by Amy Braun
We’ve been hit.
Knocked off balance, Mary tumbled into Mrs. Medlock and her interrogator, landing all three of them on the floor.
The housekeeper was the first to recover, pummeling the man with her fists. Mary scrambled to find the pipe, but the pirate found it first.
With a wild yell, Mary leapt for his back, grabbing his forearm. Straining, she pulled on his arm, with all her strength, arching her spine for more leverage.
More cannon fire thundered in the distance while the ship lurched again, throwing her off. Boxes tumbled across the room, causing even more chaos.
When the ship righted itself, Mary stayed prone on the floor, panting. A slight tap—much softer than a slap on her cheek—startled her. Her eyes flew open, to look up into Mrs. Medlock’s face. The other woman’s hands were bruised and scraped up, but she was smiling.
“Shall we escape now?” the housekeeper said, winking at Mary.
Dumbfounded, the girl replied, “We’d better. They have no idea how to captain this ship!”
Hand in hand, they ran for it. Coming out into the main hold, they saw the crew jumping ship. Very low to the ground, then. They might get caught again…but at least they would hopefully be clear when the balloon blew.
“Ready, set…jump!”
#
Mary sat on the floor in her cottage, papers strewn about. The windows were flung open, letting in both light and the sound of birds chirping merrily in the garden. The first thing she had done to it was to install a fountain for the chirpers to play in. The second was to install a work table with a place for each and every tool she owned.
A shadow fell through her doorway, interrupting her lines. Frowning, she looked up to see Lord Archer. “You are in my light.”
“Ah, I see. Or rather, you do not.”
Chuckling, he stepped inside, swinging a picnic basket. “Mrs. Medlock says to tell you to eat at some point today.”
Mary grinned, reached for the basket. Cheese and bread, a few apples. All things easy to eat while drawing. Oh yes, Mrs. Medlock had turned into a great friend. She plucked up an apple and took a bite out of it, savoring the crisp texture and sweet taste.
“I still find it hard to believe that the two of you saved yourselves. There was no need for the rescue at all.”
Mary laughed at his crestfallen look. “We couldn’t have done it without the bombing of the pirates. Or Mrs. Medlock’s left hook.”
“Yes, well. If you had followed instructions, we wouldn’t have had to mount a rescue mission in the first place.” He straightened himself up to look down his nose at her.
“You enjoyed it, don’t bother denying it. You also were able to catch not only the spy in your household, but almost his full crew.” Mary drew a few more lines before looking up at him. “When will I get Flit back?”
“Monday next. We should have all of the changes you made diagramed by then,” he said.
“And you have the plans I made for the new airship, as well as the weapons…” She let her voice trail off.
“Yes, yes, thank you for that.”
He looked uncomfortable, so out of his depth that finally she just asked him. “Why are you here?”
“Well, I am your guardian, and while you are on the grounds, it does...well... I wanted to make sure you were not overtaken by nerves or anything,”
Mary let out a bark of laughter. Nerves, indeed.
“What are you working on?” He moved so that he could sit beside her, looking at the plans correctly instead of upside down as he had been.
“It’s silly.” Mary splayed her hand over part of the drawing, hiding it from view.
“Pish, posh, give them a toss! I seriously doubt anything you came up with could ever be called silly.”
“It isn’t an airship, or a weapon, or even a design for a mechani-man.”
“Tell me about it.”
Mary bit her lip, considering. “I thought I might make a mechanical garden…and perhaps a menagerie of mechani-mals.”
Grinning, he lifted her hand to see the drawing. “It’s amazing. But I think I prefer the airship diagrams.”
“Yes, well, some of these whirligigs could have applications to airships…in fact…”
She snatched a clean page and began sketching.
Lotus of Albion
by Steve Ruskin
Captain Ian Vanson snapped his spyglass shut and handed it back to his first mate.
“Looks like a pleasure yacht, don’t it, Captain?” said Olly, shivering in his thin, standard-issue deck coat. “Don’t see many airships like that up here.”
