Clockwork Pandora (Heart of Bronze Book 2) Read online

  Visits from The Scorpion’s crew became less and less, and visits from the master himself became more regular. His cruelty was sometimes worse than theirs because he saw New Cali as his treasure, and everything in it was his personal property, no matter how old or seemingly useless. His beatings on me were rare, and really amounted to no more than a ladylike slap across the jaw, but the psychological torment was sometimes far worse than a hot branding iron. He threatened my collections of books and films, sometimes showed up in my home drunk as a louse only to urinate on my carpet and pass out on the sofa.

  Why didn’t I finish him during one of these vulnerabilities? Because I’m not a fool. A ship captain’s crew, even a pirate crew, was fiercely loyal to their master. He was the only reason I was allowed to live, and in all fairness, I was here first. I may live a life of servitude to this bastard’s whims, but I’ll not be chucked out of the finest home a man like me could have. The Scorpion may be King of New Cali, but I am the King of My Own Solitude. I lacked the strength to fight them, but not the wisdom. I spent more than a few sleepless nights plotting ways I could take back what once was mine, but my own wisdom was my failure, because every brilliant plan of revenge was faulted by a “what if” that I couldn’t escape. The Scorpion was just a boy, but he didn’t become captain by swiftness of sword alone.

  One day I knew some hope would fall from the sky and give me the courage to stand against him.

  I never imagined it would actually happen so literally.

  Made nervous and fretful by the appearance of the Greencoats, I longed to be back home. The Scorpion’s crew were far more kind than the hunters would be if they were to catch me. I briefly wondered who would win in a fight, but pushed that thought to the back of my mind, perhaps to use as the basis of a tale or a song I could write.

  I waited for a long while in a makeshift alley that might once have been a bustling street, crouched behind an aerocar that had been crumpled by a fallen hotel pillar. I listened for the Greencoats’ horses, or any other sounds that might slow my escape, then moved on when the coast was clear. I didn’t take my bicycle from Elizabeth’s house, because if the witch hunters returned the way they had come they would notice it had moved and might intensify their search for me. I may not have the best life among The Scorpion and his crew, but at least it’s safe in New Cali. The Old California wastes were fraught with countless dangers.

  When I was sure the coast was clear, I moved on toward the shore, glancing up to make sure New Cali was where I left it.

  Oh, that’s another thing.

  The floating city moves.

  During my tentative exploratory strolls through the subway tunnels and sewer catacombs of New Cali’s underbelly, I never found any steam powered monstrosity keeping it afloat. I never found anything that would account for its floating demeanor or propulsion. The only other explanation was Magic or Sorcery, but despite the many volumes I’d written on the subject, I was woefully wanting for the tools that would help me discern the truth of it. As crazy as it sounds, the only possibility left is most likely the explanation: the city drifted on some unseen pulse of magical energy the way the planet’s polls move the needle on a compass.

  Under the broken awning of an old bank building, I stopped and checked my bag. I had managed to gather a can of chowder, a tin of sardines, two framed photographs and a book from Elizabeth’s house. The food was mine, as was the book and one of the photos. The Scorpion wouldn’t be pleased with the lopsided nature of that haul, so I resolved to continue my search for anything a pirate captain would find pleasing.

  New Cali hadn’t moved much since my foraging began that morning. I looked up at the mammoth floating city, at the flashes of white that became gray smudges from a flock of seagulls soaring between the city’s dark rocky underside and the shadowed ocean below. She was drifting southward—as she did during the daylight hours—and was only a clock tick or two south of my position from where I’d started. I typically forage ahead, always keeping New Cali to my right shoulder. Unfortunately, the delay of my daydreams and the unexpected Greencoat patrol, put me a bit behind schedule, and by my reckoning, the city had drifted several blocks along without me.

