by E. W. Pierce
Mel goosed the throttle, burying the needle into the red. Tremors raced up her limbs, coalescing into a mass of energy someplace in her gut. "Better get everyone strapped in." Her palms felt slippery on the controls.
Taul issued the order over the brass horn. She could barely hear him over all the rattling.
It was the altitude, of course. Chief Wrench Kile had been right about the danger of taking the ship up into the clouds, but it’d been their best option at the time. She gripped the control yolk with both hands, trying to slow its erratic dance, silently willing the ship’s vibrations to still. Crashing the ship would be a cruel way to end the day.
Before Mel could descend to more accommodating conditions, a series of dull thuds reverberated through the ship. And then they were plummeting, a fourteen-ton stone dropped from the heavens. The forward window was filled with green as the Misty Morning edged into a nose-dive. A shrill keening filled the cabin. The controls violently bludgeoned Mel’s hands as she fought to right the ship.
The talkbox rang. Taul picked it up, listened, hung-up. “Remember those parts needed replacing?” He had to shout to be heard. “She might hold together if you don’t push past quarter speed.”
Mel laughed bitterly. Just like that, it was all over. She cut speed and managed to level-out.
A pair of interceptors shot past on either side, flashed their wings, angled back. Dozens filled the sky, darting over and around the lumbering Misty Morning like flies swarming a carcass.
A shadow crept across the deck as a much larger ship passed overhead, blotting out the sun. Guns swiveled, tracking the hobbled ship. The talkbox rang.
“Want to take this one?”
Taul shook his head.
“Some first mate you are.”
“Miss Locke.” Vice Admiral Brubax’s voice was full of puffed-up triumph. “You made an amateur’s mistake—airships of such type can’t handle higher altitudes.”
“All part of my grand plan.”
“You will land immediately or you will be fired upon.”
“I don’t think so. Not if you want what’s in the case.”
There was a pause on the other end. “You have seen it?”
“Seen it, talked to it, even drank with it. Only, don’t call it an ‘it’. Doesn’t like that.” Mel put her hand on the throttle. She’d only get one shot at this. “The bomb looks real to me. What do you suppose would happen if your cruiser opened fire at such close range?”
“You will land this minute.”
“Brubie—you were never going to fire on me. Lying to a liar—what an amateur.” Dropping the receiver, Mel punched the throttle.
The Misty Morning surged forward, timbers creaking and groaning like an old man forced from his bed. Interceptors darted out of their path. Directly ahead was the Fog’s shifting, ethereal border.
Taul gripped his armrest with his good hand. “Skirt the Fog?”
“Into it.”
Taul’s mouth came unhinged. “This is madness!” He made a grab for the control stick.
Their struggle was short and spirited, but in the end, Taul sank back into his seat, nursing his wounded arm.
The Fog swelled, filling the forward windows.
“Sorry about the arm,” Mel said into the silence.
“You always were a dirty fighter.”
“That’s why I always win.”
Taul frowned at the Fog in response. It was a more stinging rebuttal than anything he could have said. “I will follow you on this, Mel. I owe you that much. Are you certain this is the only way, is all?”
Certain? Hell no. She was anything but certain. She was playing for time, trying to delay the inevitable as long as possible. Her greatest fear was that the merry-go-round would finally stop, and her family—bound together by this creaking wooden tub—would scatter to the wind. That someone would come along and end this crazy dream she’d been living these past years. The dream of freedom and family, of never having to answer to anybody, of doing things her way.
Despite that, as the Fog grew near, every fiber in her being wanted to turn around, let the sun warm her face, and forget this bout of madness before it was too late. But this was her only option. Stensue had backed her into a corner, leaving no viable path but the unpredictable. Take her ship, scatter her crew, put her in chains? She’d rather take her chances, in there, where at least they had something resembling a chance. She would bet on herself, her crew, and her ship, as she always had. Most times it was a suckers bet, she didn’t try to fool herself on that account. But at least she was consistent.
“I’m only certain about one thing,” she said. “They’d be crazy to follow us.”
“Crazy comes to mind, sir.”
