by Taven Moore
Closer to where they stood, the warehouse held mostly tools and smaller equipment, neatly arranged on shelves. Hank walked over to one of the shelving units and picked up a jar holding a single, glowing starshard. Smaller than his fingernail, and worth more than he’d just won in the race.
“Ah ah,” said Bricktop, chiding and he took the jar from Hank’s hands and replaced it on the shelf.
Hank frowned. “What about our agreement?”
“Our agreement was for your crew. The crippled shonfra and the scrawny ticker can take whatever they carry. You weren’t part of the stated deal, and I am, and always have been, a man of my word.”
9. A Man of His Word
A smug grin split Bricktop’s face. Hank wanted to punch it.
Bones nodded agreement. “He is correct, Hank. The agreement, as stated, included only your crew.”
Hank scowled. “Thanks so much for helping, Bones.”
“You are welcome.”
Hank bit off the retort on the tip of his tongue. Bones’s understanding of sarcasm seemed to vary depending on the situation, and it wasn’t Bones he was angry with. “Fine,” he said, backing off.
Bones stepped forward. “I wish to clarify, if I may?”
Bricktop nodded. “By all means.”
“Anything that is currently in this warehouse which Montgomery and myself can take, becomes ours, correct?”
“Assuming Montgomery is that little wingless shonfra,” Bricktop said, lighting his cigar with an easy gesture, then exhaling a thick puff of smoke, “then yes.”
Bones’s eyebeams gleamed. “Understood.”
Hank nodded at Hackwrench, who zoomed through the room in his little ship, taking inventory of the bits and pieces laid out on the shelves. Bones waited for the shonfra to return, no sign of impatience or irritation in his demeanor.
Hackwrench returned, chittering. “There are a lot of valuable things we could use here, Hank, but Bones and I aren’t going to be able to carry very much of it, and certainly we can’t lift any of the very heavy things.”
Bricktop’s grin grew so wide that Hank saw the flash of gold capping some of his back teeth.
Hank cleared his throat, drawing Hackwrench’s attention. “Hackwrench, would you like me to carry your craft, so that you can examine the tools and parts more closely?”
The shonfra chittered, “That makes no sense, Hank. My ship cannot carry much, but it can certainly carry more than I—”
Hank lifted an eyebrow, and the chittering and translation stopped. “There was a particular tool that you said you needed in order to do your job on the Miraj better. I think you’ll find it more quickly without your ship.” He nodded his head to the right, where a row of empty cogwork suits lined up against the wall, clearly waiting for their shonfra pilots to come back from break.
Hackwrench’s wide eyes grew even wider as understanding dawned. Immediately, he dropped his ship into Hank’s arms and launched himself to the ground.
Bricktop only had time to bark out, “Now see here!” before Hackwrench was in the cogwork suit’s cockpit, flicking switches and powering it on.
“That’s not what I meant!”
Hank grinned. “We’ve already established that in this particular deal, it’s not what you mean that matters, it’s what you say. Hackwrench can take the suit, so it counts.”
Moze laughed, the rich sound of her mirth slashing through the tension between the two men. “Oh, Bricktop, he’s got you there. This is fun. I’m so glad I decided to stay and watch.”
Whatever Bricktop had been about to say, the reminder that he had an audience beyond just Hank and his crew stilled him. “Fine. Whatever. I thought you were in a hurry, Hank?”
The not-so-subtle hint that he wanted the Miraj’s crew gone was not lost on Hank.
“Why don’t you fill that bin over there with any of the small things we want to take,” suggested Hank, pointing to an empty metal container next to a workstation.
Hackwrench chittered and the craft in Hank’s hands translated. “The empty bin is already quite heavy. If it is filled, this suit will not be able to handle it.”
“That will be what Bones carries,” said Hank, smiling. Bones’s eyebeams flashed green with amusement. “He’s a ticker, not an invalid. He can handle it.”
Bones spoke, “You fill it, I will calculate when it reaches a weight I cannot handle.”
