by Anthony Ryan
She crouched, shuddering as the last of the Green faded from her veins, then looked up at the thump of several large bodies hitting the walkway. She let out a tired groan at the sight of what now confronted her. It appeared the Reds’ cargo didn’t just consist of Spoiled. The trio of Greens spent a brief moment sniffing the smokey air before fixing their gaze on her and immediately charging, jaws gaping wide as they summoned their flames. If there had been any Green left she might have been able to leap over the drakes at the last moment. But there was no Green so all she could do was inject her remaining Red and Black, hoping to match their flames with her own but knowing it wouldn’t be enough.
Flames began to blossom from the mouth of the leading Green as it closed to within a dozen feet, whereupon it was lifted off its claws and propelled into a near by iron support beam with enough force to break its spine. Flames engulfed the two remaining Greens as they whirled to the left to meet the new threat, Lizanne turning to see a slender, soot-covered figure emerge from a hatchway.
Sofiya Griffan seemed to have suddenly acquired a demonic aspect, her face like a mask of white and black and her unbound red hair flowing as she advanced on the Greens, the air around her shimmering with unleashed heat. Lizanne marvelled at the amount of Red she must have ingested, far more than was normally considered safe judging by the intensity of the fire she cast at the Greens. The heat was sufficient to blacken even their fire-resistant hides, causing both to scamper back, squealing in distress in a manner that was almost piteous. Mrs. Griffan, however, appeared to have lost all capacity for pity.
Having forced the pair of Greens to the edge of the walkway she unleashed her Black, tearing the limbs from their torsos, their screams multiplying as the unabated flames met exposed flesh. Even then she wasn’t done, advancing to stand over the writhing creatures as she tore ever more flesh from their bones until the screams finally fell silent and they were no more than blackened, twitching husks on the deck.
Sofiya collapsed as Lizanne rushed to her side. She was saying something, lips moving in a faint whisper as she sang a soft tune Lizanne recognised as an old Mandinorian nursery rhyme. “Eat, eat, eat it all up, or you’ll get no pudding today . . .”
“Mrs. Griffan,” Lizanne said, shaking the woman’s shoulder.
There was no response save the continual repetition of the same whispered words. “Eat, eat, eat it all up, or—”
“Sofiya!” Lizanne shook her again, hard enough to force the other woman to turn. Sofiya Griffan blinked at her blankly for several long seconds until recognition dawned.
“Miss Lethridge,” Sofiya said, her voice possessed of a calm that seemed completely out of keeping with their present circumstance. “They ate my husband. Ate him all up.”
Lizanne glanced back at the hatch from which Sofiya had emerged. It led to the engines, but from the thickness of the smoke billowing from below Lizanne had serious doubts anyone would still be alive down there. She rose, peering through the acrid, billowing fog at the sea beyond the walkway. She could see one of the enemy ships burning, a frigate drifting in a lazy circle as tall flames consumed her superstructure. From the speed at which the wreck passed by the Profitable’s starboard beam it was clear that whatever conflagration raged beneath the cruiser’s decks, her blood-burners were still operating at full power.
Lizanne went to the rail and leaned out, squinting at the sea beyond the bows. Through the haze she could see two more warships, bright flashes on the fore-decks and the whine of approaching shot indicating they were still very much in this fight. The fact that the Profitable was heading straight for the ships told her the cruiser was still answering the helm and Captain Verricks was resolved to see this through to the end.
He’s buying time, she realised, turning about and shielding her eyes to scan the eastern horizon. The refugee fleet were dim shapes in the haze now, growing dimmer as they piled on the steam to complete their escape. Time for them but none for us.
“Come with me,” she said, moving to grasp Sofiya by the arm, pulling her upright and tugging her along. Lizanne found Makario propping Tinkerer up against the bulkhead. “I think he’s coming round,” he said, catching sight of Lizanne.
“Let’s see.” She delivered a hard slap to Tinkerer’s jaw, provoking a groan and a vague blink of his eyes. Several more slaps were sufficient to return him to consciousness.
