by Zoë Archer
Bracing wind met her as she reached the top deck. Full night had fallen, and with it, the temperature likewise dropped. The idea of going back down to her cabin to retrieve a coat didn’t appeal, not when she could fill her lungs with the cool, fresh, evening air, and take her fill of the jeweled night sky. Flying during the daytime was wondrous, but being airborne at night was a waking dream. One she was determined to savor.
She walked further onto the deck, passing a few members of the crew but not, thankfully, Denisov. She wanted to enjoy these moments, and his presence deeply unsettled her. For so many reasons. Now, she could relish the unique experience of flying at night. Its lulling peace.
A burst of fire a mile away on the starboard side tore through the stillness. And then another. The airship rocked slightly from the concussive blasts. What were they?
Crewmen suddenly swarmed the deck. Yet none of them spoke. Eerie, how there were so many of them but they kept silent. Many of them were extinguishing the lamps and dimming the illumination devices in the panels lining the hull. Plunging the ship into utter darkness.
But the explosions on the starboard side continued. The fire flared, and half a moment later, she heard and felt the jolt. The flares of light dazzled her eyes. She couldn’t make out what was causing the detonations.
“British and Russian airships,” said a deep voice behind her. “Another territorial pissing match.”
She whirled to face Denisov. In all the controlled chaos, she hadn’t heard or felt his approach. He came to stand beside her and together they stared out into the darkness.
Naturally, he could see what she could not. But in a moment, her vision adjusted, and she could just make out two British airships facing off against three Russian vessels. They unloaded their ether cannons on one another, lurid blossoms of fire bursting in the night sky. Ether-enhanced Gatling guns made rough, choppy sounds. The noise of wood shattering apart also tore through the air.
Something on one of the British ships caught fire. Crewmen seemed to work fast to put out the blaze, but it was clear the airship had suffered a bad blow.
Men were out there, dying. She couldn’t see them, or hear them, but no crew could take that much bombardment without suffering loss of life.
Daphne’s heart pounded in time with the ether cannon. Her mouth dried.
“I’ve never observed actual warfare before,” she croaked. Oh, there had been some local tribal leaders’ disputes that had resulted in spilled blood, but nothing on this industrialized scale.
Though she couldn’t make out Denisov’s expression, his words were flat. “It’s just a skirmish. Hopefully, it’s enough.”
“Enough for what?” she asked, appalled.
“To get away unseen.”
Thus the reason why all the lights aboard the Bielyi Voron were extinguished. With the British and Russians engaged in combat against each other, the rogue ship would appear to be nothing more than a patch of darkness in a cloudless sky, and not worth noting.
Not so cloudless. The formerly clear sky was rapidly dotting with gray, billowing clouds.
Which, to a sharp-eyed observer aboard one of the other airships, would throw the Bielyi Voron into perfect silhouette.
Denisov seemed to know this. When Levkov appeared, the captain ordered, “Get us out of here. Fast. But don’t fire up the turbines too much, or they might spot us.”
“Aye, Captain.” Gone was Levkov’s typical surliness as he hurried to obey Denisov’s command.
The turbines whirred faster, and the wind picked up as the airship hastened to put distance between itself and the ongoing battle.
She felt the tension in her chest ease. They could steal away, with no one the wiser. Though she was a British citizen, somehow she doubted that would matter if a British airship got a rogue Man O’ War’s vessel in its sights. And Denisov had made clear that the Russians would hunt him down and kill him if given the chance.
But they wouldn’t get that chance. Not tonight. The Bielyi Voron was disappearing into the night, and everything would be fine.
“Blyat,” Denisov cursed.
“What is it?”
“We’ve been spotted.” He pointed into the darkness. “One of the Russian ships pulled away from the battle. They’re coming after us.”
Squinting, she just made out the large, dark form of the enemy airship. It looked a good deal bigger than the Bielyi Voron, which could slow them down. But it had larger turbines and ether tanks, too.
