by Quincy Allen
Jake nodded in recognition.
“It’s time to go. Cromwell’s started his attack!”
“Yeah, we noticed,” Cole replied.
Heavy, repeating cannons boomed all around the city.
Jake spotted several heavy metal objects hit the dirt in the street behind Requiem and recognized them as larger, Confederate versions of Skeeter’s poppers.
“Get down!” he screamed, grabbing the edge of the table and lifting.
A trio of deafening explosion blossomed in the street outside just as Jake threw the table up as a shield. The concussions blew the windows in, spraying glass and lumber in all directions.
Requiem flew through the entryway and sailed over their table, crashing into a wall and crumpling in a heap on the floor.
A woman upstairs screamed just as Jake wrapped himself around Skeeter as he and Cole dove behind the table. Jake glanced at Requiem and recognized the truth immediately. The big man was dead. A portion of the doorframe had impaled him through his back, and his neck canted at a sickening angle.
“What the hell!” Cole shouted as the distinct whine of several Roswellian rotary craft flew overhead, machine guns blazing. The sirens blaring across the city changed from the howling to a steady cadence, on-off-on-off-on-off. As Jake looked to the street again, the people of Roswell burst from their homes, all running toward the center of town. He recognized the blacksmith running by the shattered windows, but before Jake could say anything, the man was gone.
Another explosion down the street shook the White Mare, and more people screamed in pain.
“You okay, Skeeter?” he asked, standing up and holding his hand out to her.
“I’m fine.” She stood quickly and grabbed her hat off of the suitcase.
“Cole?”
Cole rose from under the table, dusted off his pants, and wiped a trickle of blood from his cheek. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
“You’ll get no argument from me. Do you need anything from upstairs?” Jake asked.
“Nada.” Cole picked the Thumper off the floor where it had fallen over and then pressed his hat down on his head. “I’m good to go, amigo.”
“Skeeter?” Jake asked, turning to his ward.
“As long as I have this,” she indicated her suitcase, “then I’m ready for just about anything.”
“Forsythe?” Jake called out.
There was no answer.
He looked around the room and spotted a huge star of shattered mirror behind the bar, as if something large had crashed into it.
“Oh god …” Jake whispered.
He rushed to the bar and looked over the edge. There, on the floor, lay Forsythe in a pool of blood, his breathing shallow and labored. His clothes and flesh were slashed to pieces, ripped apart by flying glass. A long irregular shaft of wood jutted from his chest. Jake leapt over the bar and crouched beside his friend.
“Forsythe!” he screamed.
His friend’s eyes opened slowly and focused upon Jake. Forsythe gave his friend a bloody smile.
“I don’t think they’re gonna be able to put me back together, Jake.”
“Forsythe, I …” Jake stammered.
A thick, blood-heavy coughing fit wracked Forsythe’s body, and then he gave up the ghost, going limp.
“Jake?” Cole called out, his voice full of worry.
Jake closed his friend’s eyes and held back the tears he didn’t have time to give. “Goodbye, old friend,” he whispered. “Tell my family I said hello.”
Jake stood and turned toward Cole and Skeeter.
“Forsythe?” Cole asked.
Jake simply shook his head.
A shadow passed over the street, and then a high-pitched whistling sound filled the air. Everyone turned toward the windows to see six jump-troopers in Texas uniforms land in a cloud of dust. Two were facing the bar while the rest faced down the street. In unison, they lifted their chainguns, the weapons spinning up as they aimed.
Jake drew his weapons first, Cole close behind. Wood splintered throughout the bar, and the mirror behind Jake shattered with the barrage. A round hammered into the metal of his left arm, and another nicked his cheek. He ignored it.
Cole fired from behind the table, but Jake just stood like a statue, the image of Forsythe etched into his vision as he let his fury flow through his pistols.
The two troopers facing the bar went down first, staggering back with each impact. Then the other four turned, realizing their comrades had been shot. They dropped as lethal gunfire came from inside the bar. The chainguns went silent in the dust.
