Aethosphere Chronicles: Winds of Duty (13 page)

“They got it nailed shut,” offered another
man apologetically. “No way to get in but the top hatch, and we
don’t have the key for it.”

“We need those damn tools if we’re ever
going to take the engine room… Gather some men, if we can reach the
crane we can tear that damn hatch right off the deck.”

“But Finnies hold the main deck.”

“Yeah, yeah, tell me something I don’t know.
Get back up to the magazines and start mixing some more powder
charges, pack it in whatever you can. Raid the crew dorm for
smoking tins or something, hell, even sturdy boots if you’ve got
to…might also find some stashed weapons, maybe some pocketknives or
clubs or something…something we can use. And scour the infirmary, I
know the Doc had a surgical kit stashed in there somewhere. We’ll
have to storm them using the starboard cargo hatch so we’ll need
all the weaponry we can muster up. Alright, you two start mixing,
you three search the dorms, and you, stay here and watch that
door…and
godsdammit
keep your eyes peeled for Stowe. That
man is skulking around this ship like an accursed Nequam! Now get
to work while I go meet with the friggin’
crisis
committee
. Seems the pansies want to have some kind of
namby-pamby pow-wow about trying to reach some sort of ‘peaceful
resolution’.”

As the crowd began dispersing through the
berth deck, Bar briefly considered confronting his subordinate and
ordering him to stand down, but some instinct stayed his hand. He
slipped back into the shadows instead, watching intently as Cecil
and his entourage passed by the ruined ladderwell. With the Fire
Control Technician and his gang gone, that theoretically left only
one man guarding the passage.

With little time for finesse, Bar charged
from the ladderwell, hooked left, and sought out his opponent. He
caught sight of him still surveying the cargo door, completely
unaware. So without breaking stride, the ensign barreled right into
the guard’s back and slammed his head against the wood. The impact
rocked the door on its heavy hinges, but the sound was drowned out
by the indifference of the running engine. A groan issued from the
Kinglander as both he and Bar fell to the ground. The hit, left
even Bar’s head swimming, but as for the other man, he was knocked
out cold. A nasty lump was already sprouting form the Candaran’s
narrow forehead. Bar dragged himself back to his feet, shooting a
weary glance down the corridor to see if his attack went
unnoticed.

“You ain’t getting in,” taunted Tolle from
the other side of the door, and Bar nearly told the man to shut up,
but he didn’t want to give himself away. When no one else appeared,
it looked like Bar’s attack had gone as planned. The man lying
unconscious, softly breathing at his feet, and would remain so for
some time, leaving the way clear to proceed. Cautiously, the ensign
crept his way back down the wide corridor towards the infirmary
door. The engine’s thumping grew louder with each step.

Peering down the passage to the engine room,
he was greeted by a wall of noise and two men attempting to pry
open the hatch with the ladderwell’s missing rail. The endeavor
looked doomed to fail. One bar had already bent cleanly in half and
the other was just on the brink.
Keep trying, fellas
, mused
Bar contemptuously as he slipped across the gap,
that door is
solid iron and its hinges reinforced. Blast-rated all of it. No
flimsy brass hand-rail is going to pry that open.

As he crept nearer to the infirmary, voices
came drifting from the starboard cargo hold and grabbed his
attention. It was a multitude of familiar voices all murmuring over
one another in disagreement and compelling him to investigate.
Clearly, there was no consensus among the Kinglanders on what to do
next. He heard one man advocating surrendering to the Glenfinners,
another staunchly opposed him and urged a swift attack. “Before
Watell and his ilk get any more entrenched,” he called out in
agitation. It seemed the Kinglanders were hard-up for proper
leadership without Moore, and Bar briefly pondered if he could gain
control. But then he could hear at least two men in the hold who
outranked him, and that dashed his plan. No, if order was to be
restored he’d need decisive leadership to take control, and that
meant McVayne. Until then, the best policy for him was to lie low
and move cautiously.

Bar was about to turn back and try for the
sick bay again when Cecil’s voice crashed over the procession.
“There ain’t no peace to be made with the
snowploggers
and
that’s that. Max and his horde had no qualms with kicking the snot
out of us when they came storming through the galley. Just think
back to what they did to Thomas if you think surrender is even an
option.
We
need to take control of this ship!”

