by Kin Law
“Of course, you are welcome to steal the guidance crystal,” Clemens added. “If you’re pirate enough.”
11: Moscow
At military bases all over Russia, prime ministers, lords, princes and other persons of import were assembling beneath concrete bunkers studded with Howitzers, their perimeters flanked by Balaenopteron-class carriers flying all the colors of Europe. Fast, deadly corsairs zipped past overhead, armed with steamthrowers, mortar, and pressurized anchors. Fleets stationed at the borders of the Ottomans had been recalled. All stops had been pulled.
“Are we sure it’s the Kremlin?” The Tsar of Russia asked. He was clean-shaven, and dressed to the nines in the latest Parisian fashions. He had just come from the opera, at news of the Cataclysm’s movements. “We know it was a British alchemist responsible for this calamity- we cannot ignore the possibility of an attempt by the Britons to invade the Motherland.”
There was a moment while technicians in brown boiler suits and rubber gloves, identical despite being in separate bases hundreds of miles away from each other, decoded the telegraphed wobble of lines into audible sound. Unwilling to stress the equipment, the Tsar had been reduced to the bare bones of his message, without any of the careful politic that had been the hallmark of his reign.
By military necessity, agreed upon in a joint meeting of five nations’ military, each nation’s leaders were segregated into their own protected locations. The Swiss Guard was also in attendance, receiving their messages aboard a Revenant-class airship hovering somewhere over neutral Poland.
The Tsar’s aristocratic voice boomed out, nearly simultaneously through grilles in all six of these sparking machines.
“Based on the information provided by my Minister of Sciences,” Queen Victoria III’s reply thundered into the Tsar’s telegraph chamber a moment later. It was no less imposing than the Tsar, given the young Queen’s rather sonorous voice. “The Cataclysm’s path crosses over Moscow. My agents in the field inform me it will try to collect another major symbol of Europe. The Kremlin lies in nearly the center of Moscow, and if he follows the same modus operandi, it is an irresistible target. Valima Mordemere is a traitor to the Pax Britania, and will be summarily executed upon his capture. We have proof his current leverage was procured through the sale of arms to our mutual enemies.”
The Tsar thought there was rather a lot Victoria III was not telling them, but such was par the course. International politics were essentially anarchy in the best of times. It was refreshing to have a common, obvious course of action.
“Are we coordinated in the air and ground, Tsar Nikolai?” The French Premier, a repulsive man named Des Flandres, asked out of turn. The telegraph operators had to separate his signal from Victoria III’s, a tedious process. In a moment, the rest of the British Queen’s message was played, but it was only an echo of the Premier’s sentiment.
“Yes, we are prepared,” the Tsar answered. “I regret only four of The Knights of the Round are available, but they have been incorporated into the formation with our four Balaenopteron-class. I will be aboard the Vasillisa, and will command the theater myself.”
That was an obvious jibe to the Queen, yet Nikolai Koshchey was only commander in name. His general Karelin would handle the actual battle.
“The infantry and engine corps will be stationed according to the accompanying document, which your technicians should be receiving now.”
It was a delicate situation. There was a tactical element to consider, a difficult one, as dirigible combat was largely a field with no precedent. More importantly, the distribution of troops from all five countries had to be roughly equal. Russia was too close to the Ottomans for Nikolai to botch this operation, politically or militarily. He had to be perceived as a fair, unbiased field commander, a title granted only because the battle was to be over his own country. Technically, with pieces of sovereign land conceivably hanging over the Kremlin, his partner nations had every right to assert themselves. If he had it his way, Moscow would handle the entire affair.
To make matters worse, the Cataclysm was no ordinary enemy.
The Queen seemed not to notice, or more likely, ignored the jibe. Her answer was immediate and shocking.
“I will also be in attendance aboard the Gwain,” Queen Victoria III said. “I have every confidence in our alliance’s victory.” In a moment, every other nation was agreeing. They would all send representatives, and in the French Premier’s case, he would be coming as well.
