by Adam Millard
Alcorn jumped to his feet and stared out into the night. “Where? I don’t…” he trailed off as the rear end of Poseidon’s Gale appeared between the thick, grey clouds in front of them. He patted O’Connell hard on the back, almost winding the poor fellow. “You did it! I have to say, I doubted you would. The sky is a large place.”
O’Connell nodded. “That it is. I told you I knew what I was doing. It was just a matter of staying in a straight line. The skyship’s route is direct. As the crow flies, I believe the adage goes.”
Alcorn nodded. “Yes indeed.” He was turning this way and that, as if he didn’t know what to do with himself. For six hours, he had pondered the moment, and yet, once it had arrived, he was at a loss. “So, what, we just creep up on her and—”
“Whoa there,” O’Connell said, holding up an oil-stained hand. “I can get us so close, but there’s no way I’m playing chicken with The Gale. I might look crazy, but that thing could knock us out of the sky with just a slight change of wind direction.”
Alcorn was flummoxed, not for the first time that day. “Well, I didn’t come all this way to just look at her. I need to get on board.”
“That’s all well and dandy, but I’m going to need a minute to think this over.”
He fell silent, and Alcorn was loath to interrupt him while he considered their predicament.
“So you want into the skyship,” he said, more to himself than Alcorn, “and I don’t want to end up in the drink down there.” He gestured out through the window to the sea of clouds upon which they drifted.
“That life-ship would have come in rather useful right about now, wouldn’t it?” Alcorn said.
“Shut up, I’m trying to think.” Then, brightening, he added, “I’ve got it.”
“Go on,” Alcorn said, not quite believing that the pilot had constructed a safe plan of his own accord.
“Check those crates back there. The big ones. There should be rope around them.”
Rope? That was exactly what Alcorn didn’t want to hear. That meant he would be dangling at some point in the very near future, and dangling was one of those things he seldom practised. There was just never much cause for it back in London.
He headed onto the deck, where it was cold and raining as O’Connell had forecasted. The storm was in its infancy, but once the wind picked up, there would be no way of reaching the deck of Poseidon’s Gale, and dangling—that thing which he rarely did—would be out of the question.
He rushed across to the crates at the rear of the gondola, being careful not to slip on the slick deck. A thick blanket of mist trailed around his feet and around the cargo—another bad sign. Through the gloom, though, Alcorn could see the lengths of rope, looping through steel eyeholes and holding the crates together. He set to work untying one. By the time he was done, his fingers were sore and wet, and a huge blister covered the entirety of his right palm.
He coiled the rope and returned to the cockpit. O’Connell had closed the gap between The Mad Knave and Poseidon’s Gale, and Alcorn could make out the rudders upon the huge skyship’s sides and rear.
“This doesn’t look long enough,” he said, holding the rope out for O’Connell to inspect.
The pilot cast it a cursory glance. “That’s plenty. But rather you than me.” He turned his attention back to the gargantuan dirigible in front, maintaining an easy pace, and slowly creeping up on her like a thief in the night. “Okay, I need you to take the rope and tie it to the starboard side.”
“You say that like I should know what that is.”
“The right side,” O’Connell said, incredulous. “Do they not teach you anything in police school?”
Alcorn thought about countering, but there was no time. He took the rope and headed back out onto the deck. The right side had very little in the way of anchors, but he found a massive steel hook buried deep in the side of the gondola. A short length of chain hung upon it, and deciding that it was of no use, Alcorn removed it and began to wrap the rope tightly to the hook. While the fresh blister upon his palm throbbed with every move he made, he managed to secure the knot with relative ease. Whether it would hold or not was another matter entirely.
As if wishing to test Alcorn further, the rain began to hammer down onto the deck with such force that it bounced back up over the descended mist. This, he thought, is not going to be easy.
