by David Hardy
The concussion from the bursting anti-aircraft shell sent the Spad slewing sideways. Dave Malloy fought the stick, kicked right rudder, and brought the bi-plane back under control. He put the Spad into a dive that angled it down toward the Boche supply train crawling slowly across the French countryside.
The Allied command had gotten word from one of its intelligence agents that the train was carrying a load of artillery ammunition to the front from a supply depot behind the lines. Destroying it would not only hurt the German efforts, if all those munitions were to blow up it would damage the railroad tracks enough to make them unusable for a long time. That would put a severe crimp in the Boche supply line.
So early that morning, a flight of half a dozen Spads had taken off from the aerodrome at St.-Mihiel, bent on blowing that train to hell.
Dave Malloy’s plane was the only one left from that flight.
The others had been shot down by anti-aircraft or destroyed by a trio of Fokkers flying escort on the train. The German fliers had been devastating in their skill and accuracy. But one had burst into flames when tracers set off its fuel tank, and another was damaged enough that it corkscrewed down to a fatal crash, its pilot clinging stubbornly to the controls until the plane smashed into the earth.
That left only one Fokker and two Spads, and the Boche, his guns evidently having jammed from the way he was acting, fought the only way still available to him and rammed his plane into one of the Spads, ripping both craft apart.
But Malloy was still flying, and now all the Texan had to do was pour fire from his Vickers gun into the load of ammunition until it detonated. And dodge anti-aircraft fire from the guns loaded on a flatcar at the back of the train. Sure, that was all.
Malloy increased the speed of his dive. The Hisso engine under the cowling screamed. He had already fired the Vickers enough that it didn’t need any warming up. He thumbed the trips and sent a burst toward the canvas-covered cargo on the other flatcars.
A string of green explosions twisted past the Spad.
Malloy bit back a curse. The balls of fire twined around him and seemed on the verge of cutting him and his plane in half. The Spad shot through the tiny opening, just before the deadly noose closed.
Flaming onions, those blasts were called. Malloy had heard other pilots talk about them but had never laid eyes on them until today. None of the Allied pilots was sure exactly how the Germans produced the explosions, but they had brought down plenty of Spads and Nieuports and other planes.
Malloy knew he might not survive this mission, but he concentrated on the target and let the Vickers chatter its lethal song. From the corner of his eye, green flame blazed. It grew so bright he had to tear his gaze away from the train and look toward the blindingly brilliant orb racing toward him.
Another flaming onion?
No. Instead of a string of them, there was only one. And it didn’t blow up like the others, but rather burned with a steady light. Malloy was mesmerized as it barreled across the sky.
The huge explosions from below yanked his attention back to the train. Devastation marched along it as each blast set off the munitions on the next car. The engine derailed, and the flatcar at the back end of the train snapped like a whip being cracked. German soldiers and the guns they had manned flew into the air.
Malloy hauled back on the stick and gritted his teeth as if he could pull the Spad out of its dive by the sheer force of his will. Struts sang in the wind. He knew the wings were on the verge of tearing off. Smoke from the explosions below coiled and billowed around him until he couldn’t see anymore.
He didn’t know what had happened to the ball of green fire, but when he burst suddenly from the smoke, it was still with him, climbing steeply to his left. He barely had time to register that amazing fact before something even more incredible happened. A column of red fire slashed through the morning air, coming from his right. It struck the front of his Spad and the Hisso stopped without even a cough. The bi-plane began to wallow in the air as its propellor jolted to a stop.
Malloy didn’t know where the mysterious attack had come from. He jerked his head to the right and saw nothing but a thick gray cloud hanging in the sky. A glance to the left told him the flaming onion had disappeared. He had no idea what was going on, but he knew he was in trouble.
The Hisso refused to start or even to turn over. It was as dead as if every cylinder had frozen.
That meant he was dead, too.
