Above the Clouds

Sarah and Helena had snuck around the backlots of Finkton Docks for half an hour before finding a small Authority watch house staffed by a skeleton crew, everyone being out on the streets in search of the False Shepherd. Weneed to get you some clean clothes, Sarah had said. They snuck in through the back door, Helena keeping watch while Sarah poked through a few lockers. There was a sink as well, and she’d wet the small hand towel and cleaned Helena up best she could, then threw her a clean shirt she’d found, along with some trousers. There was a spare Sky-hook in the next locker, which also yielded a big green peacoat with brass buttons which Helena sank into, delighted with all the pockets.

Sarah watched her transfer the contents of her skirt into it - her lockpicks, the key Sarah had given her, handfuls of hard candies wrapped in rustling paper, a bundle of string, a compass, dark red crinkled-up rose petals, a small notebook with a pencil stub, a tiny paper umbrella, assorted feathers, tiny sea shells, a red ribbon which made her head hurt when she looked at it...Sarah sat with her face in her hands for a minute, fascinated.

“Where did you pick up all this junk?” she asked, picking up a round wooden thing with a string looped around it that looked like some kind of odd children’s toy.

Oh,” Helena shook the skirt, seeming satisfied that everything had been removed. “Some of it was in the tower. Mostly through tears, though.” She folded the skirt neatly, running her hands over it repeatedly as she talked. “I remember. At first the tears would stay open. Longer. And it was easier to…” she gestured, “open them.” She frowned. “Then it got harder. But now. It’s easier again. It - “ she paused, pulling at her bottom lip, “I think there are places where they are already.”

Sarah sat up. Those flickers in the sky?

“I think,” she said slowly, “I’ve seen some of them. Like little rips with light kinda -” she wriggled her fingers, “shining through?”

Helena sat up straight as well, almost clapping her hands.

“Yes!” she exclaimed, “umm...spontaneous tears!” She slumped again. “I wish I had some of my books.”

“So,” Sarah said cautiously, “Why haven’t you ever just...walked out through a tear? I mean…you could go anywhere?” She thought about all the times she’d wished for a hole to open up for her to run through, to just...run. She scratched the back of her right hand absent-mindedly, pulling aside the makeshift bandage to get her nails against the skin.

Helena was shaking her head.

“It’s not -” she stopped, screwing her face up as she thought. “Sometimes I stepped through. But. I just couldn’t. Stay there.” Her hands were still fiddling with the skirt. “I couldn’t…”

Sarah folded her arms.

“You couldn’t leave.” she stated. Helena stopped stroking the skirt, and nodded. Sarah tapped her boot on the floor, her fingers against her arm.

“Where did it come from, this...power?” she burted out. “If it’s not one of those vigors, how…”

Helena gave her a look , and pointed a finger upwards.

“God sent it to me.”

Sarah felt her mouth open to make some smart aleck remark, biting her tongue just in time. Then they both looked up, startled, as a voice came from outside the door.

Shite, thought Sarah. They’d been so wrapped up in conversation that they’d forgotten where they were… She held a finger to her lips and Helena mirrored her, then nodded. Sarah rose and silently moved over to the door, sliding her hand into the Sky-hook - when she looked back, Helena had already hidden herself somewhere. Sarah felt a smile twitching at the corner of her mouth. The girl was a quick study.

A shadow moved under the door, then the handle rattled. A voice called out. The door opened, and Sarah tensed as a man in uniform stepped through, turned his head, and saw her. His mouth opened but the Sky-hook fell and he dropped to the floor, Sarah grabbing hold of his collar on the way down in an attempt to minimize noise. She cocked her head, listening to the murmur from the next room. There were only two offices, and the locker room, and she was certain there’d only been three coppers altogether. They’d probably come looking for this one soon. She sighed and dragged him behind the row of lockers, into one of the toilet stalls and pulled the door shut.

“Helena,” she hissed, “let’s get outta here.”

Helena reappeared from the back of the room, pulling the big green coat around her and tugging on a hat. Sarah’s hand flew to her head and her mouth gaped. She hadn’t even noticed that the hat was missing from her head. Then she shrugged and whispered, looks better on you. Helena smiled, teeth digging into her lower lip. Sarah scrounged in the lockers again, pulling out another flat cap and tucking her own hair into it. If they were on the lookout for two girls now... Then the two of them slipped back out the back door.

