by Joseph Lallo
“… I’m afraid I didn’t quite understand that last bit.”
“I mean just because right now you’d call a maybe a no, doesn’t mean maybe the next maybe hadn’t ought to be a yes. Maybe you just ain’t had the right maybe yet.”
Nita untied the linguistic knot in her head. “I’ll try to be open-minded. You Coopers sure can turn an interesting phrase when you want to.”
“You and Coop ain’t the only ones with a silver tongue,” she said. “Now come on. This here pipe’s just about the last bit that needs fixin’, and I heard Butch’s got somethin’ special planned for supper tonight.”
#
At yet another of the seemingly endless sequence of temporary shacks that popped up and broke down in the uninhabited stretches of the fug, Mr. Q waited impatiently. Thanks to Mr. P’s arguably superior skill in flying a ship, Q was always the one sent to pick up merchandise and take deliveries that had to go directly to Alabaster. On one hand, it was nice to be away from the snobby loudmouth. On the other hand, a man could lose his mind sitting alone in a rickety shack set up on uneven ground in a dark field in the middle of nowhere. Particularly irritating was the fact that more than half the time the people he was waiting for didn’t even show up. This time he’d decided not to give them the benefit of the doubt. If they didn’t show up in the next hour or two, he’d climb into the little personal airship Alabaster had provided him with and head home.
He’d found ways to pass the time, his favorite being a discreet little stack of snapshots he’d picked up in a little shop in Fugtown, each showcasing a woman with little concern for fashion.
The hum of propellers drew his attention to the outside. He’d heard a fair number of ships go by, but this one was far too close to be merely passing by. He tucked his photos into his pocket and stepped outside. Sure enough it was the same high-speed ship he’d met at least twice before, on time for once. It was moving far too quickly, though, set to pass right by. He waved his hands to get their attention. The ship began to slow, drifting directly overhead, and he heard a distant clank from within.
For half a second, he registered dull confusion as something swung free from the ship’s belly. It was at the end of an anchor chain, but it looked more like a sack of wheat or something similar, a few layers of burlap bulging with something soft. His confusion turned to concern just a fraction of a second too late. The burlap-wrapped object struck him with enough force to make it clear that it was, in fact, merely the anchor with some additional mild padding. He saw stars and launched through the air.
He must have hit the ground at some point, but he didn’t remember it. What he remembered mostly was a dull throbbing through most of his body and fuzzy, blurry visions of the ship landing. The next clear thoughts he had were bleary anger as his eyes focused on Digger holding a rifle to his face.
“He’s coming around,” Digger called aside before addressing Mr. Q directly. “Congratulations on waking up. Though you lost me a half a sack of salt. I was betting a hit like that would kill you.”
Mr. Q attempted to retort but found his mouth wasn’t cooperating. Gunner appeared with a poorly folded map.
“How, may I ask, did you come upon the knowledge that wrapping an anchor with cannon wadding and striking someone with it would be less than lethal?” Digger asked.
“The answer involves the Coopers, a dare, and whiskey,” Gunner said.
“A scenario is forming in my head…” Digger said.
“The correct one, I suspect. No need to question this idiot. He’s something called ‘the manner’ marked on the map, suggesting he is as poor at spelling as subterfuge. I imagine that is where we will find Alabaster and finally get some proper answers. Give me the rifle.”
Mr. Q’s eyes widened as Gunner took the gun from Digger, but rather than execute the now useless hostage, he turned and fired at the nearby ship that would have ferried him back to the manor. The sound of rapidly escaping steam suggested the vehicle would not be terribly useful for that purpose anymore.
“You’ve got a long walk ahead of you and a bad headache in your future. Both are better than you deserve, but I’m feeling generous,” Gunner said. “Now let us get to the bottom of this, once and for all.”
“Agreed,” Digger said.
As they marched off toward their own ship, Digger took back the rifle.
