by B.J. Keeton
“I know, Gully.” Rucca felt sorry for the man. What was it about him that made Rucca so sympathetic? “But you can’t—”
A voice came from the back of the meeting. It was stern and deep. “By order of the High Prelate of the Assembled Court, I hereby declare this gathering unlawful and blasphemous.”
Looking up, Rucca saw a squad of his father’s templars marching toward the group of bums.
The templar who stood in front of the squad continued, “If you do not disassemble, you will be taken into custody. Anyone who does not comply will go before the High Prelate himself for judgment.”
Gully looked at Rucca. “What do we do, majesty?”
“Leave!” Rucca said.
“As you command, majesty.” Gully stood up and ran. He didn’t turn around to see if anyone followed his lead. They did, though, and as they scattered, the lead templar raised his hand and spun two of his fingers in the air. It was a gesture of permission to the men behind him, a way of telling them to go ahead and scare the bums.
As the vagrants ran past the templars, the unlucky ones were grabbed by plated fists. Rucca watched as the templars punched the bums a few times before letting them go. Unlike the templar who had beaten Gully, these men were not trying to seriously injure their detainees. After landing a few solid blows to the face, the templars released the bums, who then ran away as quickly as their legs would allow.
Soon after, the space was empty except for Rucca and his father’s templars.
“Blasphemy, huh?” Rucca asked, wheeling toward the armored men. “What in the world would give you that idea? What was any person in this room doing that could be considered blasphemous?”
“I am sorry, sir. I have specific orders to escort you to the High Prelate immediately. I’m sure he will explain the whole situation.”
Rucca stared up at the templar. He made eye contact and held it until his father’s lackey was the one who broke his gaze. “Of course, templar. Is my father in his study?”
“No, sir. The arboretum. We will escort you there.”
“There is certainly no need of that, templar.” He spit out the last word, emphasizing his disdain toward it and the man it labeled. “I can find my own way there.”
“We have our orders, sir.”
“I’m sure you do,” Rucca said. He pressed the joystick on his wheelchair forward and forced the group of armored men to step aside and let him through.
***
“Blasphemy, father? Really?”
“The law is the law, Demetrius,” Cornelius Rucca said. “Blasphemy is a much better way of putting it than treason, wouldn’t you say?”
“I can’t believe I’m hearing this.”
“Neither,” his father said, “can I.”
The High Prelate stood next to a large plant in the Cloud Nine arboretum and stroked a large, flat leaf as though it were a beautiful woman’s hair. The sun gleamed through the large panes of glass that made up the arboretum’s walls and ceiling, which gave the High Prelate an almost divine halo.
Cloud Nine was a small skyport, yet it had more than its share of luxuries. In addition to the standard hydroponics bay, Cloud Nine was the only skyport to also be home to a recreational arboretum, which was technically accessible by any of the skyport’s denizens, although the High Prelate had all but taken it over for his personal use.
Demetrius had been inside numerous times, and each time, he had found being near the trees calming. Today, however, he did not feel calm. He was anxious, and he could not tell whether his father had brought him there to make the talk easier and less confrontational or to put Demetrius in a more suggestive state.
The High Prelate continued, “I can’t believe that my own son would incite revolution against me, or worse, against the god-king.”
“That’s not what happened, and you know it.”
“I only know what I am told, Demetrius.”
“And that is?”
“Well, for starters, a report made its way to me a few days ago. I was told that one of my newest templars was unable to perform his duties due to interference of a wheelchair-bound noble. And you know, Demetrius, there just aren’t that many of those on Cloud Nine.”
“I could argue that, Father. I’ve witnessed many of your templars not fulfilling their duties. Benson, for instance—”
“Shut your smart mouth,” the High Prelate said. “You know very well that I am not referring to how few capable templars I employ.”
Rucca shifted in his chair. “It wasn’t like that, Father. The templar was beating one of the—”
“Unless he was beating you, Demetrius, I don’t really care. I didn’t say anything about it when I caught wind of your stupidity,” the High Prelate continued, “but then I heard other reports.”
