Concerning a Brief History of Recent Motivations

It began, if such a thing can be said, on the day the representative from Trevelyn-Smythe Holdings Ltd. walked into Westin Importers in Holbern. He was slim, dapper, a raven three-piece suit and bowler matching the satchel he carried, and the rain was drizzling in the patient way of a bored god.
The contract was simple, bordering on routine – a flight to be made into the Kunluns, with their almost untapped trading potential, retrieve a cargo to be dropped at Katmandu and exchanged for something the company really wanted. The attaché would not say what – and quite frankly, with Trevelyn-Smythe’s money, he wouldn’t have to.
Unspecified cargo is something Westin approaches like a lit fuse – in our business you can only safely trust yourself, and if we had known unprocessed opium was involved matters might have become even less tenable. But equally troubling was our approach in the first place; Trevelyn-Smythe can and does afford to employ their own merchant ships and quite competent captains. He admitted that they did, indeed, initially assign their own ship on this venture with Captain Toulouse aboard, a man I knew well from our small community. But the Sopwith vanished three weeks ago without a word of contact since. They could only assume the new airship went down in the malcontent weather of the mountains.
We took the job, with our own contractual loophole built in. The way I prefer.

But then, whatever is really said, perhaps it all actually began a few weeks earlier than even this encounter, when the first bodies showed up on the streets of Shoreditch and Bethnal Green, and the mysterious residue in the footprints surrounding it.

In the Underground

London:

The cellars ran dark with fear, and black waste water, and rats. Funneled from the drains falling from the streets above, into twisting serpentine tunnels beneath the city, winding back upon itself; an architectural palindrome of brick and copper and steel, all uniform in color. Protected by rubberized knee-boots and breathing apparatus, Kinsey and I waded our way through the intestine of this beast, oily light from our lanterns shading the rats into monsters, and hopefully, edging the monsters into hiding.
Still, Kinsey had his shotgun loaded, on his back. This was science, but there could be dangerous things lurking here all the same. It was unfortunate a shotgun is of little use to the smell --- frightfully appalling.

We had been silent for the last half an hour, save for our progress through the septic water, and the ticking of my pocket-watch amplified when we halted. Water ran somewhere in the distance; the rest, a tomb. At one point we encountered the quite dead corpse of some lowlife, bobbing gently against a grating sloping off to the left. Discretion bade we leave him there. I have no doubt he was not the first nor last to be discarded in such manner, tossed into a storm drain in hopes of a final destination in the river.

"How much deeper should we go for these samples of yours, sir?" Kinsey asked, voice layered and scratchy behind the mask. A small falls from an adjoining tributary crashing over the bricks demanded he shout to be heard.
"Not much, I hope," I said. "I shall need a bath in solvents when I leave this foul place as it is. No, I think we shall know it when we see it."

And we did. The clock had moved perhaps twenty minutes when our path lead us into what can only be called a room, our simple lanterns fain to detect the walls. It was silent as a reservoir here, the air sour and yet with the merest hint of passage. The chamber may be closed, but as I feared something was getting out.
Cautiously, I pursued the walls, curving in sallow brick above my head, coming at last to the furthest south end, where the bricks could be seen to be set into earth, a sickly gray clay, as though the sewers abruptly ended into the side of a hill.
"Hold the light for me, Kinsey. I should like a sample of this." I pulled a vial from my jacket, wrapped in oil-cloth, and with my pen-knife dug a patch of clay about one of the bricks, the size of a man's fingernail, spooned it into the glass and set the cork.
"Most excellent."
"I hope it ends up being what you were seeking, sir," Kinsey said, handing over my lantern.
"Indeed. I trust it shall be most useful."
I had no sooner taken the light when I felt the water ripple must curiously about my calves, and cast about for a reason when Kinsey shouted, "Sir!!"
I turned, into yellow fangs, red eyes, claws, and the shotgun roared into the darkness with both barrels. The creature flew against the wall and into the water with a vile splash, and then the chamber was silent but for the movement on the walls. The air was violently vivisected by gunpowder, lights coruscating in my eyes and ears ringing despite the mask.
Kinsey quickly reloaded, tucking the butt of the rifle beneath his arm. "What in the devil's hell was that?"
I held the lantern aloft, as though that might better inform me. "Fetch a rope, Kinsey," I said. "We had best take this poor creature with us. No more of this life, he might prove useful still. . . . ."

Concerning the Potential and Valid Superstition of an Airship Crew

We dropped the airship to an altitude of three-hundred and twenty feet, trimmed sail and cut the engine power to drift just on the edge of darkness. I could feel in the hair upon my scalp there was something nefarious in there, and as the ship does not full stop quickly, I would prefer to take my time running into it.
The fog did offer the benefit of quelling murderous sedition. The pirates were shrewd enough to realize they would need us to chart course out of this unholy development, but I would need to deal with them soon enough, I knew.
The ship drifted gently, exerting only enough power to keep her afloat. Pepperidge, right arm in a sling, tried to peer through the wall of churning mist with a lantern held aloft. "It's no good," I said. "The sun itself is unable to pierce this."
"Aye, sir," he agreed, face ghostly in the oily light.
"It bodes no good, sir," another sailor growled. "May be part of the curse . . . ."
"Stow that talk," I snapped. "I do not need more nonsense aboard than we've already been plagued with." Certainly not superstition. And the truth was, I had been around enough to tell the difference.
"Mr. Pepperidge, have the engine engage one notch. I want lanterns at the bow, and we'll move in slowly."

