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“To Catch the Lightning” by Royce Day (part 1 of 2)

Today’s story is the first of two parts of "To Catch the Lightning" by Royce Day, which will soon be available in Armoured Fox Press' upcoming Swordmasters anthology, edited by Tarl Hoch. Read for you by Khaki, your faithful fireside companion.
Transcript
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You’re listening to The Voice of Dog.

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I’m Khaki, your faithful fireside companion,

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and Today’s story is the first of two parts of

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"To Catch the Lightning"

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by Royce Day, which will soon be available in Armoured Fox Press' upcoming

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Swordmasters anthology,

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edited by Tarl Hoch

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“To Catch the Lightning”

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by Royce Day (part 1 of 2)

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“Don’t hold that up to your muzzle,”

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Becca advised. “We’ll look like tourists.”

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Feyd’s ears flicked back in embarrassment,

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and he pulled the kerchief back down from his muzzle to rest loosely around his throat once again.

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Not that the vixen could blame the younger foxen male. Klippenhaffen was a typical Gerwart industrial port city:

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busy, crowded, and covered with a black cloak of coal dust from the nearby factories.

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The ‘warties around her

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seemed to take no notice of it, but even Becca could barely keep herself from sneezing every five paces

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as they walked up the street

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towards the warehouse district.

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Feyd shook his head,

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triangular ears flattening to his scalp.

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“How can they stand it here?”

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he asked. “You can’t smell anything except the dust in your snout.”

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The sandy-furred male was eight years younger than Becca’s own thirty years,

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but despite his youth

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he’d proven a capable lieutenant in her command.

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Which was why she’d brought him along on this mission for their patron,

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Countess Longlake.

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“It’s Gerwart,” Becca said,

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gesturing with her sword paw towards the factories belching dark clouds from their smokestacks

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on the edge of town.

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“They’ll put up with anything so long as it’s declared ‘Progress’.”

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She fought the urge to start rubbing at her own black and white fur,

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which would be soon black and grey if they stayed out in the open for more than the afternoon.

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“They’ll bury themselves in an early grave from breathing in this stuff,”

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Feyd replied. After a moment he added,

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“I wish I had my sword.”

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“It would hardly fit with our current outfits,”

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Becca noted. “Though I’ll admit I’m feeling pretty naked myself.”

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They were both dressed as Mother Country sailors,

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in tough canvas pants,

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heavy linen shirts,

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and kerchiefs at their necks,

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not the bright uniforms of Countess Longlake’s personal guard.

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Swords would definitely be out of place,

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though Becca and Feyd

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both wore long utilitarian knives at their belts,

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and Becca held tight to a thick, wooden cane.

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They dodged out of the street

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and onto the crowded sidewalk as an overloaded steam cart

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puffed down the road towards the docks,

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the brakeman cursing as it went down the steep slope.

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The crowd seemed to take little notice of it beyond stepping out of the way.

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Becca tried to imagine the carnage that would occur if the driver and brakeman lost control of the cart

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and it was allowed to barrel down the street unimpeded.

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A Mother Country countess would never allow something that dangerous,

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but would instead build a more expensive but safer funicular railway from the warehouse district

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to the wharves jutting out into the harbor.

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Progress. They turned at an intersection at the top of the hill,

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following the line of bars, banks, outfitters, and other shops that catered to both the sailors that visited the city

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and the workers who tended the warehouses in this district.

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Becca reviewed the map of the town she’d memorized on the voyage from the Mother Country,

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counting storefronts until they reached a small tavern

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marked with a snarling grass chaser on its signboard.

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Stepping inside revealed a common room that was crowded with sailors and workers from several seafaring nations,

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the air smoky from the oil lamps on the walls.

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Beside her Feyd sneezed,

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and Becca felt her eyes begin to water.

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“Where is he?” Feyd whispered desperately into her ear.

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“Patience,” Becca whispered back.

