The Log of the HMAS Marigold: Parts I-V

[MWBailey]

Sergeant Rourke stood in the Wardroom awaiting the arrival of the rest of the expedition's members, Captain Bledsoe of the BHM airship HMAS Marigold opposite him at the head of the table. On the table rested Rourke's scarred and battle-worn NCO saber, a grim reminder that this was not necessarily the benign humanitarian mission it purported to be. Rourke himself wore teh standard Royal Air Service red coat, black trousers and black helmet, goggles atop the brim, and black knee-high cleated lace-up boots. At each place around the table was an envelope containing the objectives of the mission, and the things that they might encounter, as well as a breakdown on the object to be acquired and disposed of; a tin cup for water also occupied each place. A screen dominated the far end of teh room, the already-lit magic lantern for same occupying a small side table beside the captain's chairand filling the room with the aroma of hot paraffin and heated crown glass.

As each member entered, Rourke invited them to take a place at the table. "we'll get started as soon as everyone's 'ere, he said, nodding to each as they entered.

[Evelyn Adler]

Mary Krueger was the first to arrive. The petite blonde in the red Royal Air Service uniform saluted the two officers, then pulled a watch out of her pocket. "I'm not too early, am I?"

Glancing over the envelopes on the table, she found the right place and sat down.

[Stella Gaslight]

Starling ruffled her short sandy blond hair.  She had forgotten how many hassles came with traveling in cities outside of the more relaxed academic zones of learning hospitals.  A lady in pants there was an anomaly to be sure but as long had her patents recovered it didn't matter outside however, it caused all sorts of problems.  Luckily she had a sari decorating her office at the hospital that she was able to wrap around the offending legs.  She looked eccentric bit not wholly objectionable.  She had a wide hat to keep the sun from her blue eyes that she tossed on to a peg with a flourish.  "Hello gents!"  She said with a smile taking her spot at the table.

[walkthebassline]

Morgan strolls in nonchalantly, doffing his hat to all present.

"Greetings to you all. I hope I'm not too late."

The basket hilt of his sword protrudes from a brocade frock coat; he looks like quite the dandy at first glance, from his tall top hat to his polished black boots. Sitting across from the ladies present, he picks up the tin cup before him and sniffs. Setting it back down, he retrieves a small flask from his coat and pours an unknown liquid into the cup. The flask safely stowed, he leans the chair back on it hind legs and takes a sip from his cup.

[The Corsair]

Joe Rooney was an interestingly looking fellow. Sideburns down and collar up as though he were a businessman then no jacket and no tie as though he were a working man. Even so, anything about him that may look proper and polite was somewhat trumped by the awkward contraption secured to his back. Things jutted sideways and the centre protruded outward here and there in a seemingly orderless manner. Then again, anything outside of its intended format is orderless.

He sat with a wedding between a grin and a smirk upon his face, looking at the other few there and taking stock of who he was lending his expertise to.

[MWBailey]

"No, you'e alright, Ma'am," he said to Ms. Krueger. He nodded to  Morgan. "Not late quite yet, Mr. Morgan." Rourke looked around the room, and said, "Well, most of us're here. His lordship should be 'ere shortly.  Lets start introducin' ourselves, so's We know who's who. I'll start, then we'll go 'round the table.

"I'm Hannibal Rourke, Staff sergeant in the 105th Aerial Rangers, branch of Her Majesty's British Air Service. I've served since before we went back and whipped the Zulus at Undili, where I distinguished myself in battle and as an operative for the Intelligence Service. I killed whom I was told to kill, and did it well, be they officers or whatever. I do what's necessary, no matter what it might be. I'm a dab hand with a sword or anything, really, and I can use damned near anything as a weapon. I killed a target with a quill pen, once. In Marrakech, I had firsthand experience in dealin' with the kind of plague, that being the Greenmouth Catatonia, that we'll likely be seein' aboard Treadstone's almighty flagship. Marrakech is also where I met up with 'is lordship, who'll be here shortly. Don't cross 'im or me, and you'll be fine. We'll be opening our envelopes in a minute,"  he said, as one or two absently began picking at theirs, "so if you have no idea what Greenmouth is, or what our target artifact is, don't worry, you will soon."

"Alright, next up?"

[walkthebassline]

"Well, I may as well go next."

