by Rachel Ford
The taxman raced after her. “Nance, what are you doing?” From where he was standing, they’d barely escaped with their necks. Irma hadn’t had them killed. She hadn’t taken up her murderous henchman’s idea to throw them off the roof. But she hadn’t been particularly bothered by the suggestion, either. The fact was, he wouldn’t have put money on their chances if evacuation hadn’t been such a priority in the moment.
And now, here was Nance: tempting fate again. And he loved her far too much to let her go about this madness on her own. So, grumbling to himself with every step, he followed her as they flew down the stairs, flight after flight.
They caught up with Irma’s party near the ground floor, and were greeted by sabers and drawn pistols. Alfred gulped, but Nance forged ahead, panting out, “Chancellor, wait. I have an idea. To save Katar.”
She snorted. “A time machine, perhaps? To go back and stop yourselves before you throw us to the wolves?”
“I wish,” the taxman wheezed. It would have made life a lot simpler – and cut out the sprinting, too. “But Winthrop took that.”
“No. We need to hijack one of Trajan’s airships.”
“What?”
Nance was nodding excitedly, despite Irma’s eyebrows, and the skeptical dance they were playing out on her forehead. “Alfred and I need to get back to Atupal.”
One of the guards snorted. “Oh no, missy. You can stay and die with us: no escape for you.”
Chancellor Irma frowned at him, though, and said, “And why would I help you get away from the death you’ve sentenced my people to?”
“I’m not trying to escape,” Nance argued. “I’m trying to stop Trajan.”
“How does an airship stop the tyrant?”
“Trajan told us that once, years ago, Atupal hovered over the south pole of your planet.”
Irma nodded. “Before they found the crystal, yes.”
“So all we have to do, is do to Atupal what we did here: destroy the crystal.”
The older woman’s face pulled into a frown. “No one even knows where it is, or how to get to it.”
“I do,” Nancy said. “And so does Alfred. We saw it today.”
“You do?” Irma’s expression brightened. “You know how to get to it?”
“But wait,” Alfred protested, “even if we can get back to it alive, and even if we can destroy it, how does that help Katar? If it can’t fly anymore, won’t that just bring the island crashing down on the city?”
“It’s not flying, though. They’re manipulating Atupal’s natural magnetism to lift or lower it, or to alter a heading. If we destroy the crystal, they can’t alter it. But the magnetism will still be there.”
Irma’s expression lightened, for the first time since Alfred had seen her. “And our planet will repel that damned island.”
Nancy nodded, her eyes gleaming with excitement. “Exactly. Trajan said the island’s ‘sweet spot’ was over the pole – with nothing to stop it, it will be drawn back there.”
“Pushed back there,” the other woman corrected. “And Katar will be safe.” She clapped Nance on the shoulder. “It might work.”
“It will. We just need to lure an airship down, so we can get back to the island.”
“Alright.” The chancellor nodded. “How do we do that?”
“Well, I assume you don’t have another one of those crystals, or else you’d be using it already?”
“No,” Irma said forlornly. “They’re very rare on our world.”
“Then we’ll have to trick them into thinking you have some kind of backup plan. Do you have any kind of giant magnet? Or electromagnet?”
“Of course. But the crystal isn’t a magnet. It helps create an atmospheric shield. But it’s not a magnet.”
“I know. But all we need is a strong enough charge to register on Trajan’s sensors. He’ll think you’ve got something rigged up. The ships will come down to destroy it while they still can.”
“And we pirate one of the ships?”
“Exactly.”
Chapter Twenty-One
It was a suicide plan. Alfred was convinced of that. But Nance and the chancellor were just as convinced that it was the only way to save the city. And, as much as he wanted to argue, the truth was that the taxman didn’t have a better solution. So he threw his back into hauling the requisite parts up the stairs.
“This is the largest electromagnet the Academy created,” Chancellor Irma explained, huffing and puffing with the rest of the crew as they inched their way up. “Lucky that it was on display. Usually, it’s in the science labs.”
