The DeCadia Code (The DeCadia Series Book 1)

by Jonathan Yanez

  The heat radiating off the metal in the room only made it muggier and Val was nearly ready to pass out three hours into her fourth day on the detail. It had been years since she’d worked the boiler room and had forgotten how suffocating he heat could be. There was a reason she rarely went into the belly of her own ship.

  Val wiped the sweat from her eyes with a squalid rag she’d discovered in Tobias’s sleeping area. She’d found it while he was showing her his maps. The maps she’d been most interested in, however, he’d ignored. They were the maps of areas she’d never been to, hadn’t even known existed. The ones with the strange patterns drawn on them. The maps to what she was looking for. Her gut told her this was true, but every time she’d tried to ask about them, Tobias moved on to another subject without any explanation. It frustrated her to no end.

  Frustration seemed to be theme of her life the last few days. Tobias was a closemouthed, old coot who didn’t trust her yet. Trust was important to him. It was a conversation they’d had her second night here. “It has to be earned,” he said, “through time and effort. Anything worthwhile takes time.”

  Val didn’t have time. Her ship would be here any day now. She’d told her first mate, Lukas, to leave her no more than a few days—a week at most. Val wanted to earn Tobias’s trust, but her time was running out and she was staring to get desperate. She needed Tobias to tell her about the tattoo and the maps. The tattoo was the key to the maps. At least that’s what she hoped. Until she could get Tobias to talk to her, all she could do was guess.

  Sighing, Val hefted another shovel of coal and tossed it into the burning inferno. The massive airship ran on steam generated by the furnaces. The ship itself was twenty-one decks high, including the belly she was in now. It was one of the most immense she’d seen. Her own vessel had only a total of twelve decks. Hers was built for speed, though, not as a cargo vessel. A ship this size required a tremendous amount of steam to maintain altitude. She’d noticed they typically docked somewhere at night, which was a good thing. The Captain would go through his slaves faster than he could replace them if they tried to run this day and night. The heat would be too much for them. Val could attest to that. She felt past the point of exhaustion every day when her shift in the heat box was over.

  For the last five years, she had searched and tracked down every clue she could find to the strange birthmark on her back. All she’d been told was exactly what Madame had told her—that it would lead her home. Val had always fantasized about finding her home as a little girl. It meant finding her father. Fantasies as a small girl told her he’d welcome her into his house, his family, and his heart. It was something she craved deep down; a sense of belonging, of family. Her crew was her family, but this was different. Blood called to blood and she needed to find that. It ate away at her a little more every day.

  She’d always felt like a throw away. From birth no one had wanted her. Knowing they were just a commodity to be bought and sold did something to a person on the inside. It broke them just a little and Valeria, despite her bravado, was as broken as any slave standing shoulder to shoulder with her now. It’s why she refused to have slaves on her ship. Everyone on the Emerald Queen was paid a fair share of any loot they captured, from herself down to her lowest crewmember who ran her boiler room. She gave them pride and dignity and in return they gave her their loyalty.

  It was why they were willing to help her chase down a legend. The tattoo could be just a useless picture in ink, however she didn’t think so. She’d traveled everywhere and all the cultures she’d visited all shared a common story of a lost city. Some cultures talked about it like it was a city of holiness; others like it was Hades’ own personal playground. She’d heard stories of technology that made their own look like a child’s toy and stories of a great and noble people. Others spoke of them in fear, as if the people of the lost city were vicious warriors of old. There were stories that described the city as a place full of riches and enlightenment. There were just as many more that painted a picture of darkness and depravity. Until Val found it, she’d just have to keep guessing.

  Another shovel of coal went into the engine. Val was barely paying attention to what she was doing, lost in her thoughts. The heat lessened and the sounds around her dimmed as she thought back to the day when her journey changed from merely trying to survive to having a purpose, a definite end goal. Insane it might be; however, it gave her the courage and determination not just to survive, but also to thrive, to seek, to find what belonged to her.