“Trust me.” Her hands felt slippery on the controls. “What’s Stensue doing?”
Taul twisted in his chair. “Spreading out, cutting off angles. Calling our bluff, is all.”
“What bluff?”
CHAPTER 8
All Aboard
The Fog rushed to meet them, reaching with phantom-like fingers. It came rolling over the decks, coiling like a thousand serpents of smoke, malignant and hateful. Visibility was negligible—there was only the vaguest impression of trees below and ahead. The sun was gone, its brilliant glare reduced to a sickly glow at their back.
Mel took the ship above the tree line and hopefully beyond the reach of anything that might live within the Fog. The Misty Morning hovered in that hushed, watchful silence, rattling with such fervency that Mel thought the ship might come apart in a shower of bolts and fittings. It sounded like a thousand dinner bells going off at once, echoing to the far corners of this shadowy realm.
Taul exhaled loudly. “What now?”
Mel shrugged. Her eyes darted, jumping at shifting tendrils of fog. The old tales of her childhood came unbidden, stories of the dark creatures that roamed these lands.
A thick tentacle as black as the Imp’s heart unfurled across the deck, intertwining with the far railing. A second joined the first, splintering boards as it thumped with a meaty thwack.
Mel yanked the controls, whipping the ship into a spiraling descent, trying desperately to shake the monster loose. The oily tentacles tightened their grip.
Control panels flashed red; she was pushing the wounded ship too far. the Misty Morning stumbled about, drunkenly weaving through the mist. She felt heavy, unresponsive.
Mel throttled back and leveled out. She vowed that, should they see the other side of this mess, she would find the credits to fix the engine. Even if it meant the sort of unsavory work she’d promised herself she’d never do again.
A vaguely humanoid creature, mottled black and green and shiny with wetness, pulled itself into view, moth-eaten wings beating frantically as it crested the rail. The tentacles retracted, compressing until they were the length of arms. Then it stalked across the deck, its hooves echoing eerily in the strange air.
Mel sat frozen, her mind absent of thought in the face of such grotesquerie. It was impossible, a trick of the light, some illusion of the Fog.
The creature reached the stairs to the command cabin. It paused, considering the first stair, its tiny wings stirring. And then it began climbing.
“Taul—the door!” Even in her stupor, she somehow knew that they couldn’t let it in.
Taul threw himself against the door, bracing it.
The creature made two steps and then froze, tracking something below the command deck and just out of Mel’s sight. There was a bright explosion of light, a roar of thunder. The creature collapsed to the deck, steam rising from a ragged hole in its chest.
A tiny metal man stepped into view from beneath the command cabin. In the pale light, his silver skin had taken on an almost golden sheen. Guns smoking, Sildrian nudged the creature with his boot. It didn’t move.
More creatures were swarming the decks now—winged things and puffed-out floating things, creatures with horns and scales, slimy creatures, and odd, desiccated husks
that left clouds of dust in their wake. They were as varied as every flake in a snowstorm, but all had teeth.
Sildrian saluted Mel sardonically with one of his guns. Then he rushed to meet the intruders, guns thundering. The clockwork man was a blur of silver as he danced across the deck. Monsters came apart in inky sprays. Smoldering corpses littered the deck.
Yet for all his speed and deadly accuracy, the hordes came on and on. They swarmed the rigging and scampered up poles. Some were trying to claw their way into Mel’s quarters, where Sam and Hindral and Jarvis were. Most, however, focused on Sildrian, gradually cornering him amidships. His guns tore great, ragged holes in the circling monsters, but eventually sheer numbers would overwhelm him. And once he fell, what then?
“Taul—take the wheel.”
“Sir?”
Mel was already out of the chair, moving toward the door. She felt absurdly calm considering what she was about to do. “Take her south. Start drifting toward the edge. If things get really bad, get us out of here.”
“Let me go instead.” He was on his feet, his dark face full of lines and shadows. “I was trained for this.”
“Not with that arm. Sorry, not this time.” Mel stopped, hand on the knob. Outside, lightning flashed around the silver man. He was a tiny figure in the eye of a churning storm. “Gimme one of those awful cigarros you love.”
