Clockwork Skies
This was originally supposed to be a part of the Follingsworth background; it still is, but things didn't happen quite this way, turns out. :) Still, worth a read, and the bits with Mark and Tristan are spot-on anyhow.
Major Reginald Follingsworth looked over his desk, at the endless sea of paperwork, and frowned. "Delegate, delegate," his old schoolmasters had always said when the subject of command was broached; but Reginald had never been very good at such things. He much preferred taking command of the situation, big or small, even lowly tasks such as keeping his desk clean. Steel-blue eyes locked onto a speck of dust resting on his otherwise immaculate uniform. With one white-gloved hand he brushed it away into oblivion, and with the other he squeezed his tired eyes shut. Another one of his headaches was building. As far as he was concerned, life was easier when you had a gun in one hand and the wheel in the other. Still, needs must, and a family as noble and wealthy as his always had paperwork to see too. He could have hired a page or appointed one of his brothers to handle such things, but then the reports might be misfiled, or lost, or forgotten about, and then where would he be? Without discipline, he supposed, and a ship without discipline was a ship doomed to die.
By all the spirits of the air, the Major would have discipline.
Frown lessening somewhat from the deciscive thought, Reignald lifted another sheet of yellowed paper from the endless morass. His eyes squinted behind his glasses.
"Red?" he said, glancing over to the door. "Are these weather reports correct? How long have we been heading towards this cloud formation?"
Looming out of the shadowy recesses of the room, his whip-thin manservant faded into view. Skinny as the day was long, and clad in a spotless dress uniform, his first mate was tireless, reliable, and loyal to a fault. As far as Reginald was concerned, no better first mate existed in all the skies. Red had yet to ever fail him.
"About three and a half hours, sir," the servant responded, flipping open the brass face of his wristwatch. "Three hours thirty-two minutes, to be exact. Shall I order helm to change course?"
Reginald frown darkened and he shook his head. "We have a schedule to keep, and new property to inspect. We shall not be late. The Seraphim has never been late, if I recall correctly?" he added meaningfully, eyes glancing up to the ceiling of his cabin. She was a fine ship, the best in the entire Meridian Navy, if he was any judge, and her black oak walls and thick steel frame had never failed him, either. That his family was allowed to use her as an impromptu trading vessel from time to time did not in any way affect her reputation for timeliness.
"No sir, she has never been late. Not as long as you have commanded her." Red closed his watchface with a quick flip of his wrist and nodded respectfully. Clasping his hands behind his back, the first mate added, "She's a fine mining colony, sir, if I do say so myself; I spent some time there in my youth, guarding the ore runners."
Reginald nodded back, eyes flickering over the endless reports and personnel logs. "Good. The family stands to make a great deal of money if we play this right. I think we can risk a few cloudbanks on our way. Besides, a man would have to be barking to think of getting in our way." Setting his glasses down carefully, the Major got to his feet, mahogany armchair gently scraping across the floor. Straightening his uniform and brushing away nonexistent dust from the lapels, he turned around to look out the rear windows of the cabin.
The sight never failed to stir his heart; the sun draped lovingly over the endless clouds, the pale blue sky stretching from horizon to horizon. He closed his eyes, and imagined how the Seraphim looked from the crow's nest, all pale blues and darker aquamarine against the pale white of the cloudbanks. Dotted with razor precision along the sides stood his gliders, dark purple, gold trimmed, made of the finest Follingsworth steel and canvas. Lower still, the oaken base of the aircraft, stained thick and perfectly even against the sky, she rode the endless airways like an angel across the heavens. Today, her hold was heavy with the steel ingots his family was famous for, headed for an outlying Meridian colony. There, the steel would be traded for the mine itself, and all the people working there would be set for life. His family's holdings would grow by another rank, and they would all be much wealthier for the work. The Seraphim's crew, all hundred men and women, would be paid handsomley for their efforts, and everyone would be a bit happier with life.
Reginald's hands clasped tightly behind his back. But for now, he reasoned, opening his eyes, there was paperwork to attend to. And an ocean more waiting for when they returned to the city as well. At least there, he mused, there was a chance of some good brandy. Whomever had failed to remember to stock his pantry with the stuff would be held accountable. Reginald sat down at the desk again, and selected a paper at random. Perhaps the man responsible would be held to some sort of punishment. Walking the plank, yes, that should do it.
The Major's frown intensified. "Red?" he asked carefully, already dreading the answer. "Who was responsible for the maintenece crew's reports for deck C?"
Red likewise frowned, almost imperceptibly. "That would be your brother Tristain, sir."
Reginald sighed. "And where, do you suppose, is Tristain? Not out on Deck C, doing his job, eh?"
The manservant shook his head, and said nothing, while the captain of the Seraphim picked up a speaking tube, and prepared to unleash hell upon his brother.
"Did you hear something?" the young woman asked, looking up from her ministrations for a moment, blonde curls bouncing.
"Mmm, no, I'm quite sure it was nothing," the young man answered, booted foot kicking over the speaking tube. Over his heartbeat and the rush of air through the open windows, he could faintly hear his brother raving on about something or other. Tristain mused to himself, idly. It was probably something he had done wrong again.
"Oh. Well then. Where was I?" she replied, repositioning herself in his lap primly. Tristain forgot entirely about his brother and indeed everything else except the young lady's whalebone corset and heaving bosom, which now occupied most of his view.
"Right where you're most comfortable, I hope?" he asked, grinning slightly, hand gently stroking the back of her neck. He leaned forward for another long kiss, and she sighed contentedly.
"I could be more comfortable," she teased, smiling at him and tossing her hair back. He chuckled, green eyes flashing, one dark eyebrow raised inquiringly. She stood, dress unbunching itself, and wandered over to the dressing screen in the corner, as he sat on the edge of the bed and watched her shadowed form. The wind felt good over his bare skin. Even with his companion's alarmingly attractive presence, he found his gaze drawn to the endless cloudy expanse beyond the windowframe, the wood and steel body of the Seraphim gliding across the sky. The sight never failed to stir his heart, and for the ten thousandth time since he and his brothers had first set sail, Tristain found himself grateful beyond words that the spirits had landed him on board such a craft, in such a job. Marine Sergeant, head of the Boarders, paid ridiculously well and with great benefits as well. One benefit, he reflected, being a private cabin.
"It was a man who invented the whalebone corset, I'm sure of it," his new friend called from behind the screen, darkened form offering tantalizing hints of what lay beyond. "A hundred cords and all sharp edges. I'll be very glad to be rid of it."
Tristain grinned to himself, eyes flashing in the setting sun. "And I as well...and I as well. Say...what'd you say your name was?" he asked, hands moving to undo the laces on his boots.
A giggle emenated from behind the dressing screen, and there was a thud as the corset hit the floor. "Oh, best we don't use names, isn't it? We don't want anyone talking once we reach landfall..." She peeked her head out from behind the screen, and offered a demure pout. "Can you help me get these lacings undone? It'll be simply ages before I can manage myself..."
Tristain chuckled, good and loud, and got to his feet. "Be my pleasure, my lady," he grinned.
