“And yet, according to this report, it says you have an aunt and a grandmother, both of whom reside on Glenfindale Isle.” Bar noted the way the man almost spat out the word “Glenfindale”, and it reminded him of a thing his father once told him:
“There are people in this world that will hold it against you…the place your mother came from. It’s not fair, and it’s not right, but it’s the way of things. It’s not my place to tell you what to think about it, or what to say to people around you, but just watch yourself. The civil war’s still fresh on everyone’s mind—nothing but a few brief years between us and that terrible era—but regardless, your mother was here on King’s Isle long before the rebellion started…though some will hardly care about that. You keen on what I’m saying, son?”
“Aye, that’s true enough, captain,” admitted Bar, pausing to choose his words carefully; wishing he could sit down for this; wishing he had a breath of fresh and clean air taken from the outside world. “I’ve an aunt from my mother’s side, and a grandmother as well. But, when my aunt said she was taking me and moving to Glenfindale, to live with my maternal grandmother—and a woman I’d never met—well…I ran off.
“The prospect of moving to that dismal place conjured up nothing but images of poverty and desolation in my young mind, sir. I grew up hearing the tales told on the streets; how Finnies were nothing more than grubby beggars who lived in crude stone huts, eating sod and potatoes racked from the muck and the mud.” What he left out, however, was how at the time he was too young to know that those were only stories traded by intolerant crownies, and that he’d learned the truth of matters later on, but he continued his tale in a placating manner. “At that tender age there was simply no way I was going to allow myself to be taken to Glenfindale,” stated Bar. “So two days after they’d cremated my father Cuthbert Bazzon, I climbed out of my bedroom window, and stole away in the dead of night along Throughway Street to the dock shelters.
“I’m a child of King’s Isle,” he reaffirmed for the captain’s sake, “born and raised beneath the Gods’ Bind…and I’d no intention of becoming a frozen…snowplogger. My aunt abandoned me shortly after, didn’t have the coin or wherewithal to survive in Throne, not without my dad’s purse to see her along. So once she was gone, I qualified for the Initiative more than ever. The naval recruiters had no qualms over the technicality, nor did Lockney. So you see, ain’t no lie…sir.”
“Hmm…an overwrought technicality if you ask me.” Moore looked up from his telling documents and narrowed his gaze, much like a shadowhawk sighting an easy meal in the form of a balloon guppy. “Tell me, do you travel to Glenfindale often?”
Bar clenched his jaw. Just what is he getting at? Why these probing questions about my past? His father’s words of caution seemed more pertinent than ever as he watched the captain. Moore’s face remained a stern blank revealing nothing of his intentions, and Bar felt the room darken, even though the skies outside remained as bright as ever. “In truth, only once.” And Glenfindale had not been that horrible place he’d heard ridiculed so often before joining the Royal Air Navy either. In his years aboard ship, as the Kingdoms War marched further and further into the past, Bar formed a bond with the good servicemen from Glenfindale—tough and hardworking men, quick to laugh and quick to fight. In time, he’d even worked up the courage to spend a shore leave on the isle, with every intention of tracking down his grandmother and making right by her. Though a week spent wallowing in one seedy tavern after another had sapped away the courage to confront her. In the end, he’d stumbled back onto the Chimera, reeking of ale.
Somehow Nana Hazel caught word that her wayward grandson was aboard, and she came marching onto the airship in search of him. Captain Lockney was only too willing to indulge the elderly widow, and arranged the meeting in the galley. Al served them brunch while—like any good Finny woman—she chastised Bar fiercely…right before embracing and forgiving him. After that, the brief time he spent nestled in the rolling green hills of his grandmother’s land left its impression, and so had she, and he began to feel something like a wild and free Glenfinner himself. There was something that stirred his blood being on that ancestral isle, like it spoke…spoke to his soul. But the sideways glances, and the murmuring of crowny swine made it a bittersweet experience.
