Painkiller: Odin's Warriors - Book 2

by Aeryn Leigh

  Griffin sighed. Another day in the core. And still yet again, the amount of work telescoped right the hell out.

  Chapter Eighteen

  THESEUS'S SHIP

  "AT WHAT POINT does it stop being your Grandpa's Axe?" said Andrew, for the fifth time. He chugged his beer, in the back booth of The Rusty Axe. Realising he'd never read the ending to Triplanetary hit him hard, even months later, on top of the daily drilling and exercise. He smacked the empty mug down on the wooden table and beckoned for another refill.

  "It is still your Grandfather's Axe," remarked Magnus. "No matter how many times you replace the handle or the head." The Viking too slammed his mug down and ordered one more.

  "I fail to see what your point is," said Beowulf.

  Most of the tavern's customers were Vikings, raucous in song and dance. They also had money, and more importantly, time in which to spend it.

  "How can you say Hellsbaene is your ship, still the same Gods-blessed longship gifted from your grandfather, who was given it from his grandfather, and honour-gifted by his grandfather, and so on, when not a single original piece of timber remains? You said it yourself. It's been rebuilt at least six times."

  "It is Hellsbaene," said the Viking King, downing his tankard. He reached down and patted Manx, chewing a broken glider spar.

  "Theseus's Ship," said Griffin, the fourth member of their table. He poured another finger of whisky into his glass and hammered it back, his puppy yet again asleep, her head resting on his right foot.

  Andrew raised both eyebrows. "How do you know about that?" his eyes just a wee bit unfocused. He raised the fresh mug of ale to his moustached mouth and drunk.

  "Because I'm a black man doesn't mean I don’t know my Greek legends," said the gunnery sergeant. "My Pa was big on classics."

  "Theseus's Ship?" said Beowulf. "I know of the Greeks. Many ended up here. But not of Theseus." Andrew started to reply but the King held up his hand. "No. I want to hear Griffin's tale."

  Griffin slammed another shot. "Well, it goes something like this." The American settled back against the wooden wall, his hands interlocked on the table. He bent them back, cracking all the joints, and placed them back down. He cleared his throat.

  "Well, Plutarch died about 100 B.C., by all accounts, Beowulf, a famous biographer and essayist. He wrote for the leaders of Rome and Greece. Probably would have written for you. But he wrote about a paradox. Theseus, a great hero, and King of Athens, returned from victorious battle after many moons abroad, and many trials — I think he killed a minotaur or something — around 1,200 B.C. His great ship of thirty oars, for the next one-thousand years, had every plank and piece of cloth and timber renewed by the Athenians, as they gave way to the ravages of rot and decay."

  He drummed his fingers on the wood. Took a shot.

  "So, the philosophers used the ship as an example, but they split into two different camps. One, that all things grow in time, remaining the same. The other, that all things grow and don’t remain the same."

  Griffin replaced the cork plug on the whisky bottle.

  "Here it gets tricky. You go down a rabbit hole on this one." He laughed. "Still with me?"

  The Vikings nodded, eyes glinting in the firelight. The Englishman, however, looked woozy, but held a radiant smile.

  "Heh. The Greek philosopher Aristotle had a solution — four reasons. I think of this whenever I modify Betty or clean her. No matter what I do, it's still gonna be Griffin's Gun. The first is its form, the design of the thing. Its shape or appearance. The second is material, the matter of which it's made. Metal or wood. Third reason is the um, efficient, or agent cause, the how and by whom. Like, did the ship workers who replaced the ship's timbers use the exact same tools and techniques? Do I use the same gun-cleaning tools each time I work on Betty?

  "And the last reason, Beowulf and Magnus, is the intended purpose of the thing. Betty kills and maims bad people. But it also damn saves a lot of lives. The Ship of Theseus, a ship of legend, reminded its citizens it'd carried Theseus, and politically, that once upon a time he lived."

  Griffin breathed out, took one long, deep lungful back in. "Lot of words for me."

  "It suits you, Griffin Timberman. Yes. Politically, Hellsbaene also serves a similar function. As does my father's ship, passed down through his grandfathers. Although Magnus doesn't like that ship as much. Nor for that matter Snorri."

