Dead Air (21 page)

A morbid silence fell on the room. Each person there exchanged an uncomfortable glance with the other.

"Precisely," Krumer said to break the silence. He then glanced at Tiberius. "Do your people have any records of how to defend against something like that?"

The young archeologist thought a moment. "Some. It's in part training and mental concentration. The less you concentrate or the more fatigued you are, the more susceptible you become. I had read some arbitrators would only use the device when both parties had toasted to a successful arbitration."

Adonia nodded slowly in approval. "That way they would be more willing and open to suggestions or questions. It's all so very disturbing, and yet ingenious at the same time."

O'Fallon, who had fixed a confused scowl on his face much earlier in the conversation, sighed and rubbed his eyes from frustration and no small amount of fatigue. "Beggin' ye pardon, but who's people? Ye mean the Italians?"

Krumer shook his head. "No, Romans."

Tiberius cleared his throat lightly. "Actually, we typically use 'Thulians'."

"That would make sense," Adonia replied with a shrug.

Thorias sat up suddenly with the shift in conversation. "'Thulian' ... you surely don't mean as in 'Thule'?"

Tiberius blushed and stammered, "Ah ... no, I mean, yes. I mean ... I wasn't supposed to say anything." He sighed in frustration. "Life was so much easier at the University."

O'Fallon looked around, his confusion in full force. "Roman ... well right, he be from Rome."

Thorias shook his head. "No, no. They are called Italians now ... if you are actually from there." The doctor shot a knowing glance at the young Thulian archeologist.

O'Fallon fixed his gaze on Tiberius, "And ye people be from there ... Italy ... Rome."

Tiberius smiled pleasantly, "Yes they are originally from there, but not now. Though, we sometimes call ourselves Roman even though we call Thule home."

The quartermaster rubbed his temples from a small headache. "Och, but where be Italy in Rome? Wait. No. Rome in Thule. No. Now Ah be all turned about! Can we be startin' over?"

Thorias sighed and leaned his head back against the wall, his face the slightest shade paler from the pain of his wound. "Indeed, if only we could."

Before anyone else could reply, the room pitched like a cork caught on a stormy sea. Those that had been on their feet were pitched headlong towards the floor. Some managed to catch themselves when they landed, some, like Krumer and Adonia, slammed into the wall with a heavy thud. When the rolling motion settled, a dull rumble of thunder shook the air all around. Following that, an erratic tapping sound peppered the door to the building's roof.

Adonia sat up first, her eyes closed tight against the pounding headache that raged. About her head, the snake-like tendrils shuddered. "Oh, my head. Is everyone alright?"

"I've been better, my dear. Truly." Thorias replied with a groan. He automatically reached down to feel for his bandage and winced from the pain.

Closer to the middle of the room, Krumer sat up slowly, then blinked while he cleared the cobwebs from his mind. "Bruised, but unbowed." Others around the room echoed his words.

O'Fallon, who had managed to hang onto the stairs for support, climbed up and opened the door a crack. Immediately he received a gust of dark smoke in the face for his trouble. He coughed to clear his lungs. "Ye'll na get any reply from that telegraph o' yers. Yer shed's wiped clean from the roof."

In answer, the air shuddered as another growl of thunder roared all around them. Again the station pitched, but not as violently this time. More prepared for the abrupt jolt, O'Fallon clung to the stairs. He frowned. The peal of thunder was wrong in both pitch and duration.

"That na be a storm. We be under attack." He said flatly.

Everyone looked around in alarm. Dr. Von Patterson unsteadily climbed to his feet clutching the jade statue. "Attack? It sounded like thunder. Though with the thunderstorm outside, how can you be so sure?"

O'Fallon smirked slightly. "It be what Ah do. Weapons, that is. 'Sides, the explosion from artillery shot be havin' a distinctive sound."

Krumer stood slowly. His joints protested with a rapid series of aches and pains, but he ignored them. "Either way, we can't stay here. We need a better position. Something defensible."

"All the buildings near us were for crew bunks. They're nearly all windows - not much cover there. Unless ya mean the boiler room again? That seems ta be where all the zombies are bein' made." Moira asked, slipping the goggles back on her head.

