A few taunting remarks were tossed at him from behind the anonymity of metalclad hulls, but he ignored them. No one would make those same remarks to his face. Not these days. Not since he had killed the last man who’d dared to do so.
The sleeker, trimmer Rover airships came into view as he neared the far end of the field. Black Moclips sat foremost, polished woodandmetal hull gleaming in the sunlight. She was the best ship he had ever flown, a cruiser built for battle, quick and responsive to the tack of her ambient light sails and the tightening and loosening of her radian draws. Just a shade under 110 feet long and 35 feet wide, she resembled a big black ray. Her low, flat fighting cabin sat amidships on a decking braced by cross beams and warded by twin pontoons curved into battering rams fore and aft. Twin sets of diapson crystals converted to raw energy the light funneled from the collector sails through the radian draws. Parse tubes expelled the converted energy to propel the ship. The bridge sat aft with the pilot box front and center on the decking, its controls carefully shielded from harm. Three masts flew the ambient light sails, one each fore, aft, and center. The sails themselves were strangely shaped, broad and straight at the lower end, where they were fastened to the booms, but curved where spars drew them high above to a triangle’s point. The design allowed for minimal slack in a retack and minimal drag from the wind. Speed and power kept you alive in the air, and both were measured in seconds.
Furl Hawken came racing down the field from the ship, long blond beard whipping from side to side. “We’re ready to lift off, Captain,” he shouted, slowing as he reached Alt Mer and swung into step beside him. “Got a good day for it, don’t we?”
“Smooth sailing ahead.” Redden Alt Mer put his hand on his Second Officer’s broad shoulder. “Any sign of Little Red?”
Furl Hawken’s mouth worked on whatever it was he was chewing his eyes cast down. “Sick in bed, Captain. Flu, maybe. You know her. She’d come if she was able.”
“I know you’re the worst liar for a hundred miles in any direction. She’s in a tavern somewhere, or worse.”
The big man looked hurt. ‘Well, maybe that’s so, but you’d better let it pass for now, ‘cause we got a more immediate problem.” He shook his head. “Like we don’t have one every time we turn around these days. Like every single oink doesn’t come from the same pigs nose.”
“Ah, our friends in Federation Command?”
“A full line Commander is aboard for the flight with two of his flunkies. Observation purposes, he tells me. Reconnaissance. A day in the skies. Shades! I nod and smile like a sailor’s wife at news of his plans to give up sailing.”
Redden Alt Mer nodded absently. “Best thing to do with these people, Hawk.”
They had reached Black Moclips, and he swung onto the rope ladder and climbed to the bridge where the Federation Commander and his adjutants were waiting.
“Commander,” he greeted pleasantly. “Welcome aboard.”
“My compliments, Captain Alt Mer,” the other replied. He did not offer his own name, which told the Rover something right away about how he viewed their relationship. He was a thin, pinchfaced man with sallow skin. If he’d spent a day on the line in the last twelve months, it would come as a surprise to the Rover. “Are we ready to go?”
“Ready and able, Commander.”
“Your First Officer”
“Indisposed.” Or she would wish as much once he got his hands on her. “Mr. Hawken can take up the slack. Gentlemen, is this your first time in the air?”
The look that passed between the adjutants gave him his answer.
“It is our first,” the Commander confirmed with a dismissive shrug. “Your job is to make the experience educational. Ours is to learn whatever it is you have to teach.”
“Run ‘em up, Hawk.” He gestured his Second Officer forward to oversee lofting the sails. “We’ll be seeing action today, Commander,” he cautioned. “It could get a little rough.”