Ichor Well

by Joseph R. Lallo

  She knitted her brow. “That would be like a fugger. To tie folks up in knots with all sorts of different twisty plans and such… How long is it supposed to take?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve never been there. Maybe five minutes? They say the bigger beasts always linger nearby, and we just ran into a pretty big one.”

  “Five minutes of me sitting here with the six of you getting antsy on account of me having my gun out? Not likely.”

  “You could put your gun away.”

  “Even less likely.”

  Lil stared off ahead for a moment, gun still held ready but not angled to threaten anyone in particular.

  “I’m not sure I like you thinking this much. What are you planning?” Kent said.

  “I don’t know. I’m not usually the one making plans. But there being one of me and six of you is something I ain’t too happy about at the moment. That’s six chances for one of you to get lucky if you make a move…” Her eyes drifted down. “Ah, that’ll do ’er.”

  She lowered her gun, causing those nearest to its line of fire to lurch out of the way. Rather than aiming at any one of them, she leveled the barrel at a large and clearly marked box peeking out from beneath a canvas tarp.

  As the realization of her new target swept through the six other passengers on the cart, each reacted as though the pistol was pointed squarely at his head. She was pointing directly at a crate of explosives earmarked for blasting out bits of the well.

  When she was sure she had their attention, she placed her finger lightly on the trigger.

  “That ought to keep you all honest. And if any of you feels the need to scratch your nose or the like, I suggest you do it nice and slow. Wouldn’t want me to get startled roundabout now…”

  Chapter 8

  Lucius P. Alabaster reclined in an overstuffed chair in a small, comfortable office. Mallow was tending to him like a mother hen. Already he’d swaddled the gunshot wound with a truly excessive amount of bandages, and it was time for the obligatory moistened washcloth applied to the forehead. Though the injury was a grazing shot, the immaculate white of his suit was marred by blobs of bright red that made the wound seem infinitely worse.

  “This is… an inauspicious beginning to my legendary career,” moaned Alabaster. “My personal ship stolen. My body broken and my ego bruised.”

  “Nonsense, sir.” Mallow set down the medical supplies and began to pour out a snifter of brandy that he’d found in a cabinet beside the desk. “You came face to face with a member of the Wind Breaker crew. No, you did battle with a crewmember. And you’ve come away alive and breathing. As a matter of fact, you remained here, and he left. I call that a retreat. And thus I would label you the victor.”

  “Oh Mallow. Occasionally I wonder why I retain you as my manservant, and then you illustrate your truly first-rate sycophancy. I am not so weak-minded to succumb to such shallow stroking of my ego. Most of the general public, however, shan’t know better, so from this point forward that is the tale we shall tell.”

  There was a rapid, panicked knock at the door.

  “Mr. Alabaster is not seeing anyone right now!” Mallow barked.

  “My dear sir, this is my office.”

  “Let him in, Mallow.”

  “Yes, sir,” he said, snapping to the task and answering the door.

  In rushed a man dressed in a well-worn tweed suit with scuffed leather patches over the elbows. His face was plastered with the very specific flavor of desperation that occurs when the individual with absolute power within a facility suddenly loses control. Alabaster smiled when he saw the look. For him, it was an endlessly useful look. To a man like the dean, the need for order surpassed even his thirst for authority and control. The chaos had left a vacuum, and despite his position at the center of that chaos, Alabaster was ready, willing, and able to take the position of “sound and stable mind.”

  “Mr. Alabaster, are you aware of what precisely has occurred?” the dean asked.

  “Intimately, sir.”

  “Professor Prist was not a mere educator, sir. She was delivered by representatives within South Pyre for my specific shepherdship! I can’t imagine what those murderous thieves might want with her, but they’ve absconded with a very valuable woman.”

  “Yes, Dean. As I earlier suggested, I’m quite aware of the details of the situation. More so than you by a fair margin.”

  “What are we going to do, sir?”

