by C. B. Ash
John looked back the way they had come. The Fomorian that had been chasing them was getting to his feet, blood oozing from the wound in its thigh. Angrily, he grasped the handrail with both hands, deforming it further. Clark glanced over the side of the catwalk, and smirked.
“Only got one idea,” Clark exclaimed over the noise, looking over his shoulder at Hunter, “you won’t like it!” John pointed over the side of the catwalk.
Hunter fired again at the Fomorian blocking their way as he scrambled over the handrail. The bullet slammed into the giant’s arm, cutting a nasty furrow. Grabbing his new wound, the sandy-haired ape-like beast stumbled sideways, hissing from the pain. Hunter looked at Clark.
“Are you mad?” Anthony exclaimed over the hum of the propellers.
“Not enough that it counts, eh?” Clark called back with a lopsided grin. “Trust me; it’s the only way we’ve got. We’ll never take these two buggers with only a couple of pistols.”
Hunter glanced in both directions along the catwalk. The Fomorian behind them flexed, finally ripping away a four foot section of handrail. Without pause, he slung it at the two men. Hunter tackled Clark as the metal pipe screamed by, barely missing their heads! Swearing loudly, the giant lunged at another section of pipe, twisting it as before, and jerking it free.
In the other direction, their other problem pulled the revolver from his holster. As the Fomorian’s hands were too large to use the weapon, he turned it around to use it as a makeshift billy club.
“We’ll be killed!” Hunter snapped, taking aim and firing behind them. The giant winced, then grinned nastily as the shot screamed harmlessly by. Hunter swore under his breath.
Clark clapped Hunter on the shoulder and leaned close, “trust me!”
Anthony dropped his revolver into his holster, quickly stepping over to the rail. Understanding what the two captains were about to do, the Fomorians broke into a charge.
“Ready?” Clark asked with a grin, climbing over the handrail as the two giants ran closer, the catwalk rumbling from their weight.
“No,” Hunter replied, perching on the edge of the rail next to Clark. Anthony looked below him. Cables and at least two wide metal beams were strung between the catwalks and the inner walls. The metal bridge vibrated visibly as the Fomorians approached, seconds away.
“Good!”, John said with a laugh, and immediately dove over the side. Hunter, followed just as the Fomorian with the bent section of handrail threw himself forward, clawing the air where they had been. Metal shook as the giant slammed against the bridge, his fingers just missing the edge of Hunter’s leg!
In the blink of an eye, they sailed out until the wind caught them, jerking them downward like a fish caught on a line. The giant propeller loomed closer every second as they tumbled through a latticework of steel and wooden supports.
Suddenly, Hunter slammed into one of the metal support lines, folding around it as the impact hammered the wind out of his chest. Gasping for breath, he clutched at it desperately like a drowning man to a piece of flotsam. Anthony looked around, desperate for a handhold. He knew, if he could just grab onto anything, he could get his breath then slowly climb to safety. At that moment, the captain considered a fight with the Fomorians preferable to falling to his death.
His cold fingers lost purchase on the cable, slipping on the ice-slick metal. In a silent panic, Hunter fell away, plunging further downward towards the propellers. He rebounded off another cable, then another, until finally he landed several yards above the main propellers. He glanced around, his mind struggling with the realization that he was alive!
Captain Hunter lay on his back, gasping desperately for air, facing up at the distant network of catwalks forty feet above. He lay on a net which was stretched out like a giant spider web strung between the walls and well below the catwalks, but above the propellers.
“Bloody damn lunatic!” Hunter yelled over the loud hum as his new bruises, striped across his chest, throbbed angrily in time with his sore shoulder. He winced as he won the battle to turn over on the net and get his feet, or at least his knees, under him.
Clark quickly crawled over and leaned close to be heard. He grinned, “you really think they’d let any ol’ bugger leg around in here without somethin’ to keep ’em alive?”
Hunter glanced up at the catwalks far above. The two giants were swearing aloud, shaking their fists; however the rush of wind muted their actual words. After a moment, one threw the twisted pipe in desperate frustration, missing horribly.