Down in the engine room, covered in oil and dirt, the air at least a hundred degrees and surrounded by the roar of the steam engines, Mark had never been happier.
Of course, he was always happy in the engine room, and he was almost always there, so he was often happy. The fact that he was the second eldest brother of the Follingsworth family didn't enter his head much. Nothing asides from the care and keeping of the Seraphim entered his head much. It was much the same today, as with any other day. Grinning to himself, he gripped the spanner tightly with both hands and hauled on the lugnut for all he was worth. He and the other engineers had heard the ship's second boiler complaining lately, and they had taken it upon themselves to relieve some of her pains.
"Grab the size fifteen wrench, there's a good lad," Mark called to the youngest of the bunch, a lad named Mite, only fifteen and barely enlisted. The youth, all oily skin and engine burns, nodded eagerly and dashed off to find the errant tool. "And don't bring back any balloon polish neither!" called another engine rat, as the lot of them laughed uproariously at the ancient joke. Seven of them stood at specific valves, or hung like apes among the upper pipes, watching the head engineer teach the youth his trade. Mostly, the airship ran itself, with only a little tending by the tribe of engineers, but when things went wrong or the Seraphim needed to change course quickly, that was when they earned their hazard pay. And to survive long enough to earn that pay, the engines were tended with almost fanatical devotion.
The boy scampered back, gasping from the run and the oppressive heat, carrying the small wrench in one hand. His brown eyes looked up at Mark, ready for the next step.
"All right," Mark called, and pointed. "Grip the wrench around that lugnut, and pull for all you're worth!"
With a long tug and the hiss of superheated air, the boiler gave a final belch of relieved pressure, sending the boy sprawling to the deck. Mark and the engineers cheered, one stooping to help the beaming engine rat to his feet. The celebration was lost in the din of the engines, so none of them heard the sound of rotors drawing ever closer, or the screams of the bridge crew four floors above.
"Unidentified craft closing on the stern, six knots, flying the black flag," yelled the bridge lookout. Reginald deftly lifted the speaking horn from its holder, all thoughts of paperwork and idiot family temporarily forgotten. He turned to look out the rear window, his manservant appearing at his side, and it was to his credit that his jaw dropped just an inch.
The approaching craft was enormous, easily four times the size of the Seraphim, a dark conglomeration of patchwork armor plating and blood-red wood. Three massive, patched balloons held the malevolent thing aloft, and even at this distance, Reginald could see its crew covering the warship's deck. They stood, silent and still, like clockwork soldiers, all armed, all watching the Seraphim impassivley, as the distance between the two vessels rapidly shortened.
Sniffing disdainfully, Reginald's eyes narrowed. Nobody attacked the Seraphim. Nobody kept Reginald from his appointed task. No one, he mused, was quite that suicidal. These pirates would be driven off, swiftly, and then they would be on their way. He had never lost a battle, from skirmishes to the entirety of the Clover Wars out on the Eastern Reach. This fight would be no different.
The Major lifted the horn to his lips, and spoke.
"This is the Major. All hand to battle stations. The Wretched Exodus is on our stern and closing fast. Engine room, full speed, if you would. Everyone else, stand by to repel boarders."
Even as he spoke, the Exodus let loose a terrible blast of its horns, the sound reverberating in the soul of every man and woman aboard the Seraphim, a sound dread and low and evil. As the noise died away, it was replaced with screaming, the yells of a thousand throats, as the crew of the pirate vessel, to a man, screamed their battle cries.
At the sound, Reginald strode to the rear windows, and closed them tight. As an afterthought, he latched them shut as well. That small task done, he turned to his manservant. "Fetch my pistols and my sabre, First Mate." His eyes found his longtime friends'. "Best arm yourself as well, Red."
The first mate snapped his boots together, and saluted.
"This is the Major. All hand to battle stations. The Wretched Exodus is on our stern and closing fast. Engine room, full speed, if you would. Everyone else, stand by to repel boarders."
Tristain stood, wind whipping around the room as the enemy ship filled the windows. He frowned tightly, and took a seat on the bed. Eyes wide with concern, the young lady pulled the sheets up across her chest. "Who are they? What do they want?" she asked, blue eyes bright with fear.
The Marine Sergeant pulled his breeches up and began to fasten them with deft, swift movements. "It's a pirate ship. No one knows where it docks, or where it goes when it's done with it's bloody work. It destroys airships, big and small, seemingly without rhyme or reason." One boot came on, then the other, as he spoke. "Sixty guns a side at least, speed's better than ours, and a crew of over one thousand. Savages, almost never leave survivors. Don't take plunder, don't take slaves, don't take gold. Captained by a woman in red. They say she's wreathed in flames and blood, and that bullets can't stop her." He stood, no longer an aristocrat dallying with one of the travelers, but a man of war and steel. "Help me with my coat, please."
Throwing aside the sheet, she helped him pull on a thick leather shirt, then his long black coat. As he made to step away, she clutched him close to her, the klaxon sounding across the ship. "What can we do? We can outrun them, can't we?"
Tristain buckled his belt, eyed the oncoming craft, and said nothing. Trembling, but back straight with purpose, the young woman made to get dressed.
"This is the Major. All hand to battle stations. The Wretched Exodus is on our stern and closing fast. Engine room, full speed, if you would. Everyone else, stand by to repel boarders."
Mark and the other engineers stared in horror at the speaking tube as the orders came through. As the others turned to gabble at one another, disbelieving, terrified, Mark clambered to the top of the boiler, put his fingers to his teeth, and whistled. The noise pierced the din, and every man stopped to stare at him.
"All right!" he roared, eyes ablaze, hair wild with heat and sweat. "All the steam you can manage, boys! Stand by to relieve pressure, and wait for the Major's orders! We can outrun this beast, if we all put our backs into it! Now...more steam, more power! Burn the air with our passing!" And he roared, again, long and loud, the Seraphim's boilers grunting and gurgling in agreement. The engineers cheered, darker this time, and bent to fill the boilers. With a howl of pain and renewed pressure, the Seraphim sped onwards through the clouds.
The first volley of cannonshot was thick. It plowed through the escape gliders, the purple and golden frames tumbling from the sky like broken butterflies. The second volley shredded one of the Seraphim's twin balloons, and sparked a fire on deck B; none of the passengers survived. By the time the Seraphim began to lose altitude, the Exodus was alongside her, the boarding ropes flew, and the enemy crew came howling, spitting and screaming for blood.
In the span of half a minute, the jewel of the Follingsworth fleet was stricken and burning, swarming with enemy raiders, and clearly doomed. But the Exodus had never tangled with the Follingsworths, and as far as every man and woman aboard was concerned, they weren't out of the fight yet.
Tristain primed his pistols, and checked the brace across his chest. Satisfied that each loaded weapon spelled at least one soul gone to the afterlife, he paused to look over his Boarders. A dozen of the meanest, nastiest men and women money could buy, all armed to the teeth. Tristain couldn't be more proud. To their credit, all smiled as he looked them over, offering a cheerful wave or a nod of the head. To them, the butchery ahead was their time to shine, their time to show the Follingsworth family why they kept them around. Even if they were about to lock horns with one of the most feared corsairs in the world, to them, there was no better way to die. The Exodus would know it had tangled with the Seraphim, and the Boarders, and Tristain.
