If You Fly It, They Will Come
A Geryon tale about the coming-together or a ragtag group of internationals. How it all got started, and why it's the way it is at all.
"So, let me get this straight," Isabelle Sérazin said, talking around her cigarette. She blew out a stream of bluish smoke, which rose to join the haze of tobacco hovering in the air above their table. "You're going to build airships."
"Yes," replied Reynard. He poured out a little more whiskey for each of them. "I am going to build airships. Metal airships, that run on fans and propellers and great huge steam engines."
"It will never get off the ground."
"I'll engineer it into submission," he said, taking a sip. "Anyway, Doubting Thomas, what will you do? Sitting around drinking whiskey and being beautiful can only take one so far."
Isabelle dropped her head in a faint, half-hearted impression of demureness. "I will cook," she said.
"You set a pot of noodles on fire last week," he reminded her.
"It is a skill like any other," Isabelle said rather warmly. "You need to practice if you hope to get any better. And besides, it is my passion." She sipped her cigarette, blowing out the smoke and inhaling her whiskey. "The odds of me successfully cooking without setting things on fire are significantly greater than the odds of you successfully getting a flying machine with a steam engine off the ground."
"We shall see," Reynard said, and they toasted their graduation.
--
Charles Hawthorne
"Welcome to London," Amy Daverner said, adjusting her eyeglasses as she looked at the pair of fugitives across from her. The woman was pretty, small, curvaceous, and dark-haired--though it was cut much too short--and extremely French. Beside her, a tall, thin, dark man with a most elaborate mustache sat, smiling placidly.
"We are somewhat surprised that your country has any interest in us," the woman, Mlle. Sérazin, said, arms crossed over her chest. Amy could see from where she sat how Reynard Millavich nudged her with his foot.
"We're happy to provide what we can. You must be aware of the political situation in the Ukraine?"
"I'm given to understand that it has recently pursued a communist society," Amy said, hands crossed on the desk, "and that you and Mlle. Sérazin are wanted by the Soviet Police. Would you like to tell us about it?" She turned to the tea set beside her, pouring out three cups.
Mr. Millavich ran a hand through his hair. "I don't know how much you really will be able to do with what we have. It was kind of a spur of the moment decision."
"How so?" Amy asked. "How many sugars?"
"One," he said.
"Three," said Isabelle.
'Continentals,' Amy thought savagely. She overmastered her disgust and placed three sugar cubes in the small cup, pushing them toward her guests with a thin smile.
"Well. I'd been building airships for four years when the Red Army found itself on the top of the heap," Reynard said. "As it so happened, I'd become rather wealthy in the business. Seems there is indeed a market for steam-powered airships." "As I recall, fan ships were the most successful," Isabelle said, lightly clearing her throat.
"Moving on. I was a wealthy businessman and it was decided that my wealth should be spread around--and my airships should be taken by the army to furnish the safety of this new and brilliant political utopia."
"He wrote to me and I came by to see what the trouble was. I was a little too hot for France to handle, at the moment."
"And why was that, Mlle. Sérazin?" Amy asked, though she had a feeling she already knew. The name was too familiar.
"I am a freedom fighter," Mlle. Sérazin said. "And a good one. I perform demolitions for the resistance." "Quite. And you are resisting the current regime?"
"Man was not meant to be slave to giant robot revolutionaries," Isabelle said darkly. "I am hardly a royalist, but Robospierre and Dantron have gone too far! The Terror grips Paris even now--the countryside is only barely safe from their tyrannical rule."
Amy nodded. "We are aware of the French situation."
"Isabelle came by to give me a hand with the transition," Mr. Millavich said, "and we gave up all the ships and forfeited the money. Everyone went home for the night."
"And we uncovered Reynard's favorite ship, and we flew out of range of the warehouse." "And Isabelle blew it sky high."
"So we've been flying ever since. We picked up a cargo job in Italy and made our way up here to look for crew," Mlle. Sérazin said. "That's all."
Amy nodded, consulting her recording device. The record might be valuable. "You are sure there is nothing else you wish to share?"
"Nothing."
"I'm a little curious about why the British have an interest in it," Reynard said, finishing off his tea.
"Our official position is that we have no immediate interest in the communist movement," Amy said placidly. "However, we would be fools not to gain insight into the situation. This is research and defense, Mr. Millavich."
"Captain Millavich."
"Of course. Thank you both for your cooperation. We appreciate your time." Amy smiled slightly at them and gestured to the door.
They left.
--
"I don't know why this tub is your favorite," Isabelle scowled, glaring at the engine. "It's insanity." "It's not insanity," Reynard said. "It's a broken part."
"Can't you fix it? You built it."
"On the contrary," he replied. "I designed, pitched, funded, marketed, and sold it. I did not work in the warehouse itself."
"So you don't know how it works?!"
"I do. It flies. Listen, Isabelle, here's how it works from my end. I have my family's company, and I have an idea, a good idea, based on a preliminary sketch. I show that to an engineer and say, 'please make it work.' I pay them, and they do it. I go to the board with a model and say, 'behold, genius, we will make money.' And they say 'go make us money.' And I say to the warehouse building line, 'here is what you will work on, make many of them and I will pay you well.' They do, I do, and I have a flying machine and my board has money."
"Correction. Your board's money is stolen by the Reds and you have a broken flying machine."
"True. But the essential principle should work." Reynard wiped a hand across his forehead, smearing black grease across his brow. "This essential principle is not working, so until we find a mechanic, we're docked. And I can't fix it because I'm not sure where it's broken, and it's going to take me ten hours to get out all the manuals and find the whatever it is."
"So we're stuck here. Are we even going to find anyone?"
Reynard rubbed the back of his neck. "I'll go talk to the hiring agency. See about some lunch, will you?"
--
The mechanics left something to be desired.
Each one professed to know everything about flying machines and Ukrainian makes in particular, and when Reynard brought them into the engine room, they stared and poked and hemmed. They asked diagnostic questions and shrugged when asked what, exactly, was wrong.
Isabelle sent the last one home at about ten PM. She leaned against the closed door, apparently exhausted. "We need sleep."
"We need a fixed ship. What we want is sleep."
"Allow me to rephrase," Isabelle said, rubbing her eyes. "I'm going to sleep."
"Mutiny, eh?"
"Reynard, get some rest." She took her friend by the arm and began to tug him along towards their cabins. He went without much protest, feeling the demands of the day himself.
--
In the morning, Reynard could tell that something was different. The Geryon was purring like a kitten, which was nonsense, because when they'd gone to bed, there had been a low, repetitive clunk somewhere deep in the machinery.
Isabelle was sitting at the table having her first cup of coffee. "Whatever it is, it seems to have worked itself out."
"I don't know how far to believe in miracles. We need to go check it out."
They wandered down to the engine room, each with a cup of coffee. They found a man lying face down on his front, a spanner in one hand. He stank of Scotch.
Reynard sipped his coffee and nudged the man with his foot. The man shifted a little.
"Oh good. He's alive. Isabelle, could you go run me a bucket of water?"
Isabelle sighed and left. She came back in a few moments and dumped the bucket over him.
The man rose, sputtering and coughing. "Ah, god fucking damn it--"
"Good morning," Reynard said, getting an eyeful of this strange creature. "Care to tell me why you're on my ship."
The man ran a hand through his hair, ruffling it. "Ugh, Jesus. Fuckin'--can I at least have a little water first?"
"You can answer my question, or I can throw you out."
The man rubbed his eyes and took a deep breath. "Name's Charles Hawthorne. I saw you all were hiring those damn fools and figured I'd offer my services. Your door was closed and no one came to the knock. But I got it open. Fixed your problem, too."
"Oh? What was it?" Isabelle asked, crossing her arms over her chest. What were the odds, exactly, that this person--this still-drunk person, unless she missed her mark--could sweep in and fix a flying machine.
"You had a bent back shaft, and three belts were running on threads. I replaced 'em with the spares. It should last you a good bit."
Reynard was staring into the tangle of belts, bolts, shafts, and pistols, trying to get a clear view of anything at all. When that failed, he turned to Charles.
"Do you have any vices, Mr. Hawthorne?" Reynard asked, arms crossed behind his back.
"Not a one." "How about drink?" Isabelle inquired.
"Hardly a vice!" he said with a grin.
"Violence? A criminal record? Drugs?" Reynard asked.
"Not me. Well. A little theft. Killed a man by accident once."
"How do you feel about taking orders?"
"I won't do it unless I get paid for it."
"Great. How do you feel about mercenary work?"
Charles rubbed the scruff of his jaw. "Well. How does it pay?"
"Not a lot, but it's room and board."
Charles shrugged his shoulders. "Mind if I ask why?"
"I'm the captain and the pilot of this ship, and I can't very well run across the ship to fix something when it goes wrong in mid-flight. And it takes me about a day and a half to fix things in dock. I need someone like you, and while drunk you've done better than six sober mechanics. If you stay sober on the job, I'll keep you around."
"Well. I suppose I'll ride with you all a little...I've got nothing keeping me here and no better offers."
"Welcome aboard," said Isabelle, rubbing her temples. "More coffee. Goodbye."
Charles got his feet under him. "Does she ever warm up?"
"Not really."
"Great. Can I have a little bit of that coffee?"
"Sure. Then come back and familiarize yourself with the engine."
Charles grinned. "Oh, that'll be a pleasure...you've got a gorgeous machine here. I'm looking forward to improving it."
--
Dr. Klara Solomon
Charles was settling in nicely. He'd slung a hammock in the engine room and slept in shifts, taking twenty-minute naps every four hours. In the time he was awake, he was constantly repairing or maintaining the engine. Oddly enough, for being Reynard's favorite ship, the Geryon was rather bucky and apparently held together with rubber bands, chewing gum, and hopeful prayers. Isabelle guessed that he'd picked it for its luxurious living spaces and not its engines. Charles was working hard to make the engine match the amenities--and when everything was running well, or he didn't have access to engine parts, he was busy with homemade artillery. While Reynard didn't exactly commission that, it had already proved useful to carry some amount of ranged weapon while working. And Charles had a flair for the unusual and deadly. It was a pity his aim was so bad.
They left him in the ship for this particular mission for two crucial reasons. First, he should be up to his elbows in the engine, fixing a throw belt deep in the dark of the Geryon's heart. Second, they were in Germany, and Germany had beer.
