Stephen Hunt - Jack Cloudie

Westwick drew her sabre. ‘We would really much rather that you stayed.’

‘That would be the Pasdaran we , then,’ sighed the commodore, drawing his sword in reply. ‘Do you think the State Protection Board won’t know about you, lass, if I don’t report back? And the tale of how the empire was getting its airship gas is well and truly out of the bag now, too. No Cassarabian will stand for male producers being used as the price of your aerial navy.’

‘All that you know,’ said Westwick, ‘and the secret of the enculi too.’

‘Add one more secret then, lass — why the caliph’s belly isn’t swollen out as large as the canvas of my beautiful craft here.’

Westwick’s eyes narrowed dangerously. ‘And why would that be, old man?’

‘The grand vizier’s wicked sorcery changes the male to the female. How well do you think that such a virus would work on a lass to begin with?’ He shrugged unconcernedly. ‘The descendent of Ben Issman, or the descendent of Benitta Issman? Do you think the grand vizier discovered the sorcery of masking her true gender, or just re -discovered it from the ancient records in the city?’

Westwick raised her sword into a guard pose. ‘You die for speaking blasphemy here.’

‘The gratitude of kings, Maya,’ said the commodore, saluting her with his blade. ‘I was counting on it.’

Their steel clashed in the air between them, the commodore toppling over some of the supply sacks in front of Westwick. She spun out and struck, turning and dancing back.

‘All very fancy, lass,’ wheezed the commodore. ‘That’s what you get when you learn from the State Protection Board’s trainers. Assassins, not duellists. Too much ritual in it.’

He stamped forward, cutting low as she cartwheeled back, stepping into a quick flurry of counter strikes, every blow making the airship harbour ring with crashing steel.

‘I’ve a third of your years,’ hissed Westwick. ‘I can keep this up for hours. How tired is your sword arm right now, how much does it ache from the battle?’

‘You’re a grand beauty, lass,’ admitted the commodore. ‘As beautiful as that wicked blade up your sleeve; the one you’re hoping I haven’t noticed.’

She sprung it and leapt across the bales of supplies, slashing out and missing the old u-boat man by inches. ‘Let me sink this into your heart. It’ll be quick and almost painless. That’s a professional courtesy.’

Commodore Black groaned as she advanced on him a second time, close to exhaustion after the battle against the claw-guards. Their blades slashed back and forth in an intense, intricate and brutal exchange of fury that might have lasted minutes or hours.

As the first lieutenant backed him up against the airship hull, her arm struck out in a blur and the knife sank into the thigh of his left leg, only its hilt visible as he fell to one knee, yelling with the shock of the blow. I forgot how much this wicked game bloody hurts. He raised a hand out in supplication as she twisted around, kicking the sabre out of his fingers.

‘One last secret to tell, lass.’

‘Valuable enough for me to drag you to an interrogation cell rather than taking your head for a trophy?’

‘More of an admission, Maya,’ coughed the commodore.

There was a curious look on the first lieutenant’s face as she drew her sword back ready for the killing strike. A look that turned to confusion as she began blinking peculiarly, her feet stumbling over one of the overturned supply bales as if she hadn’t seen it lying there.

‘It’s not sleep those beautiful green eyes of yours need, Maya — it’s a fresh shot of the womb mages’ blessing against the dark curse of their Forbidden City. A dose that wasn’t cut with so much water by me.’

She sliced out blindly, but the commodore had already rolled out of the way, removing the bloody knife from his leg and sending it spinning across the harbour. Screaming in frustration, the first lieutenant carved her blade through the air, missing the commodore and the landing rocket launcher he was pulling over the side of the airship by a couple of feet. It was Westwick’s last cut before the commodore triggered the large metal tube he was hefting, the landing rocket impaling her leg and sending her flying back towards a rack of expansion-engine cylinders.

The commodore ignored her wailing oaths as he tossed the empty launcher aside and hauled himself into the pocket airship’s gondola. ‘Don’t be too mad at me, lass. The secret police down here will need a new head to gather together all of your survivors. I’m sure the State Protection Board will prefer a known quantity like yourself in that office.’

Westwick swore and sent her sword spinning blade-first into the hull of the airship.

‘Out by a foot or two,’ said the commodore. ‘You know, you were right all along, lass. I thought I was getting too mortal old for all of this. But I am still good for it.’

The commodore fired up the airship’s twin expansion engines, a rotor on either side of the small packet spinning into life. Lighting up his mumbleweed pipe, he puffed contentedly as the richly appointed airship lifted away from the tower’s harbour moorings.

‘Now then, laddies,’ said the gruff lieutenant on the desk at the front of the queue snaking across the airship field. ‘Being two nice honest boys, I am sure you both have your state work records with you.’

Handing over the tattered punch cards, the eldest of the brothers shifted uncomfortably in his boots. ‘I thought the navy took anybody on.’

‘Did you now?’ said the lieutenant, his voice half a growl as he fed the cards into a portable transaction engine and inspected the results rotating across the beads on his abacus-like screen. ‘Well, you’re not on the constabulary’s wanted list, which’s a start. But I see a lot of concerns’ names on your cards. Aye, can’t settle down to a trade, eh? What makes you think you can settle with the Royal Aerostatical Navy, I wonder? Good scores on your letters, but it’s not clerks we need. Not now the Cassarabians have found a new way to produce those little arse-farting gas monsters of theirs without offending the great sky gods or whatever fancy they’re worshipping this month. We need men-of-war; we need Jack Cloudies. You two lanky laddies think that’s you?’

They nodded in a non-committal way.

The lieutenant stamped their punch cards with the official navy recruitment pattern, jerking a thumb towards the airship hangars where a short steamman appeared to be addressing the assembled crewmen. ‘Over there to take the oath and look lively about it. Master Cardsharp Shaftcrank is officiating today and if you slouch like that in front of him, I can guarantee you laddies’ll be stuck stoking in his transaction-engine chamber for the first six months of your service.’ They went to walk over, but the lieutenant stuck an arm out first, blocking their passage. ‘Being such fine readers, you two no doubt peruse a copy of the Middlesteel Illustrated News of a morning, maybe buy a penny-dreadful or two to read?’

Again the pair nodded in a non-committal way.

‘Are the pensmen still writing about the youngest captain of the fleet’s latest exploits; you know the one, boys, the hero of the Battle of the Mutantarjinn Flats?’

The oldest brother grunted in the affirmative.

‘I thought they might be.’ The lieutenant dropped his arm. ‘On your way, Messrs Alan and Saul Keats. Welcome to the Royal Aerostatical Navy.’ He glanced up at the next man in the queue, a grizzled old sailor with a wooden leg. ‘Pete Guns. I had an inkling you might have been more than a wee bit deceased by now. Has the navy, by chance, stopped paying you your pension?’