CHAPTER 3

THE DEEP COLD SEAS

Ed Hallard, long time resident of Heart of the Ocean, walked swiftly across the village plaza, past the fountain, down the stairs and into the Heart of the Ocean Branch of the Message Service of Second Life.  Fumbling in his left trouser pocket for the Registered Spam Notice he fished out about seven lindens in change, a few oyster crackers, a small silver locket containing a strand of Sparkle’s red hair, and his plastic laminated masters card issued by the Syndicate of Seamen, Officers, and Deckhands of Second Life.  Pausing briefly he saw his name and classification certifications for schooners, clippers, including fast fruit smugglers, sloops, barquintines, and brigs.   

Ed fondly remembered all the days he had spent in brigs early in his nautical career.  But those days were long over, and retirement was only two months away, and he was thinking of a future laying on Amazon Beach with the lovely Sparkle by his side and drinking lime laced Corneal beer.  But Ed was here to get a Registered Spam from the Navy Board and he needed the notice.  Reaching into the right pocket he found the stiff green cardboard notice addressed to Captain Ed Hallard, Tiki House, Heart of the Ocean, Sonogno, Second Life, 94062.  The notice was troubling, coming this close to blissful retirement and letters from the Navy Board always brought up ugly memories of a night long ago and best forgotten. 

Ed reached for the shiny silver bell on the counter, but before he could strike the bell, Pete, Postmistress of Heart of the Ocean, poked her colorful head through the counter grate.  “Got a message for you Ed,” Pete said.  

“I’ve got the notice here mistress,” said Ed.   

“No need for that,” replied Pete, “I can spot you from a thousand yards.  Is that a cracker in your hand,” Pete asked.  

“Here you are Pete,” said Ed placing a cracker just within reach of Pete’s beak.  Ed was cautious to not get his fingers too close.  All long time residents had learned the hard way that Parrot Pete was far sighted and many citizens walked about HOTO with little bits of their fingers missing. A few were also missing bits of their toes.  

“Squaak, thank you,” said Pete, “tastes like Manhattan.” 

“No,” said Ed, “New England, over at Madam Bitter’s Bistro yesterday.” 

Pete jumped away from the counter and into the dovecote that served as a message sorting bin by day and home to the carrier pigeons at night.  Ed thought back to when the community had held the referendum to replace Pete with an Automatic Scripted Spam Sorter.  A lot cheaper they said, and more accurate as well, the spam service had argued.  That was the year that the referendum to repeal the law of gravity to allow avatars to fly was on the ballot as well, and everyone turned out, and Pete won a reprieve with a resounding plurality. 

From within the dovecote Pete asked “Did you go to the memorial service today?” as she rummaged through stacks of flyers, unsolicited offers for Red Ink cash cards, catalogs for triple X rated scripts and poses, and escort service bills. 

“Yes,” replied Ed, “it was very moving.”  The memorial luncheon service had been held by HOTO’s first place Pi Ball team the “Crabs” to mourn the loss of their teammate Bob “Old One Eye” Dungeness. Dungeness, who last season failed to make the team following a devastating bout of Hypochondriacal Detritus, had fallen into a tub of boiling water the previous night. The celebration of Bob’s life and accomplishments had been held with melted butter and lemon, French bread, and bottles of  the Tuesday vintage of Moulin Vents. 

“Here it is Ed,” said Pete flying back to the counter with a large blue envelope in her beak.  Placing the envelope on the counter, Ed fished for another cracker.  Pete said “Looks important, you don’t think its about … well you know…”, Pete paused knowing better than to continue.  Pete had served in the Navy many years before.  She was the gunners mate on the HMS Siphon with Old Lead Bottom in command.  She had been there at the Battle of Snuffy’s Bluff.  She knew Ed’s pain.  She could guess at the contents of the Navy Spam. 

The Envelope was heavy and bore the insignia of the Navy Board and the Stellar Seal of the Double Squid.  It was bad, really bad, and Ed knew it.  Memories of that nightmare long ago came flooding back like the slimy tide in the Bay of Fumis.  They were going to open the case again.  They never seem satisfied.   

