by Alex P. Berg
“You need her for something?”
“Not her necessarily,” said Steck. “But someone. And given your condition…”
I sat up to a forty-five degree angle. Miraculously, my head didn’t complain. Much. “What’s going on?”
“Remember how you asked me to trail Wanda?”
I nodded and winced. My head was far from perfect, apparently.
“I followed her after the end of the poker game,” said Steck. “She headed into the engine room.”
“The engine room?” I said. “What would she be doing—no, scratch that. I need to take my own advice about stupid questions. You’re sure she went in there?”
“Absolutely,” said Steck. “I followed her down five flights of stairs and saw her enter with my own two eyes.”
“And then what?” I asked.
“What do you mean, then what? I ran back up here as fast as I could to tell you.”
I wanted to slap my forehead, but I was smart enough not to. “Let me guess, Steck. You don’t have a whole lot of experience tailing people.”
“You…think I should’ve followed her in?”
“Don’t get me wrong,” I said. “I’m glad to know she was headed somewhere suspicious, but next time I tell you to follow someone, please do so until they actually commit a crime or meet with another party.”
I sat up the rest of the way and ripped the cloth from my head. “You said you ran up here?”
Steck nodded. His breath had slowed, but it still gave credence to his claims.
I stood, wincing. “Good. If we hurry, we might be able to find out what she’s doing down there.”
“But…what about the drugs in your system?” said Steck. “And Steele?”
“I’ve taken down a herd of doped-up dwarves while mildly concussed. I think I can handle a dose of roofies. And as for Steele? Well, hopefully she won’t be too angry with me, but that’s my battle to fight, not yours. Still…got a pencil?”
The vice cop turned porter patted his pockets. “I’m not sure. What for?”
“Really, Steck? Again with the stupid questions?”
His cheeks reddened, but it wasn’t my fault he kept asking things with obvious answers.
“Never mind,” I said. “I think there’s a fountain pen and pad in the living room. Let’s hoof it.”
28
Though a single bulkhead door separated the Prodigious’s second most lower level from her engine room, it felt like much more than that. The portal transported me from a clean, well lit hallway into a dark cave reminiscent of a preacher’s promise for the eternal damnation of sinners. A crashing wave of damp heat rolled into me, bringing with it scents of sulfur and soot and engine grease. A din enveloped me—the pounding of iron on steel, the push and clank and screech of pistons and crankshafts, and the distant shouts of burly men, all set over the constant roar of flames.
I blinked in the shadowy expanse, amazed at how a space filled with the blaze of coal briquettes could be so dim, even though I already knew the answer. The fires need be contained, funneled toward the boilers to create the heat and pressure needed to drive the ship’s engines. As my eyes adjusted, I made out the huge drums that held the bitumen, dotted with hundreds of rivets already blackened by coal dust.
Sweat beaded over my face, and I longed for the cool cloth Shay had laid over my forehead, but if I knew anything about humidity, the cloth wouldn’t work the same way in the boiler room’s swampy embrace. My head pounded, made worse by the cacophony of enormous, moving engine parts and rageful death cries of the ship’s fuel, but at least I could walk straight and remember things for longer than a goldfish could.
I turned to Steck, shouting over the noise. “You say you saw Wanda come in through here. Any idea where she might’ve gone?”
He shook his head. “I never followed her in. As soon as she disappeared through the door, I made my way to your chamber.”
My eyes continued to adjust, bringing to life more of the details in the engine room: huge carts of pitch black coal, thick spools of braided wire and heavy chains, and hazy clouds of steam seeping through connecting pipes from boiler units large enough to live in. I also spotted a pair of stokers, one as bald as an egg and the other with a pompadour, seemingly held in place by nothing more than engine grease. Both wore plain white undershirts over canvas pants, though the shirts had been turned a murky shade of gray by the environs.
They spotted Steck and I before we did they.
