Precipice

by Thomas Webb

  Smythe cleared his throat. “Thank you for having us here, Senator,” Smythe nodded toward Truveaux, “and Governor. Now then, shall we get down to business?”

  2 The Atlantic - 1/2 Day’s Flight from Union Shores, September 1866

  "Attention to orders!" Major Vincent announced, reading from the parchment in his hand. He put up a good fight, but keeping the smile from his face ultimately proved too difficult a task for the young first officer.

  The sun shone, and the smell of the ocean permeated the air. The U.S.S. Vindication hovered several hundred feet above the surface of the sea as Colonel Julius Montclair, 21st Union Army Air Corps, gazed over the ranks of soldiers gathered on his foredeck. He bristled with pride at the sight of the men and women of his crew. Row upon row of disciplined soldiers stood in precise formation as together they partook in one of the most sacred and honored traditions in the military.

  A shame the skeleton crews in the engine rooms and the duty roster have to miss this, Montclair thought.

  He felt a fleeting pang of guilt before reminding himself that everyone had drawn lots. Luck just hadn’t been with those who were now pulling duty, but that was the creed the soldier lived by — duty above all else.

  “Headquarters, Department of the Potomac,” Major Vincent read, his voice ringing out strong and clear. “The President of the Union reposes special trust and confidence in the patriotism, valor, fidelity, and abilities of Private John Brown. In view of these qualities and his demonstrated potential for increased responsibility, be it hereby known that on this fifteenth day of September, in the year of Our Lord 1866, I do hereby promote this soldier to the rank of corporal, bestowing upon him all the powers of that rank and station.” Major Vincent rolled the parchment with care before looking up at the soldier standing before him. “Corporal,” Major Vincent said, addressing the man, “please come forward.”

  Montclair watched as a wide, gap-toothed smile spread across his newly minted corporal’s face. Montclair’s jaw trembled as he struggled to maintain his bearing. Finally, he gave in and allowed himself a grin.

  His first officer’s part in the ceremony done, Montclair stepped forward. “Corporal John Brown,” he said, addressing both the soldier being promoted and the assembled crew. “Most of us gathered here know you by another name… isn’t that right, Bull?”

  A ripple of laughter ran through the assembled ranks.

  Montclair held up a hand for silence, the gesture softened by a chuckle of his own. “As an airship colonel, there exist few greater honors than the promoting of my soldiers, and through your deeds, Corporal Brown, you have more than earned yours.”

  Montclair held the double chevron points up to Bull’s high collar. The corporal’s massive neck and shoulders strained at the seams of his Union-blue uniform jacket. Montclair ran through a mental list of reasons for his newest corporal’s nickname. There was the most obvious — the sheer size of the man. There was the color of his skin — midnight-black and dark as a bull’s hide. And finally there was the way he fought — charging into battle as fierce and stubborn as his namesake. Montclair wished he had one hundred more like him.

  Montclair pinned the chevrons on with great care, smoothing them into the fabric of the uniform jacket with a steady hand. Then, Montclair raised both his fists as if he would beat them against the massive soldier’s barrel chest. In keeping with tradition, Montclair pounded the metal rank insignia through the uniform material and into Bull’s flesh with one swift, two-fisted blow.

  A cheer went up from the assembled troops. Bull grabbed Montclair up in a bear hug, much to Montclair’s surprise.

  “Thank you, sir!" The big man, a former slave, beamed. “I’m right obliged to you for this!”

  Air rushed from Montclair’s lungs as the much larger soldier pulled him into a crushing embrace. Before that moment, Montclair would never have thought it possible to smile and grimace at the same time.

  “All right, corporal,” Montclair gasped. “Enough, now.”

  Even stoic Ueda Kenshin, exiled samurai from the island nation of Nippon and Montclair’s great friend and mentor, managed to crack a smile.

  The ceremony concluded, Major Vincent called the crew to attention. Montclair went through the motions of dismissing them, his actions as automated as a punchcard-driven clockwerk.

