Aethosphere Chronicles: Winds of Duty (4 page)

“What’s going on,” Bar shouted, grabbing
hold of the closest man by the shoulder. The man jumped under the
ensign’s touch, wrenching away to spin about. A wild look stretched
across his glassy-eyed expression, and though Bar instantly
recognized Morgan Dunkirk as one of the junior mechanics fresh out
of the engineering academy at Salizar, the fledgling ducked away as
though he’d never seen the ensign before. “Whoa, easy, Morgan,” he
reassured the jumpy grease-monkey.

“Gods, Bar, I thought you were Stowe!” The
younger man breathed a sigh of relief.

“What’s going on?” repeated Bar over the
chaos of wind and yelling, as more crew crowded onto the deck,
pushing him forward.

“Not quite sure yet…just got here myself and
heard the yelling up near the quarterdeck ladderway. From what I’ve
gathered the Glenfinners and the other northmen are angry about
something; a rumor that’s got to do with not defending their home
isles; though now it seems like some quarrel between the captain
and the first officer has that issue sidelined.”

“Some quarrel…strange,” muttered Bar, “it’s
not like either man to argue in front of the crew…or to tolerate
this sort of chaos. Do you know what it’s about, Skyman
Dunkirk?”

“No…sir.”

Leaving Morgan behind, Bar shoved his way
through the throngs of aeronauts, each loath to make room where
there was none to give, but Bar moved them aside anyhow, pressing
forward until he couldn’t press anymore. Teetering just at the edge
of the main deck, Bar found the crowd had congealed into a mass
simply too thick to wade through any further. Tucking in close to
the galley hull, he peered around the curve of the ladderwell up to
the pilot house, where he could just make out Captain Moore, with
his wide face flushed red, yelling into the face of another man
with his back to Bar. Judging by the hair, which was both blond and
curly, it had to be the first officer, Commander Hastings. But what
in the devil could have the captain yelling in his face regardless
of the skymen gathered on deck? The ship’s old captain would never
have made such a scene.

Only snippets of the ship master’s damning
voice made it down to Bar over the din of discontent that hung in
the air like a hot and damp cloud; but he caught a few words:
“…traitors…orders…your mutinous rabble…”

Mutinous
? That wasn’t the sort of
word to be tossed about casually aboard ship. It was a grave
accusation. The old captain, Bernard Lockney, wouldn’t have
approved of Moore spitting it out in front of the men, but then
Lockney was sometimes as flexible as a feathered wing, and when
enough men spoke as one, he tended to listen. Had Lockney been too
soft, as Moore was often fond of saying? Perhaps. But then with
Zavier Moore on the other hand,
rigid
took on a whole new
meaning. In even his day-to-day interactions with those under his
command, there was no room for any sort of negotiation or leeway.
He regularly hounded the men, even during moments of rest, with
surprise inspections. He withheld shore leave for those he felt
unworthy, and he made harsh examples out of minor infractions. And
those were only a few of his harassing practices. Whippings were a
daily affair, and most seemed to affirm that Chief Master Stowe’s
right arm had swelled to twice its normal size from wielding the
cat-o-nine-tails so often.

“So this is what it’s come down to,
Captain?” pleaded the first officer. “No, there’s got to be another
way—”

“It’s not up for negotiation!” roared Moore.
His whole being shook with restrained violence, teeth clenched in a
snarl, spittle dribbling down through the cleft of his broad chin.
“The King’s rule has been usurped, and the admiralty has deemed
that
airship
a priority target.”

“I thought we were at war with the
Empire…not with each other.” Commander Hastings stood in
opposition, refusing to budge, even in the face of Captain Moore’s
authoritarian wrath, and now the skymen around them were growing
more anxious by the second.

“That was before this civil mutiny! So you
will
follow through with my orders, or face the
consequences, sir, and I will only give you this one last chance to
comply, is that understood, Hastings?” In their stunned curiosity,
the men further crushed in around Bar, squeezing him into a
knot.

“I will not be a party to murder, orders or
not.” The first officer’s words were strangely calming, and the
crowd eased back and grew still. “I’m a Glenfinner first, Captain,
you’ve demonstrated that’s all that matters anymore, and so I
will
refuse you.”

