Ichor Well

by Joseph R. Lallo

  “Envelope and gondola are spike-resistant, but the same can’t be said for the crew,” he said.

  “A matter of exceptionally little concern, as they cannot see us.”

  One of the crewmen called out. “Eyes down! Flares!”

  Alabaster turned to see a ball of brilliant green light rising out of the blanket of thickened fug. As it drifted higher, clearing the densest layers of purple, his squinting eyes could just make out the source of the light. It was a makeshift balloon, a poor imitation of an airship’s envelope. Made from the wrong sort of material, it didn’t have a weave tight enough to keep the phlogiston in. Most of the cloth had been smeared with an oddly glossy substance that seemed to make up for this, but scattered areas that had strategically been left dry streamed thin jets of the gas. When it mixed with the fug it became intensely luminescent, bathing the whole area with light brighter than day.

  “Evasive action. Get us out of that light,” the captain ordered.

  “You will hold your position,” Alabaster demanded, stabbing his finger at the captain. “Light is the least of the reasons they couldn’t see us. That soupy fug hanging atop them…”

  What happened next rendered even Alabaster speechless. A wave of purple vapor rushed past him. When the inky cloud was gone, it left behind air perfectly clear and fresh. He turned from the captain and raised his eyes to the still-rising flare balloons. They were visible now as bright pools of green cast against the blanket of thick fug that lay above them instead of below. Each flare balloon stopped as it hit the end of a tether rope, and dangling partway down each rope was a burlap-topped jar filled with ichor. One by one, similar balloons rose up and expanded the void in the fug upward with their own jars of the fug-phobic substance.

  Now the site below them was perfectly visible, and the Well Diggers had been busy. The gantry over the ichor well itself had been fully erected, and all the carts had been fully dismantled. Their boilers were now sunk into a protective trench along the south side of the facility and linked through a rather intricate network of tubes, pipes, and valves. Spinning wheels and interlocking gears moved with blurring speed, driving the gimbals for ten deck guns. Each pair of guns had a single operator moving twin guns in tandem and pivoting to aim at the well-lit targets.

  Alabaster’s arm was still held high from his angry order to the captain when the first of the spikes began to strike their targets. Three of the five gun pairs were focused on the destroyer. Resounding thumps echoed through the hull as lines of spikes dotted its belly. Gunners along the port and starboard turned their guns to return fire.

  Twenty long seconds of fire and return fire passed before Alabaster snapped back into his usual state of relentless self-satisfaction. Though the railings of the ship were prickled with spikes, little actual damage was being done. The larger and ostensibly more sensitive target of the envelope had been pierced in a few places, leaking bright streams of phlogiston. Without any fug to react with, the gas remained dull and unlit, seeming to underscore what little effect the attacks were having. Most spikes simply thumped into the taut skin of the envelope with a hollow sound and fell back to the ground below.

  “Hah! Hahaha! I knew it would be worthless to resist! The Fist of Alabaster is more than a match for your cobbled-together defenses!” he barked into the megaphone. “Your only hope to survive is for us to show you mercy, and your only hope for mercy is for you to give up!”

  “Your ships are taking heavy damage, Alabaster,” said the captain.

  He peered across the void in the fug. Though only facing two sets of guns, all four of the ships were approaching critical damage. One of them sagged toward the ground, its envelope barely intact enough to stay in the air. Two others vented steam from damaged conduits, and the last drifted in tight circles, one turbine locked at full while the other failed to spin.

  “You addle-minded amateurs! Leave the air combat to The Fist of Alabaster! Land yourselves on the east side to avoid crossfire and begin the land offensive!”

  He lowered the megaphone. From his position of relative safety, he wasn’t able to determine what the gunners on the destroyer were aiming at, but it was clear they were all firing downward.

  “Captain, just what are your gunners doing?”

  “Standard ground-combat training. They are targeting the soldiers, the mounted guns, and the boilers.”

