Wind Dancer: Secret War Steampunk Series - Adventure, Mystery + Mad Science (5 page)

Chapter Four

Nightwatch, Bridge, Wind Dancer

Rogers looked out into the darkness. He tended to visit the
bridge in the middle of the night when sleep eluded him, which was often. The
habit caused unspoken annoyance to the night watch who he knew listened on the
broadwave to that awful caterwauling they called music when he wasn’t present.
He saw no reason to ban the activity altogether, they were mercenaries, not
British Navy after all. If his nearly forty years in the BAN had taught him
anything, it was never give an order you know won’t be obeyed. That had given
him what his mentors would have called a ‘command challenge’ with this crew
more than once.

Like most airships at night,
Wind Dancer
had put on
her running lights, climbing high enough to not run into anything in the dark.
Rogers was pleased with the ship’s progress. They had picked up a good tail
wind. They were speeding along at nearly fifty miles an hour, which was very
fast indeed. They might even make Calcutta within the Captain’s desired time at
this rate.

Staring into the darkness outside, Rogers mused that being
second in command of a mercenary airship was hardly where he expected to be in
his fifties. But then so much had changed since he was a young man. He had only
just obtained his commission in the wet navy, as they now called it, as a very
junior officer aboard HMS
Reliant
when the Invaders had attacked.

He doubted that anyone who had lived through those dark years
would ever forget them. The incredible devastation, the hordes of refugees
fleeing a living nightmare, as nothing seemed to stand in the way of the
monsters slaughtering the whole human race. That is, until Tesla and the other
science boffins had developed the huge city-covering Shields that were proof
against the aliens’ attacks. Her Majesty’s Government had disseminated the
knowledge of making them around the world to anyone still fighting. With that
breathing room, an Alliance of the great nations had formed, building airships
and weapons to take the fight to the enemy. Rogers had joined the Alliance air
service on the first call for volunteers.

The following years had seen him fighting all around the
world, serving with men and women from every race and nation, so desperate were
the times that anyone who could fight was welcomed into the service. The higher
ups had taken note of his ease with different people, so he became a liaison
officer helping to integrate the airships built by other nations into the
Alliance Expeditionary Force. He still had nightmares of those swarms of hastily
built airships mobbing one of the great spider-like war machines, stinging it
to death. Many people had died in those battles, but so had the Invaders, all
of them in the end.

After the War, now Commander Lawrence Rogers left the AEF to
join the newly forming British Air Navy where he received a commission of his
own and an air command. He had chosen well. As the years passed with no further
invasion, the AEF had dwindled while the various nations built up their own
forces, each eying the other like cats at a single mouse hole. It seemed that
humanity knew no end of stupidity, he thought sourly. Rogers had never climbed
higher than Captain in the BAN. He had no stomach for politics and was content
commanding the deck of his own ship. He had figured to stay on until death or
retirement which ever came first. Perhaps by then, he would have saved the capital
needed to reclaim his family’s farm in Yorkshire from the Smoke Blight. His
parents would have liked that, he always thought. But it was not to be.

His last command, HMS
Defender,
had been patrolling
the air lanes off the Siam coast. It had been the middle of the night, much as
now, when he’d been called to the bridge.

A distress wave had come in from a British merchant ship.
They claimed to be under attack by coil−cannon firing raiders. They
pleaded for aid from any ship that could reach them. Then the connection had
broken off. If they were under attack Rogers knew, a coil cannon strike had
likely destroyed their electronics as well as their engines. Merchantmen tended
not to shield their systems as fighting ships did. A single coil strike would
not significantly damage an ungrounded airship. It would however make a melted
slag out of anything electrical on board that was not shielded, not to mention
the very real danger of starting fires. It was a miracle that they had gotten a
wave off at all. Rogers had to act fast, if they were to save her.

They had been close to the reported position of the ship, so
Captain Rogers had ordered
Defender
to respond with all speed. As they
approached, a flash like lightening split the night ahead of them, the coil
strike wreathing an unmoving merchant ship in St. Elmo’s fire. Rogers cursed
under his breath. Even if the ship’s hull remained unbreached, the crew could
soon be cooked alive from the intense energy discharges.

He tried to peer through the night, the spot lights
practically useless at this distance. The raider was running in total darkness,
with no lights and no reflections off the hull. It was a totally black ship.
Rogers had a moment of consternation at that revelation.

