An explosion pounded rock walls and eardrums alike and damn near threw Hink to the ground. He stumbled, kept hold of the pistol, trying to see his way through the thick black smoke that filled the air. That smoke better not be the Swift going down, or he’d be skinning these rock rats until doomsday.
A hand reached down out of the smoke and caught hold of his arm and yanked him up hard.
“Rope!” Seldom hollered. The Irish was dangling from the Swift’s ladder by one foot and two fingers, looking like a squirrel ready to jump a limb. Since his other hand was helping drag Hink up to catch hold of the ladder, Hink was more than happy to see him.
The smoke was still thick enough it burned his eyes, but the Swift was already climbing again. Hink could just make out ragged shadows of those below him picking themselves up from that blast. It wouldn’t be long before those guns in their hands were aimed at his head.
“Where’s Molly?” Hink yelled over the roar of the ship’s fans.
“At the boiler,” Seldom said as he scurried uncommonly quick up the last of the rope.
Captain Hink put one hand over the other and hauled up the ladder as fast as he could. His crewmen heaved on the ladder while he climbed. Just as he breached the hold and pulled himself into the solid interior of the Swift, he heard Molly call out, “Get her up, Mr. Guffin! Get her up fast and hard!”
“He don’t know any other way,” Seldom muttered.
Hink laughed as the floor tipped alarmingly to one side. He pushed up off his hands and knees and staggered toward the helm.
The Swift’s engines popped three hard thumps of steam and power, the awe-inspiring noise of that beautiful steam engine drowning out the crowd and gunfire below, as she took aim for the clouds and let fly.
Devon Monk, Magic Without Mercy
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