The Calderan Problem (Free-Wrench Book 4)

by Joseph Lallo

  The Calderan Problem

  By Joseph R. Lallo

  Copyright © 2017 Joseph R. Lallo

  Cover by Nick Deligaris

  www.deligaris.com

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Epilogue

  From The Author

  Prologue

  In a small, smoky room tucked in one of the dead husks of a city claimed by the rolling purple mists of the fug, three slender men with white skin and black vests huddled around a fourth working away at a typewriter.

  “This simply isn’t coming together,” remarked the editor as he turned to pace a well-worn path along the floor. “Nothing, not a single line of this edition is going to grasp the minds of our readership.”

  “Were you to ask me,” said the man at the typewriter, “I very much doubt any amount of rewording is going to solve that problem. We have been a bit spoiled for choice lately when it comes to stories worth covering.”

  “So very true,” the editor said.

  He pivoted to pace up to an array of framed newspaper pages on the wall. As he walked by them, he recounted their contents with all the wistfulness of a fallen star of the stage reminiscing over his glory days.

  “‘Terror From the Skies: Lawless Thieves Rob Warehouse, Destroy Dreadnought.’” He shook his head. “I still remember the day we printed that one. Three full print runs and still we couldn’t keep them on the newsstands. Weeks of coverage of the aftermath. And just as it cooled? ‘Wind Breaker Crew Imprisoned: Two to Rot In Skykeep,’ and before the ink had a chance to dry, ‘Skykeep Falls: The Wind Breaker Strikes Again!’ And since then, nothing. The very definition of feast or famine. I don’t know where the blasted Wind Breaker has gone off to, but they’ve taken the worthwhile reporting with them.”

  He threw open a filing cabinet and tugged a more recent edition from inside. “Look at the bones we are left to gnaw on. ‘Military Craft Mysteriously Vanish.’ ‘Economic Uncertainty as Phlogiston Prices Waver.’ ‘Historical Relics Stolen from Museum.’ The same headlines simply don’t move the product any longer.”

  A gentle knock at the front door broke the atmosphere of quiet lament.

  “Whoever it is,” the editor said, “we are on a very tight deadline and we must not be disturbed.”

  Again there was a knock, somewhat more insistent this time. He turned angrily to the door.

  “I said—”

  His angry restatement was interrupted by a third knock, this time a single blow that may as well have come from a sledgehammer. The door burst open with nearly enough force to tear it from its hinges. Instead it struck the wall and shattered one of the framed pieces hanging there. Two lean but solid men stepped inside, each large enough to have to stoop to pass through the door. They were dressed in black suits with white pinstripes. Despite the snappy outfits, they couldn’t have more effectively labeled themselves as hired thugs if they’d worn signs around their necks. Broken glass from a shattered frame crunched under their high-end shoes as they took up positions on either side of the door. A moment later, a third figure stepped in.

  Unlike his associates, he was a bit more difficult to place. His outfit was unique, and utterly ostentatious. It began with a gray suit tailored to his lanky frame. Four rows of polished, cherry-red buttons fastened it shut, offering only a glimpse of the black shirt and matching red tie beneath. Continuing the red ensemble were twin sashes of the same brilliant hue, one over his shoulder and the other around his waist. This lower sash also hosted a gold-plated, jewel-studded revolver perched jauntily on one hip. The ornate revolver matched the spiraling, ruby-encrusted cane he clutched in his narrow fingers. A forest-green cape and matching dress shoes completed the outfit. The overall impression was that of a vaguely military dictator with a flare for the dramatic.

  He glared at the newspapermen through dark-rimmed eyes and ran his free hand through a mane of windswept hair. While his coif was rather wild and unkempt, it seemed positively tame in comparison to his eyebrows, mustache, and beard. All the facial hair was several inches long, exceptionally thin, and waxed into flowing curves and curls.

  The man could just as easily have been a talented performer or a dangerous mental patient. The wild look in his eyes and manic grin pitched the scales quite firmly in the latter direction.

  “Gentleman, I could not help but overhear your plight. And, as ever, when the problem seems intractable, it has either been caused by, or can be solved by, Lucius P. Alabaster!”

  He concluded the statement with a triumphant thrust of his finger into the air and a thump of his cane to the ground. The stunned and confused silence that followed was clearly not the effect he’d been seeking. The ear-to-ear grin twisted into a scowl, and he eyed the men reproachfully.

  “Lucius P. Alabaster,” he repeated. “Noted financial powerhouse? Darling of the gentry? The one true defense our fair society has against the terrors of the Wind Breaker crew?”

  “Look here, sir. I am sure you are well known within your circles, but we are reporters with a newspaper to put out.”

  “Reporters…” Alabaster fumed. “That you do not have head enough upon your frail shoulders to make yourself aware of Lucius P. Alabaster, easily the most notable figure in recent history, illustrates the true reason for your flailing little publication. You should know my name. Everyone should know my name. You are speaking to the first man to be locked within the heart of Quartzvault Penitentiary, as well as the first man to escape that utterly impenetrable prison.”

  “I am afraid I’m not familiar with it.”

