 
GAIA'S BROOD

by Nick Travers

First published as an ebook by Nick Travers at Smashwords 2015

Copyright © Nick Travers 2015. Smashwords Edition

Nick Travers has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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The day after Nina Swift's 21st birthday, she sets out to retrace her famous mother's final, fatal journey.

Within days she's wanted for murder, arson, manslaughter, and piloting an unlicensed airship. Suddenly, everyone, including the psychopathic Lieutenant Borker, wants a slice of her. Literally.

Join the fabulous Nina Swift ducking and diving her way through a dystopian future via friendship, adventure, betrayal, and assassins. As Nina dives into the mystery of her mother's past, she discovers the greatest secret of the age.

Appreciation for Gaia's Brood:

"This is probably the most amazing indie story I've ever read. The descriptive words used paint the picture so vividly it's almost as if I'm watching a movie and the words simply help narrate. Incredible!" Lyrical_love22 (Wattpad fan)

"Gaia's Brood is incredibly well crafted! Can't stop reading it." @Alkinea (Author of the Blue and Green Fairy Tales).
Chapter 1

Among the great city states in the sky, no guild is more respected than the Aviators' Guild. Those heroes and heroines tie civilization together; piloting their airships along the bird roads.

In recent history, no pilot is more famous than my mother Eve Swift, aviatrix and one-time mayor of New Frisco. And no mystery so great as her disappearance on an archaeological expedition, leaving me, her daughter, orphaned.

On the day I turn twenty-one, I receive two packages by post: a mysterious brown—paper parcel from my Uncle Felix and a slim envelope from the Aviators' Guild.

Frantically, I tear open the envelope and pull out the small card inside. I catch a whiff of fresh ink as I turn the smooth card over and over in my hand. As expected, the card is a license that permits "Nina Swift—Aviatrix" to pilot airships. The first and lowest rung on my piloting career. To me, it is like gold, and my heart sings.

I kiss the card in triumph, slot it carefully into the leather wallet provided, and place it in a pocket of my flight jacket. Time to put my long cherished plan into action—today I am going in search of my long lost mother.

Scooping up the paper-wrapped package, from the post office counter I toss it carelessly into my shoulder bag, unopened, as I step out into the street. I have work to do. I hoist the bag onto my shoulder and stride down the street to my meeting at the Square Balloon café.

I stop on the way to complete a financial transaction. At twenty-one, the state no longer controls my mother's legacy, so I can spend what is left of her money in any way I like. And what a magnificent purchase it is—the second stage of my plan.

I stop to examine myself in a shop window: tall, slender, auburn haired. Dressed and booted in my leather flying gear, some would call me striking—I call it angular, but I've taken care with my appearance today.

When seeking to drive a hard bargain, looks are just another weapon in a girl's armory.

I enter the Square Balloon, a favorite hang—out for us apprentices from the Aviators' Guild. Compared to the bright sunlight outside, the café looks dark and bland. Polished bare boards gleam under my feet and pictures of famous airships, aviators, and aviatrixes line the walls in an attempt to brighten things up. The tangy smell of coffee and sweet smell of chocolate battle each other in the air. I inhale deeply. It's like coming home.

I order my usual: strong coffee, no cream.

Scud and Fernando are already seated around a window table, flight jackets hung on the back of their chairs. They're getting to know each other, though they aren't saying much, which is no surprise. Hot mugs steam in front of them on the scrubbed wooden table. A coffee for Fernando and a hot chocolate for Scud.

Fernando stares unwaveringly at Scud, which causes Scud to look anywhere except directly at Fernando.

I collect my drink, slide in between the boys, and take a deep breath. "Hi, guys." Now for stage three of my plan.

Scud tosses his mop of brown hair out of his eyes and looks past me, "Oh...yes...morning, Nina." Scud never meets anyone's gaze, even mine, his best and oldest friend.

"Fernando, this is Scud. Scud, this is Fernando."

They know of each other, of course. That's why I'm annoyed with Fernando's behavior.

He thrusts his hand straight across the table, smiling radiantly. "Hi, how you doing, mate?"

Scud stares out the window, ignoring him.

Fernando turns his attention to me. "What's this all about, Nina?" Swarthy, full-lipped, and handsome; he has auburn hair like mine, and you could almost dive into the dark watery wells of his brown eyes; In some ways he is my equal. I have never been one of his conquests.

"Well, if my mother was here—" I catch Scud rolling his eyes, but I don't let it put me off. "She would say, 'A great opportunity has arisen and you are the lucky recipients'."

Fernando leans across the table. "Meaning?"

I stare longingly into those deep brown pools. Sometimes I just want to throw myself in them without a care; then I remember who owns those eyes and crawl out again. "Meaning, that now flight school is out; I'm recruiting a crew for the summer."

"You're not looking for intern work?"

"Not this year—I'm following my own path."

"What about a ship?" he asks.

I am prepared. "This morning, I used the remains of my mother's estate, my inheritance, to purchase a gorgeous airship."

Fernando knows all about inheritances.

He doesn't look very impressed, so I try again, "I'm offering you a job on a secret mission."

Scud nods once. "I'm in."

"How can you, 'be in'?" Fernando demands. "You don't even know what the job is yet." He glares at Scud, who stares out the window again.

Molding these two into a team could be a challenge. Maybe a bigger threat than either of them would do the trick; perhaps I should make them both hate me, though I don't believe Scud would ever hate me, even if I gave him good reason.

Scud shrugs his shoulders. "It's Nina—how can I not be in?" He is so pathetically cute sometimes.

"You're going to retrace your mother's last expedition and find out how she died," Fernando states.

"How...."

"You've told everyone, Nina. It's no secret."

"Oh." I fix my lilac eyes on him. "Well I need your navigation skills."

"Rates?"

"Standard Guild rates." We all belong to the Aviator's Guild, as officer apprentices. Soon, when we pass our exams, we will gain promotion to officer grade on commercial airships. At twenty-one, though, we already qualify to pilot our own private craft.

"Why bring a klutz like him along?" Fernando hisses, as if Scud can't hear him.

How do I explain a lifetime of friendship and mutual support? When my mother left, I became a pariah at school: all my friends' parents stopped encouraging their children to pal up with the ex-mayor's daughter. Those I thought were friends disappeared, like a breath of wind, leaving me alone and isolated. At six, I learned to be wary of those who love you for what you have rather than for yourself—a suspicion I retain, aggressively, to this day.

As a loner, I gravitated naturally towards the other loner in my year: Scud. The awkward, rude Scud. The genius Scud. The Scud whose social skills are virtually non-existent. Scud, who is incapable of loving someone for what they do, or what their parents do, or for their connections. Even as a child, it took me a long time to accept Scud on his own terms. I needed to learn to love him for himself.

Scud sailed through the entrance exam for flight school, but it was me who coached him for weeks to get him through his Guild interview. "If you can't look the interviewer in the eye, Scud, look at their nose, or forehead, or at the wall behind their head––it is close enough."

Scud will never make it as a captain or any other sort of leader, but as a ship's master he will know every intimate detail of any ship he ever steps on board, right down to the number of rivets. Especially the number of rivets.

When he's agitated, which is often, Scud counts. He counts rivets preferably, but anything will do. I bet he's counting something now as he stares out the window trying to avoid eye contact with Fernando.

"Because I need him." It's the best I can conjure up.

"This airship, it's not the wreck moored on the north pier is it?" For all his charm, Fernando can be cruel, which is another reason I have never hooked up with him.

It is my very first airship. It might be old and it might need some reconstruction, but it is glorious. "It might require a few running repairs," I admit.

Fernando laughs, raucously. "OK then, I got nothing else to do this summer. I'm in."

I suspect the large—living Fernando desperately needs the money and a summer away from his creditors and many girlfriends—just as I hoped. Step three of my plan has fallen neatly into place.
Chapter 2

A waitress slides into the spare seat opposite me. I wait for the boys to react.

Fernando, frowns and glares daggers at the slim girl with the blond bob. She looks nothing like me, though we are related.

"What do you want?" Fernando demands.

The girl glares right back, unfazed by Fernando's rudeness. She has keen hard eyes: green.

I smile at Fernando's unease. "This is my cousin, Izzy. She's crewing for us." Izzy's mother, Auntie Jean, would have brought me up, but my Uncle Felix, my mother's brother, failed to marry her. Besides, the city authorities wanted to get their hands on my mother's fortune, so they consigned me to the orphanage as fast as they could. As for Uncle Felix, he runs a trading post outside the city limits and is pretty elusive himself. I have never forgiven him for not coming to rescue me from the orphanage, but Izzy has many more reasons not to forgive him.

Scud looks past Izzy, but smiles. He has met her many times before. "Hi, Iz."

Fernando bites his lip and concentrates on the steaming mug of coffee in front of him, unconsciously imitating Scud when he's agitated. "We've met," he mutters, "she's just a waitress."

Oh no, Izzy isn't one of his conquests is she? It would be just like Fernando to hook up with a waitress then dump her when he tires of her.

"Why thank you, Ferny," Izzy says with mock sincerity, confirming my worst fears. "It's great to have you along for the ride." Fernando's head snaps round. No one calls him Ferny—except his girlfriends. But Izzy's attention has already shifted to me.

She nods towards Fernando. "Where'd you pick this one up, Nina?"

"Same place you did by the sounds of it," I quip. Izzy knows how to handle herself. Maybe she dumped him. Whatever happened, she is now back to haunt poor Ferny. I have the sudden feeling these three could be more difficult to manage than I ever imagined.

Izzy is from the slums of the underdeck, that other city hanging precariously beneath the pleasant streets of New Frisco. Most suburban dwellers avoid the Underdeck at all costs, but not me. Izzy and I hit it off from an early age, and every spare minute I could escape from the orphanage I spent roaming its narrow ramshackle streets with her. The underdeck is a vibrant, noisy, colorful place, full of life, excitement, and energy. I am as at home in the chaos of the underdeck as I am in the rarefied boulevards of the suburbs.

I change the subject quickly. "If my mother were here–"

"Which she ain't," Izzy murmurs. She always does that.

"—she would toast this endeavor. So let's raise our glasses to a successful trip." We all raise our steaming mugs. "May the winds be kind," we say, quoting the old Guild toast.

Scud leans forward and stares over my head, a sudden eagerness lighting up his face. "Tell us about your Mother, Nina."

"There's not much to tell that you don't already know. She was an archaeologist. She was well connected and became Mayor of New Frisco for a few years then resigned without warning. Then she disappeared." I wrack my brains for new information that may help them understand my desire to retrace her last steps. "Apparently, she was this kind of free spirit—never satisfied in one place for long—still searching for her purpose in life." Though she always knew exactly what she wanted and how to get it, I could have added.

"I remember watching her sail off on that last trip. She never hugged me, kissed me or even looked back. It was like I had already ceased to exist in her life. I was six." I spot the rotund cafe owner behind the bar. "Bernard, you were here in my Mother's day, what was she like?" The door tinkles as another customer enters.

"Your Mother, Nina?" Bernard polishes a mug while he thinks. He's a believer, but he still chooses his words carefully. "Your mother was smart and beautiful—like you, Nina." He grins—he fancies himself as some sort of Romeo. "When your Mother said to do something, we did it without question. She was a great leader—everything ran on time when your Mother was Mayor." He polishes the mug some more, staring into the distance for the right words. "Beautiful and terrifying, that was your Mother, Nina. Beautiful and terrifying."

"She was a tyrant. The city's better off without her," a voice calls from the doorway.

We all spin round to observe the new entrant. Jack McGraw, police constable and son of the current Mayor of New Frisco, and with him Lieutenant Borker of the Police Guild, who's turned up nose always reminds me of a snout.

It is Borker who is speaking. "Some of us remember Eve Swift differently. No one liked her. Everyone was afraid of her. We're well shot of her. And as for your Father–"

I jump to my feet. "You leave my Father out of it."

"I don't need to," Borker drawls. "He seems to have left himself out of everything since the day you were born."

I feel my face reddening up at the thought of my wayward Father taking to his heels at my birth and never returning. Abandoned by both parents—so humiliating.

The others are on their feet now too—I feel like we're a crew already.

"This is a private conversation," Fernando snaps, "Go back to your guild and mind your own business. No one likes you either."

I feel immediately grateful to Fernando for taking my side and saving me from further embarrassment. He always has just the right phrase for any occasion, bless him.

Jack McGraw pushes in front of Borker. He's ok— dark, wiry, intense; handsome in the gleaming buttons of his navy-blue uniform. "Actually, Lieutenant Borker and I are here on official business."

Borker's eyes had fixed on me the moment he entered the cafe and haven't shifted. I feel uncomfortable, like a trapped animal. A shiver runs down my spine— Borker is creepy. He's also dangerous, I don't know this for sure, it's just an instinct I have about him: very dangerous. Slowly, we all settle into our seats under his withering gaze.

McGraw straightens his official peaked cap. "We are looking for the owner of a decrepit pile of junk masquerading as an unlicensed airship called the Shonti Bloom." McGraw raises his eyebrows insinuatingly.

Borker looks as if he's sniffing out the ship's owner, like a boar searching for rotten apples.

I glance guiltily at my crew, but I'm not about to admit anything, certainly not something that will prevent me searching for my mother. "Are you suggesting," I bridle, "that I'm the sort of person who would attempt to pilot an unlicensed airship?"

"You are a slippery, untrustworthy, trickster," McGraw declares to the whole café.

Inwardly I smile, pleased with McGraw's description –– except for the untrustworthy tag, of course. Outwardly, I concentrate on frowning.

"You are your Mother's daughter," Borker growls, "anything is possible." More complements. His strangled voice reinforces his boorish image. I can just imagine him rooting through fallen leaves searching out his next victim.

"Her cast-off daughter," Borker adds.

Now I frown for real—how dare he.

McGraw comes between us again. "Don't worry, Borker, she won't get far with this crew." He indicates my comrades at the table. Borker doesn't look in the least bit worried.

"You're a trouble maker, Swift," McGraw continues, "and I have special orders to keep an eye on you." He winks, opens the door to leave, then turns back. "By the way, I have impounded the Shonti Bloom, under guard, just in case someone takes it into her head to claim it."

Borker's piercing eyes remain fixed on me as the pair make their exit.

Fernando's chair scrapes back as he stands. "So that's the end of that then."

My chair crashes to the ground as I jump up. Izzy grimaces at the eruption of sound and Scud cowers. Anger seethes inside me. "Like heck it is. We'll just have to steal her back from McGraw."
Chapter 3

"This is stealing, Nina," Scud hisses, as we crouch in the dark, "stealing is wrong."

"Since I already own this airship," I hiss back, "we're technically liberating it." We are hiding behind a barrier of crates waiting to be loaded onto one of the huge freight liners.

The docks circle the entire floating landmass of New Frisco, magically lifted into the sky by the ancients and their weird technology. As the city expanded, other chunks of land were added, tethered together by bridges.

One day, the ancient's who inhabited the earth, simply disappeared taking their technology with them. New Frisco continues to out grown the islands of land and now reaches out into the sky itself: a tangle of wooden platforms, supported by an ever increasing throng of hydrogen balloons, connected by swaying walkways and rope bridges.

Other platforms were attached below the first, then still further levels, the beginnings of the vast slums that turned New Frisco into a multi-layered metropolis, but everything is fringed by the docks—the life-blood of the city.

I never like the docks at night, the whole place creaks and groans as the wooden decks shift and creek in the air currents. Somehow, I never notice either the sound or the movement during the day. At night there are no crowds rushing about their business, no airships drifting in and out, and no clatter of cargo liners loading and unloading. Maybe all that human activity creates the true nature of the docks I love. At night, the docks, dark and silent, are a ghost of their daytime selves.

I cushion myself against my shoulder bag and hear the scrunch of stiff paper. I remember the package, still unopened—later, I promise myself.

Scud quietly lowers more flight bags beside me. "I can't believe you didn't get a license for the Shonti Bloom. That's wrong too."

"If I'd applied for a license I wouldn't have got one, would I. It just needs a little bit of work, that's all."

"It's called an air—worthiness license for a reason, Nina." Scud loves his rules and regulations—it's not one of his more lovable traits. "You need to pay more attention to the details, Nina."

"It's just a piece of paper. Once we clear New Frisco's airspace it has no meaning. You need to look at the bigger picture, Scud." Even as I say it, I know I'm being cruel: Scud is not capable of seeing the bigger picture.

Scud starts to shift about, uneasily. Now he needs to concentrate on counting details to regain his equilibrium.

But I'm wrong—he's actually building up the courage to correct me off.

"No Nina, you pay me to do detail. If you could do detail you wouldn't need me. I'm good at detail." He is so right. "We make a good team."

Now I wish I could take back my earlier remarks. "We're a great team, Scud."

He thinks about it for a while. "Yeah, right. Apology accepted." He lapses into silence and settles down to wait while I cut through the netting surrounding the dock where the Shonti Bloom is moored.

Fernando and Izzy return from scouting the perimeter fence.

"Two guards round the north side," Fernando reports.

Izzy sneaks in beside him. "And another two on the south."

So counting the two in front of us, at least six police constables are guarding my little airship. A bit excessive, but of course, this is a trap.

I bet McGraw has a few constables hiding in the shadows too and maybe a couple on the Shonti Bloom herself. That's what I would do.

Fernando pushes in beside me. "We need a distraction."

I hold up the shielded lantern I'm carrying and lift one of the shutters just enough to let out a peek of flame. "I'm way ahead of you buddy, way ahead."

"No!" Izzy and Scud looked horrified. Fernando grins—he's quicker off the mark. There is one thing everyone in the city fears: fire.

On a wooden structure fire can engulf everything in an instant, so any reaction to fire is fast and decisive. There are public fire extinguishers everywhere in New Frisco and the penalty is severe for not using the closest one to you in an emergency. It is rumored that some cities even make such miscreants walk the plank.

When I was very little, I once saw a fire get out of control on a residential deck, crackling and roaring as the wind fanned it toward the main city. The Mayor callously ordered the entire deck cut loose. When the whole structure plunged to earth like a blazing fireball, you could hear the screams of those still trapped in their homes—sacrificed for the good of the city. That Mayor was my Mother.

"Not for real," I assure my jittery crew, "it just needs to look real."

We haul our flight bags and supplies through the fence. Then I instruct my crew to get ready to run, because the distraction won't last long. "Anything you can't carry, leave behind." I slip off to plant my decoy.

I find a hut with a window facing the dock. Close enough to the Shonti Bloom for the constables to think it their duty to deal with the fire, but far enough away to give us enough time to free the airship. I remove the closest fire extinguishers from around the hunt, then force the lock open, and set my lamp inside just below the window, unshielded. Half—way back to the dock, no one has spotted the flame flickering in the hut window. So I give them a helping hand. "Fire. Help! Help! Fire."

Police constables sure are disciplined—a credit to their guild. They react instantly, streaming out the gate towards my decoy fire, but remembering to leave one of their number still on guard. As I suspected, two constables charge out of the Shonti Bloom and a couple of others emerge from the shadows. McGraw isn't stupid. To be fair, he is both handsome and intelligent, but today he is my adversary.

I slip through the cut netting, pick up my shoulder bag and a kit of supplies that weight a ton, and stagger towards the Shonti Bloom. I hope my crew are already boarding. Behind me I can hear a confusion of shouting as the constables search for extinguishers. We have a few more minutes. I love it when a plan comes together.

Suddenly, a shape leaps up before me from the gloom. It's McGraw.

"Think I'm stupid, do you, Swift? I knew you'd try and steal that wreck—it's a death trap."

I don't stop to argue, or think, I just swing the bag of supplies as hard as I can. I feel it connect with a satisfying thud and McGraw's silhouette disappears. As determined as I am to retake my airship, I hope I haven't hurt him too much—he's just doing his duty.

I can just make out shadows milling around the airship—my crew unfastening the mooring ropes—but only because I expect to see them there. I run up the gang—plank and dump my bags on the deck, elation fills my gut, and I punched the air. "Yes." The Shonti Bloom is mine again.

I grab the ship's wheel as my crew slips quietly onboard and retracts the gang plank.

"We'll just let her float out on the breeze," I instruct. My first order as captain of my own airship—it feels good.

"Scud, get us some power. Fernando, find me some clouds we can use to cover a course change," I order.

Scud heads for the engine room disappearing down a ladder into the hull and Fernando slips into the glass fronted map room immediately behind the ship's wheel, leaving Izzy and I alone on the open deck.

"We done it Nina, we got our own airship." Izzy looks almost as pleased as I feel. We grin at each other like naughty school children.

I feel a formal word or two might be appropriate. "If my mother were here—"

Crash.

The ship slews to starboard and smashes against the end of the dock, knocking me to the floor. A mooring line is snared. Then the back end of the ship crashes against the other side of the dock.

Oops.
Chapter 4

"Izzy, hold the wheel straight." I scramble up, and without really thinking, climb over the handrail and leap across the void to the dock. I draw my knife. Curiously, the snared line looks as if someone has knotted it to a rail. Uh-oh.

A weight hits me square in the middle of the back and I sprawl on the deck. "Didn't think you would get away that easily, did you, Swift?" Jack McGraw again. Where did he spring from? "You will have to work harder than that to escape me. Over this way guys."

The other constables are returning; I have precious little time. I squirm from underneath the weight of the McGraw's body and lash out with my booted feet. One of them connects with something that crunches.

"Ow. Oww. She'ds dying to dill me."

I can dimly see something dark spreading over his face. That should convince everyone I mean business.

I loop the snared line round my left forearm and slice down with the knife. The line parts far too easily and I'm jerked off my feet. Note to self, replace rotten ropes. I scrabble to regain my footing, but the airship is gaining too much speed and I'm dragged across the decking, still scrabbling to regain my balance.

Jack McGraw is up and chasing after me again. "Let go of the rope, Nina, it's not worth dying for."

I ignore him and concentrate on getting back on the ship. My ship. Which I'm not losing for anyone. Strange how we always fight harder to retain something than to gain it in the first place. Two days ago I was a penniless, but content, flight student, now I'm risking my life to regain an airship, which until today I have quite happily live without.

The edge of the deck rushes towards me and I realize I'm going over. The sensible thing would be to let go right now, but I'm caught up in emotions I cannot control. Instead, I drop the knife and grab hold of the old rope with both hands, praying it still has enough integrity to support me.

Jack McGraw follows me, bellowing, right to the edge of the deck. "Nina!"

Somewhere above my head the bio engines cough into life, followed by a flash and the grinding screech of metal on metal. Good idea to start the engines now that the element of surprise has gone, but that noise is worrying.

I start to climb. It's much harder to climb a swaying rope than it sounds, but I have done it before. In flight academy it is a standard maintenance drill. However, when the rope is hanging off a moving object and you're miles above the earth, it is nothing like a drill.

I can't let myself think like that now. I need to put myself back into the gym, back into that drill, focus on instructor Beneley's voice as the other recruits rock the equipment. "Climb slow, climb steady. Concentrate on your hand grips and your feet. Your crew mate's lives depend on you. Leave no room for error. Make one move at a time. Think only of your hands and your feet until you run out of rope. Slow and steady saves the day."

Suddenly, I become aware of a different movement in the rope. Shards, it's fraying; somewhere above me the rope is splitting. Either it's worn through or it snagged on something sharp while exiting the dock.

During my next couple of moves, I concentrate on the weakness of the rope. It's not much, but it's there. I need to climb faster, but smoother and steadier—the more I wrench the rope about, the quicker it will tear.

A searchlight flashes out from the dock lighting up the Shonti Bloom. "Return to dock, you are flying an illegal craft. The ship is not airworthy. You are endangering yourself and your crew. Return to dock." As if I'll fall for that one. I just hope my new crew doesn't take it into their heads to turn back. Nah, they wouldn't do that. They trust me, don't they?

In the glint of the search light I spot the frayed rope above me, about six feet up. Even as I climb, I can see individual fibers parting. "Slow and steady saves the day." I take a deep breath and push on, concentrating on the rope in my hands.

Eventually, my hands clasp the rope directly below the tear. I pause, feeling the fibers parting faster and faster. If I don't move now I'm dead. I bring my legs up as high as I can, then reach as far up the rope as I possible for the next hand hold.

With a crack, like a pistol shot, the rope parts under my weight and the vigor of my lunge.

A nano-second late, my hands close round the rope above my head. The rope starts to slip through my grip and I kick widely until my boots close round the cord again. I stop sliding. I'm safe—if you can call dandling on the end of a rope a mile above the earth safe. Thank goodness I ditched my worn, shiny boots and bought new ones that grip the rope with a lot more friction.

Never stint on the quality of basic equipment—you never know when it might just save your life.

The person with the searchlight has belatedly realized there's action dangling below the Shonti Bloom and lights me up so my crew can realize where I am.

Fernando hangs over the side of the hull and snags the trailing mooring rope with another line. "Nina, climb up the rope."

What does he think I've been going for the last five minutes? I'm exhausted and my arm muscles are screaming for me to just let go and give them some rest. I wonder what the long dark fall into oblivion would feel like.

Instead, I make a loop in the rope and stand in it, unmoving, until my crew haul me to safety. As eager hands reach out to haul me over the rail, I'm greeted by an explosion from the back of the ship.

"That," Izzy says, "is the sound of the port bio-engine exploding. The solar batteries are empty too. Is this what you call air-worthy, Nina?"'

"Yeah," Scud agrees, "this ship is a mess. But I kind of like her."

I'm so relieved to be alive I just lie on the deck, staring up at the dark mass of the blimp and laughing at them. "Then we'll limp along on one engine until dawn, guys." I really can't see what the fuss is about. "Head west. I'm sure Jack McGraw won't be after us that fast."
Chapter 5

In late spring, my Father, the Mayor of New Frisco, called me into his office. A strict and curt man, I suspect I will always fail to meet his high expectations of me, but really I no longer care.

"Constable McGraw, I have a special mission for you this summer, make sure you don't let me down." He is incapable of awarding an honor or offering a compliment without digging in the knife. "You are to keep a special eye on that young troublemaker Nina Swift. Far too much interest is being shown in her activities by nefarious interests."

I wonder which of her activities had drawn the ire of his associates, to my Father all interests but his own are nefarious. He did not deign to enlighten me. After all, I am no one special, just his son.

"Lieutenant Borker has volunteered for the assignment," my father continues. Lieutenant Borker is an obnoxious git, who I hate. "I cannot refuse him, but I do not trust him either, so I am putting you in charge of the operation. She is a citizen of New Frisco with an honorable family history, do whatever it takes to protect her honor."

I doubt he would approve of the way I have protected her honor so far.

Now, after the affair at the docks I am back again. "You let her go!" Father bellows across the chamber. I have never seen him so angry.

We are standing in the Mayor's library, an audience chamber whose walls are lined, from floor to ceiling, with shelves of ancient leather bound books.

Father paces back and forth in front of a large picture window which looks out over the administrative district of New Frisco with its garden squares and impressive stone clad buildings. I am separated from him by a large mahogany desk. He has not invited Lieutenant Borker or I to sit.

I clear my throat to report. "She escaped. She was very determined." I could have added that she punched me, but he won't be impressed. Borker stands behind me to my left, silently letting me take all the heat. I know the buck stops with me, the guy in charge, but he could at least provide a word of support instead of letting me stew. One of the joys of leadership I suppose.

"If you give me a crew I can go after her," I add, which is the real purpose of my visit.

Father stops pacing and turns his eagle glare on me. "Where would you look for her?"

I know exactly where she will go, but I'm not telling Father or Borker how I know. "Her Uncle has a trading station South West of here, she will go there."

"Hmm." Father turns back to the window as a fluky in a pretentious top hat hurries past on some private mission. Father strokes his chin, slowly, as he thinks. I stand rigidly at attention, waiting. I have absolutely no idea what goes on inside that muddy mind of his.

Finally, Father makes his decision. "You must take an airship and go after her."

"Thank you, Father."

Borker steps forward. "May I suggest, Sir—"

"No you may not, Borker. Jack is in charge because I want her back alive, understand? No accidents."

"—an arrest warrant, for the young gentleman. In case he needs to claim jurisdiction in some foreign sovereign state."

"Oh, er, yes. Good idea Borker. I will draw them up presently."

I smile inwardly—it's not often anyone wrong—foots Father, but Borker obviously has the knack. One of his many talents. I shudder at the rumors of his other talents.

"And a Letter of Mark, sir. In case the young gentleman needs additional help," Borker continues without changing his tone, though this second request is much greater than the first.

I hold my breath. I would never dare ask for something so audacious from Father.

A Letter of Mark would officially give me the authority to acquire anything on behalf of the City State of New Frisco: provisions, ships, people, weapons; it's a bold move. Is Borker up to something?

Father's brows snap together in a frown that I know from past experience means he's furious again. "We are not pirates, Borker." He turns his back on us, clasping his hand in the small of his back, dismissing us.

I salute, preparing to depart, but Borker remains stiffly at attention. "Of course not, sir." He has some brass, I'll give him that. "But the gentleman is very young and any constable he asks for help, whether our own or foreign, will most certainly out rank him, acquiring immediate control of the operation. A Letter of Mark will ensure his command, in any situation, without ambiguity. Unless, of course, you are prepared to trust this girl's safety to any old stranger, sir."

Since when has Borker cared about Nina's safety? He is, without a doubt, the slyest person I have ever met.

Wrong-footed again, Father turns back to us. He looks at me, looks at Borker, and sinks slowly into a chair behind his desk. He steeples his hands in front of him, sinks his forehead until it rests on his fingers, and appears to meditate. He's not praying, he's thinking, long and deep, like a chess player—a game at which he excels. We wait.

Through the window I see the top hat hurry by in the opposite direction, mission completed.

Father stays like this, silent and unmoving, for a full minute. Contrary to his appearance, he is now at his most dangerous. Even Borker holds his peace. Eventually, father breaks the silence. "Do you know something I don't, Borker?"

"What could I possibly know that you don't, sir?"

Father's head snaps up, his eagle eyes bore into Borker's. "I asked you a direct question, Lieutenant. I expect a direct answer."

I'm sure Borker pales slightly, but he stays steely calm. "Nothing more than you already know, sir. I just think we should prepare in case direct action is required."

Obviously, they have discussed Nina without me and shared additional information.

In reality then, I am only in charge up to the point where they have agreed Borker should take over or in circumstances they think I cannot handle. I wonder how much I will be able to prove my worth before I am reined back. More importantly, is the Letter of Mark for me or Borker.

What do they know about Nina Swift that I don't? On the other hand, I have plenty of knowledge about her they don't, so I suppose we're even.
Chapter 6

"You could have told me where we were going," Izzy grumbles.

I could have and I should have, but everything was too frantic last night. And since then I've been too busy, I lie to myself. Besides, where did she think we were going to pick up supplies? If I'd told her before we left she might not have crewed for me at all.

I peer through a telescope at the trading platform on the horizon, which we are fast approaching. Unlike New Frisco, the fragile wooden structure of decks and suspended boardwalks rely entirely on hydrogen balloons to maintain altitude. A large warehouse dominates the single deck, the "Shop," surrounded by a mass of docks for visiting airships.

"I'm not sure there's anyone home," Izzy says, "looks deserted."

The Shonti Bloom limped along all night on one spluttering bio-engine, then at dawn we dived into a bank of cumulus cloud. No sign of pursuit, but I know Jack McGraw won't give up that easy—he has a Father to impress. Inside the cloud cover we changed direction and headed west––a course that took us out over the open sea and ended at Uncle Felix's trading station.

Just like me, mother would have stopped for supplies as she headed off on her last trip. If anyone knew where she was headed, it's Uncle Felix.

As the first rays of dawn strike the photo-voltaic fabric of the blimp, the battery cells swell with energy and Scud activates the tail. I sigh with relief as the Shonti Bloom picks up speed—at least there's nothing wrong with her main propulsion.

Electronic synapses, built into the rear third of the blimp's semi-rigid skeleton, snap up and down with alternating electric currents. This causes the large tail flukes to churn the air powering us forward with great sweeps: maximum thrust, minimum energy.

I cut the sick bio-engine. With more momentum, I can now engage the forward fins to improve the steering.

Free at last of the clanking engine and sluggish rudder, the Shonti Bloom soars through the air like a porpoise skimming the clouds. My heart soars too—this is what flying is all about: the rush of adrenalin as you ride the breeze, the sheer joy of surfing the eddies, and the flow of the currents. Everyone thinks I joined the Pilot's Guild to follow in my Mother's footsteps, but the real reason is the joy I'm now experiencing. One trip in my Mother's airship, as a young girl, and I was smitten. I just love the sensation of flying—it's all I've ever wanted to do.

Fernando tries to snatch the telescope from Izzy. She ducks out of reach of his grasping hands. "Mine. I got here first."

When I visited the trading station as a kid, before mother left, I remember it constantly bustling with activity—a stream of noise and color; traders, post packets, and leisure yachts docking, and departing all the time. I know Reavers have killed off much of the leisure traffic since then and our skies are generally quieter (most traders travel in convoys as protection against Reaver raiding parties), but surely things can't have changed that much.

This inactivity worries me. Something is definitely wrong. I train my telescope on the floating rig. A stab of fear chills my heart, a ragged black flag flutters from one of the supporting cables: Plague.

"We're still going in," I say, determined to find out what I can from Uncle Felix about my mother's last trip—even if he is at death's door. How dangerous can it be?

"Not until we've voted," Fernando declares, "No Captain can make a decision like that, Nina. Not without the crew's consent. Guild rules, remember."

I was hoping no one would remember, but he's right.

Scud searches me out from his seat in front of the wheel. "Guild rules must be obeyed, Nina. We don't even know whether your uncle is alive."

I have lost the argument before I've even begun, so I might as well be gracious. I don't want a mutiny on my very first day as captain.

Fernando is right—Guild rules clearly state all ships must avoid a plague flag, unless three quarters of the crew agree to take the risk, by vote. It is one of the few occasions when the Captain loses their authority. Then that ship must fly a plague flag themselves until quarantined and given a clean bill of health.

Fernando puts the motion before I can even phrase it in my own mind.

"Raise your hand if you are prepared to take the risk of plague," he declares.

What really annoys me is that last time I checked I was the Captain. Who commands this crew? I guess I have some competition,

Fernando lifts his eyebrows in surprise when Izzy reluctantly raises her hand along with me and Scud. He was counting on Izzy supporting his rebellion, but I know better—I know her secret. She might have been reluctant to come this way, but now I've forced her here, there is no way she's going to leave without knowing what is happening on that trading platform.

Fernando has misjudged and I take full advantage of his confusion to reassert my command. "That's a clear majority then. Do you want us to drop you off somewhere first, Fernando, or are you coming in with us?"

"If you are going, I might as well come with you," he mumbles.

I release my breath and hear Izzy doing the same from across the deck. "Great, well you steer us in, Fernando, and I'll go record the vote." I escape to my cabin.

Sitting on the bunk holding my shaking hands, I am unable to write in the open ship's journal. In flight school they teach that authority is something you either have naturally, as part of your personality, or something you acquire through experience in a process called character building. I take deep breaths in an attempt to still my shaking hands; I guess this is the character building part.

After a while, I force myself to concentrate on writing neatly in the log, then sit back to admire my work—a bit shaky, but not bad. I take a few more deep breaths before returning to the deck to supervise the Shonti Bloom as she bumps her way into one of the silent docks. My crew, business-like once more, though at least one is storing up a grudge for later, leap to the deck and secure the mooring ropes.

The platform is deserted, except for the creaking of boards and the crackling of the shredded plague flag in the wind—it must have been there a while. I wonder if we are too late and everyone has either left or died.

I heft my trusty Whisper just in case.

Fernando's eye's almost pop out of his head when I produce the weapon from my cabin. He glances down at the bog-standard crossbow he's drawn from the armory. "Hell's teeth, Nina, that's a top-of-the-range assassin's weapon. Where'd you get that?"

The others, of course already know about the Whipser. Izzy even has the grace to still look a bit guilty when she sees it, and so she should. "It was given to me—but that's another story."

The Whisper, self-loading crossbow, is my absolutely favorite weapon. You can tell when something is well made simply because it feels good to use. It's an awesome piece of engineering: light, accurate, powerful enough to drive a bolt straight through a man, and the compression air canister reloads the tension wire with barely a sigh, then slips in a new bolt from the magazine with a satisfying, but barely audible, click.

I have two tiny pistol versions to complete the set, but those bolts are so small they have to be tipped with knockout drugs to have any real effect; their range is short and the air canisters always need topping up. On a mission like this, which could turn out to be a Reaver trap, maximum fire power is required.

Nothing stirs except us. The silence is oppressive. None of us talk as we thread our way towards the shop, through piles of parts, seemingly scatted at random. A neat mound of rope reminds me of my precarious ride the previous night. At the very least, I need to replace the mooring ropes while I'm here. Some green tarp snapping in the breeze draws my attention to a couple of Evinrude bio-engines peeking out from under the canvas. I make a mental note to ask Uncle Felix if I can swap them for the sick engines on the Shonti Bloom. He'll say no, but he might offer me some spare parts instead.

When in need, always ask—you never know where such conversations will go unless you try.

At first, when we enter the cavernous warehouse, I think the place has been looted. Stock, which I remember from childhood being stacked to the ceiling in neat piles, is scattered everywhere. We pick our way to the main desk, the heart of Uncle Felix's operation, careful to keep every corner covered by our crossbows.

Here papers invoices cover the floor; business ledgers are strewn across the long counter-top, many of them open; my Uncle's prized books have been raked out of their bookshelves into a heap on the floor; every tin, box, and draw from the ceiling high cupboard behind the counter, that had always so impressed me as a child, has been opened––now the stack gapes like a jaw full of missing teeth.

Not looting—something else has happened here: the place has been turned over. Someone has searched thoroughly for something, but not Uncle Felix who could instantly locate anything in this labyrinth. Then I spot something even more alarming.

Among the scattered stock and papers on the floor, a trail of blood leads deeper into the gloom of the shop. My heart starts thumping hard in my chest. I fear the worst as I follow the trail.

At the foot of a narrow staircase, hemmed in by his precious bookshelves, I find Uncle Felix. Dead.

The smell is dreadful.

Like dummies, we stand and stare at the corpse not knowing what to do. I remember the man I once knew, rough but fair, gruff but reassuring. I feel a pang of loss, but is it for Uncle Felix or for the happy childhood I once shared with my Mother in which this man was featured. After my mother's death, I hardly ever saw the guy. I look across at Izzy. She is stony faced—at least I had known the guy at little.

Scud is hiding behind Fernando, death makes him anxious. I've seen my fair share of corpses, who hasn't, and it still make me feel anxious, but when Scud is anxious he wants to hide from the whole world.

I wave him forward. "Do you think he died of plague?" Scud pulls a face then crouches down to examine the corpse and places his weapon on the floor. He is only looking because I asked him. I am certain Scud would never do something like this for anyone else. I can see his lips moving as he silently counts square numbers in his head, to divert himself from thinking directly about the dead person in front of him.

Scud carefully examines Uncle Felix's head, ears, and neck, then the rest of his body. Finally he stands and turns his back on the corpse and takes a deep breath. "He was stabbed in the abdomen."

I remember the frequent fights at the trading station, for which, much to my annoyance, my Mother would bustle me into a back room out of sight. Felix loved a good scrap and often, after he dived in to break it up, he would be the only one left standing. "No one with a knife could have gotten within an arms—length of him."

"Must have been someone he knew well then," Fernando says looking very pale, and I realize I have spoken my thought out loud. I'm concerned Fernando might heave, but he does have a point.

Scud is poking round in the wreck of the shop. "He wouldn't die straight away from a wound like that. He would slowly bleed to death. That's why there's so much blood."

I glance across at Izzy. She is still staring at the corpse, unmoved.

I take Scud to one side. "Please don't make this any worse than it is, I think Izzy is in shock."

"I know, but look, I'm right." He strides across the floor, stepping across fallen objects. "He was stabbed right over here."

I kick myself for trying to quieten Scud by appealing to his emotions: Scud doesn't do empathy.

He waves at a table still containing two mugs, too engrossed now in his theory to listen to me or anyone else. "Then he crawled to the main desk, where he must have spent some time, because there's loads of dried blood here, and pulled the knife out, because that's still here too. Finally, he crawled to the foot of the stairs where his strength gave out and he died."

"So why is there blood up these stairs then," Fernando asks, happy as always to prove Scud wrong, which is a rare event. He is right; there is blood on several higher steps. Uncle Felix must have climbed the stairs. "Look at the way he's laying. He must have fallen down the steps."

