2033-12-11: Touching Grass

Dec 11th, 2033

Richard woke with a sharp intake of breath, his heart racing as he desperately tried to cling to the evaporating fragments of the dream. It was a chaotic blend of familiarity and impossibility, echoing with scenes from MIT and the unsettling image of an explosion. He struggled to anchor the fleeting images, to wrap his mind around the memory before it slipped away. Yet, like trying to grasp smoke, he couldn't hold it. The dream dissolved, leaving behind only a heavy emotional residue, a mix of urgency and unresolved tension.

He lay back in the pitch-black darkness of the cabin and reached for his tablet to check the time. Two weeks on the ship had not yet adjusted his muscle memory, and he reached for the wrong side of the bed. Growling in frustration, he rolled over to the other side. The screen lit softly at his touch: 5:22 AM.

For the last week, a terrible storm had rocked the massive tanker, its movements felt even in this cabin buried in the fuel tank below the waterline. Slowly, Richard became aware that the constant rocking and jostling, which had become second nature, had ceased.

Narre had made it clear that he was on call around the clock, but Richard, adhering to the principle of treating others as he wished to be treated, refrained from summoning him before 6 AM. The pressing need to gaze upon the open sky and escape the oppressive sight of the cabin's blood-red walls weighed heavily on him. With the storm finally abated, he found himself with 40 precious minutes to devise a plan for achieving this much-needed respite. He chose to keep the light off, shielding his eyes from the room's unsettling ambiance.

As four bells chimed faintly from a distant section of the ship, marking 6:00 AM, Richard pressed the intercom button. "Narre, I'm going stir crazy. I've been cooped up indoors for more than two weeks. I need to see the sky. Now that the storm appears to have passed, please find a way to get me up on deck."

After a lengthy pause, Narre responded, "I'll see what I can manage." His English bore a stronger Danish accent in the early hours, but Richard found himself understanding Narre more clearly with each passing day.

In the dimly lit confines of Richard's cabin, the sound of the intercom buzzing broke the morning silence. "Breakfast," Narre announced, his voice crackling through the speaker. Moments later, the door swung open, and Narre stepped in, a tray of steaming food in one hand and an unexpected bundle in the other.

Richard, who had been doing push-ups, paused to observe Narre's entrance. The tray was laden with a modest breakfast, but it was the bundle that captured his attention. He stopped and rose in a single fluid motion. Narre, with a hint of mischief in his eye, laid the tray on the table before unfurling the bundle with a dramatic flourish. It contained a crisp, navy uniform, neatly pressed and obviously meant for Richard, along with a surprisingly realistic blonde wig.

"For your excursion," Narre explained, a grin spreading across his face. "The uniform will help you blend in with the crew to any observing eyes. And the wig," he paused, lifting it with a flourish, "is to help you appear Danish. Just a little extra precaution."

Richard couldn't help but laugh at the absurdity of the situation. The thought of disguising himself with a blonde wig seemed like something out of a spy novel, yet here he was, considering it seriously. He accepted the uniform and the wig from Narre, examining them with a mix of amusement and appreciation. "You just had a wig lying around?" he mused aloud.

Narre nodded, his expression turning serious for a moment. "His Majesty tends to think of every potential situation."

"Does he really like to be called His Majesty?" there was a smirk of incredulity in Richard's voice.

"Count St. Sere has many nicknames and titles. Few I would use to his face, but all are used with respect."

Richard donned the uniform, which fit surprisingly well, and then hesitated with the wig in his hands. Narre stepped forward, offering to help. With a few expert adjustments, the wig was securely in place, transforming Richard's appearance. Looking into the small mirror on the wall, Richard barely recognized himself—the disguise was effective.

"Perfect," Narre declared, stepping back to admire his handiwork. "Now, enjoy your breakfast. When you're ready, I'll escort you to the deck. It's a clear day; the sky is vast and the sea calm. It's exactly what you need."

