[2.4] You And All Your Friends

The fortress had changed overnight. Parties had broken out on every floor, all the house restaurants were packed, and already more pilots and mech teams were flying in from the mainland. The phones and commspheres were in constant use, with people spreading the news and upping their investments on the Efferis. Camilla had her hands full keeping the place from collapsing into a drunken, blissful mess.

Conlan had been able to avoid it all by not leaving his offices and keeping his phone disconnected. This didn't stop Graham though, who burst in a few minutes before noon, sucking fruit smoothie through a curly straw and still humming some drinking song that had been going for three straight hours downstairs. 

"Did you call the guy - Corvenieto or whatever - yet? You were supposed to call me up here before you called the guy so I could coach you-"

"I already called," Conlan said, from where was laying on the floor beside the couch (he had missed, didn't see the point in correcting situation).

"Aw, man." Graham settled on the coffee table. "Well, did you at least say what I told you to say? You know, 'I'm going to make an offer you can't-'"

"Did you get the information I asked for?"

"Dude, what do you take me for? Here."

He scraped around in his jacket pocket for a while before retrieving a small square of paper and dropping it on Conlan's head. "You've gotta call before you get there, though. There's a couple of other buyers."

He would have to move fast then. It would be just like fate to give him the money and then make the purchase impossible. Pulling himself to his feet, Conlan walked back over to his desk and added the paper to the quickly thickening folder on his desk. 

"When are you leaving, anyway?" Graham asked.

"This afternoon. Loteara's still transferring funds, and I want to make sure Cam's got a handle on this . . . "

"She was on the phone with Hauke earlier."

Conlan looked up sharply. "What?"

Graham put his smoothie down and laid back on the table. "Yep. He already knew about your whole jackpot deal, too. Someone in Loteara told him about it."

"Why is it any of his business?"

Graham shrugged."Maybe it's not. Maybe it's the government's business. He's all up in that spook business lately, anyway. He was calling from Mountova, and when a guy like Hauke goes to Mountova you know it's to blow something away."

"You think he's coming here?"

"Why don't you just ask Cam?"

"We don't talk about him."

"Because they're best friends and you think he's a-"

"I've gotta pack. Isn't your bar open right now? Shouldn't you be down there?"

"Yeah, yeah. Cam's looking for you though. Better talk to her soon."

Conlan turned to the floor-to-ceiling windows that made up the back wall of his office and sighed. No matter how much he worked, things never got easy.

[2.1] Monster Woman Lives

The garage commsphere was many years older than Mattica, and thus thought itself above such banal functions as ringing or polite chiming. When there was a call - which seemed to engender in it some significant level of resentment - it rattled and clanked and seized as though foretelling the end of the world.

Mattica loved the old thing. Kindred spirits, they were. When it came exploding to crotchety life at nearly three in the morning, she hauled herself off her dusty futon and shuffled across the concrete.

The screen came on like a scratch ticket being uncovered: there was a jawline, an ear, a thumb pressed against the display to angle it upward. She knew who it was before face cleared up.

"Gods, does the idea of time zones just totally bounce off your head? What is wrong with you?"

His voice was clipped, distorted, and seemed to force its way out of the speakers. "What? You weren't even sleeping, anyway."

"How would you know?"

"Pfft. You never sleep before morning."

"Sure, when I was a kid I didn't have stuff to do like slave away for the scum of the earth."

"Yeah, about that."

"I'm done with you."

"Start packing."

"You're not using me to besmirch your family's name."

"It's not-"

"If Sterling money comes into this cesspool, should I describe again what will happen if anyone with a journalism degree hears about it? I coulda sworn the last earful I gave you was enough."

". . . Did you say 'besmirch'?"

She slumped her head over the comm's dashboard. "There's nothing to do out here but read really melodramatic intrigue scripts."

When she looked up again Conlan's face was more or less visible. And more or less disgustingly smug.

