by Kin S. Law
I waited one moment, looking at the busily flitting Albion with naked admiration. The cool way he processed the information, the way he reacted to the news of the Leviathan...he had even taken off the ridiculous coat, exposing the cutlass and Colt, and his sleeves were rolled back. Albion never gave himself enough credit, even when he was protecting his own. It was like he was trying to live up to something all the time. Even with Nessie...What are you doing, Rosa? Helm! Now!”
I jumped in, tackling the nitty-gritty of preparing for battle.
When I actually thought about it, later, I realized Nessie Drake hadn’t wished the crew of the ’Berry harm. It was simply the pirate way. Nessie knew the Manchu Marauder was a capable captain. I had chosen to crew with Clemens, not Drake. Though Nessie had an understanding about it, it was difficult for her to say aloud, and so this was the way she had chosen. She had offered Albion a choice clothed in a betrayal; stay and help, or abandon Nessie for a reason anybody would understand. Nessie had even volunteered the information about Captain Sam without asking for anything in return. That was something I had never seen any pirate do, let alone one of Countess Nessie Drake’s influence.
For the moment, though, I was bloody pissed. Here I was, worried sick about Nessie, and she had thought of everything. Nessie was lucky I was too busy to take my riding crop to her.
“Okay, I want to keep La Maere over us as long as possible. Let’s take off,” Albion said over my shoulder now. He smelled amazing, like fresh sweat, ship grease and seasoned wood.
I nodded and nudged the lever nearby.
Immediately, the bulbous form of The ’Berry lifted off the blasted wasteland of the Romanian mining town. In the darkness it was nearly invisible, a darker shadow hidden between the concrete cliffs—exactly what her captain wanted.
The ’Berry nearly didn’t make it. Almost as soon as the keel cleared the neatly ordered streets, the first cannons tore their way through the canvas envelopes of La Maere. It was almost beautiful. Through the blanketed gloom of the ship, the iron shot punched holes where starlight filtered through in columns of brilliance. A second later and the illusion was broken by the shock and clouds of debris. The cannon was just as destructive after punching through the ship above, pulverizing Gothic decks as easily as the wrecked buildings below.
“What the blazes are we doing?” Hargreaves yelled, appearing from the hatch.
“I think I screwed up,” Albion noted. “La Maere can’t shield us, and under her, we can’t see where The Lovelorn is.”
“Out from under!” I agreed, pushing The ’Berry towards the edge at full steam.
Rumbling architecture fell to the left and right, and a cannonball managed to wing the starboard lateral mast, but the edge came like a slow-moving horizon. For a second, everybody held on to the fixtures, white-knuckled, expecting a lump of iron to come tearing out of the sky and crush the little ship into ’Berry jam. Then we were out from under it, and I could see the Lovelorn hanging over us like a curse. Cannons like rivets lined her coffin shape. Even at the odd angle, to The Lovelorn’s lower bow and port, I could make out layers of redundant armor and the central core of pressed helium decks. I took The ’Berry to a height roughly equal to The Lovelorn, at a safe distance.
“Nessie’s fighting back,” I said, half my face covered by a long-range scope. The tube ran through the ship, bouncing mirrors and lenses off multiple viewing points, all controlled with a panel at my elbow.
Nobody needed scopes to know Nessie Drake was returning fire. The daka-daka of Gatling fire was unmistakable, even so far away, and the flashes of muzzle fire rivaled the Romanian night sky. There were lighter arms seated in most of the outer buildings, and larger caliber on La Maere herself. But Nessie Drake’s ship was mostly ribbing and envelope, while Ada Lovelace commanded a flying mausoleum.
“She’ll never reach. Ada’s keeping the ship out of range, and her cannon benefit from high ground,” Albion said.
“What are we waiting for?” I gasped. “We should be covering Nessie!”
For a moment, it seemed as if Albion Clemens, Manchu Marauder, was not going to helping Nessie Drake, Gothic Pirate Princess. He kept his goggles down, on the pretext of examining a console. Elric Blair appeared in the moment of silence, as if a witness to the betrayal. His fingers trembled over his familiar notebook.
