A City Called Smoke: The Territory 2

by Justin Woolley

  “You ain’t heard?” the driver said.

  “Heard what?”

  “The Holy Order and the Sisters have taken over the city,” the driver said.

  Lynn stared at him for a long moment, not comprehending what he had said. She looked to Squid, who shrugged.

  “What do you mean?” Lynn asked.

  “I mean the Holy Order and the Sisters have taken over the city,” the driver repeated. “They’re claiming they run the government now. It’s a … what did they call it?” The driver addressed this question to the other two men who stood leaning against the truck.

  “A coup,” one of them said without looking toward him, barely breaking stride in his own conversation.

  “Yeah,” the driver said. “That’s right, a coup.”

  “What about the Administrator?” Lynn said.

  “Reckon he’s been arrested, least that’s what I heard.”

  Lynn didn’t know how to feel at hearing this. Of course she was glad the Administrator was probably imprisoned beneath the Supreme Court, but it was for her father that she wanted him punished. She wanted to go back into the city to find whatever evidence against him she could. There had to be something somewhere. But she knew that if returning had been dangerous before, it was impossible now. If the Holy Order was guarding every entrance then she stood no chance of getting into the city. She just had to hope they weren’t going to do anything rash like execute the Administrator before she could figure out how to prove he was involved in her father’s murder.

  “Once you’re done here are you going east?” Lynn asked the driver.

  He nodded, chewing on his dry grass again. “Matter of fact we are.”

  “Could we ride along?” Lynn indicated herself and Squid. “I’m Lynn and this is Squid. I’ve got money to pay our way.”

  The driver stared at her and Squid and then nodded. “I’m Bishop,” the man said. “This is Randal and Barra. Don’t know why you’d want to go east – we don’t much want to be going ourselves – but we’ve got a cargo trailer that will be mostly empty on the way out, you can ride in that as far as we’re going. S’got a mattress and all. We’ll be heading back out just as soon as this hold-up is over. All right with you?”

  Lynn looked up at the walls of Alice, contemplating whether or not she was making the right choice. She hoped she wasn’t abandoning any chance she had at justice for her father. She looked at Squid. For now she would go along with this ridiculous quest. She nodded to Bishop. “Perfect.”

  CHAPTER 5

  Melbourne leaned his weight against the handle of the mop, gazing out over the rear of the dirigible, the stern as the crew would call it. He watched the black flag with the image of a red skull flap rhythmically from the short flagpole. Though other dirigibles may not know exactly which crew flew this particular flag, the general meaning would be obvious enough: pirates.

  The airship was in much better condition than Melbourne would have imagined a pirate ship to be. The large wooden body was in good repair. It was sturdy and creaked little as it hung from the balloon above. The propeller shafts were well oiled and spun smoothly as they drove the airship forward. Melbourne had overheard Captain Pratt, the tall red-bearded leader of the pirates, barking orders enough times to know how important he considered having a fast and quiet dirigible. The air bladders in the balloon above still flapped gently in the breeze but other than that the Blessed Mary was an eerily quiet vessel.

  From what Melbourne had been able to gather, Captain Pratt had named the ship after a Sister of Glorious God the Redeemer he’d once loved, or at least felt something for; Melbourne wasn’t precisely sure of their relationship, as Captain Pratt often referred to the dirigible as “his beautiful” while on other occasions he called it “a two-faced harpy.”

  The Blessed Mary was a large transport dirigible, or at least it had been before the current crew of buccaneers had claimed it for their own. Modifications had been made to the ship: hatches fitted for cannons along each side of the bulwark – the fence that bordered the top deck, and armour plating had been installed on the interior of the hull. It wouldn’t have surprised Melbourne if they’d altered the dirigible’s running gear too, because even with all the additional weight the airship seemed to be cutting through the air faster than most transports he’d seen coming and going from Alice or the Rock.

