by B.J. Keeton
He wheeled himself away from his desk, across the room, and out the door of his bedroom. He sat for a few moments in the living area of his suite, which was well-decorated and comfortable. Most of the time Rucca liked it, but today he found it confining. He pushed and twisted the joystick of his wheelchair to drive him around the furniture. He circled the room, pacing as best he could without the use of his legs.
When enough time had passed that he wasn’t going to be the first one on the skyport out and about, he wheeled himself out the door and toward the dining hall. Maybe breakfast would make things better.
***
Breakfast made nothing better.
The fruit was stale, the meat overcooked, and Rucca was pretty sure that the coffee had been left over from the day before. Nothing was going right today. So he wheeled himself away from the table, breakfast half-eaten, and toward the door.
“Have a great day, sir,” Milton Hartselle called after him.
Rucca twisted the joystick, turning the wheelchair to face the servant. He opened his mouth to say something snarky. Instead, he just turned the chair back toward the door and left the room.
The promenade was busy even at this hour. Shops were opening up for the day, and Rucca wheeled by as the shopkeepers raised their grates and unlocked their doors. He saw Carlos and waved at him. The flamboyantly-dressed man finished turning his key and then walked over to Rucca.
“Good morning, my lord Rucca.” He extended the first word until it was three or four times its normal length. “It is a beautiful day, is it not?”
“Hardly,” Rucca answered.
“What is this?” Carlos asked. “We can’t have the High Prelate’s son in a bad mood. No, no, no, no, no!” Carlos rushed back to his shop’s door and pulled it open. “Come along inside, my friend. Let us find a way to brighten your morning, what do you say?”
“Thank you, Carlos,” Rucca said. “But I can’t say that I’m in the mood to play dress up.”
“Play dress up?” Carlos placed his hand on his chest as though covering a wound. “My lord Rucca, I am hurt in my soul! Have you ever made a grown man cry?”
Yes.
“The only way to mend this wound is for you to come inside. Come!” When Rucca didn’t even inch forward, Carlos said it again. “Come!”
Rucca sighed. He pressed the joystick forward and rolled into the clothing shop. “Carlos, I hardly think—”
“Ah, my lord friend, I know the perfect thing for you. I do not act as though I can enhance the way you dress. No, no! I would never be so bold. You are as well-dressed as any man on Cloud Nine, better than most! But an accent…an accent would be perfect. Something for that strong jaw, perhaps?”
Rucca just rolled his eyes while Carlos continued to prattle on. He did his best to tune the shopkeeper’s voice out, but he found it harder and harder to do as Carlos placed hat after hat on his head.
“No,” Carlos would say. “Not that one. That one is not for you.” He replaced it and said, “No, not this one, either. My friend, you have such stature, such presence, and I am afraid you make all of my merchandise look cheap next to you.” Rucca could see what Carlos was doing, and it was almost working. But he knew it was the merchant’s shtick, his routine.
“I know!” Carlos exclaimed and ran from the room. When he came back, he held something behind his back. “I know why nothing else would work, my lord friend. I know! It is because you are so great, meant for something so much better than the rest of us, that only the best merchandise I have would work. You must accept my apologies for not trying this first, my lord friend.”
Absently, Rucca said, “Yes, yes, Carlos. Of course.”
“You are most magnanimous. What do you think of these?” He brought a pair of goggles from behind his back. They were somehow different from most other airship goggles Rucca had seen. Most of the ones he had seen airship crews wear had been cloudy pieces of glass attached to worn pieces of leather that tied or buckled at the back. They were functional, but far from fashionable.
The goggles that Carlos held out for him, however, were magnificent. Rucca could see there were multiple lenses layered on top of one another, each a different color. He had no idea how many layers there were or what they were for. Instead of buckling or tying worn leather, the lenses were attached to a frame crafted entirely out of metal, and the metal was etched with a script that Rucca had never seen. The goggles looked more like a crown than simple eye protection.
