The sortie against Dreadfall was a textbook maneuver. Jean’s flight soared toward the luftnought’s last known location in a scattered formation, keeping a lookout for flak. They weaved in and out through the intricate archipelago of ice and rocks, hunting after their prey. Jean was at the front of the formation. She burned with anger and determination, ready to seek revenge on the enemy airship that had shot her out of the sky. in the belly of her flugcraft, the aerial torpedo rested like a large protuberance or a spare gas canister, innocuous but deadly. To an untrained eye, it looked like just a normal bomb, but Ames had showed her how a propulsion system at its tail allowed it to fly forward for some distance in search of its target. If the thing worked, then it would be a gamechanger in the war.

Hughston and the others formed up beside her. They would hardly be needed if Jean could manage to land the first shot. In her mind, she had already discounted the others. Instead, she focused on her own task. Kill the luftnought.

“No sign of it,” Parmen reported, his voice crackling through the radio. Jean checked her instruments. The maze of ice and rock was interfering with their radar, and also made for plenty of hiding places for Dreadfall. They had already checked the cavern of No. 42, but it had been empty. Dreadfall had moved on, but it couldn’t have gotten very far.

“Keep at it,” Jean said. “It’s close by. Stay alert and don’t get comfortable.” Comfort kills. Just like it had in Dresdak.

“Forget about care,” Leonhardt said. “One hit from that torpedo, and the whole thing burns. Way I see it, we shouldn’t be worried about conventional tactics. This is a fire-and-forget mission. Every man for himself. First one to land a hit is a hero.” A round of laughter over the radio.

“Don’t you dare break formation,” Jean said, growing irritated. Leonhardt had said what was essentially on Jean’s mind, but the fact that the other aviator was challenging her chafed at Jean. We’re all professionals here, she thought. But also divas.

“Leonhardt, you heard the commander,” growled a voice over the intercom. It was Hughston, who had until now remained perfectly silent. “I want your confirmation that you understood her order.”

Awkward silence over the airwaves. Then a crackle and Leonhardt said, “what? Oh yes, sorry, commander. Just a little joke.” She tried to sound humble, but Jean could hear the contempt in her tone. A team of fucking divas.

“Next time captain speaks, you answer. Don’t make me ask twice,” Hughston said.

Click. “Yessir.”

Hughston signed off and they flew the rest of the way in silence. Jean knew she should be grateful for the man’s help, but his intentions worried her. Hughston was the only aviator here with a kill record that got close to matching Jean’s, and that bought her clout among the crew. She wondered if his loyalty was actually an attempt to usurp her command.

They flew on. Still no sighting, nothing in the entire screen, nothing except ice and—”

“Found it,” Parmen reported. “Forty-five degrees southwest, 15 degrees below the plane of the ecliptic.”

Jean took her bearings. Sure enough, there it was, the luftnought Dreadfall, pride of the Laurrenean airfleet. It was out in the open equidistant between two large rockscapes. The airship must have just flown out from its most recent hiding place. The diesel engines gave off only a moderate amount of exhaust, signaling that it was in no hurry. It hadn’t seemed to notice them.

“Looks like it’s making a break for open sky,” Jean said. “We’ll flank it and cut off its escape.”

“Fuck that,” Leonhardt said, zipping forward and breaking formation. “This one’s for the Greyhound.”

Jean watched in horror as the other aviator’s flugcraft streaked ahead of the others, getting closer and closer. As much as Jean disliked her insubordination, she had to admit that Leonhardt was a good enough pilot that it just might work. The flugcraft soared forward, closer and closer, she came in from the direction of the stern, sticking to what they had studied would be the Dreadfall’s likely blindspot.

She passed within the five-hundred yard mark of the torpedo’s working distance. Then four-hundred. Three-hundred. One-hundred.

The canister attached to the belly of Leonhardt’s flugcraft ignited like a firecracker. The torpedo zoomed forward, heading toward the Dreadfall’s stern. It zoomed forward like a holiday rocket, on a collision course to go straight up its rear engines, trailing sparks behind it. Holy shit, Jean thought, she’s actually going to do it.

