“Or make up their own,” added Tolle, giving a nod to the cook, “like Heller.”
Al nodded back in agreement, but that just left Bar growling in exasperation. Al and Tolle were right, but still, it was the only plan he had. So the ensign took a deep breath and struggled back to his feet. “I’ll make my way to McVayne first,” he explained defensively. “What happens later is for later to decide, so unless any of you’ve got a better idea presently, this is what I aim on doing.”
“You know Stowe won’t go for freeing the second officer.”
“I’m not going to worry about him; he’s just one man.” Bar gestured dismissively even though cold dread made his guts feel like unsettled grog.
“Aye, one man with a very large gun,” replied Tolle glumly.
Bar took to pacing the room, testing out his balance and constitution, knowing if he was to command these men, he first needed to know if he could even command his own faculties. As fortune would have it, the movement did him some good. Each step brought strength, and helped banish the fog choking his thoughts. Not perfect, but good enough.
“So what kind of resistance can I expect… where do the marines stand?”
“Marines are all dead,” remarked Al, following Bar’s progresses with his age-clouded eyes.
“What about their weapons then?”
Tolle chimed in, “In this, we seem to have been granted the smallest measure of luck. Seems no one but Stowe and the captain have functioning guns—”
“The Kinglander defectors still got the powder magazines,” added a copper-haired Candaran, and one of numerous replacements that came aboard after Lockney’s promotion. Bar thought maybe the scrawny young man was from Fairwinds or Borada, given his accent. “They could use it to make ad hoc grenades…that’s what I would do anyway.”
“And, I saw the Glenfinners raiding the kitchen.” added another.
“Ah, not my good knives,” complained Al, throwing his meaty arms up in dejection.
“Right…” Bar froze with trepidation, suddenly feeling overwhelmed by the winds mounting against him. “I’ll just assume it’s dangerous out there then.”
“Understatement of the century,” muttered O’Dylan, now lounging on some nearby crates as though disinterested in the events unfolding. Though that just might have been his naturally disinterested expression rising to the surface.
Regardless, Bar shot him a disapproving frown. That sort of cynical dissention was not needed; not now. “Okay then, I’ll make for the infirmary and free the second officer.”
“I…” began Al, his brow lowering in somber concern, further squashing his already compressed facial features. “You’re going out there alone?”
“Al, I don’t want to hear it. If too many of us go tromping blindly out there it’ll draw undo attention… Best I just do it alone.”
“Not if you reckon on going through the ship’s interior, you’re not. Kinglanders are waiting for us just outside those doors,” explained Sven. He gave the cargo door he was working on a pat for good measure. “Besides, I’m almost finished pounding in these boards and I don’t plan on pulling them out anytime soon.”
“We could go up through the topside hatch,” offered Sato.
“It would take most of us just to lift it,” replied Tanner, matter-of-factly, “And that gives anyone on deck ample time to swarm us.”
“Just brilliant,” replied Bar, kicking the stacked crates in frustration. “You all mean to tell me we’re trapped in here.”
“Seems so, lad,” replied Al.
Bar wasn’t about to accept defeat, and instead turned his thoughts to his father. Cuthbert, like Lockney, had always seemed to make whatever problem work out in the end. Though truthfully, that usually just meant beating the problem into shape with some tool. Some tool…“This is the port hold?”
“Aye, lad.”
“There are tools in here,” said Bar with a racing mind, “carpentry tools.”
“What are you getting on at about my tools?” pondered Sven, looking back on Bar with knowing disapproval.
“How long will it take you to cut a hole through the hull, Sven?”
The supply man scowled, a thing that turned his face into a wrinkled sack of flesh. “A whole ten minutes I’ll wager…but then why would I go and do something like that? The bronzsteel will dull my blades something fierce.”
Tolle snorted out in a burst of laughter. “Cause this crazy bastard plans on scaling the outside hull and sneaking on deck, that’s why.” He seemed highly amused by the notion. “Why this day just keeps getting more and more interesting!”