“Well, we’d best leg it before those buggers up there realize the net will hold them, too,” Clark said, before climbing away over the net.
Captain Hunter set his mouth in a hard line, and then tapped Clark on the arm. The scarred man turned with a quizzical look on his face, just before Hunter slammed a hard right fist into Clark’s stomach! John’s eyes bulged as he doubled over, gasping for air.
“What the bloody hell?” Clark wheezed, trying to yell over the hum of the propellers. “All right, I might’a deserved the poke in the jaw earlier, but what was this one for?”
Hunter frowned, unable to fully hear Clark’s comment, though he suspected he correctly interpreted the meaning. Reaching over he snatched the man up by the lapel of his coat and yanked him close so he could hear every word over the machinery.
“That’s for trying to kill me,” Hunter replied angrily, ”twice now, as a matter of record! I understand your push to save your son, and I will help you as much as I can. However, Sirrah, I can’t do that if you try and murder me in the process, or get yourself butchered by whatever cog-forsaken machinery you encounter!”
John grimaced, turned his head to cough, then took a deep breath. “Bloody hell, I was tryin’ ta save your stodgy hide! I said that before!”
Captain Hunter glanced up at the catwalks. Above, the Fomorians had run for the door at the far end, and were fighting with the turn wheel to unlock it. Anthony gave Clark a stern look, then glanced around for a way off the safety net. “Oh, indeed you have. It’s the ‘how’ that leaves me curious, as does just where in the bloody hell we’re going!”
The scarred captain glanced up as well, watching the creatures as they wrestled with the steel door. The pair finally yanked the door open and rushed inside. Clark chuckled, which ended in a dry cough. He pointed at a worn, weather-beaten steam vent in the wall of the chimney twenty feet away. “We’re headin’ that way,” he said over the ever-present hum, “that big steam vent. It’s wobbly on the right side. It’ll open like a door.”
“Brilliant,” Hunter replied with a hard sigh, letting go of Clark before he started to scale his way towards the steam vent. “Now, if you don’t mind, just what did you think you were trying to accomplish in the close earlier?”
“What?” Clark called out, cupping a hand to his ear.
Hunter turned, realizing that the man could not hear him. He pointed to the steam vent away as if to say ‘hurry’. Clark coughed again, and nodded. Once at the vent, Hunter leaned in while Black Jack looked for a spot on the vent to pull on.
“Before, I was asking just what did you think you were trying to accomplish in the close earlier?” Hunter said, making himself heard over the propeller’s hum.
“I thought if I had them believe that I croaked you, they’d give us a rest,” Clark admitted with a disgruntled tone while his fingers probed the edge of the vent.
Hunter stared at Clark with a mix of amazement and disbelief. “You were aware that they were chasing you at the time? If they were chasing you, why would faking my death do anything but encourage them to murder you where you stood?”
“Yea, I was aware of it at the time,” Clark snapped in reply. “Just didn’t think it all through.” The man’s fingers stopped on a small raised section of the curved metal of the circular vent. He tugged and the vent popped open. He turned with a smile of satisfaction towards Hunter.
Hunter stared back with an exasperated, stern look; one the captain often use
d when he was expecting a longer reply, or a better explanation.
Black Jack’s smile faded to a sour, irritated expression. He wiped his dirty hands on his coat. “Oi! I was under a pressure,” he grumbled, “I didn’t look at it that way. Let’s just get out of all this; them propellers are giving me a headache.”
“Agreed,” Hunter replied with a slight shake of his head and a glance skyward towards the now bent catwalks.
Chapter 27
Steam issued through the ten feet of dark rusted pipe like a river of swirling mist. It rose along the curved walls, desperately reaching for the ceiling but never quite touching it. As it exhausted its reach, it sank back down, as if with an unheard sigh of resignation.
