Fateful Lightning

by William R. Forstchen

  “Yes sir.”

  “You do it in writing, and none of this horseshit of tricking me into signing blanket requisitions and then using them for something else.”

  “You found out about that too?”

  Andrew wanted to tell him that he had been suspicious for weeks but decided not too. “It finally came out.”

  “I promise, sir. I’ll toe the line.”

  “Fine. Now get the hell out of my office.”

  Chuck hurriedly saluted and fled the room.

  Andrew watched as he ran out, forgetting to close the door, and stood up to close it himself.

  He still wasn’t sure if he had done the right thing. Nearly anyone else and he would have relieved him on the spot. But dammit, he needed the boy, the same way he needed Vincent, and Pat, and John as well. Each one different, a fine juggling act. An army needed an occasional Ferguson to keep things stirred up, the same way it needed a Mina to make sure it ran smoothly. Yet it also killed men, maybe not with a bullet, but killed their soul nevertheless.

  He went back to his chair and settled down, looking at all the reports that had to be read, realizing that for the next few days he’d have to take John’s job on as well, not even really sure where to begin, not ready to delegate it with the crisis now so close at hand.

  The top telegram on the pile caught his eye, and he sat back and scanned it. More boys lost, the report sterile in black and white, but he had a flash image of what the final moment must have been like, falling from the sky, in flames. He reached into the drawer, pulled out the bottle, and poured another drink.

  “There’s the beacon.”

  Jack pushed the goggles up from his eyes and looked off the starboard side to where Feyodor was pointing. He waited, and then saw it, the lantern flashing brightly against the darkness of the forest.

  “That’s it.”

  He pushed the rudder forward, the ship swinging to the east, the moonlit river below drifting astern.

  He had the elevator stick all the way back into his stomach, barely able to maintain height. The hydrogen bag overhead was no longer visible in the dark, but at sundown it had already been starting to look slack. How many holes were in the bag he couldn’t even begin to guess. The two pursuing ships had each hit him several times. The long pursuit up the coast had gone on for most of the day, the Merki finally giving up when he had climbed well above what he guessed was nearly three miles or more, damn near freezing to death in the process, the winds aloft pushing him a hundred miles south out to sea.

  The propeller was the next worry. Nicking the ironclad had cracked the blades. After they had thrown off the pursuit, Feyodor had disengaged the engine to check. A foot-long section on one blade had been sliced clean off, and the other three blades were cracked and bent. And then finally the engine itself was acting up, hissing and wheezing, the cylinder packing most likely long gone by now. He could have put down at Roum—the city was clearly visible at night—but to do so would undoubtedly have meant the end of the ship. Now he was wondering if they’d make it at all.

  Directly below he saw the powder mill, the top of the building planted with trees to hide it from above, but visible now from the lantern light shining through the windows. He’d have to tell Chuck about that.

  “We’re getting too low.”

  “I’ve got the stick full in my gut as is. Give me more heat.”

  “The damn engine’s red-hot now,” Feyodor shouted.

  “Well, shut up and hang on.”

  “What the hell do you think I’ve been doing? May all the saints curse you. I’ll be damned if I’ll ever fly with you again, you madman.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t want you, you son of a bitch.”

  A circle of lanterns suddenly snapped to life, the ground crew unhooding them, marking out the center of the airfield.

  “Throttle back to one quarter.”

  The rackety hum of the propeller died away, speed dropping, and the ship started to drop.

  Damn. He pulled back harder on the elevator, afraid it would break off in his hands. With the speed cut back there was less lift on the elevator surface and the ship started to drop.

  “Hang on.”

  “What the hell do you think I’m doing?”

  The light of the nearest lanterns disappeared. It took him several seconds to realize why. They were dropping into the woods.

  “Full power!”

  The propeller hummed back up to life. A jarring blow went through the basket, the top of a pine tree snapping off directly under his feet, a branch slicing through, slashing his leg. The ship pitched forward, the basket dragging over the treetop, the propeller hitting it with a howl of splinters, and they were past it, over the field.

  “Cut the engine and douse the fire!”

  “Propeller’s gone anyhow,” Feyodor shouted.

  The lanterns nearest to him were back in view, and suddenly they were moving, the ground crew picking them up and running to get out of the way, shouts now echoing up from the field below. It was impossible to see just how high they were. He hung on, bracing for the blow.

  They hit the ground, Jack nearly pitching out of the basket, the overhead struts that held it to the balloon cracking.