Germany also had Nazis.
Isabelle didn't like Nazis.
Most of it had to do with their policies, which were frankly disgusting. A former freedom fighter, she hated any ruling body which deliberately abused a portion of its population. The propaganda was foul and the police-state quality of the area was off-putting in the extreme.
Also, they didn't pay too well.
Reynard walked beside her, frowning slightly. Fascism was just another way to take power out of the hands of the people, and 'for its own good,' as far as he was concerned. He wouldn't mind if they all rotted.
"Halt!" A portly, officious looking man stomped towards them, holding out his hand to stop them. "Your papers!"
Isabelle muttered a word of thanks for whatever premonition had brought her the good sense to study the barbaric language. She handed over their forged visas. "Here you are, sir."
The officer checked the papers critically. "Traders. Your papers are in order. When do you leave?"
"Immediately, sir," Isabelle said. And not a moment too soon. She could tell it made Reynard's skin crawl half-off his body to be unable to understand the specifics of the conversation in this country.
"Good. You are on your way to port." The officer pointed behind him, in the direction they had been headed. "One mile that way. Make a left at the intersection and follow it down."
"Thank you," Isabelle said, bowing her head. The officer gave them a stern look as they walked off.
"Shockingly enough, I don't think they trust us," Reynard observed, when they were out of earshot.
"I admit that it's not the warmest welcome I've ever received," Isabelle drawled. "'You are on your way to port,' indeed! All he needed was a bigger shoe and he could've booted us out."
Reynard smirked a little and they proceeded in silence. They made their left, and began to walk down the narrower and darker street toward the docks.
Halfway down the block, Reynard glanced out the corner of his eye, drawn by the sudden appearance of a young woman racing from one alley down the street and into another. Her face was covered in blood, her clothing tattered--she wore no shoes and didn't seem to care, but one ankle was badly swollen. He stared until she disappeared into an alley just ahead of them.
Moments later, two officers burst out of the same alley she had emerged from, panting hard. They saw Reynard and Isabelle immediately. "You! A Jew ran past here--where did she go?"
Reynard didn't even think. His arm whipped out and pointed in the opposite direction.
"That way," Isabelle supplied, wondering what in hell was going on.
The two officers seemed to know better than they did, since they immediately charged down the street in pursuit of the woman. When there was a block between them, Reynard and Isabelle walked over to the alley the woman had entered.
From outside, Isabelle could hear her frantic breathing as she tried to muffle it. She hesitantly stepped into the alley, spying a heap of rubbish. She advanced slowly--if those men had been willing enough to put haste over accuracy in the capture of this quarry, she must be trouble.
She peered around the pile, looking at the creature she found there.
The woman was pitifully grubby, and hideously caked in blood--one of her eyes was completely obscured with it. Her hair hung in dirty red strands around her face, and a grungy pair of eyeglasses sat on her nose. She was trembling violently, looking at Isabelle with one large, grey eye.
"Please," she whispered. "Please. You are not...please, help. Please."
"We told them you went the other way. You don't have much time if you want to escape."
"I can't. Please. Please help me. Please. You are not SS." A frantic hand rose to beat on the woman's chest, where a gaping hole of tattered fabric rested, as if something had been torn off and taken some shirt with it. "Please help me. They will kill me."
"She's asking for help. They're going to kill her," Isabelle said, looking at Reynard for a moment.
"I am a doctor," the woman said desperately. "I will work--fix your sick. Please. Help me. I will pay it back--"
"Let's help her up," Reynard said. "We haven't got a lot of time. Tell her we're taking her out of here."
"We can help you leave," Isabelle said. "Come with us."
"God bless you," she whispered, rising unsteadily to her feet. They hurried further down the alleyway, taking a backward and convoluted route back to the ship. They snuck the woman in through the back and had Charles gun the engine.
They got out of Germany so fast that they broke a few cables during lift-off.
--
"So what strange creature was that you brought on here?" Charles asked, using a handkerchief to smear grease all over his face. "Looked like some type of vagrant."
"She's a doctor," Reynard said, watching as Isabelle placed a large pot on the mess table. She scooped out four large bowls of curry. "We hired her. She wanted to travel."
"Oh yeah? Foreign legion deal, this is...wanted to get out of the country and see the world, huh?" Charles asked, sounding unconvinced. Charles was a skeptic at the best of times, and painfully disinclined to trust people. Isabelle and Reynard soon realized that they'd hired him while he was still slightly drunk--if he'd been sober, he probably would've turned them down.
They kept him sober in the air and on the job, much to his distress, but they were each quietly convinced that he was slowly becoming more cheerful. After all, the vociferous swearing was better than the stony, furious silence of the first few days. He was telegraphing his opinions loudly, which meant they weren't bubbling away deep inside, ready to explode.
"Seeing any world at all seemed to be more of where her interest was," Isabelle said in a murmur.
The woman wandered into the hall at that moment. Her hair was wet, but she was clean, and the cause of her bloodied appearance was revealed. Starting at her forehead and running across her left eye and into her cheek was a long, grisly scar, held closed by stitches the others could only assume she'd performed on herself while in the bathroom. A milky white eyeball peeked out from behind the eyelid. She was wearing a pair of trousers and a blouse that Isabelle had lent her--with the cuffs of the pants rolled up, they could see where she'd bandaged her ankle.
"Thank you for your kindness," she said softly.
"Do you speak any English?" Reynard asked, gesturing for her to join them at the table. She looked warily at Charles, before taking a seat.
"Ja--yes. I do not use often. I will try."
"Eat some food," Isabelle encouraged. "What is your name?"
"Klara. Dr. Klara Solomon," she said, eating two huge spoonfuls of curry in seconds. "Is very good."
"I'm Isabelle Serazin," the cook said. "That's Captain Reynard -- and Charles Hawthorne."
"Danke, captain. You are kind. Very kind."
"Why were those men chasing you?" Reynard asked, taking a bite of his own meal. "I'd like to know if I'm harboring a fugitive."
"I am fugitive because I am a Jew," she said quietly. "I try to escape--they get angry--cut my face, try to hurt me. I kill one in struggling. His friend comes, I kill him and I run."
"You're a murderer?"
"Self-defense," she insisted. "They cut my face. I cannot see."
She gestured miserably at the little white sphere in her head.
"I am one-eyed and cut like an animal and I kill them not to treat me like one. Please, captain, I will work the debt, I am to dispose by you, your kindness..."
Reynard held up a hand. "All right, doctor, take a breath. Finish eating--you could use it. You killed two men to stop them hurting you...not sure there's anyone here who couldn't say the same, at the moment."
The doctor nodded tremulously and swallowed the rest of her curry. Isabelle took the bowl with a smile and refilled it. Klara meekly nodded and cleaned that, too.
"How do you feel about mercenary work?" Reynard asked, a little later. "Odd jobs, here and there, for those willing to pay. It's a restless life, but it's interesting. And we have need of a doctor."
"It would be a delight," Klara said. "Joy. I will pay back the inconvenience."
"Right," Reynard said. "Well then. Welcome aboard, I suppose."
When Isabelle returned from showing Dr. Solomon her bunk, Charles leaned back in his chair with a whistle. "Did a number on her."
"True enough."
"Can't say I'm particularly at ease knowing I'm the only one on the boat who hasn't murdered two men."
"I find that hard to believe," Reynard said, smiling and brushing a thumb over his mustache.
"God's truth, and for two reasons. One, it was manslaughter, and two, it was only one man."
"Oh, well, that's very excusable," Isabelle said. "There's no reason for her to lie to us...I think we can be pretty secure in our knowledge." "Do you really believe her, though? Little scrawny thing like that killing two grown men? She looks like she'd lose arm-wrestling a kitten."
"There are other ways to kill men because grappling them to the ground," Isabelle said, waving a hand as she poured out the leftovers and began cleaning the pot. "If she did, just don't touch her and she'll be fine. And if she didn't, she still escaped and is still a doctor. Either way, we can't lose--either we've got a weapon or a scout who can practice medicine."
"The stitches were very neat," Reynard admitted. "I'm going to the deck. We'll learn more about our doctor tomorrow."
--
For the next several days, Dr. Solomon clung to Isabelle like a lost puppy. When her grasp of English was used up, she could converse in German with the cook until she got her feet back under her.
"Here," Isabelle said, reaching into one of the locked cabinets and pulling out an English-German dictionary. "This should help."
"Books? In the kitchen?"
"Reynard hides them everywhere--his bunk is a dangerous place to be when the ship starts bumping."
"I may ask to see his medical books," Dr. Solomon sighed. "All of mine are gone."
"Right." Isabelle needed a distraction. She didn't do well with loss or trauma, and besides which, Dr. Solomon wasn't being useful. That had to change. "Here. Help me butcher this."
It was just a broad slab of red meat, which needed to be turned into stew beef. She handed the doctor the meat cleaver. At first, the other woman struggled, trying to use it as a knife.
"You know how to use that?" Isabelle asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Ja. I don't want to be impolite..."
"Use it like it's meant to be used."
The doctor lifted the cleaver high and slammed it into the cutting board, rapidly and brutally cutting the meat. She cut again and again, her remaining eye taking on a faintly fanatical gleam as she went.
"Great," Isabelle said. "Great!" she shouted over the cutting. "Enough! We're having stew, not jerked beef," she said, shooing Dr. Solomon away. After a thought, she deftly took the cleaver from her, too. "I see you have an affinity for such work."
"My father was a butcher. It's hereditary," Dr. Solomon said.
Isabelle decided never to get sick.
--
Mr. Magihana
Japan was lovely in the spring, but Charles wasn't having any of it. Sake wasn't up to his usual standards and the women that were up for grabs did strange things to their faces.
"Why are we here?" he asked, squinting in the sunlight. The engine room wasn't bright at the best of times and in the clear sunshine, he was going blind.
"Reynard got a missive from a friend," Isabelle said. "And we've been instructed to take the doctor on the provisioning run."
"Oh good." Dr. Solomon had been shooed out of the kitchen shortly after the incident with the live chicken. She'd taken to buying odd medical supplies and visiting morgues for, of all things, severed heads, and experimenting on them in the air. It should've been more comforting to see her reading, but she spent all her time reading obsolete medical text books and scientific horror stories.
