by Taven Moore
She thought about that for a moment and nodded. “Not a bad plan. You could muscle me off the ship fairly easily if you wanted, and I’ve no doubt you have experience avoiding the authorities. At least, I hope you do. The basic plan outline seems sound, but I’ll admit to feeling a bit disappointed. Among other things, you didn’t take my motivation into account. Then again, perhaps that lack of planning is how you ended up in jail.”
Her eyebrows winged upward. “Do you really believe I care about being repaid for your debt to Ratchet?”
He opened his mouth, then just as quickly shut it.
She leaned forward, the gold sparks in her brown eyes dancing with mischief. “Aren’t you even a little curious? Haven’t you wondered why I was in the Jolly Rooster to begin with? Why I was so interested in you being a pirate captain?” She paused, letting that sink in. “Why do you think I would go to all of that trouble? Do you really think it was about money?”
“I suppose I thought you were just getting your kicks. Slumming a little.”
He’d hoped to shock her, but she simply gave him an enigmatic smile and shook her head. She reached up and behind her neck, her fingers working at the clasp of a necklace. After a moment, she lifted a hand toward him, a golden locket on a chain dangling from her outstretched fingers.
“It’s not dangerous. Open it,” she said, gently lowering the locket to the table and pushing it over to him.
He eyed it suspiciously. It didn’t look like it was going to burst into flames or send shrapnel flying through his ready room, but he had to consider the source. Remora had a different definition of the word “dangerous” than he did.
She lifted an eyebrow and he scowled. It wasn’t that he was afraid. Just careful, that was all.
Gingerly, he picked it up. The outer shell of the locket was detailed with tiny decorative gears woven alongside a delicate golden filigree. He gave the topmost gear a curious flick with his thumbnail. To his surprise, the other gears spun as well. He’d thought them too small to actually be functional. The gears activated the tiny golden arm keeping the locket’s clamshell locked, causing it to lift with an audible click.
He pried open the locket’s mouth and peered inside. Instead of the sepia photo he’d expected, a tiny purple crystal tucked neatly into a custom setting. That was it—just the crystal. He frowned at it uncertainly. After a moment, he shrugged and put it back down on the table. Immediately, she reached for it, folding her hands around the locket as though they’d been hungry for it.
“What is it?” he asked.
Her cheeks flushed with excitement and she leaned forward, pressing the locket close to her chest.
“I think it’s from Starbirth,” she whispered.
Hank paused a moment, certain she was joking. She didn’t laugh.
Hank scoffed. “Starbirth is a myth.”
She shook her head, eyes bright. “No, it isn’t! I’m certain of it. Tell me, where do you think starshards come from? Why are there so few of them? Why are they so different from anything else found anywhere on the planet?” She paused to take a breath. “It’s because they’re from Starbirth!”
Hank frowned. He didn’t want to burst her bubble, but nobody took Starbirth seriously. It was a story to keep children still at bedtime. “I know Starbirth’s a pretty story, but that’s all it is. Starshards are rare, that’s all.”
Undaunted, she immediately countered. “Then why have they always been found so close to the surface? Why can we not mine for them? Hundreds of years ago, our ancestors saw something in the sky. Something that glowed, brighter and brighter, for weeks on end. We have written proof of this—of people, in their own words, describing the Starbirth! Every account agrees that after two moons of growing light, when the night was bright as day, the light shattered and fell to earth as starshards. The sun’s child still sits in the sky today—visible even in daylight.”
Hank sighed. “I know the story, Remora. Everyone knows the story. The dawnstar is unique, but that doesn’t mean Starbirth was real. We can’t even use the dawnstar to help navigate. It’s just a pretty, useless light in the sky.”
Frustrated, she gestured sharply, trying a different approach. “Then why are there no records of Seraph before Starbirth? Why do people only write of the winged Seraph after Starbirth? Why are flying cities only mentioned then? Why do people start collecting starshards and building airships after Starbirth? It was real. And I can prove it.” Once again, her eyes gleamed. “But I need the help of a pirate and his ship to do it.”
