by C K Burch
Dust nodded. “Well then, you ridiculous snake, I suppose if we agree to maintain our composure with each other, then we'll have no problems with either of us.” He held out his hand.
Ryder grinned and shook. “Of course, mate. You'll have no problems from me whatsoever.”
Dust didn't believe him in the slightest.
***
At one o'clock the following day, Dust McAlan arrived at Cairo airfield, and whistled. At least Ryder had an impressive vessel at his command.
The Venture was a double-balloon design, with the hull of the craft suspended between. Branching out from the main body were chrome-plated pylons, submerged into the skin of the hydrogen balloons on either side. Gone were the days where every airship was designed like a zeppelin, and if the Venture had given this an attempt, the design would have been ill-fit for it. As it stood, the balloons gleamed silver in the sunlight, the propeller engines emerging from the fore of each painted red. Smaller, rotating engines jut forth on either side of the hull's front section, currently angled downward to assist in taking off. Smart design work. Should the Venture need to rise from dock in a hurry – or, since the construction would allow for a water landing, lift off from choppy seas – the directional engines could point downward in a pinch and press the airship upwards at a decent rate. Depending on the horsepower of the props, that was.
The hull itself, while built for water, was swept back with the kind of streamlined chrome touches that Dust had seen during his days in Los Angeles and New York, also glistening with silver-coated paint. A ring of portholes wrapped around the nose, and beneath each a notched barrel of a machinegun emerged. Deadly, bulky cannons poked forth from the construct, a decidedly different kind of masthead, while a rotating gun sat on the deck of the craft. Dust strained his neck to peer over the lip of the deck – the ship was quite tall, some fifty feet at least, and thrice as long – and he thought he spotted some smaller deck guns along the railing. Fitting. Ryder, for his part, was well-prepared for any sort of sortie that he and his crew might find themselves into, which was all well and good for him. Personally, Dust felt it was all a bit showy for a treasure hunting vessel; it was more akin to an air pirate carrier. However, as they were possibly investigating an area with prehistoric beasts, he didn't mind the extra gunpower. To his chagrin, it actually made him feel...safer.
Dust, for his part, carried his bullwhip on his belt as usual. He also had a leather chest harness slung across his torso, strapped to a multi-pocketed belt around his waist. His pistol was holstered beneath his left arm, also connected to the harness. Magazines and extra ammo lined the pouches of the harness, while trinkets and extra gadgetry filled the belt. Always be prepared for whatever circumstances. Part of him felt like bulking up a touch more with the armaments, but he imagined that Ryder would be prepared for this, what with his trapping background. The only real questions that remained in Dust's head were how they were going to enter and/or explore the lost world of Shambhala, but there were a number of steps to be made first before getting to that particular point. Such as: how the hell they were going to find Shambhala in the first place.
“Beautiful, isn't it?”
Dust turned at the sound of Jack's voice, and found her dressed in a simple white shirt with the cuffs rolled to her elbows, khakis and tall boots, with a surprisingly large knife strapped to her thigh. A small leather satchel was slung over her shoulder, and the way she clutched at it, he imagined that her journal and map were inside – possibly along with other research materials. She had also swept back the front of her hair and pinned it smartly. She seemed every inch prepared for the expedition. Noonday sun caught her eyes – hazel, he hadn't noticed that before – illuminated like amber, and the excitement she held caught his breath.
“Yes, lovely,” Dust admitted.
Jack looked at him and raised her eyebrow.
He gesticulated at the ship. “The ship, that's what I meant, you know, the ship, it's nice.”
She smiled knowingly even as she blushed. “Forgive my assumption. I'm more accustomed to the ways of gentlemen being much less gentlemanly.”
“I'm sure you are. I promise to be much more gentlemanly than the average, uh, man.”
“Thank you.” She held her hand over her brow to block the sun. “The fact remains. She's a beautiful vessel. I'm not as fond of the guns, however.”
“There's a reason that Ryder has few problems with the air pirates in Africa.”
“About him.” Worry entered her voice. “You said he was a man of ill repute. Should I be terribly worried or only cautiously so?”
