Aethosphere Chronicles: Winds of Duty

by Jeremiah D. Schmidt

  Bar shook himself and maneuvered to the navigation station, at the front of the stone’s table. He focused on the resonance reading, the blips and waves, as he laid out the chart. “I’ve got her along the stone’s equator…on a bearing of two-hundred and seven degrees.”

  “Time to intercept! Give it to me now!”

  But the junior officer’s mind raced under the captain’s impatient fury, numbers and considerations—geometries, once learned but now forgotten, spiraled just beyond his reach. “A moment…to finishing calculating, sir.”

  “Bazzon!”

  “Almost, sir. I just…just need to finish correlating the present wave reading with the last…and the radio return signal…” Not to mention the wind speed and direction—too many considerations to keep straight in his present state of mind.

  “I swear to the gods!”

  “Indefinite, sir,” Bar blurted in surrender. He’d lost his concentration and the calculations slipped completely away, and all he could do was stare at the navigational chart in defeat. What little he had to go on was in the weakness of the resonance reading and the quick dispersion of its light waves… The fact remained that the aura seemed to maintain a consistent strength along the stone, which hinted they might be flying at similar rates of speed. “By best estimate we’re matched in velocity.”

  “Stowe, get on the engine action telegraph and order us to three-quarter speed. We should gain on them…maybe overtake them before nightfall without putting the engine in jeopardy…”

  Chapter 5: Mounting Crisis

  Time passed, marked by the click of the chronometer’s gears and the journey of the sun westward, over mist and cloud. The Chimera was soaring through the heart of the Erie Expanse, a broad region of tempest skies stretching like a lonely desert between the endless curtain wall of the Barrier Shoal and the distant arc of the Ascella Cluster, with nary an isle within six-hundred kilometers of their position. It was a dismally lonely place to fly, made only worse by Hastings’ haunting death, and the unease Bar felt over Moore’s growing tyranny. Then there was the matter of this ship they were hunting down? Bar was certain it couldn’t be Iron; the transponder, the secrecy; there was more to it, and that just made these airs all the more inhospitable.

  The fear of being caught falling asleep again drove away most of the fatigue that earlier crippled him, and now Bar settled into the wakeful drudgery of a man skirting through consciousness by sheer will alone. He knew if he was to sit, even for a moment, he’d nod off, but as long as he was standing—staring at that resonance aura forever at the edge of the stone—he knew he could manage until Moore relieved him. Bar had reason to hope. Moore’s inquisition had ended just before Al appeared with his noon-hour meal in hand, and word came with him that most of the officers had been cleared, and were scheduled to return to duty later that day. Bar hoped the change would come after the afternoon watch. As it stood he’d almost made the full rotation, but he’d no aspirations to actually pull it off.

  “This is…civilian…Scarlet Cloud……requesting…assistance…combat…” a static-filled voice burst over the radio, startling everyone on bridge. At the control panel Tiny nearly dumped his seat over as he tore the earphones off and scooted away from the noise with his hands covering his ears.

  “Lieutenant Briggs!” hollered Stowe, bristling. “Why the devil is the audio-level cranked so high?”

  “Sorry, Chief Master, I…I was tracking what I thought was a phantom frequency when the emergency broadcast kicked onto the externals…thought I might have heard Dunshule being spoken earlier—”

  “The Empire,” interrupted Bar, concerned.

  Stowe stormed across the bridge and spun the audio dial down, even as the Scarlet Cloud repeated her initial distress call. The broken voice faded to a pleading whimper. “That doesn’t sound like Dunshule to me, Mr. Briggs.”

  “No…no, sir,” agreed the plump radio operator. He put his earphones back on and turned to his station, adjusting the knobs and switches scattered in front of him. The distress signal cleared and sharpened within the overhead-mounted speaker system.

  “This is the civilian airship Scarlet Cloud, bound for Glenfindale, requesting immediate assistance from any combat vessel. We have come under attack by an Iron hunter-killer and have sustained damage to our rudder, limiting our capacity to maneuver.” Bar felt his heart turn to ice and a lump of coal form in his stomach. The Empire was in the Sargasso, and now they could strike out anywhere in the Ascella Cluster. That put the whole of the Unified Kingdoms in jeopardy, and if the rumors of the northern defenses were true…. “Our current position is forty-two degrees, forty-three minutes, fourteen-point-five-one seconds north; by eighty-two degrees, twenty-one minutes, thirty-point-two-five west; on a heading of north by north-east, forty-four-point-zero-one degrees; current speed thirty kilometers per hour.”

