- Five centuries later -

It had been nearly a full day and night since Dorothea had been taken and she still didn't know where she was being taken. Through the porthole of her cabin, she could see the inky waters pass beneath the giant ship on which she was imprisoned. Long iron cannons extended from the ship's sides and giant waterwheels turned beneath them. Its coal burner pumped long plumes of sooty black smoke out from towering stacks, sullying the stars and veiling the chin of the moon.

Even though she had never travelled by sea before, the turning waters didn't trouble Dorothea's stomach as much as she had heard it did some. Even if it did, the upholstery in her cabin had little to fear – the fare of meat and baked vegetables on the serving tray before her looked appealing enough, but she hadn't touched a thing. Her stomach was willing, not having eaten at all that day, but her spirit was loath to indulge in anything that had been prepared by those who had taken her against her will. Instead, she kept her hands in her lap and her eyes elsewhere, resisting temptation.

Dorothea nervously clutched the small pouch around her neck. It was made of buckskin leather, locked tight with a bead-capped drawstring. The hiss of a gas lamp was her only company.

Earlier that day, her abductors had allowed her a brief reprieve from her solitude to walk about the open decks escorted. A great red flag flapped languidly on the steepled beak of the ship, bearing a globe and the charcoal outlines of most of the world states. The emblem was worn prominently, she noted, not just on the flag, but on the clothes of the crew who manned the ship.

From what she could see, there was no rowdiness on the boat, no merry-making or idle chatter; only the unbridled drive of the whole and the meticulous execution of individual tasks. Almost every man and woman aboard the ship except the crew were clad in dapper suits of grey, sunlight reflecting off the gunmetal holstered at their hips. The naval crew wore shorts and shirts of white and blue. Dorothea stood out among them as the only individual, wearing a canary-yellow dress with a ribbon tied around her waist. She was also the youngest. Her arms and legs were deeply tanned from spending most of her days tending the cosy garden she had inherited from her grandfather. Dorothea loved to plant, to prune, and liberate her wards from the stranglehold of greedy weeds. Tilling the earth was her greatest pleasure, adoring the denizens of her floral fiefdom her greatest reward. It was there in her garden that they had found her.

Dorothea heard the bolt slide and the door opened with an ugly metal creak. Beyond it stood a man with a waxen complexion and a serious air. She recognised Agent Kritzinger the moment he appeared. He was the only one of her captors that she knew by name and the only one who ever spoke to her. He wore a navy blue suit, a white shirt, and a pinned cravat. Fine lines of grey ran through his hair and thin-rimmed glasses hung on his gaunt face.

His eyes flicked towards the untouched food and drink on the table. He pointed his pewter and brass cane at it.

"You should eat," he told her, his voice deep and plummy.

"I want to go home."

"I have already explained this," he said, his voice devoid of emotion. "You're being taken somewhere safe. This is for your own good."

His vague reasoning did little to ease her mind. Who did she need protecting from? She'd been alone most of her life, knowing only the tender affection of her grandfather until his passing four months ago. Since then, she had grown her own food, traded the excess for whatever else she needed, and lived a solitary and content life, making a foe of no one. Her only enemies were the rose thorns that occasionally pricked her fingers, but she had the sense to avoid them and calluses enough to guard her from their abuse otherwise. She shot him an accusing glance.

"I never asked to be taken anywhere," she said, her hands clenched in her lap. "Why are you doing this?"

Kritzinger adjusted the glasses on his nose.

"All will be explained in time."

"I want to go home!" Dorothea pressed, her voice tinged with anger.

Kritzinger looked at her, expressionless. The few times Dorothea had been in his company, she had never seen the slightest flicker of emotion in his brown eyes. Only his voice commanded her attention.

"Not until I've found what I'm looking for."

They were interrupted by the sound of a lone pair of feet heading down the steel corridor toward Kritzinger. One of his cinereous-suited complements appeared by his side.

"Sir, I've b-b-been advised we'll be arriving at the f-f-fortress sh-shortly."

Kritzinger nodded, his eyes firmly fixed on Dorothea.

"Eat," he ordered, before closing the door. She heard the bolt slide firmly back into place.

