Coggler's Brood (Work in Progress)

Chapter 14

We didn't need the life rafts. We escaped from the wrecked trader the same way we arrived—on the end of ropes.

We cut away as much of the trader's superstructure as we could, to clear the way for our passage, and climbed back onto the boarding ropes, now also laden with loot.

As the Shonti Bloom's gas cells re-inflated with the stolen gas, her descent slowed and the remains of the trader fell away from us. Once again we were dangling on the end of ropes below the Shonti Bloom's battered hull.

I swear, as the crew pulled us aboard, I heard the distant 'whump' of the abandoned Quatro Rose smashing into the ground.

The raid was not a total waste: we escaped with our lives, our loses were few, and our wounds light. We did take a fair proportion of the small arms and ammunition, but we lost the trader, lost all the cannon, and sustained serious damage to the Shonti's hull and propellers. The latter being virtually useless.

Anabella declared the raid a success, but to my way of thinking, the damage to the Shonti far outweighed our gains. The raid was dangerous, reckless, and unwarranted. On my own, I would never have taken on such a risky venture. To me, the whole enterprise was a disaster. Anabella, however, seemed delighted with our results.

We limp our way to the Reaver hive of Scrapeton, home of Doyles, and step ashore.

"You are under arrest" I've heard this litany far too often recently. A squad of security support the burley sergeant-at-arms who has just declared our new status. They hold us at gunpoint.

Anabella sticks her nose in the air as if she's detects a bad smell while handing her weapons to the sergeant. "Not forgiven yet then?"

The sergeant grunts and holds out a hand for my weapons.

I dutifully hand him the knife, my only visible weapon, and open my coat for inspection.

A cursory glance and another grunt. "The boss is waiting" And we move out, surrounded by the armed squad. I thought they might at least find one, maybe two, of my hidden knives, but they don't even look. The vials of liquid Trent entrusted me to deliver are still safely locked in my cabin—I will hand them to no one, except Papa Doyle himself.

Anabella also escapes a weapons search. It may be my imagination, but I could swear the guards are keeping their distance. They seem a lot happier pointing their rifles at me than her. There's definitely an air of familiarity.

Scrapeton, the largest hive I have yet encountered, is impressive. A massive central home ship, surrounded by leaser home ships, each supported by no less than five blimps. Here, Anabella assures me, we will pick up the trail of Papa Doyle.

Aboard the Shonti, tried to engage her in conversation about the place, but the nearer we approached the more withdrawn she became, an emotion I have not seen Ms Steenkamph display before.

As we are marched along now, I lean into Anabella. "Don't forget to ask about Papa Doyle," I murmur.

She glances around quickly, checking if our escorts have heard. "Shush, that name can get you killed around here. I'll make inquires when I get the opportunity. Stay close, and trust me."

As if I would trust her, but I will stay close and follow her lead.

We are taken to a cavernous hall deep in the heart of the hive. Floor to ceiling glass windows, composed of small leaded panes of glass, overlook an indoor valley: layer upon layer of tall narrow terraced houses, connected by streets and long flights of steps, climb the inside walls of a great hull. Through the highest windows I can make out sky. This hive has no upper deck.