Not a good image to create at a time like this.
Granted, if a pirate fleet successfully attacked us, they’d hardly walk away empty-handed. Captured crew aside, we’re weighed down with as many munitions and supplies as Admiral Khan could purchase. It’s not enough to fill our cargo hold, but the collection could still serve as a hell of a retirement plan for the right enterprising captain.
Ill-advised or not, our formation stirs something in my chest. It’s not so much hope as a sensation of excitement. No matter what happens from here on out, we’ve successfully assembled captains and pilots from no less than five separate countries. Even if everything goes wrong, it’s a feat that hasn’t been accomplished in years.
Now, if only we could get the soldiers and pilots to mix as one fighting unit. Despite our common goal, each ship features disparate traditions and expectations. Having the ships’ marines train together has already created tensions among the men and women. Sparring goes too far . . . or not far enough. I’ve been summoned to break up a few fights before they became something more, but it’s not like anyone’s been shot. Yet.
It’s so frustrating. Each ship has specialties that could benefit the others tremendously. The Namazu’s focus on disciplined swordplay far outclasses ours. The Bastille’s marines are few, but battle-tested. The Agincourt’s pilots have been attempting to instruct ours on the finer points of air combat, but none of the Artemis crew care to attend the seminars. The list goes on.
I keep telling myself that trust can’t be built in a few days, but I’m worried about what will happen when it comes time to face the Ark. Will smoke and fire bind these people together . . . or break them apart?
There’s only one way to find out.
Pulling my trench coat close, I march up the Outer Rim towards the bow. It’s eerily quiet as my footsteps clank against the slick steel below. No vendors hawk their wares here; it’s not worth the risk. Trying to sell to soldiers on a doomed ship? It’s just not a good investment.
Two marines stand guard next to the door of the Cellar with their rifles on their shoulders, huddling against the wind. One cups his hand over his mouth, smoking a cigarette. The other stares into the cloud ocean, leaning her back against the bulkhead’s arch. Neither says a thing to me.
As I descend into the Cellar, I see darkness eventually give way to a flickering light. The light wavers in and out of the doorway until I get close enough to hear the hiss of welding tools intermix with the thunder of ammo trolleys. Rounding the corner, I’m met again with a sight that inspires both pride and dread.
Deck hands pass underneath wings, racing from plane to plane throughout the hangar. Engineers of all different nationalities perch on cockpits and ladders, welding shut any outstanding damage or imperfections. We only get one chance to do this right. There are no do-overs.
Stepping over a fuel hose, I make my way into the flickering forest of tails and engines. Falling sparks reveal patches from all over. A British pilot patiently checks his tail flaps. An Iranian deck hand helps her pilot paint a flowing river running down the full length of a plane’s tail. If it weren’t an instrument of war, it would belong in a gallery.
At one point, I even see Yeti hauling a box of 50 caliber bullets on his good shoulder while resting the other one in a pale white sling. There’s no way he’ll be ready to fight by tomorrow, but I respect his willingness, regardless. Most pilots would’ve opted to stay in World’s End where they at least might have a chance at starting life again. Not Yeti. He couldn’t bear for us to fly off without him. Not when he could help even the body count. Even a few Red Swans and their Wraiths dot the hangar, their golden incentive long gone. Still they choose to fight with us.
Ducking underneath wings and stepping over paint cans and shell casings, I make my way to the Engineering deck.
Tucked into the side of the hangar near the crane tower; a hive of engineers buzzes with ideas and improvements. As I make my way onto the deck, the impact of rivet guns and electric screw drivers replaces the harsh symphony of welding tools. The engineers are even busier than the pilots, readying for tomorrow’s attack.
A flash of red is all I need to point me in the right direction. Diz’s hair is pulled back into a tight knot as she forces her greased hands into the center of a large metallic oval. Sweat drips down the side of her face. It’s clear she’s gotten about as much sleep the last few days as I have, which isn’t much.
“Will they be ready for tomorrow?” I ask.
