Edward Lane's Argosy Ch. 04

Air Captain Gideon Becker watched the skirmish line of airships bearing the enemy's colors – in this case, the red, gold and green of the Atlan Empire – bearing down on his position with a mixture of dread and excitement. He swung the periscope across the southern horizon and counted . . . five, no six ships. He noted with relief that they were not the three large Prussian-built stratodestroyers that the bloody Atlans had purchased recently, according to the Kingdom's wily intelligence network, but rather the usual native-constructed patrol craft, a mere eighty meters long and painted a distinctive scarlet.

They were far more primitive than the European-constructed airships in his squadron, more like the quaint first real airships from the 1870s. But there were six of them, and there were only three ships left in his squadron, including his own converted caravel, the Victrix. He hoped that today she'd live up to her name.

He slapped the periscope handles back in place and called out to his pilot.

"Change course, twenty degrees starboard, altitude steady. Ahead slow," he ordered, feeling the surge of fear and excitement that came on the onset of battle. The pilot, a lad from Manchester named George Miller, nodded curtly and began making the course correction. George hadn't started out the pilot of the Victrix, but two skirmishes ago the seasoned veteran Gideon had hired away from his father's company had been killed in an unfortunate incident in port. George had bravely taken the wheels during the next battle after Gideon — a poor pilot at best — had nearly brought down calamity on them with his lack of expertise, and George had stayed in control of the ship ever since. Another English lad from Somerset, Jack Cooper, was on station as Signalman – and it was to Jack whom Gideon turned next.

"Signal the rest of the squadron – spread out in formation on the Victrix, and prepare battle stations. Looks like the Beanies are at it again. A half dozen, from the south-southwest, if they haven't spotted them for themselves yet." The dark-complected Atlans were unaffectionately known as "beanies" to the European mercenaries due to the important role that beans and corn played in their diet. The running joke was that they kept their rattle-trap ships aloft with the excess flatulence thereby produced. Gideon only wished it were true – had the bronze-skinned warriors been able to produce this feat, then they would not be advancing upon his position so determinedly.

The fact was that, like most of the airships in the world, the Beanies used Hydrogen to inflate their gasbags and provide lift. Hydrogen was cheap, it was efficient, it was readily available – and it was highly flammable. A Hydrogen-lifted ship in a fight was in inherent danger from enemy fire. While the envelope itself could sustain dozens of individual rifle hits and still remain aloft, quite handily, a mere spark accompanying the bullets could reduce an airship to a flaming cloud in moments. Certainly, precautions were taken to reduce that risk, especially amongst ships of war. Everything from double-cells to lacquered armor were used to protect the balloons, but one well-placed rocket or a lucky incendiary missile could send a ship down in flames.

Gideon, thankfully wasn't concerned about that possibility – the Victrix lifted on pure Helium, now, and was therefore safe from such attacks. That was the whole reason he had accepted a commission from the Kingdom of Oklahoma in the first place: this desolate little land was one of the few places in the world where rare Helium was available, refined from the massive gaseous reserves buried beneath it's desolate prairies. Once these lands had been in Atlan hands, part of their extensive territory to the north of their dusty Empire. But when the nearly unique gas was found in relative abundance, the local tribes had rebelled (with the particular help of the Louisianians, as well as the Americans and the French) to take control of the strategically invaluable resource – and reap the reward of selling the valuable gas on the international market.

But the Atlans were unwilling to surrender such a fortuitous prize without a fight, and the tiny Oklahomanian Kingdom had been in a constant state of war for the entire twenty-five years in which it had existed. Bereft of a large population of their own, the original native uprising had quickly attracted seasoned warriors from the Cherokee, the Choctaw, even Iroquois and Chippewa and members of other tribes. The nascent native rebellion had consolidated their braves around the lucrative gas mines and kept the Atlan armies at bay until the rail line from the Louisianan Empire gave them access to the overland routes and seaports they needed to begin selling their precious gas to the great Empires. Then they had used the incredible profits resulting therefrom to hire mercenaries, on both land and in the air, to keep their former Atlan overlords at bay. When Gideon had gone into exile, trading one of his estates for a second-hand caravel from his father's shipping line and outfitting it for war, he had been eager to sign up his command both for the high bounty paid and the opportunity to secure a goodly supply of the expensive Helium.