  “This is not standard combat, you fool. Have them fire at these contraptions they are using to clear the air. Without those they shall be unable to target us and we shall be free of their return fire.”

  “We also will be unable to—”

  “I am in command of this mission, Captain. Now follow my orders.”

  The captain tightened his jaw but delivered the correction to his men. Alabaster paced away from the railing and shook his head. “… It is as though I am commanding children.”

  #

  On the ground, it was nothing short of a war zone. The destroyer alone doubled their firepower, and the smaller ships meant attacks were at least initially coming from all angles. The time they’d had to prepare hadn’t been much, but they’d used it well. A long trench dug with the steam shovel on the north half of the facility served as cover for Nita and the others, and another to the south provided at least a measure of protection for the boilers. Two other foxholes of sorts to the east and west stored equipment. To protect those brave or unlucky enough to be manning the guns, some of the armor that had protected the carts during the journey had been bolted into shields. That left only one member of the group wholly without cover.

  “Lil, damn it, you get back here!” Nita screamed.

  The deckhand had argued for almost the entirety of their preparations that someone ought to serve as a “runner” during the battle. Ammunition would need to be delivered, messages would need to be exchanged, and since she’d spent so much time as a deckhand, she was the woman for the job. Nita had put her foot down about it. Lil agreed to stay safe with the others, then ignored the promise just as soon as the first spikes were fired.

  She sprinted low to the ground, belts of spikes over each shoulder. Puffs of dirt rose up behind her as two different guns traced lines of spikes just a few paces off target. Above her the shouted commands of Alabaster finally coaxed the guns away from targeting her, providing her the luxury of abandoning her serpentine dodges in favor of straight lines.

  Lil dove forward and slid into the trench, then sprang to her feet.

  “What did I tell you?!” Nita said. “We had an agreement.”

  “Uh-huh. You can be sore at me after. I ain’t got no new holes in me. Everybody fine in here?”

  “Some scrapes from flying debris, but nothing serious,” Nita said.

  Lil surveyed the faces of the others in the trench. “Where’s Kent?”

  “The far end of the trench there. He caught a good angle and has been firing with the rifle.”

  “Good. Glad we’re all in one piece. Here’s what’s going on out there. Boiler number three took a couple of good shots, we’re going to have to choke off the firebox or it’ll blow. That means the guns on the south side are going to lose some range. What’s-his-face on the northeast side is getting low on spikes and—”

  A bright flash drew their attention to one of the tethered flare balloons. It had been struck and now drifted down and to the east. The fug rushed back in, and the edge obscured their view of one of the ailing scout ships.

  “… And pretty soon that all ain’t gonna matter because we ain’t gonna see what we’re shootin’ at again,” Lil finished.

  “That idiot shouting orders sounded like he was commanding the smaller ships to land and attack from the ground to the east, so we’ll have plenty to fire at and won’t need much range,” Nita said.

  Another flare died out and drifted off, now shrouding half the destroyer behind the fug.

  “At least that’ll give us something to do until that destroyer decides to drop its bombs,” Lil said.

  “
If they wanted to bomb this place, they would have done so by now,” Nita countered.

  “Sure, but the more of a fight we put up, the better them bomb bay doors are going to start looking.”

  “We worry about the things we can fix. Now, it doesn’t look like we did much damage with the spike guns.”

  “Against a destroyer, I didn’t reckon we would,” Lil said. “If I’d’ve known they’d send something that big, I’d’ve told the gunners to leave off it entirely and take down the little ones. Heck, if I’d’ve known they’d send something that big, I’d’ve said we should hightail it and come back with cannons or some such.”

  “Things always seem clearer with the benefit of hindsight,” Nita said. “I think we’ve got enough phlogiston and gear to send up two more ichor flares. At this rate they won’t last long, though. We’ll need to save them until they can do the most good.”

