by S. J. Ryan
Inoldia pulled Matt's face close to her own. “Too bad, little man! Your champion is exhausted! But I think I'll torment you just the same! Now, what part of your body shall I cut anyway first? You're so ugly, removing anything can only be an improvement!”
Wresting his windpipe free, Matt spat at her. Inoldia glared and threw him across the catwalk. He tumbled over the rail and slid down the side of the balloon. He grabbed at the ribbing and spread his feet. He came to a stop just short of falling to the sea.
Every joint aching, numb from the cold, he climbed back up. He held the knife toward Inoldia and stepped over the rail onto the walk.
“You think that toy threatens me!”
She swiped at the knife. This time Matt saw her arm move, and flicked the blade. Inoldia's smile disappeared. She held up her hand and stared at the red slit.
“How did you do that?”
Matt responded with a lunge. Inoldia swiped at him but he blocked with his free arm and shoved the blade toward her belly. He scraped and broke scales and skin and splattered her blood upon the walkway.
“You – you must have the Mother's potion of restriction! But how? It was only to work on the girl!”
Matt should have engaged in dialogue. The more he could have talked, the more time the editor virus in his saliva would have to weaken Inoldia's mutant strength. But he was too enraged to think clearly.
He gritted his teeth and grunted and swung again and again. Inoldia backstepped toward Carrot, then growled and pounced, talons splayed. Matt jabbed the knife into her belly and thrust as hard as he could. Inoldia screeched and he twisted and flung her over the railing.
Her last expression a mixture of fear and confusion, Inoldia spun and tumbled as she vanished into the mist.
Matt dropped the knife and grabbed the railing and tried to keep from throwing up. Then everything faded to red and pain and oblivion.
– But only for a moment. When he stirred and opened his eyes, Carrot was kneeling next to him. She had partially unzipped his jumpsuit and was pressing both her hands against his bare chest.
“How do you feel?” she asked.
He took a deep breath and released. “Better. How are you?”
“I'm quite fine.” She smiled and arose. “She was the one punching holes. I should get the patch kit.”
Then the sun broke through the clouds, and she stood lithely in golden light, in perfect poise and balance as her incandescent hair fluttered in the breeze. Matt suddenly felt both weak and strong, cold and flushed.
He felt like he was going to explode, and that he wanted to.
“Matt, the expression on your face – are you sure you are all right?”
“I'm – uh – I'm – uh – uh – Archimedes!”
And then, well ahead of her, he scurried down the ladder and went aft. Landar was still unconscious. Archimedes no longer had a waxen complexion and his chest was moving strongly. Matt put his palm to the old man's now-warm cheek and Ivan extended a tentacle in greeting.
"Damage has been fixed," Ivan said after he tapped into Matt's auditory nerves. "May I return to you?"
"Yes! Please! Before I catch pneumonia!"
As soon as Ivan was cozily nested once more within Matt's skull, Matt had Archimedes awakened. Archimedes propped himself, gazed at Landar's snoozing form, and gagged at the red gash on his robe.
"What in the wheezing bellows of hades is going on here?" he demanded.
"You tell me," Matt said. He pointedly looked sternward, past Archimedes to the pregnant bomb racks.
Archimedes smiled nervously. "Oh, those. Heh. It's not what you think. At least, it's not what Landar said before he stabbed me.” He looked down at his robe again and raised an eyebrow. “By the way, I felt him twist the knife – so why am I still alive?”
Before Matt could answer, Ivan said, "Matt, there is something you should know about Archimedes."
"Not now!" Then, so relieved to have Ivan back, Matt recanted. "Okay, make it short."
"Archimedes has a neural implant."
Matt blurted aloud, "You're a mentor!"
"A mentor host," Archimedes said. "People always confuse the terms. Anyway, that was a long time ago. Let's discuss that later, as we have more urgent and important matters. Now, do you want to hear my plan? It concerns saving Britan – if we are in time!"
49.
Emperor Valarion jolted awake. He had dozed off in the chair for what he had thought briefly, but from the angle of the sun in the garden beyond the veranda, it was apparent that the time was past noon.
