The gifted healer nodded and ran off, cradling the wounded falcon in his arms.
Trusting the man’s extraordinary skills, Tuck holstered his Blaster and retrieved the.357 Annihilator that had been kicked out of his reach while keeping one eye on Dunkirk’s retreat. In kind, his men scrambled for their weapons while Axel made a beeline for the engines. The
Maverick
listed just as a voluminous cloud mushroomed out of nowhere and consumed the
Flying Shark.
“What the—”
“Leaving same as she flew in, Marshal,” Birdman said.
“Concealed in a cloud. That’s why I didn’t spy her until it was too late.”
“Not a typical cloud,” StarMan said as the towering vertical mass shimmered with lightning, then miraculously blended into the cloud bank.
“Supernatural shenanigans,” Eli said.
“Some Freak’s doin’,” Axel shouted across the deck. “Did you notice? Dunkirk’s flying two banners now. The Jolly Roger and the Peace Rebel flag.”
“I noticed.” Tuck used his spyglass to pinpoint the approaching ALE dig. Same as in the States, some Air Law Enforcers were trustworthy, some crooked. In this case he was double damned, since his cargo was unsanctioned. Either they’d arrest him and confiscate the liquor or confiscate the liquor and sell it on the black market, threatening to make his life hell if he breathed a word of the robbery. “Birdman. Need Doc to look at that wound?”
The squat ball of energy squinted through his goggles at the incoming dig. “No time for that,” he said, knotting a kerchief around his bloodied arm.
Tuck nodded. “Take the mizzenmast. Ready the sails.”
“Masts still down,” StarMan said.
“Pessimism begets failure, my friend.” Birdman smacked the somber navigator’s shoulder, then trotted off. “Think positive!”
Tuck pulled on his gloves. “Get the damned blasterbeefs up to speed, Axel. StarMan, take the wheel. Eli, we need sail power. You take the foremast; I’ll take the main.”
“StarMan’s right, Marshal. Mechanism’s still jammed. I’ve tried everything.”
“Did you whack it with a wrench?”
Eli frowned but took off toward the bow.
Doc ran up behind Tuck. “Leo’s resting. What about Miss Darcy?”
Tuck ignored him and hurried toward the mainmast.
“We can’t leave her to Dunkirk’s mercy.”
“One crisis at a time, Doc.”
“But—”
“Can’t help her if we’re dead in the air.” He glanced at the ALE dig, short minutes from contact. “Or locked in the hoosegow.”
The young doctor stepped back, and Tuck inspected the retracting mechanism. He blew out a breath, shrugged. “What the hell?” Using the butt of the .357, he gave it a hard whack. He heard a metallic chink and groan, and on a whim cranked the rotor wheel. The telescopic inner core extended with ease and speed. He shook his head and laughed. “Eli,” he shouted over his shoulder. In tandem he saw the foremast shooting up and Eli waving a wrench in victory.
“Blasterbeefs at full capacity!” Axel yelled.
“I’ll be damned.”
The engines roared and belched. Sails snapped and billowed. Steam, rocket, and airpower surged through the previously compromised ship.
Tuck grasped StarMan’s shoulder. “Taking the wheel.”
“About time.”
The
Maverick
burst forward and Tuck took control as ALE gave chase. Adrenaline surged as he outmaneuvered and outran the less sophisticated airship. Yes, the zeppelin cruiser was equipped with steam turbines, but they couldn’t compare to the additional power of the
Maverick
’s outboard blasterbeefs. As he circled into a mass of midlevel clouds, then out the other side, breaching the channel’s shoreline and taking an alternate route, as dictated by his navigator, Tuck’s mind fixed on the mishaps that had plagued his normally tip-top dig overnight. All three masts, for chrissake, and the blasterbeefs. Malfunctions that coincided with Amelia’s presence. He wasn’t a superstitious man, yet as soon as she was off the
Maverick
his luck had turned for the better. Just like that the masts and blasterbeefs were in good working order, and he’d secured the
safety of his cargo by fleeing, not fighting, his preferred method of dealing with the law—crooked or otherwise.
“All clear,” Birdman yelled down from his elevated vantage point.
Pocketing his astronomical compendium, StarMan moved in beside Tuck. “That was close,” he said in a hushed voice.
Tuck eyed his trusted friend. “Too close.”
“Miss Darcy is an enigma,” StarMan added.
“You mean a liar.”
“We’re better off without her.”
“Absolutely.”
“Going after her, aren’t we?”
“We are.”