  The last of the flares broke free of its tether and blew away, shrinking the ichor well’s region of fresh air back down to its original size. The spike guns continued to fire, but with considerably less accuracy. The airships traced aimless lines across the facility. Here and there a lucky shot would clang against a hastily shielded piece of equipment or wander a little too close to the trench. The Well Digger gunners had a slightly better go of it, as the damage done to the airships meant every little leak to the envelope created a piercing glow that was faintly visible even through the curtain of purple.

  A short time later the glow of the smaller airships faded from view on the east side, and a few moments after that the whine of their turbines dropped away until they were lost behind the louder rumble of the idling destroyer.

  “What do you reckon happens next?” Lil asked in the relative peace.

  “I reckon they wait until we run out of spikes, and then they do whatever they please,” grunted Kent. He squinted to the west. “Provided those things don’t pick us apart first.”

  The women turned to match his gaze and saw a flash of eye-shine beyond the western wall.

  “One problem at a time, Kent. Now why ain’t you shooting?” Lil asked.

  “Only one box of bullets left and no clear shots. No sense just making a racket and giving them something to shoot at.”

  Lil wiped her face and placed her palm on her pistol.

  “All this not shooting’s getting me antsy,” she said. “I can hear ’em just rumbling there, just over the wall. Hey, ain’t we got explosives?”

  “They’re set up with a trip wire by the main entrance, in case they brought a vehicle that could break through.”

  “Well they ain’t done that, and I know Gunner’d never let me hear the end of it if he found out I got shot full of holes by a bunch of fuggers while I had a whole crate of blasting charges sitting there unused.”

  Kent blinked. “… If you get killed, how is he going to give you an earful…”

  “Aw, he’d figure it out. He’d never miss a chance to give a good lecture. Nita, can’t you rig up a catapult or some such so we can huck that crate at the airship?”

  “If I had a few hours and some practice shots to hone my aim, maybe. But…”

  “Oh, I know that look. That’s the look you get when you figure out how to fix something. I’m gonna go get the crate.”

  Lil scrambled at the edge of the trench, but Nita caught her by the hem of the jacket and pulled her back.

  “No, Lil. That’s not what I need. Head over and get the canisters of phlogiston we’ve got left, and both of the flare balloons.”

  “Won’t be but two shakes,” Lil said, dashing along the trench.

  “What’re you working at?” Kent asked.

  “Think I know a way to use that crate of explosives, but it’s a long shot.”

  “Of course it is. After all the long shots we’ve had to hit, I was hoping maybe there’d be a sure thing or two lurking around the corner.”

  Nita tugged a tool-roll from beneath her coat and unfurled it. She selected a pair of sheers and a bit of measuring cord, then set about measuring out a few lengths of rope. Around the time she made the third cut, a frenzied ball of fluff bounded up the far end of the trench and desperately drummed out a message.

  Nita flashed a smile. “It’s about time…”

  #

  The captain stood at the helm, making slow adjustments to the ship’s orientation and shuttling it about slightly.

  “Must you reposition this behemoth so frequently? Surely your gunners would have greater luck in their targeting if you were to hold it still,” Alabaster said.

  “With that blanket upon them again, my gunners haven’t got a chance of targeting anything, because there’s nothing to see or hear down there. Something that was not an issue while the air between us was still clear. Of course, you saw fit to solve that problem,” the captain rumbled. “With your Ebonwhite-mandated overruling of my orders.”

  “It was the prudent decision.”

  “And would you care to explain why the prudent decision is not now to simply level the whole of the facility with a few well-placed bombs?”

  “Because there exists in that facility both persons and items of immeasurable value to me. And moreover because I’ve told you to keep the bomb bay doors shut, and as you’ve personally observed, my orders supersede yours at this time.”

  “So what would you have me do?”

  “Wait. My men are approaching on foot. They’ll have the facility secured soon enough.”

  “Your men will be shredded by those spike guns before they reach the walls.”

  “If so, then it is merely an additional layer to the tale of my eventual victory. A hard-fought and costly victory is always a more stirring one when told after the fact.”

