by Amy Braun
William stared into Deco’s eyes, sizing him up. Well experienced in these encounters, William saw past the tough-guy stance, the firmness of the jaw, the twist of the sneering lips, and the iron in the eyes. Deco’s presence would frighten most people, but not a seasoned pirate leader. William didn’t miss the glint of a single bead of sweat sliding down beneath the Stetson and in front of the right ear. Nor did he fail to spot a slight vibration at the end of the dangling cigarette.
Not so sure of ’imself, William thought. ‘E knows I'm not afraid of ’im, and that ‘e can’t outkeen me. But deep down, William envied Deco’s youth. He missed the days when his mind judged things in an instant and snapped to a decision. He longed for his former body, free of aches, taut with muscular power, and possessed with two good legs.
“We’re not leavin’,” he kept his voice even and low, “without our prize.”
“You could divide our cargo and split it even steven,” Captain Potts said, holding his palms up in an offering gesture.
“Shaddap!” Deco shouted.
“Pipe down!” William yelled at the same time.
Deco tried to say something else, but William interrupted. He knew what the pirate boss would propose, the next logical gambit in the game. Deco must have been about to suggest the two leaders fight it out, and the rest of both gangs abide by the outcome. Ten years earlier, William would have proposed that idea himself, but doubted he could take Deco one-on-one.
“’Ere’s ‘ow we’re gonna settle this,” he said. “Yer’ve got a flyin’ machine and I’ve got a flyin’ machine. Whichever takes the other one down, gets the prize.”
Deco didn’t hesitate. “That’s swell. My plane can take your flappin’ bucket any day, an’ twice on Satudee. Ain’t that right, boys?”
A dutiful chorus of “And how” and “Yeah, Boss” showed their well-considered opinions on the matter.
William looked at Captain Potts. “To make sure ye don’t go sneakin’ off while we’re out there, I’m keepin’ one man ‘ere in the gondola ter watch ye.” He looked down his row of crewmen and chose his most junior man, the one least experienced with the Raptor. “Lefty.”
The crewman—nicknamed not for left-handedness, but for possessing only a left arm—nodded.
“An’ I’m leaving one of my boys to watch him,” Deco said. He spoke a name, “Rocko,” and got a grunt in return.
#
“’Ere’s the plan,” William told his crew when they’d returned to the Raptor. “Soon as we drop away, spread the wings, turn toward Deco’s ship, and fire the ‘Otchkiss. I want that bow cannon blazin’ soon as ye see a clean shot. One good ‘it and this will be all over. Ready?”
Everyone nodded.
“Cut the grapnel lines.” William donned his brass-rimmed goggles.
William’s plan worked, except the part where the biplane would be dead ahead, waiting to be shot. A fixed-wing aircraft, William recalled too late, needed a good bit of forward motion to get lift, and Deco’s plane gained that speed by falling several hundred feet lower than the Raptor.
By the time William located the enemy, it was clawing its way up toward him, machine gun firing. Most of the shots went wild, but holes appeared in the canvas of the Raptor’s port wing.
“Turn toward ‘im, Beak! Turn toward ‘im!” William yelled at his helmsman. Beak had earned his nickname after losing his nose in a swordfight and having an artificial, metal nose attached in its place.
“I’m tryin’, Cap’n, but ‘e’s too fast,” Beak said.
No matter how fast the helmsman changed course, just as the gunner readied the mighty Hotchkiss cannon to fire, the biplane banked away. Worse, Deco took every opportunity to spray the Raptor with machine gun fire. Damage from these rounds added up, with gauges shattered, hydraulic hoses punctured, and tail appendages holed.
Both more maneuverable and faster than the Raptor, the biplane could work over William’s ornithopter with ease, and he couldn’t even bring his cannon to bear. One hit from that massive six pounder should tear the diesel engine airplane apart, William knew. He only needed one good shot.
“’Ead for the cloud. Let’s ‘ide there.” William needed time to think. The cotton candy masses had merged into a vast cumulonimbus formation with an upper surface as flat as an anvil’s. Before the Raptor could descend into it, Deco made another run and everyone ducked under the edge of the open cockpit. William doubted the fuselage’s thin metal would protect them. The spray of bullets stitched two lines fore to aft along their aircraft.
