Skies of Fire (6 page)

“I wanted to serve my country,” he answered. “Half a day’s pain meant little in comparison with what would be gained.”

“But what was lost?” she whispered.

“You’ve got no bloody right to ask that,” he snarled. He stalked to the window and watched the rough mountain peaks passing below the ship like stone waves. The lowering sun set alight the very tops of the mountains, as though rock could burn. The beauty of the scene touched him not at all. His awareness was confined only to this cabin, and the woman within it, whose voice and face and form conjured up old hopes.

He’d thought the wound had healed. All it had done was crust over, leaving the injury to fester and poison his blood. Only now, with the wound opened again, did he realize how deep the sickness went.

Her footsteps were light upon the floor as she approached him. Light and wary.

“Tell me more about this munitions plant.” He turned and strode past her to the table, then stared at the plans.

For a moment, she did not speak, and he waited for her to try to take up the thread of their too-intimate conversation. Yet instead she moved to stand beside him and said, “Very little, outside of what this plan tells us.”

“The location?”

She exhaled. “Unknown. The faction my contact was taking me to, they would’ve led me to it. All I have to go on is drawn here.”

Bracing his hands on the table, he studied the plan. “This only shows one wall.”

“They’d never build such an important structure out in the open. Too exposed, both to the elements and to the enemy.” She planted her hands on her hips.

“This diagram could be incomplete.”

“An operative gave his life to make this drawing. He wouldn’t have left anything out.”

“Except the rest of the walls.”

“Unless . . .” She pulled a pair of spectacles from her pocket, then set them on her nose. She looked at him with curiosity, light glinting off the lenses. “No remarks? Jibes about me getting old or looking like a data-scroll archivist?”

“I’d never disparage a data-scroll archivist.”

She gave him a sour look and returned her attention to the plan. He sure as hell didn’t want to admit that he liked her in spectacles, how they framed her face and gave her a scholarly appearance that contrasted alluringly with her windblown hair and sleek curves. No, he wouldn’t admit any of this outside of his own traitorous thoughts.

“Perhaps,” she continued, studying the drawing, “this illustrates the single
constructed
wall, but not the others.”

“If they weren’t built, they have to exist somehow.”

“They could be naturally occurring.”

“Such as a forest or—”

“A mountain.”

Her eyes gleamed behind the lenses of her spectacles. “A fortress, carved right into the side of a mountain.”

“Making it impregnable, even to airship attacks.”

She slapped her hands on the table, as she often did when excited by an idea. Did she even know she did it? “The perfect location for a munitions plant. Well hidden, easily defendable, all but indestructible.”

“Then we’ve two tasks ahead of us,” he said. “The first: ascertain the plant’s location.”

Nodding toward the window, and the mountains beyond, she said, “A challenge, given the size of the territory. But it can be done.”

He’d always admired that quality in her—the utter confidence that she would accomplish even the most insurmountable endeavor. She refused failure, just as he did.

“The second,” he continued, “is finding a way to actually destroy the site.”

“Clearly, it’s heavily fortified.” She traced the line that delineated the perimeter. “There’s only one way in. This wall will be thick, and protected by armaments, both ordinary weapons and, I’m guessing, ether cannons. Once that wall is breached, it would be a matter of finding the proper location to plant the explosive.”

“Fighting off enemy troops all the while,” he said. “And there will be hordes of them.”

“We won’t be able to
fight
our way in. It’s impassable by force.”

“How else are we supposed to get inside?” he asked.

“Not through an overt fight. Stealing into places is what I do best. Which gives us a better chance of getting in. Getting out, however . . .”

“There’s no getting out. No means of withdrawal.” He straightened and held her gaze. “It’s a suicide mission. But you already knew that.”

“It’s almost certain that the plant will be too heavily fortified to make a retreat possible—I only need your ship to get me close,” she added. “The rest I can do on foot.”

He scowled at how easily she dismissed the idea of her own death. “On your own, trekking in a heavy explosive and then sneaking through their defenses is impossible.”

