by Steve Rzasa
Maddy swore. She unlimbered her second revolver. “Me and my boys can oblige you with a distraction if you’re needin’ to vacate, Colonel.”
“Muchos gracias, señora. We have a few options left, I think.” Cuthbert hollered out to a few of them men. “Grenades!”
Five Perch militiamen reached into their haversacks. They removed black metal…things. Winch frowned. They looked like rotten eggs stuck on the end of wooden sticks. The nearest man thumbed a silver metal wheel set into the side of the egg-shaped part once, twice, thrice. His companion stood with him and opened fire with his carbine, providing cover while the other man threw the grenade end over end. It whistled, sounding to Winch like a manic, mechanical version of a gilded sparrow’s call.
The explosion splintered a tree and sent a pair of Trestleway soldiers flailing.
Winch felt himself go pale.
“Grenades again!” Cuthbert pointed behind them. “Move out, next ridgeline! We need to link up with Major Tedrow and his artillery. In squads, stay with your men and keep it orderly, vamanos!”
Winch shoved his camera into his rucksack. He raised his revolver—but couldn’t bring himself to shoot again. The shouts and gunshots and explosions crashed over him like a summer thunderstorm. He felt paralyzed. His breath came shallow, and fast. No. Don’t panic now. Exaltson, give me your strength.
Come on Winch. Hold. Hold!
Maddy pulled him along by the arm. “You! Move it, Winchell!”
That snapped him free. Somewhat. But the gun still felt like a lump of lead type in his hand. “I can’t—I can’t shoot!”
“Don’t fret. I’ll do the shootin’ if you do the prayin’.” Maddy grinned tightly. It was a joyless expression. “Thel knows I don’t reckon I can do both. Now go!”
He moved out with the bulk of the Perch militia, led by Colonel Cuthbert, withdrew in a steady, measured march. Maddy and her men roared with rage behind them. The shotguns boomed in the confines of the forest. There was no panic this time—just confident fire. Winch and Maddy ran past a dead Perch soldier. His eyes were vacant, his face white, and his coat soaked dark with blood.
Forgive us all, Thel. Winch gritted his teeth. And show me the way to safety.
Saturday
Lysanne thought she and Miss Plank made an odd pair as Miss Plank drove the motorwagon toward the south edge of Perch. They were dressed like two men headed off to work in their shirts and trousers.
But there was only one motorwagon around with an occupant who might criticize their impropriety. JD Borman, panel of trustees, drove steadily onward out of town in his black and blue motorwagon. Three very large men took up the remaining seats. A truck rattled down the road behind them. The words “Double Tusk Hotel” were stenciled in black on the sides of the canvas covering.
“Has he spotted us?” Lysanne asked.
“Doubtful. His own ’wagon is far too noisy, as is that truck. And besides, why would anyone be suspicious? He is a trustee of Perch, en route to examine Hangar Zero’s defenses.” It was difficult to miss the sarcasm in Miss Plank’s voice.
“Oh. I see. But why have you brought me here? Unless you have a barrel lid you’d like me to demonstrate with…”
Miss Plank smirked. That was as close to a genuine smile as Lysanne had seen from the woman thus far.
“You think he’s Condor, then? What about Ferrand Molyneaux? The trustee can’t be happy with his accommodations in the Perch city jail.”
“No. He’s not.” Miss Plank shook her head. “But the evidence against him… The more I reviewed it, the tidier it seemed. It is highly unlikely an operative of Condor’s caliber would be so slovenly as to leave his sensitive documents locked in a safe in his own home. Prudence demanded leaving Mister Molyneaux in custody until the matter is sorted.”
“Ah.” Lysanne had to wonder if she should have stayed with her gardenias. But she recalled the meeting in the mayor-general’s office. “Mister Borman was awfully keen to dump the whole matter in Molyneaux’s lap.”
Miss Plank nodded. Her eyes didn’t leave the motorwagon ahead of them.
“So, do you suspect Borman is Molyneaux’s partner? Or perhaps the one feeding him orders?”
“Either is possible. It would not be his first misdirection.” Miss Plank gripped the steering wheel tightly. “Mister Borman could very well be Condor.”
