The White Goose

The White Goose

... Marcus sets off to find out what fate has befallen his love, but rumours of pirates are thick in the air!

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The White Goose

Written by Edward Shaddow

A calmness began to spread over Marcus as he eased into the steaming hot water. A sigh escaped his lips as his aching body surrendered to its relaxing affects. It was the first hot bath he had seen, let alone been able to partake of, in the last nine months. Months full of brutal hardships spent traversing the harsh red landscape that were the new colonies of Terra Australis, in particular, the far north-western region. The leader of the Western Settlements had sent Marcus along with twenty strong men (including five indigenous hunters) to explore the possibility of expansion into this area. Red dirt quickly became the uniform of any man who dared enter the region, earning the nickname amongst the colonists of ‘Redcoats’; as the expedition wore on and morale had begun to wane the men had amended this to the more appropriate ‘Rustcoats’. While still bitterly disappointed to have been called back after barely even touching the vast potential of the north, Marcus was at least grateful to be completely rid of the infernal dust that had managed to adhere itself so readily to his once pale frame. The gentle rocking motion of the ship added to the already powerful relaxing influence of the bath; sliding further under the waters Marcus closed his eyes and, for the first time in what seemed like several aeons, he began to sleep soundly.

A Mozart concerto streamed from the room’s brass loudspeaker, fighting in vain against the crackling of static. The soft scratching entwined with the pianoforte added an eery yet familiar element to the performance. It was the same piece that was playing when he first read Lord Nordstrum’s letter. This in its self was nothing unusual, music was considered a luxury on the southern continent and as such recordings were rare and often played over and over until the grooves were worn away to dust, he assumed it was much the same for the Royal Navy. The letter still fresh in his mind read over and over again like the well loved concerto piece. It was not so much the content of the message that troubled him (although it was of great concern), no, it was more the lack of detail in the communication that raised his suspicions. His fiancée’s usually verbose uncle often took several pages to explain the coming and goings of the household; his latest missive read simply:

“My dear Marcus, -

“It is of great importance that you return home at once. Your fiancée, my young niece Tabbitha, is in dire need of your compassion and direction, the details of which would be better suited to a private discussion. I have arranged transport with Her Majesty’s Royal Naval Air Service to collect you. Captain Fothergill will be in contact with you within the week to arrange transportation. I am sorry to have to pull you away from your duties, but would not do so without just cause.

I remain yours faithfully,

Lord Albert P. Nordstrum”

After the sudden and tragic passing of her parents several years earlier Tabbitha and her family fortune had been entrusted into the care of her uncle, Lord Nordstrum. It was his insistence that the young Tabbitha should remain in England whilst Marcus carried out his duty to Queen and country in Terra Australis. With the intentions of securing a high ranking office amongst the new settlements Marcus would return to his beloved to take her hand in marriage. Once he was confident that her needs could be cared for in the new world Tabbitha would relocate to a life of ease and freedom in the southern land. Having left Britannia less than two years previous, he did not expect to return so quickly.

As it was, the colony was far from perfect and would take several more years of tireless work to bring it up to the current British standard. Although, if questioned by any potential newcomers, he had been instructed to ‘praise the ingenuity and ability of the Empire and her men to tame the savage lands and make proud the name of England!’. Marcus had hoped to avoid any such conversations as embellishing the truth was a skill he had yet to convincingly acquire in his twenty-four short years.

The harsh realties of the hot, begrimed land soon became obvious for any one entering the colony. Many had been taken in by the artistic licence of the British immigration department and their many outlandish campaigns. Several poor souls had to be physically restrained at the sight of their new ‘home’, breaking down in the dirt paved streets after being shown the vast area of nothing they now owned. Most had taken the gamble that they could jump the restrictive British social structure and take the opportunity to ‘become’ someone in this new land. For the majority though, the raw state of Terra Australis was preferable by far than that of the ghettos of London. Most acclimatised quickly and made the best of a bad situation showing true British spirit - men amongst men.

