Ravensgate PBEM

Ravensgate PBEM

Issue #20, “Whisky In A Jar, Part III”

PBEM (inspired by a WebRPG Town Hall Forum thread)

Dani pulls a cell phone out of her pocket and begins dialing. Captain Atlantis stares at it with awe.
“I’d heard you people might have achieved miniaturization, but I didn’t believe it. Who are you calling, young lady?”
“Someone who can verify your identity.”

Captain Atlantis sits at the briefing table in the grotto, facing three silhouettes. Behind him, through the briefing room window, Jack is walking Namor and Jason through the procedures for securing the yacht. The Captain’s uniform cap rests on the table next to his right arm. He is working on a laptop terminal, attempting to piece together a likeness on an Indenti-Kit program.

“. . . and the temporal distortion between our worlds,” says Captain Atlantis, “is why I was gone 53 of your years. To me, it was no more than about seven or eight. This is why my people enjoy farming on worlds like this one. More harvest seasons.”
“So your homeworld is just a big ball of water?” Francois inquires. The captain nods.
“What prompted you to work for our government?” Vic asks.
“The Germans captured and dissected a dozen of our farmers off Bermuda.”
“Off Bermuda?” Francois asks.
“Yes, that’s where the portal between our worlds sits.”
“And the reason,” Vic inquires, “that strike team came here is because of your missing people?”
“Yes. They must have been watching your city for some time, because they knew enough to attack your mayor.”
”What were your missing people doing in Ravensgate?” asks Oscar.
“They were scientists, a subset of our scholar caste. When we left the Pacific Rim, you people had begun atomic-weapons testing. These explorers were sent to evaluate environmental damage resulting from your increased industrialization, and whether it would be feasible to resume agricultural activity.”
Vic, looking puzzled, asks, “Why not make diplomatic contact with us? Why sneak around?”
“By and large, our people only contact fellow water-dwelling species,” the Captain replies. “It’s a species-ist conceit, I admit, and I can only explain it in these terms: Even the most advanced air-breathing societies rarely, if ever, homestead on the ocean floors, thus we can conduct our agriculture undisturbed. It benefits us, in that it enhances our food supply, but it also benefits you in that it helps sustain your food chain.” The Captain pauses to add, “Often despite your best efforts.”
After a long, uncomfortable pause, Francois asks, “Where were your people last seen, Captain?”
“In the underground waterways on the city’s mainland. The control ship picked up the images of air-breathers living in an underground complex.”

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The third silhouette, Agent Marcoli, leans forward: “Do you know if it was a military or civilian complex?” The Captain shakes his head.
“Does the War Department—-?”
“Defense Department,” Marcoli interjects.
“Does your Defense Department have military units that dress up as circus clowns?”
Marcoli, Vic and Francois all lean forward.
Over the VoxDots, Max mumbles, “Oh-ho, this is getting interesting.”

Max’s remark causes the elderly Lemuel Throckmorton Jr.’s head to perk up. He looks Max up and down from his wheelchair-seated position next to the bed in which the mayor is resting.
“Excuse me, what did you say?”
Max shoots the Throckmorton patriarch a puzzled look, one that is mirrored by Jean-Pierre d’Aubaine and Josias Poe Throckmorton IV. Dani, who is standing next to d’Aubaine and leaning against the doorframe of one of her walk-in closets, looks over both Max and her great-grandfather.

Max quickly recovers: “Oh, I was just commenting on Salome’s healthy immune system. It’s strong enough to fight off the jellyfish toxins.”
Lemuel points with a gnarled hand and his ornate blackthorn cane: “You a real doctor, kid? My great-granddaughter deserves the best care money can—-.”
“Poppy Lem,” murmurs Mayor Salome Throckmorton-d’Aubaine, “Max earned his MD when he was a teenager, and he’s consulted with a naval physician. I’m in good hands.”
“Oh, great,” snorts J.P. d’Aubaine. “We have an MD from the University of X-Box and the sawbones from a minesweeper.”
“Actually, J.P.,” says Dani, “Captain Hanley is a naval staff physician at Annapolis.”
“And where the hell is the prodigal captain?” retorts d’Aubaine, unimpressed.
“He has other patients, sir,” says Max. “Joshua, Kachina, Margaret, Salome’s two bodyguards, . . . .”
“Well, tell him Admiral d’Aubaine wants him topside on the double. None of his other patients will be President of the United States in 15 or 20 years.”
The room falls silent.

