by Ash, C. B.
"That's not O'Fallon's opti." Tonks commented aloud upon seeing a strange number display on the opti-telegraphic. He searched his memory. Each opti-telegraphic contained a code-wheel sealed inside. No two were alike, any attempt to extract one usually destroyed it, and the complexity of the precise measurements of the forty-two code-wheel gears inside made duplicating just one a daunting, if not improbable, task. Counterfeit wheels were rare but did appear from time to time.
The pilot leaned over the machine curiously. "Never seen that code a'fore. And whoever ya are, just how did we pick up what yer sendin' and not O'Fallon?" He tapped the 'receive' key to listen, and raised his eyebrows in surprise when he heard a fast spoken, harsh language that he could not begin to describe, let alone mimic. All he knew was that it definitely was not the Queen's English.
He typed at the small keys, giving the command to display the rough longitude and latitude of the signal's origin. The results with an opti-telegraphic were never precise, but were usually within a degree or two for nearby signals. The numbers flipped again, then stopped.
Surprised, Tonks sat back in the chair. "That's the High Fens. How'd something several miles down in a marsh, with a storm over it, get through when the others can't?"
Out on deck, the wind had picked up from before. The storm that had harassed the marshland below had begun to slowly rise toward the relay station and the Brass Griffin. All around, the crew began to secure loose items and prepare the ship to weather a storm.
Hunter walked quietly along the deck and watched the crew. Satisfied with their work, he looked out over the dock and then at the wrecked ship across from them, turning a few thoughts over in his mind. The captain quietly turned back towards his own crew and the Griffin, his eyes settled on young William Falke, busy checking the port side mooring lines.
"Mr Falke!" Hunter called out over the din of activity.
William straightened up immediately and brushed aside a tangle of brown hair from his green eyes. "Cap'n?" He replied, wiping sweaty hands on his brown vest and trousers as he hurried over.
Hunter folded his arms over his chest. "Take an armed group, no more than five or six, and set up a watch at the end of the dock. The dock master's office is often large enough for a small mob. Use that as a temporary base camp."
William nodded. "Aye Cap'n."
"Good man." Hunter said, then paused a moment. "And William, keep your wits about you. I may have to take the Griffin out for a short stint to solve a communications problem. If, for any reason you lose ground and we're not here, take your group back to the wreck. We'll come for you there. Otherwise use the Griffin as your fall-back position."
"Aye." William said hesitantly. He disliked the thought of being stranded on the eerie station, but he was not about to admit that in front of the captain. "Beggin' the Cap'n's pardon, but are ya expectin' some kinda trouble?"
Hunter looked out over the empty dock to the relay station warehouses. "Perhaps, but what kind, I'm not certain. I've hope that my fears are nothing more than phantoms. If Mr. Whitehorse returns with his scouting group, kindly return to the Griffin with them at that point. Understood?"
"Aye, Cap'n. Will do." William turned quickly and raced off to collect a few firearms and and off-duty crew.
Tonks suddenly appeared on deck, in his hands he held a small set of papers and the opti-telegraphic. "Cap'n!"
Hunter turned at the sudden shout. "What Mr Wilkerson? Do you have them?"
"Not quite, Cap'n. Though I've an idea, and somethin' strange ta tell ya." Tonks hurried over to the captain and held out the papers.
Hunter frowned over the paper's writings and diagrams while Tonks explained. "I'm thinkin' the interference isn't coverin' the whole station. Just a certain portion. Once ya walked out of the cabin, that signal came in." The pilot shuffled the papers to show Hunter one that was three sheets down. "It's a language, but not one I'd ever go and speak. Think we ought to get William ta take a look?"
Hunter shook his head. "Young Will's gift is for the one's he hears. Not quite at the ones he reads." Hunter held up the paper for a better look. "Are you sure of these words?"
"Aye, sure as I can be." Tonks confirmed. "Like I mentioned, Cap'n, I can't read a lick of it, much less say it."
"Looks encoded. Who was sending this?" Hunter asked, peering closer at the paper.
