
Nimbus

A Steampunk Novel

AUSTIN KING

B.J. KEETON
Copyright © 2012-2013 Austin King and B.J. Keeton

This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

First Smashwords Edition April 2013

All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the authors, except where permitted by law.
AUSTIN

For Mom and Dad

B.J.

For my Momma.

You believe in me and support me, even when I don't think I need it.

And I always do.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Thanks to our wives, who have dealt with a great deal of boyish giggling and juvenile humor over the past year. We love you.

And a special thanks to Aunt Seenus. You know who you are.
Prologue

"Your son is dead, sir."

Cornelius Rucca took a deep breath and tried to keep his knees from buckling. He grabbed at one of the sconces on the wall to steady himself, and then stared Cleric Wymore directly in the eyes.

"Excuse me?"

"I am sorry, High Prelate," Cleric Wymore said, taking a small bow. "There is nothing more that can be done. The boy is...gone."

Cornelius's jaw tightened as he gritted his teeth. Here he was, High Prelate of the Assembled Court—the religious leader of the entire damned world—and he was helpless. His son was dead. And there was nothing that he could do about it.

"The doctors are still with your son," Cleric Wymore said. "Would you like to go back inside before they remove the body, sir?"

"In a moment," Cornelius said, regaining some of his composure. He glanced at the antique clock hanging above the archway to the medical bay. It was early morning, still too soon for the sun to be up, and most members of the Assembled Court would still be asleep. Surely, there was something he could do, though. "Wait a moment," he told Cleric Wymore. "Are you familiar with augers?"

Cleric Wymore shuffled nervously on his feet. "They were like prophets, sir," he said. "Some dabbled in steamwork mechanics, but most were preoccupied with more supernatural technologies. As far as I am concerned, they are a fringe cult—and nothing more."

"My ancestor was an auger," Cornelius said slowly. "From what I've been told, he learned to do some very interesting things."

Cleric Wymore glanced back toward the medical bay. "I'm sorry, sir," he said, "but what does this have to do with your son?"

"There are ways to save him," Cornelius mumbled. He wracked his brain for every bit of knowledge he knew about augers and their fringe studies. Perhaps there was a way to do what needed to be done in secret. "I need you to empty the medical bay of all personnel, Cleric Wymore. When you are finished, report back to me." He looked back at the clock. "We have some long hours ahead of us."

Cleric Wymore bowed and went through the double-doors that led into the medical bay. Once Wymore was out of sight, Cornelius headed back toward his office. The Assembled Court's headquarters consisted of several interconnected buildings, but Cornelius had been High Prelate for the better half of the past decade. He knew the shortcuts by now.

When he arrived at his office, he locked the door behind him. Then, cautiously, he went over to his desk and pressed the button that opened the entryway into the god-king's chamber. The chamber was empty, of course. The god-king may have still been the official world leader, but those chambers had been vacant for the last five hundred years or so. It was he—Cornelius Rucca—that did all the real work.

Cornelius had only been inside the god-king's chambers a few times before, but he knew exactly what he was looking for. The bookshelf beside the god-king's bed had collected plenty of dust over the centuries, and Cornelius had taken the liberty to read several of the books. In those books, he had discovered many secrets—things that not even the High Prelate was probably supposed to know.

He grabbed a tattered, stained book off the shelf and stared at the foreign glyphs on the cover. Yes, this was the one that he was looking for. Smiling to himself, he grabbed a large, cylindrical container and headed back into his own office.

Cornelius stared at the container. "Will you do this for me?"

There will be consequences.

The voice seemed to echo from inside Cornelius's own head. It raised the hairs on the back of his neck.

"Please," Cornelius said. "I need you to save my son. His fever became too high—and the sickness reached his spinal column..." He sighed heavily. "The doctors couldn't do anything."

Silence.

"Please," Cornelius repeated. "Will you save my son?"

You will have to Bond us.

"Yes, yes, I know," Cornelius said. He was speaking quickly now, and his mouth was absurdly dry. "I am aware of the risks. I have this book with me. I—I think I can perform the ritual, if I must."

You will have to act quickly.

"I know!" Cornelius shouted, forgetting himself. He practically ran to the door, and he paused only long enough to look down at the container once more. "Please, will you help?"

There was a long pause. Cornelius could hear the purified air pouring out of the vents in the ceiling. He opened his mouth to ask again—

Yes.

"You'll do it?" he asked.

Yes.

A great weight seemed to leave Cornelius's chest. He exhaled deeply, and then wiped the tears from the corners of his eyes. Perhaps everything would be okay, after all. And by the time he arrived back at the medical bay, he was feeling both hopeful and anxious.

"Is everything all right, sir?" Cleric Wymore asked. "You look rather pale."

"I'm fine," Cornelius said. "Did everyone evacuate the medical facility?"

Wymore nodded. "Yes, High Prelate."

"Good." Cornelius composed himself, and when he caught Wymore staring at the tattered book and cylindrical container, he snapped the Cleric back to attention. "Stand outside these doors," he instructed Wymore. "No one comes inside. Not even you. Is that understood?"

Cleric Wymore nodded slowly.

"Excellent," Cornelius said. He headed through the doors. "Remember, Cleric Wymore: No one comes inside. Under any circumstances."

It took Cornelius just a moment to spot his son's body. The boy was lying in a bed, and there were more tubes coming from his body than Cornelius wanted to count. As he eased near the bed, Cornelius felt bile rising in the back of his throat. He clenched his teeth and held it down. Then, when he was close enough, he touched his son's arm.

"I am sorry, Demetrius," he said aloud. "Perhaps a second life is better than no life at all, no matter the differences in quality."

Cornelius laid the book down and rifled through the yellowed pages.

You don't need it. I know what to do.

"You can do the Bonding without my help?" Cornelius asked.

Of course.

Cornelius fumbled with the lid—a century's worth of rust made it rather difficult, after all—but he eventually got the container open. Then, it was as if the room itself darkened. The entire area became considerably colder, and a draft of wind passed through, even though there were no windows to the outside world in the medical bay.

Fog rolled into the room, and for just a moment, Cornelius feared that this had all been some elaborate trick. If this was the same fog that covered the surface of the world, then it would only be a matter of seconds before his skin was torn to shreds. He coughed, closed his eyes, and then a blast of energy sent him across the room. He smacked into a medical cart and rolled onto the floor.

Cleric Wymore burst through the doors. "High Prelate Rucca!"

"I'm fine!" Cornelius bit out. "I told you not to enter!"

"I'm sorry," Wymore said. "There was a noise, sir. It sounded like an explosion."

Cornelius stumbled to his feet. The fog had disappeared, and everything seemed to have returned to normal inside the room. Wymore blinked dumbly at him several times, but other than that, the man didn't seem shaken up at all.

"Are you okay, sir? I felt a gust through the doors."

"I'm fine!" Cornelius snapped again. "But I told you not to come in, Cleric Wymore, and you will pay dearly for disobeying a—"

"Dad?"

Cornelius and Wymore turned at the same time. Sitting up in his bed, Demetrius Rucca looked bright and healthy. It was hard to believe the boy had been dead and colorless only moments before.

Without thinking, Cornelius rushed to his son. He grabbed the boy in an enormous hug, and without caring how crazy he sounded, he began to laugh. He ran his hands through his son's hair, ran a finger down the boy's nose and around his eyes, and then glanced back at Wymore.

"Is this real?" he asked.

Wymore's mouth hung open, and his eyes were bulging. Cornelius took that as a yes.

"What happened, Dad?" Demetrius asked. He looked around the room. "Why am I here?"

Cornelius hugged his son again. "You don't remember?"

The boy shook his head.

"Nothing," Cornelius said, smiling. "You're all right, son. That's all that matters."

Then, the boy started crying. It escalated quickly into all-out wailing. The air seemed to leave Cornelius's lungs. He grabbed his son by the shoulders and shook him.

"What's wrong, Demetrius? What happened?"

Tears streamed down the boy's face as he looked into his father's eyes. "I can't feel my legs anymore."

Cornelius always remembered that day, for a number of reasons, but mostly because that was when he realized that everything was going to change.
PART One
Chapter One

Jude felt someone shaking him. Though his vision was blurred, he saw the bulky form of Calvin Reedy hovering over him. The First Mate of the Gangly Dirigible was a man so stone-faced the crew joked he was a walking boulder, and he was shaking Jude. The second time was a bit more forceful. It nearly knocked Jude out of his bunk.

"What do you need?" Jude asked. He sounded slightly more irritated than he intended. He hoped Reedy hadn't noticed. If there was one thing Reedy hated, it was insubordination.

"We've got one," Reedy said. His red beard was flecked with grey and there was currently a piece of food dangling from his chin hairs, like he'd just left breakfast in a great rush. "Some of the Hosers are out there already, but we need you—pronto."

Jude glanced around and saw that both Robert Thorne and Robert Gwynn, fellow Hosers who were known around the ship as the Roberts, were already out of their bunks and getting dressed with the enthusiasm of grown men preparing for castration. There was no sunlight coming in through the rounded windows, but the stars had already faded away; Reedy was at it particularly early this morning.

Jude groaned and started getting dressed. "I'll be up there soon."

"No lollygagging," Reedy said. Jude had no illusions that Reedy wouldn't strangle any one of the crew if they failed to meet his demands. "If you and the Roberts aren't up there in five minutes, I'll have you swabbing the decks for the next month at half wages. You understand me?"

Jude grunted a "Yes, sir" while the Roberts just sighed heavily. Reedy seemed satisfied enough to leave them. As he opened the door, Jude could hear the loud whirring and puffing of the steam engines below. The boiler room was just underneath the corridor outside. Some of the dense, white smoke drifted up from the boiler room and through the floorboards, finding its way inside the room before Thorne slammed the door shut.

"First mate on this bloody ship and he can't even remember to close the damn door." Thorne fumbled with the buttons on his wool overcoat. "It's likely cold up there. The sun won't be shining for another hour or so. I'm freezing just thinking about it. He wouldn't be so enthusiastic if he was out there manning the hoses, I'll tell you that much."

Thorne left the room mumbling to himself, slipping gloves onto his hands. Jude had learned to ignore Robert Thorne. After nearly a year of rooming with the outspoken curmudgeon, he'd perfected the art of blocking out Thorne's rants.

"I'll bet my left foot that water'll be frozen," said Gwynn. He stroked his moustache—it was a nervous tick Jude had grown accustomed to seeing. "And I'll bet my right foot that Cap'n Schlocky won't give a hoot."

"If Reedy doesn't, neither will Schlocky," Jude said. The captain was even less forgiving than his first mate. Jude pulled his wool cap down over his ears and headed outside. "I'll see you outside, Robert. Don't take too long. I think Reedy meant what he said about half wages."

The outside corridor was filled with the heat and smoke from the engines below them, but Jude had grown used to it. Heat and smoke were as common to him as the drinking competitions held by the engineers in the galley every Thursday night, or the way Gwynn stroked his moustache or Thorne went off on long rants. In the year he'd been on the Gangly Dirigible, the engineers had been vowing to fix the leaks; however, empty promises were a second language to the mechanics.

On his way up, he bumped into one of the engineers. Barely reaching three feet in height, Jonah Roebuck was easy to overlook, but what the man lacked in physical presence, he more than made up for with his big personality. Roebuck was covered in black grease, and his skin was pink from the heat of the engines. He wiped the fog from his goggles and smiled when he saw that it was Jude.

"You wouldn't be pickin a fight with a man half your size, would ya, kid?" he said. "Cause I've gotta warn ya: I keep a switchblade in my back pocket."

"You got a little something on your face, Roebuck," said Jude, ignoring the comment.

"I got a little something everywhere." Roebuck laughed and wiped some of the grease from his cheeks. He stuck a cigarette in his mouth and nodded toward the steam rising up through the floorboards. "If you think this is bad, you should see the boiler room. I just came up here for a cigarette break."

"It's about time one of you guys fixed those leaks, isn't it?" Jude asked. He knew the answer before Roebuck gave it.

"One of us should, but it ain't gonna be me. I got enough to do around here."

"Excuses, excuses," said Jude. The two of them laughed until Gwynn walked by, reminding Jude that Reedy warned them about being late.

"Caught a cloud, huh?" Roebuck raised his eyebrows. "We've already met the quota. I guess this means we'll be getting paid soon, boys."

Jude walked with Gwynn through the metallic corridor leading upstairs to the deck. Long pipes and steel conduits ran parallel to the corridor, providing the crewmembers with semi-filtered drinking water and electric lamps that were often so dim their existence was often pointless.

Jude pulled on his wind-goggles and made sure his coat was securely fastened. As he and Gwynn came on deck, the wind knocked them back. Jude had to grab onto the railing just to keep from being blown down by the gust. The other Hosers were already there, each one manning a different hydro-hose, and they seemed to be struggling with the strong winds, as well.

"There you are," Reedy shouted to them. "Get a move on! This one's ready to be Hosed."

Jude went to his hydro-hose at the main kiosk and pulled it to the port side of the ship.

"Drop the hoses!" Reedy called over the wind whistling through the smokestack pipes.

Jude dropped his hose over the edge. The wind gusted again, sending him forward, and Jude saw himself going overboard and falling the thirty-five thousand feet to his death. That was, assuming the deathly fog beneath the Skyline didn't kill him first, eating away at his flesh like a starved orphan. He grabbed onto the railing before any of this could happen, breathing a sigh of relief and taking a step backward.

"Begin the raking!" Reedy said.

Jude ensured his hydro-hose was at the right level, its nozzle raking just above the large cloud. The other Hosers did the same, until nearly fifty hydro-hoses were raking over the cloud, ready to begin the next stage.

"Ready on three!" Reedy barked. He marched over to the kiosk on the starboard side of the ship and pulled the first of three levers. A loud hum filled the air. "One..."

Jude could feel the electricity pulsing through the hose, could hear the whirring of the mechanisms by the kiosk. His grasp tightened and he prayed the wind would subside for a few moments longer. The darkness made it dangerous enough—the wind would make it practically deadly.

"Two..."

Jude couldn't see through the dark, but he knew Reedy had pulled the second lever to start up the filters at the collecting tank. All of the hydro-hoses connected to the collecting tank, which sent the water three floors below deck to the Refinement Chamber. There, the water would be further filtered and purified until the once-poisonous liquid was ready for drinking. It would then be placed into glass bottles, most of which would be then sold at port.

"Three!" said Reedy. He pulled the last lever. Jude and the other Hosers all lurched forward as the hydro-hoses began suctioning water particles from the cloud. Reedy barked his final command. "Begin the extraction!"

Jude used all of his strength to hold the hydro-hose steady as it suctioned the water particles. It was a loud, arduous task, but it was a better life than living subterraneously in the Burrows. Jude had spent the first nineteen years of his life in Burrow 12, and there was no way he was going back. He didn't care how difficult—or dangerous—this job was.

Another strong gust of wind swept over the airship and Jude was very thankful his wind-goggles were securely fastened over his eyes. Without them, he guessed his eyeballs would have been blown out of their sockets.

Over an hour passed before Jude and the rest of the Hosers had successfully extracted all of the water. The cloud was gone. The skies were clear.

It was over.

***

"Excellent work!" Reedy said. He stuck his hands in his coat pockets to block them from the wind. "Everything off without a hitch. Excellent! Excellent!"

Some of the Hosers went to the galley to grab breakfast, while others went back to their rooms. Jude was part of the latter group. His muscles were sore from the Hosing and his head ached from waking so early. When he got back to his bunk, he fell asleep almost immediately.

When Jude awoke for the second time, Gwynn and Thorne were both gone and everything was oddly quiet. Little slivers of sunlight had just started coming in through the windows. Yawning, he strapped on his boots and went out into the corridor. No one was around—not even some of the more sociable crewmembers. The quiet emptiness could only mean one thing: wages were being given up on the deck.

Without going back for his coat, Jude started running for the stairwell. When he got out to the main deck, there were nearly a hundred people out there. In addition to the fifty Hosers, there were the engineers, the cooks, the deckhands, and the captain's personal crew. Jude bypassed the engineers and got in line behind Valencia McCaw, another Hoser.

"About time," she said. Her auburn hair was tangled because of the wind, and her goggles magnified her green eyes to comical proportions. "I thought if you didn't show, I'd take your wages for myself."

"I can go back to my bunk," Jude said. He smiled. "But I wouldn't want to encourage your greediness, Vale. It's a slippery slope."

"Uh-huh," she said, rolling her eyes. She crossed her arms and laughed. Despite her petite frame, she was one of the strongest people onboard—by far stronger than Jude, and they both knew it. "I wish Schlocky would get out here. It's my turn to get paid this go-round."

Before Jude could respond, the sound of clanking boots echoed around the deck. Captain Allister Schlocky was a tall, muscular man with dark eyes and a mischievous smile. As he descended the stairs from the pilot's house, every head on deck turned to face him, which spoke more about his character than words ever could.

"Sir!" Reedy said. He brought his hand up in a salute, and the others followed his lead.

"Afternoon, Cal," Schlocky said. He spoke out of the side of his mouth, as if he were angry at the world but laughing at a joke at the same time. "Afternoon, you lot."

A few of the crewmembers returned the greeting. Schlocky walked over to a pile of stacked crates, each containing a dozen glass bottles of water: their wages. Schlocky took out a piece of paper and read from the list.

"Kathleen Burke," he said gruffly.

Burke, a woman slightly older than Jude, came forward and received a crate. She looked awfully pleased with herself and was so busy smiling that she didn't notice her cigarette had fallen out of her mouth.

Schlocky called three more names before Jude. At the sound of a surly "Jude Finley," Jude marched forward and received his crate. He was pleased, too, but he tried to take the matter seriously. After all, this crate of water was going to be shipped to his family in Burrow 12 as soon as the airship came to a skyport.

Several other names were called, until Schlocky said, "Valencia McCaw."

Valencia received the last crate and went back to stand in line with Jude. Schlocky dismissed everyone else and left.

"You going to ship yours home?" Valencia asked.

Jude nodded. "It should last them a while."

"Yeah, I'm sending mine back home to my mom and pop in Burrow 23," she said. "They'll be thrilled. It hasn't been my turn for wages in months."

Jude knew how she felt. In the year he'd spent out of Burrow 12 and aboard the Gangly Dirigible, this was only the second time he'd received wages. But he'd take what he could get. His family needed the water. It would be a nice break from drinking the filth that trickled down into the Burrows from the skyports. He could still taste that swill if he thought about it long enough.

"We shouldn't have to wait long," said Valencia. "We'll be stopping at Thunder's Echo soon. It's a small place, but they can ship the crates down to the Burrows for us. You won't have to worry about them stealing it for themselves."

"I'll take your word for it," Jude said.

"I've shipped water from Thunder's Echo tons of times. I know a guy there, and he's trustworthy enough. He won't try to cheat you," Valencia said, and when she saw the incredulous look on Jude's face added, "Well, I've never had any problems with him at least."

"And you won't," said a fellow Hoser from behind them. It was Charles Ivanovich, a man they all knew as the Shrew. His face was cracked like old leather and his left eye was just an empty socket (he didn't bother wearing a patch over it). "They know better than to mess with anyone on one of Alfred Gangly's vessels. That old bastard has a lot of sway in Thunder's Echo. He once had four men thrown off into the sky for stealing from the Gangly Trireme. I like to think the deathly fog ate em before they died from the fall."

"You're a real poet," Valencia said. "You know that?"

"I just tell the truth," the Shrew retorted.

Valencia headed for the stairwell leading below deck. "I'm going to grab some grub before the cooks close the galley up for the night," she said.

"It ain't even dark yet!" the Shrew called after her.

"Yeah, but you know how they are. They like to close early." She started down the stairs. "You want to come with me, Jude?"

Ignoring the crude look from the Shrew, Jude went to join her.

***

The galley was just below the main deck, but above the housing level. The smoke from the boiler room did not reach this part of the ship, but the galley was filled with smoke nonetheless, because of the steam-powered stoves in the kitchen. As Jude and Valencia entered, Jude spotted Roebuck sitting at a table smoking and playing cards with several other engineers. He waved to them.

"Ho!" Roebuck called. "Vale! Jude! Grab your food and come sit with us. We need some more players."

Jude got a bowl of murky brown soup, a meatless and nearly tasteless concoction the whole crew just called the Runs, while Valencia opted for a plate of half-rotten greens with a slab of fatty meat that was possibly pork.

"I'm feeling brave today," she said when she caught Jude eyeing her plate in disgust.

They took their seats with Roebuck and the others. Valencia joined in their game of cards, but Jude didn't. He'd just received that crate of water and he wasn't about to go betting it away. Besides, his family needed that water.

"Fritz was looking for ya earlier," Roebuck told Jude. "He left the galley a while back."

"What did he want?" Jude asked. Fritz was one of his closest friends and Jude hadn't seen him all day, which was odd.

"I don't know," Roebuck said, shrugging.

"I might go find him after I eat," said Jude. He yawned. His midday nap hadn't helped much. He was still drained from that morning's Hosing.

"He wasn't feelin too good," Roebuck said, keeping his eyes on his cards. "He said he was going down to his room to sleep. If ya ask me, I think looking down at the clouds still gets him a little queasy. He just ain't used to it."

"I wouldn't bother him," said an engineer named Jessie Rutgers. She placed her bet on the table. "That chap gets real irritable. I'd leave him alone."

"I hope he's okay," Jude said.

"I'm sure he's fine," said Valencia. "Just let him rest. Maybe he'll be around tomorrow—"

"Dammit!" Roebuck yelled. He threw his cards onto the table, having just lost two bottles of water to an engineer Jude knew only as Patterson.

"Careful, little man," said Patterson through a thick accent Jude couldn't quite place. "Your next wages will be mine, too, if you do not watch out."

"You be careful," Roebuck retorted. "I got a switchblade that ain't been used in a while, and it's gettin pretty antsy just sittin around."

Jude slurped down the last of his soup and got up from the table before a fight broke out. As he left the galley, Roebuck and Valencia bid him farewell. He decided against going to see Fritz. Jude didn't want to be a bother if his friend wasn't feeling well. Maybe Fritz just needed rest. Jude decided to go to his room to do some reading instead.

He went downstairs to the housing level, bypassing the Shrew in the stairwell. The Shrew eyed him suspiciously, but kept quiet.

When he got to his room, Jude was thankful that Thorne was still gone and Gwynn was asleep in his bunk, snoring quietly. As Jude headed to his own bunk, he passed their mirror and caught a glimpse of himself. He needed a good shave, but he wasn't about to spend his allotted water rations on tidying up. When he was allowed water, he drank it.

