All I ask is a tall ship, thought Nathan Zachary, and a load of contraband to fill her with.

Standing in what he unconsciously considered his Captain Pose, Nathan peered at the misty horizon, trying to pick out the coastline to the west. A punishing storm had risen up during the long flight from Miami to New York, driving the Pandora out into the Atlantic. It had added a whole day to their transit time, but Nathan was forced to admit that he didn't really mind. The Fortune Hunters, his skilled and talented team of sky pirates, had made out exceptionally well during their recent adventure, battling the forces of Dead-Eye Duncan and his Fast Paced Squadron for ownership of the fabled Staff of Ankoran. The relic was now safely enshrined at the Confederation's National Historical Museum, and a hefty cash payment was settling nicely into his safe.

Turning from the window of the control room, Nathan reviewed his troops. Big John, one of the best zeppelin pilots in the world, had his attention focused on his instruments and the view outside. A strong northerly wind was building up, and Big John had promised Nathan that they would be no more than twenty-four hours behind schedule.

The gondola which contained the control room was small, as was common on Empire State zeppelins. The majority of the crew spaces, including quarters, a galley and mess hall, mechanics bays and the fighter hanger, were all inside the long, smooth cylinder of the Pandora.

Stepping out of the control room to check on the progress of the repairs, Nathan walked into the navigation room, where his second-in-command Jack Mulligan was arguing loudly with Marco Tomorra, the chief mechanic.

"And I say that the Balmoral can wait," said Jack, who was turning slightly red.

"It's nothing to do with time, Mister Jack," said Tomorra, before Nathan intervened.

"What is it to do with, Marco?"

"Ah, Mister Nathan," said Marco. "It is parts, sir. Mister Jack's Devastator will need a new compression coil. I can't make one, and without it, his engine won't even turn over."

"All right, we'll make it a priority once we dock in New York," said Nathan placatingly.

"What about the other repairs?" asked Jack. "The armour's dented, and half the instruments don't respond."

Tomorra shrugged. "I can fix those things, but you still won't be able to fly the plane. If I fix the Balmoral, you'll at least be able to fly that."

Jack sighed heavily. Nathan could relate - switching from the light, nimble Devastator to the slow-moving, heavily-armored bomber would not be a pleasant experience.

"I'm sorry, Jack," said Nathan, "but it looks like you're taking the Balmoral."

"Fine," sighed Jack. "Sorry, Marco."

"It's OK, Mister Jack. As soon as I get the coil, your Devastator, she will be ready for you, OK?"

"OK. Nathan, how far out are we?"

"Big John says he can see the coast, which puts us about fifty miles away. We should be docked by noon."

"Should we run out a picket line?" asked Jack. Their last departure from the capital of the Empire State had not been overly friendly.

"Ah don't think that's wise," said another of the Fortune Hunters. Stepping off the ladder and dropping into the nav room was Tex Ryder. Born and bred in the Republic that gave her her nickname, Tex was a slim brunette, tough and fearless. She had joined the Fortune Hunters back before they got the Pandora, when they were just another gang of sky pirates looking for work.

"The Empire State won't take kindly to a military-lookin' approach," she continued, "and that is how it'll look to them. Ah recommend that we go in nice an' gentle. After all, we ain't lookin' for a fight, ain't that so, Nathan?"

"No, Tex, we're not," he confirmed. "We're looking for work, not trouble. Something to tide us over on the way to Denver."

Nodding, the two other pilots turned their attention to the plotting table, where the latest weather report had been placed. Leaving them to their deliberations, Nathan climbed up the ladder towards the crew quarters.

The ladder was originally enclosed, but the metal tubing had been cannibalised one hot summer's day in Arixo to make an emergency rudder for the Pandora, and they'd never bothered to replace it. Nathan wasn't certain he wanted to. The ladder went from the operational spaces behind the control room to the crew spaces above, but without the sheathing metal it gave a wonderful view of the hanger.

Three racks held the fighting aircraft of the Fortune Hunters. Five Devastators occupied the centre line, the ISA-manufactured craft the gang's hallmark. The port rack held the bombers and other heavy craft, two stolen Imperial Balmorals and a Red Skulls Brigand Nathan had stolen himself. The starboard rack held the specialist aircraft, such as the autogyro, a single-engined seaplane and a pair of delta-winged Firebirds, still in the livery of the Nation of Hollywood.

From his perch, Nathan could see Marco crawling back out towards the forward Balmoral, his arms full of parts and tools. Another pair of technicians were loading ammunition into the Devastators, just in case.

Another few rungs lifted him into the crew spaces, the small cabins that made up the home of the Fortune Hunters. His cabin was at the far end, and was the largest one. It was almost big enough that he could hold out his arms and not touch the walls.

