I gawked at him for a moment or two. “He left?”
“Aye.”
“He didn’t sack the town or burn the buildings or any of those piratey-type activities?”
“Nay.”
I closed my eyes and leaned back against the side of the ship. “Then why is Bart so riled up about Corbin? Clearly the man is all bark and no bite.”
“Ye’d call murderin’ sixty-five men in cold blood no bite?”
“What?” My eyelids snapped open as I turned to stare.
“Aye,” Pangloss nodded, his face hard. “When the cap’n told Black Corbin that he be havin’ a strong crew, Corbin called down a curse on ’em. Less than a day later, the black flags of Corbin’s crew were sighted off the leeward side of the island. Fearin’ a sneak attack, the cap’n sent the entire crew off to meet him and send Corbin’s scurvy bones to the salty depths. But Corbin, he be as black as the devil’s heart, and he had men and cannons hidden onshore. Our crew was caught between their fire, and every last blessed soul—sixty-five there were—all of them perished. Ye’ll be noticin’ there’re not a lot of men on Turtle’s Back. Black Corbin killed ’em, all but what were foragin’ with me, that’s why.”
“Oh, my God,” I said, my throat suddenly tight. “That’s awful.”
“Aye,” he said, his eyes dark with pain. “I lost a brother that fateful day, and swore an oath of me own to see Black Corbin dance with Jack Ketch.”
“Er . . .” I said, confused.
“I’ll see him hanged,” Pangloss explained.
“I don’t blame you for feeling so strongly, although I’m not a believer in capital punishment. So what happened after the crew was so brutally murdered? Why didn’t Corbin take the town then?”
“A storm came up as if summoned by the good Lord himself. It drove Corbin’s men back off the island, and by the time it blew itself out, they were nowhere to be seen. Bart himself met with every grievin’ widow and mother and promised retribution. He used his own gold to hire a few men to start rebuildin’ the crew, bringin’ ’em to Turtle’s Back to defend her shores against the murderous devil who swore he’d be back to take what doesn’t belong to him.”
“How horrible,” I murmured, my mind full of the image of all those dead men and their grieving families. How could anyone act in such an inhuman manner over a piece of rock in the ocean? How could a man live with himself knowing what he had done? How could he appear so damned nice when he was really a monster?
Telling myself it wasn’t a real world didn’t help wipe out the sense of horror I felt. Within the context of the game, it was real—the people here thought it was real. I’d been here long enough to realize that they were remarkably well fleshedout. The people here were people, in every sense but one. In this world, they existed; joys, sorrows, warts, and all.
“He might have fooled me once, but he won’t do so again,” I told Pangloss a short while later as we ported. I had recovered enough from my usual bout of seasickness to snap out an order or two. “Belay those lines, Prudence. Impulsive, mainsail, please. Tar, please fix the break in the fiddle block; then you’re through for the night. Bas, stop picking your ear with your hook—there’s nothing there you haven’t seen before.”
The twins, less intelligent and thus quicker to follow my orders, jumped to it, but Tar spat over the side of the ship a few times, picked something out of his teeth with the point of his dagger, examined the tip of the blade for a moment or two, then nodded his head and shambled off to where the jammed fiddle block (pulley) sat.
“Ye did that right smartly,” Pangloss said with a satisfied nod. “And as for that devil Black Corbin—ye’ll not be likely to see him around these waters again. Captain Bart has pressed men from other islands to serve on the watch and crew. Corbin won’t be skulkin’ around Turtle’s Back again; that I can promise ye.”
That thought made me strangely sad. I tried to give the emotion a good long look while I went through the checklist of tasks related to putting a ship in port, sending my three crewmates off with a few copper coins that Pangloss had given me for that purpose, as well as my profound thanks. The first mate toddled off after he corrected a couple of my mangled knots, telling me the first tankard of ale would be on him when I joined the crew at the Inn Cognito.
