Aethosphere Chronicles: Winds of Duty

by Jeremiah D. Schmidt

  “Alright, the emergency disconnect is all reset,” yelled Morgan to those waiting below on the catwalk. “Start hoisting her up…easy like.”

  Bar tested the strap, and then looked to the men, to their stern, humorless faces as they locked in preparation.

  “Heave it like you mean it,” yelled Bar. “One. Two. Three. Heave!”

  The steel rod rose a meter from its bracket while Morgan and Tanner struggled on the central catwalk to keep it steady, and not let it swing wildly into the old Scott and Forge engine. Muscles strained against the weight. Straps creaked and stretched, but ultimately held.

  “One. Two. Three. Heave!” The rod rose another meter closer to its ultimate position, all the while sweat sprouting from the ensign’s forehead as he tried to control his breathing. The smell of fear and sweat wafted from the men like a cloud, and he prayed they stayed strong.

  “One. Two—”

  The starboard hull exploded, the lights went off in an instant, and a hail of splinters tore through the compartment. All up and down his body, Bar was struck by tiny lances of wood and metal. The paralyzing pain shattered his concentration and sucked all the strength from his muscles. He had to let go, and those around him seemed to do the same.

  The rod fell, and in the flash from a tongue of lightning, Bar saw his technician, and the man he was responsible for, Egan Sato, go over the side. Sato must have held on a moment too long, and a shrill scream followed his fall, but was silenced almost instantly when the axle came crashing into the lower compartment behind him. Where Sato tumbled straight down, the axle bounced off the engine’s casing first before sliding and slamming its way below. Bar rushed to the rail and peered down into the gloom, discovering to his dismay that the heavy axle lay across his technician’s stomach, pinning him, and laying nearly flush with the deck. Crying and blubbering, Sato feebly pushed at the rod as blood bubbled and spurted from his gaping mouth. He looked up at Bar and tried to talk, but more blood just came spraying out instead.

  “To the straps…heave!” Bar yelled desperately through the pelting rain. “Heave!” He needed to save Sato. “Heave, dammit!”

  Though the strap was slippery, and though Bar and those with him were peppered with shrapnel, they pulled with all they could muster. Even Sven, blood running down his face from where a splinter the size of a dagger protruded from the carnage of his left eye socket, pulled with fierce determination, until slowly the axle lifted from the crevasse below. There was a final spray of blood, and then Sato’s garbled cries faded to a whimper, and then issued forth no more. Electronic Technician Egan Sato was dead, no questions about it, his midsection had been squished flat, nearly severing him in two.

  “Heave godsdammit, before we’re all dead! Heave!”

  Again they pulled. The rod lifted, swaying in the stormy air currents rushing in through the engine room’s missing hull-section. Bar’s arms were on fire. He felt like at any moment he would be lifted into the air, but he continued to hold fast, found the men around him struggling likewise. If they can summon the strength, so can I, and together they pulled. A little higher. They cleared the rail. A little higher. They were half way there. A little higher. Bar trembled while sweat and rain-water stung his eyes. A little higher. The ship rocked again. A little higher, they were at the level of the mounting bracket.

  “A little more fellas…hold her tight!” cried Morgan from his perch on the engine, waiting in eager anticipation above. “There you go, almost got it!” He stretched his gangly arms up towards the axle, leaning precariously with nothing but his feet wedged between two pipes for support. Tanner took hold of Morgan’s belt, steadying him as he grabbed hold of the center strap. And there it was, a Kinglander engineer stretched out over the void, trying to guide the axle while a Glenfinner held him for safety. Laying four and a half meters below the pair, a hell of pumping pistons and spinning wheels, waited, but the engineer tugged and pushed as needed without so much as a glance.

  “…Little more,” grunted the engineer with his teeth clenched into a grimace of concentration. “Tanner, grab that other strap and help me pull this beast into proper position.” The Glenfinner reluctantly let go of the overstretched engineer’s belt, scrambling as quickly as he could manage over the uneven engine casing to grab hold of the other strap and help pull the axle in place. “Pull!” Pulling together, the rod settled close to position, and then Morgan yelled, “Everyone let go, now!”

