The Sky Thief

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Science Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic







 

THE SKY THIEF

 

A titan wave, nightmarish and unstoppable, rose in the distance. Primus shielded his eyes from the spray. Shipmen manned their stations while Secundus initiated breakaway. The wave's champaign crest was now visible beneath the copper sky. 
“Raise the foils,” Primus shouted.
“Firm,” Secundus’ voice came back.
The Sky Thief nosed up and down, riding the waves. The mechanical whine of the lower foils retracting up into the hull of the ship could faintly be heard over the crashing of the swells. 
Primus braced himself. Everyone on board did the same. There was a noise from below—the foils were fully retracted. A wall of golden water loomed before them. The Thief ascended the base of the wave, now fully within its apocalyptic shadow.
"Fire the chute!" 
There was a thunderclap as the cannon fired, launching a projectile into the aft sky. Far above, the body of the projectile split open, releasing a massive parachute which was anchored by carbon cables into the very bones of the Thief. A tremendous heave broke the ship free of the wave—all that was needed for flight on a low gravity planet like Water.
"Sails!" shouted Primus.
From the sides of their vessel, wing-like sails extended rapidly, catching the winds with an immediacy that left everyone aboard feeling as though their insides had plummeted into their boots. 
The crest of the titan broke just beneath the bow as it fell toward the surface of the ocean where it finally exploded, its shock wave rolling upward like the aftermath of a nuclear blast. Again the crew braced themselves as the Sky Thief shot upward.
Secundus strode over to Primus.
"Sir, shall I command the draftsman to keep us aloft?"
"As long as possible," Primus replied, stroking his greying, disheveled beard.
Abarth NacLeesson lingered on deck just long enough to taste the winds with his tongue before proceeding below deck. Primus’ quarters were in the aft of the ship, mid-level typically, which in this case was just above the hull quarters and just below the main deck. This location meant that, in the event of a hull breach, Primus would have time to jettison the escape pod located in his quarters before the water overtook his cabin. 
There were of course other escape pods for the crew, but if the vessel needed to be abandoned, it was crucial that the Primus survive, as all the pods linked to form a secondary vessel. Such a vessel required a Primus in order to keep the chain of command from breaking down, and to protect the vessel from other pirates. A well known, well respected Primus was as much a deterrent to other pirates as the capabilities of the vessel he commanded. Primus' were master tacticians in almost every case, because of years of hard lessons or because of past experience with a military institution. Pirates only selected the very best as their Primus. 
Abarth was a legend. He was known all over the world, as was his vessel. He would have loathed the fact that he was a legend, were it not for the fact that he really didn’t care.
He had stopped caring about most things decades earlier, while hanging from a cable ladder trying to save the vessel he had been in command of. At the time, Primus’ went down with their ships. It was the thing to do. The gods smiled down on you.
The rival Primus, a cyborg, had severed one of the hydraulic cables on his left arm and run the stream of slick fluid down the ladder. Abarth, thinking he was clever, had used a torch to ignite the fluid, hoping to incinerate his enemy. The rival Primus was burned alive, but so was Abarth's face—right before he fell almost to his death.
Now that they were aloft, Abarth took time to collect his thoughts. They would only remain aloft for an hour, assuming that the draftsman did his job well. Abarth hoped that would provide them with enough time to outrun the storm. Staying aloft any longer would only attract the attention of the Nargawks. The cursed, gods-defiling Nargawks. Abarth spat on the floor of his cabin. 
They were an introduced species. The bastard World Leadership Organization had introduced them from another planet in order to render impossible, any aerial piracy on G-582—their own planet, otherwise known as Water.
Huge as they were, the Nargawks preyed upon everything above one thousand feet and below five thousand feet. Only the bravest or daftest pirates went above five hundred. And to make it past five thousand was known as stealing the sky. 
There was a knock at the door. Abarth greeted it sternly.
"Afternoon, Primus," said Miles Barash, second in command.
"Miles."
