by Craig Zerf
As they did so the sound of mallet guns and discharging steam harpoons sounded out in a terrible cacophony. The fleet had seen them and opened fire.
‘Captain,’ shouted the admiral. ‘Give me a sitrep. Number, class and position of enemy.’
Ethan ran from port to starboard, staggering due to the angle of the deck and peering out of the bridge windows. Assessing the enemy fleet before he reported.
‘Nine airships. Four battle ships and five cruiser class. All battleships on our twelve, directly above. Cruisers one through three at nine o’clock, east. Cruisers four and five, three o’clock, west. Cruisers are firing on us. Battleships yet to engage.’
‘Thank you, captain. Now tell me, I’ve heard rumors that your steam harpoons have been upgraded in some way.’
‘Yes, sir,’ responded Ethan. ‘They are capable of rapid-reload. One round every six seconds. Unfortunately we only have ten harpoons left for each weapon. The mallet guns are also capable of sustained fire. Ammunition pretty much unlimited, sir.’
‘Good,’ said the admiral ‘Who is the chief gunney?’
Leon stepped forward.
‘Gunney,’ commanded the admiral. ‘Get the harpoons to stand by and fire on targets of opportunity. I’m going to bounce us past the battleships in less than a minute and I want every gun on the ship firing at something.’
Leon saluted and ran to do as commanded.
The ship continued to climb at a dangerous rate, shuddering and shrieking under the strain as it did so.
The admiral grasped the speaking tube. ‘Chief. On my mark I want you to pump all ballast to front tanks. Vent ten percent hydrogen. Keep the starboard engine at top of the red and cut the port engine to slow.’
‘Aye, aye, admiral. On your mark.’
Two more steam harpoons careened past the Leviathan, missing by yards as the airship was moving far too fast to get a solid bead on it. However, the enemy’s mallet guns were hitting true and the sides of the gondola rang with the sound of striking shot. One of the windows starred with the impact of the lead and a shard of glass spun across the cabin, striking Ethan on his cheek and bringing a flow of bright red blood. He ignored the wound as it was below his eyes and didn’t affect his performance in any way.
A middle aged woman staggered across the bridge and grasped Ethan around his shoulders. ‘Are you alright, my boy?’
The captain smiled. ‘It’s nothing, mother,’ he answered. ‘Now please go back to the wall, it’s safer there. We can all talk later.’
She kissed his forehead and lurched back to the wall where the other rescued prisoners were, hanging tightly onto leather straps that were bolted to the wall for just such an occasion.
And then the Leviathan was level with the four enemy battleships. All hell broke loose. The battleships opened fire with their steam harpoons and mallet guns at the same time that the Leviathan did.
The first three enemy harpoons missed. But the forth one clipped the back of the Leviathan’s gondola, tearing off a large chunk of wood and steel and bending the steel struts that attached the gondola to the envelope. Fortunately the blow was glancing or the results would have been dire.
The Leviathan’s return fire, however, was a different story. Leon had obviously told his gunners to concentrate on one single battleship and, as the Leviathan tore past, the battleship Puget Sound out of Seatle simply exploded as two harpoons and a number of enhanced mallet guns scored direct hits on its bridge. The sound of the crew cheering was audible even above the cacophony of the battle and it brought a grin to the lips of both the admiral and the captain.
‘Chief,’ called the admiral. ‘Mark. Crash dive and turn.’
‘Aye, aye, admiral. Your mark.’
Tons of ballast rushed to the front tanks and masses of hydrogen gas were vented simultaneously, causing the Leviathan to halt its upwards dash and shift into an immediate crash dive. At the same time the ship pulled hard to port as the right side engine slowed and the starboard side kept at top of the red. The massive ship went into a ponderous flat spin, once again dodging out of the way of two more incoming harpoons.
Then it shook itself like a wet dog and a loud crack rent the air as one of the main steel support girders bent and snapped like it was unseasoned wood. Their steam harpoons thundered again and another enemy battleship exploded, burning fiercely as it plummeted to earth.
The admiral fought the helm as he tried to bring the Leviathan under control, shouting into the speaking tube at the same time.
‘Zero bubble, chief. Both engines half. Load five percent hydrogen.’
Slowly, incrementally, the airship stopped spinning and settled into straight and level flight.
‘Bring us to flank speed,’ commanded the admiral.
‘Starboard side, eleven o’clock,’ shouted Ethan. As he pointed at a battleship off their starboard side.
The admiral spun the helm, taking evasive action. ‘Chief, port side engine to full stop.’
The Leviathan turned hard to port but it was too late.
The harpoon struck the gondola on the starboard side, a few feet aft of center. As chance would have it, it entered through a mallet gun port so it did no damage on entrance. However, it struck the opposite side inner wall with a sound of fury, exploding its way through the armor plated three inch oak and shattering the superstructure into hundreds of shards of sharp hard-wood that buzzed about like large killer wasps.
Three of the mallet gunners went down in a welter of blood as most of the port side simply disappeared. Two of the fire relief crews were also lacerated to shreds, their bodies so cut up as to be almost unrecognizable.
