No Such Thing as a Smooth Mission
A Geryon tale, in which we meet a new character and have some high times.
Barcelona was such a beautiful city. It really was a shame that she had to see it again in such company.
The above-ground rail system was a new addition, Amy thought--interesting choice. She'd been in Barcelona five years ago and at that time there had been no rail-riding trolleys. But now, it seemed like all manner of vehicle, personal, public, and municipal, was running along the spiderweb of metal scaffolding. In fact, the mad architecture of the city was oddly complimented by the rails. In the regions where the rails didn't run, horses drew hansom cabs and the rare automobile blared its horn, weaving in and out of busy thoroughfare and palatial avenues.
It wasn't that she didn't like her crew, Amy thought to herself. It's just that, well, they were reckless. They rained destruction and the odd strikingly brilliant stratagem wherever they went. She liked Barcelona so much--there were so many happy memories here for her. She'd hate to be barred from ever returning.
"Why are we here?" Isabelle asked reasonably enough, standing on the side of the Rambla De Cataluyna with her hands in her pockets. Beside her, Charles stood stiff and slump-shouldered, grimacing at the bright sun and the lack of a bottle in his hands. Jules was shielding her eyes with her Akubra, ears frantically searching the people around her for even the trace of an English accent.
"We are here to meet one Mr. Von Chandelierberg," Mr. Magihana said. "Or, more specifically, you are here to meet one Mr. Von Chandelierberg. I am here to consult my finances and put myself on the outside of at least one decent cup of coffee."
"You're having financial trouble?" Reynard blurted, perhaps a little tactlessly.
"Quite the opposite," Mr. Magihana smiled. "Don't be worried. Your work as my taxi service will not go uncompensated."
Immediate fears allayed, Reynard nodded. "All right then. This must be what the purple Uranium is all about. You still have it, Isabelle?"
"How could I lose it? It's purple," Isabelle said, giving her captain a skeptical smile.
"Right," Reynard said, rubbing his hands together. He held out his hand to Mr. Magihana, who reached into his jacket pocket and placed what he found in Reynard's palm. "Mr. Von Chandelierberg lives on Carrer deis Lledó. Charles, you and Isabelle are going to go make the delivery." He glanced around. "And take Miss Daverner with you. You look like you could use a little stroll, Amy."
"Yes, sir," she said with a faint feeling of relief. The last time she'd gone on a mission, she'd had to lead Dr. Solomon and Jules into the African deserts. It had ended with a bag full of eyeballs--not her definition of a successful day.
"Jules, collect the doctor and follow me," Reynard said. "We're provisioning."
Jules' mouth made an annoyed, or perhaps disappointed expression, and she ducked into the antique shop outside of which they stood. In moments she returned with the doctor, dragging her along with little sympathy for the other woman's stumbling.
"How do I look?" asked Dr. Solomon as they came to a halt. A tinted monocle had been fitted over her blind eye, and she was grinning, apparently pleased with her new ornamentation.
"Like you have one eye," Charles admitted, shrugging his shoulders a little.
"And a scar," Jules added.
Dr. Solomon sniffed. "So you say, because you know me and you know this to be true. But now, I look just like everyone else--your prejudice has blinded YOU, on the contrary."
"Right," Reynard repeated. "We're provisioning. Let's go. We meet again at nineteen hundred, here, and we'll head back to the ship."
Mr. Magihana smiled with a small wave, happily wandering away from both groups as Amy's party headed for the home of the customer.
--
Charles, Isabelle, and Amy stood at 2G Carrer deis Lledó, a little befuddled. Several streets over, the rumblings of the rail echoed. All of the windows on the right side of the street were boarded up, and though no sound emerged from within, what it lacked in noise was made up many times over by an acrid stench that pervaded the whole avenue.
There appeared to be no life within 2G.
"I'm about to become angered," Charles said, a low growl coloring his voice.
"Relax, grouchy face," Isabelle sighed. She glanced up and down the street. "Well. We won't learn anything out here, will we? What's the black-market value on purple Uranium?"
"Can't be worth the two weeks in the Arctic it took to get it," Charles grumbled.
"Then has anyone got an idea?"
Amy shrugged. "Maybe we should knock. We might get the forwarding address."
"All right. He's probably long gone. If a building in this kind of neighborhood has anything that can safely contain this element, I will be extremely shocked," Isabelle said in the tone of one who was not used to being extremely shocked.
"I did not freeze my ass off for two weeks to find this waiting for me," Charles insisted, crossing his arms over his chest.
Amy sighed and mounted the small staircase. Her white gloves looked sparklingly clean against the grubby surface of the door. She knocked three times, stopping as she heard a rather peculiar ruckus from within.
Somewhere, two stories up, something crashed and broke within the building. There was muffled swearing--terribly loud, if the distance indicated anything. A stamping sound, uneven and heavy, descended the staircases within, growing louder and louder as it came.