“By the Gods, Mr. Hastings,” the Captain’s
voice rose shrill. “I shall not stand for this any longer…” And
then the captain produced his service pistol and leveled it at the
first officer’s head. Bar fell back stunned. Seeing an officer of
the Royal Air Navy holding a gun to the head of another officer was
beyond surreal, this was a mockery of the sensibilities that
governed the people of Ascella. Things like this simply did not
happen aboard a royal airship. They were supposed to be fighting
the Empire for god-sakes, not each other. “…As the sole authority
aboard this vessel, and in adherence to the king’s law, I charge
you with failure to follow the Admiralty’s orders in a time of war,
and of sympathizing with the enemy, as well as inciting mutinous
sentiment aboard this vessel, Mr. Hastings! These charges are
all
punishable by death!”

“That won’t deter me, Captain, my
responsibility is to the people of the
Unified Kingdoms
, no
matter what event might have spurred the Admiralty into ordering
such an irrational and bloodthirsty act. Until such time as the
King himself personally addresses the subject at hand, and issues a
call to arms, I will not follow through with this senseless
slaughter. So if you think threats will dissuade me—”

“May the Gods of the Pantheon have mercy on
your soul!” Over the
whoosh
of the wind flowing across deck,
Bar thought he heard the hammer fall, which was in strange contrast
to the short bark issued from the revolver. He expected a
thunderous report; a life shattering cry; some sort of high-drama
marking the end of a life, but instead there was a soft and brief
pop, almost harmless sounding. There was no rebuttal cry from the
first officer either. Hastings simply crumpled to the ground, as
though someone had cut the strings holding him up. The wild-eyed
captain, alone, remained standing on the quarter deck. All around
Bar, the men stood frozen, looking up in shock.

Moore stepped forward, placed his hands on
the rail, and glared down over the crew. “May this be a lesson to
the rest of you!” he challenged. “I am an extension of
His
Majesty’s
authority aboard this vessel, and thus my word is
law
—a law that shall not be broken without dire
repercussions. Mr. Hastings disregarded that law; challenged it
quite beyond its breaking point, and no man present can say
otherwise. He was fairly punished!”

Murmuring rolled through the ranks of the
crew like water boiling in a kettle. To shoot Hastings in cold
blood—and right in front of the men like that—was a step towards
the abyss from which no man could claw his way back out.

“I will have silence! In addition, I’ve
heard enough about this rumor and the complaints you have over it!
Lieutenant Commander McVayne,” bellowed Moore, “order the crew to
muster,” but the aristocratic-looking second officer appeared
unsure of what to do as the crowd rolled back around him. It then
occurred to Bar that McVayne and Hastings had been close friends
under Lockney. “McVayne,” snarled the Captain. “I’ve given you an
order.”

The second officer’s face sharpened into
steely resolve as he stepped forward. “Captain Moore,” he
responded, “with all due respect, it is you who must stand down,
sir, until we’ve had an opportunity to properly hold an inquiry
into the event that has transpired here this day.”

Seeming to sense something sinister drifting
on the wind, men backed further away from the scene, pressing to
the very railings of the vessel. McVayne suddenly found himself
alone beneath the atmium core, with only the howling wind to break
the newfound silence hushed over them all. Bar felt a dread fester
in his guts, and then he saw the second officer’s hand come to rest
on the wooden grip of a pistol hanging at his side. Trouble was
coming…

And then in an instant Chief Master Stowe
came barreling out of nowhere, a cudgel brandished high over his
boar-shaped head.
Crack!
Bar heard it smash off the back of
McVayne’s skull, and the second officer went staggering across the
deck. Stunned, aeronauts recoiled from him as he drew near, as
though the grievously wounded officer was rife with the Necrosis
Plague. Even Bar found himself repelled, locked in morbid
fascination as the man’s eyes rolled around uselessly in their
sockets. Part of his scalp flapped against the back of his head as
blood pulsated in thick sheets down his neck and over the collar of
his uniform. The second officer groaned, a terrible, drawn out
thing that seemed to plead with inaudible horror. And then his iris
flipped back and he began to tremble. He hit the deck with a heavy
thud.