“Bar,” interrupted Al, laying a hand on the ensign’s arm in a bid to keep him from doing anything as reckless as scaling the hull of a moving airship. “That’s crazy… and you ain’t exactly in tip-top condition either.”
“No matter.” Bar shrugged off the skepticism with bravado. “It was you that said I was in charge… and well, this is my plan. So Sven, go ahead and start cutting that hole. Keep it close to the main hull—make the climb easy on me will you? Anyone know if we still got those old birch hooks lying around here somewhere?”
Chapter 8: Ascent into Turmoil
Al was right. This is sheer lunacy!
Attempting to climb the Chimera’s hull was perhaps the worst idea Bar had ever had. At least that’s what it felt like hanging half in and half out the hull; clinging for dear-life with his ass to the wind. One of his legs dangled uselessly into space while the other just barely had a hold on the edge of a narrow trim-board, and the merciless wind threatened to take it all away as it whipped and tore at his uniform, obliterating any remaining sense of balance he might have felt. Ensign Bazzon was positive that a falling death was coming for him, and sooner rather than later; giving him just enough time to reflect on the stupidity that brought him here in the first place.
It’d taken Sven exactly ten minutes to saw a rough hole into the side of the hull, which was exactly ten minutes too long for a man waiting anxiously with his thoughts filling rapidly with dread. The more he thought about scaling the outside of the ship with nothing but birch-hooks, the more preposterous it became. But then what choice did he have? Doing nothing was the worst of the options available, so when the final cut was finished, and the brilliant light came spilling onto the floor with the piece of the hull, he stepped up, even as he felt his stomach roll over. He was committed, but he took a moment to bask in the warming glow and the fresh air that came flooding in. He started to feel the doubt roll back, driven to the dim corners and cob-webbed rafters under the tide of exhilaration.
Stepping up, he came face to face with what seemed to be a portal into a different realm altogether—one that contrasted the hold in every way possible. Beyond the wound in the ship’s finite bulkhead was a world of infinite space, an endless expanse, painted orange and swirling with dusty clouds, a world whose top and bottom were lost to the same hazy aether bound to the horizon. In the distant southwest stood the uncompromising ridge of the Barrier Shoal and a fading sun set to collide with it. Already the clouds lay dashed against its high reaching volcanic fingers, turning them to a panicked black mass spewing lightning and rain in a bid to climb higher and escape. But there was nowhere to go; the reef complex was impossibly high, its fingers in space and its base lost behind the curve of the planet. No cloud had the strength to make that climb. Instead, they died beneath the canopy of stars, lost and pulled apart so their listless ghosts could join the hazy net cast overhead, helping herd their fellow brethren towards the same dismal fate.
No ship had ever flown high enough to clear its summits—or so it was told. Many had tried over the centuries, but hypoxia, impossible cold, and raging storms had driven them all back. Many more had simply failed to ever return. Why would any man risk the ascent, when beyond lay the Inner Sky and its Iron Empire anyway?
That’s when Bar had ventured to poke his head through the hole to survey the climb. Wind rushed over his cheeks, numbing them,
while the turbulent air currents stirred his already wild hair into twisted red hackles, like those found on a startled dog. The exposed air was exhilarating. It pulled at his breath, and the change from the stagnant atmosphere of the hold, to something more crisp and clean, helped clear his mind. But really, the last thing he needed at that moment was a clear and reasoning mind. Not since he’d dared to hang from the Chimera’s spar and kiss its beastly masthead had he done anything so reckless…and that was done years ago, when he’d been filled with the hormonal confidence of a randy teenager. A decade had tempered that recklessness. It was one thing entirely to think about climbing the outer hull within the safe embrace of the ship, but entirely another when clinging to the bulkhead for dear life.
“You sure about this, lad?” Al had offered.
“No, Al, I’m not sure about this…I am very not sure about this.” But then Bar heaved himself up, and before he could talk himself out of it, he flung his legs out the hole and rolled over onto his belly.
And now here he was, outside, scrambling to find that initial foothold on the hull. Desperately his boot scraped and pounded against the outside of the ship’s mostly smooth bronzsteel skin as he hung half in and half out. Just the smallest foothold was all he needed, but when he failed to feel it immediately he felt panic welling up.
