Airborn (10 page)

As the last pirate began his climb, I ran down the catwalk and hurried up the ladder to the aft crow’s nest, past the shimmering gossamer skin of the gas cells. I peered out through the domed hatch. The remaining pirates were crouched along the
Aurora
’s back, grabbing at boarding lines, uncleating them and then holding tight as they were hauled back to their airship.

We would be free before long. Four more lines needed casting off, and then we’d no longer be tethered to that infernal little pirate ship. Just then I looked beyond Szpirglas’s ship and I saw a great dense mass of darkness against the night sky, and I knew, just by the
Aurora
’s vibrations, that we were
heading into a storm front. Rain started clattering against the ship’s skin, and the
Aurora
bobbed sharply as the wind hit it.

Above me, Szpirglas’s ship gave a mighty downward lurch before steadying herself. The last of the pirates cast off their spider lines and, pelted by rain, were reeled in, swinging madly in the gathering gale. We were free of the pirate ship, but not the elements. The front was rolling over us now. I was not afraid the
Aurora
would founder, but the pirate ship. Plowing through a front, you sometimes get a microburst, an intense downward column of wind that can drive you suddenly lower. I snatched up the speaking tube.

“Crow’s nest reporting!”

“Mr. Cruse?” came the captain’s voice. “What the devil are you doing up there?”

“Sir, the pirate ship has cast off, but we’re heading into a storm front.”

“I’m aware of that, Mr. Cruse. Now get down from there.”

“Sir, the other ship, she’s awfully close…”

At that moment the wind took the
Aurora
in her grip and gave us a mighty downward shove. I heard our engines roar to full throttle, felt the elevators struggling to keep us level. From above, I saw
Szpirglas’s ship, a fraction of our size, come hurtling down toward us, driven by the same wind.

“She’s coming down on us!”

I felt the
Aurora
start to dive and roll, but we were too late. The pirate ship veered into us, tried to pull away, but another gust of wind pushed us together again. I saw and heard Szpirglas’s propellers come toward us, two great whirling blades on her starboard side, slashing the night and then—

The
Aurora.
The propellers caught in our skin and kept cutting, through the taut fabric, through the gas cells inside. The propellers slashed through our port side, from stern to amidships. I felt the horrible chainsaw vibration rattle the entire ship.

“We’re breeched!” I hollered into the speaking tube.

The pirate ship slewed away from us, and came back once more, its propellers rushing right toward me. I dropped down the ladder and was nearly thrown off the rungs when the blades cut through the hull. Then they were gone, wrenched back into the sky. I clung to the ladder, panting, listening to the roar of the propellers fade.

And then there was a new sound.

The mango-scented gush of escaping hydrium.

We all knew what had happened, and what needed doing. The sailmakers were charging along the catwalks, pulling tool belts and patching kits from the storage lockers, springing up into the ship’s rigging to start repairs on the torn gas cells. The reek of mangoes made my eyes water. The whole ship was exhaling, like the last long sigh of a dying man. From underfoot there was a metallic creak as the ballast tanks along the keel opened, and tons of water tumbled out to the sea below. The captain was trying to lighten the ship.

I saw another team of sailmakers heading for the upper hatches and ran over.

“Cruse, you’ll help?” asked Mr. Levy, the chief sailmaker.

“Yes.”

“Good, lad. We could use you up top.”

He tossed me a safety harness and pointed me
toward the locker. I kicked off my shoes and slipped my feet into snug rubber-soled slippers. I grabbed a helmet, tested the lamp mounted on top. Tightening a tool belt around my hips, I crammed it full of patching materials. Bruce Lunardi was already in his gear, looking pale as he mounted the ladder. I climbed up after him, my feet dancing up the rungs.

We’ll see who’s the better sailmaker, I thought, even at that moment.

We came out the aft hatch onto the ship’s back. Her massive dorsal fin towered above us like a mountain peak. I could see the
Aurora
’s elevators angled high, trying to keep the ship’s nose up. Over the wind in my ears, I heard the fierce drone of the four engine cars at full power, straining to fly us level as the
Aurora
gushed her precious hydrium. Below, all around us, the sea was dark as mercury, and closer than I liked.

“Cruse, you’re over here! Starboard side!” shouted Mr. Levy. I hurried along the ship’s spine to where I was needed. I hooked my safety line to the cleat, fitted the goggles over my face, and turned on my lamp. The sailmaker passed me a bucket of patching glue and a small satchel of patches, and I clipped them both to my harness. Then I walked backward, down over the ship’s side, paying out line. My
rubber-soled shoes gave me a fine grip, even though the wind pushed at me. All across the
Aurora
’s bulging flank were other sailmakers, hanging from their lines, examining the ship’s fabric skin. I swept my lamp back and forth, searching for gashes.

They were all too easy to find, huge jagged swaths, hissing angrily as hydrium escaped from the torn gas cells within the hull. It gave me a pain in my chest to see them.

