The Celtic Mirror

by Louis Phillippi

  Kettelmann hesitated, but only for a moment. “I would require accurate charts for the sail, of course. It could be done without them, but the passage would be much simpler with them.” He knew roughly where Londstaadt lay from conversations with Thorkell, and knew that the world in which he found himself an unwilling prisoner was a flooded twin of his own. With charts and with a list of known landmarks he could create a new compass rose to fit the mad planet’s altered magnetic alignment. Without either, he would be reduced to navigating, as did the primitive sailors of his own world by remaining in visual contact with the coastline. That would be much too time-consuming and risky for a single-handed sailor, even one as accomplished as he.

  “Get me charts, Schiffahrer, and I will sail this craft into Londstaadt’s harbor alone.”

  “Only if I were to let you, Ausslaander,” the Suevian said with a short laugh. “However, I have no intention of doing that.” He turned to a heavy seaman. “Bootmaan, take this foreign imposter into custody!” He paused and smiled triumphantly at Kettelmann, “And you do not need to be gentle with him.”

  The seaman stepped toward Kettelmann.

  Kettelmann was no soldier but he was a survivor. He raised Eugene Stoner’s invention so that the front sights framed a tiny portion of the seaman’s midsection.

  “Halt,” he growled, “or I’ll kill you as you stand!”

  The seaman hesitated and looked and questioningly at the Suevian officer.

  “Bootmaan, I told you to arrest this Hochstaapler, this imposter!”

  “And I told you that I will kill him if he tries. Now I include you as well, Schiffahrer. If he moves one more step toward me, he dies, and you join him.”

  The captain placed his hands on his hips and laughed again.

  “You threaten to kill us with that broken crossbow? You are more of a fool than I suspected.”

  Kettelmann’s knuckles grew white. “This is the kind of weapons the Keltanern possess. This and weapons like it will defeat you unless I take command here.”

  The Suevian sneered. “It is nothing but a broken crossbow in spite of your words, and you are crazy.” He beckoned to the seaman. “Take him!”

  Kettelmann hesitated no longer. His finger convulsed on the trigger and the M-16 obediently spat three rounds, bucking beneath his hands like a marvelous and deadly beast. When the M-16 ceased its jerking rhythm, Kettelmann, hypnotized by the power of the weapon, still had his finger tightly pressed against the trigger. He released and pulled the trigger twice more.

  Only when the echoes faded did he become aware of the carnage he had caused. The Mercian sailor who had moved to arrest him lay sprawled on the quay, a shrunken, bloody thing, punched by several tumblers. A second seaman writhed in agony, dying on the stones beside his companion, gut-shot and groaning. A third held a shattered hand close to his chest and screamed like a woman in hard labor. Those who could still stand backed away from their commander, seeking only to escape.

  Kettelmann looked long at what he had done... and saw that it was good. A slow grin spread across his face and he turned the smoking weapon on the terrified officer.

  The man sucked in his stomach as if in doing so he could avoid the mysterious, hammering death.

  “How do you like my broken crossbow now?” Kettelmann purred. Then, as he looked down at his weapon to admire its lethal lines, he saw to his own horror that the bolt was locked open and that inside there was only the dark rectangle of an empty magazine which mocked the dead sailor’s open mouth. A magazine pouch hung on his right hip and the second M-16 held what he hoped was a full load, but he did not dare to reload or to switch weapons.

  He raised his eyes and found the Suevian watching him curiously. His posture told Kettelmann that the officer had regained a fraction of his lost confidence, and a confident enemy was a dangerous one. Yet bluff had always served Johannes Kettelmann well.

  “I asked you a question, Schiffahrer. Does my broken bow serve me well?”

  “It is a weapon made by demons,” the officer answered with a trace of a tremor evident in his voice.

  “Yes, but it is a weapon that can be controlled by men, Schiffahrer, men who will take this place and bring that airship down upon this priceless boat and destroy it unless you do as I demand.” Kettelmann relaxed as he realized that his bluff had worked.

  The Suevian held out his hands in a submissive gesture. “I will do as you say if only you will spare my life.”

