Leviathans in the Clouds

by David Parish-Whittaker

  “The devil with that!” Annabelle cried, earning her a startled glance from the gentlemen. She pulled the control bar hard against her chest. The glider pitched its nose down and the wind obligingly built up speed, making the fabric of the wings flap alarmingly. She wasn’t entirely certain about how fast the craft could go, and a little voice in the back of her head was telling her that she was being needlessly reckless. But for the moment, exhilaration was exceeding discretion.

  She felt alive.

  Speeding along over a transparent cloud strand towards the flare, she glanced back to see that Arnaud and Nathanial were a good distance above and behind her. Feeling a bit foolish, she tried to throw herself to the left to start the turn. Bound by near immobile control linkages, her swing seat barely moved. The glider didn’t alter its course at all.

  “Are we safe, Uncle?” the eight year old girl asked with no real fear as she leaned over the rail to touch a cloud.

  “Certainly. I try to make it a rule to fly within established parameters when carrying precious cargo such as you.” Uncle Cyrus smiled with a rare dash of warmness that made Annabelle’s heart feel close to bursting.

  Then she considered his words, mouthing them silently to herself. There was something serious there, she knew.

  “Uncle? How does one discover what ‘acceptable perimeters’ are?”

  “Parameters, my dear.” He pursed his lips, staring at the horizon. It seemed even further away up here. “I’m afraid that their discovery requires the occasional death.” He turned to meet her eyes. “Never forget that.”

  Swallowing, Annabelle nodded.

  “Good girl,” he said. “How about a Blackjack chew?”

  An uncomfortable sensation of alarm settled itself in her stomach. The seat was stubbornly rigid, but it was slowly moving now. The same couldn’t be said of the glider itself. Her muscles burned with the effort of holding the seat forward; she relaxed her grip on the bar to recover. The glider pitched violently upwards into the base of a cloud bank. She felt the whole craft shudder as she snatched the control bar back before she lost too much airspeed. She had no desire to explore what the minimum airspeed necessary for flight was. Let others discover the glider’s acceptable parameters.

  There was far too much she had yet to do to allow the luxury of dying in a crash. Or the luxury of sporting about in excitement. She shook her head angrily. Lord, in her own way, she could be as foolish as any silly debutante, couldn’t she? Save in place of squealing over the latest crop of young men, she fell head over heels for adventure.

  Or, perhaps denial of limitations. But enough of those thoughts. There’d be plenty of time for introspection on the ground. In the meantime, she’d best steer this glider back to Nathanial and Arnaud before the two of them did something foolish and chivalric. Something such as trying to follow her.

  Now that she was back at best glide, the controls reverted to normal. Even so, the glider was hardly as responsive as an aerial flyer. It was less like being a bird than being strapped to a slightly drunken kite. But at least she had it enough under control to rejoin the others.

  Spotting the flare through the mists, Annabelle banked in its direction. She promptly flew into a rain shaft hidden by the cloud. The glider bucked downwards, but she had become accustomed enough to its ways that she was able to quickly bring it back to straight and level. Water streamed over her as a sudden gust plastered her hair over her eyes. Brushing it aside, she saw that the glider was glowing a soft violet.

  St Elmo’s fire. She’d heard of it, but dismissed most of the odder stories as the exaggeration of sailors. This was no subtle glowing effect, however. Great streams of violet light worked their way across the surface of the glider before reaching the wingtips, where they spun off in spirals like Mayday ribbons off an invisible pole.

  Annabelle realised she was holding her breath. She could feel crackling energy run through her, making her feel jittery, as if she’d had a full pot of coffee. No longer stuck to her face, her hair whipped freely in the airstream. She noticed that her locks were trailing their own violet streamers. Perhaps she might set a fashion trend, should she discover a way to replicate the effect for home use. Stranger things had made fortunes in these modern times.

  But as fascinating as the phenomenon was, she needed to get back on course. Peering through the glow, she was able to make out the amber light of the flare. She turned towards it, then saw five more flares blink in and out of existence nearby.

  Was Thymon setting off multiple flares? But why did they go out? Rain?

