Dead Air

by Ash, C. B.

  When most of the beans were cleared away, he looked at the nearby wooden crates. Out of curiosity he selected the closest one and tried to open the lid. It held fast. He tried the next closest, the the one beyond that. All with the same results. With a sigh, he looked around the dim gloom until his eyes landed upon the long dark metal shape of a crowbar that had rested a few feet from where he stood.

  "Aha, that'll be doin' nicely." O'Fallon said, walking over to retrieve the crowbar. He turned back towards the crates, then paused. The side of the nearest crate that faced where the crowbar lay contained a large hole. He eased forward in a crouch, crowbar held tight in his right hand and lantern held high above his head. When he was close enough he slowly reached out to gingerly touch the jagged edges of the wood with his fingertips.

  Slowly, cautiously, O'Fallon traced the splintered edges of the crate where they bent out from the force of being attacked. Curious, he stood upright with the lantern held high, then looked as far out as the weak beam of light allowed. At first, all he could see were scattered dark shapes, but those quickly resolved into more crates, rolled-up canvas and piles of netting. More importantly, several more had already been broken like the first. Seven in total. O'Fallon knelt down to examine the crate in front of him more closely.

  It was now empty and, as near as he could tell, had been largely empty before it had been broken. Despite the emptiness, two things struck O'Fallon as odd. One was the five-inch wide paw print of a Mountain lion-sized cat in the thin layer of dust not far outside the crate. The other was that the wood had been smashed out away from the crate, not into. He turned slowly to see the trail of cat prints wander away from the hold towards a small door leading to the crew bunks amidship.

  Not far away, Moira stopped, put her hands on her hips and looked out the fifteen-foot-wide hole in the port side of the ship. The damage was situated in a short stretch of room just at the foot of the ladder from the main deck above. To one side was the door to amidships where the crew often slept in hammocks and stored their belongings in small lockers. She shook her head slowly.

  "That be quite the mess." She commented.

  Thorias walked up with Acrady on his shoulder. The doctor nodded in appreciation of the damage. "I now understand O'Fallon's comment. If they had been close enough to cause this much damage, they surely would have left a portion of themselves behind also."

  Moira squinted at the burnt wood and bent metal supports twisted into curled shapes. "I can't be sayin' for certain but this might be comin' from the wrong direction."

  Thorias looked surprised. "What's that?"

  "The hole here. Whate'er went an caused it, wasn't comin' from outside." She explained while gingerly touching one of the ruined wood slats that was twisted outward just slightly.

  "For what purpose would anyone do this to their own ship?" The doctor said in amazement.

  Moira shrugged. "Ta scuttle her I s'pose. Now why they'd be doing such a thing? That I couldn't begin ta tell ya."

  Thorias gave the hole one more glance and then turned towards the door to the crew quarters. "Well, let's keep going. If luck's with us, we'll learn the why soon enough." He gripped the handle and pulled, but the door would not move.

  "Just a bit stuck. It's from all the abuse she's taken." Moira said while she patted a nearby section of the ship's hull with a sad smile. "Just need ta give it a good kick."

  "By all means madam, the door is yours." The doctor said with a slight bow. Arcady, however, had been observing the hole in the bulkhead.

  "It was a small barrel of gunpowder. If I measure the powder residue accurately." The small voice, tinged with a hint of a sharp, artificial accent, commented aloud.

  Moira paused just before she launched the flat of her foot into the door. "How can ya tell among that?"

  Arcady fluttered his wings idly with a short buzz sound. "Measured the darker powder stains on the walls. It is far too much to be anything smaller."

  Moira and Thorias exchanged a quick glance then Moira kicked the door. With a bang from her boot heel, the door snapped open and swung wide. An odd, strong musty smell wafted out, almost like an invisible cloud.

  Beyond the threshold, the room was nearly pitch black. Most amidships did not have any windows or a view. But they often had one or more lamps kept there, just in case. Moira felt around just inside the dark room until her fingers located a lantern. She withdrew it, checked the fuel and adjusted the wick. From a pouch at her belt she removed a small metal tin with a tiny winding key. This she turned three times then pressed a small button, almost flush with the device, which released a bright spark. Twice more and the wick of the lantern took flame. Lifting the lantern up, she made to step inside.

