Sky City (Chap. 5-8)

CHAPTER 5
Having bid goodnight to Lucy, James retired to his bedroom with intentions of brushing up on Clockwork history. Though his full stomach and heavy eyelids protested the postponement of sleep, he proceeded to light the bedside lamp and read a somewhat outdated text he had brought up with him entitled "A Brief History of the Mechanical Man" by Jerome Farnsworth Jr. The aged book was one of the few ever written about Clockworks that wasn't slanted with an anti-Clockwork stance. He propped his pillow up against the headboard, forcefully blinked his eyes and opened the book to chapter 3, The Clockwork Genesis. After some quick scanning of the pages he came to the information he sought.

"The mechanical man's origins (It began) have always been and continue to be a much debated issue that seems to be an amalgam of logical deduction, recorded history, and well circulated rumors. It is widely believed that the Clockwork was fabricated prior to The Ascension (See "Ascension" pgs. 2, 10, 64-99), in a factory located on the earth's surface. Though the factory is still rumored to exist it has not been seen by a member of the general public in over 100 years. For what purpose the factory is used today is not commonly known as Clockwork production has been declared illegal. The factory was owned by a fellow of Japanese descent who we only know as Ayumu (See "Ayumu" chap. 2 pg. 35). It was he who originally designed and built the Clockwork man, though for what purpose, it is not exactly clear. It has been speculated that all Clockworks were created to serve man. This seems possible in light of the fact that many of the non-android automatons were built for such purpose prior to the unveiling of the human oriented variety..."

Though his brain was foggy with fatigue, the passage brought to mind a memory from at least 5? no it had to be 4 years ago. It wasn't long after the transplant and he was still marinating his self-pity in gin. He had been sitting at the pub after another dreary day when an old man quietly sat down in the barstool beside him. Mulligan really wasn't in the mood for conversation, but his neighbor had other ideas. Mulligan became increasingly dismayed that the curt replies he gave while he stared into his glass did nothing to deter the fellow. The subject of occupation was brought up, and when Mulligan answered he was surprised to hear the old man suddenly sound morose.
"Clockworks, eh?", said the man. "Why I can remember when Clockworks used to look like machines instead of people."
Mulligan was shocked when he realized just how old his new acquaintance must be as the android Clockwork was around many decades before the detective was ever born.
"It was just so sad", continued the elderly one. "They would break down, and people would just throw them away. A shame. A downright bleeding shame."
At this point Mulligan didn't know what to think, as the old man went on like he had lost a good friend. He turned to the fellow and looked him in the eyes. To the day Mulligan couldn't remember the man's face, much less his name, but his eyes...He knew he'd always remember those eyes. They were like deep, dark-blue pools of sorrow glistening with the tears that overflowed and ran down his hollowed cheeks. The James Mulligan of that time couldn't understand, but he was a different man now.
For a moment he found himself once again sitting on the barstool trying to comprehend the meaning behind the nameless man's tears before he realized that he had actually dozed off into a waking dream. He shook off Morpheus' embrace and redoubled his efforts to finish his studies.

"...in a sort of Darwinian farce the factory gradually shifted from producing simple utilitarian Clockworks to the humanoids we know today. At first people readily accepted these mechanical beings, taking them into their homes and using them for manual labor. As time progressed and people became familiar with their mechanical servants they began to see something of themselves in the Clockworks. Something all too human. Slowly a word began creeping into the minds and conversations of the populace: Slavery. A rift was created as many said to keep these "mecha-humans" (See "Mecha-human" Glos. pg 846) subjugated without rights or freedoms was wrong. Others countered that they were machines created for human use and nothing more. Eventually the matter was brought to trial. The magistrate who presided, being a pious man, reasoned that men being created in the image of God were born free, therefore Clockworks being created in the image of man should likewise be free. Thus the Clockwork Equality Act of 1820 was created. There was some sporadic out crying, but for the most part the Act was accepted and even celebrated.