*takes a sip from his cup*

"My name is Morgan Redburn, yes as in those Redburns, and I appear to be your pilot today. Much to my parent's chagrin, I can fly anything that flies (and a few that don't) and I can drive those new steampowered carriages with the best of them. I dare say I know more places to by illicit items and substances in most city than most, although I cannot speak for some present here. Flying is my life, and the green fairy provides my lifeblood; take that as you will. Oh, and I'm a fair hand with this sword you see here. The Sergeant and I have worked out my pay already, and he's explained a little bit about our mission, so here I am."

[The Corsair]

He took his opportunity.

"I'm Joe Rooney. I'm in experimental weapons and I get put on the odd mission to field-test certain devices as I see fit. Expect me to be reckless, everything I need to test needs to be tested hard. Also, avoid the business end of any of my weapons because each and every one has a trick of some sort and I'd prefer you don't find out first hand what each trick is."

[Stella Gaslight]

She stood draping the sari on the back of the chair, glad to be rid of the encumbrance. "Starling Scott here and I suppose I will toot my own horn next.  I have been through four cholera outbreaks, three influenza panics and more sleeping sickness cases than I care to count.  I have isolated over 350 different plant toxins and have almost ten different plants I either bread or discovered that bear my name.  I lived in the jungles of India on my own for a year and have a trophy room that I am told puts some lords to same from my time there." The machete that hung from her hip was in a hand made sheath that looked to be made of a tiger pelt.

[Evelyn Adler]

Mary had been taking notes in a small black book; now she put it down on the table, took off the spectacles she was wearing and stood up. Small and slender, with her blonde hair drawn back in a tight bun, dressed in the impeccable red uniform of the Royal Air Service, she appeared rather stern. She gazed calmly at the assembled with her grey eyes before she adressed them. Her English was without any accent.

"Pleased to make your acquaintance. I am Lieutenant Marie-Luise Krueger, this vessel's communication officer. As you may guess from my name, I'm German by birth, but I have been serving in Her Majesty's forces for several years now. I am fluent in five languages and can make myself understood acceptably in a dozen others. I grew up at Berlin's Friedrich-Wilhelms University, so I accquired academic knowledge in most major fields such as history, alchemy, physics, geography and astronomy. My responsibility on the Marigold is to operate all communication devices." She pauses for a moment, looking from one to another, unsmiling.
"And of course I am perfectly able, to take the necessary actions when the time for talking has expired. I'm proficient with most modern firearms as well as with the sabre and several more unusual weapons."

With a slight nod, she took her seat again.

[MWBailey]

After Hawthorne introduced himself as well, Rourke flipped the cover from the Magic lantern's lid, slipped the slide-wheel into position, and stepped over to the porthole and closed the weather hatch to block out the sound of the wind and the engines, while the captain obliged in turning down the lights. With the wardroom thus darkened, it was easy for its occupants to see both the lantern's projection and the contents of their envelopes."Right. Let's get started, then, shall we?" he turned the slide wheel to the first slide: a top-down view photograph of a the gigantic, triple-envelope Mobile Aerodrome dirigible Nirgalian Dagger, which the Treadstone organization used as their flagship. The circumferential airfield with its numerous aircraft dotted about its surface, and the central armed and armoured superstructure (dubbed 'the castle' by the media pundits) were plainly visible.

"This," Rourke said, "Is our first objective; the SS Nirgalian Dagger. We are due to land at the Main Portal, here," he pointed to the relevant place on the photographic image, "in," he checked his watch, a silver turnip-like military timepiece, "approximately three hours from now. Let's get one thing straight from the start, my friends," he added in a slightly sharper tone, "We're here to 'heal the sick, what have become so by no means that is certain' -- or at least, that's what we have to convince them of, so that we can carry out our real mission. If, in fact anybody still remains alive or uninfected to convince. That brings me to the next point. Look in your notes from yer envelopes, and take out this sheet," he held it up for the others to see, "if you will: the Greenmouth Information page."

