Symphony of the Wind

by Steven McKinnon

  ‘Okay, well… You can be my official sneak-through-the-ship-and-listen-to-what-the-crew-are-saying-about-me officer, then. And if any of ’em don’t like me, I’ll tie them up and chuck them overboard.’

  Angelo cleared his throat. ‘You’ll need a lot of rope.’

  ‘Damn right. I’ll be the most feared captain who ever lived.’

  ‘People generally aren’t afraid of Raincatchers.’

  ‘People generally don’t think anything about Raincatchers. But I don’t plan on packing buckets of water away forever. I’m just gonna fly, explore the world, be free. Free, and far away.’

  The muffled voices of the crew rumbled down the corridor. Their words were jumbled in the cargo hold but Serena could tell it was a mess of cursing and complaining. Captain Fitz must have given them the speech already.

  ‘Do you think we’ll be safe?’ said Angelo. ‘If Vaughan shows up?’

  ‘’course we will. You know Fitz. He acts tough but he’ll back down. Like always.’

  ‘When I age out, I’m going to work at the orphanage. Maybe cleaning. Maybe teaching. I can tell I’m one of Sister Catryn’s favourites.’

  Serena put her hands behind her head and leaned back against the wall. The faint buzz of the lamp gnawed at her. Screw the orphanage. The Sisters always tried to push the students to apply to the Fayth Collegium for a scholarship, to choose one of the Gods and study one of their disciplines. Boring. ‘You have no sense of adventure.’

  ‘Not true. I’m here, aren’t I? Father Talbot said practical experience on an overnight water run is voluntary.’

  ‘Yeah, as long as we write about it for credit. I’m doing it just to get out of the bloody dorm.’

  ‘Good experience. Studying is important. Education is-’

  ‘You already know everything about books and philosophy, and me, I’m good with machines.’ Her mind wandered to the sea, and the ships she travelled on when she was a kid. She never appreciated the wide, open ocean back then. ‘What’s the worst that can happen?’

  ‘You’ll age out with zero work prospects and be forced to make ends meet by selling your body in Scab End, fall prey to shoving scuzz into your arm, catch a thousand different diseases, and be dead before you turn twenty, by which point no-one will remember your name.’

  Serena stared at Angelo. ‘Thanks.’

  Like that would ever happen. She would captain her own airship—one that would let her soar past the vast Steelpeak mountain range. Though I’ll be ancient by the time they invent engines advanced enough for that. When they reached a certain point, airship engines stopped producing enough thrust to climb. Most had a limit of six thousand feet—Mount Tonnir reached twenty thousand. Serena didn’t understand how it all worked, but Father Talbot had promised he’d teach her. Machines were cool.

  For now, she’d be content with skipping out of the orphanage after curfew. Dalthea became a playground at night. She promised she’d stop, but it got harder and harder to fool herself. The last time she broke out, she even saw a dog—the first she’d seen in years. What would she find next time?

  The room lurched, and a red warning light blinked into life. A falling sensation spread in her stomach. ‘Here we go.’

  Lights pulsed amidst the darkening sky. The Liberty Wind descended, circling the looming, silver structure. The Spire’s shadow stretched out into the desert, a long, black finger pointing back towards home. Fitz could taste the liquor on his tongue.

  ‘Drimmon!’ he called to his co-pilot. ‘Ship’s yours. Prep the lamps on the mooring cables. Last thing I need is a bloody sandstorm stopping us from bailing out.’

  ‘Aye sir,’ muttered Drimmon. The co-pilot was still sore from earlier. Fitz felt bad for him, but when you constantly bleat about proposing to a girl, well, you don’t waste time talking about it. Still, credit where it was due—the Liberty Wind could be a cranky mare, but in Drimmon’s hands she danced like a snowflake.

  Fitz strode from the bridge, Tiera slinking behind him. ‘You’re tense,’ she whispered.

  ‘You try running a crew of tired, skint Raincatchers.’

  ‘I do run a crew of tired, skint Raincatchers.’

  Fitz chuckled, his gaze enraptured by her dark, ferocious eyes, purple like sparkling amethysts. ‘I’ll say you do at that.’ He pulled her close and kissed her. She smelled of machine oil.

  ‘You’re worried.’ Her voice was soft, but in the way a flame is soft before it erupts into an inferno. She traced a finger down the back of his neck.

