The Clockill and the Thief

by Gareth Ward

  “Hawk won’t tolerate her abusing her position again,” added Zonda.

  A warm feeling spread through Sin’s chest. Velvet hated being ordered about. He would have loved to have seen Hawk ripping into her, instead of being stuck in the bunker shifting coal. The warm feeling died. “She ain’t got to shift all this though, has she?”

  “If you hadn’t been given it as a punishment, we’d have been rostered to do it tomorrow for sure.” Zonda reached for a shovel. “Now we can get it done without Velvet harassing us, and you get the pleasure of knowing you’ve publicly insulted her.”

  “So, in a way, I’m being rewarded for being rude to Velvet?” said Sin.

  “Absolutamon. And now it’s time to collect that reward.” Zonda slammed her shovel into the pile of coal.

  It was three days since the coal incident and, if not pleasant, Velvet was now being fair. Sin dropped onto his bunk in the cramped cabin he shared with Stanley. Barely wide enough for the narrow bunk beds and their equipment lockers, the cabin couldn’t be more different from his spacious room at the palace. He glanced at the steamer trunk fastened to the cabin’s bulkhead. His syringes were inside, concealed in a secret compartment he’d fashioned in the trunk’s floor. A compulsion to check on them nagged at him, but Stanley had already returned from his shower and lay on the top bunk flicking through a penny dreadful story.

  Even if Jasper suspected the truth about Sin’s blood, there was no reason to suppose his medicine wouldn’t be fine. Sin pulled his gaze away, fighting the hold the syringes had over him.

  The bunk overhead creaked, and paper rustled; Stanley flicking over a page. “You thought about who you’re taking to the Heroes Ball?”

  “Zonda, of course.” He’d hadn’t actually given it any thought at all. Zonda was his friend, maybe more. She was simply the natural choice. “Who else would I take?”

  “Dunno. Ethel likes you, I’m sure Mercy or Jimmy wouldn’t say no, and there’s always the incredibly mean yet appealing elephant in the room.”

  “What’s an elephant?” Sin asked, confused.

  “It’s like a big cow with five legs.”

  Sin punched the underside of the bunk. “Why would I take a five-legged cow to a dance?”

  “I’m not saying you would. It’s a figure of speech, ain’t it. Means the thing no one wants to talk about.”

  “That don’t make sense.” Sin shook his head. “I would have thought everyone would be talking about a cow with five legs. How does it walk, for a start? It would end up going in circles.”

  Stanley sighed. “What I’m saying is you could ask Velvet. You know she has a thing for you, right?”

  “Velvet? She hates me. Look at the trouble she got me into with the coal.”

  “You got yourself into that trouble, brother. You and her are like a scabby knee. One of you always has to be picking at it.”

  “Leave it out. I ain’t scabby.” Sin punched the mattress above his head again.

  Stanley leaned over the bunk’s edge and leered down at Sin. “You knows the Nobbs is right.”

  “What is it with you? And don’t say you were raised in the gutter, because I was too.”

  “It’s the rush, ain’t it? I used to get it from climbing. That feeling of being so alive, in the moment, all my senses magnified a million times. Thing is, the more I climbed, the less it would happen. That’s why I was the best in the business. I’d do more and more dangerous jobs just to feel it. Then I met Jenny Barrow and I discovered a brand-new rush.”

  Sin sat up. “Who’s Jenny Barrow?”

  Stanley’s face took on a wistful look. “Jenny Barrow was –”

  Outside in the passageway an alarm bell clanged. “Stand to. Pirates!” shouted Beuford, dashing past the doorway.

  Sin hurried into the armoury. Racks of steamrifles and steampistols lined the small, secure room’s walls. Many of the racks were empty, the weapons already having been issued to the candidates arming themselves for the impending attack.

  Weapons log in hand, Sergeant Stoneheart passed Sin a steampistol and noted down its serial number against Sin’s name. “Top cover with COG Chubb,” she instructed.

  “Aye-aye, Staff.” Sin checked the breach and nail magazine before sliding the weapon into his holster. He strapped a leather nail bandolier around his chest and turned to leave. Stoneheart placed a hand on his arm. Her grip was firm but, surprisingly, not unfriendly.

