Turnkey (The Gaslight Volumes of Will Pocket Book 1) (35 page)

The ‘this’ that
Dolly was so sourly addressing was a swollen, round canister welded upright
into the floor, tall as the room and wearing a charming coat of slime upon its
coat of rust upon what I could only assume, hope, and pray was a thick, sturdy
body of black iron. It was altogether…

“Foul,” the Doll
commented.

Yes, foul. Very
much so.

As for the rest of
the room, it seemed almost to have been designed similarly in a style of…well,
let’s imagine for a moment that a machine could vomit. It would be about like
that in appearance, texture, and aroma, with the rusty boiler serving as a sort
of centerpiece, bringing the whole look together, or rather, horribly apart.

“Cozy,” I said
flatly to Gren.

“I know I just
complained about the lift,” Kitt remarked. “But I think I should point out a
complaint I have about this boiler as well.”

“Great,” Gren
sneered.

Not to be
deterred, Kitt soldiered on with his inquisition.

“Steam power is
essentially boiling water, right?”

“Essentially…yeah…why?”

“How do you get a
place
this
filthy with boiling water? I thought…well, you’ve seen the
adverts. A clean fuel for a clean age, right?”

“Didn’t I just
tell you not to trust everything you read? The truth’s a little uglier
sometimes.”

“A
little?
”
I interposed, watching the walls sweat grease.

“Look, Kitt,” Gren
explained. “Yeah, it’s clean. But just because it ends clean, doesn’t mean it
starts clean, right?”

“I don’t know,”
Kitt replied.

“How do you boil
water?”

“Heat?”
“Right. And how do you make heat?”

“Fire?”

“Right. And how do
you make fire? You
burn
things. That’s what kicks the whole thing off,
combustibles. Anything that burns goes to the pot.”

“Wait,” Dolly
said. “You mean they’re burning
anything?
For fuel?”

“Anything that’ll
catch fire and they don’t need. Easier that way. Don’t have to go hunting for
wood or coal or whatever. Cheaper too. Of course, some things burn a little
nicer than others. Some stuff…ug…really smells and slops a bit.”

“That explains the
stink,” I said. “But not the grease and rust.”

“Oh, Jack’s just a
slob.”

“You could’ve just
told us that.”

“Shut up, Pocket.”

Gren marched
around the long, dimly-lit space, searching the shadows for his friend.

“Damn it,” he
muttered. “Where the hell is he?” He shuffled around some bent tools and
industrial scraps with his feet and looked around the mess.

“Maybe…we should
wait upstairs,” Kitt said, slowly sliding back toward the lift.

“No, no,” Gren
said, poking around. “The dolt’s around here somewhere. Jack! It’s me! I swear,
he’ll—“

An ear-splitting
crack sounded off in our ears as a dingy explosion popped in the distance. A
faint shouting soon followed.

“Damn!” yelled the
voice. “That stings!”

“Okay,” Gren said
to us. “There he is. Hang on.”

Kitt took another
step toward the lift. This time Dolly joined him.

“Jack!” Gren
yelled to the darkness.

“What?” the
darkness yelled to Gren.

“Come out here!”

“What?”

“Come out here!”

“Who is it?”
“It’s me!”
“You who?”

“It’s Gren
Spader!” Kitt shouted, for some reason.

“Oh!” shouted the
voice. “Who are you?”

“Kitt Sunner.”

“Oh! Gren?”

“What, Jack?” Gren
yelled.
“Who the hell is Kitt Sunner?”

“Just get out here
before I march back and—“

“Okay, okay! Go
easy! I’m injured!”

He grunted and
lumbered out of the dark.

Jack was, to say
the very least, a sight. I still remember the way he marched out of the
dimness, shoulders hunched, boots clop-clop-clopping, and fingers wiggling
inside of thick rubber gloves that extended up past his elbows, freshly-stained
with a coat of motor oil. He was a thin and pale man with a head of dark,
longish hair that shot out in every conceivable direction. He wore welder’s
pants, strapped below the knee, a faded, sleeveless undershirt, smeared with
greasy handprints, and a wide grin, manic and unrestrained.

He also was
wearing, around his waist, a wide belt with an oversized cameo attached over
the buckle. There appeared to be some sort of design painted over it, some
image, but of what I couldn’t tell, as it was likewise sauced in oil and dirt.

