by Ash, C. B.
"Tiberius? Almost done?" Krumer asked carefully.
"Almost," the young man answered, oblivious to Krumer's expression. "Why?"
"I believe we've visitors," The first mate said softly. Tiberius looked up in alarm. Krumer motioned for the young man to resume sending his message. Tiberius nodded, licked his dry lips, and picked up where he had left off. Tactica stood and padded over to crouch not far away, facing the outside.
Quickly, Adonia helped Dr. Von Patterson to his feet. Together, they made their way over to the large, four foot tall cylindrical generator and crouched behind it. Meanwhile, Krumer quietly stepped over to the right of the doorway, drew his pistol, and waited.
The footsteps, though still nearly silent, moved around the outside of the shed. They were almost a sliding gate, much like the zombies that had come at them earlier. The first mate firmly squeezed the grip of his pistol, keeping the barrel pointed at the floor of the shed. A shadow crossed the opening and slowly obscured the fog. It solidified into a figure that stepped within arms' reach. Immediately, Krumer moved in a blur of motion. His pistol shot up, the palm of his hand slammed back the hammer of the gun ready to fire.
In the same moment, Conrad O'Fallon, quartermaster of the Brass Griffin, threw himself against the opposite side of the door frame, his own pistol drawn and pointed in towards Krumer. When the Scotsman realized who he threatened, he lowered his pistol with a bruised and bloody grin.
"Top o' the evenin'! Ah'd bet ye be wonderin' just how we got past the zombies?" O'Fallon asked, dropping his pistol into the holster at his belt.
"Indeed," Krumer replied with a faint - and relieved - smile of his own.
"Well then, if we be havin' the time for a quick breather, Ah'll be happy ta show ye." The Scotsman replied cheerily.
Chapter 23
Outside the station, the waning light of day struggled against the might of gray storm clouds, tinging the sky with the color of blood. The storm gathered strength and pushed in around the station: a tiger that circled its potential prey. Lightning reached out between the clouds as the storm tested its strength. Electricity flashed bright against the dark sky followed by the roar of thunder. Between the shake and rattle of the clouds, the Brass Griffin darted between the chaos. Aboard, Captain Anthony Hunter stood resolute on the quarterdeck, like a rock set against the waves. Beneath his feet, the vessel raced through the clouds. Gusts of wind tossed the Griffin about until the ship crested the larger thunderheads. Then the wind was joined by bursts of cold rain. Hunter stood, unmoved by the storm's display, his frown a permanent carving etched in stone.
"Station, ho!" Came the shout from the crow's nest, high above on the Griffin's gas bag.
"Steady as she goes, Mr. Tonks." Hunter said automatically.
"Aye, Cap'n." Tonks replied, turning the wheel slightly to guide the ship around one of the darker thunderheads which threatened to throw out its store of lightning. Thunder rolled, but somehow it was no longer in tune with the occasional flash of lightning. Tonks frowned, as the sound did not match his expectations. "That's a right odd sound for thunder."
Hunter listened more carefully a moment. Again the thunder rolled between the clouds like stones falling downhill. Behind that, however, he could hear something more. A set of low, regular rumblings, not dissimilar to thunder but more alike to other phenomena of which Captain Hunter was intimately familiar.
"That's because it's not." He replied just as the Griffin broke from the clutches of the thunderclouds and into the teeth of another type of storm. "Action Stations! All hands to action stations!" Hunter shouted. On the main deck, Lucas dropped the empty bucket he carried and raced off to grab the rope on the ship's bell. He rang it furiously in the prescribed rhythm he was taught. Immediately the crew raced to their assigned posts while rifles were handed out.
The moment the clouds broke, the station emerged full into view. Along the dock, the distant crackle of gunfire echoed on the cold, damp air. Puffs of acrid smoke drifted in small clusters where the fighting was fiercest. A group of fifteen men were barricaded in the wreck of the La Paloma, arranged in a rough firing line along the ruined vessel's side. Because of how the La Paloma was tilted to one side, it only provided cover from anyone that might approach from the station. Any arriving ship could easily see the men. Occasionally they rose from cover to fire towards the station, where an unruly mob of twenty figures slowly ambled in a swarm from the buildings. Most did not carry weapons, and those that did held onto the odd pipe or hatchet.
