The City in the Sky

Mulligan had no intention of going home. Sitting around and waiting wasn’t going to solve any problems and certainly wasn’t his style. He walked to the curb and hailed a passing hansom. It chugged to a stop in front of him and a lad of about 15 wearing an oversized top hat and driving goggles jumped down from the drivers bench. He opened the passenger door with a flourish of his gloved hand, gave a deep bow, and asked, ’Where to, good Sir?”

“The docks, please”, Mulligan replied.

“Might have a problem there, Sir”, said the boy in a near whisper with a hint of conspiracy in his voice. “The docks was almost blasted to smithereens! The whole place is swarming with Ministry filth.”

Mulligan almost laughed at the boy’s hyperbole. Instead he pulled his coat aside revealing the copper badge tacked to his belt, and said, “No problem at all.”

The lad’s eyes widened with surprise.

“Right, Sir!“, he stammered. “I’ll get you there in a jiff!”

“Good man”, said Mulligan and then climbed into the cab’s plush, yet worn, interior.

The driver leapt into the his seat with astonishing agility for one so small. He released the handbrake, and with a push on both levers the cab jolted forward almost colliding with a passing carriage before cruising jauntily down the cobblestone street.

One bumpy and frightening ride later, they arrived at the skydocks. Every dock was loaded with airships of various sized and purposes. All were anchored indefinitely, and all were being searched. A brief and tempestuous discussion with the supervising officer yielded nothing. When Mulligan tried to pull rank with the man, he produced a writ of national security signed by the Queen herself. Mulligan dejectedly accepted he wasn’t getting out by way of the sky docks.

Feeling defeated, he returned to the cab.

“Where to next, Sir?“, the driver asked.

Suddenly Mulligan had a flash of inspiration.

’What’s your name, lad?“, Mulligan asked congenially.

“Jeffery Brightwire, Sir, but all my friends call me Jeffie.”

“Tell me, Jeffie, was it? You must be pretty familiar with the city. Do you know of any place where private ship owners gather?”

The boy’s face screwed into a pose of thought for a couple of seconds before he replied, “Well, there is a public house that the privateers frequent about a mile from here.”

“Excellent, Jeffie. I need to get there immediately, can you take me?”

“Well, Sir”, said Jeffie slyly. “Seeing as how we’re friends and all, I would love to help you for a small fee.”

“Your time will be well rewarded, I promise you, Jeffie. Now get me to that pub and don’t spare the throttle.”

The Deep Six public house was, to say the least, a dive. Its placement so close to the port made it easily accessible to traveling merchants and voyagers with some extra pence in their pockets. However, time and competition had brought it to a lowly state, and as of late it had started catering to less savory sorts. A sense of concern seized Mulligan as they passed Clockworks of both genders scattered along the streets of the neighborhood offering their bodies in exchange for financial gain. Mechanoids pushed to the point of seeking a job in the sextrades was a sight that both disturbed and intrigued Mulligan. Though he lamented their plight, their presence invariably opened the topic of Clockwork sexuality in his mind. Consorting with Clockworks in such a manner was considered taboo by society, but, given their numbers, Mulligan was fairly certain that the mechanical prostitutes had little trouble finding clients. He had gone so far as to suspect Ministry employees of such acts, but had no proof and dared not push the issue. He certainly felt it would be uncouth to wheedle information from Lucy. Ultimately, he decided that his questions would, in all likelihood, remain unanswered.

Mulligan became increasingly dubious of the assistance he might garner from the pub, as upon their arrival he spied a gang of young thugs seated outside hassling patrons for change and tobacco. As they pulled closer, the detective could see many of them had various parts of their bodies replaced with a clockwork equivalent. Mulligan knew the type. Youths from a well-to-do upbringing operating under the guise of Clockwork sympathizers. In an attempt to “identify” with the androids they would often wear Clockwork looking prosthetics or even surgically replace body parts to appear as if they were truly automatons. Some of them would go so far as to drink a charcoal slurry giving them the blackened lips that some of the more carless Clockworks wore as a result of their diet. Many gangs of these youths had taken to begging or stealing in an attempt to finance their fetish. Mulligan detested such patent displays given under the pretense of commiseration, and chalked the youths intentions up to nothing more than the trappings of fashion.

As Mulligan disembarked from the hansom he was approached by a member of the group.

’Hey there, mate”, said the boy, who looked no older than Jeffie, “Hows about spotting me some coins?”

Mulligan ignored the lad’s request and instead turned to thank Jeffie.

“Would you mind waiting outside?“, Mulligan asked the driver as he handed him a good sum of money. Jeffie looked querulously from the wad of bills in his hand to the gang behind James who had begun to eye the new arrivals and whisper amongst themselves.

“I won’t be long”, added James.

The boy’s face twisted into thought once more before he finally replied, “Very well, Sir, but it will cost you.”

“Of course”, said Mulligan.

“Oi!“, Said the gang member still waiting behind James. “Are you gonna donate or what?”

Mulligan turned and looked the lad full on in the gold lensed goggles.

“Go home, boy.” He growled.

