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

by Taven Moore

  Move fast, and people started shooting. Move slowly, and curiosity would prevail. That had gotten him out in the open without being splattered by a dozen alchemist bubbles, but it wouldn’t keep him alive once he ran out of interesting things to say or do.

  They were outmatched. Certainly, Percy had a big gun and seemed to be able to handle himself with it, but he was a kid and Mack was clearly a professional. If this turned into a true fight, there’d be bodies on both sides, and they’d still lose.

  Outnumbered, the best thing to do was convince the enemy that you were larger or scarier than you actually were, in the hopes that they’d just pack up and leave.

  Clearly, that wasn’t working in this case. The men seemed more than happy to believe that the lone Paladin was more trouble than Remora was worth, but Craft nixed that by refusing to budge. Even making a lamp explode just by pointing at it and stealing Mack’s hat without making a move hadn’t been enough to faze the other captain.

  What they needed was a miracle. Hank would settle for whatever Remora was cooking up in the shop.

  Probably. After all, she wouldn’t have just left out the back door. Percy had stayed, and she wouldn’t leave without her cousin. Of course, they might have just left as soon as Percy fired the weapon. Jinn was Shinra, but they had a literal interpretation of honor. He was Remora’s bodyguard, not Hank’s. Would he grab Remora and pull her away even if she argued against it?

  Hackwrench was too new. Mouthy, sure, but Hank couldn’t be positive he wouldn’t choose the pragmatic route over a sense of duty to his new ship. Remora’s family certainly didn’t owe him anything.

  Bones was back at the ship, staying out of sight and fixing some of the damage from the Miraj’s recent altercations. This was, in fact, the first time Hank had been in a bad spot without having Bones to back him up since the ticker had joined his crew.

  The back of Hank’s neck began to itch as he realized just how precarious his current position was.

  In truth, not one person inside that building owed him anything, and he had no reason at all to believe they would stay to save him.

  He could just . . . let Mack pass. Step aside, hand over the hat, and high-tail it back to his ship. He curled his lip and if he hadn’t been wearing a face mask, he’d have spat to the side. Straits and circumstances may have forced him into a life of aimless wandering and pirating, but no matter what name he answered to or what costume he wore, in his heart he would always be Daniel McCoy.

  A mental image of the woman who had been his wife and the boy who had been his son flashed in his mind’s eye and his heart gave a tight, uncomfortable squeeze. No, he would never be the kind of man who would help the Mack Crafts of this world hurt innocent people.

  Never.

  Smiling, he spun the hat idly on his upraised finger. “What do you say, friend?” he asked idly. “Shall I return your hat, and you and your men return empty-handed to your Seraph Dame?”

  Mack’s one good eye turned flinty and his hand reached down and very deliberately freed his own alchemist gun from his hip holster, fingers flicking the snap free and slowly pulling the weapon up to point at Hank.

  “How about this, Friend?” he said. “You give me my hat, and I don’t lob an acid bubble through your skull? You step aside and I don’t have my men tie you up and use you for target practice . . . or you can keep wasting my time with your prattle, and I cut your tongue out and feed it to a dresl while you watch.”

  Ah, well, that seemed to be the end of the pleasantries. Hank cast his mind about for alternatives. He still had his own gun on him, but he wasn’t a crack shot. Even if he dove back into the building, he’d just be delaying the inevitable.

  A flicker of movement caught his eye . . . movement from inside the shop door.

  His heart leapt. Remora. She was still there. She’d come through.

  With no small amount of dark glee, he watched the darkened doorway. What would it be? That girl never did anything by halves and her cogsmithing was a menace. Would it be something fast and dangerous to draw their fire? Would it explode? Whatever it was, he’d need time and safety to dash back into the building before—

  Remora’s deus ex machina sailed into view, and Hank’s heart sank to his feet.

  Surely . . . surely that wasn’t it.

  A man’s brass snuffbox, so small it could easily fit in the palm of his hand, zoomed from the open doorway, accompanied by a belching of black smoke out the tail end and a tinny thread of music box melody.

