The Mystery of the Balavoine - The (mis-)Adventures of Captain Du Bon Le Phare by Alp Mortal
Categories: Romance | Gay | Steampunk
Word Count: 38,889 Heat Rating: 3 Price: $ .99 Available here:
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The Mystery of the Balavoine is the first story of The (mis-)Adventures of Captain Du Bon Le Phare, a series of stories with a steampunkish theme, chronicling the high (and low) jinxes of my gay anti-hero, his crew and the rival Lu-Belle captains.
The Mystery of the Balavoine introduces Captain Du Bon Le Phare - usually referred to as simply Le Phare, his business of harvesting Lu - an airborne substance that can only be harvested during stormy weather, his dirigible - The Tiankong, and his partner - Benjamin, who mans the lighthouse. Ely, the helmsman, makes a mistake while navigating the Tiankong through a bad storm, blaming the error on the mythical beast - the Balavoine. The error, and his story, earns him the sack. Joining forces with Sergei, also summarily dismissed by Le Phare, the partnership sets up in competition with Le Phare and his arch rival Matthias, captain of the Niao. Little do they know that Sidney, a lackey working for Le Phare, is scheming to bring about a change in his own fortunes ... With disastrous consequences. I am always very happy to receive your feedback. If you wish to contact me directly, please email me at: [email protected]. Visit the website, www.alpmortal.weebly.com, for updates on the next gay romantic story or crime thriller which I am working on. Thank you, Alp Mortal |
Chapter One - Heart to Heart
“Captain; the men are getting restless ...”
Turning slightly, barely inclining his head, the Captain registered the comment but remained grim-faced and silent; that was until Sergei chose to repeat his words.
“I heard what you said, Sergei ... Have none of them seen a storm before?”
Ignoring Le Phare’s sarcasm, Sergei suggested, “Nothing like this ... perhaps a few words ...”
“Very well; there is not much time. Get everyone into the main salon; I will be there in a few minutes.”
“Aye, Captain ...”
Not until Sergei had quit the bridge did the Captain let go of the wheel, relinquishing control to Monkey with the order, “Keep her steady - NO ACROBATICS!”
The fiend cackled like a witch as it jumped into the Captain’s seat.
Wasting no time, the Captain, who was known by most as simply Le Phare, strode quickly from the wheelhouse and along the deck to the head of the stairs that led to the living quarters below. As he turned to descend the stairs, a crack of thunder grabbed his attention. The roiling cloud filled the sky like a cataract in the bluest eye; the sulphurous flares, which ignited in the core of the storm, spoke of many reasons to be nervous.
“With luck, we will fill our hold ... Pray for me, Benjamin.”
oOo
Entering the salon, he was confronted by seven worried faces - among them, Sergei’s. Without catching anyone’s eye in particular, Le Phare stepped forward.
“Yes; there is a storm - clearly some of you have forgotten that we go up in storms to harvest Lu ... I have seen worse. You have your work to do, and, God willing, we shall fill our hold and be docked before sunset.”
“Is it true what they say, Captain?”
Giving no outward sign of being annoyed by the interruption, Le Phare turned his head in the direction of the miscreant to address the question.
“What do they say, Pepe?”
“They say the Balavoine is ten times the size of the ship; one swipe of its tail will reduce the craft to matchsticks ...”
“The Balavoine is a myth - if such a beast existed, I, Captain Du Bon Le Phare, would have seen it. I have flown these skies for twenty-five years - my father for fifty before me and his father for fifty before him - there is no Balavoine, just the devil in men’s hearts and minds which seeks to rob them of their common sense. Any man who quits his station will receive no pay and will forfeit his tenure - understood?”
Seven heads nodded quickly, and the owners of those heads prepared to man their stations.
“Hear this! Bring in the haul and there’s a bonus for each and every man ... STEP TO IT!”
Sergei alone remained in the salon after the crew had scurried out - a good deal less anxious, perhaps even excited.
“Last will and testaments of every man, Le Phare,” he announced, handing over the leather pouch as behoved the tradition.
“And yours?”
“All to James, should Fate not be so kind this time.”
“Ease the main springs a quarter turn - Pepe will have overtightened them in his anxious state - no one dies in these skies today ... Benjamin and James are waiting for us.”
Sergei turned to fulfil the order but not before advising, “He again presses me to quit.”
“What do you say?”
“Not until Le Phare says we quit.”
“I will never quit.”
“I know ...”
Propelled by the first wave of shocks, which were strong enough to rock the superstructure, Sergei barrelled out and leapt down the short flight of steps to the engine room. The propeller drive mechanism, powered by twelve massive springs, each tightened by a handle, not unlike the one used by the organ grinder to wind up his sound box, was shuddering against the brake.
“Damn that Pepe!”
Releasing each handle, to give it a quarter turn in reverse, was the job of two men but there was no time to recruit a mate. Even before the last spring was released and the handle locked, the swaying of the hull was enough to cause him to stagger from side to side as he quit the room for the wheelhouse.