“I’m just tired, that’s all,” I told Bas as I tucked away the captain’s logbook that I used to write down sailing notes and details about the booty we’d plundered. Thus far the sum total of my plunderage consisted of a piece of tattered sail-cloth I’d found on the remains of a wrecked sloop, and a pretty ruby necklace that I’d won sword fighting a fat merchant. I jumped off the Saucy Wench and hurried down the dark dock toward the soft glow of light coming out of the inn’s windows. Although I had the foil Bart had given me to protect myself, I preferred not having to use it against any of the unsavory pirate-types who hung around the dark edges of town.
“Aye, Bran and I are, too. It’s all them baths ye keep makin’ us take—they’re wearing our skin out.”
“Do we remember rule number eighteen?”
Bas’s lips thinned. “No complainin’ about the baths, washin’ me hands after I’ve used the privy, or discussin’ what I find when I blow me nose?”
“Very good.”
“If it’s not the baths makin’ ye tired, what is?” he asked as we headed for the inn.
“Hmm? Oh, that was merely a figure of speech. I was talking to myself about the fact that I can’t stop thinking about someone.”
“Madness?” he asked hopefully.
I laughed. “Not quite, no. The thing is, I’m a very down-to-earth person. I am not at all the type to be swayed by one meeting with a man. Especially not when the man in question is a psychopathic killer. Corbin is nothing special. He’s not even real, for Pete’s sake.”
A shadow parted from the side of a building I knew housed a small rum distillery.
“Now, what makes you think I’m not real?” Black Corbin asked, his teeth gleaming whitely in the dim light from the distillery.
I had only enough time to gawk at him for a second before something heavy and black descended over my head, binding me so tightly I couldn’t even think of moving, much less actually do it.
Chapter 7
For I am a Pirate King!
And it is, it is a glorious thing
To be a Pirate King!
—Ibid, Act I
“I object to this sort of treatment.”
“I had a feeling you would. I’m not too proud to say that I’m taking immense pleasure in it, however.”
“You’re a rotten computer character! I’m reporting you to the program’s creator!” The soft linen cloth used to tie my hands behind me, around the back of the chair upon which I was sitting, didn’t give an inch as I struggled to free myself.
The man leaning against the desk in front of me tipped his head to the side as he watched me. “You can try, but it won’t have any effect. Would you mind doing that little squirm you did just a second ago? I really enjoyed it.”
I stopped struggling and packed everything I had into a glare. “You’re incorrigible, too. I’m adding that to my list of complaints, which, I might add, now includes items like kidnapping, torture, and abuse of fundamental human rights. You’re totally beyond the Geneva Convention, and I am so going to make you sorry just as soon as I get my hands free.”
“Was that a threat?” Corbin the Tormentor’s eyebrows rose. “Did you just threaten me with retribution?”
“You bet your barnacle I did, and if you recall the day I whipped your butt at swordplay, you know I can back up anything I say. What do you mean it won’t have any effect to complain about you? You’re just a bit of software code, buster. You can be replaced. Erased, even. So put that in your megabyte and smoke it.”
“Actually,” Corbin said, tapping a finger on his chin, “I’m not, and I can’t. At least, not in the sense you mean. I’m just as real as you are, Amy.”
The use o
f my real name had me pausing a moment in my contemplation of how satisfying it would be to fulfill Bart’s requirement for permanent inclusion in his crew. I narrowed my eyes at Corbin as he smiled at me. Despite the fact that he’d kidnapped me in the best pirate romance style, I was finding myself reacting to him in a way I hadn’t reacted in a very long time. “How do you know my name?”
“I have ears. Everyone calls you Amy.”
I relaxed a little, giving the bonds holding me down another pull. He’d heard my name mentioned by someone in town, that’s all. His claim to be real was just the cyber-delusion of a bunch of computer code.
“But I plan on looking up the account information for your daughter—name, address, phone number, and billing history—as soon as I log out of the game. I’m sure I’ll find an Amy Stewart somewhere on the credit card records. I take it you’re enjoying the VR unit?”
Or not. My jaw dropped. “What . . . what . . .” I was so stunned I couldn’t do much beyond sputtering. “You’re not real.”
“I am.”
