The Immortal Storm (Sky Chaser Book 1)

by Wilkes, S. D.

  “Brace yourselves!” he bellowed through the speakers.

  Seconds later Kite was blinded by a flash. A lightning wrapped bubble lit up the Undercloud. He grabbed the cold, steel handrail to steady himself as the Windspear's stern bucked in the shockwave. Too late he realised his mistake. Sparks flew from the pilothouse roof. Arcs of evil blue fire whipped from rail to rail.

  Light exploded in his eyes. Every muscle twisted and contracted. Liquid fire coursed in his veins. His jaw clamped shut, cracking his teeth. The only sound was a hideous clicking, gurgling noise - his own scream trapped in his throat.

  Then the mosfire released its grip. Only a few seconds had passed but to Kite it seemed an eternity had passed. His hot dead legs gave way and he fell, down in to darkness and he did not stop.

  27

  Dr.Nightborn

  A kite.

  A glorious, eight-sided kite, stitched together from patches of gold and terra-cotta canvas. Aloft on the storm winds and tethered to the bow of a painted duneclipper. Her claw-shaped sails swelled with wind and sand waves crashed over the bow.

  Kite was nameless but he wasn't alone. Around him shrouded ghosts silently piloted the craft. What flesh they revealed - an arm, a hand - was covered in intricate copper-blue tattoos. The Sand Eaters. Nomads from the Ashlands.

  Cradled in tattooed arms, he was small and helpless and afraid. Everything frightened him. The roar of the wind and strange voice singing to him in a language he couldn't possibly understand. Then he realised this was a memory, given life in a dream.

  And already it had begun to fade...

  Soon unfamiliar sounds invaded Kite’s ears. Lightweight metal tinkling and delicate glass jangling. Hollow rumbles that seemed to bubble up from far below. The eerie echoes of distant singing, sizzling electrics and a scratch-scratch scratching noise.

  His eyelids burned as Kite opened his eyes. A harsh brightness dazzled him at first but gradually a pale oval came into focus. A porthole. Set into a blue-green wall. The thick yellowed glass scurried with busy droplets of water. Angry purple clouds swelled in the sky outside. Where was he?

  Clean linen itched under his chin. Kite’s bad hand and left shoulder had been patched up and bandages bound his numb ankles. All over his skin was tight and he stank of disinfectant soap.

  The room Kite was in was long and narrow, lit overhead by clicking mosfire strip lights. Two other beds were made beside his, unoccupied and divided by plastic screens. No liftship or air ferry had space for a sick bay. A fulgurtine then.

  But only the Foundation had fulgurtines...

  That scratching sound again.

  To his left a woman in white coat sat in a high-backed chair at a desk by the door. She was writing with a mechanical pen, its inner workings ticking merrily. Hotly Kite cast about under the covers and blushed. Where were his clothes? His goggles and hood?

  “Ah, my patient awakes,” the woman said. She put down her pen and swivelled her chair.

  Kite stared. She had pale pinkish skin and eyes bright as new metal. Her face was lovely and kind but somehow sad too, as if she was used to sorrow and pain in her work. A thick braid of hair hung down her front, creamy white and ever so slightly luminous.

  An Askian.

  “Try not to move,” the woman said, coming to his side. “You've been badly burned.”

  “Burned?” Kite croaked. Then he remembered. The Windspear, the corpusant, Valkyrie and the mosfire that had struck him.

  In a panic Kite tried push himself up from the bed. A hot pain shot from his toes to his ribs, leaving him gasping for breath. He fell back against the pillow, burning all over.

  “My legs...I can't feel them,” Kite said.

  “That would be the analgesic I gave you,” the woman said, taking his pulse.

  Kite didn't know what 'analgesic' meant but he suspected it was something medical. “How long have I been here?” he asked.

  “This will be the third day.”

  “Three...three days?” he said, looking around. “Where's my stuff? My bag?”

  Where was Ember?

  The woman raised her hand. “Save your energy for healing your wounds,” she said. “I can't answer your questions but I can tell you that you are safe, Kite Nayward.”

  Someone moved at the door. A soldier. A Weatheren.

  Kite panicked. “Then why's he outside?” he said.

  “Ah,” the woman said, without turning. “That's Sergeant Drumlin. He’s mostly harmless. You'll have to ask Captain Shelvocke why he's here though.”

