Children of the Storm, Part 1

An adventure in the world of The Ace of Redwater Bay

Blood from the gash in my forehead dripped into my left eye, blurring my vision. I dared not take a hand off the control yoke to wipe it away. I did my best to blink it away with limited success. The Wainwright TP-6 Pelican shuddered as the winds from the power storm buffeted the airframe. Purple lightning flashed across the clouds at random intervals, each one accompanied by the rumble of thunder.

“Come on, girl,” I said to the aging seaplane, “keep it together.” I gripped the yoke so tightly that my knuckles turned white.

A groan of pain came from the right seat where Harold Dumas sat, his huge, limp body bouncing to the rhythm of the turbulence. He slumped uselessly in the chair. His blood pooled and sloshed on the floor underneath him, mainly from his hastily amputated left leg. I had done my best to secure him before we took off, but the restraints were coming loose thanks to the shaking. This meant that he was jostled more than he should be, given his condition. It had to hurt.

The plane dipped sharply as we hit another pocket of shifting air current. The metal structure groaned as though commiserating with Harold. Cries came from the two children huddled together in the seat behind me. I regained control of the Wainwright and checked my instruments, paying particular attention to the newest gauge: the attitude indicator. With visibility as bad as this, it was important to keep the plane level. Off to my left I caught sight of a faint glow of sunlight behind the dark, angry clouds. I gently turned the yoke and applied left rudder, slowly moving the nose of the twin-engine propeller airplane toward the glow and salvation. The winds within the storm were already bad enough. A sharp turn in these conditions could inadvertently cause the airplane to stall, making a bad situation worse. After leveling off, I stole a quick glance at the children and then at our other passenger in the third row. Like Harold, she lay unconscious though in considerably better shape than my oversized and out-of-commission co-pilot.

“It’ll be okay,” I said to the children, raising my voice over the cacophony, not quite believing my own words. I wasn’t sure what else to do. I wasn’t a father, and I had no idea how to keep children calm. The closest I came to that was being an oldest son. I recalled a memory from years ago and a nursery rhyme I had once used to calm my younger brother during his own moment of panic.

“Focus on my words and repeat after me,” I said, adopting a tone similar to what my father used when reading to us at night. “Oh, bright and shimmering star, how wonderful you are.”

The boy and girl hesitated for a moment and then said the words, albeit with an edge of fear in their voices. I paused after every sentence to let them repeat it.

“The traveler in the dark, thanks you for your little spark. He could not see which way to go, if you did not sparkle so. In the dark blue sky, you keep, and often through my curtains peep. For you never shut your eye, ‘til the sun is in the sky.”

The children repeated the words, and it seemed to calm them if only a little.

“Great! Now keep saying them with me,” I said and started again.

The glow drew nearer, and my hope rose. If we made it out of these clouds and the turbulent wind, we had a chance to limp our way back to Port Sauval, or, at the very least, calmer waters. Then a bright purple flash filled my vision as a bolt struck the nose of the airplane. A loud boom followed right on its heels. My eyes hurt and my ears rang.

As my sight and hearing slowly returned, I heard a noise that made my gut turn. One of the overwing engines began to sputter. I glanced out the left window and saw smoke pouring out from gaps in the engine covering. The propeller stammered in time with coughs from the pistons.

Then I felt a familiar sensation in my stomach as the plane lurched forward. The altimeter verified my fears: we were starting to fall.

~*~

Earlier That Day

Palm trees swayed to and fro lazily as a light breeze blew in from the sea and through the streets. It cooled the air under the high noon sun and made for a pleasant walk as I made my way through Port Sauval. Like any large city on the continent, it had its own unique blend of sights and smells. Street vendors sold all manner of cooked fish and other seafood delicacies alongside myriad tropical fruits and treats. Diesel exhaust and cigarette smoke, of course, added their own tang to the swirling mix. The city’s architecture involved a lot of arches, terracotta roofs, and white stucco walls. Interestingly, the populace had also integrated and repurposed much of the ruins from some ancient civilization. The result was a strange hodgepodge of new and old structures.