“You can’t be.”
“Sure, I can. I was born. It was easy. My mother did all the hard work.”
I shook my head, refusing to believe him. “You’re a program. Someone programmed you to believe you’re real. But you’re not.”
“Aye, lass, I am.”
“Nope. Real people don’t change their appearance. You went from gorgeous blond to . . .” I waved my hand at him.
He glanced down at himself, a frown between his brows as he looked back up to me. “I thought you said you preferred me looking like this.”
“I do. But people who are real can’t change their appearance like you did,” I said slowly, as if I was explaining something to a child.
His lips twitched in a wry smile. “Ah. That. Er. You are right about that being a computer-generated character. But this one is me, the real-life me. I was a bit surprised that you preferred me this way rather than the other since my research had shown that women reacted best to men like him, but my data was based on a skewed survey.”
I looked my question at him.
“My ex-wife’s comments as she ran away with a long-haired, blond bodybuilder,” he answered, a bit sheepishly.
An almost overwhelming urge nearly had me blurting out how much I liked this form over the other, but I bit it back, reminding myself that I had more important things to discuss. “Then she was a fool,” was all I said.
“You are not alone in that opinion,” he said, his mobile face unusually expressionless. “I take it you believe me now?”
“Not at all. I think you are programmed to believe you exist outside the game in order to fool the people who play it.”
“I repeat: I am as real as you are,” he said, pulling a wicked-looking knife from his boot. My eyes widened at the sight of it, the sudden memory of everything I’d heard about the murdering Black Corbin returning with a vengeance. “Which is one of the two reasons why reporting me to the creator of Buckling Swashes isn’t going to do you any good.”
“What do you think you’re going to do with that?” I asked, my voice rising in panic as Corbin strolled nonchalantly toward me. He might not be real real, but in the game, he was a murderer, and it was always a good rule of thumb not to taunt murderers.
He paused in front of me, a truly evil glint to his gray eyes as he dangled the knife in front of me. “Afraid? The brave Amy? The woman whose praises the whole of Turtle’s Back is singing? The defeater of the dread pirate Black Corbin?”
“I’m brave, not stupid,” I said, watching the sharp point of the knife as it swung back and forth in an arc. “And I’m not above pleading, if it will have any influence on you, not that I suspect it will. As for the praise singing . . . eh . . . you know how people exaggerate.”
“But they must have heard the story from someone, and since my men and I didn’t tell anyone, it’s logical to assume that you have been spreading tales.”
“It was the truth!” I protested, then gulped when the knife spun in his hand so the flat side of the blade rested just beneath my chin. He tilted my head up, examining me closely as I bit back all the things I wanted to say. “Never Chastise a Man Who Has a Knife to Your Throat” was the motto I quickly adopted.
“So it was,” he answered, and before I could do so much as gasp in surprise he was behind me, the coolness of the blade sliding between my wrists, slicing the material binding them. “I trust you’ve calmed down enough to listen to what I have to say without disabling any more of my men?”
I leaped from the chair, rubbing my wrists as I glared at him. “I never! I defended myself from attackers, that’s all. And if you hadn’t kidnapped Bas and me to begin with, they’d never have gotten hurt.” I paused for a moment, remembering the knock-down, drag-out fight I’d given Corbin’s men after they unrolled me from the hemp sack in which they’d captured me. It hadn’t been pretty, and I was strangely ashamed of the fact that I’d taken advantage of Corbin’s decree that none of the men harm me in any way. Still, if he hadn’t started it all by having us plucked off the street, Leeward Tom wouldn’t be limping, and the behemoth named Barn wouldn’t be wondering if he’d ever be able to sire children. “How is Barn? He’s not . . . er . . . permanently . . . you know . . . damaged?”
I made a vague gesture that made Corbin’s left eyebrow twitch. “No, he’s not, although you’re not in his best graces at the moment. Loo has forgiven you for kicking him in the knee, though, claiming you’re a saucy wench who just needs a firm hand to tame your wild spirit.”
“I suppose you think you’re that firm hand?” I asked.