He was almost off the ladder when the door to the bathroom slammed open and Betty Charles, known as Brooklyn, came bustling out. She grinned at Nathan, made sure her towel was secure, and slipped into her room. Nathan smiled at the door, moving down the narrow passage to his own room.

It took nearly two hours to dock, in the end. Zeppelin traffic over New York was especially bad, a fact blamed on the recent storms. The Fortune Hunters weren't too broken-hearted by this - their main intention in New York was to spend some of their hard-earned money living the high life, enjoying some real R&R. Finally, however, the rumbling thunder of the engines died away, and Big John opened the hatch onto the docking ramp.

Dressed in their partying clothes, the Fortune Hunters stepped out onto the ramp, facing a collection of reporters. The story of their daring battle against the Fast Paced Squadron had made all the papers in Dixie, and the New York pressmen clearly wanted their share.

"Captain Zachary!" shouted some, while others snapped pictures and shouted questions. Nathan put on a big smile and waved the other Fortune Hunters close, letting the cameras whirr for a few seconds before heading past the group. The others moving swiftly, dodging the mass of press and heading for the terminal building, which would allow them to take a taxi to the Waldorf, where rooms were waiting for them, prepaid by the Confederate Museum. Nathan was almost clear when a reporter stepped out, camera at the ready.

"Captain Zachary, a moment, please?"

Nathan stopped. This reporter was short, blonde, and very, very pretty. Her hair was caught back under an unflattering hat, but her lips were full and red, and the figure he could see beneath the traditional trenchcoat appeared extremely pleasant.

"Why, certainly, Miss?"

"Perkins," she said, "Polly Perkins, from the Chronicle. Is there any truth in the rumours that your group was paid a considerable amount for what has been treated as an act of generosity?"

Nathan gave Polly an appraising look. It would have been easy to dismiss the blonde as a airhead cub the Chronicle had sent out for appearance's sake, but he had heard of Polly Perkins. She was considered an intelligent, daring reporter, and while he had heard that she was good-looking, he had not been prepared for the reality.

"I'll tell you what, Miss Perkins," he said, stepping towards her and slipping a piece of card into her hand, "why don't you come over tonight and we can discuss it over dinner?"

The very vaguest hint of a blush touched the tips of her cheeks. "I'd like that, Captain," she said, stepping back and allowing the other reporters to move in, shouting their repetitive, unimaginative questions. Ignoring them, Nathan headed for the terminal building.

The rest of the Fortune Hunters hadn't waited for their captain, leaving him to take a taxi alone. The small, open-topped plane buzzed quietly between the towering skyscrapers of this king of cities, and Nathan felt himself relaxing.

The staff of the Waldorf welcomed him with even more enthusiasm than he had expected, the reason for which soon became apparent. The bar of the hotel had been invaded by his pilots, who seemed to have progressed to a state of inebriation with impressive speed.

"Cap'n!" shouted Betty as he entered, "we bin waitin' for ya! What'll ya have?"

"Whiskey," he replied, smiling an acknowledgement of the bartender's expression. He leaned over the bar. "Sorry about them, we've just had a really good month."

The bartender looked back at the group with a pained expression, and turned to Nathan. He watched as the bartender's eyes took in the symbol on his jacket and then looked at his face.

"You're... you're Nathan Zachary! Of the Fortune Hunters!"

Nathan smiled. Getting recognised like this was always a pleasure.

"That's right. Would you like an autograph?"

"No," said the bartender, drawing a pistol. "I'd like revenge."

THEME TUNE!

IMPRESSIVE DISPLAY!

CASTLIST!

SKY CAPTAIN AND THE FORTUNE HUNTERS!

"Hey," said Nathan, holding out his hands, "there's no need to get violent. We'll pay for the damage."

"To hell with the damage! You killed my brother!"

Nathan risked looking at the others. They were frozen, Big John and Tex slowly reaching for their own weapons. There was a significant shortage of dead bodies.

"I'm not sure..." Nathan began, but the bartender interrupted.

"No, I doubt you are. Two years ago, you raided an experimental airfield hanger in the ISA. My brother was a rookie pilot with Blake Aviation Security. He'd been on the job less than a week when you and your pirate buddies blew in and stole some equipment. He tried to stop you with his squadron, and you gunned him down."

"Now, come on," said Big John, trying to distract the bartender. "We were fired on first."

"You were trying to steal from them!" exclaimed the bartender, the gun wobbling in his hand. "They were trying to defend themselves, and you murdered them!"