“We can outrun them,” she said, hoping to convince herself. Then realized she spoke to no one, as Denisov was already striding across the deck toward the pilot house. Instinctively knowing that the safest place to be was with him, Daphne hurried after him.
“We can outrun them, can’t we?” she pressed.
“That’s the Zelyonyi Oryol.” The way he said the ship’s name made it clear that outrunning it was impossible. In the pilot house, he consulted with a dark-skinned man, speaking to him in a strange combination of a West African dialect and Russian. Daphne could make out every fourth word, words like storm and protonic charge, but even that didn’t quite make sense. The African man hastened away to obey whatever order he’d been given.
“If we had anyplace to hide,” Denisov said to her, “we might have a chance, but we’re in the middle of the damned sea. There’s nowhere to take cover.”
With a sinking feeling, she realized he was right. A vast stretch of water offered no concealment.
Just as the understanding hit her, the ship rocked violently. The Russian ship was firing on them. Not expecting the jolt, she staggered and toppled toward the floor.
In a blur of movement, iron-hard arms scooped her up and set her on her feet. She pressed her palms against Denisov’s forearms, the heat of him racing up through her limbs and mingling with the icy fear coursing through her veins.
But she felt herself steadied, and a moment later, stepped away.
“Go below,” he commanded.
“Please, no.” She didn’t like the frightened tone of her voice, but, by God, she had good reason to be afraid. A massive Russian airship was determined to shoot them out of the sky, and if one could permit oneself a moment of fear, it would be now. “Huddling alone in that tiny cabin, wondering what was happening but not knowing … that’s worse than facing the danger head-on.”
He was silent. Her eyes had adjusted somewhat, and she could make out the hard, sharp contours of his face, the glint of his eyes. She thought that he’d sneer at her, and shove her below decks, but after a moment, he said in a strangely gentle voice, “All right. But stay close.”
“I’m certainly not planning to caper around the deck,” she answered.
A low, surprised chuckle rumbled up from his chest. “Save the capering for later. When we shake off our pursuer.”
“I didn’t think we could. They’re faster, and we’ve no place to hide.”
“All true. But,” he added, and she could have sworn that he winked, “I didn’t survive this long as a wanted man without having a few outrageous schemes.”
Chapter Four
* * *
SHE FOLLOWED HIM as he strode to where the helmsman stood at the wheel. Despite the urgency of the situation, the crewman steering the ship betrayed no outward sign of fear, guiding the vessel with the same unflappable calm as if taking a pleasant afternoon flight. But the zing of ether rifles’ fire and shuddering caused by the enemy’s cannon made their flight anything but pleasant.
She struggled to keep herself as outwardly calm as any of the Bielyi Voron’s crew, even though her insides quaked.
“Steer us into those clouds ahead,” Denisov commanded to the helmsman.
“Aye, sir.”
“We can hide ourselves in them,” she deduced.
Yet Denisov shook his head. “Any Man O’ War could see through a cloud of that density. It’s hardly cover.”
“Then why—” But she silenced herself. Now wasn’t the time to question Denisov
or his intentions. He was the air combat veteran, not she.
The ship plunged into the bank of clouds. Cold vapor surrounded them immediately, smelling faintly of sulfur and saline. It formed an eerie shroud, and she could barely make out the prow of the ship and forms of the crew through the mist. Yet she wasn’t as cold as she ought to be. Because of Denisov. She stood close enough to him to feel the heat radiating from his body. Despite the cold, and the peril pursuing them, he seemed to grow even warmer as the hazard increased. As if the threat and the need to fight fed the heat within him—a furnace fueled by danger.
She glanced over at him. Yes—his eyes seemed to gleam with a new light, and she could almost sense his eagerness for combat as much as the heat spreading out from him.
But he wouldn’t lead them into a fight, would he? Not with the odds against them so great?
