by Taven Moore
His fangs, lengthened by Remora’s Sparktouch, began to keen a wicked melody of pain, twin knives thrust from his jaw through his skull.
Remora’s voice spoke up, small and tired. “Jinn. The white night. It’s coming.”
“What do you mean?” he panted, barely dodging another blow from a hissing Notch. Jinn tried to push aside the pain, but whatever was causing it was spreading.
Behind him, something hit the floor with fleshy thud. He spared a glance to find that Remora had fallen. Snow stared at the girl in shock before leaning down to lift the human into her arms.
Pain in his teeth and claws. Remora passing out.
The sparktouched effect must be wearing off. Horrified, he looked down at his hands. No red tendrils of energy twined around the metal-tipped talons, and one of the nails had ripped off completely, leaving a jagged edge.
Jinn retreated from Notch, drawing his arcblade. Clumsy, his fingers fumbled with the wrappings. The dresl, too keen a fighter even when wounded, took this chance to score another blow, this time aimed at Jinn’s neck. A killing blow that Jinn barely raised his shoulder in time to block.
Jinn kicked out, landing a hit on Notch’s bloody stump of an arm. The cat-dresl shrieked and fell back, granting Jinn a precious few seconds.
Finally, the last wrapping fell free and he lifted his blade. A rush of relief rose within him, combatting the pain from his head and fingers. He and this blade had been through many battles together, even the feel of the hilt in his palm was like a balm to his soul.
Notch, even in his fury, paused to give the weapon a wide berth.
Jinn twisted the handle, snarling at Notch. Now, they would see who was the better fighter.
Nothing happened.
Jinn twisted again, and again, and still no energy beam shot between the open jaws of the blade’s C-shaped opening. Horrified, Jinn stared at his inert arcblade. Without the arc, his clan’s most powerful weapon was little more than an awkwardly shaped metal club.
A glint of Notch’s old amusement crept into the dresl’s eye, darkened by a cold hatred that spelled Jinn’s death. Notch’s good hand lifted. “Do not fear. I will not kill you,” he signed. “Not today. Instead, I will cripple and disfigure you, until Shinra’ere speak your name only with pity and dresl spit upon your wasted corpse as you are dragged to whatever prison my master chooses for you. Even your own brother will not recognize you.”
Jinn lifted the silent blade—more weapon than he would have otherwise—and felt, for the first time, a flicker of fear that he would not succeed.
Remora lay unconscious, Snow was no warrior, he was nearly unarmed, and Notch was one of the fastest fighters he had ever faced.
Weakness filled his limbs, a growing cold, as if light itself were seeping from his skin.
Behind him, the sound of swiftly approaching boots on metal echoed from the corridor.
Notch pushed his whiskers forward, lowering into a fighting stance. His good fingers signed. “It seems I will have to hurry if I wish to play with you before the others arrive and spoil my fun.”
I cannot let it end like this.
Notch attacked, his yellow eyes burning and claws outstretched. Jinn lifted the blade to block the incoming threat, wondering how much longer he could hold out. How long it would matter, if the approaching reinforcements arrived. Escape pods within sight, and they might yet fail.
The ship rocked from a heavy blow, sending the dresl off course. Jinn fell back, toward Snow and Remora. He had time only to regain his balance before that growing feeling of numbness slithered, quick as lightning, from his feet to his skull. For a moment, it occurred to him that the feeling of light seeping from him might mean he was finally dying. He had dared feed from a Seraph, and being sparktouched had killed him.
His limbs numbed and useless, he crashed to the floor.
He had failed everyone. His brother, Snow, Remora, his own family.
A second later, Notch fell as well, face frozen in a hateful scowl, only a hand span away.
Silence, pure and unbroken, filled his ears. It took him a moment to realize that it was true silence—the constant, background hum of the Swan-class airship’s engines had quieted.
He was not dead.
No, it was worse than that.
The ship was falling.
The realization hit him just as his vision faded to white.
5. Gefion Injectors
“Have we reached radio contact yet?” Bones’s voice rattled through the Miraj’s speaker system.