"That's the thing, I've not a clue. Whoever was sendin' it, I think, was sendin' to a broad band a' opti numbers. We might happen ta have one of 'em. Or whoever was sendin' was in a hurry. Either way we're eavesdroppin' on their message. Whoever 'them' are, that is." Tonks shrugged.
The captain returned the paper to its place in the stack. "Where did it come from?"
"That's the odd thing, Cap'n. The Fens. Somewhere near or above it." The pilot said, reshuffling the papers again in search of something else.
"Through the storm down there as well." Hunter commented. "Interesting."
"That's what I thought, too. Whatever that message says, its far too long ta be a cry for help." Tonks at last located the paper he wanted, and placed it atop the stack.
Hunter picked up this new piece of paper. "Well, take a shot at decoding it. It might be handy to know what they're wanting. Now what's this?"
"My idea, Cap'n." Tonks grinned proudly. "If that signal from the Fens got inta us, that means we can get around the interference. I'm thinkin' we need height. I could take some parts and rig a relay set to talk to our opti-telegraphic here. We send that relay up on a balloon and we should get around the worst of it."
Hunter nodded and handed the paper back. "Sound plan. Take what you need and try it."
"Won't take but a moment, Cap'n." Tonks rushed off for the spare parts bin below deck.
A few minutes later he returned with a balloon the size of an average man's head. This was tied off to a strange looking box with a ghastly array of antennae over it. In the end, it resembled more of a terrified brass porcupine than a spare opti-telegraphic. He released the balloon into the air once he was on deck, and kept a tight hold on the tether between himself and the cured canvas balloon. After he had let out enough rope to set the balloon dancing wildly on the growing storm winds just above the Griffin herself, he turned on the opti-telegraphic in his hand. He was rewarded with silence and only a small amount of static.
"They could just have their opti turned off. At least we're onta somethin' though. The statics not nearly as rough now." Tonks commented as he managed the small balloon and relay device.
Hunter watched the balloon quietly a moment. "True. Keep at it Mr Wilkerson. I think you're onto something."
"Cap'n?" Tonks asked. "What about that other signal?"
The captain's thoughts turned over the options available in his mind. "We have no idea who that is or what they want. It could be nothing or something. Keep trying to get the shore party on the opti. I'll chart a course to where that signal in the Fens came from. If we decipher their code and the next words from them are a cry for help, then we'll made our course there straight away."
"If they don't?" Tonks asked before the captain walked out of hearing range.
Hunter paused and glanced at Tonks over his shoulder a moment. "Then at least we'll know they are coming. Carry on, Mr. Wilkerson."
Chapter 8
Closer to the heart of the station, where the shorter buildings came close to the over-sized steam engines, O'Fallon slipped through a near-windowless, poorly lit storeroom draped in long, blended shadows of gray and black. The room was filled with wooden crates, stacked at such random locations and heights that the only path through the room was a twisted maze. At the far side of the room from where he had first entered, the quartermaster paused next to a particularly tall stack of crates and looked behind him.
In the darkness he could make out the forms of Krumer, Thorias, Moira, and even the small blur of Arcady who circled overhead near the ceiling. Satisfied, O'Fallon turned around and skirted the edge of the crates. Just past lay the wall and in i
t, another of the countless doors they had found on their long trip from the barracks almost an hour earlier. Like the others, this was an old, grey wooden door held to the wall by brass hinges.
"Another door." O'Fallon said just loud enough for the others to hear him.
"We ought ta be near the engines by now." Moira said wearily while she walked along the narrow path between crates.
Krumer moved, around the tall stack of crates to catch up to where O'Fallon stood. In the meantime the quartermaster carefully turned the latch. With a muffled click, it released its hold on the door frame. O'Fallon eased the door open slowly and looked outside.
"Ye be right, lass." O'Fallon said with a smile. "Chambered door ta the engines right here."
Along the entire walk, they had not encountered any more of the station crew, deceased or otherwise. However, the lack of danger was no celebration for Krumer. He had long ago been raised to be more alert, aware and cautious when the expected danger did not present itself. The orc looked around at the cramped room and then back at the open door with O'Fallon next to it.
