Flying the Storm

By C. S. Arnot

The Gilgamesh: a colossal airborne warship and relic of the Thirty-Year War. Once the glorious flagship of the North Atlantic Union, it has become a hive of renegades and pirates, unchallenged in the skies over Eurasia. Like an angry god, it dominates wherever and whomever it chooses.

Now it has chosen the Crimean Peninsula, the most lucrative trade hub on the Black Sea.

In Sevastopol, two Gilgamesh marines are dead, and in seconds the merchant airman Aiden has become a wanted man. It didn’t matter that it was his pilot, Fredrick, who got them into the fight in the first place – Aiden had finished it. Now they must run, taking their aircraft deep into the Caucasus Mountains to evade capture and execution.

Through dogfights, shootouts and cock-ups the pair must make their escape, hounded by bounty hunters and slavers, driven to discover a secret that might – just might – change the balance of power forever...

• Language: English
• Publisher: C. S. Arnot
• Release date: May 7, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310593963

C. S. Arnot

Born and raised on the West coast of Scotland, Callum now studies Electrical and Mechanical Engineering at the University of Strathclyde, going on to begin a PhD in the Advanced Space Concepts Laboratory after the summer of 2014. He’s been scribbling stories from a young age, but had never really attempted a novel until Flying the Storm. People ask him how he’s had the time to write while studying for a Master’s degree... and he’s not sure how to answer that. It is quite possible he should have spent more time studying...

Book preview

It was always the same for Aiden. For some reason, in that calm time after his first bottle of beer but before tasting his second, he’d get very reflective. Brooding, almost. He’d look around himself and his mind would wander; remembering things, analysing them, filing them away again. He enjoyed it, mostly, but even so he didn’t think he’d have been able to stop it if he’d wanted to. It just sort of happened.

From the moment the barkeep cracked the lid off another cold one and slid it across to him, still smoking, he could feel it starting. He sighed, stretched his back and pulled the bottle towards him, nodding his thanks.

Inevitably, he looked around himself.

Twenty years ago, there had most definitely been a war. A terrible war. You couldn’t help noticing the veterans and the victims: any city you went to, they were just about everywhere. Limbs missing, ugly scars, thousand-metre stares. Occasional shuddering instability. They were a constant, muttering reminder of when, for three bloody decades, humanity did its best to wipe itself out.

The status quo, for most people over the age of about thirty, was total war. An entire generation of the human species had been born and raised to adulthood within it. When you raise a child on fear and hatred from the moment they are old enough to listen, it leaves a mark. Time might reduce it to a faded ghost of what it once was, but it’ll never really heal. And some of it will be passed on, generation to generation.

The shadow of the war had hung over the world for almost as long as the war itself, now. The world still hadn’t healed. Maybe it never would.

But for Aiden, sitting in a bar in downtown Sevastopol, it actually seemed like things were looking up for once. He and his friend Fredrick had actually squeezed a profit from their last freight run – something that for months they had failed miserably to achieve. Their little aircraft was looking like it could be a real coin turner, now that they had sort-of sussed the markets down here by the Black Sea.

Well, they’d established that booze and cigarettes were the safest investment, at least. In hindsight, it really shouldn’t have taken them so long to figure it out.

Anyway, with more runs like that they could probably start eating every day. That sounded pretty good to Aiden. No more hungry nights in his bunk, stomach cramps keeping him awake for hours. Nights like that made him wish he was still at the fishing. At least then there was always plenty to eat.

The huddle of people next to him erupted with laughter suddenly. They were listening keenly to the tall tales of one of the regular veterans. Every so often, Aiden caught a little of the story. This one, apparently, told of how he’d been blown through a window by an artillery shell, only to land in the midst of a frightened huddle of nubile young lasses, who after his manly display of toughness had had him right then and there. All three of them.

Aye aye.

Still, though it was hard to know how much truth the old bloke told, Aiden liked hearing the stories. The veteran was there every night, and each time brought a different tale. All he asked was a couple of fingers of vodka and the end of a cigarette.

