Skyrail
It is a fact universally acknowledged that once a pirate has spent enough time at sea, the Horizon looks different everywhere on earth.
This is not how a sailor begins their career. When they first step onto the swaying ship, young and fresh-faced, they are first overwhelmed by the majesty of it all: a distant expanse of unending blue, swallowing up the past, future, and anything else that the sailor brings with them.
It is not until they learn the waves as they know their own stomachs that a pirate learns every tiny squall and coral shore that marks the difference between a berth in the Caribbean as opposed to, say weighing anchor along the southern tip of the African continent.
Captain Thomasina Vogel was an experienced pirate. Perhaps, more importantly, she was an experienced sailor. She had spent almost twenty years of her life on the ocean, in any number of cargo, military, and prison ships. She knew the seas better than she knew herself — and yet, the horizon always looked the same to her.
Oh, the colors might change, from wine red to vein blue, but it was always a darker color on the bottom, a vibrant color on the top, both separated by an inviolate line.
The only real difference, at least to Thomasina, was in what lurked behind the horizon.
Heaving a beleaguered sigh, she lowered her telescope from her eye, walked to the other side of the bridge, and began to scan the horizon again.
At the moment, there was nothing.
The sound of footsteps outside the metal door paused before a gentle tap broke through the captain’s thoughts. “Captain?” the pleasant voice was muffled.
“I’m busy, Mrs. Jennings,” Thomasina grit her teeth.
“I am certain you are.”
There it was. Even through the door she still had that smug tone that said she was not a fool, thank you very much, and there wasn’t a damn thing you could tell her that she didn’t already know; and once you had finished wasting her time with your prattle, she would appreciate you acknowledging that she had a perfectly good reason for doing whatever she was doing, and an apology wouldn’t go amiss either.
Thomasina lowered her telescope. The worst part was, she was usually right. “Come in then, if you must.”
The metal door clanged hard against the wall as Mrs. Jennings entered, brushing her hand on her billowing dress as she strode onto the bridge. “I need to speak with you on a matter of some urgency,” the woman began, striding across the cold floor.
Thomasina raised her telescope again in the vain hope that there might be a suitable distraction sailing closer. No such luck. “And what complaint would you like to lodge now, Mrs. Jennings?”
The dark-skinned gentlewoman pursed her lips as she folded her hands on the front of her bodice. “You are being rude, Captain, and there is certainly no need of it. I simply wish to inform you that your crew has become unconscionably…brusque.”
Your crew. Captain Vogel’s mouth tightened as she stared at the gentile lady who had approached her, asked…no, begged her for help, and had bunked in the Skyrail’s passenger cabin for five months.
“Mrs. Jennings,” she struggled to keep her voice calm, “I warned you about my crew when you first came aboard; they do not suffer the landed-gentry well. Also, please correct me if I’m wrong, but you sought us out precisely because of who we are and what we do. It’s a little late to come crying to me now.”
“You misunderstand me, Captain,” Mrs. Jennings raised a white-gloved hand. “While I still find their brutish tongues quite unpardonable, I have become…resigned to their methods of speech. It is a burden I am willing to bear for as long as I am on board your ship…though I will ask you not to treat me as if I was a child or a fool, with all this nonsense about ‘suffering the upper-class.’ Your crew accepts young Darius quite easily.”
Now the Captain was shocked. He told her his name? “I would advise you not to use that name in his presence. Vanndegaar is rather particular about how he is addressed. Similar to you in that respect, Mrs. Jennings.”
The woman nodded. “An interesting quirk of our histories, yes. I too have noticed this. Perhaps when you are unaccustomed to defining yourself, you care more about how others name you. Nevertheless, if a Vanndegaar can be welcome as a member of your crew, then it cannot simply be my family name that draws your ire.”
“Vanndegaar is one of us, Mrs. Jennings,” Thomasina strode to the other side of the Skyrail’s bridge, more for distance from the infuriating woman than a better vantage point. “He has proven himself on multiple occasions and earned our trust. We are a crew, Mrs. Jennings. We work, eat, sleep, and survive together.”
“You are aware he wants to be Captain?”
The horizon on the left side of the bridge looked much the same as the horizon on the right. “What makes you say that?”
“Oh, Captain. It’s obvious the lad is frighteningly clever and ambitious. I’ve lived my entire life around men of that sort, and even for one his age he is remarkably familiar. Never mind his heritage; once you show the slightest weakness, he’ll snatch that charming hat off your head and throw you overboard.” She paused. “To applause, I shouldn’t wonder.”
Thomasina was not a fool, she knew what Mrs. Jennings was trying to say before she said it: “Is that what you wanted to speak to me about?”