Unexpectedly, snickering and muffled laughs bubbled out from the hold, while Tolle offered words of encouragement, “Nearly there, mate, good thing you’re not a kilogram heavier…. You know, you look rather like an old deer my pappy used to have mounted above the fireplace. Same dull-eyed expression of terror as well, I should think.”
Those nearby laughed harder, but the humor of it was entirely lost on Al. The cook stood steel-faced, gripping firmly to Bar’s shirt sleeve.
“I got it, I got it,” grumbled Bar, and the tips of his boots found purchase, if only just on the narrowest of cross-trim edges. “On second thought, why don’t some of you come join me? How ‘bout you, Tolle?”
The smile on the fat weapons officer’s face fell away, and crimson blushed across his cheeks.
“Didn’t think so,” chided Bar in satisfaction. “Ok, hand me a hook,” and he held out an impatient hand. He wanted nothing more than to be on his way, and not left hanging ass-out to the world, unable to see what was behind him.
“Alright, lad,” said Al with a nervous smile, handing up one of the two hooks. “Best of luck to you, you brash whipper sparrow.”
“Thanks.”
Pushing out from the isolated safety of the hold, the wind instantly set to howling in Bar’s ears like a mad banshee. With one hand, he gripped firmly to the rim of the hole before leaning back and preparing his ascent. With his feet just barely balanced on that narrow trim-piece this handhold became his only real safety-line as be prepared the hook in his other hand.
This is by far the stupidest thing I’ve ever done, and then he swung the hook up and to his right, where the out-rigging hull joined with the main hull of the ship at a ninety-degree angle. There was no sound when it impacted the metal, the rushing wind had seen to that, and Bar had no idea if the hook was set firmly. Without recourse, he tentatively gave it a pull to make sure and found it sturdy enough. More to the point, he wanted to move as little as possible. With just the tips of his boots—and one hand holding him between life and death—any extraneous movement seemed terrifyingly like his last. Bar collected his wits as best he could and called for the next hook, but found his voice thrown back into his throat. He put more weight on the buried hook, determined that the only way he could signal for the next was by motioning with his hand. No way around it, he had to trust the hook with more weight, but his senses were dull, the wind making both sound and feel next to impossible, and Bar was afraid to move his eyes anywhere but the hull centimeters from his face. If he were to look down and see endless sky, he was sure that would be it. He tried to control his breathing, tried to focus on deep, normal breaths, but his heart was pounding so hard in his chest that it made even that simple act harrowing.
Almost got it. Just a little more weight on the hook is all I need.
Suddenly it tore free.
Bar’s arm flailed in the open air and he swung out with it. The hook almost flew from his grip, but he was too busy with the sensation of his heart trying to crawl out of his throat to notice. Bar thought for sure he was going to fall, but that left hand of his held fast to the rim, and he felt the layers of spruce and bronzsteel cut into his palms. It was the least of his cares as he scrambled to find solid footing once again. Above, a leathery old hand darted out of the hole and took hold of his arm.
Gods bless that old fool if he thinks he can hold my weight.
In those desperate moments, Bar found the trim board again, got his toes set, and his weight steadied. In his chest, his heart thundered away, and he contemplated crawling back into the safety of the hold. But what then? Wait to die? I got no choice but to give it another try. Everything rests on my ability to climb this hull and rescue McVayne and the ship. I have to take the wheel. So instead of crawling to safety like he wanted, Bar swung that hook, this time with all the might he dared to muster. The impact stung his hand with its reverberation, but that brought confidence that the hook was properly set. This time when Bar tested it, he found it rigid to the point that he dared once again to try his weight; daring until he was almost fully supported by the hook alone. And still it held.
Quickly Bar motioned for the next hook, which appeared almost instantly, like a bird ready to take flight from a knothole. He took it in his left hand, trusting fully the right and its hook, and then swung his left up over his head, planting the tip a meter up.
