by George Mann
Suddenly, Gabriel knew what he had to do.
“Are you prepared to die for your country?” he called to Rutherford, who glared back at him, incredulous.
“Yes,” the Englishman nodded. “Of course.”
“Then brace yourself,” Gabriel shouted above the whine of the engines. “I'm going to get us onboard that thing, or I'm going to kill us both in the process.”
He didn't wait for a response. Taking a deep breath, Gabriel jammed the controls forward as far as they would go, sending the biplane into a sharp dive, a direct collision course with Goliath.
Gabriel doubted the impact of one biplane would be enough to bring Goliath down: it was simply too big and too sturdy to buckle beneath that, even with a full tank of fuel to generate an explosion. If he could aim it right, though—if he could puncture the pliable, silvery skein of the airship and drive the biplane in between two of the aluminum ribs—there was a chance, a very small chance, that they might survive at least long enough to clear the wreckage before the plane went up in flames.
Rutherford was bellowing now as the bulk of Goliath hove into view. Gabriel twisted the controls, fighting furiously to align the nose of the biplane with the flat expanse of the airship's flank that he judged to be their best chance. If there proved to be a gasbag behind it, everything would be over.
The nose of the biplane impacted with the airship with a loud crunch, and Gabriel released the controls, flinging his hands up to cover his face as the aircraft chewed its way into the side of the liner, drilling its way down like a corkscrew as if aiming for the very heart of the beastlike vessel.
Everything was sound, confusion, and pain. Gabriel couldn't see. Something struck him hard in the head, and he lolled backward in the pilot's pit. His legs felt numb.
There was a moment of serene silence, of nothingness. To Gabriel it felt as if he were floating in water, drifting quietly in empty space.
And then the world crashed back into being, and he was fighting for breath, choking on the blood that was pooling in his mouth. He opened his eyes, and all he could see was twisted metal. The biplane had caught in the steel spokes beneath the surface of the silvery skein, forcing itself partially inside the airship so that it hung there, partway inside Goliath, partway out, like a fly caught in a spider's web.
Gabriel could see that Rutherford was still alive. He was sporting a large gash in his forehead, and he was shaking his head, dazed by the impact that had caused it. Otherwise, he seemed to have survived the crash in one piece.
Gabriel spat blood and noticed at least one of his teeth went with it. “Can you move?” he barked to the Englishman, and his voice sounded tinny and harsh in the huge space. He looked down over the side of the wrecked biplane to realize they were suspended above the main storage bay. He could hardly believe the irony: down below stood the large, oval form of the gateway, the weapon itself, Abraham's portal through which the creatures would be birthed. Around it, two banks of Tesla coils stood ready to be fired up, providing the massive electrical charge that would be needed to open the dimensional rent and allow the monsters through. Gabriel knew that it worked—the creature attacking the fairground below was evidence enough of that. Now he had to find a way to destroy it.
“Yes,” Rutherford called weakly in response. “Yes, I think I'm all right.” He shook his head again and then wiped away the dripping blood with his sleeve.
“They'll be here soon,” Gabriel said, trying to ease himself out of the ruined pilot's pit. “We need to move.” He glanced up at Rutherford, who was watching him, a vacant expression on his face. “Now, Rutherford! Move!” Gabriel bellowed, and this seemed to bring the spy round, snapping him out of his reverie. He started, realized that Gabriel was levering himself out of the wreckage, and did the same, pulling himself free of the ruins of the biplane.
The sudden movement seemed to unbalance whatever tenuous equilibrium the biplane had found, and it shifted beneath their feet, the nose breaking free of one of the airship's support struts and dipping dramatically. Gabriel managed to grasp hold of one of the steel rods as his footing went from beneath him, and a quick glance told him that Rutherford had done the same, leaping up to grab hold of an aluminum rib. The biplane bucked and then seemed to settle once again.