  “Idiots…” he rumbled. “Do yourself a favor. When I am through with you, march yourself up the street to the office of our dear, increasingly ineffectual Mayor Ebonwhite and speak my name. See if perhaps he, a man who at the very least knows those worthy of fear and hatred, can tell you the nature of the man who stands before you. I would, of course, gladly continue to list for you my exploits of note, but doing so would take ages, and like yourselves I am on something of an unforgiving timetable. So I shall instead get to the heart of the situation. If you would be so kind, direct me to the cabinet where you file your photographs.”

  “I have had quite enough of this! You get out of my building immediately, or I will call the authorities.”

  Alabaster rolled his eyes. “Mr. P? Motivate our inhospitable host to reveal the information I seek.”

  One of the thugs stepped forward and grasped the editor by the vest. With little effort, he wrenched the man from his feet and bashed his head into the ceiling. When the thug released him, the man fell to the ground, dusted with clumps of plaster that continued to rain down from a head-shaped hole.

  Alabaster stepped up and looked down at the unconscious man. He turned to the thug and clucked his tongue. “Let us try again, with that fellow. Perhaps a bit less vigorously this time,” he said.

  The thug turned. His new target, one of the thus far silent reporters, reacted quite sensibly with utter, abject terror and total compliance.

  “The last three months are in that set of drawers, the last three years are in that row, and the archives are through that door!” he yelped, shielding his face with one arm and pointing shakily with the other.

  “Now that seemed to be a far more pleasant way to go about the transaction, didn’t it?” Alabaster said.

&
nbsp; The garishly dressed interloper walked to the indicated cabinet and pulled it open. He glided his fingers across the tops of the file folders, murmuring the hand-lettered file labels under his breath.

  “Ah. There we are. I would know it anywhere,” he said, a seething anger in his voice as he scrutinized an image from one of the folders.

  His lingering stare could have burned a hole through the image. Finally he stuffed it back into its place and plucked out the entire folder, along with several on either side. He handed them off to the other thug.

  “You will no doubt choose to immortalize this moment in your next edition, the deadline for which, as you have lamented, is rapidly approaching, so I urge you to listen closely, because I shan’t say this twice…”

  He paused, looking about expectantly. “You do intend to take a photograph, do you not?”

  “The editor is also the photographer,” remarked the frightened reporter, his shaky finger now pointed at the man lying motionless on the floor.

  “Of course he is,” Alabaster said flatly. “Mr. Q, the camera.”

  One of the thugs stepped forward and fetched the small portable camera from its case and affixed it somewhat roughly to its tripod.

  “At least this way I can be sure you incompetent halfwits will be able to capture a proper likeness. Is it too much to presume that the man at the typewriter might actually have some aptitude with the device? Good. Then listen closely, and do be sure to print up extra copies of this edition, because it is certain to be a hot commodity. And the name is Lucius P. Alabaster, L-U-C-I-U-S P. A-L-A-B-A-S-T-E-R. If I see it butchered, Mr. P and Mr. Q will be paying you another visit…”

  Chapter 1

  The sun cast long shadows along a freshly cleared field, burning away the lingering fog of the coastal night. It was early morning, just after dawn, and a small collection of individuals in stunningly ornate garb watched the northern sky with varying levels of impatience. The most impatient was a dark-skinned young woman in an elegant white dress with plum accents. She was Amanita Graus, Nita to her friends, and today was the culmination of a very long process.

  “We’ve checked the struts on the north tower, right? They were a bit loose, and Captain West likes to bring the Wind Breaker in more quickly than most,” Nita said, squinting at one of the three mooring structures they had erected in the previous few weeks.

  “I tightened them personally, Nita. He’d have to ram the tower if he wanted to break it free,” remarked Drew.

  He was her partner from the East Seaward Hub, a massive steamworks not far away. If anything, his outfit was even more magnificent than hers, less a garment and more a showcase for a tailor’s skill. The sheer number of ruffles and embroidered details would have seemed garish if not for the impeccable placement and quality of each.

  “We can’t discount that. I’ve been there when Lil and Coop moored the ship at nearly full speed. I personally had to triple-reinforce the mounting points for the lines on the deck. We should be ready to signal them for a slow approach,” Nita said.

  A deeper, steadier voice reassured her. “This crew of yours survived for years making stops at ports in Rim, Amanita. I cannot imagine their preparations are superior to our own.”

  “Father, please. The crew is entirely from Westrim and Circa. They are quite proud of their homes, and if they were to hear you suggest that their homeland—”

  Her father placed a hand on her shoulder. Its steadiness, and the gentle pressure, served to underscore for Nita just how much of a tizzy she was working herself into. She let the concern trail away and looked him over.

  Donovan Graus was a large man, more solidly built than most Calderans and a head taller than his daughter. Like most of his countrymen, he kept his dark hair cropped short. Thin lines shaved into the temples and along the back formed simple designs that wove through the peppering of gray. His outfit was of the same fine make as the others, but in addition to its gorgeous design, some combination of its elements quite effectively communicated his lofty political and social status without being nearly as ostentatious as the clothes worn by Drew.