How best to put it? “Lincoln Ryder is a man who has made a living by killing. Formerly animals, but now these days men who stand between him and the treasure he seeks.”
“Have you ever crossed swords with the man, so to speak?”
“A few times. Once in particular.” Dust remembered the heat of the jungle, the way the moisture in the air had clung to him as he'd literally run for his life as Ryder's boys had chased him through the ruins of the city of Zinj, in his clutches a jade sphere with the key to a hidden empire's fortunes. Zinj had been one of King Solomon's outposts for mining, specifically diamonds, and Ryder had wanted all of them. He hadn't gotten them. As it turned out, Zinj had been precariously built on a semi-active lava vein, which most of Ryder's men at the time had unfortunately discovered. Dust had emerged from the jungle beaten, bloodied, and barely alive. But he'd also emerged the richer between he and Ryder, and for that, Ryder had never once let Dust forget that he bore a grudge.
“By the look on your face, it wasn't exactly pleasant,” Jack mused.
“That's a whole damn understatement.” He shook his head. “If you don't know already, you ought to know that Ryder's been promised a few dinosaurs for his efforts as a bonus. Not that it's my pay grade to bring this up, but I can't imagine this is something that would please you.”
Jack's features darkened. “Thomas reveled in allowing me that information already. At the very least, his efforts will only be allowed once we've made the ultimate discovery that we are on this journey for. I unfortunately have no say in the matter.”
“I see. I'm sorry.”
She brushed this away and managed an unconvincing smile. “I will see my lost world, Mister McAlan. And I will discover the secret of immortality. I suppose that I cannot have everything that I desire, can I?”
“I suppose not.”
Thomas' oblivious voice cut in. “Suppose what, then?”
Dust turned and blinked incredulously. Thomas was wearing an exact replica of the outfit he'd worn yesterday, if it wasn't the same clothes. “Seven hells, man, we're off on an expedition. You're gonna ruin that suit in minutes.”
“There's a reason I own seven.” Thomas sounded bored, then he took in the sight of the Venture. “Bless my arse, isn't that a ticklish sight! Practically flying in the finest tank available! What kind of gunpower do you think that has, mm? I'm guessing shells, wide fat buggers, eh?”
Dust began to say something, but he heard Ryder's voice come from the direction of the Venture, hollering something at some of the crew. A gangplank had opened up at the rear of the hull, leading into the aft section of the ship, and currently three jeeps and a truck were slowly rolling up the incline and inside. Upon the vehicles, Dust noticed a variety of modifications: the front of the jeeps held pulleys and winches, possibly for dragging or pulling, and the flatbed truck had what appeared to be a large cannon on the back, with a bola snare wrapped around the barrel. A net gun – of course. Once a trapper, always a trapper. Each of the vehicles had studded tires for extra grip in whatever conditions they might meet, and despite himself, Dust was impressed. Ryder was walking backwards in their direction, still shouting directions and orders, and then he quickly pivoted on his feet to face his passengers with a wide, shit-eating grin.
Dust rolled his eyes.
“Mum,” Ryder said, touching his forehead and smiling at Jack. He turned to the m
en. “Boys, we've just loaded up most of our cargo and transportation, what d'ya say we stride on and have us a drink as we get underway?”
“Tut.” Thomas turned and snapped his fingers. Dust saw a young lad, couldn't have been more than fourteen, pulling an array of oversized luggage on a dolly. The boy had unruly, ginger hair that fought with the tight newsie cap on top of his head; wide curls whirled out and bounced as he struggled with the weight of the carriage. His face was angelic with youth, neither masculine nor feminine, his tawny pallor flushed rose with the excess strain of bringing his lord's wares. Freckles stuck out like stars across his face, matching the brown of his suspenders, trousers, and boots. A white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows completed his outfit – which, as Dust compared, was quite nearly a match for what Jack wore. The boy was tall and slender and all awkward angles and edges. How he could be pulling the four overstuffed suitcases on that dolly was a mystery.
Thomas clicked his tongue. “I say, a bit more speed. We've an airship to catch, eh?”
“Sir,” the boy grunted, and he continued to tug.