"No," Krumer replied. "Neither of those will do. I meant farther out from here than that, such as the warehouses next to the docks. They've few windows, thicker walls to weather storms, and fewer ways in at us. Also, they'll be taller, so we'll be able to see what's coming and plan for it. We just need to get there, and quickly."

O'Fallon thought that over for a moment. "Ah be knowin' a sure way. Follow me."

T
he scene at the station's docks was from a nightmare. Holes, lined with burnt timbers and twisted metal like so many jagged teeth yawned wide from where they sat along the walkways and docking slips. A black smoke, thick with oil and charred soot, billowed up from piles of smoldering debris that decorated the dock-facing side of a dozen or more warehouses. Along the dock, bodies lay sprawled along the battlefield. Both soldiers and the previously walking dead lay together in a silent brotherhood while rain fell in sporadic sheets onto the fallen. The thunder and lightning echoed solemnly.

Above the disaster, the drone of propellers announced the
Griffin
's approach. Gracefully, the small ship slid among the massive smoke plumes in a careful gambit to conceal themselves from any of RiBeld's watchful mercenaries. Tonks Wilkerson cast a quick glance outward. Between the black oily clouds and soot, he saw - and could almost feel - the deadly fistfight between the two ships several hundred yards away. Satisfied they were as safe as they could be for the moment, he returned his attention to the task at hand - a close fly-by to look for any survivors as they readied to charge after RiBeld and his ship of bloody mercenaries.

By the rail, Captain Hunter clutched the wood as if he would rip it free with his own hands. He gazed silently into the smoke and fire on the docks below, watching for any sign, any motion, that would raise the hope that at least one - if not all - of his people sent to the station survived.

"Closer, Mr Wilkerson. I want the
Griffin
so close she'll kiss the station hello." Anthony Hunter growled. From the moment artillery had ripped at the station, he was like a man possessed. His fury towards RiBeld and frustration at being unable to find his missing crew shone clear in his stance.

Tonks, eyes fixed on the ship's course, nodded curtly in reply. "Aye, Cap'n. Closer than comfort allows."

The
Griffin
slid closer to the dock, between the smoke and fire. Beneath the vessel, firelight revealed the faces of lifeless victims, their eyes turned towards the sky. Suddenly, a green spark of light caught Hunter's eye. It was the reflection of firelight off of a small green stone in a mason jar filled with murky fluid. The entire jar glowed as if it held the liquefied remains of a thousand fireflies, and sputtered an arc of greenish electricity. The arc danced along the leather harness the jar was attached to, then outlined the bloodied corpse.

"It could be some mystical trinket," The captain said half-aloud to himself, "but I doubt it. Why put one in a mason jar? Probably a rational explanation for the whole thing."

Tonks, who had heard only part of Hunter's comment, asked from where he stood next to the ship's wheel. "Cap'n?"

Hunter shook his head. "Nothing of great import that cannot wait until later, Mr. Wilkerson."

A shout from the lookout overhead broke through their conversation. "Gunfire ahead!"

Hunter glanced up at the lookout, then in the direction the man pointed. Amid the smoke, orange bursts of flame peppered the air. Figures raced between remnants of cover and the lone structure of the dockmaster's shack that somehow had survived the earlier bombardment. The captain snatched the spyglass from his pocket and pointed it towards the orange flares.

The smoke obscured his view a moment, then parted. A crude barricade of cast-off barrels had been hastily erected around the dockmaster's shed. Behind the barrels, a small group of men crouched low and fired over the barrier. Among them, Hunter made out the lanky figure of William Falke. One hundred yards away, the mob of station crewmen approached; an unyielding press of shuffling bodies. The small group fired slow and steady into the crowd. Given the precision and rate of the shots, the captain assumed it was to conserve their ammunition. However, whenever one of their adversaries fell, it stood back up a moment later, despite often having taken what should have been a lethal wound.

Captain Hunter lowered the spyglass from his eye and closed the device again. "Men do not stand up after taking a rifle shot to the chest or neck. Whatever they are - clockwork creation or otherwise - I doubt they'll shrug off cannon-fire with as much ease." Hunter raised his voice. "Gunners! Two cannon, canister shot for both. Let's buy our people time. Mr. Tonks, bring us about a few degrees for our port guns!"