While his mind was always full of thoughts of his betrothed, his long days were full of physical exhaustion. The letter only added to the weariness and stress that pervaded his life. What could it be that Lord Nordstrum was alluding too? Altho his absence continued to be a strain on their relationship and as far as Marcus was aware Tabbitha loved him dearly. He quickly dismissed the idea that she had become seduced by another, it simply was not in her nature, of this he was certain. For her uncle to use his influence within the Navy it must not be a trivial matter. Their family did not take lightly to wasting the time of Her Majesty’s Royal Guard, and neither did Her Majesty for that matter. What ever it was would have to wait until his arrival in England, which, according to the Captain would still be several days. “Wait for me, my love” Marcus whispered into the air.

Those troubling thoughts and the gradually cooling water were beginning to spoil the relaxing nature of the bath. With a sigh and an effort, Marcus heaved himself over the side of the cast iron bath with as much dignity as such an act allowed. Reaching for the nearby towel he moved to the compact vanity bolted to the wall and scrutinised the man he had become. After several months in the remote north he, like most other men, had abandoned the daily routines of vanity. A scruffy chestnut beard had begun to cover his young face, joining his tired green eyes on the rough and tanned canvas that was his face. A stranger in his own eyes. Taking one last look in the mirror, Marcus removed the neglected razor from the sink and began to scrape away the part of Australia that had followed him.

Part way through shaving the music came to an abrupt end, replaced quickly with the boatswain's call for silence. After a moments pause the Captain’s low toned voice broke out over the ship.

“Mr Pennyweather, when it suits, your presence is requested on the bridge. That is all.” The ‘carry on’ call of the boatswain followed and the music was replaced more or less at the same point it had stopped. Marcus, straight edge razor in hand, looked up at the speaker quizzically. An invitation to meet the Captain...exactly what strings had Lord Nordstrum pulled to get him on this boat?

Marcus continued to take his time getting ready. He did not wish to keep the Captain waiting yet at the same time he wanted to savour the transformation from savage to gentleman. His soon-to-be uncle had anticipated his needs and shipped a trunk of fresh clothes, all cut in the latest fashion. Selecting a simple dark brown three piece suit the transformation was complete, and at once he felt fit to be in the company of gentlemen again. Adding the final touches with a rather interesting cologne (its smell remind him of a summers day long since passed), he ran a scrutinising eye over the reflection in the mirror and was happy with the result. Attaching his silver pocket watch to the waistcoat Marcus moved to the cabin door and drew breath, centring himself before being reborn, as it were, into the world.

Cold air slammed into him as the door swung open. Ripping the wood from his hand the current pushed the door hard up against the outside of the cabin. Fighting against the wind, Marcus managed to wrest the door away from the wall and fix it back into place. He now knew why these ships were often called ‘Zephyrs’ (translated from the Latin as ‘Gods of the West Wind’) by many who travel on them. One eventually became used to the constant buffeting of air once you were outside and moving around. Strong iron guard-rails lined the edge of the ship giving a visual sense of security for guests and a excellent laughing point for crew. Marcus stood holding on to the rail and looked out over the side of the ship. The entire sky stretched out before him, fading away until the ocean and the sky met in a perfect line on the horizon. Clouds floated past oblivious to the vast metal and wood structure that cut through them. Occasionally catching on the bow, they disintegrated leaving a broken white trail in the ship’s wake. Below him the Indian Ocean stretched out flat like a warm quilt covering the world in a blue-green calm. The view was slightly obstructed by one of the two large helium balloons that ran the length of both sides of the ship, providing both buoyancy and lift in the air.