Holstering his Officer’s Colt, Jake picked up Forsythe’s weapon. Without a word, he hopped over the bar and strode out into the street.
Three of the troopers were still moving, albeit barely. Like a machine, Jake aimed Forsythe’s pistol, and, one by one, he shot each trooper between the eyeholes of his helmet. None of them moved after that.
Jake strode to the shattered doorway and stared at Cole. “Let’s go,” he ordered. His voice was steel, and his eyes shone with fury. “Where the hell is Ghiss?”
“I am here, sir,” Ghiss called from the top of the stairs.
Everyone did a double-take.
Ghiss stood before them like a dull metal skeleton. He didn’t have a scrap of clothing on except for loose black shorts. His holsters were in place, and Jake noticed that Ghiss’ pistols had longer barrels sticking out the bottom. He had a knapsack over his shoulders that Jake assumed held the man’s clothing. “Under the circumstances, I believe my talents would be best applied upon the rooftops of this beleaguered city. I can provide cover for you as we make our way to that remarkable dragon,” he added.
Jake couldn’t fathom why Ghiss would still be undressed if he knew they were leaving. It was early, but Ghiss hadn’t appeared to need much sleep. Jake remembered that Ghiss hadn’t slept much all those years ago at Tinker Farris’ either.
Unfortunately, there wasn’t time to ask about it.
“Skeeter, you stay between me and Cole. Cut to the right, if you please,” Jake added.
“Wait a second,” Cole said. He stepped up to Requiem’s body and drew the big man’s sword. “This might come in handy.” Cole paused, and his eyes flicked to where Forsythe lay behind the bar. “And Jake … I’m sorry.”
A pained look drifted across Jake’s face, and his lips pressed down to a grim line. He nodded. “It’s just one more thing Cromwell has taken from me. There’s gonna be a reckoning soon enough. Now let’s go find Lumpy and get our asses out of here.”
“The bull? Are you sure—” Ghiss started.
The glare Jake gave Ghiss would have melted boilerplate. “I ain’t leaving without my bull.” Jake left no room for debate. He then turned and marched to the door. “Head for the alley next to the blacksmith’s,” he ordered.
Ghiss sighed and nodded. “As you wish.” He strode down the stairs, stepping in behind Cole and Skeeter as they dashed into the street, turned around the corner of the White Mare, and disappeared into the alley next to the blacksmith’s.
Gun and cannon fire sounded from all around the city, a staccato drone pulsing in random waves around them in every direction. They would have to be cautious at every turn. Jake scanned the street. Strange, green smoke drifted around the corner of the intersection five doors down. He hoped Roswell wasn’t on fire or being poisoned by Cromwell’s troops.
He heard gunfire being exchanged in nearby streets, but the worst of it seemed to be southeast, near the center of the city and the shield tower. A concentration of gunfire northeast in the direction of the main gate and Pandora Celtica had him worried. A number of zeppelins battled above the city. He immediately recognized that the faint ruddy haze of Roswell’s shield was gone, which meant that somehow Cromwell’s troops had sabotaged it.
The enemy zeppelins overhead had all been completely covered with sky blue paint or fabric, and they blended perfectly with the sky above. It was one hell of a sneak attac
k. He just couldn’t figure how they could have gotten to the tower, let alone been able to sneak up on the city. He smelled Szilágyi as several more sky-blue zepps sailed over, disgorging jump-troopers down into the city.
It didn’t look good for Roswell.
To the east, three enemy zeppelins harried two smaller Roswell zepps that were already badly damaged and drifting on the wind, their rotors motionless. A handful of rotary craft swooped around the enemy zepps, but the two crippled Roswell ships looked finished.
To the north, three Texas Republic zepps hovered over what Jake guessed was the gateway to where Pandora Celtica lay. He could see concentrated gunfire rising skyward, which was helping keep the enemy craft at bay. But what the Texans had to be worried about was the occasional gout of flame that rose skyward every twenty seconds or so. It was similar to what Qi had used during the fight in San Francisco, but it was bigger … much bigger … rising high about the rooftops and almost reaching the enemy zepps.
