Brass Legionnaire (The Steam Empire Chronicles)

by Ottalini, Daniel

  Constantine smiled. “I think I’ve got an idea ...”

  ~ * * * ~

  The wireless set in the message room of H.M.A.S. Scioparto squealed. The dozing operator nearly fell out of his chair as a message came over the airwaves. He scrambled for a grease pencil and scribbled down everything he could get. His eyes widened in shock as the message continued. Finally the machine fell silent. The operator took a moment to wipe his hand across his now sweaty forehead, leaving a line of grease from the pencil under his airman’s cap. Almost automatically, he activated the wireless and sent the “Message received and acknowledged” indicator.

  The young airman read the message in its entirety again. Then he reached over and pressed the red-alert button on the wall. Klaxons began to wail throughout the ship. Steeling himself, he opened the speaking tube from the bridge. “Sir, I’ve got something I think you should take a look at.”

  ~ * * * ~

  “We’ve received a confirmation from the Scioparto. Looks like we may be getting assistance after all, Centurion, sir,” the operator confirmed, looking back up at the officers.

  “Very well.” For the first time, Centurion Quintus seemed calm. “We’ve got a battle to win.” He turned to march out, but paused to order the operators to send out the Request Assistance message on all frequencies until either they were dead, or lost power. “At the very least, we’ll jam their responders so full of our message that they won’t be able to communicate!” Quintus boasted. “We’ll blast that out over the airwaves.”

  The small command team left the wireless room and exited the small barracks. The remaining men of the governor’s guard met them in the courtyard.

  An under-officer saluted Centurion Quintus. “All present and accounted for, sir. Where do you want us?”

  Quintus hesitated, glancing at Constantine. “Your Lordship, as the highest ranking officer present, I hereby pass command of the garrison to you. What are your orders?” he asked.

  Constantine nodded his acceptance, then considered their options. “I assume the only entrance in or out is the main gate? Or is that too much to hope for?”

  “There is a small servants’ entrance on the eastern wall. It’s lightly guarded, but the gate is strong.”

  Constantine’s brows furrowed. “We better get a squad over there, just in case. Manus, go with them. Sing out if you hear or see anything.” Manus nodded, his face glinting with a sheen of sweat. “I want you in temporary command as well. Don’t leave your position, don’t open the gate, and don’t do anything stupid. Understand?”

  The young legionnaire straightened his back and saluted. “Sir, yes, sir!”

  A squad under-officer saluted him and they marched off through the gate, leaving the courtyard almost empty. Just a few men of the guard cohort awaited their orders.

  Quintus pulled Constantine aside. “Sir, there are a few others here who would be willing to contribute to the defense. It’s a bit unorthodox, but ...”

  Constantine raised an eyebrow. “Do you mean that you would arm civilians to help us out?”

  Quintus nodded. “Absolutely, sir. It looks like we’ll need every man we can get, untrained or not. Besides, sir, they’ve armed civilians.” Seeing the logic in this, Constantine agreed.

  Quintus stepped away, and projected his voice into the courtyard. “Alright, boys, time to get to work. I want the arsenal open and emptied. Get all the heavy repeaters and as many explosive-tipped plumbatae as we can carry. Buldrix, Vespansis, get over to the servants’ quarters. I want every man who looks capable dragged back here and equipped. It’s past time to be picky about service. Tribune Appius here has assumed command of the entire garrison. I’m going to go to the mansion and round up any volunteers or ex-military men.” He dropped his voice and winked at Constantine. “I know a few favors I can all in, if need be.”

  He turned back to the remainder of the guard cohort. “Don’t wait for me, get those reinforcements to the wall.” He leapt onto his ostrichine and galloped away, the machine’s metal feet digging into the perfectly manicured lawn.

  Constantine waited ten minutes for Buldrix and Vespansis to get back. Several messengers from the front gate had been back and forth, speaking of a situation getting ever so desperate. The noise and smoke coming from that area supported their assertion that the garrison was being hard-pressed by the rioters.