  The section of Old Santa Barbara I was scavenging was once California’s idea of a metropolis, but probably New Yorke’s idea of a work town. Palm trees used to stretch skyward along the beautiful sugary sand of the beach, the bleached adobe homes with the bright rust-colored Spanish tile roofs formed curving rows of neighborhoods where Independents once gathered into a community of meager prosperity, and workers bustled around train stations to make their way to one of the independent—or illegally licensed Imperial—gold mines. I found it hard to believe that at least some of those workers didn’t stash away a nugget or two in a floor safe, stuff them in a lumpy mattress, or cluster a few at the bottom of a ceramic vase. It was pointless for me to make an extended foray into one of the mine camps themselves. The Texans had undoubtedly cleared those out long ago.

  New Cali drifted from what used to be San Francisco, and came closest to the broken islands of Old Monterey, Old San Luis Obispo (or simply “Oslo” by the Independents), Old Santa Barbara, and broken crests of rusty stone that used to be the Channel Islands west of Old Angels. My latest venture had me scrounging for transportation I could use to move farther inland, perhaps to find a working automobile or even a motorcycle that would take me to Old Bakersfield or Old Fresno. But with each passing day, and each scrounge into the dregs of the long-dead surf towns, all my hopes grew smaller and smaller.

  The Scorpion would never toss me over the edge of New Cali for not bringing him enough, nor finding him a gold nugget. I could see it in his bright blue eyes, and with each passing day I felt my earlier missive was true to heart: he saw me as a grandfather he never knew—or perhaps knew as the only one who ever tolerated his youthful impertinence. To my knowledge, The Scorpion’s crew never came close to questioning why their master kept an old scrounger around. Maybe they thought I was his sport, or the mascot that came with their squatting rights.

  I was about to find my way up toward the skiff that would take me back to New Cali when glint caught my eye. I climbed a short stone wall and made my way down a broken path behind a short row of businesses. Flotsam and broken fronds littered the rear entrance to a coppersmith’s shop I hadn’t seen before, and that brought a smile to my face that cracked my dry lips.

  Most of the building was still upright on its foundation, though two of the walls were slightly askew and threatened to cave in upon the rest. Inside I found a wealth of tools amongst the bits of broken wood and stone and crumples of unbent metal on the floor. Two large oaken workbenches remained upright in the middle of the room with iron anvil bars jutting from them.

  I spent a good forty minutes or so sorting through the piles, about thirty minutes longer than I originally wanted, and came out the other side of the shop with a beautifully detailed copper bowl, a brass oil lamp with a cracked glass chimney, and a small figurine made from the spent smelt of copper clumps, loosely formed into the shape of a pirouetting ballerina.

  I hoped that was enough for today.

  I blinked skyward and squinted toward the midday sun and the diamonds of reflected light flashing from the windows of New Cali as she drifted still farther from me. Shouldering my bag, I quickly made my way toward my skiff—hoping against hope that it was still tied securely against the shattered remnants of a pier. It was.

  I allowed only a brief sigh, glancing over my right shoulder and up toward the jagged edges of the old town, praying that if the Greencoats had somehow doubled back along the shore that I’d see them before they saw me. Fortunately, I encountered little more than my own stubborn knot before I untied the skiff and pushed away from the shore.

  I spent a good part of the early afternoon tacking my way into the shadow of New Cali, driving my little skiff to the chains and rope ladders that would serve as my anchor to the sky. Then, my day bag securely slung over my sho
ulder, I gripped a rope ladder and started my climb, anxious to have something in my belly and a good night’s sleep before tomorrow’s foray—unless, hope against still another hope—The Scorpion deemed my haul sufficient and allotted me a day of rest.

  But, as was often the case, my hopes were not met with the smiling graces of God.

  As I pulled myself up into the street from the storm sewer that served as access to my skiff anchor, a pair of claw-like hands grabbed me by the neck and arm and hurled me. I hit the pavement and rolled. My bag came loose from my arm and scattered its contents across the cobblestones. I glimpsed a flash of the ballerina, saw the pages of a book splay, heard the crunch of the chimney’s glass, and watched briefly as the can of chowder rolled into a sewer grate.

  “Well well, if it ain’t the Cap’s little sewer rat.”

