Jed and the Junkyard Wars

by Steven Bohls

  “Yup.” Jed smiled. “That’s me. Jed the dread.”

  “C’mon, let’s—”

  A high-pitched whistle sliced through the air.

  “Incoming falcon!” Sprocket called from the lookout. “Starboard! Less than a scope and closing!”

  The bridge door flung open. Captain Bog cupped his hands and yelled, “Battle stations!”

  Pobble grabbed Jed by the elbow. “Get to the shatterkegs!”

  “Shatterkegs? What’s going on?”

  The two paused at a second whistle.

  “Looks like more than one!” Sprocket called.

  “What’s happening?” Jed asked.

  Pobble pointed at the black dots in the distance. “Incoming falcons!”

  A third whistle.

  And then a fourth.

  Each time Sprocket opened her mouth to shout, another falcon’s whistle blew, until there were too many to count.

  “Sprocket?” Captain Bog stared up at her.

  She studied the sky. “Could be an entire wing, Captain. Maybe two. Closing fast. Three-quarters of a scope away.”

  Captain Bog stared at the black dots.

  “Who are they?” Jed whispered to Pobble.

  Pobble looked at Jed as if he’d forgotten everything Jed had mentioned about living beyond the fringe. “Iron.”

  “Orders, sir?” Kizer said.

  “Cancel battle stations!” Captain Bog called. “Prepare for a duck-and-hide!”

  Sprocket scrambled from the stack’s nest and leaped to the deck. “I’ll prep three cloud bombs and wait for your order.”

  Captain Bog turned to Kizer. “Tell Riggs to punch all four boosters and burn hot at the first cloud.”

  Kizer hurried to the staircase.

  “Why are the irons after us?” Jed asked.

  “Irons think they own the whole yard,” Pobble said. “Don’t give scrap ’bout junkers like us. They’ll strip a ruster ship faster than you could kick a slug from your shoe. Then they’d steal those very same shoes. And your socks too. And anything else they say is property of the Iron Guard. They’d take your fingernail right off your pinky, if they thought it worth half a battery.”

  “And no one tries to stop them?”

  “No one except copper. How we supposed to stop that?” He waved an arm at the dots in the sky, which were getting bigger by the second.

  “Three cloud bombs ready for launch,” Sprocket called. “But I don’t think a dozen would keep even half a wing from finding us.”

  “Got a better idea?” Captain Bog asked.

  “Not really.”

  “Then let’s hope those T-five boosters were worth what we paid. Kizer, take the helm. Everyone, get ready.”

  The falcons drew closer. Sunlight glinted off their sleek silver hulls.

  “There’s more than two wings!” Sprocket called. “Looks like a full flock!”

  Pobble stood on his toes and squinted at the approaching army. “I ain’t never seen a full flock lumped up together like that. Something’s going on. Something big.”

  The falcons kept a tight formation.

  “What in the clunk are they all doing?” Captain Bog mumbled.

  “Captain?” Sprocket called.

  He held up his hand. “Hold. We’ve only got one shot.”

  The falcons’ whistling deepened into a deck-rattling hum.

  “Captain?” Impatience tugged at Sprocket’s voice.

  “I know what I’m doing. Hold.”

  The falcons were close enough for Jed to see dents in their metal and letters painted on their noses.

  “Now, Sprocket!”

  Sprocket ignited a cloud bomb and dropped it into a metal tube. The tube made a whump, and the bomb launched toward the falcons.

  When it reached the fleet, it exploded into smoke.

  A rich black stained the blue sky like oil.

  “Fly straight into the fleet,” Captain Bog said to Kizer. “They’ll be expecting us to go the other direction and will hopefully pass us straight by.”

  Kizer jammed the controls and punched a pulsing blue button.

  Something popped and hissed in the engine room.

  Jed could hear a faint, angry voice through the deck. “Scrap piece of second-rate, cheap gutter clunk!”

  “Riiiggs?” the captain called.

  “I’ve got blown batteries all over the control board!” he yelled through the floor. “Boosters are dead!”

  “Get us out of here!” Captain Bog yelled back.

  “Nothing’s responding! We’re stuck!”

  Silence spread over the crew as the black cloud spilled across the sky.

