Choose Omnibus (Choose: An Interactive Steampunk Webserial Book 3)

by Taven Moore

  “Hank McCoy, you sly dog,” Bricktop said, voice rough as a box full of gravel. “I heard that friend of yours in the steamchair turned your carcass in to the authorities for reward money.”

  Hank grinned, spreading his hands for the viewscreen to see. “The reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated. I’m here to redeem my storage. Just a quick stop and go, not a long visit.”

  Bricktop barked a sharp laugh, a thick finger of ash on the end of his cigar falling out of sight. “Good to hear. Not many of us left from the old days. Eager young pups with sandbags for brains is all I see now. Your lucky day, we’ve got a dock opening right at your storage. Swing round to Bay 3.”

  “Much appreciated, Bricktop.”

  “Why don’t you stop in after you get settled? We can have dinner.”

  Hank shook his head. “Just a quick stop, Bricktop. With luck, you won’t even know I was here.”

  The cigar turned upward as Bricktop smiled, then the screen fuzzed back into sepia snow.

  Hank frowned at the screen. He didn’t like that smile. Bricktop never smiled unless he was fleecing someone.

  He didn’t have much time to worry on it, though. An explosion sounded from the engine room and the Miraj began to emit a high-pitched whine.

  2. The Right Tool

  Hank grabbed the comm receiver for the engine room and barked into it. “That better not have been the backup alternator, Hackwrench. I told you to fix that over a week ago!”

  His only answer was the hollow and distant sound of the shonfra chirring angrily, followed by another explosion.

  Hank slammed the receiver down. He pointed to Bones. “You, stay here and dock us. I don’t want to be here one minute longer than we need to. I’m going to find out what Remora’s newest crewman has been doing to my ship.”

  Halfway down the hall, he paused and shouted back, “And stay out of my chair!”

  He kept walking without waiting for a response.

  The engine room was chaos. Hackwrench’s melon-sized personal ship lay empty on the main worktable, surrounded by scattered tools, various disassembled devices, and an impressive number of unwashed coffee cups. Twin vats of milky water occupied the bulk of the room, twisting columns of hoses spilling from them to connect unseen equipment in the walls.

  His engineer was nowhere to be seen. “Front and center, Hackwrench, we need to talk.”

  Echoing from behind one of the vats, Hank heard the shonfra’s reply, sounding more like a chipmunk in a tiff than a skilled cogsmith. “And turn on your bloody translator so I can understand you!” Hank added.

  Hackwrench’s bulky mechsuit rounded the curve of the near vat. The rusted and battle-scarred suit moved forward slowly, each step measured and careful. In the open hatch of the chest area, Hackwrench piloted the massive machine, pulling levers and pushing buttons.

  Impatient with the suit’s slowness, the shonfra finally slammed one pair of tiny hands down on his console, bringing the suit to a shuddering stop.

  The little shonfra exited the suit, climbing deftly down the machine using all four of his tiny forearms as well as his prehensile tail to get the best grips. The mechanic looked like a cross between a large mouse and a frog. A velvety coat of short blue fur patterned with red stripes ran from the corners of his eyes down the rounded curve of his belly to his long, tufted tail. Thick scars trailed down his back, marking the area where his dragonfly wings should have been. Instead of flying to the table, as most other shonfra would do, Hackwrench had to hop on his muscular hind legs, each webbed foot slapping against the Miraj’s metal floor.

  When the shonfra reached the table, he leaped up and caught on to the edge with one hand, then swung his tail over the edge to gain the momentum needed to pull himself all the way up. He paused to give Hank an irritated glare before flipping a switch on the inside of his egg-shaped craft, powering on both the ship and its translator module.

  Immediately, the ship began to translate the shonfra’s high-pitched chittering into a flat, mechanical human language. “Yes, you told me to fix the alternator a week ago. You also told me to fix the crack in the oil tank and the hydraulics on the fore-aft mast. While I was doing that, the temperature modulator for the water tanks broke and if you recall, I had less than ten minutes to fix it before the ship exploded.”

