Aethosphere Chronicles: Winds of Duty (15 page)

“Change your heading and altitude every
minute, Gryph,” ordered Bar as he took up station at the resonance
table. He delved back into all those memories of watching Captain
Lockney work his magic on the bridge. There were a few tricks Bar
had witnessed as an apprentice, played out during minor skirmishes
with pirates and bandits; actions to fend off aggressive wyverns
and ill-tempered dragons; and on one occasion, a spat with a
territorial mist-crawler while performing a rescue within the folds
of the Abyssal tide. In later years, he was even on bridge during
some of the more harrowing moments of the Endasol Engagement, and
in battles fought in the Giedi Cluster Theater.

“
Let the able-bodies fire the guns. I
want you up here, boy, learning all there is to learn.”
Bernard
Lockney had once explained as they trailed an Iron galleon into a
dense cloud bank, some ten years prior. “
Keep your eyes open for
the smallest of details, ‘cause sometimes a fight’s not won with
simple firepower, you keen? But with guile and spirit, and
sometimes a bit-o-luck.”
Thinking back on it, it seemed Captain
Lockney had been grooming him for greater things even back
then.

Bar planted his hands on the table and
stared into the resonance stone set in its center. The device
pulsed with a blue light. The ripples washing over its surface
looked like waves across a lake, sweeping from the stern forward.
The imperial hunter-killer was somewhere behind them now, in
pursuit. If nothing else, at least it was good they weren’t chasing
civilians. Gunfire thundered behind them, screeching in from a
distance. Either they could see the hazy blue of the core through
the dense cloud cover, or they were just fishing for a lucky
hit.

“
This is Tolle,”
murmured a faint
voice, and Bar felt his spirits rise at the sound of his friend
echoing through the intercom.
“Is anyone hearing this,
copy?”

Bar rushed to the counsel. “Copy that,” he
yelled into the tubes, not knowing which in particular harbored
Tolle’s voice. “Tolle, you’re alive!”

“
Bar? Bar, you little scamp, that means
you made it! We’d thought you had to be dead after what went down.
It’s damn good to hear your voice again, mate.”

“Yours too… are you on the gun deck?”

“
Yeah… but it’s a real mess down here,
and a shame too… so much for all the hard work we spent cleaning
this deck.”

“What’s the status of the guns?”

“
Not good, Bar, near as I figure we’re
down to one—maybe two—that still might fire. Both in the rear; the
one in the port side’s still gleaming like new, but the stern
tri-barrel is a little worse for wear.”

“It’ll have to do then. Get them both ready
regardless. You’ve got fire control.”

“
Ah, so what? Cecil’s not one for playing
nice yet?”

“Cecil’s dead.”

“
Well, this is really upsetting…”

Bar baulked. “Thought you didn’t like
him?”

“
What…? Oh Cecil? Yeah, no, I hated that
stuck-up prick…I was actually talking about this tear I found in my
uniform…you know how hard it is to get Supply to find you an
extra-extra-extra-large?”

“
Tolle,
” Bar muttered blandly into
the comm,
“in case you haven’t noticed we’ve got a hunter-killer
on our tail.”

“
Oh…is that what all that racket is,
mate? Awfully rude of them to interrupt all the fun I was having
down here. Think I’m gonna designate that Iron bastard the I.E.S.
Prick; you know, in honor of our dearly departed friend, Cecil
Temberly.”

“Sounds good…oh, and Tolle…?” He hated to
ask the next question, lest he hear a discouraging answer. “Who
else you got down there with you? Who else made it out of the cargo
hold?” There was a pause, a long pause, too long to be comfortable,
and Bar’s heart sank. How many more of his friends were dead this
day?

“
Sorry, Bar, had to take care of a minor
fire at hand…running a bit close to a keg of powder for my liking.
We already have a nice gaping hole, might make a decent viewport
down here… if we survive. But to answer your question; everyone
from the port hold is still kicking, if that’s what’s got your
knickers in a bundle. Looks like we took the hit in the forward
starboard section.”

“Fantastic news, Tolle,” Bar was beyond
happy. After so much tragedy it was good to hear that everyone from
the port hold had survived.

“
I wouldn’t get too overjoyed. I think
that hunter-killer means to prove me a liar, the rude
bastard.”

