Aethosphere Chronicles: Winds of Duty

by Jeremiah D. Schmidt

  “Nearly two thousand years ago the Nequam sailed the skies in the name of the Enox Unon. Those damned demons, in the service of their damned devil, commanded great flying fortresses—called them Basilicas—and they used them to rule over the beleaguered Candaran tribes of Aethosphere for millennia uncountable…”

  How similar that sounded to the present day Great Skies War. Those old stories had always inspired terror in the young Bazzon, but he would often make his father tell him regardless; because little boys liked to be scared in the safety of their homes, when they have their fathers close at hand to drive away the nightmares. But after his father passed on, Bar was loath to hear them, and eventually stopped thinking of the myths altogether. That is, until the day he’d first laid eyes on an imperial destroyer. All the old scare-stories came flooding back in an instant as that terrible machine slipped from a storm cloud like a wraith through tattered curtains. It was a terror to behold; massive, and wrought in impenetrable black iron, turreted long-range guns, blood red Atmium Core; and for the first time since his father died, Bar knew what it was like to feel true hopelessness again.

  That imperial monster had been a real life demon alright, brought to life with hatred and science, and afterwards it was hard to keep the men’s spirits up. Getting chased out of the Giedi Cluster, and then having to flee from Midport through the King’s Straight gauntlet had further eroded morale, and now with the whole of the Sargasso Sky open to Imperial incursions, no man could feel anything but dread anymore. Families were in danger, and that left everyone on edge. So seeing the men laughing and joking around him was a sight that stirred the fledgling officer’s heart—made him feel like maybe everything could be alright again.

  “Mr. Bazzon!” the master-at-arms’ voice cracked like a discordant whip across the back of the men’s merriment. Like a cold and savage wind, it drove away any measure of mirth, and the room quickly gave way to frosty silence. “Why are you outta uniform?”

  Bar spun on his heels, wobbling, and feeling a bit drunk from the grog. Chief Master Stowe may have been nearly half a meter shorter than the ensign, but he stood like a boar ready to stampede over him regardless. The humorless man’s face was even shaped like a boar’s, long in the front but wide and flat, with a mustache that spilled over the corners of his mouth like two tusks.

  Bazzon teetered, trying his best to maintain that delicate balance between standing at attention and seeking out his missing uniform top. It was Tolle that helped him out with that, by tossing the missing shirt and catching Bar full in the face. Raucous laughter burst through the crowd, but Stowe silenced it with a growl.

  After wrestling the article of clothing away, Bar found Stowe standing eye-to-eye with him, glaring with a look that could have flayed the honor off a man just as surely as the cat-o-nine-tails could cleave flesh from the bone. Shame burned across Bar’s face. “We’ll have a discussion about the importance of the king’s uniform later,” said the master-at-arms, “but for now, the captain’s called all hands on deck for an important announcement.”

  “Is it about the war?” asked someone standing behind Bar.

  “Are we being sent back to the frontlines?”

  “Where are the frontlines these days?”

  “I heard tell the admiralty’s not going to send resources to protect the north, is that true?”

  “Silence, you mangy dogs! The next man who so much as utters a word that isn’t ‘yes, Chief Master’ will promptly find his back kissed by the leather. Do I make myself clear?” Chief Master-at-arms Stowe eyed the crowd as though challenging them to say no, daring the most foolish of them to make good on his promise. He almost looked disappointed when the deck slowly relented to a grumbling wave of, “Yes, Chief Master!”

  “Good!” he replied with no real approval in his sky-grizzled face. “Now I want every last man up there within a quarter hour, and if one of you sots so much as arrives a second late, I’ll personally wield the bullwhip that splits the skin off your back.” And just like that, the master-at-arms turned and marched towards the ladderwell door, disappearing through it almost as suddenly as he’d appeared, drawing with him the chill air in the vortex of his wake.

  The gun deck was quiet for a full on minute until all were certain Stowe was long gone. It was almost as though they’d been holding their breaths, and the collective exhale filled the room with rum-soaked fumes. There was some relieved chuckling and a couple of the old-timers gave Ensign Bazzon a playful shove.