  Finally, the two legionaries returned, herding about twenty older men and boys before them. They really are scraping the bottom of the barrel now, aren’t they? Constantine thought. He ordered them equipped, and quickly returned to the wireless room.

  “Any news?” he inquired.

  The wireless operators looked frazzled. “We’re sending messages out constantly, sir, but no one is responding. Not even the Scioparto. We could be jammed and not even know it.”

  Constantine nodded. “Well, that’s a risk we’ll just have to take. Get yourselves equipped. If the main gate falls we’re coming here, and you’ll have to be ready to fight.”

  One operator’s face went as white as a bed linen; the other’s hands started to shake. “We ... we have to fight, sir?”

  Constantine grimaced. Are these men soldiers, or just boys in soldier’s clothing? “Not what you signed up for?” he snapped. “Last time I checked, you were both soldiers. Now get out there and act like it.” He turned and marched back to the courtyard, both operators scrambling after him.

  “Attention!” Constantine’s voice rang from the gray stucco walls. Men around the yard came to attention, several dropping boxes and weapons in their haste to obey. “Form ranks, prepare to march,” he ordered.

  About thirty men assembled in a haphazard fashion. Constantine was instantly able to pick out the actual legionary members from their drafted counterparts. He sighed. They would have to do. They look like my men did only a few weeks ago, he reminded himself.

  Leaving behind the wireless operators and a skeleton crew made up of the doctor and Infirmary cases, Constantine moved his ramshackle demi-cohort toward the front gate.

  Gray smoke rose ominously over the tall perimeter walls. A fitful breeze brought the smell of burnt wood and metallic char from burning buildings. Gritting his teeth, Constantine pushed his men harder, trying to ignore the draftees who lost their equipment as they struggled to keep up. Finally, panting from the effort, the straggling group reached the front gate.

  The governor’s mansion had not been built as a fortress. Its wall was simple and narrow, meant to ensure privacy and prevent trespass. There was no room to stand upon it, no parapet. Two towers flanked the largely ornamental front gate. They were twice as high as the wall, or about fifteen feet high. Several soldiers stood atop each, huddled behind shields as they fired crossbows into the crowd storming the gate, which was barely holding together. The defenders had scrambled to reinforce it with anything available; Constantine identified the bronze heads and stone pedestals of priceless garden statuary wedged amidst a tipped produce cart and several bodies.

  Spying the approaching reinforcements from his position at the gate, a harried-looking under-officer called to Constantine, relief etched on his face, “Thank the gods you’ve arrived. Where are the rest of you? We can’t hold out much longer!” Beside him, soldiers strained to keep the gate shut, shoulders to their shields, pushing back against the unseen crowd shouting its displeasure on the other side.

  “I’m Tribune Constantine Tiberius Appius, ranking officer and dinner guest,” he said as he joined the under-officer. “We’re all that’s to be had. Where do you need us the most?”

  The officer’s shoulders sagged. “You’re all that we’ve got?” he asked hoarsely. “Where is the auxilia, the constabulary?”

  Constantine looked around at the ragged remnants of the gate guard and the previous reinforcements. He knew something was needed. “Probably out there somewhere. In the meantime, we’ll take as many of them with us as we can. That’s all the emperor expects of you.” He jerked his chin toward the gate. “
Those men are beyond the emperor’s pardon now.”

  Exhausted men came down from the towers as fresh new men took their place. The under-officer, a sub-centurion named Halix, gladly surrendered command to Constantine, and brought him up to speed.

  The rioters had appeared early that morning, but at first they were peaceful, simply a large crowd milling around. They had not hassled those leaving or entering the grounds, even when the rich and mighty had gathered to honor the now Primus Caesar Constantine. “And then, when those two cargo airships started bombing the city,” Halix pointed at the cargo airship visible from their location, now busy eliminating city garrison positions along the wall, “the crowd suddenly got violent, and—well, you see where we are now. They just tried to use a battering ram, but they’ve pulled back for a moment.” He pointed to the smoke and haze slowly building over the rioters. “They’re lighting trash and rubble fires.”