Was it, perhaps,
the same sort of emblem or insignia that Miss B was wearing?

As Jack approached
us, his wild grin dissolved into a moping frown that seemed to be directed to
Gren.

“Nice of you to
join us,” snapped Gren, impatiently tapping his fingers against a metal plate
in his arm.

“You didn’t hav’ta
yell, ya know!” his acquaintance barked back.

“Apparently I did,
because you were off hiding in the shadows!”

“Leave me alone.
I’m injured.”

“Where are you
injured? You look fine.”

“Look here.” Jack
directed us to a slightly reddened streak just under his left shoulder.

“Wha…” Gren said,
staring. “What, that’s it?”

“It was bleeding a
second ago.”

“Aw, what
happened?” Gren teased. “You get a little steam burn, Jack? One of the Priest’s
cats nuzzle you a little too roughly?”

“There’s a priest
on board?” Kitt asked.

“He has cats?”
Dolly asked, wide-eyed.

“You saw that
explosion!” Jack continued, ignoring the rest of us. “It could have easily
taken my arm off!”

“And it would’ve
served you right for screwing around with junk you don’t know how to work!”
Gren spat.

“Aw, I know what
I’m doing.”

“Since
when?!?
”
Gren responded and then turned back to us onlookers. “Sorry to make you stand
around and watch this.”

“Lovers’ quarrel?”
I asked, tongue very deeply residing in my cheek. Gren’s eyes were flaming
bullets, and he didn’t say a word. He just pointed a very threatening finger at
me and then turned back to Jack.

“That horse’s ass
is Will Pocket, the one I told you about.”

“Oh,” Jack said.
“Hey.”

“And that’s Kitt
Sunner and the…uh…the Doll.”

“The clock lady,
right?”

Dolly scowled and
Gren elbowed the boiler engineer.

“What?” Jack said,
oblivious.

“Charmed,” Dolly
said, snippy.

“Hey, uh, good to
meet ya, all of ya,” Jack said, scratching behind his ear with his grimy,
gloved fingers.

“Thanks for the
lift,” I said.

“Sure, sure.
Thanks for...Gren, ya tell 'em about payin' us?”

“It's okay,” Gren
said. “Kitt had some papers in his pockets.”

“Huh?”

“Don't worry.
Don't worry about it.”

“Uh...all
right...”

“More importantly,
Jack—“

At that moment,
two things of interest happened. And I'll tell the second one first. Second,
the entire ship shook and rumbled with a violent, cracking sound, plummeting
into a momentary nosedive that sent all of us sliding across the now-tilted
floor of the boiler room. The various greases that coated this floor served to
lubricate and speed up our voyage across the area.

And first, more
importantly, just before all conceivable hell broke loose, I stood watching
Gren and Jack argue over petty instances, and as I did, I silently sent up a
prayer that something a little more interesting would unfold. And my prayer was
granted.

“What the hell is
going on?!?” I shouted as I slid on my back, hurtling towards the cast iron
doors of the
Lucidia's
lift.

“Hang on!” Gren
said. As he slid into the lift, he lifted the boot of his heel and mashed it
into a button that brought open the iron doors before we had a chance to
bludgeon ourselves against them. We all tumbled into the lift.

“Jack! What did you
do now?!?” Gren barked.

“Nothing!” his
friend yelled.

“Damn it,” Gren
said. “That means, then...eh...”

“What?” Kitt
shouted. “What does that mean?!?”

Before his
question could be answered, the ship bounced with a cracking sound and tilted
in the opposite direction. I was the first to fall out, sliding toward the
giant rusted boiler in the center of the room. My coat became snagged around a
small pipe that ran from the machinery and held me firm and in place. I slid my
exposed hand down the coat, away from the scalding boiler pipe, and hung onto
my sleeve for dear life. Looking up, I saw Gren and Jack propping their arms
and legs against the sides of the lift to prevent taking the trip I just had.
While they seemed to be sufficiently wedged into the railing, Kitt and Dolly
were not so lucky. Kitt fell first, bumping his way down the floor head over
heels over head. The Doll soon followed, letting out an “eek” as she slid on
her dress.

Inside the lift,
Gren and Jack were arguing as they tried to shift their weight around each
other. Then, to make matters worse, Jack slipped and hit his elbow on a lever
or button or something. As a result, the doors snapped shut and the whole
damned lift shot back up to the surface of the ship, leaving the three of us
stranded.