En route, he checked in with each man. Pepe, Snarth, Reif and Ambrose were in position, manning the nets. Ely was strapped into the prow seat with the communication tube attached to his mouth by the leather, half-face mask. It reminded Sergei of the caged beasts at the zoological park, muzzled to prevent small children from losing their fingers.
Fabian was at the bow, ready to fire the anchor bolt.
After a final check of the helium-filled bladder, which was bobbing above their heads, Sergei clambered up into the wheelhouse, already having to fight the door against the first of the true squalls.
“Ready as we’ll ever be!”
Le Phare turned, dipped his head in acknowledgment and then took over the wheel from Monkey, flipping the cap from the end of the communication tube in readiness for Ely’s quick-fire reports, which Le Phare would use to guide them through the maelstrom while the catchers netted the precious cargo of Lu. When the ship reached the vortex, the command would be given to drop anchor. The sulphurous yellow eruptions in the midst of the menacing clouds forewarned of the intense heat - rarely had Le Phare seen such a display.
“Release the brake on the count of three, Sergei ... one ... two ... three!”
He released the brake lever and the twelve springs below were freed from their bondage and began turning the propeller shaft which drove the huge sail blades that powered the ship. In conjunction with the controlled jettisoning of the gas in the buoyancy tanks, the ship dived through the storm clouds, guided by Ely’s instructions which, when relayed to Le Phare, would cause him to turn the wheel this way or that to navigate the pockets of calmer air, thus giving the catchers a chance to snare the Lu that hovered in the quiet spaces. The management of, firstly, power - achieved by the release and the application of the brake - secondly, the ditching of the gas in the tanks, which influenced the rate of descent - thirdly, the steering and speed of adjustment, and lastly, the timing of the command to drop the anchor, was the bread and butter business of the crew - handpicked by Le Phare - and not for the first time had they worked these skies, but never in the face of a storm as ominous as this one.
“PORT - FORTY-FIVE DEGREES!”
The observation that Ely had relayed signalled the first true foray into the wall of the storm - they would be blind for a few seconds - maybe longer - until Ely could see the next pocket to aim for. It was like navigating between angry and hungry icebergs on nothing more substantial than a reed raft while trying to harpoon whales in the dark.
Le Phare spun the wheel nearly a full eighth of a turn, released the first of the buoyancy gas - cheaper methane, not helium - and the ship nose-dived, plunging into the cloud bank like a swimmer diving through the front wall of a tsunami.
“Keep an eye on that pressure gauge!”
Le Phare’s command was not directed to Sergei, who had to keep his wits about him to control the brake; no, the command was for Monkey, the simoid, which Le Phare had built himself; a maniacal, robotic, tamarin-like worker droid, fit only for simple tasks. As the craft fell from the sky, the air pressure rose and the bladder was subjected to increasing compression. Helium was released into reserve tanks to equalize the pressure and prevent the bladder from bursting.
“PORT ... NO! STARBOARD - TWELVE DEGREES!”
“What is he doing?” But Le Phare’s response was no less immediate and the ship lurched and then hit dead air.
“Brakes on!”
Sergei heaved on the lever to apply the brake; in so doing, bringing the ship level as the power died. The screech from within the hull cut through the air like a hot knife through butter.
“I can taste the Lu!”
Le Phare merely answered, “Half-power in five ... four ... three ... two ... one!”
As the brake was partly released, the ship juddered, and the superstructure above their heads, which connected the bladder to the hull, sang like a blue whale.
They fell between the clouds, accelerating alarmingly.
“Brake, Sergei!” barked Le Phare, above the increasing noise of the storm.
“TURBULENCE!”
Even before the word had died, the ship was bombarded by a succession of hammer blows; her prow rose and sank, bobbing like a cork.
“Steady, Sergei!” cried Le Phare, well acquainted with the vagaries of storms. Adrenalin flooded his system, adding a keener edge to the tang of the Lu that now saturated the air.
The bottom dropped out of the air pocket and they plunged a thousand feet in freefall until they hit the top of the next pocket of air. Quickly they began rising on the heat of the burning sulphur beneath them, it signalled that they were too close to the vortex.
“What in God’s name?! ELY!” bellowed Le Phare, getting nothing from the communication tube except the sound of the howling wind.
“Shall I check on him, Captain?”
“Go!”
Sergei pulled up the brake, before diving off to find Ely. Just outside the door of the wheelhouse, the wind ripped at his shirt like a cat and sucked the breath out of his lungs. The sulphur in the air made him gag and tears blinded his eyes.
“What devilry is this!?”
An inferno raged about them; from his knowledge, they were caught in a thermal. The ship was slowly beginning to spin at the mercy of the wind and in real danger of being carried too high.
Struggling to keep a grip on the handrails, he pushed forward, at risk of falling and braining himself against the spars of the bladder support work.
“Ely!!”
Crawling across the deck, he could already see the tattered remains of the harness and the empty seat at the prow.
“ELY!!”
Barely audible above the cacophony, he heard, “SERGEI!”