A Lee Short and Loose Halyard

We were chasing the western sun through the cloudbanks, and the musty bottle of port with what rum was left. A golden skyline cresting into a haze on a landscape as verdant as uncut absinthe brushed the clouds into the mountains keeping pace just off the starboard bow. I guided her into the fairest wind a man could desire, one hand on the wheel and the other holding a tumbler Pepperidge the boatswain would refill periodically.
We had lost our bearings for a while the night before, running from a dense gale that sprang up suddenly from the mountaintop. Trying to gain altitude in hopes of slipping above only accomplished diverting what would later prove to be fifteen degrees to the northwest. By mid-morning we discovered the error and were back on course, and making good time. With God on our side, we still would have plenty of fuel by the time we made port.
Stores, however, were another issue. A nasty altercation with natives off the bank of the mountains had injured two of my crew, and lost us a noticable amount of our earlier plunder. I view it as consequences becoming sailors attempting drinking games with the locals, but malaise and unrest, I fear, had been breeding off poor met expectations. It didn't help that the natives firearms, however clumsy, had managed to puncture the hold, with two water casks and ruin a side of beef. Some of the men were grumbling about curses on unfortunate treasure seekers, and I confess Pepperidge's presence on the bridge was not solely for company. He had his service revolver loaded and tucked into the waistband of his trousers. I didn't hold with their peasant curses. I was prepared for that as well.
The sun flickered along the corner of my eyes as I held her steady, squinting even through my smoked glasses. The wine was deeply red, and tasted as if it had laid dormant for decades amid a shipwreck. Which, indeed it had. That was where we had discovered it. Pepperidge broke off consulting the chart to refill my glass. "Despite the delay I think we're ahead of schedual, sir," he posed.
"Comes from abandoning the Kunluns sooner than anticipated, Mr. Pepperidge. I would have been happier to have engaged in better trade before we pulled anchor."
"Still," said he, "our hold has more cargo than we paid for. I know people in San Fransisco who can fetch premium price for those wares."
"That is part of what concerns me. I would be surprised if there were a sailor on this ship without a working knowledge of at least Tiger Bay. We could fall to earth at this instant and someone make a profit." I drained my glass, wincing slightly as the fumes of alcohol crept up my nostrils. "No, Mr. Pepperidge, I shall be much happier when it is behind us."
"To the contrary, Captain." Pepperidge's voice was quiet and wary. "I think, at this moment, behind you may be the last place you want anything."
I didn't turn , but glanced at the compass mounted aside the helm. The needle still rocked gently toward the north, but the glass revealed just a flicker of movement by the stair. "Bastards," I muttered. "They could have at least waited till Kathmandu, were they smart."
Pepperidge chucked with a snap of irony. "Anyone smart likely wouldn't be on this voyage, captain," he said, appearing to inspect his rum glass.
"All the same, I would prefer to settle this without shooting anyone, Mr. Pepperidge. There's precious little we can afford putting a bullet in at this leg."
"As you say, sir."

The sun was flickering less and less, moving slowly beneath the angle of the horizon. It would be dark quickly, and I did credit the crew's intelligence for making their move now. The sun was still high enough to be in our eyes, but not yet into darkness.
A burst of ill-tempered wind suddenly shot out around the ridge of the mountain, like the great river of a chinese dragon, almost wrenching the wheel from my hands. It cut a howling berth through the valley, whipping the rigging, creaking the frame. The ship shuddered and tilted, Pepperidge dropping the bottle of port and flailing to steady himself as I fought back under control. The props and planking screamed with increased tension, the ship contorting for a second, and then almost instantly the wind was gone and I fought oversteer.
I had no time to reflect on the unnatural attack, because at that moment a sailor creeping up behind had presumably stumbled on the bottle Pepperidge had dropped, lost the thrust of his attack, and only managed to drive his knife into the boatswain's right shoulder instead of spine. Pepperidge fell over with a scream.
I instinctivly knew another man was behind me, and I swung back with the first weapon coming to my hand, a brass telescope. I connected into the mutineer's temple, knocking him off balance. I heard the glass crack with the second blow, with a distant pang of ill remorse, but proceeded to drive the end into the man's face until he fell to the deck with the spyglass.
The first mutineer had made it to his feet, pulling the blade from my boatswain's back. He moved toward me with the knife held loose and wicked. I had managed to get my razor from my pocket by this time, and as he lunged, I pulled the helm hard to port. He staggered a moment, long enough for my to reach for his lapel, pull him up short, and slash the razor across his throat.
I wish I could say I recall his name. Fincher, perhaps, or maybe Frederickson. He gurgled in horror, showering me with his life's blood, and collapsed to the deck clutching at himself.
The ship swung itself into the wind when I let go the wheel, lurching all aboard. It was time enough for me to pull Pepperidge's revolver from his trousers, pull the hammer and point it to the main deck as I grabbed the languid helm.

There were only a few men at the foot of the stair looking trouble. I was about to shout them to stand down when I realized the fear on their faces was not warrented by my pistol, but something beyond me. Pepperidge, bleeding profusely, had pulled himself up by the rail, and wrenched my attention by speaking my name. Warily, I turned.
We were closing fast, or perhaps it was blowing in to apprehend us, a thick, dark fog, lying in the valley like a preternatural wall. It filled the space from one mountain to the next, blocking what light was left. And by now we were too hemmed by the pass to change course. We would be sailing straight into it, whether we liked it or not.
My blood was still surging from the violence. "All hands to stations!" I bellowed. "Light the lamps, goddammit, or I'll shoot the last man idle! Mr. Pepperidge!" I reset the revolver's hammer, and stuck it into my own waistband. "See a medic before you bleed to death, man, and then get him up here to see after at least this one. We made need him afore long."