Lucid Reality, page 10
The Sierra Madre flew over a gigantic fortress. At first glance it looked to be a classic waterfront pirate fort tourist trap, but as they approached Winston quickly realized those were just facades. Underneath, it was a robust anti-airship defense network.
He hooked a thumb toward the citadel they passed. “Cute. It seems this is the commodore’s way of showing off. He sure does like his guns, don’t he?”
“Like any good pirate king,” Doctor Junker answered. “I believe he’s making sure you, as a first-time guest, understand he’s well-defended and to not mess around.
“Point taken,” Winston muttered.
She smoothed her skirts. “The commodore is a complex man who has many facets,” she continued. “He loves good stories and treasure hunts, too. I suspect that’s why he likes Quentin. To the commodore, he has been like a prized truffle-finding pig.”
Winston frowned at the expression, not recognizing it, but suspected she was referring to some exotic luxury found by a grubby animal that only a rare few actually liked.
Sensing his distaste, Doctor Junker explained. “It means Quentin has sniffed out more than his fair share of profitable opportunities for the commodore without ever realizing it.” A muscle tightened in her jaw as she looked at the professor. It was the first time any form of resentment had crept into her voice.
The Sierra Madre looped below the mist-shrouded equator’s edge of Nova Tortuga, then rolled over to keep orientation as the underside was revealed. Here, the spires of heavy industry came into view, mostly made of gigantic hollow stalagmites rising from, or hanging onto, the underside of the skyland, depending on one’s perspective. These towers of hardened mantle had become wharves and factory towers for processing plants. Dozens of small craft clung to the long shafts of stone that formed the natural sky harbor. Nestled in the center of the tangled formation was Winston’s goal, the fueling depot.
“Not quite the den of debauchery and sin I expected,” he observed as he slowed his speed for the descent into the maze.
“The commodore runs a tight ship,” the professor said, “particularly close to his hotel. Once they rotate over to the dusk up top, things will get more, ahem, lively there,” she said clearing her throat. “A new clientele comes out to work and play then.”
Winston shook his head. “Again, I’m astonished at the rules of a pirate skyland.”
The corners of her mouth rose slightly in amusement. “I’m sure most of those allegedly legitimate tugs and trains are smugglers and blackguards too. Everyone has a side hustle in the Lumina Reaches. Many irons in many fires. As long as people mind their own affairs, Nova Tortuga is like any other skyland in Xiao’s empire. Minus the imperial oppression, of course,” Doctor Junker explained.
Winston snorted. “Despite the open invite from the commodore to the Emperor?”
She shrugged. “He might come someday, but none of his minions would in any official capacity. Why the blindspot? I don’t know. Xiao’s ways are mysterious. As I explained. Relationships out here are complex,” she said.
Winston wondered for the thousandth time just what he had gotten himself into as he guided his tug into the fuel dock.
~
The Sierra Madre was quietly tied up, and the fuel onload began. A decrystallizing scrub was next on her agenda. Her quartet of passengers disembarked quickly and departed for their appointment with the commodore, taking a subway through the skyland to the resort side.
The train was like a string of pearls, each car rotating to align its gravity with every station. It astounded Winston at how honeycombed the skyland was. Every quarter mile, the train stopped and people got on and off just like everywhere else. It was like being in the sprawling skyland city of Metroballus, except for the number and size of weapons people carried.
A crew of Primatoids in full battle armor carrying anti-armor cannons came aboard. No one in Winston’s party put up a fuss, but they decided to change cars. Best to not be on the bullseye if something was about to go down. A few of the other passengers in their car seemed to agree and followed, the rest ignored the crew as nothing more than a common commuting eccentricity.
The subway reached the resort side and aligned itself accordingly then began a long circuit under the casinos and clubs of Nova Tortuga. The passengers became more colorful than dangerous, but as always, appearances were deceiving.
“I’ve taken the liberty to set up emergency appointments at the hotel to get us dressed for tea,” Doctor Junker announced as they neared their destination.
