Down to the Sea

by William R. Forstchen

  He looked back to the Shiv who stood in the doorway. For the first time he detected an emotion on their part. It was amusement.

  He slowly turned back to face Sean. “You’ll regret this the rest of your life, Lieutenant O’Donald.”

  Sean seemed to stir from his hazy distant world, and for a brief moment, Richard saw an old friend from the academy, the cadet who was always so quiet, studious, even withdrawn, and yet sharply capable in any task he set himself to. He tried to smile, to somehow reach that friend and roommate, to remind him of his duty, of who he was, an officer of the Republic.

  “It won’t work, Cromwell. I’m past such appeals,” Sean whispered and turned away.

  The airfield was dark, and a light, hazy mist was drifting in from the midnight tropical sea. Richard suddenly realized just how tired he was, and now he faced a flight of unknown distance across an unknown sea.

  He slowly walked around the airship. The design was not unlike some of the machines from the last war, bulkier in the fuselage to contain the hydrogen gas bags, a broad, single mono-wing rather than the bi-wings of the Republic’s airships. It was three engined, two on the wings and one forward.

  He could see where there had been gun emplacements at the tail, above and under the belly. All had been stripped out, as was the gun forward.

  No one spoke to him, and somehow the entire scene seemed like a dream. He looked at the rough chart that had been thrust into his hand. It was precious short on details, including only the coastline of the island they were now on and a sketch of where he assumed the Gettysburg had been lost, which was off to the northwest.

  From that point he knew where he was. That was over thirteen hundred miles from the Republic’s main base on the coast at Constantine. The question was, how far was it from where the Gettysburg was lost to here? Four hundred miles, six hundred? He believed they had sailed four days after he was captured. That could make the distance just a few miles away, on the other side of a long island, or more than a thousand miles.

  Yet he knew as well that Hazin would not send him out unless he had a reasonably good chance of succeeding.

  No one spoke to him, but by the way the ground crew turned to look at him, he knew they were waiting. He scrambled up the outside ladder and into the forward cockpit. One of the Shiv followed and, without saying a word, waited while Richard strapped himself into the oversize chair. Stretching his legs out, he could barely reach the pedals. Pressing down on them, he could tell when he looked aft, worked the rudder.

  The controls were basically the same: a stick for banking and climbing. The Shiv simply took hold of three knobs mounted side by side on the forward console, and pulled them back. The engines then began to turn over faster. The Shiv leaned back out of the cockpit and climbed down the ladder.

  “Thanks, you son of a bitch,” Richard grumbled.

  Straight ahead he could see two distant bonfires, undoubtedly marking the end of the landing strip. Without any hesitation he pulled the throttles full out. The ship lurched forward and clumsily gained speed.

  It was far slower on takeoff than the planes he knew, and he sweated out the final seconds, the bonfires racing past before he felt the wings lifting and he edged back on the stick.

  The airship seemed to hang in the air, and he nosed it over slightly, hoping that there were no hills ahead. Then ever so gradually he pulled back, trying to master the feel of the machine, wondering if it would give the telltale vibration through the stick just before going into a stall. He flew on for several minutes, heading due south before he finally ventured a turn, carefully banking the machine to port, watching the stars as they wheeled.

  The Southern Triangle seemed higher in the sky by a good hand span, and he tried to work out the calculation, a rough estimate of just how much father south he was. Sean could have done it.

  Damn him. He tried to feel pity for his friend, to understand. Hazin had seduced him first through terror, then the drugs, and finally the woman. Could I have resisted? he wondered.

  He tried to believe he could have, that Hazin had seen that and decided to use him instead for another purpose. This thought also angered him. I’m escaping, but in escaping I am somehow serving his purpose as well. He toyed with the random thought of somehow trying to find the temple of Hazin’s Order, or the imperial palace, and crash the plane into it; a final defiant act that just might throw them all off balance.

  And yet if I do that, he realized, the Republic will never know what is coming.

