Choose Omnibus (Choose: An Interactive Steampunk Webserial Book 3)

by Taven Moore

  Hank counted slowly down from one hundred.

  Why had he been in such a hurry to rescue her? For the life of him, he couldn’t remember.

  7. Bespin

  “I’ll have you know, you are the very first pirate captain I have ever encountered who sulks.” Remora crossed her arms and tapped her booted foot against the floor of the Miraj’s bridge. Hank was, in fact, the only pirate captain she had actually become acquainted with, but her adventure books were very firm on the subject of pirate captain behavior. They might bellow and rail, but they never sulked.

  Hank said nothing, ignoring her with a stoic determination that she had never before encountered.

  Remora sighed. “I have already apologized for my behavior.” She had. Three times. She had counted each one, and each had been more elaborate and sincere than the previous. Technically, she had already been escaping, but it was poor manners to chide one’s rescuer. It was also poor manners to punch one’s rescuer in the nose. She had acted improperly, and he well deserved the apology.

  Still Hank said nothing, though the bruised and purpled skin around one eye twitched. Remora scowled. One apology, he deserved. Four, he did not. “Just how long do you plan on ignoring me?” she asked tartly.

  He reached forward and gripped the copper cone of the comm system. “We’re approaching Bespin. Crew, ready yourselves. I expect we’ll have a welcoming committee, complete with brass band.”

  “Bespin?” Remora darted to the wide glass window and peered through candy-floss clouds to get a better look. “Are you quite sure? I don’t see any—” The clouds whisked away like theatre curtains. She gasped at the sight.

  Bespin.

  The Cloud City. The White City. Crown jewel of the Seraph skycities, it floated midair with a ballerina’s grace. Three concentric rings hovered around a tall spindle, each ring sporting an array of columns upon its surface, reaching either toward the heavens or to the earth. With awe, she realized those slender arms were entire buildings, tall enough to scrape the sky itself. In each of the cardinal directions, a slender pipe reached outward. According to the Ardelan encyclopedias, somewhere along that length of pipe, a collector gathered free-forming spark from the atmosphere to power Bespin’s mighty generators.

  Remora shivered, looking at the impossibly grandiose city, portions of it spinning slow, measured circles. For a moment, the tall buildings and reaching spark collector pipes made the city look like a spider’s web. She felt very much an insect—a tiny, insignificant bug flying ever closer to its grasp.

  Her hand reached for the intricate locket around her neck. She imagined she could feel the heat of the purple crystal housed inside. She had so little time left to find the missing pieces. To prove Starbirth real once and for all. To leave her mark on the world.

  She firmed her lips. Spine straight, she watched as Bespin loomed closer in the viewport. She was a Price. If Bespin held spiders, why, she should simply squash them beneath her boot heels.

  Behind her, Hank barked over the comm system to the docking crews below, exchanging call signs and arranging for berth.

  Chittering sounded from the doorway and Remora turned to see Hackwrench enter the room. His back was a mess of ugly scars where his wings should have been, and he compensated for their lack through clever cogsmithing, flying in a melon-sized ship of his own devising. Small, adorable, and brightly colored, it was no surprise that many humans considered Shonfra little more than clever pets.

  Meeting Montgomery Hackwrench, cogsmith, pilot, and ex-terrorist had cured her of any such notion.

  Hackwrench’s chittering ended and the light on the front of his ship shifted from red to green. In a mechanical voice, his ship translated the shonfra chatter into human-speech, “This is the most idiotic idea I have ever been forced to participate in. Truly, Captain, you cannot mean to simply sail into Bespin aboard an illegal Harris Hawk-class ship and hope no one notices. What moron came up with this madness?”

  Remora crossed her arms. “I did.”

  The ship paused, then Hackwrench chittered again, “Well, you’re an idiot.”

  Remora sniffed, but said nothing. It was, in point of fact, a brilliant plan. The Miraj was her ship now, and she would not have it skulk about in the shadows as if it were still a common pirate ship!

  A pirate ship it may be . . . but common, never.

