Compendium
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I. INERTIA
The sky was a ragged landscape of clouds underlit by a setting sun, their crimson streaks scored into the dusk like the tatters of a flaming cloak. From the ground it was the kind of sky a man would mention fondly to his wife; but up there, far from the solid comfort of terra firma, it was a world of howling wind and dazzling vistas, slashes of discordant colour forming a stained-glass window that burned with an effulgent light. And to shatter that window came a dirigible (technically, a flying machine) with the designation of Tyche, bouncing and bobbing like a bumptious youth eager to impress an elder. It was shadowed by a second vessel, a menacing blot that was, unlike its quarry, a proper airship—it was held aloft by no balloon, but by great steam turbines, thunderous as they churned the wind, belching gouts of smoke and flame in the leviathan's wake. This was a high-speed chase, and Goodman was losing.
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The ship had appeared on his tail during the early morning hours and had steadily gained over the course of the day; now, as the sun bled from the angry sky, the dark ship had become an imminent threat. Goodman wore intricate, brass-wrought goggles that beheld the world through apertures of smoked glass—but they had no telescopic function, and he could not be sure who was on the dark ship. He glanced to his left and saw the girl hanging on to a deck strake, her mouth open in a scream made noiseless by the hellish winds. Taking her along hadn't been his best idea, but he hadn't exactly been sober at the time.
He saw a swivel-gun mounted on the deck of the dark ship, and though he could not hear its report, he saw the gatling muzzle spin hot and spit flame, and a slew of ragged perforations sprouted in the Tyche's cabin. That was it: the warning shot. They were overhauled, with no hope of escape; he pulled on the brakeshaft with all of his might, and the propellers sputtered to silence. The engines died away, and the Tyche slowed, drifting on balloon-power alone.
The dark ship pulled alongside its prey and eclipsed the sun, plunging Goodman into shadow. The girl had regained her composure and was fidgeting beside him, staring up at the monstrous vessel. They exchanged uneasy glances.
"What was your name again?" asked Goodman.
"Helen," she said.
"Have you ever been boarded, Helen? I mean, in an aeronautic situation. I wasn't making innuendo," said the wolf, calm as he stared up into the darkness.
"Nope! This is my first time on a flyin' boat. I'm having a swell time, though," she said, sighing dreamily.
"That's good. I'm glad. I just wanted to apologize in advance if we get killed."
Their conversation—an awkward balance between Goodman's forced remorse and Helen's inability to care about anything other than halter-tops and magazines—was then interrupted by a man yelling into a brass speaking-horn, his voice tinny as it boomed across the gap between the vessels.
"Well, well! If it isn't Goodman, my arch-nemesis! That's right, you scoundrel, it is I, Theophilus Gelhorn, terror of the skies!"
The wolf was nonplussed. "Theophilus Who? I've never met you before in my life. How could I be your nemesis, let alone your arch-nemesis?"
"You will be, after today! Now give me what's mine, or I'll blow that hunk of gull-shit out of the aerodrome!" The tinny voice erupted into a grating cackle.
Goodman turned, glanced down at the cargo hold, and gave an immense, world-weary sigh; the sigh of a man without a choice. Just as he stooped beside the hatch, however, Helen's brain came to life with a sudden (and doubtlessly infrequent) epiphany.
"Theo? Theo, is that you?" she called, her voice uncertain.
"It's me, darling, and I've come to rescue you from the clutches of this ugly smuggler!" boomed the voice, and its origin became clear as he stepped into view. He was a man, or had been at one time, now made terrifying with mechanical augmentations, a huge and hulking golem; exhaust pipes on his shoulders vented steam with a brassy whistle.
"That is your boyfriend?!" said Goodman.
"Ex-boyfriend, technically," said Helen with a haughty sniff. "Though he didn't look like that when we dated, I don't think..."
"I think you'd remember dating a steam-powered juggernaut!"
"Well, maybe he's been, like, working out?" she stammered, and then fled from Goodman's side, crossing the ship and leaping into the open air. Theophilus Gelhorn grabbed her as effortlessly as if she had been a rag doll, and set her down with surprising tenderness; as he did so, Helen called out: "Thanks for the ride, mister!"
The engines of Gelhorn's massive ship roared back to life, and its cruising proximity brought the steam-amalgam's hideous face within a few feet of the Tyche. "Consider yourself defeated, Goodman! Next time you feel a bit frisky, you'll think twice about crossing Theophilus Gelhorn—or, as I'm known to my enemies, the Launderer!"
The wolf pushed his goggles up and gave the steam-golem a frank appraisal. "The Launderer? So you're in the financial racket? Cleaning money?"
"Well, no," said Gelhorn. "I just do a lot of laundry. Like, a ton. I don't have many clothes. It's hard to find anything that fits," and he continued in that vein, but his voice was lost in the torrent of wind and steam that followed his ship, and the vortex of its wake drove the Tyche some six miles off-course, spinning out between a sky of leaden clouds and the vast breadth of a roiling sea.
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GOODMAN & SONS—a bit of a misnomer, as the company is operated by only a single Goodman, who has no sons (that he knows of)—is the current incarnation of a business that stretches back four generations. It began as a smuggling operation run Thames-side in a leaky rowboat; subsequent Goodmans (Goodmen?) brought it to the skies.
The current "CEO" has not exactly improved on any of his father's accomplishments, and may be the first Goodman to take the company backwards rather than forwards. Despite his lack of vision, he is a very capable smuggler; all jobs, and their associated fees or contractual obligations, are to be negotiated on an individual basis.
SERVICES OFFERED
FREIGHT: The mainstay of business has always been the discrete movement of goods; this can be anything you need shipped or delivered, but is usually contraband (i.e. weapons, dangerous materials, politically-volatile documents, substances which are prohibited in the region of destination), or a commodity that might draw high customs tax. Goodman avoids the law so you don't have to!
ACQUISITIONS: If what you desire exists somewhere in the world, he will locate it, acquire it by any means necessary, and personally guarantee its delivery. As such jobs can be long and complicated, they are only undertaken for items of commensurate value, and the finder's fee can be fairly steep.
TRANSPORTATION: The Tyche is capable of harboring passengers (or fugitives, you know, whatever), but Goodman rarely accepts such fares due to his dangerous, exciting lifestyle. Unless said fares are very rich. Or very pretty.
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