Gaia's Brood

by Nick Travers

  Chapter 6

  “You could have told me where we were going,” Izzy grumbles.

  I could have and I should have, but everything was too frantic last night. And since then I’ve been too busy, I lie to myself. Besides, where did she think we were going to pick up supplies? If I’d told her before we left she might not have crewed for me at all.

  I peer through a telescope at the trading platform on the horizon, which we are fast approaching. Unlike New Frisco, the fragile wooden structure of decks and suspended boardwalks rely entirely on hydrogen balloons to maintain altitude. A large warehouse dominates the single deck, the “Shop,” surrounded by a mass of docks for visiting airships.

  “I’m not sure there’s anyone home,” Izzy says, “looks deserted.”

  The Shonti Bloom limped along all night on one spluttering bio-engine, then at dawn we dived into a bank of cumulus cloud. No sign of pursuit, but I know Jack McGraw won’t give up that easy—he has a Father to impress. Inside the cloud cover we changed direction and headed west––a course that took us out over the open sea and ended at Uncle Felix’s trading station.

  Just like me, mother would have stopped for supplies as she headed off on her last trip. If anyone knew where she was headed, it’s Uncle Felix.

  As the first rays of dawn strike the photo-voltaic fabric of the blimp, the battery cells swell with energy and Scud activates the tail. I sigh with relief as the Shonti Bloom picks up speed—at least there’s nothing wrong with her main propulsion.

  Electronic synapses, built into the rear third of the blimp’s semi-rigid skeleton, snap up and down with alternating electric currents. This causes the large tail flukes to churn the air powering us forward with great sweeps: maximum thrust, minimum energy.

  I cut the sick bio-engine. With more momentum, I can now engage the forward fins to improve the steering.

  Free at last of the clanking engine and sluggish rudder, the Shonti Bloom soars through the air like a porpoise skimming the clouds. My heart soars too—this is what flying is all about: the rush of adrenalin as you ride the breeze, the sheer joy of surfing the eddies, and the flow of the currents. Everyone thinks I joined the Pilot’s Guild to follow in my Mother’s footsteps, but the real reason is the joy I’m now experiencing. One trip in my Mother’s airship, as a young girl, and I was smitten. I just love the sensation of flying—it’s all I’ve ever wanted to do.

  Fernando tries to snatch the telescope from Izzy. She ducks out of reach of his grasping hands. “Mine. I got here first.”

  When I visited the trading station as a kid, before mother left, I remember it constantly bustling with activity—a stream of noise and color; traders, post packets, and leisure yachts docking, and departing all the time. I know Reavers have killed off much of the leisure traffic since then and our skies are generally quieter (most traders travel in convoys as protection against Reaver raiding parties), but surely things can’t have changed that much.

  This inactivity worries me. Something is definitely wrong. I train my telescope on the floating rig. A stab of fear chills my heart, a ragged black flag flutters from one of the supporting cables: Plague.

  “We’re still going in,” I say, determined to find out what I can from Uncle Felix about my mother’s last trip—even if he is at death’s door. How dangerous can it be?

  “Not until we’ve voted,” Fernando declares, “No Captain can make a decision like that, Nina. Not without the crew’s consent. Guild rules, remember.”

  I was hoping no one would remember, but he’s right.

  Scud searches me out from his seat in front of the wheel. “Guild rules must be obeyed, Nina. We don’t even know whether your uncle is alive.”

  I have lost the argument before I’ve even begun, so I might as well be gracious. I don’t want a mutiny on my very first day as captain.

  Fernando is right—Guild rules clearly state all ships must avoid a plague flag, unless three quarters of the crew agree to take the risk, by vote. It is one of the few occasions when the Captain loses their authority. Then that ship must fly a plague flag themselves until quarantined and given a clean bill of health.

  Fernando puts the motion before I can even phrase it in my own mind.

  “Raise your hand if you are prepared to take the risk of plague,” he declares.

  What really annoys me is that last time I checked I was the Captain. Who commands this crew? I guess I have some competition,

  Fernando lifts his eyebrows in surprise when Izzy reluctantly raises her hand along with me and Scud. He was counting on Izzy supporting his rebellion, but I know better—I know her secret. She might have been reluctant to come this way, but now I’ve forced her here, there is no way she’s going to leave without knowing what is happening on that trading platform.

  Fernando has misjudged and I take full advantage of his confusion to reassert my command. “That’s a clear majority then. Do you want us to drop you off somewhere first, Fernando, or are you coming in with us?”

  “If you are going, I might as well come with you,” he mumbles.

  I release my breath and hear Izzy doing the same from across the deck. “Great, well you steer us in, Fernando, and I’ll go record the vote.” I escape to my cabin.

  Sitting on the bunk holding my shaking hands, I am unable to write in the open ship’s journal. In flight school they teach that authority is something you either have naturally, as part of your personality, or something you acquire through experience in a process called character building. I take deep breaths in an attempt to still my shaking hands; I guess this is the character building part.

  After a while, I force myself to concentrate on writing neatly in the log, then sit back to admire my work—a bit shaky, but not bad. I take a few more deep breaths before returning to the deck to supervise the Shonti Bloom as she bumps her way into one of the silent docks. My crew, business-like once more, though at least one is storing up a grudge for later, leap to the deck and secure the mooring ropes.

  The platform is deserted, except for the creaking of boards and the crackling of the shredded plague flag in the wind—it must have been there a while. I wonder if we are too late and everyone has either left or died.

  I heft my trusty Whisper just in case.

  Fernando’s eye’s almost pop out of his head when I produce the weapon from my cabin. He glances down at the bog-standard crossbow he’s drawn from the armory. “Hell’s teeth, Nina, that’s a top-of-the-range assassin’s weapon. Where’d you get that?”

