by Taven Moore
His right shoulder visibly throbbed, a blackened mess. Hank saw the look on her face, his eyes widening as he awkwardly turned his head to see the area. “Bah!” he said, relaxing. “Had me worried a moment there. It’s just a flesh wound. A few days and some fresh bandages and it’ll be fine.” He grimaced, waving her concern away. “What was that about Bones throwing his arm at someone?”
Remora ignored his attempts to deflect her attention. Kneeling, she frowned at the wound, placing a hand on the side of his neck and watching carefully to make sure the blackened area wasn’t spreading. A Nurati shouldn’t be able to afford a flesh-eating corrosive, but it was hardly worth assuming. McCoy could lose his whole arm.
Absently, she replied. “It was quite heroic, actually. You should have seen it. Bones has impeccable aim—the arm collided with the assassin in mid-air.” Abruptly, she sat back on her heels, peering critically at the shoulder. No sign of corrosive, but it really was a nasty wound, regardless. “You know, I could mix up something to put on this. Might speed the healing.”
Hank jerked away from her touch, eyes wide. “Oh, no you don’t. I’d wake up from one of your potions and find I’d grown a thatch of fur or sprouted fish scales. And that’s assuming I still had an arm to worry about.” He snorted. “I’ll take my chances with infection.”
She sniffed primly. Really. As if she couldn’t fix any damage done by an alchemical miscalculation. She should think a little extra shaving would be preferable to possibly losing a limb, but if he wanted to be fussy, that was his business.
She looked around. “I do wonder what happened to Jinn.”
Hank barked a laugh. “Wouldn’t be the first time a Shima brother conveniently disappeared just before a scuffle.”
As though speaking his name had conjured him up, the black-clad Shinra loomed nearby. Remora started. She’d never actually seen someone loom before. She had seen a few people attempt to loom and manage instead to appear incredibly foolish. Jinn most certainly did not appear foolish. She wondered if he practiced looming or if it came naturally to him.
“A small group of men approached the off side of the ship from a small vessel. I ascertained their intent as an attempt on the life of Miss Price.” He paused, eyes bland. “I convinced them to depart.”
Remora smiled, delighted. “Thank you, Jinn. I’m sure you saved us a great deal of trouble.”
Hank snorted. Remora ignored him. The man truly did have an unreasonable opinion of Jinn. Then again, she had yet to meet someone whom the captain held in high regard.
Jinn spoke. “If I may be so bold as to inquire, did you and Mr. McCoy conclude your business? I hesitate to offend, but my own need is quite pressing.”
“Are those . . . sprinkles . . . in your robes?” asked Hank, nose wrinkled.
Jinn’s posture straightened, one hand surreptitiously moving to swat at the front of his robes. A small fountain of rainbow sprinkles fell to the ship’s surface, plinking tinnily before rolling off. “Yes.” Jinn coughed. “Yes they are, though I do not see how this has any bearing on—”
“You were eating pastries!” Hank accused.
“And fighting assassins,” Jinn corrected.
“Gentlemen,” Remora interrupted. “Although I would find this conversation riveting at a later time, I can only assume that the Nurati will be only the first attempt on my life now that I’ve left the safety of the Price Estate. It would be in our best interest to present a moving target. As to your question, Jinn, Hank and I did indeed complete our business and I am the owner of the ship and in charge of her movements for the foreseeable future. Please state the nature of your emergency.”
“My brother has been imprisoned on the skycity of Bespin. I seek his release.”
“No,” said Hank.
Remora’s eyebrows winged upward. “Bespin? I am listening.”
“No!” repeated Hank, wincing as the outburst caused his shoulder to shift. “You are most definitely not listening. I am the captain. He is not a member of my crew, nor is he in any danger of becoming one.” Hank sat up and began removing the tattered remains of his shirt, gingerly peeling the fabric away from his wound.
Remora paused while he wriggled out of the cotton, counting slowly to regain her composure and retain control over her tongue. She allowed herself, briefly, to hope that Hank’s gyrations hurt. Hank’s pride was rapidly becoming a point of serious contention between herself and the captain.
She turned to Jinn. “How many assassins did you handle?” she asked sweetly.