Rourke turned the wheel so that a new image slid into place: a hand-colored photograph of a Greenmouth Plague victim in Advanced Mode. The green and greenish skin coloration and apparently fungal growths around the mouth, and the vacuous, almost-unseeing expression were obvious and frankly unsettling. "This Greenmouth, my friends. Some of you may have seen it before, but just in case, here it is. The most recent transmission from the Dagger placed the number of Advanced cases to be two-thirds of the officers and men aboard, and roughly half of the Organization's Hierarchy as well. Infection knows no class or rank; anybody can be infected. I'll say this now, and remember it: DON'T let them bite you! And they'll try, they will, and they roams around in packs once there's a lot of 'em. That's what was roamin' the backalleys o' Baghdad just before we left, me 'n the lads. We had the devils own time fightin' our way clear, havin' stepped into the middle of the swarm unawares. Lost the whole bloody unit, I did, except for Dick and Smalls, but some not until we got back. That outbreak in Devonshire? Papers said it was "Influenza." That's a right laugh."

"Influenza doesn't make people give people green mouths and make them form packs and hunt other people to eat." he grimaced ruefully. "That was Smiles, he bit a nurse and several other people before they shot 'im, she bit several more, and then Jamie bit some people, and then the whole east side of the town was one big swarm, and the cavalry were called in. They managed to kill all teh Greenies -- and then they were infected, and had to be killed as well."

"Bottom line: if you see 'em and there's Treadstone folk about what are normal, and the Greenies are still human-like, muzzle 'em however you can, take 'em into medical custody, strap 'em to a stretcher or tie 'em to the furniture, give 'em aid, and stay away from their mouths. So far, nothin's had any effect but sulphur pills, and that just makes 'em wake up and rave -- and puts you at risk of their mouths." he paused, then continued.

"If they're far enough gone to try and bite, and there's healthy Treadstone folk about, the best thing you can do for 'em is kill the greenie or greenies, but do it like its a mercy killing. The Treadstone lot should already know that; they're pretty coldblooded when it comes to killin' their own so their upper crust can survive. Practically fanatics about it, so there shouldn't be any problem about killing the lost causes. HE became deadly serious. "If you're beset by a swarm of the greenies, Whether there's healthy folk of any ilk about or not, KILL the buggers as fast and complete as you can. If there's too many of 'em, fight your way clear and run like living hell. There's no recourse. The swarm is impossible to reason with or cure."

He slid through several more slides, pictures of Treadstone functionaries and higher-ups, including their High Council and High Command, Maps which were also included in ther envelopes, and the Grand Lord President himself, the Honorable Mr. Harcerius Bey. "Looks like a right upper-crust gentleman, doesn't he?" Rourke said. "I met 'im, in Baghdad. A right nice older fellow, Old-World charm an' all that. He was the one asked me an' the lads to 'investigate a situation' in Baghdad's back alleys. Dropped us in the pot, he did, almost like he'd planted that swarm there himself. yeah." Rourke took a sip of water with a bitter expression. "really nice gentleman, that one," he said, the word 'gentleman' dripping in sarcasm. "don't trust 'im any farther'n you can shove 'im -- but keep yer hands off of him. That comes from up top. Unless he's, ahem, infected," Rourke added, an oddly hungry look in his eyes.

Finally, here's our true objective." Rourke said, having replaced the image wheel with a new one. The picture that slid into place was another hand-colored photograph, this one depicting a nattily-dressed fellow with a specimen bag over one shoulder, pistol belt around his waist, and holding, apparently with some difficulty, what was obviously a ledger-sized tablet covered in cuneiform writing. It was a departure from other artifacts of it's type, in that it appeared to be made of gold, yellowish bronze, or perhaps brass. "a daguerreotype of this image is in your envelopes," Rourke said. "And you're right. That's gold. nearly forty pounds of it, in an inch-thick slab. And anybody who's ever touched it without reciting a certain cantrip, which yes, is included in your envelopes, is stricken with this same Greenmouth plague that keeps popping up all over the place. Our job is to retrieve this object, read or recite the cantrip, plus an additional set of phrases which are also in your envelope, and manage a way to get it off of the Dagger and to the rendezvous point in the Canary Islands."

But here's the fly in the pudding, friends: no transmissions, and no answers from the Dagger, have occurred for three days. even their normal patrol and operations chatter has gone silent -- an' the Dagger's been flyin' in a ten-mile circle at half speed for a week. Sources say she's got fuel left for a week at most, and what makes it worse is the storm they're flyin' through is followin' them around in that same circle, like they're the source of it -- or it's target."