******

Kritzinger made his way to the side deck, Hamish Vale dogging his coattails. A precocious young agent, Hamish never seemed far from his side and possessed a bug-eyed enthusiasm for his work. Stepping out into the cold night air, Kritzinger looked wearily out over the ocean, trying to ignore the nausea it caused to ripple in his stomach with the rise and fall of the waves. He didn't often go out into the field, preferring not to, but for a mission this important, he felt it was necessary to oversee things personally.

"When do we arrive?" he asked.

"T-t-ten minutes, sir," Vale stammered, "w-w-weather permitting."

Kritzinger took out his pocket watch, snapped open its black oval case, and considered the gold hands reaching over the skeletal gears that turned them.

"I want the men put on high alert."

"High alert, sir? B-but we aren't that far from the fortress, and there's n-no apparent threat—"

"The worst threats often appear as such," Kritzinger said. He wound his watch thrice before returning it to his pocket. "I will not falter here because our people grew negligent in their presumption of safety. Life rarely forgives presumption, Agent Vale. The crew are to be on high alert for the remainder of this trip—"

A sudden explosion erupted from somewhere in the depths of the ship, knocking both men to the deck.

"Enemy at the rear!" yelled an unseen deckhand.

Kritzinger grabbed his cane and leapt to his feet.

The sleeves of light in the corrugated walls flickered chaotically, threatening to go out. With Hamish Vale trailing behind him, Kritzinger pushed his way past those heading for the rear of the ship. Once there, he spotted several deckhands leaning against the aft railing, scouring the night for enemies. There was no sign of anything out of the ordinary.

A shadow caught Kritzinger's eye, one that obscured the moon's watery reflection, its proportions too precise to be those of a cloud.

"There!" he barked.

Two deckhands guided the bloom of a high-powered deck lamp towards where Kritzinger pointed, not down at the ocean but up into the air, falling on the robust curvatures of a balloon-ferried airship, trailed by the thick smog produced by the dreadnought. It resembled an immense black tortoise shell, covered in bolts, with a propeller turning swiftly at the rear. It moved almost as quietly as the reptile it resembled, but with far greater and more deadly speed.

Hovering above the dreadnought, the ironclad craft dropped something down one of the warship's smokestacks. The engine room, Kritzinger thought, and winced as an explosion sounded from the gut of the ship. Kritzinger fought to maintain his balance as the vessel shook, holding fast to the railing.

The attack silenced the ship's engines, stilling its waterwheels, and leaving the behemoth dead in the water. But the ship was far from defenceless. Too close for them to use the cannons, the crew drew their personal firearms and opened fire on the looming airship. Kritzinger followed suit, the sharp crack of his gun echoing the others.

Coming under the scrutiny of a second lamp, the iron half-shell and its armoured balloon courier easily endured the gunfire, while boldly manoeuvring up alongside the dreadnought. From there, it launched portly canisters from a flap opening, each trailing emerald green gas. Several smashed through the dreadnought's portholes, while others landed and rolled along its decks. A handful fell short of the ship, landing in the ocean.

"Gas!" shrieked a panicked crewmember. "They're using gas!" The decks were abandoned, as people sought refuge from the fumes.

Feeling a familiar sting in his nose and eyes, Kritzinger bellowed, "It's only tear gas!"

With a handkerchief over his face, he forced his way into the middle of the mewling throng, bringing a cool voice of authority to the scene.

"All hands, fall back inside. Get your masks on and make ready to repel the enemy. Any man or woman who isn't armed, get to the armoury and find something to fight with now!"

******

Silverio Herrera and his people waited in the dark belly of the airship, their ears aching from the hail of bullets that hammered its exterior. Its crew consisted of figures caped in black spider silk, machine guns slung over their shoulders and masks of hand-stitched leather strapped to their faces. The masks were outfitted with retractable eye shutters and a chrome respirator to allow for easy breathing in the air made foul by grenades similar to the ones clipped to their belts. Beneath all this gear, Herrera didn't know who was who, but it didn't matter. They all knew their jobs.

The sound of bullets gradually faded, as the enemy withdrew into the depths of their warship. Soon, Herrera could hear nothing but the sound of his own breathing and the nervous shuffling of those around him. He waited in the stark silence for several moments, before giving the word.

"Go."

The lull of inactivity broke instantly, and everybody aboard the ironclad airship moved with premeditated purpose as its side split open. With the dreadnought's decks cleared of life, one of Herrera's masked comrades stepped up to the opening with a rifle and shot out both of the spot lamps shining on them from below, allowing the cover of darkness to reform over the airship, secreting its position.

