Gaia's Brood

by Nick Travers

  Chapter 29

  We limp our way to the nearest trading station for repairs, a small, ram-shackled balloon settlement of twenty or so ancient wooden dwellings, called Cutter’s End.

  The residents have the feral look of the half-starved. The trading station itself seems to have a plentiful supply of cord and Chloral-voltaic patching material, but little else.

  The store keeper, a sallow, greasy haired woman, with a single blackened peg tooth, projecting from her upper gum, quotes a ridiculously high price for the fabric. She stares intently at me, with a canny eye, the whole time Izzy barters the price down.

  I can tell she knows our game—play, so rather than wait for Izzy to approach me for authority to buy at the requested price, which I would deny, I step straight in with the direct approach. “It’s like this, either we buy just enough fabric to patch up our ship’s blimp, to get us safely to a larger trading post or we buy all we need at half your price. Do we have a deal?”

  “Dunno.” She shows me her rotten peg of a tooth. “Have to ask the boss.”

  I curse inwardly. She is turning the tables on me—playing the same game I’d started. “I’ll send the boss down to the dock to speak with you, tonight.”

  These people aren’t just wily, they’re cunning.

  Note to self, “Tread carefully.”

  The most striking things about this place are the absences: no children, no young people, no hope. I guess no one here is fertile—the curse of our times. A dying community, a place of desperation, a place for the hopeless and the lawless.

  Without children a community loses hope; it dies spiritually as well as physically. The people of his place are past caring.

  Instinctively, I know this is the most dangerous place we have visited yet. We keep our weapons handy and stay close to the Shonti Bloom, busying ourselves patching the internal hydrogen reservoirs and tidying up the blimp while we wait for dusk.

  At sunset, a small group of men, with a couple of ferocious dogs in tow, approach the dock. All look thin and unkept. They wear long overcoats, the sort that can easily conceal a weapon. Those without dogs have one hand buried deep in their pockets. A bearded individual, distinguished by a shaggy fur coat, strides purposely in the center of the group, brandishing a vicious looking staff; the others take care to stay one pace behind their leader. One man carries a basket over his shoulder.

  Trouble.

  “Izzy, Fernando, crossbows!” I order. “Cover me but keep out of sight. Trent, Scud, get ready to cut the mooring lines for a fast get away.”

  My crew scuttles around the deck below the level of the hand rail, collecting their tools and weapons. I wait at the top of the gangplank.

  The group halts on the dock side and the leader steps forward. “I wannna speak to the Captain,” he growls.

  “You are.”

  “A might young to be a Captain, ain’t ya?”

  “Old enough.” I wonder how old, in his mind, I have to be before he takes me seriously as a ship’s captain.

  He thrusts his hand out towards me, forcing me to descend the gang plank to keep up a friendly pretense. I feel exposed—only slightly comforted by the thought of Izzy and Fernando covering me with crossbows.

  “Jed, pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  I take his hand, which feels gritty and oily. “Nina, likewise.”

  “I bin 'earing about you.”

  Uh oh. “All bad I hope. Now what about the cost of this cloth?”

  He sucks on his teeth, broken and yellowing. “Ah, we got a problem there. You see, if I meets your price, I ain’t got enough to fuel this ol ship.” He jerks a thumb over his shoulder at an airship even more decrepit than the Shonti Bloom—not that I’m admitting the Shonti Bloom is in anyway decrepit. “An’ if I can’t fuel me ship, I can’t collect no medical supplies which we urgently need.”

  For a moment I wonder why they need medical supplies so urgently then I realize he’s trying to playing on my sympathies. “What’s that got to do with us?” I don’t suppose they get many opportunities for trade, but that’s no reason to fleece us.

  “You look a generous sort, maybe you’d pay a bit extra to help out poor folks. We need those medical supplies, see—it’s the children that’s suffering the most.”

  For a moment I feel a pang of guilt, but not for long. Children? What children? Now I know he’s lying. “We’ll just take enough to get us to the next trading station then.”

  Jed fidgets from one foot to the next. “Now see, that ain’t no good to us either.” The goons rummage deeper in their pockets and I’m pretty sure they don’t have shotguns under their overcoats, but can I take the risk I’m wrong?

  Jed steps forward, narrowing the gap between us. I feel an overwhelming urge to step back, but that would show weakness. I hold my ground.

  “How about you pay up front, at your price, for all the fabric you want, but I supply only enough to get you moving until you return with our medical supplies.”

  I bet whatever the supplies are they’re not medical. I bet they’re not legal either. Time to leave, though there’s no guarantee Jed will let us go easily. “How about we move on and leave you in peace.” I deliberately turn my back on him to walk away.

  Big mistake.

  Suddenly, he’s grabbed me from behind and has a knife at my throat.

  “I think we’ll do this my way,” he growls, breathing fouls smelling breath all over me.

  The breath is worse than the knife. “My crew,” I gasp. “Have crossbows on you.”

  “That won’t ‘elp you. Even if they are crack shots, I’ll still have your throat cut.” He presses the blade harder against my skin for emphasis. “Before they can kill me.”

  He is, of course right, but my mind still wizzes with ideas, searching for a possible solution. I don’t find any so I give in. “I’m sure we can work something out.”

  “That’s better.”

  Then a solution presents itself, but not one I would have chosen. Trent walks slowly down the gangplank, his hands palm out so everyone can see he is not armed. “I can’t let you take her,” he says. He looks scared—that makes him brave, doesn’t it?

  “Ah the real Captain.” Jed laughs. “Thought I didn’t know the ol’ ‘Swap the Captain with a crew member routine,’ did you?”

  I can’t bear the thought Trent is offering himself up instead of me. Any lingering doubts about his loyalty evaporate instantly,

  I protest. “Don’t do this.”

  But Trent winks as he passes. “Better get back to the bridge. I owe you.”

  Now Trent is playing the martyr.

  Jed instructs one of his gang to hold Trent before letting me free. “You got six days to come back for yourn crew, or I send word to the constables.” He indicates the man with the basket and I see there’s a pigeon flapping round inside. Then he takes a stack of cloth from another man and dumps it in my arms. The bundle is surprisingly light, maybe Jed’s cheated on even this much.

  At the bottom of the gangplank I turn back to face Jed. Trent is stony faced and avoiding my gaze. “Just remember, if you want your medical supplies in one piece, we need him back undamaged.”

  I stomp up the gangplank, my mind a whirl of emotions. Rage and frustration at being so easily manipulated; guilt at leaving Trent; relief at getting away, guilt about feeling relief; fear I might not be able to deliver. I dump the cloth below deck and use the action to wipe away a tear of frustration so the crew doesn’t see. I have to succeed. I have to retrieve Trent.

  “Okay, guys, we’ll just have to make running repairs as we go. Let’s get out of here.”