Of Steel and Steam

by Pauline Creeden et al.

  "No rescue," Beckett said. "We don't have the means."

  "She's our captain," Robert raised his voice and stepped closer. "We have to go after her."

  "Stand down, Lieutenant," Beckett fired back. "I have command, and the call is mine. There will be no rescue."

  He drew a breath, modulated his tone and placed a hand on Robert's shoulder.

  "I want to go after her," Beckett said. "But we sustained heavy damage in the assault. The Dreadnaut is crippled, and Trepidation is the only real defense we have. Neither ship can be spared."

  "So I'll get another ship," Robert said. "Give me a squad of Zephyrs and I'll get her myself."

  Beckett shook his head.

  "Not going to happen," he said. "I can't afford to throw a squad away, nor can I afford to lose my second in command. We both have to adapt to the new situation."

  "You know I'll go anyway," Robert said. "Just authorize it."

  "I don't want to arrest you, Raen'dalle," Beckett said. "But if you disobey a direct order, you'll leave me no choice."

  Robert lifted his left hand and turned it to display the signet ring on his middle finger. He did not say anything. He did not need to. He belonged to one of Patheran's twelve Noble Houses, and common law, therefore, did not pertain to him. While members of the Noble Houses served in each of the military services, they held to their own code of conduct; called the Nobilation Code, many just referred to it as the Old Code. Neither Beckett nor a court-martial would call Robert to account for his actions; the Heavens Watch Council would.

  Beckett drew a deep breath and clenched his teeth.

  "I'd prefer this to be sanctioned," Robert said. "A squad of Zephyrs, and your permission is all I ask. I'll find an airship."

  Beckett stared at him before he waved the matter aside.

  "Permission granted," he said, his voice tight with anger, and turned away. "Now get off my bridge."

  Escape

  The wind whipped Robert's hair from his forehead, and he stared straight ahead, willing his racing thoughts to silence. Fear churned in his stomach and moistened his palms, but he did not fear for himself. Rather, he dreaded what the Aeresian crown planned for Stockbridge. He knew it would be dreadful, and he knew it would be public. He gave the wings a casual inspection, more out of habit than any real concern. The vessel was well maintained. Once Chief Barnes of the Zephyrs explained the situation to him, the captain of the schooner that ferried them from the citadel was more than happy to relinquish his claim to the airship., The promissory note Robert handed him no doubt added to his smile. The man walked away with double the vessel's worth.

  "It's a good thing you're not coming back from this suicide run," Whelan said to him from his position at the helm. "Between Beckett and the owner of this bucket, your building quite the debt."

  "Truer words were never spoken," Winslow's ghost said beside him. "I fear you will release me sooner than you planned."

  "The reckoning will come, boy," Gal'Preston added. "Payment always comes due. It is the nature of the world."

  Robert ignored them all, and concentrated his thoughts on the instrument panel before him. He could not see the future, so he had no way of knowing if his plan would work. He also could not think of a reason why it wouldn't, so that gave him a glimmer of hope.

  "I for one am not keen on picking a fight with the Ogun Den," Whelan continued. "If we do run into them, remember your illuminating spells. They might buy you a moment or two of life."

  The altimeter showed an altitude of 13,000 feet, and the gyroscope indicated the airship continued to climb. They would need to break out the oxygen masks soon. The ballonets maintained a steady venting of air, and the internal pressure gauges dropped into the lower third. With the isolator pumping at maximum capacity, the airship's inner shell would be filled to capacity with helium before they reached sixteen thousand feet. Robert hoped the hull held together long enough for them to level out. If not, they would not gain the distance needed.

  "Fourteen thousand feet," Lindstrom said from his navigational station. "Time for the masks, Sir."

  Robert waved the aeronaut into action with a roll of his wrist. He unclipped his own mask from his waist, cinched the strap behind his head, and opened the valve of the tank he wore on his back. The other members of the crew engaged their own equipment, and resumed the task of piloting the airship. He drew the communications line from the spool at the base of the mask, and plugged it into his console.

