Cipher Hill

by Joseph R. Lallo

  “Now that makes it sound as though you anticipate your leadership coming to an end. Should I take that as a compliment?”

  “Take it how you like.”

  Fritz sighed. “So much more depth to the story than was reported. I sometimes wish I’d followed my first love and become a reporter.”

  “Yeah. I wish you had, too,” Mack said.

  “Missed opportunities…” Fritz lightly dusted his hands off and took a step back. “Shall we?”

  “I reckon so.”

  Mack reached for his gun. Fritz’s hands moved like lightning. Three guns slipped from their holsters. Fritz was indeed quicker on the draw, but only just. Both barrels were leveled at Mack’s chest. Not more than three feet separated them. There would be no missing at this range. Fritz fired both weapons. With a metallic clang, bullets ricocheted into the bar top.

  Fritz blinked. The assassin may have been faster on the draw than Mack, but Butch had them both beat. She’d leveled her frying pan in front of Fritz’s guns to deflect the point-blank shots. Mack took advantage of the confusion to fire two quick shots as Butch heaved the heavy metal pan at their attacker.

  The fugger proved elusive, leaping backward to avoid both pan and shot. Bullets flew in both directions. Fritz’s spidery body presented barely any target at all, and seldom did the killer stop moving, even to aim. Shots peppered the walls and shattered bottles of liquor.

  Mack’s weapon clicked empty. He dove behind the bar. Fritz leaped to follow. A swipe of Butch’s boning knife drew blood. She grabbed a bottle of whiskey and hurled it at Fritz. It shattered on the wall. Glass and stinging liquid splashed in all directions.

  Blinded by cheap liquor, Fritz fired both weapons wildly until each was empty. They clattered to the floor, and two fresh ones were drawn to service—but not before Mack clicked a refilled cylinder shut and did his best to empty it as quickly as possible.

  Six bullets flew. One bullet hit, burying into Fritz’s shoulder. Rather than a cry of pain or fear, the sound that erupted from the killer was a fresh bout of the creaky, unsettling cackle. Even with one arm hanging down, too injured to support the weight of the gun, Fritz didn’t stop shooting. Bullets bit chunks of wood out of the floor. They whistled with wind from the open cliff side below them.

  Fritz marched closer, firing one weapon at the bar and the other at the floor while Mack reloaded once more, huddled behind it with Butch. The assassin leaped to the bar top and emptied two more guns upon them, eyes still tearing from the spilled liquor. By sheer volume, one of the blindly fired bullets struck Mack’s forearm. He grunted in pain and stood, using his pistol as a club to bash the wispy form of Fritz.

  The assassin flew from the bar and hit the ground hard. Both guns rattled aside. Before Fritz’s hands could find the grips of the final two guns, a screeching, hissing form dropped down from the rafters. Wink landed squarely on the fugger’s face and put every tooth and claw to work. Finally, the cackling came to an end, and Fritz growled angrily. Long white fingers closed around the neck of the attacking beast. A vicious motion wrenched Wink aside, smashing the little thing into a shelf of heavy glass tumblers.

  Fritz reached for a gun again, but this time it was a boot that came thumping down, pinning the wrist to the ground.

  Mack looked down at the battered assassin. Butch stepped up and pulled one of the remaining guns from its holster.

  Fritz cackled lightly. “Do be sure they spell my name correctly when they write this up, will you? F-R-I-T-Z. And avoid pronouns. Pointless things.”

  Butch spat a few choice words, then pulled the trigger, putting a definitive end to the relentless cackle. She threw the gun aside and tugged Mack to the bar. He laid out his afflicted arm while she revealed a medical kit from beneath the bar.

  “Fine work, Glinda. Fine work.”

  Mack grimaced as she cut away his shredded sleeve to reveal the wound. Wink, chittering irritably, climbed to the bar. The aye-aye was bleeding from a few minor cuts, but he was visibly more concerned about the captain.