Three speared tethers were launched from the Tartaruga into the large rear deck of the idle ship. After ensuring the lines were secure, the six-man party, led by Herrera, rappelled down the lengths onto the thirty-foot stern of the behemoth. Guns at the ready, the small party poured through the first hatch they encountered and swiftly progressed into the ship's labyrinthine bowels, moving under the cover of the copious vapours that gushed from the grenades they tossed down every corridor, forcing any potential opposition to withdraw. They met their first piece of organised resistance in a branching intersection where suited figures had stacked a pile of crates, shelving, and other odds and ends to serve as cover.

Taking shelter behind the nearest corner, Herrera and his people responded with thundering machine guns. Ricochets sounded and bullets grazed flesh, but neither side suffered any losses, both behind sufficient cover to soundly hold their own. However, Herrera knew time was against him. Before long, his people would either run out of ammunition or be overwhelmed by enemy reinforcements. He couldn't waste another moment. His people knew to fall back to the airship if things grew untenable. He could depend on them seeing themselves to safety. He, on the other hand, needed to keep moving.

Herrera signalled for two of his party to join him and they departed the fray unnoticed, while the remaining trio covered their departure with increased gunfire, keeping their obstinate enemies at bay.

******

Huddled among the group of masked defenders besieged by this mysterious enemy, Agent Kritzinger cursed under his breath. There was only one thing on board that would cause someone to take the risk of assailing a Commission warship to attain, and it was in his custody. He had been right to be wary, although he was still surprised that anyone would have the gall to attempt such a bold manoeuvre.

"You're a wretched shot, Agent Vale," he said, to the man who ducked down by his side, tipping the spent bullet casings from his pistol.

"Yes, s-sir, s-sorry, sir. It's this mask, sir, it's—"

"Never mind that," he snapped. "Get the girl and secure her below deck. Make sure nothing happens to her. Understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then go!"

Kritzinger watched his underling stumble before vanishing through the green haze that enveloped their position. He had been tempted to go himself to make sure it was done right, but better they be deprived of the criminally poor marksmanship of his assistant than someone who actually contributed to their defence. Reloading his gun, Kritzinger turned his attention back to the fight.

******

All Dorothea's thoughts of hunger had been eclipsed by the ruckus outside. The terrible din of gunfire was echoed by shouts of pain and anger. Terrified, she could only begin to imagine what might have befallen them. She had heard stories of pirates roaming the oceans, plundering, leaving razed ships in their wake, but it seemed inconceivable that any would risk attacking a vessel as intimidating as this one appeared.

Huddled in the furthest corner of her room, opposite the door, Dorothea fixed her terrified eyes on the handle, convinced at any moment the door would burst open. She clutched the purse around her neck in one hand and the stem of a broken crystal goblet that had fallen to the floor in the other, as if it were a dagger. Indeed, it made for a pathetic weapon, but it provided some comfort, gripped in her trembling hand. She tensed as she heard the dreaded familiar sound of the bolt to her cabin being thrown back, and raised the jagged stem of her crude weapon.

A man stepped in through the portal, a nickel-cast pistol in hand, a gas mask obscuring his face. She could tell by his clothes that it wasn't Kritzinger, although the formal apparel he wore suggested he might be one of Kritzinger's men. She hesitated. He strode toward her, grabbed her by one slender wrist, causing the glass to fall to the floor, and hauled her out of the room.

The agent rushed her down one corridor and then another, walking and turning with an urgency that wasn't disposed to even a moment's rest.

"I'm taking you somewhere safe," he said, over his shoulder, his grip painful. The mask muffled his voice, making it hard to hear above the gunfire. "You're in danger. Follow quietly and everything will be fine. Can you do that?"

Looking at the gun in his hand and hearing the gunfire echo down the halls, Dorothea had no choice but to trust him. She tripped, trying to keep up, but his firm grip on her wrist kept her from falling. They came to a sharp bend, around which were three caped figures, standing there as if waiting for them to appear. Gun barrels were levelled in their direction. The two halted and the agent tossed his gun to the floor, pulling Dorothea slightly behind him as if to shield her from their assailants.

One of the trio stepped forward, lifted the butt of his machine gun, and struck the agent's forehead, the blow breaking the tinted lenses of his mask. The agent groaned and slumped onto the floor.

