Son of a whore. Immigrant. Racketeer. Sudaca. Thief. Crook. You’ve been knighted with these titles, judged a malcontent by virtue of your heritage, your roots, your mother tongue, your luck of the draw. You grew up looking contempt in the eye, so you know it when you see it, and here, in the officer’s mess, you see it in spades. The blue-bloods gather their furs and hold them close ’round their necks to stave off the cold, or maybe the fear. They cling to the lap of luxury like they cling to their antiquated notion of hierarchy, and you watch them turn up their noses as they lament the looming dangers of welcoming strangers—outsiders—into their fold. You share their wealth, but not their bloodlines, and certainly not their fear-bred entitlement. They bleat like sheep without a shepherd, so frightened by the darkness ahead that they fail to take note of the wolf that prowls among them already: you. None of the Agathe survivors, you suspect, are half as likely to put a match to the Promethean as you are. And yet… The guests turn a blind eye to your ill will—not on account of your person, but your purse. New money you may be, but coin calls to coin, and the aristocrats aboard have acquitted you of malice before the trial’s even begun. Ah, the spoils of classism. They think you a sheep—a black sheep, but a sheep nonetheless. They think you one of their own, heedless to what big teeth you have (all the better to eat them with).
Your pursestrings are loose, but your code of honor among thieves is not. You can take the man out of the whorehouse, surely, but never can you take the whorehouse out of the man. You have one saving grace, and it is this: your devotion to the outcasts. What are the Agathe survivors, really, if not outcasts? Immigrants on an Admiralty-christened ship. Refugees deemed madmen. Tragic, downtrodden beasts who know now that survival tastes the same as blood in your mouth, acrid and sour. They’re kin to you, outsiders of the same ilk cut from different cloth. You consider telling your audience to fuck off in express detail, damn their snobbery, but you’re an empresario through and through, and there’s little room for folly or feeling where business is concerned. You’re here to secure a trade route to the Far East, and your objective must remain paramount. Your word carries some weight among these people, so you must think carefully about what you say next. Your notorious repute precedes you, but so, too, does your impressive fortune, and among the upper crusts, the latter accrues more merit than the former. What you say next could be taken to heart, you think. What you say next could be meaningful. You stand at the helm of fate’s piano, and you, maestro, must choose carefully which keys to stroke.
You weigh the risks and rewards: DO YOU RILE THEM UP?
Should your labors bear fruit, the Agathe survivors will be banished from the Promethean, and so, too, will THE AMBASSADOR—and the threat he poses to you and your voyage. You don’t mind getting your hands dirty, but if there’s a way to depose l’ambassadeur without slitting his throat in the dead of the night... Well, you won’t object.
A plague of boredom is catching like wildfire aboard the Promethean, and if there’s anything in this world worthy of your hate, it’s doldrum. Inciting a quarrel between the Promethean’s guests and the Agathe survivors might bear the fruit of an exciting diversion.
Reinforcing the protests of the Promethean’s nobles could catalyze dissent among the ship’s passengers, which would likely delay the expedition and put a kink in your plans to outwit the Queen and negotiate trade with the Far East.
Your moral compass hasn’t worked in a long, long while, and though lawlessness becomes you, you’re not altogether without principle. Some things are sacred even to you, heretic. Your black heart has always bled for the outcasts—the immigrants, the vagrants, the criminals, the lepers, the down-on-their-luck—and you don’t think orchestrating the eviction of a homeless people will sit well in your gut. You’re unacquainted with guilt, and you want to keep it that way. It’s hard enough to sleep on this godforsaken ship without the complication of remorse in your belly, fitful and sleepless. You need your beauty rest, after all.
If the Agathe survivors remain aboard the Promethean and learn of the role you played in the guests’ bid to exile them, there will be bad blood aplenty. You don’t need any more enemies on this ship, and you could certainly use a few more allies. What’s more? There could be potential allies among the Agathe survivors, lucrative resources to be tapped and wielded to your advantage. Who knows what kind of folk walk among them? Translators, perhaps, to help facilitate relations between you and leaders of the Far East. Mutineers, perhaps, to help you sate your greed—no matter the costs. Wolves, perhaps, to help you hunt the sheep aboard. Sheep, perhaps, to quench your hunger. There could be many a friend or many a foe among this crew, but you’ll never find out if you oust them all. One of these people could be your key to fortune.
The Promethean could stand a little je ne sais quois. How frightfully boring this lot of well-bred Englishmen can be, and how marvelously electric you know the French to be! You’ve spent many years in Paris, and you know with some surety that the French are connoisseurs of le tête à tête and le budoire. If good conversation doesn’t lie ahead, a good fuck surely does. You would be remiss to encourage the eviction of the Agathe survivors and forfeit the opportunity to break bread with them—and break beds with them, if the occasion calls for it.
It’s decided, then, laid out for you like the blueprints of a ship: riling up the guests is a venture that would benefit you little, likely, and cost you much.
It’s decided, then: for profit, for alliance, for resources, for carnal pursuits, for excitement, for honor among thieves, you opt not to stir the pot.