John Clark stepped in a small puddle of water as he walked through the thick steam and continued towards a tall, soot-smudged vent ten yards ahead. Behind him, Anthony Hunter followed, coat unbuttoned, his hand resting lightly on the end of his revolver.
“This is the way to the market?” Hunter asked. "The front entrance, I mean."
John smirked, “not the main one. Just one I’ll take when I find the need for it. It comes out behind a row of booths. No one will be the wiser... not that anyone would ask.”
Hunter frowned slightly, uncomfortable by the implication, but refrained from comment.
Once they reached the steam vent, Clark searched the edge of the tall dark, shuttered opening with his fingers. The dim light from electric arc lanterns filtered in through the partially open slats of the vent. After a few minutes John smiled as he located a metal latch.
“Aha,” he said with a small grin, “I knew it was here. Just had to suss out where. Hard to see in this gloom.”
"Next time I'll be certain to pack a lantern," Hunter grumbled.
Ignoring the comment, Clark flipped the hidden catch and pushed open the slats. Warm steam rushed out of the vent opening, replaced with a wave of sounds and smells.
"Welcome to Market Square," Captain John Clark said with another impish grin.
Through the rolling knots of steam, a great collection of narrow canvas tents appeared. Jammed together in one of the larger corridors that wound beneath the station, they filled the hallway with a claustrophobic set of colors and shapes. Overhead, brightly colored fabric was strung along the ceiling in an effort to mask the bare, soot-stained metal. Faded blues, greens and reds topped the eclectic scene.
Underneath the wash of colored canvas, knots of patrons milled about between various booths and shops of all kinds. Station crew, sailors of all persuasions, butchers, brewers, and all manner of merchants jostled along in an ever changing river of people. Hunter walked to the edge of the activity that drifted between the tightly packed booths like clumps of cattle in a market. He inhaled as the scent of cooking meat and baking bread mingled with the steam clouds that floated among the passers-by like spectral patrons.
"Brilliant," Captain Hunter said in amazement as he took in the new surroundings. "Simply, a brilliant use of space. This is not exactly what I expected, in the least. One would never know from outside this is even here.”
Clark shut the steam vent behind them, then joined Anthony. "Amazin' what a spot of ingenuity will do when a group puts their mind to settin’ up a shanty town. Hard to remember this is a few miles up and in the steel and wooden belly of a relay station.”
"Indeed," the captain replied, his eyes still wandering the canvas tarp booths. “Given what I had been told, I expected back room dealings in boiler rooms. I was not expecting a full trading port.” Hunter glanced around again, “which begs the question, why is this so crowded?”
John glanced around and shrugged. “No tariffs on the goods, or at least low ones. The buggers you see here either live on the station, or pass through regular. Some here set up their shingle cause they can’t get space above to sell their wares. Others? It’s just plain warmer.”
“What about the dock master and his men?” the captain asked. “Her Majesty’s Coast Guardsmen?”
Clark waved a dismissive hand, “They don’t pay the ‘Square much mind, especially since they’ve limited authority here on Port Signal. There’s plenty going on, what with kidnappings and the odd passenger getting themselves lost above. There’s a mass on the Boardwalk above for those airships traveling through. But if you’ve an eye for cargo? Well, here’s where you’ll want to do business.”
Anthony shook his head, “a full trading port and marketplace,” he said with a faint smile crossing his face.
Black Jack clapped Hunter on the shoulder with a grin. “Aye, a full tradin’ port to hide what I been collectin’. One of me better ideas.”
“Here?” Anthony said in surprise.
“Oi! Not right here, but down further in,” John replied throwing his arms open with an exasperated gesture. “You think me that balmy to hide it in a boarding house, or even aboard the Revenge? They search me things aboard the Revenge. They’d have found it as quick as lightning.”
The other captain considered that, giving Black Jack a thoughtful look. “Fair enough, I see your point. If it’s hidden here among all this, just where is it?”
“This way,” Black Jack replied, pointing ahead of him towards the crowds.