Tonks squinted at the group of figures that shambled along. "Would that be the zombies Krumer was goin' on about?"
"Indeed it might. Though I've my doubts of anything undead." Hunter stated flatly. "I've seen drunken men stumble no differently."
Despite the lack of firearms or other equipment, the staccato bursts of gunfire did not seem to bother anyone in the unruly mob. Each time any were hit, they would fall, only to stand up and resume their unnerving, silent march. The figures on the La Paloma, however, were anything but quiet. Even at a distance, the shouts of orders could be heard. In between La Paloma's defenders and the encroaching figures from the station, the lone dockmaster's shed stood exactly in the middle. From the open doorway and the broken window, a handful of figures could be seen, rifles at the ready.
"However," Hunter commented with a thoughtful, almost suspicious tone, "being able to stand up after being shot quite so many times, that would be new."
Then, for only a moment, the air went deathly still. It was as if the storm itself waited in breathless anticipation for something traumatic to happen. Suddenly, the dock was enveloped in a wide blossom of flame and rapidly surrounded by a billowing cloak of black, oily smoke. The smoke boiled out in all directions obscuring any view of the dock. The roar of the explosion rolled out like a wave, then hammered the Griffin and her crew with its passage. After a moment, the smoke parted in time to see the final five feet of the abused, burnt and broken dock surrender to the inevitable and fall away into the waiting storm clouds below. A mere hundred yards closer to the station, the dockmaster's shed remained standing, resolute against the firestorm.
Tonks pointed off to Hunter's right. "There, Cap'n! It came from there!"
Hunter tore his eyes away from his besieged people on the dock to look in the direction Tonks indicated. Two air ships were locked in a violent duel. One, a schooner only a few feet longer than the Brass Griffin, had just completed a turn, passing three hundred yards from the wreck of the La Paloma. A copper-lined hull covered her keel, and her gas bags were not the usual elliptical tube Hunter was accustomed to. They were longer, though not as large in circumference. At her waterline, a set of metal pontoons was attached to the ship's hull.
The ship had taken a hard pounding. That much was obvious to Hunter even before he pulled out his spyglass. Three ragged tears in her hull vomited a foul, black smoke. Her crew raced along deck, some to tend to repairs, others to defense, and the last to the wounded and dead. The crew's uniforms were unusual, at best. All wore brown trousers, ankle-high sandals in a stout leather, thigh-length tunics and a wide leather band that covered the waist and mid-section of each sailor. Three belts kept it secure.
Hunter squinted to make out another figure aboard who wore a similar style of clothing, but boasted a leather jerkin with an insignia upon it. It was at that moment the observed ship shuddered from another artillery impact, and smoke blocked Captain Hunter's view. He blinked in surprise, swinging the spyglass around in search of the cause. His keen eye found the second ship in moments.
This was a style of ship Hunter was familiar with. An armored frigate with sails stained so deep with soot and smoke they were black, a gray gas bag and a full compliment of forty-four guns soared five hundred yards off from the wounded schooner. Its crew scrambled to reload the cannon. Neither ship flew any flags of nationality or had any markings on their hull. The captain could not put his finger on the reason, but something about that ship seemed all too famil
iar.
"Who are they, Cap'n?" Tonks asked.
"I'm not certain, Mr. Tonks. Neither are flying a flag." Hunter turned his glass back towards the wounded vessel. "We've just left the cloud bank, so we've only a few moments' peace before they spot us. Bring the Griffin about, we'll ... " the captain's words words caught in his throat. There, on the schooner, a banner hung from the base of the quarterdeck. Stung by flame and darkened by smoke, the stretched cloth retained still legible markings in what appeared to be Latin. The most striking feature was the golden relief of an eagle with its wing outstretched. At first Hunter mistook it for the American eagle, then he realized the eagle sat on a perch and held neither olive branch, nor cluster of arrows.
"Roman?" He said incredulously. Then pieces of a puzzle began to connect in his mind. "The map, the Latin ... I wonder ..."
Tonks gave Hunter a strange look. "Beggin' the Cap'n's pardon?"