"Don't look at me like that unless you have a 1,500 word essay describing why it is OK."

"I'm going to buy your contract."

He had said that a thousand times, like a knight in shining armor just revving to go, except that shutting him down had become second nature to her. His family was easily one of the most influential in the free world. Conlan himself was technically in line for the Lotearan throne. And there she was, stuck in one of the most impossibly corrupt nations, with one foot in a jail cell. If it came out that Sterling money had bought an accused convict, the scandal would be astronomical.

She propped herself up on an elbow, hooking the leg of a stool on her foot and dragging it over to sit on. "That was six words. You fail."

"I don't see anything 'besmirching' about a fortress in the market for a new airship mechanic."

". . . No way. Efferis doesn't have the money."

"It does now."

[2.0] First Homecoming

The recovery lounge was empty now. Of course, all the pilots were back in their quarters, or at the bar, and for the most part all the mechanics and medical technicians had been dismissed. Conlan's orders, probably, and Vincent obliging him. The two of them were eternally in-cahoots.

Camilla waited on the platform where the Camalus would ultimately come to rest. Right now it was still in the open-air dock, being cooled down and rigged up and relieved of its cargo. She could see it through the big garage door that led from the platform: the whole craft was smoking, and a small team bustled around it, looking for safe places to hitch the lifts. All she could see was a portion of the starboard side, and some of the panelling slipped off like citrus rinds.

Vincent had told her. Told her that he'd insisted on flying the thing back on his own. In that wreck, and at the shape he must have been in . . .

She squeezed her nails into her palms and did a little turn around the platform.

What am I going to do with him?

The first thing she heard, before she even picked the little caddy's engine out of the soup of machine noise, was Graham.

Naturally.

". . . to say that it wasn't basically the most mind-blowing thing you've ever done, 'cause it was and I don't want to take away from your achievements or anything, achievements are important when you run this kind of business - but it was really freaking stupid, man. Like, if I weren't a technical pacifist and all, and if you didn't look, you know, like you just pulled a marathon flight in a wrecked airship, I'd definitely consider socking you in the ribs right now."

"Just watch where you're driving."

"What kind of answer is that? Dude, you really must be exhausted."

Conlan was slumped in the back of the jeep, arms spread out across the back of seats and his head slumped forward. His clothes were rumpled. Half the collar of his shirt was still tucked under his flying jacket, and the other was bent up against his neck. She could make observations about his hair, but that was usually a bit of a mess anyway.

The worst thing was his eyes. At some point some lumia flecks must have gotten into the cabin, because they were inflamed and the left one had an unhealthy sheen that needed washing-out. He looked up at her when the dock caddy came to a stop a few feet away, and he managed a smirk.

"Well? You can scold me now, if you want. I probably I owe you that much."

This whole time she had been waiting, she'd been trying to decide how she should respond. There were so many reasons to be infuriated with him, and just as many reasons to be happy.

She settled finally, with giving his arm a little jostle.

"You shouldn't have hung up on me," she told him, with a small smile, "but I'm assuming you thought it was for my own good."

"Yeah, well, he shouldn't assume," Graham put in, turning sideways in the driver's seat. "You pretty much sent everyone into cardiac arrest. You're lucky there weren't any really old people with faint hearts in the lobby, or you might be looking at manslaughter right now, buddy."

Conlan huffed and looked over his shoulder at the still-smoking Camalus. "Don't know if it was even worth it. Most of the money will be absorbed in getting us a new ship."

Camilla teetered forward with an incredulous laugh. "What on Celares are you talking about? A new ship? Conlan, do you know how much that last burst is worth? We could almost buy a new fleet. We could buy the Andrasta! And remodel the whole airstation. Fund your racing career for the next ten seasons!"

He stared at her. ". . . What?"

"We're rolling in dough," Graham said, flipping out of the jeep and strolling off toward the docks.