  “Sir! You need to come and see this!” a legionnaire shouted from one of the towers.

  What could it be now? Constantine asked himself. Things can’t get any worse, can they? He climbed the ladder up to the crowded platform. His hands slipped on blood as he tried to find purchase on a bloody rung. A strong hand reached down and Constantine accepted it gratefully.

  “Not a problem, sir,” the legionary said as he hauled the tribune up onto the platform. The iron tang of blood and the stale scent of fear assaulted Constantine’s nostrils, driving out the smell of smoke and belying the legionary’s comment. “But you’ll want to take a look at this.”

  Constantine fiddled with his binocular case. “See the smoke and fog over there?” the legionary said when he’d finally extracted the optical tool. “We saw something moving in it earlier, but now it’s coming closer.”

  Across Brittenburg’s large central plaza, the mob was gathering again. Constantine lifted the binoculars to his eyes. In the smoke, he could just make out several large, segmented legs and a brick-like body. Central Waste Collection was painted on its side. Was that the mechanical monstrosity he had seen earlier? “Why would they have a garbage collection vehicle here? Are they planning to burn it?” he wondered aloud. He swept his binoculars along the distant rioters.

  “Get down, Tribune, sir!” several men shouted at once. A hand grabbed his cloak and yanked him back and down; he landed on the platform, his arms and legs splaying every which way. A long shape flickered overhead and disappeared behind them.

  Constantine brushed himself off and knelt next to the parapet. An explosion shook the tower. “Where did that come from?” he asked. Another soldier pointed to the trash hauler. Constantine sighed. He worked his way over to the side facing the mansion grounds. A fresh crater was still smoking in the lawn, about fifty yards behind the gate. He turned back to the front line. Things had just gone from bad to worse. “Who on terra turns a trash hauler into a war machine?”

  Chapter 11

  “The Fates will be busy today,” Captain Alexandros said.

  Acting Tribune Vibius, temporarily commanding the 13th Rapid Assault and Response Cohort of the XIII Germania Legion, nodded in agreement. “The men are ready, you just have to get us into position, as close as you possibly can,” he said. “Remember, my men are still essentially unblooded. A scrap with another cohort does not make them into a veteran unit.”

  Alexandros turned to the acting tribune. “No need to worry, Vibius; this is not my first ball. I’ll make sure your lads get into battle with nary a scratch nor a blemish on ’em. But we have to get them there first, and that involves my full attention. Now, if you will see to your men, I will see to my ship.”

  Vibius saluted and removed himself from the bridge, boots clomping on the metal deck. Alexandros turned. “Bring us up to combat speed,” he ordered. “I want us to take out at least one of those fat cargo flyers before they have a chance to double-team us.”

  He reached down and pulled a lever. “All hands, we are now at battle stations. Chiefs, inform your divisions and arm all weaponry. Aim for the gas bag—let’s try to take her down in one swoop.” Gods, please don’t let those fat bugs be double hulled. We might not survive that encounter.

  The Scioparto had been running at full speed ever since she had received the distress call from Brittenburg. Alexandros had thought quickly, dispatching several messengers to the command center in case the saboteurs had friends. In fact, upon receiving the report, Legate General Minnicus himself had questioned the wireless operator who had failed to pass on the increasingly desperate messages from the city. The man was soon turned over to the intelligence division for further interrogation after inconsistencies developed in his story—such as wireless equipment that worked perfectly, once he was removed.

  The general had instantly realized that they needed a way to reinforce the city fast. His decision to put the 125 untested men of the 13th Cohort at the vanguard was both controversial and risky, but it was the only chance he had of getting any soldiers to the city in time to be helpful. So while the rest of the legion formed up to be loaded onto a requisitioned express steamtrain, the 13th boarded the Scioparto in full combat rig, prepared to drop into an urban war zone, the most dangerous type imaginable. Which had already had Captain Alexandros sweating.