  Why do I even care? he wondered. What has the Republic given me? The Yankees speak of it almost as if it were a religion, yet for millions of us it has brought nothing but anguish. If the Yankees had never come, the Hordes would have ridden on. Far fewer would have died, my mother would have never been a slave, and I of course never would have been born.

  What does it offer me now? He could predict the reaction when he returned alone, the son of a traitor, bearing a fantastic tale of an empire, a race of humans bred to serve it, of Hazin, and of the betrayal by the son of a legend.

  Worry about that later, he thought as he leveled out, trying to gain a fix that would guide him due north. He was distracted, though, by the sight off his starboard wing. A vast gleaming city spread out in a moon-shaped crescent around a dark bay.

  He banked over slightly. In training he had flown over Roum twice, and he could tell that the largest city of the Republic would fit into but one comer of what lay below him. A sparkling pavilion, covering acres of ground, was terraced up the side of a steeply rising hill. Its columned boulevard shone from the light of a thousand torches and bonfires, and he knew that this must be the imperial residence. This single dwelling place was nearly as big as all of old Suzdal.

  He was tempted to circle but decided against it, for every gallon of fuel was precious. The city slipped by beneath him, and he was still low enough to detect the smell of the fires that illuminated it.

  Out in the bay, by the dim light of the Great Wheel of stars and the first of the two moons rising to the east, he could see the silhouettes of the battle fleet. The sight of it filled him with awe. He leveled out and even dropped down a few hundred feet, throttling back slightly. He counted eight great ships. Each of them, he had judged, to be three times, perhaps even four times greater than the Gettysburg. They rode the anchor, deck lights fore and aft marking them in two lines abreast. Bright, almost festive looking lanterns hung suspended from the pagoda towers. Surrounding them were dozens of other ships, smaller and yet still a match for anything the Republic could offer. The sight chilled his heart. He banked over, circling twice, trying to count the ships, to judge their size, the weapons on board.

  This was the reason he had to return home. It had nothing to do with Hazin and his game of power. Here was a threat that could annihilate the service to which he had given his oath and that had given him a home in spite of his blood.

  Below was a fleet that could destroy the Republic, and he alone could bring warning of it.

  He finally pulled back on the stick, sending his aerosteamer up toward the clouds. He could only hope for a fair wind that would help to carry him home.

  EIGHT

  The night was fetid with the oppressive heat of summer. The poor quarter of the city, as always, stank of unwashed bodies, rotting food, refuse, excrement, and a moldy, musty smell that seemed to cling to poverty no matter what the race, be they human or Kazan.

  Hazin, flanked by his escort, negotiated the narrow twisting alleyways that led from his temple to the base of the Qutiva, the hill of the Imperial presence. The temples of his order, at least those in the cities of the empire, were always built in the poorest quarters, for it was thence that so many novitiates came. Desperation guided them to seek salvation, no matter what price was required.

  The Green Gate, so named for its sheathing of pale green marble, came into view. The alleyway spilled into the Processional Way, the great boulevard that was the main axis of the city, running from the Qutiva down
to the harbor, half a league below.

  Looking to the south as he stepped out on to the main avenue, he could see the flickering lights of the Red fleet riding at anchor. The great ships of the line were festooned with hundreds of lanterns in celebration of the victory. The entire city was thus decorated, though Hazin knew that the celebration was not so much one of joy but of relief for having been spared yet another battle, for when emperors fall there is always a battle and, at times, a massacre. The mob that had only weeks before been so supportive of Hanaga were now relieved by the news that he was dead.

  At Hazin’s approach, the crowds clogging the Processional Way parted, drawing back with averted eyes and bows. A few made subtle gestures to ward off the darkness or clutched the amulets of rival cults.

  The guards flanking the open portals of the Green Gate offered the usual salute at his approach, but then one of them stepped before his standard bearer, demanding identification. Hazin stood in silent rage as an assistant fumbled in his haversack for the necessary papers bearing the Imperial Seal.

