It was just the cabin boy and the cook

It was just the cabin boy and the cook. The cabin boy with his hefty pair of tough-terrain boots, the cook with his cyborg peg and his one good leather shoe. In their hands they each gripped a mop, two buckets of sudsy water set before them. They stood in perfect tension, pretending not to cast each other weary glances every now and then. They stood ready, poised.

"Now, boy," the cook said. "It's to be fair an' square, y'hear? Deck first, then break, then port side, break, finish at the starboard side. Issat clear?"

The cabin boy shifted his feet, shifted his grip on the mop. "Crystal."

With a nod, the cook cast a quick glance sideways. Hovering by his shoulder, a pink coloured shape shifter gurgled out into a gelatinous floating puddle, then pulled itself into the shape of a whistle. It was hard to tell whom it was rooting for, but the cabin boy and the cook probably wouldn't have noticed any signs from it anyway. Eyes on the deck, feet firmly planted, muscles at the ready, tension mounting.

The whistle blew.

A skid and a half-fumble marked the cabin boy's early lead, suds trailing out behind him as his mop barely left the ground. A hiss and the sharp clump of the cook's peg followed closely after, mop darting left and right with practiced accuracy. Within a few seconds, he had caught up to the boy. He could smell the adrenaline on him, see the look of heavy concentration on his face, eyes fastened to the far end of the deck. Trying too hard. The cook lumbered forward, passing him. Soap bubbles drifted up between them as he left the boy behind. He heard a grunt, but paid no heed. He simply brought his mop up and slapped it against the wall leading to the upper deck, the sign of victory.

The cook had won.

Seconds later, the boy stumbled out into a stop, panting slightly. "No fair," he muttered. "You're bigger."

"Now, now, boy," the cook chuckled. "Yer just the right size t'have a weight advantage over this old cyborg, now don't ye?"

"Yeah, but you're older," the boy said weakly. "Unfair advantage of experience." Despite his sullen words, he squared his shoulders in resigned defeat and threw a casual glance at the upper deck. "Next round."

The cook twirled his mop as a weapon, a whistle rising to his lips. "Ready an' waitin'."

They had barely settled down, mops at the ready, buckets placed safely aside, tension mounting again, when the shape shifter let out an odd string of meaningful gurgles.

"Blast it," the cook whispered. "It's the captain. Quick, boy, make with the moppin'."

He didn't have to be told twice. By the time the ship's captain had stepped onto the upper deck, the only thing she saw were two crewmen dutifully scrubbing the deck. A thoroughly clean, spotless deck. She had never seen it quite so scrubbed.

"Gentlemen," she said. "Marvellous job. I don't think the Legacy has been this shinny since it was first launched. You can go below deck now."

Efficient, clipped, and thoroughly in control, the captain failed to notice the look of deep rooted disappointment that settled into the faces of cabin boy, cook, and shape shifter alike.

"It's too bad the cap'n showed up, weren't it, Jim boy? We could'a finished up another full round, maybe given ye at least one lil'victory."

They were below deck, dutifully obedient if disappointed, peeling tuber roots. A sizeable pile lay at their feet, the shavings coughing out little clouds of itchy dust. Jim was pretty good at peeling tubers—could probably peel them in his sleep—and so worked gazing up through the hatch above. He could still see traces of soap water clinging to the wooden screen, dripping down as they caught the silvery light of space.

"Well, I still say I can beat you," he said. "You need some serious putting down, Silver. You'll just grow big in the head."

John Silver patted his sizeable belly in good humour. "Bout the only part as rightly hasn't grown big yet, boy. I'll leave that to yers." He grinned and picked up a new tuber. "Awful lot of these lil'buggers, ain't there? I thinks the cap'n's on t'us."

"I'm just about tired of eating these nasty things myself. Stew with tubers, chowder with tubers, soup with tubers, mashed, diced, fried, sautéed." He tossed a freshly peeled one into their basket. "Aren't you tired of cooking them?"

"Not yet."

The hatch lifted open, and a heavyset rock man climbed down, the stairs creaking under his considerable weight. Silver light glinted off his first mate's insignia, his crimson uniform starched, dusted, and impeccably clean.

Silver's face broke out into a jovial smile. "A good day t'ye, Mr. Arrow, sir!"