One round ripped through Nell’s leather jacket, grazing her shoulder. More holes appeared in the wings and tail. Pings resounded from the Hotchkiss cannon and the steam boiler where shots ricocheted off.
“Are ye ‘urt?” William asked Nell.
“Never mind about me,” she shook her head. “We must get that bloody Deco.”
Something in the way she brushed off his concern without even glancing down at her shoulder impressed William, but he didn’t see how he could take Deco down. The Chicago-based pirate had all the advantages. Now that the Raptor had dropped into the cloud, he hoped he could think his way out of this. He had to think of something. William regretted his decision not to fight Deco alone.
He raised the periscope and searched for the biplane, expecting to see it circling in a vain hunt for him.
Instead, his eyes met a bow-on view of two parallel lines, the wings, separated by a translucent circle, the propeller. Behind the prop, he saw the twelve radial pistons of the immense diesel engine. Rapid red flashes from just beneath the upper wing could only mean one thing.
“Blast! ‘E’s found us somehow. Duck beneath the cowlin’!” William lowered the scope and knelt in the same motion.
The swarm of bullets struck the Raptor making twin lines of destruction as they slammed home. The targeting sight of the Hotchkiss cannon shattered. Oilcan Boyle, the engine-man, caught a round that nipped the edge of his right ear. The boiler sprang a leak, hissing steam through a bullet-hole. The linkage controlling the left wing-tip snapped off.
How did the beggar spot us, William wondered, ‘ere in the chuffin’ cloud? He looked around through the moist, white fog, the mist he’d trusted as his shield. His eyes fell on the Raptor’s two beating wings, flapping to keep them aloft. That’s it. Our wings disturb the bloomin’ cloud surface, he realized. Deco just homed in on the pulsating parts of a cloud that was otherwise unmoving and flat.
He gritted his teeth and shut his eyes in despair. The biplane could fire at will, and soon the pounding would accumulate to more than the Raptor could bear. All the while, Deco would endure no harm at all, because he could avoid William’s bow cannon, never passing in front of the Raptor, out-maneuvering him by remaining in other quadrants.
He stared at the iron Hotchkiss cannon, fixed in place at the bow. A prize won in combat years ago, the cannon would sit unused if he never got the chance to fire it. The gunner, one-eared Quoin, looked frustrated that the muzzle never pointed toward the agile biplane.
We’ve got ter move the cannon, William thought. It’s the only way. “Right, then,” he shouted. “We’re gonna unbolt and ‘aul the ‘Otchkiss amidships.”
The crew looked at him, mouths agape.
“Captain,” Nell said. “There’s nary a place amidships to bolt it down.”
“We’re not boltin’ ‘er down. We only need one fine shot. Quickly now, before Deco makes another bleedin’ pass.”
Nell blinked, slowly nodded, then rounded up men and wrenches to attack the cannon’s mounting bolts.
On the biplane’s next run, its machine gun delivered a massive hammering to the Raptor. The rounds struck aft and amidships, so missed the crew huddled in the bow. One landing talon got clipped off and fell away. The water storage tank got punctured in several locations, and fresh water streamed out from each hole. The engine’s speed-regulating governor broke off and spun away. A left wing strut bent, but stayed in place.
�
�Now heave away and lift that cannon, men,” Nell said when the last bolt came free. “Move it amidships. Your lives depend on it.” She bent down in a way William found alluring, but put her back into lifting the heavy gun right along with the rest.
Though the Hotchkiss weighed over a quarter ton, the crew lugged it, their muscles throbbing with the strain, until they’d reached just forward of the steam engine. They aimed the seventy-four-inch barrel out the starboard side, over the lip of the open cockpit. The middle-aged men stood slowly, hands rubbing aching backs, faces dripping sweat.
“Yer’ll only cop one go,” William spoke into Quoin’s only ear. “So aim true, and don’t stand behind ‘er when ye fire.”
Another hail of machine gun bullets slammed into the Raptor. With a rip, the fabric of one section of the starboard wing tore free. The upper mirror in the periscope shattered. The pings of ricochets resounded as shells glanced off the boiler. The engine’s steady ‘chuff-chuff-chuff’ became an irregular ‘chuff-a, chuff, a-chuff’ as something inside the engine came loose.
