In the morning, it was all I could do to keep from asking questions. The Captain has shown that for true loyalty to work when information is the currency everyone else uses that you must always speak the truth to your crew and you should only speak that truth as necessary, but immediately as soon as necessary. I knew questions would be futile because any information exchanged is booty for the taking by spies and rogues, and so I was prepared to wait for the Captain to feel it time to divulge what was going on.
We had arrived at a particular corporate campus several miles rimward from the Ship. It was several stones' throws from the river banks, and yet served as one of the EST's largest shipping ports; it's medium of choice being air rather than water. We settled our dinghy, the beat-up van named Raven's Claw, a few feet from the security gates and got out. Pulling out one particular unmarked box, purely by memory, the Captain set the box on the ground and unfolded the top open. It was full of baseball-sized devices. The Captain picked one at random from the box and tossed it in the air in order to catch it on its way back down again.
"I call these my Bombes," he said, while gently spinning the device in his hand, "They are a bit of a rainy day investment... Today shall be a fitting day to put them to use."
A black, expensive looking sedan pulled up just about at that point. The Captain placed his loose bombe back into the box and gently refolded the box top. A tall, thin man slowly loosened himself from the driver's seat, calmly walked over to us, and silently accepted the box from the Captain. He had come prepared and a nearby office supply place label was quickly affixed to the side of the box, before the box was placed carefully into the passenger's side of the sedan. It was only then that the thin man spoke, "You were correct, McRaven. I still don't like this plan of yours, though."
McRaven offered no response and instead switched gears almost immediately, "Sarc, allow me to introduce you to Rockhewn the Double Fister. Rock, Sarc." There are many stories of the Rockhewn, and you've probably already heard half the good ones. A man of pure dichotomy: strong career man, strong Tribe man; strong sense of seriousness and strong sense of humor. The man can type nearly a hundred words per minute on a bad day and his light, manic schizophrenia is just about as mythic in its many echoes amongst the EST's comm. channels.
My first actual introduction to the Rockhewn was, understandably yet unfortunately, underwhelming. It took a few more meetings to merge the myth and the man.
As Rockhewn drove away just as lugubriously as he had appeared, the Captain placed his hand on my shoulder.
"I've just upset the balance a great deal. I had to. I will not have major terrorism in the name of any Tribe, especially in my own backyard.
"We grabbed that data, me boy, not a day too soon. I can only imagine what might have occurred had we failed. Tonight I send a message that few will forget in a long time."
That night, indeed, words filled the sky, like fire from loud overhead flying dragons, couriered to several far ends of the planet. The last works of a man that passed calmly toward Davy Jones' locker in his sleep.