“Am I correct in assuming it was Coop who received the blow from the padded anchor?” Digger asked. “That would explain a few things…”
Chapter 6
Lucius P. Alabaster, with his usual irritability, watched his somewhat dilapidated manor drift into view. He and his minions hadn’t returned since they’d set out to encounter Dr. Wash, and half a dozen minor errands had split them up since then, such that Alabaster was alone with Mr. P. He gazed out the window and glared at what he saw. That the manor was visible at all was evidence, in his mind, of the latest failings of “the help.”
“Have I not told you a thousand times that we must always be at our intended lodging for the evening by dawn?” Alabaster grumbled. “It is practically the broad light of day. Any of my many enemies could easily see this glorious airship approaching my stronghold. Need I remind you that, until I can properly reallocate funds, the bulk of my security is achieved through simple obscurity?”
He peered out the window. A sleek airship hung above a loose mooring just outside the grounds of his manor.
“And now what?” he ranted. “Did I not make it clear that shipments of materials are to be dropped off if I am not present. I am awash in a sea of dunces and dunderbrains! Though at least that pilot knows enough to drop anchor somewhere beside the courtyard.”
He let the tirade end but kept his eyes locked upon the ship. There was something off about it. The way it was shifting, not in the breeze, but against it. It looked as though it was angling itself with a degree of precision…
“Blast it! Evasive maneuvers, you idiot! We are being targeted!”
Mr. P worked the controls, but it was too little too late. The attempted shift only managed to present the broadside of their ship to the one anchored near the manor. A distant thump preceded a scattering of smaller ones as the unknown ship fired a cloud of grapeshot. The blast appeared to miss high, failing to damage Alabaster’s gondola at all, but it punched a handful of holes in the envelope. Escaping phlogiston bathed the sky and fields in brilliant green light. The airship gradually lost altitude.
Alabaster gripped his weapon and ran through his options. The minor, or at least not catastrophic, damage to his envelope was either a stroke of luck or an exquisitely well-aimed attempt to ground him without killing him. The lack of a second blast, despite the presence of a second cannon, supported that theory.
“Shoot at him, you fool! I had the spike gun installed on this worthless bucket for a reason.”
Mr. P obliged, depressing a button and unleashing twin strings of fléchettes. They drew erratic lines across the ground, as the rapidly deflating envelope left little control and thus little capacity to aim. The propellers, mounted as they were to the side of a punctured sack that was rapidly losing its rigidity, whipped the ship in haphazard directions. A few more seconds of pointless firing exhausted their ammunition.
Alabaster gripped his weapon tightly and braced himself as the ship finally struck the ground. Wood splintered and glass shattered, first from the impact and then from the still-running propellers dragging the ship along.
“Shut down the propellers before you kill us both, you buffoon!” Alabaster barked.
Mr. P complied, but he needn’t have bothered. The grinding and rattling ruptured the pipes running to the propellers, flooding the gondola with steam and finally bringing the ship to a rest.
Alabaster coughed and sputtered in the hot, moist air. He kicked open the damaged gondola door and hauled himself out. The warm air of the night was shockingly cold compared to the sauna the ship had swiftly become, hitting him like a hammer. B
y the time he recovered, he was staring down the length of a rifle barrel.
“Well, well, well, Mr. Alabaster. You’ve just lost me ten victors. I was certain you wouldn’t be returning anytime soon,” said Digger.
Alabaster—damp, lightly scalded, and bleary-eyed—glared at Digger. The Well Digger sat astride a small personal steam cart Alabaster had only recently managed to secure for his new home.
“Ah, yes…” Alabaster muttered. “I presume you wish me to drop my weapon.”
“If you would. Your associate should do the same.”
Mr. P was just pulling himself out of the damaged gondola.
“No weapons, Mr. P. I don’t need your thickheaded idiocy getting us both killed,” Alabaster instructed.
He climbed to his feet and brushed the mud from his outfit. It was a testament to either Alabaster’s resilience or madness that despite surviving an airship crash not minutes earlier, he was behaving as though it was simply another irritating little bump in the road.
“You Ebonwhites simply cannot help but be a thorn in my side, can you?” Alabaster said. “How exactly did you find me?”