Mrs. Jennings’s smile was tight. “The ire of your crew these past weeks have been directed less at me in specific, and more…indiscriminately.”
“They’re restless,” Thomasina raised her eyepiece once more. “They always get like this when we’ve been at sea for a month or so.”
Mrs. Jennings would not be dissuaded. “It’s more than that, and I think you know it too. I’ve not seen you in the lounge-car for a week now, and I’d not thought you could have gone without a drink for a day.”
Captain Vogel closed her telescope. “Are you trying to warn me of something, Mrs. Jennings?”
“Good lord,” the sound of an opening fan snapped across the bridge, “Of course I am trying to warn you. For all your talk of teamwork and pirate codes, if you don’t do something soon, this little family you’re so protective of will be at your throat.”
There was a charm in her naivete, in her assumption that Thomasina didn’t already know this, embrace it, and live with it daily. The crew of the Skyrail was a family, yes, but surely even a fop like Mrs. Jennings should have realized how little comfort this was. There was a cruelty that blossomed among the interdependent, especially the desperate and disenfranchised.
What troubled the Captain more was why Mrs. Jennings was warning her at all.
But no sooner had Thomasina opened her mouth to respond than she was interrupted by a sharp ringing from Beechums tiny brass bell.
“Eh?” Thomasina turned to the brass pilot. His strong limbs gripped the wheel, his monocular face pointed dead ahead. She ran to his side, staring out the bridge windows. “What do you see, Beechums?”
The bell rang twice more, softer. Mrs. Jennings gave a gentle sigh as she joined the two of them at the front of the room. “I don’t know how you understand this thing. Even you lot can’t be so hard up to find a real human navigator.”
She turned slowly when she felt the slight pressure of metal on her collar-bone. Captain Vogel’s saber had been as quiet as silk on soap. “I’ll not hear you disrespect a member of my crew like that again. Do I make myself clear?”
Mrs. Jennings barely had time to nod before the Captain had pulled her telescope to her eye and scanned the horizon once more.
“Ha ha!” Captain Vogel clapped her hands together, closing the scope and clipping it to her belt. “Come about, Beechums! Twenty degrees starboard and full-speed ahead!
Gears and springs twisted and whined as the Mechanical pilot of the Skyrail turned the ship’s wheel and hauled backwards on the lever that controlled the engine speed. The Skyrail’s engines groaned as, with a shuddering jolt, the ship tilted through the air on its new heading.
The Captain pointed. “Don’t you worry about a thing, Mrs. Jennings, we’ll be drinking champagne tonight!”
Mrs. Jennings placed a pair of ornate opera glasses to her eyes. A soft click was followed by a series of lenses flicking into place. “Hm,” she sniffed. Sure enough, the black plume of smoke was from a cargo vessel. The silhouette of the ship was not a reassuring one, and if she could just get a good look at the flag…
Mrs. Jennings lowered the glasses and shook her head. “It’s German.”
“Not just German,” Captain Vogel licked her lips. “It’s a German Shtalwand.”
“We should move on.”
“Phah!” Thomasina spat, thumping the window with her fist. “Weren’t you just warning me about a mutiny if I didn’t find something to get those layabouts off their backsides? Well, I’ve found something alright, and mark my words, the day we run from a German ship is the day I turn in my hat!”
Spinning hard on her boots, the Captain leapt across the bridge and swung through the door, laughing all the while.
Bruce Albadare Gillingsworth the Third tugged at his belt.
“Fold,” Dorathy tossed her cards on the table.
“I…I fold,” Lincoln set his down as well.
“Damnation!” Gillingsworth slapped his diamond flush on the table.
Dorathy smiled as she collected the cards. “Well, you win some, you lose some, I always say.”
“Why, then, must I always win peanuts and lose fortunes?” Gillingsworth blew through his mustache, pulling his meager winnings to his side.
“Must just be…luck,” Lincoln sniffed.
“Or, you’re all a bunch of cheats,” Gillingsworth coughed, taking a final drink of ale.
The three fell silent while Dorathy shuffled. Lincoln scratched at his neck, shifting in his seat. The creak of the rigid balloon-frame overhead accompanied the gentle rocking of the Skyrail.
The Skyrail had been an old steam-train — one of the first, by Gillingsworth’s estimation — before it had been modified by his ingenuity, Dorathy’s sweat, and King Wilhelm’s kindly, if unintentionally, donated money. Now held aloft by gas-bags in a rigid frame, the five…no, six of them lived quite happily in the airship, taking what they could from those who had too much and giving it to those who had too little — namely themselves.