Satisfied, Tristain Follingsworth drew one of his many guns in one hand, and clenched a thick hatchet in the other.
"Deck C boarding ramp...down! For the Seraphim! For the Major!"
With an almighty crash, the ramp fell from the side of the airship, smashing against the hull of the pirate's vessel. Roaring, swearing, eyes red with bloodlust, the Boarders swarmed across the ramp, a two-mile drop below them, bodies tiny against the sky...
...and with a sickening lurch, and the sound of tearing metal, the ramp fell away into nothingness, carrying the Boarders out into open sky. Flailing, screaming, each man and woman scrabbling for purchase that would never come, the entirety of the Seraphim's marines disappeared. The last to fall, Tristain made a final leap back towards the Seraphim's hull, fingernails searching desperatly for a handhold. And before blackness claimed him, his last thought was, Deck C...who was in charge of checking the ramp, anyway? Oh...damn.
Swearing and cursing, drooling black blood from their hissing lips, the enemy raiders made their way to the engine room. One hulking brute of a man wrenched a pipe off the wall; the steam scalded his bare flesh, but the giant didn't seem to mind. Making his way forward into the gloom, engines roaring in fury as the vessel died above them, it was impossible to hear the man sneak up behind him.
The wrench whistled through the air; the giant's back snapped at the impact. Roaring, the corsair turned to face his attacker, arms twisting in impotent, pained rage.
Mark put another blow into the giant's face, and another for good measure. Kicking the corpse to the floor, the chief engineer turned and stood in the doorway, bloody wrench cradled in his arms.
"Get out of my engine room," he growled, eyes bright as the vessel burned around him.
There wasn't much resistance that the Seraphim could offer. Not after the relentless broadsides, or the foolish loss of their marines, or the unchecked fires which raged throughout the ship. So it wasn't very long before a group found their way to the Major's cabin, broke down the door, and made their way inside.
They were met with a volley of pistol fire, Red roaring a Follingsworth battlecry, loosing shot after shot at anyone who showed themselves inside the doorway. Wood splintered and blood spattered the walls; the raiders fell over each other to get out of the way. But eventually the first mate ran out of pistols, and after a few seconds of fumbling with a powderhorn, a lucky round entered his throat and exited into the wall behind him. Pitching forward, eyes defiant to the last moment, the first mate of the Seraphim died with hate in his eyes. Cautiously, picking their way through the smoke, the remaining attackers made their way deeper into the room.
A pistol barked from the back of the cabin; one raider flew backwards, disappearing into the dark. Discipline, thought Reginald as he lifted a second gun. This round sent another pirate screaming into oblivion. These men lack discipline. Howling, a third man leapt forward, hatchet in each hand; Reginald's thrown pistol smashed his nose to a pulp. Impassionatley, the Major drew his sabre and beheaded the howling man. Backing away, thinking better of entering this room at all, the remaining half dozen fingered their blades and watched the Major.
Cut, hack. One pirate fell away, dead before he could blink. Savages. A second flurry of blows; this man had time to scream before the end. They dare attack my ship...my Seraphim...my angel. The third man he pummeled to death with his fist, immaculate white gloves spackled with blood. The remaining men tried to run, bunching up in the doorway. Their backs turned, Reginald took his time with them, tears coursing down his cheeks. His mind swam from one thought to another. My crew...Red, my friend...all gone...and now we're going to be late...oh, my poor brothers...
Looking down at the dead men at his feet, Reginald paused, sword crimson in the sunset behind him.
My brothers.
Pausing to gently close Red's eyes, the Major made his way to the speaking horn. As the vessel rocked around him and the cannons thundered, he spoke into the tube:
"This is the Major. All hands, abandon ship. Make no attempts to save the vessel. Good luck. It has been an honor serving with you."
Tristain awoke to a massive headache, and the sound of roaring flames. He also found he couldn't move very well; something was holding his arms in place.
Where was he? He tried to remember. There had been a girl...and then a pirate ship? Oh...oh yes.
He had screwed up worse than ever before. It was unforgivable.
After he stopped crying about it, and the shuddering jerks of his sobbing ceased to wrack his frame, he opened his eyes.
His vision swam a bit, but he seemed to be hanging off the side of the Seraphim. His big black coat had caught on a rent piece of metal. Lucky, he thought.
Black luck, to survive that.
With that, he blacked out again.
Some time later, he awoke to an insistent tugging.
Craning his neck, wincing with the effort, he looked above him. The girl was pulling at his coat. She had changed into some of his clothes, he noticed. How uncouth.
"Come on!" she yelled, ducking as bullets whined overhead. Raiders on the other ship had her in their sights now. Growling, the young woman hauled him up by his coat, casting a malevolent glance over to the enemy vessel.
Numb with pain, Tristain collapsed into her arms. She pulled him to his feet, and snatched a pistol from his belt.
"Where are the escape gliders?" she barked, as another round slammed into the deck. Tristain shook his head.
"What does it matter?" he replied, eyes blank. His vision swam with afterimages of his crew sailing off into the blue vastness, howling to their deaths.
"I want to live through this, even if you don't," she replied. "Now come on...show me how to get off this ship."
The Marine Sergeant shook his head, and nodded. "This way," he said, and together, the pair made their way across the blazing ship, towards what remained of the gliders.
The engines roared, the fires burned, and Mark knew the Seraphim was lost. His eyes swam with tears and rage, his hands covered in burns from last-ditch repairs and jets of steam. But even he knew a dying ship when he saw one, despite his most ferverent hopes. Calling to the surviving men around him, he tossed aside his tools and yelled over the din of the stricken vessel.
"She's gone, boys. She was a fine vessel, a proud one too, but we've got to get out of here before she blows and takes us all to heaven with her. Make for the gliders, and be quick about it!"
Turning to run, Mark heard a scream behind him. Trapped by the flames, a burning beam over his head, the young engine rat was cowering with terror. Licking his lips with caution, the chief engineer got down onto his belly, and stretched his arm out under the fire and the beam.
"Grab my hand, boy! Grab it and I'll get you out!"
Cowering, mind gone with fear, the boy shook his head and didn't move.
Mark growled, and inched closer. "Grab it boy! The ceiling's coming down!"
And then, with an ominous groan, the ceiling did come down. The beam dropped right onto Mark's arm, instantly severing it at the elbow, scalding the flesh for a foot in each direction. The boy disappeared in a gout of fire and shrieking metal.
By the time the other engineers had tied a belt around his thrashing stump, Mark had thankfully dropped into sweet unconsciousness. Glancing at one another nervously, the remaining pair of engineers lifted their chief onto their shoulders, and made their way to the upstairs ladder.