  The first falcon emerged from the smoke. Dozens followed, piercing the cloud like needles.

  One by one, until there were hundreds.

  Captain Bog sighed. “Scrap.”

  Sprocket dropped the second cloud bomb to the floor and kicked it. “Scrap.”

  “Well,” the captain said, “enjoy your last ten seconds of life. It’s been a pleasure.”

  He lifted his chin and closed his eyes.

  The first falcon reached the tug.

  A gust of wind sliced over them as the falcon whooshed by. The next wave of falcons reached them—and flew past. Falcon after falcon. Wing after wing.

  And then the whole flock was gone.

  Silver dots once again.

  “I—I don’t understand,” Kizer said, joining the captain on deck. “They just…ignored us.”

  The captain stared at the fading pinpricks of silver.

  “A battle,” Sprocket said, joining the others. “It has to be.”

  Kizer shook his head. “There hasn’t been a battle that size for decades.”

  “War’s not over,” Captain Bog muttered. “Not for them, at least.”

  Jed turned to Pobble. “War? Who’s at war?”

  Sprocket folded her arms across her chest. “Everyone’s at war, Golden Boy. Even when they’re not.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Everyone wants something. Odds are, if you want it, someone else somewhere else wants it too.”

  Jed pointed to the falcons. “What do they want?”

  Sprocket winked. “Gold.”

  “They want relics,” Pobble said. “All of them.”

  Sprocket shook her head. “Just a relic? Iron would’ve sent one squadron for that—maybe two. A whole flock? No way. This is bigger. My guess? A gilded relic.”

  “Gilded relic?” Kizer said. “There hasn’t been talk of a gilded relic for years.”

  Sprocket nodded. “Exactly.”

  “What’s a gilded relic?” Jed asked.

  “Another glittertale…” Captain Bog said. He kicked absently at a spot on the deck. “One shiny enough to fuel a war.”

  When the last of the falcons disappeared, Captain Bog turned to Pobble. “Check on Riggs. See what’s wrong with the engine, and report back. Got it?”

  “Aye, Captain.”

  “Kizer, Sprocket, follow me. Make sure every shatterkeg is ready.”

  Jed tailed Pobble to the engine room. The amber-lit corridor stretched half the length of the ship, but it was barely wide enough for two people to walk side by side—well, even one in Pobble’s case.

  Copper pipes walled the passageway. Loose valves leaked puffs of steam, and hidden pistons chugged in the darkness. They passed dripping oil and hissing gauges.

  The engine room was a silver dome. Copper pipes—some thin, some fat—squiggled like veins and arteries all along the curved ceiling and down into the engine. The engine itself stood in the center of the room. It looked alive. Like an angry beast fueled by the wheezing pipes. Lights pulsed on and off: its heart, eyes, and mouth.

  “Hey!” a voice said. “What are you doing down here, Pobble? And who’s that?”

  A man at a cluttered workbench stabbed a finger at Jed.

  “Jed, meet Riggs,” Pobble said. “Our engineer.”

  Riggs didn’t look particularl
y old, but he had more wrinkles than Captain Bog had scars. Grease seeped into his skin, smeared his coat, and stained his shirt.

  Riggs took off his glasses and wiped the lenses. His coat had dozens of pockets sewn on haphazardly. Riggs placed the glasses in an empty pocket, then retrieved a different pair and put them on his nose.

  “I’m Jed.”

  “Do I look like I care?” He lifted a crate of batteries onto his workbench, then began plugging them into slots on the engine. “What are you doing here?”

  “Cap’n wanted to know what was going on with the engine,” Pobble said.

  “Oh, did he?” Riggs said. “Well maybe you could remind him that if he doesn’t want to crash and die in a fireball of regret, he might want to get that defluxor core sooner than later.”

  “Sure thing,” Pobble said. “Fireball…death…regret…fluxa-der-something core. Got it.”

  “A core he promised me last month.”

  “I’ll pass him the message—”

  “Death. And regret,” Riggs said again.

  “Death and regret. I’ll pass it along.” Pobble turned to Jed. “Good-looking engine, huh?” he said cheerfully, as though he hadn’t heard the bite in Riggs’s voice. “Oh, Riggs! You won’t believe what Jed here’s got!” Pobble asked Jed for the can opener and handed it to Riggs. “It’s a can slicer! Opens them faster than slug spit!”

