Bram Möller's Arc

Chapter 6 of 63

The pass swallowed him in the first minute. Stone walls rose on both sides, close enough that Bram could see ice veins in the rock. He held the wheel steady and watched the horizon line against the north saddle's notch. The orchid ticked on its rail, venting small breaths of steam, holding him level. Then the air dropped out from under the gondola. The airship fell. Not far — a body length, maybe two — but the envelope shuddered and the ropes cracked like whips. A downdraft off the north wall had punched him below his line. Ahead, the saddle's lower lip rose toward him. He had seconds before the keel scraped rock. His hand went to the ballast lever. He stopped it. Dumping ballast meant climbing, and climbing meant rupture. Vex's warning sat in his ear as plain as if she were beside him. The envelope has one straight pass in it. No hard climb. He looked at the orchid. Its dial was locked at a fixed vent. That lock was keeping him level — and level was now too low. He pulled his knife and cut the seal on the dial. The brass ring turned under his fingers. He eased the vent almost shut. Pressure built in the tubing. The bloom-shaped valves hissed and stiffened. The gondola lifted — slow, slow, a hand's width, then another. Not a climb. A float. He watched the saddle lip crawl back down below his boots. The envelope groaned above him. He heard a seam creak near the aft ribs. He held his breath and did not touch the wheel. The airship cleared the lip by less than a yard. He opened the vent again, one careful notch at a time, and settled back onto his line. The orchid resumed its ticking. The seam above him quieted. He was through the downdraft. But the dial would not lock again. The seal was cut. From here to the far side of the pass, he would have to fly the orchid by hand, reading pressure and adjusting on every gust. He could not look away from it. He could not rest. On its perch, the mechanical owl clicked and turned its head toward the aft envelope. Bram followed its gaze. A thin line of frost was forming along the strained seam where the gondola had lifted. Not a tear. Not yet. A warning. He wiped his goggles and set both hands back on the controls — one on the wheel, one on the orchid's ring. The north saddle opened ahead of him, a pale slot of sky between black rock. He had bought himself the pass. He had spent the margin that was supposed to carry him out the other side. He flew on, watching the seam, and counted the minutes to open air.