Aethosphere Chronicles: Winds of Duty (18 page)

The urgency that had so governed Bar’s life
for nearly two days faded, and when he and the others came trudging
onto the gun deck, it was to the enthusiastic applause of the
remaining crewmen. Led by the old cook, Al was the first to come
waddling over in cheerful greeting. “Nicely done!” But Bar held up
his hand to stop them all, and it didn’t take Al but a moment to
realize the heavy hearts that weighed down these brave men. It was
obvious by the set of their shoulders; in the way their eyes
trailed to the floor; in the way the very air around them sighed
that tragedy had befallen these men. “What happened, fellas?
Where’s Sato… Morgan?”

“Both…dead,” replied Bar wearily. There was
simply no strength left in his tired body.

Al shook his head solemnly, “Tis a damn
shame…”

Bar looked around to the tired and wounded
men. Each appeared marked by the tribulations of these past two
days. It could be seen sliced and burned into the flesh. Too few of
the crew remained—less than a quarter by his estimates—but the
mutiny had died in that shoal, and those that survived were filled
with a fellowship that could not be so easily broken now. “Tend to
the wounded,” he said to no one in particular, knowing one of these
men would carry out the task, “then all of you, get some rest.”

“And you…
Captain
?” asked Al. The
concern in the man’s old face nearly broke Bar right then and
there.

“I’ll be on the bridge,” he managed, choking
through the emotions that threatened to burst forth. And in the
stillness to come afterwards, there would arrive moments of
introspection, like a haunting brew to drink from and fester in the
heart and mind.

“And furthermore, I take full responsibility for the
actions of those men who survived…they should not be punished,”
finished Bar, falling silent for the first time in hours. Leaning
back in his seat, he took a deep breath and ran a trembling hand
over his freshly cropped hair. A measure of relief washed over him
now that the truth was out. His part to play was over. He needed
only brace himself for the Admiralty’s response at this point.

The sun had long since set over the High
Crown Mountains, surrendering to a deep night rooted over the
sweeping cliff-side vistas of Ragnarok Cloudfortress. The
arc-bulbs, burning in their wall-mounted sconces, left the stone
room feeling like a crypt, washed out and tired, and the
high-altitude chill creeping through the high windows had left the
air as frosty as the faces now scrutinizing him. Bar discovered his
mouth was terribly parched, his tongue thick and numb, his throat
scratchy from talking so long. At some point his dry lips had
cracked and the taste of blood tainted his mouth. In addition all
the wounds he’d suffered had started to throb and sting and
itch.

The truth is in their hands
, thought
Ensign Bar Bazzon fatalistically.
Let them do with it as they
please.

His only real hope was that Al, Tanner,
Tolle, Sven, O’Dylan, and all the other good men that had helped
save the
Chimera
wouldn’t suffer because of him. He was the
one who had ordered them not to talk of the mutiny, but they hadn’t
time to come up with a proper story to explain all the
incongruities that these admirals had eventually stumbled upon
either. He was solely to blame for that.

The Admiralty sat silent, painfully so.
What are they waiting for? They aren’t even debating amongst
themselves, they’re just sitting there.
Some were looking at
him, others were not, and Bar wanted to scream at them,
say
something dammit
! But he held his tongue. Finally someone broke
the silence. It came from behind, and Bar couldn’t help but stand
at the sound of his beloved former captain’s voice. Bernard Lockney
had entered the stage, strolling coolly along the carpet runner
that accented the room’s cavernous center. He looked all the more
stately in his pristine admiral’s uniform. It suited him in fact,
fitting snuggly over his broad frame. The man’s ruby-bright eyes
came to rest on Bar, a slight smile escaping the practiced
authority lingering over his face.

“Forgive me, Ensign,” stated Lockney as he
took Bar’s hand and gave it a firm shake. “I didn’t want to taint
the proceedings.” Then he turned to the men arrayed behind the
dais. “Gentlemen,” he said with a nod. “Have you finished taking
Ensign Bazzon’s statement?”

“Aye, we have, and it’s exactly as we
expected. Mutiny…treachery…savagery. All the worst humanity has to
offer, and this man…”

“…Is to receive a promotion, and the Golden
Sunburst from King Brahnan early in the morning, so I hope you’ll
make this quick, Sky Marshal DeGanten.”

