Kline
It only took him a few minutes to get well and thoroughly lost. Having left Abbi behind, Kline had taken the approach of, "If I were a git of a wanker and decided to rob some struggling cloudfarmer folks of their retirement, where would I go?" and immediately realized he was too close to the question: He could only think of how he'd feel immensely guilty, decide he had made a mistake, would've sought out the people he'd wronged, and then, after making restitution, jumping off the edge of the city and letting it all be done. With that line of inquisitiveness exhausted, Kline instead took random turns. He shouldn't have been surprised by the results, even though he kind of was. Sighing, he turned back from the dead end he'd found himself in, sat down on a bench in front of another stretch of a brownstone, and thought. "Where should I go from here?" he mumbled to himself. His only solace was the fact that, by losing himself in Lolling Greens, he also lost the people pursuing him. That was a nice change of pace, he decided, since it gave him some breathing room. Then again, if he were lost, then they might get lost, too, and then where would he be? Knowing his luck, they'd end up being lost together--which, for them, would mean they weren't lost, because they'd found what they were looking for. Shaking his head, Kline stood up and decided to retrace his steps and see if he couldn't find a better direction to take. Upon arriving at the junction where he'd taken a right (instead of, he guessed, a left, as he should have), Kline stepped into the street, only to catch a glimpse of the businessman, red in the face and huffing heavily enough to make Kline think the man in danger of a heart attack. Yelping a little to himself, he lurched backwards, ducking behind a hedge trimmed in the shape of a hand. The businessman shot a glance toward Kline but, seeing nothing, turned and headed a different direction. Sighing with relief, Kline leaned against the brick on which a wrought iron fence was built. He shifted to look at the building better, and was surprised to see a plaque posted next to the fence. Straightening, Kline read the inscription, written in golden lettering: On this site in 564 After Ascension, the First Theatre of Lolling Greens was erected. Built with some of the sturdiest materials then fabricated from Vapor, the First Theatre became a standard throughout the Sky for the dramatic arts. Decades of tears and laughter filled the hall from night to night, until 776 and the revolution came. In the fighting, the Rebels set much of this area of Lolling Greens to the torch, burning down the original First Theatre. In 809, after much public debate, Oliven Turner spurred the people of Lolling Greens to invest in the project. Ten years later, the First Theatre was rebuilt--larger, better, and with other improvements only dreamed of when the first builders began it nearly three centuries ago. Now home to not only the First Theatre Troupe, but also the offices of the Confederacy's Arts and Literature Committee, which is led by the Turner family as of the time this memorial was placed. Kline frowned. The Cogmaker had designed the universe to work in its own way--humans merely cogs in the immense machine that He had devised. Could Kline have taken the wrong turn, only to have it be the right turn? The coincidence seemed too strong, however. What were the odds that he would find anything useful here? He was assuming that "Turner" was a family name, not the robber's first name. And what good was that to anyone anyway? Pretending, for argument's purpose, not reality, that Kline's Turner was related to the Oliven Turner who had set up this theatre…so what? It meant that the man's great-great-whatever-grandson was a git. Kline needed no placard to tell him that. On the other hand, he was out of ideas, and the trail had gone cold. Abbi was still checking her side of things--at least, he could assume as much, since she hadn't tried to raise him on the built-in wireless on her back--and it was his job to try to figure out what to do on his end. Plus, getting out of the streets where the mobbers (his best guess as to who the people were who had tried to gun down Turner and, in their haste, him) hunted sounded like a good plan to him. Inside he would go. He took care that, as he rounded the streets to get to the broad steps leading up to the First Theatre's entrance he wouldn't be seen by any lookouts, though it proved difficult. Few people milled around this area, and seeing someone approach the immense building was bound to attract attention. Clearing his throat and affecting the greatest nonchalance he could muster, Kline struck forward anyway, keeping his bowler hat low to both keep the sun free of his eyes and to obscure his face. The steps were large, with brass banisters running up intermittently. He was too far to use them, but after all his running, his falling, his being shot at…well, Kline was tired. He wished he had something to lean on. The thought of dropping some Dregs on the tongue passed through his mind, but one thought of Aunt Cici's breath and what would happen to him if he dropped pushed the possibility away. If she knew how much stress he'd been under for the last few days, she probably would have thought up some ridiculous tincture to force him into bedrest for a week. Setting aside thoughts of his aunt, he approached the large, wooden door. This much wood surely wouldn't have come from Lolling Greens--though verdurous, much of it came from shrubbery. They likely shipped the wood from Colutura's forests. That they put so much into the building spoke volumes about how Oliven Turner's vision had affected the community. This was an expensive building. And large, too. The entrance had a half-dozen doors, each of them made of the same wood. Large gears moved with the hinges when he opened the one in front of him, a complex mechanism causing, he saw as he entered, a whimsical model of an airship to flap its wings within the lobby. Interspersed with that statue were others, each a miniature of a real life aspect. One had a floating city that bobbed up and down on Vaporous winds. Another was a Vapor carriage, rolling through the air above the milling appreciators of the arts (assuming they gathered in the lobby; it was empty when Kline entered). Another was a puppet, looking for all intents like a human, though her chest was open and a clockwork system made up her insides. Coils of copper made her hair, which bounced a little as she shifted up and down. Interspersing the moving models were ornate chandeliers, criss-crossed with wrought ironwork and attached to servos that caused them to slowly spin. Each cross section was a gear, the largest being big enough that Kline wouldn't be able to stretch across the entire thing. They were suspended with enormous chains that were bolted into the towering ceiling. Pillars adorned the walls, the overarching theme of the Cogmaker's grace evident in the proliferation of gears, cogs, and springs. Pistons comprised other sections of the lobby, adding to the thoughtfulness of the architecture. Kline was speechless, his mouth hanging in surprise. "Can I help you, sir?" came a voice to his right. Startled, he almost pulled his pistol on the small doorwoman, a petite woman dressed in a regal red with golden ropes coming off her shoulders in a quasi-militaristic fashion. She had on a miniature top hat, a stream of plumage accentuating her dark skin and white hair. She gave him a wrinkled smile, then gestured with a gloved hand at the lobby. "I take it you haven't been to the First Theatre before?" "No," he said, still in awe at the opulence of the place. The carpet alone--overlaid with what looked like hand-stitched patterns of gears, giving the illusion of walking through the insides of a clock--must have cost more than his airhome by at least ten times. "No, I haven't been here before." "Well, we aren't playing a matinee today, but if you would like to procure tickets for this evening's show, I can certainly assist you." "Actually," he said, gesturing over his shoulder and trying to piece together a response that made sense, "I, uh…I read the plaque. That's outside?" "Oh, yes. Isn't that a nice memento? It was gifted to the Theatre only three years ago, when we had the tricentennial celebration of the original First Theatre." He bobbed his head. "Yes, well, I was curious." He paused. This woman obviously knew a lot about the theatre. Though the lobby was not well light--the atmospheric lighting came as much from the yellow light of the Vapor-run candles above him as the diffused sunlight through the windows at the top of the room--he could still spot that the woman wore a nametag, in the shape of a gear. "Tell me," and he squinted a little, "Denise, what you know about the man who helped build this place." "You mean, Oliven Turner?" "Yes," said Kline, nodding his head. "I'm not from here, you see, and I am impressed that he was able to--as the plaque said--convince so many people to make such a grandiose building." "Ah, yes, he was quite the persuader." Denise chuckled as though she knew the man personally. "They say that he had a gift for speaking that made people melt. His powers of persuasion were enough to bring this about, as well as the Turner legacy, which has continued to ensure the theatre's success to this day." "Has the Turner family, then, been involved with the theatre continuously since Oliven's time?" He folded his arms and shifted position, feigning more interest than he had in her answer. He knew that, if Abbi were here, she would simply ask, "Is Oliven's great-grandson a git who stole from us?" and be done with it. But he felt this situation needed a little more delicate touch. And, he had to remind himself, there was no guarantee that the Turner he was chasing was at all related. He had to remind himself of that. "Oh, yes, indeed. Even to this very day. Mister Gelden Turner is in charge of the Arts and Literature Committee that is housed here." "Yes, the sign mentioned as much." "Would you like to meet him?" asked Denise. Kline felt his heart leap a little in his throat, which he pushed back with a forceful thought that he ought not to get his hopes too high. "If that wouldn't be too much of a bother." "I can certainly ask! Visitors do so delight him." She turned, beckoning for Kline to follow. "And things have been so difficult for him these last few years." "Oh? Why is that?" "Well, since the tricentennial, Mister Gelden has struggled financially." Denise sighed. "The endowment that was established to ensure the First Theatre would continue has been mismanaged by his youngest son, Doddy." She shook her head and clucked her tongue. "A sad case with him." "Oh?" Kline tingled a little at what she said. Had he inadvertently learned the thief's full name? "That sounds like a story worthy of the stage!" "Oh, no, that would be too much a shame," said Denise, taking him to a door that led to a dreary hallway, intermittently lit with Vapor lanterns. Her voice echoed around the sounds of their footsteps. "Though I admit, it has all the trappings of it: Mismanaged funds, reliance on the mobbers, being in and out of prison for petty thefts." "Thefts?" Denise sighed, looking lugubrious in the yellow light. "If it weren't in the papers all the time, I would scarcely dare believe it, but yes: Doddy has a bit of a criminal penchant. He's a good lad at heart, but I fear he addled his brains with too many Dregs. That's…" Her voice went soft. "That's why he turned criminal, I daresay. Those damned dregs took over, addled his brains, and--in his new-found folly--he became convinced he needed to burgle." She shook her head. "I believe he was doing it for the best of reasons--to return the money that he'd embezzled from the endowment." "Why would you believe that?" asked Kline, surprised at how long the hallway was. It likely ran the length of the building, which ate up most of the city block. "He was such a good child." "You knew him then?" "Oh, Cogmaker's mercy, of course! I've been employed here since I was twelve. There's hardly a tick of my life that hasn't been a part of this theatre, either on stage or behind it. That's why it's so hard to see anyone in the Turner family turn out poorly." Kline gave her a consoling nod, but inwardly, he only wanted to punch Doddy in the face. There were only two things that he knew about his Turner that matched with Doddy's: One, both were in need of money; and two, both had problems with the mobbers. However, if Denise were telling the truth--and Kline had no reason to assume she was lying--and the two men were actually the same person, then Kline suddenly understood a lot of what had happened. Abbi had mentioned that Turner wasn't too terribly bright. If he came from smart stock but had dropped too many Dregs, then that would certainly fit. His financial situation made sense if he stole to pay off the mobbers he owed gears to. And the fact that he'd had the presence of mind to besmirch his face before robbing could have come from a theatrical background, though Kline thought that detail was a bit of a stretch. Any idiot would know that he shouldn't let his face be recognized while committing a crime. Of course, Turner being here in Lolling Greens made much more sense if he were Doddy. He had the raw Vapor. If he could bring it here, perhaps he could deposit it into the endowment before the mobbers came for it? Kline was only speculating now, treading through possibilities that were only that: possibilities. "I appreciate you taking me to meet Mister Gelden, though," said Kline as they approached the end of the hallway. "Despite the hardships they're going through, that is." "Yes, well, Mister Gelden enjoys meeting visitors, as I have said," Denise replied, tapping on the door. "Mister Gelden? Are you available for a visit?" She cracked the door open enough so that she could peek inside. Taller than Denise, Kline was positioned so that he could see what she saw. His jaw dropped as Denise began to scream. Mister Gelden lay in a puddle of his blood, slumped over his desk, his papers in disarray. (2533) Abigaile
