Conflagration (45 page)

“This is the warning, people. Enemy coast ahead.”

RAPHAEL

After so much quiet, the Black Airship was suddenly alive with frantic activity. Seats were folded and stowed, and, on the order of the pilot, and under the direction of the airship’s gunner, two wide sections of interior wall in the side of the gondola were slid back. The night air swirled in, and they saw that they were low over the ruins of Paris. The gunner hooked a lightweight .50 caliber to a mount beside what had now become an open door. The Black Airship was not a fighting vessel, but it carried enough firepower to deter marauders on the ground. The pilot was at the helm, calling off the altitude as they dropped into the city.

“Two hundred feet, dead slow, and coming in on the LZ.”

From the air, it was easy to see how, years ago, the Mosul had hammered at Paris with their giant, long-range gun until there was next to nothing left of the city. The shapes of ugly shell craters were still visible. The blackened relics of once proud landmarks still reared as reminders of previous glory, surrounded by the heat-twisted frames, and skeletal remains, of dead and gutted buildings. The airship passed the misshapen supports of what had once been a stately dome, and then crossed the pitted expanse of a wide thoroughfare that was now choked with rank undergrowth. Peering into the gloom as the gunner and the Rangers prepared for the drop-off, Raphael could see big areas of black, featureless darkness that he was at a loss to explain. Then he realized that he was looking at water. The Mosul bombardment had smashed the banks of the River Seine, drowning areas of the city, and, in the long term, turning them into tracts of fetid swamp.

“One hundred and fifty feet, dead slow, and the LZ coming up.”

It would have been easy to dismiss Paris as a dead city, a place of devastation and destruction, but there was evidence of humanity reestablishing itself. Burning fires showed themselves as multiple orange points of light under a pall of dirty smoke, and some sections even had crude electric lighting. Clearly a lot of outlaw ingenuity went into the survival of this vagabond community of rebels, criminals, and fugitives, but Raphael was still at a loss to understand how so much crime and dissent could persist right under the noses of the Mosul. He found it hard to buy Windermere’s explanation that it was a combination of corruption, and a reluctance to take the kind of casualties involved in a full-scale clearing of the ruins. Okay, so the Mosul would have to fight their way into the very sewers, and from cellar to cellar, but he had never known the Mosul unwilling to waste the lives of the rank and file. As the airship continued its descent, he even saw small figures in the shadows. People looking up, grabbing hold of each other, and pointing. He could now see why the gunners first move was to mount the .50 caliber for full operation. In a city of thieves, someone might have the idea of taking the Black Airship for themselves.

“One hundred feet, and engines reversing. Ready yourselves for the drop.”

Under the direction of the gunner, the Rangers deployed a folding winch and crane, and attached their packs to the hook. These would go down first, before the passengers themselves. With the crane in place, they opened up a section of the gondola’s floor, lifted out the rope climbing net that was stored there, and rolled it to the door. The plan was that the airship should finally check its descent fifteen or twenty feet from the ground. The net would be dropped and the Rangers would climb down, followed by Argo, Jesamine, Raphael, and Windermere. This was the most dangerous part of the whole trip. The airship could all too easily be moved by any shifting ground-eddy, and the climbers on the net bounced around, clinging on for dear life. The worst case scenario was a sudden downdraft that could first crush those on the ropes and then wreck the ship itself. Raphael was not, however, unduly worried. With the possible exception of Windermere, they were all young and healthy, and even Windermere was taking his chances.

“Fifty feet, be ready to drop.”

The winch rapidly lowered the packs. The net was thrown out and it reached to within a couple of feet of the ground. The Rangers braced to jump. The gunner was on the .50 caliber.

“That’s as low as we’re going. Everybody move out.”