Hackwrench giggled, a sound that needed no translation. Moving quickly in his new cogwork suit, he began to fill the bin with tools, parts, and a number of other things that Hank did not recognize.
With each item that dropped into the bin, Bricktop’s scowl deepened and Moze’s delight grew.
“I do believe,” said Moze as the items piled higher, “this is the most I have ever seen anyone win from you in a bet, Bricktop.” On her shoulder, Xerxes wheezed with laughter.
“That is enough,” said Bones, when the bin was almost full.
“I don’t suppose that new suit of yours can hold a few grappling hooks to replenish our weapons system?” asked Hank.
Hackwrench didn’t bother replying, he just laughed giddily again and moved to the back of the warehouse.
“Is there anything else?” asked Bricktop.
“Actually,” said Bones before Hank could respond, “there is.”
The ticker unbuttoned his jacket and drew one side open, revealing his skeletal metal body. Wedged between his hip joint and the protective ribcage that curved around his glowing cogsmithing source was a glass container.
Hank’s eyes widened as Bones pulled the item from his chest and laid it gently atop the other items in the bin. Inside its glass prison, the little copper cogwork butterfly flapped its wings. “Bones, what did you—”
“THEIF!” snarled Bricktop. “That was not part of the deal!”
“The deal,” reminded Bones, “was for anything ‘currently’ in this warehouse, was it not?”
“Bones, what in the Roith’delat’en hells are you doing?” Hank was shocked. They’d be lucky enough to get away with the gear they were already planning. He didn’t know much about cogsmithing, but he knew the gleam of greed and pride in Bricktop’s eyes when he looked at that butterfly. Stealing it was madness.
His first mate turned to him and answered, “It’s for Remora. I think she will like it.”
“I’ll have you killed. All of you!” shouted Bricktop.
Moze slipped behind Bricktop, sliding an arm across his throat, a knife that she’d pulled from somewhere pressed against his neck.
Hank looked back to see that Xerxes had a similar knife clutched in his tail, wrapped around the muscular body guard’s neck. The yellow shonfra’s eyes looked wide and avid, as if he truly hoped the man would struggle.
“Come now, Bricktop,” said Moze smoothly. “I thought you were a man of your word. Why, if anyone knew you went back on an agreement just because you ended on the upside down from it, your business as a racing boss would be over. No one would trust to do business with you.”
A bead of sweat rolled down Bricktop’s forehead. Everyone stood very still until Hackwrench came back, laden with a tower of weapon system equipment. He stopped just shy of the bin, then chittered uncertainly. “What happened? Is there a problem?”
Hank repeated the question slowly. “Is there a problem, Bricktop?” Moze wasn’t exactly stable. He had no doubt she would kill the boss. If Hank fled Loggerhead with a ton of Bricktop’s gear just after the race boss’s murder, he’d be banned from any of the turtle islands. Besides, Hank didn’t want the man’s death on his conscience. He was a pirate, but he wasn’t the worst of the lot.
The race boss didn’t reply at first, so Moze took up the litany, purring in Bricktop’s ear. When she said it, it was more of a velvet-wrapped threat than a question. “What do you say, Bricktop? Do we have a problem?”
“No,” Bricktop finally bit out. “No problem.”
“A pity,” said Moze, who sounded genuinely disappointed
. She released Bricktop and snapped her fingers. Xerxes regretfully released his prisoner and flew back to Moze’s shoulder.
Bones picked up the bin, which had to weigh almost as much as he did. The cogsmithed butterfly clicked its wings against the glass as its prison rolled around to settle into a better position on the pile of parts.
“Thanks, Moze,” said Hank, as Hackwrench left the building, heading for the Miraj.
“Are you thanking me for saving you or for not killing him?” she asked.
He smiled. “A little of both.”
“You aren’t this soft, Daniel.”
His smile faded. “Things change.”
Moze shook her head. “Things change, but people don’t.”
Hank looked to Bones, carrying the bin through the door as easily as if he were lifting a bouquet. “Sometimes they do,” he said. Moze clearly didn’t understand, but he didn’t want her to.
