Origin: Grandfather Figure

            The music was louder once the door was open. The lights shown slightly brighter, and the flute and trumpet danced happily together. Derik Turnerbatch stood immediately and raised his hand with a wave.

            “Over here, ol’ boy,” he bellowed over the commotion in the small town tavern.

            Lieutenant Nathaniel Flint smiled. Turnerbatch had been a family friend since he was a boy, and he never seemed to age. A boisterous white walrus mustache never left his face and only seemed to grow larger. He was bald as could be on top of his head, and only a band of white hair hiding behind both ears and stretching the back of his head. He often wore a bowler hat, and his outfits only varied slightly in color. As a boy, Flint thought he was a robot, designed to woo-away his grandmother and disrupt their lives.

            As he aged, however, Flint’s stories seemed to make more and more sense. As his grandmother aged, Flint realized that Derik Turnerbatch must’ve been at least ten years younger. Even now, however, if the old man was anywhere’s near over thirty Flint’s age then he did not show it. He was a vibrant, and as… English, as he had ever been.

            As Flint approached they shared an embrace and Derik offered Flint a chair. Flint noticed that his green, mountain Ale he favored had already been ordered and the remains of some food had been left for him.

            “So, Dearest Nate,” chuckled the man, “How goes that battle?”

            “Very well,” said Flint, taking a sip, “The jobs are not getting easier.”

            “Not any more legitimate, I’m afraid,” said Derik, cocking and eyebrow up and motioning towards a bruised cheek.

            “As Legitimate as they come, these days,” said Flint, “But it won’t be long now.”

            “So the ship is running?”

            “The ship is… in working condition,” said Flint, “I have designs to try and automate the majority of the processes. I believe I can make it so I won’t need a crew of one hundred or so.”

            “You think you’ll get into some decent work once she’s up,” said Turnerbatch, taking out an old clay pipe and stuffing it with tobacco.

            Flint shrugged, “What’s considered Decent out there?”

            “Transportation,” said Turnerbatch, strongly, “Freight. Cattle. God-damned pony-rides if need be. Hire it out for shade! I don’t care. Try something that won’t cause me to worry sick and won’t send Winnie into her grave if I were to tell her!”

            “She that bad?” asked Flint, lowering his voice.

            Turnerbatch took a deep breath, looking down at his pipe.

            “She’s not well,” he said, fiddling with a match, “For the good lord’s sake, she’s almost Ninety-Seven! She’d lived a damn hundred years before she’s done.”

            “Anyone ever live so long?” asked Flint, smiling, “Maybe you shared with her the secrets of the Fountain of Youth, eh?”

            “Oh, hush. Age is beginning to call on its debts,” said Turnerbatch, “When you get up this far, let’s see how sly you act.”

            “And what age is that?” asked Flint, slightly too eager for his liking.

            “Oh, white-age… I think,” smiled Turnerbatch, sharing in a laugh.

            Flint did his best to not look upset. How does he do it? Avoid it every time? Flint shrugged it off and leaned back in his chair.

            “So, what are your plans, son?” asked Turnerbatch.

            “Well… I was thinking,” said Flint, smiling, “Well… you know… all these airships.”

            “Back in my day,” huffed Turnerbatch, lighting his pipe, “We were more worried about treaty’s and we worried about the mighty seas. Today… air-travel. Pish-Posh!”

            “A Modern marvel, though, ain’t it,” cried a drunk walking passed that heard it, “To AIR TRAVEL!”

            The entire tavern lit up with the cheer and the drunk walked on. Turnerbatch could not conceal his smile.

            “It is rather nice, and has changed everything,” he said, “When I was only a boy who would’ve thought the skies would be full of Airships and Balloons and Areo-planes.”

            “Pirates,” said Flint.

            “The world will always have those,” said Turnerbatch.

            “They destroy legitimate transport,” said Flint, “It’s ridiculous. Trains, Blimps, Wagons, Landships…”

            “They have weaknesses,” winked Turnerbatch, “The day a machine turns a crew into a god I hope I am dead.”

            “But they are a problem!”

            “Agreed. What are you getting at?”

            “Well…” Flint took out a large bit of paper from his satchel, and cleared off a spot on the table.

            Spreading out the paper revealed a series of blueprints and plans. Concept designs and the like. Turnerbatch said nothing as he looked it over. Every so often he would send a smoke ring or two towards the table as he looked it over.

            A landship was on the paper. Not too big, only three legs. A walker. An outline for engines and cogs and pipeworks. Even Flint’s newest addition, an entire system for maximized automation. Turnerbatch quickly glanced these over. He had seen these all before.

