[center][h2]A Captain's Eulogy - (Day 3, Evening)[/h2]
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The tropical breeze was thick and warm as the mule cut through to China Doll’s berth. Singing frogs had begun their nightly chorus, humming beetles joining in staccato. Humid air swallowed stale cool pockets as Imani wove her journey, and Cal, cropped hair pulsing in the wind, snaked a reassuring hand behind himself to touch the lid of the urn lashed to the mule’s cargo rack. Yes, it was still there. Yes, this was all really happening.


Boots hit the steel of the cargo bay, and Strand freed the urn from the mule. Without a word to his companion, the Captain strode to the comm on the wall and lifted the receiver.


“Crew, set aside what you’re doin’ and meet me in the galley in five. I got some news,” he killed the comm and inhaled sharply, urn under arm.


“Strap that down, we’re leavin’,” Cal eyed Imani and pointed to the mule. “And… thank you.” Turning, he made his way up the stairs.


Setting the urn at the head of the table, Cal stood, arms crossed, and waited for the crew to filter in. His hands were mighty steady, but empty. His jaw set, but he still craved a cigarette. The silver case flipped open, a smoke jumped into his hand, and he took in his first puff as the room began to fill. As the smoke curled to the ceiling view of the night sky, Cal’s mind played over the events of the evening one last time.


He’d gone to drink and forget Alana. The booze and music had started to do its job in that cliché tourist-trap, then, as a cruel twist of fate, she’d been there at the bar the whole time. She collapsed, he tried to revive her; he weren’t no medic. The doctor’s said it had been instant. She was gone before she hit the floor.


His smoke lay smoldering in the crux of his forefinger, hands planted on the table-top, eyes in a hundred yard stare.


Sister Lyen cleared her throat.


His gaze landed on her first, a patient smile, concern in her eyes. The rest of them were watching him with a cousin of her concern on their faces. He brought the cigarette to his lips.


“You all know Alana took off when we touched dirt. She sold some story or other about helpin’ clinics or gettin’ supplies, but that was [i]la shi[/i]. She’d quit the ship, and it was my fault. We had our reasons–[i]personal reasons[/i]. She packed her things and collected her share, and that was that.” His face went cold.


“Tonight, fate or coincidence, brought us to the same waterin’ hole, tryin’ to forget it all. She was at the bar when it happened; an aneurysm, the doc said, from a tumor.” Cal’s eyes were hard, “She didn’t suffer long, but there was nothin’ they could do for her when we got her to the hospital.” The Captain’s gaze fell on the urn in front of him.


“This here’s her ashes.” He took another pull on his cigarette, smoke weaving to the heavens like a soul seeking absolution. 


In the moments that followed, the crew traded glances, but none broke the silence that had descended on the Captain and crew of the China Doll. Alana was gone, almost in the blink of an eye, and this simple urn held what was left of her. 


Like awakening from a trance, Strand straightened and eyed each member of the crew in turn. Abby’s eyes had glazed over, her stare bore through his chest. Imani’s gaze had fallen to the floor before returning to his. Sister Lyen’s almond eyes were watching him with that same veiled concern. He shook his head.


“Sad as this is, I need y’all sharp. We got no medic–so don’t go doin’ anythin’ stupid. We keep flyin’, like we always have.” 


He dropped his cigarette and ground it into the grate of the galley, “Now get back to work.”