The African man returned, holding a brass-hinged box in his hands. With him was another crewman, who carried what appeared to be an iron mortar. “I have them here, Captain.”
“And not a minute to spare, Akua.” Denisov took the box from the other man and headed toward the rear of the ship. Daphne, Akua, and the other crewman trailed after him as he climbed a set of steps to the poop deck. She fought for balance, gripping the rails on the steps, as the helmsman kept up evasive maneuvers, the ship veering from side to side like a deliberate drunkard. The clouds were thick on all sides, and the sound of enemy gunfire continued to tear the air apart.
Her only constant was Denisov, and she followed the massive breadth of his shoulders and the dark shadow of his long coat flaring out behind him as he moved with purpose.
Crewmen attending the aft-mounted ether tanks gave him respectful distance as he paced to the railing of the poop deck. He removed a contraption of intricate brass from the wooden box.
“Set the mortar up there,” he directed Akua and the crewman with the weapon. “I want it at forty-five degrees.”
The weapon was positioned near the railing, but what held Daphne’s attention was the device that Denisov handled. It was spherical, consisting of various rings of brass, with a crank at one end. The captain pressed a latch and the sphere split apart. He took a handful of brilliant blue gems from a compartment within the wooden box, placed them inside the brass sphere, then latched the device shut.
Holding the metal orb in one hand, he started to turn the crank on the sphere’s end. Rings within the orb began to spin. Faster and faster they turned as Denisov wound the device. Blue light sparkled to life within the apparatus, first in thin filaments, then with greater strength, until tendrils of electricity spread outward and covered the device. For that’s what Denisov appeared to be doing: creating electricity. She would have thought generating that kind of charge would cause him pain. But as the light spilled outward and illuminated his face, he showed no sign of discomfort.
In truth, he looked like an elemental creature, all lurid light and hard angles, the rings in his ears glinting and his eyes ablaze. She didn’t know whether to be frightened or enthralled.
“I think it’s charged enough, Captain,” Akua shouted above the din of gunfire.
Daphne glanced aft. She could just make out the form of the pursuing Russian airship. As Denisov had said, the clouds seemed to provide no impediment to the enemy’s chase. But what, exactly, was Denisov doing that could give the Bielyi Voron any advantage?
“Shield yourselves,” he directed. “Especially you,” he added with a commanding look at Daphne.
She and the others did as they were bid. She stepped back from the mortar and lifted her arms to protect her face. Yet she couldn’t resist peering through a small gap between her arms to see what he was doing.
“Prepare ether tanks for venting,” he shouted above the din. Crewmen yelled back their readiness.
He dropped the crackling metallic sphere into the mortar. It immediately shot out with a low thunk.
Lowering her arms, Daphne watched the sphere arc into the clouds. Sizzling bolts of blue energy shot from the device. The artificial lightning threaded through the cloud, spreading like a jagged web with a snapping, crackling sound. It seemed to excite the energy within the clouds, and within moments, pale yellow filaments of electricity sparked to life.
At the same time, the brass orb split open and shot the azure-colored gems into the clouds. The clouds darkened into bruises.
She could feel it, smell it—the sulfuric tang of a gathering storm, moments away from bursting into full fury. The blue gems had to be some kind of storm seed, something she’d heard rumors about, but never actually seen. Now she’d not only seen them, but within moments, she’d be in the middle of their creation. A storm that would outpace anything from the Bible.
“Brace yourselves,” Denisov said.
Though she didn’t know what to expect, she held tight to the railing, bracing her feet wide.
He turned to the men at the ether tanks. “Vent them!”
The crewmen threw several levers. And the world fell from the sky.
The airship dropped rapidly, careening downward sharply. Her stomach did the same. A moment’s blind terror. They were crashing! They’d plunge into the sea and sink to the bottom before anyone who survived the fall could have a chance to swim to the surface.