The bartender looked over at Big John, and Nathan acted. One hand grabbed the bartender's wrist, the other the barrel of the gun, forcing it up and twisting it from his grasp. There was a sharp crack and the bartender's face went white. Nathan flipped the gun over towards his friends, not bothering to watch as Buck Deere snatched it out of the air.

"I'm sorry about your finger," said Nathan. The digit was clearly broken. "And I'm sorry about your brother. Big John, call an ambulance."

As the Pandora's pilot headed for the lobby, Nathan and Jack helped the bartender out after him, the better to wait for the ambulance. As the wailing siren approached, another man stepped out of the kitchen, tying on an apron and assuming a helpful expression.

"All right, then, gents, what'll it be?"

Nathan ordered another round of drinks, watching for other members of the Pandora's crew. Two mechanics and the navigation officer turned up, who informed him that Marco was going to remain on watch. The five gunners of the Pandora, always a cagey group, had disdained to join the others in the Waldorf and were staying at a friend's club in downtown.

The evening was heading towards the traditionally convivial, the bar growing crowded as the other guests realised that the famous Fortune Hunters were in their midst. Nathan was in the middle of describing his daring battle with La Arana a Negra in the canyons of Arixo when he noticed a blonde woman in a raincoat moving purposefully through the crowd.

"Hello, Polly," he said, moving aside and making space at the bar. Buck picked up the story and carried on.

"Hello, Nathan," she replied, looking around at the adoring masses. "Am I interrupting?"

"No, I was just..."

"I'm sure you were," Polly said, her eyes laughing.

"Can I buy you a drink?" said Nathan, feeling unaccustomedly foolish. Polly smiled at him.

"Sure," she said. "I'll have a Scotch on the rocks."

Nathan signalled the barman, who provided the lady's drink as well as another double of Jack Daniel's for the airman.

"I'm glad you could make it," said Nathan, studiously ignoring the looks the rest of his crew were giving him as they intercepted and distracted those who would talk to the leader of the Fortune Hunters.

"Well, an exclusive interview would make for a great story, Mister Zachary," she said, not letting her smile slip an inch.

"Really? Well, what do you say we conduct that interview somewhere more... private?"

The smile faded now, ever so slightly. "Good idea," she said. "How about that booth over there?"

Nathan maintained his easy smile, watching her eyes. This might still go his way, he thought, and even if it didn't, a few hours in this girl's presence was nothing to complain about.

The bar was crowded, noisy and smoky now, the fans on the ceiling serving only to move the air around. The booth was empty, and Nathan and Polly slid easily into it.

"So, what did you want to ask me, Miss Perkins?" asked Nathan, trying to bring his mind back into "dealing with reporters" mode.

"Well, let's start with your recent adventure in Dixie. I heard from a friend down there that the Staff you recovered was brought to Dixie by an Imperial zeppelin?"

"That's right. A British archaeologist was working on an excavation of some palace in China when he was approached by an antiquities dealer, who offered to sell him an Egyptian artifact called the Staff of Ankoran. The Chinese government wanted it, but the archaeologist managed to reach the border and get the Staff loaded onto a Royal Navy destroyer docked at Hong Kong."

"Where was the excavation?"

"Near a town called Nanjing. Do you know it?" asked Nathan. He couldn't miss the look of pain that crossed Polly's face.

"Yes," she replied, "I've been to Nanjing."

"Rough place," he said, "especially now the Manchurians control the area. When were you there?"

"About six months ago," she said, shaking her head and appearing to discard whatever was bothering her. "But getting back to the story."

"Yes," said Nathan. "So, as I say, the Staff was loaded onto the British destroyer. They made it far enough out into the South China Sea to meet up with the Royal Air Force combat zeppelin Fearless, who took the Staff on board and headed for the Kingdom of Hawaii, I think hoping to find a friendly port. Only, the Chinese didn't like that idea."

"Why did they want the Staff?"

"Well, legends say that the Staff contains directions to a place of great treasure. The whole thing is covered in very detailed carvings, all hieroglyphics and so on. The historians are apparently divided on what the place of treasure is or if it ever existed, so we decided to leave it to them to figure out."

"What was an Egyptian artifact doing in China?"

"You know, we never found out. We got involved when we picked up a distress call from a Confederate airship near the border with French Louisiana..."

Nathan continued the story, mildly embellishing some aspects of the adventure to make for a more compelling tale. Polly reacted most gratifyingly, even though Nathan was sure she was seeing right through his more outlandish statements.

The bar started to quiet down as Nathan finished his story, ending with an only-slightly embellished tale of how he and the other Fortune Hunters had managed to destroy Dead-Eye Duncan's zeppelin and escape from his revenge, carrying the Staff strapped to the wing of his Devastator.

