Aethosphere Chronicles: Winds of Duty (17 page)

Al butted in. “Naw, t’was brilliant, lad. I
saw that imperial up in flames…”

The others wanted to offer up their own
comments as well, but Bar silenced them with a gesture. “No time.”
He looked over their battle-stained and expectant faces, “I’ll
explain everything later…if we survive. Right now we need to
concentrate on repairing the engine…”

“The engine,” called out a man in a
mechanist’s jumpsuit. It was Morgan Dunkirk, who Bar had
encountered earlier on the deck just before Moore had murdered
Hastings. “What’s the issue?” he asked, and if any man had the
answers it was a grease-monkey like this.

“We performed an emergency stop,” explained
Bar in haste, “and now we’ve lost thrust…but the gauges read green,
and we’re thinking it’s the—”

“Axle,” Morgan finished for him. “Yup,
sounds about right if you did an emergency stop. The newer axles
are designed to take the force and spare the rest of the
mechanics—”

“Great, great, but we don’t need to know the
specifics,” Al stated. “We just need to fix it. So what do you need
us to do, Bar?”

The de facto captain looked past the cook’s
squat form to the stout men gathered in the rubble behind him. They
were a ghostly lot to be sure, shock drawn on their dower faces,
but Kinglander and Glenfinner stood side by side without complaint.
Bar looked to the engineer. “Well. What do we need?”

“Strong men—as many as we can get if we’re
to muscle the replacement into position.”

“Good,” Bar folded his arms across his
chest, and called for the men to rise to the challenge, nodding, he
called off a few by name. “Dunkirk, Tanner, Sven, Sato…” and seeing
the moment for what it was, he added, “Glenfinners, Kinglanders,
and all you other men of the UKA; you all think you’re up to a
little cooperation?”

There was a sea of nodding heads and open
calls of agreement. Absent were signs of any dissention on those
dirty and haggard faces. They had all become unified Ascellans once
again, and Bar took command of them, leading this unified company
into the depths of the ship by way of the starboard cargo hold. The
extra time it took to traverse the hold was an unwelcome waste of
minutes, but there was no choice. They made double-time rounding
the corridor leading to the engine room just as another salvo of
imperial fire boomed outside. Somewhere above, the shots made
contact and Bar winced.

“Damn it, we got to hurry,” he muttered,
taking to the engine room doors and fumbling with the master keys.
He had no idea which was which. Trying one key after another, he
found his hands shaking violently. Plain nerves, combined with
grievous injuries, made sorting and selecting the keys difficult.
His fingers felt huge and fat trying to manipulate the tiny bits of
metal, and each one was more difficult than the last. More shots
barreled into the
Chimera
and it sudden dawned on him that
each impact vibrated less and less through the ship. Dread
overflowed when he realized the Empire wasn’t targeting the main
hull anymore…
The Empire’s targeting our airbladder…and the
atmium core housed within.
“They mean to break the core!” Bar
growled as he shook his fists. “Wounded, and yet still dangerous.
Curse the bloody Empire!”

Finally, one unassuming key slipped into the
hole, rotated the cylinder and sprung the catch. The ensign burst
through the door with his crew in tow.

The engine room was surprisingly serene
after witnessing the shambles that had overtaken the rest of the
ship. Only a small amount of thin smoke hung in the rafters above,
but the enormous engine, sitting down in its housing between the
berth deck and the very depths of the orlop deck, gleamed within
the lamp light dotting the bulkheads and cat-walks surrounding it.
The giant flywheel hummed—the piston pumped smoothly—but the
pulleys and gears it formally powered remained still; and the
culprit to this stillness was one twenty centimeter in diameter
steel rod lying twisted on the catwalk like a discarded piece of
scrap.

“What now,” barked Bar, thrusting back an
expectant glare on Skyman Dunkirk.

