With Eyes Turned Skyward

by Gregory Stravinski

  I don’t think the locals have ever seen a collection of zeppelins this size, or at least all at once. Most of the dock crew don’t come out to help as we land, leaving us to do most of the work ourselves. The inhabitants of World’s End seem unsure of our intentions as our crews exit the ship. That’s fair, given our goal is to leave this place with every scrap of munitions and supplies we can find. With the due process of trading, of course.

  The crisp, briny air is a welcome change as we disembark. A dense fog settles between the hovels of World’s End, and appears to have no intention of leaving.

  Summer’s over.

  Zipping up my jacket, I follow Sanjar and the rest of his retinue down the gangplank. Families course around us like ants before a flood, carrying everything they have with no intention of coming back. Their colony has become a doomed place.

  One little boy struggles after his family as one of the wheels of his luggage slips between the wooden slats of the gangplank. A cry of panic escapes as he tugs to get it free, fearing he’ll be abandoned.

  Pulling the handle on the side of the bag, I lift it up over his head. Straining, I rebalance the weight to keep it from pulling me over the side. The bag’s heavy, even for me.

  The small boy looks up with uncertain eyes, full of shame that he wasn’t able to solve the problem on his own. I don’t say anything, gesturing with my nose down the rest of the gangplank. It’s enough to get him moving again. Shouldering the luggage, I peer through my breath at the crowd. We’re the farthest north I’ve ever been.

  Reaching the sunken bottom, I see that the family’s gathered to the side of the plank. They must have realized they left one behind. As my shoes hit mud, I take the luggage off my shoulder, setting it down on the driest spot I can find. The boy rushes to grab the handle and redeem himself. The mother stops him, turning him around.

  “What do we say?, she asks softly.

  “Thank you,” the boy mumbles without confidence.

  I smile, pulling the brim of my cap towards him. My chest warms seeing them all together like that. It’s a rare sight these days. They’re not only all still alive, they even believe in manners. Together, those traits are almost an extinct.

  “Lieutenant Basmon!”

  Sanjar’s voice cuts a swath through the crowd. The command group’s drifted further into the human sea and I’ve begun lagging.

  “Are you coming or not?” the Admiral questions. Before I can say anything, he turns back, disappearing into the crowd without receiving an answer.

  Turning to the family, I lock them into my memory one last time. “Be right there Admiral,” I say to myself.

  When I feel that brokenness again, I’ll conjure this family. Turning, I tramp my way through the mud.

  The structures of World’s End are much more basic than the trading ports where we spend most of our time. No steam rises from any of the buildings here. Even the architecture’s mostly comprised of worn wood. As a whole, it looks like more of a fragile fishing town than a trading post. Large, knotted ropes stretch from rooftop to rooftop. Upon closer inspection, I can see freshly caught fish hanging from each line. Surprisingly, there’s no rotten stench. The people of World’s End know their business, and they execute it swiftly.

  Most of the people in the streets appear to be residents. Carts full of fish and harpoons trundle through the mud. Vendors dot the landscape, trying their best to convince each passerby they need exactly what they’re selling. Ocean spray thunders up from the cliffs below. The severity of the rock faces reinforces the feeling that this is the end of the known world.

  The last of our small party disappears through an opening underneath the likeness of a large Nordic sea monster. Gilt letters under the monster’s chest designate the longhouse as The Longshoreman. It’s handmade pine stairs flex beneath my feet as I make my way up to the door.

  The air’s thick with flavored smoke as I take my seat amongst our crew. I count each ship. There should be five in total. The British carrier the Agincourt is fully represented with several of its sailors already sampling the beer of the Longshoreman. Each of their sleeves sports a single black arrow set against a dark red background.

  The Japanese crew of the Namazu sits quietly in the meeting area, focused on the task at hand. A red whiskered fish jumps from the breast and backs of their white uniforms.

