Sullivan Spiked as hard as he could as he let go of the rope and returned to his normal weight. The further he reached the more it took, and changing the direction of pull entirely burned up Power like coal in a blast furnace, but he had no choice. There was no more time.Īltering gravity took Power. He blinked away rain and tears long enough to notice the form of a man walking down the catwalk, right toward the spool. There was a catwalk under it, and Sullivan concentrated on reaching it. Thrashing through the rain, he could see that the cable terminated on a spool at the aft end of the cabin.

The wind was increasing as the dirigible picked up speed and the incandescent lights of Springfield were winking by under his kicking legs. But Sullivan ignored the pain, despite every rational part of his brain telling him that he was cuckoo, and began to climb, throwing himself up the cable with maniacal force. He could let go and float to the ground now, or he could wait, pass out from blood loss and drop like a stone. Sullivan grimaced as the sharp corner of the platform’s metal roof caught his leg and slashed through his trousers and into the muscle of his calf. He wrapped his arms around the cable and his fedora disappeared into the darkness. The safety cable snapped past, slamming into his chest, flinging him about as if he weighed nothing, which in fact was almost true. Sullivan took three quick steps and vaulted over the railing into space, drawing deep on his Power the whole time. The stubby wedge wings started getting lift and the rate of climb increased dramatically. They were far enough away from the tower now to safely fire up the propellers, which coughed and began to turn. 45 caliber holes weren’t going to make a lick of difference. He could empty an entire magazine into that gas bag and they’d still have enough helium to make it to California. He could have shot at it, but he might as well try to poke holes in the moon.

The dirigible’s cabin was thirty feet up and rising quick.

The rain was pounding around him in giant sheets. He stepped back and kicked the window out, careful not to slice himself open on the jagged edges, and stepped onto the platform. There was no way he could heed his own advice and his ears stung from the concussion in the enclosed space. “Cover your ears,” Sullivan ordered as he drew his 1911 Colt. “It was worth a try.” The dirigible was rising, loose cables whipping about it in the wind. Even if he could, he wasn’t going to admit it in front of people who could get him fired. “It doesn’t work like that,” he said quickly.

Larry correia grimnoir chronicles