by Anthology
Nayad watched the stream trickle down the river bed. If the infection didn’t spread to the crew, would that bastard have a back-up plan? Would Cantolione think that far ahead? He needed to bounce all the pieces off of Lucinda.
Nayad turned in the cramped control room and started to climb the metal ladder. “Get yourself ready to leave.”
He stepped into the main corridor. “Lucy?” he called.
“Down here.”
He followed the passage toward his own quarters and found her outside his door. She had a tool belt around her waist and a steel pry bar in her hand.
“I was just going to see if I can find the boy in your quarters,” she said. “I’ve been pulling all the panels off the floor but none of them lead anywhere. The air ducts are pretty small most places. I can’t imagine he crawled through them.”
“This vessel is pretty patchwork and modified. The previous owners used some mismatched, odd-sized innards.” He motioned for her to open the door. “Listen, if that airship is Cantolione’s, why did he warn us? It would be to his advantage if we had no clue about the infection, right?”
Tugging on the handle to Nayad’s quarters, Lucinda heaved as hard as she could. “Yeah, so what’re you thinking?”
“Maybe it is a government dirigible here to help us.”
“Thought you said unmarked airships were bunk?”
Just then, a loud explosion rang out in the distance, and the Turtle shook unsteadily for a moment.
“I think your government ship just shot at us.” Lucinda said.
Nayad wasn’t sure, but if they were, his whole theory was out. He turned to make his way back to the deck hatch and saw Lucinda do the same.
As they did, a figure lunged out of the darkness of Nayad’s cabin and grabbed Lucinda, knocking her to the ground. It was Lester, snarling and drooling as he pushed his face towards her. Nayad had only a second to see the boy’s chest was torn open in several places and his leg was shredded. Lucinda still had the metal bar in her hand and she swung it hard at the boy’s head, connecting twice. The boy tumbled off her but immediately got back up and started towards her has she attempted to get off the floor as well.
“Lester!” Nayad yelled. The boy turned and revealed that a good portion of the scarred side of his face was missing. Bits of flesh hung below his eye. As the beast that was once their crew mate was distracted, Lucinda got to her feet and scrambled down the hall.
He didn’t allow himself time to think about it, and in one fluid motion Nayad pulled his pistol and shot the creature in the head. It fell down on its knees and landed propped up by the bulkhead. From Nayad’s quarters came a rustling sound.
“Come on,” Nayad said. “There’s more of them, they followed the boy.” He was too far away to safely close the door and lock them in his quarters.
They ran to the hatch and stepped out on the deck. The airship was about to pass over their heads. Its engines roared as it maneuvered into place. Nayad marveled at how large the craft was. He’d seen airships before, but this one was double the size of most and menacing in its black and gray coat. There were bits of white streaming down from the belly of the craft, and it took a moment to realize they were ladders that the ship had extended.
There was a high-pitched squeal from the craft, followed by a bellowing voice, clear as anything, even over the strum of the engines, “This is the C.S.A. ship Leonidas Polk. You must evacuate immediately. Use the ladders and make an orderly withdrawal.”
He’d never been much for the rules and laws of the Confederate States of America, but Nayad was glad to hear from them now. He ran to the intercom and shouted into the mouthpiece. “All hands evacuate to the upper deck. All hands evacuate.” He lowered his head to the earpiece but couldn’t hear anything over the roar of the airship. He put the mouthpiece closer and shouted again. Lucinda grabbed his arm and tugged him toward one of the approaching ladders.
“Let’s go!” Lucinda shouted.
He shook his head. “Jansen, Gibson.”
Lucinda pointed to the turret to show Gibson hastily extricating himself from the gunner’s seat. He stumbled the last step and sprawled on the deck. They turned back to see the ladders and ropes from the airship about to come in contact with the edge of the Turtle’s deck and saw why Gibson was in such a hurry.
The river was coming.