“We need the straps from the equipment
locker first off,” Morgan offered while looking bewildered, though
that might have just been his pursed face and close set eyes giving
that impression. “Over here,” he urged leading them to a tin door,
set off to the side of the main hatch. Inside stood an overwhelming
collection of wrenches, screwdrivers, ratchets, crowbars, and a
host of specialized tools that were too unwieldy to describe. Lying
on the floor, coiled like flattened snakes, were a set of thick
hemp straps, each weighing just over twenty kilograms, and those
tasked with liberating them struggled just to haul them out of the
locker. “Next we’ll need a replacement axle. We’ve got one stowed
close at hand…over there in the brackets mounted beneath the
catwalk.” Morgan pointed to the starboard gantry running in a
horseshoe shape around the engine’s tall metal form. “We’ll use the
three straps, hooking one end to the pulley system overhead and the
other to the replacement, and then it’s simply a matter of hauling
it up into place. Actually, rather simple when you get down to
it.”

While the engineer explained the procedure
the storm outside raged on, growing in intensity, and the
hunter-killer—not to be forgotten—growled and flung shot after shot
at the derelict
Chimera
. Some rounds impacted, other did
not. At least whatever distance and heading and drift were
affecting it kept the imperial attacks random. It was a cold
comfort, but it was something, even if it did little to ease Bar’s
pessimistic outlook. Every moment, he expected to be their last.
Every moment, he expected the reefs around them to capture them
like a snare. Every moment, he expected a rogue eddy to sprout from
the storm and pull them down into the Shrouded Abyss. Every moment,
he was certain an imperial shell would destroy the crystal core
keeping them afloat.

Bar worried while the men slid the strap
loops into place, and once finished, they each took up position on
the gantry; two on each end of the beam, and two in the middle.
Morgan and Tanner meanwhile climbed the engine-casing to reset the
emergency disconnect and guide the axle into place as the four and
a half meter long cylinder swung in from the side.

“Alright, the emergency disconnect is all
reset,” yelled Morgan to those waiting below on the catwalk. “Start
hoisting her up…easy like.”

Bar tested the strap, and then looked to the
men, to their stern, humorless faces as they locked in
preparation.

“Heave it like you mean it,” yelled Bar.
“One. Two. Three. Heave!”

The steel rod rose a meter from its bracket
while Morgan and Tanner struggled on the central catwalk to keep it
steady, and not let it swing wildly into the old Scott and Forge
engine. Muscles strained against the weight. Straps creaked and
stretched, but ultimately held.

“One. Two. Three. Heave!” The rod rose
another meter closer to its ultimate position, all the while sweat
sprouting from the ensign’s forehead as he tried to control his
breathing. The smell of fear and sweat wafted from the men like a
cloud, and he prayed they stayed strong.

“One. Two—”

The starboard hull exploded, the lights went
off in an instant, and a hail of splinters tore through the
compartment. All up and down his body, Bar was struck by tiny
lances of wood and metal. The paralyzing pain shattered his
concentration and sucked all the strength from his muscles. He had
to let go, and those around him seemed to do the same.

The rod fell, and in the flash from a tongue
of lightning, Bar saw his technician, and the man he was
responsible for, Egan Sato, go over the side. Sato must have held
on a moment too long, and a shrill scream followed his fall, but
was silenced almost instantly when the axle came crashing into the
lower compartment behind him. Where Sato tumbled straight down, the
axle bounced off the engine’s casing first before sliding and
slamming its way below. Bar rushed to the rail and peered down into
the gloom, discovering to his dismay that the heavy axle lay across
his technician’s stomach, pinning him, and laying nearly flush with
the deck. Crying and blubbering, Sato feebly pushed at the rod as
blood bubbled and spurted from his gaping mouth. He looked up at
Bar and tried to talk, but more blood just came spraying out
instead.

“To the straps…heave!” Bar yelled
desperately through the pelting rain. “Heave!” He needed to save
Sato. “Heave, dammit!”

Though the strap was slippery, and though
Bar and those with him were peppered with shrapnel, they pulled
with all they could muster. Even Sven, blood running down his face
from where a splinter the size of a dagger protruded from the
carnage of his left eye socket, pulled with fierce determination,
until slowly the axle lifted from the crevasse below. There was a
final spray of blood, and then Sato’s garbled cries faded to a
whimper, and then issued forth no more. Electronic Technician Egan
Sato was dead, no questions about it, his midsection had been
squished flat, nearly severing him in two.

“Heave
godsdammit
, before we’re all
dead! Heave!”

