Gears of a Mad God Omnibus

by Brent Nichols

  Finally she pulled the flashlight from her pocket. Someone came barreling down the path toward her, a dark shape more felt than seen, and at the last moment she flicked the flashlight on and shone it in the running person's face.

  She had a momentary glimpse of a man, his mouth open in astonishment, eyes screwing shut at the sudden light, one hand coming up to cover his eyes as he stumbled to a halt. Then she stepped toward him, light flashing across the trees as her arm came up and back. And she bashed him across the head with the flashlight.

  Glass and metal crunched, the light went out, and the force of the impact nearly tore the flashlight from her grasp. The man dropped at her feet.

  She turned and resumed her jog, the flashlight still clenched in her fist. She wanted to run faster, but she couldn't stay on the trail if she did.

  She nearly blundered into the next man. He was standing in the middle of the path, silent and unmoving, but he coughed when she was a good twenty paces away. She froze, staring into the darkness.

  Eventually her eyes picked out a pale swirl that seemed to float in the darkness. When she realized it was a pattern drawn on a man's chest in ash, she was able to make out the rest of his outline. He was facing her, staring up the path. He would have heard her footsteps, but apparently he couldn't see her.

  A bird ruffled its wings somewhere in the trees and he turned toward the sound. That gave Colleen an idea. Slowly, carefully, she unscrewed the shattered end of her flashlight. It was of no further use for illumination, but perhaps it could still be of service.

  The metal end that held the lens came free in her hand. She drew her arm back and tossed the piece of metal in an arc over the waiting man's head and into the jungle beyond. There was a faint clatter, and the pale swirl on his chest disappeared as he turned to look.

  Colleen crept toward him, sliding the first battery out of the flashlight case. She could no longer see him, but he had to be directly ahead. She lobbed a battery into the darkness, and heard him inhale sharply as the battery hit a tree.

  She slid the other battery into her hand. Every step she took was slow, deliberate, gentle. She breathed silently, fighting the urge to pant, and moved toward the noisy breathing of the man in front of her. She could make out his outline now, and picked up the scent of sweat and wood smoke. He was still in the middle of the path. She had to lure him into the jungle, out of her way.

  She tossed the last battery, wincing at the rustle that the fabric of her shirt made as it slid across her skin. The battery sailed through leaves and fronds with a sibilant whisper of noise, and she saw the man's head jerk from side to side as he looked around. Then he stepped from the path and into the trees.

  Instantly Colleen moved, creeping down the path, trusting the rustle of leaves against the man's shoulders to drown out the sound of her stealthy footsteps. He was harder to see against the dark background of the jungle. Distance was maddeningly difficult to judge in the darkness, but there was no time to be cautious. She had to try to slip past him and hope for the best.

  Was that the glimmer of moonlight on his shoulder? She drew even with him on the path, squinting into the darkness, trying to decide how far away he was. Six or eight feet, she decided. Maybe more. This would be the worst possible time for him to turn around, so she drew her arm back and threw the body of the flashlight into the trees.

  Some small sound must have betrayed her, because he whirled. She saw the whites of his eyes in the darkness and realized he was much, much closer than she'd thought. She felt his breath on her skin and wondered if that was how he'd detected her.

  He stared into her face, his mouth opened to shout, and the flashlight clattered to the ground behind him. His head whipped to the side as he looked, and Colleen punched him as hard as she could on the side of the jaw.

  Agony lanced through her hand and he seemed to vanish. She heard him land on the ground, heard a grunt of pain, but he was completely invisible now. She turned and ran down the trail, both hands up to fend off branches and tree trunks, and the man behind her let out a shout.

  She ran pell-mell, moving like a pinball, rebounding from trees on either side and staggering back onto the trail. A giddy wave rose inside her, making her want to laugh, to whoop, to scream her defiance to the people chasing her. She settled for grinning as she ran.

  The trees opened up and she found herself on the stony beach. She kept the jungle on her left and the ocean on her right and jogged back to Tanathos.

