The Immortal Storm (Sky Chaser Book 1)

by Wilkes, S. D.

  29

  Shelvocke

  “Deploy the defences!”

  Fleer stabbed three buttons in turn. “Rods deployed, Captain,” she said.

  Screens showed a dozen black darts rocketing from the Phosphene's hull, trailing slithers of cable. With bright flashes their cones popped off and spindly canopies unfolded.

  Kite drank in the electric atmosphere, keen to see how the Murkers had earned their reputation.

  The Vorticity's shockguns flickered in response. The rods absorbed much of the mosfire, glowing furnace-hot, but two bolts broke the blockade.

  “Proximity warning! Proximity warning!” EREBUS warned.

  “All hands, brace yourselves!” Shelvocke bellowed.

  The crew held on to railings and bulkheads, grimacing for impact. Kite gripped the wheelchair's arms as it shifted and beside him Birdy swore again.

  The Vorticity's bolts struck. The Nav Deck rocked. The wheelchair went hurtling back, flicking Birdy against the bulkhead.

  “Rods have been wiped out,” Fleer reported, examining the data aglow on her screen.

  “Main deck has been hit, between the sixth and tenth bulkheads, Captain,” Welkin said. “We won't be able to withstand another bombardment like that.”

  Off-key siren's wailed from deep within the fulgurtine. On the screen Kite watched the massive hulk of the Vorticity slowly turning, while the Phosphene seemed stuck in the air. A static target for the ascender's gunners. How had this hollowed out wreck survived sky battles against the Cloudguard?

  Fleer turned. “Shall we scramble the stormwings?”

  “No time, Lieutenant,” Shelvocke said. “Our best hope is evasion. EREBUS! The cladding? Report!”

  “Patterners at seventy percent ready, Captain.”

  “She's readying her AM dischargers,” Welkin said.

  The ascender had come into view from the observation windows. Kite's excitement swiftly evaporated as great black wings unfurled from the Vorticity's hull. The undersides glimmered with half a dozen mosfire rings. The airmachine was monstrous.

  “We'll never survive an airquake,” Welkin said.

  Shelvocke stared at the screens, considering his move. “What's taking you so long, EREBUS?” he growled. “I need the cladding now!”

  “There's a second vessel approaching,” Fleer said. “A Cloudguard fulgurtine, the Occluder.”

  Kite swallowed. There's a name he'd never wanted to hear again.

  The Corrector's fulgurtine cruised between the Phosphene and the Vorticity. He could easily imagine the Corrector on her own Nav Deck, snapping out orders to her Weatheren crew.

  “Is the Vorticity standing down?” Shelvocke said.

  Welkin confirmed with a nod. “Powering down her AMs,” he said. “And holding at seven leagues, sir.”

  “Patterners charged, Captain Shelvocke,” EREBUS reported.

  Shelvocke gestured at the screens “Proceed with the cladding, EREBUS! Storm pattern Nova.”

  Kite picked out a partial view of the Phosphene's outer hull on one of Welkin's screens. The hull plates started to ripple, changing to a mottled disruptive colour to blend in with the storm. Except around the damaged decks where an incomplete jigsaw puzzle of black gaps had opened up.

  Other systems appeared to be at work, disguising the fulgurtine's engine noise and radio signals. The Murkers were using Weatheren tech against them. Kite couldn't help but smile.

  “Ornamentation complete, Captain Shelvocke.”

  “Take us down to 2,000 feet! North-east by east, 33 degrees. All ahead-full!”

  Kite’s wheelchair shifted with the acceleration. The Phosphene left the Vorticity and the Occluder dissolving in her wake. The Nav Deck fell still. The crew studied their screens and monitors, waiting for signs of pursuit. A few uneasy minutes passed with no sign of their enemy.

  “Blimey, that was close,” Birdy said, blowing out his cheeks.

  “Take over, Lieutenant,” Shelvocke said to Welkin. “Maintain our course and altitude for now.”

  “Yes, Captain,” Welkin replied.

  Shelvocke turned then. His brow sparkled with sweat. “Mr.Nayward! Odd isn't it that the Corrector should develop a sudden interest in our wellbeing,” he said, coming over. “Do you know what a Corrector does? They fix things that are wrong. At least wrong according to the Foundation. Perhaps it is you they are interested in?”