“In truth… psh, are you sure about that?” asked Moore, his intrusive and invasive questions were more unwanted than ever; his scent more stifling than ever. Bar was certain that, like any good King’s Isle noble, this man despised all Finnies, and as a proxy, any man with a drop of their blood. But his vitriol seemed especially poignant, more concentrated then just mere prejudice. Shadows of the argument that led to Hastings’s death came whispering back: “It’s not up for negotiation! The King’s rule has been usurped, and the admiralty has deemed that ship a priority target.” And the first officer’s rebuttal came back to him as readily as it had beneath the core housing. “I thought we were at war with the Empire…not with each other.”
‘At war with each other’…? What had Hastings meant by that? Does it have something to do with the rumors of abandoning the north?
“Well,” barked Moore, and with a start, Bar’s distracted gaze fell on the man seated across from him. It seemed the captain’s hand had disappeared under the beveled lip of the desk, and that brought back the terrible memory of Hastings’ murder; his death now smelling of sugar and flowers.
“Of course I am, Captain.” Bar was careful to sound firm, yet respectful. Now, more than ever, he realized this wasn’t an interview, this was an interrogation. Something’s happened within the UKA, he realized, something involving Glenfindale, I think, but the crew’s been under a communication blackout since Moore took command. Nothing but rumors now. The war could be lost and we’d never know it, not if the captain chose to withhold the information. Bar trembled with dread, knowing full-well he was at the mercy of this man.
“Tell me, do you support the Finny-Witch.”
“Queen Yulara?” replied Bar, taken off guard by the sudden change in topic. In truth, he thought very little of the queen, and only knew her as something of an eccentric, as someone who followed the old religions common before the Sundering. “Only in so far as I support the entire royal family under King Brahnan,” he finished. “Why do you ask?”
“I’m the one asking the questions here, Bazzon, and don’t you forget it.” The captain’s tone was grave, but at least both of his well-manicured hands were now resting in plain-view atop the massive ledger and its flowing script. “Now have you ever sympathized with the Finny nationals? Ever spoken out in support of their so called plight? Ever believed they were being treated unfairly.”
There is an issue with Glenfindale…have they rebelled once more? But that doesn’t make sense, not with the whole country under threat by the Empire. We all stand to lose if that’s the case, and yet this interrogation concerning Glenfindale…. The captain is flushing out traitors, and of that, Bar was more certain than ever, and that put his heritage into question. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he tried to reason.
“Perhaps you believe in self-rule?”
“No.”
“Really?” Moore threw back his chair and snapped to his feet. “Are you telling me that a mongrel like you, with that Finny blood flowing through your veins, has never harbored a secret sympathy for that rebellious spit of land.” The captain’s face had gone red, the veins in his neck had slithered their way up along his bald crown and were now bulging to the point of bursting at his temples. There was the look of a wild animal about him too.
“I’m a born Kinglander—”
“Don’t lie to me Bazzon!” roared the captain with savage fury, and suddenly his hand slipped beneath the desk and produced that terrible pistol. “Your father’s father was from the Giedi Cluster, and your mother’s family…all Finnies for ages enumerable. So that makes you about as Kinglander as dragon’s piss as far as I’m concerned!”
“S
ir, I don’t know what any of this has to do with my role aboard the Chimera. I’ve sworn my oath to the Royal Air Navy; to this ship; questions of my heritage notwithstanding.”
“To this ship, you say? So then you believe in the chain of command?”
“Or course,” stated Bar through clenched teeth, between heaving breaths of hot nauseating air. His skin felt like it was a thousand degrees, and his face felt ready to burst into flames. He hated this captain, hated the sight of him, and most of all, the very smell of him.
“Then you’ll follow my orders without question?”
“Absolutely, sir,” he spat back more out of reflex than conviction.
“Good.” And just like that Moore tucked away his gun and returned to his chair. The wildness—the veins—it all vanished. “Stowe assured me you were a decent enough officer, but I had my doubts given your background.” He resumed penning into his ledger. “I’m glad to see he’s proven me wrong on this matter. I’ll need all the qualified men I can get in the days to come, so I’m glad I can count on you, Mr. Bazzon. Now, that will be all. You are dismissed.”