  A large winged shape plunged at her out of the mists. Orange fire shot ahead of it, billowing around her. Blinded, she pushed the glider into a dive, feeling heat steaming the water off her. Four heartbeats later, she pulled back as hard as she could and punched herself left, a tight spiral.

  Something screamed near her, sounding like nothing so much as a crow the size of an elephant. She remembered Forbes-Hamilton telling her about the great creatures of the sky, like the one that had nearly eaten Thymon.

  Multiple roars joined the first. She felt heat, but no steam this time, just an acrid smell of smoke. Unable to see anything through the St Elmo’s and the rain, she took a deep breath and steepened her dive, pushing the control bar out to the edge of shudder, then a little beyond.

  And just like that, she found herself a few hundred feet above a wide clearing with a bonfire in the middle. At the edges of the clearing were the largely intact shapes of the other two gliders. She could just make out the sound of Nathanial and Arnaud yelling.

  Annabelle kept her eyes on the clouds above as she eased out of the steep spiral. She could see nothing up there. The St Elmo’s fire was gone, and the rain had momentarily stopped. As she circled down over the clearing, she thought that it looked like one of the most peaceful places that she’d ever seen.

  But she knew better.

  Chapter Seven

  1.

  Nathanial watched Annabelle bank gracefully over the treetops towards the clearing. He almost shouted at her to line up into the wind, but she did that of her own accord. He nearly forgot that the girl had logged her share of hours at the helms of airships and liftwood fliers. A glider was different, of course, but some principles remained the same. Annabelle was a natural aviatrix.

  Far too natural for her own good, Nathanial thought as Annabelle slid across the compressed peat of the clearing. He felt himself growing angry with her again, just as he had when he saw her scoot off to frolic in the clouds. What the devil was the girl thinking? This wasn’t a boat trip on the Serpentine; they were in the middle of a dangerous jungle on a dangerous planet flying doubtless dangerous aircraft into enemy territory. Which was dangerous.

  He unwrapped a packet of digestive biscuits he’d brought on the trip. One never knew when a biscuit might be called for. He bit with a savagery that alarmed him. Nervous energy, he supposed.

  Annabelle, for all the trauma she’d been through and all the deviltry she’d seen, never really seemed to worry as much as any normal person would. Nathanial couldn’t decide if that was a virtue or a vice.

  Eh. It was Annabelle. Really, nothing more could be said on the subject. He loped over to her glider, now stopped at the other end of the clearing. She’d managed to bring it down intact, he saw without too much surprise. On the other hand, he and Arnaud hadn’t been quite so fortunate, or to be more honest, skilled. After what could only very generously be called a landing, he and Arnaud had decided that the gliders had been designed to absorb the impact by flying apart in a crash. The more energy spent ripping a wing off, the less spent crushing a would-be aviator’s skull. Besides, clearly the gliders were only intended for one use.

  In hindsight, Nathanial was dismayed to realise that conclusion was nothing more than a product of their mutual masculine sense of pride. He liked to imagine that he was above such things, but quite obviously not. At least Arnaud was equally guilty in that regard. The Frenchman seemed far too nonchalant f
or his own good at times; knowing he had a prickable ego beneath that veneer of Gallic insouciance was oddly heartening.

  And it seemed he was also capable of anger.

  “Annabelle!” Arnaud snapped as he helped her out of the glider. “Do you have a notion of the fear we had when you went, ah, what is the word, gallivanting off into the void?”

  Nathanial was about to add his thoughts when he caught Annabelle’s eye. The girl looked uncharacteristically shaken. “I’m sorry, Arnaud,” she said. “I don’t know what got into me.”

  “No?” Arnaud gave her a concerned look. “Are you well? I’ve unpacked a bit of wine, if you feel faint.”

  “No, no, that’s—” Annabelle paused. “That would be lovely. A small glass, yes.”

  “More like a tin cup, but I suppose it will have to do,” Nathanial said as he took her other arm. He and Arnaud walked her over to the improvised campsite by the bonfire.

  Thymon was there, unwrapping provisions from their oilskins. The lizard-man uncoiled to his full height, towering a good head or so above the humans. And that wasn’t including the extra inches provided by his deerstalker.

