The spyglasses tilted skyward, as did every head on the ship. From the wall of the storm, nearly half a verst high, came a gray vessel in the shape of one of Badrine’s cigars. Its details were muddled by the steam and cloud that wreathed it, but there could be no doubt it was man-made, its progress was too deliberate and its lines were too crisp to be anything else.

“What sort of wizardry is this?!” Granger demanded. The sailors about him were backing away from the forecastle, repulsed by the approaching shape. Badrine moved upstream until he was beside Granger, “I fear it may be science sir. Such things, ships of the air, have been demonstrated before, only as models though, nothing larger than a railway car, and tethered to the ground.”

Granger turned to him, his eyes narrowing, “how could they possibly...”

He was interrupted by a flash from the lower prow of the vessel. The crack of gunfire following a split-second later. “To the deck! Brace yourselves!” he called.

Bethany saw only the shining teak as she hugged the deck. A crash came and the ship bucked. The teak turned red. Fletch hissed and groaned, a revolting hum, steel stressed too far, rang out from the masts and hull. Not a soul on deck moved, they waited for the next shot, their silence broken only by the screams of the wounded. When none came, Granger cried “report!”

He was sitting on the deck, his stick had been knocked from and without it he could not stand. Boyle appeared with the stick and hoisted him. Badrine bolted past, and Granger began haltingly to order: “sound the...” when the panting Chief Engineer interjected: “I am going below to sound the ship now, sir!”

Bethany, who was still flat on the deck, rose and looked aft. Tess had taken fire as well, her mainmast was shot away halfway up its length, covering her deck in a rat’s nest of rigging and ripped sail. The same spears that had ravaged Perezvon had been set loose against the two ships. Tess had taken the brunt of them, whether this was a matter of targeting or simply because she was larger, Bethany did not know. They jutted from her deck, spaced every few arshins, and had ripped her hull in several places. She began to walk toward the fantail for a better look, hoping to see the great cabin somehow untouched, when a sailor grabbed her. “Careful, miss!” he shouted, pointing down. Bethany followed his finger and saw a great hole, as wide as one of the spears, gouged into the deck a step before her. It ran all the way to the keel, the very bottom of the ship was open to the sea. The light of a lantern appeared inside it, revealing Badrine, soaking wet and blackened with soot and grease. He stood on the edge of the wound two decks below, water up to his waist.

He looked up at her, wordlessly, for a long while, then called out, “pass the word to Mr. Granger, if we take no more fire we can float on our pumps for an hour or so!”

The sailor who had stopped Bethany shouted down, “can it be patched up sir?”

“Not in combat, not in these seas!”

The sailor went ashen, composed himself, and turned to Bethany, “you had better go to your cabin, Miss, I’ll tell Mr. Granger.”

“My cabin will not stop one of those abominations,” Bethany replied, indicating a spear lodged in the hull near the fantail. “I am sure you have other duties, I will tell him.”

Bethany found Granger standing at the tip of the superstructure, just forward of the bridge, so that he might easily shout up to it. “Put her hard over...” he was demanding, “then keep up a reverse course but not a straight one, bear off to either side as often as you can we must keep her from fixing our range and speed!”

“Mr. Granger, sir,” Bethany began when he seemed to finish.

“Why are you on deck, we might be fired on again at any moment,” Granger admonished.

“Sir, Mr. Badrine wishes me to tell you that we can stay afloat for at best one hour, if we take no more fire.”

Fletch was beginning the sharpest turn she could manage. As she did so the flooding gave her a precarious list.

“Gentle now!” a stoker barked from the engine room skylight, “we can barely keep the crown wet as it stands! You’ll kill us all!”

“What does he mean?” Bethany asked.

Granger looked past her, unblinking.

“Sir! Should I back off the turn? Sir!” the helmsman demanded.

“It’s the water in the boiler, it must be broadly level or the boiler shall explode,” Granger muttered, without looking at her. He took a breath and turned to face the airship, plainly visible in the distance. He stared at it with his eyes, and again with his spyglass, Fletch’s list deepening all the while. He lowered his spyglass and closed it, returning it smartly to his belt.