“She could blow at any moment,” Rutherford called over. We need to get down there.” He nodded to indicate the floor of the hangar bay. Gabriel nodded. Together, the two men began their descent, using the steel supporting rods to find purchase as they scrambled as quickly as possible toward the hangar floor.
Gabriel could hardly believe they were still alive. It had been a reckless move, born out of desperation, and he hadn't really expected to make it out alive. Now they were here, actually on board Goliath, and the only plan he had was to somehow find a way to ground the leviathan vessel.
He heard shouting from below and looked down to see three men, dressed in the same gray uniforms as the others he'd seen earlier, burst into the hangar bay wielding shotguns. One of them dropped to one knee, raised the twin barrels, and squeezed off a shot, which reverberated loudly in the open space. Gabriel was surprised they'd risk shooting inside the vessel in case they damaged it, but he supposed the large rent he'd opened with the biplane had emboldened them to risk it.
The shot pinged off the fuselage of the biplane close to where Rutherford had been climbing, and he swung out on the support strut, trying to reach into his pocket and free his handgun to reply.
Gabriel was quicker to the draw, however, and bracing himself against the nearest rib, he squeezed off a volley of fléchettes. The tiny blades sparkled in the electric light as they whizzed through the air, showering the three men and felling two of them instantaneously, blood oozing from multiple wounds in their faces and throats. Their shotguns clattered harmlessly to the floor. The third man managed to squeeze off another shot before Rutherford dropped him with a bullet to the chest, but it went wide, sparking off the metal skeleton of the airship and tearing a small gash in the silver skin.
Gabriel and Rutherford wordlessly continued their descent.
It wasn't until Gabriel reached the ground that he allowed himself to breathe. His body ached all over from the exertion and the battering he'd taken in the crash. His shoulder was still bloody and sore from the abduction earlier that evening, and more than anything else, he needed a cigarette. But he had to go on. He had to plumb every reserve of strength he had left. They were so close.
Rutherford was looking up at the gateway with something approaching awe. It was similar in shape and size to the ancient marble artifact the Roman had used for the very same purpose: a large, oval gateway impressed with a plethora of unusual occult runes. Only this time, rather than being carved into a block of ancient marble, the portal had been cut and shaped out of strips of polished steel, the runes etched carefully into its surface to form a gleaming archway that looked more like it should have formed a doorway in a contemporary skyscraper than a device for summoning interdimensional beasts. Power cables trailed from the base of the device, snaking away toward the banks of Tesla coils from which the power would be fed.
“So…this is it. This is the weapon,” said Rutherford, still clutching his handgun and looking as if he was trying to work out where to shoot.
“Yes,” said Gabriel. “This is it. This is what they're planning to deploy over London.”
“Then we have to destroy it.” There was no compromise in Rutherford's tone. They'd come this far. This should have been the easy bit.
“The best way to do that, Rutherford, is to bring Goliath down. Even if we jettison the weapon, the airship can still go on, can still turn its cannons on London. Banks will still be able to start a war, even without his superweapon. A preemptive strike will be enough to encourage a swift retaliation. Things will escalate from there. Banks will still get what he wants.” Gabriel clapped a hand on Rutherford's shoulder. “We have to finish the job.”
The Englishman nodded. “You're righ
t. Let's find the control car and work out how to ditch this thing in the river.”
Gabriel smiled. “Oh, I have a much better idea than that.”
Rutherford shrugged. Despite everything, he seemed to be enjoying himself. “In that case, lead on.”
Gabriel circled around the weapon, looking for the doorway through which the three men had come in. There would be more along momentarily, he was sure. He held his right arm out before him, ready to cut them off with a spray of deadly fléchettes if they came for him.
Rutherford, following behind, sidestepped over the bodies of the dead crewmen, stooping to claim one of the shotguns and pocketing his hand weapon for the time being. Gabriel nodded his approval.
