Crosswind

by Steve Rzasa

  Cope looked up at the thick, soupy clouds. “Rain wouldn’t be the worst thing in Galderica now,” he said. “Rain with no lightning.”

  Bursts of light the distance caught his eye. Right by Perch? That was a good fifteen miles out. Must be big blasts. Cope went after the nearest Trestleway biplane. But his upper left wing had pieces that looked as if they might spring loose at the pinch of the game. “Branter-spit.”

  He was wondering how he’d manage to shoot down this enemy and not tear his aeroplane apart when the plane before him expelled smoke and gouts of steam. The pilot bailed as his biplane sputtered and limped off into an unrecoverable dive.

  Cope whooped, whether at that or the sight of six sleek, silver biplanes racing in at unbelievable speed, he didn’t much care. He hadn’t even heard them coming. They must have blamed good flash steam engines. “Hangar Zero, indeed!”

  This might yet turn out favorable.

  • • •

  Winch had run so far and so long his vest was torn. He’d discarded his coat who knows how far back. The rucksack was secure on his back, even as it banged against his shoulder blades. His glasses suffered a couple of scratches, but he could still see clearly.

  If not for the distant gunfire he could almost reminisce of the hours he and Cope had spent playing in the woods near Przystan. The clouds were so thick he could smell the rain coming.

  Rain amidst the sweat and the blood and the earth.

  Winch burst from the woods into a small clearing, right next to the Ridge Road. Maddy and a few of her men ran to a staggering halt behind him. Then Colonel Cuthbert and some forty stormed out of the forest. Cuthbert and a few others were still on branterback.

  “We can make a stand here!” Cuthbert waved his hat. “We’re out of options, mis amigos! Take up firing positions by that cleft of rocks.”

  The soldiers hustled to follow his directions. Someone hollered a greeting. Hobarth Brownrigg and dozens of men in brown coats. tromped down the slope. Picksborough riflemen? His coat was streaked with dirt, as was his beard. “Winch! Are you all right?”

  “A mite worse for wear, but not shot.” Winch managed a smile.

  Hobarth cuffed him on the shoulder. “Atta boy. We’ll put these Trestleway fiends to the blade soon enough.”

  More Perch militiamen trickled into the area, until there were a good hundred men at arms taking up concealed positions up and down the slope. Hobarth’s riflemen put it at near two hundred.

  “Has anyone seen the mayor-general? Or Major Tedrow?” Winch asked.

  Cuthbert shook his head. “There was word of them taking the fight downslope toward the valley floor, but there’s no reckoning whether that’s accurate. I’m hoping to draw their forces in once Trestleway engages us here.”

  The soldiers were missing hats here, coats there. Many had torn clothing and bloody wounds. Some of the more severely wounded were secreted behind a trio of massive boulders that looked as if they hadn’t budged in millennia, judging by the moss smothering them. “They’re worn down to the bone, aren’t they?”

  “Indeed. But they’re fighters. And they’ll keep fighting—”

  Explosions thundered through the air. Winch saw three dirigibles drop from the sky like comets, blazing trails to the ground. One dipped behind the trees, perhaps five miles south. He winced as the impact sent tremors through the ground, even here.

  “Consules mio,” Cuthbert muttered. “The poor souls.”

  “And our poor souls if that fire ain’t put right to rest.” Maddy rolled up her sleeves. Her coat was gone too, discarded in the flight. Blood streaked her arm.

  “You’re hurt.” Winch dug into his pocket for a handkerchief.

  “Meh. Don’t fret it.” Maddy wiped her arm on the side of her pants. “We got badder things to worry about.”

  “Colonel!” A pair of militiamen rode up on to weary-looking branters, kicking up dust from the Ridge Road. “Armored wagons headed our way! And there’s a big contingent of those track-heads right with them! Line stretches on into the forest!”

  “How far?” Cuthbert chambered more rounds in his rifle.

  “Half mile, maximum.”

  “Hear that, boys?” Hobarth raised his rifle. “We got more targets on the way!”

  The Picksborough contingent raised their rifles in approval, but there were no cheers.

  Cuthbert gave Winch a stern look. “Do try to stay out of the way, this time. It’s bound to be our last chance to hold them. If only Tedrow can get those howitzers mobile. I haven’t heard or seen a word—”

  Everything exploded.

