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

by Taven Moore

  Vakaano’s jaw clenched, a muscle in his cheek jumping. He said nothing.

  “Go ahead. Look at her,” Vakaena purred.

  When Vakaano did not move, the Dame stood, wings snapping open. The spark that held her wings apart from her body hummed, lifting the wings up and away from her body as the span of her fully-extended feathers almost brushed the walls of the room. Vakaena slammed her open palm down on the table and repeated her phrase, shouting this time. “LOOK AT HER!”

  Vakaano refused, and Remora’s heart plummeted. “A head start,” he said.

  The sparks of energy racing through Vakaena’s wings intensified, though she folded them and regained her seat. “Tell me why,” she said, voice low and dangerous.

  Vakaano’s lips tightened and his hands formed fists, but he said nothing.

  “Tell me now or I swear by the Machine that I will kill her myself and have her wings mounted in our bedchamber.”

  For a moment, rage blossomed in his eyes and Remora thought for sure he would roar, or shout, or bang something.

  Instead, he took a deep, shuddering breath, and his wings fell.

  “She is my daughter.”

  32. The Bargain

  The comforting weight of Bones’s source filled the inner pocket of Hank’s vest, pressing just under his heart.

  The white fury of Gerard subsided without leaving, ocean waves lapping at the dry beaches of his soul.

  He had the source, yes. Jinn’s arrival had supplied more than enough distraction to make the swap. Not even the sharp-eyed Seraph woman noticed when he swapped the vials. It might have been his imagination, but the real source felt warm to his touch.

  Please, don’t let it be only his imagination.

  I’ve got you, Bones. We just gotta get to Ardel, then you’ll be good as . . . well, good as you were before. Hang in there, little buddy.

  “She is my daughter,” said the male Seraph, and Gerard subsided even more, leaving Hank feeling exposed and confused.

  Just what in the . . . what had he just said?

  Dame Vakaena smiled. “There. That wasn’t so hard, now, was it?”

  His hand moved to the hilt of his hammer. Something about that lady’s smile made him want to check for spiders on his back.

  “Give them a head start, Vakaena. Four hours, that’s all I ask.”

  “Tell me, dearest husband, why I should not crush the proof of your infidelity now, while she is within my grasp. Tell me why I should show her an ounce of sympathy, or pity, when just looking at her makes me want to rake your eyes from her skull.”

  Wait, were they talking about Remora? He looked from girl to Seraph, confused. The Seraph’s eyes were pupil-less, just like Dame Vakaena’s, but there was something . . . those gold flecks he remembered from her eyes swirled in Vakaano’s brown eyes as well.

  Remora was half Seraph?

  Vakaano didn’t seem too happy about it, at any rate. The Seraph clenched his jaw. “I will owe you a favor. Four hours, that’s all I ask.”

  Vakaena’s wings twitched, as if she’d kept them from flaring. “You? You will do as I asked you two decades ago and begin your bid for leading the Seraph here, and you will do everything I say to ensure that we are successful.”

  Rebellion spilled into Vakaano’s eyes and his wings spread behind him, metallic feathers whispering against each other at the movement.. “You ask too much! If we press forward, we stand to lose everything! Your power-seeking will lead us to ruin!”

  Vakaena’s eyes sparked. “No, husband, we will gain everything. We stagnate here. You will do as I say, and do not speak to me of the weight of my bargaining chips before you remember just what it is you bid on.”

  One of her wings opened to gesture at Remora, who stared at both of them with a lost, wide-eyed look that he did not like. She’d been awfully quiet, and that was very much not like the Remora Windgates Price he knew.

  “Fine. Four hours. Your word, Vakaena.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Do not seek to tell me what to do, Vakaano. I am not finished. You will do this AND you will owe me an unspecified favor at a later date.” Before Vakaano could object, she lifted a finger. “One favor for letting the girl go, and another favor so that I forgive you the infidelity that led to her birth. It’s one thing for Phonziel to plant his seed throughout Guadosalam, but you must be above such petty behaviors if you are to lead them all.”