The largest of the three zeppelins was flanked by two smaller ships, and Jake could just make out dozens of Republic troops rappelling down into the city. Three heavy assault units were lowered into the city on heavy cables, their bronze armor gleaming in the sunlight. A swarm of rotary craft buzzed about like angry hornets, circling and making passes at the troopers beneath, their forward guns blazing. In a burst of flames, one, then another, of the rotary craft were savaged by gunfire and dropped down into the city with loud explosions.
Jake couldn’t see the Dragun, but he hoped it was kicking the hell out of Cromwell’s entire air force somewhere. With a quick look up and down the street, he ducked out the door, skirting to the right and moving quickly past the alley where everyone waited. As he went by, Cole fiddled with the water barrel Jake had leaned against the night before. Without pausing, he dashed to the wide sliding door of the stable, only to find it had been locked. A thick padlock secured the handles with a heavy chain.
A fuse cooked off behind Jake, and he spun, hoping no one had thrown dynamite at them. To his surprise, a thick cloud of green smoke had erupted from out of the alley and was filling the street. He peeked around the corner as a thick fountain of smoke erupted from the top of the barrel.
“Clever,” he said as Cole stepped out of the alley. Cole stopped in front of the locked doors and then smiled.
“Watch this,” he said as he raised Requiem’s sword above his head. As it rose, Jake could see that the weapon was like nothing he’d ever seen. Although the hilt and guard were a polished silver with sapphires and the blue tassel, the blade appeared to be made of gleaming bone. It had a slight curve to it, like a sabre, but its shape came to a longer point, and a jagged edge ran along the blade for about ten inches up from the hilt. A tight pattern of runes covered the entire blade from hilt to tip, and they glimmered faintly, the way his pistol did, but with a bluish hue.
Jake instinctively stepped out of the way.
The sword came down with a metallic ching, and the blade cut through the chain like a cleaver through sausage.
Jake gave Cole an impressed look, grabbed the handle, and opened the door. “Hell of a sword,” he said as Cole passed by.
“You have no idea.”
There was a shifting of nervous hooves within, and two horses whinnied. His back against the inside of the door, Jake gave one more look up and down the street and then motioned for the others to get inside.
Cole and Skeeter moved into the stable quickly, and Jake followed, sliding the door closed behind him and leaving a small gap.
“Shit!” Cole yelled. “Where’s the wagon?”
“Don’t worry,” Jake soothed. “Shadowcat’s people came for it overnight.” Cole nodded, relaxing visibly. “So,” Jake continued with a questioning look, “What was that smoke?”
“Part of the city defenses. You may have noticed the barrels spaced on corners and in alleys. There’s a fuse inside the hole. Just light it and smoke pours out for an hour or so.”
Jake nodded. “Yeah, I saw that. But it’ll blind everyone, including the locals … and us, come to think of it.”
Cole smiled wickedly. “Remember all those goggles last night?”
Jake thought about it. Every Roswellian had worn them. Every one. “No shit?”
“No shit. We’ll see Cromwell’s troops just fine.” Cole suddenly looked a little embarrassed. “Well, the Roswellians will. We’ll have to find our own along the way.”
It’s a clever tactic, Jake thought. The folks of Roswell would know the city, and invaders wouldn’t. “We’ll light any we find as we go, but we have to get out of here first. Cole, Ghiss, watch the door.…” Jake looked around. “Wait a sec. Where the hell is Ghiss?”
Cole smiled and pointed his thumb toward the roof.
Jake shook his head and rolled his eyes. “Fine.” Looking at Cole, he said, “You watch the door.” Then turning to Skeeter, he added, “Gimme a hand with Lumpy’s harness.”
Everyone moved in unison. It took only a few minutes to get Lumpy saddled, and Jake was grateful that Lumpy cooperated for a change. Jake grabbed Skeeter’s suitcase, hooked the handle over the saddle horn, and then lifted Skeeter into the saddle.
A barrage of energy shots erupted from the rooftop, followed closely by the sound of two men screaming from around the corner outside. Two more energy shots silenced the screaming.
