A Brotherhood of Crows.

Captain Pillion stood with his feet planted firmly, and said, in a steely voice. “You promised me a location.”

“And you shall have one, Captain,” Gorcrow spread his arms wide, “In due time.”

Pillion grimaced. One hand stole into his pocket, and his fingers encountered the small silver box where he kept his pills. “And when might that be?”

“When I am ready, Captain. When I am ready.”

The hand which opened the box in the confines of his pocket was starting to shake, ever so slightly, but firmly, with purpose (a doctor would know it for what it was, the early signs of a little thing called Parkinson’s). His fingers found a pill, the emerald green gem, and in a practise move, popped it into his mouth and swallowed. “You’ve had forty eight hours.”

If Gorcrow noticed the pill, or small sigh Pillion gave as it began to kick in, the Crow did not comment. “Come now, Captain. Doctor Crucius is not the fastest of workers.”

On that much, at least, Pillion agreed with the Crow. That very morning, Dr Crucius has approached Pillion, and without so much as a by your leave had demanded use of a shuttle. Important government business required him back in London, for no more than twenty four hours. It was a delicate matter, the details of which shouldn’t concern the captain, but the experiments would continue on schedule, upon his return. Pillion had simply glared at Crucius and asked if Hitchens might continue the work in Crucius’s absence, or was it perhaps too ‘delicate’ in nature? Crucius had simply bristled and stormed off, granting Pillion is first, and only, smile of the day.

“You will have your ships, Captain,” Gorcrow said, soothingly. “In due time.”

“Then perhaps you will do me the courtesy of explaining this,” Pillion pulled his holopad from his belt and opened it. “According to the ship’s manifest, four shuttles docked with us when we took on supplies at Johannesburg. Cargo redacted, but addressed to you. The bay sergeant informs me that the men who unloaded the cargo were ‘heavily wrapped, did not speak, and smelled of decay’.” He closed the holopad. “Care to explain what you are bringing aboard my ship, Gorcrow?”

Gorcrow crossed his arms. He stood before the viewport of the formal Captain’s quarters, Cerberus and her support vessels were flying at around thirty six thousand feet above the coast of South Africa. Here, above the clouds, the sunlight was stark, glaring, and outlined the Crow’s body, reducing him to shadow of a man against a background of light. “My order sent me supplies, essential to my work. There’s nothing more to it than that.”

“And what might those supplies be?”

“That’s really none of your concern, Captain.”

“It is when your ‘supplies’ are sitting in my cargo bay.”

Grocrow inclined his head; the light from the distant sun sliding off the smooth steel of his mask, made it seem as if he was smiling, wryly. “Have a care, Captain. Do not pretend to me that you are the by the numbers player. If you were, you would not be here, with me.”

“I am concerned for the welfare of my crew,” said Pillion, stiffly.

“As you should be, Captain,” replied the Crow, gravely.

That phrase played in Pillions mind when, as the conversation concluded, he began his walk back to the bridge. Part of him - most of him - knew he was taking an awful risk. All he had was Gorcrow’s word (The way he said those words, that metallic voice and the steely metal click on each syllable) and that image on the holo-emitter: the grainy footage of sleek, battle ready vessels. He had made enquiries of course, off the record, with some friends at the admiralty. The Severance was working on new airships, the latest intelligence said; the old class of Panther battleship, still feared in open sky, was matched by the Commonwealth’s own Centurion class. Most rumours pointed to enhanced railguns, experimental Shock drives, the works - in other words, it checked out, yet…

...yet that mask still gleamed, emotionless and yet so emotive, has clawed its way into his mind. The hollow buzz of that voice resonated in his ears, and the sometimes glimpse of eyes, eyes watching him without blinking or pause, haunted him. And in all the years he had been in the air, all the battle he’d seen, all the men and women who had died when he led them into conflict, nothing, ever, had haunted him.

On the bridge, Modaoboah approached him with a salute. “Sir, a moment?”

“Of course, Lieutenant,” Pillion glanced at the status reports on his station’s holoscreen - there was nothing of interest.

Modaboah cleared her throat, hesitantly. “Some of our men have gone AWOL, sir.”

“AWOL?” Pillion scowled, “Explain, Lieutenant,”

Modaboah showed him the information on her holopad. “Chief Petty Officer Hammond reports that Able Airman Dantzick, Able Airman Jenson,and Air Engineer Peters did not report to rollcall this morning.”

“Did Hammond search their head?”

“Yes sir. Empty. Bunks weren’t slept in. Further searches didn’t find them on board, sir.”

Pillion frowned. It was uncommon, but not unheard of, for airships to lose a few crew during resupplies. A few of the usual suspects would take ground leave, and then not return; men and women, usually conscripts, hoping to find new roots in a distant port, away from the prying eye of the Ministry of Speculation, who had a way of finding deserters that bordered on unnerving. But that didn’t happen on Cerberus. Pillion hand picked his crew looking for loyalty and commitment, and he treated them a damn sight better than most Captains would ever think to.

He thought of Gorcrow, saying “As you should be, Captain,”

Perhaps, he feared, it had been a threat.

“Contact the Admiralty in Pretoria, and let them know about our missing men.” Pillion was surprised to find his voice breaking, and fought to keep it level, “They can put Speculation onto their ID’s.”

Modaboah nodded, and withdrew, and Pillion turned to the view of the empty sky, that great sea of blue and cloud, beyond Cerberus’s canopy.

He felt tremors in his hands again, far sooner than they should have come, and popped another green pill.