The Voyage of the Black Sparrow (I)

At forty-six years old, former constable Rohl stood before a mirror and solemnly fastened every button on his uniform.

Funny enough, none of the shipowners who spent their days running short-haul cargo routes actually had a standardized uniform, since they were not official personnel at all. Yet every shipowner operating out of Trade Station A-310-7 invariably chose to wear a dark blue coat.

Rohl was no exception. It was simply that he had not worn this coat so formally in a very long time. Over the past five years, its buttons had not even been fastened.

If he had liked drinking, his protruding belly would probably have popped them off long ago.

Looking at himself in the mirror, he habitually pulled down the corners of his mouth.

The habit dated back to his time as a constable. He had worked that job for a full twenty-one years, and naturally it had seeped into him and changed him. Like this somewhat fierce expression, or the pistol strapped to his right thigh.

And one last thing.

He raised a hand and patted his cheeks. In an instant, he put on a brilliant, ingratiating smile.

Just like that, the stern captain in the mirror became a lowly opportunist eager to curry favor. After examining himself, he wiped away the smile, left his cramped room, and arrived on the filthy, noisy main bridge of the Black Sparrow, where he issued several orders.

First, he told his first mate that no one was to drink aboard the ship for the next week, without exception. Then he sought out the boatswain and asked several questions about logistics.

The seriousness he displayed today surprised everyone who knew him—in their memories, Rohl had never cared so much about his work.

During many previous cargo runs, he had even