Well, nothing surprising in that, he thought. He hadn’t expected to make it through the anti-aircraft fire, especially when those flaming onions had swarmed around him. He had lived long enough to complete the mission and wreak havoc on the Boche supply line. Perhaps that would end the war sooner and save the lives of some of those poor hombres down in the trenches.
Malloy smiled under his helmet and goggles as the Spad flipped over and began tumbling from the heavens. He’d ridden many a bucking bronc back in Texas, but he wasn’t going to ride this one all the way down. Instead he unfastened his belt and fought against the tug of the wind as he climbed to the edge of the cockpit.
Some doomed pilots, when there were witnesses, climbed out and posed nobly for a second before jumping off their planes. Malloy wasn’t that sort, and he wouldn’t have had the chance anyway because another crazy flip by the Spad flung him into the air. He threw his arms out to the sides and tried to right himself. Best to go down straight, like an arrow, rather than flailing uselessly the whole way.
Everything seemed to revolve until the earth was above him and the sky below. He was rising, not falling, rising toward a ceiling composed of trees and fields. Faster and faster, and he was still smiling as he lifted his head to gaze toward his destination, and then once again the green fire was in his eyes.
Chapter 2: The Colonel
When he’d arrived in France, he was just Dave Malloy, a lanky young fella from Texas who’d decided he wanted to learn how to fly one of those aeroplane things. He’d signed up back home and didn’t have to go very far because the Army had a base in Fort Worth where they taught folks to fly. Even some of the British and French pilots came over to learn more and practice there.
The Yanks weren’t in the war yet, but everybody figured it was only a matter of time, else they wouldn’t be training fellas to fly. Malloy didn’t like it much when he talked to the Englishmen and they called him Yank, since his grandfather had served with Hood’s Texas Brigade and Malloy had grown up hearing about the War of Northern Aggression. But now they were all Americans, no matter what part of the country they were from, and Malloy supposed he was all right with that.
One of the Frenchies told him he could join up with the Lafayette Escadrille if he wanted to get in on the fighting sooner, and Malloy would have given it some serious thought if the U.S. hadn’t decided to get off the pot at long last and go make the world safe for democracy. So Malloy went to France as part of the AEF and was soon flying patrols over the front and behind enemy lines. He seemed to have a knack for attracting trouble, and more than once, he came back to St.-Mihiel with his plane so shot up that he had to glide in.
It didn’t take very many of those times before the other pilots started to call him “Dead-Stick”.
It was one thing if the engine conked out when you were a mile or so from the aerodrome and already skimming the treetops. You could limp in that far, if you were lucky. It was something else entirely to have the Hisso give up the ghost when you were climbing high in the sky, miles behind enemy lines. Nobody could dead-stick a crate home in a situation like that, not even Dave Malloy.
So he was dead. That was all there was to it.
So why was some fella with a stern, lantern-jawed face and bushy side whiskers leaning over him and saying, “Wake up, son. It’s all right.”
The accent was crisp and flat, definitely American, although without a trace of the Texas drawl that Malloy was used to. He blinked several times and tried to swallow, but something seemed to be blocking his throat.
He coughed and gagged.
“Take it easy,” the stranger said. “That’s just helping your breathe. You don’t seem to need it anymore.”
The pressure in Malloy’s throat went away. He was able to swallow, but it hurt. He made a face.
“Don’t worry. That won’t last long. The little fellows will take care of it. They’re very good at fixing things up.”
Malloy looked past the lantern-jawed man and saw a pale green ceiling above him. He tried to turn his head so he could see the walls, but something held it in place.
“No, just look at me,” the stranger said. “You don’t want to try to take in too much at once. Believe me, it’s easier this way. I speak from experience, lad. When I first woke up here... Well, never mind. You’ll understand everything in due course.”
Malloy swallowed again, and it didn’t hurt at all this time. That didn’t make sense, but he was grateful for the relief, anyway. He licked his lips and formed the word, “Who... ”
“Who am I? A good question, although I wouldn’t have been surprised by ‘Where’, either.” The stranger drew in a breath and went on, “My name is Colonel Nathan Crutcher, late of the 7th Illinois Volunteer Cavalry.”