  Chapter 4, The Sky Hunters

  Captain Richard Kinney stepped out of the galley of the airship Compassion and sipped his coffee. He nodded and twitched his handlebar mustache, licking a bit of the coffee from it and tasting wax mingled with Chef Brody’s remarkable blend of Brazilian and Peruvian beans. He wiped at his upper lip with a slender white-gloved finger before turning toward the bridge.

  Compassion hovered high over the hills of Kentucky, angling slowly downward and coming out of thick cottony clouds as Kinney stepped through the hatch. “Afternoon, gentlemen.”

  The three men on the bridge mumbled greetings as they continued their work, not glancing up as their captain took his place beside Lawrence Toller at the navigator’s table. Kinney raised his mug in toast to his crew. Toller was a squat man with a wide forehead and round spectacles, fitted with various magnifying loupes to aide his poor eyesight. The small man’s constant squinting gave him the appearance of a perpetual worrier. Kinney, at six-two, and looking sharp in his navy blue uniform coat, leaned over him to mutter, “Anything yet, Mr. Toller?”

  Toller, who was busy shuffling between a brass sextant, silver compass and several chewed pencils, squinted through the forward windows, huffed, then made a mark on the map. “If you decide to continue heading west—”

  “We are heading west.”

  “Well…” Toller nodded as if harried about something and drew a finger along the map, “Our refueling options will be limited.”

  Kinney raised a pointed brow and looked out over the hills and valleys rising up to meet them. “Nonsense. There are plenty of dirigible stations between here and New Cali.”

  “I think what he means to say, sir, is that we’re deep within Confederate territory.”

  Toller nodded vehemently, his shaky hand waving the sextant at Pilot Gabriel Joseph who was concentrating on their descent. Kinney looked over his navigator toward the bald African at the wheel. “Do you share this paranoia, Gabe?”

  “No, sir. I’m just translating for the little guy.”

  Toller made a noise that sounded like a squeak.

  “I mean the little navigator,” Gabe corrected himself, shooting a friendly smirk toward Toller.

  Kinney took a deep breath, set his mug down on the map table near the raised edge fashioned to prevent things from sliding off during the pitch and yaw of the ship. He pulled his white gloves a bit tighter, smoothed out his uniform coat around its gleaming brass buttons, adjusted his captain’s hat, then eyed each man on the bridge carefully.

  None of them wore their uniforms. Gabe’s gusseted shirt and vest gave him the appearance of a pirate’s mate, Lawrence Toller’s rumpled suit gave him the appearance of a stow-away accountant, and Crewman Brody, who was currently monitoring the steam gauges against the aft wall, was still wearing his grease-stained chef’s jacket.

  Slobs, Kinney thought. All of ‘em. He cleared his throat and spoke with authority. “Firstly, we are not,” he raised his hands and made finger quotes, “’Deep within the Confederacy.’ We are in Kentucky. Alabama is deep within the Confederacy. Brazil is deep within the Confederacy.” Kinney shook his head. “We are not going south. We are going west.”

  “Straight west will take us the width of the Confederacy,” Toller pointed out, his left eye twitching behind his spectacles. “There’ll be patrols, and with that mess out over the Atlantic—”

  “Which doesn’t concern us, particularly since the Atlantic lies to the east and we’re going west.” Kinney enunciated, rolling his eyes. “Look.” He caught himself, took a deep breath to prevent raising his voice, and repeated in a lower register, “Look… Yes, we are flying Imperial colors. Yes, we are painted Imperial blue. Yes, we are Imperial officers of a former warship.” He narrowed his eyes at the squat navigator. “And, yes, I am well aware that our great nation has once again entered a state of disagreement with our misguided drawling neighbors to the south.” Kinney raised a finger for emphasis, the white glove bright in the shadowed bridge of the airship. “However… The Security Treaties of ‘77 remain in place. They have not been rescinded, and under Article K of the Security Treaties, both Imperial and Confederate vessels flying the red flag of Article K are exempt from the law, and may cross the other’s border in the pursuit of criminals.”