Taking his chance, and using the sudden pitching of the deck, he tucked in his arms and rolled to the prow. Disorientated by the pitching and the spinning of the craft, he barely had the wherewithal to grab one of the seat supports and prevent himself from being smashed into the buoyancy tank housing, or worse, flung right overboard. By the inch, he groped, using the remains of the harness to haul himself to the very edge of the Chapter One - Heart to Heart
“Captain; the men are getting restless ...”
Turning slightly, barely inclining his head, the Captain registered the comment but remained grim-faced and silent; that was until Sergei chose to repeat his words.
“I heard what you said, Sergei ... Have none of them seen a storm before?”
Ignoring Le Phare’s sarcasm, Sergei suggested, “Nothing like this ... perhaps a few words ...”
“Very well; there is not much time. Get everyone into the main salon; I will be there in a few minutes.”
“Aye, Captain ...”
Not until Sergei had quit the bridge did the Captain let go of the wheel, relinquishing control to Monkey with the order, “Keep her steady - NO ACROBATICS!”
The fiend cackled like a witch as it jumped into the Captain’s seat.
Wasting no time, the Captain, who was known by most as simply Le Phare, strode quickly from the wheelhouse and along the deck to the head of the stairs that led to the living quarters below. As he turned to descend the stairs, a crack of thunder grabbed his attention. The roiling cloud filled the sky like a cataract in the bluest eye; the sulphurous flares, which ignited in the core of the storm, spoke of many reasons to be nervous.
“With luck, we will fill our hold ... Pray for me, Benjamin.”
oOo
Entering the salon, he was confronted by seven worried faces - among them, Sergei’s. Without catching anyone’s eye in particular, Le Phare stepped forward.
“Yes; there is a storm - clearly some of you have forgotten that we go up in storms to harvest Lu ... I have seen worse. You have your work to do, and, God willing, we shall fill our hold and be docked before sunset.”
“Is it true what they say, Captain?”
Giving no outward sign of being annoyed by the interruption, Le Phare turned his head in the direction of the miscreant to address the question.
“What do they say, Pepe?”
“They say the Balavoine is ten times the size of the ship; one swipe of its tail will reduce the craft to matchsticks ...”
“The Balavoine is a myth - if such a beast existed, I, Captain Du Bon Le Phare, would have seen it. I have flown these skies for twenty-five years - my father for fifty before me and his father for fifty before him - there is no Balavoine, just the devil in men’s hearts and minds which seeks to rob them of their common sense. Any man who quits his station will receive no pay and will forfeit his tenure - understood?”
Seven heads nodded quickly, and the owners of those heads prepared to man their stations.
“Hear this! Bring in the haul and there’s a bonus for each and every man ... STEP TO IT!”
Sergei alone remained in the salon after the crew had scurried out - a good deal less anxious, perhaps even excited.
“Last will and testaments of every man, Le Phare,” he announced, handing over the leather pouch as behoved the tradition.
“And yours?”
“All to James, should Fate not be so kind this time.”
“Ease the main springs a quarter turn - Pepe will have overtightened them in his anxious state - no one dies in these skies today ... Benjamin and James are waiting for us.”
Sergei turned to fulfil the order but not before advising, “He again presses me to quit.”
“What do you say?”
“Not until Le Phare says we quit.”
“I will never quit.”
“I know ...”
Propelled by the first wave of shocks, which were strong enough to rock the superstructure, Sergei barrelled out and leapt down the short flight of steps to the engine room. The propeller drive mechanism, powered by twelve massive springs, each tightened by a handle, not unlike the one used by the organ grinder to wind up his sound box, was shuddering against the brake.
“Damn that Pepe!”
Releasing each handle, to give it a quarter turn in reverse, was the job of two men but there was no time to recruit a mate. Even before the last spring was released and the handle locked, the swaying of the hull was enough to cause him to stagger from side to side as he quit the room for the wheelhouse.
En route, he checked in with each man. Pepe, Snarth, Reif and Ambrose were in position, manning the nets. Ely was strapped into the prow seat with the communication tube attached to his mouth by the leather, half-face mask. It reminded Sergei of the caged beasts at the zoological park, muzzled to prevent small children from losing their fingers.
Fabian was at the bow, ready to fire the anchor bolt.
After a final check of the helium-filled bladder, which was bobbing above their heads, Sergei clambered up into the wheelhouse, already having to fight the door against the first of the true squalls.
“Ready as we’ll ever be!”
Le Phare turned, dipped his head in acknowledgment and then took over the wheel from Monkey, flipping the cap from the end of the communication tube in readiness for Ely’s quick-fire reports, which Le Phare would use to guide them through the maelstrom while the catchers netted the precious cargo of Lu. When the ship reached the vortex, the command would be given to drop anchor. The sulphurous yellow eruptions in the midst of the menacing clouds forewarned of the intense heat - rarely had Le Phare seen such a display.
“Release the brake on the count of three, Sergei ... one ... two ... three!”
