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TAU-23

Gibraltar Bar.

Flickering lights were turned down, as hurricane emergency lanterns were set up along the bar. They added a depth to the room, a texture of light and shadow that danced around the grim faces of the small collection of men and women gathered there.

Some of them puffed on cigars and cigarettes, the smoke coiling its way upwards towards the spiraling fans on the ceiling that send it pinwheeling back downwards towards them.

For the first time since the Gallic Invasion of the Taus, the Queens Most Diligent Interdiction Wing, (in Exile) had gathered. A matter of grave importance for them to decide.

At one end of a table Sir Jack Fraser, the Privateer Lord, Duke of Norfolk sat, his boot up on the edge of the table and his naval frock coat undone, staring out of the window absently. He looked tired, the pressures of being the Armed Forces Acting Fleet Admiral, he was ready to decide what needed to be decided.

At the opposite end sat Josephine Monson, aggressive yet still full of life, she was smiling and laughing with a couple of her men, taking enjoyment out of her special place in the QCP. Shed carved her place there, and was confident of the outcome.

Rising, with a clicking of innumerous beads woven into her hair, Martha Maradan, bar owner of the Gibraltar, their host, and the nominated arbiter of the coming vote stood up. She was carrying a thick tome in her hands, leather bound set with brass. Upon it were emblazoned the words The Stuart Code.

"All right then," she said in a heavy Jamaican accent. "When Stuart left us, he set us the task of selecting the new Privateer Lord... And now that Fraser is standing down to fly a desk..." she spat. "Well with Fraser gone, that much we know. If he is coming back, we dun know. But there is a question that cannae be resolved without you, the brave men of the Interdiction Wing. You each get one vote, and one vote only stand forward and choose which of you shall be the leader. Say your piece when you step forward, the state your choice loudly and clearly."

She looked at the balefully, an there will be no trouble here. "Each of yee git to make yer choice free of anyones criticizing. Who shall the Privateer Lord be?"

Moore was sitting there at the table. He was nervous like never before. The fall of LD-14 and war with Rheinland were good reasons for him to be uncalm. Watching silently into the window, he took a sip from his glass of soda, carefully thinking who to vote for...

He took a short look at every single Privateer in that room. Who could bring Privateers to a bigger glory than Fraser did? That was a hard question for him. Shall he answer? Nobody knows. The Privateers are going to play a great role in the bloody war against Kusari, therefore, a stong leader will be needed. Who else than Fraser, who is leaving? His thoughts weren't clear...

"My beloved motherland, my beloved Bretonia! What have they done to you? They tear you apart, slowly eat you, and I am only watching. I feel like a traitor, my Bretonia. I beg you for your apology." These words were crossing his worried mind. After throwing a short look at fellow Privateers again, he finally stood up, walked in front of the crowd, so everyone mentions him. He looks at fellow Privateers, and then turns his sight at Sir Jack Fraser. "My vote goes to Fortunatus Wright." He glanced at the crowd briefly, and then slowly walked back to his seat...

Remaining silent, for those few who gave him a quick glance Adam Patterson appeared as his usual self - reserved, his eyes cold and calculating. Inside however, he was filled to the brim with excitement at the most recent turn of events. Not the departure of Fraser, no, that was a terrible shame. He instinctively rubbed his neck as the euphemism of a dog being let off its leash came to mind. He'd had that freedom as a vigilante, but now he served with the most loyal and diligent of the Queen's soldiers.

He brought his mind back to the room. The flickering lights, the cigar smoke, the other people.

Despite his many admirations for his wingmen, he'd made little effort to befriend them. Something which would have to be changed in the future, he thought as he jotted it down in his mental notebook. He didn't know who would be best for the position, which meant for him the best option would be to abstain. But would that be perceived as a sign of weakness? A sign that he were not able of coming up with his own decisions?

Yes, it would. His next option was to, as the old saying went, go with the flow. He stood up from his chair, but unlike Moore chose to remain standing at his place. He faced the Duke.

'Mister Wright.'

He calmly took his seat again, and blended back in with the furniture.

McAstin was sitting in the darker part of the room, hiding behind the smoke of his cigarette, a tall glass of scotch in his fingers.

