Gunship: Trilogy Two

Book 1: Gears and Spears

Part 1 

DALTON JAMES SAT THERE - a veteran of several wars and several bars, both the drinking and incarceration type. He wore a heavy brown duster as a testament, if nothing else, to his storied life up until this point.

He was a smuggler and moving illegal merchandise through space while skirting the authorities had both an upside and a downside.

For the past decade, he had worked for his good friend and former military comrade Adam Michaels.

After the first Glimmerian War, they decided that no man in political position would ever force them to live out another day, choosing instead, to fetch a ship and begin the black market work of great risk and great reward.

Anything they could do to earn a living, they did it. Every cargo hold of illegal merchandise moved, led to connections on the wrong side of the law. And with each underhanded deal they pulled off, their reputation grew. By the time the older model Gunship, one that the Glimmerian government leaned heavily on during the first war, was fully staffed with crew; they had become notorious.

Such notoriety led to a job offer from the Hunter Clan, a sadistic group of Vampires who were both wanted and feared. Offering a huge payday, Captain Adam Michaels took the job, double-crossing the Hunters a short time later. He had fallen in love with his cargo, Sarah Blaine. And the direction his heart led him, also led the crew through violent times.

Eventually, they went their separate ways. Various reasons, of course, but Dalton's reasoning was simple. He was sick of running from the undead. A near death experience has a way of making a man feel alive, even if it includes bullets flying into his direction. But so many near death experiences, sometimes on a daily basis, has a way of wearing down even the best of men.

Dalton had reached the point of wanting something more. A peaceful calm, if nothing else. And so he left the Gunship, and her crew, setting off onto his own path in search of his own destiny.

A destiny that was sure to include his running mate Whiskey. The four legged bucket of fleas was Dalton's best friend. Whiskey was a good ear to talk to, had a stomach for alcohol and even a way with the ladies. They wore matching brown coats and together would take on the Skyla System, one shot of hard liquor at a time.

The former soldier turned smuggler quickly found himself hired by Cambria Sims, Captain of the Outer Heaven. She was brilliantly beautiful from head to toe, shocking blue hair and creamy white complexion only further accenting her perfectly sculpted curves.

She had offered him a paycheck, even paid for both Dalton and Whiskey to get fitted for custom brown coats, rather than the bargain rack faux leather that currently covered their backs.

In exchange, Dalton would bring experience to a crew of faces that was fresh to the black market world of smuggling. Though none of that mattered to him.

All that mattered was the fact that they would no longer be running from the undead. Dalton had made damn sure of it, or at least he had thought so up until the moment his eyes caught sight of a poster that plunged into his heart like a chilled dagger.

The Outer Heaven had landed in the Drifts. A very primitive, yet extremely elegant string of planets on the fringe of uncharted space. A mixture of Victorian influence and steam powered engineering, its citizens had shunned the modern lifestyle of computers and thrust engines for wind-borne airships and a luxurious, yet simplistic, style of living.

Dalton had considered it a paid vacation of sorts, going to stay a while in a much calmer environment while throwing a few brews back. But all of that changed as he slowly read the header of a poster hanging on the wall of the airship transport terminal. Do not provoke the undead.

Afraid to ask, Dalton simply sat there. Stunned. As they waited for a transport from the terminal to Geartown, he continued to stare at the poster which had shattered everything he thought he knew about their upcoming trip.

The terminal was the one centralized location on the planet, and each Drift planet had one. Simply put, you landed your ship here and then boarded an airship. Hundreds of airships came through daily, each one stopping in even the most remote locations.

Some of the destinations were large cities, Victorian styled skyscrapers peaking to the heavens with their clockwork shaped tops and brass accented artwork. Others consisted of dusty towns populated by colorful characters who had a curiously playful charm about them.

Is he OK? Tank asked.

His God given name was Greg Shelling, but was soon handed the name Tank based on his unbelievable size. A bit taller than anyone currently sitting in the transport station, Tank was packed out in terms of muscular composition. His skin resembled a thin coat of dark paint as it stretched across his physique, barely able to contain the bulging muscles that were easily seen as he wore a solid green shirt with short sleeves.

Skulls simply shook his head.

Trevor Lagrange by birth, Skulls earned his name branding through the odd hobby he took so seriously. Collecting teeth, bones and severed fingers from the dead. Easy enough for him, because when the Salvation model sniper rifle that currently hung down by his side was in hand, people had a tendency of dying.

