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15. Assassin

November 10, 2009

“It is not, as you say, an attempt to bypass your authority on this ship, Mr. McCoy!” Remora hurried to keep up with Hank’s long, loping strides.

“CAPTAIN McCoy!” he roared in reply.

Remora bit back an aggravated sigh. “With all due respect, Captain, you are being childish,” she began as he reached the foot of the pipe ladder leading up to the surface. He paused, one hand on a rung, and glared back at her. “Well, you are!” she protested. “It’s only a cook, not a pilot! Furthermore, he’s quite a good cook. I daresay he makes the most marvelous pancakes you’ll ever eat, and his muffins border on the divine! We need to eat, and I see no reason for us to dither about with tinned atrocities when we could have fresh pastries for breakfast! Do, be reasonable.”

McCoy lifted a hand, pointing a finger at her, his face furious. His mouth worked once or twice as he searched for the right words to say. “No, and that is my final say in the matter. Any person on this ship is part of my crew, present company excluded, and I’ll not have you adding cooks and hairdressers and clowns and seamstresses ad nauseam. No. Should you wish more elegant dining than that which you’ll find in a can, I recommend either staying home or learning to cook.”

With that, the infuriating man turned and climbed up the ladder, leaving her to splutter alone in the hallway.

Remora took a deep breath and counted to three before starting up the ladder herself. The heels of her boots slipped dangerously on the copper rungs and her petticoats, though drastically less than formal wear dictated, still threatened to catch on her toe and send her sprawling. She could only imagine what a sight she might have been for anyone standing below, as she scrambled and stumbled her way up the ladder after the now-disappearing boots of Captain Hank McCoy.

Rejoinder in mind, her shoulders barely cleared the portal when the ship lurched once, throwing her sharply against the bulkhead. The mouth of the portcap dug deeply into her back and she inhaled sharply against the pain, dropping back below the surface, only her grip on the pipe ladder saving her from a nasty tumble back down to the hall below.

A stream of fat bubbles, glistening in the sunlight, sailed dolorously past the round mouth of the portcap overhead. Outlined neatly against the blue sky, she clearly saw the liquid payload carried by each bubble. An assassin then, and an attempt that very nearly succeeded. Had the ship not bucked, she would have been in the bubbles’ path, and also in the path of whatever liquid weaponry they carried. An explosive? A corrosive? A tracking agent? Impossible to know without popping the bubble to find out.

She felt like stomping her foot. She did not have time for this nonsense!

“Stay down, Miss Price!” shouted McCoy from above, unseen. “There’s a gunman aboard!”

The sound of gunfire followed, interrupting her acidic reply. Did the man think her an infant, to not notice the danger? Another platoon of fat bubbles sailed overhead, reminding her of who she should really be irritated with.

“Here now, assassin!” she shouted. “It was a good attempt, but you’ve quite failed to kill me. Do just leave. I’ll not come back abovedecks while you’re there.”

“You KNOW this person?” shouted Hank, incredulous. “He’s here for you? What’s he after?”

“I can hardly fathom as how I should be said to be acquainted with every person who makes an attempt on my life, McCoy! As to his goals, I can only imagine they’re the same as all the others. My death puts the bulk of the Price fortune up for grabs among the other Price family branches. Shall I come out and draw you a diagram, or could we perhaps discuss this at a later date, and under more favorable conditions?”

Another staccato blast of gunfire, and she heard McCoy hiss in pain. “Daniel?” she called out, concerned. “Daniel, have you been hit?”

Silence. She bit her lip. Should she go up? No, certainly she would only present a better target. Still, she couldn’t simply dangle from the ladder and do nothing!

A grinning face appeared, framed by the sky through the porthole. A man, face shaded by a broad-brimmed hat and a mechanical monocle over one eye. One of the Nurati, then. Hired killer, but not the most expensive clan. He pulled an alchemist’s gun from out of sight and pointed it at her, the liquid reservoir on the top sloshing visibly. Nearly empty, then, but she was in no position to dodge even a slow bubble.

A flash of light against metal slammed into the gunman’s side and the Nurati’s face disappeared from the porthole. Hastily, she climbed out to see Bones, brown duster jacket billowing like a sail in the wind and outlining his thin, mechanical skeleton. The Nurati’s gun was gone, presumably knocked from his hand. The killer took a swing at the ticker’s face.

Remora winced at the painful thud it made as it connected. Bones’ broad-brimmed hat sailed away, revealing a gleaming, polished copper dome of a head. The Nurati took one look at him and fled nimbly across the ship’s hull, making good speed toward the dock and the crowd of alarmed onlookers.

Calmly, Bones reached to his shoulder, detached his arm, and hefted it like a spear at the gunman’s back. The two collided and collapsed into the murky waters of the bay.

Well, that was one less thing to worry about.

Remora looked around, spying the seated form of McCoy leaned against the backside of a nearby bulkhead. Blackened circles peppered the facing wood where the bubbles had collided.

“Daniel?” she called out. Silence. “Daniel, if you’ve allowed yourself to be killed by that second-rate assassin, I daresay I shall never let you forget it!”

“I believe,” he drawled, and she felt a disconcerting jolt of relief at hearing his voice, “I mentioned my dislike of you calling me by that name. Although I find it credible that you could be annoying enough to haunt a dead man.”

She snorted and shaded her eyes, looking to the crowd. “You there!” she called out, waving down the closest person standing amidst her belongings. The short man startled, and pointed to himself questioningly. “Yes, you! One of my companions has thrown his arm into the bay. Do be a good fellow and swim down to retrieve it for him?”

The man’s eyes grew wide. “M-m-me? Begging your pardon, miss. I’m just a cook!”

She frowned. “You can swim, can’t you?”

“Well, yes’m, but-”

“Ah, good, then it’s all settled.” She dusted her hands over her skirts, only just then remembering that she had a gun in her pocket, which she could have used while the Nurati leered down at her and brought his weapon to bear. Cheeks warming, she thought perhaps she might leave that particular detail out of her chronicle of the day’s events.