Choose Omnibus (Choose: An Interactive Steampunk Webserial Book 3) Read online

  Choose Omnibus

  An Interactive Steampunk Webserial

  Written by

  Taven Moore

  Choose is a work of fiction. Names, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, or are used in homage.

  Copyright © 2010 – 2012 Taven Moore

  All rights reserved.

  Cover art by Courtney McPhail

  Self-published and printed in the United States through CreateSpace, a division of Amazon, Inc.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission. This book is the product of more blood, sweat, and tears than I care to remember. Please respect my work–do not pirate, steal, or use anything you find in this book without my express permission.

  For the readers,

  commenters, voters,

  and contributors

  to Choose.

  This is your book,

  your story,

  your achievement.

  Acknowledgments

  Particular thanks for the Omnibus edition go out to Steve Hall, fearless editor and friend. Not only has he been riding the Choose train from the beginning, he’s put up with an embarrassing number of capitalization, comma, and punctuation indiscretions. Your boundless enthusiasm, constant support, and mad copyediting skills are the creamy frosting atop our glorious Choose cupcake.

  As always, profound love for my husband Steven, who cajoles, prods, reminds, encourages, and (if necessary) forces me to sit down and write. Thank you for being the most incredible co-author and the best friend I could ever hope for.

  To Perry Kim, whose detailed and steady comments make me feel like I’m doing something worthwhile. Thanks for keeping me on my toes.

  To KristenSue, who has been following my writing and encouraging me to explore my silly side since college. Without you, Jinn wouldn’t love pastries with sprinkles. A pastry-less Jinn is no kind of Jinn at all.

  Thank you to every person who has ever voted on Choose and influenced the world, events, and characters within it. By exercising your opinion, you shaped the book you hold in your hands.

  It is a delight and an honor to write with all of you.

  *lovemuffins*

  ~Tami

  Introduction to the Omnibus Volume

  The book you hold in your hand is no ordinary novel.

  As each chapter was written, we posted it to the webserial site (http://choose.cogsworthy.com) alongside a poll. The poll might resolve the cliffhanger at the end of the preceding chapter, establish the identity of the next character to be introduced, or simply determine a character’s favorite flavor of tea.

  Commenters would vote for their favorite option, often influencing more than originally intended through their discussions, banter, and predictions about the story.

  Every week, we would eagerly watch the voting and comments because most of the time? We didn’t know what was going to happen next, either.

  The following week, we would retreat to our writing den and emerge with yet another chapter . . . and yet another poll.

  As much as it is ours, this is your story, these are your characters, and this is your world.

  Table of Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Introduction to the Omnibus Volume

  Volume I: The Search for a Captain

  Introduction to Volume I

  1. The Bar

  2. “Handsome” Hank

  3. Disappointment

  4. Rusty

  5. Convenient

  6. A Simple Question

  7. Spider

  8. Uncle

  9. Jinn

  10. A Carriage Awaits

  11. The Man in the Raspberry Suit

  12. Sea Legs

  13. Starbirth

  14. Bargain

  15. Assassin

  16. Bodyguard

  Volume II: Of Assassins and Allies

  Introduction to Volume II

  1. Old Friends

  2. New Opportunities

  3. Tea Party

  4. Inconvenient

  5. Terrorist

  6. Illogic

  7. Corset

  8. Trust

  9. Sprinkles

  10. Helion

  11. Ally

  12. The Note

  13. The Package

  14. The Shinra’dor

  15. Notch

  16. Mack

  17. Chase

  18. Trade

  19. Games

  20. Lessons

  21. Trapped

  22. Escape

  23. Aftermath

  24. Peacekeeper

  Extra Content

  1. Loggerhead

  2. The Right Tool

  3. Stolen

  4. Deal With the Devil

  5. Broken

  6. The Race

  7. The Finish Line

  8. A Deal’s a Deal

  9. A Man of His Word

  Volume III: Crossroads in the Sky

  Introduction to Volume III

  1. Middle Names

  2. Hunger

  3. Sparktouched

  4. White Night

  5. Gefion Injectors

  6. Goggles

  7. Bespin

  8. Inspector Gideon

  9. Paladin Gerard

  10. Secrets with Sharp Edges

  11. Parasol

  12. Two Tickets

  13. Baker Street Brawl

  14. Entreaty

  15. Madcap Plan

  16. A Friendly Altercation

  17. Emergency Frittatas

  18. Tobacco and Pain

  19. A Bad Feeling

  20. A Dusty Hammer

  21. Confrontation

  22. Hank’s Choice

  23. Pansy

  24. Remora’s Choice

  25. Hackwrench’s Choice

  26. Jinn’s Choice

  27. Hank’s Reward

  28. Remora’s Plan

  29. The Source of the Scent

  30. Naughty Little Kitten

  31. Lovers’ Quarrel

  32. The Bargain

  33. Loyalty

  34. Not My Father

  35. Epilogue: Meeting with Vakaena

  36. Prelude: The Origin of Bones

  Editor’s Note

  Volume I:

  The Search for

  a Captain

  Introduction to Volume I

  Volume I. Remember those days?