I am grateful to concentrate on something other than the corpse. Before anyone else can move, I cross to the steps and climb up. I push my Whisper through the opening first.

Something flaps by my head and I quickly duck. Bats? I hate bats. Just the thought they might get tangled in my hair is enough to send cold shivers cascading down my spine. I wait for my eyes to adjust to the gloom of the loft, then chance another look.

This time nothing attacks me. Layer upon layer of small cages filled the small loft. Pigeons. Each cage contains a single bird, neatly labelled with its destination. I recognize the names as mail hubs. Only one cage is empty: Westward Passage.

I descend the stairs to inform the others of my discovery. "Looks like Felix got off a last message to Westward Passage."

Izzy looks up from the corpse at last. "Who to?"

"Who would you write a last message to?"
Chapter 7

"I'd name my killer," Scud declares emphatically, ""I bet that's what he did. Westward Passage is pretty close. If we get there quick we might intercept the message and find out who did this." He starts towards the door as if discovering the identity of Uncle Felix's attacker is the most important thing in the world—which to Scud it probably is, even though he never knew Uncle Felix.

I need to remind him that others have emotions, a fact that often escapes him. "It's a good idea, Scud, but we've got to give Uncle Felix a good send-off first. Let's find some wood to make a funeral pyre."

Fernando nods towards the door. "Come on Izzy." But when she doesn't move he finally realizes something else is going on. He licks his lips nervously. "Did you know him?"

Izzy continues staring at the corpse. "No. I didn't know him. In fact, I never met him." Tears fill her eyes. "He was my Father."

I drag Scud outside before he digs up some more brilliantly hurtful facts and leave Fernando standing helplessly next to Izzy. Let his macho bravado find its way around that.

We find a dilapidated outhouse and start kicking it to pieces for the wood.

Scud is concentrating hard on something in his mind. "How can that be Izzy's Father if she's never met him?"

I kick aggressively at another board. "Just leave it, Scud. I feel guilty enough not telling Izzy where we were headed, now the first time she meets her Father he's dead."

"You didn't know he was dead."

"Of course not, but every time she thinks of her Father now she'll also remember how I dragged her here."

I'm so furious with myself, I almost don't catch the movement in my periphery vision. Is my mind playing tricks or did I just see someone? Perhaps the killer is still here, in which case, we're all in danger.

I kick in some more planks while watching out the corner of my eye. Yep, there is definitely someone watching us. I can just make out an angular face well hidden in the shadows.

Scud scowls at me as I start to kick my way round to the far side of the outhouse, away from the watcher. He stays where he is and continues the conversation. "So her Dad must have been her Step-dad then." He smashes another plank. "So was Felix your Aunt Jean's brother?"

My Auntie Jean is Izzy's Mother. Scud, so knowledgeable about many things, has little understanding of families other than his own. Normally I would not pursue this sort of conversation with Scud, but it's a useful cover.

I kick in a few more planks and the outhouse starts to waver. "No, he was my Mother's brother. He married Jean, who became Izzy's Mother, then decided he didn't want either of them. Not the settling type I suppose." Now I'm round the back of the outhouse and out of sight of the watcher. I duck behind a pile of rope and work my way round in a circle until I'm directly behind where I saw the movement.

In front of me, crouching warily behind a crate, is a thin, slick haired youth, in tattered clothes. He's watching Scud demolish the outhouse.

"Weird family you got, Nina," Scud shouts, believing I'm still behind the outhouse rather than watching a spy watching Scud's own back.

Just as I'm wondering how to tackle this stranger, he suddenly stands up in full view. "Hello?" he calls, "Is anyone there?"

This isn't the action of a killer.

"Yes."

The watcher spins round at the sound of my voice behind him, but he doesn't seem surprised to see me. Did he know I was here?

"Oh thank goodness you've come to rescue me. Something terrible has happened. We were attacked."

"Who by? Reavers?"

"Not Reavers. I don't know who they were. At first I thought they were traders, Felix seemed to know them. Then there was an argument and a fight and they killed him." He looks grief stricken. "Felix was so good to me, took me in like a son, he did."

If this youth witnessed the killing, maybe he can identify the killers.

I decide to pump him for information. "What were they arguing about?."

"I don't know," the youth sniffs.

"How many were they? What did they look like?"

The youth looks at his feet. "I never had nothing to do with his business dealings. I always kept out of the way when we had visitors."

Scud has joined us by now. "Did you actually see anything?"

The youth waves his hands helplessly. "Not as such, but I know what I heard."

"Just not well enough to hear what they actually said," Scud accuses.

The youth looks at his feet again. "No. But if I had I'd tell you everything."

"He doesn't know who the killer is, Nina." Scud wanders off to finish demolishing the outhouse, leaving me with the stranger.

This callow youth might not have seen who killed Uncle Felix, but he knows a lot more than we do. "I'm Nina, Nina Swift. Felix was my Uncle." I hold out my hand.

The youth takes it, hesitatingly, like he finds it hard to trust people. "Everyone calls me Trent. He was a wonderful man—your Uncle."

"And the demolitions squad over there." I nod towards Scud, still kicking methodically at the outhouse. "Is Scud."

I decide to approach things from another direction. "Did the killers find what they were looking for?"

Trent looks puzzled. "Looking for?"

"The place has been ransacked. They were clearly looking for something specific."

Another shrug. "I just thought they were looking for money."

A fair enough assumption I suppose. Unless Trent ransacked the place after the killers departed—he's weasely enough that I can imagine him doing that.

Fernando and Izzy emerge from the gloom of the shop as the outhouse yields to Scud's sustained kicks and crashes into a heap of splinters and dust.

"Who's this?" Fernando demands.

"This is Trent, Uncle Felix's assistant."

Izzy glares at Trent. "Did you see who did this?"

I realize she's looking for someone to blame—it's something Izzy does when she's upset. It's not one of her prettier qualities, so I step between them. "I've been through all this, Izzy, he didn't see or hear anything. He hid."

"Hid?" She tries to push past me, fury on her face, but we're in a narrow alley between stacked stores so I can hold her off. "Hid until my Father bled to death, did you?"

I've never heard her refer to Felix as her Father before.

Behind me, Trent is backing away from Izzy's outburst. I would too if I had the chance.

"It was all over very fast," Trent mumbles.

"Not so fast he didn't wait for them to ransack the place and leave before dragging himself to the pigeon loft to send a message before bleeding to death, you little snot."

I shove Izzy away from me as she tries to push past me and get at Trent—she's clearly decided he is to blame for Felix's death, even if he didn't actually do it himself. "He hasn't done anything, Izzy. It's not his fault."

She doesn't give up easily. "You didn't even give him a descent funeral."

I can hear Trent, behind me, shuffling his feet. "I....I'm sorry.... I thought he'd sent a message to the constables and I didn't want to destroy any evidence."

"Why didn't you send for help?"

"I... um... I can't read nor write."

Izzy's resistance suddenly evaporates and I gently push her away from me. "Fernando, take Izzy somewhere quiet while we make a funeral pyre."

She glares at me then allows Fernando to guide her gently away. At the warehouse door she shakes off his protecting arm and turns back to me. "Well he's not coming with us."
Chapter 8

The Western Post Hub. An entirely free floating, wood construction of six levels; a garrison, in addition to a postal distribution center, for whichever city state is on convoy duty that month; a whole town has grown up, down, and around the postal operation, to serve the needs of visiting crews; a seedy, cosmopolitan, but law abiding warren.

A shoal of shark—tailed post—packets flit in and out like fish round a coral reef, distributing mail to the city states.

Despite the bustle, our momentum grinds to a halt as we queue for a birth to dock the Shonti Bloom. I fret and pace at the delay, eager to solve the mystery of Felix's death so I can return to my quest.

Eventually, we are shepherded into a dock on the lowest level, by a stubby tug with engines protruding at all angles. This means a long calf—aching climb up rickety steps to the sorting office at the very top of the stack.

Trent insists on bringing a parcel and some letters with him. "Your uncle would have wanted me to post then." So devoted to Felix, even in death, it makes my heart melt.

Crammed in the lower levels are the hangers on—those who scrape a living from the crews, the garrison, and occasional visitors like us. Higher up live the postal workers, who sort and distribute the mail, and the garrison who protect the post—drawn in rotation from each of the city states that rely on this post hub.

Trent bounds up the steps like a man on a mission. "Got to hurry, some of the post-packets look ready to sail."

Wearily, I start the long climb at a slow pace, thinking of Uncle Felix.

Before leaving, Trent and I built a funeral pyre while Scud, Fernando, and Izzy replaced the Shonti Bloom's bio-engines with the new ones I had spied on our arrival. I had no qualms about taking the engines: everything probably belonged now to either Izzy or I anyway, and if not, the new owner would never know.

We restocked the Shonti Bloom with everything we needed for a long journey. I took as many coils of new rope as I thought we could carry, though I couldn't spare any time, just yet, to replace old ropes: we had a message to chase.

We wrapped Felix's body in a blanket, heaved him on top of the funeral pyre, soaked everything in bio—fuel and attached a hydrogen balloon to the little platform. Then we all gathered round the pyre not knowing what to say.

As captain, it was my duty to lead the funeral service. Maybe I'd missed that module at flight school, maybe it was still ahead of me, or maybe it's just something you learn on the job, like now. I'd never done anything like this before and would rather have ducked out, but there was no avoiding it. What do you say about someone you hardly know to speed them on their way to heaven or hell?

In the end I just spoke to Uncle Felix. To his boots, actually, which was the only part of him I could see on top of the pyre. How much easier to speak to someone when they're not actually present. "Um, sorry, uncle that I didn't know you better. From what I do remember, you seemed an ok guy, a bit rough round the edges, but ok. We... um, well, all of us hope you end up where you want to go in death and that you like it there." Even as I spoke, it sounded embarrassingly lame. Really cringe-worthy.

Trent said what a wonderful employer Felix had been—like a Father to him. And Izzy said what a rubbish father he had been, but she would miss not getting to know him someday. I felt tears prick at the corners of my eyes at her missed opportunity. Or did I weep for my own?

Sometimes, when mourning another's loss, we actually mourning our own loss—it sounds selfish, but it's an unconscious thing, difficult to tell apart. Even doing something practical can be a response to our own guilt.

We lit the fuse on the funeral pyre, watched it splutter to life, and launched the whole lot into the prevailing wind. It drifted slowly away. Nothing visible happened for a while, then suddenly it burned brightly. The funeral pyre rose rapidly as the heart of burning wood heated the hydrogen in the balloon.

I bet Scud the ropes would burn through first. I was wrong. With a flash and a faint "pop," the balloon disappeared and the whole contraption plunged, like a flaming meteor, into the grey cloud below. We watched in respectful silence until the angry glow disappeared.

Looters would probably strip the place in no time, like vultures homing in on a fresh kill. Before we left, I thought I spied an airship in the distance, but even as I thought I saw something, clouds swept in obscuring my view, it was probably nothing. In an attempt to protect the stock we left the plague flag flying. The platform looked cold and deserted even before we departed.
Chapter 9

I see the burning funeral balloon before I spy our quarry.

From the safety of cloud cover, I watch the Shonti Bloom pulling away from the trading platform.

"Now, grab her," Borker snarls. He's been pacing the cabin like a tomcat on heat.

"Too far away." I decide. "She'll see us coming and run. Better to visit the trading station and find out where she's headed."

"Pah. Coward."

The man is insufferable. I can feel the crew, ill-at-ease and pretending not to stare at us. They are all wondering who's really in command and what I'll do next.

"To get a conviction," I explain patiently, for the benefit of the crew rather than Borker, who will ignore anything I say anyway, "and prove the Shonti Bloom is not airworthy, we need to take it intact. If we engage her in mid-flight we risk losing our evidence and damaging ourselves. It's not like she's a hardened criminal or anything." I can see the crew agree with this reasoning, Borker can see it too so he limits himself to a sneer at my expense.

I wave vaguely towards the trading station. "Take us in."

"Captain," the lookout cries from the bow, "black flag, Sir." At least they are still addressing me by my rank.

"It's a ruse," Borker growls, "Swift's trying to put us off her trail. She's sneaky like that."

She might well be sneaky, but a black flag cannot just be ignored like it doesn't exist. Besides, there is no way I'm doing quarantine with Borker. On the other hand, I'm desperate to know who died. Could it be Nina or one of her crew?

A world without Nina Swift will be dull and grey. For all her annoyances, she brings brightness and color to life. She certainly makes the work of a New Frisco constable interesting. If pushed far enough, I would have to say I will miss her, not something I will ever admit to Borker, of course.

Then I hit upon an ideal way to rid myself of Borker for a while. "We will dust off, with one crew member on deck, so if there is plague, we're not totally out of the game." I smile to myself. "Borker, you are the most experienced so you will go explore." He might be happy to disobey my orders, but he doesn't want to look cowardly in front of the crew, especially as he's just declared it all a ruse.

He glares at me. "Aye, aye, Captain," he growls. I wonder if the crew realizes he's being insolent. Probably.

We drop Borker down a rope and back off upwind. A tense ten minutes follows until the giant form of Borker reappears signaling us in. Damn—the place is clear; I'm stuck with him.

Borker waves me over as soon as I land on the platform, he's grinning like a demented Reaver. I know him well enough now to realize that means trouble for someone; Borker loves nothing more than catching someone out. "I told you she's no good. Just you wait 'til you see what she's done here." My heart sinks; I don't think I've ever seen Borker happier.

Blood. Everywhere. A pool of blackened fluid behind the counter of the trading post, the shape of a large body clearly outlined in dried blood. With relief, I notice the body shape is too large to be Nina or one of her compatriots. Someone has died here and Borker is salivating as he announces his verdict. "She's only gone and murdered her own Uncle."

"That is yet to be established," I snap, though I fear he is correct.

We investigate the scene. "The victim was first stabbed over here by this table," Borker declares, keen to get his own version of events fixed in everyone's mind, "probably stabbed in the back."

He's jumping to conclusions. "There's no evidence for that."

"Look at the size of the victim's body, how else is she going to get to him?"

"You're assuming it was Swift herself."

"A working hypothesis, McGraw." But it's clearly the only hypothesis Borker is willing to consider. "He drags himself across to the counter. She follows and stabs him again, hence the additional blood, but the wounds are still not fatal. He staggers on."

I follow Borker to the counter, he's enjoying this grisly business. "He falls against the steps to the pigeon loft and then falls to the ground here, where she finishes him off."

This doesn't make sense to me. "Why? What's the motive?"

Borker sweeps his arm round the room. "The place has been ransacked. Obviously, she came here looking for something, probably money. But her Uncle wasn't willing to part with it, so she took it by force."

This doesn't sound like the Nina Swift I'm familiar with. "She may be a tricky customer, but I can't imagine Nina as a killer."

"You'd be surprised what the mildest of people will do if they are pushed hard enough."

Borker is right about that. I've seen normally stable people turn into screaming banshees when threatened or pushed too far. If not Nina then who? Izzy Swift kills her own estranged Father—a crime of passion? Scud loses control and lashes out? Possible I suppose, but three times?

"This is cold blooded, premeditated murder," Borker announces, "and the person who did this is a dangerous psychopath."'

Much like yourself, I think. He's right, though, this is a serious business and it requires a serious response.

One of the crew shouts down from the pigeon loft. "A bird is missing—Westward Passage."

That could mean anything.

"Aha," Borker exclaims, "I bet he managed to send whatever they were looking for to Westward Passage."

I'm appalled the man can even make such a flimsy connection. "I'll grant you that the Shonti Bloom headed South West .But there's not a shred of evidence to support that theory."

"We have a murder, a victim, a motive, a guilty flight, and a suspect," Borker declares, "That's sufficient."

"All that is speculation, Lieutenant Borker. For all we know, Felix Swift might be safely on the Shonti Bloom heading to Westward Passage to report an accident."

"You believe that?" he snarls.

No, I don't, but neither do I believe Borker's version of events.

I look again at the large outline of a body in the dried blood, I'm pretty certain Felix Swift is dead. I'm also certain that Nina Swift paused to give him a decent burial, which is not the action of a cold-blooded psychopath. However, even if she is entirely innocent, Nina Swift still has a lot of questions to answer. Questions she needs to talk to us about.

The troops are waiting for orders. "Ok," I announce, "we pursue the Shonti Bloom to Westward Passage and detain the occupants for questioning. If she runs again, we issue an international arrest warrant."
Chapter 10

I gasp my way to the top deck of the post hub: a large plaza surrounded by wooden warehouses—everything required to run a post operation. Trent is long gone by the time I arrive. I make straight for the arrivals desk, which means the pigeon rooms.

The small front desk is deserted, but the shed behind heaves with flapping, strutting, cooing, birds. The place stinks. The smell gets up my nose, into my lungs, and percolates into my brain—yuck.

The way to deal with an overwhelming smell is to breathe deep, three or four times, to accustom yourself, then you cease to notice the pong. Bad for your social life though.

I gag on my first deep breath and punch the bell. How can anyone possibly work in this stench?

A skinny boy in blue overalls, stained with white streaks, appears from the back room.

I try to look authoritative. "Any messages from the Felix Swift trading platform in the last few days?" I wheeze, trying not to breathe.

"Dunno."

"Can you look? It's important."

He slouches off into the bird shed again and spends so long rummaging out back I almost get use to the smell. Almost.

The postie returns with a thick ledger, stained and faded with time. He opens it on the counter top, to a cloud of downy feathers, and flicks through the heavy pages until he finds darker ink, then checks through the entries for a few pages. His finger stops on an entry. "Yep."

"A message? For me? Nina Swift?"

"Dunno—I need proof of identity before I can tell you that."

I swear to myself, sure I have nothing that will satisfy the requirement. "Like what?"

"How about a warrant for your arrest?" someone grunts. I spin round to find Lieutenant Borker and Jack McGraw standing in the doorway. What are they doing here? I'm done for.

Before I can reply, something hot hits the back of my neck.

Bang.

The something solid hits my forehead. I try to open my eyes, but my head is swimming and all I want to do is sleep.

I wake up and find myself on the floor. Feathers choke the hot air and frightened birds flap around me, filling the air with panic. I fend off the birds and climb dizzily to my feet. Another smell assaults my nose: roast pigeon. I'm still in the post room, but an angry glow now fills the door to the bird room. Fire.

An explosion? I can think of no other explanation: I must have been knocked to the floor by a blast.

Something solid, but yielding, hits me. It's the postie, leaping the desk and barging past to safety. "Fire! Fire!"

A groan grabs my attention. Borker and McGraw are sprawled on the floor, stirring. The post desk must have shielded me from the worst of the explosion, but Borker and McGraw took a full blast. A breeze whips in through the door, fanning the blaze in the pigeon shed into a furnace, driving the birds away from the front desk. I have time to check Borker and McGraw over before leaving. I'm not so callous as to leave even Borker helpless in a burning building.

Borker is bleeding from a head wound, but McGraw looks okay except for an angry red welt on his left cheek and a bloody nose. I haul McGraw to his feet, "Get back to your ship, the place is going up in flames."

He groans and holds his head. "You?"

"Of course not. Now get going and take Borker with you."

As McGraw staggers round to help Borker, I spot the ledger, curiously, still in its place on the desk top. Hurriedly, I rip out the last few pages before push past the disorientated Borker to freedom.

Outside, smoke shrouds the horror like an orange fog. Even in the brief moments I paused to help McGraw the fire has taken hold, ripping through the buildings on the top deck, fanned by the ever-present breeze.

Fire demands only two actions: fight or flight. I flee.

I dodge round grim fire-fighters and push past stunned onlookers—soon, if they are lucky, their gawping will turn to terror and they too will flee. I make for the head of the steps, but it's difficult to judge anything in this smoke.

Suddenly, rough hands drag me into a side alley.
Chapter 11

I lash out in defense and receive a sharp slap across the face for my efforts.

"Something terrible has happened, Nina." It's Izzy.

I breathe a sigh of relief. "I know, I was there. An explosion. The place is on fire."

"Forget that," Fernando says, "Borker nearly caught us."

"And McGraw," Izzy adds. "Here on the Western Hub. They're after us."

I can't believe these two aren't more worried about the fire, but maybe they don't realize how bad it is. "I know, I bumped into them." Literally. "We've got to leave, guys. Right now!"

I start to go, but Fernando drags me in a different direction. "The steps are this way, Nina."

As we fight our way through the crowds to the second level, a terrific explosion, much bigger than the first, rocks the entire platform. The post hub collapses on one side, leaving us dangling over an abyss of nothingness. I grab the railings frantically. As I clutch the balustrade, someone clings to my leg—Izzy, trying to steady herself against the bucking steps. If I move she will slide into oblivion. We all hang on, desperately, until the swaying subsides, then scramble to safety. Some of the supporting cables must have parted.

A post packet, its gondola on fire, its blimp perforated by flying splinters, plunges past. It has taken the full force of the second explosion. Suddenly, I feel grateful our ship is moored on the lower levels, though she is still in grave danger and so are we.

The Shonti Bloom desperately needs to leave before the whole post hub goes down in flames. The steps lurch again, to an even steeper angle—maybe more cables have parted or some of the supporting hydrogen balloons have exploded. We scramble down to the next level through a shower of burning sparks. It must be hell on the top deck.

The residential decks are in uproar, sparks have ignited fires here too. Marshalls are pumping hot air into balloons on the meagre supply of life rafts. "Women and children first." Fights are breaking out around the emergency lockers as people realize there are nowhere near enough back up parachutes for everyone. Emergency teams and rescue crews charge in all directions forcing us off the steps

We cling to anything to prevent us sliding off the canting crowded deck.

Izzy slides towards me. "Shouldn't we help?"

"No. Save the Shonti Bloom!" I order. This is way beyond the ability of one person to make a difference. I spot a gap and struggle down the next set of steps.

The platform lurches in the opposite direction as we hit the lowest level. Then it rights itself—the rescue teams must have released more hydrogen balloons to stabilize the structure.

There's the Shonti Bloom swaying at a drunken angle, tangled in its mooring ropes, but otherwise intact.

Scud is already cutting mooring ropes. "What's going on, Nina?"

I wave the others away as they leap to explain. "Later, just keep cutting!" I make a note to fill everyone in once we were safe.

The Shonti Bloom is soon righted and we scramble aboard, leaving Scud with the last mooring rope.

The ship is deserted. "Where's Trent?" No one knows. "Then we wait!"

Fernando grabs a telescope and searches through the stricken post hub. "I see him," he calls eventually. "Two stories up, hanging from the steps."

I follow his pointing arm with my own telescope. Every deck is alight now. Through the billowing smoke, I see people still fighting the fires. Then I spy Trent hanging onto a set of steps by one hand. Even as I focus on him, he swings back onto the steps, scrambles down, and disappears into the smoke.

"He'll never make it," Fernando gasps, as more burning debris rains down around the Shonti Bloom.

A Sergeant at arms runs past. "Abandon the platform! Abandon the platform! She's going down." As if in answer, the platform lurches again, and starts to lose altitude. A crowd of desperate people run towards us. "Help. Save us. Take us with you."

Fernando grabs up a boarding hook, ready to fend people away. "Cast off!" He orders Scud who is still on the dockside.

"Belay that, Scud," I bellow, furious with Fernando. "We're taking these people with us."

Fernando ignores me and strides across the deck. "Then I'll do it myself. You'll kill us all Nina."

I race Fernando to the gangplank, swing my fist, and punch him to the deck. The satisfaction of seeing him stagger to one knee only partly dulls the pain in my fist, which burns like fire, but I can think of no other way to stop him. My great fear is of Izzy taking Fernando's side. Scud I know I can always count on, but which way will Izzy veer in a mutiny? I need to know.

I stare directly at Izzy; time to assert my authority. "While I'm Captain, we do things my way," I yell. "We look after our own. We don't leave anyone behind. And if we're forced to, we go back for them. If you can't live with that," I snarl as Fernando struggles to his feet, "then get off my ship."

Izzy looks from me to Fernando and back again. She purses her lips and nods her head slowly. She has decided, but what has she decided?
Chapter 12

Izzy steps to the door. "Better get these people on board then, Captain."

She's with me. I position Izzy and Fernando at the foot of the gangplank to prevent a stampede for the gangway. I can imagine people falling to their deaths as they force their way to safety. Scud and I help them through onto the deck.

Individuals, families, lost and frightened children, they all crowd onto the Shonti Bloom. I look into their eyes as they come aboard, mostly dull with defeat—they've just lost their homes, their families, their loved ones. They're scared, frightened, and angry. Most are grateful, but some grumble we should have done more, acted sooner to rescue them. They're probably right. A few are badly burned and need support. I try to get them into the map room away from the crush. Our first aid kit is woefully inadequate and soon Scud is ripping up strips of valuable photovoltaic cloth as bandages—it's all we have.

When the deck is so crammed with frightened people and I have to fight my way to the ship's wheel, we start sending them up the rigging into the blimp. I pump more hydrogen into the balloons to compensate for the extra weight. All it would take is one flaming shard to blow us all to smithereens, but we can't leave yet.

As Fernando follows the last refugee onto the deck he turns to me again. "We must go now," he pleads.

"No. We wait for Trent."

"Be realistic, Nina, we don't even know if he's alive."

"And we don't know if he's dead either. We don't abandon our own. We wait."

More burning debris rains down around the Shonti Bloom. The fire up top must be completely out of control. I begin to wonder if perhaps Fernando, still standing by the gangway, brooding, might be right. How can I possibly change my mind now without permanently losing all authority as captain? Then Trent's blackened face appears through the smoke curling round the dock.

"Scud, cast off! Izzy, get us underway! Fernando, help Scud aboard!" I grab Trent's arm as he leaps aboard and squeezes onto the over—crowded deck.

"Am I pleased to see you guys," Trent pants. His cloths are scorched, his hair is singed, and one boot looks like it's partly melted. "I thought I was a gonna for sure, but then I saw the Shonti Bloom still in the dock and knew I could reach you." He grins manically. "Bloody stupid thing for you to do though—risking your ship and crew for a stranger."

I notice Izzy through the crowd, grinning as she fights with the wheel. "We look after our own on this ship, Trent," she shouts. I've won.

The plunging post platform drags the Shonti Bloom down with it. If we are not careful the burning upper decks will strike us as we fight free. There is only one safe exit from this dock.

"Straight down, Izzy. Dive, dive, dive!" I've always wanted to say that. Our passengers shriek and clutch for hand-holds as Izzy powers the Shonti Bloom into a steep dive. Crushed by the crowd, I'm helpless to do anything but watch. For a moment it looks as though we will never out run the falling platform, but then the Shonti Bloom pulls ahead.

Izzy expertly pulls out of the dive and I pray as the flaming decks of the doomed platform rush past. Then we plunge into thick grey storm clouds and visibility drops to zero.

With so many craft scrabbling to escape the burning post platform, we could crash into anything. To my relief, we emerge safely into lashing rain below the cloud base; free of the post hub and still in one piece. I breathe easy—today is my lucky day.

I peer round for the crashing post hub and find it suspended someway below us.

There are only two ways to deal with fire on a platform, either extinguish it quickly, or cut the burning section away. Whether by luck or design, the courageous soul who commands this platform has found a third way: drop the whole platform through a storm cloud so the driving rain below puts the fires out. Today, many people owe their lives to the mystery platform commander with that genius idea.

Lashing rain eventually quenches the fires to dirty smoke and we make our way back in. Eventually, we find a working dock and offload our cargo of passengers. Almost before the last one has alighted we cut loose again, anxious not to attract the attention of Borker, McGraw, or any other constables.

"What now, Nina?" Fernando asks nonchalantly, as if nothing has passed between us. The victor, in that winning moment of the battle, can ask almost anything of their defeated opponent and it will be granted. But a good leader also knows when to pick their battles and this one can safely pass.

"Great work, crew." With a grin, I clap a hand on Fernando's shoulder. "Now Ferny, we open my birthday present."
Chapter 13

"How about a warrant for your arrest?" Borker drawls like some cheesy detective in a cheap comic book. I'm already furious with him over the warrant and this does nothing to improve my mood. I'm jealous too, because I could never have thought up such a quip on the spot.

We've just walked into arrivals hoping to pick up Nina's trail and here she is, right in front of us. So she too noticed the missing pigeon—I thought she would.

Some spotty kid behind a solid counter, his overalls splattered with pigeon droppings, is asking her for identification and she's looking flummoxed. Well, whatever that pigeon was carrying is now evidence.

We approached the Post Hub from below, through a storm raging beneath the grey cumulous cloud, hoping to sneak up on our prey. Despite the storm-lashed battering and the frayed tempers, the tactic has succeeded. She is ours.

On arrival, our first duty was to report the suspected murder of Felix Swift. Borker volunteered for this irksome task and I, like a fool, let him go. My only excuse is my concerned for the state of my crew and ship. He returned, at length, with rather more than the incident report.

Against my orders, Borker had only gone and issued a full international warrant for her arrest. His arms were laden with flyers for the crew to distribute—no wonder he took so long. "Here you are, boss," he sneered, "Just as ordered."

What could I say? He made it look like my instructions. Inwardly, I fumed. Outwardly, for the benefit if the crew, I was compelled to play along, like an obedient puppy. What's done is done, and he knows it—I have no choice. Hence my suggestion, in an attempt to regain control of the investigation, for us to visit the arrivals desk together.

Nina spins round, shock splashed over her fine features. Surprise morphs to fear as she realizes she's trapped, but how am I going to keep her out of Borker's clutches and let her prove her innocence?

I slide between Nina and Borker to keep them apart.

Suddenly I'm on the floor looking up at a very fuzzy Nina Swift. Did she just hit me? Someone did.

Nina is bending over me, her head curiously surrounded by a golden glow, like a halo. She's shouting. I can see her lips moving, but the only sound I hear is the crashing of waves. She must have hit me so hard she decked me. She tugs at my arm and leans closer mouthing something about the place being on fire and getting back to my ship.

Nina checks Borker over, her hair, unruly at the best of times, is full of dust and feathers. Borker looks worse than me and is bleeding from a head wound. Nina couldn't possibly have taken us both out at the same time, could she? Something else has happened; something bad.

An angry glow, no longer a halo, draws my eye. Fire—behind the arrival's counter. How did she manage that? I hear my own voice, distant and far away among the rushing waves, like it belongs to someone else. "You?" My nose is bleeding all over my uniform.

Nina hauls me to my feet and I grab the counter for support. "Of course not," she shouts. The waves are ebbing away to a background hiss. "Now get going and take Borker with you." As I help a dazed Borker to his feet, Nina pauses to snatch something from the arrivals counter, then pushes past and is gone. We've lost her again, but I'm not disappointed—at least she is out of Borker's clutches.

I support Borker as we stagger outside—ironic that I should be helping my enemy to freedom, but I wouldn't leave anyone behind no matter how much I hate them. We entered the arrivals office from a crowded but ordered square; we exit into a scene from hell.

The warehouse blazes furiously and the fire, fanned by a steady breeze, has already jumped narrow alleys to other buildings; the tinder dry walls are bursting into balls of flame. Everywhere people shout and scream and run. Fire crews charge to tackle the blazes, but they must already know it's hopeless. The heat is tremendous now and even buildings on the windward side of the square are beginning to smolder. The fire has spread frighteningly fast.

Some of our squad, who are waiting apprehensively outside, rush over to relieve me of my burden. I am surprised they are still here, but I suppose it's not been that long really. Borker pushes away those trying to support him. "We've got to get out of here," and he staggers around on wobbly legs, like a new-born calf. He's coming around.

A callow youth stumbles into me, then grabs my arm, staring at my uniform. "Please, Captain," he pleads, "you must take control. Drop the Hub through the rain clouds into the storm below. It's our only hope."

The youth staggers off into the smoke. "The control tower is this way..."

Borker stares after the retreating youth. Then he glares at the smoke and flames as if they are an insult. "Back to the ship," he orders as if he's in control, and staggers towards the dock.

"I'm staying," I declare.

Borker twists around to confront me and sways on his unsteady feet. "You're the captain, young man." A constable catches him. "Get off." He staggers back upright. "It's your duty to save the ship."

But he's wrong, I have a higher calling and the youth has just revealed it to me.

"I know what I need to do," I declare, running in the opposite direction. "My duty is to protect and serve; my duty is to save these people," I yell over my shoulder. "You go back to the ship if you want. The rest of you, with me." To my surprise, the crew abandon Borker and follow me.

We make our way hurriedly in the direction taken by the callow youth, though there is no sign of him now. Like most controls this one stands clear of the platform up wind, so for the moment it is clear of flames.

Inside pandemonium reigns. "Where's the captain," I demand and someone points to a grey-haired gentleman hurriedly throwing maps and charts into a bag; clearly, he's abandoning his post. How can he possibly quit so soon? The coward. I came here to offer assistance, but now I see more drastic action is required.

I stride over to the commander and draw my compression pistol. "Going somewhere, Captain?"

Everyone in the control room freezes, but before they can react my crew has them covered with their own weapons.

The Captain turns on me. "Don't be an idiot, kid. This platform is lost. The fire has already taken hold and there is nothing to cut away. The only option is to abandon the platform as fast as possible."

As we speak the platform collapses on one side, throwing us all off balance, but I still have him covered with my pistol.

Evacuating an entire platform is a pretty hopeless task at the best of times—there are never enough life rafts. When the platform is a raging inferno, it is impossible. The only chance for those trapped on flaming decks is for ships to come alongside and scoop them off, and that requires someone to hold the platform rock steady.

The Captain glares at me wide eyed. "All is lost. We must abandon the station. We're all going to die."

I have met his sort before: a career platform—pilot happy to live the high—life, hob-knobbing with the high and mighty; attending glittering parties in the good times, but falling apart at the first sign of a crisis. All he really cares about is saving his own skin. "Your duty, Sir," I remind him, "is to control this platform until everyone is safely clear."

"You'll kill us all," the Captain cries.

"Probably." I raise my pistol higher, aiming it right between his eyes. "I'm giving you a choice. You can die here, by my hand. Or you can die doing your duty and saving others."

"I'm in command here," he growls.

"Then command. And get this platform righted so people can get off."

Reluctantly, the captain sends a team off to release some blimps on the far side of the platform to straighten it, but as soon as the platform starts to level another balloon bursts sending the platform lurching in the opposite direction.

Time for the youth's plan. "Now listen, Captain. There's a raging storm below us. If we drop the platform through the storm clouds there is a chance the rain will put out the flames."

Suddenly, the Captain is galvanized into action. He absently pushes my pistol away and starts barking orders. Sending runners off in all directions to do his bidding. It's like he's morphed into a younger, keener, version of himself. My crew and I are suddenly consigned to the role of spectators.

Before long the platform is plummeting earth-wards. Out the window, I see the flames now blazing skyward rather than continuing to spread throughout the platform. At least our actions have stopped the fire spreading to any more lower decks. Acrid grey smoke fills the control deck as flames roar up towards us. We may just save the rest of the platform while roasting ourselves.

Without warning, we are below the storm clouds. A wild wind grabs the post platform like a giant fist and starts shaking it violently, while heavy rain drenches the top deck of the platform and cascades in giant waterfalls to the lower decks. Hissing steam replaces the smoke and the lurid glow of flames die down. We've done it.

Cheering echoes from the lower decks, as those convinced they were about to die celebrate their salvation. Of course, I could actually be in a lot of trouble; I have after all held the control crew at gunpoint. So while the crew is distracted by the magnitude of their success, I shepherd my own people out the door as quickly as I can. However, just as I'm grabbing hold of the rough ladder to make my own exit I realize the Captain has spotted our departure. I freeze, expecting recriminations and pursuit. Instead, he salutes me and deliberately turns his back so I can escape. And why not, he's the hero of the hour and he won't want some smarmy kid telling everyone of his earlier cowardice.

Leaving the Captain and his crew to bask in their glory I descend to the steaming mass of charcoal below and go in search of the postie from the arrivals hall—I bet he still remembers what was in that message from Nina's Uncle
Chapter 14

Izzy scowls menacingly at me. "What journal, Nina?" she demands, after I've related my tale and showed them the torn page from the arrivals book.

I retrieve the sinister brown-paper package I received for my birthday from my shoulder bag and we sit round the cabin table with the bundle centered in the middle.

Trent reaches across and prods the package. He turns it round to examine the address, and then shrugs. "My master died for that book. Next stop, I'm taking it straight to the constables."

"We can't go to the constables." Scud gently places a roll of paper on the table. "These are everywhere."

I straighten out the crisp roll of paper. Ice clutches at my heart and I stare in disbelief. Whatever I was expecting to see it isn't this. "But it doesn't even look like me," I blurt. A wanted poster.

Except for the sharp intakes of breath around the table, there is silence. Never have I felt such panic pounding at my chest—what have I done?

"NATASHA SWIFT WANTED FOR MURDER." A crude, but menacing, line-drawing of my face glowers out from under the heading. There follows a brief, and fairly accurate, description of me. "The suspect may be travelling with other young adults in a stolen airship," it adds.

"Stolen?" I fume. "I paid good money for this ship."

Trent looks up in surprise. "You actually own this wreck?"

"She's not a wreck." With effort, I force myself to speak normally. "She may look tatty on the outside." I pat the sleek laminated frame of the ship with affection. "But she's mechanically sound—especially since the refit at Felix's."

"Which is one place we cannot return to," Izzy says.

I raise a questioning eyebrow.

"Because," she continues, "the constables will be watching it."

"Maybe," Trent says, "we should take the journal there. That would be the responsible thing to do—then we can prove our innocence."

Fernando turns on Trent like a hawk. "We just saved your neck, Buddy, and now you want us to put our heads on the plank? Are you trying to get caught or are you just an idiot?"

Trent recoils from Fernando's fury and I reach my arm out to protect him. "He's only trying to help." Secretly, I'm pleased: I think Fernando may have meant, "Put our heads in the noose", or "Our feet on the plank," but in any event, he's standing up for us. The mutiny is done and gone.

He's right, though, we can't turn ourselves in. McGraw might be prepared to consider us innocent until proven guilty, he's a good constable, but Borker will certainly just want to bang us up so he can close the case—or worse.

Fernando turns on me next. "And you... you've made me into a criminal. I'm an accomplice to murder. What is my family going to think?"

I wasn't expecting that. "You know we're innocent, Fernando. Anyway, it isn't as though you haven't broken the law before."

He actually bares his teeth at me. "I might play a bit fast and loose sometimes, but I have never...never done anything to endanger the family honor." He closes his eyes and breathes deeply, struggling to regain his composure. "I wish I'd never set foot on this bucket."

Now my initial panic is over, I consider my options; not only have I piloted an unlicensed airship, but the constables are hunting me for murder. There is only one way out of this. "We will find the killer and clear our names ourselves," I declare.

I gaze round the table at the others, who are staring at me in horror. "If we're not going to give ourselves up it's the only logical plan, unless you want to spend the rest of your lives on the run. Anyone got a better plan?"

Silence.

Content to have a positive course of action, I reach for the brown-paper package. "It all revolves around this journal—so let's see what it's all about."

I pause, theatrically, partly for effect and partly in anticipation, before ripping off the brown paper. In my hand I hold a slim leather—bound book.

A note wafts to the table which Scud scoops up. "Nina," he reads, "this recently came into my possession. Now you are of age, it is rightfully yours. Love Felix."

I hold up the book and open the first page.

The others crowd round to read and I push them back. "Give us some air here." Then I clear my throat and read, "The Journal of Eve Swift, Archaeologist."

I turn the page. "This journal records clues, collected over many years, which answer the greatest mystery of our time. Once, billions populated the surface of the Earth, now only those who dwell in the sky remain—us and the Reavers. What happened to the earth dwellers? Where have they gone?" I shudder at the mention of Reavers, those barely human nomads of the skies that hunt us like vermin.

"Billions?" Scud scoffs, "there's no way the planet can support that many people—she's exaggerating."

Fernando shrugs. "I don't see any mystery—everyone knows they poisoned themselves with pollution."

I read on. "They simply vanished too quickly for the common belief that they poisoned themselves," I raise an eyebrow in Fernando's direction, "to have any credibility."

Fernando grunts. I grin to myself and carry on. "There must be some other explanation. But be warned, I am not the only one seeking these clues. There are others, and they are not all friendly."

Trent, annoyingly, is leaning over my shoulder to get a better view and read ahead. He points to the next paragraph. "Hey, Nina, this is written in a different pen and dated just before her final trip."

