Five beings occupied the conveyance, three of them firing rifles over the side at something she couldn’t see, one of them piloting the craft, and one of them aiming the Fetler at the still prostate form of the Imperium Princess. Sparks shot off the armor of the skimmer as bullets pinged all around.
Cal’s eyes were hard over the barrels of the repeating gun, “Bring us down, Or. Ms. Lightrider, may we give you a lift?”
The skimmer set down between the building and the causeway, affording some cover from rifle fire coming across the street. Arla limped over to the vehicle with a weak grin, wiping blood from underneath her nose. As she came closer she saw a clear Compact Affiliation Sigil on the little craft’s side. A pair of dark green hands appeared and helped heave her over the armored gunwale.
As she climbed aboard the Princess spoke, her voice full of venom, “Are you going to kill me now, traitor?”
“No, I’m going to leave you with your failure and with the knowledge that I’ve defeated you and father once, and I’ll return one day to do it again.”
“We’ll find you. There’s not a speck in this galaxy where you can hide!”
“You’re wrong, Tel. Give my regards to the Imperator.” Cal Mor made a spinning gesture with his hand and the skimmer ascended once more. The Princess’s inarticulate screams faded as the craft sped away towards the large, misshapen building in the middle of the chamber.
“Are you all right?”
The Prince was kneeling beside Arla, a torn shirtsleeve pressed against her nose.
“Lean back.”
“I’b fine.”
“I know. Here, this will stop the bleeding.”
She leaned back against the cool metal of the skimmer’s armor, “Thangs. For cobbing to ged me.”
“Of course.”
Below and behind them the gunfire was slackening and Arla looked around the interior of the skimmer for the first time. Besides Cal and Or’ryth there were three other beings on the deck, two Malicks and human male. None of them wore a uniform, dressed instead in a mix of civilian and work clothing, but on the shoulder of the human and the dorsal fin of the Malicks was a cloth band with the Sigil of the Compact sewn in bright gold.
“What is—”
“Not now.” The Prince squeezed her arm. “Let’s ensure we are out of danger first.”
The skimmer angled around to the far side of the giant building, and the Carth piloted it deftly into a wide opening midway up the tower’s base. Arla could see the walls of the opening were marked with cuts and grooves. They were rougher than the stone on the rest of the building, as if this portal had been recently carved.
Or’ryth brought the hovering transport to a soft landing on the stone floor, and several figures came out of the darkness to help the little party out. Arla felt hands guiding her towards the rear of the chamber, and hurried whispers from behind her as the Carth acquainted these new companions with recent events.
The end of the stone chamber was pitch black, and she was directed to put her hands on the rough-hewn wall. She felt along the stone until the wall opened up into some sort of passageway. Dank air blew from within it, and she felt a hand on her back.
“Go down this tunnel, we have ships waiting that can outrun any Imperium corvette. We’ll come right behind you all after we seal off the exit.”
For a moment, Arla stood frozen, not daring to trust her ears. In the dark she still couldn’t make out the man’s shape, but his voice was unmistakable, was one she’d known her whole life.
“Dad?”
Shock gave way to confusion. Confusion to relief. And relief to anger.
By the time Arla was safely aboard the Compact fast picket ship with the others, and they had successfully evaded the orbiting corvette and made the transition to lanespace, she’d already gone through every conceivable emotion. She was exhausted. But she was still angry.
“I thought you were dead! I was all alone!”
“You weren’t alone. You were never alone. I had my most trusted associate tailing you to protect you, and report back to me how you fared. Dweez!”
There was movement in the cockpit ahead and a figure floated to the doorway. It was a Weeg, and Arla immediately recognized its large, wet eyes. It was trilling its tongue in laughter.
“You’re the one from Manrac’s, and your ship was the one on Serratt Hold!”
“Yes,” came the singsong response.
“But if you weren’t the spy, how did the Imperium find us on Serratt Hold?”
Her father clenched his jaw. He had to clear his throat to speak, “Mar Tornald is dead.”