  The French freighter, Bastille is represented by its crew intermingling with the other members of our little alliance. A small bronze cannon is fastened to the lapels of their otherwise blue-and-white-striped uniforms. As a burst of laughter rises from the Agincourt’s congregation, the crew of the Sohrab files in the make shift command room. Most of their outfit is dressed in a solid olive green. A gray scimitar runs along the side of their flight caps and shoulders.

  Sanjar rises, grasping one of the Iranians by the hand and shoulder. The bearded man must be the Sorhab’s admiral. He doesn’t look too enthusiastic about being here. If I remember correctly, Sanjar was born and raised in the Mesopotamian Flatlands. Knowing the Admiral, I’m sure he used that leverage to help broker the Sohrab’s assistance.

  With the exception of Sanjar, everyone takes their seats as Lieutenant Baltier pulls the pub’s doors shut.

  The flickering chandeliers bathe Khan in an austere light. “Welcome brothers,”, he says, looking around at the pilots and upper echelon collected around him.

  I’ve given him the chance to finally be king.

  Sanjar puffs his chest, booming. “Brothers are what we truly will be from this day out, if you choose to sail with us.”

  French, Japanese, and Farsi mix together as the translators from each envoy begin their work. I give another silent thanks for retaining English as the main trade language. It makes life so much easier.

  “Becoming brothers means one thing for certain,” the Admiral continues. “We must live in a state of total honesty. I owe that much to you at the very least. If you have any questions or concerns about our assault, we must address them now.”

  The Japanese commander speaks up. Her translator keeps pace with her as fast as she can. “Our Lady wonders to what capacity you require the Namazu and its crew?”

  Sanjar listens carefully, nodding before he speaks. “The role of the Namazu and its crew will be the same as the roles of the Bastille and the Sorhab." Sanjar turns, addressing the other crews. "All three ships will garrison the brunt of their marines and available support crew on the deck of the Artemis for the remainder of the voyage.”

  The Japanese commander's face hardens hearing this. She brushes a graying wisp of hair behind her ear, narrowing her focus on the Admiral.

  Sanjar regards the rest of the group. “Once we have engaged the Ark, our five ships will launch all fighters, spreading in five different directions. This will be our first defensive maneuver, drawing the Ark's main cannons away from a concentrated area.”

  Sanjar’s gestures a leathery hand in my direction. “My crew witnessed the annihilation of the Russian dreadnaught Perestroika when all main cannons were allowed to focus on one target. I’m sure none of us are inclined to share that fate.”

  The French captain sits up, his translator equally incensed. “If we are to engage such a dangerous enemy, my men would wish to die on the deck of a French vessel rather than one of a foreign ship,” the translator relays.

  Sanjar runs his fingers down the bridge of his nose. “The reason your troops will be garrisoned on the Artemis is because we will exchange places with the Agincourt and ambush the Ark from within. As I’ve laid out before, the only way that we can successfully destroy this ship is if we are able to divide its crew."

  I scan the faces around us; all I find is grim uncertainty. The Admiral continues. "With such a massive vessel, we need to keep as many of their crew as we can focused on the remaining ships on the outside of the Ark. With this strategy, we gain a fighting chance from inside.”

  Sanjar stops, extending his hand out towards the French. “Allez-vous battre à n
os côtés?” he says.

  I let half a smile curl. The Admiral’s forever on stage.

  “Essentially he said, ‘Will you still fight with us?’” I overhear the Agincourt’s translator say.

  The French captain gives a curt nod before sitting back into his seat. With his position reaffirmed, Sanjar turns to the rest of us.

  “This assault team will be led by the Artemis’s Lieutenant Basmon.”, the Admiral says firmly.

  The mention of my name shoots an impulse to my legs. I stand up from my chair. The heat of the lamps above play with my focus, obscuring the faces around me in deep shadows.

  The Admiral raises his hand to me, before shifting it over. “And by Lieutenant Baltier, as Officer Basmon’s second.”

