by Beth Cato
“Probably because if you were a cat, you would have burned through a life or three. We’re almost to one of the larger docks in the area. You’ll get a chance to rest while I make queries.”
Trash was decomposing in the gutters. She covered her mouth and fought the urge to gag as they walked along one particularly foul block. Other people wore cloth masks over their faces.
“I wonder why the garbage hasn’t been picked up,” Cy muttered.
The tall spires of the airship dock emerged from behind the buildings. As Ingrid and Cy approached, the noise of the engines escalated like the buzz of a million confined bees. This dock featured only small-class airships; the massive port for freight haulers and troop transports was down the way.
Signs lined the fence around a large, sturdy gate. Some of the words wept inky trails from the rain.
baranov transit. sign up here.
recruiting men for baranov! strong and young!
yukon needs women—good pay.
airships need crews! other men ran off after gold! seeking men for continental routes . . .
Cy bent his head close to hers. “Follow me closely and don’t make eye contact, if you can help it.”
“I’m no fool. I can imagine what sorts of jobs for women net good pay up in Baranov.”
Cy arched an eyebrow at her as he moved toward a knot of men. Ingrid hung back a few feet and scrutinized the board.
“Oh, you poor dear.” Ingrid felt a light touch at her elbow. An old woman had shuffled beside her, her skin frail white. Her attire consisted of a corseted, bustled modified kimono paired with a broad straw hat. Massive silk flowers on the brim had gone limp in the rain. “I can’t help you with the Japanese—I’m old like that—but I can read the English for you.”
She looked to see where Ingrid might have been gazing last. “If you’re wanting passage to Baranov, look for this letter here.” She traced a large-painted B with a gloved finger and the following letters as well. “It’s a tough life up there, though. Dragons, they say, and bears.” She shuddered. “Men up there could certainly use the influence of more good, Christian women. You’re of faith, aren’t you, dear? Have you known missionaries?”
Ingrid ground her teeth together. “I was born in America, ma’am, I—”
“Were you? How wonderful! Bless your heart. So many are turning Buddhist these days.” She patted Ingrid’s elbow again. “Well, remember to look for those letters. I’m glad I was able to help.” At that, she shuffled away again.
Ingrid stared after her, flushed and frustrated. She knew from experience that it wasn’t worth the effort to correct the woman’s misperceptions. Straight-out bigots were often easier to deal with than well-meaning idiots. The woman would certainly be pleased with herself the rest of the day because of her good deed.
She stepped closer to Cy as he talked to man after man and explained the tale of his stolen airship. All agreed that, of course, the overwhelmed local authorities couldn’t be trusted to track down the lost ship, but no one present had sighted a modified Sprite like the Bug.
Some men close by looked to be police, but a sly inspection of their colorful badges revealed that they were militiamen who were also affiliated with local lumber unions. Ingrid sidled away. Labor unions actively agitated citizens to act aggressively against the Chinese or anyone else who could be construed as a job-thieving foreigner. She’d endured harassment from their ilk in San Francisco a time or two.
It didn’t take long for Cy to get them access to the port. The news of gold had brought a wave of airship thefts here, too, but it seemed this port had been readier to defend itself. Only confirmed owners and passengers were being allowed inside.
Cy walked the long pavement beneath the airships. It took mere minutes to confirm that the Bug wasn’t present.
“On to the next,” he said to Ingrid, making an effort to not sound as bleak as the weather.
They took another electric car line south to a more industrial area. This port looked to hold only about ten masts. Ingrid was perplexed. “I’m surprised airship docks are so scattered around the city. In San Francisco, that wasn’t allowed. Too much risk of crashes and explosions.”
“That risk is very present here as well, certainly, but docks exist where they are because of how fast the city’s grown over the past ten years. There was no cohesive city plan when it started out. When I was here last, they were excavating all of Denny Hill and using that dirt to infill marshy areas in Elliott Bay.”
“They moved an entire hill? One the size of these other hills around?”
