by Chris Paton
“Dieter,” Hari’s arm shook.
“Almost...”
“Dieter. Look at me.” Hari forced a smile as Dieter looked down. “Take the girl, Dieter.”
“What? But I will have to let go of the rope.”
“And grab the girl, yes,” Hari nodded. “That is exactly what you must do.”
“How?”
Hari willed the muscles in his fingers to tighten their grip on the rope. Swinging his feet, Hari drifted beneath the window sill. The girl beneath him screamed as she bumped against the hull, screaming again as she slipped out of the shadow of the airship and back into the wind.
“I will swing her up to you.”
“Hari?” Dieter’s fingers quivered around the rope.
“One...”
“I am not ready, Hari.”
“Two...”
“Hari?”
“Three.” Hari bent his arm upward, tugging the girl closer to the window as he swung her small frame in an arc toward Dieter. “Take her,” Hari called out. “Grab her dress.”
Letting go of the rope, Dieter reached out for the girl, her dress billowing in the wind beneath the window. The rope snapped taut against the wooden sill as Dieter’s fingers closed on the girl’s skirt. Heaving her inside the window, Dieter threw himself to the deck barely avoiding the brass stand as it cleaved the screws from the deck, bolting out of the airship as it lanced toward the sea.
“Hari,” Dieter yelled as Hari dropped beyond the window, falling out of sight and beyond the shadow of the airship.
҉
Reeling under the impact of a shower of stone shards, Stepan slipped onto the street as the side of the building sparked from a combined volley from the Polyphase rifles. Shaking his head, Stepan pushed himself to his feet and darted toward a broken cart in the middle of the street.
“Don’t wait for me, Vlad,” Stepan shouted. “Just keep going. Get to that wall. Over there.”
Vladimir hesitated by the side of the cart. “Kapitan...”
“Run,” Stepan charged toward the Poruchik, flinching at a second volley of charged particles igniting the wizened stalks of hay strewn about the cart, now blazing in the street. Shoving at the Poruchik’s massive frame, Stepan pushed Vladimir past the cart and down a side street looping back to the gates to the Severnaya Dvina Shipyard.
“Kapitan,” Vladimir slowed by wooden doorway bridging the walls either side with a heavy stone plinth. He dragged Stepan inside the doorway. “There’s a barricade at the end of the street.” Vladimir caught his breath. “I saw movement.”
“The metal kind?” Stepan pressed Vladimir up against the thick wooden door. “Like the ones behind us?”
“How many, Kapitan?”
Stepan flicked his head around the doorway and back again. “Two – their controllers and a squad of riflemen.” He moved to give Vladimir more room. “Can you open the door, Vlad?”
“Already tried,” Vladimir shook his head. “Locked, bolted and likely sealed with cupboards, chairs, whatever they can throw at it.”
“The windows then?”
“We’ll be seen.”
“Then we have but one option,” Stepan took a deep breath. “And I don’t like it.”
The corner of Vladimir’s eyes wrinkled as his cheeks creased into a lopsided smile. “It’s always a pleasure, Kapitan.” He held out his hand.
“We’re not done yet, Vlad. But,” Stepan gripped Vladimir’s hand.
“Are we going to run? Take our chances with the barricade at the end of the street?”
“Yes. But before we go,” Stepan squeezed Vladimir’s hand firmly and then let go. “I want you to know, they were going to give you a command. A submersible of your own,” Stepan chuckled. “Of course, they were concerned about your height.”
“Concerned? The Imperial Russian Navy were actually concerned?”
Placing his palm on Vladimir’s chest, Stepan twisted around the door frame.
“Close?” Vladimir whispered.
Stepan looked up at Vladimir and dipped his head briefly. “Ready?” he mouthed.
“Go,” Vladimir pushed Stepan onto the street.
Running on each side of the street, Stepan and Vladimir ducked the first charged volley from the riflemen. The blast from each rifle searing and scorching the stone walls of the old buildings lining the side street. Vladimir risked a glance behind them as the clank and whine of gears pitched higher, echoing down the street.
“They are close, Kapitan.” Vladimir darted to the other side of the street, slapping Stepan’s back and pushing him to the opposite side. “Keep switching, it will confuse the controllers.”
