A learning curve existed where piloting was concerned, but she took it one day at a time. Operating a giant flying monster was not in her forte. Drawing on memories of watching Kazuaki fly may have helped, but the pain of pulling recollections of him out of her mind proved to do more damage than good. A distracted pilot was not a good pilot.
She had time to prepare herself for the task. The airship still sat firmly on Northeastern ground. Though Bermuda wanted to free herself from Aggi Normandy’s territory with haste, they could not leave just yet. They needed to be sure they had everything they required before they left.
Bermuda’s eardrums adjusted to the soothing melody playing from the phonograph. A parting gift, pilfered from Aggi’s home. It was the least he could do, she decided, when she hauled it out of the dining hall. She had killed a lot of gods in Northeastern, after all. She was certain he wouldn’t miss it.
The notes hit her in all the right ways. Her lungs rattled as she summoned a large breath into her chest: a new side effect from her misuse of stimulants. Like every other ache that ravaged her body, she paid it little mind.
Her reverie was interrupted by a knock at her door. The quartermaster rubbed her pounding forehead and peeled her eyes open. “Who’s there?”
Brack entered without ceremony. His gaze immediately fell on the out-of-place phonograph, bolted to the floor with an absence of finesse. “Aggi realize you took his shit yet?” he asked, laughing as he rotated his shoulder.
Bermuda spied his movements with a frown. Brack’s shoulder had never fully recovered from the events in Seacaster last year. She knew it plagued him with rigid stiffness, but he did not once complain. “Did he realize you took his shit yet?” she retaliated.
Brack’s entertained smirk dwindled to half its size. “Yeah, yeah,” he uttered, patting a deep pack at his side. “We got your stims. Surprisingly easy theft. Probably enough to last you a year.” The man paused, a cynical chuckle flying passed his mouth. “Maybe. The way you’ve been going through them, I’m not so sure.”
Belay that, she thought to herself, unable to say it out loud. It echoed the captain’s voice far too much. Bermuda frowned, avoiding eye contact as she leaned further back into her chair.
Witnessing the discomfort his observation caused her, Brack sighed and replaced his worried expression with a more jovial one. “So,” he said, clapping his hands and rubbing them together, “what’s next then, quartermaster? Kicked out of Northeastern, aye? Boy, if that ain’t a trip down memory lane, I don’t know what is. Outcasts once again, are we?”
Her hand gripped the lower half of her face as she contemplated, pressing a finger to her lips. Bermuda rolled her neck toward him, her hands falling in her lap. “We’ve been wasting our time in Northeastern anyway. There are lesser gods here, sure, but they’re mostly ones who have chosen to coexist with humanity. We need the raw gods, the ones who haven’t traded their wits for complacency.” She paused, her eyes trailing over to her boots as they sat atop her desk. “We’re going into the belly of the beast.”
Brack knew. It was only a matter of time. “Northwestern, aye?”
“Northwestern, indeed.”
“Right, well”—he shrugged, leaning against the wall behind him as he crossed his arms—“you know I hate to be the bearer of bad news, love, but we need food and medical supplies if you want to venture out there. The place has been reduced to woodlands so far as the rumors have told me. We’d last but a few days with supplies as they are, not a moment more. And,” he started, holding a questioning hand out in the air, “we’re bled dry. No coins left to purchase such things.”
Bermuda made no acknowledgments that she heard him. She only sat, with her arms in her lap, staring at her boots. Lack of funding never stopped them before. That slice of news did not come as an alarm to her. The dwindling contents of the airship, however ... the dwindling contents that she failed to take notice of ... she should have been more on top of that. Bermuda closed one of her eyes as she scratched at her temple.
It was getting harder to remember things. Important things, like inventory.
Before she chastised herself too much, Rennington rounded the corner and leaned his body into the open doorway. He spied Brack and nodded a greeting before he shifted his attention to Bermuda. “Some bloke here to see you, quartermaster. He waltzed up the airship’s ramp like he owned the damned thing.” Rennington crossed his arms, clearly unamused by the stranger’s brazen entrance. “One of the feckin’ blue bloods. Should I send him away?”