The recent developments left some impressions to him, both the war with Rheinland, and the Gallics, beginning to roar in Sirius. Something needs to be done, of course. Something needs to be done. Bretonia needs to remain strong, and everybody knows, that her majesties most dilligent interdiction wing has a share of this.

*We are the most dilligent* he thought to himself. *The name isn't far fetched. So we need to stay operative.*

He waves the smoke away, and stands up. "Gentlemen, I'm not a fan o' votings. We don' vote, we rant. We roar. We... " He takes a short break, and a deep breath. "We inspect other shippers cargo hol's. Arrr. I agree, that situation is special. If I'm forced to vote..." He faces the duke. "My vote goes to Wright. I'm thristy, 'n need a new scotch."
He gulps down the rest of his glass.

"Gentlemen, let's finish this quickly. Some transports yell to be inspected. And the war effort yells for their cargo."

James McAstin sits down again, being glad of having a new scotch, and not having said too much.

Leroy Jenkins was totally wasted that night.

He Heard all that needed to be heard, but wasnt sober enough to make a clear succinct descision.

Leroy Stubled to face the duke

"Moowre, sah"

he then collapsed back to his seat.

The Duke of Norfolk pointed at Moore.

He has my vote.

Forutunatus buried himself deeper into his chair. The bastards were doing it again! He'd had the leadership of the privateers before, back when Stuart was originally under house arrest all those years ago, and one thing that had cemented in his mind was that he had no intention of getting stuck in that seat again. He had to find a way of getting Philippa back. That wasn't going to happen if he had to take the reigns here. He stood.

"Moore get's my nod." He stayed standing briefly. He wanted to tell them all to choose Moore, choose McAstin, hell choose Nobby Preston if they could dig him out of whatever hole he'd buried himself in, just not him. He slumped back into his chair with a sigh. That wasn't the Privateers way. Things would be what they were, Fortunatus knew that much for sure.

Fergus Campbell was not a happy man at the best of times. Today he was pissed. The self-styled Captain, wearing the rags of an old Bretonian Navy uniform, barged the doors open to the forgotten bar. As he swaggered in, he stared down at the rabble of men and women sitting around the table at the back. With little fear, and quite a lot of Dutch courage, he moved to stand at the corner of the table - Only to be blocked in his path.

"Move it."

He threw the man to one side and as he did so, pistols and assorted arms were directed at him.

"What, ye think ye boys can organise a frecking party wi'out meh? Aye, I should'a known ye would'a been behind this lil' get-tae-gether Nerfolk! Dinnae ken ye' gotta 'way wi' whit ye' put me through Nerfolk! I've nae forgotten. Aye, fiove years o'confinement 'coz of yer stupid muppet police aye?! I've nae forgotten!"

A hush surroundeds the table, as an unnamed privateer whispers something in Fergus's ear. He bursts into laughter.

"Aww ye've got tae.. ahaha! HAHA! Ye've got some balls Nerfolk.. Pity they're never used fer tha' right reasons aye? HAH!"

Daring the men to pull the trigger, he reaches behind him. The pistols point at his head. He looks sarcastically at the rabble and puts on his best mocking tone, only saved for moments of utter victory.

"Naw ye daft buggers, this be a celebration o'tha posh muppets assecendace! This be tha' last bottle o'tha red crap I nicked off a GMS transport. Drink tae tha' last drop 'coz Oi've seen tha' darkness tha' comes tae-wards us. Ye go'n hide on New L'ndon Nerfolk! Us C'ptains'll dae tha' hard work n'actually keep these buggers aff balance."

He drunk straight from the bottle.

"Now, Mistah Moore - I would say tha' yer a pisch C'ptain tae ma-sel, but ye've got more balls n'Nerfolk any day o'tha week. N'these buggers round dis table still ain't lowered their guns at meh. So, I conceed pal. I speak fer tha' crew o'tha Sgean Dubh. Yer tha' man wi' tha' rioght stuff, take us forward n'show tha' posh "nitwit" tha' wat for aye!"

He takes another swig and beams an idiotic grin at the Admiral.