The bald one shouted at us and mounted the bare metal stairs leading toward us from the engine room floor. “Oi! What’cha be doin’ here? This ain’t no place for dandies such’as yerself. And what ya be doin’ bringing ‘im here? Don’tcha know better?” He shot a thick, coal-darkened finger at Steck as he said that last part.
I didn’t have time to play games. “You seen a woman come in here? Dark hair, dark clothes, dark glasses?”
The greaser joined his pal Baldy on the stairs and elbowed him in the ribs. “See? Told you I wasn’t crazy.”
“You saw her?” I asked.
The greaser nodded. “Maybe five, ten minutes ago. Harry here thought she was a shadow. I said she wasn’t. We had ourselves a spat about that.”
I suppressed a chuckle. Of course the egghead’s name was Harry.
“You’s a loon, you is,” said Baldy. “Maybe’s y’all are. T’aint no woman prowlin’ ‘bout the boilers. T’aint nobody else, neither, no matter how many times ya stamp and spit during the spat.”
“Somebody else?” I said.
“More shadows,” said Baldy. “T’aint nothin’ but that. And don’t let ’im fool ya into thinkin’ otherwise.”
“I’m telling you I saw someone else,” said the greaser. “At least…I think I did.”
I glanced at Steck. “Sounds like Wanda’s meeting someone down here.” Then, to the stokers: “Any chance you saw where this woman, or that shadow that most definitely wasn’t a person, were heading?”
“Well, what sorta stupid question is ‘at, now, mate? Askin’ done we seen where a shadow done run off ta?”
“To be fair, we’re both in a bit of a stupid question funk,” I said.
Baldy narrowed an eye, the coal dust caked against his face cracking from the effort. “Who’d ya say the pair of ya was? And what’cha want with a pair of humble stokers here in the ship’s taint, by the by?”
“I could tell you,” I said, “but it would take too long to fetch Boatswain Olaugh to prove it to you. Suffice it to say we need to find those two shadows. Steck, let’s split up. Head to the right. You can take Bald—er, Harry with you. I’ll head left. You, with the pompadour. Stay here and keep an eye on that door. If the woman or the shadow come back, I’ll want to know.”
Steck eyed me dubiously. “You sure about this?”
About not having to endure Baldy’s charming, low country dialect and having to explain to Wanda what I was doing in the man’s company when and if I found her? Of course I was. “Trust me, I’ll be fine. I can handle myself. Now go. We don’t have much time. Probably.”
I didn’t wait for Baldy to tell me why I couldn’t delve into the engine room, heading off into the depths all while hoping Steck could handle the mess I left in my wake. I wove back and forth between huge pieces of machinery and boilers that radiated heat into my face, trying to formulate a plan of action for finding Wanda and coming up with nothing.
To some extent, it made sense she’d descend into the Prodigious’s bottommost pit for a clandestine meeting, assuming she wanted one. The constant break-ins of Shay’s and my room gave credence to the idea that everyone in the poker tournament was spying on everyone else—although I was fairly sure at least one of the intrusions into my room had been by Wanda herself. Either way, the darkness and noise of the engine room made eavesdropping nearly impossible.
Unfortunately, it did the same for tailing, or for finding subjects who’d been lost due to a vice cop’
s misinterpretation of orders. The most I could do was head into the engine room’s deepest shadows and hope for the best.
Sweat poured down my face as I popped between patches of orangey-yellow coal-fired glow to darkness and back. My shirt stuck to my chest like glue, and I considered ditching my coat on an unattended coal bin. After another minute and a pint of perspiration lost, I did more than consider it. After all, the coal dust had likely ruined it, and weren’t the clothes mine to do with as I pleased?
As I peeled the garment from my damp sleeves, I spotted a hint of motion behind a steam expansion cylinder twice my height. Something dark. Probably not another stoker. Those blokes were smart enough to wear short sleeves, and in white to make themselves more visible.
I tossed my jacket to the side and followed the movement, not sure if it had been Wanda but figuring there couldn’t be too many other interlopers in the dark, cavernous space. Of course, it could’ve been a piston or a flywheel or any number of other inanimate components, but given the size of the ship those all moved glacially, and the movement I’d seen had been sharp.
