The Mammoth Book of SF Wars (33 page)

It was at that moment that chaos broke out.

A sailor spun away from his station as if he had been punched by a steam hammer. A pipe fractured, spewing hot water into a rating’s face; his screams echoed from the metal walls. Navigational maps flew up in the air and the ship’s deck lurched, throwing Sarah against her straps. The dial in from of the engineering officer shattered and Fadden uttered a most ungentlemanly oath.

“The galvanic coils,” he said, before running down the spiral stair into the bowels of the ship.

Sarah noticed ghostly figures on the edge of her vision that vanished as soon as she looked at them directly, like trying to see a dim star at night. She enthasized and was horrified to see goblin-like forms lurching around the bridges like small boys who had got out of their governess’s control. The spirit world was overflowing into the natural realm and something was psychically boarding the
Cassandra
.

Sarah slipped from her body and was sucked in to the otherworld.

She arrived in a large kitchen that must be part of some great house. The walls were brick, supported by heavy black wooden beams. The kitchen was full of ovens, cupboards, and tables littered with culinary equipment, spoons, ladles, pots, kettles, plates and cutlery. Sarah was dressed in a female version of a highwayman’s outfit, with breeches and a thick leather jerkin.

Anthropoid creatures with short legs and overlong arms ran round the kitchen, smashing china and upturning anything loose. As she watched, two overturned a cupboard with a tremendous crash. They also struck out at ghostly servants who were trying to cook. These must be the shadows of the
Cassandra
’s crew into the spirit world. Sarah had never seen such a phenomenon before; non-sensitives usually left no impression here.

The nearest goblin turned to face her, a wide grin showing large upward-facing canines. It wore the tattered remains of clothes that were too small and the wrong shape. No, not clothes, she thought, but a uniform since other goblins showed the same colours. It ran towards her on bowed legs with a rolling gait that covered the ground surprisingly quickly. She pulled a pistol from a sash around her waist and levelled it. The creature stopped where she could stare into human-looking eyes. Sarah imagined that she could see fear and terror buried deep behind those eyes. She hesitated, unwilling to pull the trigger. She had never shot anything before, let alone something with sad brown eyes.

The goblin hit her hard over the left kidney. Its hand ended in vicious hooked claws that tore through the thick leather, into her body. She screamed and gripped the gun hard in shock, discharging it.

The blast blew a hole the size of her fist in the creature’s chest, knocking it over backwards. Sarah doubled up in pain. She pushed her left hand hard against her side but it still hurt terribly. Get a grip, girl, she said to herself and willed the pain to subside. She was not entirely successful but at least she could now function.

Sarah focused her mind with the chronotic prayer to create an aeon, a bubble of time in which her life ran faster than the spirit world around her. This emergency measure was used only sparingly as it put great strain on the pilot. The world around her slowed down.

The goblins clawed slowly at each other, hindering themselves in their eagerness to get at her. She backed into a corner, firing the pistol as fast as she could reload. Sarah was not exactly a marks-woman but she could hardly miss. One shot smashed a goblin’s kneecap, another burst a head like a ripe pear hit with a mallet and a third clipped a goblin’s shoulder, spinning him around into his fellows.

The blood drove the creatures mad and they tore into their fallen comrades. The goblin with the shattered leg tried to defend itself but another ripped his throat out with an upwards slash of the impressive canines. Red blood spurted across the floor causing increasing frenzy. Sarah began to hope that the goblins might kill each other off. She was tired now and finding it hard to concentrate. Half of her mind concentrated on maintaining the aeon through prayer, while the rest went through the ritual of load, aim, fire and back away.

She stumbled over the words of the prayer and the aeon flickered. A ridiculous-looking scrawny man in some sort of Native American kilt and headdress made the horned sign, the
mano cornuta
, at her. Her aeon collapsed and the world speeded up. The man was an unrestrained sensitive. Pilots called them sorcerers.

One of the unacknowledged reasons that the Navy only used girl mediums was that they were considered to be more controllable. Her instructors had drummed into her the safe limits of her talent beyond which she was forbidden to experiment. To do so would put her very soul into peril and for that there was the threat of the Church exorcists.

The “goblins” were sailors or soldiers, sacrificed in some dreadful ritual that had bound their souls to the sorcerer’s service. The Academy could control what the girls did but they couldn’t stop them gossiping. Sarah had heard of vile ceremonies that were rumoured to be carried out in the more backward territories.

The sorcerer screamed in anger and hopped from foot to foot, shaking a stick with a feather on the tip at the goblins. He slapped the nearest goblin with the stick and it whimpered as if lashed by a whip.

The magician gestured at Sarah and the goblins obediently charged towards her. She fired once into the crush without result. She felt the creatures’ thoughts and their lust for hot, red blood. There was no time left to reload her weapon, no time for anything. In desperation, she cried for help, calling Hind’s name.

The kitchen door flew off its hinges into the crush of goblins, knocking several over. This was followed by the sound and smell of a heavy gun firing. A tunnel of body parts showed where Hind had discharged his blunderbuss.

The goblins in front of Sarah hesitated. The sorcerer shouted more instructions. Most of the goblins attacked Hind leaving just two to finish her off, which was probably overkill.

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 bullied 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.