  “COG Chubb has not collected her steamrifle.” Stoneheart’s gaze met Sin’s. Her eyes held not their normal look of contempt but something else, almost conspiratorial. She glanced down at the weapons log. The book ensured no weapons went missing, but more than that, it was an indelible record of their call to arms. One in which Zonda would be absent. And desertion of post while under attack was punishable by flogging.

  “COG Chubb is rewinding her boots, Staff,” lied Sin. “She asked me to fetch her weapon.”

  “Very good.” Stoneheart pulled a steamrifle from a rack and noted its number next to Zonda’s name. “Make sure that she gets it.”

  “I will, Staff.” Sin grabbed a spare steamreservoir. “Thanks,” he said and ducked through the door.

  Candidates rushed along the passageways in a semblance of organised chaos. Sin pushed past Lottie and hammered on Zonda’s cabin door. It swung inwards. Zonda sat on the lower bunk, her head in her hands.

  “We’re under attack, Zon – pirates. We need to head up top.” Sin placed the steamrifle onto the bunk.

  Zonda looked up, her eyes bloodshot, tears streaking her face. “I can’t do it. I can’t shoot anyone, not after Eldritch.”

  “I know it’s hard, Zon, but we need you. You’re our best shot.”

  “Not anymore.” Zonda held out a hand that trembled like an autumn leaf.

  Sin pulled Zonda’s cutlass from its scabbard and rested it across her knees. “I’ve got to get to my station. You should have this ready in case the pirates get past us and head below decks.”

  “When you say get past us, what you really mean is kill you, isn’t it?”

  “I suppose.” The corners of Sin’s mouth turned down. “Can’t see me letting them past while there’s still life in my body. You know me: always got to be the hero.”

  Zonda gripped the cutlass’s handle and rose from the bunk. “I’m not ready for the steamrifle, but I’ll do what I can to help.”

  They hurried out of the room and up the nearest ladder, hands sliding on the side rails, never going on the rungs, just as they’d been taught. Don’t put your fingers on the rungs; they’ll get crushed by the boots of those above, Stoneheart had bawled during training. At the time it had seemed like another of the Sergeant’s petty rules. Only now, with panicked candidates rushing ahead of them to positions on the gantry, and a thirty-foot drop below, did the importance of the rule hit home.

  Sin reached the ironglass dome that led outside and drew his pistol. He looked down at Zonda, her face flushed with exertion. “You good?”

  “Absolutamon. Pirates. Hopefully it will be someone famous,” she said, her voice shaky.

  She was obviously scared, and rightly so. Fighting was something you did to survive, but famous pirates or no, it wasn’t glamorous. It was fear and violence and the basest of human instinct. Survival of the fittest. Darwinism in action.

  Sin grabbed the release handle and twisted. Cogs turned, drawing the dome’s locking bar free. He cast his gaze about, trying to see if there was a cutthroat waiting in the dark ready to run him through. Cloud hugged the envelope, hampering visibility; he was going to have to chance it.

  He switched off the dome’s chemlights so as not to provide a silhouette for the pirates to shoot at, then flung the hatch open. His blue blood-enhanced muscles launched him skywards and he catapulted onto the narrow litanium platform surrounding the dome. Drawing his cutlass, he stared into the scudding clouds, seeking out threats.

  The damp air muffled the clatter of Zonda’s boots ringing on the deck plate
s behind him. “Can’t see diddlysquataroo,” she said.

  “It’s going to be close quarters or nothing. The steamrifle’s no good anyway.”

  Zonda unsheathed her cutlass and held it en-garde.

  “Nudge me if you see anything.” Sin circled behind her and pressed his back to hers.

  The dull whumph of the Swordfish’s engine pods reverberated through the chill fog. They’d been on station for what seemed like an age and the cold wind crept insidiously through the leather of their flight suits. Living rough as an urchin on the streets of Coxford, the winter’s nights had been bitter, however Sin couldn’t remember them ever being this cold. An icy gust swept across the envelope and he shuddered involuntarily.

  “Pirates won’t need to kill us,” he said. “We’ll be frozen solid before long.”

  “I must admit, even with my cake-conditioned insulation it’s a taderoo chillsome.”

