Chapter 3 - IIC Whiskey Flask

Fredrik had never heard of any ships with the IIC prefix and couldn’t think of what it could be short for. He thought about it as he worked, helping the marines don their armour. Each man wore a plate of thick iron on their body and head, which was made with specks of firestone to lessen the wight. The reduction wasn’t a lot, but any reduction was welcome, especially when the heat generated made fighting at such heights entirely more bearable. Wearing their coats over the armour ensured their whole bodies would be warm.

The difficulty in safely embedding the crystals without weakening the structure, preventing water access, creating a fire hazard, or burning out the crystal itself, meant that each suit was an expensive item which was tailored to the individual. The navy coats over the polished iron made for a striking look, fitting for those nobles who were allowed to become marines. When they were each dressed, a quick release knot was tied to a loop in the armour’s back, and the rope tied to a metal hoop. When the boarding likes were attached to the opposing ship, the marines would be able to slide down smoothly and detach the rope to avoid getting stuck.

As the Sunseed sank ever closer to the Whiskey Flask, the black ship’s crew became visible on their cannon deck. Their own marines wore green jackets with black plate, blending in with the colour of the ship. Although they were standing out on the deck, their rifles still had hoses attached. Those hoses were just pulled out from the stairwell, covering the whole deck in a tangle of lines. Compared to the Sunseed’s practice of always looping and hooking hoses and ropes, it seemed entirely unprofessional. Their sailors worked to load out barricades made of the assorted luggage and crates, making ready to receive a boarding team.

“All hands, brace for cables,” a voice that wasn’t the captain rang out from the pipes. Moment later, the mortars launched under-powered shots with wire cables, seeming to fly lazily through the sky and hooking on to the Whiskey Flask.

The black ship returned the favour, launching wires with portable mortar. With the twenty marines, forty fighting men, likely including cannoneers handed rifles, and about fifty hands moving luggage, it seemed like the smaller ship had a crew of around one hundred and seventy, if their compliment of administrators and supporters were in line with the standard. The Sunseed had the advantage in terms of numbers, but when the boarding happened, they would have the advantage in term of power. Once on the enemy ship, the Sunseed’s marines would have to use their rifles disconnected from the ship, while the Flask’s marines would be powered by their ship. Below deck, they would have crew pumping water and treating the wounded. If the battle turned into a prolonged event, that kind of support would make all the difference.

When the wires were pulled out without any slack, the marine’s commander lined all of the fighting men with rifles out the portholes. With the cannoneers armed with the spare rifles, there were far more guns than hoses. As the ship continued to fall, the angle where they would be able to shoot was fast approaching. The Flask fighters would have to shoot upwards, and the Sunseed’s armour would be sufficient to block most rifle shots under those conditions. That advantage wouldn’t continue, as the ship would continue to sink. When shots started to break armour, that’s when the marines would cross. The remaining fighters would continue to shoot from the portholes, only crossing when the marines secured enough of deck for the fighting force to cross. The cannoneers would only cross once the entire deck was safe.

The seconds felt like minutes as Fredrik tried to keep his breathing steady. He had gone through several battles throughout his career and the tension before the exchange started was the point that affected him the most. His hands still ached with burns, and the grains of the rifle were rough to his hands, and his mind wondered thinking about it. If the weapon had been properly oiled, the steam wouldn’t have caused it to fray so much. Someone had been neglecting their duty, not maintaining the weapons as they should.

He knew the recoil would cause that rough wood to cut his damaged hands and looked around for something he could do. Reaching into a pocket, he pulled out his lucky charm. A blue handkerchief. He had come from a small fishing village and worked on boats since he was old enough to hold a knife, helping to kill the fish that the nets pulled up. His work wasn’t much, but neither was they pay, more charity by the fishermen than a real job. He and the other children of the village, all orphans of soldiers and sailors, pooled their earnings to survive. At the age of ten, the navy came to their village looking for recruits. Fredrik signed up as an apprentice and gave the commission he was paid to the rest of the kids. As a going away gift, they made him a handkerchief from a flag that washed ashore. He held it to his lips, as if whispering a prayer, then wrapped it around the rifle.

All too soon the combat started. While the first volley was carefully conducted, with shots carefully aimed and only launched on signal from the commander, after the wall of steam that was created fogged any capacity to aim, chaos ensued in the firing line. Shots cracked around Fredrik; on his left and right of him thunderous roars. He was an experienced sailor in the royal navy; he had survived battle after battle. Yet, none the less, he just couldn’t pull the trigger.

Every now and then he’d open the bolt and slam in another ball into the still loaded barrel. Before shots were returned and the marines disconnected, running up the stairs and sliding down the wires. Fredrik didn’t know why he couldn’t bring himself to shoot, but also couldn’t let himself do nothing. He disconnected his rifle and slung it over his back. He then ran around to the cannoneers and one by one connected their guns to the barrels the marine’s left behind. The heat from the used guns flared the pain in his burnt hands, but he worked through it, accepting it as his penance for failure. The cannoneers thought that he was taking the initiative, contributing to the battle with cunning. He just felt like a coward that found a way to run while being trapped on a ship.

Then, without any warning, holes violently burst into existence as a line of steam and steel cleaved through the ship. Someone on the opposing ship managed to get a cannon to work and let loose with grapeshot, a cannonball that scattered into a cloud of steel. The shot was well positioned, and the range was short enough to be effective, as several men were taken with a single shot. The wave of steam that followed in its wake partially filled the deck and made shooting all the harder.

