Dead Air

by Ash, C. B.

  "Where ever did you find these?" Krumer asked, turning the eyewear over to peer through the lenses from the front.

  Moira gestured to the lenses. "They be jade. After the smithy, we tumbled out down below the station. Once we gathered our wits, we went lookin' for a way up. That was when we come across one of the people that be controlling the zombies. At the time we didn't know that, just that he took some shots at us. We tried ta catch him, but he was slicker than a snake an' twice as wiggly. Though we did find a couple more of his friends in the boiler room hookin' up pieces of that statue ta dead bodies they had on hand."

  Krumer handed the goggles to Dr. Von Patterson, who took a closer look at them. The first mate glanced at Moira. "Bodies? So ... resurrection men?"

  "Ye might be sayin' that." O'Fallon answered from where he stood guard next to the door. "Though, I'd say they'd not be in a mind ta sell those corpses ta any medical students. Somehow, they be usin' a way ta shock the bodies ta some sorta life. Attachin' pieces of jade from the statue seems ta keep 'em goin."

  "Then they used the goggles ta see what the zombies be lookin' at. "Moira finished the explanation. "It takes ya a moment ta get used ta the sight. Lots ta see all at once. But once ya get the hang of it, it's not so bad. Ya can give the zombies orders ... and they'll mostly try and do it. If nobody else be nearby tryin' ta do the same thing. Then ya got a fight on ya hands fer control. So far, I been winnin'."

  "Moira," Thorias asked weakly from where he sat. "I've not dared asked till now, can you 'sense' who you struggle with? Most important, are they nearby?"

  The blacksmith knocked a bit of soot off her cheek, then brushed a strand of brownish-red hair from her face. "After a fashion. Last I be checkin', they be down at the docks."

  "Them?" Krumer asked.

  Moira shrugged. "Two, at least. I can kinda be 'seein' them. It be hard ta explain."

  "That would agree with the stories about one person using the statue trying to subdue another. Or even use it as a device for spying." Tiberius commented as he took a seat near Thorias.

  "That be remindin' me," O'Fallon said carefully. "Adonia, about ye man, Carlos ..."

  "I know, Conrad." Adonia said with a withered smile. "Once Krumer had the telegraph working, we 'overheard' a few transmissions. They mentioned Carlos being dead and that he had been informing on our whereabouts." She sighed heavily. "Carlos was aboard the La Paloma from the moment we left London. He duped everyone from the start. It's ... difficult ... to accept right now. I had started to trust him by the time we arrived at the station. Enough to confide in him about James and what I was there for."

  O'Fallon shrugged helplessly. "He 'twas a bad one, Adonia. We all be fooled from time ta time."

  The Charybdian woman nodded quietly in reply. Krumer cleared his throat. He did not like the direction the conversation had taken, so he tried to adjust its course. "So if you've taken control, what did you have the zombies .. hm... do? And could you find what these others had in mind for the zombies and the statue? If the zombies actually 'think', that is."

  Moira accepted the goggles from Dr. Von Patterson. "At least fer the ones we be comin' across, I told 'em ta 'be still'. So long as no one's givin' them anything else ta do, they'll say that way. They be like wind up clockwork toys in a way. No offense, Arcady."

  The clockwork dragonfly, who had settled into one of Moira's coat pockets in the worry he might lose a necessary part, shook his head slightly. "None taken. Those would be toys. I can think for myself ... even in my current state of injury."

  "Something we'll see to post-haste once we're aboard the Griffin." Thorias said with as firm a voice as his cracked rib allowed.

  "Well and good, but other than nearly killing most of us, what were they really for? The zombies, that is." Krumer asked again. "This station is remote, so news of what has happened here will not reach anyone for a few weeks.

  "Oh!" Moira exclaimed, a thought occuring to her. "We pinched a journal. One of 'em liked ta write." She searched about until she found the correct pocket. Moira withdrew the small notebook and offered it out to Krumer, who accepted it with great interest. Adonia and Tiberius joined him to read over his shoulder.

  "If ya flip a few pages in," Moira explained while gesturing to the interior of the book, "they talk about using the statue to get the bodies mobile, then controllin' them at a range. All this be just a first step."