Alfred would have disputed her use of the term lucky, except that it would have required him to waste precious breath. And he had none of that to spare.
Still, somehow, they made it up the stairs, and a Sir Eggerton – one of the quacks responsible for the gargantuan, cylindrical weight he’d helped transport – busied himself with setup. “You’ll want to remove any metal from your person,” he said. “Or this thing will remove it for you. And if you’ve got any metal fillings or bone plates, well, you should get out of here now.”
A pair of men followed this directive, but the rest remained. Atupal, meanwhile, seemed to have gotten into position. All of Katar was cast in darkness, and the island’s great shadow spread long over the horizon. “He’s starting the descent,” Irma said. “Quick, Eggerton. We need to lure those dirigibles.”
“Alright. Powering up the old gal now. Low voltage. Just enough to get their attention.”
Alfred wasn’t sure what he expected, but the sight was rather unimpressive. Indeed, there was no visible change: neither the great metal core nor the wire wrapped around it seemed at all different. It was working, though. The taxman felt the tug of the metal buckles on his clothes, pulling toward the contraption. He saw Irma’s locket levitate around her neck, hovering midair in the direction of the coil.
“You’re going to want to back up folks,” Eggerton warned. “I’m going to ramp it up a bit.”
They pulled back, until they stood at the battlements. Alfred felt renewed tugging at the straps around his ankles, and all at once Irma’s chain snapped, and her locket flew to the magnet.
“Alright, power it down,” she said. “That should have been enough to register on their sensors. And act like you’re working on it, Eggerton.” She glanced at the guards on standby. “You too. Make it look like you’re helping.”
The men milled around the device in what the taxman considered a highly unconvincing fashion. Still, they kept at it; and before a minute passed, Irma drew in a sharp breath. “Look: dirigibles.”
Sure enough, a set of five airships were headed their way, belching out fire on the city below as they went. This was a detail Alfred had neglected to consider. “Umm…they’ve got flamethrowers, Nance. How are we going to avoid being…well, barbecued?”
“The dirigible skeleton is metal,” Irma said. “When they get close enough, Eggerton’s going to flip the switch. With any luck, we’ll pluck them right out of the sky.”
Alfred was a man of numbers and facts. He didn’t much like putting his life in the hands of something as fictional as luck. Probabilities were bad enough. But luck? “And, if we’re unlucky?”
Irma shrugged. “Then we die a little sooner than the rest of the city.”
This was hardly reassuring to the taxman, but he held his tongue. He could not forget that he and Nance were the reason for this mess.
“Alright, on my signal, you’re all going to want to get inside the tower,” Eggerton declared. “Or else you’re going to lose any weapons you’re carrying. There’s shielding in the walls that will protect you. But I guarantee you won’t be able to hold on to them otherwise.”
“And in the meantime,” Irma said, “those of you with guns: I want you taking potshots at the airships. Not enough to turn them back, but enough to make them think we’re worried.”
Nance and a few of the guards started shooting. And, to Alfred’s mortificatio
n, so did the men in the dirigibles. Before long, bullets were ricocheting off the stone all around, and he was huddled with Nance behind the battlements.
“Let me have a go at it,” he suggested.
“Why?”
“I’m a better shot than you.”
She snorted. “Oh yeah? Since when, Mister Favero?”
“Agent Favero,” he reminded her, slipping the pistol out of her hand. “And I’ve always been the better shot.” That was not strictly true. Indeed, it wasn’t remotely true.
Nance had more exposure to guns than he did. She’d gone hunting as a kid, and had a much more in-depth refresher during their first case together than he had. Still, the idea of her poking out to aim, making herself a target to the invaders, terrified him far worse than risking his own head.
Not that this wasn’t terrifying in its own right. No sooner than had the taxman got the gun and stuck his head out did a bullet graze the stones a few inches from him. Fragments of stone and dust flew this way and that, and Alfred was keenly aware that a few inches of empty air was all that had saved his life. Fudge muffins. He wasn’t sure who had fired the offending shot, but he picked a target, fired, and ducked down long before he could tell if he hit his mark.