While the roads featured a few sedans and trucks, most of the vehicles were creative reimaginings of motorcycles or tractors. I knew something of the typical accoutrement of the area and had traded most of my clothes in for items better suited to the climate. I’d chosen a sensible outfit of beige trousers, light blue polo shirt, and brown leather boots as my outfit. I also wore a brown flat cap to keep my mess of blonde hair under control. With people living here from all over the world, Port Sauval was something of a melting pot with a variety of cultures living side by side. Still, I felt like I stood out compared with the denizens of the city. Something about what I wore, my demeanor, or even my complexion attracted more attention than I care for. I’d had to chase off some boys who had taken an interest in my trunk.

I had disembarked earlier that morning after making the long flight from coastal Saint Christopher in the Aubrein Sovereignty far to the north. The trip aboard the Thurman rigid airship had been comfortable but agonizingly slow, taking roughly two-and-a-half days from start to finish. An attractive woman named Julia made for a nice distraction part of the time; we shared a few drinks and good conversation. I spent the rest of the trip reading books and going over the plans for my relocation to the island city of Port Sauval. After bidding Julia and the airship goodbye, I found a man named Phillipe that took me to my hotel. He drove something best described as the unholy marriage of a horse cart and the front half of an old McKinley V-twin motor bike. While not the most pleasant of vehicles, its driver deftly navigated the busy streets with ease and earned him a decent tip for his efforts.

After settling into what was intended to be my home for the next couple of months, I had run through my account books for perhaps the dozenth time. I saw no way around it: I would have to find work as soon as possible. With my military pension frozen for the time being and the cost of moving my life, such as it was, to an archipelago half a world away, cash was tight and becoming tighter. Moving grandfather’s old floatplane to Port Sauval took up the lion’s share of the costs, but cutting it would, in essence, hamstring my entire purpose for leaving the temperate climate of south Aubrein and the relative comfort of home in favor of the uncertainty and promise of adventure of Port Sauval and the rest of the Rougissant Archipelago.

So it was that I moved toward the Freelancers’ Bureau with a sense of purpose. From what I understood, it was the best place in the archipelago to find work for a pilot like me. Grandfather’s plane would not be here for another couple of months, so I had to bank on finding jobs with clients that had their own aircraft.

The Bureau sat on the corner of a busy street near the harbor within easy walking distance of the hotel. The building was a two-story stucco and terracotta number like most of its neighbors. After walking a couple of blocks, I tossed a few coins to a talented young busker with a guitar, crossed the street, climbed the short set of steps to the wooden double-doors, and went inside. A wide room abuzz with activity greeted me. Tables and chairs were haphazardly scattered around a flat stone floor with people negotiating terms and making deals. A haze of cigarette smoke hung in the air. Its smell mixed with sweat, rum, and old wood. It reminded me of the local pilots’ mess back in Aubrein. My kind of place.

Across the room was a set of what looked like bank teller stations or library circulation desks. Wooden pillars separated each station from the other and metal bars separated the personnel behind the desks from their clients. One station had a brunette manning it who looked cute in a bookish sort of way, so I started making my way toward her. She had pale skin, wore modest clothing, and put her hair back in a neat ponytail. Her round, wire rim glasses accentuated her lovely bright green eyes. Just as I was about to reach her desk, a man brushed past me and began talking at her.

“‘Ello luv,” he said in a scratchy voice with a heavy accent, “give us a job, yeah?” The man was tall and lanky and wore shabby coveralls. His cap sat askew on his head. He hadn’t shaved in a couple of days and smelled of body odor and cheap booze.

The girl behind the counter recoiled a little at his presence. “That’s not how it works, Larry, and you know it,” she said once she’d recovered and adjusted her glasses. “You can check the board like everyone else.” I had to hand it to her; she didn’t back down. She clearly knew how to handle herself. I liked this girl already.

“Aye, but it’s empty, innit?” He gestured toward a large, framed corkboard affixed to the wall to the right of the Bureau’s entrance. It was indeed empty. “I know ya got more of ‘em back there.”

“And you can have one of them once they’re posted to the board.”

Moving quicker than he seemed capable, he reached through the opening at the bottom of the bars and snagged her wrist. Pulling her closer, he said, “Come on, Essie. Ya know who I work for dontcha? Ya hafta give us priority, and me debts are piling up.”