Poseidon’s Gale’s thunderous engines were close, and Alcorn could barely hear himself pray. He returned to the cockpit, where O’Connell was starting to sweat. Dirt and grime trailed down his face, pooling beneath his aviator goggles as if his eyes had been entirely removed and all that remained were empty sockets.
“I’m going to take you over the left side of her,” O’Connell said. “I’ll get as close as I can, but it won’t be as close as you’ll want. You’re going to have to swing yourself across to make the deck.”
Alcorn’s heart leapt up into his throat and knocked him for six. For a moment, he was speechless. When he finally gathered his thoughts a few seconds later, the voice that came out was almost unrecognisable, such was the fear with which it was affected. “There’s no other way?”
“If there was,” O’Connell said, “I would suggest it.” He sounded solemn, as if he, too, feared for the detective’s life. “It’s too dangerous to try anything else.”
And this isn’t dangerous, not in the slightest, Alcorn thought but didn’t say. “Then I guess that’s that,” he said.
“Good luck.” O’Connell threw a mock-salute toward the detective one last time. “It’s been a pleasure working with you. Come see me when you get back to London safe, just so I know…well, you know?”
Alcorn did know. The pilot didn’t want a death on his conscience, and Alcorn understood completely. “Thank you.”
“No, thank you,” O’Connell said. “This is the most excitement I’ve seen in thirty years. Now go, before I turn us around, and we can forget all about this nonsense. Chalk it up to a bad decision.”
Alcorn nodded, offered O’Connell a salute of his own, and headed out onto the deck where the rain was drumming incessantly upon every surface it hit. It was almost tribal, the noise, and combined with the sonorous growl of the skyship’s engines, it was rather infectious. Alcorn found himself swaying along to the beat.
Taking the loose end of the rope, he stepped up to the edge of the vessel, and for some strange reason, deemed it a good idea to look over the side. He found himself staring into an abyss, and the only thing stopping him from falling into it were thick, dark clouds. However, it was not as if they would offer much resistance as he passed through them toward the ocean thousands of feet below.
Don’t think about it, he urged himself. And whatever you do, don’t look down again…
He felt The Mad Knave drift across, and the engines of Poseidon’s Gale suddenly boomed, as if the skyship knew what was about to happen and disapproved highly. While some devices were now apparently sentient, such as Abigale Egars’ lobsters, Alcorn doubted a dirigible of such size could be programmed to think. Therefore, the sudden roar of her engines was nothing more than mechanical racket.
Then she appeared, slicing through the clouds like a giant whale. In the dark, she looked much more ominous, as if she’d been crafted by the devil’s own hands. O’Connell drifted up alongside her, making sure to remain below her immense balloon. At least The Mad Knave was a smaller vessel. The entire scheme would be impossible if she were the same size.
Once they were level, Alcorn closed his eyes and tossed the rope over the starboard side. What the hell am I doing? I’m going to kill myself over that git Thorneye. It was too late to back out, he hadn’t endured six hours of O’Connell’s gobbledygook and singing to simply back out at the last moment.
He slowly and carefully climbed up onto the edge of The Mad Knave, wrapping his hand around the rope as he went. His heart hammered in his chest as the rain hammered down onto the deck behind him. He managed to contort himself around to face the shi
p which he intended to depart, and after a few breathless moments, began to lower himself sluggishly down the rope.
Rain slammed into him from all angles, and wind buffeted him from side to side, but his grasp upon the rope was strong—it had to be. Before long, The Mad Knave was above him, and he was dangling, of all things, between the two vessels.
Lord, if there is such a thing, please help me…
He lowered himself until there was no more rope at his feet, and he realised he’d had his eyes closed for the last few metres. He opened them, and glanced across his shoulder.
There, a few metres behind him, was the deserted deck of Poseidon’s Gale. Her passengers had done the sensible thing and headed indoors. The storm would get worse before it got any better, and to remain out on her deck was idiotic.
