by Nick Travers
Chapter 35
One Reaver, out in the open, guarding the scout ship staked to the platform edge; its top hat and compression rifle silhouetted against the glow of fires in the background. One Reaver, alert and no doubt armed to the teeth—all that stands between us and freedom.
Our little band of escapees have trailed our way, painstakingly, through the overrun trading platform, avoiding bands of roving warriors. We are hiding behind some barrels near the Reaver scout ship I spied earlier.
I peer through the sights of the Whisper. It’s a long shot, without much light. If I plant a bolt into the Reaver’s eye I can drop him without a sound. But, unless I kill him instantly he will raise the alarm. Then we’ll have to fight our way out. At this distance I’ll be lucky to hit him at all.
When faced with an impossible task, avoid complications—keep things simple and hope for the best.
Better to hit the target with a neuro tipped bolt from the pistol bow; that way he will go down wherever I strike.
I’m just transferring one of the small pistol bolts to the Whisper when something darts across my vision. I look up to discover the old lady charging head down at the guard.
There’s nothing I can do to stop her. The Reaver will hear her any moment. Then everyone except Trent is moving forward and I’m left on my own covering their charge.
The Reaver looks up. Too late: the old lady barrels into him, winding him in the stomach and knocking both of them over the platform edge. They disappear into the misty darkness below without even a sound. Never have I witnessed such selfless bravery. Tears spring into my eyes—I never even knew her name. Angrily, I snatch away the tears and refocus—later is the time for regrets.
The others come to a halt, momentarily stunned by the old lady’s sacrifice then they clamber noisily aboard the airship.
The element of surprise is gone. If there is anyone aboard that airship we have had it. “Go, Trent. I’ll cover you from here.” Trent darts forward to the dock and starts hacking at the mooring ropes.
I rise to my feet to join him.
Click.
I freeze.
The barrel of a compression pistol hovers by my left temple. Shots ring out from behind me. Three? Four? The pistol wielder is not alone. I slowly turn my back on the airship, my body propped up by the barrels, hoping the escapees have gotten away. I’m not now going with them. Three Reavers have me cornered.
“You just cost me six runners,” a Reaver with brass cogs and printed circuit boards twisted into her black dreadlocks screams in my ear, “hope you can run good.”
More cogs decorate her tunic jacket and her battered top hat is adorned with a pair of goggles. I read somewhere that Reavers wear the cogs and goggles in honor of their brass gods: Coggler the tinker, Goggler the aviator, and Nerf the warrior. She’s wearing one of the new six-shooter pistols holstered on her right thigh and a bandoleer of compression bullets across her chest.
Run? Then I realize she is referring to the hamster wheels that drive the Reaver airships.
“He’s too scrawny,” rasps the pistol wielder, a male who looks pretty scrawny himself in a dark trench coat, “best eat him now.” He roars with laughter at his own joke.
At least they haven’t twigged I’m female yet.
“What’s that he’s holding?” The pistol wielder grinds the barrel into my forehead. I grit my teeth against the flashes of pain across my eye and bite my tongue.
“Whatever it is, it’s mine,” claims the female, she must lead this group. “Now lift it slowly so I can see it good and proper.”
Click.
The third Reaver, a short bearded male wearing a flight jacket adorned with little pistons, is pointing his own gun at the female. “We all captured him, we all split the prize. You can have those warm gloves.”
“Like heck.” The pistol barrel is out of my face. This is the time to act.
I tense my muscles for action. Then something heavy crashes over my head and all three Reavers go down like skittles with a clatter of cogs. I drop the Whisper and grab the pistol bows. All three are unconscious before they can rise, but not before one jerks a finger, as the neuro agent takes effect, and fires their pistol.
The rest of the platform is now alert to the breakout.
The heavy object that bowled over the Reavers moves, and grins at me. “Nice shooting, Nina.”
“Trent, you’re meant to be on that airship.” I jerk my thumb towards the scout ship that has already lifted off, set a small sail, and is disappearing into the night. I should be grateful for his help, but I’m not, now I need to take care of us both.
We have seconds to escape and there is no chance of getting back to the spare parachute with the platform stirring like a hornets nest.
I drag Trent to the edge of the platform, slipping those warm gloves so admired by the Reavers, onto my hands—there is only one option. “Jump on my back, Trent.”
Together, we follow the old lady over the side. Trent holds on tight and entwines his hands in the webbing of the spare chute strapped to my chest. He knows, as do I, that soon he will be so cold he will be unable to hold on by his own strength. I just hope the spare chute can hold us both without folding.
Falling through the mist, with the roar of the wind rushing past, and away from the glow of the bonfire, it is difficult to judge when we are clear of the platform, but as soon as I think we are past, I count to ten and pull the ripcord.
“This is mad,” Trent yells in my ear. He’s right, but it was the only option.
Initially, we plummet too fast, but then begin to slow as the chute fills out, and thankfully, starts to supports our weight.
Firing sounds from the platform. A lot of shooting is taking place up top even though the clouds have swallowed us already—anger, frustration, who knows—maybe the Reavers are just shooting at each other. I pull on the straps to steer back towards what I judge should be the underside of the platform to restrict their angle of fire, just in case they get lucky.
Reavers are duty bound to revenge warrior deaths—something called Nerf’s code, so they are certain to come after us in their airships just as soon as they stop fighting each other.
I spiral us down through freezing clouds. I can feel Trent on my back shivering. Without an insulated flight suit like mine, he will develop hypothermia in no time and pass out. I need to lose altitude fast and find the Shonti Bloom.
Whilst the cloud hides us from the Reavers it also hides us from the Shonti. In reality, I have no chance of finding the airship in this mist. My only hope is that Fernando has realized the problem and taken the Shonti to the backup position.
To me it seems obvious, but will Fernando see it that way or are we doomed to fall right to the earth?