  The thing moved in jerky fits, moving in little rocket bursts of crazed, un-coordinated diagonals, spitting out a chiming melody and oily smoke until it reached the open area between Hank and Mack.

  The snuffbox gave a loud and very broken-sounding CRACK!, then fell to the ground from midair, nose-diving into the walkway with a soul-crushing clatter.

  Hank, Mack, and the other men stared intently at the tiny device; Hank with horror, and the others with curiosity. The thing gamely continued to play its music, now horribly off-key.

  That was it?

  A ridiculous flying snuffbox was Remora’s big plan to rescue him?

  He wouldn’t let Mack get her. Oh no, he’d kill her himself. He’d wring her scrawny little—

  The final note of the song chimed, and the snuffbox lid popped open. Hank saw the internals of the box leap out with incredible force, a cloud of something that looked like dust filling the air, propelled forward by what appeared to be a set of tightly-coiled springs.

  The cloud billowed up, impossibly fast, slamming first into Mack and his men. Hank’s only warning was choking and sputtering from Mack’s men, then the cloud enveloped him.

  His mask diluted the effect somewhat, but his eyes were completely unprotected. The air smelled like tobacco and pain, burning his eyes and forcing him scrambling away from the horrible thing.

  What was in that cloud? He gasped, the filtered mess burning down his throat and into his lungs, and suddenly he was coughing, gasping for breath, blindly clawing at the mask on his face even though part of him knew that mask was the only thing keeping him from being fully overwhelmed.

  “Hurry up, you idiot!” called a familiar voice from behind him. “Just how long do you plan on dawdling there?”

  Remora. The shop. Stumbling, he managed to back away from the cloud and toward her voice.

  Strong arms laced around his waist. Panicked, he lashed out. “I would not do such things if I were you.” Jinn’s voice in his ear.

  His eyes were on fire, totally useless. His lungs burned, his sinuses blazing paths of pain inside his skull. Beyond the blazing pain, somewhere, were thoughts, but he could barely feel them.

  Chittering.

  “I told you that was too much capsaicin,” said an even, robotic voice. Hackwrench’s translation.

  “Nonsense. It did the trick, didn’t it?”

  More chitters.

  “I can’t believe that actually worked. Where did you learn cogsmithing? Some kind of mail-order broom salesman? I’ve never seen such a haphazard source.”

  “You’re just jealous because you didn’t think of it.”

  “Later.” That was Jinn again. Hank felt himself lifted, then tossed over the Shinra’s shoulder as if he were a bag of potatoes. “We must leave, while the men I incapacitated out the back door are still unconscious.”

  “You needn’t sound so sour about it! Honestly! You all act as if this is terrible. Even with my order to not kill any of the men out back, you still managed smartly, Jinn. And Montgomery, regardless of what you say, my source worked perfectly, just as I said it would.”

  Blissfully, Hank felt himself drifting into unconsciousness as Jinn began to move, probably toward the back door.

  Chittering. “Perfectly?”

  Remora, huffy. “Yes, well, perhaps it was too much capsaicin, but the device did precisely—”

  Darkness claimed him, ending the burn of Remora’s terrible snuffbox cloud and the equal pain of listening to her
argue with Hackwrench about whether or not almost killing him had been an intended side-effect of the device.

  19. A Bad Feeling

  Hank woke to the same sound he’d fallen unconscious: Remora and Hackwrench arguing.

  Remora. “No, I most certainly do not think it appropriate to awaken him. It’s hardly as if he could take action to alleviate the situation.”

  Chittering, followed by a Hackwrench’s monotone robotic translation. “He would wish to know as soon as possible. You are only delaying the inevitable. He’ll be angry with you for the capsaicin bomb regardless of how long he spends asleep.”

  Remora spluttered. “Well, I never! Montgomery, you take that back right this instant. I am concerned for the captain’s welfare, that is all. I am not . . . not afraid of him!”

  Chittering. “Then why do you keep looking at him so guiltily? Wake him. Tell him.”

  “Tell me what?” Hank’s voice came out in a croak. He coughed to clear his throat then immediately wished he hadn’t. Everything from his nasal passages down to his lungs felt like it had been coated with still-burning pitch. Given a choice, he’d rather have been unconscious again.