  Bodies, hats, coats, guns, all went flying like they were tossed in a whirlwind. The blow lifted Winch off his feet and hurled him—well, he had no notion how far. All he knew was when he came to, his camera was bashed between his back and a rock, and his vest was ripped. He felt about himself for wounds, and brushed against the pocket watch. He’d forgotten all about it. It was still there and still ticking. He drew it out.

  The face was cracked. But his glasses weren’t.

  Men and branters lay everywhere, discarded on the clearing like so many tin soldiers Fremont or Wade would have left on the grass at the Sark house. Even the branches on the first several rows of the forest behind them were stripped of their needles and branches. Hundreds of them were thus denuded. Winch’s head swam. What was this?

  He rolled onto his side. A mistake. It pained him greatly. What he saw stunned him.

  Four armored motorwagons rolled up the ridge road, trailing steam. Trestleway soldiers came swarming into the edge of the clearing, and up the road, and from everywhere. There were hundreds of them. They lined up in formations, albeit somewhat raggedly, and aimed their guns at the prone Perch militia and their Picksborough allies. The Trestleway men looked as haggard and in some cases as wounded as the Perch soldiers.

  Winch couldn’t hear. Cuthbert was beside him, his hat gone.. Saying something. What? Who? Cuthbert gestured madly.

  Twenty men in black suits stepped through the line of soldiers in tan uniforms. The one in front, Winch would never mistake.

  The serene face, the moustache, the red tie were unmistakable. Captain Crittenden Beam had as much of a presence now as he did that first day in Perch Winch had seen him. Save for his missing coat and hat, he could have been out for an afternoon stroll.

  But his eyes terrified Winch.

  His eyes—sclera, iris, and all—were completely black.

  Saturday

  “Winchell Sark.” Beam’s voice was so soft that Winch had trouble hearing it at first. But he gulped a few times. That helped. “They told me you were still out here. They showed me your face. But I didn’t quite believe it. You should have run to the temporary safety of home by now.”

  Winch stood. His legs were as unsteady as those of a branter foal. A revolver clicked. Sergeant Taube aimed his gun at Winch from fifty feet away. One loyal man, always by his master’s side.

  “I didn’t hope to see you again.” Winch kept as still as possible. Not an easy task staring down the muzzle of a revolver and a dozen other weapons.

  Beam put his hand on the barrel of Taube’s gun. “Lower it, Sergeant. He’s no danger. Not with weapons. Words are his forte. Heel, Taube.”

  Taube holstered his weapon. Winch commiserated with the look of humiliation on his face.

  “You people amuse me. You think you can stand against Trestleway and against me.” Beam chuckled, sounding as if he’d just understood the punchline to a joke. “Well, now, I could see how you’d think that. Independent spirit, yes. A good trait.”

  “So the plan’s to talk at us until we keel over” Maddy climbed to her feet with the aid of a couple of her fellows. She shook their arms off. She advanced on Beam. “Let me show you some action instead.”

  A pair of the Peace Branch officers in black stepped forward. They raised their left hands in unison. Maddy froze mid-step. One of the men flicked his hand and her revolvers flew up a good five feet ove
r her head, right out of her holsters. They clattered to the ground.

  Beam shook his head. “Disappointing. Put her back, boys.”

  Maddy flew back into her men. They managed to grab her and stop her from collapsing.

  “Enough of this.” Colonel Cuthbert came to Winch’s side. Winch noted he kept his rifle easy in his hands, aimed at the dirt. “We warned you once, Señor, to leave our land. And you’ve seen firsthand the price you’re going to have to pay in coin and blood if you came this far. So turn right around and leave.”

  “Ah, Colonel Alonzo Reynaldo Cuthbert, I think not.” Beam prodded Taube in the shoulder. Taube disappeared into the crowd of soldiers. “You see, we borrowed some things of yours.”

  Cuthbert’s breath came as a sharp hiss as Taube dragged Mayor-General Keysor out from the line of soldiers. Two more Peace Branch men shoved Sheriff Tedrow along at gunpoint. Both were had bruised faces, torn clothing, and were missing their jackets. Keysor had a cut on his forehead that had bled down over his forehead. His face was impassive, though his expression changed to one of surprise when he took in the Perch militia scattered about the clearing. Tedrow swore vociferously at his captors but made no move to break away.