The truth was, he fully anticipated missing. He was not the greatest marksman in the best of circumstances. But huddled behind a wall, aiming at an airborne foe with a pistol at his current range? Of course he’d miss.
Still, it did the trick. He would shift positions along their section of wall, just to keep the enemy guessing where he was going to poke his head up next, and then spring up to shoot. The pilots would return fire, and duck down themselves. It was like a game of whack-a-mole, except now, the moles were trying to whack back.
It was a variant Alfred did not much care for. Still, he survived, and before he knew it, Irma was saying, “Alright, fall back. They’re too close now. Get inside.”
It was none too soon, as far as the taxman was concerned. The dirigibles were within a rock’s throw. Granted, for someone with a better pitching arm than his. But that was still too close for comfort, especially as he could hear the sputter and roar of flames pouring over the sides of the gondolas.
Keeping low, he and Nance scurried for the tower entrance. Eggerton, meanwhile, had already positioned himself on the far side of the magnet, where the bullets would be least likely to hit him.
Now, he joined them, carrying a little control box with him as he sprinted the few steps to safety. “I’d rather not be in the path of incoming ships,” he explained.
“Do it,” Irma said.
The scientist nodded, and flipped a lever on the box. All heck, it seemed to the taxman, broke out at that precise moment. The terrified scream of the pilots were the first sound, but they were quickly lost to other noises. Crashes and collisions of every variety seemed to be happening outside.
Alfred wished he could see it, but his vision was obscured by the tower’s light stone walls. Still, his ears told enough of the tale. The balloons were colliding with each other and the tower itself. He heard the tearing of cables, the screeching of shorn metal, and the crunching of wicker. Then, the airships careened into the magnet, filling the entirety of the rooftop it seemed.
Irma nodded at Eggerton, and he flipped the switch again. At the same time, she called, “Forward.”
All at once, the guards poured out. The chancellor was in the thick of it with them, and Alfred and Nancy took up the rear. The dirigibles, now that the magnet was off, were righting themselves.
Some listed aimlessly, the fabric of their envelopes saggy, as if the impact had released much of the hot air. Others began to rise. One hung precariously off the side of the tower, its envelope in flames while the pilot scrambled to get out of the gondola.
Irma and her men fell upon the intact airships, hoisting themselves into the baskets and pulling the stunned pilots and marksmen out. Here or there, a few resisted, but most were too dazed – or terrified – to put up much of a fight.
“Come on,” Nancy said, “we need to get a ship, Alfred.”
The taxman gulped. Boarding a vessel and stealing it from its crew, even in such circumstances, seemed to violate the color of the law, if not the spirit too. Granted, it was an enemy vessel, and its crew were guilty of war crimes. Still, Alfred was no buccaneer, and the idea of behaving as one scared him almost as much as the prospect of battling in a tiny wicker basket so high off the ground.
But there was nothing for it: Nance was going ahead, and so must he. Either they would succeed, or else gravity would ensure that he did not long contemplate his impending demise.
So, with what little comfort this provided, he charged the nearest airship. She got there first, wrenching open the gondola door. The taxman took a flying leap, propelling himself off the roof, and onto the precariously swaying platform. Nance followed a second later.
The pilot was shouting orders at his gunman, who was scrambling to retrieve a fallen pistol. Alfred lunged for the other man, impacting so sharply that they both lost their balance. The taxman stumbled to the wicker floor. The gunman stumbled over the side of the gondola, landing with a heavy thud, and myriad curses, on the stone roof below.
Nancy, meanwhile, had drawn her pistol on the pilot. “Jump,” she said. “Get off, before I use this.”
Scowling, he did as she said, landing beside his compatriot with a similar litany of curses and complaints. Alfred cringed. War criminals they might be, but the balloon had risen high enough that he pitied their shins and elbows after such a fall.
