Her Majesty's Western Service

by Leo Champion

  “No, Vice-Commodore. I'm afraid you don't realize how serious this is,” the woman said. “This is not one of your friends’ pranks, and these guns are both loaded. I want all of you to put your hands in the air and go to the starboard side. Including you, Vice-Commodore.”

  “You're hijacking my ship.” My ship!

  The yellow-haired man – Klefton – had opened the bridge access hatch to the fore pressure-guns, was shouting something down. He twitched his gun to the side and fired a shot.

  That broke the unreality. A gunshot. Here. On my bridge.

  One of the female pirate's guns was pointed squarely at Perry's chest. The other, a revolver in her left hand, was sweeping across the bridge crew, covering them.

  Slowly, Martindale, Kent and the others were moving to the starboard side.

  “I trust that you are all wearing standard Imperial parachutes,” said the woman. “You may take backups from their locker, if you see fit.” The tone of her voice lowered. “But please don't attempt to reach for weapons. I would be very upset if I had to shoot somebody.”

  “You're taking my ship?”

  “All three of those gunners jumped, Cap,” said the man called Klefton.

  “You're taking my ship?” Perry repeated.

  “That's rather the point of this operation, Vice-Commodore. Now, if you'd please put your hands up and move to starboard?”

  They're taking my ship and nobody has even fired a shot and I cannot believe this is happening–

  Suddenly Perry's right hand went for his sidearm, an automatic pistol in its holster at his hip. It was covered by a flap, and the double-barrelled pressure gun in the female pirate's right hand went blurp, once, twice, and Perry's hand was stuck.

  White goo, sticky white goo, all over the top of the holster and Perry's right hand. Sticky and hardening, and Perry found himself looking down the muzzle of the pirate's other gun, the long revolver.

  Klefton muttered something, covering the rest of the crew with his submachinegun.

  “Vice-Commodore, I do not appreciate that,” the woman said. “Those are gel rounds. That gun is now empty. I will have to use more harmful ammunition if that should happen again. Now, please, put on a parachute and jump.”

  “You can't do this.” Perry glared at the woman. Confident, almost smirky, not even bothering to shoot him with real bullets. Not even bothering to disarm him, or the others! Just walking onto the bridge and telling them to jump.

  He looked again at his pistol. The whole top flap was covered with the gel; for that matter, it was hardening on his own right hand, becoming a solid crust. The gun wasn't accessible, but she can't just take my ship!

  “It's getting dark,” the pirate said. “I imagine it will be easier for your crew to rendezvous on the ground while there's still light. In any case, I'm going to request that you and your people kindly vacate what is now my bridge.”

  Some of them – Kent, Vidkowski, Singh – had strapped on parachutes. Others were doing so. Service uniforms did have small backup parachutes sewn into the backs of them, and riggers of course wore proper ones, but nobody really wanted to trust the in-shirt ones if there was an alternative.

  “Very well,” Perry said. He glared at the woman. “You'll hang for this, you know. You might take my ship, but you won't live to keep it.”

  “I don't expect to live forever, Vice-Commodore.”

  “What the hell do you want with a line-class warship? Nobody’s going to buy it!” Except the Russians. Or the Franco-Spaniards. Or the Sonorans. Or… but I won't suggest that.

  The pirate's gun tracked him as he put on a parachute.

  “That's my own business,” she replied. “If it helps, I can give you my word that I will not be selling it to the Russians or the Romantics.”

  “The word of a thieving pirate. I can take that to the bank. You'll hang, bitch. We will pursue you, and we will find you, and we will try you. And we will hang you.”

  She smiled – she's laughing at me, the bitch!

  “You'll have to succeed in the first of those two before I swing, Vice-Commodore. Now, my apologies, but you really must be going. Specialist Second, open the starboard-side door and depart. Now, please.”

  “You two,” came a hard voice.

  Rafferty turned to see a large, begoggled man with an automatic rifle, standing in the entrance of his missile bay.

  “Who the hell are you?” he demanded, although it was obvious: pirates have boarded us.

  The rifle was pointed at himself and Gilford.