In retrospect, Abbi realized she should have taken greater care to wear sensible footwear. Looking good was important to her--she always felt it important to appear well groomed and fashionable. But running in boots--even the kind she wore now, covered with straps and buttons in the shape of gears--proved difficult under the best of circumstances. Having an insane gunner, dressed in her holiday attire, firing toward them with buckshot, did not constitute "best of circumstances". If Abbi had to venture a guess, this neighborhood in Lolling Greens did not suffer from street violence on a regular basis. Doors slammed in front of the two as they ran, people scurried away from them, panic on their faces, and more than one shout of surprise also invoked calling the constabulary. Abigaile would like to see the police try to rein in Ms. Umbrella Shot back there, if only because she was fairly certain that the parasol doubled as a light-weapon shield. The little lady would likely give an impressive firefight to whomever tried to stop her. "Abs," said Kline between breaths, sweat beginning to trickle down his face and get into the scratches on his face. She could see him wince as the injuries began to sting. "We'll have to split up." "Didn't we agree that was a bad idea?" she asked. They slowed as they reached a T-intersection. "He went either left or right," said Kline. "I don't think we've any choice." "We could just run away." "Our home doesn't fly anymore. I know you don't want to be a part of this, but we're stuck. We have to see this through." "How will we find each other?" Kline tapped her respirator mask. "There's a wireless receiver in that thing. If you can get some Vapor into it, you'll be able to contact mine." He gestured at his own kit. "It's the best we can do." Abbi didn't want to agree, but at last nodded. She glanced down the street they'd come from. The businessman and the two lovers were sprinting toward her and Kline. They didn't have time to debate. "Fine. But stay safe!" she said. "Don't do anything stupid." "Same to you," he said, pecking her on the cheek. Then he took the left junction, leaving the right to her. Abbi hoped that she hadn't seen the last of her husband. A gunshot went wide, shattering a Vapor light on the top of a streetlight. Flinching as the glass rained down, Abbi strapped the front of her skirts with a pair of leather straps to the bottom of her corset. That would at least free up her legs and let her run more comfortably, since she couldn't do anything about her boots. Slipping a little as she began her sprint, Abbi followed the street as it went straight, glancing down every alleyway she could as she wound her way southwards. The sounds of pursuit continued behind her, but no one took a potshot at her from any noticeable distance, which she appreciated. The fact they were chasing her was not part of what she appreciated, she would have pointed out to anyone listening, but at least it kept her moving. Her arm throbbed, and the hedges had been as mean to her as they had to Kline--perhaps even more, as she was wearing a short-sleeved blouse. The corset was making her even more uncomfortable, though she knew it had protected her from any serious damage to her vital organs. Not a large comfort, but, at this point, she wasn't going to be choosy. As she headed south, more people began to populate the streets until she hit a major thoroughfare that ran east-to-west intersected with hers. This road was filled with Vapor carriages, milling pedestrians, and sidewalk vendors. Abbi almost swore, until she saw that there was definitely a disturbance among the people off to her right. Without pausing to double-check, she set off in that direction. It didn't take long to catch a glimpse of his glass-shredded clothes. He shot a glance behind himself, saw her almost immediately, and redoubled his pace. Abbi swallowed the fear of what she would do once she caught him and set about as fast as she could. Running past so many people frustrated her a little. Not only did they seem better at getting in her way than avoiding her obvious path, but it felt as though they had choreographed an entire sequence to slow her down. While Turner ran without interruption, Abbi, on the other hand, had to keep improvising. First, a woman, laden by hatboxes (and apparently unworried about the sounds of gunshots in the not-so-far distance) had stepped out of a shop, utterly absorbed in a conversation with her friend. Turner whisked past the storefront without issue; by the time Abbi arrive, she collided fully with the boxes. The exploded out of the woman's hands, sending the contents in a geyser upward and outward. Ribbons, sashes, hats, gloves, and even some privatewear spun free. A brassier landed on her head, the loops of the garment getting in her way. It slowed a few steps to free herself of it. The next obstacle involved a young child pulling free of his mother's hand, chasing after a skymouse that had snatched some rubbish out of the gutter. The child thought the animal intriguing; Abbi thought the child insipid. Unable to change course, she simply jumped, clearing the boy's head by inches as he bent to try to touch the animal. By the time the potential collision was noticed by the mother, Abbi had landed and continued on. The difficulties continued: Whenever Turner needed to cross a street, he was able to go with a flow of traffic, people clogging the avenue with enough bodies to ensure the Vapor carriages slowed. Yet when Abbi arrived at the same juncture, the large machines clattered past almost without pause. Another time, right after losing sight of her quarry only to have him serendipitously reappear at the bottom of a short hill, Abbi's trajectory was thrown off by a fruit vendor whose wares slipped out of his hands. The apples bounced in her path, one catching under her foot and nearly sending her face first into the blue cobbles. Her long boots helped her here, preventing her from rolling her ankle, but she still swore eloquently at the stupid merchant. Fatigue--all she had in her stomach was some tea, bread, and cheese--began to make itself known. Despite her worries about the Dregs, she knew it was time to pop a cork. Taking advantage of the downhill slope, she popped three vials free of their loops on her belt. She couldn't remember where she'd placed the one she needed, so she had to go large. The fact that they had no way of making up for any spilled or lost Dregs only lightly crossed her mind as she glanced at the three vials. There it was. A vibrant pink. She needed the Hype. Working the cork free with a thumb, she tipped back the vial, pouring a little over half of the bottle down her throat. An immediate effect took place: She no longer felt tired. It wasn't that Hype gave her additional energy, but instead helped her forget what it was to suffer from the exhaustion that currently drained her. It was a dangerous Dreg for that reason. If she didn't take care, she could forget that her body wasn't as strong as it felt. Many people had died from Hype, going for days or weeks without sleep or rest. Most city-states had it outlawed as a result. Another reason to keep her distance from any interfering police. Recorking the vial, Abbi slid all three into their loops, then focused on her feet. Whatever Dregs Turner had taken before jumping out the window--probably an elixir of Precision and Puissance to let him take the fall without hurting himself--were obviously wearing thin. Each ragged breath would dilute the mixture, and the fact that he was panicking (Abbi assumed it a fact, since, were the roles reversed, she would have been panicking to have a furious redhead chasing after her) would only speed up the process. Still, she needed to close the gap fast. Sucking in as deep of breaths as she could, she skidded a little on the cobbles of the street, turning right and heading into an area of Lolling Greens that looked…less reputable, she decided. The sidewalk had turned into a boardwalk, covering a dirty road that was filled with ruts, puddles, and debris. In general, it gave a sense of necessity, and it didn't take long before she saw why. When she did, Abbi skidded to a stop, her eyes wide and heart hammering in a way that had nothing to do with the run. Situated in the direction that Turner was heading were large brick buildings. Enormous copper pipes stuck out of the tile roofs, and a grime clung to almost everything. The poor--where she and Kline would end up if she didn't solve this problem--were gathered around vents from which Vapor gassed into the sky. Their ragged clothing was covered in the same soot as the buildings, giving them a dingy, gray appearance. Turner had headed to the necessary sin of every floating city-state: the Vapor ward. These massive industries were needed to keep the cities afloat. Without them and their processing of the Vapor updrafts over which they were built, no city could stay in the sky. The place would sink and everyone on it would die. But they were toxic. The process of capturing, refining, and utilizing the Vapor--which was then piped throughout the rest of the city, warming the air and providing energy to the citizens--created pockets in each city-state of ruined health and wealth. It was the sorry cost of progress and survival. Not everyone could wear beautiful corsets with cute hats. Some had to go without…and sometimes, that also meant they would go without food. Abigaile knew this world better than most. It was the type of living she'd had before she'd met Kline. A world of disease, filth, and violence, one where her skill with self-preservation was only eclipsed by the darkness of the deeds she'd had to do to keep alive. Turner was leading her into the worst of her memories, the blackness of her mistakes and fears. If only for that reason alone, Abbi wanted to kill the man. Summoning what courage she could, Abbi took a deep breath, the fetid stink of a slum slinking into her nostrils and threatening to pull her back into the dark world she'd left behind. No, she wouldn't let the fears of that faraway place loom free in this one. Yes, the slum was similar--familiar, even, in the way that despair is always familiar to those who have to experience it--but it wasn't her old home. That place was gone, sunken into the poison of the World Below. This was Lolling Greens' sin, the piece of their soul they sacrificed to continue to be. Survival always came at the death of something else. She shook herself slightly. Abbi needed to find Turner, contact Kline, and get free. For now, that was her only goal. (1893) Kline
