Aethosphere Chronicles: Winds of Duty (7 page)

“Ensign Bazzon!” Stowe turned his ponderous
face towards the ensign. The walrus mustache hanging over his lips
quivered beneath the man’s intense scowl. Bar knew the ship’s
enforcer was looking to him for answers. “According to those
coordinates, that puts them about a hundred and twenty-two
kilometers to the west, not far off the Barrier Shoal… still just
beyond resonance detection.”

Stowe turned his broad back to the ensign
and lumbered to the navigation station himself, and began charting
out the information on the maneuvering board. “
Hmm
, we could
reach them in less than two hours at flank speed.”

“I’ll plot an intercept course,” proposed
Gryph from the wheel.

“This ship will do no such thing without my
direct order, Ensign Havalorne,” cut in Moore brusquely. The
captain had appeared at the back of the room and was glaring darkly
at the pilot. It was Stowe that made a reply, offering a throaty,
“yes sir,” as he backed away from the charts. “Now first off,”
continued Moore, taking up position in the compartment’s center,
“let’s identify this
Scarlet Cloud
first, shall we? Get me
the registry, Stowe, whose ship is that?” Obediently, the
master-at-arms reached down and pulled open the cabinet door
beneath his station, producing, a thick ledger bound in rich
leather.

“
Scarlet Cloud, maintain course and
speed,”
came another ghostly voice over the radio.

“Quiet!” hollered Moore in response to this
new addition. “Give me quiet on this bridge!”

“
This is the transport Torchlight.
Glenfindale registry, three-four-two-one-nine echo-sierra.”

“
Glenfindale…from Glenfindale, you
say?”
replied the voice of the
Scarlet Cloud’s
captain.
Hopeful enthusiasm had replaced panic.
“I’m loaded heavy with
Glenfinner nationals bound for their home isle. We could use any
assistance you’d be willing to lend.”

“
Do not engage in further aggressive
maneuvers with imperial vessel. You have been misidentified,”
continued the new player to this unfolding event,
“broadcast an
offer of truce and identify yourself as Glenfindale—not as UKA. We
will attempt contact with the imperial vessel.”

“
Say again, Torchlight…your last was
garbled.”

“Lieutenant Briggs, you are to jam all
further communications immediately,” snapped the captain, sprinting
past Bar to loom over the radioman. “I’ll not have the
Torchlight
and the
Scarlet
communicating with either
that imperial vessel or one another any further, is that
clear?”

“But sir,” protested Tiny as he squirmed
beneath the captain, “that transport’s in distress…”

“Is that clear!”

“Aye…aye, Captain,” the fat man, red-faced
and sweating despite the high-altitude chill, trembled and caved to
Moore’s order. “Engaging broadband interference…but you do know the
power drain to our systems will be significant. And though we’ve
got the gear and the power to block the transports without a
problem, there’s no doubt in my mind that the imperial will be able
to overpower any interference
we
can dish out. They’ll most
likely still be able to broadcast.”

“As long as those transports stay in the
dark, I don’t care what that imperial does or says.”

“Sir,” cut in Stowe. “I feel I must remind
you that should the hunter-killer choose to investigate, it’ll most
likely have an easy time zeroing in on our location,
if
we
continue to broadcast a jamming signal.”

“It’s worth the risk.”

“But for what?” interrupted Bar reflexively.
Moore turned on him abruptly and cast a dark-eyed scowl in his
direction. That clamped the ensign up almost immediately and he
looked away, contrite. Even staring up into the overhead rafters,
Bar could tell the captain’s gaze remained locked on him, almost
daring another insubordinate question.

“You mean to bait the
Torchlight
using
that civilian transport?” inquired Stowe.

“We just need them to slow, or come about in
an effort to contact the Empire. That’ll give us just the break we
need to run them down without further trouble,” affirmed Captain
Moore.

Bar baulked at the notion of using innocent
people as bait. He turned his disbelieving eyes to the two senior
officers locked in discussion, only to find Gryph looking back,
likewise, over the shoulder of his uniform jacket. Their
disapproving eyes met briefly, and Bar watched the dwarf lock his
teeth in anger.

“This is a travesty,” grumbled Gryph.

“What was that, pilot?” asked the captain
forcefully. The marines flanking the captain moved forward
threateningly.

“Watch it, Ensign Havalorne,” warned Stowe,
folding his thick arms over the crisp lines of his oxblood military
overcoat.