  It was home to a crew of thirty men who used it to roam the outer regions of the Central Territory, raiding small towns and plundering other transport dirigibles for their goods. Captain Pratt selected his targets wisely. He focused on minor transports, the type that ferried food and goods in and out of the remotest towns or to the mines that no one considered all that profitable. He never followed a pattern and was content to wait a long time and fly large distances between raids. He was careful to ensure his attacks wouldn’t draw too much attention from the Diggers and have them tracking him across the Territory in what would end, as it did for all pirates once the Diggers got too interested, in his death. This approach had meant that he and his crew had never struck it rich, but they were the longest-lasting crew of pirates in the Territory, a nuisance the Diggers seemed to put up with because they didn’t do too much damage. Now, though, since the Battle of Dust and the loss of practically every Digger in the Territory, the pirates of the Blessed Mary had changed tactics and turned inward toward the richer towns and main trading routes. The time had finally come, Melbourne heard Captain Pratt say, for their pay-off.

  After his thrilling escape from the ghouls, skilful survival when lost in the desert and then unlucky capture at the hands of the pirates, it had taken Melbourne a long time to come to terms with the news that the Diggers had been destroyed. At first he had been left feeling numb. This had been followed by sadness, anger, and finally a sense of betrayal. He was the greatest cadet the Academy had ever seen. He had graduated safe in the knowledge that the early part of his career was a mere formality on the road to his eventual appointment as general. The fact that the army had been wiped out was nothing short of astounding. His future as a great Digger, as leader of the Diggers, had been taken from him, and all because the rest of the army was inconsiderate enough to have gotten themselves killed. With the Diggers gone Melbourne had been left with a single question: what was he supposed to do now? At least while he was being held captive by the pirates he knew the short-term answer. It was simple. He had to survive.

  That was what had brought him to mopping the deck, or “swabbing”, as the pirates called it. None of the crew considered swabbing the deck to be a desirable job but Melbourne thought it vast progress from being kept in a cage. It had taken him weeks of work but eventually he’d managed to convince Captain Pratt to release him in exchange for working the worst jobs on the ship.

  He wasn’t sure why the pirates had brought him aboard and hadn’t just left him to rot in the desert, but Melbourne had realized early on that befriending the crew was the most reasonable path to survival. He knew there would be no rescue coming, and escaping would be next to impossible. Even though he was now often left almost completely unattended, he was well aware that not even his exceptional hand-to-hand combat skills would be enough to defeat the entire crew. Besides, even when he thought he was alone there always seemed to be a wary eye watching him from somewhere. Often that eye was in the skull of Yellow, the Blessed Mary’s first mate and Captain Pratt’s most loyal lackey. He wondered how that worked; loyalty among a crew of criminals. He would have assumed a crew like this would be perpetually balanced between obedience and mutiny, and yet Captain Pratt maintained tight control. Melbourne didn’t know how he did it, and that alone kept him fearful of the man. He’d heard it said somewhere, and it seemed applicable now, that if you can’t beat them, join them. And that’s what he intended to do.

  “Contact off the starboard bow!”

  It was early morning, the sky over the horizon was lit with a pink hue, and the upper deck of the dirigible was empty except for the skeleton crew who
had flown the ship during the night. The shout had come from above him. It had been the lookout in the crow’s nest, a rickety wooden structure mounted atop the balloon’s highest point, reached only by a terrifying ladder that curved out and around the balloon. The crow’s nest was constantly manned with a crew member ceaselessly watching the skies for approaching dirigibles or other dangers in the distance. Melbourne hoped, not for the first time, that they would never make him climb up there.

  “Contact off the starboard bow!”

  Another voice echoed the shout from above. Melbourne looked out toward the horizon and saw the oval shape of a dirigible’s balloon hanging in the air not too far away. It was a transport dirigible, similar to what the Blessed Mary had once been, perhaps even a little bigger.

