by Jack Conner
“I thought . . . you had a secret . . . that they had gotten to you. Wait a minute. Which Queen?”
She sighed in frustration. “Queen Fontaine! The Queen of Casveigh! I’ve been serving her in secret since we got wind of the Society. I was just the sort of person they were looking to recruit, wealthy, smart, available, with some German ancestry. I attended a few meetings, made myself interesting to them, and was adopted into their order. Now I’ve made myself indispensible to them. Too indispensible. I can’t even get away long enough to alert the train. Can’t even alert the Queen that her own son has joined the Society!”
“Prince Michael is a traitor?”
“He wants to use the Society to help him seize the throne. It’s all going down right now. I’ve heard they mean to assassinate Queen Fontaine tomorrow night. That’s why we’re preventing the train from reaching Gaston. Gaston will be bombed to ash without that ordinance and the Prince will take over afterward and offer Casveigh’s surrender to Germany.”
Lynch lowered his hook. He gripped her tightly again, but there was no anger in him, at least not directed at her. His body felt good against her, firm and hard. She wanted to press against him but did not. He held her tenderly, and she was reminded of the Lynch she knew, the Lynch she --
“How much time do we have?” he said.
She turned around in his arms and stared up into his face, his rugged, handsome face. She winced at the terrible scars radiating out from under his eye patch, almost like a star. She had never seen him this close since his injury. Indeed, as far as he must be aware, she had never seen him after his injury at all. She had visited him once. She had gone in disguise to the opium den he most often frequented and found him in the arms of another woman, both naked and drugged senseless. He had seen her, though. He had even recognized her. He had called her name as she fled, but he had not been lucid.
“We have about fifteen minutes before we reach the train,” she said. “I need you to storm the -- ”
The door burst open.
“Kill him!” shouted a voice.
***
Lynch’s arm tightened around her again. In one fluid motion, he spun her about so that her back pressed against his front once more and whirled them both to face the intruders. Gasping, she stared into the faces of two storm troopers, with two more immediately behind. Both pointed MP-40s at Lynch -- and Eliza, his human shield. Behind them stood a tall Major, and behind him, in the hallway, Albert Roark. One hand to his bandaged head, he pointed the other at Lynch and Eliza and shouted, “Kill him! Kill him! Look what he did to me!”
“Silence!” Major Berndt said. “I give the orders here.”
“Actually, I do,” Eliza said. She wasn’t entirely sure if this was true. She had never had to test her authority against a major of the SS -- the troopers the Society used were quite literally an outgrowth of that organization. Many had even volunteered for variations of the formula Lars and the others took, to make them supermen.
Lynch cleared his throat. His hook once more pressed into her neck. She tried to pull away, but he wouldn’t allow it. “Actually, as the man with his hook at the captain’s throat, I’m the one who gives the orders,” he said.
Albert fumed insensibly, but Major Berndt simply stared at Lynch, then Eliza -- Eliza tensed: how much had the captain seen? -- and back at Lynch.
“What are your orders?” the Major said. “Be advised, whoever you are, that nothing will halt this ship. In fourteen minutes we will destroy the train.” He turned. “Hadn’t you better be going to the bomb bay, Mr. Roark, to oversee things?”
Albert stiffened. “R-right away -- ”
“Not so fast,” Lynch said, and they looked at him. Eliza could hear the smile in his voice as he added, “Take me to the bomb bay.”
Chapter 11
“Keep in front of me,” Lynch told the troopers. “No one gets behind me or your brave leader here gets it.” He looked longingly at the MP-41 lying on the counter. He’d had to set it down in order to snare Eliza, though was glad he had, of course; without her as shield, they would have riddled him. But now the only weapon he had was his hook. Had he two hands, he might have grabbed it -- he could have slipped its strap around his neck if nothing else; it was too big to press to Eliza’a head -- but as it was he needed his good arm to secure her.
He frog-marched her forward, the troopers keeping their guns trained on him as they shuffled backward down the hall. Albert led the way, still holding a bandage to his head with one hand. Lynch wished he’d struck the man harder.
