by E. C. Jarvis
CHAPTER THREE
Lieutenant Saunders made his way to the Officers admin building within Fort Dalet. Soldiers marched in formation along the gravel strip, the last winter snow turning to sludge beneath their boots.
In the centre of the parade ground sat a small airship. Its design distinctly different from Daltonian warships, the wood was an ashy blue shade, decorated with ornately curved carvings.
“Eptoran reconnaissance,” a male voice said, distracting him.
He turned to see his friend Sergeant Eddy Boswell had joined him on the walk to the admin building. “Sergeant.” Saunders nodded.
“LT. They brought that here a while back. No survivors, though. They all killed themselves before our boys got to them. You here to see the General?”
“Yeah, though I’m not looking forward to it.”
“Nobody ever looks forward to speaking with that man.”
“I’ll be sure to pass along your sentiments, Sergeant.”
“Sure you will.”
“Do me a favour and do a detailed sketch of that, will you?” He pointed his walking stick towards the ship. Saunders still carried his stick; his aching injuries had not abated.
“Okay, sure... I guess you have no intention of telling me why?”
“Not yet. Find someone who speaks fluent Eptoran as well. We’ll speak later.”
Eddy headed off, leaving Saunders to enter the pristine admin building alone. Halls as white as fresh snow, adorned with paintings of famous Generals and Commanders of old stretching out in all directions, he headed straight to General Gotts office. With a heavy sigh, he knocked on the door. Though he’d been practicing what he wanted to say, running it over and over in his mind, plotting out all the different arguments the General might give, he still felt a pang of nervousness in his chest. The General would most likely shut him up with one growl and order him away.
“Come,” the voice behind the door barked. Saunders straightened his back and opened the door, marching to the centre of the room to stand to attention. “Ah, Lieutenant. Good,” the General said as he squeezed his rolls of fat from the tight chair behind his desk.
“General,” Saunders said, interrupting the General even though he knew it was against protocol. “I wish to undertake a mission—”
“Yes, yes, I know you’re pining for Colonel Kerrigan. As it happens, the President wants to send a detail out to go after him.”
“Sir? Have the pirates been located?”
“Not exactly.” Gott licked his lips. “There are reports coming from Eptora that a pirate airship has infiltrated their country. Of course, it’s likely the Eptorans will capture them and put the occupants to death, but the President would like to receive some direct confirmation if that is the case.”
“Confirmation from a trustworthy source, no doubt.” Saunders raised an eyebrow at the fat old General, knowing he was stepping out of bounds a little.
“Indeed. Lieutenant.” Gott made a point of dragging out the mentioning of his rank, a not-so-subtle warning to tread carefully, Saunders presumed.
“So, you have orders for me?”
“You’re to travel to Eptora on a merchant ship and make enquiries as to what happened to the pirate airship and its occupants. You may take two men with you, but no more. If you are captured, you’ll be required to take these.” Gott held out his hand, containing a small, metallic box of blue pills.
Saunders felt his eyebrows rise. “I’m not trained as a spy, Sir,” he said, carefully choosing his words, though he wasn’t entirely sure why. He had intended to try talking the General into allowing him to go after Kerrigan. He certainly hadn’t expected to be presented with this as an actual mission, and the unexpected twist made his nerves tingle. The tub of small suicide pills in the General’s hand wasn’t helping to settle his nerves much.
“You may not be trained as such, but you know far too many of our high-level secrets. As does Kerrigan. I expect the same of him if he’d have been foolish enough to let himself get captured by our enemy. This mission is not optional, Lieutenant. If you are successful, then a promotion may be in order.” Gott smiled, though it looked more like a sneer. Saunders gave a curt nod and took the pills from the General. As nice as a promotion would be, it seemed unfair to have to go all the way to Eptora without an entire unit of men at his side. The notion that perhaps the General was referring to suicide by blue pill as some twisted joke on promotion had his teeth grinding on edge.
“Here is your briefing. Good luck to you.”
“Thank you, Sir.” Saunders snapped his legs together with as much force as he dared, considering his damaged leg, and gave a salute, which the General returned with much less bravado.
