Beaumont's Gambit

by Wade Peterson

  “Providence has given us an opportunity, Captain,” Ives said. “Our enemy has made our job that much the easier. There can be no more than two guarding that stockpile at the edge of camp. My men and I will secure the area.”

  Beaumont glanced at the ragged mercenaries crouched behind Ives, gaunt men with hard eyes who carried their rifles with ease. Beyond them, Chevket waited with Wallace and six crewmen. His own men had nearly collapsed at the end of the trail. They were in no condition to fight or squirrel away into the night with gas canisters. And yet, what could he do? It was only a matter of time before the Caliph’s forces found them.

  “There is something off about all this,” Beaumont said. “There has to be a hundred canisters in that gas dump, enough for a squadron of airships, but only a handful of men. There should be more.”

  “Perhaps they’re working inside the building,” Ives said. “Which is immaterial, Captain. We need only grab what we require and escape.”

  “For someone so curious aloft, you seem disinterested in what’s before you now.”

  “Priorities change, Captain. Our primary goal now has to be getting the October Sky functional, and getting back to Paradise City to make our report. The Council may then decide to send a force here to investigate, or to backtrack those deaders, but in either case, I cannot hope to continue my original mission with your crippled airship.”

  Beaumont bit off a retort, and wondered how many under Ives’ command contemplated shooting the man in the back. He looked to his crewmen, the portable dynamo, and the deaders rasping to no one in particular as they milled about at the end of their chains.

  “Mister Wallace, how many men would it take to bring the equipment and the deaders back to the ship?” Beaumont asked.

  Wallace pursed his lips as he thought. “Two for the dynamo, two more for the empty cells, and one for the deaders.”

  “Very well, take four men and return to the ship, but leave us your strongest backs. We’ll need them to haul the canisters once Agent Ives and his men secure the cave.”

  “And if the plan fails, sir?” Chevket murmured.

  Beaumont frowned and spread his hands. “Then let us hope Mister Wallace can locate another body of water before the Caliph’s forces find him.”

  They waited under the waning yet still bright moon. At midnight, Ives took his mercenaries into the shadows, and Chevket began marking the minutes. Beaumont and his crew would follow behind, waiting for Ives to take care of the guards. Beaumont patted his belt for the hundredth time, making sure his sidearm was still there. He glanced at Chevket, who held up two fingers. Had it only been a minute since Ives left? It seemed longer. His crew fidgeted, but that was to be expected. Aeronauts fought boldly in open skies, not skulking about like assassins. Though with luck, they would not have to fight at all, just haul enough hydrogen to make the October Sky fly again.

  When fear began gnawing at his belly, Beaumont buried it by focusing on his crew. He went from man to man, gripping each by the shoulder and exchanging a few words of encouragement or a joke. So long as he was dealing with others’ fear, he didn’t have to face his own.

  “Time, Captain,” said Chevket, putting the watch back into his pocket. Beaumont nodded and headed into the shadows along the path Ives had taken. The rustling of leaves and crunching of gravel underfoot followed him. Beaumont was aware of his own breathing and pounding heart as they crept along. Every swaying leaf, glittering stone, and inky shadow caught his eye. Beaumont kept scanning the ground before him, trying not to believe every large rock and blind corner held an ambush. Give him a clear sky and a brace of cannon any day, he thought.

  He came within view of the cave and stopped. The camp was dark and quiet, the wooden building humming and yellow light leaking through gaps in its walls. He couldn’t make out whether Ives had succeeded or failed; he couldn’t find a soul anywhere.

  “Captain?” Chevket whispered.

  “No sign,” Beaumont said. “We’ll give Ives a few minutes.”

  Chevket rocked from foot to foot, showing more nervousness than Beaumont had ever known from him. To be expected, Beaumont thought. Chevket was no more comfortable with skulking around than he was.

  A low whistle sounded, and Ives emerged from the shadows. He held up his palms, and Beaumont lowered the pistol he didn’t realize he had drawn.

  “Easy, Captain,” Ives said. “We’re clear.”

  Beaumont holstered his sidearm. “I didn’t hear a thing. My compliments.”