  Kettelmann smiled. “Good,” he lied. “Send one of your men after the charts I will need for my voyage. While he is gone, you will personally release the lines which attach the boat to the airship.”

  The Suevian lowered his hands. “Very well. Magnus!” He shouted hoarsely. “Get the charts for the passage to Londstaadt from the Flottekapitaan’s office and bring them to this officer!”

  When he saw that the frightened sailor left hurriedly with only one backward glance, Kettelmann motioned to the Suevian with the M-16. “I hope for your sake, that he returns with those charts.” He took his hand from the M-16’s upper hand guard and reached across his body. He fumbled a fresh magazine from the pouch and held it in his left hand while looking for the magazine release on the unfamiliar weapon. He glanced at the Suevian. The Narr suspected nothing! Good. When he found the release, he slid the empty magazine from the rifle, dropping it onto the dock. It clattered on the stones like a discarded tin can. He locked the fresh magazine into place with a satisfying click. Watching the Suevian carefully, he slid the bolt assembly home, chambering the first round.

  His own confidence soared. He was close to success whether the frightened seaman returned with the charts to Londstaadt or not. He might not be able to hold off the Keltik attack when it came, as it surely would, but he should be able to bluff his way out to sea, safety and glory. The M-16 and its seemingly magical qualities would see him free of the Suevian and his brain-dead cohorts.

  Had Jay Kettelmann ever been a soldier, had Jay Kettelmann ever trained on the M-16, he would have known of one small but often necessary step most veteran warriors performed before inserting a new magazine into the weapon. A slight tap against a firm object or against the upper part of a leg aligned any staggered rounds solidly against the back of the magazine. Failure to do so often meant that the bolt might fail to pick up a fresh round after ejecting a spent one. An M-16 set on automatic fire could then become a single-firing weapon, one that forced the marksman to physically chamber each successive round. Time lost, and lives lost had taught the experienced soldier that trick.

  Smug in his ignorance, buoyed by his success against Morgan and Connach, and then again against the backward rabble who were losing the Keltik portion of their empire, Kettelmann decided to make his final farewell to the Occupied Territories. If the sailor, Magnus, arrived with the charts, good; if not, he was still well quit of this contested and dangerous place. He would have the Suevian cast off the lines which tethered his Geheimnis, Secret, to the airship. Then he would board his sloop and have the obstinate captain free him from the quay. The Suevian would, of course, die for his efforts. It would not do to have an organized effort mounted to stop Geheimnis once she was inching her way out of the cesspool these people called a “harbor”.

  “Schiffahrer, “he said, betraying none of his thoughts. “I would like you to now free the airship. Cast off the lines yourself, please.”

  The Suevian moved to obey. “Ja, Kriegenfahrer,” he said, addressing Kettelmann by his rank for the first time. A man’s manners always improve in the face of imminent death.

  Kettelmann smiled again. Other things were rapidly improving as well. He backed away from the braided cables that dangled from the airship and looked skyward. During the argument and ensuing bloody conclusion on the quay, the airship crew had remained as aloof as their craft, neither participating nor interfering with the power play on the ground. He clearly saw the pale faces of two crewmen as they watched the Suevian officer release the first of four cables.
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br />   Kettelmann raised his left hand in a reassuring wave. One airman returned the gesture just as a rolling pair of explosions reached Kettelmann’s ears, followed by the rattle of automatic weapons. He also heard shouted orders and the cries of wounded and frightened men from the direction of the explosions.

  He blanched and watched the startled Suevian officer freeze in the act of untying a jammed bowline.

  “Scheiss! Die Keltaner sind hier!” Kettelmann screamed. “Get that fucking line untied!”

  The officer hesitated. “Nein, Kriegenfahrer! I must return to headquarters. The defense of this space is my responsibility as long as the Flottekapitaan is absent.” He dropped the cable and turned to leave.

  Kettelmann’s hands shook as he leveled the M-16 at the disobedient officer. “Loosen that Gottverdammt cable!”

