019 -- Rescue

. . . ugh . . .

. . . where am I? . . .

Andrew awoke slowly. He began to perceive a dim light, but the world was too hazy to make out any details. He tried to move, but his arms and legs were leaden and he gave up after a few moments. As his sight swam into focus, he realized that he was lying on his back in a narrow bunk, wrapped in a thin blanket. More bunks were stacked neatly under the low metal ceiling. A gentle humming seemed to fill the air, coming from the walls and the floor.

Hanging from the bunk above him were several bundles of fresh fruit, swaying slowly back and forth. Across from him hung several sausages in a line, and the next bunk down was home to a large wooden crate. In fact, the whole room was filled with assorted food and other junk.

"Thom! Thom, I think he's awake!" came a woman's voice.

A dark silhoutte bent itself over Andrew. "Hon? Hon, can you hear me?" He tried to respond but all he could manage was a hoarse croak.

"Let me get you something to drink, there, hon. Don't move." The woman disappeared, returning a second later. Andrew tried to sit up, but she pushed him back down, instead raising a tin cup to his mouth.

The water helped. Andrew cleared his throat and tried again, this time managing something intelligible. "What happened? Where am I?"

"You were shipwrecked. There's a fishing village on the lee side of Cape Herrod. The fisherman saw your ship against the rocks -- lucky for you we were tied down nearby to weather out the storm."

"I remember . . . the rocks. I tied myself to the mast." Andrew's temples throbbed. "But it's confusing, I thought I saw someone come from above . . ."

"That was me, hon. You were half dead when I found you, I had to cut the ropes just to get you free."

"But . . . how did you get to the ship? Where are we now?"

"We're on the Zeta."

"Is the Zeta another ship?"

The woman looked at him quizzically. "Not exactly . . ."

She stood up from his bed and strode to a shuttered porthole that Andrew hadn't noticed. Grasping a recessed lever, she threw open the metal shutters with one swift movement.

Andrew gaped. They were thousands of feet in the air, suspended above a roiling sea of gray cotton clouds. Sunlight streamed in through the glass, brighter than he had ever seen it. Here and there massive thunderheads rose into the sky, towering far over them and riddled with bolts of lightning. A hard blue sky stretched out to the horizon, cold and brilliant as polished marble.

"Not a ship, hon. An airship. You've never seen an airship before?"

Andrew was still gaping, but luckily the woman continued on talking, saving him the trouble of putting together a reply.

"I'm Emma, Emma Splice -- first mate, chief mechanic, and bookkeeper for the Zeta. I'm sure you'll meet the captain before too long -- he's been busy getting us out of your storm. Speaking of which --" she raised her voice "-- Thom! THOM! HE'S AWAKE!"

A unmistakeably hostile reply came back through the forward hatchway, partially muffled but clear in meaning.

"I guess he's a bit busy still, hon. Speaking of which, what's your name?"

Andrew hesitated. As his vision cleared, he was getting a clearer image of the Zeta's first mate. She was middle aged, with a short, compact stature like a boxer. Her face was wide and friendly, and she had saved his life, but . . . Andrew made his decision.

"My name is Danny. I'm -- I was the cabin boy on the Lydia, three days out of Kumar. We were headed towards Cimbria when we sprung a leak. The storm caught us before we could repair it, and, well . . ."

Emma nodded.

"Did you find anyone else?"

The short woman looked away, shaking her head. "We didn't find the other half of the ship. It was a freak accident that saved your life, the odds of it happening twice are . . . well, I'm sorry, hon. Were you close to anyone on the Lydia?"

Andrew shook his head. "Not really."

The silence was interrupted by the abrupt opening of the forward hatchway. "He's awake, huh?" came a brusque voice.

"His name's Danny, Thom. Danny, this is the captain of the Zeta, Thom Roving."

"Mmm." Andrew and the captain sized each other up. Thom was a nondescript man, of perfectly average height and build. His shaggy brown hair protruded at awkward angles from his head, and a thin layer of stubble coated his chin. His high black boots were scuffed, pitted, and spattered with mud. A pistol hung at a rakish angle from his worn leather belt.

