Dead Air

by Ash, C. B.

  "Right knotted captain ya got there." The Pony Express rider commented with a low whistle.

  Krumer glanced over the distress message then back in Hunter's direction as the captain disappeared through a door. "Captain Hunter and Adonia share some of a past."

  "Now that sounds right morbid, if I do say so."

  Krumer chuckled and folded the message. "A relationship, however short, can occasionally be so. If you would before you leave, we'll need those coordinates of the relay."

  "Sure enough then. Just s'long as I'm not havin' to go."

  Chapter 3

  A few hours passed before the Griffin crossed over the edge of the Hohes Venn, which was known in English as the High Fens. It was was a modest-sized area comprised of rich, thick forests and swampy moorland occupying the eastern portion of Belgium. Jim had described it as a rain-swept region, often covered with dark gray clouds stacked high one atop the other. These sat angrily above the fens, drawn into a knotted storm front. Combined with sporadic bursts of chilled winds in between a torrent of rain in summer and deep snow in winter, it was foreboding at best to visit.

  Gray mist broke against the prow of the Brass Griffin while the ship cut through the dark clouds above the fens. A light rain washed against the deck and ran down in thin sheets along the ship's sides. Below, between the ship and the bottom-most layer of clouds, lightning rolled and danced in the gray darkness. Farther down from that, rain fell in torrents onto the moors and forests below.

  Hunter walked out of the doorway from the officers' cabins and adjusted his long coat against the thick mist in the air. With a brief nod of greeting to a passing crew member, he crossed the deck towards the starboard of the vessel where Krumer stood peering into the wall of storm clouds.

  "Any sign?" The captain asked curiously.

  "Aye. She just came into view." Krumer pointed to a break in the thunderclouds.

  Nestled three miles above ground among the storm clouds and floating amid the wind was the High Fens Relay Station. Four rigid-frame weathered gas bags, each 400 feet in length, held aloft a large platform that was shaped as a wide circle. Off the circle were numerous stubby piers thrust outward like spokes from a wheel. These were the docking areas for visiting airships delivering food or repair materials to the station's maintenance crews, or for docking space for airships needing a temporary safe haven to wait out a storm or make repairs.

  Beyond the docks stood a handful of weather-beaten two-story warehouses, a small building for a dock master and the five story, main building of the relay itself. All of the buildings were wood-framed structures that had lightweight walls of Douglas Fir and sealed plaster. Some were even layered in thin sheets of copper or aluminum for some added protection against hail or bullets. This had obviously been needed at some time in the past, given the few dents in the metal that could be seen even at a distance.

  On all the buildings, a dozen or more lightning rods projected upward to occasionally harvest the stray bolt of lightning for the station's batteries. In the middle of the entire structure stood a collection of four, one-story tall turbines that channeled air through the top and out below the station. This, along with a series of smaller propellers spaced along the underside, helped to steady the entire assemblage.

  Hunter squinted at the station, then frowned in thought. "Odd."

  Krumer looked over at the captain. "What is?"

  "That." Hunter pointed towards the station. "These are the correct coordinates?"

  "Aye, As correct as I can make them."

  "Where is everyone then?" Hunter asked aloud. "We're within view, yet we've not been challenged as to our purpose here. There should be dock crews at least milling about. I see no one." Then as an afterthought he added, "Adonia, what have you gotten yourself into?"

  Krumer chuckled. "Or what has she done?"

  The captain gave his first mate a wry glance. "Indeed."

  Over by the main mast, William dropped a coil of newly repaired rope next to a storage box. "If'n ya ask me, looks as quiet as a tomb."

  "Hm, morose choice of words, William." Krumer replied.

  "Although accurate." Hunter interjected. "Something's amiss. William, stow that rope and open the opti-telegraphic. See if anyone is awake over there."

  "Aye, Cap'n." William quickly finished storing the rope in the wooden box and raced off to the meeting room that adjoined the officer cabins where the opti-telegraphic was stored.

  "If there is a soul about, they should reply." The captain paused a moment then looked up towards the ship's wheel. "Mr. Tonks." He said almost casually but firmly.

