"Well, of course. I'm a pirate," he answered.
Sullivan shook his head and went back to walking. "Pirates and buried treasure… I can't believe this. So where are we going?"
"We have a train to catch, and you wanted a chance to earn my trust…"
The dirigible was sleek, of a design that he'd never seen before. It was a single hull, with one lightly armored bag. It was a hybrid, with two lifter wings folded in so that it could fit inside the hollow formed by the partially collapsed volcanic cone. There were four engines, big gleaming things with propellers longer than he was tall.
Sullivan walked under the cabin, dodging between the tie ropes as the crew let it gently rise. There was no top structure. Everything was under the gas bag, like they used to build them. It was remarkably streamlined for such an older design. Even the front of the cockpit was a circular mass of glass and aluminum struts with not a square edge to be seen. The cabin stretched from the very front to the very back, so seamlessly melded with the gas bag that it might as well have been one piece. It might have been old, but it was well cared for. The brass fittings gleamed. Every inch of hull was freshly painted: light grey underneath, dark blue on top.
On closer inspection, none of the parts seemed to match. The exhaust pipes on one side were different than the other. Two of the engines were different designs. As he studied it, he realized that the whole thing had had so many parts replaced from scavenged or captured vessels, it was hard to tell where the original ship began.
"Isn't she beautiful?" Southunder asked. "It's an actual Zeppelin, not some poor Stuyvesant UBF knockoff, but handcrafted by the finest airship Cogs there's ever been."
"It looks old…" Sullivan said.
"Aged. Like good cheese," Southunder agreed.
"It don't have much armor."
"Two hundred feet of raw speed. I could cover every inch in dreadnought plate, and it wouldn't help us beat the entire Jap navy. We strike quick and get out. The bag is divided into locking cells. We could lose three quarters of them and still limp it home."
"Hydrogen?" Hydrogen blimps made him nervous.
"Not a lot of helium out here," he said. "Don't worry, I've got a Torch."
A Torch, as in one. And if they lost their man that could control fire and then took a hit from an incendiary round…"It don't have many guns…"
"We don't slug it out with Kagas, Sullivan. Twin pom-poms in the nose and two more in the rear, one of our mutual friend John's big fifty cals on either side to keep the fighters off, and a few rail mounted light machine guns, plus we've got two fighters onboard, top of the line Curtiss R5C Raptors, most maneuverable biplane in the world."
Some of the Japanese navy ships carried like thirty fighters. After seeing what he had to work with, Sullivan came to respect Southunder even more. The crew was leading the dirigible out from its hiding place and into the sun. They were going on a mission.
"Pershing ever tell you why they ran me out of the Society?" Southunder asked. Sullivan shook his head in the negative. "They said I was too impulsive, too reckless."
"You use a twenty-five-year-old Zeppelin with a few guns on it to harass the most powerful navy in the world… They might've had a point."
Southunder ignored him. "Pershing saw it too. He saw that times were changing for our kind. Something big is coming, and the world is going to be one way or the other, and I don't want it to be the Chairman's way. Too many folks think that they can keep the world from changing… I've got a wife that I only see when I bring in loot to sell in the Free Cities. We've been married for thirty years, and I've got kids and grandbabies. You got a wife, a family, Sullivan?"
"I got nothing."
His voice was so gentle that it was hard to hear him. "I don't want my grandkids to grow up in a world run by a bunch of fascists, or socialists, or progressives, or anarchists, or communists, or eugenicists, or any sort of ist or ism. When I get those types, the men who just need to control everything, to tell everybody else what to do, I stick it in and break it off. I'm fighting for freedom." Proudly, he gestured around the cave at his men. He loved them like a father. "We ride the air and plunder the seas. We're the last free men and I'll die a free man."
"Amen," Sullivan said.
"There's an Imperium dirigible train that's gotten out of their convoy routes because of the bad weather north of here. We're going to take it, and you're going to show me you mean business." Southunder raised his hand and gestured at the name on the side of the dirigible. "Mr. Sullivan, I give you the Free Ship Bulldog Marauder, best damn dirigible there's ever been." Imperium Submarine J-47 Flower of Carnage The Imperium captain watched the dirigible rising from the side of the volcano through the periscope. He was normally lord of this vessel, but in the presence of a Shadow Guard, he had to defer to his betters. Having four of them aboard made him deeply uncomfortable. He moved aside so the elite soldier could look through the glass. "We could surface and engage with the deck gun before they are in position to return fire."
"No," the Shadow Guard commanded.
The darkened sub stunk of diesel fumes and polluted air. They'd been recycling the air for hours. The Shadow Guard's Finder had already vomited all over the deck twice, and the stink was annoying the captain. He had no patience for seasickness. Their orders were specific. He had not been told what they were supposed to be retrieving, but awareness of their presence could cause its destruction. They had been ordered to maintain complete radio silence and only communicate through the Shadow Guard's magic. The waters ran clear here and he knew that his submarine would show up like a vast black shadow so close to the surface. He shouted orders. The dive bell sounded.
The Finder was sitting cross-legged on the grate, eyes closed, deep in mediation. The captain had never seen one such as this. He had removed his loose shirt, and his torso had been crisscrossed with kanji. The captain wore two, as befitted his rank, so he knew a bit about such things, and he could see that none of the Finder's kanji were based in the physical geometries. Rather, all seven of his were attuned to increasing his Power's sensitivity.
The schools had taught him about Finders. They could feel and see through the disembodied spirits that inhabited the shadow of this world. A truly powerful Finder could actually become a Summoner, capable of bringing in servants from other planes and giving them life here, but this Finder was different. He was like a perfectly tuned tracking dog. He imagined that such sensitivity would drive one mad.
Finders were limited by such things as range, and certain materials or spells could thwart them. The disembodied were easily distracted, but looking at this particular strange specimen, he knew that nothing brought within his range could possibly hide. It was if he'd been specifically bred for this kind of mission. Apparently his submarine's job was just to get this man within range of whatever it was he was seeking.
It seemed to take forever, but the captain was used to being patient. It came with the assignment. The heat from the burning kanji permeated the sub. It was like being next to a bank of electric heating coils. The Finder opened his eyes and let out a long exhausted breath. The Shadow Guard leaned forward eagerly.
"I have it." Free Ship Bulldog Marauder The dirigible train was floundering. The lead blimp's engines were disabled, and the other three were crowding into it. Four individual single-hulls had been close tethered together in a line when the Bulldog Marauder had appeared, and now it was all a jumble of crashing aluminum and fabric, like a herd of injured animals being circled by a cunning predator.
Most of the locals hated the Imperium, so there was always constant radio chatter reporting where their shipping was. They'd tried to trap Southunder a few times with decoys, cargo ships armed to the teeth, but he had a good nose for such things, and seldom had been caught unaware. They'd come up from behind, doing a steady eighty knots with horsepower to spare. Once the captain had made the call that it was a legitimate target, he'd used his own Power to alter the winds. Sullivan had never seen a Weatherman work before. There wasn't any flash or anything fancy. It was methodical. First they reached out and understood how everything was functioning within their range. Then they had to coax bits of it to work just right. Standing at the very front of the cockpit with his hands pressed against the glass, it had taken Southunder ten minutes to alter the currents until the wind was at their backs.