But, as the dirigible began a wobbly ascent, he turned to the controls. “Uh, Nance, how do we fly this thing?”
She shook her head, slipping the pistol back into place. “No idea.”
He frowned at her. “You’ve never flown one before?”
“Of course not.”
“Then…how are we going to get up to Atupal?”
“Come on, babe. We can figure it out. I mean, how hard can it be?”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Very hard. The answer to Nance’s question was, Very hard. The airship had separate controls for aft rotors and elevation adjustments. This, the duo learned the hard way, when the ship lurched to the side during what was supposed to be takeoff, nearly dumping them on top of the pair they’d just evicted.
Each set was delicate, too – absurdly delicate. The most minor adjustment could send the dirigible seemingly out of control.
Nor were Nancy and Alfred the only ones to struggle getting their bearings. A consequence of Trajan’s prohibition on aircraft development meant that the mainlanders were as ignorant of the piloting techniques as they were. The chancellor’s ship collided with theirs, and then theirs collided with one of the guards. A moment later, another plowed into them, narrowly avoiding capsizing the gondola.
The taxman’s heart was in his mouth the entire time, and he found himself shaking when they drifted past the tower. At least over that stone platform, they had somewhere to land – and live. Now, if they fell – and he very much feared they would – they would plummet to their deaths.
They had no time to learn the controls, either – both because Atupal was continuing its descent, toward them, and because the marooned shipmen below had gathered enough of their wits to fire on the pirates.
So Nance cranked the flame, Alfred steered clear of a nearby dirigible, and they ascended at a speed that probably took ten years off the taxman’s life. The shots grew more distant, and the island loomed larger.
“I think we need to slow down, babe.”
“I know. I’m trying to figure out how to lower the ship.”
Sugar cookies. We are going to die. Aloud, he tried to be more helpful. “Umm, isn’t there like some kind of flap thingy? To let pressure out?”
“Yes. But I can’t figure out which lever-” She cut off suddenly, though, as the ship began to drop.
They were falling – not quite freefalling, but falling far too fast for the t
axman’s comfort. “Wrong lever, Nance. Wrong lever!”
A moment later, Nancy flipped the lever the other way, and their descent halted. Pale as a sheet, she flashed him a grin. “Found it.”
“Really?” he wondered dryly. “I couldn’t tell.”
Still, they managed to figure out flying without killing themselves. So did Chancellor Irma and most of the rest of their fleet of pirates. They lost only one ship, Alfred noted, and that was to a seemingly irreversible decline rather than anything more sinister. The befuddled pilot was still struggling with the controls, trying to force an ascent, when they moved out of range, but looked to be in no apparent danger.
Once they’d gotten the hang of flying, they moved for the nearest island edge. They passed a few ships here and there, but tried to keep their distance so as not to draw unwanted attention. Soon enough, they had passed out of the shadow of the island and could begin their ascent.
It was then that they finally brought attention to themselves, for the simple reason that, while all the other ships were headed away from the city, they were heading toward it.
Alfred nearly leapt out of his skin when a series of beeps sounded from a transceiver box nestled away in the gondola. He hadn’t even seen it before, and now it was screeching out a series of longer and shorter beeps. “What in the hummus?”
“I think it’s some kind of code,” Nance said.
“Like Morse code?”
“Yeah…but…not Morse code.”
“It’s not?”
She shook her head. “No. There’s too much variation in the duration of the dits and dahs. There’s at least four…no, five different signal lengths they’re using.”
The taxman had no idea what that meant, but he trusted Nance to know what she was talking about. “So…we have no way of translating?”
“I don’t think so.”
He cast a nervous gaze around them, at the horizon in every direction: at the island, slowly but surely lowering toward the city, at the airships and balloons raining down devastation on the people below. His apprehension was proven to be well founded, for some dozen airships abruptly changed course, heading in their direction. “Sugar cookies. Nance, I think we’ve got company.”