“You’re clear,” Ghiss said from the roof.
Jake looked up at the ceiling. “You got any issues with us crossing the street?” he hollered up at Ghiss.
“You need not concern yourself, Mister Lasater. I will have little difficulty keeping up with you.”
Jake nodded again and then pulled Lumpy out of the stall.
“We’re gonna move fast,” he said to them all. “Cole, can you take us around the perimeter of the wall?” He figured Cromwell and Szilágyi’s men would be concentrated in the main thoroughfares of Roswell.
Cole thought about it and smiled. “Yeah. There’s a series of alleys we can use for cover. The last one empties out not far from the main gateway.”
“Perfect,” Jake said. He pulled both Colts and peered through the crack, looking to the left and right.
The street was clear, so he slid the door open and stepped out into a smoky street. “Okay, lead the way.” Cole dashed across the street to an alley. Skeeter followed on Lumpy, the great bull thumping through the dust. When Lumpy disappeared into the alley, Jake followed, the gears of his legs screaming as he pushed them to their limits. Cole was at the far end of the alley, and Skeeter was moving up to him on Lumpy.
Jake made the alley and turned quickly as a harsh, metallic ringing sound, almost like a giant spring uncoiling, filled the street.
Ghiss sailed through the smoke-filled air. The mercenary landed with a quiet series of thumps on the rooftop above. Jake estimated the gap had to be at least forty feet, and his admiration for what Ghiss was capable of went up a few notches.
“Jesus,” Cole hollered.
“You said it,” Jake agreed. He jogged to the far end of the alley where Cole and Skeeter waited.
The street beyond was so full of smoke they could barely see the other side. A group of figures moved along the far side, sifting through the swirling haze like ghosts. They were heading quickly toward a raging battle some blocks away, covering each other as they moved.
At the same instant, both groups aimed or drew weapons. Several tense heartbeats later, everyone lowered their weapons.
Many of the Roswellians wore the same bronze plating along their arms and legs as the crew of the Dragun, and they all wore the goggles.
“Good luck,” Cole said, nodding to their group’s leader. The leader tapped the brim of his stovepipe hat in salute with an energy pistol of some kind.
“Watch yourselves,” Ghiss called down from above. The group of bronze clad defenders raised their weapons instinctively but quickly lowered them once again. “I believe you’ve got an enemy squad about two blocks up on the left.
”
Their leader saluted once again and whispered something to his people. There were several nods, and the group split in two, half crossing the street and the other moving as before. They disappeared into the smoke, and Jake gave silent thanks for their mechanical eyes above. He was suddenly very grateful that he hadn’t killed Ghiss back in San Francisco.
Without a word, Cole dashed across the street and disappeared into the next alley, the rest following exactly as they had before. They crossed another street, and another, moving as silently as they could through the smoke like ghosts.
Occasionally they would see a face in a window or a shadow running from one doorway to another. Jake figured that most of the fighters were already engaged with the enemy in the skirmishes that raged around the city.
“Hold up,” Cole said, peeking around the corner from the alley where they hid. He looked back and said, “Stay here,” then he disappeared into the smoke, moving silently.
Jake stepped past Lumpy and poked his head around the corner. Just at the edge of visibility he spotted a leg clad in the Roswell-style armor. An occasional gust of wind parted the green haze here and there as Cole moved silently through the smoke. Between the swirls, Jake spotted seven Roswell defenders lying in the street. Cole went to one body, kneeled for a few seconds and then move on to another.
“What is it?” Skeeter asked.
“Some of the defenders,” Jake whispered. “Cole is doing something, but I can’t tell what.”
Cole returned holding three sets of goggles in his hand and a pair slipped over his eyes. “Here, put these on.” He handed a pair to both of them. “Ghiss?” he hissed towards the roof.
Ghiss’ head and stovetop hat appeared above them.
Cole threw up the third set of goggles, which Ghiss deftly grabbed in his skeletal hand. With a nod, he disappeared once again. A moment later, Ghiss dropped with a thud into the street ahead of them and to the right, obscured by the haze.