Fredrick, Aiden’s business partner, pilot and very Danish friend, was sitting at a shady table across the room, apparently losing his share of the haul to a game of cards. Even from the other side of the bar, Aiden could see the frustration on his blond friend’s features. He had a truly shit poker face. Aiden smirked and took a swig of beer.

One thing the bar seemed to be missing this evening, unusually, was attractive females. Most folk inside were men, and old and ugly as shit to boot. Aiden’s primary pulling strategy heavily depended on being one of the few young men in the bar, but all that was for naught in the absence of women.

It really was a bloody shame. He actually had the money to treat a lady properly tonight. He could always move on, if the worst came to worst, to find greener pastures. But this was his local now. He felt like he’d established himself here, amongst the veterans and the merchants and the locals. People recognised him, acknowledged him with nods or smiles. Sevastopol, and more specifically The Rowdy Chumak were starting to feel like home. Aiden had found somewhere he liked.

Plus, it was early yet. Give them time.

Not long passed before Aiden’s silent appeal for women was answered. A large group of them arrived; laughing, shouting, dancing.

Girls’ night out. Excellent.

They were on the right side of merry. He was just sucking on his beer, building up the courage to introduce himself, when the bar went quiet.

Behind the crowd of women came a squad of marines.

They were massive men, towering over everyone in their formed plate armour. Fear seemed to radiate from them, paralysing people where they sat.

Hundreds more like them patrolled the streets of Sevastopol, ever since they descended on the port-city a couple of weeks earlier. They came from the Gilgamesh, the legendary aerial warship that had moored itself like a fat leech over the Crimea and seized control of it almost overnight.

The Gilgamesh would stay just long enough to bleed the place dry. That’s what it did. It moved between poorly defended cities, emptying everyone’s pockets and stripping the land of anything that might help it stay airborne. It was a parasite. A colossal, murderous parasite.

None of the marines appeared to be carrying the vicious-looking carbines that they normally wore. Pistols and knives were still strapped on though.

Just a social visit, then.

A few shoved their way to the bar, reaching across it to help themselves. Aiden backed out of the way, eyes down, trying to seem as unremarkable as possible. He wanted no trouble.

They took their stolen bottles and went for a table of old veterans. These they pitched out of the chairs, taking them for themselves. Two had grabbed women by the wrists. Those were made to sit on their laps, while the brutes fondled and guffawed at them.

Aiden felt his choler rising. What right did they have to treat them like that?

Two of the marines spotted the card game in the corner. Their eyes lit up like predators seeing prey, and they proceeded to muscle their way in to the game. Fredrick was eyeing them carefully, gathering his small pile of silver and copper pieces a little closer to his chest.

One of the marines, the one with the perfectly symmetrical mohawk, drew his knife and thumped it down into the table top.

How much to buy in? he growled. He looked sideways at his heavily tattooed comrade, who smirked back.

F….f….forty copper, or t-ten silver, whatever is convenient, stammered one of the players, in a heavy Ukrainian accent.

Ten silver? The marine reached across to Fredrick’s pile and counted out five silver pieces, and took the same from another player. He piled them carefully in front of himself. His comrade did the same with one of the others.

I think that’s us, he said, grinning.

Aiden watched Fredrick. His friend was very controlled, but the anger was as clear as day to Aiden. He noticed his eyes lingering on the knife in the table.

Don’t you dare, you bloody fool.

He watched, frozen, as the game restarted with the two new players. It was more hushed than before. Aiden realised half the bar was watching the game now, their tongues held. Cards were dealt, hands were checked, bets were placed.

Fredrick won the first round. The marines just laughed it off, thankfully. Got a few of your pennies back, did you? rattled one of them. Fredrick just smiled blandly.

And then he won the second, and the third. Two of the locals were cleaned out, and backed away from the table with no small measure of relief on their faces.

Let them win, you idiot.