  Ives nodded. “Come along.”

  Beaumont signaled his men. Ives had disappeared back into the shadows by the time Beaumont turned around. They followed the valley wall to the cave entrance. Two of Ives’ mercenaries wearing the head scarves favored by the Caliph’s forces paced back and forth, surreptitiously waving the air crew inside. They stepped around dark logs that Beaumont soon realized were the bodies of former guards.

  The cave, little more than an excavated hole, held about a hundred dull silver cylinders, sweating in the cool air. Beaumont wondered at the naval potential stacked before him. Enough gas for a dozen zeppelins, or enough to bring down the entire ridgeline on their heads should a stray spark and leaky valve find each other. Ives and another of his men waited before the pile with portable gas cylinders in hand. Beaumont reached for an offered cylinder, but Ives leaned forward.

  “Remember, Captain, that this is the most dangerous part. Don’t hurry, don’t be sloppy.” Ives released the cylinder. Beaumont grunted as he took on the load. The canister wasn’t heavy so much as it was awkward to carry and slick with condensation.

  “One canister apiece, Mister Chevket, and have the men mind their grips; these bottles are slippery devils.”

  “Shall I have them wrapped in our coats?” Chevket said.

  “Good man. Make it so.”

  Chevket removed his jacket and showed the others the idea. Canisters wrapped, they set out of the cave when Chevket tripped over a dead guard. His canister rang like a bell when it hit the ground and rolled free toward the camp. Chevket’s eyes went wide and he turned to Beaumont in horror. Tent flaps rustled, and shouts went up.

  “Quickly!” Beaumont shouted, and waved his crew forward. He pointed to Agent Ives and the mercenaries. “You lot, cover them!”

  Something shouldered past him, and Chevket’s lanky form disappeared into the cave.

  “Come back, man!”

  “Need every canister,” he shouted over his shoulder. “I’ll catch up!”

  Beaumont made to go after him, but a hand grabbed him by the collar. He whirled, ready to strike, and nearly punched Ives in the face.

  “He’s right, Captain,” Ives said. “He’s got strong legs. We need to go now.”

  From the camp, the shouting came closer. Beaumont cursed and ran after his men, the cylinder on his shoulder bouncing with every stride. Shots rang out, whizzing past his head.

  Damn fools, Beaumont thought. One shot in the wrong place would turn the whole valley into a—

  A fireball erupted before him, his men appearing as disintegrating shadows against the glare. A force picked him up and threw him into the night sky. He fell through the darkness, seemingly forever.

  4

  Beaumont woke up on hard-packed earth next to Ives, in the only cage not filled with weasels. To his left and right, the mangy creatures scratched and chewed at the wire mesh separating their enclosures from his own, their rancid musk adding to his blooming headache. Ives huddled in the cell’s middle, wiping the dried blood from his ears and nose. From somewhere beyond their cage, the thrumming and buzzing of machinery filled the air.

  “How long?” Beaumont asked.

  “About an hour,” Ives said a bit louder than necessary.

  “Any ideas as to where we are?”

  Ives pointed to the cage’s door, where someone had obviously and hastily nailed boards to reinforce their enclosure to withstand escape attempts from larger occupants. Beaumont moved to peer through a gap t
o find that they were in a dark corner inside the wooden building housing the electrolysis plant. The true scale of the operation made Beaumont blanch.

  The central area held a twenty-foot-tall column surrounded by pipes, wires, and metal scaffolding. Workers in sleeveless shirts and baggy pants walked the scaffolding, checking gauges, looking inside the column through reinforced windows, and changing out hydrogen cylinders. Beaumont’s gaze followed a bundle of wiring to fifty man-sized lockers. A worker threw a lever on a locker and opened the door, while another worker with a long, hooked pole reached in and pulled out a deader by a metal collar attached to its neck. The deader seemed ready to fall over, its necromantic energy spent, as another was maneuvered into place and the locker door shut.

  If his own engineer could get a lifting cell filled in an hour with two deaders and a modest dynamo, this operation would completely refill a ship like the October Sky in the same amount of time. The machine seemed limited only by the availability of the deaders and the lake’s water level. But something still bothered Beaumont; the scale of the place was too large for a location so remote.

