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At first everything was fine. The first sight of Northern Agreement territory the crew saw was of sunlit, clear skies. They didn’t see another ship for a few hours, and by the time they did it was clear they were near the front of the pack. Their gamble had paid off.
When they saw Serecar, the southernmost city of the Agreement, everyone knew there wasn’t long to go. Spirits sored, and the temptation to break out the drinks early built. There was a niggling thought at the back of everyone’s mind though, and that soon became reality.
For the Wistful Spirit nothing was ever easy.
The first sign was the noise from the engine. The deep, guttural groan made everyone stop and turn. It rattled from the bowls of the ship and made the cooling pipes shake. It was like the cry of a wounded beast, and heralded a cloud of black smoke belching out of the Spirit’s exhaust.
The second sign, not more than half an hour after that, came in the form of large purple lettering. The Lord Arthur was sprawled across the side of last year’s winning ship and drew the eye of everyone on the ship. Underneath was a large mural of a woman blowing a kiss, her long red hair just slipping out of a tight bun. They had a clear hour lead, and were increasing the gap faster than the Spirit could manage.
And the third sign, and maybe worse of all, was just after that. A shadow spotted half a day out behind them and following their course directly. For anyone with half a sense of combat, it was clear it was a pursuing ship. What they wanted was anyone’s guess, but they’d been skilful enough to hide their presence this far.
All the happiness and sunshine flooded out of the spirits bridge. The curse had struck again, and it was crunch time.
Decisions had to be made.
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“If we’re going to win this blasted race, we can’t afford any more breaks. Especially not with pursuers on our tail. We must press on.” Archie informed the captain, along with any other members of the crew willing to stop and listen to his latest ramblings. “Naturally, this is impossible. Our supplies are stretched to their limits, and we will never endure without stopping to replenish our stocks.”
“Or!” Here, Archie dramatically stuck his arm up in the air, finger pointed upward for emphasis. “So any second-rate quartermaster you’d find on any of these other ships might advise you! Fortunately you have the brilliant Archibald Remington as your ship’s doctor, and I have found ingenious solutions to our supply issues.”
“First, the fuel problem.” Archie kicked a covered bucket he’d brought with him for this speech. It made an unpleasant sloshing sound. “As you are no doubt aware, lack of appreciation for my culinary genius means that most of the crew declined to partake in my cloudsquid surprise, leaving most of it to go to waste. But waste it shall not be! Mildly decayed cloudsquid, properly cooked… as this was, I assure you… is highly combustible, making it an adequate supplement to our existing fuel stores, sufficient to carry us forward.”
“But wait, I hear you say!” No one had said anything. Archie pressed on. “Professor Remington, your genius has solved our fuel problems, but what of our dwindling food supplies? Well, never you fear! You see, as a happy accident, my alternative cloudsquid fuel produces a dense, pungent ash as a byproduct. An ash which, it turns out, is edible if somewhat bitter in flavor.” This would prove to be an understatement. “I have devised a sort of netting which will capture this ash as it exits our engine. It can be used to supplement morning porridge and stretch our food supplies further. Even better, this ash will promote dense, thick phlegm, fortifying our intellects for the trials ahead.”
“I shall deploy the netting immediately.” Archie said, already climbing onto the deck. “I shall be above if you wish to give me any accolades for once again saving us with my ingenuity.”
Zephyr wrinkled her nose. Archie’s cloutsquid or whatever he’d called it might have worked as fuel, but ‘pungent’ didn’t even begin to describe the cacophony of smells that was wafting out of the engine room. She hoped Sasha hadn’t fainted from the fumes in there. At least it seemed to be keeping them ahead of that pursuing shadow.
It wasn’t going to be a fun confrontation. The letter from Dances in Daytime had been an offer of alliance, and it was a wonder they’d been bold enough to send a formal representative. It wasn’t illegal by any means, but it was definitely frowned upon. On the other hand, she hadn’t wanted to openly decline because that would mark them as enemies and who would want enemies during their first race?
Unfortunately, it seemed like inaction wasn’t an appropriate solution either. The fact that they weren’t just trying to chase the Spirit down but were keeping to the shadows boded poorly. Zephyr doubted they were going to give her a second chance with that offer of alliance.
Best to keep their guard up, and she’d mentioned as much to her gunner and pilot. If it came to a confrontation, at least they would be ready.
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