The Alchemists were expecting to find Andromeda Pollux in the Founder’s prison. Why? Because Buckle had told them she would be there. He did not know if she would be there, but…surely Andromeda would be sitting in a cell next to Balthazar’s.
Buckle did not want to anger the Alchemists. He did not want to be squashed by Newton.
And there was another fly in the ointment, as far as Buckle’s potential predicament went: looming at his shoulder was a hulking Alchemist soldier named Caliban Kepler. Kepler was a bear of a fellow, his bulk straining at the seams of his long white coat, his face so beefy that his leather cap and goggles seemed almost swallowed up by the fleshiness around them.
Capella De Vega had assigned Kepler to Buckle as his “bodyguard,” although Buckle figured the man was actually an assassin ordered to exact revenge if Buckle attempted a double cross, or failed to secure the release of Andromeda Pollux.
The Alchemists did not fool around.
Still, Buckle felt he had struck a good deal. Once the Alchemists agreed to assist the Crankshaft expedition, they had activated some strange mechanical crow to deliver his handwritten message to the Pneumatic Zeppelin. And Capella De Vega had invited Buckle to peer through one of their gigantic telescopes to watch his airship rotate on her heel and steam full speed back in his direction. Perhaps two hundred Alchemists, every one of them begrimed in some way with soot or oil, had come outside to the monument park to view the zeppelin as it arrived. They seemed to approve of the massive airship, nodding as she came to a hover fifty feet above the Observatory dome and dropped her static lines.
Buckle found his pocket watch and spun the winder back and forth between his fingers. The Arabella shuddered and made a distinct bump as she arrived in her berth in the belly of the Pneumatic Zeppelin. Copper-encased anchor bars slid into position with scraping clanks. Crew members in the launch bay shouted orders back and forth as they secured the Arabella in her hangar.
Buckle moved forward. The drawbridge ramp in the Arabella’s nose cranked down, admitting gray light into the launch’s dark interior. He strode out onto the loading platform where Max, Kellie, Pluteus, two Ballblasters, and the ship’s surgeon, Harrison Fogg, waited to greet him. Their faces were both alight at the sight of him and tight as they scrutinized the Alchemists coming behind, especially the hulking Newton. Buckle chuckled under his breath.
Kellie raced forward with a happy yip and wheeled around Buckle’s feet, her tail a blurry hurricane. He reached down to pat her head and she jumped into his arms, licking his face with such a fury it felt like her tongue was scraping the beard off his chin.
“Welcome aboard, Captain,” Max said. Her voice was emotionless, but her eyes glimmered blue inside her goggles. Martian blue reflected happiness.
“Thanks, Max,” Buckle replied. “It appears that you and I are tanglerproof.”
“Just barely, Captain,” Max responded dryly.
Buckle smiled, his gaze lingering a moment on the dazzling blue shimmers lurking in Max’s goggles—he saw joy in her eyes only rarely, and when he did he always felt a great surge of encouragement, though to what purpose or effect he was not sure. And the presence of the Alchemists did not perturb Max as it did the others, not even in the slightest. Buckle knew such surprises never ruffled her feathers.
General Pluteus, on the other hand, stepped forward with his hand on his pistol holster and a storm of suspicion in his face. “Captain Buckle,” he growled, “what is the meaning of this armed Alchemist force? Are you under arrest? Have they made you a prisoner?”
Buckle set Kellie on the platform and slapped his hand on Pluteus’s shoulder. “Stand down, Pluteus,” he said with a reassuring smile. “They are here as friends.”
“Friends? Friends?” Pluteus stammered.
“They are joining us in our assault on the City of the Founders,” Buckle said.
Pluteus went quiet, but his jaw was working. He looked like he had just bitten down on a bugbear turd as he eyed the Alchemists.
“Status report, Max,” Buckle said.
“The ship suffered damage to the exterior envelope, but temporary repairs have been completed to my satisfaction, Captain,” Max said, taking a half step forward. “All systems are functioning at maximum efficiency. Crew is at regular complement of sixty-eight. With the addition of twenty-one Crankshaft infantry, and now ten Alchemists, not counting the two robots, there are a total of ninety-nine souls aboard, sir.”
“Very good, Max,” Buckle echoed. “Ninety-nine souls.”