“Did they just
leave?” Kitt asked, still falling over himself.

“Make it stop!”
Dolly cried, kicking her legs.

As if responding,
the ship bounced again and leveled itself out. We gasped for air as we sat
there. My coat refused to detach itself from the pipe.

“Is it...is it
over?” the Doll asked.

“Is it ever?” I
mumbled.

A moment later the
ship shook again. And things continued like this, off and on, until we were
finally given a bit of assistance.

“What are you
three doing down here?” came a curious voice from a curious onlooker that we
had not seen enter.

“Dying,” Kitt said
to the voice. I twisted my neck to find a bright-eyed young woman, a few years
younger than me, standing upon a small stairwell that I hadn't noticed.

“Where's Jack and
Gren?” she said, hopping off of the steps and marching over to our disheveled
bodies as the ship took a break from tossing us about.

“They've popped
off,” I muttered, fighting to free my pinned coat. “Took the lift. We thought
we'd stick around for the excitement.”

I forced myself
loose, one corner of my coat now notably singed off, and looked up at the young
lady who had joined us. She was rather small, but the spark in her face seemed
to magnify her presence. She wore leathers, jacket and gloves and boots covered
in buckles and snaps. A long, fat scarf was wrapped around her white neck and
tossed over her shoulder. Her hair was dark, cropped short, and sitting under a
large newsboy cap.

“Hrmm...” she
said. “Silly time for that. Did they mention where they were heading?”

“I didn't think to
ask while I was being slammed into the ship.”

“No, I suppose you
wouldn't have. You see, I need Jack's assistance with a matter. There's a bit
of an issue going on topside.”

“We noticed,” Kitt
said.

“Nothing to worry
about, of course,” the cheerful girl assured us, all smile. “Still, best to
handle it sooner rather than later. Don't you agree? Of course, of course you
do. I'm the ship navigator, you see, so sometimes I have to deal with such
inconveniences.”

Navigator.
This
girl? I was sincerely beginning to question the abilities of this crew. Still,
to be fair, I hadn't seen the young lady in action, so I was in no place to
criticize. I noticed that she toted a sack at her side that featured the same
emblem that B and Jack wore. It was filled to the brim with rolled maps.

“Would you good
people care to accompany me up?” the girl asked, helping Dolly to her feet.

“Sounds good to
me,” Kitt said.

I nodded in
agreement and we began a hurried climb up a set of stairwells, corridors, and
walkways as the ship continued to rumble. I tried hard to keep up with both my
balance and the young lady's rapidfire conversation.

“What do they call
you?” she said, ducking under some pipes and jogging ahead. We hurried after.

“Pocket.”

“That’s a neat
name. Watch your head. And what do you do?”

“I’m, uh, a
writer.”

“Ah! Learned man!
How fascinating! Just step over, yes, there you are. A writer! Man of words!
Careful, there. It’s slick. Professor Pocket, I’ll have to call you!”

“That’s not really
necessa—“

“Or instructor or
headmaster or sensei, then.”

“Sensei?”

“It’s Japanese.
Means teacher.”

“Oh. You seem
rather learned yourse—AAH!”

“Whoops. Told you
it was slick. Here we go now. Mister Sunner, Madame Doll. Up the ladder now.
Careful not to step upon Professor Pocket!”

“OW!”

“Sorry Pocket,”
Kitt said.

The vessel shook
again, nearly knocking us all down. Finally the young lady led us to the
navigation cabin, a round, little room with a brass “Q” bolted above the
archway. The ship rocked and I fell chin-first inside and onto an overstuffed
and over-worn sofa.

“Great ship you
have here,” I mumbled. The room smelt of aged paper and thick leathers. Globes
cluttered the space, propped upon carved, cherry-tinted, wooden stands or
suspended on thin threads from the ceilings. The walls spat books at me as the
Lucidia
shook. Long, rolling maps were spread across a few rickety tables and, even
more peculiar, a few were riveted into the walls as what I could only assume
was a sort of makeshift wallpapering. In the madness, Kitt slid backward,
smacked his head against a wall, and left a sizable bruise on Norway.

“Beautiful,” I
said.

“Thank you!” the
young lady chimed, hopping through the room to grab at a large, brass telescope
that filled most of the cabin.