He also noticed that he was in need of a haircut. His dark hair was nearly to his earlobes and his bangs hung over the tops of his eyes, hiding the gap in his right eyebrow (the prize of a knife fight he'd won as a kid in Burrow 12). Maybe he'd get Fritz or Valencia to help him cut his hair in the morning.

He looked into his own eyes for a moment. When he'd left Burrow 12 a year ago, his eyes had been a brilliant shade of blue. Now, they were a sallow grey. If that wasn't a sign of overworking, he didn't know what was.

He plopped down in his bunk and started to read. He didn't know all the words, but he knew enough to get him through it. Maps of the Skies: A Complete Guide to Nimbus was a thick book, but Jude enjoyed reading what he could. He was particularly interested in reading about the Skyline and theories about why the deathly fog never rose past it. He was tired and sore from the day's labor, but he managed to get through four pages before falling asleep. Reading, like Hosing, was tiring work.

So was life on an airship.
Chapter Two

When you get to know me, you will hate me. You just won't have the power to resist me...

***

The dining hall was exceptionally warm today, which made Demetrius Rucca's glass sweat. The condensation ran down the sides, and Rucca reached for it, ignoring the droplets that fell on his lap as he drank. He smiled as he tasted the crisp, clean water. Almost everyone Rucca knew drank wine with their lunch, but not him. He didn't like the way it made his head swim, and the light meals he usually enjoyed for lunch were better accented with a tall glass of water, anyway. It was more refreshing.

He finished the last bite of his salad and placed his fork upside down in the middle of his plate, which signaled for a servant to come remove it from the table.

"Of course, Lord Demetrius," the servant said. He must have seen Rucca's expression harden and corrected himself. "Of course, sir."

The servant tapped a button on a large cart by the entrance to the dining hall, and gears began to whir inside the box. Immediately, the cart began to roll toward the dining table and Rucca. The servant demurely reached in front of the nobleman and sat the plate inside the locomotive cart. Gears began to grind immediately and scrub the plate clean. The man then turned away from the table, his job finished.

"Wait just a moment," Rucca said.

The man turned around to face Rucca, but his eyes never left the ground. "Yes, sir?"

"My glass of water."

A moment passed, and the man asked, "What about it, sir?"

"You looked at it."

"I'm sorry, sir. I didn't mean to. It meant nothing."

"Did it not?" Rucca asked, and leaned back in his chair. He removed the napkin from his lap and wiped his mouth with it before placing it in a wad on the table in front of him.

"No, sir."

"I think it did."

"Honest," the man said. "I didn't mean nothin by it." The servant's eyes were still looking at the floor.

"You want this water, don't you?"

No response.

"I asked you a question. You will answer me." Rucca repeated his question. "You want this water, don't you?"

"I do," the man said. "But it's not mine, I know that," he added hastily. "That water's yours, sir."

"And you don't think I'll share with you? You think so little of me, Milton Hartselle," Rucca spat out his name as though it were a mouthful of vinegar, "that you do not believe I will share this water with you? This ice cold water?" Rucca reached for the glass and sipped from it. "After all, Milton, it is dreadfully hot in here today, isn't it?"

"Yes, sir."

"So you do think so little of me then?"

Milton looked up at Rucca. It was for just an instant, but their eyes did meet. Milton looked back at the floor immediately. "No, sir. I mean, sir, that it is hot in here. That's all I meant. I...I..." He coughed. "No, sir."

"I understand," Rucca said. "I'm glad that misunderstanding is taken care of." He waited for Milton to nod in agreement. "Now, back to the matter at hand. Would you like some of this water, Milton?"

Both sets of eyes in the room rested on the glass of water. It was crystal clear. Rucca guessed that it might have been the clearest water that Milton Hartselle had ever seen. Rucca had heard stories about the Dwellers in the Burrows and how they didn't even believe water could be clear.

"Yes," Milton whispered. His lips barely moved as he spoke.

"I'm sorry, my good man. What was that? Speak up next time, would you? I'm afraid I'm a trifle deaf in one ear." He really wasn't, but it never hurt to say such things.

"I'm sorry, sir. I..." he hesitated. "I...do want the water, if you please."

"Why, of course, Milton. I could never sit here and enjoy it knowing you wanted it, too." Rucca reached out for the glass and picked it up. "Why don't you have some then?"

Milton nodded, but remained still. "Yes, sir," he said. "Thank you, sir."

"Come then," said Rucca. "Don't be shy." He held the glass up as though offering it to Milton, who began to walk forward. "That's a good lad."

The ice cubes clinked together as Rucca sipped the water one last time before he offered it to Milton. When the servant stood before him, Rucca raised the glass and deliberately shook it. Ice clinked again. He cupped his hand, and the droplets of condensation pooled in his palm, wonderfully and delightfully cold. When no more would fall, he rubbed his hand against the side of the glass, collecting anything that remained. When there was no more, he held his hand out to Milton.

"There you go, Milton. Fresh, clean, crisp water."

Milton didn't move. He just looked at the small pool of water in Rucca's right hand.

"Drink up."

Milton didn't move.

"Are you not thirsty anymore, Milton? Is my water not good enough for you?"

Still, Milton remained immobile and silent.

"Drink it, Milton." There was steel in Rucca's voice. Until today, he had never used that tone with Milton. Other servants sure, but never with him. There was no arguing with him when he used that tone, so Milton knelt beside Rucca's chair.

"That's a good man."

Over the past few months, Rucca felt as though he had gotten to know Milton Hartselle. He knew, like any person, Milton was a lot of things—including a fine waiter. But he wasn't proud. Rucca was certain that he could see Milton's spirits fall when he realized what was being demanded of him. It was probably the cleanest water he was going to get this week, which Rucca figured offset the fact that he was being forced to lap out of his master's hand like he was an animal. He had been a Dweller, after all.

The servant's face flushed red, growing a deeper shade with every slurp.

"Make sure you get it all, Milton. You surely don't want to waste any of my water, do you?"

Milton licked his master's hand until the only wetness that remained was from his own saliva. Then, without looking at Rucca, he stood up and asked, "Will there be anything else, sir?"

"No, Milton. Lunch was delicious, and the water was...exquisite. Wouldn't you agree?"

"I would, sir. Have a wonderful afternoon, sir. I'll see you at dinner." With a bow, the servant excused himself from the dining hall.

Demetrius Rucca chuckled to himself as he reached for the napkin in front of him. He had to wipe that old Dweller's spit off his hand before he caught something. But the risk had been worth it. The old man's shame had been absolutely delicious. It would probably be the most fun he would get to have all week, too. It would also be the last time the servant used Rucca's first name.

He flipped a switch on the arm of his chair and the cogs that controlled its motor sprang to life. He felt the familiar vibration and knew that it was ready for him to drive. He wrapped his fingers around the tiny joystick that controlled his wheelchair and maneuvered himself out from under the table and out the door.

***

Rucca had often wondered what it would be like to grow up poor. He spent most of every day wheeling along the promenade on Cloud Nine, watching the poor people go about their daily lives. Some of them he knew were good people who were just trying to make ends meet and take care of their families. But others...well, others weren't quite so noble. Some of them, like Milton Hartselle, didn't know their place.

He rolled his wheelchair out of the dining hall and onto the promenade's third tier. He hadn't even made it fully out of the doorway before he was accosted by one of the not-so-nobles.

"Spare anything for an old cripple?" The woman was leaning against the wall to his left, and Rucca fingered the joystick on his wheelchair so that he could face her. He looked at her and saw that, yes, she was indeed a cripple. She wasn't one of the liars who claimed to have an internal—and thus unverifiable—ailment. Anyone who looked at her could see that she had no legs.

Well, that wasn't quite it. She didn't have a right leg, but the left one extended as far as the knee.

Rucca's jaw clenched. He liked most of the bums around Cloud Nine. They were, surprisingly, good people for the most part, old sailors who'd been injured by the fog or some similar sob story. Crazy Murdoch down by the port could spin a yarn about his days sailing the Skyline that would just about make Rucca piss his pants from laughing so hard. In payment, Rucca would give Crazy Murdoch whatever change he had in his pockets. It was a fair trade. Tit for tat.

The cripple in front of him, however, had no tat for which he could barter. She was just begging. Actually bumming. And worst of all, she was using her disability to try and make people feel sorry for her. With Rucca, her bumming took on an additional layer: she was playing on his empathy as a fellow cripple.

Except that Demetrius Rucca wasn't crippled. He might not be able to walk, but he was no less capable than any man or woman on Cloud Nine. And for this dirty bum in front of him to act like he was...

Well, she had to be taught a lesson.

"Are you actually crippled?" Rucca asked her as kindly as he could muster.

"Well, I ain't got my legs no more, so I reckon I am."

"That is not what makes you a cripple," Rucca said. He did not hide his malice. "Why are you here? Why this door?"

"You the Prelate's boy, right?"

"I don't see what that has to do with anything."

"Has to do with everything," said the bum. "You're in a steamchair and your daddy's the head honcho around here, isn't he? I figure I might be able to stir up some feelings inside the prelate's rich, cripple son. So what do you say, boy? Will you help a fellow cripple out a bit?" She held her gnarled hand toward him, obviously expecting him to drop some coin in it.

"I told you," he said. "I am not a cripple." The old woman pulled her hand away and sat it palm down on the ground. She used it to brace herself against the wall. Following the hand closely with his eyes, Rucca twisted the joystick so that the wheels of his chair lined up perfectly with her fingers. He pushed the stick forward and felt the slightest of bumps when he ran over her fingers. "I do not want to see you around here again." She started screaming as he rolled away, but he never looked back.

Maybe now she would think twice before calling anyone else a cripple.

His thoughts strayed from the bum and her insults as he made his way around the promenade. Even at midday, the central hub of Cloud Nine was bustling. Merchants hawked their wares from storefronts or kiosks, fighting each other with signs, displays, demos, and samples, each merchant just trying lighten some noble's coin-purse.

Rucca liked watching them work. It was honest work—most of the time. The Cloud Nine promenade was separated into three tiers, each one connecting to the others via spiral ramp. That suited Rucca just fine; his chair wasn't terribly adept at staircases. Most of the time, though, he just stayed around the third tier, wheeling from shop to shop, talking with the merchants but never buying anything. Being the High Prelate's son had few perks, but one of his favorites was not paying for anything. Ever.

Aside from free merchandise and food, Rucca favored the highest tier on the promenade because it was the quietest. The folks who ran shops up here were the type who chose to let their merchandise speak for itself. If someone was browsing on Tier Three, then his or her tastes were a bit above petty sales pitches. The jewelry and silvercrafts sold on Tier Three were phenomenally expensive, and the restaurants and dining halls were equally exclusive.

The second tier, though, wasn't bad. Rucca liked it fairly well, too, because that was where the merchants were the most fun. They weren't the uncultured people on the lowest level near the ports, but they weren't the snooty yes-men who ran Tier Three, either.

Rucca brought his wheelchair to a stop by the railing. He leaned forward and looked down, watching the people go about their days. He could hear Carlos' voice somewhere below him trying to convince someone that "yes, that hat is the perfect color for your skin." Rucca chuckled. He watched a burly man he didn't know enter a jewelry shop, then leave rather quickly. The man then went into a water outlet and came out a short while later with a medium jug of distilled drinking water.

Disgusting.

Rucca refused to drink distilled water. He only drank purified extraction water, not the murky mess they passed off as the real thing in those outlets. Even on Cloud Nine, good water was a luxury not everyone could afford. Rucca figured that was another of the few perks of being the High Prelate's son.

Bored of people-watching, the steam-powered wheelchair whirred around Tier Three. There were a lot of bums around today, and even though most of them weren't bothering people, they were lowering the class of the tier by just being around. He'd have to discuss that with his father soon.

As he rolled down from Tier Three, nothing interesting was happening on Tier Two, either. Just the same old shopping that happened every day. He turned his chair toward Carlos' shop and waved at the owner as he passed, catching snippets of the conversation he had started hearing up above.

"That's just lovely, my dear. No, no, I don't think the color would remind anyone of the fog."

Carlos was obviously very busy, so Rucca rolled onward. He'd come back and talk later, see if there was any gossip he needed to hear. As he passed the guard who was stationed between Tiers One and Two, Rucca heard a clang as his chair puttered and died. He rolled to a stop right beside a uniformed templar—one of his dad's soldiers.

"Trouble, sir?" the templar asked him.

"I think so, yes. Would you mind checking my chair?" It hurt Rucca to ask the man for help, but he didn't have the authority to command a templar to do anything.

The templar knelt beside Rucca, and said, "Looks like you threw a cog is all, sir. Won't be but just a second." The armored man spent a few moments messing with Rucca's chair, and then stood back up. "Try her now, sir."

The engine whirred again, and the chair was in working order. "Thank you," Rucca said. "Anything going on today, or is it blessedly slow watching the tiers?"

The guard just laughed. "Your thrown cog is the most exciting thing that's happened in hours. There aren't too many drunks trying to get into the other tiers yet, but that'll change. Always does."

"It does indeed," Rucca agreed. "Do you happen to know how many ships are in port right now?"

"I don't, sir. I'm sorry."

"It's no worry," Rucca said. "I'll go check it out for myself." He thumbed his joystick and began to move forward. Without turning the chair around, he shouted back to the templar, "And thank you for fixing my cog!"

***

The templar had been right. Nothing was going on today, even all the way down on Tier One. Rucca couldn't find any fights worth watching or arguments worth listening to, so he found himself a nice porthole and parked his chair beside it.

Fights and arguments were fickle entertainment, and Rucca knew it. However, there was one thing he could always count on to pass the hours: watching the airships dock at the skyport. Rucca's first memory was of airships, a mobile turning above his crib as an infant. Ever since then, he had found solace in their comings and goings.

Today, though, that solace was hard to come by. He had humiliated his servant and broken a cripple's fingers, and he didn't regret either action. Milton and the crippled bum had deserved what they got, and Rucca had quite enjoyed teaching them their lessons, but for some reason it hadn't quite silenced the restlessness in Rucca's spirits. The airships were equally unhelpful, which almost troubled him.

"Two today, Demetrius. Really? And it's not even mid-afternoon. I'm impressed." The voice that came from behind Rucca was gruff and patronizing in a way that only a father could manage. Rucca twisted the joystick on his chair and faced his father.

Cornelius Rucca, High Prelate of the Assembled Court, stood twice Demetrius' effective height, thanks to the younger man's wheelchair. His square jaw and perfect posture only enhanced the aura of power that radiated off him.

"Eh," Demetrius responded.

"You forced Milton Hartselle to lap water out of your hand."

Demetrius said nothing.

"I thought you liked Milton."

"He used my name when addressing me, Father. He had to be put in his place."

"His place is to serve you, Demetrius. Not to serve as your pet. And what about the beggar? Her screams interrupted a very important meeting I was having." Cornelius widened his stance and folded his hands behind his back. "Imagine my surprise when I hear what had happened to cause such a disturbance."

"Hearsay."

"Do you deny it?"

"Oh, no, Father. I broke the old bum's hand. She called me a cripple." He paused for a beat before repeating the final two words. "A. Cripple."

"Demetrius. Son. I don't know how to break it to you, but..." Cornelius paused for emphasis, too. Even his silence was mocking. "You are a cripple."

Demetrius' jaw clenched. "No, Father. I may not be able to walk, but I am not a cripple."

"I had so many hopes for you, Demetrius. So many dreams. And look where you are. Look what you are."

Demetrius turned his chair away from his father and faced the port again. "Your dreams, Father? What about mine?"

The High Prelate walked over to stand beside his son, the metal greaves he wore clanging against the wrought iron deck. Each step caused a small shudder in Demetrius. He placed a hand on his son's shoulder and said, "Please don't tell me we're having this conversation again, Demetrius."

Demetrius' response was simple: "I will have one."

"And someday the Dwellers will escape the Burrows and live above the fog, too. Wishful thinking is what keeps the world spinning around, son. Just don't let it alter how you see reality."

"I will have one."

Cornelius' hand tightened on his son's shoulder. "No, Demetrius, you will not. You, I'm afraid, are a cripple. Don't argue with me. You are. You are bound to that chair, and you know it. I don't know a single airship captain in a chair, do you? Even a crewman?"

Demetrius was silent. His eyes focused on the airship currently docking. It had enough hoses hanging from its bow that it looked like it was actually crawling through the clouds instead of flying. He focused on the airship and tried to ignore his father.

"See?" Cornelius said. "You can't think of one. Not even one." The High Prelate sighed. "You will never fly one of those, Demetrius. Never. You need to move on and act like a grown man."

Demetrius just stared forward, watching the airship connect to the skyport's docking arm. If he ignored his father long enough, maybe he would just leave.

His father leaned down and put his lips close to Demetrius' ear. "You will never fly one of those." Then, he stood up and walked away, leaving Demetrius alone staring out the window.
Chapter Three

The Gangly Dirigible made excellent time, nearing Thunder's Echo within two days of the last Hosing. During that trip, Jude and the other members of the crew passed time in various ways: people like Jude either read or talked with their friends; Roebuck and the other engineers gambled and smoked—and did very little else; Cal Reedy went around to all the rooms on the housing level, demanding bunk inspections and ensuring the place was still being kept tidy, all while pretending he wasn't doing it out of boredom. The day before their arrival at Thunder's Echo, there was an incident with the Shrew, in which he strangled another Hoser named Macintosh for looking at him the wrong way.

"I'll kill ya, ya bootlicker!" the Shrew had cried. His fingernails dug into Macintosh's throat. "You give me that wry look now—I dare ya!"

It took four people, including Reedy, to pry Macintosh out of the Shrew's grasp. The Shrew was sent to the holding cell, and Macintosh was lying in the infirmary, threatening to have the Shrew sent to the Spire to be judged by the one of the magistrates of the Assembled Court.

"He's really fine," Valencia told Jude later that day. "He's just got a thing for Kathleen Burke and the more he hams it up, the more she stays in there, feeding him soup and acting like he's a minute away from death. If he actually calls for a magistrate, I'll shave my head and give it to the Shrew as a going-away present."

The next day, Reedy went through the halls informing everyone that the airship would dock at Thunder's Echo that afternoon. Cheers rang throughout the corridor. It had been nearly four months since they'd docked at a skyport—one of the longest voyages anyone onboard could remember.

Jude went up to the galley to grab a late breakfast. When he got there, he saw William Fritz sitting at a table by himself. His friend was struggling with a piece of rockbread, something so hard it nearly broke Jude's teeth anytime he tried to eat it. Fritz smiled when he saw Jude, the hole on his left cheek appearing to narrow. The wound showed teeth and gums, and it caused Fritz to talk in a sort of wispy growl.

Fritz had been in contact with the fog, but Jude had never asked him about it. Jude heard stories about people like Fritz down in Burrow 12. The people down there talked of Fritz's kind—what most people insultingly called hobgoblins—as if they were cannibalistic beasts without speech or thought, or emotion. But Fritz was one of the nicest people Jude had ever known, and Jude was proud to call him a friend.

"Want a bite?" Fritz asked, holding out the rockbread. His fingers, hands, and arms were also damaged. Muscle tissue and even bone was visible in several places. "I'm struggling just to get it down. I suppose I should stop before my teeth look as bad as the rest of me."

"I think I'll pass on the bread," said Jude. "Did you hear we're supposed to reach Thunder's Echo today?" Jude looked around at the available food: there was rockbread, molded fruit, or the Runs. "I think I'll wait to eat until we get there."

Fritz shrugged. "Sounds like a plan to me."

"Roebuck said you were looking for me a few days ago. What have you been doing all this time?"

"Ah, nothing," said Fritz. He was older than Jude, but only by about five years. His wrinkled, damaged skin made him look decades older, though, and Fritz talked with about as much enthusiasm as an elderly man in a borderline coma. "The clouds just get to me sometimes, that's all." He looked off into a corner of the room, as if spotting the ghost of an old enemy. "That's all."

Jude frowned. "Did you need something the other day?"

"I was going to see if you had anything for my queasiness," said Fritz. "I bought some ginger the last time we were at port, but I'd used it all up."

"Maybe someone will be selling some at Thunder's Echo," Jude said. "I'm sorry I don't have any."

"It's okay. I'm feeling better now." Fritz's eyes were still off in a corner. Through the hole in his left cheek, Jude could see that his teeth were clenched. After a long pause, Fritz ran his hand through his brown hair. Little clumps of hair fell to the floor, but he didn't seem to notice. He was used to it.

"You feeling okay?" Jude asked.

"Yes, of course," said Fritz. "Although, the little toe on my right foot is nearly gone." He paused and smiled, but his eyes were dark. "The fog keeps eating long after it's gone."

***

Thunder's Echo may have been a small port, but it was one of the busiest Jude had ever seen. People bustled throughout the many bazaars and taverns in the city. Merchants called out to pedestrians and the streets were riddled with drunks, passed out from the night's previous binges. While there were a few steam-powered carriages, most people were transported around on rickshaws pulled by some of the poorer civilians. Some of the crewmembers of the Gangly Dirigible sold their wages for money and put their copper pieces together to ride as a group to the nearest tavern. Others, like Jude and Fritz, saved their money and walked.

Large towers and makeshift scaffoldings were erected throughout the skyport, some of them swaying uneasily in the light breeze. A very large clock tower stood at the center of the port, but the hands on the clock had stopped working and the glass covering its face was cracked. Thunder's Echo was in poor condition, but it was nearly regal in comparison to Burrow 12. Jude liked to think that even the bums of the skyports were luckier than those stuck down in the Burrows.

"You boys want to join us for a drink?" called Roebuck. He was part of the group pooling their money together for a carriage. He almost looked comical sitting on the edge of one of the carriage's tiny windows.

"I've got to go ship my wages back home," Jude said.

"What about you, Fritz?" asked Roebuck. The pipes on the carriage started spouting smoke. "Better decide fast, we're leavin!"

"I'm staying with Jude," said Fritz.

"Well, maybe we'll see ya soon!" Roebuck shouted as the carriage puffed and shook down the poorly constructed roadway.

Jude and Fritz left the airship hangar and headed toward the shipping lanes. Before they were far, Valencia caught up to them. She was also lugging her crate of water around. Without her wind-goggles strapped around her head, she looked pleasantly different, maybe even pretty.

"Follow me," she said. "I'll take you to the shipper I always use here."

Behind them, they could hear Captain Schlocky yelling at some of the dockworkers as the filtered water was taken off the ship to be sold. Some of the water would be left onboard, to hydrate the crew and keep the steam engines running, but most would be sold at a premium and shipped to different ports across Nimbus. None of it, Jude knew from experience, reached the people in the Burrows.

Sid's Shipping Services was a tiny shack, made of different scrap materials. It was leaning to one side and Jude doubted it could withstand a powerful gale of wind, but Valencia insisted this was the place to use. Inside, the store was no different. It smelled like rotting garbage and cigarette smoke. Sid, a scrawny man with loose, wrinkled skin, stood at the counter. An employee, a young boy with no teeth, stood nearby, mounting a series of packages onto a rickshaw.