It was not the first time Marcus had travelled by airship, most free settlers had arrived on the continent by dirigible. Transport ships were large sluggish machines full of cargo and screaming children, unless one could afford first class passage, though most could scarcely afford to feed their families let alone the luxury of premium accommodation. The HMS Raven was a thirty eight gun armoured frigate; it was a great deal smaller than the regular B class transport ships, used to ferry settlers to the new land, this was to allow for greater manoeuvrability in combat. Usually on patrol over the North Atlantic the Raven had been sent on manoeuvres in the far south a month prior. Two weeks later it was recalled to England with orders to go via Australia, this much Marcus had been able to find out from casual conversations with the crew. What their mission was before being recalled not a soul would say. Pulling his frozen frame from the rail Marcus headed slowly against the wind and towards the bridge.

“Mr Pennyweather. So good of you to join us.” Captain Fothergill boomed his greeting across the bridge to be heard above the small wind storm that rushed through the door before Marcus. “Captain, please forgive my lateness.” he apologised, motioning with a low bow. He moved towards the Captain, trying to avoid blocking the way of the numerous bridge crew and the various pipes, dials and gears filled the small space. Shallow recesses were hidden about the machinery, allowing crewmen to interact and presumably control the ship. Bright daylight flooded the space, coming from several large windows that ran the length of the wall facing the bow.

Surrounded by men and machinery the Captain looked like a man who was born and raised at the helm. A rather broad gentleman he stood tall and wore his uniform with a sense of pride and dignity. In Marcus’s experience, the majority of airship Captains held a strong and unfaltering belief in the Empire, Britain and Her Royal Majesty Queen Victoria; from first impressions it seemed to him that Captain Fothergill was of no exception.

“I expect the cabin is to your satisfaction.”

“The room is more than satisfactory, thank you Sir. After months of sleeping rough in canvas tents, I am just happy to have a something other than red dust beneath me.” Marcus replied. The Captain nodded, “Indeed, one would expect conditions in the new world to be rather, shall we say, lacking.” This was more than an understatement, however Marcus replied dutifully, “What the colonies lack in opulence is more than made up by the resilience of the British man to tame a wild world. Would you not agree Captain?”

Fothergill moved away from the ships binnacle and made his way to the back of the bridge and a door marked ‘Ready Room’. Opening the portal and gesturing entrance to Marcus he made his reply, “I would of course agree wholeheartedly Mr Pennyweather; shall we continue discussing the merits of Britain and her men in more comfortable surroundings. Lieutenant, you have the bridge.”

A strong smell of cigar smoke and whisky met Marcus as he entered the Captains ready room. About half the size of the bridge the small office was for the most part occupied by a large mahogany writing desk. Various papers and maps littered the desktop, all held down with heavy brass navigational instruments. Closing the door behind him the Captain offered the only other seat, besides his own, to Marcus. Fothergill seated himself behind the desk and consulted several maps, taking time to measure and mark positions before addressing his guest. “Do continue Mr Pennyweather, I am always curious about the developments of Her Majesty’s colonies.” he said, removing two tumblers and a half bottle of whisky from a bottom drawer. “Drink?”

“Begging your pardon Captain, but is it not still rather early in the day?” Marcus had never been a drinker, one thing about the settlement was that good liquor was still rather rare and men preferred to savour its taste than waste it.

“I am afraid Sir, that this ship still takes its time from the Americas, where it is still a decent hour. Not to matter.” he poured a generous measure into one of the glasses, raising it in a toast, “Long live the Queen and Her Empire.” The drink was gone and refilled before Marcus had a chance to acknowledge the toast. “Now my good man, tell me all about the new land and its ways.”

Marcus shifted nervously in his chair. He knew he would have to lie to the Captain and put a positive spin on the settlement. It wasn’t stretching the truth very far, yet he still felt uncomfortable about putting the idea into someone's head that this vast island could cure all their ills. Suddenly he felt very much like a drink. “Well Captain,” he croaked, “What, would you like to know?”

“Everything. How go the western settlements? Is it true that they are looking to extend further south? And what of your work Sir? Lord Nordstrum speaks very highly of you, he says that you are working with some of the brightest minds in the land.” Marcus’s heart leaped into his throat. “My work you say? Well Sir, my work is merely exploratory. Map making and scouting, nothing worth writing home about.” Fothergill put down his glass.