The Duckpin II was a converted ore carrier from the Baltic Exchange.  She had almost been sent to the breakers given her age, condition, and the ugly bulge in her keel, but she was cheap, so the Rubber Goods and Allied Products Cartel and Cabal bought her at auction. The Cabal had dark plans for the Duckpin II.  

She plied the Sonogno coast trading rubber spiders, and bananas throughout the region and had become a feature in the landscape for years.  Her calls at the port were so regular that you could set your hourglass by her dropping anchor.  She carried a crew of eight, and four passengers in the poop deck staterooms. Permanently lodged in the staterooms was Bradford Cananticle Monforte III, heir to the long ago abdicated throne of Second Life. The avatar without a country. Accompanying him were his family, Mary “another slice?” Antoinette, the twins Cananticle Monforte IV, and V and their wolfhound Lupis. 

But then there was that night.  That terrible night of pea soup fog, when the mini-maps were down, the graphics on the fritz, and the seas running eight foot or higher, with the wind howling out of the north east, as the bergs descended toward the leeward shore of Idiots Island and their appointment with the Duckpin II.  As ugly a night for sailing as Ed, then a newly minted first mate, had ever seen.  Captain Crawley had lashed herself to the wheel with an old rope, not because of the high seas and wind, but because she had consumed two pints of Absinthe and could barely stand.  As the ship pitched to and fro, Captain Crawley spun first one way and then the other.  “Weeeee”, Crawley cried, “Its an E ticket, Weeeee.”  

“This is not going to end well,” muttered Ed under his breath, “not well at all.”  Ed was beginning to feel the dread known to all seafaring avatars.  The dread known as impending doom and a lot of dark water.  The ship suddenly pitched to starboard, Captain Crawley spun wildly, little monkey fists pounded the deck, a sickening crackle of splintering wood rose above the pitch of the wind, and a twisted spar fell to the deck crushing the only lifeboat into popsicle sticks.  It can’t get much worse than this, Ed thought, but deep in his heart he knew he was wrong.  Very wrong. 

As the ship pitched from side to side in the sickening seas, deep within the structure the ship’s rivets began to lose their seats and like so many little kernels of popcorn, they fired themselves into space, pausing only to hit the hull which parted like tinsel at Mardis Gras in January.  Through the newly minted holes, butter and salt did not flow, but instead, cold salted seas with bits of nori.  

Gery Princip, seamen, had gone below following the Dog Watch of Lupis.  Now below deck he held tightly to the rusted head, as the ship careened from side to side.  Gery was seasick, because he was no ordinary seamen. Gery had a secret past and a secret mission.  Between bouts of nausea, hatred filled his belly. Red hot hatred, fueled by imagined wrongs, illusionary insults, bizarre delusions and a handful of worthless Imperial Checks marked ‘insufficient funds’ and handed down from generation to generation in the Princip family.   Hatred for the past and for the long gone monarchy blinded him to reason.  Gery was a Wobbly and deep within his duffle, safe and warm lay his love, the light of his eye, his redemption -  the lovely Donderbuss.  And Donderbuss held a message in her heart, a message of lead, a message intended for Bradford Cananticle Monforte III. 

Hidden behind a pile of rusting deep sea Ethernet cables, a large and very heavy crate had fallen on its side within the locked and welded shut compartment labeled 4D.  Stenciled on its side it read “Personal Items – Monforte Household Guard.”  The crate had broken loose and was sliding back and forth, striking first one bulkhead and then another as the ship pitched from side to side. 

At about midnight, as the seas rose higher and higher, the cargo of rubber spiders broke their lash downs and began pitching from side to side within the hold of the ship. The rubber spiders, over a years supply for several provinces, were defective, and they were never intended to be delivered by the Rubber Goods and Allied Products Cartel and Cabal.  They were insured, and as every sea faring avatar knows, an insured cargo means a doomed ship.  

Deep within the bowels of the ship, close to the pumps, a small hourglass, counted the seconds to a very wet fate.  Little yellow and red wires, originating from a small box labeled “party favorites” terminated at the bottom of the hourglass.  The fate of the Duckpin II was sealed.  By storm, Absinthe, or by insurance, she was doomed. 

“Ed, are you all right,” squaked Pete.  

Ed startled in his revere of that awful night, returned his attention to Pete and the envelope in his hands.  “I’m ok Pete, I’m ok,” Ed lied.