Taul’s expression said he did not like where this was headed. Frowning, he popped open the small dented tin and passed one over. Mel stopped his hand when he moved to light it for her and plucked the silver lighter from his fingers. “Remember,” she said, one finger held up for emphasis, “things get worse, you get us scarce of here.”
“I hardly see how it can get worse, is all.”
Shrugging in response, Mel stepped outside and firmly shut the door behind her. The air was warm, heavy with damp. Fetid and stinking like a swamp full of sunken corpses. Tendrils of mist coiled about her boots, giving the slightest hint of resistance as she took to the stairs. Goggles down, scarf up. Hands painfully empty.
Obligation to crew, desire to protect the ship, inability to sit still: all had propelled her out from the relative calm of the command cabin. But now that she was out, exposed, Mel wondered if this was a very bad idea.
Midway down the stairs, a lantern hung from a rusty hook driven into the wooden post. She bent over the rail and twisted free the lantern’s reservoir of oil, a fat, squat bottle with an upside-down funnel top. Black drops dribbled from the bottom of the lantern, splattering on the deck. The lantern sputtered and went out.
The monsters knocking at her door looked up. A trio of tall, gangly creatures with knobby black bark-skin, they turned to greet her.
Mel stepped off onto the deck. Feet set wide in a fighter’s stance, scarf whipping about her back, cigarro dangling from her lower lip. She flipped open the battered steel lighter, rolled the igniter with the same hand.
The tree-men had taken a bold step in her direction, but at the sight of the tiny orange flame they hesitated. Mel lit the cigarro. Smoke filled her nostrils, thickened in her throat, got into her eyes. She immediately started coughing.
Some hero.
The spell broken, the tree-men rushed forward, reaching with long, spindly fingers. Enormous mouths yawned open just above their mid-sections. Ribbons of glistening drool strung between barb-like teeth.
Mel threw the bottle. It shattered on the deck, the dark contents splashing in all directions. The cigarro came next, spinning end-over-end, landing in the shimmering pool. The oil caught at once, flames a foot high leaping from the deck. And through that red curtain the tree-men came.
They emerged out the other side, legs aflame. Tendrils sprinted up their torsos, along their long arms. They silently thrashed about, mouths wide, as the flames consumed them. One ran into the railing and cartwheeled over the side, disappearing. The other two crashed to the deck and lie still, flesh cracking and popping.
The Misty Morning was specially treated against the elements and fire both, but under all that, she was old wood, practically ancient. And Mel might’ve been a bit behind on reapplying the sealants.
A half-dozen fires started around the deck as tendrils slipped into unprotected cracks and crevices. Small fires for now, but already the heat nibbled at the edges of protected boards, wearing away the sealant. As much as it pained her, Mel left the flames alone. Fire might be their only ally against these monsters, and if surviving meant the Misty Morning had to get a bit crispy around the edges, then that was the way of it.
The door to her quarters opened. Sam and Hindral stood just inside, Jarvis peeking out behind their shoulders. “Cap’n?” Sam said, his wide eyes reflecting firelight.
“Stay inside,” she growled. “And hand me the latrine.” Mel glanced over her shoulder. A serpentine creature with the face of a man slithered down the aft mast, staring at her with huge pale eyes. Nearer, a buzzing cloud of bulbous insects was drifting in her direction. Beyond them, the thin pocket around Sildrian had almost closed. He stood atop a pair of barrels lashed to the main mast, dark smoke rolling off his pistols. There was a sense of finality in his posture, a recognition of the end. The clockwork man was making his last stand.
She took the bucket from Sam and upended the stinking contents on one of the tree-men where it’s arm attached. The flames hissed and went out. Waving away the foul steam, Mel brought her heel down hard. The limb splintered like dry kindling and came free of the monster’s body. She stooped, grasping the soggy end. The lower arm blazed but the flames had no interest in the wet part of her impromptu torch.
The cloud of insects scattered as they neared the flaming limb, peeling off to the sides. The faint stirrings of hope seized Mel’s heart. Probably they would all still die, but maybe not.