Bricktop snarled at them, “Don’t come back to Loggerhead, Hank McCoy.”
Hank took a deep breath. “Don’t worry. I wasn’t planning on it,” he said, stepping into the sunlight.
Volume III:
Crossroads
in the Sky
Introduction to Volume III
Finally, Bespin.
Naturally, Remora has to make a dramatic entrance. Some of our wayward story threads begin to weave their way into a single purpose. Jinn’s brother. Remora’s uncle. Snow’s secret-with-sharp-edges.
As the tension builds, each crewmate will be faced with a terrible choice. Will Remora set aside her mission to save her friends? Will Hackwrench choose his goals over his honor? Will Hank choose his first mate over his ship? Will Bones choose his curiosity over his safety? Will Jinn choose his brother over his promises?
Behind all of it, we finally see the machinations of our villain, pulling strings and manipulating actions to achieve her ends.
I knew, halfway through this volume, that I would have to draw my writing to a close. I refused to write an ending on a story that was only just beginning, so by way of apologies to my amazing fans, I wrote another piece of content.
This time, instead of seeing Hank’s present, we see his past and finally learn the events surrounding how his crew acquired the unique ticker Bones as first mate.
The story isn’t over, and I am not done telling it. For now, at least, the writing has drawn to a close, its characters waiting patiently (or impatiently, as the case may be) for their authors to pick up the thread once more.
1. Middle Names
Remora paced the length of her cell until the sound of her boots pounding against the ship’s metal floor grew annoying enough to bother even her. Her only cellmate, the white leopard dresl she had decided to call Snow, curled in the corner. Even in sleep, the dresl woman’s ears pinned back with obvious misery.
Remora’s lips firmed. Enough was, quite obviously, more than enough. Standing around meekly while Jinn sulked was getting them no closer to an escape solution.
Moving so that she could speak through the air vent separating her cell from the next room, Remora put her hands on her hips and bent low so that the full force of her displeasure would not be lost upon her neighbor.
“Jinn Hornbright McDeaconswaggle Chattlesworth Shima, I demand that you cease this ungentlemanly behavior of ignoring me.”
For the first time in hours, she heard Jinn’s voice. Granted, it was a strangled, choked version of his typically calm bass, but it warmed her heart to hear him at all. “With all due respect, Miss Remora, the Shinra do not have middle names.”
“An oversight I fully intend to rectify,” Remora declared. “It may take some time for me to find the perfect name, but I do feel those were all rather impressive first attempts.”
An awkward silence fell, followed by a tense and uncomfortable response. “In truth, Miss Remora, I do not feel that any of them would be the middle name of my choosing, if my people were given to choosing middle names.”
Remora stifled a smile at his obvious dismay. “Don’t be absurd, Jinn. One is never permitted to choose one’s own middle name. Furthermore, it is rarely one that anyone would choose for themselves. Don’t worry. I believe that I would be quite good at naming things, given half a chance.”
A defeated sigh echoed through the grate. Remora imagined the Shinra’s red eyes closing and his dusky gray hands clenching, sharp nails digging into his palms. “Do as you please.”
Remora scowled at the grate, her brief levity dissolved. “You are still a bodyguard in my employ and I shall not have you brooding. I demand that you cheer up, else I truly shall choose McDeaconswaggle as your middle name.”
“Bodyguard?” Jinn roared his reply, so loud that it rattled the grate between them. “What sort of bodyguard allows his charge to be kidnapped? What sort of bodyguard then fails in his rescue mission and becomes captured himself? I cannot protect my brother, I cannot protect the dresl woman, I cannot protect you . . . I cannot even protect myself! I have failed, and it is you who will pay the price for that failure!”
Remora pursed her lips as Jinn’s ragged breathing shuddered through the vent. Calmly, she spoke as though he had not shouted at all. “What utter rubbish. I’ll hear no more of it. I have not released you from my employ, and I shall need two weeks’ notice should you choose to submit your resignation, which I shall also require to be notarized by the proper authorities. For now, you are still my bodyguard, and I am finding it dreadfully difficult to devise an escape plan while you persist in cultivating this aura of negativity.”