  Chapter 5 – Night Attack

  The next morning, Colleen spent a couple of hours laboriously filling the water tank on the donkey engine. She wanted to see if the hot rock could boil such a large volume of water, but there were some technical issues to sort out first. The boiler was built as a closed system, with the firebox underneath and the water tank on top. There was a valve that allowed water to flow from the tank into the boiler, but no obvious way to get the hot rock into the boiler itself.

  She found a hatch, badly rusted, set low on the side of the boiler. Getting the rusted bolts loose took some doing, but the hatch finally opened. A stream of rust-colored water came dribbling out, leaving four or five inches of water standing in the bottom.

  Colleen set the hot rock in the water. By the time she lifted the hatch back into place she could hear the water beginning to boil. She bolted the hatch shut, then opened the valve between the water tank and the boiler.

  There was a gear assembly connecting the spindles on the front of the engine. Colleen had taken it apart the day before. Now she brought out sixteen ball bearings that were supposed to turn in a casing and allow the spindles to rotate. The little steel spheres, though, were caked in a mixture of dried grease, dirt, and bits of rust. If the hot rock brought the boiler to a boil, she intended to steam clean the bearings.

  Having the spindles disconnected gave her a temporary supply of spare parts. A brass tube ran from the boiler to the cylinder that contained the piston. She disconnected the tube, and took apart the little fire extinguisher. She connected the hose from the fire extinguisher to the nozzle leading from the boiler, making a flexible steam jet. She wasn't sure how long any of it would last, but she was pleased with her improvised design.

  The pressure gauge on the side of the boiler was beginning to climb, and she grinned. The hot rock was working.

  She stood and stretched, looking out across the hillside. Several diggers were staring out to sea, and she followed their gaze. A sleek gray ship was steaming in from the north. Colleen cupped her hands around her eyes, shutting out the dazzle of the sun to sharpen her eyesight. It was hard to be sure, but she thought it was a warship, flying Dutch colors.

  She told herself it was good news. Maybe they were here to stamp out the emerging presence of the cult. The churning of her stomach, though, showed that she didn't believe it. She didn't know how the Dutch navy could possibly be on the side of the cult, but she sensed the machinations of Katharis or his followers.

  One of the watching diggers turned back to his work, and Colleen recognized Bill. He and Peter hadn't been there when she got back the night before, and they hadn't showed up by breakfast. She hurried toward him.

  He smiled when he saw her, but there were lines of stress and exhaustion on his face. "I was glad to see you got back safe," he said. "Are you all right?"

  Her hand still hurt, and was beginning to swell, but she just said, "I'm fine. What happened with Toma?"

  "We took him to his mother." Bill frowned. "He wanted to run off, back to his new friends. We tried to talk sense into him, but it was like he couldn't hear us. Then this morning he took off running and never came back." Bill rubbed his forehead with the heel of his hand. "I don't know what to do now. Peter's staying home, in case he comes back."

  "That's terrible!" She patted his shoulder. "I wish there was something I could do."

  "Thank you, Colleen. I appreciate it."

  For a long moment she stood looking at him, seeing her own helplessness reflected in his face. T
hen she turned and walked back to the donkey engine, and he resumed digging.

  Bringing a boiler full of cold water to a boil using coal or wood would have taken several hours, Colleen estimated. She had steam in less than twenty minutes. There was a little valve on the nozzle from the boiler, and she used it to control the blasts of steam that she used to scour her ball bearings.

  When the bearings were scrubbed clean the boiler was still more than half full of water. There was no way to get the hot rock out safely without boiling the tank dry first. She decided to leave the ancient stone where it was. The safety valve seemed to be working properly, releasing little puffs of steam whenever the pressure got too high. The boiler could be left alone.

  The Dutch warship had gone past and was approaching the little town when another plume of smoke appeared on the horizon. Carter came over to join Colleen, carrying a set of field glasses under his arm. He peered through the glasses, lowered them, and said, "It's the Persephone."

