by Taven Moore
“As you said,” Bricktop agreed mildly, “Klim was gone before you called in.”
And that was the end of that, thought Hank. He knew Bricktop had warned Klim away, and Bricktop knew he knew it. Without proof, Hank had no leverage. In short, he had nothing. Less than nothing, since his Hawks were gutted and useless.
“As it happens,” said Bricktop, reaching for the other claw, “I have good news! It turns out my personal inventory of spare parts includes a number of Harris Hawk components!”
“How fortuitous for me.” Not suspicious at all. Hank sighed. “I don’t suppose I could talk you out of them? Klim is one of your pilots, after all. You could easily collect the debt when he returns and you’ll be out nothing.”
“Nothing?” Bricktop snorted. “If he returns, I am still out the inventory and any profit I might have made on it. No, I won’t just hand over the parts. I would be accepting all of the liability with no gain.”
Just what game was Bricktop playing? Hank’s eyes narrowed, but his first mate interrupted before he could quiz Bricktop further.
“What is that?” Bones pointed to something on a locked display case along the wall.
Hank kicked Bones again, but the ticker didn’t even react. Next time he needed to attend a vital black-market meeting, Hank was chaining him to the Miraj.
“That?” asked Bricktop, following the line of Bones’s gloved finger. A delighted smile spread across his face. “Ah, you have good taste!” Giddy as a schoolboy, the burly race boss scooted out his chair and moved to the case. Using a key retrieved from somewhere Hank couldn’t see, Bricktop unlocked the case, then reverently removed one of the items from the top shelf. The item was housed within its own display container, a tall glass bell closed over a thick, copper base. Inside the glass, an insect the size of Remora’s hand fluttered, careening madly inside its prison. Every time its wings hit the glass, a tiny ticker tack of metal sounded.
“What is that?” Hank asked. He’d never seen anything like it.
Bricktop’s voice, hushed and full of pride, responded. “This, my boy, is a cogwork butterfly, captured in the wild near Ardel.”
Hank looked closer. Sure enough, the little insect was made entirely of cogsmithing parts—delicate gearwork and impossibly thin copper wings. Bricktop must have some kind of death wish, keeping the moth under glass. Ardel punished cogwork poaching—a mild-sounding threat until one remembered that even the Seraph and their floating skycities avoided Ardel.
“Is it intelligent?” wondered Bones aloud.
“Who knows?” answered Bricktop, giving Bones a measuring look. “They say cogwork creatures can never be intelligent, but if that’s true, then you are quite the enigma, are you not?”
“Can we get back to the little problem of my disabled Hawks?” asked Hank abruptly. “That is why we’re here, after all.”
Bricktop scowled, but nodded. “As you wish,” said Bricktop, putting the moth back in the larger display case and locking it.
“I want my parts,” said Hank. “Let’s deal.”
“You always were an impatient one” said Bricktop, pushing aside the plate of food and steepling his fingers under his chin. “Very well, I will be blunt. Here’s my proposal. Your arrival led to one of my racers dropping out of the race. If I drop the number of entrants, my bookies have to do extra work to recalculate odds. You race in Klim’s place and I’ll get your parts back.”
Hank laughed. “You get to keep your race figures and any money you’ve got riding on the winner, which you’ve probably fixed ahead of time. I get . . . what? The same parts you were contract-bound to protect in the first place? And when Klim gets back, he owes you a favor for getting me off his trail. Smells like a rotten deal to me.”
Bricktop’s lips twitched, clearly anticipating the refusal. “Very well, how about this? If you win the race, you get the prize money and weapon upgrades for your little ships.”
Hank felt a thrill of excitement at the challenge, but stifled it. “Win the race? Have you seen my ship lately, Bricktop?”
Bricktop smiled. “I know the man piloting it. And I know that whatever it looks like now, it was once a Harris Hawk.” He leaned forward. “Come, Daniel, I know you still feel the fire in your blood.”
“It’s Hank.” Hank leveled a glare at Bricktop. Black-market race boss or no, someone using his old name could still get him killed.
