CHAPTER SEVEN
The crew accommodations aboard the Silverhawk were extravagant. I know this, not from personal experience, but because I was able to peer into them as Tesla led us through the ship. Crystal chandeliers, expansive davenports, plush Turkish carpets, I even saw what looked like an espresso machine combined with a locomotive engine, chuffing out the delectable aroma of coffee. Bookcases filled every available nook and cranny of the airship, bursting with gold-embossed leather-bound tomes on every subject imaginable. Though cramped, every square foot of the Silverhawk was dedicated to the life of the mind and the comfort of the body.
Our rooms, on the other hand, were . . . less than luxurious.
Rather than being led up to the top observation deck, Tesla took us through one of the sponson decks that jutted out from the hull of the Silverhawk. The room was a semicircle, dominated by floor-to-ceiling windows along the curved outer wall that offered a grand view of the surrounding landscape. Most of the rest of the room was occupied with padded benches that faced the window, backed up by shelf after shelf of books. I ran a finger along one of the shelves.
“That’s an extensive library,” I said. “I could spend a lot of time in here.”
“More extensive than you know,” Tesla said. “There’s a built-in printing press, and a babbage engine capable of three thousand words per minute. We can produce any book ever written, as long as it’s stored in the babbage’s memory valves.”
“See, that feels an awful lot like magic.” I pulled a book and flipped through it. Something about a clockwork angel and a mathematical church. “Are you sure you guys aren’t part of the Unreal?”
“The things you will see in the Gestalt may feel like magic, but I assure you, they are part of something grander. Something forward looking, not stuck in the past, like your Mythos. We are men and women of Science!”
“I hate to break it to you, but airships and steam engines went out of style almost a hundred years ago.” I snapped the book shut and put it back on the shelf. “Flipping a switch to make it go, instead of chanting a spell, doesn’t mean it’s any less fantastical.”
“Dear boy, just because you’ve chosen to live in a musty castle and eat boiled meat doesn’t mean you have to be bitter. That was your destiny. And this”—he gestured broadly at the airship—“this is mine. But you make a point. Both timelines are magic when compared to the mundane.”
“There’s probably someone flying around on a rocket, wondering why we’re content with such primitive lives,” I said. After a moment’s hesitation, I added, “I’ll admit, sometimes I miss the internet.”
“Unless that’s some kind of intergalactic fishing device, I don’t want to know about it,” Tesla said. “I’ve seen the whales that trawl the currents south of Mars. Those are treacherous waters, my friend.”
“Man of science,” Bethany said with a snort. She vaulted over the back of one of the leather chairs, dangling one leg over the arm as she settled back. “Yeah, this’ll do.”
“Um. This is not your room,” Tesla said uncomfortably. “And I believe you’re getting the Middle Ages onto my aniline leather.”
Bethany grimaced, looking under her leg at the streak of mud and grime on the chair. She rubbed at it with her open palm.
“The Saint and I were doing a necromancer thing. It’s probably just graveyard mud.” The streak got bigger and thinner, until it covered most of the chair’s arm. “Little bit of corpse juice in there, too. Gonna need some holy water to get that out.”
“Corpse . . .” Tesla’s face purpled. “I will speak to The Good Doctor. Now, if you will please . . .” He gestured desperately toward the hallway. “Vacate the chair and my library. At once!”
“Come, Bethany. We are needed elsewhere,” Tembo said patiently. The rogue danced out of the chair, landing with a pirouette.
“Sheesh. If I’d known they were going to be so picky, I’d have worn my fancy leathers,” she said as we exited the library.
After twisting through narrow passageways, we ended up in a cargo bay, complete with wide doors in the back and industrial-scale bulkheads all around. And by “our rooms” I really mean one room separated by sheets. The floor was covered in hay, and the smell of must and mildew choked the air. Tesla entered the room with a flourish, like a carnival barker revealing the three-eyed woman. We stood in the doorway, staring.
“Never mind about the fancy leathers,” Bethany said under her breath.
“What the hell is this?” I kicked my way through the hay to one of the partitions and pulled it aside. A cot, a ceramic bedpan, and a low table with a jug of water. “Steerage? You’re putting us in steerage?”
“Esther said it was important to keep you in your particular milieu,” Tesla said. “This is as medieval as we can manage on short notice. The Good Doctor was able to provide a selection of fleas and bedbugs from his personal collection, but—”
“Buddy, do I look like a fleas-and-bedbugs kind of girl?” Chesa asked, flipping her leaf-woven hair over her shoulder. “You better get someone to make it all Rivendell up in this place, or you and I are going to have WORDS.”