"It was special grade lumia in that burst," Camilla elaborated. "It must have been sitting there, purifying, for decades. Maybe that snake kept anyone from reach it - I really have no clue, but it's worth triple what you already had in the turbine. We're already talking to Loteara - the Armed Forces Commission's going to purchase the whole lot for 150% the market value."

He continued to stare at her, but she wasn't sure she was the one he was seeing.

"We have enough to claim the Andrasta?" he asked. He leaned forward a little, eyebrows raised.

She giggled. "Yeah. Yes, we do. Definitely."

"So, we also have enough money for a new contractor. A mechanic, for the Andastra?"

She frowned. Maybe he'd taken a blow to the head or something? Sure, it was a lot of money, but Conlan wasn't the type to get this . . . dazed about it. Even if it was the Andastra. And so what if they could afford a new contractor -

Oh.

"We have enough to buy a contract," she said, quietly.

She met Conlan's eyes.

She repeated, so loud that her voice reverberated off the high walls of the lounge: "The fortress has enough money to buy a contract!"

[1.5] Implausible Perfection

Somewhere, Camilla Rosen gripped the desk monitor in a kind of trance, watching the screen as Vincent worked to reconnect with the Camalus.

The lobby, in dull shock, waited.

***

Stars fell, along with crashing, curving curtains of light that cut the malfunctioning lumia shields like a Desdairan claymore. A trail of fire followed the Camalus as it descended.

Above, explosions and death. The snake hit the detonating burst field. The snake, predictably, detonated along with it. Fortunately, he was far and away from that particular mess.

So, Conlan continued to fall, in his oversized tin can, through shafts of ribbed air. Remarkably uninterested eyes observed the lumia burst pass through his line of sight and back out of it.

He counted, under his breath. Did some calculations. A little geometry. Deduced how much fuel was actually left in the tank, as opposed to how much the gauge testified. The state of the air currents were slowing his descent, so he had more time than he thought he would for planning.  

Then he righted the ship and reignited the engine for the Camalu's last flight before being gutted for scrap.

***

Camilla watched on the restored diagnostic read-out as Conlan flew up in a perfect inverted arc, dodging the fallout of what must have been the most bloody luma explosion she had ever seen, and engaged the wand and net to bring the lumia burst home.

He had adjusted the fuel gauge. Even when it read empty, there was still just enough for one more Hail Mary. 

The burst of lumia entered the Camalus' turbine, and after a short load screen the monitor spelled it out for her and the whole audience in nodes.

Graham, up on the balcony, put it best:

"Jackpot."

***

"Hey, Vincent."

"Hold on a second, Conlan. Coordinating your rescue, at the moment."

"That's what I wanted to talk to you about. I just need . . . " He coughed. ". . . a jump start, OK? I can fly this thing in on my own."

"You caught the burst. I think you've more or less exhausted everyone's wish for dramatics."

"I know. That's what I'm saying. I don't want a lot of guys out here trying to pull me in. Ship's a wreck. It's gonna . . . Just, minimum response, alright? Just get me enough spark to fly her in quietly."

Vincent sighed. Dialed up the response team. "Whatever you say."

[1.4] Reckless and Irrational

Storm snake. Overgrown cobra. Maybe even call it a dragon - Conlan didn't have time to get caught up in the semantics of the thing, as much as he did love semantics. What he had here was a very large snake capable of decimating what little remained of the Camalus. It coiled through the air, thin as silk but very wide, and charged with enough lumia to disrupt air traffic for thousands of miles if it ever got out of the storm. Definite international safety risk. It's head reared back, all slit eyes and needle-fine teeth and centuries of barely refined rage. And he was still heading right for it.

"Camilla, I'm gonna have to call you back."

"What? Co-"

While he was at it, he disconnected from the fortress computers entirely. It would take a good five minutes or so for Vincent to override and get back on, but that would be enough for Conlan.