  The three looked at the snoring Englishman, asleep, his head between his arms in a puddle of spilt ale. "And Andrew it seems," said Beowulf. He stood, and the pub fell silent. He raised his mug. Griffin pulled the whisky plug out, and the three clinked.

  "To Hellsbaene and Betty, and Theseus's Ship. For Victory."

  The Rusty Axe roared.

  Chapter Nineteen

  A LONG WAY, BABY

  "THAT'S ENOUGH TRAINING FOR TODAY," said Beowulf, smiling ear-to-ear. "We just might make Viking warriors out of you yet."

  "I have discovered muscles I never thought I had." Andrew panted as he walked with the others over to the weapons rack, under its own wooden rain shelter. His hangover wasn’t helping.

  "Yeah, mate," said Mick, flexing both of his hands. "Never thought I'd be swinging an axe let alone be any good at it."

  The rain hadn't stopped pouring for the last thirty minutes. The ground was soggy, and so were the rest of them. It hadn't stopped the close-quarters sparring, rivulets of water pouring down faces as they thrust, swung, and parried what constituted the apex of melee weaponry in this new world.

  Their Viking instructors did not stop. The commando team was treated no different than any young Viking being instructed in the ways of battle the last months. Do it again. Do it again. Higher. Faster. Pull in your elbows here, don't watch the enemy's hands, watch the elbows there. For the hand to move the elbow must move first. Now again.

  After ten weeks of this, they had all come a long way. A jog first thing in the morning, from the house all the way to The Pit, then out to their training grounds. Followed by close-quarter combat, then out on the weapon range with Griffin until lunch. After food, but not too much food, as Andrew and Mick had learnt the hard way, throwing up entire contents of their stomachs by the back paths of The Pit after eating too much in the first days, a quick jog, then back to the ways of learning how to kill a man.

  Griffin whistled as he replaced the long sword in its stand.

  "I'm not sure what's scarier," said Mick, inspecting the cuts on his hands. "Facing an entire castle full of soldiers or watching our gunnery sergeant take such delight in bladed weaponry."

  "It's a nice diversion," said Griffin, reaching into a wooden crate and pulling out a pile of clean rags. The men grabbed a cloth and patted dry the weaponry. Then themselves.

  The sounds of horse footfalls reached their ears. "It's the Old Man," muttered Mick.

  "And Ella," said Griffin.

  The rain eased, reducing to a slight drizzle, water dripping into puddles all around the weapon shack. The two newcomers trotted the horses up to the small wooden building at the edge of the clearing, the temporary HQ, and dismounted, tethering the horses. Water splashed as they made their way over.

  "Perfect timing," said Mick, to Ella, when they reached the shelter. "Funny how you keep missing out on the fun stuff."

  "I still do my training," said Ella, lifting back the waterproof oilskin cape. "I have a practice area set up in the hanger you know. I'm about due another target dummy. It's good for my anger."

  "Fellas," said Laurie, pulling back his own soaking-wet waterproofs. "How are they doing, Beowulf?"

  The Viking smiled. "A lot better now."

  "Good. If next week's test flights go well, it's not long to go now. How's Hellsbaene?"

  "On target, making excellent progress. She will be ready in time."

  "Beauty. Let's head to the range. Griffin, mix it up for us? Random weapons, whatever you like?"

  "You heard the man," said the huge American. He removed the cigar stub and plac
ed it in a side pocket. "Can anyone say flintlock?"

  Chapter Twenty

  THE ONLY LOGICAL CONCLUSION

  THE TWIN SUNS were starting to set on the horizon, casting long shadows over the aerodrome, the earth still wet from the day's rain. Marietta and Ella walked toward the biggest hanger, the building which contained the aircraft prototype.

  "You were saying that you wanted to see the prototype once it was nearing completion," said Ella, "so, here it is. The one-eighth and one-quarter size models that we have built have performed much better than my initial – failed attempts," she said, colour spreading to her cheeks.

  "Good," said Marietta, casting her gaze around the buildings. "Afternoon," she said to the four saluting soldiers standing guard outside the hanger. She raised her head and inspected the machine gun guard tower which sat on top of the hanger’s roof. Returning the salutes, and with a smile, the commander of the Republic followed Ella into the cavernous space.