  “I see here only a request for the presence of Grand Master Hazin Vaka,” the commander of the guard announced, “nothing concerning an honorary escort.”

  A scene now ensued, the argument dragging on for several minutes. The assistant indignantly argued that no master should walk without an escort. The commander of the guard replying that the imperial escort was sufficient. It was obvious what was being played out, and finally Hazin stepped forward.

  “Ilvani, wait here,” Hazin said softly. He fixed the captain with his gaze. “Your name.”

  “Ragna, captain of the Green Gate”—he hesitated the briefest of moments—“Your Holiness.”

  “You will be in my thoughts, Ragna,” Hazin replied with a cool smile, and the captain, though trying to maintain a calm exterior, blinked, eyes lowering.

  Hazin smiled. This one knew he was dead, orders or no orders from the emperor. The touch of a courtesan armed with a finger needle that would barely scratch the skin would be enough, or a powder slipped into a tavern drink. Wait awhile, though, let him contemplate, let him learn fear, then manifest the fear before killing him.

  Imperial guards flanked him. There was no chair waiting, and he said nothing. The approach to the palace zigzagged up the steep hill, passing the villas of the lesser nobles, court officials, who now anxiously awaited their fate with a new emperor of the throne, and chosen consorts of the bed chamber, the place of each palace on that hill in direct relationship to their favor or disfavor of the moment. At each turn gun positions were cunningly laid out, often concealed behind finely wrought stonework, or small pleasure gardens, guards barely visible in recessed alcoves. The muzzle of a land cruiser was barely visible, hidden inside a stone arched stable. Several light fieldpieces, ready to be rolled out at an instant’s notice, were parked in a courtyard.

  The place had been a fortress only a month ago, manned by ten thousand of the elite imperial assault troops. They had sworn allegiance to the new emperor without a moment’s pause, for what was the use of dying for someone who was dead? They were gone now, back to their barracks on the far side of the island. All that was left were the Imperial Guard—gilded fools in Hazin’s eyes. A hundred of his Shiv could take them in an hour if he so desired.

  Turning the final corner of the Processional Way, he was disgusted to see that the inner gate was closed. Nor was there a banner of the Order displayed to mark his arrival. This outrageous oversight caused him to again look at the captain, who stood impassive, except for a slight twitching of his jaw.

  The gate finally swung open, and he passed beneath the archway and into the outer courtyard, where a chamberlain, a gelded one, awaited and silently pointed the way, a whiff of costly perfume trailing in his wake.

  They passed through the outer audience chamber, where the ceremonial holding of judgments took place on the first day of the new moons, a ritual harkening back across thousands of years when the emperor was no more than a rude clan elder in a felt tent. It was nothing more than a farce play now, already scripted as to who would be sent to the circle and who would leave with hide still intact.

  At last the meandering tour through the outer rings of the palace, past cautious observers and whispering nobility, gave way to the inner circle, the private domain of Emperor Yasim. The chamberlain opened the door, then stepped backward, eyes averted.

  Hazin strode in.

  Yasim was alone, standing on a veil-draped balcony, goblet in hand, back turned. Hazin knew that the room was double walled, cunningly designed and inspected daily by the chamberlain so that no eunuch of the court could get close enough to eavesdrop on what was being said.

  Hazin did the proper bow, right hand touching the floor.

  “A drink to refresh you, Hazin.”

  His voice was relaxed, betraying the slightest touch of the narcotic malva, a perceptive sniff of the air catching its pungent scent. Hazin looked over to a side table. A few light snacks were arranged, fresh slivers of meat, clean goblets of wine, and fermented milk.

  As he took an empty goblet, he quickly looked for any abrasions, or slick spots that might indicate dried poison. It was a tiresome game and he doubted the emperor would ever be so direct, but a lifetime of training always prevailed.

