The Burning Ensign.

More a banner than a flag. The unfurled black cloth was larger than a small house, and its heavy mass billowed unnaturally slowly in the wind, off-note compared to how the balloon rippled, or even how Mercy's clothes were buffeted. And it might have just been a trick of the distant clouds, but the sky seemed to grow darker as it's length spilled out behind the Child.

On that small sea of black, was the head of a red dragon. Red slightly too dark for flames; like it might look through a haze of smoke. The mouth was open, showing no fire but rows of teeth, and the eyes were shaped like the wicked curve of a cutlass.

Mercy had raised the Burning Ensign only twice before, during her years with Vincent serving the navy aboard the Hood. Like this occasion, both times before had been a warning to pirates and raiders, anyone who would endanger someone else's lives in the far skies for the sake of small profit. Each time was a warning to the ships they were about to fight; a warning that the conventions of decency in war would not be respected.

After the first gun was fired, quarter would not be granted. Fleeing ships would be pursued. Survivors would not be rescued. Going to ground would see that ground burned. Leniency would require immediate retreat or complete capitulation on sight.

This was exactly how the wayfarers dealt with pirates. Her people survived in the far skies, where the air was thin, or cold, or had storms so large they could swallow all of the inner islands at once. The skies were enemy enough to a wayfarer, and to prey upon other people was to abandon everything that mattered to a clan.

"I'm surprised you were allowed to keep it, captain," Mercy admitted, as she stepped back to watch the banner stretch out in the wind.

"I don't think the Navy wanted it anymore. Each Burning Ensign is unique to the ship that flies it," Vincent replied. He still had one hand on the wheel, iron steady as he steered the Ravens' Child into a storm of predators. "And the last time this banner was unfurled, we hunted one of our own. No navy ship would want to fly it after that."

"Rather thought they'd burn it then," Mercy said.

"No. If they did that, they'd be saying what we did was wrong." Vincent shook his head, his jaw clenched, and his free hand gripped the scabbard of his sword, just beneath the swept hilt. "And we've have been put to a firing squad."

"So it's really your war banner now?" Mercy asked.

"Ours. The Child's war banner," Vincent insisted. As small as the semantic distinction might be, to Mercy it felt like warm, sweet air. "Let's hope we don't have cause to use it often."

"I don't like the odds of that, captain. This is our first job," Mercy laughed as she shared her thought.

"Fair point," Vincent agreed, but he didn't sound particularly upset by the thought. Their time on the Hood hadn't been a peaceful one. "Take over the helm. I'm going to see if we're in range for the Banshee."

"You don't want to get closer, so they get a good look at the banner?"

"My ship was expensive. I'm not giving those boil-ridden bottom-feeders a chance to dent my hull in a fair fight," Vincent replied with an indignant scoff. "We'll turn as soon as we're in a practical firing range."

"How far is a practical firing range?" Mercy asked, as she took the wheel.

"For us? Four miles. Beyond that, a small raft like that with a good pilot might have enough time to steer out of the way of the shot," Vincent said, as he pulled out his spyglass. "Let's see, they're hauling little six-pounders. Unless you double-stuff them, their muzzle velocity is only about four hundred feet per second. As long as we don't get within three miles, you should be able to catch whatever they fire at us."

Mercy's eyes widened. Even during her time on the Hood, working with some of the most powerful guns Volante could make, no battle took place outside of a mile.

"Another two minutes," Vincent said. He turned around, and marched towards the rear of the ship. Mercy turned to watch him go, one hand on the wheel. "Mister Madrigan, we'll be engaging off the left side of the ship. Load solid shot, and aim for their engines."

"Aye, sir," Leslie replied, and began to rotate the gun on its turntable. There was something unsettling about the smile now on the big man's face, a smile that now looked as kind as the banner they flew. "Whistles and clacks. Fall and break. Burn what's left."

Mercy flinched, hearing it. As much as she hated pirates, it wasn't quite the pain Leslie felt.

She turned her sight back to the ships they were approaching, and through the smoke she could finally make out the ships properly. There were a dozen small ships, single-decked rafts or at most two-decked slips like the one the crew of the Matilda had used to escape. And they swarmed around a single freighter like bugs around a corpse.

"Looks like they've almost caught up to the Matilda," Vincent said. "Keep the speed steady. Right turn, forty degrees."

"Aye, sir. Right turn, forty degrees," Mercy repeated, turning the wheel. She picked a cloud at roughly the angle the captain asked for, and kept the turn until the bow pointed at it. She turned to the speaking tube, and shouted down to Anita in engineering. "Miss Hoffman, we're about to start a fight. Prep for a constant run at full speed, with sudden maneuvers at unexpected intervals. And mind any loose equipment, we're going to be firing the banshee a fair lot."

"Aye, lieutenant. Constant run at full speed, maintain extra power for unexpected maneuvers," Anita repeated. "And I wish someone had warned me about those first couple of shots. That gun has an awful lot of kick."

"You should see the muzzle flash," Mercy said drily. She turned her head back towards Vincent, who was standing about halfway between her and Leslie, with his spyglass out. "Turn complete, captain. Running at full speed. Peripheral propellers on idle."

"Thank you, Mercy," Vincent said, calm and precise, as he stared through his spyglass. "Mister Madrigan, small raft on the left side, flying the black skull. It's peeling away from the others and turning towards us. Do you have a target?"