  Shelvocke. Kite screwed up his nose. That was a Weatheren name if ever he'd heard one.

  The woman said, “but this is the Infirmary and here, I am in command. My name is Aurora Nightborn. I am the ship's Doctor.”

  Kite didn't know what to think of that. An Askian and a Weatheren working together? None of this made sense.

  “I'm sure the Captain will answer your questions in good time,” Dr.Nightborn said, as if she had read his thoughts. “But first you must recover your strength. Lie still and try to sleep. I'll be next door, call if you need me.”

  Kite watched her leave then fell back to the pillow. Even if he wanted to he couldn't sleep. Rain hammered against the porthole. Rumbles drifted up from the depths of the Murkers' airmachine, vibrating the steel bedstead behind his pillows. Pipes burped and gurgled. The noise was maddening.

  The Kite heard a new sound - footfalls approaching from the corridor.

  Drumlin saluted with such urgency that Kite half-expected Captain Shelvocke himself to pay him a visit. But this wasn't the Captain. Instead another Askian had come to visit him - a girl.

  Boot heels clapping on the tiles the girl marched over to Dr.Nightborn's desk. Without a word she dragged a gloved hand across the papers, until her fingers settled on the report Dr.Nightborn had been writing. She began reading. All the while her left arm remained tight at her side.

  Kite couldn’t help but stare. The girl was a year, maybe two older than him. Her ivory hair was dagger-straight, chopped at an angle level with the line of her jaw. She wore the same charcoal uniform as the Sergeant but she had two gold chevrons on her sleeve. An Officer.

  Abruptly, the girl turned. Her silver-bright eyes bore into Kite’s own, unblinking, as if he'd committed some terrible crime by simply admiring her. Wishing he was wearing something other than a soapy stink Kite drew the bedclothes to his chin.

  “What is it?” he said.

  The girl said nothing. For a moment she continued to stare at him, never once blinking. Kite was grateful when Dr.Nightborn returned.

  “Fleer,” said Dr.Nightborn. “You're early...”

  “It's Lieutenant Fleer,” the girl said, her voice little more than a brittle rasp. “And I'm on time, Doctor.”

  Dr.Nightborn checked her fob watch. “Yes, so you are,” she said and gestured to one of the spare beds opposite. “Take off your jacket, Lieutenant.”

  With a rattle of metal coasters Dr.Nightborn shunted a portable screen to the other bed, leaving a slither of a view between them.

  At first Kite couldn't see much of the Askian girl at all - a pale shoulder and the curve of her body under a white vest. Then, Fleer turned a little. A knotted scar chewed up her left arm from biceps to wrist.

  Kite looked away guiltily.

  Soon he was compelled him to look again. After all he had never seen an Askian girl and he might never see one again. And while she seemed cold to him for reasons he couldn't explain, he couldn't help but want to know more about her.

  Dr.Nightborn slipped a silver hairpin from her breast pocket and pinned back Fleer’s fringe. “Let’s see how you’re healing,” she said and turned the girl's chin with her finger.

  A row of ragged stitches hooked under the girl's hairline. Kite frowned, realising it was his own handiwork. What had Austerman called her? Valkyrie.

  Suddenly Fleer's thunder-cloud eyes flicked sideways. Kite felt guilty and ashamed. He knew he'd done wrong, spying on her wh
en she was stripped half-naked but he wanted to meet her gaze, to show her he wasn't frightened of her. Whatever she called herself.

  Dr.Nightborn gently turned Fleer's chin, breaking their eye contact. “This might hurt a little,” she said and snipped the knots and picked free each thread. Then she expertly set the tender tissue with small suture strips, pausing as the airmachine rocked around them.

  All the while Fleer simmered but didn't flinch once.

  “Don’t be tempted to scratch it,” Dr.Nightborn said, removing the hairpin. “You'll have another scar unfortunately.”

  Fleer shrugged on her jacket. “One more won't make much difference,” she said and stood. “The Captain asked to speak with your patient.”

  Kite sat up too quickly, tugging at his bandages. “Where are my clothes?” he said, teeth clenched.

  Dr.Nightborn shook her head. “He's not well enough to answer the Captain's questions,” she said. “He's been badly injured. As well you know.”

  “The boy has only himself to blame,” Fleer said, without looking at him.

  Boy. She'd said it the same way Ersa used to.