“Not as big as Queen Anne, but it was quite an effort. Anytime there’s a fire, the city rebuilds and shuffles things around. Give it another few years, and all these parcel docks on hilltops and industrial neighborhoods will be pushed toward the fringes of the city.”
Haphazard barriers reinforced the dock’s gate. Yet again, entrepreneurs were lurking here to take advantage of those wanting to fly north. A large group of men negotiated to earn their transit to Baranov as indentured servants.
Ingrid lurked behind Cy and listened, wary, as she kept her eyes cast downward. Folks had been complaining about the inadequate rickshaw transportation in downtown since Seattle’s Chinatown had been locked down on Tuesday. It turned out that the whole district was blockaded, no one going in or out. Laundries were shut down, clothes locked away. Garbage hadn’t been picked up in almost a week; well, that explained the refuse. Other woes were aplenty: houses were going uncleaned, children were without their nannies, factories without cheap labor.
It boggled her mind. She’d been jesting in Portland when she said civilization would collapse without Chinese labor. In Seattle, the joke had become reality.
Cy was finally able to penetrate the conversation long enough to talk to the man in charge and ascertain that no Sprites were moored inside.
“Those small ships are what thieves want. Not these big ’uns that need a large crew and more know-how.” He gestured over his shoulder as he chewed tobacco. “Had some thieves land here earlier, too. Drunk as skunks. We had fun dragging them in to the station house.” His grin showed brown teeth. “We provided some justice of our own.”
“Good. I’m glad to hear of it. Much obliged for your time, sir,” said Cy. He turned to Ingrid. “To the next port, then?” His hands were shoved deep in his coat pockets, his face drawn beneath his derby hat.
Another port, then another. Some Sprite classes were moored and under heavy security, but not the Bug. Cy accumulated lists of other possible moorages farther out: Bremerton, Everett, Tacoma. Maybe the thieves had pressed on to Bellingham right at the Canadian border. Maybe they opted for a different route entirely and followed the rain shadow of the Cascades. Maybe the ship crashed just out of Portland. Maybe the thieves already docked and departed. Maybe the thunderbird had downed it; word of the berserker bird the previous day had spread as well, though no one had confirmation whether it had taken down any airships.
Every “maybe” drove Cy deeper into his depressed shell.
Ingrid would have been equally dispirited, but her relentless hunger reminded her of lunch. Cy accepted the suggestion to take a break, though he obviously had no appetite. He bit into the cold chicken and biscuits packed by Roosevelt’s maid and acted like he was chewing through sun-bleached newspaper, while Ingrid found the meal plain yet delicious.
They ate beside a street-side shrine. Such constructions had become more common in recent years around San Francisco as well. Rain dribbled on some of the stone idols. Ingrid noted the presence of several kitsune; foxes were said to carry messages to the kami Inari. Ingrid had trouble believing someone like Blum would ever be a mundane courier.
Cy seemed to barely notice where they were. He stared into the rain, likely envisioning the next dock and the next dead end. Ingrid realized that if she weren’t here, Cy would rove like a machine. Not sleeping, not eating. Doing everything he could to find his dearest friend, the only family he kept when
he left everything else behind.
“Cy. Cy.” She tugged on his coat sleeve to get his attention. “Is there anywhere else they could have taken the Bug if they landed in Seattle?”
He stood with his angular nose in profile, his brown hair damp and curly at his neck. “I don’t know. Fenris would still have to moor somewhere first and hire folks to lead the Bug under cover. We’ve been to all the closest docks. No one has said a thing.”
“Maybe you’re underestimating Fenris. He knows the Bug can’t stay at a public dock, not with all this fuss about Baranov. He knows how to pay people to stay quiet. He’s seen you do that plenty of times over the years, right? Lee will help, too. He may not know how to pilot an airship, but he was a jack-of-all-trades for Mr. Sakaguchi.”
“You think someone might have lied to me about the Bug?”
“I hope someone has! I do! Because if they lie to you, maybe they’ll lie to Blum’s people if they nose around. It’ll keep us all the safer. Trust in Fenris. Where would he go if he piloted?”