14. Bargain
Hank closed his eyes.
Clearly, she was insane.
Nobody capable of rubbing two thoughts together believed in Starbirth as truthsome. The story was just as pretty and twice as useless as the dawnstar it talked about.
Still.
Insane or no, she was obscenely wealthy. He’d be a fool to toss her overboard if there was easy money to be found through exploiting her fanatical quest.
He opened his eyes, steepling his fingers and eyeing her carefully. “Just what do you propose, Miss Price?” As intended, she straightened at his use of her full name. If this was to be a business meeting, it should be formal. “Be mindful, I’d appreciate if we could base our agreement in details rather than generalities.”
She nodded. “What I’d propose, Mr. McCoy, is a collection mission. A treasure hunt, if you will. This is but one fragment of a larger find, I am certain of it. I need transportation—the kind of transportation that may require air travel for expediency—to each of the sites, and both assistance and protection while I hunt down the other pieces. In addition, some of the pieces may require . . . less than legal methods to obtain them.” She paused, gesturing in his direction. “I trust that won’t be a concern?”
So that was her game? She just needed a chauffeur whilst she chased ghosts and children’s tales?
“I’d need a time frame and guaranteed payment,” he asserted. “This ship doesn’t fly on wishes and dreams alone, nor am I interested in any kind of open-ended job.”
Her eyes gleamed. He made a note to be certain she was never allowed near the card tables. She telegraphed her every intent, plain as brass.
“A year. One thousand gold doubloons.”
Immediately, he countered. “Unthinkable. A full year’s engagement is out of the question, and I’ll need a full crew for this. One thousand will barely cover expenses.” Inwardly, he swallowed hard. One thousand gold doubloons would see his ship the repairs she needed and have what was left of his crew fat and happy for more than a year. He never accepted the first offer in a business agreement, though, and he’d be damned if he’d spend a full year babysitting a fluff-headed moneybags.
“Six months at the same price,” she said without flinching and without pause. She’d expected haggling, then.
“Three,” he countered, lifting a brow.
She laughed. “Six,” she repeated, “and I will see to the proper outfitting of my ship at my own expense, and ownership of the Miraj shall be transferred to you with neither question nor clause at the end of that time.”
Hank paused. Six months was still longer than he’d like. He could probably still bargain her down. There weren’t many sky pirate captains sitting around waiting for work, so he was probably her only bet for getting this done soon.
“Take the deal, Hank,” Bones advised, his voice hollow and metallic. Bones? How could he—Hank glared up at the row of copper speaking tubes lining the front of the room.
“Bones! I told you to check on the ship!” Hank barked.
Bones’s voice came again, rattling through one of the tubes. “As I am, Captain.” He sounded smug. “At current, I am testing the communications system.”
“You subversive tin can, I’ll have your gears recycled for the waste collection system! You’re spying on me!”
“I am your first mate. I determined that the outcome of this conversation was more important than examining the hull for sparkbarnacles.”
“I am your captain! I determined I didn’t need your meddling in this meeting. I outrank you, and while you’re a member of my crew, you’ll do as I order.”
“You outrank me, but leaving you to do your own business agreements is what got us in this mess, Captain. Had I been present at the meeting with the Shima brothers, I would have made certain the deal included their continued assistance.”
Hank scowled. “Not that it’s any of your concern, but the Shinra’dor brother did promise assistance.”
“A promise that you cannot prove, as you had neither witness nor signed paper to uphold it.”
Hank opened his mouth to reply, then closed it, clenching his jaw tightly. There were times when he wished his first mate were a bit less bullheaded. The ticker was at his most irritating when he was right.
Absent Bones to glare at, Hank turned his frustrations to Remora, who merely blinked at his ferocity. He could have done without her hearing that particular conversation. Gathering the tattered scraps of his authority, he bristled. “I am the captain,” he asserted.
