Skykeep

by Joseph R. Lallo

  I told them. It saved you, she tapped.

  There was a long moment as each prisoner waited to see if there was any reaction from the guard, but there was none.

  It was a bad idea. Dead was a better trade, Lil tapped back.

  You knew where we were, Nita tapped out, a bit limited by the past tense nature of the code.

  I didn’t. Needed more time. Needed charts. I got close. Knew almost. Not exact.

  Nita thought for a moment. You told me what you knew. You and I worked it out.

  For nearly three hours the two exchanged slow, stilted messages, stopping only briefly whenever the guards took notice. A list of things they knew and things they didn’t were traced out. They couldn’t have been unconscious for much more than a half a day at best while being brought to Skykeep, but that didn’t narrow things down much considering how fast the fugger vessels could be. They knew they hadn’t seen any airships at all during yard time. That meant that they were off any standard trade routes, which stood to reason since if they were near a trade route, then the prison would have been spotted. They knew they weren’t near the center of the continent since the fug was too thick here to be that far inland. Every scrap of information was considered, from the lack of mountain peaks to the type of food they were served.

  Piece by piece they collected the clues and—coupled with what little precision they could wring out of Lil’s calculations—they reasoned out a set of coordinates that was probably within about a hundred miles of being accurate. That, at least, should hopefully be enough to get a rescue party within visual range. Now all that was left was finding a way to tell the crew. And if what the warden said was true, that much would take care of itself.

  #

  Sure enough, the warden was as good as his word. A day and a half after their midnight meeting, Nita was brought into the comparatively fresh air of the surface.

  “Did your friend give you the rundown?” asked the guard.

  “She wasn’t terribly talkative after her times in the box,” Nita said as she stepped up to the crate.

  They opened the front, releasing a scent that was best left undescribed.

  “You’re here until tomorrow. You get no food. There’s an empty bucket in there now. I think you know what it’s for. Every now and then we’ll lower you down and swap the bucket for one full of water. Do with it what you will. Now get in,” the guard said.

  He forced her head down, shoved her inside the box, and slammed it shut. Once the crate was sealed, it was utterly black inside. There wasn’t nearly enough room to stand. In fact, even sitting left her head almost touching the roof. Realizing it was designed as a punishment for the tall, thin fug folk made her wonder just how uncomfortable it must have been for them. They’d practically have to curl up.

  They hoisted it in the air, and she very quickly learned just how much worse things could get for her. Nita’s first few hours on the Wind Breaker weren’t her proudest moments. The motion of an airship took some getting used to, and until she did there was the matter of keeping the contents of her stomach where they belonged, which wasn’t always a winning battle. She’d since become quite accustomed to it, but the instant the crate left the deck she knew she was in for a tough time. Every little motion of the fairly steady floating prison was amplified into a ponderous swing, and somehow having no view of the outside made it worse. For now the lack of meals would be a blessing because even the thought of food was more than she could handle.

  Nita tried to keep herself calm, and her stomach settled with very slow, deliberate breathing, counting to five as she breathed in and counting to ten as she breathed out. Her sister, who had grappled with stage fright early in her performance career, swore by it as a method to focus the mind and steady the heart.

  “Five… six… seven… eight,” she breathed, clutching her arms a bit more tightly about herself as another gust of wind passed effortlessly through the mesh and chilled her. “Lita… I think your method may have met its match…”

  She steadied herself for another inhale when she heard the sound she’d been waiting for. It was the scratch of claws and the scamper of feet along the support pole outside the crate. She began to hammer on the crate, knocking out a code.

  That inspector repeated its name, she tapped.

  The scampering stopped. She repeated the message, this time louder and more urgently. There was a moment of scratching and tapping, then suddenly something thumped against the side of the crate and climbed to the top. Finally the quicker, more delicate taps of an aye-aye rattled against the roof of her hanging prison.

  This inspector was named 34097, it tapped. That inspector repeated its name.

  This inspector was named Nita, she replied. Nita took another breath, then began her message. Report forwarded to inspector Wink.

  She knew that Wink wasn’t the real name of the Wind Breaker’s inspector, at least for the purposes of this message, but it was the only one she knew. It would have to do.

  Reply intended only for Nita, she continued. Both crew were in Phylactery. Skykeep. Airborne prison. Coordinates followed message. Anti-aircraft cannons on surface. Sharpshooters in four corner towers. One more in central tower. Anchored by chains to surface. Large hounds guarded chains…

  For the better part of five minutes she listed off everything she could think of that might be of some aid to the crew. When she was through, there was a silence that likely only lasted a few seconds but felt like hours. Then came a few simple taps.

  Report received, the inspector tapped.

