The Kip Keene Box Set: Books 1, 2 & 3

by Nicholas Erik

  She shook loose. “Okay, sure. I think you need some sleep.”

  “Not safe.”

  “There’s nothing out there.”

  In the distance, another boom echoed, followed by a faint splash. Strike’s forehead crinkled. “What was that?”

  “Pirates,” Keene said. He hurried to the black box, intent on fixing the situation. He reseated the various pieces, refilled the vial with new stone dust, and watched as the statue’s eyes began to glow with a fierce blue light.

  “Pirates?” Strike’s head disappeared above the stairs. She came running back down like her shirt was on fire when another cannon ball came hurtling towards the yacht. “What the f—”

  “Told you.” Keene navigated through his neural implant menus again, selecting the question mark. He waited. When no visible flash came, he’d hoped it had been subdued, like the one accompanying their most recent jump.

  But the cannon shots continued, indicating that the yacht was still firmly grounded someplace he’d prefer not to be.

  “We need to get the hell out of here,” Strike said. “Activate the magic box and take us back.”

  “I can’t.” He glanced the Songbird’s eyes, which contained no glow or hint of life. “We must’ve used up all the chronosium. It’s a big ship.”

  “Oh man, dudes,” Linus said, slumping to the floor. “We’re screwed.” The sound of the attackers had fallen, the boat speeding along through the chop at a merry clip.

  “Like hell. Come on, Kip. We’re going up there.”

  “To get my head blown off? Not likely,” Keene said.

  She disappeared up the stairs, this time making it on to the deck. A few seconds later he heard Strike yell, “Goddamnit, brace for impact.”

  The SS Bank of Legends bucked and jolted, slamming Keene against the stairs. A spine-tingling scraping noise resonated throughout the hull as the yacht came to a screeching, sudden halt.

  Keene hurtled forward and banged his head against the floor, drifting off into unconsciousness.

  11 | Run Aground

  Keene awoke to excited shouts in a variety of dialects. He rubbed the bump on his head and held his arms out for balance as he stumbled to his feet. The voices grew more frenzied, followed by a number of pistol shots.

  A hushed silence fell outside.

  Keene rushed up the stairs and staggered on to the deck to see what the commotion was about. The SS Bank of Legends had run aground on a sandy beach, plowing through a wooden dock in the process. About half the ship was on land, its nose pointed towards a small fishing village.

  A hundred huts, roofs fashioned from broken timber and other flotsam, lined the hilly landscape overlooking the ocean. The air carried the scent of dried fish, saltwater and a mossy aroma of tangled seaweed. Keene steadied himself on the yacht’s brass railing.

  A crowd was forming, people pouring out of their one-story houses to hurry down the dirt path to the sand. Apparently every inhabitant of the village had come to examine the strange vessel that had just crash landed upon the shore. Strike was already on the beach, Linus by her side, performing damage control with a pistol raised in the air.

  She fired another shot, and the edge of the crowd took another couple steps back.

  “Next one goes in someone’s head. Any takers?”

  The crowd looked on, but didn’t move or reply. A voice, aristocratic and decidedly out of place, came from the back of the throng. “Now, I do believe violence to be quite unnecessary, madam.”

  Keene scanned the faces to locate the voice’s owner. All he could find, however, was an assembly of weathered Chinese fisherman milling about nervously. The owner of the mysterious British voice did not reveal himself.

  “It’s going to be necessary if everyone doesn’t calm down,” Strike said. The crowd took additional steps away from the crazed woman.

  “The only one not calm, madam, is you.” There was a lull. “I do suggest you abandon the shore and head further inland.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Ching Shih is not fond of competition.”

  The name sent a ripple of murmuring recognition through the crowd, the villagers glancing about the coast as if its mere mention was enough to bring the woman about. A few of the throng dispersed, hurrying back to their dwellings.

  The thinning crowd allowed Keene to catch a glimpse of the speaker. It was a wonder, amidst the plainly dressed fisherman, that he had been unable to before, but it appeared that this foreigner had at least some experience blending in. This despite his bright red coat, a military uniform that—like his pale skin—loudly identified him as an outsider.

  The man made his way through the crowd, gripping a musket, and set forth into the semi-circular patch of shoreline that Strike and Linus had established as a sort of fragile beachhead.

  “What is this, a joke?” Strike said. “This is like ninth grade world history class come to life.”

  “No joke, madam,” the man said. “I am Captain Reynolds, official ambassador of the Dutch East India Company and liaison to the crown for Guangzhou.”

  Captain Reynolds was a youngish looking man with a simple haircut and a stiff gait. He seemed relatively earnest in a sort of dumb and elitist fashion, determined to carry out the duties assigned to him by a monarchy thousands of miles west.

  Strike aimed the pistol at his head. “My geography’s a little rusty, but I don’t think this backwater town is quite your jurisdiction.”

  “You are correct, madam. I am here on official business, in relation to the pirate queen Ching Shih.”

  Another spell fell over the crowd, further thinning the ranks until only a couple dozen of the inhabitants remained. The effect of this enigmatic pirate queen’s name was not unlike announcing to a dog that a bath was imminent.

