by Kin Law
“Thank you,” I said cautiously. Just as carefully, I took a sip of the drink set before me. Mischievous Hermes, god of pens! The stuff was marvelous! I took a deeper gulp, unsure of the smoothness flowing down my throat, warming my core. Tea? This stuff brought me back to the first time I had tea, at my mum’s knee in our rundown flat in Brixton.
“Good, isn’t it?”
“Seven hells it’s good! What is it?”
“Hong Kong milk tea. The smoothness comes from pouring it back and forth, I’m sure you saw. It mellows the tanins,” Clemens said, doing smackings of the tongue to indicate thze back of the palate.
“I’m afraid I rather had a mistaken idea of you, Captain,” I said, my breath steaming up everything in front of me. “Evil would immolate at the very first scent of this holy beverage.”
“You’ve a way with words, that’s good,” Clemens said amiably. “I may have a use for your talents soon.”
“Mmm?” I answered, busy draining my mug.
“You are, of course, free to leave the Huckleberry whenever you want,” he said.
“My hospitality extends to any port of your choice. My advice would be to find the nearest, which would be either Brighton or Le Havre, depending on your preference. Or, you can stay, help, and likely find a story or two aboard.”
“Hold on,” I said, getting my bearings in the aftermath of the wanton beverage. “You mean to say we’re over the Channel? Still within English jurisdiction?”
“Yes,” Clemens said calmly.
“But you’re a wanted criminal! No offense,” I protested, peering about quite foolishly. Of course, the bulkheads showed no sign of the Navy or the Royal Air Service ships in pursuit.
The large galley windows offered a splendid view of the sunrise, doubtless a service granted by her mysterious helmsman. From the way Clemens laid his mug atop the sill, I suspected the handsome pose of the ship’s captain was not cut for my benefit, but something he enjoyed freely.
His mahogany eyes peered calmly into mine under leather goggle lenses, with no fear of any dirigible appearing behind him.
“All right,” I submitted. “You’re obviously a dab hand at this business, as you’ve no rope on your shoulders. What could I possibly offer you?”
Captain Clemens wasted no time.
“It relates to my conversation with Inspector Hargreaves. She’s offered me some insight into my business in Portsmouth. I suppose we should start with this.” He briskly produced a photogram from his pocket. I perused it thoughtfully- a white-haired, American gentleman, from the frontier West, no less, in a rather sharp suit.
“His face is unknown to me,” I said finally. “But my paper contacts may offer some insight.”
“Bollocks,” Clemens cursed. “I was betting you might have seen this face before.”
“I take it this man might be responsible for something particularly infamous? Captain Clemens, sketches of many men cross our presses, and I am simply one journalist.”
“No Captain, please. Albion will do,” Clemens protested enigmatically. He explained. “This man is the real Manchu Marauder, in a way,” he continued, “and the real owner of this ship. I am currently on a quest to recover him. His name is Captain Samuel J. Clemens, and this is his pressed-helium steam dirigible, the pirate ship Huckleberry.”
I may have imagined it, but the ship seemed to dip in acknowledgment, giving a slight shudder all about us.
“The names are unfamiliar. I know of you, and your ship, naturally by the mouths of airmen, but as your description fit the general pirate accounts, this is the first I’ve known of the actual names of her Captain,” I said. All the while, I was thinking: Now he has got no use for me, I shall be run off the plank for sure. Somehow, the notion bore no fear, rather, craftiness I hadn’t felt since...
“But I have contacts on the ground who might be of use!” I continued hastily.
Clemens perused me thoughtfully.
“Are you quite sure? You would be aiding and abetting pirate activities. They might hang you.”
“I believe I am well hanged, at least in the eyes of the press,” I supplied. Indeed, I may as well have been hanged; my articles hadn’t been getting much traction, and even the job I embarked on with Clive and Staples had been a long shot. I had about as well a chance of surviving up here, in the care of a literal cutthroat, than down on the ground with the editorial breed. “My work is considered… subversive.”
“Progressive would have been my choice,” Clemens said. He rubbed his temple thoughtfully. “Don’t you have an article to be writing?”