To assuage his conscience, Kline dropped a couple of cogs from his purse on the way out the door, but he didn't spend too many ticks on thinking about Mavin. She was obviously a competent apothecary, though he must have worked with an assistant or something when he was last here; he didn't remember anything about Mavin, and he felt certain he would have at least recalled the minute detail that she couldn't see. He didn't remember everything, but he would have recalled that. He and Abbi scurried along, their pace brisk. "If he's here, he's likely looking to do one of two things: Fence the Vapor, or find a ride." "Why is he here, though?" asked Abbi, wincing a little and gripping her forearm to comfort it. "I'm not complaining, mind you." Kline grimaced. "I wondered the same thing. There are only three reasons for coming to Lolling Greens: You live here, you tend the gardens, or you aren't supposed to be here." Abbi grunted. "I remember someone saying that they live the high life here." "Yeah, emphasis on high. Dreg abuse is pretty common around here, but it's all high quality. No one gets a second-hand buzz from Vapors, if you know what I mean." Abbi nodded. "What do you think we should do, then?" "We could split up," he said, "and cover more ground." His wife snorted. "Right. The last time we had to separate, I didn't almost fly off our home." "Oh. Right." He hadn't forgotten, necessarily, but he certainly hadn't considered the fight on the airship as "splitting up". But Abbi had a point. "Okay, well, we can sit and wait here at the north dock." "What makes you think he'll go through here?" "Same reason we docked here: Mobbers don't control this section." "How do you know that?" Kline opened his mouth to respond, but instead turned his head. A movement behind him had caught his eye, and his nerves were tight enough to give him some extra paranoia. Frowning, he looked about. The street was unremarkable; a couple of wheeled pods trundled away in the distance. A half dozen or so people peppered the sidewalk. Two lovers leaned against an ivy-coated brick wall, she with her lace parasol propped pertly on her shoulder, he with his white and yellow pinstripe suit shining in the sunlight. Farther away, a mother pushed a pram with a child about her heels, her somber black dress a distinct contrast to the lovers' brighter whites. An overweight businessman, his thick chops bristling, stomped toward Abbi and Kline, not as though he were pursuing them, but because they were in front of him. In short, everything looked normal. "Kline?" Abbi stopped, following his look. "Kline, what is it?" "I…I don't know. Something doesn't seem right." She glanced from person to person, no doubt considering them in a similar way to what he had done himself. After a long moment, she said, "I agree." "What is it, though?" She shook her head, then glanced up. "Hey," she said softly. "Hold on a tick." Kline jerked his gaze upward in time to see blinds close rapidly behind an apartment window on the second floor. Abbi took a step toward it. "Abs?" "I thought…I thought I saw him." "Who?" asked Kline, his heart starting to thump in surprise. Could it be that easy? Had she found… "Turner." Kline smiled. Sometimes he could be fortunate. He thanked the Cogmaker under his breath and followed his wife toward the apartment. Walking up the steps to the brownstone's door, his hand lightly brushing the verdure on the railing, he said in a low voice, "Are you sure?" "No. His face was originally smeared with oil or something. But that's the thing, the face I saw was in the shadows. But I feel like it was familiar enough…" The door was locked, so Kline thumped it loudly. "No reason to be subtle," he said around a nervous smile. The idea of finally catching the man--of getting back their raw Vapor, selling it off, getting the cogs they needed to reorient their lives--made him twitchy. The idea that they could be finished--that their hectic scurrying about the world trying to straighten everything out…that was appealing. And if they could capture him alive, maybe the mobbers would forgive some of his and Abbi's indiscretions toward them. Who knew? Kline knocked again, harder than before. "Maybe it's the wrong one," he said, not sure of what else to say. Abbi tipped her head back, regarding the building. "No, I think it's…" "Now, chums!" came a voice from behind them. Instinct, luck, and his current paranoia had put Kline on alert, so he was already turning toward the street when he heard the shout. He dove forward, catching Abbi by the shoulders, slamming her tin-encased back against the railing, and falling head-first into the thick bushes that grew in between the brownstone's stairs. Gunfire erupted around them, blasting into the wooden door, shattering the glass in the bay windows, and ricocheting off the stone façade. Puffs of green sprayed up from wherever the bullets struck the ivy. Aloud, Kline could only repeat the phrase, "Stop shooting! Stop shooting! Cogs, stop it!" He wasn't sure, but he thought he heard Abbi saying the same thing. The thick branches tore at their exposed skin as they tried to work their way lower, flinching whenever a stray bullet burst past them, sending the hedge into convulsions. More than one painful cut on his face and arms came through the lurching descent toward the ground. By the time they'd finished worming their way to the dirt, the firing had stopped. Hunkered in a hollow of the hedges, Abbi looked at her husband, her eyes wide and blood glistening in a half-dozen marks, scratches, and cuts. "What in the broken gears of the hells was that?" she hissed. He shook his head and blinked to get a twig free of his eyelashes. "Come on! Move in! Be quick about it!" Three different sets of footsteps tromping up the brownstone stairs came next. "In!" This voice was deeper than the others. Kline glanced up, his view mostly obscured by the foliage. He saw the businessman, red in the face, rear back with one meaty leg and kick the door. With a snap, the lock burst free. The businessman winced, massaging his leg as the yellow-pinstriped lover rushed over the threshold. Kline's eyes widened when he saw the female lover take up a guard position in front of the broken brownstone. She rested her hands on the handle of the now-retracted parasol. "What's going on?" whispered Abbi as the sounds of the two men stomping up the stairs echoed out of the door. Piercing screams, the sounds of weapons firing, and a heavy thump, as though a body had dropped to the floor, came out next. "Cog's blood, I can't see anything!" "Shh!" He put a finger to his lips. The sentry woman, her white petticoats swirling about her ankles as she casually twisted, watching the street with a bland expression, as though it were perfectly normal to be standing in holiday clothes in front of a gun-shot riddled brownstone with the door kicked in. She pursed her brown lips together and whistled a familiar tune, though Kline couldn't figure out what it was. He knew it would bother him if he didn't think of it, but he pushed the thought aside. He had other things to do with his mind. A moment later, a shout reverberated. Above them, glass shattered. Both he and Abbi flinched, while the woman in petticoats fell against the wall in surprise. A body dropped to the concrete, landing with a loud grunt and rolling out onto the blue cobbles. "That's Turner!" said Abbi, her voice loud in his ear. He looked at the man, irritated to notice that he had his beard trimmed in almost the same style as his own. "His cravat is hideous," said Kline, squinting at the way the blue clashed with the green of the vest. Abbi didn't answer, too busy trying to pull herself free of the hedges. "Come on!" Before he could reply, the petticoat woman shouted, "Stop right there, you duster!" Turner bit his knuckle in a rude gesture and scrambled to his feet. He had fallen out of a three-storey window and landed in a lump, yet seemed remarkably unfazed. "Shoot him!" came a cry from above. Kline couldn't see who had spoken, but he assumed it was the businessman. "Oi!" shouted the woman, raising her umbrella and pointing it at Turner. She wrenched the shaft, making the parasol expand, then a bright blast of sound and light erupted from the end. "Clever girl," said Kline under his breath. He'd never thought of hiding a gun inside a parasol before. He wished he were that original. "Come on!" said Abbi, snagging him by the arm. "If she kills him, we won't be able to trade him to the mobbers!" Her words pulled him out of his stupor. Turner was already halfway down the block, the shots from the parasol-gun going wide. "We've other runners!" yelled the woman as Abbi left the hedge, her respirator tube getting caught in the branches, which she had to tug free. "Come down!" As she shouted, she was furiously reloading the parasol. Kline decided not to be close when that went off. Instead, Kline chased after his wife, who chased after the man who had robbed them, all the while wondering at the insanity that his life had become. (1605) Abigaile
Lolling Greens was built with the idea of what was in the World Below. Of course, no one knew for certain what the terrain beneath the endless cloud line looked like, but there was a sense that it was filled with verdure and rocks. Those two ideas never worked for Abbi. How could something as unyielding as stone mesh with the pliancy of a plants? And how would animals survive among such a paradox? She knew enough about birds to picture them as being a part of the world, delicate yet strong, swift and light, but how they fit into a world of stones and greenery she couldn't imagine. It felt more like fantasy than reality. At any rate, Lolling Greens took the possibility of stone and greenery seriously. Buildings were draped with green, sure enough. Some of them leaned one way or another, which so far as she could judge, gave a sense of lolling. But, in her estimation, it wasn't quite there. She seemed to remember that Kline had mentioned something about the place one time--he'd visited a time or two before--but she couldn't recall his feelings on the place. She had been right about the air, though, and that was a relief: The city-state was rich enough to keep the atmosphere comfortable through Vapor venting. That much, at least, was well done, even if the city planning wasn't as consistent to its theme as its name claimed. Walking south from the port where they'd docked, Abbi walked up the stairs from the hub and took in the sight of the oddly shaped buildings. Some had a spiral sensibility to them, while others looked like the trunks of trees. The roads meandered, and were coated with a blue enamel that made the cobbles look like the ripples of running water. The sidewalks were scrubbed clean, a white varnish over it to help with the feeling of--if she remembered her history books correctly--shorelines. Shores, of course, were the areas where the vastness touched the small. In that way, the port was like a shore for the cloud line, an idea that also boggled her mind. The possibility of having as much water as clouds seemed ludicrous. "This place is nicer than I remember," said Kline softly, looking around. The greenery on the buildings draped down, but it all seemed like the same greenery. A type of vine, it looked like to Abbi, but she couldn't judge what type. "I'm impressed," said Abbi. "I mean, they could use a little variety, I think, in the plant life. But other than that." "Yeah." Kline nodded. He took her hand in his and they interwove their fingers. "Come on. There's an apothecary nearby, if I don't miss my guess." "Why do we need medicine?" He gestured at her. "Your arm? Your face?" "Is there something wrong with my face?" she said, feigning shock. "Of course not!" "Then why are we going to an apothecary?" "Why do people put money in a bank?" She gave him a confused look. "I don't follow." "To protect what they value." "Ah, so you only value me for my looks, huh? What'll happen in a thirty years when I get saggy all over the place? What then?" "They're making all sorts of supportive fabrics these days. I'm sure they'll have something new to help you out," said Kline, his eyes sparkling. Abbi thought of pushing the joking further, but decided to simply play along. "Well, I am satisfied. I'm glad that there's a way to keep you treasured in my heart." "Of course there is," said Kline, squeezing her hand. "Locked there forever, I am." She chuckled and leaned closer. It felt good, after all the stress they'd been pushing through, to have a moment of levity. Even if it felt somewhat inappropriate in the aftermath of the destruction and fear, humor had always been a part of their relationship. If she lost that, she'd know that she had lost him. They only got turned around once before finding the apothecary. As they entered, bell above the door jangling, Abbi had to blink against the glaring brightness. The shop was small--not much bigger than their living space on the airhome--and was essentially a couple of seats in front of a low table, a third chair on the opposite end. Both oil- and Vapor lamps illuminated the store, some of which burned with a white flame that made the entire place feel unnatural, somehow. The walls were adorned with Dregs of all sorts of colors, almost none of which she recognized. Kline probably understood more of them, as that was more his style. Now, if they'd gone into an ammunition store, that would have been a different case. As it stood, however, this was definitely more his expertise than hers. The apothecary entered from a door in the back. Because the door had shelves for the vials of Dregs, Abbi didn't even recognize it as such. The apothecary was dressed exactly as she expected. She wore a broad hat, the band about it filled with a quill, a bottle of ink, a pad of parchment papers, and what looked like an abacus. She wore a beaked gasmask that completely covered her face. Dark goggles--far darker than what Abbi or Kline wore--prevented Abbi from seeing any aspect of the woman's face. Abbi couldn't even tell what color skin the woman had--everything was covered. Shrugging the ulster overcoat--which was lined with a lace that looked like cogs--the apothecary wriggled her fingers deeper into the thick gloves she wore. An apron, coated with pockets, pouches, and bags, bulged with vials, raw crystalized Vapor, and other sundry items that Abbi could only guess at. Thick boots, laced with