  “Ensign Bazzon!” Stowe turned his ponderous face towards the ensign. The walrus mustache hanging over his lips quivered beneath the man’s intense scowl. Bar knew the ship’s enforcer was looking to him for answers. “According to those coordinates, that puts them about a hundred and twenty-two kilometers to the west, not far off the Barrier Shoal… still just beyond resonance detection.”

  Stowe turned his broad back to the ensign and lumbered to the navigation station himself, and began charting out the information on the maneuvering board. “Hmm, we could reach them in less than two hours at flank speed.”

  “I’ll plot an intercept course,” proposed Gryph from the wheel.

  “This ship will do no such thing without my direct order, Ensign Havalorne,” cut in Moore brusquely. The captain had appeared at the back of the room and was glaring darkly at the pilot. It was Stowe that made a reply, offering a throaty, “yes sir,” as he backed away from the charts. “Now first off,” continued Moore, taking up position in the compartment’s center, “let’s identify this Scarlet Cloud first, shall we? Get me the registry, Stowe, whose ship is that?” Obediently, the master-at-arms reached down and pulled open the cabinet door beneath his station, producing, a thick ledger bound in rich leather.

  “Scarlet Cloud, maintain course and speed,” came another ghostly voice over the radio.

  “Quiet!” hollered Moore in response to this new addition. “Give me quiet on this bridge!”

  “This is the transport Torchlight. Glenfindale registry, three-four-two-one-nine echo-sierra.”

  “Glenfindale…from Glenfindale, you say?” replied the voice of the Scarlet Cloud’s captain. Hopeful enthusiasm had replaced panic. “I’m loaded heavy with Glenfinner nationals bound for their home isle. We could use any assistance you’d be willing to lend.”

  “Do not engage in further aggressive maneuvers with imperial vessel. You have been misidentified,” continued the new player to this unfolding event, “broadcast an offer of truce and identify yourself as Glenfindale—not as UKA. We will attempt contact with the imperial vessel.”

  “Say again, Torchlight…your last was garbled.”

  “Lieutenant Briggs, you are to jam all further communications immediately,” snapped the captain, sprinting past Bar to loom over the radioman. “I’ll not have the Torchlight and the Scarlet communicating with either that imperial vessel or one another any further, is that clear?”

  “But sir,” protested Tiny as he squirmed beneath the captain, “that transport’s in distress…”

  “Is that clear!”

  “Aye…aye, Captain,” the fat man, red-faced and sweating despite the high-altitude chill, trembled and caved to Moore’s order. “Engaging broadband interference…but you do know the power drain to our systems will be significant. And though we’ve got the gear and the power to block the transports without a problem, there’s no doubt in my mind that the imperial will be able to overpower any interference we can dish out. They’ll most likely still be able to broadcast.”

  “As long as those transports stay in the dark, I don’t care what that imperial does or says.”
<
br />   “Sir,” cut in Stowe. “I feel I must remind you that should the hunter-killer choose to investigate, it’ll most likely have an easy time zeroing in on our location, if we continue to broadcast a jamming signal.”

  “It’s worth the risk.”

  “But for what?” interrupted Bar reflexively. Moore turned on him abruptly and cast a dark-eyed scowl in his direction. That clamped the ensign up almost immediately and he looked away, contrite. Even staring up into the overhead rafters, Bar could tell the captain’s gaze remained locked on him, almost daring another insubordinate question.

  “You mean to bait the Torchlight using that civilian transport?” inquired Stowe.

  “We just need them to slow, or come about in an effort to contact the Empire. That’ll give us just the break we need to run them down without further trouble,” affirmed Captain Moore.

  Bar baulked at the notion of using innocent people as bait. He turned his disbelieving eyes to the two senior officers locked in discussion, only to find Gryph looking back, likewise, over the shoulder of his uniform jacket. Their disapproving eyes met briefly, and Bar watched the dwarf lock his teeth in anger.

