Avast, Ye Airships Anthology

by Amy Braun

  “Colonel Storm?” Dirk’s tongue felt thick in his mouth, and every nerve tingled.

  “Captain Dynamo.” Storm spun his pistol one last time, the glass bulb on the back glowing, and holstered it. He gave a casual salute. “Or do you no longer go by rank, sir?”

  “Not in a few years.” Dirk heaved himself up enough to see the straps binding him to the beams. They were riveted in place, without buckles or laces he might undo. “I seem to remember we met during the war?”

  “I crossed paths with most Pinkertons in my day,” Storm replied, fingers brushing the ragged hole at his shoulder. “The War for Southern Independence made us some strange enemies, and stranger bed-fellows.”

  “We’ve all done things we ain’t proud of.” Dirk tried to keep the loathing from his voice; loathing for his own past as much as for this man with his slaver’s suit. “Looks like you’re fixing to do more now.”

  “Oh, but I am proud of my achievements, Captain. And I am proud of my country.” Storm looked towards one of the Confederate flags hanging from the beams, and a tear sparkled in the corner of his eye. “You Yankees may have the upper hand for now, but a wind will rise from the South, sir. It will rise like God’s fury let loose upon your vile Union. It will come a-roarin’ and a-poundin’ against the walls of Washington and New York and all your proud, gleaming cities. The South will rise, sir. The South will rise!”

  Storm whipped out his pistol. Lightning burst from its barrel and jolted into Blaze-Simms, who woke with a scream.

  Colonel Storm holstered the pistol, its globe glowing a little fainter, and took out his whip. He swung it in long arcs and the vultures circled in towards the hiss. Their eyes shared Storm’s hateful gleam, and razor-sharp blades gleamed on their beaks and talons.

  “I ain’t bein’ brought low again, boys.” Storm cracked the whip. Pain lashed Dirk’s cheek. Blood dribbled down his face and into his hair. The vultures screeched excitedly. “Not by the thievin’ Yankee government. Not by the lyin’ Pinkertons. Certainly not by some two-bit adventurin’ club come boardin’ my fine ship on a flyin’ bicycle.”

  The whip cracked again and Blaze-Simms yelped. Blood trickled from his chin.

  “Goodbye, gentlemen.” Storm saluted the flag and disappeared up a ladder into the airship proper.

  The vultures cried out and circled closer.

  “I say, old chap,” Blaze-Simms mumbled, patting at his many pockets. “What on earth is going on?”

  Dirk heaved himself upward, stomach muscles tightening until his head came above his waist and his hands could reach his feet. Being upside down might be a problem for Storm’s usual victims of trans-Atlantic emigrants and scared cabin boys, but not for a man who’d made the effort to build up his own body. He reached down the side of his boot, but—as he had feared—the Bowie knife was gone.

  He felt a swift lash of pain as razor talons skimmed the back of his legs. Another vulture swept past his head, its beak ripping the back of his jacket.

  “Ouch!” Blaze-Simms flailed wildly, as if his thin, flapping arms might deter the birds.

  Dirk tried to twist his foot loose but it was no good—his ankle gave an agonizing pop, and the straps showed not the least sign of movement.

  “You got any scalpels?” he called out, as another vulture tore a gash in his arm.

  “Sorry, no.” Blaze-Simms looked pale and frantic, his shirt and tailcoat ripped open in a dozen places, blood soaking the cloth.

  “Scissors?”

  “No.”

  “Match?”

  “Sorry, nothing pointed or burning or argh!”

  Blaze-Simms screamed as one of the birds raked its beak down his back.

  “OK, then.” Dirk looked back at the vultures. He needed something to cut himself free. He had nothing. Blaze-Simms had nothing. That left one option.

  A vulture swooped in close, bladed claws reaching out towards Dirk. Instead of trying to avoid it, he swung towards the bird. It squawked in alarm as he grabbed hold, one hand around its wing, the other around its neck. Two-foot-long wings battered at Dirk while bladed claws hacked at his arm. He squeezed his fists tight and twisted. There was a crack as the bird’s neck snapped and it went limp.