  The basket dragged along the ground, and with a shuddering groan the ship came to a stop, ground crew racing up, the support struts of the basket punching into the bag.

  “Water on the engine! Kill it, kill it!” Feyodor shouted.

  A hiss of steam washed over Jack as he simply let go and fell the last foot, head first, to the ground. More steam washed over him as buckets of water were thrown directly onto the engine, killing the fire, and along with it cracking the boiler and ruining it. He lay on the ground panting, afraid to move, terrified that an arrant wisp of hydrogen might hit a live spark in the engine, sending them all up in a fireball.

  Hands reached out to grab him, pulling him back up to his feet, leading him away from the ship. He looked around. He and Feyodor were surrounded by dozens of men, all of them shouting questions.

  “We got three of the bastards,” Feyodor announced. “Harpooned them coming out of the hangers.”

  A triumphal shout went up, men slapping him on the back, the crew chief eagerly pressing a bottle of vodka into Jack’s hand. He took a long drink, and hugging Feyodor, he inverted the bottle over Feyodor’s open mouth, the aerosteamer engineer finally choking and sputtering.

  “He was better than Queequeg in Moby Dick,” Jack announced, not caring that the literary allusion would be totally lost, laughing with the sheer numbing relief that they were still alive, Feyodor already holding his hands up, moving them about, showing how Jack had piloted them down the line of hangers.

  “How’d the others do?” Jack finally asked, and the group fell silent.

  “They got nine of them.”

  “Well goddam, I knew Petrov would lead ’em in and get it done. Where the hell is that damn fool?”

  “He didn’t come back,” the chief said. “He got four of them in the hangars. The last one blew up underneath him and got him too.”

  “What about Yuri?”

  “California Clipper got three, and they put a flaming arrow into her. He got out alive from the wreck and the Merki captured him.”

  “Jesus help him,” Jack whispered.

  “And Ilya Basilovich?” Feyodor asked, his voice flat.

  “The Republic got back. They got the other two, the last one fighting a mile up, then he was hit by canister. Sergei Gromica, the engineer, flew it back, but Ilya…”

  The engineer hesitated.

  “He died a couple of hours ago after they took off his leg.”

  Feyodor lowered his head and made the sign of the cross, the other men doing the same.

  "Star of the West?”

  It was the crew chief for the lost ship, standing at the edge of the crowd.

  “Gone,” Jack whispered, not wanting to say just how senseless the loss was, already deciding that he would lie and
create a heroic end, crediting Eurik with a brilliant kill before going down in flames.

  The crew chief of the lost ship lowered his head and walked away to break the news to the others who had waited throughout the long night.

  Jack turned to look back at his ship in the moonlight.

  “It’s full of holes, the propeller’s gone, and we’ll need a new engine. Get it ready to go up by tomorrow. They’ve still got at least five ships left.”

  “Damn you, can’t you ever come back in one piece?” the chief snapped. He hesitated and then patted Jack on the shoulder.

  “We’re proud of you. It worked. You got the bastards good and proper.”

  Jack nodded, unable to reply.

  “All right, you heard the man, let’s get to work,” the chief said, and the crew walked off, leaving the two alone.

  “I need some sleep,” Feyodor sighed, lifting the half-empty bottle from Jack’s hands and taking another long pull.

  “Three ships gone, four pilots dead,” Jack sighed. “I wish to hell I’d never thought of it.”

  “We had to try,” Feyodor said. “It wasn’t your fault, and besides, we evened things up.”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “Try to get some sleep,” Feyodor said. “You know we’ll have to go back out again tomorrow.”

  “Thanks.”

  The engineer handed the bottle back, turned, and walked off into the darkness.

  He stood alone. It was so strange, the silence after thirty hours of the howling engine. His knees felt like rubber, the ground tingling beneath his feet.

  “You did well.”

  Jack looked up, recognizing the voice, and saw a shadowy form standing before him.

  “Thanks, Chuck, but I lost four good pilots today.”

  “I heard.”

  Jack said nothing, leaning back to look at the stars overhead, the horizon to the east already streaked with the first light of approaching dawn.

  “Come on home with me. Olivia’s waiting up. She managed to find some real eggs, and a slab of salt pork. It’ll do you good.”

  Jack turned, walking silently beside Chuck, following him across the clearing and back to the cabin, pausing for a moment to watch as the ground crew chopped the basket and engine off from under the ship, working in the dark for fear of a leak. He turned away and continued on, the light in the cabin window ahead suddenly warm and inviting.