"So this is the kid we went to so much trouble for? Didn't know he was a Tel."

"Be nice Thom, he nearly got killed today."

"So did we! A bit of bad luck and we'd be down on those rocks with him. We were one downdraft away from becoming permanent residents."

When Andrew didn't respond, Thom came closer. He took a seat on an upturned crate, creating a small triangle of faces between Andrew, Emma, and himself. "So. Who are you, kid?"

"My name is Dan--"

"No, I know that already. Where you from?"

"I'm from the village of Kashi, up the river from Kumar."

"Have any family?"

"My mother and sister live alone."

"Do they work for the Cimbrians?"

"No."

"They own a plantation?"

"No. Why do you care?"

"They have any money?"

"Not really. Why is this important?"

Thom leaned back on the crate with a snort. "Real fine one we got here, Emma. What were you doing in that storm, kid?"

"I was the cabin boy on the Lydia. We were caught in the storm and sank."

"Been a cabin boy long?"

Andrew hesitated. "A year or two. Captain Toggart took me on in Kumar."

"What was your run?"

Andrew thought back quickly to Uncle Hamid's business. "From Cimbria to the coast of Tel. We sold iron and other heavy goods along the coast."

"Mmm. A hold full of iron off of Cape Herrod, no wonder the ship sank. Where in Cimbria did you port?"

Andrew named the first Cimbrian city he could think of, the capital and home of the academy. "Oberon."

Thom raised his eyebrows. "Oberon, eh? Your captain Toggart must've been quite the businessman, even if he wasn't much of a sailor." He pushed his crate back and returned to his feet. "Emma, can you find him some clothes?"

Andrew realized for the first time that he was naked under the sheets. The stocky woman shurgged apologetically. "There wasn't a whole lot left when we picked you up . . . the storm tore everything you were wearing to shreds. I'm sure I'll find something that'll fit," she said, turning back to Thom, "although he's pretty skinny."

Thom nodded and turned to leave. "Capain Roving? Can I ask you a question?"

"Hmm?"

"What is the Zeta, exactly?"

Thom paused, already halfway to the hatchway, and turned back. "The Zeta and I get things where they need to go. That's all you need to know."

"We're on an airship?"

This time there was a short pause before Thom replied.

"Yeah, kid, an airship. We've got eighteen cells of lifiting gas above us right now. I've got to get forward." And the hatchway shut with a bang.

Emma stood as well. "Sorry about that, hon. He's still a bit grumpy over what your storm did to his ship. I'll leave the water here while I find some clothes for you -- try and sleep a little more."

Andrew was asleep again before she returned.

---

When he awoke again, it was almost dark outside. The gentle hum of what was probably some sort of engine still permeated the cabin. A slight tinge of purple was all that remained of what must've been a spectacular sunset.

A pair of trousers and rough shirt lay at the end of his bunk, along with a note. "Sorry, these were all I could find. -- Emma" was written in neat Cimbrian, and again in blocky Tel as an afterthought. The trousers were much too big, but by tying the belt snug and rolling up the legs he was able to make them work.

The metal floor was cold on his bare feet and flexed slightly underfoot. In fact, everything in the cabin seemed to be made as thin and light as possible, including the mattress Andrew had been sleeping on for most of the past day. He stumbled to the porthole, stretching as he did to try and loosen the knots in his back.

Looking outside, he got a better view of the sky. There was just enough light still to see the roiling mass of clouds still beneath them. The thunderheads had been left behind, but were still visible in the distance. Chains of lightning still rippled through them with silent fury, illuminating clouds that were no longer touched by the sun.

The hatchway forward had been left adjar, and after thinking for a moment Andrew let himself through. Climbing a ladder, Andrew found a narrow metal gangway that stretched forward through a tunnel of cloth and was lit with a string of yellow electric lamps. At the end was another ladder that led in both directions. Andrew hesitated, unsure which way to go, but he thought he could hear faint voices coming from below and so he went down.

Here was another hatchway slightly adjar. Andrew took hold of the handle to open it when the sounds of conversation made him freeze. Thom and Emma were talking about him.

"Emma, he's not worth anything to us until we know what's really going on."