Arla felt her stomach drop. The old repair shop owner on Eutheri had been a dear friend, and the first to console her when she thought her father had died.
“He was captured by the Princess’s Scourge Troopers. We couldn’t rescue him. We believe they forced him to divulge a list of likely places you’d turn up.”
She turned to her side, “I would have told you to shoot that bitch where she stood, Cal, if I had known.”
The Prince squeezed her hand silently.
Her father pretended not to see and continued, “We’ve been working diligently to ensure Tel Rani and her father are paid back in full for the debt they have rung up. Or’ryth’s mission was the first step in our plan, and it was an unqualified success.”
The Carth’s nose tentacles wriggled proud embarrassment. “The Imperator, of course, hired me as ’T’ryth,’ noted political scientist and author of On Central Authority: The Necessity of Strong Leadership.”
Jak Lightrider added, “We knew it would be invaluable to have a being inside the Palace, the very heart of our enemy, so we jumped at the chance when the royal papers advertised a space for a tutor of the young Prince. We just didn’t realize how valuable Or’ryth’s position would be.”
“I knew to direct the Princess to this hidden staging planet, because your father was very careful to provide me the coordinates should any unforeseen emergency occur.”
“We were tracking the stingwhips through telescopes almost as soon as they left the corvette. Your every step on the planet was watched.” Her father smiled tightly, “Imagine my surprise to see my own daughter among the landing party.”
Arla frowned. “Who is we? What is this group? Why do you all wear Compact Sigils?”
The elder Lightrider grew serious, “We are a rebellion. Not one seeking political power, or to impose our revolutionary ideology on others; but one which simply wants to be left alone.
“The Merchant’s Compact may be beaten, but it is not broken. The spread of the Imperium, through force and propaganda and intimidation caught us by surprise and we’ve become marginalized and scattered as a result. Some of us finally awoke to the true nature of the Imperator’s totalizing government, due in large part to the writings of this gentle-being,” he nodded to Or’ryth, “and we met to determine what was to be done.
“It was for that reason I faked my own death, for that reason I didn’t return to you, dear Arlalei. I was needed as a planner and warrior in this rebellion, and defeating a government is dangerous work. I couldn’t bring my own daughter into such an endeavor.”
“Fat lot of good that did,” Arla shot out peevishly.
“Well, we can’t predict the future, and I made a mistake to hide this from you, I see that now. But you still have a choice to make.” As he spoke the ship shifted and Arla and the other passengers could see through the portholes that the pilot was pulling them out of lanespace in the middle of a lane, with no transit point in sight.
“No one here will force you to join us and, my dear daughter, I will make no demands on you as your father. If you wish to join, you must do so willingly.”
There was a jolt, and the ship transitioned back into aetherspace. Jak Lightrider looked out one of the portholes, and when he tilted his head Arla gasped. Spread out in an otherwise empty stretch of space were hundreds of aetherships. Yachts, tugs, sleek tradeships, and battered planet
-hoppers. Their ’wings glittered with starlight. All bore Compact Sigils. It was the largest collection of free traders she had ever seen.
“You may not have noticed in all your travails, but today is actually the galactic new year, according to the standard trade calendar.” Her father turned from the porthole to look at the group. “The last five years have been ones of tyranny slowly growing across the galaxy like a Zikaldi fungus. This next year shall be one of liberty, of fighting to take back what was stolen from us. And,” he gestured to the fleet outside, “we will not fight alone.”
* * *
J.P. Medved writes fun adventure stories and thoughtful thrillers, from Steampunk works like To Rescue General Gordon, Queen Victoria’s Ball and In the Shade of the Ishtar Trees to political thrillers like Granite Republic. You can preview his other works and download free stories at JPMedved.com.
When not writing, J.P. can be found frying anything he can get his hands on in his deep fat fryer, shooting tons of guns, and losing himself in a good book at the most inopportune times — around the dinner table, at baseball games, during heartfelt emotional conversations.
4
Yellowsea Yank
William F. Wu
East China Sea, Aug. 6, 1894
“Passengers to your quarters!” A uniformed ship’s officer strode just behind the travelers at the rail, waving his arms. “To your quarters! For your own safety!”
