by Jack Conner
Daniel swallowed. “So it is, sir.”
Lars’s gaze swiveled, took in Eliza. She straightened, aware of her sweaty, disheveled appearance. She stopped herself from smoothing her hair.
“It did not go well, I take it,” he said.
“No. No, it did not. The man, James -- ”
He raised his hands in a placating gesture. “Yes. I know. After the zeppelin left we found the body of a certain captain and put two and two together. We are not entirely stupid. We figured he must have gotten aboard the zeppelin. We had hoped you would prove sufficient to deal with the crisis, however.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Apparently not.”
His smile hardened. “Lord Wilhelm should be interested to hear the story. I’m quite sure he will allow you to be presented before him.”
The idea shot a chill through her. Lord Wilhelm had overseen the torture and deaths of countless people.
“I look forward to it,” she said.
“Ready yourself,” he said. “We expect him any moment. He took an airship over the mountains -- a raid covered him -- and a jeep met him at Busby. It has been several hours. He should be just about here. He will be eager to see our finding.”
Lars spun on his heel and stalked off. Eliza watched him go, a bitter taste on her tongue. Fieglund followed his master, turning his head once to give her a nasty leer, then they were gone, vanished into the bustle.
“This is so exciting!” Daniel said to her. “Do you think I’ll be presented to him?”
The official was sweaty and grimy, his face darkened with soot from the fire, his clothes stained and wrinkled.
“I hope so,” Eliza said.
She addressed all those that had come with her, telling them of the situation and dismissing them to their rooms or stations; debriefing could come later. Feeling weary in her bones, she set off to find Dr. Jung.
Dr. Zacharias Jung lived in one of the tents in the primary residence hall, a high, peaked affair often ablaze with light and activity. Much of the Society personnel lived in the hotel above, but more lived down here to delay suspicion. As Director of Personnel, among other titles, Eliza knew precisely how many people lived both above and below, and how many were in each place at one time.
She quit the main laboratory chamber and passed down the short tunnel to the residence hall -- the Encampment, as she thought of it. Instantly a sea of tents surrounded her, and it seemed to her as if she passed through the Achaean ranks during the siege of Troy. She half-expected Achilles to come stumbling from around a tent, a naked wench under his arm. Dr. Jung’s tent reared higher than the surrounding tents, mostly dark. A pair of guards admitted Eliza inside, and she blinked in the dim light as she picked her way through it. Dr. Jung operated a small lab here in addition to his research throughout Sector One, and she avoided the tables laden with tubes and refrigerated cultures. Somewhere a generator hummed softly, and she smelled a trace of gasoline.
She found Dr. Jung curled up on his bunk, a bottle a gin clutched in his twitching hands. From far away he appeared a stately scientist, tall and white-haired, with a neatly-trimmed mustache and, when they were open, intelligent gray eyes behind his spectacles. As she approached him, her own eyes adjusting to the darkness, she saw what the Condition had done to him -- his peeling skin, boils, the constant inflamed tissue where his body battled infection. He lived on painkillers and penicillin.
And, lately, alcohol. The whole area reeked of booze. She nearly tripped over a couple of bottles as she approached him, and she heard the tinkling of glass as the bottle she’d kicked struck another.
“Zacharias!” She shook his shoulder. “Wake up! Wake up!”
She continued to shake him, calling his name, and finally he swore and shrugged her off. “What’s it?” he slurred. His breath stank of gin. “Can’ you see ‘m slee’ing?”
She slapped his face. “Get up, you worthless sack. We have an emergency situation.” When she saw soberness returning to him, or at least understanding, she said, “Did you send off the message to the Queen? Did you tell her about the bombing tomorrow night?” She had not been able to warn the train of the coming attack, but she had asked Dr. Jung to warn Queen Fontaine of the Luftwaffe raid -- and the other matter.
