The barrel of Hand’s revolver paused between the two men.
“When that Martian Wichser shows his ugly face,” Zimmer growled, “I’m going to put a bullet right through his…”
Hand fired.
Zimmer screamed.
“He is beneath the dock!” Tanaka yelled.
Hand smiled as he heard the thunk-thunk-thunk of multiple hits against the boards above. The steam-powered needle-thrower used by Tanaka was a silent and deadly tool in the hands of an assassin, but not worth a tinker’s damn when trying to penetrate a dock made of Martian hardwood. He fired his weapon again, and was rewarded by another scream from the wounded Zimmer.
Something thudded against the wood even as quick footfalls skittered across the dock.
“Help me, Tanaka!” Zimmer screamed. Hand heard scraping sounds as the wounded man pulled himself up. “Come back!”
Red blood, human blood, dripped through the tight cracks.
Hand waited. He knew where Zimmer was from the moaning and the blood, but was not sure about the other man. The running feet had stopped abruptly. He pressed his ear against a nearby piling and smiled at the stealthy vibrations. Tanaka was returning, though there was no way of telling whether it was because he thought he could attack him under the dock or because he had found some measure of sympathy for his bickering companion.
Not removing his ear from the piling, Hand slowly swung his revolver as the vibrations increased. Then he fired.
Tanaka’s grunt was not nearly as satisfying as Zimmer’s cries had been, but Hand smiled anyway. He was about to fire a second shot at Tanaka when a volley of bullets peppered down around him, Zimmer finally using his head.
None of the bullets fired by Zimmer’s no-doubt shaking hand struck the Martian, but one traced a fiery graze across his arm. As he ducked, however, Hand lost his grip and fell off the catwalk, He grabbed the board with one hand, then the other, but lost his revolver in the waters of the secret canal.
Hand hung there waiting for more shots to follow, but none did. Instead, he heard desperate scrabbling sounds, whimpers of pain, and terse grunts of mutual accusation as each agent blamed the other. Then it was quiet except for the ebb and flow of the water. Disappointed by their escape, yet still mostly satisfied with the havoc he had wreaked upon the two humans, Hand pulled himself back up, then, when he was certain the dock was deserted, scooted to the end of the crawlway and hauled himself cautiously over the edge of the dock.
There was not a soul in sight, not even the curious, for in the neighborhood of the Barge and Bell gunshots were not a curiosity. As for Tanaka and Zimmer, they had evidently worked together long enough to escape, leaving behind only blood, bullet holes, and a steam-powered needle-thrower of curious design.
Weaponless except for his knife, Hand knew better than to try to track down the two men, for they still had Zimmer’s weapon, at least. Besides, in the time it had taken him to recover from the near-fall and get onto the dock they could have gone anywhere. In a rare display of prudence, Sergeant Felix Hand decided to head back to the Admiralty, think of a good story, which Folkestone would not believe, and let them know they were now looking for would-be assassins with holes in them.
Actually, Hand doubted they would again encounter Zimmer or Tanaka. Their mission had failed, and they were in no shape to continue. Likely the two men would flee Syrtis Major, if not Mars, as soon as possible. Every way out of the city and off planet was being watched, but desperate men could always find some means of escape, especially if they had connections, and from what Hand had heard, they were well connected indeed. He thought the overheard name would be of interest to the powers-that-be.
At the Admiralty, he was scolded for foolishness, threatened with charges of insubordination. But he was also commended for adding another piece to the puzzle.
He cursed himself when he learned of the Princess of Mars. He chafed to depart for the Belt. Before departing, they received a report of two men stealing a small aethercraft and fleeing Mars. Both men had been severely wounded.
Hand smiled.
Chapter 9
“The port administrator was less than helpful, evasive even,” Folkestone commented as Ceres grew small behind them. “Had we relied on him…”
“Instead of doing our own ferreting.”
“…we’d still be wandering around Ceres.”
“I didn’t trust him,” Hand muttered. “Reminded me of a sand-serpent, that ingratiating grin they get just before they strike.”