“T’was nothing, sir,” surrendered the
pilot.

“Very good.” The captain nodded in smug
satisfaction. “Shall we continue with—”

“You know what,” interrupted Gryph
unexpectedly, “why don’t you go screw yourself, Moore,”

“What?”

“You heard me, I’ll not set this ship to
chasing after one of our own…and especially not after hampering a
distress call. Those civilians’ lives are in our hands; mothers;
fathers, sons and daughters, and I’ll not be the one—”

“All of them treacherous Finny swine as far
as I’m concerned, Mr. Havalorne. And if you do not do as I say this
very instant, I’ll have you arrested right here, not only for
failing to follow orders, but for dereliction of duty,
insubordination, siding with the enemy, and inciting mutiny!” The
captain ended in a red-faced roar that set the veins on his bald
head to throbbing purple just beneath his parchment-like skin. “Now
resume your course this instant!”

“I’d rather end up like Hastings. If I’m to
meet my makers, I’ll do so without the blood of innocent people on
my hands.”

“Marines, arrest this traitor,” issued Moore
rigidly, folding his arms behind his back. The two guards jumped
into action like well-trained dogs, but Gryph offered no
resistance. Instead, he just stood proud at the helm and let them
take him. “Bazzon,” yelled the captain as the prisoner was being
escorted past his station, “can you pilot an airship?”

“Aye, sir,” replied the stunned ensign
automatically. Over the years Lockney had assigned him to
apprentice nearly every station he could, including the helm.

Gryph locked his eyes on Bar. “Without you
to fly, they’re out of options,” he pleaded, struggling momentarily
with the men clutching his arms as he sought to say his piece.
“They’ll have to give up this dishonorable endeavor—there’ll be no
one else to carry it out effectively, you keen? You’re a better man
than Moore…so don’t do his dirty work for him, Bar.”

“Ensign,” the captain’s voice cut through
the room’s tense atmosphere like a sharp knife, “man the helm as
ordered, and set a course for the
Torchlight
!”

Bar’s mind suddenly spiraled and his body
went numb. Gryph couldn’t expect him not to follow the master’s
orders, but then he couldn’t very well follow along with such an
immoral plan without feeling sick inside. Torn between duty or
honor, Bar suddenly felt like the bridge was closing in around him,
constricting to a single point, and it threatened to crush the very
life from him. Gryph’s doleful brown eyes flashed between anger and
sympathy, but Moore’s voice rose to a thunderous rumble, drowning
out even Bar’s own turbulent thoughts. Without realizing it, the
conflicted ensign found himself moving towards the wheel with
mechanical obedience.

As he did, Gryph lashed out from behind.
“You do this and you’re just as vile as that beast posing in the
King’s uniform! Give up this folly, Bar, or the gods will sit in
judgment of you as well!”

But Bar’s hands fell on the wheel on their
own, and he found himself gripping the controls so firm it tore the
skin over one of his chapped knuckles. Blood welled up from the
wound and trickled down his hand, dripping over the wheel’s
age-worn wood. Even long after the pilot was taken away, his words
lingered in Bar’s mind, twisting his guts into an ever tighter knot
as the minutes ticked away and the plight of the civilian transport
remained ignored. Outside, the
Chimera
soared through an
ominous sky choking under clouds and mist.

But what choice do I have?

“Surrounded by traitors,” the captain
grumbled aloud to himself like a man haunted, “would that I could
have been assigned a commission to an all Kinglander crew… The Gods
only know the rest of the kingdoms have shown their true colors of
late. If only I could burn them all out of the sky…as I’ll do so my
prey. They’ll not escape me. I’ll make an example of those Finny
dogs, one and all. Show them no noble family can be allowed to
circumvent the King’s authority, not even one so prestigious. Only
one peace can be made, and they’ll soon discover that well
enough.”

The
Chimera
banked abruptly under Bar’s
guidance. With his heart thundering in his chest, and his vision
narrowed to a point fixed on the ship’s bow spar, his only concern
was holding to the wheel for as long as he could.
If I can get
us far enough away from the Scarlet Cloud, the radio jam will be
ineffective, and that transport can be saved.