Hunter shook his head. "Unimportant now, we've people to recover." He replied, filing his epiphany away in his mind for a moment. His gaze shifted between the two air ships locked in battle and the station itself. "The wind's caught the smoke and dragged it along south-southeast. Mr. Tonks, we'll use that to our advantage. Bring us down a twain and three degrees to port. We'll slip into that smoke stream and ride it into the station."
"Cap'n, we'll be blind through there 'till we reach the docks." Tonks said tersely.
"True enough." Hunter agreed. "That means they'll be blinded from us, also." The captain jerked a thumb towards the embattled ships. "So we'll all be blind to one another. What's good for the goose, Mr. Tonks ... "
Tonks nodded with a thin, worried smile. "Aye, Cap'n. Down a twain and three degrees to port to give the 'geese' the slip."
Beneath Hunter's feet, the Griffin turned and pitched downward in response to the pilot's skill. The captain turned his spyglass back toward the frigate just as she released another volley at the schooner. Smoke rose from the artillery and circled the airship like a dark halo. Amidst the smoke, a familiar figure emerged on deck: a tall man, wrapped in a leather long coat, fine shirt and clothes. His hair was longer than Hunter remembered, though the thin narrow face was unmistakable.
Hunter growled with a sour look, like a bitter bile had reached his lips. "RiBeld."
As if warned by some mysterious sixth sense, RiBeld paused in mid-stride across his deck. The aristocrat-mercenary turned slowly, his gaze rising to meet Hunter's. RiBeld's eyes went wide with astonishment, then hard with rage. Suddenly, as if guided by an unseen awareness, he glanced with a frown at the station's dock in the distance. A thin-lipped sneer ripe with smug self-satisfaction, in which only an evil mind can languish, spread over his face. He laughed at Hunter. Captain Hunter could not hear the vile sound, but remembered the insane lilt of it from when last they met. RiBeld shouted an order to his crew over his shoulder, almost casually, as if he dared Hunter to interfere. Given the distance between them, Hunter could not hear the order given, but still his blood chilled with the implications.
Artillery blazed, bright and hot from RiBeld's ship. A moment later, the cluster of explosive cannon fire crashed into the station's dock, washing it in flames. The dock, along with its scattered figures, the dockmaster's shed, even part of the La Paloma were lost among the flames. Smoked billowed up and seemed to grin with the merciless humor of a skull.
"No!" Tonks shouted in alarm.
Hunter slammed the spyglass closed and shoved the brass tool into his pocket. "Hold your course Mr. Tonks. We'll make a pass to look for survivors. If luck holds, Krumer can hold out a while longer where he is. In the meantime, ready the lightning cannon and the chain shot. There's a devil aboard that black-clad beast and I intend to send him back to the pits of hell ... even if I have to throw him back there with my own two hands!"
Chapter 24
Over the station, storm clouds boiled overhead with peals of thunder. The gray clouds glowed from each burst as if they struggled to hold back the inevitable lighting and rain. Finally, unable to contain it any longer, a pure white burst of lightning shot out between the clouds and the station's rooftops. The bolt illuminated a lightning rod a hundred yards from the maintenance shed next to the station's main antennae collection.
A few feet behind the maintenance shed that sat next to the main antennae array, Conrad O'Fallon pulled open the heavy metal door. Behind him and overhead, lightning flashed again through the sky. The brief burst of light revealed a short flight of stairs down into a wide fifteen foot long room. He suspected it was another workshop, but the brief flash of light died away too abruptly for him to be certain.
From what he remembered, most station workshops had a lantern hung from a hook near the door for anyone that needed it. O'Fallon reached around and felt inside the door frame when the brief flash of light died away as abruptly as it had arrived. His fingers did indeed discover a hook and thereafter a lantern. He carefully lifted it from the hook and pulled it to him. It was one of the newer clockwork-electric kind that drew its power from a main transmitter nearby. He turned the wind key: the lantern creaked a moment, popped once, then glowed to life. He held the lantern out towards the room.