Diz doesn’t look at me as she forces the rest of her arm up to her shoulder into the hole. “Not a good time lad,” she gasps, peering up at me from under her freckled eyebrows. “These charges have to get set somehow.”
Tensing, I notice the tables around me. Each oval sitting on the work benches around us possesses enough explosive power to blow a hole right through the Artemis’s hull. That’s their sole purpose.
Originally, they were created to be taken down to the Core to destroy it, but after a few trials, they were deemed too heavy to move all that way. Not to mention, a direct detonation of one of these smart bombs would be enough to destroy the Core entirely, most likely killing everyone on board in the process. Instead, smaller explosives have been substituted, with the goal of only knocking the Core out of sync. With the power source unsynced, it should give us just enough time to escape before it goes nova.
At least that’s what I keep telling myself.
The only reason these bombs are considered “smart” is that their backing is one large magnet. Once activated, it locks itself onto whatever metallic surface it’s placed against. The only way to access the charges placed inside is from a small hole drilled into the magnetic face. This way, it’s almost impossible to deactivate the charges once they’ve been laid.
They’re a trademark creation of Diz, birthed from the morbid reality that she and her team have a significant chance of not surviving the setting of the charges. Any enemy troops standing over their bodies at the time of detonation would disintegrate along with the Ark’s hangar doors. A final “fuck you” from beyond the grave.
That’s the worry, though. Once we’re in, we know those doors are going to swing shut on us, just like they did with the Churchill. Diz has the delicate job of devising an explosion large enough to free us, but not so large that everyone in the hangar gets cooked alive. There are many people with whom I’d be more than willing to trade places, but Diz isn’t one of them.
“You still happy you came with us?” I ask her, placing my hands on my hips.
“Oh, just beaming,” she replies curtly. She winces as an audible click echoes out from the bomb.
I flinch.
She smiles, looking back up at me. “We’ll . . . we’re not dead. So we have that going for us.”
The newly-set charge forces me to consider the wisdom of standing on a platform created for the sole purpose of manufacturing experimental bombs.
Satisfied, Diz removes her arm from the metal plating. “It’s not like we can turn back anyways,” she says.
I nod, stopping my feet from turning towards the opening in the tarp.
She wipes her soiled hands on an even dirtier cloth. “We don’t have enough fuel.”
Panic shoots through. “What?”, I ask.
Diz throws the expended towel at the corner waste bin. She misses, but she’s already too preoccupied with the next bomb to care. “Christ, Baz. I’m just taking the piss,” she grins wearily.
Breathing a sigh of relief, I grin with her. Sarcasm is still alive and well here.
Diz threads her hand through the plating of the next subject. “Although, I suppose I wouldn’t put it past the old bastard. Here’s to hoping Sir Khan’s planning to bring his gains back to the nearest port and make that profit you promised him.”
I scratch the back of my head, remembering the pseudo lie of Neodymium being a precious metal. It’s not that it’s untrue . . . It has to be. The stuff comes from the unseen bowels of the earth. I just ha
ve no idea what it’s worth.
Diz blows a strand of hair out of her face, the rest of it sticking to the sweat on her forehead. I can’t tell if it’s gathered there from concentration or nerves. Probably both.
“Because it’s either that,” she continues, “or we go out in his blaze of glory with him.”
Diz shuts her eyes, gritting her teeth. My stomach clenches as I look into the darkness of the bomb’s cavity.
Another click echoes out from its center.
Diz lets out a sigh. “Annnd . . . we’re still here.”
With that, I decide there are safer places to spend what could be my last day on Earth.
Snowflakes try sneaking in behind me as the bulkhead of the Bridge slams shut. The echo ripples through the hallway, into the darkness. The only light betraying the Bridge’s location is a dim green glow that paints silhouettes across the wall. Stepping quietly into the control room, I admire the reflections of instruments dancing and pirouetting across the thick glass. I can barely see the snow outside, sticking to the windshield as the Artemis powers through the storm. Only the running lights of the Namazu and Bastille reveal that we’re in a storm at all.
