“Silence, fool!” came the hoped-for muffled order.
Dennis eased the dead man to the ground, then slowly pulled his Pattern 1917 cutlass from its sheath. Like his giant rifled musket and his 1911 Colt, he never went anywhere without it. Trying to imitate the pissing man’s stride, he moved back toward the prisoners. He had maybe a couple of seconds at best before he was discovered. For one thing, he was much taller than his victim.
A dark form fluttered in the corner of his good eye and he saw Lawrence pounce on the man farthest from him. In the same instant that Lawrence dug his hind claws into the man’s chest, clamped his jaws on his throat, and launched himself backward into the darkness, Silva drove the cutlass into the ill-defined torso of the other guard. Both emitted hideous, wrenching screams. He yanked Sandra’s gag down under her chin. “Surprise!” he said. “It’s me!”
“Our feet first!” Sandra gasped. “It’s Billingsly! He’s trying to take the princess!”
“I figgered that!” Silva said, hacking at the ropes that bound their feet with just enough slack to walk or stand. A musket fired and a jet of blinding flame flashed from the boat. “Ow!” he said. The ball had grazed his hip. In the darkness, it could just as easily have hit one of the girls.
“Stop them!” someone bellowed. “They mustn’t escape!” A pistol flared with a loud ker-thump!
“Help! Help!” screamed Abel’s voice. “The Imperials are attacking! They are taking the princess! Help!”
Lawrence killed another man and a musket flashed in his direction.
With their feet free, Silva started working on their hands.
“No time!” Sandra shouted. “We’re tied together too! We can’t run like this!”
“Got to!” Silva replied. “Go!” He unslung his rifle and pointed it at the boat. With a mighty roar that anyone in the city who saw or heard it would recognize, he hoped he’d scuttled Billingsly’s escape. Another musket fired from near the top of the ramp. Not the cavalry then, Silva realized. None of the new Springfield muskets had been issued yet. Must be the ones these others were waiting for! He heard Abel scream again, in pain this time. He dropped his rifle and pulled the Colt, flipping the safety with his thumb. “Get down, boy!” he roared, and emptied the magazine in the direction of the shot. “Run!” he shouted at the three ladies. “Run like hell that way!” He spun back toward the boat.
Evidently, he’d miscounted. Other men must have been in the boat as well, because there still seemed to be as many enemies as he and Lawrence had started with. He had only the cutlass now. “C’mon, Larry!” he thundered. “Kill ’em all! No pris’ners!”
Gilbert Yeager awoke from a happy, muzzy dream of happy, muzzy steam coursing joyfully through clean, tight pipes and leaping energetically at polished turbine blades. Something was booming somewhere and somebody had definitely stepped on him. Silly, rude bastards! Couldn’t they tell he was asleep? Now somebody was shaking him, trying to get him off the miraculously cool pipe where he was listening to the glorious song of steam. “Whatcha fagarattin’ ta da boomin’ slip!” he demanded indignantly. He sat up, realizing he was still on the warm, damp dock where he’d apparently passed out. He blinked in the darkness. A bright flash not far away lit sparklers in his eyes. “Ahhhg!”
“Somebody’s tryin’ to swipe the princess!” Tabby said beside him. She was still shaking his head.
“So? Lemme alone!”
“No! We must do something! There is a fight, and Si’vaa and Larry are outnumbered! The princess and Minister Tucker, at least, are in danger!”
Gilbert blinked again. “Well, why the hell didn’t you wake me up, goddamn it?” He leaped to his feet with a board in his hand, swayed, then brandished the piece of wood. “Death to whoever the hell it is we’re fixin’ ta kill!” he screeched. A probably errant pistol ball struck the board and slapped it into his face. He went down as though poleaxed. “I’m keeled!” he wailed through busted lips. “I knew it! Just a matter o’ time!”
“You ain’t killed!” Tabby shouted, trying to drag him to his feet. “But you are drink too much!” She dropped his arm. “Me too,” she admitted. Leaving Gilbert where he lay, she ran toward Walker, trilling a cry of alarm.