  Now, he gripped the armrests of his captain’s chair and stared down at the airship looming ahead of them. Moments after coming within engagement range, he had already revised his opinion of the capabilities of the usually sluggish cargo flyers. His suspicion that they were, in fact, Nortland Karlock-class raiders was confirmed the second he saw the first bombs dropped from the large, boxish gondola amidships. They look like the newer class, so they are probably double hulled. We’re going to have to take them out the old-fashioned way.

  “Get us nice and close. I want to eliminate his ability to respond before he realizes he’s lost it,” he told the helmsman. The veteran airman gripped the copper and wooden helm tightly, moving the Scioparto slowly, slowly closer, directly from behind.

  “Move to his port side; I want us screened from their friend closer to the bay,” Alexandros ordered. The bridge fell silent as the crewmembers around him gazed out the observation windows with anticipation, like him, no doubt praying that their opponents were too busy wreaking havoc on the undefended city below to notice the smaller Scioparto sliding up next to them. With no defensive fire from the city ramparts whose defense towers burned like torches around a ring, Alexandros heard the hum of the engines, the shuffle of crewmembers passing out in the hallway, and little else.

  “We’re in optimal firing range, sir,” the weapons officer on the starboard side reported.

  This close, Alexandros could see the painted designs and cleverly disguised artillery ports. Several were open, but the launchers were aimed downward; occasionally, explosive-tipped bolts flew down onto the buildings below.

  “Captain, markings indicate she is the airship Thorolf. Definitely a warship,” the watch officer called.

  “Very well, she is a combatant, then. All starboard batteries, fire at will!” Alexandros ordered.

  The weapons officer twisted a dial and a green light flashed along the starboard weapons galleries. “Fire!” cried the artillery deck officers. Repeater scorpion launchers and heavier, single-shot ballistae threw everything they had at the unsuspecting Nortlander vessel. The repeater launchers aimed for the gasbag and glass-enclosed bridge, their five foot-long, steel-tipped darts shattering the glass to pierce those crewing the raider and destroy equipment. Glass shards flew everywhere, incapacitating many of the deck officers and killing others. Another artillery crew got a lucky shot right into the weapons gallery facing them, destroying weaponry and severing several steam conduits.

  Alexandros’s well-trained crew maintained an intense volume of fire, rapidly emptying boxes of ammunition that were quickly replenished from the centralized arsenal. Each package of bolts contained ten shots, which a crew could use inside of two minutes. Occasionally, a scorpion threw a bolt or required a spring repl
acement—such heavy use in a short period of time strained them immensely.

  Complementing the faster-firing scorpion launchers were the explosive throwing ballistae. The gun crews took more care and time here, as a dropped shell could mean an explosion inside their own ship. The loader winched down the U-shaped holder and nestled the black powder-filled iron egg into place. The gunner then carefully selected his target, allowing for gravity and wind, found the trigger with both hands, and fired.

  One of these iron balls careened across the space between the two ships and hit right next to a crew compartment. The impact shook the enemy ship as the explosion tore a jagged hole between two decks.

  A few launchers returned fire from the beleaguered Nortland ship. It was sporadic, but it kept the crew of the Scioparto on their toes. “Brace for upshot!” Alexandros shouted, and the warning to the airmen below to find a handhold was relayed, even as the ship abruptly lifted upward as the Scioparto dumped ballast, gaining about a hundred feet on its floundering opponent. Alexandros smiled. The artillery crews on both decks could now hit the exposed topside of the raider. The crews again went to work, quickly eliminating the small topside ballistae positions and shredding the thick canvas of the gasbag.

  The ship was in major trouble now, and the artillery fire from Scioparto paused as the ship below them rapidly lost altitude. Even with a double hull, the gasbag was punctured in too many places for the airship to stay aloft. The dying ship descended toward the central plaza, eventually crashing through apartment complexes and sliding along a major thoroughfare, spilling men, steel, iron, and other airship components everywhere. Parts of the ship crashed through a mob of people in front of the gates of the governor’s mansion.

  The crew’s cheers filtered into the bridge as the officers congratulated Captain Alexandros.

  “Excellent work, sir. You really pulled a fast one on them!”