“Stay inside but mind the flames, see they don’t spread,” she shouted over her shoulder at the three men. Waving the limb side-to-side, Mel stalked the deck. As she neared the aft mast, the man-serpent sprung at her, its face twisted in an insane grin. Gripping the limb with both hands, Mel swung. The impact vibrating up into her shoulders, the limb cracked alarmingly. And then the serpent was flying toward the starboard rail, trailing smoke. Its scream was high-pitched and horrible.
Mel started sprinting, partially because the window about Sildrian had all but closed, but also because she could feel the torch threatening to split apart in her hands. Hold together, just a bit longer …
A monstrous tide crept closer to Sildrian on arms and legs and bellies, and above them, winged creatures swirled through the mist like leaves caught in a cyclone. At the center of the roiling mass came the echoing retort of the clockwork man’s guns, punching holes that were just as quickly filled. Mel wondered at her chances of getting shot and, thinking the odds better than even, started shouting for Sildrian. He fired without pause, giving no indication that he’d heard.
She had gotten the attention of the outermost monsters, though. They turned toward her, barking and spitting. Mel pressed into them, waving the torch at their horrific faces. They shied away, snarling. Mel cursed them in kind. Gaps appeared in the crowd and now she caught glimpses of Sildrian. Still alive, still fighting.
She recognized the trap just as it snapped shut around her.
Fleeing the torch, the monsters had circled around to her unprotected back. Now the hordes moved in from all directions. She was surrounded.
Some rescue.
Turning about. Waving the torch. Shouting idle warnings. Each rotation brought the horde closer. She only had the one torch and could not face all directions at once.
A giant horned toad with the legs of a feline jumped at her, its barbed tongue lashing out like a whip. Mel thrust the torch into its yawning mouth. The frog-thing died noisily. As did the torch.
One foot on its chest, Mel tried extracting the wooden limb. A club was better than nothing. But it splintered in two, leaving her clutching a short section of wet, crumbling wood.
Well, then.
<
br /> Mel set her feet, put her fists up. She’d make them work for it, at least.
They started shrieking. Running about, trailing smoke. Leaping from the deck in their haste to be away.
Brandishing flaming bits of the tree-men, Taul and Sam and Hindral chased the monsters from the deck. Jarvis clutched a torch with both hands, shooing a monster toward the rail. Both were shrieking hysterically.
The guns fell silent. Sildrian sat heavily on the barrel, arms dangling between his knees. He lifted heavy eyes and caught Mel’s gaze, nodding once in acknowledgment.
She returned the gesture. Felt like sitting herself, just then. Instead, she straightened her back and started issuing orders. “Told you to stay inside.” Sam and Hindral were pointedly not looking at her. “Well don’t just stand there—put those flames out before we burn up.”
“Aye, Cap’n,” they replied in unison.
A tremor had crept into the nape of her neck and was spreading toward her limbs with frightening speed. Time to go before she completely unwound. But first, she rounded on Taul. “As for you.”
He met her eyes. “No thanks necessary, sir.” He was grinning.
“Idiot.” The familiarity of their banter quieted the tremors, but she knew it was only a brief respite. “Guess I’ll mind the helm, seeing as how you left it unmanned.”
“You’re welcome.”
She left Taul to organize the clean-up and establish a perimeter. Safely inside the command cabin, with no witnesses, Mel’s limbs liquefied. She collapsed into a chair. Head heavy, she sat staring at the floor for a long time. Thinking about the horrific things that had swarmed the ship. About how they’d need to get comfortable with this sort of thing. Stensue wasn’t used to being defied and would not give up easily. The Fog would be their safe haven for some time to come.
There was something funny there, but she couldn’t track it down.
Mostly though, she sat in disbelief at her own actions. Setting fire to her ship, on behalf of that iron pirate? In a day chock-full of craziness, that was the most difficult thing to accept. Why had she put her own neck on the line to save him? He’d been doing her a service, sure, but that didn’t get to the heart of it. Truth was, Mel didn’t like seeing people get ganged up on. It dredged up too many bad memories.