Skulls resembled an undertaker at first glance. That is until you got close enough to see the soldier in him, the wrinkles on his face merely a map of battles seen and horrors lived; at which point you wished he were merely an undertaker.

His rifle was a very unpopular model, the bolt action considered outdated. But Skulls preferred the weapon because it had pinpoint accuracy when looking through the large telescopic lens mounted on top. It was a very elegant weapon in his mind and a well-respected rifle among snipers.

His stringy hair flowed from beneath a dark top hat, mushrooming out a bit in the back and falling wildly down between his shoulders. Loose-hanging black leather clothes covered the body of such a tall and thinly boned man. And for such a strange human, vanity was important, regularly slicking his black pants with grease to create such an obvious luster.

Dalton. Are you crying? Cambria asked with shock.

Dalton didn't reply, though his eyes remained crisped with tears. He simply continued his stare onto the poster warning those entering the Drifts of the undead. Zombies you could call them, though citizens knew them as Drifters.

It's alright. They aren't a common sight, more like cattle if nothing else. They are mindless and without intention. Cambria said in an attempt to calm Dalton a bit.

They're undead, he replied, fighting back tears of rage as he bit his lower lip. I'm tired of the undead. So fucking tired of people that should be taking a dirt nap trying to put my ass six feet under. he grumbled.

Whiskey gave a long and deeply pitched whine. Even the charismatic dog had seen his share of immortals.

Best bite your lip because our ride is here. Tank said with a bit of chuckling mixed in as he stood up and began watching a large airship swoop down to them.

It was the typical transport airship, nothing more than a large and elongated hot air balloon; cabin area below constructed of metal with luxurious wooden trim.

Dalton gave a look of ill intent as he also stood to his feet, his stomach turning into knots as he glanced one last time at the poster warning of Drifters.

Everything about the Drifts came across to him as being outdated. Even the very poster which currently had his attention reminded him of an old military poster. Bold words at the top with a poorly colored sketch below.

Both Skulls and Cambria slowly stood, the Captain putting her arm around the experienced smuggler for a moment.

She was from the Drifts, and to her, Drifters were just a common thing. A background detail, like snakes in a sand-filled desert or deer in woodlands. Even so, she tried to empathize with Dalton.

We'll be fine. Trust me. she said with a poetic tone, her undefinable beauty helping to comfort Dalton.

As the airship slowly elevated back into the sky, heavier by a couple dozen passengers, Dalton found himself staring out of the thickened glass windows surrounding them and wondering exactly what he had signed up for.

He had known about the Drifts for most of his life, and honestly, up until now, hadn't cared about them one way or the other. In his mind, anyone who shunned technology deserved to live in huts made of dirt and grass. He had just thought them to be basic and written them off.

The impression he had gotten since arriving was different. Much different. Sure, they lived without the modern technology that the rest of the Skyla System coveted. But they did it in a very artistic way. Even the very balloon they traveled in now, was a helium filled canvas of linen. The fabric was almost a portrait of style, dark browns accented with gold flakes. And then it was pulled together and held into place by brass links of chain. As it wrapped around the balloon, the links locked together with a large brass medallion; a lion's head designed and pressed into the coin-style lock.

They were headed for Geartown and from what Dalton could gather, it was full of opportunities for a young smuggling crew. All kinds of people who had goods to move off-world, and were willing to pay a smuggling fee in order to avoid having their goods so heavily taxed by the local government.

With his frustration of the walking dead soon turning to anger, Dalton sat in the wooden booth-style seat and continued to look out across the clouds and thriving green pastures below. He quietly cursed the Drifts and their damn regulations on modernized weaponry.

Twenty-seven. That's the number of capable weapons he had to leave back on the Outer Heaven. If a shotgun fired too wide of a spread, it was against regulations. A digital counter on the side of a battle rifle, against regulations. Needless to say, his grenades had been left behind as well, adding to an already pissed off demeanor.

He carried only two weapons at the moment, which was as close to naked in front of clothed women as he had been in a very long time. At least in public. A Magnum style revolver that held six rounds inside of a rolling chamber and would damn near cut a man in half, as well as a large buoy blade strapped to his leg that would complete the cut if his revolver failed.

I wouldn't sweat it. Hell, I hear they hunt Drifters down here like big game man. We may throw a few beers back and go on the hunt ourselves. Tank said in a low voice.