Mercy smiled. Not happily, but there was a certain satisfaction in knowing your enemy's fate was sealed. "Aye, captain," Leslie replied. "Its engine block is in my sights."

"Adjust two notches left, for their turn. Adjust a third notch left, for wind speed."

"Three notches left, cap."

"Fire."

The Banshee howled, heralding death. Though the dead wouldn't hear the shot until after it struck. That much of their new weapon, Mercy understood. The shots flew faster than sound. She held her breath for four long seconds, counting each one in her head, before the tiny speck was flung backward, swinging on its lift balloon, as piece of it were cast about and flew out into the air behind it.

"Gun's hot. Loaded with round shot," Leslie called out.

"Next target, two-decked slip with light-blue lift bag. Still in pursuit of the Matilda, just to the right of our last target. Tell me when you have it in sights," Vincent ordered.

This wasn't a battle. Mercy knew it already, on some level knew it before the first shot was fired, but seeing them in action brought all the crushing weight of its implications along with it. And as the Banshee howled again, screaming death into the blue, Mercy knew four seconds before the shot hit, that it would ruin their target.

This wasn't a battle. To engage the Child, the rafts the pirates were flying would have to cross at least three miles of open sky to fight with their breach-loading guns. And in the space of twelve seconds, two pirate ships had been rent into clouds of shrapnel.

Some crewmen on the pirate slip managed to cling to the lift balloon before it floated away, but they weren't the fortunate ones. The balloon, unattached, would carry them into where the air was thin, over the course of the next few days. Others were left adrift, clinging to pieces of their ship, to wait and see if rescue could come before succumbing to exposure and dehydration.

The skies were not a forgiving place without man's avarice. Which is why the Wayfarers despised pirates so much.

The Banshee screamed again while Mercy mused, and another pirate ship was ripped apart. Leslie was whistling as he worked, quick hands tossing spent casings into a container with ease, and he smiled happily as he reloaded the gun. His leather gloves were already beginning to smoke from the heat of the spent casings, and he had a heavily tinted pair of goggles resting on his forehead.

A dozen more seconds, and another raft's hull was reduced to kindling. Neither Leslie nor Vincent looked as if they had any interest in slowing down, even as the other ships began to peel away from the Matilda and run. None of them turned to engage the Child, all of them had steered for the closest cloud cover they could find, leaving long trails of black smoke behind them as they ran their engines as hard as they could.

"Captain, should we turn back to pursue the Matilda?" Mercy called out.

Vincent rubbed his chin with his hand, and lowered his spyglass. "Good call, Mercy. The Matilda's sailing into some cloud, and might be hard to find if we let it get too far ahead. Steer us back into pursuit. Mister Madrigan, keep the gun primed, and look to see if any of the rafts turn back on us."

It wasn't out of pity that Mercy made the suggestion. She and Leslie had quite a bit more cause than Vincent to hate pirates. But there was something about the captain that Mercy didn't want to visit upon the skies again. A cold, cruel ruthlessness like what he was beginning to show just now, where butchering an enemy was just a matter of arithmetic.

Like he had shown on his last day captaining the Hood.

Mercy turned the ship towards the Matilda, and locked the wheel. "Care to take over, captain? I'll help Leslie look over the Banshee."

Vincent nodded, and stepped past her to the wheel. "After you do that, take the Burning Ensign down, put our Volante colours back up. As long as the rest of those pirates keep to cloud cover and look like they're still running, we won't pursue."

Mercy gave a short salute, two fingers off the brim of her hat, and walked back to Leslie. He was still humming happily as he worked, re-sealing one of the ammo crates and packing the spent shots away.

They didn't want those spent shots lost. The Banshee was a technology that the captain did not want shared.

"You okay, Mister Madrigan?" Mercy asked. Using his last name, the way an officer addresses an enlisted man. So that Leslie would know it was a serious question.

"I'm well, ma'am," Leslie replied. "Putting pirates out of the sky is a good thing. There's at least a frigate or barge out there somewhere that will make a run now, that it wouldn't have managed before."

Leslie leaned on one of the turntable's gears, and met her gaze. "I should be asking if you're all right."

"I think so," Mercy said. Her thoughts began to drift, back to days she didn't want to remember. "It just reminds me of how I got here in the first place. Turning cruel on another ship in the skies, it's a hard thing to do. The people who do it just to make a bit of easy money, they don't deserve a lot of my sympathy."

"Surprised to see you suggesting we let the rest of them go, under the circumstances," Leslie said.

"I can't help but wonder, if the winds were blowing slightly differently some day in my past, would I be on one of those ships you and the captain just ripped from the sky?" Mercy asked.

Only silence followed. Even Leslie, courtly manners and good heart, could have nothing to soothe that particular ache in her heart.

It was a genuine shock when Vincent's hand fell on her shoulder then. He gave a comforting squeeze, and stepped beside her. "I owe you both an apology. The past has left a splinter that's set close to your hearts, and I took advantage of your pain to make a fight easier. I ought to have considered alternatives, before asking either of you to put more grief in the skies."

Mercy felt her eyes water, and titled her hat down a little. But she smiled happily, turned around, wrapped her arms around Vincent's chest, and hugged him tightly.

There were times, few and far between as they might be, when people learned the right lessons from sorrow.