Aiden was grasping the railing at the bar with white knuckles. He didn’t want to imagine the outcome if the marines lost. But Fredrick looked determined.

There was nothing Aiden could do.

Altercations

Mohawk’s fingers dug into Fredrick’s throat and the meaty arm lifted him off the ground. His legs dangled pitifully now, twisting and kicking in vain as he was slammed bodily against the wall. His head slapped on the rough brickwork.

Help me, he mouthed.

But Aiden couldn’t get to him.

The other marine had seen to that: Aiden’s arms were pinned behind his back in a painful iron grip. He was frantic, on the edge of panic, looking on helplessly as his best friend’s life was crushed from him in ragged, gurgled breaths. He had to do something.

He wrenched forward desperately, ignoring the pain in his shoulders. With a shout of defiance, he kicked out like a mule, catching his captor in the groin. The marine grunted and eased his grip only a fraction, but it was all Aiden needed to get a hand free. He spun to face the doubled-over man, and deftly stole his knife.

The knife plunged deep into the marine’s unarmoured thigh, pulling out with a spurt of bright blood. The man grunted again, falling to his knees, hands clutching desperately at the pulsing wound. Aiden kicked him hard in the tattooed head, sprawling him on the pavement, unconscious.

It had happened so quickly that Mohawk hadn’t even let go of Fredrick. His eyes bulged with disbelief as he saw what had happened to his comrade.

Aiden tackled him. All three men tumbled together: the murderous grip on Fredrick had been released and he slumped at the foot of the wall as Aiden and Mohawk crashed onto the slabs of the alley floor by his feet. Aiden’s wrist was caught by the hand that had only a moment ago been strangling his friend: the bloody knife quivered barely an inch from the marine’s throat.

The marine’s strength was enormous. Even from below he was managing to turn the knife back on Aiden. The muscles that had so easily lifted Fredrick now slowly twisted the blade; edging it away from the throat that Aiden desperately wanted it to slash. Realising his dominance, the brute’s spittle-flecked face creased with a predatory smile.

Once more, panic. There was no help for Aiden now: Fredrick was still barely conscious, and the alley was otherwise deserted. He had to change his approach, and change it quickly, because this one was certainly going to get him killed. He shifted his weight slightly, lifting his centre of gravity.

Then he head-butted the marine, putting all the force he could muster squarely into the man’s face. He felt the crunch of bone.

Mohawk went limp, his face sagged and his mouth hung open senselessly. Aiden sprang to his feet, knife at the ready. Neither marine moved. Their bulky bodies were slumped as Aiden had left them. A pool of bright blood was forming around the legs of the one Aiden had stabbed, turning to a brown paste where it mixed into the limestone dust.

He turned to Fredrick, whose eyes had opened. You all right? he asked.

Praise the Wings, wheezed Fredrick, rubbing his throat and getting unsteadily to his feet.

Aiden laughed a short, shocked laugh. It wasn’t the bloody Wings that saved you! His hands were shaking. He threw the knife away.

Let’s go, he said, wiping a smudge of blood from his forehead with his sleeve. They ran, a little uncertainly, to the end of the alley and out onto the street leading to the harbour.

It had occurred to Aiden that they couldn’t stay in Sevastopol any longer. Slowed to a fast walk by the milling crowds on the main street, they cut as straight a path as they could towards the docks. There they could board the Iolaire, and make good their escape.

Did you really cheat them? asked Aiden. It was an odd question, given that neither of the marines had actually bet any of their own money.

No. I beat them fair and square, Fredrick protested, still rubbing his bruised throat as he edged past a heavily laden street-merchant’s cart.

The street ended suddenly as they crossed into the wide open of the landing plaza at the Pivdenna docks. The hot, slow breeze carried the rank odour of stale sweat and the alcoholic tang of aircraft fuel. Even though it was dusk, the heat hadn’t let up.

They stopped for breath, and Aiden took in the view.