“I told my editor I would deliver a piece on the cutpurses of England. What greater cutpurse is there than the Bandit of Budapest, the Crook Cathay, the Kleptomaniac of Kyoto?”
“All right, I get your point!” Clemens abruptly protested. “Blue blazes, how many names have they for me?”
“I threw in a few of my own,” I admitted. “Pyongyang Purloiner came to mind.”
“Let’s not go there today,” the Oriental said, standing up. “What say you? Stay on with us, until your article is written? I daresay there’s a mystery in it. My Captain Sam appears to have taken something of extreme value, at least according to the cheeky rozzer down in my brig. He also seems to be involved in the theft of a major British monument, if you believe such a thing can be done.”
I winced as his hand emerged from his pocket, but no heavy black pistol was attached. Sheepishly, I reached out to take his hand.
“To a plentiful partnership,” I said.
“To not getting hanged,” he said, grinning.
And it was so. Little could I know, but from that moment on, I became a member of the Huckleberry’s crew.
4.3: Figure-Four Holds {Rosa}
The small, unremarkable bottle ginger exiting the galley didn’t surprise me so much as Albion’s expression beside him. There were few in the skies I could not read. My Captain could evade my piercing gaze, and often did. Today, there was obvious hope glinting out of his eyes.
We had spent the better part of the last two years hunting Albion’s adoptive father. I’d joined him long before, and since the news of Samuel’s return, we had done far less pirating than I preferred. I was starting to think I should never have joined this silly crew, handsome Captain or no. Had we finally stumbled across a clue? It would lift the dark cloud hanging over his brow, at the least.
“Hello there gorgeous. I see you’ve caught yourself a tabby, Alby,” I said, drawing their attention with a flick of my skirts.
I was wearing several layers of them, an embroidered scene on a green field, over Egyptian cotton and French lace, bound under a brazenly immodest bodice. My wrists were dabbed with jasmine, wafting where I wished. My lashes twinkled with dewdrop rhinestones, and a headscarf matching the skirts held back my lush toffee locks. All the fabric hid my numerous barbs and blades neatly.
All right, I was trying. I hadn’t seen Albion in a week, and I knew the English tended towards a pasty paleness surely irresistible to his Asiatic persuasion. It was my latest theory. No matter how much of my mocha skin I showed him, nothing seemed to shake his ascetic attitude towards me. It was the dancer in me to include the other man in my audience, I admit, but my vanity wasn’t for naught. The resulting slack-jawed stare from the ginger was worth it. As usual, Albion’s own stone stare gave no hint of even the slightest appreciation. Prick.
“Rosa Marija, this is Elric Blair. She is my helmswoman and first mate. Rosa, there was a bit of altercation, but the newspaper man might be able to help us find Captain Sam.”
“I suppose the Inspector might be of more assistance,” Blair said, “but I have a notion.”
“A cat and a hound. You have been busy,” I interjected. “When did we start giving the pigs room and board?”
“I know you’re not keen on it,” Albion said, “But she is no ordinary Inspector. She has ties to the Queen of England, and if what we’re hearing is true, we might need them.”
For the life of me, it was difficult to fathom how somebody higher up in the British government could do anything but hang us more thoroughly.
Momentarily, I imagined this female Inspector: chiseled jaw, gray streaked through her hair, a riding crop in her knickers.
“No. I say we throw her overboard, we’re low enough and close enough to land.”
“Rosa, you know better than to ask that of me,” he chastised lightly. He pointed Blair to one of the narrow quarters nearby, and swept down the hall. Blair, the ginger, shrugged.
“It was very nice to meet you,” he said, entering the room.
“Eh. Albion!” I called, following my Captain.
I kept badgering the man, but as usual, his broad back seemed to deflect commentary as he stalked down the passages of his ship. We swept through, heading towards the bridge. The Berry hummed pleasantly, and it was hard not to think of her as my ship. I had spent the week with old man Cid Tanner, tuning her within an inch of her life. She was ready for anything.
