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

by Taven Moore

  “Whatever.” Hank scowled. “How good are you with those weapons?”

  “Pretty good, I gue—”

  “I don’t need pretty good, I need spectacular.”

  The man’s eyes widened and he straightened his shoulders. “I’m better than spectacular, sir. I’m the best.”

  “Ten,” said Remora, voice tight.

  “You man the shadows in the front door. Don’t let anyone see you and you follow my lead, you hear me? No heroics, you listen for my cues.”

  Percy nodded, hefting the giant gun back into view.

  Hank slid the shonfra translator off his wrist and tossed it to Remora.

  “Hackwrench, I need you and Remora to build me something amazing. Something that’ll blind, deafen, or otherwise incapacitate everyone out the front door for long enough that we can get away. I don’t care what it is, but it needs to be big.”

  “But Hank, there’s no time—” Remora started, and Hank snapped.

  “I am going to buy us time!” he shouted.

  He took a deep breath.

  “Five,” she said in a very small voice.

  He began to walk to the front door, checking to make sure his costume was still on straight. “Mosley, you’re with me. I need you airborne and in the shadows. Don’t let any of them see or hear you. Follow my cues.”

  He paused, just at the door, heart pounding. “You build that device. I mean it. It’s cold out there. I don’t wanna get left.”

  “Time’s up, princess!” Mack’s voice called out, just as Hank opened the door and stepped outside.

  16. A Friendly Altercation

  Hank released a slow breath and crossed the threshold. Counting down from five, he took one step for each number.

  Five. He tightened his hand, feeling the pull of his gloves strain against his fingers, the leather softening to curve with the motion.

  Four. He ran his fingers across the array of vials on his belt, remembering the progression of bright-colored liquid inside. Red, then yellow, then green, then black.

  Three. The sounds of his outfit no longer seemed out of place. The faint jangle of buckles, the soft creak of leather, the rushing whisper of his wide-legged cloth pants. He felt clothed instead of costumed. At home.

  Two. His muscles relaxed, the line of his shoulders softening and his stride lengthening even as his gait slowed into something more casual and unconcerned.

  One. He released the last bit of used air, closed his eyes, and stopped moving.

  He inhaled, breathing in the scents of the street: the leather of his face mask, acrid oil smoke, the tang of metal, and the tiniest, most delicate ribbon of fear.

  A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Paladin Gerard opened Hank McCoy’s eyes and surveyed the men blocking the narrow walkway in front of the store.

  Three men formed a rough semicircle on the pathway, but Gerard noticed one more poorly hidden on the rooftops nearby. Four total, all human. He wondered how many had been stationed at the back door, then put the thought from his mind. That was the Shinra’ere’s problem, not his.

  As his gaze raked across the three men lining the street, two of them took an involuntary step backward and fear-scent blossomed. Gerard reined in the desire to frighten them even more. They were not his target. They were not the reason he stood here now, between danger and the red-haired girl.

  The third man did not step away, so Gerard gave him a closer inspection. He was older, salt streaking the hair just over his ears and a mixture of age and scars deeply folding his face. One eye socket was hidden by an eye patch, and the man held himself like ex-military.

  This would be the leader, then, and the only one likely to cause any trouble.

  Gerard stood unmoving and allowed the scent of fear to grow alongside the silence of the street. The seconds ticked off in his mind, each one buying precious time for Remora and Hackwrench.

  He smiled a little. Buying time was one thing, but in a standoff, the first man to speak had a disadvantage. Impatience was as good as showing your hand in a poker game.

  Finally, the leader seemed to notice the backwards-inching movement of his men. “Stand your ground or I’ll feed you to the Shinra, maggots.”

  Immediately, the men snapped to attention, weapons raised. The one on the left was shaking badly enough that Gerard wondered if he might accidentally pull the trigger.

  The leader turned to him. “I’m Captain Mack Craft. My men and I have no standing conflict with any of the Ardelan Paladins.”

  Gerard turned his head to the side, contemplating Mack’s words. After a long moment, he replied, voice low and gravelly. “Nor I with you.”