How was he supposed to fight an enemy he couldn’t even
see
?
Night battles were not done for that very reason. He then realized in horror
that they could see
him.
He’d come in with his spots and running lights
blazing like a fool. He hastily gave the order to kill the lights just as the
first coil strike shook the ship. Rogers looked out in despair as multiple
flashes of gunpowder cannons lit the night sky directly in front of him. He’d
blundered straight into their broadside, there was no time to even consider
maneuver. He had one awful moment to know his ship was doomed. Then the first
shell had exploded against the bridge, and he knew no more.

When he had come to, it was dawn. The
Defender
had
floated powerless out over the ocean, a slowly sinking wreck. Of his crew of
two hundred, only a dozen had survived. By sheer luck, they had found a Siamese
wet ocean ship that took them aboard just before the
Defender
sank into
the waves.

The Admiralty courts-martial had not been interested in
hearing about night raiding black airships; the very assertion of it offended
their sense of order. They quickly found him guilty of negligence. However in
“deference to his War record,” they had been merciful and merely cashiered him
from the service instead of hanging him.

It had been in a hellhole in Bombay, India, where William
Hunting Owl had found him, a disgraced outcaste trying to drink himself into an
early grave. Will had approached Rogers with the zeal of a missionary. The
Tribesman already believed in the black airships.

One had attacked the merchant airship that had been William’s
home since the end of the War. Hunting Owl had not been aboard, but his father
had been, as both captain and owner like many a war veteran. Will’s last words
with his father had been over a Farley Aetherwave connection while the ship was
being destroyed. His father told him about the black airship.

Will had managed to infuse Rogers with his fire for justice
and revenge, and Rogers agreed to join forces with him. At the time, Rogers had
known
what they were attempting was impossible. ‘Impossible’ however,
was a word not in William Hunting Owl’s vocabulary. Rogers was frankly
astonished at the progress they had made, however slowly, these last five years
in tracking their shadowy quarry.

In the course of their early adventures, they had come into
possession of the
Wind Dancer
. Hunting Owl had the idea that running a
mercenary airship would give them not only mobility, but a plausible reason to
haunt the less reputable fringes of the still growing airdevil society in their
hunt. None of the crew that signed aboard knew what Will and Rogers real hunt
was.

Hunting Owl was by far a better leader and fighter than
Rogers would ever be. There was no shame in admitting that, the older man felt.
While Rogers had decades of experience, Will had practically grown up on
airships. He had also been a warrior with the fearsome
Ghost Dancers
who
after the War had defeated
both
of the American governments by force of
arms. It was only natural to both of them that William be Captain of the
Wind
Dancer
. Besides, if he was honest, Rogers wasn’t sure that he ever wanted a
command again after that night off Siam.

The Captain was God aboard ship, Rogers reflected. He either
put spine in his crew or he did not. William did. Even if the crew did not know
the particulars, they could sense that William Hunting Owl had an air of noble
purpose. That aura rubbed off on those around him. They held their heads up
higher because of it. Hell, even Rogers had been changed by it. It didn’t
matter that Will was also the wiliest, most dirty fighting rogue Rogers had
ever met. Far from it. The crew respected him for his cunning as much as for
his sense of honor. If Will Hunting Owl gave you his word, you could be sure
that he would give his life to keep it.

Will also did his best to bring his crew back alive, rich, or
both if possible. Mostly he succeeded. That mattered to the misfits and broken
veterans who signed to fly on a private fighting ship. They may hold their
lives cheap, but Will didn’t, and so they began not to as well. Rogers knew he
couldn’t give the crew half that much
espirit
.

No, Rogers thought, he was content to be God’s Right Hand, as
every good First Officer was. Besides, someone had to turn this lot of sorry
airdevils into something resembling a fighting ship, which
Rogers
could
do. Because what had started as a mere disguise, had become fact, they were a
mercenary airship now. A damned good one to Rogers mind, but the real thing to
be sure. They had a reputation as honest, if deadly fighters. Certainly they
were more disciplined than most of the rabble in the air who sold their guns,
which reminded him.

“Mr. Hattori,” he snapped out without turning. “I believe that
you should finish that log entry
before
the watch changes, don’t you?”
He asked archly. The younger man gulped and wrote more furiously, certain that
the old man had eyes in the back of his head. Rogers hid a smile at using the
old trick. In fact, Rogers had seen that he had left the log open when he had
entered the bridge.