“Neither did I,” Folkestone agreed. “That was why I did not give him any worthwhile information.”
“Then why…”
“Because it would have looked damned odd if two furloughed soldiers on a lark did not pass an hour or two on the only real outpost of progress in the area,” Folkestone explained. “Remember, we’re not out here for any other reason than idle curiosity.”
“You think he might be with the opposition?”
“Even if he’s not, it’s better to assume he is.”
Hand fidgeted in the co-pilot’s chair.
“What is the matter, Hand?”
“Feels deuced odd being in mufti. Uncomfortable.”
“We can’t exactly be undercover in uniform, now can we?”
Hand snorted softly in annoyance, but made no reply. He was worried about Lady Cynthia, and he could tell the Captain was too, even if he had not given voice to those concerns. Those two humans confused him more than the rest of humanity combined. It was clear, to him at least, that they harbored feelings for each other, but were for some unfathomable reason hiding them behind a wall of bland indifference, except when they squabbled.
Like some old married couple, Hand thought.
“What do you find so suddenly humorous?” Folkestone asked.
“Nothing, sir,” Hand replied, wiping away a wan grin that had crept onto his face. “Probably just indigestion.”
Folkestone looked at the Sergeant dubiously. “Well, I suppose the food in that pub was ghastly.”
“Made me feel like having something French, it did.”
“You know, Hand, the Napoleonic War is not even part of your history,” Folkestone pointed out.
“If it’s part of the Empire’s history, sir,” Hand explained, “it’s part of mine.”
Folkestone sighed. He had never understood Hand’s fidelity to British culture. Drop him in London’s East End, give him a week in the streets of Limehouse, and he would be taken him for a long lost son of Bow Bells. On Earth and in the Provinces Beyond the Sky, the Empire fielded native regiments, but when Britain found its way to Mars it encountered advanced elder cultures, as it had in Africa. The Empire became more partner than conqueror. Most troops on Mars were human, but natives were still recruited. In the 63rd Martian Rifles, Hand was the only Martian, but he developed a strong affinity for English society. He revered ideals to which most humans only gave lip service. He cherished what others took for granted through accident of birth. And yet he never forsake Mars. In Sergeant Felix Hand, the ethics of two worlds, of honor, loyalty and friendship, fused to create a unique man.
“Anything?” Folkestone asked.
“Nothing in the aether, sir,” Hand answered. “Nothing on regular frequencies. Been scanning them all.”
Folkestone concealed his concern by studying the control console. More than forty-eight hours had elapsed since losing contact with the Princess of Mars. Now that they were less than twenty thousand miles from the calculated position of Pandora they hoped to detect some activity in the craft’s aether-radio circuits, but the void gave no token of their quarry.
Folkestone picked up the electromagnetic wireless’ transmitting disc, then hesitated. He looked to Hand.
“We have to chance it, sir,” Hand encouraged. It was what he had wanted to do all along, though he knew it might tip their hand if the signal were picked up by their enemies. “If the power is low…”
Folkestone made an adjustment. “Aethercr
aft Sky Dancer to the Princess of Mars. Please respond. Repeating—Sky Dancer to Princess of Mars, please reply.”
They strained their ears, but heard only the soft ambient hiss of electromagnetic radiation, the wordless whispers between stars. He tried again to establish contact while Hand returned to the aether-radio. Both men were frustrated in their efforts.
“I know the Admiral does not want to show any official interest in this region of space, but he may be forced to,” Hand said. “After all, it’s Lady Cynthia that we’re…”
The Martian stopped abruptly and leaned forward over a crystal disc set into the co-pilot’s console. It depicted disturbances in the aether around them.
“What is…”
“We have company, sir,” Hand reported. “Moving fast on an intercept vector of thirty by two-seventy.”
Folkestone looked down at his own detection screen. “Certainly not the Princess.”
“No, sir,” Hand replied. “Three craft, two scout-sized and one at least galleon-class, though they’re trying to be cagey.”