“As much as I admire the professor’s work, we simply don’t have any other option.” Tesla crossed his arms. “You will have free range of the Silverhawk, of course, providing you maintain certain . . . standards of hygiene. But if any anachronisms arise we will be forced to confine you to quarters.”
“What sort of anachronisms?” Gregory asked, looming forward. “Pirate attacks? Marauding bandits?”
“Gremlins.”
We all turned to see where the voice had come from. The doorway was empty, and the twin bay doors in the back of the room were closed tight. I started to whisk away curtains when a wrench fell next to my foot. I looked up.
A shock of brown hair held in place by thick goggles had sprouted from one of the conduit pipes overhead. It grew into a grease-smudged tan face with a button nose and a mouth drawn into a tiny, thin line. A familiar face blinked at me.
“Hello again, Ida,” I said.
“Sorry,” she said, then produced an arm and reached for the wayward wrench. “I dropped that. Please. Thank you.”
Bemused, I fetched the wrench and returned it to the pipe-apparition. She tucked her arm back into the conduit, then slowly started to disappear into the open grate.
“Wait, what was that about gremlins?” I shouted.
“Concentrated protomundanity, to be precise. Not really gremlins. High levels of nonconforming anachronistic probability fields centered on the presence of certain . . . individuals . . .” She said all this without looking away from me, though I got the feeling her attention was akin to a deer slowly backing away from an oncoming truck rather than anything romantic. She blinked again, eyes darting to Tesla, then back to me. “Things get weird around you. I mentioned this earlier.”
“Yes, well, Skyhook thinks we’ll be able to get us into the Gestalt without any issues, as long as we follow the appropriate protocols.”
“Skyhook thinks whiskey tastes good. Tastes like burned wood and carpet tacks. Okay, bye now.” She disappeared as quickly as she had arrived, though I could make out a steady progression of thumps and muttered curses in the conduits as she retreated.
“She looks less intimidating when she’s not braining a selkie with a giant wrench,” I said.
“She is quite pleasant, as long as you aren’t messing with her ship,” Tesla said with a sigh. “But Ida is correct. The last time Knight Watch and the Society crossed paths, we mistakenly inserted a Trickster spirit into the stock market, leading to some irregularities in the investment portfolios of half the world. Can’t risk that again.” He gestured to a large trunk in the corner of the room. “That’s the isolation chamber. If you’d be so kind as to deposit any magical items inside and seal it before we depart.”
The isolation chamber looked like a steamer trunk that had been dipped in glue and thrown through the front window of a clock repair shop. Pipes wrapped around the outside of the trunk, liberally sprinkled with gears and pistons and clockwork mechanisms that seemed to serve no purpose other than clicking or hissing or spinning about. Steam leaked from the lid, and when Tesla threw it open, a pillar of noxious mist rolled across the floor, illuminated by a pale green light from the interior of the box.
“There’s no way I’m putting my armor in there,” Chesa said. “It smells like motor oil and sweaty leather.”
“I think that last part is just Rast.” Gregory looped his scabbard over his head, then kissed the hilt of his sword and lay it in the trunk, with the same care one might treat the baby Moses and his basket of reeds. “We must be apart, but only for a moment. I shall return to you. Sleep well.”
“Okay, creeper,” I said, shouldering Gregory aside to lay my shield in the trunk. “I’m sure our toys will be perfectly fine in the magic box.”
“Actually, if there’s too much interference, I will happily jettison the entire lot like so much ballast,” Tesla said. “But I’m sure that won’t happen. Feel free to wander the cabins, chat with the rest of the team.”
“Jettison? You can’t jettison our gear. That shield was forged in Valhalla! And . . . look, I don’t want to get personal, but I think Gregory’s in a relationship with that sword.”
“I’m sure it won’t come to that. Please enjoy the voyage.” Tesla clapped his hands together, again reminding me of sharp thunder. “If you need anything, I’m sure someone will be able to help you. Just . . . not Ida. Be sure to seal up that chest before we take off.”
He left us among the hay and bedbugs. Reluctantly, Chesa stowed her bow and the crescent-bladed daggers, while Bethany had a brief, loudly whispered conversation with each of the MANY daggers she set inside. Even Tembo, the well-rounded and generally stable elder statesman of our party, patted his staff as he lay it in the chest. Our armor went on racks that lined one wall. Once everything was secured, we stood in a loose circle in the middle of the room.