  ‘Not worried, just tired. And old. And keen to get my crew paid.’

  Tiera regarded him for a moment. ‘In Phadros, we say: “While you are breathing, you are living. And if you are living, you are young”. Live now. There is time enough for sleep when you die.’

  Her accent alone was enough to put a spur in his step. Funny, that. When the mortar shells whistled overhead and the Idari kiros slaughtered everyone around him, Fitz never reckoned he’d live long enough to see the sky again. He scolded himself. Here he was, working with a full crew at his back and a fine woman at his side. He had more than most. And Tiera being a good fifteen years younger than him didn’t hurt.

  Of course, being on the receiving end of her temper felt like being thrust back onto the front lines, but that just meant she cared.

  ‘We got work to do, First Mate Martelo. And afterwards, I order you to come to my quarters and keep me company for the voyage home, and see if you can’t keep me from falling asleep.’

  ‘Sir, yes sir.’

  Night draped over the desert, turning the red siltstone to dark ash. Constellations sparked into life as the sun vanished. Sand twisted in the wind, gliding and dancing in spirals.

  The thunder of the Wind’s rotors swept away all other noise. Her floodlights glared into the world and her landing struts thudded into the scorched ground. The rotors powered down and the thrusters turned silent as a breath.

  ‘All right then,’ said Fitz. ‘Let’s seize that fortune.’

  The port side’s crimson warning lights rolled into life as the hold’s two metal doors screeched apart. Two bodies in protective overalls, masks and goggles materialised from the ship’s belly. They landed hard onto the earth, the loading ramp extending from the door. Other crew members spilled out into the wind and darkness, activating the lamps in their recovery suits as they darted towards the Spire.

  Tiera pulled a key from the chain around her neck and nodded to Smithy, who did the same. They slid each key into a reader at precisely the same moment.

  The doors on the Spire’s base shuddered and stuck. ‘Rusted piece of shit!’ Tiera cursed. Without hesitating, she pried the panel from the wall and hotwired two cables together, sparks gushing out.

  The door groaned.

  ‘Neat trick!’ Yelled Smithy.

  ‘Drimmon showed me—it’s a job for nimble fingers.’

  Inside, ignium lanterns blinked and sparkled.

  Fitz appeared behind them, surrounded by the rest of the crew. Tiera slapped him hard on his back and ran off back towards the airship.

  Fitz pulled his mask down but still tasted metal on his tongue. The gigantic round room resembled the kofun tombs from the parables in the Fayth Codex, expansive megaliths where it was said the remains of the Gods lay. Darkness pervaded like the inside of a mausoleum, and columns of rubber-encased barrels lined the room like ancient pillars.

  In the centre of the room, a tower stretched all the way up to the top of the Spire, standing so tall that more than half of it was shrouded in shadow. This was the core, and at its base was the Spire’s control room. From there, an operator could work the utility elevators and pulleys, which distributed barrels filled with rainwater to a conveyor on the floor, and send the empties back up to be replenished again.

  Smithy bolted into the control room. The mechanisms crunched. Chains rattled, cogs spun and conveyors crawled to life.

  ‘Right, get ’em into the hold pronto!’ commanded Fitz, shouting
to be heard above the din of machinery. The room amplified the howl of battering wind. The racket didn’t do his headache any favours, but that was how it went. He’d be savouring the cure soon enough. ‘Rotors spinning in four hours, mind! Ground Team have already started! Quicker we get the gear hauled back, quicker we sit down to some scran!’ Dixon, Roarke and Culran shoved past. ‘Rumour has it Clara’s whipped up some of her famous chocolate squares! Better than your mum used to make, Dixon!’

  ‘No arguments there, the only thing my mum could cook up in her skillet was oats an’ milk!’ He heaved a carriage of full barrels from the conveyor with Roarke. ‘Foul it was but didn’t half keep you fed!’

  ‘Well tonight, gentlemen, we feast like kings—as long as the Ground Team don’t bloody beat us to it!’ said Fitz. ‘Get your arses in gear!’

  ‘Aye aye!’ said Dixon. ‘Be a lot quicker if Roarke would pull his weight!’

  ‘Shut it!’ yelled Roarke. Even beneath his mask and goggles, Fitz could tell he was scowling. ‘Bet you half a day’s water ration I’ll finish my lot before you finish yours!’

