Time was not on Arin's side. Not with his family and not with his mission. After far too many unplanned encounters aboard the Ariana, it was only a matter of time before one of the guards woke up or someone discovered them. And when that happened, reinforcements would arrive long before the Smoking Guild could plunder the airship and escape with the Soulfuel.
As if that wasn't bad enough, something far more concerning had caught his eye. Climbing the ladder toward the bridge, Arin had paused briefly to peer through a small hatch. Outside, the once drunken, singing and lazing soldiers were back at their posts. Their backs were straight, weapons firmly in hand, and all signs of revelry erased. Which couldn't be worse for Erik, since part of the entire raid hinged on those soldiers remaining incapacitated by the Festival of the Metallic.
Something had happened out there. And somehow Arin had the feeling, it would come back to bite them. Or him specifically…
Clenching his teeth, Arin climbed faster, the rungs cold and biting against his fingers. Gripping with the wounded wrist hurt like hell, yet there was no time to complain. He reached the top and carefully pushed the hatch open. The bridge access was quiet and deserted.
He could see the reinforced door to the command deck ahead. They were close.
He climbed through the hatch and waited for the Stubborn to follow. When his doppelganger emerged, it was clear he wasn't faring well either. The lower half of his mask had been ripped away, saturated with too much blood to be usable. His face was pale and grim, his breathing labored even though he seemed like it didn't bother him too much.
Still, things were not exactly going according to plan.
The Stubborn's expression darkened as he caught Arin's eye. "Don't look at me like that. This is your responsibility."
Arin frowned. "How is the state of this mission my doing?"
The Stubborn pointed at Arin's injured wrist, then at his own bloodied cheek. "You make the decisions about how we proceed. Not me."
Arin stayed silent, his jaw tightening. "Mayia doesn't want us to turn into thugs or–"
"That's your choice," the Stubborn interrupted, shaking his head.
Arin didn't respond, exhaling the growing frustration. Instead, he slung his pack from his shoulders, opened it, and pulled out two signal flares Erik had given him. He tossed them to the Stubborn.
"Once the cannon is disabled, light these. The Cold should also be done by now… or dead."
But probably the former. Although Arin didn't know what would happen if one of his Incarnations died, he was fairly certain he'd feel it somehow.
Before stepping toward the bridge door, he paused and glanced back at the Stubborn. "Don't stand near the gas pipes when you light the flares."
"Do you think I'm an idiot?" the Stubborn snapped.
"No," Arin said as he turned back to the door. "But I might be one."
The bridge door opened smoothly, no resistance from the heavy metal hinges. Arin peered through the narrow gap. Inside was a control room filled with levers, gauges, and switches, illuminated by dim orange lighting. A massive panoramic window dominated the far wall, providing a sweeping view of the airship's deck and the platforms of the Sky Port beyond.
Now that the door was open, Arin heard voices inside.
He turned sharply, signaling the Stubborn to stay quiet. The Stubborn responded with his own hand motion. Arin squinted, baffled by the gesture, unable to decipher its meaning. He made a face that meant something along the lines of: What the hell are you saying?
His Incarnation answered with the left middle finger.
With a silent sigh, Arin refocused on the door and prepared for whatever lay beyond.
But as he looked closer, he realized it wasn't a person speaking but merely their voice. In the corner, hidden in the shadows of the machineries, stood a brass phonograph, its needle trembling over a rotating wax cylinder. A voice crackled faintly from the horn, interrupted by the uneven rhythm of the aging mechanics.
Making sure everything else was clear, Arin stepped in and went to the device. The table on which it rested looked uneven, as though it had just been adjusted. Tiny, matte splinters from the wax cylinder lay scattered across its surface, not yet mingled with the dust of the machinery. His fingers brushed lightly over them. The material was soft, crumbling easily under his touch.
This message had been recorded here, perhaps only minutes ago. And from it came the faint creak of the phonograph accompanied the brittle voice, which now sounded clearer:
"…for the Rust Priestess, servant of the Metallic. May the Forge cleanse my soul."
Arin furrowed his brows. That was probably the captain speaking, who else would record a message on the commando bridge. And it seemed like the message was meant for a priestess of the Steamchurch.
He continued listening.
"I have carried the crest of the Fox with honor. Lord Askar entrusted me with the Ariana, and I have repaid that trust with unwavering loyalty. Yet, the Metallic cannot be forgotten, so I ensured my men honored his feast. I allowed them their indulgence in their faith. For even the strongest steel must bow to the flame... but Lord Askar does not recognize this."
The voice hesitated, as though it were battling against some unseen force. When it resumed, it was softer, laced with a hint of torment.
"What he asks of me now… I cannot bear it. The Forge teaches us that creation must have a purpose, that the machine must turn for the betterment of all. But this… this is no creation. It is a blemish, a black mark on the heart of the Maker. The priests speak of tools for mankind's salvation, but this cargo… it is no tool."
Arin's hand clenched around his stiletto. The captain just mentioned the cargo. The Soulfuel…
Right?
"I am forbidden to speak of it. My oath to Lord Askar is a cage of steel and chains. Yet, Priestess, my dreams burn with fire and ash. The cargo… it whispers. Not just in words, but in feelings. In my very Soul. It is as if it knows me, as if it watches me."
What in the Sky King's name is this ship carrying?
"What Lord Askar plans goes beyond the ambitions of human projects. It is an affront to the sacred machines. To us. To humanity itself. How am I, a faithful servant of the Metallic, to endure such treachery? Forgive me for betraying my Lord, but I fear not the punishment of men, but the wrath of the Ever-Turning Gears themselves."
The mechanical hum of the phonograph grew louder before the needle clicked, sliding back into place. The voice fell silent.
Arin leaned back into the shadows. The message wasn't even directed at him yet he could still hear his heart pounding.
Whispering? Watching? He wanted to dismiss the captain's words as paranoia, the fears of a man too entangled in his faith. But the certainty in his voice told him something else.
Something is wrong with this ship.
Arin was jolted from his thoughts as the door swung open and the Stubborn stormed in. He dragged something behind him, dumping it unceremoniously at Arin's feet.
"Found this one in the lavatory."
Arin looked down at the unconscious man. It took a few moments for him to jump back to reality. He sighed.
"That's the captain."
So, they had a stroke of luck after all. But then he raised an eyebrow. "You jumped a man while he was taking a shit?"
"I waited until he was finished."
"Ah, I see..."
Did that make it better?
Arin suddenly felt the urge to laugh. Not because of the captain, but because this whole mission was turning out to be much worse than even he thought it could be.
"Stubborn," he said, turning to the bridge mechanisms.
"Hm?"
"I'm pretty sure we're not going to find Soulfuel here."
The Stubborn took a step forward. "Why do you think so?"
Arin shook his head.
"The creations of humans don't scare us that easily. But I guess we're just like him," he said, looking down at the captain, "scared, and with no other choice."
Who knew? Maybe what they found here would be even better than Soulfuel. What was wrong with a little wishful thinking? Retreat was no longer an option.
As Arin searched for the cannon mechanism, he said:
"Give the signal."