Cogs in Time Anthology (The Steamworks Series) (16 page)

Chris returned to his seat. It was only a matter of time before Captain or crew ventured inside.

~*~*~*~*~

Thor burst into the tavern in a foul mood. The patrons quieted, turning to take him in for a moment before they burst into laughter. He ignored them and looked for a seat, choosing a table with a lone man absorbed in his scribbling—the quiet type that wouldn’t bother a troubled captain looking for a drink. The barkeep was too busy tinkering with a mechanical bird to pay attention. Several of the patrons were locked in a battle of chess, puffing away on carved wooden pipes.

“You know,” said the writing man without a glance, “I could fix your ship.”

Annoyed, Thor looked up at the only English speaker he’d come across since crashing three hours previous.

“If ya could fix mah ship, what are ya doin’ here?” he snapped. He sighed, shoulders sagging and head hanging low. “Where are we?”

“Szob, Hungary. And yes, I can fix your ship.” The young man was lanky, with messy, lye-bleached hair, dyed with ridiculous streaks of blue. His grin was warm and wholly irritating, and he had yet to look at Thor. Worst of all, the air around him was tinted in shades of blue and purple. Not only was he honest, he was a dreamer with a mouth.

“Mah ship is none o’ your business,” Thor said at length, nodding when the barkeep finally brought him a beer. He gave the man a few coins before his glass was relinquished, but one look at the muddy brown contents made him reluctant to drink. He slouched sideways in his chair, propping his back against the wall.

“Oh,” the man breathed, finally lifting his eyes. “Southern Heartlander. Deep south, by the sound of your…twang.”

“And you’re a Royal Governs dandy,” Thor countered, taking a swig and grimacing at the taste. Then, as an afterthought, “Ah do not
twang
,”

“Yes you do,” he chuckled, offering his hand. “Chris Fleet, by the way.”

“Ah don’t care.” Another swig of beer.

“You need a mechanic.”

“We’re getting’ by.”

“Of course,” Fleet scoffed, “because the propellers are going to magically balance themselves, the ballast will stay inflated if you just wish hard enough, and how on earth do you steer that pile of junk?”

“She is
not
junk.”

“Even her name is horrible.”

“Ya want on mah ship that badly,” Thor growled, turning on his seat to glare into Fleet’s pale blue eyes, “ya might start by not insultin’ her.”

“Apologies,” he replied with an unwavering smile.

Thor turned back to his ale. The
Dixie
was a terrible mess, but she had managed to stay aloft for six months on the parts they had scavenged. The crew would do fine once they knew how to maintain the flying parts.

Fleet turned his attention back to his book. Thor was grateful for the silence. He stared into the murky brown liquid of his mug, swirling it in reflection of his thoughts. He had escaped Rhettson, taken the man’s ship nearly a year ago. Now rumors were starting to surface that the tyrant was finding his niche—sky pirating.

Dixie
was in no condition to flee anyone, and she was garnering a reputation as a secret transport. Since taking the plantation owner to safety, men and women in volatile situations, charged with crimes they didn’t commit or victims of unjust laws, sought her out. Thor had found
his
niche.

In a way, the sternwheeler’s tattered appearance was a perfect disguise. It was also a dangerous risk. Thor had to find a mechanic that could make her flyable. One that would remain loyal to his legally ambiguous business, and here sat this perfect stranger, offering his services without knowing a thing about captain, crew, or ship. It disturbed him that Fleet was being honest.

“You can’t possibly fix an entire ship,” he muttered into the heavy silence.

Fleet’s pen paused, but the answering grin was coy. “I’m telling the truth.” He glanced up under his brow,
his words slow and deliberate, “You know I am.”

Thor’s blood ran cold. This stranger couldn’t possibly know. He hadn’t been sitting ten minutes yet. His mind screamed to get out, flee back to the ship, and get her off the ground before Fleet could come near. Thor forced himself to stay seated and finish his drink, then stood and left without a word.

~*~*~*~*~

Chris considered the ship from a distance the next morning. The early light was pale, the wind was stiff, and his coat was too thin. Before him, lay a crippled ship crying for help, one he could nurture into a beautiful machine if only his mouth hadn’t run away. He knew what the captain of the
Dixie
was and had said as much in a tavern filled with superstitious men. That was not the right way to seek a job from a Prowessor.

Chris could see by the shimmer of aether coming from the man that he was a Vigilant, a sniffer of lies and deceit. He could not lie. If Chris had exposed the captain, he couldn’t have talked his way out of danger. Chris tugged on his ear to elicit a jolt. The proper British thing to do was apologize and keep trying to get onto that ship.

By the time he reached the
Dixie’s
looming shadow, the captain was standing at the port ramp, glaring balefully down.

“Captain,” Chris called, “I believe an apology is in order.”

