The Immortal Storm (Sky Chaser Book 1) (15 page)

35
Distractions

Kite's breath condensed on the porthole glass. In the hours before dawn the Undercloud was a cold, lifeless place. Coal-black mountains coursed by the
Phosphene
's hull, fringes lit by an eerie purplish glow.

Kite yawned and scrubbed at the fuzz covering his scalp. Try as he might he couldn't sleep in his strange new surroundings. The tiny cabin was sparse military bunk, with a table and chair and a single porthole set high in the bare metal wall. The bedclothes stank of polish and sweat and everything was Weatheren-made. Ugly little eyes were stamped on fittings, tiles even the cracked mirror that hung beneath the lamp. Everywhere a reminder of his enemy.

Even the clouds.

Kite could imagine the Corrector somewhere out there. Stalking him, silently waiting for a moment to seize the
Phosphene.
The Foundation wanted Ember's secrets. Kite was certain of it. Why else had the
Vorticity
spared them? He couldn't think of another explanation.

A soft thump made his pulse quicken.

Someone was outside the cabin door. Another imaginary crewmember? He listened, picking out carefully chosen footfalls above the background noise of the
Phosphene's
engine. No, one of the Sergeants - Drumlin or Kaver - lingering in the corridor. No doubt put there on the Captain's orders.

Everything about the Murkers set Kite on edge. Even with Askians on-board he was far from safe. Despite his good deeds Shelvocke couldn't be trusted. That much Kite was certain. What if the Shelvocke turned on him like he turned on the Foundation? Somehow Kite needed to find a way off the
Phosphene.

In a few short hours Kite would be down in the Hangar Deck for his first day of flight training. Just thinking about it set his belly fluttering. He wondered how long would it take him to master such an airmachine. How long before he could fly?

Of-course there was just one problem with that plan.

Fleer Nightborn.

Fleer was capable of terrible things. Kite had seen her raining mosfire on the Weatheren soldiers in Ruster's Roost and even aboard the
Phosphene
her reputation kept the crew at a cool distance. But Fleer was afraid of nothing. Not pain. Not even death. So Birdy said. Kite didn't know what to think about that. But these days Fleer Nightborn wasn't far from his thoughts. That troubled him more than any threat.

The night air had begun to creep from the corners and into Kite's bones. He scrambled back to the bunk and dragged the bedding across his shoulders. Tapping the geolume from its matchbox Kite held it close, desperate to draw some comfort from its tiny light. But there was little comfort to be found in the darkness.

Not for the first time Kite wished Ersa was here. Her fierce guidance, her cunning and cleverness. More than anything Kite longed for the Waste Witch's stubborn wisdom. But ghosts and fading memories couldn't steer him now. Kite knew he was going to have to find his own way...

Life on board the
Phosphene
took some getting used to. At first light a deafening klaxon tore Kite from his sleep, signalling the start of the routine. The crew, with the exception of the Captain and Dr.Nightborn, all bunked on the Main Deck and each morning Kite had to join them in the Mess Room. Bleary-eyed and often quick-tempered, the crew huddled on cold metal benches. They downed porridge and biscuits. Gulped black tea brewed with boiled rainwater collected from the Undercloud and purified.

Having no rank as such Kite found himself with Birdy and Clinker, who seemed happy enough to take the new recruit under their wing. The officers ate at the Captain's table. His two Lieutenants, Fleer and Welkin, and Dr.Nightborn of-course. Dr.Nightborn was usually the first to leave, without even saying a single word to anyone. Even Fleer. Their relationship continued to confuse him, but then he'd never known much about families.

Over the last few days Kite had begun to build a better picture of Shelvocke's operations. While Birdy merrily filled in the gaps. Shelvocke's Sergeants, his Masters-at-Arms, were all former Weatheren soldiers. Men who'd once proudly worn the Armoured Constabulary's crimson greatcoats and plated armour. Kite didn't trust them. The Sergeants seemed a taciturn bunch, as if becoming the Enemy of the Foundation had not been their choice.

But not all the Officers and Sergeants were bad. All scars and muscles Alex Welkin was brash and unapologetic yet somehow he seemed less stand-offish, less secretive than the others. That was just as well. Because Lieutenant Welkin would be teaching Kite the skills to pilot a stormwing.

“To accelerate you rock the pedals forward like this, to throttle you do the opposite,” Welkin's voice echoed through the Hangar Deck's metal shell as he demonstrated the manoeuvre.

Kite paid close attention. He didn't want to miss a single detail. But he was having a hard time understanding it all. For two days now he'd been struggling with the basic principles of flight. The fat metal-bound manuals and complicated diagrams Welkin had given him to study were all written in meaningless Fairspeak. How was he supposed to learn about flight mechanics if he couldn't even read?

Maybe he didn't have to. He'd taught himself to pilot a sandboat without any help hadn't he?  He'd learned about the winds,  how to navigate by landmarks the hard way. You didn't need a manual for survival. Altitude, air pressure, lift and drag. Perhaps he didn't need all that second-hand knowledge when he had his instincts.

