by Arnot, C. S.
“It seems that an auctioneer and several security personnel were murdered, and a quantity of high-value goods were stolen from their rightful owner,” said Teimuraz. Fredrick sat very still and tried to keep his expression cool. Teimuraz knew it was them.
Fredrick could feel Vika fuming next to him. He really needed her to keep calm. There was no proof, yet, that they had been involved.
Teimuraz flipped open a monitor on his desk, and spun it around to show the pair. It was an image of the Iolaire, hurtling from the Sederek landing plaza with its tail gun blasting at security enforcers on the ground. “Tell me that this doesn’t look just like your aircraft,” he said.
Vika lost her temper. “They stole us from our homes!” she cried. “They murdered our people! We are not goods, we are human!” She was on her feet. Teimuraz recoiled in his luxury chair.
Fredrick caught her wrist and tried to pull her back down. She was strong, though.
“So it was you then,” said Teimuraz finally, once Fredrick had pulled Vika back into her chair, whispering calming words in her ear. Teimuraz wiped fresh sweat from his brow. Solomon hadn’t moved the whole time. He just sat in the corner, sipping his coffee.
“Alright, if it was us -and I’m not saying it was us- what would you do now? Have us arrested and flown back to Baku?” said Fredrick. There were no guards in the office or anywhere inside the administration building that he had seen. He glanced at Solomon. He was a strong looking man, but not insurmountable. Teimuraz probably kept a gun in his desk.
Order of escape: flip the desk, deal with Solomon, finish Teimuraz and run.
“No, my friend, you have us all wrong,” said Teimuraz with a smile. “We wish to offer you a job.”
“A job?” Vika looked just as taken aback as Fredrick did.
“Yes. A job. It takes a good deal of skill and, how do you westerners say, balls to do what you did. Liberating slaves from a slave market is no easy task. Liberating slaves from the private aircraft of Oleg Koikov, the slave baron of the north, is an entirely different beast! We could do with some of that skill and balls on a little expedition we are planning… That is, of course, if you are interested.”
“Well, it certainly interests me more than being arrested does,” said Fredrick.
“Excellent!” exclaimed Teimuraz. “You would be paid well, of course.” He paused, as if wondering whether he should continue. “You know, it has also reached my ears that a similar craft shot its way out of Sevastopol not a week ago, evading the Gilgamesh’s wrath and making them look very stupid. Not through the network, of course, the warship disrupts that sort of thing as often as it can. This story reached me by other means, and from several sources. The details vary, but the one constant is the aircraft type. An old Skua, with a terrific tail gun. Everybody seems to have clear memories of that. Surely the coincidence is too much…?”
Fredrick couldn’t help a little smile. His ego was being stroked, but he didn’t mind. He was not a man to balk at praise, however loaded with motives it was. “It might have been us, I couldn’t possibly say.”
Vika looked at Fredrick then. “Sevastopol? The Gilgamesh? Is that why those soldiers came to Ashtarak?” Fredrick could see the anger sparking in her green eyes once more.
Teimuraz raised an eyebrow. How could Fredrick defuse this?
“Yes…Yes it must have been. You saw they arrested Aiden-”
“And Nardos and Goriun. Who knows who else? Maybe they will take my father too, no?” Vika cried.
“No, your father and the militia had it under control, we saw!”
“But what then, Fredrick? Once the marines are all killed, will the Gilgamesh leave Ashtarak alone? I don’t think so!”
“No,” said Teimuraz, before Fredrick could answer. His face was serious suddenly. “The Gilgamesh will not stop. It has a reputation that must be maintained. If the word spread that their marines were slaughtered by untrained Armenian militia, do you think the Gilgamesh could hold on to the influence it has now?”
Vika was lost for words. She sat down. Teimuraz was nodding slowly.
Solomon broke silence with a deep, steady voice. “You see now that it must be stopped.”
Fredrick turned to look at Solomon. He fixed Fredrick with his gaze, his eyes glinting in his dark face.
“So… you’re going to take on the Gilgamesh?” said Fredrick, a little incredulously.
