Of Steel and Steam

by Pauline Creeden et al.

  "That will hold them for a while," Taylor said. "Might even take some of the bastards with us."

  "It wouldn't be a stain on our honor," Harding said. "And we'd be denying the enemy the use of the citadel."

  "It's the only course left to us," Perritt said. "We can take the troops and regroup further south with whatever units are moving north to reinforce us."

  "We will hold here," Lyle said. His voice held steady, though Whelan read the resignation in his visage. "That is our charge, and we will see it done."

  "Sir, we will not survive if we stay here," Harding said. "The main force is less than an hour away."

  "And we will meet them on the front lines," Lyle said.

  "I don't want to die here!" Perritt yelled, and slammed the table with his fists.

  Lyle drew his pistol, and laid it on the table before him.

  "Lieutenant Perritt," he said, never taking his hand from the weapon. "What is the penalty for desertion in a time of war?"

  Perritt remained silent, but the sides of his jaw bulged in and out while he gritted his teeth.

  Whelan slipped forward and took position to the man's right.

  "Your Captain asked you a question, Lieutenant," Whelan said over the man's shoulder.

  Perritt glanced at him, dismissed his presence, and looked back to Lyle.

  "Death, Sir," he said.

  How many times had he watched prim minor nobles like this one throw a tantrum? He lost count long ago. But he had ways to deal with them.

  "Keep your fingers from your sidearm, son," Whelan whispered. Perritt hesitated, but moved his hand in front of him. Whelan reached around, and relieved him of the weapon's temptation.

  "You are correct," Lyle said, and gave Whelan a nod of thanks. "And in case you were wondering, the same fate awaits anyone guilty of sedition. Any man here who wants to abandon their post, or encourages others to do so, speak now." He lifted the pistol, cocked back the hammer, and held it in the ready position. "We'll consider it a field test of the new munitions."

  None of the officers responded, or offered themselves as a target.

  "Good, now that we are all on the same page, we can continue." Lyle reset the hammer, and laid the pistol before him. "Private Perritt, you are relieved of your post. Report to corporal Mathers at the forward embankment."

  Perritt glared at Lyle, but did not move to follow the order. Whelan poked him in the back with the barrel of his former pistol.

  "Now's a good time to start following orders, son," Whelan said. "You know the penalty."

  Perritt stalked away, and slammed the door behind him.

  "Lieutenant Raen'dalle is now my second in command," Lyle said with a wave toward Robert. "It was his insight that initiated the citadel's defenses, and his skill that retuned the cycling chambers. I trust his judgement without question. I expect no less of you all."

  Whelan glanced at Robert, who showed no reaction to the announcement. Good lad, Whelan thought. He wanted to whisper his words into the boy's mind, but such a revelation would be deleterious at this time. Maybe later, after he secured the boy's safety.

  "The main force will be on us shortly," Lyle said. "They've pulled back their advance forces in anticipation of the strike. Any word on the condition of the battlecruiser?"

  "None yet, Sir," Robert said. "On last report, they were still repairing the damage from the assault. The destroyer Trepidation is still active, though, and stands ready to assist."

  "Thank you, Lieutenant," Lyle said and turned to the officers. "Once this starts, it will not stop. We are the last line of defense for our country. We stand between our people, and those who seek to do them harm. Remind the men of this, and make sure they eat. I want every available body manning the embankments and the artillery batteries. Any questions?"

  No one spoke.

  "Very well, then," Lyle said. "You are dismissed."

  The officers filed toward the door. Their trepidation remained, Whelan noted, but they kept their thoughts to themselves. The contemplation of one's own mortality was grim sport, he thought. Not that he had much experience on that front. In a way, he envied the man exiting the room.

  "It will be harder than I thought keeping the men at their posts," Lyle said once the door closed.

  "Duty and honor are hard roads to travel," Robert said. "It's not easy to commit your life to an ideal when death is imminent."

  "No regrets for you?" Lyle said. "What about Emilia? She'll be crushed with the news."

  Robert shrugged, uncomfortable with the topic of discussion.

  "That relationship was more one-sided than I've cared to admit," he said. "It's better for her this way. She can move on with her life now."

