Skyworld Book I

Chapter One - Africa 1902

The afternoon thunderstorm slammed into the airship, Minault, like a giant fist. One minute the skies over the verdant jungle expanse had been a robin's egg blue with only a few cumulus clouds dotting the horizon. Then, like a blanket of trouble, the clouds had swollen into monstrous bodies of air that covered the world in darkness. Then came the pealing booms of thunder, the stabbing fingers of lightning and torrents of rain.

Gideon Dent clung to his station in the forward gondola of the rigid, lighter-than-air ship, a grim, determined mask over his brown face. The irony of the situation didn't elude the Harvard trained archeologist. He had spent thousands of dollars and nearly half a year funding this rescue operation to locate his mentor, Professor Thaddeus Romaine, only to see it now imperiled just as the expedition was nearing its target area.

Oh, the board is going to love this, he thought, as rain splattered him, making his grasp on the support column slippery. All this way just to end up in the soup. The soup being a twisting, unexplored river delta that had been Romaine's last known destination. He'd been searching for a lost civilization supposedly dating back to the time of King Solomon from which the various African tribes traced their lineage.

Captain Henri Descarte wrestled with the control wheel of the Minault, valiantly trying to keep it both airborne and on course. That he was losing the second contest was evident as another gust of air punched the long, cigar shaped gasbag. The two gondolas attached to the dirigibles belly flip-flopped and everyone on board was sent sprawling to the floor.

"Mon Dieu!" Descarte yelled over the booming thunder and accompanying rainfall. "I have never seen such a violent storm."

"Can she hold?" Dent asked, climbing back to his feet. Boxes of equipment were strewn everywhere and Seaman Chambers' forehead was smeared with blood. They were in a bad fix and he knew it before voicing his question.

"Non," the captain replied honestly. The Minault was his first airship command. "Our stabilizers were not built to take this kind of punishment. Our only hope is to set her down at a site of our own choosing."

Dent looked out at the canopy of treetops below and wondered exactly what his friend had in mind.

"The river!" Descarte explained, tugging the wheel hard to starboard, trying to maintain their drift over the waterway. "If we come down in the trees, we are certainly doomed!"

Suddenly there was an explosion to the rear of the aft gondola and it went up flames. Dent blinked from the glare of the sudden flash, shielding his eyes with his hand. His mind raced. That was one of the Daimler engines! Two motors, each attached to the undercarriage of the gondolas powered the Minault. Now, lightning had hit the rear engine.

Dent and the pilot crew watched in horror as the flaming corpses of their comrades dropped screaming out of the blazing conflagration that was the aft cabin.

Another slap of wind tossed them again. Everyone hit the deck a second time.

We've got to ditch now, Dent realized, his thoughts moving as fast as a freight train.

Descartes was on the same channel. Crawling to his knees, he made his way to a box of emergency supplies. He lifted the lid and dug into the paraphernalia until he found what he was after.

"Gideon, here!" With that the French captain tossed the American archeologist a flare gun. He held onto a second. "We've got to destroy the bag and make her drop before this infernal storm pushes us away from the river!"

He was serious. Gideon saw it in the man's eyes when lightning again bathed the frantic pilothouse in an eerie, blue-yellow light.

"Okay! What do we do?"

Descarte, holding on to overturned pieces of furniture, made his way to Dent. "You fire out your window directly up into the bag. I will go to the back and aim for the midsection. Hopefully we can burn her fast enough to lose altitude and drop us into the water."

"Right. Let's do it!" Had he not been covered with water from the rain, Gideon would have been soaked in his own sweat. He was a big man, used to outdoor hardships. Still, danger was a habit he never wanted to get used to and as he leaned his torso out the open portal, he could feel his heart beating at triple time.

Looking up at the tarp covered skin, he prayed the flares would do the job. The rain and wind might snuff them out like candles. Fighting the wind shear, Dent lifted his right arm and aimed the little fat pistol to a spot directly over his head.

He said a silent prayer and pulled the trigger. The tiny ball sizzled upwards and hit the curved surface of the ship.

And caught!

As Dent watched the flames start to eat away at the heavy canvas, he heard a second shot and pulled his head down to see Descartes own missile hit the big airship's belly. It too was a bulls-eye and the Frenchmen gave out a cry of joy.

Now three fires ate away at the craft; from the top forward, the bottom midsection and the rear where the aft engine had exploded. The entire gondola started rocking frantically as escaping gasses dropped the 425-foot long craft towards its watery doom.

"It's working!" Descarte cried jubilantly.

Yeah, thought Dent, trying to muster his own enthusiasm for the fact they were about to ditch into an African river in the middle of God knew where. Not exactly the victory he was looking for on this trek. Still, it was the only real chance for survival they had. No matter how slim it was.

The other five crewmen, including the dazed Chambers, were all looking out at the barely visible surface of the wide river rising quickly beneath them.

"Remember," Descarte continued, looking from one to the other. "As soon as the cabin hits the water, jump! Do not hesitate or you will die!"

Six pairs of eyes were all on him now. "What is left of the ship," he pointed to the ceiling, "will collapse almost immediately. If you are caught beneath her...well, it will not be good.

