Jim’s tour continued across the deck to a door under the forecastle. The captain turned the hatch and stepped through, ushering him in. Ducking in behind her, Jim was surprised to discover he had stepped into what he could only assume were the captain’s quarters.

On landships, the captain was usually tucked safely at the back of the ship, but it seemed the sky was home to a different set of rules. Her quarters were planted right in the front of their vessel. Not only that, but they occupied the bow of the ship, curve and all, giving her a breathtaking view of the world below through a wall of windows.

Her room was truly remarkable. The oddly curved window ran the length of three of the walls, disappearing behind the captain’s bed into the floor. He imagined that, with the curtains up, sleeping in the bed would feel more like floating unencumbered above the vast distance below.

His amazement deepend as he watched the scene spread out before them. Their ship was sailing upon the wisps like a watership of legend. In the distance, the Eternal Mountains marked the northern border of Ruin and the farthest he had ever travelled. He wondered at all the places the captain and her crew must have access to.

Ruin was surrounded with natural barriers. To the north, the mountains and unknown creatures of terror. To the west and east, tremendous storms that never ceased and would strip the flesh from anyone who dared to traverse the dangerous deep deserts. If they somehow survived, they could look forward to a swift and gruesome death in the jaws of any number of gigantic desert predators including the famed Sheraa Dune Crawlers. To the south, assuming you could pass through The Holy Land without drawing the Prophetess’ ire, the poisonous dead sea would make quick work of man and metal alike.

The door behind him shut. Pulling his eyes from the scene outside, he spotted an antiquated wooden desk sitting untouched in the corner. It was surprisingly clean and hardly used. A raven quill collected dust next to a dried out inkwell.

This whole ship looks...out of time, he thought.

Captain Rychist made her way to the desk and sat in a creaking chair that fit in with the rest of the aged decor. Purple velvet wrapped tightly onto ancient Manzawood, fraying in some places where the seams had been worn from years of use.

In the wastes of Ruin, the Manzatree, if you could call it a tree, was the primary source of wood. The refining process from live shrub to manufacturable wood pulp was both complicated and highly lucrative. Her desk and chair alone was worth a small fortune on the common markets.

As she leaned forward with fingers locked, her chair creaked loudly, snapping Jim out of his imaginings. “Please, grab a seat from the closet.” She nodded to his left.

He did so and sat down, suddenly realizing how tired he really was. His wounds were healed, but his body felt decades beyond his thirty years. Seeing the weariness in his eyes, the captain asked smiling, “Care for a cup of coffee? Our last...adventure found us in the possession of over three hundred pounds of it.”

Coffee, the sweet nectar of life; Jim hadn’t partaken in years. The only place wet enough to grow it was far north of the desert, deep in the territory of the Northern Tribes.

Their holdings stretched beyond explored territory, tucked safely behind the Eternal Mountains and the Black Forest, safeguarded by the mighty mountain city of Stronghold.

Coffee was uncommon enough to stay out of the hands of commoners, and the southern empires liked it that way. Nobles were willing to pay handsomely for the heavenly black elixir of joy. He couldn’t refuse.

Jim nodded briskly, trying to hide his excitement. His groaning stomach immediately betrayed him. The captain couldn’t quite suppress a smirk at his embarrassment.

Leaning into a brass voicepipe on the wall, she called down, “Henry, please make your way up here with two coffees, black. Our guest is parched.” After a brief reply, she let loose another disarming smile. “Before we continue, I’m assuming you’d like a little history on who we are and how you got here.”

And about a million other questions, he thought. “Yes, please,” Jim replied calmly, and again, not too convincingly.

“You are a man of few words but, don’t worry, I talk enough for ten, and Henry for twenty. The good doctor reminds us all of our social failings regularly.” She paused, awaiting a response.

It took Jim a moment to pick up on the cue. “I don’t spend much time around people,” he admitted. “The residents of the wastes aren’t exactly good company.”

A pained expression flashed across her face. “Believe me, I understand.” There was more awkward silence. Jim’s stomach groaned again. “Where is that damn coffee?” Captain Rychist wondered aloud.

“Anyhow, first things first. You’re on an airship. Obvious. I know.” The side of her mouth crept up again. Her crooked smile was somehow endearing. “As I stated before, he’s a Dagger Class Attack Ship with a few clever upgrades that I’m quite proud to say, I helped install personally. This ship is coming up on its three hundred year anniversary.”

Jim blinked. “Three hundred?”

“Correct.” Another distracting smile... “I’m this ship’s fourteenth captain, matter of fact. He was launched from Solitude back during the second Holy Crusade. I’m told he participated in dozens of engagements against the Prophetess’ forces and was one of the few ships to come out of the war still operational.”

Alia sighed, somewhat forlorn. “After the Alliance surrendered, he served the next two hundred and fifty years in boring peacetime roles. Poor baby,” she said, patting the bulkhead behind her, “you were meant for greater things.”

Turning back to Jim, she continued, “Anyhow, forty three years ago, it was...uh...taken out of mothballs and placed into our possession. We call him The Liberator. Not a very creative name I know, but after all these years it’s stuck.”