  "Spirits protect us." Krumer said under his breath while he read. "Using the deceased as a renewable resource. It'd make for almost the perfect soldier." He turned a few more pages and read. Slowly the missing puzzle pieces fit neatly together in his mind. It made for a ghoulish picture.

  "Through this, they can 'raise and control' the dead." Krumer said slowly, working out all his thoughts while he spoke. "However, Tiberius you told us of the story where that Roman commander was nearly possessed by someone using a statue or statues like this. What would stop anyone from using this," Krumer held up the small journal, "against the living?"

  A morbid silence fell on the room. Each person there exchanged an uncomfortable glance with the other.

  "Precisely," Krumer said to break the silence. He then glanced at Tiberius. "Do your people have any records of how to defend against something like that?"

  The young archeologist thought a moment. "Some. It's in part training and mental concentration. The less you concentrate or the more fatigued you are, the more susceptible you become. I had read some arbitrators would only use the device when both parties had toasted to a successful arbitration."

  Adonia nodded slowly in approval. "That way they would be more willing and open to suggestions or questions. It's all so very disturbing, and yet ingenious at the same time."

  O'Fallon, who had fixed a confused scowl on his face much earlier in the conversation, sighed and rubbed his eyes from frustration and no small amount of fatigue. "Beggin' ye pardon, but who's people? Ye mean the Italians?"

  Krumer shook his head. "No, Romans."

  Tiberius cleared his throat lightly. "Actually, we typically use 'Thulians'."

  "That would make sense," Adonia replied with a shrug.

  Thorias sat up suddenly with the shift in conversation. "'Thulian' ... you surely don't mean as in 'Thule'?"

  Tiberius blushed and stammered, "Ah ... no, I mean, yes. I mean ... I wasn't supposed to say anything." He sighed in frustration. "Life was so much easier at the University."

  O'Fallon looked around, his confusion in full force. "Roman ... well right, he be from Rome."

  Thorias shook his head. "No, no. They are called Italians now ... if you are actually from there." The doctor shot a knowing glance at the young Thulian archeologist.

  O'Fallon fixed his gaze on Tiberius, "And ye people be from there ... Italy ... Rome."

  Tiberius smiled pleasantly, "Yes they are originally from there, but not now. Though, we sometimes call ourselves Roman even though we call Thule home."

  The quartermaster rubbed his temples from a small headache. "Och, but where be Italy in Rome? Wait. No. Rome in Thule. No. Now Ah be all turned about! Can we be startin' over?"

  Thorias sighed and leaned his head back against the wall, his face the slightest shade paler from the pain of his wound. "Indeed, if only we could."

  Before anyone else could reply, the room pitched like a cork caught on a stormy sea. Those that had been on their feet were pitched headlong towards the floor. Some managed to catch themselves when they landed, some, like Krumer and Adonia, slammed into the wall with a heavy thud. When the rolling motion settled, a dull rumble of thunder shook the air all around. Following that, an erratic tapping sound peppered the door to the building's roof.

  Adonia sat up first, her eyes closed tight against the pounding headache that raged. About her head, the snake-like tendrils shuddered. "Oh, my head. Is everyone alright?"

  "I've been better, my dear. Truly." Thorias replied with a groan. He automatically reached down to feel for his bandage and winced from the pain.r />
  Closer to the middle of the room, Krumer sat up slowly, then blinked while he cleared the cobwebs from his mind. "Bruised, but unbowed." Others around the room echoed his words.

  O'Fallon, who had managed to hang onto the stairs for support, climbed up and opened the door a crack. Immediately he received a gust of dark smoke in the face for his trouble. He coughed to clear his lungs. "Ye'll na get any reply from that telegraph o' yers. Yer shed's wiped clean from the roof."

  In answer, the air shuddered as another growl of thunder roared all around them. Again the station pitched, but not as violently this time. More prepared for the abrupt jolt, O'Fallon clung to the stairs. He frowned. The peal of thunder was wrong in both pitch and duration.

  "That na be a storm. We be under attack." He said flatly.

  Everyone looked around in alarm. Dr. Von Patterson unsteadily climbed to his feet clutching the jade statue. "Attack? It sounded like thunder. Though with the thunderstorm outside, how can you be so sure?"

  O'Fallon smirked slightly. "It be what Ah do. Weapons, that is. 'Sides, the explosion from artillery shot be havin' a distinctive sound."