"You're sure he's lying?"

"There's no way that he's ever been to Oberon and doesn't know what an airship is. And his hands? Working on a ship for a year means calluses, not fresh cuts. He was a passenger, and that means he might have money, but until we know he's nothing but trouble."

"And how are you going to find out?"

"The usual way." There was a pause. "You know . . . I'll convince him."

"Thom!"

"Not much! I'll just shake him up a bit."

"Thom, he's only a kid."

"We don't know what he is. He could work for the Cimbrians, for all we know. He's already almost wrecked my ship once, so as far as I'm concerned he's bad luck."

"Just because you think he's bad luck doesn't mean I'm going to let you frighten the child."

Andrew heard Thom sigh. "Look, if he's worth something, we'll ransom him. You know we need the money. And if he isn't worth anything, we drop him somewhere. Simple as that."

"And if he's connected to the Cimbrians?"

"Not very likely that a Tel is working for Cimbria."

"But if he is?"

There was a pause before Thom replied. "You know what we do in that case."

This time Emma sighed. "Yes, you're right. But Thom, let me try first. I think I can get him to talk to me. If not, he's all yours."

"Sooner rather than later. If the kid is dangerous, I want to know about it."

"Alright. I'll check on him in a minute, he might be awake."

Andrew's heart was pounding as he stepped back from the hatchway. What do I do? Who are these people? He raced up the ladder and back down the gangway as quietly as he could. They're pirates! No, not pirates, but smugglers at least, and kidnappers! What do I do?

I need time to think. Sliding back into his bunk, Andrew closed his eyes and feigned sleep. He had just gotten his breathing back under control when he heard the hatch swing open again. Someone's booted feet came to his bedside, and Andrew could sense a body leaning over him. After a few moments they walked away again, a gentle clank as the hatch swung closed. Then there was a soft click.

She locked the door. I'm a prisoner.

016 -- A Sea Voyage

Andrew leaned over the Lydia's rail, fingers twined through the rigging and hair loose in the breeze. The rough, tarry mainstays were stretched taught as the brisk wind came in across the Lydia's beam. Squinting his eyes due to the glare on the water, he could just make out the mainland in the distance.

"'S alright, ain't it?" Danny shouted down from his perch much higher up in the rigging. Andrew only smiled back at him, keeping his mouth shut -- even looking up into the maze of cables and spars still made his stomach flip. He was amazed at how the crew could run run up and down the lines so easily when he had only just mastered his seasickness.

Captain Toggart had reached far out to seaward for the past three days in an effort to weather Cape Herrod. Andrew had gathered from bits of conversation that the cape was famous for its storms. When he asked Danny about it, the boy had only laughed and said "Aye, we're like to have a lively time of it!"

For now, though, the weather was holding. The Lydia gamely pushed through the unending rows of breakers that continued to send spray misting over the deck. Even though it was midsummer, the breeze and cool water meant that Andrew was on the edge of being chilly.

He thought of home. It was only just starting to become real to him that he'd left Kashi for good. Uncle Hamid had left him in Kumar only four days before, and the journey across land had only taken two weeks. He'd been glad to be rid of his uncle at that point. The man's carelessness, in matters both personal and business, was all-pervading, and it drove Andrew crazy to see all the wasted opportunities and missteps. He could tell that no one took Hamid seriously at any point along his route except for the foolish and the needy.

The swirl of activity upon their arrival in Kumar had kept Andrew too preoccupied to think much about home, his mother or his sister. Now that they were at sea, though, he finally had a chance to sit and reflect for a moment. He hoped that things hadn't gone too roughly for them with the prefect.

"Oy, there, Andrew! Yew fetch me 'a drink?" the helmsman called, shaking Andrew out of his reverie.

"Yeah, just a moment." Andrew slid through the hatchway the way Danny had taught him, sliding down without using his feet and landing with a thump in the murky darkness of the main deck. A few feet forward was the hatch down into the hold where the water casks were kept, and after fumbling for a minute he managed to get it open. He slid down this ladder as well . . .

. . . and landed in cold, green water up to his knees. "Aargh! What the -- Captain! Captain Toggart!"