A look of curious skepticism sewed itself onto Bermuda’s face. She arched a brow, staring at Rennington as she chewed on his words. “No,” she said slowly, surprising both the present men. “Let him in.”
Rennington blinked, shrugging an apathetic shoulder. “You’re the boss,” he muttered, slipping back to fetch the man.
Brack made a face as Rennington left them to the sound of the phonograph. The music bled into the walls, nestling in, where it made a home. Bermuda’s toes bounced up and down as it propped on the desk, moving with the speed of the song.
“So ...” Brack tapped a finger against his arm, analyzing the quartermaster’s face, “how are you, love? Be honest. It’s been a year.”
“I can count, Brack.” Bermuda stared at the ceiling, her hands behind her head.
The Rabbit snorted, grinning despite his concern. “You know I meant nothing by it. Just checking in, is all.”
“I’d be more worried about Granite.” Bermuda flung her gaze to Brack, though she did not adjust her position. “Did he find a quiet place to lay the beast to rest?”
Though he tried not to wear it on his character, Brack’s body put his empathy on display. “I imagine so. Wouldn’t let any of us go with him when he buried the little fella. Said they found each other alone and he wanted to leave him the same way.”
Bermuda nodded. She bit the inside of her cheek and redirected her stare away from Brack’s face. The behemoth was grieving. She knew it; she felt it. Grieving was something with which Bermuda was intimately familiar. “Do me a favor,” she said, without making eye contact, “keep an eye on him. Make sure he’s all right.”
Brack watched her. He knew she delegated the task to him for a reason. For as much as Bermuda loved the crew and wanted to ensure their mental health, she found herself unable. How did one stabilize the raw emotions of another, when they failed to stabilize even their own? “No worries, mate. Ol’ Rabbit’s got eyes and ears everywhere,” he said, whirling his index finger about in a circle. “No crippling breakdowns get past this guy.”
Bermuda nodded a second time. She felt relief that Rennington returned quickly. It kept her from having to further engage in the unsettling conversation with Brack.
Accompanying Rennington was a well-dressed man, donned in a suit tailored specifically to his untoned body. His lips pared back as he entered the dusty cabin. Present cobwebs made his arms retract into his torso, as if a fear existed that he might contract an illness should he extend them beyond any necessary reach.
Bermuda made no move to comfort him. There was far more for the man to fear in the room than cobwebs and dust.
With an extended hand, Rennington gestured to an empty chair before the quartermaster’s desk. A silent offer for the man to sit.
“I prefer to stand,” the stranger uttered, spying the grubby cushion with contempt.
“Just as well,” Bermuda murmured, sizing the man up from his elaborate, embroidered hat down to the golden tips of his shining footwear. “Looks too uncomfortable for you. I doubt that chair’s any softer than those dainty hands of yours.”
The man tugged at his sleeves, as if he thought pulling the velvet material of his blazer down shielded the visible softness of his delicate skin. His throat cleared as paranoid eyes identified Brack and Rennington, still standing in the room. “Might I request some privacy?” he asked, his voice lowering. “This is a matter I prefer to keep within a small group of people.”
Bermuda threw her cold gaze to him. “Anything you want to say to me, you can say in front of my crew.”
Her look sliced through his chest. It was piercing. Violating. The gentleman drew in a sharp, subconscious breath. Resting a hand over his heart to steady his nerves, he nodded. While he was a man of affluence, unaccustomed to not getting what he wanted, in this atmosphere, the Steel Serpent reigned queen. “Very well then. I ... I don’t know much about you, but, I’ve heard you’ve been ... slaughtering gods in Northeastern.”
She did not move except to speak. “You heard right.”
“I ...” He paused, stealing glimpses of Brack and Rennington once more. The two men stood, arms crossed, showing no signs of leaving. After taking a deep breath of air, the stranger returned his focus to the quartermaster. “I need someone with your ... ‘success rate’ ... to take on a much different kind of project.”
Bermuda’s mouth twisted into a scowl. “I have a motive for killing gods and goddesses. What makes you think I’ll be interested in your project?”
