“What numbers are we working with now?” asked Rorik, right index and thumb claws pinched in tired contemplation. “I'd say they couldn't get worse, but—?”

  “Mine's not great either. With us in close proximity it's probably multiplicative,” Cassandra muttered, hunched over a console at the alcove's center, chestnut ponytail pulled taut. “Simulation ratio is now sixty-forty in their favor. There're cannons on the underbelly that our scanners missed. Typical. Almost parodic. I say we target their engines with everything we got and run. Make ceedrive repairs on the go. But, I'm not as confident as I'd like.”

  “Not that bad of odds. Could be worse. I say we board with drillers, fight'em on foot, knock their naval advantage right on its chapped ass." Kara crossed her arms, back to the wall, uniform still a greasy mess. "Where's all that charming optimism I was starting to love, Lieutenant? They're only humans. Could cut through them before you can spell antidisestablishmentarianism."

  "A-n-t-i-d-i-s-e-s-t-a-b-l-i-s-h-m-e-n-t-a-r-i-a-n-i-s-m. And I'm simply being realistic, Commander." Cassandra half-turned with a bitter frown. "I'm ready to do damage too, but we need a plan that best mitigates losses. Of material and personnel. What's to keep them from self-destructing when they realize the battle within is lost?"

  "Me," Kara retorted, without an ounce of doubt.

  "You're just one person. There's gotta be a crew of at least six hundred aboard that behemoth."

  "Really? Hmm, well then. Might end up actually breaking a sweat. Been awhile."

  "Spare us your macho bullshit. It's gonna give me a fucking migraine." Cassandra spun to face her, voice miffed but not loud, lower back braced on the console's beveled brim. "Even with two strike teams there's no way you'd kill enough in time to matter."

  "When I tell you I can do something? I can. Whether you believe it or not is your own damn problem. Now—instead of yappin'—why don't you put that big ass head to use and figure something else out? Since you know everything."

  "You smug little—!"

  "Cass, she's just teasing. Actually think she likes you," Rorik interjected calmly, Switzerland-personified, focused on the ceiling as his mind raced. "Drop it. You'll have plenty of time to bitch each other to death when this is over."

  "Gladly," she half-snapped. "But does she ever get any less annoying?"

  "Yeah. Well, no. Not in my experience at the very least."

  Rorik ambled through the airborne projections, in the midst of the women's warring stares. Slow. Focused. The incoming ship depicted above his head in crystal clarity—predominantly orange, bulbous, and uneven. Cobbled together with a patchwork of multicolored materials. A Scrapper mega-junker without a doubt. Not an official classification, but the name that best described its overt purpose.

  No chance it'd wandered into the Pynon Corridor by accident. Rorik wasn't a big believer in coincidences. Not at all. It was far more likely that it'd followed in the radiant wake of the storm, predaciously eager to pick off any damaged stragglers.

  “She has a point Kara, if we simply take the fight to them they'll get desperate. Cornered animals, and all that? As for your suggestion? We might not be able to take out the engines fast enough. The nacelle housings look decently reinforced," he paused to clear his throat. "Seems to me our plan needs to be multifaceted. Atypical. They still ignoring our hails?"

  Cassandra inclined her head, a twinkle in her eye that bordered professional and personal concern. “Across every band. Tight-beam, burst, broad-spectrum. Nothing. Either they can’t hear us or they’re playing mind games.”

  “Mind games?” Kara scoffed. “Dude, there's three inbred brain cells on that entire ship. They're basically fucking mutants. Probably muted the comm and haven't noticed for the past few days.”

  “Scrappers will never be too bright.” Rorik rubbed his brow. “But they've improved their modus operandi in recent years. Their cunning makes up the difference. I don't want to underestimate them.”

  "Don't wanna overestimate either." Kara snorted out a chuckle, her face a tad softer when their gazes met. "Fine, maybe we can outmaneuver them. We've got a good deal more port and starboard thrusters, we could skate along the lateral axis, give their big guns less time to kick us in the nuts."

  "Down to give it a shot. Just, give me a second to think things through, huh?"

  "Don't take too long, kid," added Kara. "Be in range in a blink."

  An etheric timer pulsed red in the room's leftmost corner, with three-hundred and thirty seconds left till contact. Enough time to make a choice. Too little to find the most viable. It made a terrible itch start behind his sternum, where Rorik's instincts and doubt often met to duke it out. A cage match. No holds barred.