“Those are lovely, Carlos,” Rucca said. “Where did you get them?”
“Here or there,” Carlos said. “What does that matter now, my lord friend? Do you like them?” He handed the goggles to Rucca, who undid the clasp and put them on. The world took on a shimmering hue, and he wheeled himself to one of the many mirrors Carlos had stationed around his shop.
After a few moments of staring at his reflection, Rucca said, “I do like them, Carlos. How much for them?”
“For anyone else, more than they could afford.” The shopkeeper laughed. “But for you, my lord friend, they cost nothing.”
“Nothing?” Rucca asked. “You’re just giving them away?”
“To you. Only to you. It seemed earlier that you were having a bad day. With these, maybe it will not be so bad?” His voice rose at the end of the sentence, making a simple declaration into a question.
“Maybe not,” Rucca said, adjusting the goggles’ lenses. By clicking small levers on either side of the frames, different colored lenses switched in and out. The ones not currently covering his eyes were flipped up in front of his forehead, which gave him a peculiar, insect-like appearance. “The day certainly seems to be looking up.”
Carlos clapped his hands excitedly. “I love to hear it!”
At just about that time, noise began to filter into Carlos’ clothing shop. There was nothing distinct at first, but it didn’t take long for the noise level to rise. Both Rucca and Carlos could tell the ruckus was a shouting match. From the sound of it, it couldn’t be that far away. Carlos rushed to the entrance, and Rucca wheeled behind him.
From the entrance of the shop, Rucca could hear the shouting that came from the ramp leading down to Tier One. He looked up at Carlos and said, “Thank you for the goggles.”
“Absolutely. Any time, my lord friend. Just remember Carlos when it comes time to tell friends who has the best merchandise on Cloud Nine.” The shopkeeper winked at Rucca, who began to wheel away as he spoke.
“Of course, Carlos. See you later.”
As Rucca wheeled closer to the disturbance, the shouting became less like angry noise and more like distinct words and phrases. At first he could only make out bits like “dirty old bum” or “templar sumbitch,” and as he rolled closer, he saw the altercation was between one of his father’s templars—a fellow he didn’t recognize, actually—and a bum he’d seen around the skyport’s lowest tier more than a few times. He thought the bum’s name was Gully, and if he remembered correctly, he’d heard talk that Gully had a mean streak that alcohol only made meaner.
“Now, I told you, you templar sumbitch, I’m late for work.”
“And I’ve told you, you dirty old man, that I don’t think you have a job on Tier Three.”
“Do so,” Gully argued. “And I can prove it.”
The bum stuck his hands deep into both pockets. He rummaged around for a while, and the look on his face indicated that he was indeed looking for something that he just couldn’t quite lay a finger on. Eventually, he pulled both hands out of his pockets and showed them to the templar, middle fingers extended upward. “Here’s your proof, you armored god-tard. Now let me through.” The bum rushed the templar, putting his head down and charging.
The templar easily sidestepped the attack. It wasn’t that hard to do, as Gully was already intoxicated enough that he couldn’t even charge in a straight line. Once Gully realized his attack was unsuccessful, he stood up quickly and whipped his fist at the templar, who grabbed the bum’s wobbly arm and th
rew a punch of his own.
The templar’s plated fist slammed into Gully’s ribcage, and Rucca heard the breath escape from the beggar’s lungs and saw his legs give out. Gully hit the ground hard, but his intoxication level was likely high enough that he wouldn’t feel the impact. If the templar had stopped there, Rucca’s day would have ended quite differently. Instead, the templar reared his foot back and began kicking Gully in the stomach over and over again.
Rucca knew he wasn’t exactly an upstanding citizen, but he didn’t think he was what most people would consider a bad person, either. He might be entitled, spoiled, immature, and selfish, maybe—but not bad. And he was certainly not considered by anyone to be as noble as his father, the High Prelate; however, when Rucca saw the way the templar was laying into Gully, something inside him snapped. Later, he would look back on the moment and wonder what made him interfere, and he could think of absolutely nothing about his life or personality that precipitated the event.
