Aethosphere Chronicles: Winds of Duty (11 page)

Tolle snorted out in a burst of laughter.
“Cause this crazy bastard plans on scaling the outside hull and
sneaking on deck, that’s why.” He seemed highly amused by the
notion. “Why this day just keeps getting more and more
interesting!”

“Bar,” interrupted Al, laying a hand on the
ensign’s arm in a bid to keep him from doing anything as reckless
as scaling the hull of a moving airship. “That’s crazy… and you
ain’t exactly in tip-top condition either.”

“No matter.” Bar shrugged off the skepticism
with bravado. “It was you that said I was in charge… and well,
this
is my plan. So Sven, go ahead and start cutting that
hole. Keep it close to the main hull—make the climb easy on me will
you? Anyone know if we still got those old birch hooks lying around
here somewhere?”

Al was right. This is sheer lunacy!

Attempting to climb the
Chimera’s
hull was perhaps the worst idea Bar had ever had. At least that’s
what it felt like hanging half in and half out the hull; clinging
for dear-life with his ass to the wind. One of his legs dangled
uselessly into space while the other just barely had a hold on the
edge of a narrow trim-board, and the merciless wind threatened to
take it all away as it whipped and tore at his uniform,
obliterating any remaining sense of balance he might have felt.
Ensign Bazzon was positive that a falling death was coming for him,
and sooner rather than later; giving him just enough time to
reflect on the stupidity that brought him here in the first
place.

It’d taken Sven exactly ten minutes to saw a
rough hole into the side of the hull, which was exactly ten minutes
too long for a man waiting anxiously with his thoughts filling
rapidly with dread. The more he thought about scaling the outside
of the ship with nothing but birch-hooks, the more preposterous it
became. But then what choice did he have? Doing nothing was the
worst of the options available, so when the final cut was finished,
and the brilliant light came spilling onto the floor with the piece
of the hull, he stepped up, even as he felt his stomach roll over.
He was committed, but he took a moment to bask in the warming glow
and the fresh air that came flooding in. He started to feel the
doubt roll back, driven to the dim corners and cob-webbed rafters
under the tide of exhilaration.

Stepping up, he came face to face with what
seemed to be a portal into a different realm altogether—one that
contrasted the hold in every way possible. Beyond the wound in the
ship’s finite bulkhead was a world of infinite space, an endless
expanse, painted orange and swirling with dusty clouds, a world
whose top and bottom were lost to the same hazy aether bound to the
horizon. In the distant southwest stood the uncompromising ridge of
the Barrier Shoal and a fading sun set to collide with it. Already
the clouds lay dashed against its high reaching volcanic fingers,
turning them to a panicked black mass spewing lightning and rain in
a bid to climb higher and escape. But there was nowhere to go; the
reef complex was impossibly high, its fingers in space and its base
lost behind the curve of the planet. No cloud had the strength to
make that climb. Instead, they died beneath the canopy of stars,
lost and pulled apart so their listless ghosts could join the hazy
net cast overhead, helping herd their fellow brethren towards the
same dismal fate.

No ship had ever flown high enough to clear
its summits—or so it was told. Many had tried over the centuries,
but hypoxia, impossible cold, and raging storms had driven them all
back. Many more had simply failed to ever return. Why would any man
risk the ascent, when beyond lay the Inner Sky and its Iron Empire
anyway?

That’s when Bar had ventured to poke his
head through the hole to survey the climb. Wind rushed over his
cheeks, numbing them, while the turbulent air currents stirred his
already wild hair into twisted red hackles, like those found on a
startled dog. The exposed air was exhilarating. It pulled at his
breath, and the change from the stagnant atmosphere of the hold, to
something more crisp and clean, helped clear his mind. But really,
the last thing he needed at that moment was a clear and reasoning
mind. Not since he’d dared to hang from the
Chimera’s
spar
and kiss its beastly masthead had he done anything so reckless…and
that was done years ago, when he’d been filled with the hormonal
confidence of a randy teenager. A decade had tempered that
recklessness. It was one thing entirely to think about climbing the
outer hull within the safe embrace of the ship, but entirely
another when clinging to the bulkhead for dear life.