  Flee or fight. Stand their ground and be blown to bits? Or run only to face the same fiery and ultimately pathetic end? Both options tasted pungent on his cotton-dry lips, but he had to pick. Something, anything.

  Rorik's naval experience, while more rounded than the typical boot, hadn't the same tenure as with ground—

  An idea barreled to mind, smacked the previous line of reasoning out of the way. Uninvited. Sudden. Explosive as a detonex-tipped desolation round. It made Rorik's stomach lurch down with a prickle of nerves.

  He'd faced shit odds against the KT-86s too, but wisely considered their school of thought, and convinced them out of an advantage long enough to matter. Although unlike murderous synthenoids, Scrappers could give a damn about superiority, sadistic pride, or anything that even resembled a fair fight.

  Their kryptonite was greed. Monetary incentivization. Avarice.

  But he couldn't cut a straight deal. No. They'd simply take it and break it. What hungry vulture with an edge wouldn't? It had to be superlative, and momentarily out of reach, a promise so good that to not even pretend to honor it would be foolish.

  An offer that even the dumbest pirate alive could ill afford to refuse.

  “Alright,” he said at last, voice sharp. “Kara, draw weapons from the armory, then arm and position all essential crew behind the bulkheads. In the power distribution arteries. If we repolarize the thermionic conduits they should throw off most scanner sweeps. The excess radiation won't feel all that nice, but I want to downplay our numbers. No way they got a good scan through our shell."

  They both stared like he'd grown an extra head, and a few tentacles.

  "We'll reroute a few controls," he continued. "Make them think we're running a skeleton crew when we surrender the ship. Wholesale. I want to coax the Scrappers aboard. Maybe they'll be less trigger happy toward the Gizotso with their own people in danger. Even if only a bit."

  "And what pray tell is the plan after you surrender?" asked Kara crisply. “Offer them some cold beers and play gay chicken?”

  "I am pragmatic. But no, smart-ass, I'll convince them to take us prisoner, and once aboard we'll target their systems. You'll lead the battle here, Kara. You'll know when to strike, just make sure to prioritize the bridge. Then we'll fight on three fronts, space—our ship—their ship. If one fails, maybe the others can pick up the slack."

  Cassandra walked over, focused pupils sharp as glass. "It sounds good, but there are too many variables outside of our control. These aren't exactly predictable people, James. Maybe we should think of something else?"

  He smirked, a toasty twitch of the lips, and pulled her close to gently pat her forehead with the back of his hand.

  “I know all that. Dealt with their kind before. But, more importantly, you feeling alright, Cass?”

  She returned the expression, almost girlish, then pressed their chests together in a loose embrace. “Haven’t been sick in four hundred years. Doubt it’d happen today out of the blue. Why?”

  He didn’t answer right away. Just watched her intently.

  “Thought something was wrong with your hearing for a second—wasn't a question or suggestion.” His head cocked slightly, smile still warm, but pointed. “Wanna take an honest crack at what it really was, Lieutenant?”

  Cassandra flicked a look toward Kara's satisfied chortle, then returned to hold his gaze. After a moment, she exhaled with a weary shake of the head.

  “…fine. I get it. Don’t have to be an asshat about it though. Sir.”

  The unknown ship came out of ceespace in a flare of azure static, scorched with wounds from presumably countless scuffles. It slid to a buttery smooth halt just beyond conventional firing range, bright drivefire dimming to faint green embers of thermionic energy.

  The Gizotso's viewscreen on the bridge crackled when a hail came through at last, and an indescribably ugly man poured into its width. Sat imperiously in a chair not dissimilar to Rorik's own, dressed in a worn blood-orange flight suit. Face leathery. With sunken cheeks framed by blonde braids and a scruffy beard. Icy eyes aglow with untold greed, his mouth full of gold teeth that peeped through a crooked smile.

  “Ahoy there, wee star-wanderer!” the man boomed, shrill accent thicker than oatmeal mixed with wet cement. “This here be Cap’n Nebalo of the famous Wretched Wench, and it seems ye done drifted into some right unfortunate waters. Savvy?”