But the ship’s free fall lasted only a moment. The next second, the vessel shot forward with incredible speed. It was as if dozens of turbines suddenly roared to life. The speed felt like a punch in the stomach. She couldn’t catch her breath.
Unprepared for the velocity, she half stumbled and half crumpled against the railing. Only her arm looped around the wooden balustrade kept her from tumbling completely to the deck. Or, worse, overboard. Her feet dug at the planks and her arm shook from effort. She was about to tumble right over the rail.
“Blyat.”
The huge, hot edifice of Denisov suddenly covered her, anchoring her down. His body formed a protective wall around her, his hands gripped the railing, effectively caging her. A typhoon couldn’t dislodge her, not with him holding her steady.
His front pressed to her back, close as interlocking puzzle pieces. His skin carried the scent of leather and hot metal. He felt hard all over, solid as tempered steel, not an inch of give anywhere on his body. His breath was warm as it fanned across her neck and cheek. If she turned her head just a little, their lips would touch. Thinking of this, another kind of heat spread low in her belly.
“Told you to brace yourself,” he growled.
“I did,” she shot back, forcibly ignoring her awareness of him, and the almost intimate nature of their position. “Had no idea we’d be flung forward as if shot out of a cannon.”
“Not a cannon, but when we vent the ether, it gives us an extra boost. We lose some height, but it’s worth it for the speed.”
She peered through the poop deck railing. The storm raged behind them, massive and dark as judgment, its peals of thunder and bolts of lightning seeming to crack the very sky apart. The device and storm seeds had created that—part of the marvel of modern science.
At least it was behind them, the venting of ether having pushed them ahead of the tempest.
“The other airship can do the same, though,” she noted. “Vent their ether to catch up with us.”
“They’re stuck in the middle of the storm. Too dangerous to try the maneuver in the midst of that.”
“So,” she said, hopeful, “we’ve lost them.”
He was more guarded, saying flatly, “Not going to breathe easy until I see nothing but night sky around us.”
And she could not breathe easy until he no longer anchored her body with his own. Not when she felt the rise and fall of his chest, or the unyielding strength of his form. It sparked an awareness she did not want, one she could not afford.
“I can stand on my own now.” Her voice was brusque, spinsterish.
After that initial, breathless burst of speed, the ship incrementally slowed. The black mirror of the sea below gained sharper defi
nition as the Bielyi Voron decelerated.
“As you like.” Despite his disinterested tone, he straightened gradually, as if making certain that she truly had stable footing. He kept his hands on the railing, however, even when she stood fully upright.
They both stared at the tempest. Though they had put distance between the ship and the storm, it continued to rage, shaking the sky with thunder and flashing with lightning. Yet she couldn’t see the Russian ship. It had to be trapped within the storm.
She turned around, and found herself effectively pinned by Denisov against the railing. The span of a moth’s wing separated them. Her awareness of him climbed higher. They’d skirted the battle between the British and Russian airships, and evaded their pursuer. So why did her heart beat faster now?
He’s metal and flesh. A handful of technological components grafted onto the body of an ordinary man. Nothing else.
Yet he seemed far more than that.
“Have you used that evasive technique before?” she asked, striving to sound calm.
His grin was audacious. “First time.”
She felt her mouth drop open. “Was it dangerous?”
“Akua,” Denisov said over his shoulder, “was what I did just now dangerous?”
“Ridiculously so, Captain,” came the answer. “We had less than a five percent chance of surviving.” Yet Akua didn’t sound upset at all. He sounded … pleased. As if his captain’s reckless behavior was something to celebrate.
A skewed value system these mercenaries have. Definitely something she would have liked to document more. Instead, she said aloud, “That’s a ninety-five percent chance that we could’ve been killed.”
“And if the Zelyonyi Oryol had gotten close enough, the odds were one hundred percent that we’d be blasted from the sky. I’m not much of a mathematician, but a five percent survival rate is better than none at all. We’re alive now. We’ve lost our pursuers. That’s all that matters.”