“You sure about this, lad?” Al had
offered.

“No, Al, I’m not sure about this…I am
very
not sure about this.” But then Bar heaved himself up,
and before he could talk himself out of it, he flung his legs out
the hole and rolled over onto his belly.

And now here he was, outside, scrambling to
find that initial foothold on the hull. Desperately his boot
scraped and pounded against the outside of the ship’s mostly smooth
bronzsteel skin as he hung half in and half out. Just the smallest
foothold was all he needed, but when he failed to feel it
immediately he felt panic welling up.

Unexpectedly, snickering and muffled laughs
bubbled out from the hold, while Tolle offered words of
encouragement, “Nearly there, mate, good thing you’re not a
kilogram heavier…. You know, you look rather like an old deer my
pappy used to have mounted above the fireplace. Same dull-eyed
expression of terror as well, I should think.”

Those nearby laughed harder, but the humor
of it was entirely lost on Al. The cook stood steel-faced, gripping
firmly to Bar’s shirt sleeve.

“I got it, I got it,” grumbled Bar, and the
tips of his boots found purchase, if only just on the narrowest of
cross-trim edges. “On second thought, why don’t some of you come
join me? How ‘bout you, Tolle?”

The smile on the fat weapons officer’s face
fell away, and crimson blushed across his cheeks.

“Didn’t think so,” chided Bar in
satisfaction. “Ok, hand me a hook,” and he held out an impatient
hand. He wanted nothing more than to be on his way, and not left
hanging ass-out to the world, unable to see what was behind
him.

“Alright, lad,” said Al with a nervous
smile, handing up one of the two hooks. “Best of luck to you, you
brash whipper sparrow.”

“Thanks.”

Pushing out from the isolated safety of the
hold, the wind instantly set to howling in Bar’s ears like a mad
banshee. With one hand, he gripped firmly to the rim of the hole
before leaning back and preparing his ascent. With his feet just
barely balanced on that narrow trim-piece this handhold became his
only real safety-line as be prepared the hook in his other
hand.

This is by far the stupidest thing I’ve
ever done,
and then he swung the hook up and to his right,
where the out-rigging hull joined with the main hull of the ship at
a ninety-degree angle. There was no sound when it impacted the
metal, the rushing wind had seen to that, and Bar had no idea if
the hook was set firmly. Without recourse, he tentatively gave it a
pull to make sure and found it sturdy enough. More to the point, he
wanted to move as little as possible. With just the tips of his
boots—and one hand holding him between life and death—any
extraneous movement seemed terrifyingly like his last. Bar
collected his wits as best he could and called for the next hook,
but found his voice thrown back into his throat. He put more weight
on the buried hook, determined that the only way he could signal
for the next was by motioning with his hand. No way around it, he
had to trust the hook with more weight, but his senses were dull,
the wind making both sound and feel next to impossible, and Bar was
afraid to move his eyes anywhere but the hull centimeters from his
face. If he were to look down and see endless sky, he was sure that
would be it. He tried to control his breathing, tried to focus on
deep, normal breaths, but his heart was pounding so hard in his
chest that it made even that simple act harrowing.

Almost got it. Just a little more weight on
the hook is all I need.

Suddenly it tore free.

Bar’s arm flailed in the open air and he
swung out with it. The hook almost flew from his grip, but he was
too busy with the sensation of his heart trying to crawl out of his
throat to notice. Bar thought for sure he was going to fall, but
that left hand of his held fast to the rim, and he felt the layers
of spruce and bronzsteel cut into his palms. It was the least of
his cares as he scrambled to find solid footing once again. Above,
a leathery old hand darted out of the hole and took hold of his
arm.

Gods bless that old fool if he thinks he can
hold my weight.

In those desperate moments, Bar found the
trim board again, got his toes set, and his weight steadied. In his
chest, his heart thundered away, and he contemplated crawling back
into the safety of the hold.
But what then? Wait to die? I got
no choice but to give it another try. Everything rests on my
ability to climb this hull and rescue McVayne and the ship. I have
to take the wheel.
So instead of crawling to safety like he
wanted, Bar swung that hook, this time with all the might he dared
to muster. The impact stung his hand with its reverberation, but
that brought confidence that the hook was properly set. This time
when Bar tested it, he found it rigid to the point that he dared
once again to try his weight; daring until he was almost fully
supported by the hook alone. And still it held.