I deliberately block his view of the book and read on. "Now I have all the clues, I am setting out to discover the final answers to my questions. Those who would prevent me have already made one attempt on my life. As a safeguard, should anything happen to me, a copy of this journal will be sent to my kin to publish, so confounding my enemies."

"Wow," Izzy breaths, "I guess Felix never published, but he still thought he should pass it on to you."

Scud is looking anywhere except at the package. "Felix said you should destroy it, Nina."

"Clearly something happened between Felix sending me the journal and him telling me to destroy it. Whatever changed his mind led to his death. Find what changed, we solve the mystery, and clear our names—simple."

I turn to the only person who might know what happened. "Trent, why don't you tell us what happened on the trading platform and why Felix changed his mind about the journal?"

Trent looks sheepish, in his gap-toothed way. "It's the first time I've seen the journal—Felix never mentioned it to me. I didn't see nothing or hear nothing. I came out of the rope shed and someone hit me over the head. When I came round Felix was dead and the platform was deserted." He shrugs his shoulders. "That's all."

"They were after the journal," Scud mumbles, "and when they didn't find it they killed Felix to prevent him from warning you, Nina."

"Why me?"

Scud points to the book, "A copy of this journal will be sent to my kin to publish. You're kin too, Nina."

"Why kill Uncle Felix now though, Mum's reckless adventure ended ten years ago?"

Scud shrugs. "While Felix kept the secret, the journal wasn't a threat, but what would you have done with it?"

Everything revolves around the journal.

Fernando glances nervously at Izzy, but can't help himself. "Izzy's Father died for that journal, Nina. How could you not have opened it before now?"

I'm asking myself the same question. More importantly, could I have saved Uncle Felix if I had opened it earlier? I draw a blank, but it still bugs me—am I just as responsible for Felix's death as his murderers? Maybe the wanted poster contains some truth.

"You're missing the bigger picture here guys—this journal links Felix's death, my Mother's death, and our own predicament; whoever killed Felix also killed my Mother—possibly for the same reason. To clear our names, we need to find the murderers."

"How do we do that?" Izzy asks.

I turn to the next page of the journal. "Easy, we follow the clues."
Chapter 15

"Are you sure this is the place?"

"Warehouse 19, south side, deck 15," Scud mumbles, "Look, Nina, there's even that cross-shaped burn mark on the door-post."

Trent had blanched when he saw that sketch in the journal and refused to accompany us to the warehouse—at least, I'm pretty sure that's the reason. The warehouse looks shabby and unused, except for the gleaming padlock on the heavy double doors.

As a security device, padlocks are overrated; no serious thief is going to enter by the front door. A shiny new lock only draws attention to something interesting inside, which is good, because we have come a long way to find something interesting.

We have made the long trek up the coast to Newark without incident, following the instructions in my mother's journal. Newark is a cold ice-wept place. Up top, on the floating landmass, steam issues from vents in the paving, part of the corporate heating system. Down here, in the slums, heating is a scarce and keenly fought over resource.

A gaggle of wind turbines provide electricity to the slums. The better districts have built gigantic communal turbines. These reach far out into the air-streams which whistle round the base of the aerial island. Everywhere else, individuals make their own arrangements: a spiraling flock of mini turbines are bolted to any structure that might catch the slightest breeze, and connected to a jumble of naked electric cables which snake above every walkway, in the desperate scramble for heat.

Izzy's head appears around a corner of the warehouse. "This way, there's a broken window round the back."

A cheerless alley leads down the side of warehouse 19. Halfway along, Izzy has pushed together some rubbish bins below a small broken window—just large enough for four nimble youngsters.

I climb up and peer through the window, but the inside is badly lit and I can only make out vague shapes. I listen carefully for any sound of movement, then with my leather flight gloves I carefully pick out the remaining glass shards and wiggle through the window.

When entering through a window always go feet first—the drop inside is always worse than the climb outside.

"Machine parts," Scud declares, examining labels on the crates filling the rear of the warehouse. "Airship," he continues, "no destination address."

"The clue is in the belly of the beast," I recite the line from the journal. Maybe the warehouse is the beast and the clue is the machine parts or maybe the airship is the beast.

"There's a staircase over hear," Fernando calls softly, "do you think they might lead into the belly?"

It's worth checking out so I pad down the stairs. The place is deserted, well almost.

"Wow," Izzy gasps, "who is that?"

We descend into some sort of enclosed ceremonial chamber; concealed light shafts illuminate paneled walls, decorated with tapestries of land battles rather than the usual dogfights between airships, suggesting the hangings are ancient. On a low stage, a three meter golden statue of a pot-bellied woman dominates the room.

"The beast?" I quip, while my mind screams "belly."

Scud joins us as we wander around the statue examining it from different angles. "Gaia," he pronounces eventually with no further explanation.

I know, of course, that it's up to me to coax information out of him, because it will never occur to him that others don't know what he knows.

"Who's Gaia?" I ask.

"Mother Earth: worshipped since prehistoric times as the mother of creation, more recently used to represent the living earth—as though the planet itself is a single living organism. Hardly a beast."

That depends on who's worshipping her here. I scrutinize the idol's distended belly. "That is one massive stomach. Anyone see anything that looks like a clue."'

"It could be a metaphor," Fernando offers.

"For what?"

There are two ways to solve any puzzle: cryptically or literally. I prefer the latter—I like the beauty of simple, straight-forward and obvious answers. Scud prefers the former.

Fernando, impulsive and task orientated, gives up first. "It would help if we had some idea what we are looking for."

"You'll know it when you find it," I assure him, more to wind him up that because I believe it to be true. It's what people always say when they don't have a clue. Curiously, though I have often found it turns out that way. In this case, Fernando is right, it could be anything.

"She's holding a tree in one hand and that curved knife in the other," Izzy offers, hopefully. A strangely curved knife, I note.

Scud nods eagerly. "A metaphor for life and death?"

Ignoring the others, I stand back and study the idol for a while. The statue's stomach shows only one feature: a belly button. "In the belly of the beast," my mind screams. So I approach the statue, kneel down and, run my hands over its bloated stomach.

Ok, I realize I look silly kneeling in front of an idol carefully stroking its belly, but sometimes my mind operates on a level I don't understand, and once in a while, I have found going with the flow produces results.

There. Is that something? I close my eyes to enhance my sense of touch. Yes: a hairline crack, just above the belly button. I follow the crack with my fingertips until I come to a corner; down, back underneath the belly button again, and up. A rectangular draw. Instinctively, I jab my finger into the belly button.

Click.

Everyone freezes.

Click, click. Rattle, rattle, click, click.

"The padlock," Izzy hisses, "someone's coming."'

We cast about for somewhere to hide, but apart from the wall hangings the room is bare.

"Quick, up the stairs!" I order.

Before I leave, however, I can't resist another look at the statue. A small draw projects out of the idol's stomach. I should leave it and go, but I can't. This is it. I have to know what's in there. Gingerly, I pull the draw open all the way and peer inside.

Rattle, rattle, clunk. The padlock opens.
Chapter 16

I snatch up the contents of the draw, slam it shut, and tear up the stairs after my crew. Heart pounding like a bio engine, I dive behind the machine crates as the warehouse doors swing wide.

I struggle to silently gasp air through my mouth, convinced the new arrivals can hear my every ragged breath. I close my eyes, trying to hear what is happening above the pounding of my heart. Izzy tries to peer between two crates, but I pull her back quickly in case we are spotted—she screws up her face in annoyance, but doesn't attempt another look.

It sounds like a small crowd of people enter the building. They close the doors noisily behind them and troop down the stairs. Silence follows, but we don't dare move from our hiding place.

Fernando settles with his back to a crate and closes his eyes, breathing deeply like someone preparing for a long wait. Scud carefully unfastens his backpack and pulls something out: a knife. The thin and curiously curved blade used to murder Uncle Felix. I have no idea what he thinks he can do with it, but maybe it gives him a sense of security, because he's turning it over and over in his hands.

Something about the knife tugs at my brain, but I can't place it. Izzy has spotted something too, because she's gesturing frantically from Scud's knife to the stairs. If she thinks she can tackle the newcomers with a single knife, she is sadly mistaken. It will have to wait.

Instead, I study the gold block I'm cradling in the palm of my hand: the contents of the statue's belly. It is square and thin; I can just hold it in one hand with my fingers around the edges; if I press my fingernail into the surface it leaves a mark—so pure gold, and worth a lot of money. One side is featureless and plain, the other is engraved with two sets of numbers.

I stare at the numbers hoping something will trigger in my brain, but nothing comes to me. Whatever the numbers mean is completely beyond me. Is this it? We travelled all this way just to discover some random numbers? Whatever I was expecting to find it isn't this. Disappointment sets in and I place the gold square in the pocket of my flight jacket. Maybe the others will have an idea once we return to the Shonti Bloom. Something else that will have to wait.

The people down stairs, who, during my examination of the plaque, were just shuffling around and muttering incoherently, start to chant—some sort of ritual is taking place. I worm my way closer to the stairwell, curious to hear what is going on. Izzy frowns and tries to pull me back, but I fend her off with my boot and eventually she gives up and joins me. Together, we strain to listen.

A single, deep, resonant voice starts speaking. "You have completed your apprenticeship and proven yourself worthy. Do you now wish to join the guild?"

"Yes." A younger, possibly female, voice answers.

"Do you promise to surrender all your worldly goods, monies, and estates to the guild, living only to serve the will of the mistress?"

"I do."

"Take your Krys-knife, the symbol and tool of our trade."

I pull myself gingerly forward, risking a peak over the edge of the stairwell. Izzy joins me.

They have their backs to me, well, five of the robbed and hooded figures do, ranged in a semicircle before the statue of Gaia. The mistress? The sixth has his head bowed. In his hands he holds Scud's strangely curved knife, which he is offering, with both hands, to a slight figure at the center of the semicircle, the new recruit. The Krys-knife?

Of course: the knife the statue of Gaia is holding is identical to this Krys-knife, exactly like the one Scud pulled out of Uncle Felix. Could these be the murderers?

"Welcome, to the most secretive Guild of Assassins," the leader intones, and looks up.

Cripes.

There is no hiding from the leader of the assassins. A piggish face with close-set black eyes looks up and our gazes meet. His mouth drops open as he recognizes me.

Borker.

Double cripes. "Run!" I scream, fighting down the panic threatening to overwhelm me. This is all my fault, if I hadn't crept forward to look the others would have stayed hidden. Now we are all going to die.

I leap to my feet, grab Scud and Izzy, and thrust them towards the main doors. There is no sense heading back to the broken window—we would never all make it through. It has to be the front door or nothing.

"Help me," Fernando calls. I double back to see him hauling a machine crate towards the stair head. Great idea. I grab the other rope handle and together we launch the crate down the stairs towards Borker and the other assassins leaping towards us. I high-five Fernando as we flee through the warehouse doors, grinning like conspirators—a sudden rush of adrenalin can do that to you. Behind us crashes and shouts echo through the building. But running feet too.

We have to get out of here, but I also need to protect my crew. "Bring the Shonti Bloom to dock 14G and wait for me there," I instruct, "I'll head them off."

"But Nina," they all protest, and I feel a glow of pride at their concern—at least, I hope that's the reason. Of course, they could just think I'm incredibly stupid.

"I've got the tablet from the statue," I yell loud enough for the whole world to hear, "you lead them off while I escape with it."

Fernando, bless him, cottons onto my ruse and drags the others off down some steps.

I stay on the same level, waving the plaque in the air as I run. As I hope, the assassins follow me to retrieve their property, but they are much closer than I anticipated. How am I going to stay alive long enough to reach the Shonti Bloom in dock 14G?
Chapter 17

With my mind churning, I flee through the narrow maze of shady alleys; stumble down steps, trip on uneven paving boards, dodge lines of washing stretching between the shabby tenements of the underdeck; I pray I don't accidentally choose a blind alley and scan frantically for anything that might help me.

When fleeing a pursuer, grab anything that presents itself as a weapon. Whatever you do, don't slow down. Or even worse, fall over.

I try to clear my mind and focus on the task at hand. "Run to survive, run to survive, run to survive," I chant silently in time with my breathing. I slow my pace a bit so I can plan where I'm going and place my feet firmly to avoid tripping. Gradually, my head clears, my focus sharpens, and my confidence rises. "I am the wind, sure and fast; I'm fleet of foot and clear of mind." Thankfully, I enter the 'zone,' where running and breathing become automatic, and my mind is free to think about survival tactics.

I snatch a garment from a washing line as I race by it and start unthreading the belt, which can make a useful weapon, especially one with a metal buckle; extending your reach by another arm's length.

Junction. I turn rim-ward into a wider street with market stalls along either side, and a clear space for carts down the center. I trust that all main streets lead to the docks, like on New Frisco.

The lead assassin is nearly on me. The belt finally comes free and I throw the garment behind me without looking.

Crash. "Oi."

I chance a glance over my shoulder and grin with delight to see an assassin's legs flailing about in a tumble of fruit. A crowd is already gathering round him, and a young lady is beating him with a broom. The assassin scrambles up hastily to continue the pursuit, only for the broom wielder to expertly hook his feet out from under him, then whack him to the ground. I grin broadly: one assassin hand-bagged.

With quick glances over my shoulder, I reassess the situation: only one assassin still pursuing, but not too close—almost free of both assassins, but where are the others? Maybe I have lost them. But my gut tells me I have not. They know this area much better than I do; I increase my speed—I need to find steps leading down to level fourteen.

Random thoughts pop into my mind: Borker is leading the hunt to solve Felix's murder which he wants to pin on me; Felix was killed by a Krys-knife, probably at the hand of an assassin. Borker is an assassin. What does all this mean?

Maybe I should just give up now so they let my friends go free. Perhaps I can bargain with them—my life for my crew's freedom. But that's not me—I never give up, not when there are still options. Concentrate on staying alive, Nina, just concentrate on staying alive. I push the jumbled thoughts out of my mind and run on. I'm back in the zone.

Suddenly, right in front of me, someone breaks out of a side alley to my left. Another assassin. Instinctively I duck right, down another narrow alley, toppling a stack of boxes as I pass; another few seconds gained, maybe.

"Stop, thief!"

I loop the leather flight jacket I've just snatched out of an aviator's hand around my left wrist. If I have to stop and fight it might dampen a few blows—it's worth a try anyway. If nothing else I can flick the dangling sleeve in someone's face to distract them.

Another assassin; heading straight for me. Borker.

I turn left. Steps. Going up instead of down, but I have no option. I take the steps two at a time—I can feel my leg muscles starting to cramp, I don't have much time left at this speed. The assassins are herding me: away from the Shonti Bloom.

At the top of the steps I double back towards the docks again. More steps ahead. Leading to the lower deck this time—thank goodness. I reach the head of the steps at the same time as an assassin coming up.

Trapped.

I try desperately to slow my forward momentum. But I already know I'm too late. A shocked female face. A flashing Krysknife. I catch the blade on the padded flight jacket, forcing the tip away from my body. But my speed still carries me forward. The knife stings my forearm as it slices through the flight jacket.

Suddenly, something heavy crashes into my back. I accelerate forward into the assassin, falling down the stairs, crashing into a second assassin further down.

We all land in a jumble of arms and legs on the deck at the foot of the steps. Two assassins beneath me and something heavy on top, which feels like another person.

I'm still focusing on escape, and getting to dock G14, so even though I'm just as stunned as the rest, I automatically struggle free. I scramble to my feet and dodge right. I'm vaguely aware of Borker leaping down the steps after me and a lot of shouting.

A fight breaks out at the foot of the steps between the assassins and some annoyed locals. Someone strikes out with a plank, almost taking out Borker's feet, but he expertly leaps over it, landing clear of the scrap.

I run again.

I find myself in a dock area near warehouse nineteen, I have run, or more accurately been herded, in a full circle.

A deserted dock—cornered again.

Borker and two other assassins, one limping, one holding their arm, which looks as if it might be broken, approach me. They take their time herding me to the end of the dock. They know the game is won.

I use the time to study the gold plaque from the statue of Gaia—three numbers, totally meaningless. How could I have thrown my life away for three random numbers? But even as I think this, I know the numbers aren't random—they have a meaning, I just can't figure it out. I wonder if Eve held this plaque? Did she know the meaning of the numbers or were they meaningless to her too. Now I will never know.

A railing nudges me in the back and I know I've reached the end of the dock. In desperation, I throw the gold plaque like a missile at the assassins, but it misses. Still, one limps off to retrieve it, which gives me a bit more time to think. I stand there, nowhere to go. I hold up my padded arm and brandish the belt like a whip. I swing it in an arc to keep them back, but I feel pathetically under armed against three trained assassins.

Borker steps forward and tries to catch the end of my swinging belt, but retreats with a bleeding gash across his face—there is no way I'm going to make this easy for them.

When cornered, by overwhelming odds, there are three ways out: surrender, but I have thrown away my only bargaining tool; attack with everything you've got and hope the surprise carries you through, but where would I go; or do something dangerously crazy. There is no way I can beat three assassins and if I surrender I have a feeling I'm dead. Then I notice a sign on the wall. 'Dock G15.'

My heart leaps, even as I try to suppress the feeling—a dashed hope is the last thing I need at the moment.

I glance quickly over the hand—rail, then just as quickly back to Borker who has taken the opportunity to move in closer hoping to get within the circle of the whistling belt.

Borker stands facing me, his piggish features twitching. "This is the end of the line, Miss Swift," he grunts. "My instructions are to take you alive, but you've seen what I am, so now I have to eliminate you, for the greater good. By killing you, I save the planet." He grins again, not even mildly regretful—more like a sadist enjoying the terror of his cornered prey. Whatever he hopes I'm feeling is wasted, because my mind has taken off down an entirely different track.

It's strange what your mind does in extreme circumstance: I realize I detest Borker so much I would rather take my own life than let him have it.

"Not today, Borker," I yell defiantly. Then, with my heart pounding, I leap the hand rail into nothingness.

Option three: do something dangerously crazy.
Chapter 18

The Shonti Bloom looms directly below me, hovering in dock G14, like a dirty rugby ball . Fear grabs me as I plummet over the side of the platform. The wind whistles past my ears and my hair streams out behind, this is certain death. I try to rationalize it as the lesser of two evils: death at the hands of assassins or death by my own hand. But I am still alive. I need to stop thinking and focus on action or I certainly will be dead.

I hit the blimp with a thud and frantically grab anything I can find. A mooring rope catches my hand as I slide over the edge. It's waxy and smooth—oh no, a new rope. I pray Trent has spliced it correctly or it will part under my weight. More slipping and scrabbling and a burning pain in my hand until I can grab the rope with my other hand too. I ease to a halt. The rope holds.

Something whistles past my head. No time to look—I have to keep moving. I launch myself away from the bulging canvas of the airship's blimp and abseil down the mooring rope. I use the arms of the stolen flight jacket like gloves to protect what is left of my hands. The shock on the faces of my crew, as I crash against the deck rail, would have been laughable in less extreme circumstances.

Something else whistles past my head as I scrabble for a foothold on the rail—the rope is not quite long enough to take me over the rail and I slip off again. "Dive," I scream at the gormless faces. Izzy slams the Shonti Bloom into a steep dive, the others continue to stare.

Reacting sharply to the unexpected is not the same as intelligence.

Scud works through so many logical possibilities in his head, he can be pretty slow on the uptake sometimes; Fernando is just slow in general. The Shonti tilts sharply forward and I, on my rope, slide down the side of the hull towards the bow—making it even more difficult to hang on. Thankfully, my crew is over their shock and scramble to help.

More missiles whistle past and I look up. The assassins glare down at me from the dock above. Borker draws back his arm and throws another missile. A metal star punches itself into the side wall of the hull. I let go with one hand and cheekily salute him with a grin. Then I slam into something solid and lose my grip.

Strong arms catch me and haul me onto the deck. I land in a heap and catch a brief glimpse of terror on Trent's face as he looks up and sees Borker. I see the look of surprise on the assassin's face too. Then I collapse, and lay there on the steep deck, laughing, crying, and fighting for breath. My lungs burn with the effort of the last few minutes and my hands and legs burn with pain, but I have survived. I have cheated death, again.

As I lay on the sloping deck, staring up at the fabric of the blimp, relief floods my mind, and I see again Trent's face when he hauled me in.

"You knew," I scream and leap painfully to my feet. I fly at Trent in a rage, smashing him backward with both hands. He staggers, but remains standing. "You knew Borker was an assassin and you never told us," I yell.

"No, no."

"You recognized the sketch in the journal and you said nothing." I give him another shove.

This time he bounces off a wall. He doesn't try to defend himself: he just looks scared and starts blabbing. "I never pretended I always been on the right side of the law, have I? Do you think your Uncle's business was always lawful? Yeah, I've had my run-ins with Lieutenant Borker—I detest him, but I didn't know he was no assassin, did I?"

He stands his ground as I stare him out, he's lying. "But you knew crossed knives mean assassins, the sketch in the book, don't you?"

"Maybe," he mumbles, like a naughty boy who wants his mothers' tirade to end quickly.

"And what about the Krys-knife that killed Uncle Felix," I yell, finding another crime with which to beat him. I'm determined not to let him off too lightly. "I suppose you been hiding that from us too."

"I never saw no knife." He nods toward Scud. "He hid it away too quickly."

I turn away in disgust. "I wonder what else you been hiding."

"Would it have made any difference, Nina?" I can't believe Izzy is springing to Trent's defense. "We would still have gone."

"Yes, but we might have been more cautious about it."

"Nina, we were fine," Fernando scoffs, "until you stuck your interfering nose over the balcony and drew attention to us—'Here we are, look we're snooping on you.' The only person to blame for nearly getting us killed is you."

"Didn't see you risking your pretty neck out there—you ran away. Besides, someone had to get a handle on the bigger picture." You could cut the tension on deck with a Krys-knife.

"Where is the disk from Gaia?" Scud asks, quietly.

Oops, I am in trouble now. "I threw it at the assassins when they tried to kill me—"

"What?" Izzy screeches. "We risk our lives to get our hands on the clue and you casually chuck it away—"

"—while you were all nice and safe in the Shonti Bloom." I'm steaming again.

"—you're just like your Mother."

Surprisingly, that remark brings clarity. As the captain I have to end this argument before it goes too far, regardless of who might be in the right. "Ok." I raise my hands in surrender. "It's a series of numbers and I'm going to my cabin, right now, to write them down before I forget them." I stagger below deck, breathing hard, relieved to get away, but still furious that my crew should blame me for our bad luck.
Chapter 19

Jack McGraw, you're a fool, I tell myself. Furious does not even begin to cover my seething anger towards Lieutenant Borker. He left us here, tied to the prestige docks, on level one, of Newark platform, to meet some contact who may have information about Nina Swift. Why he thinks anyone on this rot of a platform will have even heard of Nina is beyond me. True, after the fiasco at the Western Post Hub she left in this general direction, but why would she stop here? Why not at the last platform we passed or the next or the one after that? Borker became very insistent, so in the end I let him have his way. He hasn't returned for hours. And I'm holding a piece of pigeon paper that fills me with dread.

I have gamely volunteered to mind the ship so the entire crew can take a few hours shore leave, while Borker is gallivanting around. It's good for morale, no reason they should have to hang around waiting for Borker to fulfil his wild errand. The crew left, animated and excited, and I immediately set about searching Borker's cabin.

My Father is devious: most of the time he is the affable, pleasant, and reliable Mayor of New Frisco, but in the background he employs cronies like Borker to enforce his will. I can hear him in my mind right now. "Jack, my boy, you are too honest. You are taken in by that clap-trap they preach to constables about protecting and serving, being a noble knight of the people. Real power, Jack, comes from understanding the dark side of human nature and bending it to serve you." My Father, I suspect, knows all about the dark side of human nature, but maybe not as much as Borker.

I don't trust Borker and I have decided that to survive this command I need to become as devious as the good Lieutenant.

Borker's cabin is neat and spartan, the man lives like a monk. He possesses no clothes other than his uniforms, no comforts, no luxuries, and his reading matter is comprised entirely of regulations and manuals, except for a thick book entitled 'The Art of War', by Sun Tzu. It's the only interesting thing in this cell of a room and as I flick through the pages a piece of pigeon paper falls to the floor.

Whoever sent the message to Borker by pigeon did not declare their name. The crackly tissue paper is covered in small neat words. There are two bearings, both heading out from Newark platform: one heads to Newtonsteign, capital of the Microtough empire, and the other heads to somewhere called, 'The village of the Damned.' Underneath are the words, "I say again, you must bring her in alive. Do not disobey me. Your fate will be her fate and don't even think of becoming a martyr to the cause.'

My heart freezes, I am such a fool—this can only relate to Nina. Does Borker want her dead so desperately that my Father has to warn him off. I have no doubt the message is from my Father, who else wants Nina Swift taken alive. I will have to double my attempts to keep Nina out of Borker's clutches until she has a chance to prove her innocence.

So why has Borker gone looking for information he already possesses? And the greater mystery, why would my Father have the faintest idea where Nina is heading next? So far, her course seems entirely random. And what is the cause Father refers to? Clearly, they have left me out of some important parts of the loop—I should have known.

I hear footsteps on the boardwalk. Hurriedly, I slip the pigeon paper back into the Art of War and carefully place it back on the shelf, then hurry back up to the deck.

As my head pokes through the hatch I'm just in time to see Borker mount the gangplank. He's red and sweating, and there's a nasty cut on his right cheek. He looks like he's been fighting. Behind him stride three smart police captains.

Barker salutes and addresses me crisply. "Captain, these gentlemen require sight of your Letter of Mark before they will allow us to coerce them to our cause." Our cause? Or my Father's cause?

"Is this necessary Lieutenant?" What game is he playing now?

"Quite necessary, sir." He's putting on a show for these other constable's. He's never called me 'Sir,' before, let alone saluted me. "My informants confirm our quarry has indeed visited Newark and is heading off in one of two possible directions. We need more vessels so we can split our forces to apprehend the murderers."

So that's the game: Borker brought us here to Newark in the hope of finding other constables to swell our ranks. I wish I knew who he's been fighting, someone bigger and meaner than him I hope. I've never seen anyone get the better of him before—I bet there's a tale to tell there.

I don't bother to ask Borker about his informants or the possible headings, since I already know—let him think I trust him or have no interest. Instead I invite the captains of my new flotilla into the map room for a briefing. I usher them in ahead of me, then deliberately close the door on Borker. He's not a ship's Captain, so he has no right to claim a place in this briefing.

It gives me a petty sense of triumph to shut Borker out, but I know I will pay for it later. Still, it gives me the opportunity to stress the importance of taking Nina Swift alive and letting her stand trial for her alleged crimes.

The main question, is how do I stop Borker from shooting Nina out of the skies when we eventually catch up with her?
Chapter 20

After evading Borker and his assassins by leaping from the Newark platform onto the Shonti Bloom waiting below, I am hoping for a good lie in.

"Nina, we got company."

I open a blurry eye and eventually focus on Scud's tired face.

"Fernando says you need to come have a look," he says,

"Oh my muscles." Everything aches as I swing out of my hammock; my legs stiff from all the running and bruised from my collision with the Shonti's hull; my arms and chest still burn from the effort of leaping onto the blimp; my burned hand throbs beneath thick layers of bandages. I wipe sleepy dust from my eyes. "Whatever he wants had better be important," I grumble hobbling to the door. I know I am being ungracious, but right now I don't care.

Fernando hands me a telescope the moment I step on deck. He points into the sunrise in our wake. "On the horizon."

For a moment my heart stops and I think, 'Reavers.' Then reality cuts in, Fernando wouldn't require my opinion if we were about to encounter a Reaver raiding party. He would have the ship running in the opposite direction with all hands on deck handing out weapons. Fernando has a healthy aversion to becoming a Reaver's lunch, as do I.

The air smells fresh—a new day. I stare at the pink tinged horizon and my mind clicks into alertness.

The newly risen sun highlights the uniform colors of two shark-tailed air ships, far too smart for Reaver ships. No hiding now—that sun has already picked us out like a beacon. The shark-tails are too distant for me to see the rows of Evinrude bio engines or the bristling weapons, but I can picture them in my mind.

I hand the telescope back to Fernando. "Constables."

"Exactly."

"They might have nothing to do with us," I say hopefully, but I know it's a false hope—too many coincidences.

Fernando rolls his eyes. "Scud and I changed tack half an hour ago and they immediately matched our course."

Trent and Izzy emerge onto the deck for the morning watch, mugs of steaming coffee in their hands.

Izzy notices the tension between us immediately. "What's up?"

"The constables have found us," I say simply.

Trent scrutinizes his cup. "That's quick. How?"

How indeed?

I shrug my aching shoulders. "Someone recognized my face? The assassins tipped them off? They got lucky? Does it matter?" All I really want to do is return to bed, but as Captain I have to deal with this situation first.

When entering an uneven contest, you need to work your strengths and force your opponents onto their weaknesses.

Shark-tailed ships sprint over short distances. They need large batteries and lots of sunshine to maintain that speed. To further boost their sprinting abilities, they sport banks of engines, which eat lots of heavy bio-fuel. Large-fluked whale-tails, like the Shonti Bloom, endure over long distances; light, fuel efficient, good at altitude, but slower, especially in a race.

Our best chance is to lose them during the night, but we have to stay ahead until nightfall and it's only dawn.

I study the race course: Light stratospheric clouds above; not much below—nowhere to hide. All this light and sunshine is going to favor the shark-tails. Somehow, I need to neutralize those banks of powerful engines.

I watch Izzy take the helm from Fernando—the night shift is over. Hopefully, it's going to be a long day.

"Take us high," I order, "as high above those clouds as you can get. And find a jet-stream to boost us along." The thin chill air will give the shark-tails little to thrash against and hopefully freeze their engines. Our large flukes should give us the advantage.

"Full throttle and burn the engines until they freeze up. It's going to get cold guys. I'm going back to bed."

By mid-day, when we break through the stratos clouds, the constables have drawn so close we can read the registration marks printed on their envelopes, without the aid of telescopes. I start to sweat—maybe I have misjudged. Thankfully, we are still out of weapons range.

The atmosphere aboard the Shonti Bloom is growing tense; the others are starting to doubt my judgment. If the constables close the gap sufficiently to use their weapons, we are finished. Unable to sleep below in my cabin, I pace the deck annoying everyone else. They try their best to ignore me, knowing there is no plan B. No one speaks.

Eventually, we gain sufficient height to make a difference. The higher we climb the more the constable ships labor in the thinning atmosphere. Every stroke of the Shonti Bloom's huge flukes powers us marginally ahead. At last we can kill the engines and save fuel for maneuvering. I shrug myself deeper into my fur-lined flight jacket against the dropping temperature. Ice sparkles from the rigging and on the blades of the redundant engines. Time to pull on our fur hats and gloves.

Then luck strikes and we find our slipstream. The gap between us and the constables opens up again. With every extra meter we forge ahead, the tension on the deck eases slightly. I make the crew break out spare blimp material to jury-rig heavy spinnaker sails. We fly them from the bow like giant kites. Everyone jumps to their task with renewed enthusiasm. With the sails up, we can catch every last molecule of the pursuing slipstream, to help power us along. Smiles start to crack the lips of my stressed-out crew. Then we wait. The silence broken only by the cracking of the sail canvas, the swish of the Shonti's tail, and my nervous pacing.

Mid-way through the afternoon, their engines long frozen solid, the constables find the slipstream too. They produce their own sails and pick up speed again, but they have lost their advantage and the distance between us remains constant.

Finally, I can relax. "We're going to make it to nightfall guys." To celebrate, I take my aching body back to bed with instructions for my crew to wake me no later than an hour before sunset. To follow the long day, we have a long night ahead of us. Eventually, I allow the swish of the Shonti Bloom's great tail to lull me to sleep.

As the sun finally sets and the Shonti Bloom's lights flicker on, we complete preparation of our secret weapon.

The constable airships of the constable skim the high cloud in the moonlight, like schooners on an ocean of cloud, looking ghostly and beautiful. I try to imagine what the Shonti Bloom looks like from the constables' point of view. Are they admiring the beauty of my ship's lines, silhouetted against the sunset, or do they just see a quarry they must capture? I bet Borker has no concept of beauty.

Fernando dashes back from the forward lookout. "Thick bank of clouds straight ahead, Captain."

After their initial doubts, the whole crew has pulled together as one—even if we lose this race, I know I will feel a glow of pride in all of them: the reward of command.

"Everyone ready?"

They all give me thumbs up and I take over the helm.

Gently, I steer the Shonti Bloom into the thick cloud. Initially, a light mist blurs our vision, but soon visibility drops to nil.

"Blimp's covered," Scud calls, sliding confidently down the rigging from the top lookout.

"Haul those sails in!" I order. "We're diving in ten, nine, eight, seven—"

Frantically, my crew claws in the spinnakers. The sudden frantic activity at odds with the lazy race of the previous fifteen hours.

"—three, two, one—." The last of the sail material slithers down through a deck hatch, where the crew abandons it in great heaps as they race to their next stations.

"—Dive! Dive! Dive!" Together, Izzy and I throw our shoulders against the helm, forcing the ship into a steep dive. It protests with loud groans and creaks from the rigging, but, with a hiss of compressing gas it obeys. "Full power to the port engine, Fernando! Release the device, Scud!"

Trent and Scud heave our final hope of losing the constables over the side and watch it disappear into the murk. We all listen for the crash which would signal defeat. We hear nothing.

"Clear," Scud reports. The weapon has deployed.

"Level up! Hard to starboard!" I throw my weight against the opposite side of the helm while Izzy pulls back and spins the wheel at the same time.

"One, two, three..." I count to ten as the Shonti Bloom levels out onto her new heading below the cloud layer.

"All stop!" I order. "Kill everything! Silent running!"

The tail hangs motionless, and all the electrics, especially the tail lights, fade. To anyone looking down, as the constables are, with the moonlight blocked by cloud, the Shonti Bloom should merge into the black shadow of the land below. Invisible.

It is amazing how far sound can travel in the air, especially at night. I, and the rest of the crew, hold our breaths. I watch the spare tail light, connected to a battery and dangling from a small hydrogen balloon, sink rapidly into the distance; blown along on our previous heading—the secret weapon. I pray the cloud has damped the sounds of our maneuvers sufficiently to escape the attention of the constables.

When attempting to deceive a pursuer, providing something for them to focus on helps create the deception that they are still following the same quarry, even if the source of that focus has switched.

It is not long before we hear two airships pounding and clanking through the cloud layer in hot pursuit. We high-five each other silently as they continue past in hot pursuit of our decoy. We watch, with satisfaction, as both sets of tail lights descend into the blackness. They have bought our deception.

Silently, we get under way on our new heading.

A speech is required. "If my Mother were here...'

"Which she is not," I hear Izzy hiss.

"She would say amazing work everyone. So well done." I am so proud of my crew; I feel tears pricking at the corners of my eyes. Thankfully, the darkness covers my reaction. An emotional captain would never do.

I regain my composure and clear my throat. "New course; new plan. We head straight for the third clue first—the eyes of Gaia."
Chapter 21

Ashcroft Ascent is one small island boasting many different building styles, stacked one on top of another; skyscrapers housing multiple floored hydroponic fields peek through the clutter of older style buildings crammed shoulder to shoulder. Below, smart terraces hang below the rocky bottom of the overcrowded land mass. An old island, probably one the first cities to fly; a cramped and claustrophobic place, where the wealthy have moved down instead of up.

Docked white airships claim this as part of the Microtough protectorate. Not strictly within the realms of the Engineering Guild, but allied to them in some fashion. Probably through agricultural treaties judging by the proliferation of hydroponic farms.

We are here in search of the third clue in my Mother's journal: something called "The Eyes of Gaia."

Sunlight struggles to reach warm fingers into the narrow alleys between towering buildings—gloom is the dominant feature at ground level. Port holes of sunlight, piped from upper stories, light the streets with garish patches of sun among the shade. No open plazas or wide sunlit streets here. I cannot imagine living in such a dark, cramped, claustrophobic space. No wonder the well-to-do have moved down to lighter, more spacious lodgings.

We provision the Shonti Bloom with fresh produce from the hydroponic farms—at a price, of course, then set out to find the museum.

As we exit the docks and enter the gloomy maze of streets, we pass a bespectacled statue of Bill, 'The first Gates,' patron saint of Microtough. The talk of the docks is how Chief Engineer Symons recently succeeded the late and unlamented General Molotoph as the new Gates—the Engineering Guild staking their claim once more on the Microtough Empire. Whether the Engineering Guild controls Microtough or Microtough controls the engineers is a relationship constantly in flux.

"Hail Gates, keeper of knowledge," Scud mutters as he passes the statue.

The walls of the narrow street lean in on me, squeezing the breath out of the place. The residents ignore us, scurrying about their business in ubiquitous Microtough white suits.

"How did the ancients build such tall, thin structures?" Scud muses.

I turn doubtfully to the others. "Surely, this place won't make room for anything that wastes space, such as a museum?"

"All Guild protectorates have museums," Scud replies, "it makes them feel important."

"Means they can tell history from their point of view," Fernando chimes in. "Very important when it comes to controlling the masses." Trust Fernando to always have a political eye on the situation.

We stop to ask directions at a little kiosk selling "Delicious" hot pies.

"In the base of hydroponic two-six-seven," the pie lady says cheerfully while taking our money. The pies, as advertised, are excellent—roasted Butternut Squash and some spices I cannot identify.

The museum is indeed in the base of a towering hydroponics farm. 'Gone for lunch, back in an hour,' a sign declares. The door is not only unlocked, but standing wide open—a trusting lot. A lucky turn of events with no one about to disturb us. We should be in and out without anyone knowing.

We have no trouble finding the Eye of Gaia—it's the main exhibit, almost the only exhibit. A huge heavy lidded eyeball, as high as my waist, carved in a heavy green luminescent stone. I know just how heavy, because after searching the visible exterior I try to roll it onto its side to see underneath. It nearly crushes my toes as I let it rock back into place. Fernando cracks up with laughter while I perform a stupid little jig to keep my toes clear.

Nothing. As far as I can see, the sculpture is devoid of unusual features.

"Can I help you?"

Jumping half out my skin, I spin round to see a scruffy individual, in an off-white suit, smiling blandly from the doorway. A badge on his chest says Curator. That was a quick lunch.

Did he see me looking under the eye of Gaia? I hope it has stopped rocking behind me. I decided to blag it anyway. "Yeah, possibly, we're doing a school project on early post-industrial objects."

The curator raises his hands dramatically in the air. "You got me."

"I have?"

"The eyes of Gaia?"

The comment flies straight past me. "Sorry?"

"The eyes?"

I shake my head, perplexed.

"The sign," he sighs, "says the 'Eyes of Gaia,' but there's only one."

"Oh." Now I get it—one eye out of two.

Izzy's there before me. "You mean there is another one?"

The curator beams like he's just explained the source of the universe. "A pair. Even though Ashcroft Ascent's most famous daughter discovered the eyes, the engineers have never let us keep both. Of course, we protest in the strongest terms on a regular basis, but who are we, just a gnat barking at the bull."

The relevance of this information still eludes me. "There's another eye. But not here?" I ask stupidly.

"Originally, we had nothing. Then, a couple of years ago, we thought we'd won our case. The engineers gave up both eyes, but they only let us keep them for a year before taking one away. Despicable, building up our hopes then demanding one back. We had a grand welcome home ceremony and declared a national holiday and everything."

While the curator pauses for breath in his saga, I dive in. "So where is the other eye now?"

"Newtonsteign."

Izzy gasps, "Newtonsteign?"

Scud wanders off looking worried and Fernando has trouble closing his mouth.

"We had to return it to Newtonsteign last year. A crying shame. The Engineers claimed it might have a more significant value than first thought. Just a ruse if you ask me...want all the glory for themselves."

My heart sinks, Newtonsteign, center of the Microtough Empire, official residence of the Grand Engineer; and just about the most security conscious place in the world. How can we possible sneak in unnoticed, take a squint at the other eye, and get out again with our lives?
Chapter 22

Two days away from Newtonsteign, Scud wakes me with more bad news. "We got company again, Nina. Two more law enforcement ships patrolling across out flight path."

I can't believe our bad luck. Either they got the jump on us while we were messing about on Ashcroft Ascent or they have a whole fleet chasing us. Borker's information network must be more extensive than even Scud's paranoid imagination can conjure up.

I slam my cabin door on the way out and stomp up the steps to deck. I snatch up a telescope, and cross to where Fernando stands like a sentinel studying the intruders through his own scope.

