The Hangman's Revolution

by Eoin Colfer

  This was the worst time of day to drive even a buggy into the city, with the offices discharging a glut of workers into the streets, and the taverns taking in what they could, and the remainder spilling onto the sidewalks, which were already three-deep with worthy professors and flighty scholars from the Bloomsbury academies and universities. Street traders marked their pitches with coarse halloos and hollers, endeavoring to make themselves heard above the clank and clamor of wagon, carriage, and cart.

  “Where is he going?” wondered Chevie aloud. “He can’t escape in a tank.”

  Witmeyer pointed toward Westminster.

  “He isn’t trying to escape. Box has a mission.”

  There was a shortwave radio on the dash, and its speaker crackled into life.

  “Lunka? Is that you behind me?”

  Witmeyer grabbed the handset. “Clove? Clover. It’s over. The army has been destroyed. Tell Box to stand down.”

  The speaker crackled with what might have been bitter laughter. “The colonel was weak and mortal. Very mortal. Mine is the mission now. The Lord guides my hand.”

  Witmeyer pounded the dash. “We were lied to, Clover. All these years we were working for men, not God. It’s time to make our own decisions.”

  Vallicose did not speak for a moment; then: “You are no longer on the side of the angels, Lunka Witmeyer. You speak with the forked tongue of the devil, and I will not listen to another word.”

  The radio went dead and up ahead, the tank’s large caliber gun fired an explosive round into the locked wheels of a knot of carriages, blowing them apart like kindling, flooding the street with a wave of panic. And as panic is never organized, the road was soon rendered utterly impassable by a jam of carriages and tangled harnesses.

  Utterly impassable, that is, for an indigenous Victorian vehicle, but a twentieth-century tank would make light work of such obstructions. Vallicose opened the throttle wide and powered into the melee, rising on the backs of coach and livestock, its massive weight forging its own elevated road. It was an incredible sight to see and one that shocked even those from another time.

  “I seen a lot of strange things in me time, being a gentleman adventurer,” said Malarkey. “But I ain’t never seen nothing like that. Can we follow?”

  “No,” said Chevie. “We cannot.”

  Witmeyer seemed determined to pursue her partner across the highway of trampled vehicles, but at the last second she balked and swung a sharp right onto the Strand with its multi-colored awnings, distinctive brick arches, and colonnades. If anything the traffic was denser on the Strand, leaving the pilot no choice but to avail of the first exit, which took the amphibian craft down a steep lane to the banks of the Thames itself, with its inviting expanse of black river and silvery swirls of seawater.

  Inviting in the sense that, compared to the packed street above, it was uncluttered by vehicles.

  Malarkey guessed what his beloved was thinking.

  “Onward,” quoth he. “You are my Aphrodite and I shall be your Poseidon.”

  “I have no idea what you are saying, my king,” said Witmeyer. “But I love how you say it.”

  “All day,” said Riley to Chevie. “All day it has been just like this.”

  All conversation, both romantic and mocking, ceased as the amphibious craft plunged down the embankment, crashed through a railing, decimated a stack of barrels, and shot like an arrow into the Thames. The prow dipped sharply before the buoyancy packs forced it back the way it came with alarming velocity. The passengers were rolled about like marbles in a bowl and came to rest in a single multilimbed, squirming heap in the bilges.

  Otto was the first to speak. “Oh, my Lord,” he breathed. “Oh, my sweet Jehovah.”

  For one of the embankment barrels had landed on deck, and the stencil on the cask said BRANDY.

  He disentangled himself from the heap and crawled to the gunwale, peering over the side.

  “Lordy lord,” he said. “It’s all going on today, and no mistake.”

  Chevie was next out of the pile. “What now, Otto? More brandy?”

  “Don’t I wish?” said Otto, pointing to a craft fifty feet off their stern. “Nah, it ain’t brandy, girl. It’s that boat.”

  “We’re on a river, Malarkey. Boats are to be expected.”