Mr. Arrow accepted the greeting with an imperceptible nod. He didn't smile. He barely spoke. His voice came as a deep bass rumble, the sound of stone scrapping over stone.

"The captain has cause to believe that an ether storm is headed our way. A small one. Nevertheless, she has requested that all cooking and cleaning supplies be secured. Dinner has been scheduled an hour earlier than the usual. That is all."

He left without another word. The hatch closed behind him with a dull thump. Jim looked at Silver, whose face had taken on an odd, closed expression.

"What's an ether storm?" Jim said.

"Dangerous things," Silver said, his voice hushed. "Beautiful things. A swirling cloud of pure energy. Can peel your skin off faster than this knife." He sliced quickly through a tuber and tossed it into the basket. Jim stared at it, its skin white and fresh and moist and naked. Silver's expression melted away into a lopsided grin. "Yer lucky. Took me ten years at sea afore I saw my first real ether storm."

Jim swallowed over a suddenly dry throat. "So a ship can ... survive it?"

Silver ran a finger down his peg leg, cogs and wheels and little steam engines. His lips had drawn back into a grim, satisfied smile.

"Everything can be survived, boy. Everything."

The skies had darkened by the time the Legacy's master clock had struck noon. Below deck, the crew was busy securing down anything that might come loose, ropes, canon prods, brooms, ammunition boxes, personal belongings. Jim and Silver had bolted all the kitchen cabinets, sealed all containers and barrels. Silver locked up all of the cooking oil, checking to make sure the stove was secure, stowing away all pieces that might fly off. Dinner had been served and hastily consumed less than twenty minutes ago. Tuber stew.

An air of expectancy hung over everyone on board. They waited and watched. Captain Amelia, striding across the deck with Mr. Arrow behind her, inspected every lifeline, every rope, every rigging and fitting and bolt. She found a stray spool of hemp and severely chewed out the sailor responsible for leaving it on deck. Mutters rose. The captain continued on her way, gazing up at the skies as they shifted from deep purple to black. She seemed not to hear the mutters.

"Mr. Arrow," she said. "Call out Dr. Doppler. The astrophysicist should have a look at this sky again. Have him report to my quarters."

From his place at the rigging, where he sat, hunched, Jim looked out across the darkening spacescape. It seemed so peaceful, so still. Stars folded in and out, placidly, unperturbed. Nothing to worry about. His stomach, however, seemed to have tied itself in knots, refusing to relax. His mouth had gone dry. He could feel an apprehensive sort of anticipation climbing over him.

"It'll be comin' from the east, more an' likely."

Silver leaned against the railing, the bowl of his clay pipe glowing bright red as he inhaled deeply. With the tip of the pipe, he pointed out towards a cluster of pink stars. Smoke rose about his face, shadowing his expression. "Ye see that lil'cluster'a stars there, Jim?" He took another deep puff. "Ether matter. Energized after a storm."

Little red ripples ran out across the cluster, giving it the impression of life. It spun slowly in place, glinting. To Jim, it grew larger, wider, spreading out, opening a huge, gaping mouth, reaching for the ship. For him. He shook his head. A frown settled over his face and he swung down from the rigging.

"Yeah, well," he shot at Silver. "Good for them."

If Silver was determined to spook him out over the storm, he was welcome to it. But Jim wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of seeing how scared he really was. His gaze slid over the deck, the sails, the crew. It had all seemed so safe, so impenetrable, that morning. Nothing bad could ever happen to him. It just couldn't. Ether storms were things Dr. Doppler read books about and Silver told tall tales about. They didn't happen to him.

The cook's shape shifter followed Jim, gurgling out his concern. "I'm okay, Morph," the boy said. "Just don't feel like listening to Silver's stories again."

Morph followed Jim below deck, where the boy dropped into his hammock, staring up at the ceiling. His possessions had been rolled up and stowed away, secured with more rope than was necessary, just in case. That alone filled Jim with the hazy thought that nothing was going to happen. "This whole ether storm thing is like hurricanes down in Montressor, Morph. An awful lot of nothing. You secure your whole house, tie down even your toothpicks, and then nothing happens. A little rain. Nothing. It's nothing but crap."