Stepan careened into the wall, stumbled, and sprawled onto the street. He rolled onto his back as the clank, whine, clank of the emissary closed on him. Lifting its great sword in two massive metal hands, the emissary swung the pitted blade down toward Stepan’s chest.
“Kapitan,” Vladimir slid to a halt. Turning, he ran back toward Stepan.
“No,” Stepan rolled to one side as the emissary’s sword dug a deep furrow in the packed-earth street. “Run.”
Vladimir hesitated. At the sound of splintering wood, he cast a quick glance at the barricade. Two men clad in brown sheepskin tunics and long black shirts, kicked aside the wooden crates in the middle of the barricade, while a third, a woman, slammed a cylinder into the rear of a long-barrelled gun.
“Puckle gun,” Vladimir turned and ran toward Stepan.
The second emissary crossed the street behind its partner, clanking toward Vladimir as Stepan rolled back toward the wall, thwarting successive strikes from the emissary’s sword. Vladimir ducked beneath the emissary as it raised the sword for a fourth strike. Pressing his hands beneath the emissary’s grip, he pushed upward, straining as the emissary began its downward swing of the sword. Stepan rolled away from the wall, scrabbled to his feet and tore down the street as the second emissary clanked alongside its partner.
Arms shaking with strain, Vladimir let go of the emissary’s hands, ducking low between its legs he slipped through them, the sword missing him by a hand’s width. He looked up at the squad of riflemen readying their Polyphase rifles with a feverish cranking of the charging handles. Vladimir turned toward the second emissary. Its sword held high in its left hand, the emissary swung with its right, slapping Vladimir in the chest with the back of its hand. The Poruchik flew into the wall, slamming into the stone like a sack of flour, the air escaping from his lungs like a punctured airship. Vladimir slid to the street, crumpled and still.
Stepan stalled by the side of the last building in the street before the barricade. He stared at the men manhandling the Puckle Gun, priming the cylinder, aiming the barrel down the street and turning the handle. The first bullet blasted out of the barrel with a crack of gunpowder and a cloud that hid the gunners and masked the emissaries from view. Stepan pressed himself against the wall as the men burned through the first cylinder, scrabbling behind the powder cloud to fit the second, and then a third cylinder. The metallic pling and thud of the square rounds impacting upon the emissaries’ bulbous brass plates continued as the controllers used them as a shield while the riflemen retreated.
Stepan stooped to look beneath the cloud. Spying Vladimir, eyes open and clutching his chest as he lay against the wall, Stepan waved. Vladimir’s smile pierced the breaks in the cloud of gunpowder from the Puckle Gun as the gunners fitted a fourth cylinder, pushing the riflemen, the controllers and their emissaries further and further down the street. The distant clank of the emissaries, as they moved beyond range and out of the street, replaced the dull ring of lead impacting upon metal. The gun fell silent. The powder cloud dispersed.
Stepan peered through the thinning cloud at the lithe, swinging gait of a female soldier as she waved at the gunpowder with a gloved hand. Stopping in front of Stepan, the soldier lifted her head, smudging her forehead with lead and soot with a mock salute. Staring, she slipped her hands between her sheepskin smock and
the leather bandoliers crisscrossing her chest.
“Kapitan?” the woman cocked her head and stared at Stepan. “Kapitan of what?”
“I am in the navy,” Stepan held out his hand. “Kapitan Stepan Skuratov of the submersible division.” Ignoring Stepan’s hand, the woman continued to stare. “It is customary to shake hands with an officer.” Stepan waited.
“Not my custom,” the woman shrugged. “You can put your hand down now, Kapitan.”
“Who are you?” Stepan lowered his hand.
“I am Lena Timofeyevich,” she turned to nod at the men cooling the barrel of the gun with ladles of water from a wooden pail. “These are my men.”
“Timofeyevich?” Stepan squinted at the woman’s dirty face framed with long black strands of hair escaping a clumsy knot tied on top of her head. “I have heard of you.”
“No,” Lena shook her head. “You have heard of my father.” Turning away from Stepan, she began walking toward Vladimir. Stepan followed.
“Ah, yes, your father. I remember him,” Stepan muttered. “You are a Cossack.”