Only about half of the Bridge staff man the instruments, bustling from machine to machine as I pass by. The rest are either gone, asleep, or spending time with their families. There’s only one more projected night before combat. Anxiety pushes a sickening fist into my stomach.
Standing out from among them is Sabine, poised on the floor at the forefront of the Bridge. A large tape compass sprawls around her. Her outstretched, peppered arm currently leads us somewhere between the crudely taped N, and the barely legible NE. Her eyes stay closed. I can’t tell if it’s out of exhaustion, or concentration. Again, I’m going to say both.
The Helmsman twists the tiller to align the ship’s nose with Sabine’s rigid arm. It’s hardly sophisticated, but it’s the only way we have to continue our pursuit of the Ark. I try stepping as quietly as I can as I approach the circle. It’s late, and people don’t want to be bothered.
As the sole of my shoe touches the makeshift compass, Sabine opens her mouth. “It’s good that you’re here Sage. I’ve been meaning to speak with you,” she says, her eyes still closed.
Much like Stenia, she’s identified something in the way I carry myself that’s particular to me, just by listening to my dampened footsteps.
“Come closer,” she says.
Moving to the center of the circle, my skin prickles at the magnetic pull. Although I’m a head taller then she is, I can still feel the power emanating from her, almost in waves. Gazing down past her finger tips, she reaches out into the darkness, pointing to where we’ll meet our destiny. Whatever it is.
I can’t help wishing that she would turn her arm, and the ship, around, back to where we came from. Away from all of the dangers crawling in the dawn, waiting for us to cross that threshold.
Sabine lowers her arm, opening her eyes into mine. The blast of their cold blue washes over me. They no longer remind me of melting ice. Instead, they’re reminiscent of the blizzard outside, brooding and powerful.
“I’ve been meaning to thank you,” she says.
“For what?” I ask.
“For helping to make all of this possible,” she says. “Without you, we wouldn’t have an army. Without you, we wouldn’t be able to stop my father.”
I’m at a loss for words. “We haven’t done it yet,” I say.
Sabine motions around the Bridge with her uninjured hand, gesturing to the running lights of the zeppelins flying in formation alongside us. “We united five separate nations under one cause. We raised an army from nothing. We’re taking the action that has to occur in order to stop all of this.” She pauses. “To me, that means everything. After seeing firsthand what my father’s done, the people he’s killed, children like Aoife . . . This is the only course.”
Before I can process what’s happening, Sabine threads her arms around my waist, pulling me close to her.
I stand there, frozen. I’ve never seen Sabine’s make physical contact with anyone since the day we met.
She lays her shock blond head on my chest, pressing her studded arm into my side.
Slowly, I put my hands around her shoulders.
“You should get some sleep Sabine. You’ve been at this for hours,” I say. “I think you might be getting a little delusional.”
Sabine releases me. “I believe you are guilty of a similar crime, Lieutenant.” She massages her studded wrist, looking back up at me. “You have to lead a much larger force than I do tomorrow. I know for a fact that you have not slept much either.”
It’s hard to sleep when you know that each passing hour creeps closer to the one that could be your last. I suppose it’s always been that way, I’ve just never been so aware of it until now.
We stand in silence, watching the snow fall. A strong wind blows against the bow, rumbling soundlessly past us.
She shakes her head. “Sage, I –“
“Mr. Basmon – a word please.”
The voice interrupts us from the side of the Bridge. Sanjar Khan leans out of his quarters, fixing his gaze on me.
Sabine stiffens, turning back around to continue her work.
“Go Lieutenant,” she says, collecting herself. “I give you my word that I will be well enough rested to guide you tomorrow.”
I open my mouth to protest, but her turned back says that whatever bizarre episode just occurred is over. Instead, I nod, making my way towards the Admiral’s Quarters. Before I pass the line of the tape compass, I notice a set of grey points gleaming part way up a dark wall. Raltz’s eyes cut through the darkness, continuing their vigil, watching my every move. I’ve never earned his trust. It’s an impossible battle. And no longer my responsibility.
