The Immortal Storm (Sky Chaser Book 1) (13 page)

30
Stormwings

“This way, down here,” Birdy said. “Mind the step. That's right. You're doing good. Oh oh, careful now.”

“Shut up, Birdy,” Kite said through his teeth.

The walking stick tapped on the steps. Ten of the murderous things from the lift down into the Hangar Deck and each one sent a shiver of pain up his right leg.

“Well, that's charming! And here I am just doing what the Doc told me,” Birdy said and sniggered. “All right, I'll lay off.”

Kite reached the last step and caught his breath, wiping his brow on the sleeve of the uniform. He took in the sprawl of the Hangar Deck. A smoke-windowed workshop hunkered in the tunnel-like space. Storage rooms and shelving crammed the space between the bulkheads. On the opposite side the
Windspear
had been locked in to deep runners, her deck partially covered by camouflaged tarps.
The scars of the corpusant's blast blackened her stern hull section.

“Chief!” Birdy shouted.

A mechanic was buried in a knot of black machinery, whistling along with a jolly tune trickling from a clockwork music box. Kite recognised him immediately.

Birdy cupped his hands. “Chief! Oi, you deaf bugger!”

“Keep yer sodding voice down, Birdy,” Clinker said, without looking up from his work.

“Brought you a visitor!” Birdy said, thumbing toward Kite.

Clinker lifted his wrapped-up head. Copper-wire mutton chops burst from his ruby cheeks but his eyes were hard as coal. “How do lad?” he said, pointing a wrench at Kite's uniform. “One of us now then?”

Kite had resisted the stick as much as he'd resisted wearing the Murkers' uniform but without either Dr.Nightborn refused to let him leave the Infirmary. Even if he had given a little of himself by wearing them the serge and black boots made for a good fit.

“Ray's the Chief Air Mechanic,” Birdy said. “He looks after the stormwings”

“Stormwings?” Kite said.

Birdy swept his hand about. “
Nee-owww. Vroosh!
You remember stormwings. The ones Fleer and Welkin fly.”

Stormwings
. Even the name sounded fast.

The core parts of an embryonic power plant had been spread on Clinker's work stop. A fan, a nest of wires and skull-sized motor.

“Is that a Helicoil?” Kite asked.

Clinker raised a copper eye-brow. “Someone knows their hardware,” he said.

“That'll generate some serious lift in a small airmachine,” Kite said, making some quick calculations. “Liftships have two Helicoils just to maintain their altitude. How high can a stormwing fly?”

“That would be telling,” Clinker said with a secretive wink.

“This one’s mine,” Birdy put in.

“Listen to him!” Clinker chuckled. “You get dizzy walking up stairs!”

“Do not!” Birdy protested, and leaned closer to Kite. “Welkin's training me. See that one up there? That used to be the Captain's.”

A fire-damaged stormwing hung over Clinker's workshop, skeletal wings stripped of panels.

“Shelvocke flew a stormwing?” Kite asked.

Clinker coughed into his fist.

“What? It's no secret is it?” Birdy said, with a shrug. “It's no secret. Shelvocke trained with Welkin. Welkin trained Fleer and Alto. And me, of-course. Gonna be flying missions soon.
Broosh!
Blowing stuff up and all that.”

Kite nodded along. Birdy hardly seemed pilot material, but perhaps there was more to him than his useful loose mouth.

“The stormwings'll be coming in soon,” Birdy said, leading him over to the porthole.

Lightning rent the air, chased in turn by salvos of thunder rattling anything unsecured, including Kite’s teeth.

“There they are,” Birdy said, pressing his nose to the glass.

Kite leaned at an angle for a better look. The two pilots weaved along the hull, flying in close then darting away, only to return a few seconds later. “What are they doing?” he asked.

“Scanning the hull for crawlers,” Birdy said. “Undercloud's full of them.”

Shorter and leaner Fleer moved with super-fast agility, rocking with her hips leaving a herringbone vapour trail. Close behind her flew Welkin. How someone could possibly move so swiftly with a shockgun unit strapped to his back Kite would never know.

“They've got to be the fastest airmachines,” he said.

“Welkin used to be a Cloudtrooper, the ace pilots that fly thundermoths, he reckons they're faster at altitude,” Birdy said, wiping condensation from the window with his sleeve. “Fleer says stormwings can outfly anything though.”

