by Jack Conner
“And have they—gone undetected?”
“Yes, my lord.” The priest gestured to a row of supplicants; all had been painted in a ritualistic manner. “Would you care to honor these ones with the House of Joy?”
“I would,” Uthua said, then turned to Layanna. “You must be weakened, as well, Lady. Would you care to partake?”
Layanna studied the kneeling sacrifices, then Avery. Rain pounded on the hood of her jacket, but it had managed to soak into threads of her long blond hair that had spilled out as well. Her eyes were shrouded by night and hood, but even so he could feel the gravity of her gaze.
“I am weak,” she said, not to Uthua, but to Avery.
The others dropped their eyes, all except Sheridan, who scowled more deeply.
Avery swallowed, tasting something bitter. Damn it all. She’s asking me for permission to EAT these people. How can I? On the other hand, the group would need her strength in the fight to come and she could not give that unless she fed. He hated her suddenly for making him be the one to give such moral clearance.
“Go on,” he said. “Do it, if you must.” May the fates forgive me. Then again, if he could forgive Sheridan for mass murder, why not Layanna for simply taking in nourishment? Even if that nourishment was people.
With a grateful nod, she slid off her mount and moved to stand by Uthua while the sacrifices, singing, dropped to their knees before the two Collossum. They swayed back and forth, faces serene, waiting. None were what Avery thought of as infected humans—that is, first generation mutants, people who had eaten unprocessed seafood and become stricken with the taint of the Atomic Sea. They were all fully piscine, which indicated that they’d descended from a long line of fish-people. They were true ngvandi, then, not prisoners forced into the service of the gods. That didn’t make this any easier, though. Some of the sacrifices were very young, barely into their teens, and a few were particularly beautiful or handsome, with bright, eye-catching patterns in their scales or glinting, metallic striations that flashed by the light of the electric torches.
“I can’t watch this,” Hildra said, and turned away.
Avery did, too, as Uthua and Layanna brought over their other-selves and devoured the ngvandi sacrifices without preamble. Sheridan caught his gaze and held it, nodding once as if to give him reassurance. Still, Avery could feel the charge in the air when the Collossum’s other-selves came over and the sudden absence of it when they vanished. Reeling, he turned back. The line of sacrifices was gone. Layanna and Uthua stood straighter and seemed much replenished.
“Is the strike force assembled?” Uthua asked the priest.
“Yes, my lord. Your brother leads the land units. Both land and aerial forces are ready on your command.”
“Excellent.”
The lime-green high priest received the radio apparatus from an underling, punched some buttons and handed the handset to Uthua. The Collossum barked some orders into it in rapid-fire Octunggen that Avery couldn’t catch, then returned the handset.
“You’re ready for the attack?” Uthua asked Layanna.
“May I ask what the plan is?”
“We’ll go with the aerial unit to assault the zeppelins and airships and provide cover for the land troops assaulting the Necropolis. When it’s secured, we’ll land and enter, hopefully before the enemy has.”
Concerned, Avery stepped forward. “Tell your people to be careful where they fire. Ani will be down there.” When Uthua said nothing, Avery added, “You’ll need her to wake the Sleeper.”
“She will be looked after,” Uthua said. “Now—”
“Doc!” Janx said. “Look!”
He and Hildra stood near one corner of the building staring out into the night toward the south. The ngvandi gave them room but held their weapons warily. Puzzled, Avery joined him.
“Yes?” Avery said.
“I think I see your new friend’s ‘aerial units’.”
Avery stared into the black skies but could only see shadows against the clouds moving over the city—and dropping lower. Then he recognized the outlines and felt a swell of dismay. It’s true.
“Fucking flying fish,” Hildra said.
Indeed, the shapes winging through the night toward the building on which they stood resembled giant flying fish, just as Sheridan had said. Avery couldn’t resist a shudder as the first of the animals wheeled about the tower, rain dripping from their slick and glistening pale-white scales, their fleshy wings wup-wupping and spraying more water. Some gave watery groans and gurgles, but they made no move to break formation under the toxic barrage. Of course. They were at home in the Atomic Sea, of all places. To them this was nothing.