They soon figured out that they would need to use the sky-lines to get into Finkton proper, or at least to the Finkton Job Centre, the gateway to the town, and Helena was gleeful.

“This is going to be fun!” she crowed, spinning the hooks with a finger and grinning widely.

Sarah chuckled.

“More fun than last time, at any rate.” The picture of Helena’s face as she’d slipped from Sarah’s hand and fell into the depths flashed past, then she shook her head. Everything was fine. They were together now. She reached out and tucked the blonde curls under the cap.

 When they found the nearest sky-line and jumped aboard, Sarah could hear Helena behind her, laughing the entire way. They leapt off at the doors to the Finkton Job Centre, joining a small crowd of people, all variously looking down-on-their-luck, and saying their goodbyes to their spouses and children. Sarah rolled her eyes as another homily from Jeremiah Fink crackled to life over the speakers.

Now, some folks just aren't satisfied with their place here at Fink Industries. But I tell you, there's a purpose for all living things. Would the Pharaohs of Egypt have been able to stand at the top of their pyramids if the Israelites had not made their bricks? Would the captains of industry have been able to ride the rails had not the Chinamen laid the track for them? So, I say, chin up! History is built on the backs of men like you!

“Yeah, slaves are just playing their part in the great chain, right?” She muttered to herself.

Not happy with your pay? Well, be of good cheer. History tells us the painter Seurat would take no money for his art! Why, thatGeorge Washington would only accept the presidency if he were paid a single dollar a year! So, don't letmoney come between you and your craft!

Sarah let out a string of cursewords under her breath, eyeing the few police around the doors. They were clearly on alert, but hadn’t recognised the two of them. She glanced at Helena and hurriedly poked a strand of blonde hair back under her hat, then pulled on the brim of her cap so it covered her face a little more. Her fingers tingled a little, like they were just itching to let more bolts of lightning loose. Instead, she slid her hands into her pockets and walked nonchalantly through the crowd. Helena followed her, digging into the coat pockets and copying Sarah’s walk.

There were stairs up to the entrance, and the bronze statue at the top of a happy family proclaimed YOUR FUTURE IS FINKTON. It was flanked by two large golden statues of Fink himself, holding an open pocket watch in his hands. Probably has these poor bastards days counted down to the last second, she thought.

They entered, finding themselves in what was basically a huge hall with a windowed office in the middle of it. People stood in lines to apply for jobs which, according to the hastily painted posters hung next to the elevators at one end, didn’t exist. There was one of those automaton machines between the elevators, waving its arms and announcing -

“Welcome to Fink Industries Recruitment! We are not looking for any help! You hear that - no help!” The cheery voice and rakish straw boater failed to lighten the mood.

Armed guards stood in front of the lifts, keeping their gazes on the disgruntled folks muttering in front of them.

“How will we get in?” whispered Helena. Sarah shrugged.

“Illegally.” she answered and jerked her head to the side. “Let’s look around.”

There were stairs off to the side and they slipped down to find a locked door. Helena grinned and pulled out her lockpicks. Sarah kept watch, although she felt the guards upstairs had their hands full already. Nothing more dangerous than hungry and desperate people in a mob, if you push them a little too hard. She wondered how so many had ended up in Columbia. Maybe the promise of Heaven was too enticing to resist for some. Maybe they’d believed it really would be a better place for everyone . The lock clicked open, and the found themselves in another airy space, with yet more stairs down to a room lined with cabinets and desks. Golden statues of Jeremiah Fink were as ubiquitous here as the posters of Sister Rachel's face were throughout Columbia. Sarah carefully shut and relocked the door behind them. Helena pointed up at a sign.

“Service elevator!” she stage-whispered. Sarah nodded, and looked over the balcony, then squatted and gestured to Helena to do the same.

They looked through the bannister; Sarah scowling, Helena wide-eyed.

There was a large figure holding some sort of crank-gun. At least eight feet tall and wearing what looked like…

“He looks like George Washington,” hissed Helena in her ear.

“Another statue?” Sarah whispered back, staring at the figure. It moved, turning, and pacing across the floor. “Uh. I guess not.”

A mechanical-sounding voice issued from the striding automaton.

“Fear not the Prophet's love, nor her judgment.”

Stop, turn.

"Rejoice, because we have escaped the Sodom Below.”