  Riggs pinched it between two fingers like it was a dirty sock. “How…cute,” he said, handing it back to Jed.

  “Riggs is great with tools,” Pobble continued. “Builds all sorts of things.” He pointed to the workbench. Riggs sidestepped in front of them, folding his arms across his chest as if daring Jed to take a step closer.

  “It looks great,” Jed said. “The engine, it’s…nice…and…”

  “And what?” Riggs said. “What does some stray know about four-valve combustion counterflow engine boosters and lead-weighted compound stabilizers?”

  Jed didn’t respond.

  “Nothing,” Riggs said. “Because I just said a bunch of scrap nonsense. But you didn’t know that, did you?”

  “I’m sorry,” Jed said, holding up his hands. “I didn’t mean to offend you. I was just making conversation.”

  “You know what, stray?” Riggs started. “I think—” His eyes paused on Jed’s wrist. He removed his spectacles and took a third pair from yet another pocket and adjusted them on his nose. “That watch,” he said, the knife-edge tone melting into curiosity. “Give me your watch.” His fingers curled into a beckoning motion.

  Jed touched the copper band and fiddled with the clasp.

  The letter. It said to never take off the watch. Ever.

  “Um, well, the clasp is broken and I can’t really get it to…” He pretended to struggle with the band.

  Riggs smiled. “It’s my job to fix things. I’ll have it off before you can say no.”

  “No,” Jed blurted. “I mean, no thanks. I’d rather not take it off. It’s kind of important to me.”

  Riggs smiled again, but darkness lurked behind the grin. “Oh? Then I’ll only look. One quick peek?”

  Jed forced a shrug.

  The engineer walked forward until he was so close that Jed could smell the grease in his frizzy hair. Riggs rubbed the spectacles, then swapped them for yet another pair.

  Who carries that many pairs of glasses?

  “Just don’t touch it,” Jed said as Riggs’s nose nearly pressed into the copper.

  The man held up his hands, then put them behind his back. He hovered near Jed like a mosquito. Hunched over Jed’s wrist, he studied the timepiece.

  “Hmm,” he said with a nod. “Hmm. I see…interesting. Yes…”

  “What’s interesting?” Jed asked.

  Riggs stood upright. “Where did you say you found this?”

  “I didn’t say.”

  “Hmm,” Riggs said, stroking his chin.

  Would you stop muttering “hmm” and just say something already?

  “Well, where did you find it?”

  Jed shifted his weight, trying to inch away from Riggs’s snooping spectacles. “It was a gift.”

  “From?”

  “Just a gift.”

  “Ah.” Riggs nodded. “Just a gift. And does the owner know that they gave you such a gift?”

  Jed’s eyes narrowed. “Are you saying I stole it?”

  “I didn’t say anything of the sort. But you’re so defensive that it almost makes a man wonder.”

  Jed clenched his jaw. “I’m not a thief. This is mine. It doesn’t belong to anyone else, and nobody is missing it. Understand?”

  Riggs’s smile widened, turning the wrinkles in his cheeks into half moons. “Oh, I bet I understand more than you. But don’t worry”—he stole another glance at the watch—“I’ll keep your secret.”

  “What are you talking about? I’m not keeping any secrets!”

  “Of course not,” Riggs said. “The rest of the crew doesn’t need to know.” Pobble stared at the pipes along the wall as if oblivious to the conversation. Riggs patted Pobble on the shoulder. “Pobble here won’t say a word. Will you? Not if you want me to fix your fiddle.”

  Pobble met Riggs’s gaze. “Not a word.”

  “There is no secret!” Jed snapped. “I’m not lying about anything! I didn’t steal this!”

  “Hmm…” Riggs said. “Good to know. Because if someone informed the captain about what’s on your scrawny wrist, things might get uncomfortable.”

  “Are you blackmailing me? Because I don’t even know what you’re trying to blackmail me for!”

  Riggs shook his head. “Blackmail implies that I’m exploiting you for my own gain. We haven’t reached that point yet, have we? We’re just talking. Let’s not make this into something that it isn’t.”