It wasn’t always easy, of course, and times had been hard recently; but there was always opportunity, if you knew where to look. That was Gillingsworth’s view of it, at any rate, and it had kept him alive for some time.
Picking up his new hand, Gillingsworth made a show of shifting his cards back and forth. Should he tug on his belt again? No…give them a different tell this time… He reached up to thoughtfully tug on the end of his thick mustache.
The door to the living-car slammed open, pushed by Captain Vogel’s thick boots. Dropping into the room like a cat, the Captain spread her arms wide, a manic grin on her face. “Off your hindquarters, you lazy layabouts! Onto your boots and polish your knives. We’ve found a fat merchant vessel headed straight for Cliffside!”
“Finally!” Dorathy tossed her cards aside and leapt up from the card-table, rushing to the ornate oak-armoire where she kept her assortment of weapons. “Heavily armed, I hope?”
“Oooh…very!” The Captain’s eyes shimmered. “It’ll be quite the fight! Get yourselves ready, my fine pirates, we’re going to hit them hard and fast! Dorathy and Vanndegaar, man the Broadsides as we pull up. Target the fore of the ship so we can knock out their engines before they know what’s hit them. Lincoln, you drop with me. Once we’re directly overhead, Dorathy, join us for the fun.”
“And then?” In the corner of the living-car, Vanndegaar placed a ribbon to mark his place in his book. The young boy looked up to meet the Captain’s gaze. “Once we’re overhead, what shall I do?”
Gillingsworth had been with the Captain since the beginning. He knew her moods and her tones, and so he recognized the hitch in her normally smooth voice as she answered.
“Wait for us to secure the ship, and then help Gillingsworth with the cargo crane.”
“Are you sure you don’t need me in the first drop?” Dorathy said, hoisting her favorite harpoon-gun onto her broad shoulders. “Only…it’s windy, right? We’ve got trade-winds, you know, and those can get pretty tricky in a drop if you don’t know what you’re doing.”
“She doesn’t…trust me,” Lincoln coughed.
There was a pause. “Should I?” Dorathy turned to the thin man. “You haven’t even been with us a month. Hell, Mrs. Jennings has been with us longer, and she isn’t even a crew-member. I trust you enough to eat with you, English, but not enough to watch my own back, much less my Captain’s.”
“She’s my Captain now, too,” Lincoln stood up, his hands shaking. “I’ve signed on, haven’t I? Bloody well took the king’s sovereign, as it were.”
“None of us give a damn about the King.” Vanndegaar muttered from his corner. “You took the Navy’s sovereign too, didn’t you? And look how fast you left them when it was convenient. How fast will you stab us in the back, I wonder.”
“That’s why I’m dropping with you, isn’t it, captain?” Lincoln turned, his shaky smile as wry as it was hopeful. “You want me where you can see me, so you can put a bullet between my eyes the second I show King’s Colors again. Well, I won’t. No damned merchant vessel is going to have me singing God Save the King again.”
Captain Vogel rubbed her mouth in thought for a moment. Then: “Take your medicine, Lincoln. The rest of you, get a move on! Especially you, you old nut-grinder.” She gave Gillingsworth a swat in the arm. “Get to the engine room. The last time we got into a scrape the lateral rudders were like mud. Fix them up properly this time. You’ve got ten minutes!”
“Righto, marm,” Gillingsworth snapped off a salute as he hoisted his girth out of his chair. “I’ll have the old girl whispering in a jiffy.”
“Will we need the lateral rudders?” Vanndegaar spoke up.
The Captain turned to face the boy. “We might. Better to be safe than sorry, you know that.”
Vanndegaar gently lay his book down at his side. “The thing is, if this merchant ship is heading straight for Cliffside, and we haven’t moved off the main shipping lanes, and the engines are at the fore of the ship…there’s only a few of those kinds of ships we’d need to worry about lateral rudders for. German and French ships, mostly.”
“Tell them, Captain.”
Gillingsworth turned to see Mrs. Jennings standing in the doorway. For a moment, no one spoke, then Mrs. Jennings addressed the crew. “We’re approaching a German Steelframe.”
The information settled in everyone’s ears before Gillingsworth broke the silence. “Are they flying the Kaiser’s flag?”
“Yes,” Mrs. Jennings’ smile was almost sweet. “And the Blue Pennant.”
Gillingsworth rubbed his mutton-chops with a broad hand. An Steelframe? Flying the Blue Pennant too… “Didn’t think we’d be declaring war on both Germany and Britannia today,” he muttered into his chest.
“Are we going to let some trumped up lackeys of a self-important Kaiser get between us and a cargo-hold of riches?” Captain Vogel shouted in animated insistence.
