Aethosphere Chronicles: Winds of Duty (10 page)

Alabrahm gave the browbeaten ensign a trite
smile; a haggard thing in the dusty twilight of the hold. “The
captain—in a manner of speaking—is the forth.”

“The-captains-the-forth…” Bar blurted out in
a single incredulous word, hardly able to contain his disbelief. “I
thought he was dead.”

“If only,” scoffed O’Dylan.

“I thought you weren’t with the mutineers?”
probed Egan Sato.

“I’m not…but a dead captain would’ve helped
put this whole mess to right.”

“But him as the fourth faction, Al? How’s
that? Ain’t he leading the Kinglander contingent?” Bar needed a
good day to sort through all this insanity. He was having a hard
enough time making sense of the conflict, and the pressure in his
head wasn’t helping matters either.

“Nay,” clarified the cook, “seems Moore
locked himself away in the forecastle after the bustle of losing
his bridge.”

Tanner stepped forward to explain, though he
looked tired and ready to collapse as the hard-set lines of his
mouth formed the words with minimal movements. “When we swarmed the
deck—after escaping his hold—I saw the captain knocked to the
ground. Last I saw, they’d beaten him near to death, but some of
the
crownies
got tangled up in the tussle, and Moore dragged
himself off. Every once in a while now his voice will shriek out
from the communication tubes…he sounds…”

“Insane,” offered Tolle.

Bar raised a hand in interruption.
“Wait…Tanner? What the hell are you doing here with us now? Last I
knew you were running with the Finnies.”

“Like O’Dylan here, I ain’t no mutineer,
Bazzon, you should know that after the years we’ve served
together…but then again, I wasn’t about to sit lashed to that hull
either—left to freeze to death or get shot. So I went along with
Watell’s escape plan, but when the fighting turned
indiscriminant…well, I’ve got southland friends, and I wasn’t about
to rough up good men for no reason.”

And that brought up another interesting
issue Bar needed clarification on. “So how did you lads even get
free in the first place?”

“Incompetence mostly,” admitted Tanner with
a humorless set to the dark leather of his cheeks. “They never
confiscated the Chief’s screwdriver…the one he keeps tucked in his
boot; so with it he was able to pull apart a fair number of the
locks, and by the time you showed up he had enough to exact his
escape. That’s why he prompted Stowe into striking. It gave his
supporters the opportunity to get the jump on the
master-at-arms.”

“So then how did Stowe escape from you all?”
Bar questioned skeptically. “He was pretty well swarmed.”

Tanner rubbed a hand over his wooly black
hair. “He’s a right tough old bastard, and he fought tooth and
nail, right to the platform’s edge, and then like you, he pitched
himself over. We thought him a goner—you too…guess we were wrong on
both accounts. But, Bar, you gotta understand, we…I never intended
to take it that far. We were just going to subdue Stowe—chain him
up—but then he killed Fredson with that gun of his, and well…that
just set the men off. Seemed we got caught up in the heat of
fighting—I’m just as guilty—but when Stowe had us all in his
sights, I saw reason…then you went down, and I knew I had to stop
fighting and start protecting.”

“He dragged you here,” clarified Al.

“And for that, I’m grateful.” Bar nodded to
the old dark-skinned Glenfinner, while still pressing the cool
cloth to the pulsing lump on his skull. “So, back to the captain
then; where
does
he fall into all this? If he ain’t leading
the
crownies
then what?”

“Can’t really say exactly.” Alabrahm
shrugged. “No one can coax him out of hiding, but near as any of us
can figure, Stowe is acting on his behalf now; stalking around the
ship with that clatterbolt of his—like some accursed mad-dog
without a master’s hand to guide him.”

Bar screwed up his bruised face as he
reasoned over what he’d been told. “Thought you said his
clatterbolt was empty?”

“There’s not a man aboard willing to test
that out, mate,” offered Tolle as he stood next to Sven, handing
the supplyman boards as they were requested. “Could be he’s got
ammo stashed around… or the captain could be supplying it to him on
the sly; but no matter what the ‘might be’ could be, no one wants
to be wrong when it comes to the ‘what is’, you keen?”

Bar nodded with sympathetic understanding.
“So then what’s Stowe’s ultimate goal?” But he realized he might as
well have asked why the pantheon gods do what they do. It wasn’t
surprising when no one had a ready answer.