The moment of truth. He now fully forsook the safety of the hole for the climb. Once begun, there was no real way to make it back to that portal. He was fully committed, and he swung his right leg out, planting it on the adjacent trim, now leaving him straddling the Abyss. That’s when he made the mistake of looking down. He could have fainted at the sight of sunburned clouds passing below him; of the gilded mists churning below that. The blood pounded through his head, worsening the headache that had returned after his first mishap. Now it throbbed, spilling tears that filled his eyes so the wind could pick them up and drive them back like stinging needle-rain. He ignored it, putting the Abyss out of his mind…to continue on.
Leaning to his left, Bar wrenched on the right hook till it broke free of metal and wood, and then swung it still higher, moved his left leg up to the next rivet band, and then he did likewise with his right, and then again with his left.
Left hook, right foothold, right hook, left foothold. Heaving, straining, he concentrated on those four simple acts, he made it his mantra as he desperately scaled the hull like a spider, and in those moments in between, Ensign Bar Bazzon prayed to the gods of Aethosphere. He prayed to Aryos, the god of wind and air; to the nimble goddess, Tia; and to the patron god of Glenfindale and King’s Isle, E’owyn and Yolanda respectively. He prayed to the Betrayer—to Memnon, the god of innovation—that the hooks were well designed—and to Gunthur that they were well forged. He prayed most of all to the King of the Gods, Syre that he should live to see the top of his climb and not end up with Nekros in the Halls of Death. It seemed he’d an eternity to worship all the gods of the Pantheon as he trusted his life to the pattern of left hook, right foothold, right hook, left foothold.
Left hook, right foothold, right hook, left foothold. It seemed like ages passed slowly scaling the side, it may have only been six meters to the top at the most, but it might as well have been a hundred kilometers. Left hook, right foothold, right hook, left foothold. Each completed pattern seemed to bring him no closer to the top. Space had no fixed point, it was relative, and stretched to draw out his climb into eternity. Left hook, right foothold, right hook, left foothold. But then suddenly there he was, by the grace of Syre he was clenching to the very bottom of the rails and now peeking up over the deck’s horizon. He could have cried out in triumph, but a
few meters to his left were two men standing guard at the galley door with knives held at the ready. His victory roar died in his overtaxed lungs.
They hadn’t spotted him as of yet and he hoped they were to be his first and last obstacle in completing his objective. If he could just somehow slip past these two—Deben and Jenner—and into the galley, he could make his way down the ladder all the way to the berth deck—a trip that would have involved simply walking down the passage from the cargo hold. That is, if not for the territorial mess the mutiny had made of the ship. So instead, this trek was to become his odyssey.
Both the men were Glenfinners, Deben, a stocky mechanic, and Jenner, a lanky plumber. Granted neither were particularly bright, mostly just able-bodies to fill the ship’s roster last time around in port, but both had proven to be decent enough fellows in the air.
So what now? Bar contemplated as he clung to the side of the ship for dear life. He’d never been more eager to feel a solid surface beneath his feet as he was right then, but could he trust those men to be reasonable…to listen to him? Or was roughing up Kinglanders their only stake in all this? No, he couldn’t risk it, not yet, his objective at this point wasn’t to make friends, it was to reach McVayne, and so Bar wrenched a birch-hook free. Lining up his target he aimed for a point beyond the men, towards the bow where the cargo pod deck met up with the main deck. It was a stately throw—well tossed—but it meandered off course and clipped the galley’s side window, shattering it.
“Bloody, Kinglanders,” yelled Deben and he broke ranks and rushed towards the busted window. Jenner followed suit behind him. The way became momentarily clear.
Not wasting a second Bar heaved himself up and over the rail, landing with a thud on the deck. Solid ground felt wonderful beneath him, but the newly minted commando didn’t have the time to relish in it. He rushed the unguarded door, reaching the hatch just as the men reached the shattered window. Grabbing the wheel, he gave it a quick spin to disengage the latch just as Jenner glanced back. Their eyes meet, at first Jenner looked ready to salute. “Aye,” he cried out in his Glenfindale accent. “Bar Bazzon, that you?”
Aethosphere Chronicles: Winds of Duty Page 8