chains that connected to the thick trousers she wore, clumped on the clean, white-washed floor. "You need some help for your nose," said the apothecary by way of introduction, her face muffled but still feminine sounding. Abbi glanced at Kline, who looked back at her, surprise pulling over his face. "Uh," he said. Abbi reached up and touched the tender spot on her nose. "Yeah, I guess." "Your arm, too? Contusions and bruises over both of you." She tipped her head--an unnerving gesture, so far as Abbi was concerned--at Kline before saying, "You have too much stress built up in your shoulders. If you want to avoid pulling a muscle in your back due to overcompensation, I recommend a salt bath and at least one day of minimal activity." "Thanks," said Kline, keeping his composure at the accuracy of the diagnosis--how the apothecary knew that Kline kept his stress in his shoulders baffled Abbi, and it was obvious Kline felt the same way--and gesturing with his hand, "but we're not really here for that." "Oh?" The apothecary looked slightly taken aback, the beak of her gasmask quivering a little at the tip. "Are you sure? I've an unction that could restore almost all the lost skin on your nose, madam." "I wouldn't mind--" "Here." The apothecary began pacing her shop, producing a pestle from beneath her ulster cloak, uncorking various ingredients, pouring in precise amounts, mixing them without hesitation or the removal of her gloves, and adding a drop of a Dreg that Abbi didn't catch the color of. Without pausing, the apothecary began grinding the concoction together with a mortar that she pulled from some other pouch. "We can speak while this is made." "Um," said Abbi, still unsure, "it seems like you already know everything I need." "Only for your health," said the apothecary. "My name is Mavin O'clively, by the way." "Kline." "Abigaile, but I go by Abbi." "You smell like the kind of person who would have a truncated name." Abbi frowned. "I do?" Mavin sniffed a little. "Yes. Absolutely." "Um…okay." Kline cleared his throat. "I appreciate the help, Mavin." "Of course. On the house." Abbi blinked. "Oh! Why, thank you!" "I get the scent that you're needing more than just a daub for your nose, though, my love," said Mavin, wiping the mortar against a spotted towel that hung at her side. She pulled out a slender brush, wiped the oily concoction on the tip, and then applied it to Abbi's nose. It smelled like weeds, musk, and stale bread, burned like a fire, then all of it faded. Her nose went numb. Curious, she reached up to touch it. "Don't!" said Mavin, setting the pestle on the table. "Give it a few hours to fully soak in before touching. You'll be well in a day, I daresay." She gestured to the arm. "That, however, smells like it's a lot worse." "Yes, well," said Kline, "we're a bit short on cogs, you see. There has been some trouble--" "--elsewise, you wouldn't be in such a stench," said Mallery. "Let's spit it out, then: You need someone to patch you up. You don't have a lot to spare. You need to set up a payment plan or somehow figure out a way to con the blind woman out of her hard work. Am I reading this all right?" Abbi's mouth dropped. "You're blind?" "Hard of sight, I prefer. I can see there are two of you, and you're blurry." "Do you think if your goggles weren't so dark…" began Kline. "No! Cogs, man, the only way I can see is with these! They help block out the light." Abbi raised a hand in question, but then stopped. She was arguing with a blind woman about how she kept excess light out of her eyes? It took Abbi a moment to realize that her life had become much stranger than she ever anticipated. Kline, too, seemed done asking questions that didn't help them. "We're not trying to con you at all. We were robbed ourselves, and now we're hunting the robber. Can you help us get back on our feet? We'll pay what we can." "What's that in your pocket?" asked Mavin by way of answering. "Huh?" He glanced down, then pulled out the vial with Turner's tooth in it. "This?" "I've smelled that before!" Abbi privately doubted that. The tooth was in a sealed vial--how could she smell anything about it? Then again, Dregs could do strange things, and the woman obviously knew how to use them. She'd put together the healing balm without hesitation, after all. "Yes, well…" Kline shifted on his feet, nervous. "Could you…I don't know, do you know where you smelled it?" "Here!" Abbi felt her skin prickle. "Wait, here here? As in, Turner was in this store?" "Of course! Not more than a couple hours ago." Kline's mouth dropped in surprise. Abbi had the presence of mind to follow up with the logical question: "What was he doing here?" "Listen, folks, I don't like discussing client's choices on purchases, if you catch my meaning. It's bad for business." "I understand," said Abbi, trying to keep from grabbing Mavin by her lapels and shaking her. "I do. I am not asking what he was buying…I was wondering what he was doing." "What he did was buy things, girl," said Mavin. "Look, he had some raw Vapor. It was so strong I couldn't smell hardly anything more than that. He was upset that his ride out of here left without him, and he wanted to pass the time buying something that would help him. Okay? I won't say more than that." The chill that had swept over Abbi returned. "He's still here?" "In Lolling Greens?" asked Kline. "Yes," said Mavin, nodding. "I believe so. Now, can I set you up with a tincture for your arm, madam? The free sample is all well, but…" Abbi and Kline didn't hear the rest of the request; they were already out the door, the bell jangling loudly overhead. (1987) Abigaile
Guiding the airhome always made her nervous. Now that it was in such disrepair, her body throbbed in too many ways to count, and the chaos of the last few days hammered in her mind, she found it almost too much work. When Kline returned fifteen minutes later, his clothes icy and smelling like the frigid air, she handed over the controls in relief. "We caught it in time," he said as he settled himself at the console. "I wrapped up the most exposed pipes and rerouted what I needed to." He shook his head. "It's a mess, though. Are you sure you're okay?" "I'm as fine as you'd expect," said Abbi as she shuffled into the kitchen are, "considering the fact that our home is almost dead, we have no food, and the one thing that could pay to fix it all was stolen by the idiot who put us in this mess." Kline bobbed his head thoughtfully. "When you put it that way…" Abbi sighed as she pulled out a loaf of bread and began to saw a chunk free. They had some warm cheese around here that would go with it. She triggered a burner to heat up the stove, but the drain on the Vapor quickly became apparent. "Well, never mind that," she said and clicked off the stove. "I guess we'll eat it cold." Kline nodded, obviously distracted by keeping the airship on course. Abbi carved out another generous helping of bread, a weighty slice of warm cheese, and put it on a tin plate. She set it next to her husband, then tucked her legs under herself on the couch as she began to eat. Neither spoke for a long time. "What's your hope for Lolling Greens?" asked Abbi at last, her eyes on the fading sunset that fingered the top of the airhome through the narrow windows. "I mean, you don't have any friends there, do you?" "You mean, like Yanson?" She snorted and shook her head. "None of your friends can even come close to a man like Yanson." The man's face misting in a red cloud flashed through her memory. Cringing, she tried to tuck that thought away, only to have the feeling of Tonia cracking against Chasley's skull resurface. That gave way to the emptiness she felt at having kicked the mobber into airspace. The terror on his face painted itself on the inside of her eyes whenever she closed them, yet what could she do? That battle was over. She'd won. She frowned. "Wait, Kline?" "Yeah?" He, too, appeared lost in thought, gently stroking the clean shaven part of his chin beneath his lower lip. "We didn't kill the mobbers at Yanson's, did we?" He paused. "We tried to. Maimed them, that's for sure." "Yes, but we technically only killed off one of their men. And they killed one of our friends." "Are you trying to do an algebra of mobber retribution?" She squirmed. "I don't see how we're going to get them off our backs, Kline. They're mobbers. Their job is to extort, intimidate, and use violence to help their boss." "Ralle." "Yeah." She sighed. "I don't see how we're supposed to make peace with them." "It's pretty easy," said Kline as he eased back on the throttle, slowing the already painful pace of the airship. "We find Turner and turn him over to them." Abbi's eyes bulged. "You want to what?" Kline fished around in his vest, then pulled out a vial. "I still have the tooth." "The tooth?" "This is how the mobbers tracked Turner, remember? They thought it was still in his head." "Oh. Right." In all that had happened, some of the details of the previous few hours had slipped from her mind. "I believe that if we can figure out how they're using this to track Turner, we can do the same thing." "And what will we do when we find Turner?" "Barter him." Abbi frowned. "In exchange for what?" "Our freedom from mobber wrath." "Won't they kill us and take Turner instead?" Kline opened his mouth, then stopped. "Oh." Abbi sighed. "It's not out of the realm of possibility, I suppose." Kline put the vial back in his vest pocket, then focused on the docking at Lolling Greens. This took a touch longer than usual, simply because the docking mechanism was bent after the mobbers had given them such grief. Kline managed to get it to work, but Abbi realized that their airhome was likely beyond repair. Of course, buying a new one was beyond their means. Hopelessness threatened to take over, but Abigaile took a deep breath and refused to listen to the worry. Sure, things looked bleak right now, but so what? She'd had hard times. Much of her life had been fighting to stay alive. Yes, she and Kline had found a fairly comfortable living, but it wasn't foreign to her to have to battle against the difficulties of the world. She had done it before. She could do it again. This time, at least, she had Kline. So long as she had him, Abbi also had the will to survive. Stepping into the bedroom, Abbi began to assemble something to wear. If they were going into Lolling Greens, she didn't want to look the mess she felt. Clothes had always been a way for her to escape her stresses anyway. But, because of her arm, she decided to go with something more practical than her usual. Deciding on warm leggings with a half-skirt over the top, Abbi attached her second favorite belt, one with enough pouches to hold a couple of stashes of ammo for the girls, plus empty hoops for Dregs vials. These she selected from the Dreg cupboard, picking out Hype, Precision, and Puissance. None of these was particularly tasty, and she hated the idea of relying on Precision any more--after her scare with Kline, Abbi was reluctant to put too much stock in Dregs. But it was better to go in prepared. If she and Kline had been thinking ahead, a lot of this probably wouldn't have happened. Abbi pulled on a self-sealing corset, the gears in the front letting her control the tightness in the back. This one she selected in part because of its tin-based construction beneath the leather covering. It made it hard to bend over, yes, but it also acted like armor. Plus, it only went up to just below her breasts, making it interfere less with her arm movement. She pulled an arm stocking over her left arm--hissing and wincing the entire while--to hide the bandages, but left her right arm free. The holsters went on before she put on her tall boots, which were also controlled by a gear mechanism that tightened it remotely. She arranged her hair around the goggles, then she painfully pulled the winged respirator she'd worked on earlier. The mask attached to her chemise. Feeling better for the effort, she stepped out just as Kline finished his meal. "I'm going to change, too," he said, "and then we'll go in." He paused, looking at her. "You look good." She managed a smile. "I don't feel it." "But that's why you dressed this way, right? So you would?" Abbi laughed a little. "Yeah." He smiled back, then stepped into the bedroom. He emerged a moment later, dressed in her favorite black outfit--pinstripe shirt and matching pants, pistol holster on his right hip, a bowler hat, a bronze vest connected to his pocket- and vial-laden belt, and his punchgun pouch--adjusting his goggles about his neck. "Shall we?" "Where will we go?" she asked, double checking her guns and that her respirator was in place. She helped Kline into his. Most of Lolling Greens was probably warm enough through Vapor-steam atmospheric changes to keep them from needing their breathers, but she was tired of being unprepared. "I need a wireless amplifier," he said, looking into the distance as he adjusted the straps of his respirator. "Why?" asked Abbi. "I think that'll help me find the signal that the mobbers used. Once we have that, we'll be able to find Turner." "And if he's not at Lolling Green?" She shot a dubious eye around their airhome. "We won't be able to get anywhere else. And what about Ralle? He's over on Colature. If we're going to talk to him about what's going on, we'll have to fix our home." "I don't disagree, Abbi, but this is the only thing I can think of to do." He sighed. "I guess I'm saying, one step at a time, Abs. One step at a time." He looked her in the eye. She took comfort in his calm presence and the fact he had made a choice. While she didn't fully agree with his hope, she knew it was a good step, and, at this point, any movement was a good thing in general. If she slowed down anymore, she didn't know how she'd get back up. "Are you ready?" he asked. Abbi took a deep breath. She needed sleep, she needed to rest. But if the mobbers were on their trail, they didn't have time for either luxury. The bread and cheese would have to be enough. "I guess so." Together, they exited the airhome and stepped into the hub of Lolling Greens. (1567) Kline