  The officer straightened to attention. “Kill me then, if you see that as your duty. I know what my duty is.”

  “Certainly” Kettelmann said in frustration. Then he added, “Your duty is apparently to stay here and help to lose the Occupied Territories. Mine is to gain them back.” His finger twitched once, and the Suevian doubled over, took three steps backward and fell on his back across the corpse of the gut-shot seaman.

  Like a vulture, Kettelmann slung the M-16 and dropped to the dead officer’s side, pulling a broad dagger from the sheath on the man’s belt. He began hacking at the heavy cable when a Mercian steam car slid to a stop at the shore side of the quay, spraying gravel and sparks in a broad fan. Three Mercian soldiers, two officers and an enlisted driver jumped to the ground and stared directly at Kettelmann.

  Kettelmann tried to ignore them and continued his dogged sawing. He looked shoreward, watching the intruding soldiers with a wary glance. They had not come from the base headquarters; they had entered the base from outside, so they would not know about the confrontation on the dock. As soldiers, they would not pose a threat to a Vulkanetruppen officer and might actually be enlisted to help him. The rifles could remain where they were…within reach if he needed them. He switched the now dull blade to his left hand and sawed, perspiration coating his face from the exhausting effort.

  Then he stopped, jolted to his core. The soldiers were approaching him, and they carried weapons that were very familiar: M-16s!

  His breath became ragged and his mouth and throat became dry. Keltaner! He dropped the dagger, and stooped to pick up the closest rifle. He peered at the faces of the men who closed the distance between them with rapid steps.

  “Shit! It’s one of the dammed Keltaner guerrillas and that fairy who blew Thorkell away!”

  As he watched, a large cloth covering fell to the ground from the three-axle car and two additional figures dropped to the ground. One was a naked woman, and she also carried the Stoner assault rifle. The other, a man, held a heavier weapon, one that Kettelmann remembered only from motion pictures that had dealt with American soldiers in combat; a light machinegun.

  The man was Kerry Morgan!

  “Morgan!” a panicked Kettelmann screamed. He swept the rifle to his shoulder and crammed the trigger to its stop. The M-16 bucked twice and Morgan fell to the ground.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  It was oppressive under the heavy woolen blankets, and Morgan suffered each irregularity in the road over the entire length of his body. The jolting ride, the heat, the lung-clogging dust and the pressure of Bridget’s body pressed against his made the opening gambit to infiltrate the sea base the most memorable short ride in his memory. An equal measure of misery mingled with near euphoria as his skin flinched away from the splinters that stabbed him while his blood sang with the electric effect of physical contact with her soft, damp flesh.

  Fortunately for his confused senses, the ride lasted less than five Celtic segmenti after the inexperienced Patrick urged the motorized monstrosity onto the roadway.

  “Frei Weg maachen!” he heard Connach shout, presumably to the gate guard. “Make way! The guerrillas are right behind us!”

  Morgan might have smiled at any other time, but just then, the danger of working slivers into his lips was too great. Instead he kept his mouth shut and ground sand between his clenched teeth. He did not have the opportunity to savor the flavor of the grit for long. A slamming explosion tore the air above the moving car, and small, hard and unidentifiable fragments pelted the blanket and rained against the metal sides of the machine. Arthur had made good his first toss, he guessed. He had not killed the good guys, at any rate. Good or not, Morgan considered that the onager throw had rattled the unseen gate detail even if it had not killed them.

  “Pass in the name of Odinn, the Father of Victory!” A frightened voice screamed.

  Morgan rolled to one side as the car made a respectable series of its own smaller explosions and accelerated through the gate. Then all sound blended into one continuous roaring that he remembered as the rising din of a total engagement. Deep throaty booms overpowered the distinctive chatter of MacCumail’s automatic weapons, and a bright orange light penetrated the threadbare blanket with a wash of heat that he thought might be the beginning of the end for the Vik fuel dump.

  Riding backward and sightless, Morgan was forced to picture the chaos that surrounded him by deciphering the smells and sounds of the infant battle. Since the car’s right to enter the base had not been challenged, Morgan remained low and placed his trust in the two noblemen riding in the front seat.