Pizdets! The Tsar could hardly back out of this one, could he?
“Acknowledged. We welcome you to Russia.”
“All right. There’s the Gwain, over the southwest there, the one with the maiden figurehead. Mordemere doesn’t look like he’s about to give up, does he?” said Inspector Hargreaves, breaking the silence hanging over everyone like arclight.
Her practical voice was a spark, setting off ball lightning. Everyone suddenly had something to say, from pointing out the imposing walls of the Kremlin below, to admiration of the impregnable Russian Balaenopterons circling the city. They were impressive, at that, certainly appearing to glower brutally at the dark blot of the Nidhogg on the southeast part of the sky. Hargreaves admired the dense, square profiles, built to last.
“Shut up, all of you. Their ships carry ear scopes. Even with all the chatter from five different navies in the sky, a keen midshipman can still catch a pirate boat.” Albion said.
They were hiding out over the Khoroshevkiy raion, or district, just below the Baba Yaga, one of the Kremlin’s Balaenopterons. She was a dense battle-axe of a bird, easily covering the Berry in the shade of her wings. By keeping the Berry in her shadow, Captain Clemens was hoping to stay out of sight as long as possible, to both the gathered navies and Mordemere himself.
Hargreaves could have told him to keep under one of the Knights. She had of course informed the Queen of their plan to infiltrate the Nidhogg.
“All right, this is close enough. It looks like the Balaenopterons are securing the perimeter, and we’re past the military cordon on the ground. We should be able to sneak in from here,” Clemens was saying.
“Agreed,” Blair answered
“Roger,” Hargreaves weighed in. She was getting the sort of antsy tension she got just before a mission. She remembered why she had agreed to become the Queen’s hands and legs, now. When all the detecting was done, there had never been any closure until she could kick down a couple of doors, or put a bullet in a criminal kneecap.
“Hold on a moment there,” Cid Tanner interrupted. The old codger had suddenly appeared on the bridge, startling everyone there.
“Cid, what the bloody-“ Clemens’ profanity was interrupted soundly, by a canvas-wrapped package hitting him square in the chest.
“Forgot something, have you? Just remember, you’ve only got three of those. In a pinch, it’ll take a nine-millimeter, but the fit isn’t perfect and I won’t guarantee it’ll shoot straight. Best of luck to you now,” and Cid disappeared once more, back into whatever grease-coated hole he usually dwelt.
“What was that?” Rosa Marija gaped.
“Old man doesn’t like to say goodbyes,” Captain Clemens said shortly. “Superstitious. Brilliant!” This last was directed at Cid’s parting gift.
In Clemens’ hands, unwrapped and gleaming, there lay a small, wooden box, and inside, a gigantic burgundy weapon.
It was most definitely a firearm- there was an enameled grip, a hammer, and a heavy-duty trigger, but everything else was alien. Hargreaves thought her experiences in the Yard had familiarized herself with every type of pistol, but this was something absolutely bollocks.
There was only one chamber, an oversized muzzle, probably fifty-caliber at the outside. Bits and bobs clung to the barrel and the handle, including what looked to be a vacuum tube, a cat’s cradle of guitar string, and a little jade carving hanging off a chain at the grip.
“It’s not quite finished,” Clemens was explaining, He passed off the weapon
to Rosa, who thumbed the chamber open and started to test the weight. The Captain himself opened the little box to show three metal cylinders nestled in velvet, tipped with twilight-blue points.
“This, my cohorts, is the Red Special. It’s a gas-powered launcher, recharging off the ship’s pressure ports. We’ve been working on it for quite some time. Cid rushed through an assembly so we could use Moore’s crystals.”
“It’s non-lethal…” Hargreaves said, realization dawning.
“That was the intention. With Moore’s crystals as ammunition, we don’t actually know. Even on Moore’s schematics, the Core is a black box. Anything could happen. This way, we can deliver the crystals from a distance.”