Kite didn't doubt that for second. He'd seen how fast and deadly Valkyrie could be.

“Stormwings are Weatheren tech aren't they?” he said casually.

Birdy peered back at the workshop, making sure Clinker hadn't overhead their conversation. “Shouldn't tell you this but,” he beckoned Kite closer and whispered. “When the Captain salvaged the Phosphene there was a stormwing on-board. A
prototype
. That's what he need the Chief for.”

“So why don't the Weatherens use them?” Kite said.

“Welkin said they lost too many pilots trying to train up a squadron,” Birdy said and grinned. “That's the problem with stormwings, you only have to fall off once.
Wahhh splat!
”

“Birdy!” Clinker bellowed from his workshop. “Get the traps ready! The stormwings are coming in!”

31
Fleer Nightborn

Watching the Murkers preparing for the stormwing’s return Kite sensed the workings of a well-oiled machine. Clinker buckled up his overalls, donned gauntlets and goggles, and took up mosfire signalling batons. Further back Birdy busied himself at a control panel. Yellow warning lights whizzed into life. Astern of the
Windspear
the hold doors slid open and a narrow ramp door began to extend.

The Undercloud's foul breath of chemical and ozone rushed into the Hangar Deck. Kite swallowed hard, equalising the pressure gurgling in his ears. The Hangar Deck faced astern with the black wedge of the
Phosphene
's stern hull ending in a wash of swirling cloud.

Pistons expanded with a pneumatic hiss. Rails began to extend over the ramp door, guiding two dangling L-shaped trapezes out into the wind. Kite kept his distance.

Clinker snagged a safety-line to his own belt and gave Birdy the thumbs up then edged out onto the ramp door, batons raised. The two tiny stormwings approached, fighting the fulgurtine's wake turbulence. Their small powerful engines accelerated, matching the
Phosphene
's air speed. Seventy or eight knots Kite guessed. An incredible speed for any airmachine.

Gradually Fleer and Welkin drew level with the ramp door, guided in by Clinker's batons. In one smooth movement Fleer gripped the trapeze one-handed. Birdy winched her in and then Welkin followed. Soon both pilots had been hauled safely on board.

Soon Clinker had set the stormwings out for inspection, leaving them steaming in puddles of rainwater. For the first time, Kite got a good look at the Murkers' airmachines. The wingspan was six feet but the deck barely wider than his shoulder-width, with control pedals in the centre and a low rail fore and aft. Wind-scuffed the patched skymetal frame had an aerodynamic curve, broader at the front where the intake grill grinned like a metal teeth.

Kite licked his lips. Just looking at it made him hungry for a test flight. How high
could
it fly? What was its top speed?

The Hangar Deck's loudspeaker system squealed. “Lieutenant Fleer,” the Captain's voice said. “Please bring Mr.Nayward to my cabin.”

Fleer scraped off her mask and raked her damp hair. The gash on her forehead had set into a pinkish crescent. “With me, Nayward,” she said and made for the stairwell, shedding a trail of raindrops in her wake.

Kite hesitated. “Your mother said I should use the lift,” he called after her, tapping the walking stick against his boot.

“Surely you can manage a few steps, Nayward?” Fleer said, glancing over her shoulder.

Kite swore under his breath. Was this to be punishment for insulting the Captain? Or maybe being on the Hangar Deck? Probably daring to breathe in her presence.

Kite reluctantly approached the steps and gripped the steel banister for support. He sucked in a few breaths and lifted his boot. Hot needles stabbed into his leg, forcing out a gasp.

“You're too slow, Nayward, ” Fleer called down. “We mustn't keep the Captain waiting.”

Kite swallowed the pain. He wasn't going to let Fleer humiliate him. He swung his boot onto the next step and began to climb.

“What’s flying a stormwing like?” he said.

“Why? Think
you
can fly one?” came the sharp reply.

“I reckon I could,” Kite said, between wheezes. “Used to pilot a sandboat, twelve-footer.”

“I've sailed a snow-yachts all my life.” Fleer's voice echoed down. “Stormwings aren't landmachines, Nayward. Means nothing.”

Eventually Kite reached the first landing and paused to catch his breath. A crewman carrying a toolbox passed him by and gave him an uncertain nod. Kite continued his climb, the pain settling into a dull ache. He began to move quicker.