  “This is a travesty,” grumbled Gryph.

  “What was that, pilot?” asked the captain forcefully. The marines flanking the captain moved forward threateningly.

  “Watch it, Ensign Havalorne,” warned Stowe, folding his thick arms over the crisp lines of his oxblood military overcoat.

  “T’was nothing, sir,” surrendered the pilot.

  “Very good.” The captain nodded in smug satisfaction. “Shall we continue with—”

  “You know what,” interrupted Gryph unexpectedly, “why don’t you go screw yourself, Moore,”

  “What?”

  “You heard me, I’ll not set this ship to chasing after one of our own…and especially not after hampering a distress call. Those civilians’ lives are in our hands; mothers; fathers, sons and daughters, and I’ll not be the one—”

  “All of them treacherous Finny swine as far as I’m concerned, Mr. Havalorne. And if you do not do as I say this very instant, I’ll have you arrested right here, not only for failing to follow orders, but for dereliction of duty, insubordination, siding with the enemy, and inciting mutiny!” The captain ended in a red-faced roar that set the veins on his bald head to throbbing purple just beneath his parchment-like skin. “Now resume your course this instant!”

  “I’d rather end up like Hastings. If I’m to meet my makers, I’ll do so without the blood of innocent people on my hands.”

  “Marines, arrest this traitor,” issued Moore rigidly, folding his arms behind his back. The two guards jumped into action like well-trained dogs, but Gryph offered no resistance. Instead, he just stood proud at the helm and let them take him. “Bazzon,” yelled the captain as the prisoner was being escorted past his station, “can you pilot an airship?”

  “Aye, sir,” replied the stunned ensign automatically. Over the years Lockney had assigned him to apprentice nearly every station he could, including the helm.

  Gryph locked his eyes on Bar. “Without you to fly, they’re out of options,” he pleaded, struggling momentarily with the men clutching his arms as he sought to say his piece. “They’ll have to give up this dishonorable endeavor—there’ll be no one else to carry it out effectively, you keen? You’re a better man than Moore…so don’t do his dirty work for him, Bar.”

  “Ensign,” the captain’s voice cut through the room’s tense atmosphere like a sharp knife, “man the helm as ordered, and set a course for the Torchlight!”

  Bar’s mind suddenly spiraled and his body went numb. Gryph couldn’t expect him not to follow the master’s orders, but then he couldn’t very well follow along with such an immoral plan without feeling sick inside. Torn between duty or honor, Bar suddenly felt like the bridge was closing in around him, constricting to a single point, and it threatened to crush the very life from him. Gryph’s doleful brown eyes flashed between anger and sympathy, but Moore’s voice rose to a thunderous rumble, drowning out even Bar’s own turbulent thoughts. Without realizing it, the conflicted ensign found himself moving towards the wheel with mechanical obedience.

  As he did, Gryph lashed out from behind. “You do this and you’re just as vile as that beast posing in the King’s uniform! Give up this folly, Bar, or the gods will sit in judgment of you as well!”

  But Bar’s hands fell on the wheel on their own, and he found himself gripping the controls so firm it tore the skin over one of his chapped knuckles. Blood welled up from the wound and trickled down his hand, dripping over the wheel’s age-worn wood. Even long after the pilot was taken away, his words lingered in Bar’s mind, twisting his guts into an ever tighter knot as the minutes ticked away and the plight of the civilian transport remained ignored. Outside, the Chimera soared through an ominous sky choking under clouds and mist.

  But what choice do I have?

  “Surrounded by traitors,” the captain grumbled aloud to himself like a man haunted, “would that I could have been assigned a commission to an all Kinglander crew… The Gods only know the rest of the kingdoms have shown their true colors of late. If only I could burn them all out of the sky…as I’ll do so my prey. They’ll not escape me. I’ll make an example of those Finny dogs, one and all. Show them no noble family can be allowed to circumvent the King’s authority, not even one so prestigious. Only one peace can be made, and they’ll soon discover that well enough.”

