Fic: Flyboys, Part Twenty Six
bless,” the corporal muttered, half to himself. He raised his rifle to fire at the figures, still about thirty arms away. He was still fumbling with the rifle’s safety when a narrow beam of light emerged from the pistol in the hand of one of the creatures. It struck the corporal in the chest and he dropped to the deck like a puppet with its string cut, eyes wide open in surprise.
Professor Swiftfoot let out a yell, then grabbed a photoplate box, tossing it to Rolas. “Milord! We can’t let them destroy…!” Another beam of light lanced out, dropping her to the deck as well.
Rolas snatched the plate out of the air, then dived through the hatch down into the passenger hull, feeling the fur on the back of his neck tingle as a beam grazed him. He dogged the hatch and ran down the passageway, trying to figure out where to go. The photoplate in his hands was the only clear picture they had of the Visitor. It might prove have information vital to every vulpine’s future. But that would mean nothing if he couldn’t figure out a way off the Queen of the Skies and to safety.
There was a loud explosion and shouting behind him in a language he couldn’t understand. He ran down a cross corridor, skidding to a halt in front of hatch marked STARBORD ENVELOPE - CREW ADMITTANCE ONLY. It was unlocked, there being no passengers aboard. He slipped through, dogging the hatch again, running as quickly as he dared along the aluminum catwalk hung between the gigantic aluminized rubber gas cells. Built for the engineering crew, it was narrow, with only a fingerwidth cable on either side to serve as a railing and a mount for safety lines. Falling in this area could be deadly. More than one airship rigger had lost her life dropping from a catwalk and literally punching a hole through the canvas envelope with her body.
Rolas clambered up a ladder, the precious photoplate cradled under one arm. Below he could hear someone shouting for help, followed by the sounds of more of that horrible beam firing. He let out a gasp as his toes missed a rung in the ladder, slipping down two rungs and nearly dropping the plate before gaining a toe hold again. Then he was finally at the upper tier of the catwalks, right underneath the dorsal support rib.
Vulpine, cease resistance and submit to the Dominion and the Wise Master’s will, a voice called out from somewhere below.
“Thanks, but no,” he muttered into his mask. At the end of the catwalk he found what he was seeking, a large locker filled parachutes, all neatly packed and waiting for crews that were stuck with the rare job of repairing the envelopes or engines in mid-flight. Rolas had never worn before in his life, weight restrictions of the little aeroplanes he’d flown being too tight to allow for such luxuries. Still, it was just a backpack with a big piece of cloth in it. How hard could it be to use?
He set the photoplate down on the catwalk and grabbed one of the parachute, starting a hurried examination of the myriad of harness straps it seemed to have. Two for the legs, two for the shoulders, one across his hips, never mind having to work around the mask on his face and the oxygen bottle hanging from his belt. Too damned many to fiddle with, he thought, trying to hurry as he heard someone climbing up the ladder below. Finally he got the damned thing on, picked up the plate and started running towards the nose of the envelope. Another beam of light crossed in front of him, leaving a whistling hole in one of the gasbags.
He stopped at another hatch, this mounted on the top of the envelope. Leaning his shoulder against it, he forced the hatch open again the flow of the wind as the Queen trundled onward through the skies. Rolas let out a yelp as he climbed out onto the envelope and the hatch slammed shut on his tail.
Vulpine, the voice called out again from somewhere under the hatch, you are endangering yourself. Cease resistance and submit.
Well, at least they were considerate sky pirates. Rolas let out another yelp as he pulled his tail out from under the rim of the hatch. He still had the precious plate, now all he had to do was jump for it. Well, run and jump. It was a good twenty arms from this point on top of the envelope to the edge, and most of that was a steep slope. He started crawling on his hands and knees across the fabric, trying not to put too much weight on any one point for fear of stepping through. Ten arms and he could just let himself roll the rest of the way and pray he missed an engine nacelle on the way down.
“Vulpine, stop,” the voice shouted. Rolas risked a glance backward. It was another one of the grey skinned soldiers, perhaps even the one that had shot the corporal and Professor Swiftfoot. Halfway out of the watch, he had a pistol raised and pointed at Rolas. “Submit or I will fire!” The soldier’s face, Rolas noted with terror induced abstraction, was covered by a mask superficially like the one he wore, except made out of some clear material. It lacked any connection to an oxygen tank, which made him wonder if perhaps it gathered air and concentrated it somehow, to a level that made it useful at such altitudes.