“Well, if Birdy can do it...” he began.

“Birdy told you that?” Fleer said. “I wouldn't believe everything Birdy tells you, Nayward.”

Two flights of steps remained between them. Fleer had already reached the Nav Deck well ahead of him. She leaned over the banister loosely, knitting needles of sharp damp hair hanging about her cheeks.

“You really want to know what it's really like out there, Nayward?” she called down.

“Don't tell me, wet and cold?” Kite said.

Fleer had a distant look. “It's like being free of everything,” she said. “Free of the dust and the ruin. Free of yourself. Out there nothing can drag you down. Out there you're invincible.”

Kite stopped. He'd never heard anyone talk of flying this way. Abruptly Fleer turned her back on him. “You'll never fly a stormwing, Nayward,” she said, and spun the wheel-lock to open the hatch.

Kite limped up the last few steps. He leaned heavily on the walking stick, sweat prickling under the uniform's collar. “Maybe you're just afraid I might be better than you?” he said.

Without warning Fleer spun around and nudged him back against the banister, stabbing her finger into his chest.  She stared at him, hard and unforgiving. “You don't care for what the Murkers stand for. You don't even know your own people. You only care about yourself and that worthless doll.”

Kite swallowed. Taunting her had been a mistake. How quickly he'd forgotten this was Valkyrie.

“I know you want to steal a stormwing. Don't deny it. I saw the way you were looking at my wings down there,” Fleer said, pressing harder. “Listen good, Nayward. Don't forget this. Not ever. I don't care what the Captain says, you try stealing one, you even
think
it, and hunt you down myself.”

32
The Mempod

Shelvocke sat at his desk, tapping at the keyboard's brass keys. Half a dozen overlapping screens floated level with his eyes. Diagrams and Fairspeak, baffling symbols and words all jumbled in reverse. Kite couldn't read a word of any of it, especially in reverse.

“The Doctor is taking good care of you I trust,” Shelvocke said, glancing away from his screens.

Kite nodded stiffly. He was still sore from his confrontation with Fleer on the stairwell. There was a chair near Shelvocke’s desk. Kite desperately wanted to take the weight of his burning hot ankles but that would make him look weak in front of her. So Kite stood, leaning on the walking stick Dr.Nightborn had given him.

Shelvocke's desk was cluttered the maps and charts. Leather-bound books were piled to one side. On the other, under a mosfire lamp, was a gold framed photograph; an elegant-looking Weatheren woman with wonder-filled eyes and a delicate smile.

The rest of the Captain's cabin gleamed with enough brass and silver to make a salvor's heart sing. Telescopes and sextants, antique globes and astrolabes. Maps and charts were mounted on the walls between painted Weatheren posters. Kite couldn't help but raise an eye-brow. Weatheren or Murker, whatever he called himself, the Captain had no shortage of royals.

One of the posters struck Kite in particular. A wind-swept lady with a spill of golden hair, all lovely curves and drama, summoning zigzags of thunderbolts from a unrealistic storm. He frowned, glancing again at the photograph on Shelvocke's desk. It was same Weatheren woman, he was certain. Kite wondered who she was.

“That’s the one thing I miss about Fairweather is the theatre,” Shelvocke said, following his gaze. He waved at the big observation window behind him and chuckled. “And the sun, of-course.”

“I thought the Murkers hated Fairweather?” Kite said.

“Fairweather is just a city, Mr.Nayward,” Shelvocke said, pressing a key. “Do you know how the Murkers got their name?”

The floating screens faded, replaced by news ones scrolling with text and hazy photographs. One grew large. An image of a massive construction, cocooned in a nest of scaffold. A vast fortified wall.

“This was two-hundred years ago,” Shelvocke explained. “When the First Light Foundation constructed the Dreadwall. Dozens of towns were levelled to make way for it. Thousands left homeless. Some found themselves on the wrong side of the new boundary, forced into work camps. According to Fairweather’s ruling Corona Council it was a magnificent honour for the workers to be part of the great project. But there were some who did not agree with Fairweather's actions.”

As Kite listened another image appeared. This one was a grainy snapshot of a dozen men in overalls and caps, holding machetes and hammers.