“Oh, and Lieutenant?” Gott called just as Saunders reached the door.
“Yes, Sir?”
“If you happen to bump into a man named Solomon Covelle, kill him. Doing so will earn you a special commendation.”
“We’re killing civilians now, Sir? Without trial?”
“Those are my orders. If you must have a clear conscience, you can be assured that he is far worse than those pirates you were so readily willing to kill without trail. Consider this your introduction into the upper echelons of political and military ranking. It’s never a pretty job, and the black and white rules become irrevocably marred with a mesh of grey area circumstances. The only way one can survive through the madness is to form a healthy level of detachment. Dismissed.”
As Saunders emerged into the cool air, he felt the flush of hot anger on his cheeks. He resolved to find Kerrigan, hopefully alive, and to prize every last bit of information out of him. If he was going to be mixed up in something as unpleasant and unpalatable as this bizarre situation, he wanted to know it inside and out before he buried himself any deeper in the mess.
. . .
The first sensation Holt grew aware of was a burning on his face. He tried to open his eyes, but to no avail. He tried to move his arms and legs, then realised he wasn’t entirely sure he had arms or legs. All he could feel was heat on his face. Slowly, he became aware of an odd and uneven squeaking noise. As he attempted to focus on the sound that sort of reminded him of a mouse, he moved closer towards full consciousness. Finally, he managed to open his eyes, only to snap them shut again as his vision was assaulted by the blaring sun. After several minutes of attempting to focus and will his body back to working order, he managed to roll over a little. His knee bumped onto something metallic, sending shots of pain all over his body, and he became painfully aware of just how damaged he was from head to toe.
As he looked again, this time, turned away from the sun, he saw the upturned mine cart beside him, one wheel still rolling round and round, squeaking to a stop. His focus shifted, and he noticed the volcano base nearby, a small entrance—or perhaps exit—cave where the mine cart tracks ended. His eyes moved up the mountainside to the top, where a great mushroom cloud of hot ash billowed into the sky. Movement at the mine exit caught his eye, and what he saw spurred his limbs into activity. A great glob of molten lava erupted from the hole. The red and orange river, covered in a black ash crust which cracked and reformed as it rolled over on itself, flowed toward him, spitting and bubbling as it moved.
He pushed up on his elbows, ignoring the screaming agony coursing throughout his limbs. There was nothing around for miles save for endless sand dunes. The only indication that anyone else had come this way was a pair of deep tracks running through the sand. He tripped and stumbled along the tracks as swiftly as he could manage given his battered state. He chanced a glance behind; the lava stream was slow but steady. It had already reached the upturned mine cart, which succumbed to the unimaginable heat in mere moments, twisting and melting into non-existence. Holt’s legs ploughed onwards, but his heart ached behind. He scanned the sky, hoping to see the flying machine somewhere above, taking Larissa to safety. All that could be seen was a mass of clear blue sky, blotted by the thick black cloud spewing from the volcano.
/> As the tide of lava pooled and spread at the dune base, he climbed on and up, hobbling on aching legs. The desert sun pelted him relentlessly, and after what seemed like hours of climbing up ever-moving sand, he reached the peak. At the top, the world stretched out in all directions with nothing but undulating dunes of sand. In the far distance, the tracks in the sand lead to a hazy dot on the horizon. Holt could do nothing more than stand and stare as the odd vehicle with great big wheels for tracking through the dunes disappeared ahead, a small wisp of smoke from its chimney remaining in the air for a moment before dissipating into nothingness.
“Covelle,” Holt whispered uselessly. He gave one more glance behind. If returning to the mountain range to try and search for Larissa had ever been an option, that option was well and truly destroyed by the river of magma now blocking his path and slowly consuming the mass of sand at the bottom of the dune. He was left with no choice but to push on and follow the tracks in the sand—tracks which threatened to disappear with every wisp of hot wind which blowing across the desert. His rifle, selection of throwing knifes, and almost empty pack provided little comfort for the lonely journey ahead.