For a while Clockwork and Man lived side by side in peace, however, this was not to last. Clockworks, with their considerable energies and being guided by their "Purpose" (See "The Purpose" chap. 3 pg 135-178) had a natural proclivity for prosperity. Unfortunately for them, this did not sit well with many of their human counterparts who had come to resent the apparent ease by which the Clockworks flourished in the rich soil of their new found freedom. As the tide of approval turned against the Clockworks, amendments were made to the Clockwork Equality Act. With each amendment the "mecha-humans" lost a basic right that had been heretofore guaranteed by the very Act being amended. As the Clockworks were on the verge of losing everything, humanity once again stepped in, this time in the form of protest groups who believed the law had gone too far. However, this time the majority of mankind did not side with the hapless automatons, and many anti-Clockwork groups rose up against those who would succor the machines. This rift only deepened when control of mineral importation, especially coal, was handed to the mecha-humans (See "Coal" Chap. 28 pg. 641). To this day the battle continues as humanity rages against one another over the fate of the beleaguered machines..."



CHAPTER 6
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.



CHAPTER 7
MCA Central was a long multi-story building spanning the length of two square blocks in the middle of the island city. It had elements of Gothic revival right down to the rounded turrets that formed the corners of the structure. It was one of the original structures built shortly after the completion of the city's landmass and had not changed in almost a century. The organization that it housed, on the other hand, was far more malleable. The Ministry's purpose officially was to execute the law as it applied to Clockworks. However, the manner in which this purpose was performed seemed to reflect the prejudices of the general public at the time. Hence a need for a separate law enforcement agency apart from the one which dealt with human law. Although he found himself slightly annoyed as he walked past the belligerent protesters camped out on the front steps, James felt himself lucky to live in a more progressive time when his job involved something other than simply subjugating Clockworks.
As James walked into the ministry offices, he ran into Pennywhistle, who wasted no time engaging in his favorite game: antagonizing Mulligan.
"What do you think, Squeaky? Gonna solve this pesky 'Clockwork Slayer' business today?"
If the two had been friends, the jab would have passed between them in light hearted way. However, this was not the case. Though Pennywhistle's voice retained a note of joviality, Mulligan found an unpleasant taste in his mouth all the same. Not wishing to prolong the conversation, James gave a quick nod, and continued the short walk towards Archer's office at the end of the hall. He was reaching for the handle when Pennywhistle's voice called out behind him,
"If you need any help or fresh ideas, don't be afraid to ask."
Mulligan felt his hand ball into a fist and go numb. He turned towards the younger detective and gave a knowing smirk.
"Oh, I don't think that will be necessary."
Always quick with a retort, Pennywhistle pressed on. "Why don't you ask Commandant Archer?", he shot back.
There was far too much meaning in those words for Mulligan's liking, but he had had enough of the exchange. Pennywhistle, on the other hand, was just getting warmed up.
"Roger was my friend, Mulligan." he growled.
Though the remark was true, James suspected it wasn't simply rooted in the pain of loss. He shook his head in disgust and pushed the door open to find Archer intently studying a dossier spread out on the desk in front of him. His hands rested on either ear and his eyepieces had slid down his long nose. He looked up at Mulligan and bade him to have a seat opposite him. Mulligan settled into a comfy burgundy wingback. The sage green walls and familiar scent of cedar that permeated the office soothed Mulligan's troubled mind after his unpleasant encounter in the hallway. Fortunately Archer afforded him several minutes of quiet relaxation while the Commandant completed his studies. When he had finished, he slid the dossier across the desk and said, "It looks like our friend isn't wasting any time. Got himself another one last night."
James wanted to point out that the gender of the killer had yet to be determined but thought better of it given the unpleasant expression Archer wore at the moment. Instead he picked up the document and commenced reading.

Victim's name: Model Number 4. (Known Aliases - Edwin Devonshire)
Race: Clockwork
Age: Unknown
Time of Death: Approximately 4:30 - 5:00 a.m. October 13th 1933
Location of Death: Alley adjacent to Spiegel Blvd., Clockwork Zone #4, N.U.K. East.
Cause of Death: Removal/Destruction of "Thought Box" (Per Medical Examiner Notes: See Attachment).

Mulligan looked up at the expectant face of Archer who said,
"Came over the pnuemagraph about an hour ago. Sounds like our man, right?"
"Or a copycat", offered Mulligan.
"This string of slayings have been the first artie 'murders' since I took this post almost 10 years ago. A copycat, though possible, seems unlikely."
Mulligan agreed and continued reading:

"No motive for the attack has been established, and no suspect(s) has been named."