“Save it,” he sneered, crossing his arms. “Ah’m not interested in your brand of honesty.”

“I can rebuild your ship, and I can prove it.” If apologies didn’t work with the man, then proving his mettle would have to. He pulled his journal out of the breast pocket of his coat, brandishing it. The captain stared long and hard, sniffed, and beckoned. Chris tossed the journal, watching it fly in a high arc to land at the top of the ramp.

The Vigilant bent down to retrieve it, sifting through the pages. The skeptical quirk of his mouth disappeared three pages in, and Chris bit back a smile.

“These are
your
ideas? All of them?”

“Yes.”

A moment later, the captain beckoned again, absorbed in the book. Chris jogged up the ramp, astounded as the man turned his back and walked across the deck, engrossed in the little journal. The mechanic had to remind himself Vigilants could sense the intentions of others; Chris must not seem a threat.

Christian Fleet stood upon the deck, taking in the crooked stacks, too-heavy ballast, patched sails, and leaning propellers.

“Wow,” he muttered. There was no other expression for the mess he had walked onto, and he was already growing to love the potential she carried.

“Still think ya can fix her?” said the captain, turning to look at him.

Thor looked different in broad daylight. He wore thick wool trousers, heavy boots, and a practical, long-bodied coat lined with fur. His goggles dangled around his neck, and he bore outrageous streaks of acid green at his temples. The rest of his hair was already graying. His scruffy face was handsome, but looked young. He couldn’t have been more than ten years Chris’s senior—young for a ship’s captain.

A hand was thrust at him. “Captain Ignatius Thor.”

A smile crept onto Chris’s face. He shook firmly, but when he tried to pull back, Thor’s hand gripped him tighter.

“How’d ya know?” he asked gravely.

Suddenly uncomfortable, Chris shrugged. “I have a sense.”

“You’re a Seeker,” Thor realized.

“Was,” Chris corrected sharply.

A grin flitted across Thor’s thin lips, but his eyes still pierced him. After another moment, Thor released his hand and returned his journal.

“Ah should warn ya, son, Ah do what Ah know is right, even if the law states otherwise. This here’s the Haven of Recluse and Underground Souls.”

“In that case, I’m changing my name,” Chris replied.

“Oh?” Thor rocked back on his heels, sticking his hands in his pockets. “What’s that?”

“Sparky.” Chris rubbed at his earring.

Thor smiled at him. “Ah think we’ll get along fine, you and Ah. How soon can ya get us off the ground?”

“No idea,” Sparky admitted cheerfully. “A tour would be nice, though.”

Thor swept his arm in a mocking gesture of welcome, glancing at the mountain of canvas piled at the stern. “Welcome to the
Dixie
.”

Sparky flinched. “That’s really her name.”

“Ah was thinkin’ of changin’ it,” Thor replied, turning to lead them astern.

“Oh? What’s that?”

“Horus.”

Eada Janes

By Eada Janes

Eyes without life and lips without breath.

The ticking of a clock echoes inside his stagnant chest.

Words without warmth and passion have gone cold.

Almost as frigid as the body I can no longer hold.

To keep him meant the world to me.

I was just too blinded by love to see.

Without the charms of what made him real.

He would no longer be able to feel.

I curse the clockmaker and the alchemist.

For their mad hands are the ones that did this.

The one I once loved is now just a thing.

What was once a man is now a machine.

By Andrea Staum

Domaroc Lowe lay back, looking at the few stars that could be seen through the jungle’s thick canopy. His broad shoulders were sore from a day of trying to fix the airship’s energy converters. Most of the crew was passed out in exhausted heaps around the encampment. Even with guards stationed around the camp, sleeping in the jungles of Ruus didn’t seem the safest course of action to him.

Dom closed his eyes and retraced every coolant line and gear in the main compartment in his mind. He was missing something. With a
start, he opened his eyes and reached for his knife, until he noticed the firelight reflecting off his leader’s waist-length blond hair.

“Damn it, Navarro, don’t sneak up on me like that!” he exhaled as he propped himself up with his elbows. His shoulders cracked loudly with the strain.

Navarro laughed and hunkered down beside his second-in-command and chief engineer. “Still worried about the myth?”

Domaroc twisted his head to the side until his neck popped and released some of the strain he felt. “There’s no proof that it’s a myth.”

“There’s no proof it’s true either,” Navarro said with a shake of his head. “Try and sleep. I have guards on patrol with four rotations throughout the night. I’ve ordered that you are not to be disturbed unless we’re under attack.”

“If we are attacked by the Clans, it is unlikely we’ll see them until after we’re dead.”

Navarro placed a hand on Domaroc’s shoulder as he stood. “Forever the optimist. It’s no wonder you won Carialis over with such a cheerful disposition.”