  Anger still burned in Vakaano’s eyes, but he spread both hands and wings in a gesture of defeat. “You have me backed against a wall, and you know it. Fine, fine. Let us be done with this mess. Four hours.”

  “They shall have one hour.”

  “One!” Hank blurted. All eyes turned to him, and he mentally kicked himself. He was trying not to be noticed. A very fragile lump under his vest needed protection.

  Still, in for a penny, in for a doubloon. “One hour will barely get us to the ship. That’s not a head start, that’s a death trap.”

  Vakaena’s eyes narrowed. “You seem a very clever sort, Captain McCoy. I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

  They were dead. Dead, dead, dead. They’d never make it in time, and even if they did, the Miraj needed time to fire up and reach maximum speed.

  He sighed. One hour. What could he do in one hour? If they could flag down a cab, they’d make it to the ship in half an hour, assuming Remora didn’t stop to pick up another stray. Where the hell was Hackwrench? If they were very, very lucky, the shonfra would have the engines in good condition and they could leave immediately. They’d get maybe ten minutes on any pursuit. That might be enough. They just had to make it to Ardelan airspace, and anyone following them would be forced away. Ardel maintained its own law. No Seraph (or agents of the Seraph) allowed.

  Then again, that security was Paladin, and he wasn’t entirely sure they’d let him back in after what happened the last time.

  Remora finally spoke.

  “You are not my father,” she said, voice clear and unmistakable in the silence.

  Hank was pretty sure it was too late to just kill her and be done with it.

  33. Loyalty

  Stupid, stupid, stupid. Worse than a human.

  Hackwrench had his heart’s desire at the tip of his tail and he’d abandoned his own quest in favor of Remora’s.

  His old commanders would never understand. “Humans put themselves first, always,” they’d say. “They don’t need your help. Put the shonfra first, and all else will follow.”

  They weren’t wrong. Every human he’d ever met displayed a shocking amount of self-interest. It had never even occurred to any of them that there might be another way. Shonfra hives would collapse under that much selfishness. Loyalty to family, that was the shonfra strength.

  With the death of his hive, he’d found new family in the Swampers, only to be rejected by them when he could no longer pull his own weight.

  This adventure with Remora and Hank and the rest of the crew? Nothing but a stepping stone to his next family, the one he would build from the ground up. The one he needed his Queen for.

  Yet here he was, sneaking away from an unconscious deliveryman, tail wrapped around a purple-jeweled tiara while he snuck his way back into the main room.

  In the end, it hadn’t been Remora’s sorrow that had moved him.

  It had been the thought of McCoy. McCoy wouldn’t mourn him, wouldn’t miss him. No, oh no. The captain hadn’t wanted him along on the trip from the beginning. The look on his face would be satisfaction at being proven right, no doubt.

  And that? That, Hackwrench wouldn’t be able to bear. He’d told McCoy that when he gave his loyalty, he meant it. Loyalty meant more to a shonfra than it could ever mean to a human.

  Every tail-length he put between himself and the place he should have been able to take his Queen burned like acid, though.

  He spotted Pansy exiting from a nearby door and chanced calling out to Petra, hoping that the chattering would be drowned to human ears in the crush of sound f
rom people moving auction items around.

  Petra replied. Hackwrench’s heart leaped, and he darted along the wall, just inside the heavy curtains, to stop at a doorway in her path.

  Just as Pansy reached the door, Petra began shrieking, screaming at the top of his lungs. Pansy reached up to console him, “accidentally” dropping her purse as she did so.

  While everyone’s attention was drawn upward, Hackwrench stuffed the tiara into the purse.

  Petra’s shrieks died off as quickly as they’d begun, and Pansy leaned down to pick up her purse and place Hackwrench on her empty shoulder.

  “You’ll be hearing from my people!” she called haughtily over her shoulder as she stepped through the doorway.

  Hackwrench heard a gruff, “Whatever, lady!” then they were out.

  No guards stopped them.

  Petra preened over his performance, and Hackwrench assured the other shonfra that he’d done precisely right, though the other shonfra’s pidgin-speak grated against his soul. It was precisely shonfra like Petra that Hackwrench wanted to save. Guilt washed over him, and he wondered if he’d made the right choice.