Quentin moaned like a little boy and earned a harsh glare from his sister-in-law.“When we arrive, say nothing and follow me closely. “Her tone brooked no argument. “I will take you where you need to go. Do what they say and meet me in the lobby salon after you are done. It’s very important you play the part without hesitation or reservation. Are we clear?” She favored the mench in her company with a sharp look.
The three nodded.
The Grand Straits Hotel was the subway’s last stop before the return trip back down. The station looked just like all the rest save for a very fancy private lift entrance, complete with doormen and awning. A concierge met them there. “Baron and Lady Junker? You are expected. Please, follow me.” He led them inside the lift.
When the brass doors opened again, Winston’s jaw dropped in astonishment. The Grand’s lobby was a step back into old Earth’s past, turn of the 19th century maybe, he guessed. The staffers were smartly dressed in either elegant black and white or militaristic red jackets and hats that bordered on the comedic. They stood silently in stoic reservation, waiting to serve, or they rushed back and forth with purpose.
Brass and crystal lighting fixtures sparkled above elegant marble checkerboard stone floors. Crimson and gold rugs lay beneath plush velvet furnishings that filled the broad hall in small, intimate arrangements. Bright white walls rose to a high ceiling with an elegant mezzanine. Soft sweet music, plucked from some historical archive, echoed through the beautiful space.
Doctor Junker put a finger to her lips with an expression that would not tolerate disobedience, then straightened up imperiously and marched them quickly through the lobby to minimize any disruption due to their incongruous appearance. She ushered them into a hallway full of various luxury services, from aestheticians and a mech-spa to haberdashers and body shops.
They were appropriately groomed and dressed in record time. Their attendants escorted them to a little salon at the services hallway entrance where Doctor Junker was already waiting for them. Winston glanced down at the unfamiliar clothing and then exchanged uneasy glances with Billy Joe. Even he was cleaned up, his exterior was buffed and polished. Winston rolled his shoulders in discomfort from his new cream and sand-colored suit and grimaced at his reflection in the glass window pane beside him. They certainly now fit their surroundings.
“I feel funny,” the professor complained, tugging at his ascot, fidgeting with his own new suit.
The doctor gently but firmly pulled his hand away and held it down at his side. “I know, but remember you are the Baron now. Not your brother. There are certain expectations of nobility,” she firmly reminded.
Professor Quentin groaned again. “These shoes pinch my toes.”
She patted his arm reassuringly. “You’re just out of practice. You’ve lived for years in unsightly institutional scrubs. You need to build up your tolerance for beautiful, uncomfortable clothing again, ” she reminded him.
“They even combed out my skirt,” Billy Joe whispered to Winston, looking mortified. “I can’t even hear myself moving anymore.”
“Good. You’ve needed that for months. I’m not too crazy about this vintage getup either. I’m wearing wingtips for Xiao’s sake!” Winston said, lifting his new shoe, and shaking it gingerly.
The restriction of motion in his shoulders was driving him crazy. He felt like he needed to flap his arms to get them to sit more comfortably on his frame. His new straw boater hat didn’t feel right either, despite its bespoke fit.
The doctor shot him a frown. “That’s not a sporting cap, and this is not a flight onesie,” she hissed and tugged on his sleeves to adjust the shoulders of Winston’s jacket. She gave his hat a subtle but jaunty tilt then stood back to give him a critical look. “You’re dressed like a proper gentleman for this court. And don’t forget that this is a type of court. The commodore runs this place, and if you make a positive impression on him, you may find him a good friend to have. Just like me and the Baron,” she added, nodding toward her brother-in-law.
“Yes, my lady,” Winston said, sarcastically. Lifting his coattails in a sketch of a curtsey.
She ignored his mockery. “Remember to address me that way from now on,” she continued primly. Giving them one last look-over, she nodded in satisfaction then swept her arm in a grand motion towards the door. “Right then. Would you gentlemench please escort me to tea? We mustn’t keep the commodore waiting.”
18.