“I’m very sorry,” Rolas called back cheerfully, “but my wife is expecting me downstairs.” He hugged the plate to his chest and started scrambling towards the edge of the envelope.
When the beam struck him, it didn’t instantly kill him as he thought it might. Instead he was paralyzed, his arms and legs folding underneath him as his entire body became a nerveless sack of cob stalks. The photoplate slipped out from under his arm and went sliding and bouncing over the envelope’s canvas, disappearing into the darkness below. He could breathe but do nothing else, not even close his eyes.
He heard the soldier mutter something in his own language behind him, possibly his race’s equivalent of “Bloody idiot.” Then he could feel the fabric of the envelope shudder underneath him, as the soldier climbed out to grab him. The soldier took hold of Rolas’ foot, still bound in its protective mitten. He pulled back and the mitten, the laces having come loose during Rolas’s attempt to escape, was pulled off his footpad. Then suddenly the soldier was shouting what likely a curse, as Rolas’ helpless body went sliding, then tumbling along the envelope, finally dropping out into open space.
Falling… falling… falling forever…
* * *
TRAGEDY IN THE SKIES!
The Queen of the Skies, the worlds largest passenger airship, which was three days overdue to return to its home port after a test flight, was confirmed lost today by officials of Trans Oceanic. The ocean freighter Jessiver’s Dance returned to port yesterday, reporting that it had seen a large airship, matching the Queen’s unique triple-hull configuration, falling from the skies on the night of the 4th, its envelopes in flames. The freighter immediately steamed towards the crash site to search for survivors, but only found wreckage and debris floating on the surface when it arrived two hours later. Trans Oceanic stated that a more organized search will begin immediately, but given the length of time since the crash and the violence of the landing, they admitted there was little hope of finding anyone alive.
The Queen of the Skies had a crew of seventy-five aboard, led by Captain Anala Lakewalker, one of the company’s most experienced airship captains, plus several Trans Oceanic engineers to observe her during her testing trials. Among other notables aboard was Lord Rolas Greycoat, co-inventor of the aeroplane along with his brother, the first heavier than air machine to fly. He was also a key designer of the airship’s internal combustion engines and was reportedly aboard to evaluate their operation. His brother, Lord Rulfen Greycoat, has stated that their family, including Lord Rolas’ wife Lady Bellander and her children, are in seclusion while they await reports from the searchers.
To be concluded
Professor Swiftfoot let out a yell, then grabbed a photoplate box, tossing it to Rolas. “Milord! We can’t let them destroy…!” Another beam of light lanced out, dropping her to the deck as well.
Rolas snatched the plate out of the air, then dived through the hatch down into the passenger hull, feeling the fur on the back of his neck tingle as a beam grazed him. He dogged the hatch and ran down the passageway, trying to figure out where to go. The photoplate in his hands was the only clear picture they had of the Visitor. It might prove have information vital to every vulpine’s future. But that would mean nothing if he couldn’t figure out a way off the Queen of the Skies and to safety.
There was a loud explosion and shouting behind him in a language he couldn’t understand. He ran down a cross corridor, skidding to a halt in front of hatch marked STARBORD ENVELOPE - CREW ADMITTANCE ONLY. It was unlocked, there being no passengers aboard. He slipped through, dogging the hatch again, running as quickly as he dared along the aluminum catwalk hung between the gigantic aluminized rubber gas cells. Built for the engineering crew, it was narrow, with only a fingerwidth cable on either side to serve as a railing and a mount for safety lines. Falling in this area could be deadly. More than one airship rigger had lost her life dropping from a catwalk and literally punching a hole through the canvas envelope with her body.
Rolas clambered up a ladder, the precious photoplate cradled under one arm. Below he could hear someone shouting for help, followed by the sounds of more of that horrible beam firing. He let out a gasp as his toes missed a rung in the ladder, slipping down two rungs and nearly dropping the plate before gaining a toe hold again. Then he was finally at the upper tier of the catwalks, right underneath the dorsal support rib.
Vulpine, cease resistance and submit to the Dominion and the Wise Master’s will, a voice called out from somewhere below.
“Thanks, but no,” he muttered into his mask. At the end of the catwalk he found what he was seeking, a large locker filled parachutes, all neatly packed and waiting for crews that were stuck with the rare job of repairing the envelopes or engines in mid-flight. Rolas had never worn before in his life, weight restrictions of the little aeroplanes he’d flown being too tight to allow for such luxuries. Still, it was just a backpack with a big piece of cloth in it. How hard could it be to use?