"Any sign?" The first mate asked in a blunt tone.
O'Fallon looked down, then around at the door frame. "A wee bit. They're bein' careful here." He pointed to a faint set of boot marks in the shadowy grime that lay between their door and the door to the station's main steam engines. The gap was merely a ten foot wide alley that stretched between the storehouse and the center structure that contained the station's steam engines.
"See? At other doors, they be careful, but here, they be stoppin' short and steppin' ta either side a'fore doin' a thing." The quartermaster shrugged. "Then they wander about a bit, then make their way around the outside. Didna seem interested ta go in."
Moira looked over both Krumer and O'Fallon's shoulder through what open space there was. "Or the door would na budge fer them."
"More importantly, are they close by now?" Krumer asked quietly.
O'Fallon shook his head. "Na here, that be for sure. Where they be now, Ah couldna say."
Krumer frowned and looked out the door again. "It bothers me they are so careless with their trail. It's like they wanted us to know."
"They may na have cared." Moira said. "If'n they be in a hurry. Why waste the time?"
The first mate nodded. "True. Is the other door unlatched?"
O'Fallon carefully looked out into the alley, wary for any surprises. When nothing emerged, he stepped out and walked across the open alleyway to the other door. This door, just as weathered, was unlike the others they had encountered so far. On a relay station, any door that lead into the giant steam engines, fan blades and man-sized gears was a thick steel, secured with steel rivets and kept closed with a heavy metal lock.
Usually this door opened into a small room, a chamber only five foot square, with a similar door on the far side from the entrance. The inner door often, but not always, was rigged to never open so long as the outer door was open. In this way, no one could accidentally enter the engine rooms and fall through the fans to the ground miles below them. The quartermaster grasped the 'L'-shaped handle, pushed down and tugged on it. The door lock gave easily and O'Fallon slowly pulled the door open an inch. A strong odor, sharp and foul smelling, wafted from the opening.
"Door's open. Na sure it be a good idea. Smell's like a rat crawled up inta an air duct and passed on. Ye be sure and certain ye want ta head that way?" O'Fallon said, making a sour face.
Thorias shook his head slightly at the quartermaster. "Smell or no, that's where Miss Salgado said to meet her. We need to go that way."
"Well, hold ye breath. It be ripe." O'Fallon hauled the heavy door open the rest of the way. Metal hinges gave a slight groan of protest before the figure of a broad-shouldered man loomed out of the darkness. He was taller than the quartermaster by a good foot, his tight yellow shirt stained with grease and grime and his boots were broken at the seams. The quartermaster stumbled back and reached for his pistol. It had only partway cleared leather when the man from the doorway crashed into him. Krumer lunged forward and grabbed the stranger by the scruff of the neck, pulling him off O'Fallon.
The moment Krumer lifted the man away, he immediately dropped him again. "Another dead crewman."
Panting from the shock, O'Fallon scrambled to his feet. "Like the others, then?"
"No, not like the others. He wasn't laid to rest like those others." the orc said solemnly while he knelt by the body. "He died fighting. Look at those bruises. Those come from a hand to hand fight."
Thorias moved in a bit closer to see the dead man for himself, and knelt next to Krumer. O'Fallon wiped his hands nervously on his vest, then backed away from the dead man. A long breath later, he steadied his nerves and returned to the open door. Moira walked over with him.
She stopped at the doorway while O'Fallon stepped carefully inside. "Four more in here." Moira said over his shoulder. "They all look 'bout as bad as that one."
"This fellow's only recently deceased by a half hour." Thorias said after a moment's examination of the dead man. "No more than that."
"What?" Krumer instinctively looked around, as if the killer would somehow suddenly materialize behind them. "Who is doing this?"
A woman's voice, colored with a light Portuguese accent, echoed from within the chamber towards the steam engines. "I can't speak to the 'who', my dear Krumer, but perhaps I can speak to the 'why'."
