Maa halor ilam-en ura aurum.

  ...

  14th September 1738

  What singular honour Providence has bestowed upon me, to serve His Most Gracious Majesty aloft, entrusted with the navigation of His airships. This calling has been my sole companion since boyhood, and never once has my heart strayed toward any other pursuit. The rigging, the watch, the vast firmament above—these are as natural to me as breath itself.

  Yet my spirits are troubled on account of our Captain. Some malady of body or disposition must surely afflict him, that he should harbour thoughts of any life beyond this noble service. For what existence could rival the liberty of ranging the extremities of the globe, of beholding nations strange and wondrous, and of standing ever vigilant in defence of the Crown’s dominion and honour?

  As for myself, I nurture the quiet ambition that, in time and by diligence, I may be found worthy of command. Should Fortune smile upon me, I would take an airship of my own into regions yet uncharted, and set my name—however humbly—among those who first gave form to the Unknowns.

  – PRIVATE JOURNAL OF SIR JAMES F. BATES

  …

  A veil of white gave way to a sea of blue, clouds parting in wisps of vapour. The chill embrace of the mist receded as the airship ascended. James held the wooden guardrail with the relaxed grip of a seasoned airman. He watched as the carpet of cloud stretched to the horizon, a rolling mass of hills, mountains and valleys. If he didn’t know any better, he would have said it was snow. But they had passed through the grey sky below and risen into the wonder that was beyond the cloud bank.

  The airship yawed to the left, ropes and the wooden hull creaking as she did. The sun made its way around the oval shaped balloon and warmed James’s face. He closed his eyes, relishing the delight he felt.

  With a flutter, the sails either side of the ship caught the wind. He felt the ship beneath his feet pull away, inertia forcing his torso backward as the H.M.S Mystery accelerated.

  The ropes thrummed as the wind strummed them like a violin. The airship rose higher still, the sails catching ever more wind.

  “She’s dancing now eh, sir?” asked the pilot. The man in his twenties manned the large wheel, making fine adjustments.

  “That she is, Mr Waller.” James studied the sky, the way the clouds danced their glacier waltz. The telltale signs of the path of the winds. The way the air held him in an embrace, an envelope surrounding the airship. “Keep her steady, Mr Waller. We have the envelope.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  The Mystery levelled out, ending her climb. The airship skated through the air, drawn along an unseen river of air. The hull creaked, straining against the opposing forces of the sails and the balloon.

  At the centre of the deck, the large black ironworks of the boiler hulked beneath the opening of the balloon. Flames licked from the output. A team of four men seesawed at an undulating platform that formed the bellows. They had shifted to a slower pace than their ascent, maintaining their altitude with a constant stream of hot air.

  James had learned the science that held them aloft at the naval academy. But every airmen knew it was more of an art than a science. Every airship was different. The skies changed almost constantly. One had to become in tune with both his ship and the unpredictable skies you flew through. It was a feeling, sensing the movement of the ship. Watching the skies. Reading the weather on the horizon. And most of all, trusting in your gut.

  “Captain on deck!” announced a junior officer.

  James saluted the captain. “We have reached cruising altitude and we have the envelope, sir.”

  “Very good, Bates,” Captain Dunstable replied. “I’m just glad to be out of that blasted cesspit they call the capital of Muskovia.”

  “I must admit, I am rather partial to a good Muskovian brotheL.” James laughed.

  “You and half this bloody ship!” Dunstable yelled. “The navy is held together by cheap rum and cheap whores.”

  The airship rocked. The pilot tossed the wheel through his hands.

  “You got her, Mr Waller?” asked James.

  “Just a kick, sir. Nothing I can’t handle.”

  “Three days to New Wales,” said Dunstable. “And then I’m done with all of this.”

  “You’re actually going through with it, sir?” asked James.

  “I know you think me mad, Mr Bates. But this is a young man’s game. You will come to understand when you get to my age.” Dunstable was fourty five, his hair almost entirely grey. James had not met many men over forty let alone an airman. He was twenty seven, nearing the age where many died from any myriad of infections and ailments. A life in the Navy was not so daunting when just living was already perilous.

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  “I defer to your wisdom—“ James started.

  “Balloon, ho! South-south-east!” cried the officer of the watch from the crows nest atop the balloon.

  “Distance, Mr Pullings?” the captain hollered back.

  “Five miles and closing!”

  James removed his spyglass, extending the lens to its full length. He scanned the skyline, the landscape of clouds scrolled past impossibly fast. There. An airship. A stout bow. Sails at full mast like the wings of an angel. Guns mounted on her deck and the unmistakable sight of gun ports along her hull.

  “Man of war, sir. Looks to be a twelve gunner,” James announced.

  “Beat to quarters, Mr Bates.” The captain removed his jacket and walked to the gun rail.

  “Beat to quarters!” James cried. Drums hammered from within the depths of the ship. Men flooded the deck, preparing their stations for battle.

  “Mr Williams,” said Dunstable, “takes us into the cloud cover.”

  “Sir.”

  Williams pulled on the pitch lever, the hull of the ship nosed down. The silver carpet of cloud raced towards them.

