“But Cap’n,” Lil said. “What’re you gonna be doing until then?”
“We got a man on us. Someone who wants the ship down and the crew dead. We got enough on our plate without havin’ to look over our shoulders. I mean to deal with it.”
“By yourself?”
“No. Me, Butch, and Wink.”
“But what about—”
“You got your orders. Worryin’ about me ain’t one of ’em. Now get on it. Three weeks ain’t much time to do what needs doin’. I been holdin’ you all too tight lately. I see that now. So I’m lettin’ you loose. I reckon you’ll do me proud.”
He swept his eyes across the assembled crew. “Now get to it!” he barked.
#
Coop scratched under Nikita’s chin as he marched back and forth in a courtyard at Ichor Well. “What do you reckon, Nikita? Cap’n wants loads of ships in the air. Ain’t never had to scare up anything like that before.”
Nikita tapped out a reply on one of his buttons. Digger came.
“Oh yeah?” Coop said, putting his hand to his ear.
Sure enough, the sound of a small two-seater airship was humming up from the distance.
“He’s a darn sight better at thinkin’ up plans than me. I reckon he’s the first recruit.”
He trotted over to the smaller mooring points for ships such as Digger’s and waved off the current ground crew. When Digger was near enough to drop a line, Coop quickly tied it down and helped steady the ship.
“Coop! I didn’t expect the fine service of—”
“Digger, you and me are on the hook to recruit us our own navy!” Coop called up.
“… What?”
#
Nita watched as the freshly repaired Wind Breaker rose into the sky, taking with it the skeleton crew of Captain Mack, Butch, and Wink. Just minutes after the captain had issued his orders, the crew had been rushed off so that he could begin work on his own piece of the complex and ill-defined network of schemes.
“I hope they don’t get hit again with that abrasive before I can get back on the ship…” Nita said.
“Aw, Dr. Prist’s special stuff’ll clean it all out just fine,” Lil said.
“I know, but who’s going to administer it? I can’t picture Butch climbing up into the rigging.”
“Wink’ll do it. The little fella’s been sore about you takin’ the biggest part of his job ever since you showed up. Now come on. He gave us a job. We got to work out how to do it, and you’re the one who does all the good thinkin’.”
“Right. Right, let me see,” Nita said, turning her mind to the task. “He wants us to put together a ground assault.” They paced along the grounds of Ichor Well as Nita looked about for inspiration. “Three weeks… minus the time it will take us to get to Fort Cipher Hill. Do you have that map he gave you?”
Lil tugged a folded bit of paper from her pocket. It contained a rough sketch of Fort Cipher Hill as it existed before the Calamity, and its location in relation to a few local landmarks both above and below the fug.
“If we use steam carts, we can get there from here in three days, assuming the terrain isn’t a problem.”
“Probably ain’t the best idea to assume nothin’.”
“A week then, to be safe.” She added under her breath, “As if there were any way to be safe during this mission.”
“You knew it was going to be rough when you signed back up, darlin’. No sense mutterin’ about it now.”
“I know, I know. That gives us two weeks to figure out how to lay siege to a city and put the plan together.”
“That’s practically forever, the way we usually do things,” Lil said.
Nita set her mind to the task. “We have plenty of steam carts now. And they’ve been well modified for travel through The Thicket. If I can swap out the fléchette guns on them for something more potent, and persuade some of the Well Diggers to pilot them with us… but even with all the help I can muster, I don’t think I could get more than five or six of them finished and reliable in time to leave. And we probably can’t spare that many drivers.”
“We could track down some of the other folks we busted out of Skykeep. I reckon they owe us for ever breathin’ free again.”
“We don’t have the time for it. All we have left are a few two-seater wailer-style ships, and if we use them to head down to the mine where most of the others ended up, how will we get them back?”
“Yeah… Yeah, that ain’t gonna work. Not to mention, Cap’n said we oughta pick somethin’ Tusk wouldn’t see comin’. And anyone who knows you is liable to guess you’d be comin’ with somethin’ steam-powered and fancy.”
“I’m a free-wrench. Building and fixing things are my only real skills,” Nita said.
“Now that ain’t true. You’re a good dancer, and you got a good eye for art…”
“Nice of you to say, but they aren’t overly applicable to wartime.”
“True… Uh… You’re real good with animals,” Lil offered.
“Am I?”
“Sure. Wink ain’t really got attached to anybody but the cap’n until you came long. But he comes scurryin’ to you every time you show up from a long trip. He’s a real sweetheart since you showed up.”
“I think that’s just because I usually bring him macaroons.”
“Aw, half the folks I know only flash a smile my way if they think I’ve got somethin’ to eat or drink. Good with animals is good with animals.” Lil paused. “Say…” She tugged at the thread that held her recently acquired bone pendant.
“You look like you’ve got an idea,” Nita said.
“I think I got a couple. The cap’n says we should do somethin’ Tusk won’t see comin’. Well, most every time we have a plan what needs doin’, it’s the cap’n who comes up with it, or Gunner, or Digger, or you. You all are the smart ones. Me and Coop are just the ones who do the jobs.”