Lysanne was shocked. The crude and loud hotel proprietor—a spy? “That’s an awfully big deduction based on a startling lack of proof.”
“My intuition is sufficient,” Miss Plank said sternly. It reminded Lysanne of the tone of voice her mother used. “That is why the mayor-general trusts me so.”
“And is that all you do? Serve Keysor with your every waking breath?”
Miss Plank reached between the seats with one hand and drew a Thundercloud levergun from her bag. She half-smiled. “That, and cross-stitch.”
They rounded the corner to see a huge, brick and wood hangar projecting from the east slope. Its mouth yawned open like a tired cave bear. Men in blue coveralls and white shirts stained with grease waved Borman’s motorwagon and the truck inside. There were a dozen of them, along with six militia in green coats loitering off to one side. “Miss Hawes has the place busy, doesn’t she?” Lysanne asked.
“We did arrange reinforcements for her private security.” Miss Plank’s voice carried grudging admiration to Lysanne’s ears. “Her security are able men, all of them. Thought a bit sloppy hand-to-hand, if I must say.”
Lysanne opted not to inquire as to how Miss Plank knew this. She saw, as they approached the hangar, that two militia stood guard stood by a long, single-story building with brick walls and tin roof affixed to the near side of the hangar. To ran the length of the hangar and disappeared into the mountain, just like its bigger neighbors. Both men hefted Shiraga Kukiken rifles.
The doors to the hangar trundled slowly shut. Lysanne figured they were rigged on wheels with some sort of steam pulley system, judging by the squeals and hissing.
Lysanne opened her mouth to comment but stopped herself. A new noise registered in her hearing—a peculiar hum. But she could barely differentiate from the motorwagon’s engine…“Stop the ’wagon, please.”
Miss Plank arched an eyebrow, but she did as told.
“Shut the engine off.”
“You hear it too, then.” The motorwagon’s engine rattled into silence. The humming was much pronounced. Miss Plank cocked her head. “Coming…from the east? Behind the peaks?”
“Yes, that’s what I thought.” Lysanne listened. It reminded her of…
“Engines. Aerocraft.” Miss Plank swore vociferously.
Lysanne was appalled. “Miss Plank, I do not allow such speech in my home and find it entirely un-ladylike in public.”
“This is hardly the time to worry about such things.”
Shadows drifted across the narrow road and the mountain slope. Two dirigibles crested the peaks, the hum of their engines deep enough to set Lysanne’s teeth on edge. Feathers of steam spread upon the wind from each engine pod. They were dark, bulbous shapes that loomed low, and Lysanne realized belatedly that they were slowly settling toward the ground.
“You there! Women!” One of the guards standing by the building alongside the hangar waved in their direction. “Get under cover, quickly!”
Miss Plank made a face at the “women” comment, but drove the motorwagon over to the entrance of the hangar. “I don’t suppose you gentlemen have need of an extra gun or two.” She gestured with her weapon.
The guard who spoke shook his head—whether in bemusement or disdain, Lysanne couldn’t tell. “We’ve sent a runner inside to Miss Hawes. She should have an answer soon—ah, there we go!”
Metal grated on metal. Lysanne looked up at the slope behind Hangar Zero to see three heavy guns trundle out on hidden rails, their muzzles poking from between shrubbery.
“We’ll see how well those gas-bags do against our pom-poms,” the guard sneered.
<
br /> Lysanne covered her ears as the guns opened fire. Their distinctive pom-pom-pom-pom pounding rhythm barely got through four rotations of their triple barrels when two of the guns exploded in spectacular flames. The third lasted a mite longer before it, too exploded.
The guards cried out in surprise.
“What?” Miss Plank looked stunned—it was the first time Lysanne had seen such an expression on her face.
“A malfunction?” Lysanne wanted to duck under the car. The dirigibles made no attempt to return fire but simply continued their descent. They must be skilled pilots—Lysanne thought they’d fill the whole pass between the slopes.
“No. Improbable. It has to be sabotage. You there!” Miss Plank vaulted from the car. She. prodded one of the guards with her pistol. “If you won’t shoot, give your rifle to someone who will!” She held out her free hand.
The guard scowled. Footsteps pounded behind them. Another eight men spilled out of the building, armed. “Shoot ’em! Light those gas-bags afire!”