            The newest additions were designs for a large cannon. The cannon would stretch out throughout the length of the ship. The measurements would’ve made this one of the largest cannons Turnerbatch would’ve ever seen. His gaze became very stern as we looked this over. Weapons additions were added to the designs as well, but the addition of this one major cannon was the most prominent.

            “What is this?” asked Turnerbatch calmly.

            “I’ve been studying,” said Flint, “Got too much time in between jobs and while on jobs. Landships and military outposts are vulnerable to airship attack. Do you know why?”

            “They have the high-ground?”

            “Yes and no,” said Flint, “Because they have the same range. Even when they see an airship off into the distance they can never hope to hit it until it is within range. Even rockets and anti-aircraft guns have a very limited range and accuracy. By that point, the airship’s cannons and weapons would also be within range. They could… swoop in. Be in danger for a second before already being right on top of you. Pirates have been using this method for years.”

            “Airships are vulnerable to those seconds,” said Turnerbatch.

            “They have armor and speed on their side,” Flint argued, “and I am not even factoring in stealth and whether or not they creapt up on you.”

            “Your point,” cried Derik, “What is this?”

            “A long-arm,” said Flint, pointing at the designs, “It’s a long-range cannon. Sort of what the military had, only they didn’t have any use. It shot too straight for too long to be used as normal artillery and is too large to be easily moved. However… I… will make it better.”

            “How? You lack the years of training and the flash of genius needed to achieve such a device effective enough to put on a Landship like yours.”

            “I do, yes. However there are… seven? Seven very successful men who do not.”

            “How on earth do you plan on affording such a team?”

            “Oh… I didn’t need to,” smiled Flint, “and… they’ve already done it.”

            Turnerbatch did not say a word. His gaze affixed on Flint and never moved, but asked all the questions in the world.

            “I developed the system,” said Flint, pointing out more blueprints, “And everyone else needed… help. I’ve literally let my reputation build it. A cannon-smith belonging to the US Army, experimental artillery. He designed the longer, lighter, more accurate cannon. A chemist who was having a hard time finding a place in the new west developed a light, armor piercing artillery shell that will be effective against airships. A clockwork engineer trying to run a railroad company needed some favors done. He designed the entire platform and basic support system so that it spins and lowers and raises. He even aided in some of my automation work, and thinks he can make a buck designing such systems for the military.”

            “Unbelievable.”

            “Architect in Florida needed some supplies that were stolen by pirates. He helped design better supports for the legs and platform to withstand the pressure of firing and holding it. Got a mathematician who’s daughter I helped making me an entire system of optics so we can fire it as accurate as humanly possible.”

            “And this… will?”

            “Change the way landships fight airships forever,” smiled Flint, “We’d have greater range then ever before. We can reach out and touch them, those pirates. When we do touch them, we’ll be able to make them feel it, too. Really put a hurt on them! This will change the way anything ever works.”

            “So you’ll become a killer of aircraft?” asked Turnerbatch.

            “Armored Escort, is the idea,” said Flint, “Bank caravans, wagon trails, railroad lines, even minor Landship escorts.”

            “Out west?”

            “Where they need me…”

            “Military?”

            “I hope not,” said Flint.

            Turnerbatch leaned in close, his eyes void of emotion and his voice firm, “Nathaniel, I thought you were going to get out of this… phase.”

            “What phase?”

            “Nathaniel… please. Don’t you think you’ve done enough? Fighting? Theft? Killing?”

            “What do you mean, Derik,” Flint rolled his eyes and let out a sigh.

            “Well, it’s just…”

            “It’s just what?” asked Flint, “You know as well as I this world isn’t built for me.”

            “Why couldn’t you go into theater?” said Turnerbatch, his voice cracking a bit, “Do you remember that? A writer? A Scholar? College? Remember what military school was supposed to do?”

            “Funny thing, how that works out,” said Flint, “And strange how money never roles into a scribes pocket.”

            “No, it’s earned! Cent by cent, boy,” said Turnerbatch, “It’s done honestly, with honor. If it’s money you want, come work with me. I’ll see to it you never starve.”

            “Derik, please.”

            “No, YOU please,” Turnerbatch jabbed his finger towards Flint, “Now, Your Gram was a bloody good woman, and she would’ve never put up with this! What would your father say?”

            “I don’t know, Derik,” spat Flint, his mood souring, “What WOULD my father say? Why don’t you tell me?”

            “I don’t know,” said Derik.

            “Exactly. Doubt he’d even know.”

            “It hurts, boy,” said Turnerbatch, “I care for you like a grandson.”

            “You don’t think I’m doing right by you? By my grandmother, rest her soul.”