“Captain Buckle, are you unhurt?” the ship’s surgeon, Harrison Fogg, asked. At the ripe old age of thirty-six, he was by far the oldest member of the airship crew. Fogg was a tall, slender fellow with a rambunctious face and the bedside manner of a comedian, although at the moment he was rather serious. “We have been quite concerned.”
Buckle smiled. He had great affection for the lighthearted Fogg. “Just a few bumps and bruises, my good surgeon,” he said. “I’m afraid I’ve got nothing for you to chop off today.”
Fogg’s clear green eyes danced. “Well, and I was all ready to slice you open.”
Buckle could not wipe the smile off his face. He was elated to be back aboard the Pneumatic Zeppelin, and now, with the launch secure, he felt the mighty airship swinging around, her motors and propellers winding up to full speed.
But there was much to do.
Buckle turned to face the Alchemists waiting patiently on the ramp. He almost bumped into the brute Kepler, who had inched up behind him. The Alchemist soldiers lugged their heavy equipment lockers in pairs; Newton carried one by himself as Wolfgang supervised. Zwicky stood at the flank of the giant-eyed Owl. General Scorpius towered at the front of the group, stiff as a board, his unkindly gaze locked on Max.
“General Scorpius, welcome aboard the Pneumatic Zeppelin,” Buckle said.
“We are honored and most impressed,” Scorpius replied, his eyes scanning the length of the massive launch bay before returning to squint at Max.
“General Scorpius, my chief engineer, Max, will see to your men if you will come forward with General Pluteus and me to my quarters.”
Scorpius did not move. “Captain Buckle, I…” he started, and Buckle was aware of considerable disapproval in his voice.
“What is it, General?” Buckle asked, although he suspected he already knew the answer.
“We are not in the habit of trusting Martians, Captain Buckle,” Scorpius announced flatly.
Buckle’s interior flashed with anger. He suddenly did not like General Scorpius at all. He wanted to berate him for his small-minded bigotry. But where would that get him? There wasn’t time. “As you wish, General,” Buckle answered evenly, preventing himself from glaring, although there was no hiding the disapproval in his voice. “General Pluteus, have one of your men see to the Alchemists’ accommodations.”
“Sergeant Scully! Take our guests to the ready room!” Pluteus ordered.
Sergeant Scully stepped forward with a click of his boot heels. “Aye!” he shouted.
Buckle motioned for Scorpius to follow him. “This way, if you please, General,” he said, forcing the words out pleasantly. He knew that Kepler would follow him whether invited or not.
Buckle turned to lead the way down the main corridor. Pluteus grabbed him by the arm, his fingers so tight they pinched his skin, and pulled him forward a few steps as he swung his mouth close to his ear. “With all due respect, Captain Buckle, have you lost your mind?” Pluteus hissed. “Bringing these nefarious ironmongers aboard our zeppelin?”
“It was necessary, General,” Buckle whispered back. “We need all the help we can get, and you know it.”
“Necessary? Firstly, they insult our chief engineer. Secondly, they’ll cut our throats at the first opportunity!”
“Do you forget, Pluteus, that they lost Andromeda Pollux on the same day we lost Balthazar? They are searching for her. I proposed an alliance, and now the contract is signed and the ink is dry. No
w we are all in this mess together, whether we like it or not.”
“Bah!” Pluteus said under his breath. “I vote that we jettison them at two thousand feet and have done with this,” he muttered. But there was nothing he could do for it.
CAPTAIN’S QUARTERS
BUCKLE MARCHED QUICKLY ALONG THE main keel corridor with Kellie, Pluteus, Scorpius, and Kepler hard on his heels. There wasn’t much time. The Pneumatic Zeppelin would arrive at the disembarkation point in twenty minutes. They strode toward his cabin in the bow, moving through the crew quarters, infirmary, mess, and galley before the corridor angled upward into the elevated nose section of the zeppelin; they passed the officers’ quarters and the library, and then arrived at the big wooden door etched with the word Captain.
Buckle looked at Kepler, who stared back with his dark, uninterested eyes. “You wait here. I won’t be going anywhere,” Buckle said.
Kepler shook his head and took a small step forward, as if threatening to kick the door in.
