by E. C. Jarvis
“I did.”
“And did he request further services?” A lump formed in her throat.
“He did.”
“Which?” Her voice turned to a whisper.
“I think our time is up.” Serenia stretched out her hand, awaiting payment, the fingertips of her other hand tapping against one of her pistols.
Larissa handed over the gold and watched Serenia snake her way through the throng of people in the bar until she finally disappeared through the exit. A clock on the wall chimed the hour and Larissa stood, heading to the alley to collect Imago. She hoped to catch a train back to the City as soon as possible, preferably without being murdered before she got there.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Cid sat on the warehouse floor, a large schematic of the dirigible laid out on the ground between his legs. In his left hand he had two pencils perched between his fingers and was busy chewing the fingernails of his right hand down to nubs.
“Stupid girl,” he murmured to himself for the umpteenth time. “Gonna get herself killed.” He did his best to focus on his work, on tinkering with the flying contraption, although his eyes flicked up to the clock at regular intervals.
The door to the warehouse opened inwards and Cid pulled a pistol from the hook on his braces, aiming it at the doorway. The cat came in first, the little black and white ball of fur stalking indoors as though he owned the place. Cid lowered the pistol and aimed it at the disagreeable creature.
“Cid?” Larissa called as her head of curls popped around the door. “Oh, there you are.” She stopped in her tracks as she spotted his gun, which was trained on Imago. “Do not shoot my cat.” She glared at him and set her hands on her hips.
“Fucking cat,” Cid muttered and lowered the pistol. “You’re still alive, it seems.”
“Evidently.” Larissa smiled to herself. Serenia’s knack for short answers had rubbed off.
Cid rose to his feet and scratched the back of his head with the pistol. “And the mercenary?”
“We talked. She was informative.”
“She...talked...to you?”
“Yes, and I managed to avoid the knife in the eye.”
“Huh.”
“I need to get to Meridina.”
“The mountain range?”
“That’s where I think Orother has taken the Professor. At least, it’s a good place to start.”
“Well...it’ll take a few weeks by train. There’s more snow on the way, so who knows how long the trains will be running. You’d best be on your way as soon as possible.”
“I am not going by train.”
“We’ve been over this. I have no intention of piloting the airship out of here on a fool’s errand. Now, it’s getting late and I need to get some supplies before the shops close.” He grabbed an oddly shaped bundle from behind a cabinet and shoved it into her arms.
“These are for you. I’ll be back in an hour or two. Here, take this as well.” He laid one pistol on the bundle and pulled a large leather oilskin jacket over his shoulders as he left the building, quietly muttering curses to himself.
She carefully placed the pistol on the ground and unwrapped the bundle. Inside she found her old clothes; the corset had been haphazardly stitched back together with reworked boning; her boots were glued with new, practical, low heels attached; the singed edges of her skirt had been trimmed; and a new cream-colored man’s undershirt added to the collection.
“Well, Cid Mendle, you’re just the sweetest old sourpuss I’ve ever met.” She immediately shrugged off the drab boiler suit, removing the lock box from the pocket. Then she kicked off the old boots and slipped the shirt on, cold air breezing over her bare legs.
As she began to fumble with the wrong-sided buttons, Imago let out an almighty yowl from beside the door, which slowly degraded into a low hiss. Larissa froze, her toes curling up on the cold concrete floor. She watched the doorway with wide eyes as minutes passed. When she was sure the door had not moved, she reached down to collect the pistol from the floor, gripping it limply between her shaking fingers.
Larissa chomped down on her teeth as she scanned the warehouse, fearful that someone had slipped in unnoticed. Imago still huddled into an attack pose beneath a table, facing the doorway, so she assumed no one had managed to sneak in past him.
“Imago,” she called out in a half-whisper. The cat responded with a single flick of his tail, but his gaze did not drop from the door. Slowly, she tiptoed forward. Her fingers turned white as she gripped the pistol with both hands, aiming at the door.