Finally, Albion threw his hands into the air.
“Fine!” Albion cried, as if he had any other choice.
“You came this close,” I said.
Hargreaves went one better, planting a chaste kiss on his cheek. I nearly hissed, but right then my Nessie was in trouble. Sisters before Misters. Besides, Albion was mine, no matter how often he tried to tell himself otherwise.
Five minutes later, and The Huckleberry was in predictably deep shit.
“Four anchors cut!”
“We’re maxing out the pressure on all three port capacitors!”
“The gerbils! The gerbils are out of their cage! Oh dear God!”
Reports were coming in from all over the ship of the toll taken by the chaos of dirigible combat. Elric Blair was in the engine room, helping Cid Tanner hold the thrust assembly together by the skin of their teeth. Vanessa Hargreaves had joined Cockney Alex at the anchor launchers. I was of course at helm, while Prissy Jack, Auntie, and Albion ran back and forth along the ship’s corridors with vices, patching the leaks bursting all along her pipes.
The ’Berry had flown in as close as I dared, darting back and forth behind The Lovelorn’s concentration of fire. Most of La Maere was aflame at this point, with a large portion of her guns out of commission. Ada was closing in for the kill when The ’Berry’s anchors sank their teeth into The Lovelorn’s complex layers of armor, like fish hooks getting stuck in flotsam. Then there was only one thing to do–pull, and hope The Lovelorn’s guns weren’t mobile enough to swivel round quickly.
That was when The ’Berry started to complain, throwing temper tantrums all over her decks. At least, it was how I chose to see her, like a daughter justifiably complaining of the strain we were putting on her.
“We can’t do this forever!” I screamed into the speaking tubes.
I started when Albion burst back into the tilting bridge. He clung for his life as the ship pitched abruptly toward the opposite side, but it was a close thing.
“The grappling arms, Rosa!” Albion cried. “We still have enough steam in the starboard capacitors!”
Running along both sides of The ’Berry, taking up one full deck in the midsection of the ship, there contained Cid Tanner’s greatest design, or at least the one he wouldn’t shut up about. Two fully articulated, steam-powered metal arms lay coiled on those decks. From the bridge of the ’Berry, I could see the edges of them running along the bulkhead as they pushed out of the surface of the ship. The steering column and wheel were furnished with a scope and two glove-like, ratcheting controls. Connected through a network of mirrors, transmission gears, and wire, a helmswoman could then control the arms as if they were her own, each of three fingers bending enough to handle any delicate tasks—in this case, separating the infuriated Ada Lovelace from her intended target.
“Detach the anchors, now!” cried Albion.
With a shuddering thud, The ’Berry snapped free from The Lovelorn, throwing both ships into a wild spin. The ’Berry was smaller, and this worked to her advantage. She stopped spinning sooner. Albion jumped into the control seat for the grappling arms. A thundering pop announced their deployment, rumbling through the ship.
“Full steam ahead, Captain?” I asked.
“Full steam ahead!” Alby shouted.
With an all-shattering crash, The ’Berry launched into the soft underbelly of The Lovelorn, intending fully to punch through the other side.
Nessie Drake managed to escape as The Huckleberry was tearing apart The Lovelorn’s layers of armor, using the heavy plates to smash cannon barrels left and right. There were far too many of them, of course, to fully disable the
ship, and there wasn’t much steam left in the Huckleberry’s various capacitors. But The ’Berry could be nasty, especially with Albion Clemens behind lefty and righty. And he did all he could to ensure the Gothic Pirate Princess had ample time to escape.
By the time The ’Berry found the opportunity to escape, with full steam in The Lovelorn’s blind spot, Nessie had sailed away in a small launch. The dark arch of her escape trailed due east, toward a sun still below the horizon, but holding the promise of light.
“I hope that vampire bitch burns,” I cursed, before turning over the helm to Prissy Jack and going below decks to her quarters. She might be my sister, but sometimes she could be a real pain.
As I passed Albion tightening up a damaged section of pipe, he smiled warmly at me. I doubt he would have done if he hadn’t just saved one of the most important people in my life. Did it matter whether or not he thought he was living up to something? To me, he deserved everything. He deserved to be with me.