“No,” Hank McCoy answered, his voice clipped and flat, not lifting his gaze from the lit control panel. He shifted the goggles around his neck and tapped his fingernails in an impatient tattoo across the pilot’s table.
“By my calculations, we should have achieved radio contact—”
“Your calculations didn’t take into account the storm we had to fly around, or the shift in the northern air current. I told you before—I’ll notify you when we reach contact.”
“I sense that the engines are not running at full capacity. If you would—”
“We’re lopsided as all Roith’delat’en hells with one of our Thrusthawks sent ahead, and Hackwrench isn’t here to fix the ship if I blow something. We only just picked up the Hawks and Hackwrench has been working triple shifts trying to get them back on line. She’s my ship, Bones. She’s doing what she needs to do.”
Hank shifted the control levers, adjusting to a slight shift in prevailing winds. The Miraj gave a metallic shudder as the long arms reaching from the HH-class ship’s main Nest shifted, changing the angle of the masts to catch more wind in the patched sails.
“What I need from you,” Hank scowled at the speaking tube, “is silence. Check your gear again if you’re so bored.”
His first mate sounded offended. “My gear is more than sufficient, as are my preparations. I know my task in this. I question only whether—”
“Bones,” Hank interrupted, “what gives? We’ve done this a dozen times, easy. This time we’ve even got Hackwrench ahead to slow them down. What’s got your feathers ruffled? You actually sound worried.”
The thought made Hank pause. Worried? Bones was a ticker—all cogsmithing and machinery. He’d seen his first mate stare down the leader of a black-market racing operation without so much as a twitch, while stealing the man’s prize possession. He didn’t think his Bones was capable of feeling worried.
“I am not worried,” Bones replied crossly. “It is only that I have a concern for the safety of Miss Price.”
“Ah,” said Hank, adjusting the sails once more before falling quiet, a small smile on his face. Miss Price. Hank wasn’t sure what was going on between those two, but anything that made Bones act more human was a good thing in his book. Some days, it was almost enough to balance out the girl’s ridiculous notions and domineering attitude.
Of course, they were only in this mess because she’d tried to bake muffins and ended up getting kidnapped to be sold on the slave market, thus needing rescue. He tried not to wonder whether the entirety of his employment to that little redhead would be this chaotic.
“‘Ah’? Do not ‘Ah’ me! What does that even mean? I object
to—”
Static hissed across the speaking tube, interrupting whatever un-calm, un-rational, and un-Bones response his first mate had been about to launch into. Staccato bursts of chittering, followed by a monotone mechanical translation came from the tube. “Thrusthawk One calling the Nest. Do you copy?”
“Thrusthawk One, this is the Nest. I read you loud and clear. Tell me you’ve got good news.”
More chittering. “I’ve caught the Swan’s attention, Captain. She nicked me once, but Mosley was able to repair the damage without any trouble. Whoever she’s got behind that captain seat knows what he’s about, so be careful coming in. You won’t get more than one shot without this turning into a full-on dogfight.”
Hank grinned. Swan-class meant their quarry was a luxur
y liner—not a true slaver ship. Her defenses would be tight, but her offenses would be negligible. Of course, even a negligible offense could turn the tide if the captain was good enough. Hank laced his fingers, popping the joints. This could be fun. “As long as your Gefion injector modification works, one shot is all we need.”
Hackwrench chittered, the mechanical translation leeching the undoubtedly wry inflection of his tone. “No pressure, eh? Why wouldn’t the device work, when I was given all of one day to develop it, based solely on seeing a similar device used one time, during a dangerous, high-speed race?”
Hank bit back his response. The viewscreen blipped once, two dots appearing on the very edge of the screen. One dot was tiny, almost just a fleck. That would be Hackwrench and Mosley in the Thrusthawk. The other dot was so large, it appeared as an oblong splotch. That would be the Swan.
Luxury class ships meant money in the owner’s pockets, without question, but he didn’t have the crew necessary to pull off a robbery, even if he did have the stomach for hostage situations. Swans were a bad bet for a pirate.
