Harry Heron: Into the Unknown

by Patrick G Cox

  Still aghast, Harry said, “Look at their style of dress. It is like nothing in the East. Could they be African pirates?”

  “They be like no Africans we’ve encountered, Master Harry, nor any man for that matter.” Ferghal swayed as he stood, his good hand supporting his damaged arm.

  “We must find a hiding place until we know more of what this means. Certainly, these men are harmless because they’re so small, but it is wise to take precautions. This could be some sort of sorcery meant to trick us.” Harry turned to Ferghal. “Let me afix your arm to your side—that will prevent movement and keep it immobile until we find a surgeon to reset it.”

  Using the sticky binding again, Harry strapped his friend’s arm to his side then raised the broken forearm and taped it across his chest at a natural angle. He was glad they’d removed Ferghal’s loose blouse to examine his injuries.

  “Some’uns comin’,” Danny alerted them, hearing the sound of heavy booted footfalls outside the door.

  Harry snatched up his dirk. “There’s another door this end.” Steering Ferghal ahead of him, he ordered, “Danny, find the latch and open it.”

  “There be no latch, Mr Her’n, sor.”

  “There must be.” Harry glared at the blank surface. “Damn. How do these doors open?” Sticking the tip of his dirk into the joint between frame and door, he tried to lever it.

  “Open, damn ye.”

  All three jumped back, mouths agape as the door slid open, Harry’s dirk almost falling from his hand at his surprise that it had seemingly obeyed his command. In his boyhood, he had read the Arabian Nights and the tale of Ali Baba and the secret cave. He and Ferghal used to proclaim, “Open, Sesame!” when they played among the caves near their home on the coast of Northern Ireland, but he never thought he’d find himself in such a place.

  The opening revealed a new chamber filled with a series of very strange metal machines—worse, there were figures moving between them, some attired in what looked like the suits of armour Harry had seen displayed in the few castles he’d visited as a child. The sound of the door opening behind them forced his decision.

  “Steer to starboard, Danny; come, Ferghal, stay close and keep to the bulkhead. There is another door this way. We may find a place of concealment there.” He glanced at the nearest of the strange machines and shuddered with a mixture of awe and trepidation. It looked like a great metal bird of prey, and somehow it was alive and filled with menace as it squatted on its wheeled undercarriage. Cables and tubes that sprouted like obscene umbilical cords connected it to several small machines.

  A man in a grey overall stepped out of an opening as they passed.

  “Hey! Only handling crew are cleared to be in here.... What the hell?” He ducked and stepped back as Harry swung his dirk, striking the wrench from the man’s hand.

  “You’ll not have us without a fight,” Harry proclaimed, taking a fighting stance despite the nausea rising in his stomach. He lunged and missed the man, but the point of his dirk struck a plate and penetrated it in a shower of sparks, plunging the vast chamber into darkness.

  “Run, Danny, Ferghal—make for the door!”

  The trio raced to the heavily reinforced door, and to Harry’s relief, it opened to admit them. They leapt through, finding themselves in a long passage, and took off running. Harry swerved as a door opened, and on impulse, he entered.

  “Come on!” he called to the others. “This way!”

  Having no idea where he was going in this maze of strange tunnels with equally strange symbols and markings on the bulkheads and decks, he hoped desperately that they could find safety—or better yet, a way back to their own ship.

  CAPTAIN HERON’S LINK CHIRPED. He’d been waiting for this report, but the sound caught him by surprise, as his thoughts had been elsewhere.

  “Captain,” he stated, sitting up straighter, clearing his throat.

  “Sir, we have three aliens aboard. They must have arrived in the cross hangar with this wreckage. They were in the hangar engineering office, and then they got into the portside main hangar. One of them is injured, but the other two are armed. One has some kind of small sword, and another is carrying what looks like a couple of bombs.”

  “Where are they now?”

  “They got into the service passage at frame two-twenty-two, and now they’ve gone to ground—probably in the cross link carrying the main power services.”