The room in front of him was obviously not a storage shed, and had at one time been used for many tasks. Given the number of sawhorses, spare pipes and the two tables that held several wood-working tools, it was apparent that most recently it had been a carpentry shop. Krumer suspected most work done here was for rooftop repairs of the various station buildings nearby. Across the room, nestled among two forgotten piles of sawdust, a trapdoor lay closed in the floor. The first mate eyed it warily a moment, then glanced back to O'Fallon, who simply grinned.
"Good idea ye had, squattin' out in the shed. Too close ta the lightnin' rods fer me, though." The quartermaster quipped, waving a free hand in a welcome gesture to his orcish friend.
Krumer raised a black bushy eyebrow at O'Fallon, then stepped through the doorway. "Any port in a storm, spirits' willing. You'd have done the same."
O'Fallon cast a hesitant look skyward just as a peal of thunder shook the air around him. He did not remember any flash of lightning for thunder to be so close. The quartermaster put the thought aside for the moment while held the door open for the rest of Krumer's group to file down the stairs. "Aye, that. Ye be havin' a point."
"I'm uncomfortable being so far from the telegraph, though." Krumer complained, holding out a hand to steady Dr. Von Patterson before he stumbled down the short flight of stairs. "The Griffin might try to contact us again in case something else has delayed them."
The archeologist nodded a silent thanks to Krumer while he took the stairs one at a time. Dr. Von Patterson moved stiffly, as if his joints were not fully under his control. He smiled "I do feel as if I've run the distance to Thermopylae. You've my word I will not be a burden, I just need a moment to catch my breath."
The orc nodded slightly in response, being more focused on not letting the man fall flat on his face. "I think we'll have time for that now, Doctor."
A chill wind picked up and raced over the rooftop. O'Fallon shuddered a bit from the cold burst of air. "Krumer, Ah swear ye worry ta much. The Griffin knows ye all be here. We'll hear the Griffin when she's overhead. 'Sides, we still be havin' the opti-telegraphic. We ought ta be high enough ta get some signal through."
With the last of Krumer's group inside, O'Fallon closed the heavy door and stepped down the stairs. Adonia was there to meet him with a hug. "It's so good to see all of you alive."
The Scotsman grinned while Adonia released him. She turned to smile at Moira and Thorias, then stopped before she could express any more of her joy at seeing her companions alive. "Thorias! You're bleeding!"
"Just a scratch, mind you." The doctor said with an faint air of bravado. This gave way mere seconds later to a wince of pain as the cracked rib in his side reminded Thorias of its presence. The doctor took a slow, careful breath. "Though even a scratch can have it's moments, eh? If you don't mind,
I think I'll sit. Stood enough for awhile, you understand." His voice became weaker while he pointed at a spot on the floor against a wall. Adonia reached over, and without a word helped him to a comfortable sitting position. "I just cannot believe it's only been a few hours. It feels like days." He sighed softly to himself.
Moira held out the soot-stained statue to Dr. Von Patterson. "I think ya've been wantin' this?"
The archeologist's eyes shone with delight the moment he saw the jade figure. Gently, he took it into his hands and brushed aside a stain of soot from its head. His fingers explored the statue and discovered the rough spots where pieces had been rudely chipped off the side. He frowned for a moment at the signs of damage. "It's seen some wear, but still ... a magnificent piece. I had wondered what had become of this."
"Once we laid eyes upon it, we knew we'd better be gettin' it back to ya. When ya woke up, that is." Moira punctuated her comment with a small shrug.
"... woke up ..." Dr. Von Patterson repeated with a surprised look at Moira. "Your voice. It was you that brought me back. I would've never made it back from ... where ever my mind had gone ... if you hadn't forced me to come back to my senses."
Moira smiled slightly with a blush. "Oh, go on. All I be doin' was ta tell ya 'get up'."
Krumer joined the two of them and folded his arms over his chest. "Fortunately, that worked. Though, how you exactly did that when you were nowhere close to him leaves me wondering."
"Oh, well, I be usin' these." Moira explained, removing the goggles perched atop her head. She held them out to the first mate. Krumer took the strange, green-tinted eyewear and turned it over slowly in his hands.
The goggles were much like any other pair Krumer had seen in dozens of shops in any number of cities. He lifted them up to peer through the green lenses curiously. Dr. Von Patterson likewise looked at the goggles with an intense curiosity.