“There were three,” he replied, “though I do not wish to overstate the feat. They seemed . . . ill-prepared.”
“Even so, besting three Nurati is impressive.”
“Impressive?” Hank crumpled the shirt into a ball. “He was eating pastries! How impressive could it have been?”
Patience lost, Remora snapped. “Yes, Jinn single-handedly dispatched three hired killers and enjoyed a better breakfast than either of us. In the meantime, I see you managed to get your shirt off and mangle your shoulder. Rippling chest muscles appear to have been less than effective at delaying the assassin. Furthermore,” she paused and took a deep breath, seeking to calm her temper, “although Bones’s rescue was quite masterfully executed, he would have run out of arms to throw had it become necessary for him to take on further combatants. It would seem that I am in need of a bodyguard.”
“Unless, of course,” she smiled sweetly at Hank, “you had any other brilliant plans for ensuring my safety during our outlined period of employment? I can assure you, our trip is not likely to become less dangerous.”
Hank glowered, but said nothing.
“Now then,” she said, shifting her attention back to Jinn, good humor restored. “You mentioned something about Bespin? It just so happens that I have business in Bespin. As you can see, I also have a rather irritating habit of attracting assassins, not all of whom are as inept as the Nurati. In return for the attempted rescue of your brother, would you accept a position as my personal bodyguard for the duration of my business with Mr. McCoy? Currently, our contract is set for six months.”
“Done.”
Remora paused. “Though I am gratified by your swift response, I do wish to make certain the points of our agreement are quite clear. I cannot guarantee that we shall succeed in rescuing your brother.”
“But you shall at least make the attempt,” responded Jinn, evenly. “I am satisfied.”
Hank spluttered, regaining his feet. “Are you insane? Do you have any idea what the security is like on a skycity prison? Especially Bespin, where they have unions? Not to mention the fact that these are the selfsame brothers who left my crew high and dry on our last business agreement!”
Remora waved a dismissive hand in his direction. “Pish tosh, Daniel. I am an excellent judge of character.”
She reached a hand out to Jinn, meeting his red eyes squarely. “Do we have a deal, Shima Jinn?”
His own hand, dark gray and tipped with what might properly be termed claws rather than fingernails, lifted and grasped her own. His skin felt warm and dry against her palm. They shook.
“We have a deal, Miss Remora Price.”
“Splendid!”
A flash of movement caught her eye. “Ah, Bones!” she called out, waving him over. “I see you’ve got your arm back. Do you need any assistance reattaching it?”
“That shall not be necessary.” The ticker stood a few handspans away, his eyebeams flashing an unsettled rainbow. After an awkward pause, he spoke again. “Thank you. For asking someone to retrieve my arm. I am . . . unused to being treated with such . . . generosity.”
“It was no problem at all, Bones. I do not know if you need to breathe, but I daresay swimming and floating are not exactly your primary functions. Getting out of the water might have proved a task, and the man I sent is less likely to take to rust from it. I’ll see he’s properly compensated.”
“Ah,” Bones relaxed, if such a term could be applied to him
. His stance appeared less awkward, in any case, and his eyes ceased to flicker. “A decision made from logic. I approve.”
Remora smiled. “Yes, that . . . and I could hardly ask my rescuer to retrieve his own arm. Not when I have perfectly capable staff standing ashore and gaping uselessly while you did all the work. Thank you, by the way. For saving my life.”
Immediately, Bones’ eyes resumed color flashing. “I . . . that is . . .” He straightened. “I believe I shall resume my checks upon the Miraj’s systems. Have we a destination?”
“Indeed we do! We head for Bespin, and we do so in haste. I have an auction to attend in less than a fortnight, and I should like to be on our way before any other assassin clans can muster a more impressive attempt.”
“An auction?” Hank narrowed his eyes. “I thought we were treasure hunting.”
“And so we are. Our agreement states that I shall declare a destination and we shall go to it. Have we a problem with Bespin that I should be made aware of?”
Remora almost felt a pang of pity, but it was hardly her fault he believed her so dreadfully unprepared. Did he think she began planning this expedition in just the past month? Lunacy!