  “I am pleased that you’ve asked. Are there any vehicles within the academy that can deliver me and my servant to Caer Fiona?”

  “I am afraid not. Students and staff reside on campus. Once a fortnight a Fugtown shuttle arrives, but that won’t be here for another nine days. And airships with various food and sundries arrive monthly, but we’ve just been resupplied.”

  “Glorious…” Alabaster said.

  He took a sip from his snifter.

  “… Is that my brandy?” the dean said, glancing at the glass, then the bottle. A whisper of his authority returned to his expression.

  “Focus on the issue at hand, Dean. Can I assume that messengers arrive with at least a marginally greater frequency?”

  “Once every two days. The next is expected tomorrow morning.”

  “Ah, excellent. Then I shall require assorted stationary such that I may pen and address two messages. One to my employees to request rescue from this isolated den of education, and one to inform Mayor Ebonwhite what has transpired here.”

  “Mayor Ebonwhite?! Must we? This will reflect very poorly upon both myself and my institution.”

  “Do you suppose that you could conceal the theft of what you’ve so aptly described as a ‘very valuable woman’ from the best-informed man in our exceptionally well-informed society? Indeed, the man has eyes everywhere. It would not push us far at all into the realm of impossibility to suggest that he already knows of these developments.”

  “… I suppose.”

  “You suppose correctly. And thus is it not more sensible to act responsibly? Mayor Ebonwhite will surely appreciate the proper conduct and integrity of a man in your position choosing not to hide from his inevitable wrath. More importantly, by alerting him to the details, he may just find it wise to finally take the steps necessary to actively eliminate the Wind Breaker and its crew, rather than trust mere attrition to fell the beasts that continue to cut their bloody swath across our land and its people.”

  “Actively eliminate them? But if the stories are to be believed, these maniacs were able to destroy the dreadnought on their first clash! What more fearsome weapon could be levied against them?”

  Alabaster grinned and set down the glass. “Why, my good sir, I should think the answer to that question is clear. The one man who has faced them and lived to tell the tale. The one man who has stood tall while the Wind Breaker scurried away. The one man with the towering intellect and an iron resolve capable of overcoming their animal cruelty and disregard for civility, rule, and law. The man who stands before you.” He sprang to his feet and thrust his finger high. “Lucius P. Alabaster!”

  When the exhilaration of his self-aggrandizement was through, his eyes widened in pain. His gesture had unfortunately utilized the injured arm and thus earned him a searing pain and a fresh bit of bleeding. Despite this, he managed to stifle any profanity or yelps of agony. Instead he pointed to the door with the other arm.

  “Now go! Fetch me the means to compose the messages that will with a few strokes seal the doom of our common foe and my own reputation for generations to come!”

  The dean hurried to the task, spurred by sheer force of personality to obey the larger-than-life figure who had taken over his office. When the man was gone, Alabaster slumped into the chair again, clutching at the injury while Mallow readied yet another layer of bandages.

  “Those fiends have injured my proclamation arm. The savages. How can a man expect to stir the spirits of the rank and file if he can’t gesticulate properly?” he grumbled, reaching aside to retriev
e the brandy and sip at it. “For that, and for absconding with among other things my supply of decent brandy, they shall be made to pay.”

  #

  “Captain, far be it from me to speak out of turn, but I believe we are long overdue to establish a proper docking procedure,” grunted Gunner.

  His comment was likely motivated by the inordinate amount of time spent attempting to properly capture and secure Ebonwhite’s stolen vessel to the Wind Breaker in some way. Neither ship was properly designed for the task. Each had its gondola slung relatively close to its envelope, which meant that the large buoyant sacks that kept them in the air also collided to keep them separated when attempting to transfer crew. Coop’s piloting skills, barely adequate for getting the stolen ship under control let alone precisely maneuvering it, did not help matters. At the helm of the small, sleek, and nimble vessel he was extremely heavy handed. Nearly a dozen times he’d slammed the smaller ship into the larger one at various speeds. The damage was largely cosmetic, but each such clash sent the two airships bounding away from each other and required the entire delicate ballet to begin again.

