. They don't know what to do. Phansha's breathing hard now; he's almost gasping for breath, in and out, in and out. His old lungs will burst if he doesn't calm down, and I hope they do. "Try it, Phansha. Just try. But before you do," I turn around, staring him in the eyes. They're shaking like withered autumn leaves, and the white of it is nearly red. He doesn't see anymore, at least nothing that matters, nothing that's real. But I see what's going on around me. I can see through the clenched teeth and fists, and I see him biting his lower lip, chewing it to shreads. It's starting to bleed, but he's too tense to notice. "Before you try, ask yourself this question: are you ready to die? Can you move fast enough, think quickly enough to beat me? Because if you aren't, since you aren't, you're a dead man." I turn towards the prow of the ship, letting Phansha chew his lip some more. The gulls are out front, and... the straggler is ahead. But not for long. He's flapping as hard as ever, but and he's still pulling ahead, but there's a look in his eye that I know. He's scared, alone and needs help, but no one can help him any longer. He pulls ever ahead, moving faster than my eyes can follow. He's almost out of sight-- He's dead. He's falling down, far in the distance. He can't do it any more. It's too much. His wings have stopped moving, just like his heart and soul did a few hundred yards ago. He twists in the air as he tumbles in the air like a drunken ballerina, flailing his limp wings and legs, clawing at the inevitable. And now he's letting it go. He's stopped fighting it. He's just falling, falling down to the cold earth below. The pack moves on, and they don't seem to care. Typical. "Alltaire, I'm tired of your ranting! Go down below and wait for me!" Phansha yells at me, diverting my attention back to the old sack of flesh and fear. He's shivering more than ever. "I'm going down below now, Phansha. If you try and come after me, I'll be mopping up the decks with your blood by sunrise. I am now the first officer of this warship. I don't know who we're fighting, or why, or when, but I'll find that out in time. Right now, however, these men need a leader, and you can't cut it." I start walking away. Phansha's stopped breathing hard; I can hear his pulse slowing to a crawl. He knows he's done with. He's starting to see again. And I let him.