I submitted this to a short story contest a few weeks ago. It takes place on a world I built a decade or so ago with obsessive dedication (What Brandon Sanderson refers to as “Worldbuilder’s Disease”).
Grimble leaned out the ramp of the Thopter, watching the glittering city skim by below. “Hang on!” He bellowed into the cabin. Through a porthole, Haken watched the Kasmiran citizens on the streets below as they went about their early evening routine. The lean craft lurched into a descent, following the waterfall cascading down from the city walls. Rena was already hooked up and prepared for the drop, raven hair twisted in a bun, serene and still. Borodo was another matter. Haken glanced at the unkempt mage, hair gyrating about in the turbulent air. Borodo the Dodo, that was what the rest of the Quint called him. Fumbling with the drop line, a single bird flopped about in its chest harness in a restless mirror of his master’s unease.
Haken felt the nerves come, as he knew they would. His first training operation with the Quint after graduating a month before from the Academy. Haken hooked his own drop line and made sure it was clear and untangled. The Thopter hugged the curves of the river, through a canyon that rose steeply on either side. Shepherds on the ridgelines watched in alarm as the craft swept past, spooking their flocks.
“Two minutes,” Grimble yelled. He gestured for Rena to help the nervous mage get situated. Next to him, Fat Piski did a last check of his weaponry, touching his handlebar mustache between grasping each armament. Must be some kind of pre-mission ritual.
Unbidden, the final words in the Charge Book from the man who bore number 573 before him swam into his mind. Be careful what you wish for. Haken always wondered what he meant. Before he knew it, the coastline flashed by below, and they were over the bay. Close. He felt the Thopter slow, the front nosing upward as the wings changed their pattern of fevered thrashing. The water seemed to rush up, and there it was, the jagged oval of rotting timber, run aground on the rocks. Mistress of the Deep. An old Kasmiran light freighter cursed with a drunken captain. Now the Fifty Score used it for a training site.
The Thopter jockey put the tail ramp over the main deck of the vessel, sending loose items spinning overboard in the gust. Grimble motioned with the “go” signal and Rena threw herself outward, line trailing behind her as she dove. Next came Piski, and the Armsman exited with a competence suggested by the gray hairs in his mustache. Haken watched as Dodo bumbled forward, smacked into the side of the Thopter, half jumped, and half fell out. Haken following, grinning to himself. After a slight drop, he used a gloved hand to arrest his progress on the drop line by bringing it towards his chest. He landed on the deck and detached, making a beeline for the stairs leading down into the ship.
Above them, the junior Thopter jockey let loose a fire bellows at a straw-filled target dummy on the masthead, enveloping it in flames. On the main deck, a trio of observers stood out of the way—Foley, one of the training score instructors and two others who were quite unexpected. The first was their Squadron Commander, Ser Rathas Cantrell. The other figure Haken had only seen from a distance. The Minister of Roses, intelligence chief of the Kasmiran Empire, a woman of fearsome reputation. Haken glimpsed Grimble cast an annoyed glance towards the trio as he pulled a blunderbuss from its holster. Rena was ready to go, as always, hands full of knives, while Dodo fumbled with his bird. A hatch stood open, inviting them to plumb the sunken secrets of the decks below.
Haken took the lead down the stairs, crossbow in hand, with Fat Piski close behind. He felt a rush of air as Munir, Dodo’s bird, swept past, turning right at the bottom. Hearing nothing, he burst out into the passageway to the left, while Piski covered the right, shotgun booming at something. Haken found a wooden bullseye target waiting for him and sent a bolt twanging into its center. Deeper and deeper, down into the depths of the cargo hold. Under water now. Another target, another bolt. Reload on the move. Rena hurled a knife over his shoulder, hitting a training dummy.
“We’re close — Munir can see it. Next compartment, but a trap in the doorway,” Dodo called from the back, lost in bird sight. “One training instructor and the objective. No targets.”
Haken continued forward. He might have found the tripwire on his own, but then again, maybe not. Munir was flapping and squawking in an effort to distract the man holding the reins of the goat — a training score cadre named Kirska. He pricked the goat in several places with a small dagger and receded back to the wall to observe. The animal bleated in fear and pain. Haken cleared the rest of the room as Rena moved to the goat. Dodo retrieved his bird. A dark opening stood waist high on the wall to their left.
The training cadre duo hovered near the opening to the stairwell, speaking in quiet tones with the Ministry of Roses and the Squadron Commander. “Good time so far, Nimble,” Kirska called, squinting down at the filigreed steel timepiece held in his hand.
“Yeah, yeah,” Grimble muttered. To Rena, “How fast can you get this meat sack ready to move?”
Her hands were a bloody blur- trimming the skin back, diving into the wounds, pinching here, stanching there. Packing bandages at the damage sites with a practiced efficiency. Haken helped keep the animal from thrashing too much as she worked. They’d already rolled the animal onto a leathery sheet. “Two minutes.”
“It’s always two fucking minutes,” he replied.
