Chapter Text
Midshipman John Egbert was thus far not having a particularly good birthday.
Admittedly he had received the Ghostbusters Blu-Ray Special Edition from his best friend Dave, which they had gained permission to screen later that night in the mess.
But on the whole it was strangely hollow-feeling. The inevitable birthday card from his father had not been waiting for him during his last shore leave, and being cut off from his family was still something he was getting used to.
“'Sup, mate?” came a familiar voice from behind him. John sat up straight.
“Not a lot,” he said. “Just thinking about my dad.”
“Funny you mention,” said Dave, producing an envelope and dangling it over John's shoulder. It was rich with dadly aromas. "Found this old thing. I was gonna throw it out, but I saw the name on it and I thought, 'who do I know called John?' Got to say, it was a brainteaser."
“Give that here!” John snatched it out of Dave's hand and tore it open.
DEAR SON.
IF YOU ARE READING THIS THEN IT IS YOUR TWENTY-FOURTH BIRTHDAY AND YOU'RE ON A BOAT NOW OR SOME SHIT. NAVY 4 LYFE DOGG. I AM SO INCREDIBLY FUCKING PROUD OF YOU. ALSO BRING ME BACK A TORPEDO THAT'S A LAD. KEEP IT REAL.
“Better appreciate that, man. Old Spice doesn't come cheap in Bali, you know. Had to barter the bejesus out of this little old lady running some kind of way legit alchemy stall. Cost me my very favourite Jay-Z record and a perfectly good hairbrush.”
“Cheers, Dave,” John said, grinning and folding the letter. "It was uncanny."
“Also I found that bottle of Smirnoff I'd been saving, so Ghostbusters Drinking Game is a go.”
“Brilliant!”
“Dude-- what's that?” Dave said, looking past him at the navigation console.
“Hm?” John turned to check. Dave had noticed a blip on the radar. It was approaching slowly – too small to be a warship, but too big to be a whale.
“Bridge,” John spoke into the comms. “Possible unidentified vessel approaching east-south-east at a distance of eighteen hundred metres, travelling at approximately four knots.”
“Shouldn't we have a visual on that, by now?” Dave said. “Shit doesn't seem right.”
John studied the radar. Dave was right. He felt a strange sense of dread in the pit of his stomach.
Not for long though. Within the second, the HMS Dream and all hands were nothing but dust and heat, and John felt no more. There were no screams. There was no time.
The vessel from the radar retreated. Its mission, complete.
-------------------------------------------------
“Morning, Moneypenny!” Jake said, tossing his coat onto the rack. “Awful traffic today, I don't mind telling you. I haven't inadvertently jeopardised the security of the free world through tardiness again, have I?”
Moneypenny looked unusually grave, hunched over her desk. She'd barely even reacted when he'd entered the office. That-- that was unheard of.
“Moneypenny. Everything alright?”
She straightened, and looked up at him. Her ice blue eyes were ringed with red.
“Jake?” she said, with a voice held together by tape.
“Jaaaa-aane...” came M's voice over the speaker. “Is English here yet?”
Her attention snapped back to the desk.
“Sending him through now, ma'am,” she said. She took her finger off the button.
“Moneypenny, what's the--”
“You should go,” she said, barely above a breath.
“But--”
“Please.”
She stood, began rifling through a filing cabinet. End of conversation.
The electronic door buzzed, and slid open for Jake to enter.
M was behind her desk, a mammoth teak affair upon which rested a variety of computers in various states of disassembly, several intelligence dossiers, and what some people might call an alarming amount of empty bottles.
“You're late, 0011,” she said, brandishing a glass at him.
“Beg your pardon, ma'am,” Jake said, crossing to the desk. “I came as soon as I could.”
“D'you want a drink?” she said, rising and heading to the cabinet.
Jake surreptitiously eyed his wristwatch.
“I think I'll wait,” he said.
M poured two generous portions of Gordon's, sprinkled them with tonic and dropped in ice and lime.
“A votre sante,” she said, handing him a glass and raising her own.
“Um. Cheers.”
Jake clinked glasses and took a sip. Jesus fuck, that was strong. He fought the urge to pull a face, and took M's sitting down as a cue to do the same. She leaned back a moment, held the tumbler to her head, and closed her eyes.