  Five years ago, while serving as a crewmember onboard a friend’s ship, she’d come across an old man who saw her birthmark in a bar when she removed her cloak. He’d sat down at her table uninvited, said his name was Carrow, and demanded she order him a drink. Val liked the old man’s bluster and bought him a mug of ale. What she remembered most about him were his clothes. Nothing had matched, and everything down to his shoes was patched. She could still picture him clearly even now. He’d sat for a while, sipping, and staring into the tavern’s blazing fireplace. She’d even ordered him a meal to share with her, feeling in a giving mood. They’d just come back from a long run and her share of the profits was good. Why not share her wealth with a crusty, old codger who made her smile?

  He’d nodded his thanks and then started asking her questions. Simple questions, things like; whether she worked on the ships since she’d come in with some of the crewmen and what type of work she did on board. They’d sat for at least a couple hours just talking about ships. He knew his vessels and had told her of some of the older designs and why they were better. Her own ship had been built upon his advice. She’d designed it herself and he’d approved her plans. Carrow was the first to tell her about her birthmark.

  “Thought ye’d love ships,” he’d nodded, staring into the fire. “Your people always did love their ships and the sea.”

  “My people?” she’d asked.

  “The Atlanteans,” he’d clarified. “Our airships today are modeled after their ocean vessel designs. When our world was new, we traveled the oceans like we do the skies today: when our waters weren’t toxic.”

  There had been a catastrophic war that encompassed every part of the world of DeCadia a millennium ago. Great nations had fallen. The survivors had vowed to never again create such destruction. The people had moved away from that type of technology to a cleaner, more stable source of power, focusing on alchemy and steam. Sometimes Val wondered whether they were truly better off living stuck in a world where technology wasn’t allowed; except by a select few, where it couldn’t grow and thrive. DeCadia wasn’t changing and all things needed to change. It was a belief she had held that day and still did today.

  “Who were the Atlanteans?” she’d asked, sipping on her beer. She’d never heard of them.

  “Old, ancient ancestors,” he muttered. “They disappeared from this world just after the war. They gave us the building blocks of machinery and taught us how to build upon them. Atlantis was our mother in a sense. When we took the knowledge they’d shared with us and started to harm them and each other with it, they left. It is said they’re still here, hidden away, remorseful they gave us the means to destroy each other in the first place.”

  “Still here?”

  He’d nodded. “Aye. Some say they have a world all their own and travel here through a portal, a doorway, between our two worlds. Others say they remain here, secluded by their technology in places we can’t find. They are a tricky people to learn, to understand.”

  “I’ve never heard of them before,” she’d said. “How is it you do?”

  “The birthmark on your back,” he’d looked her straight in the eye. “It’s their mark. All of their people have it; some tattooed, others branded, and a very select few are born with it. It’s to ensure they can always find their way home.”

  The birthmark on her back was a symbol, one she’d never been able to discern. It was a maze of twists and turns. At first glance, it looked like a sort of twisted knot
. However, the closer one looked, the closer one stared, the more intricate it became; until it became a maze of pathways, of roads. The birthmark was a map, yet a map to what she didn’t know.

  “I’ve met one other in all my time who had that mark. His name was Tobias Blood. Good man: loved his ships just like you. He told me the story of the mark one night when we were both three sheets in the wind. He said that it’s a map to Atlantis, the Lost City. I asked him if he’d tried to decode it, to go there, and he’d nodded. He’d been there once. Said it took him nearly twenty years to unravel the meaning and another ten to find it.”

  “He didn’t stay?” Val had asked.

  Carrow shook his head. “They were sea people and we’ve all become air people. Tobias missed his ship, his home, his family. He’d left, promising to reveal its whereabouts only to another bearing the mark so they could find their way home.”