The ten plus men raised their rifles. Shots rang out. Well. Lysanne was not going to have them do all the work. And she’d be blamed if she weren’t to defend her city-state. She dug her Thundercloud carbine from the back of the motorwagon and aimed it skyward. One of her shots caromed off an engine mount, but she didn’t think she did much damage.’
The undersides of both dirigibles cracked open. Lysanne’s heart froze. This was it. “We’re to be bombed.”
Miss Plank lowered her gun. Smoke wafted from the muzzle. “It would make sense for them to destroy what they cannot take. Unless…”
Ropes slithered down like spilled thread, dozens of them, from each dirigible. The wind from their engines tousled Lysanne’s hair and rustled the trees—the dirigibles couldn’t be more than a hundred feet off the ground now. The pink and blue fernleaf paintbrush flowers separated from their stems in the rush of air, blowing past Lysanne’s face.
Soldiers came sliding down the lines. Dozens of them—a hundred? More? She couldn’t count them fast enough. They wore tan and had purple flags on their shoulders.
“Trestleway militia.” Miss Plank yanked on Lysanne’s arm. “Inside, all of you!” she shouted. “Covering fire as we withdraw!”
She pulled Lysanne inside the building. “They’re not here to destroy anything,” Miss Plank said. The venom in her voice was evident. She elbowed the last guard through the door. Lysanne caught a glimpse of dozens of Trestleway militia scattering across the road as they hit the ground. Some landed less than gracefully—others appeared injured. They fired, their shots ricocheting off the brick building.
Miss Plank fired two shots in rapid succession. Two men flopped over. She slammed the door shut.
Her face would have scared Lysanne out of her wits had the woman been her enemy. “They’re here to seize Hangar Zero.”
Lysanne’s mind whirled. JD Borman and his mysterious truck—the cannons exploding…“He knew, didn’t he? Borman, I mean.”
“I do not know. But we had best find him. Follow me.”
Miss Plank shouldered between the frantic soldiers and workers. The building stretched out before them, a plain passageway of brick sides. Lysanne peeked out the windows on the hangar side walls as they hurried. The inside of the hangar was empty, save for the truck from the Double Tusk and Borman’s motor wagon. No aerocraft in side—only crates that lined the far side of the stone walls and filled the cubby holes in the shadows of the huge, barn-style ceiling. Wood beams arched far overhead in the dim light.
At the end of the passageway was a metal door. It was ajar—light streamed through the cracks. They neared it and Lysanne’s breath caught in her chest. Was that gunfire?
Miss Plank sidled up to the door. She leaned in to listen. Her face grew grimmer. She pressed her gun to her lips. Lysanne nodded. Her grip on her carbine tightened.
Miss Plank opened the door, slowly. It creaked on its hinges, but the sounds of machinery thrumming covered most of the noise. Lysanne gasped.
They edged their way through the door into a brightly-lit work space. The walls were carved right from the mountainside. Workbenches covered with tools and unidentified projects in progress filled the room. Off to their left stretched a long chamber lit by swaying lamps that hung along a rafter secured to the rocky ceiling. The lights bathed a line of six biplanes of a fashion Lysanne had never seen—silvery fuselages that tapered into graceful tales, wide engine cowlings, completely unmarked by insignia or even dirt.
This was Hangar Zero.
“The back of the exterior hangar opens into the main chamber,” Miss Plank murmured. “There should be guards here. And technicians.”
“I see neither.” Lysanne followed her down a long corridor. It was lined with doors on either side. Some were labeled “Authorized Individuals Only” and “Keep Out” and “Hazard.”
“That would be them, there.” Miss Plank gestured into an open door to her left.
Three militiamen in green coats lay crumpled on the floor.
“No technicians,” Lysanne whispered.
Boot steps alerted them to someone’s approach. Miss Plank whirled, gun ready—but it was some of the armed workmen from the main building. “Where are you going?” one demanded.
“Someone has infiltrated the building. We mean to stop them.” Miss Plank didn’t lower her gun.
“By whose order?”
