Skyjackers: Episode 1: A Proper Nuisance (Skyjackers: Season One)
Read Skyjackers: Episode 1: A Proper Nuisance (Skyjackers: Season One) Online
Authors: J.C. Staudt
Skyjackers
Episode 1
A Proper Nuisance
J.C. Staudt
Skyjackers
is a work of
fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents either
are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any
resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely
coincidental.
Copyright © 2016 J.C. Staudt
All rights reserved.
Edition 1.0
Contents
Foreword
Thanks for checking out
Skyjackers
, a steampunk
adventure-romance serial. What you are about to read is a single installment in
an ongoing narrative, akin to watching an episode of your favorite TV show. If
you’re picking this up expecting a complete novel with no loose ends or
cliffhangers, toss it in the bin now, because that’s not what you’re going to
get. Some plot threads find resolution within one or two episodes, while other
major story arcs persist throughout the entire season. What you
will
get
is a light, fun adventure with a touch of drama, some colorful characters, and
a storyline that moves at breakneck speed. You’ve been initiated. Now by all
means, strap in and enjoy yourself!
Chapter 1
It was a beautiful day for a robbery. Or it would’ve
been, if Benedict Caine hadn’t been so utterly displeased. True, the skies were
clear, and his hair was performing admirably in the high-altitude winds, but
that was where Caine’s good fortune ended. He was staring down at the still-wet
sign painted across the stern of his brand-new airship, which read:
Clodhopper
.
“It’s
Cloudhopper
,” Caine said, turning toward the
painter. “Can you spell, Goodfellow?
Cloudhopper
. Spell it for me.”
Buford Goodfellow, the unfortunate painter who was almost
certainly destined for a sooner debarkation than he had planned for, cleared
his throat. “Cee el oh you dee, aitch oh pee pee ee are.”
“Very good. Now, what did you do wrong?”
“I’ve left off the U.”
“That’s right. You’re smarter than you look, Goodfellow.”
“Aye, Cap’n Caine. Sorry, Cap’n Caine.”
“For pity’s sake… it’s
Commodore
Caine. Have you gone
completely mutton-headed? Don’t just stand there, man. Get back out there and
fix it. I won’t have Captain Thorpe and the sky marshals thinking I run some sort
of rinky-dink operation round here. Do you understand me? I won’t have it.”
Goodfellow gulped. “But, sir… we’re aflight…”
“Yes I know we’re aflight. Do you take me for an imbecile? I
don’t pay you for your observations, Goodfellow. Put brush to wood, or I’ll
have to dock you another day’s wages for a job poorly-done. Now get that
swollen tokus of yours overboard and make my boat look pretty.”
Goodfellow opened his mouth to speak, but nothing in his
repertoire of stalling tactics, which he employed most often to keep himself
from harm despite the Commodore’s best efforts, seemed appropriate. He affixed
himself to the rope harness still dangling from the mizzenmast and dropped over
the ship’s stern, brush in hand, a canister of paint in each of his two
belt-mounted holsters.
Commodore Caine leaned over the starboard railing and peered
through his spyglass. His destination was in sight, and it appeared that the
rest of his fleet had arrived ahead of schedule. White chairs encircled white
tablecloths on a lush green field; silverware gleamed in the sun; guests in
white tie mingled over champagne and finger food. This was the place, alright.
Isn’t
it a marvel
, Caine thought.
I’m a lucky chap to be surrounded by my
family, heeding my life’s calling at the expense of a throng of blathering
aristocrats
.
It all seemed too good to be true. But then, that was the
sort of life Benedict Caine was used to. After all, there was a reason he was
the wealthiest pirate in the world: he was very good at it. He’d raised his
four children to be good at it too, though most of them had a ways to go in
that regard.
The chug of a distant steam engine woke Caine from his
whimsy. His eyes focused on a wisp of dark smoke that rose and dissipated from
the stacks of a Regency airship, one of the sky marshals’ vessels. Caine
slammed a fist on the railing and broke into devious laughter. “It’s that
deplorable Jonathan Thorpe,” he said with a grin.
The young upstart had been shadowing Caine’s steps ever since
he set out for Finustria three days past. Thorpe’s ambition was becoming known
the criminal world over; the fresh-faced young sky marshal was an idealist.
He’d somehow come up with the ridiculous notion that he could clean up the
skies where his predecessors had failed. A fellow like that, Caine knew, had to
be taught a lesson straightaway.
Thorpe’s airship was moving fast, and the wind was with him.
If Caine didn’t hurry, the sky marshals would arrive at the reception before he
did. “Drat it all,” he muttered to himself.
“What was that, Ben?”
“Eh… nothing, my peach,” Caine said, turning to greet his
wife Gertrude, whose ability to take him unawares was exceeded only by her
desire to curb his use of naughty language. She possessed a resolve like no one
Benedict had ever met, and a sharp tongue to match her thin features.
