Author's Notes:

Just came back from a trip to Europe, and am writing as fast as I can. If anyone is still reading this story, please give a review so I know I'm still working for something. Are there too many fighting scenes? Is the story getting to be a drag to read? They really do mean a lot to me. Thanks!


Matt opened his eyes. For a moment he had forgotten where he was, but then he tasted blood in his mouth from his bitten tongue, and realized he was sprawled on the floor of the bridge. Groggily he pushed himself up to a kneeling position, and looked around.

The bridge was a scene of carnage — the Skycrusher's shell hit just adjacent to it, and even the fortified chitin plates of the Valkyrie had done nothing to stop it. It had lodged itself right in the ship's neck, blowing a mighty hole right where the bridge catwalk should've been and taking out the poor rudder man who had been standing next to it.

In the confusion, few had been prepared for the explosion that followed. The evil design was meant to spew shrapnel and pierce every gasbag it could reach, but here on the bridge it had pierced men. Matt had scarcely been dragged down behind the command station by Trenton before the deadly hail hit. The two of them had been spared most of the damage, but the rest of the bridge crew were not so lucky.

He spotted Hemmingfeld not five steps away from him, slumped motionless against a wall with red seeping through his uniform's flank. There was no time to check on him now; despite everything, Matt hoped the man was not dead.

Trenton was lying next to him. By dragging him down, the man had probably saved their lives. He shook the Lieutenant, who looked as if he had escaped largely unscathed. Trenton opened his eyes, and seemed to grasp the situation after a few seconds.

"Rudder!" Matt shouted. He could barely hear his own voice; his ears were still ringing from the blast. Trenton nodded, and made a move to stand.

Matt reached up and felt the surface of the command station. Grunting, he pulled himself up, and gave Trenton a hand as well. He saw with shock that the ballast meter was still a quarter full, so he slammed the ballast lever down and locked it in place. It could not empty fast enough for him.

Trenton began making his way to the rudders. As far as Matt could tell, the ship still had most of its engines, though the shrapnels may have done a number on the one off their starboard bow.

He tried to move toward the speaking tubes, where Hemmingfeld was, but a sharp pain assaulted him, stabbing him at his side. He looked down. His own aviator's jacket had been torn through at his right waist, and a piece of shrapnel had lodged itself inside him, though pretty shallow by the feels of it. He was bleeding, but not bad — that would have to be dealt with later. He gritted his teeth and tried again, and with preparation, the pain was bearable.

Through the shattered starboard window he could see the gigantic silhouette of the Skycrusher, bathed in moonlight. It was doubtless already reloading and aiming for its next strike.

They had to gain height. He stepped over the motionless Hemmingfeld, and pulled down the cargo bay speaking tube.

"Bridge to cargo bay!"

There was no answer. The ringing of his ears had gotten a little better by now, so he tried again. This time there was a man's voice that answered.

"Aye, copy!"

"Dump whatever can be spared, hurry!"

He didn't even wait for an affirmation before he grabbed the bomb bay speaking tube. "Bridge to bomb bay!"

The answer came by the third repeat, if a bit thick. "Copy!"

It was the clear, high, and Scottish-accented voice of Dylan Sharp.

"Dylan!" Matt said, surprised. He thought the midshipman would've stayed on the ground, by the Lev, but this was no time to chit chat. "Glad you're okay; you have to dump half the bombs you have left, now!"

"Bombs? At what? Wait, are ya Matt? How come you're the—"

"Yes, Hemmingfeld got knocked out — hurry! We need to climb!"

"Oh, aye. Copy that!"

"Elevators intact," Trenton shouted from behind him. Matt felt the ship angle, the Lieutenant already adjusting the gears. "Climbing at fifteen degrees!"

"What's the ceiling on that gun?" Matt asked.

But before Trenton could answer, the gun in question fired in that familiar orange flash. Matt watched despairingly as the tiny silver dot lit by moonlight grew rapidly larger, aiming once again straight for the bridge. They weren't rising fast enough —

There was a sudden heaviness in his feet, and the ship shot up about thirty feet; the shell cleared them with barely two feet to spare. Someone from the cargo or bomb bays must have been doing their job right.

The sonic boom that followed was like a wave following a speedboat, some sort of sound so powerful he saw the air condense until it formed a cone-shaped cloud. What remained of the control room windows rattled furiously, and some cracked, but since the blast wasn't direct this time, the gold plating on the reinforced glass held. The ship rock violently, like a whale ramming a frigate from below, and he lost his balance and slammed into the floor once again.

