Aethosphere Chronicles: Winds of Duty

by Jeremiah D. Schmidt

  Deben turned as well, saw the ensign pulling open the door, and he brought up his knife, “Ninny, he’s a Kinglander. You stop right there, crowny!”

  Instead of stopping, Bar thrust open the door and scrambled through, slamming it closed behind him in relief. Out of the wind, his sweat-soaked hair collapsed over his brow while he trembled with the exhilaration and adrenaline of the endeavor. The ladderway would be through the door behind him. Bar turned, and then he stopped…and then he froze still. In the galley stood about a dozen Finnies, all with their eyes glued on him. Three men moved to block the ladderwell door almost immediately while others moved to surround him.

  “Curses,” muttered the ensign in a whispered exhale. Glenfinners were closing in from all angles, knives pointing in his direction. He was caught, and he raised his hands in defeat; hoping they accepted surrender.

  “What are you doing here, Bazzon?” muttered Max Watell as he came lumbering forward in a pair of loose fitting coveralls, unbuttoned half way down his chest to reveal a greasy patch of hair and a talisman of E’owyn. In his hands he was wielding a large wrench as though it were a club. He observed the ensign coolly with jaundice-yellow eyes. One of his pointed Candaran ears drooped down towards his cheek. A decade ago a gear had sprung loose and almost torn it from his head. Doc did his best to stitch it back up, but the damage was done, and the result was this unsightly dog-ear. Bar remembered the incident keenly, he’d been there as a young able-body to clean up the mess.

  “Chief,” replied Bar Bazzon with a nod.

  The mechanic, Deben, suddenly appeared behind him, having crawled through the window, and now held his knife ready to strike, but Chief Max Watell stopped him with a wave of his hand. “What business you got here, crowny?”

  “Honestly?” Bar shrugged with cavalier disregard. “I’m just passing through to free McVayne, and then return a little order to this ship.”

  Max chuckled, his broken teeth gleaming out like a mouthful of jagged fangs. “Good luck with that, Ensign Bazzon. I should think you’d have better luck defeating the Empire at this point.”

  Bar grinned awkwardly. “One thing at a time, Chief…so you aim on stopping me?”

  The leathery grease-monkey chuckled back dryly. “Well, McVayne’s a good man—”

  “Enough, Max, he’s a Kinglander and I want his damn head!” roared a man standing behind Max. He was a younger gent—younger than Bar by far—but his resemblance to Max was uncanny. He was quivering with barely-restrained fury, looking like a man staring at an animal he wanted to slaughter.

  Max turned on the young man and brandished his wrench menacingly, “you shut your damn mouth when I’m talking, boy.” When he turned back to Bar it was almost apologetically, “He’s my nephew, fresh off the training range, and with little respect. But Kinglanders gave him hell back in Salizar, and now he’s a bit…sensitive.” Bar looked to each man in turn, every one of them known to him to a certain extent, and they seemed to shrink under his scrutiny. “I know things went wild in the bladder. Used you to cause a ruckus, I’ll admit it. I figured you were up there to join us in Moore’s ‘luxury suites’, but I had to take the opportunity given. However, things have changed, I know that—I might even have been the cause even—but I got to know now, after the melee on deck, who you’re running with, Bar. You with the Kinglanders now.” Max relaxed the wrench and turned. His voice dropped to nearly a whisper. “Wouldn’t blame you now, if you are. Could even understand if you’ve made peace with that old brigand, Moore, to save your—”

  “Damn it, Max, I’m with the Chimera, not with any of these crazy factions you got going on here! Sure Moore is the captain, and I ain’t about to risk becoming a mutineer, but what he done ain’t right either—not in the least—but maybe, with McVayne on my side… Well, maybe we got a chance to invoke Section Thirteen of the Officer’s Code of Conduct. Moore killed Hastings without any semblance of a trial…maybe this whole mutiny can be explained away after th—”

  “Hah! Bar, you’re the only one still playing by the rulebook, except you fail to see there are no rules anymore. Code of Conduct, psh…” scoffed the chief engineer as though it was the most detestable thing he’d ever heard. “You think that’s going to make a lick of difference. And explaining this mutiny away has about as much chance as the Enox Unon rising again. Moore’s not only the captain, but he’s a noble-born working under wartime orders. That Code of yours amounts to a pile of crawler-shit against that, and you know it. Nobles play by a different set of rules. King’s Isle nobles more so. You want to tell me how many of the admirals aren’t Kinglanders…? By my last count not a damn-one, so it’s no wonder they’ve left the north to the vultures of war. They’re too busy protecting their hides. So I took a book from their manual and that’s what I’m doing now; and I don’t care what that make me.”