“I don’t think that was
nothing
I heard,” Gertrude
said. “As a matter of fact, it was decidedly not nothing.”
“I was merely expressing my distaste for that meddlesome
Captain Thorpe. It seems our plans for today have taken a sour turn on his
account. He’s arrived several minutes earlier than I intended him to.”
Gertrude patted him on the cheek. “You’ll think of something,
dear. You always do.”
Caine found her touch a welcome comfort. “Give us a kiss,
honey-pudding.”
She came in close, then pulled back abruptly. “I dare say.
You smell rather of mackerel.”
“It’s what I had for breakfast, turtle dove.”
“Smells as though you’ve managed to save enough for lunch.”
She flung herself into her lounger and opened last week’s Delaney Gazette, the
most recent edition they’d been able to find the last time they made landfall.
“Do shave, dear.”
“But—my darling… I’m about to do battle with the sky
marshals. You remember my mention of Captain Jonathan Thorpe, don’t you? The
Regency’s most promising young officer? I’ve a mind to steal the Archduchess’s
crown jewels right out from under his nose. That’ll teach him, don’t you
think?”
Gertrude yawned, thumbing through the paper. “That’s nice,
dear.”
“A kiss from my fair lady love would be an inspiration,” he
tried.
“You’d best find a lady love better suited to charity. You’ll
get no such inspiration here until you’ve had a proper shave.”
In the fields below, the other ships in Caine’s fleet were
already landing.
“Con
found
it.”
“What did you say, dear?”
“Nothing, my little strawberry tart,” he called over his
shoulder, beating a hasty retreat belowdecks.
Rummaging through the supply cabinet, Caine located a pair of
pistols that hadn’t quite taken to rust yet and shoved them into his belt. He
ascended to his quarters and donned his fanciest overcoat, a gilded affair of
blue velvet and yellow embroidery, then strapped on his cutlass. Brown leather
boots and a black woolen tricorn completed the look, as confirmed by the
standing mirror in his boudoir. He returned to the deck in a hurry, desperate
to stop his wayward children from botching the operation before he arrived.
Gertrude gave Benedict a glance as he passed and let out a
gasp of pleasure. “I
say
. You do rather look the part, dear.”
He smoothed the lapel of his overcoat. “Do you really think
so?”
She smiled up at him, then returned to her paper.
“Mr. Parsons, set a course for… over there,” Caine shouted,
pointing.
“Thirty-two degrees, dear,” Gertrude corrected him, without
looking up.
“Thirty-two degrees, Parsons. And prepare to land,” said
Benedict.
“Thirty-two degrees,” Parsons repeated from the quarterdeck.
“Prepare to land.”
The
Cloudhopper
came in low and fast, drawing a
collective cry of astonishment from the wedding guests as it sailed over their
heads. The other five vessels in Caine’s fleet were already parked in a
semi-circle around the reception. As predicted, their respective captains had
been too impatient to stand by and wait for Caine’s arrival. Benedict picked
out his son Junior on the deck of his seventy-four-gun dreadnought, the
Stratustarian
,
and gave him a thin salute before debarking his own vessel.
“Greetings, honored attendees of this most prestigious occasion,”
Caine boomed through his brass megaphone as he stomped down the gangplank. “If
you would be so kind as to surrender your valuables to the gentlemen and ladies
passing through the aisles, we’ll finish up here and be on our way before
cake.” He made his way to the head table, where he gave the happy couple a bow
and a flourish. “Archduke. Archduchess. Splendid to see you both.
Congratulations. Beautiful affair. Couldn’t have asked for a lovelier day. My
apologies for missing the ceremony. I should’ve liked to get my grubby little
mitts all over the sacramental chalice. No purer gold in all the world, they
say. I’ve found most priests to be rather generous where worldly treasures are
concerned.”
Wedding guests swooned as Benedict began removing the Archduchess’s
various jeweled accessories: earrings, tiara, necklace, bracelet, and rings, each
fashioned of fine white gold and encrusted with pearls.
The Archduke shot to his feet. “Now hold on just a moment.
This is reprehensible behavior.”
Benedict drew one of the rusted flintlocks from his belt. The
hammer squealed with disuse when he cocked it. “Reprehensible is what I do
best, old chap. I must implore Your Royal Highness to kindly sit down. I simply
cannot allow you to ruin such a delightful occasion with ill-advised
gallantry.” He pressed the muzzle to the Archduke’s chest and pushed gently
until His Royal Highness plopped back into his chair. The weapon was loaded
with neither ball nor powder, but it did leave a thin crescent of rust on the
Archduke’s white overcoat.
“You won’t get away with this, Caine,” someone shouted.
