STRANGER WORLD Page 21

  Regardless of where, or even when they were, nothing else mattered now other than finding Maddie. His daughter had wanted him to find the compass. And the compass had led them here, back to the broken hover ship, The Dauntless. He wasn’t sure how long they had before those corporate drones showed up but Maddie must’ve wanted them to come here for a reason. She had always been a crazy smart kid. Maybe he’d find some clue as to Lady Wellington’s destination or, if by some miracle, they could get the floating ship running again; then they actually might have some semblance of a chance of rescuing Maddie. As insane as this plan was, he had to try.

  His wrist was really starting to ache now. The lanyard, a simple loop of rope, was cinched tight around it. The loop would keep him from falling, even if he were somehow knocked unconscious. But, if he didn’t get up to the hover barge soon he was going to lose his right hand due to loss of blood.

  Barnaby only had one job. This thought, and this thought only, now weighed heavily on his mind. Crank the handle and play out the line until he arrived on the hover barge’s deck. A monkey could’ve done a better job. Instead, Barnaby kept stopping his progress to rest and call over the two-way radios, also taken from the truck, and ask him if he was okay.

  If only I had a damn monkey.

  The radio crackled once more on George’s belt. “You sure you want me to keep going? I mean, you’re up pretty high now.”

  George had to kick his legs repeatedly just to stop himself from spinning. With his free hand, he grabbed the radio, cued the mic, and yelled into it. “Damn it, Barnaby, my hand is ready to fall off, would you just play out the damn line already?”

  A sudden slack in the line caused George to rise up quickly and nearly smack face-first into the side of the barge’s hull. And he would have, too. Fortunately, George, no stranger to rappelling, reared up his legs and expertly pushed himself off the side of the hull so he rose past the giant cogs and paddle-fan wheel that lay dormant, past the painted words H.M.A.S. THE DAUNTLESS, and up over the railing in a reverse rappel.

  Of course, Barnaby had to be told to stop over the radio. By the time Barnaby finally got the message George found himself dangling at least six feet over the barge’s deck. Not waiting for Barnaby to crank him back down with the winch, George pulled himself up by one arm, released the circus loop, and slipped the lanyard. Much to his pleasure, he landed like a cat on the deck.

  He carefully rose to his feet and briskly rubbed the circulation back into his wrist when the monkey, make that sub-monkey (for a monkey would actually have been preferable) cackled over the radio.

  “George, you okay up there?”

  George ignored the accountant’s query for the moment. Instead, he picked up a large rope near the railing, presumably a mooring line, and fastened the balloons’ cable to the railing to keep it from gliding off. If he ran into trouble, or the hover barge proved to be beyond repair, he would need a way back down to the ground, perhaps even quickly.

  That accomplished he grabbed the radio and let Barnaby, Sophia, and Cheeves know he had made it up on deck safe and sound, and that he was going to do a quick reconnaissance of the vessel.

  Barnaby radioed back, “Copy,” but if he said any more than that, George wouldn’t know, for he had switched off the radio still mad about his swollen wrist.

  The ship had to be at least a hundred feet long. The deck was comprised of thick-timbered floorboards, and everything else was made of copper, steel, and bronze.

  Before venturing any farther he removed his backpack, knelt to the deck, and took out the steampunk-looking compass that had led them all back here. Like on the ground, it was spinning in a constant circle, as though indicating this was indeed the place it had been leading them to all along.

  He placed the heavy box onto the deck reverently, took a step back, and waited for something to happen.

  Nothing did.

  “Well that figures.”

  He left the compass box behind and began exploring the dead ship. He removed his only weapon, the flare gun, and loaded with only the single cartridge left to him. He thought about keeping the weapon in its holster because by all appearances this was a ghost ship and he doubted a flare gun would make much difference against any wayward spirits. Still, as he led the way with the loaded weapon he concluded, Hope for the best but plan for the worst, as his cranky old survival instructor used to say.