  Mack paused. “Good,” he said. “Now if you’ll just stand aside, we have business to attend in that shop.”

  He moved as if to walk forward, but Gerard did not give way. Instead, his fingers traced the line of vials on his belt, selecting the red one and working it free from the leather loop that bound it.

  “It would be my preference,” he said slowly, savoring every word as he lifted the vial, “to continue having no standing conflict with Captain Mack Craft and his men.”

  The older man’s lips twisted. “Then you won’t mind letting us pass.”

  “As it happens,” Gerard said, “while I have no standing conflict with you or your men, I have . . . business to attend with the people inside that building.”

  While Mack considered what he’d said, Gerard flicked open a leather catch on the side of his mask, exposing a needle the other men probably could not see. He slid the vial onto the spot, letting the needle pierce the soft wax stoppering the vial’s neck. The mask’s mechanism clicked as he twisted the vial clockwise, then hissed softly as it drained the red liquid from the vial.

  He couldn’t see the effect himself, but he’d tested it often enough to know how it looked. The red liquid suffused the mask, spilling into the hollow channels lining the edges of the leather before flashing into a brilliant, glowing scarlet.

  The two twitchy fellows waving their peacemakers around gasped and took an extra step back. Beneath his mask and his persona, Hank smiled. The cogsmithing to add the effect had been cheap and simple. The effect it had on the weak willed was well worth the extra doubloon he’d tipped the ’smith. Smoke and mirrors, but it had as much effect as lightning on the weak-minded.

  He tried to avoid actual Paladin craft unless he needed to. Hank still held out hope that this might not end with blood. Gerard didn’t agree, but that was fine. Gerard was patient.

  Sadly, Mack Craft did not appear to be weak-minded.

  “I’m afraid we find ourselves at an impasse,” the scarred captain replied, hefting his weapon, “seeing as I don’t intend to give up the girl inside for no man—be he Paladin or not.”

  Gerard hadn’t really expected the easy way to work.

  “In the interest of our continuing friendship,” Gerard rasped, hoping that Percy kid and the black shonfra were listening, “I would like to take this moment to draw your attention to the lamp post there, just below the building where the poorly hidden man who is still our mutual friend is stationed on the roof.”

  He paused, enjoying the way Captain Craft’s lips tightened at the mention of the “hidden” man on the rooftop.

  “In just a moment, I will point at that lamp post, and then it will no longer be there. The lamp post is not my friend. I would recommend all who wish to remain my friend find somewhere to be that is away from that lamp post.”

  “Can he do that?” whispered one of the men. “I heard a lot of stories, but I ain’t never heard they can just point their fingers and—”

  “Shut yer gob,” snarled Mack, and the man fell silent.

  Gerard continued, still standing calmly without drawing any weapons. “Shortly thereafter, I shall be wearing your hat, friend Captain. As we are such grand friends, I feel certain you shall appreciate this display of . . . camaraderie.”

  “A bluff,” said Mack, as the two men beside him began t
o fidget. “Stand yer ground, or I’ll kill you myself.” Despite his show of confidence, Mack lifted a hand to adjust the tri-cornered hat on his head, the grand white ostrich plume from its band bobbing slightly.

  Theatrically, Hank lifted a leather-gloved hand, turning it in the light so that the men could see he was unarmed. Deliberately, he curled his fingers into a two-fingered “gun” configuration, then aimed it at the lamp.

  A bead of sweat dripped down his cheek, landing on the glowing red outline of his face mask.

  He “shot” the finger gun at the lamp.

  It exploded immediately in a flaming plume of white-hot energy, easily five times the size he thought it would be. Just what kind of weapon did that Percy have, anyway? Granted, the oil lamps would have been fully-stocked, but even with the additional combustible, a normal alchemist gun shouldn’t have done that.

  Thankfully, all of the other men, Mack included, cringed away before turning to gape at the still-burning site of the explosion, so they missed the surprise that Gerard shouldn’t have displayed.

  A shadow dipped low, black against the black of the night, but edges drawn clean from the flame’s light. Mack’s hat lifted from his head and sailed to Gerard’s head, settling cleanly around his leather skullcap without his needing to adjust it.