From the gloom, a woman wearing a navy wool long coat, stained blue shirt, tan trousers, and brown knee-high boots stepped into the half-light that permeated the small ante-chamber. She stood no taller than average for a human, or in her case a charybdian that resembled humans in shape and appearance. Although, the resemblance stopped there. In place of skin, she had a collection of fine, interlocking brownish-green scales, not unlike those found on an alligator. These were present on every visible part of her. Her face was human enough, save for the canary-yellow eyes with light brown irises and the head full of shoulder-length, thick tendrils that strongly resembled snakes. Most noticeably, they did move very slightly of their own accord, not unlike a snake slowly moving through grass.
A half-smile spread across Krumer's face. "Adonia Maria Ricalde Salgado. It's been a long time."
She inclined her head, the jumble of snake-like tendrils that made up her hair writhed slightly with the motion. "Yes, Krumer, too long."
"Well," the first mate asked. "Just what is going on?"
She shook her head. "Not here. We're too exposed. It's too hard to defend. Quickly, come inside. Put the dead man back in the ante-chamber and shut the door behind you."
Adonia turned quickly on her heel and walked inside. Behind her Moira frowned at the charybdian's retreating form. She had never met a charybdian before, but she had heard many of the stories. Some rumors said they could turn a person to stone with just a glance. Others said that their hair were real snakes with a poisonous venom. Still other stories claimed they were the long-lost descendants of the original inhabitants of legendary Thule, also called Atlantis. In general, most of the stories, as with any tall tales, tended to conflict. Moira had never been to Portugal, but had heard enough of these tales that she was automatically suspicious. She glanced over at Krumer. "Can we trust her?"
Krumer sighed and looked around at the grime-stained walls of the buildings, and then the clouded sky in search of a simple answer to help explain a complex person such as Adonia. Unfortunately, the walls, buildings and clouds above chose to be of little help. "Often she has her own goals, no matter what venture she's engaged in ... but she's honorable. I trust her."
Moira thought on that a moment, then nodded. "Well ... all right, then. Sounds like we need ta hear her out."
O'Fallon reached down and grabbed the dead man by one shoulder. Thorias grabbed the opposite one. They lifted the man to his feet and dragged him inside the ante-chamber of the building. "What 'ere it be. Ah'm thinkin' it be a good story in general. She na gets herself involved in somethin' small."
> Krumer chuckled dryly. "Indeed."
Chapter 9
Beyond the ante-chamber and through the inner steel door, a short tunnel led from the outer doors to the main collection of steam engines and suspended catwalks over the main fans that helped to keep the station aloft. Between the door and the catwalks, the massive pipes for the steam engines curved down from the two-story tall scaffolding that held the large boilers. These pipes continued along beyond where the tunnel walls stopped. The space between the pipes narrowed over the next five feet before they spread out again to deliver the high-pressure steam on to the giant piston-driven engines themselves.
Krumer followed Adonia down the tight hallway. He paused when she stopped at a small, barely noticeable break between the walls and the tangle of grime-covered steel pipes. He raised an eyebrow at her.
"Through there?" The orc asked suspiciously.
The young woman grinned. "Given all that's happening, sitting out in the open having tea just wouldn't be prudent." With that, Adonia turned sideways, then side-stepped around a particularly large high-pressure steam pipe to emerge into a small make-shift room that had once been used as a maintenance shed.
Thorias and Moira exchanged a glance. Krumer sighed, shook his head slightly at Adonia's comment then moved around the pipes after her. The rest followed thereafter.
Beyond the narrow entrance, the room formed by the steam pipes was roughly ten foot square, just large enough for a good-sized tool locker or parts storeroom. Pipes ran overhead and to either side. These fashioned three of the four 'walls' of the small room. The fourth wall was the solid steel of the building itself. A table and some crates that had lined one wall now served as a makeshift cot for a figure huddled under a threadbare woolen blanket. A pair of mud-stained boots and a tangle of chestnut-colored hair showed from under the blanket. Next to the cot stood a rough-looking man with a scraggly brown beard, worn coveralls and an elaborate knot work tattoo running the length of his exposed right arm.
