by Adam D Jones
After getting Dawn’s signal, Amelia turned around and passed it on to Marshal below. Everyone made it. She crouched, at the building’s edge, and looked over the city, looking for a sign the Republic had noticed the approaching ships.
I have to find the Sovereign. Isabel had told Amelia she wouldn’t be able to do that on her own. Isabel hadn’t seemed to think Amelia could do anything on her own. But Amelia knew that when the city erupted as everyone realized they were under attack, the Sovereign would either hide or lead the fight, and if he found Marshal and Raine too soon he could ruin their entire mission. Amelia looked around the city, hoping to see any official-looking group walking around, or a carriage bearing the Sovereign’s seal. I think you know something about me, Sovereign.
Amelia turned back to the desert. The sandships were circling. Stalling. By the time they were almost back to where they had started, she heard the first alarm. Finally.
Along the city wall, bells began to ring out and citizens around Gamon stopped in their tracks, looking at one another to see if anyone knew what was going on. Men on the walls shouted orders and eventually Stripes filled the streets, pushing people into buildings for safety. Amelia smiled as a man and woman wearing fine clothes of velvet and leather were forced into one of the nearby tenement houses.
From deep within the city, she heard sandship engines roaring down the sand roads. They gave off a clean sound, more regular than the rattle and clamor of the Corsair’s stolen ships. A pair of sandships flew through town and past the gates.
Time to go.
Amelia looked down at the stairwell and could hear people clamoring around in the building’s hallways. That way will take forever.
◆◆◆
Marshal squinted. “Darn it, Amelia. Everyone’s gonna see you!”
Raine stepped up next to him and looked. “I can’t see anything up there.”
“She climbed down the drain pipe! Real subtle.”
“Did she lose Isabel?”
“Almighty, tell me those didn’t argue until Amelia shoved her off the roof.” Marshal had expected the plan to fall apart, the best plans always did, but had hoped they would get halfway to the Dae stone first. “Let’s go, kid.”
Raine took the lead this time. With the pandemonium surrounding them, no one would notice a Lodi servant walking in front instead of behind. And Marshal finally felt his stomach relax a little. Even though they were in Gamon, the growler’s den, and they were on a mission that had as good a chance of success as carrying an ice cube across Telarine, walking around with a servant had made Marshal the most uncomfortable.
“You know the way?” asked Marshal. Raine didn’t appear to be going in a straight line.
“Trust me.” Raine took them the long way around a building and then through an alleyway where horses were lined up. “I’m using the paths that can’t be seen from the military building windows. It’s not much longer.”
They passed two more buildings before coming to a sand road. It was wide enough for two sandships to pass and carried the recent, deep indentations in the sand from the ships that had just torn through Gamon to chase Dawn.
“Can we follow this the rest of the way?” asked Marshal.
“We could.” Raine kept away from the sand, staying in the shadow of a building. “But I wouldn’t. People just cleared out of here and we’ll be noticed. Let’s keep out of sight a little longer.”
They stepped behind a row of buildings that lined the sand road and kept their heads down as they continued toward the Grey Quarter. Marshal tipped his hat at the other bystanders, all talking and gossiping about something that had just barely started. When Raine gets his hands on that Dae stone they’ll really have something to talk about.
They walked past a stubby building with batwing doors where Marshal heard something that grabbed his attention.
“It was even hotter in Whitesand! By the time both suns were out you couldn’t walk outside without panting like a dog,” came a voice.
Whitesand? Marshal stopped. He knew he shouldn’t, but the voice...the voice…
“Course,” continued the familiar voice, “no one in Whitesand has to worry about that anymore.”
Marshal felt his hands clench into fists.
Raine tugged on his sleeve. “We need to go.”
“I know, but...”
The batwing doors flew open and several men stepped out, a few in military uniforms. As they filed out, Marshal finally got a good look at the man standing in the middle of them, the one who had been doing all the talking. A Lodi man.
“You boys don’t know how lucky you are to be here...in...”
Marshal locked eyes with a face he knew well.
Sloane.
Marshal put his hand on his gun but didn’t pull it from the holster. He wasn’t the sort of man who started gunfights—that never solved problems. But neither does standing here. Should’ve listened to the kid!
“You...” Sloane froze in the batwing doors, his mouth forming a snarl.
Marshal started to back away, but the men around Sloane, sensing a confrontation brewing, advanced on him, parting their coats to reveal their own sidearms.
Sloane’s mouth opened to form a word he never had a chance to speak.
A noisy crowd moved through them, running from the alarm bells, and Sloane was completely lost behind them. Marshal felt Raine tug on his shirt. “Are you crazy, Marshal?”
Raine pulled him away, and they hurried into a busy street. Marshal tried to keep his head down. He risked a glance behind them and saw Sloane following, pointing directly at Marshal and giving orders to someone.
“Not good,” said Marshal. “We need to hide.”
“We can try.” Raine turned his head every direction. “Kind of hard to just hide. Nothing here but shops.”
“Might need to split up then. Sloane doesn’t know you’re with me.”
“There’s a lot of people up ahead. Maybe we can get lost in there.”
