Chapter 11
The Wind Breaker drifted over the city and moored on the fugward side, facing into an almost mystical scene. Just as was the case on the seaward side, the mountains here were perilously steep, forming almost a sheer drop. The dock rose at the end of a long string of lower hilltops connected by suspension bridges. There, a tall tower with massive iron wheels held wires that led down into the fug. Their berth was as near as possible to the cable tower, just a short walk away from the small building at its base. The crew gathered at the railing beside an embossed sign that had formerly labeled the tram with what looked to be a long and official name. At some point in the past someone had helpfully slathered it with paint reading Fugtown Express.
Captain Mack clicked open his stop watch. “So long as the tram is on time, we’ll make it. Coop, the sack.”
Coop held out a small canvas bag. “Samples of our wares, and an up-to-date manifest of all available goods.”
“We used some on repairs, don’t forget.”
“Taken into account, Cap’n.”
He nodded. “Ms. Graus, are you certain you still want to come along? It won’t be pleasant.”
“My mother’s health depends on this. I want to be sure that everything that can be done will be done,” she said.
“Get your mask on then, and make sure you’ve got everything you brought to trade. I’ll talk to the man on the tram, but he’ll be expecting you, so the decision will have already been made.”
“Did you send a message ahead somehow?”
“They’re the fug folk. They’ll know. The rest of you, you’re on leave for a few hours. Decide among yourselves who stays with the ship and meet back there in two hours. Depending on how this goes, we’ll see what’s next for us. And if they have any breadfruit at the market, buy a piece for Wink.”
The crew didn’t wait around to be told twice, vanishing down the catwalk and toward the city proper.
“Now listen closely. It doesn’t matter that you hold the purse strings. When it comes to dealing, the fuggers have all the power. Treat these folk as royalty. Speak only when they speak to you. Be respectful. You’re as close as your country’s ever had to a diplomat to the fug, so you’d best act like it.”
“I’ll conduct myself properly.”
He looked up to the slowly grinding wheel, then checked his watch again. “Sounds like it’s close. Say what you want about these folk, they keep to their schedule.”
Far below, the purple mist parted and an ornate tram rose out of the fug. It was a work of art, as exquisite as anything Nita might have found in her own land. Looping gold-plated filigree covered the outside. The brass-work was polished to a glorious sheen, and the wood was flawless ebony.
“It’s… magnificent.”
“What did you expect?”
“Well, from the way you’ve described them, I expected a ferryman guiding something from the gates of hell.”
“Mmm. And who’s to say this ain’t what that looks like?”
The tram pulled level with the catwalk, and the doors slid open. From inside poured a dense purple fog that swirled about their legs. Even through her leather and canvas leggings, the stuff felt strangely cold. When enough of it drained from within the tram, a man became visible. Nita’s breath caught in her chest. He was gaunt, almost skeletal about the face and wrists. His hair was black with streaks of pure white. He wore it slicked back. Every feature of his face was sharp, with a beaklike nose and pronounced cheekbones. His clean-shaven face revealed every deep line in his stoic expression. Every exposed patch of flesh was an ashen-gray color. Thin eyebrows arched haughtily above the most unsettling eyes she had ever seen. The pupils were enormous, easily twice as large as her own, as large as a normal person’s iris. Around them, a thin ring of gold bled quickly into orange and then a deep red where the whites should have been. His hands were practically talons, long and slender with bony knuckles and black nails. His spine had a serpentine bend to it, hunching down at the top and swooping forward again at the base. It gave his body the vague shape of a question mark. In contrast to his ghoulish appearance were his clothes. They were as elegant as the tram, made from the finest silk and tailored to fit his twisted body expertly. He wore a black suit jacket with tails. A single black button was fastened, revealing a black silk vest and a white lace ascot. His slacks were straight-cut and led down to black socks and pointed black shoes polished to a glassy finish.
He looked to the two of them, turning first to the captain. “Captain McCulloch West. Punctual as always. A pleasure to be working with you again. Step inside, please.” His voice was as sharp and cold as his features. He turned to Nita. “Miss Amanita Graus. It is my great honor to be the first of my people to address a Calderan.” He removed a set of white gloves from his pockets and slipped them on before holding out his hand. “Please, let me help you aboard.”
She glanced to the captain, then took the offered hand and stepped aboard. The door slid quietly shut behind her.
“The tram ride will last twenty-seven minutes. As a Calderan, I believe you’ll find the view from this window to be of particular interest.”
She turned to the window, but her heart was fluttering in her chest. Until now, she thought simply stepping onto the Wind Breaker had been the most harrowing and dangerous decision she could have made. Since then each day had brought new threats. The strange man had called her by name. No one outside her own homeland should know it, save the members of the crew. How did this fug person learn it?
The tram rumbled into motion, swinging subtly from the wires. It trundled downward, drawing ever closer to the purple mist. Her heart pounded harder with each foot they descended. Then, with a soft whoosh, they plunged into it. The dim light of dusk was wiped away, replaced with pitch blackness. The only light came from the cherry-red glow of the captain’s cigar. The tram operator opened a valve on the wall, and the same sickly yellow glow that lit the lower decks of the Wind Breaker filled the tram.