“For her sake, you better be right about the clans,” Dom warned.

Navarro chuckled. “Get some rest, Dom. I need you to get that ship flying tomorrow.”

“Sure thing. The smoke should clear out by morning so I can actually see what I’m doing.” He settled back down. “Night, sir.”

“Good night, Dom,” replied Navarro as he walked away.

Domaroc settled down and took a deep breath; trying to calm his mind enough for sleep. His lungs burned with each breath he took. He must have breathed in more smoke than he remembered. The jungle air was heavily perfumed, but the exotic scents were pleasant. The spicy aroma reminded him of past lovers.

He turned to his side, buried his head in his rucksack, and breathed in the metallic scent of engine grease. He had Carialis, the others hardly mattered. He sighed and slipped into a deep, dreamless sleep.

***

Dom tried to sit up and open his eyes. His body rebelled against any movement, but his mind refused to return to sleep. Something didn’t seem right, the camp was too quiet. The pressure in his bladder indicated he had slept longer than his standard two rotations. Domaroc realized the pressure could be because he was lying on his stomach, but when he tried to shift to his back, pain in his shoulders increased and he felt bonds on his wrists tighten behind his back. The sensation was enough to rouse him fully from his stupor.

He continued to struggle against his restraints until he felt a fur-covered hand caress his neck before grabbing his hair. It raised his head out of the dirt. Hot breath blew into his face, followed by the overwhelming scent of jungle flowers. The grip on his hair loosened, and he fell back to the ground. A flash of light seared across his vision followed by complete darkness as his head rested on the hard-packed earth.

“Wake up, Kitten,” purred a soft voice in his ear.

The bitter scent of vinegar flooded his lungs, and Domaroc began to float closer to the surface of reality. He moaned as a throbbing sensation pulsed through his head. He opened his eyes slightly. The light was harsh despite the haziness caused by a film over his eyes.

A shadow appeared over him. A moment passed before the full form registered in his mind. It was a feline female. Her tail swished over her orange thigh and came to rest on Domaroc’s naked stomach as she curled around him. A small vial in her paw, near his nose was the source of the reviving smell.

As he tried to figure out where he was, he realized that he was propped against her ample breasts, the rough material of her halter scratching his cheek. He could feel her pressed against his entire length, and when he tried to raise himself, she kept him in place with a strong, black furred hand.

“No, Kitten, stay put,” she whispered. Her green, slitted eyes glowed in the dim light of the makeshift shelter. “You’ve been a long time in waking.” She brought a water skin to his lips and tilted a few drops into his mouth.

He swallowed a couple of times before his mouth and throat were moist enough for speech. “Where am I?”

“You are among the Ranar clan.” The woman slid so she lay beside him, moving a folded blanket to cushion his head. She ran a hand over his exposed chest; her claws slicing the skin as she neared the end of the motion, causing him to inhale sharply. “Do you like that, Kitten?”

The pain in his chest allowed him to focus on his surroundings. He was in a brush hut on a bed of moss and leaves, naked except for bandages wrapped around his wrists. He wished for some other cover as the cat woman continued to stoke his chest, but the jungle was too humid to use blankets as they were intended.

A slight pressure around his forehead caused him to put a hand to his brow. Before he could reach it, she took his hand in hers and moved it away. She placed a bandage over the bloody claw marks and made him hold it in place.

Sounds began to filter through the thin walls of the hut. Fires were hissing as the contents of pots boiled over and wood was being chopped a short distance from them. An occasional scream pierced the normal encampment sounds followed by growls and hisses, and sporadically, a feral laughter that put Domaroc’s hair on end.

The cat beside him smiled. “I claimed you, Kitten, and it wasn’t easy.” Her fangs flashed as she shifted position. “You are prime prey. I nearly fought Lady Supreme for you.”

“Lady Supreme?” Domaroc asked as he raised himself on his elbows.

She allowed him the movement, handing him the water again. “Our queen. If you hadn’t been so injured, she would have fought. Even though she had already claimed the pretty one with gold hair, she wanted you.”

“Navarro?” Domaroc asked with widened eyes. He hadn’t even thought of his crew until that moment.

“I believe that is what his name is. Is he your Lord Supreme?”

He shook his head. “My commander.”

“Is there a difference?” she asked with a shrug. “He fought bravely when he awoke. Lady Supreme taught him it is best to obey. Although, he is no longer as pretty, he is now tame.” She gave a sharp laugh. “Actually, you look better than any of them now. Be glad you hit your head. I can be determined master if not obey.” She ran her tongue across her upper lip, almost nervously. “Are you hungry?”

“Thirsty,” was all he could say. He tipped the water flask, but no more dripped out. His head felt cloudy again and his vision blurred the outlines of her delicately boned face.

She nodded. Her long, black mane fell forward, covering her face. “Ndim!” she called.