He growled. “If we’re going to be regularly assaulting skycity security, I’m going to need a bigger crew.”
She patted him on the leg, not bothering to hide her smirk. “Well, you are the captain, as you have so frequently been wont to remind me. You may, of course, hire the necessary crew.”
Scowling, he jutted his jaw. “The crew does not need a cook,” he pointed out.
“Fine, fine. As it pleases you. Eat beans from a tin, if you like.” She stood, dusting off her hands. “Now, which room is mine? I shall need my things delivered immediately.”
Bones took a step forward. “The largest quarters are the captain’s quarters.”
“My quarters!” objected Hank.
Bones continued, unperturbed. “They are also the only quarters with a window, offering an impressive view both in the air and on sea.”
“No!” Remora objected sharply. Too sharply, it seemed, as Bones, Hank, and Jinn all paused to look at her.
She lifted a hand to press against her torso, the feel of stiff bone ribbing of her corset against her fingers comforting. “No, that shall not be necessary.” She straightened. “The captain may retain his customary quarters. I shall take a normal room. Without a window,” she hastened to add.
Hank’s eyes narrowed. “Mighty generous of you.”
“Don’t be absurd. I wouldn’t dream of turning you from your bed.” Her heart fluttered nervously. “Jinn will also need a room, near mine, so that he may fulfill his duties as my bodyguard.”
Hank cocked his head to the side, one eyebrow cocked. “Isn’t it normal for a bodyguard to room with the person he is guarding? I believe we have a room large enough for the two of you.”
Remora stiffened and swallowed. That would never do, not at all. She adopted a prim frown and sniffed. “Think you the danger on the ship so severe, Captain, that I should need a guard even in my own quarters? Quarters which, as we have already established, do not even have a window?”
“Hmm,” was his only reply.
Drat, she must have been less convincing than she’d hoped. She swished her skirts, dusting her hands on them and avoiding any overly curious gazes. Best to just gloss over it then. “Well? Who shall show me to my room?”
Hank strode forward. “Oh, I wouldn’t miss this,” he said, an irritatingly cheerful smile on his face.
“Thank you.” She turned and walked to the still-open portcap and lowered herself to the first rung. She would most definitely not be allowing that scalawag to precede her. Not with so few petticoats, and while he wore such a wolfish expression.
“So,” he said, an odd note in his voice.
She paused, one hand on the next rung, and glanced up at him.
“‘Rippling chest muscles’, was it?” His green eyes laughed down at her, darkened with humor.
“Oh! Well . . . I . . . never!” she spluttered, a rush of warmth to her cheeks. “You, sir, are a cad! Taking my words out of context!”
His chuckles rolled past her, thick as bubbles. “Seemed like exactly the right context to me.”
She set her mouth in a thin line and descended the pipe ladder, face still warming. Six months, she reminded herself sternly. Six months, and she should have completed her venture and she could be done with Captain Daniel McCoy and his incorrigible humor.
Volume II:
Of Assassins
and Allies
Introduction to Volume II
Volume II shall ever remain a bizarre, accidental mystery. You see, none of this was supposed to happen. The first poll of Volume II asked the readers if we should move on to Bespin, or perhaps be delayed on our trip for various reasons.
The delay of picking up a new shipmate was chosen, and somehow a little stop at the Rusted Spark for equipment turned into a merry chase through multiple cities.
The crew added one sour-dispositioned mechanic, we learned Remora’s looming fate, and laughed at her abysmal cooking skills.
Then? Then Remora had to go and get herself kidnapped, the story acquires the enigmatic Snow, and we finish this beefier Volume no closer to Bespin than we began!
I don’t regret a moment of it, though. Not one single syllable.
As the second half of the volume followed Remora and Jinn, an entire story arc was added to the end so that the readers could join Hank, Bones, and Hackwrench on their adventures.
A poisoning, a secret, muffins, kidnapping, and a high-stakes race.
Not too bad for a plot arc that wasn’t even supposed to happen, what do you think?
1. Old Friends
Hank stepped through the doorway to the Rusted Spark, shaking the collar of his coat to dislodge the rain that had collected during his walk from the docks. He’d already wasted an hour convincing Remora they needed to stop at Terrapin Isle before they made for Bespin and he wanted to be out of port before the rest of this storm hit.