“Please stop that,” he said as Lizanne drew her hand back for another blow.
“We can’t carry you any farther,” she said. “Follow and stay close.”
Fortunately, Sofiya seemed to have subsided into a state of dumb compliance which made it easy to lead her to the ladder and down to the life-boat derricks. “Oh bother!” Lizanne exclaimed, viewing the shattered and blackened remnants of the boats she had hoped to find.
“There!” Makario said, pointing to the end of the row where a single boat, smaller than the others, lay apparently unscathed if somewhat charred. They rushed to it and climbed in, Lizanne checking to ensure it was equipped with oars before turning her attention to the lowering mechanism.
“Won’t someone have to get out and wind it?” Makario asked, his tone indicating a marked reluctance to volunteer.
From above came the grinding whistle of an approaching shell followed by a deafening explosion. “I doubt we have the leisure for that,” Lizanne said, pulling Sofiya into a protective huddle as debris rained down about them. When the cascade stopped she focused her gaze on the ropes from which the life-boat was suspended. “Hold on!” she said and used the last vestiges of her Red to burn the ropes away. The life-boat plummeted ten feet to the water, impacting with sufficient force to tip Tinkerer over the side, though Makario was quick to catch hold of his flailing arms.
“Do you have any Green?” Lizanne asked Sofiya after she and Makario had hauled the sputtering artificer back on board. Mrs. Griffan offered a blank stare in response before shrugging her slim shoulders. “Never mind.” Lizanne turned to Makario and Tinkerer. “Take the oars. I’ll steer.”
Their two male companions proved to be inexpert but enthusiastic rowers, their efforts spurred on by a series of explosions that wracked the Profitable from end to end as they drew away. Lizanne set the tiller to an easterly course then turned to watch the Profitable as it closed on the two enemy frigates.
The huge cruiser’s forward guns kept up a steady barrage as she charged on, Lizanne estimating her speed at close to forty knots. Shell after shell tore into her upper works, transforming much of the superstructure into a mangled mass of twisted smoking metal. Judging from the bodies littering the sea the ship’s Growlers and Thumpers had taken a fearful toll on the attacking Reds, and only half a dozen remained to torment her, swooping down to cast their flames at the sailors who fought back with rifle fire to little effect. Still the Profitable came on, her return fire becoming more accurate as the range diminished. One of the frigates took a full salvo amidships, birthing an instantaneous explosion that tore the warship in two. The stern section sank almost immediately whilst the bows rolled over and lingered on the surface for a short time, Lizanne seeing the ant-like figures of men clinging to the hull.
Not men, she reminded herself, watching the wreck sink beneath the waves amidst a roiling froth of foam and hoping every single member of her inhuman crew drowned along with her.
The Profitable changed course, angling her stern towards the sole remaining enemy ship, sirens blaring a salute to what Lizanne knew would be her final act.
CHAPTER 8
Sirus
He could feel them drowning. Over two hundred Spoiled were on the Losing Proposition and most of them survived the explosion that ignited her magazine and tore her in two. So Sirus was given a fulsome education in the experience of convulsive gasping as salt water invaded throat and lungs. Even amongst the Spoiled panic would take over at the end, subjugated human instincts reborn at the instant of death. The resultan
t blossom of terror and desperation should have been repugnant, something to slam his mental shields against. Instead he drank it all in. Fear, he had come to understand, was a precious commodity. He could use this. Constant exposure to a life of horrors was creating an ever-thicker callus around his soul, eroding his capacity to feel anything. When his own reserves of fear were depleted now he could summon the memories of the dead to guard his mind. This he did now as he sent a silent pulse of thanks into the fading minds of the Spoiled as they slipped into the depths.
The Losing Proposition had been the fastest and least damaged ship in their small fleet, her original name of the Negotiator scraped from her hull and replaced by something more to Catheline’s liking. It transpired that the Blood-blessed woman had a flair for the ironic. Sirus’s command ship, a heavy frigate once dubbed the IPV Position of Strength, was now the Imminent Demise, a name that seemed increasingly appropriate as the huge Protectorate battleship loomed ever larger in the bridge window.