Too bad it wasn’t a Pelican-class hauling a load of gold or starshards. Swans were big enough that they’d be lucky to find which part of the ship Remora was on, let alone make a profit from the encounter.
Sharp chatter. “She’s seen you, Nest, and she’s taking flight. Advise.”
“Get back here and form up. You don’t have the weapons to engage and we need the power.”
“Aye, Captain.”
Hank pushed the engines a bit more, not liking the high-pitched whine accompanying the move. “Steady, girl, steady,” he muttered. “Don’t quit on me now. We’ve got an irritating redhead and a Shinra’ere bodyguard to save. I know you don’t like either one of them very much, but they’re paying the bills right now, so we can’t afford to let them die.”
Almost reluctantly, the whine settled. It was still there, just not quite as pronounced. He patted the console before barking into the speaking tube. “Bones, get ready, we’re in pursuit.”
“Aye, Captain,” the ticker replied. The viewport showed nothing but white cloud, then with a suddenness that always surprised him no matter how often he saw it, the clouds broke and he saw their prey. The sleek ship, easily four times as large as the Miraj’s Nest, turned tail and drifted away. Tall, elegant sails billowed, then caught and expanded with a sharp snap as the wind filled them. Behind and above the main ship, a pair of thrusters with massive propellers, aided by the wind power, pushed the craft forward.
The Miraj sounded a mighty clang that echoed through the entire ship. A moment later, Hackwrench’s chittering filled the cabin. “Thrusthawk One in formation, captain.”
Immediately, Hank flipped the cover from a nearby control lever, pressing the button beneath it to engage the systems and reconnect the smaller hawk ship to the main Nest. The process sent a few more clangs echoing throughout the ship. A practiced twist of a knob and press of a lever cranked the masts into full formation. All four Hawks were engaged, one at the end of each mast. The battered sails were now an afterthought—with two powerful Thrusthawks joining the Nest’s own engine, supplemented by the weaker engines of the two Sparhawks, they weren’t at the mercy of the wind to pick up speed.
Hank grinned as he returned his hands to the main control levers, punching them forward. In full formation, he could make the Harris Hawk-class Miraj dance. The Swan didn’t stand a chance.
That was as clean an airdocking as Hank had ever seen. The little shonfra may look like the weird offspring of a dragonfly, a frog, and a mouse, but there was no mistaking his piloting skills. He’d docked the Thrusthawk, not only on his first attempt, but while at speed. Hank grunted, “Get your tail to the control room on the double, Hackwrench. If something goes wrong, I expect you to fix it.”
High-pitched chittering sounded. “Why yes, that was an impressive docking, thank you for noticing, Captain.”
“Less chatter on the lines,” Hank barked, though he was grinning. Hackwrench was good, but he wasn’t perfect. Hank would save any praise until the mission was over. If those Gefion injectors didn’t work—well, they’d better work. Impressive docking or no, he’d toss the ex-Swamper out on his tail if he couldn’t do his primary job.
Just as the Miraj nosed into position behind the larger vessel, the Swan’s pilot veered to port, slicing into a thick bank of white clouds and disappearing not only from eye-view, but from the viewscreen as well.
No idiot, that pilot.
Unfortunately for whoever-it-was, the Miraj was no simple pirate boat—she was a Harris Hawk. Hank drew back the control sticks and slowed the Miraj, circling just outside the cloud. Darting in after an enemy, even one moving at speed, there was always a chance that you’d smash into her stern. Successful pirates did not pilot their ships into the backsides of their prey.
Hank muttered to the other ship, though he knew he couldn’t be heard. “Sorry to ruin your fun, darlin’, but you’ve got something that belongs to me.” He flicked the cover off a nearby switch and thumbed the lever. A cogsmith device the size of a chicken egg launched from the starboard Sparhawk, and was immediately enveloped by the puffy cloud.
Hank watched his viewscreen. “Come on, come on . . . ” A tiny blip, blinking red, lit up. “There you are. You still owe me a dance.” The cogsmithed stickybomb had done its job, smashing into the Swan’s hull and affixing a tiny locator device. It didn’t matter where the Swan went, now. Hank could find her until they managed to scrape the hull clean.