Dust reached forward and relieved the dolly of two of the suitcases. “Allow me, kid.”
The youth nodded gratefully as the weight noticeably shifted. “Sir. 'preciate the lift.”
“You got it. Name's Dust McAlan.”
“Cairn Fitzgerald, guv. Proper excited to meet a real pulp hero.” Cairn doffed his hat a moment, glistening sweat revealed underneath. What glimpse there had been of red hair before now stood out as truly, uncommonly red, the kind of hair that Irish maidens were known for, beautiful and ginger. Had there been any doubt as to the boy's origins before, it was now impossible to ignore. Almost as impossible as ignoring his speech.
Dust chuckled. “An Irishman with a Cockney accent? I've seen it all, now.”
“Popped out in Londonderry, grew up on the East End. Besides, what's a McAlan with no brogue, then, eh guv?”
Dust raised his eyebrows, and a short, satisfied ha escaped his lips. “We're gonna get along just fine, kid.”
Jack nodded towards the Venture. “Are we off, then?”
Ryder nodded, with a brief glare at Dust.
Starting out wonderfully thus far.
***
Once in the air, the hum of the engines pleasantly vibrating the framework of the airship, Dust was able to appreciate the design work of the vessel. Whether or not Ryder had actually commissioned this ship or had stolen it from someone else, it was a marvelous piece of functionality. Ridged, metallic floors with electric lights along the smooth steel ceiling. Rounded, arched doors with portholes signaled quarters for the crew and for passengers. Comfortable rooms for each of them – including Dust, which surprised him – with soft beds and small closets for storage. It was as though Venture had previously been envisioned as a floating military base, then converted into the anti-pirate trapping vessel of today. Whatever rooming that had been established before held no comparison to the wide-open cargo area that Dust had seen loaded with vehicles: the twin-level storage held enough space for the four aforementioned vehicles, all of which were currently strapped down while in transit, and for multiple cages designed to house living creatures of various sizes. Dust could only imagine the terrible actions done to the victims of those cages; the rusted floors and bars were enough to warrant not searching those thoughts.
Dust leaned casually against the railing on the second level of the cargo sipping from a metal mug of coffee, watching as Ryder's men hustled about their business, gathering supplies, bundling weaponry, sorting ammunition. Their movements were quick and precise, well-trained. Dust had seen men trotting about along the halls, some of them grease-stained with leather aprons, some of them stripped to the waist and sweating with effort as they carried heavy parts for machinery. Not a single man among the crew had been seen doing anything less than operating at full speed, again which Dust admired. Then again, he'd also been on the receiving end of their trained efforts, so to see it from a slightly less bloody angle gave him some insight as what to expect should any of this go southward. Which he fully expected it to do so.
He sipped his coffee and returned to the hallways of the Venture. Jack was to outline her detailed plan for the investigation in the Dhauladhar Mountains, and he was to be there for it.
In the galley, Dust found Jack, Ryder, and a very bored-looking Lord Thomas sitting along a polished metal table. The galley itself had multiple benches and flat, rectangular tables for the crew to assemble upon. Very spartan, very organized. From the speakers on the ceiling, low-volume jazz was playing a light tune. On the far wall, wider portholes than the rest of the ship had looked out of the starboard side of the craft, and the bright light of the day came shining through. Dust caught sight of the clouds beneath them and the blue sky above, and he smiled to himself. More often than not, he was behind the pilot stick while airborne, and rarely did he get to enjoy the sight of the sky midair.
Jack had her map spread out on the table, with her open journal beside it. She looked up at Dust and smiled. “Excellent! You're here. We can begin, then.”
“Aye, aye, captain.” Dust looked at Ryder and held up his mug. “More coffee?”
Ryder nodded to a stand beside the cook's frying platform near the back of the galley. A tin carafe sat on the griddle, smoke drifting upward from the spout. A rag sat beside the stove for gripping the carafe to pour with. Dust nodded with some amusement, and poured himself another cuppa. He decided not to ask for cream; he dared not think of how it was kept.
Thomas, for his part, retrieved a flask from inside his jacket. “I'll allow you gentlemen to pay attention to the following, as I'm not being paid to do so.” As if to punctuate this, he drew long a long drag from the flask.
