2. New Opportunities

Remora marveled at the thick carpet of dust dulling the edges of the Rusted Spark’s products. It took years of neglect to accumulate this much build-up. What sort of cogsmithing shop took such poor care of its goods? The glass storefront had been so covered in grime that she’d barely been able to make out the vague shapes of shelving units inside.

Jinn followed her with unexpected grace for such a large man, weaving his way through the overloaded shelves, red eyes alert for danger.

Aside from the imminent possibility of a dust avalanche, Remora didn’t expect any danger. No one knew she was here. To be more specific, no one knew that Lady Remora Windgates Price was here. Remora Gates, head of the Gates Foundation, however? She could walk the city streets freely. Remora had set up the alias months ago. She couldn’t remember the last time she had felt so unencumbered, free of the weight of the prestigious Price surname.

Still, she had hired Jinn to be her bodyguard. She could hardly ask him to stay back on the ship while she gallivanted down pirate city streets, shopping for cog­smith­ing equipment.

She leaned down to examine a shallow bin of parts. Those couldn’t really be self-sealing stembolts, could they? And there, beside them—was that a jigowatt converter cell? Why would such valuable stock be left loose, as if they were no more precious than peanuts or teabags?

“Excuse me, but we’re closed.” A woman’s voice, raised.

Remora reached a hand into the bin, pulling out a stembolt to peer at critically. “Your sign said you were open,” she remarked without turning.

“I haven’t had time to turn off the sign yet. I’m going to have to ask you to leave now.”

“Don’t worry about her, Serena.” A familiar voice, deep and a little rough around the edges. Remora’s heart sank and she spun, clutching the grimy stembolt to her chest.

The captain of the Miraj sat on the near side of the counter, a strange woman frowning at her from the other side. What in the name of the dawnstar was he doing here? Guilty heat flushed her cheeks.

“She’s with me,” Hank admitted, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

Remora frowned. “You needn’t sound so depressed when you say that.”

Hank lifted an eyebrow. “Is that so? Why, it seems like only moments ago that I extracted a promise from you that you would stay aboard the ship. The memory is so crisp and fresh, yet here you are.” Hank paused for effect. “Surely, it must have been a dream.”

Remora coughed, eyes downcast. “Yes, well, I didn’t think you’d be gone this long.” The rough edges of the bolt in her hand reminded her why she was here and she lifted the part triumphantly. “Aha! Had you not demanded I leave all of my trunks at our last departure, I should not find myself in dire need of cogsmithing materials.”

“Ah, so you breaking your promise is my fault, is it?” he asked, lifting an eyebrow.

Her cheeks burned. “Yes.” She bit her lip. “Mostly.” Drat. Why did he have to be in the one cogsmithing shop in all of Terrapin Isle? She’d hoped to complete her business and rejoin the Miraj before he returned, with he none the wiser. Besides, his intent was that she stay out of trouble and his way, right? So, it wasn’t truly breaking a promise if she’d intended to stay as far away from both the captain and trouble as possible, right?

Hank rolled his eyes. “Of course it . . . it . . .” His voice slurred. “I don’t feel . . . right.” Brow furrowed, the turned to the pretty woman seated behind the bar. “Did you . . . is this . . . poison?”

The woman pursed her lips apologetically. “Yes it is.” He reached an unsteady hand to her, and she gave a sad little smile. “Good night, Hank.”

Hank’s eyes rolled back and he fell forward, torso draped across the counter.

Remora winced. That fall was not going to help his injured shoulder.

Remora eyed the counter, noticing the drink and glasses. Had he truly been poisoned as simply as that? Just what sort of captain had she hired?

“I don’t suppose you’d believe this was all just an accident?” the woman asked, raising her hand into view and pointing a full alchemist gun at Remora. Jinn slid smoothly between Remora and the unwavering gun, one hand lowered to the hilt of the weapon at his side.

“Did McCoy owe you money, too?” Remora asked, curious. Just how many enemies did “Handsome” Hank McCoy have? This journey was going to become very tedious indeed if she was required to deal with his debts at every port.

The woman’s lips parted with open confusion and she lowered the gun slightly.

Before she could reply, the storefront window at the front of the shop shattered. A shockingly dirty man waved an alchemist gun at each of them, arm swinging wildly. “Nobody move! McCoy’s coming with me!”

At this considerably more alarming threat, Jinn pushed Remora back so that she stood out of the path of both guns.