“You’re more than—”
“I ain’t more than that and you know it. But I reckon the last thing Tusk’ll see comin’ is an idea I came up with. And he can’t hardly plan on us havin’ folks on our team we ain’t never worked with before.” She twisted the pendant in her hands. “We gotta get us a cart. And load up on bullets. I reckon there’s some folks we gotta pay a visit to.”
#
Gunner opened a chest in his small room at the Ichor Well facility. Space was at a premium on any ship, and for the Wind Breaker that was doubly true, so when Prist had offered to find him a place to keep the larger and more ungainly items in his collection, he’d jumped at the chance.
“Ah…” he said, smiling behind his mask as if greeting an old friend. “It’s been too long.”
He lifted a weapon from inside the chest and held it into the light. It looked like the overfed, illegitimate love child of a rifle and a revolver. The barrel was as large around as a coffee cup. It had a cylinder with eight chambers at its base. He hefted it to his shoulder and slammed the chest shut.
As Gunner navigated the bustling walkways of Ichor Well, the workers gave him wary looks and wide berths. Gunner shook his head. How exactly he had earned the reputation for being dangerous with weapons was beyond him, but at the moment he didn’t mind. In all honesty, now was a good time to treat him with care, as for the next few weeks he would as likely as not be working with weapons that deserved the distrust and caution that most people treated him with anyway.
He pushed open the door to Dr. Prist’s laboratory.
“Is that you, Guy?” She looked up from her desk in the corner. Her eyes lit up. “Oh, that is just the right size.” She stood and, with a bit of a struggle, took the weapon from him. “Very solid engineering on it. I imagine it will be able to handle a good deal of pressure.” She squinted at an etched set of arrows between the cylinder and the barrel. “What is this here?”
“Mmm? Oh. Tight though the tolerances are, a bit of back pressure tends to vent out there.”
“That sounds dangerous.”
&nb
sp; “It’s how I lost my pinky.”
“Oh, you poor darling,” she said, handing it back. “Though I suppose a lesson learned in that manner is likely to remain at the front of your mind from that point forward. Set it down over here. We’ll need to start working out payload size.”
Gunner hefted the gun onto a workbench he’d cleared. He levered open the cylinder, and she set about taking measurements.
“Yes, the proportion of ingredients should be large enough to be an effective weapon in most cases. That is, provided we can separate the reagents until impact… Though I suppose if they mix in-transit that would not present an issue. This weapon is very well suited. Perfectly suited, I would say. In fact, what else might this be useful for?”
“I cobbled it together out of a model cannon,” he explained. “The sort that are used for noisemakers before military demonstrations and the like. I thought it might be useful as a midpoint between a cannon and a rifle.”
“I thought that was the purpose of those steam-powered weapons on the deck, that fire the spikes.”
“Fléchette guns are more about putting a great deal of ordnance in the air. Thus, it requires a great deal of ordnance to do any real damage to a ship. This could send a lead ball the size of my fist in one side of an envelope and out the other, and at twice the range of even our sturdiest fléchette gun.”
“Interesting… Why does it look to be in pristine condition?”
“Captain Mack was of the opinion that I didn’t have very many more fingers to spare, so it was best if I kept to slightly more conventional weaponry. Also, the rest of the crew wouldn’t touch it.”
“I see.” She glanced at the clock. “Heavens, the day is sailing by and there is so much to do.”
“What help can I offer?”
“If I work out the mass of the canisters we’ll need to launch, can you work out the charge sizes we’ll need to launch them to various distances?”
“Gladly.”
She found a stack of papers and a pencil and set them before him. He adjusted his mask a bit as he began jotting down numbers.
“Oh, Guy, please. Enough with that mask for now,” she said. She plucked a jar from a rack along the wall and uncorked it, revealing a sample of ichor that quickly pushed the fug from the room.
“You are certain you don’t mind? I understand you are more comfortable in the fug.”
“More comfortable in it, but I can breathe just fine regardless of its presence. And since you cannot say the same, I think it is reasonable to endure a bit of discomfort in exchange for allowing you to work without that ridiculous apparatus.”
“I appreciate the gesture, Samantha,” he said. He slipped the mask off and took his first easy breath since breakfast. In doing so, he freed his rather unruly hair from the mask’s leather straps. He ran through a few calculations, then paused. “Are we planning on using the old formula for the cannon powder, or the new?”
“For the sake of expedience, I think the new. It’s the only powder I have in any quantity.”
“Have we done a flash test of it?”
“Mmm… Not in so small a quantity. I suppose it may not scale as expected.”
“Shall I do the test then?”
“By all means.”
Gunner smiled wide and trotted to the fortified cabinet with the more dangerous compounds inside of it. He fetched a canister and a scale to dose it out. He seemed downright giddy at the opportunity to work with a substance that most of the other Well Diggers wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole. When he had the proper quantity, he fetched a gas burner.
“Really now, Guy,” Prist said.
“Something wrong?” he asked.
