The Nautiloid

The Pentecost was a gilded palace. A play-place for the wealthy and the powerful. It was ornate, luxurious and rich wherever you looked. But just like all palaces, beyond the surface level, the finery began to fade away. There were massive, sweaty engine rooms where steam refineries belched and choked; the walls covered in oil and dripping condensation. There were miles of piping, twisting serpent-like through the ship. There were hidden corners and crannies where the rich surface fell away and the true nature of the ship was felt.

The captain’s dock was one such place. Located near the aft of the ship, far away from anything that should ever be seen by any guest if the ship wasn’t currently in the process of exploding, it traded the ornate, decorated walls, the brass exterior, the clicking clockwork and cogs for simplicity. It was bare, unadorned and functional above all else.

The dock consisted of a large room; a metal hatch was wedged closed across the floor. Suspended above it, the yacht hung in the air via a tethered metal claw that closed around its sides. A set of stairs led to the one entrance and a bank of levers and controls was set into the far wall, manned by gleaming metal automatons.

This was the last hope of the captain when things were bleak. A ship within a ship which could be launched, darting away as its parent suffered whatever fate had necessitated its launch.

Though, the cynic in Richard noted that with the size of the yacht, it clearly wasn’t intended to carry the passengers as well. Or even most of the crew.

The yacht was squat, bullet-shaped. It had little pretence and even less time for finery. Every part of it was made for one purpose only, and that was to survive when everything else was going to hell. The thing was sturdy, rugged. It could take a beating and keep on working. It looked like some of the navy ships that Richard had served on in the past, though on a much smaller scale.

He instantly liked the pugnacious little thing. It looked like something he could trust his life to.

“I am sorry, sir,” spoke one of the automatons. It turned to him, walking across the berth with a jerky, awkward motion. “This area is restricted. Please return to the publicly open section of the ship or I will have to inform the captain.”

“I don’t think so,” Richard flashed the ring. “Captain isn’t here. I’m in charge now.”

The machine was silent for a handful of seconds.

“Override accepted. Awaiting orders.”

“That’s what I thought you’d say. Get the yacht ready to launch.”

“The Nautiloid will be prepared.”

The machine moved back towards the banks. Several others began to work in eerie unison with it as they readied the ship. Not a single one of them asked about the new orders.

“Nautiloid, eh? I guess the captain is a romantic.”

Richard glanced towards Kara, or at least, towards where she was being carried. After last night, she had been spent in more ways than one and had had to retreat back into her crate and into the machine within it. Even now, it was fucking her. If he listened closely, he could hear her faint moans and gasps, the ghostly memory of her fingers against his bare skin made his hair stand on end.

The crate was being carried by another automaton. Not a Conqueror this time. He’d thought about that, but who would have missed a damn war machine roaming the halls? No, it was a bulk-loader. A cargo hauler for the wealthy. It moved on four pointed feet, its central body was a gleaming metal chassis attached to which there were two massive, clawed arms. The head was slender, almost comically small. It consisted of a simple mechanical eye on a stalk which wove back and forth with a sinuous, serpentine motion.

He gestured to it and then pointed to the lifeboat.

“Get her loaded up. I’ll be there in a minute, I just need to check the machines.”

He could have let the automatons do it. They were programmed to, after all. But Richard wouldn’t have been Richard if he was willing to just sit back and trust his survival to a bunch of machines. They parted for him as he approached the controls, running a critical eye over what he was working with.

The controls were newer than what he was used to working with. He didn’t recognise absolutely everything, but he was sure that he recognised enough. Yeah, yeah, yeah, it was all flooding back. He knew exactly what to do-

A shiver ran across his back. A sense that something was watching him. It was there and gone in a flash. Barely an instant, really. But he hadn’t lived so long ignoring his instincts.

Richard’s hand fell to the man-stopper, he half turned, scanning the room.

“You can come out,” he growled. “I know you’re there.”

No one did. There was absolute silence but for the hissing of steam and the clicking of machines.

“You’re not fooling me,” Richard spoke again. “I know you’re there. This is a game you’ve already lost. Why don’t you just come out and tell me who you are?”

“Impressive, Mister Gearheart.”

The voice came from the shadow of one of the doors which led to the berth. It was rich, deep, full in timbre. A vague shape detached from the rest of the darkness, growing larger as it approached the room proper.

It was a man and he loomed. The guy looked like someone had decided to build a human to three times the usual scale. His suit - finely tailored, very proper - bulged with the contortions of his muscles. He looked like he’d shred the thing at any moment.

“You,” Richard said slowly. “Are a big guy.”

“I have heard that before,” spoke the giant. “My name is Mister Pump.”

“Unfortunate name.”

“Indeed, and I have heard every joke about it already so please spare me whatever you are thinking. How did you know I was here, by the way? I made no sound”

“You were too quiet,” Richard said. “There wasn’t even background sound. And the shadow you were hiding in was too black. Artificial. You were blocking whatever small amount of light there should have been.”

“Really?” The figure sounded doubtful.

“Believe me or don’t,” Richard shrugged. “I figured someone was there. And I was right. You’re here for Kara?”

“You have to ask?”

“I have to be sure,” Richard said. “I wouldn’t want to gun down an innocent man.”

“Oh, Mister Gearheart. You were doing so very well up until that point. I am afraid that will do you little good. And you won’t be leaving here alive