In another room, Margaret and Joshua are resting in adjacent twin beds. Oscar sits between them on the bed Margaret occupies, holding her hand. He is listening to the various conversations on his VoxDot.
“I’m listening to two very interesting conversations,” says Joshua weakly, “or is that a residual effect of the toxin?”
“No, it’s not the toxin, Joshua,” says Oscar, “it’s your VoxDot.”
“Oh. Are there really Throckmortons in the house?”
“Yes, and Jean-Pierre d’Aubaine, too. His last remark just went over like a fart in an elevator,” chuckles Oscar. “Seventy-one billion dollars in that room, and nobody’s bought him a personality.”
Joshua and Margaret begin laughing, but Joshua cuts short his laughter: “Who’s running the team?”
“Vic. He and Francois are debriefing Captain Atlantis along with Agent Marcoli.”
“Captain Atlantis?”
“Yes. It’s a long story. We’ll keep you briefed.”
“Where’s Max?”
“Max and Dani are babysitting the billionaires,” Oscar shoots back. “Keeping them out of our hair, I hope.”
“Who’s Captain Hanley?” Joshua mumbles.
“Dale Hanley is Captain Atlantis’ alias, Joshua.”
“Oh.”
“Joshua, when I was fighting off the toxin, I entered into a dream state. I thought I was floating through town, and it seemed very real.”
“Perhaps it was,” Joshua replies. “Mind-altering chemicals, and I’m including alcohol and psychotropics, are known to bring subconscious thoughts and attitudes to the surface.”
“What do you think I should do about the information I received in the vision?”
“Verify its veracity, Oscar. Chemicals can lie, or cause your mind to lie to itself.”

[Top]

“Then what do you make of this?” Oscar asks, unfolding a piece of paper bearing a hand-drawn representation of the insignia he had seen when reeling from the dart toxins.
Joshua takes the piece of paper, examines it, then turns his head to face Oscar: “Where did you come across this?”
“I might have seen it at the bottom of a cenotaph. Next to the totem.”

“Hmm.”
“What is it, Joshua?”
”That’s the secret insignia of the al-Amarja Temple and the personal seal Josias Poe Throckmorton used during World War I.”

The seal also is inlaid in gold at the end of the handle of Lemuel Throckmorton Jr.’s cane. He flares his nostrils and looks up at Max: “I want to see the doctor, too. When he has time to pull himself away from his reverie.”
Dani takes the handles of her great-grandfather’s wheelchair: “Poppy, let’s go talk to him ourselves. Would that calm your nerves?”
Jean-Pierre d’Aubaine idly scratches at his beard, revealing the same insignia on a lodge ring. Max notices an identical ring on the finger of Josias Poe Throckmorton IV. The two lodge brothers exchange glances, shrug, and follow Danielle and their patriarch.
“Think they have decent coffee down in the kitchen?” asks J.P.
“I thought they’d never leave,” moans Salome.
Max crosses the room and sits down on the bed. He examines the mayor’s shoulder, sees only slight discoloration around the puncture wound.
“Swelling has subsided,” says Max. “Your respiration, BP and pulse are normal. I’d suggest bed-rest and taking it easy tomorrow.”
“I like it when you play doctor.”
“No playing here, mon chere,” says Max, brushing Salome’s hair away from her face. “At least not before dinner.”
“Escher’s World, Hannibal’s or The Thirteenth Floor?”
“For what?”
“Dinner, silly.”
“Tonight, or after the 2020 Florida recount?”
“Well, I’m in no condition tonight,” Salome giggles.

Back down in the briefing room, Captain Atlantis still is working with the Identi-Kit on the laptop. Marcoli excuses himself and steps into the nearby elevator car.

“. . . and it is our biology which determines our caste system. We have soldiers, scholars, healers, farmers, artisans, magistrates, diplomats . . . .”
“And which are you?” asks Vic.
“I am a cross-caste, a magistrate and diplomat. That is why I am able to change shape and am more empathic than the rest of my species.”

[Top]

“Captain, are there any castes that are considered superior to the others?” Francois asks, drawing an inquisitive glance from Vic.
“All the castes are, in some way. My exposure to your culture, specifically your American form of government, enabled certain reforms. Each caste now has equal representation in our government, although that does not sit well with some of the generals and magistrates.”
“And you are here because the soldier caste is restless?” says Vic.
“Yes. This is why I need your help. I have to report back to my people and calm down the militants. If I don’t do this soon, more strike teams will come. They are more than a match for most superhero teams, and most of your military units, and they will bring their entire weapons complement.”

The captain places a small, thumb-sized conch-like shell on the briefing room table. His form alters to that of a regally-thin, purple-skinned humanoid-amphibian, similar to the ones who attacked the boat but with a bony crown ringing his cranium.