Here in the palace at last, he thought.
His gaze took in the orchards, the roaming peacocks, the marble columns, the whimsical statuary, the multitude of servants, the spectacular view of the city that he now all but personally owned. All those years of plodding, of boot-licking, of compromise and backstabbing, had paid off. He was now master of the known world.
If only my father were still alive, Valarion thought. So that I could order his execution.
All was not perfect, however. That thought occurred to him when he attempted to shift his position in the chair and felt a sharp pain in his back. He signaled for a servant.
"Get me breakfast, and the physician."
The imperial physician, on call in the next building, arrived immediately and changed the dressing on the wound on the Emperor's thigh and summoned girls to massage the Emperor's back.
"All in all," the physician said, "the injuries appear minor. Quite odd, in fact, I've never seen such minor injuries in the loser of a gladiatorial – "
A sharp look silenced him. A wave dismissed him and the girls. Breakfast arrived, and Valarion contemplated the delicacies with a churning stomach. They were probably poisoned anyway. He should eat from his own pantry until affairs in the palace were secure. After all, soldiers were still searching for hidden passages.
A servant approached and bowed. "My Lord, General Maldus wishes an audience."
"Send him in."
Maldus, former commander of the imperial guard and now commander of the municipal guard that Valarion had decreed into existence the day previous, arrived and bowed – but at a little less of an angle than had the servant, Valarion noted.
"Maldus," Valarion said. "How is the city this morning?"
"It's secure," Maldus said, taking a chair without being offered. "Very peaceful."
"Peaceful? How so?"
"Few people are on the street." Maldus hesitated. "There is an outbreak of an old illness. You may recall Archimedes referred to it as 'the distenary.' He related it to the lack of sewers, and it happens that the sewers have experienced some difficulty of late."
"Sewer operations are no concern of yours, Maldus."
"Normally yes, but the commissioner of the sewers says that the security checkpoints we have established within the sewers are interfering with the business of his work force, and that is affecting the routine maintenance of the sewers."
"Well now, we'll have to choose between the security of the Empire and the convenience of sewer workers. Ask him if he'd rather Britanian saboteurs run loose under our streets."
"Val – My Lord, are there truly Britanian saboteurs in Rome? I've only found five Britanians in the city, and they confess to being merchants."
"I am sure that if you interrogate them sufficiently, their confessions will change."
Maldus paused. "I'm sure."
"Now, unless you have something other than sewers to discuss, you're dismissed." As Maldus rose, the Emperor added, "And General – never mention his name in my presence again."
"I'm sorry, whose name?"
"Don't be clever. The name that begins with 'A' and ends with 's' and has never-ending annoyance inbetween."
"As you wish . . . My Lord."
After the general left, Valarion scowled and pushed the breakfast tray away. Sewers, he thought. Did I ever imagine my first full working day as emperor would begin with dithering about sewers! Emperors should be above such
mundaneness!
He gazed upon the city, which gleamed pearl white in the high sun. He gazed beyond to the shimmering waters of the bay, where a thousand ships were lashed together and loading with the logistics of imperial conquest. In the distance, the soldiers were like ants, the ships like leaves of a tiny plant. An emperor's perspective, Valarion thought with satisfaction.
Valarion rose and stretched – and felt the call of nature. He consulted with a servant and found the nearest bathroom – and recoiled from the stench.
"What is the meaning of this!" he shrieked at the attendant.
The servant cringed. "The toilets have been backed up all morning, My Lord. It's not only my station, it's throughout the palace!"
Scowling, Valarion marched into the orchard. "You don't need to follow me everywhere!" he bellowed at his bodyguards, and proceeded solitary into the bush maze. When he emerged, he took a few steps and yelled behind, "NOW follow me again!"
How did Hadron endure this idiocy? Valarion wondered.
