The noise of the sky was terrific, wind howling in my skull, the hum of the engines filling my ears. These sounds, along with the hiss of the hoses that pushed lift into our balloon, made it almost impossible to make out the commands of my superiors.

"Fledglings! Prepare the Hawks for the first wave!" called out our quartermaster Mr. Bentley as he charged down the center of the main deck.

Remembering all the terminology of an airship was challenging in its own right. I knew the business of locks and clocks quite thoroughly, but sky piracy was still a relatively new enterprise for me. I had been at it just under a year.

The Wastrel was a rigid airship of early design that employed many elements of naval engineering in her construction. Beneath her elongated balloon, she carried an enormous gondola suspended by steel cables. These were attached to the riveted framework. A pair of red membranous batwings extended from the ship's sides, catching the wind when we made our descent. If we needed to be more aerodynamic, they could be swept back with the maneuvering of a few ropes, but they usually remained open to stabilize us on the air. The Wastrel also had a rudder to help steer her trajectory. It did not work too well; it had been cracked by a bolt of lightning long before I ever joined the crew, and the captain saw no reason to pour man-hours into fixing it.

The ship had a sort of rugged beauty about her, with embellishments from a time when embellishment was all the rage. Her railings, doors, and archways boasted accents of crown molding and carved sirens. Though the paint was chipping away on these details, the men revered the Wastrel with romantic wonder and took pride in keeping her. She might have been an old bird, but for many of us, she was the only home we knew.

"Full speed ahead!" shouted Captain Dirk from the helm as we chased our prize. At the moment, I could not see the target through the clouds. Only a dim shadow loomed beyond the misty swells.

Our propellers shrieked as we heaved forward, rapidly ascending. Whenever we picked up speed or made a sudden maneuver, it was protocol to hold onto something. I grabbed the nearest rail, training my eye on the other ship as we gained on her.

"Fly the spade!" commanded Captain Dirk.

Every proper pirate had a notorious Jolly Roger, something unique to distinguish himself in the Cloudsea. People in Elsace knew the Roger of the white spade, knew the stories of gore in the clouds, of severed heads raining down from any ship that gave chase to Captain Alexander Dirk. When targets saw the black flag trail out just beneath the cracked rudder, they surrendered every time.

The Wastrel was equipped with twenty-five cannons, a ballista, and enough parachutes to save a hundred and fifty souls. They lined the rails and each and every day, I prayed to all my gods I would never have to use one.

Prayer was a useful thing to sky pirates. It helped us to cope with the unknown, which had become a constant in our lives on the air. We prayed to Ithicus, bird-god of the sky, for lift and smooth air. We prayed to Rheus of the sun and Camilla of the moon to light our way in the dark. The all-father, Throm, controlled the weather. To him, we prayed the most, for a single storm could rip an airship apart. As robust as our vessel appeared in the sky, it was made of only wood, cloth, and rubber. It was a fragile, man-made thing and its keeping to the air continued to amaze every one of us.

The Wastrel pitched starboard to show the Roger. As it did, I toppled off the bulwarks and rolled across the deck. Someone hoisted me up by my jacket collar, shoving me forward.

"Quit tossing about!" shouted Jasper. He was a stout, brown-bearded man with wide shoulders and stiff legs. His beard usually carried breadcrumbs or a stain of white flour. Of all the men on board, I found him the least hygienic. Naturally, he was the ship's cook.

I gave him a shove, and in a rasp, said, "I've told you before not to touch me." Though shorter than I was, his body proved too dense for me to knock back. The man hardly budged.

"Scrawny tosser. You're real intimidating, ain't yeh?"

"Leave me be, Jaz."

"Or what, Clikk?" He got up in my face, so close I could smell the garlic and onion on his breath. "Let's not forget who handles your meals. Not to mention the meals of your friends."

I had no time for this. As a Fledgling, I was squire to a Hawk and needed to prepare my raider for battle. Where was the man? I abandoned the quarrel and went with the rest of the crew to strap our grappling hooks to our forearms.

The grappling device rested above the wrist, secured by leather straps. Every snare was a claw made up of brass pincers, and it had a canister running up the forearm that held a tightly wound cable.

As I was tightening the belts on my forearm, I realized Jasper had followed me. He made a deliberate show of touching his thumb to my nose.