            “I think you’re going to lose yourself. I’ve had to stand by and watch as the boy I knew slowly dies and a new man took his place.”

            “Isn’t that what happens in life?” said Flint, taking a sip from his mug, “The boy grows up?”

            “He doesn’t die.”

            Flint sighed, leaning closer to Turnerbatch, “I’m trying not to die. I’m trying to find myself again… I’m trying to be somebody.”

            “And this… aircraft-destroying… Scorpion thing is going to give it to you?”

            “I think it’s my ship and it’ll… let me try.”

            Turnerbatch sighed, and pulled Flint closer.

            “Nathaniel… please.”

            “Derik,” Flint stopped him, “You know you were always like a Grandfather to me. You and Winnie both. You mean the world to me. I… I have to do this.”

            They sat in silence for some time. Flint eating, Turnerbatch smoking. It wasn’t until Flint fetched his own small pipe that Turnerbatch suggested that they move outside into the night. They sat and smoked together, both gazing off.

            “I’m glad you came,” said Turnerbatch, smiling at Flint, “You never visit often. However… you always make time when you are needed.”

            “Thanks for seeing me,” said Flint, “I miss you guys. I miss it up here…”

            “I still see you,” said Turnerbatch, “The boy. Always wanting… more. To blaze a trail. Make sure everyone knew your name. Insuring people remember your accomplishments.”

            “Careful there,” chuckled Flint, “Get any deeper in thought we might lose the train!”

            “Promise me you won’t lose yourself,” said Turnerbatch, resting his hand on Flint’s shoulder, “Promise me you won’t let this… mercenary… outlaw deal overtake you.”

            “I’m going to make a change, Derik,” said Flint, “I’m not trying to lose myself. I’m trying to make a difference.”

            “Are you sure?” Turnerbatch frowned, giving Flint a glance, “You wish to make a mark in the world… but you go about it as all others.”

            “One day,” said Flint, “At the moment, money is the enemy.”

            “Is it? I would say it was your jobs.”

            “That’s what money is!” said Flint, “You earn the money, you build the ship, then… then you succeed.”

            “Is that all it is?” said Turnerbatch, who withdrew from his pocket a large purse, tossing it to Flint, “Then, here!”

            Flint opened the purse and thumbed through the cash, coins, and checks inside.

            “No, oh no,” said Flint, tossing it back, “I have never needed your money or mooched off of you, Derik.”

            “Oh, hush your mouth,” said Turnerbatch harshly, “This is not a mooch, this is an investment. Our investment in YOU!”

            Turnerbatch threw back the money. Flint’s face turned to a scowl, but Turnerbatch did not care.

            “I spent many a decade building up myself, boy. Building businesses and contacts and connections and favors and… investments. I was not rich overnight. However, even though I am very generous and I try to do good now… I missed many an opportunity to help on my climb up because it was… wasn’t profitable. I let down a good many people… all because of this… this money. The need of wealth.”

            Flint said nothing as the conversation took a pause for them to puff on their pipes a little while longer. Flint looked across the way to a broken sign reading “Scores, Big Opinions, and News”, only a few of the letters stayed lit.

            “Accept the investment,” asked Turnerbatch, “And never let money get in the way. Hold your morals high, Flint. Never think twice to stop and help those who really need you. Never overcharge your services. And for God’s sake, Flint, make a change in the world. But not one that makes you a statue or gets put in history books… but one that changes lives, and lively hood.”

            “This is… too much. I could never use it.”

            “You’d be surprised,” said Turnerbatch, puffing, “We’re not looking for a return on anything big. Just… to be very proud.”

            “I am going to try to make you proud,” said Flint, “This… is very generous of you.”

            “No,” said Turnerbatch, “Generous would be to cut away all ties and make you come to work with me.”

            “What was that place, I used to play at?”

            “What?” asked Turnerbatch.

            “That old building,” said Flint, pointing at the sign across the street.

            The letters ‘S’, ‘c’, ‘o’, ‘r’, , the “B” was lit up but the pottom loop was unlit, the ‘I’, the ‘g’ was lit up but it was missing its tail, and a second ‘s’ was alight.

            “I believe … it was the Alan Timberland’s Warehouse. The place for the Scorpion Syringe… yes?”

            “But all the kids called it the “Scorpios Club”… because of the sign,” said Flint, pointing, again at the sign, “You think it’s a sign?”

            “I think… you’re looking too far into it,” said Turnerbatch.

            Flint took out his plans, mumbling, “A walking… mechanical Scorpion…” then he turned to Turnerbatch, “What ever happened to that old place?”

            “Torn down… for the future of what’s it called…”

            “Interesting,” said Flint, smiling.