  Moreover, along the far wall, open-ended cylinders as big around as Beaumont’s forearm were stacked like honeycombs. A handful of workers gathered around a nearby table and appeared to be attaching a cone-shaped assembly onto a cylinder, though Beaumont couldn’t fathom its purpose. One of the workers brought out a limp weasel from a nearby cage with a pair of long-handled tongs and placed the creature into the device.

  A foot scraped nearby, and a guard in desert robes appeared. He walked toward the door and banged on it with the butt of his rifle. He grunted as Beaumont retreated a step and then resumed his patrol, giving the weasels a wide berth as they surged to their pen’s door at his passing.

  “What do you make of it?” Ives asked.

  Beaumont came away from the slit. “It’s too big. It could resupply the Caliph’s entire fleet in a week, and keep it stocked for months.”

  “Perhaps their airships leak more gas than our own,” Ives ventured.

  “Let’s say they do. Does it make sense to put a facility this large in the middle of nowhere? Practically unguarded?”

  “It is closer to the Badlands. They need the deaders for power.”

  “Possibly, but it’s surely easier to transport deaders to a more secure lake within the Caliphate than to make their airships fly here to resupply. And for just hydrogen? Where are the foodstuffs? The barrels of axle grease and bolts of sail cloth? Bombs and the like?”

  “Perhaps they’re afraid of explosions,” Ives said.

  “As they should be,” Beaumont said. “But there’s prudence, and there’s stupidity. The Caliphate, for all its crudeness, is not altogether stupid, despite what our esteemed leadership thinks.”

  Ives smiled in the dimness. “You say that as if you hold no confidence in the Council.”

  Beaumont blew out a sigh and sat facing Ives. “Why us, Ives? Of all the ships available, the October Sky was singled out for this mission rather than others closer to your position. Why give vague, sweeping latitude to a council attaché over a ship of the line?”

  “I couldn’t possibly comment,” Ives said.

  “Not even now, in this place?” Beaumont’s arms swept the cell.

  Ives looked away.

  “So be it, then. Youth ever believes in its personal invincibility. Pity that you won’t learn from your illusion’s shattering.”

  Ives stood and swung a booted foot at a weasel’s head poking through the wire. The animal’s bones cracked, and it flailed about as its brethren fell upon it.

  “The problem with your kind, Beaumont, is that you presume to lecture all within earshot with your so-called wisdom.”

  “My kind?”

  “Yes, one who measures a man by his gunnery scores and accumulated medals.”

  “You believe this?”

  “Your Air Marshal says as much, talking down to the council he is supposed to serve.”

  “Ah. And because of wounded pride, the council sacrifices my crew.”

  “If you choose to see it that way. Or one could say your Air Marshal’s bravado and boasting provoked the council to take a more direct hand in fleet operations.” Ives thought for a moment and shrugged. “With some bad luck along the way.”

  “Yes, quite.”

  The weasels had tired of gnawing on their wounded brother, and went back to scratching at the cage walls. Beaumont looked upon the corpse with pity, then with shock as its skeletal form twitched and writhed. No creature could have lived through that mauling, and yet the form shambled and scratched its way along the floor as much as its damaged musculature allowed. It reminded Beaumont of something he had seen when still on his first tour as an ensign, a tour that took his ship into the Badlands with orders to secure necrotic power sources. He remembered a deader, legs shorn by accidental cannon discharge, scrabbling and inching its way towards him, a look of naked hunger on its desiccated face. A look that all the weasels in the cages around him shared.

  “Ives,” he whispered, “if I were you, I would keep my distance from those creatures.”

  “Vermin have never bothered me, Captain.”

  “Time to make an exception, then. Have you ever wondered why the deader curse affects only humankind? I believe we have found evidence that it does not.”

  Ives looked from side to side, and scooted away from the walls. “Saint Van Halen,” he whispered.

  Beaumont’s stomach sank as an idea struck him. “Indeed. And if you had discovered multitudes such as these, and had an excess of hydrogen, what might you do?”