Stolen novel; please report.

“Helm!” he began, “stop engine, straighten our course!”

The helmsman hesitated, but did as ordered. Farley was hurrying aft, carrying a wounded man, when Granger stopped him, “pass the word to strike the colors.”

“Sir?” Farley questioned.

“I may be old enough to go the way of the Carillon, but I’m not going to spend all of our lads lives tilting at a giant. Go and strike the colors, please.”

Farley nodded, “I will see it done, sir.”

Granger was leaning so hard on his stick that it began to creak. He resettled himself, then, with a grunt, sat on the deck, his back against the superstructure.

“Bethany dear, I shouldn’t trouble you with this but there may not be time to find someone else. Go to my quarters, take the books bound in red, there should be three, they are records of private signals, take also the charts, and our log, put them in a sack with some chain or a shell, and throw them overboard.”

“I will do it right away,” Bethany assured him.

Bethany left him. Leaning against the superstructure, his uniform dirty with blood and soot, his stick across his lap, he looked like an old beggar. She hastened to his cabin, about to open the door when two shots burst from the deck of Tess. Shells screamed over Fletch at a very high angle, and Bethany saw that the barquentine’s gun crews had raised the muzzles of their pieces so greatly that the breeches touched the deck.

“You fools!” Farley cried, Fletch’s struck ensign gathered in his hands, “we’ve struck, it is done, can’t you see!”

Bethany wheeled around to follow the flight of the shells, they reached their apex far from the airship and fell into the sea. The airship appeared to accelerate. A flurry of shots bloomed from its prow. Bethany rushed into Granger’s cabin, hiding herself beneath the table. The impacts came an instant later. A spear pierced the roof of the cabin, stopping against Granger’s bunk.

“Ahead full! She won’t accept our surrender now!” Granger barked. Bethany crawled out of the cabin, into a mess of rigging from the mizzen. It still stood but the boom for the mainsail had been shot away. Freezing seawater touched her hands. Recoiling, she stood. As Fletch accelerated her stern dug into the ocean, but, partly flooded and tugged on by Tess, went too far. The waves over-topped her taffrail.

Farley emerged, bleeding, from beneath a piece of sailcloth, he still clutched the ensign. He stole a glance at Bethany then ran forward. She followed.

Farley stopped before the Sailing Master, leaning over him, “Mr. Granger, you’re right to run but we must cut the tow line. Tess is too heavy with water, she will doom us both.”

“Is she still afloat?” Granger asked.

“Yes, for now, but she is surely flooding fast.”

“Get the speaking trumpet, have her launch her boats and transfer her surviving complement to us...”

“Sir, there isn’t...”

“I am giving you an order, Mr. Farley.”

Farley went aft once more. The airship fired again.

“Turn! Turn!” Granger barked.

Fletch’s helm went hard over, her deck was swamped from her stern to her funnel and she quivered, hanging just on the point of capsizing. Bethany slipped in the cold water, catching the gunnel in time to avoid going into the sea. A flock of spears passed over the ship, one breaking the tip of her foremast. Tess’s helm was empty, she had not turned with Fletch and wallowed gracelessly on the end of the line. The shots, meant for the pair of raiders slammed into her alone. Her masts fell, towers of water rose from her middle as the weapons cut to her keel.

Farley looked forward, “Mr. Granger!”

Granger had risen. He began to totter aft, giving up after less than an arshin and clutching the gunnel. He tried to extend his spyglass but his freezing, wet hands dropped it to the deck.

“Very well! Cut the line!” he stammered.

Bethany heard an ax ring against the taffrail. Fletch jolted and her stern rose. She quickly accelerated. The airship turned slightly, bringing what appeared to be its main gun to bear. It boomed. Freed from the weight of Tess, Fletch made the tightest turn she was built for. It was not quite enough. A single shell burst three arshins from her side, amidships. Splinters of metal and wood buzzed across the deck, just above Bethany’s head. A man next to her, who had tried to duck below the gunnel fell dead, half of his head missing. The turn ceased abruptly.