“No,” Dorathy set her harpoon gun on the table with a loud creak. “But their scatter-guns might.”
“To say nothing of their tempered armor,” Lincoln coughed, wiping his mouth with the back of his shaking hand. “And all of Britannia and Germany would be after us if we got away. I promise you Captain…as dim a view as the English Navy has of pirates, the Germans aren’t nearly as…measured.”
“We’re already on the run from the Spanish Queen, France, Italy, and half of the Dutch Alliance,” Captain Vogel shrugged. “What’s another armada or two to run from?”
Gillingsworth cleared his throat. He usually tried to stay out of conversations like this; Dorathy knew weapons and tactics, the Captain knew strategy, and Vanndegaar came up with frighteningly strange ideas, but Gillingsworth knew his ship. When he spoke up, it was usually to make sure his beloved stayed safe. “Where would we berth? There’s only so far I can take us without spare parts, fuel, gas for the balloon…We’re already limited, Captain. If the English and German ports close to us too, we’re stuck with…” he searched his memory.
“The Jamaican Families and Norway,” Mrs. Jennings interrupted. “Not the most ideal of options.”
“The Portuguese still have free-ports in the south,” Captain Vogel reminded them all, “and the governors are flexible with enough coin. Besides, I still have a few hideaways up my sleeve. Places even you don’t know about, Vanndegaar.”
Gillingsworth knew his ship. He knew how strong it was, and how supple. He knew what the wind and rain sounded like on its hull, and what the different bangs and pops of the engine meant. He understood the language of the Skyrail better than he understood English — and even he could feel the tension in the room.
He coughed. “Captain,” he heaved a slow breath, “I have to say…I don’t think this is a good idea. I think we should…” He cleared his throat again, “We need to vote on this one.”
“Really?” Captain Vogel gaped. “Gillingsworth, you of all people I thought would be gung-ho! Do you know how much cargo a German Steelframe carries? Enough to fill our hold twice over! We’ll have our pick of the most expensive luxuries of the German Empire!”
Gillingsworth glanced at his fellow sailors. He could see the tension in their bodies. “Won’t mean much if I don’t live to spend it,” he muttered.
Captain Vogel clapped her hands on her hips. “Amazing. Quite amazing. When we started this little venture I told all of you that there was only one rule that we would abide by; that we would never let anyone else tell us what we could and couldn’t do!”
“You were going to lead us into a fight against a German merchant ship without telling us.” Vanndegaar slid between Dorathy and Lincoln to stand facing his captain, arms crossed. “As though we were plundering a schooner.”
“I’m telling you, we can take them for all their worth!”
“You’re damn right we can,” Vanndegaar snapped, “but not by aiming at their fore engines!”
Gillingsworth blinked as a slow smile spread across Vanndegaar’s face. Damn boy and his scary ideas…
The Skyrail, as smooth and sleek as she was, was hardly unobtrusive. The German merchant ship had spotted the floating ship almost before Captain Vogel had spied them in turn.
The sailors watched the floating ship drift towards them, noting the apparent lack of arms and armaments. Their three giant Streuschuss — scattershot cannons that were the terror of the German Kriegsmarine — turned lazily to threaten the advancing ship, ready to fill the air with burning hot shards of metal.
The sailors weren’t concerned; they knew better than anyone the strength of their ship’s armor and the power of their weapons. In fact, groups of men and women were now standing on the ship’s deck, watching the Skyrail’s approach with bemused interest and taking bets on how long it would take before the strange airship fled.
But as the Skyrail drew closer, they saw its heading turn; instead of running away, the ship was coming about and bringing its side to bear. The fools were going to attack! The sailors began to jeer, laughing and pressing their hands to their ears in preparation for the scattershots to do their work and tear the floating vessel apart.
But the Skyrail stopped just outside their range. For a moment there was silence, and then the bottom of a train-car half-way down the ship opened wide.
Five tubes fell towards the ocean, tumbling over each other until three sprouted fragile wings and glided towards the water. On the rear end of the tubes spun tiny propellers, whirring as they struck the water, pushing the tubes forward. The other two fell straight into the water with a splash.
The sailors scratched their heads and nudged each other. Typical shoddy work; No German air-torpedo would ever fail to start before hitting the water, and these fools had launched two duds. Clumsy buffoons. Foolish too, to think that three, five, or even twenty torpedoes would make a dent in their vessel’s thick armored sides.
The torpedoes were running out of fuel already. The airship had launched its payload too far from its target, and now the torpedoes were sinking half a kilometer away. Laughing, the sailors gripped the railing, leaning over to see what this funny little band of pirates would try next.
