Year of our Lord 1887
Elizabeth Hammer downed another flagon of ale, shivering in delight as the warmth spread through her limbs.
The public house wasn't very busy at this time, it being just past noon and all. Nary a fortnight ago, the pub wouldn't even be open at all. But with the spike in temperature past the Great Storm, there wasn't so much need for all the hands in the mines. Only one of the two Wall Drills were operating, now, and their stockpiles were nearly at full capacity. Even the Generator - for so long pumping like a young scamp trying to prove himself in sex - had slowed down, its pistons almost lazy in its action.
And the Generator was the beating heart of New London. The entire city had seemingly released a great breath of relief, and were content with recovering from the disaster.
In fact, New London was facing a quandary nobody expected - all the ice was melting and pouring down the rooftops, threatening to drown them all. The walls of the Pit were weeping dangerously, streaming down like crystalline rivers and leaking into the coal mines. Elizabeth wasn't particularly close to Bankes and his Engineer Corps, but she had seen no few engineers ripping their hairs out trying to divert all the meltwater into the tanks beneath the Generator so as to repurpose it as steam.
Well, so long as Elizabeth doesn't return to an underwater city, she had no issue with it.
She could spy a few engineers grumbling over their drinks off to the side, all soaked up to their knickers.
"Capt'n, there you are!" a boyish voice called from the door.
Elizabeth 'glanced over her shoulder and squinted. She could make out some ginger hair under the leather coif, and a young face not yet sagged by the stresses of winter. If he was older than twenty she'd pour a drink for Ragnarok, whoever the Hell that was. Knew some of her friends worshipped it, though, before she bent them over a barrel.
"Aye laddie?"
"Mistress Steward's calling for you, ma'am, says the Countess s'ready."
Elizabeth groaned, "Tell me, did she load the ale on board like I asked?"
"Uh-"
"Honestly."
"N-No, captain."
"That treacherous stingbum," she grumbled, before turning to the counter, "Lucy, be a dear and afford me a bottle of ale, aye?"
Lucy Harvard, the proprietress of the house, grinned as she reached beneath and produced not one, but two bottles - the shoddy glasswork glinting dully in the hum of electrical lights.
"Just for you, Miss Hammer, for being such a loyal patron."
"Every bloke and his nan in this God-damned city is a loyal patron," she grumbled as she snatched the bottles and stuffed them under her coat, "This's the only place to get pissed out'ta their heads. Come on now, boy, what's ye'r name?"
"Michael Lyon, ma'am," he followed her out of the pub and onto the bustling streets of New London.
Elizabeth sidestepped a flock of grousing engineers knee-deep in mud laying down a train of drainage canals. They walked along the outer planks of the street, weaving through the rush of people forgathering at the Workshop Complex for their afternoon shift. New London's streets were not very wide, the radial grid the city was planned having been optimised to cram as many people to heat sources as possible. Knowing how to navigate the lifted causeways was a skill of its own.
"Don't recognise ye'r face," she said.
"I'm the new deckhand, ma'am!" Michael shouted over her shoulder, "Am replacing Miss Peel, ma'am!"
"Lucy Peel?" Elizabeth asked, trying to form the girl's face in her mind's eye, "Where's she at?"
"The Saint James Infirmary!"
The foppish scamp got herself sick, didn't she? Bloody dullard stayed out on deck for too long, even after the old stick-up Steward warned her.
"You any good with a rifle, lad?"
"Was the best shot in me family, ma'am."
"I'll judge that," she muttered.
The hunter hangars were on the opposite side of the city, in the duly named Borough of Hunters. The pub was built in the Borough of Works, right along the street separating it from the Borough of Coal. With the Workshop Complex and the factory in a block's walk and the vast mining fields just across, it was in the perfect location for hordes of knackered workers to fill their bellies with a stiff drink after hours.
She still wished the hangars were a tad closer, however.
After a rather leisurely jaunt through the city, the hunter hangars began to loom over them. New London boasted seven airships, though she knew the Captain had plans for three more in order to replace those devoted to scouting. Already, the hangars were a hive of activity - ground crews pumping steam into the bays and loading the final pieces of equipment on board.
The airships alone were quite the wonder. The committees tasked with creating schematics and plans for restarting civilisation after the New Ice Age by Her Majesty's Government had long foreseen the necessity for airships, yet they were for the longest time hampered by the fact that lighter-than-air gases would be… hard to come by in the Arctic, to say the least.
Their solution was ingenious. The Arctic airships would be powered entirely by steam, from the engines of its turbines to the lift in its envelopes. The principle was simple; the freezing climate to come with the Frost would result in a much greater pressure - and thus density - differential between steam and the ambient air, which meant steam could effectively act as a lifting gas.
The hardest part was finding the perfect compromise between superheated and saturated steam to pump into the envelopes, in order to maximise the work energy superheated steam offers and the heat energy saturated steam offers.
"Hammer!" Joseph Edye called from the deck of his Dragonfly, "You going to Nansen's!?"