“Safety,” Kanlee Kung muttered. “What’s the problem, sir?”
The officer ignored him, repeating his instructions as he moved down the deck.
Kanlee knew hiding out in his quarters was not going to help with any problem. He surreptitiously checked the short-barreled Colt Bloodfinder with brass handles in a shoulder rig he wore under his suit jacket. He was a self-styled private detective and second-rate shortstop on the last leg of a trip from Portland, Oregon.
“To your quarters, everyone!” The officer shouted again. “Move along, move along.”
Kanlee ignored the officer in return. He stood on the deck of the steam clipper Yellowsea Yank, a sleek, iron-hulled two stacker, and leaned on the rattlesnake-patterned brass rail near other passengers in a chilly wind. He had left his home in the Chinatown of Portland for Shanghai and now strained to see the mouth of the Yangzi River somewhere ahead. In Shanghai, the bustling port city of many foreign concessions, he would seek his lost cousin Meiping, a nineteen-year-old girl.
“Do you know what’s wrong?” Kanlee asked a woman walking past, presumably to her quarters. “Have you heard? I’ve read there are pirates in these waters.”
She was a gray-haired white woman of about sixty years old, wearing an elegant, full-length, gray day dress trimmed with gold lace. Cream-colored lace protected her throat. A short, wide-brimmed purple top hat was tied under her chin by a matching bow. Delicate fingers of silver rose over her hat in the shape of a small leaping doe. Instead of answering Kanlee, she pointedly walked away, apparently unconcerned about the alarms and the crew’s frantic movement — or Kanlee.
He ignored the snub, being accustomed to such treatment from those with social status and wealth. He had more important worries. If he failed to reach Shanghai, Meiping might wonder forever if he had ignored her cry for help through a letter sent by a Mr. Lyman Wellstone — with a ship’s ticket enclosed for Kanlee. Because he had taken ship immediately, he had not bothered to write a return letter that would arrive no sooner than he would.
Beneath his feet, the deck hummed with the turn of the great screw that propelled the ship. However, the ship’s horn sounded long and loud, while alarm klaxons honked specific warnings. Around Kanlee, the ship’s crew ran to their emergency stations, shouting to each other, all of them glancing astern.
After three weeks across the Pacific, Kanlee was nearing the country of his father and mother, though not their province. He was twenty-four years old, born in Portland’s Chinatown, and was learning part of his trade from a ruthless, retired Pinkerton detective who grew talkative after his third shot of Chinese brandy. Kanlee scraped together a modest living by swamping out a Chinatown saloon and playing on a semi-pro baseball team. Now, in Shanghai, this Lyman Wellstone would help him find Meiping.
Most of the other passengers hurried away from the rail. Kanlee drifted behind the shouting officer and worked his way toward the stern. The breeze whipped at his unbuttoned gray American suit jacket and the plain black tie around his upright starched collar. He fastened the jacket tight around his maize waistcoat and looked behind the ship.
About a quarter of a mile beyond the stern, at the center of the ship’s wake, huge bubbles rose in the waves and burst into the air.
At the stern, four men worked a huge crank that gradually turned a platform holding an old 7-inch Armstrong gun. Kanlee picked out the ship’s captain, a Boston native named Oxley, at a distance as he strode among the crew, pointing and yelling.
“Full speed on all engines!” Captain Oxley shouted. He raised a long, brass telescope and peered to the rear of the ship. “Full speed!” He called out a new heading to the helmsman, then turned to his chief engineer. “Power those boilers!”
Behind the Yellowsea Yank, a giant steel Chinese dragon head broke the surface with a great roar of water. It was painted gold with black delineations. The great mouth, opening on huge, multi-jointed hinges, was almost cavernous enough to swallow the stern of the narrow steam clipper.
Captain Oxley pointed to the crew at the Armstrong gun. “Fire at will!”
They fired. A shell sped toward the steel dragon and exploded harmlessly off the front of its gargantuan head.