“Despite your obvious compensation disorder, I agree. It is most definitely a way to deliver the crystals into the Core,” Rosa Marija said approvingly, flipping the chamber closed on its heavy-duty hinge and handing it back to the Captain, grip-first. She had changed into her battle-ready attire once more, though the effect was softened by a tiny bunch of ribbons intended as a small bustle.
“All right, all right. However we’re doing this, let’s do this already!” Hargreaves finally gasped.
She turned her back on the whole thing before she lost her nerve. These pirates seemed to think saving the world was one huge pub crawl!
Hargreaves had been a little apprehensive when Captain Clemens suggested they drop in on the anchors. In the forests of Romania, and during their several dubious hijackings, the Inspector had glimpsed through her disapproving frown the violence of the anchors launched from the Berry like so many Cockney slurs. She was duly surprised when Clemens kicked at a lever on deck, loosing an anchor silently on oiled steel wire. It hung suspended about woman-height from the ground.
So, the Captain could be subtle when he wished, Hargreaves thought.
The deserted streets of Moscow were still frosted, despite the coming spring. This was the country that had once seen winters freeze the lungs with a single unprotected breath. Hargreaves realized with a jolt- it was already April. Her birthday was in May. It suddenly occurred to her, nestled there between the latest Parisian boutiques and the slightly Asiatic, upturned eaves, she might not make it to her birthday.
Inspector Vanessa Hargreaves was not only pragmatic to fault, she had long ago come to terms with her own mortality. She could never see the point of living if life had no point. Even as the thought occurred to her, she realized they were within sight of one of the most famous cathedrals in Europe, St. Basil’s.
She had never willfully stepped foot in a church, though she was not so extreme as to assert atheism.
Glimpsed between the frozen arches, the festive swirling colors of its onion domes glared defiantly over the serious functionality of the rest of Moscow.
“Look there,” Elric Blair whispered. The four halted in the shade of a gargoyle. Blair’s finger was pointing through an alley on the opposite side of the street, where a glimpse of metal peeked through. A Russian soldier in gray furs passed across view, toting a rifle.
“Six-meter black powder cannon. Inches-thick barrel, fortified with cinder blocks. Nigh indestructible by air,” Captain Clemens remarked. He was using his pocket-glass, which he passed in turn to each of them. “Good old Russian utility. If it works, they use it, screw these newfangled steam works. Mordemere will have trouble with those.”
“The schematic shows the Nidhogg lies surrounded by the stolen landmarks. Will the cannons even work?” Blair asked, dumbfounded by the scale of the weapon.
Mordemere’s cloud hung ominously over the southeast part of the sky, still holding stalemate.
“The Muscovites don’t know about the landmarks,” Clemens said. “Mordemere loves architecture, according to Moore. He wouldn’t approach if the cannons might harm his precious booty.”
Ah, but Her Majesty Queen Victoria III knows it, Hargreaves thought. She had carefully telegraphed the information at one of the way stations, somewhere over a Germany in uproar.
Hargreaves could not guess what hand the young Queen wished to play, but with the Ottomans at their doorstep, Her Majesty could not afford to be surprised.
“We should avoid them if we can,” cautioned Rosa Marija. “The Ruskies don’t play the seduction game. They’ll shoot us without a second thought.”
Grim though she was, the possibility was too real to ignore. None of them wore any Clanker armor. Thick coats were good against the frigid Russian spring, but useless against bullets.
The four waited until they were sure the soldiers on the other street seemed to be more relaxed, then continued past. Captain Clemens insisted on climbing a tall residential block at the first opportunity. Now they knew what they were looking for, they could see the obvious placement of the cannons: six of them, spaced out in increments. From this formation, the Inspector was able to deduce a strategy.
“They are protecting the Kremlin,” declared Hargreaves. She showed them how the formation was laid as a perimeter defense. “If we are to infiltrate the Nidhogg, we ought to be headed there as well.”
“That’s six dollars from Auntie,” Clemens muttered. “And forty rupees from Prissy Jack.”
Aboard the Balaenopteron-class carrier Vasillisa, Tsar Nikolai was beginning to have doubts.