“Golden…” DeGanten trailed off, appearing
just as stunned as Bar felt. “What is this?”

The Golden Sunburst was the most prestigious
military award in the whole Kingdom; an emblem of courage beyond
the face of overwhelming opposition; of duty well beyond what was
expected; a medal representative of the highest acts of valor.
“That’s…for heroes,” blurted Bar incredulously. “I am no hero.”

“That’s for sure, Bazzon,” spat the sky
marshal contemptuously. “And if it were up to me, I’d have you
hanged from Purgatory Cliff myself. As far as I’m concerned, you’re
a treacherous mutineer like the
finny-dogs
you sought to
protect with your lies. Captain Moore was a good man—a nobleman,
and
a close friend’s son. He should be here right now, not
you—”

“Regardless,” interrupted Admiral Lockney,
“word has reached the public of Ensign Bazzon’s victory over the
imperial airship—”

“‘Victory’? That must be the loosest of
terms to describe the outcome of
that
engagement.”

“Actually, they’re calling it the Battle of
Barrier Shoal,” affirmed Bernard with a devilish grin, “and as of
yet it does—to date—constitute our only victory against the
unstoppable forces of the Hierarchs’ Iron Empire, and as such this
event has created quite a stir. It’s done wonders for morale, and
the war movement in general. Though Glenfindale has succeeded in
negotiating a separate peace treaty with the Empire, some of the
other northern principalities have waylaid following their
lead…
despite
the current battle strategy. Fortunately, this
Admiralty’s kill order on that Glenfinner diplomatic vessel has
gone unnoticed… Pray they don’t discover the truth of your folly,
gentlemen.”

So that’s what was going on,
realized
Bar.
The kingdoms of the north were forging their own peace
terms, and we were sent to stop it…

DeGanten’s face turned monstrous. “Is that a
thinly veiled threat, Lockney?”

“I thought it a rather obvious one myself,
actually. Now, I’ve personally talked with the King and he’s
willing to overlook this transgression; realizing your intentions
were…patriotic, if not wholly misguided. But to waylay any further
suspicion, and to not upset his in-laws, he’s demanded this inquiry
to be abolished immediately and the whole incident—beyond the
imperial engagement away—be classified. As for Ensign Bazzon, King
Brahnan has personally demanded the honor of awarding him the
Sunburst, to help deflect any potential interference.”

“
Hmm
, apparently we must all play our
parts in this little
fantasy
…to appease the masses. So
instead of the gallows—as it should be—this incident is to be
what…celebrated as a fantasy, while the truth is forgotten?”
DeGanten sighed in defeat. “Fine. So be it. You and your crew will
be exonerated from all wrong-doing, Ensign Bazzon, and you…you will
receive your…
medal
from the King, and then afterwards you
will quietly resign. Is that clear?”

Bar nodded. He couldn’t talk…could hardly
believe what had occurred. Instead of death, he was to be
rewarded
; and with the Golden Sunburst no less. Fifteen
years had passed since the last man received this greatest of
honors, but all Bar Bazzon felt was loathing. He didn’t deserve
such a medal, he knew that as much as these admirals, and it was
clear none of them wanted him to receive it either. Just as well.
This was to be a token gesture, a game of smoke and mirrors for the
benefit of the unknowing populous. He couldn’t help feel it
cheapened the medal; cheapened the deaths he’d been a witness to.
If anyone deserved the Sunburst it was Morgan Dunkirk or Egan Sato,
Tolle, Gryph—anyone but him. These admirals, King Brahnan,
Lockney…none of them even knew the worst of it…it was too vile to
tell. But in his heart of hearts, Bar knew that he
was
a
mutinous dog. His hands were just as dirty…if not more so, than any
other man’s.

From behind him, Admiral Lockney clasped a
hand upon his shoulder in a gesture of comfort and friendship.
“Come along, Ensign Bazzon, we have a ceremony to prepare for, and
only a few precious hours to do so.”

Bar found himself filled with rage. He shook
off the Admiral’s hand and turned on him, and though he tried not
to yell, his voice carried through the hollow stone chamber,
amplified by the austere décor. “I don’t deserve this.” The panel
of admirals looked up darkly from behind their pink stone
barricade.