Nathan excused himself, and slipped out of the booth to go replenish their drinks. He was just collecting them when Polly stepped up to the bar.

"Well, Captain, it's been a pleasure. Thank you for your help, and I'm sure we'll be seeing each other soon. Good-bye," she said, and headed for the door with fixed determination. Nathan stood there, with a martini in one hand and a whisky in the other. Shrugging, he knocked them both back, put the glasses back on the bar and headed off to bed.

The next morning dawned cold and clear. Normally, Nathan would never have known this, but he was awoken just after seven by a banging on the door to his suite.

Bleary-eyed, his head thumping, he cracked the door open. Big John stood there, holding a newspaper in his hand.

"I thought you should see this, Cap'n. This morning's Chronicle."

Nathan took the paper, blinked to clear his vision, and focused on the headline. "Pirate attack in Dixie destroys zeppelin!" read the headline, with a smaller one underneath.

"Fortune Hunters not to face prosecution?" asked Nathan. "What are we being sued for?"

"We're not, Cap'n. The paper is calling for us to be arrested and extradited to Dixie to answer charges of murder, arson and assault with a deadly weapon."

"What for?"

"For knocking out Dead-Eye Duncan's zep, and shooting down his planes and so on."

"Well, yeah, we did all that, but just because that was the job!"

"The paper says that the age of the gentleman of fortune has ended, and it's time for civilization to move on."

Nathan shook his head again, accepting the fierce pain that followed such a gesture in exchange for the clearing of his sight. A short byline caught his eye.

"By Polly Perkins. I should have known."

Manchurian Prison Camp Changchun, China

"Prisoner four-eight-seven-six-two!" shouted the overseer. 48762 shuffled forward out of the line of similarly-dressed malcontents and criminals. He knew the price of disobedience, and was disinclined to pay it for no reason.

"As punishment for your third escape attempt in six months, you have been sentenced," declared the overseer, a short, balding man that 48762 had come to hate with a passion. "You will be taken to solitary confinement, and, in the morning, we will cut off your fingers!" 48762 didn't let the threat visibly disturb him. The threat didn't matter. He had a plan. He wasn't going to be here in the morning.

It was a complex plan, as comes naturally to some people. He had deliberately been caught on this most recent attempt, hoping for this punishment. It was a fine line - the Japanese were not hesitant to shoot escapees, and dying in the crossfire of this Russian-Japanese war would not be a noble end to his career.

The guards were not gentle, but 48762 was used to the unthinking abuse by now. Solitary confinement was a small concrete block on the edge of the prison grounds. The prison had been a school for the upper classes before the Japanese invasion, and the confinement block had been a groundsman's storage shed. The invaders had reinforced it, along with the rest of the school, and it now housed nearly a thousand people considered to be a threat to the security of the Manchukuo state.

There was a grinding sound and then a click as the heavy door to the shed was swung shut. 48762 paused only for a moment before attacking the floor of the shed.

The floor was made of old wooden boards. In his last stay in solitary, 48762 had discovered a box under the floor, containing a collection of useful things. Now, he planned to use some of those things.

The door to the shed was thick and secure, but not particularly close-fitting. It was easy to tell when night fell, and 48762 wasted no time once the evening roll-call was taken and the majority of the guards joined the prisoners in sleep.

The coil of cutting wire allowed him to shear off the bolt to the shed, and he was then committed. He would never have another shot at escape, and this one had to go smoothly.

The spotlights that illuminated the prison were placed atop long, steel shafts, and 48762 had learned their placement and coverage long ago. Shuffling along the wall of Barracks Eighteen, he tapped a code against the wooden wall.

One of the planks that made up the wall swung out a few inches from the floor, and a hand thrust out a sheaf of paperwork. 36552 had been an official in the local bureaucracy before the invasion, and had managed to forge a convincing-looking set of identity papers. The rest of the paperwork was letters to the governments of the various foreign nationals being held by the Manchurian invaders. They were counting on him to let people know that they were alive, and being held here in this hellhole.

There was no time to waste. The night delivery truck would be arriving soon, and it was 48762's only hope of getting out. The truck was thoroughly searched before leaving, but he had a plan.

The darkness of the night was his advantage. The clouds covered the moon and the spotlights cast deep shadows between the barrack buildings. 48762 found the spot he'd chosen weeks before, a spot where the spotlights behind and the spotlights before left a small triangle of shadow.

The routine of the guards was his only hope, and this night was no different. The truck arrived, and the driver climbed out. Guards approached and started pulling boxes off the back.

The driver stepped away from the truck, clearly glad to be able to stand up and stretch. Another pair of guards manhandled a large tank on wheels over to the truck and started to refuel it.

