The Pandora Chronicles - Book 1 (A Scifi Adventure Thriller) (5 page)

He felt an interruption in the wind and scanned the horizon. He knew this feeling quite well—peril was approaching. It was unlikely to be a storm, not this time of year.
 

No, the danger was something far worse.

“Pirates,” he said.
 

Tier, who was standing next to him, craned her head. “Pardon me?”

Finnegan ignored her and squinted against the sun. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a sea glass.

“Over there,” Tier suddenly said, pointing east.
 

He followed her bearing.

Twin sails emerged from a gigantic battleship nearly twice the size of the
Belladonna
. It flew no flag and its crew members were nowhere to be seen.
 

Probably manning the cannons
, thought Finnegan. The ship bore more than thirty-two barrels, and all cannon ports were open. Beside it, a frigate, minute in comparison, followed like a servant. It carried a French flag and had fewer cannons.

“Pirates!” Finnegan yelled to his crew.

A bell rang effervescently, and the crew scattered. Some stowed away brooms and other loose equipment. Others secured the crates with rope. More than half the crew rushed to the gun ports and prepared the cannons. Swords, pistols, and musket rifles were handed out with practiced precision. Within minutes of the warning, the crew was ready for battle.

The men carrying rifles assembled to the side of the ship facing the pirates. The quartermaster was in their midst; he had exchanged his whip for a more specialized weapon, a cannonball attached to a short length of chain, like a flail. A third of the chain was wrapped in leather, giving a more comfortable grip. He preferred his ball and chain to any sword, and Finnegan saw him crush many an opponent’s limb with it.

The first mate came to his captain’s side and Finnegan handed him the sea glass.

“French,” the first mate spat. “Never liked the French.” He returned the sea glass. “Your orders, Captain?”

“Wait for them to announce their intent,” Finnegan ordered. He was used to pirates’ antics—they would spout out some villainous dialogue, trying to instill fear in their prey, and then attack with sheer numbers.
 

“Then, fire at the bigger ship,” he added.

“Aye, Sir.”

Finnegan turned to face Duchess Tier. “Take the priest and hide in the decks below. Can you fire a pistol?”
 

She nodded.
 

“Good,” Finnegan said. “Arm yourselves and wait for my signal before exiting.”

She disappeared without argument, leaving the captain alone with the rest of his crew. Finnegan armed himself with a pair of pistols, tucking them in his sash next to his saber, and picked up a musket.

The battleship pulled close to the
Belladonna
.

“This is a message to all the crew,” a voice bellowed from the enemy galleon.
 

A lone man walked on its decks as other members of the enemy popped their heads out to observe.
 

“Surrender to our great captain, so he may spare your life,” the lone man said. “If you are useful, you may join our crew. If you resist, the sea shall be your coffin. How do you respond?”

Finnegan cocked his rifle and calmly shot the man squarely between the eyes. Stunned silence rang from all three ships.

“Fire,” he calmly ordered.

Cannons roared as the
Belladonna
spat lead into the enemy ship.
 

The battleship retaliated; however, its crew was too scattered to properly defeat Finnegan’s ship. The frigate had yet to fire once. Finnegan eyed it suspiciously. It had kept its distance, and its four cannons were manned by only two crew members who clearly had no idea what they were doing.

“Board,” Finnegan ordered.

Anchors and grappling hooks soared from the
Belladonna.
The crew swung across onto the enemy vessel, and the battle reached its climax. Finnegan dropped his rifle and grabbed a length of rope dangling from a grappling hook. He flew on top of an enemy sailor and bashed his head against the railing. His curved saber glinted in the sun as it swathed through the enemy, drenching the galleon’s floorboards in blood.

During every battle, his senses would overtake him, and he would let his instincts guide him.

This time, however, he was aware of how his mind worked, as if seeing the inside of a clock shifting its clogs and gears.

He saw an enemy come at him, slowly, as if he were held back by something. Finnegan’s mind took in every detail—the enemy’s lack of teeth, clearly a sign of advanced scurvy, and his lack of balance on the waves indicating his short time as a sailor. Finnegan’s sword met his neck, killing him with frightening ease.
 

Another came, and he, too, seemed sluggish. This enemy fought with a cutlass in his left hand. Finnegan felt his awkward movements, and his mind made the connection when he saw the man’s injury on his right shoulder. The captain attacked his weak side, felling him. Then, like a flash of lightning, his instincts told him to duck to the right.

As he did, he felt a hot bullet whiz by, killing an enemy sailor—an enemy who was holding a musket, with Finnegan in his sights.
 

Finnegan turned, trying to identify which of his men had saved his life, and saw a wave of golden hair.

Duchess Tier held an empty pistol in her left hand and a cutlass in the other. She lept into the fray, fighting with twice the ferocity of his men. Her posture was a clear indication of her training with the sword, albeit perhaps not the savagery of battle. That was her weak spot—Finnegan could see it clearly. She knew how to duel, where rules and etiquette were as important as skill.

But this was no gentleman’s duel.

She dropped her pistol and struggled with her blade. Finnegan noticed very obvious errors in her methodology and cringed as she swung incorrectly and snapped her blade in half. She drove the pommel into the man’s jaw and he dropped unconscious. Her actions confused Finnegan. With all the errors she made, she should have been the first one dead. And yet, there she stood, defying the laws of logic and common sense.
 

His mind suddenly reached a conclusion—was the duchess experiencing the very same symptoms he was?

Did they not tell him already that they had managed to locate more of his kind, and they had joined the Order? Was Tier referring to herself?