  Its acknowledgment delivered, the creature scurried up the rope, along the boom, and to the top of the pole. Time passed with agonizing uncertainty, nothing but the wail of wind and the sickening motion of the crate to occupy Nita’s mind. Then she heard the low, slicing whir of airship blades. Shortly afterward she began to hear the rattling tap of messages being drummed out by the inspector. The sound was distant and indistinct, but if she strained her ears Nita could just barely make out snippets of the messages. … seven crates of flour… …killed in the act of attacking… …requesting further instruction… …intended for Nita. Both crew were in Phylactery…

  Nita practically deflated, releasing a breath she’d not intentionally held. The plan had run its course. It might not have been the best one. After all, the captain only rarely used Wink to spy on other messages, and he had no way of knowing that Nita might be sending one, but it was the best chance she had. And now she had done it. It was a blessing in that it gave her the sliver of hope that rescue might be on the way, but it was a curse in that the monomaniacal focus that had driven her for the last few days was gone. Now she’d have to find something else to fixate on, lest she go mad. Fortunately, at the moment she had the very effective distraction of trying to keep her lunch where it belonged because she wouldn’t be getting another one anytime soon.

  Chapter 8

  Regardless of how one might have felt about the fug folk and their behavior, captains and navigators always had a grudging respect for their fug counterparts. Above the fug the ground, the sky, and their landmarks were almost always present. Every ship had a dozen instruments dedicated to keeping one abreast of things that were plainly visible on all but the darkest and cloudiest nights. Beneath the fug, there was no sky, and there was no horizon. On the brightest, most beautiful day above the surface, the fug folk were at best treated to a dim purple glow. At night, there was nothingness. The sky, the ground, and all around were black. Ships could have and often did run aground thinking they had hundreds of feet to spare. Traveling long distances with anything approaching precision required an intimate understanding of one’s own ship and the intricacies of the wind. Distance was judged by setting a steady speed and counting out the minutes. Adjustments were made by working out how much drift the wind had caused and correcting for it. It was not correct to say that it was as much an art as a science, because there was virtually no science to it at all. One took one’s best guess, hoping to come
at least close enough to the proper course that the lighthouse or beacon of the intended destination came into view. Only the bravest or foolhardiest of surface ships spent any time in the fug, and those who did always did so because they were up to some sort of no good and couldn’t afford to be caught. It was thus of little surprise that the Wind Breaker and her crew had spent a fair amount of time doing just that. No one could navigate in the fug like a fug pilot, but if there was one person who was close, it was Captain Mack.

  Despite this, fate had not been with them in their journey. A heading and a distance were all well and good, but they were not the most precise way to find a destination in the best of circumstances. Even if they’d had the sky to guide them, the simple quirk of one compass compared to another might put one well off the mark. A strong headwind had made navigation difficult and burned through a fair amount of fuel and water during the beginning of their journey. To keep their boilers full, the Wind Breaker had been forced to seek out a river, which took them off course and required considerable backtracking to find their way back to the original path. By their figuring they had come within five miles of Pendercrook when the same storm that had stirred up Lil’s second stint in the isolation crate threw them off course again, requiring another session of backtracking, and two more water stops. By the time they were finally drawing near to what they believed was their destination, days had passed in a trip that should have taken hours.

  “I reckon we’re just about fit to bump into the place now,” the captain said, his eye on the fragile collection of brass plates and glass tubing that formed his altimeter. He then referred to his carefully calibrated airspeed indicator, otherwise known as a spit-moistened finger. “Everybody keep your eyes peeled for the beacon. Should be off to the port side. Holler as soon as you see it because if we get too close, this whole operation is over before it starts; and if we’re too far, we might barely see it. I’ll be damned if we waste another day because of the odd breeze and a poor lookout.”

  “Hold on, Cap’n… I think I hear another set of engines,” Coop warned. He looked down to the fuzzy little head sticking out of his jacket, where Nikita had been carefully tucked away since her treatment. “You hear that, little critter?”

  Nikita tapped an affirmative on one of Coop’s buttons. The one blessing of their lengthy misadventure was that both Nikita and Coop had been granted the time to at least mostly recover from their respective injuries.

  Mack eased off the steam to the rotors. His ship had five small engines rather than the more typical twin engine configuration. This meant that all things being equal, the Wind Breaker was quieter than most other ships. Nita’s faithful and proactive tuning and repairs meant that it tended to hum rather than rattle, thus keeping the noise down even further. If they had heard another ship, the odds were good that the other ship had not heard them. When the Wind Breaker fans were nearly silent, the crew listened. Sure enough, somewhere off the starboard side, a ship lurked with a low rumble.

  “Too low-pitched to be a cutter. Sounds like one of them scouts… short-rangers, like the ones guarding the warehouse. If it’s a scout, we’re close, but it’s also probably got its lights on, so we’d best be sure it doesn’t get too close to us. Somebody spot that thing right quick.”

  “It’s nowhere around us,” Gunner said. “It must be above or below.”

  “It ain’t below us, because were pretty near scraping our belly. Someone get up there and spot it.”

  “Up there… you mean on top?” Gunner said.

  “If Lil can do it, then so can you,” the captain said.

  “I believe this is the precise reason that the concept of seniority was created. Coop, do the honors.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m going,” Coop said, slinging his rifle on his back and hauling himself into the rigging.