He sat up and lit a cigarette. Smoke curled around his bleary eyes, and in her heart, Eliza despaired: the Condition had made him a monster. Like many high in the Society, he had injected himself with the Atlantan serum, or at least some muted approximation of it called Strain Seven, but unlike Lars or Higgins the serum had nearly killed him and had left him this wretched creature, one step away from a Bone Man. He spent every waking, sober moment trying to perfect the serum, trying to find a cure. He was one of the Society’s leading scientific minds, and he was Eliza’s only ally among this den of jackals. The Society needed him and had convinced themselves that he was loyal, but Eliza had read him, recognized his antipathy to them, and turned him without much trouble.
He stared at her, pained, perhaps ashamed. “No. I . . . “ He kicked a bottle. “I wasn’t able. There . . . there were too many, too much activity. It’s that damned Wilhelm. They’re all scrambling for his arrival.” He patted his hair. A tuft came loose. He grimaced, shook the bottle that he had been gripping in his sleep. Empty. “I think . . . I think we’ve lost, Eliza.”
She narrowed her eyes. “No. Don’t give up hope.”
“Why not? When Wilhelm arrives, the Ascendance will begin. I know it. They’ve found the ruins they’ve been looking for.”
“It’s only a story. It’s make-believe. They’re delusional cultists, Zacharias.”
He fixed her with a surprisingly harsh gaze. “Do you believe that, my dear?”
“I -- ” She caught herself. Looked away. “There is still hope. We will not let the Ascendance happen. It would mean the end of everything . . . everything that we hold dear. The fall of Casveigh, Europe -- the world.”
“I know the stakes, my sweet. But how can we stop it? Wilhelm will be here any minute, and he will start the boulder rolling that will trigger the avalanche that will bury us all.”
“We will deal with Wilhelm.”
He raised his eyebrows. “You and I? You’re mad!”
“Make yourself presentable. I’ll do the same. Then we can be presented before Lord Wilhelm, and we can stop that boulder before he shoves it off.”
For the first time, he really seemed to notice her. “You’re back! But . . . look at you. Operation Condor . . . ? It wasn’t successful?”
“Obviously not, or you would hear celebrating in the halls.”
He smiled, a dizzy, lopsided smile. “You did it! You averted the bombing.”
“With some help, yes. See, we can affect change. We can do this, Zacharias.”
He swallowed and climbed to his feet, a long, painful process that involved much swaying and hiccupping. When he stood straightly at last, a look of concern crossed his features. “But . . . even if we find a way to deal with Lord Wilhelm . . . and I can tell you right now, assassination would be folly and our endless torture the only result . . . but even if we could stop him. . . what of the Queen? Queen Fontaine? Her evil little son plans to slit her throat tomorrow night. Tonight now, I suppose.”
“You’re being overly dramatic. I’m sure he won’t slit her throat. That would be awfully messy.”
“I can’t believe you’re being flippant. About this!”
“You’re right. I apologize.”
“He will try to murder her. Tonight. And with Lord Wilhelm’s arrival, there’s no way we can even warn her. And if she’s assassinated, and Prince Michael takes over . . . “
“Yes. He’ll surrender, I know. The bombing will give him the perfect excuse, whether it levels the capitol as intended or not.”
He shook his head and began rifling for a new bottle. “You see, my dear, there’s nothing we can do. It really is too late. Might as well have a drink before we go, eh? Now where did I put that merlot -- ”
“But . . . Queen Fontaine . . .”
She sucked in a breath, forced herself to be calm. “Don’t worry. I’ve got somebody on it right now. He’ll save the Queen. I’m . . . sure of it.”
Chapter 13
Wind stung Lynch’s face. The ground below approached at an alarming rate. The creak and snap of the parachute fluttered in his ears, and when he looked up the chute partially blocked his view of his pursuers. Still, he could see one, then three, then one again, of the six troopers that had followed him out of the zeppelin. Their parachutes blotted out the stars like black mouths.
“Well, Lynch old boy,” he said to himself, “this is a pickle, I’ll grant you.”
Hopefully he’d given Eliza enough time. Nine minutes was not much to set down a zeppelin and evacuate it. Still, it was the best he could have done. Now to make good on his own escape.
