Rebel Skyforce (Mad Tinker Chronicles) (2 page)

As he swept through the dining car, he picked at platters that hadn’t been upset in the derailment. He had enough sense to know which foods contained kuduk ingredients that his stomach couldn’t handle—saltpeter, carbon black, iron oxide and the like—and managed to quell his hunger.

In over a decade as a slave, he had never had to go hungry. It wasn’t until he became a free man again that he had to worry about keeping fed.

“Get the pilot out of there,” Chipmunk ordered. She swallowed back a pang of guilt and hoped that it didn’t show in her face. When she saw the crash, her first thought had been the recovery of the liftwing. It hadn’t occurred to her that the pilot might have survived and needed attention. Fortunately for Delane, Chipmunk wasn’t the only one doing the considering. Though she had been aboard the
Cloudsmith
, Sosha was running toward the crash site with her medical bag.

Chipmunk kept out of the way of the able-bodied men who extracted Delane from the wreck. She turned her attention to the condition of the liftwing itself. One of the propeller blades was half missing, and fabricating a replacement was iffy given their circumstances. There were irregular holes torn in the thin lightsteel outer covering of the craft, evidence that shrapnel from the boiler explosion had punctured it. She rested her crutch against the hull and grabbed the intact wing to swing herself underneath the wreck.

Please let it be intact.

The tri-barrel rotogun was a powder-and-cartridge device she had torn apart and rebuilt with the limited resources available on the
Jennai
. It was ugly and awkward, and she loved it all the more for being that way. It was hers. The one she found under the airship’s belly was dinged and dislodged, but just whole enough that she knew she could repair it in time.

“How’s it look?” Sosha’s voice asked from behind her.

“Looks like I’ll be able—”

“He’s bleedin’ bad and his legs both bent funny when we pulled him out,” one of the mechanics answered. Chipmunk felt her face flush. She had forgotten about the pilot again the moment she started examining the ship.

Chipmunk slunk out from beneath the hull and retrieved her crutch. Her ribs hurt after the long trek from the
Jennai
, and her hand was tired from gripping the handle of the steel tubing she had fashioned for herself. She made a note to rebuild the crutch from lightsteel when she found enough of it.

“Get him clear of the wreck, then get moving hauling this back to the
Jennai
,” Chipmunk ordered. Giving orders helped clear away the guilt of forgetting the pilot’s plight. She had more to worry about than just one man.

“We’ll need a stretcher to get him back to the ship,” Sosha said, not bothering to look up. Chipmunk glanced at her work as Sosha field bandaged the gashes in the man’s legs and torso.

“Can’t we just carry him?” Chipmunk asked. She fished in her jacket and pulled out a pocketclock. “We haven’t got much time.”

“Not with his legs this bad.”

“We don’t have a stretcher.”

“You’re the tinker; tinker one up!” Sosha said. “And hurry up about it.”

There were few among the crews of either ship that could get away with addressing her like that, but she knew Sosha was right. She couldn’t let a small problem like a stretcher’s lack of existence stop her from delivering one.

“Tobson, Swails, run to the thunderail, grab up curtains or blankets from the sleeper car—whatever you can find that’s sturdy fabric and big enough to hold a grown man. Send another ten men over here, too—Eziel knows we have enough of
those
to spare. The rest of you, set that airship down. I need some of it.”

Chipmunk took a hammer to one of the wing struts and bashed at it until one end came loose, then worked it back and forth until the other end broke free. She hobbled around to the far side and repeated it on the wing strut on that side as well. A group of soldiers from the thunderail looters arrived to help haul the airship away when she finished.

Tobson and Swails returned with a set of thick velvet drapes in hand, the brass rings from the curtain rod still jangling from the top end. It was better than Chipmunk had hoped. The two mechanics laid the curtain out flat on the turf.

“Good. Lay Delane on there. Line him up right there,” she pointed with the end of her crutch. Chipmunk lowered herself down on the side opposite the brass rings and drew a pocket knife. She slit the velvet at intervals, large enough for the strut to feed through.

“Wrap it up and thread the strut through the whole thing.”