A bellman led the quartet to a private gazebo at one end of the grand promenade of the hotel. As they approached, small sailboats could be seen gliding across the lake beyond. A few hundred miles above the skyland, a passing waterburg refracted the daylight, casting a rippling rainbow shadow of magical prismatic billows across the landscape.
The bellman stopped at the entrance to the arbor and stepped to the side while motioning them inside. They passed through the doorway and then paused for a moment to take in their surroundings. Gauzy curtains fluttered in the gentle afternoon breeze, filtering the bright light. Carbon Fiber Wicker furnishings topped with comfortable-looking cushions and throws filled the sheltered space. Upon a thick rug, a gilt-edged table, piled high with all manner of food and drink, took center stage. The Commodore, D. P. Roberts, one-time pirate, now turned business tycoon, stood up from his throne-like chair to greet his four guests.
“Good afternoon, Baron Junker and Lady Amanda! So good to see you again!” he smiled broadly with a bow. The smooth timber of his voice made Winston want to like him without question. A brief bolt of panic struck. Was he using a limbic manipulator on him? Could those devices cause sensations of trust? Did Holly manipulate him this way too? He lost sense of where he was as he fought to get his breathing under control.
Doctor Junker reached her hand out toward their host. “Commodore, it has been a while since we last visited. Thank you for the invitation,” she said as he kissed her pastel yellow satin glove.
Roberts went to the professor next and gave a small bow of respect, then stuck out a firm hand. “My dear, Quentin! Oh, wait. Begging your pardon. Baron Junker, I should say! Glad to have you back among the living!”
The professor started a little at the greeting and then remembered his new status and took the offered hand with enthusiasm. “I suppose I am back among the living! Yes, yes! Glad to be back. I look forward to having more talks again soon, but first I have so much research left to others in my absence to check on,” he gushed, shaking the commodore’s hand with both of his and with even greater enthusiasm.
“I look forward to it,” the commodore said, his delight sounding genuine. He then turned to Winston. “And you must be the pilot who aided Lady Amanda and the Baron. Nahqing proud of you, son. It takes a brave man to stick his neck out for someone like old Professor Q as you did.”
The praise surprised Winston, snapping him back to the present. He shrugged lightly. “Uh… thank you, Commodore,” he said meekly. “It was nothing, really. Something any good person would do.”
“Ha!” the commodore clapped his shoulder heartily. “Then there is an absolute dearth of good people in the Dream. Perhaps old Emperor Xiao has them all in prison? Leaving only scalawags like me to run amok out there!” He blasted out a self-deprecating laugh.
Winston smiled at the bombastic man’s wink. He noted that there was none of the familiar itching in his brain caused by a limbic manipulator. Perhaps this man was just that naturally charismatic? He supposed he must be to earn the title of Commodore. Not to mention have the power to keep it despite his peers who would kill for his place. Winston gave a quiet relieved sigh, unnoticed by their host who had turned to the final member of their party
“I’m sorry to say, I didn’t get your name, son. If you’re part of this captain’s crew, you are most welcome at my table,” the commodore said, giving his hand over to the big indu.
“I go by Billy Joe, sir,” the mechoid answered while shaking the offered hand. “I’m Winston’s loadmaster, mechanic, general handyman and muscle.” He added the last part with a wink.
The commodore burst out with a loud guffaw. “Behind every great pilot is someone who makes it all happen. Am I right?” He gave Billy Joe a chuck on his soft nanosand shoulder.
“Winston and I are a team, sir, so I’d say we got each other’s back,” Billy Joe said, a little puffed with pride.
Commodore Roberts gave him a surprised smile and looked back at Winston. “You got one heck of an indu for a partner, Captain Winston. Purg of a mench. I’d hang on to him for dear life,” and he slapped Billy Joe on the back. Leaning in close, he whispered loud enough for everyone to hear, “Let me know if you’re looking for a bigger opportunity, my good mench.”
“Thank y’all, but no, Commodore. Me and Winston are sticking it out.” Winston bet if Billy Joe had been capable of blushing, he would have been bright red. As it was, his face still managed to convey his embarrassed pleasure.