She stepped up to him. “I’d always thought the greatest blame for your frequent mishaps regarding gunpowder and its applications has been the poor quality control. A bit too much oxidizer is enough to make anything behave in a way you wouldn’t expect, but seeing you skirt even the most basic safety equipment…”
She reached past him and grabbed a glass face shield from a hook on the wall. “Oh, and your hair…” she said. She placed the mask down and reached into the pocket of the apron she wore over her dress and revealed a red ribbon.
“What is that for?” he asked.
“You’ve let your hair get so long, you’ll need to tie it back,” she said, gathering it up behind his head and skillfully tying a bow.
“I am not certain that is appropriate.”
“Guy, if you won’t trim it short, you must tie it back. And to think I’d been puzzled as to why you so often came to visit with the lingering scent of burnt hair about you.” When his hair was wrangled, she slipped the face shield in place and donned one of her own. “Why wouldn’t you think to put on some protection?”
“Again, space is at a premium on the Wind Breaker. And time as well. I seldom have access to such equipment.”
“Then you might consider saving your experimenting until you come down here. I can see to it that you’re given your own laboratory space.” She cleared her throat. “It was rather nice having you here while the fortifications were being built.”
He raised an eyebrow—or at least the stubbly remnants of an eyebrow that had been seared off a week earlier. “Oh?”
“Yes. A shame you were so busy. We could have spent more time together.” She paused for a moment, as if replaying the words in her head. “As an assistant. Or collaborator, of course.” She cleared her throat again. “There is a certain shorthand available to those who have worked with chemicals in the past that I simply have not been able to teach any of the grunts.”
“Right… Stand by for flash test.”
He mixed a bit of the powder, lit a small taper from the gas burner, and ignited the sample. The powder flashed away in a rush of heat and pressure. Flames licked against the face shield—and thus likely would have singed away his eyelashes if not for the protection. No powder was left behind when the flash was through.
“Success,” he said.
“Excellent. It would be a shame to have to run all of the calculations twice.”
“Indeed.”
He put the various equipment away and commenced the calculations again. After a few moments, he set the task aside and raised his head. “Samantha, you and I are both adults.”
“Of course.”
“And adults needn’t mince words. We are capable of approaching things logically and intelligently.”
“Certainly.”
“Just what is the nature of our relationship?”
She chuckled. “What sort of a question is that?”
“You are the only person outside of my family who calls me by my given name. And I don’t believe I’ve heard anyone else refer to you by yours.”
“Entirely acceptable among colleagues.”
“We have been exchanging lengthy correspondences for quite some time.”
“Again, entirely acceptable for colleagues.”
“Then we are merely a pair of colleagues.”
“Yes. Very good colleagues.”
“I see.” He began another calculation.
“Had you supposed otherwise?” she asked.
“I think it would be more accurate to suggest I had hoped otherwise,” he said.
She huffed. “You are a sailor, Guy. Don’t think I don’t know what that means.”
“A woman in every port?” he said. “You don’t truly believe that, do you?”
“I have seen your belt.”
He glanced down. The thick leather strap was visibly and deliberately notched.
“I shan’t be just another notch.”
He smirked, then laughed. She tipped her head up haughtily.
“Is it really so laughable a supposition?”
“I am the armory officer of the most besieged and beset vessel in the skies. These are downed ships.”
“A likely story.”
“Very likely, because it is true.”
“So you would have me believe
that a strapping specimen such as yourself hasn’t taken his pick of the fawning ladies of the surface, tripping over themselves to have a member of the crew of the legendary Wind Breaker?”
He smirked again. “Strapping specimen?”
“Don’t evade the question.”
“Samantha, how much time have you spent in surface cities?”
“None whatsoever.”
“The level of discourse in the ports of call that will still have us—because I’ll remind you that, regardless of our growing legend, most ports would prefer to avoid us lest the fug folk blacklist them like the people of Lock—is at a disappointingly low level. I can stomach only so much talk from people of small minds and little intellectual curiosity. Particularly in light of the stimulating alternative you represent.”
She gave him a pointed look.
“Intellectually stimulating,” he clarified. “On the rare opportunity I have to spend some leisure moments in a bar or at a show, I find men and women alike are more closely in line with Coop and Lil’s way of thinking than yours. If I’m absolutely frank, you’ve spoiled me for other women.”
“That is quite frank, Guy.”
“As I said, we are adults, not children blushing in the corner, waiting for the other to step out on the dance floor first.”
She took a breath. “Well then, in the spirit of frankness, I too have been somewhat put off by the overall thrust of the mindset in the fug. Fug women are quite rare, and while that mercifully hasn’t gone in a broodmare-ish direction, it has gone in the only mildly more tolerable direction of locking us away like precious treasure. It is bloody frustrating to be treated as though we are made of glass, liable to shatter should we be exposed to any danger. Even if you weren’t a fascinating conversationalist, a novel and innovative thinker, and yes, a strapping specimen, I rather think I would still enjoy your company on the basis of your relative willingness to permit me to take my own risks.”
“And yet, we are merely very good colleagues.”
“There is the matter of me being a fug woman and you being a surface man.”
Cipher Hill Page 13