"Have they seen us?" I demand. I don't even question the identity of the ships. Since our last encounter, the crew's confidence has grown noticeably and I see no reason to knock them now. They know what they were doing.

"Not yet. There's a vicious storm coming in right behind us so we're still hidden in darkness. We need to turn back before the sun catches us."

I study the shark-tails: one patrolling well above our cruising altitude and one below, identical to the ones we encountered before.

"They knew we were coming." I lower the glass to find everyone else staring at me. "Did I just speak that aloud?"

"How?" Fernando demands. "How do they know where we're headed?"

"Either the journal isn't as secret as we think it is," Scud suggests, "or—"

I have an idea and raise the telescope to study the approaching storm.

"—or someone betrayed us." Izzy finishes.

This time when I lower the telescope they are all staring at Trent. Could Trent have betrayed us? Would he? He seems so happy as part of the team—positively thriving on the camaraderie of a disciplined fully functioning crew, something I guess might be a new experience for him. Besides, what does he have to gain by getting himself caught?

Trent responds to his accusers like a cornered cat. "You think because I'm the last one in I betrayed you?" he wheezes—something he always does under stress. A sign of guilt? "How much did each of you really know about Fernando, Izzy or Scud before they joined your crew, Nina?"

Fernando's nostrils flare in disgust. "You leave Izzy out of it—she's the one who's lost her father here."

"I've known Scud for years, and Izzy is family," I say quietly.

"An' families never betray each other, I suppose," Trent scoffs.

He has a point, especially about, Fernando—all those debts could leave one vulnerable to blackmail. I shake myself, this is pointless speculation and the distrust could tear my crew apart again as surely as the worst storm.

They eye each other suspiciously. I have to put a stop to this. "You are all missing the bigger picture here, guys—Borker is an assassin and a constable, he now knows what we are after and I bet he knows where the other clues are hidden, he's merely split his forces to cover both bases. So no more talk of traitors—we are one crew and we look out for each other, agreed?"

The others sheepishly nod their heads and mumble apologies.

Disaster averted.

"Good, now let's deal with these constables," I growl. No way am I letting them win this time. "I've got a plan. All stop!"

This time, the constables suffer from a major weakness—they won't dare set foot on Newtonsteign. In fact, they are not at all welcome in Microtough airspace. There's history: independent city states against a centrally controlled empire. There have been several wars over the decades so any official city state ship is automatically suspect. If we can just get passed their patrol we can get to the next clue. And I know exactly how to do it.

The storm whips up behind us and we surf along just inside its leading edge—invisible to the constables, but heading in the right direction for Newtonsteign. A simple and highly dangerous ruse.

"Scud, I need you on the wheel." Fernando and I are already battling to keep the ship out of the storm's vortex, but still hidden within the clouds. A third set of hands might just prevent our rigging being mangled, our hydrogen bags punctured, and the whole ship spat into the ground like match sticks.

The compass is useless in this storm and we have no way of seeing where we are going. I am navigating purely by touch now: feeling how the Shonti Bloom responds to the buffeting winds of the storm and compensating to maintain our position. I find it easier to close my eyes. I can visualize the Shonti Bloom in a giant wind tunnel, and let my imagination guide me. Scud and Fernando are just providing extra weight to help me enforce my will on the steering and stop the wheel spinning out of control every time the ship hits a counter blast.

We battle on for hour after exhausting hour. At one point, as night falls, I feel like the storm has flipped us on our heads and is threatening to tear off our tail. Without our tail, we will be a floating dead weight, ripped to shreds. We hang on for dear life, too exhausted to do more than throw our combined weight in one direction or another. Miraculously, the Shonti Bloom rights herself. I breathe a brief sigh of relief before the storm throws us into another confusing vortex.

Sometime during the night, the storm starts to weaken, releasing the Shonti Bloom from its relentless grip. Exhausted, we collapse where we stand and curl up to sleep on the cold hard deck.

Fernando shakes me awake. Sunlight streams across the deck, not a sign of last night's mega storm. "Nina, constables. Just appeared over the horizon."

I grab a telescope and laugh when I see the direction Fernando points. "Well done, guys, we got past them." Their ships must have run ahead of the storm, the safe and sensible course of action. Now, though, they are well away from their stations and we are between them and Newtonsteign.

Izzy grins at the turn of events. "Orders Captain."

I point away from the shark-tails. "Turnabout and make all possible speed for Newtonsteign."

Within an hour the constables are gaining on us, but then four pure white airships of the Microtough Navy appear on the horizon ahead of us and the constables withdraw.

We have escaped the constables, all we need to do now is get past the white ships of the Microtough Navy who are training their blast-cannons on us.

An officer, dressed in a pure white uniform, appears on the deck of the closest Microtough ship with a megaphone. "Heave to and prepare to be boarded," he orders.

This time we cannot run.
Chapter 23

While still at Ashcroft Ascent we had prepared for our assault on Newtonsteign. So when the first gleaming white airship of the Newtonsteign patrol hauls alongside us, we are able to slip on our long, cheap, but plausible, double-breasted white coats, and present our forged letter of introduction. The letter is signed by the curator of the Ashcroft Ascent museum, who thought he was signing off our bogus school projects.

We are engineering students on a field trip from Ashcroft Ascent to the heart of the engineering guild: the great city of Newtonsteign—a wonder of the modern age. Trent is our teacher.

When constructing a believable fabrication, keep it simple and as close to the truth as possible. Include some genuine artifacts to help smooth over the lies.

I have my doubts about this ruse. It seems too simple, but Trent has visited Newtonsteign before and assures us educational parties visit all the time. Ashcroft Ascent is too close and therefore all too easily checked out for my liking, but I relented when Scud suggested the letter of introduction. At least the signature is genuine.

Grappling hooks pull the Shonti Bloom alongside the Newtonsteign craft. Two guards swing across the gap separating the two hulls on ropes. One attaches a line to our winch pulley while the other watches with steely cold eyes and covers us with a compression rifle. Once secure at their end, the winch is used to haul across a canvas cradle.

An officer, dressed in the pure white uniform of the Microtough Navy steps gingerly out of the cradle, accompanied by two further guards, both wielding compression riffles. The officer holds out a white-gloved hand. "Papers."

Trent presents our fake identity papers and the letter of introduction. I wait, my heart hammering nervously in the silence. I watch Scud staring out the window counting clouds--he doesn't like strangers or lies. The officer stares intently at our IDs like he knows they are fake, he even holds mine up to the light. I can feel cold sweat running down the side of my face. He spends an inordinate time reading and re-reading the introduction letter, like he's searching for some hidden meaning. Just when I think it's inevitable I'm in for a long spell in a Microtough jail, the officer looks up and smiles. "These all seem in order. Please enjoy your trip." The officer departs the way same way he arrived, in the cradle device.

We all grin at each other like the conspirators we are.

I can't believe our luck. "That was way too easy. I was convinced he could tell our documents are forged."

"I nearly had kitten," Izzy laughs, "when he held your ID up to the light."

Scud's still looking out the window nervously. "Too easy. Plans never run that smoothly."

"Cut it out, Scud." Fernando is annoyed, he's joined this ruse under duress—he was out voted. "Sometimes things just go the way they were planned. It's all in the preparation. Good preparation delivers a smooth plan." He's right, up to a point, but then you must always plan for the unexpected—the known unknowns and the unknown unknowns.

"I told you it would work," Trent boasts—he hardly looks worried at all. "They love educational trips on Newtonsteign—feeds their big egos."

We get under way again. Two more white ships, containing equally white—clad security forces, stop us on our approach. The engineering guild takes security seriously.

Eventually, the great city itself floats into view. What a sight; nothing in the world looks even remotely like Newtonsteign. The entire floating landmass is covered in glass and sculpted in the shape of a giant lily flower. Other landmasses are linked to the central bloom like arteries to a heart; one even sports six chimneys belching out black smoke, something I have never seen before.

"The foundries," Trent informs us with distaste.

No slums allowed to spoil the pristine beauty of this design. In fact, lots of things are not allowed.

The Chief Engineer reaches out from his souring glass palace at the center of Newtonsteign into virtually every city, town, and platform on the planet. Only Chartered Engineers know the secrets of old world technology that keep the city landmasses afloat. The engineering guild wields enormous power over other city states. If any city dares to default on its crippling tithe, the guild simply withdraws its engineers, dooming that city to slow technological decline and ultimate destruction. It only takes one city state to fall from the sky for all the rest to get the message. With so many secrets to guard, no wonder security is tight.

"Isn't this place fantastic," Scud enthuses as we shuffle into an arrivals area. "If nothing else, the museum is going to be worth seeing."

Everywhere I look I can see posters of Chief Engineer Smyth in his white suit and white-lensed shades, espousing the laws of the guild; "No action without Guild reaction; Natural law is fixed and unchanging; All things decay unless maintained by the Guild; Energy is neither created nor destroyed, but flows from the Guild."

The hairs on the nape of my neck prickle. "Shh, don't draw attention to yourself," I advise the others. For all its grandness and inspiring architecture, I can tell that a weight rests heavily on the population here. It isn't just the uniforms and the dazzling whiteness of the place, nor the personality cult of the Chief Engineer. Newtonsteign contains darker forces: a constriction of thought, a subtle control of the mind. This place gives me the creeps. I can't wait to get to the eye and leave.

"My father wanted me to train as an engineer," Scud continues. Strangely, he's completely unfazed by Newtonsteign, maybe the regimented order of the place appeals to his sense of rightness. "But I couldn't get inspired by all those laws." He's certainly clever and diligent enough to have made it in the guild.

Apart from Scud, I wonder if the others can feel the oppression. Trent looks edgy, which isn't unusual, he's scanning arrivals looking for trouble. Fernando is relaxed, but Izzy jumps at every new sound. I bet she can feel it too.

Suddenly, a huge explosion rocks the whole landmass, shaking me to my knees. Frantically, I scan arrivals for danger. At first I don't see anything, then people start pointing towards the soaring glass of the outer window. On a neighboring landmass, two foundry chimneys are starting to topple. Gracefully, they collapse in opposite directions, bounce on the edges of the island, then slide over the sides, like felled trees amid a shower of debris, and plummet earthward.

I hope the explosion has nothing to do with me: first the post hub, now Newtonsteign, am I jinxed or something?
Chapter 24

Newtonians run shouting and screaming in all directions, their over-reaction bordering on the paranoid. I'm not the only one who notices their odd behavior.

"For goodness sake, what's wrong with these people?" Fernando asks incredulously. "It's only a foundry explosion; it's not even close to us."

The sudden chaos in such a clean and ordered environment is like a gash through beautiful silk showing crude and primitive emotions just below the surface.

Among the pandemonium, three young women, dressed all in black, with black backpacks, catch my attention. They run purposefully together from the balloon ferry, newly arrived from the foundry island. It is full of panicked and smoke blackened citizens.

The fast moving, close-knit unit of three stands out amid the chaos. They run to the wall of glass near our queue. One tapes something to the glass pane in a rectangular shape. She steps back and smiles briefly in our direction. I automatically return the smile, as does Trent. Then the girl presses a remote. The glass blows out leaving a neat rectangular doorway. All three punched the air in triumph.

"Death to pollution,"' they chorus, "power to the Daughters of Gaia."

"Stop!" I hear someone shout. Then there is the rattle of gunfire and we all dive for the floor. Security has arrived. The Daughters of Gaia, though, have already dived through the glass. This explains the Newtonian's panic: terrorism.

I crawl to the window to watch as security gathers by the gaping hole, but there is no airship waiting to catch the terrorists. Instead, three black blobs fade from view as they plummet earthwards. A couple of circling shark-tails dive after them, but without any real hope of apprehending then.

Just as the dots fade to nothing, they blossom into brightly colored flowers, red, yellow, blue: parachutes. Very clever.

Will the engineers pursue them to the earth below? Probably, but I bet the Daughters of Gaia will be long gone by then.

So the Great Gates doesn't have everything his own way. Somehow, I find that thought comforting. I hope the three girls make it away safely, though I have no idea why I should think that. Maybe, as fellow outsiders here, I feel a sort of kinship with them.

"The Daughters of Gaia are terrorists," Trent is explaining to Izzy. "They've been a real nuisance for years. They attack anything the engineers produce that pollutes, and much more as well. Hence the tight security."

Between them, the Chief Engineer and the Daughters of Gaia have this population pretty much locked down, though they look happy enough as they are given the all clear by security.

Trent turns to me. "That's blow it."

"Why?"

"Because the Eye is in a museum on that island they just closed."

After processing through arrivals, we wander round for a bit ogling at the starched anemic surroundings. Uniformly sized houses rise geometrically in stacks towards the glass ceiling that encases the whole of Newtonsteign. Driverless electric karts hum along the streets, magically weaving round the pedestrians without hitting a single one. Whenever a kart reaches its destination, the occupants climb out and just leave the kart abandoned on the street, until another white-suited pedestrian takes it into their mind to climb aboard and set off.

Seeing an abandoned kart, I decided it's time we return to the Shonti Bloom to keep a low profile. I climb into the kart. The others follow apprehensively.

I scan the smooth, white, featureless interior of the kart. "Anyone know how to start this thing?"

Ferdinand, Scud, and Izzy crowd over my shoulder offering advice.

"Tap the screen."

"Look for a starter under the seat."

There's nothing more embarrassing than jumping into a piece of tech and finding you can't make it move.

I try to ignore my advisers. "This is daft—the starter has to be here somewhere."

"Try pushing it," Ferdinand suggests.

"Ha,ha." Very funny.

Trent jumps into the front passenger seat beside me. "Shush, do you want to draw everyone's attention to your ignorance? There's a patrol coming." He nods towards two white-suited guards wandering down the street towards us. I can tell they are beginning to take an interest in our kart.

"Dock, 64, deck 32," Trent says clearly and the kart lurches forward, hums past the guards, and zips round a corner out of sight.

"Brilliant, Trent, how did you know how to do that?"

"Just seemed logical."

I laugh with relief. That will teach me to take on new tech I don't understand. Our humor only highlights the oppressive nature of Newtonsteign.

The next morning, the balloon ferry to the bombed island is running again. Our student cover story appears to be holding up well so we decide to conclude our business as quickly as we can. We risk the ferry crossing even though the island is crawling with white-suited guards. As we crowd into the balloon basket, the attendants body search us, presumably for weapons or bombs.

If they had searched everyone that well before the attack they could have prevented it, but human nature being what it is they only step up their efficiency after the event—useless really, since the chance of an attack now is virtually nil.

The museum is open, though other areas are still roped off. While we wait to disembark from the balloon, I pause to listen to a couple of guards discussing the previous day's attack.

"Don't know why anyone would want to attack this factory? Not like it's important or anything and it's been here for decades, why choose now to bomb it?"

"Captain reckons it's a distraction. Had us searching for booby traps and delayed devices all night. Most of the island is clear now. Just a few more sites to check before we sound the all clear, but if it was only a distraction the real attackers could have planted a device on any of the islands or even within Newtonsteign itself."

Trent drags me away as we finally cleared to land.

Once in the museum it's easy to find the eyes of Gaia in the Mysteries and Folklore section, tucked away in a little room to the side of a large tech hall. Clearly, the Newtonians have a much lower opinion of the Gaia cult than their cousins in the provinces. Even here, though, a security guard sits on a chair, alert and watchful. Do these engineers never drop their vigilance?
Chapter 25

We have already agreed to a tactic.

Izzy walks straight up to the museum guard. "Hi, I think someone's left a bag in one of the galleries."

Immediately, after a terrorist attack there is nothing guaranteed to grab security's attention more than an abandoned bag.

The guard jumps up like he'd been stung. "Where?"

"I'll show you," Izzy helpfully leads him away from Mysteries and Folklore to where we deposited the bag. As soon as they are out of sight, the rest of us attack the eye of Gaia. Remembering the hairline cracks in Gaia's stomach, I scan every surface with my fingertips. We must look like an outing from a blind school having a sensory art experience. Nothing.

"Turn it over," I order. It takes all of us to roll the heavy stone eye on to its side.

"Here," Scud calls. On the underside of the eye, there is a whole series of shapes and figures in neat lines, like an essay. We've found it.

I slap on the thin paper I have brought for the task and start rubbing with charcoal to get a clear image of the text. The clue from the journal runs through my mind as I rub. "The eye of Gaia sits and thinks, the clue you shall find when she blinks."

The others are still searching every inch of the carving. "Anyone else got anything? The others have drawn blanks. "So how do we make her blink?"

"I think we already have," Fernando volunteers, "we've rolled the eyeball over so it's kind of blinked." Maybe.

I look to Scud. "It's a simple substitution code."

To me it looks anything but simple.

"See," he points out some figures, "this symbol occurs most often so this is an 'e' and this one occurs mostly on its own so it has to be an 'i' or an 'a'." It looks totally baffling to me, but I trust Scud, he is a genius with codes—numbers are his thing.

I pace while Scud works his magic. I try to show interest in the other exhibits: a piece of shiny silver metal so thin you can fold is like paper. The caption reads, "In the folk tale of Hansel and Gretel, the children are said to wrap up their picnic lunch in tin foil, believed to be similar to the Aluminum Foil displayed here, which can indeed be folded to form a protective package."

Poppycock, who in their right minds would use such a valuable metal resource to wrap up their lunch?

I turn to see Scud still processing.

"You got it yet, Scud."

"Not yet."

Beside the foil, is a case containing a creepily proportioned doll made from some kind of resin. The most outstanding thing about her is her impossibly long legs, fully half the length of her body—they are hinged at the thighs, but curiously not hinged at the knee; her waist is tiny with a swivel hinge, her arms are oddly thin, the same width from shoulder to wrist—perhaps she has some muscle wasting disease that effects only her arms; her hands like her feet are minuscule; her neck is ridiculously long and thin, not like a human neck at all, and her face is that of a young child—large eyes and button nose; while her chest is that of an adult. She has blond hair. The child/adult doll sends shivers down my spine.

The caption reads, "Statuettes like these are surprisingly common in the ruins of Late Industrial Age homes. They are believed to represent some sort of beauty cult. The cult was worshipped by most societies round the world. Female adolescents and women who belonged to the Barbie cult fanatically aspired to attain the impossible proportions of their deity." Yuck. "Methods of emulation included dieting, exercising, and even surgery to permanently alter their body shapes." Gross. How can such an innocent looking plaything have such a powerful hold over the world? The earth dwellers of old really were a weird bunch.

I pace some more—I know the concerned the guard will return soon. "We're running out of time, Scud."

"Nearly there."

Another case catches my eye while I wait. Inside are small white sticks about three inches long; some are colored orange at one end and others appear charred. The caption tells me that inside these uniformly sized sticks are dried herbs. "Similar to the herbs uses in Reaver peace pipes, but without the hallucinogenic qualities." I shiver at the thought of the barbaric Reavers—not a group I want to meet on my travels.

The caption continues, "Despite numerous references to the dangerous health hazards of inhaling smoke from the slow burning dried herbs contained in these Cigarette sticks, they appear to have been a common recreational past-time of people throughout the whole of the Industrial Age." The caption doesn't say whether they burned the orange end or the white end or both ends at once. I suppose they cupped their hands over the burning cigarette and inhaled the smoke through the hole formed between their thumbs. Odd.

"I think I got it," Scud calls at last. Actually, it has only been a few minutes.

I rush over to the eye and join the others.

Scud points to the figures on the underside of the stone eye. "It's a lock. If I've got it right, we press this symbol, followed by this one, and then—'

"What if you press them in the wrong order," Trent interrupts.

Scud shrugs. "Then I guess we never get in."

I rest my hand on Trent's arm to restrain him, just in case he's thinking of intervening. "Trust him, Scud's brilliant at these sorts of things."

Trent looks me in the eye, then nods, once. "If you say so, Captain."

Scud continues, "—this one, and then this one."

There is a tiny click from the side of the eye.

"Here," Fernando shouts excitedly. He bends down. "The pupil of the eye has popped out. It's a draw." He straightens up holding a small plate made of the same stone as the eye. On it are six numbers in pairs, cleanly machined into the surface, as if they were produced yesterday—the draw in the eye must have been hermetically sealed.

I jot down the numbers. "Ok, put it back."

The others stare at me in astonishment.

"What? You think we're taking it? What if they body search us on the way out? Or they check every day to see it's still there? Do you want to get caught?"

Fernando quickly places the tablet back in the draw and snaps it shut. Quietly, we roll the eye back into place and leave.

Outside, Izzy joins us. "Have you got it?" Scud proudly shows her what we have found.

"More numbers?" she says with disappointed. I don't know what she expected to find, but it clearly wasn't more numbers.

Scud is the only one who looks really pleased, due to his affinity for numbers—in fact he likes them better than people. "There must be a pattern." His eyes glaze over as he drifts off to process again. I know better than to disturb Scud while he's thinking, so we steer him back to the Shonti Bloom, deposit him in the map room, then get the ship underway as quickly as we can.

As I steer out of the dock I can't stop thinking about the numbers. Something about them troubles me, but I can't pin it down, it's just a feeling that something is not quite right.

I try to shake off the feeling and concentrate on putting Newtonsteign as far behind us as I can.
Chapter 26

Since we departed Newtonsteign, with the answer to the second clue contained in my Mother's journal, Scud has hardly moved from the map table. He's trying every permutation of every code he can think of, and some he's made up. Is it a code, a number game, some sort of riddle? We've been bringing his meals to him at the desk. I'm not sure, but he might even have slept sprawled over the table last night.

Fernando took only one brief look at the numbers. "Grid references," he grunted, then wandered off muttering to himself. Mental puzzles aren't his thing.

I still have the disturbing feeling something about the numbers is not right, but again I cannot pin it down, so I'm having another crack at it with Scud. "Could Fernando be right? Grid references?"

Scud shakes his head. "No way—too simple. It's got to be a code of some kind."

We try every secret code we've already tried: letter substitutions, anagrams, number progressions, pig Latin then we reshuffle everything into progressions until we have exhausted each combination. Still nothing.

I suspect that without the third clue all this speculating will prove fruitless, but there's no stopping Scud. I give up in frustration and leave him to slog on. He will continue like a machine until he has either cracked the code or proven to himself that no combination works—he can't help it, once started his world will fall apart if he doesn't finish.

Once, unable to solve a math equation at the academy, I saw Scud start to shake. He panicked and refused to eat or sleep until the equation was solved. The sight of Scud trembling and obsessive terrified me—he might have his oddities, but he had always been reliably odd. In the end, it was the question which was wrong, the one possibility that never occurred to the young Scud. It took him weeks to get over the trauma.

CRACK. Swish. Rrrrrrip.

My heart stops.

Every flight student knows that sound: a semi-rigid ligament breaking free.

Adrenalin floods my veins and I leap into action. "Damn, I should have checked for damage after the storm," I mutter while dragging Scud bodily from the map room. "All stop! Scud, you've got the helm. Everyone else, topside, now! Move it!"

I guide a dazed Scud towards the wheel.

"But Nina, the code."

His world is already crumbling, too much change too quickly. I fold his hands round the rim of the wheel. "Do the code in your head, Scud. If we live you can go back to it later."

The rest of us grab our flight jackets and gloves, and swarm up the rigging into the blimp. We snatch up clamping-belts and catch poles as we burst through the hatch, Fernando in the lead.

"Duck!" Fernando screams as the loose ligament snakes towards us like a whip. I shove Trent to the floor and I dive for safety myself. That thing could take someone's head off.

The ligament cracks harmlessly above us, like lightening.

Rrrrrip.

Another slash appears in the blimp. The fabric of the blimp can take a fair amount of damage, but if the hydrogen reservoirs are punctured the Shonti Bloom will turn into a stone. So far we are lucky.

I leap to my feet. "Okay, let's get to it. Fernando, disconnect that ligament from the power supply. Izzy and I will get clamping, but no heroics—I want you all back in one piece. Trent, you're spotter." He doesn't know the drill so is a liability, best to keep him out of the danger zone. "Call out if that ligament comes anywhere near us."

I ensure we fix safety lines to the gangway rails then Izzy and I scramble toward the ligament, which is still secured to the blimp. I pin down the first stretch of loose ligament with the catching rod, while Izzy snatches a clamp from the pouch on her belt and clamps it to a secure ligament for support. Izzy then pins down the next section which I then clamp. We repeat the drill as quickly as we can, working our way towards the flailing end of the ligament

"Coming your way," Trent yells. We all hit the deck. CRACK. Ping, ping, ping. Rrrrip. All the new clamps fly off.

We start again: catch, clamp, catch, clamp, catch, clamp, as fast as we can. It occurs to me that if Trent wants to do away with us he can just keep his mouth shut and watch our heads roll. This emergency is a good test of his loyalty.

I risk a glance back down the length of the blimp to the power housing. "How you doing with that power supply, Fernando?"

He has a giant wrench secured to a bolt securing the collar of the ligament and is attacking it with a sledge hammer. "You call this air-worthy?" Crash. He brings the sledge hammer down on the end of the wrench. "The blasted thing—" Crash. "—is rusted in." Crash. "I'm gonna have to cut it off with an arc welder."

Bad news: a ligament is akin to an artificial muscle, specially grown in long ropes to power an airship's tail. When properly secured, and supplied with small bursts of electricity, a ligament jerks powerfully back and forth. Supply electricity to an array of ligaments in the right order and they sweep the flukes of the Shonti's tail up and down with incredible force. Unsecured, even without power, it would still twitch for an hour, but while still hooked into the power supply it becomes a deadly thrashing serpent.

Introducing heat to a lose ligament is about the worse thing anyone can do—it turns into a wounded deadly thrashing animal. "Forget it, Fernando, you are more use helping us clamp the thing down. Just leave it."

Fernando gives the wrench one last bash before hurrying forward to help us tame the free ligament.

I duck under a hydrogen reservoir and hear the hiss of escaping gas. I make a mental note to find and patch that hole once we secure the ligament.

If it's hissing, the leak is small; the large silent ones are the deadly ones.

The clamps all ping off for a second time, so we retreat and start again.

The further we clamp towards the tail, the more shredded the blimp becomes. The need to hook and unhook our safety lines slows us down considerably as we weave round each other in our dance of catch, clamp, catch, clamp. But, with large holes in the blimp, a fall here could prove fatal.

"Look out, Nina!" CRASH. The gangway twists and buckles as the ligament attacks like a flailing squid. I grab for the rail, but my hand clutches empty air instead. I topple sideways desperately grasping for anything and watch in slow motion as my safety line slides off the end of the shattered handrail. In my mind's eye I see myself plunging through the Shonti's blimp and falling towards the ground until I shrink to a tiny dot, like the Daughters of Gaia. I shove the image away so I can concentrate on surviving—thinking like that will definitely get me killed.

One hand scrapes along the etched metal footplate of the gangway as I fall past, but I can't quite grasp it. Suddenly, something smooth slaps into the palm of my left hand. I grip it tightly with my bleeding and ragged fingers, thank goodness someone has caught me with their catching rod.

Then the rod comes alive, wriggling like a snake in my clasp, and throws me sideways.
Chapter 27

It's a disaster. Nina could have been hundreds of miles away, trying to get past the other two ships in our split flotilla, but she's not. Call it instinct, call it gut feeling, but as soon as I saw that storm heading towards Newtonsteign I knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that Nina Swift would be inside, surfing that storm front. It's just the sort of fabulously reckless thing she would do.

She had plenty of opportunity to get away from Ashcroft Ascent ahead of us, but somehow, we arrived in the vicinity of Newtonsteign just ahead of her. We were patrolling for less than a day before the storm hit. We had already been bugged by a Microtough patrol from Newtonsteign, concerned we were too close to their airspace. To keep our two ships together, we had no choice but to run before the storm.

All night we battle the winds until at dawn the storm finally blows itself out. And then we see her—the Shonti Bloom. Somehow, using the cover of the storm, Nina has positioned herself between us and Newtonsteign. I have to admit, I grin when I see her. Nina must be a superb pilot to have ridden inside the storm front and not only survived, but navigated round us.

"What are you grinning at?" Borker snarls. "Get us under way so we can catch her."

It's useless of course. Despite our superior speed, the white airships of Microtough soon put in an appearance.

We heave-to and let ourselves be boarded, to show we bare no hostility towards them.

I address the white uniformed Captain Wallace, who has crossed over from the Microtough patrol ship, with as much authority as I can muster. "Captain, we are in pursuit of a dangerous criminal. Her name is Nina Swift and she is aboard an airship called the Shonti Bloom. That one there in fact," I point to the whale—tail of Nina's ship as it disappears into the distance. "She is wanted for murder and platform arson. Please allow us to pass so we can apprehend her. Maybe you could even help us catch her before she gets to Newtonsteign."

Captain Wallace listens politely, but stony faced. I can tell he has no intention of letting us pass. "You have no authority here. In fact, you are already inside Newtonsteign airspace. By rights I should arrest you all and impound your ships."

I wonder whether to mention I am the son of the Mayor of New Frisco, but in the end decide to take a more direct approach. "But you are not going to, are you Captain, because that would cause a diplomatic incident."

"Agreed. You will remove yourselves immediately from Newtonsteign airspace and if you come here again we will impound your ships. I will investigate the ship you have mentioned, and its occupants, and if an arrest is made your government can apply for extradition. Understood?"

I nod, knowing we will get no further. We will just have to wait around and try to spot the Shonti Bloom on her way out from Newtonsteign. "Understood."

Borker is beside himself with frustration. Losing Nina again is more than his pride can bear. He barges his way past. "Just let us catch the little bitch and we'll be gone," he growls, waving a fist at Captain Wallace. I want to haul him back, but I dare not touch him—partly because he makes my skin crawl, partly because I don't want him hitting me in front of my crew.

The Microtough troops immediately raise their weapons.

"Lieutenant," I bark, "we are leaving."

Borker just stares at me with daggers in his eyes. "Stay out of this, Puppy."

"Lieutenant," Captain Wallace snaps in a dangerous tone, "You are leaving!"

Borker's back involuntarily snaps ram-rod straight and he looks as if Wallace has slapped him. I wish I could summon that sort of commanding voice, one that demands instant obedience and threatens dire consequences.

Borker is insufferable for the next few days, taking every opportunity to put me down in front of the crew—I hate him with a vengeance. On one occasion I'm so frustrated I try a Captain Wallace voice on him, I reach deep inside myself to summon every shred of authority. "Lieutenant, back to your post!" The two crew members on the bridge with us look impressed.

Borker just laughs. "Captain Wallace is a killer. He speaks with the authority of bitter experience. When you've flogged a crew member with your own hands, hung a traitor, and ordered troops to certain death, you will speak with the sort of authority Wallace can summon. Just pray you never become that person." It's a moment of rare candor from Borker. Then he spoils it. "Until then, you better hide behind me, Puppy."

He has a point, sort of: to emulate Wallace, I would need to become Wallace and I'm not at all sure I want to be that person. Since the encounter with Wallace, Borker has taken to calling me 'Puppy.' It annoys be intensely and Borker knows it.

Eventually, a couple of Microtough patrols make an appearance and force us further away from their airspace and we give up our vigil.

We head, instead, to a frontier platform called Serendipity where we refuel and restock. Borker sends off pigeons to his mysterious contacts and eventually announces that Nina Swift has left Newtonsteign and disappeared into the vastness of the clouds.

"They made no attempt to apprehend her," Borker growls bitterly, "in fact, they drove us away from their airspace on the same day she left. I bet they did it out of shear spite."

I have to admit, it certainly looks that way.

We have no option now but to head for the Village of the Dammed and hope we can find Nina there.

I bet Nina is lounging around in comfort, sipping iced drinks, and laughing at our expense.
Chapter 28

"Nina," Fernando yells, "You've caught the ligament. Let go now..."

"No," Izzy interrupts, "Hang on for dear life."

I have no intention of letting go.

I feel for the ligament with my other hand then wrap my legs around it too. Like a bucking slide pole, the ligament drags me to the left, and then flicks me upwards through a hole in the top of the blimp. For a moment I hang suspended above the Shonti Bloom. Terrified I'm going to fall, I tighten my grip on the ligament until my knuckles grow white with the effort. Is this the end? Is this the pathetic way I die—tossed out of my own ship like trash? Then, backside first, I tear back through the blimp, narrowly missing Izzy and Fernando who are still furiously clamping.

"Nina." Izzy stretches out a futile arm, but I'm nowhere near her.

I crash against the inside wall of the blimp again and stretch towards another ligament. I wrap my right hand hopefully around the secure ligament. But before I can transfer my weight safety it's torn from my grip.

Gracefully, I soar over Trent's head and bounce off a hydrogen reservoir, the bulk of my body probably saving the balloon from total destruction. Then, I crash into metal as the ligament wraps itself round the gangway again. Quickly, I transfer my grip to the gangway and snap on a couple of clamps to secure the ligament to the gangway. Big mistake.

The ligament, now free of my weight, whips and cracks, twisting and turning the damaged gangway in its efforts to break free. Beneath me, the neatly machined gangway bucks and spins.

"Grab my hand, Nina." Trent inches down the remains of the steps with his safety wire at full stretch.

I reach up, but at least a couple of yards still separate us. "Go back, Trent, it's too far."

Instead, he unclips his safety line and, gripping the remains of the hand rail, slithers and slides towards me. He extends his arm towards me again, tantalizingly close, but still just out of reach.

I gather myself for an all—or—nothing lunge towards him when suddenly, with a screech like a tortured bird, the gangway snaps, tearing me away from the safety of Trent's grasp and tossing me down towards the blimp.

I find myself on my back, spread—eagled across the fabric of the blimp, supported only by the ligaments beneath me. I hold my breath—even a slight movement could change the tension of the fabric and cause a terminal rip. Above me, the rogue ligament is shaking the shattered gangplank like a dog playing with a bone. Soon it is going to come crashing down on me.

I lift my arm experimentally and feel about for my safety line. So far so good. Cautiously I gather in the safety line. If I can clip it to one of the ligaments I'm lying across I will be reasonably safe. Then my fingers find a frayed end and I know the line is useless.

"Look out for the gangplank," Trent calls to the others as the rogue ligament tosses the metal structure across the vault of the blimp, freeing itself once more. My crew hit the deck, and I hear the gangplank explode through the side-wall. I hope it has missed the hydrogen reserves or we are doomed.

Suddenly, the rogue ligament slaps down right beside me, for a moment still and calm.

When caught between two equal perils, action is always preferred over inaction—if nothing else, it occupies the mind.

Keeping by weight spread as thinly as possible across the fragile fabric of the blimp, I roll over, snatch a clamp from my pouch and clamp the end of the rogue ligament to one of the ligaments currently taking my weight. It twitches, but doesn't seek to break free so I reach as far as I can and clamp again. Now it starts to struggle. I'm afraid the rogue ligament will split the blimp around me in its efforts to break free, plunging me into the abyss. I slither over the fabric as fast as I can, keeping at least two good ligaments beneath me at all times to support my weight. Furiously I start clamping: Slide, clamp, slide, clamp, slide, clamp, slide, clamp.

I continue until I run out of clamps and the rogue ligament goes taught. At last, the lose end is secure and the most immediate danger to the Shonti Bloom is tamed.

Exhausted and sweating like a trooper, I roll onto my back again to see Trent dangling from the remains of the twisted gangway directly above me.

"Trent, hang on." If he falls he will take me with him—so much for heroics.

"Someone rescue Trent," I order, but Fernando is already onto it and Izzy is lowering a line to me.

Gratefully, I take the offered line and let Izzy pull me to safety.

"Should have checked the ligaments after the storm," Izzy shouts above the wind whistling through rents in the blimp.

"Now you tell me. Why don't you start patching the hydrogen reservoirs before we go down?"

She shuffles away sheepishly and I turn on Trent. "Next time, ditch the heroics. The Shonti can't afford to lose all its useful crew in one go. And two people falling causes far more damage than one. Always, always keep your safety attached." Harsh? Maybe, but a captain's primary responsibility is to their ship and her crew.

Trent looks taken aback, so I give him a friendly grin and clap him on the shoulder. "But I do appreciate you trying to take care of me, even if it was foolhardy."

He gins back like a naughty schoolboy. Finally, my doubts about Trent's loyalty have fallen away. He risked his life for mine, he's a full member of the crew—no way could he be working against us.

I make my way over to the hydrogen reservoirs to help Izzy patch and mend. We have survived, for today, but the Shonti Bloom is in a real mess and we desperately need to find somewhere to make repairs.
Chapter 29

We limp our way to the nearest trading station for repairs, a small, ram-shackled balloon settlement of twenty or so ancient wooden dwellings, called Cutter's End.

The residents have the feral look of the half-starved. The trading station itself seems to have a plentiful supply of cord and Chloral-voltaic patching material, but little else.

The store keeper, a sallow, greasy haired woman, with a single blackened peg tooth, projecting from her upper gum, quotes a ridiculously high price for the fabric. She stares intently at me, with a canny eye, the whole time Izzy barters the price down.

I can tell she knows our game—play, so rather than wait for Izzy to approach me for authority to buy at the requested price, which I would deny, I step straight in with the direct approach. "It's like this, either we buy just enough fabric to patch up our ship's blimp, to get us safely to a larger trading post or we buy all we need at half your price. Do we have a deal?"

"Dunno." She shows me her rotten peg of a tooth. "Have to ask the boss."

I curse inwardly. She is turning the tables on me—playing the same game I'd started. "I'll send the boss down to the dock to speak with you, tonight."

These people aren't just wily, they're cunning.

Note to self, "Tread carefully."

The most striking things about this place are the absences: no children, no young people, no hope. I guess no one here is fertile—the curse of our times. A dying community, a place of desperation, a place for the hopeless and the lawless.

Without children a community loses hope; it dies spiritually as well as physically. The people of his place are past caring.

Instinctively, I know this is the most dangerous place we have visited yet. We keep our weapons handy and stay close to the Shonti Bloom, busying ourselves patching the internal hydrogen reservoirs and tidying up the blimp while we wait for dusk.

At sunset, a small group of men, with a couple of ferocious dogs in tow, approach the dock. All look thin and unkept. They wear long overcoats, the sort that can easily conceal a weapon. Those without dogs have one hand buried deep in their pockets. A bearded individual, distinguished by a shaggy fur coat, strides purposely in the center of the group, brandishing a vicious looking staff; the others take care to stay one pace behind their leader. One man carries a basket over his shoulder.

Trouble.

"Izzy, Fernando, crossbows!" I order. "Cover me but keep out of sight. Trent, Scud, get ready to cut the mooring lines for a fast get away."

My crew scuttles around the deck below the level of the hand rail, collecting their tools and weapons. I wait at the top of the gangplank.

The group halts on the dock side and the leader steps forward. "I wannna speak to the Captain," he growls.

"You are."

"A might young to be a Captain, ain't ya?"

"Old enough." I wonder how old, in his mind, I have to be before he takes me seriously as a ship's captain.

He thrusts his hand out towards me, forcing me to descend the gang plank to keep up a friendly pretense. I feel exposed—only slightly comforted by the thought of Izzy and Fernando covering me with crossbows.

"Jed, pleased to make your acquaintance."

I take his hand, which feels gritty and oily. "Nina, likewise."

"I bin 'earing about you."

Uh oh. "All bad I hope. Now what about the cost of this cloth?"

He sucks on his teeth, broken and yellowing. "Ah, we got a problem there. You see, if I meets your price, I ain't got enough to fuel this ol ship." He jerks a thumb over his shoulder at an airship even more decrepit than the Shonti Bloom—not that I'm admitting the Shonti Bloom is in anyway decrepit. "An' if I can't fuel me ship, I can't collect no medical supplies which we urgently need."

For a moment I wonder why they need medical supplies so urgently then I realize he's trying to playing on my sympathies. "What's that got to do with us?" I don't suppose they get many opportunities for trade, but that's no reason to fleece us.

"You look a generous sort, maybe you'd pay a bit extra to help out poor folks. We need those medical supplies, see—it's the children that's suffering the most."

For a moment I feel a pang of guilt, but not for long. Children? What children? Now I know he's lying. "We'll just take enough to get us to the next trading station then."

Jed fidgets from one foot to the next. "Now see, that ain't no good to us either." The goons rummage deeper in their pockets and I'm pretty sure they don't have shotguns under their overcoats, but can I take the risk I'm wrong?

Jed steps forward, narrowing the gap between us. I feel an overwhelming urge to step back, but that would show weakness. I hold my ground.