  Immediately she stopped in her tracks. Inside the darkened room were rows of hammocks that hung heavily from both the port and starboard sides of the ship. What gave her pause was that nearly all the hammocks were full. Her breath caught in her throat. She did not know why, but something was deadly wrong.

  She walked over to the nearest hammock and pressed her fingers to the neck of the nearest sleeping crewman. Her hand came away covered in blood. Moira's chest was tight and her voice cracked while she turned a wide-eyed stare on Thorias. "Doc, he's been cut... across the neck. Slice neat a skinnin' a fish."

  The doctor frowned and rushed forward. Once he had confirmed Moira's discovery he went to the next hammock to check its occupant. Then the next. Finally he turned towards Moira and Arcady. "So are these my dear. I believe they all are quite dead. They've been murdered."

  Moira swallowed hard. "We gotta tell the Cap'n."

  Chapter 5

  Hunter stood silently in the meeting room with his arms folded across his chest and a dark frown on his face. He listened stoically to what each crew member had found aboard the wrecked ship. Now they waited quietly in the room with him while he wrestled silently with his own thoughts. At last, he took a deep breath and slowly paced the small room, walking from his cabin door to the table, and back. Two paces later, he stopped at the table and stared down at the bloody map.

  "And the tracks led to the crew bunking also?" Hunter asked O'Fallon.

  Over by the door that connected the meeting room with the main deck, the quartermaster nodded. "Aye, Cap'n. Right in. Ah be tryin' ta follow them further but Ah couldna find where they be headin' from there."

  "How many of the crew looked to be ... at rest?" Hunter asked carefully.

  Thorias cleared his throat. "Given a ship that size, Captain, I would say at least a third to half of her crew. Perhaps more. However, it looked to be just the crew. No officers of any kind among the hammocks."

  "None in the officer's cabins, either Cap'n. As I mentioned, plenty of signs there was a fight, and a large one at that." Krumer added to Thorias' explanation. "Whatever happened was brutal, quick and messy. The officers either escaped, went overboard, or are stuffed somewhere we've not uncovered. "

  Moira looked around at the others. "But where'd that be? We about turned her on her side an' shook her."

  Krumer sighed. "I couldn't begin to guess. Though, I saw no longskiffs."

  Hunter gave O'Fallon a questioning look. The quartermaster shrugged. "Na lay eyes upon them, Cap'n. All Ah spied in the hold be busted crates an mostly coffee beans. Spilled ones at that. Be a right shameful waste a' them if ye be askin' me."

  The captain smiled a bit at O'Fallon's particularly unique sense of humor. "Well, no sign of Adonia, Von Patterson, or the missing crew. Perhaps they disembarked on a longskiff, perhaps not. And that doesn't explain why we've not seen anyone from the station itself. The four of you resupply and then head into the station, see what you can find. I'll go over this map with Tonks. If we can discern a possible location that the crew might have escaped to, we'll send out a longskiff or run the Griffin down there for a look." A peal of thunder rolled in the distance. "Once the storm below us breaks, of course." Hunter added.

  Krumer chuckled at the captain's remark, then stood up
from where he had been leaning against the cabin wall. "Aye, Cap'n. We'll take a spare opti-telegraphic and signal if we locate anything of interest."

  "Or even if what's rather interesting is that there is nothing at all." Thorias added dryly.

  "What about the dead crew?" Moira asked.

  "Those of us here will offload them and wrap them in proper shrouds. The Belgian authorities will, more as not, want to take a closer look at all this. However, those crew over there deserve a respectful burial. I doubt the Belgians would mind us doing at least that." The captain explained. "So, anything else? No? Well, good hunting."

  "Spirits' willing." Krumer replied with his customary remark, then led the other three from the small cabin to the main deck.

  "Since we be headin' in, we ought ta be gettin' more lights ta take along." O'Fallon suggested as they left the meeting room.