"We're headed in the general direction of Reef,” Miles said, his brown eyes twinkling.
"I know," Abarth replied matter-of-factly.
"The men could use a break..."
"Could they now?"
"Firm."
Abarth squinted his good eye at Miles who, even after all this time, struggled to maintain his composure aboard ship.
"Give the order to the draftsman,” Abarth commanded, stifling a smirk. Miles’ gait was noticeably lighter as he left the room.
Reef was aptly named, for it was in fact a reef. There weren't many on Water, just as there wasn't much in the way of land. Places like Reef were used as resupply ports and along with that there naturally followed the merchants of every sort, selling their exotic wares or their exotic selves. As Abarth ascended the stairs to the main deck, he heard the draftsman holler, "Coming down. Reef ahead!"
The Thief buffeted upon the lower current as she made her way toward the surface. Reef's port, a scattered array of vessels, docks and cables, was crawling with people. Once the Thief had mag-locked at dock,  her crewmen slid down cables and descended her ramps like animals released from captivity. 
Abarth knew where they were headed: knitting supplies. They were after wool. It was rare; it was valuable and because it was both; it was scarce. He who got to it first made away like a true pirate. There were so many other fabric options from waterproof to photovoltaic, but pirates preferred wool. It could be made from one's own hands into any shape necessary. It was warm even when wet, and it was fashionable—at least among pirates. 
Abarth, outfitted in his favorite knee length wool skirt and silk blouse—both masculine and fashionable—gazed back at the Thief admiringly. She was a beautiful vessel: clean lines swept gracefully from her thunderbird bow to her stately stern. Midnight black was her color; a cue to her lightness and fleetness, both of which were a product of her carbon fiber construction. No ship broke surface or rode drafts like she did. Many vessels had pursued her, even to the sky sea, but she had always outrun them.
“Crusty Bastard?" inquired Miles.
"Where else?" Abarth replied, smoothing out his beard.
The Crusty Bastard stank. It always had–of fish, of smoke and most of all, of desperation. Everything about Reef was transient: most notably, the people. Abarth, like anyone, felt some anticipation regarding what new faces he might encounter. But he was not desperate. He had done his share of plundering. He just wanted to sit back with a strong drink and take it all in. Miles, on the other hand, was rapidly transforming from a steadfast Secundus to a shameless strumpet. 
"Always a plunderess, never a plunderer..." Abarth teased Miles, as he leaned back and put his feet up. Miles slapped his own ass and disappeared into the crowd.
Halfway through his second pint, Abarth caught the scent of something rich and exotic. As he scanned the room, he almost failed to notice the shift in the seat beneath him. 
"And who might you be?" purred a voice beside him. Abarth turned to look directly into a pair of sparkling, azure eyes which were framed by eyelashes as black as the Thief. Waves and curls of obsidian hair cascaded past her cheeks and onto her shoulders. For a moment, Abarth wanted nothing more than to run his hands through those curls. 
"Your captive, it would seem."
Her eyebrow rose inquisitively. 
"I couldn't leave this seat even if I wanted to," Abarth clarified. She smiled. 
"And why is that?"
Abarth leaned forward until he could feel her breath upon his face. "Because you're in the way." An ordinary woman might have expressed some surprise. But as he suspected, this was no ordinary woman. She threw her head back and laughed. It was an intoxicating sound.
"I see. And just what are you going to do about it?" she taunted, a hint of a razor’s edge in her tone. Abarth pulled her from the waist until their bodies pressed together. He could feel her heart racing. He could also feel the sharp tip of her dagger pressed between his ribs. She was no ordinary woman.
He had little choice. He pulled the trigger, sending waves of electricity coursing through her body. She writhed in his arms, defiance held fast in her beautiful eyes. And then she went limp. He caught and lowered her gently to the seat. Tucking one lock of her hair away from her eyes, he composed himself, stood and exited the tavern. The night air was cool and crisp and the moons shone brightly, forever near one another but forever separate. 
The shadow of his one true love reached across the dock and almost to the houses, where finger-like charcoal projections danced in the melancholy light. Abarth sighed as he ran his hand along her hull. 

