by J. S. Morin
“To make you an airship captain in the Megrenn sky army,” Tanner said. “Though I admit I might be hazy on the title. Says he needs men who can sail, and ran out of names.”
“I am touched by his consideration,” Stalyart replied. “Touched in a rude and most inappropriate manner. I have told him I have no interest in his wars. He has, until now, respected my wishes. There are causes worth killing for, but none worth dying for. This very much has the feel of a cause of death. He seeks to dangle the promise of a ship before me, hinting that I could steal it after the war. What manner of fool does he think I have become? I answer you: none.”
“So … then … I take it you want me to pass along a refusal?” Tanner asked. “We go on doing what we do, and you and Zayne keep sailing together in Tellurak?”
“Oh, no,” Stalyart said, his face suddenly blank. “Not at all. Denrik Zayne would never let such a slight pass.” Stalyart’s ever present grin slowly crept back onto his face. “I have told Captain Zayne for years that his mind will go soft if he is not lied to and deceived regularly. It seems that this has finally happened. I have followed him for … hmm … over twenty-two years now. I think it is time that he was reminded that I am, after all, a pirate.”
“How’s that, now?” Tanner asked.
“We are going to steal his airship, and we will not wait for the war to end.”
Chapter 5
“Train soldiers to fight for a cause. Hire them when you need foul deeds done without question.”
Half a dozen filthy humans rummaged through the shelves of a general goods store, shoveling merchandize into sacks without even looking to see what it was they were stealing. Similar scenes were playing out across Enmer Deep, the second largest city in Tollopland. The rioting had entered its third day, and kuduks who had the means were leaving the city in droves. Enmer Deep was quickly becoming a human slum, top to bottom. Military patrols concentrated on shepherding civilians to the thunderails and up to Enmer Sky, where airships packed to barely buoyant floated off with refugees.
General Yurgen spat on the floor in front of the world-ripper as he watched, tugging at his freshly braided beard. He looked like a proper general now, he knew, but the braids tugged at his chin in tiny bunches, and the weight of the rank beads threatened to tug the hairs from his face. “All right, you block-fisted oxen, you seen what’s what over there. Them Enmerites need us, and them humans ain’t gonna want us, and that’s the way it’s gonna be. You see a human what ain’t cowerin’ with his hands over his head, you pull the trigger. You see one of ours in trouble, you put yourself between them and the trouble. That’s bein’ a hero, and that’s what you boys’re gonna be. You ain’t heroes yet, but I’ll be blasted if I don’t make a hero of every last one of you lot. Now most of ours is already shoveled coal out of there, but that don’t mean you can get sloppy. I find a hole what don’t belong in one of ours, there’s gonna be discipline.”
Hard eyes and set jaws all pointed in General Yurgen’s direction. He looked them over and gave a nod. It had sunk in. “You boys go do the good work. Corporal Oggit, open ‘er up.”
“Yessir!”
A second later, the viewframe became a hole to Enmer Deep, into the middle of Daljean’s Fine Goods. The squad was sixty strong, and led by a grizzled army Sergeant named Zeetler, who hated humans since losing his brother in a mining accident that was blamed on human incompetence. Every man was armed with a fresh-made coil gun, never fired except in the test range. The soldiers poured through the world-hole like an angry river bursting a dam, cursing and shouting as they fell over the astonished human rioters.
“Keep it open,” General Yurgen ordered, “and follow ‘em good. I want to hear what’s goin’ on, smell it.” He ambled around to join Corporal Oggit behind the bullet-thick glass wall that separated the control console from the viewframe.
It was exhilarating to watch, probably even better—and certainly safer—than actually being there in the deep, felling humans like rats. There were too many kuduks in the squad to keep track of all of them as they dispersed into the city, so he had Corporal Oggit zip from one skirmish to another. Most of the humans fled as fast as their gangly legs could carry them, but some made a fight of it. They threw rocks and bricks; a few had pistols and returned fire. All were quickly dispatched by the sheer number of Yurgen’s men and the power of the coil guns they carried.