  Krumer nodded. "Everyone should grab extra of what they may need, I suspect. If the station has suffered any part of what the ship has, we may need it. Assemble on the dock in ten minutes."

  The four met on the dock, then made their way into the station. Ahead, the wooden warehouses with their random patches of brass and copper plate sheets loomed large and silent. Built as the outermost circle of buildings of any relay station, they often served as both supply storage for the station and as a place for merchants to store cargo, for a modest upkeep fee. Normally, a dock hand that lived and worked on the station could always be found nearby. This time, the warehouses stood alone save for a small contingent of firehawks and blackbirds. Each darted between the highest peaks of the warehouse rooftops, offering only the occasional shrill cry at each other, the storms, and the four figures walking beneath them.

  O'Fallon stopped at a door to one of the warehouses. This warehouse was like all the others that comprised the outer ring of the station. Alike in that it was built from aged wood with the occasional sheet of copper when wood had obviously not been at hand.

  Windows along the second floor of the two story warehouse were tall and thin, better to prevent the cold winds from invading the sanctity of the main storage area. Dominating the approach to it was a large door, used for cargo incoming from a newly-arrived ship. Along the side was a smaller, person-sized door. Beside and above the door were the only prominent markings that all the warehouses shared: A set of faded numbers used by the station's inhabitants to identify one warehouse from another.

  This small door on the side was where O'Fallon had stopped. The door was like the warehouse, built from strong Douglas Fir wood, yet weathered from exposure. Metal hinges, caught in one too many storms, showed signs of rust and the scars rusted metal obtained when used once too often for its own good.

  O'Fallon carefully lifted a broken lock from the loop that normally secured the door. The lock was one of the newer types, where the inner brass workings had been wrapped with strong steel bands to give it added strength.

  "What the hell? Would ye be lookin' at this! Na in all me born days, be Ah seein' a lock twisted about so." O'Fallon turned the mangled lock over in his hands. The lock body was, by and large, intact, but the metal arm that would normally be placed through a loop to secure the door shut was twisted like putty and separated in two.

  He tossed the lock to Krumer and then carefully opened the warehouse door. Krumer looked the abused lock over, "If this was paper, I'd have to say it was torn." He then passed the lock on to Moira and Thorias for their own inspection.

  O'Fallon tugged at the door once the lock was gone. It swung obediently open with only a brief squeak in protest from the rusted hinges. The quartermaster peered inside. A pair of firehawks set about a long series of screeching complaints at his intrusion. He grunted in surprise.

  "Empty, if'n ye na count the noisemakers above. Just a wee bit a' dust, ruined crates scattered here an' about. Na more'n that." The quartermaster commented.

  Thorias looked the outside walls of the warehouse up and down. "Who would bother with an empty warehouse?" He asked.

  Moira shrugged while she held the lock up in front of her face and turned it slowly around for a close view. "Better'n that. Who'd be able ta twist a lock so?"

  "I have at least one question, perhaps two." Arcady asked in his clipped, tin voice.

  O'Fallon looked inside once more. In addition to the rotten crates and dusty floor, the shrill noise of birds in the rafters echoed again off the empty walls. With a sigh, he stepped back out to join the others while Krumer turned around to look towards Arcady, who had just come to rest on Thorias' shoulder.

  "Go on." Krumer replied to the Clockwork dragonfly, his voice a bit more gruff than usual.

  Unruffled by the orc's attitude, Arcady turned his ruby colored eyes to look down at the ground. Inside he turned a gear, and a gentle ruby light glowed softly in the direction he was looking. "What kind of cat makes tracks that large, and where do they go?"

  They all looked where Arcady's light pointed. There, in the dust and dirt-covered side of one of the warehouses was the soft indentation of a large paw print. A print that, based on the size and shape, could only be from a very large cat, such as a panther or mountain lion.

  "Same kind as Ah be findin' aboard the wreck." O'Fallon commented, leaving the empty warehouse to the firehawks to get a closer look at the tracks.

  "Now we know where they went after leaving the ship." Thorias added.

  "Stay watchful, but it'd do us well to see where they lead." Krumer suggested, then set out in the same direction as the paw prints.