Fredrik rushed over to the injured men and started to drat them away from the damaged hull. The steam was filled with dust, and he coughed from breathing it in. Once the men were out of the line, the officers trained with field medicine started to patch up what they could, while sending the worst down to the doctor. As Fredrik was helping to keep pressure on a bleed, he was away from the windows when the volley of fire rapidly increased. Several shots per second suddenly sound, and a stream of steal sliced through the Sunseed’s firing line. Holes emerged throughout the deck and the walls were shredded.

Nearly two minutes after the rapid fire started, it abruptly stopped. Raising his head up and looking around, Fredrik saw that the Sunseed had been cut to pieces. Uncountable holes filled the walls and floors, water and steam were leaking from pipes and boards. Fredrik could feel the boiler start to fail, and the glow of loose gems starting fires. He immediately ran up the stairs and grabbed onto the boarding wire. He took his belt and wrapped it around his arm, pinning it to the wire. He could see other survivors climb across the wires. The board that the wire was attached to was as shredded as the rest of the ship.

Then the boiler gave out. The slow fall turned into a fast fall. The wire pulled the Sunseed into a spin and the planks gave out. With the tension gone, the wire sprang upwards, shaking loose those who hadn’t tied themselves off. Those who failed to tie themselves well were the next to fall, as the wire fell slack again. Fredrik felt like his arm would dislocate as he struggled to gain more grip that just the belt and his arm. But those who tied themselves well were still not safe, as the loose objects on the deck of the Flask began falling from being shaken by the Sunseed’s fall. At the same time, the Sunseed’s boiler and remaining supply of activated stones shot upwards. Some of those hanging on were struck by falling objects, others were hit by rising stones. Others still were hit by the debris of where those objects hit those stones.

Fredrik felt searing pain as a stone slashed across his back, and burnt the wound shut as it cut. The pain caused his hand to open involuntarily, and he would have fallen to his death, rather than just slip a little further down the line, had he not been tied so well.

As he hung there, tired and in pain, he could only look down at the ocean below. The waves were slowly consuming the specks of wood that had been his home for many years. There were fishing vestals working those waters, and as such a nearby island, so, should anyone have survived the bullets and the fall, they would be rescued eventually. At sea level, it would be nice and warm at that time of year, so they wouldn’t freeze to death in the waters too fast; or would at least be oblivious of it until it was too late. He had been told that freezing to death in the ocean was a peaceful way to go. He wanted that for those he had served with for so long; more than the pain of the fall or choaking on blood, anyway.

Those morbid thoughts consumed his mind as the wire was pulled slowly up to the deck. The steady upward jerking stopped occasionally, as survivors were taken off the line, like fish from a hook. When he was dragged onto the deck, several guns were pointed at him. He lay there, not struggling or moving, but he was able to see some strange weapons. The most notable was the weapon he assumed was used to shed his ship. It was the size of a smaller cannon, but made of ten barrels stacked in concentric rings, like rifle barrels but a much thicker metal. Rather than a rear breach, like a cannon, or a single sliding breach, like rifle, this weapon seemed to have dozens of small screw caps along each barrel. Even after all the time it had taken to pull him up, it had heat radiating from the barrels.

The other odd weapon were the rifles that some of the marines were using. It was entirely unlike anything he had seen. The weapon had three barrels in a triangle, but the bottom two were sealed off. Instead of a breach and a bolt, it had a lever on the bottom of the stock, so that he trigger-hand could rest within the lever while still touching the trigger. The hose connecting it to the ship was also oddly placed, being on the bottom left barrel, or rather tube, instead of the top of the weapon. The destructive effect of the weapon could be seen, as the bodies of the Sunseed’s marines were having their armour stripped off. The thin armour of the helmets weren’t enough to reliably stop even a conventional shot, but the new rifle punched through without trouble. Even the chest armour was dinted by shots.

One of the marines signalled, and two fighting men dragged him to his feet. His rifle was taken away from him and handed to the leading marine. He watched the handkerchief being taken away and felt a boiling sensation build in his gut. The marine pulled the cloth loose and went to throw the rifle into a box.

“Cold.”

After saying that single word, the marine turned back to him. He hadn’t noticed through the armour and thick coat, but from the voice, Fredrik realised that the marine was a woman. Her voice was mature, tired but not complaining, as if resigned to a distasteful duty. He hadn’t expected the marine to be a woman, in fact he had discounted the possibility entirely, on the basis of what a marine was. To become one, the first requirement was nobility. Commoners could be fighting force commanders, they could spend their blood and sweat to become generals, though none had ever succeeded in doing so, but a commoner could never become a marine. Fredrik had very little exposure to noble women, just the wives and daughters of those he served with, but they were all exceptionally soft. He had never seen a soft marine.

“Yes. I see it now,” she said as she walked towards him. As she got closer, he could see her deep green eyes through the slit of her helmet. They spoke of cruelty, yet familiarity. “You have held onto such a crude thing for far too long. You’re weak, Fredrik. But I welcome you to my ship.”

She took off her black iron helmet. Her short cut black hair and sun-tanned skin struck him deep to his core. It was a primal fear, the deep-seated fear that was brewed in childhood and fermented in the dark. She was a handsome woman, beautiful in an athletic way, but Fredrik felt as though he should risk the ocean below.

“Laverne”

Her name escaped his lips as memories of childhood flashed through his mind. In those memories she was like darkness made manifest. She was cruelty, selfishness, a devout Machiavellian. He had no idea how she had become a marine, but he was not fool enough to ever try and stop her and pitied any who had. Her smile seemed genuine as she looked at him, but he felt like a rate being stared down by a snake.

“I knew you wouldn’t forget me, Fredrik. I welcome you to my crew. You are now a part of the Independent Iron-Clad Whiskey Flask.”