‘No.’
How could he explain it, even to himself? The months without his lover had seen him desolate, plagued by guilt and fear. Only in the monastery and the mountains themselves had he found solace. Perhaps it was cowardice to stay, but it did not feel like cowardice. Not given what had happened here.
The columns cast shadows now, as a silvery luminescence grew in the sky. The guardian carvings patrolled the roof beams. Amongst the dark hills below, mist rose once more from the concealed paths and streams. All was as it had been before he performed the summoning, and the dawn before that; a thousand dawns. Someone should point that out to the wretches running around, behaving like monkeys.
‘No matter what the rest of the world is like,’ he said slowly, ‘there must always be a peaceful valley here and mountaintops pointing towards Heaven. One day, maybe, Manabumaru will seek peace again.’
‘Maybe so.’ The Cursebreaker turned her face to the sunrise and put down her bowl. ‘You’re a good man, Shichiro. Perhaps one day you will become something more.’
At that, he had to speak the words that were hovering fearfully in his throat. ‘The book I read said something of the origin of the Cursebreaker. She was a scholar in a distant land and time, who challenged the great incarnation of Dharma.’
‘I call her Fate. All three of her.’
‘She was condemned to labour, unceasing, unending. There was… there was great wisdom in what you told Tetsumonkai. Could you not accept it yourself?’
‘You mean, stop caring?’
‘What I mean, is—’
‘That is what you mean. For Fate to even consider releasing me, I would have to stop accusing her. But in each new place I appear, in each new curse, I discover more and worse. Such things as you can’t, that you shouldn’t imagine: a man unable to heal. A woman unable to love. I know you mean well, Shichiro. But knowing, how can I not care?’
The sun crested the triple summits and just as it was written, the Cursebreaker was gone.
Against the Air Pirates
Graeme Davis
Anyone who has been in the Pacific for a while will tell you that there are currents in more than just the water. Something about the ocean moves people as if they were driftwood, causing them to fetch up in certain places. For air bums and bush pilots, Louie’s was one of those places.
The little island may have belonged to the Philippines or to Indonesia, and it may even have had a name. No one knew for sure, and no one much cared. Everyone just called it Louie’s. Its position on the charts made it a useful refueling stop, the absence of colonial authorities made it a good place to do business, and Louie kept a good stock of the essentials: fuel, food and drink, and plenty of privacy.
At any time, a half-dozen floatplanes and small flying boats were moored round a small jetty anchored to the refueling barge in the island’s sheltered lagoon. The jetty led to a cluster of bamboo and palm leaf shacks, the largest of which was Louie’s Tiki Lounge.
On this particular evening, one of the more private tables was occupied by a tall, rangy American in grease-stained khakis and a smaller but equally lean Dutchman whose lightweight tropical suit was dark under the arms.
‘Listen, Huysman,’ said the American, ‘I’ve got my professional reputation to think about. I can’t have half the folks around here thinking I got bushwhacked and the other half thinking I was in on it. Besides, Doc Lacroix can’t get morphine any other way. I imagine your rich friends have other options.’
Huysman sneered. ‘I was told you were a businessman, Finnegan, not a Boy Scout.’
‘Oh, I’m a businessman, all right, and your scheme is bad for business.’
‘Then perhaps I should be more persuasive.’ A gun appeared in the Dutchman’s hand. Finnegan regarded it with mild interest, leaning back in his seat and running his fingers through his dark-brown hair.
‘Put your hands on the table,’ Huysman ordered. Finnegan complied.
‘Now,’ Huysman continued, ‘you will stand up slowly and I will follow you to your plane. Together, we will deliver the cargo just as I have told you. What you tell people after that—if I let you live—is completely up to you. Move!’
Finnegan moved more quickly than the Dutchman expected. Glasses flew as he flipped the table into the air, knocking Huysman’s gun hand up so his shot went harmlessly through the palm thatch. The tabletop slammed into Huysman’s chest, driving the wind out of him. He could do nothing but gasp for breath as Finnegan took his gun.