  Lyle chuckled and shook his head.

  "In all the years I've known you," he said, "you have not shown the slightest interest in any relationship, regardless of offer."

  Robert shrugged again, and lifted one of the miniature cannon from its position on the table. What could he say to that? Most of his life he believed himself immune to the allure of romance. He knew his family expected him to marry and carry the family name into the future, but he had no desire to do so. Not until he walked beneath Caliban's Crossing and saw her face. Her visage remained with him in his dreams, and called up desires he did not know he had.

  "You should see him," Lyle said to Whelan. "He attracts the eye of every female in the room wherever he goes, and he's completely aloof. The society in Ialkan'thor is abuzz with him. His last time there - what was it, a year ago - the ballrooms filled with the suggestion he'd be in attendance. And at every one, he stayed as far as he could get from the dancefloor."

  "You've squandered your gifts, my friend," Whelan said. "I'll take you under my wing when we get back to the capitol. Show you the sights, if you get my meaning."

  Robert ignored the banter. For him, the matter was simple.

  None of those other women were her, he wanted to say, but kept his peace. He did not want to dwell on such matters. She was a figment of the Fae, a glamour to draw him into their realm. And he doubted he would survive the day anyway. He had no desire to go to his grave mooning over a fantasy.

  Klaxons sounded throughout the keep, and the thrum of artillery sounded again.

  "Time for us to go," Lyle said, and headed for the door. "If you have any prayers your fond of, now would be as good a time as any to say them."

  The viewing window exploded inward with a shower of glass and stone. Robert threw himself at Lyle to shield him with his body.

  A dropship barreled through the side of the keep and smashed through its defenses. Its wings severed with the impact, but the steel construction acted like a gigantic bullet and plowed through the stone. The terrain table shattered when the prow of the airship slammed through it.

  Steam vented from its sides, and the access hatches dropped open.

  Whelan met the enemy with his pistols once they emerged. He fired a pair of shots in quick succession, and the sound of the spinning chambers echoed through the room with a high-pitched whine. A trio of armored soldiers fell dead on the gangplank.

  Robert jumped to his feet to meet the threat, and drew his sword and pistol. Musket fire from within the vessel filled the small enclosure, and he ducked for cover behind the shattered table. Soldiers spilled out of the craft, glittering with steel breastplates and helmets like ill attired Zephyrs. Robert stood to meet the charge, and fired his weapon.

  The energy blast lanced through two soldiers, regardless of their defenses. Their bodies crumpled, while their spirits stood in start relief, paralyzed by the shot. The energy dissipated, but when his cycling chamber spun, it flowed back toward him. Caught in its wake, the spirits of the men with silent screams on their ethereal faces were pulled along with elongating slowness. He moved, and pulled the trigger again. When the hammer fell, it released a more powerful blast than the first.

  Robert laid about him with his sword when his foes came too close. The weapon glided through the air,
with almost no exertion on his part. It seemed to know where he wanted it to go, and responded accordingly. The blade slashed through the steel breastplates with ease, and the cycling chamber in his pistol spun in response. One soldier raised his musket to block his attack, but his blade cleaved through it.

  Someone clubbed him in the shoulder, and he turned the barrel of his pistol toward them. The shot resembled the blast from one of the carronades on the prow of a schooner, and enveloped five soldiers at once.

  And then silence grew in the room, save for the spinning of Robert's pistol while it reclaimed the souls of the dead.

  "That's all of them," Whelan said. "Well done, lad. That was impressive indeed. I think I'll write a poem about it. Fren'Galgalad's Return."

  Robert ignored the commentary and focused on the room. All the soldiers were dead, and their spent bodies lay discarded about the floor. The hulking mass of the drop ship shuddered and gasped with an ominous hiss, and Robert pointed toward the door.

  "See there's no one left inside," he said to Whelan, "and make sure it's not going to explode on us."

  Whelan complied without argument. He wore a great smile on his face, and rushed up the gangplank. There did not appear to be a mark on him. Putting the boatswain's prowess from his mind, Robert looked behind him.