  Mack and his men turned back just in time to see that Gerard had not moved from his previous position.

  Unable to resist the urge, he brought the extended fingers to his lips and blew across the tips, as if dispersing a puff of smoke.

  “Now, gentlemen,” he said, lowering his hand and nodding with his new hat, “can’t we all just be friends?”

  One of the men on the ground, the twitchier of the two, turned and ran, dropping his gun.

  Without hesitation, Mack drew his sidearm and sent a trio of swift, tiny bubbles zooming through the air after the man. The man cried out as the first bubble connected with his back and splatted. The second bubble hit him in the head, and this time he didn’t cry out. Instead, he folded and connected with the pavement hard enough to crack a skull.

  Mack turned back, alchemist gun pointed at Gerard.

  “I’d like my hat back,” he said.

  And I, thought Hank, would like very much for Remora to hurry.

  17. Emergency Frittatas

  Silence filled the tiny shop as Hank strolled out the front door to meet the armed and dangerous foes at their doorstep. Everyone in the room held their breath, waiting for . . . something.

  Remora realized that something the room seemed to be waiting for was the sound of an alchemist gun firing off a round of explosive bubbles, and she realized she didn’t particularly want to wait for that.

  This was Hank’s plan. Mad or no, it was their only plan, but she resigned herself to the decision that if the plan failed, it would most certainly not be because of her!

  Remora looked down at the thing Hank had tossed her before he’d left the room and recognized it immediately as the shonfra translation device she and Hackwrench had been working on during the trip to Bespin.

  She buckled it to her wrist and spun the face clockwise, then pressed the button on the side. Clearing her throat, she said in what she hoped was a smart and no-nonsense tone, “Percy! What are you doing standing there? Go to the door, as Hank requested. Jinn, I expect a report from the back door as soon as you have it.”

  Nobody moved, so she slammed the umbrella’s brass tip down against the floor. “Now!” she shouted, and everyone began to scramble.

  Hackwrench slapped one webbed foot down on the counter, chittering. Her wrist device translated. “This is madness. We’re in a pawn shop, not a cogsmith supply store! What are we supposed to do, throw a handful of stolen pocket watches at them?”

  “We don’t have time for negative thinking,” Remora reminded him as she crossed the room to stand at his side. “Look around. Tell me what you can make.”

  Remora did the same. The shop’s shelves were full. Pocket watches, an array of cheap costume jewelry behind glass, candlesticks and silverware, a few child’s toys, some hats and canes and umbrellas, a mustache curling iron and a few enameled snuffboxes.

  “Nothing!” cried Hackwrench. “Nothing at all! It’s junk! Garbage!”

  Remora scowled at him. “Come now, Montgomery. I find it difficult to believe that a member of the Shonfra Rebellion would be defeated so easily! How good are you with rockets?” she asked.

  Hackwrench scowled at her. “If it weren’t for me, the Miraj would still be floating in the ocean instead of docked at a flying city. It doesn’t matter, because—”

  Remora cut him off. “Uncle? Do be a dear and bring me all of those cogsmithed toys over there, would you?”

  The shonfra thumped his tail against the counter. “Remora, you can’t possibly think we can cobble something—”

  “I most certainly do think we can save Hank,” Remora said, failing ever-so-slightly to keep her voice even.

  Hackwrench took a step back, then cleared his throat. “Of course we can,” he said.

  Remora’s uncle dropped a handful of toys on the counter and Hackwrench hopped over to investigate them. “Nope,” he said, tail wrapping around a mechanized stuffed bear and tossing it to the side. “Not this one.” A hind leg pushed a toy train over the edge. “Definitely not this one.” A toy gun tumbled after the train, its reservoir cracking as it hit the floor and a wash of sticky toy bubbles spilling over the train and making the room smell of watermelon.

  “Aha, these look promising.”

  Remora’s heart skipped. “What have you found?”