“Indeed,” said Vanson. “And a posh one, too. But what the hell is it doing this high up in the Himalayas?”
“Lost, would be my guess,” Olly said, rubbing his red nose. Even though it was almost noon and the sun was high, it was cold on the deck of the Burma Maiden, at an altitude of nearly seventeen thousand feet. Hard to breathe, too. But this was their last patrol of the year. Soon the winter storms would begin and all airships of the Royal Fleet would head to lower elevations.
Already the deck and railings of the Maiden were coated in a layer of frost, and small icicles hung from the rigging. His crew smacked the blue silk balloon envelope with poles at regular intervals to dislodge the crusting ice.
It was only September, and cold as hell already. So what was that fancy little airship doing way up here?
“Probably got blown north once she left the hill towns after vacation season,” Olly mused. “Autumn winds can be rough. She might’ve been spun around in a storm, turned north when they thought they were heading back south to Delhi. Didn’t realize their mistake until the peaks popped out in front of ‘em. Then it was too late. Looks like she’s lost her starboard balloon, and aft rudder.”
“Hmm,” said Vanson, watching the distant ship drifting in a slow circle, listing slightly to one side. “Surely they’d have a compass? Altimeter?”
“Maybe caught in a lightning storm. All that ‘lectricity can wreck instruments real good. Seen it myself once. Rode though a nasty squall in a cargo dirigible over the Bay of Bengal. Fried all our navigation. We were adrift for days.”
Vanson only nodded.
The airship ahead was an expensive yacht. Built to look like a swan, with carved wings, a curved neck and head at the prow, all floated by a purple silk envelope, now partially deflated. A real beauty, despite its obvious damage. And totally unsuited for flying at this altitude. But she was a British yacht, for sure—festooned with the insignia of Her Majesty’s Empire. A tattered Union Jack snapped fitfully over the aft deck.
“Can you make out its name?” Olly asked.
“No,” Vanson replied. “Too far.”
Whatever the name, she was in dangerous territory. Vanson scanned the afternoon skies nervously. Himalayan peaks and even higher cumulous clouds provided lots of hiding places...
“She’s adrift, Captain,” said Olly, prodding. “The wind’s got her. A few more leagues and she’ll be over the Zanskar. That’s the Crow’s territory. If we make a grab for her now, we could bring her back with us. Might be a Lord’s yacht, perhaps there’s a reward, or commendation even...”
“It looks deserted, though. No signs of life.”
Vanson hated to risk his own ship and crew over a derelict ship, but it was his job to patrol this part of the border and provide assistance if necessary. So, as always, pride and duty overcame his practicality. “Fine, Olly. Let’s do the honorable thing. The Jade Crow’ll not have her while she flies the Empire’s flag, derelict or not. Engines full steam.”
“Aye, Captain!”
Olly turned and barked down a brass speaking tube. “Ahead, twenty knots!” and the Maiden surged forward, Vanson taking the wheel.
Below, and just ahead, the wide Zanskar valley opened up, dropping twelve thousand feet to a river—little more than a thin ribbon of silver from their height—flowing far below. The damaged yacht was drifting close to a range of high pe
aks, the summits of which rose still another mile above them, topping out at twenty-three thousand feet.
Olly had his spyglass out again, scanning.
“Captain, ship ahead!” he said. Then, after a pause, “Looks like it’s the Crow, sir.”
There, coming upon the swan-yacht from behind one of the peaks of the Zanskar itself, chugged a huge dirigible. A frigate, with a black wooden hull and a blood-red balloon envelope. It bristled with cannon, a dozen per side.
The Jade Crow. A pirate airship if ever the term applied.
Vanson and his crew had seen the Crow before—sometimes alone, sometimes surrounded by its fleet—but always from a safe distance.
They never engaged it. That would have been suicide.
Today it was alone.