  Hank spoke up. “Enough chatter. Mind the helm, Hackwrench. You get so much as a tiny scratch in her hull when you’re docking and so help me, I’ll have a new hat. Soft and warm and blue.”

  Hackwrench shrieked a shonfra laugh. “As if you’d be able to notice a new scratch on her. She looks like she could fall apart at any moment.”

  “No insulting my ship, vermin. You just keep her running and keep your commentary to yourself.”

  The little shonfra rolled his eyes, unfazed by the insult. “Aye, Captain,” he said, landing his little ship neatly on the captain’s desk and hopping behind the controls, his tail wrapping around the lever Hank used to steer the ship. Two of his forelegs reached down to flip a few switches.

  As Hank left the room, Remora thought she heard him mutter, “Don’t pay him no mind,” as he touched the door frame.

  She scowled at his back. He would speak to the ship and yet still ignore her? This simply could not be borne!

  Hackwrench chittered. “You’d best be to the back and waiting for company, Miss. We’ll be docked in less than five minutes.”

  “Thank you, Montgomery,” she said, taking a deep breath and smoothing the front of her skirts. The delicate insides of Hackwrench’s ears pinkened slightly as she used his real name. “I shall take care of the officials. I promise you have no need to worry. I am very good at this sort of thing.”

  She lifted her skirts and made what she assumed to be a grand exit, even if there was no one who cared to see it.

  She made her way to the rear of the ship. “I do hope I know what I’m doing,” she muttered to herself.

  Unexpectedly, a deep voice replied, “Do not worry, Miss.” Remora leaped back, hand at her throat.

  At some point, Jinn must have stepped in behind her. His red eyes glittered dangerously, “I am prepared, should political negotiations fail.”

  “Dear heavens, Jinn, I do not wish to declare war on Bespin! And do stop sneaking up on me like that. It is disconcerting.”

  “As my lady wishes,” he said, though she didn’t believe a word of it. She truly would have to break him of his newfound obsession with guarding her. Granted, she had hired him as a bodyguard, but ever since they had re-boarded the Miraj, he had glued himself to her side.

  Then again, she had yet to discuss the happenings aboard the Swan-class ship with him. He had made no move to begin such a discussion, and she was loathe to start it herself.

  How exactly did one begin such a conversation? “Do please pass the crumpets, and by the way, now that you know I am part Seraph and I (quite accidentally) turned you into a monster for a short time, how does that make you feel?”

  Remora frowned. No, that simply would not do.

  Bereft of any way to begin the only discussion she truly wanted to have, they walked in silence through the cargo hold of the ship, each step clanging dully through the empty space.

  A symphony of motion and sound announced the Miraj’s docking. The ship shuddered and groaned, while the low sound of air bubbling through water in the nearby power tanks intensified in the background.

  After a moment, the docking bay opened to the sky, mouth sliding in and down to form a ramp up to the Miraj’s broad back.

  A tiny green ball of fur shot through the newly-formed opening, dual pairs of insect-like wings thrumming as the little body hurtled through the air. The unfamiliar shonfra circled the cargo hold once before dropping something and zooming back out again.

  Jinn leaped forward, drawing the massive arcblade at his back and twisting the handle to set the angry line of spark dancing between the tips of the open C shape of his blade. �
�Stand back, Miss!” he barked.

  A scrap of paper fluttered down.

  Remora put her hands on her hips. “Really, Jinn, you are far too jumpy.”

  She pushed her way past him and bent down to retrieve the paper.

  The paper was, in point of fact, an envelope. Crisp, white, and closed with an ornate “G” stamped into silver wax.

  She turned the envelope over. An impeccable calligrapher’s hand spelled out “Lady Remora Windgates Price” and her eyebrows rose. Who could possibly know she was here?

  “Miss, I must object. You have no idea what—”

  “Objection noted. Do sheathe your sword. I doubt it can protect me from the dire danger of a paper cut.”

  Remora split the wax seal and pulled from the linen envelope an equally exquisite letter.