  Hackwrench pushed a hoverboard, a kite, and a remote-controlled coach out of the pile. “I could probably make something that seemed really big and impressive that would shoot out there and explode. If we loaded the coach up with some of those weapons over there,” he said, pointing to a locked case filled with an alarming array of knives and colorful alchemist gun reservoirs, “we could probably disable enough of them to sneak out—”

  Aghast, Remora interrupted. “Weapons? Oh, no! We can’t hurt them, Montgomery!”

  The shonfra stopped. “Remora, it’s not as if this is a tickling competition, now is it? Those lads are out there to hurt us!”

  Stubborn, Remora shook her head. “We shall not be brought down to their level, dear Montgomery. We are not rebels, nor are we barbarians.”

  From the front window, Percy spoke up. “With all due respect, Cousin, they’re packing some heat out there. I don’t think you’re going to—”

  “Mind your post, Percy,” Remora said sternly.

  “Yes’m.” He gulped and shifted his attention back outside.

  “Remora, we don’t have time for this. We need to use what we have, and what we have is enough weaponry to arm a small gang war.” To his credit, Hackwrench looked more apologetic than irritated, but Remora crossed her arms.

  “No hurting people,” she stated, hoping that the shaking in her hands wasn’t obvious. “Besides, we have no way to ensure that Hank does not also get injured.” She didn’t want to say so aloud, but the incident aboard the Swan, where Jinn had cut off that horrible dresl’s hand had affected her more than she cared admit. More than once, she had terrible nightmares of a cat with a missing paw, alternately pitiful and full of rage.

  That cat had deserved a great many terrible things, but the reality of revenge was not nearly as satisfying as the books made it out to be. Instead of wrathful and just, she simply felt sick every time she thought of Notch.

  “Well then, what do you propose?” Hackwrench chittered, breaking into her thoughts.

  Remora bit her lip, glancing around the room. Her eye fell on one of the enameled snuffboxes. She moved over to pick it up, examining the catch. It was quite a fancy snuffbox, with a mechanized clasp. She flicked the switch, then watched as the tiny gears on the face of the box spun and whirled, causing the box to emit a tinny, music-box version of “Lux Aeterna.” At the end of the first stanza, the lid of the mus
ic box flipped open to reveal a handful of snuff still in the box.

  “Remora?” Hackwrench sounded strained.

  “Can you get this box out there to them within one minute?” she asked.

  “That?” Hackwrench’s brow furrowed. “What about big and impressive?” he asked, gesturing to the mound of toys behind him. “How are we going to save Hank with a snuffbox?”

  Remora smiled triumphantly. “I never leave home without my spice kit,” she announced.

  Hackwrench gaped at her. “Your . . . spice kit?”

  Remora nodded, bringing the snuffbox back to the counter and laying it next to Hackwrench before sifting through her pockets for her spice kit.

  “I have four different kinds of peppers: black, cayenne, bonnets, and some pure capsaicin oil.”

  Hackwrench blinked at her, alarmed, and she scowled crossly at him. “I’ll never get any better at cooking if I don’t practice, Montgomery. One of the ladies in the market told me that she can fix almost any dish gone sour by adding a bit of heat to it, so I bought her very best peppers. Besides, it could be quite handy to keep a spice kit around. One never knows when one might be in the market and wish to make a frittata or a muffin or something.”

  Hackwrench looked as though he might say something, then abruptly decided not to. “Right. I can use one of the rockets off this remote-controlled coach. That ought to be enough to get that snuffbox airborne, but I don’t know how you’re going to turn it into a harmless weapon.”

  Remora reached down and picked up the discarded teddy bear, ripping open its back seam. She reached in a pulled out a few tiny springs. “You leave that to me,” she said, grinning.

  18. Tobacco and Pain

  “I’d like my hat back,” the one-eyed pirate captain repeated, voice roughened with danger.

  Hank lifted a hand to the tri-corner hat now on his head, touching the felted brim with two fingers. He was losing control of the situation, and he was out of ideas. Another show of force might be enough to set the itchy trigger fingers of those men to wiggling. He couldn’t risk Mosley for another shadowed trick, not with quick-eyed Mack Craft alert and angry.