She was glad she’d brought mechanics along instead of soldiers. Mechanics got how things worked without having to be beaten over the head. They knew how the stretcher would look in the end: like a trussed pig.

In the distance, she could see the cargo from the thunderail being ferried onto the
Jennai
and the
Cloudsmith
. The wrecked liftwing was already well on its way to the vacu-dirges by the time Delane was ready to be moved. There was little else for the rebels to do except get the wounded pilot and their general back aboard before they left. Chipmunk checked her pocketclock again.

“Damn! They’ll have missed the thunderail at the next siding by now. Someone’s bound to have sent a cable about it. It’s just a matter of time before Ruttania’s air force gets here.”

Tobson muttered something to Sosha that Chipmunk couldn’t make out as she limped along on her crutch, trying to keep pace. Sosha traded places with the burly mechanic and took one end of the stretcher.

“Sorry ‘bout this, ma’am,” Tobson apologized on his way over to Chipmunk.

“Sorry about what?”

Tobson lowered a shoulder to Chipmunk’s midsection and hoisted her over his shoulder in one fluid motion. He took the crutch from her with his free hand. “Ain’t got time to pretend you can walk, is all.”

Chapter 2

“You may have a man bought and paid for, but you’re as good as his once he realizes you can’t get by without him.” –Kezudkan Graniteson

The lift from the trolley levels opened into an above-ground cavern of steel and glass. Pale light filtered in from the smoggy skies outside, green in hue from chemicals in the air. Gantries and chain hoists spanned the aisles between machines, all whizzing, whirring, clanking, and humming according to their multitudinous functions. Kezudkan had seen such machines before, and judged the ones in this factory to be top of the line.

“Right this way sir,” his escort said. The pudgy kuduk with the grease-stained hands toddled off ahead down the main corridor of the factory floor. Kezudkan grunted in reply and ambled along behind him. He carried his cane as a walking stick, tapping it gently on the floor in time with his stride. His joints had been better of late; the petrification of his knee was working itself loose with all the walking he’d done in the past month. He had never attributed his condition to idleness, but suspected otherwise now. He was still none too swift afoot.

“Hold up. I’m not the young daruu I once was,” Kezudkan grumbled, not caring whether his escort heard him or not. He needed neither guide nor nanny. He continued at his own pace as the kuduk left him behind.

Kezudkan peered at the workers and their projects as he passed by. They were building valves and pumps, casings and enclosures, sprockets, chains, and gears. It was hard to find good gear-makers, so the latter spoke of a quality operation—but Kezudkan had already known that. He hadn’t traveled all the way to Cavinstraw Deep in Grangia on a whim.

Near the center of the factory floor was an eye in the storm of flying metal. Desks and drafting tables clustered together with kuduk mechanics and tinkers toiling away. At the very center was a singular kuduk who looked up in calm anticipation at Kezudkan’s arrival.

This kuduk stood to greet him, and Kezudkan got his first look at the “gear-made man.” Ganrin Draksgollow stepped around his desk with one leg nothing more than a contraption of piston rods, gears, and springs from just above the knee. Kezudkan considered the troubles he’d had with his own joints and wondered which of them was the worse off. When Draksgollow held out a hand, it was of similar construction, with fine-made brightsteel fingers and sinewy cables threaded through. Kezudkan took the hand gingerly, knowing that the rock-like darru flesh of his own hand was liable to crush the delicate mechanism.

“Please to make your—oof, quite a grip you’ve got there, Mr. Draksgollow.”

“Good of you to come, Mr. Graniteson,” Draksgollow replied, a hint of a smile on his face. He was clean-shaven, which was unusual for kuduks, who regarded a lack of facial hair as a human look. Kezudkan suspected the reason when he noticed the irregular pattern of stubble—old burn wounds, he guessed. What marvelous stories the tinker must have had, to warrant such an array of injuries. Decorum alone prevented Kezudkan from asking.

“I hope my message was not too vague. I had no intention of misleading you—I just don’t have any great faith in the vaunted discretion of the cable tappers.”