It was just a voice in the back of his head telling him to interfere.
In any case, when Rucca saw his father’s templar attacking the bum, he instinctively pushed his wheelchair’s control stick forward. The chair didn’t stop until it slammed him into the templar, who was caught mid-kick and knocked to the ground himself.
“Who the hell do you think you are?” the templar demanded from the ground.
Rucca smiled at him. It wasn’t often someone had to look up to make eye contact with him. “My name is Demetrius Rucca. My father is Cornelius Rucca. If you do not know of me, can I at least assume that you are familiar with him?”
The templar picked himself up and bowed his head. “I am sorry, sir. I had no idea. I am sorry if I mispoke.”
Rucca looked down at the bum, who was still wheezing on the ground. “I do not believe that I am the one to whom you owe an apology.”
The templar’s gaze flitted to the bum. “To him?”
“Yes. I believe so. Do you even know his name?”
The templar stared at Gully. He swallowed audibly. “I…do not.”
“And yet you beat him senseless. Would my father approve of your actions?”
“I was tasked with keeping the rabble out of the upper tiers, sir.”
“That did not answer my question, templar.”
The templar thought about it. “No, sir. I don’t think he would have.”
“And yet you really laid into him, didn’t you?”
The templar would not meet Rucca’s gaze. “I was just doing my job, sir.”
“I don’t think that’s a very good excuse, templar. A convenient one, I’ll give you, but not a very good one. I’ll tell you what. You leave old Gully alone here—in my custody. I promise that he won’t be bothering you again today. And on top of that, I’ll be sure that the next time I run into my father, the High Prelate won’t hear a word of your poor performance at your new posting.”
The templar looked shocked. “How…how did you—?”
“I have never seen you here before, and if you ask anyone around here,” Rucca gestured to the crowd of people who had gathered around them, “you will find out that I am not an uncommon sight.” He leaned forward in his chair. “I pay attention to things.”
The templar grunted and stood up straight. “Understood, sir. I’ll, uhh, leave the bum with you.”
Rucca nodded at him, and then wheeled himself over to the bum. “Gully, I believe?”
He nodded. “You the king?”
“No, I don’t believe I am,” Rucca said.
“Coulda fooled me, with that crown on your head,” Gully grumbled.
Rucca chuckled and rolled down the ramp toward Tier One. “Come on, Gully. We’ll have a couple of drinks then catch up. What do you say?”
“You buyin?”
“I am indeed.”
“Then I say you got yourself a date.”
***
After spending longer in a bar than he was comfortable with, Rucca began to wheel around Tier One. Gully followed him despite Rucca’s best efforts to prevent him from following.
“I know I’ve told ya before, your majesty—”
“I told you before, Gully, I’m not the king.”
The crazy bum ignored him. “—but I really do owe you for gettin that god-tard off me this mornin.”
Rucca pondered why he saved the bum from the templar. Am I to be stuck with this man forever?
“It was nothing, Gully.”
“The hell it wasn’t. He woulda beat me to death if you hadn’t stopped him, your majesty.”
Rucca sighed. As much as he appreciated Carlos’ gift earlier that day, right now he would have done anything if he hadn’t been wearing the goggles when Gully first saw him. All afternoon, the drunken bum had been calling him your majesty.
“I mean it, your majesty. I’ll do anything for you. Anything I can, that is. I’m not worth much, but I’ll do what I can for you. Get you anything you need. Ale, women, whatever, you name it, and it’s yours.”
They arrived at Rucca’s favorite spot on Tier One, right next to the docks. From there, he could see every new airship as it arrived at Cloud Nine.
Or, rather, it had been his favorite. Until yesterday. It was the spot his father had found him. He could still hear his father’s voice in his head.
You are a cripple. You will never fly one of those, Demetrius.
Rucca tried to tune Gully’s prattling out as he settled in to watch the airships dock. He reached up and unclasped the goggles Carlos had given him. They really were exquisite, probably made for an airship captain or someone of similar station. Yet Carlos had given them to him, the wheelchair-bound wannabe.