  Chapter 6: Flashpoint

  The Chimera banked abruptly under Bar’s guidance. With his heart thundering in his chest, and his vision narrowed to a point fixed on the ship’s bow spar, his only concern was holding to the wheel for as long as he could. If I can get us far enough away from the Scarlet Cloud, the radio jam will be ineffective, and that transport can be saved.

  But an abrupt blow to the back of his skull left Bar reeling and staggering in place. In a flash he was grabbed by strong arms, Stowe’s and the remaining marine, and yanked from the wheel. They had him. Kicking, Bar fought to retain his post while Moore screamed in the background, “Take him away, godsdamn traitor, I should have known the mongrel would turn!” The young ensign, blood drenching the back of his head, weakly grabbed at the resonance table as he passed by—his fingernails caught wood and dug ragged grooves in the surface—before he was wheeled about and struck hard in the face. A burst of light blinded him. A blow to the gut doubled him over, and the grizzled old boar of an aeronaut took the opportunity to entwine his fingers into the delicate nest of Bar’s neck hairs, where he grabbed hold of a fistful, and yanked hard. Suddenly Bar was nothing more than a puppet, with Stowe in command, directing him to and fro as the marine rushed forward to hold the door to the ladderwell open for the pair.

  Bar meant to resist—fight back—but he found his guts on fire and his limbs uncooperative, and fully at the mercy of the Chief Master’s unrelenting strength. “Chain him with the rest,” Bar heard Moore yell as he reached the door.

  “Keep moving!” ordered Stowe, letting go of Bar’s hair and thrusting him through the threshold into the darkened well. Obediently Bar headed for the descending ladder, but the master-at-arms shoved the barrel of his clatterbolt into the small of his back and hollered, “Up, Bazzon!”

  “Up?” he struggled in pain and confusion.

  “You heard me!”

  “…but, there’s nothing up there but the core and the crow’s deck.

  “Concerns like that are quite beyond you now, Bazzon. You should have followed your orders. Now up!”

  “You know I couldn’t go through with it” Bar tried to reason as he clutched his aching stomach with one arm and gripped the railing with the other. He felt for sure his guts must be punctured. “…not that, Stowe…not with those civilians—”

  “They’re none of our concern,” barked back the master-at-arms, his voice hollow in the enclosed space, his tone angry and lashing like a whip. “Our concern lies solely in the chain of command,
which can’t be so casually tossed aside.” Stowe prodded Bar on at the point of his weapon, setting him stumbling up one creaky step after another.

  “Nay, not casually, Stowe…unlike some, I’ve remembered my duty, and it’s to protect the people of this kingdom. I’ll not leave them to die now…not while Moore uses them as bait. Gryph was right to refuse when he did, and I was a fool not to. It’s a wrong too grievous before the eyes of the gods.”

  “You think Moore in the wrong, and you in the right? You’ve no idea what you’re interfering with, boy ‘tis why we’re all sworn to the rule of order. Despite the man’s prejudices, I side with Moore, not only because he’s the commanding officer, but he seeks to maintain the Unity and stand against the Empire…because should that ship we’re chasing reach Midport, then all could be lost.”

  “How so…I don’t understand.”

  “Aye, and I don’t expect you to, Bazzon. For now you’ll sit up in the captain’s hold with the rest of the discontents till we sort this mess out.”

  “You mean Moore’s secret prison.”

  “If that’s how you fancy it, but don’t be getting bitter about it now. You were given your fair chance to keep out of it, boy—to follow simple orders—and now, you got no one but yourself to blame for where your actions have landed you.”

  “And the what? Am I to be executed…like Hastings, without a fair hearing or any semblance of proper procedure?”

  “That ain’t for me to say. Now enough talk, or I’ll put your fears to an end right here and now with my clatterbolt, your choice.”

  Bar held his tongue and continued in angry silence up the airbladder’s winding ladderwell. Having cleared the Chimera’s main hull and entered into the old bladder housing, their surroundings opened into a vast chamber of interwoven spruce and aluminum supports. Years ago, before Bar, before Lockney—even before the man prior to him—this vast hull was filled with hydrogen balloons, scores of them—from stem to stern—but after the introduction of the Atmium Core System all those balloons were pulled out, replaced with the glass core now shimmering through the lattice like an azure sun.