They had a few close calls. Some rebel element among Enmer’s humans seemed familiar with the world-ripper, and directed their stones and bullets toward the controller. The bullet-thick glass held, but the dings where shots had struck just in front of his face kept drawing Yurgen’s eye.
Corporal Oggit kept pace behind a knot of soldiers as they chased a gaggle of humans down a sloping tunnel. Yurgen shouted encouragement. “Keep on ‘em, boys! Fire on the run; they’ll be slower if they’re duckin’ the whole way.” One of the soldiers caught a boot in the ruts of the trolley rails. “You imbecile! Get up!”
Despite being safe behind cover and standing still, Yurgen found his breath coming quick. “There!” He pointed, though none of the squad looked back. “Two of them broke off to the left. In the silverworks! In the silverworks, you blind, suckling piglets!” Yurgen clenched both fists until it felt as if his knuckles would burst from the strain.
“I’m not sure how well they can hear you, sir,” Corporal Oggit said. “Might need to lean around the glass.”
Yurgen narrowed an eye at the corporal. “You’d like that, wouldn’t ya? Easy promotion, draggin’ my keester out of the line of fire if a human gets ideas, seein’ me peek out?”
“No, nothing like—”
“Or you just coverin’ for them coal-eyed inbreds who just let two humans get away? Prob’ly rebels too, just our luck.”
“Sorry sir, it was just a suggestion, that’s all,” Corporal Oggit insisted.
“Well, you just mind that I don’t write that bit into my report,” Yurgen said. “Bad enough writin’ ‘em in the first place, without havin’ to write ‘em longer on account of yammer-mouths like yourself.”
Yurgen turned his attention back to the action in the world-hole, where Corporal Oggit was still following behind the chasing soldiers. “Better’n crashball,” he muttered to himself, feeling his heart begin to race once more.
In another viewframe, a far different scene played out. Kuduks lined the walls of a lavish antechamber, expensive furniture shoved into a corner so that they might all be bunched together under the watch of a single guard. They were bound at the wrists and gagged, the beards of the men shaved down to bloodied skin. By the door, two more humans stood with rifles in hand, peeking down the tunnel outside. Even through the viewframe, the fear in that room had a stench to it.
General Bradet paced in front of his troops, standing between them and the scene in the Council Hall of Kupak Deep. Though Draksgollow’s army had given him a promotion to general, he was still a sergeant at heart, his beard frazzled and less impressive than any of the men in his command. He scratched an itch under his chin as he decided how long to let them stew, getting them riled up watching a bunch of helplesses being roughed over. With a curt nod, he decided that it had been long enough.
“Listen up, washcloths, because I don’t want to go over this twice,” Bradet said, projecting his voice so that the soldiers in the back could hear him. “This is a rescue mission. Dead humans are acceptable; dead kuduks are not. Our number one priority is the safe retrieval of nine councilors from Kupak Deep. Not eight, not seven, and sure as shit not six. Nine. Count them up, if you sniffing flowers can count. I see nine, right plain as a plate in front of me. You’re going to go through there, put a bullet shield between those hostages and anything that might harm them, and get them the cracked, rusted bolts out of there. They ask you any questions, just tell them you’re here to rescue them, and that they’ve got to move. They get panicked or stupid, and don’t want to move, pick them up and carry them. Mind your hands with the lady councilors.
I want two of you on the heavy one there at the end. Once they’re through, you bring them down to the barracks, get them something to eat and let them have a piss, whatever they need. We’re a hotel from that point, and they’re dignitaries. Until then, they’re sacks of the most expensive meat you’re ever going to haul, and I don’t want to see bruise nor blood on any of them. Any questions?”
There was silence.
“Phase two,” said Bradet, pointing to the console operator, who took the cue. The view shifted to the next room, where two dozen human rebels, armed for a war, were packed together, fidgeting, waiting for someone to answer their demands. Bradet knew that, because he read it in the newspaper; it had been the lead story. “We will re-open the hole, once the councilors are safe, and we will eliminate the rebel force. That part, at least, I think you whistle-ears can manage without too much fuss.” He grinned, and his soldiers chuckled with some reservation. They were good lads. Still had a bit of a shine on them, but they would scuff with experience.