I turned the corner and blinked. It was dark as night behind the piston chamber—darker even, given the absence of stars—but a bit quieter than near any of the open furnaces or next to a giant rotating crankshaft.
“Hello?” My voice came across clear in my ears, though muffled by the ever present background roar. I squinted, searching the darkness for any evidence of milky skin not covered by a black turtleneck and shades. Could that be why she wore the glasses? To prepare herself for a predetermined spelunking expedition into the ship’s underbelly? It seemed a rather elaborate ruse just to give her an edge for whatever meeting she must’ve planned here.
I heard a whistle, like that of a blade cutting through air, and dropped instinctively. Something clanged into the cylinder behind me, followed by a grunt. Not a feminine one.
I kicked out a leg and made contact with something meaty. Another grunt followed, as well as a whoosh of air. A shadow blotted out what little light reflected off the edge of the engine compartments before crashing into me, knocking the breath from my lungs.
A powerful smell of liquor rolled off my assailant, mixed with a stale sweat stench and a hint of something sour. Hands grappled at my face and arms, hands I couldn’t clearly see but that felt large and strong and rough. One tried to hold me in place while the other pulled back.
I mustered my strength and rolled to the side, hoping to avoid the blow I expected if not saw. The figure above me grunted again, and I felt their weight release from my ribs. A clang sounded, maybe that of a head or an elbow ricocheting off the nearby metal cylinder.
I sucked in air to appease the burning in my lungs and called out for help. “Steck! Steck!”
Another thump from near the cylinder. I rolled in the opposite direction, then cast my hand about the floor for a weapon. Anything hard that could cause damage to a skull. Nothing.
Footsteps towards me. Could my assailant see better than me? I crouched low and braced myself.
Knees smacked into me, rattling my skull and sending shooting pains lancing into my brain, but I held on, pushing and twisting at the same time. My assailant tipped and fell, crashing to the floor. Their cry was accompanied by a resounding metal clatter, the banging and bouncing of at least a dozen reverberating poles. Rebar, perhaps.
A glimmer caught my eye, and my hand found it. The cool metal fit easily into my hand just as Daisy’s would’ve if I’d been smart enough to bring her along, but the bar’s balance was off. It was too heavy, and it torqued on my hands, probably due to its length.
Somewhere in the distance I heard a shout, and I called back. “Steck! Here!”
Another clang sounded to my left. I turned and swung, missing everything. I twirled like a top.
The shadow in front of me drifted to the right, and I heard another footstep. I swung again.
This time my aim sailed true. The bar impacted at chest level with a meaty whump, sending a vibrating jostle through my hands. My mystery attacker yelped—a pierced cry of pain that could’ve stemmed from any number of voice boxes.
More cries. Nearby now. I could make out the words. “Waters? Waters!”
The yelp trailed off into a whimper, and I heard a rapid patter of heavy feet.
“Hey! Wait!” I called, but my voice rasped and didn’t carry. Coal dust choked my lungs, which burned fiercely, to say nothing of the rhythmic, lingering thumping that coursed through the blood vessels in my head.
Steck’s voice drifted over clearly now. “Waters? Where are you?”
I stumbled toward his voice and the light—meager though it was, it seemed bright against the pitch black of the corner tucked away behind the piston chamber walls.
Steck materialized through the edge of the darkness, the side of his face lit in dim oranges and yellows. Baldy and another stoker, wide-necked and swarthy, stuck to his back like glue.
“Good gods, man,” said Steck as he laid eyes on me. “What in the world happened?”
I felt the weight of the iron bar in my hand, its patterned edge biting into my skin. I dropped it with a clatter. “That bad, is it?”
“You’re covered in sweat and coal dust, your shirt is torn, and…is that a welt on the side of your face?”
“Probably from the flying knee,” I said.
Steck’s eyebrows furrowed.
“I was attacked,” I said. “As if that wasn’t obvious from my screaming.”
“Who?” asked Steck. “Wanda?”