He released the brake lever and the twelve springs below were freed from their bondage and began turning the propeller shaft which drove the huge sail blades that powered the ship. In conjunction with the controlled jettisoning of the gas in the buoyancy tanks, the ship dived through the storm clouds, guided by Ely’s instructions which, when relayed to Le Phare, would cause him to turn the wheel this way or that to navigate the pockets of calmer air, thus giving the catchers a chance to snare the Lu that hovered in the quiet spaces. The management of, firstly, power - achieved by the release and the application of the brake - secondly, the ditching of the gas in the tanks, which influenced the rate of descent - thirdly, the steering and speed of adjustment, and lastly, the timing of the command to drop the anchor, was the bread and butter business of the crew - handpicked by Le Phare - and not for the first time had they worked these skies, but never in the face of a storm as ominous as this one.
“PORT - FORTY-FIVE DEGREES!”
The observation that Ely had relayed signalled the first true foray into the wall of the storm - they would be blind for a few seconds - maybe longer - until Ely could see the next pocket to aim for. It was like navigating between angry and hungry icebergs on nothing more substantial than a reed raft while trying to harpoon whales in the dark.
Le Phare spun the wheel nearly a full eighth of a turn, released the first of the buoyancy gas - cheaper methane, not helium - and the ship nose-dived, plunging into the cloud bank like a swimmer diving through the front wall of a tsunami.
“Keep an eye on that pressure gauge!”
Le Phare’s command was not directed to Sergei, who had to keep his wits about him to control the brake; no, the command was for Monkey, the simoid, which Le Phare had built himself; a maniacal, robotic, tamarin-like worker droid, fit only for simple tasks. As the craft fell from the sky, the air pressure rose and the bladder was subjected to increasing compression. Helium was released into reserve tanks to equalize the pressure and prevent the bladder from bursting.
“PORT ... NO! STARBOARD - TWELVE DEGREES!”
“What is he doing?” But Le Phare’s response was no less immediate and the ship lurched and then hit dead air.
“Brakes on!”
Sergei heaved on the lever to apply the brake; in so doing, bringing the ship level as the power died. The screech from within the hull cut through the air like a hot knife through butter.
“I can taste the Lu!”
Le Phare merely answered, “Half-power in five ... four ... three ... two ... one!”
As the brake was partly released, the ship juddered, and the superstructure above their heads, which connected the bladder to the hull, sang like a blue whale.
They fell between the clouds, accelerating alarmingly.
“Brake, Sergei!” barked Le Phare, above the increasing noise of the storm.
“TURBULENCE!”
Even before the word had died, the ship was bombarded by a succession of hammer blows; her prow rose and sank, bobbing like a cork.
“Steady, Sergei!” cried Le Phare, well acquainted with the vagaries of storms. Adrenalin flooded his system, adding a keener edge to the tang of the Lu that now saturated the air.
The bottom dropped out of the air pocket and they plunged a thousand feet in freefall until they hit the top of the next pocket of air. Quickly they began rising on the heat of the burning sulphur beneath them, it signalled that they were too close to the vortex.
“What in God’s name?! ELY!” bellowed Le Phare, getting nothing from the communication tube except the sound of the howling wind.
“Shall I check on him, Captain?”
“Go!”
Sergei pulled up the brake, before diving off to find Ely. Just outside the door of the wheelhouse, the wind ripped at his shirt like a cat and sucked the breath out of his lungs. The sulphur in the air made him gag and tears blinded his eyes.
“What devilry is this!?”
An inferno raged about them; from his knowledge, they were caught in a thermal. The ship was slowly beginning to spin at the mercy of the wind and in real danger of being carried too high.
Struggling to keep a grip on the handrails, he pushed forward, at risk of falling and braining himself against the spars of the bladder support work.
“Ely!!”
Crawling across the deck, he could already see the tattered remains of the harness and the empty seat at the prow.
“ELY!!”
Barely audible above the cacophony, he heard, “SERGEI!”
Taking his chance, and using the sudden pitching of the deck, he tucked in his arms and rolled to the prow. Disorientated by the pitching and the spinning of the craft, he barely had the wherewithal to grab one of the seat supports and prevent himself from being smashed into the buoyancy tank housing, or worse, flung right overboard. By the inch, he groped, using the remains of the harness to haul himself to the very edge of the gunnel.
“ELY!”
“HELP ME! I CAN’T HOLD ON MUCH LONGER ...”
The scream died in a hiss as a pocket of sulphur ignited in the heat of the churning tempest’s volleys of lightning that rained like arrows let loose from the bows of a hundred archers.
Ely was grasping for something to hold onto. The frayed remains of the safety tether, which had been wrapped around his waist, now his only lifeline but for barely a few seconds more. Sergei’s only chance was to swing over the side, using the harness as a makeshift ladder to reach Ely’s hand and haul him up.
In that moment of indecision, the prow bucked like a colt, sending Ely skyward until the tether snapped and he was catapulted high above the ship, but as luck would have it, the burgeoning helium balloon, deformed by the wind that came from all sides, bulged out, and Ely managed to grab the trailing end of the big net that covered the balloon - the net itself having been partly ripped free of the cleats.