  “None of your business who we fuckin’ are. Get away from that tube, open a hatch and jump out. Now.”

  “You're pirates?” Gilford asked. “You're pirates attacking 4-106?”

  “Taking it over, kid," said the man. “Bridge, engine room, you lot. Now, out with you. Cap Ahle said not to kill anyone, but you sons of bitches just give me an excuse and I will. You bastard Imperials been busy right now killing my friends.”

  Rafferty looked at the assault rifle, which was primarily pointed at him and not Gilford. He was standing in the door, fifteen feet away; too far to rush easily. And the only things in immediate reach of Rafferty were missile-setting tools, which wouldn't throw well.

  “OK. Gilford, go to the locker and take out two parachutes. He's got a gun pointed at us; do not make sudden moves and do not give him an excuse to shoot us.”

  The Airshipman Second nodded hard, reached down into the locker.

  Rafferty hit the missile trigger and threw himself to the left.

  The missile exploded out, in a direction Rafferty really didn't know or care about. The flaming backblast went over Gilford's head, past Rafferty and into the pirate, who turned just fast enough to avoid taking the brunt of it in the face.

  Then Rafferty was on him, shouldering aside the gun, wrestling the pirate into the ground.

  The man had been in his own share of brawls, moved quickly himself. Rafferty reached for a knife in his boot, but the man saw the movement and an iron-strong wrist closed around Rafferty's forearm.

  As good as me, and half again my weight, Rafferty thought, and blew a chewing-gum bubble into the man's face, onto his goggles. It popped and the pirate cursed, orange residue blocking his sight. Rafferty head-butted him in the mouth, hard, then kneed him in the crotch. Pounded his head into the deck several times, punched him in the stomach, and banged his head into the deck a couple more times for good measure.

  “Gilford, go over the son of a bitch and find the pistol he’ll have somewhere,” Rafferty ordered, reaching for the man's assault rifle.

  Click.

  A one-eyed, yellow-haired man with a submachinegun was pointing that gun at Rafferty, a booted foot on the rifle.

  “You're lucky I don’t like Cooper very much,” he said to Rafferty.

  “A thug, a boor and he stank,” Rafferty agreed.

  “Dumb, too. I'm not. Get the hell hands in the air and jump. Junior man, throw senior man one of the parachutes and then the two of you get out now.”

  “Bastards hit me,” groaned the other pirate.

  “You deserved it. Now, two of you, get the hell out. Chutes on and jump, now. From the catwalk.”

  Rafferty caught the parachute that Gilford threw to him. Shook his head slightly in response to Gilford's ‘do we do anything now?’ look.

  “OK, OK. We're leaving,” Rafferty said.

  “Their personal property,” Ahle said to Klefton. “In the cabins; gather it up and throw it out with a parachute.”

  “Their personal shit?” Klefton asked. “Why the hell do we care about that? Some of those guys are gonna have good stuff there. Always a few bucks you can get for spare uniforms and shit.”

  “We're pirates, not thieves. And that was an order.”

  “Harvey says we've got the engine room,” said a woman named Guildford, coming in. “Thing's firmly under our control. No trouble except the missileers who beat up Cooper.”

  “Like I said, ass had it comin
g,” said Klefton. He took another swig of the rum and tossed the bottle to Ahle, who took a long drag. “Teach him some humility.”

  “Guildford, Klefton, gather up the crew’s property and throw it out. We're going to need every hand to get this thing to the rendezvous.” And – she took another swig of the rum; traditional and I could use a stiff one – “good job, everyone. We've taken us a hell of a warship here!”

  Perry seethed, hard, as he swung from the parachute in the growing darkness. Furious.

  That smirking bitch. That fucking goddamned smirking bitch. Taking his ship.

  “Oh, I'm going to kill you. You'll hang, or I'll shoot you personally,” he muttered. “Give me an excuse. I. Will. Shoot. You. Personally. You bitch.”

  The ground loomed; it was almost completely dark. Around him, the other bridge crew were landing. They, and the civilian crews, would have to find their own way back; the rest of the squadron, and the rest of the convoy, would go on to Chicago. He'd meet them there, or at Hugoton or Denver.