  Robert glanced around him and took note of the crew present. Lindstrom, Bayliff, Vilaster, McCarthy, and Whelan. All of them veterans of the Albatross, and except for Rin, the only survivors of the failed scouting mission. Their presence did not surprise him when they met him on the deck of the schooner. Having them watch his back gladdened him. After the assault on the citadel's front lines, what the men already called Fae's Passage because of the strange sightings, Robert felt a certain preference for this group above the others.

  "Ping from the tethered Watchtowers, Sir," Vilaster reported, his voice muffled from the communications array. The click and hiss of his breathing apparatus sounded in Robert's ear between his words. "We're above their fleet."

  "Very good, ensign," Robert said. "Inform me when you catch the stern of the flagship."

  Captain Solara Stockbridge hung from her wrists in the belly of the flagship's hold. Consciousness fluttered on and off, and she regretted each time it paid her a visit. Her eyes fluttered open, and she bit back a curse for her return. At least the whipping stopped. The myriad bites of the lash merged together into one gyrating dance of agony. They did not spare an inch of her with their punishment, and concentrated on what they called her "indecent parts." For all their propriety, they had no problem watching her naked body lashed. One lone tract of embers pulsed along the length of her face. Her right eye swelled shut from the impact, and her upper lip laid open.

  The bastards had some nerve, whipping a woman in the face. Then again, her own fool mouth that goaded them into it. Next time, she'd have to remember to keep her mouth shut and not talk so much about their mothers. There would be a next time, she was sure, and a time after that, and a time after that.

  More than likely, she reflected, today bore a fairly decent representation of the rest of her life.

  Alone, beaten, and hung naked from a beam in the ceiling.

  She stretched, and touched the floor with the tips of her toes. The movement allowed her to take some weight off her shoulders and draw a deeper breath of air.

  The agony of her ordeal still burned fresh in her memory. Laughter from the officers still echoed in her ears. Their taunts, their promises still graphically etched on her imagination.

  Stockbridge closed her eyes against the horror of it all. She drew another deep breath, and let it out with slow precision.

  "I'm so bloody over this," she said, and opened her eyes.

  She pulled against the chains, and swung her feet over her head. With her feet planted against the steel girder, she focused her thoughts on the glyph of Iyre, the harmony of perseverance. The Kal force rose within her, and she pictured the heat of her anger bleeding out into the chains that bound her.

  The acrid smell of smoldering oil filled her nostrils.

  She did not need both eyes open to see the girder begin to glow white hot with an internal heat.

  Robert leaned off the edge of the deck and gripped the rigging. Whelan stood next to him, with his head cocked to the side as if he contemplated their height.

  Vilaster's voice continued counting down in his earpiece. "Twenty-two, Twenty-one, Twenty."

  Robert touched the rifle lashed to his chest, the brace of pistols at his waist, the sword, and the belt knife.

  "Fifteen, Fourteen, Thirteen."

  At the count of ten, he slapped the carabiner clip to the loop on his waist.

  "Vent ballast one minute after we're away," he said. "All of it in one continuous burn."

  "Seven, Six, Five." Vilaster held one fin
ger pointed heavenward, his arm cocked at the elbow.

  "Aye, Sir," Lindstrom said. "Have a good trip."

  "Two, One. Jacks away!" Vilaster's arm shot forward and waved them off.

  Robert let go of the rigging and dropped into the clouds below, his arms tucked tight to his side, and his body ramrod straight to maximize the speed of his descent. He caught sight of Whelan in his peripheral vision, but kept his focus straight ahead. A Zephyr plummeted past him feet first, and two more followed in quick succession. Too small for the enemy watchtowers to detect, their instruments would read a flock of birds.

  Robert tucked his head in and glanced at the altimeter attached to his chest rig. Ten thousand feet. The gauge's needle spun on its axis while the pressure built inside of it. Once within the operational window, and kept his eyes on the dial. The flagship sailed at a high four thousand feet, and to hit the target, Robert needed to deploy between eight and six thousand. Too soon, and he would miss the target. Too late, and he would get fatally intimate with the airship's deck.