  “Don’t let it phase you, lad,” reassured Alabrahm Muldaire as his squat form came hobbling up next to him. “You know how Stowe can get under stress…and if it makes you feel better, you technically outrank him now anyhow.” He chuckled. The ship’s old cook had been good enough to help the men in the gun deck this day, and though his broken body wasn’t much use with lifting, it was his grog that helped the most.

  In the shuffle of men finishing to clean themselves up, Bar heard one of them grumbling to another. “This big announcement…so, you think that’s what it’s all about…abandoning the north for some new battle strategy?” It was one of Tolle’s gunners asking the question, a stout man named Angus Frasier.

  “Battle strategy,” scoffed an engineer as he zipped up his coverall.

  “Aye, Stowe may not have confirmed it but I know the truth,” replied the skyman who’d earlier made mention of the Admiralty’s plans. Bar listened in curiosity. If battle plans were being drawn up, that could’ve been the reason for Moore’s orders this morning; and as the Combat Systems Manager, it was important to know if he’d have to be at the ready “I heard it myself when Tiny was talking with Commander Hastings in the ladderway outside the galley this morning. The first officer didn’t sound too happy about it either.”

  “Can’t blame him,” grumbled Gunnery Technician Frasier, “It’s shit if it’s true…ain’t right not to post a fleet to watch over our homes. I’ve got family on Glenfindale; a wife, children, my parents; and they expect me to what…? Just dedicate myself to watching over crownies and their southern sycophants?”

  “Well…strategically it makes sense,” offered Egan Sato, Bar’s electronic technician, “Our fleet can’t hope to match the Empire if it splits up, and King’s Isle is closest to the Straight…more important—”

  “More important!” snarled one of the other gunners contentiously. The man reminded Bar of a wolf with shaggy black hair swept back into hackles. He had a mouth full of sharp teeth as well, flashing out as he drew up his lips in a snarl. “How do you figure on that, Sato?”

  “Whoa whoa! Easy, O’Dylan,” replied Sato, lifting his hands up in apologetic surrender. “Meant no disrespect to the north and all, but resources, mate. You know; population, bilge-oil fields, factories, foundries, Ragnarok Cloudfortress—the whole war effort?”

  “So that’s it,” fired back the predatory gunnery skyman in scolding, “and you’d just tell the north to what…? Piss off?”

  “It’s not like—”

  “Actually, that seems about right to me,” butted in Bar’s Fire Control Technician, Cecil Temberly, with a crow-like cackle. “Nothing up there but peasants, muck, and potatoes anyway.”

  “Hey, ease up on that sort of talk, especially with the company you’re keeping…petty officer,” suggested Brandon Tanner, one of the old-timers, and a gunnery skyman himself, as he hauled up a heavy barrel-swab to rest over the corded muscles of his mahogany brown shoulders.

  “You’re out of line, Skyman,” spat Cecil. “I’ll damn-well talk anyway I please, especially when it comes to wasting our time defending common born offlanders.”

  “I’m a common born offlander,” replied Tanner, throwing the Fire Control Technician Second Class a contemptuous glare.

  “As am I,” yelled out another greasy skyman from the engineering ranks, covered in the day’s hard labor and looking ill at ease. Cecil Temberly just smirked back at them all, condescension outweighing any remorse, or regret, even when several more men stood up, lo
oking put off by his crass comments.

  Bar could see the young Kinglander’s pride starting to stir. The hothead had been assigned to his department, and so Bar had the misfortune of experiencing that arrogance first hand. Predictably, Cecil scoffed. “Glenfindale.” He shook his head. “Doesn’t matter what the issue is, or how wrong one of you might be. The capital is in danger, but do you think that matters to any one of you? You cranked up snowploggers all stick together, no matter what, don’t you?”

  “Snowplogger!” Tanner dropped his load and turned, snarling in anger. In an instant his magenta irises turned fiery, and most of the skymen on the gun deck froze at what they were doing, to turn and gaze on what would come of it. Skyman Tanner added, “Perhaps you oughta take off those petty officer stripes and try saying that again, sir.”