I ain't hunting shit, Dalton said loudly, gaining the attention of every passenger aboard the airship. Anything comes at me and can't recite the alphabet is getting shot up. he added, turning for a moment to glance across the aisle.

The fuck you lookin' at? Dalton asked belligerently as an older man with literate glasses and a finely pressed suit looked on.

Calm down Dalton, you're scaring people. Cambria said, quickly sitting beside him.

Dalton wanted so badly to mouth off in response, but after catching sight of her beautiful face he started to realize that his soul began to ameliorate every single time she was near. So calm down he did. For the next several hours Dalton was silent, staring out of the window by his seat as the airship coasted passionately through the clouds.

As they made their approach, Dalton's first reaction was one of curious suspicion. When he had first met Cambria Sims, she stood out. Her loudly colored hair and choice of clothing style were refreshing, but out of place. Looking across the streets of Geartown as the airship landed softly, Dalton realized that he and Whiskey would now be the ones out of place. Every citizen he caught sight of looked unique. Women with blue, watermelon green and even neon purple hair walking abroad. Outfitted in corsets and carrying small umbrellas that were stitched of glamor.

It ain't even fucking raining. Dalton thought as he watched the women, all who seemed overwhelmingly attractive to him, twirling their parasols a bit as they walked in Victorian-style dresses. The men he caught sight of, appeared to be the opposite for the most part. Tophats, aviator style caps of leather and even a few gas style masks. Most wore either Victorian influenced shirts filled with ruffle or sharp suits, complete with a pinstriped vest.

He knew deep down he was about to step off of the airship and into a world he knew nothing about. Usually comfortable in his brown coat, this was the first time he began to feel that he would have to shell inside of it a bit; do his best just to try and fit in.

And he felt sorry for Whiskey as well, having to endure the same type of out of place awkwardness. That is until he glanced down at his flea-bitten friend only to discover Whiskey wearing a pair of oversized goggles. Tank and Skulls had placed them on the pooch, and the goggles seemed to have the perfect fit as Whiskey stared back at Dalton. Sad eyes now protected by clear lenses and rounded brass as he stood a bit more firmly, proud of both his brown coat and his Victorian specs.

What the? Dalton managed to mutter as everyone stood to their feet ready to exit the airship.

It's showtime. Cambria said playfully as she cast a warm smile into Dalton's direction.

You call it showtime, I prefer go time. he replied in a low voice, glancing down to make sure his revolver was still holstered before breathing deeply and following the crowd off of the airship.

Geartown wasn't nearly as large as Dalton had envisioned. It was in fact...a town and a small one at that. The fact that so many people wanted goods smuggled off world held true. It's just that a majority of the citizens in and around Geartown favored the around part. Houses scattered throughout the croplands and wooded terrain that surrounded such a Victorian-style town. Still, Geartown had everything it needed; including a watering hole for those who preferred adult drinks.

Trading Post? Dalton asked.

Yep. That's the name of Geartown's busiest building. Serves as a general store, mail dispatch, surplus shop, and saloon. Cambria replied.

I've never heard of a mail dispatch and saloon in the same building. Tank added as the group walked from the recently landed airship into the heart of Geartown.

They continued to skim the town with their eyes, each wrapping their thoughts around the same idea. If it weren't for the beauty, the damn near artistic perfection of the town around them, it would otherwise be a dusty town on the edge of nowhere. But the Victorian influence around them was obvious, as the gold flaked trim and brass accents of daily life in Geartown were simply marvelous to anyone who visited.

At this point who gives a damn. She's buying and I'm drinking, don't really matter what sign is hanging from the front door. Dalton replied, a grin of long-overdue plastered onto his face.

Well said. Skulls added, holding his bolt action rifle behind his neck.

Tank and Skulls broke from the group, heading into the direction of Geartown's finest, not to mention, only hotel; The Stage Inn. Meanwhile, Cambria, Dalton and a slightly promiscuous Whiskey made their way to the Trading Post. Dalton quick to notice that Whiskey was walking with a bit more strut.

Must be the goggles. Dalton thought as the three entered the large building of wooden shingles and thick brown logs.

Dalton just wanted to fit in, maybe slip into the building unnoticed and hang out until they found a job and got their asses back into the familiar territory of space.