He grinned. “The thought did go through my mind. Right now Loo is talking to that black storm cloud you insisted on bringing, comparing amputations.”
“I told you, his name is Bas, he’s my cabin boy so I’m responsible for him, and what amputations? That is, what amputations does Leeward Tom have? He looked fine to me.”
“Toes,” Corbin said succinctly. “Four of them altogether. Drink?”
He moved behind the captain’s desk, rustling around in a drawer before he pulled out a silver flask.
“Please.” I all but licked my lips as he flipped open the flask and handed it to me. The rum in it burned a fiery path down my throat, ending up in a warm pool in my stomach. “What’s the second thing?”
“Hmm?” Corbin took a swig from the flask.
“The second reason why reporting you wouldn’t do any good.”
He looked momentarily surprised, an oddly pleased look quickly replacing the expression. “You aren’t a lawyer, are you? You have a wonderfully persistent mind.”
“I’m a financial analyst, as a matter of fact. We are just as persistent. What is the second reason?”
“There’s no one to report me to,” he said simply. “I own Buckling Swashes.”
“Corbin, you’re just a computer character—”
“My name is Peter Corbin Monroe. I was born in 1965 in a small town in Idaho. I am divorced, and I have two children whom I see far too seldom and no known diseases or ailments beyond fallen arches. I went to school at the University of Wisconsin, where I got a master’s in information science. My likes include Thai food, women who can beat me in a duel, and pirates. My pet peeves are people who act without regard for anyone else, commercial television, and the color pink.”
I stared at him, starting to wonder which one of us was real, and which wasn’t. Could he be what he said he was? If so . . . hope sprang to life in me as I stared at what could well be my way out of this virtual world.
“You own this? All of this?” I asked, waving my hand around to encompass everything in the captain’s cabin. “You created this?”
“Well, I didn’t do it single-handedly. I programmed the first version of the game in an office in my garage, but later I had a partner, and now I have two teams of programmers—one that works on the Internet version, and the new crew working on the VR side. You met the art director, Holder
McReady.”
“Holder is real, too? The guy with the monk delusions?”
“Yes. He is in charge of all the artwork you see around you. Everything from the clothing on down to the pattern of the rug. My partner was in charge of the VR technology, but he left me a few months ago to form his own company. Still,” Corbin said, looking around the cabin with satisfaction, “I’m happy with how it turned out. I think people are going to enjoy it, don’t you? We’ve worked hard to make it as realistic as possible.”
“Oh, you’ve done that all right,” I said, relief mingling with the irritation that he’d written a program that would trap unwary players. “If you don’t mind, though, I’d like to get the hell out of here.”
“Why? Aren’t you having fun?”
“No. I want out.”
He frowned. “I can’t believe anyone wouldn’t have a blast here, but if you aren’t enjoying it, why don’t leave?”
“I’m stuck, that’s why,” I said in a half snarl. “Your game is a trap! It won’t let go of me!”
“No, no, that’s impossible,” he said, setting down the knife to take another swig of rum. “I had the programmers write in all sorts of safeguards against the program locking. It’s impossible.”
“Look deep into my eyes,” I said through gritted teeth. “Do I look like I’m having so much fun I never want to leave the game?”
He took me at my word, setting down the flask before striding over to where I stood next to a tiny window. He took both my arms in his hands, leaning forward until our noses were almost touching. “You look . . .”
“What?” I asked on a breath, all the air suddenly having been stripped from my lungs. Standing so close to him was making me a little dizzy, the scent of leather and man teasing my nose in a way that had dark, secret parts of me coming to life and starting to take interest in the proceedings. “What do I look?”
“Sexy,” he answered, his voice a rumble deep in his chest, his fingers hard on my arms as he pulled me toward him.
My hands unfisted, but rather than pushing him away from me as I thought they would, they slid up the front of his leather jerkin in a caress that gave me as much pleasure as it gave him, if not more. Beneath the warm leather I could feel the contours of his chest, my fingers skimming lightly over the jerkin as if they were mapping out terrain.