“We’re sure about the amulets?” Chesa asked. “We don’t need to stow those as well?”
“They are magically inert until we turn them on,” Tembo said. “Given all the talk of jettisoning and interference, I would rather hang on to them. Just in case.”
“I agree,” Gregory said. “Even if we lose all our gear, we’re not helpless as long as we can access our domains.”
“Sounds good to me.” Chesa braided her amulet into her hair, letting it dangle down her neck. “I don’t like this. I haven’t felt this normie since . . . well, since we joined the Watch.”
“I know what you mean. I’m sure everything will be fine, once we sort this anomaly out,” I said. The floor rumbled under our feet. “That sounds like takeoff. Better seal up the magic box.”
The trunk hissed closed, and a bright light shimmered down the length of the lid while the collection of gears and pistons along the side whirred and hummed. Finally, the whole contraption clenched like a fist.
“So . . . if I kept one knife back, just in case something needed cutting . . .” Bethany said shyly. We all glared at her. “I’m not saying I did! Just, if I did. Is that okay?”
“I suppose we’ll find out soon enough,” I said. “If the airship crashes, for example.”
“It’s just a dagger. Not even magical,” she said. “Simply sharp.”
Tembo sighed dramatically. “I’m sure that’s fine, Bethany.”
“Great! Oh, dibs on the corner suite!” Bethany disappeared behind the wall of sheets. “Just need to make a couple adjustments . . .”
“Hey, did you guys know they have a bar out here?” Saint Matthew appeared in the doorway. He was carrying a wide mouthed silver goblet, half full of bright green liquid. “And I think maybe we’re flying?”
“Matt! Do you have any magic stuff on you?” I asked. “It’s all supposed to be in the isolation chest before we take off.”
“Nah, man. Magic isn’t real.” He took a deep drink, then smiled. “Miracles, on the other hand . . .”
“Look. We’re not currently crashing. I say we just count ourselves lucky and see how it goes,” Gregory said. “Saint, get in here and close the door. We’re slumming.”
“Cool, man. Like camping. Or homelessness.” He strolled across the hay-strewn floor before dropping onto one of the cots and passing out. After an awkward moment, I cleared my throat.
“Alright, well. I’ll take the dingy cubicle by the front door. The rest of you can . . .” I turned around to find myself alone in the room. “Sure. Great. Wander off.” Under my feet, the engine roared to life, and the whole room tipped to one side. Loose hay and unsecured cots slid across the floor. I clung to the wall as the invisible hand of acceleration pressed against me. “Say what you will about the Naglfr, at least the ride is smooth.”
Fortunately, the flight evened out once we were in the air. I returned the cots to their original positions, then left Matthew snoring in his cubby and set out to tour the Silverhawk. I found the rest of the team in the library. Gregory and Chesa huddled in the corner over something small and unimportant, laughing loudly into their hands. Tembo sat in one of the chairs with a thick tome in his lap. Bethany had found the liquor cabinet and was working her way through various shades of brown alcohol. None of them seemed interested in conversation, so I doubled back and made my way through the engine decks before emerging in familiar corridors that led to the upper observation deck.
The rest of the crew had sequestered themselves in their cabins for the time being, and I had the deck to myself. The bar had been locked down for takeoff, along with what remained of the sandwiches. I did a lap of the room, examining all the tiny cabinets and profusion of potted plants, before stopping at the grand glass dome. Pressing my face against the glass, I tried to relax and enjoy the scenery. Not that there was much to see. We were still in the clouds.
“Don’t lean against that.” Adelaide rose from the staircase, startling me. “Ida will have your head.”
“Sorry, I just . . .” I leaned away from the window, leaving a John-shaped smear behind. Using the sleeve of my gambeson, I tried to clean it away, but managed only to smear it into a non-John blur. “That’s better.”
“I heard your cabins leave something to be desired,” she said. Instead of her typical fifteen-gun holster vest and tactical dress suit, Adelaide was wearing gray slacks and a button-down shirt, with her hair woven into a ponytail that almost reached her waist. “You can’t blame Nik for taking precautions. Last thing we want is this hunk of cogs going down in the middle of Lake Michigan.”