  George moved over to the nearest hatch. It took considerable effort to crank the steel wheel but he was soon rewarded with a loud CLANKING sound and the hatch cracked open.

  As George stepped through the open hatch and moved deeper into the ship he didn’t see the compass left behind on the deck sink into the floorboards like a man drowning in quicksand.

  Chapter 39

  “Bridge”

  “Cozy.”

  As George continued his reconnaissance of the darkened interior of the hover ship he clicked on the L-shaped flashlight clipped to his belt; a painful reminder of Maddie’s absence.

  Like the exterior, the inner hallways of the barge were modeled after something Jules Verne might have built. Not counting the spit-shined wooden deck boards the entire ship was entirely hull-plated with thick riveted steel and circular gold-rimmed windows. The halls were adorned with fine bluish carpeting, various paintings of strange locales and dormant gas lamps.

  Thus far, the main deck was a model of luxury. The dining room was extremely lavish and easily his favorite room. It included an exquisitely furnished library, hand-sewn leather seats, expensive paintings, and a massive observation bubble overlooking the landscape below. According to the technical schematic on the wall the circular stairwell in the library led to an observation deck above, but George decided to pass on it for now.

  Continuing aft he came upon a broken steel hatch. Aside from that, and the scorch marks on the underbelly of the ship he had seen earlier, there were no other signs of serious damage. The broken hatch was too heavy for him to move on his own. A sign above the doorway read ARMORY. George peered within and could see the room had already been picked clean, so continued on.

  Popping out of a hatch near the stern George found himself on the main deck once more. He was facing two elevators at the back of the ship that resembled gilded shark cages. Studying the massive gears and cables above each cage he guessed their true purpose was to serve as elevators to transport passengers to and from the ground.

  Before each gold-plated shark-cage George spied an oversized lever mounted on the floor. He clasped the release mechanism and pulled the large lever toward him. Not expecting anything to happen, he was surprised when he heard a loud CLANK-CLANK-CLANKING noise and the sound of gears engaging. Seconds later, the cage before him slowly descended into the deck. George peered over the golden safety railing and saw the cage dropping toward the surface. The elevators were obviously built for comfort and not speed, so George knew it would take a while before it reached the surface.

  He turned his radio back on, clicked the mic and radioed, “Barnaby, I’m sending an elevator down to you.” Spying a control system in the second elevator, he added, “I think there is a control system in the cage. Gather whatever you can from the truck and come on up.”

  “Uh, okay. Ten-Four, good buddy.”

  George shook his head but was smiling as he did it. “I’m going to finish exploring the rest of the ship. Stapleton out.”

  Hold on. Did I ever tell Barnaby my last name? He thought about correcting his transmission, but was certain Barnaby would figure it out.

  George spied a set of wide stairs descending from the main deck into the bowels of the ship. Let’s see what’s below deck.

  Below the main deck he passed through three sections: the engine room (more spinning gears and riveted metal), a well-stocked galley (located directly below the dining room, hence the dumb waiters embedded in the walls), and the crew quarters.

  He was about to return to the main deck when he spied a narrow passage near the bow of the ship. A sig
n over the entrance read: PILOT HOUSE. Descending another dimly lit staircase (this one narrower than the rest) and with some slight trepidation, he soon found himself in what could only be described as a square-shaped atrium fastened to the bottom of the bow.

  The pilot house was dominated by a massive riverboat steering wheel, made of the finest oak. The interior walls were covered in Verne-esque gadgetry, but the rest of the walls and floor were thick-paned glass laced with steel-girders making the surrounding landscape below easily visible to the pilot. Gazing out the windows, he could see the others loading up into the elevator.

  George was about to take the massive wheel in hand when he detected a strange odor. It was then that he noticed the lump of flesh lying in the corner.

  He had found what was left of the Captain.