“About what?”
“As it turns out, that beggar you rescued from my templar had some friends.”
“Then I would say he’s a lucky man.”
“I said, shut your smart mouth,” the High Prelate snapped. “These friends, other beggars and social detritus, have been…active these past few days. What was it, Demetrius, three days since you stopped the templar?”
“Give or take.”
“In that time, your followers—”
“They are not—”
“—your followers have been meeting and gathering and—as far as I can tell—worshipping you as some sort of savior.”
“Oh, please, Father. That is ridiculous.”
“Is it, Demetrius?” The High Prelate walked further down the path and stopped at the next collection of plants and trees. He looked vacantly at the willow tree in the middle of the pod. “Is it? How is that ridiculous? Did my men not interrupt a worship service today?”
“No!” Demetrius said as he wheeled his way next to his father.
“Then please explain what it was to me, Demetrius.”
“Gully—”
“The beggar?”
“Yes, Gully latched on to me, Father. And yes, there was a group of them, but I had never seen them before.”
“Had you not?”
“No, Father. I had not. They were meeting…” Demetrius’ voice trailed off and he paused.
“Please continue.”
“Let’s just get through with this, Father. You think I’m a traitor, a blasphemer. And I know I’m not. What do you want from me?”
At this, Cornelius Rucca whipped around to face his son. He knelt beside the steamchair and took his son’s hand in his own.
“What do I want from you, Demetrius?” he asked. “What do I want from you? Let me see. I would like a son who did not go behind my back and try to undermine me. I would like a son who was not trying to set up some kind of beggar republic with him as the king—yes, Demetrius, I know the degenerates are trying. I know they call you majesty. I would like a son who, just for one day, would see how good he has it and who could see just how bad it could be for him.”
Demetrius was silent.
“This one time, Demetrius, I am going to believe you. You are neither blaspheming nor conspiring against the god-king. You’re not. I know this. But,” the High Prelate said, standing, “if I get wind of this ever happening again, I’m taking your chair.”
***
“You look sad, your majesty.”
“I told you to stop calling me that,” Rucca said. He spun his chair around and saw Gully leaning against the wall.
“And I’ve told you that I won’t.”
“You’re going to get me killed, Gully,” Demetrius said. “Or at least imprisoned. My father believes that you’re setting me up as some kind of replacement for the god-king.”
The crazy bum grinned. “That would be silly, your majesty.”
“It would indeed. Now run along, Gully, before you get us both into more trouble.”
“Oh, I think you’ll want the kind of trouble I have for you this afternoon, your majesty.”
Rucca wheeled around. “What are you talking ab
out?”
Gully walked over to him and leaned against the back of the chair. He turned Rucca to face the window and pointed at the airship currently docking.
It was a full-rigged frigate, and Rucca could see the ropes and cables stretching from the deck all the way into a netting that stretched over the balloon and held it in place. The balloon was a patchwork, quilted together from bits and pieces of other balloons and gasbags. It matched the body of the frigate in both shabbiness and color, the muted browns of the balloon, rigging, and frigate itself all bleeding together.
The airship wasn’t much to look at, and Rucca wondered why Gully was pointing it out.
“What is that ship?” Rucca asked.
“That ship is yours, majesty.”
“You bought me an airship, Gully? How thoughtful!” The sarcasm dripped from Rucca’s words, but Gully apparently missed it.
“I didn’t buy it, majesty. More like…won it.”
Rucca’s stomach dropped. There was something in the man’s tone. “Gully, what do you…” He stopped talking as he watched a group of shabbily-dressed men and women run across the docking port and up the gangplank of the airship. They pushed crewmen off the side, and Rucca hoped they fell into the safety nets that were hung below the docks of the skyport for just that kind of emergency. “What’s going on Gully?”
