Sky Pirates

Chapter 1

Clash of metal. The unmistakable sound catapulted Lord Parker Greene from his comfortable cabin chair aboard the HMS Barkley. From the muted shouts, metal scrapes, and rhythmic, steel clatters against steel, Lord Greene instinctively clasped the handle of his sword in the scabbard. Most men might have rushed through the door into the fray; Greene chose to hold back a moment; he listened and soundlessly locked his door.

Greene returned to his table, took the time required to neatly refold the letter he'd been reading from his niece, Mildred, and tucked the papers into his breast pocket. Greene dipped his pen, noted the time on his beloved pocket watch, and quickly wrote in the open journal with his deft script: 1851 July 7...8:57 AM...Pirates. He blew on the page before closing the small book and tucking it into his pocket.

Six quick bells rang in his room, the signal for "All Hands on Deck for Battle."

Lord Greene moved with precise action. He took his great coat from its hook and slid his arms into the sleeves. He opened the top bureau drawer and assessed the contents. Greene hoped to return to this room, but there was no telling now if this might be his only opportunity. Parker Greene choose the silver compass with its secret compartments—a family heirloom—the small leather bag of gold coins, his pocket pistol, the leather folio of small tools, and, finally, the well-worn locket. As he selected, Greene tucked each item into their own place in one of the many interior pockets of his great coat.

The shouts and sounds from the dozens of men answering the captain's call outside his cabin faded. Greene gently placed his scabbard over his head, unlocked and opened the door, and peered into the empty hall. He gave a last survey of the room, wishing he could also take his walking stick and favorite hat. But, he'd have to leave those behind.

"Sir, we've been boarded!"

Greene swung to see a short, handsome, blond young man of twenty or twenty-one running toward him. The man held a sword too big for his stature.

"They've out maneuvered us, My Lord."

The fear in the boy's eyes sent an arrow into Parker Greene's heart. "We'll get through this together, lad." There was no way to know if these words were true, but he knew it was his job, his duty to give faith and fortitude to the man.

The young airman—a stoker based on his coal stained face, arms, and hands, plus the goggles bouncing around his neck—tried to offer a smile, but it came across more like a wince.

"Back to your station. You and the lads there, keep stoking as fast and furious as you can. It may be our only hope. And, find two strong men to guard the cargo."

"But...Captain Meadowbrook has called for all hands on deck."

"Do as I've told you, and we shall possibly survive this ordeal."

The boy didn't move.

"Go!" Greene shouted at the airman. He watched as the short stoker turned and ran back the way he'd come.

The silence of the next moment felt like being in the eye of the storm. "I'm getting too old for this." He pushed the thought aside and replaced it with: "I serve at Her Majesty's request."

Greene crept down the hall toward the staircase that would lead him to deck. He took each step, one-at-a-time, listening. Lord Greene put an eye to the keyhole, taking in the limited view it offered. With sword poised, he pushed open the door and drove his weapon cleanly through the chest of the pirate standing there. Blood spurted from the perfect chest wound, a direct skewering of the heart; his enemy dropped to the deck with a quiet, blood-filled gurgle. The death sound melded with the chaos of the scant schooner crew attempting to fend off a sea of pirates.

There was no time to enjoy his victory, as another pirate, this one, like the last, clad in remnants of various uniform pieces from Her Majesty's vast fleet, drove forward at him. Greene met that onslaught and each subsequent parry with his own volley of jabs and lunges. His great skill, unmatched by this villain, allowed Parker Greene to quickly gain advantage while sparks rained from their glistening steel weapons as they clanged and scraped. When the pirate drew back to regain his footing in the growing puddle of blood and slop beneath their feet, Lord Parker Greene, private emissary of Her Majesty, Queen Victoria, cleanly sliced off his head, leaving the writhing corpse spewing blood and sinew all over Greene's new boots.

"Damn!"

Little more than a beat passed; he recovered the dead man's sword, and, two-handed, joined in the fighting between Her Majesty's Royal Mail Airmen, defending their ship, and a band of joyful pirates, doing all they could to overtake them.

Parker Greene slipped and slid several feet along the deck, but quickly righted himself. Amidst the sickly sweet smell of blood and gore were many small gears, cogs, pins, and pieces of wire. Before the emissary could think further about them, two large pirates, each a head taller than him, came at Greene, one with sword, another with something akin to an old-fashioned battleax. The attackers grunted and threatened. Lord Greene, with nimble might, met the sword bearer's assault with a two-fisted, double-sword action. The left hand holding back the thrust, the right hand sword plunged into the oncoming assailant's chest.

The second man, dressed in a combination of air and sea uniforms, both from the last war, utilized the moment, while both of Greene's hands and weapons were otherwise occupied, to swing his mighty, ancient impaler in Parker Greene's general direction. Lucky for the Lord, another of Her Majesty's finest slowed that ancient weapon in mid swing with a piece of the Barkley's shattered mast. The delay, only a second, allowed Greene to withdraw his bloody sword and plunge it once again into the chest of the oncoming enemy.

"Good show for a botanist," the assisting airman offered.

"Couldn't have done it without you, sir." The two nodded and then went once again against their own, newly arrived opponents.

For each man Lord Parker Greene cut down, three more seemed to approach stepping on and over the corpses that now carpeted the groaning deck. Their column reminded him of ants, each man mindlessly following the one before him. Greene worked his way along the outer edge of these approaching insects until he came close to the ship's rail. There, sidled up to Her Majesty's short mail schooner, the Barkley—a small air-, water-, land-ship built for speed, not fighting—was an airship more massive than he'd ever before witnessed. Its sides glistened in the afternoon sunlight, its deck large enough to hold six of Her Majesty's 90-foot, mail schooners. Huge masts, wrapped in steel that flecked sunlight into his eyes, were topped by gargantuan propellers. From his current perspective, the pirate's ship was so massive that Greene couldn't see either its bow or stern.

How can the thing stay aloft?

In his mind, each propeller-topped mast took a space; he easily arranged and rearranged all the pieces until he understood how all the dozens and dozens of gears must fit together leading below decks to the great steam boilers. By turning the pistons and driving the propellers at the top of each mast—with his fascination in the unknown-to-him technology getting the better of him, Parker Greene didn't see the man approach from behind. For a flash, the pain was exquisite. Then, blackness.