Bram Möller's Arc

Chapter 56 of 63

The stove had been burning under the canvas tent for two hours when Cora's owl came in fast and hard, gears whining. She caught it against her chest. Its beak scraped a warning tone Bram had heard only twice before. "Movement," Cora said. "West slope. Coming up the fire smoke." Bram stepped out from under the canvas. The sleet had thinned. Below the shoulder, dark shapes moved between the rocks. He counted four, maybe five. Scavengers. Drawn by the smoke like he had feared they might be. They carried hooks and cutters. If they reached the tent, they would slit the bag for the fabric and take the brass off the console before he could get a line in the air. Omondi came up beside him with his glasses fogged. "How long?" "Ten minutes. Maybe less." "The bag is still cold. It will not lift." "I know." Bram turned to Cora. "Kill the stove. Pull the canvas." She stared at him. "The seam—" "Pull it." She pulled it. The tent came down in a wet sag. The bag sat half-warmed on the rock, slack in its skin. Bram opened his journal on the console and found the page he wanted. Two winters back he had marked a second anchor pin on the ridge above them, and beside it a note in his own hand: cross-wind funnel, north face, lifts cold on a hard vent. "Cora. Send the owl up the ridge. I want the wind at that pin, now." She wound the owl and threw it. It climbed and vanished into the grey. Omondi caught his sleeve. "Bram. A cold bag on a hard vent tears the crown." "A cut bag tears everything." The owl came back inside a minute. Cora read the dial. "Steady lift. Nine knots up the funnel." "Lines off," Bram said. "Both pins. On my word." Omondi went to the south pin. Cora took the north. Below, a hook clanged against stone. Closer than he had counted. Bram set his hand on the orchid vent and cracked it hard, the way the note said. Steam hissed. The bag shuddered, half-full and stubborn. "Now." The lines slipped. The bag scraped sideways across the rock and caught the funnel. It rose, ugly and crooked, ten feet, twenty. A scavenger reached the tent site and swung a cutter at empty air. The crown seam groaned. Bram heard it clearly above the wind. He eased the vent a quarter back. The groan settled to a hum. They cleared the shoulder at thirty feet and the funnel carried them west into flat air. Omondi wrote it in the journal without being asked. Launched cold. Crown seam strained. Anchor site lost. Bram kept his hand on the vent. Kesh was still ahead. The bag was still whole, for now. He would fly it that way as long as it held.