  The trail wound its way among the warehouses, both between and behind them. On most all relay stations, inside the outer ring of warehouses, stood buildings for numerous machine shops, a medical clinic, several rooms for sleeping chambers, and monitoring stations to watch over the health of the giant steam engines that powered the fans and gas bags above. However, each station was commonly altered fairly quickly as parts needed to be replaced, or a station had to recover from storms. In the end, each station wound up with its own unique floorplan. The High Fens Relay Station was no exception, with its nineteen buildings that were for the crew and officers to use.

  It was a good hour later before the tracks left the confines of the warehouses, wound around one of the clockwork power stations and arrived at a long, one story wooden building. The building was in modest condition and was likely one of the older structures on the station itself, given the weathering and quilted pattern of patches and repairs done to its walls. The door lock was again twisted and misshapen as if a great hand had squeezed the metal and gear workings to death.

  Krumer frowned and eased his pistol from the holster at his belt. "I have an unpleasant feeling about this."

  While the others drew their weapons, the first mate tugged at the ruined door latch. Slowly, the door eased open, its metal hinges and weathered wood complaining noisily at the inconvienience of being disturbed. Once open, a faint, sickly, stale odor filled the air. Krumer blinked as his sensitive orcish nose caught the scent and threatened to make his eyes water. With a deep breath he stepped inside.

  The room was quite large, being forty feet long and twenty wide. Tall, thin windows lined the wall that faced the station's main steam engine boilers. It was thanks to these windows that Krumer did not need a lantern, since vertical slashes of light from the windows played out across the room. Along the wall that had no windows lay a set of bunk beds. On these were piles of wool blankets, clothes, small journals and other personal effects. He moved over to one of the beds and picked up a coat, only to discover the bed was not just a rumple of a blanket and jumbled clothes. His hand came away damp.

  "Thorias! Inside here, quickly!" Krumer called out just loud enough for the others outside the room to hear him, while his heart throbbed hard in his chest.

  O'Fallon and Moira rushed in with weapons drawn. Thorias and Arcady were only a moment later. They looked around, confused at seeing Krumer alone in the room. When their eyes adjusted to the gloom, they realized they were only partial
ly mistaken. Krumer was not in danger, but he was definitely not the only body in the room.

  The first mate showed Thorias his hand. "His throat's sliced open like aboard the wreck. Check the others."

  Thorias slipped around O'Fallon and Moira who were looking around in a mild horror at the number of bodies in the room. The doctor stepped over to the next nearest bunk.

  "Though I suspect none of us are truly surprised, this one is dead. They all are, most likely, but I'll check to be sure." The doctor said dryly. "You never know, one could just be sleeping off a particularly strong night of whiskey." With a faint sigh, he slowly moved between the bunks and took his time with each examination. His initial guess was not wrong.

  O'Fallon looked around then stepped over to the door for a nervous look outside. "It be like walkin' about in a graveyard. A floating graveyard."

  "Well, we're na the only ones." Mora said, pointing to two faint sets of tracks in some dirt that happened to have collected at the side of one of the bunks.

  Also in the dirt were two boot prints, neither looking small enough to belong to the boots that sat on the floor next to them. Likewise the paw print did not match any foot in the room.

  "Spirits guard us. Again with the cat." Krumer growled. "How can one assassin do so much?"

  Thorias walked down the length of the room, wiping the blood from his hands on a spare rag he had located on a footlocker. Arcady flew just behind his right shoulder. "I have my doubts this cat or even its owner had anything to do with the initial deaths. Though I am convinced they have everything to do with the crew being in their bunks with their belongings around them."

  Krumer considered this a moment then shrugged. "I don't see where you're heading here, Doc."

  Thorias waved a hand around in a sweeping gesture. "Look at the remains. Not how they were killed, but how they are now. No sign of a fight at all. Stretched out silently as if caught while sleeping. But how? This many men caught sleeping at once? Not likely." The doctor stepped over to a bunk and lifted a journal to show the others. "Look, their belongings are around them on the bunks. One or two I might could see that. I myself have read to sleep more than once. But all of them?"