by Tom Kratman
Legs splayed, the stewardess lay face up with her open eyes staring blankly at the ceiling of the first class cabin. Her throat was raggedly slashed and a great pool of her blood stained the carpet around her. The blood likewise stained the back of a now abandoned guitar.
Forward of the stew's corpse, halfway up the flight of steps that led to the bridge of the airship, was another, smaller, pool of blood. It dripped from the steps down onto its donor, the airship's purser. His throat had been cut at leisure, after he'd been beaten senseless. It was a much neater slash.
At the head of the stairs, there was a bolted door that now sealed off the bridge from the rest of the ship. Inside were eight men, three of them dead and on the deck. Of the five living, all were covered in the blood sprayed from the throats of the crew as they were sliced open. Two of those living sat the pilot's and copilot's seats. Another two guarded the bolted door against some desperate bid on the part of the passengers to regain control.
Yusef, the final member and commander of the team, stood behind the two flight-trained hijackers. He had a mobile phone pressed to one ear on which he received reports from the other teams. With each report the smile in his blood-dripping beard grew wider, more jubilant.
"The Merciful, the Compassionate One smiles upon us in all his glory," Yusef exulted. "The other two airships are also in our hands."
Samadi, at the pilot's controls, pointed and exclaimed, "Brothers, look! There beats the heart of the beast."
Looking out the bridge's forward window, Yusef nodded with anticipatory satisfaction at the immense skyscraper that was their ultimate target.
"If you hanker after Paradise, Brother, then fly us into the base."
Samadi smiled nervously and nodded. He was not nervous over his impending death; that was nothing. But he was only the best pilot among them, not necessarily a good one. Pushing forward on the yoke with one hand, the other pushed the throttle all the way forward. The speed of the ship began to climb up to maximum.
Behind them, in the passenger compartments, the rest of the airship's passengers began to scream at the changing attitude, altitude and speed. The hijackers ignored those screams completely.
Headquarters, Terra Nova Trade Organization,
First Landing,
Hudson, Federated States of Columbia,
0829 hours, 11/7/459 AC
As with all poisons, Linda thought, toxicity is in the dose.
The ground floor of the TNTO was also the floor of the Terra Novan Trade Appeals Board, the planet's sole effective international court. Thus, that floor simply swarmed with lawyers. The density made Linda's skin crawl.
One child in her arms, another held by the hand and the third trailing along, Linda stepped onto an elevator heading up to the office's of Patricio's family firm.
"Your destination, please," the elevator's speaker asked.
"Chatham, Hennessey, and Schmied," Linda answered clearly, though with a slight but utterly charming Hispanic accent. The machine running the elevator understood it well enough, in any case.
With a smooth sound the elevator began to shoot upwards until it reached the 104th floor. There it came to an equally smooth stop. The doors opened to either side with a whoosh.
Heart pounding, as it always did whenever she had to meet some of her husband's family—Annie alone excepted—Linda Hennessey and her children stepped off of the elevator. A sign high on a wall announced, "Chatham, Hennessey, and Schmied," the name of the family business.
"Why do I put myself through this?" she asked of no one in particular. She asked and she answered, "Because family is important and I do not want my husband to have lost his . . . especially if I can help it."
"Come on, kids," she ordered, then led two of them forward. Linda carried Milagro, the baby.
Imperious, impervious, unsmiling and unfriendly, Pat's Uncle Robert Hennessey watched without any expression at all as Linda led and carried the children into his office. If my own wife . . . useless mouth . . . had managed to have children perhaps I would not resent this woman having taken my only—practical—son. I should not blame her . . . but I just can't help it.
In her own way equally impervious, Linda smiled with a warmth to rival the sun of her homeland. She glanced about Bob's office, mentally comparing his trophies and mementos—golf, business, and such—with her husband's, much to the favor of the latter. I am proud to be the mother of my husband's children.
Truth to tell she found the entire office to be borderline tacky, unrestrained and unrefined. It wouldn't do to mention that, though.