Eyeing the guns, Lynch said, “Shoot me and I’ll tumble backward, ripping out your captain’s throat.” To illustrate, he hitched the hook deeper into Eliza’s neck, and she gasped. He wanted to look to see if he’d drawn blood but didn’t dare.
He enjoyed the feel of her against him as he forced her down the hall. She was warm and soft, and her pants clung tightly to her body, so that he could feel her buttocks against his thighs. She wore only a hint of perfume, but it smelled like heaven.
Albert reached a staircase, started down, and the others followed tensely. The troopers clomped down the stairs awkwardly, still trying to keep their eyes on Lynch. He expected one of them to give a shout and summon more troopers, but they were better trained than that. Their major scowled at Lynch but did not point his gun at him, an industrial-looking pistol -- a Walther P38, Lynch saw. Interesting that all the troopers carried German weapons. He supposed it would have been too difficult to waylay or steal weapons from a Casveigh arms cache, and why bother when they could clearly smuggle them in through the mountains -- or were they dropped off by parachute during Luftwaffe raids? In any case, Lynch was now certain the troopers were SS. With their German accents, clearance to secret projects, and strict discipline they could be nothing else.
Albert showed them to the first level of the gondola, what would have been the ground floor had this been the luxurious hotel it appeared to be. He knocked on certain door, said a certain phrase, and the door opened. Sweaty and shaky, he led Lynch and the others into the bomb bay -- smaller than Lynch had expected, but then bombs were heavy. A cluster of them hung suspended from the ceiling, each by its own complicated apparatus, directly over a closed trap-door. The bombs were huge and black, and each bore a swastika on its side.
Staring at the bombs, Lynch realized it was the zeppelin that had delivered weapons and troopers across the border. They had not smuggled bombs that heavy over treacherous mountain roads. But the zeppelin, silent and dark, had drifted over the mountains while the army had been dealing with more obvious threats. Lynch assumed the vessel to have been commissioned by Lord Wilhelm.
“Now what?” the SS Major demanded of Lynch. “What’s your grand plan?”
Lynch hitched his chin at Albert. “The bombs have a timer, yes?”
The Major glared at Albert, who shrank under the pressure.
“N-no . . .” the small man said.
“Don’t bullshit me, Albert,” Lynch snapped. “I know they do.”
“They’re pressure-activated . . .”
“Of course that’s how you’ve set them, but they can be set on a timer, as well.” He looked around the room, noting the other three technicians that had been readying the ordinance. Perhaps they were demolitions experts also, but he suspected that they were experts on the bomb-dropping mechanism. They backed away, their eyes on him. He noticed they wore parachutes -- a sensible precaution when working around gaping trapdoors -- and that answered a question he’d been asking himself.
“I want you to set the timer on one of the bombs for ten minutes,” he told Albert.
Albert’s eyes widened in his red, sweaty face. Sweat stained sections of his white goatee dark. “B-but . . .”
Lynch smiled. “I know. And don’t try to fool me. I had a friend on the front who was on the bomb-squad, and I watched him defuse enough bombs to know if you’re play-acting.”
“Don’t!” the Major said, his gun pointed at Alber
t.
Albert’s legs trembled. Lynch cursed inwardly. If the major shot Albert, or if Albert fainted, all of this would have been for nothing.
“Major!” This came, surprisingly, from Eliza.
The Major looked at her, his face tense, his trigger finger steady. His men kept their MP-40s leveled at Lynch. “Yes, ah, Captain?” It was clear from his tone that he despised having to call her this.
“If you shoot Albert, the bombs will not go off properly. He has only just arrived, after all, and has not had time to prepare them. Surely you see the sense in preserving him.”
The Major considered. “He cannot be allowed to blow up the ship.”
“We will have ten minutes. And there will be other . . . opportunities.”
The major frowned, but he lowered his weapon. Albert nearly melted with relief.
“Take your men and wait outside,” Lynch said. “You, too,” he said, looking at the three technicians. “But . . . leave one of your parachutes.”
With them gone, Lynch bolted the door and picked up the parachute pack. Began to put it on.
Too slow.