“In not so many words, yes,” said Solomon. “I know it must sound like an impossibility-”
“Stupid, is what it sounds like,” interrupted Fredrick.
“Yes, well, I suppose it would to someone unfamiliar with the plan,” responded Solomon. “I must ask you if you truly want to stop the Gilgamesh, because if you don’t, then I can’t tell you any more.”
Fredrick looked at Vika. She nodded, her face filled with a new fierceness, more controlled. God, she was beautiful.
“I think it’s safe to say we’re interested,” said Fredrick. “Just no bullshit, please.”
23.
Convoy
Aiden’s mother was preparing food in the kitchen. The smell of browned beef and onions drifted through to him, making his mouth water. He was sitting on the small couch in the living room, pushing bullets into his pistol magazine. Six-seven-eight-... The eighth was difficult. The spring seemed to fight against him, becoming unusually stiff, but eventually the bullet clicked into place. The ninth bullet was easier, slipping in with little resistance.
Then he heard the front door slam. His father was back. Aiden felt a jolt, and the ninth bullet jumped from the magazine, landed on the floor and rolled under the couch. No matter, he had more in his pocket. He pushed another into the magazine, but the same thing happened. It went in with no problem, but as soon as he let go it jumped right out again. And again and again.
Eight will have to do. He stood up from the couch and slipped the magazine into the pistol, chambering a round with the slide. His father came into the living room now, a hulk of a man, hard muscle carrying a growing gut, salt-and-pepper hair thinning on top.
Aiden could smell the alcohol already. It smelled like ‘nol, but more sour and masking an undertone of stale sweat.
“Step aside, boy,” growled his father. The words were slurred.
“No, athair,” said Aiden, his voice shaking a little. His father always made him feel small. “Not this time.”
The brute lunged drunkenly at him. Aiden ducked beneath the huge arms and ran to the door. His father twisted around, his face a sculpture of rage. He barrelled towards the door.
Aiden slipped outside, running to the garden and the woodshed. The grass was long, unkempt. The woodshed was crumbling and rotten, and he hid behind it. He could hear the thumping footsteps of his father crossing the grass. His father said no words, just grunted as he ran.
His father came round the woodshed, giving a throaty growl as he spotted Aiden there.
He stopped when he saw the pistol pointed at him.
Aiden, emboldened, stepped forward slowly, driving his fuming father before him. Aiden smiled grimly. “Not this time,” he said.
His father laughed, a harsh, grating sound that made Aiden feel small again.
“Stupid boy,” he laughed. “Eight is not enough.”
Aiden’s resolve wavered. Eight was all he had. The ninth wouldn’t go in.
“Stupid boy,” growled the man Aiden called father, the laughter gone as quick as it had come. He lunged for Aiden suddenly.
Aiden shut his eyes and pulled the trigger. Again and again and again. The pistol barked until it was empty and smoking. Eyes open, he saw the sprawled form of his father in the long grass, blood pumping from the eight holes.
Then, awfully, the corpse sat up.
Its face was gory ruin, its eyes burst and bleeding. And yet, it opened its mouth. It opened its mouth to speak.
“Jura,” it said, clearly despite the blood that choked it. “Jura.”
Somebody was shaking Aiden gently.
>
“Jura.”
He opened his eyes. The dream faded from memory, like they always did.
The merchant’s daughter was standing over him, her grubby, inquisitive face showing the hint of a smile. She might have been pretty, Aiden groggily supposed, if you took the time to scrape the layer of trail dust and axle grease from her face.
But perhaps a grimy appearance was a form of camouflage among the male-dominated retinue of the caravan, where attention may have been undesirable or even downright dangerous. Certainly, the old merchant seemed not to mind that his sixteen year old daughter chose to wash her face rarely.
“You are awake, Jura,” she said. “Come and eat.”