  “Instruct the Marines I want them alive. Weapons for stun and capture only. If these aliens are carrying bombs, we cannot risk those being set off by weapons fire.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “If the wreckage in the cross hangar is anything to go by, these aren’t aliens, but until we know who they are, warn everyone to take care.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Leaning back, Captain Heron activated his link to the ship’s AI, which took nothing more than saying the ship’s name in direct address. “Vanguard, we have three men who were not aboard when we departed the station. Can you locate them?”

  “Only if they have comlinks, Captain, and only if they enter a monitored area.”

  “Are there any unregistered comlinks on board?”

  “I have sixty-two unregistered links on my systems, Captain. But three beings have just entered the services passage on deck one at frame two-twenty-one. If they have comlinks of any kind, none of those connect to my system.”

  HARRY WAS SURPRISED BY THE WIDTH AND SIZE of the corridor they’d entered. It was empty, though it had strange shuttered openings at intervals. A flashing red light at each end suggested some sort of alarm, though he could not imagine how such a lantern might work.

  To his right was a huge set of doors, and some distance to his left, another matching set. On the bulkhead next to the doors nearest to him he could make out a strange stylised script, which he deciphered with difficulty as 01-221BC1A. It meant nothing to him, so he tried to find something he could make sense of instead. Everywhere he looked there were strange materials, devices and objects. He spotted a smaller door bearing a symbol that resembled a boarding axe and a swivel gun crossed.

  Signalling the others, he whispered, “Follow me. I see a weapons store. We may defend ourselves there.”

  To his relief, the door opened when he followed his logic and touched a small pad at its centre. As they entered, something strange caught his eye, and he stopped short, causing Ferghal to collide into his back.

  “What the...?” Harry uttered in amazement.

  Ferghal recovered first. “They look like suits for divin’—like the one they had at Portsmouth.”

  “Aye, they do that.” Harry studied the six strange suits suspended in an open cabinet. He looked at the equipment stowed on the racks and attached to the bulkhead. “What would be the use of these hoses? And what manner of powder do these cylinders contain? Danny, you’re the powder monkey. Are these familiar to you?”

  “No, sor, I never seen the likes of ’em.” Danny’s eyes were wide.

  Harry lifted one and read the label. “Fire Foam. What manner of fiendish weapon is this?”

  Ferghal lifted an axe from a bracket. He winced as the movement twisted his shoulder. “I’ve but my left hand, but this will serve as a suitable weapon for me.”

  Harry examined a strange looking pistol device. “I cannot see how this pistol can be loaded, let alone fired.” Tossing it back into the rack, he lifted another from its nest and discovered that this pistol was attached to a long hose that connected to a cylinder. “Strange weaponry—some sort of pistol, I think, quite heavy and cumbersome to wield, but it will serve. Have you something, Danny?”

  Lifting a small metal crowbar, Danny nodded. “Aye, Mr Her’n, sor. Reckon this’ll serve me well.”

  “LIEUTENANT CRESSWELL HERE. We think we have them, sir, in the main haulway on deck one. We think they’re in the fire station at frame two-twenty-one bravo.”

  “Very good.” The Captain identified
the compartment on a schematic of the ship. “Be careful. I want them taken alive. I’m sending down a med team and Dr Grüneland from the science team.”

  “Acknowledged.”

  Nodding to his ComsRate, he ordered, “Contact the surgeon commander, my compliments. I need him to get a team there ASAP, and tell Commander Gray to get there with Dr Grüneland.” To the ship, he asked, “Vanguard, have you a visual link to the Fire Station at 01-221B?”

  “Affirmative, Captain. Shall I put it on your display?”

  “Yes, please.” He stared at the image, a frown creasing his forehead. “What the hell—a child and two youths? Where the blazes did they spring from?”

  “Communications unit is operational, Captain.”

  “Activate it. I want to hear them.” For a long moment, he listened. The language sounded familiar but almost incomprehensible. Here and there, a word made sense, usually when one of the two older youths spoke. The smallest one had such a thick accent that nothing he said made sense. There was no sign of the bombs described earlier. Where had those been planted?

  “Vanguard, what language are they speaking?”