“Nonsense lad. We are all loyal servants of Her Majesty here, anyway, I know for a fact that you were testing some sort of wireless telegraphic machine.”

Marcus was taken aback. Nobody was supposed to know about the machine yet, his field tests were incomplete and they were still working on clarity and signal loss over distances. “Only two men outside of my team know the machine exists, Sir. If you excuse my bluntness, how on Gods green earth do you know about it?” A leak at this point in time might be the ruin of him, he had every right to be indignant towards the Captain. Fothergill leaned forward and looked into Marcus’s eyes. “Calm down Mr Pennyweather, your machine is only one of several currently being tested by The Royal Navy. Had you not wondered to whom you were sending and receiving signals from?”

“Receiving? What do you mean, Sir? The relay test was between my team in the north and the main settlement in the south. There were no other machines.”

“‘Were’ indeed Mr Pennyweather, the Raven was outfitted with the device mid patrol around the Americas some months ago. We were then sent further south to test the range and quality of the transmissions. The experiment went rather well don’t you think?” The Captain sat back in his leather chair, nursing the second glass of whisky. Marcus felt sick. He had been played by the military, used for his knowledge and banished to some far island to die in the dust; at least, that’s how he felt, how true it was he would have to find out when he reached England.

“Was the letter I received from Lord Nordstrum genuine or is it another deceit concocted by the Royal Navy? I tell you Sir, I do not take kindly to being used in this manner.” Easing back into his chair Marcus secretly hoped that the letter was written by the Navy to facilitate a return to England. For what purpose he did not know, but it would mean that his Tabbitha was fine and waiting for him.

“Mr Pennyweather, I assure you no offence was intended; a messenger was dispatched to you with news of this, obviously some tragedy befell the poor fellow, preventing the message from being delivered.” The Captains face softened slightly in an attempt to ad a degree of compassion to his explanation. “The Royal Navy simply felt your machine was worth testing extensively, you should take that as a complement and an endorsement to your ingenuity.” The Captain casually offered a cigar from the ornate wooden box on his desk. An olive branch on his part. “Her Majesty’s Royal Navy is not known for handing out complements, Mr Pennyweather.” Marcus accepted the offering, leaning slightly over the desk to catch a light from an offered match.

Drawing in the thick, strong tobacco smoke, Marcus contemplated the words of the Captain. He was correct of course. When he presented the idea of further developing the Tesla Wireless Telegraphic Machine by the addition of a portable spark gap generator, people though him mad. If it wasn’t for the written endorsement of Lord Nordstrum Marcus would still be trying to raise support for the machine. The fact that the Royal Navy had installed it on board one of their main frigates spoke for itself, they believed it would work. This was exactly the kind of outcome he had been hoping for, he should be celebrating not fuming. “Captain, I...do accept my apologies. I, it hasn’t been easy these past few years, the isolation does get at you.” Behind the thick curtain of smoke, Fothergill smiled knowingly at Marcus. “Not to worry son, if anyone knows the pains of isolation, it would be the Captain of an Airship. Although this letter business is news to me.” Marcus was taken aback. “Begging your pardon Sir?” The Captain leaned back in his chair, placing a leather booted foot upon his desk. “This letter from Lord Nordstrum you mentioned. Nothing to do with us I’m afraid. I was sent word that you would be leaving Australia on personal business and since you were the reason we were on patrol it seemed only obvious to hasten your journey. I am afraid what ever is mentioned on that letter has nothing at all to do with Her Majesty’s Navy.”