“Da, of course.” Lena tugged her hands free of the bandoliers. Stopping by Vladimir’s side, she crouched down to inspect his chest.
“I am all right,” Vladimir lifted his hand to ward away further inspection. Lena batted his hand to one side with a swift slap.
“I will decide if you are all right.” Pressing her knuckle into the centre of Vladimir’s chest, Lena smiled as he grimaced. “You are lucky. Only your ribs are broken. I have never seen a man fight a machine before,” Lena studied Vladimir’s face. “Most impressive, Poruchik.” She turned to Stepan. “You can carry him now, Kapitan.”
“Where to? Have you established a safe area?”
Lena stood. “This is your city, Kapitan. My men and I are just trying to get out of it.”
“With a stolen Puckle Gun?” Vladimir grasped his chest as he chuckled.
“Stolen? We found it. It is ours now,” Lena reached up, jabbing her finger an inch from Vladimir’s face. “Do you want to say anything about that?”
“No,” Stepan placed his hand on Lena’s shoulder. “Vladimir...”
“Remove your hand, Kapitan.” Lena flicked her finger toward Stepan. “I am not in your navy.”
“No, you are not.” Stepan removed his hand. “But I would be honoured if you would stay with us just a while longer. Until you find your way out of the city, of course.”
“Honoured?” Lena’s face softened.
“Yes.” Stepan took a breath. “We could use your help.”
Chapter 6
Northfleet Gateway Port
Gravesend, England
May, 1851
The bruised wooden gunwales of the Pride of London bumped against the greasy timbers of the freighter dock beneath the shadows of skeletal derricks swinging loads back and forth from the dockside to the steamjammers’ cavernous holds. Khaos balanced barefoot upon the gunwale, leaping onto the dock as the Northfleet men tied the mooring lines. She twirled between them, drawing stares and appreciative smiles from the men, damp and miserable as they were, in the wind and rain.
Stepping onto the deck of the river freighter, Hannah waved a thin oilskin envelope at the Master in the wheelhouse. She waited for him to join her as Aether and the Germans climbed the steps from the crew quarters and disembarked.
“Your payment,” Hannah pressed the oilskin into the Master’s hands. He opened it.
“More than I expected.” Pocketing the sheaf of notes, he returned the oilskin to Hannah. “I didn’t make her fall in the river,” the Master flicked his head in Khaos’ direction.
“More’s the pity,” Hannah sighed. “But that’s not what I have paid you extra for.”
“No? What then?”
Hannah stepped closer. “I need you to get a message to Wallendorf Industries in Frankfurt. Send a telegram to Luther Wallendorf. Tell him that I need to see him when we land. He must be at the dockside in Hamburg. There are more instructions in the envelope.” Hannah pressed the oilskin into the Master’s hand.
“All right,” the Master turned to leave. Hannah gripped his elbow.
“You’ll send the telegram, ja?”
“Yes,” he looked down at his arm. “Of course.”
“Good,” Hannah released her grip and looked down at the Master’ boots. “I’ll give you a pound for your boots.”
“My boots?”
Hannah held up her high heels. “I can’t carry these around all day.”
“You can have my boots for two pounds.”
“Done,” Hannah pulled two coins from a pocket inside her corset jacket. The Master removed his boots. Pressing the money into his hands, Hannah tossed her heels into the river. “What?” she frowned at the Master. “You didn’t want them, did you?”
“No,” he chuckled and handed her the boots. Padding across the deck in his thick brown socks, he stopped at the wheelhouse door. “Safe journey, Miss...”
“Ense,” Hannah pulled the warm boots over her bare feet. “Hannah von Ense.” The Master waved one last time before entering the wheelhouse. The door rattled in the wind. Hannah tied the laces, walked across the deck and left the boat.
“You were a long time,” Aether approached Hannah, Khaos tugging at his arm. “Everything all right?”
“Ja,” Hannah buttoned her jacket, pulling the tight-fitting tails over her hips. “I had to pay for our transport.”
“And you have money enough for the onward journey to Germany?”
“Ja,” Hannah nodded.