A few minutes later Toggart, Andrew and a few of the crew were wading around with lanterns in the semi-darkness, trying to find the source of the leak. Muffled bangs and creaks sounded above their heads as the rest of the crew began rigging the pump.

"Captain! Over here!" shouted one of the hands. They gathered by the sailor, who was pointing at a six or seven foot section of hull. Each time the Lydia struck a wave, water swelled through the cracks in the timbers, dripping down the bulkhead.

"Looks like 'a pitch 's worked is'self loose," growled Toggart around his unlit cigar. "Git Jackson an' a pitch bucket, we'll lower 'im over the side an' --"

But another call came from the helmsman. "Captain Toggart!"

"Damn it all, what now? You t'ree, start riggin' it, I'll be back."

The three sailors nodded, and the small group headed for the ladder. "What will that do?" Andrew asked one of the men.

"Norm'lly the seams are sealed with tar an' pitch. Some must've come loose, else we wouldn't be leakin'."

Andrew followed them up the ladder, then headed up back on to the main deck. Toggart and the helmsman were in deep conversation, the latter pointing away at the horizon. Looking for himself, Andrew could see a dark black streak beginning to form. Danny was up in the rigging, and Andrew braved his barely-dormant seasickness to shout up to him.

"What do you see?!?"

"A storm -- a big one! An'd lookit t'other side!" He pointed.

Andrew followed his gaze. Barely visible on the other edge of the horizon were the sharp, black rocks of Cape Herod. The Lydia was trapped in between them.

Danny slid down the rigging next to him. "What do we do now?" The cabin boy just shrugged, his face unsmiling for the first time in four days. "It's up ta the Cap'n. We can't go back, the coast is too rough fer too far to land. I 'magine we'll try an' go forward."

"Can we make it?"

Danny shrugged again. "We'll find out, won't we?"

---

Andrew groggily regained consciousness as some poked him insistently in the side. Danny was standing beside his hammock, staggering and halfway asleep. Andrew yielded his spot to the younger boy, who collapsed into the swinging canvas. Rubbing his eyes, he staggered to the deck.

There was a mighty crash -- the Lydia heeled crazily for a moment. He could hear the seawater spilling from the deck as the ship sullenly righted herself. Making his way aft, the sound of the pump became audible over the roar of the wind and waves.

They'd been caught in the storm for three days now, although it was hard to tell day from night when each was as dark as the other. The Lydia was still clawing away from the sharp rocks of Cape Herod, but the storm showed no signs of relenting. An ocaissional flash of lightning would illuminate the black rocks, set like jagged, broken teeth in the coastline and drench in grean, swirling foam. Yesterday Andrew had heard a sailor estimate that while they had yet to loose much ground, they certainly weren't making any -- it was all the old ship could do to stay off the rocks.

The leak, though, was another story. Captain Toggart's main concern, that the pressure of the waves smashing again and again into the damaged hull would worsen the leak had yet to come to pass. However, the storm had hit with such sudden force that there had been no time to effect any repairs to the exterior of the hull, and despite the best efforts of the men the water was still rising. Danny had estimated it at about an inch every two hours. Things had begun to float in the hold; they'd had to tie some of the larger objects down to keep them from smashing at the timbers of the Lydia herself.

And the crew was getting tired. It took four men to man the pump -- endless, backbreaking labor -- and the Lydia's crew of twelve was stretched thin pumping and sailing the ship in a hurricane at the same time. After three days of two hour shifts, the men were falling asleep on the deck.

It was beginning to become clear that they were fighting a losing battle. Every time a wave hit the Lydia, she recovered from the blow a little more slowly. Eventually a large enough wave would come and she would tip all the way over on her side, defeated, and everyone aboard would drown. Their only chance was a break in the weather long enough to sail around the rocks of Cape Herrod and find a safe place to beach the ship before she sank. Captain Toggart had been at the wheel for the past three days, still as an iron statue, waiting for that moment.