No one dared to cough while aboard.
Dr. Solomon joined them. "Are we off?" she asked, all smiles. It turned out that once she had some quality time with dead bodies and unusual experiments, she'd reverted to the state she naturally assumed--cheerful, to the point of being slightly distressing. Nothing seemed to faze the doctor.
"Yeah, all right," Isabelle said. "Anybody speak Japanese?"
There was silence.
"No, of course not. All right, we'll be ignorant foreigners. We're good at that," she said. "And then we'll get drunk."
"Can I elect you captain?" Charles asked. "I think I could flourish under your command."
"Let's go."
--
Reynard followed the directions Magihana had left in the note, and found himself sitting on a grassy knoll waiting for the other man.
Mr. Magihana had only been a name on a piece of paper back in the Ukraine. But what a valuable name it had been! The Magihana Corporation was devoted to advancements in transportation technology, and they had been a huge help in the funding of the fan ships, which had made everyone very wealthy. Mr. Magihana was always interested to hear more about Zharptytsia Industries, and Reynard was always happy to talk about it.
If he do Mr. Magihana a favor, he'd be happy to lend a hand.
He sat out in the sunshine, twiddling his thumbs. He kept checking his watch every few minutes, wondering where the other man could be.
At last, he saw a figure walking up the hill toward him. He rose to his feet. "Mr. Magihana?"
The man paused at the foot of the hill, bowing from the waist. "Mr. Millavich, a pleasure. Although I suppose it is Captain Millavich now, isn't it?"
"It is," Reynard said with a smile. Mr. Magihana came up the hill and gestured from them both to sit. He was middle-sized man, wearing a rich but plainly ornamented suit. The western influence was plain, but there was something distinctly eastern about the collars and the fabrics. His face was pleasant but unremarkable, his eyes brightly alert and his mouth posed in a mild, meaningless smile. "It's nice to put a face to the name. What can I do for you?"
"I am hoping that you will find another business proposal valuable to you, Captain Millavich."
"Reynard. Certainly. Business with the Magihana Corporation was always been good business for me--though I can't say I still represent Zharptytsia Industries."
"No, I am aware of the late unfortunate demise of your company. I do not represent my company, either, at the moment...I come to you as Mr. Magihana, private gentleman."
"Well," Reynard said, not wanting to be rude. What was he after?
"Ah, do not be dismayed," Mr. Magihana said. "I only--mm. Pardon me."
"Certainly," Reynard said, watching as Mr. Magihana rose and walked off the hill. Determined to give the man his privacy, Reynard looked out over the city half a mile away. There was a small 'urk' noise somewhere nearby, but he kept his eyes fixedly on the middle distance, not wanting to be rude.
"Thank you," Mr. Magihana said, brushing back his hair. "Let me be brief--time is becoming of the essence."
"How can I help?"
"I find that I wish to see the world, and to travel with your group. You are mercenary, I understand, and I believe I can assist you--my group of contacts is extensive and there is no end of need for small jobs of an exotic and fascinating quality. And of course, for my own room and board and the costs of ferrying me along with you, I can pay handsomely."
Reynard nodded, tilting his head a little. "Well, sounds like a mutually beneficial offer. Come by tonight--I'll talk to my crew and we'll see what we can agree on."
"Excellent. I thank you for your--" His head snapped around and he made a rapid gesture. Reynard watched in some confusion as he leapt to his feet and performed several complicated movements at one time, suddenly standing still.
Three men were lying, unconscious, on the ground around the knoll. He could see them breathing though their black masks.
"I don't mean to be rude, but are those ninjas?"
Mr. Magihana sighed, straightening his hair and clothes once more. "This is embarrassing. How shall I put it--there is a contract out on me." "And they sent ninjas?"
"It's a highly specific contract," Mr. Magihana admitted.
"And will this contract affect any member of my crew or my ship?" Reynard asked.
"No, no, certainly not," he said, shaking his head. "Ninjas aren't wanton, you see...they're highly specific in their targets. If they get onto the ship enough to get at me, they certainly won't have a need to encounter the crew."
Reynard gave him a look. "And how do you know that?"
"It's quite in the rules, even in the code." "And how do you know that?"
"My schooling might be described as eccentric," Mr. Magihana said with a thin smile.
"So you're running away from ninjas?"
"Running is such an ugly word. I'm getting out of the immediate vicinity. I would like to see a bit of the world and let the heat wear off. And if it doesn't, I will at least have a very interesting life up until I return to my home and get killed."
Reynard sighed, rubbing his face. "All right. Never mind tonight--if you're coming onto the ship, we'd better get this worked out sooner rather than later."
--
Provisioning took half the day. It would've taken longer, actually, if they'd had to converse, Isabelle reflected. It would've been hard to resist the urge to haggle.
Her kitchen stocked, she was trying to make head or tails of a buddha's hand when Reynard returned.
"Hello," she said, a little surprised by the presence of the Japanese man beside him.
"This is Mr. Magihana," Reynard said. "He's going to be our guest for...ever, I guess."
"Madame," Mr. Magihana said, bowing to her. Isabelle smiled faintly.
"How nice to meet you," she said. "Has he met Charles and the doctor?"
"Yes, we ran into them earlier," Reynard said. "We'll be leaving this evening."
"That's sudden. Aye captain," Isabelle drawling, dripping irony everywhere.
They took off that night, harboring no ninjas. Mr. Magihana seemed relaxed, though not any more or less like he'd looked immediately after rendering three opponents.
Reynard decided that it was a good idea to take the larger ship. Their crew didn't show any hesitation in growing.
--
Amy Daverner
Amsterdam was not Amy's idea of a decent place to be. Everyone was smoking cigarettes made of something other than tobacco and there was a truly prodigious quantity of loose women hanging out of windows. Some of them hooted at her.
She fled in horror.
She didn't want to be here. She was an Englishwoman, for heaven's sake, an upright, decent, civilized human being! She didn't belong in this filthy, filthy place.
Her Majesty's Secret Service had thought otherwise. And they'd left her in this miserable pit of Hades with the burn notice.
But that hadn't kept her here, oh no. Not that they knew that. No, she'd been to all sorts of horrid, warm foreign places, looking for one particular group of people. She'd gone and seen bits of France, searched through the ruins of Rome, and toddled in and out of Switzerland, chasing false leads and real hints for the whereabouts of the Geryon.
Every since she'd interviewed Reynard Millavich and Isabelle Sérazin a year and a half ago, she'd been idly contemplating a change of career. She didn't exactly love her job--it got her out of the house far more than she ordinarily would've chosen, and it required her to encounter the worst sorts of people. But it had been steady occupation in the service of her country.
Cut her, will they? Very well. She'd show them a stiff upper lip.
At the moment, she was running out of her own private funds. She needed occupation, and especially money. And if it took her around the world with a set of rather well-spoken mercenary types, that wasn't too terribly objectionable. Surely they could be rather savage--three sugar cubes, for heaven's love!--but she'd learned enough of their travels through the intelligence grapevine to know that there was value to be gotten out of them. She could be an explorer, off to go gather intelligence and books from the far reaches of the globe and bring decent English civility to the barbarians.
But Amsterdam? A woman could only be put upon so far!
She made her way down to the docks, parasol held at an imperious angle, her high-necked dress and modest fabrics clearly showing that she was a lady of quality and not to be gawked at. Oh, how she loathed the docks. Their stink and depravity--drink in every hovel. She enjoyed a nice gin and tonic in moderation, but there was nothing to be endured about gluttony.
Amy checked the posted docking list. She ran a white-fingered glove down the list, nodding once as she saw the ship's name. Had her search finally ended? Good heavens, she hoped so.
She made her way to dock 19C, passing large, grungy ships on her way. Pilots and crew members of many odd descriptions passed her, staring. Had they never seen a proper lady before? Probably not, the brutes. Amy patted her hip gently, thinking about her derringer.
She found the Geryon parked neatly in the dock. Amy brushed off her front and pressed the buzzer for entrance.
The door swung open and a most singular creature stood before her. It was a woman, certainly, with bright red hair and a ghastly scar running down her face. She wore glasses, but was barely dressed otherwise--bare arms and trousers and tall boots. She wore two black gloves, both of which were shiny and dripping red.
"Guten tag, frau," the woman said, bowing from the waist--like a gentleman!--with a smile. "How may I help?"
"This is the Geryon?" Amy asked. This person had not been mentioned to her. She hardly knew what to make of her.
"Ja, frau--I am Dr. Solomon. May I assist you?"
"Amy Daverner," she said, looking around. "I am looking for Captain Millavich or Mlle. Sérazin. Are they still in possession of the ship?"
"Certainly. They are both out at the moment--in fact, all are. I am quite alone. Will you wait? I was just about to have lunch and would relish the company."
Amy struggled for the polite answer. This woman was odd and most unladylike, but a meal was dearly to be desired and hardly to be turned away from, when presented by such a strange yet polite person.
"Very well."
"What brings you to speak to the captain?" Dr. Solomon asked, as she led the way to the mess room.
Her forwardness was a little unpleasant, but Amy supposed she had to get used to such crassness if she hoped to make a go of this. "I am here to ask him for a job. I would like to be...ship's librarian."
"Oh, good, yes," Dr. Solomon said brightly. "A librarian is just what we need! Captain has so many, too many books--a librarian would fix it all."
Amy smiled a little. "Good. I would like to consult his collection..."
"We could use it," Dr. Solomon said. "How about stew? Isabelle cooks so well...French, you know! Their cuisine is so good...have a seat."
Amy sat down with a smile--perhaps this would not be so bad. This woman was odd and strange, but so enthusiastic...surely she would get along just fine--
The centerpiece was rather strange though. In fact, it looked like a...
Amy swallowed. Oh dear. This would be harder than she thought.
--
Reynard returned in a charitable and pleasant mood. His meeting with their next client had gone pleasantly and he'd been paid half the total upfront. The cash in his pocket was warm with spendability and he was happy as a man could hope to be.
He came into the mess and registered two things--first, that in the absence of the crew, the doctor had disobeyed the rules of the kitchen table, and second, that she had company.
"Damn it, Klara--you're trying everyone's patience with this kind of thing," he said, frowning at the doctor.