The youth glared at Mulligan as he pushed past the gang member, but it was only as Mulligan walked through the pub’s door that the lad found his courage and yelled “Piss of, you wanker.”

The inside of the Deep Six looked worse than its facade. It was comprised of one long, poorly lit, narrow room. To the right a well-worn bar ran the length of the corridor. To the left sat an assortment of mismatched furniture, much of it occupied by men and women of suspicious character. Mulligan approached the bar and inquired of the keep, “Pardon me, could you point me in the direction of a ship owner with whom I might book passage?”

The bartender was a large, paunchy man wearing a surprisingly clean white shirt and suspenders. His throat was marred by a raised white scar that ran across his neck from one ear to the next. When he laughed at the inquiry it hurt Mulligan’s throat.

“Mister, take your pick”, said the keep in a hoarse voice, gesturing towards the rabble across the way.

Mulligan turned towards the crowded room and began to scan it for potential candidates while cautiously picking his way between the tables. As he did so a debate which had been taking place quietly behind him suddenly got heated.

“You’re insane!“, yelled a tall bald man with a weathered face wearing a long tan double breasted frock coat. The recipient of his rant was a small woman no taller than 5 foot 3. A telescoping monocle with several colored, pivoting lenses was strapped to her left eye. A purple leather bodice hugged her small frame and pushed what she had upwards. Her long, dark red hair shone in the tavern’s dim lighting. She took a long pull off the glass she was holding, then leaned back in her chair and smiled.

“And, I’m telling yeh it’s true.”

The tall man’s escalating fury only seemed broaden the minute woman’s smile.

“You wouldn’t survive for more than a minute”, he spat.

“I’ll explain it to yeh one more time, nice and slow: with the proper gear and some good piloting you could easily drop to pollution level, lose the heat, and pull up when it’s all clear.”

“Ha”, retorted the enraged fellow. “You’d choke to death from the smog and even if you didn’t, visibility would be reduced to less than 100 feet at the most given the air currents!”

“I have my charts”, said the woman with resolve.

“Charts will only get you so far. Land mass drift can be over a mile in any direction. If your calculations were off, you still might hit the side of a continent.”

“Calculations are only as good as the pilot who makes them”, said the woman smugly.

The man’s jaw dropped an inch, then closed so tightly a vein popped from his forehead.

“You are crazy!“, he roared, and with that he turned and stalked out the door.

“Ah sanity, the last bastion of a coward”, said the woman to no one in particular.

Mulligan saw his opportunity and approached the woman. He extended his hand and said, “James Mulligan. May I join you?”

The woman, who now held a far off look in her eyes, did not take his hand, but said, “Captain Jana Windfury, at yeh service.”

Mulligan took the chair across from her. Her gaze focused on his face but remained impassive. Mulligan smiled and asked, “Windfury, you say? Is that your given name?”

The question apparently rubbed Jana Windfury in the wrong way. She scowled at him and replied, “In my business, a name is only as good as the pilot.”

Mulligan took quick action to right the conversation. “Of course. My apologies. May I ask who that man was?”

“Yeh sure ask a lot of questions, Mr. Mulligan”, said Windfury regarding James with suspicion.

Fearing he may be losing his best and only recourse, James tensed. Much to his relief she continued, “Up until a minute ago that man was my first mate, and my paramour.” Her voice was notably still edged with bitterness.

“I’m sorry”, said James.

“Is there something I can do for ye?“, she said abruptly cutting him off.

“Well, I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation...”

“No, I don’t imagine yeh couldn’t.”

“Yes, well…I was wondering if you could do all those things you just described?”

“I’m no braggart, Mr. Mulligan. Are yeh looking to hire me?”

Concern over a detective getting involved with a potentially criminal element began to boil in the back of his mind, but Mulligan had no desire to lose this opportunity.

“Yes, I am in need of immediate passage to N.U.K. East, and with the current problems at the docks..”

“I don’t come cheap, sir”, said Windfury, who at this point was staring distractedly off into space.

Mulligan found the woman’s brusque manner infuriating, but was offset by the hope which babbled in his chest like a boiling tea kettle.

“Naturally”, he sighed and pulled a stack of notes from his coat pocket. He slid them across the table to the young captain who promptly thumbed through them to determine their denominations. Satisfied she smiled at him and said, “Meet me at the private aeronas on the east side of town in 20 minutes. Dock six. My ship is called ’The Kestrel”.”

With that she rose and strode purposefully towards the exit. Mulligan almost ran outside after her but Windfury was nowhere in sight. Quickly he thought to check his sidearm. He pulled the leather pouch of shot and confirmed it was full. A yell came from his left.

“Oi, geezer. How about them coins you promised us?”

The gear-gangers were approaching led by the lad in the gold lenses, all trying to look as menacing as possible. Mulligan shook his head and pulled his coat aside revealing the copper badge.

The gang halted as a surge of fear ran through the pack.

“Oh shit, he’s ministry!“, one yelled.

The youths scattered in different directions, falling over one another as they fled. So humorous was their flight that Mulligan had to laugh. He took a moment to bask in his good fortune before hailing the waiting hansom.