  “I will grant you that, saucy. Boats are indeed to be expected in this the busiest port in the civilized world. But most of ’em do not have HMVS Boadicea writ down their flanks.”

  “‘Boadicea’?” said Chevie. “Why is that name familiar?”

  “Boadicea,” said Riley, crawling from under Witmeyer’s meaty thigh. “The warrior queen. Merciless and deadly.”

  “That’s okay,” said Chevie. “We aren’t the bad guys.”

  A cannonball whistled overhead, hammering the dock wall behind them, sending chunks of masonry spinning into the air.

  “Speak for yourself,” said Malarkey, then he helped Lunka Witmeyer to her feet so she could pilot them away from the approaching flatiron gunship.

  “Cannon to the front of me,” he sang airily.

  “Cannons to the rear.

  I may as well be whistling.

  It does no good to fear.”

  Witmeyer turned to Chevie and her eyes were bright. “Is he not wonderful?” she asked her fellow female. “Look at that hair.”

  We are all going to die, thought Chevie. Very soon.

  Vallicose was on the wrong side of the river. A bunch of drunk sailors had mounted an assault on the tank and had, incredibly enough, managed to jam her viewing port with a wooden leg. By the time she had managed to knock the thing out of the slot, she found herself crashing through the boundary turnstiles of Waterloo Bridge, which had long been known as the Bridge of Sighs because of its granite span’s sordid association with the leaps of desolate lovers. It was possible that, traveling at the speed that it was, the tank would not have been able to make the turn, but the front fender whacked into a recessed stone niche, which nudged the vehicle back on course.

  Vallicose was not unduly concerned to have swung wide of her target—after all, God was on her side and Big Ben stood up like a beacon and she would simply take the first crossing back over the river.

  A bluebottle ran alongside, beating the armored plating with his club and tooting on his whistle, raising an alarm that had already spread across half of London, and Vallicose had to admire the man.

  He is fighting for queen and country, she thought. Which is valiant enough, but I can trump him. I am fighting for the souls of this nation.

  She accelerated across the bridge’s level path and powered along the riverbank. It was true that God was on her side, but He would expect her to prove herself.

  God rained fiery sulfur on Sodom and Gomorra, and now I shall do the same to London.

  She saw a group of militia ahead, desperately trying to set up a cannon post directly in her path.

  Convenient, she thought. Directly in my path is the only target I can hit right now.

  She almost casually blew the ordnance and its operators into the river.

  Ten shells left, she noted. More than enough.

  The amphibian craft was under fire from the gunboat, though not in any serious danger because the flatiron, much like Vallicose’s tank, was restricted to firing straight ahead. Its single twelve-inch gun could be hydraulically elevated, but was without port or starboard maneuverability, which meant that to aim the gun it was necessary to aim the entire boat.

  The river was dotted with civilian craft, and yet the Royal Navy boys were reckless with their bombardment, capsizing one pleasure yacht and sinking a fuel barge outright.

  “What ho!” said Malarkey, slipping his arm around the pilot’s waist. “There’s coal for the fishies.”

  Chevie was inclined to take things more seriously. For Malarkey the Boxite Empir
e was all a bit hypothetical; but Chevie knew that even with Box dead, his plan for the world could still come to pass. All it took was one maniac with futuristic knowledge, and that described Vallicose pretty exactly.

  “Help me,” she called to Riley, and they staggered to the stern and the weapons’ locker that ran along the gunwale. They heaved back the watertight cover and feasted their eyes on the hardware inside.

  “A drainpipe!” said Riley, pointing to one piece of kit. “What good is a blooming drainpipe? Are we s’posed to rain the enemy to death?”

  Chevie lifted the pipe from its foam housing.

  “Two things, pal. One: don’t let Figary hear you say s’pose. The word is suppose.”

  “And two?” asked Riley.

  “Two,” said Chevie, “this is no ordinary piece of pipe.”