It felt as though he didn't breathe until Abbi woke up. He had her comfortable on the bed, her injuries bound (though the touch of frostbite on her nose had him worried; he loved her little snub nose and hated the thought of it being scarred because he'd done something stupid like going to Yanson's), and a cup of tea slowly losing steam next to her. Unfortunately for Kline, he couldn't spend his time looking at her longingly. The airhome was in bad shape--worse than he'd seen it in all his years there--and it required constant coaxing and helping to keep it on track. Of course, it didn't help that he had to stay low. The mobbers could have dispatched some additional pods to scour the skies, waiting for them to rise above the cloud line. With the entirety of the horizon to hide in, he and Abbi could be hit before they even knew they were sighted. As a result of his precautions, the airship struggled even more. The Vapors below the cloud line were thick, and it gummed up the engine. Usually, the Vapor-steam engine could absorb moisture from the air and, as it did so, scoop in all the Vapor it needed to keep the process going by which the airhome stayed afloat. Here, though, the Vapor was too concentrated. If they stayed in the thick of things for too long, the air recyclers would clog and they'd start breathing poisons. Mix with that the water pressure problems, the structural damage to the body of the craft, and the exhaustion that he felt, Kline was barely able to think straight. Surprisingly, the fatigue pulled heavily on him. More than once he drifted off, only to start awake when a clank from the engine or a yawning to one side snapped him back to the present. Abbi's injuries didn't help quiet his mind, either, which made it hard to concentrate on what he was doing. The injury on her arm he knew came from Yanson's office--and he had to push away the grief that tugged on him, knowing that the eccentric man had deserved a better end than the one he got--but the rest were a mystery. Abbi had been unconscious since dropping to the floor some three hours ago, and Kline didn't dare leave the engine room for too long to check on the state of the greenhouse. At last, he decided he had to risk creeping up. He didn't have strong enough bearings to know exactly which heading they ought to take, and he was tired of flying blind. If he could get out of the Vapors, his instruments could give him a stronger sense of where he was. Night would be there soon, and he could use the stars to get a better bearing. Then it would be a hale helping of luck that would get them to the closest repair shop. The old airhome groaned as he pulled the appropriate levers to begin the ascent. Detaching the mainsail had been a desperate move--a necessary one, to drop the way he had and let the two pods thump each other (which he could still barely believe had worked)--and the loss of that forward momentum meant that climbing was harder than it should have been. But until he was clear of the Vapors, Kline couldn't lash down the sail--yet another complication to an already overly complicated situation. The stress of coaxing the airhome upward bunched in the small of his back, which began to ache fiercely. He couldn't really put any additional attention to it, but the distraction was certainly there. Each sense was needed to ensure a successful ascension: his ears, to let him know when the engine needed to be throttled down; his touch, to feel the trembles through the wheel and controls that told him of the stresses in the airhome; his sight, to check the instruments and their various readouts, some of which he knew were faulty (water pressure, for example, claimed to be over a thousand pounds psi, but he couldn't believe that); his smell, to notice the distinct scent of Dregs leaking through pipes (an indication that the vapor was solidifying inside the house, which would be an irreparable problem); and even his taste, which sometimes happened before smell, particularly if the Dreg buildup was too rapid. Like copper in his mouth and the back of his throat, he could always tell when Vapor was condensing. That's what made him a good cloudfarmer. The ship rose, the process taking longer than he would have preferred, but finishing with them as the sunlight was, indeed, fading beneath the cloudsea in front of him. He blinked as the windows allowed the golden-orange light in, the array nearly blinding him with the reflections in the mirrors. He shifted the angle of the airhome in order to give him a better view all around, and he was pleased to see that there weren't any bogies the he had to worry about. Yet. The mobbers were notoriously vengeful, and he knew that his escape hadn't endeared him to the men. Plus he still had the tooth--a necessary risk, if he wanted to find Turner--increasing the risk that the mobbers could track him down. He could only hope that whatever signal the tooth emitted would have been scrambled by the Vapors, as had all of his more delicate instruments. Being above the cloud line gave him eyes again, as it were. He could see, get his bearings, and recognize his location. They weren't far from Lolling Greens, a city-state that he had visited a couple of times. It didn't live up to its name, in his opinion. Oh, it was green enough, as he recalled, but the idea that they were lolling seemed to be a generous reading of the definition of the word. Still, there was a dock on the northward side that was known for being clean--mobber spies weren't likely to be there. And if he remembered correctly, there was an apothecary nearby that would be able to help out Abbi. Any other plans beyond that would have to wait. "Where are we?" asked a tired voice behind him. So preoccupied with his thoughts, Kline started at the sound, his entire body jerking hard enough to cause the airhome to lurch in response. He corrected as his heart tried to resume its previous pace. "Abbi, Cogmaker, you scared me." "Sorry." She sounded dazed still. "I'm confused where we're headed." "Lolling Greens." She made a face and padded to the couch, which was in front of the control station. She flopped down, the cold tea in her hand. It sloshed into the saucer, but she didn't seem to notice. "Are you doing okay?" "Hmm?" She blinked, her eyes wide but bloodshot. "Are you sure you should be up? You seem pretty beat up." She snorted. "I feel beat up." "But you're okay?" She nodded. "I'm well enough. Tired, though. And everything hurts." Kline forced a little smile. "Well, I got some additional information," he said, diving into a quick explanation of the information he had gleaned from the mobber who had hailed his wireless. "At least we know that, if we find Turner, we could--maybe--barter for the mobbers to get off our back." "We killed four of their men." Abigaile spoke with a deadpan tone that she only used when he said something that contradicted what he should have already known. He frowned. "Wait, four?" "Two at Yanson's," she said, holding up the appropriate number of fingers. "Yeah," said Kline, "and one of the pods went down. I saw that. The other recovered well enough to return." Abbi widened her eyes in disbelief at him, and Kline knew he was missing something. "I'm at a loss," he said at last. "We killed more people?" He knew he should feel greater guilt at that confession, but it didn't really come. The fact was, they had killed his one-time friend, attacked him and his wife, and had nearly destroyed his home. Sympathy was nice, but he didn't really believe it should be extended in every situation. "I killed the intruder, you duster!" He knew she was hurt, tired, or both, using language like that. "Oh." He nodded his head. "Right." Then he paused. "Wait, I don't think you've told me what happened up there." Abbi winced and shifted in her seat, setting down the teacup. "Problems," she said, then launched into a recitation of events. He began to piece together some of his experiences with hers. It now made sense why he hadn't been able to turn over the engine when he'd expected--she'd been trying to save the water system. Of course, that was some time ago… Kline felt the blood drain from his face. "Oh, shitflies," he said. "Hey, that's my swear word," said Abbi, rubbing her temples. "The water!" "I told you," said Abbi, speaking slowly as much because her head no doubt hurt her as because she always spoke slowly when Kline was being obtuse. "I turned it on." "I know, but you remember why you shut it off?" asked Kline, hurrying away from the console and gathering up his respirator, his heavy clothing, and a harness. "To keep the pipes from freezing…oh, shitflies," she said as she realized the problem. "Hold our course. If our bearings are true, we're only about thirty minutes from Lolling Greens. I'll tackle this." Abbi nodded, forcing her tired body off the couch and, wincing, made her way to the console. He knew she didn't like piloting the airhome if she could avoid it, but she would be fine, so long as they were on course. Sweat had already begun to percolate in the warmth of the living quarters, but Kline knew his thick coat and leather cap would help keep him safe from the wind once he went up. Arriving at the trapdoor, he double checked his tools, which hung from a utility belt he'd snagged on his way up the tight spiral staircase. Taking his last deep breath of non-respirator air, Kline opened up the trapdoor and was greeted by an icy blast of air. Summoning all his energy, he set about fixing the problem. (1723) Abigaile
Fingers stiff with the cold, Abbi tried to twist the valve on the water filtration system. The cold air cut through her thin chemise so well that she may as well have been wearing nothing, though the idea of the mobber staring at her while topless was enough of an embarrassment that she decided to be grateful for what she had. For his part, the mobber held his mangled arm and glared at her, his blood spraying off his shoulder in small red pellets that painted the garden wall against which he leaned. She could see he was losing a lot of blood--he probably would die of it soon, and he knew it. His face, pale and trembling, had a green tinge to it that made Abbi think perhaps he might die of shock, or perhaps the cold. It was irrelevant to her. "Do you want to die up here or not?" she shouted over the wind howling through the greenhouse. Their plants were dying, almost before her eyes, but she couldn't give up on the water. If that froze and the pipes burst, replacing the expensive plants would be the least of their worries. She had to get the system to drain, preserving the tank and its pipes, even if it meant spray the entire area with enough water to turn the entire greenhouse into an icicle. The mobber looked at her, then snorted and turned away, his eyes squinted against the wind. She adjusted her goggles. "Die, then," she mumbled. "I don't know why I spared you in the first place." "I have information," said the mobber as Abbi, with a grunt of exertion, twisted the valve to its open position. The water sprayed out in fits and bursts before a steady stream began to crystalize in the air. The water was chilling at an alarming rate; she voided the system barely in time. "What?" she asked, unsure if she'd heard correctly. "I have information," repeated the mobber, his eyes glassy. "If you h…help me." Gritting her teeth, she nodded, standing and working her way gingerly toward the wounded mobber. The frame of the greenhouse did little to cut the wind, and Abbi felt exposed by walking without her harness attached. She really out to do that… The thrum of the engine beneath her feet stopped. The snap of the sails being released startled her. In a panicked flash, she realized what she'd done. By cutting off the water, she'd sabotaged the Vapour-steam engine. Without the sails and the engine, they had no way of flying--and the airship tipped suddenly, nose down. As fast as she could, she turned and jumped, reaching out with both hands to grab the railing next to the silver, shimmering filtration system. The deck fell away from her as she did so, her fingers scarcely catching onto the slick, freezing metal pipe. Her left hand slid free--a shock of pain from the gouge she'd received at Yanson's office--but the right one snagged a dry enough patch to keep her grip. Then, she realized, she was falling, attached to the airship. A tug on her leg almost pulled her free. Shooting a frantic glance downward--or was it upward, since her legs were drifting heavenward?