  “That’s right, Colonel. These must be friends of yours. They’ll be good for the tribunal we hold in Perch,” Beam said.

  “Tribunal?” Winch frowned. “You’re mad.”

  “No: practical. We need scapegoats. The fine mayor-general here and his loyal sheriff are to be my guests at the inquiry that determines they and the current panel of trustees were behind those terrifying anarchists’ attacks on Perch. What better reason for Trestleway to intervene and restore order?”

  “With your own man Condor to take the reins when we’re dead,” Keysor said.

  Taube pistol-whipped him across the shoulders. Keysor staggered to his knees.

  Several Perch soldiers cried out and went for their guns. Cuthbert raised his rifle.

  Trestleway guns angled their way. And the Keach guns atop the turrets in the armored motorwagons swiveled toward the clearing. Winch prayed everyone would keep a cool head, or else they were all dead.

  “Enough!” Beam’s voice echoed across the clearing. He glowered at his soldiers. “Would you put that confounded steel down? I have enough power to compensate for your incompetence.”

  Aeroplane engines buzzed overhead. Winch recognized the planes right away. They had the blue wings of Perch’s defensive squadrons. Three of them, and Cope’s was the lead plane.

  “Be careful,” Winch murmured.

  The planes angled toward them. Taube scowled. “Sir, we need to get to cover! Those planes—”

  “Are of no consequence.” Beam’s eyes glittered with dark fury. “Observe.”

  He raised his hands.

  • • •

  Cope knew precisely who it had to be down there in the clearing. As soon as that strange ripple of—dark light? could that even describe it?—had laid waste to the Perch militia and the edge of the forest, he knew.

  Beam.

  He signaled to Daisy and Tread to follow. His Keach gun was down to its last rounds. It’d be plenty to put some holes in Beam. Just like he’d done to his partner Ray, just a few days back before this tarnal mess erupted. “He’ll pay, Jesca.”

  Cope pushed the control stick forward. The forest and the clearing raced up at him. Odd: No one opened fire. Nor did anyone scatter.

  He pulled the trigger.

  The gun blasted away.

  And the bullets caromed right off the shimmering dome that covered the Trestleway forces.

  “No!” Cope cursed Beam, and Trestleway, and every deity he could think off. “Just let me kill him!” He blasted away until his weapon was spent and his trigger hand was numb.

  The dome, a transparent smoky black rimmed with brilliant streaks of blue and purple, roiled before him like a living thing. Daisy and Tread poured on the gunfire too, but it made no difference. Cope led them in a sweep over the clearing. He could almost see their faces as the biplanes rose higher into the air. And there was Winch.

  Nothing Cope could do to save him.

  Thel. That blamed Allfather of his! “You can save my brother! And you’d best do it now! Why can’t you stop them?” Cope hollered until his throat burned.

  Right then, his biplane’s engine choked, sputtered twice, revved once, and died. He could tell from the sounds behind him that Daisy’s and Tread’s engines did likewise. For a moment, only the rushing wind filled Cope’s ears.

  He cranked desperately on the starter.

  It wouldn’t turn over.

  Cope plucked the talisman from his shirt. If ever he needed luck, it was now.

  • • •

  Winch prayed desperately for Cope’s safety. He knew Cope had only one option, with a plane headed into a glide. He had to bail out.

  “You see, now, Winch? Do you all see?” Beam cried out something bellicose, in a language Winch could not understand.

  But he understood the horror in Maddy’s expression and Colonel Cuthbert’s sharp intake of breath as the wings ripped right off one of the Perch biplanes. PF-03. Treadwell Krol, one of Cope’s wingmen, Winch realized.

  A tiny figure leapt from Treadwell’s plane. White skysails burst from the figure. The same thing happened with the two other biplanes. Winch wanted nothing more than to reach up and pluck the miniatures from the air, to bring them down without injury.

  It was even odds to wager whose soldiers had more fear evident in their expressions, Perch’s or Trestleway’s.

  Beam, though, smiled beatifically. “You’ve never felt a sensation such as this, Mister Sark,” he said in that low, demure bass.

  Winch made no move. He was terrified that some action on his part, or on anyone else’s, might precipitate full-on slaughter.