From somewhere Albert had found a wrench, and he rushed Lynch while Lynch was occupied shrugging on his pack.
Eliza stuck her leg out, directly in Albert’s path, and the demolitions expert cried out and fell to the floor, wrench clattering across it.
“Dear me!” she said. “I’m so sorry! I was trying to move out of your way.” She helped the cursing bomber to his feet and assisted him in brushing off his clothes while Lynch snapped the parachute pack’s straps around his chest.
“See to the bomb,” Lynch said. He and Eliza exchanged a glance. “Nine minutes now.”
Grumbling, Albert removed the casing from a section of the lowermost bomb and began his procedure. Lynch counted the minutes as he worked. Lynch hadn’t lied about having a friend who worked in the bomb squad, but he had lied about being able to spot if Albert was play-acting. Nonetheless, after thirty seconds of Albert’s fiddlings, Lynch caught the back of his shirt, wheeled him around and growled in his face, “Don’t fuck with me.”
Shivering, his face no longer red but deathly pale, Albert sputtered, “C-can’t blame me for t-t-trying!”
When he finished, he wilted against the wall as if all his strength had fled.
Lynch pressed a button on the wall, and the trapdoors banged open. Wind howled up, shrieking about the small metal room. He glanced to Eliza to see the wind bringing tears to her eyes and making her hair dance. Her beautiful face was pale but two small roses bloomed high in her cheeks. He offered her a small smile, moved to the wall and ripped out one cable, then another. Sparks flared. To the question in her eyes, he said, “Now the bombs can’t be released.”
Albert huddled against the wall, cursing quietly.
Lynch peered through the trapdoor at the rolling scenery below. He beheld crumbling ruins, the jutting peak of a hill, a small lake, what looked like a sheep farm, another hill . . .
Albert shrieked as Lynch stepped toward him.
Eliza’s face filled with concern.
“Stick out your hands,” Lynch said.
Albert refused. Cursing him, Lynch pried open one hand and said, “This will hurt, but it’s either this or . . . ” He jerked his head toward the trapdoor. If Eliza hadn’t been present, Albert would have already gone through it. Instead, Lynch wasted two valuable minutes breaking each of Albert’s fingers. Albert’s screams echoed as loudly in the cabin as the wind.
“He’s your only bomb expert?” he asked Eliza.
“The only one we have aboard,” she said. “With him out of commission, they won’t be able to reset the bombs.”
They stood close to each other, looking into each other’s faces. Albert had passed out in a corner, holding his ruined extremities to his chest. Eliza grabbed Lynch’s hand. Her flesh was very soft and warm.
“Thank you,” she said. “You saved my cover. And my life.”
“Not yet. You only have . . . seven minutes left. Less now.”
“It will be enough.”
Her lips looked very soft, and slightly parted. He bent down --
The door exploded open.
Six storm troopers rushed in, submachine guns ready.
Lynch leapt.
As the wind took him, he laughed. The ground shot up at him faster than he would have liked, the zeppelin was too low, but he twisted around to observe the consternation of the major and his men.
Instead, it was his own consternation that he found.
The six men leapt out of the open trapdoor after him, and, even as Lynch opened his parachute, they opened theirs.
Chapter 12
“Quickly!” Eliza said, from the bridge. She pointed emphatically to an open field on a hill. “There! There! NOW!” It had been three minutes since Lynch had parachuted, troopers in hot pursuit.
“Setting down, Ma’am,” said one of her people. Others called out measurements and adjustments.
The ground shot up at them. Eliza barked out orders. Alarms rang.
She moved to the intercom: “Everyone to emergency evac positions! We are performing an emergency landing. As soon as we land -- the very second -- I want everyone lined up at the doors ready to go.”
The zeppelin touched down with a thud that nearly dropped Eliza to her knees. Others hit the floor. As per her instructions, the doors burst open and a tide of people streamed out into the night. The craft had set down on the gentle side of a grassy hill, and Eliza waited till everyone was out before she fled the zeppelin herself. Cold wind whipped her face but she could only feel heat. Goats bleated in the distance. Breathless, she joined her crew on the barren hillside and turned back to see the huge shape of the zeppelin eclipsing the stars, rocking as it settled. Canvas creaked. Wood groaned. Somewhere broken glass tinkled.