Outside the clouds were beginning to thin,
and the cover of darkness was fast turning to the burnt twilight of
an open sunset. When they broke cover, Bar estimated they were
twelve kilometers off the Barrier Shoal. The tangled briar of its
obsidian branches stood stretching into the upper atmosphere,
scraping at even the high-altitude cirrus wisps shimmering like
prisms in the cold. In the reef’s clutches lingered the dying sun,
with only fingers of its light allowed to escape as intense orange
rays.

“Give us altitude,” ordered Bar, “as much as
you can muster… All hands, brace for high-altitude…respiratory
protocol red!” he yelled into the comm station.

Almost immediately the
Chimera
nosed
up, pointing its forward spar to the Widow’s Star. The horizon fell
from view. Gryph wasn’t just giving them altitude, he’d put them on
a near vertical plane. As a field of stars appeared twinkling in
the purple velvet of an approaching night, Bar felt his feet slide
out from under him. Looking down between his dangling legs he could
see the resonance stone pinging with the imperial contact. She was
directly beneath them now and Bar twisted back to his station,
yelling into the comm tubes, allowing his voice to be carried into
the furthest reaches of the aiship, “Tell me when you got visual
contact, Tolle.” Bar’s ears filled with pressure. He heard the
reply as a faint echo.
“You realize I’m standing on the
bulkhead, right?”

Outside, the propellers could be heard
struggling in the thinning air. Inside, the bridge grew steadily
colder, and Bar watched tendrils of vapor escape from his gaping
mouth with each laborious breath he took. His ears popped.

“
I got her, Bar, just breaking cloud
cover. Give me about two degrees to port and I’ll take care of the
rest.”

Gryph gave the wheel a slight correction in
response, and Bar waited for the
Chimera’s
guns to fire. But
when nothing immediately happened, he began to wonder if the
hunter-killer broke course—the 75-millimeter tri-barrel cannon
suddenly barked. Even through the layers of decking between them,
the explosive belch was unmistakable, trembling through the
Chimera
like an anxious shudder.

“
Aye, sorry, Bazzon, but the shot went
wide.”

Bar couldn’t say he was surprised in the
least. It’d been a long shot by all accounts, but he felt betrayed
by the gods nevertheless. Right now they needed all the help they
could get.

“Can’t maintain,” muttered Gryph
breathlessly, and Bar knew what he meant. He was beginning to feel
light-headed and dizzy himself. The headache, pushed aside over the
last few adrenaline-fueled minutes, returned with a savage
vengeance. Hypoxia was beginning to take root, and the world was
growing flat and strangely blurry because of it. In a haze of
growing delirium, Bar heard the
Chimera’s
tri-barrel sing
out again, screaming as it split the very air with its deadly
intention. The ensign was struck with the notion that never before
had such power stood behind a single shot, gravity would wash away
any ballistic trajectory, turning it into a straightened lance of
burning lead…into the very hand of Syre. And by the gods, if it
found its mark, that shot should ring true with all the wrath this
royal strata-frigate could muster. And ring it did…

Bongggg!

Even on the
Chimera’s
bridge they
heard that mighty impact as though someone had just struck the
world’s largest gong; but then that’s all it was, noise, and
nothing more. The most awesome concentration of the
Chimera’s
power was reduced to little more than a
nescience…some ringing in the ears, perhaps, on board that
hunter-killer.

That’s it.
Fighting to stay
conscious, Bar struggled to make the words out in an environment
lacking air. “Take us…down Gryph…below the line.”

The
Chimera
had lost its advantage,
but then she had had no real advantage to begin with. Bar was
beginning to realize that as he ordered one hopeless maneuver after
another, trying desperately just to stay ahead of the hunter-killer
and her guns, but her front mount was on a pivot, and no matter how
much the
Chimera
zigged and zagged, that turret followed her
relentlessly. The propellers whined, the ship rocked and shuddered
as the engine moaned, threatening to quit on them entirely at any
moment.

No matter what they tried the imperial was
on them like a hawk; rising, falling, banking right, then left, and
right again. Shots continued to roar by, each closer than the last
as that boundless adversary honed in on the growing predictability
of its query. Simply put, Bar had exhausted the evasive maneuvers
he’d learned over the years, finding the antiquated tactics
ill-equipped to handle the caliber of this killer. That imperial
devil was relentless and better armed, and far superior to the old
royal strata-frigate in every way but maneuverability, and that was
rendered useless by the pivoting gun-turret. Bar was flushed with
anger and frustration. Three more shots tore open the
Chimera
, one to the port hold, another through the galley,
and the final one into the old airbladder housing above. The
beleaguered captain’s mind began to cloud as the future foretold of
eminent demise. It blinded him with mounting panic, causing his
mind to race, his nerves to coil inside his belly and quiver in
despair; his whole being festering with the rot of doubt. It was
hard to look beyond the event horizon of his own impending
failure—beyond his approaching death—to anything that might be true
and just in Aethosphere.

