Bram Möller's Arc

Chapter 7 of 63

The pass narrowed again past the saddle. Bram kept his left hand on the brass ring of the orchid and his right on the wheel. The vent hissed under his thumb. Every gust off the rock walls shifted the pressure in the tubing, and every shift meant a quarter turn one way or the other. He had been holding the ring for twelve minutes. His fingers had begun to shake. The cramp started in the web of his thumb. It climbed into his palm and locked the tendons. He tried to flex his hand without letting the ring move. The ring moved. The orchid coughed a hard jet of steam and the gondola dipped a foot. Above him, the frost line along the strained seam widened by a finger's width. He could not switch hands. The wheel needed the other one. A crosswind was pushing him toward the north wall, and if he let go of the wheel for even a breath the airship would kiss rock. On its perch, the mechanical owl clicked and turned its head. Its brass eye caught his. The bird was built for wind readings, not for work. But it had a grip. Small, precise, clockwork claws. "Come here," Bram said. The owl opened its wings and hopped down onto the rail beside the orchid. Steam curled from the vents in its chest. Bram guided its foot onto the brass ring. The claws closed. He felt the ring steady under the owl's weight. "Hold," he said. "Don't turn." He let go. His hand cramped shut like a fist. He shook it against his thigh, teeth clenched, watching the pressure needle on the orchid's base. The needle held. The owl held. He worked his fingers open. Blood came back into them in slow, burning waves. Ahead, the pass began to widen. Pale sky showed between the walls. He could see the far mouth now, two minutes out, maybe three. A gust hit the envelope broadside. The pressure needle jumped. Bram lunged and put his hand back on the ring over the owl's foot. He turned the vent a hair. The gondola steadied. The owl did not let go. Together they held the line as the walls fell away on either side. He brought the airship out of Hollowpass into open dawn air. The seam above him was cracked along four inches and rimed white, but it had not torn. He was through. He eased the vent to a slow, even bleed and finally looked at his hand. Two fingers would not straighten. He would land one-handed, wherever he landed. And he would have to land soon — the envelope would not survive a second pass, and somewhere ahead of him, past the foothills, the delivery he had been paid to make was still waiting.