"So jump, as far out as you can and then swim for the shore as quickly as you can. Is that understood?"

The small group answered collectively and the captain smiled. "Bien. You are brave fellows. Do not lose hope and we will all come out of this together."

"Descarte!" Dent was looking down at the river. They were almost on it. "Now!"

Without further words, each man climbed over the railing walls and looked down into the swirling darkness. Above them the inferno raged, its crackling flames lost in the continuous roar of the tropical deluge.

Then the cabin hit the water.

Gideon Dent took a breath and plunged head first into the raging currents.

His body was slammed immediately by the force of the rushing water. Fighting with all the strength he could muster, he stroked and kicked for the surface. His head came up to a watery scene of nightmarish hell.

Directly behind him, the Minualt, now a ball of fire, settled onto the river, crushing the remaining gondola beneath it. Scathing heat washed over the water. An explosion beneath the crumbled fuselage sent debris everywhere like bullets. Several zipped past Dent as he watched, trying to stay afloat in the swiftly churning soup.

He heard a scream pierce the night and saw part of the giant tail section come down on a sailor just rising up out of the water. The poor soul never had a chance. Gideon could see several other heads bobbing on the surface, but they were too far away to make out. Soon the flames of the burning airship that were making visibility possible began to fizzle away into the river. Realizing all would be pitch black in seconds, the tired explorer sought out the shoreline. It was behind him, away from the ship. Summoning reserves of energy, he started swimming for it, battling the strong current hungry to pull him away.

Dent was a good athlete and an excellent swimmer. Still, fighting the river was tough. Half an hour after going into the drink, he pulled his tired, aching body onto the muddy shores of the bank. There he crawled into a clump of thick fronds and collapsed. He passed out even as rain continued to assault the night.

---

His face was warm and something was crawling over his bare arm. Dent's eyes opened to see a black army ant marching over his skin. Sitting up, he brushed it away and looked to see if there were any others on his body. His wet clothes were mud-stained and torn, but critter free. At least for the moment.

Dent folded his knees up and rested his forehead against them. A brutal, tropical sun was perched low in the sky across the river. He took slow, easy breaths to steady his nerves and then he surveyed his surroundings.

The evening's dramatic crash replayed itself in his mind and he mumbled a prayer of thanks to the Almighty for having survived. But what of Descarte and the others? He recalled seeing one man drown, but that still left most of the crew from the pilot house. Gideon looked out beyond the bushes he was resting behind and tried to find any evidence of the wrecked dirigible. To his surprise there was none. Which meant one of two things. Either the river was incredibly deep and the ship was on the bottom, lost from sight or he had been pulled further down river than he realized. Considering the tonnage and construction of the airship, he was inclined to go with the second hypothesis.

That being the case, he was going to have to work his way back up river if he hoped to hook up with the others. Looking again at the scorching orb, he hoped it wouldn't be a long hike. It was already uncomfortably hot and humid and he didn't relish an extended walk.

Still, sitting on his keister wasn't getting him anywhere fast. With a shrug, Dent leaned over to the river's edge, parted the leafy fronds and cupped his hands into the river to take a drink. It tasted wonderful and he took a second draught. Thus re-energized, he got to his feet and started to move towards the trees.

Just then he heard what sounded like voices coming from the jungle ahead. Excited, Dent picked up his pace, parting branches away from his face with his strong and powerful arms. Some twenty yards into the trees, he spotted a small clearing to his front and three men standing there, talking loudly and in French.

Yes, it was Captain Descarte and two of his men. Overjoyed, Dent began to raise his arm and give out a yell. The greeting died in his chest, for at that moment one of the sailors suddenly jerked upright and clawed at his throat. There was an arrow sticking through his neck with blood gushing out at both ends. The second seamen with Descarte pointed to the jungle behind them just as three similar barbs smacked into his chest. Descarte spun around and charged into the foliage, running for all he was worth. Straight for Dent's position.

Instinctively Dent reached for his Colt .45, only to discover his holster was empty. He must have lost the gun during his dive into the river. Still, his friend was in jeopardy and Dent wasn't about to stand idly by, no matter what the odds. He started running towards the Frenchmen, at the same time crying out to alert him of his presence.

"Henri! Over here!"

The air captain heard his cry and sighted him. Dent was closing the gap between them rapidly.

Then Descarte began shouting and waving him off.

"GO BACK! GO BACK! PYGMIES!"

Suddenly half a dozen small, black men materialized out of the grass surrounding Descarte. They were naked except for the sharp knives and spears they wielded. Frantically Descarte pulled his out his pistol, his eyes wide with horror. His single shot went wild as the pygmies fell on him, their blades flashing in the cruel sun.

Descarte managed one shrill, soul-agonizing scream as he fell beneath his savage attackers. Gideon froze in mid-step, the only thing visible now being the knife blades rising and falling. They made loud thumps as they cut into his companion's body.

"Oh, sweet Jesus," he whispered.

There was rustling in the undergrowth to his right and he saw a crouched figure darting by. Another sound, this of a snapped twig, came from his left.