*

Abarth awoke. He looked around his quarters. They were comfortable–nice even–but they were nothing next to the lavish quarters of the cloud-born. Like everyone below, Abarth was in exile. His parents for ‘political espionage’. Miles' grandparents for—of all things—stealing. Every family had a story. But pirates were pirates precisely because they thought those stories were a giant, stinking pile of shit. No one knew the real reason for exile. But it wasn't a matter of blood. No family below or above was without a story of exile.
There were still shipmen returning from the night's escapades. Abarth could hear them stumbling up the ramps, running into closed doors or puking. They wouldn't be breaking port for at least four hours. That was fine: there was still contraband to move. Thankfully, the Thief couldn't have been tracked because of the storm. The cloud-born had their own ships and to their credit, they managed them fairly well—but they weren't water-born. Every few decades they attempted aerial raids. 
Fortunately for the pirates and unfortunately for the cloud-born, those raids always ended in disaster. The nargawk population had, much to everyone's surprise, turned out to be all but impossible to control. They owned the skies. Just as they preyed on pirate vessels for attempting to steal back the sky, they preyed on cloud-born for attempting to administer water-born affairs. 
Indeed, all one needed to do on any cloudless day was look up. The skies were a constant waking nightmare, swimming as they were with the jet, leathery, wraith-like bodies of hundreds of thousands of nargawks, displaced and hungry. Abarth, making his way down to inspect the hold, hummed a chanty to himself. He never saw it coming. But he recognized the scent before he sank into the black.
“Wake up,” Abarth heard and felt the whisper in his ear. He opened his eyes, unsurprised and surprised. Of course she wanted revenge. But how she had gone unnoticed on the Thief—that was surprising...and vexing. He wanted to run his hands through his hair. Instead, he merely tested their bindings. 
“Really?” she said, noticing the movement. “I’m a pirate. Knots are sort of my thing.”
Abarth smirked. “You’re not.”
Her hair whipped slightly as she turned back to face him. “Yes—”
“No,” Abarth interrupted, now aware that he was sitting in the hold of a ship, and certain that the person sharing the hold with him was not a pirate. Her body didn’t move right. Her balance didn’t quite follow the ship. There was a stiffness, a shifting and an accommodation, rather than the steadfastness that only sea legs had. She was land-born, maybe, but probably cloud-born. 
“Those are not sea legs,” he offered the silence.
She sighed. “Well, that pretty much undoes the whole thing, doesn’t it?” She pulled out a dagger. Abarth didn’t even flicker an eye. 
“Sea or sky burial?” she asked, turning the tip of the dagger against her palm.
He had heard of sky burial. A body was thrown overboard, falling not into the depths of the sea, but into the ravenous clutches of swarming Nargawks instead, not even one piece of it ever reaching the water below. It was a cloud-born thing. And it was the admission he hadn’t expected to receive so readily.
“I think you know the answer to that,” he replied, meeting her eyes for the first time. To her credit, she held his gaze. Many found his scarred face intimidating.
“Interesting,” she mused. “I would have thought a cloud-born would want a cloud-born burial.” Abarth felt his heart stir, and he clearly failed to hide his surprise.
“That’s right, Abarth NacLeeson—you're no water-born,” she smiled, “and those are not true sea legs.”
He felt the cut from her words deeper than that of any dagger. His mind—his memories—were a squall now, roiling and rippling. Her statement pulled at things anchored in the depths of his subconscious mind. 
“And you’re going to help us, Abarth NacLeeson,” she continued, the knowing apparent behind her brilliant eyes. “You’re going to help us restore order to this godforsaken planet,” she spat. There was a lurch which Abarth recognized as breakaway. And then there was lift, but the angle of ascent was unsettling. It was too steep. They were headed up. 