“Fine, fine. Hank, then. You’re still Lightning McCoy, no matter what name you call yourself these days.”
Hank had to admit, the thought of competing again made his heart race and his fingers itch. Bricktop must have seen it in his face, because he smiled.
“And if I lose?”
“You lose, and I get your ship.”
Hank thought about the sleek racing ships purring in the harbor. He had a lot of faith in the Miraj, but she’d never been up against their like. Then again, they’d likely never been up against anything like her, either.
“What kind of race?”
“Loggerhead Standard,” answered Bricktop easily. “One lap around the island. First one across the finish line wins. No disqualification.”
Hank nodded. No disqualification meant cheating was encouraged and weapons would be used. Most of those ships looked too small to carry any heavy weaponry, though, and the Miraj could withstand some decent firepower.
Hank nodded. “I win, I get weapons systems upgrades and I get to raid your black-market parts. Anything my crew can carry, we keep.”
“Your crew?”
Hank tilted his head at Bones. “Him, and a wingless shonfra.”
Bricktop’s eyebrows raised. “Never thought you’d be one to traffic with shonfra, McCoy, let alone a useless one.” Hank bit back a comment. He’d gain nothing defending Hackwrench, and he didn’t care what Bricktop thought of his crew. “Fine, fine. Though what you expect a crippled shonfra to carry, I don’t know.”
“And,” Hank added, “I want the parts to get my ships airworthy now.”
Bricktop sucked in a breath, a finger of ash trembling before finally falling from his cigar to land on the plate of discarded lobster shells. “What assurance do I have that you and your crew don’t skedaddle before tomorrow’s race, then?”
Hank gave a winning smile. “What’s the matter, Bricktop? Don’t trust me?”
Bricktop smiled back. “You’re a pirate.”
“Fair. What do you suggest?”
“A crewmember. They’ll be a guest in my household until the end of the race, unharmed and well treated. If you win, they are returned immediately. If you lose and, for example, decided you did not wish to give up your ship as agreed, they stay with me.”
Hank thought for a moment. He and Bones could probably get the ship together in time for the race, and they could leave Hackwrench here. Worst case scenario, they’re out one loud-mouthed shonfra and he has to explain to Remora where the little furry rodent went.
“Deal.”
“Excellent!”
“I volunteer to be taken as collateral,” said Bones immediately, and Hank’s smile froze.
5. Broken
“Can’t this go any faster?” Hank asked between clenched teeth, pacing back and forth through the storage hangar.
Hackwrench chittered, his ship translating. “Yes. If you would let me release—”
“I’ve already told you no. You can’t release the other shonfra and get their help. They stole from me once. I’m not going to be stupid enough to give them the opportunity to do it again.”
Hackwrench’s tail thumped down in frustration, the wrench it held clanging sharply against the metal floor. “Then no, Hank McCoy, this cannot go any faster. Why don’t you check on the refueling of the Nest?”
Hank knew when he was being dismissed, but at least checking on the refueling would give him something to do. He stepped outside, the cool night air bringing him the smell of deathstick smoke and perfume.
The other pilots were celebrating tonight—gettin
g ready for the big race tomorrow. Hank wouldn’t be joining them; his ship lay in shattered pieces, not even the primary nest skyworthy yet.
Moored in her berth, the Miraj floated on the silent black mirror of a still ocean. Hank wondered if she dreamed she actually were surrounded by stars instead of just their reflections. Refueling barrels floated at her side, thick tubes snaking into her belly and replacing the used, milky fluid in her cogsmithing cells with pure water.
Hank stood there a moment, listening to the familiar sound of his ship bobbing in the water. A low groan followed by a gentle sway, like the restless tossing of a sleeping woman.
Alone but for his slumbering ship, the thoughts he’d been avoiding all day flooded back to him.
Bones.
If he lost this race, he’d lose either his first mate or his ship. He couldn’t bear the thought of parting with either, and he had no idea how he was going to race, let alone win. He let out a long breath. How did he manage to get himself into these situations?