“That man takes orders to a fault,” ventured
Tolle, and he dropped the remaining boards and patted off the
lapels of his black military jacket. Behind him, Sven shook his
head in disappointment as he continued with the task of barricading
the door alone.

“You all might
think
Stowe is with
the captain, except Moore ain't letting anyone in the arms locker
but himself,” stated one of the nearby aeronauts cynically. He was
a thin, humorless man, with a bristly crop of sandy hair. “And as
for the Kinglanders, that little crackpot Cecil has sworn to gut
the master-at-arms if he catches him, but that ain’t got nothing to
do with isle faction warfare, that’s a good old-fashioned personal
grudge.”

“Child knows no respect,” stated Tanner as
he folded his sinewy arms over the corded muscles of his narrow
chest. “My only regret is I never got to beat some into him.”

“Still, the Kinglanders support the captain,
don’t they?” Bar was beginning to feel the strength return to his
legs, and he tested their balance by standing. He was a little
shaky and wanted nothing more but to sit down again, but he needed
to stand. He needed to take the wheel.

“Hell-if-I-know,” replied Al. Always the
mother hen, the cook hovered by Bar’s side, looking to be ready in
case the ensign should collapse. “It’s a real mess out there, lad,
people don’t know who they’re for or against anymore. And while I
say they’re four factions, there’s just no way to be certain on
that. Best be cautious, ‘tis why we planked the door. Men have been
harassing us since we fled here, issuing threats… trying to coax us
out… lost Ben that way. Heller, that drugged-up grease-monkey’s
been looking to settle a score with him for months, on account of
the whipping he took for contraband Moon salt, and they were both
Fallens… you keen? Some are fighting for their isles, some for
honor, and some just to settle a score.”

“Tolle,” barked Bar, switching to the robust
petty officer, “Before everything went to hell, McVayne was taken
to the infirmary…do you think he’s still alive?”

“By last account…he’s a right tough bastard
he is, though for how much longer is an unknown. You see,
Rogert—that skill-less hack—was tending to him last I knew; and
since the Doc got himself gunned down, that leaves McVayne’s
prognoses grim at best. To make matters worse, he’s in Kinglander
territory, under orders from Captain Moore that he’s to remain
under arrest pending execution; so we’re only left assuming his
fate’s in their hands.”

“So what of the other officers?” inquired
Bar, feeling a sudden hopelessness wash over the situation. There
were at least half a dozen other men who outranked him, but the
reply was a depressing list of dead officers, some killed outright
in the melee, and at least two by Stowe’s indiscriminate
gunfire.

“That puts you in the very real position of
being the commanding officer, Ensign,” finished Al.

“What about the men we got here, where do
they stand?”

“Honestly,” stated Al, wiping the beaded
sweat off his liver-spotted head. “Most here are tired and scared.
They’ll fight if the need be, but no man truly wants to be
involved…and I can’t say I blame them with this mess.”

“And what about you, Alabrahm Muldaire,” Bar
said, cocking his eyebrow.

Al paused, smirked. “I’ll do want needs to
be done. Besides, near I figure, no cook has ever been tried and
executed for mutiny in the long and illustrious span of the Royal
Air Navy. I believe it’s generally considered bad practice…cooking
skills being what they are throughout the service and all. Good
cooks are hard to come by.”

“Is that a fact?” asked Bar drolly.

“It is as far as I’m concerned. Besides, I
wholly plan on claiming feeble-mindedness no matter what the
outcome may be.”

“Lovely…”

“Looks like you’ve been placed in charge,”
remarked Tanner.

“Quite right,
Captain,
” agreed Tolle
with a snicker and a lazy salute. “Better you then me,
mate…wouldn’t be caught dead trying to sort this mess out
myself.”

“Swell…” Bar’s brow furrowed into deep
troughs of concentration. “Then our first priority should be
putting this ship back in order, and that means establishing some
sort of truce, and for that I think we need McVayne. He’s from
Sepia, he’s loyal to Ascella, and an honorable man—and respected by
most everyone on this ship. At the very least, it’ll give us a
united front, and enough ranking officers to justify our
position.”

“And
what
is our position?” inquired
Al.