Kanlee saw the barest hint of silhouettes, men with their hair in queues and holding rifles at the ready, deep inside the mouth of the dragon, at its steel throat.
Behind the dragon head, Kanlee saw a long, serpentine steel shape with the upper arches of its curves breaking the waves and extending at least as far as the biggest ship he had ever seen. From behind the head, steam rose in huge billows, mixed with black smoke from the fire that heated the boiler somewhere inside. At the far end, the serpentine tail stood high over the waves, ending in multiple points.
The dragon-shaped ship was advancing fast.
The crew at the stern gun fired another shell, which exploded against the front of the dragon’s face with no effect.
The dragon mouth slammed down on the oaken stern of the Yellowsea Yank. The bow of the ship came up, tilting the deck. Crew members shouted and screamed. Oxley lost his footing but pushed himself back up.
Kanlee slipped to the deck but already had his Bloodfinder out. He aimed inside the dragon mouth and fired twice. In the darkness of the dragon mouth, he couldn’t see any results.
“More coal!” Oxley yelled. He leaned into a brass voice tube that led below. “More coal, damn you!” Then he spotted Kanlee, holding up the Bloodfinder. “Get to your quarters, Chinaman! Get off the deck!”
The big dragon mouth opened, releasing the cargo ship. The stern rose up and the bow dipped forward, splashing hard and throwing crew members across the deck again. Kanlee sailed into the air and fell hard.
Some of the team at the stern gun lay helpless. A few men got to their feet and struggled to crank the artillery piece into a new position.
Ignoring Captain Oxley, Kanlee holstered the Bloodfinder and ran to the stern gun, where he climbed onto the turret. He joined the men turning the crank. None of the white crew members cared what he looked liked now. As the barrel lowered, a crew member fired a shell that flew directly into the dragon’s mouth and exploded in a red and yellow burst. Though smoke filled the dragon’s mouth, the ship was undamaged.
The dragon mouth opened wider, then chomped down hard again. The stern of the cargo ship was driven down, tilting the deck upward a second time.
Clinging to the big hand crank, Kanlee saw a single figure visible at the top of the dragon head. A tall man wearing a long gown with splits on four sides stood in a yellow mandarin jacket with an upright
collar at the neck and wide, short sleeves. His cap was a roundish cone shape, brimless, woven of rattan. It had a ruby-red knob on top and an ostrich feather angling down the back.
Kanlee stared at the colorfully dressed figure, observing that the man watched impassively, neither giving orders nor showing fear. He had no idea of the man’s identity, but he was certain the stranger was no pirate.
The dragon mouth opened again, releasing the stern, and the Yellowsea Yank’s deck fell level once more.
The impact threw Kanlee to the deck. He pushed to his feet and drew the Bloodfinder. The dragon-shaped ship made a big target, and he emptied the Bloodfinder at its steel head but again saw no effect. He reloaded quickly but did not waste any more rounds.
The Yellowsea Yank’s big engines finally built their full heads of steam and propelled the ship faster. With its rear and side-mounted water jets blasting, the ship rose up on its steel skids, skimming the waves. Crew members were heaving baskets, chests, and crates of luxury cargo overboard to lighten the load, even though those goods were not very heavy. Soon the only weight in the hold was the coal needed to power the engines. The Yellowsea Yank slowly pulled ahead of the big dragon.
Oxley strode to the edge of the deeply chewed, splintered oaken stern and shook his fist at the receding dragon head. “To the devil you go, you pigtailed bastards!”
The big steel dragon was still on the surface even as the Yellowsea Yank pulled away. At the top of the dragon head, the tall man in the ostrich feather cap stood unmoving.
Kanlee ran up next to Captain Oxley. “Captain, you have any idea what this is about?”
Oxley scowled. “You again? Stay out of my business, Chinaman.” He stomped away, shouting orders to his crew.
Kanlee decided to forget about the dragon ship. At the rail, he turned away from the stern and looked forward, searching again for the mouth of the Yangzi River.
Defiant, She Advanced: Legends of Future Resistance Page 7