Caine lifted the megaphone toward the crowd. “I beg your
pardon? Who said that?” He waited a moment. When no one responded, he put lips
to brass again and said, “Come, now. Don’t be shy. We haven’t all the time in
the world, you know.”
“Let it go, Daddy,” said Lily, suddenly standing beside him.
Benedict’s middle daughter was the picture of innocence, it seemed to him, with
pointed features like her mother’s and flowing shoulder-length hair the color
of autumn wheat. Her ship, the
Swan’s Sorrow
, was the meekest in his
fleet, boasting a paltry eight cannon.
“Don’t trouble yourself, Lily-Billy,” Caine told her. “Daddy
won’t hurt the man… so long as he apologizes.”
“You said that last time, and I seem to recall a lot of
screaming and begging for mercy.”
“Yes, well… she didn’t say she was sorry. Daddy gave her
every opportunity to be cordial and get her dolls back, yet she insisted on—”
A call from the deck of the
Moonmist
interrupted
Benedict’s diatribe. “Marshals coming in, Dad.” It was his second-youngest,
Misty, dark hair blowing in the breeze, voice stronger than a gale wind.
“Thank you, Poppet,” he called back. “You look absolutely
radiant this morning.”
She smiled. “Shall I shoot them, Dad?”
“That won’t be necessary, sugar-lamb. We’ll be off in a
flash.”
She stamped her foot. “But I’ll have them in range for a
broadside any second now.”
“That’s alright, dear. You can broadside them next time.”
Her eyes lit up. She hopped up and down and let out a tiny
squeal. “Do you promise?”
“Daddy… promises…” He gave her a dismissive wave, then leaned
toward Lily and whispered sharply. “Where is your older sister?”
“Vivian is holding her weekly bridge game, Daddy.”
“Card-playing? At a time like this?”
“She figured we had it handled between the five of us.”
Benedict scoffed. “Well, I never… We’re a team, this family.
I can see I shall need to give your sister a bit of a talking-to.”
“She’s too old for that anymore, Daddy.”
“Nonsense. My children are never too old for a good dose of
fatherly wisdom and some proper old-fashioned philosophy.” He lifted the
megaphone again. “That’s right. Keep the good stuff coming. Let’s move it
along, people. I want everything. Jewelry, purses, pocket watches, cufflinks,
all of it. If any of my sailors discovers you’ve been holding out on them, you
shall be summarily ridiculed in front of your friends and relatives.”
Captain Thorpe’s vessel was getting close. All Benedict
wanted was for Thorpe to
see
him committing the robbery. If the sky
marshals landed, they’d try putting a stop to the caper, and Benedict couldn’t
have that. He needed to finish up and get going if he wanted to avoid a
confrontation—which, of course, he did.
***
Jonathan Thorpe was late.
He’d received a tip four days ago via bluewave radio that the
notorious Caine family was planning to steal the Archduchess’s crown jewels on
her wedding day. Unbeknownst to Jonathan, Benedict Caine had sent the tip
himself.
“Full steam, lads,” Jonathan shouted from behind the wheel of
his airship, the
Maelstrom
. The engine chugged black smoke, venting
steam, and the
Maelstrom
rumbled forward with the wind at its back.
Caine’s whole fleet was already there, his pirates frisking
the wedding guests and accepting mandatory donations in heavy flour sacks. The
Archduke’s royal guardsmen were lying in the grass amongst the tables, bound
and gagged. Jonathan realized then that he was probably walking into a trap, or
at least a situation cleverly designed to appear trap-like. There were half a
dozen airships filled with dastardly pirates to his one, and most of his men
were still wet behind the ears. When the
Maelstrom
touched down,
Jonathan debarked with a complement of sky marshals at his back.
Benedict Caine raised his megaphone to greet the marshals as
they approached. “Well, if it isn’t Captain Jonathan Thorpe. How interesting to
finally meet you.”
Caine was the embodiment of propriety, his garb flamboyant,
his accent upper-class sharp. Not attributes Jonathan would’ve expected to find
in a bloodthirsty buccaneer. “You know me?” he asked, surprised.
“Indeed. And I dare say, I should like to have known your
mother. If there’s a wench as pretty as you in this world, it’s a travesty I
didn’t get there first… if you catch my meaning.”
“I do,” Jonathan said, “and I’ll thank you to hold your
tongue.”
“Oh, you needn’t thank me. Flattery is always free. While
we’re speaking of tongues, I find it rather annoying that yours seems to be the
name on everyone’s, these days. The young and admirable Jonathan Thorpe, whose
written examination scores broke the academy’s every record, and who, after an
early graduation, has been given a captaincy whilst his classmates peel potatoes
and mend gasbags aboard freightliners. Your fame is widespread. And
short-lived, I fear, unless you allow us to part ways without rancor.”