  “Make sure you patch up our inspector when you’re through. We ain’t never had a better one, and we’ll need to be sure Fritz ain’t found a way to hide somethin’ nasty in the ship we might’ve missed.”

  With his good arm, he fished his tin of cigars from his pocket. It took some doing, but he got it open and placed one in his mouth. He struck the match with his thumb and lit the cigar.

  “Regardless, that’s our piece done. With any luck, the rest of the crew are getting on a bit smoother…”

  Chapter 11

  Time passed quickly with Mack’s plans and assignments running in parallel. It seemed his hand had only begun to heal, and already the date of the assault was upon them. He’d kept his nose out of the business of the others. They’d served well under him. He knew he could trust them. And if he couldn’t? There was no time left to second-guess them.

  The captain looked over the ship. Nita’s repairs prior to her departure had been uncharacteristically hasty. He knew they were sturdy; they’d survived the trip to Lock and back in better shape than he had. Still, they lacked the perfection and artistic flare that he’d come to expect from her. Raw, unfinished wood patched burnt sections. Vast swaths of unmatched cloth covered and reinforced sections of the envelope. It was airworthy, and from the looks of Gunner’s recent additions, it had a nastier bite than it had had in years. That didn’t change the fact that looking rough as it did, it underscored that Nita wasn’t with them. Whether the Calderan was a lucky charm or a magnet of misfortune, she was a part of the crew. And Lil was with her. The ship had survived the impossible time and time again because his people had done what no one else could do. Every member of his crew gave him another chance, another risk he could safely take, because he knew they would come through. Without them on the ship, he felt vulnerable. More vulnerable than he’d felt in years.

  They were out there, though. They had their orders. They would do him proud.

  “Trigger’s pulled, Cap’n,” Coop said. “Me and Digger sent word to the folks we’re hopin’ll fill the air with fodder and such. Timing’s liable to be tight. And, uh… while we were at it, we got an earful of what’s been goin’ on up top. You been hearin’ this Ray Island nonsense?”

  “I heard the name and ours mixin’ a bit.”

  “Messages are flying, Captain,” Digger said, trotting up beside Coop. “Apparently, weapons are being stockpiled there. People think the Wind Breaker is to blame, and for reasons that escape me, that has got tensions ratcheted tight.”

  Coop glanced at Digger. “Wait, that’s why you was confused? And here folks think I’m ignorant.”

  “Ray Island is due north of the northern border between Westrim and Circa,” Mack said. “A couple of good mines, room for some crops in season, and room for some grazin’. That sort of land ain’t too common since the Calamity, so Westrim and Circa get into a big tussle about it every few years. Got my start in the navy settlin’ matters up there.”

  “I see. And if it were to appear as though the Wind Breaker was about to pick a side in a conflict regarding it?”

  “The Wind Breaker would be on the bad side of anyone on the other side of it.”

  “I see. May I respectfully advise that you stay clear of Circa? Particularly any well-defended cities therein. The popular consensus right now is that you, as a Westrim native in command, chiefly, of Westrim natives—”

  “I think I got the picture. Until that gets straightened out, best not to drift too near Secant. If I was patrolin’ the capital and I saw some folks fixin’ to throw in with the other side, I wouldn’t give ’em the benefit of too many doubts.”

  Gunner marched up to them.

  “I’ve finished adding the guns to the two-man ships. Permission to make final preparations?”

  “Permission granted.” Mack raised his voice. “Listen up, everyone!”

  The hustle and bustle of Ichor Well slowed, workers and crewmembers turning to him.
<
br />   “I made a lot of enemies in my time. I didn’t earn all of ’em, but most of ’em I did. I pride myself in not puttin’ a bullet in any man that doesn’t deserve it. This Tusk character’s had this comin’ to him for a long time. I know you down here in the fug might not have seen the raw end of the deals he’s been puttin’ together over the years as often as us in the mountains. I want to thank you for showin’ that light is light, dark is dark, right is right, and wrong is wrong no matter which side of the fug you come from.