“Me bloody arm!” Beak yelled as his left bicep turned bloody indeed.
One bullet punched a hole through William’s peg leg, and the force of it sent him sprawling.
“’Ow’s the bloomin’ engine, Oilcan?” William shouted as he struggled to stand. “Are all the important bits in workin’ order?”
“It’s ‘oldin’ togeffer well enough,” Boyle replied in a strained voice, clutching a greasy rag to staunch his ear wound.
William closed his eyes in a private, thoughtful prayer. Lord, just let me crew survoive this. Let ‘em live and I’ll give up me piratin’ ways forever.
“Now!” William shouted to the helmsman. “Full throttle, up twen’y degrees.”
Like a gooney bird flapping and running along a beach to take off, the Raptor clanked, rattled, and lurched its way above the cloud.
True to the confounding, bedeviling rules of an uncaring universe, Deco’s biplane appeared on their port side, swooping in for another attack. William cursed that his cannon pointed the wrong way.
“Turn right!” He screamed.
The Raptor struggled to swing around, and presented her tail to the enemy as he came within machine gun range. A hundred projectiles shredded the tail. The swerve to the right continued.
In moments the biplane got close enough that it had to begin its own avoidance turn.
William saw Quoin sighting along the barrel of the Hotchkiss as they came beam-on to Deco’s aircraft. A smile crossed Quoin’s face and he turned the firing crank.
Quoin jumped out of the way just in time as the recoil sent the un-mounted cannon speeding backward across the deck. It smashed through the port side of the cockpit, tearing a gaping, clean-edged hole through the metal fuselage like a hydraulic punch. Down the precious cannon fell, beginning its four mile plunge to the State of Indiana.
William looked at the biplane, which must have crossed well into its turn when the six pound ball struck. With its propeller and half of the diesel engine block sheared off, it could no longer fly, and could barely glide. He fancied he saw Deco himself in the forward cockpit windshield, cigarette drooping, giving him a hand gesture as the biplane descended out of sight.
Watching it go, William heaved huge sighs of relief. No one let out a single ‘hurrah’ over the victory, which William found appropriate. Deco had been a worthy opponent, and the battle had very nearly gone the other way.
“They’ll make it all right,” William told Nell. “’E can glide down.”
Remembering his solemn promise, he gathered his fellow pirates around him. “Listen up, ye filthy scum. Ye’ve been the finest bloody crew a Captain ‘ad any right ter serve with. It’s been me ‘igh ‘onor ter lead ye these many years. But although we defeated Crank Deco and ‘is men today, I think...” He paused and looked into the distance. “I think the future belongs ter the likes of ‘ im. The day of steam is over, lads, and that means me day is done too. It’s time for me ter retire.”
They stared at him as if he’d just sprouted wings.
“I wouldn’t want ter leave you lot in a lurch. So I’m makin’ Nell the bleedin’ Captain and givin’ ‘er the ship.”
Nell looked around and laughed. “A ship that’s all torn up, barely flies, and lost her only weapon?”
“Not this ship.” William smiled. “No, the Raptor’s done for. I’m meanin’ that one.” He pointed up, and they all gazed where the Sky Challenger floated, vast and serene. “If we can cop to ‘er aright, she’s yours. Ye can sell ‘er and buy the best pirate craft ever. Better than Deco’s biplane. Wot ye think, Nell?”
She put her hands on her hips and glared at him with narrowed eyes, though with a bit of a smile. “A ship, then? You thought I worked so hard so I could have my own ship?”
“I...well...wha’ else, then?” William felt confused.
Nell shook her head and rolled her sky blue eyes. “You’re utterly hopeless. I never wanted a ship.” She looked directly into William’s eyes. “I rather fancied a Captain.”
“Ooh,” chorused the rest of William’s crew, all wearing smiles, pointing, and jabbing each other’s ribs.
“Wot?” William couldn’t believe it. “Ye and me, then, eh, luv? But I’m an ol’ man. Me body is twenty years older than yours.”
She winked at Oilcan Boyle then looked at William and lowered her voice to imitate Boyle’s Cockney. “Are all the important bits in workin’ order?”
