Bethany’s hands were grated and split by the line, blood running down her sleeves and dripping on her face. Not all of it was hers, the men above were no better off;the line was braided with steel and may as well have been razor wire. A few shouts rose from beneath her, followed by a long cry as two sailors fell away. The row of climbers stopped for a moment, some looking down but most looking up to see how far was left. For the men at the top it was but an arshin. Boyle covered it in a lunge, his hands transferring from the line to the bowing steel beam where the grapnel had landed. He hauled himself up until his belly was across it, then rotated to lay lengthwise on the beam. He rolled onto his back and carefully sat up.

“What do you see?” Farley called.

“Bags, sir, of gas I suppose, no men, sir. There’s a gangway just here.”

“Can you reach it?”

“Aye, sir.”

Boyle did not need to be told, he stood and leaped to the gangway, catching its railing. His footfalls rang on the long, thin piece of metal, he seemed to be looking about for something. He stopped moving at last and called, “start to come up, I’ve fixed some more lines to the gangway should anyone slip and I will help you cross the gap.”

Farley was immediately behind Boyle. Weighed down with weapons and with far less time in the rigging, he nearly fell to his death twice but managed to hook one arm and one leg to the gangway railing. Boyle helped him cross it. The two men received the remaining marines easily enough, with every man that boarded the task was simplified as there were more arms on hand to guide, lift, and catch.

A few sailors lay between Bethany and the gangway. They boarded nimbly and finally she found herself partly inside the airship. Its torn skin billowed in the cold wind, the edges whipping her face.

Boyle leaned out to her, extending both hands, “come along now gently.”

As Bethany reached for him his head burst. She did not hear the rifle shot that caused it, but heard the next, which hurtled down the gangway only to miss high. Boyle’s body slumped over the rail and began to slip downward until it came free entirely. Still clinging to the line, Bethany leaned clear of it but a man beneath her was not so quick and the corpse smacked into his shoulder, plucking him from the line.

“Everybody keep calm down there!” Farley barked.

Spent casings fell on Bethany as the marines worked to eliminate the party - by sound alone there had to be more than one - of Bexarians that had turned up to prevent the boarding. At last Farley slung his smoking carbine and took the very same position as Boyle at the rail. Bethany grasped his hands and he hauled back, not enough to bring her over but sufficient to transfer her to the edge of the gangway. Her feet locked under the lowest rail, Bethany wiped her bloody hands on her coat then swung over.

Farley looked up and down the gangway, “Shannon, Witold, assist me here, the rest of you cover both approaches.”

Bethany crouched behind a small rank of marines, drawing her carbine. They were at the base of the airship’s structure, its lower keel directly beneath the gangway. From the keel rose ring after ring of thin steel connected by lattices of brass and braided metal guy-wires. Among all of this were bags of gas secured to the lattices with ropes at each end. At least a third were deflated, holed by shellfire. Others wheezed, leaking slowly from bullet holes or sharp bits of the airship’s battered skeleton. Daylight flooded in from tens of holes in the airship’s outer skin, the gangway and much of the structure twisted and split by the fall of shells. Many of the holes were also on fire about their outer edges and a large blaze crackled behind Bethany, at the destroyed tail.

Bethany and the ranks of marines were pushed further and further out as the clutch of sailors behind them widened until the line was empty of men.

“How many have we got?” Farley asked.

“I counted four falling, sir,” a sailor reported.

“...and Mr. Boyle,” another added softly.

Badrine, one of the last on the line, appeared and pushed through the crowd until he stood in front of Farley. He produced the sketch plan from his breast pocket and oriented himself.

This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

“We must go to the bridge and force a descent, to do that we jam the pitch controls in their forward-most position and engage the screws. We will have to pray there is enough authority left in the rudder and enough steam for that to have any effect.”

Farley grimaced, “if it does not?”

“Then we shall destroy these gas bags and ride this creature all the way to the sea, it will bear the impact better than Fletch, but it will still be destroyed, as for whether that is enough to save us, I cannot say. As it stands, if we gain control, we may yet take it and deliver it as ordered.”

Farley looked up at the airship’s tattered skin and creaking structure, “very well, we shall make for the bridge. Three men stay and guard this line, do not allow them to cut it.”

They moved down the gangway, forced into single file with Farley and his shotgun at the head. There was no sound other than their footfalls and the rush of wind through the airship’s wounds. As they passed through the center of the vessel Farley stopped so short that the marine behind him staggered. Farley swung his shotgun up as if he was about to shoot a bird, scanning the nest of gas bags, steel, and wire. Somewhere above a self-loading pistol opened up, its first round entering Farley’s right leg, the next killing the marine behind him. Farley dropped to his good leg and returned fire. The line behind him withered, ducking or taking rounds. One sailor mantled the gangway rail, falling into the airship’s skin just below. Others took a more considered approach, moving slowly to the still narrower gangways that branched from the spine and climbed the airship’s side.