“Lightning McCoy, as I live and breathe,” said a purring voice. “They said you’d joined the lineup, but I would have sworn after your last race that we’d never see you on the circuit again.”
Hank turned to see a woman in loose robes, one heavily gauntleted hand on her hip. “Moze?”
Her un-gauntleted hand lifted to her throat and a laugh spilled from her lips. “You remember me! How flattering.”
Hank lifted an eyebrow. “The last time I saw you, you were setting a pilot on fire for trying to sabotage your ship. Let’s just say you make an impression.” Hank glanced around, suddenly worried. “Where’s your partner?”
Moze pursed her lips and she waved a nonchalant hand. “Oh, Xerxes is around here somewhere.”
From inside the storage unit, Hank heard a crash and a thud, followed by the loud, angry chittering of Hackwrench.
A painfully thin yellow shonfra—Xerxes—buzzed out of the open door, wheezing high-pitched laughter as it flew towards Moze.
Xerxes circled around Moze’s head once before alighting on her shoulder, his long tail wrapped loosely around her throat like a thick golden necklace.
He chittered, and Moze’s gauntlet translated for him. “McCoy has crewmember. Crippled shonfra. No fly. Very angry. Ships like dropped eggs. Broken. Useless.”
“Nice to see you again, too, Xerxes,” Hank said dryly.
The little shonfra eyed him. “Lightning McCoy is gone. Is only Thunder McCoy now,” Xerxes purred, eyes half-lidded as Moze scratched him under the chin.
Hank leaned back, smiling. “Care to make a wager on that?”
Moze returned his smile. “I already have.”
Hank nodded, unsurprised. If Moze were here, she was racing. And if she was racing, she was betting. “That your Roc in the harbor?” he asked, already knowing the answer. The Roc class airship was not the kind used by a sweet and gentle pilot. Moze had been booted from official races because her tactics were deemed too violent. Black market rules were rarely so picky.
Moze smiled broadly, true happiness lighting her face. “A beaut, isn’t she? I’m not surprised she caught your eye.”
Hank glanced down the harbor to the hulking ship. The massive Roc seemed to strain and pull at her moorings, like a savage dog on a string. “She suits you,” he answered.
Moze rewarded him with a rare true smile, which faded as she looked at the refueling Miraj. “What game are you playing, Daniel? You leave the racing scene for years and show up with a busted ship and a single crippled crewmember for a race you have no way of winning? You wouldn’t disappoint me by turning suicidal, have you?”
“I go by Hank now,” he corrected, but gently. “Besides, I never thought I’d see the day that Moze, the Wrath of the Sky, spared any worry for my well-being.”
She laughed, delighted. “Oh, I do miss the old names. And don’t worry. I’m not going soft. It’s not concern that prompts my question—I just want to know what to expect from you in tomorrow’s race. Assuming you get that bucket of bolts past the starting line, that is.”
“You’re all heart, Moze.” Hank winked at her.
Xerxes wheezed again, and Moze gestured to him. “Join us. I’ll buy the first round.”
Hank lost his smile. “That’s not my scene anymore, Moze.”
She fell quiet for a moment and looked as if she might say something, then shook her head and turned away. At the corner of the building, she paused and looked back. “I was sorry to hear about what happened to your family, Daniel. You know that’s not my game.”
Then she was gone, only the lingering scent of her jasmine perfume left behind.
Unsettled, Hank walked back into the storage unit and paced between the Hawks, picking up pieces of equipment and putting them back down. The room was a mess, the Hawks even more gutted than they’d been when the Miraj first arrived on Loggerhead.
Hackwrench chittered. “Is there nowhere else you can be?” his ship translated. “Your pacing is making me nervous.”
“Isn’t there anything I can do to help?” he asked.
“If I took the time out to teach you how to be a cogsmith, the ships will definitely not be ready to fly by tomorrow,” Hackwrench replied, hidden beneath one of the heavy Thrusthawks, his long, blue-furred tail sprawled into view and twitching irritably.