The blinking light wasn’t moving. Hank tapped the screen, scowling. The speed the Swan had been going, there’s no way they’d have come full stop and no reason for them to have done so, either.
If they were moving, but the blip wasn’t, then . . . Hank swore. Then the Swan was going up or down, one of the two. Whoever was piloting that bird was doing one hell of a job.
Hank hesitated only a moment before sending the Miraj in a sharp descent. The Swan had neither balloons nor strong thrusters—she’d ascend slowly, and probably at an angle. Up would be a better tactical position, but Hank was betting the Swan didn’t have much of a choice.
They broke through the cloudbank and Hank scanned the horizon in the direction of that little red dot. Nothing. He eased the Miraj back to idle, coaxing her engines to a quiet purr. Holding his breath, he listened, hoping for any sight or sound that would tell him he’d chosen correctly.
Just before he gave up entirely, the sleek nose of the Swan split the cloudbank in front of the Miraj. Streamers of white cotton clung to the Swan’s wings, shredded into fine confetti by broad propellers.
She was a beautiful sight, hull glittering with ice crystals as she broke into the sunlight. Almost seemed a shame to bring her down.
Hank grinned and flicked on the Farnsworth external communicator. “Hello there and good morning. It’s a beautiful day for a business transaction, wouldn’t you say? This is the dread pirate ship Miraj, calling the Swan ship Hyperion. Over.”
The small, rounded viewscreen hissed and spat before clearing to show the visage of a fierce-looking man with graying temples and an eyepatch. “This is Captain Mack Craft, calling the whoreson of a dead man who thinks to mess with my ship. We’ve no gold aboard, jackal. Leave or I will introduce you to the color of your spleen.”
Hank smiled. “Well, now, that don’t seem neighborly at all. Lucky for me, it’s not gold I’m after. I have it on authority that you’re carting off a redhead with a big mouth. If you’ve got her, then you’ve also got an Outcast Shinra’ere somewhere on board. Knowing what I know of those two, I’d guess you might be willing to make a deal just to get them out of your hair. Hand them over peaceable-like, and we’ll have no trouble.”
“If I had anyone matching those descriptions aboard, they would be property of the Bespin Skycity Seraph,” retorted the one-eyed man. “You are once again warned to leave. Be advised that I never give a third warning.”
“Advisement noted, Captain Cr
aft. Pirate out.” Hank flipped the switch, killing the feed to the Farnsworth.
Well, that was certainly interesting. Mack Craft. He’d heard of one Mack “the Knife” Craft—a pirate from the generation before Hank’s own. Remorseless and cunning, said all the stories, and he’d need to be all that and more to survive to old age as a pirate. What he was doing piloting a luxury-class Swan freighter and calling upon the name of a Seraph, Hank didn’t know.
Ah, well. He’d warned the Swan, too. He did like to give his quarry a chance to avoid a fight. Not that they ever took him up on the offer. Hank punched the engines, swinging the Miraj into a bucket curve just off the Swan’s backside.
He flipped the cover off a switch and flicked it on. Grappling hooks shot from each of the Sparhawks, the sharp metal talons biting into the Swan’s metal underbelly.
Another switch and a second set of hooks shot forward, digging into the Swan. He’d need the extra control if Hackwrench’s Gefion injectors worked.
His hand hovered over the new button on his console, caressing it with his thumb. If this didn’t work and that really was Mack “the Knife” then they were in a lot of trouble.
Hells, how was that any different from the way they normally were?
He pressed the button.
The Miraj gave an awful shriek. Raw, unfiltered spark spat from the Sparhawks to dance in angry white ribbons along the metal cabling strung between the two ships. Hackwrench had tried to explain to him how the Gefion injectors worked and Hank had brushed him off. All he needed to know is what it did.
It incapacitated ships, sending a surge to overload all spark aboard the enemy vessel.
The spark sank into the Swan’s belly, gulped as if the Swan were sucking it up through a straw.
Hank knew the instant the spark hit the Swan’s cogsmithing tanks. White light burst from the ship’s underbelly, a brilliant corona of brightness.
