Stephen Hunt - Jack Cloudie

‘Sorry — boy,’ the man mouthed, and then with a series of gentle tremors, his eyes rolled to white and the long life of Farris Uddin finally came to an end.

Omar howled in rage, rocking his chair until the claw-guards weighed into him, giving him a taste of their rock-hard fists with their talons retracted.

‘You really are the last son of Barir, now,’ sighed the grand vizier, almost sounding disappointed by the lack of challenges left to face. ‘And you shall honour your venerable ancestors by following in their footsteps.’ He indicated to Salwa that another syringe should be made ready.’

‘He is not one of them,’ protested Salwa.

‘Not raised as one, perhaps,’ said the grand vizier. ‘But he is a male and he wears a guardsman’s uniform. He picked his side when you had him tied to a pair of draks.’

‘I know Omar better than anyone — he is a joke, not a threat.’

‘The woman called Shadisa knew him. Salwa of the Sect of Razat has chosen more aptly — or do you wish to reconsider your answer to me?’ There was an edge of menace in the grand vizier’s words, and suitably subdued, the new grand marshal of the guardsmen delved back into the womb mage’s chest.

‘Better,’ said the grand vizier. ‘One dose for the last son of Barir, one for the Caliph Eternal.’

Gagged and bound to the chair, the real caliph began to struggle madly, and with an imperious flick of his fingers, the grand vizier sent one of his claw-guards to beat the ruler to a quiet stillness with its fists. ‘You have reached the end of your usefulness to me, Akil Jaber Issman. Let us see if it is to be death or a producer’s tank for you.’

The false caliph moved to stand between the grand vizier and his twin, clearly troubled by the implications of what the grand vizier had just announced. ‘We still need my flesh brother’s blood, mother, we still need to milk him for the enzyme that controls the beyrogs and the other creatures of the Jahan.’

‘Oh, my beautiful son,’ said the grand vizier, hugging him close and speaking softly. ‘We don’t.’ The grand vizier indicated the ranks of claw-guards. ‘We have a new imperial bodyguard, more appropriately sized to travel on an airship’s decks. And as for the Jahan, I believe the Citadel of Flowers will make a far more appropriate centre of power for the new, enlarged empire I shall create.’

‘But you saved me from execution,’ whined the enculi. ‘You said I was the son you could never have, that your love for me was too strong to allow one of my flesh brothers to supplant me as the rightful Caliph Eternal.’

‘My darling,’ said the grand vizier, plunging a dagger deep into his pet’s heart. ‘You are quite correct, the one thing I can no longer have is a son.’ The false caliph staggered back, looking in stupefaction at the blade buried in his chest, before collapsing slowly to the floor. ‘By heaven’s right, my future enculi shall be daughters.’ The grand vizier knelt by the dying boy’s side, taking his hand, kindly. ‘Close your eyes, my son. You will be asleep soon. Sleep knowing your mother is claiming your throne. A calipha to rule the empire in the name of Ben Issman’s blood line.’

As the dying boy’s tremors ended, the grand vizier stood up and took one of the pair of syringes being proffered by Salwa. ‘I suppose I shall have to have the beyrog barracks in the citadel flooded with poison gas, now that I can’t control the stupid, lumbering things. Almost as stupid as my little enculi here. He always was the weakest of the last caliph’s flesh children, whereas I have high hopes that you-’ the grand vizier angled the needle towards the empire’s real ruler, ‘-young ruler, will be able to survive the process of becoming a producer.’ Walking up to the true caliph, the grand vizier plunged the syringe into his arm and stood back to watch his shaking palpitations. The grand vizier nodded in satisfaction as the fit passed after a couple of minutes. ‘There, that is the vigour of youth for you. Now, Salwa, you shall prove your loyalty to me. Put the last son of Barir to the service of our sect as a producer, and let us see if his constitution proves as stout as the caliph’s.’

‘Pray,’ said Salwa. ‘Can you not do it? Or one of my claw-guards?’

‘And would that be a true test?’

‘Please,’ Omar begged, as the new master of the guardsmen advanced on him, a strange, conflicted look in the creature’s eyes. ‘Shadisa, do not do this thing.’

‘Shadisa shall not,’ said the thing Omar had once loved as a woman. ‘But I am Salwa.’

The needle plunged into Omar’s arm, drawing blood as its terrible contents found their way into his body. His eyes went out of focus as his chest heaved, the skin around his arm burning, throbbing. The commodore was shouting something to Omar, but he couldn’t hear the old man’s words. Please don’t let me die here, fate. What would be the point of letting it end here for me? Who would you have to torment then? The room seemed to judder with rough chemical violence, his body changing, twisting with the sickness of the sorcerer’s foul art. Then, as quickly as it had taken Omar, perhaps a minute or two later — although if felt like mere seconds to him — the fit was lifted, his body left washed with cold sweat.

‘Thank Lord Tridentscale’s beard, lad,’ said the commodore. ‘You made it.’

‘Welcome into our sect’s service, last son of Barir,’ smirked the grand vizier. ‘We will require litters of ten skoils a time from you, a new brood every four months. Toss the boy in a cell with the Caliph Eternal and the two Jackelians. Make sure you remove the caliph and the boy when their bellies start showing.’

The claw-guards cut Omar’s bonds and dragged him away. He shouted and struggled in panic as he caught a last glimpse of the long line of producers’ tanks below, filled with slaves doing their hideous duty for the empire. Omar hardly needed the stomach cramps and fever to remind him of his fate. I will be joining their ranks soon enough .

Jack was helped to his feet by Lieutenant McGillivray, the young sailor’s uniform covered in broken glass from the shattered compass next to the bridge’s map table. We’ve survived .

‘I don’t think that manoeuvre has a name in the rulebook, laddie,’ said McGillivray. ‘But back in the uplands, we’d call that a Coldkirk kiss.’

Captain Jericho was still standing by the forward viewing port, as if he had remained vertical right through their violent ramming of the third Cassarabian vessel. ‘Damn m’eyes, it seems that iron beats both carper and canvas after all. All stations report readiness and damage.’

Jack stumbled forward, half expecting to find the enemy airship wrapped around their nose cone, but it was drifting downwards, oily black clouds of smoke billowing out from what had been left of their engine room.

‘She’s breaking up, sir,’ called the sailor on the rudder wheel. ‘We’ve ripped her in half with our stern armour, right up to her lower lifting chamber. She’s lost equilibrium.’

‘They’re heading for the ground, gentlemen. Down-gas to our optimum ceiling,’ ordered Jericho. ‘I want their main fleet to spy us running low and heavy on first sighting. Flash the guardsmen’s flight leader when he’s finished having his fun with those two dead pigeons we left for him. Get him to the boat bay, I need his flyers on m’wing.’

‘Down-gas, aye,’ confirmed the officer on the gas board.

They didn’t have to wait long to make contact with the Cassarabian fleet sent to defend Mutantarjinn. A constellation of lanterns appeared drifting in the northern sky, running in close formation. The dark night suddenly felt a lot colder.