Elizabeth ushered the boy - Michael - towards the hangar of her own Bitter Countess, before turning her head upwards in a show of annoyance.
"Aye, that I am!" she shouted back, "And you!?"
"Tracking the natives, as it were! We'll be sweeping around the second quadrant, west-to-northwest!"
"Sounds about right! Don't get shot down, you hear me!?"
An uproar of cheering caught her attention. Swivelling around, Elizabeth saw the Beacon being lifted into the air, the great balloon ascending higher and higher - over the lip of the pit, and then over the mountains themselves. A crowd gathered under it, watching the spectacle. The bloody geniuses lengthened the tethers, it seemed.
"Looks like MacLachlan's off!" Joseph called, "Shake off that booze, Hammer, and get on your ship!"
"Aye aye!" she drawled, breaking into a brisk walk.
Storming into the hangar, she passed by the ground crews verifying the percentage of saturation in the lift-steam by the heat exchangers, tipping her head in greeting.
"It's quite a bit warmer, aye?"
"Aye, ma'am," the head engineer nodded, "The Countess won't have so much lift as before, we're afraid."
"So long as we can get her over those peaks."
"Well, you've done it once."
She grinned, "That I did."
Elizabeth climbed up the stairs to the loading berth, where the crew was unloading hunting equipment for extra supplies, coal, and ammunition. Mistress Steward had already briefed them - this wasn't going to be a hunting mission.
"All in attendance?" she called.
"Aye, captain," Bernice Steward, the quartermistress, answered.
"Very good!" she stepped onto the Bitter Countess, "Confirm the pressure in the envelopes, empty the ballonets! I want us in the air before the Dragonfly!"
All eight crewmembers of the Countess rushed onboard the ship, and the ballonets began to piss out cold air. With the ballast air being unloaded, the Countess began to rise out of its berth - and the sunlight struck the deck. Wintry sunlight, white as the snow it fell upon. It was a clear day, nary a cloud in the sky.
Alongside them, the six other airships were being lifted into the sky - prevented from drifting off by the tethers still slung off them. Each ship bore a different envelope configuration to match the styles of their crews, held in place by exterior braces. The Dragonfly was one of a kind, boasting a twin hulk design - two ellipsoid envelopes braced side-by-side.
On the other hand, Bitter Countess shared its configuration with the Lost Daydream - a single ellipsoid envelope braced between three pairs of spherical gasbags. Its relative complication of design meant their ships required more expertise in operating, in exchange for far greater manoeuvrability. A much needed quality, considering that they were going to have to sail right over a mountain ridge.
Arnold Helm, their navigator, marched right up to her ear, "We've got a eastern beam wind to work with, captain."
"Bugger," she muttered, "Edye, you fat sack of luck. What's our course?"
"Right along north, ma'am," Arnold replied, "We'll be flying in formation right up 'til the Milkwater, then the Dragonfly's squadron will break west while the Nimble Revenant will follow the river down east. The Lost Daydream has the Second Scouts loaded aboard, so we'll be leading them to the Storm Watch."
"They'll be doubling around afterwards, aye?"
"Aye ma'am, back to New London. They'll resupply before heading off again."
"Good work," she muttered, before raising her voice to scream over the wind, "Glowworms switched on, boys! Prepare the studding sails, and brace them right round! We've got a beam wind onto us, and I don't want to spill a drop of it!"
Lydia and Michael raced to the yards, ready to flash out the courses as soon as the tethers were detached. Steward and Allie Jackman emerged from below-decks with bundles of sail bonnets so that they'd be handy when the time comes for lashing them to the courses for greater area of sail.
"Axe the tethers!" she shouted, "Arnold, hand by the tiller! I want us swivelled right round before the sails drop!"
With a series of clicks, the ropes began to fall back down to the earth, gravity capturing them. The canvases were let loose, billowing out and filling against the blue sky. The Countess lurched into broad reach, falling off into the wind. The larboard propeller roared to life, forcing the Countess to face north, warring against the forces of nature.
But the ship was still edging to fall back into the wind.
Elizabeth snapped her head about to find Michael struggling with the ropes, wrestling with the starboard yard.
"Brace the yard, Lyon!" Quartermistress Steward roared, "Brace her! Brace her there, damn you!"
Lydia Gainsford - God bless her - secured her rope before dashing across deck to help the greenhorn, hauling the brace-ropes to angle the yard at the best attitude to the wind. The propeller sputtered to a stop, and the Bitter Countess plunged forth.
The biting winds whipped about, and Elizabeth lowered her goggles over her eyes. She looked across at the Dragonfly and saw that she was pulling ahead, her four lateen studding sails that made her name flourishing out like the wings of some mythical bird. Joseph Edye was at the prow, waving and grinning through his beard like a madman.
Elizabeth scowled, waving back.
"Gates, take the helm!" she turned back, "West-sou'west by north!"
Richard Gates shooed Arnold aside, "West-sou'west by north, aye ma'am!"