“You have to give me something. What is this Inspector like? Old and dried up, I presume, with an axe to grind about some dirigible raiders who burned her house as a girl?” I hazarded a guess.
“Rosa, you have a habit of spinning tall tales. Was it all the frontier living?” He asked. “It wasn’t a command to stop, by the way. It’s very entertaining.”
“And you have a bad habit of not involving us in your plans,” I grumbled. It stopped him in his tracks.
“Yes,” he agreed. “I do. I’m working on that, all right? It’s hard for me to… share, with you all.”
Again, the dark cloud hovered over his brow. He had a million things behind the emotionless mask.
The people who even came close to understanding Albion were all on this ship. We didn’t ask what he was planning, because we always slipped by the noose, but this was different.
“Let’s start small,” I said gently. “What will you do with the Inspector?”
“I agreed not to harm her,” he began, grateful for a place to start. “Vanessa Hargreaves will likely be more flexible with her information after a few days in the brig. For now, let’s go investigate her claims. I never trusted a pretty blonde with a sound head on her shoulders.”
We had scoured the skies for information already, but if Albion had a lead from this Inspector, I was willing to comb every way station and seedy dive this side of the Atlantic, all over again. It took a moment for me to register the descriptor, and Albion’s implications.
“Wait, what?” I yelled. “A pretty Inspector? A blonde, pretty female Inspector?”
I fair flew down the hall, and while my Captain expected it, he could not dodge my expertly applied figure-four hold, launched like a vice from a cannon. As he gasped in pain, I applied the metaphorical thumbscrews.
“Ack! Give! Give!”
“Now you tell me the who and the why of it. You had better have been honorable with this Hargreaves, or so help me, I will break your arm. You know I can put it back together!”
“I was, I was!”
“Bull!” Still, it was hard not to give in to the temptation. Albion had never called me ‘pretty,’ before.
“Save your rancor for the rabble,” Albion gasped. I loosened my hold, slightly. “We’re sailing for the Hook. I just hope they won’t remember they banned me.”
5:The Straight Hook, Kitty Desperado, Blair gets Lucky
Floating somewhere near the Isle of Man is a motely collection of junked junks, busted barges, and other rubbish loosely roped together. If an airship mistakes this floating spider’s web as a plethora of garbage, its crew would curse themselves and nine generations of their kin. This particular flying structure is the world-famous Straight Hook, the tavern of taverns, and favorite watering hole of air pirates across Europe.
After I wrangled the exact circumstances of the Inspector’s arrival from Alby and sniffed him for remnants of perfume, he shared the details of his conversation with me. Claims of national monuments disappearing were outlandish, but the chatter over the ether spike had been building up to something big for days. From far Kyoto to San Francisco, ballooning brigands everywhere were all a titter.
We decided the best place to start were the rumor-infested catwalks of the Hook. If anyone had news of the Leviathan in recent days, the airmen of the Hook would. Ostensibly, we came to look into the truth of Inspector Hargreaves’ tall tales of an airship legend come to life. Really, we tended to find ourselves at the Hook whenever we had a couple coins to rub together.
On a scale of sad birthday clown to mid-air orgy, the place could only be described as epic. Her tiers of bustling bars, private rooms and cloistered cat-petting lounges were not only havens of inebriation, but also clusters of the best rumor and hearsay this side of Istanbul.
Patrons still recall fondly the legendary Millbeard, he of the windmill in his beard, may your arguments ever be invalid, and the night he fell off the edge of a whisky lounge, landing four decks down into a gin palace full of naked wenches.
I know for a fact this particular story is true. He tore my favorite fishnets on the way down.
So where had the Hook come from? Who had lashed the first balloon to the first keg of ale? Not one of us knew. Occasionally one could see a glimpse of the real masterminds, with helium in their blood. They left marks scrawled on impromptu signage and pinned to cork boards: the Incognito- the true power of the place. Their signs slunk under and around everything, simultaneously a comfort and a caution to those in the know; they were legion, inescapable. The skulls, question marks, and masks were a reminder of the power in this place, and the unspoken credo passed from pirate to pirate in hushed whispers and grudging alliances. Yet, even they were only residents, denizens of a place that seemed to exist in utter defiance of all outside authority. The Straight Hook was a place truly neutral, since not a single person knew whom to blame for it.