"But I am consolidating, sir. I must eat, and I must work. Now I do both!" she replied, contemplating the severed head she'd cut in half lengthwise the day before. "It is preserved! It will not rot and stink, but I get to look at how to replace an eye to work."
"Still. You know it twists Isabelle's tail. Don't let her see it."
"I will hide it jealously," Dr. Solomon said with a smile and a little salute.
Reynard turned to her companion, a startled and scandalized-looking woman. "Hello. Have we met before?"
She hopped to her feet. "Amy Daverner, sir. I'm pleased to see you again."
Oh. Mlle. Officious British Person. What was she doing in Amsterdam? "Likewise. What can I do for you?"
"I seek employment, sir," she said, casting a worried glance at the doctor. She had to be desperate, Reynard thought, to ask that after seeing the type of people she would be working with. Miss Daverner was obviously horrified at the scene she was witnessing at the table, and with her own prim hang-ups, she couldn't possibly condone it.
"Indeed? In what office?" Reynard asked.
"I am a researcher, sir. I have experience in intelligence gathering and some limited practical experience in the field. I can shoot and negotiate in six languages."
Not bad. Not bad. "And what else?"
"What else, sir?"
"Well, you're, what? A combat librarian?"
"Hardly heavy on the combat, sir," Amy said, faintly wrinkling her nose.
Reynard thought to himself for a moment or two. Damn it. Well. They had more than a few people who could kill other people, but no negotiators. And she had to be desperate, and God knew he'd picked up enough desperate people so far. They had a room, at least.
"All right," he said. "But you pull your own weight and find a way to make sure we have enough money to pay for your food, and we'll take you aboard."
Amy smiled and offered her hand for a shake. "Lovely. I shall go collect my valise."
"Great," said Reynard, sitting at the table as Amy wandered off. He sat there for a moment or two, rubbing a temple. "Klara, do I take in strays?"
"Not at all," Dr. Solomon said, carefully extracting the eye and examining the optic nerve with a jeweler's glass. "Not at all. We make the shift from our hectic lives as quietly valuable members of society to embrace a nomadic lifestyle of peace and contemplation. There is nothing truly remarkable about us."
Reynard thought about that and tilted his head, nodding. Good enough for him.
--
Jules Weatherby
Charles wasn't a man who moved quickly. The doctor was, but she had limited depth perception in the worst kind of way and would run into things if not given good directions.
Reynard was outstripping them by a good bit.
"This cannot last!" he shouted, firing behind him at the Sphinx. Every since they'd animated the damn thing it had been the bane of tomb robbers, and made even the easiest jobs quite a headache. "How often have you heard me say, 'why, big game! We encounter a great deal of big game in our travels! Wouldn't it be lovely if we had someone who could SHOOT BIG GAME!'"
"Ain't my fault I can't aim!" Charles shouted.
"It's resistant to bonesaws!" Dr. Solomon cried. "What mad creature is this?"
They raced up the ramp of the Geryon and into the ship as it began to rise. Thank goodness Amy could pilot good-sized aircraft.
They each lay on the floor, panting and exhausted. Isabelle came over to say hi.
"How'd it go?" she asked, sipping a glass of juice.
"Seen better," Charles admitted.
"We're hiring someone!" Reynard barked. "I'm sick of this garbage! We're only going back there one more time, and this time we're getting the job done!"
"Great," said Isabelle. "I'll call the advertising agency."
--
Jules Weatherby had good reason to be in Cairo. Life with Prince Feisal had been an absolute scream, she had to admit, but even life amongst the Beduoin sheik guys couldn't compare to the delight and necessity of constant travel. The British could be anywhere.
She didn't want to be there when they were. They thought they were looking for a Mr. Jules Weatherby of Australia. They didn't know her name was Ms. Juliette 'Jules' Weatherby of New Zealand, and she wanted to keep it that way.
So here she was, shooting things for profit again. It was her favorite thing to do, after all, but there were few enough things in Cairo that really needed a jezail. Humans were boring to shoot in the city environment--it was so much more fun to watch them from a distance and then shoot them.
'Shoot the Sphinx!' read the advertisement. 'Crew of adventurers seeks big game hunter to take out this public menace! Inquire at Geryon, docked in 39Q in the harbor district.'
Jules shrugged to herself. Crew of adventurers, eh? Probably didn't know their arses from the hole in the ground, if they were going down to mess with the Sphinx. It wouldn't be hard to make good money off these yahoos.
--
"Hello," said the brown woman at the door.
"Hello," said Mr. Magihana. "How may I help you?"
"I'm here about the advertisement."
"Wonderful. Allow me to collect the captain," he said, leaving the woman just inside the door.
Reynard wandered down the corridor, smiling when he saw the large gun strapped to the medium-sized woman. "Ah, you look like you're just what I'm looking for." "Am I?"
"Indeed." He stuck out his hand. "Captain Reynard Millavich."
"Jane Doe," she replied, shaking it briefly.
"Oh, really. Must you?"
"I must."
Reynard shook his head with a smile. "Fine, Jane. Let me introduce you."
"I'd rather you didn't. Let's go shoot the beast and part ways."
"You don't get much work, do you?"
"I get enough. Let's kill the bugger."
"Very well. Come sit in the mess hall during the flight."
Reynard led her to the mess, waving her in as he went to pilot the vessel. There, she met a one-eyed doctor, a large and vociferous man covered in grease, and a Frenchwoman trying not to admit to being in the room. Suddenly and against her will, she was introduced.
The Englishman gave her a start, but soon enough she decided that it wasn't possible that he was even remotely connected to the type of people Jules had cause to avoid.
But the English librarian was another case. Jules could smell a spook from forty paces, and this lady was a spook. She sat still and made no eye contact. Damn it all--this was a pit of snakes! They can't have known where she came from, who she was. It had to be a mistake.
She'd do the job and get paid and run.
"So what is your real name?" asked the Englishwoman, giving her a critical look.
Lie. Lie lie lie. "Juliette," she grumbled. "Juliette Weatherby."
"Ordinarily I would applaud your discretion," she said. "But there is no need of it."
"Oh no?"
"No."
"Every last one of us is a fugitive of some description," said the Frenchwoman, sipping her coffee.
"Not me!" said the Englishman.
"Not from manslaughter?"
"Well, maybe a little. But I've been running from that since I was 25."
"Even you?" asked Jules, suddenly curious about the Englishwoman.
Her damask cheeks turned a mild rose. "A lady doesn't tell."
"She," the man said significantly, "used to be a international super spy."
"Mr. Hawthorne--"
"Research and intelligence. 'Combat librarian,' Reynard calls her. Fearsome as a nun with a ruler," he smirked.
"Nonsense."
"God's truth! Tell us how you ended up here, Amy."
She rolled her eyes. "I made a change of career--"
"Got fired."
"I was given a burn notice, thank you," she said. "You cannot fire a member of Her Majesty's Secret Service."
"Not a lot of love lost between you and your former employer, I take it?" Jules asked, at last rather curious.
"Not very much at all, Miss Weatherby. May I call you Jules?" she said, giving her a penetrating look. Jules blinked a little.
"As long as you don't make a habit of it," Jules replied.
At that moment, the landing gear engaged. They had arrived.
--
"How much for the job?" Jules asked, standing out in the desert and looking out over the sands.
"What are you asking?"
"100."
"Good God. That's rather steep, on top of a month's wage."
"A month's wage?" asked Jules. "I think we have had a misunderstanding."
"Did they not publish that damn thing right? The hunter's a permanent position. Travel with the crew, act as big game hunter and sniper. We run into this kind of thing all the time. You don't know trouble until you're trying to fight of golems on the ground level."
Jules stared a little. "I have no interest in that."
"Oh no? Miss Daverner seemed to indicate that you were warm to the idea. Gave me a little background of yours. Sounds like a dirty deal was done by you, Miss Doe. If you're not warm to the idea of running and you prove your talent, we might be able to find something mutually beneficial."
She didn't want to say no, necessarily. It wasn't an untempting offer. Money, food, board, constant travel. But trusting these loonies? The captain and the cook had nothing wrong with them, but that lady spy...
"You can trust these people, incidentally," Reynard said. "If that's what hanging you up. If you're running, so is everyone else. They won't give up a crewmate. Or they will answer to me," he said with a grin.
It was unique, that grin. The man was genial and unthreatening, kind and polite. And then when he smiled, his eyes widened instead of squinching up. He stared brightly out of those eyes, and his teeth were slightly larger than normal. Broad, the grin stretched all the way back to expose the first of his molars. Not a grin--a baring of teeth, masquerading as a smile.
She suddenly had the impression that making this man really and truly angry was a terrible, terrible idea.
"I'll think about it," she said. "Let's kill that horrible great beast first."
"Excellent suggestion," he replied. "You should see it just over that dune."
Jules carefully marched up the dune, peeking over the edge. Forty yards away, the large creature dozed in the sun. Its mouth was open, and air rushed in and out through the barrier of its needle-like teeth.
She pulled out her bolt action rifle and took careful aim. The jezail was a thing of beauty and a joy forever, but it wouldn't take out something like this cleanly.
She fired two quick rounds into the thing's head, and two went neatly in the brain. It didn't move when she looked up. She stood and shouted, waving her hat a little to check.
Nothing. It was dead.
"That was easy," remarked the captain, as she walked back to the ship. "I almost feel a little dirty."
"It was asleep. You were expecting sport?" she asked, walking back inside.
--
The one-eyed doctor and the Hawthorne fellow and the captain returned in half an hour with a mighty sapphire and a golden scarab charm.
Jules sighed and stood up from the table. "Captain?"
"Yes?" he asked, smiling mildly.
"I'll join this crew on a provisional," she said. "One month, sir, that I might gain that very tasty-sounding wage you mentioned. One month."
"All right. We'll have you, but you'll only get the wage--not the amount tacked on. In this crew, there are no bonuses."
"And I walk at the end of the month, off this ship, and no one knows I was here?" she asked.
"I think we can agree to that."
"All right. Let's try it," she said, sitting down.
"Any material we need to go back to Cairo for?"
"I pack light. It's all on me already," Jules said.
"Great. Back to Rome for us. I'll go fire up the boat."
Well, Jules thought to herself. Looked like she'd have to learn people's names after all. Damn huge number of them, anyway. How the hell had all these bizarre creatures come to fly in one place?