"Arnold, drop the log at the stern there!" she ordered, "Let's see what she's pulling at!"
"Aye captain!"
Elizabeth sighed in satisfaction, steam billowing from her mouth. She pulled her hood over her coif, and patted the railing.
"Alright, you beautiful bitch," she told the Countess, "Let's have a go at it again, shall we?"
28th day of November, Year of our Lord 1887.
Wind ESE, fresh and steady. Course due north with the wind on the starboard aft. 20 knots.
We made good time in the first dog-watch. Right north of New London is a mountain valley with a queer stone archway, which boys have come to call the London Bridge. Bit of homesickness there, I'd think. As we flew over it we hailed the other ships and they agreed on the name, so that was that. The winds made things a little leery, threatening to dash us against the cliffs, but we came out fine.
Came across a queer sight in the second dog-watch, however. A band of natives - round 50, maybe more - heading south towards London Bridge. We flashed morse code at them - not like they would understand, bloody primitives, but Steward insisted we go by the book. One bugger shot an arrow at us, and the Dragonfly gave a warning shot in return. Looks like the Captain's scheme is working, though some of the other skippers worry about the nature of these uncivilised folk.
All hands employed about the ship. Fixed the bonnets in anticipation for the climb, more surface like that. Deckhand Gainsford's glowworm is failing, will have to replace it soon.
Elizabeth Hammer bit her pen as she stowed her logbook away into the depths of her coat, patting it through the fabric for good measure. After pocketing her pen as well, she stretched his arms behind her until her joints popped. Sighing in pleasure, if she looked up about the stern she could see the stone walls giving way to the river valley. Soon, the glittering ribbon of the Milkwater was laid out before them, faintly phosphorescent in the dimming light of the evening.
The tracks of the free folk host were still visible, like a march of ants breaking up the pristine snow, though getting more shallow by the day. The Nimble Revenant and the Wayfarer flashed a bid of farewell through their glowworms, before breaking off the fleet to follow the river east, striking their sails so as to not fight the wind. Their propellers rumbled to life to take up the mantle.
The Dragonfly and the Ivory Envoy canted to larboard soon after, their sails capturing the wind. Lucky bastards. The Boreal Maiden flashed a godspeed from their stern lanterns before trailing after them.
Elizabeth sniffed. Miss Margaret Dean was such a dear.
Her smile melted right off her lips.
"Alright, you bunch of scoundrels!" she roared, "Hail the Lost Daydream! Get them tethered to our starboard! Fire up the boilers, we need all the fucking power we can get behind us! Fill the aft ballonets with air! Quickly now, or there'll be the Devil to pay!"
She resisted the urge to pull out a drink, lest the quartermistress snatch it out of her hands.
"Angle those sails! We want the wind to lift us, not push us!"
"Help me out here, Michael!" Lydia cried, "Pull on that rope, brace 'er up!"
As the Daydream began to close the distance between them, Arnold and Bernice deftly grappled the sister ships with iron hooks before pulling them into shouting distance.
"If these ropes go taut, cut them!" Bernice shouted, and received affirmation, "We ain't hauling your arse up! And neither will you for us!"
"The mountains are two-hundred fathoms away, captain!" Arnold screamed.
"Very good!" she shouted at the top of her lungs, so that the Daydream could hear, "Fill to bow ballonets with steam! Hold on tight!"
The propellers roared as the two ships began to tilt prow-over-stern, the ballast in their gasbags helping to incline their plane. They began to climb, steam hissing from the envelopes, and it began to get colder. The winds grew harsher, more turbulent, as they approached the vortexes at the ridges. The Bitter Countess began to rattle, boilers howling in power - and in some fortunate act of God, a pounding gale met their rear.
The sails ballooned in size, pregnant with wind. The sister ships lurched forwards, and any who had not seen fit to hold tightly enough had their faces meet the deck. Richard Gates gripped the tiller for his life, fighting against the tempest even as the biting wind ripped his hood off his head and nipped at his frost-reddened cheeks.
And the Lost Daydream began to sway starboard. Elizabeth cursed beneath her breath.
"Steward!" she roared, "Pull them in!"
"But the ropes-!"
"Those are some of our best scouts on board!" she screamed, "And I'm not going to be the one explaining to Aynesworth why they're all bloody dead!"
The ropes snapped with tightness, and the Countess yawed larboard in order to help the Daydream get back on course. Five heart-thundering minutes as the two ships climbed up the mountain side, held together by four flimsy tethers.
And then they crested the mountain ridge. The winds died, and the fiery light of the evening sun washed over them from the west, warming their bones for the briefest of moments. It was a fantastic sight - the Frostfangs laid out before them, wilderness of stone and snow. Glittering rivers of ice ran in its valleys, under the shadow of indomitable peaks. In the distance, a fork-topped mountain towered over the rest, illuminated in a brilliant alpenglow.
There was a sigh of relief on the deck.
"Now," she muttered, "We go down."
Then they plunged down the mountainside.