Copper Centurion (The Steam Empire Chronicles)

by Ottalini, Daniel

  Gwendyrn laughed. “If she’s anything like you, I bet your sister is a fireball.”

  Julius thought for a moment, then chuckled. “She can be. Once she loosened all the chair legs in the house, and every time my father tried to sit down, the chair would collapse under him. My mom laughed so hard, she cried.” Julius could still see his mom crying with laughter as her husband broke chair after chair.

  “That sounds like my older brother, Alaric. The boy was a natural-born troublemaker.”

  “I thought you were a natural-born troublemaker,” Julius pointed out.

  “Naw, just learned from the best. And Alaric, he was the best. He got a cow up on the headman’s roof one time. I have no clue how he did it. But there it was in the morning, mooing up a storm. The mayor’s daughter had to climb up on a ladder and milk the poor beast before they could get it down!”

  Their laughter floated out over the bustling docks.

  For hours, the men swapped stories about their families, until dusk settled over the harbor. Finally Gwendyrn stood and helped Julius to his feet. “I think it’s time we got down, sir. Hopefully we haven’t been missed. We’re supposed to return to the air later today.”

  “That will be a lot of fun now, won’t it?” Julius smiled. “Just as long as you don’t screw up like you did the first time you tried to descend from a ship. I remember—”

  Gwendyrn punched him and they both laughed. The conflicts between them settled for now, the two men left the battlement above the ruined city.

  Chapter 6

  Alexandros

  Captain Rufius Tiveri Alexandros paced the length of the bridge of the H.M.A.S. Scioparto. The shining wooden surface was worn with use and age, running a good twenty-five paces or so from starboard to port sides. His pace slowed as he reached the starboard side and looked out the large observation bubble. His mouth puckered as if he had swallowed a lemon, and he maneuvered into the lookout’s chair and pulled the binoculars from a pouch on the bulkhead. Sweeping them left to right along the edge of the curved glass, Alexandros surveyed the destruction and chaos, so similar to what he had seen many times before in his long career.

  Days after the initial assault, he could still make out wisps of smoke and steam escaping the ruined city. Surely this could have been avoided, he thought as he zoomed in on the tiny figures surrounding the docks. The docks were about the only structure still intact in the town proper. A few buildings north of the narrow river had survived, and a Roman fort was rapidly being built to span the river, the legionnaires and engineers doing what Romans do best—build.

  Still fuming from his survey of the wanton destruction below, Alexandros turned to the watch officer. “I’m going to my cabin. Alert me if anything comes up. We should be expecting Tribune Appius’s 13th Cohort soon.” He’d gone the last twenty-four hours without sleep.

  The officer gave a quick salute in acknowledgement before returning to his duties. Confident that the ship was in good hands, Alexandros strode aft down the hallway running the length of the trireme-like airship, the Scioparto mirroring the ocean-going vessels right down to the familiar pointed ram jutting from the bow of the long, sleek airship. That always made Alexandros chuckle. We’d probably bounce off any enemy ship that was that close. Our gasbags would collide first, and we’d bounce off each other like those new-fangled rubber balls the rich use in their games.

  He passed through several doorways, here inhaling the enticing aroma of stew wafting from the galley, there overhearing laughter and conversations from the crew quarters. Alexandros did pop his head into the combination galley/mess room to check on lunch. Crewmembers lounged about, eating food from gray iron plates and drinking from lidded metal cups resting before them on tables with lipped edges that kept things from sliding off during turbulence. Several others stood in line before the cook and his helper, grabbing plates and jostling over food. The atmosphere was relaxed. Alexandros paused for a moment, silently drinking in the sense of camaraderie and friendship that he was, by position, prevented from having within the airship community

  The tight quarters of the airship limited the ability to have separate messes for officers and crew, but he knew that most officers chose to dine in his first officer’s cabin. Travins was friendly and open, but there was definitely a professional gulf that prevented a closer friendship.

  “Officer on deck!” a rating called out, and the men snapped to attention, standing upright and looking straight ahead.

  Sighing, Alexandros waved them down. “As you were, lads. Didn’t mean to interrupt lunch. Figured I’d grab a plate as well.” He joined the line and waited behind the men. Alexandros believed he was a relatively popular captain; his ship was tightly run and had few discipline problems, and the crew was fanatically loyal to both ship and officers. Alexandros knew he was infringing upon his men’s rare off time, but he wanted the chance to just talk and listen to his crew talking about things that didn’t involve the day-to-day running of the ship. As he claimed a seat, he asked a few tentative questions, made a few slightly off-color jokes, knowing that the men were following strict naval code for talking in the mess.

  We’ve abandoned half of those foolish naval traditions, but we insist on retaining the ones based on food. Because rules about food make the most sense two miles up in the air, he thought sardonically.

  When the suddenly oppressive atmosphere in the room refused to lift, Captain Alexandros gave up. He surrendered his plate to the cook’s assistant with a polite word of thanks and a comment about the cooking, then left the room.