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She flagged down the bartender and purchased beers for them both.

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Grabbing the tankards,

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she guided Feyd casually toward the back of the room,

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as if looking for an empty table.

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Finally she found what she was looking for:

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a small table occupied by a single foxen male,

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with deep red fur and wearing a pince nez clipped to his muzzle,

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sitting alone and looking nervous.

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“Mind if we sit here?” she asked in Gerwart.

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“I am sorry, no,

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I am waiting for…for friends,” he replied.

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His tail curled nervously around his knees,

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a leather satchel stuffed with papers resting in his lap.

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He was dressed in commoner garb, but his accent was obviously educated,

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and there were small white spots from chemical burns dotting the fur of his arms and paws,

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hinting at his true background.

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“That would be us,”

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Becca replied, sitting down and motioning for Feyd to do as well.

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“I am Swordmaster Beccalian Blacksailor,

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and this is my lieutenant, Feydian Cliptoe.

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We are agents for the Countess Longlake of the Mother Country Council

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of Countesses. You are Scholar Mond-Gaffer?”

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“Yes,” the male replied.

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His eyes darted up and down,

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examining their carefully common appearance.

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“You don’t look like a swordmaster.”

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“If I did, I’d be standing out a lot more than you would want me to at the moment,”

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Becca replied calmly.

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“I’m in disguise, the same as you.

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Were you followed at all?”

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“I… I don’t believe so,”

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Mond-Gaffer said. “As far as the Science Ministry knows,

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I’m attending a conference in Eisenstadt.

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I even had one of my students purchase the train ticket for Klippenhaffen.”

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“So at least one person knows where you were really going?”

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Feyd asked in concern.

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“No, no,” Mond-Gaffer said quickly.

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“I told them it was for my aunt.

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I bought the ticket for Eisenstadt myself just before I got on the train to Kilppenhaffen.”

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Becca felt some of her concern ease.

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Despite his hesitant manner,

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Mond-Gaffer wasn’t quite so starry-eyed as his name suggested.

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“That was well done, Scholar.

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Now we are all going to finish our beers,

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and then you’re going to take a nice, relaxed walk with us

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down the docks to start a lovely sea voyage to the MC,

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understood?” “Oh, no. Not yet!”

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Mond-Gaffer exclaimed.

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“We have to get the prototype from the warehouse.

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We absolutely cannot leave without it.”

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“Prototype? What prototype?”

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Becca demanded. “The prototype of the galvanic generator,”

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he said. “I couldn’t just leave it at the university;

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that would mean someone else could examine it and duplicate my work,

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even without my research notes.”

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He patted the satchel protectively.

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“So I had it shipped here ahead for my arrival.

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I told the university chancellor I was sending it to the conference instead.”

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Beside her, Feyd’s jaw dropped open.

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“So you had someone ship it all the way here,

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when it and you are expected in Eisenstadt?”

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He turned to Becca.

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“Swordmaster, the scholar here going missing might just be a case of him being a bit lost.

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Both of them being misplaced

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is going to set off somebody’s alarm bells.”

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And there’s going to be paperwork showing where it went.

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Mother Goddess bless us all, Becca thought in aggravation.

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“How large is this prototype, Scholar Mond-Gaffer?”

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She was hoping it was something the size of a trunk.

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Two sailors carrying a trunk down the street to the docks, with its owner following them, would hardly attract notice.

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“Oh, not very large. Just the size of a pair of shipping flats,” he replied affably.

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Which would mean they’d need a steam cart to haul it back to the ship, she realized.

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“That’s too big. We’ll have to destroy it,”

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Becca told him. “Destroy it, are you mad?

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It is my life’s work!”

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Mond-Gaffer exclaimed,

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his tail lashing in fury.

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“Oh, you are just like those idiots in the War Ministry,

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who only care about making bigger and better explosives. I thought

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the MC would be different!”