Before him, aircraft of all shapes and sizes sat in two rows along a peninsula, which itself stuck out like a tooth in the mouth of the bay. A heavy transport was lifting off at the far end, its engines droning loudly with the strain of a full cargo hold. Fans swivelled and twitched as the pilot made adjustments to its ascent. Aiden watched as it slowly gathered momentum, folded out its wings and thundered off to the west, high above Sevastopol bay.

He itched to get airborne.

There she is, he said, spotting the Iolaire amongst the other craft. They moved off again, restraining themselves from running to avoid suspicion. How long do we have, you reckon?

Until they find those two? replied Fredrick. Who knows? Not very long.

We’d better get into the air sharpish then.

They moved along the rows of aircraft and the forklifts loading them, past fuel trucks and engineering crews, until the sound of running feet brought them up short. They stopped by a stack of food crates, and pretended to be inspecting a nearby clipboard as a squad of marines jogged past. The marines ran along the rows, heading for the street that Aiden and Fredrick had just left, their sergeant barking orders at them.

It looks like they’ve noticed, murmured Aiden, as a thrill of fear set his pulse racing.

They reached the Iolaire. It was a light transport, ex-military, salvaged from the North Atlantic Union after the Armistice. It had somehow worked its way to a scrap merchant in Denmark a couple of years back, which is where they’d found it. Square-jawed and streamlined: Aiden had always liked that.

Fredrick flipped open a panel by the cargo ramp and punched in the code to lower it. They hurried aboard, quickly checking the straps holding their cargo of cigarettes and alcohol by thrumming them as they passed. Fredrick closed the cargo ramp, and Aiden rushed up the steps to the cockpit.

I hope you don’t mind if I fly this time, Fred, he called over his shoulder. No matter how much you pray to those Wings of yours, it won’t cure a concussion.

"Hold kæft, Skotske pik," was the reply from the hold.

If you’re going to swear at me, do it in English.

Shut up, you Scottish prick.

Better.

He must have agreed on some level, though. I’ll go to your turret, he said. We might need the tail gun today.

All right then, Aiden mumbled as he strapped himself into the pilot’s seat. He pulled on the comms headset and began the start-up procedure. No time for air control clearances tonight, just up and out. Digital gauges sprang to life on the console, engine temperatures and fan rpm climbing. Quick visual check out either side of the cockpit: all good. Fans were spinning; wave-rotors were reaching power cycle. Perfect.

Fred, you strapped in yet? he asked.

Tight. Are we ready? was Fredrick’s reply, his voice as loud through the headset as if he’d spoken in his ear.

Indeed we are. Lifting off.

Aiden eased the throttles open a fraction and the Iolaire gently rose until it hovered twenty metres above the concrete plaza. Dust and debris were blasted in swirling vortices around the neighbouring aircraft, and people nearby ran for shelter from the unexpected take-off.

Almost immediately, Aiden’s headset crackled with a radio transmission.

Aircraft Tango-Tango-Eight-Two-Seven, put down immediately. You are not cleared for departure, all aircraft are temporarily grounded. Return to Pivdenna air dock. Comply.

Aiden switched the radio off. He angled the fans slightly and increased the throttle. The Iolaire surged forward with its wings folding out for conventional flight. Aiden was pressed into his seat.

Sevastopol bay glimmered in the low sun as Aiden and Fredrick accelerated across it, praying they would get away cleanly.

Fredrick’s voice crackled across the intercom once more. Trouble, he said.

Aiden’s stomach dropped. Aircraft?

Yeah, just one so far. This could get messy, Aiden.

It’s already pretty bloody messy…just…just warn him off if he comes too close.

You know what these guys are like, Aiden. I’ll have to shoot him down before he’ll bug out.

Aiden did know that, but saying it made it real. He scanned the horizon port and starboard of the cockpit for any other aircraft. None. Through the blue haze he could see the Gilgamesh warship itself, hovering ominously a long way inland. It was an awesome sight: the gigantic aircraft whose presence alone had conquered the Crimea.

