As two sleek, grey cutters closed in, their headlights slicing the pre-dawn darkness, Captain Elara stood on the quarterdeck, her face a grim mask of rebellion. Impound the vessel! The voice again cracked, robbing the scene of drama and substituting bureaucratic finality.
Seize. The word had a taste of ashes. It signaled the end of the road, the years of running, the whispered agreements, the outrunning of the horizon, all decreased to a seized asset. They were removing her last vestige of liberty. Though Elara understood the law was patient and today had finally caught up, her crew awaited a signal, a last, rash act of defiance.
She raised a hand with weary acceptance. The sound of shoes slamming the deck was a doorway shutting her life. Elara merely nodded as the Revenue Service officer boarded. The Kestrel was not hers anymore. Evidence was what it was.