"I suppose he's in after all," Amy said.
"Wonder what's making the noise..." Isabelle said, furrowing her brow.
The door made a sudden grating noise, and a tiny rectangle in the upper portion opened. "Who are you? Who sent you? Speak up!"
"Uh," said Amy.
"Geryon," Charles said, joining her on the landing. "The mercenaries? We have a delivery for Von Candleberg."
"Von Chandelierberg!" the booming voice barked. "Geryon? You should've been dead a week ago!"
"We get that all the time," Isabelle said. "Are you Mr. Von Chandelierberg, or do you know where he is?"
"So you have it?"
"Have what?"
"The purple Uranium!"
"That's for Mr. Von Chandelierberg's money to know," Charles said. "How about you let us in and we'll talk about it."
The little panel clicked shut and the door shifted open, revealing a thick darkness. "Come in."
Charles put a hand on hip, where he kept his six-shot. He entered first, stepping over the threshold and within, before nodding to the others. Uninvited, he flicked on the hall light.
The man belonging to the voice barked out a little critical noise, as Isabelle slammed the door shut. As he straightened up and scowled, they got a good look at their host.
He was a tall man, on the heavier side. Russet-haired, his large, leonine mane of hair met with a mustache of prodigious proportions beneath a large nose. His comparatively smaller eyes were covered by a part of jeweler's glasses. He wore a heavy, tattered black coat that hung around his knees, and where one leg should've been, he rested instead on a robotic leg. Bearing closer resemblance to a suit of armor than to a medical prosthetic, he lurched as he stepped, dragging the heavy apparatus behind him.
"Fine," he sniffed, moving to the steps. "We go up. Your money is upstairs."
"You first," Charles offered.
Several minutes of awkward clunking followed. Every time he wished to ascend a step, Von Chandelierberg would seize his leg in both hands and heft it to the next height. From there, he'd clasp the banister and spring with the toes of his remaining leg, jettisoning himself upward to repeat the process.
Amy held her tongue from offering assistance. They followed in silence as he rose at a pace a glacier would've outstripped.
Finally, they reached the top level of the building. Here opened before them a large, empty room. A single window illuminated the attic, and revealed--to their horror--a ladder, to which Von Chandelierberg immediately clunked.
The ladder surmounted, they stood on the roof in mixed incarnations of befuddlement. Before them stood an ungainly machine, dominated by two six-foot propellers. A large, flat deck stood behind it. The apparatus rested on a set of rails, apparently home-made, that some hundred yards away joined into the main municipal lines.
Charles stood still for a moment, horrified, before spluttering out a whole host of curses. "You--you son of a--dog-headed--snake-swallowing--bastard, whoreson--damn idiot! Is that a steam engine?!"
"Better," grinned Von Chandelierberg, exposing two large rows of white teeth. "It is a new engine, extremely powerful! My purple Uranium will run it."
"It's not your purple Uranium until we see some money," Isabelle said firmly, as Charles wandered over to point and scream at the device.
"Yes, very well," Von Chandelierberg grumbled, reaching both hands into his coat pocket. Instead of a stack of bank notes, he pulled out a pair of oddly-shaped, bright green pistols. "Hands up!"
Amy and Isabelle hadn't time to reach for their weapons, and with resigned expressions lifted their arms. Charles didn't immediately hear the command, too busy staring at the machine with gestures of aggravation and bewilderment.
"These contain the fascinating by-products of my new engine," Von Chandelierberg said, as he jabbed Charles in the back with the gun, finally capturing his attention. He hastily pulled Charles' six shot out of his trousers and threw it over the edge of the roof.
"And what is it?" Isabelle asked, rather curious.
Von Chandelierberg shot a stream of vicious green fluid at the floor of the roof. As it frothed and bubbled, the patch of ground fell away to reveal a gaping hole, smoke rising from the gap. "Last week, the fluid melted a hole the size of a dollar through a living rat. I suggest you follow my orders."
"Which are?" Amy asked, disappointed. If only she'd been paying attention, she'd have him well incapacitated by now. That idiotic machine had stunned her, too.
"We are going on the maiden voyage of my ingenious device," Von Chandelierberg said. "Or, more precisely, you are. I am afraid I need test subjects to run it for me...and as you may have guessed, I will not be paying you for the purple Uranium."
"What makes you think we won't steal it?" Charles growled.
Von Chandelierberg shrugged, gesturing that they climb aboard the machine. "You are more than welcome to try, my friend--but I will find it, and you, if you do not die during the flight."
"Flight?" Isabelle asked, appalled. "This thing is supposed to fly?"
"It will fly!" Von Chandelierberg barked, mustache bristling. "The purple Uranium will see to that! A run on the rails will give it momentum, and there is a ramp, on the disused portion you will be travelling...it will fly!"