Buckle looked at Scorpius. “No offense to your man, here, General Carbon, but this is where Crankshaft secrets reside.”
“Makes you nervous, does he?” Scorpius said as he turned to Kepler. “Wait here.”
Kepler nodded and stepped to one side. His eyes never left Buckle, however.
Buckle swung the door open and walked into his cabin. Kellie bolted in. The two generals followed. Once inside, Buckle swung the door shut, stranding Kepler on the landing.
“Impressive,” Scorpius said as he looked around. “I daresay we have few chambers more grand than this sky palace.”
The captain’s cabin aboard the Pneumatic Zeppelin was remarkable, Buckle knew: the forward wall was a towering semicircle of glass, being the bottom half of the huge window dome set in the airship’s nose. It provided an expansive view of the sky and clouds skimming past, casting everything within in a mild silhouette. The wooden walls and ceiling were built around the superstructure girders and the base of the Axial corridor, which ran into the center of the nose dome overhead. The chamber was big in comparison to the cramped living spaces of the airship, and it encompassed a bedchamber area, a towering steam-valve organ, and the large “Lion’s Table” where officer meetings and chart mapping took place.
The captain’s quarters was both the captain’s sanctuary and a communal space, the platform in front of the window being employed as a stage for the crew to put on small concerts, poetry readings, and plays. Buckle and his officers often took their dinner at the Lion’s Table, smoking pipes over their grog ration as they gazed out at the sky afterward.
“The Imperials know how to build fancy airships, I’ll give them that,” Buckle said, walking to his chart rack and drawing a large map out of a brass tube. Kellie bounded up onto his bed, her bat-like ears perking up as she panted happily.
“This is an Imperial-built airship, is it?” Scorpius inquired.
“Yes,” Buckle replied as he unrolled the map and laid it out on the Lion’s Table, weighing down the corners with copper paperweights of sculpted lions that wept and clutched a shield with a cross. Buckle looked at Pluteus and Scorpius: they were standing shoulder to shoulder, ramrod straight, their helmets tucked under their arms, as rigid as men might be if they were teetering at the edge of a cliff. “I presume the two of you have never met before?” Buckle asked.
“No, Captain Buckle,” Scorpius answered. “We have not.”
“I’ve never had the pleasure,” Pluteus said, but his words were thick with venom.
Buckle folded his hands behind his back and sighed. He wanted to change his clothes—they were crunchy under their coating of dried tangler guts—but there were more pressing matters to attend to. “Gentlemen, while we wait for my navigator to arrive, let us have a formal introduction. General Pluteus Brassballs of the Crankshafts, this is General Scorpius Carbon of the Alchemists.”
Pluteus and Scorpius turned to face one another.
“General Carbon,” Pluteus said.
“General Brassballs,” Scorpius said.
They exchanged a formal shaking of hands with all the warmth of two snakes, and turned back to face Buckle.
Buckle glared at the generals. “We all want our people back, gentlemen, and once we hit the ground there will be no time for squabbling. Necessity has made us allies, if only for the moment. Trust must be absolute. Our survival will depend upon it.”
“Of course, Captain Buckle,” Pluteus said. “I am an old soldier. You need not explain such things to me.”
“Nor I,” Scorpius chimed in, his voice indignant.
“Very good,” Buckle said with a nod. At least he had the two old salts agreeing on something.
There was a knock on the heavy wooden door of the cabin.
“Enter!” Buckle shouted, pacing behind the table, hoping that Sabrina had arrived so he could brief the generals and then release them to ready their men.
The door swung open, pushed by one of Kepler’s tree-trunk arms, and Howard Hampton hurried in with a tray of steaming tea.
“Cookie thought you’d like some tea, sir,” Howard announced, huffing, obviously having come at a considerable pace from the galley. “Almond, sir. Your favorite, sir.”
The two generals looked at Howard askance, but Buckle couldn’t help but grin. The boy was so happy to see him that his smile was shaking as he offered his tray. “Very nice,” Buckle said, taking a cup and pouring a shot of fastmilk into the brown tea. He looked to the generals. “Anyone for a cup?” he asked.
Pluteus and Scorpius scowled and shook their heads.
“Thank you very much, Howard,” Buckle said. “Now off you go.”
