Jonathan looked down at the air rifle still in his hands, as if he’d forgotten he was still holding it. “It looks real enough,” he said. “Besides, you have that Bowie knife I gave you, don’t you?”
“That ain’t the point. Ye are prepared to start a gun fight in yer father’s own station after we already helped destroy the Albatross? Get hold of yerself and use yer bloody eyes!”
Jonathan slowed and took a breath. “Fine. We’ll look at the boards by the airlock doors and ask the stewards where they might have gone.”
Phinneas grinned. “He shows some sense, after all.”
At the entrance to the terminal, Jonathan turned to him. “We’ll have to split up to cover more ground. And don’t worry. No one will be shot with the pellet gun.”
Phinneas didn’t like separating, but it was the most logical plan. “We’ll rally here when we’re done, then. Just don’t go off half-cocked if ye find something.” He took one side while Jonathan took the other. Most of the docks still held vessels, and a quick few questions to the shipmates roaming nearby didn’t turn up any helpful answers.
He was now approaching the last door, and hadn’t heard a peep from Orbital. The slate board next to the airlock read The Starry Lady. What a terrible name for a vessel. Phinneas tapped a boy on the shoulder who was standing nearby.
“I need to know if ye’ve seen any Arabs board a Fulton in the last hour or—”
When the boy turned around, Phinneas felt his mouth dry up just as a familiar pair of eyes went as wide as tea saucers.
“Sebastian?”
It took a few moments for the boy to speak. “Great Willy Wright’s Ghost—”
Phinneas took him by the shoulders. “No, lad. It’s me. Yer Captain. What are ye doin’ here?”
“Captain Finn! You have to believe me, sir, we thought you was dead! Captain . . . uh Zeric told us you’d died on the Albatross, and he took over the Starry . . . uh Ethershark. We even gave you a burial, sir.”
Phinneas’ rage nearly boiled over. He knew Zeric had sold him out to the Arabs, but he didn’t expect the depth of the man’s treachery, to lie to the crew. “A burial? Without a bleedin’ body?”
Sebastian looked at his feet. “I’m sorry, sir. We didn’t want to believe it, but the news about what happened at the Albatross was bleak. Almost no one survived that attack.”
“Aye, Sebastian. I witnessed it fallin’ apart with me own eyes. Zeric fixed the Ethershark, did he?”
“Yessir. He purchased the parts we needed, though he never said where the money came from.” Sebastian blushed to the roots of his hair. “And he said it’s bad luck to keep a ship’s name if her Captain don’t die on board. I still call her the Ethershark in my mind, though.”
The kettle of anger in Phinneas’s gut burned even hotter. The spineless, mutinous scallywag was gonna bleed for this.
Sebastian swallowed. “I’ll understand if you want to punish us all, sir. But I cry your pardon, nonetheless. We should’ve known better. Some of us did doubt the story and wanted to go to the Big Blue to find you, but Zeric cut the first of them loose, right to Willy Wright’s locker, he did. After that, every man kept his own counsel.”
“I believe ye speak true, lad. But it ain’t the crew I intend to cut.”
“Phinneas!” Jonathan had reached the end of his half of the corridor and was heading over. “Any luck?”
Phinneas gave him a savage grin. It wasn’t what he’d been looking for, but it was a lucky find indeed. He believed the Arabs had already departed with Cecilie, but with his ship back in commission, things were looking up in more ways than one. “I think the fortunes will be soon turnin’ in our favor. Once I take care of some business. Sebastian, take me to my ship.”
Sebastian’s face lit up. “Yessir.”
The boy had only laid hands on the airlock handle when it opened from the inside. Out stepped Jeron, Feng, and Zeric. They were laughing about something, completely ignorant of the burden that was about to befall them. That was until Feng looked over and spotted Phinneas standing just to the right of the door. The Chinaman’s narrow eyes opened up wide and his mouth dropped open, revealing his ghastly sharpened teeth.
“C-Cappin Finn?”
Jeron and Zeric turned around at the same time, their laughter dying in their throats. When Jeron got a good look at his real Captain, he went pale and crossed himself. Zeric had cleaned up a good deal since Phinneas had last seen him. He’d shaved his head, and thick gold hoops hung from each ear, undoubtedly purchased with the blood money he’d inherited. At first, the traitor appeared shocked, but then his expression grew more defiant as he drew himself up.