Nothing, as it happened. The Skyrail hovered high in the air, just out of range. No great surprise, they would likely turn tail and run as soon as they realized they couldn’t hope to get past the Steelframe’s armor, superior weaponry, and Germanic tenacity.
Fortunate, Lincoln thought, as he surfaced from the water. They didn’t see us.
He spared a glance to see if Vanndegaar had also surfaced, but he was nowhere to be seen. Diving down again, Lincoln swam closer before slipping a slim plunger from his belt and fixing it to the ship’s side. Tying his line to the plunger, he rested for a moment to catch his breath and paw at his side. He breathed out in relief; his hip-flask of medicine was still there.
It had been a bit of a swim after his torpedo had run out of fuel, but German Steelframes were not known for their speed, and this one was practically crawling. A heavy cargo, perhaps. Or are they trying to save fuel? Whatever for?
Once he was breathing steadily again, Lincoln began to climb the starboard aft side of the ship, pausing briefly to work his shaking hands and force them to calm down. A moment later, and he was over the railing, pressing himself against the deck. Now he needed the engine room. Where was it, again? Vanndegaar had been very explicit…
Reciting his instructions in his head, Lincoln crept along the deck as stealthily as his shaking limbs would allow, ducking into nooks and crannies wherever he could find them. More than once, his quivering fingers brushed against his hip-flask. He needed his medicine…but no, not yet…
The pragmatic German sailors craved efficiency above all else. A ship the size of an Steelframe should have been crawling with crewmen, bustling about their day as the juggernaut of a ship churned through the ocean. Instead, there were just enough sailors that any other nation would have called it a skeleton-crew. It didn’t make Lincoln’s path to the engine room easy, but it certainly made it possible. On an English ship, I would have been stopped ages ago…
Of course, on an English ship, he could simply pop a pip on his shoulder and berate any swabbie he crossed into leaving him alone. That would never work on a German vessel.
In fact, it was starting to worry him when he reached the engine-room; he should have seen some crewmen by now. The Engine-room wasn’t the most populous place on any ship, but it always had someone in it. His hand resting on his flask, he pushed on the engine room door.
A moment later he was flying through the air and landing hard on the metal floor. A blade pressed itself against his throat as he looked into dead fish-like eyes.
“Bloody hell!” he hissed. “Vanndegaar, it’s me!”
“Had to be sure,” the black-haired boy whispered as the knife vanished.
“Who the bloody hell else would it bloody be?” Lincoln hissed sharply, pushing Vanndegaar aside. He sat up, gripping his legs and struggling to steady his breathing. He needed his medicine.
He almost didn’t believe it…Vanndegaar had gone through with it; At the rear of the Steelframe had been a thin bilge-vent. Anyone older or larger wouldn’t have been able to slip through, nor would have wanted to, considering the foul mess that was on the other side. But sure enough, the boy was covered in the foul refuse left behind as the water dried in the hot room.
With chattering teeth, Lincoln addressed his erstwhile teammate. “You took care of the guns?”
“Dead weight,” Vanndegaar nodded. “I found the articulating joints and burned through them. It was a bit of a squeeze, but I got it done.”
“And the leak?”
“Yes…” Vanndegaar’s smile vanished. “Do you want to remind me to breathe next?”
“Oh for…just hand me the bloody Shaker already.”
Vanndegaar did so, and Lincoln felt his way through the engine-room. The shakes came on stronger when he had to step over the two bodies with slit throats on the floor, but he kept moving until he reached the middle of the room. Reaching up as high as he could, his fingers brushed against the iron bracing that marked the seam midships.
“To be honest,” he said as he felt for the small dip in the rafters, “I thought when the Captain said we were going to hit an Steelframe, that’d be it. You’d call her out then and there.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t think I haven’t heard you whispering,” Lincoln continued. “Even Gillingsworth was uncertain we could do this. You could have kicked the Captain overboard then and there, and been done with it. But instead, you came up with a plan that might work.”
“It will work.”
Lincoln stopped when his fingers felt the small rivets that marked a seam, and began to fit the mechanical contraption into place. “I’m curious, is all. I thought you wanted to be Captain.”
“I will be,” Vanndegaar whispered, “eventually, but there are some things that are more important than career advancement.”
When the Shaker was firmly in place, Lincoln gripped the small rip-cord that stuck out from the side, and paused. “Knew a bloke like you in the Navy. Name of Druce. He never had a captain smarter than him. Whatever the order, whatever the plan, he knew it was wrong and could tell you exactly why.”
“This is not the time for a story, Lincoln.”
“No?” Lincoln smiled through his shivering teeth. “Funny. Thought you might like to know what happened when he finally got promoted.”