“HANG ON, ELY!”
Needless advice.
A roaring like a locomotive engulfed them as the craft fell prey to the central vortex. A tremendous explosion ripped through its heart and sent a superheated wave of energy out to carry the ship clear of the spinning column of certain destruction.
Sergei heard the brakes being released. The craft shot forward and then dived as the bulk of the buoyancy gas was released in three asthmatic coughs that ended with an angry hiss. The putrid smell of bad eggs engulfed them.
As the ship screamed towards the ground at an insane speed, Sergei had no choice but to crawl into the space between two of the buoyancy tanks and cover his head with his free hand. His prayers were ripped from his lips by the wind. The taste of sulphur, Lu and the blood in his mouth, made him heave.
“Captain; the men are getting restless ...”
Turning slightly, barely inclining his head, the Captain registered the comment but remained grim-faced and silent; that was until Sergei chose to repeat his words.
“I heard what you said, Sergei ... Have none of them seen a storm before?”
Ignoring Le Phare’s sarcasm, Sergei suggested, “Nothing like this ... perhaps a few words ...”
“Very well; there is not much time. Get everyone into the main salon; I will be there in a few minutes.”
“Aye, Captain ...”
Not until Sergei had quit the bridge did the Captain let go of the wheel, relinquishing control to Monkey with the order, “Keep her steady - NO ACROBATICS!”
The fiend cackled like a witch as it jumped into the Captain’s seat.
Wasting no time, the Captain, who was known by most as simply Le Phare, strode quickly from the wheelhouse and along the deck to the head of the stairs that led to the living quarters below. As he turned to descend the stairs, a crack of thunder grabbed his attention. The roiling cloud filled the sky like a cataract in the bluest eye; the sulphurous flares, which ignited in the core of the storm, spoke of many reasons to be nervous.
“With luck, we will fill our hold ... Pray for me, Benjamin.”
oOo
Entering the salon, he was confronted by seven worried faces - among them, Sergei’s. Without catching anyone’s eye in particular, Le Phare stepped forward.
“Yes; there is a storm - clearly some of you have forgotten that we go up in storms to harvest Lu ... I have seen worse. You have your work to do, and, God willing, we shall fill our hold and be docked before sunset.”
“Is it true what they say, Captain?”
Giving no outward sign of being annoyed by the interruption, Le Phare turned his head in the direction of the miscreant to address the question.
“What do they say, Pepe?”
“They say the Balavoine is ten times the size of the ship; one swipe of its tail will reduce the craft to matchsticks ...”
“The Balavoine is a myth - if such a beast existed, I, Captain Du Bon Le Phare, would have seen it. I have flown these skies for twenty-five years - my father for fifty before me and his father for fifty before him - there is no Balavoine, just the devil in men’s hearts and minds which seeks to rob them of their common sense. Any man who quits his station will receive no pay and will forfeit his tenure - understood?”
Seven heads nodded quickly, and the owners of those heads prepared to man their stations.
“Hear this! Bring in the haul and there’s a bonus for each and every man ... STEP TO IT!”
Sergei alone remained in the salon after the crew had scurried out - a good deal less anxious, perhaps even excited.
“Last will and testaments of every man, Le Phare,” he announced, handing over the leather pouch as behoved the tradition.
“And yours?”
“All to James, should Fate not be so kind this time.”
“Ease the main springs a quarter turn - Pepe will have overtightened them in his anxious state - no one dies in these skies today ... Benjamin and James are waiting for us.”
Sergei turned to fulfil the order but not before advising, “He again presses me to quit.”
“What do you say?”
“Not until Le Phare says we quit.”
“I will never quit.”
“I know ...”
Propelled by the first wave of shocks, which were strong enough to rock the superstructure, Sergei barrelled out and leapt down the short flight of steps to the engine room. The propeller drive mechanism, powered by twelve massive springs, each tightened by a handle, not unlike the one used by the organ grinder to wind up his sound box, was shuddering against the brake.
“Damn that Pepe!”
Releasing each handle, to give it a quarter turn in reverse, was the job of two men but there was no time to recruit a mate. Even before the last spring was released and the handle locked, the swaying of the hull was enough to cause him to stagger from side to side as he quit the room for the wheelhouse.
En route, he checked in with each man. Pepe, Snarth, Reif and Ambrose were in position, manning the nets. Ely was strapped into the prow seat with the communication tube attached to his mouth by the leather, half-face mask. It reminded Sergei of the caged beasts at the zoological park, muzzled to prevent small children from losing their fingers.
Fabian was at the bow, ready to fire the anchor bolt.
After a final check of the helium-filled bladder, which was bobbing above their heads, Sergei clambered up into the wheelhouse, already having to fight the door against the first of the true squalls.
“Ready as we’ll ever be!”
Le Phare turned, dipped his head in acknowledgment and then took over the wheel from Monkey, flipping the cap from the end of the communication tube in readiness for Ely’s quick-fire reports, which Le Phare would use to guide them through the maelstrom while the catchers netted the precious cargo of Lu. When the ship reached the vortex, the command would be given to drop anchor. The sulphurous yellow eruptions in the midst of the menacing clouds forewarned of the intense heat - rarely had Le Phare seen such a display.