  Overcome, the shonfra paused his tirade long enough for his tail to pull a coffee cup forward. Hackwrench peered inside, tiny ears swiveling forward. Apparently dissatisfied with what he saw, he pushed the cup away with a single shove of one muscular hind leg.

  Hackwrench lifted both of his left arms to point at Hank. “Your ship is a mess, McCoy. I do not know what sort of barbarian monkeys with screwdrivers you have allowed to tinker with her insides, but it may as well have been fixed with bubblegum and bailing twine. For each thing I fix, I find ten others screaming for attention.”

  Hank opened his mouth to reply, but Hackwrench did not wait, slapping one hind foot down on the table. “To add insult to injury, you give me tools sized for human hands to fix it with! Some of the places I need to go, a shonfra will barely fit. A shonfra carrying a giant wrench has no hope at all! This is unacceptable!”

  Hank scoffed. “You said you had a mechsuit. Who cares what size the tools are? That’s what the suit is for! As far as problems go, the ones that keep the ship from working should be your priority. If the bubblegum is holding, leave it alone!”

  Hackwrench’s tail slammed into the table, an echo of Hank’s gesture. “My mechsuit was from a mining colony! It was made for carrying heavy things, not for delicate work! You cannot give me inferior tools and an impossible task, then ask me why it takes so long to complete!”

  Hank scowled, brow furrowing. “It was a mistake to even bring you along. The ship was fine before you got on board and started ‘helping.’”

  Hackwrench’s chittering reached a new high note. “You are lucky your ship floated at all before I came on board! Your ballasts were nearly flooded!”

  Hank shut his mouth. That was a valid point. The ballast sensors had been broken, and the shonfra had noticed the leakage almost too late.

  The things Hackwrench had fixed had stayed fixed—it was just that the number of problems appearing had multiplied with everything the shonfra tweaked.

  Hackwrench crossed both sets of tiny arms over his furry chest. “You want things fixed faster, you get me better tools. Until then, you let me do my job! I do not go back on my word. If I promise to fix a thing, I will fix a thing.”

  The Miraj bucked once, then eased to a groaning stop. Overhead, the sound of Bones’s voice called down. “We’ve docked, Captain.”

  “Finally,” Hank muttered, “something’s gone right.”

  He turned to leave, but Hackwrench stopped him. “I have a request,” the mechanical translator voice said.

  “I can’t afford better tools or a new suit—,” Hank started, but the shonfra’s chitter interrupted.

  “No, it is not that.” The shonfra’s crossed arms began to fidget, almost as if he were wringing his hands. Was the indomitable Hackwrench actually nervous? “This is something you should have the authority to do. Your first mate insists upon calling me ‘Montgomery.’ I wish him to stop.”

  Hank lifted an eyebrow. A name. The shonfra was nervous about a name? “Remora calls you Montgomery.”

  The little shonfra scowled. “She is different. It is unprofessional for a fellow crewmember to call me that.”

  “Have you talked to Bones about this?” asked Hank, impatient to get to the storage area.

  “I have. He said that Hackwrench was an ‘illogical’ name as I am neither incompetent nor a tool.”

  “Yeah, that sounds like Bones,” Hank said. “I’ll talk to him, but he only listens to me if it’s important.”

  “It is important to me!” asserted the shonfra.

  “I got it, I got it.” Hank rubbed the back of his neck. Some days, he felt more like a babysitter than a captain.

&n
bsp; Overhead, Bones’s voice sounded again. “Bad news, Hank. You will want to get up here. Someone has been in the storage, and you aren’t going to like it.”

  3. Stolen

  Hank scowled at the open storage container, hands on his hips. Damn it all to the thrice-begotten Roith’delat’en hells. He’d left all four of the Miraj’s ancillary Hawk ships in the expansive storage bay here on Loggerhead Isle. The dust covers he’d left over them had been pulled off and balled up in a corner. Mechanical equipment and hoses spilled from the opened belly hatches on all four Hawks.

  His crew stood at his side, Bones with his floppy hat pulled down low over his face and Hackwrench floating about head-high in his personal craft.

  “Bones, check the perimeter. See if you can find any clues on who did this. Hackwrench, you check the Hawks. I want a list of vital missing parts in ten minutes. You can give me the full list later.”