The gangway led down from the hangar bay to a long keel that appeared to run the gamut of the entire vessel. It was remarkable, Gabriel thought, how little of the space inside the airship was actually occupied. It had a cathedral-like air about it: hollow, desolate, and empty. Only a single passageway ran along the spine of the ship, surrounded by the enormous aluminum rings and webwork of steel supports that gave the whole thing structure.
Silently, keeping their own counsel for fear of giving themselves away, they crept through the belly of the great ship, passing through empty crew quarters and cargo rooms.
Gabriel had been right, however, and it wasn't more than a few minutes before another gang of men came barreling down the gangway, obviously dispatched to the site of the crash to ascertain what had happened to their fellow men. They, too, were armed with shotguns, and there were three of them, rough-looking types who Gabriel presumed had been hired more for their muscle than their experience.
Gabriel and Rutherford ducked behind a stack of crates, pressing themselves against the wall as the men, intent on getting to the hangar bay as swiftly as possible, jogged past, their boots ringing out on the metal concourse.
Rutherford waited until they had almost disappeared from sight before leveling the shotgun at their backs, clearly intending to take them out, but Gabriel reached over and stayed his hand. He didn't want to bring the whole crew down on top of them in a corridor where they could find themselves hemmed in with nowhere to run.
They waited a moment until the sound of the men's boots had faded out of earshot and then pressed on, winding their way farther toward the nose of the ship.
The passenger gondola, when they found it, wasn't, of course, fitted out as such, but instead had been converted into a map room, a viewing gallery and a kitchen area. Gabriel and Rutherford hung back by the doorway, peering inside.
At least five crewmen were flitting about inside, studying maps, peering out of the windows or hurrying about with plates of food. To Gabriel's astonishment, the man he had shot through the window still lay in a crumpled heap on the floor, and the other men were working around him, none of them having bothered to shift his body or show him even the slightest sliver of respect. Above his prone form, the wind was gusting in through the shattered window, noisy and chill.
Rutherford tapped Gabriel on the shoulder and made a gesture for him to look forward to where a wooden door presumably led to the control car. Flanking the door, to Gabriel's utter dismay, were two of Abraham's raptors. They hovered a few feet from the ground, their engines droning, their wings sheathed by their sides.
Banks had clearly been telling the truth, back at the hangar. The senator must have had Abraham make any number of them for his own, nefarious use.
Gabriel and Rutherford locked eyes. Both men knew what had to come next. The likelihood was that one of them was going to get killed, torn apart by the mechanical beasts or shot dead by one of the crewmen, but they had to get through that door.
The men first, Gabriel decided. He usually balked at killing others like this, always waiting for them to shoot first, to prove to him they deserved to die, before he let loose with his armory. These men had already shown their hand, however, throwing their lot in with the senator, manning the cannons that had taken potshots at their biplane, and worst of all, preparing to commit genocide on the British people. Gabriel would not mourn their passing, and he would not punish himself for it, either.
He hoisted the barrel of his fléchette gun, nodded his head to Rutherford to indicate he was going left, and then launched himself through the open doorway, bellowing insanely at the top of his lungs and squeezing the trigger bulb to release a hail of tiny razors into the air. One man dropped, clutching his throat as gouts of blood sprayed between his fingers, decorating the galley wall and spattering the pots and pans ranked up beside the sink.
Beside Gabriel, Rutherford went right, taking out two of the men with consecutive blasts from his shotgun before ditching the weapon and drawing his handgun, rolling to avoid a burst of retaliatory fire from a crewman who produced a pistol from his belt, and another who was standing beside the window and quickly bent to retrieve the dead man's snub-nosed rifle.
This latter was too slow, however, and was caught across the chest by Gabriel's second wave of fléchettes, felling him where he stood, the rifle still clutched tightly in his hands.
Gabriel dropped left, falling to one knee to avoid a swipe from one of the raptors, which had come for him almost immediately, unfurling its wings and gliding across the gondola above the pounding gunfire. It shrieked and lashed out with its talons, catching him in his upper arm and raking suit fabric and flesh alike.