  “Sorry,” Dirk said as he yanked the blade from its beak. “It ain’t personal.”

  He let go of the body and it tumbled away towards the sea, the other vultures chasing it down. Carrion birds always had an eye out for easy pickings.

  “It was trying to kill you,” Blaze-Simms said. “That seems awfully personal to me.”

  “Just an animal,” Dirk said, heaving himself up to his foot-straps once more. “It’s never the critter that’s to blame. Always the owner.”

  He set to cutting himself free.

  #

  Dirk and Blaze-Simms crept out of a corridor and into the wheelhouse of the airship. Dirk limped, trying to keep the weight off his injured ankle while still staying quiet. He clutched the blade he had taken from the vulture, while Blaze-Simms wielded a mop handle they had found on the way up through the vessel.

  Wind lashed at them as they emerged. The space was less a wheelhouse and more a wheel deck, wide open to the elements at the front. The great wheel was strapped into place, keeping them on a straight heading, and there was no-one to be seen. More Confederate flags flapped above the edge of the deck, where a plank protruded out into the open air.

  “Stop right there, gentlemen,” came the Colonel’s distinctive voice.

  Dirk turned to see Storm standing in the shadows of the far corner. The glass bulb on the back of his pistol glowed less brightly than before, but it lit his face a stark white as he pointed the weapon towards them.

  “Drop that there blade.” The Colonel walked slowly towards them, gun steady in his hand. “The stick too.”

  Dirk, letting the knife go, heard it and Blaze-Simms’s mop handle clatter onto the deck.

  “Now, over towards the edge,” Storm said. “And don’t you think of makin’ any funny moves.”

  They slowly sidled across the deck, watching the Colonel’s impatient scowl.

  “Faster,” he growled, blasting the floor by their feet with a bolt of electricity from his pistol.

  “I say, that’s a frightfully clever device,” Blaze-Simms said, as they hurried over towards the plank. “Do you have a generator to power it?”

  “Lightning,” Storm replied. “Got me a mast catches the power.”

  “How ingenious!” Blaze-Simms’s face lit up with excitement. “But it looks to me like you’re running low on power.”

  “Then I guess I’ll have to deal with you by other means.” Storm raised an eyebrow, gesturing towards the plank.

  “You gonna make us walk that?” Dirk asked.

  “Reckon I am. You first, Captain.”

  “And if I don’t go?”

  Storm gave the trigger the slightest squeeze. The bolt of lightning that leapt out was small, but it was enough to make Blaze-Simms scream and fall to his knees, flames flickering from the top of his hat.

  “Well, alright then.” Dirk turned and stepped onto the plank. It was good, solid wood—pine maybe. It had a little spring to it, and he felt it start to bend beneath him as he walked. There were times he’d thought he might die beneath the Confederate banner, but not like this.

  Not that he intended to die.

  He bent his knees, his twisted ankle aching, and leapt. The plank gave him extra spring as he flung himself sideways, grabbing one of the flags and swinging on it towards the deck.

  Storm screamed in fury at the desecration of his precious banner. Pain juddered through Dirk, frying his every nerve end, but he clung on tight. There was a ripping sound, and he free-wheeled through the air, slamming into the deck with most of the flag still in his hands, his heart hammering and his head pounding. Darkness crept into the edges of his vision as he staggered to his feet.

  “Damn you, Yankee scum!” Storm raised the pistol, but there was barely any glow in the bulb no
w. It only buzzed as he pulled the trigger.

  Storm reached for his belt, fumbling at a round pouch. Dirk staggered towards him, each step a strain on his screaming muscles, twisting the banner around.

  The Colonel opened the pouch, and pulled out another glowing globe. Dirk lashed out with the tightly coiled flag. His improvised whip knocked the ball from the Colonel’s hand.

  Storm scurried after the globe, leaning down to grab it at the edge of the deck.

  Before he could find his balance, Blaze-Simms flung his top hat, the flaming headgear hitting the Colonel in the back of the head. He gave a pained yelp, lost his balance, and went tumbling over the side.

  Dirk leaned out and watched as Storm fell, end over end, towards the sea far below, his vultures circling down after him.