*

Miles Barash tried his best to squint away the searing sunlight threatening to melt his brain. Something stirred next to him. Memories of last night came rushing back to the forefront of his mind, crashing against his sense of awareness with all the subtlety of a ship’s bell in a hurricane. 
“G—good morning,” came a voice from beside him. There it was. The memory. The Crusty Bastard. Dancing, drinking, a cute land-born beau and more drinking. Some stumbling, falling onto his bed, laughter, steaminess and then sleep. The cute land-born beau was not supposed to be here. It was crew only on the Thief. Primus would make him scrub the toilets with his bare hands for this. 
“Go, go, go,” Miles said, ushering cutie in the general direction of his clothing. Cutie understood, gathered his belongings, opened the viewport and jumped out. A splash followed. Miles ran to the viewport. Cutie winked, pretended to bathe himself, and swam off. Landies knew ship rules well. Miles winked back. It was time to wake the crew. 
“So, nobody’s seen Primus?” Miles asked. The crew, assembled on deck and looking about as ugly as was to be expected, shook their heads. Miles stifled his concern. “Scour every inch of this ship and then hit land. I want him located within the hour.” 
The men disassembled with haste. Miles tried to retrace his memories. Primus had been seated at a table. It was hazy, but there had been a woman. A beautiful woman—too beautiful for the Crusty Bastard. Even his fleeting memory of her gave the impression of status. A Primus, maybe, or land-born—but not a reefer. It was a start.
Miles put his feet up, leaning back. Primus had done the same not so many hours ago. But the booth gave up none of its secrets until Miles caught a scent—cloud flower. The rarest contraband on Water. The flowers, delicate and no larger than a fingernail, were held aloft in the sky-current. Only those pirates that stole the sky harvested them. Otherwise, cloud flower were a luxury known only to the cloud-born. Only one pirate had ever stolen the sky. A pirate who had sat right where Miles was sitting. And the woman who sat next to him had been wearing the most valuable perfume on the planet. Primus would have recognized that scent immediately. 
Miles stood. It would not be a simple matter of finding him. The Thief was going to have to live up to its namesake. And that meant he would need to become the second pirate on Water to steal the sky—or he, the Thief and her crew would become yet another chanty for pirates to sing about. 
“You’re gonna try, aren’t you?” Abarth asked.
“No,” his captor answered. “You are.”
Abarth looked up, realization slowly settling in.
“You’ve done it before,” she continued. 
Reluctantly, Abarth nodded. 
“Well then, Primus...the deck awaits you.”
“I never take command of a vessel until I know the name of her...commander.”
“Fine,” she replied, stepping closer to Abarth. “Myrrhda,” she continued, making one clean cut through the bindings securing Abarth’s wrists to the chair. “That’s my name and I will gut you like a quadropod if you even think about trying anything.”
“You have my word as a Primus.”
Myrrhda stepped back, glared at Abarth, and motioned for the deck. He stood, stretching his back as he did. He was curious to see what sort of vessel he had agreed to command. And if she could in fact steal the sky. Breaking through the Nargawks required a fast, impervious vessel. Even a ship as customized as the Thief had lost half her crew. 
Myrrhda watched him, her expression quizzical. She was probably wondering what he was thinking. As if to confirm his thoughts, she said, “She’s not the Thief.”
“I know,” Abarth replied. “I can tell by the way she moves.”
“Well, we weren’t able to find your builder,” said Myrrhda. She scowled as she pushed open the deck hatch. “You’d think a planet covered almost entirely by water wouldn’t be able to hide a shipyard capable of building something like the Thief,” she grumbled. Abarth smiled.
“But apparently Water has her secrets.”
“Just like you,” Abarth replied, taking in the deck. Myrrhda scowled again. Or maybe it was the same scowl. She was far too high-strung to run a ship—especially one with eyes for the sky. But she had the makings of a Primus. Abarth stamped his foot. Carbon deck. That was a good start—nargawks couldn’t chew through carbon. And it was light. He walked to the ships’ edge, peered overboard and smiled. She wasn’t carbon in her bones—he had seen that below deck—but she was armoured with it. The masts were carbon, the steering column was carbon, and the sails were...not spider silk. Abarth frowned. 
“What?” Myrrhda asked.
“The sails.”
“What about them?”
“They’re going to be chewed to pieces.”
Myrrhda snorted. “Well, apparently there are some things you don’t know.” Abarth cocked an eyebrow. “Feel them,” she gestured, “they’re cellulose nanofiber. They’re stronger than spider silk.”
Abarth rubbed the material between his thumb and index finger. It was a marvel to behold. The thief was going to need a set of these. He looked over at Myrrhda, amazed. 
“Do you really think anyone on this gods-forsaken planet could produce better sails than the sky-born?” she said, sarcasm oozing from her words. When she put it that way, it was impossible to argue. Her people literally lived on the wind. Abarth looked up. Nargawks hovered in the distance, waiting. He took in the rest of the ship, coming to stop at the wheel. His hands fell onto its polished surface. 
“What’s she called?” 
“The Nova,” Myrrhda answered, clearly proud. Abarth nodded.
“She has a good name,” he exhaled. “She may yet steal the sky.”