Morph trilled mournfully. Jim shot it a questioning look. The shape shifter's body seemed more liquid than usual, a sure sign that something was bothering it. Jim sat up. He felt guilty for having been so rough to Morph. Silver's pet had been the first friendly face on board three weeks ago. Jim extended his arm and allowed the gelatinous creature to settle on the palm of his hand.

"Hey, Morph," he murmured. "What's wrong? Look, I'm sorry I blew off steam on you. It's just ... Well, I'm worried." Morph trilled. "Okay. Scared. I'm scared. Silver..." His voice trailed off.

At the mention of Silver's name, Morph gurgled sadly again. Turning to face Jim, it shifted into a tiny version of the ship's cook, correct to the last detail. Except. Jim looked closely at the image, surprise growing in his eyes. It was Silver, but it wasn't. This Silver had two legs and an arm and two bright black eyes. Before Jim could get any words out, Morph had shifted again, now into the Silver Jim knew, his right side outfitted with a cyborg eye, arm, peg.

"Morph," Jim said. "Did Silver ...?"

An odd hum broke out then. It shivered along the cabin, scrapping over Jim's ears, painfully. Morph slid away in alarm as Jim's hands rose to cover his ears, his mouth twisting. At that moment, Mr. Arrow's voice boomed out from above. A bell had begun to clang. Feet thundered over the deck, rigging straining as the crew readied themselves. The hatch was flung open and Silver's massive shape blocked out the light. He was an apparition from a nightmare, a cold machine of a man, dark and immense.

"Jim!" he barked. "Get out here, pup. Ether storm on the horizon." Jim stared up at him, disoriented. Silver looked impatient. "Jest a bit of resonance, boy. Shake it off an' show a leg!"

On deck, it was controlled pandemonium. Crewman ran from one deck to the other, securing the sails and making last minute adjustments to the lifelines. The lookout clambered up into the crow's nest, his spyglass stretched out as far as it could go. To the east of the Legacy, a hazy, billowing blue cloud, shifting from deep to light to neon, was crawling forward. Sparks shot out from its sides, curling in and out of the clouds, lighting up the hollow interior into a phantasmagoric spectacle. It was still sufficiently far away to not inspire panic in anyone, but its impressive size, even from the distance, was enough to send a sharp tremor down Jim's legs.

Captain Amelia stood at the wheel, head cocked at attention as Dr. Doppler recited a long string of measurements at her. It all sounded like gibberish to Jim, except the last muttered comment. "That's no little storm, captain. It's going to blanket the entire ship."

Amelia's steely expression didn't change. "Can we outrun it?"

Doppler cast a hasty glance at his matter reader. Bright green numbers flashed out over a grid, increasing and decreasing in rapid succession as the storm inched its way forward. "It would catch up with us too quickly. We'd simply be escaping the inevitable."

"Skirting it is out of the question as well, then, isn't it?" Amelia's eyebrows knitted together. "What's its current speed?"

"Eight hundred kilometres an hour, growing steadily."

"By how much?"

Doppler ran his fingers over his brow. "Er, ten minutes. We could attempt to bypass it, but it would have to take less than—"

A violent tremor rocked the boat. Jim was pitched forward, knocked off his suddenly weak feet. Silver hoisted him up by the neck of his shirt, held him in place. The large man's eyes widened. Before Doppler could regain his composure, Silver had turned towards the captain.

"It's reached critical mass, cap'n!"

Settling his glasses, and his composure for good measure, Doppler fixed the cook with a look of maddening superiority. "And how would you know that, pray tell?"

Amelia groaned in exasperation. "The man's been at space for bloody well longer than you have, doctor! Now check your matter reader and confirm his assessment."

Mollified, canine ears drooping in embarrassment, the doctor turned back to his instruments. Confound it all, the cook's right. The ether had somehow harnessed more power to itself. "Speeds of 978 kilometres an hour, captain. Bypassing it is now a question of approximately thirty minutes. Maybe less. Quite probably less."

"Assuming it doesn't grow any larger." The captain narrowed her eyes. "Wonderful. Can't outrun it, can't really bypass it. We're sitting ducks." Her eyes closed. An eternity of uncertainty and building despair seemed to spin itself out slowly, threatening to unleash the panic that had been held at bay until then. Beside her, Doppler held his breath, his hands clutched tightly together. Jim, unaware that he did so, drew back closer to Silver, feeling the man's bulk rise up behind him, warm and alive. He was afraid to look up at him, frightened of what he would see on the man's face.