“We’ll figure that out later,” grumbled Bar
in response, adding a dismissive wave as though the notion were a
mere technicality. But Al planted his hands on his broad hips and
scowled; a thing that turned his face into a deflated sack of
leathery flesh.

“That’s a dangerous game to play, Bar,”
chastised the cook, “the men will need a cause to follow you, else
they’ll join up with someone who has one.”

“Or make up their own,” added Tolle, giving
a nod to the cook, “like Heller.”

Al nodded back in agreement, but that just
left Bar growling in exasperation. Al and Tolle were right, but
still, it was the only plan he had. So the ensign took a deep
breath and struggled back to his feet. “I’ll make my way to McVayne
first,” he explained defensively. “What happens later is for later
to decide, so unless any of you’ve got a better idea presently,
this is what I aim on doing.”

“You know Stowe won’t go for freeing the
second officer.”

“I’m not going to worry about him; he’s just
one man.” Bar gestured dismissively even though cold dread made his
guts feel like unsettled grog.

“Aye, one man with a very large gun,”
replied Tolle glumly.

Bar took to pacing the room, testing out his
balance and constitution, knowing if he was to command these men,
he first needed to know if he could even command his own faculties.
As fortune would have it, the movement did him some good. Each step
brought strength, and helped banish the fog choking his thoughts.
Not perfect, but good enough.

“So what kind of resistance can I expect…
where do the marines stand?”

“Marines are all dead,” remarked Al,
following Bar’s progresses with his age-clouded eyes.

“What about their weapons then?”

Tolle chimed in, “In this, we seem to have
been granted the smallest measure of luck. Seems no one but Stowe
and the captain have functioning guns—”

“The Kinglander defectors still got the
powder magazines,” added a copper-haired Candaran, and one of
numerous replacements that came aboard after Lockney’s promotion.
Bar thought maybe the scrawny young man was from Fairwinds or
Borada, given his accent. “They could use it to make ad hoc
grenades…that’s what I would do anyway.”

“And, I saw the Glenfinners raiding the
kitchen.” added another.

“
Ah
, not my good knives,” complained
Al, throwing his meaty arms up in dejection.

“Right…” Bar froze with trepidation,
suddenly feeling overwhelmed by the winds mounting against him.
“I’ll just assume it’s dangerous out there then.”

“Understatement of the century,” muttered
O’Dylan, now lounging on some nearby crates as though disinterested
in the events unfolding. Though that just might have been his
naturally disinterested expression rising to the surface.

Regardless, Bar shot him a disapproving
frown. That sort of cynical dissention was not needed; not now.
“Okay then, I’ll make for the infirmary and free the second
officer.”

“I…” began Al, his brow lowering in somber
concern, further squashing his already compressed facial features.
“You’re going out there alone?”

“Al, I don’t want to hear it. If too many of
us go tromping blindly out there it’ll draw undo attention… Best I
just do it alone.”

“Not if you reckon on going through the
ship’s interior, you’re not. Kinglanders are waiting for us just
outside those doors,” explained Sven. He gave the cargo door he was
working on a pat for good measure. “Besides, I’m almost finished
pounding in these boards and I don’t plan on pulling them out
anytime soon.”

“We could go up through the topside hatch,”
offered Sato.

“It would take most of us just to lift it,”
replied Tanner, matter-of-factly, “And that gives anyone on deck
ample time to swarm us.”

“Just brilliant,” replied Bar, kicking the
stacked crates in frustration. “You all mean to tell me we’re
trapped in here.”

“Seems so, lad,” replied Al.

Bar wasn’t about to accept defeat, and
instead turned his thoughts to his father. Cuthbert, like Lockney,
had always seemed to make whatever problem work out in the end.
Though truthfully, that usually just meant beating the problem into
shape with some tool.
Some tool…
“This
is
the port
hold?”

“Aye, lad.”

“There are tools in here,” said Bar with a
racing mind, “carpentry tools.”

“What are you getting on at about my tools?”
pondered Sven, looking back on Bar with knowing disapproval.

“How long will it take you to cut a hole
through the hull, Sven?”

The supply man scowled, a thing that turned
his face into a wrinkled sack of flesh. “A whole ten minutes I’ll
wager…but then why would I go and do something like that? The
bronzsteel will dull my blades something fierce.”