Perhaps someday they would catch their prey, Rogers thought,
and the nightmares would stop. Perhaps then he wouldn’t need rum to sleep at
night. Perhaps. Until that day, God’s Right Hand would keep a strong grip. He
recalled the earlier debacle with Brighton. As strong as he could manage at any
rate, he thought wryly.

Chapter Five

Warehouse District, Bombay, India

Saira kept watching the dilapidated building while listening
to Cap’n Will and Jarro. For days they had followed the twisted trail of a
thief that had led them all the way to Bombay, capitol of British India. The
next step on the trail lay in the old warehouse she now watched.

Saira hated British India, even though she was born here. For
one thing, it was far too close to her mother. She had adopted a disguise of
sorts, binding her breasts to change her outline, pads in her boots to shift
her walk, a leather flight cap, straps dangling loose beneath her chin. She was
still clearly a woman airdevil, but to a casual observer she hoped she would
not appear to be Saira Brighton. Her teachers had always stressed that simple
disguise was best; especially if the hunters thought they knew their quarry.
She hoped they were right. She also hoped that she did not encounter any of
those teachers who were still living while she was in Bombay.

If Cap’n Will had noticed the changes, he hadn’t remarked on
them. She had told him of her family difficulties when first she joined the
ship. She thought it only fair he know that her mother was high priestess of
the most feared assassins and sorcerers in India, and that mother was not
pleased with her. His only comment had been that everyone had family troubles
of some kind. His rule was that signing on to
Dancer
was a fresh start,
and the past was past. If that past did come calling, he had said in his
strange drawl, you won’t have to face it alone. She read his heart while he
spoke, she could not be lied to when she used her power, though that sort of
closeness was difficult and tiring for her. She knew with certainty that he
spoke truth. To her astonishment, she discovered that she had found something
on
Wind Dancer
she did not know she was looking for. She had found a
home and a family.

Jarro had been arguing with the Cap’n ever since the next
informant’s name had been whispered to them in a smoky den. This worried her as
she had never seen the helmsman argue with anyone. Behind his fierce facial
tattoos, Jarro was usually very calm and agreeable. Despite his coming from
some island she had never heard of, Saira found his spirit very much like that
of one of her own people, calm as a still pool, yet fierce as a tiger. If he
had not been so important at the helm, she would have gladly added him to the
Tiger landing crew. It had been the Captains idea that he come along today, and
it had been a good one. The three of them had spent endless time talking to
various disreputable sorts, and the giant’s towering presence had been an
unspoken persuasion that loosened tongues more quickly. Then the name ‘Smeadly’
had been spoken by an old one eyed woman in a hemp shop. The name clearly meant
something to the two of them. She had watched Jarro’s anger build, the red
energy swirling tight around his aura as they crossed the city.

“This is a very bad idea, Cap’n,” Jarro’s face was that of a
demon, the black tattoo whorls twisting as he spoke. “That man is pure deceit.
Even if he does tell anything it will likely be false. Do you not remember what
happened the last time we dealt with him?”

“I remember, Jarro,” Will replied calmly. ‘That was three
years ago. You’ve heard what people have been saying as well as I have. If
anyone knows where that package is, it’ll be Smeadly. I can deal with him
fine.”

“At least let me kill him then,” Jarro asked again for the
fourth time since the name Smeadly had come up.

“No Jarro,” Will replied again in that same calm voice. “If
we kill him, and he does keep something back we won’t then be able to ask him
again. I do know how you feel, but we do this the soft way.”

“So who is this Smeadly, and why do we want to kill him at
all?” Saira finally entered the discussion, while keeping her eyes on the
warehouse.

“Smeadly was a British gang leader being transported to
Australia that we rescued from a ship wreck,” Will explained. “He caused us a
mite bit of trouble in Sydney Port. All this was before you joined us.”

“He nearly got the Cap’n killed, and all of us branded as
pirates,” Jarro growled.

“That was then Jarro,” Will reminded him. “Besides, I have an
idea how to get his eager cooperation.”

“What is that?” The Maori asked suspiciously.

“Saira,” Will asked, turning to face her. “How would you like
to play at being a sadistic, bloodthirsty, Naga assassin interrogator?”