Merciless, pitiless, the Exodus poured shot after shot into the doomed Follingsworth vessel. As the airship finally began to break apart, the raiders returned to the their parent vessel, claiming no slaves, no spoils, only blood and burns and evil grins. So it was that many missed the small knot of people massing underneath the crow's nest of the Seraphim, converging around the Major of the once-proud airship.
Tristain leaned close against the young woman, watching as the raiders pulled their ship away, boarding ropes snapping and ramps snaking back inside the Exodus. Shirttails flapping in the wind, she looked impassivley at the departing ship for only a moment before elbowing the Marine Sergeant in the ribs. "Come on, help me with this stuff. There has to be a working one here somewhere."
Gesturing at the pile of shredded gliders, she set him down against the deck and began digging through the pile. Tristain watched, coldly, before pulling a bent cigarette from his coat pocket and lighting it from a stick of burning airship. She paused, mouth agape.
"Do you want to die?" she asked, eyes wide.
"Yes," he said, and drew in a deep lungful of smoke.
"All in due course, brother," came a deep voice from the smoke and ash. Striding through the smoke, entirely untouched, came Reginald, sword in one hand and a stern expression in his eyes. "We'll go down with the Seraphim, as is our duty." The Major's tone softened, and he looked over the pair of them.
"Did the boarding action fail? Where are the Boarders?" he asked, quietly, as a rope snapped overhead.
"I killed them all," his brother replied, and, smoking furiously, would say no more.
"An accident, I'm sure," Reginald replied briskly, putting a hand on his youngest brother's shoulder. "Now come on. To your feet. The least we can do is die like Follingsworths."
Their eyes met, and both managed a smile, even as the ship ploughed through the clouds. With a final break in the banks, the ground appeared underneath the falling craft, brown and green and all too close. The young woman took one look over the side and returned to the scrap pile, digging furiously.
"Let me help you with that," came a soft voice, and Mark stumbled his way up the ladder, dragging a very dead man behind him. Carefully setting the engineer's body down on the deck, his stump leaking blood, the pale Follingsworth made his way over to his brothers. Trembling with blood loss, he gave a stiff salute. Eyes wide, Reginald and Tristain returned it. That done, Mark sank down to the deck, and sat there, swaying slightly, before pointing towards the wrecked gliders.
"That main spar there...no, that one...yes...now tie it to the one in your hand. There...good...now find some more canvas..." he began, calling out instructions as his eyes fluttered wildly, the young woman scrambling to follow them.
"What are you doing?" Reginald asked, hands clasped behind his back, looking towards the bow. "We'll never make it. Besides which, a captain has to go down with his ship."
Tristain got to his feet, unsteadily, and moved to help the young woman, holding together two thick spars of metal while she wound canvas around them. Reginald eyed him, too.
"What are you doing, then?" he asked, watching the pair work.
"I'm a Marine Sergeant, and Mark's Chief Engineer...and she's a civilian, Reginald, and we aren't dying with the Seraphim. I...if I can get them off this ship, I'll...I don't know. I want to help." Tristain eyed the Major. "And you're a Major, not a captain, so you can't die either." He paused. "Besides which...I want the captain of that ship, that...Exodus...at my feet, begging for mercy." The Marine Sergeant smiled grimly as he saw rage pass through Reginald's eyes. With a nod, Reginald moved to support Mark on one arm, while Tristain and the nameless woman carried the makeshift glider to the edge of the descending ship. Wind howling around them, and the flames drawing ever closer, Tristain offered a final glance over his shoulder to the Seraphim.
"Left some good brandy in my cabin," he yelled over to Reginald. Mark gripped the spar of the glider in one arm and laughed as the air almost took them into the sky.
"That was you?" Reginald yelled back. He glowered over to the grinning Tristain. "When we get home, we're going to have words!"
"Enough, both of you!" the woman screamed, and with a final push, the overburdened glider dropped away from the airship, corkscrewing wildly towards the ground.
"Goodbye, Seraphim," Mark whispered.
The ground spun to meet them, terrifyingly swift, and then they all knew naught but blackness.
Reginald awoke to the smell of antiseptic and the glare of a stern looking colonel.
Blinking, he looked around him. His whole body hurt, but it was with a proud heart that he met the gaze of the dourful soldier. Another blink. He was in a hospital, it looked like.
"Yes?" Reginald asked, throat dry, eyes parched.
"You are Major Reginald, of the Seraphim?" droned the colonel.
"I am. Or, I was. She was-"
"Yes, lost with all hands. Or...almost all hands, I should say." The colonel eyed Reginald disdainfully, as a man might eye an intrusive insect.
Coughing once into his fist, the colonel added, "Your command is in question, and your rank...on probation, at best. Once you've healed, there will be a court martial. Though frankly, if I were you, sir, I would make sure I never healed enough to leave that bed again." The man frowned, deeply and earnestly. "Disgraceful. You'll be lucky if you aren't hanged."
Reginald frowned back at the colonel, enough so that the man backed away from his sickbed. "Is that all, colonel?" the Major asked, venom in his tone.
"Ah...yes."
"Yes sir, I believe, colonel."
"Of course sir. Yes, sir."
"Good. Get out of my sight."
But as the colonel scurried off, all Reginald could think was, Well...damn.
Mark awoke, blinking, arm numb. He tried to move, and found he couldn't. Someone had strapped him to a table. Casting his gaze around the room, his first thought was, I've died and gone to some sort of machine shop in the sky. Worse fates, I guess.
A few minutes passed, and a short, balding man came into the room. He was carrying a bag over one arm, and a spanner in the other. He eyed Mark nervously.
"Hey," Mark managed, eventually.
"Hey," said the balding man, smiling shyly.
"My arm's gone, isn't it?" Mark asked, bluntly, and sighed as the little man nodded.
"Going to be hard to work the engines now..." the chief engineer sighed.
"Well...we have a...we have an idea..." the balding man stammered, nodding to the bag. "Brought a replacement arm. Metal...good dexterity. Courtesy of the Navy. We can, ah, attach it..."
Mark eyed the bag curiously, any pain temporarily forgotten. "A metal arm...may I see?"
Fumbling with the bag, the little man produced a shining metal arm. Through the haze of the drugs, Mark smiled. "It's almost perfect."
"Almost?" the other man stammered.
"Almost," Mark repeated, and smiled deeper. "But it could be better. Bring me a number fifteen spanner, and some brass size-16 screws...oh, and a tamping hammer. And one more thing," he added as the balding man made to pull the tools from the walls.
"Yes?"
"Bring me metal from the Seraphim."
Sometime later, he awoke. His vision wasn't quite right. One eye seemed normal, but there was something wrong with the other one.
"Ah, you're awake," said a voice. He couldn't see who it was.
"Yes," he croaked. "Did you...was there...my brothers? And was...was there a girl?"
"Your brothers are recovering elsewhere in the ward. But a woman? Yes, she brought you all here. You're lucky to be alive. If it wasn't for her..."
"...her name? Did you get her name?"
"Her name? No, she didn't leave one...I'm sorry, sir...now...about your eye...we've manufactured a prosthetic one for everyday use..."