Everybody’d heard of the Gilgamesh, and everybody knew the same few things about it: it was more than a klick from bow to stern, bristled with more guns than was worth thinking about and harboured its own fleet of aircraft. Some said it had flown for decades without refuelling, though exactly how it had was something of a mystery.

He could understand, however, why its crew had turned to piracy after the Eurasian War, when the superpower that had built it collapsed on itself. The crew had been left with nothing but the Gilgamesh, but someone had seen the profit in it: with a craft like that, they could be gods. Maybe once, they’d been the crew of the glorious flagship of the North Atlantic Union; now they were nothing but an army of renegades and pirates. World-infamous pirates. And Aiden had quite possibly just killed two of them.

He’s lining up on us, Aiden, said Fredrick.

Aiden groaned. Make that three. Let him have it then.

Right. There was a pause before Fredrick opened fire. Aiden felt it through his feet as the heavy gun hammered out its opening salvo, hopefully mostly into the pursuing patrol craft. Then it stopped.

You get him?

A hesitation. I did hit him, the gun’s jammed though. Fredrick sounded remarkably calm.

Can’t you un-jam it?

"For fanden, Aiden! Do you never clean this thing?! Fredrick’s calm had left in a hurry. Lort, lort, lort, lort, lort!"

What the hell’s jamming it? Aiden demanded.

Fredrick yelled back something Aiden didn’t understand.

Say it in English, you son-of-a-bitch!

I said I’ll be damned if I know! yelled Fredrick. "Don’t fly straight you idiot! Break! Break!"

Alright, alright! Aiden shouted back as he swung the flight stick to the left, rolling the craft and banking high. A ripple of tracer bullets shot under the Iolaire’s belly; right where it should have been. He swung the craft back to the right and watched as the orange streaks slapped into the sea ahead, sending up plumes of white spray.

He tipped the nose down slightly, hoping that hugging the surface would make the Iolaire harder to hit. He knew his prop wash would be kicking up spray, but manoeuvring at such a height was incredibly dangerous.

How do I un-jam this piece of shit?! cried Fredrick.

The crank handle in front of you, pump it backwards!

It won’t move!

Of course it’ll move! Yank it!

OK! said Fredrick. "Lort, why won’t it shoot?!"

What does it say on the HUD?

"It doesn’t say anything! Break, Aiden!"

Aiden wrenched the Iolaire to starboard, narrowly avoiding another burst of tracer fire. The sea hurtled past, nerve-shreddingly close.

On the console, push the reset button!

Which one is that?

The red button that says ‘reset’, you daft prick, push it!

Right. Fredrick paused. It’s running a diagnostic. How long will that take?

I don’t know, thirty seconds?

Great, so what am I supposed to do until then? Scare him off with curse words?

You can try! replied Aiden. Tell me what it says when it’s done!

Aiden executed a series of course changes, keeping the Iolaire a hard target, while Fredrick hurled vicious Danish abuse at the aircraft following them.

OK, it says that there’s a stoppage, said Fredrick finally.

Well we already bloody knew that!

It says to pull the cocking lever. Is that the-

Yes, that’s the crank I told you to pull earlier! Yank it as hard as you can!

Fredrick let out a string of guttural curses as he tried the handle. Yes! It moved! A shell fell out, I saw it!

Now shoot at that bastard behind us!

A rattling burst from the gun. Fredrick whooped.

Aiden let himself breathe. You hit him?

Yeah, he’s struggling! Hold it steady, I don’t think… Fredrick trailed off as he loosed another blast. I got him! I shot the bastard down! There was a dull thud that shook the Iolaire as the stricken pursuer plunged into the sea.

The Iolaire was climbing steadily, accelerating further. Aiden knew for sure that they’d killed at least one person now and he felt a little sickened. It didn’t upset him on a moral level so much: all of those men were trying to kill them. No, in the space of twenty minutes, they’d made themselves wanted fugitives. They’d have to scrap their aircraft ID and keep checking over their shoulders for the next few months at least. He doubted the Gilgamesh’s commanders would allow such an insult to slide.

