The dark shape that filled the far end of the only complete conference room on the pirate skyship oozed dread. Malevolence seemed to
seep
from every single pore of the shadowy form, and the darkness that filled the conference room, cast by harsh electric lights that were hung from the ceiling and walls by copper wires and cheap adhesive tape, was filled with evil.
The man seated across from the dark shape seemed to be utterly unimpressed – an impressive feat for someone who appeared to be roughly fifteen years old. His hair was cherry red and his face was speckled with a fine patina of freckles. His eye – his left was covered by a sleek black eyepatch – was cat green and sparkled with a kind of manic determination. The only hint that he was afraid was a slight tightness in his jaw and the fact his fingers shook as they slowly
clicked
bullets into the chamber of a revolver that sat, cradled in his lap.
"Mr. Sharpe," the figure spoke.
"Comrade, please," Sharpe said, the word sounding at once perfectly natural with his Scottish accent and also utterly unnatural. "We're all Comrades here."
"And yet, you are the one who speaks to me?" The dark shape asked. "They call you Captain Sharpe."
"They?" Sharpe lifted an eyebrow. His lips quirked in a smirk.
"The newspapers," the dark figure said. As if speaking the word made the thing real, a newspaper shimmered to life before the figure. Painted in shades of purple and black and gray, most of it was illegible in the darkened room, save for the headlines: SKY PIRATE, CAPTAIN SHARPE, STRIKES AGAIN!
Sharpe scoffed. "I may lead the Toi in battle, but out of it, we discuss. Debate. Agree." He shrugged, then set the revolver down. "But I guess that kind of thing might seem a bit odd for a Jerry."
The dark figure paused. "How did you-"
"Oh, I know more about you thank you think," Sharpe said, ticking off the points on his fingers. His nails were marked by black oil – worked under the quick, outlining them. "When the Tzarina crushed our comrades in the December revolution, the rumor was her mad priest helped root out every cell. But it wasn't that charlatan, was it?" He grinned. "It was
you
,
Herr
Von Sebottendorf."
The black figure was sitting with perfect stillness. But the malevolence that had oozed from it since the beginning of the conversation had ratcheted up to crackling fury. It was a glare – eyeless and shapeless as it was – that promised snapping bones and marrow sucked through eyesockets. Sharpe spread his hands with a slow smile.
"Our kind don't survive long if we don't know who we're dealing with."
Von Sebottendorf breathed out a slow, hissing sigh. "Very well,
Mister
Sharpe..." The honorific was loaded with enough contempt and hatred to blow a hole in the bulkhead. "We both cordially despise one another. But the enemy of my enemy is my useful tool. And so..." The dark shape inclined its head. "My previous tool failed me. And so, I come to you."
Sharpe drummed his fingers on the counter top. "What do you want and what do you offer?"
The dark shape spread one vague appendage that might have been a hand. A photograph – one that provoked an almost overwhelming wave of relief to Sharpe just by the fact it was a real, physical
thing
, rather than a shapeless
force –
slipped across the table. Sharpe took it and whistled slowly, his thumbs brushing along the edges of the photograph. "That's a Martian Power Unit."
"That it is. My...experts...have disabled the safeguards that prevent any but Tesla or Edison from taking them apart. In that is the promise to shatter the monopoly. What do you think you can do with such a thing, Mister Sharpe?"
Sharpe bit his lower lip. "And in return?"
"In return, all I ask is this." The shadowy figure leaned forward. The darkness rippled and spread backwards, and a face appeared in the dimness, formed from raw purple energies and crackling blackness. It was a face as craggy and ancient as a cliffside, with eyes as deep and black as the darkest of space. Its lips spread into a wide, wicked smile. "Bring. Me. The Martian!"
###
I jerked awake with a cry, my arms flailing out wildly. They slammed into the side of the wall and into Tjen's face. My lover cried out as well, flailed her arms, and tumbled from the bed. The two of us blinked as the lights to the room came on and Oliver Law and his wife and two children came awake as well. Oliver, to his credit, came up swinging – his hands were clasped around one of the cheap bedside lamps that were set next to each bed. He glared around himself while his children scrambled under the covers.
Yalen, meanwhile, snored undisturbed in her mountain of blankets and pillows. As several of the beds weren't being used – as no one, even those who had bought a ticket in steerage, had wanted to share rooms with a negro family and two Barsoomians – she had been able to plunder them with impunity.
I clutched at my chest, gasping. "We're in danger..." I said.
"No shit, white boy!" Ollie snapped, then winced as his wife slapped at his arm. "Sorry, Corrie."
"Shit, shit, shit, shit!" Oliver's son started to shout the word as he flung back the covers. He laughed and then quite down as Oliver scowled at him.
"What happened? Did you hear something?" Corrie asked, her voice soft and subdued as she looked at me. She stood behind her husband, her hand on his shoulder, but I noticed that she hadn't stopped glancing at the door to the room. I rubbed my hands against my face, thumbs working grit out of my eyes. Before I responded, I checked the time on the mantlepiece and groaned as the radium painted hands showed that I had dragged everyone out of bed nearer to midnight than dawn. I sighed and then looked at Tjen, who was rubbing her nose with a somewhat aggrieved expression.
"Sorry, Tjen," I said, softly.
She smiled at me, ever so slightly. "I will forgive you. Your arm, though, I shall not be so quick..."