The front of the Crow was decorated with a large jade-green eye on either side of its prow. They gave the ship the effect of a great black bird swooping down on its prey, hence its name—at least among those who feared it. No one knew its real name, and the first time anyone heard of the Crow was when it reportedly downed a Royal Air Fleet freighter over Kabul, tossing the British marines overboard, and then disappearing—along with a flotilla of smaller ships—into the hidden valleys of the Himalayas.
It was a tale that spread outward to Russia, China and British India like a ripple, keeping those Empires’ fleets on the fringes of the Himalayas, wary and cautious. Soon afterward British India lost contact with its territorial forts in Kashmir and the Punjab. All those subjects...imprisoned? Killed? Sold into slavery?
Sure, there had always been airship pirates over the Himalayas—but usually small tribal bands who protected their local areas. None of the other Himalayan pirates ever garnered the power or reputation the Crow and its fleet did.
No one had ever met the captain of the Crow either , at least no one who lived. He kept his mysterious airship hidden among the high peaks and low valleys of the Zanskar and surrounding areas. Actual confrontations with the Crow were legendary for their brutality—if the rumors were even half true, the Crow’ s victims were tarred and feathered, set alight, and then tossed overboard. Or hurled down with stones around their necks, ensuring a head-first plunge, but only after their eyelids had been sliced off so the victims couldn’t close them on the way down.
Nor was anyone sure just who these pirates were or how they had organized so quickly, coming to control the central Himalayas in just a few years. More immediately, one wanted to avoid getting captured by the Crow or its fleet if at all possible.
Vanson included.
But the damaged yacht was within reach now, and the Maiden was a small, but fast, patrol ship—much faster than the huge Crow. Vanson had speed on his side and felt the exhilarating rush of alpine wind on his face.
“More power, Olly. Full speed!”
The race was on.
The Crow was coming fast too, but the Maiden was closing the gap much more quickly. A few tense minutes later, Vanson knew they would reach the derelict yacht with time to spare. He grabbed a signal lantern and raised it in the direction of the Crow, warning it to turn back, that the salvage had been claimed.
The Crow did not turn back. Vanson didn’t expect it to. But warning them was standard Fleet protocol.
“Pirates,” he said derisively. “Olly! Ready the lines. We’ll swing in and grab ‘er with the hooks and pull her back with us away from the Crow’s territory.”
“Aye!”
Olly yelled orders at the crew, who were assembled and waiting.
Gripping the wheel tightly, Vanson pressed foot pedals—slowing the engines, adjusting the rudders—swinging his ship first outward, then back inward in a tight arc. The deck swung like a pendulum beneath its helium-filled envelope, and the crew bowed their legs and swayed to compensate for the motion.
As they approached the yacht, Vanson slowed even further, just long enough for Olly to yell “Fire!” Then came the zip zip zip of cables launching from harpoon guns and the thunk thunk thunk as they punctured the wooden sides of the yacht.
He turned them away from the Zanskar, feeling the Maiden strain, slowed by the weight of the captured vessel. Springs in the cables’ anchors absorbed the initial pull, and soon—the delay an eternity for Vanson—they were all moving again, slowly at first, then gaining speed.
He looked back. The Crow was still there, pursuing. Two nautical miles behind them, framed by towering peaks.
“Persistent, aren’t they? Olly, take the wheel.”
Vanson strode aft, where two deck-mounted cannon—smaller bore, for close range—had been primed.
“Last chance,” he muttered, and signaled again for the Crow to retreat.
It didn’t.
He turned one of the cannon toward their pursuers, aiming low.
“This one is a courtesy!” he yelled, and fired.
The shot arced like a comet, sizzling toward the Crow but then dropping—as intended—well below its hull.
The Crow turned aside.
As one, a cheer arose from Vanson’s crew.
He held up his hands, approaching them with a wide grin on his face.
“Well done, boys! Let’s drop down to the leeward side of a nice mountain and see what we’ve just rescued!”
More cheers, and two of his crew pointed their bare backsides in the direction of the Jade Crow, which was now making its ponderous way back toward the high peaks of the Zanskar.
#
It was late afternoon before they found a small, protected valley where they could float safely while boarding the abandoned yacht.