  There was a rumble as the guns rolled forward into their gunports.

  “Three miles and closing!” Came the cry from the officer of the watch.

  “Williams, I need the cloud bank now!” Yelled Dunstable.

  “She’s fighting me, sir. She has too much lift.” Williams was visibly wrestling the wheel. Muscles danced in his thick forearms.

  “Then we go over them,” said James. He looked at the captain for permission.

  Dunstable nodded.

  “Hard to larboard!” Cried James. “Level out the ship and prepare to yaw to port.”

  “Gun crews, prepare for a full broadside!” Dunstable commanded.

  The Mystery complained as she turned, fighting against the wind. The hull shuddered. The sails snapped and twisted against their oak masts. Above James’s head, the balloon undulated. “Pump the bellows,” he ordered. “Keep the balloon stable.”

  The airship made the turn. Wind buffeted them from all sides as they flew outside the wind envelope. The sails catching the barest scrap of wind.

  The man of war approached faster, the two airships racing towards one another. The enemy craft was rising to match their altitude.

  James leaned over the gun rail. He studied the man of war, the closing distance, the feel of the air as it buffeted him. How the hull rocked and bucked underneath him.

  He remained like this for several heartbeats. Now, he thought. “Yaw to port, full inflection!”

  Williams slammed an oak lever and hauled on the wheel, spinning the wooden spindles through his hands as fast as he could.

  The deck shifted to port. Men slid across the wooden beams, grabbing for any grip they could.

  “Hold fast!” Dunstable yelled. “Hold fast, men!”

  A rope connecting the hull to the balloon snapped, slapping the deck like a whip.

  James saw the man of war’s port sail as she passed below them. “Fire!” He yelled.

  The airship’s canons roared. Fire and smoke vomited from the port side of the Mystery.

  Splinters of wood and rope burst from the man of war, raining to the clouds below.

  “Minimal damage, sir!” Cried a midshipman. “Her balloon is still intact.”

  “Williams, bring us around, dive to match her altitude.”

  The pilot ratcheted levers and stomped panels in the floor around him. His hands worked hand over fist, spinning the wheel as hard as he could.

  The Mystery bucked as she turned on her heel. James’s stomach leapt into his throat as the ship nosed downwards, hurtling towards the clouds and the man of war.

  “She’s turning,” cried the same midshipman.

  Christ, thought James. She’s turning into us. Training her damned guns on us.

  “Hard to larboard! We need the envelope!” Cried Dunstable.

  No, thought James. We can’t make this a game of cat and mouse.

  The Mystery turned, the hull creaking and screaming under the strain.

  The man of war’s guns fired. James felt the hull drum as cannonballs ripped through the hull.

  The airship bucked. Inertia pulled the men on deck forward and back.

  “She’s stalling!”

  We’ll be dead in the air, thought James. Fish in a barrel.

  James ran to the port gun rail. The man of war was turning, swinging around to bring her port guns to bear on them. He felt their lack of momentum. The way the wind angled in such a way their sails couldn’t utilise.

  Those guns.

  “Climb!” James yelled. “Bellows, now!”

  The bellowhands worked the large seesawing platform as fast as they could. Fire breathed from the boiler’s outlet, sending its roar into the opening of the balloon.

  James watched the torturous rate of their climb, barely shifting them away from the enemy airship’s guns.

  “Faster!” He yelled, casting off his coat he joined the bellowhands. He held the wooden rail and slammed his feet down. The bellows made its mechanical inhalation and screamed an exhalation. The fire stoked. Flames burst forth. Hot air washed over the deck. “Keep going , men!”

  The balloon creaked as it stretched under the pressure. The man of war disappeared beyond the gun rail.

  “She’s working to match our altitude!” cried the midshipman.

  Dunstable scanned the horizon. “Bring us about. South. Get these sails in order.”

  The crew scrambled to follow the captain’s orders. Sailhands climbed out on the long spars, nothing but air below their bare feet.

  James pumped the bellows, sweat dripping from his brow. His lungs burned. The bellows screamed, fire belching from the boiler.

  The Mystery bucked as the sails caught the wind. The man of war reappeared at the rear of the airship, rising as an ominous spectre.

  “Ease down, men,” said James. “Good work.” He climbed off the bellows, wiping his brow with the cuff of his shirt.

  He walked across the deck, joining Dunstable. “What’s your plan, sir?”

  Dunstable pointed to the horizon – or where the horizon should have been. Dark thunderheads turned day to night. Lightning burst through the darkness in staccato shudders of light, revealing the walls of cloud and the shadow of rain beneath. Even so far away, the storm could be seen rotating.

  “You’re a madman, “ said James. “We can never survive that.”

  “Jim…” said Dunstable. “She’s far superior to us. We’re out gunned and out shipped.”

  “Sir, if you just let me–”

  Dunstable clapped a hand to James’s shoulder. “I’ve given my orders. We’re in God’s hands now.”

  James looked to the storm. The clouds grew in scale. A cliff of darkness that towered above the airship.

  Thunder roared, hammering the hull of the ship.

  “May God have mercy,” James whispered.

  The Mystery raced into the storm, and the man of war followed.