Yeah, but that’s the wrong way. Dawn can’t stall them forever out there.
◆◆◆
Amelia reached the bottom of the drain pipe and dusted off her clothes.
That was much more efficient than the stairs.
Amelia wondered why people didn’t make ladders more often than winding steps that went back and forth. The city was filled with inefficiencies.
The streets felt familiar. Amelia hadn’t been in Gamon in her life as a husk, but she was beginning to believe she had been here before. Before her life as she knew it. ‘The Other Time,’ as she had been referring to it in her mind. Her instincts told her the military buildings were part of the Grey Quarter, which sat in the easternmost section of the city. These buildings stood near the docks and overlooked the ocean, where the Outsiders had once been expelled, cursed to forever live in their boats.
How did I know that?
She walked in the middle of the street, noticing everyone else kept to the crowded sidewalks. Her way was faster. Ahead of her, she saw men in military uniforms. Not the normal rank and file, but men whose buttons and medals marked them as being more important. The five of them walked quickly west, in the general direction of the imposing Grey Quarter at the far end of town.
I bet I can follow them to the Sovereign. See, Isabel? This isn’t too hard.
Amelia heard footsteps and glanced over her shoulder. A pair of Stripes walked behind her, staring.
I’m just walking. Nothing odd about that.
She continued in the center of the street, glad to be making such good time. Amelia let the important-looking men remain many blocks ahead of her. When she turned to follow them into a new part of town, she noticed from the corner of her eye that the Stripes were no longer following her. I must have lost them. She picked up the pace, smiling at her subtlety. Amelia left the last of the residential sections and weaved her way through the tall, industrial buildings that blocked out the sun. She could see the Grey Quarter, only a few blocks away.
Amelia turned around. A pair of Stripes emerged, like they had been waiting. She looked behind her and saw two more approaching, hands on their firearms.
One of the officers, a mustached man, walked closer. “Mind telling us what you’re doing? Why you climbed down that building? Were you signaling someone up there?”
“Yes, but it’s only a diversion,” said Amelia, helpfully. “The sandships will be gone soon.”
The man’s brow furled, and he looked around at the other Stripes for a moment, exchanging glances. “And here I was thinking it would be difficult to get you to admit you had anything to do with it.” He held up a pair of shackles. “Come with us. Don’t make this difficult.”
“I’m a husk,” said Amelia. “Go Growlers?”
One of the men frowned. “She does act like a husk.”
“That’d be fine if we’d caught her doing something else,” said the mustached man, “but if she’s one of the Republic’s husks she’s clearly got sand in her brain. I don’t want to leave her running around the Grey Quarter.”
The men advanced.
Amelia could kick the nearest man, the one with the shackles, before he could realize it. If she ran past him, his partner would, she thought, be too stunned to respond quickly enough to stop her attack. But that would leave two men behind her who might be lucky enough to hit a running target with their wheel-lock pistols. The odds were not great, but no other plan presented itself.
“Put those cuffs away,” came a woman’s voice.
The woman stepped into the street, followed by a sway of blonde hair that fell out from under her wide-brimmed hat. She walked through the Stripes and directly to the man with the shackles.
“This one is mine,” she said.
The Stripes shared a confused look. “And who are you?”
“Doesn’t matter. I don’t have to explain myself, and you’ve got a city to take care of. I’ll get her back home.”
Amelia stood still. She studied the woman; certain they had never met. Not even a primitive instinct from The Other Time made this woman seem familiar.
The Stripe pointed a finger at her. “Keep her off the streets. The crazy ones do crazy things.”
He shook his head, and with a wave of his arm, he led the other men away, back toward the residential part of Gamon. Amelia and the other woman stood silently until the men were very far out of sight.
Amelia began. “Why did you—”
The woman advanced on her. “Stop standing like that. This isn’t the army, and you can’t fit in if you’re at parade rest. You may as well just head to the sheriff’s office and sit in his prison, walking down the street in the open that way.”
“You followed me?”
“And stop saying what’s obvious. Now, let me see what they did to you.” She reached up and parted Amelia’s hair, touching the sensitive spot where Dawn had performed surgery. “This wasn’t long ago. Here, put this on.”
She removed her hat and shoved it onto Amelia’s head, pushing it down tight. Amelia could easily see an old cut in the woman’s hair part, a tiny scar where a control rod would have been inserted. Or removed.
“I don’t know what you’re doing or who you’re with,” she said, “but at least do it well.” She put a finger in Amelia’s chest. “Remember, they don’t own you anymore.”
The blonde woman walked away. Amelia’s instincts told her ask questions or to chase after the Sovereign, but all she could do was stare.
35
Captain Balen hated running.
He had been running from Republic ships all his life. Not winning battles and saving lives, but just escaping by the little hairs on the back of his neck. Still, the Corsairs had made a name for themselves throughout desert, enough for Balen to know he was going to die a legend even if he never managed to win a single fight.
Balen watched the ships emerge from Gamon. Only two of ‘em. We have two ships. The thought was fleeting. Standing there trying to decide what to do was the most reliable way to let death catch up to you, and Balen had kept himself alive by making quick decisions while others waited to make up their minds.