Stop, turn.

“The blood of the Prophet shall sit the throne and bathe in flame the mountains of man! "

Sarah watched open-mouthed. Every time she thought this place couldn’t possibly throw up something else to surprise her...meanwhile Helena was whispering rapidly.

“Oh. It’s a - mmm. Motorized Patriot. I read about them. They’re supposed to be. Um. Guides. To show people around the city.”

“With those guns?” Sarah shook her head. “I think they got promoted.”

The Patriot moved jerkily as it stamped back and forth. When it turned, Sarah could see wheels and cogs jutting out of its back. Beside her, Helena pointed and nodded.

“Weak point,” she whispered into Sarah’s ear. Then she frowned. “I wonder if…”

But Sarah was already moving crab-like along the bannister rails, keeping an eye on the Patriot.

“What is anarchy if not a knife in the back of our Prophet? ”

Stop, turn.

Sarah carefully sidled down the staircase, while Helena watched her from the gallery above, thoughtfully biting at her lower lip. At the bottom of the stairs, Sarah paused, then ran to the nearest pillar while the Patriot’s back was turned, hand on her gun. She looked up at Helena, raising her eyebrows, trying to stop her leg jittering. Helena watched the Patriot and when it had turned its back again, nodded rapidly. Sarah swung out, concentrating on her left hand - the electricity arced out like contained lightning bolts, and the Patriot stopped short as it spread over the metal of its body, hissing and crackling.

While it was frozen in place, she raised the handgun and fired directly into the mechanics, sending more sparks flying. The Patriot let out a roar, starting to turn as the electricity died away, and Sarah moved swiftly, keeping to its blind side and continuing to fire at the protruding cogs, flexing the fingers on her left hand and letting the Shock Jockey loose again.

There were hissing and popping sounds, and a voice full of static stuttered,

“F-f-for the g-g-glory of C-c-columbia!”

Then the bewigged head of the Patriot popped off, flying into the air, and landing on the floor with a metallic bang. The remaining body stood still for a moment, then toppled forward with a crash.

Sarah burst out laughing. She leaned against the pillar, shoulders shaking. Above her, Helena sprang up and clapped her hands together.

“Pop!” she said, in a satisfied tone, and made her way down the stairs, boots tapping on the wood. Sarah had finished laughing by the time she’d reached her, but she gave Helena a crooked grin.

“Pop!” she echoed, then chuckled again. She lifted the cap off her head, and combed through her hair with her fingers, shoving the hat into a pocket, then bending to pick up the crank gun that had fallen from the Patriots hands. “Blimey.” Powerful , she thought, but too slow to get started . She let it drop again.

“Sure is some Utopia they made themselves,” she muttered.

“Some say,” said Helena, not looking up from the ledger she was now leafing through, “that Utopia is not a place, but a people . So. We must choose carefully.” Her eyes flicked up to meet Sarah’s and her mouth pulled up at one side in a smile that seemed to say she had found her utopia already. Closing the ledger, she ran her fingers down the soft leather cover, and said softly,

“Fifty percent.”

“Huh?”

“Fifty percent of what people earn. Here. Columbia.” She placed the ledger back on the desk and drummed her fingers on it. “It goes to the...Comstock House Foundation.” Lines puckered between her brows. “Which means…”

“...it goes straight to Sister Rachel.” finished Sarah. And Fink gets a lot of bang for his bucks.

 Helena wandered around the room, opening desk drawers and poking into shelves, occasionally examining something, and either putting it back, or squirreling it away in one of the big green pockets. Sarah watched her for a moment, and felt the smile on her face after another moment. These quiet moments filled her with contentment - and she wasn’t used to that feeling.  Shaking her head, she loped over to her and slung an arm over her shoulders.

“C’mon, Helena. Let’s go find Mr Lin and get out of here.”

Helena was rummaging in a drawer, and looked up at Sarah, leaning into her slightly.

“Wait. There’s something - “ she yanked at whatever was stuck, and the drawer jerked open. Helena pulled out an oblong of burnished metal and wood, with what looked like a gramophone record sticking out of it. Sarah stared at it blankly, then snapped her fingers.

“It’s one of those...what are they called again? Voxophones!”

Helena hummed in agreement, and turned the box over in her hands. There was a small label with a name and date on the back.