“You are the captain,” she agreed without argument.
“I pick my crew!”
“You pick the crew.”
Her easy agreement just irritated him more. “You’ll keep that upturned nose of yours out of my business.”
She sighed. “Mr. McCoy, I have no intention of trying to run your ship. Elsewise, I would not have gone to such lengths to hire you. Do we have an agreement, or shall I go back on land and find another pirate to make ridiculously wealthy?”
Hank bit back his first response, which could be considered impolite at best. “You heard all the particulars of the deal?” he barked up at the copper tubes.
“I did, Captain,” Bones replied.
“You’ll honor the bargain as stated,” he warned Remora. “This ain’t the kind of deal I can take you to court over. You cross us and you’d better hope we die in the doing, else it’s your blood on the line.”
Her face looked suitably serious as she nodded.
Roith’delat, a goodly portion of him still wanted to just toss her overboard and set sail as far from her and her crazy Starbirth ideas as he could. The deal seemed sound, and the job cushy as they come, but all his alarm bells jangled and his arms itched with gooseflesh.
Can’t win the game if you never place your bet, though. He lifted his open palm and spat into it. Her nose wrinkled slightly, and he felt slightly better. Girl was so high-bred she couldn’t even admit to spitting. How much trouble could she be?
She repeated the gesture and they shook hands over the table.
“Good! Then it’s done,” she said.
“Boss?” Bones’s voice. “I believe the current activity topside will be of interest to you. There are about ten wagons full of sundries parked dockside, calling permission to board.”
Remora brightened. “My things have arrived! What marvelous timing!”
Hank closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose against a rising headache. Six months. He resolved to get a calendar, that he might mark off the days.
15. Assassin
“It is not, as you say, an attempt to bypass your authority on this ship, Mr. McCoy!” Remora hurried to keep up with Hank’s long, loping strides.
“CAPTAIN McCoy!” he roared in reply.
Remora bit back an aggravated sigh. “With all due respect, Captain, you are being childish,” she began as he reached the foot of the pipe ladder leading up to the surface.
He paused, one hand on a rung, and glared back at her. “Well, you are!” she protested. “It’s only a cook, not a pilot! Furthermore, he’s quite a good cook. I daresay he makes the most marvelous pancakes you’ll ever eat, and his muffins border on the divine! We need to eat, and I see no reason for us to dither about with tinned atrocities when we could have fresh pastries for breakfast! Do be reasonable.”
McCoy lifted a hand, pointing a finger at her, his face furious. His mouth worked once or twice as he searched for the right words to say. “No,” he growled, “and that is my final say in the matter. Any person on this ship is part of my crew, present company excluded, and I’ll not have you adding cooks and hairdressers and clowns and seamstresses ad nauseam. No. Should you wish more elegant dining than that which you’ll find in a can, I recommend either staying home or learning to cook.”
With that, the infuriating man turned and climbed up the ladder, leaving her to splutter alone in the hallway.
Remora took a deep breath and counted to five before starting up the ladder herself. The heels of her boots slipped dangerously on the rungs and her petticoats, though drastically less than formal wear dictated, still threatened to catch on her toes and send her sprawling. She could only imagine what a sight she might have been for anyone standing below, as she scrambled and stumbled her way up the ladder after the now-disappearing boots of Captain Hank McCoy.
Rejoinder in mind, her shoulders barely cleared the portal when the ship lurched once, throwing her sharply against the bulkhead. Grunting at the impact, she dropped below the surface, only her grip on the ladder saving her from a nasty tumble to the hall below.
A stream of fat bubbles, glistening in the sunlight, sailed dolorously past the overhead portcap mouth. Outlined neatly against the blue sky, she clearly saw the liquid inside each bubble.
An assassin with an alchemist gun then, and an attempt that very nearly succeeded. Had the ship not bucked, she would have been in the bubbles’ path. What did the bubbles carry? An explosive? A corrosive? A tracking agent? Impossible to know.
