Devon Monk - Tin Swift

“We’re all going to be strapped in,” Cedar said as if he were talking to a man, not a beast. “And you’re going to be strapped in too. As I understand it, this is going to be a hard takeoff. Am I correct in that, Captain Hink?”

“That’s right. We usually launch with wind or a glide. Sometimes a clear runway. But we don’t have any of those things. The only way we’ll clear the walls of this hole is by glim. And that means straight up. All the crew buckles in.”

He didn’t know if he was talking to Cedar or to the wolf, but it looked like the wolf was paying close attention to each word he said.

And then the wolf’s ears pulled up off the back of his head and he closed his mouth around the snarl he’d been wearing. But those eyes still burned with brass fire. There was a hatred to the beast. A hatred of being trapped.

“Where do you want to be, Wil?” Cedar asked.

The wolf paced over toward the women and sat right next to Rose Small, who was glassy-eyed and leaning on Mae next to her.

Rose put her hand out and patted the wolf’s back. “Good choice,” she whispered. “Best seat in the house.”

Cedar nodded, and glanced from the wall behind Wil to the rope in his hand. “I could rig something up,” he said, turning to Hink. “But if you have an extra harness like the one you and your crew wear, I’d be obliged. He doesn’t have hands to grip like the rest of us.”

Seldom’s eyebrows took a turn skyward, but Captain Hink just started walking to the wheel of the ship. “Seldom, get the spare out of the box. I assume you can find a suitable way for your brother to wear it, Mr. Hunt?”

“I’m sure I can manage.”

“Good. Be quick with it, and see you tie yourself down tight too. We’re done sitting. It’s time to catch sky.”

Captain Hink latched his own harness to the ceiling bar, his boots snug under the floor straps. He took a breath and a good half minute to settle his mind and his resolve. Flying the ship under bad weather was never easy. Flying her broken, under bad weather and glim, was the sort of thing a man didn’t live to brag about.

“Just give me your wings, darlin’,” he said softly. “I’ll be gentle.”

The bell rang three times. Molly had her glim-stoked and ready to go.

“Are we ready, men?”

“Aye, Captain,” all three voices shouted.

“Passengers, are you secure?” he asked.

“Aye, Captain,” Cedar Hunt called back.

“All steam to the sky,” he said.

Hink gripped the wheel, and a sudden awareness slipped over him. The ship wrapped around him like a second skin. He could count the rocks beneath the landing gear, could feel the rattling cold of rain striking against tin. For a moment or two, he imagined he could stretch his arms and feel the sails unfurl.

“Captain?” Mr. Guffin’s voice broke the thrall.

He blinked, then rubbed one hand over his face just to remind himself that he was flesh and blood, not tin and steam. His imagination had a way of taking hold of him, but never like this, never this real. And now was the worst of times to be dreaming on his feet

It was a strange thing. A worrying thing. He took another breath to clear his head.

“All go, gentlemen.” Hink put both hands back on the wheel. The sense of the ship closing in around him came strong and clear again.

This is what it had felt like when the witch was singing. This is what it had felt like when he’d landed them whole.

Maybe she’d cast a lasting sort of spell. Hink wasn’t sure that he liked it. Right now, he’d deal the hand given him, no matter how strange.

The ship wrapped around him, and all the same, he felt himself stretching out as if he were putting her on like a familiar coat.

He was the ship. But he was very much still the man.

And he was going to make the witch tell him what she’d done to him, and his ship, once they hit clear sky.

Captain Hink gave her throttle, just enough to get the propellers up to speed. He could feel the heat and power of the engines beneath his feet and drumming in his chest like a second pulse. And he knew, without needing the ring of the bell from Molly Gregor, that the glim was in the firebox and the heavens were his to claim.

“Trim the sails tight, Mr. Ansell,” he called out. “And ready the rudder, Mr. Guffin. We’re launching in three…two…one.”

The crew fell to their tasks. Captain Hink tipped her nose up, and let her go. The Swift shot toward the sky, the power of steam and glim mixing like a heady rush of whiskey and wine. Hink yelled out in joy. This was what she was built for. This was what he was meant for. Speed, flight, freedom.

Ansell was singing opera. Guffin was yelling about overhangs and rocks and the walls coming too damn close. But all Hink could feel was the sting of rain against his skin, the brace and heat of steam pushing him forward, and the intoxicating rush of flight lifting him higher and higher heavenward.

He didn’t need Guffin telling him where the walls were. He could see them, he could feel them, leaning in, rushing by, sharp and cold and deadly. He shot the gap, calling for Ansell to angle the verticals and spinning to skin the air off the walls.

The sky finally, finally fanned open above him, that crack of wide wet grayness spreading out to welcome him as if he were diving upward into a stormy sea.

Through the darkness he flew, through the dragging, clawing rain, with nothing but the hope of light, of air on the other side of the sky if he could just break through.

And then she punched up, out of the clouds, into the cold blue of the sky, sunlight pounding down in flat white light. Higher, higher. She strained for the glim fields that wavered with tantalizing ribbons of soft green light above them.

Hink longed to hit that field, to bathe in the soft whips of glim that shimmered in long, glowing rivers just beyond their reach. He knew that without the trawl set to net, they’d just break through the glim and turn it to a mist that disappeared on the wind.

They didn’t have time to harvest, didn’t have the gear ready if they did.

And it was too cold up here, too hard to breathe for long.

Hink dragged his breathing gear over his face, and hoped Mr. Seldom had equipped their passengers with masks.

“Look for company, Mr. Seldom,” Hink called out. “Give us glide, Mr. Ansell.” The sails released and the Swift steadied her climb, Hink easing the throttle and hitting the bell to tell Molly to ease the draft.

The Swift leveled out. If any other airship was flying right now, they’d be above the clouds. Flight with no visibility among the craggy and treacherous peaks of the mountain range was plain suicide.

And Hink was on the shiny side of positive that none of the rock rats who skiffed these mountains would be fool enough to risk their life flying blind.

Still, Mr. Seldom walked the interior of the ship, breathing tube clattering against the overhead beams as he gripped the bars and took a long, hard look out each window.

He pulled down his breathing mask. “Clear sky,” he announced.

“Good,” Hink said, glancing at the compass set in the console before him. “We’re going down through again in short order. I’m going to hot-flume it over to Turnback Junction, then duck under the clouds at a crawl.”

“You want lanterns?” Ansell asked.

“No. I’ll bring her in blind.”

“Crazy,” Guffin muttered, placing his mask securely over his nose and mouth.

“What’s that, Mr. Guffin?” Hink asked.

Guffin pulled the mask down. “I said you’re crazy.” He placed his mask back over his mouth, then pulled it down and added, “Captain.”

“And yet you signed on with my crew,” Hink said. “Not sure that speaks against your reasoning or mine, Mr. Guffin. Let’s take her down easy. Keep your eyes peeled for shadows.”