  “Hank!” Remora sounded surprised and, as Hackwrench had indicated, guilty. Hank’s head hurt. He did not have time to deal with whatever drama Remora had dreamed up while he had been unconscious. “You’re awake!”

  Hank peeled open one eye and aimed it in the direction of her voice. “Don’t have to sound so unhappy about that. Exactly how’s a body expected to stay asleep with the two of you fighting over me like an old married couple?” His voice came out stronger this time, but still gruff.

  Remora leaned forward, a cup in her hand. “Drink this,” she said, tilting the cup.

  Hank drew back. “What’s in it? Did you make it?”

  Remora huffed. “You needn’t sound so distrustful. Yes, I made it, and never you mind what’s in it. It will help your throat.”

  Hank hesitated.

  Hackwrench chittered, his ship translating. “Despite her best efforts, Remora is actually astonishingly talented at alchemy. You can trust the potion.”

  Hank’s brows lifted. Praise from Hackwrench? Next thing, there’d be an all-Shinra’ere ballet and the dawnstar would be in the southern sky.

  Wasn’t like he’d be able to taste whatever-it-was right now anyway, and he’d brave even Remora’s alchemy if it might ease his throat.

  Whatever was in the cup, it was thick. More like a pudding than a drink. True to her word, it eased the burning as it went down and set up a cold fire in his stomach. Breathing out through his nose even managed to kill some of the fire in his nasal passages, too.

  “Better?” Remora asked.

  Hank nodded.

  “That’s good,” she said, tipping the cup to give him another swallow. “How are you? Is there anything I can get for you? Pillows? Blankets? I could have Jinn bring in my victrola and play some music, if you’d like.”

  Hank frowned at her. What was with the sweetness and light act? “Stop fawning. I’m not angry.”

  Her eyebrows lifted and his scowl deepened. “Okay, fine,” he said. “I’m a little angry. But your snuffbox thing worked and we’re out of there and as soon as you go to that stupid auction of yours we can leave this floating city and its pirate captains and angry Seraph behind.”

  He looked over her shoulder toward the open doorway and called out. “Bones! I want a full run-down on my ship. Do we need any supplies before we leave?”

  Remora hurriedly tipped the cup, forcing him to either take another mouthful or end up with the goop all over his face.

  “Speaking of the auction,” she said with a nervous smile, “I should prepare for it. It is only a few hours away. Is there anything you need? I could arrange for some finger sandwiches to be brought to the ship, or perhaps some entertainers during my absence?”

  Hank’s stomach dropped. Something wasn’t right.

  Hackwrench chittered at Remora, a harsh, swift sound. “EXPLETIVE DELETED,” translated his ship.

  Hank swallowed the drink and lifted a heavy, clumsy hand to push the cup away when it looked like she might try to tip another dose into his mouth. The unbearable burning had subsided into something he could reasonably ignore, but the feeling of something being incredibly wrong stayed with him.

  “What is it you’re not telling me? And where the Roith’delat’en hells is my first mate?” Hank frowned. “Bones!” he shouted. “Get in here and report, you rusty bucket of bolts, before I have you dismantled and used for spare parts!”

  “Hank, I—” Remora started.

  “I don’t have time for this invalid business,” Hank said, bracing his weight against his arms and carefully levering his body upright in bed. The blankets fell away from his bare chest, but at least he was still wearing pants. The feeling of wrongness continued to sink in his gut as he looked around for a shirt.

  Scrambling, Remora braced her tiny hands against his shoulders, trying to push him back down. “No, Hank, you need to lie down for this.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” He lifted his own hands and put them over hers, moving them away and turning so that his legs dangled off the side of the bed. He felt light headed and tried to convince himself it was just a side effect of whatever drink she’d given him. That’s all this odd feeling was. Just a side effect from another of Remora’s crazy concoctions. He should have known better than to drink that stuff, Hackwrench or no.

