Down to the Sea

by William R. Forstchen

  He fumbled to brush the wrinkles out of his bloodstained robes. Hanaga’s blood—dried flecks of it dropped off. He felt nothing, though it was the blood of an emperor he had supposedly served since early youth.

  Poor fool, he should have seen it coming. Everything was but part of “The Plan,” the concealed reality. For all in this world was but a shadow of a deeper reality. Hanaga should have sensed that. His brother Yasim, knew it. That is why he was now the emperor, at least for the moment, and Hanaga was dead.

  The novitiate—the red stripe on his left sleeve marking him as a summa of the second order—waited patiently, but Hazin could sense the young one’s agitation.

  “The ship, our captain does not know what it is,” Hazin guessed.

  “Yes, my lord, he asks your presence on the deck.”

  “Lead the way, then.”

  Hazin followed him out of the stateroom and up onto the deck.

  The total darkness at sea was always a bit unnerving, and it took him a moment to adjust, half feeling his way along as he weaved through the maze of ladders that took him up to the bridge. As his eyes adjusted to the dark, he could pick out the glow of fire astern, flashes of light, a star shell hovering on the horizon; sinking, disappearing. Beyond the naval battle glowed the human city’s consumption by flame.

  “My lord, Hazin.”

  The captain bowed at his approach. Though nominally a ship of the Blue Banner of Hanaga, in fact it was crewed by his order, or at least those of his order loyal to him, yet another wheel within wheels. It had been his safety net, something the Grand Master of the Order had not anticipated. Yes, he had been ordered to kill Hanaga because the Order had decided to switch sides, but Hazin’s own survival would not be expected.

  “Lookouts reported sighting a ship,” the captain announced. “It’s off our starboard bow, range less than a league.”

  “The emperor’s?”

  The captain shook his head, and Hazin remembered that the term no longer applied to the individual associated with that title.

  “Hanaga’s or Yasim’s?”

  “Neither, I suspect.” The captain motioned to the night glasses mounted on the bridge railing.

  Hazin bent over, seeing nothing for a moment. Finally he caught a glimpse of something, a darker shadow on the dark horizon. A strange silhouette, masts…the ship had masts.

  “Human?”

  “I think so.”

  “Not like anything we’ve seen before, is it?” Hazin whispered.

  “Not one of the island traders or their renegades. Too big for that, and you’ll see sparks trailing. It has engines as well.”

  Hazin slowly moved the glasses back, trying to compensate for the roll of the ship, acquiring the shadow again. The ship looked foreshortened, angling on almost a direct intercept.

  “I don’t think it’s seen us,” the captain said. “It hasn’t changed course since we’ve sighted it. It’s already in range.”

  What is it? Hazin wondered. It was definitely not the emperor’s or any other ship of the fleets of the Banners. No sailing merchant’ship, human or of the Kazan, would be within a hundred leagues this day. Only an idiot would wander anywhere near this confrontation between claimants of the throne.

  So, either it was a blind idiot…or it was the humans known to reside on the north shore. The Yankees, who had so easily been frightened off with a treaty while the Empire settled its internal differences.

  They would have to be contended with, in due course, especially now that they had reached the sea and ventured upon it. But here, now?

  He weighed the possibilities. Behind him a plan had been completed…and ruined. Hanaga, the fool, was dead. The new emperor had paid the Order well for the betrayal, but he would never know that it was, in fact, but part of a power struggle within the Order itself, an attempt by the Grand Master to eliminate not just Hanaga, but his own lieutenant as well.

  Hazin grinned, wondering how much time should pass before he allowed the Grand Master to know that he had not died on Hanaga’s flagship as intended and all but ordered to do.

  “Have we been followed?” Hazin asked.

  “We were, your holiness. From the Red Banner.”

  Hazin smiled. What would they think? That Hanaga had indeed escaped? A puzzle for them to ponder. The Red Banner would sweep the seas come dawn, but they would be empty, except for wreckage and the few defiant ships of Hanaga that had somehow survived the night. “And now?”