"Hello, Sid," said Valencia as she walked up to the counter.

"Vale!" Sid cried. He threw up his arms, as if this was the most excitement he'd had all year. "It's about time. I haven't seen a pretty face since the last time you were here. How long has it been? Six or seven months?"

"More like two years," Valencia said.

"Well, time flies in old age," said Sid. He looked at Jude and smiled, but when his eyes came to Fritz, his face grimaced. Sid pointed a bony finger at him. "Is he with you?"

"Yes," said Valencia. She put her crate onto the counter before Sid could say more. "I need to ship this to Burrow 23."

Sid took out a crumpled notepad, and his voice was colder the next time he spoke. "Same address as before?"

"Yes," she said. "But you don't sound interested anymore, Sid. I guess I could use another shipper..."

"How are you paying?" Sid asked quickly. His voice was friendly once again, but it wasn't nearly as cheerful as it had been. "Money or water?"

Valencia put three copper pieces onto the counter. "Money," she said. "And I'll know if they don't get it."

"Vale, my girl!" Sid said. He flashed a weasel's smile. "I would never dream of stealing from you. Sid's Shipping Services is a good business. We don't take anything from our clients. You know that."

"And don't take anything from his either," she said, nodding back to Jude.

"Where can I send that for you, my dear boy?" asked Sid. He was still smiling, but his hands were shaking slightly, as if he was afraid of losing a sell. "You can trust us here at my business. We're good, honest people."

"I need this shipped to Burrow 12," said Jude. He put the crate onto the counter. "Send it to Joseph and Ressie Finley in Sector 7, Housing Unit 342."

Sid quickly scribbled the address down in his notepad. "And how will you be paying, my dear boy? Money or water?"

"Water," Jude said. It pained him to say it, but he didn't have any coins.

"Ah," said Sid. His eyes widened and his rotted, yellow teeth gleamed in the dim lighting. "Water..."

"How much do you take out?" Jude asked, fearful of the answer.

Sid shot Valencia a nervous, and slightly apologetic, glance. "Two bottles."

"Two bottles!" Vale and Fritz said at the same time.

"That's my deal," said Sid.

"Two bottles are worth at least sixty gold!" Jude retorted. "You only charged Vale three copper. You can't be serious."

"Here," Fritz said. He stepped up to the counter and put down three copper coins. He looked at Jude, who was about to protest. "You can pay me back later," he said.

Sid eyed the copper coins and spat on them. "We don't take hobgoblin money here! Take your filthy coins and get out."

Valencia moved forward, but Sid waved her away. "I'll put up with his presence because he's here with you, but you can't make me take his dirty money," he said. "I like you, girl, and that's why I'm not going to have Tony in the back come out and rough you and your friends up, but you better get out. Now."

Valencia grabbed Fritz's money and handed it back to him. She took three coins out of her own pocket and tossed it at the man behind the counter. "Make sure the Finleys get their water, Sid," she said firmly. "All of it."

Sid looked like he was about to protest, but thought better of it. Instead, he pocketed the money and the toothless boy by the counter added Jude's crate of water to the stack on the rickshaw, along with Valencia's.

***

"Don't let him get to you," Valencia said when they left. She patted Fritz on the back and tried to smile. "The man's an idiot. The only reason I use him is because he's too dumb to get away with stealing anything."

"Forget it. I'm used to it," said Fritz. "Everybody thinks it's contagious—like they'll look like me just for looking at me."

"Why don't we go grab a drink with everyone else?" she asked. "It'll cheer us all up. Besides, we've been working hard."

"Nah, I'm going back to the ship," Fritz said. He handed some coins to Jude. "Buy me a book or something with that, will you? I need something to do when I'm not Hosing or I'll drive myself crazy."

Jude took the money. "Are you sure you don't want to come with us?"

"I'm not in the mood," said Fritz. With his shoulders hunched, he headed back in the direction of the docks. The people on the street moved to one side as he passed.

"I'll pay you back," Jude told Vale. "I just didn't have any coins with me today."

"Think nothing of it," she said. "I had plenty. I've been saving up for about a year now, selling a bottle of water here and there. You in the mood for a drink?"

They walked together down one of the more crowded streets, bypassing some of the loudest merchants Jude had ever heard. "Fresh tobacco!" called one. "Straight from the hydroponic chamber-gardens of the Spire! Great for smoking!" A pudgy merchant hawked fake necklaces their way ("Want to buy the lady a present? Want to show her you care?"), while a female trader attempted to woo onlookers with flowers she claimed she picked from Cloud Nine ("If they're good enough for the High Prelate, they're good enough for you!"). They finally came to the Upturned Tortoise, the Gangly Dirigible crew's tavern of choice.

Nearly every Hoser and engineer from the Gangly Dirigible was already inside. Roebuck was too busy smoking and playing cards to notice Valencia and Jude enter, but Robert Thorne waved to them from a nearby stool.

"They say they're out of ale!" he yelled. "Codswallop, if you ask me. Codswallop! This whole port is codswallop!"

"I'd prefer to sit somewhere else," Jude whispered. "I hear enough of his garbage as it is. I'll be hearing all about this for the next three months."

Toward the back of the tavern, an old man played a stringed instrument and sang a song. Jude couldn't hear the lyrics, because of all the noise, but the music sounded nice. It somehow reminded him of home. Maybe it was because similar instruments were played in Burrow 12.

"I'm going to go grab a mug of something," said Valencia. "You want anything?"

"No thanks," said Jude. As soon as Vale left, he started toward the old musician. He sat down at a table near the singer, but he still couldn't make out the words. They were in a strange language he didn't recognize, maybe one the people used before the fog ever came.

"You like the song?" asked a withered, bearded man. He sat down at the table with Jude. He wasn't part of the Gangly Dirigible crew, but he was ugly enough to give the Shrew a run for his money.

"It reminds me of home," Jude replied.

"Ah, you're from underground then," said the man. He spoke in a quick, stilted accent. "A Dweller."

"No. I'm not," said Jude irritably. He hated that term. It made them all sound like ignorant bumpkins. "But yeah, I'm from a Burrow."

"That song reminds you of home?" asked the man.

"I'm sorry," said Jude. "Do I know you?"

The man laughed. "Of course not, boy. I've lived around here for nearly fifty years, but I used to be a Dweller. Burrow 16 was my home—one of the Burrows just beneath Thunder's Echo. The name's Gough. Arnold Gough. And what might your name be, my friend?"

"Jude," he answered. "Jude Finley."

"And what might you do, Jude?"

"I'm a Hoser," said Jude. "I work on the Gangly Dirigible. Why are you so interested?"

"You were born in a Burrow, but you talk like a more educated man." Gough took a sip from his mug and gave Jude a wry smile. "Are you educated, Jude? Are you learned?"

"I can read. And I know a little mechanical stuff."

"Joined up with a crew, looking for adventure, huh? Couldn't stand living in a hole in the ground for all your life? I know the feeling. That was why I had to get out. That's why I joined up with the Pamson Skyhook when I was about your age." He brought his arms up to the table. One was made of wood. "That's how I lost my right arm. I was Hosing and the wind ripped my hose away, disconnected it from the central kiosk on the main deck. The hose wrapped around my arm and the gale was so strong, it took the hose and my arm with it."

"Is this your way of warning me to get out while I can?" asked Jude.

Gough laughed. "Nah. It's just an old man telling stories to young whippersnappers who'll listen. Most people around here know me so well they don't bother listening, but I love a fresh pair of ears. You said you like the song Old Jimbelly is singing up there. You know what that song is about?"

"Sailing the skies?" Jude asked. He was tired of listening to Gough, but he couldn't find a way out of the conversation. Besides, Valencia seemed to have disappeared, which meant rescue was nowhere in sight.

"No," said Gough. "It's about the monsters that came out of the fog over a thousand years ago. Did they have stories like that in your Burrow?"

"You mean about the fogspawn?" asked Jude. He nodded.

"Well, that song he's singing is about a young boy who went too close to the fog. A lot of the boy's skin was ripped from his bones, and he was nearly dead, but something came over him. He had this fit and then he had superhuman strength. His eyes were red like fire and wisps of smoke came out his mouth when he spoke. In his weakened state, the fogspawn had entered his body and taken hold over it," said Gough. He winced as Old Jimbelly finished the song. "He had no control over himself, then."

"He died?" asked Jude.

Gough shook his head. "He was possessed by an immortal being, boy. His skin died and decayed, but the soul lived on. He was like a walking corpse—a puppet, until the fogspawn got tired of him."

"Sounds like my kind of song," said a voice behind Gough. The Shrew hobbled over to them, his perpetual grimace even more pronounced than usual. "You mind scootin over, old man?"

Gough slid down to the next chair and the Shrew took his place. "You've heard the song before?" asked Gough.

The Shrew shook his head. "Nah, but I could hear some of the words as I came over. It's in the old language, ain't it? From before the fog?"

Gough nodded. "I was telling my young friend here all about it."

The Shrew looked Jude over with his one eye and scoffed. "You tryin to scare him? Tryin to give him nightmares?"

Jude was tired of listening to them. He wasn't a kid, and he was sick of being treated like one. "I've got to find my friend," he said, standing up. "You two try not to choke on your drinks."

"And you try not to wet the bed tonight," the Shrew said.

Jude could hear the Shrew laughing until he was out of earshot. He didn't want a drink, so he decided he might as well go on and find Fritz a book before heading back to the ship. He was about to leave, but he spotted Valencia sitting at a nearby stool.

"Jude," she said. "Where have you been? I tried looking for you."

"I was just listening to the music," Jude replied. He took a seat next to her. Robert Gwynn and Kathleen Burke were there also. On Burke's other side was Macintosh, and he looked considerably better since the Shrew's beating, though his throat was still a deep shade of red, and it was starting to bruise. "What have you guys been up to?"

"Drinking!" cried Gwynn. "It's the Upturned Tortoise. What else is there to do?"

"You not up for drinking?" asked Macintosh. "Too poor or too weak?"

"You know, Macintosh," said Jude, "I was just chatting with your good friend the Shrew. He said to tell you hello."

That shut Macintosh up, but Vale and Gwynn both laughed. Gwynn took out a cigarette and lit it with a match. "You know, I just bought these fresh today. The lady at the marketplace said the tobacco just arrived from Garden Point. It smokes good, but if it's really from that skyport, I'll eat my left foot."

Vale finished off her mug. "Well, I guess I'm outta here. I need to get some sleep before we sail off in the morning."

"I still have to get a book for Fritz," said Jude. "Do you want to come with me?"

She nodded. Before either of them could stand up, there was a commotion at the entrance to the tavern. Cal Reedy had just walked in with an angry look on his face. The first mate stood up on a stool and looked out at everyone in the bar.

"All the Gangly Dirigible crew get back to the ship!" he commanded. He cupped his hands around his mouth to make his voice louder. "You've got ten minutes. Anybody too drunk to Hose better just stay here. We don't want you."

There were several groans from all around the Upturned Tortoise. As Reedy stepped off the stool, the engineer called Patterson walked up to the first mate and put an arm around him. Patterson's eyes were watery and he was shaking. "Ah, come on, boss," he said. He let out a loud burp in Reedy's face, which may or may not have been accidental. "We just got here."

Reedy punched Patterson hard in the stomach. Patterson tried to get away, but Reedy slammed his head into the stool. Without so much as a groan, the engineer collapsed on the floor.

"He's staying behind," Reedy said. He looked around the room and shook his fist at the crowd. "If anybody tries to haul him back to the ship, I'll make sure Patterson and whoever helped him are all thrown off immediately. Let the wind or the fog take you."

With a few more groans, the crewmembers of the Gangly Dirigible started filing out of the tavern one by one. Some of the crew were furious, cursing and stomping in hopes Reedy could hear them, but Jude doubted a man like Reedy would be insulted by a few curses hurled his way, although it didn't stop some people from trying. Before he walked out the door, Jude thought he saw Roebuck leaning over Patterson, taking coins out of the unconscious man's pockets.

"I'm going to find out why we're setting off so early," Macintosh said. He pushed his way through the crowd, trying to make his way to Reedy.

"What do you reckon this is about?" Gwynn asked as they walked back toward the docks.

"I don't know," said Thorne, joining with the rest of them. "But it's all a pile of codswallop. Just like this blasted port. I have half a mind to just stay here, but I think one more day in this place would have me looking worse than a naked hobgoblin."

"Don't let Fritz hear you say that," said Burke. "He might infect you."

"You know it's not contagious, Kat," said Jude.

"I don't care," she replied. "Why Schlocky let that man on our ship, I'll never know. If you ask me, I think it was blackmail or something like it. Schlocky doesn't seem like the kind who'd work with hob—"

"If you say that word, I'm going to punch you in the mouth," Valencia said. Burke gave Valencia an evil look, but kept quiet. The distance between the two women grew slightly as they walked.

"I really do wonder why we have to leave so early," Gwynn said. He fiddled with his moustache. "What do you reckon this is about?"

"Quit your worrying," said Thorne. "All you do is worry. I'm sure we'll find out soon enough. Just give it a rest."

"I bet it has something to do with the boilers," said Burke. "Roebuck was supposed to fix that leak months ago. The whole ship has probably—"

"There's a storm!" Macintosh shouted. He ran to their group and kissed Burke on the cheek. "I just heard Reedy telling someone. They've got word that a huge storm is northwest of here. Schlocky was the only captain at port, so none of the other ships know about it yet. He wants to get there first."

Thorne sighed. "Fantastic. More danger for us Hosers."

"Yeah, but we'll get enough water to fill the next three or four quotas," Valencia said. "This is great. We'll all be raking in wages again after this."

"I have a bad feeling about this," Gwynn said, still playing with his moustache. "It's been a long time since we've encountered a storm."

"Stop worrying!" Thorne said, and he walloped Gwynn in the back.

As much as he hated to side with Thorne, Jude agreed. "Try to relax. We'll all be fine," he told Gwynn as they boarded the ship. "And we'll all have wages, too."

"No, no, no," said Gwynn, stroking his moustache so furiously he looked as if he were about to rip it from his face. "You mark my words, Jude. I've got a bad feeling about this, and my gut's usually right. The last time I had a bad feeling, Trombino was killed during a night Hosing. He fell right over the edge."

"I've never heard of Trombino," said Jude.

"Exactly," Gwynn retorted, giving Jude an appraising look. "You were hired to take his place."
Chapter Four

You have greatness within you. It has been beaten down by those around you, but in time, others will see it like I have. When that time comes, I will guide your hand so that you do not ruin the moment.

***

The whirring and clanking had kept Demetrius Rucca up all night. For being the skyport that housed most of Nimbus' noble families, Cloud Nine sure didn't seem like much. Of course, Rucca had no idea what it was actually like down in the Burrows or on any of the other skyports, but he expected more out of a place that was home to the seat of the Assembled Court. If he were god-king, he would demand more from the seat of his government and his house of worship.

His ruminations were interrupted when the new day's sunlight began to glint through the large windows of his bedroom. When the sun had completely risen, Rucca finally gave up any attempt to sleep. He went through his morning routine—washed himself, shaved, and then wheeled himself over to the desk that sat beneath the window. The morning's light shone on the books he had stacked there, creating the perfect study environment, but try as he might, he could not concentrate on the words this morning. Probably one of the side effects of not sleeping well.

He wheeled himself away from his desk, across the room, and out the door of his bedroom. He sat for a few moments in the living area of his suite, which was well-decorated and comfortable. Most of the time Rucca liked it, but today he found it confining. He pushed and twisted the joystick of his wheelchair to drive him around the furniture. He circled the room, pacing as best he could without the use of his legs.

When enough time had passed that he wasn't going to be the first one on the skyport out and about, he wheeled himself out the door and toward the dining hall. Maybe breakfast would make things better.

***

Breakfast made nothing better.

The fruit was stale, the meat overcooked, and Rucca was pretty sure that the coffee had been left over from the day before. Nothing was going right today. So he wheeled himself away from the table, breakfast half-eaten, and toward the door.

"Have a great day, sir," Milton Hartselle called after him.

Rucca twisted the joystick, turning the wheelchair to face the servant. He opened his mouth to say something snarky. Instead, he just turned the chair back toward the door and left the room.

The promenade was busy even at this hour. Shops were opening up for the day, and Rucca wheeled by as the shopkeepers raised their grates and unlocked their doors. He saw Carlos and waved at him. The flamboyantly-dressed man finished turning his key and then walked over to Rucca.

"Good morning, my lord Rucca." He extended the first word until it was three or four times its normal length. "It is a beautiful day, is it not?"

"Hardly," Rucca answered.

"What is this?" Carlos asked. "We can't have the High Prelate's son in a bad mood. No, no, no, no, no!" Carlos rushed back to his shop's door and pulled it open. "Come along inside, my friend. Let us find a way to brighten your morning, what do you say?"

"Thank you, Carlos," Rucca said. "But I can't say that I'm in the mood to play dress up."

"Play dress up?" Carlos placed his hand on his chest as though covering a wound. "My lord Rucca, I am hurt in my soul! Have you ever made a grown man cry?"

Yes.

"The only way to mend this wound is for you to come inside. Come!" When Rucca didn't even inch forward, Carlos said it again. "Come!"

Rucca sighed. He pressed the joystick forward and rolled into the clothing shop. "Carlos, I hardly think—"

"Ah, my lord friend, I know the perfect thing for you. I do not act as though I can enhance the way you dress. No, no! I would never be so bold. You are as well-dressed as any man on Cloud Nine, better than most! But an accent...an accent would be perfect. Something for that strong jaw, perhaps?"

Rucca just rolled his eyes while Carlos continued to prattle on. He did his best to tune the shopkeeper's voice out, but he found it harder and harder to do as Carlos placed hat after hat on his head.

"No," Carlos would say. "Not that one. That one is not for you." He replaced it and said, "No, not this one, either. My friend, you have such stature, such presence, and I am afraid you make all of my merchandise look cheap next to you." Rucca could see what Carlos was doing, and it was almost working. But he knew it was the merchant's shtick, his routine.

"I know!" Carlos exclaimed and ran from the room. When he came back, he held something behind his back. "I know why nothing else would work, my lord friend. I know! It is because you are so great, meant for something so much better than the rest of us, that only the best merchandise I have would work. You must accept my apologies for not trying this first, my lord friend."

Absently, Rucca said, "Yes, yes, Carlos. Of course."

"You are most magnanimous. What do you think of these?" He brought a pair of goggles from behind his back. They were somehow different from most other airship goggles Rucca had seen. Most of the ones he had seen airship crews wear had been cloudy pieces of glass attached to worn pieces of leather that tied or buckled at the back. They were functional, but far from fashionable.

The goggles that Carlos held out for him, however, were magnificent. Rucca could see there were multiple lenses layered on top of one another, each a different color. He had no idea how many layers there were or what they were for. Instead of buckling or tying worn leather, the lenses were attached to a frame crafted entirely out of metal, and the metal was etched with a script that Rucca had never seen. The goggles looked more like a crown than simple eye protection.

"Those are lovely, Carlos," Rucca said. "Where did you get them?"

"Here or there," Carlos said. "What does that matter now, my lord friend? Do you like them?" He handed the goggles to Rucca, who undid the clasp and put them on. The world took on a shimmering hue, and he wheeled himself to one of the many mirrors Carlos had stationed around his shop.

After a few moments of staring at his reflection, Rucca said, "I do like them, Carlos. How much for them?"

"For anyone else, more than they could afford." The shopkeeper laughed. "But for you, my lord friend, they cost nothing."

"Nothing?" Rucca asked. "You're just giving them away?"

"To you. Only to you. It seemed earlier that you were having a bad day. With these, maybe it will not be so bad?" His voice rose at the end of the sentence, making a simple declaration into a question.

"Maybe not," Rucca said, adjusting the goggles' lenses. By clicking small levers on either side of the frames, different colored lenses switched in and out. The ones not currently covering his eyes were flipped up in front of his forehead, which gave him a peculiar, insect-like appearance. "The day certainly seems to be looking up."

Carlos clapped his hands excitedly. "I love to hear it!"

At just about that time, noise began to filter into Carlos' clothing shop. There was nothing distinct at first, but it didn't take long for the noise level to rise. Both Rucca and Carlos could tell the ruckus was a shouting match. From the sound of it, it couldn't be that far away. Carlos rushed to the entrance, and Rucca wheeled behind him.

From the entrance of the shop, Rucca could hear the shouting that came from the ramp leading down to Tier One. He looked up at Carlos and said, "Thank you for the goggles."

"Absolutely. Any time, my lord friend. Just remember Carlos when it comes time to tell friends who has the best merchandise on Cloud Nine." The shopkeeper winked at Rucca, who began to wheel away as he spoke.

"Of course, Carlos. See you later."

As Rucca wheeled closer to the disturbance, the shouting became less like angry noise and more like distinct words and phrases. At first he could only make out bits like "dirty old bum" or "templar sumbitch," and as he rolled closer, he saw the altercation was between one of his father's templars—a fellow he didn't recognize, actually—and a bum he'd seen around the skyport's lowest tier more than a few times. He thought the bum's name was Gully, and if he remembered correctly, he'd heard talk that Gully had a mean streak that alcohol only made meaner.

"Now, I told you, you templar sumbitch, I'm late for work."

"And I've told you, you dirty old man, that I don't think you have a job on Tier Three."

"Do so," Gully argued. "And I can prove it."

The bum stuck his hands deep into both pockets. He rummaged around for a while, and the look on his face indicated that he was indeed looking for something that he just couldn't quite lay a finger on. Eventually, he pulled both hands out of his pockets and showed them to the templar, middle fingers extended upward. "Here's your proof, you armored god-tard. Now let me through." The bum rushed the templar, putting his head down and charging.

The templar easily sidestepped the attack. It wasn't that hard to do, as Gully was already intoxicated enough that he couldn't even charge in a straight line. Once Gully realized his attack was unsuccessful, he stood up quickly and whipped his fist at the templar, who grabbed the bum's wobbly arm and threw a punch of his own.

The templar's plated fist slammed into Gully's ribcage, and Rucca heard the breath escape from the beggar's lungs and saw his legs give out. Gully hit the ground hard, but his intoxication level was likely high enough that he wouldn't feel the impact. If the templar had stopped there, Rucca's day would have ended quite differently. Instead, the templar reared his foot back and began kicking Gully in the stomach over and over again.