  The very first poll asked readers to choose the setting. Given choices such as Old West, Underwater, Medieval, Regency, and Arabian Nights, we kicked off the story with “Clouds and Feathers : Castles and Dirigibles : Skies and Air Pirates. Flight.”

  Then? Then we created a ticker first mate and gave Remora her signature red hair.

  Though it may be the shortest of the three volumes, the story decisions made here were among the most critical, and re-reading the story has been like meeting old friends again for the very first time.

  1. The Bar

  Lady Remora Windgates Price perched uncomfortably on the edge of the dirty bar stool and wondered if perhaps now was an appropriate time to belch.

  She had, on occasion, found it necessary to burp. Cucumber sandwiches in particular had a tendency to inspire a hint of the vapors. Burping was a small, ladylike expression easily hidden behind the flutter of a fan. Never before had she been exposed to anything quite like the extravagant belches produced by the patrons of the Jolly Rooster.

  The entire process was morbidly fascinat­ing. Particularly loud and forceful belches were often accompanied by
spontaneous applause.

  In truth, she wasn’t entirely certain she was capable of producing a belch.

  Absently, she lifted her heavy glass mug to her lips, only to find it empty. She blinked at the stray mound of yellowed bubbles clinging desperately to the side of the glass. Empty? How could that be? What was this—the third? Fifth? No, surely not the fifth drink.

  Trying to remember exactly how many times a full glass of ale had sloshed onto the bar in front of her was difficult. Her thoughts felt like wet wool, heavy and muzzy.

  After a moment’s reflection, she had to admit that perhaps her eagerness to appear exactly like the other patrons of this establishment had inspired her to drink a trifle too much of the house brew.

  The ale tasted so vile that she either had to sip it or gulp it. It hadn’t taken long to realize that gulping was the more acceptable choice. The corners of the room spun and she closed her eyes. Acceptable, perhaps, but not necessarily wise.

  Drunk or no, she had to admit that this little trip had been a singularly useful endeavor. Not very successful, but useful nonetheless.

  She reached into the pocket of her borrowed overalls and removed a scrap of yellowed paper. She had paid a rather large sum of money for the two neat columns of information on that paper and she had yet to regret it.

  The list contained the name of every airship captain that frequented Westmouth Port. The names in the leftmost column could be obtained at no cost from the Office of Docket and Writ. The far shorter list of names in the rightmost column, however, would be found on no official document. Pirates, thieves, vagabonds, smug­glers—these were the sordid underbelly of the airship world. They were also exactly the sort of captains she was looking for.

  She could hardly walk up to them as Lady Price and make her request, however. She needed some indication of their personality and behavior before she could entrust her money and welfare with them. A bit of research had given up the name of the most likely tavern for these sorts of captains to frequent—the Jolly Rooster—and a bit more research and a small pouch of silver coins provided the clothing and persona of someone who would also be welcome at such an establishment.

  She felt distinctly out of sorts in her borrowed coveralls. Modestly clad or no, she felt exposed without her petticoats and skirts. She’d kept her corset, of course, but even its familiar support wasn’t enough to dispel the feeling of dreadful conspicuousness. She’d even purchased a leather aviator’s cap, the only hat she could find that wasn’t remarkably out of place, yet had enough room beneath it for her to tuck away her hair. Even in bustling Westmouth, red hair was an oddity.

  Her disguise must be working, though. She’d been able to survey her quarry without drawing undue attention to herself.

  Unfortunately, the list of possible captains was growing shorter. Already, she had crossed more than half of the names from the list as being entirely unsuitable. Only two names remained and she couldn’t be certain when those captains and their ships would return to port.

  She was impatient to set her plan in motion. It simply would not do to have the very first step—securing the services of a less-than-respectable airship—fail so immedi­ately and with such finality.

  Mungo DerWint was the first name on the list, and also the first name crossed off. Shortly after arriving at the bar, she’d seen him brutally accost a stranger who had the misfortune to pass too closely behind his chair during a card game. She wasn’t entirely certain the man was still alive—he had been dragged into the streets by his boots and left there.

  At the same card game, she found two more of the captains on her list.

  Captain James Mercy: so named, she had been informed, because it was the last thing his victims cried for, and the last thing they received. His pirating left only the blackened hulls of the ships behind. She was not looking to associate with murderers. Mercy was not remotely suitable.

  The last captain at the table was one she had actually considered—for all of the half hour it took her to realize that he had fondled, pinched, and slapped every female form that came within reach. Even the women of questionable virtue avoided his table.

  She could not be assured of her own safety while aboard the ship of a captain such as that.

  She sighed. No, none of them would do.

  Vexing, at the very least. Her plan could be altered to avoid the necessity, but not easily, and certainly not with as much chance of success.