There was much alarm already. Weary as Baalkpan was, most of her sentries were alert. Those who could be. A coast defense gun, situated to protect the shipyard, lit the night with a mighty roar. Another went off and a red alarm rocket screeched into the sky. Bronze pipe-gongs began sounding throughout the city. Spanky McFarlane ran past a still-babbling Gilbert dressed only in his hat and skivvies. There was a .45 in each hand. Mallory and Rodriguez wore only their skivvies, but they both had ’03 Springfields. Keje rushed to the scene with half a dozen armed ’Cats. Blindingly, Walker’s searchlight flared down on the scene like an angered God. The tableau it revealed was stunning not only in its unexpectedness, but in the magnitude of the implications and the scope of the slaughter.
Commander Billingsly stood behind all three females, who were still tied together, and held a long-barreled pistol pressed painfully under Princess Rebecca’s jaw. Another man with blood on his face held a cutlass across the throats of Sandra Tucker and Sister Audry. Five other men still stood, although all seemed wounded to some degree, but there were at least a dozen bodies scattered on the old seaplane ramp. One of them was Dennis Silva.
Silva, at least, didn’t seem dead, but he was covered with blood and just sitting on the ground at the women’s feet. Lawrence was there too, equally bloody, but apparently uninjured. He was supporting Silva and looking intently at the princess.
“Drop your weapons!” Billingsly demanded.
“Eat shit!” Spanky growled back. “Clearly you don’t know who you’re monkeyin’ around with!”
“I admit to some uncertainty in that regard,” Billingsly admitted. “Your man here, the big one, is not dead. I must say both his arrival and his courage came as a significant surprise. It is a shame you force me to kill him.” Billingsly nodded at one of his remaining men, who pointed a pistol at Silva’s apparently senseless head.
“Ronson, Ben,” Spanky said quietly. “You got enough light on your sights?”
“Yeah.”
Both Springfields spoke almost as one and the henchman’s head geysered up and backward in what appeared an almost neon spray under the harsh light.
Billingsly flinched and drove the pistol more savagely into the princess’s neck. “Well,” he said, recovering himself. “Touché. A most impressive demonstration of marksmanship! You have saved your man, bravo! It changes nothing, however.”
“How’s that?” Spanky asked. “At one word from me, these two guys can do the same to you and your pals and this little game’ll be over.”
“That would be a most unfortunate word for you to give. You see, I have yet another hostage in the boat behind us, a young Mr. Abel Cook, if I don’t mistake his name. He is lightly injured, I’m afraid, but he is also in the hands of a most dedicated friend of mine, a Mr. Truelove. He is perfectly prepared to cut that young man’s throat, and you can’t even see him.” Billingsly shrugged. “Mr. Truelove is also performing a number of other tasks, highly specialized for this occasion.”
Spanky glanced to his right as a winded Adar and Alan Letts arrived. He knew both would have enough sense to say nothing until they knew more about the situation. “Such as?” Spanky asked.
“Mr. Truelove is holding a hooded lantern over the side of the boat. As long as that colored lantern is visible to my ship, Ajax, she will not fire a full broadside of grapeshot into this very gathering. If you carry out your threat I will die, which would certainly disappoint me, but then Mr. Truelove would drop that lantern into the sea and everyone here, including many of you—who I predict are leaders of this ridiculous Alliance—would also die. A most tragic ending to what I had hoped would be a very peaceful little rescue.”
“Kidnapping, you mean!” Letts snarled.
Billingsly shrugged again. “Semantics. A gr
eat hobby among philosophers, but quite tedious for me, I’m afraid.”
“You’re bluffing,” Spanky declared. “I can still see your ship’s lights, riding where they’ve been for months!”
“A regrettable subterfuge . . . Mr. McFarlane, is it not? A mere anchored raft with lights. I assure you, Ajax stands less than two hundred yards offshore this very moment. You could adjust your annoying light to see her if you wish. No? Well then, you should probably take my word.”
“You can’t possibly expect to get away with this!” Adar remarked forcefully. “We will chase you; we will hunt you! We will never give up! You are committing an act of war against a people who mean you no ill!”
“Oh, I certainly hope so!” Billingsly said. “War with you might suit our plans quite nicely just now! As for pursuit, what will you make it with?” He gestured at Walker. “Surely not that. It is not even armed and requires more weeks of repair before undertaking a chase. The bulk of your fleet is elsewhere, and that which is here and nearly ready to sail—your ‘new-construction steamers,’ you call them—are about to suffer a mischief.” He looked about. “Does anyone happen to have the time?”