When the rocket was one ship’s length away, it shuddered. The fire in its tail abruptly guttered out and it lost propulsion, dropping away toward the ground like a lead weight. At the same time, the Dreadfall lit up, as flechette rounds and rocket bursts from its flak batteries chased Leonhardt across the sky. The flugcraft dodged and weaved expertly away from the lines of arcing fire, using the ice and rock as strategic cover until finally the aviator was back safely beyond Dreadfall’s range of fire.

“The fuck just happened?” Leonhardt said, more angry than concerned.

“Your torpedo misfired.” Hughston said. “Get back, Leonhardt, and let the adults have a go.”

This time Jean did laugh. It was nice to see the arrogant aviator put in her place. “Let that be a lesson, Leonhardt. Don’t try to do it alone. Now, flight nine, or rather, the rest of us, let’s show her how its done.”

The flight formed up, flying together into the oncoming hail of molten lead. The flak crews of Dreadfall were good, but her aviators were better. My aviators. Jean felt a glorious surge of energy as the utter sensation of combat coursed through her. it was a feeling she hadn’t felt it a long time, and damned if it didn’t feel good. She lined up parallel with the Dreadfall’s hull, setting up for a shot across its portside. Hughston came up beside her, and for a moment, it was as if they were in a competitive race to see who could get in range first.

“One away,” Jean announced, as she ignited her torpedo and watched it streak toward the airship. A second later, Hughston’s missile came screaming out after it. The two torpedoes soared across the distance, like a pair of bonded lovebirds, headed straight for the airship on a course that shouldn’t have missed. Then, just like it with Leonhardt’s missile, both torpedoes guttered out like candles and dropped out of the sky.

That can’t be right. Jean thought. What are the chances of three torpedoes misfiring in succession? During their practice runs, it had never happened. Unless…

“Jean,” Hughston said over the intercom. “I think they’ve employed some sort of countermeasures. They’re using it to knock out the torpedoes’ propulsion.”

Of course. She and Ames had been fools to assume that only War Department had its share of technological advances. The Dreadfall was the Laurrenean’s pride, certainly they would have equipped it with the latest tech.

Jean swallowed. “Our warheads are no good if they can’t reach their target. Flight Nine, this is an order: we’re pulling back to regroup.”

They did so, everyone except Couer’s flugcraft, which suddenly angled upward as it if were attempting to break atmosphere.

“Couers,” Jean shouted into the intercom. “What the hell are you doing?”

Silence. Then Couer’s crackling voice. The reception was bad, as it flew further and further out of range, but even so, the mirth in his voice was unmistakable. “They can kill the propulsion, but they can’t kill gravity.” Through the glass, Jean saw Couer’s flugcraft reach the apex of its flight, then suddenly pitch downward into a dive.

“The maniac,” Hughston said, filled with awe. “He’s going to dive-bomb it.”

It just might work, Jean thought.

Couers bore down, down, adjusting to line himself up with the Luftnought’s deck. “On thousand meters!” He laughed and yelped over the intercom with joy.

Fire lanced out from the Dreadfall. But the angle was bad and the flak fell short. A mortar round roared slowly upward, and Coeurs jerked aside, dodging it with ease. “Target acquired,” he announced. “Releasing in three, two—” Something exploded. The rockscape above him burst apart. He managed a “what?” before being cut off.

The next moment, the sky where Coeurs had been was filled with shattered debris from the rock that had inexplicably exploded. It rained down harmlessly on the Dreadfall’s hull, clattering away into oblivion.

Jean blinked. Slowly, understanding dawned on her. The mortar hadn’t missed. it had been aimed at the rockscape above Couer’s flugcraft, and when it struck, had turned the natural formation into millions of bits of aerial buckshot. Coeur’s flugcraft had been ripped part before he knew what had happened.

“Pull back, damn it,” Hughston was shouting. Jean’s aviators listened to himself, retreating and cutting their losses before it could happen again. Flight Nine formed up, short one member. Jean grimaced as she took her place at the front of the formation, a position that more than ever, felt more symbolic than anything. The enemy was smarter than they gave him credit, and he had won this round.

