Old Mars

In the years since, Rac had gone on to get command of his own ship, as Jason had his, but the enmity between them had only faded, never truly vanished. They argued frequently, especially since Rac had been elected by the others as the head captain of Freehaven, and never more so than when the subject of selling prisoners into indentured servitude was discussed.

“These are not prisoners,” Jason sneered, fighting the urge to draw his sword. “They are our guests.”

The waters in front of Rac’s face swirled and ebbed as his mandibles vibrated with laughter. “Very funny, pink-skin! Like that beast you call a pet, I imagine?” He laughed even harder, the waters practically becoming a whirlpool.

Jason took a step forward. “No, Rac. I’m serious. You’re not touching them.”

The water rippled in a brief chuckle. Then Rac grew serious. “Have they signed the Articles?”

Jason shook his head inside the bubble helmet. “No, of course not. Look at them. They couldn’t handle the life of a pirate.”

“If they have not signed the Articles of Freehaven, then they are not residents of Freehaven.” Rac pushed up off the ground and drifted through the waters closer to Jason until he was within arm’s reach of the refugees. “And if they are not residents, then they must be classified as plunder. And no one man can keep a ship’s plunder all to himself. It must be divided among the crew and among the other residents.”

“They are free individuals!” Jason shouted. “You can’t just treat them like property!”

Rac scoffed. “Freehaven is the only home of the truly free. All others are slaves of one kind or another, whether to wealth or to ideology.”

“Freedom should be everyone’s birthright!” Jason countered.

The crews of the other ships that were loading and unloading at the dock had taken note of the exchange, and many of them had lingered, waiting to see what transpired, including many of their captains.

“Watch yourself, pink-skin,” Rac said. “You come close to violating the Articles with that kind of talk.”

Jason looked around at the faces of the assembled residents, seeking out the other captains. He could see that more than a few of them were clearly sympathetic to his position but that others were decidedly not.

“And as Captain of Freehaven,” Rac went on, addressing himself to the assembled crowd, “I claim Freehaven’s portion of the Argo’s plunder now.” He grabbed the arm of the nearest refugee, a woman just entering the age of maturity, and motioned for his crewmen standing nearby to approach. “And since your contributions to the coffers have been inadequate for some time now, leaving the Argo in arrears under the terms of the Articles, Freehaven’s portion will include all of this rabble.”

As Rac’s crewmen rounded up the confused refugees, preparing to escort them onto Rac’s ship in preparation for transporting them north to Vend, Tyr came alongside Jason, bristling with barely restrained rage.

“You must do something,” Tyr said in a quiet voice.

Jason had gone completely still and quiet, trying not to let his emotions overcome his judgment, trying to work out a solution.

“Captain,” Tyr urged again. Even at home, he was ever the first officer, never entirely comfortable treating his captain as an equal.

Jason realized that his hand gripped the handle of the sword at his side so tightly that his palm ached.

Tyr grabbed Jason’s shoulder. “You know what will become of them in the north.”

He could try to convince enough of the other captains to form a quorum, Jason knew, and call for an election in the hopes of ousting Rac as the head of Freehaven. But that would take time, and Rac would have long since sailed away before he had time to speak to enough captains to make a difference. And there was no guarantee that the next captain elected to succeed Rac wouldn’t feel the same way about the slave trade.

Tyr tightened his grip on Jason’s shoulder.

“Captain Rac!” Jason called out, pulling away from Tyr and stepping forward, drawing his sword. “I challenge you, by the First Article, for the right to lead Freehaven.”

All eyes swung first in Jason’s direction, then to Rac, who stood with his arms folded over his chest, the water before his face swirling with mirthless laughter.

Jason stood atop the shoulders of a headless statue that was buried to the waist in the sands. A short distance off, just outside of arm’s reach, Rac crouched on top of a broken column that rose like a tree leaning in a high wind.

Tradition demanded that, as the challenged, Rac had the choice of venue for the single combat. It was hardly surprising that he would choose the drystone dueling sands of the buried city.

“Your freak muscles won’t do you much good here, pink-skin,” Rac scoffed. “Jump as high and far as you like, and chances are they will be there waiting when you come down.” He pointed at the sands that surrounded them, where the threaded traces of sand-sharks passing by rippled all around.