[Stella Gaslight]

Every medical school had at least had rumors of Greenmouth if not a few samples of the affected taken at a heavy cost to the researchers involved.  Starling had the misfortune of being on the very outer rim of a outbreak and that had been hell.  Perhaps the fact that she had manged to keep her small clinic safe until they could be evacuated was part of the reason she was chosen for this job.  The aftermath had been horrible, the funeral pyres burned non stop it was one of the few times that going back to London after a job had been a relief.   She had tried to locate the source after that as many all across the world were doing. "Ahh so they did finally track the source of that blight excellent.  I take it we are going to dock in mid air in this storm. Glad I have my rubberized poncho.  I also have some rigging if other need it. The Dagger may not protest our arrival but I bet that phantom storm will.  I can already hear those winds howl."

[walkthebassline]

During the briefing, Morgan drank liberally from his cup, stopping to refill it once with water and whatever is in his flask. After Starling's reaction he said,

"I'm no doctor but that plague sounds a mite nasty. And while I'm on the subject, I'm no doctor. So my professional solution to the plague is this."

Morgan touched his sword's pommel then leaned forward in his chair.

"Now I'm full of compassion and nice feelings, but don't expect too much sympathy where these poor saps are concerned. Also, I would assume that these cantrips are designed to render this hunk of gold harmless? Or is there some other purpose? Just so we're all clear on the eventual outcome."

[MWBailey]

"That's the idea, yes."  Rourke answered. "The Scientific department's at it's wits end, here, Mr. Redburn. That sword may in fact be your best bet indeed, if the infestation is as bad as it could very well be," Rourke said, "and you decide to come with us instead o' stayin' with the Marigold. In fact, if the storm or something else damages the Marigold so we can't use her to get home, you just might get a chance to prove that bit about flyin'  'anything.' " Rourke continued, "The cantrip and the additional words are all that's ever worked, or so our experts in the Home Office tell us. Seems somebody made off with this same tablet several centuries ago, back during the Roman era, and made it all the way to a place called Petra.

"The place used to be a huge factor in the salt, silks and slaves markets. Inside of a year Petra was a ghost town, and now, almost nobody's ever 'eard of it. The only thing that stopped the plague from spreadin' that time was a man named Ahab, what said the words and ended the plague, then took the tablet back to Cutha and buried it, so the story goes, in a place nobody'd look for it. An' there it stayed, until bloody Mr. Bey and his cronies went and dug it up again. Seems they wanted it to use as a terror weapon." Rourke paused, wiped his brow and then opened the porthole again, then slammed it shut as rain and cold air whipped in from outside.

"I'd say they succeeded in the 'terror' part of it at least." HE paused, as if considering if he should say something more, then came to a decision and said, "Funny thing, though. The legend of our Mr. Ahab says that when he spoke the final words, anyone who was freshly bitten returned to normal, and those that had swarmed fell to ash." He shrugged. "That's th' legend, anyway."

[Evelyn Adler]

Mary had continued to take notes during the briefing; now she looked at Rourke.

"Beg your pardon, Sir, but... cantrips? A mysterious storm? With all due respect, but are we sure, these legends are not just fairytales and hokum? There must be a scientific explanation for all this!
Concerning the infected, I happen to agree with Mr. Redburn. This plague must be stopped before it spreads even further, any unreasonable charity from our point may endanger the mission. As cruel as that may be, but you know as the saying goes, the needs of the many outweight the needs of the few. I say, we shouldn't take any chances."

[MWBailey]

"Charity? What charity? I'm talking about covering our arses so we can do just that, end the plague. You can disbelieve all you like, but the fact remains that those are our orders, and personally I prefer to hew to that line. You want to read the journals? In three hours time? Here's Doctor Parnell's Baghdad notes," he pulled a thick sheaf of papers from the valise that sat under the table. "And here are transcripts of the aetheradio dispatches from the Palace of the Sultan of al Kuweit. Last we heard from them was a month ago. You might want to skip to the last three for time's sake. Especially the part about 'Still no discernible cause beyond the bites,' and 'Carbolic Acid just makes the green matter grow around the acidic solution." Then there's the bit at the end, where they're describing the screaming and gunshots from the Sultan's family and retainers as they try and fail to hold off the swarm in the palace."

He looked Lt. Krueger directly in the eye. "I'd love a 'scientific' explanation myself, leftenant, I really would, but the only one that seems to be available at this time, empirically speaking, is that the Greenmouth Plague has no scientific explanation, and everyone who's tried to study it is either dead or a shambling Greenie." He paused, seemed to come to a sudden realization, and then turned to Starling and said, "Huh. Goodness me, but that's not really true, is it, Miss Starling? What insight of an empirical nature can you supply?"

