Cloud Emperor sat majestic in the lush green field. Its twin Duralumin1Yes, this is real. According to Wikipedia, it's the "trade name for one of the earliest types of age-hardenable aluminium alloys...used in airframe fabrication." Developed in 1916. cylinderical air tanks gleamed in the sun, looking like over-sized pontoons rising above the ship's hull. Under their shadow, Avery Alejandra double-checked the coal hoppers, made sure the fires were stoked, and readied the air-ship to fly at a moments notice.
Her palms itched with a sixth-sense anticipating trouble.
They should be in the air already. What if Jim fucked up again and is at that moment tied to a chair? Or worse? Should she him into the mansion and rescue his sorry ass? Her hand went to the hilt of her cutlass unconsciously as she scanned the treeline in the distance.
Avery is a stunning woman, standing five-foot-ten, six-two with those high-heeled boots of hers, their skin-tight leather clinging to her shapely calves and stopping just short of the knee and the hem of her skirt. Her silky black hair is tied back as it always is on missions. If she were to let it loose, it would flow out behind her in the growing wind, a stallion's mane, a knight's flag. Her face has the seriousness and grace of a woman who rarely smiles and never stops calculating. It's sun-kissed and her tan emphasizes the Spanish heritage of her father. As does her sharp nose and high cheekbones. The leather jacket she wears is black like her boots, and closes below her bust to reveal the top of a white corset and her modest but supple cleavage. She's a woman men would kill for. And many have died by her hand.
"There he is," Belle screams from her position on the bottom deck. "He's coming in hot. And he's not alone." The petite blonde has been looking out for Jim with her spyglass. To an outside observer, she might have looked like a sea captain's wife scanning the waves for her lost love. But it's only an act of duty. Her heart belonged to another.
Yes, there he is! Jim is barreling out of the trees, legs and arms pumping like a sprinter at the Olympics. It's amazing what the threat of imminent death can do to a man so out of shape. A dozen angry and armed men charge after him. They're mainly distinguishable by the sun's reflection on their swords and knives, deadly strands of tinsel floating out of the woods. Although, some have guns, as can be a attested to by a sudden pop of a musket.
Avery raps the hilt of her cutlass on the railing to get Belle's attention. "Let's go get him. Prepare the ladder."
"Aye, aye, ma'am," she says, but both woman are rushing into action and the words are lost.
Avery uses the pointed toe of her boot to kick the locking clamps free from the engines. Their rotors begin to spin, turning the cogs and gears for the propellers. Every other noise soon gets drowned out by the sound of shear and torsion. Not bothering with the stairs, she leaps up onto the raised platform of the control platform, using a single hand for support and landing neatly on her feet. A gymnast couldn't have done better.
The platform contains a battered leather chair, seven levers, and the wooden captain's wheel. She doesn't bother to sit, preferring the better visibility standing gives her. The first lever springs back after sending a shiver down a cord, ringing bells all over the deck and in all the cabins, signaling that the ship is about to launch. The next two starts the upward thrust. The great beast shudders trying to overcome gravity. The force of the turbines fight against the weight of the decking. The Emperor groans like an old man until the helium in the tanks tips the balance and the flying-machine escapes the ground. Avery brings it up to an altitude of what she gauges to be twenty-five feet and stabilizes the ascent, diverting the power to the rear propellers and flinging them forward.
Sixty feet long, forty wide, and seven stories tall, to the men they're approaching it must appear as though a building is floating toward them. It's an intimidating sight. And Avery hopes they will flee before it. Because in reality, it's dangerously fragile. Too many sacrifices have been made to keep it light. There's no armor, the hull isn't even very thick, and the tanks are paper thin metal.
She brings the Emperor up to full speed and swoops down over the heads of the enemy. The rush of wind flattens the grass and a few of the goons hit the dirt, dropping to their bellies as though the flying-machine is three feet from the ground instead of ten. The crack of bullets ring out, but she doesn't see where they land. The Emperor blow past the mob, and Jim is falling into the distance behind them. Beyond the treeline, the roof of the plantation house that Jim broke into is visible.