“Hard to starboard!” he commanded aloud to the Spoiled at the helm, simultaneously sending a thought-command to the engine room: Reverse starboard paddle.
The Imminent Demise veered away as the battleship came on, paddles turning the sea to foam on either side of her hull. Despite the damage that had wrecked much of her upper works, the fire of the battleship’s forward batteries continued unabated. Sirus had ordered the guns seized by the Spoiled the Reds had deposited on the ship but resistance from the Protectorate crew had been ferocious. Consequently, all but a handful from an assault force of over fifty had been killed. They had succeeded in dispatching over twice their number in the savage fighting that raged throughout the ship, but a vessel this size had plenty of crewmen in reserve. Sirus felt sure that one of his squads, all veterans of the Barrier Isles campaign, would have succeeded in silencing the guns if they hadn’t encountered the Lethridge woman.
Sirus’s mind had been fully occupied with marshalling his fleet against the battleship and her fearsomely accurate guns, but the rush of recognition experienced by the Spoiled boarding party had cut through the competing morass of image and sensation. Lizanne Lethridge’s face had been plucked from the memory of one of the few Exceptional Initiatives agents captured at Feros and seared into the mind of every Spoiled by Catheline herself. The image had been accompanied by an implacable instruction: Kill this woman on sight.
They had certainly tried, Sirus taking charge of the squad and orchestrating an assault that should have left Miss Lethridge a bullet-riddled corpse. The notion of summoning a burst of fear to mask his mind and allow her to escape fluttered through his head, but he resisted it. Recognition of this woman had spread throughout the fleet and across the many miles to Feros; Catheline would know.
In the event, no subterfuge was necessary. Sirus had faced many formidable people in battle before, wickedly skilled Island warriors, the Shaman King and grizzled Protectorate veterans during his warship-seizing operations. But watching this woman as she leapt and shot, utilising her powers with an economy and ferocity that was truly frightening, he knew he was looking upon the most dangerous individual he was ever likely to meet.
He had come close, however, his sole remaining Spoiled might actually have done the deed if Lethridge’s companion hadn’t intervened. The woman’s face disappeared into instant blackness as the bullet tore through the Spoiled’s brain and Sirus felt a painful howl of frustration filling his mind. The connection to his fellow Spoiled was lost as the howl continued, accompanied by a lacerating fury as Catheline gave full vent to her feelings.
Sink that fucking ship, Admiral, her mind boomed in his head. Whatever the cost. I want that bitch dead!
He had organised his ships into a broad semicircle, the two more lightly armed sloops at either end and heavily armed frigates in the centre. The whole affair would have been over fairly quickly if a sufficient number of Blues had been with them, but it transpired the aquatic drakes were unable to keep pace with steam-powered ships for more than a few hours at a time. Consequently, their accompanying force of two dozen Blues were nowhere in sight when the Protectorate fleet hove into view, obliging Sirus to fight the battle with the forces on hand.
He ordered the two sloops to use their superior speed to dart close to the battleship, loose off a rapid salvo then withdraw so as to divide the enemy’s fire whilst the frigates’ barrage did most of the damage. All the while the Reds conducted harassing dives on the battleship, sweeping her decks with fire. It had been an effective if costly tactic so far, most of the Reds had fallen to the battleship’s deadly repeating guns and a sloop and a frigate had been destroyed thanks to sheer weight of gunnery. But it was working. The big ship could only take so much more, despite her captain’s impressive manoeuvring and the desperate courage of her crew. All they had to do was draw back a mile or so and let her exhaust her reserves of product before closing in for the kill. But with Catheline’s command the time for tactical niceties was over.
Sirus ordered his three remaining ships into a tight formation and launched them head-on at the battleship. The other sloop went down first, striking out in the lead only to be caught by a mixture of heavy and light armament when she drew within four hundred yards of the enemy. Both her paddles were wrecked within minutes and her boiler exploded as she foundered. The Losing Proposition went next, felled by a lucky plunging shot to the magazine, which left the Imminent Demise to face the dying monster alone.