Lockney glanced to the room’s end, then
hurriedly ushered Bar into the relative privacy of the causeway
outside the airy building. The chill breeze of an open sky helped
numb the anger burning through the ensign as he stepped up to the
balcony’s edge and rested his hands on the railing. Looking out
over the cliff, into a valley surrounded by impenetrable curtain
walls, the moments following Sato and Morgan’s deaths in the engine
room came back to torment him. Bar gripped the railing tightly to
keep from collapsing as tears steamed against his burning cheeks.
Through watery eyes, Bar turned his sights up to a night turned
ghostly beneath a thick ceiling of heavy clouds. The joyless lights
of the cloudfortress; floods and work lights; a host of warships
docked along the complex’s numerous armatures; and the moving
globes of firefly-like patrolling spitshawks all came together in
an urban glow that tinted the clouds to a melancholy gray.

Lockney allowed Bar his moment of reprieve
before clearing his throat. When the ensign turned, he found his
mentor’s leathery face set in something like defeat, before he took
a deep and wearying breath. “Bar, we’re losing this war,” he
admitted reluctantly. Bazzon turned from the rail, surprised by the
admission. When most of their leaders spoke daily of cunning
strategies that would turn the war around, this was dire—but
refreshingly honest.

“You see,” continued Lockney, “the Empire
has something our twelve kingdoms don’t, Bar; something even beyond
those unstoppable warships of theirs. Something far more
powerful…the Empire has
unity
. The UKA on the other
hand…well, seems about all us Ascellans have ever been good at is
fighting amongst one another…as you may have experienced, and the
social structure of our country only perpetuates this, you
understand?”

Bar nodded solemnly. “More so than you know,
sir,” he responded, almost whispering.

Lockney took a deep breath and joined Bar at
the rail, staring out over the cloudfortress and all those
ineffectual ships crowded within it like doves against a coming
storm. “What should we expect from a socio-political system
specifically designed to divide us, not only into regions and
isles, but into classes as well—nobles and lowborn—how can we be
expected to stand as one nation when we can’t even stand next to
one another?”

For that, Bar had no answer. Thinking back
on it, he suddenly realized in dismay a terrible truth. The
imperial’s attack, as dire and perilous as it was, had actually
saved them…saved them from themselves.

In the silence that followed, Lockney asked
him, “Do you deserve a medal?”

“No,” replied the ensign harshly, and he
could feel the outrage tearing him apart inside.

The admiral snorted back. “Maybe you ought
to talk to that ship full of civilians that put into Glenfindale
because you were there to lead—”

“Lead…? I only reacted, sir, went through
the motions because I was forced to…forced by one circumstance
after another…”

When the admiral didn’t immediately respond,
Bar wondered if he’d realized that too. Maybe he was rethinking his
whole position on Bar’s recounting of the events that had
transpired. Maybe they’d forgo this medal and just lock him up as
it should be.

Finally Admiral Lockney spoke, his voice
husky in the cold wind. “Do you even know why I prompted you before
I left, Bar?”

To that, the ensign could only shake his
head in silent ignorance. The weight of what the admiral had
already confessed to him was almost too much to bear, and now any
more threatened to break him.

“I did it because I saw a greatness in you—a
greatness that this country needs, Bar. More than any other crewmen
on that ship, you had the drive, the intelligence, and the
self-reflection needed to do great things. You deserved it by sheer
force of will and accomplishment alone, but this system we live
under was designed to prevent you from getting what you deserved.
So when I found the authority in wartime to do it, I did just that,
gave you a battlefield commission every bit as binding as any
other, and I haven’t been disappointed. You may not have been ready
to lead when the events began, but by the end, you did lead them;
and the only reason any of those people survived is because you
united them. And, if this medal can help the people of this nation
feel a little bit of pride and unity for just a few days longer
then so be it.” Bernard locked his intense gaze on the junior
officer as the wind tussled his short hair. Resting a hand on Bar’s
shoulder, like a father consoling his son, the admiral clasped down
reassuringly, probing the younger man’s eyes. “Listen, it’s not
just what
they
deserve, Bar, it’s what
we all
deserve—a true hero that can bring us all together…someone humble,
conflicted, but ultimately worthy of our admiration. So come on,
Captain Bazzon, we mustn’t keep them waiting.”