“How about the captain? What are his
orders?” Bar heard one of the operations skyman ask.

Bar dared to peek through the crack between
the doors, discovering half a dozen men just within his immediate
sightline. Amongst them he counted the triage medic Rogert, Marine
Corporal Henley, The internal communication technician, the radio
operator Briggs, and Cecil Temberly. A moment later, Lieutenant
Ordenza, the ship’s boatswain, came shambling into view to occupy
the center of the gathering. Looking bruised and shocked he
desperately pleaded to his fellow Kinglanders. “Please, just forget
the captain…it’s clear he’s lost his mind.”

“Ease up on that kind of talk, lieutenant,”
challenged the ship’s yeoman, from somewhere beyond Bar’s field of
vision. “It doesn’t do us any good.”

“Why? You know as well as I that he’s locked
himself in the arms locker and refuses to see any of us. It’s clear
we only have each other now, and it’s also clear we’ve lost this
fight. Surrender is the only way to get out of this alive.”

“Come on, Ordenza,” spanned Cecil as he
stepped into the center and stole the attention away from the
smaller-statured officer. “Surrender…? That’s the stupidest idea
I’ve ever heard.”

“We’ve nothing to defend ourselves with,”
justified the lieutenant, turning imploringly to the men arrayed in
the dimly lit hold. “The Finnies have the kitchen knives and
mechanics tools…what do we have? It’s only by the merciful grace of
Deyja that we’re still even standing around to debate this. If Max
meant to kill us, he’d have done so by now. So the fact we’re still
alive proves we can talk this out.”

“I’ll be damned if I’m putting my life in
the hands of
snowploggers
,” hollered Cecil, “so I’ll tell
you what we should do instead. We’ll take the cargo hold. In
there’s all sorts of carpentry tools we can arm ourselves with;
saws, chisels, punches—you name it. Hell, if we can retake the main
deck, we just might be able to disconnect the fifty calibers and
turn them loose…”

“That’s your plan, Petty Officer?” countered
the lieutenant, incredulous. “Escalation? You’d have us battle to
the death?”

“Damn straight I would, and well worth it
given the alternatives. Time we send a message. This ship, and what
they’ve
done to it, is just the tip of it all. I’ve seen
what’s becoming of this country—I’ve experienced it firsthand.
These filthy
snowploggers
have been eroding away our proper
national identity for years, and the low-born of the south have
been helping them do it. You know I was passed up for officer’s
school…? Me, a Temberly, because they gave the position to some
Winterian, a
slusheatin’
Winterian!”

“Are these really our only two options?”
blurted Tiny Briggs, trembling as he hugged himself in a
self-comforting embrace. He’d already been given a black eye, and
there was a line of blood tricking down from his left ear. “Fight
or surrender…? There’s got to be something else…some other way to
resolve this.”

“I said surrender ain’t even an option, so
that leaves nothing else
but
fighting,” snarled Cecil with
contempt.

“But I don’t want to fight anyone,”
protested the overweight radioman.

Cecil’s face flashed with anger, and he
wheeled around and punched Tiny square in the face. The overweight
officer cried out as he stumbled backwards into the medic,
clutching his bleeding nose with both hands.

“You’re out of line, Cecil,” yelled the
boatswain. “Striking a senior ranking officer is—”

“Piss off with that senior officer crap!”
roared Cecil, charging up to the lieutenant and shoving a finger in
his face. “My uncle’s Viscount Ephron Temberly of Brasstown, and
Captain Moore knows that. So by virtue of my birthright, and in the
absence of clear leadership here, I’m taking charge.”

“You…a
noble
? Don’t make me laugh!”
mocked Lieutenant Ordenza, “You’re nothing but the bastard son of
Lord Temberly’s brother, and by my accounts that makes
you
noble squat.”

“Others would disagree.” Cecil scoffed, and
an evil smirk twisted up his brutish face. “Boys!” From the spaces
outside of Bar’s field of vision half a dozen able-bodies came
pressing in.

“What’s this, Cecil?” muttered Corporal
Henley, backing away from the encircling skyman.