From being high in spirits, Marcus was shot down once again. What trouble had befallen Tabbitha would still be waiting for him; and now he had the added pressure to resolve it quickly and return to the southern land and continue developing the device. Marcus’s face sunk. The Captain poured whisky into both glasses, and handed one to Marcus. “Cheer up son, there is nothing so bad in life that a good whisky can’t fix!” Glass in hand, Marcus looked fixedly into the dark amber liquid hoping his future didn’t lay at the bottom of a whisky bottle. Silence fell between the two men as they contemplated. Lit cigar and whisky in hand, a better picture of the Empire could not be painted.

A rapping came at the door, opening to reveal the Lieutenant. “Begging your pardon for the intrusion Captain, we have a situation that needs your attention. Urgently.” Looking up, Marcus could see the narrow faced Lieutenant was perturbed by the situation on the bridge, it only added to his worry.

“What is it Lieutenant?” The Captain said, stubbing out his cigar on an ornate silver ashtray.

“The lookouts have spotted an airship of the starboard bow, Sir.”

“British?”

“No Sir, wrong shape. It’s also not flying any colours.” The Lieutenant hesitated over his last words. A ship not flying any colours could mean only one thing. Pirates. Both Marcus and the Captain downed their drinks. In one swift motion, Fothergill stood and made his way to the door. “Lieutenant, have someone escort Mr Pennyweather back to his quarters and have all hands report to battle stations.” He turned to face Marcus, “Sir, fear not. This crew was hand picked by myself and more than battle ready, I suggest staying in your cabin until we deal with our uninvited guests.” Marcus stood, his head slightly lightheaded from the whisky. “Thank you Captain. There is no other place I’d rather be in this situation, than under your care.” The Lieutenant made way for the Captain to pass then called over a nearby airman, “Midshipman! Escort Mr Pennyweather back to his berth.”

“Yes, Sir.” the unnamed Midshipman replied with a formal salute and motioned towards the exit, “This way if you please, Sir.”

As they made their way towards the cabin, Marcus attempted to engage the Midshipman in conversation, endeavouring to learn more about the pending threat upon the ship. “Whose ship is out there Airman?” His nerves were beginning to show in his voice, even against the wind. He instantly regretted accepting the Captains drink.

“I am afraid it’s too far to tell at the moment Sir.” The Midshipman called back, his pace quickening with every step. “However,” he said, stopping in front of Marcus’s cabin, “word has it, Sir, that the ‘White Goose’ has been spotted in the area.” His face looked as worried as the Lieutenant’s did, although the young Airman lacked the fortitude and experience of the other officer to hide it. “Not, the White Goose, surely man.” replied Marcus. Everyone knew about the Goose, even on the distant and isolated southern continent. For the past eighteen months, a band of formidable airship pirates had been indiscriminately running down other vessels for their cargo, commandeering any useful technology they came across. It was one of the reasons that his own project had been somewhat delayed; the machine had to be shipped by three different vessels and sent by both air and sea to prevent the pirates from obtaining the technology and using it to their own advantage. If the Raven was attacked and boarded, all his precautions might have been for naught. Marcus whispered a silent prayer on the wind.

With the Midshipman returning to his duties on the bridge, Marcus was left alone in his quarters to wait out the encounter. He was not as concerned with the pending attack as he thought he would be. He was of the opinion that the crew of the White Goose would be fools to launch an assault on the Raven, they were out gunned and out manned. From what he had heard the pirates had so far only attacked unarmed transport and survey vessels; word had spread about an attack on a small H-Class cruiser a few months ago, although it was never openly confirmed by the Royal Navy. Marcus’s worries had yet again returned to the fate of his fiancée. Lord Nordstrum would surely have known about the Raven’s operation and how important it was to the project, he would never have interrupted it for a minor or trivial matter. For the next half an hour Marcus paced his cabin, running through his mind all the possible predicaments Tabbitha could have found herself in. It was not a cheerful list.