Jura. It was a nickname that would take some getting used to. After Aiden had explained that he was a Scot, the old merchant’s eyes had lit up and he had produced a tattered old bottle of Scotch whisky, the label of which was just legible as Jura. It was a bottle kept in a nook in the wagon for very special occasions, such as when sealing a particularly delicate deal, or, as it turned out, when a native of the bottle’s distant country of origin seeks passage on your convoy and they have paid with an entire vehicle to do so. The dead Armenian’s car belonged to the old merchant now, used by the scouts who ran the road ahead of the convoy.
Aiden slipped down from his nook atop some crates in the back of the wagon, stretching. He touched his wounded arm and marvelled at the lack of pain. The Armenian’s car had also bought him access to all the medical supplies he could want. The merchant’s daughter, Ileana, watched him.
“Come,” she said. “Food is outside.”
Aiden followed her along the narrow aisle in the crates, through the cramped cabin and out the door of the big vehicle, where he joined the old merchant, Malkasar, by a remarkably civilised set table. The merchant’s daughter unwrapped a large loaf of bread - her hands looked a lot cleaner than her face - while Malkasar himself sat by the folding table, drinking a glass of what smelled like ouzo.
The makeshift dining room had been set up on a grassy paddock by the old highway: the caravan had stopped for the evening meal, the vehicles arranged in a wide semicircle, while the scouts drove ahead into the hills that marked the end of Armenia and the beginning of Georgia.
The caravan had passed this way only three days before, on its way to Stepanavan, but the road through the hills was known to be prone to bandits, so a check had to be made that the way was still clear: no roadblocks, no ambushes. The scouts knew what to look for, and they never drove much further than a few kilometres from the main convoy, staying in radio range. Even for nimble vehicles like the scouts’, the going was slow here. The road was a wartime relic, unrepaired and treacherous, considered by many to be more dangerous than the bandits to the unwary.
“Raki?” offered Malkasar, brandishing the bottle.
Aiden politely turned it down.
“You will at least take bread and oil with us?” said the old merchant. It was hard to say where he was from. His accent, like many well-travelled traders, was a diverse mix of everywhere he’d ever been.
“Thanks,” said Aiden, and took a seat at the little table. Ileana broke the bread and passed chunks to Malkasar and Aiden. She uncorked a bottle of olive oil, dribbled some on her piece, and wolfed it down. Malkasar, on the other hand, reached forward and lifted the lid of a bowl of purple olives.
“The perks of trading with the Greeks,” he said. Aiden knew the crates in the big wagon and some of the other vehicles were full of oil, olives and wine. “These will fetch a fine price in Tbilisi,” continued Malkasar, spitting an olive stone onto the grass.
Aiden agreed silently, his mouth full of bread and olive oil.
“With no delays,” continued Malkasar, “we should be in Tbilisi in two days.”
This was good. Slower than Aiden would have liked, but still good. If Fredrick had flown there - Aiden now reckoned that it was fairly likely - then he would have to get the Iolaire repaired. With the size of holes it was sporting, and the usual work ethic of air dock engineers, Aiden estimated it would take at least a few days to fix. He hoped he could catch him before the stupid bastard went looking.
“Where do you go after that?” Aiden asked, looking around at the other members of the caravan sitting by their vehicles, smoking, eating and drinking. Malkasar was an old and experienced trader, so it had been no trouble to form his own caravan. Over the years, other merchants had flocked to join him, hoping to benefit from the old man’s expertise and knowledge of the markets. He employed the dozen or so scouts and caravan guards, and charged willing merchants a fee to travel under his protection. Aiden thought it was a fairly cushty set-up.
“After that, I return to Poti on the Black Sea coast, where I will meet my son’s ship. He gives me good prices,” said Malkasar. With somewhat chubby fingers he carefully took a piece of bread and drenched it in olive oil. “This trip into Armenia has been vaguely profitable, but I do not think I will be repeating it anytime soon. There are better prospects to the north of the Caucasus at the moment, and even some high-margin trading to be found in Dagestan – if one is brave enough to try.”
Aiden took this in. When he found Fredrick, maybe they could head north instead of east. Maybe it would be a nice relief from the heat. Then again, that would involve dealing with Russians. Russians like Oleg Koikov.
“I have noticed you are armed,” said Malkasar suddenly.