  Rorik almost immediately sighed, then reclined in the downy cushion, genuinely dumbfounded. He'd unfortunately spoken to a number of Scrappers in myriad locations—usually preceding senseless violence—and they hadn't even a hint of this performative lilt. An asinine and archaic pirate intonation liable to trigger a migraine.

  No way it came about naturally. Maybe it was an unfortunate byproduct of one too many old movies? Nothing else made any damn sense. The man sounded like a Johnny Depp impersonator after a week-long bender and a dozen lines of coke...

  ...so just like Johnny Depp.

  “Nebalo? Nebalo? Afraid I don't recognize the name. But out of disinclined curiosity? Any reason as to why you've ignored our hails until now? Come to lend a Samaritan's hand or simply curious?”

  The pirate clutched his heart, and spun the chair around like a dramatically hissy toddler.

  “Ye don't recognize? I am legend! Plunderer of Pynon! Breaker of Hulls! Grasper of Gold!” His voice hushed as he leaned nearer, showcasing a nest of gnarly nose hairs. “And ye, me first mate muted the comm he did—which explains a whollotta confusion with our recent communiques. Hmm, maybe that ore hauler really was surrenderin' after all."

  “Regardless, glad to have met you. I'm High Commander James Tiberius, uh, Richards,” Rorik replied firmly, already tired of the childish theatrics, privately amused at Kara's miraculous guess. “How can we help you today?”

  Nebalo’s grin twitched, as the drawl of his accent slowed like cold molasses. "How else, boy? Didn't come to socialize. Drop ye shell and space ye cargo. I'll have support vessels swing by to collect. Post-haste. After that, we can...discuss further terms."

  Cassandra drifted into frame, only slightly by Rorik's armrest, but enough to elicit a riotous response—Nebalo's camera shakily zoomed out to reveal a horde behind him—an orange throng of pirates cramped in a hall stacked with crates. Shouts. Random and reckless gunfire. Bedlam. A whole ruckus of incomprehensible drivel at the very sight of her.

  He could practically smell them from here...

  “Ole mama!” Nebalo licked his shiny teeth, blue irises replete with lust. "Jackpot!"

  "Looks just like me sister!" a random pirate yelled excitedly. "And me cousin, and me auntie too!"

  "I'm already full mast, boys! Whoo!"

  “Fuck m'sideways into a wormhole!" the Cap'n continued, slapping his knee, impressively louder than his subordinates. "Why didn't ye say there was a beautiful lady aboard, boy? Tryna to keep her'all to yeself?”

  Cassandra's freckled nose twitched with a smirk, one narrow brow lifted, more morbidly curious than flattered. He nodded away the unruffled apology in her eyes as she stepped closer. No use ducking back out of sight now.

  Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  Rorik was never the jealous type, far too handsome to be jealous. Not at all shocked or even upset at the pirates' fervent uproar. She did look damn good. He was more so focused on how to utilize their nonsensical fluster against them.

  "Beautiful? No arguments there." Rorik inspected the knuckles of his right hand, as the cozy breeze of the air controllers gushed from overhead. "One of a kind. But, the lady part is where you've lost me—ow."

  She pricked a claw at the back of his neck, then pressed on Rorik's shoulder with a casual lean. "Don't be rude, Commander Richards. Who are your new colorful friends?"

  "Plunderer—Cassandra, Cassandra—Plunderer."

  "Cassandra? Hmm. Very pretty name. Like a sweet exotic flower of the finest medley. I am most pleased to meet ye wonderful acquaintance."

  "Me as well, I suppose. Given the dire circumstances."

  "I do so look forward to getting better acquainted, Cassandra." Nebalo purposefully spread his legs, the fabric of the pants riddled with a foul rainbow of stains. "Ove'a glass of zydrian ale or four? Or perhaps ye could even help keep me bed warm tonight?"

  "Rather leap face first into a dying star," she mumbled under a breath.

  "The hell what was that there ye done said now!"

  "Oh, I asked if you and your men have traveled far?"

  "Never mind from whence we came, ye uppity bitch! Ye lucky ole Nebalo's ears been playin' a trick. Thought I heard a big and ugly remark from such a pretty little mouth. Expeditious way to get into trouble of the likes ye never seen."

  Rorik sensed her breath shallow, felt the muscles in her arm tense tendon by tendon, coiled to separate Nebalo's befuddled head from a fragile human spine.