The bum reached beneath Rucca’s wheelchair and pulled something loose. Rucca heard a few clangs and a hiss, and when he tried to move the chair away, the joystick would not respond. He was trapped.
Gully said, “You said to get you an airship, majesty. That’s what we’re doing.”
He grabbed the back of Rucca’s chair and pulled him away from the window. Then he began to push the wheelchair through the Tier One corridors until he reached the dock where the dilapidated airship was being boarded. He wheeled Rucca outside, and the wind immediately cut into him. He wasn’t dressed for being outside.
“Stop this, Gully.”
Gully kept pushing the wheelchair toward the airship.
“Gully, I said stop.”
Gully pushed him closer.
“Gully, I mean it. Stop this right now!”
Finally, the wheelchair stopped. Rucca faced the cacophony on the airship. He watched bums fight the crew on the deck of the airship, and to his surprise, Gully’s group actually seemed to be winning. Gully walked in front of Rucca and looked down at him. He stood just enough to the side so that Rucca could still see most of the action on the airship.
“Your majesty, you said you wanted an airship.”
“I didn’t mean like this, Gully.”
“We are getting you an airship.”
“It’s not my airship, Gully. It’s stolen. You’re pirating an airship.”
“Call it what you want, majesty. The ship will be yours in just a few minutes.” Gully turned toward the airship. “Oh, look there, Daryl made his way to the mooring. We’ll be heading out soon enough, I reckon. I figure you’d wanna come with us.”
“What made you figure that?” Rucca asked. He watched the deck of the ship intently. He saw the bums duck and dodge the sailors’ blows. Then he saw two of the bums charge one of the sailors and knock him off the starboard side of the ship.
“Well, the High Prelate runs a tight ship, majesty, if you’ll forgive the pun. I don’t think he takes too kindly to pirates.”
“I am no pirate, Gully.”
“Oh, of course not, majesty. Of course not. You are, if I remember, the ringleader of the pirates.”
“I am certainly not!”
“Sure will look that way, though, when we run off with this here boat, and you’re waving us off from the dock.”
Rucca’s stomach dropped. He remembered that afternoon’s conversation with his father. Even if his father didn’t automatically drift toward the worst-case scenario that Gully mentioned, the likely outcome wasn’t much better.
He watched the fighting on the dock, and he caught sight of Daryl, cutting the cable that moored the ship to the docking arm.
You will never fly one of those, Demetrius.
Rucca made his decision. “Push me up there, Gully.”
Moments later, Rucca found himself in the middle of the chaos. His people—yes, his people—were running one way, the airship’s crew the other. Rucca watched as the bums fought with a ferocity he wasn’t expecting. The sailors had obviously not been expecting a pirate attack while docked at Cloud Nine, and they were getting tossed over the side of the ship as quickly as the bums could grab hold of them.
The ship was large, and Rucca knew that the bums had no idea how to run it. If this were ever going to even have a chance at success, he had to do something. He had to grab command of this situation before it got too out of hand.
“Everyone stop!” Rucca yelled. A few people slowed down, but more kept fighting. At that moment, the airship began to move. It drifted away from the dock, and Rucca watched the gangplank drop away into the safety nets below just as multiple squadrons of his father’s templars ran out onto the docking arm. They stopped at the edge, staring impotently as the airship sailed out of range. Rucca saw one exceptionally brave templar take a running leap toward the escaping airship.
He didn’t quite make it.
The movement away from Cloud Nine calmed the fighting, and Rucca took advantage of it. “Everyone! May I have everyone’s attention?”
Men and women, bums and sailors, turned toward Rucca. Not everyone, but enough so that the tranquility eventually worked its way through everyone on board. “My name is Demetrius Rucca!” he yelled. “My father is the High Prelate of the Assembled Court.”
Murmurs from the crowd.
“I am not my father.” He let that sink in for a moment, then asked, “What ship is this? What is her name?”
“This here’s the Primrose Doubloon,” one of the sailors said.
“And who is the captain of the Primrose Doubloon?”