As he engaged another enemy, Finnegan kept an eye on the duchess, looking to confirm his suspicions.
 

He felled his opponent and looked over to find her struggling with a large and burly crewman, who smiled perversely as he squeezed her neck with one hand and roamed around her body with the other.
 

The duchess’s hand felt around and her fingers wrapped around a cannonball. She smacked the sailor in the face with it, unhinging his entire jaw. With a grunt of effort, she swung again, and the man dropped like a stone.

Finnegan lunged and impaled a pirate who approached her with a knife. He smiled cockily at her.

She took a defiant step towards him—no,
past
him—and swung her leg upwards.

The enemy pirate was too busy cocking his pistol and taking aim at Finnegan’s back, and could not react when Tier appeared in front of him, kicking upwards. The hard leather of her boot met the space between his legs, and the man jumped an inch off the decks. He made a high-pitched noise, his eyes wide open, before finally falling down, unconscious.

A shot went off from the dropping flintlock. It struck a pirate fighting with the first mate, and when the shot hit him, he dropped his blade, allowing the first mate to cut him down. The latter flourished with his sword as thanks and ran off to engage his next enemy.

Tier returned Finnegan’s cocky smile. “You’re welcome.”

Finnegan felt power inside him, asking him to take control. He gazed at Tier, meeting her eyes. She nodded understandingly, confirming Finnegan’s suspicion. Once this was sorted out, he would need to confer with her again.

But for now, he had more pressing matters.

“Surrender!” he roared. Finnegan’s voice echoed like a lion’s. It halted the wind and waves, and both enemy pirates and fellow crew members alike froze on the spot, stunned by the sheer power of Finnegan’s voice. Only Tier seemed to be able to breathe normally.

Filled with sudden fear and dread, the enemy dropped their weapons and fell to their knees. Finnegan nodded at the first mate, who began issuing orders.

The battle had been decided.

Chapter 6

The pirates had been bound and set kneeling next to each other in a straight row. Their captain, a Frenchman with a waxed mustache and a flamboyant hat, had found his courage again.

“You will never take my ship. You should bow down before me, the great Captain-”

Before he could finish his sentence, Finnegan walked by, extracted a pistol in one swift motion and shot the pirate squarely in between the eyes.
 

“Are there any more complaints?” he asked. No one spoke out.

He gazed at the frigate. His mind, still functioning at a higher rate, concluded that there had to be more people inside the smaller ship and
 
quickly realized they were no pirates.
 

Slaves, most likely.

He nodded at his crew members, indicating to pull the ship closer. Once the two ships were side by side, Finnegan jumped on the frigate, alone, his saber was in hand and blood droplets splattering on the decks. He opened a door and saw a group of scared people huddled together. Two pirates knelt in surrender before him.

Finnegan’s eyes fell on a young boy, who stopped burying his face in his father’s shoulder long enough to take in the new figure. Then the child’s eyes snapped back towards the two pirates, fear canvasing his expression.

Finnegan followed the boy’s gaze—he noticed a riding crop in one of pirate’s hands. It had dried blood on it.

Angered,
Finnegan drove the tip of his saber into the pirate’s neck and twisted. As he pulled his sword out of the man, the second pirate lunged in a frenzy.

A metal ball shot forward, inches away from Finnegan’s face, crushing the pirate’s head. The enemy’s visage was rendered into bloody pulp, and he fell dead.

“You’re late, Quartermaster,” Finnegan said.
 

The quartermaster appeared by his side, the chain rattling as he recalled his weapon.

“Apologies, Captain.” Then, he noticed the edge of Finnegan’s blade and his wrist already coiled to strike. “Not that you needed any help in the first place.”

Finnegan nodded at him and smiled at the boy.

“Provide them with whatever they require to sail safely back home,” he ordered. The quartermaster nodded and called for aid.

Finnegan made his way back to the battleship.

“You each have three options,” he told the bound enemy pirates. “The first: surrender and leave on the longboat that my men are generously lowering for you. You will be provided with all you require to sail to the next port.”

He paused with his sword still in hand, and he made sure they all got a good look at it.

“The second option is for you to join my crew. You will be respected and treated well, so long as you earn your keep.”
 

Again, Finnegan paused, allowing the enemy to digest his words.

“Your third option is to offer any degree of resistance—upon which you will be killed and thrown overboard.” A grin stretched across his lips. “I’m sure some of the sharks need feeding. Now choose.”

Most of the prisoners stood there, trembling with fear and indecision, until finally, one of them found his voice.

“Go rot in Hell,” he spat in Finnegan’s direction. “We will never join you. We have our pride. What do you say to that, you bastard?”

Finnegan glared at him.
 

He’d met this type before; they were usually the seed behind every mutiny. If he allowed him to become a crew member, his men would mutiny within the week.

Rot had to be destroyed at the core.

Finnegan extended his empty hand behind him and felt a pistol being slapped on his palm. He pointed the gun at the rebel and killed him on the spot.

“Any more queries?” he asked. No one answered.

“See to their needs and send them on their way,” Finnegan ordered his crew. “Take whatever we require and sink this ship. We have a bearing to be on.”

***

“Did you lie to me?” Finnegan asked, slamming both palms on his desk.

He, Tier and Rodriguez were back in his cabin, while the
Belladonna
resumed its voyage.
 

“No,” Tier replied. “Not once.”

“So, it was merely a convenience that you neglected to mention who, or what, you truly are?”

“And what would that be, exactly?” Her face glowered in sweat and anger. “You speak of me, of us, like we have a disease, Captain. Yes, I am like you. God does not favor one gender over the other.”