Rucca knew he wasn't exactly an upstanding citizen, but he didn't think he was what most people would consider a bad person, either. He might be entitled, spoiled, immature, and selfish, maybe—but not bad. And he was certainly not considered by anyone to be as noble as his father, the High Prelate; however, when Rucca saw the way the templar was laying into Gully, something inside him snapped. Later, he would look back on the moment and wonder what made him interfere, and he could think of absolutely nothing about his life or personality that precipitated the event.

It was just a voice in the back of his head telling him to interfere.

In any case, when Rucca saw his father's templar attacking the bum, he instinctively pushed his wheelchair's control stick forward. The chair didn't stop until it slammed him into the templar, who was caught mid-kick and knocked to the ground himself.

"Who the hell do you think you are?" the templar demanded from the ground.

Rucca smiled at him. It wasn't often someone had to look up to make eye contact with him. "My name is Demetrius Rucca. My father is Cornelius Rucca. If you do not know of me, can I at least assume that you are familiar with him?"

The templar picked himself up and bowed his head. "I am sorry, sir. I had no idea. I am sorry if I mispoke."

Rucca looked down at the bum, who was still wheezing on the ground. "I do not believe that I am the one to whom you owe an apology."

The templar's gaze flitted to the bum. "To him?"

"Yes. I believe so. Do you even know his name?"

The templar stared at Gully. He swallowed audibly. "I...do not."

"And yet you beat him senseless. Would my father approve of your actions?"

"I was tasked with keeping the rabble out of the upper tiers, sir."

"That did not answer my question, templar."

The templar thought about it. "No, sir. I don't think he would have."

"And yet you really laid into him, didn't you?"

The templar would not meet Rucca's gaze. "I was just doing my job, sir."

"I don't think that's a very good excuse, templar. A convenient one, I'll give you, but not a very good one. I'll tell you what. You leave old Gully alone here—in my custody. I promise that he won't be bothering you again today. And on top of that, I'll be sure that the next time I run into my father, the High Prelate won't hear a word of your poor performance at your new posting."

The templar looked shocked. "How...how did you—?"

"I have never seen you here before, and if you ask anyone around here," Rucca gestured to the crowd of people who had gathered around them, "you will find out that I am not an uncommon sight." He leaned forward in his chair. "I pay attention to things."

The templar grunted and stood up straight. "Understood, sir. I'll, uhh, leave the bum with you."

Rucca nodded at him, and then wheeled himself over to the bum. "Gully, I believe?"

He nodded. "You the king?"

"No, I don't believe I am," Rucca said.

"Coulda fooled me, with that crown on your head," Gully grumbled.

Rucca chuckled and rolled down the ramp toward Tier One. "Come on, Gully. We'll have a couple of drinks then catch up. What do you say?"

"You buyin?"

"I am indeed."

"Then I say you got yourself a date."

***

After spending longer in a bar than he was comfortable with, Rucca began to wheel around Tier One. Gully followed him despite Rucca's best efforts to prevent him from following.

"I know I've told ya before, your majesty—"

"I told you before, Gully, I'm not the king."

The crazy bum ignored him. "—but I really do owe you for gettin that god-tard off me this mornin."

Rucca pondered why he saved the bum from the templar. Am I to be stuck with this man forever?

"It was nothing, Gully."

"The hell it wasn't. He woulda beat me to death if you hadn't stopped him, your majesty."

Rucca sighed. As much as he appreciated Carlos' gift earlier that day, right now he would have done anything if he hadn't been wearing the goggles when Gully first saw him. All afternoon, the drunken bum had been calling him your majesty.

"I mean it, your majesty. I'll do anything for you. Anything I can, that is. I'm not worth much, but I'll do what I can for you. Get you anything you need. Ale, women, whatever, you name it, and it's yours."

They arrived at Rucca's favorite spot on Tier One, right next to the docks. From there, he could see every new airship as it arrived at Cloud Nine.

Or, rather, it had been his favorite. Until yesterday. It was the spot his father had found him. He could still hear his father's voice in his head.

You are a cripple. You will never fly one of those, Demetrius.

Rucca tried to tune Gully's prattling out as he settled in to watch the airships dock. He reached up and unclasped the goggles Carlos had given him. They really were exquisite, probably made for an airship captain or someone of similar station. Yet Carlos had given them to him, the wheelchair-bound wannabe.

"Gully, what was it you just said?"

"I said I'd do anything for you, your majesty. Get you anything you want."

Rucca looked down at the goggles in his hands and then back out the window at the ship currently docking. He smiled and said, "Get me an airship."
Chapter Five

The Gangly Dirigible had never flown so fast. Captain Schlocky kept the engineers working the boiler room long into the night. The steam rose through the cracks in the floor and filled the housing level with so much smoke it was difficult to breathe, much less sleep. Jude got up from his bunk and went out in the corridor. He was tired of inhaling steam and decided he would go upstairs to the main deck for some fresh air. Before he got very far, he spotted Roebuck squatting by one of the floorboards.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"Tryin to see if I could jam something in these cracks to keep the smoke from comin up here," Roebuck said. He stood up, but his head still only reached Jude's waist. "Cap'n Schlocky is ridin us hard about these leaks. I figured I'd put a stop to his grumblin and just jam something into the cracks."

"Why don't you just fix the leaks?"

"It's easier to fix the cracks," Roebuck replied. He pulled a cigar out of his pocket and held it up to Jude, smiling. "I bought this back at Thunder's Echo. The tobacco is from Cloud Nine, accordin to the guy that sold it to me."

"I doubt they grow tobacco on Cloud Nine," Jude said. He did his best to avoid sounding like a know-it-all. "The book I've been reading talks about all the skyports in Nimbus, and it doesn't mention anything about tobacco growers on Cloud Nine. I think the merchant lied to you."

"Ya think so?" Roebuck asked. He stuck the cigar into his mouth, took the switchblade out from his other pocket, and cut off the tip of the cigar in one quick slash. "I don't reckon I really care. The tobacco is good either way."

"You don't mind the guy ripping you off?" Jude asked. He somehow doubted it—Roebuck wasn't the forgiving type.

"Not right now," Roebuck said. He jammed the switchblade into the wooden floorboards. "But I'll make sure I stab the scumbag in the leg the next time we're at Thunder's Echo. I might even make him give me a refund. If he refuses, I might even cut off his—"

The ship suddenly lurched to one side, sending both Jude and Roebuck against the wall. The housing level broke into an uproar, as people ran out of their rooms cursing and screaming. Jude, who had been knocked to the floor, tried to stand up. It was hard to do, since the airship was still spiraling forward.

"Has Schlocky lost his bloody mind?" Roebuck grunted and grabbed for his cigar, which had rolled toward the stairwell. He stuck the cigar back between his teeth and glanced at Jude. "I better go down to the boiler room. I hope nothin's wrong down there. I can't ever get a break on this filthy ship..."

Before Roebuck could leave, a frightened-looking man walked into the corridor from the stairwell. The Second Mate of the Gangly Dirigible was the opposite of Calvin Reedy: not only was Vincent Miles about as intimidating as a silver spoon, he spoke in unconfident, short whispers.

"Hosers to your stations," he said, his voice barely audible to Jude, who was standing right beside him. With the commotion all around, Jude doubted anyone else on the housing level could hear him.

"Where's Reedy?" Roebuck asked.

"He's busy," Miles replied. He cocked his head back and yelled louder than Jude would have expected. "Hosers to your stations—now!"

Roebuck looked back at Jude with a cocky smile. "I guess we've arrived at the storm," he said.

***

Jude ran back to his room and scrambled to put on his overcoat and cap. Thorne was complaining as usual, but Gwynn was apparently scared into silence. Jude didn't bother hanging around to offer any comfort. Instead, he rushed out into the corridor and headed for the stairwell.

On his way, he noticed Roebuck had left the switchblade knife embedded in the floor. Jude pulled it out and pocketed it, thinking he'd give it to Roebuck when the Hosing was over.

He pushed his way past several irritable and drowsy Hosers and climbed up the stairs, all while trying to get his wind-goggles on correctly.

"What's going on?" Fritz asked, meeting Jude near the entrance out onto the deck.

"I think we've reached the storm," said Jude. Everyone fell forward as the airship lurched once again. Lightning flashed and Jude saw many anxious faces looking out onto the deck. He turned to Fritz. "Here we go."

Jude and the others scurried out onto the main deck, some people looking more frightened than others. The airship was still above the clouds, but the streaks of lightning illuminated everything outside in quick flashes. A crack of thunder resounded beneath them and the airship seemed to shake in response. Vincent Miles went to the central kiosk were the hydro-hoses were on their racks and turned to face the Hosers.

"Let's keep this safe," the second mate said, reverting back to his usual whisper. "But make it fast, you lot."

A gust of wind blasted through the area, forcing the smokestacks to tremble and groan. Jude wondered what would happen if the smokestack pipes fell and ripped a hole in the gasbag above. Would the ship fall through the sky and crash? Could any of them survive?

Or would the fog eat them all alive long before the airship smashed into the ground?

Jude tried to turn his attention elsewhere, tried to think more pleasant thoughts, but the smokestacks continued to groan as the wind gusted across the deck.

Fritz grabbed his hydro-hose and looked over at Jude, frowning. Without a word, he marched off to the starboard side of the ship. Jude reached for his own hose, but Gwynn bumped into him before he could take it off the rack.

"I got a bad feeling about this," Gwynn said, his voice cracking. It had been his mantra since leaving the Upturned Tortoise. "A real bad feeling."

Jude gave him a half-sympathetic smile and took the hose off the rack. With Gwynn still mumbling behind him, Jude headed for his station. Unfortunately, Gwynn's station was next to Jude's, so he was only rid of the man's incessant warnings for the short time it took for Gwynn to get his own hose off the rack and carry it to the port side of the ship.

Finally, Vincent Miles called "Drop the hoses!" and the Hosers obeyed.

Before Miles could continue, Cal Reedy came limping down the stairs from the pilot's house. Jude guessed the first mate had been injured somehow during that first lurch: Reedy's coat was flecked with blood and a rag was wrapped tightly around his injured leg. There was a brief pause in the Hosing as Reedy quickly dismissed Miles, and the second mate, looking half-ashamed yet relieved, started back towards the pilot's house obediently.

"Begin the raking!" Reedy shouted. The thunder roared over his voice.

The wind and lightning made raking the cloud much harder than usual. Jude finally reached the right level, but it was hard work. His arms were already tired and the actual Hosing had yet to begin. He could feel his hands slipping from the hose because his palms were seeping with sweat.

Reedy's next command was lost to the storm. Just as a powerful gust ripped across the main deck, a bolt of lightning struck the hull of the airship. The Gangly Dirigible dipped below the clouds. For a few brief moments, everyone out on the main deck was underwater. Sheets of rain poured down on the Hosers and Reedy, and Jude's clothes were instantly drenched. The unfiltered rainwater smelled old and stale, and Jude suddenly feared the fog would get them before Schlocky could bring the airship back above the Skyline.

"Hold steady!" Reedy yelled over the rain.

A streak of lightning bolted out of one of the clouds and hit one of the smokestack pipes. A loud, metallic pang rang through Jude's ears. The airship started going upward in jerky leaps, but another bolt of lightning hit the main deck and Jude heard someone scream. He didn't turn around—he knew if he did, he might lose his hose or fall forward, and then it would all be over. The fog would get him.

"Nobody move," Reedy said. "Everyone stay where you are."

Trembling, the Gangly Dirigible rose back above the clouds and Jude felt as if he could breathe once again. The airship continued to shake as it circled back around the dark clouds, but Reedy didn't seem to notice.

"Ready on three!" Reedy commanded. He turned the first lever over on the main kiosk. "One..."

"You can't be serious!" Jude heard a Hoser yell. "This is too dangerous!"

"If we don't hurry, we'll all be dead," Reedy replied. He turned the next lever. "Two..."

"This isn't worth it," another Hoser cried.

"Codswallop!" said the distinct voice of Robert Thorne. "That's what this is! A bunch of codswallop!"

Reedy ignored their protests and turned the next lever. "Three," he said, with a strange shrillness in his voice. "Begin the extraction!"

The hydro-hose was much harder to control in the storm, but Jude tried to keep his arms steady. Against the wind and the lightning, Jude and the others managed to Hose for half an hour without any problems. In that short time, they'd already extracted enough water to fill the next quota, and they were working on another when the airship's hull was hit by another streak of lightning.

This time, the ship went far below the clouds—far enough that Jude was sure he could see the deathly fog swirling just underneath them. He heard cries from all around of "The fog! The fog!" and "We're dead!" and "It's over!" Gwynn dropped his hose and brought his arms over his head, falling to his knees. There were screams from every direction, but Schlocky fought hard against the wind and rain to get the Gangly Dirigible back above the Skyline.

They were nearly back above the clouds when a bolt of lightning seared through the air and someone let out a low, diluted scream. Jude could smell something burning, but he still didn't dare turn around. Lightning flashed again and again; the wind came in mighty gusts and whipped hard, cold rain against the ship, but Jude tried to hold his hydro-hose steady, even though his whole body was shaking.

"No!" Jude heard Fritz shout. "Get him away from me! Get him away!"

Jude turned around and saw his friend leaning against the railing. Fritz fell to his knees and started to vomit. Next to him, there was a smoking pile of what appeared to be rags and seared meat. It was hard to see through the rain, but Jude thought he knew what the smoking pile really was: the remains of another Hoser. Jude surveyed the deck as best he could and suddenly realized that it was Thorne—lightning must have struck him.

"Calm down," Reedy said. He started for Fritz and yelled up at the pilot's house. "Miles, get down here! Pronto, dammit!"

A powerful squall tore through the area and there were more screams. Sheets of rain distorted Jude's vision, but he saw a rogue hose hurtling toward him and ducked just in time. The nozzle, however, nicked him against the shoulder and pain jolted through his body. The airship rocked, and the Hosers on the port side with Jude all tried their best to keep from falling overboard. As Jude attempted to get back on his feet, he saw that Gwynn was gone. He glanced around at all the pandemonium, but couldn't find his fellow Hoser anywhere on the main deck.

Carefully, Jude moved to the edge and peered over. Gwynn's arm was wrapped around his hose, but both man and hose were dangling down into the abyss, incredibly close to the fog floating hungrily beneath them. Jude tried to pull Gwynn up with the hose, but his injured shoulder kept him from using that arm, and it was an impossible task to perform one-handed.

"Help!" Jude called. "Man overboard! I need help!"

Someone ran over to him and a second pair of hands helped Jude hoist Gwynn up. The rain made the hose slippery, and it was extremely difficult to get a good grip, but they heaved and pulled until, finally, Gwynn was safely back on deck. Jude turned to thank whoever had helped and was surprised to see the second mate standing there.

"Thanks," Jude said, panting.

Miles nodded curtly. "Take that man to the infirmary. His arm is probably broken."

Jude leaned down to help Gwynn to his feet, but another gust of wind sent everyone spiraling backwards. The hydro-hose was now wrapped so tightly around Gwynn's arm that it was impossible to get him free. The skin on Gwynn's arm was cracked and bloodied, and his hand was turning a sick shade of purple.

"Hang on," Jude said, remembering he had Roebuck's knife. He took out the switchblade and started hacking away at the hose. The hose was thick and callous, but Roebuck's knife was extremely sharp. "I've almost got it."

"Heaven save me!" Gwynn said. His eyes were huge and his whole body started shaking. "Oh, heaven save me..."

Jude turned around to see why Gwynn had panicked. The airship was nearly above the Skyline, but a swirl of dark smoke had started forming from the nearby clouds. Powerful blasts of wind and huge bits of hail started assaulting the Gangly Dirigible now, as a monstrous cyclone started forming. Loose bits of debris flew from the ship as the tornado sucked in everything it could.

"Everyone below deck," Reedy shouted. "Below deck! Below deck!"

Jude ducked as a wooden crate missed him by inches and smashed into one of the smokestacks. He was so close to having Gwynn's arm freed, and he couldn't just leave the man out in the storm. Why was it taking Schlocky so long to bring the ship back above the Skyline? Everyone else rushed to meet Reedy's latest order and take shelter, but Jude was so close...

"Let's go," Miles said, grabbing Jude by the elbow. "You heard Reedy."

"We can't leave him," Jude said, trying to hack away at Gwynn's hose. "I'm almost finished."

Miles tried to drag Jude away as Gwynn begged for them not to leave him behind. Miles' grasp was tight, but Jude managed to shake free, even if the pain in his shoulder caused his ears to ring and his head to swim. Another crate flew through the air and hit Miles in the chest. Both Miles and the crate went hurtling through the air. Jude tried to stop it from happening, but it was too late. Miles' cries were extinguished as the tornado sucked him in, indifferent to the man's death.

"Please—please don't leave me," Gwynn begged.

As the airship finally jutted back above the Skyline, Jude managed to cut Gwynn free. Both men clamored to get below deck, but most of the dangers seemed beneath them and the clouds. The ship continued gaining altitude, slowly getting further and further away from the storm, but Jude knew he wouldn't feel safe until the sound of thunder no longer reached his ears.

When they entered the stairwell, a dozen or so hands grabbed at them, pulling the two men to safety. Gwynn almost instantly passed out, crumpling in a heap on the stairs, but Jude made his way through the crowd, trying to get away from everyone. The pain in his shoulder was awful, but it was nothing compared to the things he'd just witnessed. His hands were shaking and he felt dazed—as if this entire night had been a horrible dream.

It wasn't until Jude was a safe distance away from everyone else that black spots started to appear in his vision. He slumped against the wall and tried to sit down. The ship was still shaking badly, but he no longer cared. As the blackness took him, he couldn't remember where he was anymore.

For all he knew, he was back outside in the storm, or maybe back in Burrow 12 with his parents and sister. He glanced around the hallway and saw only empty sky...

***

"You're lucky to be alive," said a gruff voice. "It was a fool's thing you did last night."

Jude blinked several times. Even though he'd been awake for some time, his vision kept getting blurred. Finally, the image of Allister Schlocky came back into focus. Jude rubbed his eyes, which seemed to make his vision slightly clearer.

"How's Robert?" Jude asked. His shoulder was bandaged tightly, but it still stung. He massaged it with his opposite hand and winced.

"Which one?" Schlocky asked bitterly, taking a seat next to Jude's cot. "Thorne is dead, but Gwynn is no worse than you. He's just complaining a bit more than you are."

Jude nodded. He had meant Gwynn, but only because he'd forgotten about Thorne. He'd also forgotten about Miles, but the image of the second mate flying into the tornado came back to haunt him and Jude thought he might get sick.

"It's not as bad as I figured," Schlocky continued. The way he talked out of the side of his mouth, it was hard to tell if he was angry or smiling. "I guess if it hadn't been for you, there'd be a slightly higher body count."

"Who died?" Jude asked, knowing how childish it sounded.

"Well, Thorne is dead, but I already told you that," Schlocky said. He started counting on his fingers. "Two other Hosers are dead: Judith Weiss and Chuck Kesey. Weiss was hit by lightning before Thorne, and the tornado took Kesey. An engineer is dead—the one they all called Twitchy. He was impaled on something down in the boiler room when the ship was turning tricks. And then Vincent Miles is dead, but you already know that, don't you?"

"Is that what this is about?" Jude asked. He tried to sit up a little straighter. He hated looking so pathetic in front of the captain. "Are you firing me for getting Miles killed?"

"Nah," Schlocky said. "People get killed. That's life on an airship. I came down here to tell you I'm giving you his job."

Jude didn't say anything. He was half-convinced Schlocky was messing with him.

"You can say no," Schlocky said, keeping his piercing gaze on Jude. "But keep in mind that if you do, you're off the ship the next time we get to port. I'm not exactly asking, if you understand me. You did get Miles killed, but he and I are just as much to blame as you. Either way, we still need a second mate, so you're taking his job."

"But I'm just a Hoser," Jude said.

"I was a Hoser once, too," said Schlocky. He laughed bitterly and started to stand. "What—you thought captains were just born?"

Jude shook his head. "I just meant that I'm not sure if I'm the right person for the job. I've only been in the air for a year. I'm still new."

Schlocky threw a badge at Jude. It bore the emblem of a dirigible with GD sewn into it: the badge that all of the captain's crew wore on the Gangly Dirigible. Jude looked at the badge and then back at Schlocky.

"I'll give you a few days to rest up before you start your new job," he said with a pirate's grin.

Then, he turned and left.
Chapter Six

They called me the Interloper when they should have called me king. I have learned my lessons about trust and power. If you trust someone else, then you can have no true power. Loyalty and respect are meaningless terms that idiots and buffoons spew like vomit. True power is never shared. Remember that.

***

"What in the name of the god-king is this?" Rucca asked.

It had been days since Rucca had seen Gully the bum, and he had hoped to keep it that way. After saving him from a templar's beating, Rucca had found it rather difficult to shake the old drunk, who had become more of a worshipper than anything else.

When Rucca had told Gully to get him an airship, he had only been half-serious. It had been a good way to send his follower away and keep him distracted. Now, though, Rucca regretted the remark.

In front of him was a score of bums, some even more detestable than Gully himself. There were two things wrong with the situation as Rucca saw it: the first being that bums usually avoided one another, marking their territory and fighting for their begging spots like rabid animals. A group like this was uncommon. The second was what actually bothered him. The twenty-odd beggars in front of him were either kneeling or bowing, as though they were offering fealty.

He had been wheeling around Tier Two when Gully had spotted him from below. Rucca had tried to maneuver away, but the bum had been relentless, yelling so loudly that Rucca was forced to head down the ramp just to avoid making another scene.

Now, Rucca saw that Gully had no intention of leaving him alone. Ever.

As Rucca stared slack-jawed at the gathering of beggars, Gully knelt next to the steamchair. He said, "We're yours to command, your majesty."

Rucca motioned toward the gathered crowd. "Stand up, all of you. Stop that. I am not your king or commander."

Low murmuring came from the group, but they obeyed. Once standing, they still looked toward Rucca reverently.

"Gully, why have you done this?"

"I did this for you, majesty. You said to get you an airship, and I thought to myself, Gully, I thought, what good does an airship do with no crew? So I went around and got my lord a crew!"

"Gully, that's not...I mean, you did well, but...this is ridiculous. Who are these people?"

"They're your people, majesty. I went and talked to them all myself, I did. Told how you saved me from that armored god-tard. I told them how there was finally a noble who cared enough about us to do something. And when I told them about your crown and how it—"

"Gully," Rucca said, reaching up and touching the goggles, "this is not a crown."

"I think it is, majesty, beg your pardon."

"It's not, Gully." Rucca reached up and removed the goggles from his head. He hadn't been wearing them over his eyes. Instead, they were pushed up and resting on his forehead. Like a crown. He sighed. "They're just goggles. Wind-goggles like any crewman on an airship would have, see?"