Taking a deep breath and gripping his shaking hand with the other to steady it, Lincoln pulled as hard as he could.
With the sound of a clock in a whirlwind, the Shaker quivered, snapped, and started to rock back and forth like a crazed baby-cradle. Lincoln watched the piston shake back and forth for a moment before turning to Vanndegaar.
“Lucky you knew so much about German maritime engineering,” he said.
“That’s right,” the boy turned a fierce gaze to his companion. “Lucky.”
After a moment, Vanndegaar moved to a tiny window and pulled out a small rocket from his vest. Aiming it carefully out of the window, he yanked the small wooden dowel out of the side, causing a shower of sparks as the rocket shot off into the sky.
“Guns dead, fuel leaking, Shaker in place, and flare signaled. We’re done,” he whispered.
“You’re done, you mean,” Lincoln shuddered.
“Yes. You’d better get about it, hadn’t you?”
Lincoln took a deep breath, and unhooked his medicine flask.
Dorathy tightened her grip on the handle of her harpoon-gun, then released. Grip. Release. Grip. Release.
“And there’s the flare.” Mrs. Jennings sniffed as she slipped her opera glasses back into her bodice. “We must be fools, listening to that boy. Do you really think we have a chance of pulling this off?”
Dorathy flipped her green-tinted goggles down over her eyes, and fixed her rope-climber to one of the ropes that dangled from the ceiling. “I listen to the Captain, and if she thinks we can pull it off, then we can.”
“Such loyalty,” Mrs. Jennings sighed. “What was it that happened to give you such confidence in her?”
The Skyrail came about once more, moving closer to the massive vessel below them. Finishing the attachment, Dorathy slipped her hand into the thick rope-climber and un-shouldered her harpoon gun. In seconds, the Skyrail’s broadside cannons would be in range.
“If you’re curious,” Mrs. Jennings muttered, “I’d give us even odds.”
Dorathy stared out the porthole, watching as the Skyrail drew closer to the German ship. With the steady finality of a glacier, the giant Streuschuss cannons turned, following the Skyrail, preparing to fire clouds of metal debris through the air.
Dorathy only had to watch a moment before the cannons, with a sickening grinding sound, stopped moving. Even from so far away, Dorathy could see the jeering sailors on the deck — only eight that she could see — glanced at the cannons, then at each other, uncertain what to do next.
Then, from the far end of the ship, a series of smoke puffs, no larger than cotton balls, floated up into the air.
Lincoln’s gun was like a pencil — ticking off targets one by one. With a smooth shift of his torso, he sighted along his arm like a sextant and squeezed the trigger only once. A small puff of air, and a sailor fell, a metal ball buried in his neck. Again Lincoln’s body would twist, and another soldier would fall. In three seconds, all eight soldiers were dead, their bodies collapsed limply on the bloody deck. With the last shot fired, Lincoln dropped to the ground, his bare fingers resting lightly on the deck.
“I don’t mind telling you,” Mrs. Jennings said, “woman to woman, that man scares me more than any of you.”
The sound of metal drew Dorathy’s eye. “What the hell are you doing?”
Mrs. Jennings cocked an eyebrow. “What does it look like I’m doing? I’m attaching one of these infernal contraptions to this rope.”
Dorathy swung her harpoon gun to point at Mrs. Jennings’ throat. “What the hell makes you think you’re dropping with me?”
Mrs. Jennings smiled. “I do believe the Captain told me, when I first signed on, that ’everyone can do as they want, so long as it doesn’t cause trouble.’ There are plenty more of these rope-climbers in that locker over there, and the Captain wasn’t going to drop with you anyway. I should think that’s no trouble for anyone?”
The harpoon didn’t move. “I don’t know what you’re playing at, woman. All I know is the Cap won’t like it if you get hurt. Damned if I know why.”
Mrs. Jennings slipped her hand through the machine and gripped the handle. “To be honest, neither do I. Now, I suppose I could go and complain to the Captain, explain my motives, argue my case, and waste everyone’s time, or I could…‘fit in,’ as they say, and do what I want, when I want, and stay out of everyone else’s way. That is how we do things, yes?”
The point dipped. “I won’t watch your back for you. You get killed, that’s on you.”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” Mrs. Jennings smiled as she brushed her billowing dress.
Dorathy grinned, in spite of herself. “You going to drop in that, are you?”
The look on Mrs. Jennings face would bring delight to Dorathy’s heart for years to come. “Why? Will it be a problem?”
With a quick glance out of the window to check their distance, Dorathy gave a small shrug, shouldered her harpoon gun, and threw the release switch.
