Writing Resources from Fifteen Minutes of Fiction

Debriefing

The debriefing took place in a meeting room at the end of the old service corridor. Not an auspicious location, Yvette had to admit, as she climbed the stone steps to the second floor. But it was at least discreet. After all that had passed in the preceeding twenty-four hours, she was grateful for that. Not that she was under any illusions. Their Lords Commissioners were not known for their forgiving natures. She only had to think of poor old Whistler, this time last year. The memory was enough to make her squirm.

It's not that the service was intrinsically brutal. There were Chaplains, after all, and Metaphysicians in the infirmary. Their Lords Commissioners took care of their own. But not until they had finished the business that now perplexed them - the business of getting to the bottom of things. Which, in this instance, meant the very shallow bottom of the bay at Jago Sands. The shallow, rocky bottom, on which was now marooned a broken carcass of a ship. Not a large ship, particularly. But awkwardly placed, in the wild weather that had blown in from the east, sufficient to render it inaccessible until the storm blew out. A small ship, then, recently abandoned by her crew - now being rapidly rendered to scrap metal by the tide, under the round-the-clock surveillance of the salvage team.

Yvette winced. No matter that her account was water-tight, that her decisions were the ones any commander would have made. No matter, even, that she had been right. Whistler had been right, she recalled grimly. Had been proven, categorically to be right. Afterwards. First, their Lords Commissioners would want to prove it for themselves. That was their prerogative, and they would not be denied.

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