“The office of the mayor-general.” She dug a small bronze badge from her pocket. Lysanne had seen the seal embossed on its surface before—the seal of the city-state of Perch, the mountains, mastodon, biplane, river, trees, and stars grouped together under a blazing sun.
The workman regarded the badge with suspicion. But that and the gun aimed his way must have coaxed him into cooperation. “All right, then.”
The corridor ended at a T intersection. Shouts echoed in the hall to the left. “It leads behind the hangar where we saw the aeroplanes,” Miss Plank said.
“Sounds as if someone has beat us there,” Lysanne said.
They crept along the hall, accompanied by the five workmen. Lysanne could hear gunfire again, but this spate came from behind them—from back toward the entrance to Hangar Zero. She didn’t dare think what havoc those Trestleway troops could wreak in here.
Miss Plank motioned for them all to stop at a set of double doors flung wide open. Lysanne pressed up against the wall behind her. She held her carbine close to her body. It was warm this deep inside the mountain, much warmer than the cool air under the cloudy skies outside. That and her nerves made her perspire.
“What is it?” Lysanne watched Miss Plank lean around the corner, just enough to get an eye around. The room beyond had brick walls. Wooden hatches like cabinets were stacked five high and stretched out of Lysanne’s view. A pair of steam vents rumbled so loudly she could not make out the words being shouted inside the room.
“Nine of them.” Miss Plank grimaced. She beckoned with her gun. The lead workman crept forward. “They have a dozen technicians lined up against the back walls. Field of fire is limited—many tables and desks in our path. Stay low to the ground, and move to the walls.”
The workman frowned. “And who made you our general?”
“Do try to remember all that,” Miss Plank said sourly. Lysanne doubted she’d address the workman’s spiteful question. “And do not shoot any of your fellow workers.”
She stepped gingerly into the room.
Praise be to you, Exaltson. Lysanne went right behind her.
The men shouting in the room had their backs to the door. Their garb was a motley collection of vests, rough denim and corduroy trousers, suspenders and overalls. And the one doing the most shouting, well—Lysanne knew him instantly. It was Greer, the lout with the beady eyes who’d tried to assault her in the alley.
He hadn’t seen them, however. Greer seemed to be too busy threatening the workmen who formed a barricade against…something. A safe, perhaps? Lysanne saw a wide black object on a slab of c
oncrete.
“Ge’r open!” Greer snarled. “We’ve already killed some of your like. Don’t think we won’t do it again!”
Lysanne ducked behind a desk and its single chair. It looked heavy; she hoped the wood was thick enough to stop revolver bullets. The Hangar Zero workmen skittered across the stone floor behind Lysanne, taking up positions behind tables. She winced—but the steam vents were loud enough to mask their movement.
She found Miss Plank. Lysanne jerked her head toward the intruders. Ready?
Miss Plank nodded. She made a tipping movement with her hand toward the workmen. They heaved the heavy wooden table over. It banged loudly against the stone floor.
Greer and his intruders spun. Their guns aimed away from the hostage workmen. But Miss Plank was already bolting across the floor toward the nearest trio. They stared in surprise at the woman in their midst.
It was their error.
“Shoot her!” Greer shouted. “Kill the blamed woman!”
Miss Plank planted the heel of her left hand into the face of the nearest one. He screamed, high-pitched, and made a choking noise. With her right—still holding the pistol—she planted the muzzle on another soldier’s chest and fired. Both men were down in a blink.
The third tried to fire his carbine at her but he was near enough for Miss Plank to seize the forestock. She drew him so close she could have kissed him. Instead she brought her right knee up between his legs. He roared out in pain, but the sound cut off in a choke when she chopped at his throat with the side of her left hand, then brought her gun’s stock down on his left shoulder.
The resounding crack made Lysanne cringe. She hadn’t done more than aim her gun in the same space of time.
Gunfire erupted all around her. Bullets thudded into wood and made harsh pinging sounds as they skipped off the floor. The Hangar Zero workmen took advantage of Miss Plank’s frontal assault and vaulted over their tables and desks to charge the intruders.
Miss Plank slapped the gun from the hand of one particularly rough-looking young man. He threw a punch at her but missed when she dodged left. She hit him in the neck, right under his chin, using the side of her hand. He slammed hard into a row of cabinets.