“Jeremiah Fink.” she read out. “March 1911.” Her head tilted. “I know that name.”

Sarah grunted.

“Had a run in with him earlier.” She remembered his sneer, and cold eyes. “Should warn you. If we run into him again, it’ll get - “ she half-shrugged, “ - messy.” Then she thought about Daisy and her knife. “Well. Maybe not as messy as it could be.”

Helena was only half listening, pulling at her lower lip in contemplation.

“No, that’s not…” she mused, “Oh. Albert Fink. I think. This is his brother.”

“And what does Albert do? Organise cross-burnings or somethin’?”

Helena looked confused.

“No, he makes music. I have many...I had. I used to listen to his songs. In the tower.” She sighed. Sarah took the voxophone from her unresisting hands, examining it and clicking the little lever that started the shellac disc spinning, startling at the voice issuing from the box.

“The truth is, I don’t have a lot of time for all that ‘prophecy’ nonsense. I tell you, belief is... is just a commodity. Sister Rachel, well, she does produce. But, like any tradesperson, she’s obliged to barter her product for the earthly ores. You see, one does not raise a barn on song alone. No, sir! Why, that’s Fink timber, a Fink hammer, and Fink’s hand to swing it. She needs me -- lest she soil her own. The dear Sister understands this better than Comstock ever did. I suspect her ‘faith’ is more in herself than in the good Lord. And why not, indeed?”

The voxophone spun to a stop, and the needle lifted back into its little slot. The two girls looked at each other, expressions mirrored.

“So,” Sarah said slowly, “Fink does Sister Rachel’s dirty work?” Sister Rachel plays the same line, Daisy had said. She lets Fink run things on the ground while she swans about in a mansion in the sky? Helena was frowning now.

“What did he mean. That her faith is in herself, and not God? I…” Her hands fiddled with her cuffs.

“Yeah. Daisy said the same thing. It’s all just -” she waved a hand in the air. “ - a front. She doesn’t care about what happens down here, so long as she’s still in charge.”

Helena’s eyes widened.

“But. She used to pray with me.” Her hands clasped together, tightly, as if to stop them shaking. “She. Insisted . Every Sunday she would visit and.” She stopped, teeth digging into her lower lip. “Afterwards, I felt…”

She stopped, glancing at Sarah, then looked upwards.

“Afterwards,” she repeated slowly, “I always felt better. Calm. Not…” Her shoulders flexed and wriggled, like she had an itchy back. “Not lonely. Or scared.” She was frowning.

So was Sarah.

“Let’s go grab the lift,” she said, mind racing. She reached out and touched Helena gently on the arm. “C’mon.”

Helena, deep in thought, nodded and followed Sarah to the lift doors, silently watching as she hit the call button with her fist.

Sister Rachel would pray with her regularly. Some kind of...hypnosis, I’d wager. Keeping her under control. But then...why stop?

Sarah dug her fingers into her hair again, frustrated, and winced as she brushed against the lump on her skull. Helena noticed, a guilty look swam across her face, and she looked down at the carpet, lips pressed tightly together. Sarah sighed, reached out, and squeezed her hand.

“Look, Helena. I know you didn’t want to hurt me, alright? We just need to be...careful. Yeah?”

Helena nodded, face serious.

The lift doors opened.

They entered, and Sarah immediately scowled at the posters mounted on either side. The same old ‘False Shepherd’ one that she’d seen all over the city, and one depicting the Songbird in flight over the giant angel tower.

ALL PRAISE THE SONGBIRD, it read, FOR HE IS THE PROTECTOR OF THE LAMB.

Helena’s eyes widened, and she tugged on Sarah’s hand.

“The lamb ? They call me the lamb ?” she stared at the other poster. “And you…”

“Yep.” Sarah said cheerfully. “The False Shepherd, here to lead you astray!” She gave a sort of bow, and Helena giggled, covering her face with both hands. The thimble on her little finger glinted, and Sarah blinked. She’d barely noticed it this entire time, and was suddenly consumed by curiosity. Helena saw her staring, and curled her hand shut, turning her attention back to the first poster, and Sarah thought she looked slightly wistful as she touched her fingers lightly to the Songbirds image, her other hand on the bird cameo at her throat.

Looking away, she pushed the button and the lift began to descend.

As it did, a recording started to play, and Sarah groaned.