“Gully, what was it you just said?”
“I said I’d do anything for you, your majesty. Get you anything you want.”
Rucca looked down at the goggles in his hands and then back out the window at the ship currently docking. He smiled and said, “Get me an airship.”
Chapter Five
The Gangly Dirigible had never flown so fast. Captain Schlocky kept the engineers working the boiler room long into the night. The steam rose through the cracks in the floor and filled the housing level with so much smoke it was difficult to breathe, much less sleep. Jude got up from his bunk and went out in the corridor. He was tired of inhaling steam and decided he would go upstairs to the main deck for some fresh air. Before he got very far, he spotted Roebuck squatting by one of the floorboards.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“Tryin to see if I could jam something in these cracks to keep the smoke from comin up here,” Roebuck said. He stood up, but his head still only reached Jude’s waist. “Cap’n Schlocky is ridin us hard about these leaks. I figured I’d put a stop to his grumblin and just jam something into the cracks.”
“Why don’t you just fix the leaks?”
“It’s easier to fix the cracks,” Roebuck replied. He pulled a cigar out of his pocket and held it up to Jude, smiling. “I bought this back at Thunder’s Echo. The tobacco is from Cloud Nine, accordin to the guy that sold it to me.”
“I doubt they grow tobacco on Cloud Nine,” Jude said. He did his best to avoid sounding like a know-it-all. “The book I’ve been reading talks about all the skyports in Nimbus, and it doesn’t mention anything about tobacco growers on Cloud Nine. I think the merchant lied to you.”
“Ya think so?” Roebuck asked. He stuck the cigar into his mouth, took the switchblade out from his other pocket, and cut off the tip of the cigar in one quick slash. “I don’t reckon I really care. The tobacco is good either way.”
“You don’t mind the guy ripping you off?” Jude asked. He somehow doubted it—Roebuck wasn’t the forgiving type.
“Not right now,” Roebuck said. He jammed the switchblade into the wooden floorboards. “But I’ll make sure I stab the scumbag in the leg the next time we’re at Thunder’s Echo. I might even make him give me a refund. If he refuses, I might even cut off his—”
&n
bsp; The ship suddenly lurched to one side, sending both Jude and Roebuck against the wall. The housing level broke into an uproar, as people ran out of their rooms cursing and screaming. Jude, who had been knocked to the floor, tried to stand up. It was hard to do, since the airship was still spiraling forward.
“Has Schlocky lost his bloody mind?” Roebuck grunted and grabbed for his cigar, which had rolled toward the stairwell. He stuck the cigar back between his teeth and glanced at Jude. “I better go down to the boiler room. I hope nothin’s wrong down there. I can’t ever get a break on this filthy ship…”
Before Roebuck could leave, a frightened-looking man walked into the corridor from the stairwell. The Second Mate of the Gangly Dirigible was the opposite of Calvin Reedy: not only was Vincent Miles about as intimidating as a silver spoon, he spoke in unconfident, short whispers.
“Hosers to your stations,” he said, his voice barely audible to Jude, who was standing right beside him. With the commotion all around, Jude doubted anyone else on the housing level could hear him.
“Where’s Reedy?” Roebuck asked.
“He’s busy,” Miles replied. He cocked his head back and yelled louder than Jude would have expected. “Hosers to your stations—now!”
Roebuck looked back at Jude with a cocky smile. “I guess we’ve arrived at the storm,” he said.
***
Jude ran back to his room and scrambled to put on his overcoat and cap. Thorne was complaining as usual, but Gwynn was apparently scared into silence. Jude didn’t bother hanging around to offer any comfort. Instead, he rushed out into the corridor and headed for the stairwell.
On his way, he noticed Roebuck had left the switchblade knife embedded in the floor. Jude pulled it out and pocketed it, thinking he’d give it to Roebuck when the Hosing was over.