‘It’s okay,’ Finnegan called out amiably, ‘just a little business negotiation.’ The low buzz of conversation slowly resumed. Although they were not common, such distractions were not unknown at Louie’s. The barman, a huge Polynesian called Mo whose real name was unpronounceable, hustled the Dutchman outside.
‘You’ll regret this, Finnegan!’ he screamed over Mo’s shoulder.
Finnegan laughed. ‘That’s what life is, Huysman, didn’t they tell you? Nothing but piling up regrets.’ He righted the table, shaking his head with a smile.
‘What was that about?’ Louie came over with a broom to sweep up the broken glasses.
Finnegan chuckled as he sat back down. ‘He wanted me to help him steal my own cargo for one of his buyers.’
‘Jesus,’ Louis grunted. ‘He can find Chicago on a map and he thinks he’s Al Capone. I need a better class of customer.’
Louis finished cleaning up and Finnegan sat back down at the table. A minute later, a fresh beer arrived, with a daiquiri keeping it company. The woman holding the tray was definitely not one of Louie’s staff.
‘Are you Finnegan?’ Her voice was like cigar smoke and fine brandy. ‘Louie says you might give me a ride to Tamaling.’
The Lady Luck had started life as a Supermarine Sea Eagle in British Malaya. Now, she was part Junkers, part Boeing, and part several other things. The other pilots joked that Finnegan had named her Lady Luck to help hold the various parts together, but she was a true-flying and reliable ship.
By the time Finnegan brought her two bags aboard, the girl was already strapped into the co-pilot’s seat. She said her name was Eve Martin, from San Francisco.
‘So what brings you way out here?’ Finnegan asked as the Lady Luck taxied out onto the lagoon.
‘The cool, crisp, mountain air,’ she said with a straight face. ‘I hear it’s wonderful for the complexion.’
Finnegan laughed. ‘Okay, miss,’ he said. ‘I know how to mind my own business.’ He pushed the throttle forward and the Lady Luck accelerated. There was a slight buffet as her hull left the water, and she began a smooth climb.
‘Well,’ said Finnegan after they had leveled off, ‘it’s a couple of hours to Tamaling, and we have to talk about something. So how about those Yankees? Is it true Babe Ruth’s sick?’
‘So he says,’ Eve replied. ‘Some reporter called it the bellyache heard round the world. He reckons the Babe needs to lay off the hot dogs and soda pop. Other people say it’s from cheap hooch or cheap women, though the papers don’t mention that. But if you want to talk, tell me about Doctor Lacroix and this Tamaling mission. Do you know him well?’
Finnegan looked at her. ‘Well enough,’ he said. ‘Seems strange that you’d be headed there without knowing anything about the place.’
Eve smiled. ‘All I know is that he could use a nurse and I could use a job,’ she said.
‘So you’re a nurse?’ said Finnegan. ‘What happened? Did you lose a patient? Or are you trying to lose one? I bet all your male patients fall madly in love.’
‘Some do,’ Eve laughed, ‘but there’s nothing like emptying bedpans to take the shine off a romance. So what about Lacroix?’
‘Older gent,’ said Finnegan. ‘French. Runs the place by himself since his wife died. He just does what he can to keep the locals healthy.’
‘Is he big on the religious side? Church socials were never my strong point.’
‘No, he kind of lost his faith along with his wife. He couldn’
t figure out what was killing her, and just had to watch her die. He’s never forgiven himself, or God. Her funeral was the last service he ever held.’
‘That’s rough.’ Eve’s face showed genuine sympathy. ‘Will he be okay with a woman around again?’
‘Hard to say. You tell me when you find out.’
Eve looked out the window for a while.
‘There sure are a lot of these little islands,’ she said after a while. ‘How do you find your way around? They all look alike to me.’
‘After a while you pick up on the differences,’ said Finnegan, ‘and with a map, a compass, and a good watch you can tell pretty much where you are most of the time. For example, this island down on the starboard side is’—his expression changed as he peered down—‘curious.’
‘Meaning we’re lost?’ asked Eve.
‘Meaning it looks like a buddy of mine’s having some trouble,’ Finnegan replied. ‘Do you mind a comfort break?’
‘I could use one.’
Finnegan throttled back and trimmed the plane for landing.