  Morosely, she glowered at the list of names. Surely one of these men would be appropriate for her needs.

  “Hey!” a voice shouted, painfully close. She turned, realizing she had been hearing the word repeated with increasing volume over the last few seconds.

  She paled as she recognized the speaker as Captain wench-pincher.

  He leered at her, leaning close and placing a hand on the bar to either side of her, effectively trapping her.

  “Tha’s better,” he said.

  The combined odor of his breath and his armpits hit her with a suddenness that set her eyes watering.

  It was quite possibly the worst thing she had ever smelled.

  “You’re a pretty little thing. I’ll buy you a drink!” he declared.

  Her eyes would have widened with alarm if they hadn’t been squinting to avoid the miasma. “No, I very much do not think you will!” she said stoutly. What a beast!

  He laughed. “Oh, a saucy wench. I like that.” Leering at her with a smile dotted intermittently with gold caps, he reached forward and grabbed her breast.

  2. “Handsome” Hank

  “Handsome” Hank McCoy slouched deeper into the battered wooden chair and stared morosely at his beer.

  “Your reaction is unreasonable.” His companion’s deep, almost metallic voice radiated disapproval.

  Hank lifted the heavy glass mug and took a long pull of the amber liquid before dropping the glass to the wooden tabletop. “So? You’re reasonable enough for the both of us.”

  “Your current course of action is not likely to result in the repossession of our ship.”

  Hank’s lips twitched. “Fair enough. You stand over there and be reasonable. I’ll sit over here and be un-reasonable. First person to get the ship back, wins.”

  “That is not amusing.”

  Hank took another swig of beer, then muttered under his breath while he wiped the foam from his mouth. “Seemed pretty damn funny to me.”

  “I can hear that, you know.”

  “I know, Bones. Believe me. I know.”

  The thought depressed him enough that he finished off the beer and motioned for another. It was going to be a very long night.

  His companion, Bones, stood beside him rather than sitting on a chair. He was called “Bones” because he appeared to be emaciated to the point of ill health. He wore a broad-brimmed fedora, a calf-length duster, and padded leather gloves in an attempt to obscure as much of his figure as possible, but he still managed to give the impression of being little more than a skeleton.

  He chose not to sit in the chair because it was unlikely the rickety thing would hold his weight.

  Bones was a ticker, nothing but machinery, clockwork, and metal, though not many people looked close enough to notice. Most people didn’t see anything that happened past the bridge of their nose; it wasn’t much of a surprise that Bones was so often overlooked.

  He was also the first mate of their ship. Or, more accurately, the ship that had been theirs before it had been impounded for Hank’s failure to pay his debts.

  The beer turned sour in Hank’s stomach, so he sent another swig down to control the riot.

  How the hell was he supposed to come up with a thousand gold doubloons to pay his debt without a ship to help him make the money? Ratchet was being unreason­able, impounding the ship. Hank always paid his debts. It’s just that it was taking longer than usual to gather the money. It had been tough times lately even without the last three jobs going sour.

  Besides, how was he supposed to know tha
t last skycity had Goralor guards? They’d barely managed to escape with their lives, never mind the cargo!

  “I believe,” said Bones in a measured voice, “it would be prudent for us to make our exit.”

  Hank’s lips twisted. “Why? Not like I can get drunk and lose the ship in a card game, now is it?”

  Bones gave him a disapproving look—no small feat for someone whose lower face was nothing but a metal plate.

  “That impossibility is not my concern. By my calculations, there is a sixty-four percent chance of a bar fight beginning in the next ten minutes. We should leave before the authorities arrive.”

  A slow, dangerous smile curved Hank’s face. At the sight, Bones sighed, a sound like someone blowing through a tube. “Make that an eighty-six percent chance.”

  What had Bones seen? Hank glanced around the room as he upended his stein, drinking the last of the beer. No reason for it to go to waste.

  Most of the patrons looked mild enough. In a joint this rough, nobody was ever truly innocent. Drunks and winos, thieves and whores—even an off-duty guardsman or two—draped themselves in small groups around the room. The poker game that had been going on to cover up shady pirate dealings was over.

  One of the captains—a rather notorious pirate with an eye for womanflesh who went by the name Chester­field—made his way to the bar with a purposeful gait.

  Hank set down the glass but kept his fingers loosely curled around the handle.

  That was it. Damn. Some stupid little chit of a girl sitting at the bar. She was pretty enough, with pale cheeks that were currently flushed with drink. She didn’t belong here at all. As a matter of fact, he wondered exactly how he’d missed her. She blended with this crowd like a dresl in a party dress.

  First off, her clothes were too clean. She wore mechanic’s coveralls, but they were spotless. The only grease stains on them looked faded and scrubbed clean. Her face and hands were clean, too. And soft. No calluses. She didn’t work with her hands, and she certainly didn’t work in the punishing heat of a ship’s engine or bare her face to the sun like a common laborer. The way she held herself was familiar—all ramrod stiff. Where had he seen that before?