  “Sir?” repeated Cecil glaring.

  Abner Tolle stepped in, using the barrel of his gut as a barrier between the two combative crewmen. “As much as I like a good fight, unfortunately we all got places to be, and a captain to kowtow to,” he tried explaining in good humor, offering a placating smile to each man in turn.

  But when it came to Cecil, he just couldn’t let it go. “I ain’t afraid of this man,” he snarled back with a challenging nod to Tanner. “If he wants to settle this outside our naval rate so be it. I got no issues mopping the floor with this ignorant plogger.”

  “Oh Cecil, Cecil, Cecil. I’m trying to help you, chum,” offered Tolle with a knowing smile, “I’d hate for Tanner here to get all my guns dirty with your King’s Isle blood—especially after the work it took to get them looking so magnificent in the first place, you privy?”

  “Last I knew the Combat Department overrides Weapons, and that puts me a step above you; so stay outta this, Roly Poly!”

  “Roly Poly?” remarked the rotund peace-maker in mock upset. “Roly Poly—why that’s so very clever of you, Cec.” Abner Tolle backed up to stand beside his seething Glenfinner subordinate. “Don’t you think he’s a clever one, Tanner?”

  “Aye, that he is, Weapons Officer Second Class.”

  “I’m thinking maybe you should go ahead and thank him for being so clever while I turn my back to maintain an acceptable level of plausible deniability.”

  “Yeah, teach this crowny prawn a lesson in Finny manners, Tanner,” urged a disgruntled gunner. “For my family and all the families of the north being left out to dry by these selfish pricks.”

  “Ease up, Frasier,” griped a skyman in an engineering smock, “no need to start throwing around insults at us all; we’ve got no quarrel with you Finnies.”

  “Seems Cecil was throwing out insults left and right and that didn’t seem to bother you none, Morgan,” retorted the gunner. “Psh. Seems us snowploggers aren’t the only ones who stick together…eh, crowny?”

  “That’s how you want to play it?”

  “I got five coin says, our man Tanner kills your crowny prince right here and now.”

  And just like that, the situation looked to be on the verge of boiling over into a full-blown fighting match. Bar reached up for an overhead beam to lean in for a better view as the rest of the men circled in to surround Tanner and Cecil. In the center, the two enlistees began to strip off their uniforms. Now in his striped service tank top, Tanner’s traditional Glenfindale tattoos were plainly visible as an assortment of knots and tangled designs, inked in white over rich brown skin. Bar weighed the outcome of the fight as men around him began exchanging coin.

  “You in, sir” offered Bar’s electronic technician, but he just waved Egan Sato off. He hadn’t the coin, nor did he think it would send the right message if he started betting against a man in his own department. Cecil might have been his technician, and though he had youthful exuberance—and was plainly all muscle—Bar’s bet was still on Tanner. He’d known the Glenfinner too long, and beneath that hardened aeronaut’s clothing was sinew likened to that of beef jerky left too long in the sun; tough and unyielding.

  “Lad,” whispered the cook, nudging his arm to capture his attention.

  “Not now, Al,” Bar waved away the old codger. He didn’t want anything to distract him from what was sure to be an epic dust-up.

  “You might want to step in and show a little authority down here,” countered the cook.

  “Ah, don’t turn into a mother hen, Al. Anyway, you know the “sacred right” below deck. We let the men duke it out without interference.”

  “Aye, no need to lecture me,” grumbled Al as he rubbed a hand through a crop of wispy white hairs dangling over the mangled fold of his ear. “But you might recall, that little tradition has always held strict to two men in the ring at a time.”

  But Bar countered with a justifying sweep of his hands. “What do you think this is?”