William laughed and tried to recall Oilcan’s earlier reply. “It’s ‘oldin’ togeffer well enough.”
Nell raised her hand in a ‘stop’ gesture. “Mind you, just because you want to retire from piracy doesn’t mean I’m retiring from adventure. If you want to smuggle alcohol, or go barnstorming at air shows, or pilot a plane around the world for the first time, I’ll be at your side. But I will not settle down in a house without wings, is that clear?”
Whatever Nell meant to William before, she was all woman now, and strong-willed, too. All eyes were on him, and everyone awaited his response.
“Adventure, is it then? Well, ‘oo am I ter argue with the new Cap’n of the Sky Challenger?”
Without warning, Nell rushed to William and kissed him.
“Gorblimey!” William said when the kiss finally ended, amid hurrahs from the crew.
Suddenly feeling free as a bird, William turned to his helmsman. “Beak, see if ye can cop this antique, flyin’ bucket back up ter the chuffin’ dirigible. We’ve got ter pick up Lefty, decide wot ter do with that blighter, Rocko, and then get ye, Oilcan, and Nell to a doctor.”
William Starling smiled and rested his hands on the gunwale, letting the wind blow through his graying hair. Somewhere below them, an eagle screeched. Me and Nell Remige, he thought. Loife is full o’ bloomin’ surprises.
The Climbers
by D Chang
prttEEk twitched her left tertiary whisker, bringing her Leafwing alongside the great Hearthbough. Pneumatics hissed and warm steam wreathed the bridge as the calculating machines adjusted the cutter’s final docking with the massive battlenaught.
prttEEk’s nose quivered. In many ways, she was a throwback—a climber more comfortable chitting commands to a hard-clawed crew than whiskering them in front of the cold input lens of an analytical complex—but she was adaptable. Climbers who did not adapt soon stopped climbing.
Tails bobbed respectfully as prttEEk left the bridge and scurried up an access rope. At deck level, she leaped over to a boarding tube and admired the view as she scrambled across the long dramatic expanse between Leafwing and the legendary flagship.
Ah, the Hearthbough. His many war-blimps, chitterguns, and gliderbombs had decimated the human fortifications, but prttEEk admired him most not for his efficacy, but for his beauty, because—at his core—Hearthbough was as much a live oak tree as a vessel. Birthed in the gravity-free embrace of a nutritive satellite, he exceeded every climber’s expectations in scale and grandeur, the finest st
atement of an arboreal culture.
The warship’s metal skin glowed with puissance. That shiny mesh protected his limbs and the vast aether-sacs populating his innards, which in turn gave him much of his destructive and propulsive power. prttEEk could only guess at the panic that churned in the human psyche when they raised their eyes to the sky and saw that their colonizers had flown an enormous sacred tree through space to destroy their civilization.
prttEEk scrambled through the starboard tunnels like it was her own vessel. Proudly she waved her tail at the bridge entrance. “Second Claw prttEEk reporting for Phase Three.”
#
“I’d be more okay with it if the goddamn aliens had been taller.” Frankie spat in the corner of our subterranean den and took another drag on her last cigarette. Other than a little indirect glow from the central warren that came through the ventilation shaft, it was the only light we had.
“Yeah,” I said. I was bone-chilled and my stomach grumbled. “The whole thing is insulting. When they said we were being invaded by alien mammals, I thought they’d be more impressive, you know. Wolfmen, maybe.”
“No shit, girl.” She paused, cocking her head at the faint sound of yet another of their airships fluttering in to land. Up close, it’s a hellish aural torment, like a thousand pounds of dry ice being dumped into a boiling swimming pool. “They have robots and spaceboats, but there’s no pussyfooting around it. There’s nothing more insulting than being enslaved by jumbo squirrels.”
“I bet I could think of something,” I said, scooping some dirt out from under my butt in another vain attempt to get comfortable. When your bed is a cold pothole, it’s nigh on impossible.
“Please don’t,” Frankie said, flicking an ash into the waste trough. With that, we fell back into silence.
I scraped at the overhead lid of the den with my digging stone for an hour. The next hour was more scraping, this time at the corner, in hopes of finding a weak spot or maybe an abandoned subway tunnel. Then I slumped back into bed, neck aching, frustrated and disconsolate.