  Practical considerations had to take priority.

  The ground hit him, hard, and he rolled instinctively, began to disengage from the `chute. Flat grass; a cattle herd had been through here not long ago, from how it was cropped. Nearby, Martindale was cutting his parachute loose. Someone – Kent, it turned out – helped Perry up.

  “4-106 to us!” somebody shouted. “4-106!”

  Not far away – maybe half a mile – a group of pirates were shoving hydrogen into a downed ship, a makeshift airbag.

  If we can go after them, get that ship back, re-board 4-106 and take it back...

  No. The pirates there would have rifles, and they did have a completely clean field of fire. It would be suicide, even with darkness to cover most of their approach.

  As he watched, the captured ship lifted anyhow, discarding boxes of cargo to get off the ground.

  “4-106? Captain, that you?” came a man. Four missileers; in the darkness, Perry recognized Rafferty as one of them. “4-106!”

  “That's us, Specialist Third.”

  “4-106 to us!”

  A freighter, a huge one, came over their heads, fifty or sixty feet up. The same that had lifted half a mile away. Someone threw a couple more boxes down; a hissing sound was coming from it, more hydrogen inflation.

  Martindale went to one of the boxes, opened it up. Slabs of beef, packed in somewhat-melted ice.

  “Well, we've got food,” the first officer said.

  “4-106? You 4-106?” came a voice from a couple of hundred yards away. Someone with a speaking cone.

  “Bring them back, Kent,” Perry ordered.

  That group – with two dozen civilians – was larger, the engine and rear-gunnery crews, under Vescard. Senior Warrant Halvorsen was the man with the speaking cone.

  “Where were our Marines?” the old warrant muttered. “Vice, why the hell did St. John’s give us a ship without basic force protection?”

  “Their responsibility,” Perry growled. “But our problem and the pirates’ fault. They stole my ship, and Every. Last. One. Of. Those. Bastards. Will. Hang.”

  “Hey, you 4-106?” asked a civilian coming up. “Some bags for you, strung to a parachute. Marked your number.”

  “Bags?”

  “Yeah, personal shit or something. `bout a mile that way.”

  “I'll take care of it,” Martindale said. “Holt, Lieberman, Jeppesen, and you two, come along.”

  The indicated crew followed Martindale in the direction the civilian had pointed.

  “Any other injuries? Vescard, do a count. We missing anyone?”

  “What's the plan, captain?” someone asked.

  “We gather all our crew, and any civilians who want to come. Swarovski, do you have our location?”

  The weapons officer shook his head. “No, sir. Somewhere in north Kansas?”

  “Try Nebraska,” said Perry. “About three and a half miles south of us is the Platte River. The nearest town is a place called Kearney, eighteen or twenty miles to the east.”

  “Everyone's here, sir,” said Vescard. “Allowing for the XO and the party he took.”

  “We'll rest if needed, then march to Kearney. With any luck we'll be able to get transportation from there.”

  Martindale and his group came back, four of them dragging a parachute that turned out to be full of duffel bags.

  “Our shit. They threw down our shit,” said Vescard. “What the fuck?”

  “That patronizing bitch,” said Perry. “She's returning our personal effects. Because they're not good enough, no doubt. To rub it in further.”

  There was a pause, as people went for their bags. Swarovski grinned as he loaded a magazine into a semi-automatic carbine.

  More civilians were trickling in, gathering around the Air Service crew.

  “The town of Kearney, Nebraska is about eighteen to twenty miles to the east,” said Perry. “We're going to go there, and get transport from that point. Civilians are welcome to come, under the protection of myself and my crew.”

  “What good's that?” somebody sneered. “Couldn't even protect your own selves, let alone my ship!”

  “Speak to the Vice with respect, mate,” said one of Perry's men.

  I am not going to punch that man. I am not going to shoot that man. Because it would be inappropriate to, and illegal. He is upset that he lost his ship.

  God damn it.

  “You may feel free to not come along, if so desired,” Perry said coldly. “My crew and I are going.”

