instinct to keep them in the air.More were lost through poor navigation, loss of control, and panic than through damage from battle.
Rovers had sailed the seas in trading ships and pirate vessels longer than anyone had, and the jump to airships was easier for them. As mercenaries, they were invaluable to the Federation. But the Southlanders continued to believe that if they could just learn how the Rovers managed to make it all look so easy, they wouldn’t need them as Captains and crews.
Hence, his passengers, three more in a long line of Federation hopefuls.
Resigned, he sighed. There was nothing he could do about it. Hawk would fuss enough for the both of them. He took his station in the pilot box, watching his men as they finished tying down the draws and securing the sails. Other ships were preparing to lift off, as well, their crews performing similar tasks in preparation. On the airfield, ground crews were preparing to release the mooring lines.
The old, familiar excitement was humming in his blood, and the clarity of his vision sharpened.
“Unhood the crystals, Hawk!” he shouted to his Second Officer.
Furl Hawken relayed the instructions to the men stationed at the front and rear parse tubes, where the crystals were fed light from the radian draws. Unhooding freed the mechanisms that allowed Alt Mer to fly the ship. Canvas coverings and linchpins securing the metal hoods that shielded the crystals were released, giving control over the vessel to the pilot box.
Alt Mer tested the levers, drawing down power from the sails in small increments.
Black Moclips
strained against her tethers in response, shifting slightly as light converted to energy was expelled through the parse tubes.
“Cast off!” he ordered.
The ground crew freed the restraining lines, and
Black Moclips
lifted away in a smooth, upward swing. Alt Mer spun the wheel that guided the rudders off the parse tubes and fedpower down the radian draws to the crystals in steadily increasing increments. Behind him, he heard the hurried shift of the Federation officers toward pieces of decking they could hold on to.
“There are securing lines and harnesses coiled on those railing stays,” he called back to them. “Fasten one about your waist, just in case it gets bumpy.”
He didn’t bother checking to see if they did as he suggested. If they didn’t, it was their own skins they risked.
In moments, they were flying out over the flats of the Prekkendorran, several hundred feet in the air,
Black Moclips
in the lead, another seven ships following in loose formation. Airships could fly comfortably at more than a thousand feet, but he preferred to stay down where the winds were less severe. He watched the twin rams slice through the air to either side of the decking, black horns curving upward against the green of the earth. Low and flat,
Black Moclips
had the look of a hawk at hunt, soaring smooth and silent against the midday sky.
Wind filled the sails, and the Rover crew moved quickly to take advantage of the additional power. Alt Mer hooded the diapson crystals in response, slowing the power fed by the radian draws, giving the ship over to the wind. Furl Hawken was shouting out instructions, exhorting in that big, booming voice, keeping everyone moving smoothly from station to station. Accustomed to the movements of a ship in flight, the crew wore no restraining lines. That would change when they engaged in battle.
Alt Mer risked a quick glance over his shoulder at the Federation officers—risked, because if he started laughing at what he found, he would find himself in trouble he didn’t need. It wasn’t as bad as it might have been. The Commander and his adjutants were gripping the rail with white-knuckled determination, but no one was sick yet and no one was hiding his eyes. The Rover gave them a reassuring wave and dismissed them from his thoughts.
When
Black Moclips
was well away from the Federation camp and approaching the forward
Rovers had sailed the seas in trading ships and pirate vessels longer than anyone had, and the jump to airships was easier for them. As mercenaries, they were invaluable to the Federation. But the Southlanders continued to believe that if they could just learn how the Rovers managed to make it all look so easy, they wouldn’t need them as Captains and crews.
Hence, his passengers, three more in a long line of Federation hopefuls.
Resigned, he sighed. There was nothing he could do about it. Hawk would fuss enough for the both of them. He took his station in the pilot box, watching his men as they finished tying down the draws and securing the sails. Other ships were preparing to lift off, as well, their crews performing similar tasks in preparation. On the airfield, ground crews were preparing to release the mooring lines.
The old, familiar excitement was humming in his blood, and the clarity of his vision sharpened.
“Unhood the crystals, Hawk!” he shouted to his Second Officer.
Furl Hawken relayed the instructions to the men stationed at the front and rear parse tubes, where the crystals were fed light from the radian draws. Unhooding freed the mechanisms that allowed Alt Mer to fly the ship. Canvas coverings and linchpins securing the metal hoods that shielded the crystals were released, giving control over the vessel to the pilot box.
Alt Mer tested the levers, drawing down power from the sails in small increments.
Black Moclips
strained against her tethers in response, shifting slightly as light converted to energy was expelled through the parse tubes.
“Cast off!” he ordered.
The ground crew freed the restraining lines, and
Black Moclips
lifted away in a smooth, upward swing. Alt Mer spun the wheel that guided the rudders off the parse tubes and fedpower down the radian draws to the crystals in steadily increasing increments. Behind him, he heard the hurried shift of the Federation officers toward pieces of decking they could hold on to.
“There are securing lines and harnesses coiled on those railing stays,” he called back to them. “Fasten one about your waist, just in case it gets bumpy.”
He didn’t bother checking to see if they did as he suggested. If they didn’t, it was their own skins they risked.
In moments, they were flying out over the flats of the Prekkendorran, several hundred feet in the air,
Black Moclips
in the lead, another seven ships following in loose formation. Airships could fly comfortably at more than a thousand feet, but he preferred to stay down where the winds were less severe. He watched the twin rams slice through the air to either side of the decking, black horns curving upward against the green of the earth. Low and flat,
Black Moclips
had the look of a hawk at hunt, soaring smooth and silent against the midday sky.
Wind filled the sails, and the Rover crew moved quickly to take advantage of the additional power. Alt Mer hooded the diapson crystals in response, slowing the power fed by the radian draws, giving the ship over to the wind. Furl Hawken was shouting out instructions, exhorting in that big, booming voice, keeping everyone moving smoothly from station to station. Accustomed to the movements of a ship in flight, the crew wore no restraining lines. That would change when they engaged in battle.
Alt Mer risked a quick glance over his shoulder at the Federation officers—risked, because if he started laughing at what he found, he would find himself in trouble he didn’t need. It wasn’t as bad as it might have been. The Commander and his adjutants were gripping the rail with white-knuckled determination, but no one was sick yet and no one was hiding his eyes. The Rover gave them a reassuring wave and dismissed them from his thoughts.
When
Black Moclips
was well away from the Federation camp and approaching the forward
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