A red pulse of light engulfed the waterfront and a towering, roiling ball of flame gushed into the heavens. A moment later, there was a second flash, as large as the first, and the thunderous detonations reached them at last.
“My God! The fuel storage tanks!” Letts whispered. “They must have bombed the whole tank battery!” It was true. It also wasn’t lost on anyone that the flash had indeed illuminated Ajax, just offshore.
“You son of the Devil!” Princess Rebecca finally screamed. “You filthy, vile, reptilian monster! These people needed that fuel to fight the Grik, not us, you pathetic fool! You’ve destroyed us all!”
Sandra, a bloody gag back in her mouth, struggled against the man holding her until he pressed the cutlass tighter, drawing blood. Billingsly silenced the princess with another jab of the pistol.
“There, now!” Billingsly exclaimed cheerfully. “No doubt you will replace the fuel shortly, but I am reliably informed that your new boilers do not thrive on wood or coal.” He shook his head. “You may now regard that as an oversight in design, but perhaps not. The oil you use instead seems to have a number of advantages . . . but it is frightfully flammable, isn’t it? In any event, you have little left with which to chase us! Your better-sailing frigates, gone with the fleet, alas, might have had a chance if the winds favored them, but your steamers will be no faster than we—and helpless if the wind fails! We would have a good start on them regardless. As for your ‘prizes,’ all the swifter variety of those are either gone as well, or their conversions are not yet complete.”
“We will chase you, nevertheless,” Adar warned grimly.
“Please do! Be my guest to try, but remember this: for each hostile act on your part, a hostage will fall into the sea with his or her throat cut! The one-eyed giant will die first. He has cost us much and spoiled what would have been a perfect plan. Next, the injured boy. After that, the Roman witch priestess will die, followed by your precious Minister of Medicine, Miss Tucker. I trust things will never proceed that far. If they do and if Ajax is ultimately somehow destroyed, the princess will, regrettably, die with the ship. Do as you will. Try what you like.” He paused. “Test me,” he taunted.
“We will chase you and we will watch you,” Adar promised, “and we had better see our people alive when we do!”
“As you will. As I said, you are welcome to try. Beware if I tire of your company, however!”
Billingsly looked about for a moment, apparently pondering, then nodded to himself. Spanky recognized the look of someone who thought he’d covered all his bases. For the life of him, Spanky couldn’t figure out what the man might have missed.
“Gather the giant’s weapons,” he instructed one of his men. He glanced at Spanky and raised his voice. “You will be safe,” he assured the reluctant underling. “If they kill you, Truelove will kill the boy. Now hurry; we are leaving this place at last!”
“You’ll regret this, Billingsly!” Spanky shouted. He saw Silva move a little and knew at last that the big man still lived. Oh, Lord, he thought, but it was something, at least. With a little more certainty, he shouted again, “I guarantee you’ll regret this!”
“Perhaps,” Billingsly replied. “I have few regrets, actually. I’m sure I would regret killing these poor souls now in my care. Pray, spare me that.”
Somehow, Sandra must have worked her gag loose. Suddenly she shouted out, “Give Captain Reddy my love! Tell him to do whatever he must!” There was a loud slap and a muffled cry. The still-growing mass of warriors, sailors, and townsfolk pushed forward with a growl.
“Now, now!” yelled Billingsly. “That was sensible advice; do what you must! At present, you must let us leave and you must signal your fort to let us pass!”
“We cannot just let them leave!” Keje said, moving close to Spanky, Adar, and Letts.
“We have no choice for now,” Adar replied heavily. He turned to Letts. “Quickly, have someone pass the word along the waterfront and to Fort Atkinson: do not fire; let them pass! We will save them somehow, but we cannot do it here or now!”
“What about Captain Reddy?” Letts asked. “He’s going to flip!”
For a moment, Adar said nothing while he watched the hostages briskly moved into the boat. Someone was bailing water out of it as the oars dipped clumsily and it shoved off, away from the ramp.
“Cap-i-taan Reddy will be mounting his assault on Sing-aapore about now,” he said woodenly. “Perhaps it would be best not to tell him just yet. He can do nothing but worry about our situation here, and his attack must proceed. Torn in two directions at once, he might behave rashly.”