For a moment, Cy seemed to turn to stone like the nearby statues, but then he slowly nodded. “There’s an old skating rink we once rented maybe a half mile away, back when we were starting to accumulate orichalcum for the Bug. It’d have enough space to house the ship, just barely.”
“A half mile’s nothing after all the walking we’ve done.” She hooked his arm and dragged him into the dismal drizzle, the suitcase wheels smacking through a puddle at her heels. She hated lying about how weary she felt, but she wasn’t about to idle somewhere while he searched on his own.
“Someone else might be renting the rink now. Or it mighta been torn down. It’s not a bad neighborhood, and the place was quite the eyesore.”
It grieved her to hear Cy sound so negative. She needed to summon up another St. Crispin’s Day speech. “Maybe the rink’s now being used to stable a blessing of unicorns. Maybe it holds a scale model of the whole city of Atlantis. I’m sick to death of maybes! This whole week has been a cesspool of maybes and suspicions.” She stopped with a grimace. The spiel had certainly sounded more effective in her head.
Cy was quiet for another block. A few other pedestrians dashed along beneath black umbrellas, their chatter in Japanese.
“Maybe I’m in love with you,” he said.
Ingrid’s stride faltered but she didn’t stop moving. “Maybe that maybe isn’t so bad.”
“Maybe I appreciate your company under the wide variety of unpleasantness we’ve been dealt this past week. You set a fine standard right away, pointing a gun at me and soon after offering to lend me my favorite book by Twain.”
“Maybe I should become a librarian with a harsh policy on overdue books.”
“Maybe that’d be a good side trade along with the geomancy.”
“Maybe I love you, too,” she said. “Because when you’re deep in sorrow, it breaks my heart. I want to do anything I can to bring a smile to your face again.”
Cy stopped walking. His hand rose, his thumb brushing her cheek. For a moment, she thought he might kiss her in public, for all of the world to see, but he remained still. His brown eyes smoldered with a combination of lust, love, and adoration. Despite the cold, dreary day, Ingrid felt inexplicably warm. She leaned into his touch, and his face creased in a smile.
“I reckon there aren’t really any maybes in how we feel about each other,” he said softly.
“I reckon not.” Her voice was husky in a way quite unfamiliar to her ears.
With shy, giddy glances at each other, they continued their walk. They passed a small lot of airship mooring masts that they had already checked. The same ships hovered at the tops of the towers, their envelopes pale against the gray sky.
She felt Cy deflate again as he looked away. She squeezed his cold hand, and a tepid smile returned to his face. “We keep on going.”
“Your company is the sun on a day like this, Ingrid.”
They made a couple more turns onto a broad street with sparse trees and few electric lines. Tall Victorian-style houses flanked the way, which made the curved roof of the old rink stand out even more. The wide building was surrounded by a newfangled chain-link fence.
“How did you even find this place?” she asked.
“Would you believe that I have a fondness for roller-skating?”
Ingrid laughed, surprised. “Really?”
“Yes, indeed. I’m not much for sports overall. Baseball’s a good way to fall asleep, and horse racing interests me if it’s more about the horses than the money. Skating, I can do. It’s science and grace all together. My academy had a team back in the day. I did fair to middling. I skated here when this place was still open years ago. Came back months later and found it was shut down and for rent. I made the call, and that was that. It worked well as a shop space.”
“I’ve never been skating. Mama never would have let me do something that dangerous.” Ingrid made a face. All those years Mama and Mr. Sakaguchi treated her like an invalid while they hid from her the true repercussions of her pain.
“Well, maybe one day soon I can wrap you in pillows and get skates on your feet, but right now . . .” Cy stopped before a broad gate bound in place by a hefty lock, which he examined in his hand. “This has been opened recently after staying locked for a while. Look at the scratch marks.” Ingrid couldn’t see much of anything. Cy stalked on, more spring in his step than he’d had in hours. Tired as she was, she had to scurry to catch up.
He stopped at another, smaller gate. He assessed the lock, squinting, then took a step back. He kicked, his heel striking the lock hard. The fence clanged and rattled as the lock dropped to the ground in several pieces. “This brand’s cheap. Easy to break,” he said, almost apologetic.
