by Zoë Archer
As the Demeter sped toward the enemy ships, the spiky mountains just beyond them, Christopher wondered if Louisa would learn about his death in the papers. No—she abjured newspapers.
If there’s information I need to know, she had said one afternoon over tea, I’ll ferret it out.
Do you know what I’m thinking right now? he had asked.
She had smiled, her slow, wicked smile. I’m a very good spy. And I do enjoy a thorough interrogation.
An extremely pleasant afternoon had followed. More than a few long, lonely nights patrolling the air had been spent in contemplation of that afternoon. Anger had always been quick to follow his memories. He couldn’t think of the times they’d shared without recalling the way it had ended. The empty bed when he’d awakened. No letter, not even a note. She was just…gone.
One way or the other, if he didn’t survive, she would know. Was it petty of him to hope she’d be saddened by the news? He was a Man O’ War—not inhuman.
The ship gained speed, getting closer and closer to the two Hapsburg frigates. Christopher could see the astounded enemy crewmen scurrying across the decks, and the captains—Man O’ Wars like him—bellowing orders. They were making the guns ready to fire on the Demeter.
“Prepare to return fire,” Christopher roared.
The gunners acknowledged the order, and, fighting the force of the speeding ship, readied the cannons. They all stared at him, waiting for the command.
He waited, too. Everything needed to be timed perfectly. Closer. Closer. The Demeter was almost between the enemy ships.
“Fire!”
Guns from both sides boomed. The Demeter shuddered as some of the enemy fire slammed into the hull, but the ship held strong. The enemy ships also took hits, and Christopher noted with satisfaction that several of their ether tanks and guns were damaged.
The Demeter sped through the narrow passage between the frigates. As it raced past, a wake of air knocked into one of the enemy ships. It listed, then thudded into the mountain just behind it. Crewmen scrambled out of the way of rocks tumbling free from the mountainside. One sizeable rock slammed through the deck, scattering men and splinters of wood.
There was no time for celebration, however. The mountain was just ahead. If Christopher’s ship couldn’t make the crest, it would smash into the massive pile of rock.
Here was one of the times Christopher wished airships were built of metal, like their seafaring ironclad brethren, but wood was far lighter. Airships sacrificed hull strength for the ability to fly.
Christopher raced to the wheel. “No offense, Mr. Dawes,” he said, taking the wheel from the helmsman.
“None taken, sir.” In truth, Dawes looked relieved that Christopher would assume responsibility for guiding the ship over the dangerous peak.
The wheel in one hand, Christopher grabbed the shipboard auditory device. “Give ’em everything,” he ordered the engine crew. “Flank speed!” He hoped that, between the turbines and the venting ether, they’d have enough power to make it over the mountain. Switching the auditory device to shipwide, he shouted, “Everyone, hold tight!”
Just before the Demeter crashed into the rocks, he pulled back hard on the lever that controlled the vanes behind the turbines. Gritting his teeth with effort, he fought to keep the airship climbing. The jagged face of the mountain sped past. Cold blue sky gleamed beyond the prow. Crewmen shouted as the ship rose up, almost completely vertical. Every muscle in Christopher’s body strained with effort. Even strong as he was, he still had to fight gravity.
Heat sizzled through him as the implants drew on his energy, both feeding off of and building his power. He hadn’t liked the sensation at first, the strange symbiosis between him and machinery, but now he reveled in it, knowing he needed as much strength as he could muster in order to ensure this ship and crew’s survival.
It might not be enough. They weren’t going to make it. The top of the mountain rose too high up. They’d lose power and careen into tons of stone, raining wood, brass, and canvas down onto the valley below.
No. By God, if he had to die, it would be in combat against the enemy, not smashed against unfeeling rock. Louisa might claim to value cunning over valor, but his values were different.
Groaning, he pulled harder on the wheel, turning to correct the sudden tilting of the ship. Then—the Demeter just crested the peak. Rocks scraped against the keel. The ship juddered. Suddenly, they were over.