A young, brown cat-girl scampered into the hut on all fours. She crouched in submission before Domaroc’s captor. “Yes, Mistress?”

“More water.”

The kit rose and backed out of the hut.

“Who are you?” he asked as he forced himself to sit up.

“Quanda, Second of Lady Supreme.” She ran her hand over the bandage on his forehead. “How does your head feel?”

“Heavy,” he replied, letting his head bow. The blood rushed to his ears and he could hear the pounding of his own heart. He straightened himself. “What happened?”

“One of the young ones overdosed you on the sleeping herb and didn’t watch your fall. Her oversight has been punished. The Ranar do not take kindly to negligence.” She unwrapped the bandage and looked at the wound. Forcing him to sit forward, she examined him closely. A frown threatened the corners of her mouth as she took a fresh strip of cloth from the pile beside them. “You hit your head harder than I thought.”

The kit retuned with a pitcher of water, which she placed beside Quanda.

“More water will help,” Quanda said as she dampened the bandage before cleaning the wound.

“How long have I been here?” Domaroc knew that questioning her was safer than trying to fight his way out of the camp in his weakened state. He would hardly defeat the cat-girl in the corner, much less his battle-experienced captor, and she knew that. And where would he go? He was naked in the middle of a cat clan somewhere in the Ruus jungles unsure where his broken airship was. No, better to bide his time and find out who remained of his crew.

“A few sun cycles. We do not keep track of time here.” Her fingers combed through his tangled, black hair, snagging on dried blood. “Ndim, bring food.”

He barely heard the kit leave.

My crew?” Domaroc asked as he closed his eyes, enjoying the motion of her hands along his bruised scalp.

The sound of a cup dipping into the pitcher was an inviting sound to his ears. The lip of met his mouth, and he gratefully accepted the cool water. She tilted the cup away, allowing him to swallow.

“Thank you,” he said, feeling for the first time that his voice was his own.

“You are welcome, Kitten. Now let me finish tending your wound. A poultice has been prepared, but I wanted to wait for you to be stronger before I applied it.”

“Why?”

“It draws all impurities from the body and the body doesn’t always give them up willfully,” She replied and let him hold the cup while she reached for a bowl on the other side of the bandages. “We will apply it once you have eaten.”

Domaroc relaxed his shoulders, resting his eyes as he slouched closer to her. “You didn’t answer me about my crew.”

“Do they matter?”

He opened his eyes and firmly answered. “Yes.”

“Honorable,” she dismissed his words and returned to combing his hair.

He reached up and held her wrist, surprised at the softness of her fur. “You said you were second-in-command of the clan.”

“I am,” she snarled, her body tensing, the tip of her tail fluffing slightly.

He stared into the slits that were her pupils. “Then you know why they are important to me.”

Before she could respond, Ndim returned with a tray of fruit and a couple hunks of bread. Quanda took it and gestured for the kit to leave. She set the food down beside the pitchers and took some bread, softening it in the water before giving it to him. “Eat slowly, there’s nothing in you.”

He let her feed him, but his stomach filled after only a quarter of the saturated bread and a few slices of fruit.

“That should do for now.” She guided him back to a reclined position before pressing a mossy, grainy poultice over the wound and wrapping his head in a fresh bandage. She stood, her loose halter shifting to allow Domaroc a full view of her breasts. Her skirt was short and slit high on her thigh to allow her freedom of movement with little modesty. She was tall, having to duck to avoid the ceiling of the hut.

“Quanda,” he pleaded, following her with his green eyes.

“I do not know why you are attached to your men. If one of my warriors falls, then they don’t deserve to be remembered. If they die, they were not strong enough. The same is true if they are captured. As for your crew, some live, some died. When you are well, you can see who lived. Now, rest.” She left the hut.

Domaroc closed his eyes and drifted into an uneasy sleep. The poultice had a hallucinogenic effect on his dreams. He was plagued with twisted and macabre nightmares. The faces of the past filtered forward from the hidden corners of his mind to haunt him. This time there was no grease stained rucksack to make them go away.

Every life he had taken was multiplied, and his body felt every wound he had inflicted. His closed wounds ripped open to gush his life’s blood to the ground. His mouth opened in silent screams as invisible blades sliced deep into his flesh. Every jilted lover took her revenge on him. Blood stained lips covered his mouth and sucked the cries from his lungs until he felt empty and broken. Rain fell on him, trying to cool his suffering, but it burned and blinded instead.

Domaroc jerked forward with ragged breaths. His eyes, wide, tried to register where he was. The hut was no longer surrounding him and there were no sounds other than those belonging to the jungle. He was in uniform with his shirt unbuttoned. He began to believe it all a dream until gentle furred hands pulled him back down into the embrace of an orange fur-covered body.