The Pandora Chronicles - Book 1 (A Scifi Adventure Thriller) (3 page)

“Not at all,” the woman replied. “My name is Elizabeth Tier, and as my friend correctly addressed me, I am a Duchess.”

“Duchess, huh? Who might your husband be, then?” Finnegan asked.

Her expression hardened before resuming its neutrality. “I am not married. My title is by birth.”

“What do you want with me?” Finnegan’s tone turned sour, albeit never leaving the realms of politeness. He disliked nobility and aristocrats, and whenever they asked for him, he would always send his first mate instead. He simply had no patience for their lies and charades.

“I would like to accompany you on a voyage to the western shores. A place the locals call California. There is an archipelago just a few miles west of it. That is our destination.”

Finnegan remembered his nautical charts back in his cabin at the
Belladonna
. He had memorized most of them, even though his voyages rarely took him that far west.

“My Letter of Marque grants me permission to navigate to the east, towards the Atlantic. That’s where the plunder is,” he replied. “I cannot take you with me, my Lady, for several reasons. The first being your gender: I do not allow women on board my ship. The second being that your voyage is in opposition to mine. Undertaking it means that I will be turning pirate, and I do not wish to be hanged.”

“I believe that you were once pirate yourself, Captain Jack Finnegan,” she said, her tone ominous. Finnegan’s eyes darted from the lady to the priest and back to the lady.

“Who are you?”

“We form part of a secret organization with a very particular mission. Helping us in undertaking this mission means that you will be helping your country and your own future,” she replied.

Finnegan stared into her pale, blue eyes and saw the resolution in them. He did not like to be threatened, especially by some pretentious girl who most likely never had to suffer a day in her life.

“I do not presume to know you, Duchess Tier, nor do I want to after this conversation,” Finnegan said, his voice cold and steady. “But I will tell you this—I will not partake in whatever mission you think you are on because I am a privateer, and the one thing that interests me is profit. I only take jobs that pay me—nay, ones which pay me handsomely—for my services. And I especially refuse jobs which guarantee my hanging.”
 

He picked up his glass and drained it, before standing up.

“I used to be a pirate. That was nearly a decade ago. Every privateer and every seaman in this town used to be a pirate as well. I am as valuable to my employer as he is to me. Consider this advice a parting gift: the best way to get yourself on a ship is not by blackmailing its captain. This is a world of profit and exchange. You’re a pretty thing, and you come from wealth. I’m sure you’ll figure it out eventually,” he told the Duchess before exiting the tavern.

Chapter 3

The
Belladonna
set sail three days later, and after a few hours of riding the wind and waves, Port Royale was only a distant memory.

Their financier—a rich lord with whom Finnegan had often done business, even prior to his life as a privateer—relayed their orders in a matter of days, preferring to send them along their way as quickly as possible. Finnegan respected his promptness and love for results. He despised bureaucracy and thankfully so did their patron.
 

So within the span of two days after they had docked in Port Royale, Finnegan, with his Letter of Marque renewed, instructed his crew to set sail. He could not wait to be back in the open waters; life was so much simpler there.
 

Besides, there was something about that Portuguese priest and the blonde duchess that made him nervous. Finnegan was no stranger to liars, thieves, and cutthroats. He could spot a lie from a yard away, a skill he had to constantly employ if he wanted to avoid a dagger in the back.
 

But the duchess’s look of fear and conviction was no lie. They were hiding something, something terrible, and Finnegan wanted nothing to do with it. The first and foremost rule of privateering was to mind your own business and take on no one else’s—unless, it was for profit, of course.

Captain Finnegan’s favorite spot was at the bow of the ship, right above the masthead of a woman with her hands grasping a laurel on her head. There, he could always feel the wind in his face and the spray of the ocean.

But this time his meditation was short-lived.

“Captain.” One of the crewmen held a length of wood in his hand like a club. “We got ourselves a stowaway. Holding him prisoner right now.”

A scuffle was taking place on the other side of the deck, as members of the crew dragged a portly figure in priestly garb and threw him across the wooden deck. Some had their swords drawn, though most had armed themselves with anything in the vicinity, like brooms, hammers, or fishing knives.
 

Finnegan recognized the man as the priest from Anne’s tavern. Even as the crew surrounded him, he held a tight grasp on the ornate box he carried. Finnegan knew he would end up injuring himself if he kept resisting, most likely getting impaled by accident.

“Halt!” Captain Finnegan’s voice reverberated like a cannon shot. The crew backed away, albeit still pointing their weapons at the priest. As the captain approached him, the latter raised his head, and a hopeful smile stretched over his lips.

“C-Captain Finnegan,” he began.

Finnegan did not allow him to finish his sentence. He grabbed the handle of his cutlass—a long, curved saber with a single, white pearl embedded within the full silver hand-guard—and unsheathed it with a single, swift, precise motion. The tip of the sword quivered at the priest’s neck, drawing the smallest drop of blood. The priest’s mouth froze mid-sentence, and he suddenly became very rigid. Only his eyes moved, darting from one side to the other.

“Your name,” Finnegan coldly demanded.
 

The priest swallowed hard. His eyes darted towards the sword gleaming in the sun and then back towards its wielder.
 

“Father Rodriguez,” he replied.

“Well, Father Rodriguez, it is by no means a pleasure to see you again,” Finnegan said. “I believe I refused your request to join my voyage. Did my answer last night count for nothing?” He let out a sigh. “But I suppose you are the wrong person to be answering that question.” He raised his head and looked at the entrance to the decks below.

“I know you’re in there,” he yelled. “Come out this instance, or your friend is dead.”