  Hank turned away to let them work in peace, going back to the Miraj’s deck and surveying the boats docked nearby. Every nearby berth protected a floating speeder so sleek it seemed almost a living thing, pulling against the slender tethers lashing them to the docks.

  One ship stood out among the others. Larger and heavier than the others, it wasn’t built for speed, but it was clearly well-armed. Roc class, unless he missed his guess. Whoever piloted that old bird was from the old school of racing, which made them either canny or suicidal. These days, pilots raced with pure speed, not strategy.

  Half the speeders sported Bricktop’s signature navy blue in their paint designs—those would be his racers. Every ship had a an armed sentinel posted abovedecks to discourage idle visitors.

  For this many racers to be docked, it had to be a race weekend. And if it was a race weekend, how had this dock, so conveniently close to his own storage unit, been available for the Miraj?

  Hank believed in luck, but not in coincidence. He spat over the side of the ship. This reeked of manipulation.

  Someone approached from behind, and Hank whirled to face them, one hand on the alchemist gun under his vest.

  It was Bones. Hank forced himself to relax. Not a good time to get jumpy.

  His first mate stopped on the docks just off ship.

  “How bad is it?” Hank asked.

  “Bad,” answered Bones. “According to Montgomery, the tanks for all four ships were bashed in to get at the starshards.” Hank winced. Without the starshards, the ships couldn’t fly. Without the tanks, they wouldn’t even start up. “There’s more,” added Bones. “The weapons systems have been poached. We’re down to a single grappling hook. He said there were probably other things missing as well, but that was the worst of it.”

  Hank bit back a curse. Why was he paying top dollar for Bricktop’s “security,” exactly? “What else have you got?” he asked, hoping Bones found something.

  “They didn’t get in through the front door,” Bones said. “I found holes cut into the wall of the storage itself.”

  “Holes? How big?”

  “shonfra-sized holes.”

  Hank growled. “Anything else?”

  “Yes,” said Bones. “It would appear that they were not in a hurry. Several items that were too large for the holes are piled up and waiting. It looks as if they were in the process of enlarging the holes to make room. If I had to guess, I’d say they’ve been poaching our gear for well over a week now, though I cannot say exactly how long. The holes lead directly from our storage to our neighbor on the left.”

  Hank smiled. “Why don’t we pay him a visit? We haven’t even met the neighbors yet. Mighty unkind of us to stop in without saying hello, don’t you think?”

  “Is that wise?” asked Bones. “Should we not contact Bricktop first for permission?”

  Hank cocked his head to the side, pursing his lips as though listening intently. Finally, he shook his head. “Odd, it seems the communication channels are down right now. Probably something that shonfra broke.” Hank jumped from the Miraj down to the dock next to Bones. “We’ll call him later. Easier to ask forgiveness than permission.”

  The storage unit to the left showed signs of recent use—no dust buildup on the lock, and scrapes in the grass where the hangar doors had been flung wide not long ago. No sounds came from within, even after Hank knocked politely.

  Hank shrugged at his first mate. “Can’t say I didn’t try. Your turn.”

  Bones didn’t waste time asking what he wanted. That’s one of the things Hank liked so much about him. Curling his gloved hand into a fist, the ticker punched the door once, just above the doorknob. The sound rang through the thin metal of the building as if he’d released a shotgun blast. The lock and chains rattled to the ground and Bones carefully peeled back the door as easily as Hank might’ve peeled a ripe melon.

  The storage hangar was nearly empty. No ship filled the cavernous space, though one had clearly been there recently. A workbench stood against one wall, strewn with tools and signs of a hasty exit.

  The back wall held a small shonfra house. The front door of the shonfra house opened and three curious shonfra hopped out, their heavy restraining anklets banging against the hangar floor. Slaves then. Probably the pit crew for whoever normally used this hangar.

  Hank ignored them and moved to the workbench, picking up the garbage bin next to it and upending it over the table.