"How about you pay up front, at your price, for all the fabric you want, but I supply only enough to get you moving until you return with our medical supplies."

I bet whatever the supplies are they're not medical. I bet they're not legal either. Time to leave, though there's no guarantee Jed will let us go easily. "How about we move on and leave you in peace." I deliberately turn my back on him to walk away.

Big mistake.

Suddenly, he's grabbed me from behind and has a knife at my throat.

"I think we'll do this my way," he growls, breathing fouls smelling breath all over me.

The breath is worse than the knife. "My crew," I gasp. "Have crossbows on you."

"That won't 'elp you. Even if they are crack shots, I'll still have your throat cut." He presses the blade harder against my skin for emphasis. "Before they can kill me."

He is, of course right, but my mind still wizzes with ideas, searching for a possible solution. I don't find any so I give in. "I'm sure we can work something out."

"That's better."

Then a solution presents itself, but not one I would have chosen. Trent walks slowly down the gangplank, his hands palm out so everyone can see he is not armed. "I can't let you take her," he says. He looks scared—that makes him brave, doesn't it?

"Ah the real Captain." Jed laughs. "Thought I didn't know the ol' 'Swap the Captain with a crew member routine,' did you?"

I can't bear the thought Trent is offering himself up instead of me. Any lingering doubts about his loyalty evaporate instantly,

I protest. "Don't do this."

But Trent winks as he passes. "Better get back to the bridge. I owe you."

Now Trent is playing the martyr.

Jed instructs one of his gang to hold Trent before letting me free. "You got six days to come back for yourn crew, or I send word to the constables." He indicates the man with the basket and I see there's a pigeon flapping round inside. Then he takes a stack of cloth from another man and dumps it in my arms. The bundle is surprisingly light, maybe Jed's cheated on even this much.

At the bottom of the gangplank I turn back to face Jed. Trent is stony faced and avoiding my gaze. "Just remember, if you want your medical supplies in one piece, we need him back undamaged."

I stomp up the gangplank, my mind a whirl of emotions. Rage and frustration at being so easily manipulated; guilt at leaving Trent; relief at getting away, guilt about feeling relief; fear I might not be able to deliver. I dump the cloth below deck and use the action to wipe away a tear of frustration so the crew doesn't see. I have to succeed. I have to retrieve Trent.

"Okay, guys, we'll just have to make running repairs as we go. Let's get out of here."
Chapter 30

Serendipity is a frontier town perched on the edge of the trade routes; too small to be a state in its own right, but too large to come under the control of other city states.

Fernando studies the all-balloon supported platform through his telescope. "Seven levels. Why didn't you say we were bound for Serendipity, Nina?"

I'm at the ship's wheel and feeling particularly anxious about this assignment. I don't know the lay of the land, I don't the people we are dealing with, and I don't know the cargo—far too many unknowns for my taste. We could turn up, present Jed's money, and get shot on the spot. Or worse, Mr. Bateman, Jed's contact, could just keep Jed's money and his cargo, and turn us over to the authorities for the reward money. In fact, I reckon this is the most likely scenario. "Does it matter?"

"I got a cousin on Serendipity."

Now that is interesting. "Really? Your lot gets everywhere, Fernando."

"Family policy to ensure the long-term prosperity of the clan—spread out and make lots of contacts."

"Wow, how does that work?"

"Never refuse a request from another family member, and every favor has to be repaid by another favor. Basically, we trade in favors among ourselves. Refuse and you're out of the clan."

"Like the Mafia then."

"Yeh, but legitimate."

Even I am not fool enough to believe that. "So what does this cousin of yours do?"

"Not really sure. Last I heard she had some sort of trouble with the local constables."

"Perhaps we should pay her a visit."

When facing the unknown, having at least a rudimentary exit plan is better than nothing; even if the plan is impossible to execute, just having it in mind prevents brain freeze and encourages adaptation.

Mr. Bateman's office is a tumbledown wooden shack on the third level. His warehouses consist of packing cases roofed with canvas and corrugated tin. Bateman has the medical supplies Jed sent us to retrieve.

I turn from Izzy to Fernando, who flank me on either side. "Ready?" I've left Scud in charge of the Shonti Bloom—his preparations for a quick departure will be meticulous. Also, I don't want him bugging out on me should we find ourselves in a sticky situation—which is almost a certainty.

Fernando wanted to trade a family favor with his cousin for an exit plan, but I wouldn't let him. However desperate our situation, I don't want anyone indebted on my behalf. Especially since I have no idea who Fernando might have to pay back to redeem the debt. What if the creditor demands my wanted reward, would family loyalty prevail? Would Fernando turn me in? In any event, I prefer to pay my own way, even if it is with someone else's money.

Bateman's heavy front door creaks as I push it open and we are faced by a gum chewing female secretary. She forces a smile and continues typing on an ancient typewriter—something salvaged from the ancients, I guess. This part of the packing crate complex looks like any other office: plastered walls, cheap prints hanging in rows, thinly upholstered chairs crammed against the wall; paneled wooden counter behind which the secretary hides; heavy inner door which presumably leads to Bateman; even the roof is plastered.

I clear my throat. "Um."

The secretary ignores us, I guess we don't look important enough, so we sit uncomfortably in the cheap chairs and wait.

The secretary carries on typing.

Eventually she reaches the end of her passage and looks up. "Yeah."

"We have business with Mr. Bateman."

She looks us up and down. "Yeh sure?"

"Yes."

She looks down at the typewriter behind the counter and taps out a few more words. "What's your business then?"

"Private."

"Name?"

"You don't need to know that."

"Company name, address, contact number?"

This secretary is beginning to annoy me with her questions. "None of your business. Now, can I see Bateman?"

The secretary raises an eyebrow. "Yeh sure?"

"Definitely."

She shrugs in defeat and presses a button. "On your head be it."

Behind the heavy inner door I hear a faint buzzing of an intercom and a gruff voice blares. "I'm busy."

"There's a couple of kids here wants to see you, but won't say why."

"Tell him Jed sent us," I volunteer.

The secretary glances up briefly. She pauses as if resentful I'm prepared to give information to Bateman but not her. "Someone called Jed sent them."

"Five minutes, that's all I can spare. Send them in."

"On their way, Honey." Definitely resentful—she's reminding me she has a relationship with Bateman and I don't. She's probably his latest squeeze.

Bateman isn't as big as his voice. He's squat and square, with a shaven head and tattooed arms. He remains seated as we enter his office, which is grander than his secretary's, but without a ceiling. Creamy canvas provides plenty of bright diffused light. Who would guess the walls are made of packing cases. The hubbub of the street outside filters in through the canvas roof.

Two Heavies in suits, with bulging gun holsters under their badly fitting jackets, stand either side of Mr. Bateman, each guarding a passage that leads away into darkness.

Bateman doesn't rise when we enter. "Jed's got a nerve, sending someone else to do his dirty." He laughs in his big gruff voice.

The Heavies look nervous as I approach the desk and hand over the letter Jed has given us. I step back while Bateman reads the letter. We wait... and wait.

Eventually Bateman looks up with a shrug. "None of my business who Jed uses for couriers. Money?"

I turn to Fernando, take the case he is nursing, and place it gently on the desk. I step away again. One of the Heavies is waved forward to open the case and count the money. The Heavy whispers in Bateman's ear, then steps back to his post by the passage.

Bateman raises an eyebrow, he looks troubled. "This is only half the agreed price. Where's the rest?"

Oh no. I trawl my mind for an excuse that sounds even half reasonable. "Jed doesn't think it is worth so much."

"Hah, you trying to rip Jed off?" Bateman grins maliciously. "Nice try, kid. Now you go back to Jed and tell him there's no deal until I get the full price."

"But—"

Bateman leans over his desk and interrupts. "I don't care what you done, kid. You just deliver the message, and be quick about it. He waves his hand dismissing us and the heavies reach for their guns.
Chapter 31

This isn't going well. Somehow I need to persuade Bateman to take Jed's money. I swallow hard and straighten up, I can feel cold sweat breaking out on my brow and my palms. There is no way I can leave now.

If I return to Jed without his supplies, whatever they are, he will kill Trent. "I need to see the goods before I leave so I can assure Jed you really have them," I say. It's really lame, but I cannot think of anything else to stall him.

Bateman glares at me then waves over a heavy and murmurs into its ear. The Heavy closes the money case and takes it with him into a dark passage. Is that a good sign? Moments later the Heavy returns pushing a six foot trunk on a glide trolley. I was expecting a small package holding illicit drugs, but this is something else. Weapons? There is only one way to find out.

"Open it," I instruct.

Bateman just laughs. "No way, this thing is so hot I don't even want to know what's inside. I'm even thinking of giving it to you for half the price just to get rid of it."

Really? Now I'm even more curious about the contents of the box. How can Bateman not want to know what's inside the container? "I'm happy to take it off your hands right now," I try. I vaguely notice the street has gone silent outside. The Heavies are looking nervous again so I guess they've noticed too.

"Nah, not really, kid." He grins. "I'm also contemplating charging Jed double to compensate for my lost sleep. But a deal's a deal, and I reckon I can go without sleep until you return. Now get out of here."

I glance over at Fernando who gives me a barely perceivable nod.

But Bateman notices it too. "What the—'

The intercom buzzes urgently. "Mr. Bate—"

Boom.

The walls explode inwards. Plaster dust fills the room. Fully armed constables pour into the office waving blast riffles before Bateman's Heavies can draw their weapons. Everyone freezes as the dust swirls and starts to settle. Through the gloom strides an officer of the law. Whatever happens now is in the hands of this Captain.

Bateman, still seated behind his desk, speaks as if nothing has happened. "Hello Officer, can I help you?"

"Hands away from the desk and tell your Heavies to surrender their guns. This is a raid."

"You don't say," Bateman sneers, and nods to his Heavies, who carefully draw out their guns using a finger and thumb and lob them onto the floor a safe distance away. "If there is something specific you are looking for, perhaps I can save you the trouble, Miss."

I notice Bateman is studiously not looking at Jed's large box. It has suddenly become the elephant in the room.

"We'll look for ourselves, thanks." The Captain's blond ponytail swings as she turns her gaze on me. "Who are these?"

"Time wasters, they should leave and take their trash with them." Bateman nods briefly towards Jed's box.

I see his game. He knows the constables are searching for the box and he's now more than happy for us to take it off his premises before they start their search. I'm happy to oblige him if I can.

"It ain't trash, Mr Bateman," I whine, playing along, "and the proceeds are all for charity."

I make puppy eyes at the officer, trying to look my most innocent.

It works. "This is no place for the likes of you. Take whatever you are trying to sell Mr. Bateman and don't let me catch you around here again."

Quickly, I grab the glide trolley and, with the help of Izzy and Fernando, steer it through a gap in the wall past the heavily armored constables.

Although every fiber of my body is screaming, "Run!" and my palms are sweating nervously. I force myself to maintain a quick walk. Drawing attention to ourselves could ruin everything.

Izzy suddenly laughs. "I can't believe we got away with that."

"Wait!" It's the law officer . I stand stock still, my heart beating so fast it's threatening to burst out of my chest. Does the she know what is in the box? If it's as hot as Bateman says, perhaps she's realized her mistake.

"I don't know what sort of trouble you are in, Cousin," the Captain continues, addressing Fernando, "but there was an officer of the New Frisco police looking for you the other day."

She can only mean Jack McGraw.

"Word is, the Lieutenant with him is a really nasty piece of work—some of the hardest crooks I know ran at the mention of him. Just thought you ought to know, Cousin."

I breathe a sigh of relief—she doesn't know, or if she does she's choosing not to notice.

"Oh, and I hear there's a Microtough fleet in the area so watch yourself. Take care Cousin, and a pleasure doing business with your friend. Better get going while we clear up here."

Now we run, pushing the glide trolley towards the docks as fast as we can. All I want now it to put clean air between Serendipity and the Shonti Bloom.

As we mount the boarding ramp, Izzy grins broadly with relief. "Brilliant idea, Nina, using Jed's own money to purchase an exit plan with Fernando's cousin." She feels the same way I do about trading favors with Fernando's family.

Fernando shakes his head. "An unnecessary risk," but he's also grinning with relief.

I slap him on the back. "It's all thanks to you, Fernando. Without your clan connections we might not have made it. Lucky the trouble your cousin was having with the constables was just passing their entrance exam."

Scud gets the Shonti underway and we stow the massive box in the Map room.

"It looks like a sarcophagus," Izzy says seriously. "You don't suppose this box is really as hot as Bateman says?"

"Nah, if it were that hot we'd have the whole planet after us."
Chapter 32

We're all on the bridge, ready for action, as we approach Cutter's End through thick cloud. Ahead I can tell the cloud is thinning. Cutter's End should be bathed in clear evening sunlight.

Fernando is in his customary position at the bow—waiting for a first glimpse of the trading platform.

We break clear of the cloud. Cutter's End is dead ahead in the distance, but the edges look fuzzy, as if a fog surrounds the platform.

Fernando raises his telescope and takes a squint. Then gasps in alarm, "Reavers. Full reverse."

Izzy, at the ship's wheel, stamps a break on the swishing flukes and slams the bio-engines into full reverse, without waiting for my command. Her swearing is drowned out by the whine of the engines powering up.

I snatch up a telescope, fear tearing at my stomach, and join Fernando at the bow to get a good look before the cloud closes in again. The fuzziness round the platform resolves itself into a combination of acrid smoke and a swarm of strange, mismatched, Reavers airships buzzing round like bees. Cold sweat breaks out on my brow,

I can't believe what I'm seeing. "Hell's teeth, there's masses of them." The trading platform is swarming with Reavers. I can't see any signs of resistance, but even as I watch a black dot drops from the platform—I hope it's not a person. "That's one serious raiding party."

"That's not a raid," Fernando mutters, "that's a war fleet."

He's right.

Streaks of white cumulus cloud swirl around us as the Shonti Bloom reverses into cover.

"Have they seen us?" Izzy asks nervously from the wheel. If Izzy, the toughest of tough cookies, is showing her nerves then I guess she's terrified.

Fernando lowers his telescope as dense cloud envelopes us and takes a deep breath. "There's no sign pursuit. I think we might have gotten away with it."

"I didn't see anything either," I agree, "but we'll still take avoiding action just in case. "Scud..."

But Scud's gone to pieces. He's hidden in a corner muttering to himself. If there's one thing that terrifies Scud, it's the thought of Reavers. Frankly, I don't blame him.

Years ago, I saw a captured Reaver Chief brought aboard New Frisco in shackles, four constables struggled to hold him, even though they each held a chain fastened to a neck collar. Hair in dreadlocks, clothes in rags, and eyes wild. Even though the Chief was struggling to breathe at the high altitude (they prefer lower altitudes where the air is thicker) he still spat, snarled, and fought against his chains like an animal.

As a child, I was drawn to the glittery cogs and bits of metal braided into the Reaver's hair and adorning his clothes. I was especially fascinated by his battered top hat, still perched precariously on his head, and the flashes of gold braid peeking through rents in his greatcoat, from an ornate waistcoat underneath.

I remember the chief's eye's especially, because at one point he looked straight at me. I couldn't hide the terror I felt when those bright green eyes, full of malice, stared straight into mine.

Borker liked to scare us young students with horror stories about wild Reaver raids. Somehow, they always ended with the victims being roasted alive and eaten. Scud, who takes everything literally, was naturally scared witless.

Time to pull myself together and act like a Captain—I can be scared later—right now, I have a crew to look after. "Izzy, let's get this course altered. Fernando, plot us a course pattern that keeps us hidden in this cloud until nightfall."

Fernando's mouth falls open and he stares at me wide-eyed. "You can't be serious, Nina. There's no way we can deliver Jed's box now."

"I'm thinking about Trent."

He closes his eyes and sighs. "They're all dead, Nina. Trent, Jed, the toothy woman at the counter, every last one of them is dead. And if they aren't dead yet they're sure hoping they will be soon."

"I'm not leaving him." I square up to Fernando, ready for another fight. "Dead or alive I'm taking him with us, if I can." I see the look of pain and frustration which flickers across Fernando's face, so I plough on. "I'm not asking you to come with me, just drop me in and wait for me to come back." Izzy's looking skeptical too now. "I'm only asking you to let me do for Trent what I would do for any of you."

Silence, broken only by Scud's sniffles from the corner. No one gets left behind: it's the code I live by, the code I have to live by—without it I'm no better than my Mother. My stomach is churning through terrified loops at the thought of entering a Reaver camp, but the thought of stooping to the same level as my Mother scares me even more. If I'm not better than her, who the hell am I?

Eventually it's Izzy who speaks. "You're not going to be moved on this one, are you, Nina."

I shake my head. "No."

"Okay, I'll help you."

"But Izzy..." Fernando whines.

"No, Fernando. Nina would do that for any of us, we all know she would."

"But just look at Scud, he'd vote against."

"Scud's scared to the core of his being, but he still loves Nina more than he loves himself. Call a vote if you want to, but you will lose." Wise words from Izzy.

"Ok, I give in. Obviously no one wants to listen to reason, I'll go plot a course pattern." Fernando storms off towards the map room. "Mad. The whole lot of you are raving mad. In fact, there's not much to choose between you and the Reavers—you're all as mad as each other."

That was easy—too easy, almost like Fernando has some ulterior motive. "And take Scud with you," I call after his retreating back, "he needs something to occupy his brain."

Reluctantly, Fernando drags Scud to the map room with him.

Izzy and I alter course, and I start to lay down plans for my raid on the Reavers. It's going to be a long night and I have a lot of equipment to prepare.

Suddenly, there's a crash from the map room.

"Aaaaaaggh." It sounds like Fernando.

I whirl round to see Scud trembling outside the map room. He's pointing wildly through the door at something inside the room. I have never seen him so pale.

Then, for the first time in his life, he looks me straight in the eye. "Nina, you're dead."
Chapter 33

I touch down on the periphery of Cutter's End platform with a thump, my Whisper at the ready. I scan the area, a scarf over my mouth and nose, ninja style. Nothing moves so I hang the Whisper on a belt hook, haul in the parachute and shrug out of the harness. If there were any sign of company I would have cut the chute free and let it go.

My heart beating like a frightened bird, I check the compressed air canister and magazine on the Whisper self-loading crossbow again. I know it's nerves and I know I checked them many times aboard the Shonti, but I need the reassurance they are fully functional. The balance of the Whisper comforts me—it's so perfect it feels like an extension of my arm.

I sling the Whisper on its shoulder strap, an arrangement that allows me to whip it up and shoot from the hip if needed. With the Whisper stowed, I unhook one of the pistol sized versions, crouch low and scout out the warehouses in the immediate area of my landing zone.

The light body-armor I'm wearing, from the same source as the Whisper, affords my torso some protection against close quarter action, but I don't fool myself it will save my life. The reserve chute packed on my chest, though it restricts my movements somewhat, might absorb a crossbow bolt or two. Other than that, I might as well be naked out here, so I go ultra-cautious.

Nothing. This corner of the platform looks to be deserted.

Happy I'm alone; I repack the main parachute and hide it under a pile of rubbish for possible later use—just in case.

When facing combat in an unknown zone, and if time allows, take every opportunity to hedge your bets.

The main action appears to be concentrated in the center of the platform. Cautiously, I make my way from one dark building to another. My racing heart slows as I find no sign of Reavers—good, now I can think and plan clearly. I stop, and force myself to take several deep breaths and clear my mind.

A scout ship is moored near my landing site. For the first time I get a close look at the strange craft used by Reavers: The blimp is nothing more than a cigar shaped balloon filled with hydrogen, below is slung an open hull made from the same laminated and riveted plant material as the Shonti, but instead of painted and highly polished, this hull is rough and bare; between the blimp and the gondola, two sets of large spars protrude out at right angles either side; sails are neatly furled on the spars—this is a cloud drifter, a sail ship.

I also get my first sight of the infamous hamster wheels that drive the propellers hanging below the stern—except these cages are far too big for hamsters. Reavers disdain solar power and electricity, or cannot afford the materials, the only thing that drives these blades is manpower: the hamster wheels are human treadmills, slung in groups at the stern of the ship.

I cannot imagine the misery of being a Reaver slave, forced to run in those treadmills, constantly exposed to the elements. And if Borker's tails are true, facing a horrible death should you stop running.

With any luck, the Reavers will have imprisoned Trent as a slave to restock the treadmills, which must have an insatiable appetite for new victims.

I duck into a doorway as I spot a single Reaver guard, compression riffle in hand, guarding the airship. In the dim light he looks like anyone else.

I work my way towards the center of the platform. The going gets slower as I'm forced to detour around larger groups of Reavers. They're living it up on the spoils of their victims, there's lots of drinking and eating, singing and laughter. And fights, lots of fights. If Reavers have a national sport it's fighting, in fact it appears to be the only way they possess to solve disagreements, and they seem to disagree often.

Eventually, I reach the center of the platform. Here there are a lot more comings and goings, so I have to slip nimbly from shadow to shadow avoiding individuals and groups of Reavers. Everything looks different from how I remember it such a short time ago, so I climb onto a large crate hidden in a dark corner to get a better view.

The trading post warehouse is gone, flattened along with the surrounding buildings to form a large plaza, which is heaving with squabbling Reavers. There seem to be as many women warriors as men, all carousing, arguing, and fighting over the food roasting on small fires. Who in their right minds would set fires on a wooden platform, but they appear to be keeping them under control.

My stomach heaves at the sight and I avert my eyes from the carcasses roasting on spits over the fires. I force my mind to concentrate on finding Trent.

Around the edges of the plaza, high on the rooftops, Reaver guards patrol and keep watch. Fernando is right—this isn't some wild raiding party, this is something else.

I notice one large band of Reavers sitting calmly and ordered near the center of the heaving plaza. They all have big dread-locked hair adorned with shinny trinkets. There are as many children as women and men in this party. Other Reavers patrol the edges of this group roughly shoving back anyone who tries to barge in on the gathering.

The clothing worn by this group is more refined and colorful than the surrounding throng. I must be observing Reaver leaders. The women wear short, big bustled skirts which reveal brightly colored leggings, and tiny top hats that are no more than ornaments perched on their piled up hair. Their men-folk sport long frocked coats and large top hats.

The way the group calmly discuss and debate fills me with more dread than the crowd wildly carousing around them. This is a new level of organization for Reavers, one I have neither heard about nor imagined.

Somehow, the thought of Reavers as savage, mindless, animals has always taken the edge off their threat—we are smarter, cleverer, and therefore better. This deliberate, considered action is something I have never associated with Reavers—a much greater danger.

Then, set back around the edges of the plaza, I notice new structures: cages. There is movement inside some of the cages and I realize they are people, the former residents of Cutters End; the Reaver's newly acquired slaves—ready for the hamster wheels. Trent must be in one of those cages.

Suddenly I squeal, as something grabs my ankle.
Chapter 34

A hand holds me fast by the ankle, "Shush, do you want them to hear you?" A rough voice that sounds vaguely familiar. I squirm quickly around, a pistol bow at the ready. But we don't appear to have attracted any attention.

"Jed, is that you?"

My foot is released as the hand's body collapses onto the floor of what I now realize is a cage. I scramble down to the floor and crouch by the bars.

There's a black liquid spreading over the lower half of a figure I can barely make out in the gloom. Then I realize it must be blood. Reaching up to grab me must have opened up a wound—a pretty bad one by the looks of it.

"Jed, is that you?"

"Stupid girl, you came back. Did you get the goods?" Jed's voice is weak and he's sucking in ragged breaths.

"Yes."

Jed laughs and coughs up blood. I need to get him some medical attention, and quick. "Did you look inside it?"

No point in lying now, he'll be dead in a few minutes. "Yes. Where's Trent?"

"Then you know what they're after."

The ice cold fear that grabs me is like nothing I have ever felt before—worse even than the blinding panic that overwhelmed me when I looked in the box that Scud and Fernando had opened. My whole body tenses, but I have to ask. "The Reavers?"

"The Reavers and every other damn person in this godforsaken world." Jed coughs up more blood and draws in a labored rattling breath. "I thought I could sell it back to its owners for a handsome profit, now look where it's led us?"

I need to keep him talking before I lose him for good. "Jed, where is Trent? Where is my crew? Is he alive?"

"Cage on the corner, left side, approach it from the back." A sudden movement from inside the cage and Jed has reached through the bars and snatch up my hand in a vice—like grip. "Promise me something—take as many of my people with you as you can."

What? He wants me to risk my neck for him again. No way. I try to tug my hand free, but he's got it firm. More of the black liquid spills around my feet. I have to give him something—otherwise he won't let me go. "I can't promise, but I'll see what I can do."

"Thanks." Jed convulses in a fit of blood-spittled coughs. "And destroy that damn box, before it destroys all of us." The hand holding mine goes limp. Silence.

I wait, but I hear nothing, not even a ragged breath. He's gone. I wait another moment out of respect for Jed's departed soul then I get moving.

I locate the cage Jed mentioned in the left-hand corner of the plaza—assuming the left Jed meant is also my left. I slowly work my way around and through the buildings behind the plaza until I find a dark alley that looks as if it might come up behind the corner cage.

At the far end of the alley I carefully unlatch a head—height gate and peek through. I'm behind the cage and can see straight through to the wild revelry in the plaza. Light from the cooking fires doesn't quite reach the cage, but I can see it is full of people: men, women, and children.

"Trent," I whisper. "Trent, are you there."

There's a scrabbling as someone moves closer. "Nina. Oh am I glad to see you."

My relief is overwhelming and I feel tears sting my eyes—I wipe them away, angrily. "Thank God you're alive, Trent. I'm going to get you out of here?"

The timbers of the cage are pretty substantial and I realize I need tools. A few minutes of scrabbling round the house next to the alley and I'm back with a large hand drill and the longest widest drill bit I can find.

The drill is whirs quietly as I crank the handle drilling as many holes through the base of a timber bar as I can. It takes me a back—breaking half hour of slow grinding before Trent stops me. "I think that is enough, Nina. Stand back."

Trent drops a Kung Fu kick on the post and it snaps off at the base. I didn't know he could do that—he's good.

I dart quickly back into the shadows and Trent slumps by the base of the broken bar in case the noise has attracted any attention. Nothing. I bet the Reavers didn't hear a thing over the sound of their partying.

I pull the broken cage bar to one side, making a large enough gap for a slim person to squeeze through. Trent is pretty slim so he has no problem and to my surprise he hugs me. "You're amazing, Nina Swift."

I'm embarrassed by the hug and I certainly don't feel amazing: scared, confused, exhausted, but not amazing. "Who's next?"

"Nina, we gotta go, right now, before we're spotted."

"I'm not abandoning them, Trent. I don't leave anyone behind, remember?"

Trent grabs me by the shoulders and shakes me. "This isn't some game, Nina. We gotta go or we'll be spitted over one of those fires."

For a moment I wonder who this new sensible Trent might be, but I don't have time. I raise my fists and bat his arms away. Then I address the people in the cage. "I'll take anyone with me who cares to come. There's a ship moored at the edge of the platform, you can make a dash for it in that."

A few parents with children, an old lady, one of Jed's henchmen, a young man, and a dopey woman, are all that respond. The majority squirm further into the corner of the cage, as if it's me who's going to eat them.

I'm confused by their reluctance. "What's wrong with you all?"

Trent pulls me back. "There's nothing wrong with them, they're just scared. They'd rather take their chances on the Reaver treadmills than risk death, or worse."

This mindset is completely alien to me. "Why wouldn't someone take the chance at freedom when it's offered?"

Trent looks as if the weight of the world has settled on his shoulders. "Many have grown up, from an early age, always beholden to someone else—it's all they've known, what they understand, where they feel safe. To them, freedom is new and scary, therefore not to be trusted." In the dim light he suddenly looks older. Different. "You believe you have a right to freedom, Nina; most in this world believe they have a right to be looked after by someone else. Not everyone is like you."

It's a profound statement about human nature, and makes sense of much that I have seen. But it doesn't sound like the Trent I know—maybe I had misjudged him. And I still don't like it.

I grab his shoulder as he makes to move out. "Trent, the Reavers are here for the goods we collected for Jed."

"Great, so we'll just give 'em what they want and run—that way they'll leave us alone."

"I can't do that Trent. You'll understand when you see what's inside the box."

Trent looks shocked, but quickly recovers. "Lighten up, Nina. Anyone would think the 'ol world's after you."

"The whole world is after me. Me and the thing in that box."
Chapter 35

One Reaver, out in the open, guarding the scout ship staked to the platform edge; its top hat and compression rifle silhouetted against the glow of fires in the background. One Reaver, alert and no doubt armed to the teeth—all that stands between us and freedom.

Our little band of escapees have trailed our way, painstakingly, through the overrun trading platform, avoiding bands of roving warriors. We are hiding behind some barrels near the Reaver scout ship I spied earlier.

I peer through the sights of the Whisper. It's a long shot, without much light. If I plant a bolt into the Reaver's eye I can drop him without a sound. But, unless I kill him instantly he will raise the alarm. Then we'll have to fight our way out. At this distance I'll be lucky to hit him at all.

When faced with an impossible task, avoid complications—keep things simple and hope for the best.

Better to hit the target with a neuro tipped bolt from the pistol bow; that way he will go down wherever I strike.

I'm just transferring one of the small pistol bolts to the Whisper when something darts across my vision. I look up to discover the old lady charging head down at the guard.

There's nothing I can do to stop her. The Reaver will hear her any moment. Then everyone except Trent is moving forward and I'm left on my own covering their charge.

The Reaver looks up. Too late: the old lady barrels into him, winding him in the stomach and knocking both of them over the platform edge. They disappear into the misty darkness below without even a sound. Never have I witnessed such selfless bravery. Tears spring into my eyes—I never even knew her name. Angrily, I snatch away the tears and refocus—later is the time for regrets.

The others come to a halt, momentarily stunned by the old lady's sacrifice then they clamber noisily aboard the airship.

The element of surprise is gone. If there is anyone aboard that airship we have had it. "Go, Trent. I'll cover you from here." Trent darts forward to the dock and starts hacking at the mooring ropes.

I rise to my feet to join him.

Click.

I freeze.

The barrel of a compression pistol hovers by my left temple. Shots ring out from behind me. Three? Four? The pistol wielder is not alone. I slowly turn my back on the airship, my body propped up by the barrels, hoping the escapees have gotten away. I'm not now going with them. Three Reavers have me cornered.

"You just cost me six runners," a Reaver with brass cogs and printed circuit boards twisted into her black dreadlocks screams in my ear, "hope you can run good."

More cogs decorate her tunic jacket and her battered top hat is adorned with a pair of goggles. I read somewhere that Reavers wear the cogs and goggles in honor of their brass gods: Coggler the tinker, Goggler the aviator, and Nerf the warrior. She's wearing one of the new six-shooter pistols holstered on her right thigh and a bandoleer of compression bullets across her chest.

Run? Then I realize she is referring to the hamster wheels that drive the Reaver airships.

"He's too scrawny," rasps the pistol wielder, a male who looks pretty scrawny himself in a dark trench coat, "best eat him now." He roars with laughter at his own joke.

At least they haven't twigged I'm female yet.

"What's that he's holding?" The pistol wielder grinds the barrel into my forehead. I grit my teeth against the flashes of pain across my eye and bite my tongue.

"Whatever it is, it's mine," claims the female, she must lead this group. "Now lift it slowly so I can see it good and proper."

Click.

The third Reaver, a short bearded male wearing a flight jacket adorned with little pistons, is pointing his own gun at the female. "We all captured him, we all split the prize. You can have those warm gloves."

"Like heck." The pistol barrel is out of my face. This is the time to act.

I tense my muscles for action. Then something heavy crashes over my head and all three Reavers go down like skittles with a clatter of cogs. I drop the Whisper and grab the pistol bows. All three are unconscious before they can rise, but not before one jerks a finger, as the neuro agent takes effect, and fires their pistol.

The rest of the platform is now alert to the breakout.

The heavy object that bowled over the Reavers moves, and grins at me. "Nice shooting, Nina."

"Trent, you're meant to be on that airship." I jerk my thumb towards the scout ship that has already lifted off, set a small sail, and is disappearing into the night. I should be grateful for his help, but I'm not, now I need to take care of us both.

We have seconds to escape and there is no chance of getting back to the spare parachute with the platform stirring like a hornets nest.

I drag Trent to the edge of the platform, slipping those warm gloves so admired by the Reavers, onto my hands—there is only one option. "Jump on my back, Trent."

Together, we follow the old lady over the side. Trent holds on tight and entwines his hands in the webbing of the spare chute strapped to my chest. He knows, as do I, that soon he will be so cold he will be unable to hold on by his own strength. I just hope the spare chute can hold us both without folding.

Falling through the mist, with the roar of the wind rushing past, and away from the glow of the bonfire, it is difficult to judge when we are clear of the platform, but as soon as I think we are past, I count to ten and pull the ripcord.

"This is mad," Trent yells in my ear. He's right, but it was the only option.

Initially, we plummet too fast, but then begin to slow as the chute fills out, and thankfully, starts to supports our weight.

Firing sounds from the platform. A lot of shooting is taking place up top even though the clouds have swallowed us already—anger, frustration, who knows—maybe the Reavers are just shooting at each other. I pull on the straps to steer back towards what I judge should be the underside of the platform to restrict their angle of fire, just in case they get lucky.

Reavers are duty bound to revenge warrior deaths—something called Nerf's code, so they are certain to come after us in their airships just as soon as they stop fighting each other.

I spiral us down through freezing clouds. I can feel Trent on my back shivering. Without an insulated flight suit like mine, he will develop hypothermia in no time and pass out. I need to lose altitude fast and find the Shonti Bloom.

Whilst the cloud hides us from the Reavers it also hides us from the Shonti. In reality, I have no chance of finding the airship in this mist. My only hope is that Fernando has realized the problem and taken the Shonti to the backup position.

To me it seems obvious, but will Fernando see it that way or are we doomed to fall right to the earth?
Chapter 36

Suddenly, I'm distracted from our impending deaths by a flapping noise near my head. A Reaver in free fall shoots past, then another. I can't see it, but somewhere below I hear the unmistakable sound of a parachute popping. This is bad, very bad.

I steer away from the Reavers and unclip the Whisper. A third Reaver rockets past us and I lose a couple of bolts into its backpack. The bolts bury themselves deep into the fabric, but I bet they haven't penetrated right through the layers of parachute silk. Still, if the chute ever opens it will rip to shreds and I don't see a reserve chute—it's not in a Reaver's nature to show caution.

Cloud swirls over the doomed Reaver.

Another Reaver zooms in towards me, goggles glaring like a demented machine. It reaches for its ripcord and a Whisper bolt pins the groping hand to its chest. With a howl of pain, it pulls the ripcord anyway—the feathered tail-end of the bolt tearing a bloody hole in the hand as the Reaver drags it away from its chest. Then in astonishment, the Reaver realizes the ripcord is no longer attached to the chute.

I've fired off two more Whisper bolts and one of them sliced the ripcord.

Frantically, the Reaver grasps for me, but it is already past and accelerating away from us.

I turn us away again, heading in what I hope is a northerly direction, but I'm so disorientated I could be heading right back under the platform and out the other side. No more Reavers appear for the moment—perhaps they only had four parachutes. I must remember there are still two, possibly three, below us somewhere. Now I need to find the Shonti Bloom.

Trent is limp with cold—I'm not losing altitude fast enough so I speed up our descent, hoping I don't run into the Reavers below.

As we break through the cloud cover, another Reaver shoots past, screaming like a banshee and disappears into the night. This one doesn't even have a parachute.

In the distance below I see the Shonti Bloom ablaze with lights and dangling a large scramble net—I was heading the wrong way. I correct our direction and rate of descent. We're going to make it.

But something is wrong: the scramble net is crawling with Reavers climbing up towards the Shonti's hull.

Izzy and Fernando lean over the side with crossbows trying to hit the Reavers, but they can't depress their angle of fire enough to hit any targets. Soon it will be close quarter fighting and once those Reavers make it onto the deck, it's game over.

Four Reavers furiously scramble hand over fist up the net, all bristling with weapons. Some idiot is waving a compression pistol above their head. One shot through the Shonti's gas filled blimp is all it will take to blow everything.

I lift the whisper and take aim. I can take them, all of them, but I can't save myself, or Trent.

I take out the Reaver waving the pistol with the first bolt. Then the Whisper's re-loader pumps into action and I spray the net with a deadly swarm of crossbow bolts as I glide past.

My last victim leaps off the scramble net, arms flailing wildly, straight into our parachute. The chute collapses.

Immediately, the three of us accelerate earthward. Me screaming, Trent unconsciously oblivious, and the wounded Reaver scrabbling up great handfuls of parachute silk in an attempt to get at me.

We must look faintly ridiculous. Why my mind conjures up this image I can only guess—perhaps a reaction to extreme panic or my impending death.

Suddenly, we jerk to a back-breaking halt. The surprise leaves me dumbfounded for a moment—I'm not going to die. Think, Nina, think.

I glance up to find the Reaver, hidden under a mass of dangling dreadlocks, is now trying to support both my weight and Stitches weight, as well as real in the parachute to get to us. The Reaver is attached to the scramble net by a rope. Wow, forward thinking from a Reaver.

The combined mass of Trent and I is too great for the wounded Reaver. The parachute is slipping through its fingers. In its determination to get at me the Reaver doesn't even consider letting go of the silk.

If I shoot the Reaver with the Whisper it will drop the parachute. If I do nothing, the Reaver will eventually tire and the chute will slip through its fingers, or more likely, it will just decide to let go. In any event, my impending death is back on track—it's just a matter of time.

When all else fails, relax, take in a deep breath, then let it out slowly, and pray.

Something heavy hits my shoulder and falls past me: a sandbag. What idiot is throwing sandbags at me? Attached to the sandbag is a rope. Izzy, wonderful Izzy.

When the time for action comes, act fast.

I whip out my knife, slice off the sandbag, and tie the rope securely to the parachute harness. Reaching above my head I slice through the parachute strings freeing us from the Reaver's grasp.

The Reaver responds, quickly reaching for the new rope and producing their own knife, but I'm already retrieving my Whisper. Screaming out all my frustration and fear, I empty the whole magazine of bolts into the dangling Reaver. Given the power of the Whisper, at almost point—blank range, most of the bolts pass straight through the Reaver's body, tearing great bloody holes in its flesh.

The Reaver is dead long before all the bolts are used up, but once unleashed, and covered in the Reaver's blood, I seem unable to reign in my aggression and unclench my trigger hand. I continue screaming my anger as the bow twangs on an the empty magazine. Then it hisses to a stop, the compressed air canister exhausted.

The dangling Reaver, trailing it's rope, falls past me and I look up to see Izzy at the bottom of the cargo net grinning and waving her own knife.

Izzy scrambles up to the airship again, and together, she and Fernando haul us in. As soon as I reach the scramble net, I lend them my support and start to climb.

My only thought is that we have to get the Shonti out of here before the Reaver attack ships find us.
Chapter 37

"Have you ever seen the like, Trent?"

It's morning. To our surprise, no hostile craft pursued us. Curiously, the further we receded from Cutter's Edge, the brighter the light from the Reaver bonfires became, until finally, the glow shut off, like someone turned out the lights. Our escape must have triggered some sort of fight between factions—they were obviously too busy fighting each other to bother about us.

We stand in the map room of the Shonti Bloom examining Jed's box. Outside it's a plain wooded crate with a flat top; inside it's more like a coffin. A body lies in the box. A girl about my age, surrounded by packing to protect the dead flesh. Tubes stick out of her nose and mouth, and her hands, arms, and neck; wires trail out of her skull; pipes snake from every orifice. It is the most surreal thing I have ever seen. The scariest thing, though, is her face. How could anyone do this to another human?

Everyone else is crowded in behind me, except Scud who is lurking in the doorway, unwilling to enter the same room as the offending box.

Trent sucks in a noisy breath and stares with wide eyes. "Wow, the White Woman." He breathes with reverence.

"You know about this?" His words fill me with rage. Suddenly, I'm not sure if I really do trust him. How does he know about this cargo, and if he knows, then what else is he withholding?

I force myself breath calmly and stare at the perfectly preserved body of the girl. The White Woman is a good name: her hair and eyebrows are purest white and her naked body is covered in the most delicately pale almost translucent skin I have ever seen. Fernando drapes a white sheet over her in an attempt to preserve some dignity, which just adds to the effect, but whoever sealed her in the box made no such attempt.

