The Guns Above Page 5

  “They ain’t wrong, my lord. Luftgas ain’t flammable, which sets it apart from every other damn thing aboard an airship. Envelope, bags, gondolas, girders, rope, fuel, and, of course, gunpowder for the muskets and cannons. All it takes is a few embers blown from the boiler fire, or some fool forgetting to wet the martingales afore firing the cannon, and you’re looking at a long, hot plunge.”

  Bernat wanted to throw up. “And what of enemy action?”

  “Yes, my lord, every once in a while the enemy manages to sink an airship. Mostly we take care of that for ’em, though. More convenient all around.”

  Bernat stared at Jutes, looking for signs that the old airman was teasing him. He found none, and they continued for a while in silence. Halfway across the compact earth and yellow grass of the airfield, Bernat worked up his nerve again and asked, “Your family hails from Brandheim, yes? When did they come south?” A little idle chitchat might build a rapport.

  “Generations ago,” he said. “My—now, which was he?—my great-great-grandfather lived in southern Brandheim when it was taken by the Vins. He fled to Quah-Halach, which belonged to Brandheim at the time. When Quah-Halach rebelled, his son, my great-grandfather, sided with Brandheim, and when the rebellion looked like it was going to succeed, he couldn’t get back to Brandheim on account of there was Vin-occupied territory in the way, so he had to flee south, into Garnia.”

  Bernat was about to go into his own family’s long history, when he realized that Jutes wasn’t finished.

  “But my grandfather, a young buck at the time, didn’t like it in Garnia, so he ran back to Quah to join the rebels. They’d already won by the time he got there, though. So when Brandheim invaded independent Quah-Halach, aiming to take it back, he fought against Brandheim. But of course, Brandheim won that one, and didn’t take too kindly to Brandheimians fighting alongside the rebels. When they executed him, Grandma took the family back into Garnia, my father among them. He always said he wanted to run off and fight like Grandfather did, but when the Vins took Quah from Brandheim, he was too young; when Garnia took Halach from Brandheim, he was just married; and when Garnia took Quah from the Vins … well, by then he was too bloody confused about which side was which.”

  Bernat knew all the history from university lectures, but hearing the various wars and rebellions rattled off end to end made him wonder how there were any Quahnics or Halachians left alive. “And what did your father think of you joining the Garnian army?” he asked.

  “Well, he wasn’t happy,” Jutes said, “especially when I fought in the Halachia campaign. Though maybe he was a little consoled that a Jutes was finally fighting on the winning side of something. Though this war might put the lie to that.”

  “Surely not,” Bernat said. “Garnia hasn’t lost a war in three generations.”

  Jutes didn’t look convinced, but then, of course a Brandheimian would lack faith in Garnia, even though he was technically a native citizen. It was only natural—all the more natural, as the most recent war with Brandheim had only been last year.

  As they approached the squat medical building, Bernat saw the crew prospects teeming at the door. “If this business is so dangerous,” he asked Jutes, “why are there so many volunteers?”

  “You have to die of something, don’t you? And if it’s gonna be in the army, might as well be the Aerial Signal Corps, where the pay’s high and the girls in town hang on every word of your war stories.” He grinned. “Besides which, promotion here is faster than anywhere else in the service, on account of positions opening up so often.”

  “I see.” He turned his attention to the prospects. There were nearly a hundred of them gathered in front of the medical building, most wearing the sharp blue-and-brown uniforms of the Garnian army. A few already wore the coarse, more relaxed garb of airmen.

  Jutes stopped in front of the group and shouted, “All right, you lot, assemble!” Every man and woman among them turned toward him and scrambled into four ranks, standing ramrod straight. Jutes went on, “This here is strictly volunteer work. If some officer sent you here as punishment, or to get rid of you, you just march your ass right back and tell that bastard the air corps ain’t his personal flogging post.”

  After brief hesitation, six of the prospects stepped back from the ranks and slunk away. Jutes limped past the remainder, while Bernat kept what he hoped would prove to be a safe distance.