[Stella Gaslight]

Starling held her chin  for a moment then smiled. "What Rourke said is true, Greenmouth defies all attempts ay cataloging and  study. At the moment we can only describe the natural phenomenon it imitates.  My own look at what samples I have lead me to believe it is a kind of parasite capable of changing body chemistry and behavior.  Now mind I don't have enough of a study to fully substantiate this but this is what I think the life cycle of this bug is.

If you are bitten and it brakes the skin the eggs are introduced to your soft tissue where they do their best to burrow in to the blood stream.  This is the normalcy period that can last for hours or days depending on the subject. Once they have reached the area near the heart they hatch in to two types a for lack of a better term male that has secretions that change the body's chemistry bringing on something almost like Toxoplasma gondii that that recently been found in cats. Causing then to seek out other humans to bite and giving the a kind of maddened euphoria that keeps them going despite injuries and their own failing health.  Now the females go to the saliva glands releasing spores that cause the green fungal growth and make the normally hostile mouth a perfect breeding ground and also surprising kill any other illnesses or remedies that try to get in.  I can only guess that the reason for that is that they want their host to remain alive as long as possible to keep spreading the next generation.  If saying a reciting poem stops it then hallelujah because we are reaching our limits of what medical science can do."  She could see the fires now devouring the villagers that had been so kind before the greenies came.  A bit of that would always burn in her.   

[MWBailey]

" 'If it breaks the skin.' Now, that's interestin' --!" Rourke broke off as the ship did its best to imitate a bloodhound bounding over a fence. The captain said, "You stay here, Redburn, I'll see to the helm and call you if we need your expertise." He left at not quite a scramble.

"If it breaks the skin," Rourke repeated. "I wonder if armpour would help, or just give 'em a can to pry open. Huh. Canned human. Lovely image, that." He shuddered involuntarily at the memory of a fallen comrade. Best to leave that where it lies an' get on with things, he snapped to himself.

"Right. Now, just a little instruction about where to hit 'em so's you get the quickest kill." He pulled down on the screen and slid it back into the ceiling, as if it were a spring-loaded roll-up window shade. he picked up his sword from the table, and used it, still scabbarded, to point to a diagram drawn on a large sheet of newsprint mounted on the wall; on it was drawn a good likeness of a human torso and head.

"The best places are here, the head, and here, at the heart. If you have a saber or similar edged weapon, its best to cut or slash through to the heart; a thrust can also be efficacious, but there's a risk of missing if you're not an expert at that kind of kill. Guns will do the trick, but you still have to take out either the heart or the brain. the heart's not too difficult for a handgun, but the brain is problematic for anything smaller than, say, my service revolver."

He unholstered the weapon and held it up so they could all see it. ".454 caliber Webley. one shot'll usually blow a greenie's brainbox apart from almost any angle and destroy enough of the contents to effect a clean kill. In regular, normal, healthy humans, there would be a very slim chance of surviving such a wound, but apparently the disease does somethin' to the greenie's brain that causes the shot to be effective. "A word to th' wise, Hawthrne, he said, "That hideout gun of yours'll be best for shootin' the heart." he turned back to the rest, and said, "with a saber, just hack into the brainbox. detaching the head will also work, but as Miss Starlight has already hinted, teh throat is a part of the disease's breeding ground, and breaching that pathway might cause exposure, so avoid that unless there';s no alternative. Of course," he added, "in a general melee, especially one like we'll be likely to encounter, that level of thought and compassion could get you killed."

"Finally," he said, "If all else fails, grab a table and smash off its legs, or find some other kind of club if you can't find anything that cuts or stabs or shoots. Whackin' 'em hard with heavy clubs in th' same places as where you shoot or stab 'em works as well."

"That's about it;  Any more questions or concerns -- ?" he broke off again as the ship bucked once again, then did it again several times in a row, as Lightning flashed outside the porthole and deafening thunder rolled. "Mr Redburn to the Bridge, please, I repeat, Mr. Redburn to the bridge, this is the captain speaking," The squawkbox by the door crackled at them.

[walkthebassline]

Redburn let out a ponderous sigh and stood, but then quickly hustled to the door. Before walking through it he turned and looked back at Miss Starling.

