A Long Way Down

I scrambled out the hatch and on to the ladder, whirling and swaying through wisps of cloud as the ascension of the airship worked upon my flimsy perch. I shuddered. I hate the damp clinging of working in clouds. Luckily heights do not affect me so.

The Lincoln had burned down to the metal frame and crushed several streets of houses. I wondered where those families would go, with so much of the city burning. Below me, survivors of the American warship parachuted or rode escape balloons. The storm I raced here was catching up with me, and a strong wind blew the Americans out to sea, saving them from landing in the flaming city below.

The Mongols abandoned their attack on the Lincoln, although the lower War Wings still spiraling down to the ground worked to pick off the escaping Americans. Now they would concentrate on us. The Wings were coming, and in greater numbers now.

The nearest fellow was close enough I could see his face. He was grinning, aiming his arrow at me instead of the envelope. I fired; he fell. Reload, fire again. Reload. Fire. Reload. Fire.

I could see them all from the ladder, clinging and spinning in the deadly sky, but they could all see me. We rose steadily, leaving the earliest attackers behind. A load of ballast dumped from the Schöneluft caught one of the wind riders and knocked him from the sky. Water is heavy, especially falling from two hundred feet.

I fired into a line of them, killing the first and wounding the second. The third swooped towards me. Mein Gott! I must reload. His iron-tipped arrow pointed at my heart. As my fingers slid the shell into place, I wondered what it would feel like. A cut? A burn? How long would I feel the arrow as I slipped off the ladder and raced for the earth?

Clang! The man’s arrow flew wild and he slumped in his harness. A copper saucepan preceded his fall to earth. I spared a glance at the hatch above me. Chef leaned out, another saucepan at the ready, shaking his fist and screaming Gallic curses at the falling rider.

I think I may have been smiling. Am I irredeemably wicked, to enjoy such a thing? Perhaps. But I was flying, and fighting, and every moment that was not my last was sweet as honey.

Fire, reload, fire, reload, fire, reload. Around me the angry swarm. Arrows buzzed past, catching in my coat. But I moved with the motion of the Schöneluft, and my movements shook the ladder more. I was a moving target, random and hard to hit.

Then I loaded my last shell, aimed at the nearest Wing. He held no bow – I ignored him and aimed at the man behind him. I started to scramble up the ladder as my brain filled in where the bow wasn’t. The man was waving an axe! I grabbed the hot barrel of my gun, wrapped an elbow through the rungs, and swung. Too soon!