###

Jean had waited long enough. It had been three days since Parmen and Danvers sighted the Dreadfall taking refuge in a cavern on the face on No. 42. The initial sighting had triggered a flurry of telegraphs from Jean to Ames to the War Department and back. She had been on edge for the first twelve hours, expecting that the call to strike could come at any moment. Instead, the War Department had ordered them to pull back and link up with the Malachius, a nearby flug-carrier zepp for refuel and resupply, where they would await further orders.

Now she sat in the zepp’s officer’s mess, dining along with Captain Sheff and his cadre of officers. There was the clink of plates and polite conversation set to stringed music while the open air whined outside a porthole. This was not what she had expected.

Jean cut into her steak, it was near raw, but with the outside charred. The ship’s signature dish, apparently. She could hardly eat any of it. her leg bobbed anxiously as she observed the officers of the Malachius conversing without any sense of hurry. Didn’t they know how urgent her mission was? The longer they waited, the more likely it would become that Dreadfall would slip past the Scarpar Archipelago and out into the open sky. And yet, they were here dining.

Captain Sheff leaned in closer. “More wine, commander?”

“What I’d like is to be on my way again to resume my mission.”

The room didn’t exactly change temperature, but the conversation dropped by several degrees. The officers of Malachius were too much of gentlemen to openly gawk, but she caught a few of them glancing sidelong at her; they were listening in.

Sheff laughed. He gave her a condescending smile that said, flugcraft pilots, so rough around the edges. Not like the gentlemen of the zepp-corps. Then again, can’t expect them to act above their class. Or at least, that’s what Jean assumed he was thinking. “I wouldn’t worry about the Dreadfall, commander. Admiralty has gotten your warning. They are plenty capable of handling it from here. You and your crew should get some well-earned rest.”

“If that luftnought breaks through, then it’ll wreak havoc on our shipping lines. It could singlehandedly strangle all supply lines to our island.”

“Admiralty is well aware of the threat,” Sheff said, sighing and giving a slight yawn. “But it’s out of our hands now.”

“What do you mean?”

He cocked his head. “You mean you haven’t heard? Why, commander, you and your flight crew have been reassigned.”

Reassigned. The chair scraped across the carpeted floor as Jean stood up. “Reassigned?” She repeated, glancing toward the exit. She had to get to the telegraph room, to contact Ames and let him know there was a mistake. A mixup in orders.

“Sit down, commander.” Sheff snapped. The sternness of his order made Jean freeze. “You’re aboard my zepp, and you’ll do us the courtesy of not skipping out on dinner for business, is that understood?”

Reluctantly, Jean did so. Sheff smiled and poured wine into the cup that she held thoughtlessly in her hand. “Now, the whole fleet has been alerted about Dreadfall’s presence. What can one flight of flugcraft hope to do on their own?”

Jean swallowed and said nothing. Ames had expressly forbade her from mentioning the weapon. “We all must do our part,” she said lamely.

“The entire machinery of the Aislemore fleet has been turned toward this issue,” Sheff said. “We are merely one cog among many, and our job is to play our simple part to the best of our abilities.”

“And what exactly is our cog supposed to do now?”

“Scout duty,” Sheff said. “You and your flight crew have been reassigned to spot Laurrenean incursions along the Eastern Aerial Wall. Malachius will act as your support and base of operations.” He gave a courteous nod, then gestured toward the assembled officers. “We are at your disposal.”

One of the nearby officers, a young, handsome man, who could have been but a year outside Secondary, smiled shyly. “It’s an honor to be in the presence of the famous Jean Ambrose. You’re the reason I enlisted in the first place.”

Jean barely registered the complement. Scout duty. She thought. She had been drafted back into the war for scout duty? She and Ames would have many words about this. She took a long drink from her cup.

“That’s more like it,” Sheff said, refilling her cup. “Now, you and your crew have earned this. So take the break when its offered.”

###

Hughston and the others were lounging in the wardroom of the Malachius when they heard that the big airships had joined the fight.