However, as the three entered through a heavily creaking door, nearly forty people suddenly turned to see who had arrived. A shroud of unnerving quiet draped across the room as only small sounds of glasses connecting with wooden tables could be heard. Maybe it was Cambria's look of angelic sexuality. Possibly Dalton's rugged look of a poverty-stricken ranch hand. Of course, there was always a dog standing close, outfitted in a thick brown coat with large brass goggles to accent the look.

But the truth was it had nothing to do with any of the above. They had recognized Cambria Sims, and knew all too well her badly ended romance with Johnny Edmonds. The same Johnny Edmonds who currently sat at the bar looking into her tantalizing eyes, and the same Johnny Edmonds who had earned his nickname the hard way. The Revolver. He was by all accounts the fastest gun in or around Geartown and everyone knew it to be the truth.

Welcome back. Johnny said as he rose to his feet, clapping loudly in the process.

He had everyone's attention, except for Dalton, who quickly walked past him and sat down by the bar.

Double shot of your strongest. Dalton said quietly to the barkeep as he too turned back to watch the former lovers speak.

When you told me you were leaving Geartown to live out in the black, leaving to find a ship and crew, Johnny said as he stood close to Cambria, their eyes interlocked. I had no idea you'd come limping back with a single buster and his homely looking bag of fleas.

Let it go, Johnny, we've been over for a long time now. Cambria said, noticing Dalton finishing the large shot of rum before standing to his feet.

She tried to motion Dalton to sit back down, but it was of no use.

Yea, Johnny. She went out and fetched her a real man..ain't got no use for make believe cowboys anymore. Dalton said provokingly.

Careful, outlander. You best sit back down and put those lips on the rim of a glass before they get you killed. Johnny said as he continued to stare at Cambria.

Only thing these lips are going to be on, boy, is that pretty little woman standing in front of you. Dalton said, earning a very strange look from Cambria in the process.

Alright. You've had your chance, and now you gotta die. Johnny said as he turned slowly.

Dalton was the first to go for his revolver, barely raising it from his holster before Johnny's barrel was aiming down at him.

Oh shit. Dalton said, stunned by the gunslinger's speed. He hadn't seen anyone that fast with a pistol. His good friend and former Captain Adam Michaels maybe, but even that was a stretch.

The law says I'm within my right to cut you down right here where you stand, Johnny said as Dalton felt a sober panic flow through his rum tainted blood. But I'm not going to, I like your demeanor, outlander. Johnny added, pulling his pistol down, holstering it once more with blazing speed and slapping Dalton on the arm.

Damn straight you're not. Tank said, hoisting his large shotgun up into the direction of Johnny as he and Skulls entered the building.

Immediately, fourteen men stood to their feet, each pulling a sidearm and taking aim on Tank. Skulls was quick to pull his rifle as well, determined to take a few with him if need be. Reluctant to do so, Dalton finally pulled his revolver and held it to the face of Johnny.

Everyone! Cambria shouted. Calm down! We just came in for a drink and a little down time for the evening. she added. Johnny, call them off! she said, her voice of soothing persuasion doing the trick.

Do what she says, boys. Johnny said, the large group of men slowly putting revolvers back into their side mounted holsters. Johnny then turned back to Dalton.

I let you live because you are new here, but I won't be extending that courtesy twice.

Both Tank and Skulls kept their weapons raised as Johnny and his group slowly left.

Gotta go anyway beautiful, taking a Drifter hunting party out tonight. Johnny said with a smile before turning to exit the large room.

Well that was fun. Dalton said as he slowly sat back down and ordered another stout shot of rum.

Point of interest, Tank said as he slowly sat down. The next time someone has that many armed friends, it would be helpful to know BEFORE I draw down on him. he added with emotion.

Sorry, it all happened so fast. Cambria said with apology.

Don't sweat it, baby, I still love you. Dalton added as he slammed the shot glass down and gritted his teeth from the burn.

Speaking of which, Cambria said as she slapped Dalton across the top portion of his arm. What is this about your lips being on me? she asked.

Did I say that? I never said that? Dalton replied in an attempt to back out of his ill chosen words. Stay out of it! he added angrily as Whiskey barked loudly as if to turns state's evidence on him.

Been a long time since we've seen anyone stand up to The Revolver. a woman with soft blonde hair said as she slowly approached Dalton, pink accents glimmering across her soothing flow of locks.

Mind if I buy you a drink? she asked, Dalton, turning to his crew with a hard look before turning back to accept her offer.