“You left a chain of henchmen, Alabaster. I’m a bit disappointed in you.”
“The issue is not my own failings, but the unavailability of worthwhile staff and the lack of time for proper vetting,” Alabaster said. “If I have a source of shame, it is that my latest stumbling block comes in the form of one of the lesser Ebonwhites. I would have preferred my first clash with one of my numerous nemeses to be with the Wind Breaker crew.”
“Then you’re in luck. Gunner is the one at the wheel of the ship.”
“Ah… An Ebonwhite and the Wind Breaker crew, working in concert. Yes. That explains how you were able to best me… Albeit briefly.”
“Slather whatever salve you wish on that ego of yours, but you and your man are following me.”
“Oh?” Alabaster said. “I would think men of your mettle would know the threat I represent. A thinking man would kill me on sight.”
“A thinking man would also care more about living a long life than having an exciting obituary. Just get moving.”
#
A few minutes later Mr. P had been bound and gagged and Alabaster had been tied to a chair. Gunner, Digger, and Wink were staring them down. Wink’s one-eyed glare managed to be the most unsettling of them all.
“Well? What is it to be? Torture? Would you pull the teeth from my very jaws to have the vengeance you no doubt richly seek?” Alabaster said.
Gunner shook his head. “Alabaster, you’re so full of yourself it is a shock you haven’t come apart at the seams. I’m not in the business of revenge. Revenge is a waste of time. But having you out and about is a liability, and not knowing what you’re up to is worse. So here’s your chance to give that monologue I’m sure you’ve been practicing. Let’s hear your latest fiendish plan.”
“Hah! Do you think I can be so easily broken? I, the greatest criminal mind in the history of the fug?”
“So he’s working for someone else,” Digger said.
“Wh-what?” Alabaster said, his indignant façade flickering for a moment. “What madness are you speaking of? To think that Lucius P. Alabaster would follow the orders of someone else.”
“Oh, please, Alabaster,” Gunner said. “Your inability to keep from running your mouth has snatched defeat from the jaws of victory every time you’ve come close. If you won’t say what your plan is, then it isn’t your plan.”
He tossed down the bag they’d recovered from the fallen spy.
“Your man is dead. The squirrels got him. But we got his bag,” Gunner said. “Nothing but assorted bits and bobs from my ship and my crew.”
“But of course! To best an enemy, one must get inside their mind. And to get inside their mind, one must surround oneself with every element of their life, their surroundings, their workings, their—”
“We’ve been through your house, Alabaster. There’s not a scrap of the other things that were stolen,” Gunner said.
“Of course not! Buried as you are in that hellish place? None of my other people made it back!”
“That’s not what your men said,” Digger said.
“A fact that would be damning to my story if not for the previously established fact that I’ve been able to find none but empty-headed imbeciles. They don’t know what they are talking about.”
“Enough. He’s learned to hold his tongue. We should be thanking our lucky stars,” Gunner said. “Hold still, Alabaster.”
Gunner pulled at Alabaster’s blazer and searched the inside pockets.
“What are you doing? Unhand me!”
He pulled out a damp sheet of paper and unfolded it. “Let’s see… timetables… Our timetables, more or less.”
“Hah!” Alabaster said. “You see? You see what the brilliance of Alabaster can achieve? Through mere thought and observation I was able to work out your secrets.”
“What secrets? It’s a trade route. We post our arrival dates in cities that have proved trustworthy.” Gunner looked back to the notes. “Honey Umber… You certainly are immersing yourself in the business of the Wind Breaker.”
“Yes,” Alabaster said. “As I’ve said.”
Digger eyed Alabaster. “I didn’t detect quite the same level of confidence in that assertion.”
“It did seem to lack the ‘Alabaster Panache,’” Gunner said.
“Nonsense. All of this is a part of my plan.”
“Then what is it?” Gunner said.
“What is what?”
“Honey Umber. What is it?”
“It’s… something to do with decorating.”