“Release the brake on the count of three, Sergei ... one ... two ... three!”
He released the brake lever and the twelve springs below were freed from their bondage and began turning the propeller shaft which drove the huge sail blades that powered the ship. In conjunction with the controlled jettisoning of the gas in the buoyancy tanks, the ship dived through the storm clouds, guided by Ely’s instructions which, when relayed to Le Phare, would cause him to turn the wheel this way or that to navigate the pockets of calmer air, thus giving the catchers a chance to snare the Lu that hovered in the quiet spaces. The management of, firstly, power - achieved by the release and the application of the brake - secondly, the ditching of the gas in the tanks, which influenced the rate of descent - thirdly, the steering and speed of adjustment, and lastly, the timing of the command to drop the anchor, was the bread and butter business of the crew - handpicked by Le Phare - and not for the first time had they worked these skies, but never in the face of a storm as ominous as this one.
“PORT - FORTY-FIVE DEGREES!”
The observation that Ely had relayed signalled the first true foray into the wall of the storm - they would be blind for a few seconds - maybe longer - until Ely could see the next pocket to aim for. It was like navigating between angry and hungry icebergs on nothing more substantial than a reed raft while trying to harpoon whales in the dark.
Le Phare spun the wheel nearly a full eighth of a turn, released the first of the buoyancy gas - cheaper methane, not helium - and the ship nose-dived, plunging into the cloud bank like a swimmer diving through the front wall of a tsunami.
“Keep an eye on that pressure gauge!”
Le Phare’s command was not directed to Sergei, who had to keep his wits about him to control the brake; no, the command was for Monkey, the simoid, which Le Phare had built himself; a maniacal, robotic, tamarin-like worker droid, fit only for simple tasks. As the craft fell from the sky, the air pressure rose and the bladder was subjected to increasing compression. Helium was released into reserve tanks to equalize the pressure and prevent the bladder from bursting.
“PORT ... NO! STARBOARD - TWELVE DEGREES!”
“What is he doing?” But Le Phare’s response was no less immediate and the ship lurched and then hit dead air.
“Brakes on!”
Sergei heaved on the lever to apply the brake; in so doing, bringing the ship level as the power died. The screech from within the hull cut through the air like a hot knife through butter.
“I can taste the Lu!”
Le Phare merely answered, “Half-power in five ... four ... three ... two ... one!”
As the brake was partly released, the ship juddered, and the superstructure above their heads, which connected the bladder to the hull, sang like a blue whale.
They fell between the clouds, accelerating alarmingly.
“Brake, Sergei!” barked Le Phare, above the increasing noise of the storm.
“TURBULENCE!”
Even before the word had died, the ship was bombarded by a succession of hammer blows; her prow rose and sank, bobbing like a cork.
“Steady, Sergei!” cried Le Phare, well acquainted with the vagaries of storms. Adrenalin flooded his system, adding a keener edge to the tang of the Lu that now saturated the air.
The bottom dropped out of the air pocket and they plunged a thousand feet in freefall until they hit the top of the next pocket of air. Quickly they began rising on the heat of the burning sulphur beneath them, it signalled that they were too close to the vortex.
“What in God’s name?! ELY!” bellowed Le Phare, getting nothing from the communication tube except the sound of the howling wind.
“Shall I check on him, Captain?”
“Go!”
Sergei pulled up the brake, before diving off to find Ely. Just outside the door of the wheelhouse, the wind ripped at his shirt like a cat and sucked the breath out of his lungs. The sulphur in the air made him gag and tears blinded his eyes.
“What devilry is this!?”
An inferno raged about them; from his knowledge, they were caught in a thermal. The ship was slowly beginning to spin at the mercy of the wind and in real danger of being carried too high.
Struggling to keep a grip on the handrails, he pushed forward, at risk of falling and braining himself against the spars of the bladder support work.
“Ely!!”
Crawling across the deck, he could already see the tattered remains of the harness and the empty seat at the prow.
“ELY!!”
Barely audible above the cacophony, he heard, “SERGEI!”
Taking his chance, and using the sudden pitching of the deck, he tucked in his arms and rolled to the prow. Disorientated by the pitching and the spinning of the craft, he barely had the wherewithal to grab one of the seat supports and prevent himself from being smashed into the buoyancy tank housing, or worse, flung right overboard. By the inch, he groped, using the remains of the harness to haul himself to the very edge of the Chapter One - Heart to Heart
“Captain; the men are getting restless ...”
Turning slightly, barely inclining his head, the Captain registered the comment but remained grim-faced and silent; that was until Sergei chose to repeat his words.
“I heard what you said, Sergei ... Have none of them seen a storm before?”
Ignoring Le Phare’s sarcasm, Sergei suggested, “Nothing like this ... perhaps a few words ...”
