Oublenmach began to laugh at the joke, and then his eyes glazed slightly as he realized that Strinbeck was quite serious. “One thing at a time, sir. One thing at a time. Once everything is in place, our girl will effectively be the new Heterodyne. Vox machinae, vox populi, eh?
“Then, when do we capture the other…aheh…no doubt enormous…girl, she’ll just be another pathetic Heterodyne impersonator, and if she does give us the slip as it were and get in, why then, Zola will simply see to it that she’s ‘killed by the castle.’ That is what it does best, is it not?”
“Let’s just hope the castle doesn’t squash our Zola first, eh?”
Oublenmach rolled his eyes. “Oh enough, sir! The dice are thrown and we’ve loaded them as best we could! Think positively, your Grace! The castle will fall to us! The Doom Bell will ring, and Europa will—”
Oublenmach’s voice was rising with excitement, but Strinbeck cut him off with a sigh. Oublenmach was so enthusiastic that Strinbeck cringed whenever he had to endure a prolonged conversation with him. Right now, Oublenmach was positively exhausting. “Yes, yes! A new era for everyone. Do spare me the glorious blueprint. I’m going to have a bit of a lie-down.”
Oublenmach dismissed him with a wave. This was the sort of casual impertinence that caused Strinbeck’s jaw to tighten in fury. Soon enough, you jumped up peasant, the duke promised himself for the thousandth time.
Once the duke had left, Oublenmach turned to the captain, who’d been standing woodenly behind them. “Captain Abelard, I assume your drop-reels are properly engaged.”
Abelard was used to getting questions from nervous passengers about the state of assorted equipment, but this was a surprise. The drop-reels were a rather unnerving method of exiting a low-flying ship. Not the sort of thing you’d expect a ground-hugger to even know about.
“Of course, sir.”
“Excellent. Show me.”
There was no polite way to refuse. Oublenmach was paying the bills and it was patently obvious that there was nothing otherwise occupying the captain’s time. Thus a short while later, he was treated to the sight of the small man examining one of the cunning little devices with a practiced eye.
“You look like you know a bit about drop-reels, sir.”
“Oh, indeed, indeed,” Oublenmach called out cheerfully. “Saved my life any number of times.”
As the captain digested this intriguing bit of information, he was caught by surprise as the little man slapped the cable release, causing the drum to begin unspooling.
“What the devil are you doing?”
Oublenmach had donned a pair of canvas airman’s gloves and swung the drop-reel around, slapping the gripping jaws closed with a snap. “I am giving in to foolish fancy, sir,” he said gaily. “Too much back-room plotting ruins a man’s digestion, it truly does, sir! When I pick a man’s pocket, I like to do it to his face, and I’ll not steal an Empire any differently!”
Before the captain could stop him, he swung out and hung from the control rods. “If poor Josef asks, I’ve gone for a drink! Au revoir!” And with a laugh, he twisted the grips and dropped out of sight.
The captain swore and peered downwards. He then grunted in surprise. Annoying fellow he might be, but Oublenmach handled the drop-reel like an expert. As the captain watched, he disengaged at exactly the right moment and touched down lightly even as the reel spool began yo-yoing back up the line. He then waved a perfect signal-corps “safe aground” sign before turning and sauntering off.
It was a reflective captain who stowed and locked down the reel before making his way back to the bridge. He had thought that their assigned height had been a symptom of this whole poorly thought-out affair. Too low to hide but still high enough to fall hard. But he was reassessing that now. He was convinced that Oublenmach’s departure, as spontaneous as he had tried to make it appear, had been part of the man’s plan from the start and that the duke was in for an unpleasant surprise. What else was he misjudging?
He glanced out the window in time to see one of the freakishly odd birds of Mechanicsburg squawk at the sight of the ship and veer off. “We’re still pink,” he grumbled. “Let’s not forget that.”
He ran an eye over the bridge trying to see it with fresh eyes, and what he saw was not good. On a milk run like this, the bridge crew should be relaxed. Making idle chatter. Checking out a new town was always a source of entertainment, with crews observing the ebb and flow of the street traffic and making bets as to the locations of the best taverns and sporting houses.
But there was none of that here. The entire watch was on edge. With a practiced eye, the captain scanned the crew and found the center of the storm. It was Kraddock—and that was worrying all by itself.
Mr. Kraddock had started as a “rigger rat” when he was nine and claimed that he could still count the number of times since then that he’d actually touched ground. He’d fought skywurms in the realms of the Polar Ice Lords and seen the Great Western Wall of Fire. He’d survived air pirates, storms, hypothermia, blowouts, and the skybends, yet here he was at his wheel, fretting like a dirt-foot.
With a sigh, the captain stepped up behind the man. It was a sign of Kraddock’s level of distraction that it wasn’t until the captain leaned in and quietly asked, “A problem with your wheel, Mr. Kraddock?” that the old fellow snapped into a textbook picture of attention.
“No, sir!” he barked. “Wheel is secure, sir!”
The captain came around so that he was looking the man in the face. Oh, he was worried about something, all right. “Well what is it, then? Come on, out with it, old-timer.”
The wheelman grimaced and tried to avoid his captain’s eyes. “Well, Captain, I don’t like to second-guess orders. ’Specially with an officer that’s been around like yourself, sir. Not my place, you know? But… we’re in Mechanicsburg airspace.”
And that said it all right there. A lot of the newer crewmen were listening in, without trying to look like they were. No doubt they’d already got an earful of stories about the place. Outside the windows, in the light of day, the town looked positively picturesque. But Kraddock—and the captain—knew that that was just a new coat of paint on a sleeping dragon.
The wheelman saw the look in the captain’s eyes, and felt emboldened. “A lot of the old hands…we…we don’t like it. Sir.”
But this was a bit too close to participatory democracy for the captain’s taste. He stiffened. “The Baron has proved that Mechanicsburg airspace has been safe for close to twenty years, Mr. Kraddock,” he said loudly.
Kraddock nodded vigorously. “Oh, yessir …but…”
Abelard knew he’d regret asking. “—But?”
“But, beggin’ your pardon, Captain, but everyone knows it… We’re kind of…conquerin’ it, ain’t we?”
And with a start, the captain realized that, like Kraddock, he was terrified at the thought of what they were involved in. He’d just tamped it down so far that he hadn’t even known it.
But it had been twenty years… “Yes,” he admitted. “Just like the Baron did. So?”
Kraddock hesitated. The captain rolled his eyes. It was too late to tell him to hold his tongue now. The best way to deal with this would be to lance it and let it all spill out. “You may speak.”
The old wheelman nodded. “The Baron, yes. But… he was…an old friend of the family, as it were. And if he’s ruling the place, he’s doing it with a mighty light touch on the wheel, if I may say so, sir. Whereas, our…young lady…” He took a deep breath and his voice dropped to a whisper. “She ain’t really a Heterodyne.” He paused. “Is she?”