  Baltier’s glare is apparent as he rises from his seat, jaw clenched. He's not used to playing second fiddle. His years as a mercenary captain don’t allow for excess humility.

  The weight of five nations presses on me, gauging my strength. I won’t back down.

  “Once our alliance’s troops garrison on the Artemis, your captains will assist me in hand selecting the men and women who will accompany us down to the Core”, I say.

  Slowly, my own words begin giving me strength. "Whoever we select must be fast and well versed in hand-to-hand combat. We’re expecting to engage in very close quarters, and although we will be guided by our advisors, Sabine Tesarik and Raltz Kovac, we have no way of knowing what resistance we will encounter once we’ve broken through the initial boarding lines,” I say.

  If we break through the initial lines.

  A small shiver crawls down my spine, but I try not to let them see it.

  The Iranian commander raises his hand and speaks. Even though it’s in Farsi, I can still tell his tone is incredulous. From the look on the translator’s face, she’s trying to formulate a translation that’s more polite than the one her commander’s given her.

  Raising her chin, she asks, “And what happens if we do not succeed in destroying this Core, or simply choose not to take the risk in destroying the Ark at all?”

  Sabine stands, letting her cloak drop to her shoulders so her pale hair reflects the shivering lamplight. “What happens is that my father will be left unimpeded," she says. The focus of the audience shifts. "The reason I fled is because my father engineered a way to destroy an entire city in one day. You’ve all see it first hand, otherwise you would not be sitting here discussing reprisal. The reason I never came back is much more dire than that," she says, clenching her fists together.

  A hush falls.

  Sabine fights to keep her voice even. "My father discovered how to keep the Core’s energy within, so he could power his warship. He discovered how to focus the Core’s energy below, so he could harvest resources. Worst of all, I fear that my father has finally created a way to focus the Core’s energy into the heavens above. If that’s so, then we are truly facing disaster.”

  A British officer stands up. “Maybe I’m just a bit daft . . . but how exactly?” he asks.

  Sabine’s eyes flit up to meet his. “My father and I spent years together inventing things. His work bench used to be covered in schematics of things we could use to create a new power source," Sabine's says, her eyes softening with the memory.

  "They spanned from growing food, to powering manufactories. There really was no limit," she says. "However, one night, a group of bandits attacked our fledgling fleet. Their hunger was fueled by the rumor that we had just seized a giant prize, worth a great deal in the right market. In reality, we had just scavenged the main components we needed to create our newest project. The pieces were valueless separately, but what we could make from them would change the world.”

  She leans against the table to help support herself. "In that attack, many of our tribe perished, including my mother.” She pauses. “In the months after my mother's death, I noticed my father’s inventions straying further and further away from ways we could create. Instead, he focused increasingly on ways that he could destroy."

  Her voice hardens. "Despite a lack of investors, my father did eventually create that invention. He deemed it the Rozbalt. The name essentially translates to 'The Unzipper' in our native Slovak.”

  “Why?, a Japanese officer asks in English.

  Turning to address him, Sabine explains, “The Rozbalt was one of our most ambitious designs. Using power harnessed by a massive magnetic power core, my father created a way essentially to unzip the atmosphere. I use this word ‘unzip’ because the first “incision” in the ozone was already almost a millennium ago. The damage caused by uninhibited ultraviolet rays escaping through the ozone barrier would make tearing the rest of the ozone quite easy.”

  Sabine pauses, pulling out a map and rolling it out onto the table in front of her. “If you’ll look, you will see that my father has systematically attacked each trading post in an almost direct swath up the Appalachian Spine. I fear that with this pattern, he is heading as far north as he can to put this weapon to use.”

  The Iranian commander stands up. “I still do not understand the significance of a weapon that can only be used on the sky,” he asserts through his translator.

  Sabine’s slate eyes meet his. “The significance is that it will initiate a second Drowning.”

  As this is translated to the different parties, many of the officers and their cohorts shift apprehensively in their chairs.

  “Why would someone do this? Such an action would doom us all,” the Iranian officer asks.