Concern had twisted Tuck’s gut when Dunkirk’s man had hauled her into the fray. Her nectarine kiss still sweet on his lips, her fiery passion simmering in his blood, all he could think about was her reckless spirit and vulnerability. Bad enough when he’d thought Dunkirk considered her a tasty boon to his intended theft. But when he’d learned the air pirate was specifically after Amelia and not his illegal shipment of absinthe, concern had turned to confusion, then anger. What the hell was Flygirl playing at? She’d claimed she was bound for Italy to visit her dying grandpap. Instead she was involved in some treasure hunt? The hell if he wasn’t intrigued and furious at the same time.
“Observation,” StarMan said.
“Go on.”
“With the ship operating at full power, maybe we should make haste for Paris, deliver our shipment, and collect our due while good fortune smiles upon us. Then set off on this rescue mission. You know as well as I do that Dunkirk will not kill her, not if she can lead him to a million pounds.”
“Ain’t killin’ I’m worried about,” Tuck said. He’d seen the way Dunkirk had leered at Amelia. Even though she’d
concealed her figure under his all-weather overcoat, there was no hiding that pretty face, that tempting mouth.
StarMan dragged a hand over his face and sighed. “You like her.”
“Of course I like her. She’s worth a fortune.” Though it wasn’t Tuck’s top reason for wanting to rescue Amelia, the notion
had
seeped under his skin and burrowed into his brain.
“So it’s the treasure you’re wanting, not Miss Darcy.”
“A million pounds? Windfall like that’ll pave the way to freedom, StarMan.”
“Yeah, but are we talking gold? Diamonds? A priceless artifact? Dunkirk asked what Miss Darcy offered for your courier services. So she planned on tricking us into delivering this hidden treasure to…who? Where? What are we getting into, Tuck?”
“I intend to find out. Take the wheel. Skirt the clouds till you’re certain ALE’s not tailing.” They were out of the Brits’ jurisdiction now, but that didn’t mean the law enforcement agency wouldn’t alert the French, negotiating for a cut.
“Destination?”
“Paris. For now.” Tuck gave over the wheel, shouted a few dictates, then called for Doc. “Come with me.”
The younger man trailed after as Tuck strode toward his cabin. “What you said about Miss Darcy’s wound…You told me she was on her way to bein’ right as rain.”
“She is. I thought if Dunkirk considered her a liability, maybe he wouldn’t take her. Or maybe he’d take me along to look after her. At least then I could’ve afforded Miss Darcy some protection.”
Tuck glanced over his shoulder. “Smart. Although, no offense, Doc, you ain’t much of a match for Dunkirk and his kind. They have no compunction about killin’ a man. You do.”
“Yes, well, I am a healer.”
“Among other things.” Tuck pushed into his cabin. “That cloud,” he said while shutting the door behind them. “That was a cumulonimbus. Indicative of thunderstorms.”
“Dunkirk mentioned a Stormerator. Something that generates storms?”
“That’d be my thinking.” Tuck snatched Amelia’s satchel and tossed it on his bed, striving for a casual tone as he entered sensitive territory. “Sense any Freaks amongst Dunkirk’s men?”
When Doc didn’t answer, Tuck pushed. “Flying the PR flag,” he said as he sifted through Amelia’s belongings. “Means they welcome Mods and Freaks.”
“I know.”
“Could a Freak be responsible for that supernatural cloud?”
He heard Doc shifting his weight, knew he was considering his words. “There’s been talk of a few who can…modify the weather.”
“Conjure rain on a sunny day? Summon clouds out of nowhere? That kind of thing?”
“Don’t know much about it, Marshal. Just heard talk.”
“Ain’t askin’ you to rat out one of your people, Doc. Just need to know what we’re getting into when we go after Miss Darcy.”
The younger man blew out a breath of relief. “So we’re going to steal her back.”
“I’ve got a bone to pick with that gal and a score to settle with Dunkirk.”
“Surprised you let him take her in the first place.”
“Weighed the options. Considered the outcomes. It was the wiser choice at the time.”
“And now?”
Tuck grinned. “Now we stack the odds in our favor.”
“That why you’re invading Miss Darcy’s privacy, looking through her things?”
“Justifiable search, Doc.” He tried like the devil to
ignore her saucy unmentionables. He sure as hell didn’t linger. One thing was sure and certain: Amelia Darcy could pack a load of belongings into one moderately sized valise. Tightly rolled blouses, trousers, some sort of combined vest and cutaway skirt, a canvas bag stocked with tools and assorted cogs and bolts, hair combs, an astronomical compendium (basic, but sufficient; old, but interesting). Intrigued by the colorful collection of items, Tuck almost forgot he wasn’t alone.
