by Ian Whates
Sara saw Hind drop the blunderbuss and draw a pistol with each hand. She saw him shoot a goblin in the face; it somer-saulted onto its back. Then the two goblins were on her. Summoning the last of her strength, she hit one over the head with her gun, felling it. She heard the crash of Hind’s pistol discharging and the howl of goblins. She leaned back against the wall, exhausted, the pain in her side flooding over her as her mind failed to maintain the block. Her hand unclenched, dropping her pistol to the floor with a clatter. She was spent with nothing left to give, but surely no one could criticize her for that? Hadn’t she done enough?
The surviving goblin grabbed her by the shoulders, its claws drawing blood. This one’s eyes showed nothing but savage pleasure. If there was anything human left in the goblin then it was the sort of man who took joy in a woman’s pain. The goblin lifted her off the ground with its claws, pulling her slowly towards its fangs, savouring her fear like a connoisseur with a fine wine. It smelled of stale sweat and decay.
A steel point erupted from the goblin’s throat, spraying Sarah with a fine mist of blood. The creature dropped and fell. Hind pulled his sword free and stamped hard on the goblin’s neck. Sarah heard the sharp crack of breaking bones and the goblin went limp. She sank to her knees and closed her eyes, ineffectually putting her hands over her ears, trying shut out the terrible sounds. She did not want to see or hear Hind die.
A final scream and then silence caused her to open her eyes. There was only her, Hind and the sorcerer left in the kitchen, just them and a carpet of dead goblins that were already starting to decay. The sorcerer looked to be in shock and Sarah knew how he felt. Hind was covered in blood, some of it his, and his anger was terrible.
The sorcerer made a bolt for the doorway.
“Stop him,” Sarah said, weakly.
Hind reversed his grip on the sword and threw it like a javelin. It struck the sorcerer point first in the back, slicing deep into his body. The man fell through the doorway out of her sight, arms splayed out as if he were worshiping a pagan god.
“You stupid, stupid girl,” Hind said, angrily. “Whatever made you think you could do this unaided? You could have been killed and I would have lost you for ever.”
It was not until much later that Sarah pondered over the significance of that remark.
Hind held her tight and kissed her hard on the lips. His grip caused the pain in her side to flare and she gasped.
“You’re hurt,” Hind said, concern replacing anger in his face. “You need to go back, now.”
He looked at her intently, said something that she didn’t catch, and the kitchen faded away.
The bridge was a shambles of broken equipment. Fitzwilliam and Crowly stared at her; there were just the three of them on the bridge, apart from bodies.
“You were screaming, Pilot,” said Fitzwilliam in answer to her unasked question. “And stuff was streaming off you.”
Ectoplasm leaked from Sarah’s side where the goblin had clawed her. The white filmy material dissolved where it trailed into the oily liquids on the deck. The Cassandra corkscrewed in a violent motion that set off a metallic groaning from overstressed steel.
“Give me a few minutes to rest and I will take us through metastasis,” Sarah said.
“It’s too late for that,” said Fitzwilliam. “We are falling towards Lucifer.”
“And the battleship?” Sarah asked.
Fitzwilliam looked at her, head tilted to one side. “It exploded just after strange things stopped happening here, just after you stopped screaming. You wouldn’t know why that was, would you?”
Sarah considered. The sorcerer was escaping back into the living world when Hind speared him. What would have happened if he had died at the point of disconnection? She thought it best not to speculate as it could be dangerous to reveal too much.
“I’ve no idea, Captain,” she replied, complementing the lie with her most innocent expression.
“Hmpf,” Fitzwilliam exclaimed, clearly unconvinced. “We are abandoning ship, so make your way to the boat deck.”
Sarah tried to get up but she was utterly exhausted and every muscle in her torso ached. She sank back with a groan. “You will have to go without me. I don’t think I can walk,” she said.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Pilot,” said Fitzwilliam. “I don’t have time for heroic posturing. Mr Crowly!”
“Sir.”