Quickly Bar motioned for the next hook,
which appeared almost instantly, like a bird ready to take flight
from a knothole. He took it in his left hand, trusting fully the
right and its hook, and then swung his left up over his head,
planting the tip a meter up.

The moment of truth.
He now fully
forsook the safety of the hole for the climb. Once begun, there was
no real way to make it back to that portal. He was fully committed,
and he swung his right leg out, planting it on the adjacent trim,
now leaving him straddling the Abyss. That’s when he made the
mistake of looking down. He could have fainted at the sight of
sunburned clouds passing below him; of the gilded mists churning
below that. The blood pounded through his head, worsening the
headache that had returned after his first mishap. Now it throbbed,
spilling tears that filled his eyes so the wind could pick them up
and drive them back like stinging needle-rain. He ignored it,
putting the Abyss out of his mind…to continue on.

Leaning to his left, Bar wrenched on the
right hook till it broke free of metal and wood, and then swung it
still higher, moved his left leg up to the next rivet band, and
then he did likewise with his right, and then again with his
left.

Left hook, right foothold, right hook,
left foothold
. Heaving, straining, he concentrated on those
four simple acts, he made it his mantra as he desperately scaled
the hull like a spider, and in those moments in between, Ensign Bar
Bazzon prayed to the gods of Aethosphere. He prayed to Aryos, the
god of wind and air; to the nimble goddess, Tia; and to the patron
god of Glenfindale and King’s Isle, E’owyn and Yolanda
respectively. He prayed to the Betrayer—to Memnon, the god of
innovation—that the hooks were well designed—and to Gunthur that
they were well forged. He prayed most of all to the King of the
Gods, Syre that he should live to see the top of his climb and not
end up with Nekros in the Halls of Death. It seemed he’d an
eternity to worship all the gods of the Pantheon as he trusted his
life to the pattern of
left hook, right foothold, right hook,
left foothold
.

Left hook, right foothold, right hook,
left foothold
. It seemed like ages passed slowly scaling the
side, it may have only been six meters to the top at the most, but
it might as well have been a hundred kilometers.
Left hook,
right foothold, right hook, left foothold
. Each completed
pattern seemed to bring him no closer to the top. Space had no
fixed point, it was relative, and stretched to draw out his climb
into eternity.
Left hook, right foothold, right hook, left
foothold
. But then suddenly there he was, by the grace of Syre
he was clenching to the very bottom of the rails and now peeking up
over the deck’s horizon. He could have cried out in triumph, but a
few meters to his left were two men standing guard at the galley
door with knives held at the ready. His victory roar died in his
overtaxed lungs.

They hadn’t spotted him as of yet and he
hoped they were to be his first and last obstacle in completing his
objective. If he could just somehow slip past these two—Deben and
Jenner—and into the galley, he could make his way down the ladder
all the way to the berth deck—a trip that would have involved
simply walking down the passage from the cargo hold. That is, if
not for the territorial mess the mutiny had made of the ship. So
instead, this trek was to become his odyssey.

Both the men were Glenfinners, Deben, a
stocky mechanic, and Jenner, a lanky plumber. Granted neither were
particularly bright, mostly just able-bodies to fill the ship’s
roster last time around in port, but both had proven to be decent
enough fellows in the air.

So what now?
Bar contemplated as he
clung to the side of the ship for dear life. He’d never been more
eager to feel a solid surface beneath his feet as he was right
then, but could he trust those men to be reasonable…to listen to
him? Or was roughing up Kinglanders their only stake in all this?
No, he couldn’t risk it, not yet, his objective at this point
wasn’t to make friends, it was to reach McVayne, and so Bar
wrenched a birch-hook free. Lining up his target he aimed for a
point beyond the men, towards the bow where the cargo pod deck met
up with the main deck. It was a stately throw—well tossed—but it
meandered off course and clipped the galley’s side window,
shattering it.