  “I'm just a scavvy from the Old Coast,” Kite said, trying not to sound intimidated. “What would she want with me?”

  “Ah, so you have met the delightful the Corrector,” Shelvocke said.

  Kite swore softly. He wasn't about the play Shelvocke's games. “Where's the mechanikin?” he demanded. “Austerman.”

  Fleer gave him a dangerous look. Clearly she didn't approve of the way he talked to her Captain.

  “The item is quite safe,” Shelvocke said, giving nothing away. “However, I'm beginning to wonder if it might been damaged when you nearly killed us all on-board the Windspear. It hasn't uttered a word. Unless that is, the voice only responds to you.”

  “What if she does?” Kite said, glad that Ember had kept her promise at least.

  “I'll be frank, Mr.Nayward. You know as well as I do that the Clockwork Jinny is of greater value than we both realise,” Shelvocke said. “Perhaps we can help each other? Let me speak with the voice and in return I'll give you sanctuary on-board my vessel.”

  “Sanctuary?” Kite said. “You barely escaped the Weatherens in this heap of junk.”

  That earned him another foul look from Fleer. Some of the other crewmen gave him less charitable glances. A loyal bunch, Shelvocke's crew. Kite needed to be more careful.

  Shelvocke thumped the bulkhead affectionately with his fist. “This old girl's served me well,” he said. “I salvaged her myself with a little help from Mr.Clinker. Even the Thunderclouds couldn't break her spirit. And right now, she the safest place in the world. Especially for you.”

  Kite had to admit Shelvocke had a point. Hiding this old wreck from the Cloudguard couldn't have been an easy task, even for someone of Shelvocke's skill at trickery. And all those maps and charts - Skyzarke had to be on there somewhere.

  “I'll think on it,” Kite said.

  If Shelvocke had expected his co-operation he didn't show it. “Of-course, take your time,” he said generously. “You must heal your injuries. Mr.Birdy will show you around. Get to meet the crew and so on. And when you’re feeling up to it we'll talk again.”

  30

  Stormwings

  “This way, down here,” Birdy said. “Mind the step. That's right. You're doing good. Oh oh, careful now.”

  “Shut up, Birdy,” Kite said through his teeth.

  The walking stick tapped on the steps. Ten of the murderous things from the lift down into the Hangar Deck and each one sent a shiver of pain up his right leg.

  “Well, that's charming! And here I am just doing what the Doc told me,” Birdy said and sniggered. “All right, I'll lay off.”

  Kite reached the last step and caught his breath, wiping his brow on the sleeve of the uniform. He took in the sprawl of the Hangar Deck. A smoke-windowed workshop hunkered in the tunnel-like space. Storage rooms and shelving crammed the space between the bulkheads. On the opposite side the Windspear had been locked in to deep runners, her deck partially covered by camouflaged tarps. The scars of the corpusant's blast blackened her stern hull section.

  “Chief!” Birdy shouted.

  A mechanic was buried in a knot of black machinery, whistling along with a jolly tune trickling from a clockwork music box. Kite recognised him immediately.

  Birdy cupped his hands. “Chief! Oi, you deaf bugger!”

  “Keep yer sodding voice down, Birdy,” Clinker said, without looking up from his work.

  “Brought you a visitor!” Birdy said, thumbing toward Kite.

  Clinker lifted his wrapped-up head. Copper-wire mutton chops burst from his ruby cheeks but his eyes were hard as coal. “H
ow do lad?” he said, pointing a wrench at Kite's uniform. “One of us now then?”

  Kite had resisted the stick as much as he'd resisted wearing the Murkers' uniform but without either Dr.Nightborn refused to let him leave the Infirmary. Even if he had given a little of himself by wearing them the serge and black boots made for a good fit.

  “Ray's the Chief Air Mechanic,” Birdy said. “He looks after the stormwings”

  “Stormwings?” Kite said.

  Birdy swept his hand about. “Nee-owww. Vroosh! You remember stormwings. The ones Fleer and Welkin fly.”

  Stormwings. Even the name sounded fast.

  The core parts of an embryonic power plant had been spread on Clinker's work stop. A fan, a nest of wires and skull-sized motor.

  “Is that a Helicoil?” Kite asked.

  Clinker raised a copper eye-brow. “Someone knows their hardware,” he said.