*

“You want to do what?” Rigs, Secundus of the Sky Thief asked, incredulous. 
“I don’t want to do anything, Secundus,” Miles answered. “I must, and I will steal the sky. You can continue to serve as Secundus, or you can tread water,” Miles, Primus of the Thief stated. Rigs glowered. The steel toes of his mechanical foot clacked against the deck, betraying the intensity of his irritation. Prime glared at him. 
“Firm, Prime,” said Rigs.
“Good,” Prime replied. “Anyone else aching for a swim is free to do so now.” 
The crew stood fast. Prime knew that the next time all hands were on deck, half of the ragtag bastards standing before him now, wouldn’t be. He stifled his feelings. Absolute confidence was what they needed. Nargawks were very, very good at what they did. 
“Ready ship,” Prime commanded, glancing up as he did. 
Wind battered the sails. The Thief barely shivered, her carbon bones made for such inclement weather. Miles leaned into the wheel. Their angle of ascent was steep, just like Prime’s had been so many years ago. Too steep and the winds took you, hurling you down to the waters. Not steep enough, and it encouraged the nargawks to land. Sixty degrees. The nargawks would dive and snatch and some would land on the masts, but none would hit the decks. That was the trick. But the real trick was to maintain sixty. 
“Eight hundred, Primus!”
Miles gritted his teeth. “Ready weapons,” he shouted. He could almost smell the nargawks now. No one had any idea what they ate, other than daft pirates. But they stank of rotting flesh. 
“Nine hundred five!”
“Stay the course,” he replied, as Targus, Braithe and Corvus closed in around him, armed to the teeth but still visibly terrified. They had the most important and least desirable job on ship—to protect him while he tried to maintain sixty degrees. Sixty degrees through five thousand feet of hell. 
“Meat tonight, Primus,” Corvus growled. “Grilled Nargawk—always wondered what the ruddy bastards taste like,” he continued. 
Targus raised his mechanical arm, fitted with a flamethrower, in salute. “We got you, Primus. Stay the course.”
“One thou—” The voice cut off abruptly. Miles winced, waiting for the screams. The swarm descended upon them. Flashes of jet wings. Whipping, lashing, screeching sounds and shouts muffled before they finished, cannon fire and the smell of death. To Miles, it all felt like loss. Thousands of hungry mouths, rending and tearing at everything. Targus’ flamethrower roared, the smell of burnt hide and muscle stung Miles’ nose. Corvus’s legs landed in a heap next to Miles’s feet, sliding just as quickly out of sight. Miles suppressed a gag.
It went on like that for what felt like an entire day. And then there was silence.
The leathery hurricane of teeth and claws simply stopped. Miles waited, afraid to exhale. An eternity passed before he heard the single best thing he had ever heard in his life.
“Five thousand five!”

*

Abarth dared to release his steely grip on the wheel just long enough to wipe indigo blood from his eyes. Nargawks were coming apart mid flight, everywhere he looked. If only his crew had been this well armed, and this accurate with those arms when he and the Thief had stolen the sky. Of course, this crew had already passed through the swarm on the way down. An equally respectable feat, albeit an easier one—gravity provided considerable help with total time spent in the kill zone. 
“Four thousand five,” he heard someone shout before they screamed. It was hard not to smile—it wasn’t his crew, even though he had a growing respect for them. They were still his captors. Abarth took in the scene. There was something off about it all. The nargawks weren’t as many and weren’t as focused. It was like their focus was being drawn elsewhere. 
The Nova was about to hit five thousand when Abarth felt his jaw drop. A fleet of ships, the likes of which he had never seen, descended from the clouds. They whipped past the Nova, almost as if on an intercept course with another vessel. And then Abarth spotted the other vessel as it exited one heavy cloud bank for another.
“Stay the course, Prime,” Myrrhda said, pointing a railgun in his face. Abarth seethed inside. The other vessel was the Thief. And that meant Miles had stolen the sky. Abarth swelled with pride, despite the circumstances. The Thief had now done it twice—only the last time, there had been no welcome party.
“It’s all coming together, isn’t it,” Myrrhda asked.
“I’m bait,” Abarth rumbled.
“The Sky Thief and her crew happen to be the most effective pirates on Water. We know this because we have very good optics,” said Myrrhda. “Bringing you down—or up in this case—was the obvious first step toward regaining control of this world.” 
“I’m flattered,” Abarth curtsied. 
“We wouldn’t even need these bastard beasts protecting us from the surface if it weren’t for pirates,” she continued. Abarth laughed. It was a rolling, thunderous sound that shook Myrrhda from her diatribe. It had been a long time since he had let himself really feel something in his bones.
He straightened up. Myrrhda took a half step back. 
“How many years would you say the nargawks have been here,” he asked.
She looked impatient, but answered, “Forty years?” 
Abarth cocked an eyebrow. “And do any of you lot remember the people who arranged for them to be transplanted here?”
Myrrhda opened her mouth, stopped, and then simply shrugged.
“And how long would you say I’ve been a pirate,” asked Abarth.
“I don’t know,” Myrrhda spat. And then something clicked in her mind. It wasn’t fully formed, but she didn’t like where it was headed.
“Forty,” Abarth almost whispered, savouring the moment.
Myrrhda’s face moved through the entire range of emotions before it finally settled on defeat.
“You—you brought them here?”
“Firm.”
Myrrhda looked ashen. “B—but why?”
“Imagine,” Abarth locked the wheel in place, stepping away, “all this time your very literal high society has believed that living in the sky, away from all the bounty this planet offers below, was something precious and desirable. Something to be protected. Something elite.”
Myrrhda’s face was a combination of seasick now, and stubborn refusal. 
“You scrimp and ration everything you have, calling it cultured, competing with one another over who has the most scarce thing, and who makes it last the longest, all the while we down below, cast a net or a line into the water and pull from its depths enough food to feast for weeks.” 
Abarth walked right up to the now trembling muzzle of Myrrhda’s railgun, allowing its cold steel to press into his chest.
“The nargawks aren’t protecting the sky.”