  “It is an antiquated form of English, Captain. My analysis suggests the smallest is speaking with a regional accent from the south of England, and the other two have an accent associated with the northern part of Ireland.”

  Watching the trio, Captain Heron’s frown deepened. The youth who appeared to be in charge had a familiar look and was evidently used to giving orders. The injured youth had deep russet hair and a build that suggested an active and physically demanding life, and the third appeared to be dressed in rags and was small, even for a child of his apparent age.

  He comlink chirped. “Captain,” he said, answering it.

  “Our people are in position, sir. Do you want us to coax the intruders to come out quietly?”

  Watching the display, he considered. “I have a com channel to the fire station. I want to talk to the youths myself. Have your people ready.”

  UNAWARE THEY WERE BEING WATCHED, Harry tucked a small tomahawk into his belt, and then he confirmed Ferghal’s readiness.

  “If we dress ourselves in these suits, perhaps they’ll think we are some o’ their own,” Ferghal observed.

  “Perhaps, but not for long, I think. These appear to be for some special purpose, not normal dress—and we could do further injury to you dressing you in one of these strange uniforms.” Harry shook his head, regretting that slight movement when the room spun and his temples throbbed. “No. I think we must try to find our way back to where we arrived. There must be a way to return to Spartan.”

  Ferghal hefted the axe as Danny readied his cartridge cases. Harry picked up the cylinder with the nozzle and stepped toward the door.

  “This is Captain Heron, commanding officer of the NECS Vanguard.”

  Harry whirled around, shocked to hear his own surname coming from an unseen man speaking in a disembodied voice.

  “Put down your weapons, please. No one will harm you. We want to talk to you and help you with your injuries.”

  “Be damned to you, sir. We’ll not surrender to your trickery!” Harry punched the door with the hilt of his dirk, by chance in the correct spot, and darted out, his dirk at the ready in his right hand and the pistol end of the cylinder gripped in his left with the cylinder clutched between his upper arm and chest. Two armoured figures moved quickly to intercept him, and he pulled the trigger on the handgrip, the nozzle aimed at the nearer of the two. To his surprise, a jet of liquid shot from the nozzle and turned to a yellow-white froth as it struck the armoured man’s visor.

  The man stopped, and Harry swung the jet at the second man, who dodged and ducked as Ferghal swung the axe at him. Voices shouted, and several more armoured figures were on the scene aiming weapons at them.

  Desperately, Harry tried to direct his unfamiliar weapon at them, but a flash of light enveloped him. The fire extinguisher and his dirk clattered to the floor as he collapsed to the deck where Ferghal lay prone.

  With a scream of fear and rage, Danny launched himself at the nearest figure, his cartridge cases forgotten. He swung the metal crowbar in his small fist with wild abandon at anyone or anything that got in his way. The Marine had good reason to be glad of his armour as the small figure lashed out at every part of him within reach.

  A second Marine grabbed Danny round his chest, hoisting him off his feet, and almost instantly regretted it as the wriggling fury kicked wildly at him and swung the crowbar in every direction.

  “Bloody hell! Tranq him, quick!”

  A medic darted in, tranquiliser gun in hand. He watched for his chance then lunged close and shot a dose of tranquiliser into the frenzied boy’s thigh while the Marine managed to clutch the boy.

  The lieutenant reported, “Command, we have them secured. Standing down the detail.” He listened to the acknowledgement then closed the link. “Get them down to the medical centre. Complete security embargo on them and their presence aboard the ship. Jenks, you were lucky the big fellow couldn’t use that axe properly. He’d have nailed you if he’d had the use of his right hand.” He stood with feet planted and hands on hips, huffing out his breath to release the tension. “Damned if I know who they are or where they learned to fight, but they weren’t going tamely, were they? And using a fire extinguisher as a weapon? Well, why not? He almost took both of you out with it.”

  The men laughed, all but Sherpa, who furiously wiped his helmet and succeeded only at smearing the foam.

  “Damned if I can get this clean,” he said, scowling in frustration. “Now I’ll have to pay for a new one.”