“For your benefit. We of the fug don’t need much light,” he explained.
She felt a strange sensation around her feet and looked down to find that the purple vapor was slipping into the tram, gradually filling it. Captain Mack stubbed out his cigar in an ashtray attached to one wall and cinched his mask in place. Nita tightened the straps on her own. The fug was knee-high now. It felt heavier than the air around it, and where it touched her, it brought the same chill one might get from splashing rubbing alcohol on one’s skin. Her breathing quickened. The fug reached her chest, then her chin. Instinctively she breathed deep and shut her eyes tight when it finally washed over her face. Her eyes burned sharply enough to make them tear.
“The discomfort to your eyes will pass,” their escort said. “You should not feel any lasting effects from exposure to the fug unless you remain immersed for more than forty-eight hours.”
Nita blinked the tears away and looked again to the window. Perhaps it was something the fug had done to her, or perhaps it was simply her vision adjusting, but suddenly she could see a great deal more outside the window. Dull red and green glows pulsed in the field of deep purple.
“The fug is densest in its top layer. Eventually your visibility should reach a mile or so. That glow you see out there is the shipworks. Every airship in the world was built in a facility like that one.”
She stepped closer to the window and squinted. Sure enough, mechanisms and buildings became visible. Unfinished ships with their inner workings exposed drifted through the air. The red glow came from enormous boilers, nearly a match for those back home, but while her own were fueled by the heart of a volcano, these were warmed by massive furnaces that belched fumes and flames. Enormous tubes affixed to pristine envelopes began to swell to shape, spurting puffs of green here and there. Unlike on the surface, where the phlogiston was little more than a bright-green gas, here the stuff was radiant, glowing with the same color as the lights in the tram. Where it sprayed out into the fug, it formed great curli
ng swaths of radiance, like brief but intense tongues of green flame.
Over the next few minutes, Captain Mack sat on one of the plush upholstered seats in the tram while Nita marveled at the otherworldly sights. As they came nearer to the ground, buildings became visible. When they were higher it had been difficult to tell, but now that they were close to the ground it was clear that they had accelerated to a fantastic speed. Street after street whisked by beneath them. It was a whole city, but there was something wrong with it. The streets were empty, lifeless. This wasn’t a city built by the fug folk. This was a city that had been strangled by the fug. It was a remnant of whatever people had lived here before, preserved precisely as it had been when the last of them had died away.
“I believe this place was called Duldrum in the days before the calamity. Most of us who live here now can trace ourselves back to the residents who lived here,” said their escort.
“You mean you are the residents of this place?”
“Indeed. It is true that the fug is usually lethal. But some small percentage of the populous doesn’t die. We change. We are those blessed by whatever quirk of nature permits such a thing,” he said.
“Remarkable…”
“Please take a seat. We will begin to slow now, and it may seem very abrupt.”
She did as she was told and was grateful that she did. The tram shuddered and pressed her into her seat, the escort swaying lightly and gripping a handrail for support. They were almost level with the ground now. A loud screech rang out distantly as the breaks on the cable slowed them further, and finally they coasted to a stop. The tram operator opened the door.
“Follow me,” he said.
He led the way into the eerie ghost town. The streets stretched out on either side, utterly empty of vehicles, animals, or people. The only sounds were the far-off din of industry and the nearby hiss of a steam engine powering the tram. She knew that a few hundred feet above, the sun was only just setting, but here it seemed to be the dead of night. What light there was came from lamp poles tipped with glass bulbs and glowing with green light. Their destination was the former city hall, a sprawling building, gothic in design, and the only place showing even the remotest sign of activity. He pushed open the door and led them up the stairs to an office labeled, simply, Mayor.
“He will see you immediately,” said their escort, pushing open the door.
It was a modest office. An old oil lamp provided a warm amber light that seemed far more inviting than the green light elsewhere. Everything was ancient, but exceptionally well cared for, from the elegant antique desk to the stuffed leather chairs that sat two in front and one behind. The walls were book cases, filled with leather-bound tomes of every sort. Sitting behind the desk was another fug person of much the same description, though of somewhat less-formal dress. He reminded Nita of a clerk, with a simple starched white shirt and bow tie. He wore spectacles, and a waxed mustache, jet black against his gray skin, adorned his lip.
“Ah. Captain West. I do so look forward to doing business with you. And this must be the lovely Miss”—he picked up a sheet of parchment and glanced at it, adjusting his glasses—“Amanita Graus. I understand the others call you Nita. I trust you’ll do me the honor of affording me the same courtesy.”
“Of course.”
“Splendid. My name is Mr. Ebonwhite. I oversee all matters dealing with our trade and communication with the people of Keystone. We shall begin with the old business. Captain West, here you will find your outstanding balance.” He slid a different parchment forward. “I trust you’ll find everything in order.”
Mack glanced over the figures and nodded. “Here’s our manifest. We’ve got enough to balance and a fair amount more to trade. We’d like to restore our usual assortment of goods.”
“Cheerfully done. We’ve taken the liberty of preparing your order in advance.”
“Thank you. We will also require some repairs.”