Leonhardt was halfway through complaining about Jean’s leadership, with Hughston doing his best to diffray the criticism, when Parmen glanced out the window and said, “that looks like a Luftnought, doesn’t it?”

They all rushed to the window, cramming around the rounded porthole for a better glance. Leonhardt’s elbow jabbed into his side, he pushed her over to make room, then squinted.

Outside, there was ice, rock, and fog. No different than what they’d always seen at Scarpar Peak. Only if he squinted really hard, he thought he could see something else in the haze. Something angular, manmade, drifting through the hail and sleet and powered by armored gasbags. It was an airship alright, but it didn’t seem to be the Dreadfall.

“Gods in the Firmament,” Parmen swore, “It’s the Unrelenting!”

Sure enough, the airship slid into open sky and Hughston could make out the unmistakable profile of not just one, but two, Aislemorean Capital-class Zeppcraft. In the dying light of afternoon, their hulls were glorious and shining in the sun. Hughston’s heart thumped and he felt an uncharacteristic surge of national pride welling up inside him, the sort of pride that made one link arms with strangers in a pub to sing national anthems and patriotic hymns.

“That other one has to be the Corwyn,” Parmen said, indicating the smaller but still quite impressive airship that accompanied Unrelenting. “Two against one. those are good odds.”

“Dreadful is state-of-the-art,” Leonhardt cautioned. “It will still be a slugfest.”

“Have faith, Leonhardt,” Hughston said, not quite knowing what had come upon him. The Unrelenting wasn’t any simple zeppcraft, it was the flagship of the Aislemorean fleet, and the sight of it was doing strange things to his heart. They stood by the porthole there watching, as if spectating a local rugby match.

The Aislemorean ships cruised forward like languid arrows, coming in for a bow attack. The tactic was obvious: get within cannon range quick as could be, to nullify Dreadfall’s range advantage. A risky maneuver that removed the advantage of half the airship’s cannons, but which also slimmed dome its targeting profile.

Dreadfall waited patiently as the airships came within range. Unrelenting opened up with its forward battery. The first volley fell to the sides of Dreadfall, but proximity fuses in the shells caused them to explode anyways. The explosions did not seem to faze the Laurrenean luftnought.

Still, Dreadfall had not responded. A malfunction, perhaps? Hughston found himself disappointed. He had hoped for a knock-down, drag-out fight. But as the airships got closer, Dreadfall at least opened up with a full broadside, bracketing both airships. One shell dove down and exploded amidships on the Unrelenting’s deck, raising a lot of smoke. The flagship continued forward, as its name suggested.

The Aislemorean ships were turning now, firing their turrets even as they swiveled around to bring all their guns to bear. Surely now, the strength of numbers would help them prevail.

Corwyn fired first. A few shells bracketed Dreadfall, but the airship seemed otherwise unharmed. That’s fine, Hughston thought. Unrelenting has a much stronger arsenal. It will finish the job alright. But when he glanced over, the guns remained silent. Why aren’t they firing?

Smoke leaked out from the deck where the shell had struck. He could see now that the damage was worse than he had expected. The smoke came out from a gaping hole in the deck. Amidships. Where the ammo storage would be kept.

As he watched, an explosion swelled out from the hole, growing and blossoming like a bright orange flower. The Unrelenting trembled once, then cracked in two: one side disappeared into the void, while the other half continued along, propelled for the moment by its dying engines. Eventually, it too dropped away.

Corwyn was turning away as well. Having seen the death of its stronger sister-ship, its captain appeared to be in no eagerness to follow her to the same fate. Judging by the fires on its top-deck, the first volley had caused more damage than it seemed at first glance.

Dreadfall’s guns fell silent again. Hughston kept waiting for another volley to come, he found himself tensing for the Laurennean ship to dispatch its opponent with a killing blow. Nothing happened. The death of the Unrelenting had been enough of a sacrifice. It watched silently as Corwyn limped away.

The aviators stood by the porthole in graveyard silence. One by one, they drifted away from the window. No one spoke a word. After some time had passed, klaxons sounded as a rescue and recovery mission was ordered. Judging by the aftermath of the battle, there wasn’t much left to save.