  Nine thousand feet.

  Eight thousand feet.

  The groan of metal preceded the crash felt throughout the Aeresian flagship. A pair of red coated legionnaires threw the hatch open, and entered with weapons drawn. Stockbridge dashed forward to meet them with her chains trailing after her.

  She whipped the glowing weapon around the first soldier's neck, and pulled him into his compatriot. The heat of the metal seared his skin and ignited his hair and clothing. Where it touched the second soldier, his flesh combusted as well. A quick succession of kicks to the head silenced his agonized screams to let him expire in peace.

  Stockbridge dropped the chain, and the heat vanished from its surface. She did, however, retain the flow state. She divested them of their clothing, and although she swam in their shirts and trousers, it gave her a sense of comfort. Her wounds burned wherever the cloth touched them, but she pushed them aside and concentrated on the weapons. The Aeresian muskets were useless to her; too big and unwieldy, unless she wanted to club someone to death. Instead, she recovered both of their pistols, and one of their swords. She grimaced at the cutlass, but it would suffice.

  Deep in the belly of the airship, the empty corridor stretched in both directions. The steady, visceral percussion of the engines thrummed through her, and her racing steps fell in rhythm with the beat. Flowing, golden script adorned the wall, and she slowed to take it in. The ship's name rose in ten-foot letters: Cape York.

  Stockbridge adjusted her grip on the weapons. The arrogant bastards had her aboard their flagship. One of the largest capital ships ever produced in history, the Cape York’s main function was to house the Sharikeen hierarchy of Aeresian society. The Tarekien hierarchy, she corrected herself. One and all, that entire country stepped off the Sharikeen path the moment they collectively bent knee and venerated an Aesari in place of the Creator. They no longer deserved the name or the respect it carried.

  She placed the tip of the cutlass against the gold script and considered what she knew of the ship's design. They knew little of the airship's engine or isolator, but heard it was revolutionary. She tapped the blade against the steel wall between piston strikes. Twice as long as the Dreadnaut, and twice as wide. The vessel spanned eight decks of crew space instead of the usual four, and boasted four ballonet clusters within the superstructure. If she they indeed kept her in the hold, that put the engine room a deck or two above her.

  If she had to die, she might as well accomplish something of note with the act. The thought of sending the pride of the Aeresian airfleet crashing to earth might just fit the requirements.

  It might also make them even for cutting her face with the thrice damned whip.

  The altimeter hit five thousand feet, and Robert spread his arms wide. A pair of leather wings connected his wrists to his ankles, and caught the wind of his passage. They billowed, and jerked him into a slower trajectory. He fought against the speed and angled his body. The wings reacted to the change in position and hurtled him into a corkscrew descent.

  Far below him, the first of the Zephyrs struck the airship and blasted through to the deck below. Their best intelligence indicated that as the location of the crew quarters. Muzzle flashes escaped the hole, giving testament to the soldier's bloody work. The second Zephyr struck further downship, and smashed into the glass lined viewing gallery on the highest level. Here, the Tarekien and noble elite gathered to watch the martial engagements in luxury. A quick succession of explosions spoke of the Zephyr's energetic use of grenades in the confined space. Glass shattered outward and decorated the decks below like diamonds of death. Barnes, the final armored soldier ignited his thrusters and slowed his descent to land on the main deck amid the gunnery batteries. The machine guns attached beneath his forearms began firing before he touched down. The first of the on-deck magazines ignited under his assault, and blew one of the starboard twelve-inch guns into the air.

  Robert glided in on a steeper trajectory. He targeted the very center of the ship. The three Zephyrs caused maximum damage, and most of the crew would naturally be drawn to their positions, both to stop them and mitigate the damage. Amid such chaos, he and Whelan should be able to slip in undetected to find the captain.

  The middle of the airship raced toward him, and Robert pulled the lanyard to disengage his wings. With the same movement, he drew the bluberbus from behind his back. Without the leather to slow his descent he picked up speed. He aimed at the safety railing, and depressed the trigger. The weapon coughed fire and smoke, and from the turmoil a grappling hook arced out. A second explosion to his right told of Whelan's presence. It punched through the thin slats, and opened to latched onto the hull plate. Robert tightened his grip on the rope, and prepared himself for sudden deceleration.