  “Lockney’s not a Kinglander,” said Bar bitterly, not because he was angry at Max, but because what the engineer had said made a whole lot of sense.

  “Aye, but he ain’t here anymore either. Godsdammit, Bar, ‘with the ship’…? What does that even mean?” Max locked his tired eyes on the ensign. The engineer was probably only a decade Bar’s senior, but at this moment he looked as old as Al. “You know as well as I do that by not siding directly with Moore now, that makes you just as guilty of mutiny as the rest of us. We’re all ready to die for our convictions, but we’re going to put right Moore’s wrong first…save some people before the Admiralty strings us all up. So what about you, Bar? Can you say the same thing? Gods,” the Chief sighed in exhaustion, “just pick a side you spineless whelp.”

  Bar hadn’t even contemplated the repercussions of not going directly to the captain’s aid, and ultimately Max was right. The captain was noble-born, he was protected by a badge stronger than the truth, stronger than honor, or conduct. No matter what Bar’s intentions, if he wasn’t actively aiding the captain, than he was just as mutinous as the Glenfinners standing around him; and no code of conduct could save him otherwise; especially if it came down to Moore’s word against his.

  “Well?” Max barked, searching Bar’s eyes for a response.

  “I’m for the damn ship, Chief,” Bar responded stubbornly. “I stand for protecting this crew, its honor, and its prestige, and take what you will from that—I’m done answering your questions.”

  “Bar,” the chief engineer spoke softly, “I don’t know what you’re hoping to do, but know that none of us are getting out of this clean. There’ll be a price to be paid, that’s for sure…and a terrible one. I’m a Glenfindale man, I’ve accepted that, and it’s what I’m fighting for now, despite the cost. If you really are for this ship, then you’re going to have to fight for that. You might think you’re doing the right thing now, but when the time comes, your choice may be the hardest one of all. Think well on that, Bar.” Max turned to the three men standing sentry at the ladderwell door. “Let him pass.” A murmur of discontent rose from the ill-tempered men crowding around them, but not a one of them moved to stop the Kinglander.

  “What… just like that?”

  “Just like that, Bar, but make it quick…before I change my mind.”

  The surprised ensign nodded somberly, and skirted past Max without turning to see the hope in the man’s haunted eyes. Bar had every intention of looking strong and proud before these men, but the adrenaline had him feeling jittery and conscientious, more thankful to be allowed to go than anything else.

  When he’d reached the door, Max stopped him. “Bazzon! Just…knock three times when you come back, two quick, one slow. We’ll let you in. And Bar…I truly hope you accomplish whatever it is you mean to accomplish. We’re just…we’re not bad men, despite what the Kinglanders say, we’re just tired of our lot. We don’t want to hurt nobody. We just want to save those civilians Moore put in danger.”

  “I know, Max,” replied Ensign Bazzon before he disappeared through the door.

  Chapter 9: Descent into Madness

  Th
e ladderwell was a dark stinking pit of pungent gunpowder and something resembling burnt meat. From deep below, the relentless hammering of the ship’s engine beat like a heart, disconcerting in its steady repetition as it washed out most other noises. Nearly all the gas-lamps hung in ruins, their sconces dashed to pieces within the bulkhead brackets, save one, burning somewhere deeper in the well. Only a meager flicker of its sanguine light rose up in greeting, but at times even that threatened to gutter out to utter darkness. The walls around him were charred black, and in places the boards had pulled away like dead flesh. Bar coughed against the ashy soot choking the air in a hellish fog, and only after shielding his nose and mouth in the crook of his arm could he move on. This was a real mess. He hadn’t seen this sort of devastation in a long time, not since the fuel fire all those years back.