“I had a feeling you’d come crawling back after your Earthside vacation.”
Jeron gaped at Zeric. “You told us he was dead!” Then he turned to Phinneas and took a step forward. “I knew better, Cap’n Finn. The crew, we—”
Zeric yanked him back. “Shut up, Jeron! And don’t you dare call him Captain.” The people roaming nearby looked in the direction of the new commotion and then shuffled to get away before they could get caught up in the brewing squall. “This man, if that’s what you’d call him, abandoned us and his post. He don’t deserve your loyalty.”
“Speaking of loyalty, how much did the Arabs pay for yer mutiny, Zeric? A fortune, I’d wager.”
Zeric laughed. “Did I really do any differently than you would have, back when you had what it took to be a leader? For all I knew, you would’ve cashed in the bounty and left us all to rot. I did whatever was necessary for the good of my crew while you were off chasing a pair of French titties.”
“You son of a bitch!” Jonathan stepped forward.
Phinneas held him back. “Hang back, Orbital. I’ll handle this.” He turned his attention back to the traitor. “Is that the coward’s tale ye tell yerself at night so ye can sleep better?” He bent and pulled out the Bowie knife he’d tucked inside his boot. The blade almost seemed to hum in his hands, harmonizing with his burning rage, crying out for use. “How much blood is it worth to ye? Every pirate knows the penalty for mutiny.”
Zeric swallowed, but he didn’t back down. Phinneas was glad; he wanted the fight. Zeric pulled out his own blade from the scabbard strapped to his hip. Phinneas knew it well. He’d given it to his First Mate many years ago. “Jeron, go get the rest of the crew. We’ll see who prefers whom.”
Jeron didn’t move from his spot and Zeric rounded on him. “Are you deaf? Go get the crew!”
The beleaguered spotter finally moved. But he didn’t go toward the airlock. Instead, he stepped over to stand beside Phinneas. “I don’t follow the orders of a traitor.”
Phinneas grinned and assumed a fighting stance, knife outstretched. “Raise yer weapon, ye cowardly knave.”
Zeric took a breath and rushed at his former captain, boots clanking on the deck, swiping the blade in a high arc. Phinneas dodged it easily enough and countered with a swipe of his own, opening a long slit in Zeric’s left cheek. A freshet of blood floated into the air and Zeric cried out. But he advanced again, throwing his fist instead. It connected with Phinneas’ jaw, and he rocked back as Zeric’s blade slashed across the front of his vacuum suit, exposing the clockwork device over his heart. He braced one foot against the bulkhead to keep from drifting away.
“I’ll cut those gears right out of your chest!” Zeric cried and stabbed out with the point of his blade. The clang of metal against metal was followed by a loud pop. At first, Phinneas thought something had happened to the device, but then Zeric screamed out in agony and fell back with a hand to his right eye.
“My eye! You took my eye you dirty fighter!”
Blood was seeping out from between his fingers to join the droplets from his wounded cheek. Phinneas looked over and saw Jonathan still aiming the air gun, nothing more than a child’s plaything. He’d had one himself as a boy, and a brief memory of his mother telling him he’d lose an eye if he wasn’t careful floated up in his mind. The sudden urg
e to laugh maniacally nearly overrode him, but he had to act while Zeric was down.
He charged with his shoulder, knocking Zeric off his boots. Phinneas held him aloft to keep him from floating away and put the blade to Zeric’s neck, its fine edge almost eager to slice into the thin flesh and end this cretin’s life. But he hesitated. The old Phinneas would not have, and he realized this with an almost sickening poignancy. It was Jessie. Jessie who didn’t shoot him when she’d had every right to. He knew now that killing Zeric would be too easy.
“Go ahead.” Zeric said. “Get it over with, coward.” He was still holding the heel of his hand over his ruined eye. The torn edges of skin that used to be his cheek waved like a sea anemone. Droplets of his blood floated up and hit Phinneas in the face.
“I’m leavin’ ye to go yer way, Zeric. In shame. Ye’re a marked man and a traitor, and there won’t be a vessel in this solar system that will hire ye.”