  “My career’s been spent trying to prevent folks from latching on to us. I ain’t about to set my mind to finding ways to make it easier,” Captain Mack called in return. “You’ve got enough slack on that grappler to spear the gondola and haul it in. We’ve done it before.”

  “The Coopers are the grappling experts.”

  “You’ve had an awful lot of practice today. If that academy had so much as a scout or a spike gun, we’d have been done for fifteen minutes ago. I’m through pressing my luck. Get that thing grappled. Now!”

  “I am open to suggestions, Captain. That thing is made for speed and, as near as I can determine, to show off. There’s nothing for the grappler to bite into that won’t tear off like it was made of paper.”

  “Did I ask you for excuses?” Captain Mack asked.

  “No, Captain, but I felt they were relevant, since it would be rather anticlimactic for this mission if I were to punch a grappler through the chest of our chemist because the wall beside her was too flimsy for the hook to grip.”

  “Gunner!” called Coop.

  Gunner glanced to the hatch of Alabaster’s ship to see Coop climbing out and hauling himself into the rigging connecting it to the envelope.

  “What’s the hold up?” he called.

  “I’m attempting to grapple without killing any of you.”

  “I’m sick of waiting for you. I got an idea.”

  “Ideas aren’t your strong suit, Coop.”

  “And grappling ain’t yours. But like I said, I’m sick of waiting. Cap’n, I’m going to take this thing up over the Wind Breaker. Try to keep moving about the same speed. Gunner, clear the mooring line off the port winch. I’ll be down in a bit.”

  “Down in a… that insane idiot…”

  Gunner let the grappling hook launcher swing loose. He knew that Coop had a very simple mind. If the goal was to get a rope tied between the two ships, he would take the most direct path to success he could manage. When it came to the Coopers, that path almost always led directly downward at inadvisable speeds. That left only one obvious choice, and there wouldn’t be any time to waste if he decided to put that ludicrous plan into action.

  Under Nita’s direction, the Wind Breaker had recently gained a pair of mooring winches. Formerly the stout ropes that tied the ship to docks, piers, and pylons were hauled in by hand. As their activities so often necessitated fast arrivals and faster departures, their engineer had rigged up a fairly simple series of linkages, gears, and belts to power the winches. It added a bit of weight to the ship, something the captain wasn’t fond of. It had been suggested that the reverse gear be abandoned to save weight and complexity, but Nita had stood her ground. As Gunner flipped the appropriate lever and spun the valve, he silently acknowledged the foresight. The well-used reel whined and smoked a bit, uncoiling chaotically as it spun up to speed.

  Gunner tried to split his attention between the hazardous whipping lines and the port-side of the envelope. The highly visible stolen ship vanished from view, rising overhead. A few seconds later the mooring winch was clear—though surrounded by the tangled heap of its former contents. A rattling sound drew his eyes back to the portside rigging, but there was nothing to see.

  “Over here! Clear that other winch!” called a voice overhead.

  He turned to find Coop clambering down the rigging on the opposite side of the ship. He had leaped from Alabaster’s ship with its line tied to his waist, and was now climbing down from above in the role of “human anchor.”

  “You said port side!” Gunner called back, rushing to the other winch and tugging at the controls.

  “The wind changed my mind,” Coop said, sliding down the outside of the rigging.

  The gusting wind had caught the smaller vessel and was carrying it off and away.

  “Faster, Gunner. There ain’t much slack on this thing,” Coop said when he reached the deck.

  “Is it even worth asking if you left anyone at the helm of that thing?”

  “Only folks on board are Lester and the doctor. They ain’t got the nerve to leave the controls be until we’re tied up proper.”

  “What you call lack of nerve, most would call the presence of good sense.”

  The second winch spun up to speed and launched its line into disorderly mounds as both crewmen watched the pilot-less ship drift farther away. Coop leaned against the weight of the rope as it began to tug him toward the railing.