  Though the order took Bar by surprise, years of obedient instinct took hold, and his hands sprang open. The others did likewise, but some not as quickly. The timing proved to be off. Morgan must have realized it, and he acted without thought—heedlessly throwing his weight outwards to divert the falling axle back into its correct position, but as it came crashing down, the young engineer pitched forward, and in an instant plummeted into the pistons below. He was already dead by the time Bar reached the railing. Too many pieces of the skyman were caught up and sizzling in the engine’s machinery not to be.

  Not another one, gods, not another good man. And because of my orders… Bar was too distraught to speak, and he gripped the railing in despair, squeezing and tugging, determined to tear it off with his bare hands…but the bolts held. A prolonged roar of despair tore through his throat instead, issued for another man lost—issued because none of this should have ever happened in the first place. Behind him, the other men stood with heads bowed in respectful silence.

  “What’s done is done, Bazzon,” offered Sven after Bar had worn himself ragged. Defeated, he’d slumped to the ground with his hands still gripping the rail as though it were a lifeline. At some point the supplyman must have pulled the wood from his eye and bandaged it with a piece of torn fabric. “They sacrificed themselves for the rest of us, and about all we can do is honor their memory by surviving this.”

  Bar knew that too, but if not for another crash of imperial firing, he may never have found the strength to rise to his feet again. Sven was right, and those guns helped remind him that many more souls depended on his orders now more than ever. He had to pull it together—to be strong for those who still lived. He needed to put the past out his mind because it was already set in stone. He needed to act now because the future demanded it. Bar needed to take the wheel once more.

  Though he made it to his feet, the Chimera’s new captain struggled to find the will and energy to climb down to the engine station on the orlop deck and reengage the gears. Even as he descended the ladder, Bar found his feet slipping and his ankles rolling with a weakness that possessed him like a sickness, and yet somehow he made it; collapsing against the engine controls as he landed on the deck below. Everything started back up with a simple pull of a lever. Gears and pulleys whistled and hummed, and the propellers outside spun up to life. Steam filled the chamber as the rain water cooked off the hot machinery, and soon enough the Chimera lurched into motion.

  Beyond the gaping hole, Bar watched in relief as the imperial hunter-killer fell away into the nightmare black clouds. He could almost hear that ship howling in outrage; but maybe that was just the storm and his imagination. In a few short minutes the clouds, the thunder, the lightning, and the dying reef—it all gave way—surrendering to the deepest blue of a night swelling with stars.

  The urgency that had so governed Bar’s life for nearly two days faded, and when he and the others came trudging onto the gun deck, it was to the enthusiastic applause of the remaining crewmen. Led by the old cook, Al was the first to come waddling over in cheerful greeting. “Nicely done!” But Bar held up his hand to stop them all, and it didn’t take Al but a moment to realize the heavy hearts that weighed down these brave men. It was obvious by the set of their shoulders; in the way their eyes trailed to the floor; in the way the very air around them sighed that tragedy had befallen these men. “What happened, fellas? Where’s Sato… Morgan?”

  “Both…dead,” replied Bar wearily. There was simply no strength left in his tired body.

  Al shook his head s
olemnly, “Tis a damn shame…”

  Bar looked around to the tired and wounded men. Each appeared marked by the tribulations of these past two days. It could be seen sliced and burned into the flesh. Too few of the crew remained—less than a quarter by his estimates—but the mutiny had died in that shoal, and those that survived were filled with a fellowship that could not be so easily broken now. “Tend to the wounded,” he said to no one in particular, knowing one of these men would carry out the task, “then all of you, get some rest.”

  “And you…Captain?” asked Al. The concern in the man’s old face nearly broke Bar right then and there.

  “I’ll be on the bridge,” he managed, choking through the emotions that threatened to burst forth. And in the stillness to come afterwards, there would arrive moments of introspection, like a haunting brew to drink from and fester in the heart and mind.

  Chapter 12: The Admiral’s Decision

  “And furthermore, I take full responsibility for the actions of those men who survived…they should not be punished,” finished Bar, falling silent for the first time in hours. Leaning back in his seat, he took a deep breath and ran a trembling hand over his freshly cropped hair. A measure of relief washed over him now that the truth was out. His part to play was over. He needed only brace himself for the Admiralty’s response at this point.

