Final Flight by Beth Cato

 
    I stood at the rudder wheel of my airship Argus , in command of a ship I did not truly control. We flew north, destination unknown. A soldier stood several feet behind me. His pistols remained holstered—­he wasn’t daft enough or desperate enough to fire a weapon in the control cabin of an operating airship—­but he had already proven adept with his fists. My co-­pilot, Ramsay, was currently getting patched up, as the sarcastic commentary he had offered was not kindly received.
    Throughout the cabin, tension prickled beneath the surface like an invisible rash we couldn’t scratch. Everyone stood or sat rigid at their posts, gazes flickering between their gauges, the windows, and the soldiers in our midst. These were soldiers of our own kingdom of Caskentia, in green uniforms as vibrant as the sprawling valley below. They had occupied the Argus since that morning.
    This was the second time in as many weeks that my airship had been commandeered. The previous time, rebellious settlers from the Waste had claimed it by force. I rather preferred them. Wasters made for an easy enemy after fifty years of intermittent warfare. This occupation by our own government was ugly in a different way.
    My fists gripped the wheel as if I could leave impressions in the slick copper. The futility of our situation infuriated me. I couldn’t stop the Wasters before. And now I couldn’t stop this , whatever this mysterious errand was.
    My son, Sheridan, was on board somewhere. I needed him to be safe, not snared in any more political drama. The Wasters had used him as a hostage to force my hand; I didn’t want these soldiers to do the same.
    â€œCaptain Hue, sir.” My co-­pilot saluted as he entered the control cabin. I assessed him in a glance. Bandages plugged his swollen nose. Blood still thickened his thin brown moustache.
    â€œYou are well enough to resume your duties?” I asked.
    â€œYes, sir. I’ve felt worse after a night of leave.”
    Ramsay knew his job; if only he could control his fool lips. I stepped back to grant him control of the rudder and leaned by his ear. “Corrado said this would be over in days. Bear through.”
    I saw my own frustration mirrored in his eyes, and in the other crew as I walked from station to station. I muttered what assurance I could and exited the control cabin. I needed to find my boy.
    I limped down the hallway, my stiff knees like smoldering coals of pain. An engineer fresh from the outdoor engine car saluted as she passed by. The stench of enchanted aether-­helium clung to her like a cloud and made me woozy for all of a breath.
    I started upstairs. Agony compounded with every step. I gritted my teeth. I glanced up at the sound of distinctly heavy boots coming downstairs. Another Caskentian soldier in a green greatcoat and jodhpurs marched toward me. Behind him came Julius Corrado, a man who was no gentleman and deserved no respectful designation.
    I’d known Corrado years ago as a smarmy airship port warden, the kind who demanded extra bribes and acted like he’d done me a grand favor. He had aged as well as an apple left out in summer sun—­his face and jowls wrinkled and lumpy—­though the fine threads of his dapper pinstriped suit would have made him presentable to Queen Evandia herself.
    This morning he’d flashed a Clockwork Dagger’s pin as he requisitioned my ship in the Queen’s very name. An urgent mission, he said. My Argus was perfect, he said.
    Perfect because we were almost fully staffed and in better condition than most of the ships currently on moorage. I took pride in my old gal. We had spent the past few days replacing blood-­soaked carpet and repairing other damage from the Waster skirmish so that we could resume our usual passenger route.
    Corrado gave me one of his insipid smiles. “Off duty, Cuthbert?”
    My fists balled at my sides. As a younger man, fancying myself