The ships which were thus supplied had a great advantage over their Hydrogen-filled counterparts. The prospect of his squadron being outnumbered two-to-one did not particularly bother Gideon, therefore, since his foe had to be concerned with explosion and fire. Indeed, he was looking forward to another fight in the skies.

"Sissy, be a pet and give us some more altitude on my mark, would you?" he called into the shiny brass opening of the speaking tube that ran through the gondola and up to the engine room. He waited a moment to hear an acknowledgement, and a incredibly rich string of vitriol came bubbling back through the tube in response. The cursing was a strange mixture of English, German, Celtic, Choctaw and Cherokee and was profoundly profane – even more so, as it was delivered in the voice of a young girl. Gideon smiled to himself, entertained at the complex richness of his sister's swearing – his father would have been mortified.

"Captain," called the observer from his position in the cupola, "the lead Beanie is breaking formation and cutting to port!"

"Range?" Gideon asked, suddenly attentive. Usually the Beanies were methodical and straight-forward in their assaults. A break in formation was an aberration.

"Half a mile and closing!" the spotter called back.

"Ready port-side rockets," he ordered his gunnery mate, receiving a curt nod in return. Then he turned back to the speaking tube. "It appears as if the neighborhood children want to play, Sissy, are you ready?"

"Of course I'm ready! But why do you need altitude? What the fookin' hell are you doin' Gid?" came the response. "We're already on the bloody plane with 'em! We don't–"

"I'll do the steering, if you don't mind," he interrupted, calmly. "I just need altitude, on my mark. As much as you can manage as quickly as you can. Are you prepared?"

"Just let me know, big brother," the engineer responded. Gideon thrilled to hear her call him that. He had been the youngest child in his family and had always resented being babied by his three sisters and older brother. When he had discovered that he had an illegitimate half-sister, he had embraced her as kin as quickly as the rest of the family had rejected her, in part because it irritated the rest of the family and in part because he finally had the opportunity to play the role of elder sibling.

"Closing!" the spotter called. "Within range in . . . mark!"

"Fire port rockets," Gideon ordered, calmly. "Sissy, give us lift . . . now!" He waited until all four rockets were speeding away towards their target before calling the order, and he watched their smoke trail disappear below as the Victrix went aloft. Too late the opposing ship launched her own salvo, but the Beanies were firing a shorter range rocket than the Manchesters the Victrix carried. They were twice as expensive, but carried a larger explosive charge and had half again the range of the homemade "military standards" the Atlans used. The extra reach and extra potency had played a decisive role in how well Gideon's squadron had acquitted itself against the foe in the last six months.

So had his half-sister, Tayanita. The dusky young lady who had shown up at his father's doorstep in London and proven her heritage was not just a fortune-seeker, as their father was convinced. She was an adept engineer and an inspired tinkerer, a farsighted visionary and enthusiastic about just about everything. The product of a liaison between Lord Becker and the daughter of an important Cherokee noble, who had been nursing Lord Becker back to health after a bout of mysterious fever on a trip to oversee his interests in a chemical manufactory he owned in Oklahoma, Tayanita had not been interested in her father's money as much as an opportunity to work with his company. She had title — according to the bizarre rules of Indian tribal custom, she was among the highest rank, by birth, the equivalent to a Princess or Duchess in England. Tayanita had cared as little for rank as Gideon had — something else that endeared him to her. She had grown up in Tullasi, an important hub of airship activity, and had eagerly explored the enchanting vessels since infancy. She was mad for airships, and had been since the first day she'd lain eyes on one. When she had tracked Lord Becker back to London and presented herself as his child and heir, it hadn't been about money or title. Tayanita merely wanted access to Becker's several airship companies so she might pursue a few technical innovations she championed.

But the stuffy Lord Becker had been far more concerned about the stain of potential scandal and had denied his daughter vigorously – even though she looked so like his sister Gwendolyn that they could have passed for twins, save that one was dusky and the other fair, and six years of age stood between them. His mother, Lady Becker had been appalled at the sudden and inconvenient revelation of her husband's indiscretion and pitched a hellacious fit. Lord Becker had responded by sending the poor girl away, and even threatened to call the constabulary if she did not depart his premises at once.