  The rope jerked in his hands and pulled taut. The momentum carried him forward at a different angle, and he swung over the edge of the airship. At the apex of his swing, he let go, and dropped to the deck. He landed in a roll, and came up with his rifle up and ready.

  Seconds later, Whelan landed next to him.

  "Well, I'm damned if I'm still alive," Whelan said. "We made it."

  "Auxiliary hatch." Robert pointed at the open doorway leading into the vessel.

  Whelan rushed forward, the barrel of his rifle leading the way. Across his back, Robert noted, he strapped that damned walking stick of his. The man carried it like a talisman. The thought stilled his internal monologue, and he remembered Whelan's performance under Caliban's Crossing. His talisman, Robert realized. Every Sharikeen mage carried an object, be it a staff, an amulet or a ring, to help focus their ability to enter the flow state. Robert shook his head. That would remind him to pay attention to details.

  "A lesson you never learned," Gal'Preston's ghost muttered beside him, continuing his never-ending monologue. "A true initiate of the Temples would sense his abilities in his aura. But I would not expect a failure like you to know that."

  Robert ignored him. He had enough self-depreciating murmurings in his head, and did not need to add his disgruntled teacher's to the mixture. Thankfully, Winslow stayed silent, though he sensed her presence beside him. She emanated a sense of anxiety, and a strange degree of hope. Whether she hoped for his success or her own release, he did not bother to ask.

  Whelan stood to the side of the hatch and aimed his weapon inside. Robert positioned himself at the opposite side and scanned the corridor. The dark interior prevented them from knowing what lay within. He traced a rune across his eyes, and the darkness fell away. The corridor now shown with a greenish hue, and the shapes within easily distinguished. Whelan gave him a thumbs up, and entered. Robert followed a moment later.

  They walked with a slow, steady pace. Whelan led the way, and Robert walked behind him, half turned to cover the way they had come. The din of the Zephyr's assault continued unabated, and the thunderous boom of musket fire joined the fray.

  A pair of soldiers stepped out of a doorway, and Whelan fire
d twice. The sizzle of the cycling chambers lit the corridor, and both men fell dead. The Boatswain darted forward and trained his rifle into the now empty room.

  "Bloody waste," he muttered. "Squandered two good souls to destroy two more."

  "At least we're quieter this way," Robert said in a low tone. He knew better than to whisper in the enclosed space, for it tended to travel further. "Stay sharp. The ladder to the gunnery mezzanine is just ahead."

  Whelan gave a thumbs up, and motioned forward with his finger, telling Robert to take point.

  Stockbridge gritted her teeth against the pain flaring across her back, and drew the cutlass from the sentry's chest. She lacked the finesse with this weapon, and though she only needed to touch him with the Kal, she gutted him. She still held to the flow state, even though her body's agony rallied and threatened to tear it away.

  She miscalculated the position of the airship's engines. From the sealed chambers on either side of her, she must be on a gunnery platform. The mezzanine, perhaps. The thrum of machinery still vibrated the decks, but the decks lessened it here, two flights above. More than likely they housed the engine room in the bowels of the hold, in the stern of the ship. The placement made sense, especially with a vessel of this size. With the isolator pump in the lower section, the craft could achieve faster lift, forcing the ballonets down from above. The design of her own airship placed the isolator above the ballonets, requiring a considerable time to build up the requisite pressure for an ascent.

  Should she live through this, she would recommend the design to the engineers. McCarthy would salivate at the notion, and probably tear the Dreadnaut apart to reposition the gear at the first chance.

  A muffled explosion sounded, and she paused. What in all the Hells was that? It almost sounded like the squeal of strained steel. A heartbeat later, a diminutive crash caught her attention, followed by the rapid staccato of machine gun fire. Another explosion shook the airship, and the grinding of metal on metal intensified.