Leon was driven to his knees as a sliver of wood hit him in the temple, slicing to the bone as it tore into his flesh.
The airship listed dangerously to port as it spun on its own axis.
Then a second harpoon struck the starboard engine.
Chapter 44
His name was Karl Orffington. Except most people simply called him Big Karl. He stood six foot six, two hundred and fifty pounds and most of it was muscle and bone. When asked what his profession was he would always say, Blacksmith. And, while this was once true, it no longer really explained what Big Karl did for a living. Now a more apt description would probably have been, broker. Or perhaps, wholesaler.
In a land where dreams were almost never chased and even more seldom achieved, Big Karl had excelled against all odds. At the age of twelve his village had been scoured and his family turned out into the badlands. Out of four hundred wanderers, Big Karl had been the only survivor. After weeks of drifting he had happened upon the town of Charlton and, after begging on the streets for a month he had been taken in by the town blacksmith as an unpaid apprentice. Little more than an indentured slave. Working for free but doing so under the understanding that he would eventually earn his passage to a citadel with enough money to purchase his citizenship.
Over the years he had risen from penniless teenager to chief blacksmith of the town of Charlton, taking over the business from Greg Jonson when he had died. Most men would have been satisfied with that achievement but not Big Karl. He had sold his business and purchased his citizenship to the citadel of Lostvega. And there had begun his meteoric rise to wealth.
And now, twenty years on, he still carried his cross peen four pound hammer, clipped to his belt. He was a man who never forgot where he came from.
He was also a man who religiously attended every official hanging that occurred in the citadel. He did this, not because death titillated him or fascinated him in any way. In fact it was quite the opposite. The memories of The Scouring had never left Big Karl’s mind and, as such, he went to every execution so there was at least one person present who empathized with the condemned. One soul that understood the essential savagery and pointlessness of what was happening. A single being that stood and watched, not as a judge or a spectator but as a silent and unknown reminder that there were still people out there that despised what was happ
ening.
And then, after the heinous deed had been perpetrated, he would go on with his business. His conscience assuaged. However, after every unnecessary death, every gratuitous death sentence, he would berate himself for doing nothing to stop it.
But he was just one man. And they were many.
So he found himself, once again, waiting for the sun to rise and light another mass murder of yet another group of innocent people.
This time it was different.
No sooner had the condemned been marched out than a massive airship descended from the skies, dropped ladders and sent down a quartet of rescuers that had snatched the prisoners from right under the guard’s noses, killing and wounding any who stood in their way. Then the ship had rocketed skywards and taken on the entire might of the combined Highman air fleet. An act of such stupendously heroic folly that it brought tears to Big Karl’s eyes and made him swell with pride for those unknown champions.
However the odds were simply stacked too far in the Highmen’s favor. The airship was putting up a fight that would most surely go down in the annuls of history but it had taken two direct hits from steam harpoons and, even as Big Karl watched, he could see fires starting to break out in at least three different places over the ship.
And then, without thought or reason, Big Karl started to run. He sprinted across the square and leapt up the six flights of stairs that led to the top of the tower. One of two towers that housed the massive air-defense steam harpoons that were in place to protect the citadel.
He paused at the top of the stairs to regain his breath, then he unclipped his four pound hammer from his belt, opened the door and strode in.
There were three humans and a Highman in the tower, On the left of the room stood a massive boiler. Two of the humans were stoking the oven and steam was whistling from all of the apertures, the sound a high pitched scream.
The third human sat at the controls of the harpoon, adjusting the azimuth and elevation as he peered through the sighting system.
The Highman stood in the center of the room, hands behind his back, watching over his human harpoon operators.
Without pause, Big Karl walked over to the Highman and swung the hammer at his head, smashing in his temple with a sickening crunch and felling him to the floor. The alien was dead before he struck the ground.
‘Right, boys,’ yelled the ex-blacksmith. ‘Are you with me?’
The one stoker ran at the big man, his shovel in his hands. ‘Not bloody likely, mate,’ he shouted.
Karl knocked the shovel aside with his left hand and then brained the man with the hammer in his right. The next stoker was right behind him and he fast followed the same fate.
The harpoon operator approached with more care, a large serrated dagger in his right hand. The two men circled each other for a few seconds and then Big Karl made his move. He feinted to the right and, as the harpoon gunner took the bait, the big man spun on his front foot and backhanded the gunner across his face with the hammer.
The gunner fell to the floor, twitched twice and then lay still.
Big Karl walked over to the steam harpoons controls, sat in the seat and peered through the sighting mechanism. The sights were a series of large concentric steel rings on the top of the barrel close to the operator and a round bead at the end of the barrel. The trick was to line the bead up with the center of the rings and then line the whole lot up with the target.
Karl turned the brass wheels and quickly picked up the knack of aiming, raising the barrel and then lining it up with one of the battleships. He nudged the wheel one more and then pulled the trigger.
There was a thunderous roar of steam and the harpoon leapt from the barrel in a gout of steam and fire. Karl watched the contrail that marked the harpoons travel upwards. He held his breath as the missile converged with the battleship, and then missed by at least twenty yards. The big man’s shoulders slumped with disappointment as he realized that he had blundered. He had aimed directly for the ship, not taking its forward momentum into account. To hit he would have to lead by at least fifteen to twenty yards.