  “Guess we let the prisoners out now,” Dirk said, turning towards Blaze-Simms. “Take ‘em all home.”

  His colleague staggered to his feet.

  “Any chance of a cup of tea first?” he asked.

  “Only chicory, remember?”

  Blaze-Simms sighed.

  “Of course. What more can one expect of a pirate?”

  Hooked

  by Rie Sheridan Rose

  “I want to go on an airship!” Wynelda P. Darling stamped her foot, fists balled at her sides.

  “But Wyndie, dear—” her father began.

  “An airship!”

  Mr. Darling sighed. “It is your trip, and you may plan it as you wish, but half the point of a Continental Progress is to see the Continent. The airships don’t land just anywhere you happen to fancy. You will miss the finer points of travel...”

  “Don’t care, Father. I want to fly!” She spread her arms and twirled in a cloud of skirts. “Please, I’m finally old enough to travel on an airship, and that is what I wish to do. I need adventure. This may be my only chance before I must settle down and be adult.”

  Mr. Darling sighed again. It was true that Wyndie had been obsessed with birds and flight since she was a fledgling herself. An accident involving a young boy when she was still in swaddling clothes had led to regulations requiring all passengers on the mighty airships to be eighteen or older. Families had to forego air travel if their children were below the age of majority. Wyndie had been marking days off her calendar for two years, dreaming of the day she was old enough to fly.

  Today was her eighteenth birthday.

  When he had told her over breakfast that his gift to her was a trip around the world, this was the reaction.

  “Very well. You shall travel by airship whenever feasible. Will that do? There are some areas not on the routes that I would hate for you to miss...”

  “Oh, Father! You are the best, most wonderful man in the world!” She threw her arms around his neck and hugged him enthusiastically.

  Whatever Wyndie did was always enthusiastic.

  #

  It took three weeks to book all the arrangements, but soon enough Wyndie stood before the air liner Neverland, the most luxurious transport available to the public. She gripped her valise in both hands, vibrating with excitement.

  Mr. Darling, hands clasped behind his back, shook his head fondly. “I wish you the finest of trips, my dear. Be on your best behavior. You are representative of our whole family, so do not fail me.”

  Wyndie rolled her eyes. “I promise, Father.”

  He led her to the captain, and introduced the man. “Wyndie, dear, this is Captain Pan. Do as he says in all things. He knows his ship—and we can’t have you falling off it.”

  Wyndie groaned. “I am not a child, Father. You will have the captain thinking I have to be lashed to the mast.”

  The captain chuckled, and then said, “There is no danger of you being taken for a child, miss. I am quite sure we’re all in for a lovely voyage.”

  #

  For the first few days, it seemed the captain was right. The sky was a field of cerulean blue, occasionally strewn with lacy clouds, and kissed by a perfect breeze.

  But on the morning of the fifth day, Wyndie woke to masses of gray cloud outside her porthole, and the swaying of the airship as it was buffeted by gusts of wind. Being Wyndie, she immediately dressed in her warmest clothes, and dashed for the deck.

  The captain stood at the wheel, fighting for control as the gusts sang through the rigging. Wyndie staggered toward him, bracing herself against the gale.

  “Is this normal, captain?” she shouted above the squall.

  “It’s nothing to worry about, miss, but you’d be safer down in your stateroom.”

  Wyndie wound a bit of rope around her wrist. “I’m staying here. I’ve never seen a storm from the top before.”

  Pan scowled at her. “I could order you down below, but somehow I doubt you’d listen.”

  “And we have such a short acquaintance for you to know me so well.” She batted her lashes at him.

  The storm seemed to be growing in intensity, as rain began to lash the deck, making footing treacherous.

  “Don’t move!” Pan shouted above the wind. “I will not be responsible for you falling off the ship.”

  “I’m a big girl now.” Wyndie glimpsed something in the distance and pointed at it. “What on earth is that?”

  Pan followed the direction of her point, and swore under his breath. “I’d know that damn ship anywhere.”

  “Is that someone following us?”