  "In due time," he whispered, a barely audible murmur.

  “Cap’n? Pardon da interruption.” another pirate hissed, bowlegged with a fine film of filth over a pair of square goggles. “But we boardin’, right? Please tell me we boardin'?”

  Nebalo flattened his voice and suit in one suave motion, eagerness barely contained. “Aye. Aye, I think we are. Change o’ plans, star-wanderer. Power down and prepare for our arrival. Don’t dare do anything I wouldn't do. That is, do anything stupidiously suicidal. Savvy?”

  Rorik, or for the time being, Richards smiled. Just a little private one. Nothing had at all gone as expected, things rarely did in his life, but the desired end result hadn't deviated much either. An unpredictable bunch of scum and villainy indeed.

  “Crew,” he said, amber eyes locked on Nebalo with the quiet patience of a lion. “You heard the Cap'n. Get to it."

  "Hope you know what you're doing, LT—Commander—whatever the fuck you are now." Jakobs crossed his arms with a grimace, one of twenty crowded near the starboard airlock. "This plan stinks worse than an asshole stuffed with gym socks."

  "Sure it's not your upper lip?" Rorik smiled, then came to a halt alongside Cassandra, taking stock of those present. "How about you, Adrax? Holding up? Everyone good?"

  They all nodded once, jaws tight, overtly displeased with Rorik's unusual decision to surrender. He didn't blame them in the slightest. Couldn't. It was antithetical to their culture. To their way of life. And if it were to happen for some odd reason, they'd probably prefer that it not be to humans of all creatures.

  The area before the airlock was a wide, circular junction polished dull by years of traffic. Three corridors branched from it like arteries, their walls a metallurgic cocktail of both shiny and rustic alloy. Squared, rounded doors lined the long curvature of each dimpled hall.

  Rorik had stalled Nebalo with imaginary technical issues from the storm. The Gizotso's lightning scorched hull had certainly helped sell it. And with that brief delay, he'd replaced the female crewmen meant to surrender with men—not that they couldn't handle it, but because Rorik wanted the already boisterous pirates a little less...excited. Easier to manage that way.

  Which meant Cassandra alone would bear the brunt of their fatuous advances.

  ...poor, poor pirates.

  The airlock’s outer ring began to rotate. Low. Mechanical. Like a massive beast clearing its throat. Pressure hissed through the rounded seam, frost blossomed along the rim, and the nearby amber lights dimmed in a series of haunted flickers.

  “Can hear my brain cells dying already,” Cassandra muttered, hand moving up and down her jacket's zipper—an adorable tic. "Sounds like little kernels going pop-pop-pop."

  "I know this'll suck, but try to play nice, huh?” Rorik clasped her shoulder, tempted to brush the mole wonderfully sat beneath an eye. “We need to be cordial without groveling. Firm, but not bullheaded. Think you can manage?”

  "Absolutely, High Commander." She threw a sideways glance, then playfully bumped him with a soft hip. "Only question is how long can I go before ripping someone's head off?"

  "My money's on thirty seconds, LT. A minute tops if you plug your ears."

  "Thanks, Adrax." Cassandra knit her brow, then affectionately ruffled his auburn hair. "Can always count on you."

  "You really mean that? No fooling?"

  "Sure. To be a consistent pain in the ass anyhow."

  The airlock clicked and jolted with a thud.

  Once. Twice.

  Then at last popped open with a rush of sound and air—laughter, clanking weapons. With an odor of oil and unwashed bodies so thick it was practically visible.

  Nebalo pushed through front and center, flanked by a sea of orange flight suits and cocky glares. An estimated fifty pirates followed, packed shoulder to shoulder. Hounds. Obedient as dogs. Diverse weapons loose in their grips like toys. Every other man riddled with an assortment of baubles, jewelry, and hastily sketched facial tattoos.

  The Breaker of Hulls halted the grimy gaggle with a smooth gesture, laser focused on Cassandra, before begrudgingly resting on Rorik. His getup had changed since the viewscreen—same flight suit, but now overlaid with a bronze trauma-plate, with an unusual rifle slung at the chest. Didn't even have a barrel, just two angled prongs that jutted inward at a small curved disk.