  “This here’s something more…something real ugly beneath it all, and looks to only get uglier no matter the outcome.” Al made his own gesture towards the assembled skymen. In the twilight, they’d crowded in close like wolves around a kill; the frantic energy of impending violence stirring in their wide eyes. “Look around, Bar, the men are on edge—have been—what with the rumors flying about. So imagine how all these skymen hailing from the north must feel…hmm, the men from Winterforge, Cloudvale, Borada, Frostrise—hell, Bar, you even got family up on Glenfindale, so you’ve got to understand the frustrations being felt. It’s got inter-isles spats becoming the norm, aboard even this ship, and that’d be awfully disappointing to Lockney. He worked too long and too hard uniting this crew for it to come to this…”

  “I understand all that, Al, and I can understand the frustration, but it’s still only rumor, and despite Lockney’s efforts, the men have always been fighting about where they come from, even back when I was just a wee fledgling swabbing these decks. This ain’t nothing new, and the old captain let them sort it out.”

  “But this is different, Bar, they’re splitting into isle factions like it’s the damn Kingdoms War all over again. You were too young to know that conflict, but I lived through it—”

  “I ain’t ignorant to the old civil war, Al, my father made sure of that.”

  “Well great, then you should be keen on why we can’t let it come to blows…not over this…and certainly not with these rumors running rampant? Like it or not, you’re under obligation to break it up anyway.”

  “‘Under obligation’? Now what in the name of Nekron are you talking about, Al?”

  “Ensign, you’re the godsdamn ranking officer down here, and you’re to keep the king’s discipline no matter what.”

  Incredulous, Bar held out his arms in surrender. “You can’t expect me to break tradition beneath the deck…”

  “I ain’t expecting nothing, Bar,” the old cook scowled deeply, setting the wrinkles crisscrossing the leathery hide of his face to crease even deeper “I ain’t the master-at-arms. I don’t enforce the rules, but I’m letting you know, as a friend, you’ve got to put a stop to this pronto. Remember, these aren’t your pals anymore, these are your subordinates now.”

  Bar looked over the cheering and jeering skymen, saw Cecil and Tanner at the center starting to circle one another with their hands poised at the ready. The first blow hadn’t landed yet, but it promised to at any moment. After that, it might prove impossible to stop. “Dammit, Al.” But the old cook was right and Bar knew it. In all the excitement he’d forgotten that fighting was a serious infraction, punishable by the whip and the brig, and if he didn’t act to stop it that put him in dereliction of duty—more so than any enlistee present.

  “Alright, enough,” hollered the ensign, though he might as well have been a church mouse asking the thunder to quiet down for the effect it had. The combatants just continued to circle like growling animals to the roaring of the crowd. “Another time, fellows,” he tried again feebly. What could captain Lockney have been thinking making me an officer?

  “Enough!” bellowed Alabrahm Muldaire, surprising Bar with the booming crash of his craggy old voice. “The
Ensign’s got something to say, so listen up.”

  Stunned by the cook’s outburst, it took Bar a moment to realize that everyone had frozen, and now all eyes were locked on him, expectant. “Aye…yeah, well…thanks, Al,” Bar stumbled to find the words that Captain Lockney might have used in this situation. He cleared his throat once, twice, and then a third time before finally getting it out. “Anyway…now ain’t the time to be trading knuckles, so let’s break this up. Captain Moore wants us on deck, and I don’t know about you, but I don’t exactly want to feel the sting of Stowe’s cat-o-nine for being late…but feel free to make up your own minds about that…your choice.”

  That seemed to pull the fangs from the fight, but it didn’t stop the looks of contempt thrown Bar’s way by a disappointed crowd. He’d broken a sacred right beneath the deck, and now he was sure they’d hate him for it. After all, for a lot of the old timers, Bar was probably still nothing more than that same skyman apprentice who’d started onboard at the age of nine, and now playing at being an officer changed nothing. “…so anyway…” Bar swiped his vest and jacket off a crate and pulled them on over his shirt. “All hands above deck…on the double.”

  “Well…that’s a start anyway, lad,” offered Al morosely, patting the ensign on the shoulder as he hobbled on by. “Being a leader is never easy, and though you may not have friends down here like you used to, at least in time you can gain their respect.”