If the disembarkation ramp had felt like stepping onto a polite stage, the upper gangway of the HMAS Dapper Duchess proved to be the wings of a slap-stick theatre determined to improvise a tragedy—mine, naturally.
A swirl of warm steam curled round the brass struts as the stewardesses shepherded me toward the forward hatch. I spotted an approaching officer: tall, trim, and sun-browned, her naval jacket stitched with silver cogs in place of epaulettes. The name-plate read Lt. T. March—but the lively hazel eyes made "Theo" seem infinitely friendlier.
Instinct puffed its chest. Before any uniformed hand could reach the wheel, I swung the heavy hatch wide and offered my brightest after-you.
The world stopped.
A teaspoon might have chimed against a teacup somewhere aft, but otherwise silence reigned—an awestruck, horrified hush. Four stewardesses froze mid-step; one clapped gloved fingers to her mouth, another squeaked "Oh my gears!" and a third fanned herself with the passenger manifest.
Lieutenant Theo's smile flickered. "That was… gallant, Mr Forsythe."
From a lower companionway a shrill boatswain's pipe shrieked. Boots thundered. In stormed a marine sergeant in crimson frock-coat, brandishing a whistle the size of a pepper-grinder.
"Code Thirty-Two! Potential Cranial Impact—Male! Form shield!"
Five marines sprang into a living barricade round me, sabres half-drawn, eyes sweeping the horizon for rogue hinges. I caught Theo's mortified wince just before she was elbowed aside by the sergeant.
"Ma'am," the young officer tried, "it was my fault—he merely—"
"Regulations are adamant, Lieutenant." The sergeant snapped open a pocket tome whose tiny brass gears hummed as pages riffled. "Male Protection Act, Section 8-B: Unsupervised Hazardous Apertures. Any hatch swung by a man, or at a man, shall be classed a bladed threat until ritually disciplined."
I blinked. "Surely the hatch meant no harm—if anything, it yielded quite graciously."
"Intent is irrelevant, sir. Danger is danger." She jabbed a gauntleted thumb at the offending door, which still hung ajar in innocent bafflement. "The aperture must face judgement by sabre."
Within minutes the quarter-deck had been converted into a makeshift tourney ground. The hatch—now detached and propped upright like a delinquent jouster—stood fifteen paces from a chalk line. On one side: the sergeant, sabre gleaming. On the other: a volunteer champion representing my delicate personhood. Regulations insisted the champion be female, lest I strain myself.
Lieutenant Theo, cheeks crimson, stepped forward. "As the officer inconvenienced, I'll stand for Mr Forsythe."
"Appreciated," I muttered.
The stewardess corps fluttered about applying last-minute safety filigree to the blade edges. Somewhere overhead, clockwork humming-bird cameras whirred into position, shutters clicking with predatory delight. Headlines were hatching already.
A bosun barked, "Touch blades!"
Theo offered a precise salute to the brass door, which—it must be said—handled the tension with stoic composure. With a single swift cut she nicked the upper hinge. Steel rang; a gold-painted splinter sailed away like sacrificial confetti.
"Danger chastened," the sergeant declared. She flourished an inked seal and pressed it onto the door's mid-rib: a red stamp reading ADMINISTERED. The duel, such as it was, concluded.
I exhaled. The marines did not.
They marched me—boxed in like a crown jewel that might at any moment fling itself onto a spike—to the purser's office. Inside waited a triplicate snow-drift of forms, each sheet smelling faintly of hot ink and despair.
The purser, pince-nez glinting, slid forward an invoice.
RECKLESS MALE ENDANGERMENT SURCHARGE
Statute: MPA §8-B
Offence: Unauthorised hatch manipulation resulting in Code 32 deployment
Amount Due: 50 Crowns (payable forthwith)
Fifty crowns! My entire travelling purse—after deducting life's essentials (tea, cough drops, and a moderately optimistic notebook)—amounted to thirty-two. I attempted a polite argument; the purser merely produced a second slip outlining Late-Fee Escalation Procedures that read like the prelude to bankruptcy by slow paper-cut.
In the end the stewardesses combined their tip money to cover the balance, patting my hand as though I were a distressed songbird. My gratitude was enormous; my dignity, pocket-sized.
Lieutenant Theo lingered near the doorway, hat in hand. "For what it's worth, Mr Forsythe, the hatch… fought bravely." The corner of her mouth twitched. It was the closest thing to a joke anyone had dared since the ordeal began, and I cherished it.
Dusk painted the dockside in rose and brass as the marines escorted me ashore. Steam launched from vent-stacks, mingling with the flash-powder flares of paparazzi drones clustered like fireflies on caffeine. Each carried a tiny banner: RARE CHAP WATCH—LIVE!
The sergeant addressed me in parade-ground tones. "Until a duly certified guardian attests for your safety, sir, you remain in naval protective custody. Guardian expected within the hour. Please refrain from spontaneous locomotion."
"Splendid," I murmured, eyeing the growing scrum of reporters beyond the cordon. "Any chance 'spontaneous respiration' is still permitted?"
No answer. The shield wall tightened. Theo, marching beside me, offered a sympathetic shrug. Regulations shackled her just as firmly, though metaphorically.
Behind us, humming-birds flashed magnesium, immortalising my newest infraction for the morning papers. Somewhere beyond the quay a clocktower tolled seven bells—each clang a reminder that every minute without a guardian etched another nervous wrinkle into some bureaucrat's ledger.
I drew a steadying breath of salt-tinged air and squared my shoulders. One hour. Sixty minutes to be rescued by—well, by someone willing to stamp a form and declare me officially non-hazardous.
Granted, the capital was home to duchesses, guild mistresses, and assorted industrial titans, all suddenly alerted to a free-range man in need of shepherding. What could possibly go wrong?
A final camera flash burst white against the deepening violet sky. The marines closed ranks, and the procession moved down the gangway toward the waiting carriage lights.
Somewhere out there, destiny—or, failing that, a very efficient automaton valet—was winding up for its entrance. I adjusted my hat to a jaunty angle, rehearsed a non-proposal bow or two in my head, and braced for whatever clock-work calamity Chapter Three intended to deliver.