Free Tin Swift by Devon Monk Page A

reflection off something metal.
    Like, say, a tin ship.
    “Back and up!” Hink ordered.
    Guffin and Seldom scrambled to work the controls, and the
Swift
jumped to obey. But it was too late. A wide swath of light, bright and hot as summer off a river, swept across the clouds they’d been holding to, and near as much blinded Hink, even through his goggles.
    “Son of a mule!” he swore.
    Run or fight? The world seemed to pause for a second, to slip away and slow as he thought through the possibilities, spinning through his mind.
    The
Sledge
outgunned them, outpowered them. It would be a dead man’s gamble to take her on. The
Swift
could outrun her, but running wouldn’t answer his questions. Why was Alabaster Saint suddenly going so out of his way to kill him? Who was working for the general, and how deep into the western glim trade had Alabaster entrenched himself?
    Answers to all of that might be a thing of national security. There’d been talks of uprisings since the war. There’d been talks of the west, with her mountains and glim defecting from the east with her money and matics. Talks the president was keenly interested in getting to the bottom of.
    And on most all of those rumors, Hink had heard General Alabaster Saint’s name traded, hand to hand, like coin of the realm. Whatever plans were being made out here in the west, he was fair certain the Saint was a part of them.
    “Hellfire,” Hink swore, having made up his mind before the mirror’s light had reached the tail fin. “Take her on!”
    They dove for the
Black Sledge
, pounding sky to beat the devil.
    The
Black Sledge
angled up, catching a hard tailwind. Not so much making a run for it as getting up and into more maneuverable sky to avoid being rammed into the ragged cliffs.
    “Watch her guns,” Hink said. “Seldom, ready the hook and torch.”
    Guffin pulled his breathing gear off his mouth. “We’re boarding her?” He didn’t sound so much worried as maybe a little too excited about the prospect of dangling feet in thin air.
    “We’re taking her down,” Hink said.
    The racket of the fans pushing the
Swift
drowned out anything else. Hink fought the controls, pushed by crosswinds and updrafts as he gave her full throttle to ram that black bag of air.
    Their only chance was speed.
    Good thing speed was what the
Swift
had by the bucketloads.
    The ship’s frame screeched under the strain of the dive, her tin bones singing out like a hundred wet fingers over fine crystal.
    The ship vibrated with the sound of it, the song of it. A rise of pride, of power, of fearless joy swelled Hink’s chest. He ripped off his breathing gear and let out a whoop and holler. Mr. Lum’s deep laughter rolled through the cabin.
    The
Black Sledge
yawed to the side, slinging around hard to show the guns that prickled a line down the length of her.
    “Ready, Mr. Seldom?” Hink yelled.
    “Aye, Captain!” The Irishman set a hook from his belt to the mid-bar above his head, stomped his feet into the floor belts, then opened the starboard rear door.
    The gust of wind that rattled the inside of the ship set her to shaking and would have stirred up anything not tied down, but Hink, Guffin, and Lum were hooked tight to the framework by belts at their waist and braces over their boots.
    The blast of a cannon pounded the air like a giant clapping the
Swift
between his hands. The port rear fan sputtered before picking up to plumb again.
    Hink kept the throttle full open. The window filled with the
Black Sledge
. He could see every stitch and rivet on the big old barge.
    The
Swift
screamed out her killing song as the engine pumped thunder and power into her bones. The repercussions of another cannon shot—this one wide—cracked through the air.
    Closer. So close, Hink could jump the door and land on the
Black Sledge
’s wing, if he wanted.
    “Now!” he yelled to Mr. Seldom. But even as the word left his lips, Mr. Seldom had already let loose the flaming hook.
    Guffin