I tied my line to one of the many safety cleats across the ship’s flank. Then I got to work. With my brush I swiped glue over the skin, pressed hard with the patch, and counted to five. It was fast-setting stuff, this glue, and you had work quickly, make sure every edge was sealed tight. Hydrium was restless, the lightest thing in the world, and if it saw a way out, it would take it. Brush, press, hold, listen, move on. I liked it when the hissing sound stopped or at least grew fainter. Little by little, I was helping heal the ship. Every breath of hydrium saved was more to lift the
Aurora.

Inside, the sailmakers would be frantically sewing and stitching the actual gas cells. They’d be wearing masks by now, breathing tanked oxygen so they wouldn’t pass out. Hydrium wasn’t poisonous, but it would push away all the air, fill up a space fast,
and you’d suffocate.

I moved along to another gash ripped by the pirate’s propellers. It was like a terrible wound created by a monster’s claws, ribbons of torn skin flapping in the wind. Warm mango scent washed over me. It was really too big to patch, but I’d just have to do my best. Even with five patches across it, I could still hear a quiet hiss leaking from it. No time to do better, so I had to move on. Everywhere my lamp’s beam touched there were more holes. I wondered how much hydrium we’d lost.

I heard a distant clatter of water and looked down to see more ballast hit the sea. The sea. How had it gotten so close? Surely there could be no more ballast. The captain wouldn’t have dumped so much unless he was quite certain…that we were sinking.

A gust hit, and the
Aurora
rolled to starboard. I drifted away from the ship’s side, dangling over the water for a moment before the ship righted herself. I bounced back gently against her flank. I heard a yell and looked off to my left to see Bruce Lunardi, upside down in his harness, arms flailing. He must have done a somersault. He was hollering and kicking and not having much success righting himself.

I sighed, then pushed off and swung toward him. I got halfway, fastened my line to a new safety cleat,
and took another run at it, paying out line as I swung the rest of the way to Lunardi. My rubber-soled shoes gripped the hull. I cleated myself off on his right side.

“Take hold of my hand and pull.”

His grip was painful as he dragged himself upright in his saddle.

“Thanks,” he muttered, wiping his face with his sleeve. I think he’d thrown up.

Without another word he went back to work. I glanced at his patching. It was excellent, tidier than mine. But I doubted he’d done as much as I had; he was spending too much time.

I nodded good-bye and swung myself back to my place. Like a spider I scuttled across the ship’s flank. Brush, press, hold, listen, brush, press, hold, listen. I hollered up for a second bucket of glue. The gashes seemed endless.

“That’s my girl,” I said to the ship, as I pressed another patch onto her skin. “You’ll be good as new soon. See if you aren’t.”

“Come aboard!” Someone was shouting down at me.

“I’m not done!” I cried back.

“Doesn’t matter! Come aboard!”

I looked down and saw the sea, thick and color
less in the coming dawn. We were lower than ever. This was an altitude I usually only saw when we were coming in for landing. Hand over hand I hauled myself up to the ship’s back. After hanging weightless for so long, my body felt heavy as a stone gargoyle. I crouched, catching my breath, looking at all the other crew, pale from exhaustion. Lunardi nodded at me, too tired to speak.

Inside, Mr. Riddihoff waited for us on the axial catwalk.

“We need to get the passengers to their muster stations and into life jackets,” he said. “You all know the drill.”

But this wasn’t a drill.

“Are we ditching?” I heard Lunardi ask.

“We’ve lost too much hydrium,” Mr. Riddihoff said, his skin waxy. “We can’t stay aloft.”

“Is there no land nearby?” someone else wanted to know.

“We’re in the middle of the Pacificus. The pirates rode us way off course. Nearest charted island is at least a thousand miles. It’s a water landing, gentlemen.”

There was nothing left to say, and we all headed in our different directions, keeping our fears bottled up inside us. Airborne, nothing frightened me. But
the idea of crash-landing on the sea, water filling us, made my stomach churn. The
Aurora
was my home, and I couldn’t bear the thought of abandoning her to the waves.

I shrugged off my harness and patching gear and quickly made my way back to the passenger quarters. With every step, my senses kept track of the angle of the ship. Each movement passed through my feet and into my brain. Right now she felt level enough, but I could tell by the weight in my stomach and the tautness of my eardrums that we were slowly but surely losing height. I had to keep moving.

I vaulted up the grand staircase, knocking on doors, making sure everyone was out of their cabins. Most of the passengers were still assembled in the upper lounge, many with drinks in their hands.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the chief steward said, “the captain has informed us that we will be making a landing over water…”

I started handing out life jackets, trying to block out the rest of the steward’s message and the cries of dismay and fear that rose up from the passengers. I saw Kate and Miss Simpkins across the room and worked my way toward them. Kate was sitting with a book in her lap—her grandfather’s log, I noticed. She looked pale but composed.

“All right?” I asked Kate quietly.

“Of course we’re not all right,” said Miss Simpkins, fussing with the straps of her life jacket. “We’re about to sink to the bottom of the ocean!”

“We won’t sink, miss,” I said, helping her fasten her straps. “The engines and helm are unharmed, and the winds are very light. The captain will set us down gently, and all you need do is step into the life raft. We’ll take care of everything.”