  As his crew shuffled off to the waiting celebration, Montclair’s mind drifted. During those brief, too-few moments of reflection he was able to steal during his days as a Union airship commander, Montclair still found it difficult to believe only six months had passed since the events outside Washington. Only six months since they’d managed to save the capital city and with it the Union itself. Even more unbelievable was who they’d partnered with to do it — the only two “good” Department of Strategic Intelligence agents Montclair had ever known.

  Since then, the world had turned upside down. No one was surprised when James Smythe, the prime suspect in the joint DSI/Union military investigation into the incident outside D.C., had appealed to the lowest common denominator of the Confederate voting populous and won. They’d been disappointed, certainly, but not surprised. Smyth had lied, stolen, and killed his way to the Presidency of the Confederate States. He’d consolidated power quickly, and since his inauguration, diplomacy between the Union and the Confederacy had ground to an irreconcilable halt.

  To Montclair’s thinking, Smythe would rather take both countries back to a shooting conflict than give up his power, thus making him all the more dangerous. This as opposed to Davis. Davis had been a bastard in his own right, but at least he hadn’t been so much of a monster as to callously waste the lives of his own countrymen. At least he’d had the Healer-given sense to keep the lines of communication with the Union open. At least he’d been smart enough to entertain the idea of reconciliation with the north. Ironic, how the very idea of reconciliation had likely gotten him killed.

  Montclair smirked. That and a marked lack of sense in both self-preservation and security protocols.

  He’d wasted no tears mourning the death of Jeff Davis, but what came after was, arguably, worse.

  Negotiations had stopped the day Smythe sat down in the Confederate President’s chair. He’d reached out to foreign powers, ones that had reason to be jealous of the Union, almost openly inviting a return to hostilities.

  Once again, the fragile peace between North and South known as The Stalemate stood in jeopardy. Talk of outright war was on everyone’s lips.

  To make matters worse, Montclair hadn’t spoken to Greg in months. Major Aldan Gregory, Union Marine Corps, was Montclair’s oldest and closest friend. He’d given Montclair his word that they’d meet three weeks after Montclair helped him bring a personal vendetta to a close. With Montclair’s help, Greg had won well-deserved vengeance against a Strategic Intelligence agent named Kincaid. But there’d been no meeting after, despite Greg’s solemn vow. The Marine major had given Montclair, his best friend, his word, and then, he’d broken it.

  Montclair had used all his back-channel contacts to search for Greg, only to have his efforts stonewalled at every turn. “On assignment for the Office of the President,” they’d told him.

  Montclair gritted his teeth at the memory, feeling insulted. Did they take him for a fool? It was obvious to anyone with eyes to see that Greg had been sheep-dipped, conscripted into the service of Strategic Intelligence. If they’d sent a clockwerk with the very words painted on its chest compartment, it might have been more subtle.

  “Crew’s meeting in the galley to celebrate Bull’s promotion, Colonel,” the Sergeant Major’s voice intruded into Montclair’s thoughts.

  Lost in his own head, Montclair hadn’t even noticed the grizzled senior non-commissioned officer come up next to him. Montclair glanced at the old man with the eyepatch.

  The sergeant major’s lone blue eye looked out at the clouds beneath them as he stood alongside Montclair. “Would do them good to see you there, too,” he said.

&nbs
p; Montclair grunted in response.

  The sergeant major frowned in that fatherly way he often did. “Too fair a day for dark thoughts, Colonel.” He looked at Montclair eye to eye. “I expect to see you in that galley straightaway.”

  Montclair gave in, relinquishing the fight with a lopsided smile. “Point taken, Sergeant Major.”

  The sergeant major left the foredeck and merged into the sea of midnight-blue uniforms spilling toward the hatchways that would take them below decks. Montclair was just about to join them when the airship-wide loudaphone sounded.

  “Airship inbound,” the duty officer’s voice boomed across the length of Montclair’s vessel. “Markings name her as the U.S.S. Intrepid. Vindication to full stop. Duty contingent of the ship’s guard, report to the foredeck.”