  “I have a degree of expertise in the matters of decorum and diplomacy, Amanita,” he assured her.

  “I know, Father. But you’ve never dealt with people like these before. They’re… different.”

  “Then I highly anticipate the opportunity to learn more about them.”

  Nita turned her eyes to the mooring equipment one last time and shook her head lightly. The structures were absolutely austere by Calderan standards, but she felt certain she would be chided a bit by the crew when they showed up. Most landing fields for airships used simple towers to mount the mooring ropes. The crew in charge of designing this, the first new airship field to be built on Caldera’s main island of Tellahn in more than a century, felt as though such an auspicious location deserved a proper landmark. Thus, the “towers” were three simple and stylized statues. They were monuments of two female figures and a male one, each reaching upward to the heavens. The surrounding buildings had jobs as lowly as waste storage and machine maintenance, but could easily have been art galleries and opera houses in the rest of the world for all the grace and grandeur put into their designs.

  She glanced back to the horizon and pointed excitedly.

  “Here they come!” she said.

  All eyes turned to follow her gesture. A glorious red, gold, and brown blob of color slid from behind the rolling green hills leading to the calm seas. In the morning mist the details of the ship were faded and blurred, but to Nita the Wind Breaker was unmistakable. There wasn’t a stitch of its envelope or valve of its workings she’d not gone over personally. She had selected the precise shade of red for its envelope. She’d hand-cut the brass accent pieces. Even the stain on the wood of the gondola had been the result of long consideration on her part. The ship was in many ways her masterpiece, and the joy that filled her heart at its arrival was as much from the sight of the Wind Breaker cutting through the sky as from the thought of those it brought with it.

  Its sudden appearance, on the other hand, was enough to cause a stir in the handful of remaining observers who had thus far been silent. Joining them at the airfield was a small contingent of soldiers. They were predictably dressed in their formal uniforms—so full of brightly colored cloth and ruthlessly polished buttons and buckles that the men looked more like performers than protectors. Nonetheless, they were dedicated to the protection of their home and their people, and finding that an airship had found its way so close without their notice of its approach set them on edge.

  “Steady, men,” remarked Nita’s father.

  The Wind Breaker continued its approach, pulling skillfully into alignment with the mooring towers. A few moments later, Nita’s ears twitched as the sounds of its five turbines cut through the idyllic whistling of birds and rustling of the surrounding trees. She frowned slightly.

  “Numbers three and five are running a little rough,” she muttered.

  Mr. Graus signaled a trio of men waiting patiently at the base of the mooring towers. They each climbed rungs worked into the designs of the statues and braced themselves on platforms beside each outstretched hand, ready to receive the mooring lines.

  The ship approached, emerging out of the thinning fog and revealing itself more clearly. Each new detail that became visible weighed a bit more heavily upon Nita’s mind. She’d spent months with the crew working on the ship directly and training them to maintain it once she’d returned home. She’d left it in perfect condition, and she believed she’d given them all the skills necessary to keep it that way. Evidently this was not the case, as each time it returned it had just a bit more damage and wear than before.

  Here she could see bits of the hull had been patched with green wood. There a whole section of railing along the deck had been repaired with repurposed pipes. The whole ship shimmied with the telltale shake of mis-balanced turbines, and by the time it was slowing to a stop
she could distinctly hear at least three different high-pressure whistles indicating leaks somewhere in the system.

  A voice cut through the growing list of maintenance concerns.

  “There she is!” piped a lively young woman from the deck of the ship.

  Nita looked to the railing beside the first of two main mooring lines. Lil Cooper, the most junior member of the Wind Breaker crew, had just heaved a line to the Calderan crew. She stood on the side of the ship, one hand wrapped in a loose bit of rigging to support her and the other waving frantically to get Nita’s attention. She had the same look of radiant enthusiasm that remained steadfastly upon her face whether they were charging into battle or just getting ready for dinner. Her outfit was quite a bit different than normal, but in typical Lil fashion, she didn’t give the onlookers time to admire it before doing something inadvisable.

  She took a few steps forward along the hull of the ship, swinging out and away from the Wind Breaker just as the mooring line she’d tossed pulled taut. The ship’s mild jerking halt sent her swinging in a wide arc. As she started her return swing, she kicked her legs for some extra momentum and released the rope, lofting herself through the air to land on the outstretched arm of the statue. She pointed her toes and leaned back, turning the landing into a slide down the polished surface of the statue until she made a less than graceful dismount from the curled hem of the statue’s skirt. The soldiers shouted a few orders at her, but they may as well have been ordering the breeze to stop blowing, because Lil dashed right past them, effortlessly dodging an attempt to grab her by the arm, and launched herself into an enthusiastic embrace of Nita that nearly knocked both women to the ground.

  “There you are, darlin’,” Lil said, squeezing Nita tight. “Two months is too long.”

  “It’s good to see you too, Lil,” Nita laughed.

  “And look at you!” Lil said, pulling back from the hug to admire the now somewhat disheveled outfit of her ship’s former engineer. “Ain’t you just the prettiest thing on the island? And on this island, that’s saying something. And you must be her daddy.”