It boggled the mind.
"So, let me get this straight," Isabelle Sérazin said, talking around her cigarette. She blew out a stream of bluish smoke, which rose to join the haze of tobacco hovering in the air above their table. "You're going to build airships."
"Yes," replied Reynard. He poured out a little more whiskey for each of them. "I am going to build airships. Metal airships, that run on fans and propellers and great huge steam engines."
"It will never get off the ground."
"I'll engineer it into submission," he said, taking a sip. "Anyway, Doubting Thomas, what will you do? Sitting around drinking whiskey and being beautiful can only take one so far."
Isabelle dropped her head in a faint, half-hearted impression of demureness. "I will cook," she said.
"You set a pot of noodles on fire last week," he reminded her.
"It is a skill like any other," Isabelle said rather warmly. "You need to practice if you hope to get any better. And besides, it is my passion." She sipped her cigarette, blowing out the smoke and inhaling her whiskey. "The odds of me successfully cooking without setting things on fire are significantly greater than the odds of you successfully getting a flying machine with a steam engine off the ground."
"We shall see," Reynard said, and they toasted their graduation.
--
Charles Hawthorne
"Welcome to London," Amy Daverner said, adjusting her eyeglasses as she looked at the pair of fugitives across from her. The woman was pretty, small, curvaceous, and dark-haired--though it was cut much too short--and extremely French. Beside her, a tall, thin, dark man with a most elaborate mustache sat, smiling placidly.
"We are somewhat surprised that your country has any interest in us," the woman, Mlle. Sérazin, said, arms crossed over her chest. Amy could see from where she sat how Reynard Millavich nudged her with his foot.
"We're happy to provide what we can. You must be aware of the political situation in the Ukraine?"
"I'm given to understand that it has recently pursued a communist society," Amy said, hands crossed on the desk, "and that you and Mlle. Sérazin are wanted by the Soviet Police. Would you like to tell us about it?" She turned to the tea set beside her, pouring out three cups.
Mr. Millavich ran a hand through his hair. "I don't know how much you really will be able to do with what we have. It was kind of a spur of the moment decision."
"How so?" Amy asked. "How many sugars?"
"One," he said.
"Three," said Isabelle.
'Continentals,' Amy thought savagely. She overmastered her disgust and placed three sugar cubes in the small cup, pushing them toward her guests with a thin smile.
"Well. I'd been building airships for four years when the Red Army found itself on the top of the heap," Reynard said. "As it so happened, I'd become rather wealthy in the business. Seems there is indeed a market for steam-powered airships." "As I recall, fan ships were the most successful," Isabelle said, lightly clearing her throat.
"Moving on. I was a wealthy businessman and it was decided that my wealth should be spread around--and my airships should be taken by the army to furnish the safety of this new and brilliant political utopia."
"He wrote to me and I came by to see what the trouble was. I was a little too hot for France to handle, at the moment."
"And why was that, Mlle. Sérazin?" Amy asked, though she had a feeling she already knew. The name was too familiar.
"I am a freedom fighter," Mlle. Sérazin said. "And a good one. I perform demolitions for the resistance." "Quite. And you are resisting the current regime?"
"Man was not meant to be slave to giant robot revolutionaries," Isabelle said darkly. "I am hardly a royalist, but Robospierre and Dantron have gone too far! The Terror grips Paris even now--the countryside is only barely safe from their tyrannical rule."
Amy nodded. "We are aware of the French situation."
"Isabelle came by to give me a hand with the transition," Mr. Millavich said, "and we gave up all the ships and forfeited the money. Everyone went home for the night."
"And we uncovered Reynard's favorite ship, and we flew out of range of the warehouse." "And Isabelle blew it sky high."
"So we've been flying ever since. We picked up a cargo job in Italy and made our way up here to look for crew," Mlle. Sérazin said. "That's all."
Amy nodded, consulting her recording device. The record might be valuable. "You are sure there is nothing else you wish to share?"
"Nothing."
"I'm a little curious about why the British have an interest in it," Reynard said, finishing off his tea.
"Our official position is that we have no immediate interest in the communist movement," Amy said placidly. "However, we would be fools not to gain insight into the situation. This is research and defense, Mr. Millavich."
"Captain Millavich."
"Of course. Thank you both for your cooperation. We appreciate your time." Amy smiled slightly at them and gestured to the door.
They left.
--
"I don't know why this tub is your favorite," Isabelle scowled, glaring at the engine. "It's insanity." "It's not insanity," Reynard said. "It's a broken part."
"Can't you fix it? You built it."
"On the contrary," he replied. "I designed, pitched, funded, marketed, and sold it. I did not work in the warehouse itself."
"So you don't know how it works?!"
"I do. It flies. Listen, Isabelle, here's how it works from my end. I have my family's company, and I have an idea, a good idea, based on a preliminary sketch. I show that to an engineer and say, 'please make it work.' I pay them, and they do it. I go to the board with a model and say, 'behold, genius, we will make money.' And they say 'go make us money.' And I say to the warehouse building line, 'here is what you will work on, make many of them and I will pay you well.' They do, I do, and I have a flying machine and my board has money."
"Correction. Your board's money is stolen by the Reds and you have a broken flying machine."
"True. But the essential principle should work." Reynard wiped a hand across his forehead, smearing black grease across his brow. "This essential principle is not working, so until we find a mechanic, we're docked. And I can't fix it because I'm not sure where it's broken, and it's going to take me ten hours to get out all the manuals and find the whatever it is."
"So we're stuck here. Are we even going to find anyone?"
Reynard rubbed the back of his neck. "I'll go talk to the hiring agency. See about some lunch, will you?"
--
The mechanics left something to be desired.
Each one professed to know everything about flying machines and Ukrainian makes in particular, and when Reynard brought them into the engine room, they stared and poked and hemmed. They asked diagnostic questions and shrugged when asked what, exactly, was wrong.
Isabelle sent the last one home at about ten PM. She leaned against the closed door, apparently exhausted. "We need sleep."
"We need a fixed ship. What we want is sleep."
"Allow me to rephrase," Isabelle said, rubbing her eyes. "I'm going to sleep."
"Mutiny, eh?"
"Reynard, get some rest." She took her friend by the arm and began to tug him along towards their cabins. He went without much protest, feeling the demands of the day himself.
--
In the morning, Reynard could tell that something was different. The Geryon was purring like a kitten, which was nonsense, because when they'd gone to bed, there had been a low, repetitive clunk somewhere deep in the machinery.
Isabelle was sitting at the table having her first cup of coffee. "Whatever it is, it seems to have worked itself out."
"I don't know how far to believe in miracles. We need to go check it out."
They wandered down to the engine room, each with a cup of coffee. They found a man lying face down on his front, a spanner in one hand. He stank of Scotch.
Reynard sipped his coffee and nudged the man with his foot. The man shifted a little.
"Oh good. He's alive. Isabelle, could you go run me a bucket of water?"
Isabelle sighed and left. She came back in a few moments and dumped the bucket over him.
The man rose, sputtering and coughing. "Ah, god fucking damn it--"
"Good morning," Reynard said, getting an eyeful of this strange creature. "Care to tell me why you're on my ship."
The man ran a hand through his hair, ruffling it. "Ugh, Jesus. Fuckin'--can I at least have a little water first?"
"You can answer my question, or I can throw you out."
The man rubbed his eyes and took a deep breath. "Name's Charles Hawthorne. I saw you all were hiring those damn fools and figured I'd offer my services. Your door was closed and no one came to the knock. But I got it open. Fixed your problem, too."
"Oh? What was it?" Isabelle asked, crossing her arms over her chest. What were the odds, exactly, that this person--this still-drunk person, unless she missed her mark--could sweep in and fix a flying machine.
"You had a bent back shaft, and three belts were running on threads. I replaced 'em with the spares. It should last you a good bit."
Reynard was staring into the tangle of belts, bolts, shafts, and pistols, trying to get a clear view of anything at all. When that failed, he turned to Charles.
"Do you have any vices, Mr. Hawthorne?" Reynard asked, arms crossed behind his back.
"Not a one." "How about drink?" Isabelle inquired.
"Hardly a vice!" he said with a grin.
"Violence? A criminal record? Drugs?" Reynard asked.
"Not me. Well. A little theft. Killed a man by accident once."
"How do you feel about taking orders?"
"I won't do it unless I get paid for it."
"Great. How do you feel about mercenary work?"
Charles rubbed the scruff of his jaw. "Well. How does it pay?"
"Not a lot, but it's room and board."
Charles shrugged his shoulders. "Mind if I ask why?"
"I'm the captain and the pilot of this ship, and I can't very well run across the ship to fix something when it goes wrong in mid-flight. And it takes me about a day and a half to fix things in dock. I need someone like you, and while drunk you've done better than six sober mechanics. If you stay sober on the job, I'll keep you around."
"Well. I suppose I'll ride with you all a little...I've got nothing keeping me here and no better offers."
"Welcome aboard," said Isabelle, rubbing her temples. "More coffee. Goodbye."
Charles got his feet under him. "Does she ever warm up?"
"Not really."
"Great. Can I have a little bit of that coffee?"
"Sure. Then come back and familiarize yourself with the engine."
Charles grinned. "Oh, that'll be a pleasure...you've got a gorgeous machine here. I'm looking forward to improving it."
--
Dr. Klara Solomon
Charles was settling in nicely. He'd slung a hammock in the engine room and slept in shifts, taking twenty-minute naps every four hours. In the time he was awake, he was constantly repairing or maintaining the engine. Oddly enough, for being Reynard's favorite ship, the Geryon was rather bucky and apparently held together with rubber bands, chewing gum, and hopeful prayers. Isabelle guessed that he'd picked it for its luxurious living spaces and not its engines. Charles was working hard to make the engine match the amenities--and when everything was running well, or he didn't have access to engine parts, he was busy with homemade artillery. While Reynard didn't exactly commission that, it had already proved useful to carry some amount of ranged weapon while working. And Charles had a flair for the unusual and deadly. It was a pity his aim was so bad.
They left him in the ship for this particular mission for two crucial reasons. First, he should be up to his elbows in the engine, fixing a throw belt deep in the dark of the Geryon's heart. Second, they were in Germany, and Germany had beer.