  “Good-bye means a fair bit more to a sailor than most. Ain’t never a guarantee, when a ship heads out, that they’ll ever be back. Could be when we shove off today, it’s the last time some of these folks’ll be around. I reckon that’ll have a few of you breathin’ a sigh of relief. But if this is the trip that does me in, I just want you all to know, I’m glad I worked with you. And I hope what we started here keeps goin’, even without me. But I hope even more that it keeps goin’ with me.”

  He focused on the crew around him. “Now let’s get this thing done. There’s a lesson that needs teachin’.”

  #

  Mallow checked his charts. Beneath the fug, there was never a clear view of the clouds, so working out what sort of weather was on the way was largely a matter of intuition. Today, there was no need. The wind was wailing, threatening to throw him off course. Soon the sky would open, and there would be a tremendous downpour.

  “Er… Mr. Tusk?” he said. “We are in for some weather. There is a small town nearby. It may be a good idea to stop for the night. I wouldn’t want to get caught in this.”

  “Fine, Mallow. Fine.”

  Mallow adjusted their path. Before long the abandoned husks of a pre-Calamity city came into view below. Hundreds of houses swept by before they finally reached the outskirts. The airship port and the surrounding sliver of the city were the only parts the fug folk had seen fit to press back into service. Though the community wrapped around the port was fairly small, the port itself was quite in keeping with the size of the pre-Calamity city. And for some reason, it was incredibly busy. Six of the dozen berths—every one that was large enough to accommodate a cargo vessel—was occupied, and a dozen more ships were waiting for their opportunity to moor up.

  “Curious,” Tusk said, glancing out the window.

  “It shouldn’t be a problem, Mr. Tusk,” Mallow said. “The smaller mooring posts are free.”

  “That isn’t my concern. Why is there such activity?” he said.

  “Probably the storm. I’m sure we’re not the only ones who don’t want to get caught in it.”

  “Mallow, those are cargo haulers. The ones that make it through the storm get to set their own price if the rest don’t show up. Some of them would be fighting through.”

  “Perhaps they know more than we do. Perhaps it will be a very big storm.”

  Tusk leaned a bit closer to the window. “Have you got a spyglass?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Mallow passed back the small telescope. Tusk held it up.

  “They are unloading. Both cargo and crew,” he said. “They could just drop anchor and tie up to anything sturdy enough to keep them moored if they were hoping to ride out the storm. There. That one is taking on water. For what possible purpose would a ship be offloading crew but preparing for a long journey?”

  “I must admit, I haven’t a clue, sir.”

  “Head for berth four, closest to the office. As soon as we are moored, head for the office and ask if there are any standing orders for all ships.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Mallow attempted to navigate more quickly, as Tusk’s voice had a hint of urgency to it that he’d never heard before. Alabaster had delivered every order like a line in an opera, dripping with emotion. Until this moment, Mallow wondered if Tusk had any emotion at all. That he seemed agitated suggested something potentially ruinous hung in the balance.

  They approached the port and became aware of something else out of the ordinary. Their ship, like any other, had its own inspector. The creature, huddled atop the gondola, had begun drumming quite insistently upon the roof. Mallow very nearly smashed the ship into one of the mooring poles in his attempts to dock quickly. He leaned out the door and unfurled the mooring lines, then hopped the gap from the ship to the dock just as soon as the first of them was tied.

  #

  Tusk drummed his fingers anxiously and watched a ship take to the sky with a skeleton crew and no cargo. The ship that took its place was already heaving cargo to the docking crew before it even dropped a line. He’d never seen the like. Never heard of such a thing happening. He listened as the inspector continued to drum and rattle at the roof. It was delivering messages at a feverish pace. The ground crew was transferring fuel and water to the ship.

  “Sir, sir!” Mallow called from outside.

  He appeared at the door, drenched with sweat and the beginnings of the downpour. Tusk helped him into the small ship.

  “Did you find anything, Mallow?” he asked.

  Mallow pulled a slip of official-looking paper from his coat.

  “There was a general message to all ships,” Mallow said. “I didn’t even have to ask for it. They issued it to me as soon as I walked in!”