"Aye Cap'n." Tonks said, turning the wheel to the right. Along the port side, two of the cannon were loaded, fuses set and lit. Seconds later they erupted with a roar and the foul smoke of gunpowder. The cannister shots screamed out and tore away until the air was filled with a deadly cloud of hundreds of musket balls, nails and scrap iron shards. A heartbeat later, the shrapnel fanned out, ripping into the lead figures of the mob, shredding them as a steam-powered thresher would fell wheat in a field. Figures shuddered with the impact of the debris, and everywhere the sound of shattered glass could be heard over the commotion. As the victims caught in the blast fell, green electricity arced over the field and danced among the fallen.

While the surviving zombies scattered away from the blast, William Falke looked up and around. When he spied the
Griffin
overhead, he waved and cheered. A moment later his men cheered with him. Above them, the
Brass Griffin
sailed low under the trailing edge of the smoke, a mere ninety yards above the dock, before turning away from the station and towards the other two ships nearby.

"Good shot!" The captain called out with a smile to the gunnery crew, then turned towards the pilot.

"Now for the tricky part." Hunter started, before being promptly interrupted by another bright explosion of fire along the rooftop of a nearby station warehouse. The captain flinched instinctively from the flash of light, then looked in the direction the artillery shot had come from.

"That had ta be for us, Cap'n." Tonks, who had ducked also, stood back upright at the wheel. "The other ship's out of line for a shot this direction."

Hunter nodded in agreement. "Indeed. Only our best fortune that RiBeld's gunners are poor marksmen. We need to answer them before they get more practice and improve their aim."

"We're at a bad angle, Cap'n." Tonks said. "Nothin' we've got will angle up that high. It'd send the guns right through the deck, even the lightnin' cannon."

As the captain gazed at RiBeld's ship and its battered opponent, the Roman vessel fired the remainder of her working guns. Smoke belched out, and cannon shot rang true against RiBeld's ship, though most glanced off the metal-shod hull. Even so, it shuddered from the impact.

"His hull's too strong for a broadside, what with that metal plating he's got there." Hunter thought aloud. "However, at the proper angle ... that might work to our benefit." He watched the two ships sail by each other. While the Roman ship maneuvered directly away from the station, RiBeld and his men sailed parallel to both the station and the Roman ship, which granted him the widest field of fire. In his mind, the captain quickly plotted the course of both ships, and his own, a few minutes sail time into the future. While he imagined the outcome of his plan, he smiled.

"Mr. Tonks, bring us about ten degrees starboard. Put the station to our backs and keep to this column of smoke. Set a course parallel with the damaged ship." The captain gestured in the direction of the ship battle while he explained.

Tonks nodded. "Aye, Cap'n. But won't that put us under the two ships?"

Hunter grinned, "Yes, Mr. Tonks, yes it will. Once we're about two cables from the damaged vessel, bring us up, hard. When we're behind them, we'll open up with everything we've got. RiBeld has some armor on his beast there, but did he remember to protect her backside? Let's find out. Even if he has, the impact ought to shake her timbers enough that it ought to rattle her apart."

"Cap'n, that'll only be four hundred yards distant once we rise up to cut across the path of those ships. Close range for any cannon. If we miss, or he manages to turn on us, we'll be in bad straights." Tonks replied. "We'll be in full sight for a broadside from that wounded ship, at least."

The captain nodded curtly, "I know, Mr. Tonks, I know. RiBeld's backside is the least armed. It's also the most vulnerable.
Besides, he can't turn a ship of that size quickly, and that other craft is far too wounded to move fast enough to harm us. If we're on the mark, we'll be in, have fired, and reloaded well before RiBeld can turn on us, or before the other vessel might wish to chance a fight against us." Hunter took a deep breath and sighed. "I'm hoping they'll take the offered helping hand here, and concentrate what fire they have on RiBeld."

With a gaze at the pitched battle between the other two ships, then a glance at the smoke in front of them, Tonks whistled a tuneless note while he exhaled. "Well, when I signed on, ya said it'd be interesting." The pilot took a deep breath, spun the ship's wheel to his right, then shouted, "Coming about ten degrees starboard! Goggles down! We'll be flyin' in hot!"