Germany also had Nazis.
Isabelle didn't like Nazis.
Most of it had to do with their policies, which were frankly disgusting. A former freedom fighter, she hated any ruling body which deliberately abused a portion of its population. The propaganda was foul and the police-state quality of the area was off-putting in the extreme.
Also, they didn't pay too well.
Reynard walked beside her, frowning slightly. Fascism was just another way to take power out of the hands of the people, and 'for its own good,' as far as he was concerned. He wouldn't mind if they all rotted.
"Halt!" A portly, officious looking man stomped towards them, holding out his hand to stop them. "Your papers!"
Isabelle muttered a word of thanks for whatever premonition had brought her the good sense to study the barbaric language. She handed over their forged visas. "Here you are, sir."
The officer checked the papers critically. "Traders. Your papers are in order. When do you leave?"
"Immediately, sir," Isabelle said. And not a moment too soon. She could tell it made Reynard's skin crawl half-off his body to be unable to understand the specifics of the conversation in this country.
"Good. You are on your way to port." The officer pointed behind him, in the direction they had been headed. "One mile that way. Make a left at the intersection and follow it down."
"Thank you," Isabelle said, bowing her head. The officer gave them a stern look as they walked off.
"Shockingly enough, I don't think they trust us," Reynard observed, when they were out of earshot.
"I admit that it's not the warmest welcome I've ever received," Isabelle drawled. "'You are on your way to port,' indeed! All he needed was a bigger shoe and he could've booted us out."
Reynard smirked a little and they proceeded in silence. They made their left, and began to walk down the narrower and darker street toward the docks.
Halfway down the block, Reynard glanced out the corner of his eye, drawn by the sudden appearance of a young woman racing from one alley down the street and into another. Her face was covered in blood, her clothing tattered--she wore no shoes and didn't seem to care, but one ankle was badly swollen. He stared until she disappeared into an alley just ahead of them.
Moments later, two officers burst out of the same alley she had emerged from, panting hard. They saw Reynard and Isabelle immediately. "You! A Jew ran past here--where did she go?"
Reynard didn't even think. His arm whipped out and pointed in the opposite direction.
"That way," Isabelle supplied, wondering what in hell was going on.
The two officers seemed to know better than they did, since they immediately charged down the street in pursuit of the woman. When there was a block between them, Reynard and Isabelle walked over to the alley the woman had entered.
From outside, Isabelle could hear her frantic breathing as she tried to muffle it. She hesitantly stepped into the alley, spying a heap of rubbish. She advanced slowly--if those men had been willing enough to put haste over accuracy in the capture of this quarry, she must be trouble.
She peered around the pile, looking at the creature she found there.
The woman was pitifully grubby, and hideously caked in blood--one of her eyes was completely obscured with it. Her hair hung in dirty red strands around her face, and a grungy pair of eyeglasses sat on her nose. She was trembling violently, looking at Isabelle with one large, grey eye.
"Please," she whispered. "Please. You are not...please, help. Please."
"We told them you went the other way. You don't have much time if you want to escape."
"I can't. Please. Please help me. Please. You are not SS." A frantic hand rose to beat on the woman's chest, where a gaping hole of tattered fabric rested, as if something had been torn off and taken some shirt with it. "Please help me. They will kill me."
"She's asking for help. They're going to kill her," Isabelle said, looking at Reynard for a moment.
"I am a doctor," the woman said desperately. "I will work--fix your sick. Please. Help me. I will pay it back--"
"Let's help her up," Reynard said. "We haven't got a lot of time. Tell her we're taking her out of here."
"We can help you leave," Isabelle said. "Come with us."
"God bless you," she whispered, rising unsteadily to her feet. They hurried further down the alleyway, taking a backward and convoluted route back to the ship. They snuck the woman in through the back and had Charles gun the engine.
They got out of Germany so fast that they broke a few cables during lift-off.
--
"So what strange creature was that you brought on here?" Charles asked, using a handkerchief to smear grease all over his face. "Looked like some type of vagrant."
"She's a doctor," Reynard said, watching as Isabelle placed a large pot on the mess table. She scooped out four large bowls of curry. "We hired her. She wanted to travel."
"Oh yeah? Foreign legion deal, this is...wanted to get out of the country and see the world, huh?" Charles asked, sounding unconvinced. Charles was a skeptic at the best of times, and painfully disinclined to trust people. Isabelle and Reynard soon realized that they'd hired him while he was still slightly drunk--if he'd been sober, he probably would've turned them down.
They kept him sober in the air and on the job, much to his distress, but they were each quietly convinced that he was slowly becoming more cheerful. After all, the vociferous swearing was better than the stony, furious silence of the first few days. He was telegraphing his opinions loudly, which meant they weren't bubbling away deep inside, ready to explode.
"Seeing any world at all seemed to be more of where her interest was," Isabelle said in a murmur.
The woman wandered into the hall at that moment. Her hair was wet, but she was clean, and the cause of her bloodied appearance was revealed. Starting at her forehead and running across her left eye and into her cheek was a long, grisly scar, held closed by stitches the others could only assume she'd performed on herself while in the bathroom. A milky white eyeball peeked out from behind the eyelid. She was wearing a pair of trousers and a blouse that Isabelle had lent her--with the cuffs of the pants rolled up, they could see where she'd bandaged her ankle.
"Thank you for your kindness," she said softly.
"Do you speak any English?" Reynard asked, gesturing for her to join them at the table. She looked warily at Charles, before taking a seat.
"Ja--yes. I do not use often. I will try."
"Eat some food," Isabelle encouraged. "What is your name?"
"Klara. Dr. Klara Solomon," she said, eating two huge spoonfuls of curry in seconds. "Is very good."
"I'm Isabelle Serazin," the cook said. "That's Captain Reynard -- and Charles Hawthorne."
"Danke, captain. You are kind. Very kind."
"Why were those men chasing you?" Reynard asked, taking a bite of his own meal. "I'd like to know if I'm harboring a fugitive."
"I am fugitive because I am a Jew," she said quietly. "I try to escape--they get angry--cut my face, try to hurt me. I kill one in struggling. His friend comes, I kill him and I run."
"You're a murderer?"
"Self-defense," she insisted. "They cut my face. I cannot see."
She gestured miserably at the little white sphere in her head.
"I am one-eyed and cut like an animal and I kill them not to treat me like one. Please, captain, I will work the debt, I am to dispose by you, your kindness..."
Reynard held up a hand. "All right, doctor, take a breath. Finish eating--you could use it. You killed two men to stop them hurting you...not sure there's anyone here who couldn't say the same, at the moment."
The doctor nodded tremulously and swallowed the rest of her curry. Isabelle took the bowl with a smile and refilled it. Klara meekly nodded and cleaned that, too.
"How do you feel about mercenary work?" Reynard asked, a little later. "Odd jobs, here and there, for those willing to pay. It's a restless life, but it's interesting. And we have need of a doctor."
"It would be a delight," Klara said. "Joy. I will pay back the inconvenience."
"Right," Reynard said. "Well then. Welcome aboard, I suppose."
When Isabelle returned from showing Dr. Solomon her bunk, Charles leaned back in his chair with a whistle. "Did a number on her."
"True enough."
"Can't say I'm particularly at ease knowing I'm the only one on the boat who hasn't murdered two men."
"I find that hard to believe," Reynard said, smiling and brushing a thumb over his mustache.
"God's truth, and for two reasons. One, it was manslaughter, and two, it was only one man."
"Oh, well, that's very excusable," Isabelle said. "There's no reason for her to lie to us...I think we can be pretty secure in our knowledge." "Do you really believe her, though? Little scrawny thing like that killing two grown men? She looks like she'd lose arm-wrestling a kitten."
"There are other ways to kill men because grappling them to the ground," Isabelle said, waving a hand as she poured out the leftovers and began cleaning the pot. "If she did, just don't touch her and she'll be fine. And if she didn't, she still escaped and is still a doctor. Either way, we can't lose--either we've got a weapon or a scout who can practice medicine."
"The stitches were very neat," Reynard admitted. "I'm going to the deck. We'll learn more about our doctor tomorrow."
--
For the next several days, Dr. Solomon clung to Isabelle like a lost puppy. When her grasp of English was used up, she could converse in German with the cook until she got her feet back under her.
"Here," Isabelle said, reaching into one of the locked cabinets and pulling out an English-German dictionary. "This should help."
"Books? In the kitchen?"
"Reynard hides them everywhere--his bunk is a dangerous place to be when the ship starts bumping."
"I may ask to see his medical books," Dr. Solomon sighed. "All of mine are gone."
"Right." Isabelle needed a distraction. She didn't do well with loss or trauma, and besides which, Dr. Solomon wasn't being useful. That had to change. "Here. Help me butcher this."
It was just a broad slab of red meat, which needed to be turned into stew beef. She handed the doctor the meat cleaver. At first, the other woman struggled, trying to use it as a knife.
"You know how to use that?" Isabelle asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Ja. I don't want to be impolite..."
"Use it like it's meant to be used."
The doctor lifted the cleaver high and slammed it into the cutting board, rapidly and brutally cutting the meat. She cut again and again, her remaining eye taking on a faintly fanatical gleam as she went.
"Great," Isabelle said. "Great!" she shouted over the cutting. "Enough! We're having stew, not jerked beef," she said, shooing Dr. Solomon away. After a thought, she deftly took the cleaver from her, too. "I see you have an affinity for such work."
"My father was a butcher. It's hereditary," Dr. Solomon said.
Isabelle decided never to get sick.
--
Mr. Magihana
Japan was lovely in the spring, but Charles wasn't having any of it. Sake wasn't up to his usual standards and the women that were up for grabs did strange things to their faces.
"Why are we here?" he asked, squinting in the sunlight. The engine room wasn't bright at the best of times and in the clear sunshine, he was going blind.
"Reynard got a missive from a friend," Isabelle said. "And we've been instructed to take the doctor on the provisioning run."
"Oh good." Dr. Solomon had been shooed out of the kitchen shortly after the incident with the live chicken. She'd taken to buying odd medical supplies and visiting morgues for, of all things, severed heads, and experimenting on them in the air. It should've been more comforting to see her reading, but she spent all her time reading obsolete medical text books and scientific horror stories.
No one dared to cough while aboard.