Instantly, the dull hum of the Skyrail’s engines became a roar of screaming winds and machinery. Far below, the thick hull of the German Steelframe squatted on the sea, cold and dark. The ends of the ropes dropped into the air, followed shortly after by Dorathy and Mrs. Jennings.
Dorathy fell faster, her descent not arrested by several yards of thick and lacy fabric. As she fell, she reached up with her free hand to pull the small rip-cord. She was rewarded with a sputtering whir as the machine’s metal propellers spun to life, and the gears gripping the rope began to pull. She felt her descent slow as the rope-climber followed the rope towards the water.
Far below, She could see soldiers climbing up from below decks, running about, looking for someone to fire at. Lincoln was nowhere to be seen, though she had no doubt he would have found a suitable spot to hunt.
Well, she thought, no sense in denying them a target.
With a war-cry that split the heavens, Dorathy swung her harpoon gun about and fired. The force of the blast swung her back and forth, spinning around the rope like a top, but the rope-climber stabilized her quickly. The world stopped spinning just as her harpoon sunk into the deck of the ship, not a half yard from one soldier’s foot. He only had just enough time to look at it, bemused, before the harpoon exploded, ripping him out of his boots and into the water.
Reloading her gun wouldn’t be easy without another hand, so she slung the rifle over her back and pulled out her small automatic from her belt. Squeezing hard on her rope-climber’s handle, she accelerated her descent with one hand, and sent spitting slivers of steel through the air like angry hornets with the other.
This was the moment Dorathy lived for; the moments of hurdling towards danger at break-neck speed, knowing at any moment a lucky bullet might cut through the air and sever her rope…or her neck. There was no planning for it, no preparing for it, nothing but pure chance that decided if Dorathy would live to fight another day or not.
It was the moment that stripped all the illusion and artifice away from the world.
By the time Mrs. Jennings landed on deck, Dorathy and Lincoln had occupied the majority of the sailors’ attention.
Struggling to tame her ruffled dress, she ducked inside the closest hatch, and fought her hair back into a suitable arrangement. Perhaps it would be wise to find more suitable garments if she ever considered dropping again.
When she was satisfied, Mrs. Jennings made her way to the middle of the ship, slipping between doorways and hallways whenever the coast was clear. It wasn’t that she wouldn’t be able to handle herself if someone spotted her, it was simply that violence was so…unbecoming.
Before long, she reached the Kapitän’s room. Perhaps it would have been guarded if the chaos on deck hadn’t drawn everyone’s attention. No matter. Drawing herself upright, she politely knocked on the door.
“Was willst du, dann?!” came a loud bark from inside. Mrs. Jennings sighed to herself; it seemed everyone she met these days was angry or nervous about something. She pushed the door open. The Kapitän had his back to the door, hunched over a cluster of maps and charts. A long rifle and a half-eaten sandwich on a small plate kept the papers from fluttering everywhere in the stiff breeze from the open stained-glass windows that dominated the far wall.
“Ja?” the Kapitän spat. “Was ist los?”
“Seeräuber,” Mrs. Jennings answered.
The Kapitän turned, jumping up when he saw Mrs. Jennings standing calmly in front of the door. Surprise became confusion on his face, and then a wry smile as he shook his head.
“Ein Arab? Was machen hier arabische seeräuber?”
“Meine Eltern stammen aus Arabien,” Mrs. Jennings smiled blandly. “Ich wurde in Britannia geboren.”
“You are English pirates, then?” The Kapitän cocked his head in curiosity.
“We fly under no flag,” Mrs. Jennings pulled a small brass fan from her blouse and flipped it open. “I find it…strangely liberating.”
“I see,” The Kapitän leaned against his desk, clasping his hands in front of him. They could have been old friends. “You have come to steal the Kaiser’s property then?”
“My captain prefers the term liberate,” Mrs. Jennings allowed herself a small grimace.
The Kapitän’s smile turned into a grin. “And what term do you prefer?”
“Take. Would you be so kind as to hand me that box, there, on your desk?”
For a moment neither of them moved. “Nein,” the Kapitän shook his head.
“It is your Siegelbox, yes? I have it on good authority that every German ship has one.”
The Kapitän didn’t move.
“Am I wrong?” Mrs. Jennings cocked her head. “Or is it perhaps only German vessels that are carrying cargo of…particular import to the Kaiser?”
“What do you want?”
“A trade,” Mrs. Jennings spread her fan. “This is a large cargo vessel, and I’m quite certain that our ship can barely carry half of what is in your hold. You hand me your Siegelbox, and in return I will make sure my companions do not get any items that the Kaiser may…demand compensation for.”
“You certainly are English,” The Kapitän shook his head in disbelief. “Why should I not have you killed and keep both the cargo and my box?”