  Inside, dust particles glittered in the evening rays streaming through the various window slits and skylights. It took their eyes a few seconds to adjust, even with the rudimentary electric lights hanging down from the ceiling rafters.

  In the middle of the factory floor stood the aircraft prototype. All around it ground crews and other workers swarmed, also working on the two assault gliders just behind it. Around the perimeter of the hanger, carpenters, woodworkers, and the odd Viking turned, lathed, and trained down wood, the sharp smell of wood shavings contrasting with the odour of metal and oil, and sweat.

  Marietta clapped her hands three times. "Attention everybody, go and take a five-minute break. You're about due one." The workers downed their tools and ones and twos walked past the pair of them back out into the open air of Fairholm, of The Pit, to the mess hall just around the block.

  "Now that we have the place to ourselves," said Marietta, "you may proceed with the tour."

  Ella positively bounced up and down. "Where to begin?" Grabbing Marietta's hand and pulling her toward the aircraft. Marietta couldn't remember the last time somebody had took her hand and pulled her toward something, in public at least, but she decided to go with the flow.

  Just this once. It did feel kind of nice. But only this once.

  "Okay," said Ella, "I'll start at the very bottom. The seaplane hull sort of resembles a tiny longship in its design elements you know, for giving a strong, while waterproof, contour. We've tried giving the external surface a streamlined outline as far as humanly possible, but considering this plane is going to be on the open ocean for weeks upon weeks at the end it does make sense."

  Ella and Marietta stopped at the nose of the aircraft. Ella pointed at the honeycomb structure. "Above the waterline the entire fuselage uses latticework structures to maximise strength and performance but also saving as much weight as possible.

  "As you can see walking around the fuselage we have installed the flight controls and control wires taken from both the Lancaster and the B-17. With Rob and Thorfinn's help we are pretty confident that the mechanical side of operations should work within acceptable parameters."

  Marietta stole a quick glance at Ella. Her face was flushed with excitement and childlike joy. It was like watching a bigger version of Amelia.

  "And now, Marietta, now we get to the fun stuff. We've used one of the fuel cells from the Lancaster and that is now mounted directly over the central pylon here, which holds up the entire top wing."

  Ella pulled over a pair of wooden ladders and climbed up one, gesturing for Marietta to do the same. "These are the last two working engines taken from Damage Inc.," she said, pointing to the massive Wright-Cyclone radials. "It's been tricky," rubbing her left temple, "quite tricky, re-forming and straightening the original metal propellers after the crash, sorting out the harmonics, but I'm happy with that now. But this, Marietta, has proved to be the hardest part of the entire process so far once the initial design quirks were taken care of." Hands pointed upward.

  "The folding wings. If we didn't have to keep the three planes such a secret I would suggest we just fly them out over Fairholm and rendezvous with the Hellsbaene elsewhere, but we need to keep it hush as you say. So, to maintain the deception of these aircraft being just another Viking cargo ship, its wings need to be folded. Questions?"

  "There would be a lot of things that would be much simpler," said Marietta, "if we didn't have to go through so much subterfuge each day and night we meet." She looked at Ella.

  Ella returned her gaze, blinked, and went straight back to talking about the aircraft.

  Marietta gave a small laugh. "Show me the cargo area," she said, climbing down the ladder.

  They walked around, tucking their heads underneath the support structures holding the aircraft in place, stuck their heads up to the rear interior section of the aircraft, the bottom of the aircraft's hull at waist height.

  "So, there is room for twelve people, plus weaponry and supplies. It's going to be heavy, plus towing the two gliders. And we will be taking all the high-octane aviation fuel that's left from both the bombers on this mission. Both for the seaplane and for Hellsbaene." Ella stopped. "This mission is really important, isn't it?"

  "Yes, it is," said Marietta. "We need that knowledge." She ducked back underneath the wooden framework, and walked around to the tail of the aircraft. She looked up and stared at the dancing dust motes above.