Dr. Solomon joined them. "Are we off?" she asked, all smiles. It turned out that once she had some quality time with dead bodies and unusual experiments, she'd reverted to the state she naturally assumed--cheerful, to the point of being slightly distressing. Nothing seemed to faze the doctor.
"Yeah, all right," Isabelle said. "Anybody speak Japanese?"
There was silence.
"No, of course not. All right, we'll be ignorant foreigners. We're good at that," she said. "And then we'll get drunk."
"Can I elect you captain?" Charles asked. "I think I could flourish under your command."
"Let's go."
--
Reynard followed the directions Magihana had left in the note, and found himself sitting on a grassy knoll waiting for the other man.
Mr. Magihana had only been a name on a piece of paper back in the Ukraine. But what a valuable name it had been! The Magihana Corporation was devoted to advancements in transportation technology, and they had been a huge help in the funding of the fan ships, which had made everyone very wealthy. Mr. Magihana was always interested to hear more about Zharptytsia Industries, and Reynard was always happy to talk about it.
If he do Mr. Magihana a favor, he'd be happy to lend a hand.
He sat out in the sunshine, twiddling his thumbs. He kept checking his watch every few minutes, wondering where the other man could be.
At last, he saw a figure walking up the hill toward him. He rose to his feet. "Mr. Magihana?"
The man paused at the foot of the hill, bowing from the waist. "Mr. Millavich, a pleasure. Although I suppose it is Captain Millavich now, isn't it?"
"It is," Reynard said with a smile. Mr. Magihana came up the hill and gestured from them both to sit. He was middle-sized man, wearing a rich but plainly ornamented suit. The western influence was plain, but there was something distinctly eastern about the collars and the fabrics. His face was pleasant but unremarkable, his eyes brightly alert and his mouth posed in a mild, meaningless smile. "It's nice to put a face to the name. What can I do for you?"
"I am hoping that you will find another business proposal valuable to you, Captain Millavich."
"Reynard. Certainly. Business with the Magihana Corporation was always been good business for me--though I can't say I still represent Zharptytsia Industries."
"No, I am aware of the late unfortunate demise of your company. I do not represent my company, either, at the moment...I come to you as Mr. Magihana, private gentleman."
"Well," Reynard said, not wanting to be rude. What was he after?
"Ah, do not be dismayed," Mr. Magihana said. "I only--mm. Pardon me."
"Certainly," Reynard said, watching as Mr. Magihana rose and walked off the hill. Determined to give the man his privacy, Reynard looked out over the city half a mile away. There was a small 'urk' noise somewhere nearby, but he kept his eyes fixedly on the middle distance, not wanting to be rude.
"Thank you," Mr. Magihana said, brushing back his hair. "Let me be brief--time is becoming of the essence."
"How can I help?"
"I find that I wish to see the world, and to travel with your group. You are mercenary, I understand, and I believe I can assist you--my group of contacts is extensive and there is no end of need for small jobs of an exotic and fascinating quality. And of course, for my own room and board and the costs of ferrying me along with you, I can pay handsomely."
Reynard nodded, tilting his head a little. "Well, sounds like a mutually beneficial offer. Come by tonight--I'll talk to my crew and we'll see what we can agree on."
"Excellent. I thank you for your--" His head snapped around and he made a rapid gesture. Reynard watched in some confusion as he leapt to his feet and performed several complicated movements at one time, suddenly standing still.
Three men were lying, unconscious, on the ground around the knoll. He could see them breathing though their black masks.
"I don't mean to be rude, but are those ninjas?"
Mr. Magihana sighed, straightening his hair and clothes once more. "This is embarrassing. How shall I put it--there is a contract out on me." "And they sent ninjas?"
"It's a highly specific contract," Mr. Magihana admitted.
"And will this contract affect any member of my crew or my ship?" Reynard asked.
"No, no, certainly not," he said, shaking his head. "Ninjas aren't wanton, you see...they're highly specific in their targets. If they get onto the ship enough to get at me, they certainly won't have a need to encounter the crew."
Reynard gave him a look. "And how do you know that?"
"It's quite in the rules, even in the code." "And how do you know that?"
"My schooling might be described as eccentric," Mr. Magihana said with a thin smile.
"So you're running away from ninjas?"
"Running is such an ugly word. I'm getting out of the immediate vicinity. I would like to see a bit of the world and let the heat wear off. And if it doesn't, I will at least have a very interesting life up until I return to my home and get killed."
Reynard sighed, rubbing his face. "All right. Never mind tonight--if you're coming onto the ship, we'd better get this worked out sooner rather than later."
--
Provisioning took half the day. It would've taken longer, actually, if they'd had to converse, Isabelle reflected. It would've been hard to resist the urge to haggle.
Her kitchen stocked, she was trying to make head or tails of a buddha's hand when Reynard returned.
"Hello," she said, a little surprised by the presence of the Japanese man beside him.
"This is Mr. Magihana," Reynard said. "He's going to be our guest for...ever, I guess."
"Madame," Mr. Magihana said, bowing to her. Isabelle smiled faintly.
"How nice to meet you," she said. "Has he met Charles and the doctor?"
"Yes, we ran into them earlier," Reynard said. "We'll be leaving this evening."
"That's sudden. Aye captain," Isabelle drawling, dripping irony everywhere.
They took off that night, harboring no ninjas. Mr. Magihana seemed relaxed, though not any more or less like he'd looked immediately after rendering three opponents.
Reynard decided that it was a good idea to take the larger ship. Their crew didn't show any hesitation in growing.
--
Amy Daverner
Amsterdam was not Amy's idea of a decent place to be. Everyone was smoking cigarettes made of something other than tobacco and there was a truly prodigious quantity of loose women hanging out of windows. Some of them hooted at her.
She fled in horror.
She didn't want to be here. She was an Englishwoman, for heaven's sake, an upright, decent, civilized human being! She didn't belong in this filthy, filthy place.
Her Majesty's Secret Service had thought otherwise. And they'd left her in this miserable pit of Hades with the burn notice.
But that hadn't kept her here, oh no. Not that they knew that. No, she'd been to all sorts of horrid, warm foreign places, looking for one particular group of people. She'd gone and seen bits of France, searched through the ruins of Rome, and toddled in and out of Switzerland, chasing false leads and real hints for the whereabouts of the Geryon.
Every since she'd interviewed Reynard Millavich and Isabelle Sérazin a year and a half ago, she'd been idly contemplating a change of career. She didn't exactly love her job--it got her out of the house far more than she ordinarily would've chosen, and it required her to encounter the worst sorts of people. But it had been steady occupation in the service of her country.
Cut her, will they? Very well. She'd show them a stiff upper lip.
At the moment, she was running out of her own private funds. She needed occupation, and especially money. And if it took her around the world with a set of rather well-spoken mercenary types, that wasn't too terribly objectionable. Surely they could be rather savage--three sugar cubes, for heaven's love!--but she'd learned enough of their travels through the intelligence grapevine to know that there was value to be gotten out of them. She could be an explorer, off to go gather intelligence and books from the far reaches of the globe and bring decent English civility to the barbarians.
But Amsterdam? A woman could only be put upon so far!
She made her way down to the docks, parasol held at an imperious angle, her high-necked dress and modest fabrics clearly showing that she was a lady of quality and not to be gawked at. Oh, how she loathed the docks. Their stink and depravity--drink in every hovel. She enjoyed a nice gin and tonic in moderation, but there was nothing to be endured about gluttony.
Amy checked the posted docking list. She ran a white-fingered glove down the list, nodding once as she saw the ship's name. Had her search finally ended? Good heavens, she hoped so.
She made her way to dock 19C, passing large, grungy ships on her way. Pilots and crew members of many odd descriptions passed her, staring. Had they never seen a proper lady before? Probably not, the brutes. Amy patted her hip gently, thinking about her derringer.
She found the Geryon parked neatly in the dock. Amy brushed off her front and pressed the buzzer for entrance.
The door swung open and a most singular creature stood before her. It was a woman, certainly, with bright red hair and a ghastly scar running down her face. She wore glasses, but was barely dressed otherwise--bare arms and trousers and tall boots. She wore two black gloves, both of which were shiny and dripping red.
"Guten tag, frau," the woman said, bowing from the waist--like a gentleman!--with a smile. "How may I help?"
"This is the Geryon?" Amy asked. This person had not been mentioned to her. She hardly knew what to make of her.
"Ja, frau--I am Dr. Solomon. May I assist you?"
"Amy Daverner," she said, looking around. "I am looking for Captain Millavich or Mlle. Sérazin. Are they still in possession of the ship?"
"Certainly. They are both out at the moment--in fact, all are. I am quite alone. Will you wait? I was just about to have lunch and would relish the company."
Amy struggled for the polite answer. This woman was odd and most unladylike, but a meal was dearly to be desired and hardly to be turned away from, when presented by such a strange yet polite person.
"Very well."
"What brings you to speak to the captain?" Dr. Solomon asked, as she led the way to the mess room.
Her forwardness was a little unpleasant, but Amy supposed she had to get used to such crassness if she hoped to make a go of this. "I am here to ask him for a job. I would like to be...ship's librarian."
"Oh, good, yes," Dr. Solomon said brightly. "A librarian is just what we need! Captain has so many, too many books--a librarian would fix it all."
Amy smiled a little. "Good. I would like to consult his collection..."
"We could use it," Dr. Solomon said. "How about stew? Isabelle cooks so well...French, you know! Their cuisine is so good...have a seat."
Amy sat down with a smile--perhaps this would not be so bad. This woman was odd and strange, but so enthusiastic...surely she would get along just fine--
The centerpiece was rather strange though. In fact, it looked like a...
Amy swallowed. Oh dear. This would be harder than she thought.
--
Reynard returned in a charitable and pleasant mood. His meeting with their next client had gone pleasantly and he'd been paid half the total upfront. The cash in his pocket was warm with spendability and he was happy as a man could hope to be.
He came into the mess and registered two things--first, that in the absence of the crew, the doctor had disobeyed the rules of the kitchen table, and second, that she had company.
"Damn it, Klara--you're trying everyone's patience with this kind of thing," he said, frowning at the doctor.