  ‘Easy!’

  Back outside, the wind snarled at Fitz’s face, spitting grit and sand. ‘Ground Team!’ he yelled. ‘The lads in the Spire are beating you by half! Get these units pulled up and in the hold! Rumour has it Clara’s fixed us a feast and I ain’t missing it ’cause you lot got sand in your breeks!’

  Tiera and half a dozen other crewmen combed the ground, yanking barrels full of water from trenches dug into the earth. Of the hundreds of these strewn throughout the Sector Seven Spire’s field of operation, maybe a third would be full. The real prize was the haul caught by the Spire’s funnel, but the extra rain in these barrels could sometimes double a Raincatcher’s quota. Mind you, tons of ’em were eroded to the point of being useless. All you could do was hope for the best.

  He regarded his airship as though appraising a diamond. The Liberty Wind saved his skin and kept him fed and watered and away from the temptation of better paid but less reputable work. She stood ninety feet tall and two hundred and seventy feet long, and to Captain Fitzwilliam, every inch of her was pure beauty. She climbed the skies using four colossal turbines—two each on either side of the bow and stern. Three ignium-filled balloon cells could be deployed from panels for ballast—handy if he needed to hover and perform surveys but not much else. Like all modern-day airships, her thrusters were fuelled by liquid igneus.

  ‘Sir!’ yelled Oxbridge, his red face and dark curly hair appearing from the hold. He readied a trolley to haul the barrels up the cargo ramp. ‘Drimmon says the wind’s a mean mistress but the skies are clear. No sign of Vaughan or anyone else.’

  Fitz slapped his shoulder. ‘Good man! We’ll be outta here in no time! Get in the Spire and send a bricode back to the capital so those bloody pen-pushers know we’re here—I don’t want no excuses for them to withhold our pay!’

  ‘Aye sir!’

  Fitz marched up the ramp. His Bride’s Code machine was—at least—usually more reliable than the RADIOM apparatus; it send a series of beeps and pauses to a pre-defined frequency, meaning only the recipient could decipher the message. Fitz reckoned all this new tech was well and good, but what did relying on it do to a sailor’s instincts? There were even rumours of the technology becoming so advanced that wireless ship-to-ship voice communication would soon be installed. Fitz couldn’t imagine that. Wouldn’t the pilot get distracted? Doubt I’ll see it in my lifetime.

  ‘You two keeping outta trouble?’ Fitz asked Serena and Angelo—especially Serena.

  ‘Yup,’ the girl replied. She sounded disappointed. Angelo, on the other hand, just nodded. Quiet sort he was, but a good lad.

  Fitzwilliam marched off, enjoying the relative tranquillity now most of his crew was outside. He climbed the three levels to the deck. Half the ladders rattled in their sockets on his way up, and climbing them sent aches through his legs. He heaved the door of the viewing platform open and pulled his goggles tighter. Fancy instruments were all well and good, but never in all his days—as sailor, sky pirate, soldier or Raincatcher—had he trusted ’em over his own eyes. Drimmon could read RADIOM graphs like they were a five-year-old’s schoolbooks, but it was a poor captain that didn’t see things for himself.

  Also, there was privacy up here.

  Fitz slipped the flask from his inner coat and took a deep draught. The liquor burned his throat and thawed his headache. His crew would be up in arms and threatening mutiny if they saw him take alcohol outwith a guild house—unless of course he had some for them too—but secrets between Fitz, the Great Gods and the Lesser wouldn’t hurt them.

  He’d take one more swig—how else could he power through three details in one day?—then he’d join Dixon, Smithy and Roarke inside the Spire.

  Roarke was a sour faced cut-throat, but he was right about one thing: The girl was becoming a handful. Twice now she’d been caught running rampant after curfew. One more and her work experience privileges would be yanked. Maybe a word in her ear would calm her down some.

  He tipped the rest of the liquor into his gullet.

  Something in the sky caught his eye and froze his blood.

  A bright purple-blue thread leaped up from the peak of the Spire.

  The stars—one by one, they flickered away.

  Scowling, Fitz pulled his binoculars from his overalls.

  A darkness expanded in the sky. A fat, roiling smoke twisting and tumbling in the air. It billowed like silk being stretched across the sky, sweeping the stars away.

  The binoculars crashed to the floor.

  Thunderclouds.