The explosion shocked her.
She flinched from the boom and roar. The whole midsection of the zeppelin erupted outward, hurling shrapnel far into the fields. The crew cowered for protection. Almost instantly, the explosion set off the gas in the tanks, and fire engulfed the massive airship. Flames licked high into the night, Eliza could feel the heat on her face, even hotter than her blood, and she ordered her crew further away from the blaze. Ash and debris rained down.
Flames consumed the great airship, eating at the frame, the scaffolding. Burning sheets of canvas fluttered in the wind, sparks dancing from their tails.
“Damn him!” Daniel said. He shook a fist. “Damn him all to hell! If I see that man again I will gut him!”
“Morphine!” Albert whimpered, cradling his mangled hands to his chest. “I need morphine!”
“You need to be able to walk,” Eliza said. “We have a long hike ahead of us.”
They stood on a high hill, and she could look out over the surrounding country with its tree-less hills and strange ruins now just dark shapes under the sky. Far, far off a train whistle blew, and yes, she was sure of it this time, she saw something that had to be a column of smoke drifting against the stars, moving along at the speed of a train. Something like a weight lifted off of her chest, and she took a deep breath.
“We were so close!” Albert said. Tears beaded his eyes.
Daniel, his face tight in the illumination of the blaze, let out a sigh. “Yes. But I think it will be better this way.”
Eliza was afraid of very much the same thing, but she said, “Oh?”
“Bombs should not be the means to achieve our ends. It would be an insult to the Queen. An insult to the Ascendance.” Firelight flickered in his eyes. “This way will be better. Much better.”
Eliza suppressed a shudder. The route left to the Society now would only sow more pain and death for the people of her country. Of course, the assassination of Queen Fontaine would still continue, as would the bombing. Gaston would not be obliterated, thanks to she and Lynch, and more eyebrows would be raised when Prince Michael surrendered to Germany, but the plan would proceed. But what m
ade her shudder was that the Ascendance had just become the Society’s dominant focus.
The red light of morning bathed the rolling hills and her legs ached with exhaustion by the time she led her crew to the first tunnel. Eliza ushered her company to its hidden entrance and into the bowels of the earth, a shameful return to their dark holes. Many hung their heads. Troopers escorted them through the Black Sector where the Bone Men ran free, and at last Eliza and her people returned to Sector One. The usual lab tables, equipment, and cages greeted them.
To her surprise, however, people bustled frantically all about and few even seemed to notice or appreciate her arrival. Excitement -- but also fear -- lit the faces of those who organized, tidied, and readied.
“What is it?” she said, stopping a woman whom she knew worked with Dr. Jung. “What’s going on here?”
The woman, breathless and sweaty, clearly wanted to be on her way, but she had enough deference for Eliza -- the Lady -- to answer, “Lord Wilhelm! Lord Wilhelm is arriving!”
It was as though a pail of ice water had been flung in Eliza’s face. Trying to keep her hands steady, she released the woman’s forearm. “Thank you. That will be all.”
The woman nodded gratefully and scurried off.
Daniel, who had been nearby, spat on his hands and slicked back his hair. He looked more nervous now than he had when watching the zeppelin burn. “Lord Wilhelm! My God! I never thought to meet him in all my days.”
“One does not meet Lord Wilhelm,” said a new voice. Eliza looked up to see Lars Gunnerson sauntering over, a smug smile on his face, his red spectacles hiding his eyes. Fieglund trailed behind, ghostly and horrid, a loyal plague dog.
“N-no?” said Daniel, stammering in the presence of Lars.
“No.” Lars shook his head. “Meeting is so crass. A shake of the hand. One does not simply walk up to Lord Wilhelm, slap him on the back and pump his palm, does one?”
“I s-suppose not.”
“No. Lord Wilhelm makes a grand entrance, as befits his station, and -- if one is lucky or high enough in his service -- one is presented before him.”