Hank said nothing and continued pacing. After a moment, Hackwrench sighed heavily. “Bones will be fine,” he said. “He can take care of himself. He is smart. He would not have done this if he did not think it was the logical choice. If I had stayed with this Bricktop of yours, you would have no one to fix your ships.”
Hank’s knuckled whitened around the spanner in his hand. “No, Bones will not be fine. As logical as he may be, he has no understanding of the evil that exists in this world.”
“And he will learn of this evil how, if you keep him cooped up and hidden on your ship, I wonder?” answered the shonfra.
Hank lifted his hand, so angry that he almost threw the spanner at Hackwrench. He closed his eyes, then gently lay the spanner back on the workbench.
“You worry about Bones, but you are not helping.” Hackwrench scooted out from beneath the ship he’d been working on, then wrapped his tail around the glass jar holding a starshard, using it to brace the bottom while his nimble fingers unscrewed the top. Holding the glimmering shard in his hand, he turned to Hank. “You should sleep. You will help Bones most by winning this race tomorrow, and you can do that better if you are well rested. I will have your ships working before the race tomorrow, McCoy. I give you my word.”
The word of an ex-terrorist shonfra, thought Hank. Not very comforting.
Of course, he didn’t have much choice. He was no cogsmith, and there was little he could do to assist one.
Without a word, he left the storage unit and boarded the Miraj. Tomorrow, he would get his crewmember back and they would leave Loggerhead in far better shape than they had arrived. He had to believe that, because there was nothing else worth believing.
6. The Race
Hank eased the Miraj into place. As the last entrant to join the race, he would start at the back of the pack, last in line. Hank didn’t much mind. It gave him a chance to evaluate the competition.
As he looked the other ships over, he smiled as he thought of what they might think when they returned the scrutiny. The fully assembled Miraj looked nothing like the streamlined crafts she sat next to. Most of the racers were Pintail or Merganser class ships, built for speed and not much else. Next to their sleek, aerodynamic bodies, the Miraj looked like a turtle bumbling through a school of silverfish.
Hank didn’t bother to suppress a smile. Hackwrench had come through. Hank woke to find the ship fully assembled, Hawks already connected to the main nest. He hoped those sleek little silverfish thought of him as a bumbling turtle. It would make his victory all the more enjoyable.
Usually, the Miraj’s four masts extended almost straight above the central nest ship in sea-travel formati
on, with sails spread to catch wind. Airborne and with all four of her Hawks, one to the tip of each mast, Hank reconfigured the Miraj into the classic HH pursuit formation.
The two Thrusthawks sat behind and above the main nest. The larger of the two Hawk types, so much of the Thrusthawk bulk was dedicated to speed that with both of them added to the nest they more than doubled her thrust output.
The Sparhawks perched on either side of the nest, nearly level with the main bridge. Although Sparhawks added little thrust to the speed of the overall ship, only a fool disregarded them because of their size. The Thrusthawks gave speed, but the Sparhawks held the arsenal. Klim’s poaching had reduced that weaponry to only a single grappling hook, but Hank wasn’t going to overlook any possible advantage.
The nest itself couldn’t hope to beat the other ships in a fair race, but with the entire Harris Hawk formation, he had not one but five engines pushing his ship forward.
Hank didn’t have the luxury of losing, not with both Bones and the Miraj on the line.
From beneath the control console, a shower of sparks sprayed into Hank’s lap. Swearing, he leapt from his chair.
Hackwrench’s voice followed the sparks immediately, the egg-ship atop the table translating. “Sorry sorry! Just a few more connections that need to be fixed. Almost done, almost done!”
Hank sat back down, but his smile was gone. True, the Miraj was airborne, but she wasn’t exactly perfect.
Still, with both Sparhawks and Thrusthawks dedicated to speed, they should be able to sail past the Pintails and Mergansers.
Hank’s bigger concern was Moze’s Roc. The heavier ship thrummed several lengths ahead of him, like a bull lined up next to greyhounds. The Miraj’s defensive systems were completely offline, and when Hank had asked about them, Hackwrench’s pale blue fur had nearly turned purple with rage. Flight or defense had been the options, and Hackwrench had chosen flight.