The commodore shrugged with a large sigh. “My loss, I guess. Assuming I can’t get the pair of you to work for me someday,” he shot them a saucy wink as he walked to his table. “Now, please, have a seat. Let us enjoy the rest of the afternoon together and talk about how you gained your freedom. I must have your first-hand accounts.”
~
The afternoon drifted into twilight and the skyland’s dusk side took hold. From a distance, the sounds of a wild and boisterous night drifted in on the light breeze. The bordellos, casinos and a veritable carnival of other violent amusements re-animated in the growing shade, like vampires venturing out to feed.
Winston and Billy Joe told the commodore a highly edited tale of their escape from the Black Void to the rescue of the Bonavitae clinic till they arrived, keeping the action high and specifics low. The commodore never once challenged or pressed for detail. He listened carefully and occasionally punctuated the tale with enthusiastic encouragement.
“I wonder who was the pirate captain you skunked?” the commodore mused.
“No idea, but I hope to never meet them again, or if I do, I pray that neither of us knows it,” Winston answered.
A red pillbox-capped bellman came to the gazebo steps. He carried a silver tray bearing four sealed envelopes.
“Excuse me, Commodore. A set of messages for you and your party.” The man bowed in apology for his disruption. He was given a nod of permission, and with expert economy, he presented the envelopes to each in their order. One to D. P. Roberts, another addressed to Doctor Junker, the third to Billy Joe and the last to Winston. All were paper pockets, nanofabricated in a closed state so no one could tamper with the contents. There was not even a seal to break. They had to be torn open to read. Each name was printed in fancy calligraphy.
“My, my! Entertaining tales and a mystery!” the commodore said. He gave his envelope a shake next to his ear, hearing something light slide around in the sealed envelope. “How did we come by these?” he asked the bellman.
“They were delivered to the front desk by four different couriers. It seems they arrived from all over Nova Tortuga. One came off the last bulk-freight dirigibles just before she departed,” the bellman replied.
“So curious. Scanned?” The commodore asked his employee, giving the envelope a sniff.
“Absolutely, Commodore. No threats found.”
“Then that will be all,” the commodore dismissed the man with a wave. The bellman clicked his heels and walked briskly down the brightly lit promenade, tipping his hat to a couple taking in the evening air, and disappeared back inside.
Once alone, the commodore looked to Lady Amanda and pointed his nose towards the package in her hand. “Would you care to open yours first, my Lady?”
She tapped it a few times to settle the smaller message onto one end then tore open the opposite side. She gave it a little shake to dislodge the delicate note and a card-sized piece of translucent paper fell into her palm. It was covered with dots and small lines with a crosshair mark on a corner. The professor leaned over from his place beside her and looked curiously at the patterns printed on it.
“Is it a code?” the commodore asked, tearing his open to find the same size sheet with similar dots and hash marks on his.
“I’ve no idea,” the professor mused. “It’s not any system of language, code, or pictogram I’ve seen before.”
Winston pulled out his card made of the same translucent paper. All the patterns were unique, but in the lower corner of his message was a large black square about the size of his thumb and the words “Touch me” beneath it.
“Mine says the same, Hoss,” Billy Joe said, holding his up.
Billy Joe touched the square, and some of the markings began to glow, but nothing else.
Winston did the same but nothing happened. “Could mine be broken?” he wondered aloud.
“I do not understand,” the commodore stroked the corners of his mustache in contemplation.
Everyone puzzled over the strange papers. Only Billy Joe managed to cause the square on his piece to glow.
“Ah hah!” Lady Amanda suddenly clapped her hands. “It’s not a code, it’s a circuit for something else! Give me your papers,” she commanded, collecting the squares and piling them on top of one another. “It’s a printable circuit. One square is a power input, the other must be authentication.”
For a few minutes, she worked to align the pieces of paper. She tried a variety of patterns until the cards fanned out at precise angles and the alignment crosshairs matched. The effect revealed what looked like a chip design and memory circuits.