Avery rings the alarm again to let Belle know she's going to make the final approach and banks hard to starboard swinging them around. The deck tilts to a forty-five degree angle, and she raises the altitude a little.
They pull ahead of the charging guards and hover above Jim. Belle drops the rope ladder for him. This isn't the first time they've had to perform an airborne rescue. It comes with the job. Or rather, it comes with the dangerous jobs the Red Kites tend to take on.
The guns blaze until they're empty, but luckily there aren't many of them. Unluckily, guns aren't the only thing their attackers have at their disposal. One of them triggers something on the backpack he's wearing, and jets of steam shoot out the bottom sending him soaring into the air. More of them follow suit, flinging themselves at the Emperor.
A goon reaches the railing of the upper deck before his pack dies on him with a cough of black smoke. There's a slight sway from the extra weight, but it grows when others grab onto the hull. The ship lists to the port side and Avery yanks the wheel and increases the upward thrust to compensate. But keeping the ship in the air and on course is only one of her problems.
They've been boarded.
The intruder clears the railing, plants his work boots on the deck, and adjusts his ascot cap. With his twill pants and heavy cotton shirt, he's indistinguishable from hundreds of other manual laborers from the docks or the railway line, except for the wicked blade he pulls from the scabbard at his side.
"Shit," Avery curses under her breath and leaps from the platform, drawing her cutlass. Two more men latch onto the railing and the sudden pitch sends her flying into her adversary. Only the clash of their blades halts her skid. The man's stronger than her but not as skilled. They parry off two or three times deflecting each other's swords in a quick flurry, but then he over extends and gives Avery her opening. Instead of stabbing or slicing, she lunges in and clips he jaw with the hilt. He reels back, overbalanced by the cogs and clockwork in his steam-pack. When his blade is spread wide from his body, she spins and kicks out, catching his forehead with the sharp heel of her boot.
He hangs in midair and the faltering ship moves out from under him, leaving nothing but open air and the hard ground far below.
Avery races for the control platform but it's an uphill climb. The Emperor is swirling in wide circles, the field beneath them growing closer. She reaches the controls at the same time as another thug, who gut punches her pitching her back the way she came, but not before she's able to crank the lever for the upward turbines.
The ship moans as it takes on an unnatural angle with only the starboard side of the nose pointing up. Her attacker skitters down the deck with the new and unexpected slant. But his companion leaps forward to take his place, a long hunting knife in his hands. He keeps low like a trained knife scrapper as he crab-walks toward her.
From the lower deck Belle is screaming. If there are words to it, Avery can't make them out. She wants to help but is already juggling to many problems of her own.
She steps into the range of the man's blade letting him lash out. She dodges it smoothly and plunges her cutlass through his shoulder. The knife drops and when she swings her sword in a practiced arc at his knees, so does he. The wounded man screams as he goes spinning and sliding down to the stern picking up velocity until he's moving faster than the Emperor's top speed. When he hits the railing, his body jackknifes over, and he drops yelling in terror the whole way down.
There's only one left but he's clinging to one of the air-tank struts to keep from suffering the same fate as his friend. They're in a decaying tailspin, and it's only a matter of time before they crash. The wind gusts like a hurricane from their momentum, and the flying-machine sounds as though it's being torn apart.
Avery makes for the controls, but now it's more of a wall leading to it than a slope. She's sweating and breathing hard as she climbs and claws her way up. She finally reaches it and pulls herself into the seat, strapping herself in. The steps required to straighten out their flight are more than she can count, so she goes through them methodically, only thinking about the one that needs doing as she does it.
She pulls out of their descent and the air-ship slowly starts to even out. Once they're moving up and forward again, the nose is aimed at the big white house. God only knows what sort of cannons they have for protection. It's certainly not something Avery is anxious to learn. So, she veers away, gaining more altitude. With a sigh of relief, they leave land behind and sail off over the Atlantic Ocean.