He held the goggles out toward Gully, indicating he should take them. Gully backed away and bumped into one of the women behind him. "No, no, your majesty. I can't take your crown. No, sir, no. I'm no royal, no noble, no king. No."

"Neither am I, Gully." And just then, at that very moment, Rucca realized how deeply he could be in trouble. "If my father finds out about this, you'll all be executed. Or at least imprisoned. Probably tortured. Gully, we have a god-king, and I'm not him. Even suggesting that I am...well, that's blasphemy. The High Prelate isn't exactly kind to blasphemers and heretics."

Believe me.

"But, majesty, we were just..." Gully stammered.

"I know, Gully." Rucca felt sorry for the man. What was it about him that made Rucca so sympathetic? "But you can't—"

A voice came from the back of the meeting. It was stern and deep. "By order of the High Prelate of the Assembled Court, I hereby declare this gathering unlawful and blasphemous."

Looking up, Rucca saw a squad of his father's templars marching toward the group of bums.

The templar who stood in front of the squad continued, "If you do not disassemble, you will be taken into custody. Anyone who does not comply will go before the High Prelate himself for judgment."

Gully looked at Rucca. "What do we do, majesty?"

"Leave!" Rucca said.

"As you command, majesty." Gully stood up and ran. He didn't turn around to see if anyone followed his lead. They did, though, and as they scattered, the lead templar raised his hand and spun two of his fingers in the air. It was a gesture of permission to the men behind him, a way of telling them to go ahead and scare the bums.

As the vagrants ran past the templars, the unlucky ones were grabbed by plated fists. Rucca watched as the templars punched the bums a few times before letting them go. Unlike the templar who had beaten Gully, these men were not trying to seriously injure their detainees. After landing a few solid blows to the face, the templars released the bums, who then ran away as quickly as their legs would allow.

Soon after, the space was empty except for Rucca and his father's templars.

"Blasphemy, huh?" Rucca asked, wheeling toward the armored men. "What in the world would give you that idea? What was any person in this room doing that could be considered blasphemous?"

"I am sorry, sir. I have specific orders to escort you to the High Prelate immediately. I'm sure he will explain the whole situation."

Rucca stared up at the templar. He made eye contact and held it until his father's lackey was the one who broke his gaze. "Of course, templar. Is my father in his study?"

"No, sir. The arboretum. We will escort you there."

"There is certainly no need of that, templar." He spit out the last word, emphasizing his disdain toward it and the man it labeled. "I can find my own way there."

"We have our orders, sir."

"I'm sure you do," Rucca said. He pressed the joystick on his wheelchair forward and forced the group of armored men to step aside and let him through.

***

"Blasphemy, father? Really?"

"The law is the law, Demetrius," Cornelius Rucca said. "Blasphemy is a much better way of putting it than treason, wouldn't you say?"

"I can't believe I'm hearing this."

"Neither," his father said, "can I."

The High Prelate stood next to a large plant in the Cloud Nine arboretum and stroked a large, flat leaf as though it were a beautiful woman's hair. The sun gleamed through the large panes of glass that made up the arboretum's walls and ceiling, which gave the High Prelate an almost divine halo.

Cloud Nine was a small skyport, yet it had more than its share of luxuries. In addition to the standard hydroponics bay, Cloud Nine was the only skyport to also be home to a recreational arboretum, which was technically accessible by any of the skyport's denizens, although the High Prelate had all but taken it over for his personal use.

Demetrius had been inside numerous times, and each time, he had found being near the trees calming. Today, however, he did not feel calm. He was anxious, and he could not tell whether his father had brought him there to make the talk easier and less confrontational or to put Demetrius in a more suggestive state.

The High Prelate continued, "I can't believe that my own son would incite revolution against me, or worse, against the god-king."

"That's not what happened, and you know it."

"I only know what I am told, Demetrius."

"And that is?"

"Well, for starters, a report made its way to me a few days ago. I was told that one of my newest templars was unable to perform his duties due to interference of a wheelchair-bound noble. And you know, Demetrius, there just aren't that many of those on Cloud Nine."

"I could argue that, Father. I've witnessed many of your templars not fulfilling their duties. Benson, for instance—"

"Shut your smart mouth," the High Prelate said. "You know very well that I am not referring to how few capable templars I employ."

Rucca shifted in his chair. "It wasn't like that, Father. The templar was beating one of the—"

"Unless he was beating you, Demetrius, I don't really care. I didn't say anything about it when I caught wind of your stupidity," the High Prelate continued, "but then I heard other reports."

"About what?"

"As it turns out, that beggar you rescued from my templar had some friends."

"Then I would say he's a lucky man."

"I said, shut your smart mouth," the High Prelate snapped. "These friends, other beggars and social detritus, have been...active these past few days. What was it, Demetrius, three days since you stopped the templar?"

"Give or take."

"In that time, your followers—"

"They are not—"

"—your followers have been meeting and gathering and—as far as I can tell—worshipping you as some sort of savior."

"Oh, please, Father. That is ridiculous."

"Is it, Demetrius?" The High Prelate walked further down the path and stopped at the next collection of plants and trees. He looked vacantly at the willow tree in the middle of the pod. "Is it? How is that ridiculous? Did my men not interrupt a worship service today?"

"No!" Demetrius said as he wheeled his way next to his father.

"Then please explain what it was to me, Demetrius."

"Gully—"

"The beggar?"

"Yes, Gully latched on to me, Father. And yes, there was a group of them, but I had never seen them before."

"Had you not?"

"No, Father. I had not. They were meeting..." Demetrius' voice trailed off and he paused.

"Please continue."

"Let's just get through with this, Father. You think I'm a traitor, a blasphemer. And I know I'm not. What do you want from me?"

At this, Cornelius Rucca whipped around to face his son. He knelt beside the steamchair and took his son's hand in his own.

"What do I want from you, Demetrius?" he asked. "What do I want from you? Let me see. I would like a son who did not go behind my back and try to undermine me. I would like a son who was not trying to set up some kind of beggar republic with him as the king—yes, Demetrius, I know the degenerates are trying. I know they call you majesty. I would like a son who, just for one day, would see how good he has it and who could see just how bad it could be for him."

Demetrius was silent.

"This one time, Demetrius, I am going to believe you. You are neither blaspheming nor conspiring against the god-king. You're not. I know this. But," the High Prelate said, standing, "if I get wind of this ever happening again, I'm taking your chair."

***

"You look sad, your majesty."

"I told you to stop calling me that," Rucca said. He spun his chair around and saw Gully leaning against the wall.

"And I've told you that I won't."

"You're going to get me killed, Gully," Demetrius said. "Or at least imprisoned. My father believes that you're setting me up as some kind of replacement for the god-king."

The crazy bum grinned. "That would be silly, your majesty."

"It would indeed. Now run along, Gully, before you get us both into more trouble."

"Oh, I think you'll want the kind of trouble I have for you this afternoon, your majesty."

Rucca wheeled around. "What are you talking about?"

Gully walked over to him and leaned against the back of the chair. He turned Rucca to face the window and pointed at the airship currently docking.

It was a full-rigged frigate, and Rucca could see the ropes and cables stretching from the deck all the way into a netting that stretched over the balloon and held it in place. The balloon was a patchwork, quilted together from bits and pieces of other balloons and gasbags. It matched the body of the frigate in both shabbiness and color, the muted browns of the balloon, rigging, and frigate itself all bleeding together.

The airship wasn't much to look at, and Rucca wondered why Gully was pointing it out.

"What is that ship?" Rucca asked.

"That ship is yours, majesty."

"You bought me an airship, Gully? How thoughtful!" The sarcasm dripped from Rucca's words, but Gully apparently missed it.

"I didn't buy it, majesty. More like...won it."

Rucca's stomach dropped. There was something in the man's tone. "Gully, what do you..." He stopped talking as he watched a group of shabbily-dressed men and women run across the docking port and up the gangplank of the airship. They pushed crewmen off the side, and Rucca hoped they fell into the safety nets that were hung below the docks of the skyport for just that kind of emergency. "What's going on Gully?"

The bum reached beneath Rucca's wheelchair and pulled something loose. Rucca heard a few clangs and a hiss, and when he tried to move the chair away, the joystick would not respond. He was trapped.

Gully said, "You said to get you an airship, majesty. That's what we're doing."

He grabbed the back of Rucca's chair and pulled him away from the window. Then he began to push the wheelchair through the Tier One corridors until he reached the dock where the dilapidated airship was being boarded. He wheeled Rucca outside, and the wind immediately cut into him. He wasn't dressed for being outside.

"Stop this, Gully."

Gully kept pushing the wheelchair toward the airship.

"Gully, I said stop."

Gully pushed him closer.

"Gully, I mean it. Stop this right now!"

Finally, the wheelchair stopped. Rucca faced the cacophony on the airship. He watched bums fight the crew on the deck of the airship, and to his surprise, Gully's group actually seemed to be winning. Gully walked in front of Rucca and looked down at him. He stood just enough to the side so that Rucca could still see most of the action on the airship.

"Your majesty, you said you wanted an airship."

"I didn't mean like this, Gully."

"We are getting you an airship."

"It's not my airship, Gully. It's stolen. You're pirating an airship."

"Call it what you want, majesty. The ship will be yours in just a few minutes." Gully turned toward the airship. "Oh, look there, Daryl made his way to the mooring. We'll be heading out soon enough, I reckon. I figure you'd wanna come with us."

"What made you figure that?" Rucca asked. He watched the deck of the ship intently. He saw the bums duck and dodge the sailors' blows. Then he saw two of the bums charge one of the sailors and knock him off the starboard side of the ship.

"Well, the High Prelate runs a tight ship, majesty, if you'll forgive the pun. I don't think he takes too kindly to pirates."

"I am no pirate, Gully."

"Oh, of course not, majesty. Of course not. You are, if I remember, the ringleader of the pirates."

"I am certainly not!"

"Sure will look that way, though, when we run off with this here boat, and you're waving us off from the dock."

Rucca's stomach dropped. He remembered that afternoon's conversation with his father. Even if his father didn't automatically drift toward the worst-case scenario that Gully mentioned, the likely outcome wasn't much better.

He watched the fighting on the dock, and he caught sight of Daryl, cutting the cable that moored the ship to the docking arm.

You will never fly one of those, Demetrius.

Rucca made his decision. "Push me up there, Gully."

Moments later, Rucca found himself in the middle of the chaos. His people—yes, his people—were running one way, the airship's crew the other. Rucca watched as the bums fought with a ferocity he wasn't expecting. The sailors had obviously not been expecting a pirate attack while docked at Cloud Nine, and they were getting tossed over the side of the ship as quickly as the bums could grab hold of them.

The ship was large, and Rucca knew that the bums had no idea how to run it. If this were ever going to even have a chance at success, he had to do something. He had to grab command of this situation before it got too out of hand.

"Everyone stop!" Rucca yelled. A few people slowed down, but more kept fighting. At that moment, the airship began to move. It drifted away from the dock, and Rucca watched the gangplank drop away into the safety nets below just as multiple squadrons of his father's templars ran out onto the docking arm. They stopped at the edge, staring impotently as the airship sailed out of range. Rucca saw one exceptionally brave templar take a running leap toward the escaping airship.

He didn't quite make it.

The movement away from Cloud Nine calmed the fighting, and Rucca took advantage of it. "Everyone! May I have everyone's attention?"

Men and women, bums and sailors, turned toward Rucca. Not everyone, but enough so that the tranquility eventually worked its way through everyone on board. "My name is Demetrius Rucca!" he yelled. "My father is the High Prelate of the Assembled Court."

Murmurs from the crowd.

"I am not my father." He let that sink in for a moment, then asked, "What ship is this? What is her name?"

"This here's the Primrose Doubloon," one of the sailors said.

"And who is the captain of the Primrose Doubloon?"

"Was Captain Mickles," said another sailor. "I think one of these dirty old men tossed him overboard, though. First Mate Fugg, too."

"Then I'm your captain now," Rucca said.

"Like hell you are," said the first sailor.

Rucca looked at Gully, who then nodded at two of the bums. They picked up the dissenter and tossed him overboard before he could really fight back.

"Anyone else?"

Silence.

"Excellent!" Rucca said. "Gully, show me to my cabin. You're my new first mate. Get this crew in shape, and I'll be out in a few hours to inspect them." Then louder as Gully pushed him away, "If anyone else doesn't like the idea of me as captain, let the fog have them, too."
Chapter Seven

Jude stood on the main deck of the Gangly Dirigible and massaged his bandaged shoulder. The wound was healing fast, but it still pained him whenever he tried to move his arm. There was a deep purple bruise where the nozzle had hit him during the storm, but the edges were starting to fade to yellow. A light breeze blew about the deck, tousling Jude's hair, but the skies were clear and blue. It was hard to believe that it had been only three days since the storm.

"Are you okay?" Valencia asked from behind him.

Jude turned around and nodded. "I guess so."

Together, they walked below deck to the infirmary. In the three days since the storm, Captain Schlocky had still not called for Jude to begin his duties as second mate, and Jude could feel himself growing more and more anxious. He had whiled away the days with either Valencia or his book, but his Hoser duties were few, so he didn't really have anything to help him pass the time.

The ship looked considerably better now, mostly because the deckhands were still working day and night to clear away the debris and get things back in tip-top shape, but the infirmary was in disarray. No one had bothered cleaning up the place since so many crewmembers had been rushed there after the storm, and Jude was under the impression that the deckhands were leaving the cleanliness of the infirmary up to the doctors. It was mostly empty of occupants now, but a few of the injured still sat in cots scattered around the room.

Robert Gwynn sat up in his cot and frowned when he saw them. His arm was in a sling and he appeared to be feeling better, but this did not stop his complaining. "They told me to leave—again," he said, "but I told em I wasn't ready. I reckon Cap'n Schlocky told em to send me on my way, but I ain't going until I can move all my fingers again. I'm half-convinced that an infection has spread up to my elbow, but I can't prove it."

"I hope you get better soon," said Valencia, with just a hint of a smile.

"Thanks, Vale," Gwynn said. He held up his broken arm and winced. "Looks bad, doesn't it? I'm afraid the infection might get to my heart and kill me. The doc won't believe me, but he's a crazy old coot anyway. I've just got to enjoy the days I have left, I reckon."

"I'm surprised you're conscious," Valencia said.

Gwynn nodded solemnly, apparently lost to all sarcasm. As they walked on, Jude leaned toward Valencia and smiled. "He's laying it on a bit thick, isn't he?"

They tried not to laugh, but their humor was lost when they reached Fritz's cot. More skin was missing than usual from Fritz's forehead and left ear, but he didn't look too upset about it. Jude figured Fritz was used to losing skin—it was, after all, one of the effects of fog exposure.

"How are you feeling?" Jude asked.

Fritz did not answer. He seemed preoccupied with a glass marble he kept twirling around between his fingers. He finally looked over at them when Valencia coughed and asked, "Are you feeling any better?"

"Not exactly," Fritz replied. He held the marble up to the light. "They call this a cat's eye marble, you know, because of the little slits there in the middle."

"I used to play marbles in Burrow 12 when I was a kid," said Jude.

"My son played with marbles all the time," Fritz said quietly.

Jude didn't say anything. He had never known Fritz had a son. He wondered if there were other children Fritz had never mentioned. What else had Fritz never told him about?

He began to think he didn't know his friend very well at all, and for some reason it made him feel slightly guilty. When neither Jude nor Valencia spoke, Fritz sighed and pocketed the glass marble.

"When do you get out of here?" Jude asked, deciding it was best to change the subject.

"Whenever I feel up to it, I suppose." Fritz sat up in his cot. "Thorne is dead, you know. I saw him get struck by lightning—right in front of me."

"We know," Valencia said. She looked particularly upset about something. "They had a little service up on deck for everybody who died. All the bodies are going to be shipped to their families once we reach the next skyport. Well, except for Vincent Miles, he's...he's gone."

"Miles?" Fritz asked. "Second Mate Miles?"

"The tornado took him," Jude said. The memory still clung to his brain like a nasty parasite. "We were flying around the top of the tornado, and Miles got sucked in. It was pretty bad."

Gwynn, who had been listening to their conversation without any sense of shame, leaned forward. "I thought tornadoes needed ground."

"Well, I'm sure there's ground down there, Robert," Valencia said in an annoyed voice. "We just can't get there, what with all the deathly fog floating around."

Gwynn mumbled something under his breath in an irritable tone, but appeared to stop listening to their conversation. The ship doctor, Mattock, came in and started making his morning rounds. Doc Mattock had a habit of kicking out visitors, so Jude knew their time with Fritz was short.

"Did someone else get Miles' job?" Fritz asked.

Jude couldn't help but smile. "Yeah, I did, but not because I wanted it."

"Schlocky force you?" Fritz asked.

"Pretty much," Jude said. He looked over at Doc Mattock, who was busy with another patient but getting closer. "Feel better, okay?"

Fritz nodded. "I've just got bad memories, that's all. Thorne getting killed brought them all back to me. Whoever said there's such a thing as a clean death was lying. Death is about the messiest thing there is."

Valencia patted Fritz on the shoulder and smiled, even though Jude was fairly sure there were tears in her eyes. Something had to really be bothering her—Vale wasn't the crying type. She opened her mouth to speak, hesitated, and then left the infirmary without as much as a goodbye.

"She's worried about you," Jude said, watching Valencia go out the door.

"I'll bounce back to my old self," Fritz said. "I always do. I just need some time down here, where I can't see the sky or clouds or anything. You understand, right?"

Jude nodded even though he didn't really understand at all.

"You remember last week when I couldn't find you anywhere? And I was missing in action for a couple of days?"

"Yeah, I remember," Jude said. He was suddenly very uncomfortable, and he got the feeling Fritz was about to reveal something very personal. "The clouds had made you queasy. I remember."

"It wasn't just the clouds—"

"Fritz—"

"—it would have been my son's sixth birthday," Fritz said quickly. He looked away, as if embarrassed. "It's been two years since the fog took him. Two long years since I've been home."

"Why are you telling me this?" Jude asked.

"Because you're the only friend I've had since it happened," Fritz said. "And I've got to tell somebody. I'm tired of carrying it around with me like a shameful secret. I'm not trying to make you feel awkward or anything, but..."

"I'm fine," Jude said, though he shifted slightly on his feet.

Before Fritz could say more, Doc Mattock moved to them and told Jude to get out. With a sympathetic wave to his friend, Jude left the infirmary and started back up to the housing level, mulling over his thoughts. But he didn't get far when he spotted Valencia coming back down the stairwell.

"Reedy is looking for you," she said. She no longer looked quite as upset. "I told him I'd come find you. It sounded important."

"I guess Schlocky's ready for me," Jude said. With no real enthusiasm, he began to climb the stairs.

***

Jude had never been inside the pilot's house before. It was a large, square room filled with knobs, dials and the continuous whirring of mechanical instruments. When Reedy led him inside the room, Jude's first impression was that it was a sort of clubhouse for the captain and his personal crew.

The back wall was covered with maps and a tiny man sat at a desk there, carefully studying a beeping monitor. Three more men were sitting around the room at various desks, each appearing to do no real work whatsoever. Captain Schlocky himself was leaning back in a chair with his feet propped up on his desk, picking bits of dirt off his boots.

"You healed up yet?" he asked without looking at Jude. He tore a piece of dried mud away from the heel of his boot and tossed it on the floor. "I figured Cal would find you sooner or later. It's been three days. I figured you might've been up here before then."

"I thought you were going to tell me when to report to you," Jude said.

"A lack of initiative is a poor trait to have, kid." Schlocky finally looked over at Jude, who couldn't tell if the captain was smiling or gritting his teeth. "Miles was the same way—quiet, slow, and craven. You're not gonna be like him, are you?"

"I don't think so," Jude said. "And I don't think I'm slow or craven either."

"But you are quiet," Schlocky said. It could have been a question or a statement. He scoffed as his eyes darted over Jude, apparently sizing him up. "Your duties are few. You report to the pilot's house every morning at seven and get to go back to your room around nine that night. You do whatever Reedy or I tell you to do, and you don't object or you get left behind at the next skyport. You understand?"

Jude nodded curtly. He couldn't decide whether he liked Schlocky or not. The man was detestable, but there was a certain quality about him that commanded attention and respect. After a moment of awkward silence, Schlocky looked at Reedy.

"Anything you want to add, Cal?" he asked.

"You sit at that empty desk in the back," Reedy told Jude. He pointed to a tiny, wooden desk stashed between a large telescope and what appeared to be a vacant birdcage. "Miles' things have already been taken out. Anything you want to move up here, you can move. A new waistcoat and cap are in the top drawer—navy blue, like the rest of the captain's personal crew."

"Speaking of which," Schlocky grumbled. "Where is that badge I gave you, boy?"

Jude pulled it out of his pants pocket and Schlocky gave him a sharp, angry glare. The tiny man in the back turned to look and seemed frightened by what he was seeing. Calvin Reedy, however, did nothing, but remained standing close to Jude.

"Put that badge where I can see it," Schlocky said. "And if I ever catch that thing in your pocket again, I'm going to throw you overboard myself. Maybe the fog will get you before you hit the ground."

"Ah, come on, Allister," said a man sitting by a window. "Give the kid a break. He's new. Give him time to learn the rules before you throw him to the fog."

Schlocky turned to glare at the man, but then turned his attention back to Jude. "Meet Thomas Dirk, the nephew of Alfred Gangly and co-owner of this vessel," he said unenthusiastically. "And the only man I don't kill for calling me by my first name, but only because of his family ties."

"Ah, Allister," said the man in a pompous way that Jude wasn't crazy about, "you and I both know this is Uncle Alfred's vessel. I just work on it. Same as you. Besides, the last time I checked, you're the captain. I'm just here to make sure everything runs according to my uncle's wishes."

Schlocky's eyes grew wide with rage, but he didn't respond to Dirk. Instead, he stood up from his chair and went over to the other two men sitting near the windows.

He pointed at the first one. "This is Adam Hardy, a kind of co-pilot," he told Jude.

He pointed at the second man, a chubby fellow with glasses. "This is Curtis Brent, the Third Mate. He's the only one who works under you, but don't abuse the privilege the way Miles did. And don't ask him to retrieve important documents you accidentally had thrown in the fire. You still got those burn marks, Curt?"

The chubby man nodded. "Yes, sir."

Jude followed Schlocky toward the back of the room, where the tiny man with the maps sat studying the beeping monitor once again. The man wheeled around in his chair when Schlocky tapped him on the shoulder, giving both the captain and Jude a weak smile.

"This stubby fellow is Michael Bernard, but we all call him Atlas," Schlocky said. "He's the ship navigator and map-keeper. Boring stuff, really."