Her breath pulsed in short, sharp surges through her nostrils. Visions plagued her mind of Doctor Orother standing behind the door, or Serenia, or some other burly character come to search the dirigible or to kill anyone they might find inside. Time passed and her breathing relaxed a little. With one long blow of air she stepped up to the door, pressing her ear against it; she heard nothing outside. Eventually, Imago sat back and scratched his ear with a back paw. After losing interest, he emerged from under the table to spring up onto the airship, his gaze turning upwards to the warehouse rafters.
“Fucking cat,” Larissa muttered, for the first time agreeing with Cid’s sentiments. Still, she felt the need to look outside. Carefully aiming the pistol with one hand, she turned the doorknob gently and pulled the door open a crack.
There was little light outside; delicate flecks of snow fell and a small breeze blew them into the warehouse. She pulled the door open fully and peeked out. She checked the building exterior in either direction, but there was nothing there. Several sets of footprints came to and from one corner, though it was impossible to determine if they were just hers and Cid’s, or if anyone else had come along.
As the cold pricked at her exposed skin, Larissa stepped back inside and pushed the door closed. She grabbed a heavy table and dragged it across the floor to block the door.
“Cid will have to knock.” She sighed and returned to the pile of clothes to get dressed, this time keeping the pistol within easy reach. Imago jumped down to join her as she finished tying the bow on her corset. She sat on the cold floor to tickle his neck.
“I need to convince that sourpuss to fly us to Meridina. He’s such a stubborn thing. I don’t even know where to start.”
Imago stepped lightly across her legs and sat himself on the schematic of the dirigible still spread out on the floor. Larissa watched him thoughtfully for a while, lost in a daydream, her eyes wandering up to the wall to check the clock.
“I don’t know what shops he’s gone to. I don’t know what supplies he’s getting, and I don’t know exactly how long he will be...so if you’re thinking I can use the time to teach myself how to get this thing in the air, you are completely crazy. Mind you, I’m the one who’s sitting here discussing utterly ridiculous, grandiose plans with a cat. So I guess I’m the crazy one.”
Minutes passed. Imago curled into a ball and Larissa fiddled with one of her boot straps.
“It can’t hurt to try, I suppose.” She sniffed and scooted over to the schematic, lightly pushing Imago to one corner where the paper had a key detailing the structure of the semi-rigid keel. After spending a moment studying the page, she surmised that it was no more use to her than a blank sheet of paper. Instead, she headed to the large cabinet where Cid had found the strange yellow oil which had helped her skin to heal and she rummaged around.
“Ahhh!” she squealed when she found a large tome buried beneath a pile of wood shavings. It was entitled The Dirigible – Manipulation Of The Apparatus Through Thermal Vicissitudes.
She sunk back down onto the ground and crossed her legs to read the first chapter on the wheel and rudder operation.
. . .
The Professor regained consciousness once more. The room was lit this time, bathed in the warm glow from a burning torch in a corner. He was naked and curled into a ball, the hard floor sticking to his blood-soaked skin and his long blond hair stuck to the side of his face with thick sweat. Slowly, he roll
ed forward and sat up, his arms still bound behind his back. Thankful for waking alone for once, he took the time to assess his injuries.
Everything ached and throbbed. He looked down at his body, trying to focus on the bloody pink whip marks across his chest but his vision blurred around the edges. Awareness of how little time he may have grew and he willed himself to stand, his weight wobbling unsteadily on weak legs.
The Professor toppled forward and slammed against the cold wall. Desperation sank in as he could do no more with his body failing and his mind weak. He rested his forehead against the wall and through the corner of his vision he saw the green candle atop the table still flickering.
His chapped lips stretched into a weak smile, then he used the wall as a prop for his shoulder. Slowly, he dragged himself around the room towards the table, where he turned and lifted his arms to try to position the bindings above the flame. Through gritted teeth he let out a guttural shout of pain. His shoulders stung from the action and the flame burned his fingers and wrists as he struggled to keep them in place.