“Midships,” Sirus ordered as the frigate’s bow swung north. He sent a command to the engine room to set both paddles into forward motion but a glance through the side-window told him it wouldn’t be enough.
The battleship loomed over the smaller vessel as the two ships closed, the repeating guns on the Protectorate ship raking the Imminent Demise from stern to bow. Sirus dived to the deck as cannon shells and bullets tore the bridge apart, showering him with shattered glass and timber. He felt the ship heave to port and looked up to see the helmsman lying near by. A cannon shell appeared to have punched clean through the Spoiled and he lay gazing at the smoke rising from the hole in his chest, yellow eyes curious rather than afraid.
Sirus tore his gaze from the sight and scrambled upright, lurching towards the wheel in the vain hope he might correct the ship’s course whilst she could still make headway. He was propelled off his feet before he could reach it, the entire ship wracked by a mighty shudder as the battleship rammed into her port beam at full speed. Ironwork screamed in protest as the huge ship’s prow tore into the guts of the Imminent Demise, steam exploding up through the sundered deck as her boiler burst. For a moment it seemed as if the battleship would slice the frigate clean in two but then her velocity suddenly diminished, Sirus assumed due to her blood-burners finally exhausting their fuel.
He had been thrown clear of the wrecked bridge and found himself clinging to the starboard railing. The sea seemed to be heaving around him and he realised the two ships were now locked together in a mad dance. The frigate’s starboard paddle was still turning and the battleship had brought her auxiliary engines on-line, forcing the two vessels into an erratic pirouette as neither had sufficient power to break free of the other. However, a quick scan of the minds of his remaining crew told Sirus the Imminent Demise would soon live up to its name. The impact had torn a gaping rent in the port hull plating and several tons of water had already deluged the hold and the ballast tanks. She would go under in minutes.
Sink it! Catheline’s voice in his head, shrill and undeniable in its compulsion. Kill her!
Sirus found a pair of Spoiled crewmen attempting to shore up the hull and sent them to the magazine instead. He also found a drowning Spoiled trapped beneath an iron beam in engineering. The man had been an armourer on a Protectorate vessel before his capture and it was an easy matter to pluck the required knowledge from his head before the rising waters claimed his final breath. Sirus instantly shared the knowledge with the two Spoiled in the magazine
. They completed the task with the kind of efficiency only the Spoiled could display, pushing the detonators into the sacks of propellant and rigging the fuses in a scant few minutes.
Sirus clambered back onto the listing deck of his short-lived command, gazing up at the prow of the battleship above. The Profitable Venture, he read from the iron-lettered plate behind the great ship’s anchor mounting. Not today, it seems. A bullet ricocheted off the bulkhead a few feet away as a Protectorate marksman tried his luck. Sirus ignored it, instead focusing his gaze on the tallest figure he could see amongst the riflemen assembled along the battleship’s rail. Whether the man was the captain, or even an officer, he couldn’t tell, but Sirus straightened and offered a perfect salute nevertheless. It seemed only polite.
He never knew if the man returned the salute for at that moment Catheline’s thoughts pushed their way into his. Very noble, I’m sure, Admiral. But we still have need of you. Time for a swim.
This command was no more resistible than the others and Sirus turned and sprinted for the starboard rail without pause, chased all the way by Protectorate rifle fire. He leapt over the rail and dived into the sea, plunging deep and staying below the surface as he swam away. The magazine blew when he had covered perhaps twenty yards. The blast wave would probably have killed a non-Spoiled, forcing the remaining air from his lungs and propelling him to the surface, his back arched like a bow.
Air flooded his lungs as he reared up out of the water, floundering for a brief time before his instinctive panic receded. He let the fear linger as he bobbed on the surface, gazing at the final moments of the two warships. The explosion had torn the Imminent Demise free of her ugly embrace with the larger vessel and she foundered quickly, Sirus once again sharing the final agonies of a drowning crew.