Okay, his mind raced. Time for Mrs. Dent's little fellah to make tracks!

He did an about face and took off back the way he had come. Dent ran for all he was worth, cursing the thick grass and tree growth, not to mention the weight of his heavy jungle boots. As he ran, doing his best to avoid overhanging limbs and protruding roots on the spongy jungle floor, his thoughts were moving at a similar speed. He really didn't believe he had a chance of escaping the pygmy hunters. This was their home, their environment. It was only natural they would have the advantage in such a race. It was only a matter of time before he either tripped or simply collapsed from exhaustion. His breathing was already labored and his lungs burned with effort with each new gasp of air he sucked in.

Dent had been an indoor athlete in college, getting letters in swimming, fencing and wrestling. The track field was as alien to him as the moon's landscape. Now, huffing and puffing to maintain his small lead over the natives, he sorely regretted that omission. Maybe a little running wouldn't have been so bad after all.

He came to a clearing and paused to lean on a moss covered tree. No sooner had his hand touched the green stuff then a pygmy arrow hit the bark mere inches from his fingers. Dent pushed off again. Behind him, the sound of feathers whistling close by spurred him to renewed effort.

As the minutes ticked off, Dent merely kept running, mindless of his path or the terrain. Thus when the ground started to slope upwards, he was barely conscious of the fact, his body moving pretty much as if in automatic mode. That he was in fact climbing became apparent when he suddenly came out of the jungle and found himself on a massive rock ledge jutting out into space. Stopping so fast, he nearly lost his balance and toppled over. Behind him bodies crashing through the bushes told him how close his pursuers were.

Quickly Dent went to the edge of the rock formation and took a cautious look down. He was on a small cliff that ran several hundred feet above a deep forest gorge. Below him, still winding and twisting, was the river. Talk about coming to the end of the road, he mused. It was either jump to his death on the rocks below or turn and become a pin-cushion for the pygmies. Of the two, he preferred the death-leap only because he feared the jungle people might be cannibals. The thought of those horrid little people munching on his flesh was repulsive. No, better to close his eyes and simply step off the ledge.

It was then he spotted a black spot on the rock face below him. But this was the side facing the sun, so why was he seeing a black area? A cave? He didn't have a spare second to think about it. Gideon Dent was out of time. He dropped to his knees, looked for any kind of outcropping that might provide a foot or hand hold. Seeing several, he backed towards the lip and slid his body over.

As his feet were feeling for the small cut in the wall, he saw the first of his enemies appear out of the foliage. Dent dropped onto the miniscule ledge and sought another. Above him foreign words were hurled about in excitement at what appeared to be the end of the contest.

But Dent wouldn't give up that easy. Two more body lengths and he was at the shadow he had spotted from the top. It was a cave and it seemed to go deep into the wall. Arrows started falling around him as the desperate scientist lunged forward, grabbed hold of the cave's corner and threw himself in. He landed on his hands and knees and rolled a few feet before coming to a stop on his backside.

He found himself laying in a vestibule like opening with a ceiling at least ten feet above the floor. Getting back to his feet, Dent's eyes opened in awe as the sunlight from outside played over the interior's walls. They were covered, top to bottom, with garishly painted murals. Dent was stunned. The pictures portrayed an African people decked out in jewel finery and living in splendid, gold like dwellings. Damn it, this was exactly the evidence Prof.Romaine had been looking for. Touching it reverently, Dent wondered if the old boy had lived long enough to find it. What were the odds?

Suddenly there was a scraping sound from outside. Dent stepped back and carefully poked his head out. To his dismay, he saw three of the warriors repelling down the cliff on jungle vines being anchored by their compatriots. He rushed back into the cave. He had to move.

But where? Deeper into the twilight of the cave. He had nowhere else to go.

Dent proceeded quickly, using his right hand to guide him along the wall as he moved into the blackness away from the entrance. As he entered the inky darkness, he came to a turn and continued. He was virtually blind. His ears were strained listening for noises that might be following.

He came to yet a second turn and walked into a strange blue glow. He was facing a wall of shimmering indigo that seem to radiate an airy coolness. Dent put his hand out and carefully touched the blue light. There was a mild electrical shock and he pulled it back quickly. It was the sort of feeling one experienced when walking across a carpet then suddenly shaking someone's hand. The charged electricity in the body snapping from person to the other.

But what was the wall of blue light? And what was it doing in this cave?

He could hear the three pygmies moving in the corridor, their feet making soft thudding noises as they neared. Dent looked about on the floor, his need to solve the mystery before him primal but a luxury he could ill afford now. He picked up a good size pebble and hurled it at the wall of blue light. The rock went through and then there was silence. No sound of it making contact on the other side. Now he truly had a puzzle on his hands.

One that could only be dealt with after the fact. Gideon Dent was not a foolish man, nor did he consider himself a particularly courageous one. He simply rationalized he was a practical man. Whatever was beyond the blue wall had to be better than what was coming for him.

It was a good thought, even if illogical.

He stepped forward and entered the blue light.

The world around him disappeared and he began to fall.

End Of Chapter One