Jim stumbles up on deck. He looks like he's taken a few ringers to the noggin and not quite steady on his feet, a boxer in a fight that should have been called two round ago. With no sense of hurry, he pulls his old cavalry Colt from it's holster and cracks it open, sending spent shells scattering around at his feet. He pulls a single bullet from this belt and slams it into the chamber. His fully extended arm moves with the stability of a rolling wave as he aims. The .45 shot bursts like dynamite and catches the remaining thug in mid-sprint before he can rach Avery. The body drops and the thirsty boards drink up his pooling blood.
"Thanks for keeping my seat warm, Toots," he says, striding up to the control platform.
Avery turns from him and frowns. She hates when he calls her that and she detests leaving the controls that sing so wonderfully under her touch. But she undoes the harness and yields the captain's chair.
Jim digs in his ear to clear some wax. "Not bad flying," he tells her. High praise from him. "One of these days you might be nearly as good as me." He draws a cigar from out of his pocket and spits away the end. He gestures to it, then the body. "The deck needs swabbing," he says. "And don't worry. I capped the others that got in the lower decks."
As Avery goes to get the mop, Jim lights his stogie. With it clenched tight in his teeth, he says, "Now, lets go get our reward." With one hand on the wheel and the other patting the bag with the stolen statue, they fly toward home and Boot Bay.
The sun is an orange ball low in the sky just above the palm trees, and the three heroes sit at their usual table and sip their usual drinks at Matty's Beach Bar. Jim's got his beer and drinks it sloppily from the long-neck bottle. Avery sticks to spiced rum, neat. And little Belle sips at her multi-colored, multilayered Singapore Sling. They've earned them.
After landing, Jim and Avery headed straight to Mr. Lee's with the jade statue they'd stolen for him. Mr. Lee was the biggest opium dealer in the state and owned a gambling hall near Okeechobee Lake. He only paid them half of what they agreed to, but it seemed fair enough if it meant avoiding a second fight that day. Belle had stayed behind to survey the damage, and by the time they got back she'd patched most of the bullet holes and had re-tuned the engines.
Belle was the best mechanic in the business. And she was the one to take the tanks from two pathetic mini-Zeppelins and turn them into the propulsion system of the Emperor. Although, she was too modest to ever brag about it.
She'd been a greasy mess when they met back up at the air-dock, but you'd never know it with how prim and neat she is now. Her changed clothes are identical in style as the ones she had on earlier. Like a uniform, she always wore the same schoolmarm attire of a floor length, black wool skirt and a lacy white blouse. The only accessory being the black ribbon tied at her collar.
Toby, the local boy with a crush on her, comes up to the table. His slight frame floats in a too big dress shirt. And even without the bow-tie and glasses, he'd look bookish. Whenever anyone asks what he does, if anyone ever asks, he's happy to proclaim that he's a clerk at the radio station but one day he'll be a reporter.
Jim gives him the stink eye, but he's staring too intently at Belle to notice. "Um," he starts off demonstrating the full extent of his confidence. "I was wondering...with next weekend being the Forth of July and all, I was wondering...well, if maybe I could buy you a soda and we could go on some of them rides at the boardwalk...and um... maybe watch the fireworks together."
Belle looks as though she wants to crawl under the table to escape. But finally she works up the courage to say, "I'm sorry, Toby, but I think I have to work that day." Her voice is squeakier than when it's just the Kites talking. She gives a pleading look to Jim for him to corroborate the lie, but there's no help there. He's busy checking out the waitress, Gloria, as she wipes down a table. Bent forward, her shirt sags open, and she's flashing cleavage.
Avery says, "Yeah. It's a shame. We're running a few tourists down to the Keys for the weekend. Won't be back until Tuesday at the earliest.
"Oh, another time then." Toby slinks off to the bar, where Matty is ready for him with another beer. The leathery, sun-baked bartender pats him on the shoulder and says, "You'll get her next time, Champ."
Belle mouths the words, "Thank you," to Avery, who gives her a little smile as if to say, "Any time, my poor shy girl."
But her mood turns serious as she looks out to the horizon. She downs the rest of her rum, appraising the dark clouds and roiling seas. Lightning strikes crackle a good hundred leagues off the shore, but they're moving in fast.
"Storm's coming," She says.
sereminar· Oct 22, 2020