Trent's gaze remains fixed on the form in the box. "I've been around. I've heard rumors. The White Woman is supposed to be some top secret Science Guild project to save humanity. I never thought I would live to see her though."

"Save us from what?" Izzy asks aggressively. She's almost as spooked out by this as I am. though for her it isn't personal.

"From extinction. Have you never wondered why so many platforms are only half occupied or completely abandoned? Why there are so few children? Our birth rate is dropping drastically. We are slowly becoming infertile—soon we will be extinct. The White Woman is meant to be our savior, the solution, the one who restores our fertility, saves the human race."

Panic floods my brain at his words. "What do we do with her?"

Fernando has no doubts. "Ditch Blondie over the side, get it as far away from us as possible. Someone is going to be looking for this."

"Absolutely not," Trent snaps, "we must return it to where it belongs."

"That means giving ourselves up," Izzy points out, "and we can add kidnapping and smuggling to our list of supposed crimes."

Fernando looks even more uncomfortable than he did before.

"She's a person," I remind everyone, "not an object to be traded and owned."

"She's an experiment," Trent says, "a lab rat. I doubt whether she's ever been conscious in her life."

Is consciousness required to make you a person? Without self-awareness what are we?

"Anyone who goes to the trouble of growing this, is gonna try very hard to get it back," Fernando blurts. "Which is why we should ditch it. Now."

Izzy shakes her head. "We have to keep it... I mean her... as a bargaining chip. If the Science Guild tracks her to us, and we don't have her, we're all dead."

"Great," Fernando spits, "my reputation is definitely not going to survive this."

"Typical, Fernando." Izzy smirks. "More worried about your precious reputation than your neck. Is there anyone who is not pursuing us?"

Trent barks a sarcastic laugh. "Only the Reavers, they're incredibly fertile—breed like sparrows."

Holy smoke. I remember what Jed said. "Er, actually, guys." They all turn alarmed faces towards me. "Jed thought the Reavers invaded Cutter's Edge looking for the White Woman." The whole world really is after us.

I want to laugh at their faces—immobile, mouths open, like someone stopped time. In another situation this would be hilarious. Perhaps one day I will look back and chuckle—if I live that long.

Scud, standing as far away from the box as he can, recovers first. "I was right—it wasn't a Reaver raiding party. They came in force to find Leanne." He gestures toward the White Woman.

"You named her," Fernando explodes. I can always rely on Fernando to rile against Scud's oddities, even in the most difficult of circumstances. "How could you possibly name that thing?"

"I have to. It's the only way I can think about her. Otherwise..." He looks helplessly at me and shrugs.

He's right: giving her a personality makes it easier to push the emotions aside and consider her objectively. Scud, who gives numbers to people and names to things, understands in a way the rest of us don't. It's one of his endearing qualities: his unique view of the world often reveals truths which are hidden to the rest of us.

"Okay, so what do we do with..." Fernando scowls. "...with Leanne?"

"We have no option," Trent states with an authority I have never heard before. For a moment it changes his whole appearance—taller, brighter, commanding. He catches the look in my eye and suddenly he's the same old Trent again. "If the Reavers know about the White Woman, we must return her to the Science Guild. Put an end to this."

What did I just see? Did I imagine Trent morphing into someone else? How is that possible? I'm tired and under stress, my mind is playing tricks.

"That won't end anything," Scud mumbles, "they'll still be after us."

We all turn to him.

"Well look at her." He gestures towards the box. "It's not just about Leanne, it's about Nina. They could be twins." Again he is right and it scares me silly.

I stare again at the face of the White Woman, Leanne, and feel again the panic rising in my chest which threatens to overwhelm me. She looks so much like me it sends a shudder down my spine every time I look at her.

Even though she terrifies me and sets my heart pumping with adrenalin, I feel a strange affinity towards Leanne, my mysterious twin, even though I never knew her. I wonder if she ever knew herself. In one sense I'm relieved we're not ditching her, I know it's weird, but she feels almost like family.

If Leanne isn't my twin she must be my clone. Except for the white hair and the pale skin, the White Woman is Nina Swift. What would I do with me?
Chapter 38

The issue of Leanne is still unresolved: Trent fumes over my refusal to turn Leanne in, while Izzy and Fernando want to be as far from her as possible. However, I cannot shake the feeling that her likeness to me is no coincidence—there is a connection between us. Scud is my only ally in this, so for the moment Leanne stays sealed back in her box in the map room. Meanwhile, we continue to search for the third clue in my Mother's diary.

We take a circuitous route to the coordinates where we hope to find the Village of the Damned, to avoid Borker and the constables. We see no sign of them. When we arrive at the cross Fernando has penciled on the map we find nothing. Only empty air.

Izzy scans the horizon with a telescope. "This has got to be the wrong place."

"Absolutely not," Fernando snaps, "there is nothing wrong with my navigation skills. This is the precise location." Trust Fernando to turn defensive.

Perhaps the platform has drifted, though its gravity well should hold it firmly in place. We power backwards and forwards in a grid pattern, searching for several miles in each direction. Nothing. We spiral upwards and repeat the search at a higher altitude. Still nothing. Then descend to a lower attitude and repeat the exercise. Still nothing.

This cannot be the right place. "Go check the coordinates again," I command.

"I have checked and rechecked, and checked again," Fernando snaps. "I tell you this is the place."

He can be a stubborn ass sometimes. "Sure it's the right place, which is why we're drinking tea with the village elders rather than scouring empty skies."

"It's not my fault if your navigation charts are crap. Maybe if you'd purchased some decent maps we'd be in the right place. Do you know how difficult it is to find platforms using charts that don't even show their true positions in the first place?"

I breathe deep to still my racing heart. "That is why I hired you, Fernando—you are the best."

"And the best says we are in the right place."

"Guys," Scud pleads; he hates arguments and has retreated to the front of the gondola with a telescope—probably counting clouds. Izzy and Trent stare fixedly out the windows, ignoring us as if we don't exist.

I don't need Scud to join this argument. "Not now, Scud."

"There's some sort of settlement down there on the ground," he continues without removing his eye from the telescope.

I don't believe him. "Don't be ridiculous, no one lives on the ground." I'm sure he's making it up to distract us from the argument. "All the land dwellers are extinct, you know that, Scud. Just stay out of this fight."

"I think Fernando has brought us to the right place," Scud continues, "there is definitely something down there. Look for yourself." He offers me the telescope.

Frustrated with everyone, but particularly myself for losing it in front of the crew, I snatch Scud's telescope out of his hand and I train it on the spot indicated far below. Fernando grabs the other telescope before Trent can get to it.

Below I see a regular pattern of squares and circles that doesn't look natural. I hope it is nothing, otherwise, Fernando will be right. "This is ridiculous. There's nothing there."

"I'm taking us closer," Izzy announces. Now I have another mutiny on my hands.

"Okay, take us down—just to prove everyone wrong." We descend closer to the earth than I've ever taken the Shonti Bloom before. The patterns on the ground resolve themselves into fields, homesteads and clearings in the forest. This, as Scud guessed, is a settlement on the ground—I have never seen it's like before.

Unlike the multi-story hydroponic farms on platforms, where space is always at a premium, these fields are spread out in a patchwork profusion round the settlement. They have even set aside space for animals, letting them wander in enclosed fields. Any "meat" we have is produced in vats using algae and probably tastes nothing like the real thing. I guess the large black and white animals could be cows and the small creamy ones could be sheep or goats. Such wanton disregard for space. It is amazing.

Maybe, if there are people living here, the earth is not abandoned as the history books tell us. But if that is the case, why have we never seen signs of them before?

"Looks like this could be the Village of the Damned, right where it should be," Fernando says quietly, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

I hate it when Fernando is right. Somehow it makes me more annoyed. I just know he is going to rub it in. But now is not the time for tantrums; now is the time play the gracious Captain.

"Okay, Fernando, you win, it's right here where you said."

"Who is the best navigator in the world?" Here we go.

"I only hire the best. I...'

"Over there in the trees," Scud shouts, "what is it?"

I follow the direction of Scud's pointing finger and spot a flash of something among the trees. "A light?"

"Looks like the reflection off a solar panel," Scud speculates, "but there are none on the buildings in the village."

Fernando shrugs. "So they use solar panels like the rest of us. So what?"

But I know exactly what it means—I just can't tell my crew, not yet. "Someone has done a very poor camouflage job," I lie. "Take us higher again, Izzy. We need to scout out the whole area very carefully before we go in."

We spend the rest of the morning surveying the area from the air until I've found exactly what I suspected. Then we leave, heading for the high atmosphere. We don't return until nightfall.

Long after darkness has engulfed the Village of the Damned, we settle the Shonti into a clearing about a mile north of the village. For the first time in my life, I step onto solid ground, and promptly fall over. It's a weird sensation, like the ground is moving, even though I know it's solid.

I'm unsteady on my feet and feel like I'm constantly in motion. I have heard of this sensation before, it's the opposite of what is actually happening—my body is used to constant motion in the air, but my brain cannot compensate for the sudden lack of motion on land, so it moves my body instead. It will take a while for me get my land legs.

We take our weapons, and for the next hour hiked through the open woodland towards the Village of the Damned, slowly acclimatizing to solid ground beneath our feet. At one point, we encounter a herd of stubby animals with flat noses and squiggly tails, rooting in the ground—I have no idea what they are, but steer clear in case they are dangerous.

"Bulls," Fernando declares confidently. But I'm not convinced.

Finally, we locate the forest clearing where I first saw the reflection this morning. Keeping a good distance away, I empty an entire magazine of the Whisper into the object. Then we retreat and move on round the village, repeating the exercise another three times. Finally, as the moon rises high in the sky we make our way silently back to the Shonti Bloom, filled with exuberance. We head into the high atmosphere for the rest of the night and wait for dawn to break.
Chapter 39

In the morning, under a blazingly clear sky, we land in a clearing on the edge of the village. Our approach is spotted. A welcome party shuffles into the clearing to greet us as we disembark, headed by an old crone wearing a shawl of white feathers. When she sees us, she falls to her knees, arms outstretched on the ground before her. The other men and women in her party do likewise.

"Oh, great Gaia," the crone wails from her prone position, "have mercy on us, we have given a tithe this year, please spare our young."

This is not the welcome I was expecting; friendliness or aggression I can cope with—this is just freaking me out. "Anyone know what she means?" I whisper.

"I think she's talking to you, Nina," Scud hisses.

I was afraid of that. I study the villagers kneeling before me. Maybe they haven't seen an airship before; maybe they think I'm some sort of god from the sky. What do you say to people intent on worshipping you? "Oh, er... hi. Please, er... please get up." It sounds incredibly lame, even to me.

The crone remains kneeling, but raises her head to look at my knees. "Oh great one, who is, um... forever young, welcome to our humble village."

"Is this the Village of the Damned," Fernando asks, showing a complete lack of sensitivity and tact.

The crone frowns at him. "Damned indeed, since we still pay for the sins of our ancestors. But to us it is home."

"We need to have a look around," Trent whispers from behind me.

The villagers exchange apprehensive glances, as if we have come to destroy something. I reassure them. "It's okay, we come in peace. Perhaps...we can look around your, erm... lovely village."

That seems to upset them even more. Something about this place is definitely not right.

The villagers rise to their feet and I try to introduce my crew, but the villagers ignore the friendly outstretched hands. Perhaps they have a different greeting tradition here.

The old crone looks truly shocked as I offer her my hand. Then she bows, takes my hand in both of hers and kisses my wrist.

"Everything," she says, "is the same as before."

Before? Have other airships visited recently? Her reaction suggests she has never seen an airship before, but she must have. Weird.

I ask the old crone her name and she blanches, as if I've just pronounced her death. Perhaps I just stepped on a local taboo.

"I am the Priestess of Gaia, your humble servant. The fields are this way."

As the Priestess leads Scud, Izzy, and me towards the patchwork strips of land we saw from the air, I notice several of the welcoming party slip quietly away. The Priestess treats us to a boring quarter hour lecture on agricultural techniques as we slowly wind our way towards the habitations.

When we arrive at the village, the place is deserted. Now I regret leaving my Whisper in the Shonti with Trent and Fernando. Something is definitely going on down here and I have a good idea what it might be. Too late to back out now, besides, we must find this clue.

The village is set out in concentric circles; a circular plaza, at the heart of the village contains a tall grooved stone obelisk reaching for the sky. I read somewhere of an ancient village custom called Maypole dancing, that made reference to ribbons attached to the top of a tall pole and children dancing in and out of each other. The aim was to weave a tapestry of colors round the pole. I wonder if this stone obelisk is perhaps a form of Maypole.

Scattered around the plaza, are large thatched huts made of wattle and daub. The place looks pleasant enough—I can't think of any reason why this village might be damned. One of the huts is painted white, as though it has some special significance.

Beyond the first circle of huts are smaller dwellings, each with its own compound for animals. Further out still, the patchwork of fields for food crops and further out again, fields full of animals. Cutting through all these concentric circles, radiating out from the center, like the spokes of a wheel, are roads and paths.

I try to estimate how many people live here—anything from 50 to 500, or it could be a few thousand. It's impossible to tell how many families live in each hut.

After a thorough trawl of the village, the Priestess stands before the obelisk trembling and looking lost. An awkward moment passes between us in which no amount of encouraging smiles from me help. The Priestess' eyes fill with fear. Is she waiting for me to strike her down or something?

"Fat penguin," Scud says suddenly.

Oh no. "Not now Scud." I forgot how he hates awkward silences.

"Just wanted to say something that would break the ice," he whispers. In another circumstance that might be funny, but not here.

I decide to address things head on. "We are looking for the answer to a riddle," I tell the Priestess. "It could be a series of numbers, or something else, we're not really sure. The riddle is this:

At Gaia's feet,

The doomed must meet,

No more to rise again,

At Gaia's hands the children stand,

To rise and rule the skies.

Does that mean anything to you?"

The old crone falls to her knees and prostrates herself again. "Oh, great Gaia," she whines, "there are no more tributes this year. Surely the sky people have enough?"

Izzy pulls me to one side. "I've been talking to some of these other villagers while they show us round; apparently, some sort of goddess called Gaia arrives each year in an airship and demands they handover one teenage boy and one teenage girl. A sort of payment for their terrible sins of the past. In return, the villagers are left alone for the rest of the year. A previous generation tried refusing the tribute, but Gaia burned the whole village to the ground, so each year they grudgingly pay up—sounds like protection money to me."

"That's gross."

"I know, but apparently, they think you are this Gaia person and you've come back for another set of tributes in retribution for something terrible they were planning."

"Like what?"

"They won't say, but they are very scared."

I think I know what they have in mind, but somehow, in a way I don't understand, their plan has backfired on them before it has even sprung.

I help the Priestess to her feet again. "I am not a goddess. I am not Gaia. My name is Nina Swift." But at the sound of my name she looks even more fearful—I guess I'm right about their plan.

"Oh woe to us," the Priestess wails, "that we could think of betraying the god of life. Have mercy on us." Only my tight hold on her hand prevents her from falling to her knees again.

"I am not Gaia," I say again. "Why do you think I'm Gaia?"

The Crone puzzles at that question then drags me off across the plaza waving for Izzy and Scud to follow. She forgets she is manhandling her god. "Come. Come—I will show you."
Chapter 40

I am at a loss for words. The Priestess of Gaia has led us into the white painted chapel on the village green. In the center of the building stands the now familiar bot-bellied statue of Gaia, but I ignore that. What holds my attention is a life size mural covering the back wall of the building.

The image of my white-haired clone is so totally unexpected it takes my breath away. The figure of Leanne, dressed in white, is treading over corpses of the dead. She has descended from an airship and around her stand children of all ages; they appear to be rising into the sky and sprouting wings. The inference is clear the child tributes live with Gaia in the sky.

The riddle comes unbidden into my mind: At Gaia's feet the doomed must meet, no more to rise again, at Gaia's hands the children stand, to rise and rule the skies. The edges of the painting are decorated with ghostly monsters and fantastic creatures. This building is where we find our clue.

For a while, I'm transfixed by the image of Leanne—she has never been outside a laboratory, so how could she possibly have made her way here to the village of the damned? Is there more than one White Woman? How many clones of me are there? No wonder the priestess mistook me for Gaia. I would probably make the same mistake.

I turn to Scud and Izzy and mouth, "We need to search this place and find the hidden clue." Somehow, we need to get the villagers and the priestess out of here.

I need to buy some time to think. "This is a lovely painting."

The Priestess beams, she is obviously proud of the art work. "It is known as 'The Descent if Gaia,' it is very old. Sadly, bits of the wall keep crumbling away taking the painting with it. We restore it as best we can. One of our young artists restored the central figures a few years ago, but was taken by Gaia before she could finish the rest. Now we have no one who can do the work." The Priestess is unremittingly morose.

The mention of restoration gives me an idea. "I don't remember being Gaia, but I must be. Perhaps, I have regenerated." I have no idea what I might have regenerated from or what I might have regenerated into, but hopefully neither does the priestess. "I need to spend some time alone to commune with Gaia," I say, pointing toward the statue.

The priestess looks edgy, perhaps she does doubt my identity—now she has something to compare it with. Or maybe, she thinks I'm here to steal her offerings. Reluctantly, she leaves.

Scud picks up a candle and examines the painting of Leanne—typical of him to do his own thing.

"Okay, so let's start with the riddle," I say. At Gaia's feet the doomed must meet—that must mean either the statue or the painting—so let's check the statue."

Izzy and I get down on our hands and knees and crawl around the statue of Gaia, feeling for anything that might indicate a hidden space. I even try to dig into the packed earth of the floor with my fingertips. Nothing.

"At Gaia's hands the children stand, to rise and rule the skies," Izzy says. "That has to be the painting." We recheck the hands of the statue, just in case.

Scud has the candle right up close to the mural. If he studies the face of Leanne any closer he will scorch the painting. "Nina, I don't think—"

"Not now, Scud. We're onto something."

"But Nina—"

Izzy points to the monsters near the flying angels. "Numbers—see how this beast curls round, but it's all wrong—back to front, I think."

"Mirror writing," Scud mutters, leaving Leanne and focusing on Izzy's find. He's right, the numbers are all back to front.

I examine the corpses of the damned—there are numbers here too. "Copy them down before she comes back."

Izzy starts scribbling. "But which order are they in?"

"Same order as the riddle," Scud says. "Numbers by the feet first, numbers on the doomed, on the children, by her hands, and numbers in the skies last." Which is a long speech for Scud.

I scribble away with a pencil and a piece of paper too.

"Quick," Izzy hisses, "they're coming back."

Scud returns to studying the figure of Leanne. "Nina, I'm pretty sure—"

"Well, well, well, what do we have here? You appear to be trapped, Miss Swift." The voice of lieutenant Borker is unmistakable.

I turn to find him pointing a pistol at me. This is what the villagers were planning—nothing less than I expected.

Jack McGraw pushes his way in front of Borker's gun, to get to me first. "Nina Swift, I am arresting you, with the authority of New Frisco, for flying an airship without an air-worthiness license, resisting arrest, and striking an officer of the law—me." He gestures with his own gun. "Raise your hands above your head where I can see them."

"Hi, Jack."

"And the rest," Borker growls.

"Also, on suspicion of murder, arson, manslaughter, and terrorism," McGraw states in a flat voice. "And I am arresting your crew as accessories to these alleged crimes."

"No kidnapping or smuggling?" I ask innocently.

"Not that I am aware of."

So Jack doesn't know about Leanne—I store this piece of information away for later.

"Do you wish to confess anything while you are under caution?" Jack is wearing his severe face. He looks handsome in his uniform.

I lift my hands carefully, sure Borker would love any opportunity to shoot me down. The lieutenant is grinning like he's genuinely pleased to have finally caught up with me. There are fewer constables with them than the size of their flotilla would suggest which is exactly what I hoped.

"We have some repair work to complete," Borker declares, "but I think you already know about that, don't you Miss Swift."

Our night-time raid on their hidden airships was successful then. I catch Jack McGraw's eye, he stares back impassively, until Borker turns his back on us, then he winks. The raid is the sort of tactical maneuver Jack would appreciate.

"So for the moment," Borker continues, "we will secure you here." They seat us on wooden chairs, arranged in a row facing the statue of Gaia and the painting. They tie our hands behind our backs with ropes, and tie our feet to the chair legs. They shove the Priestess into a dark corner, she looks scandalized at the treatment of her god.

Borker cannot resist gloating over his victory. "Thought you could get away with murder, thought the rules didn't apply to you, eh? Thought you could wreak havoc across the world in your own little airship, didn't you? Well I got News for you—we're the law, we always catch the criminal." Borker whips out his pistol again and strikes me across the left cheek.

The blow splits the skin and a trickle of blood runs down my face. The blood drips slowly onto my jacket. I keep my teeth clenched so I don't cry out at the pain. Even trussed up like a chicken, that is one victory I can deny Borker. The bruising numbness soon settles to a sting.

"Oh, and the rest of your crew have deserted you," Borker sneers, pressing the muzzle of the gun against my forehead. He pulls back the hammer. "Goodbye Nina Swift."
Chapter 41

Jack McGraw reaches in quickly and snatches away Borker's compression pistol. "Alive Lieutenant. Our orders are to bring her back alive.

"Your orders," Borker growls, but he lowers the pistol anyway and turns away.

Jack smiles, nervously licking his lips. I raise a questioning eyebrow at him, but he just shrugs. Does that mean he doesn't know what is happening or he doesn't care? I'm safe from Borker as long as Jack is there to protect me. But what happens when Borker gets me alone?

Eventually, Borker tires of baiting. "Come on McGraw, we got repairs to complete." The two of them wander off leaving us tied to chairs in the chapel and just two constables inside the Chapel to guard us—I guess there must be more outside.

"Now what?" Izzy asks.

"We wait."

"Quiet there," a guard demands.

The Priestess whimpers from her dark alcove so I turn my attention to her. "What did they offer you to betray your god?"

"Forgive me—I didn't know. They said you were an outlaw and were coming with a band of desperadoes to take our village. I didn't think it would be you." At least she hasn't taken my protests to heart—she still thinks I am Gaia.

"Right, that's it—I told you to be quiet." One of the guards stalks over to me and pulls a dirty rag out of a pocket.

The Priestess' face turns ashen at the thought of more violence against her god. "What must I do?"

"Get out of here, before I tie you up too," the guard growls.

"Wait for a sign," I shout as the Priestess scrambles out an entrance hidden behind the painting. "And mm m mmmm." The guard stuffs the dirty rag into my mouth to gag me and secures it with another length of cloth. The gag tastes of stale biofuel.

"A sign? What sort of dumb advice is that?" Izzy scoffs.

"Quiet or I'll gag you too."

Scud is still studying the painting of Leanne. He's under stress so I guess he's counting something. "Good advice," he mutters so quietly I barely hear him, "very good advice."

I try to loosen the bindings at my wrists, but they are tied too tight. I will just have to follow my own advice and wait.

Before long, there is a disturbance from outside and some distant shouting. Both constables move to the main doors. I check over my shoulder to ensure they have exited the building before starting to hop my chair in a circle until the back of my chair is facing the back of Izzy's chair. We both try to undo the rope bindings at the same time, but just succeed in getting in each other's way.

"You go first," Izzy instructs.

But I can't move my hands and cannot get a proper purchase on the knots. "Mm mmm mnn mm," I say through the gag.

"I'm hoping you said, 'You have a go,' Izzy says, fumbling with the knots, but she is no more successful than me.

We are running out of time. Suddenly, the Priestess makes a reappears. "Is this the sign?" she asks pathetically.

"Just get that Krys-knife and cut us free," Izzy snaps, "before we bring the wrath of Gaia down on you."

The promised wrath seems to galvanize the old lady into action. She hooks down the Krys-knife from the statue and carefully cuts through the bindings to free my hands and feet.

I rip off the gag and snatch the knife out of her hand. Quickly, I free Izzy and Scud before turning back to the Priestess. "Thank you. Now if you can get us out of here, I guarantee no more tributes."

"Nina, we can—" Scud begins.

"Not now, Scud—"

"Oi, what you doing?" One guard returns and runs towards us waving a compression pistol.

Izzy must think the same way as me, because two wooden chairs simultaneously crash into the guard. The guard is knocked off his feet and the pistol skitters across the floor, and out of his reach. Izzy and I throw ourselves on top of the guard as he moves to retrieve the gun. As the constable takes a swing at Izzy, I roll off and retrieve the pistol.

"Stop!"

The constable looks up, sees me with a pistol and razes his hands. I gesture to Izzy and Scud, who is also now free. "Secure him and gag him. We don't want him calling out."

The Priestess leads us out the back of the chapel. Round the front, the Shonti Bloom has descended quietly from the skies into the village green, as planned. Trent and Fernando, using crossbows, have already taken out six constables—I doubt if any of them saw or heard it coming. I note with pleasure that one of the comatose bodies is that of Lieutenant Borker. Where is McGraw?

The Shonti lifts off out of range again, leaving Trent prone on the floor trying to finish off the remaining constables with my Whisper. The final guard from the chapel is sheltered behind the front corner of the building trying to get a good angle on Scud.

Removing this one is easy: I calmly walk up behind the guard and place the pistol against his head. Immediately, he freezes and drops his compression rifle.

Trent gives me a covert thumbs up from his hiding place, then raises one finger and points across the plaza. A final constable is sheltering behind a group of rocks on the edge of the plaza and she has Trent pinned down with shots from a compression rifle. This will be difficult.

I could climb onto the roof of the building and try to get a down-shot, but that will take time and Trent doesn't have time—nor do we, because the disturbance will attract more constables. This calls for a bold approach.

Izzy has the captured guard trussed up and gagged.

"Strip him," I order.

A great majority of what we think we see is constructed within our minds, so we tend to see what we expect to see.

In this case, the beleaguered constable expects to see a uniformed colleague doubled up and running towards her with a compression riffle. She sees what she expects to see; otherwise she would have taken a clean shot at me.

I skid into the dirt behind the rocks, and jam the riffle into the constable's ribs. "Drop it!"

Slowly, the constable lowers her own rifle to the ground. Then, in a blur of movement she leaps into a crouch, knocks my gun aside, and thumps me on the left shoulder. My body goes into shock.

I try to get a handle on what is happening, but my mind has become detached from my senses. I can no longer feel anything—it's like I'm watching a film of someone else. The constable stares at me open mouthed, shock written across her pretty face: a crossbow bolt protrudes from the hand she raised to me. She keels over, a frown of incomprehension creasing her face. Her staring eyes are hazelnut brown.

I look down and see a similar crossbow shaft buried in my left shoulder. As my vision darkens around the edges and my body slumps, only one thought enters my mind.

Trent has shot me with my own weapon.
Chapter 42

"She's coming around."

Pain floods my brain. "Ooh." I hold my head with my hands as a thumping headache takes hold. For a moment I keep the world at bay, then open my eyes. My crew stands in a circle looking down at me, concern on their faces. I am in my cabin on the Shonti Bloom. "What happened?"

Trent appears. "You got stuck by a neuro coated crossbow bolt."

Memory floods my mind: the constable's crossfire pinning Trent down, the mad dash across open ground in a constable uniform, the struggle behind the rock, the pain in my shoulder.

I raise myself onto my good elbow. "You shot me."

Trent grins back. "If only. Actually, the constable you were trying to disable snatched up a lose bolt and stabbed you in the shoulder."

My left shoulder is strapped up in bandages.

Trent grins. "Don't worry, it's just a flesh wound."

The mention of constables brings anxiety thudding to the fore. "Where are the constables?" It also brings an awareness of the ship. "And why aren't we moving."

Izzy smiles down at me. "Thanks to your keen intuition and our night-time raid, two of the constable's ships were so full of Whisper holes they failed to rise. The other two started to leak gas like sieves as soon as they gained any sort of altitude."

Fernando shoves Izzy out of the way, he's grinning too. "Once you took the last constable out—"

"I thought Trent shot her?"

"—whatever. Anyway, I came back for you, we bundled you into the Shonti and easily out ran them. You've been out of it for a whole day."

"So where are we now?"

"Somewhere called platform sixty-nine—we need supplies and fuel."

I realize someone is missing. "Where's Scud?" They all look at each other guilt written across their features. Oh no, not Scud. Despite the pain shooting through my head, I struggle to a sitting position on the bed. "What's happened to him? He's not..."

Izzy sits on the bed beside me and takes my hand. "He's okay. He's just gone a bit..."

"A bit what?"

"Odd," Fernando adds.

"Odd? What sort of odd?"

Izzy bites her lip and nods. "Just odd. You'd better come and see for yourself. He's in the map room."

I struggle to my feet, pushing away the offers of help, and stagger to the door.

In the map room Scud is seated at the table. At first he looks fine, no bandages, no blood, no obvious injuries. Then I notice the slackness of his face and the distant, unfocused look in his eyes. Around him plates of food remain untouched and piles of paper, covered with figures and strange scribblings lie abandoned.

"He's barely breathing," Izzy says.

Fernando waves a hand in front of Scud's face. Scud blinks, once, but makes no other response. "He just sits like this and does nothing."

Remarkably, I believe that might be concern for Scud I hear in Fernando's voice—inwardly I grin, but it's too painful to crack a smile at the moment.

Trent bends down to examine Scud. "You don't look overly concerned, Nina, have you ever seen him like this before?"

I think I might be able to guess what's happening here. "What was he doing right before this happened?"

Izzy points to the journal lying on the map table open to the list of clues we have found. "We were debating what these mean. Scud was scribbling random phrases and numbers on these scraps of paper—"

"And I said it was easy," Fernando interrupts. "It's just a couple of grid references and a bearing, but Scud thought that was too simple. 'Suit yourself,' I said and left them to it, because these sort of things just irritate me."

"—And he just sort of froze," Izzy continues. "He's been like this all night and all morning."

I stare at the clues for a while, waiting for them to speak to me and reveal their secrets, but they're just a jumble of random numbers. If anyone can crack the code, it's Scud. "There's nothing wrong with him."

Trent looks skeptical. "This isn't the sort of thing that normally happens to people, Nina."

"It's not unusual for Scud. It's part of his condition. I've seen it happen before—when his brain gets overloaded with information it sort of shuts down the rest of his body, until he's worked through every possible parameter."

Izzy steps around Leanne's box in the corner to view Scud from the opposite side. "You mean he's still in there? Should we get a doctor?"

"No, he's fine." I gently lift a glass of water to Scud's mouth and tip it so the water touches his lips. He drinks without changing his expression. "We just need to leave him until he's finished working through whatever he's thinking about."

Fernando looks incredulous. "Is that it?"

"Pretty much. I suggest we all get take shore leave and use the opportunity to restock—it could take a while. Where are we?" Through the gondola windows the docks look the same as dozens of other docks on dozens of other platforms.

Izzy takes one more look at Scud then shrugs. "Platform sixty-nine, a large residential platform, not particularly well off, but I spotted a mega market when I was scouting the place out earlier. Fernando and Trent covered up the Shonti's name, we're hiring the mooring in the name of the Helix—a tramp trader out of Newark."

Caution, that's good—they're a good crew. "I guess we go explore that market then."

"Ugh." Fernando grimaces. "If you two are going shopping, I'll get the fuel."

"And I will stay here," Trent declares, "in case Scud comes round."

He can wait all he likes, but Scud won't come out of his daze until he is good and ready.

Once my headache settles, Izzy and I explore the market.

"What do you think?" Izzy pops up from behind a stall wearing a wig of auburn hair like mine. "Do you think Fernando prefers auburn—" she whips off the wig and replaces it with a head of long platinum blond hair. "—Or blond?"

"He'd like you even if you had green hair."

"Hmm, I don't think they have green."

I laugh till my sides hurt and pain returns to my head. It's been a long time since we've relaxed and just been girls together. All this responsibility has turned us serious.

It's amazing how the occasional close shave with death can leach the fun out of life

While I wait for Scud to come out of his comatose state, I can afford to take a bit of time to just hang out with my cousin and lark about.

Izzy whips off the wig. "He's sweet, below all the bravado, but he's worried about his family."

"Are you two serious then?" I can't believe I missed two of my crew coming together as a couple. I'm always the last to notice such things, just ahead of Scud—in that respect we are not that different.

"Kind of, but he'll probably dump me when we get back and I tell him I want to take over my father's trading business."

"I thought his family was all about business?"

"Wrong type of business—they're not really the hands-on type."

"Nothing's ever happened until it's happened, Izzy. He does care about the family thing, but not as much as they do."

"Well we can't elope," Izzy says, "not if I want to keep the family name."

We fall about laughing like a couple of teenagers.

In a fit of exuberance I slip on the blond wig. "What do you think?"

Izzy's smile evaporates. "That's not funny."

For a moment I'm stunned then I realize she's upset. I turn to a strategically placed mirror to see why.

Leanne. The resemblance is uncanny. The sight sends shivers up my spine, like staring at a ghost—a ghost of myself. If I close my eyes and lay in a box I'll be her. Hastily, I thrust the wig back at Izzy.

If she isn't my twin, then she's my clone, or I'm her clone or we're both clones of someone else. How can I be a clone when I have a father and mother? No one's ever mentioned my mother having twins, but didn't my father disappear shortly after my birth? Maybe he took Leanne with him.

The thought of my father treating Leanne like an experiment chills my heart—what sort of monster was he? How could anyone do that to their own child? Maybe I got lucky when he left.

I become aware of raised voices as I bubble up out of my thoughts.

Izzy grabs me by the arm. "Can you believe she made me buy both wigs? Come on, we're attracting attention. Have you noticed there's a lot of Science Guild around here?"

I shake myself from my revelry; the bazaar is crawling with Guild troops.

Izzy steers me into the cover of another stall, the girly foolishness completely gone. "Nina, snap out of it. We've got to get away from here. There must be a whole squadron of Guild troops milling around the square. Do you think they've traced her to us?" She lowers her voice dramatically, "You know—Leanne."

"It's possible. On the other hand, it could be coincidence. What we need is information." I scan the market and spot a child begging in a doorway, a boy aged about ten.

I grab Izzy. "Follow me."
Chapter 43

We cross the marketplace. I squat down beside the kid in his doorway and place a coin into his outstretched hand. "Want to earn another one."

The boy looks me up and down, sly calculation in his eyes. "Maybe."

"There are a lot of Science Guild about today. Is there a squadron in?"

The boy nods. "One squadron on shore leave." He holds out a grubby hand for my coin.

I show another coin, but clasp it firmly in my fist again. "What are they doing here?"

He shrugs his shoulders. "Who knows?"

Well, that's a dead end then. I pass him the coin and make to rise.

"There's more." He's got that sly look back in his eyes—he's better at this game than I am.

Survival breeds new skills—I have never been as hungry as he looks so my incentive to learn was less. I let my morals get in the way too much.

"More?" I remain where I am—half standing. He holds out his hand again.

"What's your name?" I ask.

"Summer, what's yours?"

I ignore Summer's question. He's cheeky. I don't blame him for trying to get as much money out of me as possible, he's desperate. This game could go on all night—I've got to put a stop to it before I lose all my money. "I'll pay you on the quality of your information."

He stares at me, taking in my looks. Calculating. "How much?"

"One coin for basic information, three for something useful."

"Who decides what's useful?"

"I do. I can always ask someone else..."

"There's a whole Guild fleet hovering over the horizon. Arrived two days ago. They take shore leave one squadron at a time."

This is certainly news. "A fleet? Heading where?"

"There's rumors of a Reaver hive to the North. They been preying on lone shipping."

"And?"

"And the Guild don't seem much interested. All those ships and they're just hanging around."

"And?"

"And I reckon they're looking for someone specific."

"Who?"

Summer stands and holds out his hands. "You owe me three coins."

I push him for the information I need; I know I shouldn't, but I push him anyway. "Who they looking for Summer?"

The kid shrugs. "I don't know." His eyes dart round the market place and he begins to sidle away. I look around too, but all appears quiet.

Izzy taps me on the arm. "Give him his money." There's an edge to her voice and I know she's not just concerned about Summer's welfare. I've known Izzy a long time and I trust her instincts: she's spotted something that I've missed, so I hold out the coins for Summer.

As he reaches for the coins, Izzy snatches his wrist and holds fast. Summer doesn't struggle, but his eyes dart all over the place: me, Izzy, the market, me. "And, if you give us a ten minute head start," Izzy says, "two more coins. Deal?"

"Deal," Summer says without hesitation.

Still not understanding why Izzy is intent on giving all my money away, I pile five coins into the boy's grubby hand. As soon as he has his treasure, Summer scurries away. His family, if he has one, will eat well tonight.

Izzy drags me out of the doorway. "Move fast, but don't run."

As we hurry away I lean in close to her. "What was all that about?"

"He was looking to run without your money. That means he has a better offer for reporting us. I reckon he'll give us a two minute start."

Away from the bustle of the market I start to run. "A Guild war fleet looking for us? Is there no end to this nightmare?"

"Not while we have Leanne."

"But if they catch us and we don't have her..."

"I know. We're stuffed either way."

We race back to the Shonti Bloom. Any moment I expect to see a squad of Guild troops forcing their way through the door. Nothing happens. Again. Soon we are headed away from platform sixty-nine.

Fernando sidles up to me. "Call me paranoid," he whispers close to my ear, "but why is no one chasing us? First the Reavers, now the Guild, how did we get away so easily."

"Maybe Summer took his time," I reply, not bothering to keep my voice down. "Maybe the Guild doesn't believe him, or maybe they have no interest in us at all." But I don't believe my own words. Every instinct in my being says the Guild are here for us or Leanne, or both. If the Science Guild hasn't moved against us it's for a reason—I just wish I knew the reason.

"Perhaps they're waiting for something," Fernando suggests.

"I agree. Any ideas?"

Fernando leans in close again. "Maybe they got a spy in our camp." He nods pointedly towards Trent.

I raise my eyebrows. "You mean two spies."

"Two?" he mouths.

"One Reaver spy, one Guild spy." Even Fernando can see the absurdity of that.

He shrugs and raises his hands defensively. "I'm just saying. He's... I'm just uneasy that's all."

Whatever the cause of our clean get away, I'm not hanging around to look for answers. I check up on Scud and find him emerging from his comatose state. He's stuffing all the leftover food into his mouth, so I fetch some fresh provisions.

He eats in silence, but I can tell by his scowl that the data is defeating him. "These numbers aren't behaving, Nina," he mumbles with his mouth full. "They should make sense—numbers always make sense."

"You can't crack the code?"

He frowns and stares at the box in the corner containing the body of Leanne, where Izzy has tossed the two wigs from the market. Perhaps he's wondering where they came from. "Maybe she knows."

"So where do we go from here, Scud?" I am so used to relying on Scud's brain that it's a shock to realize he cannot work something out.

"That's your job, Nina. You're the —it's your job to tell us where we're going."

Scud wouldn't be that sarcastic unless he's really feeling defeated.

"What about Fernando's suggestion of coordinates?"

"Too simple."

Why is simple bad? Probably because it's Fernando's suggestion. Scud likes to think of Fernando as simple minded, but he's not, he just has a different view on things. Scud is right, though, I am the Captain and it's my decision.

"Right now simple sounds good to me and it's all we've got." I leave Scud furiously counting rivets and go look for Fernando.

I find him, watching out the stern window for signs of pursuit. "I still don't buy it. A platform swarming with Microtough and no one's even slightly interested in a ship load of youngsters featured on wanted posters? It's gotta be a trap."

The same thought had crossed my mind, but since even we don't know where we are heading how could anyone else? Try as I might, I can't figure anyway this could be a trap. Still, that doesn't shift the bad feeling..

I push the thought to the back of my mind and address Fernando. "You still think these numbers are coordinates?"

"Definitely. Three coordinates, I've plotted them on a chart."

"Show me."

Fernando leads me to a map spread over a bench, weighted down with a brass compass and an expensive looking brass sexton. He scoops pencils, compasses, erasers, and rules to the edge of the chart, like flotsam washed up by the tide. He stabs his forefinger at a triangle drawn on the map, over a mountain range.

"Okay," I challenge, "so the coordinates—if they are coordinates—form a triangle? How is this useful?"

"Watch this," Fernando joins all the coordinates inside the triangle with straight lines to form a cross at the center. Then he joins the center and an apex of the triangle and projects the line out until it joins with another cross. "See, it points straight to the Village of the Damned."

It all looks a bit constructed to me. "Coincidence."

I lean in close as he projects a second and then a third line across the map. "Ashcroft Ascent. Newark. Both places where the journal sent us to find clues."