"But I am consolidating, sir. I must eat, and I must work. Now I do both!" she replied, contemplating the severed head she'd cut in half lengthwise the day before. "It is preserved! It will not rot and stink, but I get to look at how to replace an eye to work."
"Still. You know it twists Isabelle's tail. Don't let her see it."
"I will hide it jealously," Dr. Solomon said with a smile and a little salute.
Reynard turned to her companion, a startled and scandalized-looking woman. "Hello. Have we met before?"
She hopped to her feet. "Amy Daverner, sir. I'm pleased to see you again."
Oh. Mlle. Officious British Person. What was she doing in Amsterdam? "Likewise. What can I do for you?"
"I seek employment, sir," she said, casting a worried glance at the doctor. She had to be desperate, Reynard thought, to ask that after seeing the type of people she would be working with. Miss Daverner was obviously horrified at the scene she was witnessing at the table, and with her own prim hang-ups, she couldn't possibly condone it.
"Indeed? In what office?" Reynard asked.
"I am a researcher, sir. I have experience in intelligence gathering and some limited practical experience in the field. I can shoot and negotiate in six languages."
Not bad. Not bad. "And what else?"
"What else, sir?"
"Well, you're, what? A combat librarian?"
"Hardly heavy on the combat, sir," Amy said, faintly wrinkling her nose.
Reynard thought to himself for a moment or two. Damn it. Well. They had more than a few people who could kill other people, but no negotiators. And she had to be desperate, and God knew he'd picked up enough desperate people so far. They had a room, at least.
"All right," he said. "But you pull your own weight and find a way to make sure we have enough money to pay for your food, and we'll take you aboard."
Amy smiled and offered her hand for a shake. "Lovely. I shall go collect my valise."
"Great," said Reynard, sitting at the table as Amy wandered off. He sat there for a moment or two, rubbing a temple. "Klara, do I take in strays?"
"Not at all," Dr. Solomon said, carefully extracting the eye and examining the optic nerve with a jeweler's glass. "Not at all. We make the shift from our hectic lives as quietly valuable members of society to embrace a nomadic lifestyle of peace and contemplation. There is nothing truly remarkable about us."
Reynard thought about that and tilted his head, nodding. Good enough for him.
--
Jules Weatherby
Charles wasn't a man who moved quickly. The doctor was, but she had limited depth perception in the worst kind of way and would run into things if not given good directions.
Reynard was outstripping them by a good bit.
"This cannot last!" he shouted, firing behind him at the Sphinx. Every since they'd animated the damn thing it had been the bane of tomb robbers, and made even the easiest jobs quite a headache. "How often have you heard me say, 'why, big game! We encounter a great deal of big game in our travels! Wouldn't it be lovely if we had someone who could SHOOT BIG GAME!'"
"Ain't my fault I can't aim!" Charles shouted.
"It's resistant to bonesaws!" Dr. Solomon cried. "What mad creature is this?"
They raced up the ramp of the Geryon and into the ship as it began to rise. Thank goodness Amy could pilot good-sized aircraft.
They each lay on the floor, panting and exhausted. Isabelle came over to say hi.
"How'd it go?" she asked, sipping a glass of juice.
"Seen better," Charles admitted.
"We're hiring someone!" Reynard barked. "I'm sick of this garbage! We're only going back there one more time, and this time we're getting the job done!"
"Great," said Isabelle. "I'll call the advertising agency."
--
Jules Weatherby had good reason to be in Cairo. Life with Prince Feisal had been an absolute scream, she had to admit, but even life amongst the Beduoin sheik guys couldn't compare to the delight and necessity of constant travel. The British could be anywhere.
She didn't want to be there when they were. They thought they were looking for a Mr. Jules Weatherby of Australia. They didn't know her name was Ms. Juliette 'Jules' Weatherby of New Zealand, and she wanted to keep it that way.
So here she was, shooting things for profit again. It was her favorite thing to do, after all, but there were few enough things in Cairo that really needed a jezail. Humans were boring to shoot in the city environment--it was so much more fun to watch them from a distance and then shoot them.
'Shoot the Sphinx!' read the advertisement. 'Crew of adventurers seeks big game hunter to take out this public menace! Inquire at Geryon, docked in 39Q in the harbor district.'
Jules shrugged to herself. Crew of adventurers, eh? Probably didn't know their arses from the hole in the ground, if they were going down to mess with the Sphinx. It wouldn't be hard to make good money off these yahoos.
--
"Hello," said the brown woman at the door.
"Hello," said Mr. Magihana. "How may I help you?"
"I'm here about the advertisement."
"Wonderful. Allow me to collect the captain," he said, leaving the woman just inside the door.
Reynard wandered down the corridor, smiling when he saw the large gun strapped to the medium-sized woman. "Ah, you look like you're just what I'm looking for." "Am I?"
"Indeed." He stuck out his hand. "Captain Reynard Millavich."
"Jane Doe," she replied, shaking it briefly.
"Oh, really. Must you?"
"I must."
Reynard shook his head with a smile. "Fine, Jane. Let me introduce you."
"I'd rather you didn't. Let's go shoot the beast and part ways."
"You don't get much work, do you?"
"I get enough. Let's kill the bugger."
"Very well. Come sit in the mess hall during the flight."
Reynard led her to the mess, waving her in as he went to pilot the vessel. There, she met a one-eyed doctor, a large and vociferous man covered in grease, and a Frenchwoman trying not to admit to being in the room. Suddenly and against her will, she was introduced.
The Englishman gave her a start, but soon enough she decided that it wasn't possible that he was even remotely connected to the type of people Jules had cause to avoid.
But the English librarian was another case. Jules could smell a spook from forty paces, and this lady was a spook. She sat still and made no eye contact. Damn it all--this was a pit of snakes! They can't have known where she came from, who she was. It had to be a mistake.
She'd do the job and get paid and run.
"So what is your real name?" asked the Englishwoman, giving her a critical look.
Lie. Lie lie lie. "Juliette," she grumbled. "Juliette Weatherby."
"Ordinarily I would applaud your discretion," she said. "But there is no need of it."
"Oh no?"
"No."
"Every last one of us is a fugitive of some description," said the Frenchwoman, sipping her coffee.
"Not me!" said the Englishman.
"Not from manslaughter?"
"Well, maybe a little. But I've been running from that since I was 25."
"Even you?" asked Jules, suddenly curious about the Englishwoman.
Her damask cheeks turned a mild rose. "A lady doesn't tell."
"She," the man said significantly, "used to be a international super spy."
"Mr. Hawthorne--"
"Research and intelligence. 'Combat librarian,' Reynard calls her. Fearsome as a nun with a ruler," he smirked.
"Nonsense."
"God's truth! Tell us how you ended up here, Amy."
She rolled her eyes. "I made a change of career--"
"Got fired."
"I was given a burn notice, thank you," she said. "You cannot fire a member of Her Majesty's Secret Service."
"Not a lot of love lost between you and your former employer, I take it?" Jules asked, at last rather curious.
"Not very much at all, Miss Weatherby. May I call you Jules?" she said, giving her a penetrating look. Jules blinked a little.
"As long as you don't make a habit of it," Jules replied.
At that moment, the landing gear engaged. They had arrived.
--
"How much for the job?" Jules asked, standing out in the desert and looking out over the sands.
"What are you asking?"
"100."
"Good God. That's rather steep, on top of a month's wage."
"A month's wage?" asked Jules. "I think we have had a misunderstanding."
"Did they not publish that damn thing right? The hunter's a permanent position. Travel with the crew, act as big game hunter and sniper. We run into this kind of thing all the time. You don't know trouble until you're trying to fight of golems on the ground level."
Jules stared a little. "I have no interest in that."
"Oh no? Miss Daverner seemed to indicate that you were warm to the idea. Gave me a little background of yours. Sounds like a dirty deal was done by you, Miss Doe. If you're not warm to the idea of running and you prove your talent, we might be able to find something mutually beneficial."
She didn't want to say no, necessarily. It wasn't an untempting offer. Money, food, board, constant travel. But trusting these loonies? The captain and the cook had nothing wrong with them, but that lady spy...
"You can trust these people, incidentally," Reynard said. "If that's what hanging you up. If you're running, so is everyone else. They won't give up a crewmate. Or they will answer to me," he said with a grin.
It was unique, that grin. The man was genial and unthreatening, kind and polite. And then when he smiled, his eyes widened instead of squinching up. He stared brightly out of those eyes, and his teeth were slightly larger than normal. Broad, the grin stretched all the way back to expose the first of his molars. Not a grin--a baring of teeth, masquerading as a smile.
She suddenly had the impression that making this man really and truly angry was a terrible, terrible idea.
"I'll think about it," she said. "Let's kill that horrible great beast first."
"Excellent suggestion," he replied. "You should see it just over that dune."
Jules carefully marched up the dune, peeking over the edge. Forty yards away, the large creature dozed in the sun. Its mouth was open, and air rushed in and out through the barrier of its needle-like teeth.
She pulled out her bolt action rifle and took careful aim. The jezail was a thing of beauty and a joy forever, but it wouldn't take out something like this cleanly.
She fired two quick rounds into the thing's head, and two went neatly in the brain. It didn't move when she looked up. She stood and shouted, waving her hat a little to check.
Nothing. It was dead.
"That was easy," remarked the captain, as she walked back to the ship. "I almost feel a little dirty."
"It was asleep. You were expecting sport?" she asked, walking back inside.
--
The one-eyed doctor and the Hawthorne fellow and the captain returned in half an hour with a mighty sapphire and a golden scarab charm.
Jules sighed and stood up from the table. "Captain?"
"Yes?" he asked, smiling mildly.
"I'll join this crew on a provisional," she said. "One month, sir, that I might gain that very tasty-sounding wage you mentioned. One month."
"All right. We'll have you, but you'll only get the wage--not the amount tacked on. In this crew, there are no bonuses."
"And I walk at the end of the month, off this ship, and no one knows I was here?" she asked.
"I think we can agree to that."
"All right. Let's try it," she said, sitting down.
"Any material we need to go back to Cairo for?"
"I pack light. It's all on me already," Jules said.
"Great. Back to Rome for us. I'll go fire up the boat."
Well, Jules thought to herself. Looked like she'd have to learn people's names after all. Damn huge number of them, anyway. How the hell had all these bizarre creatures come to fly in one place?
It boggled the mind.