Captain Hunter caught John by the arm as the man started to walk ahead. “Hold. What about the Fomorians?” Hunter asked, “we need to watch ourselves. If they realize we’re here, they’ll tear through this place like a storm, putting all and sundry in danger.”
Black Jack pulled his arm free, and gave a small shake of his head. “You got it all wrong. Those Fomorians may be as mad as a bag of ferrets, and far more balmy than me, but they’re not stupid. They know they need money to carry on about like they do. So, they won’t come tearin’ through here like a firestorm.”
Hunter looked out over the crowd. It was busy with people, but not filled to bursting. With the cloth draped overhead, it easily passed for any open air marketplace. It made a kind of sense to the captain. Despite whatever these Fomorians were about, they were pirates and thieves. They needed to sell their goods somewhere to pay for supplies and repairs.
The captain watched a man hurrying by, carrying several bolts of a sky blue cloth. “So, what you’re saying is: it would be a knife in the back, then?”
The scarred captain pursed his lips a moment, hesitating before he answered, “aye, it might.” A worried frown crossed John’s face a moment as he motioned for Anthony to follow him. “We’ll just have to step lively then, and keep an eye peeled. I kept what all I’ve collected about the Fomorians down this way, past the pub.”
The pair slipped into the knots of people, walking along the curved hallway lined with booth upon tarp-covered booth. Products of all kinds passed through here from exotic spices, Persian carpets, and exotic animals to the more domestic Scottish Highland wool, rum or other types of liquor.
However, not all booths were devoted to selling illicit goods. Some were merely a counter in front of a stove, where the cook would baked various pies or meats for sale. Also, not all of the shops were contained along the hallway. At certain locations, the hidden market spread its tendrils into what looked to be wide, and long-forgotten storage rooms for the station. There the more profitable merchants, including a pub, had set up an establishment.
The result was a symphony of sound, sights and smells, all of which were muffled and disguised from the rest of the station by the hammering of steam pistons above and the steady humming of giant propellers nearby. A few yards into their walk, Hunter tapped John on the arm.
“Two men, who look to be station engineers, seem to have taken a keen interest in the way we’re going,” Hunter said just loud enough for his companion to hear.
“One a tall sprout, with a gray peacoat and blue knit cap, next to another with a blue canvas duster with a nasty burn scar along his left cheek?” John asked as he continued to walk forward.
“Quite,” Hunter replied curtly.
“Aye, saw ’em a moment ago,” the scarre
d captain replied. “Can’t say as I know ’em, though that means nothing.” Black Jack nodded towards the makeshift entrance to the pub ahead of them. “No matter. We’ll be stoppin’ on the other side of the pub doors. We’ll be in plain sight, so we’ll have plenty of warnin’ if they come in for a fight.”
The two men slowed, then walked to the far side of the pub doors. The pub, named the Mermaids’ Nose had its fair share of patrons. Most were sailors, but here and there Captain Hunter recognized the coveralls of a station crew member. Anthony leaned against the doorframe - which was, in truth, one of two ship’s figureheads shaped like mermaids - folded his arms and watched the crowd.
Something about this, beyond the fact they were hunted by the most bizarre pirates Captain Hunter had ever dreamed of, left the captain feeling unsettled. It was not the Fomorians, or their elixir, that rattled him – though the elixir and its effects did give him pause – it was the idea that there were apparently so many Fomorians. Especially, if one took census of how many might be among the inhabitants of Port Signal.
Hunter carefully watched the patrons moving about the marketplace. He had lost the two men a moment ago, but an uncomfortable feeling told him that they were nearby. Suddenly, he spied his targets. The two men, one in a gray peacoat and the other with the burnt face, had just walked into view. Anthony watched as they strolled along, seemingly a pair of sailors on leave from their ship.
The captain noticed that the man with the scarred face did quickly glance in their direction twice. The second time, he whispered something to his companion before they hurried past the pub for some unknown destination. Captain Hunter rested a free hand on the grip of his pistol as he watched them leave. He had experienced what Fomorians could do and was not eager to give them any chances in their favor if they sought another fight.