Either way Kite realised he was about to find out.

“Lean hard back on the heels applies the airbrake,” Welkin said. “Hard forward to boost. Lean port or starboard to roll. To yaw you swing from the hips, like this.”

Birdy sniggered.

“I'm glad you find it amusing, Birdy
,
” Welkin said and pulled the trapeze along its rails until it hung over the stormwing's deck.  “You can demonstrate take off. Stand away, Nayward.”

Kite shuffled a few steps back to the bulkhead, taking care not to snag the safety-line clipped to his harness. He was still getting used to all this Weatheren flying gear as well. The tight-fitting airworker suit was cold and clammy against his skin and pinched in all the wrong places.

Suddenly the stormwing's engine shrieked, a wall of harsh echoes that boxed Kite's ears and rattled in his ribs. Birdy bobbed on the stormwing's deck. The Helicoil's output was immense - its three corpusants giving it all the power it needed to launch its pilot skyward. Vapour washed out from the vents, lacing his breath with a carbon stink.

“Very good, Birdy, and you didn't fall off this time,” Welkin said, bringing the trapeze back. “Nayward, you're up next.”

Kite nodded eagerly. Look at him, jumping at a Weatheren's orders. What would Ersa think of him now? He tried not to think about that. He climbed onto the stormwing's deck.

“Time to show us all those legendary piloting skills of yours,” Welkin grinned, creasing his long scar.

Kite shrugged of the remark. He concentrated. All of it had been leading to this - his first chance to pilot a stormwing.

“Don't put too much pressure on the pedals, Nayward,” Welkin said, pointing at Kite's boots. “And don't rely on the magnets. Remember, they're there to keep your boots centred on the pedals, not to keep you attached to the stormwing. Continue.”

The magnetised pedals sucked down the steel soles, the ones Clinker had worked up for him. Next Kite gripped the trapeze, smarting a little with the stiffness in his back. A reminder that not so long ago he'd been bed-ridden.

Welkin circled, nodding his approval. “Good form, don’t lean too far forward or you’ll unbalance yourself, that’s it,” he said.

Kite stole a look at Clinker's workshop. Fleer was perched on the bench, swinging her long legs and gulping from a water-bottle. Her airworker suit was unbuckled, revealing her pale throat. Her cheekbones were pink with goggle-rings. Kite’s swallowed, his own airworker suit suddenly feeling tight and uncomfortable.

“Focus, Nayward,” Welkin said.

Kite felt a rush of blood to his cheeks. He concentrated. This couldn't be any harder than the first time he sailed the sandboat. He quickly scratched that memory, remembering how he’d ended up head first in the sand, covered in bruises and rope burns.

After a breath Kite pressed his boots down, then rocked quickly forward and back just as Welkin had shown him. The Helicoil's gears bit and stormwing pushed him up from the deck. His knees took the strain, but the thrust threatened to launch him into the gantry.

“Keep your knees bent, try not to fight it!” Welkin shouted over the engine noise. “That's right. Like that. Perhaps you do know what you're doing after all, Nayward!”

Kite let his right hand float from the trapeze bar. The temptation to let go with his left was great but he resisted. He didn't want to fall off during his first attempt. Not with Fleer watching his every move. He glanced over. Fleer had gone. Clinker was alone in his workshop. When did she leave?

“Watch your balance, Nayward!”

The stormwing jerked from under him. With an ear-rattling crunch the airmachine slammed on to the deck, spitting sparks and vapour, and leaving Kite pedalling the air.

Clinker stuck his head through the workshop door. “Thundering rhinos, lad!” he growled. “You trying to give me more work?”

Kite let go of the trapeze and dropped to the deck with a heavy thud. A loose hand clapped him on the shoulder.

“Ah, don't worry,” Birdy said, swiping his nose. “Everyone falls off the first time.”

“Birdy's right, Nayward, don't be too hard on yourself,” Welkin said, hefting the stormwing back to the trapeze. “You can fall off as many times as you like in the Hangar Deck but remember - if you fall off at 3,000 feet there'll be no trapeze that can save you.”

Kite nodded stiffly, disappointed that he’d allowed himself to get so easily distracted. One lapse of concentration, that's all it had taken. Well, lesson learned. Next time he wouldn't make the same mistake.

36
The Crawler

A wall of wind slammed against Kite’s chest, rippling the leather of his patchcoat. Underneath, the airworker suit’s clever weave blocked the chill but in the inch between his goggles and scarf the cold burned his skin. He gripped the gantry handrail and turned to look down the length of the
Phosphene
’s starboard hull. All around him the Undercloud roared and flickered.

“Check your harness!” Welkin’s voice crackled through his headphones.

Kite tugged at the straps, making sure they were snug over his patchcoat. He gave the thumbs up to Welkin. Beside him Birdy keenly did the same.

“Now your rebreather,” Welkin instructed.