At the pump belowdecks, Andrew was greeted by a nod from one of the hands. Four men, backs bare and gleaming with sweat despite the cold, worked a long iron lever up a down. Clank-clank! Clank-clank -- the sound was morbid, the sound of a dying ship. Andrew took a moment to wrap his hands in a few bloodstained pieces of canvas. Unnaccustomed to hard labor, he had blistered quickly on the first day and begun to bleed soon after.

Taking a spot at the handle, he felt the wounds on his hands open up again quickly into hot, wet pain. It didn't bother him as much as it had at first -- the sharp sting in his hands helped distract him from the heavy, cold ache that had settled into the rest of his body. The crewmember he had relieved lay sprawled on the deck, panting for a moment before instantly falling asleep.

Another crash came as a huge wave hit the ship. No one puased in their labor, but all eyes watched the lantern hanging from its staple on the ceiling as it tilted over crazily. Farther, farther . . . insane, deformed shadows flickered across the bulkheads . . . but finally it reversed its motion, coming slowly level again. Clank-clank went the pump.

The first day, Andrew had complained bitterly to himself of his fate. The second day, he had been terrified. Now, he had no energy left to feel anything at all. He just worked at the handle, his mind empy and uncaring. Ocassionally a thought would float by . . . he almost welcomed the idea of drowning, if only it meant that he could rest. If he could only close his eyes for a second . . .

A nudge from the sailor next to him brought him to his senses. He's fallen asleep at the handle. The sailor murmured a quiet, encouraging word and they went on pumping. Clank-clank. Clank-clank.

Sometime later (Andrew wasn't sure how long) there was a sudden sharp "crack!" audible even over the howling wind. The sailors looked at each other in alarm but continued their work. No sooner had the sound faded than the Lydia took a sudden sharp angle and Captain Toggart's bellowing voice could be heard above the gale. "All hands! All hands!" The crew abandoned the pump and rushed up the ladder onto the deck.

Andrew emerged into the teeth of the hurricane. The wind and rain were screaming sideways past him, stinging his eyes and tearing the heat immediately away from his body. Toggart was yelling something into one of the sailors' ears and pointing forward -- following his outstretched arm Andrew could immediately see what had gone wrong. The jib's rigging had parted under intense strain from the wind, and the loose sail had taken part of the foremast along with it. Now the mess of sail, rope, and spars was tangled and hanging off the side of the ship, dragging the Lydia sideways so that every wave struck with full force against the wounded vessel. If something wasn't done soon, they'd be capsized in a few minutes, never mind the rocks of Cape Herrod.

An axe was pushed into Andrew's hand. He followed the rest of the crew slowly towards the bow of the ship, clinging to the lifeline that was passed through his armpit as walls of green water broke over them. There was no possibility of speech, with the scream of the wind and roar of the waves overpowering all of Andrew's other senses.

A sailor pointed Andrew to one of the cables stretched taught over the splintered bulwark. Hanging on to the lifeline with one arm, he began awkwardly hacking at it with the axe in the other. Slowly but surely it bit through the tough fibers, until the last few parted with a sharp crack. Andrew cut the next cable, and the next, feeling as if he was drowning as the green water washed over him.

Finally, with a few sharp pops, the the wreckage broke free. The Lydia bobbed upright again, slowly, but facing her bow into the waves again and no longer in danger of capsizing. Andrew turned to the sailor next to him, about to try and ask what was next, when --

Crash!

A huge rogue wave hit the Lydia, coming across the side rather than against the bow along with the rest of the waves. The wall of saltwater smashed into him like a brick wall, ripping the lifeline out of Andrew's hands. He went skidding along the deck towards the bow, out of control and totally submerged. Andrew felt himself get carried along with the foaming wave over the gunwhalte and along the jagged, broken bowsprit, hands fumbling for but unable to find anything to hold on to.

Well, mom, looks like this is it for me. I guess you shouldn't have listened to Uncle Antan after all --

But there was a sudden pain in his leg, and he was above water again. The world was strangely upside down, and he was hanging, looking at the outside of the Lydia's hull. Looking up, Andrew saw that his leg had been tangled in one of the bowsprit stays, and that this slender line had been the only thing saving him from being swept out to sea. The ship plunged into the trough of the next wave, and Andrew managed to catch a quick gasp of air before he was thrust underwater into relative calm.