Jinn said nothing. Lucky for both of them, Remora had a knack for filling silences. “Now, Jinn. The first and most important matter of business, I feel, is to address our captor’s parting words with you. What did Mack mean when he said that either Snow or myself would be dead before we reached Bespin?” She gestured to the white leopard dresl, no longer sleeping but still huddled in the corner.
Silence.
Remora stomped her foot, the boot heel knocking sharply against the metal floor. “Well? Do explain yourself! Are you some sort of depraved murderer?”
“No, of course not!” he replied with obvious horror.
Remora allowed herself the luxury of a frustrated growl. “What is it, then? I have heard rumors of the Shinra’ere and their eating habits—that you steal children and suck their blood. Are they true? After all the muffins I’ve seen you eat, I hardly credited their veracity. On the other hand, you are asking me to draw my own conclusions while only affirming my impression that things are worse than I imagine.”
“Stealing children? Drinking blood? What sorts of books did your father let you read?”
“I was permitted access to any book I wanted. For my tenth birthday, I received a complete copy of every volume in the Ardelan Encyclopedia, which has some very interesting entries on the . . . ” Remora paused, frowning. “Never you mind. Do stop dodging the question, Jinn.”
Silence. Again.
Remora sighed. From her corner, Snow sat up and wrapped her tail around her ankles, gesturing frantically. Her fingers formed the dresl words for “danger” and “quiet” followed by a deeply-gestured “please.”
Even Snow wanted her to stop asking Jinn about this. Remora set her jaw. Why everyone seemed so determined to hide information, she did not understand. Learning was the most wonderful thing in the world.
Giving up now was not an option. Remora shook her head and twined her own fingers into the symbol for “no” followed by an awkward rendition of “important.”
She turned her attention back to the silent wall grate, and the equally silent man hiding behind it. “Well?” Remora asked.
“I do not . . . ” Jinn gave an aggrieved sigh. “It is a matter of delicate phrasing.”
Remora put her hands on her hips. “So phrase it indelicately, Jinn, and we shall work our way up from there.”
“We . . . that is, the Shinra’ere . . . eat people.”
Remora’s heart skipped a beat before
thudding to a higher speed, but she paused and waited for clarification. When none came, she cleared her throat before prompting, “On sandwiches? In salads? Dipped in boiling water for tea?”
Jinn’s voice rapped through the metal grate, his tone jagged. “Remora, this is not a joke!”
Remora threw up her arms, corset tightening at the gesture. “Well, I hardly believe that any of us are laughing! You must learn to be more specific, Jinn. It’s a terrible habit, to give the least amount of answer to a serious question! One might come to almost any conclusion. Am I to believe that Snow and I are in danger of you crawling through that air vent and gobbling us up? You have hardly conducted yourself as a monster thus far.”
Jinn’s response was little more than a growl. “I am a monster, Remora! I am not human! Did you think the only differences between my people and your own were gray skin and red eyes?”
Remora thought for a moment. “You also have fangs. Oh, and your fingernails are rather claw-like. Also, you wear wrappings, which we do not, and—”
At that, Jinn roared, a sound ripped from his throat, primal and angry. Snow shook her head and tried to curl into an even smaller ball, her hands rapidly repeating the signs for “danger” and “stop.”
Remora ignored both of them. “Are you trying to frighten me?” she asked, one eyebrow quirked. “Because I find it incredibly irritating. I have seen better temper tantrums thrown by the Duke of Northington when father denied him a trade embargo.”
Jinn sighed, a mournful sound that struck at her heart. He may not be not human, but he was her friend, and he was clearly in a great deal of turmoil. Unfortunately, she could not help him by ignoring his pain, even if it was so clearly what he wanted her to do.
“Talk to me, Jinn,” she said quietly. She placed her hand on the cold metal of the grate. “Please, tell me what is happening.”
2. Hunger