On Kite's back the rebreather pump sucked inside its cylinder. The cylinder was two thirds full - one litre and rising - according to the gauge hooked onto his harness. The pollutants became a dangerous concentrated at altitude. Enough to overcome a pilot without the unit to filter the poison from the air and extract enough breathable oxygen to survive the thin air.

“Roger that,” Kite said into the microphone tucked inside the rebreather mask.

“Now secure your lines!” Welkin said.

Kite snapped the carabiner on to the gantry handrail. Far beneath the
Phosphene
fires flickered in an ocean of coal-black scrub. Lightning punched at the ground, starting new ones - the Thundergrounds.

“That's a long way down,” Birdy said, voice trembling a little.

“Don't worry the line'll hold you,” Kite said.

Birdy shot him a look. “I ain't scared if that's what you're thinking,” he said.

“Didn't say you were,” Kite replied, but he knew Birdy
was
scared.

For three days now the fulgurtine had been heading north. The wind had a metallic edge; the first hint of the frozen Hiemal awaiting them. The Undercloud, so often familiar to Kite, had become an alien place. Showers of ball lightning and hail the size of nailbird eggs. All kinds of weird sights and sounds. But at least Kite hadn't seen anymore ghosts.

Engine-noise made him turn. Fleer's stormwing tore overhead. She flew toward the
Phosphene
’s bow, scanning the armour with a hand-held electroscope. Somehow she turned even the most mundane task into a display of aerial grace.

“Eyes forward, Nayward,” Welkin said, pacing the gantry in front of his new recruits. “You've learned the basics of handling a stormwing. That's good. But don't for a minute think you're ready for the sky.”

Welkin produced two short-handled brooms.

“You have got to be kidding,” Birdy said.

“Today's lesson is all about working at altitude. Stormwings are not high-altitude airmachines. We don't have pressurised suits,” Welkin said, nodding to the Undercloud. “But, that means the higher we go the greater the pressure on our bodies. Even the smallest amount of exertion can sap your energy and your ability to think straight. At two thousand five hundred feet it's all about knowing your limits.”

Welkin pointed to the turbine nacelle where, under the cowlings, a mass of black lumps encrusted the skymetal armour. “Let's see how you get on clearing those barnacles,” he said. “Nayward, lead on.”

With the broom tucked under his arm Kite lowered himself down the service ladder and on to the arm of the nacelle. He checked his safety-line, making sure it hadn't snagged on the way down. Birdy shuffled after him, glancing nervously at the thunderheads.

Kite had no such concerns. The
Phosphene
turned out to be stable as rock beneath his boots. The wind buffeted him but even on the back of a fulgurtine he had no fear of falling.

Soon Kite reached the cowlings. The noise from the gigantic props inside was deafening. The noise didn't seem to bother the colony of barnacles that had attached themselves there. Clinker had warned him about this metal-hungry beasts. Looking like lumps of coal they might have seemed innocent enough but they fixed themselves to the hull with acidic cement. Over time the cement caused metal fatigue, making them deadly stowaways.

With the wire-bristle brush Kite and Birdy began clearing them. Some of the barnacles detached themselves and scuttled away on little legs, hunting new hiding places. Others tumbled away on the wind.

“Look at the size of it!” Birdy said, pointing with the broom.

A barnacle big as a boot was hidden under the colony. Kite squinted through his goggle-glass. Quickly spotting the hair-thin joins and the sheen of skymetal.

“Wait, Birdy!” Kite shouted. “That's not a barnacle it's - ”

A red lens snapped open. The thing sprang up on its metal legs. An antenna extended from its casing.

“-  a crawler!”

Birdy wailed and jumped back, boots entangled with his safety-line. The broom went spinning away into oblivion. He crashed onto his side and began to slip away.

“Birdy!” Kite lunged and grabbed a fistful of Birdy's sleeve, stopping him from sliding off the nacelle. Behind him the crawler had begun to buzz madly.

“Stop the crawler, Nayward!” Welkin shouted over his headphones. “Leave Birdy, he's on a line!”

The crawler's carapace split open and tiny propeller unfurled. Kite would only get one chance to swat it with the broom. But he'd have to let Birdy fall to do it.

“Don't let me fall, Kite!” Birdy cried, looking over his shoulder at the terrible drop to the fiery scrub of the Thundergrounds. “P-please.”

Welkin ran along the gantry. “Nayward!” he shouted. “Don't let it get away! Leave Birdy, he's on a line!”

The crawler sprang into the air, propeller's blurring.

Birdy looked terrified. “D-don't you dare!” he begged.

Kite swore. He had no choice. “Sorry, Birdy,” he said, and let go.

Birdy went tumbling off the nacelle, his screams fading on the wind. Seconds later his line twanged tight and held.

With both hands Kite swung the broom.

Swack!

The crawler went careening into the
Phosphene
's hull. Propellers sparked against the skymetal. Bits of legs tore off and it clattered on the gantry, bleeping madly.