Tristain decided he just wasn't interested anymore, and dropped back into blackness. One last thought nagged at him, though.
Wish I'd gotten her name.
Major Reginald Follingsworth looked over his desk, at the endless sea of paperwork, and frowned. "Delegate, delegate," his old schoolmasters had always said when the subject of command was broached; but Reginald had never been very good at such things. He much preferred taking command of the situation, big or small, even lowly tasks such as keeping his desk clean. Steel-blue eyes locked onto a speck of dust resting on his otherwise immaculate uniform. With one white-gloved hand he brushed it away into oblivion, and with the other he squeezed his tired eyes shut. Another one of his headaches was building. As far as he was concerned, life was easier when you had a gun in one hand and the wheel in the other. Still, needs must, and a family as noble and wealthy as his always had paperwork to see too. He could have hired a page or appointed one of his brothers to handle such things, but then the reports might be misfiled, or lost, or forgotten about, and then where would he be? Without discipline, he supposed, and a ship without discipline was a ship doomed to die.
By all the spirits of the air, the Major would have discipline.
Frown lessening somewhat from the deciscive thought, Reignald lifted another sheet of yellowed paper from the endless morass. His eyes squinted behind his glasses.
"Red?" he said, glancing over to the door. "Are these weather reports correct? How long have we been heading towards this cloud formation?"
Looming out of the shadowy recesses of the room, his whip-thin manservant faded into view. Skinny as the day was long, and clad in a spotless dress uniform, his first mate was tireless, reliable, and loyal to a fault. As far as Reginald was concerned, no better first mate existed in all the skies. Red had yet to ever fail him.
"About three and a half hours, sir," the servant responded, flipping open the brass face of his wristwatch. "Three hours thirty-two minutes, to be exact. Shall I order helm to change course?"
Reginald frown darkened and he shook his head. "We have a schedule to keep, and new property to inspect. We shall not be late. The Seraphim has never been late, if I recall correctly?" he added meaningfully, eyes glancing up to the ceiling of his cabin. She was a fine ship, the best in the entire Meridian Navy, if he was any judge, and her black oak walls and thick steel frame had never failed him, either. That his family was allowed to use her as an impromptu trading vessel from time to time did not in any way affect her reputation for timeliness.
"No sir, she has never been late. Not as long as you have commanded her." Red closed his watchface with a quick flip of his wrist and nodded respectfully. Clasping his hands behind his back, the first mate added, "She's a fine mining colony, sir, if I do say so myself; I spent some time there in my youth, guarding the ore runners."
Reginald nodded back, eyes flickering over the endless reports and personnel logs. "Good. The family stands to make a great deal of money if we play this right. I think we can risk a few cloudbanks on our way. Besides, a man would have to be barking to think of getting in our way." Setting his glasses down carefully, the Major got to his feet, mahogany armchair gently scraping across the floor. Straightening his uniform and brushing away nonexistent dust from the lapels, he turned around to look out the rear windows of the cabin.
The sight never failed to stir his heart; the sun draped lovingly over the endless clouds, the pale blue sky stretching from horizon to horizon. He closed his eyes, and imagined how the Seraphim looked from the crow's nest, all pale blues and darker aquamarine against the pale white of the cloudbanks. Dotted with razor precision along the sides stood his gliders, dark purple, gold trimmed, made of the finest Follingsworth steel and canvas. Lower still, the oaken base of the aircraft, stained thick and perfectly even against the sky, she rode the endless airways like an angel across the heavens. Today, her hold was heavy with the steel ingots his family was famous for, headed for an outlying Meridian colony. There, the steel would be traded for the mine itself, and all the people working there would be set for life. His family's holdings would grow by another rank, and they would all be much wealthier for the work. The Seraphim's crew, all hundred men and women, would be paid handsomley for their efforts, and everyone would be a bit happier with life.
Reginald's hands clasped tightly behind his back. But for now, he reasoned, opening his eyes, there was paperwork to attend to. And an ocean more waiting for when they returned to the city as well. At least there, he mused, there was a chance of some good brandy. Whomever had failed to remember to stock his pantry with the stuff would be held accountable. Reginald sat down at the desk again, and selected a paper at random. Perhaps the man responsible would be held to some sort of punishment. Walking the plank, yes, that should do it.
The Major's frown intensified. "Red?" he asked carefully, already dreading the answer. "Who was responsible for the maintenece crew's reports for deck C?"
Red likewise frowned, almost imperceptibly. "That would be your brother Tristain, sir."
Reginald sighed. "And where, do you suppose, is Tristain? Not out on Deck C, doing his job, eh?"
The manservant shook his head, and said nothing, while the captain of the Seraphim picked up a speaking tube, and prepared to unleash hell upon his brother.
"Did you hear something?" the young woman asked, looking up from her ministrations for a moment, blonde curls bouncing.
"Mmm, no, I'm quite sure it was nothing," the young man answered, booted foot kicking over the speaking tube. Over his heartbeat and the rush of air through the open windows, he could faintly hear his brother raving on about something or other. Tristain mused to himself, idly. It was probably something he had done wrong again.
"Oh. Well then. Where was I?" she replied, repositioning herself in his lap primly. Tristain forgot entirely about his brother and indeed everything else except the young lady's whalebone corset and heaving bosom, which now occupied most of his view.
"Right where you're most comfortable, I hope?" he asked, grinning slightly, hand gently stroking the back of her neck. He leaned forward for another long kiss, and she sighed contentedly.
"I could be more comfortable," she teased, smiling at him and tossing her hair back. He chuckled, green eyes flashing, one dark eyebrow raised inquiringly. She stood, dress unbunching itself, and wandered over to the dressing screen in the corner, as he sat on the edge of the bed and watched her shadowed form. The wind felt good over his bare skin. Even with his companion's alarmingly attractive presence, he found his gaze drawn to the endless cloudy expanse beyond the windowframe, the wood and steel body of the Seraphim gliding across the sky. The sight never failed to stir his heart, and for the ten thousandth time since he and his brothers had first set sail, Tristain found himself grateful beyond words that the spirits had landed him on board such a craft, in such a job. Marine Sergeant, head of the Boarders, paid ridiculously well and with great benefits as well. One benefit, he reflected, being a private cabin.
"It was a man who invented the whalebone corset, I'm sure of it," his new friend called from behind the screen, darkened form offering tantalizing hints of what lay beyond. "A hundred cords and all sharp edges. I'll be very glad to be rid of it."
Tristain grinned to himself, eyes flashing in the setting sun. "And I as well...and I as well. Say...what'd you say your name was?" he asked, hands moving to undo the laces on his boots.
A giggle emenated from behind the dressing screen, and there was a thud as the corset hit the floor. "Oh, best we don't use names, isn't it? We don't want anyone talking once we reach landfall..." She peeked her head out from behind the screen, and offered a demure pout. "Can you help me get these lacings undone? It'll be simply ages before I can manage myself..."
Tristain chuckled, good and loud, and got to his feet. "Be my pleasure, my lady," he grinned.