“Back away, he’s seizing,” yelled the
hospital corpsman. “Do not touch him…leave him be or you may cause
injury.” On the ground, McVayne’s arms and legs flopped and
clattered against the deck boards as his whole body was racked by
terrible convulsions.

“Stowe, I want him taken below decks,”
ordered the captain, unconcerned.

“Sir,” interrupted the ship’s medic, “it’s
unwise to move him until I’ve—”

“I want him below decks now! Do you
understand, corpsman?”

The crew stood silent and frozen, watching
in grim anxiousness as the master-at-arms and the ship’s doctor set
about dragging the still-twitching McVayne by the arms, and hauling
him below decks as instructed.

“In addition,” the captain bellowed from his
perch, “all personal are ordered to the crew compartments,
effective immediately. There you will remain until further
instructions. Corporal Henley, take your marine fire squad and make
sure every aeronaut aboard this ship is where he’s supposed to
be—shoot any man who’s not.”

“Come in, Ensign Bazzon,” hollered Captain Moore as
the door to his cabin creaked opened, and a fear-stricken crewman
came scuttling out. For hours, after the incident on deck, men—from
the highest-ranking officer right down to the lowliest
deck-scrubber—came filtering in and out of the captain’s cabin,
called in every ten minutes or so to answer Moore’s questions.
Despite the fact the
Chimera
was steaming south at half
speed under full combat readiness, no one had seen fit to explain
the situation as of yet, and as Bar passed the latest man
interrogated, the young able-body didn’t so much as glance up as
they breezed by one another in the narrow passageway. Instead, the
enlistee scurried away faster, leaving a musty haze of stress-sweat
to choke the threshold with its nebulous stink.

What’s going on,
wondered Bar, while
a hurricane of other questions spiraled around his thoughts. He
tried not to dwell too long on any one of them, least he meet the
captain’s summons distracted. Whatever was going on, it clearly had
the crew agitated, and waiting at the captain’s threshold with
three armed marines standing guard around him, had him feeling it
too. Danger lurked on the other side of this interrogation, and Bar
needed to navigate it carefully.

“Sir,” urged one of the stony soldiers,
directing him towards the waiting captain.

Reluctantly Bar complied. On occasion, those
who went in, never returned to the berth deck, and rumor circulated
that Moore had started some sort of interment brig in the empty
cavities of the airbladder, but in the uncertain atmosphere
plaguing the ship, rampant rumors abound. Some believed Moore was
set to skinning those who never returned and using the carcasses in
offering to the fell beast Örmungog, but then again, the
superstitious men had come to believe that Hastings’s spirit had
returned from the Halls of the Dead as well, lingering as a vapor
ghoul feeding off the living in the darkest reaches of the
ship.

Bar’s boots clomped noisily across the
deck’s loose boards, marking his progress through the modest
stateroom; a low-ceilinged compartment crowned by a four-poster
bed, lined in cherry-wood shelves stacked full of books, and
aeronautical relics scattered about in decoration. To the portside
wall sat an old armchair upholstered in red leather, while Bernard
Lockney’s stout ironwood desk occupied the other side of the room.
Behind that desk sat Moore, and Bar maneuvered between the two
waiting chairs to stand at attention before him.

Glancing down, he braced in anger on how his
old mentor’s hallowed seat now sat occupied by an intruder. The
Lord Captain may have been ship’s master for over three months, but
Lockney’s scent still permeated the room, smelling something like
mild cigar smoke mixed with old books. But Moore’s own pungent
perfume, a heady mixture of spices reminding Bar of overcooked
sugar and rotting flowers, stood posed to someday rub it out
altogether, and on a day not that far off either it seemed. Under
the bright wash of an arc-bulb table lamp, bolted directly to the
desk, Moore worked. A series of small leather sleeves laid
scattered from one end of the desk to the other, while at the
center sat a large ledger, which the captain hastily scrawled into
with some final note. Bar attempted to read it, but the flowery
cursive proved impossible to discern from upside down. When Moore
failed to take notice of his presence, Bar simply waited at silent
attention—just as protocol dictated—fixing his blind-stare forward,
to where the port behind Moore’s head held a sky of dusky orange
and a promise of fresh air.