"You know, I've been reading a book about all the skyports of Nimbus," Jude told Atlas, who seemed friendly enough.

"Oh, really," said the navigator. "How fascinating! Just the other day I was—"

"Anyway!" Schlocky yelled over them. "Your desk is over there, kid. Change into your new clothes, wear that badge, and sit at the desk until you're told otherwise. Don't listen to anyone but me and Cal." He leaned in closer and said under his breath, "Not even that old prick Thomas Dirk. You understand?"

"I understand."

Jude took off his thin jacket and put on the navy blue, wool waistcoat. It was too warm in the pilot's house for the cap, but Jude wore it anyway—just like everyone else in the room. He also made sure he put his badge in a place where everyone could see it, just above the left breast pocket of his coat. For most of the morning he sat at his desk and occasionally studied the maps covering the back wall. They were more precise than the ones in his book, and Jude found them fascinating.

"What is that thing?" Jude asked Atlas, who was still studying the beeping monitor.

"It reads the area just outside the proximity of the airship," said Atlas. "It notifies us when clouds are nearby by checking the humidity of the air. It's very interesting stuff, if you ask me. Wonderful how technology works, isn't it?"

Jude nodded. He proceeded to spend most of the afternoon listening to the periodical beeping of the monitor and the whirring of all the machines. It made him dreadfully sleepy, but he feared to know what would happen if Reedy or Schlocky caught him sleeping. Working in the pilot's house was boring, and Jude missed socializing with his friends below deck. But Atlas told him that the pay was double what Jude had been making, which made it seem worth the suffering.

The sun was beginning to set, causing the surrounding sky to go a strange shade of orange, when the monitor started beeping more sporadically. Jude turned to see what was happening. Atlas appeared confused and tapped his finger against the screen while looking at the maps.

"What is it?" Reedy called from up front. He was busy steering the captain's wheel and didn't bother turning around. "A cloud?"

"No, this is something different," Atlas said. He leaned in to examine the screen closer, still tapping his fingers nervously across the screen. "It's beeping like it's found a skyport, but there's not one around here according to my maps. The closest one is the Spire, and that's at least a week away."

Jude peered out of the window and looked around. Orange sky was everywhere and not a cloud in sight. He wasn't sure how far away the monitor could detect things, but...

He squinted when he thought he caught a glimpse of something. Sure enough, there was a twinkling in the distance, as if something glass had been caught by sunlight.

"Shut that monitor up!" Schlocky said. "If there aren't clouds out there, then why is it making all that racket?"

"I don't know," Atlas replied. "It's registering that there's a skyport nearby."

"I don't see anything," Dirk said in a skeptical tone. "Maybe the machine is broken. We can get it fixed when we reach the Spire."

"But my maps aren't broken," Atlas said.

"There!" Jude said. He pointed out the window. They were getting closer to whatever it was and he could clearly see a weathered looking skyport up ahead. "It's just north of us."

Curtis Brent and Adam Hardy ran to Jude's side of the room and looked with him. Dirk didn't move, but just sat back with a cocky grin on his face. Schlocky remained seated, and Reedy was busy at the wheel, but Atlas seemed to be frantically studying his maps. He ran down the length of the back wall where the maps hung, his finger trailing across the pieces of parchment as though it were a magnet searching for a tiny piece of metal.

"Well, what is it?" Dirk asked. He put his arms behind his head and leaned back, yawning. "I would expect our navigator to know these kinds of things."

"Hang on..." Atlas ran back and forth, studying the maps. Finally, he slammed his finger onto one tiny speck and smiled. "That's why I didn't know about it. It's not on most of my maps, but this one is older and still has it. No wonder."

"Enough speaking in mysteries," said Dirk. "Spit it out already."

"It's called the Auger's Lighthouse," said Atlas. "It's only on my oldest map because it's been abandoned for a while. I'm afraid I don't know much else about it."

"I do," said Jude.

All eyes in the pilot's house turned to him—even Reedy averted his eyes away from steering to look at Jude. Schlocky rolled his chair closer to the back and folded his arms, while Dirk seemed to be studying Jude the way most people study a spider that has crawled into their bed.

"You do?" Atlas asked.

Jude nodded and cleared his throat. "The book I've been reading mentions the Auger's Lighthouse."

"What book?" Dirk asked, stroking his chin.

"It's called Maps of the Skies: A Complete Guide to Nimbus," said Jude.

"Where did you get that book?" Dirk asked. He had a strange, knowing look in his eye. "That book has been banned for a century."

"I brought it up from Burrow 12," said Jude. "Why is it banned? There's nothing in there that would—"

"Tell us about this place already," Schlocky said bitterly. "What do you know about it?"

"It was one of the first skyports ever built," Jude said. "It was constructed before the fog came, back when people were first taking to the skies over a thousand years ago. I don't know all the words in the book, but it mentions the port was abandoned because of something hidden away in there. It was too dangerous for people to live there anymore, I guess, and it was abandoned a few centuries ago. There was a part explaining why it's called the Auger's Lighthouse, but the words were—well, I couldn't understand it, really."

"Do you have this book with you?" Dirk asked.

"I don't care about the book," Schlocky snapped. He looked at Jude with that familiar pirate's grin. "What about the thing that was locked away?"

"I just know something was hidden away there, and the people left."

"You mean treasure?" Schlocky asked. "Something valuable?"

"I don't know," Jude answered. He turned toward Atlas. "Do you?"

Atlas shrugged. "Don't look at me. I just found out the place existed a few minutes ago."

"We're getting closer," Reedy said from the front of the room, still steering the ship. "What do you want me to do, Captain?"

"It's dangerous," Dirk said with a warning look in Schlocky's direction. "It would be reckless to go in there and explore. People could get killed. Besides, Allister, the whole place could come tumbling down as soon as we docked. That skyport looks in horrible disrepair."

"Yes, but there could be something of value stashed away in there," said Schlocky. He tapped his fingers against his desk for a few moments while the others looked at him in silence. "Maybe enough for me to retire on—for us all to retire on."

"What do you want me to do, Captain?" Reedy repeated, though this time he sounded slightly more anxious.

"Dock the ship," Schlocky said. He stood and marched toward Reedy. "Pull into the sturdiest-looking hangar, just to keep Dirk happy. We don't want him running to his uncle and tattling on us. I'll put a team together and send them to explore the place first and ensure that it's safe. Then, we'll all go and investigate. Maybe we'll find this treasure, take it to the Spire, and sell it for a premium."

"You've already gotten five people killed because you flew into that storm against my wishes," said Dirk. He now crossed the room to look Schlocky directly in the eyes. "If anyone so much as breaks a leg on this outing, I'm going to make sure you lose this vessel, Allister."

"Hey, kid," Schlocky said, making a point of ignoring Dirk and looking around at Jude. "You know a lot about this place. How about you prove to me you're worth the promotion I just gave you."

The ship rocked as Reedy brought the Gangly Dirigible to dock, but Jude was too busy looking at Schlocky to admire the stone pillars and marble architecture of the Auger's Lighthouse. The ship lurched to a stop, but still Jude did not answer.

"Well?" Schlocky asked, folding his arms once again. "What do you say kid?"

"I'll need some people to go with me," said Jude.

"Okay, I'll give you twenty minutes to assemble a team," the captain said. "When you've got everyone together, meet me out on the main deck. And try to keep it under five people, kid. I don't want a bunch of folks out there admiring the scenery, if you get what I'm saying."

Jude was immensely aware of all the sets of eyes staring at him as he left the pilot's house. It was ominously silent outside, but some people had started coming out onto the deck to see why the ship had stopped and there were gasps from all around as crewmembers took in the sight of the decrepit, abandoned skyport. Jude's stomach twisted into knots, and all he could think about was the Auger's Lighthouse basking in the evening sunlight behind him.
Chapter Eight

You are weak. You have always been weak. Yet you still manage to resist me.

When your father performed the Bonding, you were a child, and I agreed only because I would gain a vessel that would be easily overpowered. But now, I find that I am the one imprisoned, not the child so riddled with sickness that his legs were destroyed. You are bound to your chair, just as I am bound to your soul.

That will change, however. And soon. I feel you weaken, your resolve failing. After two decades, I will be free.

You will be the one powerless then. We will see how you like it.

***

"This is not what I expected. Will this sickness ever end?" Rucca looked at Gully with pleading eyes. He did not care if his first mate saw him in such a weakened state. Any loss of authority that might have occurred was balanced by the help the man provided.

"It will, majesty," Gully replied. He pried the bucket from his captain's hands and walked toward the window, undid the latch, and dumped the contents into the void. "Probably just take some time."

"It has been a week, Gully. The crew will start talking..."

The bum—now, the first mate—latched the window back and turned toward Rucca. He said, "Don't really know why I keep locking the window back. You keep filling your bucket so often, I might as well just let it fly. And as for the crew, your majesty, they're already talking." When he saw the look on Rucca's face, he quickly added, "It's nothing bad. Not yet. They're just talking."

"Talk," Rucca said, "turns into action pretty quickly. They have to trust me, Gully. They have to respect me. And they won't have that chance if I am forever locked away in here—"

The ship lurched to starboard, and Rucca's stomach stayed port. Whatever contents were left—how did he have any contents left?—rushed upward, making a furious effort to escape through his mouth. He lunged at Gully, or more accurately, the bucket the man held and ripped it from his grip. Rucca stuck his face in the opening just in time.

"—if I am forever locked away," Rucca continued without missing a beat, "filling this bucket every few minutes."

Gully chuckled and walked back to the window. "You'll get your sea-legs soon enough, majesty." He looked back at Rucca and grinned.

Rucca, however, glared back. The joke was not lost on him. He might have even laughed at the wordplay if he hadn't been so sick. As it was, he felt Gully's poking fun at him was in poor taste. Rather than give Gully the satisfaction of a response, Rucca simply said, "Help me to my chair, Gully."

"Of course, majesty." He must have heard and understood Rucca's tone because he did not make any kind of smart retort. Once Gully had finished emptying the bucket, he sat it down and went directly to Rucca's bed and lifted his king easily into his arms. He deposited him in his steamchair and said, "Need anything else?"

"Not at the moment, Gully," Rucca said. He steeled his voice and pressed the wheelchair's joystick forward. He stopped the chair and wheeled it around to face Gully once again. "Actually, yes. I just thought about this—did you ever get a count for just how much water was in the hold? I doubt the crew was able to unload much of it before we came aboard."

Gully nodded. "Little more than five hundred, majesty."

"That's not a bad haul, Gully. Five hundred bottles of clean water? We'll have enough water to last the whole crew for a few weeks. Maybe a month if most of them drink it recycled more often than not. We'll just have to ration it—"

"Not bottles, majesty. Cases. Little more than ten score bottles in a case. We're sitting on a fortune."

Rucca stared at Gully. "Does the crew know about it?"

"Of course."

Rucca nodded. "Post guards near the hold, Gully. No one goes in or out except by my order. Is that understood?" They were sitting on a fortune, and he wasn't going to let those sailors and bums out there drink it away. Even outside of legal channels, that much water was going to bring them enough money to remain independent longer than it would keep them hydrated and the ship flying.

Gully nodded. "Yes, majesty."

As he spoke, Rucca wheeled around and out the door onto the deck of the Primrose Doubloon.

***

The ship lurched as Rucca wheeled onto the deck, but he kept his sick down. He couldn't let the crew see him that weak. They may have been talking about him already, but it was hearsay, conjecture. No one had actually seen what had kept him locked away. For all they knew, he was some kind of hobgoblin.

He shuddered, unsure which was worse, the crew thinking he was a weakling or thinking that he was a hobgoblin.

Rucca didn't have time to contemplate his situation because one of the bums from Cloud Nine rushed up to him as she noticed him.

"Mornin, cap'n," she said. "What brings you out and about this fine mornin?"

She was hiding something. She was being too nice. She hadn't bowed or knelt. "What's your name?" Rucca asked.

"Darlene," she said, smiling. Her teeth were yellow and rotten. She wasn't close enough for him to smell her breath, which Rucca was thankful for.

"What can I do for you, Darlene?"

"Nothin, cap'n. Just sayin hello."

Rucca eyed her carefully. He hesitated a moment, then decided to reach his hand out to shake hers. "Hello, then."

She didn't take his hand. Thankfully. Still, he held his hand outstretched, waiting. She never reached out. In fact, both of her hands remained behind her back.

"What do you have there?" Rucca asked.

"Nothin," said Darlene. "I mean, umm, I mean...I don't know what you're talkin about, cap'n. I ain't got nothin."

The smile that broke Rucca's lips was almost genuine. He truly loathed two things in life: liars and people who did not understand their station. Darlene was both of these things, so the smile Rucca wore was a vindictive one. He was about to get to enjoy himself.

"Now, Darlene," he said. "That's not entirely true, is it? Let me see what you have in your hand. Please?"

She held out her left hand. It was empty. Her right hand remained behind her back. She reminded Rucca of a child trying to sneak away a cookie before supper.

"The other one, please?"

She put her left hand behind her again, obviously switching whatever she was holding into the other hand. She then held out her empty right hand. How simple could this woman be? Or how simple did she perceive him to be?

Rucca still smiled. It did not, however, touch his eyes. "What do you take me for, Darlene?"

Her scraggly hair fell into her face as she shook her head. "I don't take you for nothin."

Rucca looked past her and nodded toward two men who were standing near the entrance to the ship's belowdecks. They were not from Cloud Nine. They were not from his congregation of bums. They were part of the Primrose Doubloon's original crew, and he wheeled toward them, almost running over Darlene as he went. As he moved past her, he raised his hand and waved her to follow him. He noticed that as he neared the men, they, too, hid their hands behind their backs.

Rucca stopped his wheelchair a few feet in front of them, but did not acknowledge their existence. He then motioned for Darlene to come toward him once again. When she had crossed the deck and stood beside him, he continued his conversation. "I think you do, Darlene. I think you take me for a fool."

"No, no, cap'n!" she exclaimed. "I don't! I don't! You're a good cap'n."

"Am I?" Rucca said, laughing. "Am I? What have I done to make you think that?"

She hesitated.

"What is behind your back?" he asked sharply, returning to his previous line of questioning. "I would assume that it's the same thing that is behind theirs." He pointed at the two men beside him.

The two men looked at Darlene and she stared back. Some kind of unspoken conversation was going on between them, and Darlene must have been on the losing end. She said, "Here," and handed Rucca a half-empty glass bottle of water.

Rucca smiled at her and took the water. "Darlene," he said. "Darlene, Darlene, Darlene."

"Yes, cap'n?"

"You took this from the hold, didn't you?"

Her eyes widened. "No! No!"

"Then where did you get it?"

She looked at the two men beside Rucca's chair.

"Did they give it to you, Darlene?"

She hung her head, and matted bangs fell in front of her eyes. "Yes."

Rucca turned to the men and held up the bottle. "Did you give water to this woman?" he asked them.

They stood at attention and stared forward, but did not look at him. Rucca looked in the bottle of water Darlene had handed him. Flecks of food from Darlene's teeth floated in the water. His stomach turned, and for the first time in a week, it wasn't from the constant lurching of the ship. He said again, "Did you give water to this woman?"

The two men were still silent.

"I see," Rucca said. "I see. You don't feel as though you have to answer to me. Is that it?"

One of the sailors glanced down at him, then back up. "You're not our captain."

Rucca chuckled. "Then who, may I ask, is?"

The sailors were silent.

"Is Darlene?"

No answer.

"Because, I should think that only the captain would have access to the store of water in the hold. I should also think that only the captain would have the authority to give that water away."

In answer, the same sailor brought a nearly empty bottle from behind his back and gulped down the remaining water. He then held the bottle toward Rucca and said, "Then I guess that makes me captain, don't it?"

Rucca frowned. It wasn't a frown of sadness, but a frown of contemplation. How was he going to punish these men—and this woman—for their insubordination and thievery? In answer to his unasked question, Rucca reached for his pants and undid the fly.

Darlene reacted first and said, "Whoa, cap'n. There don't need to be none of that. I'll do whatever you want, but I don't think—"

"Shut up, Darlene."

He then began to urinate into the wide-mouthed bottle that Darlene had been drinking from. When he was finished, he buttoned his pants once again and handed the bottle to the outspoken sailor. "Drink up, captain."

"I ain't drinking no cripple's piss," the sailor said. "I don't care if he thinks he's captain or the god-king himself."

"Then it's a good thing I don't think I'm captain." Rucca let the words sink in. "Drink it."

The sailor was obviously used to taking orders, and the tone of Rucca's voice must have interacted with something in the back of his brain. He immediately reached out and took the bottle; however, instead of drinking it, he turned it up and poured its contents over Rucca's head.

The hot liquid streamed down Rucca's face. He could feel his hair mat down as the bottle emptied, and he made sure to keep his eyes and his mouth shut. His instinct was to lick his lips of excess moisture, but he had to fight off that urge. He wasn't a piss-drinking Dweller. He just had to wait until the sailor was finished.

The soldiers laughed at him. Darlene laughed, too, and she was one of his. Rucca's heart raced, and he gritted his teeth. He gripped the arms of the wheelchair until his knuckles were white. He felt the bottle drop into his lap, empty.

I am not a cripple.

Rucca grabbed the bottle around the neck, and held it like a club. The outspoken sailor said, "Oh, look out. The captain's gonna beat us to death with his wittle gwass bottle." He laughed.

So did Rucca.

***

Gully watched the impossible happen from the door to Rucca's cabin.

He watched as Rucca peed into a bottle and handed it to one of the Primrose Doubloon's crewmen, who then poured it onto Rucca's head. That in itself should have been an impossibility.

However, events continued which made that action seem more than reasonable. After the sailor was done pouring the pee onto his captain, Gully watched Rucca grab the empty bottle and use it as a weapon against the sailor.

What really got Gully, though, was how Rucca, a lifelong cripple unable to use his legs, stood up from his wheelchair and began to beat the three people around him.

Rucca pushed himself up from the chair and slammed the bottle into the sailor's head. Glass shattered and shards fell to the ground at his feet. Rucca then kicked backward in a motion Gully knew the man should not be able to perform, and his foot slammed into Darlene's stomach. She grunted and collapsed onto the deck, holding her belly.

Gully watched as Rucca then brought that same leg around and kneed the second sailor in the groin, who doubled over in pain. Rucca grabbed the sailor's forehead at the same time he grabbed the man's partner's hair and slammed their heads together. The crack was loud enough that Gully heard the men's skulls connect, and he was sure that they would be unconscious for days if they survived the beating at all.

By this time, a crowd was gathering around the fight. No one was joining in, however. Gully couldn't blame them. Rucca was really giving it to the trio, bouncing from one person to the next, beating them with his fists, kicking them on the ground, and using them as weapons against each other.

Rucca moved with nearly supernatural grace, keeping the two sailors standing when it was obvious there was no fight left in them—if there ever had been any in the first place.

Rucca slammed his fist into one of the sailor's sternums, and the wind left his lungs as he slammed into the doorway to the cargo hold. While the man was being held upright by the door behind him, Rucca kicked the second sailor in the neck and knocked him against the door's frame. He then grabbed both of their heads again and slammed their skulls together in a crack that sent blood spraying against the door.

The men were finally allowed to collapse then; they fell into a heap on the ground. Gully could see they were still breathing, but just barely.

Rucca then moved toward Darlene, who was still holding her stomach. She whimpered, "No, majesty..." as he leaned over her and slammed his fist into her jaw. Her head bounced against the wood of the deck. There was no way her jaw wasn't broken after the force of that blow.

She tried to speak again, but all she could manage was to spit blood. Rucca stood up and panted for a couple of seconds before he kicked her one last time in the chin. Her head snapped backward, and then she was still, her neck broken.

Rucca seemed to finally notice that the entire ship's crew was grouped around him, and he turned to them. He spun slowly as he addressed them, making sure they all saw how little it had affected him to do that to these people. He reached down and picked up a shard of glass, using it to represent the whole bottle it had come from.

"This is not your ship," Rucca said. "These three forgot that. I suggest that you do not."

When Rucca finished, Gully saw a strange look appear on Rucca's face, who then carefully and deliberately walked back toward his steamchair. As he sat down, he looked around and said, "Gully, take me back to my cabin," as though his first mate were by his side.

Gully heard his name and pushed his way through the throng of onlookers. He immediately grabbed the back of Rucca's steamchair and began to wheel him across the deck. The crowd just stared, and they parted to let the two men pass through. Gully stopped the chair and turned back toward the crowd.

"Unless you want to join them," he said, "I'd probably get myself back to work. This ship ain't gonna fly itself, is it?"

Without waiting for a response, Gully turned around and pushed Rucca to his cabin. Once inside, Gully helped Rucca out of his chair and back onto the bed. The airship lurched, and Gully rushed for the bucket he had sat down by the window. He handed it to Rucca, who waved it away.

"Gully," Rucca said, with a confused look on his face. "What...what just happened?"

Gully laughed. It was a half-frightened laugh, but a laugh nonetheless. "I think, majesty," he said, "that you finally found your sea-legs."
Chapter Nine

The boiler room was not a very sanitary place, even for the Gangly Dirigible. Dirt and grime covered the floor, and the ceiling was rife with mold and mildew. The air was thick with steam and cigarette smoke, but Jude tried his best to ignore it all. He only had fifteen minutes left before he and his team had to be back out on the main deck and ready to explore the Auger's Lighthouse, and Jude wanted to ensure he had the right people with him.

"I don't know," Roebuck said, playing with the switchblade knife Jude had returned to him. "If I go, do I get a cut of the profits?"

"Yes," Jude said, hoping that it was the truth.

"Why me?" asked Roebuck. He spun around in his chair, letting his stubby legs dangle in the air. "Let me guess...because I fit into small places?"

"Well, yeah," Jude said. He was half-convinced Roebuck was going to spin around and cut him, but the tiny engineer remained seated.

"I am good for that kind of thing," Roebuck said. He smirked, showing off his yellowed teeth. "It's the only reason Schlocky hired me, I reckon. I was the only person small enough to fit between some of the aqua-vats in the Refinement Chamber. There are perks to being three feet tall, ya know."

"Does that mean you'll go with us?" Jude asked. Time was running out and he still had one person to convince.

"I get a cut of the profits?" Roebuck repeated.

Jude nodded, wondering what Roebuck would do if it turned out to be a lie. "Does that mean you'll meet us out on the deck in ten minutes?"

Roebuck gave a mock salute. "Aye-aye, Cap'n Finley!"

Jude laughed as he left the boiler room and started ascending the stairs to the housing level. The thought of the Auger's Lighthouse was enough to turn his bowels to water, but the thought of asking the next person to join the exploration team made him want to vomit.