A great wall of water was making its way quickly down the river bed. It was frothing and rolling down the empty path on its way from Sacramento, refilling the riverbed. Someone had blown the dam, and the airship engines had covered the roar of the river as it came.
Nayad grabbed Lucinda’s hand and ran toward the nearest ladders. He shoved her toward one and heaved himself at another. He gripped the ladder, locked his arm around a rung and tried not to panic as the ladder swung out into open air. He looked over to see Lucinda clinging in a similar fashion. Behind them, Gibson ran hard and leapt at a rope just as the ship started to pull away from the Turtle. He got a hold but immediately started to slip.
“Hang on.” Nayad shouted, though he doubted the man could hear anything but the roar.
The Sacramento River claimed the Turtle as they were looking back at Gibson. The craft was bowled off its legs by the wall of water that was just as high as the vehicle. It rolled and disappeared with its legs in the air.
Nayad turned away and concentrated on Lucinda as if he could keep the last member of his crew safe through mental power alone.
The airship turned and headed back over land, the direction Nayad and his crew had come. The ladders slowly ascended. Looking down at Nayad were two figures in dark uniforms. They pulled Nayad in, and he saw Lucinda being rescued nearby in a similar fashion.
* * *
Nayad wondered what was next. “I think we’ve been more than patient Mister…?”
“Cashe. Lyle Cashe.” The man said.
“Cashe, are you the captain of this ship?” Nayad gave him a suspicious look.
“I’m in charge if that’s what you’re asking.”
“What now?” Nayad asked.
Cashe pointed to the metal stairs behind them with a flourish. “If you’ll indulge me, I’d like to show you something,” he said. “This way, if you please Mr. Spencer. Miss, ah…”
“Just Lucinda,” Nayad said. “Her name is just Lucinda, and mine is just Nayad.”
Cashe nodded and again indicated the stairs.
Nayad and Lucinda found the room upstairs considerably brighter. The entire front wall was glass, and the sun shone through brilliantly. Nayad stepped forward and put his hand lightly against the glass then pulled it away.
“It’s ok. You aren’t going to fall out,” Cashe said.
Nayad forced himself to look annoyed but put both hands firmly on the glass after a moment. He leaned his head forward and looked down to see the ground. There were tree tops and hills far below. He couldn’t begin to gauge how high they were, but the view of the land was spectacular.
“We were tipped off to Cantolione’s plan some days after you left,” Cashe said. “But we only knew of his intention to infect your crew. The business at the dam was new to us. One of our operatives tracked his men to the area, but by the time we figured out that they’d set the explosives, it was too late. We rushed to try to save you and your passengers.”
“Lot of trouble to put me out of business,” Nayad watched the clouds that disappeared in the wake of the Leonidis Polk.
“We’re working on theories, but it’s possible the trap with the dam was meant for someone else, another competitor, and they decided to use it on you.” He looked at the other men nearby. “Shame, really. We might’ve been able to save your crew if it weren’t for that.”
“Nothing we can do about any of that now,” Lucinda stood just behind Nayad and stared out the wi
ndow as well.
Cashe cleared his throat. “Well, yes and no.” Nayad and Lucinda watched as he began turning a small hand crank at the top of the stairs. A large piece of glass began to descend from the ceiling near the wall. It magnified everything Nayad looked at on the ground. “That’s a powerful telescope, you have there,” he said.
“Thank you. Now if you’ll look over here,” Cashe pointed down a bit. “Can you see it?”
Nayad squinted and tried to sort the suddenly large objects that he saw. A blue blob distinguished itself from the sky and the clouds. Another airship.
“That is The Moon and Stars,” Cashe said.
Nayad recognized the name. “One of Cantolione’s? Is it carrying settlers?”
Cashe shook his head. “It’s on a private cruise. Seems they have something to celebrate.”
“Is Cantolione on board?” Lucinda asked.