“Captain,” dared Bar, even though he wanted nothing more than to be away from the captain’s mawkish aura, “if it’s not out of line, sir, may I ask what’s going on?”
“That will be all, Ensign. Now if you’d be so kind as to direct the next crewmen in as you leave, that would be greatly appreciated, thank you.”
Chapter 4: Rumblings of Conflict
Only a few hours separated Bar from his interrogation, and the experience left him shaken. His marine escort said little on the trip down the ladderwell afterwards, only offering a thinly veiled warning when he stated, “You’re to remain in the mess until otherwise instructed; is that clear…sir?” Thinking back on it, Bar thought the inclusion of ‘sir’ a rather trite afterthought. Sitting in the galley, watching the world fade to a black velvet curtain, punctured liberally by a host of glinting stars, left him wondering if he’d answered his questions correctly, or convincingly enough. Or am I now in Moore’s secret prison?
Al’s culinary assistant eventually emerged from the compartmentalized galley stowed away in the stern of the level. In one hand he carried a steaming bowl of what turned out to be baked pudding sprinkled liberally with Moon Fall raisins, and in the other, a cup of water flavored with diluted lime. Bar picked away the raisins as his thoughts drifted to Alabrahm. The old cook was nowhere to be found and that spelled certain trouble. Al wasn’t the sort to abandon his duties lightly, and that left him worrying over the old man’s fate, until what little he’d eaten over the course of the evening threatened to come back up on him.
Others eventually joined Bar at the long dining table running lengthwise down the center of the mess, but they all looked as browbeaten as the ensign felt, and not a one of them ventured to speak, especially with that grim-faced marine standing guard between the hatch to the cargo deck and the door to the ladderwell. The bolt-action in his hands was held a little too “at-the-ready” for Bar’s comfort.
Time brought little in the way of answers, instead, only more tribulations. Exhausted, all Bar wanted was to crawl into his hammock and sleep off this terrible day. Maybe morning would bring a return to sensibilities—explanations, and good-tidings…but that was not to be… Nothing could bring Hastings back from the dead, or McVayne out of his coma in the infirmary. And as for resting, as soon as Bar’s meal was finished, he was directed to the bridge under orders to man the ship’s resonance stone.
“You are familiar with its operation?” asked the captain tepidly.
“I am, but I never received a ranking, sir…where’s Resonance Technician First Class McGalloway, this is his station—”
“That’s none of your concern,” barked the master-at-arms, speaking on the captain’s behalf.
And Bar suddenly recalled that McGalloway was from one of the northern kingdoms, Frostrise or Cloudvale he believed—though it could have just as easily been Winterforge. “Of course, sir,” the hapless ensign replied obediently. Truth was, though he wanted answers, the last thing he wanted was to stir up trouble. On the bridge, everyone seemed ready for it…expecting it almost, and the shadow of the captain’s scrutiny did little to put that notion at ease. Even when Moore retreated to his cabin, his sense of impending doom seeped out from the seams of the aft stateroom door like a dark cloud; like the ones hanging along the eastern horizon, flushed full in the moonlight and promising to press the Chimera between a raging storm and the black curtain of the Barrier Shoal rising to the west.
After the quiet hour of midnight had come and gone, Bar’s weariness overrode his sense of dread and he ventured to look away from the stone orb and its mesmerizing blue pulses. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust, the phantom waves still playing in his eyes as he took stock of who was manning the bridge. The ship’s standard pilot had been traded out for one of the newer crewmen, a short man—in truth a dwarf—rumored to have been a fighter pilot in the Kingdoms War. For which side he fought, Bar couldn’t remember, but seeing as how he was on Moore’s bridge lent to reason he was probably from one of the southern kingdoms—if not King’s Isle herself. Staring over his shoulder, seeing the oil lantern painting the older man’s gray-brown hair a wavering orange, Bar remembered his name was Gryph something-or-another, and that’s about all he recalled of the replacement, besides the frequent japes concerning his height.