"Right," Amy said, sitting down. There wasn't much to do from this distance, after all.
"You, the woman," Von Chandelierberg ordered, gesturing at Isabelle. "Open the hatch to the engine and pour in the purple Uranium."
"You've never used this before, have you?" asked Isabelle, giving him a despairing look.
"Do it!"
Isabelle shook her head, opened the hatch, and carefully poured in a toxic-looking stream of purple powder.
"Large man--pull the main lever!"
Charles tugged reluctantly on the nearest lever. Amy heard a loud click, and guessed that the locking mechanism had been disabled.
"You, in the gloves--begin the ignition," the madman declared, grinning a huge grin and pointing at the red switch.
Amy looked at Charles and Isabelle and sighed. She flicked the switch, and many things happened rather quickly.
First, the apparatus shook and popped beneath them, before a loud groan began to emerge from the engine. A purple glow poured from the grate--that had to be dangerous--and the heavy vessel began to move along the tracks. At first its progress was slow, but something banged in the engine and it took off like a rocket, screaming along the rails.
Amy, Charles, and Isabelle held on tight. Amy looked over the edge--no, nowhere to jump off safely, not at these speeds, anyway. They roared along the tracks, and she briefly considered that Von Chandelierberg must've made them himself, as no municipal machines ran on them. In fact, on other tracks, vehicles were full of passengers staring at the bizarre engine belching purple smoke as it ran along at impossible speeds.
Far too soon, Amy could see ahead of them the ramp Von Chandelierberg had mentioned. The engine raced toward it, closer and closer, and then, up! Impossibly up.
And there it remained, whirling its huge, circular propellers and remaining aloft by virtue of the huge flat deck.
Clinging to the board beneath them, Isabelle freed one hand to grasp her communicator. "I'm calling the captain!" she screamed over the wind. "Charles, figure out how to fly this thing!"
Charles shimmied closer to the nose of the machine and began learning. Amy rested her forehead on the deck with a meek whimper. Would there ever be a shore excursion--even one--that didn't involve mortal danger?
--
Reynard stood in the marketplace, casting a warm, satisfied eye over everything. For the two more-insane members of his crew, Jules and Klara were really quite efficient when it came to food. They'd already sent back one decent order of food back to the ship, and were working on the second and last order.
Beside him, Jules was haggling in Spanish with one of the booth owners on the subject of a crate of tomatoes. At his other side, Dr. Solomon was rigorously inspecting a barrel of walnuts, picking up each one and holding it to her eye, squeezing and pinching and scratching and smelling it.
"They are imperfect," she said, turning to him with an unsatisfied expression. "They are nearly 10% smaller than the ideal walnut. Also, some of them aren't whole, and some have cracks in the shells."
"We'll take the barrel," Reynard said with a firm nod. "We'll just be roughing it."
Klara's mouth twisted in disappointment, but she snapped off a quick salute and began speaking with the nut dealer.
He looked over at Jules to check on her progress.
"Ten pesetas?" she exclaimed. "I wouldn't pay my grandmother ten pesetas! This crate is barely worth five!"
"Ten pesetas."
Jules threw her hands at him. "I have seven."
"Ten pesetas."
She scowled and waved her hand again, walking away.
"Wait!" the merchant said, before she'd gone far. "Vulture--give me the seven."
Jules turned back and the transaction went through. Bracing the crate on her hip, she tipped her hat to the merchant and grinned at Reynard. "There! At least Isabelle will be happy."
There. He didn't know what could've given Amy such a fright--these two were just puppies when out of a situation requiring ranged weapons or medical science.
His communicator burped at him, and Reynard picked it up. "And here, ladies," he said to his companions, "is the sweet sound of the Geryon getting paid. Hullo!"
"Reynard!" cried Isabelle's voice, distorted and faint. "We're--didn't--Von Chandel--flying machine!"
Reynard closed his eyes. "Please don't tell me that 'didn't' didn't refer to our payment..."
"Can hardly--so we don't--might land anywhere--!"
"Flying machine, huh? Well, take care of it best you can. We'll come get you wherever you land."
"Engine isn't--never seen--could be danger--explode!"
"Oh, good. Excellent. Listen, land wherever you can right now, and we'll be there in a little bit, all right?"
"Aye aye!"
Reynard clipped the communicator back on his belt. "Right. Okay. Klara, I need those walnuts, now. Jules, leave the tomatoes here and go buy six pounds of red lentils. I'll get the crate of broccoli and then we'll go get them."
--
Charles had managed to get control of the vessel--'control' taken in a broad meaning.
"When we get on the ground," he shouted, the wind carrying his words to his passengers, "we're going to get the bush-baby to snipe him in every limb! Then I'm going to grab him by the head and take our money and leave him there with his damn pistols leaking slow above him!"