  "Cap'n?" Came the reply from above.

  "Bring us around. It would behoove us to check the entire station before jumping to conclusions. It's not like we can see through the station itself." Hunter explained.

  Tonks inclined his head in a small nod then pulled the wheel to his right. "Aye, Cap'n, comin' around."

  Only the creak of rigging accompanied the turn, as the Brass Griffin put her port side to the station and caught the fast moving winds above the fens. The crew, overcome with the dark mood of the storm clouds and the stillness of the station nearby, spoke in whispers if they said much at all.

  At the crest of the turn, whispers became a low rumble of quiet voices that ran the length of the ship. There, on the far side, an airship listed to its starboard side against one of the many open docks. The ship was a schooner, but a larger one than the Griffin. Instead of the 85 feet of the Brass Griffin's length, this was easily 120 feet from end to end. Her prow was more refined, having a clipper shape, able to cut through water and wind more easily than the usual prow of airship schooners. The gas bag was a semi-rigid frame, with the bag pulled out enough to visibly cause a flatter shape, which reduced wind resistance. It was the shape more favored by merchant marines, privateers, pirates and smugglers.

  Drawing the most comments were the charred hole that had been blasted in her side and the peppering of black holes in her gas bag. The damage was extensive, but not quite enough to have sent the airship crashing to the ground. Instead, her partially inflated gas bag and the tethers between the ship and the dock had helped keep the craft aloft instead of drifting earthward.

  "There's a soberin' sight eh, Cap'n?" Tonks asked while he turned the wheel to steady the Griffin from her turn.

  "Indeed." Captain Hunter paused, a dark look obscuring his face momentarily. "I'm liking this less all the time. Tonks?"

  "Aye?"

  "Take her in." Hunter ordered.

  "Aye, Cap'n." Tonks turned the wheel slightly, then reached for the controls to slowly ease some of the pressure from the gas bag above. "Prepare ta dock!" He shouted. The cry was repeated twice while crew rushed about to help manage the Griffin's approach to a berth next to the one with the ruined airship.

  Krumer leaned on the railing, his eyes still on the burnt out airship. "Cap'n, is that wise? We don't know what did that."

  "I know. But William's yet to return with any news that the station replied to him, and still I see no one moving about the station docks when there should be." Hunter explained. "So, it seems to me, our only source of information is that wreck and the station itself."

  The orc looked back at the damaged airship while they approached. "Aye, Cap'n. Point taken."

  Carefully, the Griffin eased into the neighboring dock next to the damaged airship. Under normal circumstances, dock hands would be waiting to take the lines tossed over the side of the ship and tie them off to the pier. These were not normal circumstances. William tied himself off with a long rope for a tether, then scrambled over the side and jumped to the dock. Two other crew followed his example and landed beside him a moment after.

  With the ship tied off, the gangplank was lowered. A cool gust of wind played among the silent buildings and ruffled the gas bags overhead. Somewhere, deep within the station a lone bird cried out in a dim, mournful cry. The ruined sails and rigging on the damaged airship swayed lazily in the breeze, like ta
ttered ghosts standing watch on deck. In the distance, the deep rumble of thunder shook the air in an ominous undertone. In between, a deafening, dead silence would fall in the intervening moments.

  Hunter paused on the dock to look at the over-sized gas bags of the station above him. "Only the airship suffered damage. Nary a scratch upon the station itself."

  Krumer walked up beside Hunter. "We start with the ship then?"

  "Indeed. So far it seems the likely candidate for anything fresh, given the distress message only just arrived the other night. Take Moira, Thorias and O'Fallon with you."

  "Is O'Fallon up to it?" Krumer asked, referring to the brutal gunshot wounds O'Fallon suffered some few months back.

  "He's as recovered from his wounds as I am." Hunter replied. "Even though I daresay his wounds were graver than mine, he's been about his duties for some weeks now. Thorias gave him a mostly clean bill of health, with a few personal comments about rushing the healing process."

  Krumer laughed, "Which means according to any average doctor, O'Fallon's fine. Consider it done."