With the Berry docked, we found the splintery platforms full to bursting with other vessels- not only pirates, but freighters and other rabble. We recognized the pirates’ ships, some we knew from saucy knocking about, others for their barely disguised weapons.
As for watering holes, there were the usual suspects, of course. The old commonwealth lines were well dug, with Tony Finnigan holding down the west side whisky joints and Maude ‘Momma’ Wilkes fielding gin palaces dawn side.
Gypsy caravans bobbed far overhead, roped conveniently to an upper quadrant where hunters of romance could find game. Everywhere sprouted the usual oddment of characters: purveyors of all kinds, conspiracy nutters, feline fanatics. The unsavory lot generally stuck to the deep parts of the Hook, where the slaver ships, the politicos and the abattoirs clung by thin strands of hemp netting and tolerance.
At our favorite pub somewhere in the periphery of the Hook, we soon discovered the reason for such an impromptu gathering. It was a bubbling cauldron of rumor, but not over what had happened at Westminster. The fact those few blocks of John Bull were gone was undeniable truth. We also learned the Eiffel Tower had gone, this time straight past the torched remains of the French dirigible defense, but it was through idle chatter, of no importance. Whodunit and for what dastardly purpose, everyone seemed to have a theory, but those voices were completely eclipsed by the news of the recent plundering of the Chandler Polaris, a diamond the size of an apricot.
Those few still interested claimed it was the new American birds, ironclad despite the weight, flying in the night to settle with the English a centuries-old grudge. One man linked it to the Ottoman push west, claiming the theft was an effort to distract the English aerial armada so “those stinking Turks can again fill our wine valleys with borscht. Mon Dieu!” As usual, it was impossible to separate truth from fiction at the Hook.
Somewhere in the sea of bumping beer bellies and voluptuous whores, Albion picked out a friend- Alice Hanson of the Havana Hansons, a pirate family usually based in the Caribbean.
Clutching a tot of scotch in one hand and
a pint of Irish black in the other, I leaned over a couple of dandy darlings passed out on the floor and gave her a peck on her espresso cheeks.
“Lez find somewhere quiet!” Alice shouted, taking our drinks with us. We fit right in, just another merry band linked at the elbows so we didn’t topple drunkenly over the edges of the narrow catwalks. The Hook is a twenty-four hour, nonstop bar crawl, blessed by high-altitude winds across a sapphire sea, and such things as falling inebriates were commonplace.
There were four of us: Hanson, myself, Albion, and Blair, who had disembarked enthusiastically preparing his photogrammer. Strolling along under starlight peeping like sprites between the boards, we found an absinthe abbey with a very quiet clientele. Etched glass and chrome marked deep the enchanted garden, decorated sporadically in cherubs and unicorns, pleasant nonsense with as little to do with wormwood-addled nightmares as possible. Nobody likes harsh noises or sudden movements when visiting the green fairy. The gentle ambiance was tinted with the piano on a gramophone, perfect for a discrete conversation.
“Last I heard,” Alby said to Alice as he set up slotted spoons with a deft hand, “you were taking down sugar shipments down by Trinidad. Felt like something a bit more starchy?”
“I ‘ave no beef with ze Celts,” Alice Hanson said, her island accent thick with a unique blend of French and something more exotic.
Her robust African physique retained the high cheekbones and Nordic nose of her surname, but her skin was midnight-dark, rich with swirling tattoos like spirit in a dizzying hard coffee.
Not to mention, she was a joy to speak with.
I envied the way her long dreads held the odd barb or spare ammunition. Ample cleavage can only hold so much.
“How’s tricks?” I asked, more to stop the journalist Blair from jumping the woman. He seemed about to burst out in song looking at Alice’s chin. Jealous much, Rosa? I asked myself. I was glad Hanson had known Albion for years; the way they horsed around, the casual arm thrown over a shoulder. They were things he did to brothers.
