Black Sails Vane Novels & Stories

I opened the door and stepped out into the downpour. The wind off the river was vicious, carrying the bitter scent of low-tide salt and diesel fuel. At the end of the concrete pier, the sixty-foot sleek, matte-black hull of the executive transport cutter was visible, its twin diesel engines already churning the dark water into a white, frothing foam as it strained against its heavy nylon mooring lines. And there, standing on the slick concrete of the boarding ramp, was Vance.

Just raw gravity pulling us down. "Hold on!" Vance grabbed the controls again. He moved the stick manually. The rotor blades caught the thick air just in time. We leveled out only twenty feet above the crashing waves. Heavy salt spray hit the windshield like a wave. We were skimming the very surface of the water. The engines were smoking heavily now, filling the back cabin with a dark, oily haze. Fire started to lick the edges of the tail rotor. "We are too heavy!" Vance shouted back at me. "The primary engine is failing! We have to dump the weight right now or we sink!"

I looked at the emergency consoles, the ship’s systems flashing in a dying dance of red and yellow. "We don't need the ship," I said. "We need blood." I walked over to the console, bypassed the locks, and initiated the self-destruct for the Voyager. "We leave them nothing but ashes," I said, turning to him. The sirens reached a crescendo. The hull began to scream as the structural integrity failed. "Where’s Vane?" I asked. Cane looked toward the lower decks. "He’s gone to find Gideon. He didn't wait." "Good," I said.

​The Choice of the Gatekeeper ​"We can't send a machine, and we can't send a child," I said, looking at the Vane-Thorne ship, which had returned to the Sahara and was now being "Upgraded" by the Xylos-vines. The ship was no longer a teardrop of stone; it was a Living-Eye, its hull covered in a shimmering, ocular-quartz that could "See" the resonance of distant stars.

Each blow sent a ripple of orange light through the iron chains, turning the rusted metal into a glowing, translucent amber. ​Vane stood on the observation deck beside me, her arms crossed over her scarred chest. She looked at the horizon, where the graveyard of dead ships was beginning to shift and churn. The magnetic pull of our fused cores was drawing the smaller wrecks toward us, creating a massive, swirling tail of scrap and history. ​"Look at them," Vane whispered, a rare touch of reverence in her gravelly voice. "The Architects called them 'failed data.' But look how they want to be part of a whole. They're not just junk; they're the armour for our spear."

The metal warped, cracked, and shattered with deafening, metallic screeches, sending tons of boiling sea water pouring into the holds as the massive vessels broke in half and dragged their screaming crews down into the bubbling, green-tinged abyss. Beta Vance broke the surface of the water near the pier, coughing violently, his golden eyes reflecting the green and gold fire dancing on the water. He hauled himself onto the timber, his hand slamming over his chest in a rough salute. "The channel is blocked! The primary vanguard of the armada has been completely boiled in the bay, Queen Lyra! The remaining ships are turning hard to port to avoid the thermal updraft!" "Don't let them stabilize t

The Collapse of the Crown On the pier, the Vulture Interceptor let out a final, metallic scream. The violet light in its cockpit flickered and died, replaced by a shower of sparks. The ship’s engines stalled, and the massive black bird fell the final twenty feet, smashing into the wooden dock with a bone-jarring thud. The scavenger envoy, still tethered to the hull, was slammed into the timber. His Neural Siphon exploded in a puff of acrid yellow smoke, the dirty tech unable to handle the purity of the Thorne-Vance override.

It was replaced by the fresh smell of rain. The people in the desert stopped gasping. They took long breaths of fresh air. Their faces turned from grey to pink. They looked at their hands. They looked at each other. They were breathing air for the first time. Director Vanes silver body began to fall. The machines that made his suit and his face were being pulled away by the wind. "This is not the end!" Vanes voice broke into a thousand pieces. "You cannot keep the balance! Without the system the cold will come!"

I stood by the helm, guarding Silas, who was frantically trying to override the ship's locked controls. "Can you dump the kelp?" I yelled. "Reverse the screws?" "I can't!" Silas yelled back. "The biological matter has fused with the drive shaft! It's not just wrapped around the prop; it's growing into the metal!" CRASH. An axe blade punched through the bridge door. A hand reached through the hole a sailor’s hand, gray and veined with black infection. It clawed at the locking mechanism. Vance shot the hand. The sailor didn't scream. He just pulled back, and another hand

VANE: ANG TRAIDOR SA LIWANAG ​Sa gitna ng kanilang pagkamangha, isang malakas na pagyanig ang naganap. Ang kisame ng hall ay nabutas at mula roon ay bumaba ang anim na tactical ships ng "Project Icarus." ​Si Dr. Aris Vane ay lumabas mula sa pangunahing barko, suot ang isang armor na gawa sa ginto at itim na chrome. Sa kanyang kamay ay hawak niya ang "Icarus Lance"—isang device na kayang humigop ng memorya at DNA sa isang iglap.