A Shield Against the Darkness

by Todd Downing

  Doc turned, agape at the sheer scale of the structure. “It… It looks like a city—built in the tree canopy!”

  - Chapter 14 -

  The ancient carved stone head of a forgotten deity gazed out from the side of the temple. Though the carving resembled the Olmec art of Mexico and Guatemala, the influence of Olmec culture had never touched the ancient people of the Brazilian rainforest. This was a wholly different and distinct culture, a predecessor of the local Kuikuro people. Once cleared and open to the sun above, the complex was now covered in vines and jungle greenery reclaiming its former possessions. It was perhaps not the largest of ancient temple pyramids, but it was among the oldest and most complete in the region. A stairway of white stone led from the jungle floor to an altar and ceremonial brazier at the top. Like most pre-Columbian Mesoamerican cultures, these people had practiced ritual bloodletting, so the front stairs were bisected by a carved gutter, stained a rust red over eons of use. Several smaller constructions littered the landscape, looking like stone-capped root cellars. A team of Silver Star archaeologists had already determined them to be crypts made for royalty, and had carefully but thoroughly pillaged them of anything valuable.

  A small army of Amazon natives wandered to and fro, hacking away at the jungle, clearing stones and rubble, or carrying baskets of debris to the midden heap outside the camp. They were overseen by Silver Star commandos in gray fatigues and MP-18s, who watched them with suspicious eyes. Natives who were too sick or weak to work were locked in a gated pen in the center of the camp, awaiting the pleasure of Aleister Crowley.

  The clearing around the temple pyramid was a good 200 yards in each direction, though to the west most of that was taken up by a small lake. And floating atop the lake was the mammoth zeppelin Luftpanzer, surrounded by a few Caspar U.1 seaplanes, all painted in Silver Star colors. A rudimentary pier ran from the camp to the planes and giant dirigible, the opposite side of the camp filled with stained canvas Army tents for the fifty or so Silver Star operatives at work here.

  Captain Ecke found Maria sitting on the lower temple stairs, gazing at the sky through a pair of field glasses. He’d been watching her “rocket zombies” with his own spyglass, and couldn’t help but be impressed.

  “Maria,” he began, not knowing quite what to say. “Your ploy succeeded! The Daedalus has passed over our position.”

  She smiled, lowering the binoculars to hang around her neck. “Of course, mein Kapitain.”

  Ecke was becoming animated. “And missiles of the living dead… what horrible genius!”

  “Indeed,” Maria nodded. “When manpower is needed, what better source than the dead? They do not require food or pay. They are in every way expendable.”

  A commando strode with purpose to the base of the stairs and saluted the two officers. “Meine Führerin! Herr Crowley awaits you in his quarters!”

  “Well Captain Ecke,” said Maria as she stood, ignoring the saluting soldier. “It seems the time has come. The ritual is almost upon us.” And with that, she followed the commando across the compound, leaving Ecke alone on the temple stairs.

  # # #

  Rivets passed along the central powerplant of the Daedalus, monitoring the eight DiMarco-Edison Mk3 reactionless gyroscopes in sequence. Each generator provided 100 kilowatts of power to the ship’s systems, including the giant turbofans in the outboard thrust engines. The battery array and alternators were split on either side of the entry hatch, with gauges and monitors that displayed power generation, consumption, and various other metrics that engineers liked to keep track of.

  Sleep-deprived and grouchy, Rivets tried to shake the image of an animated corpse strapped to a rocket. But to no avail. There was a crash of broken glass and he turned toward the starboard window panels to see that the aftermost pane had been shattered, and a living ghoul now clawed its way into the engine room from the outside hull. Rivets had to blink to make sure the thing in front of him, bent under the weight of the primitive rocket, was real and not an artifact of this morning’s ordeal.

  “What the heck??” Rivets exclaimed. “What gives??”

  The moment it snarled at him, swiping bony claws at his face, he knew it was real. And it scared him to death.

  “No!” he warned, backing away toward the closed hatchway. “Stay back!”

  The hideous ghoul snarled an animal growl and bared skeletal teeth.