After a long and painful wait, the ropes finally began to burn and loosen. The Professor closed his eyes and pulled his arms apart, ripping the ropes before collapsing to the floor on all fours. The green flame wavered unnaturally and almost flickered out completely. The Professor’s heartbeat pounded in his ears.
The sound of high-heels clacking along the corridor outside filled his heart with dread and he squirmed along the floor on his hands and knees, stopping to squat behind the door. A key turned in the keyhole and the door opened inwards. He held his breath, knowing he wouldn’t get away with simply hiding behind the door.
The woman, Amaria, stepped into the room and the door clicked shut behind her. She bent her head low as she stared at the clipboard in her arm, and it took a moment before she looked up. The Professor couldn’t see her expression, but he did see the backs of her calves stiffen underneath her beige stockings.
In one sharp pounce he lunged forward, throwing his arms around her neck and face. She squealed and bucked, and they toppled backwards, crashing to the ground together. He pinned her to him with all his strength, covering her mouth with one hand and squeezing her neck as tight as he dared with his other arm. After minutes of frantic kicking, she calmed.
“Now,” he whispered in her ear, his voice hoarse, “it’s my turn for questions. Where are we?” He released the fingers holding her mouth shut, retaining a strong grip on her jaw.
“You won’t escape,” she spat and he clamped his hand down once more.
“I didn’t ask for your opinion, Miss Amaria. Let us try again. Where are we?”
“Why don’t you go see for yourself?”
“Where is the Doctor right now?”
“Why don’t you go see for yourself?”
He could hear the malicious grin in her voice as she repeated the spiteful suggestion. Inside he cursed her for choosing to show emotion now. He felt lightheaded with the exertion and bile tickled the back of his throat. His grip loosened, strength fading, and Amaria squirmed once more.
“No,” he shouted at her, and with another surge of adrenaline he tightened his grip on her mouth and squeezed his arm around her neck as they wrestled. The ticking clock echoed in his ears. Amaria clawed silently at his arm and face, drawing blood with her long, perfectly manicured nails. Still, the Professor squeezed, a measured anger simmering below the surface of his psyche, until her fingers stopped clawing and her body fell limp.
The clock ticked past another minute and the Professor looked down at the woman in his arms, already knowing what he had done and already accepting the act with a cold indifference.
He pushed her body to the side and spent a few moments staring at her blank face. Her eyes had rolled up towards the ceiling. The Professor tried to search his thoughts for some pang of regret or distress at her demise by his hand. Instead, he found himself empty of emotion. He looked her over; her clothing was far too fitting and impractical to be of any use to him. Reaching into her coat pocket he retrieved the key and pulled the door open to crawl out into a short corridor.
Dimly lit lamps lined the corridor and a series of doors led to rooms on either side. He shuffled along, half crawling, half limping, tempted to test each door but unsure of what he may find inside. As he reached the corner, a sharp, cold breeze swept the hair from his face and he felt the floor dipping away beneath his knees, as though he were aboard a ship on a rough sea. He had felt the sensation during the torture and presumed it to be a symptom of the abuse. Now, he was certain the structure around him was moving.
He moved towards an ascending staircase. Flecks of snow fluttered through the opening at the top of the stairs and voices drifted through the air above; male voices speaking in relaxed conversation. The sound of heavy footfalls above made his heart jump and he gripped the banister for strength. A burly man marched past the stairwell opening, stopping just out of sight.
“She’s down there now.”
“You let her go alone again?” another male voice asked.
“She told me to stay away. She said he speaks better when they’re alone.”
“Ha, I’ll bet. She probably gives him a nice little show in return for information.”
“You think? That bitch is so uptight she probably hasn’t seen her own tits for years, let alone shown them to anyone else.”
“I bet I can get her to give me a show,” a third man chimed in.
“How are you going to do that?”
“Pin her to the floor and rip her fucking clothes off.”