"At some point you must tell me what the effect of alcohol in the bloodstream does to these pesky parasites."

With that he put on a pair of round, blue-lensed spectacles and ran off to the bridge.

[MWBailey]

Captain Bledsoe was a good pilot. one had to be to command a ship like teh Marigold, which was rigged especially for navigating through extreme weather conditions, and fighting through uprisings and yet still saty light and maneuverable enough to grab sky and get up to teh upper air in short order.

Yes, the Marigold was built for bad weather -- but the storm she was in now was worse than anything her designers or her builders had anticipated. Shearing winds, vortii, lightniong, veritable reefs of hail and rain. It was all here, and all hitting at once.

"Ah!" Bledsoe said with a tone of relief, upon seeing Redburn enter the control car. "Glad you're here, Mr. Redburn. Having a devil of a time keeping her on course. This storm's like all the hurricanes in the last twenty years rolled into one, say I. We're picking up a weak signal from what seems to be the eye. Nothing complicated, just 'S.O.S.' and 'NO APPROACH'... But we're using it to home in on."

Back in teh Wardroom, Rourke ended teh meeting. "let's all get ourselves ready, he said. We'll need to hit the deck running whatever happens. If anyone is lacking a weapon or gear, see teh Bosun two doors down the gangway to the right. Let's meet up aft, in the debarkation hold, in ..." he checked his watch again. "two and one-half hours. That's all til  then."

[Private Weasel]

Hawthorne leans forward and carefully places crystal tumbler on the table, his Lordship’s long and perfectly manicured fingers hang languidly on the rim of the glass and smell of expensive spirits wafts across the table as he speaks. Those of you who have met Hawthorne before know that his silence is uncharacteristic of the usually loquacious noble.  Something must be on his mind.
 
“Before we leave, I must make something perfectly clear.”

He pauses, to absentmindedly swill the single ice cube around the bottom of the empty glass

“We are obviously all highly skilled in our particular fields and in any usual situation would be a significant asset to our respective nations. However,”

He pauses once again, this time to glance around the room, ensuring that he has everybody’s attention.

“In this situation, we are expendable. If we are infected, we are not coming home. If any of you tries to break this quarantine then I will shoot you. Likewise, if I get infected, I expect to be put out of my misery, if at all possible with a decent brandy or a pistol in my hand.”

“Saying that however, I think I would prefer a suicide mission than a bullet if I get compromised."

"Are we all undestood?"

[The Corsair]

"I wouldn't go so far as to say highly skilled, but yes I understand you clearly."
He let out a laugh after a short pause, eyebrows raised and cheeks crumpled to say 'lighten up'.
"I'll be wherever action'll happen first." He informed before promptly getting up, shaking hands with Rourke and heading out of the meeting room at speed. He wanted to be on the bridge, he wanted to see what was happening where and when. He would strike first no matter what and he needed to be informed to do that.

[Private Weasel]

With his grave announcement said Hawthorne does indeed appear to “lighten up”. Pulling himself casually out of his chair and pads lightly across to the door, pausing as he gets there as if recalling one last piece of information.

“I will be on the observation deck for the next hour” he comments turning back to the room, “I fully intend to raise a glass to the Empire and anything else you might believe in before we go, I would be very pleased for the company.”

And with that he departs.

[walkthebassline]

On the bridge, Redburn quickly took the helm and did his best to weave in and out of the worst parts of the storm.

"You see, the winds can be used to your advantage, just like in a ship down on the water. Its all a matter of ones perspective. Now hush while I fly."

Slowly but surely the rocking of the ship lessened a bit. The storm was still raging, but the Marigold was working with the wind not against it. His brow furrowed in concentration, Redburn did his best to become one with the ship, flying by touch and feel as well as by sight. His piloting was erratic, but effective.

[The Corsair]

The Marigold was by no means an enormous ship so it was a testament to the increasing ferocity of the surrounding storm that on his short journey to the bridge Joe found himself kicked thoroughly sideways on about seven occasions. It was odd, though, that despite the rising intensity of the storm the frequency of wild bucks seemed to decrease as time went on. Something, Joe decided, was making the Marigold fly better than any ship should be able to.

When he reached the bridge, Joe discovered that something was Captain Redburn. After a moment of appreciative silence and observation, he addressed Redburn, aware that he was temporarily compromising the man's concentration.
"Projected flight duration, Redburn?"