Karl Schroeder - Ashes of Candesce - Book Five of Virga

Except ... "Is it just me," she said, "or are those clouds green ?"

* * *

IT WOULD LATERbe called the Battle of the Gardens.

The Sylvan Gardens was the proudest jewel in the crown of the ancient nation of Ofirium. It was a vast volume of air containing countless cultivated groves and clouds of greenery and flowers. Strung along rope and bamboo tensegrity structures miles long, the foliage was arranged into many fantastical shapes; and those shapes changed.

One day the Garden might loom across half the sky in the form of a tableau of vast human shapes. They might be fighting or dancing as the whim of the gardeners dictated. The next morning, a coordinated nighttime rearrangement of forests and lakes might have transformed the sky into a heavenly palace, or a flat painting so gigantic that its far corners were lost in haze. Several times, the Garden had taken on the form of the lost Spyre, and refugees from the ancient wheel had wept to see it.

Chaison Fanning put the Sylvan Gardens between his fleet and the First Line, then once again within the safety of the Surgeon 's bridge, gave the order to hurl his battleships forward. "I learned the value of a tree in Stonecloud," he announced just before the Surgeon crashed into a 200-year-old ball of elms. Ancient branches ground and scraped along the hull of the flagship. "Full power," ordered the admiral.

The rest of the fleet followed his lead, roaring past the incredulous gardeners, demolishing centuries of artistry as they snapped up this or that living bauble as a figurehead.

"Sir," said the helmsman nervously, "we've no visibility."

"Proceed," he said. The Surgeon passed sixty miles per hour, then eighty. Such speeds were reckless for any vessel in the crowded air of the principalities; doubly so in this forested region.

"Sir, we're burning through our fuel at--"

"Proceed."

They passed 120 miles per hour. "Sir? Sir! " The helmsman was practically jumping out of his seat. Chaison glared at him.

"One hundred sixty," somebody else said.

"Engines idle and deploy braking sails," Chaison ordered. Horns echoed from the open hatches behind Leal, and then the moderate gravity of their acceleration suddenly reversed: down had been aft, and then suddenly it was to forward. Leal gripped the arms of her chair and listened as protesting branches clutched at and scoured the armored hull again--this time, as the speeding grove left the Surgeon like a ball from a racket.

In this way, Chaison's relief force threw an entire forest at the First Line fleet.

"Fire incendiaries into our little package," Chaison said. "Let's see if we can get their hair smoking."

The First Line had spent their careers among the icebergs and mists of outer Virga. They had trained in total darkness to defend the walls of the world along thousands of miles of empty air. It would be fair to say that none of them were comfortable with the density of the skies here. None had expected to suddenly be facing a wall of flaming forest coming at them at over a hundred miles per hour.

"All ships: knife formation," said Chaison. "Let's see if we can cut them in two." The semaphore men went into their dance, and outside the portholes Leal glimpsed ships peeling off to either side of the Surgeon . Chaison, whose back was to the prow so he could watch the projection on the aft wall, leaned forward, cursed softly, then shouted, "Fire forward batteries!"

A gigantic sound came, and pulling and overturning and bright light, and Leal curled into a ball and put her hands over her head.

* * *

HOURS LATER, Asmall twin-engined courier ship nosed its way into the smoking remains of the garden. From zenith to abyss, the sky was crowded with soaring vessels, tumbling debris, and welling balls of flame. Spheres and teardrop-shapes of dissipating smoke hung like the ghosts of destroyed battleships. Missile, bike, and ship contrails threaded through the space like the web of some vast, drunken spider.

The little ship slewed past hanging bodies and the writhing shapes of injured men. Here and there airmen wearing angel's wings were leaping to ally and enemy alike, bringing bandages and water. Hospital ships sporting the crests of a hundred nations soared in and out, catching the wounded in nets without slowing down.

It was late afternoon, but Chaison Fanning's relief force had kept the First Line from regrouping with the remnants of Ferance's fleet. Beyond the local chaos, Ferance was trying on her own to push the Last Line back to Candesce.

All four fleets had local knots of density where smaller ships and bikes dove in and out like fish darting at some piece of food. Their flagships nestled deep in these well-defended kernels, and the little ship headed for one of these. It was largely ignored by the dogfighting bikes and maneuvering cruisers, though if any had looked closely they would have seen that it was towing something strange--a black iron ball a dozen feet across, a furnace, maybe, or chemical tank.

The vessel ran up its flags and made to enter the zone around the Surgeon. It was instantly surrounded by bikes and catamarans, and boarded in short order.

Minutes later, an escort formed around it and hove to next to the flagship.

* * *

"SIR, THE FIRSTLine have regained their position between us and Candesce."

Chaison Fanning swore.

The bridge stank of sweat and stale air, yet Leal was afraid to leave her seat. They'd exchanged broadsides with an enemy battleship two hours ago, and she didn't want to face whatever carnage she might find if she went aft. Yet the increasing desperation of the men around her, those men who should be most in control, was agonizing. For a long time now she'd been unable to look away from Chaison Fanning, and she felt she'd learned every nuance of expression he was capable of.

"We need to reinforce the Last Line," said one of the admirals. "Any ship that can manage it should break off and--" Chaison shook his head.

"If they break formation they'll be picked off. There's a sphere of gunships around us now. We break out as a unit or not at all."

"But if we coalesce they'll surround us. And it's almost dusk! If Ferance gets to the sun--"

"She won't." Chaison turned to his loyal officer Travis, who hung in the air, ramrod-straight, near the command chair. "It's time," he said. Travis nodded and left the bridge without a word.

"Issue the order to regroup," said the admiral. "Sphere formation, centered on this ship."

The alliance's admirals began shouting, and even though she knew little about military matters, Leal, too, stared at Chaison in disbelief. It was obvious that if Chaison brought the ships into a tight formation now, the First Line fleet could simply surround it and pick off the defenders at its leisure. Worse yet, it would be free to pin them down with a small contingent while sending the bulk of its forces on to reinforce Ferance's drive for the sun.

Yet Chaison held up a hand against the protests. "A tactic works until it stops working," he said. "This one's stopped working. Something new is called for."

The admirals exchanged looks of outrage. "But what--?"

"Sir!" The aft hatch, through which Travis had exited, was open, and a junior officer was waving tentatively at Chaison. The bridge staff glared at him and he began to back away, but the admiral waved him in.

"What is it, son?"

"News from Brink, sir."

"Can it wait?"

"No, it can't."

Leal shouted and whirled in her seat. Framed in the doorway, looking tired and disheveled, but smiling, was Keir Chen.

24

"YOUR BELOVED ADMIRALis moving to save his ass," observed Inshiri Ferance. "Panic's never a pretty sight."