They certainly couldn’t trade within a thousand kilometres of the warship any more, and Sevastopol was the best port on the Black Sea. Aiden was furious. He’d lost his new home.

So, where to? he asked Fredrick.

"Need to keep a straight course away from the Gilgamesh for a couple of hundred kilometres or so, just until that radar detector shuts up. Then we should take a new heading, so they can’t just join up the dots and find us."

Aiden saw the sense in that. Once the Gilgamesh couldn’t track them anymore, they could head where they wanted. Until then it’d be a fast, straight course to the west, high-tailing it away from the Crimea.

He hoped that the Gilgamesh didn’t send a fighter. The Iolaire wouldn’t stand a chance. It was fast, with a top speed of around eight hundred kilometres per hour at the right altitude, but it was no match for a jet. On the plus side, he doubted that either Fredrick or himself would know anything about it if a jet did have a pop at them. They’d be intact and healthy one second, then probably a very hot, pink, supersonic mist the next. There were worse ways to die, he supposed.

They had only been climbing for a few moments when a thunderous explosion shook the Iolaire. Aiden jumped against his straps. The game was up. He assumed he was dead.

Somehow, he wasn’t, and the Iolaire seemed to be fine. Craning to look, he saw a thin vapour trail ending in a huge puff of grey smoke, and far ahead of him a swathe of the sea was thrown up in shimmering towers of white spray.

The bloody hell was that? he cried.

"Vinger…I think that’s flak from the Gilgamesh!" replied Fredrick.

But she’s got to be more than twenty kilometres away! Aiden was incredulous. Missiles he could have accepted, but guns?

Rail-guns or something, said Fredrick, Weave, Aiden! They won’t miss a second time!

Aiden still couldn’t believe it.

Break now, Aiden!

Aiden complied automatically, pulling back hard on the flight stick, rearing the Iolaire up and climbing hard. A moment later, a second thunderclap erupted beneath them, precisely where they should have been. Rolling the craft over, he once again saw where the pieces of shrapnel had smashed into the sea a kilometre ahead. He swore softly to himself.

Whatever that was, it’s bloody fast, said Fredrick, I only just caught a little trail against the sky.

I reckon we should hug the surface, the quicker we disappear over the horizon, the better.

It’ll waste fuel.

I’d rather waste a little fuel than get shot down. God knows what range they have on that thing, replied Aiden.

All right then.

Aiden pushed the Iolaire low, and as the Crimea faded into the distance behind him, no more shots came from the Gilgamesh.

And when the little red radar notification light winked out on the control console, the Iolaire made a long banking turn to the east.

Ashtarak

The Armenian barman stared at them blankly with his one good eye: the other was milky white and half closed by the scar tissue on his brow. His face was a gnarled mess of scars, and the right side of his skull was hairless and mottled with a hideous old burn. His right ear was a just a fleshy stub protruding from the cauterised skin. ‘Ugly’ wouldn’t have quite done him justice.

It didn’t get much easier to spot a veteran, Aiden was sure.

Yes? His voice was a hoarse, eastern growl.

Two beers, please, said Fredrick, regaining his composure first.

No beer, said the barman, his eye not leaving Fredrick.

What do you have, then?

"I have aragh, he jabbed his thumb at a stack of bottles behind the bar. Is all."

Aiden squinted at the stack. The bottles looked exactly like the ones they had just sold to the town merchants. In fact, Aiden was fairly sure it was just that: Crimean vodka. And, he realised that for possibly the first time since the pair had taken up the air-trade business, they had forgotten to cut a few bottles from the shipment.

Two please, said Fredrick. He slid a few copper coins across the bar. The barman used the usual water-and-scales method. His good eye glazed over for a moment as he consulted a pinned-up paper list on the wall. Then he grunted, satisfied that it was copper, and poured the drinks.

"Skaal,"said Fredrick, raising his glass.