Somewhere in the distance, the shell exploded, spewing its deadly rain of shrapnel far from where it could do any harm.

Matt scrambled up before the wave of relief set in, hand on the command station for support.

"Cruse!" Trenton shouted.

"I'm fine!" Matt replied. "That was —"

"— Lucky, and it won't happen again! We have to climb, and sail towards it!"

"What?"

"Sail towards it! It can't fire straight up; the closer we are the safer we'll be!"

Matt nodded and jumped across a body to reach the wheel. He spun it hard to the right. Even wounded, the Valkyrie turned with a fluid grace, her movements gentle yet swift. The mountainous horizon was spread out to the far edge of the glacier, and the world was panning to the left. The monstrous gun moved slowly to the center of their view.

"Can you put the elevators to thirty?" Matt asked Trenton.

"That's risky!"

"She can take it, trust me."

"Whatever you say."

As the elevators shifted once again, the Valkyrie climbed like never before. The air had already been thin, but now Matt felt the first tingles of altitude sickness. He took a deep breath, and the uncomfortable feeling faded away.

"What's the ceiling on that gun?" Matt asked again.

"One, maybe one point five miles high at a 70 degree angle," Trenton said, bending down to check to pulse of the navigator. "And at most seven or eight miles. Altitude?"

Matt took a glance at the control panel, but there were shrapnel shells everywhere. The echo-altimeter read "3030 ft", but it wasn't moving, even though he felt through his soles they were rapidly gaining height. The cold bit at him through his layers.

"Probably around 3300 from the glacier floor," he said. It was difficult to tell with the darkness and the featureless snow, so he could only look at the mountains for a guess. He was about to ask about the reload time as well, when he felt that something was not right. He squinted. The barrel of the Skycrusher was no longer moving.

Matt spun the wheel as hard as he could.

They banked left just as the shell sailed past them, aiming again for the bridge, missing them by not three feet from the starboard window.

That glass, already weakened by the previous sonic boom, shattered. Pieces were blown inward by the blast, along with a powerful gust of subfreezing air. The ship was shoved roughly to the side, and Matt found himself flying upwards and backwards. It was all he could do to cover his head with his arms before his back hit a hard wall with force enough to knock out all his wind. White pain blinded him for a split second; he thought he might have broken a rib.

A moment later the shards of glass followed him, and he felt some of them prick him even through his thick jacket, and was sure at least a few of them had pierced the skin. He'd worry about them later. A piece missed his eyes by an inch, and drew a long bloody line from his temple to his cheekbones. He'd worry about that later as well.

His body shrieked as he pushed himself off of the wall to stand, brushing off shards of glass. The ballast boards were finally empty, thank goodness. White mist formed around his mouth as he panted.

"Trenton!" he yelled. "Trenton!"

"Darwin's arse," the Lieutenant swore in answer, the first time Matt has heard him do so. He had been in the middle of checking the navigator's pulse, and had managed to keep both himself and the unconscious man from much harm. "That was — how did you do that?"

They had still been turning when the shell had struck, so Matt righted the wheel and set them on course for the gun.

"I don't know! I just —"

"Well it was bloody amazing; now just pull that off a few more times. Linton is alive, by the way—" meaning the navigator "—I'll try to see who else. The helm's yours!"

As the adrenaline subsided, Matt felt slightly weak-kneed. He had dodged a shell. He really dodged a shell. It was suddenly freezing again.

He assessed their position with a glance at the moon. The cannoneer had been quite obsessed with aiming at the bridge, though he had no idea why. A shot through the ship's belly, and they were as good as done for. He decided to not question the enemy's poor judgment.

Matt reached over to douse the running lights and searchlights — the illumination all around certainly wouldn't be hurting their accuracy. He thought back to the span of time the Skycrusher had taken to reload just then. He would have barely any warning; by the time he saw the flash, it would already be too late to dodge. He's dodged once, out of instinct, and Trenton's right. He had to dodge again.

He took a deep breath.

About two seconds before he thought the gun would fire, and once he saw the gun stop rising, he turned the wheel a little to starboard. His heart beat frantically at his chest. If he'd turned too early, the gun would be re-aimed and fired anyway. If he'd turned too late…

A spot of orange light pierced the night.

A disgusting screech echoed in the glacial air, and the entire ship leapt left, like a billiard ball glanced by the cue ball. The sonic boom shook them an instant later, pushing them further left. The world beneath leapt in the opposite direction as they moved, like a giant canvas yanked to the right. The shrapnel explosion could barely be heard — not inside the ship, but behind them.