“Training,” he muttered to himself as the ash cloud from the volcano rained hot lumps of lava around him, melting the sand into blobs as it landed. He tied a rag around his nose and mouth as he began the trek on foot, hoping the tracks would last long enough to remain in place and that, wherever Covelle was going, it was no more than a few miles away.
CHAPTER FOUR
Larissa stumbled over her feet for the umpteenth time as she attempted to haul the large contraption she was carrying across the soft sand which moved and shifted beneath her feet with every step. Though it had taken some persuading to convince Cid he was in no fit state to be carrying anything heavy across the distance, as soon as he’d conceded, she regretted it. They’d dug the metal lump of a device Cid now lovingly referred to as the engine out of the aeroplane, and this was her third—and hopefully final—long walk between the airship and aeroplane to deliver the engine to its new home.
Cid’s head popped out from the sideways stairwell on the ship, and he looked out at Larissa. He waved his arms, beckoning her to hurry. She wasn’t sure what the rush was; they were far enough away from the volcano to not be threatened by the lava flow, and the ash cloud blew in the other direction, which made a nice change. She could barely gather the strength of mind to feel grateful, though. The heavy engine paled in comparison to the weight on her mind at losing Holt. Only the gruelling physical exercise that made her arms and legs tremble under the strain kept her from curling into a ball on the sand and weeping a stream of tears. She tried to blink the thought away as a bead of sweat ran a trail down her forehead and collected in the corner of her eye. Cid disappeared back into the airship belly, and she dropped the engine. It thudded onto the ground, pelting her legs with sandy spray.
“I can’t do this,” she whispered as her entire body shook. The tears rolled down her face and she gave up the pretence of trying to stop them. Though her body healed injuries in seconds and she barely experienced pain anymore, her heart ached with indescribable agony.
“What are you doing?” Cid yelled from up ahead. She tried to look at him through a haze of tears as her shoulders shook uncontrollably. “You need to move your fucking ass, girl!” Cid hollered.
She sucked in long, painful gasps of breath. Though she was used to Cid swearing, it was rare for him to actually swear at her rather than in some generalized context. The fact that he had done so was enough to snap her out of her self-pitying spiral into utter despair. Cid waved his arms at her frantically and gestured towards the sky. She looked up and couldn’t see anything different above them. When she glanced back at Cid and saw him pointing into the distance behind her, she finally got the message. Her lower lip wobbled as she turned, and her eyes involuntarily rolled back in their sockets when she saw what had gotten him so riled up. In the distance, a distinct blob appeared in the sky. It was the Eptoran warship which had pursued them since they purchased supplies in the coastal town.
“I have been shot at,” she mumbled to herself as she scooped up the engine and trudged back to the airship, “blown up, abused, broken, abandoned, and almost melted by a volcano. I am not going to lose out now.”
Clambering onto the upturned deck, she rolled the engine up the wood with her shoulder, pushing it towards the stairwell, grunting loudly with the effort. The engine toppled over the edge and skated down the other side, eliciting a yelp from Cid down below.
“Sorry,” she yelled as she hauled herself into the gap.
Cid was already tying a rope around the lump of metal. “Don’t be. I’ll hook it up. Go switch the propellers over so they’re pointing upwards.” He lobbed a large, rusty spanner at her, which she caught with ease.
“What?” Before she got any further clarification, Cid disappeared, hauling himself towards the furnace room. Moments later, the rope around the engine turned taut and rose in the air, disappearing out of view.
“Turn the propellers,” she muttered, sliding across the deck on her rump, the fabric of her flimsy skirt rucking up around her thighs. One propeller was tucked down beneath the ship, resting slightly on the sand. She decided to try that one first, mainly because she had no idea how to haul herself over to the other one sticking up in the air.
The propeller was attached to the ship by a metallic shaft. A groove running through the shaft led to a large nut. She glanced across at the Eptoran warship as it advanced towards them. It didn’t seem to be making a lot of effort to do so. Though admittedly a downed ship didn’t pose much of a threat, she didn’t know whether to feel insulted that they weren’t in a rush or sorry for them if their ships were truly that slow. They wouldn’t stand much of a chance against Daltonian warships in battle. The memory of the warship she managed to accidentally crash flooded into her mind, along with thoughts of all the men on board. Lives lost at her hands. As if it couldn’t get any worse, a vision of Holt flashed through her mind. She could almost hear him, standing at her shoulder, guiding her hand with terse instruction. As if his ghost had floated from the volcano, doggedly refusing to give up.