  He could hear conversation spring up behind him as he left. He paused in the hallway, then shook his head and decided to tour the ship. He headed forward, passing crew and officer cabins, storerooms, the wireless room, and finally reaching the forward staircase that curved tightly between decks. He descended quickly to a lower deck humming with the whir of machinery. The air was thicker here, the smell of oil and cleaning materials mixing with the slight tang of sulfur and coal.

  He carefully checked into the long side decks. Lightweight scorpions and their larger ballistae cousins were carefully stowed several feet apart at regular intervals, their ammunition in long lockers against the back wall. The area made Alexandros think of a gymnsaium. Up in the clouds, he amended. There were only a few crewmembers about in the weapons galley. They saluted Alexandros as he passed, and he nodded acknowledgement as he continued aftward.

  The hallway zigged around the arsenal, the most protected and heavily armored place in the ship. The ships’ supply of gunpowder, fuses, and more lightweight weapons such as repeating crossbows and a few sets of anti-boarding armor were safely secured here. Involuntarily, Alexandros’ hand reached for the small keys hanging on a chain around his neck, probing the cluster for the arsenal key. Finding it, he sighed with relief. He always feared that he’d discover he’d lost them at the worst possible moment—when he needed them.

  As he continued aft, the hum and clatter of machinery grew more noticeable, until he stepped into the engine room itself. The construct took up most of the room, pistons pumping and gears clanking. Alexandros greeted his chief engineer with a quick salute and was not surprised at the halfhearted wave that could, maybe, possibly, have been a return salute. It wasn’t about respect, just that Chief Mechanic Idonis Tuderius was far too busy staring at dials and levels and crankshafts to be bothered by anything as mundane as saluting.

  Alexandros had to raise his voice to be heard over the industrial noise. “How is she running? Did you get out the kinks from the refit yet?”

  Tuderius’s eyebrows puckered and he cocked his head to the side, looking quizzically at the captain. Alexandros repeated himself, cupping his hands around his mouth to amplify his voice this time.

  Shaking his head, Tuderius pointed a soot-blackened finger at a series of dials, their needles wavering erratically. “We’re st
ill trying to figure out why we’re getting these incredibly strange readings. My own grandmother could have done a better job installing this than those stupid dockworkers.”

  “Is there anything you need that I can provide to help you out? More men or materials?” Alexandros asked.

  “Well, Captain, a full month’s time in a large hanger with capable ground crews would be a start . . .” He sounded wistful.

  Alexandros smiled grimly and shook his head. “Can’t do; there’s a war on, or haven’t you heard?” he said, his tone more upbeat than it had been all day. “I know you’re doing the best you can, and I trust you to make this ship fly when she has to.”

  The engineer nodded. “We’ll do our best, sir.”

  Alexandros returned to the bridge to find his first officer clutching the all-call microphone. “Oh, there you are, Captain. I was just about to send for you. Ground control has sent a wireless message requesting we reduce altitude and prepare to load troops.”

  Nodding, Alexandros read the message, hastily written in a curved but legible scrawl on the thin parchment paper that was the hallmark of wireless dispatch offices everywhere. “Set us in motion, Mr. Travins. Be sure to watch the shore side of those mountains. I don’t really know how strong the wind is at ground level, but it’s probably stronger than what we’re currently feeling.”

  Engines pumping, the airship slowly descended toward the newly constructed airfield that graced one corner of the otherwise traditionally built Roman fort. The design hadn’t changed for centuries, and Alexandros was certain that even legionnaires from Roman Republic times could have found their way around this fort. They would just have wondered why such a large parade ground was built in one corner. Alexandros chuckled inwardly as the Scioparto closed in on the landing field.

  A few moments later, hearing the faint shouts of crewmembers as they tossed lengths of rope out the windows to waiting ground crew below, he walked over to the observation bubble to keep an eye on the ground. Although he was confident in his first officer’s skills, it was always better to be safe than sorry, especially with the low afternoon sun blasting its way through the bridge windows.

  A midshipman with a slider descended almost right on top of the observation window, cheekily waving to the captain as he dropped past. Leaning outward to follow the man’s trajectory, Alexandros watched the junior officer land gracefully and set about directing the ship with a pair of brightly dyed flags.

  Hearing a polite cough from a man beside him, Alexandros realized that he was interfering with normal landing procedures. I’ve got to stop doing that; I’m preventing the crew from doing their job! Must be the exhaustion. As if the thought had summoned it, fatigue welled up within him, and he had to put his hand out to steady himself. He held himself there for a few more moments, until he heard the steadying boom and jolt of the ship meeting the ground and, confident that the ship had touched down safely, he gestured to his first officer. “I’m taking a rest in my cabin. Wake me if anything critically important comes up.” With that, Alexandros at last retired to his cabin.

  The piercing clang of alarm bells woke him from a dead sleep. Reflexively shoving off his covers, Alexandros turned in his bunk and blinked at the clock. I’ve been asleep for nearly twelve hours! He was wiping the sleep from his eyes when someone pounded on his cabin door.

  “Captain! You’re needed on the bridge immediately! Enemy airships closing fast!”

  They would pick a dawn attack, Alexandros grumbled as he hurriedly pulled on his protective canvas captain’s jacket with the thin metal plates sewn into it. He grabbed his sword and scabbard and raced out the door.