Hunched forms rode them, rough-looking ngvandi gripping guns, spears, even a few rocket launchers, surely taken from Octunggen or Ghenisan captives over the years. Many flying fish carried two ngvandi, one to pilot and one to shoot. A squadron set down on the building’s roof; the fish reeked of the sea.
The lead ngvandi, a great lionfish fellow, bowed to Uthua. “My lord, we’re yours to command. Your brother says he will launch the land attack as soon as you engage the air defenses.” He gestured to the great fish behind him. “You and yours are welcome to these.”
Uthua climbed astride the largest and most handsomely-outfitted fish, which seemed to have been reserved for him and which had no other rider, then indicated that Layanna should mount the one beside it, which was nearly as fine and came equipped with a ngvandi at its reins. All were a pale, sickly white.
Avery, Sheridan, Janx and Hildra were led to their respective mounts, and Avery blanched at the smell coming off the creature he was supposed to ride, not dampened significantly by the rain. The thing hiss-gurgled angrily at him, lifting his fishy lips to expose dripping, needle-like teeth. Its ngvandi rider cuffed it on the side of the head and it mellowed, but only grudgingly. One of the savages propelled Avery onto the creature’s ridged back, right behind its rider. Its fleshy wings were partly folded to either side.
“Stay out of my way,” said the rider, a blue-and-gray fish-woman with eyes shadowed by her hood. She spoke in the peculiar dialect of this band of ngvandi; Avery had heard it before. “And don’t touch me.”
Another ngvandi shoved a gun into his hands. “Fire when you’re told to,” it said.
Great, I’m a soldier now. He should be on the edges of this battle aiding the wounded, he thought, not in the middle of the violence where his skills were wasted. Then again, he was a king now, and kings historically led their troops into battle—not that these ngvandi could realistically be called his, and he certainly wasn’t leading them. If anything, he was cannon fodder. More compelling was the fact that somewhere down there was Ani, and she needed him.
Avery shoved his legs through the stirrups (First salamanders, now fish. It was not an improvement.) and held on tight to the saddle, careful to heed the female’s edict. To free his hands, he wrapped the gun’s strap around his neck and let the weapon dangle against his belly. The rain, dripping past his hood, was quickly cleaning his mustache of blood, but it burned his skin as it did. He realized his fingers were shaking with nerves and willed them to be still. The technique had always worked in the operating room, and, after some deep breaths, it began to work now. I can do this, he told himself. I’m like one of those old L’ohan cavalry officers charging into battle. This idea proved harder to hang onto.
Janx and Hildra climbed astride their mounts next, Janx grumbling all the while. His fish hissed as he got settled, annoyed by the big man’s weight, while Sheridan slipped astride hers as if born to it. The rest of the ngvandi on the rooftop were finding their own rides.
When all were ready, Uthua shouted, “Now!” As one, the aerial company sprang into the night. Avery’s stomach dragged, and he had to mash his eyes shut as the ground heaved then shrank below him. When he opened his eyes, they flew in a tight formation down a broad avenue, the red eyes of gargoyles flashing past. He looked behind to see a long stream of mounte
d flying fish behind him. How many of the creatures were there? There seemed to be hundreds, maybe thousands.
Wind and rain tore at him, the latter causing his skin to itch all the more. He tried to ignore it as best he could. He certainly had other distractions. Ahead loomed the purple crystal spires of the Necropolis from the heart of the Ygrithan quarter. Fantastic alien spires rose all around. Segrul’s airships circled the Necropolis slowly, almost majestically, their searchlights stabbing the night. Below grouped lines of pirate troops and stolen tanks, some with scorch marks on their sides, and the towering form of decapods, emitting less lightning now this far from the sea. The pirate lines encircled the Necropolis, claiming it as theirs and keeping any other force at bay.
The tide of flying fish swept in, and the ngvandi issued war cries. The winged column descended on the airships, firing guns and the occasional rocket. Avery had been given an assault rifle, and his pilot shouted for him to use it.