  As he walked, Jutes said, “Here are the rules. No one may serve on an airship ’less you make out a will first, and you may not serve if you’re married. If you get married after signing up, you will be kicked out of the air corps, and I will have to find a replacement for you. This will cause my cheerful disposition to sour, and I will discharge you from your service at a very great height, with the dearest hope that you land upon your new bride or groom.”

  He made it to the end of the ranks, where most of the female candidates had clustered, and turned toward them. “Women are permitted in this service as auxiliaries, and on rare occasions, they even end up being less trouble than they’re worth. Surely someone has already told you that women auxiliaries are not permitted to fire a musket or service a cannon, and that is a fact. Someone has also told you that, whenever practical, women auxiliaries are put off the ship before going into battle to ensure their safety, and that is a bloody lie. It has never been and shall never be practical to set anyone on the ground before a fight, and whoever came up with that daft regulation is carrying around cowpats where his bloody brains ought to be. If any of you women are selected, you will go into battle with the rest of us, and you will be shot at with rockets, and you will be shot at with cannons, and you will be shot at with muskets, and I ain’t met a bullet yet that’s shy of tits.”

  Jutes stopped, took a step back, and eyed each of the women in turn.

  “If any of that don’t sound like it appeals to you, then I suggest you go find a job in a brothel, where you can better serve the needs of the army.”

  All the women stood their ground, though several looked significantly grumpier than before. Even Bernat was feeling uncomfortable. It took a conscious effort not to squirm.

  “Still not moving, eh?” asked Jutes. “Well, feel free to sneak off when my back is turned. For any what stays and is picked, man or woman, you will receive a bonus of five rials, but almost all of that will go to the cost of your harness, helmet, goggles, and serge jacket. The weekly pay’s double what you get in the regular army, and any crewman under one hundred ninety pounds—and that’s including your baggage, ladies—is paid a weekly bonus for the difference, at two dinars per pound.”

  One of the bigger men shouted, “What if we’re over one hundred ninety pounds on account of muscle, Sarge?”

  Jutes shot him a look. “In your case, Luc Lupien, I’ll cut bits off you until you’re under.”

  This produced some chuckling in the ranks, which Jutes silenced with a glare.

  “Mechanics first. Go through this door and see the sawbones. If he likes the look of you, he’ll send you on to me. The rest of you wait here and think real hard about whether this is the right bloody place for you.” Jutes whistled at the big man who’d interrupted him. “Except for you, Corporal Lupien, ’cause you just volunteered to fetch my lunch. Talk to Lord Hinkal here.” He indicated Bernat with his thumb, then went inside.

  Bernat, flush with the ten liras he’d earned in advance of his first week of espionage, gave Lupien enough money for three meals and told the corporal to take one for himself, then ventured into the medical building. He found an examination room behind the first door and a small, sparse office behind the second, where Jutes was sitting at a desk.

  “Thought you’d be easier on the women,” Bernat said, “seeing how respectful you are toward Captain Dupre.”

  “It’s a hard service,” Jutes said. “Wouldn’t be doing ’em any favors by going easy on ’em. If it was up to me, I don’t think I’d let women in at all.”

  In this, Bernat saw an opening. He was
just about to inquire further when Jutes banged on the wall, in an apparent signal to the medical officer in the next room.

  “How long will the exam take?” Bernat asked, setting his other inquiries aside for the moment.

  “Not long, depending on the prospect,” Jutes said, as a paunchy, gray-whiskered man came through the door. Jutes rose to shake his hand. “Good to see you, Vincent.”

  “And you, Abdiel. You’re looking good.”

  “And you’re looking…” Jutes grinned. “Well taken care of.”

  Vincent laughed and smacked his belly. Instead of the jiggle that Bernat was expecting, the slap made a thump and the firm belly hardly moved.

  “Gears is yours if you want it,” Jutes said. He sat down and turned his paper around, offering a pen. “Mistral’s a revolutionary new design, though. I’ll understand if you refuse.”

  “To hell with it,” Vincent said, signing his name. “I’ve gone down three times already. A fourth doesn’t scare me.”

  That was too much for Bernat. “I don’t mean to interrupt,” he said, “but do you mean that you’ve been in three airship crashes and survived?”