  “Why’s that line so short?” Gunner said. “And frayed…”

  “I had to shoot it free during my escape.”

  “Guns aren’t toys, Coop.”

  “You’re one to talk.”

  A gust of wind dragged him across the deck and slammed him into the railing.

  “Didn’t think this through, I s’pose…” Coop said, struggling against the mass of the smaller ship and the force of the wind.

  “Wouldn’t have done you any good, Coop. You aren’t equipped for it,” Gunner blurted as he tugged the loose end of their mooring line free from the mess and hastily fashioned a loop.

  Coop managed two shaky steps forward before another gust yanked him fully off his feet and over the railing. In his desperate flailing, his fingers snatched the loop and dragged the rope after him.

  Gunner watched helplessly as loop after loop of disorderly line whipped straight and dragged over the railing. There were ways to heap cords such that they could be pulled freely without tangling. Dumping them haphazardly from a powered winch was not one of them. In normal circumstances there would have been plenty of slack to allow Coop to tie line-to-line. The pile of looped rope, on the other hand, could snag and tangle at any moment.

  Coop dangled from the end of the frayed mooring line, his deft hands forming the unwieldy mooring cable into a complex hitch. Gunner couldn’t take any steps to save his fellow crewman until he was certain the rope was affixed in a way that wouldn’t use Coop’s body as the weak link in a mooring chain. As such, he was left to watch Coop’s handling of his predicament. Bizarrely, despite the precariousness of his position, Coop didn’t seem harried or even particularly anxious. Gunner suspected Coop’s fabled stupidity was such that he simply lacked the spare wits to worry about his impending doom when something as complex as knot-tying was occupying his thoughts.

  Courage and stupidity are remarkably interchangeable.

  Joining ropes from end to middle rather than end to end didn’t make for the strongest of knots, but the end of Alabaster’ ship’s mooring rope was occupied by a deckhand. He looped and tightened as quickly as his precarious situation would allow. The knot was at least mostly tied when luck ran out and the Wind Breaker’s rope hit a snag. Loops cinched tight into a hopeless rat’s nest. It wrenched from the deck and tore away a section of railing, but when it drew taut Coop’s knot held, leaving him to dangle beneath the join in the two ropes.

  The Wind Breaker g
ondola swung violently to the side, but both the captain and Gunner barely stumbled.

  “Coop!” Gunner called.

  “Yeah, Gunner?” the deckhand replied, working now to untie himself.

  “You broke the railing. If you survive this mission, Nita’s going to give you an earful.”

  Coop finished untying himself and began to work his way toward the Wind Breaker deck. “That wasn’t a bit she used that fancy Calderan wood for, was it?”

  “It was.”

  “Dang it…”

  “Look on the bright side. Maybe your stupidity will get you killed before then.”

  “Not with my luck.” He flipped down onto the deck and went to work managing the disaster the mooring line had become. “Either way. Let’s get this fancy ship pulled tight.”

  #

  Several long minutes of the frustrating process of untangling rope as thick as their wrists under load passed, and finally the ornate ship was lashed a few feet from the deck. Such an arrangement was less than ideal, and in no way resembled anything a proper engineer would have designed. Envelopes were pressed tightly to one another, and bringing the smaller ship’s gondola near enough for its passengers/prisoners to disembark meant hauling it until it was dangling at greater than forty-five degrees. From there Coop climbed the lashings, affixed a ladder between deck and gondola, and levered the door open.

  “All right, you two, out, so I can get this whole mess tucked away a bit better,” he said, straddling the exit hatch.

  He’d not quite made his way through the full order before a pair of screeching voices attempted to drown both him and each other out with the sheer magnitude of their outrage.

  “—absolute lummox would do such dangerous and ham-handed things so far from the ground? I’ve got half a mind to teach you a lesson about torturing your collaborators with your utter lunacy and—” Lester growled.