  Captain Reynolds, for his part, looked remarkably calm, still clutching his musket, his unblinking gaze staring at the business end of Strike’s 9mm handgun.

  “Where are we?” Strike said.

  “The name of the town may prove a little tricky, as translations are suspect—”

  “I meant when. What time?”

  “Heavens, madam, I am not sure I understand. I can examine the sundial, but I presume with a craft such as that you are capable of ascertaining the time with far greater accuracy than I—”

  “Shut up.” Keene watched from the deck as Strike raise a finger to her lips, her ears pricking up like an animal sensing a predator far away in the forest. Chanting. A war cry. He redirected his gaze from the little drama playing out in the sands to the larger problem unfolding out at sea.

  The red flagged pirate ships had caught up with them.

  And they appeared ready to loot and pillage.

  Keene acted fast. An escape on the yacht was out of the question—it had run far enough into the sand that it would take a tug tow to get it out. And steam-powered ships seemed in short supply in these parts.

  Their only option was, as Captain Reynolds had suggested, to head inland and hope that the pirates’ territorial tendencies didn’t extend to the mainland.

  But first Keene had to grab Franz’s black box device. Even though it didn’t currently seem to have much effect, leaving it on the yacht wasn’t an option. Keene tore below deck, scrambling through drawers and closets for a suitable carrying case.

  Finally he happened upon a duffel bag just large enough to fit the black box and its various components. With adrenaline induced abandon, he tossed the objects inside and hauled them upstairs, the contents clanging and bouncing as the bag careened off the ship’s walls.

  Hopefully he wouldn’t explode or die from negligence before the pirates got him.

  Keene leapt over the side of the boat into the shallows and waded to shore dragging the bag. A burst of questions washed over the crowd at the sight of the newcomer. Keene closed his eyes, the neural
implant language module recognizing the language as a regional Cantonese dialect.

  He’s with those British dogs.

  Another white man come to help.

  Look, on the shoreline. Ching Shih!

  Ching Shih? I don’t have enough money for the tariff.

  The village is short the payment and they are early!

  We can loot this strange vessel.

  Yes, there are only three of them.

  And the kid looks like a coward. So really only two.

  Keene laughed, and the dialogue stopped. He tugged at Strike’s forearm, encouraging her to lower the gun—and save ammunition.

  “The locals are getting restless,” Keene said with a subtle head nod towards the encroaching throng. “I don’t think Mr. Reynolds and his fellow fair-skinned compatriots have brought them love and kindness.”

  A few of the villagers ran off into the huts, returning with citizens who had ducked out with the first mention of Ching Shih. Their ranks bolstered, the villagers continued moving towards the four outsiders, creeping forward inch by inch. They had apparently forgotten their previous fears—failing to pay Ching Shih’s tariffs was simply not an option.

  “I do believe you have to make a decision, madam,” Captain Reynolds said. “It appears the Terror of South China is arriving imminently.”

  He pointed towards the horizon, and Keene’s gaze landed on a wall of ships headed towards shore. They were going to be crushed.

  Keene decided there was only one way out of this.

  He punched Reynolds in the face and announced, in a perfect dialect that astounded the locals,

  “We have come to arrest Captain Reynolds for crimes against…you.” The villagers stopped moving forward, instead staring at Keene as if he had suddenly sprouted a tail. “And, as restitution for his troublesome presence, we gift you our lovely boat. So you see, seizure by force is unnecessary, as we will not resist.”

  An unblinking silence took hold of the crowd.

  Then a roar—not warlike, but joyous—exploded from the people’s throats as they rushed by and clambered onto the yacht’s decks.

  “Take the bag,” Keene yelled over the din to Linus, “I’ll take our friend here.”

  Amidst the commotion, Keene grabbed the lapels of Captain Reynolds’ red jacket and dragged the man to his feet. As villagers continued to stream by, Keene and his group headed further inland.

  “What did you do,” Reynolds said as they made their way through the huts and dirt roads, eventually stumbling upon a wider path leading towards the hills, “you’ve ruined them.”

  “I gave them the ship.”

  The man gave a bitter snort. “They’re savages. What will they do with such a vessel other than—”

  A fist cut through the air, connecting with Reynolds’ jaw. His head went slack, and a thin strand of saliva dangled from his pale lips.

  Keene shot Strike a look. “Why’d you have to go and do that?”

  “God, his accent is annoying.”

  “And he seemed like such a gentleman.” Keene readjusted the dead weight on his shoulders with a light groan. “Now I have to carry him, you know.”

  “Better than hearing that bullshit. Besides, Doc says I shouldn’t do any heavy lifting for awhile. I got shot a month ago, remember?”

  “Yeah, that’s convenient,” Keene said with a grumble.

  Keene hauled the Captain up the path, which, while hardly steep, felt like Everest when tugging along a hundred eighty pounds of dead weight. Upon reaching the top, he dropped the British man into the dust and gazed out at the sea.

  A stream of rowboats and smaller craft headed towards the small village, streaming from the fleet anchored further from shore. Keene watched the villagers scurry about the yacht’s decks, looting and tugging at anything of value that could be offered to appease the pirates.