I hoped I was right. The
Aurora
was not watertight. Captain Walken would need to keep her nose into the wind and hover just above the ocean’s surface for as long as he could. For once the ship touched down and started taking on water, she would not heed our commands anymore. She would sway and spin and flood and begin to sink.

I checked Kate’s life jacket to make sure it was snug then started over to the next group of passengers.

“You’re coming back, aren’t you?” Kate said.

“Yes. You’re part of my muster group. We’ll be on the same boat.”

Nearby, a young boy was crying. “Don’t you worry,” I told him. “Our captain will see us through. I’ve sailed with him three years. There’s no better than Captain Walken. He’s been through worse than this.”

As I was helping a woman on with her life jacket, she turned her scared eyes to me and said, “I don’t know how to swim.”

“You don’t need to, ma’am,” I told her with a smile. “There are more than enough life rafts for everyone. They’re quite roomy, you know. And with enough provisions to have bang-up meals for weeks if need be. We’ve made sure there’s a chef on every boat. You’ll be fine.”

She touched my cheek. Her fingers were cold. “You’re a good boy,” she said.

Just then I caught the scent of her perfume, and it was my mother’s perfume. I had to turn quickly away, a sudden tremor in my throat. I looked out the window at the approaching sea. I didn’t know how to swim either. We were close enough to hear the ocean’s impatient sigh, see the thuggish slouch of her surface, calm enough, but there was no hiding the immense strength of her mile-deep muscle. It was a clear day, and the rising sun was painting jittering diamonds on the surface.

I didn’t want to touch it.

Jump now. You won’t fall. You’ll stay aloft. You’ll fly clear.

Your father did.

Stupid thoughts.

Everyone was in their life jacket now, just waiting for the captain’s order to proceed to the emergency hatches. The life rafts were ingenious things, packed into small bundles in the ship’s hull. A pull of the handle and they would inflate instantly with a burst of compressed air, the paddles and emergency provisions already stowed away in their lockers.

I walked among the passengers, checking their life vests, trying to comfort them. It was like trying to soothe some great wild beast, to keep it from breaking free of its chains and going on a rampage. Some were holding hands, others crying quietly or praying. A few were being sick. I wished I were in the control car with the captain. I wished I were there serving fresh coffee and pastries, hearing the captain’s calm voice giving orders, and knowing exactly what was going on. It would keep the fear at bay.

The emergency phone was ringing.

I looked at the chief steward. Our eyes met. He picked it up.

“Mr. Lisbon here, sir.”

I could not bear to watch his face as he heard the order to evacuate, so I turned to the window again. I squinted. Dead ahead a dome of bright mist hovered on the horizon. Mist at sea meant…

“Land ahoy!”

It was me who shouted it, for I’d just caught sight of a bony peak jutting above the mist, and then through the mist itself, a darker outline spreading across the water’s surface.

“An island!” I exclaimed, turning to the chief steward.

“Very good, sir,” he said into the phone and hung up. He was smiling. “Ladies and gentlemen, I’m very pleased to inform you that we’ve sighted land and will be setting down shortly. The captain’s asked that you all remain seated.”

I looked at Kate. She was smiling. I was smiling. Miss Simpkins had her hands over her face and was weeping. It was like a thundercloud had just passed out of the lounge.

I opened up a window and stuck my head out as far as it would go. The mist was burning off quickly, and I could see that the island was sizable. A gaunt peak poked into the sky. The coastline sloped gradually upward into hills. Before us, the sea broke in a ragged white line against a coral reef, protecting a turquoise lagoon and a long crescent of sand. Back from it sprouted palm trees, sparsely at first, and then more densely as the verdant forest took over and shrouded the island in a canopy of green that
continued up the hills and into the mountains.

The beach, I thought. That’s the natural landing site. It was flat, and wide enough and deep enough to accommodate the
Aurora.
Likely it was the only flat place on the whole island. That’s where Captain Walken would bring us down.

Luck was with us. We were coming at the island with the wind at our nose, perfect for an approach. But we would have only one chance. We were losing too much hydrium to come round again. No question, it would be a tricky landing: an unknown landing field, no ground crew to grab the lines and tether the ship, no mooring mast to keep her secure.

Already the captain was bringing us down, quite sharply, the engines’ pitch deepening as we slowed. The phone rang again. I knew what the call was about and was already heading for the exit.

“All hands to their docking stations,” the chief steward called after me. “Prepare for landing.”

Down at the bay doors, the crew were waiting, scrambling for every inch of spare line we could muster. Baz was there, and it was good to see him. He grabbed my shoulder and squeezed hard.

“Quite a time we’ve had lately.”

“You’ll have a story to tell back home.”

“Too true,” he said.

The bay doors, opened and we could see the water, sparkling below, getting closer. Head pressed against the hull, I watched the coastline approaching. We were over the reef now, surf crashing, then the jeweled lagoon, and we were coming down lower and lower. Enormous fish in colors I’ve never known flitted beneath the clear water. Then the sand of the beach. The engines gave a great roar as they went into reverse, and you could feel the whole airship straining as she pulled back.