  “It's your fault I dropped the corpusant!” Kite growled.

  Fleer glared back at him. “We could've all been killed by your stupidity,” she said. “Consider yourself lucky you got away with only burns!”

  “That's enough, both of you!” Dr.Nightborn said, as if she was bitterly used to separating warring children. “You can come for him in the morning, Lieutenant.”

  “I'll send someone, Doctor,” Fleer said and marched out of the Infirmary, drawing another brisk salute from the Sergeant.

  Dr.Nightborn shook her head. “Really, that girl,” she said.

  “You've got no right keeping me here,” said Kite.

  “Listen to me, Kite Nayward,” Dr.Nightborn said. “Your body has suffered and you need to recover properly. Despite what you might think you are not indestructible. Now, sleep.”

  Kite thumped his head against the pillows. “This place is too noisy,” he grumbled.

  Dr.Nightborn went to a cabinet and returned shortly with a beaker of milky liquid. “This'll help you sleep,” she said.

  Kite was reluctant at first but the promise of sleep was too great. He gulped it down. “Yuck,” he said. “Tastes like brine.”

  Dr.Nightborn took the glass from him and sat on the corner of the bed. “I don't recognise your name. It isn't Askian,” she said. “You are not from an enclave?”

  Kite shook his head, even though he didn't really know what an enclave was. “Never met any other Askians before,” he said, eyelids growing heavy. “You're the first. You, and your daughter.”

  Dr.Nightborn didn't smile. “Ah, was it that obvious?”

  Kite stifled a yawn. Already he could feel himself growing heavier. It wasn't an unpleasant feeling. Maybe Dr.Nightborn was right. Maybe now was the time to rest.

  “You look sort of the same,” he said, as the Infirmary light softened to a blur in his eyes.

  “Believe me that is where the resemblance ends.” Dr.Nightborn stood up. She had a sad, serene look about her. “You will soon find that everyone has their reasons for being aboard this vessel, Kite Nayward. Now you know mine.”

  28

  The Phosphene

  Kite had just finished his breakfast of oats and ration pack biscuits when Dr.Nightborn parked a dust cloaked wheelchair next to his bed.

  “You're lucky we had this on-board,” Dr.Nightborn said, swatting at the cobwebs.

  “No way,” he said.

  “Then you can stay in bed again,” Dr.Nightborn said, reversing the wheelchair from the bed.

  “All right, all right,” Kite said. Anything to get away from the sterile atmosphere of the Infirmary. At least this way he'd get to explore the airmachine.

  Dr.Nightborn helped him into the wheelchair. Kite was embarrassed at being handled that way but Dr.Nightborn was kind and encouraging and Kite was grateful for all her help.

  “You’ll be back on your feet and getting yourself killed again in no time,” she told him.

  “The sooner the better,” Kite mumbled and sat cross-armed, waiting for someone to come and collect him.

  That someone was Birdy.

  “Dig the wheels,” Birdy said, leaning on the doorframe, hands thrust deep in dirty overall pockets. “How many knots does it do?”

  Despite himself, Kite grinned. It wasn't much of a joke but it went some way to lighten his mood.

  “Morning Doc,” Birdy said, giving a weak salute. “Lieutenant Fleer sent me to collect the prisoner.”

  “Kite is not a prisoner, as well you know, Joseph Birdy,” Dr.Nightborn said, plumping the cushions behind Kite's back. “Bring him straight back, he’s in no state to go sight-seeing.”

  “Yes, sir!” Birdy replied.

  Soon Kite found that being in the wheelchair wasn't so bad. The thing jumped and rattled along the corridor and each knock made him wince but he was glad to be out of bed and finally getting a sense of the Murkers' airmachine.

  “Remember me then?” Birdy said, nudging him along. “That business with your friend Mr.Clay?”

  “Clay's not my friend,” Kite replied. “And I remember giving you a good kicking.”

  “What?” Birdy snorted. “I slipped that's all.”

  “Right,” said Kite.

  The Murkers' airmachine was in a sorry state. Blistered paint peeled from walls stained with slime and growth from leaking faucets. Bunches of wires dangled from panels. Thick pipes ran the length of the low ceiling with naked bulbs hanging between them.

  “You should see the cabins,” Birdy said, easing the wheelchair over a fat power cable. “Nothing but the best for us Murkers.”