  The first men reached shore, bullying their way on board the yacht. Keene slowly put the pieces together as he absentmindedly watched the proceedings.

  “It’s Guangzhou. The nineteenth century.” Keene said. “The inflection point that no one can figure out.”

  What the hell had happened that was so important in the nineteenth century? Keene had to figure it out, because that was probably where Lorelei was headed—and she had a four week head start.

  “You won’t live long enough to figure anything out,” Captain Reynolds said with a thick tongue, his consciousness returning after a brief nap, “the Dutch East India Company will have your—”

  This time, Keene punched him in the face.

  “One thing’s certain,” he said, lifting the dead weight once more on to his shoulders. “We weren’t sent back to hear you.”

  12 | Strangers in a Strange Land

  “No signal,” Strike said, stating the obvious. Besides the lack of cell towers, the dirt roads and horse drawn wagons were also clear indications that phones were largely useless. After a couple more miles, the group had been forced to stop on the side of the road and reassess their method of transportation. Between them, they had two cell phones, a 9mm pistol, two clips of ammunition, and the clothes on their backs.

  Along with the useless black box and its component parts.

  Strike banged her head against the tree in frustration. Then she rolled up her sleeves and tried the phone again.

  “Hoping that we’re suddenly back in 2015 won’t make it come true,” Keene said. He glanced at Captain Reynolds, who was lying on the ground trussed up like a Christmas pig. A search of the Redcoat had turned up few usable items, other than a pouch of gunpowder, some flint and a rope.

  Keene had proffered the idea of lighting a fuse beneath the knocked-out man and simply ridding their hands of him—and, thus, the alleged wrath of ancient global corporations of dubious moral character—but this suggestion had been shot down.

  Instead of being used as a fuse, the rope had found utility in a more conventional method of use—binding the good Captain’s hands. After all, Reynolds was the only one who had an inkling of an idea of where the city of Guangzhou proper actually was.

  “And everyone at the office called me stupid for downloading this app,” Strike said. She had apparently refused to give up hope that her phone would have some sort of use. “Got it.”

  “For downloading what,” Linus said.

  “Is that really what you want to know?”

  “Kind of,” Keene said. “Always good to know if your friends are stupid or not.”

  Strike glared at them and said, “I bought this full encyclopedia set that took up a few gigs of space.”

  “You don’t just Wikipedia?” Wade said. “Everyone uses Wikipedia. It’s free.”

  “Again, not important, right?”

  “It is free,” Keene said.

  “Luckily for you, I bought the offline encyclopedia. And it says, based on what our Limey friend was talking about in between being an offensive jackass, Keene is right about us being in the 19th century.”

  “Whoa,” Linus said. “That’s wild, dude.”

  “It say anything about Ching Shih?” Keene said.

  “You want the full report or the summary?”

  “Hit the bullet points,” Keene said. “We gotta get on the road.”

  “Legendary pirate. Pissed off the British and the Chinese, a lot. They couldn’t stop her because her Red Flag Fleet was so massive. So they cut a deal and she got full amnesty.”

  “How big a fleet we talking?”

  “Says it could be as large as eighteen hundred junks. But that’s probably an exaggeration.”

  “A deal,” Keene said. “Reynolds mentioned something about being a liaison.”

  “I said nothing of the sort,” Reynolds chimed in with an indignant huff.

  “Yeah, yeah, cat’s already out of the bag,” Strike said with a d
ismissive wave. “Think that could be our super-important event?”

  “Maybe,” Keene said. Whoever this Ching Shi was, it appeared she was their only lead.

  “I’m running low on battery,” Strike said, putting her phone back in her pocket.

  “It say when this deal took place?”

  “1810.”

  Keene looked at the dirt, the grass, the countryside. If he hadn’t known better, it could be anywhere, any time, any place. He could even be back on Apollus. But he was somewhere in coastal China, at the turn of the 19th century, on the run from a pirate queen and caught in what could be a very dangerous game.

  And if he ever wanted to get back home, he’d have to start figuring things out.

  13 | Regroup

  As fate would have it, Captain Reynolds’ belongings had more value than their immediate appearance suggested. The proprietor of a roadside inn gleefully accepted the man’s uniform and gunpowder in exchange for lodgings.

  He even ignored Reynolds’ hurled threats of retribution, tariffs and public floggings.

  “I must say, Reynolds, I’ve met some assholes, but they really hate you,” Keene said.

  The Captain, stripped to his long-johns and undershirt, sulked in the corner. His practical looking hair was a disheveled mess, and his shoulders slumped. Without his uniform, he looked like a broken man.

  “I’m afraid you couldn’t understand what we are trying to do for these men.”

  “Try me.”

  “Make them civilized, damnit! Bring them the wonders of commerce and progress and civilization.”

  “Quaint.”

  “As I hitherto explained, a man such as yourself could not understand. My work bears far greater importance than you could ever hope to shoulder.”

  “Important how? You’re going to broker a deal with this pirate, aren’t you?”

  Reynolds’ eyes grew wide, then they returned to their normal state. “I will not tell you.”

  “I didn’t want to hear you talk anyway.”