  Thymon swept his hat off his head and bowed at Annabelle, giving her a light tap on the hand with a long, clawed finger. “Miss Somerset, is very good to see you again,” he said in the whistling accents of the lizard-men. “I see you have tamed small rekota.”

  “And very good to see you, Thymon,” Annabelle said with a nod of her head. “But I don’t know that I’ve tamed the…rekota? That’s a flying creature, is it not? Are they plentiful around here?” There was a distinct concern in her voice.

  “Worried about the fauna?” Nathanial asked her. “Not a frivolous fear at all, truth be told.”

  “No,” hissed Thymon softly, touching a scar on his arm. “If not for Master Forbes…” He shook his head with a shudder. “Like not to think about that. Here, just the machine rekota you bring.”

  Annabelle allowed Arnaud to help her sit down. “I wish I believed that, dear Thymon,” she said. “But I saw something on the way down. There were lights in the clouds. Flames.”

  “Ignis fatuus,” Arnaud said. “It is not an unheard of phenomenon in swamps. There was a curious monograph I read just the other month that suggested a connection between decaying organic matter and the feaux follets.”

  “I was a good distance above the swamp,” Annabelle said. “And these were no ethereal lights. Truth, I thought them the flare at first.”

  “Leading you astray?” Arnaud said. “Well, this would be consistent with the fables, no?”

  “No,” said Annabelle. “I am certain they were flames as real and as hot as this fire beside us.”

  “Perhaps you saw the St Elmo’s fire?” Arnaud suggested. He shrugged. “There is no doubting the presence of the electrical fluid in the weather.”

  “I’ve seen St Elmo’s more than a few times. I’ve my share of hours airborne, remember?” Annabelle said with a clear touch of irritation. “In fact I encountered it on the way down. No doubt that’s what gave me away.”

  “Pardon?” Nathanial said. “Gave you away? You think these lights you were chasing were in fact chasing you? Oh, come now.”

  “They almost burnt me alive! I’m not making things up. And I think there were some of those flying creatures nearby as well. What did you call those again, Thymon? Rekotas?”

  “Yes,” said Thymon, glancing at the sky. He cocked his head to stare at Annabelle with a saucer sized eye. His nictitating membrane blinked rapidly. “Flames, yes?”

  “Yes!” said Annabelle. “If I wasn’t so wet, I’d have been singed. And I could have sworn I saw some huge creature up there.”

  “But not one so hungry as to attack?” Nathanial asked.

  “It was hard to see, to be honest.” Annabelle sighed. “Perhaps I just imagined that. Or perhaps it was one of you, for all I know. Fine, I’m some scattered brained girl who wouldn’t know an omnibus from an elephant.”

  “Not true, and you know full well that’s not what I think,” said Nathanial.

  “Oh?” she said. “Then stop patronising me.”

  “No one is a perfect observer. It’s a sad reality.” Nathanial considered offering her a biscuit to calm her down, then thought better of it. Besides, he might want one later. For all her other virtues, Annabelle rarely shared. “Look at it from our perspective, dear. Either you saw some admittedly mysterious by-product of the rugged weather hereabouts, perhaps had a near miss with a stray bolt of lightning, or you chased and got chased by a fire-breathing flying creature of unknown provenance.”

  “A Venusian dragon?” Arnaud asked, raising an amused eyebrow.

  Annabelle shot him an angry look, then her shoulders sagged. “You’re right, of course. I just panicked up there.” She shook her head angrily. “I am such an idiot! You should have left me on the station.”

  “No, no,” said Nathanial quickly. “Look, we even brought a bow along for you.”

  Annabelle smiled. “Thank you, Nathanial. I suppose the two of you do need some protection.”

  “That’s the spirit. But you can more easily protect us if in the future you refrain from diving off into clouds unknown.”

  “Your point is well taken.” Annabelle patted his hand. Then she looked puzzled. “Whatever is Thymon doing?”

  Nathanial turned to look. The lizard-man was frenziedly attacking the gliders with an axe. Wood and fabric flew as he tore into them, occasionally dropping the axe and ripping away at the wings with his hands.

  “What did the devices ever do to our reptilian friend?” Arnaud asked.

  “I don’t know,” said Nathanial. “He’s typically quite tranquil, even by human standards.” He paused. “I have to admit, I’m not eager to go over there and intervene.”