  The others, of course already know about the Whipser. Izzy even has the grace to still look a bit guilty when she sees it, and so she should. “It was given to me—but that’s another story.”

  The Whisper, self-loading crossbow, is my absolutely favorite weapon. You can tell when something is well made simply because it feels good to use. It’s an awesome piece of engineering: light, accurate, powerful enough to drive a bolt straight through a man, and the compression air canister reloads the tension wire with barely a sigh, then slips in a new bolt from the magazine with a satisfying, but barely audible, click.

  I have two tiny pistol versions to complete the set, but those bolts are so small they have to be tipped with knockout drugs to have any real effect; their range is short and the air canisters always need topping up. On a mission like this, which could turn out to be a Reaver trap, maximum fire power is required.

  Nothing stirs except us. The silence is oppressive. None of us talk as we thread our way towards the shop, through piles of parts, seemingly scatted at random. A neat mound of rope reminds me of my precarious ride the previous night. At the very least, I need to replace the mooring ropes while I’m here. Some green tarp snapping in the breeze draws my attention to a couple of Evinrude bio-engines peeking out from under the canvas. I make a mental note to ask Uncle Felix if I can swap them for the sick engines on the Shonti Bloom. He’ll say no, but he might offer me some spare parts instead.

  When in need, always ask—you neve
r know where such conversations will go unless you try.

  At first, when we enter the cavernous warehouse, I think the place has been looted. Stock, which I remember from childhood being stacked to the ceiling in neat piles, is scattered everywhere. We pick our way to the main desk, the heart of Uncle Felix’s operation, careful to keep every corner covered by our crossbows.

  Here papers invoices cover the floor; business ledgers are strewn across the long counter-top, many of them open; my Uncle’s prized books have been raked out of their bookshelves into a heap on the floor; every tin, box, and draw from the ceiling high cupboard behind the counter, that had always so impressed me as a child, has been opened––now the stack gapes like a jaw full of missing teeth.

  Not looting—something else has happened here: the place has been turned over. Someone has searched thoroughly for something, but not Uncle Felix who could instantly locate anything in this labyrinth. Then I spot something even more alarming.

  Among the scattered stock and papers on the floor, a trail of blood leads deeper into the gloom of the shop. My heart starts thumping hard in my chest. I fear the worst as I follow the trail.

  At the foot of a narrow staircase, hemmed in by his precious bookshelves, I find Uncle Felix. Dead.

  The smell is dreadful.

  Like dummies, we stand and stare at the corpse not knowing what to do. I remember the man I once knew, rough but fair, gruff but reassuring. I feel a pang of loss, but is it for Uncle Felix or for the happy childhood I once shared with my Mother in which this man was featured. After my mother’s death, I hardly ever saw the guy. I look across at Izzy. She is stony faced—at least I had known the guy at little.

  Scud is hiding behind Fernando, death makes him anxious. I’ve seen my fair share of corpses, who hasn’t, and it still make me feel anxious, but when Scud is anxious he wants to hide from the whole world.

  I wave him forward. “Do you think he died of plague?” Scud pulls a face then crouches down to examine the corpse and places his weapon on the floor. He is only looking because I asked him. I am certain Scud would never do something like this for anyone else. I can see his lips moving as he silently counts square numbers in his head, to divert himself from thinking directly about the dead person in front of him.

  Scud carefully examines Uncle Felix’s head, ears, and neck, then the rest of his body. Finally he stands and turns his back on the corpse and takes a deep breath. “He was stabbed in the abdomen.”

  I remember the frequent fights at the trading station, for which, much to my annoyance, my Mother would bustle me into a back room out of sight. Felix loved a good scrap and often, after he dived in to break it up, he would be the only one left standing. “No one with a knife could have gotten within an arms—length of him.”

  “Must have been someone he knew well then,” Fernando says looking very pale, and I realize I have spoken my thought out loud. I’m concerned Fernando might heave, but he does have a point.

  Scud is poking round in the wreck of the shop. “He wouldn’t die straight away from a wound like that. He would slowly bleed to death. That’s why there’s so much blood.”

  I glance across at Izzy. She is still staring at the corpse, unmoved.

  I take Scud to one side. “Please don’t make this any worse than it is, I think Izzy is in shock.”

  “I know, but look, I’m right.” He strides across the floor, stepping across fallen objects. “He was stabbed right over here.”

  I kick myself for trying to quieten Scud by appealing to his emotions: Scud doesn’t do empathy.

  He waves at a table still containing two mugs, too engrossed now in his theory to listen to me or anyone else. “Then he crawled to the main desk, where he must have spent some time, because there’s loads of dried blood here, and pulled the knife out, because that’s still here too. Finally, he crawled to the foot of the stairs where his strength gave out and he died.”

  “So why is there blood up these stairs then,” Fernando asks, happy as always to prove Scud wrong, which is a rare event. He is right; there is blood on several higher steps. Uncle Felix must have climbed the stairs. “Look at the way he’s laying. He must have fallen down the steps.”

  I am grateful to concentrate on something other than the corpse. Before anyone else can move, I cross to the steps and climb up. I push my Whisper through the opening first.

  Something flaps by my head and I quickly duck. Bats? I hate bats. Just the thought they might get tangled in my hair is enough to send cold shivers cascading down my spine. I wait for my eyes to adjust to the gloom of the loft, then chance another look.

  This time nothing attacks me. Layer upon layer of small cages filled the small loft. Pigeons. Each cage contains a single bird, neatly labelled with its destination. I recognize the names as mail hubs. Only one cage is empty: Westward Passage.

  I descend the stairs to inform the others of my discovery. “Looks like Felix got off a last message to Westward Passage.”

  Izzy looks up from the corpse at last. “Who to?”

  “Who would you write a last message to?”