The driver stepped out of their way, and moved to his customary spot, away from the fuel tank, to have a quick smoke. Army regulations prohibited him from indulging while he drove, so he always took this opportunity.

The driver started to wonder about the strange uncoiling shadow, but it struck far too fast for him to shout a warning. The blow rendered him unconscious, and for 48762 it was the time when speed was a priority. If any of the guards glanced over and noticed the driver wasn't visible, the alarm would be sounded and all would be over. Rapidly, 48762 pulled off the driver's greatcoat, cap and weapons belt, donning them with the ease of practise. Scooping up the slightly bent cigarette, he took a heavy draw to try and keep it alight. There was a glow, and the sharp taste of cheap tobacco caught him in the back of the throat. It had been a long time since his last smoke.

Surreptitiously kicking the driver's body out of the light, 48672 stepped forward and ground out his cigarette under his heel, dodged the guards and climbed into the cab of the truck. The captain of the guards lead the search of the truck, including shining a light under the vehicle, before signalling the gate guard. The gate swung open as the driver gunned the engine and headed for freedom.

The tension made 48672's hands shake, and he was grateful that no guard accompanied him, lest they see the visible nervousness. The vehicle was unfamiliar to him, but the basic mechanics were the same the world over. He badly ground the gears shifting into second, but he was passing the gate now and didn't care. A few more seconds and he would be past the last of the guardposts and free.

As the truck reached the brow of the hill, 48672 felt himself relax. The lights of the prison camp died as the truck descended the far side, and the main road appeared. The signs were in Chinese, but 48762 knew which way he was going. Turning to the east and freedom, he headed for the harbor.

He abandoned the truck about a mile from dock ninety-four, where his friends would be waiting. Sure enough, the battered structure of a long-range cutter rode alongside the jetty, a figure standing on the aft deck smoking a cigarette. 48762 slipped closer, not wanting to reveal himself, just in case. About ten yards from the boat, out in the middle of the concrete expanse, a searchlight snapped on and there was the crash of charging weapons.

"Freeze!" shouted the figure on the boat. Then, "My God, it is you!"

The searchlight dropped away, no longer dazzling, now illuminating. The shape emerged into the light, a dark-haired, baby-faced man.

"Welcome back, Captain," said the man.

"Thanks, Dex. Let's get out of here," said Joe Sullivan, Sky Captain.

Two weeks had passed, and the Fortune Hunters were getting restless. While rest and relaxation were always enjoyable, they were professional enough to long for a return to adventure. So it was almost a relief when the busboy brought Nathan a message. It was a request to repair to the lobby and telephone the terminal building - there was a message from the Pandora.

Intrigued, Nathan dressed and headed downstairs, choosing the end telephone as it was in a private booth. He dialed the number for the terminal, asking the operator to put him through.

A communication line was one of the services offered by the terminal, along with power, fuel and water, so the intercom phone in the navigation room rang. Marco scooped it up.

"Ah, Mister Nathan! I am so sorry to have to tell you, but I have very bad news! Remember the box we were asked to transport?"

Nathan remembered, all right. A gentleman in Miami had asked the Fortune Hunters to move a large crate for him. It was an unusual assignment for a group of sky pirates, but the man had said that he didn't trust the mail services with something this large, and he had paid a handsome price. The deal had been that they would drop it off at the main zeppelin terminal in Denver, Free Colorado. It had been odd, but they were the Fortune Hunters - not all their jobs involved shooting down other planes and robbing zeppelins, and the money had been much better than he expected.

"What about it, Marco?"

"Ah, Mister Nathan! It has been stolen!"

Nathan felt his gut churn. They had been paid half in advance, half on delivery, but it would still be a smear on their reputation.

"How, Marco?"

"I do not know, Mister Nathan. The ramp was locked up tight, and the main doors are still padlocked shut! It should not be possible!"

The crate, Nathan remembered, was so large it had had to be loaded through the fighter hatch, the biggest gap in the Pandora's structure. The weight had nearly overloaded the winch, which could handle a fully-laden Balmoral without breaking a sweat. He had been curious as to its contents, but discretion was another Fortune Hunter trait that had earned them many jobs.

Any thief would have needed to sneak aboard the zeppelin, which did not have its boarding ramp run out when in dock, unlock and open the main hatch, lower out the crate (presumably to another zeppelin, the Pandora was thirty stories above the ground) and then close and relock the hatch, all without waking any of the crew. It seemed unlikely, but the crate was manifestly not there. There was nothing else for it.