  “Bones!” he called out again. Odd that his first mate hadn’t replied. By now, there should have been a brass-tinged sarcastic zinger or two. Probably something about how he was lying down on the job.

  Remora’s already-large eyes grew very wide, while at the same time she seemed to shrink into herself.

  Hank froze, his heart thudding heavily against his chest. No. No, no, no.

  “Hank, he’s not here. Bones is . . . gone.”

  20. A Dusty Hammer

  Panic set in. Not a hot, frenzied panic, but rather a frozen, hard-edged sort of panic.

  Everything slowed down.

  Bones was gone.

  “Where is he?” he heard himself say. He sounded calm. Calm was good. Calm would get things done. Calm would fix things.

  “We don’t know,” said Remora. He looked at her and she pulled her hand away from his chest, eyes wide. Whatever she saw in his face must have frightened her, but he didn’t have time to worry about it right now.

  “What do we know?” he asked, getting to his feet. Blood rushed to his head and he paused to allow the dizzy feeling to pass.

  Hackwrench chittered, his ship translating. “Snow says someone came on the ship. He met with Bones briefly before leaving, and Bones left shortly thereafter.”

  Hank nodded, more to himself than to the shonfra and the girl, and immediately left the room. He passed the Shinra’ere standing guard outside the door, but didn’t slow. He heard them following, but didn’t care.

  Bones hadn’t been taken, he’d left. That removed a fair number of unsettling possibilities, but left too many open. Bones knew he needed to stay on the ship. He needed to be safe. A place like Bespin was too big, full of too many curious eyes. They had half a ring dedicated to cogsmithing alone. If he were caught . . . No. He wouldn’t get caught.

  “Daniel?” Remora’s voice called. “Is everything . . . that is, are you quite well?” He ignored her, not even bothering to correct her use of his old name. He didn’t have time to banter with her right now. Bones was missing.

  Bones wouldn’t have left unless it was important, and if he left of his own volition, he’d have left a note.

  Hank turned a corner and strode through the open door to his captain’s room. If Bones had left a note . . .

  Hank walked, not to the center console, but rather to a bookshelf bolted to a side wall. His eyes slid across the books, noting that the colorful child’s picture book “The Shonfra’s Big Adventure” was misplaced. His son had loved that book, its pages worn f
rom dozens of bedtime readings. Bones couldn’t fathom why he kept it around, particularly when several of the pages from the end of the book had been ripped from the binding.

  Bones didn’t need to know yet why he kept the book. Maybe someday . . . but for now, it was a sign. The book had been moved, their sign for “Clear Sailing.” Clearly, Bones didn’t want him to worry. Whatever his reason for leaving, it had been his own choice rather than coercion.

  That was good.

  Hank then turned to an astonishingly ugly copper bust on the bookshelf. He wasn’t certain who the bust depicted—likely one of Remora’s ancestors, famous for some kind of wartime heroics—but then again, the statue wasn’t there for its pleasing aesthetics.

  He pushed down on the button hidden on the statue’s top hat. He heard a grinding sound and a click, then the bookshelf swung free from the wall. Impatient, Hank yanked it aside, moving into the small room beyond.

  The table on the near wall held a thick tome. Hank peeled back the front cover, revealing the hollowed-out interior of the book. A folded sheet of paper rested inside.

  Bones’s handwriting, neat and even and perfectly legible.

  Hank.

  I should return before you see this, but your ridiculous human habit of needless worrying prompts me to write this. A messenger came from Inspector Gideon, saying that he had information which might aid Lady Remora’s quest, but that it was time-sensitive and she should come at once to his home. She was unavailable, but I was not. I opted to go in her place and return with the promised information, thus saving her the trouble of doing so or the likelihood of missing a valuable opportunity.

  The ship is fine and needs no babysitter. I go where I might be useful.

  Should you get this before I return, please tell Miss Remora that I am finding illogical actions to be quite . . . invigorating.

  Bones.

  “Hank? What is this . . . oh, my, this is your stash, isn’t it?”

  Remora.

  In his private rooms.

  His gut twisted. This wasn’t her fault, not really. She hadn’t ordered Bones to do anything, that much was obvious.