  “I’ll be fucked sideways.” Nebalo let out a shrill whistle, taking in the Gizotso like a greedy kid in a candy store. “This is an awfully nice ship ye got here, star-wanderer. No loose wires, rodents, or holes in the walls. The lights don't spew sparks in ye eyes, and there's no lovable old sewage smell coming from the vents."

  "Appreciate it. Outside of the recent damage I'd say it's in pretty good—."

  "A whole lotta firepower too." He paced irregularly side-to-side, practically dancing, aloof and perfectly at home. "Gotta say I was amazed when ye surrendered. A battle between our vessels would've been a wee sight for the ages. What's the matter there, boy? Ye a coward?”

  Rorik kept his face and timbre modulated. A tightrope of discipline to prevent appearing either weak or hostile.

  “Not even close,” he replied calmly. “Storm made a mess of things. It was simply the best decision available. Besides, it's a vicious enough galaxy as it is, I'm not above diplomacy when the situation arises. Are you?”

  “Nay. Even Scrappers converse peaceably on occasion.” Nebalo refocused on Cassandra, shamelessly traced the curvature of her waist. “Well then by all means, allow me to lay out the methodology of our diplomatic process. Savvy? It'll work as such: I tell ye what I want, and then ye give it to me. Or every man here will meet a terrible and awfully undignified end. Me crew can attest to that."

  A ripple of laughter tore through the pirates.

  “Teach it to em, Cap’n!”

  "And I think I'll start with this beautiful pearl of a peach ye got standing here. A tall glass of gorgeous that Nebalo ain't seen in a long, long while.”

  “Save me a turn, Cap'n!”

  “Bet she moans real pretty like!”

  Cassandra took a subtle step forward, itchin' to slaughter them like hapless swine—Rorik heard her claws shift beneath flushed skin, heart-rate increase—but decidedly blocked the path to Nebalo. Equally inclined to violence, but committed to the ruse for as long as possible.

  Nebalo chuckled low. “Protective sort, are ye?”

  “A pragmatic realist actually. She's an engineer.” Rorik lied, arms folded at the chest, thumbs pressed to the rough pewter fabric. “A valuable one. The ship wouldn't be in as good of shape without her.”

  “I don't disagree.” Nebalo licked a gold tooth. “She looks very valuable, indeed.”

  "Regardless. I think I may have something that you'd value more?"

  "Outside of pallets of pure gold? Or a harem of busty vixens? I doubt it. But lay it out in the open and let ye words ring true. Ole Nebalo can keenly sniff out a lie like a vile fart."

  The pirates fanned out a little, boots versus deckplate, casually circling Rorik's crew. Guns not quite raised.

  Yet.

  "If you haven't noticed, we're part of a mercenary army. With a solid relationship with BioMech." He slowly retrieved the Black-Pass BIC from his Velcro-lapel pocket. "Real good. Have access to their resupply buoys around the Heartland. If you give us a tow we can lead you to one. Won't have to deal with those nasty mines and automated turrets."

  "A buoy? Plenty of booty there. And aye, I've seen a pass before. Hard to acquire. But what keeps me from simply takin' it and doing it me damn self?"

  "There are other security considerations that it can't circumvent alone. That and The Scrapper Codex of Bargains and Trade. If I recall it states that no Scrapper can renege on a profitable offer made in good faith."

  “Good faith, huh? Funny thing about the Codex is, it's predominantly suggestions,” Nebalo countered, voice syrup-slow. “And is primarily reserved for interactions within the raidfleets.”

  "True. But you still trade with outsiders. There's no way such an intricate network could consist of scrapping and piracy alone. Isn't it reasonable to foster a relationship that may help Scrappers everywhere?"

  Rorik met his stare evenly.

  “Funny thing about BioMech is that they're a very grateful intercorp,” he continued. “Maybe they'll hire you here and there, provide intelligence on how to best raid Omni-Corp settlements?”

  Nebalo studied him. Long. Measured. "One too many maybes in your offer for me personal taste."

  "We'll have to place a dollop of faith in one another. If I'm lying, you can kill us and take an almost fully functional warship. And if not? You'll gain long term perks from a sizable intercorp. And my gratitude. Which is no small thing I can assure you. Either way, you win."

  Nebalo's gaze flicked around. A lifetime of backstabbing and betrayal burned like coals behind bloodshot eyes. The potent suspicion of a natural born survivor turned stone-cold killer.