“Very well; there is not much time. Get everyone into the main salon; I will be there in a few minutes.”
“Aye, Captain ...”
Not until Sergei had quit the bridge did the Captain let go of the wheel, relinquishing control to Monkey with the order, “Keep her steady - NO ACROBATICS!”
The fiend cackled like a witch as it jumped into the Captain’s seat.
Wasting no time, the Captain, who was known by most as simply Le Phare, strode quickly from the wheelhouse and along the deck to the head of the stairs that led to the living quarters below. As he turned to descend the stairs, a crack of thunder grabbed his attention. The roiling cloud filled the sky like a cataract in the bluest eye; the sulphurous flares, which ignited in the core of the storm, spoke of many reasons to be nervous.
“With luck, we will fill our hold ... Pray for me, Benjamin.”
oOo
Entering the salon, he was confronted by seven worried faces - among them, Sergei’s. Without catching anyone’s eye in particular, Le Phare stepped forward.
“Yes; there is a storm - clearly some of you have forgotten that we go up in storms to harvest Lu ... I have seen worse. You have your work to do, and, God willing, we shall fill our hold and be docked before sunset.”
“Is it true what they say, Captain?”
Giving no outward sign of being annoyed by the interruption, Le Phare turned his head in the direction of the miscreant to address the question.
“What do they say, Pepe?”
“They say the Balavoine is ten times the size of the ship; one swipe of its tail will reduce the craft to matchsticks ...”
“The Balavoine is a myth - if such a beast existed, I, Captain Du Bon Le Phare, would have seen it. I have flown these skies for twenty-five years - my father for fifty before me and his father for fifty before him - there is no Balavoine, just the devil in men’s hearts and minds which seeks to rob them of their common sense. Any man who quits his station will receive no pay and will forfeit his tenure - understood?”
Seven heads nodded quickly, and the owners of those heads prepared to man their stations.
“Hear this! Bring in the haul and there’s a bonus for each and every man ... STEP TO IT!”
Sergei alone remained in the salon after the crew had scurried out - a good deal less anxious, perhaps even excited.
“Last will and testaments of every man, Le Phare,” he announced, handing over the leather pouch as behoved the tradition.
“And yours?”
“All to James, should Fate not be so kind this time.”
“Ease the main springs a quarter turn - Pepe will have overtightened them in his anxious state - no one dies in these skies today ... Benjamin and James are waiting for us.”
Sergei turned to fulfil the order but not before advising, “He again presses me to quit.”
“What do you say?”
“Not until Le Phare says we quit.”
“I will never quit.”
“I know ...”
Propelled by the first wave of shocks, which were strong enough to rock the superstructure, Sergei barrelled out and leapt down the short flight of steps to the engine room. The propeller drive mechanism, powered by twelve massive springs, each tightened by a handle, not unlike the one used by the organ grinder to wind up his sound box, was shuddering against the brake.
“Damn that Pepe!”
Releasing each handle, to give it a quarter turn in reverse, was the job of two men but there was no time to recruit a mate. Even before the last spring was released and the handle locked, the swaying of the hull was enough to cause him to stagger from side to side as he quit the room for the wheelhouse.
En route, he checked in with each man. Pepe, Snarth, Reif and Ambrose were in position, manning the nets. Ely was strapped into the prow seat with the communication tube attached to his mouth by the leather, half-face mask. It reminded Sergei of the caged beasts at the zoological park, muzzled to prevent small children from losing their fingers.
Fabian was at the bow, ready to fire the anchor bolt.
After a final check of the helium-filled bladder, which was bobbing above their heads, Sergei clambered up into the wheelhouse, already having to fight the door against the first of the true squalls.
“Ready as we’ll ever be!”
Le Phare turned, dipped his head in acknowledgment and then took over the wheel from Monkey, flipping the cap from the end of the communication tube in readiness for Ely’s quick-fire reports, which Le Phare would use to guide them through the maelstrom while the catchers netted the precious cargo of Lu. When the ship reached the vortex, the command would be given to drop anchor. The sulphurous yellow eruptions in the midst of the menacing clouds forewarned of the intense heat - rarely had Le Phare seen such a display.
“Release the brake on the count of three, Sergei ... one ... two ... three!”
He released the brake lever and the twelve springs below were freed from their bondage and began turning the propeller shaft which drove the huge sail blades that powered the ship. In conjunction with the controlled jettisoning of the gas in the buoyancy tanks, the ship dived through the storm clouds, guided by Ely’s instructions which, when relayed to Le Phare, would cause him to turn the wheel this way or that to navigate the pockets of calmer air, thus giving the catchers a chance to snare the Lu that hovered in the quiet spaces. The management of, firstly, power - achieved by the release and the application of the brake - secondly, the ditching of the gas in the tanks, which influenced the rate of descent - thirdly, the steering and speed of adjustment, and lastly, the timing of the command to drop the anchor, was the bread and butter business of the crew - handpicked by Le Phare - and not for the first time had they worked these skies, but never in the face of a storm as ominous as this one.
“PORT - FORTY-FIVE DEGREES!”