  Not much to go on. Banana peels, lunch leftovers, some crumpled bills and betting stubs. Hank frowned and snagged one of the crumpled pieces of paper, smoothing out the wrinkles to read it more closely. One of the bills was for a paint job.

  A black and navy paint job.

  The same paint job used by that cocky speeder who’d zoomed past them on their way in. Hank’s fist curled closed, crumpling the paper. Convenient timing, that. The pilot who had stolen from him leaving just as he arrived. “What are the odds of that?” he muttered, remembering Bricktop’s odd smile.

  Abruptly, he straightened. “Bones! I want you to go back to our storage unit and see if you can help Hackwrench with anything. I’m going to get on the horn to Bricktop and take him up on that dinner invitation. Something tells me he and I have a lot to discuss.”

  “I wish to join you,” said Bones.

  Hank froze. “That’s not a good idea. You know you should stay out of sight as much as possible, and I’d like you here watching Hackwrench.” Hank lifted his hands, at a loss. “It’s . . . well, it’s illogical, Bones.”

  Bones’s eyebeams whirled. “Someone said I should try doing something illogical every day.”

  Someone? Hank swore. “You’re going to start taking Remora’s advice, now?”

  Bones met his eyes. “You, also, have been trying to convince me to be less logical.”

  “I meant for you to keep an open mind! Not to fling yourself into unnecessary danger!”

  “I want to come,” Bones said again, stoic.

  “Fine! Come! Get spotted and endanger the whole crew. See if I care! Be ready to leave in ten minutes.”

  “Yes, Captain,” Bones said.

  Next time Hank saw Remora, he was going to throttle her. Walking the plank would be too kind. Maybe tarring and feathering. Or maybe tarring and feathering and then making her walk the plank.

  4. Deal With the Devil

  “Well now, that certainly is a sad story. Breaks my heart, truly it does.” Bricktop’s cigar bobbed, threatening to spill ash with every word.

  Bricktop’s attention wavered between Hank and Bones, shrewd gray eyes not at all fooled by Bones’s costume. “You must tell me, Hank, what inspired you to take a ticker as your first mate? I’ve never heard of anything like it. The cheaper models would be worse than useless, and I know you can’t afford one of the high-end tickers.”

  Hank smiled, blatantly ignoring the question about Bones and steering the conversation back to his ship. “I’m going to be honest with you, Bricktop. I’m a lot more concerned about my stolen ship parts than I am the state of your heart, broken or no. I paid for storage,
and your storage comes with protection.”

  The race boss picked up a lobster claw and shattered it in one meaty fist, peeling the tender flesh from shards of shell. “You were reported dead. By a very reputable source, I might add.”

  Hank lifted an eyebrow. “You say that as if this were the first time someone’s accused me of not breathing. Our contract says my goods are protected until the money runs out. I still have half a month paid up-front.”

  From the corner of his eye, Hank saw Bones pick up the gold-plated silverware beside his untouched dinner and pocket the spoon. He kicked his first mate’s leg under the table, hoping Bricktop wouldn’t notice the clang. Stealing from a race boss was bad mojo.

  Bones’s eyebeams shifted color, but when Hank looked back, the spoon had reappeared beside his first mate’s plate.

  Bricktop dipped the lobster meat into a butter sauce, either not noticing or pretending not to notice the interplay. “The pilot who stole from you is named Klim, and as you’ve already guessed, he left town just before you arrived. If you want to wait for him to come back, you could certainly talk to him about it then.”

  Right. As if Hank were going to stick around until some unknown future date. Hank pursed his lips and mimed innocent curiosity. “How, I wonder, did he know I was coming in? The fog was so thick I had a hard time even seeing Loggerhead draw near, yet he was gone before I called in for berth. It’s almost as if he had some sort of warning or alarm.” Hank didn’t bother mentioning that such a proximity alarm would be accessible to Bricktop and his staff.

  The race boss removed the cigar with one hand and dropped the lobster into his mouth with the other. He chewed quickly and swallowed before replacing the cigar. Hank hid a grimace and pushed his own meal another fraction of an inch away. Any appetite Hank might have had was gone the moment he smelled that cigar. It reminded him of burning feathers and . . . well, less pleasant things.