“First ones through, I want bullet shield mashed into the faces of those gun-toting humans, and I want both doors blocked off. Ready?”
“Yes, sir!”
Bradet grinned. It was good being general. “On the count of five!”
At the end of Bradet’s countdown, the world-hole opened, and his troops sprang into action. He couldn’t see what went on outside the viewframe’s vantage, as they had brought it as close as possible to the hostages to speed the rescue without impeding the flow of troops to do the rescuing. Bradet kept out of his men’s way, standing at the world-hole and ushering frightened councilors through as his men shepherded them.
“Come on, come on; get through. Make way for the others; you’re all safe, but get those arses of yours hustling. No time. I’ll explain later. Are you all right? Get going then. If that was a thanks, then you’re welcome, now move.”
In all, it took less than a minute. The three armed humans in the room were dead, nine hostages safe and cut free from their bonds, and a world-hole closed behind them.
“Who are you people?” one of the councilors demanded. She was grey of hair and sideburn, with a scowl that looked congenital. If it weren’t for the frazzled hair and a busted spectacle lens, she might have even been intimidating.
“We work for Draksgollow. I’m General Bradet.” He saluted, mindful of his orders from Draksgollow. They were supposed to make a good impression and leave it there. Much as he would have liked to backhand the ungrateful mule of a councilor whose first words free of a gag were anything but a thanks—it hadn’t been her who had mumbled gratitude through a burlap cloth.
“I’ve never heard of any Draksgollow,” one of the other councilors said, a man in his middle years with a mangled face that might never grow a proper beard again. “Who does he work for? And … what the quakes is this place? Where are we?”
Bradet held up his hands and gave a gentle smile. “You’re among friends. Go freshen up, grab a bite, and relax. We’ll figure out someplace safe we can deliver you, and you’ll be home by dinnertime. And don’t worry about Mr. Draksgollow; you’ll get to meet him before you go. It’ll be something you can write about in your memoirs, brag to your drinking mates about. And he’ll answer any questions.”
“All well and good, but who is this Draksgollow fellow?”
“He’s Korr’s solution to the human problem.”
General Knorlen clasped his hands behind his back, staring into the viewframe. Five minutes ago, he had ordered his troops to raid a church in the lowest layer of Kupak Deep. The city had been hard hit by the rebels, who had dug in and taken control of the lifts and stairshafts, cutting off all travel from layer to layer except those they permitted. Kupak was under siege from within. There hadn’t been a thunderail through in a week, and the two that tried were looted and derailed. Draksgollow had ordered a stop to it.
But the scene before him was anything but encouraging. The ragtag assemblage of human fighters was well-armed. Early intelligence sweeps through Kupak had given no indication that these rebels were coil-gun armed, but clear as the bullet-thick glass protecting Lieutenant Fedrin at the controls, there they were, firing back from around corners with guns that punched holes in stone. It didn’t help matters that the church was human-made brickwork, barely fit to stand under its own weight. The balls from the coil guns tore through the masonry like it was made of crackers—and not the rock-hard sort served in the cheap cars on the thunderail.
“I don’t like this,” Knorlen muttered.
“Yessir,” Lieutenant Fedrin agreed dutifully.
Knorlen fingered the coil-gun holstered at his hip, itching to order the machine on so he could offer support fire. Draksgollow would pitch a fit, risking himself like that, but Knorlen was rapidly approaching the point where he would either have to intervene or make the call to abort the whole operation.
“This should have been a two-machine raid. We could have hit them from multiple angles, right off.” He knew Lieutenant Fedrin was listening, but he didn’t care. Fedrin was no fool, and must have been thinking the same thing. Most of the operators were clods, simple dial-turners who happened to be quick with their hands. Fedrin was an officer, a bit quiet and bookish, but he had a head for strategy. He kept the viewframe on the most critical areas, shifting angle and location to match the flow of the battle.
“Sir!” Fedrin shouted. “Reinforcements!”