  The Kinglanders must have succeeded in creating their powder charges, reasoned Bar with mounting anger, carefully negotiating the damaged steps. How could they be so reckless? They risked setting the whole damn ship on fire!

  In places, slippery blood smears and missing planks made it treacherous to descend; and someone had seen fit to remove the railing completely, and with no sign of its whereabouts. However, the worst had yet to come. As Bar reached the gun deck landing, the full scope of this horror was revealed. In this place—where the sole-surviving lamp clung sputtering wane light from the ruined wall—the charred remains of a thing that had once been human lay spread across the broken treads. At its sight, Bar’s hardy constitution failed him and he vomited over the crux of his arm, spilling sick down his shirt to splatter on the timbers directly underfoot.

  He’d seen dead men a plenty, and each had affected him in its own way, but this was the worst of any by far he’d been a witness to. He couldn’t even begin to identify the man. The face had burned away and nothing remained of his clothing. In death Kinglander and Glenfinner had become meaningless, but what was certain, is the victim had been alive, crawling, no doubt, from the inferno before the flames consumed him completely. Even in death, his fleshless face stood locked in one last infernal scream. The image burned itself into Bar’s stunned psyche, and it was a long time after before that corpse stopped haunting his nightmares.

  Hugging the bulkhead, the stunned ensign skirted the body as best he could, but was unable to take his eyes away from the empty pits that stared back at him. The abyssal gaze wouldn’t let him go, it drew him in, and threatened to overwhelm his ability to reason. Bar wanted nothing more than to escape their gaze, so he could begin to forget the terrible sight, and so blindly he groped for the door. When he felt the latch he very nearly threw it open in reckless abandon, but instinct stopped him and left his fingers trembling.

  This pit was a no-man’s land to be sure, and if the gun deck were anything like the galley he’d left behind, than there would most likely be a large contingent of guards waiting just beyond the threshold. And judging by that awful corpse, those men were probably quick with their explosive charges. Open the door and he’d most likely join this man as a burned specter to haunt over this ruined place. Thinking better of it, Bar continued on, leaving the dead and the door behind him as he descended deeper.

  Rounding down another flight he found the way thankfully clear of anyone…both living and dead, but at the next level he found the door had been blown off its hinges and lay uselessly in the passageway beyond. The distant thud of the engine pounded up through the opening, but he could just make out the sounds of yelling mixed in with it. Cautiously, Bar approached the threshold, straining to hear what these men were saying.

  “You best open this door, Roly Poly!” Cecil hollered, and from the tone of his subordinate’s voice, Bar knew he was on the verge of a full blown tantrum. “Makes no matter if you support the Kinglanders or not, just open up! We want them supplies and tools inside… I promise, ain’t none of you going to get hurt if you just open up these doors.”

  Tolle’s voice came back in a muted response. “Well, sorry, mate, but I got the supply clerk, Sven Nilsson here, and he’s telling me you haven’t filled out the proper requisition forms for any of these supplies. So we’re just going to sit tight on them until you get the proper paperwork all filled out, if it’s all the same to you, Mr. Temberly.”

  That did it, Cecil’s voice spewed forth a stream of unrestrained hatred and bile. “I swear to the Leviathan in the Pit of Örmungog, I will cut your head off, you fat bastard! And any man with you! You wait and see! Once we get into the engine room all bets are off. Chief’s lock won’t keep us out forever, I swear this to you! This ship will be ours, and then I’m coming for you… personally!” A series of heavy blows echoed through the corridor as Cecil feebly pounded his fists against the reinforced spruce doors, growling in frustration when they held fast against him.

  “They got it nailed shut,” offered another man apologetically. “No way to get in but the top hatch, and we don’t have the key for it.”

  “We need those damn tools if we’re ever going to take the engine room… Gather some men, if we can reach the crane we can tear that damn hatch right off the deck.”

  “But Finnies hold the main deck.”