He stood up out of the chair and walked over to the rack of spare harpoons. But one look was enough to tell him that there was no way that he could reload the weapon by himself. The harpoons were simply too large and heavy.
And to make matters worse he could hear the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs. At least three, maybe four people. He had blown his one chance to make a difference, to exact retribution on those who had Scoured his village and stolen both his family and his childhood. He had failed.
So, with a heavy heart he took up his hammer and waited in the center of the room. Four young men barreled into the room, all breathless and sweating.
‘Big Karl,’ shouted the one. ‘We thought that it was you. We’ve come to help.’
The big man smiled as his two assistants strode into the room. ‘Thanks, lads. Give me a hand with the reloading.’
Within a minute the weapon was ready and Karl was aiming once again, taking into account the movement of the ships above. This time he zeroed in on a cruiser and when he fired the harpoon it traveled straight and true and struck the ship front-center of the gondola, blowing it out of the sky.
The team of rebels whooped in delight. Then the one young man grabbed Karl by the shoulder and pointed out of the window. Across the square the second harpoon had fired. And above them another Highman cruiser was struck a glancing blow.
The team cheered and shouted in glee.
Then they reloaded and fired again.
Chapter 45
The lack of noise was eerie. It was as if they were suspended above the ground, not moving, simply standing still while a strong wind blew over them. They flew by the stars as it was still too dark to see any landmarks. But the dark was their friend. It cloaked their movements and hid them from the enemy. And it cocooned the two of them together in companionable silence.
The marine hoped that his rudimentary navigational skills were up to the task as they were unable to fly a straight and level course. Brett had to use thermals and wind streams in order to preserve the small amount of compressed air energy that they had available to them. So, at some times, they were traveling ninety degrees to their actual desired course and then had to tack back when the wind direction allowed. It was almost like sailing and Nathaniel was pleased that Brett had agreed to pilot him, as he knew that he simply didn’t have the requisite skills to do the job successfully.
After an hour and a half Nathaniel could see a glow on the horizon, approximately where he figured the citadel of Sanfrisco was. The sky was forever stained red with the eternal fires from the multitudinous boilers and fires that kept the citadel alive. Creating power, making light and providing heat.
And when he saw the red-wracked sky above the city it reminded him of William Blake’s anthem, Jerusalem. He had heard it sung many times when he had been seconded to the marine detachment in London, England. It was one of the Brits’ favorite songs. Sung at rugby and football matches as well as any moment when they felt stirred to voice their patriotism.
And did the Countenance Divine,
Shine forth upon our clouded hills?
And was Jerusalem builded here,
Among these dark Satanic Mills?
Bring me my Bow of burning gold;
Bring me my Arrows of desire:
Bring me my Spear: O clouds unfold!
Bring me my Chariot of fire!
To be honest he didn’t know exactly what the anthem was all about, but it was rousing and it made mention of Dark Satanic Mills, which seemed appropriate. Also, it was a great kick-ass sing and it suited his mood at the moment.
‘I’m going to drop altitude,’ said Brett. ‘Then I’m going to switch to powered flight.’
‘Whatever you say, skipper,’ replied Nathaniel.
The machine staggered slightly as Brett engaged the compressed air engine and then it pulled smoothly. She angled the nose down and they
banked to the right, starting a long, slow turn so that when they arrived at the building that they were to land on, they would be facing directly into the wind.
Minutes ticked away as they approached. They crossed over the walls, flying at around two hundred feet. Brett headed to the center of the citadel where they knew that the chief Highman’s abode was. The multistory block that also contained the Arkane Stone.
Nathaniel scanned the buildings as they flashed by below them. The city looked unfamiliar from this angle and, although he had a pretty good idea where their destination lay, he only recognized the building after they had already overshot it.
Brett brought them around for another attempt. As they approached she slowed the machine until it was barely above stalling, just enough air flowing over the wing to provide lift. But even at that reduced speed the building seemed to rush at them at a mad speed, looming up like a huge predator ready to smash them from the skies. Brett pulled hard on the joystick as the machine got to the flat rooftop and the airplane flared, stalled and hit the roof with a grinding crash. Swiftly, Brett disengaged the propeller, applied brakes and then reversed the spin, bringing the aircraft to a shuddering halt. Nathaniel drew a deep sigh of relief as he looked over the side. She had managed to stop the machine a mere two feet from the edge of the drop off.
‘Well done, skipper.’
She waved her hands at the marine, unable to trust her voice for the moment. After another minute she finally spoke.
‘Well, almost crapped myself,’ she blurted out. ‘Thought that we were goners for sure.’
‘Nah,’ refuted Nathaniel. ‘No worries. I trusted you completely. Just hope that you can get us off without killing us.’
‘That’s easy,’ reassured Brett. ‘Now you go and play hero while I sit here and quietly recover.’
The marine grinned and jumped out of the cockpit, swing his axe over his shoulder and settled his two pistols in their holsters before he set off at a run, heading for the open door that lead to the stairway.