Outrageous Fortune-Errant Freight Book One

Chapter 28

Over six years ago, John Pitte had stormed onto the bridge of the Kodiak with blood on his hands and fury in his eyes.

"Captain on bridge!" Provost Millar announced.

"As you were," John said, brushing past the duty prov.

He tried not to limp, but every step he took felt as if his knee were stabbing itself from within. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he continued across the deck, making a beeline for the command dais, where General Jessup Rand had stationed himself.

Likely, John thought, because the dais allowed Rand, who was not a tall man, the rare opportunity to look down on those around him, as if height could engender respect.

He stood there now, with his hands clasped behind his back and his attention fixed on the Nasa Escarpment, looming ever larger through the forward windows as the Kodiak made her approach.

Jaw tight, John came to a halt at the foot of the dais. At last Rand took notice of his presence and turned. Eyebrows rising, he stepped away from the forward rail and crossed to the aft steps.

"Captain," he greeted the junior officer.

"General." John offered a salute.

Rand's dark face tipped down, then up. "You appear to be injured."

* * *

"Down ladder!" John warned, more out of habit than necessity. No other crew was making use of the bay ladder, and just as well, for in his urgency to reach the cargo bay John bypassed the last few steps and jumped the rest of the way to the bay deck.

The bone-jarring thud of his landing reverberated from boots to skull, a tympanic underscore to the silent shriek of his left knee, where a sliver of shrapnel he'd picked up aboard the Enehduanna reminded him it did not care for such maneuvers.

That carelessness cost him precious seconds as he clung to the ladder rail, sweat darkening his light brown hair and beading on his forehead while his breath sounded harsh in his ears.

Those few seconds might have stretched to more but for the short, sharp crack that split the air, followed by a soft, pained grunt that mocked John's weakness and had him pushing off the rail and lurching towards the aft bay, from which the sounds had come.

* * *

"Bad turn on the ladder," John said, looking up at Rand. As he did, he noticed a shadow emerging from the far side of the dais.

A shadow which resolved itself into Sergeant Jihan, General Rand's aide-de-camp.

As the sergeant made his way around the circular observation post, John felt the bridge's silence pressing on him in a way that felt utterly unfamiliar.

Possibly because it was no longer his bridge, not in any way that mattered. Not with Rand in control of the Kodiak, and not with the helm, elevator, and nav all being operated by Rand's officers.

Even the duty prov who'd called John's presence had come aboard with the general, who was currently studying John's uniform with obvious distaste.

Perhaps Rand objected to the sight of blood.

* * *

He weaved his uneven way through stacked crates of dry goods, sealed cases of crystal, and hanging nets of perishables— necessaries of a fighting airship—but the further aft he went, the more the cool, dry air of the bay became saturated by the slick, bittersweet tang of blood and sweat.