“Damned foreigners,” Nikolai could be seen mumbling between mouthfuls of caviar and vodka.
The Vasillisa carried a full complement, thirty corsairs, with a rotation of ten more on patrol.
Hovering over the Kremlin, the flagship overlooked a line of Howitzers along the fortress wall, each one modified and capable of launching jacketed ammunition at high velocity to reach the tallest dirigibles. Every fifth round was a tracer, both for visual confirmation and to ignite anything flammable penetrated in the delicate dirigible workings. They were a gift from the Swiss Guard.
In addition, there were six functional copies of the Tsar cannon spread out in a rough perimeter. Then there were the other nations’ ships to contend with, spaced broadsides to the dark mass of precipitation hanging over the southeast of the city.
Still, Nikolai could not shake the feeling of impending doom. Maybe it was because the cloud would not move, would not simply begin the attack. What was it waiting for? Nikolai had heard reports of Clanker troops in the German attack, the one on the Brandenburg gate. If this Valima Mordemere had such fearsome troops at his disposal, where were they? It should have been easy to send them in to destroy the cannons on the ground.
Karelin had planned the defense against such armored troops. They would use the corsairs and rain steamthrowers over the evacuated city, thus eating through the soft meaty parts of the Clankers. So where were they?
“Karelin. Hand me those oculars,” Nikolai commanded. His general obeyed, delivering the viewing lenses across a bridge filigreed within an inch of its life.
It was one of three battle bridges aboard the Vasillisa, this one slung midship, along the keel to better overlook the world below. It clashed magnificently with the slate grey of the outer hull.
“Your Excellency,” Karelin said as he handed the ornate instrument over. “It is the fourth time you have checked the deployment. It remains unchanged.”
“Karelin, I am aware of the fact. I wish to ascertain the enemy’s movements.”
General Pyotr Karelin was not a foolish man, and he did not deem it necessary to point out the enemy was wreathed in a cloud of manufactured cover.
“If you are concerned, Your Excellency, may I suggest a preemptive-“
“We have gone over this for the last time, Karelin. I will not risk the Motherland’s airships.”
“You fear the other nations will not follow in our attack, thus shifting the balance of power between us,” Karelin summed up succinctly. He had heard the argument time and again, but he knew, from polished boot heels to sharply pressed cap, there was no victory in defense. It was only a matter of choosing one’s moment.
“Mother Russia possesses four Balaenopterons. We are fa
r behind when compared to Britain’s Knights of the Round,” Nikolai snarled. He was Tsar- it was his prerogative to snarl. “If we are to lose even one, and Queen Victoria III recalls her other three from the colonies, we would be completely at her mercy. Compared to the young, modern Britania, Russia is a big, fat old babushka.”
“I do not like this. The Cossacks are liable to join the Ottomans against us any day. We should not speak of our allies in such a way, Your Excellency,” Karelin cautioned.
“The Tatar have always been a pirate people,” the Tsar replied. “They amount to no large threat… bozhe moi, what’s this?”
Karelin stepped up to a scope set into the bridge’s ceiling.
“Something is falling from the cloud, Your Excellency.”
“Enemy troops?”
“They are individuals… looks like dropping in on wires, Your Excellency. I will have a platoon intercept. If they are scouts, we will engage and capture them.”
“Good, good. Karelin, you are a most capable general,” Nikolai replied. He returned to the Captain’s seat in the center of the bridge. He felt relieved; after all, Karelin had things well in hand.
“The soldiers are moving,” Hargreaves noted with some trepidation. It was no large-scale preparation. Instead, the soldiers seemed to be breaking up into groups, half to man the cannon, half again standing guard, the rest marching toward the southeast.
From their perch on one of the square avant-garde roofs, the four from the Berry looked on as the troops appeared to be mounting some kind of offense. The street they were on intersected not too far ahead, and the troops seemed to be holding at the corner.
“There’s something coming,” Albion said.
“Can you see it with your glass?” asked Blair.