“Loves the sound of his own voice, don’t he?” she grumbled.

Greetings! My name is Jeremiah Fink, and I want to share with you my personal creed. What is the most admirable creature on God's green earth? Why, it's the bee! Have you ever seen a bee on vacation? Have you ever seen a bee take a sick day? Well, my friends, the answer is no! So I say, be...the bee! Be the bee!

They went down, down, down. The thick glass window at the rear showed them passing layers of warehouses and factory floors and conveyor belts and cramped dormitories, dominated by a huge clock beyond that was set to only four times - sleep, leisure, prayer, and the largest: work.

Now, some say to me, "Fink, why is it that we get paid in tokens that are only good at the company store?" Well, I'll tell you what: I'll be damned if I'd let any of you poor folk get robbed at some shady establishment. You see, the Fink Company Store brings you Fink products! At a price designed specifically for the Fink worker.

Small billboards with Fink’s mustachioed face, and a variety of slogans slowly traveled past their eyes.

Killing Time Kills Columbia.

Keep Hands and Feet Away From Machinery - Everything Costs Something!

Eyes Forward - A Good Worker Always Keeps His Eyes on His Work.

Now, if somebody comes along and tells you that you are getting the "short end of the stick", do you know what they're really saying? Why, they're saying, "Friend, what you do doesn't matter." "Friend, you're being taken for a fool." "Friend, you're no better than a slave." Well, here's what you tell those stuffed shirts: you say, "I ain't no slave. I ain't no fool. I...am a Fink man, and proud of it."

 Fink had his fingers in every pie in Columbia. Small wonder he had the run of the city, while Sister Rachel tended to more - ethereal matters.

Bet she’s got eyes on him though. Eyes and ears. And a bullet ready and waiting - just in case.

As they came into sight of the open air again, both Sarah and Helena made identical snorting sounds at the sight of a huge golden statue of Jeremiah Fink. He held an open pocket watch in his golden hand, and stood stories tall, wisps of cloud around his knees.

“And not even half the size of his bloody ego.” Sarah said, arms folded.

Helena put her head to the side, eyeing the statue critically.

“Very...shiny.” she offered.

Sarah watched Helena fiddle with the thimble on her finger, and half opened her mouth to push the subject, but was startled into silence by the elevator coming to a stop, and the sound of a telephone ringing. Helena’s head jerked around in surprise and they stared at each other for a befuddled moment. She recovered first, and leaned closer to nudge Sarah’s shoulder with her own.

“Are you going to answer that?” Helena nodded at the small box on the elevator wall.

Sarah shrugged, opened the small wooden door, and lifted the receiver.

“Uh, hello?” she said, raising her eyebrows at Helena, who pushed close to her, ears cocked.

“Miss Manning?” The voice of a young lady queried.

“Yeah?”

“Hold for Mr Fink, please.” The line buzzed for a moment, then the unmistakable voice of Jeremiah Fink boomed through the telephone.

“Miss Manning! Fink here! My dear, we’ve had our eye on you, and I can tell you right now that you are our top candidate!”

Sarah’s mouth gaped. Top candidate? For what? Getting killed? Helena grabbed hold of her arm and mouthed candidate? And Sarah shrugged again. She spoke into the telephone.

“Last time I saw you, you wanted me dead, Fink.” There was silence, then she heard a rather unpleasant-sounding chuckle.

“Why, things change so rapidly in the modern world, Miss Manning. Enemies become allies, businesses merge, the great chain of progress pulls us all along with it! Now, my associate Mr Flambeau will help you with anything you need.” Fink gave another low chuckle and rang off.

Sarah glared at the telephone. The elevator started moving downwards again with a slight jerk.

“What the hell was all that about?” she asked, slamming the receiver down with a satisfying bang and ran a hand through her hair.

“A job?” Helena suggested, twirling a finger in her own hair, the curls coming loose under the hat. “Or…”

“Some sort of trap.” stated Sarah flatly.

Helena nodded, blonde curls pulled tight around her finger.

They stood in silence for the remainder of the ride, Sarah frowning and kicking her heels back against the wall, Helena looking thoughtful.

A trap, thought Sarah, or he wants to make some kind of deal. Hedging his bets.