“Yes, I see, moving from asteroid to asteroid,” Folkestone mused, “trying to confuse their masses with the smaller chunks.”
“Ready armaments, sir?”
“Seems prudent, Sergeant,” Folkestone said. “Not coming to us with palms up, are they? Ready guns and torpedoes.”
“Guns and torpedoes, aye.”
“I’m extending the energy emitters and aether disruptors,” the Captain said. “That should give them food for thought if they come close enough to see us.”
“There goes our pleasure craft masque.”
“I’m taking us toward one of the larger masses,” Folkestone said. “Give them a chance to pass us by.”
“Not taking it, sir,” Hand reported grimly. “They’ve adjusted course, no longer trying to hide their advance.”
“Aethercraft Sky Dancer cease all motion,” a guttural voice commanded. “Prepare to be locked and boarded.”
“Sky Dancer to unknown ship, we shan’t comply,” Folkestone replied. “We are a private craft under British registry. Interference with citizens of the British Empire will be reported to the proper authorities on Mars and Earth. Cease your advance and veer off.”
“Prepare to be locked and boarded,” the voice repeated. “If you do not comply, you will be destroyed. Any resistance is futile.”
Hand grinned. “Whoever they are, they don’t know us, sir.”
“Indeed not,” Folkestone agreed, matching Hand’s grin. “I’ve never found resistance futile.”
“I like to resist, I do!”
“Live for it, more likely.”
“As you say, sir.”
“Close enough for a torpedo across the bow?”
“Not quite, sir.”
“Well, let’s see what they make of an aether disruption in their path.” Folkestone set the weapon to maximum range, calculated a vector, then discharged it. “Now the cat is out of the bag.”
Just as communication through the aether was an instantaneous manifestation rather than a rippling broadcast, an aether disruptor did not emit a beam, ray or wave; instead, it immediately created a warp in the aether at whatever point had been designated. In theory, such a disruption could be created at any point in the cosmos since the aether was universally pervasive and uniform, but in practice the range was limited by the power source, in this case high-yield dry-cells, and the capacity of the projecting rods. Since the targets were in constant motion, the disruption field, essentially a defensive weapon, need only manifest itself on the flight path of the enemy too close to allow for an evasive maneuver.
“Two affected, sir, the scouts,” Hand reported. “They’re adrift, but the big boy is accelerating.”
“If he’s spoiling for a fight, let’s not disappoint the chap,” the Captain said. “But target weapon and propulsion only. We want to be able to wring some answers out of the blighters.”
Hand scowled. If anyone knew the fate of Lady Cynthia and all the other souls upon the Princess of Mars the blighters attacking them would, and, by Harry, he and the Captain would bring them to task. He brought the aether-engines to full power and ensured the boilers were at full pressure.
Knowing that Hand was at his side, Folkestone concentrated on maneuvering among the hurtling chucks of rock. The thrust of the aether-engines gave them speed the larger ship could not match in the short run, but what made them a difficult target were the bursts of steam that instantly changed their course.
As the Sky Dancer emerged from behind a jagged, mountain-sized asteroid, the two men got their first glimpse of the enemy ship challenging them. At the same time, Hand released two swift torpedoes and sent a barrage of armor-piercers from the electro-guns mounted on universal joints now protruding from the lower hull.
“Black Sails,” Folkestone muttered, his voice grim and low.
“Dash my wig!” Hand exclaimed. “Now we know where those coves been hiding! Didn’t retire from the field after all, did they?”
The torpedoes sped toward the ship, tiny steam bursts erupting in series as cogs and armatures opened and closed vents to keep them on course. The ship evaded the first, but not the second.
“Port engine demolished,” Hand reported.
The armor-piercing bullets stitched the mid-section of the pirate craft. Steam vented through the holes, immediately transforming to shards of hurtling ice. The craft fired a volley of torpedoes, but their own sudden violent motion, caused by the expulsion of steam from damaged boilers, caused almost all the weapons to go spinning off into the nothingness. Only two came close, and Folkestone easily avoided them, one impacting into a nearby asteroid, the other lost in the vastness of the Belt.