I study what he's done for a bit, but I can find no fault. "I believe you."

Fernando looks pleased with himself. "Am I cleverer than Scud, or what?"

I clap Fernando on the arm. "Whether it's right or not, it's worth a try, and at the moment it's all we've got. Good job."

Fernando grins like I just tossed him a treat and I realize I need to compliment my crew more often.

"Everything points to this mountain top." He indicates the cross at the center of his triangle, situated on end of a range of hills. "Now," he continues enthusiastically, "to avoid going over the mountains we must swing round towards Ashcroft Ascent and approach over this desert." He worked it all out, and waited until Scud drew a blank. Crafty.

"Okay, let's do it. Set course for..." I wave my hand vaguely at the sprawling map. "Wherever it is we're going."
Chapter 44

"Reavers."

I am awoken by a shout from the deck above my head. I scramble from my cabin and up the gangway.

On deck, I snatch up a telescope and run to join Izzy on watch. Through patches in the cloud I see a Reaver scout ship cruising under sail in the distance. It is at a much lower altitude.

We change course immediately. The scout must have seen us, but makes no move to pursue as we power away. Anxiously, I stay on watch with Izzy.

An hour later we encounter two more Reavers, one almost at our altitude—high for a Reaver—and the other on a parallel course at a lower altitude. Both under sail. Again, when we turn away they make no move to follow us.

"I think," Izzy says, still watching the scouts through her telescope, "we just found that Reaver Hive Summer mentioned."

That makes sense and explains why the scout ships are showing no interest—their job is to guard and prevent incursions to the home hub.

"A Reaver Hive—now that is a sight I would like to see." Actually, for the sake of my health, I should keep well clear. That still doesn't stop me wanting to see it, just out of curiosity. Reavers, from what I understand, live entirely aboard their ships. Each ship, depending on size, is home to a family or clan. A Hive is like a city made entirely out of home ships lashed together. The entire structure is held in place by an old tech portable gravity well, passed down from chief to chief. The patrol ships we just encountered are the first line of defense for a Hive.

We alter course again to skirt the area. For the rest of that day and night we remain on high alert, but encounter no trouble. Fernando uses the patrol ship sightings to calculate the probable position of the Reaver Hive, to ensure we don't encounter it again.

The morning brings another challenge: if we approach our mountain destination at too high an altitude, the up-draft from the hills will lift us clear over the range. Leaving no chance of a landing on the mountain top. To succeed, we must approach from below—well within the operating altitude of Reavers.

"The odds of encountering Reavers," Scud nervously points out, "are pretty low. But not as low as you having a clone, or being wanted for murder, or Lieutenant Borker being an assassin, or—"

"Are you saying we shouldn't do it?" Fernando asks.

"Uh, no—it's just what the numbers say."

"But the numbers, as you said, Scud, are not behaving themselves," Fernando replies with a snide smile.

I step into the fray. "We have no choice, guys. To know if my mother solved the mystery of the journal, we have to go low and approach this mountain from below."

As we sink lower towards a bleak inhospitable desert, we remain vigilant for Reavers.

Is it worth the risk? We have followed the clues in the journal to find what happened to my mother. So far, we have encountered a whole lot of trouble: become wanted criminals, acquired my mysterious clone, all of this with no trace of my mother. To top it all, Jack McGraw and Lieutenant Borker are pursuing us with more vigor then ever.

Maybe this mountain top holds the answers. But what if my mother found something and moved on. If the trail goes cold here, I have no idea where to look next. Everything depends what we find on this mountain.

"I see something." It's mid-morning, Scud is on watch. No sign of Reavers. He hands me a telescope and points over the side to the desert below. "Down there, among the rocks."

Wind swept rock stacks, twisted into fantastical shapes by blasted sand, stand sentry over the barren landscape. Among the sparse, bleached bushes, are regular shapes that look man-made. There is definitely something down there worth investigating.

"Take us lower." Is this how my mother's adventure ended? In this bleak landscape among the rocks?

Scud is hanging over the side studying the objects. "I think...yes, it's the wreck of an airship."

"Navigational error," Fernando comments from his position at the wheel. "If it were headed the same place we are, it stayed too high for too long."

Another gem from our navigational genius? "How do you figure that?"

"The ship comes in high, the up-draft from the mountains starts to lift them higher, and they realize they need to lose altitude. When they drop, they drop too fast—it's okay while they're still in the up-draft, but lose the updraft's support and they plummet like a stone." He throws his arms dramatically into the air. "Boom."

"Well if you don't keep your hands on the wheel," Izzy snaps, "that's where we'll end up."

Fernando grins and winks at her before lowering his hands to the wheel again.

A navigational error? Could an aviatrix as experienced as my mother really end her life in a navigational error?

My thoughts must have shown on my face, because Fernando adds a comforter. "We all make mistakes. Even me, occasionally."

Izzy, Trent, and I leap over the side to secure mooring lines when the Shonti Bloom touches down in the desert.

"You don't need a weapon," Trent calls over, seeing the compression pistol I've strapped to my right leg.

"You know what, Trent? Given our recent luck, I think I do need a weapon." I secure my anchor point and anxiously survey the desert—I'm already thinking of it as my mother's crash site. I feel like there's a dam inside, holding back a tide of emotions, I just don't know which emotions. Part of me wants to know what happened, another part does not.

We all wander among the wreckage, which is spread over a wide area—consistent with a high altitude crash. I spot the remains of a propeller and the casing of a bio engine, still in good shape—the place must be too dry for rust.

"No sign of the blimp," Izzy observes, "but here is the compressor, almost intact." Liquid hydrogen is heavier than air. Controlling how much gas in a blimp is compressed at any one time gives the pilot pinpoint control of an airship's altitude. Decompressing the liquid fills the blimp with lighter-than-air hydrogen which causes the airship to rise. A nifty solution, which eliminates the need to carry spare gas bottles, but it's also the largest and heaviest component. Fully half the volume of the blimp is given to lofting this one piece of equipment.

Scud rubs at the unit. "No sign of fire, I can even see the part codes. It's like..." He stops mid-sentence, distracted by something, runs over to the bio-engine casing, and scrubs frantically at that too.

I shrug and let him go, knowing once his mind is full of numbers he might never remember whatever he intended to say. "Okay guys, this is definitely the site of an airship crash, but whose? We need to concentrate on finding something which ties this airship to my mother."

"How about a body?" Fernando asks, poking around behind a rock.

"You found a body?" I screech. Suddenly my heart is hammering against my chest as I run over to join him. I can't bear to see the withered and decayed body of my mother. What if there's just a pile of bones, or a skeleton? I steel myself for the worst. Just a quick glance.

No body. No bones. Just a worn pair of goggles poking out of the dirt and a leather flying cap which looks a bit chewed. I suppose the chances of finding an intact body, after all this time, even a single sun-bleached bone, is virtually impossible.

I turn the goggles over and over in my hands, studying them for any sign of my Mother. Nothing. In fact, they are just a scratched pair of ordinary metal rimmed goggles—much like a pair I have in my cabin. Nothing at all identifies them as belonging to my mother.

The flying cap is much the same: nondescript, plain, ordinary.

Scud comes back from his wandering. "Nina, I think—"

"Not now, Scud, Fernando's found something," I interrupt.

"The goggles were right here," Fernando says, "just sticking out of the ground."

I hand the cap and goggles to Scud to examine. Almost without looking, he passes these important finds to Izzy. Empathy is not one of Scud's strong points.

"Nina, I..."

"Not now, Scud." Frustrated with his lack of interest, I turn back to the others. "We should dig around here a bit. Maybe find something to identify who owned these."

Scud joins in as we scrabble around in the dirt. Any moment I expect my hand to recoil from a bone. The thought of touching my mother's last remains abhors me. If it were anyone else I'd be okay, but not my mother. In the end I just sit back and watch the others.

"I got something," Izzy calls.

Eagerly, we crowd round to see her find. She scrapes caked soil from a palm sized object: it's a brass pocket watch, with the chain still attached. Solemnly, Izzy passes her treasure to me.

It's the sort of watch that has a hinged flap over the face for protection. The brass watch case is scratched and dented. I find a catch and slowly open the cover. My heart stops:

The engraving, on the inside of the protective cover, shines like new. "To Eve Swift, Mayor. From the grateful citizens of New Frisco."

This is it. There's no doubt. This is my mother's last resting place.

Even though I promised myself I wouldn't cry, I feel tears welling up—the dam threatening to burst. I close my hand over the watch and hold it tightly to my heart, thrusting my emotions back into their box. My quest is over. This is where she died. This is how she died.

All this time I thought she couldn't be bothered to come back for me. Now I know she wasn't able to come back. She didn't abandon me; she died here of a stupid navigation error.

I feel Trent's hand on my shoulder. "I'm sorry, Nina."

Izzy reaches for Fernando's hand and together they make sympathetic noises in agreement.

Scud slowly reaches down, unfolds my fingers from the watch, takes hold of the brass chain, and lifts the watch from my hands. I let him, because I know he hates emotion—this is probably as close as he will ever get to voicing his sorrow at my loss. More tears prick at my eyes and I struggle to hold them back.

Scud holds the watch up to the sky.

"Nina, it's a fake."
Chapter 45

Scud drops the pocket watch back into my hand. "That's not your mothers watch, Nina."

I can feel my eyes bulging and my mouth working up and down, but nothing comes out. My brain is numb.

Trent gets in first. "This is no time for jokes, Scud."

"When they gave Mayor McGraw a watch," Scud mumbles, "it was gold. Why would they give your mother a brass watch?"

"She was humble," I whisper. Even as I say it, I know humble is not a word anyone would associate with my mother.

Scud carries on, as if he hasn't heard me. "This whole crash site is a fake, Nina. It's a set-up. The numbers on these machine parts—they were on the crates we hid behind in Warehouse 19, on Newark."

I stumble to my feet, my mind a whirlwind of the words Scud has just spoken. I can't grab hold of the meaning; I just hear the words over and over again. Fake... all fake... a set-up...

"And the painting of Gaia in the chapel," Scud carries on, "it isn't Leanne. It's an older woman. I think the picture is your mother, Nina. I think she's alive."

I can feel the others staring at me, wanting a response, but I have nothing to give. Instead, I turn away and stumble into the desert. "A set-up... warehouse 19... she's alive... alive..."

Later—I have no idea how much later—Izzy and Fernando come looking for me. I'm sitting on a rock. Izzy lowers herself gingerly beside me, not saying a word, just a companionable silence.

Fernando stands around awkwardly. Eventually he clears his throat. "Um... Nina, I'm pretty sure Scud is wrong. He doesn't know how to handle emotion. He's just joking."

"Scud doesn't joke." In other circumstances, Fernando empathizing with Scud would impress me. But not today.

"You know what I mean." Fernando settles himself on the rock on the other side of me. "He didn't know what to say so he made something up... to fill the uncomfortable silence—you know how he hates that."

"Fat Penguin," I whisper, remembering Scud's inappropriate remark in the Village of the Damned, and we all grin.

"I need to speak to Trent." Once more, I need an objective view.

Izzy stands to look for Trent. "He was over..." She stops mid-sentence. "Hell's teeth, Nina—the Shonti."

Oh no, not the Shonti. I leap to my feet, expecting to see my beautiful airship tangled on the floor or surrounded by Reavers. Instead I see her great tail flukes sweep to the ground as she powers into the air. "What the...?"

My heart sinks further than I thought possible. My airship is leaving without me. I pull out my pistol and aim it at the ship, but even if I were close enough to hit something, I know I wouldn't fire on my own, beautiful airship.

"Trent!" Izzy bellows. "The stupid—"

"I knew we couldn't trust him," Fernando fumes, drowning out Izzy's profanities.

"—Why?" Izzy demands. "Why would he do that?"

But I know why. "Because Scud is right."

Slowly, I re-holster my weapon, and sink painfully back onto the rock, my face buried in my hands. Why?

Izzy slips her arm around me. "Is there anything we can do?"

There it is again, "we," not "I". Completely detached from the disaster that is today, my mind focuses on the fact that Izzy and Fernando are an item. I should have known; I should have noticed. How could I have not known that Trent would turn against me? What have I missed that I should have seen?

Somehow, I need to figure all this out. With an effort, I heave my mind back to the present. "Yes. Find Scud, I need to talk to him."

I clench my hands to stop them shaking, and pace while I wait. All the hope I felt when I thought my mother could not return for me has drained away. If Scud is right, she could have come back for me any time. Hell, maybe she could come back right now. Clearly she doesn't want me. I, her own daughter, am worth nothing to her. I'm pretty worthless all around really.

I've led my friends on a wild goose chase: landed them in trouble, nearly got them killed, we're wanted by every law enforcer in the known world, and for what? Nothing.

Even my friends aren't real. Everyone wants something from me—they always have. The girl with the important mother, the girl with the infamous mother, the girl who might one day be rich, the student with an airship, an offering of adventure. Even Borker wants something from me—my blood; so, for that matter, do the Reavers. Soon we will be nothing more than bleached bones in the desert for everyone to fight over.

And now I've lost my airship—my scrappy, decrepit airship—and I'm stranded with my so called crew in the desert.

Borker must know my mother is alive. He's an assassin. These airship parts, if Scud is right, were housed in the assassin's warehouse. If Borker knows, do the New Frisco authorities know? Does the Mayor know? Does McGraw know? Seething anger grips me. Does everyone know, except me?"

"Nina, you want me?" I spin round, ready to punch someone. But it is just Scud. Scud, who is incapable of deceit, who is incapable of conditional love. How pathetic I am to need such an emotionally crippled friend. How lucky I am.

Scud avoids looking in my direction—I guess he somehow feels responsible for our situation. He is not—I am.

Deliberately I sit, take a deep breath, and try to still my racing heart. "Scud," I coax, and concentrate on keeping my voice gentle. But he still looks up in alarm. "Why do you think the crash site is fake?"

Scud fiddles nervously with a cog in his hand. "The journal is fake too, Nina."

"Damn," Fernando spits. "Is there anything about this trip which is real?"

Not you! I want to scream. But I know anger will just shut Scud down so, with an effort, I calm myself.

"Leanne's not fake," Scud says, defending his icon.

Fernando kicks at the dirt. "We don't even know that for sure."

"Scud." I try to focus everyone's thoughts. "Why is the journal fake?"

"The clues in the journal lead to a fake crash site, Nina, so the journal has to be fake too. Besides, the curator at the museum, on Ashcroft Ascent, said they only acquired the eyes of Gaia a few years ago. The eye wasn't even on Ashcroft Ascent when your mother left, yet that is where the journal sent us. It was written five years ago tops, maybe less."

Suddenly, Izzy gasps and slaps her hands to her face. "The painting," she says, breathlessly. "The painting of Gaia in the chapel—the Priestess said they restored it only a few years ago. If the painting is your mother, then she was alive at the time of restoration."

"If," I say, still skeptical.

"An older version of Leanne? An older version of you?" Scud shrugs. "Who else could it be?"

"A woman who looks like my mother," I snap. "A woman who never loved her daughter."

Tears prick at my eyes. Angrily, I wipe them with the back of my fist. I ignore the shock on the faces of my colleagues and drag my thoughts back to our present predicament. "Why has Trent taken the Shonti? And why now?"

"Trent murdered my Father."

I envy the matter-of-fact way Izzy talks about Uncle Felix. To me, there is no logic in that line of thought, but I ask anyway. "Why? To stop him sending me a fake diary, leading to a fake crash site? Where's the sense in that?"

She ignores me. "And now that he knows we know the truth, he runs away."

"What about, Leanne?" Fernando asks, not even stumbling over the use of her name. "Maybe Trent just wants her. Everyone else is after her—even Microtough."

I still don't buy it. "He had plenty of opportunity to take her from us at Platform sixty-nine. Why now? Besides, we're only assuming Microtough know we have her."

Fernando presses his point. "She's their experiment. And they've sent an entire fleet to retrieve her."

"Supposition." Though he does have a point.

"Coincidence," Izzy cuts in.

"Whatever the answer, guys, it's on top of that hill." I point up to our previous destination. "So come morning, I'm hiking up there to discover the answer."

If Leanne is just an experiment, then what am I? My mother's experiment? Someone else's? The Microtough fleet could, of course, be here for an entirely different reason. "What I want to know is, why go to all the trouble of a fake diary and a fake crash site?"

"To convince you your mother is dead," Izzy continues. "Which means she's not."

Somehow I need to organize all this information. "So, the fake diary and fake crash are all for my benefit—"

"It's all about you, Nina," Scud declares.

"—Trent knows, so he must be—" I remember the look the Daughter of Gaia gave Trent on Newtonsteign before she leapt off the platform. "—in league with the Daughters of Gaia. Borker's assassins had the fake wreckage so he must be in league with the Daughters as well."

"The Daughters of Gaia murdered my father?" Izzy asks.

That has to be it. I always though the Daughters of Gaia, in their fight against pollution, were a minor irritation, but murder, bombing, assassination: they are monsters.

"Everything comes back to the Daughters of Gaia," I confess. "And my mother is one of them."

"Nina," Scud blurts, "your mother is Gaia."
Chapter 46

"Nina, wake up. The Shonti Bloom is coming back for us." Izzy shakes me violently to wake me from my slumber. "We are saved."

I prize open my sleepy eyes. In the distance, a small spec is just visible. It's an airship with a whale tail—instantly I am awake. My heart leaps, but then drops again just as fast. The Shonti is not alone.

I can now make out three dots progressing towards us. Who are the Shonti's companions?

Why would Trent return and who is he bringing with him? Should we run, or wait? I guess running is not an option in the open desert and they will soon overhaul us if we head for the hills.

We stir ourselves and wait, impatiently, for the Shonti to arrive and our fate to be decided. I keep fingering my pistol in its holster, itching to use it on Trent, but knowing I shouldn't, and probably won't. Information is our greatest need at the moment and a dead Trent can't tell us anything. Besides, a Trent screaming for mercy and spilling out the answers to all my questions is not a bad image to hold on to while I wait.

Eventually, the other dots resolve themselves into two shark tailed constable ships escorting the Shonti. Intent on blaming us for Felix's murder, Trent has betrayed us to the constables.

As the Shonti sinks to the ground, I can see Trent is not alone in the gondola: Borker and Jack McGraw, weapons drawn, are with him. I'd love to take on Borker, though, I'd probably lose, but the satisfaction value would be high. Instead, I reluctantly help secure the airship's anchors and suppress my anger.

"Once again, Nina Swift," Jack McGraw states, "I am arresting you with the authority of New Frisco. Please drop your weapon."

Gingerly, with thumb and forefinger, I retract my pistol from its holster. I have no worries about Jack, but Borker is eyeballing me like a Hawk. I'm sure he would love to fill me with bullets from his own compression pistol. I toss my weapon into the space between us and raise my hands.

By this time, the remaining airships have disgorged their occupants. Eight rifles are now trained on us. There is no hope of escape.

Jack McGraw politely invites me to board my own ship. At the top of the gangplank, Borker stops each of us and performs a full body search.

"She's a slippery, trickster, Jack." Borker sneers. "You can never be too careful with the likes of her."

How did the likes of me come to be in the grip of the likes of him?

Waiting for us in the gondola is Trent. As soon as Borker finishes searching me, and before he has thought to grab me, I step forward and smack Trent across the face as hard as I can. "Bastard. You betrayed us."

Trent winces, but takes the blow in silence. Then I notice another constable is holding Trent at gun point.

"As you can see," Trent mumbles, rubbing his smarting cheek, "I'm also a captive."

"Good. You deserve it." I cannot keep the vitriol out of my voice—why should I even try.

Borker divides us up. "Put Swift and the traitor in the map room together—that should make for an interesting conversation. Isolate the others in their cabins," McGraw orders. "I want guards on every door."

Trent and I watch each other warily as we are herded into the map room.

As soon as the door closes behind us. I launch myself at him. "Why?" I scream. "Why abandon us? Why betray us?"

With surprising speed and strength, Trent grabs my battering fists. "Sit down, Nina."

I don't want to talk, I certainly don't want to listen, and I'm not going to sit. I want to bash him as hard as I can. "You're a "Daughter of Gaia, Trent. You killed Felix and put the blame on me. I befriended you and took you into my crew, and now I'm a wanted for murder. All because of you. And all the time you knew my mother wasn't dead."

"No, not at all."

I still can't contact Trent with my fists, but I keep trying. "You knew the journal was fake and would lead us to a set—up." I indicate the crash site outside the gondola.

"No, that's not how it is. We have a lot to talk about, Nina. Sit down, please."

"All the trust I gave you. All the kindness I showed you." I have no intention of listening to Trent. All I want is to vent my anger. "Over and over, I gave you the benefit of the doubt, and championed you against the wishes of my crew. I stood up for you when no one else did. And this is how you repay me?"

I struggle to hit him again with whatever I can, but he's too strong for me, I can't even get a knee close. It's like he's anticipating my every punch and blocking it before I've thrown it. I'm wasting my energy, but I carry on anyway, because I have nothing else to hit out against.

Eventually, exhausted, I slump heavily to the ground, supported only by the bulk of Leanne's box. The movement dislodges the stupid wigs that the stupid stall-holder forced Izzy to buy at that stupid market. Angrily, I throw them at Trent. He catches them easily, laughs, and chucks them into a corner. This just infuriates me more. Fine, if I can't hit him, I shall ignore him. I fold my arms across my chest and turn my back to him. Yeah, I probably pout too, and sulk.

"You're incredible, Nina."

"No, I'm not." His attempt at flattery just makes me furious. Then I remember my resolve to ignore him and clamp my mouth shut.

"I didn't murder Felix and I'm not a Daughter of Gaia."

I remember the Terrorist on Newtonsteign and the look she gave Trent before she jumped through the window. Another jigsaw piece falls into place. "The Terrorist on Newtonsteign recognized you."

"We'll come to that later." I hear him shuffle awkwardly behind me. "Everything I've done was to protect you and your crew, Nina, even taking the Shonti. I know you won't believe me, so I'm just going to talk. Please do me the courtesy of listening until I finish."

I give no response, and smile to myself, pleased with my stubbornness.

"We suspect your mother is behind the Daughters of Gaia. We have done for some time. We have no way of proving it, of course, and have never found her hiding place, though we have searched for years. Then the Daughters pulled off an audacious coup and we had to act—they kidnapped the White Woman."

"Leanne."

"Yes, Leanne. They unhooked her from the machines that were keeping her alive, put her into a coffin, and made off with her. The Daughters had good intelligence. They switched Leanne into different boxes during their escape and must have stashed her somewhere where she could be embalmed, intending to come back later. All we recovered was a room full of dead bodies and two empty boxes. After that the trail went cold. Until you suddenly acquired an airship and announced to the world your intent to investigate your mother's last journey. So we followed you."

"Who is, we?"

"Microtough. I'm an agent, Nina. A Microtough spy."
Chapter 47

A Microtough agent? Trent? I figured him for some sort of Gaia terrorist, but never a Microtough agent. My mind whirls as all the jigsaw pieces fall apart again. Now nothing makes sense.

"As soon as you disappeared into Felix's trading station, I was dropped off to infiltrate your crew."

I cannot maintain the silent treatment any more so I swivel to face him. "You knew I didn't kill Felix," I snarl, "but you still did nothing to help." I turn my back again before he can reply, just to spite him.

He sighs deeply behind me, and I smile again. "You really are fantastic, Nina. You have achieved so much. But even you couldn't have gotten away with everything on your own. My agents were right there helping you each step of the way."

I don't believe him. "Like when?"

"Like on Newark. They saved your life and helped you escape from Borker's assassins."

My mind flits back to that day on Newark and starts replaying my flight from the Assassins. What I thought I remember starts to blur with other possibilities, given the knowledge I might have had expert help. "The woman taking out an Assassin with a broom."

"Yep."

"The person who jumped on my back and forced me down the stairs onto the assassins?"

"Yep."

Did I achieve anything of my own accord? "The fight with locals at the bottom of the steps?"

"No. Genuine annoyed locals, but my agent may have mixed it up a little with a few stray punches."

I almost laugh out loud, but instantly wipe the smile off my face. The line between reality and fabrication blurs further. "So where were your agents when I jumped the rail?"

"Ah, Nina. Such a fantastic move. Who, but you, would dream of something so crazy and yet so brilliant? My agents were preparing to take down Borker and his assassins, which would have broken our cover and revealed our interest in you. But you saved us the embarrassment and the mission continued."

So now I'm just a mission. My mind scans through the disaster that is the rest of our journey, wishing, perhaps, that the mission had ended on Newark. "Where else?"

"The Western Post Hub," Trent replies without hesitation.

"Where I'm wanted for arson and mass murder?"

"The explosion was a spur-of-the-moment thing. To distract Borker and McGraw when they cornered you."

"You killed all those people for me?" Perhaps I should be flattered. Instead, I feel revulsion. "I'm the reason for all those deaths?"

"I never meant to set a fire. It was a simple compressed air grenade, but metal struck metal causing a spark and the whole thing went up like a torch—I've never seen anything like it. I did what I could to save lives."

"What? Chucked a few buckets of water," I snarl.

"I sent young McGraw to the control tower with the idea of dropping the Post Hub through the rain clouds."

"Jack? That was him?"

"He has a good heart. He's a hero, but I doubt anyone will ever know. Especially if he follows Borker's path."

"Jack won't let Borker corrupt him," I say with too much conviction. "He's a believer—he will stick to his principles. He has good reason." There are some things even a super-spy can't know.

I feel Trent raising a questioning eyebrow, even though I cannot see him, because I still have my back to him.

"You know that for sure?"

"You still killed a lot of people," I accuse. "And it will still weigh on my conscience for the rest of my life." All those dead people, all those injured and maimed people. All because I couldn't keep alert enough to avoid Borker. I can feel the blackness seeping into my soul as we speak. What sort of degenerate monster am I.

"It is all for the greater good," Trent declares with conviction. A true believer in his own righteousness.

I take the opportunity, with some pleasure, to dig in the emotional knife. "Now you sound like Borker."

Trent goes silent and I know I have hit home. Through the pause I can hear the constables casting off. So to distract myself, I turn to Trent with another question. "What about Newtonsteign? If you are a Microtough agent, you must have helped us there."

Trent actually grins, like he's enjoying himself. "Do you really think we could have gotten into the most security conscious city in the world with a few white coats and a flimsy story?"

Now he mentions it, the whole escapade does seem ridiculously easy.

"Not only did Microtough give us free access and drive away your constable friends, they staged a terrorist attack to alert you to the dangers of the Daughters of Gaia."

"So the girl did recognize you."

"One of my agents. I thought for a while you recognized her too?"

I had seen her before? Then it hits me: the movement of the head, the body shape, the same fluid arm action. "Newark. The woman with the broom."

"Exactly."

Then I remember another incident. "What about you volunteering yourself to Jed as a hostage. Was that genuine?"

"As a Microtough agent, should I have chosen to reveal that information to Jed, I had inherently more value than you. Besides, I recognized one of Jed's entourage as another agent with possibly useful information."

"Not such a selfless or honorable act then? Just business as usual." If I can't hurt him physically, I can at least hit his pride.

"Ouch. I'm a spy—everything's about business." He shrugs apologetically—or maybe I'm still thinking generously. "The other agent had a possible lead on the White Woman."

"Leanne," I insist.

"She had a whole squadron waiting to drop on Cutter's End to retrieve their precious experiment."

"Waiting for the Reavers?"

"No, that was a total surprise. We had no knowledge of any Reaver interest until you found out from Jed."

"I met her—this other agent?"

"The old woman. She took out the Reaver guard, dove over the edge, and set off a flare. Which was the signal to launch the attack."

"So that's why the Reavers never came after us. I thought it suspicious. Do you think she survived?" Why I'm suddenly interested in the survival of a Microtough agent is beyond me. Maybe it's just that her bravery moved me so deeply at the time.

"Must have. Otherwise the fleet would not have followed us to Platform sixty-nine."

"Even Fernando thought it odd no one pursued us from there. Why didn't they just snatch Leanne while they had the chance?"

While Trent pauses to think, my ear is drawn by a commotion on the deck. Something is happening—I wish I knew what.

"One old mystery—you might still lead us to your mother," Trent interrupts. "And one new mystery—why are the Reavers interested in Leanne?"

"So that's why you took the Shonti—you finally had the answer to your first mystery. Scud worked out my mother is alive and you knew where to look for her—'

Trent continues my train of thought. "—And having a Reaver Hive on our doorstep puts Leanne at too great a risk. You would make a fabulous spy, Nina."

"But why the fake journal? And fake crash site? More of your doing?"

"No doing of ours. The journal, as far as I can tell is genuine. The crash site..." He shrugs, clearly at a loss. "All I can guess is someone very much wants you to turn back."

"But the constables caught you in your escape," I press on, ignoring the rising sounds of chaos outside door.

"At least Borker will take us directly to your mother."

"Not if Jack stops him."

"Brave he might be, but also naive—I don't think he stands a chance against Borker."

Poor Jack.

I tense as I hear more shouting, then running feet. Something is definitely going on out there. What is Borker doing? Then someone stops right outside the map room door and a gunshot cuts through the commotion.

"Reavers!"

Trent and I throw ourselves to the window, just in time to see a Reaver raider draw alongside the airship. A horde of Reavers on the open deck level weapons and throw grappling hooks.

Trent drags me away from the window as the Reavers fire their first salvo. "Sorry, Nina, but I have to do this."

Something heavy hits me on the back of the head. I see stars and feel nauseous then my knees give way.

Nothing.
Chapter 48

"We're taking her in, Lieutenant," I warn Borker, with my best growl.

"No we're not, Pup, and we never were." He hasn't called me that in a while, and it still stings. "She's had every opportunity to turn back, but she refused. Now she knows her mother is alive, she is too dangerous to return to New Frisco. Of course, I wouldn't have taken the chance—I would have disposed of her long ago, but she wanted otherwise."

I must have misheard what Borker said. "Did you say Eve Swift is alive?"

"Of course. What do you think this whole chase is about?"

I am still struggling to process this incredible revelation. "Does my father know she's alive?"

"Better for him that he doesn't know."

Not only did Borker know Eve Swift was alive, but he seems to be in some sort of debate with her about the fate of her daughter. Suddenly, I remember the note I found in Borker's cabin. "Your fate will be her fate." How could I possibly have believed it came from my own father? Clearly that was a warning from Eve Swift.

If Nina is dangerous because she knows her mother's secret, and it is better for my father if he doesn't know, what sort of danger am I? Somehow I have to persuade Borker to toe the line. "Our orders—"

"Your orders no longer apply, Pup." He smiles so smugly I want to punch his lights out.

"That's mutiny, lieutenant."

"Certainly is."

Now he has gone too far. This is it. This is the final standoff that I have been dreading all along. Well, I'm not backing down and I'm pretty sure now that I can trust my crew. "Arrest Lieutenant Borker," I instruct. "Hold him in the brig."

Instead of compliance I am faced with a wall of pistols and I realize how few of my original crew are on deck: two, to be precise. Plus me.

Somehow, Borker has delegated the majority of my original crew onto other ships in the fleet—mainly the ones left behind, too damaged to continue. With a sinking gut, I remember distant conversations, about how the other ships needed the expertise of our crew for repairs; for navigation, for cooking, for weapons training. Like a klutz, taking pride in the flattery lavished on my crew, I agreed to these reasonable requests. Borker has out maneuvered me. Again.

How can I possibly protect Nina from him now?

Borker blesses me with his triumphant grin—the one I hate so much. "Hand over your weapons, please." The three of us reach slowly for our holstered pistols. The mutiny is complete.

"Reavers."

We are interrupted by running feet and urgent voices. Something metallic thuds into the hull and splinters blast across the deck, forcing the crew to dive for cover.

"They are upon us!" Borker yells.

Automatically, I bellow orders. "All hands make ready to repel borders! Fire a flare to alert our other ships! Arm the prisoners—we need all the help we can get."

"Belay that last order!" Borker has his pistol sticking up my left nostril. "She stays put." His breath stinks. "She ain't slipping away again. And when this is over, Pup, we continue where we left off." He thrusts my pistol back into my hand and shoves me roughly to the side rail. "Now, get over there and kill me some Reavers. You there," he bawls at someone else, "get up top and defend the blimp—we don't want them taking out our gas bags, do we."

I have no idea what Borker expects me to do with a pistol at this range. As I approach the rail, I see a constable slumped to the deck, a bullet in his left shoulder, and a look of surprise on his face. "Captain?" Suddenly, we are all on the same side again.

I prop the constable up against the rail. "Here." I press his right hand to his left shoulder. "Keep plenty of pressure here to stop the bleeding—the medic should be along soon." Except, I don't even know if we have any medics on board any more. Then I slide my pistol into the constable's free hand. "Watch my back and see what you can do with this." I take the constable's compression rifle, complete with bayonet, and slip his bandoleer of compression bullets over my head.

I know my strengths. I am a crack shot with a rifle. I shove the muzzle over the rail, slap a new bullet into the breach, slam it closed, and ram home the bullet. I aim at a Reaver on the deck opposite, and gently squeeze the trigger. The compressed air canister, attached to the bullet, rips open and the bullet blasts out of the rifle towards the enemy. I don't bother to confirm my hit. I snap open the breach, dodge the expelled bullet case, and grab another bullet. Repeat. And repeat. And repeat.

I concentrate on taking down as many Reavers as I can, but there are so many of them. I know that when the other ships in our small fleet catch up, they will help clear the Shonti Bloom of any boarders. In the meantime, I aim to reduce the number of Reavers before they board.

I also target the exposed ship's wheel on the open Reaver deck. If I can make it difficult for the Reavers to steer, or even damage the steering rig, we might just break free. Of course, they are targeting our steering too. Whenever I lack a target, I randomly shoot into the Reaver's blimp—I might just get lucky and hit something vital.

I ignore what is happening behind me as Reavers crash onto the deck and hand-to-hand fights begin. The constable at my feet occasionally fires off my pistol, then stops completely. I glance down to see his lifeless eyes staring up at me from the deck. Damn.

Suddenly, a hand grabs me from behind and hauls me towards a hatch and down the steps into the gloom of the below deck. I twist out of the grip ready to jab my assailant with the bayonet, only to find it is Borker dragging me out of trouble as the Reavers finally take the flight deck.

"This way laddie. Can't leave you to the Reavers, can we?"

I know he's saving my life, but I still resent him for it—yet another leaver he can pull, if we survive.

"Blast." Borker spits as we crowd into the narrow corridor, which leads to the cabins and lower decks. Now we are trapped.

"Everyone take cover," Borker instructs, "and shoot any Reavers who try to come through that hatch."

The remaining constables take shelter in whatever doorways they can find. All their weapons point up the steps towards the flight deck. The first Reaver through the hatch will die in a hail of bullets; the same is probably true of us if we try to rush the flight deck. Stalemate. Except the Reavers control the ship and can deal with us at their leisure.

Borker barges his way down the corridor towards the lower ship's wheel and swarms up a ladder at the end which is attached to the wall. "They may have taken the ship," he snarls, "but there is one thing they're not taking."

Belatedly, I realize Borker is undoing the bolts on a tiny trapdoor in the ceiling. A trapdoor that leads to the map room above and is used to communicate with the helmsman on the lower ship's wheel when the weather is too rough to use the deck wheel. Borker throws open the hatch and points his pistol through the gap. Over Borker's shoulder, I can just see the callow youth, Trent, lowering Nina to sit on a bench. She has her flight jacket done up tight, as if she is about to go somewhere, but her are eyes closed.

Trent half turns towards us as he steadies Nina, startled by the sudden appearance of Borker. "She banged her head," he says by way of explanation. Then his eyes bulge as he spots Borker's pistol. "Noooo."

Everything switches into slow motion: My stomach cramps—I know what Borker intends, but I am too far away to stop him. Even so, I still hurl myself at the ladder. And in the map room, Trent launches himself at Borker too. Then I lose sight of everything except Borker's head filling the hatch.

Borker's pistol steadies. His finger applies pressure to the trigger. Then he gently squeezes. "To save us all," he shouts.

Bang.

The crack of his compression pistol is deafening in the confined space of the corridor.

I grab Borker and haul him down the ladder. Desperately, I leap up the rungs of the ladder and shove my head through the communication hatch.

Trent is lying on the ground holding his head. Borker has hit Trent instead of Nina. I heave a sigh of relief, but it is short lived.

"Don't shoot," Trent cries, lifting his hands away from his head.

Then I see Nina slumped over on the bench, her auburn hair in disarray. A neat dark hole drilled in her forehead. Her eyes open, staring lifelessly at the ceiling.

"Nina." Trent shouts, and throws himself at her prone body.

"Nina." I whisper, but Trent is already covering her with a sheet. He looks down at my face sticking through the floor, tears streaming down his face and shakes his head. No hope.

I want to reach for her hand, to feel for a pulse, but Borker grabs me from behind. "It had to be done, lad," he says, almost gently. "She knew too much. She was too dangerous. This is for the good of all."

"Is she...?" I whisper to Trent. "Is she...?" But I saw for myself those lifeless eyes. There is no hope.

Nina swift is dead.
Chapter 49

A spark has left the heavens; a sun has dropped from the sky.

Nina Swift is dead.

I could have saved her. I should have saved her. But I was too far away. I cannot believe the ease with which Borker just reached through the door, took aim, and planted a bullet between Nina's eyes: extinguishing one of the brightest stars in a rather grey and deficient universe.

There is renewed vigor to the fighting, but I am numb to it. Our support ships must have arrived. Blindly, I follow Borker's orders.

"Everyone get up to the Blimp. Fire randomly into the Reaver ship."

Obediently, I climb the ladder into the blimp. I fire and reload, fire and reload; again and again. Shooting at random through the fabric of the Shonti's blimp onto the deck of the Reaver ship below.

Eventually, Borker calls for a ceasefire. Our colleagues have re-taken the Shonti Bloom. The Reaver ship limps away with the remainder of its crew. It was madness to attack us in the first place—unless they were expecting their own back-up. Time we got out of here, but Borker has other plans.

I discover no more of my original crew in the new ships than were on the Shonti Bloom before the fight. Lieutenant Borker has truly outmaneuvered me. How could I have been so naive? How could I not see this coming?

Together, with the one remaining loyal crew member, I am forced to hand over my weapon again. Borker imprisons us in a spare cabin while he gets the ships underway.

Normally, my mind would be alive, curious for ways to escape. But not today.

Today, I failed. I failed my father: I am not returning with Nina Swift alive. I failed my badge: I did not "Serve and Protect." I let Borker kill Nina Swift.

Numbness gives way to a deep seething anger. I want to rip Borker apart with my hands, I want to strangle that big flabby neck of his, I want to...

I sink lifelessly onto a bed—for the moment I can do nothing. But I will get my revenge for this humiliation, Lieutenant Borker, just you wait and see.

He said he was saving the world—avoiding a greater evil. What did she know that was so dangerous? What secrets could Nina possibly have that warranted her death? Something about Borker? Something about my father? Something else? I desperately need to talk to Nina's crew, to find out what they know.

Out the cabin window, I see mountains, then a rocky citadel, blended so perfectly with the rocky peak of a mountain it is virtually invisible until we are right on top of it.

Black robed figures run to cunningly concealed artillery weapons as the Shonti Bloom approaches. We anchor to an airship tower that initially resembles a weathered stack of rock. The other ships follow suit and a runner, presumably sent by Borker, descends the spiral steps of the tower to announce our arrival. The occupants of the citadel must consider Borker friendly, because the artillery crews stand down.

It is a strange procession that winds its way down the spiral staircase of the airship tower: four constables carry a large ornately decorated chest. Two more follow, carrying the corpse of Nina Swift on a stretcher, decently covered with a white sheet; a stray strand of auburn hair escapes the confines of the sheet to dance in the wind. My heart catches in my throat and I stumble on the stone steps. I have to reach out to the wall for support.

A short, but violent, scuffle breaks out as Nina's crew realizes their captain is dead. Fernando and Izzy are forcibly restrained then urged down the steps at gunpoint—if only I could talk to them on my own. Scud throws back his head and howls, like a dog in pain. The constables leave him where he is: I think they are scared of his strange behavior. But he follows the procession anyway, like a dog that has lost its master and doesn't know what else to do.

Finally, Trent, my one crew, and I, bring up the rear, guarded by the last of the constables. We leave the ships totally abandoned—wherever we are, Borker must be pretty sure of himself and his reception.

At the bottom of the steps, our procession is shepherded onto a vast empty cavern, open to the sky along one side, and big enough in which to dock thirty airships.

