For the next few hours, Ulric and I wander around, inspecting every operation to make sure everything is in working order. The flags have been set. The weapons have been loaded. The treads have been cleaned. The crates have been secured. Even the engine room is now running, after I checked to see whether Keller finished drinking. By all accords, we are ready to set sail.
I stand on the tower closest to the bow, on a balcony right outside the main bridge. I can see everything, but for now I face the boundless sea before me. In the distance I spot an orange cloud floating over the horizon, stirred up by another ship. Out there, that will only be an ominous sign. The high winds shaping the grand dunes out there brush against my armor. I cling onto metal bars that have been stripped bare by the years of abuse from these conditions.
Looking down, I see a crowd awaiting my signal. I give a stiff-armed salute, and they respond in kind before rushing to their stations. With a slow walk, I wrap around the balcony to face the port and, with it, the mountain that is the dam.
I’m on the other side of the tower, and I see that the dock in our area has cleared out its people and machines in anticipation of our departure. I shouldn’t keep them waiting. At the main deck in the center of the ship stands the last group of deckhands. They too look up at me, and I thrust out my arm rigid and true once again—in unison, they salute as well.
“Are we ready to depart, sir?” Volker cuts in.
“Yes, we are, all hands to stations,” I reply.
“All hands to stations,” Volker radios to the crew. Sirens blare, and the Dock beneath us begins to clear out. I can hear the yelling down below, as all brace for the ship to awaken.
“Start the engines,” I say to Volker, and he repeats the command into his radio.
The Bridge rumbles like a volcano beneath our feet. Lights flicker and walls quake as black smoke funnels up the pipes and explodes upward in a triumphant roar. The Howling Dark has come alive.
“Take her away,” I command, and it is done. A soft growl permeates the cabin. The treads awaken in a slow churn, grinding up the desert beneath. In response, an orange cloud rises from below as the ship creaks away from the concrete. I walk out of the bridge to view the cloud dissipate.
The ship hurls sand onto the concrete like a wave crashing against a stormy beach. Metal bars rattle as the ship picks up speed. Treads rotate like heavy steel clocks swirling about to bring us forward. She’s a lumbering beast, and with another thunderous horn she signals that she is leaving port. I stroll back onto the Bridge and check the conditions. Everything is in working order. I stand there and watch as the ship leisurely cascades over its first sand dune of the journey. The banners tied to the front of the ship’s bow catch a gust of wind. I take in how graciously they fly in the breeze—those red-and-gold flags, each emblazoned with a white swastika at the center, fluttering against a world of apricot sand.
The night is calm. The stars dazzle, as if the lights of Germania were above us. Cosmic clouds twirl around in a fashion similar to that of the dust kicked up by the ship’s treads. We have passed the first area of sand dunes and have entered a small sea of salt—a flat plain of white crystal that is blinding during the day, but at night it is a different tale. The salt flats, when the sun goes down, transform into an endless mirror. A smooth surface so reflective one could shave while looking down.
We have sailed for three days, and our trip has only begun. The journey for ships is always long. Planes can always make supply drops to Eagle Nests in a fraction of the time, but there are far too many crates, and far too many Nests to be supplied for that to be reliably done. If it takes a couple of ships a couple weeks to make the journey, it’s still worth it to the Reich.
To that, I have no complaints. Without the ships and the Kiln, I wouldn’t have a job. I don’t know if I could survive in the northern Reich, as much as I love the idea of it. Perhaps I love this ship because it’s an escape. It’s the only place that feels like home, even if I have to deal with the men on it. It’s better than facing the perfection and the “proper” behavior for an Aryan man. Beating whores isn’t considered civilized up there, as Ulric so delicately explained.
That’s what I’d be like up north. I’d have to be like Ulric.
I look down from the tower onto a series of campfires scattered across the deck. It was large enough, and metal enough, that nobody had to worry about the fire spreading. Groups are huddled about, laughing at stories and drinking. At this time of night, there is not much to do otherwise. The course has been set, the journey is long, and the computer does most of the automated navigation. Why I am still on the Bridge, I don’t know.
Very few actually stay on the Bridge. Usually it’s just Volker, myself, and the Second Officer, a timid young kid called Witzel. I’d say he’s about Ulric’s age. We’re the only two in the Bridge. I lean against the navigational dashboard, looking at the crowd below while Witzel stands in an upright posture, hands at his back, examining the charts on the wall.
“We’re still going in the right direction, Witzel,” I joke, taking a swig from my whiskey flask. Oftentimes the night can be long, and a few shots of liquor can help. Witzel swirls around uncomfortably, his hands still tied behind his back.
“I know, sir,” he sputters out in a rash, quiet voice, “I just like double checking.”
My response to this is a series of agreeable grunts as I straighten out my back. My hands rummage through the pouch on my chest and I pull out another cigar. The armor I wear is covered in a series of pouches for any occasion. Pockets for cigars, whiskey, water, bullets, all strewn across my waist and chest.
“Do you smoke, Witzel?” I ask with a casual mutter, reaching a cigar out toward the awkward lad.
“No, sir,” he replies, “I never really got into it.”
“It grows on you down here. This is only your…what? Second year?”
“Yes sir.”
“You got time.”
The large metal door swings open with a low creak. Footsteps signify that somebody is entering the Bridge. I swivel my head around and spot Volker. Without the helmet, he sports a buzzed head of sandy blond hair. His nose is more pointed compared to most, but it doesn’t curve like a Scavenger’s.
“Everything seem to be under control, Captain?” he asks in a raspy voice, placing his helmet onto a table adjacent to the door.
“Well, we haven’t fallen into a canyon yet, so I say everything is alright.” I mutter, continuing to puff on the cigar. Smoke floats gently up into the dimly lit ceiling. The room has very few lights.
I can turn on more lights if need be, but I like the darkness for now. Things are already so bright during the day. This can be a break. The smoke from the cigar absorbs the colors of orange and blue from the navigational screens and buttons on the dashboard, which offer most of the illumination in this room.
“Something could have popped over the horizon in the span of a walk around the ship,” Volker jokes, making his way across the Bridge, his boots clanging against the ground. A low hum permeates the cabin—a reminder of the engines underneath doing their work to keep the treads moving. Even with the relatively thick walls