*

“FIRE!”
The crew of the Thief, fewer than before, bloodied and exhausted, followed their orders. They were surrounded by sky-born vessels, and they were losing. Huge, sleek, fully sealed, floating vessels maneuvered deftly around the Thief, picking her apart—or at least the parts of her that weren’t carbon.  The sails were obliterated, but the port and starboard foils were still intact—she could still fly.
Miles squinted his eyes. It was only a matter of time. And abandoning ship wasn’t an option. The pods weren’t sky worthy. He wanted to surrender. To rest. And a part of him was curious to see, even as a prisoner, what life was like in the clouds.
But then, just like before, everything stopped. The sky-born vessels pulled back, some into the thick cover of the clouds. And another vessel—a seaworthy vessel—appeared. It maneuvered expertly up to the Thief, a rainbow flag flapping atop its mast. 
“HOLD,” Miles commanded, knowing that it wasn’t really necessary. Every pirate knew signal flags. A rainbow flag meant several things. Usually that the crew wanted to mingle. But in combat, it meant ceasefire.
“Permission to come aboard, Prime?” a familiar voice rang out. Miles felt his knees weaken. 
“Secundus,” Miles corrected, smiling.
“Prime,” Abarth said, placing his hand on Miles’ shoulder.
Music vibrated through the Thief’s hull. Abarth helped himself to another bowl of nargawk stew. Myrrhda was on her third. Miles was devouring the scene. Pirates and sky-born, sharing a meal. 
“It won’t be the same, you know,” Abarth lamented. Myrrhda looked up from her plate. “A pirate lives to steal the sky,” he continued.
“The nargawks aren’t gone,” she replied, swigging her ale. “And besides, cloud-born aren’t going to pull their heads out of their asses overnight.”
“You did.”
Myrrhda scowled. “It was the food,” she replied. “I was hungry, and you were going on and on about nets full of fish. Feasts and parties. Bounty below.”
“He does that,” Miles piped in, his eyes twinkling. “And who said anything about parties? We’re very serious. All the time.”
“That’s not what I remember,” Myrrhda laughed. 
“The Crusty Bastard?” Miles asked, trying to feign innocence.
“The Crusty Bastard,” Myrrhda replied, standing and slapping her own ass.

 

End

 

 


Submitted: March 30, 2021

© Copyright 2021 C. M. Berry. All rights reserved.

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Comments

Nickal-back1994

Nice. It reminded me of treasure planet in some parts. It's a interesting read. I was glued on my computer/seat.

Tue, May 4th, 2021 6:29am

C. M. Berry

@Nickal-back1994 thanks for your feedback. It's always interesting to hear a reader's perspective. I've never read Treasure Planet, but you can bet I'm going to now.

Thu, May 6th, 2021 10:02pm

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