  “No, my lord, I died on every occasion,” Vincent said. “By the third time, I’d become so inert, they had no choice but to make me an officer.”

  “Warrant officer,” Jutes said, looking at Bernat. “Vincent here is always putting on airs. And the thing he ain’t telling you is, he was probably the cause of all them crashes.”

  This earned a laugh from Vincent.

  “What do you think of the other prospects?” Jutes asked.

  “Paul Rosen will do for Chips,” Vincent said. He looked to Bernat. “‘Chips’ being the ship’s carpenter, my lord, just as ‘Gears’ is the chief mechanic.”

  Jutes made a note on his paper. “And what about mechanic’s mate?”

  “Thin fare, I’m afraid. Only one of them fools has experience on air-cooled condensers.”

  “Which one?”

  “You’re not going to like it, Abdiel.”

  “Which one, Vincent?”

  Vincent curled his lips into a smile that was somehow reminiscent of a wolf. “The tall brunette with the ass to die for.”

  “Bugger me.” Jutes sighed. “The pretty ones can’t handle the strain. Everyone knows that.”

  Vincent shrugged.

  “And she’ll cause all kinds of fights and strife among the men.”

  “She might, at that.”

  “And we’ll want a woman for monkey rigger. That’ll make two women on the crew, and the cap’n, and I hear they’re sending us a girl ensign, too. That’s four. Four bloody women on one boat.”

  “That seems to be the math, Abdiel.”

  “Bugger me.” Jutes lowered his head and thought. “Well, send her in.”

  Vincent left and Private Grey entered. She looked at Bernat with some confusion, then saluted Sergeant Jutes.

  Jutes made a show of studying his single sheet of paper. “You’re a woman,” he said, and only then deigned to look at her.

  “Auxiliary Private Miriam Grey, Sergeant.”

  “I didn’t ask your name, Private.”

  She swallowed. “Er, uh, yes, Sergeant. I am a woman, or so they tell me.”

  Jutes leapt to his feet and shouted, his voice so loud it rattled the window. “Was that a joke, Private Grey?”

  Bernat was surprised to hear her say, as loud as Jutes but in a ringing soprano, “Yes, Sergeant, it was.”

  Jutes was around the desk as quickly as his wounded leg allowed, staring at her with his face half an inch from hers. “Did you just raise your voice to me, Grey?”

  “I believe I did, Sergeant!”

  Bernat put his hands over his ears as Jutes shouted even louder. “Are you trying to get your fucking teeth knocked in, Private? This is the Royal fucking Aerial Signal Corps. I’ve shot women prettier than you, Private Grey. You think I won’t hit one?”

  “No, Sergeant.” Her voice broke as she tried to match his volume. “I think you’re trying to get me to lose my nerve, so you’ll have an excuse to reject me, even though I’m the best damn man for the job by a long shot.”

  Jutes’s face was even closer to Grey’s now. His voice was suddenly quiet, but there was a growl in it that was somehow more terrifying than the screaming. “And what makes you think that, Private?”

  Grey was shaking all over, but she managed to speak in an even voice, with only a small tremor. “I heard you talking through the wall, Sergeant. From the exam room.”

  There followed a long silence, broken only by a hoarse cough in the next room. Bernat studied the wall, which did look rather thin.

  Jutes shoved a pen into Grey’s hand and said, “Sign the bloody paper and send Rosen in on your way out.”

  Private Grey’s voice was instantly giddy. “Yes, Sergeant! Thank you, Sergeant!”

  Bernat caught Jutes studying Private Grey’s backside on her way out, though he obviously wasn’t as impressed as Gears had been. When he was sure she was out of earshot, Bernat asked, “Have you really shot women?”

  Jutes just shrugged. “Probably not. Shot at women, though. The Vins have ’em in their air corps, same as us, and I once saw a woman in amongst their skirmishers. No women in the Brandheim army, at least not officially. Mayhap I have relatives up there who say otherwise.”

  None of which helped Bernat in the slightest, but at least the rest of the interviews went more smoothly. Rosen was confirmed as carpenter. Corporal Lupien, when he returned with lunch, signed on as rudderman. Then came the selection of an elevatorman, two relief steersmen, two musketmen, and nine other airmen to rig the ship and service the cannons.