  There wasn't much evidence of a crew. Kite counted a dozen at most and they were an odd assortment. Some with uniforms, others wore shabby overalls and patched up flying gear. Hardly the Enemy of the Foundation he'd been expecting.

  “She's a Weatheren fulgurtine right?” Kite said. “Salvaged or stolen?”

  “You're the scavvy what do you think?” Birdy said, stopping at the lift doors.

  Kite thought for a moment. “Salvaged,” he said.

  Birdy grinned, but said nothing more. He stabbed the 'Up' button and kept stabbing until cables twanged and flywheels clattered inside the shaft.

  As they waited Kite spied another Askian at the far end of the corridor. A girl, a few years younger than him, lit up by a pale blue light. She smiled and raised her hand and Kite waved back.

  “Who you waving at?” Birdy said, leaning to see.

  But the girl had already gone.

  Just then the lift bell chimed.

  “You were damn lucky to only get burns,” said Birdy, wheeling him into the wire-walled cage and pressing the button for the 'Nav Deck'. “Valkyrie said you should've been dead as a whale.”

  “Her fault if I had been,” Kite mumbled.

  Birdy crossed his arms. “You don't want to go holding grudges against Fleer. She's scary tough,” he said. “Just like her mother. She's not a bad looker though. Fleer I mean.”

  “Hadn't noticed,” Kite said, picking at the wheelchair's leather.

  An ear-beating alarm burst from the funnel-shaped speaker over the door. A monotone Weatheren voice repeated. “Crew to quarters! Crew to quarters!”

  “Yikes!” said Birdy.

  “What does 'crew to quarters' mean?” Kite asked.

  “Means the Phosphene's under attack,” Birdy replied, as the lift doors opened. “Again.”

  The Nav Deck was on full alert. Kite had expected a large pilothouse, but instead he found the Phosphene's helm a marvel of Weatheren technology. In front of a great rain-streaked observation window screens hovered in the air, overlaid with maps and flickering chunks of technical data.

  The Captain had his back to them. A three-quarter length frock coat with high collars hid his face. Two officers flanked him. Fleer Nightborn was one. The second was a Weatheren. Both had s
creens hovering at eye-level and keyboards at their fingertips.

  “EREBUS! Fore and aft shockcannons, I want them charged!” Captain Shelvocke called out. “And show me the cloudmaps!”

  Kite gnashed his teeth, recognising the voice. Austerman.

  The air solidified over the helm controls. A screen brightened with the face of serious-looking Weatheren with a geometric jaw. “Yes, Captain Shelvocke,” EREBUS replied in a cheerless electronic voice.

  A screen appeared with bright swirls and gradients, annotated with altitudes and paths marked with little arrows. Two pulsing spheres, one blue the other red, appeared on the map. Kite realised the red sphere was gaining at speed.

  “There's our uninvited guest,” Shelvocke said and turned to the second officer. “What have you got, Lieutenant?”

  “Highburner signatures forty leagues north by north-west, closing fast to port, Captain,” the Weatheren officer replied.

  Birdy leaned close to Kite. “That's Alex Welkin,” he whispered. “Frostbite's his call sign. He flies with Fleer. He used to be in the Cloudguard like the Captain.”

  Frostbite. The second Murker pilot; the one handy with a shockgun. Short and lean he had a lightning bolt scar running down the left side of his face, twisting the corner of his mouth into a lopsided sneer. Kite had imagined him an ugly brute. At least there'd been no surprises there.

  “EREBUS! Take us down to 3,000 feet and initiate the cladding,” Shelvocke said.

  “Yes, Captain Shelvocke,” EREBUS said, obediently.

  The Phosphene's descent registered in the pit of Kite's belly. The Nav Deck's walls rattled. Clouds streaked by the observation windows. Slowly he began to understand how the Weatheren airmachine operated.

  “Signature confirmed, Captain,” Welkin said. “It’s a Maelstrom Class ascender, the Vorticity.”

  Shelvocke’s face darkened with the unwelcome news. “We're too far south for the Northern Air Wing patrols,” he said. “They've been sent here to sink us.”

  Kite studied the helm’s observation windows. Rain speared in all directions and lightning left ghost-trails on his vision. Then a metal mountain carved open the Undercloud's flesh. Waterfalls of rain sparkling off her six decks. A Weatheren predator.