"Linda," Bob greeted, without noticeable enthusiasm.
She didn't answer directly. Being old money, she was probably better at playing status games than Uncle Bob when she cared to play them. Instead, she placed Milagro down on the floor and said, "Go see your grand-uncle, niños."
The two little ones scurried around Bob's imposing desk. The eldest, the boy, strode like a young prince, before putting out his hand to shake, formally. By that time Milagro had already climbed aboard.
Still sitting in his chair, his throne, Bob looked down into a lovely little girl's enormous brown eyes, saw the image of the nephew that was more like a son, and felt his heart melting.
He looked up to say something to Linda. She was looking out of his office window, wide eyed, speechless, an expression of shock written on every curve of her unlined face. Bob's eyes followed and saw. Mouth gaping wide, he exclaimed, "Oh, my God!"
Columbian Airlines Flight 39, 0849 hrs
The airship hit near the base of the skyscraper. Its structure, even while coming apart, was just strong enough to force its nose through the thin walls and into the main lobby with its toxic dose of international lawyers. As the ship lost speed to the collision, its engines in the rear broke loose and drove forward, smearing passengers and crew alike, before tearing out of the remains of the front and smashing into the shocked barristers. With the engines came a great invisible cloud of hydrogen gas, pouring into the open lobby before igniting from a spark created by the one of the engines tearing through a steel support.
The hydrogen began burning in front, incinerating several score shrieking attorneys. Then the flames raced through the rich oxygen- hydrogen mix present in the tunnels carved through the ship by the flying engines. Flame then burst out of the rear, tearing open the hydrogen cells there. The contents of these, once mixed with oxygen, effectively exploded, driving the remains of the ship, and much of its hydrogen, farther into the lobby of the TNTO. There it burned hot enough to incinerate several thousand more international jurists, as well as to set aflame anything therein remotely flammable.
Yusef and company, however, didn't get to see any of that. They were dead and on their way to wherever and whatever might prove to be their final reward, moments after the ship's nose touched concrete.
Terra Nova Trade Organization,
0849 hours, 11/7/459 AC
Arms clutched protectively around the now crying Milagro, Bob rushed to the side of the fallen mother. Julio followed.
"What happened?" she asked, groggily.
"I don't know, I don't know," answered a shocked Bob as he helped her to her feet. "The LTAs never come that close. Jesus, it hit us!" He thought about that for a moment, then amended, "No, it crashed into us. On purpose. Christ!"
As Bob spoke, the fire sprinklers came on overhead, sprayed for a few seconds, and then died as pressure from below fell to nothing. The pipes had been cut. Unchecked by the sprinklers, smoke and the hint of flame began rising past the exterior windows.
Milagro began coughing as faint smoke filtered into the office complex. Minutes passed as Linda soothed the child, Julio calming the next oldest beside her. Just as the last tears were wiped and the last sniffles snuffed, Julio looked up and pointed out the window and across the city to where another airship closed on a building only just less grand than the TNTO. That was the headquarters for the Global News Network, based in First Landing.
Julio said, "Mom, there's another one . . ."
Cochea, 0903 hours, 11/7/459 AC
Hennessey and his two friends missed the first impact. However, like the rest of the world, they saw it replayed over and over in the next several minutes.
"Dear, God!" Hennessey exclaimed, once he made the visual connection. Stomach sinking and heart pounding he added, "That's my uncle Bob's building." He raced for the phone, frantically dialing his cousin Annie's number in First Landing.
1050 5th Avenue, First Landing
"Dammit, dammit, DAMMIT, STOP that ringing!" Bad as the ringing was, the sound of her own shout seemed enough to tear the top off of Annie's head. She shuddered and pulled a pillow over in an attempt to shut out the nagging phone. No such luck. It continued to ring.
"Shit," she muttered. "May as well see who it is."
Slowly, reluctantly, not a little angrily, Annie stumbled to the phone.