Nathan had a cab summoned and returned to the Pandora. He had no intention of calling the NYPD, who would take great pleasure in searching the entire Pandora for "clues". While they would certainly find evidence of a number of crimes, Nathan had a distinct feeling that whoever had swiped this crate was far too professional to leave something the bumblers in the NYPD could find.

Calming the flustered Marco, who appeared to be taking this entire event as some kind of personal slur on his honesty, Nathan examined the scene. On review, some things became clear.

The crate had been stowed not too far from the hatch, the better to keep the strain off the winch. However, there were clear scrape marks on the metal floor of the cargo hold, as if the crate had been pushed over to the hatch rather than lifted by the winch. Examining the padlock, Nathan noticed the small scratches that hinted at the use of lockpicks or other burglar's tools.

Resigning himself to the fact that, as he had suspected, there was nothing to identify the thieves, Nathan went up the ladder to his room, where he found the documents their customer in Dixie had given them. Glumly, he went down to the navigation room, where the intercom was connected through the terminal building to the telephone exchange.

It took a few minutes to reach the Miami exchange, where Nathan was informed that the number he had was not valid and did not exist. Moreover, he was told, that number was part of a sequence reserved for numbers belonging to the University of Miami, and, "I don't believe they've reached that far, sir," said the young lady, her thick Southern accent pleasing to the ear. "I'm sorry, sir."

"That's all right," said Nathan, hanging up. Well. There was another number, this one in Denver. Steeling himself for another battle with the New York exchange, he picked up the handset and dialled for the operator.

It was somewhat easier to reach Denver, the trans-continental network having been completed only two months before. The operator was able to connect him to the number, which started to ring.

The phone rang for nearly a minute, and Nathan was about to hang up and try something else when there was a click and a voice said, "Who is this?"

"My name is Nathan Zachary. I'm looking for a... " he checked his notes. "A Doctor Marmole?"

"This is Captain Petersen of the Denver Fire Department. Someone torched Doctor Marmole's office last night, and I'm afraid he didn't make it out."

"Oh," said Nathan. For once, his easy conversation deserted him. "I see. Thanks, Captain." He hung up, gently.

For a long moment, he sat in the navigation room, not sure what to do. He almost jumped out of his seat when the telephone on the plotting table rang.

"Pandora," he said, abiding by the tradition.

"You should know," said a voice, with a heavy German accent. "Doctor Marmole is not dead."

"Who is this?" demanded Nathan, but the line had gone dead. Rapidly, he hammered on the connection bar, trying to re-establish the line, but there was no reply until a New York voice said, "Operator, wadda ya want?"

"Someone just called me on this line, can you tell me who it was?"

"Nope. You want somethin' else?"

"No. Thanks for your help," he said, ringing off before she could reply to his sarcasm.

He sat back down on the chair, trying to sort out everything that had just happened. Finally, he picked up the phone and asked for the Waldorf hotel.

"Waldorf," said a firm, professional voice. Nathan recognised the concierge who had been so helpful in arranging the ambulance their first night.

"Hi," said Nathan, "I need to send a message to suite 2007 as fast as possible. Message reads, Return to base, departure imminent."

"I see, sir. Will there be anything else?"

"Yes. Suites 2004 through 2010 will be checking out in the next hour. Please forward the bill to the zeppelin Pandora, currently docked at the main Manhattan terminal, as fast as you can."

"I understand, sir. Am I right in thinking that you are currently occupying one of those suites?"

"That's right, 2009."

"Then, shall I send a boy up to collect your things?"

"No, my friends will take care of that," said Nathan, grateful that the concierge had asked. Explaining the collection of firearms that were in his cases might have been difficult.

"Very good, sir," said the concierge.

Forty-five minutes later, wearing expressions of varying hostility, the crew of the Pandora arrived on the boarding ramp. The gunnery brothers were right behind them, much more eager to board, hoping that Nathan's message meant that a return to action was in the offing.

The Pandora was already preparing to cast off lines when a boy dressed in the uniform of the Waldorf ran onto the flight deck, holding a piece of paper. Nathan happened to be the closest to the door, so he stepped out to collect it. As he did so, he noticed a familiar face heading out onto the deck as well.

"Hello, Polly," he said, his voice cold.

"Hi, Nathan. Did you miss me?"

"Not at this range," he replied, letting his hand settle onto the butt of his gun.

"You're not still mad about that story, are you?"

Nathan glared at her, unwilling to simply turn away. "You lied, Polly. You twisted my words and made us look like murderers."

"Look, Nathan..."

"No, Polly. We're leaving," he said, turning away with an effort and signalling the engineer operating the docking ramp.

"That's a shame," she shouted as the gangplank started to retract. "I guess you're not interested in what I know about Doctor Marmole!"