Draksgollow shook his head. “Me neither. Bunch of gossiping whoresons, the lot of them. If we come to an arrangement, I’ll give you a code book that I use for my business dealings.”

Kezudkan raised a hairless brow. “Do all your clients have this code?”

“I have them printed up in pairs. I’ll just mark your name on my copy.”

“And the printer? What’s to say he can’t keep a spare copy?”

Draksgollow stared hard a moment. If he meant to cow Kezudkan, he’d need a better glare, for Kezudkan had been glared at quite professionally of late, and by kuduks better inclined to back up those glares. Draksgollow turned slightly and hollered over his shoulder. “Kep, get over here.”

A moment later a mechanic arrived, hands stained black with ink, not grease as Kezudkan was tempted to believe at first glance. “Boss?”

“You make more than two of any of my code books?”

“Slugs, no! Who’s sayin’ I have? This old fossil?” Kep said.

“Mind your tongue, Kep, this is a new client—maybe. He’s just being cautious. You can get back to work.”

Kep had a better glare than Draksgollow, by Kezudkan’s estimation, and used it on the daruu as he departed.

“Satisfied? Have a seat then.”

Draksgollow gestured to a steel stool across the desk from him as he resumed his seat. Kezudkan eyed it with skepticism. Few kuduks took proper account of just how much a typical daruu weighed. Though already wider than kuduks by half a measure, their rocky compositions made daruu a good deal denser. Finally deciding that Draksgollow didn’t look like the sort who took half measures in his tinkering, he settled his bulk onto the stool, gasping as the pressure was relieved from his old bones.

“So tell me a bit about this place? Why above ground for one? What experience do you have with complicated systems? Have you done work with runes? You must have had skeptics among your clients before; win me over,” Kezudkan said.

“I’ve worked with daruu before, and you’re a bit of a clean pump, aren’t you?” Draksgollow said. Kezudkan smirked. “Most of them would have bored me halfway to madness with their lineage and titles by now—”

“Oh, if you’d like, I could—”

Draksgollow held up a hand—the fleshy one. “No, no. I’m not complaining. To answer your questions, we built topside for the light. My machines guzzle spark like a human drunkard. We’ve got gas for night work and bad weather, but any spark I’ve got goes into the machines.”

“Why not purchase another dynamo? It looks like you’ve got plenty of work; you must be able to afford it.” It wasn’t always a polite topic, but Kezudkan needed a sense of the kuduk’s financial situation. He needed someone who could afford to float a bit of risk.

“If I had another dynamo, I’d use up the spark putting in more machines. More profit in that than in buying spark lights when I’ve got a perfectly good system running.”

“Fair enough. Can’t argue with higher profits.”

“As for the rest, I’ve got the best factory for custom jobs you’re likely to find. I’ve built airship parts here, and not just those ridiculous vacu-dirges you Ruttanians seem so fond of.”

Kezudkan held up his palms. “Don’t look at me. It’s a kuduk decision which airships to purchase.”

“Anyway, those liftwing airships are finicky. Shape the wing or prop wrong, they fall out of the sky. That’s why the Grangian aerial command buys from me: I don’t build anything half-arsed. They get what they put on vellum.”

“Runes?”

“Didn’t I just say I worked on airships? I don’t care how light you think you can make one, no liftwing can get airborne with a load of coal on board, or a steamer big enough to get the prop up to speed. So yeah, we do runes here.”

“Yes, but do you call in for someone to empower them, or do you have—”

“Eleven humans who can manipulate runes. Mr. Graniteson, I don’t mind questions, but you’re starting to sound like you don’t have confidence in my operation here.”

“If you’re looking for an apology—”

“I’m simply looking for an explanation, Mr. Graniteson.”

“Not here,” Kezudkan replied. “Somewhere private.”

The lower levels of the factory were more suited to Kezudkan’s taste. The walls might have been buttressed with steel beams, but rough cut stone was all around. The tunnels and caverns had been kuduk carved, and appeared passably safe. There were gas lamps throughout, leaving the air with a heavy odor that brought back memories of a youth before the spark had spread like a plague and made the lights all sterile, with an annoying hum.