Dorothea stumbled back in panic as the agent's limp body was dragged away by two of the caped men, while the third pulled the strap of his machine gun off his shoulder and unbuckled his stitch-laden headgear, revealing a head of short, dark, greying curls. Beneath were eyes that brimmed with a vigour and passion, unlike Kritzinger's cool visage. He looked older than Kritzinger's agents and fitter, his physique noticeably brawny beneath his cloak.

"Do not be afraid, child," the man said, his voice oddly gentle. He held up his hands, coaxing her to come closer. "My name is Silverio Herrera. I mean you no harm, I promise. I am here to help you. To rescue you." He extended a hand towards her. She looked at it in doubt.

"There is an airship waiting for us outside," he continued. "We have little time. Please, trust me and come."

Dorothea took a step back. "I don't know you—"

"Over there!"

Herrera's head jerked around. Four members of Kritzinger's crew opened fire from the far end of the corridor, indifferent to Dorothea.

Silverio Herrera pushed Dorothea around the bend, shielding her body with his as bullets sliced through the air. The other two men followed, exchanging gunfire with the crew.

"Come!" Herrera hissed. "It is much too dangerous for you here. I can keep you safe, but you must trust me." His head whipped around as he took in his surroundings. The door behind Dorothea was marked 'Armoury – Caution Advised.' Abruptly, a grenade shaped like a potato masher tumbled into the space between them.

"Fall back!" Herrera screamed.

Seconds later, the ensuing explosion launched the armoury door clear off its hinges and the cache of incendiaries concealed inside began to discharge with breathtaking fury.

The aggravated munitions punched through the walls at wild trajectories. Dorothea snatched her opportunity and raced down the corridor away from Herrera and his two men, heading frantically for the open hatch at the far end of the terrifying gauntlet.

Breaches opened in the pale walls behind her, expelling waves of flame and speeding shrapnel. Her heels barely kept ahead of the hazards. Gasping, Dorothea reached the hatch and launched herself through. A violent explosion pitched her like a rag doll up and over the side of the twenty-foot behemoth. Dorothea shrieked as she fell, silenced only when caught by the freezing waters below.

******

Herrera and his men, pinned by the shrapnel, watched helplessly as Dorothea raced away. When the blast hit, they hunkered down. When they looked up, the panicked child was gone.

"No!" Herrera cried, his throat tight with anguish. She'd been within arm's reach, just a hand's grasp away, and he had hesitated. Now she was gone. The gunfire had stopped. There was no sign of the four crew through the smoke.

"There's nothing we can do for her now," urged one of his companions. "The others will have fallen back by now."

He had come to save the girl, Herrera berated himself, not get her killed. As terrified as she was of him, he shouldn't have hesitated. He should have just taken her and explained his reasons later.

"Silverio, there is nothing more we can do here. We need to leave."

"Of course, you're right." Herrera checked his gun.

"Come."

Moving warily, the three navigated the smoky insides of the warship, occasionally exchanging gunfire with a determined host of armed shadows. Despite these surprise attacks, they managed to reach the stern of the warship without injury, and those aboard the Tartaruga airship provided them cover from its superior vantage point. The best the enemy could manage in the darkness was to fire blindly in the air, the occasional bullet ringing off the Tartaruga's reinforced hide and leaving fresh pockmarks among those already mottling its exterior.

Herrera was the last to climb the line back up to the ship. No sooner was he aboard than the tethers were thrown off and the Tartaruga swiftly ascended into the night sky. The relentless pop of gunfire soon changed to the sound of cannons.

Without lamplight, it was impossible for the ship to accurately target the black Tartaruga against a pitch sky with any accuracy. The dirigible soon disappeared into a bank of low-hanging clouds and hovering in the heavens where not even the cannons could reach.

******

Oblivious to everything but his own intent, Agent Kritzinger shoved his way down the length of the ship, fishtailing around the bodies rushing past him. The air was a storm of shouted orders, a fevered demand for hands to help bring the armoury fire under control before it was too late. The fire had smoked out the ship's sickbay, leaving only the rear deck suitable to treat the wounded. Seething, Kritzinger marched out onto the open deck, where lamps and candles lit the faces of those writhing in pain. He scanned the faces of the injured. His gaze came to rest on a familiar face and Kritzinger advanced. Those he passed shrank from his fury.

