SECOND DRAFT: Hard Bank Left

2

"Shit shit shit shit shit fuuuuuu-shit!"

"What is going on?"

Graham dashed down the stairwell, he slid open the door to the pilotry.

"Shitshitshit. Shiiiiit."

"Graham. Talk to me."

A rasping hiss drown out the motor momentarily as Graham opened the door to the pilotry. "Celeste. Do whatever they say. Comply. Dammit, I said comply."

"Coming to a full stop at this speed is unwise, sir."

"Then let Krys handle it, but for god's sake let them know we're complying."

"Aye sir." The door to the pilotry slid shut, cutting off any of Graham's additional dialogue.

Krys padded down the stairs after him, passed the laundry room on the right and her bedroom on the left, instead making for the sliding door at the end of the short hall. The door, heavier than it looked, again slid open with that deafening, grinding hiss, sliding shut automatically behind her as she entered the pilotry.

The desk that controlled the major functions and navigation of the ship squatted on the edge of a metal cliff, which dropped to a shelf below. The lower shelf served a sort of command deck, as well as an observatory, as the pilotry was encapsulated in a transparent sphere the same approximate size of the one around Graham's room. In clear view through the sphere, the looming body of a Chicago National Military Air Ship, fully battle ready: turrets aimed squarely at them.

Graham wasn't immediately visible. Krys caught a reflection of him pacing the lower deck, hand to his ear, talking animatedly.

"What do you mean, I 'need papers to enter city limits'? I've never needed them before. Well I understand that, but it's not exactly like we can run down to the local post office and get your notice. No! No there wasn't a fucking banner ship two clicks back. What do you mean you're denying us entrance? We have cargo for the city. Yes the city, the city. This isn't some private pleasure cruise. We're bringing you supplies. God dammit woman, can you bring us to a fucking stop?!"

"You're not going to like it."

"You know what I don't like more? Being shot at. Can you please make us not get shot at? No, not you ma'am, my pilot. Yes. Yes. We're complying. Right Krys? We're complying!"

Krys snapped into position in front of the control board, slipped her hand under the main panel and pulled out a standing restraint. Strapping it around her waist and satisfied with its security, she moved her hands deftly over the controls, calling out her maneuvers as she went.

"Releasing breaker fans. Engines all stop."

A loud whooshing followed a loud pop.The ship jerked; the strap around Krys's waist functionally useless as her body slammed into the console in front of her. Her wince was accompanied by a string of curse words from Graham.

"Raising breaker fans. Port engines all reverse. Hard to port!"

The CNM airship slipped from view beneath her as the gondola of the airship swung far off to starboard and the airship turned with the sharpness one might expect in a boat with oars.

"Starboard engines all reverse."

The straps around Krys's waist and the controls held firmly in her hands being the only things that kept her from careening into the port wall. Graham, not being so lucky, could just be seen holding his ground by standing on the wall of the sphere.

"The fuck, Krys. Balance her out!"

"Releasing port pontoon ballast!" Nearly at ninety degrees, the ballast controls were just out of reach. "Hold on, I can't quite..." Krys strained against gravity, her air supply being cut off by the safety harness. "Almost." Her feet scramble for a foothold, they find purchase in one of the desk's supporting legs. "Just a second. Now!"