  “Ye’ve got nerve for one so young, Commander Richards. Especially for a starsdamn pretty boy," he said mindfully. "Something few men ever acquire in their wretched little lifetimes. And fewer still are born with."

  Nebalo slunk into another steady pace. An unhurried saunter through the formation of obediently parting pirates, his gaze firmly on the wolves like a butcher inspecting meat.

  “Funny thing I done notice. Beyond ye men's remarkable lack of concern or fear. Or how such a small crew could man this ship.” Nebalo mused aloud. “Ye lot is an awfully tall bunch. Even pretty ole Cassandra there can't be shorter than six-foot-three—four? What in the greater galaxy have ye all been eatin'?”

  "Milk does a body good," Rorik said offhand, though it did little to satiate the man's mounting dubiety. "Healthy bones and all that."

  A pirate snorted, then spat a black goop of nicotine on the floor. “Aye Cap’n, these ones sure do cast a long shadow. But I doubt milk had much to do wit'it.”

  Nebalo ignored them both, and stopped in front of Adrax, close enough to smell the kid's breath—searched him all over with veiled malevolence, until resting on the hands with a flare of finality.

  On the outline of claws where human nails ought to be.

  “Now that there is curious,” Nebalo murmured with a tug at his beard. “Real curious.”

  He leaned toward Jakobs, absently rubbed the shine of the other man's bald head, and squinted as if judging his own reflection in a mirror.

  “Why them nails look near normal at first sight. But not quite when you're close enough to file’em. Too thin. Almost metallic in hue? Seated in a damnably weird way.”

  Nobody blinked. Moved. Stuck in that leery, inquisitive moment for a few seconds too long. Uneasy. Volcanic. Heartbeats and the faint tickle of triggers the only sound.

  A thin hair away from an eruption of knotted suspense.

  Until, Nebalo straightened with a lustrous grin of gold.

  “I've heard of strange men in the Heartland. And what is most reiterated refers to their unusual height and nails. Among other things. While me peers often dismiss them, I've always been a believer. Long known the difference between myth and muddled tales. And it's got me right reconsiderin' a few things.”

  Nebalo had obviously pieced things together. Enough. Expertly, Rorik had to admit. He'd trivialized his assumed intelligence at first—a sharp, well-traveled man of the world who chose to play the fool. A tactic that undoubtedly gave him an edge in most scenarios. He was rather adept at compiling scraps of information in a flash.

  The legend of supermen could either frighten him off or into cautious compliance. Maybe neither. Rorik couldn’t yet tell. He had to tread the waters with the finesse of a surgeon.

  "Whatever stories you've heard are irrelevant." Rorik stepped near, placid, the target of several cautious barrels. "Isn't a successful business exchange far more important? If you suspect what I suspect you do, then a relationship between us would only benefit you all the more. Our reputation isn't exaggerated in the slightest."

  Nebalo whipped around with a slight swagger, a hint of newfound caution in his icy regard. "Aye. I suppose I can't argue ye logic. Airtight, it be," he paused with a steady glare. "Therefore, by the power invested in me by the Carnyeon Raidfleet, I accept the terms of ye diplomacy, Richards. To better foster a relationship that may aid Scrappers everywhere. But alas, I do have me conditions."

  "And what are those?"

  "One, I get a quarter of all supplies in ye hold. Consider it a down payment on my dollop of faith."

  "Hmm, fine. Can always resupply when we get there. What else?"

  "Two. Ye and Cassandra will accompany me aboard the Wretched Wench for a meal. I am a gracious host. And as for ye men, one and only one may oversee the bridge, under supervision. All others shall be interned in ye own brig for the duration of the journey. Do ye, Commander Richards, accept these terms?"

  Rorik stoically met the eye of everyone in his charge, Jakobs, Adrax—more than confident in their adaptability. To implement the less than ideal plan that he'd narrowly had time to explain.

  Even with a decent incentive dangling before Nebalo's nose, betrayal was still a most certain guarantee. At least the true burden rested on Rorik and Kara's shoulders alone. When to act would be the most crucial detail of them all.

  He nodded with a glance at Cassandra, ran a hand through his flaxen strands, then clasped the grimy pirate in a firm shake. A perfidious gesture loaded with the tension of a landmine.

  "Seems we've come to an accord then..."

  "...Cap'n Nebalo."