“You don’t have it in you. You’ve gone soft.”
Jonathan cocked the air rifle again. “You want me to take his other eye, Phinneas? I have plenty of BBs left.”
At that, Phinneas did laugh. “It’s a tempting offer, lad. But I think I’d rather he still be able to see his ugly face in the mirror every day.”
He pulled the knife out of Zeric’s hand and let him go. The former First Mate’s body floated up and away. Phinneas didn’t bother to watch where he went after that. He handed the knife to Sebastian, who took it with an expression of awe. “This is yours now, lad. Ye’re still too green to be First Mate now, but save this and maybe we’ll speak again of it in a few years. Think ye can hang on to it?”
“Yessir, Captain. I won’t let you down.”
“Good. Now let’s get the hell out of here.”
Chapter Twenty-One
The reunion between Phinneas and his crew was brief and joyous. Jonathan realized most of them had chafed under Zeric’s reign, and having their old captain back in the fold was akin to a father returning home after a lengthy business trip abroad. “Right, lads,” said Phinneas. “There were a bunch of Arabs just left on a Fulton in the past hour. Any of ye see them?”
“Aye, Cap’n Finn,” said an old space dog with the telltale blotchy skin of someone who’d suffered numerous rapid decompressions. “They was berthed only three spaces down from the Starry, er, Ethershark.”
“Did you see if they had a young woman with them?” asked Jonathan.
“It would have been that saucy French tart that we took from the train,” said Phinneas.
Jonathan bristled at the phrase but said nothing. He knew that their success or failure depended solely upon the crew of the Ethershark.
“Aye, sir, now that you mention it. I did see a lass with ‘em. Our lass, now that I think of it. I didn’t recognize her at first.”
“Sebastian,” said Phinneas. “Find out what was the name of that Fulton and if anybody knows where they were heading. The rest of ye, look lively. I want the ‘Shark ready to depart in five minutes.”
Sebastian slipped out of his magnetic boots and dashed up the corridor, twisting deftly to avoid other crewmen with the grace that could only come from a boy raised in the cold of space. The other crewmen hurried through the airlock into the Fulton beyond. Jonathan watched them go and then turned to Phinneas.
“What about me? What can I do to help?”
Phinneas regarded him like he was sizing up his potential. “Ever spent any time aboard a Fulton?”
“Only recently.”
“I suppose that’s the best I can expect. Truth is, I’ve got a space in me crew that needs fillin’, and I’ve seen enough of ye in action to know you keep a cool head when things get hot. That’s a valuable skill for a spacer. Do ye think ye can handle the job of First Mate?”
Jonathan blinked. “I don’t know the first thing about it. What do I even do?”
“Whatever I tell ye to, and whatever needs doin’.”
“I suppose I can do that.”
“Then welcome aboard the Ethershark, First Mate Orbital. I’m proud to have ye on me crew.” Phinneas turned and entered the Fulton through the airlock.
Jonathan looked around at the familiar bulkheads of Roosevelt Station, wondering if it was for the last time. “I guess I’m a pirate,” he said to nobody in particular. Then he smiled. “Arrr . . .”
The Ethershark’s interior was cramped and stank of coke and sweat. Half the crewmen swarmed around hemispherical cabin, angled at every possible orientation as they tightened valves, greased control levers, and loaded weapons. On the lower deck, Jonathan could hear the hiss of boilers as the engine crew brought the ship’s furnace up to full burn and steam circulated through pipes, making the joints clank. It was at once order and chaos, and Jonathan felt as much of a fifth wheel as he ever had.
“Men, listen up,” called Phinneas. “This is Mister Orbital. He will be yer First Mate for the moment. Ye’re to follow any of his orders as if they come from me own mouth, savvy?”
“Aye, sir!” chorused the men.
Sebastian burst in through the airlock. “Cap’n, it’s called the Ibrahim, and they say it’s heading toward the North Pole.”
“North?” asked Phinneas. “There’s nothing there.”
“Maybe they mean to cross over the earth in a polar orbit,” said Jonathan.
“No point to that,” said Phinneas. “It’s not any faster if they’re heading for North Africa. If anything, it’s slower.”