Emerging spluttering back into the storm, Andrew began trying to haul himself up back onto the ship. It took him several tries, and he was dunked again into the waves several times before he managed to free himself and crawl back along the jutting wreck of the bowsprit to the relative safety of the deck. He huddled there for a moment, clinging to the raw timbers of the ship, before he could gather the strength to look up.

The crew had not noticed his absence in the chaos. He could see them gathered at the stern, wrestling with something white and flapping at the direction of Captain Toggart -- a spare sail, most likely, to replace the one we lost. We can't control the ship without it. Andrew had just made up his mind to head aft along the lifeline and help them when a flash of lightnight lit of the sky and revealed a sight that nearly froze his blood.

The black rocks of Cape Herrod loomed almost directly over them. Unbeknownst to the crew, the Lydia had been blown toward the rocks while they were dealing with the wreckage of the jib sail. Now the jagged stone loomed far over their small vessel, looking more like a many-armed monster emerging from the deep than a set of deformed teeth. Some of the sailors saw the rocks too -- Andrew could see them pointing with open mouths, probably screaming wordlessly into the wind. A wave swept them up, higher, higher, impossibly high, until inevitably --

CRRRAAAASSSSHHH!!!

The shock jarred Andrew down to his bones -- only by reflex did he save himself from being thrown overboard again by wrapping his arms through a few loose cables left from the wrecked sail. He watched the deck in front of him twist crazily, and then with another series of sharp cracks the timbers split apart. Another wave came, and suddenly the Lydia was split in two, the stern swinging parallel to the bow. Andrew caught a glimpse of a few dark forms clinging desperately to the ship's wheel before the water swept the stern half of the Lydia away from him. Another towering wave, another impossible climb --

CRRRRUUUNNNCCCHHH...

And he had stopped. The wind still screamed around him, but green seawater no longer swept over what was left of the deck. Looking around, Andrew could see spire of black rock rising on either side of his half of the ship. The same freak wave that had swept the two pieces of the Lydia past one another had also lifted the bow and jammed it neatly between two spires of rock. Andrew was safe, for now, but his perch was precarious. He could feel the splintered timbers groan and flex beneath him, and it was only a matter of time before the wreck disintigrated completely and cast him into the sea.

Gotta attach myself to something that floats.

Andrew looked at the splintered remains of the foremast. Almost four feet of the massive timber still showed above deck. Crawling on hands and knees, he made his way across the slippery, tilted deck until he was sitting at its base. He looped a few lengths of rope around himself, tightening them as much as he could bear, and then tied a rough knot with the last of his strength.

Well . . . this is a shitty way to go out . . .

And Andrew slipped into unconsciousness.

---

A dull roar . . . the wind? . . . no, different . . . open . . . eyes . . .

But nothing had changed. Had it? The wind and the rain still screamed past his face. Miraculously the wreck was still hanging above the waves, wedged between the jagged black stones. Andrew still sagged, lashed tightly to the stump of the foremast. Where . . . buzzing . . .

A low drone cut through the howl of the wind. Andrew looked up to see a dark shape above him. Huh . . . well maybe that's death.

But it wasn't. As he continued to stare dumbly upward, he noticed something descending from it. A dark shape, swinging at the end of a long tether. It landed with a thump next to him on the deck, and Andrew realized it was a person. The person seemed to be saying something, waving their arms about and shouting, but Andrew couldn't make sense of it. All he could do was roll his head feebly from one side to the other.

The figure pointed again, this time at the knot binding Andrew to the mast. Want me . . . come with? He tried to untie the knot, but his hands were too numbed from the cold and he could only tug at them in vain. The figure bent over him, and there was a flash of steel as they cut through the ropes. Andrew tried to stand, but only started to slide away down the deck. The dark figure quickly grabbed him under the armpits.

"Hold on!" she shouted in his ear. Andrew felt his feet leave the deck, and they were rising up, up into the air. Hold on . . . hold on . . . hold on . . . but he couldn't keep his focus. Andrew's mind swam away, floating up and above the woman, the storm, and out of everything altogether.