  “That'll generate some serious lift in a small airmachine,” Kite said, making some quick calculations. “Liftships have two Helicoils just to maintain their altitude. How high can a stormwing fly?”

  “That would be telling,” Clinker said with a secretive wink.

  “This one’s mine,” Birdy put in.

  “Listen to him!” Clinker chuckled. “You get dizzy walking up stairs!”

  “Do not!” Birdy protested, and leaned closer to Kite. “Welkin's training me. See that one up there? That used to be the Captain's.”

  A fire-damaged stormwing hung over Clinker's workshop, skeletal wings stripped of panels.

  “Shelvocke flew a stormwing?” Kite asked.

  Clinker coughed into his fist.

  “What? It's no secret is it?” Birdy said, with a shrug. “It's no secret. Shelvocke trained with Welkin. Welkin trained Fleer and Alto. And me, of-course. Gonna be flying missions soon. Broosh! Blowing stuff up and all that.”

  Kite nodded along. Birdy hardly seemed pilot material, but perhaps there was more to him than his useful loose mouth.

  “The stormwings'll be coming in soon,” Birdy said, leading him over to the porthole.

  Lightning rent the air, chased in turn by salvos of thunder rattling anything unsecured, including Kite’s teeth.

  “There they are,” Birdy said, pressing his nose to the glass.

  Kite leaned at an angle for a better look. The two pilots weaved along the hull, flying in close then darting away, only to return a few seconds later. “What are they doing?” he asked.

  “Scanning the hull for crawlers,” Birdy said. “Undercloud's full of them.”

  Shorter and leaner Fleer moved with super-fast agility, rocking with her hips leaving a herringbone vapour trail. Close behind her flew Welkin. How someone could possibly move so swiftly with a shockgun unit strapped to his back Kite would never know.

  “They've got to be the fastest airmachines,” he said.

  “Welkin used to be a Cloudtrooper, the ace pilots that fly thundermoths, he reckons they're faster at altitude,” Birdy said, wiping condensation from the window with his sleeve. “Fleer says stormwings can outfly anything though.”

  Kite didn't doubt that for second. He'd seen how fast and deadly Valkyrie could be.

  “Stormwings are Weatheren tech aren't they?” he said casually.

  Birdy peered back at the workshop, making sure Clinker hadn't overhead their conversation. “Shouldn't tell you this but,” he beckoned Kite closer and whispered. “When the Captain salvaged the Phosphene there was a stormwing on-board. A prototype. That's what he need the Chief for.”

  “So why don't the Weatherens use them?” Kite said.

  “Welkin said they lost too many pilots trying to train up a squadron,” Birdy said and grinned. “That's the problem with stormwings, you only have to fall off once. Wahhh splat!”

  “Birdy!” Clinker bellowed from his workshop. “Get the traps ready! The stormwings are coming in!”

  31

  Fleer Nightborn

  Watching the Murkers preparing for the stormwing’s return Kite sensed the workings of a well-oiled machine. Clinker buckled up his overalls, donned gauntlets and goggles, and took up mosfire signalling batons. Further back Birdy busied himself at a control panel. Yellow warning lights whizzed into life. Astern of the Windspear the hold doors slid open and a narrow ramp door began to extend.

  The Undercloud's foul breath of chemical and ozone rushed into the Hangar Deck. Kite swallowed hard, equalising the pressure gurgling in his ears. The Hangar Deck faced astern with the black wedge of the Phosphene's stern hull ending in a wash of swirling cloud.

  Pistons expanded with a pneumatic hiss. Rails began to extend over the ramp door, guiding two dangling L-shaped trapezes out into the wind. Kite kept his distance.

  Clinker snagged a safety-line to his own belt and gave Birdy the thumbs up then edged out onto the ramp door, batons raised. The two tiny stormwings approached, fighting the fulgurtine's wake turbulence. Their small powerful engines accelerated, matching the Phosphene's air speed. Seventy or eight knots Kite guessed. An incredible speed for any airmachine.

  Gradually Fleer and Welkin drew level with the ramp door, guided in by Clinker's batons. In one smooth movement Fleer gripped the trapeze one-handed. Birdy winched her in and then Welkin followed. Soon both pilots had been hauled safely on board.

