A particularly hard gust of wind pushed the airship to starboard. The captain turned to his helmsman. “Two points to port, if you please.”
Groaning, the ship turned into the wind, the whine of her engines increasing yet another notch above the pitch of the wind.
“Get me the engine room,” he ordered. An ensign scrambled to respond.
Captain Alexandros turned and walked back across the deck, over the newly patched floor grates where bloodstains were still barely visible, to the command chair.
“Engine room is available, sir,” the bright-eyed ensign reported.
“Thank you, Ensign Polentio.” He nodded gravely to the grandson of the air-admiral. The old man has a stake in my mission, too, he thought as he picked up the brass speaking tube and placed it to his ear.
“Engine room.” The voice was not that of Chief Mechanic Tuderius, but rather one of his assistants.
“This is the captain. Put the chief on.”
There was a pause. Then the clipped voice of his chief engineer greeted him with, “Sir, I’m awfully busy here.”
“Of course, Tuderius,” Alexandros replied. Even a small distraction like this could mean something going wrong. “But we need a bit more power.”
“I’m giving it all we’ve got, Captain. The ice is weighing her down, and if we keep going like this, the engines will burn out too, in a few hours. They’ve been in the red for the last three!”
“Just get me that power. I’ll get rid of the ice.” He closed the speaking tube, looking around at his bridge crew. Everyone but the helmsman had been paying rapt attention to the captain’s conversation. They quickly resumed their work.
“Mr. Travins, would you please order the de-icing crew up again?” His first officer nodded, passing the message through one of the many speaking tubes on the bridge as Alexandros, bundled in his long airman’s greatcoat, the officers’ version of the traditional leather flying jacket, moved to the observation bubble to watch his men out in the storm. Dangling from long lifelines and clinging to ropes, they worked with rubber mallets and de-icing spray, knocking off icicles and spraying the freezing portions of the gasbag with the saline solution to keep the airship afloat. He did not envy those poor men.
Travins moved to stand next to him. “How much longer do you think this storm will last, sir?”
He knew that Travins would probably be taken soon for one of the newer ships in the fleet, so he was truly savoring every moment of having a competent first officer on board. That, and it takes so damn long to break in a new one, he mused. “Perhaps an hour, perhaps a day. The tougher winds are on the outside, from my experience.”
Travins stood thoughtfully, digesting this information. “And sir, what will we do if we arrive and find the primus imperio alive?”
Alexandros grinned. “Then we get to rescue him, be declared saviors of the realm, retire in style, and see it shoved into Minnicus’ face in person.”
Travins laughed out loud at that, then took his leave. Alexandros continued to watch the storm billow outside the windows, feeling like a leaf lost in a hurricane.
In fact, Alexandros’ guess was correct. Less than two hours later, the airship broke through the last band of wind and snow into bright sunlight. The ground below them stretched white for as far as the eye could see. Before them loomed the largest mountain that Alexandros had ever set eyes upon.
“That must be Midgard,” he told the crew. “If we’re right, the missing legions should be around here somewhere. Order all observations ports manned with fresh eyes.”
Crewmen raced to their posts, replacing the weary, storm-blinded men who tottered back to their warm bunks. Reports started to flood in from the various lookouts. Alexandros himself scanned the ground with his borrowed pair of binoculars, twisting the dial to increase the magnification ability of his new gear.
“Sir, portside lookout reports a Roman castrum, still intact,” the communications officer called.
“I’ve got destroyed mechaniphants and mecha-wolves on the starboard side.”
“Topside lookout reports that there appears to be a siege caterpillar against the curtain walls; looks like it’s still active.”
“Wireless operator, begin sending messages,” Alexandros barked. “If that fails, get out the signal flags. There must be someone alive down there.”
Several tense seconds followed, the suddenly quiet cabin disturbed only by the beeps and clicks from the wireless room.
“Take us down to five hundred feet,” Alexandros ordered. The airship lost height as it vented gas and its tailwings forced the ship lower. Peering out the window, he saw figures moving within the Roman camp and between the camp and the fortress. But are they friend or foe?
The ringing of a bell announced the arrival of a wireless message. Again silence on the bridge as the crew turned as one to watch the operator scribble down the message, fold it, and hand it to the first officer, who walked it over to the captain. He read it once, then again, tears coming to his eyes. He read it aloud: “To: H.M.A.S. Scioparto. Stop. Message received loud and clear. Stop. Primus imperio alive and well. Stop. What in Mercury’s name took you so long? Stop. End Message.”
The bridge crew erupted into cheers. Alexandros sank into his chair, relief washing over him. Men slapped him on the back and congratulated him.
“Well done, sir!” Travins said, tears rolling down his cheeks.
Well done, indeed.