"We all have revenge fantasies at the moment," Isabelle yelled, her own words soon being lost to the wind. "Find a place to land, now! This engine can't be stable!"
She had to shout it three more times before Charles managed to get the picture. They were over the warehouse district now, outside of the immediate constraints of the city. A few rail lines still ran out here, branches of the essential municipal lines. They began to coast downward, but Amy could tell that they were still moving too fast to land smoothly.
"All right!" Isabelle shouted from the front of the machine, where she'd moved to communicate better. "Charles, you're going to break as hard as you can as we go down to that warehouse. We need to be ready to bail out and roll and run like hell--this cooker's going to blow!"
Amy held up a thumbs-up, and Charles gave his companions a quick, manic grin and began to guide the plane down.
--
Reynard had been chartering transportation when they heard the explosion. A huge plume of purple smoke belched out over the city.
"Right," he mumbled. He felt for his communicator, unaware that Dr. Solomon had beckoned to Jules and both had moved out of his immediate line of vision. "Isabelle? Amy? Charles?"
"...captain," Isabelle's infinitely weary voice replied. "All present and accounted for. No casualties. Amy wrenched her shoulder and Charles has done something to his back. I'm covered in bruises and I strongly suspect I've broken my ankle--something for the doctor to look forward to."
"Good to hear your voice," Reynard said with a smile.
"Some trouble, though," she said. "That explosion was us...as is the warehouse fire. It's spreading. I don't mean to interrupt, but we're going to need you here sooner as opposed to later."
"Get to a safe distance and we'll be there soon."
"Aye, sir."
Reynard hooked the communicator back onto his belt and looked over his shoulder to find the doctor. "Klara. Where's Jules?
She smiled at him. "We have acquired transportation," Dr. Solomon said.
Reynard held out his hands and looked around. "I repeat the question."
Dr. Solomon pointed up.
On the rails, there stood a fire engine, with Jules' head sticking out of the driver's side window. Reynard glanced across the street at the fire station, and at the rail that connected the main line to the back of the building.
"I see," he said.
"It's not hard to drive," Jules said.
"Thank goodness," Reynard said quietly. He sighed and began to mount the ladder. "I suppose we will need it pretty badly..."
"It's not like they don't have more," Dr. Solomon observed, cheerfully climbing after him. "And we'll bring it back."
In moments, they had the engine churning down the tracks, the siren going, and the right of way magically appearing for them.
Reynard found himself grinning and urging Jules on faster when he should be busy disapproving.
Oh, well. He'd reprimand them later.
--
Amy stared balefully at the fire engine a few blocks north of them. Her crewmates stumbled out and began to wander toward them, and her stare turned into a frown. They had, none of them, any business driving a fire engine.
"Hello," Reynard said. "Should we try to put it out?"
"Wouldn't recommend it," Charles said, still a little shaken up from the way Dr. Solomon's eyes had lit up and she'd all but pounced on him when she'd heard he was injured. She was currently examining him right then and there on the pavement. "It's a pretty big fire. Hell, you should've let that for the professionals."
"They'll find it again," Jules shrugged. "How hard is it to find a fire engine?"
A warehouse three back from the street underwent an explosion so large that it blew open the roof. Bits of tar and crumbs of concrete rained on them.
"Any bigger and those are going to put holes in our heads," Jules observed. "We should get while the going is good."
"All right. Everyone into the engine," Reynard sighed. "I suppose we'll just drive it somewhere we can leave it in peace."
"Little help?" Isabelle asked, unable to get off of the ground with her new wound. Jules leaned in to help her up.
Reynard held his hand down for Amy, who took it with a thunderous expression. "You see? They won't behave," she lamented, nodding to Jules and the doctor.
"Sure they do," Reynard said, shaking his head with a grin. "You've just got to know how to talk to them."
A loud explosion, further to the north, blew out the wall of a warehouse. The subsequent flames engulfed the nearby engine. It flamed for a few moments, and Charles groaned.
"Gas tank, right?" he muttered.
The engine exploded.
"Of course," he sighed. Reynard rubbed his face with one long, thin hand.
"Good. Excellent. All right. Jules, give me Isabelle. You and Klara help Charles walk, all right?"
--
Mr. Magihana's expression of mild serenity changed into one of mild curiosity as the light pouring in from the streetlamps outside was eclipsed and it was slightly less easy to read his newspaper.
He looked up.
Outside, a rag-tag bunch of people were congregating outside. He recognized all of them, even as they were torn, battered, singed, and in one notable case, being carried piggy-back.
They gave him annoyed looks.
He pulled a pen out of his jacket pocket and scribbled something on a napkin, pressing it against the window.
They read his sign--'Day Off'--and trudged off.
--
The next day, they broke into 2G Carrer deis Lledó and stole everything of value. There wasn't much, but they hocked what they could and donated it to the fire station.