"Who is it?" Annie asked, her voice still distorted by alcohol. After Linda had left her at the restaurant, she had consumed more than her share of Black Russians before going home alone.
"Annie, it's Pat. Where's Uncle Bob right now?"
Anger drained from Annie's voice. "Oh, hi, Pat. I imagine he's at the office. Why?"
Hennessey's voice in the telephone receiver was frantic. "Turn on the TV, Annie. Something's happened at the TNTO."
"Sure . . . okay . . ." Annie walked unsteadily to pick up the television's remote. The set came to instant life just in time for the woman to catch the second airship slamming into GNN Headquarters. For several seconds she stood dumbfounded, then blurted into the phone, voice breaking with tears, "Pat . . . Linda and the kids are in there!"
On Annie's screen, another plane struck low at the World League Headquarters. There were three buildings burning now on the First Landing skyline, with smoke and flames beginning to billow up and out.
TNTO, 0915 hours
It was pandemonium. Office workers ran to and fro frantically, looking for some escape. Cute little secretaries in short skirts wept. Some people, those a bit calmer or braver, punched numbers into their cell phones for a last goodbye to their loved ones.
The smoke inside was worse now, though it was still not clearly visible to the naked eye. Outside, however, it was an angry black cloud rising past the windows like a swarm of vicious wasps. Tongues of flame licked up occasionally, though the greatest flames were just visible through the smoke, dancing around the GNN building.
Milagro—clutched in Linda's arms now—coughed from the smoke and cried. Her elder sister, nicknamed "Lambie," tried to be brave though a quivering lip and dampened eyes betrayed her. The boy, Julio, put an arm around Lambie's shoulder and hugged her close and tightly.
Uncle Bob had left them for a few moments to check on the possibilities of escape via elevator or stairwell. He returned, looked at Linda, then shook his head slightly. No way out.
At his nod, she steeled her face and pushed her emotions away before they themselves ran away with her. For the nonce, she also pushed away the decision: burned or crushed or fallen? Oh, my babies, why? What did you ever do to harm anyone?
A hand gently brushed the baby's hair and cheek, brushed away a tear and a bead of sweat. The floor was growing noticeably warmer. "Don't cry, Milli, we'll be fine," she lied.
Taking his cue from his mother, ten-year-old Julio said much the same to Lambie. Even as he spoke those few words of comfort, he looked at his mother meaningfully. We're going to die, aren't we, Mom?
Linda answered, indirectly, "I wish your father could see you now. He would be so proud of his son."
The boy smiled, as best he could manage, and nodded. He wished his father could see him, too, see him grow up to be a man. He had wanted to be a soldier like his dad. Well, he would act like one now.
Bob stood there for a moment, watching the silent interplay with admiration. I was so wrong. What a woman my nephew found. What children she brought to our family. I, he concluded, have been an utter ass and a fool.
He walked the few steps to Linda and handed her his cell phone. "Here, call your husband if you can get through. Give him my regards . . . and my regrets." He patted her shoulder, not ungently, nor even lacking a certain late-blooming admiration and affection.
Linda took the device and smiled up, gratefully.
"I have something else I have to do," Bob announced.
The uncle, the old tyrant, walked to his desk, fiddled with a computer that had no wires coming from it, then began to speak.
"John," he said aloud to a face that appeared on his screen, "there's not much time. Can I do a codicil to my will over this line? I can? Good. Prepare to copy this then. 'I, Robert Hennessey, being of sound mind and body . . . '"
Cochea, 0924 hours
Hennessey was pale, Parilla saw; paler even than the gringo norm. His eyes were glued to the television screen that showed the imminent collapse of all his hopes, the destruction of his life. On the screen people were jumping from the flaming towers to smash their bodies below. It was better than burning.
Hennessey's own cell phone rang. Jimenez picked it up, answered, then—not without some reluctance—passed it over. "It's Linda," he announced in a breaking voice.