  While Nita’s efforts to beautify the Wind Breaker had done a great deal of good for them when they were above the fug in terms of building a reputation and adding to the mystique that was beginning to surround them, it had the unfortunate side effect of making them the most recognizable ship in the sky. This meant that so much as a glimpse in their direction from one of the fug ships was more than they could afford. To avoid being seen, Mack was flying entirely dark, and Coop knew better than to ask permission to use a handheld light of any kind, so climbing the rigging and working his way up onto the envelope had to be done by touch. Luck was with him, though. He’d no sooner reached the side of the envelope than the phlo-lights of the scout ship became visible.

  “I got her, Cap’n. About sixty yards. Pitched down. Probably coming in from a surface sweep.”

  “Then she’s inbound. She’ll lead us the rest of the way,” the captain said. “We can’t be more than five minutes out. Now’s the time to get our ducks all lined up. Cannons loaded?”

  “Fore and aft, grapeshot, as ordered,” Gunner said.

  “All small arms on hand and loaded?”

  “I lost a couple of my favorites back in the mine, but what I got is ready to fire,” Coop said, dropping back down to the deck.

  “Deck guns loaded?”

  “Our last full magazine of fléchettes ready to unload, Captain.”

  “Repeat back your orders,” Mack said.

  “Me and Gunner hit the ground as soon as we see the beacon. We get inside on foot and look for the station master or whoever else might be in charge,” Coop said.

  “Once we find him, we try to get into his office and find his paperwork and look for something about the Phylactery,” Gunner said.

  “Even if it’s just a map. If we can’t find nothin’, we grab the master himself and bring him back.”

  “If we can’t find the station master, we grab anybody and bring him back.”

  “And we shouldn’t even pull a trigger unless we’re ready to kill every last one of them. Which should be easy, because I been ready to kill every last one of these fuggers since I heard the explosion.”

  “We’re not in a strong position for a firefight, gents. Gunner, use your best judgment. Coop, use Gunner’s best judgment.”

  “Aye,” the men said.

  The captain brought the ship lower and decreased speed until the scout ship was easily visible overhead. He kept dropping until the scratch of scraggly, gnarled tree branches against the belly and gig told them any further loss of altitude would be ill-advised. Less than two minutes later, Gunner’s sharp eyes spotted the steady green glow of the phlo-beacon atop what could only be Pendercrook. From there they dropped a ladder and lowered the gig in lieu of an anchor. Gunner was the first to hit the ground, followed by Coop.

  “Do you need me to run through the proper tactics?” Gunner asked, checking each of his five guns in sequence to ensure they were mechanically sound, then pulling down a pair of goggles with an array of flipped-up lenses.

  “I broke into plenty of places plenty of times, Gunner. I know the drill.”

  “Yes, you broke into places, but this is reconnaissance.”

  “Reconi… rec… what you said is just fancy talk for sticking our noses where they don’t belong and not getting caught. I did that plenty, too. You don’t need to lead me around.”

  Gunner looked to him. “Oh, don’t I? Then why do you have an inspector in your coat? Are you really thinking of bringing her along?”

  “Look, if you can figure a way of getting her out without her clawing a hole through you or me, then have at it. Otherwise, she’s coming along.”

  “But you… fine. But we’re splitting up as soon as we reach the station. If that thing is going to make a racket, the least I can do is use you as a diversion.”

  “She ain’t gonna do nothing. You didn’t even know she was there,” Coop said.

  The two began to move along at a carefully moderated pace, as fast as they dared to go to avoid making too much noise or exhausting themselves on the way. The distance at which the Wind Breaker had set down left them with a lot of ground to cover. By the time they were near enoug
h for the lights of the buildings to become visible, the scout ship had reached port and a second ship had come in for supplies.

  “You see what I see, Gunner?” Coop said quietly.

  “Yes, Coop. I have eyes.”

  The new ship was a cutter.

  “You reckon that came in from that Ph’lac’try place?”

  “That’s what we’re here to find out,” Gunner said, quickening his pace.

  As they drew nearer, it was clear that this was like any typical fug facility. That is to say, it was pristine, well maintained, and practically deserted. There were two landing pads, each currently occupied. At a surface station that would mean there should be a swarm of ground crews scurrying about to reload each ship with coal, burn-slow, and water. Here there was only a pair of workers, each operating a steam-powered cart. A third fug person, probably the only other person in the station, seemed to be giving orders. All told there were a dozen buildings that made up the station. The central office was to one side. It was a tall tower with the beacon mounted atop it. The rest were either warehouses filled with consumables and other airship-related items, or else they were water towers. Here in the fug one couldn’t rely upon the ocean to supply ample water for the boilers. As a result many stations such as this had been erected by the fug folk to resupply when natural bodies of water weren’t nearby.

  Neither of the crewmates needed to confer on what was to come next. If there was any information to be had, it would be in the tower. The building wasn’t exactly a fortress. They were deep enough into the fug and far enough from trade routes that the fug folk probably didn’t expect any surface people to ever see the place, let alone try to infiltrate it, so there were no fences or other such security measures. The only problem presented to them was the fact that the useful part of the station office was at the top of the tower, which was only accessible via a well-lit, exposed staircase that they couldn’t hope to climb without being seen. Gunner motioned for Coop to stop.