Finally, the lift reached the ground floor and the doors opened. The two girls stepped out, warily, to find themselves in a high-ceilinged room with huge doors covered with an iron gate opposite them. There was a table covered with an assortment of useful looking items. Behind the table stood a young gentleman in a velvet jacket, and dark hair that reached to his collar, framing his rather round face.

“Ah, Miss Manning,” he said, and gave a shallow bow. “Welcome to Finkton. Please help yourself to anything you think you may need during your visit.”

Sarah looked at the blue Salt bottles, the ammunition, the shotgun, the wad of money. What the hell was going on? Then she heard Helena’s voice.

“What does Mr Fink want? From us?” she asked Mr Flambeau. He looked at her, and Sarah couldn’t see any recognition, or interest at all. Surely he knew who she was? Who both of them were…?

“Excuse me, miss, Mr Fink’s interest is strictly in Miss Manning.” His voice suggested that there was nothing of any interest that Helena could possibly provide, and Sarah spitefully wanted her to throw him up against the large doors behind him with a wave of her hand, and see how bored he sounded then .

“But why…” Helena started, and his placid tone interrupted her.

“So sorry, young miss. But any questions regarding the...lady’s application should be taken up with Mr. Fink directly.” And with that he turned, fiddled with something in a corner, and then the gate rattled up and the doors to Finkton swung open.

Sarah blinked, and Helena’s nose wrinkled.

It was certainly a far cry from the wide paved streets of the upper Columbia, with its trees and fountains and stone angels everywhere. Finkton streets were dusty and only partly paved with cheap looking brick, the buildings low and wide and mostly wooden, and there was a definite lack of greenery. Workbenches were set up on the corners, and figures hurried back and forth with supplies. The doors were open to the long warehouses, exposing the bent backs in front of sewing machines in the closest one. The others banged and thumped with machinery, shadows moving in smoke. Sarah could hear that same piano music that played on the docks, noting the multitude of fluted speakers dotting the buildings.

Bloody hell, probably has his little speeches playing down here all bloody day

There were guards here, too, their blue uniforms standing out against the greys and dull browns of the streets. Sarah instinctively tugged on her cap brim, even though she realised that if she was here on Fink’s good graces, they wouldn’t attack her without reason.

Probably.

There was a platform straight ahead of them, with job listings on a board. A group stood in the street while a man in a suit shouted at them that there was no work today. The people were shouting back about feeding their families. Sarah tried to ignore it all.

Helena was looking around with interest, hands clasped behind her back. Her eyes followed the people hurrying around the streets, taking in everything they did. Sarah nudged her.

“Hey, let’s find Mr Lins shop. In and out.” she said in a low voice. Helena turned, and took Sarah’s arm.

“You didn’t tell me. Who you made a deal with?” she whispered. “For the airship.” Unease washed over her face, and was gone.

Sarah coughed.

“Daisy Fitzroy.” she hissed, sure that that name would get her into trouble.

Helena grinned widely.

“A great hero. Or the worst of scoundrels!” she said brightly. “Depending on who you talk to.”

Sarah cleared her throat, unable to stop a small smile at the thought of the revolutionary leader.

“Uh. She sure is...something, alright.” Her cheeks felt hot, and she turned her head so Helena couldn’t see.

“Do you trust her?” Helena asked, and Sarah scuffed her boots as they walked, considering.

“Yeah,” she decided. “She’s a straight shooter.”

Helena nodded decisively, apparently willing to trust anyone that Sarah did. They rounded a corner and found themselves in front of Chen Lin’s store, a wide set of wooden stairs leading up to the door, and a sign proclaiming him to be gunsmith and machinist. Sarah wondered briefly why the doors were firmly shut, where all the other workshops were busily open, but the handle turned when she tried it, so she shrugged and walked in. Helena followed and immediately started poking around the shelves that lined the small room.

Sarah glanced around - boxes of machine parts, a barrel of rifles, a locked cashbox - but no Mr Lin. There was another set of doors at the back of the room. Through them was a large and quiet space, with a brightly burning furnace at the rear. The room was empty. She frowned.

Helena followed her through the doors and stopped, looking puzzled. Sarah glanced at her.

“Yeah, I know.” she said. “Something’s wrong.” She led the way up the simple wooden staircase at the side, stopping at a little corner with a shrine set up on a narrow bench. Several candles burned low, and there was incense dust among them. Delicate orchids stood in small vases and flanked a statue of -

“Gautama Buddha.” Helena said in her ear. Sarah jumped a little. “I read about him.”