She tried in vain to break his grasp. “Let go of me, Larry.”

“Not until you give me—”

“Excuse me,” I said, placing a hand on the man’s shoulder, “I believe she asked you to let her go.”

Larry’s beady eyes narrowed as he turned and looked me up and down. “And what if’n I don’t?”

I squeezed his shoulder hard, digging a thumb into a spot near his rotator cuff. He winced at the pain. “Then you get to find out what a desk tastes like.”

Larry let go of Essie and spun ‘round to shake off my grip. He regarded me again. “I dun know ya. Musta come off a boat this morn. And an Aubie to boot.” He sneered and rolled back one of his sleeves. “Gonna enjoy teachin’ ya how things work ‘ere.” I saw a tattoo on his forearm of a deranged looking octopus. A gang?

The people nearest us moved away, giving us space. I turned slightly and let my hands rest at my sides.

He balled up a fist and lunged. His knuckles came at me in a wide, sloppy arc. I blocked the blow with my right hand and drove my left elbow into his bulbous nose. His head snapped back, and he stumbled away. Blood dribbled from his nostrils. Somehow, his cap had stayed on.

He snarled, pulled a knife from a back pocket, and charged, trying to slash me. I let the slash go past and shot forward. I grabbed his knife-arm wrist with one hand and his shoulder with the other. I spun and pulled simultaneously and slammed his face against the desk with a meaty crunch. A tooth or two popped out of his mouth.

Larry dropped the knife and crumpled to the floor. This time, his cap fell off.

I was about to haul him out when the familiar clicking of a gun stopped me. I turned to see that a short, stocky man with a double-barreled shotgun had emerged from behind the fogged glass door that led to the back offices. The gun was aimed at my torso. One of the hammers had been cocked back, ready to fire.

“That’s enough, boys,” he said, resolute. “This is a place of business. Take it outside.” He had an accent I couldn’t quite place.

I held my hands up in a conciliatory gesture. “I’ve just arrived in town. I came to ask about work. Larry here was messing with the lady behind the counter.”

“He was trying to help me, Farad,” said Essie, indicating me. I liked her even more.

“That so?” the boss said and shifted his aim to Larry. “Get out. The amount of buckshot you leave with is up to you.”

Larry slowly pulled himself to his feet. He wiped his face, recovered his cap and knife, and trudged toward the exit nursing his jaw. As he passed by, he bumped into me and muttered, “Gonna remember this, ya git.”

I wiped his grime from my shoulder and let him leave.

Farad lowered the gun, gave me a grunt and a nod, and returned to the office. The rest of the room’s occupants resumed whatever they were doing, unfazed by the interruption.

I moved back to Essie’s window. “Sorry about that,” I said to her. “I have trouble being patient with a guy that treats a woman like that.” I gave her a wink and a smirk. “Especially cute ones.”

She blushed and straightened her glasses. “I appreciate the help, Mister...?”

“Connor Duncan.”

“Mister Duncan. I really do appreciate the help, but like I told Larry I can’t really help you with a job until it’s up on the board.”

“That’s alright...Essie, was it?”

She nodded.

“As I said, I’m new in town and trying to find work. I clearly have a lot to learn so maybe you can walk me through how this place operates.”

She brightened at this. “Oh! Sure, I can do that.”

She was about to speak when a new voice interrupted her. “Can you fly?”

I turned and saw a towering, barrel-chested man with a deep tan and a thick black mustache looking down at me with intense eyes. His arms were as big around as my head. His flight suit barely contained his bulk. The straps of his pilot cap hung loose, unbuckled.

“And who are you?” I asked.

“Someone needing a co-pilot.” He had a deep, gruff voice. “Can you fly?”

I regarded him, trying to decide what to make of the man.

“We’ve already been over this,” Essie said to the newcomer, sounding exasperated. “You can’t just come in here looking for freelancers off the books. You need to submit a job request.”

“Don’t have time. People are in trouble.”

“Yeah, I can fly,” I said.

“Any seaplanes?”

I shook my head.

He grimaced. “What have you flown?”

“A variety of things. Rensselaer 207, mostly.”