The man’s lack of confidence faded away when she asked. On the subject of money, familiarity fueled him with assurance. “It pays well. Half upfront, half upon completion.”
A sadistic smirk lifted one of her cheeks. “You couldn’t afford me.”
A tremor invaded his bones. Even her smile was somehow punishing. Still, he convinced himself to remove a sack from the interior of his decorated vest. The man tossed it onto the table quickly, hoping it detracted from the tremble that ran through his fingers.
Dull eyes fell to the bag. Bermuda tilted her head. Her metal hand reached behind her, removing the machete strapped to the back of her chair.
When he saw the weapon, the blue blood drew his arms up defensively. His entire body drew back as he melted into a cowering position. He was certain she’d kill him.
When death did not greet him, and he lifted his eyes, he saw Bermuda only used the blade to cut a hole in the bag. His wild heart made him feel all the more ridiculous. Coins spilled onto the table, the noise of rattling metal helping to hide the violent, choppy breaths falling out of his panicked throat. “And th-that’s only half,” he stuttered, trying and failing to sound more authoritative than he was. Years of privilege crafted grandiose illusions in his brain, but in the company of murderers and thieves, he felt like nothing more than a speck of dirt.
Bermuda counted the Northeastern currency several times over. She had to. The pieces were blurring together. Her eyes pinched shut as she squeezed the bridge of her nose. She felt the pressure again. The pressure in her sockets. Several deep breaths soothed the ache as she opened her eyes once more. Even against her inability to count the exact amount, she knew a plentiful bounty sat on her table. “You must be awfully desperate,” she announced with a strained voice, “to throw down such a large amount.”
Whatever demon had temporarily invaded the woman across from him, the gentleman did not know. She almost seemed in pain, but he did not wish to let his guard down. He straightened his spine, trying to regain any respect he’d lost for his previous behavior. “The amount pales in comparison to what it will cost my family and our companies if the injustice we face continues.”
Her eyes flicked to his. She seemed to recover from whatever ailed her. “What’s the job?”
With a sigh of relief at her interest, the stranger took a step forward. “The Time Father of Southeastern is trying to destroy the empire my family built. I cannot allow that to happen. As a consequence for his actions, I need you to destroy him.”
“Southeastern ...” The division rolled off her tongue as she feigned an absence of attachment. “Are you referring to Nicholai Addihein?”
“Yes,” the man confirmed, nodding. “Word on the wind is he just repossessed one of my great uncle’s factories with plans to turn it into a learning institution, or some other such thing.” He shook his head, his frustration evident on his face. “The young Addihein was once a docile leader. It was a perfect environment for our industries to grow. The Odenhardth name has expanded more there, than in any other division. But now ...” He trailed off as the venom in his tone grew. “It seems his interests have shifted for the worse. He grows more brazen in his endeavors to make unnecessary changes. His abuse of power needs to be stopped.”
Bermuda watched until he delivered the last of his words. She stared long enough to craft an aura of discomfort in the young Odenhardth. With measured movements, her boots slid off the flat surface of her desk and hit the floor. She leaned forward. Her eyes narrowed. “You want me to kill Nicholai Addihein?” she asked, fully aware that the weight of Brack’s and Rennington’s eyes rested upon her.
His tie felt as though it choked him. The man tugged on it for relief, but it provided little. “Yes.”
She waited. She waited until she knew he agonized under the force of her watch. Only then did she speak. “It’s a tricky thing to kill a Time Father.” Bermuda leaned forward further, her hair spilling around her jawline. “Do you have a backup in line to keep Southeastern’s time going?”
“I’ve already spoken with Nordjan of Northern,” he announced, quick to wipe the accumulated sweat of his palms off on a handkerchief he removed from his breast pocket. “He would initiate a suitable replacement immediately. It seems he shares some bad blood with Mr. Addihein, as well.”
Bermuda paused. She sat back in her chair. “So I’ve heard.” Her fingers weaved together in front of her as she eyed the man. “Tell me ... does anybody else know about your plans to overthrow the Southeastern Time Father?”