And plunging downward. As tough as the climb upward had been, now the ship took that force and rushed down the other side of the mountain. They plummeted into a valley.
Wind tore at Christopher’s face and clothes, his coat flapping behind him, as he steered the ship down the face of the mountain and into the heavily wooded valley. With another groan of effort, he pulled back on the vane-controlling lever right before the Demeter crashed into the ground. The ship shot forward. Into the forest. He piloted the ship between huge, ancient trees, their massive trunks stretching toward the sky. With the ether tanks vented, the ship didn’t have its normal height. Flying low was the cost of their speed.
Had the woods been any younger, there would have been no room to fly the ship. But the forest—what he could see of it past the green, shadowed blur—seemed older than time itself, exactly the place where giants roamed. Christopher zigzagged through the woods, whipping around trees, keeping the ship racing onward.
Even with his precise piloting, tree limbs snapped against the speeding hull, and the crew shielded themselves from falling branches.
“Throttle back,” Christopher shouted to the engine crew.
Details of the forest emerged from the blur as the ship slowed. The wooded valley appeared uninhabited, no sign of chimney smoke or a clearing. Wherever the Demeter was, the known world—and friendly territory—was far behind.
“All stop,” Christopher ordered.
He brought the ship to a hover just beneath the heavy forest canopy.
“No one move,” he hissed. “No one speak. Not even a scratch or sneeze.”
“Aye—”
“Quiet!”
Everyone, Christopher included, kept still and silent. The shadows of the Hapsburg ships passed overhead. Breath held, he watched the frigates lingering just above. Searching for the Demeter. With any luck, the Hapsburgs would think they had crashed, and move on.
Christopher didn’t believe in luck. If a body wanted something to happen, only effort would make it come to pass. That’s how he rose from a midshipman to a captain in such a short period of time. He worked his bollocks off for it.
Yet he wouldn’t mind a dram of luck right now. As he kept his gaze upward, a drop of sweat worked its way down his back.
Hours passed. Or minutes. But after what felt like hundreds of years, the enemy ships flew on.
He didn’t permit himself a sigh of relief. Several more minutes passed as he made sure that the frigates did not return. At last, reasonably certain that they were in the clear, Christopher gave the order to power up the engines.
After guiding the ship toward an open patch of sky, he brought the ship up above the tree line. More mountains lay all around them. Aft of the ship was the battle they had just fled, and presumably the remaining Hapsburg ships. Retracing their route meant the possibility of finding themselves back in combat, and being vastly outgunned and outnumbered. Doubtless the two British ships were already hightailing it back to friendly airspace.
Which meant that the Demeter was deep in enemy territory. Alone.
Available Now!
Night of Fire: The Ether Chronicles
by Nico Rosso
Sierra Madre Mountains, California
He wore his gun. And hoped he wouldn’t have to use it. The war was behind him. Tom Knox headed West.
His saddle creaked. The ends of the leather reins slapped lightly against the body of his steed. The wind whistled in his ears. Six hundred feet below him, smaller hills gathered into a larger mountain range.
/> Instead of being filled with screaming ether-charged bullets and explosive cannon shells, the sky here was peaceful. A red tailed hawk skimmed below him, head twitching from side to side, tracking prey. In the distance, three turkey vultures spun wide circles over a shady hill. Tom was part of the calm. His Sky Charger kept a steady pace, pushed by the high whispering whir of the tetrol-powered fan at the back.
Weeks ago, the skies to the east and behind him had burned. Enemy airships and friendly Sky Trains had blazed brighter than the sun as they crashed toward the vast soya fields of the Great Plains. Men had fought and died.
As an Upland Ranger in the US Army, he’d seen it all. He’d smelled the gunpowder and felt the recoil of his Gatling rifle as he fought to turn the Hapsburgs away from American soil. A couple of searing hot bullets had found their way into his flesh, but he’d healed fast enough to get back onto his ether-borne Sky Charger and fly into war.