“I like this plan already,” Saira grinned broadly. “Can I
actually hurt him?” A little bloodshed would distract her from worrying about
mother so much she thought to herself.

“Well, not too much,” Will grinned back at her. He pursed his
lips in thought, “I will say that if he hurts a little I won’t mind. Follow my
lead though.”

 “Of course,” she nodded sharply. “What if there is
resistance by others?”

“We decide it as we go,” Will said. “I’d prefer not to kill
anyone if we can. Remember we’re just after information here. Having said that,
do what seems needed, but keep Smeadly alive. We all clear on that?” He looked
at Jarro as he spoke. She readily agreed, and after a moment’s hesitation, so
did Jarro, if more reluctantly.

“Alright,” Will nodded decisively. “Check your tools. We will
go in the front.”

They were not allowed by local law to carry guns in Bombay,
but that did not mean they were unarmed. British India had outlawed guns to
‘Coloreds’, which description all three of them fit in the authorities’ eyes.
It did not matter if they were Crown subjects or visitors, the ‘wog’ could not
be trusted with guns after the Rebellion of ’85; the colonial boot heel was
unyielding. Another reason Saira hated it here. She had seen too many good
people bow and scrape, had seen too many injustices growing up in British
India.

Edged weapons, however, were allowed to anyone. She carried
her long Sheffield knives openly, as did the Captain his Bowie knife. Saira
also carried an electric pistol hidden beneath her clothes.

One of the advances of New Science, Saira approved of
electric weapons. An electric charge ‘rode’ between two focused beams of
invisible light to the target. A handgun held five lethal shots or twice that
many knock downs, determined by a switch under her thumb. Saira rarely used the
knock-down setting, it was too unreliable to her mind.

‘Sparkies’, as they were also called, did have their
problems. They couldn’t be reloaded on the run. They had to be recharged from
an electric source which meant a big generator. They could also be stymied by
rubber armor, and were cranky to maintain. Given all that though, she thought
they were excellent ranged weapons, as even a near hit would be fatal. The
‘bolts’ traveled at such speeds that if you could see the target you hit it.
Standing in the shadow of the building, she checked that her charge was still
up and the two guide lenses clean before returning it to the small of her back.

The Cap’n, she knew, preferred his revolving handgun. She
watched as he pulled it smoothly from the holster under his jacket. He snapped
open the breach, checking that all seven barrels were loaded and turning
smoothly, then shut it with a snap, replacing it under his arm. The .50 Smith
was not to her taste, too loud and smelly, but she had to admit he was very
good with it.

Jarro mostly preferred to use his fists when he could. He was
otherwise armed with a long blade mounted on a short stick slung over his back.
Saira had seen him practice; the odd weapon was deceptively fast in his hands.
Professionally, she approved.

“All done,” Will announced with a smile. “Let’s go palaver.”

The three of them crossed the empty street as the sun moved
towards the horizon. Will paused at a door that had a brass sign saying
Piccadilly
Import and Export Ltd.
on it. Silently he checked one more time that Saira
and Jarro were ready. At their nods, he opened the door.

Rogash looked up at the three who had entered from the front
door and frowned. His boss often dealt with air scum, which these clearly were
by their goggles and dress, but rarely before dark. The short woman on the
right with the big knives was clearly a half−caste with her blue eyes. He
didn’t recognize where the giant covered in tattoos was from, but it was a
large world. The tall man in the center looked like a tribesman from the
Americas. He frowned to himself. He couldn’t remember the boss saying anything
about an Injun Tribey. Rogash pressed the button under the counter to summon
the guards.

“I am afraid that we are just closing for the day, nobles,”
Rogash said hurriedly. “If you would return in the morning, we can better serve
you,” The Tribey smiled at him, walking straight up to the counter while the
other ones stayed back, flanking him.

“That’s alright,” he said, teeth gleaming in a mahogany face.
“We just want to talk to Smeadly,” he hooked his thumbs in his belt and grinned
disarmingly. “Only for a moment, we promise.” Rogash franticly pressed the
button again. No one good ever asked for the boss by name.

“I am sorry but you are mistaken,” Rogash said hurriedly.
“There is no one here by that name. We are closing for the day now. You must
leave. Now.” Rogash urged. The two bodyguards, muscled and naked to the waist,
finally came from behind the curtain. They moved around the counter, stroking
long clubs in their hands.