The crew murmured amongst themselves.

“Quartermaster,” Finnegan ordered.

“Sir,” the quartermaster replied, his whip at the ready.

“In the next ten seconds, a woman of fair complexion shall emerge from within the crawl space beneath the stairs. Please, escort her to me.”

“Aye, Sir.”
 

The quartermaster went inside, obeying his orders, and reappeared with Duchess Tier at his side. Finnegan smiled smugly as she shot him a glare. His crew’s murmuring escalated; no women were allowed on board and that was law. And this one was certainly different from the type of women they were used to.
 

When she spoke, they quieted down.

“How did you know?” she asked.

“When you spoke to me, you were both very attentive towards that box,” Finnegan explained, nodding at the box Rodriguez was clutching. “He refused to unclench it, whereas you made sure to shield it from sight. There was little chance, therefore, that the priest and the box were here alone.”

Tier’s glare deepened, indicating her discomfort at the situation. Finnegan guessed she was not used to being outsmarted by men.

“Which brings me to my next order of business,” Finnegan continued. He tapped the box with his sword. “The box, please.”
 

The priest’s eyes hardened, and it was clear that he was not giving it up. Finnegan knew he would sooner die than part from it. But even if Finnegan did kill Father Rodriguez, that did not guarantee the opening of the box, and a closed box is a worthless box.

“Quartermaster,” he ordered. “Please, extract your pistol and point it at Duchess Tier’s head. Pull the trigger unless Father Rodriguez relinquishes the box by the time I finish counting to three. One!”

The quartermaster pointed his pistol point blank at Tier’s temple.

“You wouldn’t,” she yelled. “You’re not the sort who kills nonchalantly.”

It was Finnegan’s turn to glare at her. “Do not presume to know me, Duchess,” he snarled, repeating the same statement he’d told her at Annie’s tavern. “By being on my ship, you are jeopardizing all of us. By simply acknowledging your presence here, I am going against my Letter of Marque. What you are suggesting is treason, turning us from privateer into pirate. Two!”

Tier fell quiet.

“Three!”
 

Finnegan nodded at his quartermaster.

“Wait!” Rodriguez thrust the box forward. “Please, don’t harm her.”

Finnegan took the box and examined it. One side was checkered, with tiles that could only move one square at a time. One empty square provided a space where another tile could fit. Finnegan had seen this type of puzzle once before, when a small man from the Far East had shown him one that opened a jewelry box.

“A puzzle,” he murmured.

“Yes,” Rodriguez confirmed. “It is designed so that only people from our Order can open it.”

Finnegan looked up from the box. “Need I threaten you again?”

The priest raised his hands. “I shall willingly open the box, Captain. However, I would like for you to attempt to open it first.”

“I am not in the mood for games.”

“This is no game,” Tier interjected. “Try opening it, Captain. You have nothing to lose. As my companion explained before, anyone not part of our Order should not be able to open it.”

Finnegan eyed the duchess intently, searching for any sign of foul play. Perhaps she wanted him to appear like a fool in front of his crew.
 

However, he decided that the two prisoners were more likely to cooperate if he played along with their game.

“I shall hold you to your word,” Finnegan told the priest.
 

The latter nodded.
 

Finnegan sheathed his sword and gave the box his full attention. He could probably fiddle with the puzzle for a few seconds, pretending to work the mechanism, before making the priest open it.

His fingers hovered over the tiles and a strange sensation washed over him. He felt his head spinning, his mind felt like a sail flapping in the wind. Suddenly, he could see the tiles moving, their motion as clear as the markings on one of his maps. Without any intention of doing so, his hands began following the path he saw in his mind, moving the tiles in order.
 

His mind snapped back to the present when he heard the box’s locking mechanism go off, and the lid snapped open.

Duchess Tier broke the stunned silence. “That box’s secret is only known to us,” she said. “However, there is only one other circumstance where a person is able to open the box. Those people are quite rare, and
very
special.”

Father Rodriguez made the sign of the cross in a quick flurry of hand gestures.

“People who can see what others cannot,” Tier continued. “Men who sail when no bearing is given, yet manage to arrive precisely where they intend to go. Sailors who read the ebb and flow of the seas like charts, and captains who foresee the outcome of their battles.”

Finnegan’s throat became very dry.

“A truly exceptional person,” Tier said.

“What is the meaning of this?” Finnegan asked in a low, hoarse voice.

“I shall explain everything to you in privacy.” Tier’s eyes were cold and steady. “The contents of that box are the Order’s most sacred possession. And you have proven yourself to be worthy of it, Captain.”

Finnegan reached inside and extracted a thick ledger, with red leather encasing the contents and a dark strap binding it shut.

“What sort of treasure is this?” he asked.

“The most valuable treasure mankind can possess,” Father Rodriguez answered. “The truth, Captain Finnegan. The
Truth
.”

Chapter 4

“What do you know of this world?” Tier asked.
 

The question took Finnegan by surprise. He glanced at Duchess Tier, searching for an answer in her eyes, but the fair lady gave none.

The first mate had been given temporary command of the vessel until the captain could return to his duties. Finnegan knew that the first mate could easily become absorbed in his own power, making him unfit for complete command, but the man was no fool. Finnegan knew he was aware of his short coming and gave order for the crew to slow the vessel down until the captain had finished his business with the two stowaways.

Back in his quarters, Finnegan considered the question at hand—what
did
he know of this world?

“I know of a world without mercy,” he replied. “I know of wars without purpose, of greed without sating, and of men’s lust for that which can never be obtained.”