  Where was Lyle?

  He lay where Robert left him when the dropship first breached their defenses. His hand gripped a shard of glass that protruded from his chest. Robert rushed to him and slipped in the blood coating the stones. He took Lyle's other hand, and scanned the damage.

  "Promise me," Lyle said, his voice a rasping hiss. A foam of blood spattered his lips, and a rivulet dribbled from the corner of his mouth. Robert leaned closer to hear him.

  "Promise me," Lyle said again, though the effort pained him.

  "Anything," Robert said, and clutched his friend's hand.

  "Meriel," Lyle said. "The girls."

  "What about them?" Robert said. The words stuck with the constriction in his throat, but he forced them out.

  "Look after them," Lyle said.

  "I'll care for them as if they were my own family." Robert laid his hand on Lyle's forehead. "You have my word they will never want for anything. Meriel, Valarie and Lexi will be wards of my House for as long as they live."

  "Don't..." Lyle sputtered, and grimaced with the pain. "Don't let me ge..."

  The cycling chamber on his pistol began to spin.

  Robert saw Lyle's spirit rise, and a luminescent glow enfolded his body. He stilled his mind, and allowed the flow state to enfold him. With his mind he touched Lyle's spirit, and the cycling ceased.

  "I won't let you go, my friend," Robert said. "I won't let any of you go."

  "Remember," Lyle's ghost said beside him, "you gave your word. I'll hold you to it, my friend."

  Robert released the corpse's hand and folded it across the chest. He stood, and regarded his friend.

  "From this moment," he said, "they are all in my keeping."

  "Good," Lyle said. "Don't get yourself killed."

  For King and Country

  The Aeresian assault pummeled the line of Patheran's defenses with an avalanche of unrelenting iron shot. Their cannon roared within the confines of the pass, and the walls shook beneath the resounding thunder. Dark clouds rolled in from the west, heavy with the promise of rain. The red sky of the morning turned black, obscured by pillars of smoke, as if to hide the sun from the atrocity's mankind inflicted below. Fires burned along the pass of Sharil's Forde, and the shattered remains of fallen warships lay tangled within pools of flaming oil. Broken bodies dressed in the red uniform of the Aeresian crown carpeted the rocky soil and clogged the flows of the Devin river.

  In the failing light, the swallowtailed banner of Patheran flew high upon the top of the central spire. The gold, three-pointed crown and star on a field of blue snapped in the chaotic breeze.

  The soldiers of Patheran's 101st battalion stayed their posts beneath their flag, and from behind the bulwark of the citadel's defenses, sent forth the missiles of their defiance. Great pistons of steel braced the terrible guns of Sharil's Forde, and with each blast of flame the gun trucks squealed and the steam driven pistons screamed to push it back into place. Bloody and bandaged, lacerated and scalded, the gun crews fought the cannon back into position, pointed into the face of the enemy. High pitched whines sounded along the ramparts and overlapped, while the great cycling chambers within the weapons spun to retrieve their grim harvest. Iron shot sailed over the parapets, and shards of stone sprayed like knives through the air. Each successive blast from the cannon reached greater levels of power than the ones before, and scores of men fell before the malicious arc of its might.

  Standard procedure dictated a crew of five men for each gun. Two to sight the weapon along the vertical and horizontal axis's, one to work the breach, one to load the next charge, and one to work the steam lines for the bracing pistons. The first light of the day's sun illuminated fifty-five guns along the citadel's facade and outer defenses.

  By noon, thirty-nine remained.

  Of the two hundred and seventy-five men who began the day, one hundred and seventeen still lived to see midday.

  The gun crews now worked with three soldiers per gun. As the cartridges no longer needed to be loaded and replaced, they maintained a steady rate of fire despite the diminished manpower. The predictable blasts kept the massive air fleet far out of reach, and funneled what should have been an unmanageable flood of infantry into smaller rivers. Riflemen, secure behind the sandbagged and barbed wire ringed outer defenses, laid down overlapping fields of fire to dominate the avenues of approach. Their weapons, like the towering cannon behind them, increased in power with each shot, until each became a miniaturized, mobile carronade. Armored Zephyrs manned the main entrance, the airdocks and river access points with a pair of armed munition runners assigned to each. The rattle of their machine guns and pop of their grenade launchers created a rhythmic percussion to accent the battle.