  Those simple words had struck a chord within Valeria. A surge of hope had taken root, that maybe there was a place she belonged, maybe she could have a home—a family. It had been her saving grace. When she’d asked Carrow where she could find Tobias, he’d shaken his head saying they’d lost touch over the years. He’d told her where he last saw the man and that’s where she had started her search.

  Tobias had been a hard person to track down. When she discovered he was a slave who’d worked the same ship for the last ten years, she knew there was no way she could buy him. His owner wouldn’t sell and she understood why. Tobias kept the ship’s slaves happy and working together well. He was a good slave master because he was a slave himself and understood them.

  That’s how she’d ended up here, shoveling coal into the engine in a heat hot enough to scorch the demons of hell themselves. She’d found him, but for all her hard work, answers were still managing to evade her.

  Her frustration knew no bounds.

  A popping noise caught her attention. She turned and her eyes widened. The temperature gauge was well past the red. Her head swiveled to check the pipes and, sure enough, they were shaking.

  Before she could shout a warning, the first explosion hit and threw her backwards, slamming her into the blinding burn of the hot metal wall. Ignoring the pain, she scrambled to her feet and pushed through the panicked slaves to the hold door. She started barking orders and within seconds several of the stronger slaves were helping her push the heavy, metal door open. Val had no wish to be burned alive and sprang free the moment the doors parted. Sprinting up the stairs all the way to the top deck of the ship, she stopped dead. The crew on board The Apollo was involved in a desperate attempt to outrun a ship, cannons blazing.

  One problem. It wasn’t her ship.

  Chapter 5

  “Attention, Captain on deck.”

  The shouted title wherever he went was something he was still getting used to. The sharp click of heels, the eyes forward, and the rigid backs were all signs of respect for his position. What he wanted as a captain in DeCadia’s Royal Navy was the respect of his men and woman for him as their leader. He knew that would only come with time.

  They were good sailors. He was still getting to know each of them, even so the very fact they were here put them a step ahead of most on DeCadia. They had joined the Royal Navy, which meant they still believed in order. Amidst the pirating, killing, and plundering that were becoming the norm across the skies, here were a few that made the decision to put their lives on the side of law and freedom.

  Captain Stephen Tiberius Cross walked the deck of his ship, The Dragoon, with his first sergeant by his side. The air washed around him and would have had his long, black hair in a frenzy had it not been for the ponytail that kept it in place. His clothes were the military uniform for an officer in the Royal Navy; black pressed pants, boots so shiny they reflected the sun itself and a crimson shirt with intricate gold buttons. A coordinating black and red jacket, large enough to cover his broad shoulders, travelled down his back till the end met his boots. The usual triangle-shaped hat that went with his position was lying in his quarters in some forgotten corner. He never understood the allure of needless headwear when traveling through so much rushing wind.

  Stephen trekked up and down his ranks of men and women at arms. This was the inspection where he was supposed to find some miniscule problem with their uniforms or weapons. He was expected to find whatever mistake he could and chew them out in front of their comrades. It wasn’t something he enjoyed; still he knew it had to be done. Order had to be maintained in their own ranks if they were going to bring stability back to the world of DeCadia.

  Stephen stopped in front of a tall soldier whose long, brown rifle showed a smear of oil on its silver barrel. “Private?” Stephen asked, his voice cold, but deceptively casual.

  “Sir.” Stephen didn’t think it was possible, nonetheless the sailor managed to snap to an even straighter standing position.

  “What is that on the barrel of your weapon?”

  The private’s face turned crimson as his eyes traveled down to the smudge of greasing oil. He opened his mouth to speak but no words escaped his lips. His lower jaw worked like a door swinging on its hinges.

  “The Captain asked you a question, Private.” The words came from Stephen’s First Sergeant Amil Hall. Unlike Stephen, he had no problem keeping the troops on a strict leash of discipline. He was almost Stephen’s height with short, brown hair, a face that attracted the women whenever they were on leave, and a body to match. His temper was legendary among every ship in the Royal Navy. He had been Stephen’s friend ever since they came up through the academy together.