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“Keep your damned voice down,”

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Becca hissed. “All right,

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we’ll figure something out. Just take us to it.”

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Scholar Mond-Gaffer

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nodded and stood up, almost losing his balance as the satchel’s weighty contents

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made him lean to one side.

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Feyd stood and grabbed the scholar’s arm to steady him,

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and together the three of them headed back out into the street and toward a nearby warehouse.

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By the time they reached it,

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the sky was turning a burnt orange color as the lowering sun’s rays

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hit the perpetual smoke cloud hanging over the city.

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“What did you put on the manifest when you had it shipped here?”

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Becca asked as they approached.

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“Copper wiring, industrial magnets, lead plates, and sulphuric acid,” Mond-Gaffer replied.

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“It is all correct. I just failed to mention what configuration they are in.”

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“Cute,” Feyd muttered,

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while Becca wondered what such a bizarre combination of items could be used for.

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“Feyd, find a steam cart we can use to haul Herr Scholar’s prototype back to the ship,”

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Becca ordered. “Why do you think I can just conjure up a steam cart in the middle of an enemy city this late in the afternoon?”

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he asked. “Because you are my lieutenant, and you’d rather die than fail me,”

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Becca answered with a smile.

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“This is true, swordmaster,”

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he admitted sheepishly.

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He gave her a smart salute

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and turned smartly on one footpad,

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flagging down a nearby longshorefolk to get directions to the nearest livery rental.

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After a brief negotiation with the warehouse clerk,

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involving a maddening delay while Mond-Gaffer dug through his satchel for the right paperwork,

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and they were brought before a large crate as tall as Becca,

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five arms long and half as wide.

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“How much does this thing weigh?” Becca asked the scholar. “The lead plates and the magnets are the heaviest components,” he told her. “No more than seven-hundred pounds, I think.”

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Becca took a deep,

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calming breath and leaned on her cane.

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“Mother Goddess bless us all,”

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she muttered. An hour later,

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a deep puffing noise from outside the warehouse heralded the return of Feyd,

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hanging on the running board of a large cargo steam cart,

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complete with driver, brakeman, and engineer tending the puffing coal boiler

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mounted between the driver’s cab

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and the cargo area.

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To Becca’s suppressed horror

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they drove it straight inside, heedless of the burning coals being expelled towards the rafters.

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If it’d been an alcohol-fueled engine like a Mother Country design,

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she wouldn’t have been as worried.

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This thing could set the whole warehouse on fire

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if a spark landed in the right spot.

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Progress. After that it was just a matter of getting the pallet into the cargo bed,

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a task aided by a winch connected to the cart’s steam engine,

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which hauled it aboard

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in less than ten minutes.

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Becca felt herself relax slightly.

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If they could get this blasted cart down the hill and through the town without running over anyone, all they’d have to do

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is load the pallet aboard the waiting ship and they could

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be on their merry way.

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A commotion from the direction of the warehouse manager’s office

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made Becca take firm hold of her cane

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and motion for Feyd to stay close to Mond-Gaffer’s side.

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Four officers in the uniform of the local constabulary were approaching,

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the warehouse manager trailing behind worriedly.

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“Scholar Mond-Gaffer?”

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the lead constable called out.

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“You and your companions are under arrest, at the order of the Ministry of State Security.” “Wha-wha

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-what?” Mond-Gaffer stuttered. “I

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-I have never heard of anything so… So outrageous! I am merely retrieving my prototype after it was accidentally shipped here instead of to the conference.”

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Becca tried not to applaud his quick thinking,

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even as she let her expression slacken from alarm to annoyance,

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suitable for a sailor finding herself stuck

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in an unexpected complication.

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“‘ere now. We not with him,”

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she said in Gerwart, making sure her accent was broken and barely understandable.

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“We were told to just bring his crate back to the ship.”

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“That will be sorted out by State Sec,”

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the constable said firmly,

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letting his paw drop to the truncheon at his hip. “Now disarm yourselves and come with us.”

