The Cargo:
We are chained to our filth; and to each other. Intimate ...In the ugliest imaginable sense of the word. Fettered by the ankle to two companions, and crammed in rows upon rows of other like-binded captives, we are all sitting, legs straddling legs, groin to buttocks, and shoulder to shoulder. I have about 2 inches from the top of my head to the heavy metal grates above; I do not envy those taller than I. I have lost track of the number of days, but as long as they remember to give us our daily water and crusts of bread - (we are, after all, an investment), and occasionally bless us with buckets of sea water poured from above to wash away some of the ever-present, warm, moist stains of humanity, I can almost find a dull comfort in the proximate, heated stench of my fellow passengers.

The most difficult thing for me to reconcile is that we far outnumber the crew, yet here we are. How did we ever allow ourselves to be lulled into this circumstance? Squeezed by their scorn and sadistic glee, I see no opening to freedom. We are told that we are only one compartment of many, on one ship of many, in one armada of many, within a global Navy charged with delivering broken spirits to a better life.

The Slave:
My ankles are loosely chained, perhaps to keep me from kicking out in anger or simply to remind me of my place, because God knows there is no escape from this ship. I am standing on the grates pouring sea water into the cargo hold immediately below deck, trying to wash away some of the fresh foulness before it dries into another layer. As I pour, one of the lost souls below stares pleadingly as if I could do something to help. At night they chain us to these metal grates and we must sleep in the noxious waves of their stench. I am only doing my best to ease my own discomfort. As if I would help them anyway... When one of them dies in that hold, it is one of us sent down to fetch the body. Last week, my only friend was sent down there and they set upon him like a pack of rabid dogs. Some of the soldiers fired their guns into that mass of inhumanity, killing four of them and finishing off my friend. I was one of the ones they sent down to retrieve those bodies. I was afraid; but apparently they were more afraid.

Once a week or so the soldiers bring up 12 to 15 of them at a time to stretch and wash. During this time nearly all of us are chained to railings on the opposite side of the ship with just a few soldiers watching us. I guess the soldiers can add up the numbers and don't want any kind of insurrection. One time when the cargo was being brought up top, they were careless and neglected to secure my chain. I considered jumping overboard, but that was early in the journey. For the most part it has not been overwhelmingly unbearable, except for the nights. During the day they watch us close and of course we labor very hard, but they are more generous to us with the bread and water, and since we are the ones feeding the cargo, we don't go hungry. I am not young. As the crossing continues, I am slowing down. I have heard the soldiers commenting on this to their superiors. Next time I will jump.

The Worker:
I am in the galley practically chained to my kneading bowl. From sunup to sundown, I work very hard making bread. I signed on to this excursion, pittance though the wages are, to cross the waters and start again. The galley boss is a hard man, and though I eat plenty it is usually very plain food; either what is left over after all those with privilege have eaten, or flavorless food made extra on the side by the galley boss. When I sought passage and pay in exchange for labor they asked if I could cook. I made the mistake of telling them I had apprenticed for a baker. If I'd have simply said "Yes" perhaps I'd be cooking the beans instead of this. But now, the galley boss has grown very fond of his cook's talent. I am where I am.

Working as I do, I seldom get topside. I think I've only been on deck one time that wasn't night. It was alright up there during the day, but I don't like it at night. It's some kind of eerie with all that cargo moanin' and carryin' on like they do. Others say it's worse at night than in the day because there are fewer soldiers up there at night, and I guess they're either asleep or don't care. And then to see the slaves all bouncin' around and cryin' out in their sleep on top of those creakin' metal grates - it's all a g-damn fright show. I can't wait to get across to where my uncle's waitin'. He's got work for me; in fact he owns his own shop. The only bad thing - it's a bakery.

The Boss:
I am the galley boss and I might as well be chained to my charges as incompetent as they sometimes are. The baker's not too bad, but the two assistants are stupid though if you stay on them they follow direction pretty good. And then there's the cook... if I believed in trolls I'd say he was the love child of a troll and a granite boulder - about as mean and dumb as they come. But somehow he has the instincts to work a little magic with beans and a piece of salt pork; or with a little ham and a lot of potatoes. And when they get a fresh catch from the water of just about anything, I've seen fights break out over the last of it. Of course I take all the credit, and he don't know any different, so of all the bosses on board, I tend to be treated a little better than the others. Just last week the soldiers near beat to death one of the slave bosses because he let one of his charges get killed by the cargo. As long as my boulder don't poison anybody, I believe I'll stay in very good graces. But that's one of the reasons why I have to keep a sharp eye, because he's just mean enough to do something like that out of spite; though I think he's too lazy and dumb to hunt down poison, much less actually go to the trouble of calculating how not to get caught.