He shook his head. “No. Any other assassins who knew about the plans have already met their deaths from the footmen who protect Mr. Addihein. Just the Odenhardth family and the Northern Time Father know.” His voice fell as he took another step toward her, lowering himself to her eye level. “And I’d prefer to keep it that way.”
Bermuda smirked. Locked in eye contact, she reached for a drawer and pulled it open. “Me too.”
Two gunshots interrupted the sweet sound of her phonograph. The blue blood’s body crumpled to the floor as Bermuda gripped the pistol she’d pulled from the drawer. Her eyes followed him to the ground. Smoke swirled around her face until an exasperated sigh blew it farther from her body.
Brack and Rennington stared at the corpse, each man unmoving. Bermuda stood, tossing her pistol onto the table. She reached over and replaced the spilled coins into their bag. When she finished, she hurled the satchel toward Brack, tying her hair back as she traipsed toward the door. “There’s your supply money.”
The Rabbit caught it in his hands, blinking. He glanced once again at the carcass before he turned, watching Bermuda brush past Rennington and saunter out the door. “Right,” he said, staring down at the plethora of money that sat in his palms. “Well ... that solves that, then.”
Rennington stared at the body, his head cocked to the side. He approached, giving it a gentle kick, just to be sure the man was dead. No response. He was dead, all right. Rennington would alert Granite to find a spot for it in the meantime. A good task like that would almost certainly get the man’s mind off the beast. After a moment, Rennington turned to Brack with a listless shrug. “It’s good to hear that Nicholai is doing well.”
Brack grinned. As he tucked the money into his pocket, he laughed. “That it is, mate. That it is. I sure do miss that fecker.”
Chapter Sixteen
A full understanding of neural engineering remained a far off achievement for the people of Panagea, but Umbriel smiled each time she linked a prosthetic limb to an individual’s nervous system. With her hands around the thigh of a woman she had never met, the Earth Mother gave the leg a gentle squeeze.
“Does that hurt?” she asked, panning her eyes over to her patient.
The woman’s lips parted in awe as she stared down at her metal limb. She had arrived at Umbriel’s doorstep with only one. In a matter of moments, she found herself looking at something she thought she’d never see
again: two functioning legs. “It’s ... perfect,” she replied, breathless.
Umbriel’s smile widened. She glanced at Rhirvin as he knelt beside the mechanical limb, bending the artificial joints in the toes.
“Can you bend your toes for me on your own?” he asked.
An uncertain nod followed. She doubted her ability. But upon closing her eyes and calming her hammering heart, her toes allowed a brief flex. “Did I do it?” she wondered aloud, without opening her eyes.
Rhirvin grinned. He patted the metal leg and stood back to his feet. “Indeed you did, miss.”
“Could you try rotating your ankle?” Umbriel tried to find the woman’s face, offering an encouraging look.
Filled with growing confidence, the woman peered down at her faux foot. She rubbed her lips together and inhaled, letting her nervous breath out slowly as her foot dipped down, and to the left. Though she did not perfect a full rotation, her accomplishment showed in her tears. “I can’t believe it,” she gasped, looking to Umbriel and Rhirvin. “How can I ever repay you?”
“You could refrain from losing any more body parts,” Rhirvin smirked, extending a hand to help her to her feet.
The woman accepted, rising to stand. Her eyes found her crutches, leaning against the side of the Addihein homestead. “I can’t believe I won’t need those anymore. They’ve been a part of me for so long ...”
Umbriel stood, reaching over to grab them. “Please, take them anyway.” She handed them back to their owner, tucking strands of hair behind her ears. “I know you’re eager to part with them, but it will take a while for you to adjust and gain full range of motion.”
A nod of understanding followed as the woman reached out to retrieve her crutches. “Of course, of course.” She smiled. She glowed. Reaching out to grab Umbriel’s hand, she uttered, “Thank you. From the bottom of my heart.”
Umbriel felt her warmth. Her relief. It filled her with a sense of glory. “It was my pleasure. Truly.”
The Panagea Tales Box Set Page 104