Again they pulled. The rod lifted, swaying
in the stormy air currents rushing in through the engine room’s
missing hull-section. Bar’s arms were on fire. He felt like at any
moment he would be lifted into the air, but he continued to hold
fast, found the men around him struggling likewise.
If they can
summon the strength, so can I,
and together they pulled.
A
little higher
. They cleared the rail.
A little higher
.
They were half way there.
A little higher
. Bar trembled
while sweat and rain-water stung his eyes.
A little higher
.
The ship rocked again.
A little higher,
they were at the
level of the mounting bracket.

“A little more fellas…hold her tight!” cried
Morgan from his perch on the engine, waiting in eager anticipation
above. “There you go, almost got it!” He stretched his gangly arms
up towards the axle, leaning precariously with nothing but his feet
wedged between two pipes for support. Tanner took hold of Morgan’s
belt, steadying him as he grabbed hold of the center strap. And
there it was, a Kinglander engineer stretched out over the void,
trying to guide the axle while a Glenfinner held him for safety.
Laying four and a half meters below the pair, a hell of pumping
pistons and spinning wheels, waited, but the engineer tugged and
pushed as needed without so much as a glance.

“…Little more,” grunted the engineer with
his teeth clenched into a grimace of concentration. “Tanner, grab
that other strap and help me pull this beast into proper position.”
The Glenfinner reluctantly let go of the overstretched engineer’s
belt, scrambling as quickly as he could manage over the uneven
engine casing to grab hold of the other strap and help pull the
axle in place. “Pull!” Pulling together, the rod settled close to
position, and then Morgan yelled, “Everyone let go, now!”

Though the order took Bar by surprise, years
of obedient instinct took hold, and his hands sprang open. The
others did likewise, but some not as quickly. The timing proved to
be off. Morgan must have realized it, and he acted without
thought—heedlessly throwing his weight outwards to divert the
falling axle back into its correct position, but as it came
crashing down, the young engineer pitched forward, and in an
instant plummeted into the pistons below. He was already dead by
the time Bar reached the railing. Too many pieces of the skyman
were caught up and sizzling in the engine’s machinery not to
be.

Not another one, gods, not another good
man. And because of my orders
… Bar was too distraught to speak,
and he gripped the railing in despair, squeezing and tugging,
determined to tear it off with his bare hands…but the bolts held. A
prolonged roar of despair tore through his throat instead, issued
for another man lost—issued because none of this should have ever
happened in the first place. Behind him, the other men stood with
heads bowed in respectful silence.

“What’s done is done, Bazzon,” offered Sven
after Bar had worn himself ragged. Defeated, he’d slumped to the
ground with his hands still gripping the rail as though it were a
lifeline. At some point the supplyman must have pulled the wood
from his eye and bandaged it with a piece of torn fabric. “They
sacrificed themselves for the rest of us, and about all we can do
is honor their memory by surviving this.”

Bar knew that too, but if not for another
crash of imperial firing, he may never have found the strength to
rise to his feet again. Sven was right, and those guns helped
remind him that many more souls depended on his orders now more
than ever. He had to pull it together—to be strong for those who
still lived. He needed to put the past out his mind because it was
already set in stone. He needed to act now because the future
demanded it. Bar needed to take the wheel once more.

Though he made it to his feet, the
Chimera’s
new captain struggled to find the will and energy
to climb down to the engine station on the orlop deck and reengage
the gears. Even as he descended the ladder, Bar found his feet
slipping and his ankles rolling with a weakness that possessed him
like a sickness, and yet somehow he made it; collapsing against the
engine controls as he landed on the deck below. Everything started
back up with a simple pull of a lever. Gears and pulleys whistled
and hummed, and the propellers outside spun up to life. Steam
filled the chamber as the rain water cooked off the hot machinery,
and soon enough the
Chimera
lurched into motion.

Beyond the gaping hole, Bar watched in
relief as the imperial hunter-killer fell away into the nightmare
black clouds. He could almost hear that ship howling in outrage;
but maybe that was just the storm and his imagination. In a few
short minutes the clouds, the thunder, the lightning, and the dying
reef—it all gave way—surrendering to the deepest blue of a night
swelling with stars.