The ground slammed up at him, and he struck it rolling. He had been a pilot during the beginning of his career as a soldier and had been well-trained in how to parachute without breaking his bones in the landing. He hoped the lads that followed him were less proficient.
The impact drove the wind from his lungs, and a sharp jut of limestone sticking through the grass scraped his shoulder as he tumbled by, the parachute lines tangling about him. Breathless, he came to a stop, climbed to his feet, and disentangled himself as quickly as he could, cursing his lack of a hand. His right arm flared where he had scraped it, and blood seeped into his tunic.
The shapes of the troopers above drew closer. Would that he had a gun! He would knock them from the sky like skeet.
He freed himself and staggered across the field dizzily. Far from the cities and towns, this area basked in the light of the moon and stars, and he could see surprisingly well. Of course, that meant his hunters could, too -- and that they could take aim. This really is a poorly thought-out plan.
He had landed on the descending slope of a hill, still in the chalk country. Tree-less hills undulated across the land, here and there nestling a small town. Lynch ran down-hill, toward what looked like a house. Perhaps some farmer. Behind him he heard shouts. His hunters had landed, were organizing themselves. He expected them to speak German, but they were too well-trained for that.
“That way!” one shouted. “Quickly! After him!” He thought he recognized Major Berndt’s voice.
In the relative dark, Lynch nearly barreled into a low stone wall. Just in time, he slowed his run and used his one hand to vault himself over, his right foot just scraping the stone. It was a long, crumbling wall that seemed to go a long way before reaching a turn -- too long for him to see, but it obviously enclosed a large area. As soon as he landed on the other side, he realized why.
He smelled the sheep before he heard them, and heard them bleating before he plowed into one. Breathless, sweating, he threaded his way through the animals, occasionally having to shove one aside, making his way toward the house. The farmer would have a vehicle, and Lynch needed wheels. The sheep bleated at him as he passed through them and he worried that the farmer and his family would hear the noise and expect company.
The house reared before him, two stories, all stone. Lichen grew on the old stone, and spreading stains of algae, but he could only see vague hints of it. Through old, warped glass he saw a tiny light on the first floor. Luckily he did not need to go inside.
His chest labored as he passed around the side of the house, into the garage, a rusting tin structure ready to collapse -- a garage that, to his delight, housed a decrepit flat-bed truck. Lynch searched for the keys in the ignition, under the seat, everywhere he could think of. Surely a country sheep farmer would leave the keys somewhere handy.
Nothing.
“Damn it.” The old bastard must have the keys in the house. Lynch would have liked to have hot-wired the truck -- in theory, he knew how; an underworld acquaintance had shown him -- however, the method the man had shown him required two working hands.
Lynch reached the front porch and opened the door. This being the country, it was unlocked, but it proved heavy and squealed as he opened it. The floorboards groaned under his boots as he stepped over the threshold, into the living room, closing the door soundly behind him. The light of a lantern flickered through the kitchen ahead. Alerted by the noise, a portly man taller than Lynch and with ham-sized fists lurched through the kitchen doorway, a bottle of milk in hand and something white staining his mustache. His face darkened when he saw Lynch. He gave Lynch no time to explain but rushed him angrily, raising the milk bottle to smash across Lynch’s face.
Lynch raised his hand, palm open. “I’m not a burglar! Look, I’m unarmed. Quite literally.”
The man lowered the milk bottle, just a trifle. “What the fuck are yeh doan here, y’ biter! And what’re yea supposed t’be, then -- a, uh pirate?” He barked something that may have been laughter. “A bleedin’ pirate, here in m’ livin’ room!” His humor did not seem to eclipse his anger. His milk bottle still poised to crash across Lynch’s face. He stood very close to Lynch, his large chest rising and falling, his arms flexing.
A scuffle from upstairs. A middle-aged woman in curlers appeared on the landing holding a double-barreled shotgun. She squinted down at the living room as if not entirely sure what she was looking at. “What’s goan on down there, Burtus?”
“Got a pirate, Abbie! A pie-rat. Ha! Now what’re we gonna do with ‘im?”