“Whaddyew know about Caliborn?”
“Hmm,” Jake took another, smaller sip of the drink, teased it round his mouth, arranging his thoughts. “I know he's a real dedicated blackguard, no two ways about it! Runs a very unromantic crime syndicate in East Asia, headquarters allegedly in Macau. Highly secretive chap-- no reliable photos and no real name. Appeared out of nowhere about ten years ago. Associates tend to be assigned numbers in lieu of titles, though with little actual relation to their eminence in his organisation. Most are highly competent and deadly. Most.”
He took another sip. M was studying him from her reclined position, half-lidded eyes nonetheless steady.
“The ones that have been picked up tend to be of marginal significance, but it has been theorised that a lot of his profits are ploughed into scientific research, and that there's a private lab somewhere in Macau working on some pet project of his. A personality profile has been begun, but unlikely to be completed, which describes him as more than typically interested in timepieces and games. He's speculated to be awfully wound up with the notion of his own mortality.”
He placed his glass on the desk.
“That's all that springs to mind immediately, I'm afraid.”
“Not bad, English,” M said. She swiveled on her chair, and tapped her tablet a couple of times. The oak panels behind her desk slid apart, exposing an eighty-inch screen displaying a grey, highly stylised and distorted skull, with two crimson gemstones smouldering in their eye sockets.
“This w'z leaked to us by an operative in Colombia las' night,” she said, before she pressed Play.
“My compliments,” a voice began, harsh, half-snarled, very little accent. “If you have received this you are one who is unfettered by the abstract shackles of decency or humanity. My kind of lowlife, in other words.”
“Charming fellow,” Jake remarked.
“Ssshspps!” said M.
“I am issuing an invitation, to you and others like you receiving this recording. I want to play a game. The stakes, one million pounds sterling per player. Winner-takes-all.
The tournament will be held in Macau, at the Ying Wen Casino on the 11th of November. You are welcome to arrive at any time on the day. Make yourself known to the casino staff. They have been fully briefed and will handle your personal needs with discretion. The tournament, however, will begin at seven in the evening in the Emerald Lounge. Latecomers will not be permitted. Casino policy prohibits the carrying of weapons of any kind. However, you are allowed one companion of your choice to accompany you when you enter the tournament.
The game will be announced at the opening of the tournament. I can guarantee it will be most enjoyable, and an opportunity to make contact with a variety of well-connected men and women unlike any other. Please submit the entry fee in cash on entry to the Lounge.
I look forward to competing, and hope to see you on the 11th. Until then, farewell.”
The red gemstones in the skull glinted, then exploded in a red haze, filling the screen. M tapped on her tablet, and the panels slid closed. She swiveled back to face Jake.
“Well?”
“Well, it's obviously a diabolical trick of some sort,” he said.
“Obvissuly,” M concurred.
“Probably a deadly trap to separate avaricious gangsters, rapscallions and general do-badders from their ill-gotten gains and eliminate some of his competition into the bargain.”
“At the very leasht.”
“When do you want me to leave?”
M gave him a crooked smile.
“Nothin' gets past you, does it, English?” She necked the last of her gin, tossed her silvery-blonde hair back, and pushed her chair towards the cabinet with her feet, for a refill. “Your briefing's inna dossier on the top. Y'r lift to the airport leavesh at five.”
Jake craned his neck. There it was, sealed and stamped with his agent designation.
“Anything else I should know, ma'am?”
M was pouring herself another tot of gin.
“Thish is off the record, English. You know the business wi'va warship?”
“You mean the HMS Dream?”
“Assa one.”
“What about it? Have we located the wreck?”
“No. But there'sh been some intesering word on the grapevine that Caliborn had something to do with it.”
“What?” Jake scowled. “There's nothing to indicate he has anything like the firepower necessary to take down a ship of that size! Especially without leaving a trace!”
“Thass for you to determine, 0011,” M said, before taking another hearty swig. “Tha'll be all.”
“Ma'am.” Jake rose, offered a brief salute, entirely unnoticed, and headed out.
“English.”
He paused by the door.
“Come back alive.”
He winked, index fingers primed and pointed.
“Always, ma'am.”
Bang bang.