BOOK EIGHT - !METH¡
CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN
- “LIFTOFF!”
Transport trucks with the Arbatax logo
are transferring cylinders of supercondensed methane
into the boneship while Turpin, Rateyes,
Broonzy, wait anxiously on the deck with
“Next stop…” Rats laughs, wild-eyed, “
“Cheapest on the market,” growls Broonzy,
his voice still a froom and kackle
croak from the wound now hidden under a bright yellow scarf. It reminds Turpin of Gargareeva
– and the rent that is due… again…
“Then throw me another bottle,” Tony coughs. “Guess you gotta do
what you gotta do.
Just gimme some ale… I gotta
disappear, I'm gonna go with a bottle in my hand and
a kack between my lips!”
“You’ve got plenty in the office. Just hold off on the kackle
till we’re up… you’ll blow us to bits all yourself.”
A uniformed teamster manifests, hands papers to Turp, who scans them, hands them over to Rats. The gambler scribbles his signature at the
bottom of the page and the dank retrieves them with a salute, a jammin’ salute! This reminds Turpin that Arbatax
has been said to have Regency shurts on his payroll…
moonlighters, as the old term goes.
The risk that he’s taking at Tony’s is trifling compared to what
might have happened if Arbatax had taken his
disclosures the wrong way…
”Ready to rock!” Rats gloats once the rent-a-shurt
has gone. He places a shaky hand on the
throttle, starting to push it forward… three… two… one…
Lights on board dim, flare up and dim again, a rumbling from the
engine deck and the deck vibrates, sending unsecured junk crashing to the
floor. Tony's dogs, whining, cover eyes with paws until the shaking ceases.
Tony and Quaia clink bottles.
“Dee naa mee,
man,” Tony exalts – forgetting that he might be blown to atoms in the next
minute. “Didn't think you could pull it
off… c'mon jamesonians, gotta
get off this rock!”
“Don't hang in
“Ma!” the aggrieved yoot hollers back…
Through the great bay window of the boneship,
they watch Tony, Quaia and the knafes
retreat to what they naively believe might be a safe space behind the office… Rateyes sinks into the captain's chair with a satisfied,
yet worried sigh, looking helplessly from Broonzy and
Turpin towards his teenaged navigator.
“What the johanna do I do now?” Rats
throws his hands off.
“Give the qube orders for
liftoff! That one…” Marina points to the
newly stickered buttons on the boner’s ancient keyboard, “and that one. We've got my course programmed for the ilaam, then
Reassured now, Rats straightens – assumes an attitude of
command. “All right… all right!
Lift the jam off!”
He’s still swaggering when Broonzy throws
more throttles, so
Leaning against the office, Quaia
unhooks her false leg and waves it like a victor’s club at the keefters… a trinity, now, a shadow against the dull red
glow of stolid Dhubaaht.
go
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