Okay. Swing, monkey, swing as you’ve never swung before…
It was gentle at first, rocking back and forth, but Alcorn very quickly worked up a decent momentum. Before long, he was shifting in a long arc. Swooping below The Mad Knave, and over Poseidon’s Gale, again below The Mad Knave, and again over Poseidon’s Gale.
You can do this all night, a voice told him, but you won’t get anywhere.
Alcorn dry-swallowed and completed three more swings before working up the courage to let go.
The next thing he knew, he was falling, and he prayed he’d got it right. He dropped for what felt like an eternity, but then something very hard and solid punched into his feet. His legs buckled, and he rolled over backwards. Whether it was the stress of what he’d just put himself through or the altitude at which he’d done it, he didn’t know, but for the briefest of seconds he blacked out. When he came to, he was lying on his back staring up at the underside of a huge balloon.
There, slipping across the sky in front of him, was The Mad Knave. In its cockpit, Clem O’Connell controlled the vessel as best he could and drifted further away, enveloped by thick, murky clouds.
Alcorn climbed to his feet and did everything in his power to push down the nausea that threatened to wash over him.
He failed, and dropping back to his knees, brought up the entire contents of his stomach. On the bright side, he hadn’t fallen into the abyss. He had to be thankful for the little things.
19
The big man raised his chainsword, swinging it down in a wide arc toward the life-ship. Abigale screamed. Behind her, Cornelia Maddern fell backwards, went over the side of the small vessel and disappeared from sight. The pilot, Sergei, was doing what he could to keep the life-ship steady, but the zombified ticket master had clambered aboard and was chewing at the Russian’s neck, tearing flesh and fat from an already irreparable wound.
The ship faltered, and the sword came buzzing down. The armoured wolf—it was a wolf; she could see its eyes, now, and those razorblade teeth, snapping and snarling—jumped across and landed with a meaty thump on the deck of the small vessel. The sword came down, buzzing and whirring, a mechanical death-machine, and cut through the ship with veritable ease.
There was no way they would survive, no way of avoiding the inevitable. Abigale tried to clamber to her feet, but the armoured wolf latched onto her shoulder, dragging her back by the flesh. There was no pain, oddly enough, but the sound of the creature’s snapping maw was enough to confirm her injury. The big man appeared, towering over her, his chainsword raised high above his head. As he brought it down one last time, Abigale cursed the device attached to her skull, and cursed Mordecai Pick for involving her in such ludicrous matters. Then there was darkness, and nothing else.
*
Abigale lunged forwards, gasping for air that would not come. It took a few moments for her eyes to adjust to the darkness, but when they did, it all came flooding back. She had been dreaming, but her situation was very real. She was in her cabin aboard Poseidon’s Gale, heading for Russia, sought after by wizards and lord-knows-what else.
Sleep would not be forthcoming, so Abigale clambered from the bed and lit the gas lamp sitting upon her bedside table. With the room illumined, she relaxed a little. The dream had frightened her, and yet, it hadn’t been just a dream. What she saw was an alternative of how things could have gone that afternoon. Cornelia could quite easily have toppled over the side of the life-ship, and that grotesque ticket master had very nearly reached their vessel. An inch either side of the actual happenings, and things would have been very different.
She poured herself a glass of water and settled down next to the porthole, which was being peppered with heavy raindrops. Not much could be discerned beyond the glass because a dense fog seemed to be dragging alongside them, blocking any view of the stars above and the clouds beneath.
What am I doing? Why am I doing this? If it wasn’t for the deadly clockwork device embedded in her head, she wouldn’t even entertain continuing, no matter how much Mordecai should offer her as recompense. The only thing that mattered was staying alive, at least long enough to get the thing out of her head and to exact some sort of revenge upon those responsible for the mess.
They say revenge is a dish best served cold, but Abigale preferred it steaming hot. That was when she was at her most brutal.
One thing was for sure,for the remainder of the journey, Abigale would confine herself to the sanctuary of her quarters. Mordecai had known exactly what he was doing by purchasing a first-class ticket. Stay in your kennel, and you should be fine. Well, in her kennel she would stay, and if someone should knock upon the door, well, they were wasting their time. Abigale had had enough fun for one journey, and the sooner Russia appeared on the horizon, the better.