Amelia's eyes snapped open.

"Unless..."

A brisk, clipping wind had picked up, the rigging rattling as it rose in intensity. Under Amelia's orders, Jim had been sent out to secure the sails around the bowsprit. Lifeline securely fastened around his waist, he inched his way out slowly over the slim expanse of wood. Through a curtain of his own billowing bangs, he could see Silver edging out his way in front of him, reaching for the right-side fastenings. Jim steadied himself after a sudden, short gust and began to work on the left side.

"That should do it," Silver called, securing the rolled up solar sheets tightly. "Make sure their down tight, Jim. Like I taught ye."

Jim tied a secure knot and straightened. He watched in silence as Silver finished his own work. The metal fingers of his cyborg arm moved with greater fluidity than those of his real arm. A thin metal prod from Silver's forearm hooked easily under the ropes, aiding the cook's expert knotting. Jim was both repelled and amazed at the man's ability to adapt to what must have been a painful, debilitating accident. If it had been an accident.

"Silver," he said. "Your cyborg body... How did you...?"

For a moment, Silver remained immobile. Then, with one firm tug, he tightened his last knot. When he turned, his face was hard and unreadable. The winds from the ether storm picked at his coat, beating it about his peg. His cyborg eye had spiralled shut almost completely. He edged forward along the bowsprit and easily sidestepped Jim

"Did it have to do with—"

Silver turned around. His face looked red and splotchy and ugly. "Issat any kind of thing t'be askin' at a time like this, ye whelp?!" He reached out and grabbed at the front of Jim's shirt. The boy felt his feet leave the bowsprit. Silver's face loomed closer and larger than he'd ever seen it. The gears that controlled his eye spun with a clicking, wiring hum, their cadence echoing Jim's hammering heart. Silver's eye flashed red, bathing him and Jim in a discomforting red glow.

"It's none of yer business, ye hear? It's mine." He shoved Jim backwards onto the upper deck and thudded down beside him. "I don't need no landlubber feelin' sorry for ol'John Silver."

"Silver, I—"

The peg leg hissed as Silver took a heavy, threatening step forward. "Go off! See if that watery doctor friend a'yers needs ye."

Jim had no choice but to obey. Silver had stumped away, making his way across the deck without looking back. Picking himself up, Jim gazed towards the horizon. The blue storm cloud was gaining speed, crackling and shivering as it seemed to inhale and exhale. It was an uneasy, sobering sight. Jim couldn't help but wonder how Silver saw it. If he saw it at all.

Amelia stood next to the wheel, arms folded neatly behind her back as Mr. Arrow took the helm. Beside the rock man, Doppler stood in an uneasy hunch, one hand trailing over his instruments. Amelia faced her crew, which had gathered below deck in a motley, loosely packed circle. Silver stood slightly apart, leaning against the railing, favouring his human leg and smoking his pipe. Jim stood at the other end, his eyes never leaving Silver. Morph flitted between both of them, gurgling unhappily but unable to cheer up either of them.

With one short clearing of her throat, Amelia secured everyone's attention. Even the more unruly members of the crew listened attentively.

"Gentlemen, ladies, this is the plan. We have less than thirty minutes to carry it out, so I'll be brief." Leaning forward, her fingers curling over the railing, she fixed everyone in turn with a cold, calm gaze. "I have ordered that all sails be secured, and for a reason. In less than five minutes, I expect all power to be shut down, causing this ship to plummet down."

A ripple of concern and anger began to rise, faces turning towards one another, mouths muttering their disbelief. Mr. Arrow silenced them with a look. "Those are the captain's orders, and you will carry them out! Once we have plummeted sufficiently enough below the ether storm, the artificial gravity force field shall be reactivated and the sails shall be unfurled, allowing us to safely sail beneath the ether storm."

Voices rose in protest. This is crazy talks! From his place against the railing, Silver's brow had knotted over his eyes, his expression uncertain but resigned. Why don't we just booster up?! Stroking Morph's quivering shape, Jim looked uneasily at the ether storm as it loomed ever closer, his lifeline suddenly feeling like a flimsy string around his waist. I could maybe have died peacefully at home if not for this trip! Once again, Amelia paid no heed, gazing straight ahead.