The Rangers jumped and were scrambling down the net. Argo followed. Raphael went after him, but turned as Jesamine climbed down, ready to help her if needed. Windermere’s leg caused him some trouble, but he did his best to hide the disability. Raphael was about halfway to the ground when the ship suddenly shifted, and the net swayed. For a moment, Raphael, Jesamine, and Windermere were clinging on, if not for dear life, at least to avoid breaking an ankle or a collarbone in a heavy fall to the rubble below, but the Rangers quickly turned to steady the net for the others. Shaken but undeterred, the last three made it to the ground, and the Rangers grabbed their packs and scrambled away from the underside of the Black Airship. Again, the others followed, just in time to avoid hundreds of gallons of water, spilling fore and aft, as the dirigible let go of ballast, and began to rise. The small army of nine men and one woman stood and watched the craft vanishing quickly into the low overcast. When they could no longer see it, they still heard the sound of its departure. The engines cut in briefly, but then the ship returned to silent running and was gone altogether.

The Rangers looked to Argo for their next move, and he quickly responded, pointing into the night. “The pilot assured me that he was right on the LZ, and so making our way to the rendezvous point with Falconetti’s people should be simple. Don’t ask me how, but Windermere’s people in ES Section have exchanged messages, and they are ready to make a deal for Cordelia.”

Raphael supposed he should have been envious or something. He suspected that Jesamine had been looking at him for some sign of resentment that Argo had been selected to lead the mission rather than him. Raphael had never understood other people’s need to lead. He had spent too long around military idiocy and military brutality to ever want to command anything or anyone. Argo, on the other hand, seemed to be taking to it like a duck to water. Raphael would have no complaint as long as Argo did not start putting on airs, or keeping too many need-to-know secrets. Raphael was already at something of a loss to understand how a deal could have been cut so fast with the people holding Cordelia, but this was not the time to start asking for clarification. Argo was already marshaling his troops, and the Rangers were gathering round him as he explained the next move. “We use that ruined dome as the first reference point. We walk a quarter of a mile in that direction, and we’ll come to a fork in the trail. From there we see a signal fire on the right, and we go towards it. Any questions?”

The Rangers shook their heads.

“Madden?”

“Yo.”

“Take the point.”

Madden pointed with his shotgun. “That’s the dome, right?”

Argo looked where he was pointing, at the dark outline of a misshapen framework. He nodded. “That’s it.”

“Okay, I got it.”

The dome had plainly been used as a directional reference on many previous occasions, because a well-beaten path led in its direction from the Black Airship’s regular drop-off point. Madden took a careful look around and started down the trail. Two Rangers fell in behind Madden, Argo took fourth place, with Raphael behind him. Jesamine and Windermere, who was limping a little, stayed near the end of the column, while Penhaligon brought up the rear. They spaced themselves, a couple of paces between each man, and, no sooner were they on the move, than they started hearing movements and rustlings in the scrub all around them, and even caught the odd sight of a small, quickly moving figure. After walking for a hundred yards, none of the ten were in any doubt that they had an invisible escort on either side of them, and Argo seemed to feel the need to reassure everyone. “Okay, people, we know they’re out there, but take it easy. Don’t on any account fire unless clearly threatened. We have no idea who’s following us, or what kind of response the sound of gunfire might create in this place.”

Steuben responded as though to reassure Argo. “Don’t worry, Major. We’re chill.”

Raphael was completely surprised by how overgrown Paris was. He had expected a place of scorched earth and rubble, fallen masonry and broken walls, a sterile wasteland where all life had been eradicated by fire and toxins. Nothing in his imagination had prepared him for how nature had reasserted itself. On the ground, it was even clearer than it had been from the air that tenacious plant life was everywhere. Thick ivy and other climbing plants now covered many of the ruins, transforming them into great shapeless hummocks of green. Long rank grass now covered many open spaces, and thick stands of reeds had established themselves at the edges of the water. Dense scrub had taken over entire blocks, and even misshapen trees, random and nameless, had forced their way up to the light and air.