  The air beneath the woolen blanket thickened with the acrid stench of burning oil, and through the roar he could discern shouted orders, cries of pain, and the rattle of a single M-16.

  The car bounded over something he guessed to be curb sized and his half-raised head was slammed painfully to the floorboards. Beside him, Bridget/Aiofe expelled her breath with a sharp cry, and Morgan reached out but could not find her hand. He stretched again and touched her flesh, but before his fingers could close over hers, the car jolted over another obstacle, the solid tires locked into a sliding stop, and he was rolled brutally against the pitted sideboard.

  “Move!” Connach howled above the battle sounds.

  Morgan threw back his blanket with relief and squinted through slitted eyelids against the brightness of the day. Then he pulled the second blanket from his companion. She was bleeding from a half dozen small cuts yet made no complaint as she rose to a kneeling position beside him. A rapid inspection determined that she was not injured by anything more serious than splinters from the vehicle’s cargo deck, and he turned his attention to the inferno around him.

  The primitive car which had brought the guerrillas deep into the Vik camp, was angled across the stone-paved entrance to a dock which stabbed into the harbor like an exclamation point. The dock itself was identical in construction to those in Verulamium’s own harbor but lacked the ground rails that lifted boats onto shore. The three Mercian impersonators had already progressed halfway down its length before halting by piles of cordage and anchor chain. The piles of ground tackle blocked them from their goal and had also prevented an easy retreat. Behind them, at the foot of the dock, a terrified mob of Vik seamen pressed toward them, more by their fear of the onager’s growing accuracy, he guessed, than by curiosity about the car and its passengers. There was one more thing, he noted without pleasure, a lava flow of burning fuel oil was flowing toward the shore end of the quay.

  Already it lapped against the headquarters building and had begun to move across the flat parade grounds, turning it into a burning hell. The Vik sailors were themselves trapped in a narrow fire-free corridor, and Morgan knew that they would fight like animals to reach the relative safety of the dock and the boat that could carry them away from the flames.

  A bright flash followed by a dull roar jerked his gaze skyward. The airship that was still moored to the base headquarters building was enveloped in a clean hydrogen flame, adding its own heat to the firestorm below as it sank to join it.

  A rolling smoke pall darkened the day with a roiling, unnatural twilight. The harbo
r waters had turned a steely gray, shot through with orange and red darts which were reflected upon its disturbed surface.

  He quickly turned his attention toward the moored 4-D. The only living enemy in that direction was a Mercian soldier in a scarlet tunic who stood over the body of a naval officer. The standing man was furiously sawing at one of the lines that held the sloop tethered to the second airship.

  Alone, the airship could do nothing to move the boat out of the guerrilla’s grasp, but hovering above the fragile vessel and placed over an Inferno as it was, the enemy machine had become a potential incendiary bomb that had to be removed. He was going to have to give the Mercian a hand.

  “There’s only one soldier between the boat and us,” he told Bridget/Aiofe, helping her to the ground, “but it’s Vulkanetruppen and bound to be nasty. For right now, watch our rear in case those animals at the end of the dock decide to check us out.” He swung over the tailgate to the stones and brought the M-60 out of the car with one hand. It was “light” in name only. He had taken only two steps toward the front of the machine when a pucker appeared in its metal sides and a flattened bullet whined past his head like a circular saw blade. Kettelmann!

  “Get down!” Morgan shouted as he dropped to the ground, automatically following his own advice. He rose to his left side, holding the machinegun tightly against his body. He then twisted to his knees in one smooth movement and brought the weapon to bear on its target, regretting for the second time that he had discarded his combat tunic in order to declare his machismo.

  A second metal fragment sang over his head as he braced his weapon against the steam car’s side. His target filled only a tiny portion of his sight picture: the metal ring which encircled the cables that Jay Kettelmann had been trying to sever, the cables that had to be brought down in order to preserve the only escape route left to the small band trapped on the dock. He felt the passage of another round cutting through the air beside his ear.