  In the hallway, he navigated around knots of legionnaires trying to be as unobtrusive as heavily armed and armored men can be. Many of them also appeared to have been abruptly awakened by the clanging alarms. Dodging around one such group, Alexandros came face to face with Tribune Appius. “Tribune Appius! I’m glad to have your men on board. We may need them if things get dicey,” he said, honestly glad to have some real soldiers on board—Not just my airmen, who don’t know one end of a sword from another.

  The tribune smiled. “Anywhere you need my men to be? Or should we just stay out of your way as much as possible?”

  Alexandros considered for a moment, then knew exactly where he needed help. “If you could send some men down to the artillery deck, they could use some strong arms and backs to help in winding our scorpions and ballista. If it comes down to a boarding action, we may need you to clear our decks or take the fight to them.”

  Appius immediately started barking orders to his men. “Centurion Caesar! Take six squads outside to secure the ship against boarders. Durcius, take two squads down deck to help in the artillery gallery.”

  The tribune turned back to the captain, but a voice from the loudspeaker cut him off: “Captain Alexandros to the bridge, Captain to the bridge immediately.”

  Travins sounds worried, Alexandros noted. He’s never worried. This can’t be good.

  “I’ll keep two squads in reserve to assist where needed,” Appius called after Alexandros, who was already moving.

  “Just keep your ears open!” he called back as he ran for the bridge.

  Pushing open the bridge door, Alexandros scanned the interior. His officers were huddled around the main controls, while deckhands raced this way and that, adjusting gauges and communicating with various stations around the ship.

  “Captain on deck!” a rating cried and all movement paused as the men turned to salute their captain, fist to chest.

  “As you were,” Alexandros replied. “Status update. What in the name of Jupiter is going on?”

  “Sir, less than an hour ago, skimmers came back reporting that the Nortlanders’ main airbase at Ragunda was empty. Air-Admiral Polentio ordered double lookouts in every ship and sent all skimmers back out to try to find those missing ships. According to our latest reports, the Nortlanders may have as many as ten heavyweight ships of our caliber, but we don’t know how many they may have built or converted since we got this information.” Travins shuffled the thin pile of reports, seeking any additional information.

  Alexandros grabbed his binoculars and scanned the horizon. “Where exactly am I looking?”

  A deck lookout pointed to a series of small dots just on the horizon. “Right about ten o’clock to our fore, sir.”

  The captain fiddled with the settings on his binoculars, zooming in on the small dots. He counted eight airships closing in on their fleet. “What’s the status of our fleet?”

  “I believe we’ve got about twelve ships on station currently. We finished loading up the 13th Cohort of the XIII Germania late last night, and the other ships have taken up the rest of the legion—so we’re flying a bit heavy, but we’re also well prepared for any boarding actions.”

  A small ring interrupted him. Incoming wireless message from the air-admiral, I hope, Alexandros thought as the door to the closet-like wireless room slid open and the operator emerged.

  “Message to all airships from the air-admiral, sir.”

  Alexandros took the thin sheet of parchment and unfolded it to read the hasty scrawl twice. “We’re to form up and orient ourselves on the flagship. Formation Beta.”

  Nodding, Travins gave the specific orders to the pilots and crewmembers and the Scioparto moved toward her position in formation, to the left of the flagship. The smaller Scioparto was about half the size of the H.M.A.S Seguro, the Emperor-class airship swinging into the lead position. A diamond formation was slowing taking shape as the other airships moved into their assigned slots by class.

  Alexandros watched the slow dance from the starboard observation windows as the airships gradually created a powerful wall of firepower. He could see the entirety of the formation from the Scioparto’s position on the leftmost “point” of the diamond. The ski
mmer carrier Vohar took its place in the center, within the protected confines of the diamond. It continued to launch the small scout ships and collect others.

  Alexandros paced the deck awhile, as the two forces closed on each other. The Roman fleet had left Sundsvall behind as it moved northward to engage the enemy. Below, miles of dark, thick forest, with only the occasional road cut or small village, flowed over the landscape. An hour passed, and Alexandros could feel the tension building on the bridge. He made a few comments to his men, told a few jokes, and tried to settle them down. Don’t want to burn off all their combat energy on waiting.

  The bell rang again as more messages came from the Seguro.

  “Increase to combat speed and avoid boarding actions as much as possible,” Alexandros repeated aloud. The whine of the ship’s turbines grew louder as the airships ate up the ground more rapidly. Airmen called out the quickly dwindling amount of time before the two sides reached each other.

  “All hands to full battle stations. Maximum preparedness. Legionnaire forces to action stations,” Alexandros ordered. He could hear his orders being repeated over the loudspeakers throughout the ship.

  “Sir! Topside lookouts report that they’ve seen multiple unknown airships approaching from the west,” the midshipman at the speaking tubes called out.

  “Forward that to the flagship. Tell those lookouts to keep me updated every five minutes. Nothing we can do about them for now.” Alexandros leaned against the burnished railing that ran the length of the long bridge windows, as if urging time to go faster. He could feel the steady pulsating thrum of the engines vibrating through his ship, almost as if it too was eager to get into action.