Valarion stalked through the palace, passing clusters of guards busily knocking on the walls and listening for the hollowness that would indicate a secret passage. From the steps from the great hall, he climbed into a litter and directed it toward Military House. On the way, he withdrew from his pocket the elaborately ornamented mechanical timepiece that had been given to him as a gesture of friendship by the minarch of Troi just before Valarion had launched a surprise attack on his city and had him executed. In the excitement of yesterday, Valarion had forgotten to wind it.
"Stop at Victory Square," he directed. "I need to consult the Master."
Victory Square was empty, every store front shuttered. Even the Senate portico was vacant. The fountains were waterless and silent. As for the Master of Rome, its hands were frozen at seven. Valarion recalled he hadn't heard the bells all morning.
He repocketed the timepiece and barked, "Military House. Quick!"
But on the descent along the Avenue of Champions, he spotted graffiti scrawled on the side of an apartment building: BEATEN BY A GIRL.
"Stop!" he shouted. He summoned a guard. "Return to the palace and inform Maldus that I want a squad of soldiers to arrest and interrogate every person who resides in this building. Before this day is over, I want to know the identity of the insurrectionists responsible for this desecration. Oh, and raze the building. Before sunset."
His party proceeded to the North Claw and was admitted into the base. Without returning salutes or bows, he stormed the steps to the third story of Military House and into the Room of War. The southern view overlooked the Invasion Fleet, but Valarion as always was more enthralled by the map table, on which bug-sized markers of soldiers and ships portrayed the extent of imperial reach upon a map of the Yuro Archipelago.
Valarion sighed. "Finally, my day leaves behind all reference to plumbing!"
"Sir?" asked Grand Admiral Vespin.
"Never mind. Give me a full review of the strategic situation."
As the Admiral recited statistics and intelligence reports, Valarion realized that his stomach had calmed. At first he thought it due to his engagement with the details of empire, but then he recognized a much simpler explanation. Being near the sewer pipes that dumped into the bay, Military House had always had a certain 'air.' But today, because of the blockages, the sewage was elsewhere. Thus the atmosphere was fresh and the bay pristine.
With his appetite returned, Valarion ordered a bagel and tea and thought, I need to get out of this miserable city. For the first time in his military career, he saw a campaign as a vacation. Was Britan so bad? The land was unspoilt, the girls fetching – at least, the ones not unduly muscled.
"I will personally command the Britanian campaign," he announced.
"Sir – I mean, My Lord?" the Admiral inquired. "The fleet is scheduled to leave tomorrow. At this time, isn't your place with the city?"
"Believe me, the city isn't going anywhere."
Valarion admitted that in his absence, Maldus or a cabal of senators would possibly attempt a coup, but what of it? Let them handle the mess that the city had become and be blamed for it. And when Valarion returned the hero with most of the fleet and legions at his side, who would stand in his way to reclaim his title?
While he leaned over the map table and nudged tiny ships to and fro, he heard a clattering from the steps. A signal corps courier bore an envelope marked EMPEROR'S EYES ONLY. Valarion ripped it and read:
FROM ISLE OF SISTERS COMMAND STOP TO VALARION EMPEROR OF ROME STOP HIGH PRIESTESS WILL PAY VISIT TO DISCUSS INVASION PLANS AND MISSING SISTER STOP EXPECT ARRIVAL AT THREE PM THIS DAY STOP THAT IS ALL STOP
"Just what I need." Valarion crumpled the sheet, then frowned and spread it flat. "What does she mean, 'missing sister?'"
He realized then that Inoldia hadn't been breathing down his neck all day. The last time he had seen her was late last night when he had briefed her on their operations to seize the airship on Steam Island. Had she gone to Steam Island to see for herself? Normally, he would assume that would mean she had dispatched the insurrectionists with ease. But his memory was still fresh with the sight of her flailing and choking in the rushing waters that had spilled across the floor of the Coliseum. Yesterday had not been good for the reputation of the Sisters, either.
"Sir – My Lord," a commodore said. "Do you hear something? It seems to be coming from the city, or above it."
"What?" Grand Admiral Vespin asked. He cocked his head. "Ah. A kind of 'Rrrr-rrrr-rrrr' is it?"