“Good.” Aether wrapped his arm around Khaos, drawing her close. He kissed her on the forehead. “I am looking forward to meeting your father, the great Luther Wallendorf.”
“My father?” Khaos took a step back. “But, my father is...”
“Romney, dearest,” Aether wiped the rain from her cheeks with his palm. “If we are to succeed with our plans, we really must stay in character. Isn’t that right, Hannah?”
Hannah stared at Khaos. Hands at her sides, she clenched her fists. “Yes, Herr Bremen.”
“See,” Aether twirled Romney within his arms. “Hannah will play her part perfectly. Everything will be normal and we will pave the way for our brothers and sisters to join us.”
“Will they need bodies, too?” Hannah held her breath.
“Yes, of course,” Aether leaned closer to Hannah. “Will that be a problem? There are plenty of people to choose from, are there not? Here and in Germany.” He gestured at the Germans and the Northfleet men chatting on the dockside. “I cannot imagine it will be a problem. Plenty to go around.”
“Against their will...” Hannah whispered.
“What’s that?” Khaos let go of Aether. Walking slow circles around Hannah, she ran the nails of her right hand along Hannah’s shoulders, across her chest. “What did she say?”
“It was nothing, Khaos. I am sure,” Aether held out his hand. “Come, Romney, let us banter with the men as we walk to the Steamjammer. Fräulein von Ense looks like she is in need of a pause for thought.” Taking Khaos’ hand, Aether pressed his finger upon Hannah’s chin, tugging her bottom lip down, exposing her fine teeth. “Do think, Hannah. Take as much time as you wish. It will be better that you do.” A fine blue light seeped out of the pores of the skin of Aether’s finger. The light spread over Hannah’s chin, drifting into her mouth.
“Aether,” Khaos warned. “We must not...”
“Calm yourself, dearest,” Aether soothed over his shoulder. Hannah’s jaw locked, her tongue sitting heavy in her open mouth. “I have often found, a long time ago, that a little demonstration of power is sometimes necessary.” Pulling his finger from Hannah’s chin, he stepped back as she pressed her fingers around her jaw. “There. Is that better?” Aether smiled. “What’s that? You can’t speak? Don’t worry, I have only slowed the muscles and skin around your mouth.” He leaned in closer. “Imagine what I could do to your whole body. Paralysis is such a time-consuming sta
te to be in. Nothing to do but think. The brain is the only thing we can’t slow. Think about that, during your little pause, Hannah von Ense.”
Hannah pawed at her jaw as Aether and Khaos walked over to the men. She watched as Aether reassured Armbrüster with a light touch on the arm that Hannah would be joining them in a moment. His words carried by the wind. Khaos waved, twirling about the men, her damp, red hair shedding beads of devilish amusement in the shifting shadows beneath the spinning arms of the derricks.
҉
The wind whipped at Hari’s robes as he plunged toward the roiling surface of the North Sea. Hands outstretched, the airship escaped him, growing smaller every second as he pitched downward. Hari stared, at the tiny people crowding the windows, peeping above the sill, staring, pointing at something to their right. Hari squinted in the wind as his view of the airship was obscured by a small gasbag deflating with a burst of gas bubbling from the valve in the bottom of the bag.
The oily black balloon filled Hari’s vision, shadowing his face from the onslaught of rain, and slamming into his body. Winded, Hari stuttered as he grasped at the ropes criss-crossing the balloon, scrabbling for purchase.
“Take this, Hari,” Luise yelled into the wind. Suspended in the leather bucket-harness, she tugged a hemp halter over Hari’s head as he slid down the face of the balloon. “Get your arms through it. Quickly.”
Hari gripped the leather guys fastened to the balloon cradle. Luise’s legs slipped sideways as Hari’s weight dipped the balloon. Slipping his arm through the halter, he cast a glance at the sea below, the roar of the waves competing with that of the wind.
“Never mind the sea, Hari,” Luise pulled the halter tight as Hari fought his other arm through the opening. Securing Hari to the chest strap of the bucket-harness, Luise leaned back to stare up toward the airship.
“Thank you,” Hari dangled beneath Luise’s head, his body twisting in the wind.
“We’re not there yet, Hari,” Luise leaned father back. “Where is he?”
“Who?”