“Was Captain Mickles,” said another sailor. “I think one of these dirty old men tossed him overboard, though. First Mate Fugg, too.”
“Then I’m your captain now,” Rucca said.
“Like hell you are,” said the first sailor.
Rucca looked at Gully, who then nodded at two of the bums. They picked up the dissenter and tossed him overboard before he could really fight back.
“Anyone else?”
Silence.
“Excellent!” Rucca said. “Gully, show me to my cabin. You’re my new first mate. Get this crew in shape, and I’ll be out in a few hours to inspect them.” Then louder as Gully pushed him away, “If anyone else doesn’t like the idea of me as captain, let the fog have them, too.”
Chapter Seven
Jude stood on the main deck of the Gangly Dirigible and massaged his bandaged shoulder. The wound was healing fast, but it still pained him whenever he tried to move his arm. There was a deep purple bruise where the nozzle had hit him during the storm, but the edges were starting to fade to yellow. A light breeze blew about the deck, tousling Jude’s hair, but the skies were clear and blue. It was hard to believe that it had been only three days since the storm.
“Are you okay?” Valencia asked from behind him.
Jude turned around and nodded. “I guess so.”
Together, they walked below deck to the infirmary. In the three days since the storm, Captain Schlocky had still not called for Jude to begin his duties as second mate, and Jude could feel himself growing more and more anxious. He had whiled away the days with either Valencia or his book, but his Hoser duties were few, so he didn’t really have anything to help him pass the time.
The ship looked considerably better now, mostly because the deckhands were still working day and night to clear away the debris and get things back in tip-top shape, but the infirmary was in disarray. No one had bothered cleaning up the place since so many crewmembers had been rushed there after the storm, and Jude was under the impression that the deckhands were leaving the cleanliness of
the infirmary up to the doctors. It was mostly empty of occupants now, but a few of the injured still sat in cots scattered around the room.
Robert Gwynn sat up in his cot and frowned when he saw them. His arm was in a sling and he appeared to be feeling better, but this did not stop his complaining. “They told me to leave—again,” he said, “but I told em I wasn’t ready. I reckon Cap’n Schlocky told em to send me on my way, but I ain’t going until I can move all my fingers again. I’m half-convinced that an infection has spread up to my elbow, but I can’t prove it.”
“I hope you get better soon,” said Valencia, with just a hint of a smile.
“Thanks, Vale,” Gwynn said. He held up his broken arm and winced. “Looks bad, doesn’t it? I’m afraid the infection might get to my heart and kill me. The doc won’t believe me, but he’s a crazy old coot anyway. I’ve just got to enjoy the days I have left, I reckon.”
“I’m surprised you’re conscious,” Valencia said.
Gwynn nodded solemnly, apparently lost to all sarcasm. As they walked on, Jude leaned toward Valencia and smiled. “He’s laying it on a bit thick, isn’t he?”
They tried not to laugh, but their humor was lost when they reached Fritz’s cot. More skin was missing than usual from Fritz’s forehead and left ear, but he didn’t look too upset about it. Jude figured Fritz was used to losing skin—it was, after all, one of the effects of fog exposure.
“How are you feeling?” Jude asked.
Fritz did not answer. He seemed preoccupied with a glass marble he kept twirling around between his fingers. He finally looked over at them when Valencia coughed and asked, “Are you feeling any better?”
“Not exactly,” Fritz replied. He held the marble up to the light. “They call this a cat’s eye marble, you know, because of the little slits there in the middle.”
“I used to play marbles in Burrow 12 when I was a kid,” said Jude.
“My son played with marbles all the time,” Fritz said quietly.
Jude didn’t say anything. He had never known Fritz had a son. He wondered if there were other children Fritz had never mentioned. What else had Fritz never told him about?
He began to think he didn’t know his friend very well at all, and for some reason it made him feel slightly guilty. When neither Jude nor Valencia spoke, Fritz sighed and pocketed the glass marble.