  Ives rose to his feet and ran to the door, peering out through the slit. “Tiny motors, fuselage, directional fins, and a small warhead.”

  “And a deader weasel, to which an airship must look an awful lot like an egg. This isn’t a refueling station, it’s a munitions factory.”

  “Blast.”

  “Worse, if those deader weasels can actually guide their craft to a target, our advantage in gunnery evaporates.”

  Ives nodded. “Then we had better redouble our escape effort.”

  “Really?” Beaumont asked. “And how do you propose to effect that?”

  A footstep scuffed outside the cages and the weasels surged to investigate. A curly-haired shadow stopped before the door’s crack.

  “Might I be of assistance, Captain?” Chevket said.

  Beaumont’s heart rose, and he wanted to crow, but he kept his decorum. “Why yes, Mister Chevket, we would quite appreciate your assistance in opening the door.”

  5

  They ran up the hill’s path pushing a cart laden with gas cylinders, disarmed rockets, and a crate of weasels. Sweat stung Beaumont’s eyes, and his gums throbbed as Ives cursed them for laggards. Beaumont’s pocket watch, secured to the cart by its fob chain, swung before him. The sweeping second hand told him that no matter how his legs burned, or his lungs ached, he would need to keep running for thirty more seconds. They needed to make it another hundred feet, and then he could rest.

  Chevket pushed beside him, seemingly at ease apart from casting nervous glances down the path behind them. Beaumont hoped his first officer’s luck would continue to hold. The man escaped the explosion that knocked out Beaumont and Ives and claimed the lives of his crewmen, ironically by hiding in the cave filled with hydrogen cylinders. In the ensuing chaos, he secured a fully-loaded hand cart from an unwary deliveryman, and circled back when he realized Ives and Beaumont were being held in the main building.

  The cart hit a rock in the path and bounced, the cylinders jostling with heart-stopping clangs, but thankfully no sparks. The weasels chittered and snapped in their cage, which also mercifully remained latched. Beaumont was hunched forward as he pushed, his face mere inches from the cage. It would be a particularly horrid experience to be swarmed over by their rancid bodies and sharp teeth should they escape. The weapons’ inclusion went against the wishes of Chevket, who had a heated, whispered
argument with Ives when the agent insisted on including them. Chevket urged for immediate escape, citing the remaining crew of the October Sky relying on them for getting the ship back to port, while Ives argued that bringing home this evidence of a new weapon was of paramount importance. Beaumont reluctantly agreed with the agent, only because the cold calculus of strategy and command placed this new weapon’s importance over the safety of an airship’s crew.

  And so they ran, heedless of the shouts and rifle reports behind them, mindful of Ives’ assertion that they get to the top of the valley with their cart in eight minutes and not a second less. The rifle fire fell off, and an ornithopter’s engine whined as its pilot prepared it for launch, doubtlessly with a rifle squad on board. Within minutes, they would be caught in the open.

  “Fifteen seconds,” Beaumont hissed.

  Ives cursed their collective legitimacy and speculated on their mothers’ improbable indiscretions with the animal world.

  “Permission to shoot that man if we don’t make it, Captain?” Chevket said between breaths.

  Beaumont puffed and pumped his legs faster. “Granted.”

  The second hand on Beaumont’s watch swept past the eight-minute mark, and he called the time. They brought the cart to a stop and looked back over the valley. The ornithopter was lifting, its pilot steadying the craft as its legs left the ground. It hovered, and Beaumont could make out five other men in its open cockpit, rifles at the ready.

  “I thought you said eight minutes, Ives,” Beaumont said.

  “Perhaps the devices were discovered,” Chevket said.

  Ives shook his head as he stood with his hands on his knees, catching his breath. The ornithopter began rising, ten feet, then twenty. There was an audible pop, then the wooden factory building shattered to splinters as a fireball rolled into the air. The ornithopter slewed when a second explosion like dragon’s breath shot from the fuel dump carved into the rock. The ornithopter turned over, spinning like a ball, and augered into the lake. The rumbling of the explosions echoed through the surrounding valleys for several seconds before silence fell.