“I’ll find a way—”

“You won’t. You’re a damned good spy, Lulu, but you can’t do this. Not alone.”

Hell.
He shouldn’t have called her that. Her pet name, a name she had permitted only him to use in their most private moments. He’d started calling her Lulu as a jest because it didn’t suit her in any way—a girl’s name, coy and precious—and then it stuck, in the strange backward logic of intimacy.

Intimacy that had been lost. Because of her.

Her eyes widened at his use of her pet name. But this was quickly replaced by anger. “Don’t question my ability to carry out this mission. The Admiralty sent
me
for a reason.”

She had a point, damn it.

“If this mission is so critical,” he said, “I’m coming with you.”

“Absolutely not.” She knotted her hands into fists. “Whatever you think of me, I’d never want you hurt.”

Covert operative she might be, yet there was no hiding the sincerity in her eyes, or the rasp of her voice.

“If I said no, if I set you down here,” he waved toward the twilight-steeped mountains, “would you continue on with the mission?”

“Of course,” she answered immediately. “This mission is imperative.”

“Then I’m accompanying you.”

“Kit, no.” She stepped around the table and clasped his wrist. This touch alone sent a wave of longing through him, so potent he nearly groaned aloud. All this time, all this hurt, and he wanted her still.

He pulled away. “Unless you’ve been promoted, I’m the highest-ranking officer on this ship. The decision as to where she flies is mine.”

They stared at one another. Both he and Louisa had wills stronger than steel. Neither would bend. He could only wonder which of them would break first.

H
E PUT IT to the crew. The final decision was his, but if the mission’s outcome meant certain death, he could not discount their opinion.

Crewmen now crowded the top deck, and those who either could not fit or could not be spared from their duties listened in via the shipboard communication system.

Full night had almost fallen, but they couldn’t risk being spotted below, so the sodium lights remained unlit. The crew formed a large, shadowy mass as they listened to Christopher, standing in front of the pilot house, explain precisely what the mission would entail. Louisa remained off to the side, near an auxiliary ether tank, watching him as much as the crew’s response. She wore a spare coat against the chill, provided by the steward, but it seemed to swallow her with its size. She looked far younger, far more fragile, than he knew her to be.

“There may be survivors,” Christopher said, pitching his voice so it could be heard above the wind and turbine. “There may not. We can’t count on it. All we can rely upon is that we have a chance to do a great good for our country. A chance to end this war quickly. If it means the sacrifice of my life to ensure the lives of thousands of others, I’ll do so, and gladly.”

No one amongst the crew spoke, not a murmur, not even a cough. Every man remained motionless, quiet as the depths of the ocean.

“It’s a high price, one’s life. And one that not everyone is prepared to pay. We all of us sign on to the Navy knowing we face danger, knowing that every time we say farewell to those on the shore, it may be the last time we ever see them. But there is the possibility of death, and then there is the assured truth of it. I’m asking each of you to step toward that future with your eyes open.”

Though darkness had settled over the ship, his enhanced vision enabled him to see the faces of his crew, men young and old, orphans and those with family in abundance, as they contemplated what he proposed. Fear, acceptance, eagerness—he saw all of this, and felt it, too, emanating from the decks below. One hundred fifty souls, each of them his responsibility.

“Now is the time for you to decide—will you give everything for your country? Will you ensure the safety of your families, and the generations to come? Or is the cost too dear?”

More silence, until a young midshipman asked, “If it is, sir, what then?”

Some troubled muttering followed from others in the crew.

“If it is,” Christopher said, and the muttering died at once, “then the
Demeter
will put you ashore here. You’ll have to find your own way home, and I cannot guarantee you won’t fall into enemy hands, but you’ll be relying on yourself, not me, to make your choices.”

Shocked sounds from the crew, and Louisa covered her mouth, but he still caught her soft gasp of surprise.

“Ain’t that desertion?” someone else asked. “Sayin’ we do make it back home, we’d be court-martialed. Hanged, maybe, or thrown in prison.”