When he finally spotted the Shrew, who was tinkering with a hall lamp while sitting on another Hoser, Jude's stomach soured. He tried avoiding men like Charles Ivanovich and the thought of having a man like the Shrew come along did nothing for his morale. He would have much preferred someone like Fritz—but Fritz was still lying in a cot down at the infirmary, probably more depressed than ever.

"What do ya want?" the Shrew asked, looking Jude over with the eye still in its socket. He elbowed the Hoser he was sitting on and chuckled. "Did ya come to borrow one of my stools? Cause this one's busy."

"No," Jude said. He was fairly sure the stool was Macintosh, who was apparently still on the Shrew's bad side. "Schlocky told me to get a team together to go and explore this skyport—"

"What skyport?"

"The one we've just docked with," Jude said. He suddenly realized the Shrew was unaware of their docking at the Auger's Lighthouse. "It's old and abandoned, and Schlocky reckons there may be treasure stashed away there. He wants to send some of us out there to do a little exploring first, though, before he sends everyone else."

"Ya mean he wants to send some poor, gullible stiffs like yourself out there to die," said the Shrew, focusing his attention back on the hall lamp.

"Look," said Jude. "I know you understand some of the old language and this place is probably going to be filled with strange writing no one can understand. If you could make out the song that old man was singing in the Upturned Tortoise back at Thunder's Echo, you can probably help us inside the Lighthouse. You know, when it comes to reading signs and things."

"I could understand some of the words in the song," the Shrew said. He hit Macintosh over the head with a ratchet, which was probably not by accident. "Hand me that wrench, Mac."

Grunting under the Shrew's weight, Macintosh passed him the wrench. Without so much as a thanks, the Shrew went back to tinkering with the lamp. "I ain't goin nowhere unless there's somethin in it for me. What's your sales pitch, kid?"

"You get a cut of the profits," said Jude. It had worked with Roebuck—maybe it would work again.

"If there are any profits," the Shrew scoffed. He stood up and Macintosh let out a sigh of relief, finally free of the large man's weight, while the Shrew moved closer to Jude. Up this close, the Shrew looked particularly nasty. "But I'm a gamblin man..."

"Does that mean you're coming with us?" Jude asked.

"Is that pretty little thing you run around with comin, too?"

"If you mean Vale, then—yeah, she's coming."

The Shrew cracked a devilish smile. "Then I'm in."

***

A lot of people had gathered out on the main deck since the last time Jude had been outside. Schlocky and his first mate were currently keeping people back, but both the captain and Calvin Reedy looked wary. Valencia and Roebuck were already out there when Jude arrived with the Shrew, and neither of them looked very excited about their latest companion. Before they could talk, Reedy whisked Jude away to talk with Schlocky before their departure.

The captain looked even surlier than usual, but he nearly smiled when he saw Jude. "Those the right people?" Schlocky asked, eyeing the tiny group Jude had put together.

"I think so," Jude said. "Roebuck can fit in tiny spaces, the Shrew can read the old language, and Vale is pretty tough and trustworthy."

"Don't stay gone more than three hours," Schlocky said. "The crew will talk if you stay gone too long, and we don't want everyone thinking you all just got killed. Reedy and I are going to give out wages while you're gone. We more than filled our quota back at the storm, so everyone gets a cut this time. It should be a nice distraction. These people love their water."

"What about them?" Jude asked, cocking his head toward Valencia and the others. "Don't they get wages?"

"Worried about your friends a bit much, aren't you?" asked Schlocky.

"We'll send a crate down to each of their rooms," Reedy said, ignoring the look Schlocky was giving him.

"Well, uh, good luck, I guess. And bring back something good," Schlocky said. "And remember: don't stay gone for more than three hours."

"Wait just a moment!" Thomas Dirk came waltzing over to them wearing a bowler hat and matching grey vest, as if he were dressed to go on a pleasant afternoon stroll. He pulled a pocket watch out of his vest and looked at the time. "Three hours, eh? Quite a long time, indeed."

"And what do you think you're doing?" Schlocky asked through gritted teeth.

"I'm coming along," replied Dirk. He put away the pocket watch and smiled at Jude, who eyed him warily. "I'll volunteer to be your timekeeper. It will ensure we aren't late coming back. You're okay with that, right, Allister?"

"I'd be more okay with you jumping overboard," Schlocky said.

Dirk laughed, as if Schlocky weren't being completely serious, waved away the comment and pulled on his overcoat. "I'll make sure everyone stays safe, Allister. You just give out the wages while we're gone, and I'll fill you in on everything you missed. Sound good, old chap?"

Schlocky appeared to be too angry to answer, but Dirk did not wait for a response. Instead, he walked over to Valencia and kissed her hand with a proud smile. Jude laughed, but only because he couldn't tell which was funnier: the look on Vale's face at having a man treat her like some kind of princess, or the look of sheer rage the Shrew had as he watched Vale receive affection.

"I guess we better get going," Jude said.

Schlocky nodded and then grinned mischievously. "If Dirk doesn't make it back, I may be inclined to give you a raise, kid."

***

While the other crewmembers were distracted by the distribution of wages, Jude and the others left the airship and made their way through the docking plank and into the Auger's Lighthouse.

The shadowy structure was made of thick, now crumbling pieces of stone, but the skyport seemed sturdy. In fact, Jude thought it looked in fairly good condition, considering it had been vacant for the past few centuries.

It was a small skyport, made up of only one real building—a domed tower with a marble archway. The only way inside was by passing through wrought iron gates that creaked loudly when Jude tried to open them. The noise scared a few nesting gulls, which took flight and disappeared beyond the horizon.

"To be free like the birds, eh?" said Dirk, elbowing Jude in the ribs. "Think about it. They're the only creatures, really, who don't have to be farmed on skyports by humans, aren't they?" He cast a glance towards Valencia, who appeared to be ignoring him completely. "Ah, yes. I suppose I'm a bit of a romantic about these sorts of things..."

When they had safely passed through the gates, a large sign hung overhead, directing them inside a large, circular room. There were dozens of rows of benches, arranged at different levels like an amphitheater and surrounding a smaller podium down in the center of the room. Jude had never seen a magistrate's courtroom, but he assumed this was exactly what it would look like.

"Look!" Valencia said, pointing to an enormous basin hanging from the ceiling by chains. "What is that?"

"It's probably where they burned their fires," Dirk said. He looked overly pleased to have the answer. "If this is a lighthouse, they'd have to have a pyre. I guess that basin up there is it."

Jude was about to ask the Shrew what some of the signs meant, but before he could speak, he noticed a rotting tapestry going around the room, just below the ceiling.

Some of the pictures on the tapestry showed the fog, and there were horned, demonic beasts coming out of it. The fogspawn were shown eating children and battling men with swords and spears. Toward the middle, the tapestry had a picture of a young boy, presumably being overtaken by two fogspawn at the same time.

What confused Jude was the way the tapestry portrayed the next series of events: the boy appeared to be alive, but the fogspawn were still with him, apparently as much of a part of him as arms or legs, though it was never clear who was in control.

There was a large, rotted gap in the tapestry after that, and when the story picked back up, it showed the boy—now a man—descending into the Auger's Lighthouse, accompanied by a cloaked figure with crossed arms.

As far as Jude could tell, the tapestry ended with a frightening picture of the cloaked figure expelling the fogspawn from the man by some kind of magic.

"Interesting, isn't it?" Dirk asked from beside Jude. "It makes you wonder what kind of strange, sacrilegious rituals went on here. No wonder the place was closed down by the High Prelate."

"How do you know that?" Jude asked.

Dirk shrugged. "You aren't the only one who reads banned books."

Jude and the others went down the stairs and made their way to the podium at the room's center. There did not appear to be any other exit except for the way they'd already come. Jude hoped one of the signs would tell them where to go next.

"Can you read any of them?" he asked the Shrew.

"The signs? A few words here and there. This room is called the Atrium, and it was a room of some importance, I guess." The Shrew glanced around at some of the other signs hanging on the walls. "I ain't too sure, but I think that sign over there says somethin about a lift goin down into other levels of the skyport."

"Which way's the lift?" asked Jude.

The Shrew grumbled something, apparently tired of answering questions for Jude, but finally gave a reply. "I reckon it might be down that way. Ya know, I ain't too good at readin this stuff. For all I know, we might be going to the mess hall."

Jude led the others past some of the benches until they found a hidden corridor leading further down into the Auger's Lighthouse. It was darker here, and there were sickening crunches beneath their feet as they walked. Jude hoped it was merely rat bones they were stepping on.

"I don't think we want to go on the lift," Dirk said. "It could be broken, and it could lead to something, well, terrible. You don't want to be responsible for getting us all killed, my good man. Schlocky may have no respect for human life, but you do. I can tell. I think it would be best, Jude, for us to turn around."

"Shut it!" Roebuck said from behind Dirk. "If there's treasure down here, I want it. Why don't ya just go back to the ship and cry for mommy, ya big pansy."

"I could have your job for speaking to me like that," said Dirk.

"Oh, yeah?" Roebuck retorted. "Then who'd fit between the aqua-vats?"

"Stop it, you two," Valencia said. Though it was dark, Jude saw her stepping between them. "I'm sick of listening to your bickering. Besides, I think we're here."

Sure enough, they had arrived at the lift. It was a rusted, mechanical platform that used a pulley system to go places. The ropes did not seem to be completely rotted, and the chains holding the platform up still appeared strong.

"I'll go first," Jude said. He started towards the lift.

"Wait," said Valencia, grabbing Jude by the arm. "It really could be dangerous. The whole thing could go crashing down as soon as you step out there, and then that'll just leave me with Roebuck, the Shrew, and that pompous idiot. Maybe we should look for another route."

Jude looked around at the others. Roebuck seemed indifferent, but Dirk looked apprehensive and played with the rim of his bowler hat in a distracted sort of way. The Shrew was giving Jude a sharp, crude look and his one eye was focusing on the hand Vale had placed near Jude's elbow.

"I'll be careful," Jude said. He moved away from Valencia and placed one foot on the lift. The platform swayed slightly, but remained hanging.

"Careful, pal," Roebuck said. "Don't get yourself killed."

Jude held his breath and stepped fully onto the platform. This time, the platform swayed back and forth, creaking loudly and sending echoes in every direction. After a few tense moments, it appeared the lift would hold.

"Okay," Jude said, looking at the others. "Who's next?"

It was a slow, nerve-racking process. Roebuck went next, since he was the smallest, followed by Valencia. Much to the Shrew's chagrin, he went next, even though he was twice the size of Dirk, who seemed to be waiting to go last to ensure the lift would not fall with the others first.

When it was Dirk's turn to get on the lift, he got on an inch at a time. Finally, they were all on the platform and the lift seemed to hold their combined weight. The Shrew worked the ropes, and the lift began going down into the dark depths of the Auger's Lighthouse.

According to the writing on the platform floor, there were sixty levels in all. Even though the numerals were easily discernable, no one had a clue what the words written out by each could mean. Even the Shrew only knew a word occasionally, and he acted as if telling the others were the biggest chore in all of Nimbus.

"Does it mention anything about treasure on any of the floors?" Jude asked.

The Shrew, still working the ropes, shook his head. "Nah, the bottom floor seems to be important for somethin. And the twenty-fifth level is forbidden for people to enter."

Dirk perked up in alarm. "Really? Is there anything else written there?"

"Course there is," the Shrew mumbled. "I just ain't able to read it."

"Twenty-five sounds like the place for treasure," Roebuck said, flashing a greedy smile.

"Should we stop?" the Shrew asked, also looking rather excited.

Jude nodded. "What floor are we at now?"

"Third," said the Shrew. "I can have us at twenty-five in no time. Could go faster if I got some help."

Jude was unable to help, because of the shoulder he had wounded in the storm, but Valencia and Roebuck joined the Shrew at the ropes. Dirk watched them with a half-interested gaze and a smile that told Jude he thought himself above such work. They bypassed the other floors and soon reached the twenty-fifth level of the Lighthouse.

A large statue of a man with fogspawn on either side guarded this level of the skyport. From the lift, Jude could see an iron door that appeared bolted at the end of a narrow corridor. If there was anything valuable in the Auger's Lighthouse, it was likely behind that door.

"Well, guess we should get goin," Roebuck said.

"Not so fast," said Dirk, blocking their way. "That door is bolted, and this place could be dangerous. Maybe this level is locked up for a reason."

"Get outta the way before my switchblade makes ya," Roebuck said, bringing out his knife and letting Dirk get a good look at its sharp tip.

Dirk searched his pockets for something, and Jude feared a fight—a potentially deadly one—was about to erupt. Before Dirk could find whatever weapon he had stowed away, Jude was between them.

"We'll ride the lift all the way down to the bottom and see what's so important down there," he said. "If we don't see anything else that's interesting, we'll stop at twenty-five on our way up, okay?"

"A waste of time!" Roebuck said.

"And this level will be just as dangerous on the way back up as it is on the way down," Dirk retorted. "We won't be stopping here again."

"Yes," Jude said, "we will. I'm in charge, Dirk. You didn't have to come along, but you did, which means you answer to me while we're down here."

Dirk looked taken aback. Slowly, he leaned toward Jude and whispered through gritted teeth, "You don't want to make an enemy out of me, boy."

"Let's keep going," Jude said to the others, completely ignoring Dirk's threat. "We'll stop here on our way back."

Before anything could be said against it, Valencia started pulling the ropes and the lift continued going down. The ride to the bottom was boring and seemed to take hours, though it only took fifteen minutes, according to Dirk's pocket watch. Around the thirtieth level, they appeared to be far beneath the Skyline, as the walls got thicker to protect the structure from the fog outside.

"We're farther below the fog than any man has a right to be," Roebuck said as they descended. "Least outside the Burrows. Maybe I'll be alive when they finally invent armor to withstand fog. I'd love to see the ground, ya know. Maybe see what real grass looks like."

"If they don't have such armor now, they never will," Dirk said. He looked very tense and angry, especially since Jude had given him a direct order. "But feel free to walk out in the fog anytime you please, you pesky little twit."

When they finally reached the sixtieth floor, a completely circular room with the thickest walls Jude had ever seen, everyone got off the lift and began searching. There were many pipes and conduits running around the room, all passing through a series of ventilation and filtration systems. At the center of the room was an engine hub, though it appeared to have stopped working a long time ago.

But it was not the engine hub that caught Jude's attention—it was the tiny pipes that ran out of a few vents and into a sewer grate. The pipes had once dripped water through the bars, and Jude knew that water went to the people in the Burrow below.

"I bet they didn't evacuate the Burrow underneath here when they abandoned the Lighthouse," Jude said. He could feel anger rising up inside of him.

"Of course they didn't," Dirk said. "Who would think of them? They're just Dwellers."

There was silence around the room. Dirk surveyed the faces looking back at him and sighed. "Oh, right. I suppose you were all Dwellers once, weren't you?"

"Stop calling us Dwellers!" said Jude.

"Sorry," Dirk said, though he didn't look it. "I keep forgetting you don't call yourselves that."

"I can't believe they would just let the people down in the Burrow die," Valencia said, staring down into the sewer grate with a look of horror. "It's bad enough they make them drink whatever drips out of the sewage system."

"Maybe they didn't die," Roebuck said, distracted by the grate. "Maybe they just went to another Burrow..."

"I don't think so," Jude said. "I think the people left this place and didn't think twice about the folks underneath them who were depending on them to survive. The people in the Burrow probably didn't even see it coming."

"Well, if they were Dwellers," said Dirk, "they were probably not very great assets to us anyway—"

The Shrew, who had remained silent since passing the twenty-fifth floor, grabbed Dirk by the throat and slammed him against the wall. "I ought to rip off those bars and throw ya down there, ya sorry bastard. Maybe see how ya like it, thirstin to death."

"You will unhand me," Dirk choked out. "Now!"

"He ain't worth it," Roebuck said. "Let him go, or he might have ya sacked."

The Shrew dropped Dirk, who fell to the floor with a whimper. A long silence followed, in which Dirk quietly massaged his throat and neck while the others looked on. Finally, Jude decided it was time to leave. If they were going to explore the forbidden level and make it back to the ship in time, they needed to hurry.

"Let's ride the lift back up," Jude said. "We'll stop at twenty-five and see if anything worthwhile is there."

The others obeyed, though Dirk shot him a mutinous smile before getting onto the lift. With the Shrew and Valencia both working the ropes, they made it to the twenty-fifth floor in another fifteen minutes. Once again, the statue of the man with the two fogspawn greeted them. As they got off the lift, Jude realized there were several side rooms along the way, all leading up to the bolted iron door at the end of the corridor.

"I reckon I can break that lock in no time," Roebuck said.

"I can help ya," the Shrew added. "I feel like breakin somethin."

Jude looked into a few of the side rooms and saw nothing of value. There were papers littered across the floor, but their writing was all in the old language. In the fourth room, he bumped into Dirk, who appeared to be fumbling with something in a desk.

"What are you doing?" Jude asked.

"Searching for treasure, I suppose," Dirk said irritably. He turned to face Jude, as if trying to block Jude from seeing something. "Nothing in here but a few useless documents and half-rotted papers."

Jude went to look behind Dirk and when he did, he was fairly sure he saw Dirk pocketing a piece of parchment. He couldn't be sure, so he didn't say anything, but he was more interested in what Dirk was trying to hide in the desk. Sure enough, there was a drawer pulled out, and Dirk once again tried to prevent Jude from reaching it.

"What's inside it?" Jude asked.

"Just papers," Dirk said quickly. "Nothing of value."

Jude sidestepped him and pulled the drawer out further. He saw what Dirk was hiding: inside the drawer was a large and rusty iron key. Jude took it, ignoring Dirk's attempts to stop him, and went back out into the corridor where the Shrew and Roebuck were trying to break open the door.

"I think I have something that might help," Jude said.

"What did you find?" Valencia asked, stepping out from one of the side rooms.

"A key," said Jude. "I think it might unlock that door."

He handed the key to Roebuck, who started for the lock.

"Wait!" Dirk said. He pointed at some writing engraved at the top of the door. "Don't open it. It says not to open it!"

"You know the old language?" Jude asked.

Dirk nodded. "Quite a bit of it, actually."

"Why the hell haven't you told us that before?" Valencia snapped. "We could have used your help."

"Because I didn't read anything worth repeating," Dirk said. He looked around nervously, as though he were afraid the walls might come crashing down at any moment. "But the writing on the door reads, 'Death to those who try, damnation to those who succeed.' We don't want to open that door."

"Is that really what it says?" Jude asked the Shrew.

"The first word is 'death,' but I can't read the rest," the Shrew said. "Ah, it's probably just a warning to spook thieves."

"Please." Dirk looked at Jude, and he was alarmed to see that there was real fear in the man's eyes. "You can't let them open it. You can't—"

"The key don't fit," Roebuck said.

"Good," Dirk said with a sigh of relief. "Excellent."

"Well, we might as well head back," Vale said. "If the key doesn't fit..."

"Doesn't matter," said the Shrew. "I just broke in."

There was mechanical clicking, and the bolts tilted vertically so that there was nothing barring the door from being opened. All around the corridor, there was clicking and whirring as cogs—which Jude hadn't noticed before—began spinning. The Shrew moved to open the door, but he only had time to slide it slightly ajar when the cogs started spinning even faster.

Something bad was about to happen.

A rumble ripped through the area and echoed throughout the Auger's Lighthouse. Part of the wall on Jude's left started crumbling, and he had just enough time to move Dirk out of the way before they were both crushed to death by falling rubble.

The others had moved away from the door as the cogs started spinning even faster, and Jude suddenly realized their purpose. The faster these cogs spun, the further the door opened.

The problem was, now, Jude didn't want the door to open.

"Let's get back to the lift," Jude said.

The others didn't move.

"I said let's get back to the lift!"

The others seemed to snap out of their daze and headed for the lift platform. More of the wall fell away and the floor began to shake as they ran. The Shrew was the first to the lift, and he began untying the ropes so he could get the lift moving again. Valencia and Dirk were next, and Vale began helping the Shrew. Roebuck's short legs would not allow him to run as fast as the others, but Jude had to make sure everyone was safe before he got onto the lift. He slowed down so that Roebuck could catch up.

"A true friend," Roebuck said, smirking.

Before Jude could say anything, a large chunk of stone fell from the fogspawn statue and hit Jude in the head, sending fiery pain down his spine. His surroundings began to blur, and he felt warm blood trickle down his forehead and into his eyes. The world shifted around him, and he suddenly realized he was on the ground and that Roebuck and Valencia were dragging him onto the lift. There was shouting everywhere.

"Is he alive?" he heard someone ask.

"Yeah, but it don't look good," Roebuck said, hovering over him.

Out of the corner of his eye, Jude thought he saw a shadow moving toward him. He tried to blink, but the crumbling fogspawn statue and Roebuck and the shadow all meshed together to form one distorted image. Jude could feel the lift going up, but his vision was finally gone. All he could see was blackness. The last thing he heard was Valencia shouting.

The last thing he felt, however, was something strange and powerful coming over him.

It's going to be all right.

***

When Jude awoke, he was lying in a cot in the infirmary aboard the Gangly Dirigible. His head was bandaged, covering one eye, but he could see that it was dark. There were no windows in the infirmary, but Jude was fairly sure it was nighttime.

In a nearby cot, Robert Gwynn was snoring loudly, and the only other person in the room was Fritz, who also appeared to be sleeping. For some reason, Jude felt an urge to stand up—to run through the halls and out onto the main deck. His head ached, and he wondered if the injury was causing him to have funny thoughts.

Jude stood up and his legs shook badly, but he managed to stay standing. Slowly, he moved out into the hallway and looked around. The corridor was empty, and he headed for the stairwell with the dim hall lamps guiding him. As he made his way up the stairs, he felt better—more alive—or maybe it was just his head injury tricking him to feel that way.

With his good arm, he began to feel around his head and let his fingers run along the length of the bandage, feeling the texture of the cloth. Jude wondered if this was real. Maybe he was dead—

You're not dead.

Jude nearly lost his balance. He could've sworn he'd heard a voice inside his head that wasn't his own. He grabbed for the rail and continued going up the stairs. His mind was playing tricks on him—that was all. He finally reached the main deck and stepped outside.

There were stars all across the sky, and it was a fairly cool night, but Jude wasn't cold. He felt the breeze nip at his face and arms, but he still couldn't figure out why he'd come outside in the first place. Then, he felt his stomach jolt as he turned to look behind the Gangly Dirigible, and he knew, sort of, why he'd come there. The Auger's Lighthouse was visible in the moonlight, appearing to hover in the distance like a sinking zeppelin.

Good riddance.