A slashing gesture stopped the ramp mid-climb. Not lowering it yet, Nathan turned.

"Why should I care about whoever that is?"

"Don't play games with me, Nathan. You're looking for him, and I'm coming with you."

"No," said Nathan, "absolutely not."

"Well, since I'm the only one who knows why someone might have torched his lab, good luck working it out once you get to Denver."

"How did you know about that?" asked Nathan, instantly regretting his mistake. She could be certain she was right now, even if she was only fishing before. Sighing, he indicated for the ramp to be lowered.

Terminal staff had started slacking off the mooring ropes, and the ramp was now nearly a foot shy of the edge of the dock. Polly stepped forward and hesitated, the gusting winds making the thirty-storey drop very apparent. Nathan grabbed one of the support stanchions and held out a hand. Gripping her camera case and visibly steeling herself, she took two rapid steps and jumped.

The high heels and narrow skirt restricted her movements, and she might have struggled on the short distance if Nathan hadn't grabbed her free hand and pulled her on board. The engineer wound the ramp closed, nodded at Nathan and headed off to the engineer's cubbyhole.

"Welcome to the Pandora, Miss Perkins. Let me introduce you to the boys and girls," said Nathan, leading Polly to the ladder that went up to the navigation room.

The Flying Legion was not normally a naval organisation, and the boat that had picked Joe Sullivan up from the port of Nanjing was a battered, worn-out thing, barely suited to the mission in hand. Its only advantage was that no-one would believe that the famous Sky Captain, leader of the illustrious Flying Legion, ace pilot of the 1st American Volunteer Group, could possibly attempt his escape from the most powerful naval force in the west Pacific in something so slow and leaky.

The cutter, which had once been the USS Kanab, chugged steadily eastwards, not far from the official border of Japan's territorial waters. Joe had wanted to turn south, the better to clear their territory, but Dex had been persuasive - Japanese patrols were thick in the South China Sea, as the Japanese navy sought to bottle up their Chinese counterparts and prevent a seaborne reinforcement of embattled Manchuria. It had been a daring, calculated risk, but it seemed to have paid off.

A larger ship was motoring even slower than Kanab, turning to come alongside. She was a strange shape, flat on top, with steep, slab-like sides. A boarding ladder was run out, and Joe was surprised to recognise the uniforms of the Royal Navy of the British Empire.

Joe and Dex clambered up the ladder. Dex had bought the crew by promising them the Kanab once they were done. Joe had protested that they were certain to return directly to the nearest port and alert the authorities, but Dex's calm assurance that this wouldn't matter now seemed much more reasonable.

Two sailors stood at the top of the ramp, their insignia marking them as ratings. They saluted the boarding men sharply, while a group of crewmen occupied the distance between the ladder and the large superstructure.

The deck of the ship was like nothing Joe had even seen. Absolutely flat, there was nothing on it apart from the superstructure. From that towering construction came another officer, and the lights gleamed against her uniform and the golden bands on her wrists and lapels.

"Cap'n on deck," called an officer, and there was a sequence of razor-sharp salutes. Joe didn't react, and Dex followed his lead, shifting his own instinctive salute into a hair-brushing gesture.

Dark-haired, slim and statuesque, Captain Francesca Cook strode over towards the two Americans, her crew scattering as she acknowledged their salute.

"Well, well. When Dex said to meet him here to met an old friend, I didn't expect it to be Joseph Sullivan."

"Franky," said Joe, smiling. "A pleasure."

"I didn't expect to see you again. I don't usually take kindly to men who leave without an explanation," she said, her smile taking on a dangerous edge. Joe maintained his own easy grin.

"Franky, I was arrested by the Japanese. Someone cut my fuel line and then they raided the airfield."

"Yes," she said, "I heard about that. I didn't think they could catch you so easily, however."

"Well, Franky," he said, "we all make mistakes."

"Yes, we do, Joseph. Just be sure that I do not intend to make another one here."

With that, she turned on her heel and headed back to the superstructure. Dex and Joe had to hustle to keep up.

"What is this ship, Franky?" he asked, still impressed by its dimensions.

"This, Joseph, is the latest in Royal Navy technology," she said, her pride in her vessel apparent. "HMS Ark Royal, a floating airfield."

"Well, not *the* latest," said Dex, before a glare from Franky shut him up. If looks could kill, the young genius would have been flayed alive. Franky picked up the trail.

"She holds twenty-four Manta-class fighters, as well as two squadrons of Halifax bombers and a group of new craft called the autogryo. Clever little thing, useful for recon work. With this ship, the Royal Navy can deploy up a full attack wing up to three hundred miles away from any point in the world's oceans."