  Krumer stood slowly. His joints protested with a rapid series of aches and pains, but he ignored them. "Either way, we can't stay here. We need a better position. Something defensible."

  "All the buildings near us were for crew bunks. They're nearly all windows - not much cover there. Unless ya mean the boiler room again? That seems ta be where all the zombies are bein' made." Moira asked, slipping the goggles back on her head.

  "No," Krumer replied. "Neither of those will do. I meant farther out from here than that, such as the warehouses next to the docks. They've few windows, thicker walls to weather storms, and fewer ways in at us. Also, they'll be taller, so we'll be able to see what's coming and plan for it. We just need to get there, and quickly."

  O'Fallon thought that over for a moment. "Ah be knowin' a sure way. Follow me."

  Chapter 25

  The scene at the station's docks was from a nightmare. Holes, lined with burnt timbers and twisted metal like so many jagged teeth yawned wide from where they sat along the walkways and docking slips. A black smoke, thick with oil and charred soot, billowed up from piles of smoldering debris that decorated the dock-facing side of a dozen or more warehouses. Along the dock, bodies lay sprawled along the battlefield. Both soldiers and the previously walking dead lay together in a silent brotherhood while rain fell in sporadic sheets onto the fallen. The thunder and lightning echoed solemnly.

  Above the disaster, the drone of propellers announced the Griffin's approach. Gracefully, the small ship slid among the massive smoke plumes in a careful gambit to conceal themselves from any of RiBeld's watchful mercenaries. Tonks Wilkerson cast a quick glance outward. Between the black oily clouds and soot, he saw - and could almost feel - the deadly fistfight between the two ships several hundred yards away. Satisfied they were as safe as they could be for the moment, he returned his attention to the task at hand - a close fly-by to look for any survivors as they readied to charge after RiBeld and his ship of bloody mercenaries.

  By the rail, Captain Hunter clutched the wood as if he would rip it free with his own hands. He gazed silently into the smoke and fire on the docks below, watching for any sign, any motion, that would raise the hope that at least one - if not all - of his people sent to the station survived.

  "Closer, Mr Wilkerson. I want the Griffin so close she'll kiss the station hello." Anthony Hunter growled. From the moment artillery had ripped at the station, he was like a man possessed. His fury towards RiBeld and frustration at being unable to find his missing crew shone clear in his stance.

  Tonks, eyes fixed on the ship's course, nodded curtly in reply. "Aye, Cap'n. Closer than comfort allows."

  The Griffin slid closer to the dock, between the smoke and fire. Beneath the vessel, firelight revealed the faces of lifeless victims, their eyes turned towards the sky. Suddenly, a green spark of light caught Hunter's eye. It was the reflection of firelight off of a small green stone in a mason jar filled with murky fluid. The entire jar glowed as if it held the liquefied remains of a thousand fireflies, and sputtered an arc of greenish electricity. The arc danced along the leather harness the jar was attached to, then outlined the bloodied corpse.

  "It could be some mystical trinket," The captain said half-aloud to himself, "but I doubt it. Why put one in a mason jar? Probably a rational explanation for the whole thing."

  Tonks, who had heard only part of Hunter's comment, asked from where he stood next to the ship's wheel. "Cap'n?"

  Hunter shook his head. "Nothing of great import that cannot wait until later, Mr. Wilkerson."

  A shout from the lookout overhead broke through their conversation. "Gunfire ahead!"

  Hunter glanced up at the lookout, then in the direction the man pointed. Amid the smoke, orange bursts of flame peppered the air. Figures raced between remnants of cover and the lone structure of the dockmaster's shack that somehow had survived the earlier bombardment. The captain snatched the spyglass from his pocket and pointed it towards the orange flares.

  The smoke obscured his view a moment, then parted. A crude barricade of cast-off barrels had been hastily erected around the dockmaster's shed. Behind the barrels, a small group of men crouched low and fired over the barrier. Among them, Hunter made out the lanky figure of William Falke. One hundred yards away, the mob of station crewmen approached; an unyielding press of shuffling bodies. The small group fired slow and steady into the crowd. Given the precision and rate of the shots, the captain assumed it was to conserve their ammunition. However, whenever one of their adversaries fell, it stood back up a moment later, despite often having taken what should have been a lethal wound.