Up ahead, Madden had halted, and was signaling to Argo to come up the line and join him. Raphael could only assume that the point man had seen the fire that was the next reference point. Argo moved up the line, and, although it was probably against strict Ranger protocol, Raphael followed. They reached Madden, and he had indeed halted, because, as predicted, the trail had forked, and down on the right, the path widened out into what looked in the dark like a clearing, although an expanse of moss-covered cobblestones allowed it to retain some resemblance to an urban square or plaza. In the approximate center of it all, the predicted marker fire burned in a steel oil barrel, but a primary snag was immediately evident. People were in the square. They stood in small groups, some around the fire, others off in the shadows. Raphael could see a number of bottles being passed round. Off to one side, a number of children were eating something scarcely visible, but nebulously disgusting. Raphael, maybe irrationally, had not expected to encounter any people along their designated route, and Argo, when he spoke, sounded as though he had been under the same misapprehension. “If we’re going to go on, I guess we have to face the natives.”

Madden rested his shotgun on his shoulder. “How do you want to play it, Major Argo?”

Raphael was pleased that Argo did not try to act as though he was a real commander of Rangers. “How would you play it, Ranger Madden?

“Figure we should brazen it out. Close ranks, weapons down, but ready, and then just walk through. Quick march, going about our business, not stopping for anyone.”

“When we reach the fire we’re supposed to see some steps leading down to an old underground railway station.”

“When we see them, we go straight for them. No hesitation.”

Argo thought about this. “We have no reason to believe those people are armed.”

Madden shrugged. “We also have no reason to believe they’re not.”

“Expect the unexpected?”

“You said it, Major.”

By this time Steuben had moved up the line and was listening to the exchange. “So are we going to do it?”

Argo nodded. “Let’s do it.”

Steuben waved to the rest of the line to move up. When they were all together, they walked boldly towards the fire. The effect of a heavily armed crew, in full battledress, coming out of the darkness was instant and serious. The people round the fire may not have known who these ten new arrivals were, or where they came from, but they were taking no chances. A few stood their ground, but most backed away, and some even melted into the shadows, as though they had something to hide. A mangy one-eyed cat yowled as it scooted. Raphael could see that some of the loiterers were armed. Knives and old flintlocks were visible under the ragged clothes, carried on belts or thrust into boot-tops, but no one made a move. The people of Paris were probably aware of the havoc that could be wrought by advanced weapons. Only the children seemed unconcerned about the new arrivals, and went on eating as though nothing of interest to them was happening.

The pilot’s instructions were once again correct. Beyond the square or plaza was a flight of stairs leading down from an undamaged piece of sidewalk. It had once been what was known as a Metro station. Raphael had heard that the underground railway had once been the pride of Paris. The ground level superstructure of the station had been entirely blown away, but the steps remained, clear and relatively intact. As they walked determinedly towards them, Raphael heard whispering from one of those in the square.

“From the Black Airship, we thinks.”

“From the Black Airship, for sure.”

The Rangers descended the steps more slowly than they had crossed the square, their guns now held at the ready as they went down into the darkness, except darkness was not what they found. A single gas flame illuminated what had once been the station platform, revealing a place that was scarcely recognizable as being of this Earth. Multiple layers of fringed white fungus, with odd pods and tendrils, had taken over just about every flat surface, and the effect, for Raphael at least, was like being inside a brain or a diseased intestine. He wondered if the fungus was some strange mutant legacy of the Paris Gun’s poison gas shells, fully developed and growing beyond control. Water flowed where the rail tracks had once been, but its surface was a foot or so below the level of the platform. On one of the few visible sections of original wall, a stained and faded poster showed a smiling girl advertising a brand of Caribbean chocolate. Raphael could see Argo holding back distaste as he spoke to the Rangers. “Okay, so it looks weird, but the gaslight is the final marker. We go through the arch beneath it, along a section of smaller tunnel, and then we meet the men we’ve come to see.”

The Rangers lowered their weapons. They didn’t like being in the intestinal tunnel, but they were clearly relieved to have made it to their destination without incident. Or so they thought until the children appeared. They were pale and ragged, with wide watery eyes, as though they spent all of their time living underground with dark water and white fungus. They moved silently, and with an eerie purpose. They slipped out of the darkness of the tunnel, one at a time, and waited at the far end of the platform as their numbers grew to maybe two dozen. They had small weapons in their hands; knives, clubs, straight razors, and short lengths of metal pipe, all highly effective at close range. Jesamine voiced what everyone else was thinking.