Barcelona was such a beautiful city. It really was a shame that she had to see it again in such company.
The above-ground rail system was a new addition, Amy thought--interesting choice. She'd been in Barcelona five years ago and at that time there had been no rail-riding trolleys. But now, it seemed like all manner of vehicle, personal, public, and municipal, was running along the spiderweb of metal scaffolding. In fact, the mad architecture of the city was oddly complimented by the rails. In the regions where the rails didn't run, horses drew hansom cabs and the rare automobile blared its horn, weaving in and out of busy thoroughfare and palatial avenues.
It wasn't that she didn't like her crew, Amy thought to herself. It's just that, well, they were reckless. They rained destruction and the odd strikingly brilliant stratagem wherever they went. She liked Barcelona so much--there were so many happy memories here for her. She'd hate to be barred from ever returning.
"Why are we here?" Isabelle asked reasonably enough, standing on the side of the Rambla De Cataluyna with her hands in her pockets. Beside her, Charles stood stiff and slump-shouldered, grimacing at the bright sun and the lack of a bottle in his hands. Jules was shielding her eyes with her Akubra, ears frantically searching the people around her for even the trace of an English accent.
"We are here to meet one Mr. Von Chandelierberg," Mr. Magihana said. "Or, more specifically, you are here to meet one Mr. Von Chandelierberg. I am here to consult my finances and put myself on the outside of at least one decent cup of coffee."
"You're having financial trouble?" Reynard blurted, perhaps a little tactlessly.
"Quite the opposite," Mr. Magihana smiled. "Don't be worried. Your work as my taxi service will not go uncompensated."
Immediate fears allayed, Reynard nodded. "All right then. This must be what the purple Uranium is all about. You still have it, Isabelle?"
"How could I lose it? It's purple," Isabelle said, giving her captain a skeptical smile.
"Right," Reynard said, rubbing his hands together. He held out his hand to Mr. Magihana, who reached into his jacket pocket and placed what he found in Reynard's palm. "Mr. Von Chandelierberg lives on Carrer deis Lledó. Charles, you and Isabelle are going to go make the delivery." He glanced around. "And take Miss Daverner with you. You look like you could use a little stroll, Amy."
"Yes, sir," she said with a faint feeling of relief. The last time she'd gone on a mission, she'd had to lead Dr. Solomon and Jules into the African deserts. It had ended with a bag full of eyeballs--not her definition of a successful day.
"Jules, collect the doctor and follow me," Reynard said. "We're provisioning."
Jules' mouth made an annoyed, or perhaps disappointed expression, and she ducked into the antique shop outside of which they stood. In moments she returned with the doctor, dragging her along with little sympathy for the other woman's stumbling.
"How do I look?" asked Dr. Solomon as they came to a halt. A tinted monocle had been fitted over her blind eye, and she was grinning, apparently pleased with her new ornamentation.
"Like you have one eye," Charles admitted, shrugging his shoulders a little.
"And a scar," Jules added.
Dr. Solomon sniffed. "So you say, because you know me and you know this to be true. But now, I look just like everyone else--your prejudice has blinded YOU, on the contrary."
"Right," Reynard repeated. "We're provisioning. Let's go. We meet again at nineteen hundred, here, and we'll head back to the ship."
Mr. Magihana smiled with a small wave, happily wandering away from both groups as Amy's party headed for the home of the customer.
--
Charles, Isabelle, and Amy stood at 2G Carrer deis Lledó, a little befuddled. Several streets over, the rumblings of the rail echoed. All of the windows on the right side of the street were boarded up, and though no sound emerged from within, what it lacked in noise was made up many times over by an acrid stench that pervaded the whole avenue.
There appeared to be no life within 2G.
"I'm about to become angered," Charles said, a low growl coloring his voice.
"Relax, grouchy face," Isabelle sighed. She glanced up and down the street. "Well. We won't learn anything out here, will we? What's the black-market value on purple Uranium?"
"Can't be worth the two weeks in the Arctic it took to get it," Charles grumbled.
"Then has anyone got an idea?"
Amy shrugged. "Maybe we should knock. We might get the forwarding address."
"All right. He's probably long gone. If a building in this kind of neighborhood has anything that can safely contain this element, I will be extremely shocked," Isabelle said in the tone of one who was not used to being extremely shocked.
"I did not freeze my ass off for two weeks to find this waiting for me," Charles insisted, crossing his arms over his chest.
Amy sighed and mounted the small staircase. Her white gloves looked sparklingly clean against the grubby surface of the door. She knocked three times, stopping as she heard a rather peculiar ruckus from within.
Somewhere, two stories up, something crashed and broke within the building. There was muffled swearing--terribly loud, if the distance indicated anything. A stamping sound, uneven and heavy, descended the staircases within, growing louder and louder as it came.