  Captain Hunter lowered the spyglass from his eye and closed the device again. "Men do not stand up after taking a rifle shot to the chest or neck. Whatever they are - clockwork creation or otherwise - I doubt they'll shrug off cannon-fire with as much ease." Hunter raised his voice. "Gunners! Two cannon, canister shot for both. Let's buy our people time. Mr. Tonks, bring us about a few degrees for our port guns!"

  "Aye Cap'n." Tonks said, turning the wheel to the right. Along the port side, two of the cannon were loaded, fuses set and lit. Seconds later they erupted with a roar and the foul smoke of gunpowder. The cannister shots screamed out and tore away until the air was filled with a deadly cloud of hundreds of musket balls, nails and scrap iron shards. A heartbeat later, the shrapnel fanned out, ripping into the lead figures of the mob, shredding them as a steam-powered thresher would fell wheat in a field. Figures shuddered with the impact of the debris, and everywhere the sound of shattered glass could be heard over the commotion. As the victims caught in the blast fell, green electricity arced over the field and danced among the fallen.

  While the surviving zombies scattered away from the blast, William Falke looked up and around. When he spied the Griffin overhead, he waved and cheered. A moment later his men cheered with him. Above them, the Brass Griffin sailed low under the trailing edge of the smoke, a mere ninety yards above the dock, before turning away from the station and towards the other two ships nearby.

  "Good shot!" The captain called out with a smile to the gunnery crew, then turned towards the pilot.

  "Now for the tricky part." Hunter started, before being promptly interrupted by another bright explosion of fire along the rooftop of a nearby station warehouse. The captain flinched instinctively from the flash of light, then looked in the direction the artillery shot had come from.

  "That had ta be for us, Cap'n." Tonks, who had ducked also, stood back upright at the wheel. "The other ship's out of line for a shot this direction."

  Hunter nodded in agreement. "Indeed. Only our best fortune that RiBeld's gunners are poor marksmen. We need to answer them before they get more practice and improve their aim."

  "We're at a bad angle, Cap'n." Tonks said. "Nothin' we've got will angle up that high. It'd send the guns right through the deck
, even the lightnin' cannon."

  As the captain gazed at RiBeld's ship and its battered opponent, the Roman vessel fired the remainder of her working guns. Smoke belched out, and cannon shot rang true against RiBeld's ship, though most glanced off the metal-shod hull. Even so, it shuddered from the impact.

  "His hull's too strong for a broadside, what with that metal plating he's got there." Hunter thought aloud. "However, at the proper angle ... that might work to our benefit." He watched the two ships sail by each other. While the Roman ship maneuvered directly away from the station, RiBeld and his men sailed parallel to both the station and the Roman ship, which granted him the widest field of fire. In his mind, the captain quickly plotted the course of both ships, and his own, a few minutes sail time into the future. While he imagined the outcome of his plan, he smiled.

  "Mr. Tonks, bring us about ten degrees starboard. Put the station to our backs and keep to this column of smoke. Set a course parallel with the damaged ship." The captain gestured in the direction of the ship battle while he explained.

  Tonks nodded. "Aye, Cap'n. But won't that put us under the two ships?"

  Hunter grinned, "Yes, Mr. Tonks, yes it will. Once we're about two cables from the damaged vessel, bring us up, hard. When we're behind them, we'll open up with everything we've got. RiBeld has some armor on his beast there, but did he remember to protect her backside? Let's find out. Even if he has, the impact ought to shake her timbers enough that it ought to rattle her apart."

  "Cap'n, that'll only be four hundred yards distant once we rise up to cut across the path of those ships. Close range for any cannon. If we miss, or he manages to turn on us, we'll be in bad straights." Tonks replied. "We'll be in full sight for a broadside from that wounded ship, at least."

  The captain nodded curtly, "I know, Mr. Tonks, I know. RiBeld's backside is the least armed. It's also the most vulnerable. Besides, he can't turn a ship of that size quickly, and that other craft is far too wounded to move fast enough to harm us. If we're on the mark, we'll be in, have fired, and reloaded well before RiBeld can turn on us, or before the other vessel might wish to chance a fight against us." Hunter took a deep breath and sighed. "I'm hoping they'll take the offered helping hand here, and concentrate what fire they have on RiBeld."