Mr. Arrow barked out for everyone to be quiet. "You've heard your orders! Now move out!"

The crew moved slowly at first, then faster as they resigned themselves to the fact that Captain Amelia never changed her mind. She had reached her decision, and it would be carried out. A lumpy sailor slid down below deck, headed towards his post at the ships core generator. The flatula engineer tied himself down securely near his gravity force field controls, his entire body quivering in nervousness, to the acute discomfort of those forced to settle down near him. The rest of the crew took up their positions above and below deck, lifelines checked and double checked, secured and triple secured, muttering hasty prayers to any and every deity known throughout the universe.

At his place at the base of the topsail, Jim couldn't bring himself to look at Silver. The cook stood stiffly to his right, Morph now cradled between the man's jowls and shoulder, shivering in liquid misery. Minutes seemed to drip by, magnified by the growing hum of static electricity kicked up by the growing storm. Looking around, Jim caught Doppler blustering out a prayer as he tied a fifth knot on his lifeline. Jim was glad Doppler wouldn't be needed after their plummet, the man would probably still be untying himself two days later. The thought almost made Jim laugh, if another hadn't rushed in with cold accuracy: If we survive.

Mr. Arrow's voice rang out. "Power shut down in ten seconds!"

A high-pitched voice piped up from below deck, laced with a heavy accent. "All's ready." Moments later, Mr. Arrow began the countdown. Jim could feel the heat of the solar power ebbing away from the topsail, the ever present humming he had now grown used to quieting down. Silence rushed in to fill its space, the first mate's voice rumbling away to nothingness at zero. For one uneasy moment, the only thing Jim could hear was the incessant wiring of Silver's eye. It clicked, once, and then a second noise unfolded into the empty air. The crackling and spitting of the ether storm. A split second in which Jim inhaled deeply, his eyes closing as gravity completely stripped away.

For one dazzling moment, the world seemed to hang suspended, centred on Jim's stomach. Then, like a quick punch to the gut, the ground opened up, and they were plummeting down. Jim's feet rose from the floor, his hair beating out above his head, his shirt riding up over his shoulder blades. He reached out for support, anything to hold onto. He found Silver's arm. For one moment, he felt an empty, nameless fear well up inside. Silver wouldn't want him to hold onto his arm. He began to withdraw his.

"Don't be ridiculous, boy," came the man's harsh whisper. His voice sounded awed, hushed. Jim opened his eyes. Silver towered above him, his coat flapping out above his armpits, crushed between the lifelines and the other crewmembers. With a lopsided grin, he manoeuvred his arm to envelop Jim's shoulders, drawing the boy nearer.

Flooded with relief, Jim held on tightly. Morph trilled as bravely as it could in the sight of one of the most frightening experiences of its life, gurgling between Silver's chest and Jim's cheek. Around them, the ship continued its unreal, disorienting drop. Stars had become a whirl of blinding light, silence whistling throughout.

Jim felt a pat at his shoulder and looked up. Above him, Silver's face was oriented upwards. A strange, wistful smile played across his lips. "Look at it, Jimbo. Jest look at that." Jim pushed away from Silver's chest, craning his neck upwards to look at where Silver pointed with his chin.

Above them, spinning silently as it completely engulfed the space where the Legacy had stood minutes before, was the ether storm. It shivered and pulsed bright blue, swirling in wispy, gossamer tendrils. Electric charges, neon blue and wire thin, leapt from one cloud to the next, leaving bright sea green streaks in their wake. Majestic, immense, older than any one of them, phenomenal and frightening. It seemed to stretch out lazily, masking its true speed, its destructive force.

Jim felt his breath catch at his throat, his chest filling with an indescribable sense of wonder and peace. He was surprised to find that he was smiling, echoing the content, blissful expression on Silver's face.

"It's beautiful," Jim murmured, his voice lost in the immense silence.

As the ship continued its plummet, the storm became smaller and smaller, but Jim could still see every detail of it clearly, burning brightly in the back of his mind as fear gave way to wonderment and a strange, unfettered happiness.

"Lord love me poor aching bones. Will ye look at that, Jim? The deck looks as if someones had 'ad themselves a party of some sort."