"I suppose he's in after all," Amy said.
"Wonder what's making the noise..." Isabelle said, furrowing her brow.
The door made a sudden grating noise, and a tiny rectangle in the upper portion opened. "Who are you? Who sent you? Speak up!"
"Uh," said Amy.
"Geryon," Charles said, joining her on the landing. "The mercenaries? We have a delivery for Von Candleberg."
"Von Chandelierberg!" the booming voice barked. "Geryon? You should've been dead a week ago!"
"We get that all the time," Isabelle said. "Are you Mr. Von Chandelierberg, or do you know where he is?"
"So you have it?"
"Have what?"
"The purple Uranium!"
"That's for Mr. Von Chandelierberg's money to know," Charles said. "How about you let us in and we'll talk about it."
The little panel clicked shut and the door shifted open, revealing a thick darkness. "Come in."
Charles put a hand on hip, where he kept his six-shot. He entered first, stepping over the threshold and within, before nodding to the others. Uninvited, he flicked on the hall light.
The man belonging to the voice barked out a little critical noise, as Isabelle slammed the door shut. As he straightened up and scowled, they got a good look at their host.
He was a tall man, on the heavier side. Russet-haired, his large, leonine mane of hair met with a mustache of prodigious proportions beneath a large nose. His comparatively smaller eyes were covered by a part of jeweler's glasses. He wore a heavy, tattered black coat that hung around his knees, and where one leg should've been, he rested instead on a robotic leg. Bearing closer resemblance to a suit of armor than to a medical prosthetic, he lurched as he stepped, dragging the heavy apparatus behind him.
"Fine," he sniffed, moving to the steps. "We go up. Your money is upstairs."
"You first," Charles offered.
Several minutes of awkward clunking followed. Every time he wished to ascend a step, Von Chandelierberg would seize his leg in both hands and heft it to the next height. From there, he'd clasp the banister and spring with the toes of his remaining leg, jettisoning himself upward to repeat the process.
Amy held her tongue from offering assistance. They followed in silence as he rose at a pace a glacier would've outstripped.
Finally, they reached the top level of the building. Here opened before them a large, empty room. A single window illuminated the attic, and revealed--to their horror--a ladder, to which Von Chandelierberg immediately clunked.
The ladder surmounted, they stood on the roof in mixed incarnations of befuddlement. Before them stood an ungainly machine, dominated by two six-foot propellers. A large, flat deck stood behind it. The apparatus rested on a set of rails, apparently home-made, that some hundred yards away joined into the main municipal lines.
Charles stood still for a moment, horrified, before spluttering out a whole host of curses. "You--you son of a--dog-headed--snake-swallowing--bastard, whoreson--damn idiot! Is that a steam engine?!"
"Better," grinned Von Chandelierberg, exposing two large rows of white teeth. "It is a new engine, extremely powerful! My purple Uranium will run it."
"It's not your purple Uranium until we see some money," Isabelle said firmly, as Charles wandered over to point and scream at the device.
"Yes, very well," Von Chandelierberg grumbled, reaching both hands into his coat pocket. Instead of a stack of bank notes, he pulled out a pair of oddly-shaped, bright green pistols. "Hands up!"
Amy and Isabelle hadn't time to reach for their weapons, and with resigned expressions lifted their arms. Charles didn't immediately hear the command, too busy staring at the machine with gestures of aggravation and bewilderment.
"These contain the fascinating by-products of my new engine," Von Chandelierberg said, as he jabbed Charles in the back with the gun, finally capturing his attention. He hastily pulled Charles' six shot out of his trousers and threw it over the edge of the roof.
"And what is it?" Isabelle asked, rather curious.
Von Chandelierberg shot a stream of vicious green fluid at the floor of the roof. As it frothed and bubbled, the patch of ground fell away to reveal a gaping hole, smoke rising from the gap. "Last week, the fluid melted a hole the size of a dollar through a living rat. I suggest you follow my orders."
"Which are?" Amy asked, disappointed. If only she'd been paying attention, she'd have him well incapacitated by now. That idiotic machine had stunned her, too.
"We are going on the maiden voyage of my ingenious device," Von Chandelierberg said. "Or, more precisely, you are. I am afraid I need test subjects to run it for me...and as you may have guessed, I will not be paying you for the purple Uranium."
"What makes you think we won't steal it?" Charles growled.
Von Chandelierberg shrugged, gesturing that they climb aboard the machine. "You are more than welcome to try, my friend--but I will find it, and you, if you do not die during the flight."
"Flight?" Isabelle asked, appalled. "This thing is supposed to fly?"
"It will fly!" Von Chandelierberg barked, mustache bristling. "The purple Uranium will see to that! A run on the rails will give it momentum, and there is a ramp, on the disused portion you will be travelling...it will fly!"