She felt like stomping her foot. She did not have time for this nonsense!
“Stay down, Miss Price!” shouted McCoy from above, unseen. “There’s a gunman aboard!”
The sound of gunfire followed, interrupting her acidic reply. Did the man think her an infant? Another platoon of fat bubbles sailed overhead, reminding her who she should really be irritated with.
“Here now, assassin!” she shouted. “Quite a solid attempt, but you’ve quite failed to kill me. Do just leave. I’ll not come back abovedecks while you’re here.”
“You KNOW this person?” shouted Hank, incredulous. “He’s here for you? What’s he after?”
“I can hardly fathom as how I should be said to be acquainted with every person who makes an attempt on my life, McCoy! As to his goals, I can only imagine they’re the same as all the others. My death puts the bulk of the Price fortune up for grabs among the other Price family branches. Shall I come out and draw you a diagram, or could we perhaps discuss this at a later date, and under more favorable conditions?”
Another staccato blast of gunfire, and she heard McCoy cry out. “Daniel?” she called out, concerned. “Daniel, have you been hit?”
Silence. She bit her lip. Should she go up? No, certainly she would only present a better target. Still, she couldn’t simply dangle from the ladder and do nothing!
A grinning face appeared, framed by the sky through the porthole. A man, face shaded by a broad-brimmed hat and a mechanical monocle over one eye. One of the Nurati, then. Hired killer, but not the most expensive clan. He pointed an alchemist’s gun at her.
Remora froze. Hanging from the ladder as she was, she was in no position to dodge even a slow bubble.
A flash of light against metal, and the gunman grunted as he was hit from the side and pushed from view. Hastily, she climbed out to see Bones, brown duster jacket billowing like a sail in the wind, outlining his mechanical skeleton. The Nurati’s gun was gone, presumably knocked from his hand. The killer took a swing at the ticker’s face.
Remora winced at the painful thud it made as it connected. Bones’s broad-brimmed hat sailed away, revealing a gleaming, polished copper dome of a head. The Nurati took one look at him and opted to run rather than continue combat. He fled nimbly across the ship’s hull, making good speed toward the dock and the crowd of alarmed onlookers.
Calmly, Bones reached to his shoulder, detached his arm, and
hefted it like a spear at the gunman’s back. Midair, the two collided and fell into the murky waters of the bay.
Well, that was one less thing to worry about.
Remora looked around, spying the seated form of McCoy leaned against the backside of a nearby bulkhead. Blackened circles peppered the facing wood where the bubbles had collided.
“Daniel?” she called out. Silence. “Daniel, if you’ve allowed yourself to be killed by that second-rate assassin, I daresay I shall never let you forget it!”
“I believe,” he drawled, and she felt a disconcerting jolt of relief at hearing his voice, “I mentioned my dislike of you calling me by that name. Although I find it credible that you could be annoying enough to haunt a dead man.”
She snorted and shaded her eyes, looking to the crowd. “You there!” she called out, waving down the closest person standing amidst her belongings. The short man startled, pointing to himself questioningly. “Yes, you! One of my companions has thrown his arm into the bay. Do be a good fellow and swim down to retrieve it for him?”
The man’s eyes grew wide. “M-m-me? Begging your pardon, miss. I’m just a cook!”
She frowned. “You can swim, can’t you?”
“Well, yes’m, but—”
“Ah, good, then it’s all settled.” She dusted her hands over her skirts, freezing as her hand brushed against the hard metal lump in her pocket. Oh, bother. She’d forgotten that she had her derringer, which she could have used while the Nurati leered down at her and brought his weapon to bear. Cheeks warming, she thought perhaps she might leave that particular detail out of her chronicle of the day’s events.
16. Bodyguard
A pained grunt reclaimed Remora’s attention. She hurried around the bulkhead to Hank’s side only to stop abruptly when she managed a proper view of the seated captain. “Oh, dear.”