“Anyone who opts to leave will carry with them a letter from me, absolving them from charges of desertion or mutiny. Whether the court will take such evidence into consideration, I can’t say, but I’ll do what I can to minimize the repercussions.”

Another wave of muttering rose up. The master at arms stood ready, should anyone turn raucous, but the crew only debated amongst itself.

Christopher glanced at Louisa. She stared at him, arms clasped around herself. Her hair blown into wild disarray by the wind, in her oversized coat, she was an unknown in this realm of airships. It had been his world these past years, a world entirely separate from her, save for the memories that wrapped in thick abundance around his heart. They were wholly discrete, the
Demeter
and Louisa, for he wasn’t the same man with one that he had been with the other.

Here she was, however. Watching him with wide, attentive eyes as he tasked his crew to either abandon ship or proceed on a mission that might cost them their lives.

As the captain, and a Man O’ War, he could never abandon his ship. They were bound together until the breath left his body and he was nothing but cold flesh and metal.

Louisa was walking—flying—toward her own death. The thought made his insides curl and shudder. And filled him with a bitter irony. She had exploded back into his life with only days left in hers.

He must keep his attention fixed on the mission. Only think of attaining his objective. He’d been living from commission to commission these past years. Now must be no different.

“Those who wish to leave,” he said, breaking through the crew’s debate, “step forward now. If you’re below, come topside. This will be your one chance to turn back. After this moment, we push on and help end this war.”

He waited.

Aside from the wind, complete silence blanketed the ship. Not a crewman moved. His acute hearing strained to listen for any crew moving up from belowdecks. Machinery clanged, and someone adjusted a valve on an ether tube. Other than this, there was no motion, no sound.

A minute passed, and then another. No one stepped forward. Some even took a step back, as if to distance themselves from the possibility of abandoning the ship.

Pride swelled within him, and he let them see it in his face. “Good men. The crew of the
Demeter
has bollocks of steel. No one can argue otherwise.”

“That’s the truth of it, Captain,” someone shouted.

“We make it back to Portsmouth, I’m buying a round for everyone at The Cormorant.”

“Even me, sir?” asked a boy, second class, a lad no older than fifteen.

“You’ll get lemonade. With a shot of whiskey.”

The boy grinned, and a cheer went up, even from the men below. He felt their determination resonate through the planks and metal, stronger than the engine or the metal grafted to his skin.

“To your posts,” Christopher said.

As the crew dispersed, Louisa drifted toward him. Her movements were purposeful yet lithe, that unique combination that only she seemed to embody. He held himself still as she neared.

She stood close so that only he could hear her. “That was . . .” She inhaled. “Remarkable.”

“My crew knows its duty to its country.”

“It’s
you
they’re loyal to. No one wants to let you down.” She lowered her gaze, staring at the brass buckles that ran down the front of his coat. “A terrible thing, disappointing you.”

His jaw tightened. “I expect only what I know someone is capable of.”

“Or what you want them to be.”

“They have a choice.”

“Why?” She looked up at him, and his greedy gaze took in the contours of her face, the line of her jaw, the curve of her mouth. She was not, in the strictest sense of the word, beautiful, her face more handsome than pretty, yet whenever he looked upon her, his heart clanged to a stop. “Why would you give them that choice? Other captains wouldn’t concern themselves with the thoughts and feelings of their crew.”

“This ship isn’t a democracy. I command it. But I can’t drag these men toward death without allowing them to make their own decisions. And this way, having given them the choice, they’ll perform to their utmost.”

“You were always an extraordinary man.”

He glanced at his shoulder. “The implants make me extraordinary.”

She smiled faintly. “You didn’t have the implants when I agreed to dance with you.”

Reminding him of that long ago night acted as an electrical shock, jolting him to awareness. Of the future, and the past. Of regrets and things that would never happen.

“Go below.” He turned away. “Temperature drops fast on deck after dark. You see most of the men have beards—it’s to keep their faces warm.”