Commodore Stuart flinched in pain as the uniformed police officers dragged him from his luxurious hotel suite. He didn't resist, there was no point in it. He'd smooth-talk his way out later.
"You have the right to-" started the first policeman.
"Aye, I know, buddy, care to spare me it?" butted in the smart-mouthed privateer as he was handcuffed and put into the back of a Police Authority vehicle.
"Sorry, sir, but rules are rules..." responded the officer with obvious embarassment and regret.
Andrew shrugged as the copper recited his rights. He tried to bury his head in his hands, but found that having them cuffed behind his back made this a touch awkward.
"So chief, what's the charges?" asked the prisoner in as upbeat a tone as possible, receiving no response from the stony-faced BPA cops. They stared straight ahead as the vehicle buzzed through the orange evening sky.
"Christ, it wouldn't hurt to chirp up a bit lads! The boys scored a shipment of some fish that you aren't meant to cook and some of that burny rice-wine stuff last week, it would fair cheer you up... no?"
No response. They didn't even seem to blink.
"Oh, you don't like foreign food, right? No harm in that. Fish is to be battered and served with chips and if you're really fancy, a squeeze of lemon juices, am I right or am I right? Ah..."
Stuart found that keeping his spirits up and making jokes was too much of an effort as his semi-put-on laughter died off. He spent the rest of the thankfully short journey in silence before being dragged out in front of New Scotland Yard itself.
"Hey... you guys aren't meant to take criminals here... this is where the brass do..."
This time it was Sir Andrew that was cut off, but by the bright lights and noise of nearby news reporters, which drew his attention to the fact that the brass actually was here, and nobody was being quiet about it.
"Bugger... you're that Alan Lauderdale fella, right? What am I in for? Tax evasion? I've degrees in Economics, I do my taxes just ri-"
The by-the-book Superintendent responded matter of factly, all of this being recorded live.
"It is Sir Alan Lauderdale, Mister Andrew Stuart, and you are to be tried for the crimes of Piracy in the Void of Space and shall also face a military Court Martial regarding your misrepresentation of Her Majesty's Armed Forces in the public sphere."
Sir Alan looked to the reporters, and before any could begin to speak, he uttered, "No questions."
The cocky Commodore responded before taking time to pause and think...
"Misrepresentation?! I'm a bloody war hero, you pen-pushing old bastard! And it is Sir Andrew Stuart!"
He flashed a slightly fearful grin at the camera crews, "Quote me on that."
Sir Andrew Stuart was dragged off with little ceremony at all, and had already begun to write his trial defence in his head...
It wasn't a tower, of course. It was barely a prison, really. Just an unassuming apartment complex on a small rise just outside of the old city. One could honestly step outside and see the Bretonia in the distance. A bit less than high class, but not at all pedestrian. One could imagine the Princess Isabella slipping a chaperone, and swiping in at the guard station on the third floor, where one had to change elevators. Guards who were getting a vacation tomorrow.
"I'm getting old, you know. And my job's not gotten easier with experience."
"Why do you always start with your age, Richard? You look twenty years younger than you are, and are the healthiest bastard I've ever met."
*Sigh* "Martial arts and a good diet...and I've never been on Leeds." Windsor said, with a ghost of a smile
"Know your enemy, eh?...Its been a while."
....The two played a simple game of chess, and then a rather more complex game involving ships and soldiers and loyalties. The point being, of course, to rob the bastards.....
"I'll be back." As Windsor pulled on his jacket, an envelope fluttered to the floor.
"I'm always here...hey, ympf." Stuart pulled his mouth close around his words, and Richard Edward Windsor dropped his gaze. Old eyes, a veteran with a thousand yard stare and sorrow twinkling in their corners, an old man who knew exactly why a lad of sixteen years rather than eighteen made the best soldier, who knew the men on the other side of the guns hadn't ever wanted to harm him or his, eyes that gazed right through a man and knew him, that Stuart had seen maybe once or twice before.
Stuart grew bored of the game. Even with Windsor's grasp of tactics, he never did get that the whole point wasn't to destroy the enemy's strength but to target said strength's source... which in real-terms meant the infrastructure; the coin-purse.