Tom leaned forward, patting the cool zinc metal neck of the charger. Strange modern times he was living in. When he left this territory three years ago, it was on a real horse.
Adjusting the levers at his stirrups, he took the charger higher into the air. Tall pines whisked beneath him, then thinned as the rocky peaks took over. White patches of snow clung to the shaded angles of the mountains like forgotten sun-bleached bones.
Just at the top of the range, Tom stopped his charger and turned to look behind him. The battlefields and scarred skies were hundreds of miles away. The fighting wasn’t over. The war waited.
He stared into the distance, remembering all the Hapsburg soldiers alive and dead who’d aimed their guns at him.
Keep your pants on, he thought. You’ll have plenty of chances to put me in a grave later. Until then, I’m heading home.
Kicking the charger’s levers, he powered the one-main ether airship over the mountain ridge, leaving the flat expanse of the east at his back. The mountains spread out into hills that bunched and gathered like an unmade bed. The green foliage of winter still lasted, revealing the fertile farms and orchards that took advantage of any flat land.
Tom squinted behind his goggles and pulled the brim of his black cavalry hat low. The far horizon was a bright silver knife’s edge. The Pacific Ocean. He could already smell the salt, even this far inland. A few more miles and he’d hear the gulping squawk of the seagulls that rode the high wind currents. It felt like home.
The hairs at the back of his neck stood up, same as if he and other Upland Rangers were flying out for a dawn raid on a Hapsburg artillery camp. There was plenty of danger at the front lines of the war. And battles to be fought at the home front.
The Sky Charger picked up speed. Tom felt himself pulled into the inevitable.
He reined back on the mechanical steed and wound over the hills. Twisted oaks dotted the land. Through the lenses of his goggles, they almost looked like their branches were outstretched arms, warning him. But there was no turning back.
The war had stopped to take a breath. Tom and other front-line soldiers were allowed some time of their own. Without a fight in front of him, his compass spun. There was no answer other than West. Home to Thornville.
And Rosa.
A needling voice in his head sounded a lot like his younger self, mean with an edge of whiskey on his breath. Surely seeing her again will go smooth as silk. It mocked him.
He tugged at the knot of the black bandanna around his neck. The charger dipped closer to the ground, heading toward a shady notch running between the hills. The mechanical flying horse didn’t shiver or twitch its muscles in response to coming closer to home.
Tom took a long breath and spoke in a whisper, quickly lost to the breeze. “Nothing was ever easy with Rosa.”
Don’t lie. Looking at Rosa had been easy. Before he’d left town three years ago, he could sit and stare at her until all the candles burned down in his one room shack. There seemed to be no end to the depths of her large, dark brown eyes. Black hair framed her face, high cheekbones and full mouth. Tom had memorized every detail. He didn’t need to carry a small lumiscopic picture of his sweetheart like other soldiers did.
But she wasn’t his sweetheart anymore. A stolen horse and a moonless ride out of town made sure of that.
Maybe a raid on a Hapsburg camp would be easier than going home after all.
The sound of the charger’s tetrol engine was quickly drowned out by the loud roar of a rushing river. It tumbled along a winding path and Tom followed it, trading the steady sun for shade. When the river widened and calmed, he took the charger even lower toward the water.
If the mechanical horse had legs, it would’ve been standing chest deep in the water. Tom tipped his hat back, letting it rest against his shoulders by the stampede strap. He pulled off his goggles and clipped them to the leather lanyard slung over his shoulder. The other end of this lanyard looped through the butt of the pistol on his hip. He didn’t need to look to know it was still there after the long flight over the planes. The weight of the Rattler was a steady presence.
Leaning low over the side of the charger, Tom dipped his bandana in the cool river water. The silk danced in the flow, tugged with the current, pulled toward Thornville and Rosa. He drew the bandana from the river and used the cool cloth to wipe the heat and dust from his face. After tying it around his neck, he went back to the water, filling his canteen, taking a long drink and filling the canteen again. Mountain water tasted of cool stone, pure and fresh. A relief after the muddy streams of the Great Plains.