  "It's all about evolution," Marietta said, throwing her arms open wide. "Sometimes I think that is the only reason we are here, why anyone is brought here. It is an evolutionary arms race. The giraffe eats leaves from a tree. The tree grows taller in response. The giraffe grows taller. The leaves develop a hardened shell. The animal evolves bigger teeth to grind down the exterior of the plant matter. And so forth."

  Never mind that I've never actually seen a giraffe.

  Ella sat on the bottom step of the ladder. "It would make sense given only warriors and those of fighting spirit are ever brought here," she said. "I've never told anybody this, but on that day, I duelled and shot down Grieg, in those final moments, I am positive we were not alone. I think I might be going mad."

  "Perhaps it is best not to think about it so much," said Marietta. "If we are just gladiators, stuck in an eternal Roman Colosseum, then there is not much that we can do about it. Let's just be grateful that we can enjoy smaller, finer things in life. Death will be always waiting for us."

  "I'm glad that I have Amelia, you know," said Ella. "It's more than most of the others got."

  "And yet," said Marietta, "you chase after your dreams and your whims with your child as an afterthought. You said to her, no more adventures?"

  "You asked me to fly this mission," said Ella, rising off the ladder.

  "I did. But you could always say no. Or train someone."

  "Who would fly it? Lucius? His knowledge of physics makes him too valuable to fly now. Even in your own words. Laurie cannot fly, since he will be parachuting out. So that leaves me. It's the only logical conclusion."

  Marietta smiled. "Of course."

  Chapter Twenty-One

  WHERE’S THE RAF?

  ONCE MORE, the long, keening wail of Viking horn blasts rolled across the Bay, and the inhabitants of Fairholm took shelter in newly constructed bomb shelters across the city.

  In the defensive works leading to the beach, an exasperated Merrion stood next to Griffin and the Republic's newly formed anti-aircraft battery.

  "These are the smallest and lightest cannons taken off the dreadnought. I thought they could be used to shoot down the aeroplanes? That was the original idea, wasn't it?"

  Gunnery Sergeant Griffin turned to Merrion. "It's a bit more complex than that," he said. "Most of the ammunition on board the Purity was fired after it ran aground, even though we jammed all its turrets axis of rotation and elevation with wooden timbers. It's a hard process making new shells that explode at a certain height, getting the fuses right."

  "You're the newcomers," said Merrion, "aren't you
supposed to be familiar with how all this works?"

  Griffin gave him a long, cool stare. "If you say so." He turned to the anti-aircraft crew. "All right guys, let's try these new shells again." And to himself he added, hope they damn well don't explode in the barrels.

  OVER IN THE COMMAND BUNKER, Marietta peered out over the Bay and the approaching Inquisition bombers. This is the tenth day in a row, she thought, and all they do is drop those pamphlets. She turned to the wireless operator. "Confirm the same amount of aircraft and type again?"

  The wireless operator spoke into the headset, and the forward observation post centre came back with the reply. "Yes," said the operator, a kid currently in their late teens. Marietta scratched the back of her head, and thought about the Emperor's lair.

  AT THE AERODROME, Rob and Thorfinn scratched their own heads at the latest rotary engine in front of them to catastrophically fail.

  "I'm positive it's something to do with the casting process," said Rob. "At least it's a break from working on the Cat."

  "It's bloody infuriating," said Thorfinn, hearing the warning horn blasts. "The kids are starting to get nasty looks and comments when they're in town, I noticed yesterday. They are supposed to be the aerial defenders of Fairholm and yet all they seem to be doing is twiddling their thumbs. We know that they're working just as hard as we are, and just as frustrated, but the city folk don't know that. It's just like Dunkirk."

  "What happened in Dunkirk?" said Rob, removing a bolt off the broken engine with a torque wrench.

  "Oh, when the British Army evacuated from France in early 1940, with what was at the time an unstoppable German army right behind them, mate. The whole army, waiting at the beach for ships to take them across the channel to safety — damn a lot of war material got left behind. Steamers, rowboats, fishing trawlers, basically every Pommy civilian ship came across and helped with the evacuation, and the whole time the beach and evacuating ships were under shellfire from the advancing German armies and strafing attacks by the Luftwaffe."