He set the photoplate down on the catwalk and grabbed one of the parachute, starting a hurried examination of the myriad of harness straps it seemed to have. Two for the legs, two for the shoulders, one across his hips, never mind having to work around the mask on his face and the oxygen bottle hanging from his belt. Too damned many to fiddle with, he thought, trying to hurry as he heard someone climbing up the ladder below. Finally he got the damned thing on, picked up the plate and started running towards the nose of the envelope. Another beam of light crossed in front of him, leaving a whistling hole in one of the gasbags.
He stopped at another hatch, this mounted on the top of the envelope. Leaning his shoulder against it, he forced the hatch open again the flow of the wind as the Queen trundled onward through the skies. Rolas let out a yelp as he climbed out onto the envelope and the hatch slammed shut on his tail.
Vulpine, the voice called out again from somewhere under the hatch, you are endangering yourself. Cease resistance and submit.
Well, at least they were considerate sky pirates. Rolas let out another yelp as he pulled his tail out from under the rim of the hatch. He still had the precious plate, now all he had to do was jump for it. Well, run and jump. It was a good twenty arms from this point on top of the envelope to the edge, and most of that was a steep slope. He started crawling on his hands and knees across the fabric, trying not to put too much weight on any one point for fear of stepping through. Ten arms and he could just let himself roll the rest of the way and pray he missed an engine nacelle on the way down.
“Vulpine, stop,” the voice shouted. Rolas risked a glance backward. It was another one of the grey skinned soldiers, perhaps even the one that had shot the corporal and Professor Swiftfoot. Halfway out of the watch, he had a pistol raised and pointed at Rolas. “Submit or I will fire!” The soldier’s face, Rolas noted with terror induced abstraction, was covered by a mask superficially like the one he wore, except made out of some clear material. It lacked any connection to an oxygen tank, which made him wonder if perhaps it gathered air and concentrated it somehow, to a level that made it useful at such altitudes.
“I’m very sorry,” Rolas called back cheerfully, “but my wife is expecting me downstairs.” He hugged the plate to his chest and started scrambling towards the edge of the envelope.
When the beam struck him, it didn’t instantly kill him as he thought it might. Instead he was paralyzed, his arms and legs folding underneath him as his entire body became a nerveless sack of cob stalks. The photoplate slipped out from under his arm and went sliding and bouncing over the envelope’s canvas, disappearing into the darkness below. He could breathe but do nothing else, not even close his eyes.
He heard the soldier mutter something in his own language behind him, possibly his race’s equivalent of “Bloody idiot.” Then he could feel the fabric of the envelope shudder underneath him, as the soldier climbed out to grab him. The soldier took hold of Rolas’ foot, still bound in its protective mitten. He pulled back and the mitten, the laces having come loose during Rolas’s attempt to escape, was pulled off his footpad. Then suddenly the soldier was shouting what likely a curse, as Rolas’ helpless body went sliding, then tumbling along the envelope, finally dropping out into open space.
Falling… falling… falling forever…
* * *
TRAGEDY IN THE SKIES!
The Queen of the Skies, the worlds largest passenger airship, which was three days overdue to return to its home port after a test flight, was confirmed lost today by officials of Trans Oceanic. The ocean freighter Jessiver’s Dance returned to port yesterday, reporting that it had seen a large airship, matching the Queen’s unique triple-hull configuration, falling from the skies on the night of the 4th, its envelopes in flames. The freighter immediately steamed towards the crash site to search for survivors, but only found wreckage and debris floating on the surface when it arrived two hours later. Trans Oceanic stated that a more organized search will begin immediately, but given the length of time since the crash and the violence of the landing, they admitted there was little hope of finding anyone alive.
The Queen of the Skies had a crew of seventy-five aboard, led by Captain Anala Lakewalker, one of the company’s most experienced airship captains, plus several Trans Oceanic engineers to observe her during her testing trials. Among other notables aboard was Lord Rolas Greycoat, co-inventor of the aeroplane along with his brother, the first heavier than air machine to fly. He was also a key designer of the airship’s internal combustion engines and was reportedly aboard to evaluate their operation. His brother, Lord Rulfen Greycoat, has stated that their family, including Lord Rolas’ wife Lady Bellander and her children, are in seclusion while they await reports from the searchers.
To be concluded