Sailors are a superstitious bunch. This is common knowledge. The thing is, so are pilots - each in their own way. And Conlan didn't like to kill himself when it could be broadcast to an audience. He also believed a certain Mad Goddess, patron of pilots and young warriors, liked a good show now and then, and before he sealed the deal he turned on the night flying lights. A beacon.

He flew right at the head of the snake, looked into its abyss of a mouth, felt the air fill with lumia particles and gnash at every part of him. All around, kaleidoscopic shards of light and glass.

He allowed the last of the exhaust filter to break off, sending a spray of multi-hued fumes out in a fan.

And right as he was about to fly in, right as the snake shot forward for the killing blow, Conlan spun out the airship. Whipped the steering console and let the tail fling right into the burst field. Let the exhaust hit the burst field.

He cut the engine and fell.

[1.3] Launch

A press of the button, and with the jet stream still pressing around the airship and encasing it in glowing air, the steering console sank a few inches into the floor, angled up, and reformed itself into something resembling the front of a  motorbike. The pilot's seat shifted forward and up to accommodate, and then Conlan was in business, barely strapped in but hands gripped around the steering bars.

This kind of set-up was murder on a pilot's back, and frankly rather dangerous, what with the constant threat of being bucked off the console, but it offered an unparalleled level of control if one got used to it.

"Conlan?" Camilla asked, her voice soft compared to the sound of the wind and the engines.

No time to talk.

To his right. He had to get into that air pocket, burst field or not. He was leaking too much exhaust for it to be anywhere near safe, but there wasn't any choice. He would pass the target burst if he stayed in the jet stream any longer, and if he tore out the conventional way, he would overshoot.

Ok, improv. His best friend.

Conlan slammed down hard on the right bar, yanked up on the left, and threw the airship into a hard roll out of the jet stream.

***

Camilla whipped around in her seat and stared up on the overhead screens as the Camalus swept sideways out of the windpath, stopping just short of hitting the burst field, the airship swinging loose and barely keeping forward momentum for a moment before speeding ahead.

The lobby was silent.

Then, from the balcony, "That was a barrel roll at minimum operating capacity!"

And then everyone was talking again, about how history was being made and he was brave and stupid and amazing and people were going to be talking about this for years and Camilla just looked on at the screen, quiet, lips pursed.

He would make it. There was nothing else she believed more.

***

It was going to be a miracle if he made it. 

Conlan shifted gears again a prepared to for descent. If he just brought it down nice and easy, at the right angle, then this would be the most simple part of the evening. The burst was already lined up in the airship's sights, the turbines and the mechanical "wand" of sorts ready to guide the burst safely into holding. And the air pocket was calm and cool, just come clouds way down below.

The burst field was his only real worry at the moment. He was keeping the Camalus almost too close to the jet stream's wall in order to avoid hitting the field with the ship's leaking exhaust. Too bad if he just shut up the whole thing he'd be dead in two minutes from lumia poisoning.

"Alright, I'm bringing this thing in," he told Camilla, dipping the console forward, the ship following suit.

"Hm. That isn't what you were doing before?"

Conlan nearly had the nose of the ship in line with the burst, now. Visibility was good - getting foggy around the burst, but that was because he would be dipping back into storm territory to grab it.

He took it down.

The burst field seemed to keep up alongside him, and he maneuvered carefully to keep the wing tips out of its reach. The particle shields were struggling, though, and grains of light began to build up on the windshield.

Then, suddenly, still in the clear zone, the flight path staggered. The whole airship rocked with it, and it felt like something rolled under the ship - unnervingly similar, Conlan suspected, to driving over a body. He tried to pull back a bit, but the momentum was already there, it would take another insanity play to slow down now. As he jostled the steering console, trying to get the ship to pull it together and stop the turbulence, a supernova of refracted light crackled into his path, revealing a storm snake ready to lunge.