--she saw the mobber, holding on to her ankle with a bloody hand, his face a grimace of survival and desperation. Her shoulder screamed in protest, and it took all of her will not to join it. She couldn't afford the air. "Help me!" shouted the mobber, his blood-slicked hands holding on more because of the buttons on her boots than anything else. "I don't want to die!" "Let go!" she shouted back, wrenching her ankle a little. "I have information!" The mobber reached up with his mangled arm--the one her spray shots had hit when he'd tried to deflect Tonia--but it seemed as though the pain were too great. It flopped loosely to his side. It probably made quite the sight: A woman, dangling by one hand to her airhome, an invader caught on her ankle with a great view of her bloomers, all freezing as the airship dropped through the atmosphere. Above them a massive clang reverberated so loudly that Abbi's head spun. Only the icy metal, which had slightly stuck to her wet hands, kept her in place. The fire in her forearm was fading amid the adrenaline, but she could feel it tugging painfully, stretching a little. Eyes rolling, Abbi could barely make out the two pods above her, one spinning off rudderlessly behind them, the other falling away, plumes of dark smoke trailing after it. The mobber watched his mates' pods peel back. The chase was over. Beneath her, Abby could hear the Vapor-steam engine try to start up again, coughing and chugging only to die. They needed water. "Sorry, mate," she said. "Join your buddies." With a harsh kick, she knocked the mangled mobber off her leg. He screamed as the wind tore him away, cracking him sharply against a piece of the copper frame. He scrambled to grab it, but was pulled away too quickly. He fell behind them, the wind carrying his shrieks into Abbi's ears as she worked to save them. The release of the mobber made her gasp in relief. She now had the strength to get a grip with both hands, then one elbow around the piping. Sparing a glance at the arm wound, she decided she didn't have the luxury to worry about it right now, and told herself to stop whining about it. Abdominal muscles burning, she pushed against the fierce wind, curling up into a smaller target and getting her knees beneath her again. The clouds whipped by, fogging her vision, despite her dark goggles. The seams attaching her bustle finally burst, and the fabric unraveled in a flag behind her. "I liked that bustle," she said to no one. She didn't have time to worry about her fashion, either, since the water was still spraying, the engine still choking, and her airhome still falling. Priorities. An armlength away, wound tightly to the joint of the railing that ran along the filtration system, was a tether. Abbi didn't have a full halter set up, but she did have her emergency belt. It would be better than nothing. Pushing against the wind, she kept her hand flat and more aerodynamic so as to get it closer to the tether. It was something she'd learned from studying old accounts of birds. They'd all died when the planet had gone toxic--though they could soar over the clouds as humans did, they needed a place to land. Mankind had brought the earth up with themselves, but the birds could never understand that. Still, there was a lot of information about the animals, and Abbi had always found their design captivating. She had never thought that her study of the animal would somehow save her life, though. Close to the tether now, Abbi snatched the carabiner and pulled. It jammed. Gritting her teeth, she pulled again. No give. Frantic now, she tugged herself close enough to use both hands. This meant that she was no longer holding onto the frigid metal--and, frankly, she could hardly feel the metal anyway, her fingers were so cold--but it also meant that her balance was shifted. No longer crouched against the wall into which the railing was built, the angry wind picked her up and, like the tail of a kite, she rose into the air again. "Shii--i-i--" she started to swear, but the air was too thin and her energy too low. She couldn't make it if she didn't do something immediate. Then she saw the problem. The release on the tether was still on the locked position. Summoning all the courage and strength she had left, Abbi pulled herself to the tether's lock. Focusing on her breathing and the adrenaline that would help give her Dregs one last shot through her system, Abbi slapped down the brake, releasing the tether. Then she slowed time. The spool began to unwind. She felt the tension go slack. Fingers as stiff as ice, she worked open the carabiner, falling in slow motion. She had to use both hands for this, and that was the most frightening part. Abbi fell skyward, pushed up by the immense funneling of wind as the airhome plummeted, her only hope at survival rapidly--despite the Dregs--spinning free of its spool. If she held onto the tether only, the sudden stopping of her body at the far end would probably pop her shoulders free of their sockets. Then she'd fall for who knew how long, dead long before she inhaled too much of the toxic Vapors below. Dead before her body smashed into bloody pieces on the ground--whatever it looked like beneath the endless expanse of clouds that she'd come to see as the landscape of her home. All these thoughts swirled through her head before she'd passed the filtration system. She saw herself--cheeks pink from icy wind, mouth wide and frantic--in the reflection as she passed. She could count her freckles--there weren't many--if she wanted to. But she didn't. Abigaile wanted to survive. She had to survive. For Kline. For herself. She wasn't ready to die. The carabiner snapped in place. The tether went taut. Abbi screamed at the pain of the sudden stoppage. The last of the Dregs poured out of her, letting her perceive time normally again. Blinking against the agony in her body--and the distinct feeling that the emergency belt wasn't likely to last long--Abbi reached out and grabbed a thin pipe at the top of the system. From this angle, she could close the valve she'd worked so hard to open with a couple of kicks. The first missed entirely, opening up a shallow cut on her shin. She hissed and wished the pain away, which didn't happen as quickly as she would wish. A second kick closed the valve, its frigid spray soaking her petticoats, while the third sealed it. A moment later, the engine took. Out from each side, emergency wings fired out, their huge sails flapping furiously in the wind as the airhome began to pull out of its dive. Abbi slammed against the ground, a yelp of pain accompanying the arrival. Even though she was in a puddle of ice water, she only wanted to curl up and sleep. But she knew that wasn't safe. Disengaging the carabiner, she pushed through the knifing wind to the trapdoor. Cradling her arm in her hand, she worked the door open and slipped inside, nearly tumbling down the steep stairs. When she finally arrived in the living quarters, Kline didn't bother to look up. "Where have you been? Do you have any idea what I had to do to keep us alive?" She managed a rude gesture before she collapsed on the ground. (1838) Kline
Sweat coursed over him. With his array, it was easy to glance from mirror to mirror and see both pods weaving, trying to get close enough to land a solid thump on either side. By weaving slowly, he could keep the ship's sides at poor angles, making the thump either ineffective, or foolish. At best, however, it was a stalling tactic. If he didn't figure something out quickly, everything that he and Abbi had built would go down. The abyss of death loomed over his eyes. He had spent so much time these last few hours reacting, shooting, fighting back--indeed, surviving--that the result of a loss hadn't dawned on him. Now that he saw himself in a hopeless situation, his proximity to death--to falling into the Cogmaker's vast machine, to lose himself among all the gears of creation, to never speak with Abbi again, hear her laugh, watch her move out of the corner of his eye, breathless with the reality that she loved him back--tore at his heart and made it difficult to breathe. "Focus, Kline," he said to himself, ignoring the pressure on his chest. He glanced at the array again. The starboard thumper was coming in sharply, but so was the port. It didn't take much for him to realize what they were doing. If they both struck at the same time, the energy the thumpers pushed into his airhome would simply knock it to one side or the other--it would pulverize it, smashing it like a mechanical mosquito between their hands. The result would destroy the airship, sinking it through the billowing cotton beneath and into the Vaporous, toxic fumes that choked the world below. The pods themselves would probably sustain quite a bit of damage, if Kline guessed correctly, and it might even be difficult for them to reengage their gyroscoptics. In short, this might be a suicide attack. It had been only a couple of minutes since the last explosion abovedeck. He didn't know if Abbi was safe, if she was dead. Explosions are never good in an airship, and he thought he had heard the sound of a lot of glass breaking, too. Hopeless. Everything looked hopeless. The pods came in closer, darting near and then correcting, almost afraid he would try to ram them to keep them from striking together. "Waiting for the right moment, eh?" he asked under his breath. Sweat dropped into his eye, stinging. "Well," he said, flipping a couple of the override switches and readying his hand on the primary engine control lever, "so am I." Kline pulled a long strap free beneath the control, snapping the carabiner into a hook on his belt designed for this purpose. He knew there wasn't a lot of support--he wasn't dressed in his aviator clothes, which had an entire harness on which the strap could be affixed--but it would be something. "I hope you followed my advice, Abbi," he said, not knowing what else to do. The thought of her dying above him while he tried to save them made his stomach sour and heart throb with fear. He had to have faith in her, had to believe she could take care of herself. She was doing the same for him. His wireless crackled. "Y'hear me?" Kline flinched. The last attack had left him a little frazzled. He knew it was only a matter of time before any hit would be his last hit. "Who is this?" he asked, thumbing the radio with a flick of its switch. The bronze box hissed, the dark wire mesh that covered the speaker glinting in the light that drifted in through the airhome's windows. "Got ya! Finally." His mouth went dry. The mobber who had been attacking the door, who had been shouting at him through the lock, had hailed his frequency. That would explain why they hadn't attacked more viciously; they were trying to talk to him. "I don't know who you are," he said, his teeth grinding as he struggled to keep his battered home on a straight course, "but I don't appreciate what you're doing right now. I'd really like it if you'd stop." The wireless crackled and he thought he heard some laughter. "Mate, I understand your plight. But I should point out the rotten behavior you've demonstrated to me and m'pals. We came to claim something that you have, and what do you do? You kill off some friends, fail to let us into your house, and even execute a visitor in your greenhouse." The last bit caught Kline by surprise. Execute? Did that mean that Abbi had killed the invader? A flicker of hope crept inside of him. The idea that he wasn't completely lost, that there was something to hold on to, steeled him. "Uninvited guests aren't always treated with hospitality," Kline said, his hand still on the emergency release. "We have nothing for you." "You have someone that we're interested in. That's enough." Kline shook his head, confused. The other mobbers had mentioned that, too. "You mean Turner?" "Aye, that's the chap!" The voice on the other end of the wireless sounded pleased. "Glad you've figured it out. Look, all we want is what he has--and his sorry arse roasting--and we're content." He paused. "I mean, we'll still burn your house for what you did to Johmny and Chasley, but we'll spare your lives. That's pretty merciful, wouldn't you say?" Kline swallowed. It actually was merciful, so far as mobbers were concerned. They normally demanded sincere thanks if all they did was break some fingers. But he didn't have Turner. That probably wouldn't go over well. Then again, they didn't know that. They thought the guy who stole Kline's raw Vapor was still on board. "It is, mate," said Kline hardly daring to blink as he