  Suddenly Rivets remembered the large spanner he used to tighten or loosen the bolts on the battery contacts. He reached for his back pocket and produced a foot-long crescent wrench of galvanized steel, top-heavy like a medieval mace.

  “Ya see this wrench, pal?” Rivets taunted. “I’m not afraid to use it!”

  He swung the improvised weapon at the snarling invader, cracking a dent in the thin metal body of the rocket on its back. Clear liquid began to leak, and Rivets could smell aviation fuel. Then the creature struck with a clawed hand, knocking the wrench away. It hit hard against the battery array, which erupted in a fountain of sparks and tendrils of electricity. One such tendril traveled up the leg of the ghoul to the rocket body and the leaking fuel.

  Rivets dove for the deck just as the rocket’s reserve tank exploded. The concussion knocked the air from his lungs as the engine room was plastered with ancient human remains and tiny shards of metal. The last thing he saw was the gaping hole in the gondola, smoke billowing out over the green canopy below. The ship listed over, and he realized he’d lost his grip on the engine platform.

  Then he was falling, and everything went dark.

  # # #

  Jack and Doc were near the bottom of the ladder to the bridge hatch when the Daedalus shook violently and leaned over. Jack let go and jumped the last few feet to the deck, guiding Doc the rest of the way.

  They burst onto the bridge to see Duke fighting a losing battle with the ship’s controls.

  “Duke,” said Jack, “What was that explosion?”

  “Strap in or hang onto something, sir!” Duke snapped. “We’re going down!”

  Jack and Doc saw the jungle canopy looming up from below and their eyes went wide.

  Doc flung herself into the nav station chair, and Jack braced himself in the hatchway.

  “Hang on!” Duke warned.

  The Daedalus came in low over the treetops, and the starboard engine nacelle finally snagged on the upthrust limb of a 200-foot-tall ceiba tree. The anchor effect whipped the airship around backward, scattering loose supplies and breaking several of the starboard window panels in the gondola. The ship came to rest on the flattened jungle canopy, its tail end sunk into the trees, nose angled up as if it were a person trying desperately not to drown.

  The bridge sat at an angle, Duke no longer able to see the trees below.

  Jack waited for the ship to settle further, but nothing happened. “Seems we’ve arrived at our destination,” he said.

  Duke unstrapped the pilot harness and tried to find some footing at the odd angle. “Any landing you can walk away from, eh wot?”

  Jack moved toward the nav station to help Doc stand. “Hear, hear, Duke,” he replied. “Well said, indeed.”

  “I wonder what happened,” Doc puzzled.

  Jack stepped over to the radio console and saw that auxiliary power was still functional. He hit the TALK button.

  “Deadeye,” he called. “You okay?”

  There was an uncomfortable silence before Deadeye’s voice crackled over the bridge loudspeaker. “A-OK, Cap,” he said. “Pretty smooth, as crashes go.”

  Jack smiled the gallows humor smile of the World War veteran. “Alright, you stay put and keep an eye on things topside. Stand by.” He paused momentarily, then called back to the engine room. “Rivets, you there, pal?”

  Static was the only response.

  “The explosion could have knocked out his intercom,” Doc noted.

  Jack took his finger off the console and waved the other two to follow him. “Let’s get aft and check on Rivets. We can make a damage as
sessment from there.”

  He exited the bridge and disappeared down the angled gantry, Doc close on his heels.

  “Right-o,” Duke acknowledged, following Doc through the hatch.

  The main gondola lights were flickering, but the red emergency lamps shone steady in the dim light. Jack was the first to arrive at the engine room hatch. Turning the locking lever counter-clockwise, he pulled the hatch open and entered the engine compartment. “Hey, Rivets?” he called out, but no one answered.

  Light poured into the engine room from the giant hole in the gondola wall. The surfaces of the gauges and readouts were blackened with soot, and some of the more delicate components had melted into slag. Six of the eight glass casings for the gyroscopes were cracked or shattered, and all but two had stopped functioning.

  “Oh dear,” Duke said as he entered the room. “What a mess.”