[1.21] On Proper Equipment

The secret of Conlan's success as an airship racer has long been a favorite topic among sports commentators. Any number of opinions exist on the matter, ranging from the possible to ideas that Graham might come up with (and very well might have - nothing gives Graham more joy than feeding rumors into online airsports forums). They've cited his wealth, his age, his diet, his mechanics, alleged communion with eldritch beings, possible immortality, and the fact that his love life is one of the biggest media mysteries of the current century. They have even considered the possibility that he wins by cosmic intervention.

However, if there was ever a single secret, one paramount source of Conlan Sterling's unmatched skill in an airship, it would have to be none other than his choice of seating.

You see, the standard captain's seat in an airship is much the same as you've likely imagined it - as something like a car seat or a seat in a standard airplane. The pilot sits in it and all the controls are positioned in front of him. He is strapped in or not, depending on circumstances, and from then on it is the vehicle doing most of the maneuvering, not him.

Very early on, Conlan took issue with this arrangement. He had always been extremely in-tune with ships while he was flying them - able to feel them out almost as though they were an extension of himself. And when in a situation of stress or one that required dynamic piloting, he found the typical arrangement restricting. He felt it necessary for the ship to move just as he directed it - to move with him.

Which brings us back to the 3rd Division of the Lotearan secret service, for a technology update.

See, Conlan liked the seats in their combat mechs. You know - the humanoid-shaped giants of steel that speed around and kill things with extreme precision? Those are also piloted by ace flyers - however, their seating of course needs to be much more dynamic. The seats are positioned so the pilot leans forward, as though on a motorbike, and the controls are positioned similarly so that every move made by the pilot moves the vehicle accordingly. Push the left steering rod down and lean left - that's where the vehicle moves. No steering wheel for these fine men.

Conlan liked the concept. Such a steering console would not fit in a standard airship. Airship controls are supposed to be stationary.

Supposed to be.

But Conlan had the money to improvise.

[1.2] Push

Camilla disconnected from the Camalus and dialed into the air control tower, turning and walking back up to the edge of the platform. The airship was going to be a mess. But if Conlan brought in the haul, money wasn't going to be an issue in getting the poor thing repaired. Really, he was too hard on his machines.

"Vincent, are you watching this?"

"Naturally, my dear. What do you need?"

The Purserosian was more or less in control of the whole airdock operation - overseeing the ships as they went out and returned from the storm, and having the lumia emptied from the turbines and finalized. The staff worshipped him because he had a knack for mending problems before they properly had a chance to break out.

"He's not going to be able to make it back on that amount of fuel-"

"Which is why I already have a recovery team getting into position. Not to worry - and I've sent a crew down to ready the processor. Or, 'processors' plural. Likely need more than one, for this haul. And Alpha dock is all cleared out and prepped for him."

Camilla smiled. "You're my favorite."

"Oh, you flatter me - but get back to him, now. I know you're worried sick."

She dialed back to the Camalus and hopped back onto the platform, getting behind the broad front desk. Embedded computer monitors gave her the same information that the screens suspended behind her did, and a lot more. Like satellite positioning that told her he was flying through a virtual mine field - a galaxy of bursts too unstable to capture in the turbines and likely to go off if they got the slightest whiff of the Camalus' energy exhaust.

"Conlan . . ."

"Piece of cake."

"Oh, if you say so."

"Doesn't he got a cockpit camera?" asked someone in the audience.

"It blew out last time," Camilla explained - Conlan did have a way of overworking his machines - but turned on a third overhead screen and uploaded the satellite feed. It was the closest to the action that they were going to get - Camilla wasn't about to key them into the on-board radio.

"He's gonna get himself killed, flying through that," someone else said, once they saw the feed.

"What? Haven't you seen him fly before? Be world famous, one day, this one will."

"He used to race . . ."

". . . saw him once in Ipsy . . ."

The outline of the burst field on the satellite feed grew jagged, like a sheet of ice cracking across a lake. The corridor Conlan flew through was hardly wide enough for his wingspan. Camilla traced her finger over the monitor.

"To your left, there's a break-"

"See it."