“Escort the pilot to the rear boat deck. Carry her if necessary. I will join you as soon as I have destroyed the signal book in my cabin.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” said Crowly, saluting.
Captain Fitzwilliam ran down the spiral stairs, taking them two at a time.
Crowly watched him go.
Sarah waited for the lieutenant to help her but she was ignored. Crowly cocked his head, listening to the metallic clang of the Captain’s footsteps fade.
“Mr Crowly?” she asked politely, holding out her hand so he could assist her up.
His face twisted in hatred. “Witch!” he said, spitting the word out as if it were a venomous bug.
Sarah recoiled in shock.
It took a visible effort for Crowly to regain control of himself.
“‘Thou shall not suffer a witch to live,’ Exodus, twenty-two eighteen,” he said more calmly. “Goodbye, Miss Brown.”
He turned and strode off the bridge, leaving her alone. The next roll of the ship turned a body over so that it was face up.
“Mr Smythe,” she said, softly. “So now you know the answer to the great mystery. Have you a spirit guide, I wonder, or do you dwell with angels? Well, I’ll soon join you and find out for myself.”
She doubted that the young man had sinned sufficiently to go below but she was not so sure about her own ultimate destination. The ship rolled again and Smythe’s head lolled until he stared straight at her with accusing eyes. Coward, Sarah, he seemed to say, taking the easy option again? I fought to the end, his eyes said. I did not just give up.
Sarah heaved herself upright and limped over to the spiral stairs. Her weight kept changing and a sudden tug nearly pitched her down the steps. She clutched the rail for support and fell to her knees.
The lieutenant was looking at her again. “I tried,” she told him. “I really did, Mr Smythe, but I can’t do it, so do stop reproaching me!”
“Miss Brown, is that you?” Fitzwilliam came up the stairs, taking them three at a time.
“Where’s Crowly? I told him to help you.”
“He has firm views on helping witches,” said Sarah. “Exodus, you know.”
Fitzwilliam swore. “I’ll have his commission for this. I’m sorry, Sarah, this is my fault. I knew he was in some humourless sect but it never occurred to me that he would put religion before duty.” Fitzwilliam swore again. “That’s no excuse, of course.”
A grinding shudder went through the hull.
“Perhaps we should go?” Sarah ventured to say.
“What? Yes, of course,” Fitzwilliam said.
He put Sarah’s arm around his neck and half carried her down the steps. The journey through the ship was nightmarish. It was hardly recognizable as the smart Royal Navy vessel of a few short hours ago. The corridors were erratically lit and sharp-edged wreckage lay in wait. Progress was painfully slow and Sarah was tempted to suggest Fitzwilliam go on alone, but she realized that it would be a waste of breath. He really was an insufferably arrogant man but he was also a brave one.
They had only gone about though two hatchways when the ship’s hull rang like a steel drum hit by a hammer and there was a terrible tearing sound.
“Wait here,” Fitzwilliam said. He ran to the next hatchway and peered through the porthole.
“The ship has broken her back. We cannot reach the aft boat deck so we will have to go back. This section will lose its air next.”
Sarah groaned at the thought of reversing their steps but Fitzwilliam was adamant. She just wished the damn man would let her lie down and die in peace.
Fitzwilliam bulli
ed and hauled her back to the deck below the bridge, where there was a small hatchway that Sarah had not noticed before. A yellow bar emphasized the legend LIFEBOAT.
Sarah stared at it open-mouthed. “But if this was here, why did we …”
Fitzwilliam flung open the hatch. “Because it is for one person only,” he said. “A last chance escape route for the captain.”
“That was where you were going when you heard me?” asked Sarah. Then she realized the more relevant part of his comment. “But it’s only for one person.”
“Always enough space for a little’un,” said Fitzwilliam, cheerfully, throwing her head first through the hatch.
Sarah found herself in a pitch black tube. Fitzwilliam dropped on top, knocking the breath from her. He had a hard muscular body.
“Sorry,” he said, insincerely.