“Fire, you fool!”
After figuring out how to get the weapon off safety, he strafed a zeppelin as his pilot guided their fish past it. The recoil juddered Avery’s arms and he wasn’t sure if he hit anything or not, or if it even mattered; military zeppelins were well-protected from anything except explosives, and even these could not set their gas containers on fire due to the alchemical compounds in the gas. Avery thought he stitched a few holes in the envelope, but that was it.
Around him the horde of flying fish and ngvandi assaulted the zeppelins with all their might, spinning and slipping through their search beams, blowing holes in the windows of the gondolas and hurling grenades in. In some cases Avery saw ngvandi leap onto terraces and storm the ships. Gunfire lit the windows, and he couldn’t tell who was winning.
A rocket whipped by him, singeing his scant hair, then vanished into the night; he didn’t know which side had fired it.
Below the land force led by the other Mnuthra, Uthua’s so-called brother, surged from various alleys, falling on the stolen tanks and lobsters and ragged infantry lines of the pirates. All was confusion.
Stomach clenching, Avery saw another zeppelin up ahead and growing larger. His pilot was going to take him by another one. Fingers trembling, he took aim as they came abreast the great ship, shining in the rain, and fired. After two rounds his gun clicked empty.
“I need more—”
Lights flashed from one of the nearby gondola windows, and the pilot’s head jerked to the left, spraying blood.
She sagged in that direction, jerking her reins, and the flying fish began to veer. Panicked, Avery leaned around her, grabbed the reins and pulled them the other way. After some tugging, the reins came loose of the dead pilot’s hands, and he yanked them back the other way, toward the zeppelin, and up.
More gunfire sounded. Bullets zipped by his head. The fish shuddered. Then, with horrible stillness, it coasted downwards, the wind under its fleshy wings the only thing keeping it from simply dropping.
The back of the zeppelin’s envelope rushed up at Avery. He started to scream but didn’t have time. The creature struck the envelope’s back with an impact that jarred his spine and skidded along its length, spraying water and blood, indistinguishable in the scant light, and at last sloughed to a stop, bouncing up and down. The impacts almost flung Avery clear, but his stirrups held him in. As soon as it settled, the flying fish began to slide down the zeppelin’s flank. It hadn’t come to a stop on the most level part of the top, but on the slope. Now, slowly at first but quickly gaining speed, it skidded down toward the drop-off.
Avery pulled his legs free of the stirrups and threw himself off the saddle, landing with a wet thump. The fish flew off into oblivion below, wheeling end over end, nearly missing another mount and rider.
Feeling himself starting to slide backward, Avery shuffled forward on hands and knees, at last reaching a level spot on the taut skin of the zeppelin. Water seeped into the portion of his clothes reachable from the front, underneath his wax-coated jacket, and it both chilled him and stung him. All around, mounted flying fish, pirate-operated dirigibles and Ysstral aeroplanes battled each other for supremacy of the skies. It was just a roiling chaos to his eyes, and he had no idea who had the upper hand. Of course it didn’t matter, really. Segrul’s forces only needed to hold the Necropolis long enough to wake and extract the Sleeper. Presumably they had some plan for dealing with it once it was roused.
Avery climbed to his feet and looked around, desperate. What should he do, wave his hands and hope for a ride?
As if to answer this question, a fish flapped in out of the dark and alit on the zeppelin’s back not thirty feet away. Some commotion seemed to be taking place in its saddle, and Avery rushed forward to see Sheridan struggling with the pilot. She’d evidently placed a gun to its head to force it down, and now it was trying to seize the weapon and use it against her. With a vicious jab, Sheridan freed herself and jumped off the animal’s back.
“Ra!” the ngvandi shouted, and brought its mount back up into the fray.
“Bastard!” Sheridan called after it, not turning as Avery approached. Still, it was to him she directed her next words: “I’d meant to give you a lift.”
“It seems your pilot had other ideas.”