He was midway through mentally reviewing the list when the first boom sounded and the ship violently listed. Marcus was caught off balance and thrown towards the wall, his head cracked against the solid steamer trunk. The world threatened to go black as pain shot through his head. Muffled shouts came from all around him as various crewmen rushed to their attack positions. Commands bellowed from the loud speaker and reverberated around the ship, Marcus heard the order to return fire amongst the pain and thumping in his ears. The sound of nineteen guns simultaneously detonating directly beneath him was enough to make anyone ball up and cover their ears, and in this Marcus was no exception. The shock waves rattled up through the wooden floor strong enough to shake all the fittings and send various items crashing. Alone on the floor, Marcus prayed to any one who would listen that he be spared just long enough to be able to see his Tabbitha once more and tell her he was sorry. Sorry for leaving her, sorry that he wasn’t man enough to marry her sooner and even sorrier that she needed his help and he was not there for her.

It took several moments for him to realise that the Midshipman had returned and was yelling and pulling at him to get up. Between his head wound and the deafening sound of the guns, Marcus’s hearing was not the best. The Midshipman’s mouth moved, obviously yelling to be heard above the din, however only meaningless muffled tones reached Marcus’s ears. Eventually catching on, Marcus managed to haul himself off the floor with the Midshipman’s help; the room spun as he tried to find his sense of balance and stumbled out the door with the Midshipman.

If the sight of the empty ocean took his breath away before, the sight of the White Goose looming directly before him stole every ounce of breath he had. The impossibly large vessel dangled mid air. Supported by one large balloon the impressive looking craft hung underneath connected by large metal struts, along with various ropes and netting. The rumours were true enough, the airship looked cobbled together from various other vessels, a veritable patchwork of technology, pieced together to give the best of every design. Something tripped in Marcus’s mind, the underlying design, the basic shape of the ship was somehow familiar to him, even under all the various pieces that had been welded and joined to it. He had little time to think any more of this as the guns of the White Goose opened up and sent projectiles slamming into the iron clad side of the HMS Raven.

Urging him on, the Midshipman did his best to usher Marcus through to the port side of the ship. The sounds of the great guns diminished slightly giving some relief to his aching ears, enabling him to hear what the Midshipman was saying as they ran. “...safer once we reach the other men. Do you understand Sir?”

“Pardon?” he replied, a little too loudly judging from the reaction of the man’s face.

“I said, Sir, ‘We’ll head to the life rafts on the port side where Petty Officer Winters will kit you up for evacuation, just in case Sir. Don’t worry, you’ll be safer once we reach the other men.” Marcus took a moment to reply, waiting for the sound of the Raven’s guns to dissipate. “Thank you Midshipman.”

“This way Sir, best hurry now.” He said leading up a ladder. It was the quickest way port. Up and over. Reaching the top of the ladder, Marcus found himself exposed on top of the ship, the wind knocked him backwards as it rushed over the bow and down the length. Again the Midshipman managed to secure him and with a nod, pushed him towards the ladder on the far side.

Taking one last look back at the aerial battle Marcus noticed several dark spots floating from the top of the enemy airship. As they rapidly advanced towards the Raven Marcus knew exactly what they were. “Raiders!” He shouted, pointing towards the sky above them. The Midshipman looked back following the line of sight just as the advance glider soared above them, dropping explosives in its wake. Both Marcus and the Midshipman dropped to the deck as the bombs detonated. Shrapnel and flames jetted mere inches above their heads as the other raiders emptied their deadly cargo all around them. Marcus inched along the deck to the ladder; he looked around to see if the Midshipman was following him. A large, bloody and burnt hole took up most of the navy blue uniform belonging to the airman as he lay deathly still on the deck. The gliders having completed a full turn were now coming around for a second strike. “I’m sorry.” Marcus whispered, quickly crawling down the ladder.

Landing on the lower deck Marcus took no time to spot the life rafts being prepared. He ran as fast as he could, the ship rocking and vibrating beneath his feet. The wind made little difference now. Small explosions from the raiders bombing runs could be heard all around him, it would only take a lucky hit to end his journey here and now.