He unbuckled the auxiliary reservoir from one of the saddlebags. The Sky Charger wasn’t a real horse, but he still had to water it. He filled the tin tank with water and then screwed on the top.
Everything was squared away. Tom could keep moving. But he stayed, hovering over the running water.
That voice kept stabbing at him. Rosa’s down at the river. Doing the wash, or collecting water. Probably gathering blackberries. Safe and secure, like her parents wanted for her. Not like anything you could’ve given her. No land, no family. Just a wildcat breaking horses for hourly pay.
Tom tried to swat the voice away, like a night mosquito, but it went on. Bet she took Parker’s offer and married him. That guy was a great carpenter. The dull brass of the wedding band around Tom’s finger seemed almost black in the shadows over the river.
He kicked the Sky Charger’s ascend lever and climbed higher into the sky. Parker built nice things. Cabinets and tables and a stable life. His tools were handed down from his father and father’s father. All Tom had of his family was a dead-end last name and the saddle he sat on.
The voice in his head was silent, but present, mocking him. Tom responded to himself, I’m gonna play it as cool as snow melt when I see her.
Horseshit. His younger self spat and took a drink from a cloudy bottle.
Tom countered, I can be a gentleman and tip my hat and congratulate her on her marriage.
But when he’d see her parents, that would be another story. Tom shifted his weight in the saddle, feeling the Rattler on his hip, the Gatling rifle in the scabbard at his knee and the knife in his boot. Might need every bit of hardware to get out of a “conversation” with Rosa’s mother and father.
After the din of the front lines and the skies raining fire all around, all he wanted was a little peace and quiet. But if that were true, he’d find another mountain range or another town where no one knew his name. He had to go to Thornville. Even if there was no one waiting for him, no yellow ribbons, no family. He’d just drunk his fill of river water, but thinking about Rosa made him thirsty all over again.
“Peace and quiet.” He said it out loud as if that could make it real. “How hard can that be to find?”
The river bent and dove into a jumble of rocks. Tom pulled on his hat and flew higher, breaking from the trees and nearly running flat into the side of a three-story mobile mining machine.
He yanked hard on the reins, wheeling in the air to avoid the wooden slats that made up the ou
ter structure. A blast of invisible heat washed over him as he passed an exhaust stack from one of the tetrol engines that powered the lumbering beast. All of the cool calm he’d pulled from the river burned away.
“What in holy hellfire…?”
Turning the charger again, he dove toward one of the several men who walked next to the giant machine. Tom had to shout over the sound of the giant conveyor treads that propelled the beast forward.
“You boys got a lot of nerve breaking up the scenery out here.”
The man tensed slightly, revealing a black rotary shotgun slung over his shoulder and an ether pistol in a holster. A lot of hardware for a dude in a pinstripe suit. Tom’s Rattler was ready at his hip if he needed it.
But hopefully words would be enough and he could leave the shooting to the war. “What claim you headed to?”
No response from the man. He only turned and looked at Tom. It was almost like a piece of the mining machine had broken off and walked like a human being. The man wore a leather and brass mask that encased him from his bowler hat to his jaw. A shiny brass capsule shined over the man’s mouth and a flexible metal tube ran from the mask to a cup attached to his ear.
“Goddamn.” Tom had seen this technology before on guards stationed around a bank in Chicago. “Whisperers.”
The din of the rolling mining machine swallowed the man’s low words, but Tom could tell he was saying something by the way he moved. The communication was broadcast out to the others around the device and they all turned to look at Tom. Sunlight glared off the glass goggles built into the masks. There were at least twenty Whisperers, all armed and coordinated by their masks.
Even though everyone knew there was over a million dollars in gold locked in that Chicago bank, no one dared take on the Whisperers to try and nab it. It was like facing a single man with forty eyes looking in every direction and guns at the ready.
“I get you won’t tell me your claim, but there’s got to be a gang boss around here who can talk.”