  “That what isn’t?”

  “Exactly,” Riggs said, moving back to his workbench. “I won’t say anything if you don’t.” He picked up a hammer and began flattening a sheet of metal. “Oh, and stray”—he didn’t look up—“I’m ready to talk when you are. But don’t wait too long.”

  Pobble took Jed to the mess to share his promised can of strawberries. But before they’d finished half the can, Sprocket called from the stack, “Steamboat ahead! Half a scope and closing!”

  Jed dropped his strawberry and smiled at Pobble. “My grandfather’s ship!” He ran to the top deck. Black smoke snaked up from the junk ahead and swirled with white clouds above. The stench of scorched metal stung his chest.

  He walked to the railing, squinting at the wreckage. A graveyard of ships littered a blackened field of smoldering junk. Decimated parts lay in heaps. Ashy flakes of debris fluttered in the breeze.

  The falcons from earlier—hundreds of them—lay like shreds of twisted paper. More ships were strewn beside them in broken bits. In the center of the wreckage lay a massive steamboat.

  Fear pulsed through Jed.

  “Looks like we found where the falcons went,” Captain Bog said. “Sprocket,” he called. “Report. What sort of clunk are we looking at?”

  “Copper, iron, dread…they all showed up for the party. Can’t say who won, though—or if anyone did.”

  “Risk of entry?”

  She shrugged. “I can’t see any movement, but I suppose there’s always risk of dread. I’d say risk is low to moderate.”

  Captain Bog nodded. “Take us in, then.”

  Jed’s voice felt unsteady. “What…what happened here?”

  “What do you think?” Captain Bog said. “Bunch of birds squawked at each other for a spell, then decided to all take a little nap together under an ash blanket.”

  “But my grandfather. Where is he? He’s—” Jed scanned the ravaged steamboat. “This isn’t how it’s supposed to be…”

  Captain Bog shrugged. “Piles of dead iron, copper, and dread is exactly how it’s supposed to be, if you ask me.”

  Jed clamped his teeth. “I didn’t.”

  “You didn’t what?”


  “Ask you.”

  “No need for temperament. Just making an observation.”

  Jed searched the heaps for anything still alive. “I was supposed to meet my grandfather. What if he’s…dead? What do I do?”

  Captain Bog looked up as if trying to recall something. “Well, the particulars of this contract were a bit…thin. Bring one passenger here. That’s all. I don’t recall any what-ifs. Now, I could be wrong, but the thing is, I’m never wrong. So the logic doesn’t really check out.”

  “What about Captain Holiday?”

  “The dead man whose contract we took? That Captain Holiday?”

  “Yes. Where’s his ship? Maybe you could bring me there if everyone here is…” The word caught in his throat as he looked at the approaching debris. “If everyone’s dead.”

  “Listen.” Captain Bog rested a hand on Jed’s shoulder. “I don’t mean to sound like I don’t care about your situation, but”—he paused, deciding on his next words—“well, I just don’t care.”

  Jed opened his mouth but didn’t know what to say.

  “We’ll make certain you reach the steamboat safely like the contract states. Sound good?” Before Jed could respond, the captain patted his shoulder. “Excellent. Sprocket! Take us down.”

  “Aye, Cap’n!”

  “What if nobody’s there?” Jed asked. “You can’t just leave me to die!”

  Captain Bog thought for a moment. He tugged a cable bolted to the smokestack. He studied the helm. “Kizer, has Riggs reported more engine problems?”

  “Other than the defluxor core he keeps whining about?”

  “Yup. Other than that.”

  “No.”

  Captain Bog nodded half a dozen times, then turned to Jed. “Ship’s in working order, so I’ll have to strongly disagree. I can, in fact, leave you to die.”

  “But—”

  “Yes?”

  Jed paused. Sob stories wouldn’t change the captain’s mind. This wasn’t a man who brought flowers to hospitals or adopted three-legged puppies.

  No. This was the time to be resourceful. His parents hadn’t raised him to complain when he found himself in uncomfortable situations. They’d taught him SPLAGHETTI for a reason.

  “I just figured you were tired of opening cans with your teeth is all.” The captain raised an eyebrow. “A man such as you might like one of these.” He held up the can opener.