Down in the engine room, covered in oil and dirt, the air at least a hundred degrees and surrounded by the roar of the steam engines, Mark had never been happier.
Of course, he was always happy in the engine room, and he was almost always there, so he was often happy. The fact that he was the second eldest brother of the Follingsworth family didn't enter his head much. Nothing asides from the care and keeping of the Seraphim entered his head much. It was much the same today, as with any other day. Grinning to himself, he gripped the spanner tightly with both hands and hauled on the lugnut for all he was worth. He and the other engineers had heard the ship's second boiler complaining lately, and they had taken it upon themselves to relieve some of her pains.
"Grab the size fifteen wrench, there's a good lad," Mark called to the youngest of the bunch, a lad named Mite, only fifteen and barely enlisted. The youth, all oily skin and engine burns, nodded eagerly and dashed off to find the errant tool. "And don't bring back any balloon polish neither!" called another engine rat, as the lot of them laughed uproariously at the ancient joke. Seven of them stood at specific valves, or hung like apes among the upper pipes, watching the head engineer teach the youth his trade. Mostly, the airship ran itself, with only a little tending by the tribe of engineers, but when things went wrong or the Seraphim needed to change course quickly, that was when they earned their hazard pay. And to survive long enough to earn that pay, the engines were tended with almost fanatical devotion.
The boy scampered back, gasping from the run and the oppressive heat, carrying the small wrench in one hand. His brown eyes looked up at Mark, ready for the next step.
"All right," Mark called, and pointed. "Grip the wrench around that lugnut, and pull for all you're worth!"
With a long tug and the hiss of superheated air, the boiler gave a final belch of relieved pressure, sending the boy sprawling to the deck. Mark and the engineers cheered, one stooping to help the beaming engine rat to his feet. The celebration was lost in the din of the engines, so none of them heard the sound of rotors drawing ever closer, or the screams of the bridge crew four floors above.
"Unidentified craft closing on the stern, six knots, flying the black flag," yelled the bridge lookout. Reginald deftly lifted the speaking horn from its holder, all thoughts of paperwork and idiot family temporarily forgotten. He turned to look out the rear window, his manservant appearing at his side, and it was to his credit that his jaw dropped just an inch.
The approaching craft was enormous, easily four times the size of the Seraphim, a dark conglomeration of patchwork armor plating and blood-red wood. Three massive, patched balloons held the malevolent thing aloft, and even at this distance, Reginald could see its crew covering the warship's deck. They stood, silent and still, like clockwork soldiers, all armed, all watching the Seraphim impassivley, as the distance between the two vessels rapidly shortened.
Sniffing disdainfully, Reginald's eyes narrowed. Nobody attacked the Seraphim. Nobody kept Reginald from his appointed task. No one, he mused, was quite that suicidal. These pirates would be driven off, swiftly, and then they would be on their way. He had never lost a battle, from skirmishes to the entirety of the Clover Wars out on the Eastern Reach. This fight would be no different.
The Major lifted the horn to his lips, and spoke.
"This is the Major. All hand to battle stations. The Wretched Exodus is on our stern and closing fast. Engine room, full speed, if you would. Everyone else, stand by to repel boarders."
Even as he spoke, the Exodus let loose a terrible blast of its horns, the sound reverberating in the soul of every man and woman aboard the Seraphim, a sound dread and low and evil. As the noise died away, it was replaced with screaming, the yells of a thousand throats, as the crew of the pirate vessel, to a man, screamed their battle cries.
At the sound, Reginald strode to the rear windows, and closed them tight. As an afterthought, he latched them shut as well. That small task done, he turned to his manservant. "Fetch my pistols and my sabre, First Mate." His eyes found his longtime friends'. "Best arm yourself as well, Red."
The first mate snapped his boots together, and saluted.
"This is the Major. All hand to battle stations. The Wretched Exodus is on our stern and closing fast. Engine room, full speed, if you would. Everyone else, stand by to repel boarders."
Tristain stood, wind whipping around the room as the enemy ship filled the windows. He frowned tightly, and took a seat on the bed. Eyes wide with concern, the young lady pulled the sheets up across her chest. "Who are they? What do they want?" she asked, blue eyes bright with fear.
The Marine Sergeant pulled his breeches up and began to fasten them with deft, swift movements. "It's a pirate ship. No one knows where it docks, or where it goes when it's done with it's bloody work. It destroys airships, big and small, seemingly without rhyme or reason." One boot came on, then the other, as he spoke. "Sixty guns a side at least, speed's better than ours, and a crew of over one thousand. Savages, almost never leave survivors. Don't take plunder, don't take slaves, don't take gold. Captained by a woman in red. They say she's wreathed in flames and blood, and that bullets can't stop her." He stood, no longer an aristocrat dallying with one of the travelers, but a man of war and steel. "Help me with my coat, please."
Throwing aside the sheet, she helped him pull on a thick leather shirt, then his long black coat. As he made to step away, she clutched him close to her, the klaxon sounding across the ship. "What can we do? We can outrun them, can't we?"
Tristain buckled his belt, eyed the oncoming craft, and said nothing. Trembling, but back straight with purpose, the young woman made to get dressed.
"This is the Major. All hand to battle stations. The Wretched Exodus is on our stern and closing fast. Engine room, full speed, if you would. Everyone else, stand by to repel boarders."
Mark and the other engineers stared in horror at the speaking tube as the orders came through. As the others turned to gabble at one another, disbelieving, terrified, Mark clambered to the top of the boiler, put his fingers to his teeth, and whistled. The noise pierced the din, and every man stopped to stare at him.
"All right!" he roared, eyes ablaze, hair wild with heat and sweat. "All the steam you can manage, boys! Stand by to relieve pressure, and wait for the Major's orders! We can outrun this beast, if we all put our backs into it! Now...more steam, more power! Burn the air with our passing!" And he roared, again, long and loud, the Seraphim's boilers grunting and gurgling in agreement. The engineers cheered, darker this time, and bent to fill the boilers. With a howl of pain and renewed pressure, the Seraphim sped onwards through the clouds.
The first volley of cannonshot was thick. It plowed through the escape gliders, the purple and golden frames tumbling from the sky like broken butterflies. The second volley shredded one of the Seraphim's twin balloons, and sparked a fire on deck B; none of the passengers survived. By the time the Seraphim began to lose altitude, the Exodus was alongside her, the boarding ropes flew, and the enemy crew came howling, spitting and screaming for blood.
In the span of half a minute, the jewel of the Follingsworth fleet was stricken and burning, swarming with enemy raiders, and clearly doomed. But the Exodus had never tangled with the Follingsworths, and as far as every man and woman aboard was concerned, they weren't out of the fight yet.
Tristain primed his pistols, and checked the brace across his chest. Satisfied that each loaded weapon spelled at least one soul gone to the afterlife, he paused to look over his Boarders. A dozen of the meanest, nastiest men and women money could buy, all armed to the teeth. Tristain couldn't be more proud. To their credit, all smiled as he looked them over, offering a cheerful wave or a nod of the head. To them, the butchery ahead was their time to shine, their time to show the Follingsworth family why they kept them around. Even if they were about to lock horns with one of the most feared corsairs in the world, to them, there was no better way to die. The Exodus would know it had tangled with the Seraphim, and the Boarders, and Tristain.