She finished her water and moved across to a writing table in the corner of the room. With her notepad already laid out, she began to make notes. She drew sketches of the big man and his wolf, of the little peeler, of the undead ticket master, labelling them for possible weaknesses. Though they had dropped from the sky like swatted flies, Abigale yearned for knowledge of failings, should she find herself face to face with such beasts again.
The chainsword? How had that worked? Octavius would know, and, if he was there, he would explain it to her in such great detail that she would simply look at him with utter bewilderment. She wasn’t borne of automata and gears. She knew how to use them if Octavius provided her with simple instructions, which he always tried to, but that chainsword had perplexed her.
The big man had flicked his thumb—nothing more. There had been no switches upon its handle or minute buttons that would set the contraption working. Perhaps it was magic. He, whoever he was, had been in league with the wizards, who would see it as nothing to arm him with a magical sword, especially if it benefitted them.
Then there was the ticket master. Sure, he had unnerved Abigale while she had been queuing for the ship, but at least then, he had been…alive. What she had seen out there had been very much dead—a corpse, a slavering cadaver. Something had created it, and thusly, controlled it. Not only was she up against wizards and giants with mechanical swords, she was facing reanimated beings.
She made notes in her little book about everything she knew so far, and the things she would have to learn pretty damn quick if she were going to survive the caper.
Poor Cornelia. The girl had been terrified, scared to within an inch of her very existence. There was no going back for her now. One minute, she’d been a simple server upon a very prestigious skyship, and the next, she’d been battling things that should not be. While it would take some time for Abigale to come to terms with the wholly new world, she doubted a girl of Cornelia’s utter innocence would altogether adjust. Still, there was nothing Abigale could do to help. She had a job to do, one that required focus and expertise. To ponder too much upon the wellbeing of another would compromise her own existence.
She went over the plans for the Hermitage Museum, making sure there was nothing she’d missed, and several hours later, she collapsed back upon her bed and closed her eyes, not expecting to sleep.
It was a surprise, therefore, when she succu
mbed almost as soon as she took up her position, and this time she dreamt of Octavius—her very own saviour.
20
“Excuse me,” Alcorn said as he briskly made his way across the rain-drenched deck. The woman, his target, seemed to recoil in horror as if it was the most absurd thing for a person to approach her. She had an air of graciousness about her, and the way in which she was dressed suggested she took great pride in her physical appearance. Perhaps she was royalty. Alcorn didn’t care.
Tell me what you know, Princess. “I’m looking for a man,” he said, holding aloft a placatory hand.
“Aren’t we all, dear,” the woman said, relaxing slightly.
“This is a very specific man, almost impossible to miss.” Alcorn would have given his right arm for a photograph of Thorneye in that moment. Instead, he provided the woman with his best description, and that of Thorneye’s new associate. “He’s a relatively small man with a red moustache. He wears a monocle.” Alcorn made a circle from his thumb and forefinger and pressed it against his eye as if the woman might believe a monocle to be some kind of new-fangled transportation machine. “And he’s travelling with a very large, brutish-looking man?”
The woman shook her head. “Can’t say I’ve seen them. Have you asked one of the workers?”
Alcorn nodded. He’d asked several of the staff, and none of them could recollect setting eyes upon the incongruous passengers. All day and night, he’d been looking, a full twenty-four hours, and no one seemed to know a damn thing.
Suddenly remembering something vital, Alcorn said, “They had a large dog with them. Surely you would remember seeing such a beast.”
The woman’s eyes suddenly widened. “Ah, yes! That thing terrified me. I’m not sure what breed it was, but it wasn’t something I’m familiar with. Almost had me ankle off, so it did.”
“So you remember the big man and the little man with him?” Finally, we’re getting somewhere…