  Already on the foredeck, Montclair remained where he was. He frowned. The last time they’d been intercepted by a Union airship, the news had not been good.

  Less than a minute later, Montclair's captain of the airship’s guard appeared. It was like her to draw the duty lot herself, forgoing Bull’s celebratory wetdown. Eight of her on-duty guardsmen accompanied her. Montclair watched her approach. Her sea-gray eyes were sharp and alert under a short, white-blond buzz cut. Her uniform, as always, was flawless.

  She stepped up to Montclair and saluted. “Duty contingent of the airship’s guard reporting, sir.”

  Montclair returned her salute and nodded his approval. “Very good. Take your positions, Captain.”

  As the captain and her troops arranged themselves into formation, Montclair spied Major Jasper emerge from the hatchway closest to the galley.

  “I’d barely sat down,” the major said, moving to stand next to his colonel. “My lips hadn’t even touched the first mug of ale.”

  Montclair laughed. “Since when do you drink ale, Jasper?”

  Major Vincent shrugged. “It’s a wetdown, sir. I thought it a good time to start.”

  “You never cease to surprise me, Jasper.” Montclair nodded toward the airship pulling alongside. “Look sharp. We have guests.”

  The U.S.S. Intrepid drew alongside Vindication and floated to a stop. Montclair surveyed the airship as it hovered there next to his, the unmistakable purple glow of forbidden dark-aether technology emanating from its engine nacelles. Dark-aether hardly raised Montclair’s brow anymore, even though the technology was strictly forbidden by the Alchemists’ Guild.

  Sure, the guild wielded tremendous influence in every civilized government in the world, but what they didn’t know about Union military business wouldn’t hurt them, would it?

  The Intrepid was smaller, sleeker, and faster than Vindication, but she was not nearly as mighty. Intrepid was a newer airship, fitted out with captured Confederate engine technology — technology acquired the previous year, courtesy of Montclair and his crew.

  The Union had enjoyed a string of several significant victories last year, all in the months leading up to Smythe’s election. His winning the Confederate presidency signaled the end of that. A chill ran down Montclair’s spine at the thought of what else Smythe might have in store for them.

  Intrepid rested at an elevation several feet above Vindication’s siderail. Montclair watched as members of the smaller airship’s crew lowered her gangplank. Seconds later, a tiny woman bounded down the gangplank’s incline, the two gold clusters at her collar marking her rank as major. A taller lieutenant, flanked by two stocky riflemen, followed close behind her.

  The major looked like a child in her uniform, but she strode across Vindication’s deck as if she owned it. She stepped right up to Montclair, called her retinue to attention, and rendered a razor-sharp salute. Montclair fought the urge to smirk. She was all business, this one, a soldier’s soldier wrapped up in a petite little package.

  “Good afternoon, Colonel,” she said.

  The major’s skin was as fair as milk and as smooth as porcelain. She wore her walnut-hued hair up, pulled back into a tight bun. She gazed up at Montclair with serious eyes the color of nutmeg. Montclair reminded himself to be professional. This was a major of the Union Army, after all. Her rank was no less official than that of his own first officer. Montclair had no doubt she’d earned the respect due that rank, but the fact that the major was as cute as a brass button didn’t help much to reinforce the notion.

  Montclair returned her salute. “Welcome aboard, Major. Please,” he added, “you and your men stand at your ease.” Montclair extended his hand. “Colonel Julius Montclair. And you are?”

  The major and her men stood at ease. She accepted Montclair’s offered hand, hers barely closing around his.

  “Major Wilma Stevens, sir. A pleasure.” Stevens nodded toward the man next to her. “This here’s my first officer, Lieutenant Scott.”

  Montclair surveyed Scott, an unremarkable man with thinning hair that may have once been blond. “The pleasure is mine, Major.”

  Montclair offered Scott his hand. The Intrepid’s first officer gave a limp, rather moist handshake. Montclair resisted the urge to wipe his palm on the breast of his uniform coat.

  Montclair turned to his second-in-command. “May I introduce my own first officer? This is Major Jasper Vincent.”