Gabriel swore and rolled, trying to get away from the raptor's grasping claws. He caught a momentary, stuttering glimpse of the last remaining crewman collapsing across the floor, and then Rutherford was being wrenched into the air by the other raptor, slamming him hard against the galley wall.
Gabriel had to think quickly. He had limited weapons, and he knew his fléchettes could do little but puncture the creature's wings. At least, he supposed, that would be a start.
From his position on the floor, Gabriel sprang up and over the corpse of one of the dead crewmen, landing heavily on his side. He came up with his weapon arm aimed directly at the raptor and the stillwarm corpse covering his body as a makeshift shield. He let fly with the fléchettes, spraying the creature's wings until the taut panels of human skin were shredded in their frames.
The raptor howled and dropped awkwardly to the ground, losing its balance and stumbling over onto its side. Gabriel took the opportunity to jump to his feet.
Rutherford was just about managing to keep the other raptor at bay. They were locked in a stalemate, with the spy still pinned against the galley wall but successfully grasping the raptor's wrists, preventing it from raking at his flesh.
Gabriel looked to the door. The other raptor was blocking the way, scrambling to its feet in the gangway.
If he could only get to the bird…Gabriel's experience in Greenwich Village had shown him the bird was the key to the raptor's animation. If he could find a way to kill it, he could stop the mechanical beast in its tracks. But he'd never be able to get close enough to prize open the little door in its torso before the raptor took his head off.
He glanced around desperately for anything that might serve as a weapon. And then he spotted it, right there in the galley beside Rutherford: a pan of boiling water, still bubbling on the stove.
He had only seconds to get to it before the raptor was on him again. He leapt across the gangway, taking great strides toward the galley. He heard the raptor closing in behind him, its rotors still spinning with a frantic whine as it tried to lift itself off the ground.
Gabriel's fingers closed on the pan handle just as he felt the creature's claw bite into his already-damaged shoulder, and he called out in pain, barely managing to hold on to the pan. Then, grimacing, he twisted around, allowing the creature to drive its talons even deeper into his flesh and muscle, and hurled the boiling water into its chest.
The sizzling water splashed across the brass skeleton, drenching the tiny doorway that housed the bird. The pan clattered noisily to the floor.
For a moment, nothing happened, and Gabriel thou
ght he'd made a terrible mistake, that the raptor was about to reach forward and rip out his throat, but then its claw went into spasm on his shoulder and it staggered back, its hands going to its chest, clawing at its rib cage as if trying to get at the pain inside.
It issued one final shriek of dismay, and then the light in its eyes blinked out and it crumpled to the floor, nothing but a pile of brass and bone.
Gabriel didn't stop to celebrate. He turned to Rutherford, still grappling with the final raptor. “Keep it busy,” he said, and then made for the door.
The captain—the thin, gray-haired man that Gabriel had seen earlier—didn't survive long enough to issue more than a start of surprise as Gabriel burst through the door boot-first and cut him down with a short burst from his fléchette gun. The man slumped over the wheel, dripping blood, and Gabriel stepped forward and heaved the body to the floor. There would be time to consider his actions later—right now he was running out of time to make a difference.
The tall, panoramic windows that flanked the control car provided Gabriel with a spectacular view of the city below. The scene at the fairground, however, was one of utter pandemonium. The creature from the pit was still engaged in plucking civilians from the cars attached to the Ferris wheel, and the crowds that swarmed around the thing were in utter chaos, with people attempting to flee in all directions at once but managing none.
Gabriel grasped the main steering wheel and spun it hard to the left, feeling Goliath groan in protest as the propellers fought to keep up with his demands. The gondola bucked violently as the liner slewed around. He ran across to the other wheels, spinning them wildly, forcing the rudders to bend to his will, dipping the nose of the airship so that the vessel pitched forward, slowly diving out of the sky…directly toward the Ferris wheel and the alien beast.