A scrabble of claws on stone, and Haken swiveled his head to look. The first dog erupted from the tunnel, barreling straight at them. One hundred pounds of lean muscle aimed towards the smell of blood. Piski stepped out and gave a sweeping slash with his broadsword, severing tendons and sending the beast careening into a wall. The next two canines darted from the tunnel but pulled up short, questing the damp air with their snouts.
Dodo stared intently, chanting softly as he painted the air with one hand. The dogs turned, baring fangs, and circled one another warily.
“Time’s up,” Grimble said, grabbing the handholds on the leather stretcher and lifting the beast to his shoulder. “Standard extract profile.” Haken took point, while Rena stayed with Grimble to check on the goat’s health. Dodo kept the dogs fighting and Piski brought up the rear.
They ascended the stairs. The training cadre and the dignitaries were already on the main deck. Watching and judging, as always. Grimble set the goat down and Rena reassessed its life signs. Piski fired a shotgun shell skyward, where it burst into a colorful smoke pattern. In the distance, they observed the Thopter turn inbound towards the shipwreck.
In scant seconds the craft descended, until the tail end squatted on the side of the moldering ship. The Quint crammed in and the observers came as well. The craft took a normal flight pattern back, well over the River Kasmira. Haken waved to the city watch on the wall as they passed overhead, and the guards rendered arms in a show of respect for the returning Scoremen. There were more than a few Academy dropouts among their number. The Thopter landed on the grassy field outside Squadron Headquarters. Everyone bundled out of the cabin. Foley knelt down and pressed his hand to the goat’s side. The rest stood around in a ragged semicircle.
“Still drawing breath,” he reported.
“Time. Seventeen minutes and twenty-seven seconds.” Kirska said. “New course record, Grimble.”
The senior of the two Thopter jockeys, a hulking man by the name of Lenko, came out of the craft to join their group. The junior jockey remained inside. Sabra something or other.
“Anything you saw?”
Foley and Kirska exchanged a look. “Nothing major—Dodo needs a little practice on his rope descent,” Foley replied. “And I’m not happy about the dog.”
“Muzzle it next time. What did you expect me to do, sweet talk it?”
“It costs to train those beasts. That’s all I’m saying, Nimble.”
“Anything else?” Grimble examined his fingernails, intent on finding dirt.
Kirska looked down. “Naw, that’s about it, Chief. Clean run, mostly. I think—”
“Thank you, gents. Lenko, appreciate your work this afternoon. Perhaps we’ll see you out on the avenue?”
The Thopter jockey nodded. “Jaded Concubine until closing. Good music tonight.”
“Save me some Pyrish whiskey.”
Lenko grunted and lumbered back to the Thopter.
Rena and Dodo hustled off with the goat. There was a Cleric of Chroth on duty in the compound infirmary who could restore the animal back to full health. The beast would still have memories of the event, however. The mysteries couldn’t pray those away.
“Chief Grimble,” The Minister of Roses approached the group with Ser Rathas at her side. Her silver hair was braided and coiled, a long cloak fell from her shoulders. She regarded them with eyes pale and intense. “A word.”
“May I bring my Spyrian?”
The Minister gave a slight nod, so Haken walked over. As the intelligence specialist of the Quint, he usually had a lot to do with new missions. Well, he was supposed to once he got his bearings. No time like the present.
"Good work, Grimble," Rathas said, clasping a hand on his shoulder. "I can see a Score Commander spot in your future. I'm not privy to what comes next. No one will have the details but the Council of Ministers and your Quint."
"Thank you, sir. A pleasure to serve."
Ser Rathas walked off, and Haken wondered how much of this was normal.
“I needed to watch your Quint in action personally to ensure you were ready for this.” She handed Grimble a palm-sized cylinder. “New tasking. Under the Imperial Secrets law three subsection nine, the Empire may—”
Grimble gazed at her. “What does it say?”
He handed the cylinder to Haken, who inspected it with unrestrained awe. A Missive Codex. Haken had learned about them at the Academy, never seen one for real. Covered in exotic jewels outside, a three-digit code of numbers swiveled around the cylinder. To open it, the code had to be perfectly dialed as you pushed a button on one end. If you were right, the other end opened, and you could read your message. If you were wrong, poisoned needles lanced out, and an acid inside destroyed the message.
A curt head shake. “Read it for yourself.”
“Code?” Haken asked.
The Minister smiled. “571.” Grimble’s score number. Every time a Fifty Score member retired, they passed their number to their replacement. With the number came a Charge Book full of advice from every man and woman who ever wore the number.
Grimble allowed Haken to put in the code on the cylinder and grabbed it once it was safely open. He scowled down at the page as he made sense of the orders. Finally, he let out a whistle. “Civil war, eh?”
“The situation in the Senate is…. tenuous.”
Grimble produced a spark from a striker and kindled it until the document burst into flames. While it burned, he used the paper to light a cigar. “Empress wants to set her sandbox on fire, who am I to get in her way?”
“I assure you—”
Grimble blew a stream of smoke into the deepening dusk. “It’s fine. It’s what we do. Location don’t much matter.” He glanced at Haken. “Ready for your first real mission, new meat?”
Haken smiled as tendrils of unease snaked into his belly. Be careful what you wish for.
Ornithopters in Dune 2!!!
This was pretty damn entertaining!