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“Becca?” Feyd asked urgently.

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“Follow my lead,” she advised in the Mother Tongue.

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Becca reached over with her left paw,

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awkwardly undoing the buckle of her knife sheath

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and letting it drop to the ground,

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and a moment later Feyd followed suit.

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“Your cane as well, please,” the constable ordered. “All right, all right,” Becca groused.

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She leaned over to set the cane on the ground,

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her paw reaching out to the side of the steam cart as if to steady herself.

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She felt a flash of heat on her paw pad, and she let out a loud cry as if burnt,

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swaying dangerously on her “good” leg.

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The second constable,

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Mother Goddess bless him,

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rushed forward as if to catch her.

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Which was when Becca pressed a button on the handle of her cane,

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sending the heavy, spring loaded sheath directly into the second constable’s leg,

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as the sword hidden inside it was revealed.

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She heard a sharp crack as the sheath hit,

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breaking the poor fellow’s ankle

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and sending him tumbling to the ground.

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“Flats only!” Becca shouted to Feyd,

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as he dove to the ground and rolled, coming back up to his feet with both of their knives unsheathed in his paws.

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She rushed forward,

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bringing up the sword toward the lead constable.

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He waved his truncheon at her,

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the shorter club briefly parrying Becca’s sword,

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until she pivoted the blade in her paw and flipped the truncheon free of his grip.

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She spun the blade,

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slashing the blunt edge towards the constable’s head.

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Panicking, he tried to parry it with his forearm,

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and she heard a second nasty crack as it broke against her steel.

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As he doubled over in pain,

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clutching wounded arm,

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she brought the handle of the sword cane smartly down on the back of his head,

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knocking him to the floor unconscious.

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She scanned the room for more opponents,

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to find that the third constable was unconscious but breathing,

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lying slumped against one of the wheels of the steam cart,

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while the fourth was disarmed and pinned against a pillar,

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with one of Feyd’s knives at his throat.

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Becca turned her attention to the crew of the steam cart,

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who exchanged brief looks with each other and then raised their arms in surrender.

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Well this has gone completely to shit, she thought.

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She waggled her sword cane at the crew.

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“Thank you, could you all come down from the cart please? That’s very good.

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Now if you could do me the great favor of picking up the constables and carrying them with you?

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That’s it, excellent.”

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With the crew’s paws occupied and out of mischief

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carrying the unconscious constables,

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she started herding the group toward the warehouse supervisor’s office.

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Speaking of which…

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“Feyd, did you see which way the warehouse supervisor went?”

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she demanded, kneeling down to grab the cane’s sheath and cover its blade.

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“Sorry, no. He scarpered while I was dealing with my half of the constables,”

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Feyd admitted apologetically.

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“Which means we have two or three minutes at best before reinforcements arrive,”

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she replied. “Help me secure our innocent bystanders and get ready to move.”

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Together they finished herding everyone into the supervisor’s office,

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setting the locking bar in place.

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It wouldn’t hold with a determined effort at ramming,

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but by the time the steam cart’s crew got around to that, they’d be long gone.

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Becca hopped up onto the driver’s bench.

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“Feyd, do you know how to work the boiler?”

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“I can,” Mond-Gaffer spoke up unexpectedly.

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He’d been quiet ever since the fight had started,

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standing out of the way and clutching his precious satchel of papers.

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“I helped my father with the coal boilers at the factory he worked in.”

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“Get us going then,”

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Becca ordered. “Feyd, open the doors.”

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Mond-Gaffer nodded,

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handing over his satchel to Becca to secure beside her on the bench.

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Feyd hurried over to the door and pushed them open,

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hopping onto the running board again as Mond-Gaffer opened valves and the steam cart rumbled forward onto the street.

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Becca blew the whistle to get the crowd on the street out of the way

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as they headed toward the steep hill

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leading to the docks.