He waved his harpoon-like hand over his head. “Turn around, boys!”
The ship took a turn, kicking up a little sand as it banked. Dawn had told him that sandships only did that when the engines were not properly calibrated, but Balen didn’t want to imagine a sandship running too smooth and perfect. The rumble of the engines was one of the best parts of standing on the deck.
Running again. They should call me Captain Runaway. Run away, run away...
“And live to fight another day,” he muttered.
A mechanical sound got his attention. He looked back at his engineer who only shrugged. Balen ran over to the console and saw every needle pointing in the correct direction. His ship was fine.
Balen looked over at the other ship and realized they were losing speed. Mia, one of the newer recruits, was looking overboard on the far side while Winston was holding the levers and shaking his head. I’d give my other arm to know what they’re doing. And where’s Dawn?
The other ship shook and rattled; it lost speed and after few seconds quickly fell behind Balen’s ship.
“Captain,” shouted the engineer. “They’ll be killed. Ship’s nearly dead in the sand.”
Balen turned around to face the city. The pair of Republic ships were approaching, steady as death in an old man’s mirror.
He felt his mouth grow into a smile. “Slow the engines and turn around, fellas! We’re not running away today!”
◆◆◆
Just like climbing trees back home.
Dawn could hear her mother screaming to be careful. For once, I’d agree with you, Mother. Dawn surveyed the underbelly of the sandship one more time, making sure she could tell which handholds might work. Any one of them on this rickety ship might not support her weight. On a proper sandship they would all be strong enough, but this one had seen too many sunsets without the maintenance it needed.
Here goes.
Dawn reached out for the nearest bar and let herself swing toward it. She raised her legs to keep them from dragging on the desert floor and then kicked them up to grapple with one of the strong water pipes, cool to the touch and wide as a tree trunk. Her feet beat at the wide pipe until she could reach both legs around it and hold on.
She dragged herself along the pipe, keeping her shoulders narrow when she passed close to a hot steam pipe. She cringed past the stinging air and crawled further, into the dim center of the underbelly where the sun’s light scarcely reached, until she faced the damaged, leaking pipe.
The thin tear in the pipe stared her down, just in arms reach. It curled up at the ends, like a hideous mouth, the cocky grin of a demon that had come to personally make sure she failed. Machinery clanked and banged overhead, and the wide grin of the torn pipe opened and closed, letting out a low gurgle and spewed glowing fuel that dripped from its maw.
I’m gonna shut your stupid mouth.
The mixture she needed would require a few ingredients, and it was becoming clear, as she gripped the waterline with both arms and both legs, that she wouldn’t be able to do this repair with only one hand free and no safety harness. Dawn looked around for something else that could be used to hold a flexible pipe together, thinking fast while her arms and legs tired of holding her weight.
The sound of gunfire came again. This time three bullets landed in the hull of the sandship. I need more time! She clenched her hand into a fist and then stared at it. The glove.
Cowhide. Dawn used her teeth to tug the glove free and then grabbed it tightly in her hand. She took a deep breath and reached out toward the torn pipe, where an impossible mouth seemed to laugh at her with each movement of the ship.
Dawn pushed the glove against the leak, smothering the crooked mouth. Try and laugh now. Fuel pulsed through and Dawn felt its heat on her bare fingers. She forced herself
to press harder, to hold tight against the pain. The pipe spewed bits of fuel around the edge of the gloves, like the last gasps of a dying, monstrous machine, arguing through its last breath while it suffocated, retreating into the dark corners where demons lived.
The edges of her glove finally melted onto the pipe. It throbbed but didn’t tear when fuel was pushed through, like a madman with his mouth sewn shut.
Just in time, Dawn hugged the water pipe as someone on board shoved the sandship into high speed. Her makeshift patch held while fuel flooded the engines and the desert floor sped once again beneath Dawn.
◆◆◆
Captain Balen ordered the engines to full power. He stood next to the seated engineer while they barreled toward the pair of enemy sandships, silently cursing his prosthetic arm that was too unwieldy for him to perform ship maneuvers himself.
Balen watched the pair of Republic ships close in. Soldiers on the nearest ship aimed their rifles while a commanding officer, raising a white gloved hand, prepared to give the order to fire. Balen’s engineer kept them positioned so the Republic’s second ship didn’t have a clear shot.
“Fire the front cannon!” he shouted.
A woman near the front cannon grinned and pressed the glowing end of her cigar against the cannon’s breech. A loud bang made every Republic soldier duck while both ships swerved, trying to do dodge a cannonball that never came.
We can probably do that one more time before they figure it out. Balen realized none of his men were pretending to reload to the cannon to complete the illusion.
“They have cannons,” said the engineer. “Why aren’t they turning us into scrap?”
“They want their ship back!” laughed Balen. “And they think they can take it! Well, Captain Balen’ll be a dead man before he gives back a ship he stole fair and square! Now, cut to half speed!”
Both Republic sandships, moving side by side, flew to intercept Balen’s slowing ship. They were only a stone’s throw away when Balen decided they had gone far enough.
“Dust ‘em!” he cried.