Jude didn't even realize he'd heard the strange voice again. He was too busy trying to think. He felt tired, beaten, and sick, but he also felt stronger. Even though they had left the abandoned skyport behind and it was all over, Jude couldn't help but think that this was the beginning of something important. He felt relieved, and as he looked up at the starry sky, he smiled.
Chapter ten

You're not the sick child you once were. You no longer cry in the night for the limbs you can barely remember having. Now, though, you question yourself. You're no longer sure of your place, your purpose, and because of your insecurity, I feel your resolve weakening.

A time of change is upon us, my friend. If I did not know you so well, I would say you like me being here. Perhaps you do, and I have simply underestimated you all these years. Perhaps you are not just a vessel as I once thought.

Perhaps we can work together...

***

"Gully," Demetrius Rucca said, "how close is the nearest skyport?" He leaned over the desk in the corner of the Primrose Doubloon's captains' cabin, studying a map. Both hands lay flat against the nearest sides of the map to prevent it from rolling in on itself. A sextant and an astrolabe held down the other two.

And Rucca could not make heads nor tails of any of it.

The first mate walked over to the desk and looked over his captain's shoulder. He pointed at the marker that indicated where Rucca thought the Primrose Doubloon was, and asked, "This where we are?"

Rucca nodded. "As far as I can tell, yes."

Gully studied the map for a few more moments and said, "Hell if I know, majesty."

"That makes two of us, then, Gully." Rucca leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. "I don't think I was cut out for this, after all. Perhaps my father was right. Maybe I am not meant to fly one of these." He gestured around the room.

"Now don't say that," Gully said. "I can get one of the sailors in here, and he'll point us in the right direction."

Lovely.

"Oh yes," Rucca said. "Do that. And then, while you're at it, why don't you just tell him he can sleep in my bed, too."

Gully looked sheepish.

"I will not be undermined by my own crew." He paused. "Again."

Gully was silent. Eventually, he said, "I don't think—"

"After the water incident a few days ago, more of the crew seems to respect me. Not all of them, but some. More. I will not have them thinking that I am unsuited for my position."

"And what if they do?" Gully asked. "Just throw the bastards off the deck. Let the fog rip the insub...insub..."

"Insubordination?"

"Yeah, just let the fog rip that away with their skin. Teach em all a lesson."

Wouldn't that be nice?

Rucca pursed his lips. "No," he finally said. "I'm not ruthless. I never have been. I'm cold, I know, but I'm not a cold-blooded killer." He reached out and touched the miniature sculpture that represented the airship, then he slid it to the other side of the map, to the large skyport marked Cloud Nine. "I just want to go home."

Gully opened his mouth, then closed it. He cleared his throat, and Rucca guessed he was getting his courage up before he spoke. "I don't think, majesty...I don't think that's such a good idea."

"I know, Gully. There is a limit to my father's patience, and there is an even lower limit to my father's patience with me. I led a group of men and women who stole an airship holding a fortune in clean water. I'm a pirate now, and pirates do not get to return home."

Before Gully could reply, Rucca yanked the map off the desk. The miniature airship, sextant, and astrolabe went flying, but he didn't care. Gully would pick it up for him. He was good for something, at least. Even if Rucca wasn't.

Without another word, he wheeled his chair around and pushed the joystick forward. He left the cabin and rolled onto the deck, holding the map in his lap with one hand. The wind threatened to steal it from his grasp, but he found himself a sheltered spot to park himself next to the foremast and began studying the map.

Without the miniature airship to mark a probable location, Rucca was even more lost than he had been inside. He kept looking down at the map, then out toward the horizon. He would turn his chair occasionally to offer a different vantage point, but nothing changed. He could still tell nothing about where they were or where they should be going.

Then, as he stared off into the distance, he thought that he saw a ripple in the cloudtop. He snapped his fingers at a young sailor and beckoned him over.

"Do you see that?" Rucca asked as he pointed. "Over there?"

The sailor squinted and strained. "No, sir. I don't see a thing."

"Do you have a spyglass I can borrow?"

"Me, sir? No. Not at all. I can find you one, though, I bet."

"Do that," Rucca said. "Bring it to me as soon as you can."

The young man nodded and rushed off. Rucca stared at the ripple he saw in the distance for a quarter of an hour. The young sailor returned and knocked him out of his reverie by placing a small spyglass in his hand.

"This is all I could find, captain. I'm sorry it ain't no bigger."

"This will do fine," Rucca said. Finally, one of the ship's crew called him captain. Perhaps the crew could be unified, after all. "Thank you."

The young man beamed and went back to his duties as Rucca rolled up his map and raised the scope to his eye. There was something out there, after all. He tried to focus, and he saw that it was a small airship skimming along the cloudtop.

It was moving directly toward them.

Snapping his fingers again, Rucca got the young sailor's attention once more. He held out the spyglass and said, "Tell me what you see."

The young man looked through the spyglass in the direction Rucca indicated and said, "I'll be damned, captain. It's a skimmer."

Rucca was unfamiliar with the term. "A skimmer?"

"Yes, sir. Small ships without gasbags. They're a fairly new model, but cheap. I don't think I've ever seen one. Just heard about em."

Rucca had never even heard about these so-called skimmers. "And how do they work?"

"I'm not entirely sure, captain. I heard they have engines that process the clouds directly to make steam. They don't have to carry tons of water, so they're fast and small."

"That also means they don't have a lot of room for supplies, then, or large crews."

"No, sir. Last time I was at port—" He paused.

Rucca smiled. "You mean before you docked at Cloud Nine, and I took over the ship."

"Aye, sir," the sailor said, looking down. "Before that."

"Well go on," Rucca said. There must have been some kind of threat in Rucca's voice that he didn't know was there because the young sailor shied away from him. Did he expect his wheelchair-bound captain to beat him?

"Well, I heard folks talkin. I heard em say that skimmers were only gonna be good for two things: pirating and policing. Whatever that means."

Rucca narrowed his eyes. "It means that those skimmers need a base. They either have to have an armada nearby," he said, "or a skyport."

The sailor nodded. "That's all I heard, captain. That's all I know." He returned Rucca's spyglass.

Taking the scope, Rucca asked, "What is your name, boy?"

"Carlton, sir. Most folks call me Carl."

"Thank you for your help, Carl. I will remember this."

The young man smiled and went back to work. Rucca continued to stare out at the skimmer, moving ever closer to his ship.

***

The entire airship rocked with the impact. Rucca was just about thrown from his chair, and once he righted himself, he wheeled toward the starboard bow. The skimmer he had been watching was still a good distance away, and rather than communicating with them in any civilized manner, the small ship had opened fire.

No further volleys came, however, so Rucca took the attack to be a warning shot. Probably an exploding shell shot beneath the ship to jar everyone as much as possible. Not a bad tactic, actually. The skimmer then kept its distance and flew parallel to the Primrose Doubloon's course.

"All hands on deck!" Rucca shouted over the noise. "Everyone up here now!"

Moments later, the entire crew stood on the deck behind him. The explosion brought the crew together like it was the world's most dangerous team-building exercise. Gully made his way to Rucca's side and handed him a small device. It had a very tiny screen on its face, an antennae coming from its top, and it had a knob on the side and a button underneath that. "What is this, Gully?"

"Dunno," Gully said. "It beeped right after the ship stopped rockin, and started talkin at me. I thought you'd want it."

Rucca studied the device and pressed the button. "Is this the skimmer? To whom am I speaking?"

The device crackled and the screen lit up. He saw a scraggly woman's face framed by dreadlocked hair. She might have been attractive once upon a time. She spoke with a thick accent that Rucca wasn't familiar with. "You're in m'air, pirate. I suggest y'leave."

Pressing the button again, Rucca said, "Your air?" He took a deep breath and exhaled dramatically. "What do you mean by that?"

"Angel's Landing has claim to all the cloud-water in this sector, pirate. That shot before, it was a warning. Don't make m'fire at y'again. Won't miss y'on purpose next time."

"I am no pirate," Rucca said into the screen.

"Are y'not?" the scraggly woman asked. "Looks t'me like y'ship is stole. Primrose Doubloon shows up in m'data as being pirated from Cloud Nine weeks ago. Angel's Landing don't take real kind to pirates, y'know?"

And I have no patience for fools.

Rucca gritted his teeth. "I take it Angel's Landing is a skyport, then?"

She ignored the question. "Don't matter. Y'ain't dockin."

Rucca snapped his fingers at Carl, who knelt down beside him. Rucca spoke to him without pressing the transmit button. "Bring me a small pack of the water from the hold, Carl. Make it fast."

The young sailor nodded, and he quickly returned with a six-pack of glass bottles filled with crystal-clear, purified water. He sat it on Rucca's lap and backed away. Rucca pointed the device's screen at the water and pressed the transmit button.

"Am I not docking?" he asked. "I have a hold full of water cleaner than you or any of your people have probably drunk in years. Why don't we see if we can work out a deal, a trade. My crew hasn't been to port for who knows how long, and we could use some supplies. What do you say?" He released the button and awaited the scraggly woman's answer.

Rather than replying verbally, the skimmer launched another couple of attacks at the airship. This time, however, the shots were high above the gasbag tethered to the frigate's masts and bow. The explosions barely rocked the ship, but they rattled the crew. Rucca knew why the skimmer had launched above them—the scraggly woman didn't want to chance damaging the water in the cargo hold.

Murmurs and whispers began behind Rucca, and he immediately wheeled around to address his crew. "Quiet!" he yelled. "Quiet!" Once the murmurs died down, he continued by saying, "I don't know what kind of people run Angel's Landing, nor do I honestly have any idea what they're capable of—"

More murmurs.

They do not know what I am capable of.

"But," he said louder than the crew, "I do know what we are capable of, what this ship is capable of. There are bays of cannons down below with more than enough firepower to destroy this skimmer." He spat out the last word like it was rotten meat. "Man the cannons, and blow them out of the sky!"

The crowd roared and sailors rushed below to ignite the cannons. The device cracked in Rucca's hand. The scraggly woman appeared annoyed, "Are y'done yet? Ready t'surrender, pirate?"

I am not a pirate.

Perfectly timed, the sailors below deck fired the cannons at her skimmer. The pontoons that skimmed the cloudtop exploded as cannonballs passed through them. Rucca watched the tiny screen on the device as a cannonball crashed through the cockpit of the craft and tore through the scraggly woman's body. Crippled, the skimmer sagged in the air, barely able to stay afloat.

Cheers erupted from the Primrose Doubloon, but quickly fell silent as three other skimmers joined the wreckage of the scraggly woman's craft.

"Fire!" Rucca yelled, and two of the new skimmers exploded as cannonballs ripped through them. When only one craft remained, Rucca called for the ceasefire. He pressed the button on the device, hoping that the pilot could hear him. "Lead us to Angel's Landing."

The skimmer turned around and flew back the way it came, and the Primrose Doubloon followed.

***

A tall, lean man in a shabby suit walked along the docking platform of Angel's Landing. He wore a top hat with wind-goggles resting on the brim. As he walked, he removed the goggles from his hat and placed them over his eyes. Upon arriving at the edge of the docking platform, he held up his left hand and waved something in the air.

Rucca recognized it as a transmitter because he was holding an identical device himself. He waited for the man to speak into it, but he never did. Instead, the tall, goggled man stood there, staring at the Primrose Doubloon.

"Bring her in," Rucca said to his crew. "Go ahead and dock, and we'll see what happens."

"Is that a good idea, your majesty?" Gully asked.

"We're about to find out."

The man from Angel's Landing held up his empty hand toward the airship, signaling Rucca's ship to stop. He also held out the communicator and pressed the transmit button.

"I would ask that you do not bring your vessel any closer to Angel's Landing just yet," said the man. The wind-goggles made his expression hard to read on the tiny screen, which Rucca guessed was the whole point in wearing them.

Listen to him.

Rucca held up his own hand to signal the crew to stop. The airship hovered a good distance away from the skyport, but they were close enough that Rucca and the man didn't have to use the tiny screens on the communicators to see one another. They stared at each other for a few moments, then Rucca pressed the button and said, "We've stopped. Now it's my turn. Who are you, and why did your skimmer attack us?"

"My name is Edward Prescott," the tall man said. "I am constable for Angel's Landing, and unless my eyes are a bit worse than I thought, I don't see a bit of damage to your airship."

"I do not see what that has to do with our situation, Constable. Did I ask for aid or repairs?"

"No, you did not. However, the distinct lack of damage might make one wonder about you. I mean, if one were not mistaken, one might think that you attacked my skimmers unprovoked."

Lies.

The man had a point, though, and Rucca's stomach sank. The skimmers had not actually attacked them. They had only fired warning shots at the airship. He had ordered his crew to fire on them anyway.

Was he actually becoming a pirate?

Ignoring Prescott's comment, Rucca said, "I am only here to trade, Constable. I have a hold full of clean water, more than we really need. I would love to open negotiations with your skyport. You know, trade the water we don't need to get my crew some food, supplies, whatever."

The water Rucca had shown to the skimmer pilot was still resting in his lap, so he once again turned the communicator's screen toward it. Then he held a bottle up for Constable Prescott to see.

Judging by the look of the place, Angel's Landing wouldn't have a lot to offer the crew of the Primrose Doubloon, but it was the only skyport they'd wandered across in weeks. Rucca looked at the dock Constable Prescott stood on and the hub of the skyport looming behind him.

Angel's Landing was no Cloud Nine, that was for sure. For starters, it was made almost entirely out of wood, even though that might not have always been the case. Wooden patches covered large portions of the metal underneath, which had probably rusted away since the skyport's initial construction. The whole thing looked like it was held together with a few nails, a little bit of luck, and not much else.

Surely, though, even a run-down skyport like this would have a few rations to trade. Maybe some stale water to wash with and run the engines, and perhaps a few casks of ale or some kind of cheap wine.

However, Prescott followed Rucca's lead and ignored the comment. "I feel you have me at a disadvantage. I have identified myself, but you have not given me your name, nor that of your ship."

Rucca frowned, licked his lips, then said, "Apologies, Constable. My name is Demetri—"He coughed. "Captain Demetrius Rucca, and this is the Primrose Doubloon."

If Prescott hadn't been wearing goggles, Rucca was sure he would have seen the lean man's eyes narrow. "Rucca, you say? Any relation to the High Prelate?"

Rucca sighed. "My father is Cornelius Rucca, the current High Prelate of the Assembled Court. So yes."

The constable smiled and licked his teeth. "I believe we are beyond even the god-king's reach out here, Captain Rucca."

Do not be so sure of that.

"I meant it as no threat," Rucca said.

"How you meant it is of no concern."

Silence hung between them.

Taking a risk, Rucca asked, "May we dock and trade some of our water, then?"

Edward Prescott laughed. He bent over double, bracing his hands on his knees and outright guffawing. He stood up, skewed his wind-goggles and wiped—or mimed wiping—the tears from his eyes that had come from laughing so hard. He then doffed his top hat at Rucca and threw his communicator off the edge of the wooden dock. He then spun on his heel and walked away.

The wind caught the ragged tails of his suit jacket, which then flapped behind him as he walked away. The whole bit would have seemed very epic if not for the raggedness of his clothes, the shabbiness of the skyport, and the exaggerated way the man carried himself.

"Majesty?" Gully said, tapping Rucca on the shoulder.

Rucca watched the constable disappear inside Angel's Landing, large wooden doors sealing behind him. He wheeled himself around and looked at his first mate. "Yes, Gully?"

Gully just pointed, and his finger led Rucca's gaze directly to a whole squadron of skimmers coming from the other side of Angel's Landing. In fact, as Rucca looked around, he saw at least two more squadrons of skimmers approaching his airship.

"Can we take them?" Rucca asked.

Of course we can.

"We can try, your majesty. The cannons are fully loaded."

Rucca nodded. "Fire at will!"

Immediately the Primrose Doubloon rocked from the kickback as every cannon on the starboard side fired at once. Three skimmers were hit, but none of the damage was enough to slow them down. All three squadrons continued toward the airship.

"Continue firing!" Rucca yelled. "Until the very last one is gone!" Then he turned his attention back to Gully. "What I want you to do, Gully, is take the men who helped you get this ship, and go to port. I want you to get the ship close and—"

An explosion rocked the ship, and Rucca was almost knocked from his chair.

"Damage?" he yelled.

Someone in the crowd yelled back, "Hull was hit. Can't tell how bad."

"Like I said, Gully—" Another explosion, but the ship didn't rock so hard. It must have missed. "I want you to get the ship close. Take the folks who got us this ship with you and get whatever you can carry."

"But not just looting," Rucca clarified. "Don't just grab valuables. Get food, rations, any kind of fruit and vegetables you can find. Water, drinking or otherwise. Take whatever we need, then come back quick, okay?"

They're as good as dead, you know.

Another round of explosions sounded, and Rucca felt the heat this time. He wheeled around as Gully went scampering across the deck, trying to find men and women he could bring to Angel's Landing with him.

All three squadrons were within range, now, and they were all firing at the Primrose Doubloon.

We're all as good as dead.

Cannonballs flew toward the skimmers, and Rucca watched each one connect. Some of the skimmers erupted into fire, while others simply fell from the sky.

A projectile flew past Rucca's head and slammed into the foremast, taking a chunk out of it. Another zipped by and exploded not far from his chair. The shockwave was intense, and Rucca felt his balance fail and his chair tip over. He sprawled onto the deck and tried to pull himself out of the path of sailors and bums who ran from starboard to port, fore to aft, then back again.

The last thing he wanted was to be trampled to death.

Another explosion.

The next to last thing he wanted was to be blown up by outlaws.

Yet another boom, and this time, it was right above him. He heard a pop as the gasbag that held the airship aloft ruptured. It wasn't a large rupture, but even amid the cacophony of the battle, he heard the steam hissing into the open sky.

If they didn't do something quickly, the skimmers would be the least of their worries. The fog was below, and they were sinking toward it, slowly but surely.

But what could he do? The cannons below were firing as quickly as they could be reloaded, and they were doing a pretty decent job of taking out oncoming skimmers, but there were just so many of the damned little crafts.

Let me.

Rucca's brow furrowed. He looked down at the communicator he still held, but the screen was blank. He shook it and clicked the button, but it stayed dormant.

I can help you.

Rucca looked around him, but the immediate area was clear. He had pulled himself out of the most trafficked part of the deck when his chair had overturned.

One of the skimmers must have landed a lucky shot because Rucca was thrown forward, away from the railing he had leaned against when the deck beneath him rippled upward. Planks and decking fell away toward the fog, and a concave hole in the side of his ship was now where he had just sat.

Where was his chair? He panicked and looked around frantically. Did it fall into the fog? Was he going to have to rely on Gully or someone else to carry him everywhere he went from now on?

He saw the chair, finally. It, like him, had been thrown across the deck. From a distance, it seemed in one piece, but that was all Rucca could tell about it.

Another round of explosions rang all around him, and he thought the fight was slowing down. No, that was just his ship. They were running out of ammunition. This was a cargo vessel, not a warship. There would only be a small stockpile of cannonballs, just enough to fend off a decent enough pirate attack.

What was he going to do?

Let me. I can help.

Rucca closed his eyes. He was calm. His heart did not race, nor did he shake. Something inside him clicked, and he felt serene, despite his surroundings. It was as though the whole world slowed down, and the explosions and cannons and men yelling were all just part of a glorious song that was only now reaching its crescendo.

He opened his eyes, and Angel's Landing was closer than it had been. He saw Gully and his team of bums preparing to disembark. Explosions roared all around him, but they sounded so far away.

Do you like this? I can make everything feel this way, you know. All you have to do is let go. Just let go. You've done it before. Just let go, and I can help you again.

So Rucca let go, and as he did so, his body was no longer his own. He could feel his body, his arms and hands touching the hard deck of the ship, his skin almost blistering from closer and closer explosions, and he could feel his legs.

See what I can do for you?

It was a strange feeling, his legs. Intellectually, Rucca always knew they were there. They just didn't react when he told them to do something. It wasn't a numbness, because numbness implied a loss of feeling. His legs were simply not there.

And then they were.

Rucca rode inside his body like a passenger, seeing out his eyes, feeling his body push itself off the ground and stand on legs that should not physically be able to do so. He watched as something inside of him took control and walked confidently to the edge of the crater that had been blown into the airship.

His body knelt down, and he felt the muscles in his legs tense up. He saw his hands reach out and touch the rough edge of the damaged hull.

Then he felt himself stand up and watched as his hands outstretched in front of him. He saw his palms come together, but not quite touch. He saw the air begin to shimmer between them. He saw fire erupt out of that shimmer, and he watched it snake its way up his arm, where it sat not burning him, yet giving off heat.

He should have cared, but he didn't. He was just along for the ride, and what a ride it was.

He could feel his head turn to look as the closest skimmer whipped between the Primrose Doubloon and the Angel's Landing dock upon which Gully and his men were climbing.

He reached up and pulled his goggles down over his eyes, clicking through the layers of colored lenses until only the red ones remained. The world looked like it was on fire. Soon it would be.

His arms spread apart, and he felt himself stand in a cruciform, then everything was on fire.

Jets of flame rushed from his hands and slammed into the nearest two skimmers, burning through them, and into the next. The fire burned through their light hulls, then bounded to the next skimmer, jumping from craft to craft and threading the gout of flame between them like a needle stitching a quilt.

From skimmer to skimmer the fire rushed, and Rucca felt himself smile. He felt no joy, felt no anxiety, felt no fear. He felt peace as he watched events unfold before him.

When the last two skimmers were destroyed, the jet of flame surged toward Angel's Landing itself, igniting as much of the wooden structure as it could. Rucca could not see what happened inside the skyport, but he could feel it. He could feel the fire flying from room to room, leaving bits and pieces of itself behind to consume anything it could.

Gully and his men were still standing at the edge of the dock, and Rucca saw them turn and run back toward the airship as the fire penetrated the skyport. They climbed back aboard as the fire disappeared from Rucca's hand, its tail end finally flowing from his body.

He walked slowly and confidently across the deck to what was left of the railing along the bow and watched himself lean down and grip the charred wood. He felt his neck tilt upward as he watched the fire streak through the sky along its path through the skimmers and into Angel's Landing.

He watched these events through his own eyes, and he barely understood they were not his anymore. He watched as a passenger rather than a participant, but even still, he could not stop himself from feeling a surge of pride and accomplishment as he watched Angel's Landing detonate, burning all the way down into the fog.

End of Part One
ABOUT THE AUTHORS

AUSTIN KING is married, but thanks you for your interest.

B.J. KEETON is a writer, teacher, and runner. When he isn't trying to think of a way to trick Fox into putting Firefly back on the air, he is either writing science fiction, watching an obscene amount of genre television, or looking for new ways to integrate fitness into his geektastic lifestyle. In addition to Nimbus, he is also the author of Birthright, the first book in The Technomage Archive.