To Bethany, every shot sounded like ten as the report echoed off the beams. There was a dead man nearly atop her, she got free in time to see a Bexarian come running from a branching gangway. She drew her pistol and killed him but not before he struck a sailor across the brow with a large wrench. The sailor recoiled, falling from the gangway and into the envelope, too near a rip. Dazed, he scrabbled against the cloth for something to hold on to. Finding nothing he slipped with a yelp out of the airship. Bethany climbed over the dead Bexarian, moving onto a sidelong gangway.

“To starboard and above us!” Farley shouted. Bethany and the rest searched the catwalks and gas bags for Bexarians, seeing none until they announced themselves by opening fire. It was all bolt action rifles, a stilted firing rhythm but deadly enough. Another sailor fell, alive but too injured to hold his carbine. Bethany put her sights on the culprit’s chest and fired. The round struck high, entering above the clavicle and burrowing through his neck and head. His body crumpled and the man beside him dropped his rifle to minister to him. As he turned a marine shot him in the back. He screamed and fell from the catwalk, coming to rest atop a gas bag, his blood running down both sides. The pack of Bexarians began to scatter, some falling back and others advancing in search of better lines of sight. Two of the latter positioned themselves on a catwalk, laying flat, their rifles rested on its edge. From this stable point they poured fire onto Farley and the others still on the gangway.

A marine with a bullet hole just below his wrist sprung up, firing on them one handed with his carbine before dropping it to draw his revolver, “take them! Take them now!” he pleaded. As the Bexarians focused on him, one pausing to reload his rifle, Bethany, Badrine, and two sailors opened fire. They hit the reloading man but the other stood, he began to move toward them but stopped when the airship let out a deep groan. All of the firing died away as the combatants cast about for the source of the noise.

A whip-crack resounded through the airship, followed by another groan. A few arshins in front of Farley a ring of guy wires began to give way. Some broke free from their mounts, others tore in their middles. They flailed, colliding with beams or tearing gas bags. The hoop of steel and brass they supported began to buckle. It collapsed entirely, taking the gangway and an arshin wide strip of skin with it as it crashed through the bottom of the airship. The vessel shuddered violently and began to twist lengthwise, like a train rounding a corner, held together only by a few catwalks and surviving beams near the top.

Farley raised himself up using the gangway rail. Employing an empty carbine as a walking stick he hobbled aft, inspecting the bloodied line of marines and sailors.

“There’s no going forward this way,” Badrine pronounced, meeting him. The engineer was exhausted but not wounded.

Farley did not reply at once, stooping to turn a sailor who lay on his belly in a pool of blood. Finding him dead, he rose and said: “what then? Do we evacuate?”

“If you wish but we might yet continue. There is a gangway like this one atop the airship, for line handling in port, I believe.”

“Atop, you mean above us?”

“Of course but not only that, it is outside.”

Farley sat, he beckoned Bethany to him. As she approached he went on speaking with Badrine, “how is it accessed?”

“We must go to the uppermost catwalk, then there is a ladder.”

Farley grunted, “that was my concern. I will not make it on this leg. I will fall back to guard the line and send the men I left there forward to assist you. That is if they will go.”

“If they will go sir?”

“I am not going to order any man to go on with this, if I see it, Mr. Badrine, then you must...” Farley pointed at the gaping rip in the airship’s hide and structure... “this thing might come apart any second, we’re trying to occupy a house afire. The wounded should be taken down to Fletch, I will send for a stretcher and tackle to lower them.”

Bethany arrived.

“Are you injured?” Farley inquired.

“No.”

“Would you like to evacuate?”

Bethany surveyed the interior of the airship, then looked down. Through a rip Fletch was plainly visible, swaying on her lines. Beneath her the sea and Hegalia were blurs, partly hidden by clouds. She had no quick way of figuring the distance but judging by how small the island was it had to be greater than a verst.

He was asking her where she preferred to die.

“Is there a way to reach the bridge?” she inquired.

“Yes, Mr. Badrine and I were just discussing that.”

“Then I shall stay if others are.”

“...and you Mr. Badrine?”

“I won’t evacuate, no.”

Farley stood.

“There is yet a way to reach the bridge, we might complete our orders,” he announced, “...but in light of your wounds and the precarious state of this vessel, any man who wishes to evacuate may do so. I cannot lead you further, if you proceed it will be with Mr. Badrine and Miss Esterhouse.” Farley began limping aft, “the evacuees are to follow me, the rest stay here.”

Of those who could stand, the bulk followed Farley. Two marines approached their captain, spoke with him, shook hands, then returned to Bethany and Badrine. Three sailors, one badly bleeding from a graze to his temple, joined them. They looked about, hoping to see more men follow suit. When none did the bleeding sailor started to walk off but a marine grabbed him firmly by the shoulder, “you had your chance, don’t turn a coward now,” he admonished.

Behind them, at the line, Farley sat, feeding more shells into his shotgun. He sent an uninjured sailor down with orders and a few others began to descend of their own accord.

Farley nodded to Badrine who replied, “we’ll be back soon enough.”