“Alby!” I cried, and pressed myself to his chest.
“Ack!” he said, gasping for air. Well, maybe he wasn’t quite ready for all of Rosa Marija just yet.
18
The Urchins of Deadcast
Comforting green countryside rolled past at a breakneck clip, but the familiar hedges and fairy roads did nothing to still the rollicking feeling welling up from somewhere in my midsection. Between the lumpy buckwheat cushions and the rusty suspension on the old commandeered Fjord, it was no wonder I felt a bit out of sorts. At least she didn’t look as badly off as Blair. The poor journalist looked as though his delicate constitution was close to staging a coup d’etat, likely to end in smelly revolution. I shifted to the left in my seat, out of projectile range.
“I still don’t understand,” Elric Blair spoke up nearly two hours into the drive. “Why aren’t we taking The Huckleberry to Leyland? What in the bloody blazes are we doing up there in the first place when your Captain Samuel was last seen in the Mediterranean?”
“I’ve explained it to you four times,” Clemens said from the driver’s seat, his tone cheerful.
If I had to guess, our intrepid captain was anything but cheerful. Behind the dark-tinted driving goggles and the stonewall face, it was hard even for my investigative noggin to wrap itself around the pirate captain completely. The best that could be said, I felt, was Clemens seemed to possess no small amount of honor behind his blank façade, valuing his words as much as he seemed to value his crew. For all appearances he looked to be enjoying a country drive through the North of Britain. Yet, he must be shaken by getting so close to Captain Samuel Clemens, only to have the trail go cold.
“What you’ve done is repeat to me Nessie Drake’s last message to us,” Blair stated. “Which means piss-all, frankly.” Each word had a bit of a dark edge.
Clearly, the paper man was discovering that writing the adventure very different from living the adventure. I had seen him aboard the ship, and knew that for every story he wrangled out of Clemens’ mouth, there were engine mounts to be cleaned, masts to be strung, potatoes to be peeled.
“I would have expected you of all people to have guessed at the meaning of the words,” I quipped from my perch at Blair’s right. “The Leviathan is a huge story.”
Blair’s eyes narrowed, but he wasn’t trying to look down my top. His mistrust all but oozed from him. It was probably inevitable. He had dodged quite a few coppers while researching his stories. I probably looked like every other by-the-book constable, more ready to book him than listen.
“Look, it’s not so difficult,” Rosa spoke up from the other side of Clemens. The carriage wheels struck a small stone, pitching her assets very pleasantly. “Nessie Drake gave us everything.”
What was it she had shouted when they jumped into the steam carriage? Shotgun, yes, that was right. I suspected the scandalous mocha maiden had spent no insubstantial time in the Americas, perhaps even the Lands Beyond. Her habits and mannerisms were arrogant, far too confident in her own abilities. I would be more upset if I hadn’t witnessed those abilities firsthand.
After our squabble on the forecastle, the two of us had come to something of an understanding. I had visited her at her tea-time, and she had read the Tarot for me, though she hadn’t allowed me to touch her cards. She seemed protective of them, or of me, which was inexplicable. The fortune had told of the sky falling. Ragnarok, the end of the world. Then, the Summer Triangle, the card of Vega and Altair, a meeting over the starry bridge. I could make neither head nor tail of it. But I was glad Rosa could stand to be in my company without smashing the galley to pieces. Whether or not the sky would fall, we could stand to work together, at least until the Calamity ceased. Sometimes I also caught myself wondering about her other abilities. She certainly knew how to highlight her assets, anyway.
“I am expected to know the relevance of those terms? It sounds somewhat Hobbesian. Are we to track down a socialist coven?” Blair asked now, his stomach rumbling along with the engine. He seemed a touch bitter.
But Rosa and her bombastic attitude brooked no reflection. Even now she was turned completely round in her seat, peering back into the back of the Fjord. She leaned forward a bit, and I felt a blush warm my face at the sight of two celestial bodies spilling out of a very tastefully embroidered bodice.
“Ah, so you don’t know the legend,” Clemens said, as if he were Aristotle in the bath. “Sorry. My fault; most airmen know the what and who of it.”