Keje grunted assent.
“I will never forgive myself for allowing this to happen,” Adar continued, “and Cap-i-taan Reddy may not forgive me for keeping it from him, even briefly.” He blinked beseechingly at Keje. “But if he is . . . distracted now, and somehow he or our effort suffers for it, our world will not forgive me—for however long it remains.”
CHAPTER 18
“And it was such a lovely plan, too,” Sean O’Casey said as yet another seething mass of Grik infantry slammed into the shield wall of the 2nd Marines. Chack laughed. The 2nd Marines and 1st Aryaal had met virtually no resistance to their predawn landing in the shipyard district. Even now, in the dawn’s dreary, overcast light, cutters and launches were securing the Grik fleet anchored in the harbor. As Captain Reddy had surmised, most of those ships had little more than caretaker crews aboard, and dozens were already making sail to join the Allied support vessels, blue streamers fluttering from their mastheads to identify them as prizes. The Marines and 1st Aryaal actually had plenty of time to deploy to defend the beachhead before the enemy finally “got their shit in the sock,” as Alden put it, and gathered a significant force to fall on the defenders.
The Marines in front of Chack and O’Casey heaved back against the onslaught and the cacophony was beyond anything O’Casey had yet experienced. He’d been at Baalkpan and seen the terrible nature of this war firsthand, but never from quite this close. There was a constant, roaring screech of weapons on weapons and shields on shields and Grik cries of agony as weapons pierced or slashed their vitals.
“It is a phalaanx of sorts, or so Cap-i-taan Reddy calls it. He based it on an ancient human formation, but he modified it to better fit our different circumstances!” Chack shouted over the din. “The enemy uses nothing like it. They attack as a mob, without discipline. It seems to be all they know how to do. They can bash through by sheer weight of numbers, however.” He nodded toward the left of his line, where it joined with Rolak’s. “Can you heft that spear?” he asked.
O’Casey balanced the spear in his right hand, judging the weight. “Well enough,” he assured Chack.
“Very well. Stay out of the front rank and beware the crossbow bolts!” With that, Chack called his s
taff, and together, they waded into the fiercest of the fight. O’Casey had been a soldier once, but he’d never been in a fight like this. The sheer scope was beyond his experience, and the type of fighting quite alien. The biggest battle he’d ever seen before Baalkpan had involved maybe a thousand men on both sides combined. He’d thought it was huge at the time. He’d lost that battle and been branded a traitor. His cause was crushed and he’d barely escaped with his life. Here, Rolak and Chack commanded nearly three thousand, and God alone knew how many Grik they faced. Many thousands more, at least. And yet Chack, whom he’d heard was once a pacifist, seemed unconcerned. He hefted the spear again and plunged ahead with the rest.
Six pounder field guns poked their muzzles through the ranks and spewed deadly, scything hail through the attackers, and two guns preceded Chack’s reinforcements into the bulging line. With a pair of thunderclaps and a choking haze of white smoke, the pressure there all but vanished. Still Chack raced into the gap, giving the battered line time to re-form around him. He and his staff bashed with their shields and thrust with their short Marine spears at the regathering swarm. O’Casey found himself right among them, poking inexpertly and a little awkwardly with his own spear. More than once he felt it bite. Even so, he decided he’d probably have to become a pistol man, maybe with a few braces draped around his neck. A swordsman he’d never been. Maybe it was time he learned that art?
“Did you find that exhilarating?” Chack asked, when the last dribble of attackers was repulsed. Chack’s white leather armor glistened with bright blood and the incongruous American helmet shone where a sword had skated across it, taking the paint. A slow, rolling, methodical broadside thundered from the frigates on the water. Donaghey’s eighteen pounders swooshed overhead to impact in the dense but confused enemy rear, while the fewer but heavier twenty-fours of the steamers moaned over the largely Lemurian force, trailing smoke. They detonated over and among the still-gathering Grik and the screams brought a wicked grin to Chack’s face. “The new exploding shells, or case shot,” he explained. “Wonderfully destructive things, though we don’t have many yet. The fuses can be unreliable as well, which adds a . . . delicious uncertainty to their passage overhead!” He watched while another broadside erupted from the covering warships. “Glorious,” he breathed happily and turned back to O’Casey.
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