Satisfied, Tristain Follingsworth drew one of his many guns in one hand, and clenched a thick hatchet in the other.
"Deck C boarding ramp...down! For the Seraphim! For the Major!"
With an almighty crash, the ramp fell from the side of the airship, smashing against the hull of the pirate's vessel. Roaring, swearing, eyes red with bloodlust, the Boarders swarmed across the ramp, a two-mile drop below them, bodies tiny against the sky...
...and with a sickening lurch, and the sound of tearing metal, the ramp fell away into nothingness, carrying the Boarders out into open sky. Flailing, screaming, each man and woman scrabbling for purchase that would never come, the entirety of the Seraphim's marines disappeared. The last to fall, Tristain made a final leap back towards the Seraphim's hull, fingernails searching desperatly for a handhold. And before blackness claimed him, his last thought was, Deck C...who was in charge of checking the ramp, anyway? Oh...damn.
Swearing and cursing, drooling black blood from their hissing lips, the enemy raiders made their way to the engine room. One hulking brute of a man wrenched a pipe off the wall; the steam scalded his bare flesh, but the giant didn't seem to mind. Making his way forward into the gloom, engines roaring in fury as the vessel died above them, it was impossible to hear the man sneak up behind him.
The wrench whistled through the air; the giant's back snapped at the impact. Roaring, the corsair turned to face his attacker, arms twisting in impotent, pained rage.
Mark put another blow into the giant's face, and another for good measure. Kicking the corpse to the floor, the chief engineer turned and stood in the doorway, bloody wrench cradled in his arms.
"Get out of my engine room," he growled, eyes bright as the vessel burned around him.
There wasn't much resistance that the Seraphim could offer. Not after the relentless broadsides, or the foolish loss of their marines, or the unchecked fires which raged throughout the ship. So it wasn't very long before a group found their way to the Major's cabin, broke down the door, and made their way inside.
They were met with a volley of pistol fire, Red roaring a Follingsworth battlecry, loosing shot after shot at anyone who showed themselves inside the doorway. Wood splintered and blood spattered the walls; the raiders fell over each other to get out of the way. But eventually the first mate ran out of pistols, and after a few seconds of fumbling with a powderhorn, a lucky round entered his throat and exited into the wall behind him. Pitching forward, eyes defiant to the last moment, the first mate of the Seraphim died with hate in his eyes. Cautiously, picking their way through the smoke, the remaining attackers made their way deeper into the room.
A pistol barked from the back of the cabin; one raider flew backwards, disappearing into the dark. Discipline, thought Reginald as he lifted a second gun. This round sent another pirate screaming into oblivion. These men lack discipline. Howling, a third man leapt forward, hatchet in each hand; Reginald's thrown pistol smashed his nose to a pulp. Impassionatley, the Major drew his sabre and beheaded the howling man. Backing away, thinking better of entering this room at all, the remaining half dozen fingered their blades and watched the Major.
Cut, hack. One pirate fell away, dead before he could blink. Savages. A second flurry of blows; this man had time to scream before the end. They dare attack my ship...my Seraphim...my angel. The third man he pummeled to death with his fist, immaculate white gloves spackled with blood. The remaining men tried to run, bunching up in the doorway. Their backs turned, Reginald took his time with them, tears coursing down his cheeks. His mind swam from one thought to another. My crew...Red, my friend...all gone...and now we're going to be late...oh, my poor brothers...
Looking down at the dead men at his feet, Reginald paused, sword crimson in the sunset behind him.
My brothers.
Pausing to gently close Red's eyes, the Major made his way to the speaking horn. As the vessel rocked around him and the cannons thundered, he spoke into the tube:
"This is the Major. All hands, abandon ship. Make no attempts to save the vessel. Good luck. It has been an honor serving with you."
Tristain awoke to a massive headache, and the sound of roaring flames. He also found he couldn't move very well; something was holding his arms in place.
Where was he? He tried to remember. There had been a girl...and then a pirate ship? Oh...oh yes.
He had screwed up worse than ever before. It was unforgivable.
After he stopped crying about it, and the shuddering jerks of his sobbing ceased to wrack his frame, he opened his eyes.
His vision swam a bit, but he seemed to be hanging off the side of the Seraphim. His big black coat had caught on a rent piece of metal. Lucky, he thought.
Black luck, to survive that.
With that, he blacked out again.
Some time later, he awoke to an insistent tugging.
Craning his neck, wincing with the effort, he looked above him. The girl was pulling at his coat. She had changed into some of his clothes, he noticed. How uncouth.
"Come on!" she yelled, ducking as bullets whined overhead. Raiders on the other ship had her in their sights now. Growling, the young woman hauled him up by his coat, casting a malevolent glance over to the enemy vessel.
Numb with pain, Tristain collapsed into her arms. She pulled him to his feet, and snatched a pistol from his belt.
"Where are the escape gliders?" she barked, as another round slammed into the deck. Tristain shook his head.
"What does it matter?" he replied, eyes blank. His vision swam with afterimages of his crew sailing off into the blue vastness, howling to their deaths.
"I want to live through this, even if you don't," she replied. "Now come on...show me how to get off this ship."
The Marine Sergeant shook his head, and nodded. "This way," he said, and together, the pair made their way across the blazing ship, towards what remained of the gliders.
The engines roared, the fires burned, and Mark knew the Seraphim was lost. His eyes swam with tears and rage, his hands covered in burns from last-ditch repairs and jets of steam. But even he knew a dying ship when he saw one, despite his most ferverent hopes. Calling to the surviving men around him, he tossed aside his tools and yelled over the din of the stricken vessel.
"She's gone, boys. She was a fine vessel, a proud one too, but we've got to get out of here before she blows and takes us all to heaven with her. Make for the gliders, and be quick about it!"
Turning to run, Mark heard a scream behind him. Trapped by the flames, a burning beam over his head, the young engine rat was cowering with terror. Licking his lips with caution, the chief engineer got down onto his belly, and stretched his arm out under the fire and the beam.
"Grab my hand, boy! Grab it and I'll get you out!"
Cowering, mind gone with fear, the boy shook his head and didn't move.
Mark growled, and inched closer. "Grab it boy! The ceiling's coming down!"
And then, with an ominous groan, the ceiling did come down. The beam dropped right onto Mark's arm, instantly severing it at the elbow, scalding the flesh for a foot in each direction. The boy disappeared in a gout of fire and shrieking metal.
By the time the other engineers had tied a belt around his thrashing stump, Mark had thankfully dropped into sweet unconsciousness. Glancing at one another nervously, the remaining pair of engineers lifted their chief onto their shoulders, and made their way to the upstairs ladder.
Merciless, pitiless, the Exodus poured shot after shot into the doomed Follingsworth vessel. As the airship finally began to break apart, the raiders returned to the their parent vessel, claiming no slaves, no spoils, only blood and burns and evil grins. So it was that many missed the small knot of people massing underneath the crow's nest of the Seraphim, converging around the Major of the once-proud airship.