From the open side of the cavern, we are rewarded with vast, uninterrupted views, right down the valley and out into the wilderness of the desert. I bet, with a powerful enough telescope, you could see the crash site Nina was investigating. Her mother's wrecked airship, Trent informed us on his arrest. The sunlight, shinning into the cavern, makes the rock walls glow a warm peach color.

"Wait here," we are instructed by a black robed guard, "I will fetch her." The guard heads towards a large stone building at the back of the cave. In fact, the entire rear wall of the cave is carved into a town. Stone buildings are stacked one terrace upon another from the floor to the ceiling. Walkways and steep stair-wells link all the houses to each other.

If our procession is strange, it is easily outshone by the one progressing towards us from the town. The lead figure is tall, thin, and proud, dressed in a pure white, flying suit, inlaid with intricate silver designs of plants and animals. The high neck of the suit is encrusted with silver leaves, which appear to cascade down over the rest of the body.

The figure's face is covered with a gold mask of the goddess Gaia, held in place by a golden rod supported by the figure's left hand. Greying blond hair cascades over the figure's shoulders and spreads over a train of white material. This is supported by a dozen black-robed women, their faces covered, ninja-style. Each of the women is armed to the teeth: pistols, compression rifles, knives, fighting—stars, and the odd crossbow. I guess they are all prepared to sell their lives dearly for their mistress.

"The high priestess, Gaia," announces the original guard.

On her right thigh, I notice the priestess is sporting a white pistol in a white holster. Perhaps she is not so in need of protection as I first imagined.

Through the eyes of the Gaia mask, I see piercing blue pupils appraising us. They come to rest on the stretcher. "Is this her?"

"Yes, ma'am." Borker replies impassively.

"I thought I told you her fate would be your fate?"

"It was necessary, ma'am. She knew all there was to know about us—about you. She knew too much and was in danger of being captured by Reavers. I had no choice but to remove her as a risk."

Liar. Borker wanted Nina dead from the moment we left New Frisco. Suddenly, I remember the note I found in Borker's cabin. How could I have thought the threat was from my father? It was from this woman, to whom Borker shows such deference.

Gaia waves to an acolyte. "Let me see." The girl immediately jumps forward and turns back the white cloth to reveal Nina's pale face, fringed by wild auburn hair. Her features relaxed and perfect in eternal sleep, except for the gaping hole in her forehead. "Such a waste."

Gaia's voice sounds vaguely familiar, but there is no reason why I should recognize it, to my knowledge I have never met this woman before.

"And you bought me another," the Priestess continues. Borker steps towards the box that contains the White Woman and raises the lid.

I have heard of her, of course. Every law enforcement agency in the world has been on the lookout. However, I am shocked when Borker reveals a girl identical to Nina, except for the blond hair. She is dressed only in underwear, with tubes protruding violently from her nose and mouth.

The Priestess steps forward to examine the corpse. "So this is the Engineer's great experiment? For whom so many of our people have died?"

"Yes, ma'am," Borker replies. "This is the White Woman, liberated by your Daughters at such cost, and on whom Microtough have based all their hopes."

There is a scuffle from behind me. "Leave Leanne alone." It is Scud, still the faithful hound protecting it late mistress.

Gaia barks a laugh. "You have named her, Leanne? I like that. They are both clones you know. Engineer Smyth added genes for Nina's auburn hair so he could tell them apart." The Priestess leans in to get a better look at Leanne. "I think maybe, Borker, I may let you live after all."

"As you wish, ma'am," Borker replies stiffly, "whatever the cause demands."

"And you are so fanatically devoted to the cause, my knight in shining armor."

The Priestess reaches out her free hand towards Leanne. "You know you have been duped, don't you Borker."

"Ma'am?"

Gaia reaches forward and casually rips the tubes from Leanne's mouth and nose.

The White Woman's eyes fly open, piercingly blue. She coughs, splutters, and gags, then sits up, clutching her head. She stares all around as if surfacing from a deep dream.

The Priestess laughs heartily and lowers her mask. "Nina Swift, I presume."

The White Woman fixes her gaze on the Priestess. "Mother."
Chapter 50

My throat is raw and my nose stings. I appear to be in Leanne's box.

Standing in front of me is my mother. I know it is her. She looks just like she did on that day she left me—cold and imperious. She is older now, there are flecks of grey in her hair, and creases lining her face, but she looks so like me it is embarrassing—more like an older sister than a mother. If my mother is Gaia, like Scud claims, she looks nothing like the statues, except for the gold mask dangling from the tips of her fingers. Perhaps the statues are meant to be allegorical rather than literal.

The pipes and tubes once inserted into Leanne's mouth and nose dangle from my mother's other hand, just ripped out of me, which is what brought me around with such a start. She is staring at me with a puzzled expression.

Beside the box I can see a stretcher, with a clean white sheet covering a body, the sheet Fernando originally placed over Leanne. From under the sheet I see strands of auburn hair. How come I'm in Leanne's body? Am I dead?

I reach up to my own hair and realize I am wearing a wig, a blond wig. Of course I'm not dead. Memories come rushing back: the map room, the Reaver raider, something hitting my head, and finally, dizziness.

Trent. Everything snaps into place. He must have knocked me out cold then switched me with Leanne to make it look like I was dead. Which would explain why I'm wearing only my underwear. At least he left me that decency. Perhaps he thought the Reavers would overwhelm the Shonti and take me alive.

I look around, hunting for Trent. We appear to be in a large cavern. The sun, shining in through the mouth of the cavern, is lighting up the rock in a soft pink glow. Wind blows in from the entrance stirring up the thick desert sand into dust devils. At the back of the cave, stone buildings rise in narrow terraces; steep stairways connect narrow streets on each level. This is obviously some sort of settlement—my mother's secret hideaway Trent hoped he would find by following me. I trust he is satisfied.

There are no airships in the cavern, just people. A lot of people. All looking at me seated in a coffin in my underwear. Behind my mother are a group of black clad ninjas, armed to the teeth. To my left are constables holding my crew prisoner, together with Trent, Jack McGraw, and one other constable. To my right are Borker and the remaining constables.

I clear my sore throat. "So you are Gaia?" Not much of a greeting after a lifetime away, but I'm still trying to find my voice.

"Hello, Nina." She could be greeting me in the street. "I hoped you wouldn't make it this far."

"Oh"

"But now you are here, it is good to see you alive."

"I nearly wasn't, thanks to your tame assassin." I glare at Borker, who glares resentfully back. Perhaps he really does believe I'm a risk to Gaia. "My knight in shining armor," mother called him—it is hard to imagine Borker as anyone's knight.

I am aware of the whole group watching and listening. Let them. This is between me and my mother. I want to leap out of the box and give Eve a hug, but she shows no signs of affection, so I stay where I am.

"You could have come visit me at any time."

"Not really." Eve replies stiffly. "I was meant to be dead. And you were safe on New Frisco. This is no life for a child."

"No life for a mother, either." Then the accusation I've been suppressing for so long wells up and explodes. "You abandoned me. I was six."

"I stayed as long as I could." Is that regret in her voice? "But Gaia was calling. The healing earth needed me more than you. And you had to be hidden away somewhere safe."

I was expecting some sort of emotional apology, not reasoned justification. "How can you call yourself my mother?"

"Technically speaking, I'm not your mother. I gave birth to you, but actually you are a clone of me. I was part of an experimental Microtough breeding program—the pinnacle of generations of carefully selected pairings. An attempt to eliminate the infertility of our race—an unforeseen consequence of genetic alteration. As a rebellious young lady, engineer Smyth decided to reduce the risk of losing me by making clones: You and Leanne."

Clones, breeding programs, genetic alteration, experiments? I want to stand up and confront her, but I'm aware of everyone watching. Besides, I'm not exactly dressed for confrontation. "Is that all I am to you, just an experiment?"

Eve sighs. "We are all experiments, Nina—everyone of us. We were created by the Gaia foundation to live at altitude, away from the ground. Immune to the Gaia plague released on the surface."

"You killed the earth's inhabitants?"

"Not me personally, Nina, but one of my predecessors, leader of the Gaia foundation. The Earth was dying, choking under the weight of billions of people. Humans had become parasites, a plague on the Earth. Gaia decided to fight one plague with another. Only those living at altitude, engineered to be uncomfortable on the surface of the Earth, were spared."

Scud was right then about the number of humans living on the surface. "Gaia killed billions? And you are comfortable with that?"

Eve doesn't even have the grace to look embarrassed at the actions of her foundation. "Humans were engineering their own extinction—drastic action was needed to save both the Earth and the human race. Our species needs to be controlled."

"What about the Village of the Damned?" Scud calls. I had almost forgotten anyone else existed.

"Damned indeed," Eve replies, as if I've asked the question. "Immunization—their reward for helping Gaia develop the plague. Besides, a small stock of original genes is useful as future insurance."

"But you still punish them, by taking annual tributes?"

"They need culling. And I need some way to buy off the Reavers—another unfortunate side effect of gene alteration. But one I will soon fix."

Eve shows no sign of emotion as she admits her crimes. The more she talks, the more I realize she believes her own delusions. "So that's what you do, is it? You cull villagers, make deals with Reavers, kidnap Microtough experiments, destroy any sign of industrial advancement, and ignore your children?"

"I have no problem with industrial advancement," Eve snaps. "Provided it is channeled in an environmentally sustainable way. And as for my children." She indicates her entourage. "I have many."

All of them? No way. I study the ninjas. The masks of some have slipped, revealing their faces. They are certainly not clones, but they do bear a family resemblance. In my surprise, I end up saying the first thing that comes into my mind. "But you are so slim."

Eve laughs, uproariously. Despite being her clone, I hope I don't laugh like that, but I catch the smirks on my friend's faces—I guess I probably do.

"Another use for the tributes," Eve explains. "Surrogate mothers. I may be Gaia, the Earth Mother, but I'm damned if I'm going to repopulate the skies by myself."

My mother isn't just deluded, she's evil, but not in a psychotic way. She is so caught up in achieving her grand plans she has lost sight of her own humanity. Even when she was with me, before she left, she wasn't really with me—she spent all her time working—obsessive in achieving the goals of New Frisco. As a Mayor with a civic duty, it is laudable, but now she's applying the same thoroughness and determination to the questionable goals of the Gaia Foundation.

Unable to see the moral dubiousness of her objectives, she ploughs on blindly, her team pulling together around her, triumphantly validating each other as every milestone is achieved. She has become a moral slave to the necessities of a project that is inherently evil: the project itself has sucked the life from her soul. Somewhere down the line, she made a small moral decision of questionable judgment, then another, and another. Maybe it was the decision to leave me behind, maybe something else; whatever it was, it launched her down a path from which she cannot now retreat.

"So if you have all these fertile children, why do you need Leanne and I?"

Eve looks me square in the eye for the first time. "The Microtough experiment failed. I now possess the only truly fertile women in the world. Do you know how much power that gives me? How much control I have over the future direction of humanity? With this weapon, I can finally, and permanently, achieve Gaia's goals. But I am ageing—my genes are mutating and corrupting, so I need a fresh supply of perfect genes."

There it is: the true reason Eve wants me. Not for the love of a daughter, nor for the love of a child; she loves my genes. She loves my perfect, fertile, genes.

"Which is why," Borker growls, "we should have eliminated her the moment we got hold of the White Woman."

From the corner of my right eye, I see a flicker of movement. I know it's Borker without even looking, and I know, instinctively, what he is doing.

I throw myself flat in the box. A shot rings out and a bullet ricochets off the wood. Borker is trying to shoot me and I'm lounging helplessly in Leanne's box in my underwear—weaponless. I'm a sitting target.
Chapter 51

The first shot is followed, in quick succession, by a second, from my left. I hear Borker cry out, the sound of a body crumple to the ground, and running feet.

Cautiously, I peer over the side of the box. Borker is lying on the floor of the cavern. A small puff of dust hangs over his lifeless body, thrown up by his fall. Blood, lots of blood, soaks into the dirt. Borker is dead.

On the opposite side, Trent is gone. A flash of movement among the terraced houses has three of Eve's ninjas chasing in hot pursuit. A constable stares helplessly at her empty gun holster.

Casually, Eve draws her own gun and points it at the hapless constable. "Idiot," she mutters, "that was my champion agent, my assassin, my knight." She shoots the constable dead without a flicker of emotion. I guess she doesn't suffer incompetence.

I am shocked by the casual manner in which she murders the constable—obviously she has done this many times before. Maybe it's not the project sucking the life from her soul. Maybe she is psychotic. Maybe she did me a favor when she left all those years ago. The thought of such a monster guiding me through my childhood makes me shudder. Whatever her motivation, she is clearly past redemption, and I am better getting as far away from her as I can.

"Now, Nina." Eve holsters her weapon. "We need to get you some clothes and talk about your future, with me in the Gaia Foundation."

"So why construct a fake journal and a fake crash?" Scud asks suddenly from the back of the crowd where he is now flanked by two constables. The mystery of the journal must be eating him up from inside. To Scud, all mysteries are logical. Any that are not, bother him to the extent that he loses sleep worrying about them.

Eve Swift doesn't even bother to look at him. I'm sure Scud it relieved, but ignoring my best friend bothers the hell out of me.

I raise my eyebrows and incline my head, I want an answer too. "I think Scud asked you a question, Mother."

"The journal," Eve returns stiffly, "was devised as a way to lure you here without alerting the authorities, especially the Science Guild. However, once we had the genes of the White Woman we no longer required you."

"Which you planted on Felix, then tried to retrieve," Izzy says.

Two constables struggle to contain Izzy as she surges towards Eve, fury plastered across her face. Fernando tries to intervene, but he too is restrained. Izzy only stops struggling when Gaia's acolytes raise their weapons.

"Did you murder him," Izzy spits. "Or did you order one of your lackeys to do it? Either way, you are responsible.

Eve looks alarmed at Izzy's aggression.

"My cousin, Isabelle Swift," I say by way of explanation. "Your brother was her father."

"Oh, I see. A regrettable incident." Eve stops to swallow. "Lieutenant Borker could be a bit over enthusiastic in his devotion sometimes, as you have just witnessed."

Was it the flicker of her eyes, the swallow, or the inflection of her voice? I know she is lying, and I'm not the only one.

"That's a lie," Scud accuses. He hate lies with a loathing bordering on the paranoid. "Borker was on New Frisco when Uncle Felix died. I know—I saw him. We all saw him—in the Square Balloon cafe. All you had to do was show yourself to Uncle Felix and there was no reason for him to send the journal. But he wouldn't tell you where it was, so you killed him with a Krys-knife to incriminate the assassins, and ransacked the place. But the journal wasn't there, so your only option was to set up a fake crash and hope Nina turned back before she revealed your hideout to Microtough."

I feel a rush of affection as Scud refers to Felix as his Uncle—as far as Scud is concerned, my family is just an extension of his family.

Without warning, the drone of airship engines fills the cavern. At the first hint of sound, I whirl around to see the Shonti Bloom backing into the entrance of the cavern. Trent holds her steady with the engines and uses the giant whale tail to stir up the dust of the cavern floor into a blinding fog.

Trent has returned to save us. I make to get up, but a blade sticks into the side of my throat—one of Eve's acolytes.

"Stay close to our guests. Kill them if they try to escape. Shout out if you are attacked!" Eve instructs, hidden by the dust.

We wait anxiously for something to happen. Nothing. No movement, no sound—other than the buzz of the engines and the swoosh of the Shonti's tail sweeping up the dust. Trent is waiting for us, and we are stuck here—each individually captive, unable to see each other, unable to work as a team.

Trent doesn't wait long, wary, no doubt, of an attack by Eve's ninjas. When we don't make a break for it, the Shonti disappears with a few great sweeps of its flukes. And with the retreating airship goes the dust, drawn out of the cavern to spiral upward like a smoke signal.

"Open fire!" Eve screams. "Get after that airship. Take him out before he brings the Microtough fleet down on us!" The Shonti Bloom is already sprinting out of artillery range. Three airships are dispatched to catch her, but with such a head start I doubt they will succeed. Go Shonti, go.

I put my hand back down into Leanne's box and it lands on something cold and hard in the bottom. A gun. How could I have missed it? I could have sworn it wasn't there a moment ago. Thank you stitch. Perhaps I can use all the activity as a cover.

I know I don't have the strength for what is required. No way can I shoot dead my own mother. Izzy would, in revenge for her father's death, but she is too far away. There is only one person near enough to do the deed. And set us free.

"Jack," I shout, and throw the gun, in a looping arc towards him.

Eve and some of her entourage spin around at the sound, but Jack is quick and has the gun levelled before anyone realizes what is going on.

"Jack, point the gun at my mother."

But Jack keeps the gun unwaveringly on me.

"I have chased Miss Nina Slippery Swift across half the known world," Jack declares. " And I'm not going to lose her now. Any attempt to stop me, and I kill her."

Eve gives a hollow laugh. "A brave but empty gesture. I have the White Woman?"

Jack grins like a cat that has caught the bird. "Are you sure? That stretcher look mighty empty to me."

Suddenly, Eve's smile disappears and I, like everyone else, focus on the white sheet laying suspiciously flat on the stretcher. Trent didn't return for me. He used the cover of the dust cloud to snatch back Leanne. Now I am the only route for Eve to achieve her fertility goal.

Jack drags me backwards. "Okay, now everyone understands the stakes, we are leaving." Jack's remaining loyal constable has already twisted free of his captors and taken the gun. "Take Miss Swift's crew," Jack instructs, and the constable herds Scud, Fernando, and Izzy towards the exit.

Eve takes a step forward, but stops as Jack grinds the gun into my temple. "She's as good to me dead as alive, young man."

"If that were true, you would have killed us both already. I reckon she is much more use to you alive than dead. At least this way, everyone lives to fight another day. Who knows, Nina might even have children and start her own breeding program."

"Nina" Eve looks directly at me. "You can break free. Think of the things we can achieve together. We can be a team, friends, a family."

Shame she got the order wrong, but by now that should come as no surprise.

"Nina, I love you." She even manages to look anguished.

I'm not buying it. "The only thing you're capable of loving, Mother, is your cause. I'm just an experiment," I spit back, as Jack continues to walk us towards the door. "Technically, I'm not even your daughter. Just a clone. Except I'm not you. I don't share your values and I'm not wedded to you evil cause.

"I'm your Mother, Nina."

I think of Scud, Izzy, Fernando, and Auntie Jean. "I got friends, family even, who love me for who I am, not what I am."

We come to the base of the airship tower. My crew is herded up first. Then Jacks walks us backwards up the spiral stairs. Eve and her entourage follow behind at a safe distance. This procession is even more bizarre than the one that came down the tower such a short time ago.

I hardly notice. I'm in full flow, unable to stop years of emotions bursting forth. "I despise you, Mother. I despise what you do; I despise what you are. I don't need you, Mother. And I certainly..." My voice chokes up. "I certainly don't love you."

We reach the top of the stairs. My crew is already on board one of the airships abandoned by Borker and his constables. McGraw and I back up the gangway and stand on deck in full view of everyone.

The ship rises, and as it does, Eve runs forward. "Nina, don't go! I need you." She reaches up towards me with her left hand, holding aloft a small metal object. "Take this!"

I reach over the rail towards her. She is my mother. The mother I've always wanted, the mother from whom I have always crave love. Now, at the last, she is reaching out to me—a crumb of acknowledgement, a crumb of love. My heart racing, I eagerly reach for the offered trinket. "Thank you, Mother."

Then I freeze, with my left hand outstretched. The object she is holding aloft is the fake brass watch.

Before I can react, pain lances through my outstretched arm. Instinctively, I snatch it back, but that only increases the searing pain. Claws, like steel talons, attached to the fingers of Eve's right hand, are sunk deep into my outstretched limb. Great strips of flesh are gouged from by my left arm and hand as we both pull away. Blood flows freely, splattering over Eve's icy features. Triumphantly, she holds up the dripping mass clotted under the talons.

My mother has taken all she ever wanted from me: my genes, contained in the soggy mass of flesh she holds aloft.

I feel faint as I watch the blood gush down my arm. Jack McGraw pulls me back away from the side as the ship rises out of reach. Clear as a bell, I hear my mother give an order to her followers.

"Now you can shoot them down!"
Chapter 52

My mother's last words still echo in my mind. "Now you can shoot them down."

Before her entourage can respond they are cut down by a hail of crossbow bolts. All of them, including my mother, are left twitching in a heap as the neuro agents on the bolts do their paralyzing work. I turn around, as we pull away from the dock, to find Jack, Izzy, and Fernando holding my Whisper and pistol bows.

Jack grins like a boy. "Borker took a shine to your fancy crossbows, so he moved them to this ship."

Thank you, Lieutenant Borker.

The delay, gained by the taking out the Gaia leadership, lasts only ten minutes. Soon, a dozen Gaia airships are in hot pursuit of us.

Izzy is flying the airship, engines on full power and shark—tail thrashing at maximum, and I am lying on the deck in Jack McGraw's strong arms. He's uses his own belt as a tourniquet to stop the bleeding, then gently wraps my wrecked arm in gauze and bandages.

"It's okay, Nina, my love. I've got you."

I relax into his lean torso, surrendering to his care, as I have longed to do since we left New Frisco such a long time ago. "Thanks for having my back, Jack."

"I thought I'd lost you when Borker shot you."

"He did?"

"He thought we'd lost the ship to the Reavers so he shot you between the eyes. I couldn't stop him... I was too far away... I thought you were dead.

Tenderly, I reach up with my good hand and wipe away his tears. I feel tears sting the corner of my eyes too.

"Except, that Trent guy—"

"—The Microtough agent."

"I see. Yes, him. He switched you with the White Woman, dressed her in your clothes, incredibly found a wig that matched you hair, and propped her on a bench. In his haste, Borker didn't realize it wasn't you and that agent covered up really well—he was a good actor.

I run my hand along his strong jaw line.

Jack realizes I'm still wearing nothing except bloodied underwear. Gallantly, he removes the tunic of his uniform and lays it over me. "Go find her some warm clothes," he instructs the other constable.

"Trent was always looking out for me—even when betraying me. And now he's got my lovely airship."

Jack smiles and laughs lightly. "She really was a wreck, Nina, but you did wonders with her."

"She was my first airship. I loved her."

"As I love you, Nina." Jack bends down and kisses me lightly on the forehead.

Everyone is staring at us, except Scud who is looking away in embarrassed confusion. Izzy's and Fernando's mouths hanging open in comic imitation of each other.

"What?" I challenge. "None of you seen two people in love before?"

Izzy closes her mouth. "Not you, Nina, you don't do guys."

"Jack's different." I stare lovingly up at him, a stupid broad smile on my face. It has been so hard not acknowledging Jack over the last few weeks, but necessary, to keep him safe from Borker. Then I notice his nose. I stroke it gently, feeling the lump. "What happened to your nose, Jack?"

"You broke it. You thumped me while stealing your airship."

"Sorry." Guiltily, I recall taking a swipe at Jack while freeing the Shonti Bloom from the New Frisco docks.

"I was determined to stop you going. I knew you'd get into trouble."

"I seem to have a talent for it. And I was equally determined to go."

Jack gives me his disapproving look. "Next time, I'm coming with you."

"There won't be a next time, Jack." I kiss the arm he has wrapped protectively around me. "From now on it's just you and me leading boring, mundane lives."

I have almost forgotten how Jack's face lights up when he laughs. "Of course there will be. You are Nina Swift—Trouble is your middle name."

"Reavers!" Fernando is up front with a spy glass.

Jack frowns. "See what I mean."

I leap to my feet, snatching the clothes the constable is offering me.

We all rush to the Bow of the Gondola.

"Where?" I demand.

"All around us," Fernando gasps, "and... hells teeth, is that what I think it is?" He hands me the telescope. "You said you always wanted to see one."

Dead ahead of us is what looks, at first, like a floating city. I steady the telescope and the fuzzy mass resolves into a ball of loosely linked ships: a Reaver hive.

In our rush to escape the Daughters of Gaia, we must have slipped, unnoticed, past the Reaver perimeter patrols. We are already too far inside their defensive sphere. This ship might be a shark tail, built for speed, with additional engines, but it can't outrun the big Reavers ships in a long haul race. Luckily, we might just manage it in a short sprint.

I turn back to the control deck. "Jack, you have cannons on board?"

"Two forward, two in the stern."

"Good. Maintain course and fire off the cannons in the bow."

"Are you mad?" Fernando turns on me, as if I've just suggested he shoot himself, which in his mind I might have done. "Haven't we dodged enough homicidal maniacs for one day?"

Izzy shrugs, Scud still has his back to me—ignoring me, but Jack raises a questioning eyebrow.

"I want their full attention."

"Aye, aye, captain." Jack disappears below deck with the other constable. A short while later, the ship shudders as two shots ring out. They are accompanied by twin cloud plumes of expanding compressed air, released from the shell casings. Both shells leave wispy thin condensation trails as they arc out towards the Reaver hive.

We are too far away to hit anything, but a sudden burst of activity on the hive shows we have made our point.

"Again!" I order. Jack and his mate fire twice more as we continue our approach to the hive.

Then Fernando spots the sign he is dreading. "The hive's breaking up. Now we're for it."

I snatch up a telescope with my good hand, still ignoring the pain in my wrecked arm. The perfect sphere of the hive starts to split apart. Pieces separate as individual ships break free and hoist their sails. Soon a cloud of ships head our way. Then the swarm parts and the first of the Reaver home ships emerge from the center of the hive.

What a magnificent sight—the home ship is like a mini city in its own right: supported by three massive blimps, powered by an array of sails and treadmill propellers, and sporting whole banks of cannon.

This is it. "Bring us about. Time we ran for it."

Izzy spins the wheel and kicks the blimp's tail round. "Run where?"

"Straight back the way we came and gain twenty-five percent altitude."

"No way." Fernando grabs my good arm in alarm. "Have you forgotten there's a dozen Gaia airships in pursuit of us back there, and a whole Microtough battle fleet about to descend on your mother's citadel?"

I grin back into his alarmed face. "No I haven't forgotten. Sounds like enough to keep everyone busy."

His face relaxes as realization dawns—he gets it.

With the Reaver hive right behind us, we exit the misty edge of a cloud to find ourselves face-to-face with the Gaia ships. They in turn are running from a detachment of the Microtough fleet. This really is the perfect set up.

"Fire off the cannons again, Jack. I want everyone's full attention."

If the Gaia ships hadn't seen us before, they certainly have now. They all change tack onto an intercept course. Then they see the Reaver hive emerging from the cloud behind us and all hell breaks loose.

"Bet they didn't see that coming," I comment to my busy crew.

We fire at the Gaia ships, they fire at us; the Reavers fire at the Gaia ships, thinking we have led them into a trap—which we have—and before long, the Microtough ships fire on the Reaver ships, thinking they are under attack from the Reavers. Total anarchy: just the way I like things.

We dodge and weave our way through the three-way battle, then climb serenely into the upper atmosphere—free to make our escape.

"Where to now, Captain," Fernando asks, with an arm around Izzy's shoulders.

"Well, if no one is left behind," I squeeze Jack's warm hand and he gives me an encouraging nod, "I guess we head home and face the music."
Chapter 53

The honorable Judge Longfrie turns to Jack McGraw, who is looking resplendent and handsome in his best Police uniform. "On the basis of your most thorough report, Mr McGraw, concerning the circumstances of Miss Swift's notoriety. I am compelled to drop all international charges and issue warrants for the real culprits. The only charge remaining is the domestic charge of piloting an airship without an air-worthiness certificate."

The judge turns to me, standing in the witness box. "Miss Nina Dorothy Swift."

Yes, Dorothy is my middle name. I bet my friends are snickering behind their hands at the sound of it.

"You are charged with piloting an airship from the docks of New Frisco without an air-worthiness certificate. How do you plead?"

I straightened myself in my Pilot's Guild uniform, newly pressed for the occasion.

"Not guilty, my Lord." I lie.

It's been two months since our sensational return. The scars on my arm are healing nicely, but the severed tendons will never repair. Jack's father, Mayor of New Frisco, arranged for a famous Coggler to construct an exoskeleton round my left hand. Tiny brass pistons and levers perform the same function as the missing ligaments, giving me almost full control of my hand again. Jack thinks it makes me look rakish; Izzy says I'm now a full-fledged pirate.

The court room is packed with spectators to see the notorious Nina Swift. No doubt Fernando is cringing at the naked publicity of it all.

The judge turns back to Jack. "On what basis does the state of New Frisco bring these charges?"

Jack retrieves a notebook from his pocket, he loves playing the part. "Unfortunately, M'lord, the airship in question, the Shonti Bloom, has disappeared; presumed destroyed, stolen by a Microtough agent. Without any evidence, there is no way to determine whether the charges are true or not. I must, reluctantly," he gives me a wink, "move that the charges be dropped."

The Judge nods once. "Agreed. Case dismissed. Miss Nina Dorothy Swift—"

Does he have to keep repeating my full name?

"—you are free to go."

Outside the courtroom I give Jack the hug and kiss he deserves.

He whispers in my ear, "Well done, Dorothy."

I punch him in the bicep for his cheekiness.

"Yuck." Scud still doesn't approve of deliberate body contact, but he is warming to the idea of Jack and I as an item—slightly.

Izzy is there too. "Well done Nina. Well done Jack."

Fernando slips an arm around Izzy's waist. I guess they have made up again. Without the immediacy of death and the adrenaline of adventure their relationship seems somewhat rocky. "We're off to the Square Balloon. Anyone else care to join us?"

"Excellent idea." I link arms with all my friends and guide them towards the Square Balloon. Time to celebrate my freedom. I am no longer top of the wanted lists of law enforcement agencies across the globe. Except for my enemies, I could set foot on any platform, anywhere in the world, with impunity.

As we stroll off across the square, I think I catch a glimpse of Trent in the shadows, but when I look again there is nothing—just my imagination.

Even though I am now a free woman, my future is now far more dangerous than I've made out to my friends. Sometime it keeps me awake at night: did my mother survive the Microtough assault? Are the Daughters of Gaia still out there? Will the assassins want revenge for Borker's death? I am determined to spend the next three years applying myself diligently to my piloting master's degree. There is no way I am leaving New Frisco territory anytime soon.

When faced with an uncertain future, defeat anxiety with feverish activity—in this case, a party.

Jack separates me from the group. "You lot go on in, I want to show Nina something."

With an arm around my shoulder, he guides me down the street towards a jeweler. Oh, no, he can't be serious. I'm not ready to have my freedom curtailed yet.

Jack stops before we reach the Jewelers. "Bet you thought I was going to show you a ring?"

"Didn't even cross my mind." How easy it is for me to lie to Jack.

"I just wanted some privacy so I can give you a proper kiss, without Scud making disapproving sounds." Jack is such a romantic.

I reach up with my arms around his neck. Suddenly, something crashes into me with such force it knocks us both into the mouth of an alley and we sprawl on the ground.

"Nina, thank goodness I found you." Trent. It really is Trent, but no Trent I've ever seen. He is dressed all posh: he's wearing a gold embroidered waistcoat, under a long black frock—coat, and a smart top hat—which is now in the gutter.

I scramble to my knees, then realize I'm covered in blood. In a panic, I check myself and then Jack, but it is Trent who is injured. Gouts of blood are pumping from a wound in Trent's stomach.

Quickly, because I can see the seriousness of the wound, I tear away a wide strip from the tail of my shirt and press it against the wound. "Trent, you are hurt. Hold this here. It will help staunch the blood. Jack, we have to get Trent to a doctor."

With an effort, Trent raises himself on one elbow. "Take this." He thrusts a small package, wrapped in brown paper, into my tunic. "Take it to a Reaver called Papa Doyle. He'll know what to do with it."

Jack has regained his feet and pulled his pistol. "Where is Nina's airship, you rogue?"

Trust Jack to go into lawman mode. "Jack, Trent is wounded. We have to help him."

Trent ignores both of us. "Papa Doyle—got that?"

I nod.

"Repeat it to me!" Trent orders.

"Take the package to Papa Doyle. But not before we've got you to a doctor." I try to raise Trent to his feet.

"Stan, The Man will help you."

I nearly drop Trent in surprise. "Not Stan Wellingham—"

"—It's very important, Nina. Don't let her do it again."

I don't need to ask who he's referring to—I know he means my mother. Is she still alive?

Bang.

A shot rings out from the entrance of the alley. Trent jerks once, then flops across my lap, he looks up in surprise, blood gushes from his mouth. He tries to say something, but has no words left. "Papa Doyle," he mouths. "Don't let her..." The spark leaves his eyes, his mouth falls open, his body slackens, and he droops limply in my arms. He's dead.

"No, Trent. No." I sob. In panic, I search for help. "Jack, do something."

Jack stares unwaveringly down the barrel of his gun, at the mouth of the alley.

Just inside the alleyway stands a booted woman in a green velvet dress. Her face is hidden behind a dark net veil, hanging from an elegant top hat—her dress matches the wide green ribbon around the brim of the hat. She holds a parasol over her shoulder, conveniently shielding the scene in the alley from public gaze.

The woman is pointing a small sidearm straight at my head.

The End
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If you liked Gaia's Brood, you will love this: Coggler's Brood

Nina's adventures continue. With a mystery package to deliver, an atrocity to thwart, and a love interest in tow. Nina immerses herself in Steampunk Reaver culture to find the elusive Papa Doyle, cross swords with the Master Coggler, and deliver on a promise made to a dying Microtough agent.

More airships, more swashbuckling adventure, more dastardly villains, more Steampunk fun—it's the return of the fabulous Nina Swift. Visit www.NickTraversAuthor.com for publication details of this and other books written by the same author.

Or...

Turn over for a sample chapter from Coggler's Brood:

### Coggler's Brood

Without looking down, Jack takes my hand. He keeps me behind him as we sidle past the Daughter of Gaia and exit the alley.

Out in the main street, Jack shoves me behind him. "It's you the Daughters want, so if you use me as a shield you should be relatively safe. I doubt they will fire on a Beat in public."

I pull myself together, because I know he's still taking one hell of a risk for me.

People stop to stare as we parade across the plaza: we must make a strange sight—Jack pacing steadily backwards, pointing his gun at what now appears to be an empty alley, and I shuffling along, crab fashion, trying to watch where we are going and keep myself behind the sculptured bulk of his body.

Guiltily, I realize how easy it is for me to concentrate on practical matters and push thoughts of Trent's death to the back of my mind. "Jack, Trent is dead," I whisper, "shouldn't I feel more upset? Shouldn't I be falling apart, bawling my eyes out or something? Or fainting with grief?"

Jack laughs, "Nothing fazes you, Nina. That's one of the things I love about you—always focused on the task in hand. Sometimes, the focus of your mind is so sharp its terrifying."

I'm reminded of something someone once said about my mother. "Beautiful and terrifying, that was your mother, Nina, beautiful and terrifying."

Eventually, we reach another street and as Jack drops his weapon, I see a flash of green streak from the alley. Thankfully, she is heading in a different direction.

"Run!" Jack orders. "Follow me."

I start along the street after Jack, "Where to?"

"Beat Central in Beat Plaza, we will be safe there." Jack ducks into a side street, he knows all the cut-throughs. If anyone can get me safely to Beat Central it is Jack.

I lengthen my stride to catch up with him. "Are you sure it's the safest place?" My experience with Beats has not always been good. Only a few months ago a Beat Lieutenant tried to assassinate me.

"I promise you we will be safe there, Nina," Jack calls back. "Beats exist to 'Serve and Protect'," he adds proudly, "there is no better place to protect you." Jack worships the Beats, he always has. His father, now mayor of New Frisco, was once the Beat Commissioner. The Beats are Jacks life and ambition. He's an unfailing optimist—one of the things I love about him.

We pound through the side street and burst into another main street before skidding to a halt in Beat Plaza.

The steps of Beat Central are buzzing with law officers. The lady in the green velvet dress is already there, as are a few other veiled and smartly dressed women. She had a direct route from Central Plaza to here, while we were forced to take a dogs-leg.

For a hopeful moment I think the officers have caught her. Then she points directly at me and an officer blows his whistle. "Stop felons!"

Without waiting for Jack, I turn and run.

"Nina Swift. Jack McGraw. Murderers." More shouts, more whistles, and a whole posse of feet pounding after us.

Jack catches up with me, "I don't believe it. How can they possibly think we are guilty of killing Trent?"

"For a law officer, Jack, you are sometimes incredibly naive," I pant. "A Microtough agent is dead. You were at the crime scene, brandishing a gun in public, and I'm covered in the victim's blood. Of course we look guilty. It's our word against hers and right now they believe her."

We dash past a watchmakers. "We just need to surrender and explain," Jack pants, quite reasonably.

"Are you kidding? Did you see how many Daughters of Gaia were on the steps? They obviously have the Beats in their pockets at the moment. We go anywhere near them and I bet they will shoot us down and apologies later." My comment is underlined by a gunshot from behind us.

"Hell's teeth, they're shooting at us," Jack gasps. It must be hard when your heroes morph into the bad guys. "Where do we go?"

I have an idea. "The Pilot's Guild. They will shelter us until we can sort out this mess. Which is the quickest route."

"This way." Jack cuts into another side street before ducking into an alley by a grocer's store.

The upper stories of the wooden houses close over us, leaving only a narrow strip of sunlit sky to guide us. No sunlight falls on the ground in these back streets, but I still stick to the shadows. The gloom gives me a sense of security, even though I know it's false.

Jack leads me on a twisting winding route through the maze of narrow streets and back alleys. Soon we have shaken off our pursuers and can slow down to a steady jog.

The Pilot's Guild is a sprawling three-story building overlooking the upper-most docks of New Frisco. We burst out of a side street, into glaring sun on the dockside, and sprint for the main doors.

With a stab of fear, I realize we are out maneuvered. The well-dressed Daughters of Gaia are already standing guard outside the Pilot's Guild. I grab Jacks muscular arm and shove him into the cover of a rope-makers warehouse. "They're here."

Jack's face creases into a look of confusion. "How could they possibly have got here ahead of us?"

"They didn't, Jack, they out thought us. They had people coming here while we were heading for Beat Central. They know who we are and what we do—at least, they know me. They've probably been watching me since they arrived in case Trent made contact.

We sneak around the streets trying side doors to the guild, but they are all guarded. The Daughters of Gaia have the place locked down.

"They're devoting a lot of people to this search, Nina," Jack comments, thoughtfully. "Whatever message they think Trent gave you must be important to them."

With a jolt, I realize Jack has no idea what really happened in the alley—he has no knowledge of the package I am to deliver, nestled against my heart, inside my bloody tunic.

"This way." I lead Jack away from the Guild for a few streets then double-back to another section of the dockside. What I'm looking for is a flight of steps leading over the very edge of the floating landmass that is New Frisco. "Trent gave me a message to deliver. To someone I've never hear of, about something my mother is planning". How easy it is to lie to Jack. I fool myself I'm doing it to keep him safe. Besides, if he doesn't know the truth he can't tell anyone else; he can't betray me.

Jack sees where I'm headed and stops in his tracks. He has bad experience of the Under Deck. "We can go to my father, the Mayor. He will protect us, and help you deliver Trent's message."

"I don't think the message is for anyone on New Frisco, Jack." With a shudder, I remember Trent referring to Papa Doyle as a Reaver—enemies of the state of New Frisco; enemies of human kind. "Besides, if the Daughters of Gaia have infiltrated the Beats it's with your father's permission. I bet they've spun him some story about protecting us," I add quickly, "and are guarding him just as close as the Pilot's Guild." There must be swarms of the Daughters on New Frisco—my mother's sent the whole hive.

"My house then."

"Even worse." Jack still doesn't understand the callous ruthlessness of the Daughters of Gaia. If they want me dead there is no safe place on New Frisco—except maybe one. The steps are unguarded so I nip across the open ground and clatter down the first flight.

Jack follows, but hesitates at the first landing. "I'm not sure about this, Nina."

I carry on down regardless. Below are the wooden tiers of the Underdeck—the shanty town, dandling below the main landmass, equally as large as New Frisco and known simply as the Underdeck. "We need to get off New Frisco, Jack. As soon as we can."

As I hoped, Jack follows me, while pondering this thought. "An unscheduled flight off New Frisco takes money, Nina. And contacts—criminal contacts."

"I know just the guy. Trent said he would help us."

"No. Not Stan Wallingham. This is a bad idea, Nina."

"I know, but I have no other choice."

The story continues in Coggler's Brood...