  Remora might not be true to her word, promising to help him find a Queen. She was, after all, just a human.

  He firmed his resolved. She was human, but he was shonfra. And a shonfra knew what honor meant.

  “Just a moment, I’ve left a bag at my seat,” whispered Pansy without turning her head.

  Said for his benefit. He clutched the thought to his chest. Surely not all humans were so terrible, if this one could learn.

  They returned to the area where Remora had left them, only to find that they were not alone.

  A lone man wearing a gray suit (and honestly, when humans could choose any colors at all to adorn themselves, why such a dull shade? They made no sense at all.) with a silver-capped cane stood, frowning at the empty chairs as if they’d committed some offense.

  Inspector Gideon. Hackwrench recognized him immediately. Why was he here?

  “Pardon me,” Pansy said. “But I do believe you are lost, sir. This is the women’s bidding area.”

  Gideon removed his hat, bowing deeply. “Apologies, Miss. I was seeking the company of a friend, having reason to believe she might be here. It seems I was mistak—” As he straightened from his bow, he caught sight of Hackwrench and dropped, mid-sentence.

  “Where is she?” he demanded, utterly forgetting Pansy’s presence. “She’s in great danger. Your whole crew is in danger. You must leave Bespin immediately.”

  Hackwrench’s fur rippled with unease. He slid down Pansy’s arm and twisted the face of the watch on her wrist.

  “She left, summoned by a dresl guard. What danger?”

  The translator took its sweet time, and he had to force himself not to grind his teeth together.

  Gideon’s face went pale, then slack. “If she’s gone, I’m not sure there’s anything that can be done. Not even I have power within the Seraph stronghold.”

  No. No, no, no. Hackwrench had not just sacrificed his chance at a Queen only to lose as quickly as that.

  A shonfra, dark green with silvery stripes, flew in and landed on Gideon’s shoulder. Gideon straightened and twisted the head of his cane. “Report,” he said.

  “Crew at palace. Dinner. Girl, Paladin, dresl. Shinra on his way. Seraph watching everything,” the cane translated

  Hackwrench narrowed his eyes. That was no pidgin-speak. That was a military report.

  “That will be all. Return to your post and report back with additional intel. I’ll be at the Miraj,” said Gideon, for all the world like a dismissive general. Hackwrench did some mental rearranging of his mental image of the man. Not the gentleman he appeared to Remora . . . perhaps Jinn had been right all along. Gideon was not as he seemed.

  The green shonfra nodded. Just before he took off, Hackwrench saw his eyes pass dismissively over both Petra and himself. “Pets,” the shonfra muttered in disgust, too low to be picked up by the translator.

  Hackwrench barked back at him, lips drawn back from his sharp incisors. “Watch your lip, soldier. Call me a pet again, and I’ll wear your tail as a belt.”

  The green hissed in surprise, then took off after receiving a sharp look from Gideon.

  “Why should I let you aboard the Miraj?” Hackwrench asked the man. “I don’t trust you.”

  Gideon frowned at him. “Dear sir, it matters not whether you trust me in anything today, save that I can assist in the rescue of your friends. You’ll never get out of Seraph airspace without my credentials.”

  He held out his hand and Hackwrench looked at it, wishing he knew what he should do. He didn’t trust Gideon . . . but he also didn’t have any idea how to go about saving a ship-full of people stupid enough to get caught in the very center of a spider’s web.

  He leaped from Pansy’s hand to Gideon’s, hating the victorious smile on the man’s face.

  “You’ll need this, then,” Pansy said, lifting her purse. Hackwrench’s heart warmed to see that it was him she was addressing, not Gideon.

  He nodded. “Thank you,” he said to her, this time translated by Gideon’s walking stick instead of her wrist.

  She lifted a hand to Petra’s side, the pink and green shonfra trilling as he rubbed his face against her soft gloves. “No, dear Hackwrench. Thank you.”

  34. Not My Father

  Every jaw in the room dropped, and Hank glared daggers at her, but Remora didn’t care. Emotions boiled up within her, hot and sickening.