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She only glanced behind her once as she heard a loud whistle

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and saw a phalanx of at least a dozen uniformed constables

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rushing toward them from about three blocks back.

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“More steam, Scholar!”

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she called out. He nodded

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and opened up a valve.

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The boiler’s pistons chugged faster

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and the cart picked up speed,

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whistle blaring as they skidded around a corner

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and onto the main boulevard.

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It was a straight,

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and very steep run to the docks,

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the early evening streets filled with males, vixens, and cubs.

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“Brakes!” Becca shouted to Feyd as the steam cart rattled down the hill,

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the unsecured crate slamming into the front of the cargo bed.

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Feyd pulled back hard on the brake lever,

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and the steam cart’s wheels shrieked as it skidded across the cobblestones,

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the crowd parting like a wave in front of them

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as Becca repeatedly sounded the whistle.

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The back end of the cart fishtailed

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and bounced over the edge of the sidewalk,

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smashing through a fruit seller’s stall before she regained control

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and straightened out their plummet.

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They slid another hundred arms

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and then the street finally began to flatten out.

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At Becca’s order,

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Feyd managed to slow them down to a brisk walking pace,

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the hubs of the cart’s wooden wheels smoking where the brake pads had dug in.

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“Well, at least we left pursuit behind,” he said,

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laughing in the same barely constrained hysterical relief

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that Becca was feeling.

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“I just hope no one stops us for that slide down the hill,” she replied,

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guiding them toward the front gate of the docks.

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“I do not believe we struck anyone on the way down, so they should not,”

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Mond-Gaffer replied with a shrug.

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“It is not an uncommon occurrence in this city.”

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“I will take your word for it,” Becca replied.

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Progress. She guided the steam cart through the dock gate, turning towards the pier where the Windskimmer was docked.

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Windskimmer’s captain,

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an aged vixen with gray speckles decorating her black fur,

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came down the ship’s gangway toward them as the steam cart screeched to a halt.

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“Swordmaster, what’s going on?”

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she demanded. “There were complications,”

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Becca said. “Please

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take this crate aboard and make ready to set sail.

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I think we have perhaps ten minutes before the local constabulary

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catches up with us. Scholar Mond-Gaffer,

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kindly follow the captain aboard and find a safe spot for yourself.”

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“Cold and Dark,” the captain cursed.

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“Mr. Hotclaw, bring up the boilers to full steam!”

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She ran back up the gangway, continuing to shout orders.

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With shouts and curses the ship’s crew made ready to cast off

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as a team of sailors nimbly ran back down to the crate,

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the ship’s cargo crane pivoting slowly to hang over it

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and allow them to attached cables to the four corners.

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“Feyd, grab our proper blades and bring them back here,”

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Becca ordered. As her lieutenant ran up onto the ship, she turned to the scholar.

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“Scholar Mond-Gaffer, you should get aboard,” Becca told him.

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“I will in one moment,”

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the scholar replied, looking at her closely.

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“I first wish to ask a question of you.”

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“Fine. Ask your question, then please get aboard,” Becca said

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with ill-concealed impatience.

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“The constables who tried to stop us at the warehouse.

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When you attacked them,

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you ordered your companion to use the flats of his blades.

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Would it not have been more prudent to strike killing blows?

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Otherwise they might have overwhelmed you.”

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Becca looked back at him sharply.

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“Would you have preferred that?”

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He shook his head.

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“They are my countrymen.

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I hold my nation’s leaders in contempt

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—its people I have no argument with.

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Most simply wish to live their lives in peace.”

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“Then you answer your own question,”

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Becca said. “Those constables were males and vixens coming to arrest, and I will admit to this,

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enemy spies acting against their nation.

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They have families who are expecting them to come home this evening.

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Better to use the flats of our blades than have some poor husband or wife have to answer the door

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and receive the news their spouse has been murdered.”

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Mond-Gaffer blinked in surprise. “Hmm.