The three men laughed and stomped off together, their footsteps fading from earshot. The Professor dragged himself up the stairs and peeked out. It was dark, cold, and open to the night air. He scanned the surroundings, careful to not let too much of his head poke out. A large canopy overhead blocked the view of the night sky above. His heart sank as he realized he was trapped upon an airship.
Dipping out of sight, he crawled back along the corridor towards his torture room, pressing his ear to each door and trying the handles as he passed.
The first room was filled with sealed boxes, stacked from floor to ceiling. The second door was locked; he tried the key, which worked. The room was much the same size as the others, though neatly appointed as a bedroom. He locked himself inside. A single cot occupied the wall joining the torture room. Sickening, he thought. Beneath the cot lay an ornate casket decorated in gold filigree. A small dresser and writing desk took up the back wall, and atop the desk he saw a jug of water.
“Thank the Gods,” he whispered as he grabbed the jug and took long mouthfuls of water, choking as it hit the back of his throat. He poured the remains over his face to clear away the blood and gore. He caught a glimpse of his face in a small round mirror on the desk; the face that stared back at him was not one he recognized. He saw pale skin, greasy beneath bruises and blood, dull eyes sunken into the sockets, and a large laceration splitting across the left side of his forehead. The mere sight of it brought the threat of vomiting up the entire jug of water.
He laid his head on his arm and tried to force himself to stay focused. The sound of footsteps outside the room made his heart thump with fear. A swell of air caught the ship, causing it to rise and fall slightly. The rocking motion knocked the Professor to the ground. No amount of mental reasoning could keep him from slipping unconscious.
CHAPTER NINE
The book lay beside the dirigible schematic, propped open on a page entitled Balloon Deployment. Larissa had stopped watching the clock hours ago. Her eyelids felt heavy and her limbs protested the physical activity to which she’d been subjecting them. She worked on securing the final rope as the persistent hissing sound from the gas canisters echoed throughout the warehouse.
A large thump sounded on the door. Larissa looked up from the ship deck, a wrench clutched between her teeth and two ends of rope knotted through her hands. She had been attempting to tie her thirteenth stopper knot, following the directions
on the ripped-out page laid on the floor between her feet.
“Fuck sake!” Cid’s voice called through the door as he thumped to get attention. She clambered down, dragged the table to the side, and Cid stumbled in. He shoved her to one side and pushed the table back across the door. He then slumped against it, dropping a single shopping bag to the floor, and turned to face her. He was breathless and beaten, both eyes swelling up. A large cut across his arm bled through the slashed jacket.
“What—” Larissa began.
“We need to...” Cid paused and looked up at the dirigible. “Gods...” he muttered, “did you? How?”
The balloon no longer lay spread out on the floor but was now half filled with gas, slowly rising from the ship deck to take its place above. It had even been tied to the ship at all the correct anchor points.
“Cid,” Larissa snapped, drawing his attention back to her. “What happened to you?”
“You were followed. We have to leave.” He grabbed the bag, throwing it up onto the deck, then he marched over to the cabinet and pulled everything out.
“Who attacked you?” Larissa asked.
“Doesn’t matter. We need to leave. Here, put these on board and get the rest. I need to check what you’ve done.” He shoved boxes and books into her arms and climbed aboard the ship to take a look at her work. Begrudgingly, she did as instructed and collected everything in sight.
After Larissa grabbed the last two items, the schematic and book, she climbed aboard the ship. The balloon had filled completely and threatened to rip open the warehouse roof with the pressure. Cid ducked down into the engine room and started furiously shovelling loads of coal into the fire to power the propellers. Imago sat in the doorway, watching Cid intently.
Another large thump came against the door and Larissa spun so quickly she almost toppled over. More thumps sounded as she righted herself. The table buckled at another round of intensified pounding. Larissa stepped to the bow and raised her pistol, aiming at the door. Her hands shook with fear and tears spilled out of her eyes through uncontrolled, adrenaline-induced sobs.
