Skykeep (24 page)

“Five… six… seven… eight,” she breathed,
clutching her arms a bit more tightly about herself as another gust
of wind passed effortlessly through the mesh and chilled her.
“Lita… I think your method may have met its match…”

She steadied herself for another inhale when
she heard the sound she’d been waiting for. It was the scratch of
claws and the scamper of feet along the support pole outside the
crate. She began to hammer on the crate, knocking out a code.

That inspector repeated its name, she
tapped.

The scampering stopped. She repeated the
message, this time louder and more urgently. There was a moment of
scratching and tapping, then suddenly something thumped against the
side of the crate and climbed to the top. Finally the quicker, more
delicate taps of an aye-aye rattled against the roof of her hanging
prison.

This inspector was named 34097, it tapped.
That inspector repeated its name.

This inspector was named Nita, she replied.
Nita took another breath, then began her message. Report forwarded
to inspector Wink.

She knew that Wink wasn’t the
real
name of the
Wind Breaker
’s inspector, at least for the
purposes of this message, but it was the only one she knew. It
would have to do.

Reply intended only for Nita, she continued.
Both crew were in Phylactery. Skykeep. Airborne prison. Coordinates
followed message. Anti-aircraft cannons on surface. Sharpshooters
in four corner towers. One more in central tower. Anchored by
chains to surface. Large hounds guarded chains…

For the better part of five minutes she
listed off everything she could think of that might be of some aid
to the crew. When she was through, there was a silence that likely
only lasted a few seconds but felt like hours. Then came a few
simple taps.

Report received,
the inspector
tapped.

Its acknowledgment delivered, the creature
scurried up the rope, along the boom, and to the top of the pole.
Time passed with agonizing uncertainty, nothing but the wail of
wind and the sickening motion of the crate to occupy Nita’s mind.
Then she heard the low, slicing whir of airship blades. Shortly
afterward she began to hear the rattling tap of messages being
drummed out by the inspector. The sound was distant and indistinct,
but if she strained her ears Nita could just barely make out
snippets of the messages.
… seven crates of flour… …killed in
the act of attacking… …requesting further instruction… …intended
for Nita. Both crew were in Phylactery…

Nita practically deflated, releasing a breath
she’d not intentionally held. The plan had run its course. It might
not have been the best one. After all, the captain only rarely used
Wink to spy on other messages, and he had no way of knowing that
Nita might be sending one, but it was the best chance she had. And
now she had done it. It was a blessing in that it gave her the
sliver of hope that rescue might be on the way, but it was a curse
in that the monomaniacal focus that had driven her for the last few
days was gone. Now she’d have to find something else to fixate on,
lest she go mad. Fortunately, at the moment she had the very
effective distraction of trying to keep her lunch where it belonged
because she wouldn’t be getting another one anytime soon.

Regardless of how one might have felt about the fug
folk and their behavior, captains and navigators always had a
grudging respect for their fug counterparts. Above the fug the
ground, the sky, and their landmarks were almost always present.
Every ship had a dozen instruments dedicated to keeping one abreast
of things that were plainly visible on all but the darkest and
cloudiest nights. Beneath the fug, there was no sky, and there was
no horizon. On the brightest, most beautiful day above the surface,
the fug folk were at best treated to a dim purple glow. At night,
there was nothingness. The sky, the ground, and all around were
black. Ships could have and often did run aground thinking they had
hundreds of feet to spare. Traveling long distances with anything
approaching precision required an intimate understanding of one’s
own ship and the intricacies of the wind. Distance was judged by
setting a steady speed and counting out the minutes. Adjustments
were made by working out how much drift the wind had caused and
correcting for it. It was not correct to say that it was as much an
art as a science, because there was virtually no science to it at
all. One took one’s best guess, hoping to come at least close
enough to the proper course that the lighthouse or beacon of the
intended destination came into view. Only the bravest or
foolhardiest of surface ships spent any time in the fug, and those
who did always did so because they were up to some sort of no good
and couldn’t afford to be caught. It was thus of little surprise
that the
Wind Breaker
and her crew had spent a fair amount
of time doing just that. No one could navigate in the fug like a
fug pilot, but if there was one person who was close, it was
Captain Mack.

