Very few actually stay on the Bridge. Usually it’s just Volker, myself, and the Second Officer, a timid young kid called Witzel. I’d say he’s about Ulric’s age. We’re the only two in the Bridge. I lean against the navigational dashboard, looking at the crowd below while Witzel stands in an upright posture, hands at his back, examining the charts on the wall.
“We’re still going in the right direction, Witzel,” I joke, taking a swig from my whiskey flask. Oftentimes the night can be long, and a few shots of liquor can help. Witzel swirls around uncomfortably, his hands still tied behind his back.
“I know, sir,” he sputters out in a rash, quiet voice, “I just like double checking.”
My response to this is a series of agreeable grunts as I straighten out my back. My hands rummage through the pouch on my chest and I pull out another cigar. The armor I wear is covered in a series of pouches for any occasion. Pockets for cigars, whiskey, water, bullets, all strewn across my waist and chest.
“Do you smoke, Witzel?” I ask with a casual mutter, reaching a cigar out toward the awkward lad.
“No, sir,” he replies, “I never really got into it.”
“It grows on you down here. This is only your…what? Second year?”
“Yes sir.”
“You got time.”
The large metal door swings open with a low creak. Footsteps signify that somebody is entering the Bridge. I swivel my head around and spot Volker. Without the helmet, he sports a buzzed head of sandy blond hair. His nose is more pointed compared to most, but it doesn’t curve like a Scavenger’s.
“Everything seem to be under control, Captain?” he asks in a raspy voice, placing his helmet onto a table adjacent to the door.
“Well, we haven’t fallen into a canyon yet, so I say everything is alright.” I mutter, continuing to puff on the cigar. Smoke floats gently up into the dimly lit ceiling. The room has very few lights.
I can turn on more lights if need be, but I like the darkness for now. Things are already so bright during the day. This can be a break. The smoke from the cigar absorbs the colors of orange and blue from the navigational screens and buttons on the dashboard, which offer most of the illumination in this room.
“Something could have popped over the horizon in the span of a walk around the ship,” Volker jokes, making his way across the Bridge, his boots clanging against the ground. A low hum permeates the cabin—a reminder of the engines underneath doing their work to keep the treads moving. Even with the relatively thick walls of the ship, the desert wind is still present, gently whistling as it rubs against the windows and steel.
“We’ve just left Maria, you know there’re no Scavenger ships this far north. You’re becoming paranoid, Volker,” I remark. “Cigar?” I suggest, handing him a finely rolled up piece of tobacco. “Witzel wasn’t very interested.”
“His loss,” Volker jokes, accepting the second cigar from me. Witzel turns around for a brief moment, a blank look in his eyes before turning back toward the chart. How long does it take to analyze such a thing? Probably just looking at it to avoid conversation.
“Not like we get many chances to smoke anyway,” I say, holding the cigar between my fingers. The campfires flicker down below, as shadowed bodies stumble their way about past the various guns welded to the deck.
“Wife doesn’t like me smoking,” Volker complains, releasing a cloud of smoke. It goes past his shallow eyes; bags have made their home underneath the sockets, a legacy of stressful days in this place.
“Wife probably doesn’t like you going over for months at a time into this hot cauldron, but here we are,” I say with a smirk.
We both stand in silence for a brief moment, holding onto our cigars, looking out into the vast expanse. The outside winds batter against the walls.
“Hear the attacks are getting worse out on the border near Africa?” he explains, pointing off into some unknown target in the distance. “Some Nests even had their defenses overrun. Had to call in the Drops to even get them to scatter.”
“Where’d you hear that?” I ask.
“Just rumors.”
“Everything is rumors,” I mutter, while finishing off whatever whiskey was left in my flask. Damn.
“Rumors are the newscasts of the desert, Captain,” Volker sneers, as more smoke trails past his jagged face.
I raise the empty flask in mild agreement to his words. Scavenger attacks have been something that the Reich has dealt with ever since the Reclamation. The Eternal Führer banished them from the Continent, and ever since they’ve wanted nothing more than to get back inside.
“That one Scavenger vessel two years ago, remember that?” Volker reminisces with a grin, “Fucking thing flared and gave away its position, then tried to lob rounds at us before we even reached the range of their guns!”
“And the damn shots landed a hundred meters from our ship,” I say. “Gave their position away and we could just blow them up.” My hands whip into the air to illustrate the ship combusting from our artillery shots. Volker’s wide smirk slowly devolves into an emotionless face before taking another swig.
“Where do you think they go?” Volker asks in a somber inflection.
“Where do they go?” I repeat in puzzlement, attempting to process the question.
“Like, do they just park those ships in caves or something. Do they live in cities? What causes a people to just hop on machines and try to pillage innocents? You ever think of that?”
I never actually have. Does somebody need to question why the sun beats down on the desert? Or why a storm can destroy all in its path. It is just nature.
“Just figured it’s how they were. We have loot and they want it. It’s that simple,” I conclude, walking toward a cupboard, opening it, and revealing a bottle of whiskey among its contents. “Do flies need a reason to seek honey? No, they simply buzz toward it and get stuck. Maybe that was the burden we carried, attracting the flies.”
Volker agrees with a grunt and takes another puff.
“If I was on the other side of the Reich border I know that would be all I’d want to do,” Volker comments.
My attention turns back to the huddled groups down below. I hear the cheers and songs rising like the smoke from fires.
“What do you think they’re talking about down there?” I ask, pointing to the orange lights scattered upon the deck.
“Usual stuff. What Nests we’re going to. What they’ll do when we reach them. What they did on their leave,” Volker lists off in a dull fashion.
“That would be a quick conversation. Most probably went and whored around, got drunk, then came back,” I reply.
“Speaking from experience, Captain?” Volker teases. To this I laugh and raise my bottle another time.
The engine buzz carries on like a constant rhythmic hum. Like a low voice chanting out. Wait. No, those actually are voices. Music gently rises from the deck, along with the noise of the drinking men. There are more sounds however. An odd, distant and fuzzy chanting.
Raise the flag! The ranks tightly closed!
The SA march with quiet, steady step.
“Odd song,” I state to Volker, taking one last drag from my cigar. “Ever heard that before?”
“Nah,” Volker denies. “How did they even get a sound system onto the deck?”
Putting out the cigar bud, I walk toward the door, tossing the wasted cigar into a rubbish bin. “I’ll go investigate,” I announce to Volker, before opening the door and exiting the Bridge.