  Vakaano’s wings closed, the red sparks chasing through his silver plumage jutting at odd angles. “Yes, I am. Were I not, I would certainly not be going to such lengths to see you safely away!”

  Remora clenched her teeth and stepped forward, pushing aside a still-standing guard. She glared at the remaining guards, daring them to try anything, and they parted like stalks of wheat before her. She kept walking until she stood just in front of Vakaano. He towered over her, golden brows furrowed over brown eyes.

  My eyes, her traitorous heart whispered, but she silenced it as she reached up to jab a finger into the Seraph’s chest. “Don’t you dare call yourself my father.” A lump rose in her throat and she forced it back down with a surge of anger.

  “I’ve known Magnus Price wasn’t my father since I was a little girl. For more than a decade, I’ve wondered who he could be. I’ve dreamed about him. You want to know who he is?” Remora’s hands clenched to fists at her side. “My real father is smart. More than smart, he’s a great cogsmith. He can make things nobody else even dreams of, and when I show him something I’ve made, he lifts me up and smiles at me like the sun coming out and he tells me how proud he is.”

  Her heart ached as the words spilled from her mouth. “My real father protects me from people who want to hurt me. He stays with me after an assassination attempt, tucking me in bed and then keeping watch in the dark after I fall asleep to make sure I remain safe and unharmed.”

  Her throat tried to close, turning her voice harsh and hoarse. “My real father would have kept me away from my mother after the first time she tried to cut off my wings. He would have never ever left her alone with me again, and would have bandaged me and helped clean up the blood and told me that I was beautiful just the way I was, and reassured me when the feathers grew back all black that everything was normal and I was fine.”

  Tears welled up in her eyes and she brushed them aside angrily. “My real father loves me and obviously doesn’t know who I am, because if he had any clue that I existed, he would move heaven and earth itself just to be with me for what little time I have left.”

  Her jaw clenched and she took a deep breath, glaring at Vakaano and daring him to deny her. “That’s how I know you’re not my father. You’re nothing like him at all.”

  Something . . . some emotion crossed his face then. Something like shame and surprise. She didn’t want to see it.

  He wasn’t her father, no matter what any of them said.

&nb
sp; She turned to Vakaena. “When does our hour begin?”

  The Dame’s black eyes surveyed her like a stall-merchant sizing up a new item for sale. “Now.”

  “Then we’re leaving.”

  Hank, Snow, Jinn, and the bandaged Shinra’dor all stood. Vakaena frowned at him, as if tempted to argue his release, but in the end said nothing.

  Good. Remora was in no mood for argument, and from what she understood, he was Jinn’s brother.

  She reached across the table for the purple vial, but Vakaena snatched it up first.

  “Ah, ah. I’m afraid this one’s not going, no matter what you say. That ticker was an abomination. Don’t waste your precious minutes arguing with me.”

  Remora noted that the glass displayed the barest hint of a floral pattern etched upon its sides. Good, Hank had made the switch.

  “Fine,” she said.

  Vakaena’s eyes narrowed slightly, and Remora wondered if she’d agreed too quickly. No help for it now. Time to make their escape.

  Hank stopped just shy of the door, head cocked to the side. “Wait,” he said, holding up his hand.

  “Daniel, we do not have time for-–” she whispered to him, but he shook his head.

  She rolled her eyes, but then she heard it, too.

  The sound of airship engines.

  Familiar airship engines.

  Hank bypassed the exit door to stand instead at one of the open walls, looking out.

  “I am here to pick up the crew of the Miraj,” blared a mechanical, translated voice. “I have reason to believe they are in need of transportation.”

  Hank whooped and leaped into the air. “Hackwrench, I could kiss you!” he shouted to the sky.

  The Miraj dipped into view from above, the Nest still looking something more like a rusted lemon than a regal airship. The four hawk ships splintered off on the ends of the masts, sails rolled tightly against the Nest’s surface. Landing gear dropped from the Miraj’s belly and if the actual landing of the ship wasn’t the most graceful thing in the world, none of the crew seemed to mind overmuch.