  Duke saw the two spinning gyroscopes and went to shut them off. “We should shut down the main battery array,” he said.

  Jack nodded and went to the console on the left side of the hatch. He noticed the wrench, now blackened and burned, was wedged between the contacts of three batteries. He indicated for Doc to go to the right console. Wiping away some of the soot on the glass gauges, he managed to find a main power shutoff and pulled the handle to the OFF position. Doc followed his lead. The cabin lights ceased flickering and went dark. The remaining gyroscopes wound down. The ship swayed gently with the movement of the trees in the wind, and they found it eerily quiet.

  “I say,” Duke remarked. “Where’s Rivets?”

  Jack nodded at the gaping hole in the ship. “Only one way he could have gone.”

  Doc didn’t want to imagine that scenario. “Oh, you don’t think—”

  “Let’s find out,” Jack said grimly. “Through this new door.”

  They climbed down through the hole to find a network of sturdy limbs and branches intertwined with each other, so thick as to be walkable. They hailed Deadeye from below, and the sharpshooter scrambled down the guide wires to join them in the search. Jack led the way, calling for Rivets.

  “Can you see him anywhere?” Doc asked.

  Jack shook his head, squinting against the bright sunlight. “Branches are too thick to see much. Let’s keep going.”

  The heat was oppressive, and soon the four had shed their new uniforms, pressing on in boots, trousers, and undershirts. They made their way some 200 yards from the ship when Deadeye noticed movement in the trees ahead. He tapped Jack on the shoulder and pointed.

  “What the devil is that?” Jack asked.

  The sound of tribal drums erupted from the jungle around them, and it suddenly looked like the canopy was alive with natives, scurrying and scampering through the trees the way a small monkey would. They were everywhere—painted, pierced, adorned with feathers and bones, and armed with long wooden lances and hunting bows.

  “Keep an eye on those weapons,” Jack warned. “A lot of the Amazon tribes tip their points with poison.”

  “They’re coming closer,” Deadeye warned.

  Jack slipped a pistol out of its holster. “Fire a couple warning shots with me, Charlie. Maybe that will scare them off.”

  Jack and Deadeye squeezed off two rounds apiece, firing into the air. It had no appreciable effect on the circling natives. Jack fired a third shot, clipping a high branch above the hunters. Still nothing.

  Suddenly a jungle vine flew out of the canopy and lassoed around Jack’s shoulders. Before he could call out in surprise, a second, third and fourth vine had entangled the other crewmembers. Doc lost her balance and fell to her side. Deadeye levered his Winchester under the vine lasso binding his upper body. Jack heard it and warned him off.

  “Deadeye, no!” Jack cried. “All of you, try not to struggle! They obviously want us alive, or they could have shot us with those hunting bows!”

  Each of the Daedalus crew knew they were taking a huge risk. If felt unnatural to let themselves be abducted without fighting back. But Jack McGraw’s best survival skill was his instinct, and they trusted that.

  The natives crowded in, binding all four by the hands and feet, securing them to long horizontal poles for transport. Doc looked at Jack as they were hoisted between the brawny shoulders of several natives.

  “What you think, Jack?” she asked.

  Jack wished he could scratch the itch caused by the drying rivulet of sweat across his ear. “I think they likely know where Rivets is,” he said. “And if we mind our manners, they might take us to him.”

  Then Jack and the crew were whisked away through the jungle trees.

  - Chapter 15 -

  Maria ducked under the canvas flap and entered the field tent of her master, the infamous mage Aleister Crowley. His back faced the door, but even so, she could see the leather belt cinched around his left arm, the wooden desk in front of him strewn with heroin paraphernalia. He’d heard her coming well before she’d approached the tent, and exhibited no shame in being discovered like this.

  “Ah. Maria,” he greeted, remaining with his back to her.

  The glint of an antique gold cross inset with gems reached her eyes from the corner of the tent, only partially unwrapped from its canvas and brown paper shroud. At least the agents Crowley had sent to steal the Cross of Cadiz had been effective.