I started to shake my head, then stopped as needles poked through my eyeballs. I winced and leaned over, resting my elbows on my knees. “No. Someone big. Strong. Soaked in booze. Didn’t say a word, and I didn’t get a good look at them. It’s dark back there. They knew that. I thought I was following them. Guess I was wrong.”
Steck stepped over to my side and lay a hand on my shoulder. He lowered his voice so only I could hear it. “Daggers…are you doing alright?”
“My head feels like it’s going to burst,” I said through clenched teeth. “Turns out working yourself into a lather and taking a knee to the noggin isn’t much fun when you’re still half doped up on goofy pills.”
“We need to get you back to the room,” said Steck. “Harry. Give me a hand, will you?”
Baldy took a step forward, and I lifted my hand, ready to argue that what we really needed was to go after the mystery assailant, but did we? Really? Whoever it was had melted into the shadows and run off. The engine room was cavernous, not to mention dark as a mineshaft and ten times as loud. My attacker had done their homework. Chances were they’d scouted the rest of the engine room as well, and without being spotted by the stokers all the while. What chance did I have of finding them, all while nursing a drug hangover and a probable mild concussion?
Baldy extended a hand, and I took it, pulling myself upright. “You’re right. Let’s get to the room, before anything else happens to my poor brain.”
29
Steck helped me back to my quarters, lingering in the living area as I headed into my bathroom. It wasn’t until I’d guzzled another two glasses of water, washed my face, combed my hair, and gotten halfway through changing my shirt that it hit me.
Shay hadn’t returned.
I popped the last couple buttons into place, tucked the shirt tails into my slacks, and headed back into the living room. There, I found the note I’d penned for Shay exactly where I’d left it. I glanced at the grandfather clock.
“Steck,” I said. “Where’s the ship medic’s office?”
“What?” He blinked. “Why? Have you taken a turn for the worse?”
“Think, Steck. Shay went there. Where is it?”
“Oh. I, uh…let’s see. On the B deck. Toward the front, near the bridge.”
I did some mental math. Given how long it should’ve taken Shay to get there and back and my own time spent in the engine room, Shay should’ve re
turned a good ten or fifteen minutes ago, at least.
I turned toward the front door. “Let’s go.”
“You can’t be serious, Daggers. You need rest. If Steele were here…”
Steck trailed off as he noticed the look on my face.
“Right,” he said. “I’ll lead the way.”
We took the most direct route from my stateroom, passing through the bulk of the promenade deck, past the mixer lounge, and down a flight of stairs. There, toward the ship’s prow, we found an open bulkhead door with the word ‘MEDIC’ printed above the molding in bright red.
I stepped inside to a small room with walls of pristine white. A pair of examination tables with white padded cushions and chromed legs populated the space, as did a couple more traditional hospital beds, each dressed in white linens and with the privacy screens drawn back. They were all empty, but the desk at the front of the room wasn’t. Zander sat there, facing the wall. He tapped a pencil against a sheaf of papers—a stack of reports by their appearance—but he turned at the sound of us.
Zander leaned back and tugged on one of his beard braids. “Oh. It’s you, again. I sincerely hope you didn’t come to have me revisit the events of last night. Once was enough, thank you very much.”
“Where’s Samantha?” I asked.
“Pardon?”
“You know. My partner. Steele. She was here not ten or fifteen minutes ago. Where is she?”
“Oh. Her.” Zander pointed his pencil at the doorway lazily. “Well, the last person through that door was a woman by the name of—well, for patient confidentiality purposes I can’t say, but she was suffering severe indigestion for eating too many shrimp at the ship’s buffet. That was well over an hour ago.”
I glanced at Steck.
“Why do you ask?” said Zander. “Is there…a problem?”
“You’ve just been enlisted,” I told the dwarf. “I’ll need you to work down the port side of the ship. Steck, you can take the starboard side. I’ll go back through the middle.”
“Daggers, I can understand your concern,” said Steck, “but are you sure a full blown manhunt is necessary?”