  “At least you got a great story out of it!” said the lieutenant.

  Chapter 3

  Assessing the Damage

  CAPTAIN BLACKWOOD OF THE HMS SPARTAN watched the frigate carefully as she closed in. She was big, a new forty-four gun by the look of her, and well handled. Astern of her a consort heeled steeply under her press of canvas, eager to join the fray. The Frenchman’s bow chasers had been well used and served; now the range was closing and broadsides would be exchanged.

  “He’s head reaching on us, Thomas.” The French ship fired, a long rolling drumroll as she thrust into position. “Let her fall off a point. Close the gap. Our thirty-twos will make him wish he’d not been so eager.” The after carronades barked their spite, their sharp crack drowned as the lower and upper gun deck batteries fired in succession, the deep roar of the thirty-twos countered by the bellow of the eighteens on the upper tier, punctuated by the clatter of falling blocks and the sound of screams.

  “It was a langridge shot, sir. He hopes to cripple us.”

  Watching the clouds of splinters and the gaps appearing in the other ship’s topsides and rigging, Captain Blackwood nodded. “He’ll....” He got no further as a brilliant flash, not unlike a lightning strike, lit the scene. Seconds later, it was followed by a loud report, and the French ship toppled slowly toward them. “By God, his magazine must have gone! He’s capsizing!” The Captain strode to the wheel. “Hands to the braces! Bring us about. Lay us on the larboard tack!”

  Pipes shrilled and the guns were abandoned as all available hands raced to the braces even as the ship’s head began a ponderous swing. Close alongside them, the French frigate seemed to be sailing herself beneath the waves, rolling to windward as she did so. A terrifying crack sounded, and her foretopmast snapped under the strain, tearing away rigging and sails and throwing men into the sea as it fell.

  Captain Blackwood watched in astonishment as the ship rolled fully onto her side, struggled to right herself, then rolled over exposing her copper to view. The second frigate, in her attempts to avoid the wreck, now found herself harried by the Rajasthan. “Bring us round, Mr Bell. We’ll do to him what he planned to do to us. We’ll cross his bows and rake him.”

  THE ACTINIC FLASH LIT THE GUN DECK. The Number 8 gun vanished in an incandescent flare as an unseen force flu
ng the gun captain and several of his crew against the neighbouring guns and the deck. Startled and partly blinded by the flash, neighbouring gun captains tugged their lanyards, careless of their aim, even as Number 6, forward of the epicenter, was overturned by the unseen hand, trapping several of its crew and fouling Number 4. With the gun deck wreathed in smoke, Lieutenant Beasley struggled to bring order, unsure of what had happened.

  “Mr Heron, report, sir!” Hearing no reply from Mr Heron, he spotted a midshipman approaching through the fog. “Mr Tanner?”

  “I think Mr Heron is killed, sir.” Mr Tanner shook his head. “Number 8 gun is gone and some strange device is in its place, Number 6 forward is unmounted and we have casualties, sir. I’ve sent for the loblolly boys, sir.”

  The after guns fired at something, and smoke billowed about them.

  Lieutenant Beasley coughed to clear his lungs. “Very well—take charge of Harry’s division and keep them firing.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  Pipes twittered overhead. “Cease firing. We’re coming about!”

  “Cease firing!” The lieutenant bawled, the cry being taken up along the deck. “Close ports! Prepare to engage to starboard!” The ship staggered, leaning deep into the swell with her lower tier of gun ports plunged beneath the wave as she turned. “Secure those guns, men!”

  The ship staggered again, the ominous absence of gunfire worrying. The lieutenant cast a glance along the line of guns then at the starboard battery now fully manned and ready for the order to engage. He walked forward to take a closer look at a strange ovoid object wedged where the Number 8 gun had sat. He stared suspiciously at the metallic thing jammed between the disabled gun and the deckhead.

  “What the devil is that thing? Some sort of damned infernal machine of the Frogs, is it?”

  “Dunno, sir,” was the frightened reply.

  “Where is Mr Heron?” asked the lieutenant.