She was about to make some pithy and sarcastic comment to put him in his place when an elbow caught her in the stomach as he twisted around to shut the hatch. By the time she recovered, the devastatingly witty comment had slipped from her mind, which was a shame as she was sure that it had been jolly good and that it would have utterly crushed the insufferable man. Fitzwilliam grunted with effort, a lever moved and an explosive charge shot them away from the doomed ship with a thump.
“You really don’t give a lady time to catch her breath,” said Sarah.
There was a click and a dim light came on. They were nose to nose.
“Sorry about the accommodation,” said Fitzwilliam, while focusing on adjusting some controls behind Sarah’s head.
“I must look a frightful mess,” she said and could have kicked herself. Why did she have this urge to babble inanities when she was anxious?
“I believe that I may just be able to survive looking at you for a while longer,” said Fitzwilliam, with a smile. “I have a robust constitution so I’m willing to take the risk.”
Sarah sniffed. He was far too glib for her liking although he did have a nice smile. Sarah looked out of a small porthole by her head. The boat was rotating around its axis every ten seconds or so. Lucifer dominated the heavens filling the boat with red light on every rotation. The remains of the rear hull of the Cassandra passed across the window. A great gout of flame blasted silently out of the wreckage, vanishing quickly as its air supply dissipated into the aether.
“Now we wait for rescue,” Fitzwilliam said. “Do you know any good word games?”
“Rescue by whom?” Sarah asked, calmly. “We are going to die in here, aren’t we?”
He looked at her and she could see that he was considering what to say. “Yes, I’m afraid that’s likely,” he eventually replied. “The boat will drop into Lucifer when the galvanic cell fails and the cavorite panels stop working but I fancy that we will be dead by then. The air supply is only intended for one person.”
“I see,” Sarah said. She was glad that he had enough respect for her intellect not to try to fob her off with a comforting lie.
“Back there in the ship, when everything went to hell. You were fighting some sort of magical battle, I suppose,” he said, making the sentence a statement rather than a question.
The expression on her face must have shown her shock, because he hurried to reassure her.
“My father is in the Foreign Office, Miss Brown. I understand more than you might imagine about the duties and proscriptions of your profession.”
“Magic is not a word I would like to be associated with,” Sarah said. “I mean, with which I would like to be associated.” All her anxieties flooded back; she would be talking in a south London accent next.
“Have no fear, Miss Brown. The Navy looks after its own, and I look after my people, especially those who have served faithfully. You have my personal guarantee of protection. My uncle is the Bishop of Bath and Wells, charming old chap who still has an eye for a well-turned ankle. He’ll like you.” He turned on that annoying grin.
“I see,” said Sarah. “So you were making fun of me when you asked all those embarrassing questions on my first night aboard.”
“Well, perhaps just teasing you a little,” said Fitzwilliam. “You looked so nervous that that I thought you needed distracting.”
“You obnoxious, arrogant … man!” Sarah said, unable to think of a worse name to call him. She tried to slap him, which was not easy in the cramped conditions and he caught her wrist without difficulty.
“Bad girl,” he said. “Hitting your captain in a war zone could be construed as mutiny and I would have to shoot you.”
She pulled her arm free angrily. A sharp insertion of pain reminded her that she was not entirely healed.
“Let’s see where you are hurt,” Fitzwilliam said, looking genuinely upset. “I’m sorry, I had quite forgot about your injury.”
“You won’t find a wound,” Sarah said, mollified by his show of concern. “The damage was psychic. I feel much recovered already.”
“Nevertheless, I think I should examine you,” said Fitzwilliam.
His hands moved gently over her body, while she lay back and closed her eyes. His touch was comforting, more like caresses than a medical examination, so she relaxed. Actually, it was a lot like caresses.
“Captain Fitzwilliam,” she said, eventually.
“Yes, Miss Brown.”
“You wouldn’t be the sort of cad who takes advantage of a helpless lady under your protection, would you?”
“I regret to say that I may well be just such a bounder, Miss Brown.”