  The biplane now missing its wings slammed into the ground somewhere south of the clearing. The thunder from its detonation upon impact had barely faded when the other two biplanes, Cope’s and Daisy’s, impacted below the tree line farther down the mountain slopes. Their explosions sent up twin pillars of smoke.

  Beam flicked his gaze to a nearby soldier. “Lieutenant. Have your squad shoot down that first pilot. Poor soul.”

  The men raised their carbines to the sky.

  Maddy swore.

  Cuthbert grabbed her arm as she started forward. “You do it and they will kill us all,”

  The Trestleway soldiers hesitated.

  Beam snarled, “Shoot him, I said!”

  A salvo of shots rang out. Treadwell Krol’s body shuddered and spasmed. Winch’s stomach turned, and his fear fled from him. Anger took its place. Rage at the murder. The bullets ripped through Tread’s already lifeless body and the skysails holding him in the air. It plummeted to the road, where it hit with a sodden whump.

  “Confound you, you murdering fiend!” Tedrow wrenched himself free of the soldiers holding him. They were too busy staring, eyes wide with horror, at the body on the road.

  Sergeant Taube put himself in Tedrow’s path and, more importantly, a revolver at his nose. “Would you like me to shoot him now, sir?” Taube asked. A grin curled his lips.

  “No, Taube. Lower your gun. We can’t go around shooting all those who have emotional responses to the death of comrades.” Beam smiled.

  Taube shook his head. He slowly lowered his gun.

  Tedrow took one step forward, brushing Taube aside. His arms stretched out for Beam. Winch, the Allfather help him, silently urged him on. Kill Beam!

  Beam reached out a hand, grasping at something unseen in the air, and snapped his wrist up sharply.

  Tedrow’s head jerked sideways at a sickening angle. A swift crack sounded. His eyes were wide with shock, and his body crumpled to the dirt.

  Beam hadn’t laid so much as a finger on him.

  “Stop this!” Winch cried out. Eyes everywhere latched on to him. He could feel the scrutiny. “Enough of this killing!”

  “I k
ill because I desire it, and because I can!” The force of Beam’s words were enough to make Winch decide that speaking out was a mistake. Gone was any pretense at civility. Beam glared openly at him. “Do you comprehend now, Winchell Sark? Have your tears become your meal? Where is your Thel?” Beam raised his hands to the sky. “Show him to me!”

  • • •

  Cope almost threw up when they shot Tread down.

  Two years he’d flown with that man, who’d never said much of anything, let alone a complaint. Cope tugged at his levergun, stuffed into his belt, but knew he’d have no use for it from up here.

  His worst fear at the moment was that they’d shoot down Daisy. He glanced over at her, the tears tracing clean lines down the grease stains on her cheeks, and suddenly realized that would be more than he could bear.

  His skysail deposited him roughly on the road. Cope tucked his legs under and pulled himself into a roll. He pulled a small knife from his coat and slit the straps binding him to the sail. Get up, get up! Cope finally pulled free of the white shroud. He whirled around, gun in hand, to face the gathered soldiers.

  No one paid him much mind. Not even the armored motorwagons gathered by the edge of the woods, just a hundred feet up the Ridge Road from where Cope had landed.

  He scrambled over to Tread’s body. It pained him to see the pilot’s broken form, blood soaking into the dirt. His shredded skysail lay around him like a shroud. Cope shook his head. He closed Tread’s eyes. “Sleep well, partner. You earned it.” He doffed his jacket and spread it over Tread’s body.

  Sleep well? Where, exactly? Cope shook off the dark thought. A hand pressed to his shoulder. He jerked his gun around.

  Daisy.

  “Thank Thel,” Cope hugged her tight.

  She didn’t resist. Instead she buried her face against his shoulder. The tears soaked his sweater. Cope’s own tears burned at the corner of his eyes. But the fury rising in his chest left no room for mourning.

  He pulled free of her in time to see someone moving along the line of Trestleway soldiers. Tedrow? “Is that Sheriff Tedrow?”

  Daisy pulled out her own gun. “I think it is. What should we do?”

  People in dark suits exchanged words with Tedrow. And there was Beam. Tedrow lunged for Beam and jerked to a sudden halt.