"Smell that?" he taunted.

I swiped at him with my brass claw. Jasper jumped back, chortling like a turkey as he dodged me by a hair's width.

Jonathan Pierce came up behind me and passed his arms beneath mine, encircling them behind my head and lifting me up on my toes. "Whoa, Fledgling!" he laughed. "Save it for the raid!"

"Put me down!" My shoulders reeled in pain as he tightened his hold, squeezing his folded hands against the back of my neck. It was enough to make my skin crawl, for now his body was pressed to mine. I became terrified, thinking he might feel that I was softer than most men, that I was slighter, and not as heavy. The ship articles ran through my head, Article V in particular. A woman discovered on board shall be quarantined in the Captain's Quarters until she and any who aided in her subterfuge are cast out at the nearest port.

"Why are you trying to whack poor Jaz?" asked Pierce.

"He put his filthy thumb in my face!"

"Did he really? Aye, that's not right. We all know where he likes to shove it," said Pierce. "Go on and kick him in the stones!"

Still holding me, he moved forward enough so that I was able to lash my boot at Jasper's groin. I'd nearly got him when the captain came marching over. Before he got any closer, Pierce relinquished me, and the three of us scrambled in three different directions.

"Get on, you useless curs!" Dirk shouted after us. "She may be a mercantile dig, but it's still a battle!"

Dirk was a compelling figure, tall and remarkably tan for a gent with ginger stubble. He had a strong square jaw, prominent cheekbones, and blue-green eyes that cut through a person like a jade dagger.

One could spot him in his stylish striped scarves and fitted patchwork britches, always with a flask on his hip, its supply seemingly endless. He wore a leather skullcap to hide his receding hairline and had a flair for brightly tinted goggles, which came in variant shades of red, yellow, or blue.

"Ease up on the thrust!" he bellowed at the helmsman.

The targeted ship, only slightly smaller than our own, was within range. A shine reflected off her silvery balloon. A rope ladder went up both sides of it. As we neared, I saw a man was climbing up the side. He looked out at us with a spyglass, and panicking as we speedily gained on them, he dropped it and slid down the ladder to land behind the bulwarks.

No-Nose Ned pulled a lever on the mounted switchboard and the Wastrel decelerated.

I would have loved to pilot someday, but the men who got that assignment always had prior experience. My skills would more likely land me in mechanics, which held nothing for me but greasy hands and the occasional electrocution.

"Veer port!" The wind's roar almost swallowed the captain's orders. I shaded my eyes and hopped up on the bulwarks to get a better view, holding myself steady by a frayed cable.

The mercantile ship had an open deck with a large ballista mounted aft. The mechanism moaned as its aim was directed at us. I silently condemned these merchants for not giving up their haul. Once they fired on us and missed—and they would miss—we would have to do battle and kill their captain.

A loud twang vibrated through the air as their ballista launched its shimmering harpoon.

The Wastrel pitched sideways, dodging the lance with room to spare. This time, I clung to the cables and held firm.

"Attack!" Dirk's command echoed down from the quarterdeck.

The Hawks were our first wave of offense, an elite team of twenty-five of Dirk's fiercest. They took formation along the rail, Pierce among them, and vaulted themselves across the divide, riding the wind and latching by hook to the target ship.

I lined up with the second wave along the Wastrel's flank. Securing my flight cap and lowering my goggles, I climbed over the railing with the rest of them and hung off with one arm, aiming for a sturdy beam. As the Wastrel floated beside the merchant vessel, I saw the black wood of her gondola.

"Gods keep me topside," I whispered, and with the rest of the men, fired my line.

My bones rattled as the grapple cinched the ladder of their quarterdeck. Without thinking, I retracted the line and vaulted across the open air.

The heights meant nothing to me now. What was death to an urchin with no one? My nose went numb against the windchill. Crinkling my face, I held my breath and braced for a hard landing.

I came zipping in so quick, I thought I'd splatter like pigeon shite across the deck. I turned my body to get my legs over the railing and landed with a shuffle into the chaos of steel and flintlocks.

____________

Welcome aboard, Fledgling. You have just stumbled into the action of a sky pirate's raid. This is one of the few novels out there specifically about sky pirates. For once, we are not the villains—at least not from our point of view.