"Impressive," said Joe, meaning it. If the Ark Royal concept proved a success, it could alter the face of global power. He was not certain he was totally pleased at that power resting in the hands of the British Empire.

"We are heading to resupply in the Kingdom of Hawaii," said Franky, and Joe knew he well enough to sense the undercurrent in her voice. The recent failed attempt by a British task force to recapture the small island nation had rankled a lot of senior officers, particularly as an experimental submarine had been tasked with the mission. Rumors persisted that an airborne mercenary force had been responsible for the defence of the mostly peaceful kingdom. Franky carried on, hoping to smooth over the brief irritation.

"I'm sure you can find transport there back to the Empire State? I doubt that the Nation of Hollywood would take kindly to an Imperial task force of this size and power approaching too close to their shore."

"Task force?" asked Dex, as the three of them entered the island and headed upstairs.

"Task force," confirmed Franky, opening the door to the command room. Tall windows gave Joe his first real look at the deck of Ark Royal, and he started to understand. The large, flat surface was painted with the markings of a runway, and a large square area was probably access to under-deck hanger spaces. He turned to see what Franky was focusing on, and stepped closer to get a better look.

A large table displayed a radar image of the seas around them. A green box marked the position of Ark Royal, with smaller boxes moving into a formation around her. A white box was moving away.

"What's that?" he asked, pointing.

"Your cutter," she replied, focusing on the display. She turned to her executive officer and spoke with the tone of authoritative command that had so attracted Joe to her in the first place.

"Signal the fleet that we will be making twenty-one knots to Pearl Harbour. Lancaster and Kent are to take point, Victory and Invincible to close on our flanks. Instruct all ships to remain alert until we have reached Hawaiian waters, I don't want the Japanese sneaking up on us wanting their prisoner back."

"Very good, captain," replied the XO, bustling off to work.

The port of Pearl Harbor, Hawaii, was no longer the naval base it had been years before. With the collapse of the Union of the States, the Hawaiians had returned to a traditional form of government, led by their king. The military had mostly given up Pearl Harbor to the tourist vessels that stopped there, and the western edge was now a major zeppelin terminal, the stop-off and refuelling point for trans-Pacific voyages.

Rather than bring in the full might of the Royal Navy and spark a diplomatic incident, Franky transferred them to the destroyer HMS Dauntless, which, being much smaller, slipped without much notice up to the zeppelin terminal. Dex had already booked them passage back to San Francisco, where Flying Legion aircraft would take their leader back home.

The journey back to the Nation of Hollywood was pleasant and uneventful, and Dex filled Joe in on what he had missed. The Japanese invasion into Manchuria was stalling, the sheer weight of the Chinese armed forces preventing them from advancing any further. The Flying Tigers were mostly focusing on materiel raids, taking advantage of the sheer length of the Japanese supply lines. Closer to home, the Supreme Committee of the People's Collective had finally chosen a new supreme leader - only for him to die of a heart attack two weeks later. Chaos had engulfed the Collective - again.

Otherwise, it had been a generally quiet summer. The ongoing war in Manchuria was causing rumbles in some places, with stories about Royal Navy vessels being sighted in the South China Sea protecting Hong Kong being the latest rumor splashed over the front pages of the papers. As they walked onto the main concourse of the Sanfran Terminal building, Sky Captain scooped up a paper from a stand as they passed. It called loudly for the prosecution of a group of pirates from Dixie. Dex watched as Joe's eyes crossed the by-line and his face twisted. He dropped the paper back on its stand and led Dex towards the charter building. He could see the Shenandoah waiting for them.

Once aboard, Dex lead the briefing. A contract had come in, asking the Flying Legion to arrest a man name Pierre Marmole, last seen in Denver, Colorado. He was wanted in the Industrial States for charges of espionage, sabotage and possession of restricted weapons. The Free Colorado government had agreed an extradition, but refused to commit their own police force to intercepting the man, who had a doctorate in metallurgy and another in aerodynamics. They would transit to Denver International Airport, where Legion agents had already rented a hanger for the half-dozen planes that were waiting on the runway below the Shenandoah.

After the meeting had finished and people were done talking about how great it was to see him again, Sky Captain led his men down to the runway, there to board their P-40s and escort the Shenandoah to Denver, a journey that would take nearly twelve hours, not counting a refueling stop in St George, Deseret.

The sun was creeping towards the horizon when Sky Captain signalled his squadron, tripped the brakes and advanced the throttle. It had been six months since his last flight, but not even a night trip over unfamiliar terrain could shake the elation he felt at returning to the cockpit. In this splintered place, power over the air was the greatest power of all, and he was the king of it.