Without word, Valarion rushed down the stairs. Outside, hovering over the city and approaching Military House, was a great oblong shape that resembled a cigar. Or . . . hours ago, upon first sight of the model captured from the House of Archimedes, Valarion had remarked that it resembled a certain part of male anatomy, and his subordinates had erupted in laughter. At the moment, the joke didn't seem so funny.
"What is that?" a junior officer blurted, so rapt in gaze that he was unaware of the Emperor's presence.
The great ship of the air filled the base with its hum. From hundreds of meters above, a head peeped out the window of the undercarriage compartment. Valarion could not make out the face but he knew that long wagging beard.
"HEAR ME!" The murmuring in the yard quieted in shock at the Emperor's scream. "Archers and catapulters, fire upon that vessel! NOW!"
Officers barked and soldiers and sailors scattered. Within seconds, arrows streaked toward the flying ship – and fell woefully short. The ship continued on with Military House beneath its path. As it passed over the base fence, it dropped a barrel that landed squarely on the roof of the building – and promptly exploded in a shower of flaming shards.
"Fire crews!" the grand admiral shouted. "The files of the entire navy are in there!"
The Ancient Bearded One passed over the smoldering roof of Military House and waved at Valarion's purple-robed form. Valarion remembered a youth spent gazing up at his tutor from a distance that didn't seem any less intimidating now, and fumed.
The shadow of the ship fell upon him and Valarion craned his neck, waiting for another barrel to drop so that he would know which way to dodge, but the ship merely hummed on. It passed over the shoreline and over the bay and then over the fleet.
And then it proceeded to rain fire.
On that beautiful afternoon over the Bay of Rome, fire fell from the sky upon the thousand ships of the Combined Britanian Invasion Fleet. The barrels of incendiary exploded upon contact with the decks, bursting a multitude of smoking embers upon the wooden superstructures and fabric sails. As small fires joined, they achieved flashpoint and spread as fast as men could run and jump into the sea. From ramp to ramp the fire leaped, igniting row after row, engulfing ships by the scores, then hundreds.
"The entire fleet!" the admiral cried. "The entire fleet!"
Had Valarion not been mesmerized by the magnitude of the conflagration, he might have slapped the old man.
"My Lord!" the commodore shouted.
"Watch for arrows!"
Valarion squinted at the airship and saw no arrows. Then he looked below, and saw the sky filled with arrows streaming from archers aboard the few triremes at the perimeter that had yet remained untouched. The fools were aiming at the airship with their Emperor in the same arc!
As arrows rained about, Valarion fled behind Military House and wondered if the attack was entirely unintended.
The archers quit when their ships too caught fire. One by one, the holds of the ships of the whole of the fleet boomed into splinters, and fireballs ascended amid smoke and vapor.
Behind Valarion, an officer asked another, "Do you smell rum?"
Its bomb racks empty, the airship halted the attack and continued to the center of the bay. Something fell from it, billowing a sail in the shape of an inverted cup from which dangled a man, who descended with implausible slowness and splashed into the water. A fishing boat steered to rescue.
Valarion looked about at the smoke, fires, and frantic men, and perceived an opportunity for retreat to a saner locale. He addressed the commodore, "Signal the bay patrol to have that boat intercepted, and the person brought as prisoner to the main pier in the commercial district. I will be there shortly."
Grand Admiral Vespin shook his head and tears flowed freely. "The entire invasion fleet, half the fleet of Rome – "
Valarion shrugged. "We'll replace every ship lost."
"Can we? Rome has few resources of its own, it must depend on the provinces. And with the navy's strength cut in half, the provinces will revolt – "
"You there!" Valarion pointed to the commodore. "What's your name?"
"Agron, My Lord."
Valarion stripped the insignia from Vespin's uniform and handed it to Agron. "You are now Grand Admiral of the Imperial Navy. Your first act is to escort this broken old man off this base."
Valarion headed toward his litter, then spotted the messenger's horse. He leaped astride and shouted to his bodyguard, "Try to keep up!" and stormed through the gate onto the streets of Rome.
