((Original Content, Ahoy! Drabble for our Unnamed Steampunk Universe, with Captain Caliban Moore))
The working man knows his name. He whispers it to friends in darkened alleys, coughing on the soot-filled air and choking on the ether-fumes of passing motor-cars. They breathe it softly, so frightened that someone might hear them, that someone might start to wonder just why they have cause to say his name… and secretly, in their heart of hearts, they envy him for his audacity, for his courage to do what they cannot, for having the gall to rise up above the rest and say that he will not stand for it any longer. They wish they could be him.
Revolutionaries know his name, and they scream it loudly. Sometimes their screams are proud, when they wage their coups in his name, backed by his money and armed with the weapons he gives them, charging the gates of the tyrannical lords and magistrates, representatives of the Crown that have kept them under their thumbs for far too long. And sometimes they scream it in agony, tortured confessions dragged out after long hours of mutilation and abuse, but they say no more, and they die dreaming desperately of the day that their failed revolution will bring true freedom. They pray he will stay the course in their stead.
The sky-pirates know his name, and they say it with a mix of respect and disdain – his methods are perhaps a bit too fringe for him, his interests too humanitarian. Moore isn’t in it for the money, they say, he’s in it to stir up trouble, and when he wakes the sleeping dragon that is the Crown, and Her Majesty’s Royal Air Force, they’ll all pay for his audacity. But he’s at the heart of some of the most daring raids, and for that he commands their respect. They hope to God he knows what he’s doing.
Agents of the Crown know his name. And so does the Queen. She screams it in her maddened tirades directed against her advisors, a young and privileged tyrant who flies into a rage at the thought of her reign being questioned, who demands all who oppose her be put to a short and painful death. Her advisors grimly hold their tongues, knowing in their heart of hearts her anger is justified – Caliban Moore has defied the Crown far too many times. They hope to destroy him utterly, wipe his name from the annals of history.
But how to kill the man without a face? Caliban Moore doesn’t exist, he has no birth certificate, no citizen identification. He owes no debts, and his funds are comprised entirely of his plunders. The few members of his crew the Crown has managed to capture have ended their lives long before interrogations could begin.
Dedicated smear campaigns and promises of rewards for any who reveal the true identity or whereabouts of the so-called Captain Caliban Moore have turned up empty year after year. The street corners and town posts are papered with posters, all demanding to know WHO IS CALIBAN MOORE? And warnings, DO NOT TRUST A MAN WITHOUT A FACE! CALIBAN MOORE IS A TRAITOR TO CROWN AND COUNTRY! WANTED FOR HIGH TREASON! And the common man laughs a little inside, at the desperation of the rich fops above him who make his life miserable, and cannot for all their power stop a single man and his crew.
And from his airship, the Midnight Sun, soaring high and free above the surface world and it’s laws, Caliban Moore surveys the lights far below, and wonders how many HMRAF officers will scream at their crews for failing to turn up even a scrap of evidence as to the whereabouts of the fabled Midnight Sun.
He stands away from the rail, the wind that somehow manages to permeate the ship’s ether-shields running gentle fingers through his long dark hair, and for just a moment there’s the hint of a smile on his handsome, sad face, as he wonders how in the world they haven’t caught up to him yet.