  Kneeling down next to a white-bearded corpse he asked, “So what happened to you, old-timer?” Judging by the smell and decompensation, the man had been dead for some time, perhaps decades. The dead man was dressed in an expensive Victorian Captain’s uniform, and sported a stark-white, walrus mustache. Bloodstained bandages were visible beneath his coat where he had haphazardly attempted to staunch the bleeding. A black pistol lay in his outstretched hand.

  Examining the pistol, George quickly ascertained it was an old .38 caliber revolver. He holstered his flare gun and tried to remove the pistol from the Captain’s dead hands. The Captain held fast. Undeterred, George said, “Sorry about this, buddy,” and proceeded to break the dead man’s fingers to remove the gun. Cracking the cylinder open he hit the ejector rod with his thumb and dumped the shells into the palm of his hand. The six cartridges had all been spent.

  “Whew, I need to crack a window.”

  George removed a handkerchief from his backpack and placed it over his nose. As he patted down the corpse for more ammo, he found himself wondering if this bullet-ridden corpse was the cause for the hover barge’s ceased momentum. With no crew to guide it, perhaps this was the reason the vessel was stationary and not the minor, superficial damage he had spied earlier.

  Not finding any more ammo, George stood up, tucked the empty pistol into his waistband and wondered, Who shot you?

  That was the more pertinent question, and were they still aboard? During his cursory survey of the ship he hadn’t seen anyone, but that, of course, did not mean they weren’t still here. The man had obviously been dead a long time but in this place, anything seemed possible. George became painfully aware his only weapon was his barely trustworthy flare gun with a single shot. It was this thought that had preoccupied his mind most when a disembodied voice behind him suddenly asked in a brisk English accent, “Good day, Captain. How may I be of service?”

  Drawing his flare gun, he turned to face his attacker. He extended the weapon, finger tense on the trigger, but held his fire.

  Chapter 40

  “George meets The Leftenant”

  So the ship isn’t abandoned.

  The young blond-haired woman before him had her hands clasped behind her back. She was wearing a blue naval coat, and had appeared seemingly out of nowhere.

  Still holding his flare gun on her he asked, “Who are you?”

  Unbothered by his weapon, the young woman cocked her head to the side, regarded him calmly, and said, “Well, you’re certainly not part of Her Majesty’s Fleet.” She studied him a bit longer and added, “Judging by your accent, and your rude behavior, you’re obviously an American.”

  “My rude behavior? How do you figure?”

  She rubbed two of her gloved fingers together as though there were grit between them. “Well, for one, you’re still pointing your weapon at me.”

  George studied her for a moment longer. She was right. She hadn’t drawn her sidearm yet, and she could have easily shot him in the back. He slowly lowered his weapon.

  The woman’s eyes fell upon the Captain’s corpse. George thought he detected her eyes widen for a moment. Her black knee-high boots shattered the stillness as she stepped around the ornate pilot wheel. Kneeling down next to the dead man, she solemnly placed each of the man’s hands delicately in his lap. After a moment of silence, she cocked her head to one side, listened to the click of the ship’s clock and nodded brusquely. “Quite right. Please note for the record that, as of today, fifteenth of April, Captain Byron Waller is now deceased." She stood up, gave a swift tug of her uniform, and said, “Now that the bit of unpleasantness is done, would you mind telling me your name?” Tucking an errant strand of blonde hair into her braid, she forced a smile at him and waited for an answer.

  He holstered the flare gun, stood up a bit straighter and said, “George… George Stapleton.” Growing impatient he asked, “And do you mind telling me who you are?”

  “George… George Stapleton,” she repeated, raised an eyebrow, and said, “A pleasure I’m sure.”

  Her tone suggested it was not.

  “Mr. Stapleton, I am the Leftenant.”

  As George fumbled for the words to explain his presence she suddenly flickered in and out of existence. It was only for a second, but George was certain he had seen it. He stepped forward and waved his hand right through the woman’s torso.