If only someone else were here to take
charge… McVayne, he was a good leader.

One cloud bank after another became a
temporary refuge, but ultimately brought false safety. The hunter
had them scented, and hiding in an airy cloud did little more than
obscure its bloodlusted-vision for a moment. Bar’s resolve cracked
even further, his orders issuing like cold oil, without spark,
growing less ingenious until he was on the verge of caving
completely. Each minute brought them closer to oblivion. The ship’s
engine continued to thunder and screech, hammering and shuddering
with the effort of keeping to flank speed. And very soon, with no
one down there to monitor the equipment, it was simply a matter of
time before it too gave way to the stress of this doomed
flight.

Captain and ship failing as one.
Bar
Bazzon found something acrimoniously poetic in that. And then at
last, they said goodbye to the clouds. They’d been flushed into the
open, hemmed in and trapped between the hunter-killer and the
Barrier Shoal; now not more than a kilometer away. Embittered,
disappointment cascaded through Bar’s heavy heart. When Gryph asked
him what course they should take, he was powerless to respond.
Every option only delayed the inevitable. Tears broke through the
amateur captain’s stoic disposition, blurring his vision, turning
that blistered hell of storms—spitting and growling angrily all
along the horizon—into a curtain of smoke and fire.

He was tired of running.

From below, the
Chimera’s
gun rang, a
final desperate yelp in the face of its pursuer. She was backed
into a corner with her hackles raised, lashing out however she
could. That desperation only drove home the realization that after
everything he’d been through, standing up to Moore, the fighting on
deck, the harrowing climb up the hull, his charge up through the
ship…his attempt to rescue the
Chimera
and those onboard was
all ultimately doomed to failure now,
And to
death.

“Captain,” asked Gryph softly. It seemed,
from his tone, the pilot had struck upon the same cord of
realization. “What are your orders?”

They were both just going through the
motions now, waiting to die. And damn it, didn’t that make Bar mad.
“Put us into that
godsfearing
reef, Gryph!”

“Pardon, Captain…”

“You heard me.” Bar pounded on the command
panel with his fists. Spittle flew from his lips as he accented his
frustrations. “Let’s just see how badly they want us! Let’s see
them follow us in there.”

“Tis suicide, Captain…”

“And let’s hope,” he roared. “Rather die
dashing into a reef than give those imperial bastards the
satisfaction of etching a hash-mark on their hull for sinking the
Chimera!
”

“Aye…aye it’s a glorious afternoon to meet
our makers!” Gryph tossed back the white scarf draped over the
collar of his service jacket. Adjusting the thickset rims of his
glasses and furrowing his face into a mask of wild abandon, the
dwarf laughed, and Bar joined in. Together they howled into the
precipice of madness. If they were to welcome death, they’d do so
as a friend…and a good one at that.

With a jolt, they passed into a soup of
writhing clouds gathered at the reef’s edge, plunging into a
nightmare quagmire of tortured sky. The very air reeked of it, of
rain, sulfur, and ozone. The ship rocked and shuddered, twisting,
rising and falling with the tempest thermals. Objects that had
already fallen on the floor were tossed about now, and Bar stumbled
like a drunk trying to keep his footing. The viewport transformed
into a portal to the abyss, black as jet one moment, bright as the
sun the next, framed and split by forks of wandering lighting. By
the gods, more lighting then Bar had ever been witness too. It
crashed and thundered, rent and tore the sky, flashing, burning,
blasting away pieces of the
Chimera
, sending her scorched
hull rolling across the main deck in a flood of embers. A deluge of
rain came soon after—sheets of it—pounding against the windows,
spitting and spraying through missing panes of glass. The thunder
of that tempest had finally drowned out the imperial guns, and Bar
hoped for a time that the Iron hunter-killer had turned in the face
of his insane course. But an impact into the stern dashed that
hope.
This imperial is as crazy as we are
!