"Care for some tea, James?", Archer interrupted and handed a cup across the desk.
"Yes, thank you, Sir. I was in such a rush this morning that I wasn't able to partake."
He sipped the tea as he read, savoring the warmth that it filled him with.
Archer settled back into his overstuffed leather chair and closed his eyes.
"Pennywhistle stopped by this morning", he began nonchalantly.
Mulligan took another sip of tea before asking, "Oh really, Sir? What did he say?"
"He felt that we ought to be questioning the leaders of the anti-Clockwork movements. You know, bring them in and put the heat on them, that sort of thing."
Mulligan gave a short laugh and replied "That's all he had to offer?"
"Well damnit, James, the man has a bloody point! So far we have almost nothing to go on and we are running out of time!"
"Tell you what, Fred." said James setting his empty cup on Archer's desk. "You go ahead and let Pennywhistle follow up on those 'leads', but I'm willing to wager he will hit a brick wall before long."
Archer frowned at the cavalier response and asked, "Something you're not telling me, Detective?"
"It's all right there in the reports, Sir."
"I'm listening, James", said Archer who had now turned to face Mulligan and leaned forward slightly in anticipation. Feeling encouraged, Mulligan continued.
"Allright. I am sure that you are aware, Sir, that Clockworks do not have fingerprints."
Archer nodded but remained silent.
"If you read the reports you will find that no fingerprints have ever been found at any of the crime scenes."
"I think I see what you're getting at, but couldn't the killer have been wearing gloves?"
"Indeed, Sir, but there was one other strange detail that I've noticed."
"Get on with it."
"Right, well, there were no fingerprints, however, there were multiple small black smudges identified at each location."
"What's your point, James?"
"Upon closer examination, it would appear that the smudges were in a fingerprint arrangement."
"So you are convinced that the suspect is a Clockwork?" asked archer with overt skepticism.
"I see it as a distinct possibility, Sir."
"Then you are overlooking one important detail. You know very well that all Clockworks have violence inhibitors, James. It would be physically impossible for any of them to harm another individual, Clockworks included."
"I have not overlooked the issue, Fred. I'm just conjecturing that someone has somehow found a way around it."
Archer gave an exasperated sigh. "See here, James, I trust you, I really do, but you are going to have to bring me something more solid to go on. On that note, I have some good news."
James swallowed his frustration, and asked, "Oh really, Sir? What might that be?"
"There's no need to be surly. It seems there was a witness."
Mulligan almost leapt out of his chair. Archer gave a half-cocked smile.
"A Clockwork by the name of Elisha Devonshire. A cohabitant of the 'deceased'. Says she got a look at our 'killer'."
"That settles it, Fred! I've got to get over to East immediately!"
Archer looked stunned.
"My God, man! Haven't you picked up a papy' today? Seems our friends at the Clockwork Equality Coalition got a little antsy", he said, and tossed a copy of the Early Edition across the desk to the now perplexed Mulligan.
Mulligan began scanning the front page. His eyes brushed over a small picture of a well-dressed younger man next to the headline "MINISTER OF ENERGY, IRONS, PROMISES BRIGHTER FUTURE FOR N.U.K., and quickly jumped past another which read "M.C.A. MAKES NO HEADWAY IN SLAYER CASE" before coming to rest on the larger, bold print sentence:

"BOMB SCARE AT THE SKYPORTS!"
As Reported by Bethany Cromswell

"At approximately 5:25 this morning authorities were notified of a potential explosive device found in a parcel that was registered to be shipped on a passenger craft bound for North. A maintenance crew became suspicious as they were conducting their below decks inspection just prior to departure. 'It looked like any other box we had loaded in the holds', said Maintenace Supervisor, Jeremiah Westerforth, '''cept it was making this strange clicking sound." While HMPD has admitted it was an explosive device they have not released any further information nor has anyone claimed responsibility for the act. We are told that all flights will remain docked until further notice."

"Isn't that just the damnedest bit of timing. Bunch of bloody fools, those 'artie'-lovers."
"Yes. That is an odd coincidence", said James suspiciously.
"Now, James", chided Archer detecting the tone in Mulligan's voice, "we don't need any more wild theories. I will see what I can do from here about getting you out there as soon as possible. Why don't you head on home."



CHAPTER 8
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 13 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?"
"You 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.