watched the two pods weave close, then far, close, then far. "It is merciful. But if you knock me down, you won't get Turner--or what he has." "That is a sad truth," said the mobber, "but an irrelevant one. It would be most lamentable if the duster didn't get the full extent of his punishment. However, my boss would rather justice than vengeance, so it's a sacrifice we can accept." "Damn," said Kline softly. He hadn't really thought the ploy would work. He decided to try out truth, see where that got him. "Well, I hate to disappoint you, but Turner isn't here." "Oh?" He shook his head, droplets of sweat beading on his brow. "Nope. I'm looking for him, you see. He has something that belongs to me. I'd like it back." There was a pause. "Nice try, friend, but I get a signal from him that he's very close by. On your deck, I'd be willing to say." Kline frowned. "What?" Involuntarily, he scanned the room. No, no one was there. Above him, he heard a loud clang, then silence. Abbi. If he could keep the mobbers talking, that might give her a chance to come back down. "Yup," the mobber was saying. "He's right there. I can see it." Kline looked at the starboard mirror. He could see the pilot of the pod just well enough to see him holding up an item and giving it a wiggle. It must be a scanner of some sort. But where was the signal coming from? Then he remembered. Yanson. His old protester friend--and the image of his face dissolving into a puff of red flashed through his memory--had thrust the tooth back into Kline's hands just as the mobbers had started their attack at his office. They were still tracking the tooth. They thought he still had Turner. "No! No, let me explain," said Kline, speaking fast. In a handful of words, he told the story. "So you see, he isn't here. False alarm on all fronts." There was silence as the mobber considered the story. "Well, here's the problem, mate. I think you're lying. You may not be, but if you are, it doesn't do me any good to let you go, savvy? I've a job to do, you see, and not doing my job isn't a good way for me to keep said job. You understand that, I'm sure. Now, if you're telling the truth, then I appreciate your honesty. Sadly, though, I still owe you for the men you've killed." "Wait!" "Turner has more teeth. If you were honest, I'll find him anyway. If you weren't, this is my chance to squish the bug." Kline felt panic strike his chest. He had let go of the lever to get closer to the wireless, but now resumed his position. Watching both mirrors with the corners of his eyes, Kline fingered the lever. He couldn't do it too early, because they would simply recalibrate and the entire process would fail. Too late, well…that would lead to a very squished airhome, and Kline wasn't a fan of that idea either. "Sorry, mate," said the mobber. "You sound a decent chap." Knowing he didn't have any more time, Kline committed. "Abbi," he prayed aloud, "I hope you're hanging onto something." The pods swerved in sharply. He pulled the lever as hard as he could. The Vapor-steam engine clanked to a stop. Above the sound of the rushing wind, he could hear the shrill hiss of cables breaking free and whipping about. The immense rush, like the exhalation of a giant, let him know the sails on the maindeck had detached. His stomach lurched into his throat as the airhome immediately started to plummet. As his world tipped, he felt his body rise sharply, the tether attached to his trousers keeping him from slamming into the ceiling. He heard the distinct pop of strained-past-breaking stitches, and the two thoughts that bustled around his head before the world erupted into noise, was one, that Abbi would be bugged she'd have to waste time fixing that, and two, Abbi would have to be alive to be bugged she'd have to waste time fixing that. The second thought gave him more hope. (1691) Abigaile
Cold. Yellow Precision was always cold on Abbi's tongue. Bitter, too. But having a little Precision cooking in her might help. Who knew what was waiting for her, how many people could be in the greenhouse or upperdeck? The airship jolted as Kline began maneuvers to try to shake their pursuers. He wasn't particularly successful, as the entire airship lurched to one side, the entire vessel trembling beneath a thumper's hit. Cussing under her breath, she slid the now-empty vial into its appropriate place on her belt. She realized that there was irony--some might say hypocrisy--for her to rail against Kline's use of Dregs while here she was willing to drink a full serving of five drops to take care of an intruder. But the situations were different. Besides, there was nothing wrong with taking Dregs, provided she kept the dosage to a safe limit. And five was at the tip of that limit. The Dregs helped her perceive reality differently. It varied on the Dregs she took, but when she focused on her breathing and had Precision in her system, it allowed her to absorb information at a reduced speed. Taken while sleeping, it would make her feel as though she'd slept longer; taken while awake, it was something different all together. Not wanting to use up the Dregs too quickly, Abigaile focused instead on moving quietly. The clamor of the engine drowned out a lot of her footsteps on the spiral staircase, its copper steps clanking ever so slightly. Reaching the trapdoor of the greenhouse, she eased open the lever and raised the door, peering out in all directions for anyone nearby. No one. Pushing it up and letting it down gently, she pulled herself up and, staying low, replaced the door, making sure to leave it unlocked. The last thing she needed was her escape route cut off. Prowling forward, Abbi worked her way through the greenhouse. It wasn't large, taking up only half of the total square footage of the airhome, but she and Kline had worked out a way to maximize the garden. The room, always warm as it sat above the Vapor-steam engine--plus had enormous windows to allow sunlight in--was also thick with moisture. That sometimes made the goggles she now wore about her neck to fog up, but she didn't worry about those yet. If she went outside, she would need them to keep her eyes from drying out in the wind. Here, however, the glass shielded her. Laid out in straight alleys, the tables with the various vegetables took up most of the space in the room. The tables were large boxes filled with topsoil, interspersed with copper pipes that ran water to the plants. Tubes, valves, and pump mechanisms at the end of each table regulated the water. To one side was the most valuable piece of equipment in the greenhouse, and possibly the entire airhome: The silver-lined water filtration system. That was the heart of the 'home, pumping life-giving water throughout the veins of the airship, including cooling water for the engine, culinary water for the kitchen, and irrigation water for the greenhouse. Pipes ran out to the side of the deck to collect water vapor that the filtration system then used to feed the system. Cloudfarming was dangerous, hard work, but it meant that they always had fresh, filtered water. Living so close to the cloudline below gave them that small luxury, at least. Abbi unholstered Tonia and checked to make sure she had remembered her bullet count: Ten. She took a deep breath. Firing in this room could be problematic. Breaking the window would ruin the greenhouse, spoil their food, and possibly break the filtration system. She adjusted the weapon to fire the spray shot. That, she hoped, would minimize any collateral damage. Moving stealthily down one aisle, she peeked around the corner, keeping her breathing as even as possible. She didn't need to accidentally trigger her Dregs. The aisle was clear. Abbi drew in a breath and crawled down the aisle to the next junction. Tables ran in both directions. Taking care not to show herself, she peered around one leg, glancing to her left and right as quickly as she could. Nothing. "Where are you?" she whispered to herself. Readjusting her grip on Tonia, Abbi scooted past the juncture, then headed to the next. To one side, she thought she heard another scuffled sound--a thump. Wiping the sweat that had started to bead on her forehead, she approached cautiously. The last thing she needed to do was blunder into something and have to shoot her way out. There were ways of handling this situation that wouldn't require blowing her glass greenhouse to pieces, and she wanted to pursue those options as well as she could. Out of the corner of her eye, Abbi caught a glimpse of something in the reflection of the silver plating on her water filtration system. Distorted by the angle, it wasn't perfectly clear, but Abigaile got the distinct impression of a person, hunkered low, a blowjack in his hand. Her hands went clammy at the thought. A blowjack? How'd he bring a monstrosity like that on board? If he had to clamber up the tail fin when he jumped from the dock to the deck, he had a strength that Abbi hadn't seen in a long while. Suddenly, she wished that she'd taken the wheel and let Kline come upstairs. The airhome shuddered beneath another impact. No, she would have been useless. She could sometimes get the 'home to do what she wanted, but most of the time, the best she could do was keep her going on a true course. Of the two problems, she was better qualified to deal with this one. If nothing else, the man may suspect she was there--he was squatting low, after all--but he didn't know if she'd actually arrived. She may be able to take him by surprise. That's when she noticed that he wasn't waiting for her. Instead, he was doing something…something to the filtration system. Abbi suppressed a shudder. If he damaged that system, the engine would seize, plummeting the ship. If it was only minor, it would, of course, affect the rest of their airhome--but why would he sabotage something if it meant that he would go down with them? Shaking off the motivations, Abbi realized that she didn't have the luxury of prowling forward and taking the man by surprise; she had to move, and move now. Abbi drew in her breath, focused on her lungs, on feeling them expand and then deflate as she inhaled and exhaled. The Dregs began to work, and she felt the world slow. She, too, moved slowly, but it was deliberate, competent. There wasn't anything that she didn't notice--the dust motes in the air, the smell of the plants, the humid warmth of the room, the tang of dust on her tongue. She could hear the mobber's hands scrambling against the smoothness of the filtration system. The tremors of the airhome as it sliced through the wind reverberated in the hair on her arms; the thrum of the Vapor-steam engine pulsed in time with her heartbeat. Running forward, Abigaile turned down the aisle, a shout of frustration bursting out of her, despite her desire to keep quiet. She couldn't help it. The mobber looked up, each movement slow, detailed. He saw her coming. His eyes widened, his jaw dropped. As though moving through water, she brought up her weapon. "Don't move!" she said, each syllable sounding lower-pitched, thicker than usual. "I won't shoot if you don't move." Though it came across strangely to her ears, she knew that, for the mobber, everything was normal--her voice, her movement, her eyes. The Dregs affected her mind, not anyone else's. "Stuff that!" he shouted, moving to scoop up the weapon that he had by his side--the blowjack. Somehow, in the last few moments, she had forgotten he had that. "Shi--" Before she could finish the swear, Abbi was moving. She dove to her right, landing on the raised garden of tomatoes, crushing them beneath her body as she rolled away from the shot. As she rolled, Abbi could see the large cylinder that made up the primary part of the muzzle belch out a cloud of fire, Vapor, and steam. The large gears on the top spun, moving the pistons that vomited out the empty cartridge. The brass container twirled end over end as the chamber slammed closed, the blowjack fans engaging to cool the bore. The Vapor bullet--a highly volatile, explosive mix of projectile and ordnance--crashed against the wall of the greenhouse, detonating with a fiery fury that Abbi only just managed to roll away from. The air compressed, then swelled, causing the entire room to shudder. Then, unable to take the change in air pressure, the glass of the greenhouse began to crack. Abbi could see each fissure spider web away from the epicenter of the blast, like an enormous fingerprint pressed onto the windows by a giant, invisible thumb. As she dropped to the ground, tomatoes smashed into her chemise and caught in her bustle, the concussion wave tumbled through the room. The air fled from her lungs. Time settled into its normal routine, and Abbi's ears vibrated with the roar of the blowjack's shot. Hot and cold flashed over her as the shattering glass gave way in a spectacular explosion of slivers. Shards spun and flung everywhere, unable to remain intact after so many pressure variations. Abbi covered her head, the injury on her arm waking up as much from the fall as by being joined by new incisions. She