“Huh.” Sarah gazed at the little shrine. Beautiful and peaceful though it was, she imagined it would be placed on the same level as blasphemy in this city. Helena kept talking.

“The founder of Buddhism. He spent 49 days under a Bodhi tree. Until he achieved enlightenment.” She touched a finger to the statue, stroking the texture of the wood.

“Something tells me dear Sister Rachel don’t cater to idols being worshipped that ain’t her.” Sarah said, listening carefully and hearing nothing from upstairs.  “C’mon.”

They mounted the next set of stairs and found a room containing machinery, and work benches, but still no people. There were stools lying on the floor, papers thrown around, signs of a struggle. Sarah’s blood ran cold, remembering the same signs back at the lighthouse and the body she’d found. She drew her gun and circled the room but found nothing apart from metal and wood. And paper.

Holstering the pistol, she bent and picked up a sheet of paper, turning it over to find a drawing of a man she guessed to be Chen Lin. She read the words underneath the picture out loud.

"Gunsmith Chen Lin wanted for known connections to the outlaw Daisy Fitzroy." She dropped it back on the floor. “Bloody hell. We’re too late.” She kicked a table leg. Poor bastard, been dragged off somewhere, and now they wouldn’t be able to get the airship back. She dragged her hands through her hair.

“Sarah,” whispered Helena, “listen.”

Sarah tiptoed over to where Helena stood at the top of the stairs, and cocked an ear.

There was a quiet sobbing coming from below.

They looked at each other, then crept down and peered around the corner together.

A woman stood at the shrine, head bowed and shoulders shaking. Her black hair was shot with grey and pulled into a bun, over brown eyes bloodshot from crying. She looked at Sarah and Helena with no surprise, just resignation. Sarah shifted on her feet, feeling awkward.

“Uh, we’re looking for Mr Lin? Is he...here?” She could already see the answer in the woman’s face. Mrs Lin shook her head.

“Mr Lin, not here. They take him. They - “ she stopped, sobbed a little, then looked at Helena and burst into a stream of Mandarin. Sarah listened, picking up a word here and there, suddenly embarrassed that she’d lived in Chinatown all these months and could barely say ‘thank you’.

Helena, on the other hand, had taken Mrs Lin’s hands in her own, and was nodding and chatting just as fluently. Sarah shook her head in bemusement - more book learning, she guessed.

Helena squeezed the woman’s hands, then turned back to Sarah.

“The police came and took him. The Flying Squad. Whoever they are. To the Good Time Club.” She sucked her lips between her teeth, looked at the floor, fiddled with the coat cuffs. “She wants to know - why didn’t the Vox Populi help? Or Daisy Fitzroy?” Turning back to look at Mrs Lin and the shrine, she added softly,

“She’s praying. For the Buddha to bring him back.”

“Shite,” said Sarah under her breath. She could see by the look on Helena’s face that they were gonna have to go find Chen Lin, and that meant walking into more trouble . Shite shite shite. She rubbed her face, then clapped her hands together.

“I guess we better go break him out then,” she said, smiling at Mrs Lin, who watched her warily, eyes skipping to Helena, then back to Sarah. Then she grabbed Sarah’s hands and bowed a few times, saying what Sarah recognised as a string of ‘thank you’. She felt her stomach sink in response to the woman’s trust. What if we really are too late… She extricated her hands after bowing back, and they left, Helena soothing her with a few more words before they made their way back down the stairs and out into the front room.

She grabbed Helena by the arm before she could walk out the front door.

“This is gonna be real dangerous, Helena. Some special police squad took him, which means they’re probably working him over right now, trying to get information. We can’t just....”

Helena was looking at her, eyes huge. She covered Sarah’s hand with her own.

“You rescued me.” Her voice was soft, but determined. “That was dangerous. Wasn’t it?”

Sarah looked at her, then at the floor.

“Yeah, but…”

“Mrs Lin. She’s counting on us. We can’t just…” Helena trailed off. “We need to help her.”

Sarah sighed.

“We will, alright? Just - stay close, keep your eyes open, listen. Yeah?”

Helena nodded, sharply, putting her hand on the door handle. Sarah put her hand to her waist and felt the comforting shape of the gun there. She nodded back, and they pushed the doors open, and headed back out into Finkton.