Outrageous Fortune-Errant Freight Book One

Chapter 8

Rory didn't slow his pace until, five flights and half a 'ship's length later, he reached the rear of the Errant's bridge. There he paused long enough to spy Eitan Fehr's silhouette at the helm, pushing the airship's engines to their limits.

Against the blazing blue of the winter sky, Eitan's head shifted from the radar console and back to the wide forward window, doubtless scanning the surrounding skies for signs of pursuit. As Rory's eyes adjusted to the brighter light of the bridge, he saw his crewmate's shirt had a rent in the left sleeve and his hair, a mass of black he most often wore in a tail, hung loose to his shoulders.

Could be worse.

Likely they were worse for the shadow traders who'd taken the Errant, of whom Rory had seen no sign.

He took another moment to slow his breath and check for bodies. On finding none, he tried to be relieved, but there was the niggling worry of where Tariq's men had ended up.

To distract himself from that concern, Rory turned his attention to seeking any damage to the bridge.

Given the Errant's colorful history, most observers would find themselves pressed to identify any fresh scarring.

Rory wasn't most, and easily picked out a fresh gash alongside the navigator's table to port, a new ding in the elevation relay's brass surround, and a burn scar in a starboard girder.

"I apologize for the mess," Eitan called over his shoulder, as if reading Rory's mind—a feat usually requiring physical contact.

"'Tis nae so bad," Rory replied with a shrug. Still, his fingers brushed over the blackened girder on his way to the helm, where he stopped behind the empty copilot's chair. "I'm to thank you for the save," he said. "So—thanks for the save."

Eitan's response was a crooked half-nod, which showed a hint of bruise above the neatly trimmed beard.

Rory wasn't fluent in Eitan's nods, but this one came off like a you're welcome, so he turned his attention to the control panel. "Port aft engine is running a mite hot." He nodded to the engine's output indicator, mid-console.

Eitan's head dipped again. "I noticed, but we would probably like a few hundred more kilometers between ourselves and the shadow traders before we drop speed, if you think she'll do?"

Rory considered the question. If Errant had been built in the colonies, he'd have already shut down that engine. But Errant was of Midasian make, and her liquid-aluminum batteries were far less volatile than the crystal cells which powered the vast majority of Colonial 'ships.

The flip side of that quarter star meant that finding replacement parts proved a continual trial, and the reason the port aft engine was running a mite hot.

"She'll do better if you bump up the output in the other three," he decided.

Eitan made the necessary adjustments while Rory glanced over the pressure gauges arrayed along the forward panel, above the ballast controls. "Cells eighteen and twenty-three are low," he noted.

"Possibly the electric storm caused some damage?" Eitan suggested while he nudged the elevation levers set in the deck between the two seats back with his left elbow to increase their ascent. His right hand remained on the yoke of the steering column, holding their course steady as they rose.

Rory took a moment to appreciate the ease with which the other man worked Errant's myriad controls. There was an instinctive grace to Eitan's movements that echoed his skills in close-quarters combat—and really, what had happened to Tariq's men?