  Soon Clinker had set the stormwings out for inspection, leaving them steaming in puddles of rainwater. For the first time, Kite got a good look at the Murkers' airmachines. The wingspan was six feet but the deck barely wider than his shoulder-width, with control pedals in the centre and a low rail fore and aft. Wind-scuffed the patched skymetal frame had an aerodynamic curve, broader at the front where the intake grill grinned like a metal teeth.

  Kite licked his lips. Just looking at it made him hungry for a test flight. How high could it fly? What was its top speed?

  The Hangar Deck's loudspeaker system squealed. “Lieutenant Fleer,” the Captain's voice said. “Please bring Mr.Nayward to my cabin.”

  Fleer scraped off her mask and raked her damp hair. The gash on her forehead had set into a pinkish crescent. “With me, Nayward,” she said and made for the stairwell, shedding a trail of raindrops in her wake.

  Kite hesitated. “Your mother said I should use the lift,” he called after her, tapping the walking stick against his boot.

  “Surely you can manage a few steps, Nayward?” Fleer said, glancing over her shoulder.

  Kite swore under his breath. Was this to be punishment for insulting the Captain? Or maybe being on the Hangar Deck? Probably daring to breathe in her presence.

  Kite reluctantly approached the steps and gripped the steel banister for support. He sucked in a few breaths and lifted his boot. Hot needles stabbed into his leg, forcing out a gasp.

  “You're too slow, Nayward, ” Fleer called down. “We mustn't keep the Captain waiting.”

  Kite swallowed the pain. He wasn't going to let Fleer humiliate him. He swung his boot onto the next step and began to climb.

  “What’s flying a stormwing like?” he said.

  “Why? Think you can fly one?” came the sharp reply.

  “I reckon I could,” Kite said, between wheezes. “Used to pilot a sandboat, twelve-footer.”

  “I've sailed a snow-yachts all my life.” Fleer's voice echoed down. “Stormwings aren't landmachines, Nayward. Means nothing.”

  Eventually Kite reached the first landing and paused to catch his breath. A crewman carrying a toolbox passed him by and gave him an uncertain nod. Kite continued his climb, the pain settling into a dull ache. He began to move quicker.

  “Well, if Birdy can do it...” he began.

  “Birdy told you that?” Fleer said. “I wouldn't believe everything Birdy tells you, Nayward.”

  Two flights of steps remained between them. Fleer had already reached the Nav Deck well ahead of him. She leaned over the banister loosely, knitting needles of sharp damp hair hanging about her cheeks.

  “You really want to know what it's really
like out there, Nayward?” she called down.

  “Don't tell me, wet and cold?” Kite said.

  Fleer had a distant look. “It's like being free of everything,” she said. “Free of the dust and the ruin. Free of yourself. Out there nothing can drag you down. Out there you're invincible.”

  Kite stopped. He'd never heard anyone talk of flying this way. Abruptly Fleer turned her back on him. “You'll never fly a stormwing, Nayward,” she said, and spun the wheel-lock to open the hatch.

  Kite limped up the last few steps. He leaned heavily on the walking stick, sweat prickling under the uniform's collar. “Maybe you're just afraid I might be better than you?” he said.

  Without warning Fleer spun around and nudged him back against the banister, stabbing her finger into his chest. She stared at him, hard and unforgiving. “You don't care for what the Murkers stand for. You don't even know your own people. You only care about yourself and that worthless doll.”

  Kite swallowed. Taunting her had been a mistake. How quickly he'd forgotten this was Valkyrie.

  “I know you want to steal a stormwing. Don't deny it. I saw the way you were looking at my wings down there,” Fleer said, pressing harder. “Listen good, Nayward. Don't forget this. Not ever. I don't care what the Captain says, you try stealing one, you even think it, and hunt you down myself.”

  32

  The Mempod

  Shelvocke sat at his desk, tapping at the keyboard's brass keys. Half a dozen overlapping screens floated level with his eyes. Diagrams and Fairspeak, baffling symbols and words all jumbled in reverse. Kite couldn't read a word of any of it, especially in reverse.

  “The Doctor is taking good care of you I trust,” Shelvocke said, glancing away from his screens.

  Kite nodded stiffly. He was still sore from his confrontation with Fleer on the stairwell. There was a chair near Shelvocke’s desk. Kite desperately wanted to take the weight of his burning hot ankles but that would make him look weak in front of her. So Kite stood, leaning on the walking stick Dr.Nightborn had given him.