Well, um, I gotta go find some more ammunition anyway. Tank said, standing to his feet slowly.

And I should look into finding us work. Cambria said, slowly standing to her feet as well. Her lushly curved bottom reason enough for Whiskey to stand quickly, though his most important part was already standing to attention, watching her every move through the thick of his goggles.

As they waited for Skulls to follow suit, the sniper sat there, skimming the interior of the building. Cambria cleared her throat slightly as a suggestive hint, one that never struck home with the skilled killer. Shortly after, his chair was kicked hard by Tank, who motioned him away with a tilt of the head.

Skulls looked at Dalton for a moment and shrugged before standing and following the group.

About fucking time, you squatter. Dalton thought, before turning to the blonde with a manufactured smile painted onto his face. My name's Selina, and you are? she asked playfully.

In most cases, a name meant something, stood for beliefs or heritage. Not to Dalton. In his mind, a name was merely words strung together and tied snugly around curves and parts capable of sexual loving. Like a wool blanket. And just like a wool blanket, when it got wet it got clingy.

I'm Dalton. Dalton James. he said with a grin on one side of his face, though he had indeed contemplated using an alias.

As Cambria and group exited the Trading Post, once again the Geartown normal seemed anything but to both Tank and Skulls. Glancing through the busy street of such a small town, Skulls noticed a majority of the townsfolk glancing back.

What's that about? Tank asked as he glanced up into the air, a tall wooden tower standing above the entrance to Geartown.

Warning system of sorts, Cambria said after a quick glance, her explanation falling from such tender lips.

If you hear the bell on that tower ring, means a Drifter is nearby. If you are unarmed they ask you to get indoors as a precaution while the sniper up there scopes and shoots. she added.

Skulls glanced at that moment, uninterested up until the word sniper was uttered. He was damn good with a scope and knew it. Rightfully so, he was thinking of the art of sniping most times and when another skilled shooter was nearby, Skulls found himself feeling almost competitive.

Is he any good? Skulls asked.

Hasn't been a Drifter reach town before, Cambria said softly. But I'd say you're a bit better with a rifle. she added to calm the artifact of death collector.

And here I was trying to calm Dalton down. How bad are these Drifters? Tank asked.

They wander in close to town sometimes, but you were right to calm him. They are mindless and roam the badlands mostly. Cambria responded.

Are you crying? Selina asked as Dalton indeed teared up a bit, quickly blaming it on the house liquor through hand motions.

It's just that Roman was a good friend and now he's a Hunter. One of the walking dead and it's a hard pill to swallow. Dalton finally replied.

Well, this Roman sounds like a good enough guy. But the way you beat him in a blade fight and turned the Hunters away single-handed, that's amazing." Selina remarked.

Thanks, babe. It wasn't easy. All I had was a blade and a six-shot revolver, but eventually, I sent about twenty of the bastards to the grave or running. Got bored with it all to tell you the truth, and that's when I found myself here. Dalton said, lying without reserve.

In fact, I drew slow on Johnny on purpose. I wanted to see his hand to holster motion, so the next time we meet I'll be well prepared. Dalton said, further piling onto the heap of cattle shit verbiage.

That's amazing. Selina said as she wrapped both of her near glowing arms around the waist of the brown coat wearing weaver of lies.

And the day continued, falling slowing into the clutches of night as a fully starred sky draped above Geartown.

The Trading Post continued to see newcomers to its establishment as the daily airships and roar of a steam powered train brought more outlanders to Geartown. For such a small town, it was booming around the clock with brand new faces. Some in search of smuggling work, just as Cambria and her crew were. Others arriving for the thrill of the hunt, or even just to visit such a beautifully crafted society of simplistic living.

You could always pick the outlanders from a crowd as they stopped to see what the loud noise of the incoming train actually was. Geartown citizens had grown so used to the iron passenger train screeching into the heart of town that they continued with their routine without pause. For everyone else, the commanding sound of iron sliding recklessly on steel rails was piercing.

The train came complete with a shotgun toting soldier in the front compartment and a heavily armed rear platform. A Gatling style mini-gun was mounted to the rear with four soldiers who stood heavily armed. The train, and others like it, made their way between Geartown and several other towns. Each separated by The Badlands.

The rolling hills of high grass and thick trees had earned its name for a reason. Drifters roamed, sometimes in groups of four or five