  And when we get back to Chicago, or Hugoton, I am going to find that pirate, and I am going to see her hang.

  He'd never been so humiliated in his life. He'd never been this mad.

  That bitch is going to pay.

  I will track you down, recover 4-106 and put you on the gallows.

  Chapter Four

  “The US Federal government is primarily focused on holding down their Southern states, and their extensive use of – some might say dependence on – Italian and Germanic mercenary formations is proof that they barely have the manpower to handle that.

  The Plains, a less troublesome area, is policed by an undermanned Department of the West, whose strength presently consists of seven cavalry squadrons and two of airships, dispersed across an area of approximately 430,000 square miles.

  To all intents and purposes, effective policing of the Plains comes from local sheriffs’ departments, state militias and the Imperial presence based at Hugoton, which assists the Federals primarily by protecting commerce against the pirates that infest the region...”

  From a foreign affairs brief to newly-appointed House of Lords members; Parliamentary Communications Division, February 1962.

  It was about seven thirty in the morning, and they'd been marching for some hours – after a lengthy meal-and-rest break, cooking beef from the cargo and allowing exhausted riggers to get a little sleep – when they came across the patrol. A steam-car and two riders, one of whom had a shotgun across his lap. The steam-car itself had a light machine-gun on a passenger-door pintel, and the driver steered so that the gun wasn't quite aimed away from the group.

  “Stop right there and identify yourselves,” one of the riders said. He wore a heavy kevlar vest over a white shirt and jeans. On the brim of his cowboy hat was a sheriff's star; another one was pinned to his chest.

  Perry was tired and irritable.

  “We're downed fucking pirates,” he snapped at the man, gesturing. His thirty-two crew and about forty of the civilian crew-members. The Imperials were all in uniform; the civilians, from their rigs, goggles and brass-adorned boots, could have been identified at half a mile as aircrew.

  “Captain, no need to get annoyed,” said the rider. “Just doing my job.”

  “Vice-Commodore.”

  “An honest mistake, Vice-Commodore. I'm Deputy-Sergeant Joe Danhauer, Kearney Sheriff's Department. You're from the convoy that was attacked, I imagine.”

  “Yes. A couple o
f my own staff are injured, and there are some quite badly-burned crew ten miles to the east of us. I trust there's a doctor in Kearney?”

  “We have a whole clinic, Vice-Commodore. I understand you're heading for our town? I'll escort you and your people in.”

  Danhauer looked over the group.

  “You have some wounded.”

  Two badly-burned civilians had insisted on coming, and their friends had helped them along. Eventually Perry had ordered some of his crew to work as stretcher-bearers.

  “Yes,” said Perry. Eyeing the steam car, but not wanting to ask any favors of the sheriff's man.

  Danhauer turned. “Norris, ride on the hood or walk. And Mikey, I'll have you dismount.”

  The deputy in the steam-car's passenger seat – a tall, lean kid of about twenty-two – got out. He pushed back the brim of his cowboy hat, and Perry noticed he was quite unshaven for a law-enforcement type.

  Not much for discipline out here, he thought.

  Danhauer followed Perry's look, and must have noticed disapproval.

  “Deputy Norris, how did you shave this morning - with a broadsword?”

  The kid grinned.

  “Sorry, sarge. A broadsword.”

  “You're walking back. See if any of these gentlemen need help. You can take a couple of their bags. The Vice-Commodore’s, to start with.”

  Halvorsen had offered to take Perry's, but he'd refused; the least I can do is carry my own bag. But the twenty pounds had become unpleasant over time, and it was a relief to hand it over to the young deputy.

  The burned civilians were helped, one into the steam-car's passenger seat and the other onto horseback. At a slightly faster pace, the group began moving through what seemed to be a more cultivated area, and then onto a packed-dirt trail. Past a fence that looked like it’d been maintained lately, and then a couple of mounted cowboys who watched them pass.

  Danhauer dismounted so he could talk to Perry.

  “I imagine you’ll want rooms for the night.”

  “I'll want to get moving to Chicago as soon as possible. If that's not practical?”