  Kinney lifted his mug from the table and sipped as he gave each man a challenging look. He spoke in a low voice as if his mug were a telephone and he was talking to a conspirator in another room. “We are pirate hunters now, not a carrier tug. We are in lawful pursuit of three enemies of the Empire.”

  Toller looked through the side viewport to the black and red flag flying below the larger circle of stars on a blue field. He pointed toward the small flag that flapped in time with the rapid beating of his heart. “They won’t see that from a distance, and not from our port side. And our vessel is a rather striking shade of Imperial blue, as you yourself said, captain. I—”

  “I think,” Kinney interrupted as he leaned down to face the navigator, “You need to find me those pirates.” He stood tall and raised his voice. “The sooner we strike down those ships, the sooner we can go home.” He turned and moved purposely toward the hatch. “We all have work to do.” Kinney stopped at the door and turned toward the man in the greasy white jacket. “Mr. Brody.”

  The chef scratched at his thick beard and tapped the glass of a gauge. He yawned, “Sir?”

  Kinney raised his mug. “Excellent brew this morning.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  The captain sniffed. “Do Mr. Toller a favor, will you?”

  Brody glanced toward Toller who looked back questioningly. “Sir?”

  “See to it Radio calls ahead for refueling stations. Let her know we’ll need coal, water, and a Tesla buffing.” He emphasized the next with measured cadence, “Tell her to tell them we’re an Article K vessel, and explain our colors.” Kinney glanced toward Toller as he stepped through the hatch. “See if you can’t find some compassion for the Compassion.”

  After the captain was gone, Brody and Toller shook their heads at one another and returned to their duties.

  Gabe craned his neck forward and spotted something on the ground far below. “Looks like somebody beat us to it.”

  The other two men turned, then quickly moved to the forward viewport. They leaned out over the brass railing to see the fish-shaped charred wreckage on a hillside far below. Thin wisps of smoke were curling up from what clearly was once an airship.

  “Can you make it out?” Toller asked, squinting and pushing his spec loupes up and down up with shaky fingers.

  “Nope,” Brody said, “But I’ll bet diesel to dipsticks it weren’t a friendly.”

  “Why?”

  The chef motioned at the farmland all around the wreck. “No security. No Confeds swarmin’ over it. Whatever happened, happened quick and without a word. I guarantee ya, that’s one of ‘em, or the victim of one of ‘em.”

  Gabe pulled a large lever to bank steam and begin a corkscrew descent toward the wreck. “Best let the captain know.”

  Brody nodded and rushed aft. As he moved past Gabe, the pilot said, “And tell Radio to keep her ears on.
Just ‘cause they aren’t here now don’t mean this place won’t be swarmin’ with ‘em in a minute.”

  “Right.”

  When they were alone on the bridge, Toller put his sextant back on the map table and moved to stand by the pilot. “What if it’s not one of the pirates?”

  The large man pulled his silver red-lensed goggles down over his eyes as the ship rotated to face the sun. “Then we’d best make that assessment and get the hell out of here before the Confeds get us.”

  Toller laughed nervously. He flashed a crooked sneer and gestured to the red and black flag outside. “But we’re Article K,” he said in mockery of their captain.

  “Won’t matter if she’s not a pirate and they think we’re the ones that shot her down.”

  Toller looked to the poster on the far wall that displayed the silhouettes of three airships, all of them relatively small but large enough to house a sizable artillery and crew to man it. Beneath each identifying silhouette was a name: Mystic Lady, Greedy Whore and Devil's Due. Toller attempted to memorize the dark oblong shapes before returning to the railing and squinting down at the wreckage again, which was nothing more than a silhouette itself. “I can’t tell.”

  Gabe said, “We’ll be able to tell once we have a closer look.”

  Toller looked at the man over his shoulder, one of the loupes dropping over his field of vision to make his eye look huge. “How long will that take?”

  Gabe’s smile was toothy. “Not to worry, little man. We’ll make quick work of her.”

  ~~~ ~~~ ~~~