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The sun was setting over Climate Crisis Bay as burnt-out wildlife rescuer Ed performed the last of today’s acts of heroism. “Fly high, little buddies,” he whispered softly, as he launched baby turtle after baby turtle into the air, watching them bounce like skimming stones across the surface of the waves and out to sea.
“I’m so burnt out,” he thought to himself, worn down with man’s inhumanity to mollusc, crustacean, plant life belonging to the seaweed family, cod fish, flounders, soles and sea bass… the list went on. But when he was called to a lazy baby turtle emergency, wild sea horses couldn’t have held him back. Unless they needed rescuing too. In which case he’d have still got there, but later.
Either way, the baby turtles were now frolicking in the ocean’s briny embrace. Or sinking to the bottom like stones. Eh, life at sea was fickle, but at least they had a chance thanks to Ed’s timely intervention. All that he had left to do, he thought, was to go home and do something lonely like eat a microwave meal for one or play solitaire, when his walkie-talkie crackled into life. Now he had to do something even less enjoyable.
“This is Blackbeard,” Ed sighed out his call-sign into the radio. “What have you got for me?”
Silence. Then… “I’m waiting for you to say ‘over’,” said Frenchie. “Over.”
Fucking hell: “Over.”
“Cheers, man, otherwise you’re leaving me hanging, you know? And that’s a bad vibe.”
“Just tell me what you’ve got. OVER.”
“Reports coming in of a greasy seabird on Climate Crisis Bay. Over.”
“Gross. Over.”
“Not asking you to eat it man, just give it a scrub. Over.”
“What if I can’t be arsed? Over.”
“Well you’d better hope it’s not an albatross, because that negative shit sticks around. This is Frenchie, over and out.”
Ed’s keen wildlife-rescuer-trained eyes scanned the beach. There was something hopping about miserably on the periphery of his vision. Ed trudged across the sand, trying to recall the oath he’d taken as a bright-eyed and bushy-tailed wildlife cadet. Something about being true to your flock and fleece? That didn’t sound right. But before he could summon up the pledge proper, he was looking down at a bedraggled, oil-covered – was this a Bermuda Petrel? One of the rarest seabirds known to humankind??”
“Woah,” said Ed, “are you a Bermuda Petrel? One of the rarest seabirds known to humankind?”
“Barbadian Petrel, actually,” said the seabird a bit snippily, “even rarer I think you’ll find.”
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When Ed came round from his swoon, he was flat on his back in the sand, with the seabird peering at him, button eyes glinting.
“I’m sorry, did you just talk?” asked Ed, not entirely convinced he wasn’t dreaming. It had been a long day. Those baby turtles had been heavier than they’d looked.
“Did I!” confirmed the bird sounding more cheerful.
“Oh fuck, is this a sea witch thing?”
“I beg your pudding?”
“I’ve heard about this,” Ed sat up slowly. “From Frenchie, so not 100 per cent reliable, but talking fish and all that shit. Usually a sea witch’s curse, so he says.”
“That’s poppycock,” said the bird indignantly, hopping a bit. “There’s no such thing as a sea witch. No, this is what happens when you insist your only son and heir enter a STEM programme on pain of disinheritance instead of allowing them to flourish in the Arts and Humanities, which is their natural habitat.”
“Isn’t this your natural habitat?” Ed gestured to the dunes and the sea beyond.
“My other natural habitat. When I’m not a Barbadian Petrel.”
“And what are you normally?” asked Ed, confused not even beginning to cover it.
“Stede Bonnet. Human. I’d extend a wing, but they’re stuck to me. Anyway, you probably know my father.”
Ed looked around the beach for a bigger Barbadian Petrel.
“Of Bonnet’s Bonnets”
“Hat makers?”
“Car manufacturers. Proud producers of the only cars to run simultaneously on diesel, coal, and leaded petrol, which before you say it, is an eco-nightmare under the, er, bonnet. I’m well aware but that’s their entire point.”
“It is?”
“My father,” said the seabird sadly, “is trying to hasten the climate crisis.”
“Why the fuck does he want to do that?”
“He’s trying to push humanity into the next stage of our ‘evolution’ where we take to the stars due to earth’s inhospitable environment; he wants to occupy Mars of all the lunatic notions. Open a new showroom in space.”
“This still doesn’t explain why you’re a bird,” quibbled Ed.
“Ah!” Stede brightened. “A little industrial sabotage of my own. Forced into the sciences which I am obviously not opposed to, it’s just not my metier, I thought of a way to push back against the family business. I’m pioneering a way to recreate wildlife, replacing lost species, restoring the ecosystem and protecting the planet through artificial species generation. It’s genius, if I say so myself but then I have an IQ of 170.”
“By turning people into birds?!”
“Oh lord no, this was a side project, just for fun,” if the bird could have grinned it would, Ed thought, have been sharing a sweet little smirk with him. “It should wear off in a few hours, but before I had chance to regain my former, um, form, I had a mishap.”
“More fossil fuel,” Ed sighed. Man’s inhumanity to mineral in action once again.
“Puglia extra virgin,” corrected Stede. “I got a bit hungry and while it’s obviously a challenge to cook in this state, I thought I could manage a salad. But I upended the bottle, and, well…”
“You’re telling me this is olive oil?” Ed swiped a sandy finger through Stede’s plumage and licked it. “That’s not just olive oil, that’s the good shit.”
“Only the best,” the bird agreed.
“So let me guess, you were going to wash it off in the sea?”
“I thought the salt water would soak up the grease, but it really is a quality pressing.”
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Ed made a decision. He staggered to his feet and made his way over to his cool, rugged and very on-brand Land Rover, retrieving a towel from his rescue kit. Fuck solitaire, spending the evening with a bizarre little seabird sounded far better. He scooped up Stede, wrapping him carefully in the towel and tucking him under his arm.
“Right, I’m taking you home for a bath,” he announced.
“I’ll try not to transform during the process, or it could be awkward,” offered Stede, although Ed thought that perhaps this would make for an even more favourable development.
“Then dinner and telly, you pick the film.”
“Just not Jonathan Livingstone Seagull, any inaccuracies will drive me to distraction.”
Ed felt his burn-out evaporating like sea fret on a sunny morning: “And then we’ll bring down global capitalism and save the planet?” he suggested hopefully, so excited that he stood on a baby turtle he’d overlooked earlier. Never mind, Stede could always make more.
“I’d like nothing better,” said Stede happily. “But I don’t even know your name?”
“Ed Teach, born on a beach,” said Ed happily, feeling like it was the truest thing he’d ever said.
And that's how Ed and Stede saved the world, and Mars remains unoccupied to this day.*
*DISCLAIMER - All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real automotive tycoons wanting to occupy other planets is purely coincidental.