  "Very good. Oh and Krumer?"

  The orc paused in mid-walk. "Aye, Cap'n?"

  "Mind yourself. Whatever caused that," Hunter pointed to the gaping, burnt hole torn into the side of the other schooner, "is not someone or something to trifle with."

  "We'll be watchful, Anthony. Spirits willing."

  Chapter 4

  While the wind danced with the torn sails creating a ghostly waltz, the explorers from the Brass Griffin approached on the weathered wooden dock. At first, the wreck looked to be tilted towards her starboard side, where the lines kept her tied to the station. This was only partially correct. She did indeed tilt to starboard, but whatever caused that to happen had slammed her into the dock itself. Wooden railing and deck planks had met the dock and smashed together in an ugly mix of intertwined wreckage. The weight of the ship against the relay station itself kept the two together in a precarious embrace.

  At the edge of the damage, Conrad O'Fallon, the quartermaster of the Brass Griffin paused to survey the damage. He gave a low whistle of appreciation. O'Fallon was accustomed to many kinds of destruction, both in causing and receiving it. He tapped a broken spur of a mast that was embedded in the dock with a toe of his boot. A blackened, burnt section of wood fell away into a crumbled heap of soot.

  "What is it?" Krumer asked as he walked up. Moira Wycliffe and Dr. Thorias Llwellyn were not far behind. Near Thorias, Arcady, a Clockwork dragonfly, flew in a lazy, circular pattern while he took in the surrounding view.

  "She be takin' quite the beatin'." O'Fallon remarked in amazement while he stepped around the broken, burnt mast piece and over to a fractured gangplank.

  Krumer followed in quartermaster's footsteps. "That would explain the damage on the port side."

  O'Fallon shrugged. "Only a wee mite. With the docks bein' so close about, the attacker would be gettin' as good as they gave. Should be some sign of damage on the other dock we be tied ta."

  "And there was none." Krumer finished O'Fallon's explanation. "Curious." The first mate stopped at the plank that reached from the dock to the ruined ship's deck. "We'll cover more ground if we split up. Moira and Thorias, check the crew hammocks below decks. I'll make my way towards the officers' cabins. O'Fallon, head for the cargo holds and the ship's stores."

  "Och, the stores?" O'Fallon asked surprised.

  "If they abandoned ship, what they took might give us an idea of where they thought they'd be going." Krumer explained, then grinned. "Besides, you spend enough time raiding the date bread Ahmed cooks, I assumed you were our resident expert on ship's stores."

  His cheeks flushed as red as his topknot of hair momentarily before O'Fallon recovered his voice. "Ah, well. We need ta be crackin'. Daylight be a wastin'." Quickly, the quartermaster navigated the warped boarding plank and stepped onto the tilted deck. Chuckling, the others followed not far behind him.

  Once aboard, their laughter fell hollow against the dead air surrounding the wreck, fading off to nothing. The four paused to get their bearings and steel their resolve. None spoke at first, though they exchanged a knowing glance. Each felt the same, as if they had not only stepped into a graveyard, but stepped onto a fresh grave.

  "Shout if anyone finds anything." Were Krumer's parting words before he turned towards the ship's stern and the likely place for any officer cabins. Behind him, the others exchanged one more glance and set out on their own tasks.

  On most schooners, there was a small meeting or ante-room that connected the officers' cabins together. Situated below the quarterdeck, there was normally a small door with a short set of stairs that led directly to it. This ship's design was no different. There, to the left of a set of stairs up to the quarterdeck and ship's wheel, Krumer found a medium-sized door. The wood was weathered, stained and streaked with some kind of soot. The orc wondered if a fire had ravaged the deck, but found little sign of fire save the burnt masts, some rigging, the sails and this door. Even the stairs next to the door were untouched.

  He tried the handle but the door held fast. When the ship had tilted to starboard it must have done so rapidly, and in doing so, warped the frame just enough to hold the door closed. Krumer took a moment to examine the door frame and found two spots where the weather-beaten door was wedged the tightest. In this case it was just the top right and bottom left corners. He gripped the door handle again then put his weight behind the shove. With a snap, the door popped open, followed immediately by a groan of protest from the wood frame itself.