  The sun had long since set over the High Crown Mountains, surrendering to a deep night rooted over the sweeping cliff-side vistas of Ragnarok Cloudfortress. The arc-bulbs, burning in their wall-mounted sconces, left the stone room feeling like a crypt, washed out and tired, and the high-altitude chill creeping through the high windows had left the air as frosty as the faces now scrutinizing him. Bar discovered his mouth was terribly parched, his tongue thick and numb, his throat scratchy from talking so long. At some point his dry lips had cracked and the taste of blood tainted his mouth. In addition all the wounds he’d suffered had started to throb and sting and itch.

  The truth is in their hands, thought Ensign Bar Bazzon fatalistically. Let them do with it as they please.

  His only real hope was that Al, Tanner, Tolle, Sven, O’Dylan, and all the other good men that had helped save the Chimera wouldn’t suffer because of him. He was the one who had ordered them not to talk of the mutiny, but they hadn’t time to come up with a proper story to explain all the incongruities that these admirals had eventually stumbled upon either. He was solely to blame for that.

  The Admiralty sat silent, painfully so. What are they waiting for? They aren’t even debating amongst themselves, they’re just sitting there. Some were looking at him, others were not, and Bar wanted to scream at them, say something dammit! But he held his tongue. Finally someone broke the silence. It came from behind, and Bar couldn’t help but stand at the sound of his beloved former captain’s voice. Bernard Lockney had entered the stage, strolling coolly along the carpet runner that accented the room’s cavernous center. He looked all the more stately in his pristine admiral’s uniform. It suited him in fact, fitting snuggly over his broad frame. The man’s ruby-bright eyes came to rest on Bar, a slight smile escaping the practiced authority lingering over his face.

  “Forgive me, Ensign,” stated Lockney as he took Bar’s hand and gave it a firm shake. “I didn’t want to taint the proceedings.” Then he turned to the men arrayed behind the dais. “Gentlemen,” he said with a nod. “Have you finished taking Ensign Bazzon’s statement?”

  “Aye, we have, and it’s exactly as we expected. Mutiny…treachery…savagery. All the worst humanity has to offer, and this man…”

  “…Is to receive a promotion, and the Golden Sunburst from King Brahnan early in the morning, so I hope you’ll make this quick, Sky Marshal DeGanten.”

  “Golden…” DeGanten trailed off, appearing just as stunned as Bar felt. “What is this?”

  The Golden Sunburst was the most prestigious military award in the whole Kingdom; an emblem of courage beyond the face of overwhelming opposition; of duty well beyond what was expected; a medal representative of the highest acts of valor. “That’s…for heroes,” blurted Bar incredulously. “I am no hero.”

  “That’s for sure, Bazzon,” spat the sky marshal contemptuously. “And if it were up to me, I’d have you hanged from Purgatory Cliff myself. As far as I’m concerned, you’re a treacherous mutineer like the finny-dogs you sought to protect with your lies. Captain Moore was a good man—a nobleman, and a close friend’s son. He should be here right now, not you—”

  “Regardless,” interrupted Admiral Lockney, “word has reached the public of Ensign Bazzon’s victory over the imperial airship—”

  “‘Victory’? That must be the loosest of terms to describe the outcome of that engagement.”

  “Actually, they’re calling it the Battle of Barrier Shoal,” affirmed Bernard with a devilish grin, “and as of yet it does—to date—constitute our only victory against the unstoppable forces of the Hierarchs’ Iron Empire, and as such this event has created quite a stir. It’s done wonders for morale, and the war movement in general. Though Glenfindale has succeeded in negotiating a separate peace treaty with the Empire, some of the other northern principalities have waylaid following their lead…despite the current battle strategy. Fortunately, this Admiralty’s kill order on that Glenfinner diplomatic vessel has gone unnoticed… Pray they don’t discover the truth of your folly, gentlemen.”

  So that’s what was going on, realized Bar. The kingdoms of the north were forging their own peace terms, and we were sent to stop it…

  DeGanten’s face turned monstrous. “Is that a thinly veiled threat, Lockney?”