Draksgollow chased a handful of workers out of a tiny chemical etching room that had tables for Kezudkan to lay out his plans. As Draksgollow tidied up the etching plates and bottles of acids, Kezudkan picked up one of the pieces and examined the runes. They were commonplace workmanship, lacking the style and purposefulness of runework chiseled by hand. His eyes wandered the patterns, following the logic of the designer.

“These getting ready to be rolled flat?” Kezudkan asked, brandishing the piece.

Draksgollow grabbed a work log and scanned it. “How’d you—well, of course one of
your
kind would be able to read them. They’re for a new airship. They need the lightsteel to be hair-thin. Runes will get flattened out in the rolling process, then they’ll get new ones to strengthen the material after it’s formed.”

Kezudkan nodded absently and fished inside his coat pockets. He withdrew a folded wad of papers and opened them in the spot Draksgollow had cleared. They were hand drawn in a tidy, efficient script, but what drew Draksgollow’s eye were the diagrams. Kezudkan smiled as he watched the kuduk tinker’s eyes widen as he browsed the documents.

“What is all this?” Draksgollow asked.

“The key to our fortunes. Unlimited wealth and power.”

“Cut the rat-baiting. What does it do?”

Kezudkan leaned in close. “What would you say if I told you there were other worlds besides Korr?” he asked.

The tinker’s face twisted into a scowl. “I’d say I’ve wasted my morning. Good day to you, Mr. Graniteson. Find someone else to buy your bunk.”

Draksgollow moved toward the door, but Kezudkan’s cane swung up and barred his path. The tinker tried to push past, but the cane barely budged. Old though the daruu was, the strength of the stone still resided in his muscles. He lacked what little grace and agility he had as a younger man, but holding his ground was no trouble at all. Kezudkan stepped in front of Draksgollow, interposing himself between the tinker and the rest of his factory.

“Not so fast, Mr. Draksgollow. Your cable said you’d be willing to hear me out, and you’ve barely heard the first words I’ve uttered.”

“I’ve got near to a hundred men—”

“And all I’d need to do would be to grab hold of you and squeeze,” Kezudkan countered. “But let this not devolve into childish threats. You said you’d listen and I intend to hold you to that promise. If I don’t convince you, then I’ll be on my way and waste no more of your time or mine. I came to you because I heard you were the best, not the only.”

“So what, you want me to believe that there are other worlds out there among the stars? I’ve heard the astronomers’ guild’s nonsense before. Even if there are, I don’t see that airships are quite ready to get there yet.”

“I’ve seen them.”

“Seen what? Other worlds? What sort of telescopes are those nutters building these days?”

“I’ve seen another word. Through
this
.” Kezudkan jabbed a finger at the papers spread on the desk. There, sketched in pencil, was a rendering of an archway, studded with bulbs and coils, webbed with wires. Draksgollow leaned over and looked to the page, then up to Kezudkan’s eyes, as if searching to see whether there was any madness in them.

“You built one?”

“You must have heard the rumors from Eversall. That little debacle was
my
tinker slave! He built the first one and destroyed it. Somehow he must have brought allies from another world, because there were no hidden tunnels to my home, as they claimed. You kuduks just can’t understand; I’d have
known
if the stone around my estate was breached.”

Kezudkan paused a moment to catch his breath and regain the dignity he had entered with. Draksgollow leafed through the papers on the desk. “This doesn’t look like enough to build much of anything. And this writing is nonsense.”

“It is, and it isn’t. These are copies of copies. I have a whole book that goes into how to build and use it. If you and I come to an agreement, I can supply all that you need, including my notes on the little I have gathered of the text. But let me assure you: there
is
enough there to build one and make it work.”

Draksgollow shook his head, as if to clear it. “Wait now. What good is this machine? What’s on these other worlds that’s worth the trouble? That thing could take weeks to build.”

Kezudkan raised a brow. He had expected even longer than that. When he didn’t answer immediately, Draksgollow pressed on.

“Your message said a contingent build, so this thing has to earn its keep and then some. How much are the astronomers willing to pay for something like this?”