  The door to the captain’s cabin burst outward as if it had been kicked, and perhaps it had. Captain Pratt stood in the doorway in his long coat, leaning on his wooden cane. With his free hand he slipped his black hat onto his head, the brim wide but curved up at the front until it was almost vertical. His red beard was braided, as were two long lengths of red hair that hung down either side of his face. He glared off toward the dirigible in the distance.

  “Bring us around then, you flea-bitten mongrel,” Captain Pratt howled in the direction of the bridge, where one of the crew stood at the wheel.

  Melbourne watched as the crew member – he thought his name was Gideon – spun the wheel enthusiastically to the right in response to his captain’s order. Again, after being called a flea-bitten mongrel, Melbourne wasn’t sure why the crew was always so eager to obey.

  “Yellow!” Captain Pratt bellowed out.

  “Aye, Captain.”

  The first mate of the Blessed Mary seemed to emerge from nowhere, almost as if he had come straight up out of the wooden deck. He hurried over to the captain. Melbourne could hear the clicking coming from Yellow’s hands as he rubbed his collection of rings together. Almost the entire length of each finger was covered in gold rings, collected over their years of pillaging.

  “This is the transport we’ve been tracking for days,” the captain said. “Get the crew up and ready.”

  “Aye, Captain.”

  “And Yellow,” Captain Pratt said, stopping the first mate as he began to move away, “this is a big one. Make sure the boys are ready for a fight. I don’t expect the transport to be fitted with guns, but the crew will be armed.”

  Yellow nodded as he walked to the hatch leading to the dirigible’s lower hold. As he pulled the knotted rope handle and began descending the stairs his slow, crackling voice began calling out, yelling for the men to get their lazy, no-good backsides out of those hammocks and topside ready for a fight.

  It didn’t take long for crew members to start rushing up to the deck. Most were freshly woken and still wore faces blurred from sleep, but they were nonetheless efficient. Each man knew his place and his role in the fight that would come. They had done this many times before.

  “We’ll attack from starboard with a full broadside,” the captain barked across the deck, and the crew responded instantly. Almost organically, as if each crew member moved as part of a larger organism, the dirigible was prepared for battle. Long ropes were positioned near the side of the vessel, the ends tied off on small metal bollards bolted to the deck. Hatches were closed and locked. Men hurried to untie the six cannons that were lashed down near the center of the deck and roll them over to the starboard side. The base of each gun had four metal wheels that squeaked and rattled as they were pushed into place and positioned with their barrels poking through the hinged wooden flaps in the bulwark. Those who weren’t busy flying the dirigible or preparing the guns stood near the hatch to the lower deck, where another crew member handed out swords and daggers which the pirates sheathed at their sides or strapped to their legs.

  Melbourne saw Captain Pratt notice him standing off to the side, still leaning on his mop. He had the distinct feeling that the captain had forgotten he existed and was now rather annoyed to be reminded of his presence on the ship.

  “Arid!” the captain called. One of the crew who Melbourne knew had worked through the night and was currently tying off ropes along the side of the dirigible turned to face the captain.

  “Aye, Captain?”

  “Take the Digger to his cage. I don’t want him getting in the way.”

  “Aye, Captain,” Arid said, moving toward Melbourne, his hand resting on the hilt of his dagger. It wasn’t a motion that suggested he thought he was going to need the dagger, more that he wanted Melbourne to remember how much easier it was to cut someone’s throat with a blade like that than with, say, a mop. Since Melbourne had been working to ingratiate himself with the crew he had done nothing to threaten any of them and had worked hard at the tasks he was given. Still, he knew they mistrusted him. They still considered him a Digger. He needed to find a way to gain their confidence and trust, to make them think of him as part of the crew. It wouldn’t be easy, but Melbourne knew it gave him the best chance to survive.

  “Please, Captain,” Melbourne said, almost before he realized he was going to speak. Internally he cringed at how desperate and pleading his voice sounded. He was a trooper in the General’s Guard, and even if the general was dead he could still act like the soldier he was born to be. “I want to be part of the crew.”