“Yes, sir. Glad to have you back, Captain,” Howard cheered breathlessly as he scurried back to the door.
“Nice to be back, Howard,” Buckle said. “And offer the fellow outside the door a cup on your way out, please.”
“Yes, Captain,” Howard grunted, as he leveraged his weight to open the door, while balancing the tea tray with one hand. Kepler swung the door completely open and the boy exited with a wary smile for the big man. Kepler left the door open for a brief pause, scrutinizing the room with his small eyes.
Outside on the landing, Howard Hampton said, “Would you like a cup of tea, Mister Alchemist?”
Kepler grunted, then stepped back and let the door drift shut of its own accord.
Buckle didn’t know whether Kepler’s grunt was an affirmative or not. He sipped the hot almond tea, sweet with goat’s milk fresh from Victoria’s teats. Female goats were kept on board airships as a source of fresh milk, called fastmilk, which was a necessity with tea. Goats were good-luck charms, and aircrew were a superstitious lot, often clipping off a lock of the goat’s beard to store in a locket or pocket or whatnot. Aboard airships, the goats were always beardless.
The tea was quite pleasing with the milk. Kepler should try some.
Scorpius cleared his throat rudely, stepping up to the Lion’s Table. “Captain, I hate to interrupt your tea party, but there is little time to discuss strategy and prepare my men.”
“We shall begin in a moment,” Buckle said. He, too, was impatient. But getting frustrated would not help him with the generals, who glowered at him like bulldogs. “Please, sit down if you wish.”
Neither general moved.
No tea. No chairs. Damned bootjacked infantrymen, Buckle thought.
Another knock on the door.
“Enter!” Buckle shouted.
Kepler opened the door. He didn’t have any tea, and Howard Hampton was gone. Buckle hoped that Kepler hadn’t eaten Howard. Sabrina entered with her map case, casting an uncertain glance at Kepler as she stepped in.
“Navigator reporting as requested, Captain.” Sabrina said, her green eyes shining. Kepler slammed the door shut behind her.
“Navigator?” Scorpius grumbled, eying Sabrina’s red hair with obvious suspicion. “I thought this was a commanders’ meeting, Captain Buckle.”
“My navigato
r’s presence is essential, General,” Buckle replied. “For she is the only one who knows the way into the City of the Founders.”
THE NAVIGATOR’S SECRET
NEXT CAME THE TENSE SILENCE that Sabrina had expected. Scorpius screwed up his eyes and glared at her as if she were the one who had kidnapped Andromeda Pollux. Pluteus’s stare was only a few degrees less scalding. Buckle, on the other hand, looked slightly bemused, although she was the only one who knew him well enough to see it. She walked up and placed her map case on the Lion’s Table, nicknamed thus by the crew because the legs were carved to resemble the forelegs and paws of lions. Sabrina had spent many hours sitting there with Buckle and her fellow officers, often listening to one of Max’s violin concertos before dinner on special occasions.
Sabrina laid out her map of the Founders’ city—the map she had drawn up for Buckle—on top of an old road map on the table.
“How is it that a member of the Crankshaft clan does possess such an intimate knowledge of the City of the Founders?” Scorpius questioned, never taking his eyes off her. “A fortress no one enters and no one leaves?”
“I got out,” Sabrina stated flatly.
Scorpius flicked his eyes to Buckle and then back to her. “You got out,” he repeated in a fashion that made obvious his distrust of her words.
“Yes,” Sabrina replied.
Scorpius had every reason to be incredulous. It was said that no one had ever met anyone from the City of the Founders, beyond their crimson-cloaked ambassadors. It was a place of phantasms, obscured behind dark fables. Stories were told about an elite clan of near immortals sequestered in a grand citadel, feasting on beef and cherries while they masterminded an empire guarded by invincible zeppelins, locomotives, and soldiers that could fly. The city itself, sealed up behind massive walls and an ocean of Martian mustard gas, was rumored to be a filthy metropolis existing mostly underground, its thousands of citizens locked in scab-riddled poverty as they slaved inside factories and foundries of unimaginable size and scope. And no downtrodden citizen, no matter how resourceful, intelligent, or desperate, ever, ever escaped.
Romulus Buckle & the City of the Founders (The Chronicles of the Pneumatic Zeppelin, Book One) Page 10