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I have been told that Mother Country swordmasters are fearsome warriors, who cut down their enemies without pity.”

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“Warriors, certainly.

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If someone comes after me with lethal intent, I’ll kill them without a qualm.

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Police officers armed with truncheons

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don’t qualify,” Becca replied without rancor.

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Feyd returned, panting slightly.

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“Your sword,” he said, bowing deeply,

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the naked blade resting on his upturned palms.

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“Thank you, Feyd,” she said,

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taking it up in her own palm.

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It was not a fancy thing.

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The pattern upon the blade resembled that of flowing water, but she knew that was an artifact of the manufacturing process,

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not artistic choice.

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The hilt was especially shaped to fit her palm,

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as with all swordmaster-quality weapons,

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but the design upon it was a simple cross-hatch pattern,

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just there to improve her grip.

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She gave it an experimental twirl between her fingers,

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the careful balance making it seem

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as light as air. “Do you see this, Scholar?”

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she asked. “Yes,” he replied.

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“It seems such a simple thing.”

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“It’s a weapon. It is only a weapon. Feyd’s

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knife can be used to cut meat, or a male’s throat.

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The cane I carried before could ease an old vixen’s gait, or bash someone’s temple in.

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A sword, though…” She sheathed the blade through a ring hanging from her belt.

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“Has only one purpose:

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to kill. When I draw it with intent,

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it is because I wish another person dead.

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Someone as beloved in the eyes of the Mother Goddess as myself,

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perhaps more so.” Mond-Gaffer cocked his ears towards her in curiosity.

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“You sound as if you do not like your profession.”

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“I do not pretend it is anything but what it is:

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government-accepted murder,”

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Becca replied. “I am Military Caste, Scholar.

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That means I was born to serve others,

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and that service requires that I be prepared to kill.

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But I take no pleasure in it,

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and will avoid it whenever possible.

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That is the only difference between myself and an armed thug.”

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She gestured toward the ship. “Now would you please get aboard?”

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“Yes, swordmaster.” He turned

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and looked up the gangplank, as if pondering the wisdom of taking this last,

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irrevocable step,

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crossing into Mother Country territory

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and refuting his Gerwart citizenship.

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Then Mond-Gaffer gave a firm nod

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and headed up the gangway,

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his satchel of papers held tightly under his arm.

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“You’re in a philosophical mood,” Feyd noted

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as the scholar was escorted into the forecastle.

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“The last time I heard that little speech was when you were training me.”

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“I get that way when I have to explain my job to idiots,”

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Becca replied, grinning.

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Feyd grinned back,

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but then their attention was drawn to a growing commotion towards the main gate.

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“Draw?” Feyd asked, as the Windskimmer’s crew hurried to finish securing the cables around the precious crate.

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“Hold,” Becca ordered

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as an omnibus steamed up,

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screeching to a halt and disgorging a baker’s dozen soldiers armed with rifles,

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in the black uniforms of Gerwart’s dreaded Ministry of State Security.

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Becca and Feyd kept themselves

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between the soldiers and the steam cart,

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where the sailors had finally finished securing the last of the cables to the crate.

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A black-furred vixen,

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an officer by the gold braid hanging from her right shoulder and a pepperbox pistol at her belt,

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shouted at them in the Mother Tongue.

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“Halt! You vill disarm yourselves und surrender,

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for aiding a traitor to ze Gerwart nation,

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Scholar Mond-Gaffer!”

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“Draw?” Feyd asked again,

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his tone growing urgent.

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“Hold,” Becca repeated firmly.

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To the officer she stated,

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“There are no citizens of Gerwart aboard this ship;

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only beloved subjects of the Mother Country.”

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“Who are you to say zis?”

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the officer demanded.

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“Swordmaster Beccalian Blacksailor,”

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Becca answered in Gerwart.

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“Now allow us to leave peacefully, and you will not be harmed.”

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“I think you are overconfident.”