yelped and cried out, doing her best not to think about she was losing in the course of the attack. Bitterly cold air began to flood her lungs, draining whatever Dregs she might have been wanting to use. Frantic, Abbi tugged on her goggles, then pulled Kline's respirator over her face. The warmer oxygen helped her lungs--the rest of her body would soon freeze at this temperature. She had to end this quickly, or die from exposure. Wind ripped through the greenhouse, shoving plants, tables, dirt, and glass diamonds all about in a maelstrom of activity. Abbi gathered herself, heart pounding, tongue sour with distress and resolve to eject the interfering mobber into the stratosphere. Letting him take a long fall into the toxic clouds below gave her focus. Feet slipping only a little, she hurried around the closer side of the table, staying low so that he couldn't see her. Over the sound of the rushing air, she doubted she could hear her approach. Peeking around the edge, her vision darkened by the goggles, but spared the sting of the wind, Abbi saw the mobber. He was facing the other way, struggling to get his own respirator together. The fact he was still standing told her he probably had some Puissance in him, which explained how he managed to get into the airhome with a blowjack strapped to him. Summoning all the courage she could, Abbi ran forward, leveled Tonia at him, and fired. The pellets tore manifold holes through him, but none big enough to kill. The mobber staggered back, his face a mask of anger and pain. "Yup," she said to herself. "Definitely Puissance." The blowjack raised up. Abbi focused on her breathing. The mobber began to depress the trigger. Abbi switched bullets. The trigger went down. Fire belched out of the muzzle. Abbi began leaning back. Tonia spat out a Vapor-encased shot toward the sky. The blowjack's ordnance screamed past her, too fast to see. Its hot contrail scorched the air. Unable to keep the focus, Abbi fell backwards, Precision fading again. She could sense that it was almost gone. Five drops wouldn't last long in a situation like this. She steadied her aim and pulled the trigger again. The first projectile smashed against the mobber's blowjack, cracking it down the bore and blowing gears, cogs, and a lever or two all about the now-frigid room. The second shot went wide as the airhome dropped suddenly, sending the mobber to the ground and shaking Abbi up. "Get out of my house!" shouted Abbi, pointing Tonia at the mobber. She pulled the trigger, and this time, it worked. The mobber, who was trying to get to his feet, caught the projectile in the shoulder, which punched him hard enough to flip him over in a bloody spray. Before he could get back up, Abbi was on her feet, the gun trained on him. "Don't shoot!" he screamed over the sound of the wind. Abbi's arms and fingers were getting numb. She didn't have time to waste on this trash. She wasn't dressed for prolonged exposure, and she was out of patience. "Don't invite yourself to others' homes," said Abbi. She pulled the trigger. (2161) Kline
Without pausing to discuss it, Kline slammed the lock release that held the airhome against the dock. Abbi, smart and capable as she was, sprinted to the wind-anchor and triggered it. The winch started without difficulty, hauling in the cable that helped stabilize an airship. It would take two minutes for the anchor to rise fully. "Hey, now," came a muffled cry from the mobbers on the other side of the door, "what's with this? We came looking for a mate. We know he's in there." "What do they mean, he's in here?" asked Abbi. Kline, flicking switches on his control panel to wake up the airhome. The engine growled, then puttered out. "Drat," said Kline. "I think you mean shi--" "Not now, Abbi," said Kline, throwing open an access panel. Why was the engine not turning over? The last puttering gasp had sounded wet. Maybe some condensation had reached the Vapor-steam generator, which would prevent the airhome from moving. The anchor winch whined in the background as Kline began digging about, looking for any loose tubes or wires that would help explain the situation. "Kline?" "Busy!" He heard a loud banging sound from the airlock. "Kline!" "We don't want to blow up this shanty," the mobber yelled, his voice almost indistinguishable through the door. "We want our man, nothing more." "Tell them we don't have him," said Kline, fingers fumbling through some of the loose wires. Why had he not tied these back the last time he'd serviced the engine? That was uncharacteristically lazy of him. He must have been on Dregs to fail like that. He gritted his teeth and inwardly swore that he wouldn't touch the stuff again. Too many mistakes came because of the Dregs. He couldn't afford to make any more, not now. The anchor winch hummed. "He's not here!" shouted Abbi, cupping her hands to be better heard. Kline whistled at her. "Hey. I need my wrench set." Another shot rocked the 'home. "Shitflies," said Abbi, ducking, though nothing had been shaken loose--yet. "Where is it?" "Third cabinet on the right." "Right of what?" "The other cabinets." He heard her thump around above him. "Here?" A pause. "I don't see it." "Third cabinet, Abbi!" He practically shouted. He saw the problem: A coiling pipe that ran cooling water through the engine had broken loose--probably the typical strain of the docking procedure had done it. If he could bind that down, it wouldn't take too much to get the engine running again. The door shook with another shot. Their bullets couldn't break through--docks were designed to maintain pressure, so they were thick and tightly sealed. Still, everything broke with enough persistence, and Kline didn't want to give them any more chances than necessary. "Abbi!" "I'm looking!" "It's in the third cabinet on the right. Second drawer from the top!" "Third drawer?" "Second!" The anchor winch stopped. The ship began to move in the wind. Kline felt a cold sweat pop over his brow. The extra pressure from not having an anchor in place would create additional stress on the docking mechanism. That could snap, break open their airhome, or any other unintended consequences. If they didn't release quickly, they'd unmoor and, without an engine, plummet. "These?" A bag clanked behind him, wrenches tumbling about. "Yes! Thank you!" He pulled one out, then set it back. He didn't need a socket wrench, he needed clamps…there. Wiggling forward to where he saw the leak, he clamped it. "Abbi!" Another shot. The airhome shifted, groaning. Muffled shouts from the mobbers. "What?" "Try the engine!" "What?" "Try. The. Engine!" "Okay." The wind let up and the airhome sank back to its original position. A faint, less distinct thud from far above him trickled into his ears, but he didn't process it as anything other than a random sound. "Abbi!" "Starting it now!" A shot from the door. He could hear the sounds of decompression. The mobbers were almost through. "Abbi!" The engine growled, sputtered, and stalled. A glob of water puked out of the still-unsealed gap. Kline swore and unhinged the clamps, then reset it. Working it more tightly, he saw the pipe fully seal. "Again! Abbi, again!" "I am!" The engine choked, gurgled, stalled…then took, roaring to life and filling the crawlspace with heat. "Bleck!" Kline said, choking on the heady Vapors. He crawled backwards, shouting, "Release it! Pull it free!" Abbi's footsteps thumped above him, then the whole house trembled a little as the docking mechanism released. The airhome dropped sickeningly so quickly that everything not tied down floated upwards for a spare moment--including Kline and Abbi. They landed in separate piles, though both with their preferred swears echoing through the home. The Vapor-steam engine sputtered a little, grumbled to itself, and then began to chug normally. Crawling forward, Kline levered himself onto the controls and stood, recalibrating the water flow to the engine and engaging the levitation calibrations. A flicked switch and spun dial set the airhome's forward motion while his manipulation of the wheel spun them away from Order Grove. It took a moment before he could relax. "We did it." Abbi put a hand on her stomach. "By the rotation of the Cogmaker's grace." Kline snorted. "And thanks for getting the wrenches. Couldn't have done it without you." "And I wouldn't have been able to figure out the problem without you." She smiled, and Kline felt some of the stress he'd been holding onto bleed away. He joined with her laughter. It felt good to have something go their way-- A thud abovedeck made them both pause. In a low voice, Kline said, "Did you hear that?" Abbi, her blue eyes tipped upward, nodded. "I think we may have a visitor." Kline licked his lips. Their airhome docked backwards--that is, their bow held the docking mechanisms. The shape of their airhome was slender and bullet-shaped, if the bullet were cut lengthwise. On the stern, a greenhouse sat, which they used to grow fresh food. That took up about half the space of the upper deck. Above that was a patio, where sometimes he and Abbi would sit to look at the sunset. The mast, too, was attached to the upperdeck, with the controlling cables for the sails strung through the mast and down into their living space below. A large fin that acted as a rudder likewise could be operated from his position in their home--and that large fin could have been used by a mobber to get onto the patio. Another soft thump--almost like a misstep, rather than anything dropped. Someone was above them, in the greenhouse. "Abbi," said Kline, his eyes still focused on the ceiling, "you need to take the wheel." "Let's lock the door instead," she whispered. "Leave him up there." "With all of our food?" Abbi opened her mouth, but closed it. He was right, and she knew it. "Take the wheel. We're safe now--" The airhome rocked violently, pitching them off their feet and crashing against the furniture. A blossom of pain erupted from his elbow as he banged it hard against the control console on his way down. "What was that?" asked Abbi, popping back up. She had landed on the couch. "I don't know." Kline pulled himself to his feet, rubbing his numb elbow. Looking at the array--an arrangement of mirrors that allowed him to look out in all directions from the hollow mast--he tried to spot anything headed their way. It only took a moment. "They've sent two pods after us. One of them has a lobber on it." "What?" Abbi hurried to his side, her usually pale face even paler. "Oh, Cogmaker." Kline grimaced. "It would be nice if we didn't have to fight off a bunch of mobbers on our tail and abovedeck." The ship rocked a little as the lobber flung another airmine at them. It detonated close enough from them to cause a concussion wave to push them about the sky, but far enough to do any damage. They probably didn't want to blow up their mate. Or they really thought they had Turner. Why did they care so much? Who was that guy? Abbi dropped Tonia and Caliver into their holsters, making Kline focus on the task at hand more than his curiosity. "I'll take care of the one," she said as she slung on Kline's respirator and tank. She had to fiddle with the straps to get it settled correctly. "You shake them off our tail." "They're driving pods," said Kline. "What do you think is going to happen?" Abbi kissed him on the cheek. "You'll save the day all by yourself." "I sense sarcasm." "Well, that's good. I would have doubted your abilities to understand language otherwise." Despite her flippant remark, Kline could hear a strain in her voice. "Be safe," he said as she adjusted the respirator over her face. "And remember to strap down if you have to go on deck. I don't want you falling off the side." "Fly well," she said, her voice tinny, "and I won't have to take a tumble." Abigaile spun the dial on the door and opened it. Kline watched her until she had disappeared up the spiral staircase. Shaking his head a little, Kline redirected his attention to what was in front of him. The mobbers were catching up. They had thumpers--battering rams that could extend outward, knocking the airhome and causing a lot of damage. Pods were small enough that they could get in close, thump, and spin away, making them hard targets for larger, turret-based airships. Kline didn't have any of that. Their airhome was their home--cramped, beat up, and prefect. Though cloudfarming was a dangerous career, it didn't usually require mid-air battles or being chased by mobbers. Kline felt a little out of his element. According to the array, the two mobbers would be close enough to attack in another minute or so. He only had that much time to plan. He swallowed. "I hope you're ready to hold on, Abbi," he said under his breath. "It's going to be a bumpy ride." (1701) |
AuthorI "won" NaNoWriMo in 2015. Now that it's 2016, I'm posting each day's work as an individual post--chapter by chapter, day by day. This is a rough draft, of course, and is copyrighted 2016 by Steven Dowdle. Feel free to read and share links back to this page if you're so inclined! ArchivesCategories |