She opened her eyes and examined him. He was quite handsome in a rugged sort of way and he did have an engaging smile. He would have been safe if he had not come back to rescue her. Perhaps he deserved some compensation for the loss of his life. She considered her options and recalled that she really hated word games.
“Well, if I am to be ravished I suppose I must submit gracefully,” she said, and kissed him.
It was some time before Sarah came up for air. When she did, she turned her head to look out of the porthole while he playfully nuzzled her neck.
“Captain Fitzwilliam,” she said.
“What is it now, Miss Brown?” he asked, a faint edge of frustration colouring his tone.
She giggled, wondering if he would see the funny side. The poor man was in for more frustration.
“I think you should look out,” she said. “I believe you may have, um, missed the boat, so to speak.”
“What?”
Sarah pointed to where the American sloop headed straight for them, demonstrating the famous sailing qualities of the type by navigating easily through Lucifer’s rip tides. Fitzwilliam clearly did not see the funny side. “Bloody Americans,” he said. “They’ve been a perpetual nuisance since Boston Harbor.”
SOLIDARITY
Walter Jon Williams
Resistance to a conqueror needn’t be futile, but may need to be nudged along by an expert …
A master of many subgenres of SF, including military SF in his Dread Empire’s Fall series, as well as authoring historical adventure and crime, Walter Jon Williams is a multiple award nominee and winner who has “to write novels in order to afford to write shorter work” because “I really love writing short stories.” Hooray. And who else’s personal page of Frequently Asked Questions would include the info that “mataglap” is an Indonesian word, indicating that someone is about to go berserk and start killing at random?
SULA DRESSED IN fine Riverside low style for her meeting with Casimir. The wide, floppy collar of her blouse overhung a bright tight-waisted jacket with fractal patterns. Pants belled out around platform shoes. Cheap colourful plastic or ceramic jewellery. A tall velvet hat, crushed just so, with one side of the brim held up by a gold pin with an artificial diamond the size of a walnut.
“I don’t like this,” Macnamara said.
Sula peered at herself in the mirror, flipped her fingers through her dyed black hair.
“I wish there were other choices,” she said, “but there aren’t.”
She turned to him.
“I’m going,” she said. “We need allies.”
And, because he was under military discipline, he said nothing more, just glowered in his petulant way.
The neighbourhood known as Riverside was still, and the pavement radiated the heat of the day as if it were exhaling a long, hot breath. Between bars of light, the long shadows of buildings striped the street like prison bars. She saw no sign of Naxid or police patrols.
The Cat Street Club was nearly deserted, inhabited only by a few people knocking back drinks on their way home from, or on their way to, their work. The hostess said that Casimir wasn’t in yet. Sula sat at a back table and ordered sparkling water and transformed the tabletop into a video screen so that she could watch the news programme, the usual expressionless Daimong announcer with the usual bland tidings, all about the happy, content people of many species who worked productively and happily under their new Naxid overlords.
She didn’t see Casimir arrive; there was only the hostess coming to her and saying that he was in. The hostess escorted Sula to the back of the club, up a staircase of black iron, and to a door glossy with polished black ceramic. Sula looked at her reflection in the door’s lustrous surface and adjusted the tilt of her hat.
The next room featured a pair of Torminel guards, fierce in their grey fur and white fangs, and Sula concluded that Casimir must be nervous. Lamey had never gone around with guards, not until the very end, when the Legion of Diligence was after him.
The guards patted Sula down – she had left her pistol at home – and scanned her with a matt-black polycarbon wand intended to detect any listening devices. Then they waved her through another polished door to Casimir in his suite.
The suite was large and decorated in black and white, from the diamond-shaped floor tiles to the onyx pillars that supported a series of white marble Romanesque arches, impressive but non-structural, intended purely for decoration. The chairs featured cushions so soft they might tempt a sitter to sprawl. There was a video wall that enabled Casimir to watch the interior of the club, and several different scenes played there in silence. Sula saw that one of the cameras was focused on the table she’d just left.