“If there’s nothing to be gained by traveling north,” said Jonathan, “then they must have a clear reason to do so. We’ve already seen they’re well-armed and well-equipped. What if they have a platform?”
“In polar orbit?” Phinneas snorted. “Impossible.”
“Is it? You’ve seen their resources firsthand. They destroyed the Albatross looking for Cecilie. They had advanced vacuum suits. They’re spacefarers. What if they built a platform over the pole where nobody goes? They could operate from there with impunity.”
Phinneas’ eyes widened at the notion. “Ye may be right, Orbital. It makes sense, at any rate.” He turned to the crew. “Seal up and cast off, lads. Sebastian, ye have the helm. Jeron, get yer best spotters into the cupolas and yerself up into the bubble. Orbital, see if ye can figure out what this bloody device is. Zeric must have put it in here.” He indicated a unit bolted to one bulkhead with wires trailing from it into a conduit. Numerous knobs and sliders decorated its face along with a trio of round screens covered with glass and marked with crosshairs and range hash marks.
“I think that’s a telemobiloscope, Captain,” said Jonathan. “They’re new. We use them on all the commercial Orbital dirigibles to prevent collisions, but I’ve never seen one with three screens on it before.”
“Three screens for three dimensions in space, lad. But a telemobiloscope’s useless so close to that bloody reactor on Roosevelt. Thing makes noise across all the frequencies.”
Jonathan turned on the set. He heard the sound of steam-driven machinery on the Ethershark’s hull. Certainly the telemobiloscope dishes were rotating. After a few seconds, the screens warmed up and displayed a reasonably clear image of the side of Roosevelt Station as well as several Fultons nearby.
“Not all frequencies, apparently.” Jonathan fussed with the controls, trying to get an understanding of what they did. It didn’t help that half of them were labeled with Arabic squiggles instead of in English. “I’ll need some time to play around with this.”
“Figure it out on the way. Are we clear to depart, boys?”
“Aye, sir,” called the men at the airlock door.
Phinneas turned to Sebastian. “Ahead full, Mister Helm. Let’s go catch ourselves some kidnappers.”
The Ethershark blasted away from Roosevelt Station.
After an hour, Jonathan had more or less figured out how to control the telemobiloscope, and although trying to make sense of multiple displays in three dimensions was still beyond him, he thought he’d identified t
he blip that was most likely their target. Phinneas analyzed the course and said that if it wasn’t the Ibrahim, the Arabs had most likely bamboozled them once more.
“I’ll leave it to ye to make the call, Orbital,” said the Captain. “She’s yer love, not mine.”
Jonathan gritted his teeth. What if he chose wrong? How could he live with himself?
And then he shrugged. He’d spent days chasing after Cecilie. If she escaped his clutches once again, he would have other chances to hunt her down and rescue her. She was a valuable commodity to the Arabs; they wouldn’t harm her, at least not yet. “Chase it down.”
“Aye, lad. That’s the spirit.” Phinneas clapped a hand on his shoulder.
Another hour passed, with the Ethershark’s crew eking every possible erg of thrust from the boilers, draining water tank after water tank dry and jettisoning the empties to reduce mass. The men waited in fevered silence, sweat congealing off their bodies to fill the bridge with a fine salty mist that collected around their feet from the force of acceleration.
“Radiator flash, dead ahead,” shouted one of the spotters in the cupolas.
Phinneas pulled down his periscope. “Aye, there she is. Orbital, what distance do ye make her on your scopes?”
“About six miles. And we’re making up about a mile every ten minutes or so.”
“Good,” said Phinneas. “Fifty minutes until battlestations, men. We don’t often get this kind of luxury in planning. I want everything sealed and locked down and everyone in a suit and hat. We’ll be shootin’ to disable, not to destroy, and prepare yerselves for a boarding assault. Think of this as a particularly choice booty, men. No mistakes.”
“Aye, sir!” shouted the men.
Jonathan wished he’d brought along some kind of weapon. He felt naked without a pistol. Just as he thought that, Phinneas held out a chrome-plated six-shooter with a polished antler handle to him. In his other hand he held an ammunition belt.
“I figure ye’ll get better use out of this than I,” said the Captain. “Ye are by far the best shot I’ve ever seen. Just try not to put a hole in anything important. Or anyone.”
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