Despite this, fate had not been with them in
their journey. A heading and a distance were all well and good, but
they were not the most precise way to find a destination in the
best of circumstances. Even if they’d had the sky to guide them,
the simple quirk of one compass compared to another might put one
well
off the mark. A strong headwind had made navigation
difficult and burned through a fair amount of fuel and water during
the beginning of their journey. To keep their boilers full, the
Wind Breaker
had been forced to seek out a river, which took
them off course and required considerable backtracking to find
their way back to the original path. By their figuring they had
come within five miles of Pendercrook when the same storm that had
stirred up Lil’s second stint in the isolation crate threw them off
course again, requiring another session of backtracking, and two
more water stops. By the time they were finally drawing near to
what they believed was their destination, days had passed in a trip
that should have taken hours.

“I reckon we’re just about fit to bump into
the place now,” the captain said, his eye on the fragile collection
of brass plates and glass tubing that formed his altimeter. He then
referred to his carefully calibrated airspeed indicator, otherwise
known as a spit-moistened finger. “Everybody keep your eyes peeled
for the beacon. Should be off to the port side. Holler as
soon
as you see it because if we get too close, this whole
operation is over before it starts; and if we’re too far, we might
barely see it. I’ll be damned if we waste another day because of
the odd breeze and a poor lookout.”

“Hold on, Cap’n… I think I hear another set
of engines,” Coop warned. He looked down to the fuzzy little head
sticking out of his jacket, where Nikita had been carefully tucked
away since her treatment. “You hear that, little critter?”

Nikita tapped an affirmative on one of Coop’s
buttons. The one blessing of their lengthy misadventure was that
both Nikita and Coop had been granted the time to at least mostly
recover from their respective injuries.

Mack eased off the steam to the rotors. His
ship had five small engines rather than the more typical twin
engine configuration. This meant that all things being equal, the
Wind Breaker
was quieter than most other ships. Nita’s
faithful and proactive tuning and repairs meant that it tended to
hum rather than rattle, thus keeping the noise down even further.
If they had heard another ship, the odds were good that the other
ship had
not
heard
them.
When the
Wind Breaker
fans were nearly silent, the crew listened. Sure enough, somewhere
off the starboard side, a ship lurked with a low rumble.

“Too low-pitched to be a cutter. Sounds like
one of them scouts… short-rangers, like the ones guarding the
warehouse. If it’s a scout, we’re close, but it’s also probably got
its lights on, so we’d best be sure it doesn’t get too close to
us
. Somebody spot that thing right quick.”

“It’s nowhere around us,” Gunner said. “It
must be above or below.”

“It ain’t below us, because were pretty near
scraping our belly. Someone get up there and spot it.”

“Up there… you mean on top?” Gunner said.

“If Lil can do it, then so can you,” the
captain said.

“I believe this is the precise reason that
the concept of seniority was created. Coop, do the honors.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m going,” Coop said, slinging
his rifle on his back and hauling himself into the rigging.

While Nita’s efforts to beautify the
Wind
Breaker
had done a great deal of good for them when they were
above the fug in terms of building a reputation and adding to the
mystique that was beginning to surround them, it had the
unfortunate side effect of making them the most recognizable ship
in the sky. This meant that so much as a glimpse in their direction
from one of the fug ships was more than they could afford. To avoid
being seen, Mack was flying entirely dark, and Coop knew better
than to ask permission to use a handheld light of any kind, so
climbing the rigging and working his way up onto the envelope had
to be done by touch. Luck was with him, though. He’d no sooner
reached the side of the envelope than the phlo-lights of the scout
ship became visible.

“I got her, Cap’n. About sixty yards. Pitched
down. Probably coming in from a surface sweep.”

“Then she’s inbound. She’ll lead us the rest
of the way,” the captain said. “We can’t be more than five minutes
out. Now’s the time to get our ducks all lined up. Cannons
loaded?”