“Don’t know.” Cashe moved himself between the telescope plate and his guests. “We have a dilemma. We need to get you two civilians to safety; you obviously have been through a lot. If we confront Cantolione’s craft, it could get messy, and we can’t endanger you any more than we already have. Of course, if you were to join us… We wouldn’t have to abandon this opportunity,” Cashe said.
“You want us to work for you?” Nayad asked quickly.
“Didn’t say work, I said join. You join the military. You two know your way around a vessel; an airship isn’t so different from the Turtle. We’re a fully sanctioned branch of the military, even if they sometimes pretend we’re not. We do what we can to make this country — what’s left of it — safe,” Cashe smiled. “If that means bombing a den of the undead, so be it. If it means shooting down pirates, so be it … ” Cashe took a pause. “And if any of our interests happen to entwine with a little revenge … ”
“So be it,” Lucinda said.
Nayad smiled and looked at the distant craft. It reminded him of a tiny bug crawling across a cloud of cracker crumbs, and suddenly he was hungry.
The Smiljan Breach
D. L. Mackenzie
The operetta was well into the second act when Dr. Leonardo Cerebelli rose from his seat quite unexpectedly, crying “Oh, damnation!” and rubbing his cummerbund furiously with a silk handkerchief. Not to be upstaged, the first violinist also stood suddenly, breaking his bow in half and stabbing the percussionist to death with it — rather an unusual occurrence even for German operetta, I’m told.
Thankfully, I had already transcribed much of the coded message before it suddenly ceased.
The horrified audience rose in fear and indignation, crying “mörder!” and “polizei!” But the police were not in attendance that evening and would in no event have been a match for Dr. Cerebelli, who drew his Derringer pistol and felled the wily perpetrator with a single shot — a noteworthy feat of marksmanship under the circumstances.
I had been unenthusiastic about attending Die Fledermaus, but Dr. Hogalum had been adamant. “Phineas Magnetron, I insist that you join us! Satyros will attend. Cerebelli will attend. Even Valkusian will be there, and he despises operetta, as you know. Come, let us drink, make merry, and enjoy our short time here in Vienna.”
In truth, Dr. Hogalum had already been in Vienna for more than a month. Having attended the International Sanitary Conference and delivered his presentation on venereal disease, his genuine work was done. Nevertheless, he elected to linger aimlessly in the City of Music, drinking and carousing. When he had sent word he required legal assistance, I assumed his revelry had come to an end. I was mistaken. Once released on bond, he returned to his bacchanal with renewed vitality. He happened upon an Austrian stone pine liqueur spiced with caraway and disappeared for three days, leaving me to tarry in my room at the Konig Von Ungarn. The balance of the Hogalum Society gradually coalesced there as well, each of them summoned by Hogalum and each professing ignorance with respect to the doctor’s greater designs.
Atticus Satyros was the first to join me. His stage show as the Amazing Satyros had just come to a triumphant close, but he was uncharacteristically anxious to avoid the public eye for some reason which he refused to divulge. He maintained unfalteringly he had no knowledge of Hogalum’s rationale for gathering in Vienna. Did we have some business with Count Andrássy, or Prince Adolf, perhaps? Was there some criminal intrigue requiring our attention? Satyros didn’t know.
Dr. Anton Karswell Valkusian arrived next. He had recently visited young family friend Sigmund Freud at the university but had left Austria for his native Switzerland before receiving Dr. Hogalum’s invitation. This turn of events necessitated a return voyage, which he found exceptionally burdensome. Additionally, he had cancelled a Tibetan excursion to examine a cache of Sixth Century Bön scriptures in favor of responding to Hogalum’s call and, therefore, deemed the doctor’s absence especially galling. He was also unable to shed any light on the doctor’s cloak and dagger contrivance.