Gunner stamped his foot angrily. “Someone else is definitely calling the shots. Now I have to extract information from this idiot and run further up the chain.”
“Hah! The perpetual defense of a mindless boob, to convince himself that if he cannot understand the answer, then it must not be the answer. You’ve reached the top of the chain, you fool.”
“We’ll see about that,” Gunner said. He slid a knife from his belt.
“You think you frighten me? Do your worst! You’ll find the only match for Lucius P. Alabaster’s intellect is his fortitude! You shall never learn anything. Nothing at all!”
Gunner stepped forward, then turned and hoisted up the bound henchman. He maneuvered the man into a sitting position and sliced the rope holding the gag in his mouth.
“Does this windbag pay well?” Gunner asked.
“Yeah. And a bonus if I keep my mouth shut,” Mr. P said in a voice much clearer and smoother than seemed appropriate for a henchman.
Gunner turned to Alabaster.
“I certainly hope you don’t think I’ll order him to speak. Mr. P is one of the only halfway decent subordinates I’ve yet found. He shall be nearly as difficult to break as… what are you doing?”
Gunner snatched Alabaster’s pocket watch and dangled it before Mr. P. “Does that about cover the bonus?” Gunner asked.
“And then some.”
“So who’s he working for?”
“Some bloke named Tusk.”
“You treacherous troll! You oaf! I cannot believe I heaped the relative praise of calling you decent to any degree!” Alabaster raved.
“Who is Tusk?” Gunner asked.
Mr. P shrugged as best he could in his bonds. “We never get to see him. But Mr. Alabaster always gripes about Tusk this and Tusk that after we make a stop at the Ruby Club.”
“Unbelievable. Unbelievable,” Alabaster said. “The thickheadedness abounds!”
“We aren’t speaking of Ferris Tusk, are we?” Ebonwhite asked.
“Finally. Someone with half a mind,” Alabaster said.
“A celebrity of yours?” Gunner said.
“Historical figure. He was very active in the years following the calamity. He had some military victories. Admiral… Maxwell, was it? And I belie
ve something about a tower in Circa.”
“The Fall of Rigel Tower?” Gunner said.
“That’s it.”
“Those were by the same man?” Gunner said.
“Well, under his oversight, I suppose. I’ll admit I’m not as dedicated a student of history as I might be, but I don’t think much has been said about what happened to him afterward. I suppose he could still be alive.”
“And now he’s got Alabaster working for him.” Gunner turned to Alabaster. “Presumably that’s how you got out of Ebonwhite’s new jail.”
“Bah! It was his doing only because I was not there long enough to plot the deed myself.”
Gunner ran an incomplete hand through his hair. “We robbed the mayor, broke his rules, and gave him all sorts of other reasons to target us. Alabaster here wanted to carve a reputation out of us. But apparently Tusk’s already got his reputation, even if it’s an old one, and as far as I know we haven’t stepped on his toes. What exactly did we do to get this Tusk after us?”
“You seem to be collecting adversaries,” Digger said.
“Ah well. No sense racking my brain about it,” Gunner said. “We’ll get it from the horse’s mouth. One more rung up the ladder. Alabaster, your henchman’s loose tongue has bought him his freedom. As for you, the captain felt humiliation was a better punishment than a death sentence. I disagreed.”
“So you’ll kill me then? Tied to this chair? Are you that cowardly?” Alabaster said.
“It would be more pragmatic than cowardly. But no, I’m not going to pull the trigger on you. I am a sailor. At times I am a soldier. I’m not an executioner. We’ll do like last time. Drop you off with Ebonwhite. Maybe he’ll lock you up again. Maybe he’ll do the executing. Either way I think you are fresh out of luck.”
“Tusk will kill you, you know,” Alabaster said. “He is every bit as capable as I am, and well deserving of his reputation.”
“He can have his try just like everyone else has had,” Gunner said, adjusting his coat. “Digger, keep the gun on this one. People don’t always stay bought.”
“I won’t stand for this!” Alabaster cried. “You are my prey, not his! I am the one who was supposed to kill you.”