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Despite the officer’s words,

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some of her soldiers were looking at Becca and her lieutenant with a bit more respect, and perhaps a little fear.

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There was a shout from the ship,

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and the crane began winching Mond-Gaffer’s precious crate into the air,

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the sailors who’d attached the cables hanging onto them as they were carried along with it.

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Becca grinned. “I think we just won.”

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“Stop them!” the officer shouted in Gerwart. “Take the ship!”

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“Draw and roll!” Becca ordered.

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As one she and Feyd leaped forward, tucking and rolling as bullets from the soldiers’ rifles

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whizzed above them.

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They came to their feet simultaneously and drew their swords,

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in the middle of the pack of black clad soldiers, too close to be shot at

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unless one of the State Security agents wanted to risk shooting their own comrades in the melee.

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Becca’s blade plunged into the belly of a soldier,

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then in one smooth motion she turned,

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her left elbow smashing a second soldier in the muzzle as she withdrew her blade

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and slashed the throat of a third.

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A shot rang out, deafening her briefly as a bullet nicked her ear,

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and she pivoted, striking the shooter in the face with the pommel of her blade.

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He staggered backwards,

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tumbling off the edge of the dock with a high-pitched scream. “Wilhelm!”

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the officer shouted,

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drawing her pepperbox to raise it toward Becca,

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too far for the swordmaster to close the distance

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before the Gerwart could fire all four barrels.

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“Die, you murderous Mother Country lunatic!”

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That was when Feyd’s blade emerged from the officer’s belly,

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as he rammed its tip into her back.

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He withdrew it, and she fell snout first to the ground.

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“That’s skilled murderous lunatic, thank you,”

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he said. Becca looked around.

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Five other soldiers lay on the ground,

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dead or sorely wounded.

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Add her total of four and the officer, and that left three very disconcerted but armed soldiers remaining,

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their rifles held with the muzzles pointed very carefully toward the ground.

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“Rifles over the side of the dock please,”

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Becca advised sweetly.

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They complied with gratifying speed.

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“Thank you,” she said. “Feyd,

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off we go.” Feyd nodded and followed her up the gangway, leaving the soldiers behind.

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The moment they were on the deck of the Windskimmer,

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its whistle blew loudly,

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the great paddlewheels on the either side of the hull churning the water

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it headed out of the harbor, even as its crane finished lowering the crate into the cargo hold.

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“Not bad,” Feyd said,

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cleaning his sword with his neck kerchief

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as they both stood by the railing.

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“Poor fellows didn’t really have a chance after we closed the dis—”

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Becca head a loud series of pops,

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like a string of firecrackers going off.

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Something hit with a spang of metal on metal as her head snapped in the direction of the receding dock.

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In the last of the day’s light

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she could see the State Security officer,

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pepperbox pistol in paw, snarling in triumph

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before she collapsed back into the pool of her own blood.

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“Cold and Dark, Feyd!”

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she cursed, turning towards her lieutenant.

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“We should have checked to see if she was still...”

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She shut up abruptly,

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staring at the two bloody holes in Feyd’s chest.

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“Yes,” Feyd answered distantly.

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“Yes, we should…” Becca grabbed him as he collapsed,

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laying him down gently even as she screamed for the ship’s surgeon.

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This was part one of

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“To Catch the Lightning”

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by Royce Day, read for you by Khaki,

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your faithful fireside companion.

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You can find more stories on the web at thevoice.dog,

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or find the show wherever you get your podcasts.

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Thank you for listening

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to The Voice of Dog

About the Podcast

Show artwork for The Voice of Dog
The Voice of Dog
Furry stories to warm the ol' cockles, read by Rob MacWolf and guests. If you have a story that would suit the show, you can get in touch with @VoiceOfDog@meow.social on Mastodon, @voiceofdog.bsky.social on Blue Sky, or @Theodwulf on Telegram.

About your host

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Khaki