  “No excuse, Sir,” the Private finally managed to whisper through trembling lips.

  “Fifty pushups, clean the barrel of your rifle then fifty more,” Stephen said. Inside, he respected how the man owned up to his fault. Outside, he was required to remain the same steady rock of an authority figure. The punishment, in any case, would serve to strengthen the soldier if nothing else.

  “Yes, Sir.” The soldier immediately dropped to the floor and began to perform the required tasks.

  “Do you have a staring problem?” Amil asked a young, female sailor to his left.

  The woman’s face remained unmoved, but panic filled her eyes. “No. No, Sir.”

  “I saw you staring at me,” Amil said walking toward her until his face came within inches of hers. “Oh, I know. You were about to ask me a question, weren’t you?”

  The young sailor shook her head in a fast, furious motion, undoing the knot of her long, blonde hair behind her. “Sure you were,” Amil said. “And the answer to your question is yes.”

  As he witnessed the confusion on the poor girl’s face, Stephen reminded himself he was not allowed to smile at times like this. Amil was giving her an answer to a question she hadn’t even asked.

  “Well, you have your answer,” Amil said backing off. “You may join the Private in his pushups. Let’s go: I’m not getting any younger here.”

  The look of confusion on the woman’s face faded. She gave a quick nod and fell in sync with her fellow sailor’s rhythm of up-and-down motion.

  Stephen allowed his right hand to rest on the silver pommel of the saber that hung by his side. “That’s enough for one day,” Stephen whispered to Amil as the sergeant joined him.

  “Are you sure? It was just starting to get fun.”

  Stephen had to remember not to smile again. “Dismiss the men. Meet me for…”

  Stephen’s words were cut off as a voice echoed to them from the crow’s nest on the highest mast of the ship. “Ship ahead! Pirate ship with black sails ahead and I think it’s chasing a merchant vessel!”

  Stephen locked eyes with Amil. Of course they had engaged pirates on multiple occasions previously, except never on their own. They always had been under the command of others. This would be their first real test.

  As the words travelled to the group below, Stephen could already feel the adrenaline hit his system. The possibility of running into a pirate ship wa
s always present: however the Navy had taken into account Stephen was a new captain and this was his first official voyage. Stephen had been given orders to patrol a section of DeCadia that was generally void of pirate activity. Stephen hadn’t truly expected any sort of trouble; apparently, Fate had decided otherwise. He decided he’d deal with the hand he’d been dealt.

  He could feel everyone’s eyes looking at him. They were eager to move, but awaited his command. The tension in the air was practically something Stephen could reach out and touch.

  Stephen lifted his eyes to the ship’s helmswoman. She was older for her position with short, graying hair, still one of the best that had ever manned a ship’s wheel. His eyes locked onto hers then he started to shout orders. “Steady on the wheel. I don’t want them to see us coming.”

  She gave him a quick nod as he turned to the rest of his sailors. His words were crisp and his voice commanding. Stephen stood tall doing everything he could to inspire his crew as he bellowed orders like a seasoned captain. “Look alive. Cannon teams on the ready. Wait for my order. Rifles loaded and boarding teams in position. Let’s move people: it’s us or them!”

  ***

  Val cursed as she fought her way through the mass of live bodies. One would think this lot had never been attacked given the way they were running around. They were on a merchant ship. It had to have been hit before. She could see the Captain trying to restore order, but he was having little to no success. The crew was just too panicked. People were falling over the top of each other and the helmsman had worse problems to deal with. Without the steam from the boiler, the ship was falling. The whole thing was twisting and turning in a free fall as if the helmsman had no clue what he was supposed to do.

  What she really wanted to do was find Tobias and make sure he didn’t get himself killed. If he died, her answers died with him. Unless she could get the merchant ship under control, though, it would be pointless to try to find him. They’d all be dead. The ship could land without its engines, but the helmsman and the crew had to work together. Pirate cannons firing at them wasn’t helping the situation either.