  Tusk snatched the page and read it aloud. “‘To all ships. A motivated evacuation has been scheduled. All ships with excess cargo capacity are to report to the coordinates concluding this message at or as near to the following date as possible,’” he read. “‘The date is six o’clock tonight. And the coordinates’…”

  He looked up. “Get us to these coordinates, quickly,” he said.

  “But, sir, the storm!”

  “Get us there!”

  Mallow called to the crew to unmoor him and fumbled with his charts to work out which way to go. When the ship was free, he throttled up the propellers and darted out into the open air.

  “I imagine you don’t have any clue what is happening, eh, Mallow?” Tusk rumbled.

  “No, sir. And I know better than to ask.”

  “Permit me to explain, as this is a bit of maneuvering that deserves to be appreciated. A motivated evacuation is an instance of a planned short-notice removal of personnel from a city or facility. It is distinct from an emergency evacuation in two ways. First, it occurs at a defined time. Second, there is a substantial financial compensation to any ship that aids in the evacuation. Bounties are paid per head. Hence, all of these enterprising individuals shedding cargo and crew to make room for as many evacuees as possible.”

  Mallow finished consulting the charts and swung the ship to the east.

  “But the coordinates are just a random point in the Hollows.”

  “Not random, Mallow. Not random in the slightest. What we have witnessed here is a very risky play. Our foes have announced both the target and timing of their machinations. They’ve set a lofty goal, and it is genuinely unlikely they shall have any measure of success. But should they succeed, it would be… profoundly unfortunate. As such, I believe my own leadership may be called for to ensure a successful defense and a final elimination of the threat.”

  “I don’t understand. What harm could be done by sending a bunch of ships on a pointless errand? Slow down trade for a few days?”

  “Mmm… And put a substantial nonmilitary force onto a potential battlefield.”

  “You’ve got influence. Couldn’t you call off the evacuation?”

  “Perhaps, but no doubt a fair amount of ships are already in transit and wouldn’t receive the message in time. More to the point, I very much doubt this is the only element in this attack. I detest so direct involvement, but sometimes, as with the clash with Maxwell, immediacy and clarity supersede anonymity. Get us there.”

  Chapter 12

  Captain Mack kept his eyes on the dark clouds beneath him as he heard the crew gathering. His injured hand was plastered into a curved mitt, something he could hook over the ship’s wheel and use to flip switches and pull levers. The pain throbbed clear
to his shoulder and had kept him from having a proper night of sleep since the day it had happened. Wind howled around them, stirring up the purple clouds of fug into choking spires. Bands of rain clouds brought torrential downpours at irregular intervals and made it profoundly difficult to keep the ship on course. He puffed on a cigar that was nearly down to a stub and took his good hand from the wheel to shake the rain from his hat.

  He turned. The current version of the crew stood at attention. Coop, Gunner, Butch, Nikita, and Wink were representatives of the standard Wind Breaker crew. They’d been joined by Digger, Dr. Prist, Kent, and Donald from the Well Diggers. The Wind Breaker had two of the two-man ships used by the Well Digger crew strapped alongside the gondola. All three ships had as much additional firepower bolted on as possible, guns bristling from wherever they could be affixed.

  “Getting close. Things are about to begin,” he barked. “Everyone know their parts?”

  “Aye,” came the unanimous reply.

  “Gunner? Let’s hear it.”

  “Samantha and I will be crewing the weapons on deck,” he said.

  “We have six rounds each of the three most successful formulations for Guy’s portable launcher,” Dr. Prist said. “I have additionally prepared some rockets for the others to fire. There is an abundance of conventional weaponry, and a handful of promising but not overly reliable experiments. I strenuously recommend you do not allow us to take very much direct fire. We have a worrisome quantity of explosives aboard.”

  “A fine bit of strategy, Dr. Prist,” the captain said.

  “The gig has been removed, and the gig room is loaded with bombs. Reel out the winch to start dropping them,” Gunner added.