“Aubrein air force?”

I nodded. “Yep.”

“Any action?”

“Some. Skirmishes with the Masir and a few dustups with the Khaganate.”

He grunted. “Good enough.”

“Hold on!” shouted Essie. “Mister Duncan, you’re new, so I understand if you don’t know the process, but taking unsanctioned freelance work is risky. You won’t have any guarantees that you’ll be paid.” She adjusted her glasses again. “Besides, working for a transportation company without authorization borders on illegal.”

“Transportation company?” I asked.

“This gentleman works for McCormick Shipping.” She looked pointedly at the big man. “And he knows the rules.”

The man regarded her and said, “Tell Farad that Mac’s cashing in one of his favors.” To me, he said, “What she said is true, but we’re honest and always pay what’s owed. You need work and I have job needs doing. I won’t lie. It’ll be dangerous.”

“How dangerous?”

“We’re going to the edge of the eastern power storm.”

I heard a sharp intake of air from Essie. The room seemed to quiet a little as others looked at him slack-jawed.

Someone in the room muttered the word “suicide.”

“Th-that’s crazy!” said Essie, eyes wide.

What little I knew of power storms came mostly from primary school textbooks. In flight training, they taught us to stay away from them at all costs. They were basically massive hurricanes that came and went, always in the same places. When at full strength, the winds on the outer edges clocked in at hundreds of miles per hour. After they receded, they left behind deposits of energy crystals, a rare resource used to fuel the world’s largest ships and power plants. Power storms grew and receded with some measure of regularity. This was important for travelling across the Mér so that ships and aircraft could avoid them. It was also important for those brave souls that ventured to the lands affected by the storms to harvest the crystals. They had to wear special breathing equipment because the crystal give off toxic fumes. Was that the job he had in mind?

“Crystal harvesting?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Search and rescue.”

I blinked at that and regarded him again. His expression held a sense of urgency but was otherwise impassive.

I held out my hand. “What are we flying?”

His massive hand swallowed mine as he shook it. “Wainright TP-6.”

We started toward the door. “A Pelican? Oof. That’s a beast.”

He grunted and a hint of a smirk played on his lips. “In more ways than one.”

“What’s the pay?”

Just as we were about to step outside, I felt a tug at my shirt sleeve.

“Mister Duncan,” said Essie, breathless. She must have rushed through the back offices to catch up with us. “It’s your choice to take the job, and I won’t stop you. But please, take this for luck.” She held out a light blue scarf. Her eyes pleaded with me, and her cheeks reddened. “As thanks for earlier. It once belonged to a freelancer who retired an old man. That doesn’t happen often.”

Her offer caught me off guard. I touched the scarf. It was soft and sturdy, a proper pilot’s scarf.

I smiled and said, “It’d be a pleasure, Essie. Thank you.”

I tucked the scarf under my arm, took her hand, and kissed the back of it. Her face turned tomato red, and she pulled her hand away. “What...I...Y-you don’t have to do that.” She composed herself and said, “Just come back safe.”

“Of course,” I said and winked at her.

The big man rolled his eyes and strode through the door.

“Don’t do that,” he said once we were both outside. “Poor girl gets mistreated as it is.”

I frowned. “I wasn’t aiming to mistreat her.”

He grunted and looked me up and down. “You’ll need a change of clothes. Your place far away?”

“A couple of blocks,” I said. “I’m at the Mermaid Hotel.”

“Good. Get your stuff and go to the docks. Pier fourteen.”

“Roger that.”

“Oh, and watch yourself. The man you fought is a Lusca.”

“What’s a Lusca?”

“Local gang. If they don’t like you, they’ll make trouble.”

“Understood,” I said and made a mental note to get my Tooley 1911 .45 caliber pistol when I retrieved my flight gear.

As I turned to leave, I stopped and said, “I didn’t get your name.”

“Harold Dumas.” He started running down the street. “Pier fourteen and hurry.”

As he disappeared into the crowd I realized I’d forgotten to confirm how much the job paid. Day one in Port Sauval and I’d already pissed off a gang and made a rookie mistake on my first gig.

Good job, Connor, I thought to myself sarcastically. Off to a great start.

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