  Sabine acknowledges him. “For those of you familiar with Christianity and the Old God, you will not be surprised that my father’s naming of his warship the Ark was not an accident. In the days before I took my leave, my father began cursing the world and its corruption. How easily that corruption killed those who were kind. It was his wish to wash it clean once more. I believe the catalyst for this line of reasoning was my mother’s premature death.”

  The French officer speaks up; his translator is quick to do his job. “By doing this, he would destroy his own people as well. It makes no sense.”

  Sabine pulls her shawl over her shoulder. “Before we became airborne, the Cascade were almost exclusively dependent upon our seafaring ways, including fishing. We were one of the few tribes that possessed the ships and skills do this successfully. I believe this is his reasoning in that regard . . . although I do not believe that reason is taking much part in this.”

  The French officer responds once again. “I do not believe that he has this power. What you’re stating is ridiculous. No one has this power”, the translator states carefully.

  Sabine doesn't have to say anything this time.

  Sanjar stands once more. “I would not have believed that a ship could have the ability to level entire cities either, but we have all witnessed the terrible truth.”

  The faces of the surrounding alliance shift as the gravity of the situation begins sinking in. Sanjar furthers his agenda. “There is only one difference in the assault on this ship, and it is that we actually know our enemy this time. Not only that, we also know the stakes upon entering the battlefield.” He pauses before asking, “I must ask you once more . . . Will you fly with us?”

  With this, Sanjar unsheathes his sword and slams it on the table on the other side of his scabbard. The steel rings in a clear call to arms.

  Barely a second passes before the scimitar of the Iranian captain hits the table on his opposite side, swearing an oath in Farsi. One after another, the Japanese crew and the French envoy follow suit.

  Lastly, the Agincourt representative slips his cutlass out of his sheath and carefully places it to his right. Looking up from his sword, he offers, “We’re with you mate. Let’s torch these bastards.”

  19

  The temperature drops as night falls. Fish oil lamps line the streets, but the brightest lights in the trading post are being thrown off by the Artemis as its crew works tirelessly to swap its goods. I’m sure the residents appreciate the business,
but I doubt that the extra light and sound pollution are as welcome in this habitually silent hamlet.

  I’m surprised to see Red Swan emblems mixed in with the five other nations as the Artemis deckhands rearrange the hangar bay. I thought they would all have left when Baltier gave them a chance. Perhaps the Australian was able to carve out some hazard pay for his pilots to retain some of them. Maybe they just care about the old girl more than I ever gave them credit for.

  For our part, our small band of friends has taken shelter away from the rest of the crew. Huddled underneath blankets with our backs pressed against the outcropping of rocks, we watch as the waves thunder in. Despite the sheer power of the surges, there’s something soothing about their rhythm.

  “So how’s everybody going to spend their last night earthbound?” I ask the ocean.

  Yeti’s bottle clinks against the cliff’s overhang. “Well . . . I was planning on drinking a lot. I don’t know about you,”, he offers. He pulls his crutch close to him, eyeing the froth below.

  The fact he survived his injuries at Shipwreck is a miracle. The fact he’s not opting to stay in World’s End is a tragedy. He somehow bribed the flight doctor to falsify a report stating that he was fit to fly. It's a lie of course. Truth is, we’re so desperate for pilots we probably would’ve taken him anyway.

  I watch as pain shoots across his face as he tries readjusting the thick blanket over his knees. At this rate, I don’t know how he plans on pulling a joy stick in just few short days. When I asked him to sit out, he told me there were many names to avenge not to take advantage of this opportunity. I hope he finds his peace.

  “Hmm, I was hoping I might be able to use some of it to spend time with you?" Cassandra offers. A warmth different from the influence of the beer flows through me. Cass doesn’t usually expose her feelings in the open, but I love it when she does.

  “I think that can be arranged,” I smile. I glance down at the small shadow perched on the farthest rock on the cliff. “What about you Stenia?”