Al Brooks had painted his Heinkel floatplane bright yellow because, he said, it would be easy to spot if he ever got into trouble. It certainly stood out against the palm-fringed lagoon, and as Finnegan taxied toward it he saw that it sat oddly in the water, with the tail too low and the nose too high. As he got closer, he could see that the Heinkel’s engine was missing altogether. He leaned out of the cockpit and yelled for Brooks, but received no answer.
‘That comfort break may need to wait a few minutes,’ he told Eve. ‘Sit tight while I check this out.’ He moored the Lady Luck alongside and threw out the anchor.
Something was very wrong. There were bullet holes in the Heinkel’s wings and tail. The hatch cover stood open, and the hold was empty. Brooks was nowhere to be seen, but there were traces of blood in the cockpit.
‘I’m going ashore to look for the pilot,’ he told Eve. ‘It looks like he ran into some trouble.’ He shook his head as Eve rose from her seat.
‘This may be dangerous,’ he said, holding up a hand.
‘Don’t worry about me.’ She reached into her purse and pulled out a gun. It was pretty, a pearl-handled .22, but she held it as though she knew how to use it.
On the beach they found a single set of footprints interspersed with drops of congealed blood. At the end of the trail Brooks was slumped under a bush, his Webley .45 still in his hand. Dried blood crusted his shirt. Eve pressed two fingers to his neck, looked up at Finnegan, and shook her head.
‘Who did this?’ her voice was low but calm as her eyes scanned the bushes. It was clear she had been around violent death before.
‘Whoever it was,’ said Finnegan, ‘they must have had tools and gear to lift the engine out. And at least one machine gun, judging by those holes.’
Finnegan buried Brooks on the island and dragged his plane onto the beach. He would spread the news when he got back to Louie’s; maybe someone there could recover the plane. Bush pilots stuck together, but out here no one could afford to be sentimental about equipment. Maybe, too, someone would have heard of well-armed bandits operating in the area.
They spoke little on the way to Tamaling. The mission consisted of nothing more than a few huts around a clearing near a beach, where a small crowd of curious locals gathered as Finnegan beached the Lady Luck with a gentle bump and helped Eve from the cockpit. Doc Lacroix came over as Finnegan was setting her bags down on the sand.
‘Ah, Finnegan,’ he said, holding out a hand, ‘you have my morphine, oui?’ His eyes widened as he saw Eve. ‘Or perhaps I have already taken it and I am dreaming? Mademoiselle, je suis enchanté.’
When Eve explained she was a nurse, the doctor’s smile broadened and the flow of French gallantries increased. He carried her bags to the least ramshackle of the huts, promising it would be repaired tout de suite. Soon he was shouting at his cook in a mixture of pidgin French and the local island language. Finnegan guessed that the new arrival would be honored with a special meal.
With Eve unpacking and the mission’s staff scurrying about on various food-related errands, Lacroix came over to Finnegan.
‘You can still change these?’ he asked, pulling out a wad of francs.
‘One way or another,’ said Finnegan, taking them with a smile.
‘I told the Société Missionaire that dollars are more useful here, but they take no notice. I suppose I am lucky they send anything.’
‘Don’t worry about it. Everything been quiet here since my last visit?’
Lacroix raised his eyebrows slightly. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Why would it not be?’
‘Brooks is dead. I spotted his plane on the way here. It looks like bandits—very well-armed bandits.’
‘I am sorry,’ said the Frenchman. ‘He was a good man, and I know he was your friend. I have heard nothing about these bandits, but I will ask. You know my spies.’ His patients came from all over the surrounding area, and Doc Lacroix often got news before it even reached Louie’s.
‘Thanks, Doc,’ said Finnegan, ‘and watch out. I already had to fend off one eager buyer for your morphine.’
‘Don’t worry,’ replied Lacroix. ‘If anyone comes to steal it, I will be ready for them!’
‘You have got to be kidding.’ Finnegan squinted at the shape in the distance. Even from three miles away, there was no mistaking it. Finnegan had seen a few zeppelins over France, and this was so big, so high, and so silver that it could not be anything else. He decided to take a closer look. The sun glinted off the airship’s silver skin, but it was too far off to see any markings.