  Colleen felt a surge of hope. "That's great! It means we can get out of here. Whatever Falconer is planning, he's too late." Her excitement faded as she saw the grim set of Carter's mouth. "He is too late, isn't he?"

  "I hope so," said Carter. "I hope we can slip away tonight. But the Persephone is hours away, and if the opposition spots her, they might try something desperate."

  She stared at him. "Like what?"

  "I wish I knew, so we could take precautions. I fear we're going to find out the hard way."

  By four in the afternoon the boiler was still bubbling away and Maggie was supervising the diggers as they filled in the excavations. The plan was to pack up and leave by five. This close to the equator the sun set almost exactly at six every night, and they wanted to walk back to town in the light. Carter intended to board the Persephone as soon as she docked and spend the night well away from Suderland.

  It didn't quite work out that way. Falconer came marching over the crest of the hill, just a black shape with the setting sun behind him throwing a huge shadow across the hilltop. Others swarmed over the crest behind him, a dozen or more, the same wild-eyed zealots who had danced around the fire the night before. Every one of them carried a weapon. Colleen saw clubs, a crowbar, a pitchfork, a couple of machetes.

  The diggers came together in a group, hands tight on shovels and mattocks. Carter and Maggie stood with them, but Colleen drew back, remembering the first visit. What if this was a diversion, and someone was after the hot rock?

  The two groups marched toward each other, and Colleen trotted to the donkey engine. There was still a lot of pressure in the boiler. Taking off the access hatch would be fairly dangerous. The hot rock was safe enough.

  A shot rang out behind her, and she spun. Men were milling back and forth, pushing and shoving, and she couldn't see if anyone had been hurt. She wanted to run down and join the fight, but what good would her fists do in the midst of so many weapons? The boiler drew her eyes. There was so much power there. Surely there was a way she could use it.

  She looked over the machinery, her thoughts racing. For the first time she noticed that the brass tube she'd disconnected earlier was about the same diameter as her steel ball bearings. She grabbed the tube, dropped in a ball bearing, and watched it fall from the other end. There was some extra room, but not much.

  Could she improvise a gun, use a blast of steam to fire a ball bearing across the hilltop? She squatted beside the boiler, balanced the tube across her knees, pointed it more or less at Falconer's mob, and slid a ball bearing into the back end of the tube. She held it in place with her thumb, put the end of her rubber steam hose into the end of the tube, and opened the valve.

  Steam billowed into the copper tube. For a long moment nothing happened. Then the ball bearing rolled out of the far end and plopped onto the ground.

  She frowned and closed the steam valve. The ball bearings were just too small. The steam flowed around the bearing and lost pressure.

  Another shot rang out, and she looked across the hilltop. Diggers were dropping shovels and mattocks, raising their hands, while the mob of invaders moved among them, shoving people onto their knees. Falconer strutted in front of them, a pistol in his hand.

  Colleen bit her lip. She had to do something, but what?

  She found herself remembering a scene from her childhood. Her father had taken her to see a re-enactment of a battle from the War of 1812. She remembered watching a man load a musket. He'd put a leather pad over the muzzle of the weapon, set a bullet on top, and rammed it all down the barrel with the ramrod. The leather pad would have held the gunpowder in place. It also would have created a seal.

  She scanned the area around the donkey engine. She'd brought up some rags to use for cleaning the machinery. She grabbed a rag and set to work tearing it into small squares.

  Thirty yards away, the last of the diggers dropped to his knees. Some of the invaders stood among the prisoners. The rest were clustered around Falconer. He seemed to be lecturing them. Colleen couldn't make out the words.

  She darted around behind the big cast-iron spindles on the front of the donkey engine. She found she could lay the brass tube across the spindles and line it up on Falconer's torso. She propped up the far end of the pipe with more rags, aiming high, reasoning that the missile would drop as it flew.