  Years of slowly increasing self-administered doses of most of the common and several of the preferred uncommon poisons had built a certain immunity. Combined with the oils he had drunk prior to coming here, he should be proof against a clumsy effort by anyone other than the emperor who might make the attempt and thus hope to pin blame on the imperial household.

  He took several slivers of raw meat, poured a few ounces of blood, and stepped out onto the veranda.

  A cooling breeze was coming down off the mountain, sweeping away the choking heat and stench of the summer’s day.

  “You are well?”

  “Yes, sire.”

  Yasim turned, cool eyes appraising as Hazin sipped his drink.

  “Frankly, it is a surprise to see you alive.”

  Hazin smiled.

  “My last communication with your Grand Master, or should I say your late, lamented Grand Master, was most interesting.”

  “Please enlighten me, sire.”

  “The cost of my victory at Ra was dear, very dear.” Hazin wanted to laugh. “My victory…” It was the Order that had given him victory. This fool had simply footed the bill. Fifteen assassinations, the turning of the Greens through the threat of a genocidal attack on their families and, above all else, the death of Hanaga, which had cost more than anyone had ever been willing to pay.

  “Your order is expecting the second half of the payment by tomorrow.”

  Hazin smiled. Direct, far too direct. It almost took the amusement out of the game.

  “And, my sire?”

  Yasim turned away. “How did you survive, may I ask?”

  “The battle or my return?”

  “The battle. The death of my brother is of far more interest than the internal squabbling of your precious society.”

  Ah, so he is linking things together here, Hazin thought, his features revealing nothing.

  “Easy enough. The captain of the frigate I arrived on, he was of my order.”

  “Tell me, how many captains of my ships are of your order?”

  Hazin looked down in the goblet, swirling the drink. The blood was still warm from the body it had been drawn from in the next room, as was the meat. An emperor could afford such a luxury, meat bred for texture and taste, the blood slowly tapped out from an open vein as required.

  “The cost of such information, Your Highness,” and he shook his head.

  “How about a trade, then?”

  “Yes?”

  “You leave here alive, I know who of my ship’s captains are of your order.”

  Hazin smiled. “Too high. The bargain would be known, and then who would trust me or my order? I would be dead in a fortnight. There have been Grand Masters who have had
reigns nearly as short, but I would prefer not to establish such a record.”

  “So you prefer not to leave here alive? Know that it is obvious that your Grand Master preferred that you die in that last battle. That is why he personally gave to you the task of killing my brother.”

  “That was obvious,” Hazin said dryly. “And that is why he is dead.”

  Yasim turned away, going over to a sideboard where he picked up an ornately carved statue. It was a delicate creation in ivory, an abstract work of intricate swirls and curves. Hazin recognized it as one of the new school of Davin, an artist who had gained imperial favor of late. He wondered if Davin would still be in favor a moon from now.

  “This took a year to create,” Yasim said softly, hands gently cradling the work. He sighed, holding it close for a moment then turning it over, lightly stroking it, fingers tracing the intricate design, then placed it back on the table.

  “May I inquire as to the reason for my summoning?” Hazin ventured.

  Yasim smiled. “There are times when you are the personification of subtlety, and then other times when you are as direct as the thrust of a dagger. Patience.”

  Hazin returned to the table where the drinks were and poured another goblet full of the fresh blood. This time he sprinkled in a mixture of spices and a dark, heavy liqueur laced with a touch of malva.

  The emperor smiled. “I did not know you indulged.”

  “When it suits me.”

  “And it does not dull you?”

  “It does not dull. Your Highness. And besides, we of the Order are used to headier stuff.”

  “I know.”

  Hazin returned to the curtained veranda. The silky gauze was sheer enough that the view of the city was spread before them, the twinkling lights of the city below, the open harbor where the fleet lay at anchor.

  From the temple of Ashva a dark pyre of smoke curled— their burnt offering for the day—while from the rival order of Vishta a brilliant fire blazed atop their pyramid temple. In the firelight he could see the writhing forms, their shrieking cries of agony carrying on the wind.