Free Aethosphere Chronicles: Winds of Duty by Jeremiah D. Schmidt

or fellow
aeronauts. Every one of those men must realize it now, and the
things they’ll do to survive… Bar had to reach the bridge first
and barricade it; if nothing more than to protect the ship and her
inhabitants until some sort of truce could be struck.
    Down the ladder, through the ghostly light
housing, Bar descended ahead of the Finny mob, reaching the bridge
landing before the rest. Trying the latch, he found the door
locked. No doubt the machinegun fire had tipped off the bridge crew
and they’d barricaded the way. From the other side of the sturdy
iron door, Bar heard a gruff voice call out in challenge, “Identify
yourself!” But Bar thought better of it. As far as Moore was
concerned he was just a turncoat on the loose now, so instead he
decided to make for the galley first, perhaps to find Alabrahm and
inform him of the events in the airbladder housing. If any man
could broker a truce now, it was the wizened old cook. No man could
hold a grudge against him.
    Bar reached the galley, just as he heard the
Glenfinners reach the bridge door one level above. They hammered
against the metal, shouting curses and threats, and then he heard
metal groan and Max’s voice rose above the din. “You got to set
that lever lower if you aim to pry her open…and the rest of you
other lot, get to the main deck…should a crowny show his
face you blacken it straight away till we can sort out who we can
trust. Now move!”
    They’re coming. Bar pushed his way
through the galley door, only to find it teeming with anxious
crewmen. “Bazzon!” yelled Cecil almost immediately, and in a flash
he came shoving through the gathered southerners huddled in the
mess. “Captain’s issued an all hands, said we got snowploggers wreaking havoc on the ship. Told us to fight
them off using any means necessary.”
    “Bar, you young sprig!” He heard Al’s deep
voice say before it became lost in a tide of panicked
murmuring.
    “Is that them I’m hearing,” hollered
a flyer. “What’s our orders?” asked a wide-eyed boy.
    “What’s going on, lad,” the cook cut above
them all, “you can see the men are on edge…could use some light
shed on this situation before it spirals out of control—”
    But it was too late. The first Glenfinner, a
brute by the name of Tavish; a decent enough fellow, if you were on
his good side, but with wits to rival a bull’s; came bursting
through the door behind him. The brute paused in the entry, only
for a moment to catch his bearings, but it was long enough for an
impetuous Kinglander to crack a stein across his forehead. With
blood running down along his eyebrows, Tavish roared and blindly
thrust a hammer-blow into the nearest Kinglander; a young skyman by
the name of Thomas. The boy crumpled in a heap, and then all hell
broke loose. Using Tavish as a plow, the rest of the Glenfinners
came swarming in from behind, and after that, the chaos turned
rampant almost instantly.
    Dizzied, Bar tried not to get caught up in
the violence, but instead staggered back making for Al, but the
melee swirled in around him, and suddenly he was being jostled and
knocked about. Fists flew past him, one even striking him in the
kidney, and then another came glancing off the side of his face.
The table at the center of the room screeched over the decking and
slammed into the wall. Several windows shattered. Bar hadn’t wanted
to fight back for fear of escalating the violence, but the moment
stirred his blood into a frenzy, and he thrust out his coiled fist
as readily as the next man. It didn’t matter who got in his way
after that, he just punched at them all the same, until someone
tackled him through the galley’s forward window. Glass exploded and
Bar flailed backwards. In a daze he slammed down onto the main deck
with a Glenfinner wrapped around his torso, so he brought an elbow
down on the man’s spine, stilling him instantly.
    How could it come to this? Bar
thought vaguely as he lay on his back, looking up