  “Welcome to Bespin, Lady Price. Worry not, your secret is safe with me. I wish to arrange a meeting at your earliest convenience.”

  The letter was signed, simply, “Gideon.”

  It also contained a somewhat hasty post script, “P.S. Quite the impressive entrance. I find myself quite intrigued as to your plan. The local police have already been dispatched.”

  Remora smiled, emboldened by the stranger Gideon’s faith that she had a plan.

  “Come, Jinn. It would seem that we have friends in Bespin already.” Remora started up the ramp, stepping from the shadowed hold of the Miraj into bright sunlight.

  Jinn muttered darkly, “There are no such things as ‘friends’ in Bespin.”

  Remora’s reply dried on her tongue as she crested the ramp to stand upon the deck of the ship. On the dock below, two dozen armed Goralor guards fanned out, their rock-like hands steady as they pointed military-grade alchemist guns at her.

  Well. This was certainly going to be interesting.

  8. Inspector Gideon

  Remora cleared her throat. “Now see here!” she called down to the squat, stone-skinned Goralor lining the docks below. “This is quite unconscionable, aiming so many weapons at my ship! Desist immediately, or I shall have no other recourse but to contact your superior and complain!”

  A few of the Goralor in the front blinked at her, granite faces registering surprise. One gun lowered, then a second. Just as the remainder began to waver, a loud voice called out from the throng of curious onlookers below, “Any guards I catch shirking their orders will find themselves used as paving stones!”

  Immediately, the guns lifted and Remora scowled. She did not have time for nervous, trigger-happy henchmen!

  The speaker—a young man with close-cropped hair, a peacekeeper’s uniform, a clipboard of official-looking paperwork, and a remarkably unsettling sneer—stepped forward.

  Remora paused to assess the situation. It wasn’t often she found herself sneered at. After giving it a bit of thought, she determined that she rather disliked the sensation and maintained that she would not sneer at other people in the future, should she ever find herself in a situation where it would be an appropriate expression. It was a singularly slimy expression, and not attractive at all.

  “To whom do I owe the dubious honor of this welcoming committee?” she asked, brushing the front of her skirts briskly. Sneer or no sneer, she was not going to let this man deter her. She had grown up watching her father squelch such insolence beneath his boot. A Price never backed down.

  “I’ll ask the questions here!” the man barked, moving to stand at the foot of the gangplank.

  “Well, I never!” Remora exclaimed. Jinn rumbled, a sound rather like she might expect an angry large cat to make. She put a hand on his forearm. “Now, now, Jinn. Do remember what I said about killing people.”

  Jinn gave no reply, but ceased rumbling, which she took as assent.

  The man below shouted up at them, “You and all your crew are under arrest, by order and under the authority of the Seraphs Lord Vakaano and Dame Vakaena. If you do not surrender willingly, we will use force.” The smile on his face left no doubt that he rather hoped they intended to resist.

  “Really now!” Remora called down. “Such rudeness, and from a public official! Why in Starbirth’s name are we under arrest?”

  “Shall I interpret your reaction as resistance?” the man asked.

  Jinn’s hand moved, ever-so-subtly, to the hilt of his weapon. Remora sighed. This really was not how she imagined this confrontation! She wished she could pick the man up by the collar of his shirt and tweak his nose. He was being flagrantly confrontational.

  “According to Bespin Legal Code, section 5B, sub-paragraph 64, any person who requests to know the nature of their crime shall be provided with the details of their arrest warrant immediately.” Remora crossed her arms. “I am extremely familiar with the legal documents for every skycity, young man, and I’ll not have you bully your way through them. Either you comply with the laws you say you are upholding, or I shall take up the matter with the Bespin Seraphs themselves if need be.”

  Hidden beneath her other arm, Remora crossed the fingers of one hand. It wasn’t entirely a lie—she had indeed read a book detailing various inter-terrain legal codes. She felt confident that Bespin was the skycity which granted fair trial to possible criminals. It had been Guadosalam that permitted immediate execution of possible criminals. Or possibly Bevelle. Guadosalam or Bevelle though, of a certainty, and not Bespin. Bevelle and Bespin had been right next to each other in the book, though, and there was a slight possibility that she was misremembering.