  It’s some kind of an illusion.

  She flashed out of existence again, and returned impossibly fast. When she was corporeal once more George noted she didn’t appear to be a hologram. And he couldn’t see any projection lights or screens. For all intents and purposes, she was a living breathing entity.

  In response to his hand waving, the Leftenant straightened her long blue navy jacket with a firm pull and in her British accent, crisp and precise, said, “I would thank you very much not to do that again.”

  “You’re just a hologram.”

  “Mr. Stapleton,” she said, her polite voice still managing to cut through the room like a knife. “You will find I am very capable of appearing in solid form, and if your hand were to pass through me when I did--let us just say it would be very unpleasant…. For you. Not me.”

  “Yeah… but you’re a…” raising his voice “…you’re a hologram.”

  The Leftenant watched him with one eyebrow raised. “And you, sir, are just a biological.” She took a step forward and studied him the way a doctor might study their patient at a yearly physical. Staring deeply into one of his eyes she said warily, “Although I must admit, I am not quite sure of the variety.”

  “What do you mean, variety? I’m human.”

  The Leftenant scoffed, regarded him with confusion, then sighed before saying, “Yes, human does seem to be your classification. But not counting hybrids, there are three varieties of human,” ticking each one off on her gloved fingers, “Grown, Clone, and Reanimated--the last of course, being very rare.” Taking a step back, “Which class are you, Mr. Stapleton?”

  George shook his head. It was too much. First Sophia told him they were in a futuristic theme park, and now this woman …A…hologram… was telling him he was some kind of clone. No way.

  “Look, ah, Leftenant, I can assure you, I am not a clone. And I sure as heck wasn’t grown in some test tube.”

  “Well, Mr. Stapleton, I seriously doubt you are a reanimation.” She peered into his eye again and a thin red beam of light shot out of her right eye and scanned his retina.

  “Ouch,” he said, instinctively covering his eye with the palm of his hand. “What did you do that for?”

  “Oh my. This is interesting. I detect no barcode whatsoever. It seems you are a reanimation after all.”

  “A reanimation? What do you mean by that?” He removed his palm and blinked a few times. When white spots appeared before his eyes he complained, “I think you blinded me.”

  “Hardly, Mr. Stapleton. Your full vision will return post haste. And I would think the word reanimation is quite self-explanatory. You were dead. Corporate dug you up. And you have been reanimated.”

  “You’re insane.”

  “Hmmm… I suppose if I were, there really wouldn’t be any point in answering th
en, now would there? And if I weren’t, well, insane people rarely know they are insane. So again, the question is moot. Regardless, I have a message for you.”

  “A message from who?”

  “I believe you mean, from whom. But in any case, since you must know, the message is from your daughter, Maddie. Would you like to hear it?”

  “A message? From Maddie?”

  The Leftenant released a quick sigh. “Yes, I believe that is what I said. You aren’t the sharpest tool in the toolshed, are you?” She held up a hand toward him. “And before you answer, that was a rhetorical question.”

  George took a hurried step forward. “You’ve seen Maddie? Is she okay? Where is she?”

  “All in good time, but first, as I said, three times total now, I must verify your identity in order to convey the message.”

  George frowned. For a hologram, she was pretty testy. “And how do you plan on doing that? You know what? I don’t care. Just get on with it already.”

  “I believe that is what I am attempting to do.”

  Now it was George’s turn to sigh, but held his tongue. The Leftenant raised an eyebrow as though daring him to say something more.

  He didn’t.

  Finally… she asked. “What is the name of Maddie’s cat?”

  “What?”

  “That is the cipher. I believe the question is self-explanatory. If you wish to receive the message from your daughter, you must answer the question: What is the name of Maddie’s cat?”

  George shook his head. What was the name of her stupid cat? He remembered it earlier, why couldn’t he recall it now? The one that got hit by the car and she nursed it back to health, although it never did smell quite right.