  “‘Chillsome’. It’s brassanium bally monkeys. I can’t feel my fingers any more.”

  Ahead, somewhere in the grey fug, a cutlass rattled. Sin tensed and took aim with his pistol. The weapon shook uncontrollably, and his frozen fingers struggled to keep hold of the grip. “We’ve got company,” he whispered.

  Zonda turned around and raised her cutlass.

  The ratline adjacent to them began to vibrate with the regular beat of footsteps.

  “Officer on deck! Make your weapons safe,” drifted a shout through the murk.

  The noise of the engines and the deadening effect of the cloying cloud made the voice hard to recognise, and although he thought it was Captain Hawk, Sin couldn’t be sure.

  “Challenge. Frocking Grommet,” shouted Zonda.

  “Authenticate. Quonge Plate,” answered the figure.

  His arm shivering, Sin lowered the pistol. If it had been a pirate, he doubted he’d have been able to shoot them anyway. He fumbled with the weapon’s safety catch. The cold penetrated right to his core, making even the simplest of tasks near impossible.

  Hawk emerged from the fog, striding along the ratline. “Exercise over. You may stand down.”

  “Aye-aye, Captain,” said Sin, his teeth chattering.

  Hawk headed towards the hatchway. “And good work with the challenge, COG Chubb.”

  “Aye-aye, Captain-erooney.”

  “Just Captain will suffice.” Hawk flicked on the hatch’s chemlights and disappeared down the ladder.

  Sin rattled the barrel of his pistol against its holster, unable to slot it into place. Zonda took his shaking hand and helped him guide it home. “Your hands are icicles.”

  “Can’t feel them no more,” said Sin. “Does everything look weird to you?”

  “It’s probably just your goggles icing up.” Zonda lifted the leather and brass goggles from his face and onto his helmet.

  Sin blinked. Everything still had a shimmering blue haze to it.

  Zonda’s hand went to her mouth in shock. “Your eyes. What’s wrong with them?”

  Zonda retrieved a mirror from a pouch and held it up to Sin, letting him see his eyes. The whites held the pale blue pallor of blackbirds’ eggs. His face was similarly tinged, and marbled with darker blue veins snaking proud on the skin.

  “What’s wrong? Are you poisoned?” asked Zonda, examining his face with a mixture of fascination and shock.

  “Jus’ c-cold,” stammered Sin.

  “Spin my cogs! You’re freezing.” Zonda traced a finger over one of the protruding veins.

  “I s-said it was b-brassanium monkeys.”

  “No, you’re actually freezing. I can see ice crystals forming on your face.” She lowered her hand. “We need to warm you up, or who knows what might happen?”

  Zonda hurried through the hatch and onto the ladder. “Come on, move!”

  Sin shook his head. “I’ll be thrown out of C-COG.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s the b-blue blood. We l-lied.”

  “Nimrod didn’t cure you?” asked Zonda, her tone uncertain.

  Sin paused. “I’m dying, Zon.”

  “You’ll die if you stay here. You’ve got to get into the warmth.” Zonda climbed back out of the hatch and extended a hand to Sin.

  “C-can’t let anyone s-see,” he stammered.

  “We’ll keep it a secret, I promise,” she said gently. “Just come inside.”

  Sin lurched to the hatch. His legs were like blocks of ice and every step sent needles of pain shooting through his feet. He clambered onto the ladder. Unable to grip the rails, the best he could do was hook his arms over the rungs. “W-where are we g-going?”

  “Sick bay. Madame Mékanique should have left now the exercise is over. We can warm you up there.”

  The pins and needles spread further through his legs with each step down. His limbs shook beyond his control and every movement required dogged concentration. At the bottom of the ladder, Zonda helped him onto the gangway and pulled his arm over her shoulder. Together, they shuffled along the passageway, Sin barely able to move his legs.

  “Are you feeling any better now we’re inside?” asked Zonda.

  The engine room’s boilers kept the interior of the airship agreeably snug, but Sin’s entire body was numb. “D-don’t feel a-anything.”

  The clatter of rigair boots on the metal deck plates echoed from further along the corridor and Sin halted.

  “We need to keep moving,” said Zonda, encouraging him forwards.