“Those rat bastards,” Knorlen grumbled. “How many of you are there?” He closed his fingers around the grip of his coil gun. It was now or never. To Fedrin he shouted, “Open the hole. Grab your sidearm and help me hold them off.”
Fedrin, to his credit, did not hesitate. The young Lieutenant threw the switch and rushed to the dangerous side of the bullet-thick glass, weapon drawn. The human reinforcements screamed to one another and dove for cover, but Fedrin had left them a prime firing angle. Knorlen and Fedrin were both taking cover and reloading before the humans found anyplace safe from their withering fire.
“Don’t worry, lads. We’ve got your covered,” Knorlen leaned around to shout through the open world-hole.
That was when the first canister came through, plinking onto the stone floor of the world-ripper chamber. It bounced erratically, the oblong cylindrical shape hitting the ground with a mind of its own. After bouncing harmlessly off the bullet-thick glass, the canister came to rest between Fedrin and Knorlen.
“Gas!” Knorlen shouted. He sucked in a deep breath of clean air, then buried his nose and mouth in the crook of his elbow, letting the wool of his uniform act as makeshift breather cloth. He and his squad didn’t have gas masks on hand; humans just hadn’t shown a propensity for using gas canisters, by all reports. Dropping his coil gun, Knorlen dove for the canister, hoping to throw it back into the midst of the humans—who also wore no masks—before it went off.
Just before he scooped the canister from the floor, two more joined it, clanging along the ground in an ominous chorus. “Throw them back,” he ordered, his voice muffled by his own sleeve.
But Knorlen had been right in his initial assumption. The humans did not have gas canisters, nor was that what he held in his hand. Crackling spark stung his hand, coming from runes etched all around the canister. His introduction to the exploding rune dynamo was very, very brief.
The sun was nothing short of an open furnace door hanging in the sky. Draksgollow thought he had been prepared for it. He wore a wide-brimmed hat, and along with all his men he wore tinted goggles against the glare. But there was no escaping that blast-wave heat from above, not without retreating back to the consistent cool of the deep, not without losing face. Certainly, he was not letting his men off so easily. If half the human population of Korr could take the outdoor heat in the growing season, so could fifty kuduk soldiers for a few hours.
The ground was spongy beneath his boots, lacking the comforting solidity of rock. With every step, he half expected it would give way and let him sink in to the knee or worse. Noth
ing grew in rock though, and to find farmers he needed to go where the ground was arable soil, not stone or even clay. An unfamiliar stench wafted everywhere, coming from all directions. Asking around had gotten him no answers to its source, since none of the kuduks knew, and none of the humans seemed to have the first clue what he was saying—not that they were inclined to be helpful anyway.
His soldiers tromped through wheat fields and orchards, pastures and sties. They were on their eighth world-hole of the day, the Telluraki humans spread maddeningly over half the continent. They congregated in cities, but city humans weren’t the ones he was looking for. City humans of this world were spoiled, soft, and either scrawny or fat, with too little in the brawny middle ground that he wanted. Countryside humans, even the scrawny ones, were built for hard work, with muscle on their bones and muscle in their heads. A thinker was the last thing he needed in a human.
Kep stood at his side, a clipboard in hand, taking the tally. A squad of four approached, two holding either end of a line of chained humans, two others flanking with leather-wrapped clubs in hand. The humans had put up a fight, but his men had it beaten out of them. Bruises, bloodied faces, welts all over, the menfolk had been almost too much trouble to keep. But now all of them were trussed up, wrists chained up behind their backs, tethered to their collars so that they had to strain to keep from choking themselves. They stumbled along as best they could, no doubt imagining bloody vengeance enacted on his person.
Draksgollow chuckled at one thuggish farmhand who had the gall to glare at him on the way by. He took his own club from his belt and reoriented the farmhand’s eyes in the direction he was walking. “Yeah, you don’t know what I’m saying, but you’re going to learn some manners.” He turned to Kep and lowered his voice. “Muddy piss, we’ve got to get someone to translate to these savages.”