Malloy had become aware that the stranger was wearing some sort of old-fashioned blue uniform jacket. He hadn’t recognized it because he didn’t have anything to do with the cavalry, he supposed. He asked, “Am I in a field hospital? How’d I live through the crash?”
Crutcher patted Malloy’s shoulder. “Time enough for questions later, son. Right now, you just rest and get your strength back.” He started to turn away, and as he did, he lifted a hat he’d been holding in his left hand all along. It was a black hat, similar to the Stetsons cowboys wore back home, with a gold cord and tassels instead of a regular band and a gold, crossed sabers insignia on the front. Malloy hadn’t seen any officers wearing anything like it during his time in France.
“Colonel,” Malloy said, “I never heard of the 7th Illinois Volunteer Cavalry.”
Crutcher had started to turn away, but he paused and said, “Well, I’m not surprised. The regiment mustered out in October of 1865. I would have liked to be there to say farewell to the boys, but alas, that was not to be. The Atasca took me two years earlier, when the damned Confederates attacked us at Collierville.”
Malloy just stared and wondered if he might still be plummeting from the sky toward the French countryside. He’d heard people say that folks about to die saw their lives flashing before their eyes. That sort of made sense. Imagining you were in some strange place talking to an old Civil War colonel who had to be dead by now, that didn’t. But Malloy didn’t have any better explanation for it.
Crutcher settled the hat on his head and added, “I’ll see you later, son. It’ll be all right.”
Malloy was starting to doubt it.
Chapter 3: The Atasca
The sore throat had gone away, and Malloy felt surprisingly good. Energy seemed to be surging through him, in fact, enough so that it made him want to get up and move around.
He couldn’t move, though. Not only was something holding his head in place so he couldn’t turn it, his whole body seemed to be encased in some sort of cocoon as well. He couldn’t see it, no matter how far down he tried to turn his eyes, but he could feel it.
Once Crutcher was gone, all Malloy could do was lie still, stare up at the sterile, pale green ceiling, and try to figure out if he’d lost his mind.
Actually, this bunk or whatever it was felt fairly comfortable, and even though Malloy didn’t particularly want to sleep, he started to doze off. A couple of times, his eyes snapped open and he ordered himself to stay awake, otherwise he wouldn’t know what was happening.
Of course, he didn’t know what was happening, he reminded himself, and even if he had, there wasn’t a damned thing he could do about it, stuck in whatever he was stuck in.
So he might as well do like Crutcher told him and get some rest, he decided.
He awoke to the sound of some faint whirring and clicking. Light played in waves across his face, distinguishable even though his eyes were closed. Whatever was being done to him, it went on for a while. But it didn’t hurt. Nothing hurt, in fact.
Eventually, the sounds and the light stopped. Malloy opened his eyes. Somebody was standing beside the bunk and leaning over to study him, but it wasn’t Colonel Crutcher this time. It was some sort of monster.
Malloy had seen some strange things in his life, but nothing stranger than this. It looked like a man whose skin had been peeled off and replaced with a gray, leathery hide. The fella didn’t have any hair, but he came complete with the usual two ears, two eyes, and a mouth. No nose, though, just a couple of openings where one should have been. If there had been a scar, Malloy might have thought somebody had cut the being’s nose off, but it seemed to have been made that way.
“Don’t be frightened,” the thing said. The words were English, the accent very much like that of Colonel Crutcher. Malloy supposed that would make it a midwestern accent, since Crutcher claimed to be from Illinois.
Malloy would have bet a hat this varmint wasn’t from Illinois, or anywhere else on Earth, either.
The thing moved out of sight. Malloy heard some more noises, and then the cocoon around him melted away. He could move his arms and legs again, and as he did, he realized he was lying there buck naked. He didn’t like that much, but there were no sheets or anything he could pull over him.