"Right," Amy said, sitting down. There wasn't much to do from this distance, after all.
"You, the woman," Von Chandelierberg ordered, gesturing at Isabelle. "Open the hatch to the engine and pour in the purple Uranium."
"You've never used this before, have you?" asked Isabelle, giving him a despairing look.
"Do it!"
Isabelle shook her head, opened the hatch, and carefully poured in a toxic-looking stream of purple powder.
"Large man--pull the main lever!"
Charles tugged reluctantly on the nearest lever. Amy heard a loud click, and guessed that the locking mechanism had been disabled.
"You, in the gloves--begin the ignition," the madman declared, grinning a huge grin and pointing at the red switch.
Amy looked at Charles and Isabelle and sighed. She flicked the switch, and many things happened rather quickly.
First, the apparatus shook and popped beneath them, before a loud groan began to emerge from the engine. A purple glow poured from the grate--that had to be dangerous--and the heavy vessel began to move along the tracks. At first its progress was slow, but something banged in the engine and it took off like a rocket, screaming along the rails.
Amy, Charles, and Isabelle held on tight. Amy looked over the edge--no, nowhere to jump off safely, not at these speeds, anyway. They roared along the tracks, and she briefly considered that Von Chandelierberg must've made them himself, as no municipal machines ran on them. In fact, on other tracks, vehicles were full of passengers staring at the bizarre engine belching purple smoke as it ran along at impossible speeds.
Far too soon, Amy could see ahead of them the ramp Von Chandelierberg had mentioned. The engine raced toward it, closer and closer, and then, up! Impossibly up.
And there it remained, whirling its huge, circular propellers and remaining aloft by virtue of the huge flat deck.
Clinging to the board beneath them, Isabelle freed one hand to grasp her communicator. "I'm calling the captain!" she screamed over the wind. "Charles, figure out how to fly this thing!"
Charles shimmied closer to the nose of the machine and began learning. Amy rested her forehead on the deck with a meek whimper. Would there ever be a shore excursion--even one--that didn't involve mortal danger?
--
Reynard stood in the marketplace, casting a warm, satisfied eye over everything. For the two more-insane members of his crew, Jules and Klara were really quite efficient when it came to food. They'd already sent back one decent order of food back to the ship, and were working on the second and last order.
Beside him, Jules was haggling in Spanish with one of the booth owners on the subject of a crate of tomatoes. At his other side, Dr. Solomon was rigorously inspecting a barrel of walnuts, picking up each one and holding it to her eye, squeezing and pinching and scratching and smelling it.
"They are imperfect," she said, turning to him with an unsatisfied expression. "They are nearly 10% smaller than the ideal walnut. Also, some of them aren't whole, and some have cracks in the shells."
"We'll take the barrel," Reynard said with a firm nod. "We'll just be roughing it."
Klara's mouth twisted in disappointment, but she snapped off a quick salute and began speaking with the nut dealer.
He looked over at Jules to check on her progress.
"Ten pesetas?" she exclaimed. "I wouldn't pay my grandmother ten pesetas! This crate is barely worth five!"
"Ten pesetas."
Jules threw her hands at him. "I have seven."
"Ten pesetas."
She scowled and waved her hand again, walking away.
"Wait!" the merchant said, before she'd gone far. "Vulture--give me the seven."
Jules turned back and the transaction went through. Bracing the crate on her hip, she tipped her hat to the merchant and grinned at Reynard. "There! At least Isabelle will be happy."
There. He didn't know what could've given Amy such a fright--these two were just puppies when out of a situation requiring ranged weapons or medical science.
His communicator burped at him, and Reynard picked it up. "And here, ladies," he said to his companions, "is the sweet sound of the Geryon getting paid. Hullo!"
"Reynard!" cried Isabelle's voice, distorted and faint. "We're--didn't--Von Chandel--flying machine!"
Reynard closed his eyes. "Please don't tell me that 'didn't' didn't refer to our payment..."
"Can hardly--so we don't--might land anywhere--!"
"Flying machine, huh? Well, take care of it best you can. We'll come get you wherever you land."
"Engine isn't--never seen--could be danger--explode!"
"Oh, good. Excellent. Listen, land wherever you can right now, and we'll be there in a little bit, all right?"
"Aye aye!"
Reynard clipped the communicator back on his belt. "Right. Okay. Klara, I need those walnuts, now. Jules, leave the tomatoes here and go buy six pounds of red lentils. I'll get the crate of broccoli and then we'll go get them."
--
Charles had managed to get control of the vessel--'control' taken in a broad meaning.
"When we get on the ground," he shouted, the wind carrying his words to his passengers, "we're going to get the bush-baby to snipe him in every limb! Then I'm going to grab him by the head and take our money and leave him there with his damn pistols leaking slow above him!"