Aiden stopped mid-bite. He looked at the old merchant, who was dabbing his bushy moustache with a napkin. Aiden had thought the pistol was quite well concealed in his baggy trousers.
“Do you know how to use it?” Malkasar asked.
“I have used it, yes,” said Aiden.
“What about other weapons? Are you proficient with anything else?”
“I’m the tail-gunner on a mercantile aircraft. Twelve-point-seven millimetre.”
“You have used it?” pressed Malkasar. The old man was insistent.
“Yes...” said Aiden, suspicious.
“Interesting,” said Malkasar. “If you are looking for work, I could use another caravan guard.”
“Thanks, but-”
“I’m hoping to expand, you see. Forget this nonsense with other private merchants,” he waved vaguely around himself, “there is more money to be found in simply hiring drivers and guards, and buying more vehicles. More room for my goods, more room for profit.”
“I’m afraid I already have a job,” said Aiden. “More than that – I part-own the aircraft.”
“Once a flyer, always a flyer, I suppose,” said Malkasar. He shook his head sadly. “If you ever change your mind, you should be able to find me.”
Aiden nodded in thanks. Though he had declined the offer, he was beginning to wonder if maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad idea, especially if he couldn’t find Fredrick. There were worse places to hide from the Gilgamesh. He couldn’t help himself: he was curious.
“Just out of interest, how much would the job pay?” he asked.
Malkasar smiled. “It is a percentage agreement. You would have a share of the profits from trade. That is, a share of the money left after running costs and purchased goods have been deducted.”
Aiden nodded, a little disappointed with the lack of figures.
Malkasar clearly saw this, and continued. “On average, when running foodstuffs in the Caucasus with my three wagons, I can expect a profit of around a quarter-kilogram of gold equivalent per run. I can usually make one such run per week. From this, around half is divided between the guards, drivers and scouts, varied according to seniority.”
Aiden frowned as he did the maths. Say twelve staff: that was just over four percent each. Four percent of a quarter kilogram of gold was ten grams. Ten grams of gold per week. Now that was a decent wage. That would keep a man in almost as much drink and as many women as he could take, if he was so inclined.
With the Iolaire, it was very much feast or famine. They’d only been at it for a couple of years, so they didn�
�t have the experience that Malkasar had to consistently turn a profit. And now, with the only port they’d really got the hang of out of bounds, they’d more or less have to start over. They didn’t rightly have a clue how the eastern markets worked, when Aiden thought about it. In their haste to get away from the Gilgamesh, and with everything else that had happened, they hadn’t had time to think it over, to plan ahead.
“You see, my friend! Wheels still have some advantages over wings,” said Malkasar, taking another sizeable chunk of bread. He chuckled into his moustache as he watched Aiden’s expression.
It was true. With a full fuel load, the Iolaire could only really haul ten or eleven tonnes of cargo – Malkasar’s wagons could probably total over a hundred tonnes. Though the aircraft could travel faster and therefore theoretically make more runs in a given time, this wasn’t practically how it worked. More runs meant more fuel expenses, more airframe and engine wear; any parts that couldn’t be beaten into shape in a backstreet forge were expensive. There was also a considerable turnaround time for an aircraft: unloading, refuelling, reloading and, if you were as disorganised as Fredrick and Aiden, shopping around for new cargo to haul. It did work, and work well, for some people. People who had the process down and the markets figured. But the crew of the Iolaire wasn’t quite there yet. And neither were they likely to be there in the near future, thanks to the events at Sevastopol.
Aiden was pushing oil around on his plate with a sodden piece of bread, lost in thought. Maybe mercenary work was just the best way to make money with an aircraft. It was a conclusion he had been trying to avoid, ever since he’d seen hiring posters pinned to the noticeboard at Pivdenna docks months before. Looking for pilots, gunners, engineers and aircraft owners to join the Black Sea Corps, effectively an air force-for-hire, specialising in shipping protection and feud resolution. At best, it was morally dubious, but as Aiden had passed the sign countless times after barely scraping even, it had become more and more attractive.