“Even I am aware of the Leviathan,” I mentioned. “Though I am at a lost regarding what to do about it. An old friend once spoke of the Laputian Leviathan, Captain Leeds of The Gwain. He seemed to think it some unrealistic romance.”
“Now there’s a gorgeous ship,” Rosa said with stars in her eyes. “I’d love to pilot a Balaenopteron someday.”
“The Laputian Leviathan,” Clemens continued, ignoring his star-struck helmswoman, “is straight out of Gulliver’s Travels. Although, where Gulliver reported a floating isle full of egg-headed plutocrats, the Leviathan is purportedly uninhabited. It’s an abandoned fortress in the sky, full of extraordinary steamworks. It might be the remnant of some ancient civilization, perhaps drifted in from the Lands Beyond. Some pirates say it’s the summer palace of visitors from the stars.”
“It’s also supposed to contain the secret of lift compound,” Rosa said. “Without which no dirigible could fly. They say the first balloon jockeys found the Leviathan, and from it plucked the first aeon stones.”
“And others say the Leviathan is hogwash,” I said. “Aeon stones are mined all around the world; there could hardly be one almighty source of them.”
“But they’re all found in lakes and circular valleys, as if they were dropped from on high,” Clemens argued.
Blair changed the subject with harried words. “Right. Well, what does it have to do with a steam worker town in the middle of bloody England?” He paused, turning a bit green as the landscape lurched when we passed some rocky outcroppings. “And why can’t we bloody fly in?”
Clemens harrumphed, returning to his driving, while I, robbed of a sparring partner, turned to answer. “In recent years, the search for the Leviathan has stalled due to a healthy skepticism, and lack of empirical evidence,” I explained. “But one eccentric has maintained a personal fleet of ships diligently combing the skies for it. Your field is more…serious in nature. But if you paid attention to the high society periodicals or dockside classifieds, you would notice the name of Valima Mordemere occurring more often than not.”
“The steamwork magnate?”
“And a damned cheat,” Clemens mumbled. “You’d think a man wealthy enough to own a personal fleet of treasure hunters could compensate us the winnings.”
“He once hired us to run the Monte Carlo race; at least, one of his agents did,” Rosa said. “We won, but we were disqualified for using Mordemere’s special fuel. I think he was trying to secure some government contract; you know how the Navy has been gearing up for the Otto
man invasion.”
“Any day now,” Blair agreed between lurches.
By the look of him, he was all but holding the bile in with his hands, but his fingers scrabbled at pen and paper all the same.
“Sounds like he didn’t care whether you won or not,” I said. “I find it a little hard to believe Valima Mordemere would associate with air pirates.”
I was a little taken aback at such a connection between the respectable alchemist and my reluctant cohorts. Blair looked up from his paper as if my cheek had personally offended him. Of course, for him, Leyland’s alchemic genius was just another possible villain to slay with his pen.
“Sounded like he was sure of his victory,” Clemens corrected. “Bastard, yes, but the man is an alchemic genius, on top of a shrewd business sense. Look sharp; we’ll be able to see his atelier in a moment.”
I put my head out the window, easy enough with just slow-moving lorries sharing the road. Just ahead, the land had flattened into a level grade, and the road seemed in better repair closer to the industrial center of Leyland. Scattered clusters of village homes had transformed into an unbroken cliff of warehouses while we had been chatting. Stables bristled with chimneys for all the lorries needing water and hot coals. I had heard Leyland was the beating industrial heart of Britain, but the meaning of those words hit me anew as I realized not a single flesh and blood horse could be seen amidst the afternoon activity. As usual the sky over Britain was an unbroken chalk mass, yet it lent an appropriate air to the regular slate surface of the city. At Leyland’s perimeter, the only color to be seen was the varied festival of livery where various airships were docked.
Seeming to crown the place off, Mordemere’s atelier crouched like a toad over Leyland; a wizard’s fortress. It was low, but imposing for its complexity and sprawling utility. Piping grew out of vast slabs of metal and sprouted into the various organs of the city. Catwalks connected the workshop with the distant docks as vital arteries in the body of Leyland.