Doc cleared his throat, moved closer. “Yes, there’s at least one Freak among Dunkirk’s crew,” he finally conceded. “Didn’t see him, but I felt him. The ripple of two opposing dimensions.”
Tuck looked over his shoulder. “So it’s possible Dunkirk’s Stormerator could be a man as opposed to a machine.”
“Mingled with a few of my people when we were at port a few weeks back. Heard tell of a brewing rebellion among Freaks.” Doc adjusted the band of the tinted wraparound specs that shielded his modified eyes. Freaks, the children of Mods and Vics, people from two different times and dimensions, were born with multicolored eyes. It was like looking into a kaleidoscope. Those who wished to conceal their mutant race wore specs or corneatacts—modernized lenses designed to fit directly over the cornea. Though corneatacts created the illusion of normal, singular-colored irises, they couldn’t be worn for more than a couple of hours without causing extreme discomfort. More drastic and permanent measures involved surgery, which was what Doc’s parents had chosen for him early on. Unfortunately, it was a risky and imperfect procedure.
“Everyone’s fed up with being treated like monsters or curiosities or second-class citizens at best,” Doc said. “While some incorporate peaceful steps in their march toward equality, others plot more aggressive measures. Some, it’s rumored, are going renegade, hiring out their special gifts to the highest bidder, not caring if that gift is used for ill.”
“So Dunkirk’s Stormerator could be one of these mercenaries.”
“Which makes him very dangerous and Dunkirk quite powerful.”
“I’ll keep that in mind, Doc.”
“You didn’t hear it from me.”
Tuck raised a brow. “We have a pact. Don’t intend to break it.” Given Doc’s mysterious gift for accelerated healing, and the fact that he never removed his tinted specs or goggles, Tuck was pretty sure most of the crew suspected the man’s true origin. The fact that no one called Doc out on it proved that they were accepting of the man and tolerant of his race. As far as Tuck knew, Axel was the only one aboard who got spooked by Freaks. Regardless, Doc chose to live his life as a Vic, and Tuck had promised to keep his secret. Knowing the hell the kid’s parents had gone through, as well as his brother’s ongoing dilemma, Tuck couldn’t blame Doc for being cautious.
Would the world forever be divided by racial and religious unrest? According to the Book of Mods, yes.
Jaw clenched, Tuck dipped back into the satchel and discovered a false bottom. “Here we go.” He pulled out a glob of damaged clockwork, a pouch of money, two folded pages of a newspaper, and one letter.
Doc pointed to the mangled gold. “What’s that?”
“Looks like it used to be a pocket watch.” He passed the timepiece to Doc.
“Been through hell.”
“Or a fiery explosion.” Tuck read the contents of the first article, then passed that to Doc as well.
“The article announcing the death of Miss Darcy’s father.” Doc shook his head. “Terrible thing. The accident and the cynical report. Implies her father and brothers are incompetent eccentrics.”
Eccentric
certainly described Amelia, but Tuck held silent, immersed in the second article. “‘Royal
Rejuvenation,’” he read aloud. “‘A Global Race for Fame and Fortune.’” He read the rest to himself, then handed the article to Doc.
The man adjusted his specs and frowned. “So you think Miss Darcy knows the whereabouts of a”—he referred back to the article—“a ‘lost or legendary technological invention of historical significance’?”
“Dunkirk’s under that assumption.” Amelia hadn’t argued the pirate’s claim. Instead she’d looked guilty as hell. “Must be some truth to it. This letter relates the same information as the newspaper.”
“A personal invitation to join the contest?”
“Seems like.” Tuck’s mind turned, latching onto pieces and working the puzzle.
“Seein’ as she’s related to Briscoe Darcy, perhaps she possesses or has access to information about his time machine,” Doc mused. “Talk about an invention of historical significance. Although it can’t be the actual machine she’s after, since it’s locked in the 1969 version of the British Science Museum. A prototype, maybe?”
“Or a replica.”
“The Peace Rebels’ Briscoe Bus?” Doc shook his head. “Destroyed in 1856, soon after the time travelers arrived. Documented fact, Marshal. A story I heard time and again while growing up. They wanted to ensure no one from this century would travel to another and muck up their efforts.”
“Mucked up their own efforts,” Tuck noted, thinking about the Peace War and the escalated racial and political unrest that lingered.