  “Yeah, yeah, tell me something I don’t know. Get back up to the magazines and start mixing some more powder charges, pack it in whatever you can. Raid the crew dorm for smoking tins or something, hell, even sturdy boots if you’ve got to…might also find some stashed weapons, maybe some pocketknives or clubs or something…something we can use. And scour the infirmary, I know the Doc had a surgical kit stashed in there somewhere. We’ll have to storm them using the starboard cargo hatch so we’ll need all the weaponry we can muster up. Alright, you two start mixing, you three search the dorms, and you, stay here and watch that door…and godsdammit keep your eyes peeled for Stowe. That man is skulking around this ship like an accursed Nequam! Now get to work while I go meet with the friggin’ crisis committee. Seems the pansies want to have some kind of namby-pamby pow-wow about trying to reach some sort of ‘peaceful resolution’.”

  As the crowd began dispersing through the berth deck, Bar briefly considered confronting his subordinate and ordering him to stand down, but some instinct stayed his hand. He slipped back into the shadows instead, watching intently as Cecil and his entourage passed by the ruined ladderwell. With the Fire Control Technician and his gang gone, that theoretically left only one man guarding the passage.

  With little time for finesse, Bar charged from the ladderwell, hooked left, and sought out his opponent. He caught sight of him still surveying the cargo door, completely unaware. So without breaking stride, the ensign barreled right into the guard’s back and slammed his head against the wood. The impact rocked the door on its heavy hinges, but the sound was drowned out by the indifference of the running engine. A groan issued from the Kinglander as both he and Bar fell to the ground. The hit, left even Bar’s head swimming, but as for the other man, he was knocked out cold. A nasty lump was already sprouting form the Candaran’s narrow forehead. Bar dragged himself back to his feet, shooting a weary glance down the corridor to see if his attack went unnoticed.

  “You ain’t getting in,” taunted Tolle from the other side of the door, and Bar nearly told the man to shut up, but he didn’t want to give himself away. When no one else appeared, it looked like Bar’s attack had gone as planned. The man lying unconscious, softly breathing at his feet, and would remain so for some time, leaving the way clear to proceed. Cautiously, the ensign crept his way back down the wide corridor towards the infirmary door. The engine’s thumping grew louder with each step.

  Peering down the passage to the engine room, he was greeted by a wall of noise and two men attempting to pry open the hatch with the ladderwell’s missing rail. The endeavor looked doomed to fail. One bar had already bent cleanly in half and the other was just on the brink. Keep trying, fellas, mused Bar contemptuously as he slipped across the gap, that door is solid iron and its hinges reinforced. Blast-rated all of it. No flimsy brass hand-rail
is going to pry that open.

  As he crept nearer to the infirmary, voices came drifting from the starboard cargo hold and grabbed his attention. It was a multitude of familiar voices all murmuring over one another in disagreement and compelling him to investigate. Clearly, there was no consensus among the Kinglanders on what to do next. He heard one man advocating surrendering to the Glenfinners, another staunchly opposed him and urged a swift attack. “Before Watell and his ilk get any more entrenched,” he called out in agitation. It seemed the Kinglanders were hard-up for proper leadership without Moore, and Bar briefly pondered if he could gain control. But then he could hear at least two men in the hold who outranked him, and that dashed his plan. No, if order was to be restored he’d need decisive leadership to take control, and that meant McVayne. Until then, the best policy for him was to lie low and move cautiously.

  Bar was about to turn back and try for the sick bay again when Cecil’s voice crashed over the procession. “There ain’t no peace to be made with the snowploggers and that’s that. Max and his horde had no qualms with kicking the snot out of us when they came storming through the galley. Just think back to what they did to Thomas if you think surrender is even an option. We need to take control of this ship!”

  “How about the captain? What are his orders?” Bar heard one of the operations skyman ask.

  Bar dared to peek through the crack between the doors, discovering half a dozen men just within his immediate sightline. Amongst them he counted the triage medic Rogert, Marine Corporal Henley, The internal communication technician, the radio operator Briggs, and Cecil Temberly. A moment later, Lieutenant Ordenza, the ship’s boatswain, came shambling into view to occupy the center of the gathering. Looking bruised and shocked he desperately pleaded to his fellow Kinglanders. “Please, just forget the captain…it’s clear he’s lost his mind.”