The gray-skinned thing came back over and said, “My name is Jalton. You can sit up now, Lieutenant Malloy.”
“You know who I am?”
“There was identification among your belongings, as well as a written communication from someone in a place called Flat Rock, Texas, addressed to a Lieutenant David Malloy. That was sufficient confirmation.” Malloy would have sworn the thing almost smiled as it added, “We had to take Colonel Crutcher’s word for his identity, but he has proven to be trustworthy in all things.”
“Well, uh, that’s good to hear, I guess.” Jalton had said Malloy could sit up, but in a way the prospect made him nervous. He didn’t know what he would see if he did. But there was only one way to find out.
He put his left hand on the bunk to brace himself and raised his body so he could look around.
There were several of the odd bunks in the room, all of them empty except for the one he was on. They were more substantial than he’d thought, not bunks or cots at all but more like large chests with some padding on top of them. They had openings in the sides, and Malloy wondered if some sort of apparatus came out of them, like the thing that had held his head in place.
More equipment stood around the walls of the room, most of it rather low. Jalton wasn’t tall, Malloy saw now. Five feet or so. He wore a dark blue shirt and trousers. His hands seemed like normal hands at first glance, until Malloy realized they had six fingers instead of five. He wondered if there were six toes on Jalton’s feet, but Jalton wore boots so Malloy had no way of knowing.
He wouldn’t have been a bit surprised, though.
When Malloy thought about it, he could see that his choices were pretty simple. Either he was imagining the whole thing while he fell out of the sky, which seemed pretty unlikely... or else he was already dead and this was some strange version of the afterlife, in which case there wasn’t anything he could do about it... or he was crazy and was strapped into a bed in some sanitarium and ought to be screaming and gibbering, but that option didn’t appeal to him at all.
Or else it was all real, unbelievable though that might seem, and if that was true, he wanted to know more about what was going on.
“What is this place?” he asked.
He thought Jalton was going to answer him, but before that could happen, part of the wall where there weren’t any machines slid back and Colonel Crutcher walked in. No, not walked. Strode. Officers didn’t just walk.
“Jalton,” Crutcher said, “I thought the revitalization process wouldn’t be completed until
I’d had a chance to speak further with Lieutenant Malloy.”
“My apologies, Colonel. Orders from the admiral. I believe he’s eager to meet the lieutenant.”
Crutcher didn’t look happy about it, but he nodded. “Very well.” He turned to Malloy and forced a smile. “I imagine you have a great deal of questions.”
“Yeah, I reckon you could say that.” Malloy didn’t like being naked while the other two were dressed, but there was nothing he could do about it other than wish he had his boots, jodhpurs, flying jacket, and helmet. “Where are we, Colonel?”
“We’re on the Malagar, the flagship of the Imperial Atascan Navy.”
“So we’re... on the ocean?”
Crutcher smiled, but the expression didn’t do much to relieve the stern lines of his face. “Not exactly. We’re forty thousand feet in the air above France.”
Chapter 4: Flaming Onions and Little Fellows
So it was back to hallucinating, or being crazy, or...
“I see you’re puzzled,” Crutcher went on while Malloy was trying to gather his thoughts. “This is an airship, Lieutenant. A flying machine much like that craft of yours that was accidentally destroyed by the Zuliss. Well, much larger and elaborate and advanced, of course, but still a machine built to fly through the air.” He shook his head. “In my day we had observation balloons, but I never dreamed... Well, let’s just say there are a great many things I never dreamed.”
Malloy was tired of being baffled and naked. He said, “Where are my clothes?”
Jalton said, “I will bring what we were able to save, as well as other garments.”
He left through the same door Crutcher had used. While Malloy was waiting, he said to the colonel, “You mentioned something about Zulus. What’s this business have to do with Africans?”
“Not Zulus. Zuliss. The Zuliss Confederation. It’s a group of solar systems that have banded together. Obstinate rascals. Do you know much about astronomy, Lieutenant Malloy?”