As Narre left the cabin, Richard sat down to his breakfast, his mind already on the expanse of sky waiting for him above deck. This simple meal, the uniform, and the blonde wig represented more than just an attempt to blend in—they were symbols of his fleeting freedom, a brief escape from the confines of his crimson prison. Today, under the open sky, he would breathe a little easier.

He was tempted to rush through breakfast, but it featured one of his favorites: bagels made fresh that morning, paired with cream cheese, capers, and lox. Orange juice from concentrate accompanied the meal. Richard forced himself to eat slowly and savor each bite. Besides, he had a strong hunch that his time on deck would be limited, and he wanted to prolong the enjoyment of his cherished breakfast as much as possible.

An hour later, Richard found himself weaving through the ship's labyrinthine corridors alongside Narre—upstairs, downstairs, forward, and back, in a pattern that defied recognition. Despite the seemingly random route, Richard took some satisfaction in his ability to keep pace without difficulty, a testament to the regular exercise he had been getting. However, he wasn't in quite enough shape to engage in conversation simultaneously.

Eventually, Narre halted in front of a large, oval bulkhead door, its surface equipped with a spinning release wheel and eight dog handles around its perimeter. As he began to disengage them, Narre explained to Richard, "We're emerging near the bow of the tanker. We'll walk the ship's length, pretending to inspect things, then walk back. The whole excursion should take about two hours. The captain has limited your time on deck to no more than three hours. So, you can dawdle, but only to an extent."

It was in Richard's nature to assert that he would stay on deck as long as he pleased, but the realistic understanding that the captain controlled his fate prompted Richard to hold his tongue. The need for open air was pressing; he badly needed to feel the vast expanse of the sky above him.

The moment Narre cracked the hatch open, a blast of Arctic air bit into Richard's skin. Oblivious to the discomfort, he eagerly searched the opening for sunlight, standing directly behind Narre, who was exerting his elbow against the bulkhead to pry the door open amidst a powerful gust of wind. "Be careful as you walk—the deck is deliberately roughened to provide traction, but it's also perpetually wet. And it seems we have a mighty wind today," Narre cautioned, his voice barely audible over the howl of the wind.

As he stepped onto the deck, eyes lifted to the sky, Richard's open windbreaker, layered over his parka, swiftly filled with wind. This sudden gust lifted him a few centimeters off the ground before unceremoniously dropping him onto his rear. With a sheepish look, Richard got up, turned his back to the wind, and zipped up the windbreaker.

"It still feels extra windy. Perhaps we should go back inside," Narre suggested, eyeing the conditions with concern.

"Good luck with that," Richard replied, his tone laced with a mix of humor and determination. Slowly, he began working his way toward the stern of the ship, resolved to make the most of his time on deck, despite the powerful wind.

Navigating the deck of the tanker with Narre felt akin to traversing a small, industrial city at sea, albeit one buffeted by relentless Arctic winds. As they set off on their expedition across the steel expanse, Richard couldn't help but marvel at the surreal landscape that unfolded before them: a forest of pipes and vents, towering stacks, and the occasional lonely deck chair, strapped down as if in anticipation of a tempest's return.

Their journey was punctuated by the sounds of the sea: the crash of waves against the hull, the shrill cries of seabirds overhead, and the whistle of the wind as it danced through the superstructure. The tanker's deck, a patchwork of metal plates, bore the scars of countless voyages—rust-stained, weather-beaten, yet steadfast.

Richard's first challenge came in the form of the deck's deliberate roughness, designed to prevent slips. Every step was a negotiation with the abrasive surface, a reminder of the ocean's unforgiving nature. "Feels like walking on sandpaper," he quipped, only half-joking as he adjusted his stride.

Narre led the way, pointing out features of interest with the pride of a museum curator. They passed immense, bolted-down containers, their contents a mystery, and navigational equipment that looked both ancient and alien. Richard's attempt to make light of a particularly gnarled piece of machinery earned him an amused "That's older than you and me both," from Narre.