So fast that she almost missed it, the Shinra’ere unsheathed his weapon with one upward swing from his hips. The weapon was incredible. She’d never seen anything like it. It might be called a sword based on general design, but in truth it looked like a tall metal C on a stick. A red energy arc sizzled between the two contact points of the C to form the blade. A fat yellow tassel dangled from the end of the knobbed hilt—the same tassel, she now remembered, which typically dangled at Jinn’s side.

“A Tesla sword?” gasped the woman at the counter. Serena, Hank had called her.

The man at the front whirled, gun outstretched. “I said, nobody—”

Jinn dipped the nose of the sword in a threatening gesture and the man lifted his hand to block the move. The same hand, it might be noted, which held the alchemist gun.

Volatile alchemist chamber and energy arc collided and the gun exploded directly in the man’s face. Jinn moved to block her view of the resulting carnage. Averting her eyes, Remora grimaced at the wet sound the man’s body made as it fell to the floor.

“Jinn. That showed undue haste on your part. We did not truly know why the man was here. He said something about McCoy.”

Jinn flicked his wrist and the red energy arc vanished, thrumming sound silenced. “My apologies, Remora. I did not expect him to thrust an explosive chemical into the energy stream.”

Remora stepped forward and patted him on his black-wrapped forearm. “I understand, but I must ask that you be more careful in the future. We mustn’t go around killing people. Some assassin clans are less businesslike than others and take it personally.”

“Understood.”

Remora smiled at him approvingly and the woman at the counter cleared her throat. Remora peered at her, lifting an eyebrow.

The woman’s eyes never left the weapon in Jinn’s hands. “That is an arcblade, isn’t it? Could I . . . could I see it?”

Jinn paused. “I am curious to know how you recognize my sword well enough to name it.”

“I repaired one, years ago. An old Shinra’dor brought it to me. He said it had been his brother’s.” The woman shook her head, voice awed. “I never thought I’d see a Tesla sword in use, and in the hands of a Shinra’ere, no less!”

Jinn dipped his head in a small token of respect. “You must be a talented cogsmith, for him to have come to you. However, I cannot let you handle my arcblade while you yet hold a weapon against my mistress.”

The woman blinked at the gun in her hands as if she’d forgotten she held it. Immediately, she pushed it out of reach, shaking her head. “As if it’d do me any good against a trained Shinra warrior.”

Remora cleared her throat, gesturing at Hank’s prone form. “Please tell me my captain is still alive? I realize he can be irritating, but I do need his services. I am Remora, by the way.” Good heavens, she’d lost all sense of propriety, to have taken so long to introduce herself. Still, she was understandably flustered by strange, dirty man on the floor. He really had chosen an incredibly messy death. Remora herself hoped for something with a touch more elegance when she died. More elegance and less blood, preferably.

“I’m Serena, owner of this shop. Hank’s alive. His bounty is bigger if he’s alive than it is if he’s dead.” She looked wistfully down at Hank. “I don’t suppose I could talk you into letting me keep him?”

“Pleased to meet you, Serena.” Remora gave a polite shake of her head. “I am sorry, but I truly do need Mr. McCoy.” She frowned down at the back of his head, hoping he could feel her disapproval even from his coma. “I did not realize he was a wanted man, though. What is the nature of his bounty?”

Serena waved a hand in a vague and graceful gesture. “He must have stolen something important over at one of the bigger skycities. Bespin, I think it was. They want him pretty bad and weren’t terribly specific on whether or not he needed to be breathing when they got him. Things have been pretty rough here lately, and if Hank’s gotten sloppy enough to get caught in that kind of net, I figured I might as well be the one to profit from it. He’s charming as hell, but a girl’s gotta eat.”

Remora frowned. Perplexing, that McCoy had not mentioned his bounty when he learned that Bespin was their first destination. What had he stolen?

Her eye fell on the muddy boot of the unknown man. “I suppose collecting the bounty was his goal, as well, given that he named McCoy specifically.”

Serena nodded though her eyes were drawn continually to Jinn’s arcblade, as if she found it difficult to concentrate on the discussion.

Remora sighed. “Troublesome.” This situation could easily become detrimental to her goals. She couldn’t very well fight an army of both assassins and would-be bounty hunters every time they visited a port. She had plans.

Certainly, she could afford to pay this Serena person the bounty money, but she could hardly pay off everyone who might wish to collect on him. Besides, spending that much money at once would attract far more attention than she preferred. It might damage her anonymity. Truly, adventuring should not be this . . . inconvenient!

“I believe now would be an appropriate time to say something unladylike,” Remora announced.