  The man paused, clearly fighting against his desire to force his way aboard the ship. Remora began to tap her foot against the ship’s deck. “Really,” she called down, “if you are not certain why you are here, perhaps you should go back to your office and return better prepared. If I’m to be arrested for the crime of docking my ship legally at a public berth, I should like it to be by someone who at least knows what he is about.”

  Several of the onlookers laughed, and the man’s mouth thinned. He must have realized that she was in the right according to law, though, for he did offer some detail. “This ship, the captain ‘Handsome’ Hank McCoy, and its crew are wanted in connection with a case of direct interest to the Bespin Seraphs themselves. I am prohibited from divulging further detail.”

  “That?” Remora laughed. “That is all the more detail you can give? Why, that sounds ludicrous—you might just as easily have invented it on the spot!” Twin red flushes crossed the man’s cheeks. “Now see here, if you’ll just give me a moment, I have documentation proving that this vessel was recently purchased by the Gates Foundation. I have personally hired all crew members to man her, she had no cargo at the time of purchase, and furthermore, I have it on rather good authority that the previous owner of the ship met a rather messy end and has been turned in for bounty.”

  All of which was technically true, but Remora crossed her fingers again regardless. They had been very careful. The faceless corpse Serena had turned in for Hank’s bounty had been accepted without complaint. Also, Remora had indeed purchased the ship, albeit from a rather fascinating loan shark named Ratchet. She had hired new crew . . . but that crew included the previous crew. Hank, Bones, and Jinn were all instrumental in the “crime” of liberating the dresl Snow, which event was almost certainly the reason this awful man saw fit to detain her now.

  If she were to be completely honest with herself, she must admit that her statement was a rather colorful interpretation of true events. She firmed her shoulders. The statement stood true nonetheless.

  This rude little official didn’t need to know all that, though, and she utterly refused to skulk about in the shadows of Bespin, hiding from the lawmen. That was the sort of unnecessary complication she wished to avoid.

  The man smirked. Remora’s confidence faltered.

  “You prim little silver spoon, just who do you think you are? Just where do you think you are? You’re in my skycity now, and you pulled your illegal little ship into my section of the outer docking ring, neat as a pin. You think I’m going to i
gnore a gift-wrapped promotion like this just because you have a few measly papers? I could haul you in for flying a Harris Hawk without any other provocation!”

  “How rude! I have special dispensation signed directly by the Price family of Westmouth for this ship, allowing me to operate it lawfully for the entirety of the Gates Foundation mission!”

  “Well la di da!” he called back. Remora gaped at his easy rudeness. “I have two dozen armed Goralor guards under my command, which is about twenty-three more than I need to get you and your entire crew to do pretty much anything I want.”

  The man was flaunting the law. Flaunting it! Her plan had been flawless. Every legal aspect had been scrutinized and analyzed and accounted for. She had an entire chest full of legal documents, each drawn up properly according to the various skycities, kingdoms, and towns they were most likely to encounter.

  She had planned everything! And this . . . this . . . this worm of a man was going to destroy all of that simply by ignoring the law?

  “I’ll take your silence as assent, you loud-mouthed, entitled chit.” The man was clearly enjoying this. Remora ignored him, her mind racing to come up with something she could use to fix this situation. Hank would never let her live it down. This had been her plan, after all, and if she allowed a moment of complete honesty, she had hoped that he might find her handling of this to be impressive. Impressive enough, perhaps, for some small kernel of respect.

  Or at least impressive enough that he would speak to her again. The silence was more grating than his blustering disrespect had been!

  “Now, be a darling and tell that Shinra of yours to take off his weapon and kick it down the gangplank to us, won’t you, sweetie-pie?”

  “Can I kill him now?” asked Jinn beneath his breath.

  Remora paused, tempted, when another man spoke up from the crowd. “Dear me, dear me, what do we have here?”