“Truly, we just want to talk to him, that’s all. No trouble.”
The tall man said unmoving.

Rogash slowly moved his hand under the counter towards the
scatter gun that was clipped there. Before he could touch the handle, he was
staring at the barrels of the man’s gun. Rogash blinked, the barrels looked
very large, and his hand froze where it was. The short woman moved like a blur,
one guard suddenly found her two blades crossed at the base of his neck, the
edges not quite cutting. The guard saw Kali the Devourer reflected in her eyes.
He dropped his club quickly, going very still.

The man with the fearsome tattoos growled in a terrifying
grimace, causing the other guard to back away, holding his club uncertainly.

Rogash blinked again, staring at the circle of the revolver
barrels before him. It had all happened so fast! Paan and Josh, the two guards,
were useless he thought in growing despair. He’d always known they were, for
all their big talk and muscles! He felt himself sweating. Whoever these people
were, they were not the boss’s usual kind of trouble. He knew that they were
going to kill him. In his panic, he almost missed the Tribey speaking to him
again.

“If you very slowly move your hand away from that gun, I
think that you and your friends here can go home. We truly are here just to
talk, but it’s your choice.” Rogash focused on the words. They could leave?
Slowly he moved his hands up in the air.

“Good man!” The Tribey grinned at him, gun steady on his
face. “Now,” he said to Rogash, “still going nice and slow, walk to the door
and git. I doubt that Smeadly will be too happy with you all, so if you ever
come back is up to you. But do not return tonight or we will not be so nice!
Understand?”

Rogash nodded. He didn’t know what ‘git’ meant, but the
meaning was clear. And the man was right. The boss did not forgive. Perhaps
leaving Bombay would be wise.

As the last man fled out the door, Will looked at his
companions, his smile going wry. “Well, that was easy enough. Now comes the
hard part. Smeadly will have some sort of bolt hole for sure. Watch for more
people, and traps.” He moved quickly around the counter and through the
curtain, only to be met by a heavy door with a steel lock.

In the Aetherwave serials, the brave hero shoots out the
lock, which Will knew was a good way to get hit by your own bullet. Instead he
aimed above the lock and fired. He quickly did the same below it, then kicked
out hard. The splintered wood around the lock gave way when the door crashed
open. He went in fast, Saira, electronic pistol now in hand, followed to his
right, Jarro to his left.

Will’s eyes swept the room, gun first. The room was done up
in what he thought of as cheap flash. The walls were lavender and green striped
metallic foil. In one corner, sat an over−sized Aetherwave set next to a
bright blue divan. A large desk sat more or less in the middle of the room. The
air reeked of cheap hemp and cigars.

A short thin man with ginger hair was struggling with what
looked to be a hidden door behind a bookcase. Smeadly, Will thought in
satisfaction. He fired high, the round raining flakes of wallpaper and plaster
down on Smeadly’s head. The man flinched and then froze, slowly raising his
hands.

“Turn around real slowly Smeadly. I will shoot you
otherwise.” Will watched carefully as the other man turned. Smeadly may be
coward and a con man, but Will knew the ganger was serious deadly when
cornered.

Smeadly smiled, showing empty hands and a row of sharpened
metal teeth, the badge of the London street gangs. He was better dressed than
when Will had last seen him. The quality of the bright orange tartan pants, and
emerald green coat over a gold vest spoke of money. Will noted that Smeadly
didn’t seem surprised to see him.

“Well now, this is a pleasant surprise!” Smeadly said
heartily, “Captain William Hunting Owl! I’d heard that you were mucking about
in these parts, but I’ve been far too busy to pay my respects.” He cocked his
head to one side, “Did you kill my men?”

“No, but they have left for the day,” Will replied, keeping
the gun on him. “All I want is a few moments of your time, Smeadly, just a little
talk.”

“Right then,” Smeadly lowered his arms, and shot his cuffs.
“Love to catch up, but I’ve an appointment you see. I’m a man of means now
Willy, important people to see and all that.” The little ganger flashed his
sharp steel teeth in a short grin. “Mayhap we can talk another time. I’ll send
you a Farley crystal. Don’t worry about the door.” He slowly walked towards the
broken door, ignoring the pointed guns.