"We all have revenge fantasies at the moment," Isabelle yelled, her own words soon being lost to the wind. "Find a place to land, now! This engine can't be stable!"
She had to shout it three more times before Charles managed to get the picture. They were over the warehouse district now, outside of the immediate constraints of the city. A few rail lines still ran out here, branches of the essential municipal lines. They began to coast downward, but Amy could tell that they were still moving too fast to land smoothly.
"All right!" Isabelle shouted from the front of the machine, where she'd moved to communicate better. "Charles, you're going to break as hard as you can as we go down to that warehouse. We need to be ready to bail out and roll and run like hell--this cooker's going to blow!"
Amy held up a thumbs-up, and Charles gave his companions a quick, manic grin and began to guide the plane down.
--
Reynard had been chartering transportation when they heard the explosion. A huge plume of purple smoke belched out over the city.
"Right," he mumbled. He felt for his communicator, unaware that Dr. Solomon had beckoned to Jules and both had moved out of his immediate line of vision. "Isabelle? Amy? Charles?"
"...captain," Isabelle's infinitely weary voice replied. "All present and accounted for. No casualties. Amy wrenched her shoulder and Charles has done something to his back. I'm covered in bruises and I strongly suspect I've broken my ankle--something for the doctor to look forward to."
"Good to hear your voice," Reynard said with a smile.
"Some trouble, though," she said. "That explosion was us...as is the warehouse fire. It's spreading. I don't mean to interrupt, but we're going to need you here sooner as opposed to later."
"Get to a safe distance and we'll be there soon."
"Aye, sir."
Reynard hooked the communicator back onto his belt and looked over his shoulder to find the doctor. "Klara. Where's Jules?
She smiled at him. "We have acquired transportation," Dr. Solomon said.
Reynard held out his hands and looked around. "I repeat the question."
Dr. Solomon pointed up.
On the rails, there stood a fire engine, with Jules' head sticking out of the driver's side window. Reynard glanced across the street at the fire station, and at the rail that connected the main line to the back of the building.
"I see," he said.
"It's not hard to drive," Jules said.
"Thank goodness," Reynard said quietly. He sighed and began to mount the ladder. "I suppose we will need it pretty badly..."
"It's not like they don't have more," Dr. Solomon observed, cheerfully climbing after him. "And we'll bring it back."
In moments, they had the engine churning down the tracks, the siren going, and the right of way magically appearing for them.
Reynard found himself grinning and urging Jules on faster when he should be busy disapproving.
Oh, well. He'd reprimand them later.
--
Amy stared balefully at the fire engine a few blocks north of them. Her crewmates stumbled out and began to wander toward them, and her stare turned into a frown. They had, none of them, any business driving a fire engine.
"Hello," Reynard said. "Should we try to put it out?"
"Wouldn't recommend it," Charles said, still a little shaken up from the way Dr. Solomon's eyes had lit up and she'd all but pounced on him when she'd heard he was injured. She was currently examining him right then and there on the pavement. "It's a pretty big fire. Hell, you should've let that for the professionals."
"They'll find it again," Jules shrugged. "How hard is it to find a fire engine?"
A warehouse three back from the street underwent an explosion so large that it blew open the roof. Bits of tar and crumbs of concrete rained on them.
"Any bigger and those are going to put holes in our heads," Jules observed. "We should get while the going is good."
"All right. Everyone into the engine," Reynard sighed. "I suppose we'll just drive it somewhere we can leave it in peace."
"Little help?" Isabelle asked, unable to get off of the ground with her new wound. Jules leaned in to help her up.
Reynard held his hand down for Amy, who took it with a thunderous expression. "You see? They won't behave," she lamented, nodding to Jules and the doctor.
"Sure they do," Reynard said, shaking his head with a grin. "You've just got to know how to talk to them."
A loud explosion, further to the north, blew out the wall of a warehouse. The subsequent flames engulfed the nearby engine. It flamed for a few moments, and Charles groaned.
"Gas tank, right?" he muttered.
The engine exploded.
"Of course," he sighed. Reynard rubbed his face with one long, thin hand.
"Good. Excellent. All right. Jules, give me Isabelle. You and Klara help Charles walk, all right?"
--
Mr. Magihana's expression of mild serenity changed into one of mild curiosity as the light pouring in from the streetlamps outside was eclipsed and it was slightly less easy to read his newspaper.
He looked up.
Outside, a rag-tag bunch of people were congregating outside. He recognized all of them, even as they were torn, battered, singed, and in one notable case, being carried piggy-back.
They gave him annoyed looks.
He pulled a pen out of his jacket pocket and scribbled something on a napkin, pressing it against the window.
They read his sign--'Day Off'--and trudged off.
--
The next day, they broke into 2G Carrer deis Lledó and stole everything of value. There wasn't much, but they hocked what they could and donated it to the fire station.