"Slàinte,"responded Aiden, doing the same. He swallowed it in one.

Can’t believe we flogged them this crap, he said, scraping his tongue with his teeth. I thought it was quality stuff.

It’s not bad, rasped Fredrick. Really kicks the shit out of you. He paused, considering the glass that the barkeeper was refilling. I wonder if there’s work here for us, he said.

You really want to hang about?

Fredrick just shrugged.

Aiden sighed. Do you know of anyone who needs an aircraft? he asked the barman. The barman looked at him strangely. At least, he assumed it was a strange look. It was hard to tell through the mangled features.

Seeming to entirely ignore the question, the man wandered slowly off down the bar, resuming wiping a cup as he talked in a murmured voice to a couple of patrons at the far end. Alright then, said Aiden. Guess that’s a no.

He burped, and his nostrils stung like a nosebleed. This Ashtarak town was not selling itself to him. Hell, Armenia really wasn’t selling itself to him.

He supposed, at least, that they’d probably made enough gold to move on with. Though it had taken the entire day, they’d managed to empty the hold of the booze and cigarettes. Prices hadn’t been great though. The locals were sharp.

Not only that, but Aiden could tell already that fuel was going to be an issue. Nobody seemed able to tell him where they could find some. And the Iolaire really needed fuel; it was running on fumes to get them this far to the east. Fredrick had said there wasn’t much more than a minute left in the tanks, so leaving was really not an option yet. This was irritating. Aiden was already itching to move.

He knew prospects would be better to the east. They had to be. The Caspian Sea was supposed to be criss-crossed with trading routes. It was the gateway to Asia. Aiden reasoned it was a good bet that somebody would be looking for something to be hauled by air, or that they’d at least be able to buy something worth trading. Sea-ports were the best places for it. Better than this sleepy little Armenian town, anyway. It looked like Ashtarak hadn’t seen an aircraft in a very long time, the way folks were so wary of it.

As they’d landed, they’d been confronted by a twitchy troop of local militia, armed to the teeth and nervous as hell. He didn’t understand it. Air trade was the norm just about everywhere now; it had boomed after the war. Ex-military aircraft were as cheap as you like and as governments collapsed and disorder spread, landside routes became prone to raids and piracy. Ports turtled up and became independent city-states, passing goods from sea to air for carriage inland, profiting from the tolls. The air became the surest way to move goods around. So why had the militia been so jumpy?

Of course, there were other ways to trade. Some freight was carried across the land by foolhardy bastards, who in Aiden’s opinion either had a screw loose or a death wish. Or maybe just a violent disposition. There was certainly something not quite right about the folks who wanted to do that for a living.

He hated the thought of it, crawling across the land in a mechanised herd. It reminded him of the old videos he’d seen of crowds of beasts thundering across the grassland, flanked by lions watching for a weak link. Sure, you had horns, but without the herd you were an easy target. And when they got you -the lions always got one- the herd didn’t much care.

Could be this isn’t vodka at all. Could be fuel grade, said Aiden finally. He was joking, of course, but it certainly tasted bad enough. Maybe the barman had mixed something special into it, just for the westerners. Get them hammered on ‘nol, then steal their aircraft. Aiden wouldn’t have put it past the folks in this town.

He grinned to himself as he imagined the thieves trying to open the cargo ramp. Tamper with the lock and you get a face-full of piss and muck from the bilge. Week-old urine was a powerful deterrent, they’d found.

Aiden looked around the bar. For the number of people there, it was very quiet. Folks didn’t seem very talkative. Sullen, almost. Surely life here couldn’t have been that bad.

This place is, how do I say, ‘swinging’? muttered Fredrick over the rim of his glass.

Aiden nodded, sucking his teeth. It seemed like when the sun set and the big mountain behind the town disappeared in the darkness, so too did the energy of its people. They were still there, still awake mostly, just dead quiet. There was no music in the tavern. No laughter, no dancing. It was stagnant. It was boring.

Things couldn’t always have been so uneventful. The