“Fore and aft, grapeshot, as ordered,” Gunner
said.

“All small arms on hand and loaded?”

“I lost a couple of my favorites back in the
mine, but what I got is ready to fire,” Coop said, dropping back
down to the deck.

“Deck guns loaded?”

“Our last full magazine of fléchettes ready
to unload, Captain.”

“Repeat back your orders,” Mack said.

“Me and Gunner hit the ground as soon as we
see the beacon. We get inside on foot and look for the station
master or whoever else might be in charge,” Coop said.

“Once we find him, we try to get into his
office and find his paperwork and look for something about the
Phylactery,” Gunner said.

“Even if it’s just a map. If we can’t find
nothin’, we grab the master himself and bring him back.”

“If we can’t find the station master, we grab
anybody
and bring him back.”

“And we shouldn’t even pull a trigger unless
we’re ready to kill every last one of them. Which should be easy,
because I been ready to kill every last one of these fuggers since
I heard the explosion.”

“We’re not in a strong position for a
firefight, gents. Gunner, use your best judgment. Coop, use
Gunner’s best judgment.”

“Aye,” the men said.

The captain brought the ship lower and
decreased speed until the scout ship was easily visible overhead.
He kept dropping until the scratch of scraggly, gnarled tree
branches against the belly and gig told them any further loss of
altitude would be ill-advised. Less than two minutes later,
Gunner’s sharp eyes spotted the steady green glow of the
phlo-beacon atop what could only be Pendercrook. From there they
dropped a ladder and lowered the gig in lieu of an anchor. Gunner
was the first to hit the ground, followed by Coop.

“Do you need me to run through the proper
tactics?” Gunner asked, checking each of his five guns in sequence
to ensure they were mechanically sound, then pulling down a pair of
goggles with an array of flipped-up lenses.

“I broke into plenty of places plenty of
times, Gunner. I know the drill.”

“Yes, you broke into places, but this is
reconnaissance.”

“Reconi… rec… what you said is just fancy
talk for sticking our noses where they don’t belong and not getting
caught. I did that plenty, too. You don’t need to lead me
around.”

Gunner looked to him. “Oh, don’t I? Then why
do you have an inspector in your coat? Are you really thinking of
bringing her along?”

“Look, if you can figure a way of getting her
out without her clawing a hole through you or me, then have at it.
Otherwise, she’s coming along.”

“But you… fine. But we’re splitting up as
soon as we reach the station. If that thing is going to make a
racket, the least I can do is use you as a diversion.”

“She ain’t gonna do nothing. You didn’t even
know she was there,” Coop said.

The two began to move along at a carefully
moderated pace, as fast as they dared to go to avoid making too
much noise or exhausting themselves on the way. The distance at
which the
Wind Breaker
had set down left them with a lot of
ground to cover. By the time they were near enough for the lights
of the buildings to become visible, the scout ship had reached port
and a second ship had come in for supplies.

“You see what I see, Gunner?” Coop said
quietly.

“Yes, Coop. I have eyes.”

The new ship was a cutter.

“You reckon that came in from that Ph’lac’try
place?”

“That’s what we’re here to find out,” Gunner
said, quickening his pace.

As they drew nearer, it was clear that this
was like any typical fug facility. That is to say, it was pristine,
well maintained, and practically deserted. There were two landing
pads, each currently occupied. At a surface station that would mean
there should be a swarm of ground crews scurrying about to reload
each ship with coal, burn-slow, and water. Here there was only a
pair of workers, each operating a steam-powered cart. A third fug
person, probably the only other person in the station, seemed to be
giving orders. All told there were a dozen buildings that made up
the station. The central office was to one side. It was a tall
tower with the beacon mounted atop it. The rest were either
warehouses filled with consumables and other airship-related items,
or else they were water towers. Here in the fug one couldn’t rely
upon the ocean to supply ample water for the boilers. As a result
many stations such as this had been erected by the fug folk to
resupply when natural bodies of water weren’t nearby.