The Pandora Chronicles - Book 1 (A Scifi Adventure Thriller) Read online

  Chapter 2

  Annie’s tavern was the ideal place for spending a night at port.

  Drink, women, and song were aplenty, and men from across the Caribbean made it a point to stop by in between their voyages. The atmosphere inside was as rugged as the men who frequented the tavern, with dark oaken furniture easily spotted through a thick cloud of smoke that permanently coated the ceiling of the establishment, and serving girls in bright crimson skirts carrying tray after tray loaded with mugs, flagons and every manner of drink. The background was alive with the constant buzz of sailors ranting in drunken stupors as they either drowned their sorrows in a flask, or looked for an opportunity to bed one of the girls.

  Captain Finnegan’s men sat around a single table with a large quantity of empty mugs in front of them. He noticed as their gazes shifted from one working girl to another, their eyes lustful, and their mouths almost salivating. But none dared leave without their captain’s permission.

  It was tradition for the crew of the Belladonna to go to their favorite watering hole and share a drink together. Finnegan had insisted upon it. The first lesson he learned at sea was that the crew was like a family—the better they worked together, the more successful their enterprise. Therefore, it was vital to strengthen their bond. Out at sea, he harshly punished crimes which jeopardized the integrity of his crew. The captain did not tolerate anyone who threatened his family.

  None of the crew complained. They had the entire night to themselves, and it was still the early hours of evening. There would be plenty of time to get drunk and enjoy the company of working women. But if their captain demanded their attention for one drink, they would gladly oblige.

  Besides, no proper sailor ever refused a free drink.

  “You have done well on this voyage, gentlemen,” Finnegan said, as he looked each individual crew member in the eye. “We have amassed quite a bounty, and I am sure our patron will be most pleased.”

  He turned in his seat and caught the attention of the tavern owner.

  Annie was a portly woman of British descent, and always happy to see Finnegan. Like the captain, she was easy-going and nice, but quick to anger at anyone who dared to cheat her out of her dues or disturbed her girls too much. Finnegan had broken up a fight or two in her tavern, and she would recompense his efforts with the occasional free round of drinks.

  “What’ll it be, sweetie?” she asked from behind the counter, beaming at their table. The crew collectively smiled back at her. Annie was one woman who had earned their respect.

  “What do you suggest be given to a crew after a very successful voyage?” Finnegan yelled, loud enough to be heard over the chatter and ambient noise.

  The crowd fell somewhat silent. Yelling out one’s success meant that one had money on their person. That was the easiest way to have your throat slit and your pockets picked whilst bleeding to death. No one in their right mind would advertise their plunder.

  But none dared go up against the crew of the Belladonna, even if they were alone. Everyone knew of their legendary exploits—they had all heard the stories. The line between fact and fiction blurred easily and, if it meant protecting his crew and perhaps getting a free drink at a tavern, then it suited Finnegan quite well.

  Annie put down the rag she was using to wipe the counter.

  “Be this the same crew captained by the man who bested all those soldiers this afternoon all by his self?” she inquired.

  Finnegan smiled, inwardly thanking Annie. The tavern owner was something of a conversationalist, often spreading rumors and managing the grapevine on this side of Port Royale. She had helped Finnegan build his reputation, either by disseminating facts or fabricating legends. Once the local patrons heard of Finnegan’s tussle with the soldiers from Annie, they would believe its authenticity.

  “That it be,” Finnegan replied.

  “Then, a round of drinks for all is in order. On the house, of course.”

  At the notion of that, each patron, including the crew, raised their mugs and yelled a salute.

  “Make it a double and may none of ‘em ever be tormented by those British wig-wearers,” Finnegan yelled against the ruckus. The crowd cheered and hollered once more. Free rounds and a joke at the expense of their colonial masters—Finnegan had won their favor until he would depart again.

  “Well, gentlemen,” Finnegan said turning back to his crew. “It will take a few days until we are ready to make sail again. Until then, your orders are to drink, dance, fornicate, and otherwise engage in as much debauchery as it pleases you.”

  “Aye, Captain,” came a collective shout from the crew members. Seconds later, they vacated the table. Some headed straight to the bar, while others dashed from one girl to another, asking for availability.

  Only the first mate and quartermaster remained seated. “Your orders for us, Captain?” the former asked.

  Finnegan reached across the table and tapped them on the shoulder.

  When Finnegan was assigned the Belladonna, they both signed up at the same time. The pair were the best of friends, often bickering akin to brothers, but quick to make up and help one another in tough situations. The crew respected them as their superiors. They both knew their strengths and weaknesses. The first mate was a natural sailor, able to relay orders from across the ship with precision and accuracy. He could coordinate the crew in times of battle with the ferocity of a general and was also quite the scholar, being one of the few aboard the Belladonna who could read and calculate, often being in charge of dividing up the crew’s shares. The quartermaster was a diplomatic fellow who rarely resorted to using the whip he carried around with him. He could quell a dispute just by saying a few words and, like a wise overlord, knew when to intervene and when to let things settle down naturally. He could read people as easily as scribes could read words, and served as the Belladonna’s recruiter during expeditions.

  “Both of you were indispensable on this voyage,” Finnegan replied. “I suggest you enjoy yourselves as much as you can. Just make sure that none of the other lads get in too much trouble.”

  “Aye, Captain,” the first mate replied as they both rose up. They turned to leave.

  “By the by, Captain,” the first mate said, pointing at the bar. “I think our host would like a word with you.”

  Finnegan nodded, drained his mug and made his way towards the bar. Annie handed him a glass of rum and pointed to the far side of the bar.

  “Someone bought you a drink, Captain. Fancy you, havin’ an admirer,” she said with a sly smile.

  “You know I only have eyes for you, my dear Annie,” Finnegan replied with a grin. They both chuckled and once Finnegan had downed his rum, he casually walked over to the hooded man and his companion, who sat on the adjacent stool nervously looking from side to side.

  From this distance, he could see long strands of blond hair emerge from beneath the hood as the mysterious figure sat delicately on a bar stool, sipping on a mug. The other man was dressed in priestly garb and holding a black box, which he hugged close to his chest as he drank his port in one gulp.

  “Good evening,” Finnegan said as he occupied the stool next to the hooded man.

  “Evening,” the hooded figure replied, lifting his hood.

  Finnegan was pleasantly surprised to find himself looking at a young woman, with perfect facial features and mesmerizing doe eyes.

  “Annie has certainly elevated the standards of her companions,” Finnegan said as his eyes ran down her body. He wasn’t one to engage in too much debauchery, but if it were with this beautiful a woman, he would court her all the way to the nearest inn and spend entire days locked inside with her.

  “The Duchess is not that kind of woman,” the priest sternly replied.

  Finnegan eyed him, noticing his features and accent, and his hand flew to the pommel of his sword. “What’s a Spaniard doing on English soil?”

  “I am Portuguese.”

  “Same difference.”

  “I am not S
panish. I am your ally,” the priest whimpered, eyeing the sword.

  The lady placed her hand on Finnegan’s arm, placating him. “We simply wish to talk,” she said. “I was told you can help me.”

  “I am beginning to think that I am not going to spend the night with you, am I?” Finnegan said with a hint of resignation.

  “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.”