Matt held onto the command station for purchase, and managed to not lose his footing. He spun the wheel back to the gun's headings again, and suddenly was aware of Trenton cheering. Despite himself, he cheered too, the hoarse cry an affirmation of them being still alive.

The Skycrusher was fast running out of aiming room. By greedily going for the bridge, the Germans had squandered their best opportunity to destroy the Valkyrie. The vessel's rapid ascent had continued unabated all the while, and even with a broken altimeter, Matt could feel they were rapidly approaching the 4000 mark. Just a little more, and the angle of attack would be too high to sustain.

"Emptied half like you said!" Dylan's voice from the bomb bay speaking tube dragged him back from his silent calculations.

Matt looked down backwards at the glacier floor, and was somewhat shocked to find a blazing trail of three fiery craters in the snow, documenting their route. Each of those marked the place where a crate of explosives had struck, and they were a stark contrast against the moonlit white. Small misshapen shadows of supply crates was interspersed between the flaming craters — the cargo bay's handiwork. That must've been at least several hundred pounds gone.

"Great! You really saved us just now, you know!"

"Aye, we saw the shell," Dylan said, low. "But we lost two, and another was bonked in the attic. Did it hit us bad?"

Matt realized then that no one onboard knew of their situation. He felt bad when he thought about how helpless they must all have felt, stuck in the bowels of the ship manning their positions, but not knowing what was going on except to hope they did not all spiral into a fiery death.

"No, not too bad; they tried gunning for the bridge, but most of the equipment — hold on!"

The Skycrusher was about to fire again. Matt spun the wheel.

The Valkyrie obeyed the command. The shell whipped across their side, and pushed them slightly left. This time the sonic boom didn't even do much, but the loud crack was still formidable to hear.

"Cruse!" Trenton shouted from across the bridge. "Five o'clock!"

Matt looked behind them; it was the German zeppelins, the sole remaining Albtraum and the two smaller Kondors, coming in to help. There should be one Harpyien remaining, but Matt supposed it might've been taken out by the strafing gliders. He had been so intent on getting away from the Skycrusher that he'd almost forgotten they existed.

He wasn't sure what they could do. Thanks to their rapid dumping in the past few minutes, they had quite a bit of height advantage over the zeppelins, but so long as the Skycrusher was still trained on them, they could not give a proper fight. They had to get out of cannon range first.

They were now less than quarter of a mile from the gun, and the barrel was in a stiff incline, although its exact degree was difficult to tell. Matt felt a thrilling rush as he shifted the wheel again, a little earlier this time, and the next shell missed them entirely, although the sonic boom did knock them about some.

"Two dead, rest down for the count," reported Trenton as he stood up, giving a terse smile. "That was good airmanship, Cruse. You can really bloody fly."

Matt saw that he had managed to wake Hemmingfeld, who looked quite a lot worse for wear, but was apparently well enough to sit on his own.

"Why are they only shooting at the bridge?"

"They want the ship intact — both us, and the Lev."

"Will they aim anywhere else?"

It wasn't a pretty thought. Despite her sleek form, the Valkyrie was still an airship, and quite bulgy towards the center. It's one thing to dodge when the shells are aimed at the bridge, but another entirely to do so when the Germans stopped being obsessing about taking the ship unharmed. With so large a target, they would be in a tough spot if even one shot reached the gas cells.

"They might if they decide it's not worth the effort," Trenton said grimly, "after losing so many ships and men, failure is not an option."

"How close do we have to get?" Matt eyed the gas cell pressure. They were approaching 4500 from the glacier floor — eleven thousand feet from sea level. The Valkyrie was a remarkable ship, but she did not have the same head for heights as the Saga had. She was a warship, not a Skybreaker, and her gas cells were starting to show strain. Military grade fabricated goldbeater's skin could probably hold until they reached thirteen thousand feet or so, but above that they would have no choice but to start venting.

The mountains that once ringed them seemed to have shrank. In the moonlight, Matt could see the peaks beyond the enclosure of the valley, a dark jagged mass, though no longer much higher than they were. The giants of the Alps reached fifteen thousand, but these mountains had thirteen at best. It was way below zero now, and his fingers on the wheel trembled white.

The Skycrusher was by now rather indistinct. It seemed ridiculous how something so small could pose a threat to them while they were sailing so high. It looked almost to be pointing directly up, but that was only an illusion of height.

