[center][h2]A Slow Boat To Larceny, Part 1 - (Day 3, Evening)[/h2][/center] [center][img]https://i.imgur.com/H9yoLSt.png[/img] [/center] Joint post by [@Xandrya], [@Bugman], and [@sail3695] For anyone who knew her history, the current state of the SV Antonia would most certainly seem a shadow of her former self. She’d been built seventy-three years ago to traditional specifications. In those days, she was a proud four masted schooner, a floating home to billionaire J.T. Slocum and a series of disposable wives. The graceful yacht was the first private vessel to roam the seas of Pelorum, a floating refuge for her owner and his guests beneath the mild tropical heavens. After Slocum’s death and the inevitable family squabbling over his fortune, the Antonia was left to decay in her berth for nearly two decades. By the time Ocean Amusements Co. won her at auction, the venerable schooner was in a decrepit state. Her new owners wasted no time in effecting the necessary repairs and refits to convert the once proud vessel to daily service as a seagoing party palace. Of the four proud masts, only two remained, her main and mizzen having been excised to clear the deck for paying customers and cash bars. She no longer used sail power; the fabric stretched between her few remaining spars served only to reflect the colored lights now anchored to her masts. Below deck hummed two electric motors to push the boat quietly through the gentle waves. Where once she required a crew of twelve to handle sails and helm, the Antonia now plied her trade with three, plus a small army of caterers, waitstaff, and bartenders. From his place in the wheelhouse, Captain Jim Gilliam surveyed the night’s gathering, a crowd of upper crust types who were dressed to the nines for some politician’s private fund raiser. “Those penguins gotta be suffocating,” the lanky twenty-three year old snickered into his comm. Cassie Lopez, the starboard rail watch, offered a thumb’s up. “That’s a rog. Not a puff of breeze on deck,” she whispered. “Only the two knots we’re making. Bars are going through ice like crazy.” He checked his helm. Antonia was right on her course, the autohelm computer running the programmed route without a hitch. In fact, so much of the vessel’s operation was handled by AI that it really didn’t take more to avoid a code violation than an underpaid college kid to stand her bridge. But while the job didn’t pay [i]la shi,[/i] it had it’s perks. Pretty easy work, his own cabin, and maybe a chance with Cassie… The radar caught Jim’s eye. He had a contact, closing from astern. His brow furrowed as he checked his watch. “Hey guys,” he keyed the comm mic again, “our party crashers are early. Drop the starboard fenders. We’re about to stop.” “Sounds good.” Jake Mitchell’s voice crackled as he detached himself from the port rail. “On my way, Cassie.” As the crew of SS Antonia set about preparing for the evening’s entertainment, their captain fulfilled his own responsibilities with two keystrokes. [b]COURSE INTERRUPT[/b] ceased her forward motion altogether. [b]STATION KEEPING[/b] placed all her engines, including bow and stern thrusters, under the computer’s satellite directed positioning control. Regardless of wind or waves, the Antonia would now doggedly hold her place. Seeing that she’d obeyed his commands, Jim checked his notes, then switched radio channels. “Captain Kidd, this is Antonia. I see you a half kilometer to my stern, copy?” After a few seconds’ pause, a slightly garbled voice echoed in the wheelhouse. “Captain Kidd copies.” “I am hove to. Raft up on my starboard. My deckhands are standing by.” Jim turned, his eyes peering into the darkness behind the schooner. A ghostly shape began to take form, moonlight adding some detail to the approaching vessel. The radio crackled to life once more. “Captain Kidd copies. See you in two ticks. We’re about to make some noise. Out.” Jim turned in his chair to see both deckhands busily hanging fat rubber fenders over the starboard rail. “Stand by to take their lines,” he ordered over the comm. “It’s showtime.” ************************************************* Candidate Nathan “Nate” Howard, the man of the hour, was quietly fuming. “Look at this. Just look!” he whispered angrily to a cowering assistant. “These folk are melting…gorram melting! And so’s their coin! What…what…[i]báichī[i]**...decided formal wear for a night on a friggin’ boat?” (**moron) “I’m sorry, sir,” the timid lackey flinched beneath his boss’ withering eye. Actually none other than Mrs. Candidate Nathan “Nate” Howard had made the ill fated call for dress code, but there was no way on Buddha’s green Pelorum that he’d be stupid enough to point that finger. “I’ve talked to the planner,” his voice quivered. We’re trying to find fans or something…” Howard leaned in, his towering height and girth threatening as he prodded the young aid’s chest. “Try…harder,” his fingers poked rudely with each syllable. “While you’re at it,” he glowered, “get those overpaid fiddlers to play something doesn’t sound like a gorram funeral…” [b]BOOM![/b] The harsh report echoed across the Antonia’s crowded deck, silencing a hundred murmured conversations. This time, Howard took the frightened aid’s collar. “They’re EARLY!” he whispered harshly. [b]BOOM![/b] This time, the roar was accompanied by a visible flash, the muzzle burst lighting the darkness. “HEAVE TO!” a woman’s voice shouted over a loudspeaker, “AND PREPARE TO BE BOARDED!” The pirate vessel, Captain Kidd, came alongside the Antonia. The ramshackle fishing trawler was crudely decorated, with shreds of sail dangling from her mast, a comical row of homemade cannons at the rail, and the obligatory Jolly Roger flag hanging limp in the still night air. “AWAY, ME HEARTIES, AWAY!” the woman’s voice screeched. A number of figures came over the rail, toy cutlasses waving as they rushed to take the Antonia. One, a tall, roguishly handsome man with brown skin and dreadlocks, swung aboard on a rope, a plastic dagger clinched in his teeth. He landed among party guests who laughed and cheered his arrival, bare feet touching down soundlessly on the teak decking. “WHO BE ‘DE FOUNDER OF DIS FEAST?” his musical island accent demanded of the crowd. [i]...to be continued…[/i]