Dirty old bastards like him take the fun right out of everything... thinking they know it all, even though I've probably put more noodle-munchers to the...
Sir Andrew stopped thinking, reality hitting him like the latest sushi-flinging advance in torpedo technology.
Windsor came back, again and again, month after month...The old man was aging, and it was beginning to show, every time he walked though the guard station, up the stairs, past Stuart's prison gate...
They both sat down to play chess, now more a code than a game...
"My niece is in medical more than in a Templar, these days, Andrew...we're all slipping...The Pendragon's not rebuilt, and the moral is breaking down...I don't know what to do about the front lines..Stuart, son...I'm getting past the breaking point here...and I dont know what else to do..." He was nearly crying now, his eyes sparkling.
"When did I become the confessional?"
"I, I don't know...you're authorized..nobody else I trust has the clearance...We stole a chimera. Its worse than we thought...that thing...the new line of them...They're little monsters, Stuart. We tell the flight crews that the Templars are even matches, but the truth is...well, that damn bird...Fightercraft have been the key to this war, and theirs is better...far and away the best ship I've ever laid eyes on."
"The best? Maybe. Maybe if you follow the goddamn manual, you old fool."
Stuart was angry. They should have listened to him. He'd downed three of the KNF's elite from the controls of a Hussar before, completely ignoring standard flight procedures.
"We're sticking to the book too much, chief. Wars are different these days. Get the kids out in light fighters."
He called his pilots 'kids', in spite of half of them being his senior in age.
"Templars aren't built for taking down their so-called 'ultimate' fighters... they're the ships that should be used for, you know, scanning for drugs and junk like that."
He let the irony sink in as the uniformed nobleman nodded, understanding. Sir Andrew, Knight of the Realm, convicted criminal laughed.
"Yeah, the bobbies, the cops are flying what the military should be piloting... and vice-versa. Kinda funny, eh?"
Richard sighed, not appreciating the humour in the situation. The privateer, pirate, or whatever-you-wanted-to-call-him reached under his seat and pulled out a bottle of what looked to be some damn fine whiskey, offering a glass to his visitor.
"Where did you get that? Isn't this meant to be a prison?" asked a now-amused Windsor.
"I have my ways. I don't even like whiskey... but, you know, it's nice to be hospitable if one has guests."
He smiled and continued in a conspiratorial tone.
"Right. You know I'm an avid student of unorthodox strategies... be it shield-killers and mines or robbing 'civilian' transports..."
Somehow he managed to make it sound like his targets throughout the war weren't actually civilians. Valid targets or such like. A lot of them did carry military equipment... it was just like him to insert such doubt into the conversation.
"I've a new plan to deal with these nippy wee buggers, boss. Sure, it isn't original, but it'll work."
The privateer may have been locked up, but he was far from idle. He poured himself a measure of whiskey and sniffed it with distaste before downing it, wincing as he did so.
"Well... that wasn't such a great plan, but the other one's brilliant..."
"What do you mean 'you disguised a pillow as yourself!?'" fumed an angry chief of police at the top of his voice.
"Well, I would elaborate on the other details of my escape but the nature of my skills and training are on a top-secret, need-to-know-basis and you're not putting me in a mood in which I would indulge you with such classified information, my good man," replied a cheeky, apparently unrestrained Sir Andrew.
The high-ranked copper turned on his heel and stomped off, defeated by a smart-assed, so-called soldier. He couldn't prevent his escape and couldn't lock him back up afterwards on account of his recent pardoning for various offences, including, of course, the jail break.
The pardoning was for the part he played in a recent battle against Kusari forces, using his old gunboat against their agile fighters, scoring an admittedly rather dishonourable victory over their latest assault force.
The Admiralty, seeing his breaking of every rule in the book, had to admit that he had some knack for tactics and strategy, allowing the Queen to pardon him in spite of their general dislike of his manner.
They did veto further production of his new gunboat designs, however, on the grounds that it would cost too much, was unreliable and was 'damned unsporting, old chap'. Typical grumpy old bastards with bad facial hair, he thought, but no surprise there. Back to other crackpot plans.