Bar took note that someone had seen fit to drag out a small shipping crate for the pilot-elect to stand upon, but even then his chin barely cleared the wheel. The pilots too, seem to have failed interrogation…or have yet to be put to the question, not if a dwarf, who can barely see over the wheel, is piloting the ship.
Off to his right, Lieutenant “Tiny” Sam Briggs manned the radio, nothing unusual in that. It’d been his department for full on five years now, and seemed likely to be his into perpetuity. Tiny had been stationed there for so long his ass had assumed the shape of the seat, wide and flat and starting to spill over the edges. It didn’t help his expanding physique that he loved pastries almost as much as he loved fiddling with the radio…and he was forever fiddling with that copper-sheathed contraption.
Occupying Bar’s regular station, at weapon systems control, stood Cecil Temberly. Since the near-fight below decks, neither man had spoken to one another, nor did the fire control technician seem inclined to over the hours. As far as Bar knew, Cecil never once turned from his station.
The last man standing middle watch, and manning the command panel, was the ship’s humorless boar himself, Chief Master Stowe, diligent to a fault as he stared out into the silvered wash of the Shrouded Abyss. Since the incident on deck earlier, he’d seen fit to wear a clatterbolt rifle slung across his back, like some sort of pirate scofflaw, and that did little to put Bar at ease. Captain Lockney had once said there was seldom a need to arm the command staff…not if they were doing their jobs right anyway. Rather: “When master and mates start arming themselves, that’s a clear indication to the crew that dire troubles are soon on their way. It’s bad for morale, and it crushes hope, if there’s no apparent reason for such armaments.” But Bar, he just wished he was armed right now, like Stowe…like the marine guarding Moore’s cabin door down the aft passageway.
When middle watch ended and no one came to relieve him, Bar knew he was in for a long morning. Middle watch was hard enough; the hardest; but to pick up the morning watch right after was excruciating, and left the ensign swooning with exhaustion. In front of him, the resonance stone, with its steady blue pulses, hypnotized him into seeing double signals—even triple on occasion—and then when the sun came slanting in through the port window, throwing its harsh yellow light in his face, all the resolve slid from his eyelids. Slowly they came creeping down.
“Bazzon!” boomed the captain’s throaty voice and Bar nearly toppled over. Somehow he’d managed to fall asleep on his feet and now Moore was mere centimeters from his nose, spraying anger and spittle into his face. “
I should have the skin on your back flayed from their bones for such negligence!”
“Sir, I…” mumbled Bar as he forced his mind up to speed, but Moore’s burning orange eyes—rimmed by fiery red capillaries—turned him into a gibbering idiot. “…just…”
“I think we’ve got her, Captain.” The radio operator’s interruption was a blessing, and Bar sighed in relief as Moore turned away. “I’m receiving an automated transponder reply.” Drowsily, Bar looked to his station. Not only was the Chimera’s signal radiating down the orb, but another signal had joined it—near to his right hand as it braced the table.
“Are you sure that’s her?” barked the ship’s totalitarian master. “I’ll not be chasing phantoms or decoys from one end of the Erie Expanse to the other. I mean to do this business quickly and return to the fleet with good tidings.”
Tiny rotated in his chair, the metal pivot screaming under his weight. Now facing the expectant captain, he nodded, setting his sagging jowls to bounce and sway beneath the button of his chin. “Civilian: designation Torchlight, registry confirmation number: three-four-two-one-nine echo-sierra.”
“Excellent!” The captain gritted his teeth and hammered his fist on the resonance table. “That’s the exact registry provided to us by the Admiralty. We got those traitorous bastards now. Pilot, set an intercept course. Ensign, calculate the time to intercept?” But Bar failed to notice the captain had issued the order to him. Instead, Bazzon stood there—blank faced—as a single question plagued him. What’s this ship Moore’s hunting?
“Bazzon!” Hearing his name screamed in his ear blew all thoughts from his mind. “Time to intercept, you useless base-born fool.”
Aethosphere Chronicles: Winds of Duty Page 4