  “You promised to keep it s-secret.” Sin sank to his knees.

  “I will. Trust me.” She lifted the flight goggles from his leather helmet and eased them back over his eyes. “I need you to be the hard-as-steel street kid that never went down without a fight. What would the Fixer think if he saw you like this?”

  Sin grabbed her arm and hauled himself upright.

  “Let me do the talking,” said Zonda, again helping him walk. “And keep your head down.”

  They hobbled to an intersection in the passageway where Esra checked the readings on the quarkoneium percolator.

  “What’s up?” he said, a look of concern on his face.

  “Just a bit winded.” Zonda grimaced. “I slipped on a ladder and accidently whacked him in the clockworks.”

  Esra inhaled sharply. “Nasty. You need a hand?”

  Zonda kept Sin shuffling along. “No. We’re just going to walk it off.”

  “Deep breaths. It’ll pass,” said Esra, returning his attention to the luminous pressure columns on the percolator and absentmindedly crossing his legs.

  Lurching into a side-passage, Sin forced himself to keep going, every movement a torturous battle to be won.

  “Nearly there,” said Zonda in the singsong voice of someone trying to hide their concern.

  Her words washed over Sin, his sole focus on the twenty or so paces he’d have to endure to reach the sick bay. Step by painful step, he counted them off.

  Staggering through the door, any sense of relief was overwhelmed by the agony that skewered him from head to feet.

  Zonda lowered Sin onto a bunk and drew the thick canvas curtain across the doorway. The rattle of the litanium curtain rings on the rail was distant and distorted through the fug pervading Sin’s head. His eyes wouldn’t focus, a blue sheen tainting his vision. The pins and needles now pierced his entire body. It was oddly reassuring, the pain a contrast to the numbness. “Woz hupening to me?” he slurred.

  “Your blue blood must have different thermodynamic properties. Perhaps it’s starting to crystallise?” said Zonda. “Your flight suit’s sodden from the clouds. It’s sapping your body heat. You need to get out of it. Now.”

  Sin lifted his fingers to the buckle at his neck. The skin on his hands had a blue translucent sheen to it. Lottie’s words replayed in his fuddled mind: Their skin was waxy like a manikin. “Not feeling gud,” he mumbled and let his arms drop to his sides.

  Zonda hurriedly unfastened the buckle and unzipped his suit. “We need to raise your core temperature before
your body shuts down completely. I think you’re suffering from hypothermia.”

  Sin tried to speak. A frozen ache locked his jaw solid and all that came out was a slur of sounds. His vision darkened, Zonda’s anxious face fading to black above him.

  One-two-three, one-two-three. The waltz played and Zonda spun in circles with Sin, her dress twirling in petticoated splendour. Her fingertips slipped from his and she pirouetted into the arms of Major C, who clanked the three-step with mekanikal precision. Velvet took Zonda’s place, dancing with Sin. They stepped in time with the music, her scarlet ball gown brushing against his legs. She rotated away, taking the hand of a man whose face was obscured by a devilish masquerade mask. The man waltzed Velvet out of Sin’s reach and slid the mask from his face.

  “NO,” shouted Sin. Eldritch grinned at him, a neat hole in his forehead.

  “NO,” shouted Sin again.

  “Shush, shush. Everything’s fine.” Zonda held a warm cloth to his forehead.

  Sin’s eyes flickered open and he stared about in confusion. He was still in the sick bay, swaddled in several thick blankets.

  “What happened to the music?” he asked.

  “There’s no music. You passed out and had some sort of episode.”

  A dull numbness enveloped his body. His muscles no longer hurt; only his face still prickled painfully. Sin tried to reach up and touch his cheeks, but the blanket bound his arms to his sides. “Am I still blue?”

  “It’s hardly noticeable,” Zonda reassured him.

  “Show me. Please.” Sin twisted his shoulders, struggling against the blanket.

  Zonda lifted a mirror. It was better than he’d feared. His normally swarthy skin had a faint blue tinge and one or two veins stood out, but he could explain those away. He wormed a hand free and wriggled himself upwards. “How long have I been out?”

  “Only two bells.”

  An hour. Sin pulled the blanket from his shoulders. “I need to get back before I’m missed.”