  She heard the clatter of the syringe on the metal tray, and he turned to face her as the chemical rush washed over him. He staggered momentarily, and she rushed to his side, helping him sit as he stumbled toward his cot.

  “How progresses your campaign against that gang of villains Edison has set upon me?” Crowley asked in a surprisingly thin voice for such a sturdy fellow. He spoke in well-educated King’s English, similar to Duke’s posh accent.

  An otherwise vital man of 50, Crowley’s body had been ravaged by a constant barrage of venereal disease, heroin and cocaine addiction. Standing a respectable 5’10”, he was nonetheless carrying an extra 40 pounds of weight, and his shaved head revealed a pair of intense, deep-set brown eyes which rested atop dark, fleshy bags. It was a body that had been in peak shape in its youth, but with age there had come the tendency to forgo sport and physical activity in exchange for pleasures of the flesh and broadening of the mind—and with it, ever-increasing mystical power.

  Maria knew him to be the most powerful living wizard, despite his current state of endorphin haze from the piqure he’d just administered to himself. It was not his somewhat compromised physicality, however, which was the source of his allure with both males and females; but the radiant charisma and power that emanated from his soul. Maria had been lured to his bed more than once by that radiance. Crowley was famous for his practice of sexual magicks, and she had been a willing participant for the past seven years. She and her master knew each other’s body, mind, and spirit with a casual familiarity. There was an implied trust between them that precious few of The Great Beast’s acolytes enjoyed.

  “We forced the Daedalus to crash in the canopy about ten miles away. There is no update on the crew, but my forward observers have reported much activity among the Tree People in the area.” Maria knelt at his side and gently tended him, loosening the cinch and pulling it from his arm. She noted the track marks down his bare arm, and how the most recent injection site was oozing blood. She pulled a handkerchief from the desk and dabbed at the wound.

  Crowley closed his eyes and surrendered to Maria’s care. “Excellent,” he said. “And Jack McGraw still has no idea who you are?”

  Maria paused and closed her eyes, remembering a time of great promise and terrible tragedy.

  # # #

  France, May, 1918

  The young barmaid was a comely Swiss girl by the name of Eva Freitag. She’d only been in Beauvois for a month, but she was already a popular attraction among the Allied officers who frequented the La Chance tavern. Statuesque, raven-haired and of pale complexion, she was often called “Snow White” by the British soldiers who passed through. She’d developed a rep
utation for being generous with her pulls from the tap and enthusiasm between the sheets, a combination which won her many fans among the British and French Armies as well as her real employer, the Head of Austro-Hungarian military intelligence, General Arthur Giesl von Gieslingen. In fact her name was not Eva, and she wasn’t Swiss. She was Maria Gunnhild, a proud and patriotic German spy for the Central Powers. She was fluent in English and French, had studied the principles of Tantra, and she was game to do anything for the war effort.

  An exhausted Allied officer with a few drinks in his belly was willing to spill a lot of interesting military information during post-coital pillow talk, and “Eva” was very good at information extraction. She also had a talent for compartmentalizing morality, for while she trysted for the Central Powers, she was also engaged to a famous German ace: Hans Heinrich. He was a dashing Bavarian with a promising future and a Heidelberg scar that made women swoon. Best of all, he was ambitious and charismatic, and Maria Gunnhild could not wait to become Frau Heinrich.

  She remembered their last meeting in Köln, their last lovemaking, their last embrace at the train station as he shipped back to the front lines. With the promise of a Central Powers victory and a marriage to her true love, “Eva” was assigned to Beauvois. She served beer and wine with a friendly smile and negotiated for “after hours” services with the consent of the proprietor, a silver-haired grandfather who looked the other way on such matters. After all, what business was it of his if the girl needed some extra money to send home to her family? Besides, he made an extra ten percent on her room.

  The month had gone like clockwork. The only officer in the area she hadn’t been able to get into bed was a pilot, Captain McGraw with the 32nd Squadron. He tended to arrive with a comrade or two, knock back a couple of rounds, maybe sing a song, and then disappear for other venues and diversions. It was a shame, really—she found him quite attractive.