Lynch opened his mouth to speak --
Sheep bleated fearfully outside, many at once. The sound grew louder and louder, closer and closer. Burtus and Abbie visibly tensed, aware of what the sound meant.
“I need your truck,” Lynch said. “I’m on a vital mission for the Crown.”
“Bullshit,” Burtus said.
“Those men approaching your house will hurt you. Kill you. I will draw them away -- but you must hurry, for the love of God and Queen!”
“They won’t be killin’ me!” Abbie said, shaking her shotgun.
“They’re armed, ma’am. Do you have children here?”
Her face paled beneath her curlers.
Burtus lurched to a window, peered out. “I don’t see . . . no, wait. Yeah, Abbie. Somethin’s comin’. Through the ship.”
Outside, the sheep screamed louder. Very close now.
“Give me the key!” Lynch said. “I’ll lead them away.”
“If this is a trick -- ” Burtus said. He still stood next to the window.
Lynch hauled him away. “It’s no trick! Give me the key -- now.”
Burtus frowned but moved to the hall tree near the door. He opened it, removed a key, and only moved very slowly back toward Lynch even as Lynch gestured impatiently for him to move faster.
“Alright, but you’d better -- ” Burtus started.
Footsteps pounded on the floorboards of the porch outside. A harsh voice barked. Lynch leapt aside just as the door was kicked in. Burtus smashed the milk bottle across the face of the first trooper that surged through the door. The man went down. The second shot Burtus through the head. Blood sprayed out of the back of his skull and he fell heavily, breaking a small table near the couch. Lynch had taken up a lantern and he broke it across the back of another trooper, who fell forwards. Abbie screamed and fired her shotgun directly at the tide of troopers coming through the door. Both barrels. Lynch didn’t think the shot hit anyone, but the troopers hunkered low. It gave him time to reach forward, grab one of the troopers about the head with one arm, burying the man’s eyes in the crook of his arm, haul him backward, and slice his throat with his hook. He released the trooper, and the man staggered forward, blood spraying through the fingers he shoved against the wound. It sprayed into the eyes of one of the men, who swore and fired his MP 40 into the couch. Stuffing flew everywhere. Lynch grabbed another man and hurled him into the window.
Abbie had disappeared above, but now she returned, her shotgun reloaded and a young man, no more than f
ifteen, standing beside her, carrying a hunting rifle. Together they stood on the landing, aiming down into the midst of the troopers.
Lynch grabbed the truck key out of Burtus’s hand, shoved his way to the door and slipped outside. Someone shot at him, he felt the zip of bullets past his cheek, there came the rattle of a submachine gun, then another, the roar of a shotgun and the snap of a rifle. Lynch reached the flat-bed truck, slipped inside, turned the key. The engine groaned, the wheel fought him, but he forced the vehicle backward, out of the garage, swung it wide around the house, changed gears, and shot the truck forward.
It lurched away from the house, too slowly. In the rear-view mirror he saw four men stumble out of the farm house, one clutching his side. Two lifted their guns to fire at Lynch. The rattle of metal as a few rounds struck the back of the truck. Something punched through the glass, and something sharp cut his neck. He shoved the gas pedal down.
In his rear-view mirror, the four men lowered their weapons and gave chase, one staggering.
Lynch flattened the pedal against the floor, and the truck, very slowly, put some distance between him and the troopers.
***
Sweat bathed him, and his chest rose and fell like a race horses’s after a championship run. Glass from the shattered rear window tinkled somewhere. Wind gusted in, cooling him, ruffling his sweaty hair. Too close, he thought. And that poor sheep herder’s family . . . Maybe the woman and her son had made it. As for Burtus, his death was on Lynch and he knew it.
It was for the Queen, he told himself. The real Queen. Not the Society’s damned, apocryphal monarch -- and he had heard what Eliza had said. Prince Michael meant to murder his mother, seize power and use the bombing as an excuse to surrender. The bombing had been meant to level Gaston, and though Lynch had prevented that he had little doubt that the gist of the plan was still in place.
He had to save Queen Fontaine.