She sucked a deep breath through her nose and set to work on the nut with the rusty spanner. Eventually, the nut slackened and the whole propeller loosened. She had to brace her legs along the guardrail and put her arms around the entire shaft to shift the heavy lump and twist it upwards. As it clunked into place, she reached back down to tighten the nut, making her fingers ache as she tried to ensure it was as tight as possible.
“One down,” she said, wiping the sweat from her brow as she made the awkward ascent around the guardrail to climb up to the second propeller. By the time she’d managed to turn that one around, which had almost sent her plummeting to the ground more than once, the Eptoran ship was coming into range.
Cid’s head popped into view once more. “You done?” he yelled as she let go, sliding down the deck.
“Yes, but I don’t see how...” Cid’s head disappeared again. “Fuck sake,” Larissa muttered, chewing on her lip as she watched the impending ship approach, torn between readying for a fight and just surrendering. The only other remaining option was to take cover in the jungle. The blood-thirsty Rifarin-infested jungle. Just as she was mulling the awful choices over, a humming came up from below. Seconds later, the humming grew to an intense rumbling, and the propellers kicked into life.
Cid popped up on deck just as the propellers gathered speed, causing the ship to creak and crack and shudder all over.
“What the...” Larissa blurted as Cid hacked at the ropes still connected to the deflated balloon laying sprawled out across the sand.
“Can’t have anything tying us down,” he yelled, cutting at yet another rope, his mop of reddish-brown hair flowing wildly and making him look like a maniac. Larissa found herself staring at him uselessly, her mouth hanging open. The ship tipped slightly as the propellers whizzed even faster, and then
without warning, the entire structure tilted to an upright point. Larissa stumbled and gripped the nearest redundant mast pole for stability, and moments later, the entire structure rose up into the sky of its own accord.
Cid raced to the wheel. The noise from below settled to a steady rumbling and the propellers whirled around in a blur.
“How are you doing this?” Larissa yelled through hysterical laughter as she realised no-one was in the furnace room.
“The engine from the aeroplane. I hooked it up.”
“I realize that but...how?” She gestured toward a propeller with an arm, still keeping her other arm wrapped around the mast as they climbed higher and higher.
“Ah, its simple physics. To move forward, you must push backward. Or, in this case, to move upward, you must propel a force downward. The force created by the rotors...”
Cid’s voice drifted away into static as Larissa tentatively let go of the mast pole and headed to the bow. The Eptoran airship was close enough to obliterate them with cannon fire if they felt inclined to do so. Larissa reached for her spyglass, then remembered that she was wearing a flimsy ripped dress and not much else.
“Are we retreating, Captain?” Cid called out. “We can brave the ash cloud now that we don’t have the hydrogen balloon, and those assholes aren’t likely to follow us.”
“I’m not sure you should be referring to them as assholes, Cid,” Larissa said, turning to give him a smile.
“What? Whatever. Just tell me where you want me to go before they start pelting us with cannons.”
“Down, please.”
“Down? Are you bloody mad, woman?”
Larissa beckoned to Cid with her fingertip and he scuttled forwards, muttering a string of expletives.
“Oh,” he said as he came to a stop by her side and saw what she had seen. “Down it is.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Cid headed down to the engine room, his heart pounding in his eardrums. The increase in heartrate had started as soon as he’d thought up the solution to their transport problem. It peaked as his solution proved to be a success, and with the warship’s arrival, it had settled into a terrifying rhythm that would not calm no matter how much he told himself to relax. He spent a few moments calculating the rate at which the engine needed to slow in order to land them gently. Cutting the engine off quickly would end in disaster. As he worked on slowing the propeller speed, his stomach lurched into his feet when they dipped in the sky. Finally, they settled down with a gentle thud, followed by an uneven wobbling until the ship tilted on its side once more.