My footsteps echo off of the pale oak floorboards as I enter into the Admiral’s office. The enveloping hum of the Artemis dampens to near silence as the door shuts behind me. My heart pounds as I make my way up the flight of steps to his desk. What could he want from me so late in the game?
“Good evening Mr. Basmon.”
The Admiral’s words are tired. Strain etches itself into his heavy eyes as he pours a glass of wine.
He takes a moment to look up, mid-pour. “Would you like some, Lieutenant?”
There’s something warm about his offer; like he’s finally ready to put the past behind him.
“No thank you sir,” I respond. “Only water for me the night before a battle.”
The Admiral lets out a half chuckle. “That’s interesting. It’s only wine for me the night before a battle.”
The smile breaks across my lips before I can stop it. “Very reassuring,” I say.
The Admiral’s chair creaks as he leans back. “Well, when a man’s about to gamble his entire fleet based on limited information and sketchy projections, he’s entitled to a drink. Wouldn’t you say Lieutenant?”
“I’d say that’s fair enough,” I offer, settling into the plush chair across from him.
The admiral sits back, regarding me for a moment. His grey eyes miss nothing, although there’s something in them that I’ve never seen before. Maybe a hint of uncertainty? His hair has thinned since I’ve seen him last. There’s much less pepper than salt now. Then again, maybe it’s always been this way and I’ve just never had the perspective to realize it.
“Lieutenant Basmon, I’m sure you know that I didn’t invite you into my quarters just to offer a drink.” He pauses, as if to make one last decision. “I’ve brought you here, so I could give you this.”
Demonstrating the agility he once commanded, Sanjar flicks a small black rectangle from inside his cufflink to his fingertips. Gingerly, he hands it to me across the table. It’s no bigger than the palm of my hand. It doesn’t weigh much either. Feeling grooves along its bottom, I flip it over to reveal a key pressed into the back of the plastic slat.
“What’s this?”, I ask.
“That,” the
Admiral says, leaning forward, “is something that I’m giving to you for safe keeping.”
I furrow my brow, frustrated by his vagueness. “You can’t give me any more information than that?”
The Admiral settles into his chair. “No. Because I’m hedging my bets on surviving this battle and retaining all the secrets that little rectangle has.”
Sitting back, I inspect the object for more clues. A more in-depth search reveals nothing.
“So why give it to me then?” I ask.
The Admiral takes a large sip of wine before responding. “Because if I do die, I can rest well knowing that it’s in good hands.”
I turn the object over in my fingers. “And what’s your plan if both of us get killed?” I probe.
The Admiral places his hand at the bottom of the stemmed glass, swirling it thoughtfully. “There isn’t one. If both of us perish tomorrow, there is no one else who I would want to entrust with that key.”
Now I’m totally confused. None of this makes any sense.
Aware of my bewilderment, the Admiral sets his glass down, getting up from his chair. “Lieutenant. As I’m sure you know, I have no living heirs. I have no wife. I have no brothers or sisters,” he says placing a hand on the table and leaning into the light. “What I do have, is the crew that I’ve brought together. The families I’ve seen raised on this ship.” He picks up his hand from the table, pointing at me. “You are a product of one of those families. I’ve watched you grow. I’ve watched you make decisions throughout your life. Not all of them good . . . In fact, many of them weren’t. But, there was one common theme that ran through them all.”
I sit, dumfounded. I had no idea the Admiral had any inkling of who I was before I joined his Air Corps.
His grey eyes bore into mine. “That common theme was your unwavering will to protect others.” He scratches his mustache. “That’s not a natural occurrence in people. That’s not normal. Nature’s instinct is to take care of oneself and protect one’s gains. To fight the world if you have to.” He shakes his head. “But not you. I watched you get countless bloody noses and black eyes fighting to protect the other children from those who were stronger. You lost most of those fights. Beat unconscious in several of them. Yet, you put your body on the line for them each and every time.”
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