Like a drowning man grasping desperately for a life preserver, Hennessey took the phone.
"Honey, where are you and the kids?" he asked desperately.
He heard screams and cries in the background as Linda answered, "I'm here at Uncle Bob's office . . . the children are with me. I am so sorry, Patricio."
Hennessey felt his heart sink. "Is there any way out?"
Her answering voice held infinite sadness and regret. "No . . . I don't think so. The only way off would be helicopters, now. And I don't hear or see any. It's getting very warm in here, husband. We'll have to go soon. Why don't you talk to the kids? Do not worry; I will wait as long as possible but I will not let our babies burn if I can help it. Goodbye, Patricio. You know I love you."
"I love you, too, Linda," he wept. "I always have."
"Dad?" Hennessey heard young Julio say, voice quavering, then firming up. "I am being brave, Dad . . ."
TNTO, 1003 hours
The air was very bad now. The windows people had knocked out in order to jump had let in as much smoke as fresh air. Ashes floated on the fire-fanned breeze.
Uncle Bob, Linda and the kids crouched low, breathing what oxygen there was in the hot, stifling, and murky office.
"Not much more time . . . Linda," Bob said. As if to punctuate, a chorus of heartrending screams came from down the hallway. The fire had eaten through the floor, consuming a half dozen office workers who had been steeling themselves for the jump. The screams seemed to go on and on.
Linda stifled a sob as she hugged Milagro and Lambie to her breast. With tears rolling freely down her face, she said, "It's just so wrong. What did my babies ever do to harm anyone? What did I do? What did Patricio do that he should be left all alone?"
Bob just shook his head. He had no answer that would help. He looked out the window towards the GNN building, even as a cloud of dust and smoke began to billow out from it.
"It's collapsing," Bob gasped through the smoke laden air. He gestured toward the open main area of the office suite"The fire is getting worse. We have to go now."
Linda nodded, sniffed, suppressed a cough. "One last thing first." She took her arms from around the girls briefly, put her hands on her stomach and said, "I baptize you in the name of the Father . . ."
It was almost time to go. The heat rising from the floor, telltale of the flames below, was already too much to bear for long. Nor could anyone on the floor stand for all the thick, toxic smoke that hung above.
On the other side of the suite, a man laughed. "Infidels," he cried in a foreign accent, "see the judgment of Allah. See the wages of your iniquities. You will all die here and burn in Hellfire forevermore for your crimes against the will of the Almighty."
Uncle Bob recognized the voice and a
nswered back, with more force than reason, "God will send you and all your kind to Hell, Samir, you miserable, treacherous bastard."
Julio looked calmly at his mother. Ten years old or not, he was her son, and his father's. "Mom, will Daddy make them pay, the men who did this?"
"That will be as it will, my baby," Linda answered. "But . . . knowing your father, I can't imagine that he will not. He is . . . he can be . . . a very harsh man."
Linda looked at the flames rising behind her. "Almost time, children. Pray, now." She began to recite, "Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name. Thy kingdom come . . ."
Others joined in the final prayer, and one began to sing a half- remembered hymn, in English. Yet Linda recognized the song by its Spanish version. She, then the children, then another dark and lovely young girl in a short red shirt joined in, in Spanish.
Perhaps because she was an island of relative calm in a sea of insanity, people clustered around Linda. Most stopped praying, a few going silent but more joining in the hymn. In English it was known as "Abide with Me."
As the song neared its end, Linda and Bob stood. It was easier to stand near the smashed-out window than it had been in the smoke- filled interior. Bob took Julio in one arm and wrapped the other around Linda's slender waist. Linda, with one arm around Lambie and the other holding Milagro stopped singing for just a moment to say, "Close your eyes, babies," and to kiss each of the little girls atop their heads.
She resumed singing and began to walk forward, others following. At the very edge she hesitated, but only for the tiniest fraction of a second. She and Bob took the last step forward, the hymn echoing in their ears: "Help of the helpless, O abide with me . . ."
