The City in the Sky

Somewhere far away, about a half day’s journey by airship, a figure skulked in the shadows. A thick, maroon woolen scarf covered most of his face. His frame was cloaked in a dark brown duster with the collar turned up and his eyes hid behind a pair of inky black goggles. He stood on the roof top of a multi-story building staring intently at the entryway of the building opposite. His hair was short, black and tousled carelessly by the wind. He looked several days out from a bath. The lenses of his goggles whirred as they rotated now and then attempting to keep their focus on the subject of his surveillance. His hand reached into his coat and pulled out a copper pocket watch. He flipped it open and noted the time: 4:25 a.m. It had been dark for several hours now and the coolness of the predawn had deeply settled into the shadowy corners of the city. He returned the pocket watch to his coat and looked down at the single sheet of paper that comprised the dossier of his prey.

“Production Model #4, A.K.A. Edwin Devonshire”, it read. It went on to list the subject’s place of employment and his regular routines.

The predator looked up to see the door he had been intently surveilling had been thrown open casting a knife blade of light framing the elongated shadow of a humanoid. A tall, dapper looking man stepped into the light of street lanterns. The dark haired man ran silently to the side of the building and dropped 5 stories to the alley below. The impact of landing twisted his ankle and created a dull thud. His gaze shot towards his quarry who was staring nervously into the shadows, peering into the blackness for the source of the sound. After several uneasy moments, the tall fellow placed a top hat on his well-oiled, neatly parted hair and began to trudge down the street. Halfway down the block he turned left into a dark alley and disappeared. The black haired man scanned the street, and, finding it deserted, took the opportunity to dart across the street giving no heed to the limp in his stride. As he entered the darkness of the alley he flipped a red lens in front of his right eye piece and peered down the pathway. He could faintly make out the taller man’s heat signature through the dark and fog. Quietly he closed the distance, knowing he must grab ‘Edwin Devonshire’ before his prey stepped into the safety of the next street. From far off a foghorn of the airship docks sounded a long, low tone. Taking advantage of the cover, the goggled predator took his hand from inside his coat to retrieve a long thin blade. His right arm slipped around the throat of his victim. Predictably, the tall man’s hands came up to claw at the goggled one’s arm. Using the distraction, the dark haired assassin sprung his trap. He swung his knife wielding, left hand around and slammed the blade to the left the midsagittal line of his victim’s chest. He could feel the blade easily pierce the soft dermis, glance off a metal rib, and find its mark in the metal heart. But before he could pull the blade and seal his victim’s fate, Edwin pitched forward, throwing his would-be assassin to the ground. The prey leapt upon the stunned predator and felt his hands close around the other’s throat. He pushed one hand against the killer’s face, smashing it into the ground, all the while the murderer’s hands scrabbled desperately about Edwin’s torso. In the struggle to turn his head towards Edwin, the assassin’s goggles were pushed askew on his face, revealing two eyeless sockets. Edwin recoiled in revulsion for only a second. The pinned attacker’s hand found the haft of the blade and pulled. A jet of steam and fluid escaped from the hole in Edwin’s chest. His limbs went slack. His head dropped to his chest, his eyes still wide with surprise. The killer pushed the taller man off of him with a little effort and lay still for a second trying to regain his composure. He slowly pulled the goggles back into place and reached for his belt. He took a lump of coal from a pouch that hung at his waist. He pulled down the scarf, placed the coal between black stained lips, and began to chew thoughtfully.

It was just before dawn when the toaster sized device on the nightstand next to detective Mulligan’s bed began to hiss and chatter in its arrhythmic code.

James Mulligan awoke from a dreamless sleep to the sound of the pneumagraph. The large leather bound tome laid across his chest where it had come to rest as he had fallen asleep in mid-sentence. With a groan he swung his legs to the floor. The soles of his feet were assailed by the cold stone. Ignoring the discomfort he reached over and snatched the long strip of papyrus being ejected from the machine below its keypad. He blinked the grogginess from his eyes and willed them to focus on the typed script. It read:

“WE’VE GOT ANOTHER ONE -(STOP)- REPORT TO ARCHER IMMEDIATELY -(STOP)- THIS COULD BE OUR LAST CHANCE -(END)-.”

The message was concise enough and demanded no reply. Mulligan ordered his body up. His knee gave an infuriated squeak. Mulligan felt a jolt of annoyance, but had no time to give it any further thought. He went to the bathroom and oiled it before smoothing his hair into a neat part with a fine toothed comb. He briefly stared at his reflection to give it some mental reassurance. On the door of his bedroom hung his suit neatly pressed and his shirt laundered. He gave a silent moment of thanks for Lucy before softly descending the creaking wooden stairs. He knew he wouldn’t wake Lucy as clockworks didn’t technically sleep. However, in off hours they turned their burners down as an energy conserving method. Mulligan didn’t want to disturb her rest prematurely. He wasn’t sure what she spent her salary on but he suspected it was mainly on fuel, and he didn’t want her to burn it needlessly trying to attend to him when he should already be gone. But as he stepped into the sitting room he was met by Lucy who stood in the doorway of the kitchen.

“Good Morning, James”, she greeted him cheerfully, “Would you care for a bit of breakfast? Perhaps some tea?”

He felt a small rush of fondness towards the Clockwork as she called him by name. “Thank you, Lucy, but I really need to get to the Ministry.”

For a moment James could swear he saw a shadow of sadness in Lucy’s eyes. He inwardly wondered if she enjoyed his company as much as he did hers. If such a thing were even possible.

“Very good, James. Shall I have dinner ready at the usual time?” Her voiced sounded almost hopeful to James who questioned if he were simply imagining things. Things he wanted to be true, perhaps?

Mulligan pulled his goggles on and shouldered his pistol. He turned to find her holding his coat and hat. He smiled at her as he took them and she, in return, glowed at him.

“Thank you, Lucy. That would be wonderful.”

He stepped outside into the cool, crisp morning. The rain had given way and left the air smelling fresh and full of possibility.