  Inside, the room was the very picture of a disaster. Boxes and papers were strewn from one wall to the other. Chairs were overturned and the sole table in the room had been tossed aside like some child's forgotten toy. Slowly, Krumer picked his way through the debris in the tilted room, occasionally stopping to lift the odd sheet of parchment or move aside a box in his path. Each time, he found nothing that shed any light on what had happened. On the far side of the room, Krumer reached down, and grasped the edge of the table to lift it back onto its feet. As soon as he did, he noticed the pile that had been hidden beneath it.

  "Well, hello there." He said aloud to himself, the table and the empty room. Beneath the table lay a collection of charts, typically used by the captain or his pilot to map their various routes. Most merchant ships, privateers and the like lived and died by those charts, as they contained information and notes about various trade routes, both lucrative and not. Most merchant marines or privateers would never leave such a valuable collection of paperwork behind.

  "But this time, they did." Krumer said with a quizzical tone. With great care, he lifted the papers off the floor and opened them on the table.

  The charts were well kept and covered in numerous route markings and coordinates for various ports in Belgium, France, England and beyond. Two things caught Krumer's attention among all of that. One was a curious set of coordinates in the margin of the chart that had nothing to indicate what route they belonged to. The other was a set of bloody hand prints that decorated one side of the map. He scanned the map closely and rechecked each marked route. Every one had a set of a corresponding coordinates marked with a letter in the margin. The coordinates in the corner were indeed marked differently. Instead of one letter, they were marked with 'VPC' and 'Stn'. From what he remembered of the Brass Griffin's charts, 'Stn' corresponded with the location of the High Fens Relay Station. The other, while it seemed familiar, he could not remember where he had seen it recently.

  Krumer sorted through the other maps. There were five in all, but nothing on them explained the letters 'VPC'. Though, on a map of Belgium he paused at a set four areas marked out over the High Fens.

  "So is that where you went? Or ideas of where to go? And why leave so quickly?" The orc asked the ship aloud in the silent room. When no answer came to mind, he sighed and rolled the maps together. He would show them to Tonks and Hunter and see if they had any ideas. The first mate turned back to the room and sea
rched for something to store the maps in, such as a map case.

  A brief search not far from where the table had been overturned uncovered not only a leather tube just the right size for the maps, but a trio of thin black daggers embedded in the wall at waist level. Krumer withdrew one from the wood. As long as the average person's hand, it was midnight black, needle thin and razor sharp. If the weight was any judge, the knife was meant for throwing or quick, precise cuts.

  "Assassin's blades," Krumer commented with a grunt to the dusty air. He turned the black blades over in the half-light and noticed the wet, sticky glint of nearly dried blood. "Recently used as well. But from whom and why?" He sighed. "I trust the others are having better luck than I."

  At that moment, O'Fallon dropped off the last step of the ladder and down into the ship's forward hold. Weak shafts of light filtered by dark clouds overhead spilled down the ladder. The light tossed long shadows among the scattered crates and canvas bags that were piled against the starboard side of the tilted hold. The quartermaster rubbed a hand against his bald head for a moment in exasperation. He looked around near the ladder until he found what he had hoped to find, a small hooded lantern. It was smaller than a normal lantern by a good three inches all over, had two small knobs just above the brass base and a cap over the lamp oil container. Carefully he opened the small metal cap and saw the dark glint of lamp oil inside. He replaced the cap then adjusted the rope wick with a turn using the first knob. With the second, and it took a few attempts before this worked, he caused the flint to hit a steel striker and cause a spark which lit the oily rope. Then he looked back to the pile of supplies.

  "Be no time like the present." With that, O'Fallon stepped forward and dug into his search. The first few canvas bags of animal feed were largely undamaged, save for several cuts and tears from the rough treatment of being tossed about the hold. The next layer, canvas bags of coffee beans, had torn. Beans had spilled from the bags to cover the crates underneath. O'Fallon carefully brushed aside the coffee beans until he could get what lay below.