  Pan spun the wheel, fighting to turn the ship. “It’s the bloody Jolly Roger—it’s Hook! I don’t know how he found us, but I will not lose my ship to a bloody pirate.”

  “A pirate!” Wyndie’s eyes widened. “Are we in danger?”

  “Not if I have anything to say about it.” There was a grim set to the captain’s features. “I strongly suggest that you go down below, miss.”

  “But you might need me!” Wyndie protested. “Where is the crew? I assumed they would be at their stations by now.”

  “We weren’t expecting any trouble, and the meteorological forecast was for clear skies the remainder of the week; most of the crew disembarked at last night’s stop to replenish supplies or take a leave. We’ve only a skeleton staff at the moment, and only one or two of them are sailors. The rest are passenger support personnel.”

  “Well that is convenient timing.”

  “I don’t need your sarcasm, Miss Darling. If you really want to be helpful, take hold of that rope,” he ordered, pointing across the ship, “and pull on it with all your might.”

  Wyndie braced herself and scuttled to the indicated position. She put all her weight into it, as she hauled on the rope. It moved six or eight inches before she could move it no further.

  “That’s all I can do, Captain,” she shouted, before emitting a squeal of terror at the sight of the pistol in his hand.

  “Duck!”

  She dropped to the deck as the pistol ball whistled over her head.

  “It isn’t very sporting to shoot at a lady,” chided an unfamiliar voice.

  Wyndie glanced up to see a tall figure dressed in black velvet and red silk looming over her. Her mouth fell open. Was this a pirate? He looked so splendid compared to Pan’s conventional green uniform.

  A sun-browned hand reached down to help her up. She took the assistance to scramble to her feet.

  “Unhand her, Hook!” The captain cried.

  “What do you say, little lady? Should I let you go?”

  Wyndie stammered, “I–I would really rather you didn’t.” She was standing very close to the rail, and the sky was a boiling sea of cloud beneath the ship.

  The pirate threw back his head and laughed.

  Wyndie took the opportunity to study him more closely. He was a rakish figure; dark wavy hair pulled back at the nape of his neck, brown eyes that sparkled with humor, a raised scar along his left cheek—the epitome of a pirate. It was almost as if he chose the profession because it matched his looks.

  “You look like a lass who favors adventure,” the pirate murmured in her ear. “Wh
ich would you rather, stay here and be safe, or board the Jolly Roger for questing and treasure?”

  Wyndie glanced over the rail at the pirate’s ship moored to the Neverland by a pair of boarding ropes. It was a much smaller ship in dark wood with a black and red striped envelope—she was proud of herself for knowing the correct name for the outer skin of the gas-filled balloon—and the skull and cross bones snapping in the gale. Her father would never approve.

  She looked once more at the pirate, and he winked at her. A life of adventure, flying free without the constraints of polite society. That sounded much more to her liking. She would have to tell her father someday, but for now…

  “I’ll go with you, if you please.”

  “Then hold on tight,” Hook told her, tightening his arm around her waist.

  Wyndie put her own arms around his neck, only now noticing that his other hand had been replaced by a hook.

  He caught her glance at the appendage and whispered, “Watch this.” He raised the hook, aimed it at the Neverland’s envelope, and jerked his elbow. The hook flew from his arm, splitting into three pieces to form a grapple. It punctured the silk of the envelope, as Hook jumped to the railing with Wyndie under his arm.

  She gasped as they flew across the gap to the Jolly Roger, accompanied by the sound of ripping silk. As they landed on the pirate ship’s deck, she looked back to see a gaping tear in the Neverland, and Pan leveling his pistol at them.

  “Release that rope there, darling,” Hook ordered, moving to the second mooring rope.

  Wyndie did as she was ordered, and they sailed free of the falling Neverland, as Pan’s shot once more went wild.

  Hook fought his way across the deck to the wheel of his ship and pushed a series of buttons built into its stanchion. The gale stabilized into a steady wind that blew them away from the passenger ship as the clouds appeared to miraculously disperse.

  “Were you controlling the weather?” Wyndie gasped.

  “Just a little invention of mine. Comes in handy for a pirate.”

  “But what about all the passengers on the Neverland?”