  The captain paused, looking aft where the fire glow of the battle shimmered on the horizon. “Not now. This ship is the fastest of its class.”

  He detected the pride in the warrior’s voice. Pride and attachment in one of his station bore watching.

  “We’ll be silhouetted by the fire in another minute,” the captain warned, looking at his master.

  Hazin leaned over, training the glasses on the intruder’s outline, barely distinguishable against the starlight. They could turn aside, run ahead and across its bow and be gone. He wondered if they had spotted him as well…. No, for if they had, he knew he would sense it. Something would warn him, as it always had.

  Though he did not believe in fate, a concept alien to his order, to the essence of what he was, he could not help but wonder why, at this moment, such a random thing had unfolded.

  As always, the decision came without hesitation.

  “Take it.”

  “Master?”

  “You heard me. Take it.”

  “May I caution you on two things?”

  Hazin turned.

  “Gunfire might reveal us to pursuit.”

  “I know that.”

  “Whatever that ship is, it is an unknown. Unknowns are the gray path.”

  Hazin smiled. “Precisely why we take it.”

  The ship had been cleared for action throughout the night, and a single command from its captain rippled through the ship, bringing it to the highest state of readiness.

  Hazin could feel the increased tempo of the engines. The deck canting beneath his feet as the helm was put over. There was no sense in making some sort of foolish display of bravado on a pitch-black night, and besides, the crew was of his order and such stupidity would cause doubts.

  He stepped into the armored bridge, standing in the middle. Only a novice would make the mistake of touching— or leaning against—the plating when action was imminent.

  A rush of steam from the bow signaled that the frigate’s forward guns were swinging into position.

  “Captain. Signal from foretop lookout.”

  Captain Gracchi lowered his glasses, which had been trained on the flickering glow and looked over at his signals officer.

  “Ship sighted off the starboard bow.”

  He started to turn, raising his glasses again, when the shocking glare of a salvo ignited. The flash blinded him the ocean flaring up as bright as day.

  Cursing, he closed his eyes, turning away. Seconds later he felt the deck heave. Knocked off his feet, he slammed against a railing. Gasping, he staggered back, holding his side.

  “Signals!”

  Another flash, this time he was turned away, and in the glare he saw the signals officer sprawled half over the railing, decapitated. Forward, the main mast leaned drunkenly, stays snapping, sounding like rifle cracks.

  Another salvo, this time he clearly saw the ship lying not a thousand yards off, bow wake standing out a brilliant white in the glare.

  He felt the thunderclap snap of a gun belowdecks firing, the glare flashing out, lighting up the sea. Topside, several of the steam-powered gatlings were firing, their staccato roar joining the confusion. Tracers skipped out over the sea, winking out as they hit the water.

  “Helm! Hard aport!”

  He lopked back at the armored cupola. Illuminated by the flashes of light, the helmsman inside was staring at him, wfde-eyed in panic.

  “Damn you! Hard over! Get us the hell out of here!”

  Another flash lit up the sea again, followed
seconds later by a geyser of water erupting astern, Gettysburg lifting with it, a shudder running through the ship.

  All was madness. Flashes of light, the screaming roar of shells coming in, the forward mast finally letting go, tumbling overboard, sailors trapped in the rigging screaming as they fell to their doom.

  Their tormentor was now directly abeam. It presented a strange silhouette: no masts, squat, low, moving with impossible speed, knifing through the water. Tracers snapped back and forth; gatling rounds, three-inch shells, the air heavy with the rotten-egg stench of black powder.

  “Captain, aft magazine reports fire!

  He started to turn, gaze locked on the midshipman who was standing before him, shaking with fear.”

  There was a momentary flash, time seemed to stretch out, a fireball of light soaring up from an open hatch. Strange, so many thoughts tumbled together. The war of so long ago….

  The terrified boy looked back, saw the explosion mushrooming, deck plates rupturing, peeling back like rotten wood punched by a giant. Claudius Gracchi barely had time to put a reassuring hand on the boy’s shoulder before the explosion engulfed them.

  “My God, was that ours?” Sean gasped.