  And still the enemy pressed in on them.

  Robert assisted with the forward cannon battery. The weapon's recoil threw it back several feet each time the weapon fired, and it needed to be repositioned before the next shot. A small pneumatic machine behind the gun pushed it forward on the wheeled trucks, but the crew needed to reposition the muzzle and set the trajectory. Small enemy fliers harassed the defenses and batteries, and fired their mounted weapons into the positions. A spray of bullets zig-zagged across the top of the cannon, and the crew members ducked their heads.

  "Son of an Extipana!" the targeting crewmen shouted when an impact pinged inches from his ear. "Target the fecking fliers!"

  "Belay that." Robert yanked on the barrel chain and drew the muzzle downward. "Keep trajectory at fifteen degrees."

  "One of those things are gonna take our heads off," the crewman shouted back. "We gotta shoot them down."

  "If the flier pilots were any good, we'd all be dead by now," Robert said. "None of them can shoot for a damn. Besides, they're too nimble and quick to target with these guns."

  Another flier buzzed past, and the crews took cover at its approach.

  "Keep working," Robert said. "We keep hitting the infantry, and eventually they'll pull back."

  "Lieutenant," the mechanical crewman called. "Message from Forward Observer. Aeresian cannon spotted on our side of the hedgehogs."

  Robert took out his spyglass and scanned the distant choke points. The Aeresians dismounted their cannons from the wagons, and dragged them through the hedgehogs.

  "New target," he called. "Increase elevation to high angle, fifty six degrees. Traverse eighteen degrees port."

  The gears spun and the gun barrel pivoted.

  "Target set," the crewman yelled.

  "Fire!"

  The cycling cannon barked, and a red blast of energy shot forth into the overcast day. Robert kept his glass trained on the target, and panned it to either side in quick jumps. The ordi
nance impacted the Aeresian cannon bearers, and bodies blasted from where their souls still stood.

  A high-pitched buzz prompted the mechanical crewman to shout, "Cover!"

  The insectile trill of the small propellers grew louder, and the crew positioned themselves behind the sandbags moments before the bullet strikes. One flier followed the next, each of them strafing the battery.

  The enemy crews took advantage of the fliers distractions, and lobbed iron shot and shells over the parapets and embankments.

  A well-placed shot impacted with the muzzle of a cycling cannon. The resulting explosion ripped the gun from commission, and a fireball consumed the crew, along with the upper corridors of the western keep. Chunks of masonry careened down onto the soldiers in the embankments below, and buried the battery to Robert's left.

  Robert grabbed his rifle and scrambled atop the new pile of stones with several other soldiers. They dug through the debris, eager to get to the men beneath. The world twisted with a nauseating tilt, but he kept working. A glancing blow, he told himself, and ignored the trickle of blood seeping from the gash in his scalp.

  Perritt's body came into view beneath the pile, and the men increased their efforts.

  When they pulled him out, his eyes stared into the endless expanse of death. The two soldiers beside him still lived, though one's limbs hung at odd angles, and the other's head became a bloody, misshapen mess. The soldiers hauled all three from the post.

  Robert pointed at the stretcher bearers removing Perritt's body.

  "You two," he said, "put him in the corner and help me hold this position."

  He unslung his rifle and crouched behind the sandbags. Already, the enemy detected the undefended flank, and a mass of soldiers raced toward the keep. Robert sighted the lead runners and pulled the trigger. The weapon kicked against his shoulder, and the cartridge started spinning in anticipation of the harvest before the first man fell. He fired again while the cylinder still whirled. Although not as wide as a full charge, the disbursement dropped several foes.

  The clouds, bruised and darkened from the repeated abuse of cannon shot, released a single drop of water. It fell past the fliers, past Patheran's banner, past the canon, and burst into a puff of steam on the barrel of Robert's rifle. Outraged at such an unseemly end, the clouds released their horded waters, which charged down from the heavens.