Maka
Literotica Guru
- Joined
- Jan 17, 2003
- Posts
- 1,432
The Mako lurched drunkenly into the port below, flying like a bird with a broken wing, one of its broad bat-wing sails in tatters, its funnel coughing black smoke, and its engine grinding and whirring in disharmony. It cast a striking black silhouette against the blazing orange sunset.
Captain John Melchior stood on the prow, looking on in brooding concern as his beloved, wounded airship was gently guided into the open maw of the Yondermill docking facilities. It was done without haste, with care and precision, despite the urgency imparted by the setting sun above. Melchior would have it no other way.
It had been the Devil's own luck. The Mako had left Yondermill less than a week ago, aiming for the Cinder Spires with a full load of iron from the Yondermill mines. But they had run into a sugar stormhead en route -one of the worst Melchior had ever seen, and for three days it had blown them south, every man aboard working flat-out to keep the Mako flying, heedless of the green lightning bolts that worried and snarled at the airship from the clouds all around.
On the third day, a blast of lightning hit the engine, tearing a hole through the sail on its way, half-shattering the delicate clockworkings, and killing Coman Shimm, Melchior's engineer and best friend. It had not been a good day.
With Shimm's death, they'd had little option but to fly back to Yondermill to repair sail and engine, and try and find some half-competent engineer among the miners and yokels. Melchior's hopes were not high.
***
Sugar rain had been unleashed on the world in the War of the Five Nations three centuries ago, although nobody agreed on who bore responsibility and few alive today cared. It was a weapon that got out of hand, that somehow found its way into the clouds above the planet and dwelt there forever.
Now, sugar clouds -identifiable by their airy, pastel colours of green and blue, hues of pink and purple, rained down their burden at random across the continents. They brought chaos and transformation. Great, steaming jungles, hissing with loping pumas and croaking frogs, might spring up where there had been tundra. Arctic oceans of ice replaced desert replacing marshes. The living things it touched changed as well, becoming monsters or statues or animals.
Travel on the ground or sea became close to impossible. The problems of navigating an unstable, constantly-changing territory, were only matched by the ever-present threat of being caught in the sugar rain oneself. The survivors dug themselves underground complexes or built spires high in the sky. The only contact between these isolated communities was the only remaining viable means of transport -the airships.
***
The Mako sank deeper into the pit, while above it the great iron hatch sealed over. Yondermill's docks were closed for the night. If the Mako's arrival had been just half an hour later, she would not have been allowed in.
The Yondermill docks were once the central pit of the iron mines around which the town had been built -the ancestors of Yondermill had crawled into their own mines when the first sugar storms broke, and so saved themselves from death and strange new forms.
The Mako docked smoothly at one of the berths on the bottom level of the pit, lowering itself into the cradle of cables and hooks awaiting it. The engines mercifully shut off. Melchior jumped agilely from the prow on to the metal gantry, startling the harbourmaster that stood waiting for him.
John Melchior was a tall, broadshouldered man with intense, brooding eyes as icy blue as distant glaciers and dark hair that framed the hard, sharply-angled features of his face. He moved with a restless, frightening speed, like a big cat of the sugar rain jungles.
The harbourmaster shook his head.
"Ran into some trouble, captain?"
Melchior made it a point never to answer inane questions. Instead he said curtly: "Put the call out. We need a new engineer."
Turning up the collar of his long leather coat, he strode to the welcoming glow of the nearest dockside tavern. He'd drink a glass of whiskey in Shimm's honour tonight, he knew that at least.
Captain John Melchior stood on the prow, looking on in brooding concern as his beloved, wounded airship was gently guided into the open maw of the Yondermill docking facilities. It was done without haste, with care and precision, despite the urgency imparted by the setting sun above. Melchior would have it no other way.
It had been the Devil's own luck. The Mako had left Yondermill less than a week ago, aiming for the Cinder Spires with a full load of iron from the Yondermill mines. But they had run into a sugar stormhead en route -one of the worst Melchior had ever seen, and for three days it had blown them south, every man aboard working flat-out to keep the Mako flying, heedless of the green lightning bolts that worried and snarled at the airship from the clouds all around.
On the third day, a blast of lightning hit the engine, tearing a hole through the sail on its way, half-shattering the delicate clockworkings, and killing Coman Shimm, Melchior's engineer and best friend. It had not been a good day.
With Shimm's death, they'd had little option but to fly back to Yondermill to repair sail and engine, and try and find some half-competent engineer among the miners and yokels. Melchior's hopes were not high.
***
Sugar rain had been unleashed on the world in the War of the Five Nations three centuries ago, although nobody agreed on who bore responsibility and few alive today cared. It was a weapon that got out of hand, that somehow found its way into the clouds above the planet and dwelt there forever.
Now, sugar clouds -identifiable by their airy, pastel colours of green and blue, hues of pink and purple, rained down their burden at random across the continents. They brought chaos and transformation. Great, steaming jungles, hissing with loping pumas and croaking frogs, might spring up where there had been tundra. Arctic oceans of ice replaced desert replacing marshes. The living things it touched changed as well, becoming monsters or statues or animals.
Travel on the ground or sea became close to impossible. The problems of navigating an unstable, constantly-changing territory, were only matched by the ever-present threat of being caught in the sugar rain oneself. The survivors dug themselves underground complexes or built spires high in the sky. The only contact between these isolated communities was the only remaining viable means of transport -the airships.
***
The Mako sank deeper into the pit, while above it the great iron hatch sealed over. Yondermill's docks were closed for the night. If the Mako's arrival had been just half an hour later, she would not have been allowed in.
The Yondermill docks were once the central pit of the iron mines around which the town had been built -the ancestors of Yondermill had crawled into their own mines when the first sugar storms broke, and so saved themselves from death and strange new forms.
The Mako docked smoothly at one of the berths on the bottom level of the pit, lowering itself into the cradle of cables and hooks awaiting it. The engines mercifully shut off. Melchior jumped agilely from the prow on to the metal gantry, startling the harbourmaster that stood waiting for him.
John Melchior was a tall, broadshouldered man with intense, brooding eyes as icy blue as distant glaciers and dark hair that framed the hard, sharply-angled features of his face. He moved with a restless, frightening speed, like a big cat of the sugar rain jungles.
The harbourmaster shook his head.
"Ran into some trouble, captain?"
Melchior made it a point never to answer inane questions. Instead he said curtly: "Put the call out. We need a new engineer."
Turning up the collar of his long leather coat, he strode to the welcoming glow of the nearest dockside tavern. He'd drink a glass of whiskey in Shimm's honour tonight, he knew that at least.