But an abrupt blow to the back of his skull
left Bar reeling and staggering in place. In a flash he was grabbed
by strong arms, Stowe’s and the remaining marine, and yanked from
the wheel. They had him. Kicking, Bar fought to retain his post
while Moore screamed in the background, “Take him away,
godsdamn
traitor
, I should have known the mongrel would turn!” The young
ensign, blood drenching the back of his head, weakly grabbed at the
resonance table as he passed by—his fingernails caught wood and dug
ragged grooves in the surface—before he was wheeled about and
struck hard in the face. A burst of light blinded him. A blow to
the gut doubled him over, and the grizzled old boar of an aeronaut
took the opportunity to entwine his fingers into the delicate nest
of Bar’s neck hairs, where he grabbed hold of a fistful, and yanked
hard. Suddenly Bar was nothing more than a puppet, with Stowe in
command, directing him to and fro as the marine rushed forward to
hold the door to the ladderwell open for the pair.

Bar meant to resist—fight back—but he found
his guts on fire and his limbs uncooperative, and fully at the
mercy of the Chief Master’s unrelenting strength. “Chain him with
the rest,” Bar heard Moore yell as he reached the door.

“Keep moving!” ordered Stowe, letting go of
Bar’s hair and thrusting him through the threshold into the
darkened well. Obediently Bar headed for the descending ladder, but
the master-at-arms shoved the barrel of his clatterbolt into the
small of his back and hollered, “Up, Bazzon!”

“Up?” he struggled in pain and
confusion.

“You heard me!”

“…but, there’s nothing up there but the core
and the crow’s deck.

“Concerns like that are quite beyond you
now, Bazzon. You should have followed your orders. Now up!”

“You know I couldn’t go through with it” Bar
tried to reason as he clutched his aching stomach with one arm and
gripped the railing with the other. He felt for sure his guts must
be punctured. “…not that, Stowe…not with those civilians—”

“They’re none of our concern,” barked back
the master-at-arms, his voice hollow in the enclosed space, his
tone angry and lashing like a whip. “Our concern lies solely in the
chain of command, which can’t be so casually tossed aside.” Stowe
prodded Bar on at the point of his weapon, setting him stumbling up
one creaky step after another.

“Nay, not casually, Stowe…unlike some, I’ve
remembered my duty, and it’s to protect the people of this kingdom.
I’ll not leave them to die now…not while Moore uses them as bait.
Gryph was right to refuse when he did, and I was a fool not to.
It’s a wrong too grievous before the eyes of the gods.”

“You think Moore in the wrong, and you in
the right? You’ve no idea what you’re interfering with, boy ‘tis
why we’re all sworn to the rule of order. Despite the man’s
prejudices, I side with Moore, not only because he’s the commanding
officer, but he seeks to maintain the Unity and stand against the
Empire…because should that ship we’re chasing reach Midport, then
all could be lost.”

“How so…I don’t understand.”

“Aye, and I don’t expect you to, Bazzon. For
now you’ll sit up in the captain’s hold with the rest of the
discontents till we sort this mess out.”

“You mean Moore’s secret prison.”

“If that’s how you fancy it, but don’t be
getting bitter about it now. You were given your fair chance to
keep out of it, boy—to follow simple orders—and now, you got no one
but yourself to blame for where your actions have landed you.”

“And the what? Am I to be executed…like
Hastings, without a fair hearing or any semblance of proper
procedure?”

“That ain’t for me to say. Now enough talk,
or I’ll put your fears to an end right here and now with my
clatterbolt, your choice.”

Bar held his tongue and continued in angry
silence up the airbladder’s winding ladderwell. Having cleared the
Chimera’s
main hull and entered into the old bladder
housing, their surroundings opened into a vast chamber of
interwoven spruce and aluminum supports. Years ago, before Bar,
before Lockney—even before the man prior to him—this vast hull was
filled with hydrogen balloons, scores of them—from stem to
stern—but after the introduction of the Atmium Core System all
those balloons were pulled out, replaced with the glass core now
shimmering through the lattice like an azure sun.

As they neared the halfway mark between
crow’s deck and bridge, Bar saw them in the ghostly light, dozens
of men beyond the crisscrossing beams, apparently chained to the
hull’s superstructure. It must have been every Glenfinner and
northman onboard, cuffed one to the next—nearly two dozen in
total—by thick iron chains. They stared out through the shadows as
Stowe and Bar negotiated the narrow catwalk leading to the platform
that had come to serve as their makeshift prison. Near the front
sat Gryph, who even now refused to look Bar in the eyes.