“That may be, but how’d you learn to do that?” Ingrid couldn’t disguise her admiration.
“Practice. The past decade has taught me numerous skills.” He opened the gate just wide enough to admit them through and pulled it to again. Puddles were scattered along the uneven brick pavement.
He didn’t head for the broad double doors at the front but to the back, where a metal sign for employee door had lost most of its letters to read yee oor instead.
Cy used the toe of a boot to point to the ground before the door. The bricks showed fresh crescent scrapes. Cy unholstered his Tesla rod and knocked on the door in a rat-tat-tat rhythm. The crystal tip on hollow metal sounded as loud as a war drum. He motioned Ingrid back and to one side while he stayed in a central place visible to the door’s peephole. Ingrid tensed.
The door pushed open with a small screech of metal on bricks.
“Ing!” Lee cried as he flung himself at her. She caught him with both arms, the suitcase splashing into a puddle at her heels. He pressed his head to her shoulder as she hugged him tight, rocking in place. Lee was here. He was okay.
“Let’s get out of the rain. Where’s Fenris?” The horrible tension in Cy’s voice was gone.
“Working on the airship, of course. How the hell did you get to Seattle?” asked Lee in return.
“Wasn’t the Bug commandeered? How did you get past the thunderbird?” asked Ingrid. She grabbed hold of the case again and rolled it inside. Cy stared out into the bleary late-afternoon light to study the street for a moment before he shut and locked the door.
“I don’t think we were followed,” he said.
“What thunderbird?” asked Lee. Even spoken in a normal tone, the words echoed across the cavernous space.
Cy and Fenris’s old warehouse in San Francisco had been crammed with all manner of metal detritus from customer orders and their own projects. This building had to be roughly the same square footage, and yet it was wide open, with the exception of a counter and enclosed office on the far side.
The Palmetto Bug dominated the open space like a lone thundercloud over high prairie. Cy was right in his estimate that it barely fit in the building. It had been anchored with the gondola about ten feet off the ground, with about the same
clearance from the top of the envelope to the metal struts of the ceiling. Ladders flanked the airship at all sides, and other items were scattered around the base. Dim illumination shone down through skylights that looked to be smothered with debris.
“Well, I suppose it’s good we’ll hear if someone is coming,” muttered Cy as he looked around. “I swear the echo’s worse than it used to be. Maybe it’s because more of us are here.” They walked to the airship, where Fenris was lying on his belly as he worked on what looked to be a stub wing from the Bug. The orichalcum casing had been removed, revealing a jumble of wire innards.
Fenris’s head tilted to take in their arrival. “What took you so damn long?”
“It’s a long walk from Portland, in case you didn’t realize. Next time don’t leave us behind.” Cy stood over him, arms crossed.
“I’ll be sure to tell that to armed brigands the next time they take over my ship. ‘Oh no! Don’t leave yet. Cy and Ingrid decided to picnic during a riot. Again.’ I’m sure they’ll be sympathetic.”
“Armed?” asked Cy.
“Are you hurt?” Ingrid asked. Fenris looked the same as always, his clothes stained, goggles permanently adhered to his head. Lee’s clothes were soiled as well but he appeared fine. The last of his bruises from San Francisco had faded away.
“Is it story time?” Fenris sighed. “You never have good timing. Here, let me finish getting this wire in so I know where I left off.”
“As if you’d forget,” said Cy.
“I didn’t say I’d forget, just that it needed finishing. There.” Fenris pushed himself to sit upright, cross-legged. “I don’t suppose you brought any food, did you?”
“Here.” Ingrid unlatched the suitcase and tossed a shirt at Fenris. “Chew on that.”
“Mother-of-pearl buttons. Delicious.” He dropped it to one side.
With a huff, Ingrid snatched up the shirt and folded it again. “That is—was—clean. Show a little gratitude for your laundry delivery service. We’ve spent the past day in dread that you were both dead.” Cy pulled over an old crate for her to sit on while he claimed another.