It was called the Lotus of Albion, no doubt some pretentious British noble’s attempt to bridge Occident and Orient in three words or less. The little pleasure craft had been damaged, likely dashed against a cliffside or overhang. That she’d only lost one balloon and was still afloat at all was a miracle.
Once they were sure the yacht wouldn’t sink while they were aboard, the first members of Vanson’s crew swung across, Olly leading them. The team quickly surveyed the top deck before working their way below.
Kicking in doors, pistols at the ready, they carefully made their way throughout the vessel. Within five minutes—it wasn’t a big airship—they were back on deck giving the all-clear.
Vanson swung across. “Report?”
“Not much, Captain,” said Olly. “Looks like someone’s already been through her.”
“No sign of the owners? Bodies?”
“Nothing,” said Olly. “Stripped of valuables as well. Pirates for sure. Not the Crow though, or they wouldn’t have been so keen to get to her before us.”
“Dammit,” said Vanson, regretting the risk he had taken. “Well, I suppose we’ll tow her down to Delhi and send word out. Find out which noble family is missing a yacht, let the Colonial Office investigate—”
Just then, they heard a noise coming from below decks. At first they thought it was the wind rocking the rigging, but then it came again.
Movement.
“I thought you went over every inch of her,” Vanson said.
Olly stammered. “We did, Captain! Searched every room. Maybe it’s animals—rats or something.”
They drew their guns and Vanson led them quietly down the stairs. The interior of the yacht had been quite well appointed before it was looted: oak-paneled walls bore dusty square outlines where paintings had once hung; a plush velvet sofa, collapsed on a broken leg, rested atop a torn Turkish carpet. Hand-carved trim framed the entrances to a half-dozen private rooms, though each doorway was now splintered and broken, the result of his crew’s overzealous explorations.
“The sound came from the back,” Olly whispered.
Vanson nodded, pointing two of his marines—Jansen and Carter—in that direction.
From the aft end of the yacht, in what would probably have been the owner’s stateroom, footsteps could be heard. The door had been kicked in, but had swung shut again, aslant on its top hinge.
Carter and Jansen stepped to
either side of the doorway.
Vanson held up three fingers to mark a countdown. He slowly curled in one, then another. When his third finger touched his palm the two men rushed into the room.
There was a scream. A woman’s.
His men yelled. The woman swore.
There was a gunshot. Then another. A bullet ripped out of the doorway. Vanson heard it whizz past his ear, followed by a piff! when a puff of feathers burst out of the broken sofa, marking the spot where the shot had ended its trajectory.
“Owww!” howled one of his men from inside the room.
“Report!” yelled Vanson. “What’s going on?”
He and Olly ran in. Very little light filtered in through the portholes, frosted as they were by the frigid air outside. But he saw one of his men on a large bed, struggling with someone underneath him. The other was lying on the floor.
Olly lit a match. Carter had pinned a woman to the mattress. Or had pinned her as much as he could. She fought like a tiger, kicking one free leg violently. Her red hair was a thick, tangled mess, and her clothes were rags.
In one corner crouched a little boy, curled up and clearly terrified.
Then Olly’s match went out.
“Ow!” yelled Carter in the dark.
Olly lit another match. Carter was doubled up on top of the woman, hands over his groin. To his credit, he still had her pinned.
The woman’s eyes flicked frantically, clearly panicked. They were green and flashed defiantly. Her face was filthy, streaked with dirt.
And stunning.
“That’ll show you damn devils!” she spat, in an accent as Irish as a shillelagh, and just as bludgeoning. And then, her eyes finally adjusting to the light, she got a look at the men around her, and their uniforms.
“Wha—are you, are you military? British?”
“Yes, we are,” Vanson nodded, just as Olly’s second match went out. “Oh hell, Olly, go get a lantern, will you?”
“Yes, sir!”
“Let her up, Carter,” said Vanson.
Carter rolled off the woman and went over to Jansen who was moaning, his hand over his shoulder. Blood trickled down his shirt.