A nearby airman spotted Marcus and ran to meet him. The auburn haired youth running towards him seemed to be calling out to him repeatedly. His ears had not yet recovered sufficiently to hear over the buffeting wind and detonations. Focusing on the airman’s lips Marcus could see the boy was repeating two words. They were mere feet away from each other when the airman suddenly took a flying leap towards Marcus, arms outstretched and screaming. In a moment of pure clarity the words hit his ears, “Get down!” In an instant, the airman landed on him violently throwing him to the ground as three small explosions detonated behind his back. Once again he felt the heat of flame along his spine. The airman quickly picked himself up and grabbed Marcus, pulling them both towards the relative safety of the life rafts.

Several wooden crates had been set up in a defensive position at either end of the deck. The airman pushed Marcus behind one of the larger crates and sat down next to him, “Are you all right, Sir? You were damn lucky I saw you there; couldn’t you hear me yelling?” Marcus willed some air back into his pained lungs and replied breathlessly, “Thank you, thank you...uh.” The youth straightened his back and snapped a small salute, “Petty Officer Winters, at your service Sir.” Even in his dazed condition Marcus recognised the name. “Winters did you say?”

“That’s right Sir. Pleasure to meet you Mr Pennyweather, Midshipman Jones not with you?” Marcus’s heart sunk.

“Jones was it? I...I never knew his name. He died, trying to save me I’m afraid...” Both men hung their heads solemnly. Marcus had seen death, in several instances even met it head on, yet, no one had ever given his life for him. He had never caused the death of another man before, it was something he did not want to do again. Petty Officer Winters coughed politely, “Jones was indeed a good man Sir, and he died doing his duty, nothing to be ashamed about there.” Like any true military man, the Petty Officer put aside his personal feelings and continued on with his duty, Marcus felt slightly jealous of this ability. Raising to a crouch the Petty Officer nodded towards the semi-inflated life rafts, “I’ve orders to get you kitted up for evacuation, Sir. This way.” Winters kept low as he proceeded to run to the nearest life raft and began removing several large items.

Marcus watched Winters and wondered if the young Petty Officer would share the same fate as Midshipman Jones. Winters was right however; Jones was just carrying out his duty, if it wasn’t Marcus he died for it would have been someone else. He simply could not shake the feeling of having sentenced that poor man to death, and for what, an errand? A meaningless trip home? He would give freely his own life for his love but it was not something he would ask another to do. The entire incident was his fault, he condemned these brave men to their deaths and would surely pay for it.

The Petty Officer returned promptly with a large canvas backpack. “Here Sir, put these on over your jacket and make sure to tighten all the buckles and straps. You really don’t want this falling off!” he said holding the pack, various cords and straps hung down from it. Marcus had seen parachutes before, yet he never had the misfortune to use one. “How does this work Petty Officer?” he asked, shrugging into the pack as the Petty Officer checked the straps. “Basically Sir, you jump over the edge, count to four and pull these three ropes. The silk will expand and carry you gently to earth.” Marcus repeated the directions to himself several times.

“All set Sir. We’ll go join the other men at the far end.” Marcus’s face must have betrayed him as the airman added, “Don’t fret Sir, you’re in the good hands of Her Majesty’s Royal Navy!” Marcus genuinely wanted to believe him.

Most of the fighting was still taking place on the starboard side of the great iron clad ship. Even with the raiders swooping the run to meet the other men was relatively uneventful. Marcus’s hearing was returning as he began to pick out the calls of the other airmen in the distance. Sprinting the last few yards they managed to secure themselves behind the makeshift barricade amongst the men already in defensive positions. No sooner had they arrived then a forward spotter yelled “Here they come!” before rushing back to fall behind the crates. Marcus recognised the Lieutenant from the bridge, barking orders to the half dozen men around him. “Excuse me Lieutenant? Who are...” he was cut off by the Lieutenant forcing a long rifle into his arms, “Sir, I take it you know how to handle one of these. I suggest keeping quiet and taking aim at whom ever comes around that corner.” Marcus accepted the weapon and replied with a sharp nod, moving next to the Petty Officer who had been issued with a firearm as soon as they arrived.