The humor found its peak when they stumbled upon Mikkel wrestling with a stubborn hatch. The man's battle against the unyielding mechanism had an air of slapstick comedy, though his stream of creative cursing suggested he found nothing funny about the situation. "Need a hand, or perhaps a foot?" Richard offered, earning a glare that suggested he keep his distance.

The deck's character changed as they neared the center, the industrial clutter giving way to open space around a massive central structure. It was here, amidst the raw beauty of the sea, that they found the tanker's most incongruous feature: a perfectly manicured patch of artificial turf, complete with bolted down chairs. "Our little piece of paradise," Narre deadpanned, gesturing at the absurdity with a flourish that made Richard burst out laughing.

Suddenly the surface of the mast deformed at first making Richard think the wind was impossibly strong and then realizing that it was canvas target around a round frame.

Narre followed his gaze. " that's the disguise for the anti aircraft gun. 3 electromagnetic locks can release the inner constraints and the gun can be deployed in three seconds." reasonable pride in his voice.

As Narre elaborated on the gun's mechanisms, Richard found himself more intrigued by the flag fluttering high above them at the mast's peak. The flag of the Præfekturet Langeland under Danmark presented an anomaly in its very essence. The first discrepancy Richard noted was its shape; unlike the typical rectangular form of national flags, this one was a perfect square. Moreover, it didn't dance in the wind like its fabric counterparts. Instead, it stood unnervingly still, a testament to its plastic composition—an adaptation undoubtedly designed to withstand the harsh maritime winds.

The flag fluttering above them offered a stark deviation from the traditional colors associated with Denmark. The typical Danish red had been transformed into a darker, more intense shade that Richard instantly named "Magnus red" in his mind. This backdrop was further accentuated by a black Aleph naught symbol, a bold declaration of ambition for an infinite dominion. Overlaying this was a golden sovereign cross, but upon a closer examination, Richard noticed an intriguing alteration: the cross had been replaced by a Celtic dagger cross. This detail added an element of mystique and complexity, leaving Richard pondering its significance.

"What's with the dagger?" Richard called out to Narre, his voice battling the wind, as he gestured wildly towards the flag.

"The cross signifies ownership; the dagger indicates protection," Narre shouted back, his explanation slicing through the gale.

"But this is your tanker," Richard pressed, seeking clarity.

"The 'protected by' flag carries more weight. It tends to attract less attention," Narre explained, his voice carrying a note of finality.

This revelation offered Richard a glimpse into the tanker's dual identity: a vessel navigating the treacherous waters of international intrigue as much as the literal ones of the sea. The flag, with its unique elements, symbolized more than just affiliation; it was a declaration of sovereignty and a deterrent, blending tradition with a stark reminder of the power that lay beneath its deceptive tranquility.

"If we intend to make it to the stern and back in time, we should probably head off now," Narre hinted, eyeing the path they had yet to traverse.

Richard, however, found himself reluctant to leave the relative comfort of his current spot. "I think I'm good here. I've got a bit of shelter from the wind, and I can still see the sky and feel the sun on my face. I thought I had gotten used to the cold and the wind back in Iceland, but this is a whole other level."

Narre responded with a good-natured laugh, clapping Richard on the back in a show of camaraderie. "We all felt that way at some point," he conceded, understanding the allure of the moment.

"Besides, leaving some unexplored territory for tomorrow isn't such a bad idea," Richard suggested, half-expecting Narre to dismiss the notion or, at the very least, gauge how feasible it actually was. But Narre simply nodded, transitioning from guide to silent companion, allowing Richard the space to fully immerse himself in his surroundings.

In that moment, with the sun's warmth combating the bite of the wind and the vastness of the sea stretching out before him, Richard felt a profound sense of connection to the elements around him. Narre's presence, now more like that of a guardian than a guide, offered a comforting sense of security as Richard allowed himself to be enveloped by the raw beauty of the maritime world.