  Serena heaved the trolley of empty barrels down the ramp, rubbing her calloused hands as Culran caught it. Ten minutes in and already she couldn’t wait to go home.

  Ha. ‘Home’. What, the orphanage? Back to its stale air and confines? Back to the dorm, where Marrin would follow her and pester her like an obsessed puppy?

  ‘Tiera!’

  Serena winced. The bark couldn’t have come from anyone but Fitz.

  ‘Oi, you two!’ he yelled at her and Angelo. ‘Off the ship, get inside the Spire—now!’ Fitz cupped his hands and called out to Culran: ‘Inside the Spire! We got a thunderstorm com-!’

  The explosion smothered Fitz’s voice. Serena stumbled back and collapsed onto the cargo room floor. Pain stabbed her and screaming filled her head.

  Fire.

  The explosion came from outside, but it was close—very close.

  ‘Shit!’ Fitz hammered the intercom. ‘Drimmon! Spool the engines! We’re leaving!’ He turned to Serena. ‘You two stay on board!’

  ‘Captain?’ she started, but in an instant, Fitz tore across the ground.

  ‘Tiera!’ he screamed. ‘Goddamn it, Tiera!’

  Serena got to her feet and gazed out to the Spire. Flames engulfed the entrance. What the hell...?

  Another explosion erupted.

  Metal and dirt flew out in all directions. Serena could only watch as Fitz lurched backwards and collapsed to the ground.

  A scream slashed through the air.

  Her eyes widened. Fear seized her. A carriage full of barrels toppled onto one of the crewmen, water bursting onto the earth. She gasped for breath but her lungs were bags of sand. All she could do was watch.

  Fitz got to his feet and stumbled towards Tiera. Culran sprinted to the man pinned beneath the carriage, a scream tearing from his lungs.

  This isn’t happening.

  Tiera yelled something at Fitz, fire dancing against their faces. Fitz pulled at her, held her back, but she swiped his hands away-

  ‘Aaaahh!’ Someone tore out from the Spire entrance, limbs flailing. Serena’s brain struggled to comprehend what her eyes were telling her. She could tell it was Smithy, but-

  Fire danced on his overalls, melting his skin.

  Inhuman screams burst from him as he advanced towards her with quick, graceless steps.

  His eyes. Oh Gods, his eyes. He stared throu
gh his goggles straight at her. Fire clung to his hair. Bright red blood filled his face as his skin peeled away, mouth stretched and howling. He lumbered onto the ramp, voice shrieking and a flaming arm reaching out to her. Ice rushed in Serena’s veins.

  He fell to his knees in front of her.

  The screaming stopped but still his body burned, a dry, sulphurous odour coming from him.

  ‘Get inside!’ Fitz screamed. ‘Everyone on board!’

  Something nagged at Serena’s shoulder. She ignored it, gaze stuck on Smithy’s smouldering remains.

  A screeching whine cut out from the man beneath the cargo carriage.

  Oh Gods.

  It was Dixon.

  ‘My legs!’ he gasped. ‘My legs!’

  ‘Gods above and below,’ she just managed to hear Fitz say. The Wind’s engines chugged into life.

  ‘Serena!’

  ‘Wh-what?’

  Crew burst past them. ‘I’ve been shouting,’ said Angelo. ‘We have to find somewhere safe. The bridge. We have to buckle ourselves in. The ship will move soon.’

  ‘No… Dixon, the others…’ She slid down against the doorframe, gulping down breaths. ‘I…’

  ‘It’s going to get worse,’ said Angelo.

  ‘What? How, how?’

  Angelo pointed to the sky. A gentle glow emanated from the expanding cloud above.

  ‘The lightning.’

  ‘Bastard,’ said Fitz. Every sense screamed at him. He galloped over to Culran. ‘Can we lift him?’

  Culran hauled the carriage from Dixon’s mangled body, but its frame didn’t budge. ‘It’s his ribs,’ Culran strained. ‘Cracked and punctured his lung! We have to help him!’

  Tiera shrieked something in Phadrosi before darting into the flaming entrance of the Spire.

  ‘Tiera!’ Fitz screamed to her back.

  Culran groaned. ‘Help me!’

  Fitz’s palms bled against the twisted edges of the carriage. Dixon’s mouth tried and failed to form words. His legs lay bent and twisted and a metal bar from the carriage poked from his abdomen.