Storm or no, the need for additional crew was non-negotiable. He and Bones could handle some pretty sticky situations by themselves, but Skycity security was an entirely different beast.
The unquestioned market for illegal goods—be it cargo, slaves, substances, or hands unencumbered by troublesome morals—Terrapin Isle stayed out of the law’s eye by virtue of being the single least inhabitable forsaken stretch of land still above water. No plants grew on its surface, it was always raining, and it was easier to find a dagger buried in your back than a friendly smile.
The Rusted Spark looked much he remembered it—shelves overloaded with strange mechanical odds and ends, all blanketed by a thick layer of dust. To official eyes, the Spark was a cogsmithing shop, but Hank wondered if the owner ever had legitimate business that didn’t come and go through the back door.
An oddly familiar object atop a barrel in the corner caught his attention. Curious, he moved closer and pulled away the dusty drop cloth hiding it from view. A ticker head stared back at him through unlit eye sockets, a price tag dangling from its mouth. Grimacing, he replaced the cloth. He had good reason for not inviting Bones with him today. His first mate’s disguise fooled most folks, but never a cogsmith.
“Handsome Hank, you old devil, you!” Hank turned to see the Spark’s owner, a beautiful woman wearing the same colorful scarves she always wore, wave him over to the front counter. “I wouldn’t have believed it was you if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes! It’s been . . . what? A year? Two? Latest news I’ve heard had you in some kind of scrape with some Goralor in a Skycity. You have any idea how big the price tag is on your carcass?”
Hank grinned. “It’s good to see you, too, Serena.”
She cackled. “Roith’delat am I glad to see your face! How can I help an old friend? Got cargo needs offloading? You know I’m good for it.” A slow, knowing smile spread across her lips. “Or maybe you’re here to fill a diff
erent kind of need?”
Hank’s eyes traveled a familiar path down her curves. That was what a real woman should look like: warm, sensual, and inviting. A right shame that she’d lost the use of her legs. Rumor said she’d been a glorious dancer before refusing a spoiled nobleman her bed. He’d had both her knees crushed and tossed her into the sea. She’d washed up here on Terrapin just like everyone else without a future, but she didn’t let the loss of her legs stop her from becoming one of the sharpest minds on the island.
The way she filled out a blouse wasn’t the only thing he found attractive about Serena, though it certainly didn’t hurt. Still, he was here on business. With true regret, he shook his head. “I’m looking for crew, not companionship. Specifically, a talented pilot. Know anyone looking for work?”
Her brows lifted. “A pilot, you say? Must be one hell of a job if you don’t think you can do it yourself.” Her right hand flicked at an embedded ball in the arm of her chair. With a low-pitched whirring sound and a brief puff of steam from the back, her chair moved forward. She steered the chair to a locked cabinet by the front desk. Deftly, she placed her fingers in the slots on the lock and spun her wrist in a swift and complicated gesture to unlock it. She pulled out a pair of snifters and a glass decanter filled with amber liquid.
“Take a seat, have a drink, and tell me what skills you’re looking for. I might have an idea or two,” she said, filling one of the glasses and sliding it across the counter.
Hank sat, taking the drink with a nod of thanks. She filled her own glass and he lifted his to her. “To old friends and new opportunities,” he said.
She laughed, lifting her own glass. “A perfect sentiment!”
Together, they downed their drinks. The liquid burned an unexpectedly warm path down Hank’s throat. He exhaled sharply. “That’s got quite a kick, what is that? New brandy?”
She gave a secretive smile. “I save this for my special guests,” she replied, corking the decanter and setting it down. “So, tell me about this pilot you need. Anything you can tell me to help me narrow down the options? Don’t know if you heard, but Magnus Price died a few weeks back and his brother’s taken over the business on behalf of the old man’s daughter. Set quite a few of our plans off track—the brother’s been doing some restructuring of the guard, and it’ll take some time to get the right bribes into the right hands for business to resume. You’ve got quite a few out-of-work pilots to choose from.” She paused, giving him a sideways glance, “I’m assuming the normal finder’s fee, of course.”