Matt turned the wheel again. It was becoming second-nature for him to mentally count down on the seconds. He thought he would hear the resonating thunder of a sonic boom, missing them yet again —

Boom.

The ship lurched sideways. Matt was thrown off his feet. As he grabbed the edge of the command station to steady himself, he tried desperately to see what had happened. He scanned wildly around the windows, offering only blackness, and then the panel displays —

On the gas cell meter, the keel stern cell gauge was down to 90% hydrogen.

Before he could say anything, another wave shook the ship, and then all the stern cells started dropping in numbers — doubtless the shrapnel explosion. He winced as he imagined the sharp metal hail ripping through the fabricated skin. He felt through his soles that the ship was no longer climbing so quickly.

In another second, the keel stern cell was already down to 85%, and the rest of the stern cells were down to at least 95%. They were still climbing, remarkably, but only because they'd made the ship so light.

"We have multiple breaches!" Matt called into the central speaking tube. "Sailmakers to gas cells SV1, 2, 3, 4, most of the breaches are in SV3; all crew gas masks on!"

"Now would be a good time to level those elevators!" Trenton shouted, and Matt nodded. The loss of gas was mainly astern, where they must've been hit. If the elevators were kept on a steep incline, they ran the risk of tilting into a vertical angle of attack, impossible to steer or recover from. "But the good news is, we're now out of firing range!"

"That's a relief!"

Just then, a voice came from the cargo bay speaking tube. "How do you use this blasted — oh, I see — Matt, can you hear me?"

It was Kate. Matt nearly spluttered with surprise.

"What are you doing outside the machine room!?"

"We felt there was a hit, so we went out to check."

"There's a leak nearby! Is there any fire? And who's with you?"

"No, no fire — but that shell ripped clean through this place."

"Through? Can you please get back to the machine room—"

"There are unconscious people here," she said instead. "I'm going to help."

"Kate!"

"No time to talk, Alek will explain; stay safe!"

He wanted to say that's what he should be saying to her, but it was clear she'd already gone.

There was a bit of shuffling, some low murmurs, and then a new voice came through in the tube.

"Hello Mr. Cruse, this is Alek," said the voice in calm, slightly German-accented English. "Klopp says we'll never get out of the range of the Himmelbrecher; the Germans have enhanced its elevation angle."

Matt stopped in the middle of asking questions, stunned. He looked back at the silhouette of the gun, but couldn't see if it was still aiming.

"Is he sure?" asked Trenton urgently. He had evidently heard, and was hurrying over. "According to our intelligence—"

"We're very sure. Listen; haven't you wondered why we aren't being fired on anymore if we're not out of range?"

With a start, Matt realized that it was way past reload time, and yet the Skycrusher had remained silent. Another well-placed shot, and they would surely fall, if not explode. Trenton frowned.

"Why?"

"Because they still want us intact, if possible."

"But we're still dangerous. They think we still have the acid bomb."

"That's why they will force us to land. None of the zeppelins are coming close anymore, haven't you noticed?"

"How do you know all this?"

"Clanker secret," Alek said drily.

"It doesn't matter how they know it," Hemmingfeld said impatiently. Matt turned around, surprised. The Squadron Lieutenant had stood up on his own, and though he still had an unhealthy tinge of white on his face, his eyes looked clear enough, and he had bandages wrapped around his torso staunching the blood. "What matters is what we're going to do."

"Quite right," said Alek. "Volger suggests we can parley with them. If you allow us to communicate with the Germans, we may be able to arrange—"

"We're going to strike the white," Hemmingfeld said, his voice rising to block out Alek's. He looked at both Matt and Trenton, his grey eyes glacial. "Cruse, give the order to the crow's nest."

Matt felt his mouth drop open. Trenton looked at his colleague in shock.

"What are you talking about? We cannot!"

"It is our only chance," Hemmingfeld said darkly. "Clankers are not known for patience. If we don't start dropping soon, they will put another shell in her, and where would we be then?"

"What's all this talk about surrendering?" Alek asked, his voice a little tight. "Please just let us talk to the Germans, we know what they want—"

"The Polaris does not surrender, Hemmingfeld," Trenton said. Matt noticed his hand was on his waist, palming his military dagger. "We should try to let the Clankers deal with the Clankers."

"Who said anything about surrendering?" said Hemmingfeld.

"What?"

"We'll strike the white. We'll stow our turrets as a show of goodwill. Then we'll bomb the gun."