Shelvocke went on. “A number of hardy souls from a village called Murk, banded together and formed a raiding party. They wanted to stop the Dreadwall being constructed. They wanted their homes back. They called themselves the Murkers. For a time they proved to be quite affective, attacking supply lines, sabotaging the machinery. After all the Corona Council hadn't expected anyone to resist progress. The name Murkers had become a by-word for dissent.”

“I can guess the rest,” Kite said.

“One by one the Murkers were tracked down, tortured and executed,” the Captain said, nodding. “A example to everyone who dare defy progress.”

Another image came sharply into focus on Shelvocke's screen. A simple-looking Weatheren official in black robes, with a cruel secretive smile. The man was bald, with a single dot on his scalp and wore tiny wire-thin spectacles. He reminded Kite of the dead scientist.

“This is Mercurius Lux,” Shelvocke said sourly.

Fleer sneered in disgust at the mention of his name.

“Who is he?” Kite asked.

“The architect of the First Light Foundation,” said Shelvocke. “Lux was the man who, if you believe his own words, single-handedly reinvented powered-flight by discovering how to tame lightning in the corpusant. He is also the man who saved Fairweather from the Undercloud.”

Another image. This one made Kite's gasp. A view from the ground of a vast array of concentric rings, spanning a cloudless sky.

“The Ether Shield,” Shelvocke said. “Lux's weather machine. This behemoth keeps the skies of Fairweather free of cloud. His greatest invention.”

“You sound like you admire him,” Kite said.

The screens dissolved, leaving rectangular ghosts on the air. “Maybe I did, once,” Shelvocke said. “Ordinary Weatherens are as much victims of the Foundation as you or I, Mr.Nayward.”

Kite gave Shelvocke a doubtful look, then watched closely as the Captain took the mechanikin from his desk drawer. At least Shelvocke had taken good care of her. He'd even cleaned her of dust and polished her eye.

Click
.

The egg-shaped device popped out of Ember's body and into Shelvocke's palm. “Do you know what this is” he asked.

Kite shrugged. “A computer?”

“Of a kind, Mr.Nayward,” Shelvocke said. “This is a mempod. A portable memory machine. An electronic
brain
. Mempods store information and instructions, they're used in analytical engines and automechanical slaves. The Phosphene has five.” 

Shelvocke held the device under the desk lamp. The fine swirls and spirals etched on its surface seemed to come alive. It was beautiful.

“Advanced technology, Mr.Nayward,” Shelvocke said. “Not usually found inside Clockwork Jinnys.”

He remembered his last day in Dusthaven. The Corrector had seemed confused that he'd had a mechanikin. Now he understood why.

Shelvocke had been watching him closely. “I think it's about time we let Ember tell her story, Mr.Nayward,” he said.

Kite glanced at the framed map mounted on the cabin wall opposite Shelvocke's desk. The continent was vast, from the Ashlands in the south to the unknown north. Much of it empty and uncharted. Kite knew he couldn't find Skyzarke on his own, that much was certain. But neither was he willing to trust Shelvocke completely. He had an idea. One that might give him a way off the
Phosphene
should the Weatheren decide to trick him.

“On one condition,” Kite said at last.

“And what is that?” Shelvocke asked.

“I want to fly a stormwing,” said Kite.

As if to tell him she meant every word of her warning on the stairs Fleer shot him a ferocious look.

“Stormwings are too valuable,” Shelvocke said, unmoved. “And I cannot afford to take unnecessary risks with our most valuable weapon.”

Fleer nodded her agreement.

But Kite wasn't about to give up so easily. “You're training Birdy aren't you?” he said. “Let me train with him.”

“You have spirit, Mr.Nayward, I will grant you that,” Shelvocke conceded. “But you are reckless. If you truly want to join my crew you will have to learn to discipline that temper of yours.”

More than anything he wanted  to tell Shelvocke where to shove his discipline but this might be the only opportunity he'd get. “I just want a chance,” he said, surprised by the honesty in his voice.

Shelvocke leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers to his chin. Kite could feel Fleer's stare on him, but he didn't give her the satisfaction of a reaction.

“A chance is what we all seek, Mr.Nayward,” he said. “Very well, I will let you train with Mr.Birdy...if you allow me to talk with the mechanikin.”

That wasn't much of a victory. But it was probably best Shelvocke would offer. Kite nodded slowly and with some effort said, “yes, Captain.”