“Helm! Helm! Come about! We must make for the storm and hope it hides us!” Granger shouted. The helm did not answer, Fletch tracked straight. Bethany looked up in time to see the Sailing Master hobble to the bridge ladder and climb it using only his hands, his wounded leg and the other dangling unused. At the top he grasped the helm to haul himself the rest of the way, tossing the ship into another turn. Steadying himself he steered toward the great, gray wall of cloud. Bethany ran to the taffrail. Tess was down terribly at her bow. Her bowsprit had disappeared into the sea and masses of debris and dead men tumbled down the deck. One boat was being manned. It was lashed upside down to a small deck-house and a few men surrounded it, working to cut it free. The only other activity on the deck was a small clutch of men about a gun. They raised it to slam a shell into the breech, then dropped its backside to the deck, aiming at the airship. They fired, then ran toward the boat, not waiting to see where their shot landed. Bethany caught sight of it as it overflew her and followed it. It peaked and began its descent, but did not reach the sea, instead striking the airship’s middle. A hollow hurray rose from the raiders which the airship quickly silenced. Responding with a single shell of its own it ripped Tess in half, tossing her stern several arshins into the air. It sank instantly upon landing and her bow followed a moment later. The splintered top of her foremast was the last of her to ever see sunlight, its vanishing heralded by a rush of bubbles churning corpses and sailcloth to the surface.

The storm grew closer quickly, Fletch was wounded, but her fire burned just as hot, and she devoured verst after verst. As she did so she forced more water into her hull, settling lower and bleeding grease and sea from her scuppers while Badrine fussed over the pumps. Since dispatching Tess the airship had fired twice and missed twice owing to the sharp, alternating turns Granger put his ship through. Each one ended with a deeper list. Bethany sat with her back against the taffrail. For long stretches she did not know where or who she was, and when she did, she could only think of asking Farley for a spyglass so she might look for survivors from Tess. She could not see him, and could not stand, nor hold the thought long enough to act, so she remained slumped, her eyes blank and wide.

Boyle approached her, limping with a bandaged arm. He shouted something she did not hear, then reached down and lifted her. Bethany thumped against his back for a moment, then went limp. She would let him take her below or to her cabin, or wherever, she hoped only that it would be warm, she would prefer to die warm. Clotilde had drowned, or been crushed, or floated until she had simply frozen, no matter, she had been cold. Boyle dropped her, while dropping himself to the deck. Bethany landed on her back and gazing at the gray morning sky as the shadow of a shell fell on her. It burst. Fletch writhed.

“We’ve too much flooding in the stokehold! I have to shut her down! I’m sorry!” Badrine called from below. The dampers slammed shut and a rush of steam went up the funnel as Fletch’s speed dropped precipitously. Just before Bethany, Boyle stood, pushing a dead sailor off his chest. “Mr. Granger, what are your orders, sir?”

Farley asked much the same, rushing to the bridge. He reached it and stood silent for a moment.

“Somebody fetch the steward!” Farley demanded.

Taking on that mission a sailor rushed below, stepping on Bethany’s arm. She tried to stand, managing to on the third try. She floated toward the bridge, looking flatly ahead.

“Is something the matter with Mr. Granger?” she inquired, as the steward arrived.

Boyle took her hand as if to steady her, “look for yourself.”

The Sailing Master was alive, but a part of the foremast, sheared off by the last blast, had struck his torso. He was bleeding badly and could not stand, only his arms hooked into the ship’s wheel kept him upright. Farley shouted some question to him, he moved his head, but trying to speak produced only a bubbling glob of blood from his mouth. As the steward scaled the ladder to the bridge the airship fired again. Granger cranked the wheel over, and the shot missed wide. His grip on the helm loosened and he let himself fall, giving a final tug to put his ship back on course. By the time the steward remounted the ladder and reached him, he was dead.

Fletch passed into the storm.