  Montclair noticed Jasper’s lip quiver when he shook the major’s hand.

  “P-Pleasure to meet you Wilm—Major Stevens,” Jasper said.

  Stevens hardly acknowledged him.

  Montclair fought mightily not to laugh. “Seems you’ve caught us in the middle of a celebration, Major,” Montclair said, saving his first officer from further embarrassment. “There was a promotion this afternoon.” Montclair gave a genuine smile, the pride in his troops radiating. “Can we invite you and your men below decks for some refreshment? We’d be honored if you joined us.”

  Stevens shook her head. “Thank you, Colonel, but I’m afraid we can’t. Our orders take us to England. We were only tasked with seeking you out a day ago.” Stevens looked at her first officer and then back to Montclair. “We’re here to relay a message, sir.”

  Montclair’s guard went up. The feeling of uneasiness returned with a vengeance. “I see,” he said, “and what is the message?”

  “The president wishes to see you, sir. You’re to make best speed for Washington, DC.”

  “When?” Montclair asked.

  “Immediately, sir.”

  Damnation, Montclair swore to himself, recalling the last time he’d been summoned this way. The meeting following that last summons had kicked off a subsequent series of events that almost ended in the destruction of Washington. He guessed nothing good would come of this new meeting, either.

  “All right, Major,” Montclair said. “Heard and understood. Consider your message delivered.”

  Stevens relaxed as if a weight had been lifted from her shoulders. “Thank you, sir.”

  Her first officer leaned down and whispered something into her ear. Stevens listened and then nodded once.

  She looked back up at Montclair. “If you’ll excuse us, sir, we’ll need to be getting back under way.”

  Montclair nodded, his thoughts already turning toward D.C.. “Of course.” Montclair paused as something occurred to him. He weighed it in his mind for a moment before curiosity finally got the best of him. “Major, I do have one question before you go.”

  Stevens inclined her head slightly. “Certainly, sir.”

  “I wasn’t aware they were giving majors command of their own airships,” he ventured, the question implied in his words.

  Stevens plucked an errant strand of dark brown hair from her forehead and tucked it behind her ear. “The new Osprey class airships are smaller than Vindication, sir. They’re designed for speed. We execute light, quick attacks instead of relying on brute strength.” Stevens’ eyes widened when she realized she may have insulted Montclair. “Umm, begging your pardon, sir, and meaning no offense to the Vindication.” The major looked around. “She’s a magnificent airship.”

  Montclair smiled. �
�None taken. And yes, that she is.”

  Stevens smiled back. “As I was saying, sir, with the new, smaller class of airships entering the fleet, they’ve opened up command to the major ranks.”

  Her eyes flicked to Major Jasper’s collar but only for a split-second. Montclair swore if his first officer’s skin wasn’t so dark, Jasper would have turned beet red.

  “It’s a fairly recent change,” Stevens was quick to add. “Word may not have gotten around to the entire Air Corps yet.”

  “I see,” Montclair said. “Good to know, Major. Thank you for delivering the message. The Healer be with you on your journey.”

  Major Stevens grasped the hilt of her saber and bowed at the waist. “Thank you, sir. May the Healer be with you, as well. Sir,” she said, looking Montclair in the eye, “what you did at the Battle of the Potomac… it’s not forgotten. The Union owes you much. Know that the Intrepid is at your disposal if ever you require her.”

  Inside, Montclair squirmed at the mention of his actions at the Potomac but showed nothing to the outside world except a rather handsome poker face. “Thank you, Major. I’ll keep that in mind.”

  Major Stevens and her men came to attention. Montclair and Jasper followed suit, along with each airship’s respective honor guard. Stevens and Scott saluted, and Montclair returned them.

  “By your leave, sir?” Stevens asked, invoking the traditional airship’s departure ritual.

  Montclair nodded his agreement. “You have my leave and with my thanks for diverting from your mission for this.”

  “An honor sir,” Stevens said. She glanced at Jasper, the barest hint of a smile in her eyes, and nodded. “Major.”