“Inside that shell is a transceiver with which we can stay in contact,” he says. “Also, it may be adjusted to pick up the mental energies of our missing people. Will you help me?”
Vic and Francois look at each other, then back at the Captain.
“We have a vested interest in this matter,” says Francois. “The clowns represent a criminal underworld faction in this city, and we strive to help people in danger.”
“If the clowns represent an underworld faction,” inquires Captain Atlantis, “then who does this woman represent?”

He spins the laptop around to reveal a stunning likeness of Dr. Patria Morii.

In the foyer of Devereaux Manor, Inspector Matt Shinmen paces nervously as his driver, Officer Daniel “Rube” Cody, stands by the door. Jean-Pierre d’Aubaine glances up from the dining room doorway to see Shinmen pacing. He saunters over to the foyer through the massive living room.

“Inspector,” he says. The five-foot-five-inch Shinmen looks up at the six-foot-one d’Aubaine.
“Mr. d’Aubaine. How is your daughter, and do you know what happened?”
“Jellyfish kicked up by a passing jet-ski stung her. She’s fine,” d’Aubaine replies, then pauses. “Inspector, I know we have our differences, but I have some need of your services.”
“Oh?”
“My daughter is seeing a young man named Maximillian Morell.”
“And?”
“And I need to know everything about him. He’s 22 years old and already holds two doctorates, yet there are no archived news stories about such a child prodigy.”
“You can afford private eyes, sir, can’t you?”
“Why are you here?”
“I’m here to verify the safety of the mayor and whether or not foul play is involved. Right now, I’m getting stonewalled by this household and you’re asking me to drop my priorities so you can use taxpayer money to spy on your daughter’s dates?”
“You’re a waste of taxpayer money,” d’Aubaine snaps, turns on his heels, and steps toward the dining room so fast he does not see Shinmen’s responding gesture.
Shinmen’s cell phone rings.

[Top]

“Shinmen, Five-O.”
“Matt.”
“Phil.”
“How is she?”
“According to her father, who's as personable as ever, a jellyfish stung her. She's apparently okay.”
“I need you to check someone out for me,” says Superintendent Snow. “Max Morell. He’s the mayor’s new beau. Find out all you can.”
“What the--? Have you been talking to J.P.?” asks Shinmen, a look of disbelief on his face.
“$#*^ no, Matt. Why?”

Agent Marcoli is in a hallway of the Manor, walking alongside Lemuel Throckmorton Jr.’s wheelchair. Dani is pushing the chair.
“So you’re sticking by the jellyfish story?”
“Yes, Mr. Throckmorton, I am.”
“Poppy, it isn’t a story. I’m as close to an EMT as a minor can get, and I can tell you that was a jellyfish sting.”
“Dani, if it was a jellyfish, then why is the FBI involved?”
“An elected official was poisoned,” Marcoli responds. “In this town. That's suspicious right there.”
Dani looks away and suppresses a giggle.
“Where is the naval doctor, Mr. Marcoli?”
“He’s on his way to the reserve base with the remains of the jellyfish, just to run some final tests. Your great-granddaughter and the others are out of danger, by all indications.”

Jason slips in a fast-moving puddle on his way into the briefing room. He spins around and sees the puddle propel itself down the stairs and into the grotto’s waters.

“Watch where you’re going!” he exclaims as he retains his grip on the grayish wooden box in his arms. “Old fart.”

“What is that?” Francois asks, pointedly.
“It’s Joshua’s stash,” Jason replies. “But that’s not why I’m carrying it.” Upon seeing the skeptical glances on Vic’s and Francois’ faces, he adds, “No, really. You should take a look at this.”

Jason sets the box down on the table. Seven Mason jars full of a dark amber liquid surround a yellowed piece of paper, which Vic picks up and unfolds.

“Well, what do you know?” he says. “This is the Old Underground, circa 1923.”
“Vic?” a voice calls out over the VoxDots.
“Yeah, Max?”
“We have a situation up here. Dani’s doing her best to keep the family separated from the Checkerheads.”
Vic looks over at Francois, who rises from the table and points upstairs. Vic nods: “Francois is on his way up. Namor and Jack and I will follow once the family leaves.”
“Want me to handle the cops?” Oscar cuts in.
“If you feel up to it, otherwise let Marcoli handle things,” says Vic, pausing. “We need to have a team meeting to go over search tactics—-as soon as possible.”

Vic smoothes out the yellowed, faded map on the briefing room table. He and Jason begin studying it with great interest.

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