Jack shook her head slightly and sighed. Dust hid his expression by sipping from his coffee as he sat down across from her.
Ryder impatiently looked out the window. “So now that we've assembled like, what's our plan, mum? Aside from traveling some two thousand miles to get to our destination, that is.”
“Two thousand miles to paradise sounds like a decidedly small distance,” Jack mused.
“That's because you're not paying for the fuel.”
“Well, technically, we are.” She gestured towards her brother.
Thomas reached into his jacket, briefly revealed his checkbook triumphantly, and replaced it in his pocket. His flask did not leave his lips as he did so.
Dust nodded at the map. “On topic: so we arrive at the Dhauladhar Mountains, we've quietly drifted along the peaks, all ducks in a row. What then? Beyond those mountains are the rest of the Himalayas, which is kind of a wide space to search through.”
“Discovering the specific entrance to Shambhala will have to do with the keystone.” Jack removed the sapphire from her satchel, and unwrapped it from the sheepskin.
Ryder whistled. “Hello, precious, what do we have here?”
“Our key,” Jack replied defensively, “and not a reward.”
“I'll have that if I cannot have my dinosaurs,” Ryder stated. He looked at Thomas for approval.
Thomas nodded slightly.
“Thomas!” Jack exclaimed.
“What?” Thomas blinked as though he were being accused of theft. “We're paying the man, he's off to do a job for us. If he's unable to get his share of spoils, then I can't see why he can't have some bauble, Sissie.”
Jack shook her head. “This is not a discussion. This isn't some bauble, this is keystone to Shambhala. Rama gifted this to Hanuman. The historic importance alone should see this in a museum once we're finished with our journey.”
Ryder crossed his arms defiantly and shrugged. “If I'm flying my crew – and spending the fuel to fly us there – out to gather dinosaurs, then I expect either skin or sapphire.”
Dust held out his hands for calm. “Can we please investigate the specifics before we leap to the conclusion of defeat?”
“Thank you.” Jack nodded, th
en gestured at the map. “Now, as I've deduced from the Sanskrit writing on the keystone itself, there is a pathway that leads between the peaks, near Kalatop. Using the locations of stars, as written on this stone, I've narrowed the ultimate location down to this area.” She placed her finger on the map where a circle had been drawn in red ink. “These are the coordinates I gave to the Venture's navigator. After extensive research, I've found that there is a large forest there, fed by the Ravi River, and this is where we shall find entrance to the hidden valley.”
“You got all that from the stone?”
“The coordinates are primitive, and again are using the stars, but simple enough once translated properly. But the true mechanic isn't in the destination, it will be in the gateway to the valley itself.”
“How so?”
Jack held up the parchment with the depiction of Rama gifting Hanuman the keystone. “Here, as we can tell, the keystone glows when held up into the light of the day. Of course, one could infer that any jewel when held up to the light will glow, but the words on the keystone holds more than just coordinates.” She held out the keystone towards Dust. “Hold it up. Look through it and tell me what you see.”
Curious, Dust accepted the stone, and gazed through it. The cloud that he had seen in the center before was all he could see, and as he lifted it so the sunlight through the porthole could reach it, the cloud seemed to thin and become transparent. Something was actually in there, like an insect trapped in amber, and Dust frowned as he peered closer, attempting to decipher it.
“You can see it, can't you?” Jack voice was barely restrained excitement.
“I can, but I'll be damned if I can tell what it is.” Dust stood from his seat and strode quickly over next to the window. He was aware that Ryder had followed him over, peering over his shoulder at the gem.
“Turn it,” Jack said eagerly.
Dust did as he was told, and as he spun the keystone slowly in his fingers, an image began to form within the clouded area. Bubbles of glass, infinitesimal, angled themselves into a cohesive form, one of a high archway with a whorl of Sanskrit writing within it: Shambhala. But there was more: surrounding the archway were specific details, markers that could identify this same archway if one were to hold it up in the right spot, and use it to gaze through. Match the archway in the keystone to the gate in the real world, and then, perhaps, one would find the entrance to the lost kingdom.