The gun bared resemblance to the Nautilus rifles that the colonists used for hunting. Modified slightly from the original design, instead of using air to propel the electric glass shells, the colony rifles used powerful magnets to force the charged shells down the barrel; shattering on contact the rounds would shock the animal, stunning, or depending on its size, killing it. These rifles were based on the same principal, using magnetic forces and electric glass shells, however this was where all likeness ended. More the meshing of a field rifle and the mobile electrical conduit developed by Tesla, several lengths of magnetic rod wound in copper coils ran the length of the barrel. Various tubes and toggles jutted out at forty five degree angles near the hammer of the weapon; each rifle seemed to charge the projectile as it left the barrel providing an infinitely more stable field weapon as well as a greater and more powerful shot. The result was a bright discharge of lightning leaving the barrel launching towards the poor sod who threatened the Empire. To be handed such a device, even in self defence, was not a matter to be taken lightly.

“Weapons at the ready!” The Lieutenant barked. Marcus toggled the switch on the side of the weapon to charge the shell. A gentle hum emitted along the barrel as the electrical current fed into the ammunition. Sweat formed on his palms and forehead as he waited, fighting to keep the weapon steady in his trembling hands. He prayed for the strength not to run away; he was British and Britain did not raise weak men, especially those sent to unknown and desolate lands in the far reaches of the Empire. No, he would hold his own with these magnificent men of Her Majesty’s Royal Navy, he would defend the honour of Queen and country from what ever force threatened her. ‘If not for Britannia, then for Tabbitha’, he thought as the first of the pirates turned the corner.

He barely heard the order to fire as each weapon discharged with a thunderous crack and a blinding flash. The raggedly dressed pirate collapsed on the ground, convulsing uncontrollably as lightning danced around his body. The Lieutenant gave the order to recharge as the rest of the boarders took cover around the corner. Marcus reset his weapon’s charge remarkably quickly, the minor success of repelling the pirate pushed any nerves to the back of his mind. Barely finishing his recharge, a barrage of lit projectiles sailed above his head as the pirates returned fire. One of the airmen convulsed and fell backward, foaming at the mouth. Swallowing hard, Marcus returned to his firing position and let loose another volley towards the hiding enemy. Between firing and recharging he watched Petty Officer Winters. The boy was a picture of courage, firing round after round without a look of worry on his face. Marcus wished he had half as much pluck as the young Petty Officer.

They held the position for what seemed to Marcus like days. Fire. Recharge. Fire. Take cover. Recharge. Fire. On and on the battle went, minor victories on each side were quickly replaced by reinforcements coming from seemingly nowhere. It appeared that they were at a stale mate, neither side gaining enough ground for a push forward; at least until a small brass ball rolled down the deck and through a gap in the crates stopping a few feet behind the defensive line. Marcus stared back at the ball for a few moments, trying to figure out where he had seen it before. He could see the join along the middle, engraved with what looked like to be makers marks. Peering closer to the device he began to make out small black words printed on the brass “Caution - Explosive”. His mouth opened but it was too late. A small charge inside the device detonated forcing the two hemispheres apart whilst shattering the glass orb inside and releasing the trapped electrical energy over the Raven’s crew. Marcus’s vision blurred as he watched the other men cramp in pain and collapse where they were. Winters fell beside him in a heap, instantly unconscious. His own muscles contracted as static coursed through his body, and in the final moments before blacking out he knew why both the White Goose and the electrical grenade were familiar. After all, they were his design.

Continued...

Artist

Abney Park

Song

Airship Pirate

Reason

Possibly the best Steampunk band in the world. If you guys ever come to Perth let me know, I’ll be down the front row in my 1900s suit and hat with various brass instruments of science!

The sky stretched out before him, fading away until the ocean and the sky met in a perfect line on the horizon.