“According to a Section 6 report I read,” Folkestone said, “the Black Sail gang was thought either destroyed or disbanded.”
“Guess not,” Hand mused. “But what the devil are they doing out here? Not a rich hunting ground, it ain’t.”
“No, these pirates have been set as watchdogs.”
“By MEDUSA?”
Folkestone shrugged.
“They’re underway again,” Hand said. “Sluggish though.”
“Well, let’s take this close and…”
“The scouts are back in action, sir,” Hand reported as he sent a stream of bullets out on of the electromagnetic guns.
As if to punctuate his words, their craft shuddered, a torpedo detonating nearby. Hollow clangs echoed through the aethercraft as fragments glanced off the outer hull, followed by a series of solid pings. Both men glanced at each other. Either the Black Sails were not using armor-piercing ammunition, and they had been extremely lucky. Folkestone engaged the aether engines, scooting the modified scout craft away from the asteroid.
“I’m taking us toward Pandora,” Folkestone said.
“You’re thinking what I’m thinking.”
“Likely their base,” Folkestone agreed. “We’ll see how eager they are to use torpedoes and such near their own crib.”
“The scouts are bearing down fast.”
“Any chance for another aether disruption?”
“No, sir,” Hand reported. “The cells are still charging.” He glanced at the mass detector. “The big ship is coming after them now as well, velocity increasing.”
“Doing well with the one engine,” Folkestone commented.
“Too well.”
“Let’s see what we can do for that.”
“And see if we can get the scouts to help us?”
“Good idea, Sergeant.”
Short bursts of steam directed out carefully calculated vents allowed Sky Dancer to pivot without any lessening of velocity from the aether engines. The Black Sails scout ships, which had been directly astern, were now in their path. Hand sent streams from the electromagnetic guns as Folkestone vented steam, alternating port and starboard, swaying their ship back and forth. They were a more difficult target for the ships, and now the enemy pilots had to work hard to avo
id themselves being hit. To Hand, there was an element of the game street Arabs of the East End called ‘chicken,’ running toward a vehicle at full tilt, leaping aside only when the steamer failed to veer off. Here, though, both participants were traveling at incredible speeds, and even a glancing blow could create a gash that would open the interiors to the freezing airless void.
Hand targeted the other ships as best he could, but managed to score hits only occasionally. His foes were doing much worse with cowards at the controls. He glanced at Folkestone, saw him hunched over the controls as far as the seat-straps would allow, eyes wide and hands bloodless, his lips stretched in a wide frozen grin. Hand looked away quickly, both because he needed to concentrate on the battle and because it was always unsettling to look upon the face of a berserker in combat.
When the scouts passed them, there were so close the men saw the terrified faces of their enemies through the crystalline canopies. Hand thought there should have been a scream of engines, a whoosh of air from the closeness of the passage, but the soundless reaches of space allowed no such sense of satisfaction.
“They’re turning about, sir,” Hand said. “But not with any real vigor. They might be afraid to catch up with us, don’t you think?”
“Quite,” Folkestone agreed, this tone calm, as if he had not just moments ago spat in the face of Death. “But they won’t break off.”
“Why not, now that they’ve discovered we have claws and teeth?” Hand demanded. “Those coves are cowards. They prey upon the helpless, and that ain’t us, is it?”
“It’s not about booty this time, Hand,” Folkestone explained. “Whatever is on Pandora, it’s what they have to keep us from, no matter what. Here, it’s watchdogs first, brigands last.”
Folkestone veered toward the larger pirate ship. Hand loosed two torpedoes.
Though the large ship was sluggish in its coursing with just one engine, it could still vent steam for quick lateral movements. One of the torpedoes missed while the other was destroyed by streams of metal pellets, streams that also sought to strike Sky Dancer.
Amidst Dark Satanic Mills (Folkestone & Hand Interplanetary Steampunk Adventures Book 2) Page 23