Jim leaned against his mop and cast Silver a rueful grin. "Silver, they did. Surviving that drop, it was..." Jim whistled, his hand imitating the falling ship. Beside him, Morph shifted into an effigy of Jim and Silver, screaming in terror as they plummeted down. Seeing Morph, Jim shoved it playfully away. "Nobody screamed, Morph, you shivering puddle."

Silver dipped his own mop into a freshly prepared bucket. "Well, relief or no relief, they should think of us afore makin' this here mess." He sighed and slumped his massive shoulders in mock despair. "D'ye have any idea, Jimbo my boy, how much work it's going to be t'clean this deck up?"

"I dunno," Jim grinned. "I'm willing to wager it should take no more than, say, three or four deck-swabbing races." The cabin boy slid a crafty gaze towards the cook.

Silver chuckled. "Still looking f'r that one, elusive victory, are ye?"

"I figure it's in my cards."

"We'll see."

Silver propped his mop against the railing and leaned against it. Jim propped up his own mop and leaned at Silver's side, both sharing an easy, comfortable silence. At length, smoke rising from a newly struck match, Silver took a puff from his pipe and gazed out towards the slowly spinning stars. They hung in a peaceful, purple sky, the storm a memory that would soon grow distant.

"Jim," he said. His voice sounded thoughtful. Jim looked at him, waiting. Silver continued after a moment, marked by the rhythmic spinning of his gears. "I owe ye an apology, pup. I may have been a bit, er, rough back there, ye know. When ye asked about me modifications an' all."

Jim shook his head. "Don't be. You were right. It's not my business."

"Perhaps. Still, I didn't as rightly mean t'sound quite so mean." He propped his pipe between his lips. "Truth is, I've never been good 'bout speaking 'bout my life before ... Well, before this happened to me." He lifted his cyborg arm, flexing the metal fingers, wires stretching and settling.

Jim folded his arms over his chest, rubbing at his ribs. "It was an ether storm, wasn't it...?"

Silver chuckled. "Aye, that it was. I was foolhardy, Jim. Unhealthy belief in my own immortality, ye see. I thought I could outrun it, beat it, laugh at its face. Well, there weren't no laughing for a while after that." His one human eye grew wistful, gazing out into the empty spacescape as if it could still see the storm. Then, it brightened.

"Turned out, though, that this lil'modifications have come in pretty handy. Cookin' an' all that. Walking Swiss army knife, ye know." In one fluid movement, he flipped out scissors, screws, can openers, files, lock picks, and several wickedly sharp knives. He laughed at the way Jim's eyes still widened slightly at the sight.

"So it all worked out for the best, an' I don't feel diminished in the slightest." He switched back to his fingers, taking the pipe from his mouth. "Guess that's why I reacted so badly, boy. Thought ye pitied me."

Jim didn't answer. A breeze had picked up, playing out across the plump, straining sails. Pushing away from the rails, the cabin boy took up his well-worn mop.

"Well," he said. "You're getting no pity from me. I fully intend to beat you this time. Two chances. The main deck, break, port side, break, and then the starboard side." He smiled at Silver. "It's to be fair an' square."

The cook shifted on his feet, stowing away his pipe into a pocket. "No pity, eh? That's mighty grand of ye, Jim Hawkins." He pointed one long metal finger at him. "Yer lookin' to get beaten flat, ye know."

The cabin boy's mop flopped onto the ground, his feet shifting as he readied himself. "There's no one else I'd rather have beat me flat."

Silver grinned, cyborg eye wiring, human eye shinning.

Author's Note

17 February 2003, New York. Written while a blizzard wound itself out outside. Around twenty inches of snow, all told. It made the news and inspired this story, although ether storms as envisioned by me, at least have very little in common with blizzards. But I think all storms have the ability to inspire wonder, even as they make life generally difficult, oftentimes frightening.

Deck swabbing is a sport I often envision during that one chorus of "I'm Still Here" that wasn't included in the picture. All readers are encouraged to supply whichever Goo Goo Dolls or John Rzeznik song they feel is most fitting to the scene, or to the ending. Whatever suits your fancy, and just for the heck of it.

I have obviously taken some liberties with Silver's past, as set out by Robert Louis Stevenson's original Treasure Island and probably as envisioned by Ron Clements and John Musker as well. I hope the purists among you won't skewer me.