  Captain Pratt turned his attention to Melbourne. His walking cane clicked against the polished surface of the deck as he closed the distance between them. For a moment the red-bearded pirate stared at Melbourne without saying anything. Melbourne was unable to read his stony expression.

  “Why do you want to be part of my crew?” Captain Pratt said.

  “Uh, I …” Melbourne stammered. “I think I’d … Being a pirate would …”

  “The answer,” Captain Pratt said, cutting off Melbourne’s mumbling, “is that you’d simply prefer to be part of the crew than be put back in your cage.”

  Melbourne didn’t know how to respond. Eventually he answered in the only way that seemed reasonable. “Yes,” he said.

  Captain Pratt smiled. Melbourne couldn’t recall seeing him smile before. “Honesty,” he said. “I always say that is the best policy, don’t I, Arid?”

  “Aye, Captain,” Arid said. “You do.”

  Captain Pratt held his hand out, palm open toward Arid. “Pass me your dagger, would you, Arid?”

  Arid pulled his long dagger from the sheath at his side, holding the blade and placing the handle in Captain Pratt’s open hand. The captain raised it to his eye level, turning it from side to side, admiring the viciously serrated edge before he held the knife out to Melbourne.

  “Take this.”

  Melbourne hesitated and then reached out, noting that the captain did not pass him the dagger handle first. Melbourne gripped the cold steel between his fingers and thumb and took it from the red-bearded pirate. Once Captain Pratt let go of the handle Melbourne turned the knife to hold it by the grip, looking up when he realized he was holding the blade toward the captain. Captain Pratt didn’t seem concerned.

  “You could stab me right now,” the pirate said. “You wouldn’t make it very far before one of the crew removed your head, but you would be ridding the Territory of one of the last of the true pirates, and you would prevent all the plundering we’re about to do. That seems like something a Digger should do, doesn’t it, sacrifice himself for the greater good? Not forgetting you could kill the person who’s been ordering you kept in a cage. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Digger?”

  Melbourne stared at Captain Pratt. “Yes,” he said.

  “Good,” said Captain Pratt, stretching the word out, apparently thrilled with Melbourne’s answer. “Honesty, you see. Are you going to stab me, Digger?”

  “No.”

  Captain Pratt tapped the end of his cane on the deck. “Excellent.” He used the stick to point over the bow of the dirigible. “See that transport dirigible that’s currently trying to alter its course and run from us?�
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  Melbourne nodded.

  “She’s not fast enough,” Captain Pratt continued. “They can try to run but we’re going to catch them. When we come alongside we’ll pepper her balloon with holes, sending her crashing into the dirt, then we’ll rappel down, dispatch the crew and take whatever we like. Doesn’t that sound fun?”

  Melbourne didn’t say anything.

  “I hope you think that sounds fun, Digger, because if you want to prove you can be part of this crew, that’s what you’re going to be doing, and I expect to see you put that dagger into some poor sap on that transport. If you don’t, you’re going to find yourself back out there in the desert. I dragged you aboard because you looked like a fighter, and I need fighters.” Captain Pratt lifted his cane, waving it in the general direction of the desert around them. “There’s a whole world out there, Digger,” he said. “Out there, beyond the fence. Did you know that?”

  Melbourne shook his head. “There’s nothing out there, just wasteland.”

  The captain tapped the end his cane back down on the wooden deck and laughed. “Do you always believe what you’re told, Digger?”

  “The ghouls destroyed everything during the Reckoning,” Melbourne answered. That was the truth. Of everyone in the Territory the Diggers should know what was out there and they had said the same thing, there was nothing.

  “No, they didn’t,” Captain Pratt said, his voice low. “We have seen dirigibles coming in from over the fence, Holy Order dirigibles. Too many to be just some rogue flight. Where do you think they come from?”