Gideon, for his part, was appalled at his parent's reaction. Already thick in rebellion against them, living a wildly hedonistic life in London and on his country estates and contemplating a life in the military, he had confronted his father about the matter, demanding that he legitimize Tayanita despite the scandal. As expected, Father had refused, and in a fit of filial insurrection Gideon had sold his largest estate (inherited from his maternal grandmother and out of the control of his Father since he had attained his majority), used the proceeds to procure the old and venerable caravel at auction from his father's own illustrious airline, named the refurbished and retooled ship the Victrix, and had publicly swore to take to the skies as a mercenary-in-exile with his new-found kin until his father saw reason and accepted his dusky daughter as the true fruit of his loins.

The scandal that resulted from his flashy departure far dwarfed that which may have occurred with the simple revelation of a bastard in the family. The British were growing used to the unlooked-for fruits of their struggling Empire appearing out of no where, but to have such a prominent son of such an esteemed house reject Imperial service, a career in law or medicine, or a stint in the proper military for the flamboyant life of a mercenary air-pirate, that was just too much for the gossiping mavens of London. When Gideon took on a crew for his new command in London, he had hired several other younger-sons and schoolmates who had yet to find gainful employment – or merely lusted for adventure in foreign lands. Gideon's parents were officially in mourning for their youngest son, but as of yet there had been no telegram from them relenting of their decision. Since then he had been in the air for almost a year in the service of the Kingdom of Oklahoma, and had never looked back.

Now the Victrix, her young captain and rakish crew, had been playing tag with the Atlans for eight months, and in that time Princess Tayanita had gone through the old Lincolnshire-class caravel with a gimlet eye and had made significant improvements. Some of her designs were innovative, some were down-right brilliant, but all contributed to the big blue ship being one of the most formidable in the air for her size. Gideon glanced at the trophy pole near the pilot's couch, where nine red, yellow and green streamers hung. Nine of the foe vanquished in combat, a singular achievement for any captain of a warship, and for one so young and new to air service, it was unheard of. As he ordered the engines full forward and the starboard rockets ready, he grimly anticipated a tenth streamer decorating his pole.

Since the Atlans were nominally allied with the British Crown, Gideon was technically fighting against his homeland, but he didn't care. The interests of the Anglo-Dutch Empire were important, but the hundreds of republics, kingdoms, tribal lands and pipsqueak empires in America were always in turmoil, and each of the major European Empires had an interest in every skirmish. The Anglo-Dutch Empire had important trading ties with the Atlans, but they were commercial in nature, and largely to balance the alliance of arch-enemy France and her alliance with the sadly comical Louisiana Empire. His participation in the defense of the Okie Kingdom was therefore a very minor treason, Gideon figured, and one unlikely to draw the attention of his countrymen.

The enemy airship was now several hundred feet below them, and still a quarter mile away. Gideon returned to the periscope and surveyed the foe with well-magnified vision, spotting tiny forms of the bronze-skinned enemy aeronauts running to the battlements with their long rifles and hurriedly preparing another salvo of rockets. Their suddenly inferior position was trouble for them, of course. In airship battles the loftier ship usually had a distinct advantage – one which Gideon took full use of.

"A second ship closing to starboard!" the observation officer called, a note of tension in his voice. "bearing forty degrees starboard . . . six degrees under our horizon . . . and six hundred meters out but she's closing fast!"

"Oho!" Gideon smiled. "Trying to trap us between? I think not – not today. Starboard rockets take aim at the interloper and fire at will!"

The rocket crews in the starboard battlement didn't wait for a second order – they sent out a steady stream of Manchesters at the gaudy red-and-gold ship and were rewarded with two impressive hits on the envelope. Only one of them seemed to have done any lasting damage, and neither one had ignited the gasbag, but it was unlikely the Beanie would trouble them much for the next few moments while their crew struggled to extinguish the fires before they could do so. That gave Gid plenty of time to handle his first foe, who finally managed a half a salvo from their portside battlement. The shots were short or wide, but they gave Gideon pause. Any closer and rockets would be too dangerous for either party, lest they do as much damage to friend as foe. At that point it would be a long, drawn out fusillade with rifles, until the ships drifted further apart.