  Then she wrapped one of the bearings in a scrap of rag and shoved it into the end of the copper tube. It was a tight fit, and she used a screwdriver as a ramrod, pushing the bearing in several inches. She grabbed the end of the rubber hose and jammed it into the end of the tube. It was a fairly tight fit. Protecting her hand with another rag, Colleen wrapped her fist around the junction of hose and pipe. Then she checked her aim, held her breath, and opened the valve.

  For a long moment nothing much happened. Steam poured between her fingers, scalding her a bit. Then the ball bearing erupted from the tube.

  She closed the valve by touch, watching eagerly as the bearing flew. It wobbled in its flight, sailing up in an arc, and passed six inches over Falconer's head. No one noticed.

  Colleen swore under her breath and adjusted the rags supporting the far end of the tube. Then she wrapped another ball bearing, rammed it into place, grabbed the near end of the tube, and opened the valve.

  The bearing shot out of the tube and a woman right behind Falconer stumbled forward and landed on her knees. She stood up, rubbing the side of her head, and looked around wildly.

  Colleen prepared another bearing and fired again. This time she hit Falconer on the shoulder. He jerked, clapped a hand to the point of impact, and stared around, the pistol waving erratically in his fist. The woman who'd been hit in the head grabbed his arm and pointed at Colleen.

  He fired wildly, and a bullet bounced off of the boiler. Colleen bared her teeth and let fly with another bearing. Falconer ducked and flinched as the ball went wide, hitting a man beside him.

  Now all of the invaders were staring at the donkey engine. None of them saw Bill rise to his feet, pick up a dropped shovel, and swing at the back of Falconer's head.

  The shovel gave a clang, Falconer pitched forward onto his face, and the prisoners surged to their feet. In moments the hilltop was a mass of surging bodies. There were screams of pain and thuds of impact and cries of rage, and Colleen abandoned the donkey engine and ran down to join the fray.

  In the chaos no one else remembered the pistol. She ran to Falconer's inert form and pried the gun from his fingers.

  A knot of invaders stood shoulder to shoulder, holding the diggers at bay with a pitchfork and several machetes. They were better armed than the diggers, and they were working themselves up to charge when Colleen pushed herself to the front of the crowd. She raised the pistol and shouted, "That's enough! It's over. Get out of here, and don't come back unless you want to die."

  There was more pushing and shoving, and a few insults vile enough that she almost pulled the trigger. But the mob was backing down, and Colleen was happy to let them go. She knew what it felt l
ike to shoot someone, and she never wanted to experience it again.

  A couple of men took Falconer by the upper arms and dragged him away. Colleen thought about trying to stop them, but she was acutely aware that there were no more than four more bullets in the gun. And with Van Der Pot apparently in Falconer's pocket, there were no authorities to turn him over to. She would have to shoot him or let him go.

  The attackers retreated slowly across the hilltop. There were no more than eight or nine of them, including Falconer and another man who had to be carried. Colleen didn't know where the rest of them were, if they had fled or were lying unconscious on the field of battle. She shrugged mentally and concentrated on getting rid of the people in front of her.

  A couple of diggers stayed on the edge of the hilltop, watching the attackers retreat. Everyone else regrouped in front of the huts. Colleen was relieved to see that no one had been killed. One digger had a minor bullet wound, a graze to the fleshy part of his hip. Carter and another man had taken defensive wounds from machetes. They each had a nasty gash to the upper arm. Another man had been jabbed in the thigh with a pitchfork.

  Maggie took charge of first aid, sending Colleen to the donkey engine to drain hot water from the boiler. Half a dozen men were set to work as nurses under Maggie's supervision. Colleen helped as best she could until the worst of the injuries had been treated.

  As the sun went down she started counting noses, afraid that someone might be lying unconscious in the shadows. She counted ten diggers. She ran through the roster in her head, trying to figure out who was missing. Peter, of course. He was still in town. How would she tell him Toma had been among the attackers today, wielding a machete with deadly intent?

  That made her think of Bill. She scanned the faces of the men getting first aid, those helping Maggie, and those standing guard.

  No Bill.

  She ran around the perimeter of the hilltop, double-checking. Bill was nowhere to be found.