  Vallicose swung onto Westminster Bridge, and having learned from her earlier overenthusiasm, took the corner gently, not losing control for even a second. The tank’s caterpillar tracks bit into the stone, throwing up twin wakes of sparks and chips. The flat road became something of a racetrack as carriages, cyclists, pedestrians, and even an automobile made all possible speed to the Westminster bank in an attempt to remove themselves from the path of this metal dragon that spat death and moved in a cloud of thunder.

  Vallicose felt a surge of familiar satisfaction at the terror that the Thundercats’ shock-and-awe tactics often inspired. She picked up the microphone of the radio that would connect her to the other Box vehicle.

  “Lunka, do you remember the Cannes assault? When we firebombed the film festival? Those damned artists didn’t know what hit them.”

  Witmeyer answered immediately. “Of course I remember, Clove. And that was fun, but this is different. We have to live here now, and Box is dead, his army scattered.”

  “Box was a fraud,” snapped Vallicose. “He was not the man I thought he was. Colonel Box thought only of his own plans.”

  “Bail out, Clove. Just jump off the bridge, and Otto can scoop you up.”

  This was such a preposterous suggestion that Vallicose laughed. “Otto will scoop me up? Otto is your man, I suppose.” She shook her head. “Let me tell you something, Sister Witmeyer. This is the last thing I will ever say to you: men are weak and they will disappoint you.”

  Far below her ex-partner, on the amphibian’s deck, Witmeyer looked up into the face of King Otto Malarkey and thought: Not this one. And if he does, I will feed him his own entrails.

  Malarkey caught the look and thought: See how the lady loves you, Otto. Never in a million years would she harm you.

  The Houses of Parliament lay tantalizingly close on the Middlesex bank of the Thames.

  Within firing range?

  Possibly.

  Vallicose couldn’t know for sure, but seeing as the bridge was completely plugged by panicking civilians and their abandoned vehicles, and militia struggling with their artillery, it seemed likely that she would need to launch her assault from farther back than she would like. Even though this tank was not a twenty-first century transplant, surely it had a range of a thousand feet, which would be double what was needed.

  The militia sent a salvo her way from a Gatling repeater, and the bullets pinged off the tank’s hide, doing little more than scratching the paintwork. Even so, Vallicose resented the pinging, as she was trying to concentrate. She climbed into the turret and cranked the gun forty-five degrees left, thirty-five degrees elevation. No time for graphs and charts; her best guess would have to do.

  “Fire in the hole,” she said to no one in particular and palmed the red button.

  The turret shuddered, then shot out its first missile.

  Vallicose saw it pass over the palace wherein sat the Houses of Parliament, if not the politicians themselves, who were no doubt fleeing at this very moment.

  No matter, thought Vallicose. The building is the thing. The symbol of British rule.

  Her next thought was: Too high. Too high.

  But she revised her opinion when the missile struck Elizabeth Tower, commonly known as Big Ben, and whipped the top off neatly from clock face up.

  Vallicose crowed with delight.

  Five degrees lower.

  Another thump, which made the entire bridge shake, and this shot was dead-on, arcing over the militia and into the belly of the central lobby, firing up a cloud of smoke and flame.

  Vallicose fancied she heard screaming.

  That’s nothing, she thought. Wait until their flabby limbs are licked by the flames of hell.

  She reloaded. Two more should do it, and then I shall drive my engine into the heart of the flames.

  After the next shot, the bridge shook a little more than expected, and Vallicose found her tank listing to one side.

  Curious, she thought. That is not supposed to happen.

  The flatiron gunboat had found itself hopelessly entangled in a farrago of river traffic and had even taken on the sailors from the ruptured coal barge, who proceeded to engage in spirited fisticuffs with the salty boys who had sunk them.

  “Serves those careless coves right,” said Malarkey, who could not recall having so fine a time. “Firing on the river like that. Blatantly irresponsible, that were.”

  Witmeyer eased the throttle into neutral, then hit reverse for a single pulse to bring the amphibian to a gradual halt parallel to Westminster Bridge.

  Chevie, an agent trained to protect the innocent, was horrified at what she saw.

  “She’s firing on civilians,” she said.