  “I am agreeing with you,” said Arnaud. “De tout facon, we were not to use those gliders again, is that not so?”

  “Vraiment. Well, we’ve a fire and supplies. Anyone for tea?” Nathanial started to rummage through the supplies for the brick of tea he’d packed. Sadly, he’d left the sugar behind. The oilskins had protected everything well enough, but any semblance of dryness would no doubt be temporary once they got going. Already the heavy mist in the clearing was solidifying into a soft drizzle. “Here we go,” he said, triumphantly producing the travel pot with fire trivet attachment. “This little thing has taken me around the Solar System, couldn’t bear to leave it behind, you know?”

  “Love some,” said Arnaud, suddenly launching into a coughing fit. Nathanial rushed over to him, only to be waved off. Feeling chagrined beyond belief, Nathanial went back to boiling the water for tea. He’d almost forgotten about his friend’s ailment. Wasn’t that the reason they were here in the first place? Well, Folkard no doubt would have pushed them to come for his reasons, whatever they were. But Nathanial’s would, or at least should, lie with looking after those he cared about.

  Like Annabelle, come to think of it. He looked up to see her being helped back to the bonfire by a decidedly calmer Thymon. Nothing remained of the gliders.

  “Had to fetch my leg before it got chopped up by our guide,” she said.

  “Sorry,” Thymon said. “Small rekota must be destroyed. Can be seen. Now must leave.” He waved at the fire. “No flames. Put out, please.”

  “What?” Nathanial asked, surprised. “Would you care to explain? We’re no more visible now than an hour ago, and there’s hardly a German in sight. Let us take the time to prepare for this expedition, eh?”

  “No flames!” said Thymon emphatically. He grabbed a shovel and started tossing mud onto the bonfire.

  Annabelle grabbed Nathanial’s sleeve. “He’s afraid that the fire will attract the flying creatures that attacked me.”

  Nathanial looked mournfully at the barely warm pot of water. “I’ve never heard of a wild beast that was attracted to fire. Quite the opposite, even on Venus.”

  “Not beasts,” said Thymon, stamping on the last of th
e embers. “Fire from the skies. Did not think would be here. If so, I tell Mister Forbes I not come here. Very bad.”

  Nathanial’s irritation was passing. Perhaps once he would have dismissed Thymon’s fears as the superstitions of savages, but he’d seen far too many oddities to maintain the scepticism he once held regarding such things, and besides, he could feel a prickling of apprehension curling its way along his spine.

  That feeling, on the other hand, he’d learned to trust.

  “This fire from the skies, is it an animal?” he asked while staring upwards into the drizzle. He only got rain in his eyes for his efforts.

  “Big rekotas, but not their fire. They bring. Will hunt us. Must go!” The lizard-man’s command of English appeared to be slipping as he grew more agitated.

  “Well, did we not want to search for our Collins?” asked Arnaud. “And truth, let us trust our friend. Fire breathing or not, I do not wish to be le plat principal for the animal. I’ll make you a nice hot cup when we get there.” He winked.

  Nathanial nodded. Arnaud had the right spirit of things. Once at the safehouse, they’d have plenty of time for questions and planning.

  “Let’s go,” he said. “You do know the way, don’t you, Thymon?”

  The lizard-man clicked his tongue rapidly. “Mister Forbes, he like to say when making things ‘no, buts I has a notion’.” He opened his mouth in what might have been an attempt at a smile.

  “Tres bien, a lizard-man with a sense of humour,” said Arnaud, clapping Thymon on the back.

  “Let us hope he’s a sense of direction as well,” murmured Nathanial as they set out.

  Chapter Eight

  1.

  As they trudged along, the sound of their bog-shoes slapping the peat provided a counterpoint to the constant sound of collected rain streaming down through the jungle canopy. The ground, if one could call a peat bog such, was actually quite clear of brush, the canopy being thick enough to block out the sunlight groundcover would need to thrive. There were ferns and moss aplenty growing along the bases of the towering cycad trees, but for the most part the only obstacles were the thick gloomy mists that roiled slowly across the bog. Between that and the perpetual twilight created by the canopy, their visibility was one hundred feet at best.