It was going to be close.

"Now!"

The Camalus shot out of the field, the exhaust igniting a series of bursts that propelled the ship straight through some thick cloud cover and into one of the jet streams that circulated through the storm. There wouldn't be any bursts in it, which was great for safety, and the stream would help his fuel situation, but he'd have to get out of it to capture any lumia.

The crowd before the platform was growing as word of the flight traveled through the fortress. Everyone wanted to see history being made. Camilla just hoped they wouldn't see more than they bargained for.

***

Conlan couldn't have told anyone why he was doing this. It was a suicide mission. Doomed to fail. Absolutely ridiculous. Something Graham would do. That kind of thing. 

Seriously - his ship was a wreck. He could feel it as well as he felt his own body and limbs. That it was still holding itself together was miraculous to say the least, and it would most likely fall apart once it was docked. And he didn't give a rat's ass about the record, so what was the point? The cash? No. He didn't really care about that either, except that money kept the fortress afloat and that made Camilla happy. And there was purchasing the Andrasta to think about, but that was a long ways off. 

So, why? If he really had to answer, it would be, "Because I can."

Because, conditions be damned, he knew it. He knew it was in his reach, and there was no reason to back down.

Luminescent tendrils of air swept up the windshield, fanning from side to side and rippling as they shot off the roof.

Now, all he had to do was find a burst of lumia big enough to take a chance on. If he got out of the jet stream at a crappy place, someplace dead or already mined, he would run out of fuel before he could do any more searching. Unfortunately, the view from the cockpit basically amounted to clouds, blurs, and what looked like another burst field to his right, glinting like it contained shards of broken glass. Too bad his dash cameras were shot. He shifted gears again, going as slowly as possible and putting minimum strain on the engine.

And then there it was, on the right, a ways ahead and a long way down. A burst of lumia big enough that he didn't need the radar to find it. An easy 70 nodes, flaring gold and orange and bright shivering pink, if he could just reach it. 

Think Star-Cropping 101: Between a jet stream and a burst field, there's going to be empty air. A calm. The jet stream carries off the excess lumia and whatever storm winds there are, and creates a pocket of flying space. In this case, probably a narrow pocket of flying space, probably too narrow to be, strictly speaking, safe - but the burst was approaching fast and his instincts screamed at him that this would be his only chance.

Time to do something insane.

[1.1] Limit Break

Silence in the lobby, and all the airships docked for the night, their cargo processed – all of them, save one. Outside, the sun set in a profusion of amber and gold.

Four dozen pilots, crew members, and mechanics crowded the status platform as Camilla Rosen uploaded the flight data of the Camalus to the two main screens. A digital array of graphs and wildly fluctuating percentages appeared, and an even greater hush blanketed the room. Even the service staff stopped their chores at the periphery of the hall, turning their attention to the usually lively spectator's lounge. Not only was this a possibly record-breaking flight, but also a possibly fatal one.

Camilla keyed herself into the Camalus’ onboard computers and touched the radio button on her headset.

“How are you on fuel?” she asked quietly, turning and walking unnoticed to a spot to the side of the platform.

“Why do you ask? You can see it, can’t you?”

Yes, she could. The fuel gauge was but one of the many ominous readouts flashing across the screens, along with real-time reports of particle-pressure, shield status, engine strength, full operating capacity, and of course, turbine capacity – the number the audience was certainly paying the most attention to as the Camalus sped through the Triskan Monument Storm in mind-boggling formations.

“I mean,” she said quietly, “what do you think? Can you do it?”

He had less than 20% fuel left.

Particle pressure to the airship’s body was at 35% and building.

The lumia shields were on their last legs.

And the sound of the engine firing when he gunned it nearly blew out her headset.

“Sure,” said Conlan Sterling, primary pilot of the Efferis Fortress fleet.

On screen, the operating capacity graph maxed out.

But turbine capacity was at 234, and the record was only 61 nodes of lumia away.