Germany had been forced to give up her zeppelins under the Treaty of Versailles, but other nations still flew them, most notably Britain and America. France and Italy had a few dirigibles each, but no colonies nearby. There was talk of commercial services across the Atlantic, faster than a liner but no less comfortable. Maybe this was a passenger ship.
He was a scant couple of miles away when the airship’s belly opened and two small planes dropped from inside. They leveled out and made straight for him. With a curse, Finnegan pushed the throttles forward and banked sharply. British or American, it had to be military, and launching fighters was anything but a friendly sign. He had a hunch that Brooks had met with this zeppelin.
Even with the Lady Luck in a shallow dive at full throttle, the fighters gained steadily. The sea was coming up fast and Finnegan tried to think faster. Ahead of him a small, rocky island broke the flatness of the sea. Finnegan hoped the fighter pilots didn’t know it as well as he did.
He ducked involuntarily as tracers flashed past. A glance over his shoulder told him that the two fighters were on his tail and matching his speed. Further away a third plane had joined the chase, and he smiled when he saw the floats slung beneath its wingtips. That must be the way they got their loot back to the airship. Launching it meant they wanted him—or the Lady Luck, at least—in one piece.
At that moment, the radio crackled into life.
‘Attention, cargo aircraft!’ The accent was German. ‘You will land at the island ahead or we will shoot you down! Do you understand? Acknowledge!’
His best chance for now was to play dumb and wait for an opportunity. ‘Who are you?’ he replied, trying to sound panicked. ‘What do you want? I am carrying no valuable cargo—repeat, no valuable cargo!’ The only response was another stream of tracers, a little closer to his cockpit this time.
He rocked the stick left and right, waggling the Lady Luck’s wings in the universal signal of non-aggression, and studied the fighters in the mirror. They were monoplanes with a parasol wing held above the fuselage on struts. Their landing gear had been removed, so they could only operate from their mother ship.
Keeping the island on his right, Finnegan throttled back and began what looked like a normal landing approach. As the Lady Luck’s hull was about to kiss the sea the fighters banked away, planning to circle over their captive until the floatplane arrived
with a boarding party. This was the moment Finnegan had been waiting for.
The Lady Luck lurched as he slammed the throttles forward, keeping one eye on the mirror. It would take the enemy pilots a few seconds to realize what he was doing, and several more to bring their planes back around and get a bead on him. He hoped that would be enough.
The shoreline flashed past on his right, pale sand fringed with palm trees. By the time the fighters had come around to chase him, the Lady Luck was about level with the rocky headland Finnegan had aimed for. Her starboard float almost touched the wave tops as he banked.
The fighters came up quickly, and the Lady Luck shuddered as bullets struck her tail. Finnegan held the turn until the headland blocked their line of sight, then pulled up hard as a stack of rock loomed ahead of him. The Lady Luck cleared the stack by no more than a foot.
The fighters were not so lucky. The first pilot clipped off half of his starboard wing against the rock and went pinwheeling into the shallow water. The second missed the rock but was hit by flying debris from the first plane. His propeller jerked to a sudden halt, fouled with wire and canvas. Finnegan saw the pilot fighting to keep control as his plane bellied down onto the sea in a welter of spray.
As Finnegan had hoped, the floatplane landed to assist the downed pilots. Keeping the island between himself and the zeppelin, he ran straight and level at maximum speed.
‘A zeppelin, you say?’ asked Gillibrand. ‘That could explain a few things.’ Louie put an open beer in front of the Australian.
‘What kind of things?’ asked Finnegan.
‘I was just over at Puramaling and the locals were in a flap about something that flew over a few days back. Big and silver, they said, and very slow. Definitely not a plane. They thought it was a dragon.’
‘The Sally Anne, too,’ put in Cheng. ‘My cousin works for Morton Shipping in Manado. Telegraph office. She sent out a mayday—attack by aircraft. Then nothing.’
‘Makes sense,’ said Finnegan. ‘They can’t exactly go into town for fuel and spares.’
The New Hero: Volume 1 Page 15