Tristain leaned close against the young woman, watching as the raiders pulled their ship away, boarding ropes snapping and ramps snaking back inside the Exodus. Shirttails flapping in the wind, she looked impassivley at the departing ship for only a moment before elbowing the Marine Sergeant in the ribs. "Come on, help me with this stuff. There has to be a working one here somewhere."
Gesturing at the pile of shredded gliders, she set him down against the deck and began digging through the pile. Tristain watched, coldly, before pulling a bent cigarette from his coat pocket and lighting it from a stick of burning airship. She paused, mouth agape.
"Do you want to die?" she asked, eyes wide.
"Yes," he said, and drew in a deep lungful of smoke.
"All in due course, brother," came a deep voice from the smoke and ash. Striding through the smoke, entirely untouched, came Reginald, sword in one hand and a stern expression in his eyes. "We'll go down with the Seraphim, as is our duty." The Major's tone softened, and he looked over the pair of them.
"Did the boarding action fail? Where are the Boarders?" he asked, quietly, as a rope snapped overhead.
"I killed them all," his brother replied, and, smoking furiously, would say no more.
"An accident, I'm sure," Reginald replied briskly, putting a hand on his youngest brother's shoulder. "Now come on. To your feet. The least we can do is die like Follingsworths."
Their eyes met, and both managed a smile, even as the ship ploughed through the clouds. With a final break in the banks, the ground appeared underneath the falling craft, brown and green and all too close. The young woman took one look over the side and returned to the scrap pile, digging furiously.
"Let me help you with that," came a soft voice, and Mark stumbled his way up the ladder, dragging a very dead man behind him. Carefully setting the engineer's body down on the deck, his stump leaking blood, the pale Follingsworth made his way over to his brothers. Trembling with blood loss, he gave a stiff salute. Eyes wide, Reginald and Tristain returned it. That done, Mark sank down to the deck, and sat there, swaying slightly, before pointing towards the wrecked gliders.
"That main spar there...no, that one...yes...now tie it to the one in your hand. There...good...now find some more canvas..." he began, calling out instructions as his eyes fluttered wildly, the young woman scrambling to follow them.
"What are you doing?" Reginald asked, hands clasped behind his back, looking towards the bow. "We'll never make it. Besides which, a captain has to go down with his ship."
Tristain got to his feet, unsteadily, and moved to help the young woman, holding together two thick spars of metal while she wound canvas around them. Reginald eyed him, too.
"What are you doing, then?" he asked, watching the pair work.
"I'm a Marine Sergeant, and Mark's Chief Engineer...and she's a civilian, Reginald, and we aren't dying with the Seraphim. I...if I can get them off this ship, I'll...I don't know. I want to help." Tristain eyed the Major. "And you're a Major, not a captain, so you can't die either." He paused. "Besides which...I want the captain of that ship, that...Exodus...at my feet, begging for mercy." The Marine Sergeant smiled grimly as he saw rage pass through Reginald's eyes. With a nod, Reginald moved to support Mark on one arm, while Tristain and the nameless woman carried the makeshift glider to the edge of the descending ship. Wind howling around them, and the flames drawing ever closer, Tristain offered a final glance over his shoulder to the Seraphim.
"Left some good brandy in my cabin," he yelled over to Reginald. Mark gripped the spar of the glider in one arm and laughed as the air almost took them into the sky.
"That was you?" Reginald yelled back. He glowered over to the grinning Tristain. "When we get home, we're going to have words!"
"Enough, both of you!" the woman screamed, and with a final push, the overburdened glider dropped away from the airship, corkscrewing wildly towards the ground.
"Goodbye, Seraphim," Mark whispered.
The ground spun to meet them, terrifyingly swift, and then they all knew naught but blackness.
Reginald awoke to the smell of antiseptic and the glare of a stern looking colonel.
Blinking, he looked around him. His whole body hurt, but it was with a proud heart that he met the gaze of the dourful soldier. Another blink. He was in a hospital, it looked like.
"Yes?" Reginald asked, throat dry, eyes parched.
"You are Major Reginald, of the Seraphim?" droned the colonel.
"I am. Or, I was. She was-"
"Yes, lost with all hands. Or...almost all hands, I should say." The colonel eyed Reginald disdainfully, as a man might eye an intrusive insect.
Coughing once into his fist, the colonel added, "Your command is in question, and your rank...on probation, at best. Once you've healed, there will be a court martial. Though frankly, if I were you, sir, I would make sure I never healed enough to leave that bed again." The man frowned, deeply and earnestly. "Disgraceful. You'll be lucky if you aren't hanged."
Reginald frowned back at the colonel, enough so that the man backed away from his sickbed. "Is that all, colonel?" the Major asked, venom in his tone.
"Ah...yes."
"Yes sir, I believe, colonel."
"Of course sir. Yes, sir."
"Good. Get out of my sight."
But as the colonel scurried off, all Reginald could think was, Well...damn.
Mark awoke, blinking, arm numb. He tried to move, and found he couldn't. Someone had strapped him to a table. Casting his gaze around the room, his first thought was, I've died and gone to some sort of machine shop in the sky. Worse fates, I guess.
A few minutes passed, and a short, balding man came into the room. He was carrying a bag over one arm, and a spanner in the other. He eyed Mark nervously.
"Hey," Mark managed, eventually.
"Hey," said the balding man, smiling shyly.
"My arm's gone, isn't it?" Mark asked, bluntly, and sighed as the little man nodded.
"Going to be hard to work the engines now..." the chief engineer sighed.
"Well...we have a...we have an idea..." the balding man stammered, nodding to the bag. "Brought a replacement arm. Metal...good dexterity. Courtesy of the Navy. We can, ah, attach it..."
Mark eyed the bag curiously, any pain temporarily forgotten. "A metal arm...may I see?"
Fumbling with the bag, the little man produced a shining metal arm. Through the haze of the drugs, Mark smiled. "It's almost perfect."
"Almost?" the other man stammered.
"Almost," Mark repeated, and smiled deeper. "But it could be better. Bring me a number fifteen spanner, and some brass size-16 screws...oh, and a tamping hammer. And one more thing," he added as the balding man made to pull the tools from the walls.
"Yes?"
"Bring me metal from the Seraphim."
Sometime later, he awoke. His vision wasn't quite right. One eye seemed normal, but there was something wrong with the other one.
"Ah, you're awake," said a voice. He couldn't see who it was.
"Yes," he croaked. "Did you...was there...my brothers? And was...was there a girl?"
"Your brothers are recovering elsewhere in the ward. But a woman? Yes, she brought you all here. You're lucky to be alive. If it wasn't for her..."
"...her name? Did you get her name?"
"Her name? No, she didn't leave one...I'm sorry, sir...now...about your eye...we've manufactured a prosthetic one for everyday use..."
Tristain decided he just wasn't interested anymore, and dropped back into blackness. One last thought nagged at him, though.
Wish I'd gotten her name.