Temberly shrugged nonchalantly. “Why these
good men here are to ensure that no one interferes with my
orders.”

“This here is mutiny!” charged Lieutenant
Ordenza.

“Mutiny?” Cecil smirked with his signature
brand of arrogance. He turned and looked to the men arrayed around
him in challenge. “Not a one of you asses has given a straight
order yet,
sirs
, and it’s clear that it’s not about to
happen anytime soon either. So as far as I’m concerned, me and my
men here are really the only ones willing to obey the captain’s
last order.”

“Last order?” scoffed Ordenza, “what are you
talking about?”

“I’m talking about ridding the
Chimera
of every last Finny mutineer.”

“You mean the captain’s insane rant over the
intercom?” baulked the boatswain, “That was mad rambling…and you
know it.”

“What the captain says goes, and when this
is all over that’s all that’s going to matter to the Admiralty.” As
Cecil finished he gestured to his strongmen with the wag of a
finger. Obediently they closed in and began seizing the various
committee members who didn’t back away. The boatswain, however,
swept a board up from the ground and held one of the brutes at bay,
but two more enforcers pounced from the sides like wyverns.
Desperately, Ordenza swung his makeshift weapon in defense, but the
men swarmed in from all directions and overpowered him. In the next
instant, Cecil stepped up to the subdued prisoner. Exactly what
Cecil did to the boatswain, Bar never saw, but the man crumbled to
the ground and ceased to move.

When the fire control technician turned
around, he was wiping blood from his chin on the sleeve of his
shirt. “Anyone else have an objection to this change in
leadership?”

There was no audible response from the
committee members. “Good,” said Cecil with smug satisfaction.

Suddenly Bar froze in place as he felt what
could only be the barrel of a gun jammed into the small of his
back. He raised his arms slowly in surrender.

“Don’t bother turning around, Ensign,”
muttered Stowe in a harsh whisper. “Just do as I say and move into
the room.”

“
You want me to what
,” Bar protested,
but the Chief Master shoved him forward to crash through the double
doors and into the starboard hold, where the Kinglander faction
wheeled around in response to this unexpected intrusion.

“Bar Bazzon,” snapped Cecil in puzzlement,
but when Stowe shuffled in behind—holding the clatterbolt at his
hip—fear broke out openly across his face. The effect was like a
wave passing through each man in the hold. No one knew just what to
do now that Stowe had appeared in their midst, ushering Bar at the
point of his terrible weapon. Those holding the committee members
released their prisoners and backed away with their hands held
high.

“Stowe,” mumbled Cecil, trying to control
his expression so as not to reveal how obviously terrified he
was.

“Aye, Cecil, words reached me that you plan
on gutting me. Well, here I am.”

Cecil must have sensed Stowe’s murderous
intent because he moved to flee, but the bark of the clatterbolt
proved faster, lighting him up with its explosive bursts. Those
nearby dropped to the ground—Bar including—shielding their ears
from the percussive power. Cecil made it only a step or two before
toppling to the ground. What little momentum he’d worked up carried
him crashing into a pile of hay, near to the cow stall he’d
attempted to escape towards. Four holes could be seen just in his
right side alone, and who knows how many others had riddled his
body. In addition, one of the ship’s cows, lay crumpled on the
ground, struck several times in the rear and mooing in distress.
Stowe pulled the trigger again, and a short burst put the bovine to
rest. A young calf in another stall seemed unperturbed by the event
and continued to chew enthusiastically at her cud. The rest of the
men in the room stood—or sat—in stunned silence.

“As for the rest of you,” Stowe barked out.
“Cecil was right about keeping with the orders relayed to me by
Captain Moore.”

“But Captain Moore’s not fit for dut—”

Rat-tat-tat-tat!
The Chief Master
opened fire again, and this time Lieutenant Briggs, the ship’s
radio specialist, died with his protest still clinging to his lips.
“Time is imperative if we’re to accomplish our mission, so I’ve
orders to shoot any man who refuses or delays.”

“Yes, sir,” yelled the marine corporal as he
climbed to his feet and saluted. His attention was so rigid he
could have served as a support beam for the deck above.

“Will Captain Moore be leading us then?”
asked Rogert timidly, as though that simple question could be
misconstrued as disobedience.