Ignoring the injury that had left Hamish Vale's brow swollen and cheek bloodied, Kritzinger brought his cane up under the man's chin and forced him to his feet. He looked at the terrified man hard in the eye.

"I told you to do one thing, one simple thing. Where is the girl?"

"I – I – I lost her," Hamish spluttered, his words turning to mist in the cold air.

Kritzinger didn't raise his voice but darkened his tone just enough to make the man pale further. "That much is obvious. Where did she go?"

"She ran," Hamish confessed. "I saw her running and then she fell—"

"Fell?" Kritzinger took hold of the man's collar, barely resisting the urge to throttle his subordinate. "Fell where, exactly?"

Hamish Vale looked unsure for a moment and then pointed a hesitant finger over the portside of the ship. Kritzinger abruptly released him and rushed to the side of the boat, his eyes desperately scanning the murk below for a flash of her yellow dress. He found nothing in the rolling waters. She couldn't have drifted far, he thought. The ship hadn't moved since its engines had been damaged, and the waters were relatively calm. Frantically, he peered through the darkness for any sign of movement. There was none. The only other possibility was that she had drowned. His shoulders slumped.

"Damn," he muttered, gripping the railing painfully. "Damn!" The loss of the girl was the cruellest trick fate could have played. It had taken great effort to find her. Some unknown party must have also learned of her inestimable worth and tried to steal her. And although they had failed, so had he. He was left with nothing. Nothing! She had been his best chance, his only chance, to give his work meaning. Curse them!

He stared down at the black expanse, broken only by the undulating glint of the occasional light as it passed over. Then, oddly, he saw bubbles emerge from the depths. Only a few, at first, easily missed had he not already been looking their way. Leaning over the railing, he peered hard into the darkness. He made out transient swells rising on the surface, originating from somewhere beneath the ebon face of the moon-kissed sea.

"I apologise, s-s-sir," Hamish Vale's voice squeaked near to his shoulder. "I accept whatever r-reprimand you see f-f-fit. The f-fire in the armoury is under control and r-repairs on the engine are underway. The c-crew are c-confident they'll have ship mobility restored by the morn—"

"Quiet!" Kritzinger snapped, raising a hand to silence the man.

An immense bubble rose to the surface where it rested, unbroken. Kritzinger watched, astonished, as it grew. It continued to grow until the whole moon could be seen in its curved veneer. When it ruptured, it didn't vanish with an indistinct pop, but instead burst with the force of a bomb. The shockwaves struck the dreadnought, tipping the vessel by several degrees and extinguishing the lamps and candles on the rear decks. Cries were heard as those caught off guard struggled to keep their footing. Kritzinger held fast to the railing, his attention fixed on the phenomena before him.

Something was rising out of the dark ocean, something immense. A long thin head appeared, with a broad nose and strong chin. It had box-shaped ears and deep crevices where eyes would commonly be. The neck and body that followed towered over the dreadnought, the outline of its lucent physique radiating an eerie blue light, as if the celestial glisten from the stars had somehow been captured in its towering hide. Congealed in its living liquid skin were a thousand glistening bubbles fashioned in strange, sparkling designs that made the giant fearsomely glorious to behold.

Cries and gasps of astonishment came from the gathered crew. Kritzinger had a suspicion, an inkling of what he was seeing, but his eyes were no less wide than theirs. This was the first time he had seen such a wonder firsthand. In the giant creature's chest of gossamer and starlight lay a human form suspended in a bubble, a protective air pocket. Kritzinger stared hard at the small figure clothed in pale yellow. Indeed, it was the very precious child upon whom rested the weight of his expectations. She had been found again. His waning hopes returned afresh.

"See that, Agent Vale?" Kritzinger said, his thin lips curling ever so slightly. "That is proof that the girl is still alive. And, even more important, proof that she can show us the way."

Kritzinger watched as the creature strode gracefully away from the crippled ship, Dorothea safe within its cocoon, its legs concealed beneath the water that rolled in its wake. Beyond the form, a faint revolving beacon from a lighthouse in the distance caught his eye. He watched the creature as it made steady progress towards the distant shore, heading straight for the light. A township.

"We will find her there," he announced. "Tell the captain that as soon as the ship is ready, we go ashore."

"Yes, sir."