  The captain’s expression grew more stern. “I am glad you are on my ship.”

  “Oh, Captain, your tone and borderline insubordination indicate otherwise.”

  “If you’re willing to sacrifice four ships of men to make for a better story later, I’m glad to be commanding the ship you are on, because one would assume even you wouldn’t sacrifice yourself.”

  “Of course I wouldn’t. What use is there in fame among your peers and infamy among your foes if you do not live at least long enough to bask in such?” He held his hat a bit more firmly as the wind gusted. “I wonder if it might be time to address the traitors again…”

  A distant thump echoed across the treetops.

  Three of the crew bellowed “Cannon fire!” just as the attack met its mark. A handful of projectiles struck The Fist of Alabaster. Two sent clouds of splinters bursting from the aft end of the main deck. The rest smacked hard into the sturdy envelope. Only one punched through to send a lance of green light feathering skyward.

  “Bring us around. Starboard cannons loaded with grape. Lights in the direction of the shot and fire as soon as you’ve got a solution.”

  “The spyglass, Mallow,” Alabaster said eagerly.

  He exchanged the megaphone for the small telescope his manservant offered and began to follow the lights.

  “It must be the Wind Breaker. It must be…” Alabaster said with an uncharacteristic hush in his voice. “Oh glorious day! I shall have my moment of battle against them. I shall see my victory in full!”

  The ship swung wide, pivoting and sliding sideways through the air as it attempted to bring its weapons to bear on the apparent source of the attack. A second thump rang out but brought little more than the whistle of projectiles flying wide of their targets. The captain wrestled with the wheel to get the ship more or less stationary. He managed to arrest the ship’s listing and drifting, but not before the destroyer strayed substantially over the roiling fog-screen that concealed the Well Diggers.

  Phlo-lights focused their beams and swept in a coordinated search, cutting deep into the thinner haze of the fug over the rest of the forest. One beam caught something, and the others shifted to the distant object. It was indeed the Wind Breaker, its red envelope barely visible. Bits of polished bras
s glinted here and there in the darkness, but the one glaring point of visibility was the white ship strapped to its belly.

  Alabaster’s eyes widened when he saw it.

  “Those barbarous trolls. Look what they’ve done to my ship! Oh, they shall be made to pay dearly for this. Fire upon them, Captain, but endeavor to ground the ship, not destroy it. If I am correct, there is a valuable individual aboard. And moreover I relish the opportunity to gloat over the survivors and parade them about the fug as my trophies.”

  “At this range we’ll be lucky to hit them at all. I make no promises about picking my shots to be nonfatal.” The captain leaned down to his speaking tube. “Starboard cannons? Status?”

  “Charges packed, standard shot nearly loaded,” came the reply.

  “Fire when ready!”

  #

  “A destroyer. They had to bring a destroyer along,” Captain Mack grumbled.

  Despite his gripe being about something that could quite easily blast him and his crew out of the sky, his complaint was no more vigorous than if he wasn’t particularly happy with that night’s choice of meal. To balance his remarkable calm, Lester was beside himself with panic, clinging to the base of the rigging and bellowing at the top of his lungs.

  “A destroyer?! Why would you even fire! You can’t hope to win!”

  “Wink! You get that message through to Nikita?” he called into the rigging above.

  Wink tapped. Nikita answered.

  “Good.”

  “What did it say?! Oh, never mind that. What does it matter? What good will it do, your crew on the ground knowing we’ve arrived? What could they hope to do?”

  “Gunner, speak up. I got a fugger up here running his mouth,” Mack said into his tube.

  “Port cannon loaded, standard shot, extra charge. Heading to starboard now.”

  Lester yelped as the simultaneous roar of the destroyer’s full starboard armaments shook the air. The low whistle of nearby barely off-target rounds suggested the next salvo could be the last.

  “When you’re through, load the aft cannon and then get up on deck guns. We ain’t gonna win this with cannonballs,” Mack said.