I've been on five crossings there and back, but this is my first time with this ship and this Captain. Me and my guys have a pretty good routine going and I'm trying to keep us together for more crossings. The Boulder has agreed to stay on, as well as one of the assistants. I'm working on the other assistant, and though the baker thinks he's got a job waiting for him, I have wired ahead and am currently in negotiation with his uncle. I don't mind that they are high maintenance; with this magic cook I have been able to scrimp on some supplies and I've arranged for a nice bonus for myself selling the excess when we get to port. The only one smart enough to figure my scheme is maybe the baker, but that's why I keep the assistants busy elsewhere so he stays practically chained to that kneading bowl from sunup to sundown. I'm confident he hasn't seen a thing.

The Soldier:
I am a bully, chained to my conscription and free to terrorize and abuse pretty much at will. Of course the officers and Captain are off limits, but the officers usually turn a blind eye to the necessary discipline of bosses and 'soft' soldiers. We mostly focus on converting heathen scum. If they cannot be a God-fearing man of unquestioning faith, then they will feel the wrath of my righteous indignation. And even those who profess belief must be frequently reminded. The crack of the whip and the satisfying thunk of my club often send shivers of delight that originate in my scrotum and radiate outward I believe through every nerve in my body finally settling in my brain and my fingers as a climax of transcendent fire. I am also learning of the joys of instilling fear with no physical abuse. To see another living being want to crawl inside their own skin at the mere sound of my voice is a more subtle and prolonged pleasure, and a type of abuse that I am finding very effective.

There are some soldiers like me who are very hardcore and passionate. There are a few who are very hardcore but administer punishment methodically, with dead eyes and with no apparent emotion. The majority of the soldiers are proficient but seem to have no higher purpose than to do what is necessary. And then as I have described there are some who are soft and actually believe that all category of man deserve equitable thought. I have had some success converting the proficient, the soft, the workers, and the bosses, and I can say with certainty that they all understand how to behave in my presence. There is no doubt that the cargo and slaves are humbled and pious most all the time now because they never know when I am watching. They will still need reminders not only to keep them on their own road to righteousness, but also to keep them in their place. Though many will forever be unworthy to walk alongside me on the one true path, any who do not work hard to appropriately and adequately reflect my devotion will indeed feel the wrath of my righteous indignation. I am a bully.

The Officer:
I am an Officer, loyal to the Crown, attached to a seafaring cargo ship, and thereby chained to an incompetent fool of a Captain. This is my first voyage in his charge so not yet knowing with certainty where all loyalties lie, I have not felt free to speak my mind to the other officers. I have however, respectfully spoken one-on-one with the Captain himself, expressing my concerns. At varying times and with specific examples, I have brought to his attention that we have a small but growing core of overzealous soldiers, an inefficient means of distributing food that lacks accountability, a thieving galley boss, a careless indifference toward the cargo and the ship's slaves (and for that matter toward everyone on board), and abominable conditions of hygiene. This conglomeration of circumstance has so far resulted in a loss of more than 15 percent of our cargo; not even accounting for humanitarian considerations - (which on this ship is a subject I would not dare to broach) - our attrition rate is most unacceptable. I am sure that I am not aware of all the politics involved here, but regardless someone will have to answer, and as an experienced Officer I know that these results will follow me.

I too have political connections and though I hate to use them after only one crossing with this vessel, I am beginning to believe I may have no choice. I will not risk my honor and reputation for the sake of camaraderie. Yet if possible I would also prefer to avoid the effrontery of being looked upon (or even rumored) as a snitch and a scallywag. Upon arriving in port I will dispatch a carefully worded missive to my cousin in the King's Senate and perhaps he can arrange for improvement without an inordinate hullabaloo. Perhaps I will be able to do some good and still escape unscathed.

The Captain:
I sit atop this ship's chain of command. I am the final appeal and the last word. My Officers respect me, the soldiers carry out my orders as relayed through the chain, and everyone together, at my bidding, contributes to the efficiency of this well-oiled machine. Why I have actually had live cargo thank me for the ease of their transport as they were transferred off the ship; perhaps not in words, but then I don't believe most of them know how to speak a language. I could simply tell what they were thinking by their looks of awe and adoration as they shuffled by in their chains. Sure, sure... there are the usual groans and moans here and there, even in the Officer's ranks; and yes, in the last two crossings the attrition rate was a little high. But all that is easily explained by the quality of merchandise we have been getting. Why on this journey alone, we have been to sea for 78 days and when I examined the cargo for the first time just last week, I could easily tell from my perch atop the metal grates that they were not of the same quality as for instance the cargo last delivered by that inferior Captain of the ship 'The Tiger's Bark'; when I saw his cargo disembarking they were obviously from better stock than the dregs I have been charged with. I must remember to speak to the Admiral about this obvious favoritism toward some of the other Captains.