The portside battlement was already heaving a few smaller rockets at the foe, and the sharpshooters were plying their trade in an effort to clear the decks of the opposing ship. Unlike the predominantly English crew that ran the flight deck of the airship, the gunners were mostly native Okies, Cherokee and other tribes, who used the famous Kentucky long rifles of their native land to devastating effect. As he peered through the scope he saw one, two, then four of the enemy gunners fall at their posts, depriving the battlement of its full complement. Then a small rocket managed to penetrate the wicker enclosure, and set off an ordinance explosion. That activated the safety device that dropped the outrigged battlement safely away from the gasbag. Safe for the rest of the crew – but the ten or so gunners in the battlement were plummeting to their doom on the unyielding prairie below.

"A bottle of whisky to the portside!" he shouted excitedly. "Good shooting!"

He could hear the war cries and exultations of the men even over the din of engines and gunfire. These Okies, he had to admit, had a special talent for warfare – or at least an enjoyment of it that amounted to the same thing.

"Shall we finish her off, Captain?" Black Joe, the gunnery captain, called through the speaker. "I think we could broadside her with a Manchester at this range and be done with it!"

Gideon considered, while swinging the periscope around to survey the rest of the battle. The Victrix's sister ships were all engaged, and two of the Beanie's patrol ships had already caught fire, including the latecomer to starboard. Better yet, one of their ships seemed to have developed engine trouble, and was listing lazily to port, effectively out of the fight. He saw the Hobgoblin, with its savage device like a monstrous mouth painted on the bow of the ship bearing down on the straggler menacingly, leaving a blazing ball of fire in its wake. To the rear the Star of Baton Rouge, a yellow Louisianan ship, deftly dueling with two of the foe, one of which was already afire. Neither one was in need of assistance, he could see, and the Atlan ship they were engaged with had yet to turn quickly enough to bring her starboard-side battlement to bear.

Gideon made the decision. "Prepare boarding gondola!" he commanded. "Marines to your posts! Prepare for boarding and capture!"

The rest of the crew on the flight deck looked at him in confusion. Boarding an airship in the middle of combat was a hazardous proposition, as it involved – usually – repelling out of a loftier ship to an inferior one on ropes, then fighting your way underneath to capture the gondola. More than half the time such crews ended up either being repelled or doing so much damage that they destroyed the ship rather than taking it. But Gideon had successfully boarded two Atlan patrol ships in the last six months, and had brought one of them back to Tallasi as a prize. He'd been rewarded by the Kingdom with a generous bonus, as well as a goodly price for the ship, which had been re-fitted and now flew as part of the Kingdom's nascent air-navy. The money had been good enough to tempt Gideon to repeat the feat.

"Mr. Miller, you have the bridge," he called to the pilot. "Bring her in over the top stern and decline until we're within gondola range. I'll be leading the boarding party personally."

"Is that wise, Captain?" Miller asked, surrendering the pilot's couch to one of the steersmen, who in turn was relieved by the deckman.

Gideon grinned. "No, it's entirely insane, George, but it should be fun. Do try to keep her in the air until I get back. Oh, and . . . don't mention this to my sister until I've left. She isn't going to favor this maneuver, but by Mars we'll give it a go!"

The pale look on Miller's face convinced Gideon that he'd rather face three-to-one odds in combat than brave his sister's fiery temper. Still, he took the Captain's chair and immediately put his eyes to the periscope.

Gideon smiled happily as he doffed his warm wool coat for the tough fleece-lined leather coat anyone on the outside of an airship wore against the biting cold, and added a smart leather helmet, complete with brass goggles, to his ensemble. Then he shrugged into his weapons belt – a revolver on each hip, a carbine slung on his back, a savage-looking knife suspended from his left breast, and rapier, unlike the shortened cutlass that most airmen carried into battle, on his right hip. He added a white silk scarf to help his men identify him, then he took the narrow stairs down to where his men awaited him in the boarding gondola.