The Dragon Chase: A Tale of the Everburning City

Chapter 10: Gerald

"I'm sorry, sir," Maxwell said. From the wheel, Gerald was discussing in hushed tones with the old engineer how to manage the ship's descent. "I have no idea how that was missed."

"Stop apologising. Oversight before takeoff was my job, and I failed at it," Gerald replied simply. He had been angry with Maxwell, for the six seconds it had taken to remind himself everything on this ship was his fault, and he should damn well act like it. "Right now, we're two miles in the air, and plan 'A' for a controlled descent is lying on the ground. We need a new plan that doesn't involve burning a hole through my deck."

"We can't open the top hatch unless someone climbs on top of the bag. And since touching the bag right now would cause second-degree burns, you're the only one who could touch the bag," Maxwell said simply. He grinned and gazed up at the lift bag. "And frankly, sir, I don't think you could handle that climb."

"The lieutenant could," Gerald reflected. Maxwell nodded in agreement, chuckling a little. "What's so funny?"

"The perfect solution is a shadow-trained Crafter. We're screwed," Maxwell said, laughing. Gerald rolled his eyes and shook his head. The old engineer had a peculiar sense of humour at times.

"So, I guess I'm stuck redirecting the fire while someone opens the hatch," Gerald said, lamely.

"You can't simply quash the fire without opening it?" Maxwell asked.

"I'd rather not," Gerald said. "Putting out a candle takes more effort than I spent setting this bag on fire in the first place. Killing Gloam-enhanced flame would feel like trying to turn off a distribution line. I'd rather try to melt the Agora," he explained. He took note of Maxwell's confused expression and reminded himself to spend more time with people who aren't Crafters. "It's dangerous enough that I'm willing to entertain pretty much any alternative."

"All right. Could we move the heat-sink to the middle of the deck?" Maxwell asked, speculating. Both of them glanced at the large, black brick near the railing.

"Lucille? Is that feasible?" Gerald asked, louder, to his lieutenant and shadow. She glanced over, and he knew she had been listening to them from a polite distance, while ensuring that no one else was able to.

"Difficult, sir," she replied, as she stepped forward to join them. "We used a pour-weld instead of rivets to hold them in place. Someone was in a hurry to get us in the air," she explained politely, but smirked as she finished.

Point for Lucille, Gerald thought to himself. She continued after a brief pause, "Even our reservoirs couldn't give me enough heat to cut it loose. Which leaves it up to you."

Gerald cringed. "I'd rather not."

"Stab the bag with your sword?" Maxwell asked, in jest.

"My sword..." Gerald muttered to himself, looking down at his waist. The curved scabbard housing the sword was cool to the touch, and would likely flash-freeze skin on contact. Even it, though, would do little by itself to either cool the lift-bag, or keep the open hatch from burning a hole through the ship.

He drew it, with a quick rasp of sliding steel, and laid his fingers on the edge of the blade. He felt the sharp snap of cold as it greedily drank the heat of his fingers, and the furious response of his own will pouring heat into the blade to fight it. He smiled and turned to Lucille. "Lieutenant, your knife please."

She scowled as she drew one of the knives from beneath her coat. Neither of them needed to clarify which knife he wanted. "For the record, sir, I think this is a terrible idea."

Nevertheless, she held the weapon by its obsidian pommel stone and extended her arm towards him. He was surprised at how ready she was to follow his orders, even ones as strange as his recent request must seem.