Nonetheless, I have been blessed with comfortable quarters, a sound ship, superb officers, good soldiers, and a station in life that is not too far beneath my just rewards. I am confident that with my upbringing, experience, and capabilities, when the Admiral retires, (which should be soon), I will again be moving up the chain of command.

The Admiral:
If I have learned anything in my decades in this Life, it is that I am but one minutely tiny link in an infinite, pulsating, soft-tissue chain of possibility that not only circumnavigates the globe many times over but also weaves and wraps itself within and around all of time and space eliminating borders and definitions, while expanding individual and universal consciousness. Yet as I close in on retirement within a year or two, I must continue to manage the everyday myriad of picayune detail that comes across the desk of one who on paper is responsible for the largest fleet in his King's Navy. I tend to see this responsibility not as 'for' the fleet - (I do not own it, nor can I ever be hands-on in control) - but 'to' the fleet - (I can give it my daily energy and attention, utilizing experience and capability to increase efficiency and productivity). Enough philoso-babble...

My dear old friend Gustavius, (who always thought a bit much of himself, but typically delivered on his promises), is asking me to consider recommending his boy for my seat upon my retirement. When it comes to that boy, Gustavius is blind. His boy is a fool and currently a Captain on one of my ships. His boy has risen at least two steps above his level of competence. I was a fool for approving the last promotion. Not only can I not honor my friend's wishes, based on a cumulation of incompetencies, I just signed papers to demote this halfwit. Due to his advanced age and poor health, this may very well kill my friend Gustavius. I am sorry.

The Statesman:
Like it or not, we are all chained to family. I respect my cousin who is an Officer in the King's Navy. He has a good head on his shoulders, but the timing of his circumstance could not be worse. I am grateful that he wants  it handled quietly, and I will do so; just not now. I know he will be patient.

As one of the newer and younger members of the King's Senate, and as a member who (at least for now) has the King's ear, I am tested daily by the more 'esteemed and established' Senators who look down on me as an upstart pup with way too much energy. At the moment I am involved in ticklish negotiations to head the official Senate committee that I believe will lead to a dismantling and restructuring of the overly (and overtly) complex bureaucracy of the agency charged with internal compliance and oversight. This umbrella agency, officially known as The Department of Management, Administration, Surveillance, and Tutelage (or MAST) was originally created to look over the shoulders of other agencies in order to discourage widespread wrongdoing, and if/when they did stray, to steer them back on course. A good idea at the time? Perhaps. But it has evolved into a multi-headed-tentacled monstrosity that now pumps out an average of 20 pages of new rules and restrictions per day. No one can keep up. And what's more, in our unofficial investigation, we are finding probable high-level (and definitely mid and low-level) corruption within MAST. Who watches the watchdog? This is not a new story. In fact, it is simply a larger version of the examples of corruption and inefficiencies my cousin has brought to my attention from aboard his ship. Hmm. Perhaps with a parallel comparison of the two... perhaps by linking them I would have a more compelling case for deconstruction.

The King:
I can see the connections in my young Senator's expansive chain of thought. He equates the Cargo on his fictional ship with the rules and restrictions so numerous that they have lost individual meaning and identity; and the slaves with the scribes who follow orders to feed the existing rules (often with empty, meaningless addendum) in an effort to keep them healthy and viable; and the workers and bosses with the equivalent structure in the agency offices; and the soldiers with the often overzealous agency enforcers; and the Officers with the agency Board of Directors and even to an extent, the Senators; and the attrition rate with the rules that die because they are (for whatever reason) unenforcable and/or they were written for a single example or circumstance; and finally the incompetencies of the Captain with those of our agency Chief.

My young Senator was kind in that he did not also equate the fool of a Captain with his King. Perhaps he sees me more as the Admiral overseeing a fleet of agencies. Regardless, there is a connection and I must distance myself from the coming disaster. Based on private conversation I know this is not his intent, but I believe my vocal young Senator who likes to stir the pot, will make an excellent lamb stew for MAST as their new Agency Chief.

The Seer:
If we do not chain our spirit to today, tomorrow we will see healthier cargo, fewer slaves, fewer secrets, softer soldiers, more trusting officers, more competent captains, younger admirals, energetic senators, and an admiral-king. The day after tomorrow, we will have advanced further. Next week we will notice the lines as blurry. In a year, we will all be admirals.

I will not chain myself to today.