  By the time they were finished, it was near dinner, and Bernat happily offered to treat Jutes to another meal. When it was delivered, they sat down to eat in the cramped little office.

  “So,” Bernat said around his first bite of lamb kebab, “tell me all about the women of the air corps.”

  * * *

  JOSETTE STOOD UNDER the bow and looked back along the length of Mistral. The yardsmen had just finished attaching the hurricane deck to the underside of the ship at frame seven. Suspended by thick hemp cables, the hurricane deck was open to the air, providing maximum visibility below. It was also the widest open space aboard the ship, but it would soon become cozier when the yardsmen installed steering equipment, ballast and vent pull ropes, flight instruments, and two bref guns.

  She wasn’t sure what to think of those two cannons. Two-gun chasseurs were becoming more common, but there were advantages to single-gun ships. Foremost among them was the savings in weight—not just in the gun, but in needing to carry three fewer crewmen as cannoneers. Less weight meant less luftgas, which meant a smaller envelope, which meant a nimbler ship.

  She still hadn’t made up her mind when Jutes hobbled up and saluted.

  “You haven’t seen my goddamn officers anywhere, have you, Jutes? They were supposed to be on the afternoon train, but they haven’t shown up.”

  “Haven’t seen them, sir.”

  “Ah, well. Have you finished with the crew?”

  “Yes, sir. And ordered them to get some rest, sir.”

  “Good. We’ll be lucky to take off at dawn, at the rate the final assembly is going.”

  “Dawn?” asked Bernat, as he came up from behind Jutes. “Should we have breakfast beforehand, or will it be served aboard?”

  They both turned to stare.

  Bernat looked back at them sheepishly. “Or perhaps the army prefers to brunch?”

  “My lord,” Josette said, her tone approximating the deference to which the fop was technically entitled, “I’m afraid we won’t be able to invite you aboard this flight. Perhaps when we’ve returned from our aerial trials, a week or so from now, we can have you along for an afternoon cruise.”

  Bernat smiled like a fool. “There must be some misunderstanding. I’m already invited aboard.” He searched through his pockets and pulled out a folded
letter. “By General Lord Fieren.”

  “Bugger me,” Jutes muttered, then added a hasty, “my lord.”

  Josette took the letter and read it twice, hoping to find a way out. But it wasn’t a letter of permission, as she had first thought, but orders addressed directly to her, instructing her to take the fop aboard. The orders mentioned no time frame, so she was stuck with him indefinitely.

  “There’s been some mistake,” she said. “We can’t spare the weight. I’ll talk to the general and have this cleared up.”

  Bernat chuckled. “My uncle isn’t in Arle. He went north ahead of the army, this morning.” He looked around. “I thought everyone knew that.”

  She read the orders a third time, hoping to find some caveat or loophole, but they were rock solid. “It says you’re an observer,” she said. “What, exactly, are you meant to observe?”

  “Airship operations,” the fop said.

  She looked him up and down. “The general sent you to observe the operation of an airship?”

  He only smiled back. “I’m a quick learner.”

  So he was a spy. He had to be a spy. Did the general think a woman couldn’t handle an airship, or did he merely doubt her loyalty? No, it wasn’t that. In all likelihood, he didn’t give a damn if his airship officers were loyal or competent—they were only airship officers, after all, and not even worth remembering. She was merely a pawn in his feud with the newspapers and the Crown, and he’d sent another pawn after her.

  Which meant she had a choice. She could make a futile, frustrating attempt to keep the spy off her ship, or …

  “Welcome to the crew,” she said. “Sergeant Jutes, at your convenience, please enter Lord Hinkal in the ship’s books as a supernumerary observer, and see to his baggage.”

  “Shall I disappoint one of the crewmen, sir? There are one or two we might get by without, if weight’s a problem.”

  Josette shook her head. “No, we’ll find the weight somewhere else.”

  “Yes, sir,” Jutes said. He turned to Bernat. “If you’ll step this way, my lord.”