Jim interrupted, “So, it, I uhh mean he, flew for the Alliance, fought for them, your crew wears Alliance uniforms, and you...aren’t Alliance? Who do you report to then?”

Captain Rychist paused for a moment and considered her reply.

“We don’t.”

“You don’t? Don’t what?”

“Report to a military.”

Jim stared at her, face full of questions.

“Well, Jim, some call us pirates. Others call us rebels. I prefer to call us liberators. We liberate the undeserving of their possessions and put them to much more appreciated use. Our Alliance uniforms and cold weather gear for instance. Oh, and from time to time, we may liberate a monastery of brainwashed acolytes and offer them a better life.”

Monasteries were mockingly called “brainwash schools,” always in secret, of course. At least one of the splendent structures could be found in nearly every southern town and city, serving as a dark reminder of the Prophetess’ victory over the Alliance and FCF hundreds of years prior. When an awakened was discovered, they would be whisked away by her priests where they were locked away for years and re-educated to serve her will.

Now Jim’s usual brevity was overcome. “Wait. A better life? Are you telling me, your crew has other awakened among them? How many?”

“All of them, naturally.”

Impossible, was all he could think.

Jim shook his head, “Sorry but, how is that possible? All awakened are taken by the Priestess’ monks and acolytes. The few I know of who did escape turned up dead in the desert.”

The captain sighed, “You aren’t wrong. At one point or another, most of the people on this ship were slaves of the Holy Order or on the run. I did mention we call our ship The Liberator, didn’t I?”

He crossed his arms, “And that’s another thing, how in the hell are you able to break the Prophetess’ brainwashing of -”

His question was interrupted by a sharp knock at the door.

“Come in Henry.” The same sly smile crept across the captain’s face. She knew something he didn’t.

A human figure, with a large brass ball where his legs should have been, rolled into the room. The...machine was made entirely of metal. His outer structure was a mix of sheet steel and brass. Inside his remarkably human shaped body was a controlled chaos of moving gears and cogs. Each seemed to turn with a mind of its own. Somewhere deep within the machine, dim blue light backdropped his inner workings.

The ball upon which it balanced was inlaid with thousands of tiny unrecognizable symbols. I know those symbols from somewhere, but where? he wondered.

His wandering gaze stopped at the thing’s eyes. Vibrant blues shone through mechanical irises. Despite their artifice, he could see a person...a soul behind them. A chill crawled up Jim’s spine.

The man rolled toward them with a full spread including sugar and cream. The captain introduced him, motioning with her arm. “Jim, meet Henry, our ship’s quartermaster. He handles the flow of materials - food, weapons, comforts. Oh! And he makes a terrific cup of coffee.”

Jim couldn’t pull his gaze away, “is he a he, or rather is it a he or uhh?”

“HE is a man,” the captain replied. “A clockwork man to be precise. Judging by your expression, I’d venture a guess that he’s the first you’ve seen.”

Seeing the machine broke Jim of his usual “talk less” rule as he continued, “Of course it..he is, but, how did you acquire him? I thought living clockwork tech was outlawed centuries ago when -”

“Excuse me,” the clockwork man’s accented baritone interrupted, “I don’t appreciate being referred to in the third person when I’m right in the room.”

Jim leapt from his seat and pointed, “Did that thing just speak?” Captain Rychist laughed. “You know, Jim, you’re really making my day. I keep forgetting, this is all new to you. Not too many marvels out in the wastes, huh?”

Before Jim could respond, Henry started back in, “As the captain said, my name is Henry. Yes, living clockwork tech is highly illegal. Of course, that doesn’t stop Her Royal Tyranicalness from owning it.” The contempt in his tin voice was apparent. “However, I am the property of none, man or woman.”

Jim couldn’t quite place the accent. And the symbols... there was definitely a familiarity to it. “I didn’t meant to offend you but, uh, how old are you?”

“Oh boy,” The captain rolled her eyes.

Henry’s eyes brightened a few levels, “Oh! I’m so glad you asked!” The tray was set down quickly with a clunk on the antique desk. He rapped a metal hand against his chest and relied, “This chassis is only ninety seven years old, but I believe my ether cube, my heart if you will, to be over ten thousand years old!”

The captain interrupted, “Please Henry. This poor man can only take so much in his first day among the clouds. Let’s not fill his head full of your wild stories. At least, not today.”

“They’re hardly stories, captain,” he replied defensively. “The ether cubes contain the essence of our progenitors. Essentially, I’m one of them and am close to proving it.”

The captain shook her head. “Listen, There’s still much for Jim to learn. Perhaps we can reserve your...history lesson for another time. For now, let’s stick to -”

Loud clanging interrupted them from outside the door.

The captain was already on her feet when Harol burst through their door. “Sorry for interruptin’. Captain, raiders are approachin’ from the mountains. Lookout reports at least three dozen of em. All in Firebugs. We got about five minutes before things get intrestin’.”

The captain’s jovial expression disappeared. Pulling a matchlock pistol from the desk drawer with fire in her eyes, she shouted a single command.

“BATTLESTATIONS!”