She turned to him, and he blinked at the wildness in her face under her hood. Her eyes blazed and her auburn hair framed an expression of savage fury. She was exulting in this. Without another word, she embraced him and kissed him passionately on the lips. He responded, relishing the feel of her firm body molded against him, then broke away.
“Layanna—”
“Yes?” she said.
He realized he hadn’t told her. “Never mind.” She could be watching. “How the hell are we going to get off of here?”
Sheridan surveyed the zeppelin top, then the aerial insanity that boiled and blasted in every direction.
“We’re not,” she said.
“Then what?”
“We’re going to bring this bird down.”
“But ... but ...”
Smiling, she pulled out a knife—one of two, he saw, although the other appeared to be more of a dagger, and strangely familiar, resting in a sheath on her hip—hunkered down and slashed a gash into the aluminum covering of the airship. She stuck her head through the hole, peering into the inner workings of the zeppelin for a moment, then led Avery over to where the envelope started to slope away. She ripped another gash, longer this time, and then, to his complete surprise, slipped inside the airship.
“Well?” she called. “What are you waiting for?”
Warily, he peeked inside. She crouched on a catwalk between two great air bags, knife in one hand, pistol in the other. Seeing no option, he dropped to the catwalk beside her, feeling his knees creak as he made contact. He found it unexpectedly hot.
“What are—?” he started, but she waved him to silence.
Moving forward, she rounded the gas bag, and he followed. A network of catwalks ran through the whole interior of the envelope, navigating around the carefully-placed gas bags, which were arranged on different levels. It was complicated and industrial-looking, a strange world echoing with the thudding of engines and the venting of gas.
Movement ahead. An infected man wearing overalls and a tool belt rounded the corner of a gas container. An unfortunate victim of mutation with shark teeth bristling from his skull in every direction, he and Sheridan saw each other at the same time. He reached for the gun at his hip. She was faster. She flicked her knife arm, throwing it underhanded but with force, and the blade buried itself in the man’s throat. Gagging, he reeled backward and collapsed, his legs shuddering, then stilling. Several of his shark teeth shattered when he hit the deck.
Sheridan ripped the knife loose, wiped the blood off on the fellow’s overalls, then replaced it in its sheath on her hip.
“My gods,” Avery marveled. “I’ll never get over how quickly you can kill a man.”
“Come on. We have a whole ship against us.” She rem
oved the dead man’s gun from its holster and pushed it into Avery’s hands. “I know you can use one of these, Doctor. You’ve certainly pointed one at me once or twice.”
He stared at the weapon. “If I must.”
She moved on, Avery right behind. The heat of the great chamber made his clothes stick to the small of his back. Sheridan navigated her way down the system of catwalks alertly, several times grabbing Avery and pulling him behind cover as enemy mechanics or troops passed by.
As they were waiting for the footsteps of one party to diminish, she turned to him and whispered, “About what happened on top—what about Layanna?”
“I don’t think now’s the time.”
“There may not be another time.”
Hiding a sigh, he said, “Layanna thinks we’re together again.”
“She what?”
Briefly he explained the situation, that he was sleeping with Layanna in order to win her back to the cause of fighting the R’loth. Sheridan’s face turned hard as he spoke.
“I know,” he said when he was finished. “I’m sorry.”
“You could have told me earlier.”
If I had, I might have lost you. To his shock, he realized that he needed Sheridan much as Layanna needed him. The notion made him unsteady, and also a little sick.
“I know,” he said.
Her voice was brittle. “They’re gone.”
Sheridan pushed on, and, sighing, he joined her. Soon they reached a rampway leading down into the gondola.
“You ready?” she said. “This could get hairy.”
“I’m ready.”
His jaw closed tight, he followed her down, gun raised and ready. This had once been an Octunggen airship, he saw, and the neat military precision of their people was evident in every curve and line. The pirates had chipped and scarred it, covered it with graffiti, mounted crude busts of their leaders and heroes on the walls, even some prime loot to show off the spoils of their way of life, but underneath it all showed the martial competence of Octung. In more ways than one, the R’loth had traded down when they selected the Coalition to replace the Lightning Crown.