Pierce Coburn was unable to attend as he had been detained in San Francisco pursuant to some covert imbroglio there, but Cerebelli arrived as requested. We were four. As an inventor of sorts, I found Cerebelli’s inestimable scientific erudition an invaluable resource, and the subject of my everlasting fascination. We stayed productive in Dr. Hogalum’s absence, reviewing airship designs and so forth, but I became more irritable with each passing hour until Dr. Hogalum finally deigned to grace us with his presence.
The evening of April 5, 1874, we hired a landau carriage to take us to the Theater an der Wien. Of course, I had no inkling of the strange events which would soon take place, but I was forewarned by Dr. Hogalum to stay alert to any unusual occurrence as might transpire.
“You must be my eyes and ears,” he said as we took our seats in the theater. “I anticipate I shall be quite unconscious within the first few notes of the overture. Do see that I do not end up in an undignified heap on the floor.”
“And if you snore?” I asked.
“Then by God, let me snore!”
By the end of the first act, I had been forced to strap the good doctor to his seat, but his head continued to loll forward. Well into the second act, the first precursory grunts began to escape his constricted windpipe just as the orchestra struck up the rousing “Im Feuerstrom der Reben,” which mercifully drowned out Dr. Hogalum’s guttural snorts.
I became aware of an unusual syncopation in the percussion, arrhythmic, and quite unsuitable to the melody, in my estimation. This peculiar sequence of beats repeated at least one more time, whereupon I realized that it was most assuredly a code—Morse code. I transcribed as much of the message as I could, but before I could finish, Cerebelli leapt to his feet and cried out moments before the violinist stabbed the percussionist. In the ensuing pother, I was scarcely able to return pen and paper to my coat pocket and remove Dr. Hogalum’s restraints.
The doctor blinked and rubbed his eyes. He struggled to focus, his gaze meandering as if following a firefly in flight. Wagging his index finger in my general direction, he remonstrated mildly, “I told you to let me snore!”
“Dr. Hogalum, I believe the evening’s performance is done.”
“Splendid!” he replied. “Did you receive the message?”
Cerebelli and Valkusian remained at the theatre to aid the police in their inquiry, but — curiously — Satyros was nowhere to be found. Dr. Hogalum and I repaired to Die Brüste Diva, a nearby tavern, where I recounted the evening’s extraordinary events in detail. The waiter smiled broadly and nodded — as did I — as the doctor ordered coffee, “black as the devil, hot as hell, pure as an angel, and sweet as love.”
Turning back to me, he prodded, “Very well, Phineas, let’s have it! What did the message say?”
I commenced a rambling, sheepish stipulation that I had not in fact heard the entire message, but Hogalum cut me short.
“The
message! Read it to me now!”
“Very well,” I said. “The message — the message fragment — reads, ‘Yngve, this is Janko, I need you to come to…’”
“Yes, Phineas, please do continue.”
“I’m sorry, Doctor. That is all I have.”
“Come to? Come to?” Dr. Hogalum was furious. “What in the white-hot fires of hell does that mean?”
“Perhaps this Janko fellow knew you would be sleeping,” I offered, hoping some humor might soothe the doctor’s temper.
“Ridiculous! Phineas Magnetron, you have failed me! You didn’t get the entire message!”
“Yes, I know. I— I— I mean, I already said that.” I apologized profusely, but Dr. Hogalum remained sullen and cantankerous until our waiter returned with the coffee. “Doctor, how many people named ‘Janko’ do you know?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” he replied. “At least a dozen.”
I raised my eyebrows, and the doctor shot back, “It is a common name in Croatia!” He drank half a cup of the strong black coffee and continued. “I spent some time in Smiljan during the late Sixties, after the Compromise. I had some old friends there named Tesla, and while there I met at least a dozen men called Janko.”
“And they all lived in Smiljan as well?”
“Yes.”
“So you know a dozen men named Janko, and they all live in Smiljan.”
“Yes.”
After I had given the doctor what I felt was ample time to arrive at the obvious conclusion, I could bear it no longer. “Doctor,” I said gently, “from what you have told me, I think I can safely surmise that the last word in the message was—”