“Well, if that happens, I know a guy. A whale, actually.” I tried to find something to lean against casually, like cool dudes do, but the only leaning surface was the glass, which I had already thoroughly besmirched with my presence. I settled for crossing my arms and smirking. “So is this place really your domain? Like, you don’t have your own enchanted fairy-tale land to get away from it all?”
“Not sure how it works for you guys, but this is home for the Society.” Addie strode to the bar, slipped the lock off, and started mixing something complicated. “Ida keeps it running. Tesla finds our targets and manages deployment. The rest of us recharge in the library, or the shuffleboard courts, or in the lab. Depends on our powers. I’ve got a whole gunsmithy down in steerage. Can I make you something?” she asked, holding up a glass of ice and shaking it.
“Pretty sure cocktails weren’t a thing in medieval Europe.”
“That’s got to be rough. They ever let you out of the museum? Give you a weekend on the riverboat or something?”
“Sounds like a great way to spend my vacation, accidentally summoning voodoo spirits and drinking mai-tais.” I gave up my leaning smirk and sat down on one of the couches. “Anyway. The trade-off is worth it. Magic should have a price, right?”
“If you insist. Though from where I’m sitting, your magic is a right pain in the ass.” She stowed the bottles and sat across from me, balancing a tall glass of something clear and effervescent on her crossed legs. “What are your powers, anyway? Special sword magic? Cutting torsos in twain? That kind of thing?”
“Magic shield. And apparently I can take a punch pretty well.” She raised her brows at me. “Oh, and I’m good at pissing people off.”
“That seems like it comes naturally.”
“Maybe. So what about you? What’s your superpower?”
She answered by flicking her right arm, as though she was tossing an invisible frisbee. A pistol appeared out of her cuff, with a mother-of-pearl handle, twin engraved barrels, and a hammer in the shape of a lion’s head. With the drink still balanced on her knee, Addie flipped the little pistol around in her hand, cracking open the breach and removing a few parts. With a twirl of her fingers those parts changed, and in seconds she was reassembling the pistol into something else, something larger. A moment later she held a full-sized revolver in her hands. Spinning the cylinder, Addie took a long pull from her drink, then set the glass aside and stood up. Once again she stripped the weapon, tucking barrels and guide rods into her belt, replacing them with other glistening parts, faster than my eyes could follow. The cylinder stopped spinning, and she slapped it closed, revealing a shotgun with a revolver-style magazine and stacked barrels. She broke the breach across her knee, spun the stock back, swapped out the barrel, and then worked the charging handle. The derringer turned revolver turned shotgun was now a lever-action long rifle, complete with heavy bolt and shiny brass scope. I let out a low whistle.
“Now that’s magic,” I said.
“Call it what you will, it’s damned useful in a fight.” With a snap of her wrist, the whole weapon collapsed down to the derringer once again, before disappearing into the lacy sleeve of her shirt. “Long as the Gestalt holds, I never run out of bullets. Or guns.”
“It doesn’t seem like you’d need our help,” I said.
“No,” she said, a little stiffly. “It doesn’t. Yet here we are.”
Acutely aware that she didn’t think much of me or my magic shield, I decided to change the direction of the conversation. It’s never too early to research the enemy.
“What do you know about the vampire? Or whatever it was that attacked Cassius?”
“I know nothing puts Cass down without a fight, and a hell of a fight at that. Nik was right spooked by that.” Addie settled back onto the couch, stretching her legs out, like a cheetah lounging on her prey. “The Good Doctor didn’t have much to say about it. You buy this whole vampire genocide thing?”
“If Esther says it, I believe it,” I said. “Why? You have reason to doubt?”
“Just the way Tesla talks about it. I’ve known him to do some shady stuff in the past, but wiping out an entire species of monsters, just because a few of them went feral?” She shook her head slowly. “Seems out of character. Whatever happened, seems like at least one escaped.”
“And where there’s one, there’s bound to be more. Vampires, zombies, car salesmen . . . they spread like spilled milk.” I stared out the windows. The clouds were clearing, and the first stars glimmered through the misty veil. “So where are we going, exactly?”
“The Convaclation, where Cassius’s special bakery is located. Kind of a permanent steampunk festival in the middle of nowhere. We should get there tomorrow,” she said. “Part of the Silverhawk’s special trick. We leave at night, and we’re always at our destination in the morning, no matter how far it is—Paris, Mumbai, Olympus Mons.” Throwing her head back, Addie drained her glass, then crunched a cube of ice in her teeth. “Might as well enjoy the view. We’ll be in the thick of it soon enough.”