A loud bang rocked the ship, causing the stained glass window to quiver.
“I’m afraid we will have to cut this conversation short,” Mrs. Jennings sighed. “Did you notice something about that explosion? I wouldn’t have half a year ago, but spending so much time around Dorathy has forced me to learn a few things about demolitions. That last explosion had a distinct bass echo to it. I hate to state the obvious, but your navy still uses Jurgen’s Augmentative Accelerator mixed in with your engine fuel, doesn’t it? Quite spontaneously flammable when it mixes with water, hence the extra armor around the fore engines and fuel tanks. And I’m afraid there happens to be a small crawlspace between the fore and aft below decks that brings the fuel line fairly close to the base of the hull. Not the most intelligent design, but well protected by several feet of tempered steel — but not protected, I’m afraid, from a good shaking.”
The Kapitän blinked. “A good shaking?”
Mrs. Jennings snapped her fan closed. “Do you feel it? The shaking of the ship? A ship always shakes when there’s an explosion, but then it stops. This one hasn’t, because we’ve placed a Shaker on the large steel spine that runs half the length of your ship. With your engine burning and a weakened hull, I’d say you have about ten minutes to abandon ship before it cracks open like an egg.”
There was a knock on the door. Without waiting for an answer, two sailors rushed into the room, desperate to make their report.
Mrs. Jennings didn’t even bother to look. Her hands stretched out as she spun about like a dancer, graceful and elegant even in her large dress. The first soldier was disarmed and brought low with a sharp blow to the back of the neck. The second flew through the air to land head-down in the Kapitän’s chair, only to be knocked out as he stood up by a kick to the face.
It was done in less than five seconds. Mrs. Jennings smiled mirthlessly, and held out her hand to the Kapitän.
“The box, if you please. Then, we shall discuss which crates I should steer…my crew…away from as I escort you to the lifeboats.”
With the deep resonant crack of an ice-floe, the Steelframe split itself neatly down the middle.
At the sound, Beechums’ single quartz photo-receptor focused in on the silver sliver of metal below the Skyrail. Dark shapes leapt off the side of the ship, into the ocean, frantically swimming away from the metal monster.
The lens focused onto the rear of the ship and the slowly spreading black ichor that flowed into the crack from the fuel-tanks. Spontaneously, the brackish water burst into flame, turning the divided ship into a gaping fissure into a crack into hell. The two pieces of Steelframe shot outwards like rockets as the flames began to spread across the ocean like a brush fire.
Deep in Beechums’ brass head, a series of levers and gears clicked into place, triggering another series of springs to slowly unwind. A metal arm extended and pulled hard on the levers that controlled the Skyrail, gently nudging the ship about, letting it hover over the burning water.
Beechums could feel the Skyrail. It was perhaps not the most accurate word, but there was no better one. It could feel the straining against hot air-currents that struggled to shove the massive air-ship aside. Tenderly but firmly, Beechums held the ship in place, its whirring brain clicking away as knobs were twisted and wheels were turned until the Skyrail was finally stable.
In the cargo-cars, Gillingsworth was moving about and strapping himself into his mechanical Aqua-Diver. It used to be a simple diving-bell before he had added a clever network of gears, pedals, and valves to make it a fine under-sea capsule. Beechums felt the doors open, and the Aqua-Diver dropped like a stone into the ocean to strap a line onto as many goods and valuables as possible as directed by the Captain.
Beechums’ eye panned across the sinking ship. There was Dorathy, wielding a long rifle and firing into the water — scaring off the lifeboats as the survivors swam after them. Lincoln was pulling himself out of a small port-hole, his hands starting to shake as he reached again for his hip-flask. Vanndegaar was lying down and picking his teeth with a dagger, while Mrs. Jennings was kneeling next to him with her parasol open like they were on a picnic.
And there was Captain Thomasina Vogel, laughing as she stood on the top of the sinking ship, her cutlass and automatic raised over her head as she gloried in the victory.
In a few minutes, all six of them would be back on board, crowing over their spoils and bickering like children. Then the Captain would drag everyone off to find another ship, or perhaps to sell what goods they had, and the whole story would start all over again.
Slowly, ever so slowly, the ticking springs and gears wound to a halt in Beechums mind.
It was silent on the ship. There was no one. No heavy breathing from the bunks. No singing from the drinks-car. No clashing metal from the engine-car, or arguing from the bridge. Everything was silent, and still.
In a few minutes, everyone would be back. But for now, Beechums was alone.
With a gesture that no-one would ever see, Beechums gently reached its metal arms out to tenderly caress the shiny ship’s wheel of the Skyrail.