  “I thought it a rather obvious one myself, actually. Now, I’ve personally talked with the King and he’s willing to overlook this transgression; realizing your intentions were…patriotic, if not wholly misguided. But to waylay any further suspicion, and to not upset his in-laws, he’s demanded this inquiry to be abolished immediately and the whole incident—beyond the imperial engagement away—be classified. As for Ensign Bazzon, King Brahnan has personally demanded the honor of awarding him the Sunburst, to help deflect any potential interference.”

  “Hmm, apparently we must all play our parts in this little fantasy…to appease the masses. So instead of the gallows—as it should be—this incident is to be what…celebrated as a fantasy, while the truth is forgotten?” DeGanten sighed in defeat. “Fine. So be it. You and your crew will be exonerated from all wrong-doing, Ensign Bazzon, and you…you will receive your…medal from the King, and then afterwards you will quietly resign. Is that clear?”

  Bar nodded. He couldn’t talk…could hardly believe what had occurred. Instead of death, he was to be rewarded; and with the Golden Sunburst no less. Fifteen years had passed since the last man received this greatest of honors, but all Bar Bazzon felt was loathing. He didn’t deserve such a medal, he knew that as much as these admirals, and it was clear none of them wanted him to receive it either. Just as well. This was to be a token gesture, a game of smoke and mirrors for the benefit of the unknowing populous. He couldn’t help feel it cheapened the medal; cheapened the deaths he’d been a witness to. If anyone deserved the Sunburst it was Morgan Dunkirk or Egan Sato, Tolle, Gryph—anyone but him. These admirals, King Brahnan, Lockney…none of them even knew the worst of it…it was too vile to tell. But in his heart of hearts, Bar knew that he was a mutinous dog. His hands were just as dirty…if not more so, than any other man’s.

  From behind him, Admiral Lockney clasped a hand upon his shoulder in a gesture of comfort and friendship. “Come along, Ensign Bazzon, we have a ceremony to prepare for, and only a few precious hours to do so.”

  Bar found himself filled with rage. He shook off the Admiral’s hand and turned on him, and though he tried not to yell, his voice carried through the hollow stone chamber, amplified by the austere décor. “I don’t deserve this.” The panel of admirals looked up darkly from behind their pink stone barricade.

  Lockney glanced to the room’s end, then hurrie
dly ushered Bar into the relative privacy of the causeway outside the airy building. The chill breeze of an open sky helped numb the anger burning through the ensign as he stepped up to the balcony’s edge and rested his hands on the railing. Looking out over the cliff, into a valley surrounded by impenetrable curtain walls, the moments following Sato and Morgan’s deaths in the engine room came back to torment him. Bar gripped the railing tightly to keep from collapsing as tears steamed against his burning cheeks. Through watery eyes, Bar turned his sights up to a night turned ghostly beneath a thick ceiling of heavy clouds. The joyless lights of the cloudfortress; floods and work lights; a host of warships docked along the complex’s numerous armatures; and the moving globes of firefly-like patrolling spitshawks all came together in an urban glow that tinted the clouds to a melancholy gray.

  Lockney allowed Bar his moment of reprieve before clearing his throat. When the ensign turned, he found his mentor’s leathery face set in something like defeat, before he took a deep and wearying breath. “Bar, we’re losing this war,” he admitted reluctantly. Bazzon turned from the rail, surprised by the admission. When most of their leaders spoke daily of cunning strategies that would turn the war around, this was dire—but refreshingly honest.

  “You see,” continued Lockney, “the Empire has something our twelve kingdoms don’t, Bar; something even beyond those unstoppable warships of theirs. Something far more powerful…the Empire has unity. The UKA on the other hand…well, seems about all us Ascellans have ever been good at is fighting amongst one another…as you may have experienced, and the social structure of our country only perpetuates this, you understand?”

  Bar nodded solemnly. “More so than you know, sir,” he responded, almost whispering.

  Lockney took a deep breath and joined Bar at the rail, staring out over the cloudfortress and all those ineffectual ships crowded within it like doves against a coming storm. “What should we expect from a socio-political system specifically designed to divide us, not only into regions and isles, but into classes as well—nobles and lowborn—how can we be expected to stand as one nation when we can’t even stand next to one another?”