The observation that Ely had relayed signalled the first true foray into the wall of the storm - they would be blind for a few seconds - maybe longer - until Ely could see the next pocket to aim for. It was like navigating between angry and hungry icebergs on nothing more substantial than a reed raft while trying to harpoon whales in the dark.
Le Phare spun the wheel nearly a full eighth of a turn, released the first of the buoyancy gas - cheaper methane, not helium - and the ship nose-dived, plunging into the cloud bank like a swimmer diving through the front wall of a tsunami.
“Keep an eye on that pressure gauge!”
Le Phare’s command was not directed to Sergei, who had to keep his wits about him to control the brake; no, the command was for Monkey, the simoid, which Le Phare had built himself; a maniacal, robotic, tamarin-like worker droid, fit only for simple tasks. As the craft fell from the sky, the air pressure rose and the bladder was subjected to increasing compression. Helium was released into reserve tanks to equalize the pressure and prevent the bladder from bursting.
“PORT ... NO! STARBOARD - TWELVE DEGREES!”
“What is he doing?” But Le Phare’s response was no less immediate and the ship lurched and then hit dead air.
“Brakes on!”
Sergei heaved on the lever to apply the brake; in so doing, bringing the ship level as the power died. The screech from within the hull cut through the air like a hot knife through butter.
“I can taste the Lu!”
Le Phare merely answered, “Half-power in five ... four ... three ... two ... one!”
As the brake was partly released, the ship juddered, and the superstructure above their heads, which connected the bladder to the hull, sang like a blue whale.
They fell between the clouds, accelerating alarmingly.
“Brake, Sergei!” barked Le Phare, above the increasing noise of the storm.
“TURBULENCE!”
Even before the word had died, the ship was bombarded by a succession of hammer blows; her prow rose and sank, bobbing like a cork.
“Steady, Sergei!” cried Le Phare, well acquainted with the vagaries of storms. Adrenalin flooded his system, adding a keener edge to the tang of the Lu that now saturated the air.
The bottom dropped out of the air pocket and they plunged a thousand feet in freefall until they hit the top of the next pocket of air. Quickly they began rising on the heat of the burning sulphur beneath them, it signalled that they were too close to the vortex.
“What in God’s name?! ELY!” bellowed Le Phare, getting nothing from the communication tube except the sound of the howling wind.
“Shall I check on him, Captain?”
“Go!”
Sergei pulled up the brake, before diving off to find Ely. Just outside the door of the wheelhouse, the wind ripped at his shirt like a cat and sucked the breath out of his lungs. The sulphur in the air made him gag and tears blinded his eyes.
“What devilry is this!?”
An inferno raged about them; from his knowledge, they were caught in a thermal. The ship was slowly beginning to spin at the mercy of the wind and in real danger of being carried too high.
Struggling to keep a grip on the handrails, he pushed forward, at risk of falling and braining himself against the spars of the bladder support work.
“Ely!!”
Crawling across the deck, he could already see the tattered remains of the harness and the empty seat at the prow.
“ELY!!”
Barely audible above the cacophony, he heard, “SERGEI!”
Taking his chance, and using the sudden pitching of the deck, he tucked in his arms and rolled to the prow. Disorientated by the pitching and the spinning of the craft, he barely had the wherewithal to grab one of the seat supports and prevent himself from being smashed into the buoyancy tank housing, or worse, flung right overboard. By the inch, he groped, using the remains of the harness to haul himself to the very edge of the gunnel.
“ELY!”
“HELP ME! I CAN’T HOLD ON MUCH LONGER ...”
The scream died in a hiss as a pocket of sulphur ignited in the heat of the churning tempest’s volleys of lightning that rained like arrows let loose from the bows of a hundred archers.
Ely was grasping for something to hold onto. The frayed remains of the safety tether, which had been wrapped around his waist, now his only lifeline but for barely a few seconds more. Sergei’s only chance was to swing over the side, using the harness as a makeshift ladder to reach Ely’s hand and haul him up.
In that moment of indecision, the prow bucked like a colt, sending Ely skyward until the tether snapped and he was catapulted high above the ship, but as luck would have it, the burgeoning helium balloon, deformed by the wind that came from all sides, bulged out, and Ely managed to grab the trailing end of the big net that covered the balloon - the net itself having been partly ripped free of the cleats.
“HANG ON, ELY!”
Needless advice.
A roaring like a locomotive engulfed them as the craft fell prey to the central vortex. A tremendous explosion ripped through its heart and sent a superheated wave of energy out to carry the ship clear of the spinning column of certain destruction.
Sergei heard the brakes being released. The craft shot forward and then dived as the bulk of the buoyancy gas was released in three asthmatic coughs that ended with an angry hiss. The putrid smell of bad eggs engulfed them.
As the ship screamed towards the ground at an insane speed, Sergei had no choice but to crawl into the space between two of the buoyancy tanks and cover his head with his free hand. His prayers were ripped from his lips by the wind. The taste of sulphur, Lu and the blood in his mouth, made him heave.