  Stunned, Richard did not know. The fireball spread out, color shifting from brilliant white, through yellow, to deep red. Expanding, it grew dark, disappearing except for flickering embers, which winked out as they hit the sea.

  “It was ours,” Sean groaned. “I know it was ours.”

  “Shut up, damn it,” Richard snapped. “You’re not sure.

  “I saw her, it was the Gettysburg.”

  “It could have been the other one.”

  Sean, stifling a sob, began to pray.

  Richard strained to catch a glimpse of the other ship, hoping that he’d see the familiar outline of the Gettysburg. Mist and smoke clung to the surface of the ocean. For a moment he debated the idea of pulling up, turning away, and then circling until dawn.

  But then what? If Gettysburg was gone, they were doomed and would have wasted most of their precious fuel as well.

  And if it was gone, then what? It was nearly a thousand miles back to the nearest outpost of the Republic. There was a scattering of islands dotting the seas, most of them uninhabited, or worse the hiding places of pirates, who would make short work of them.

  His stomach knotted with fear.

  “We’re finding out now,” Richard shouted. “I’ll come in low, keep a sharp watch. If it’s the Gettysburg, we’ll pull back up and circle until they signal for us to land.”

  “Let’s leave this place now!”

  “And go where?” Richard cried, looking back over his shoulder.

  Sean fell silent.

  Richard edged the throttle up, dropping low, leveling off as they plunged into a low-hanging bank of fog, coming out, racing between the overhanging darkness and the black ocean. Another cloud was ahead. He pulled up slightly, raced into it. The air suddenly turned heavy with the sulphurous smell of coal smoke and burnt powder.

  They popped through and starlight appeared directly overhead.

  “There it is!” Sean cried.

  Richard didn’t need to be told. He caught the glimmer of the ship’s phosphorescent wake. Tracing the glowing blue-green glow back to the stem of the ship, he had a chilling realization.

  It wasn’t the Gettysburg.

  Now what? Keep on going? Turn back to the chaos of the island, or just head out to the open sea?

  He felt a sense of utter futility and abandonment. The Gettysburg was gone. Captain Gracchi was dead, all his comrades dead. That explosion had been her magazines going up. Anyone still alive had most likely been blown into the shark-infested sea.

  A blind rage seized him. Leaning forward, he grabbed the breech of his gatling, spun open the steam cock, and pressed the trigger.

  A snap of light shot out, the barrel spinning to life, spitting out five hundred rounds a minute. The tracers snaked down, weaving, then cutting across the bow of the ship.

  Sean opened up as well, cursing wildly.

  Within seconds snaps of light arced back.

  A violent shudder slapped their plane. An instant later the engine seized. One of the propeller blades tore loose, spinning off into the darkness.

  He was tempted to simply point at the ship and end it. Pulling back on the stick, Richard tried to stretch out the glide, but within seconds he could feel the airspeed bleeding off, the controls going mushy. They were going into a stall. Panicking, he pushed the stick forward. Momentarily he regained control.

  Still the tracers followed them, swinging back and forth. Dimly he heard Sean scream that they were burning. The ocean rushed up to meet them.

  “There, that’s what we want!” Hazin cried, pointing at the burning aerosteamer as it plunged into the sea. “Mark the spot!”

  The frigate continued to turn, sweeping through the wreckage.

  He had wanted an intact ship, prisoners, a chance to evaluate how this new piece fit into his game. All that had disappeared in a blinding flash.

  “Fire a flare.”

  “Master, if we light a flare shell, anyone within ten leagues will see it.”

  “Anyone within twenty leagues saw that ship blow up.”

  “It will give them a clearer bearing on us. For all we know, there’s a ship of the Blue Banner closing at this very minute. They know the silhouette of this ship, and they won’t take the time to ask questions about our surrendering or not.”

  “Light it,” Hazin replied sharply.

  The captain nodded, passing the order.

  The gun on the forward turret elevated and fired. The shell streaked upward, arcing, and then ignited with a brilliant flash, the flare swinging on its parachute. The ocean beneath it was illuminated as brilliantly as if both moons were full.