“Ah, yes. Your encounter with the wailers. We will be happy to oblige. And I must express my relief that Nita here was not injured. It simply would not do for the first Calderan to venture forth in over a century to be killed by a few misguided souls. When you are prepared, send your ship down and we will assess the damage and provide you with a quote for the required service. I understand it will be rather extensive.”
“Ms. Graus here would like to ask for a particular item.”
“Ah, yes. Something medical if I’m not mistaken.”
“I… well, yes. My mother is suffering from a disease. In Caldera it is called Gantt’s Disease. It…” She paused as Mr. Ebonwhite looked away to yet another of the many sheets of parchment arrayed on the table.
“Mmm? Oh, I’m sorry, do continue. Something called Gantt’s Disease. I’m afraid I’m unfamiliar with it.”
“It causes tremors in the fingers. The prognosis is always fatal.”
“Mmm… one moment.” He stood and approached the far wall, running his fingers along one shelf of books and pulling out a thick tome. He brought it to the table and leafed through. “Uncontrollable trembling… gradual loss of dexterity in the extremities… presents itself when the subject is just exiting middle age.”
“Yes, that’s it!”
“As fate would have it, that precise disease was a particularly troublesome one for us in the fug. It is caused by an imbalance in the stomach caused by infection. I understand most of those beyond the fug have a natural immunity that we lack. Fortunately a drug we developed, Tomocin, turned out to be quite effective in treating it, as well as a large number of other diseases.”
“You can treat the disease?”
“In the case of Moloch’s Degenerative Disorder, which is what we call it, the drug is one hundred percent effective. We can cure it. A single course of treatment is enough to permanently eradicate it. Sufferers report a removal of symptoms after a single dose and their complete nonoccurrence after three doses. The disease remains common among us, so we keep a supply on hand.”
Nita’s heart leapt. “Mr. Ebonwhite, I would gladly pay any price if you would provide me enough of the drug to treat my mother.”
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible.”
“Wh—Why not!”
“Well, if you were a trained diplomat, you would be well aware that there can be no friendly relations between any two nations without the mutual observance of the customs and policies of the other. To be quite frank, you have not respected our ways.”
“What did I do?”
“Oh really now, Nita. The repair to the ship’s steam system.”
The captain’s head turned to her. His eyes were almost smoldering with anger.
“I don’t know what you are talking about.”
“Don’t you now? So when Captain West sends his precious Wind Breaker down, if we pull up a recently repaired deck board, we won’t find that a salvaged connector from a two-seat boarding vessel has mysteriously replaced the one that was fractured when that wailer vessel attacked?”
“Mr. Ebonwhite, I assure you—” the captain began.
“Relax, Captain. We are well aware that you were quite diligent in your warnings, and that Nita took great pains to hide her misdeed from you. These extenuating circumstances have been taken into account, and your resulting fine will be quite mild. You will be charged for the parts and labor to replace the offending part, plus a small fee. Nothing beyond what you can easily pay. Nita, on the other hand, will need to wait one full year before we are willing to consider trade with her or, indeed, any Calderan.”
“You—but I—by then my mother will almost certainly have perished.”
“A fate that would have befallen her had you not ventured forth from your homeland. It is hardly my concern.”
“Please! You can’t punish her for what I did! I admit I disobeyed your rules, but there was a life on the line.”
“If it will ease your conscience, I’ll inform you that we wouldn’t have sold you the drug even if you’d been will
ing to respect our customs.”
“Why?”
“Because there is no profit in it.”
“Profit?! But we’re talking about life and death here!”
“Yes, Nita. We are. In the fug, profit is life and death. You saw our city. There is no sunlight here. That means no crops. Very few animals survived the fug, which means no fresh meat. If we are to survive, we must trade our technology for goods from those on the surface. You are asking for something which will cure your mother. That is a single payment. Hardly justifiable.”
“There has got to be a better way. I’ll pay any price! Anything!”
“I have no doubt that you will pay any price, but the simple fact is that you will only ever pay that price once. It would be different if this were a drug that had to be taken again and again, for years and years. The problem is that it is a cure. You’ll need it only once, and then you won’t need us anymore. We must cultivate our dealings with you and your like as a farmer would a crop. And a crop you can only ever harvest once is no crop at all.”
“Surely we can find a way to trade fairly.”
“Oh no. There are very few of us, and quite a few of you. Fair is unacceptable. It would afford us too little. No, in order for us to survive, the balance must be quite heavily in our favor. We trade our disposable goods and, more importantly, our services, and we take those steps necessary to ensure that those services will always be in high demand.”
“How can you be so—?”
“Oh, good heavens, look at the time. I’m terribly sorry, but there are other meetings to prepare for. Captain West, if you’d take your samples to our treasurer for appraisal, we’ll settle the additional fees. Nita, you are dismissed. Thank you for your visit, and I do hope to see you again next year, provided you are more willing to behave yourself. Though the treatment you seek is not for sale, I feel certain your people will find we have much else to offer. Good day!”
He plucked a silver bell from the table and tinkled it, summoning the escort to the room, who firmly took Nita’s hand and led her out of the office and into the street.
Free-Wrench, no. 1 Page 12