  “They’re not all civilians,” noted Witmeyer.

  In response, Chevie locked a small missile into the drainpipe and took aim along the barrel.

  “Are you standing behind me?” she asked Riley.

  “That I am,” confirmed the boy. “Safe behind you.”

  “Then move,” advised Chevie. “With this particular drainpipe, behind is nearly as dangerous as in front.”

  Chevie had only fired an RPG once before, during maneuvers near Quantico. And she didn’t get a chance to use one a second time—at least not on this day—because a bullet fired from the deck of the Boadicea hit Chevie in the right shoulder. The ball had little steam behind it and did not even penetrate to the bone, but the damage was more than adequate to knock her to the deck.

  Riley dropped to her side. “Chevie!” he said, his face suddenly white with worry for his friend. “Chevie, say you ain’t dead.”

  Chevie coughed so much the bullet popped from its shallow hole.

  “I ain’t dead,” she confirmed. “But I ain’t firing rockets either. Witmeyer, you need to do it.”

  Witmeyer did not turn from her post at the wheel. “I have gone as far as I can,” she said. “I will not kill you, but neither will I kill Clover. She has saved me many times.”

  “Then you must do it, buddy,” said Chevie weakly. “You can sight along my shoulder.”

  “Me?” said Riley. “I ain’t never fired no cannon.”

  Chevie’s eyes were narrow with pain. “Please. I can’t let the Empire win. I can’t.”

  “Then neither can I,” said Riley. “I can point a pipe, surely.”

  As he spoke, Riley pulled a string of magician’s handkerchiefs from his vest and tied off Chevie’s wound, which he was relieved to note was not bleeding too freely.

  “Okay, good,” said Chevie. “I’ll talk you through it.”

  Riley lifted his friend from the deck, gently draping her across the gunwale.

  “That’s right,” she said. “Now lay the launcher across my shoulder. My good shoulder.”

  Now I’ve got a bad shoulder, she thought. I’m too young to have a bad shoulder.

  Riley picked up the launcher gently, as though it might explode in his hands, and laid the green metal on Chevie’s shoulder.

  “Move in close, pal
,” she said. “Get as much pipe on either end as you can.”

  Riley knelt behind Chevie so that his right cheek touched her left ear.

  “Now take aim through the crosshairs. You see them?”

  Riley closed one eye and sighted through the other, angling the launcher until he was satisfied.

  “Now take a breath, hold it, and squeeze the trigger.”

  Riley felt a nervous sweat coat his face, transferring itself to Chevie’s ear. Suddenly he noticed the amphibian’s roll and pitch, and from all around came hubbub, ballyhoo, and distraction.

  “Squeeze the trigger” ain’t as simple as it sounds.

  “I ain’t sure about this, Chevie. What if I am a duffer at this game?”

  “Just squeeze,” said Chevie softly. “That’s all you can do.”

  Riley held his breath and squeezed the launcher’s trigger, sending an RPG streaking toward Westminster Bridge.

  Which was a pity, because he was aiming for the tank.

  The grenade knocked quite a dent in the bridge and the tank shuddered and settled in the cracked road surface. But cracked was all it was, not ruptured or riven. Quite sound, in fact.

  “Pah,” said Malarkey. “You ain’t studied explosives at all, have you? You youngsters thinks you is so bang up to the elephant and yet you fires a squib at a metal bridge from an angle. Trajectory. There’s a new word for you, Ramlet.”

  “The boat is shaky,” said Riley, and no one could deny it.

  “You ain’t hitting that tank from here without a mortar. And even with a mortar, it would be a shot in a million, isn’t that right, my darling?”

  “I suppose that is right,” said Witmeyer, but without the usual sparkle when conversing with her king, something Otto immediately picked up on. He draped an arm across her shoulders, which were suddenly tense.

  “Oh, forgive me, big lummox that I am. That is your partner up yonder, and here I am discussing her explosive dismemberment.”

  “Couldn’t we just go, Otto?” asked Witmeyer.