  Lookouts forward shouted the bearing. The strange aerosteamer was clearly visible, one bi-wing and forward cab sticking out of the water.

  He watched intently, waiting, and then saw movement.

  “I want them alive!” Hazin shouted. “No matter what it takes, I want them alive.”

  Gagging, Richard struggled to the surface. Blindly he lashed out with his knife, cutting through the fabric of a wing that had crumpled over the forward cab, trapping him as the plane had settled and started to slip under.

  He broke to the surface, shrieking for air. Then something grabbed hold of his leg, pulling him down. He went back under. For a second of blind panic he thought it was a shark snagging his leg.

  No, he had seen sharks attack. Both his legs, his entire lower body, would already be gone if it were that. They were out there, and soon enough they would close, but not yet.

  He surfaced again, fighting for air, then went under. Sean was clutching him.

  Richard grabbed him, pulling him up, his comrade clawing at him wildly. He tried to push him back, and both of them gor tangled in canvas, and wires; the wreckage of an airship that was rapidly going under.

  Richard kicked violently, gaining the surface yet again, Sean by his side.

  “Richard! I thought I’d lost you!” Sean gasped, still clinging to him.

  “Just grab a spar, anything but me,” Richard sputtered.

  Fumbling in the dark, Richard grasped one of the halfsubmerged float pontoons, which had snapped off on impact. Grabbing Sean by the collar, he pulled him over.

  “The sharks, how soon?” Sean whispered, panic causing his voice to break.

  Richard didn’t answer. Soon enough. If either of them was bleeding, it’d be only a matter of minutes before a pack of them latched on to the trail and closed in. He reached down to the holster on his hip…the revolver was gone.

  Damn.

  In spite of the warmth of the tropical sea, he began to shiver.

  A sun seemed to explode directly overhead, casting a hellish blue-white light. A wave lifted them up, and he saw the ship bearing down on them. It was hard to judge distance, but the vessel seemed only a few hundred y
ards off, and for a second he thought it just might be the Gettysburg after all, this entire affair a tragic mistake.

  But it wasn’t the Gettysburg. The ship was smaller, sleeker, a blocklike turret on the forward bow where the Gettysburg had its aerosteamer catapult. The ship was reversing its engines, knifing straight toward them.

  The sea around him was littered with debris: bits of wreckage, a broken spar, flame-scorched canvas trailing behind it, part of a table sliced in half, chairs, bits of cloth, cable and rope, a deck grating, and, scattered here and there, bodies and parts of bodies.

  Neither of them moved. The ocean was silent except for the engines of the approaching ship. The effect was frightful. “Richard,” Sean hissed, pointing at a body floating atop a cresting wave. A fin, rising half a dozen feet out of the water, slashed in, cutting a razor wake through the water. The body jerked, then abruptly disappeared beneath the waves.

  “Don’t move,” Richard whispered.

  The ship was still closing in. A boat was being lowered from amidships, already half lowered. He could see dark forms illuminated by the flare, running along the deck.

  “The Kazan,” Sean gasped.

  Richard looked over at his gunner. “Your revolver, you still have it?”

  Sean fumbled with one hand, and shook his head. “I lost it.”

  Richard groaned. “A hell of a choice,” he said, his voice shaking. “We can start swimming, but that will draw attention from down below. It’d be over in a minute.”

  Sean shook his head violently. “If the Kazan are anything like what we’ve heard, you know what will happen.”

  Richard suddenly felt a strange detachment from it all. They were facing death either way. He looked over at Sean. His companion’s teeth were chattering with fear.

  The away boat was in the water, oars flashing, coming straight at him. In the bow he saw one of them, rifle in hand.

  An unintelligible, guttural voice was shouting. The Kazan had a weapon raised, was pointing it.

  Richard looked back and forth from Sean to the Kazan. Two choices of death….

  He saw a body lift out of the water less than a dozen yards away; the open mouth of a shark, the flash of teeth. The terror of it was too much, and he started to swim the last few feet to the boat, Sean following.