  “So what have you been up to while I was away?” Jack finally asked woodenly, as if the conversation might help to drive out the memories.

  Chapter 10

  Shagta was low on the horizon, crescent-horned. The Great Wheel moved westward, the stars so bright that he felt as if he could reach up to touch them.

  Tamuka sat alone, head back, watching the heavens. He smiled. Could it be that once we truly walked between the stars, ruling the universe, entering the gates of light to emerge in distant places?

  He sighed. If true, so much have we lost. He let his imagination race, dreaming, the people of the hordes leaping across the universe to far worlds, the universe at their feet. He remembered the chant of Tuka, brother of Gormash, god of fire, and how they had fought against the powers of the darkness. Gormash had died, his soul becoming the sun, which gave light to this world, and Tuka had left, mourning his brother, unable to bear the sight of his flaming soul, proclaiming that the map of the heavens should be brought before him, so that he could discover what worlds were left to conquer.

  Worlds to conquer.

  Tamuka stirred. Around him was a low but steady rumble. The first of the cannons had come up yesterday, and the last were arriving even now. Already his hosts were up, moving to their positions, the assault to begin after the chanting of the greeting to day, to Gormash. Far to the north the battle had already started, two umens fighting in the forest, gaining little, not even up in the forest, the cattle fighting well.

  The thought bothered him, to think that animals could fight well. No sense of honor, of the ritual of war, of glory. It was a shame to waste the blood of the horde in such a way, for in years to come no one would chant his tales of glory and skill when describing a fight against mere cattle. It was a job of slaughtering and nothing more.

  Yet through them I have gained my power as Qar Qarth, he realized. For without them Jubadi would still be alive, perhaps even Mupa as well, and I would still be shield-bearer to the Zan Qarth Vuka.

  He looked back up to the heavens.

  “Do you now understand why I did as I did?” he whispered, fearful again that Hulagar was stirring, looking down upon him.

  He was afraid even to think the darker thoughts, the realization that when he had sent out the cattle Yuri with the supposed intent of killing Keane, there was yet another twist to the plot, a path he had dimly seen, that Yuri would serve Keane, and perhaps even return to kill Jubadi.

  And he had.

  And I killed Vuka and am now Qar Qarth.

  They could never have seen all that I now understand, Tamuka thought, as if searching for some justification to ease the gnawing of guilt. This is a war unto death with the cattle, and here will be decided who will rule this world, whether it will be a world of cattle or of the hordes. He alone had seen that with such crystal clarity. Some of the others perceived it dimly, and thus fought; others sought but vengeance; others fought simply because it was a fight and that is what a warrior did. Yet few understood exactly where all of this could lead if the cattle lived.

  There were other hordes, southward of the Bantag yet four, perhaps five more, supposedly even greater than the sixty umens of the Bantag. They rode oblivious to what was being decided here, asleep now in their yurts, dreaming of past glories, soon to rise to seek battle against their equals or to feast off cattle, or whatever creatures they ruled in their lands.

  Yet here, in the next days, it would be decided. He held a dream beyond this, and he saw two paths to it. To slaughter the Yankees, the Roum, the Rus, to slaughter all of the cattle wherever he rode, was part of that dream, for now that they had risen up, they must not be allowed to live, to dream of some future time to rise and kill again. Hulagar had hoped that when the war was finished life could return to what it was, an endless circling of the world yet again, as it had been for over two hundred circlings before. But now he could sense another dream, a different one, and that was to take the machines, to learn their mastery, from them to build even greater machines, until one day the Merki ruled the entire world, all other hordes subservient and uniting under him. And from there to use the gates of light, to find their means of control, and to leap across the stars, retaking all that had once been—like Tuka, to spread forth the map of the heavens and rediscover what worlds there were to conquer.

  He thought of the ark, which even now resided in the yurt of Sarg, containing within it the great scrolls, written in the lost languages of the ancients, supposedly containing within them the true histories, marking where the gates appeared, the means of controlling them. It was said that the ancients used them deliberately at first to walk between worlds and to bring forth cattle and other beasts as slaves and that the art of them was now lost, that the gates opened and closed as if by their own will. The language of them was lost, but it could be relearned.

  And as he thought of the ark he remembered the other thing that resided with it, the urn that contained the moldering heart of Jubadi, the dust of the hearts of all the Qar Qarths. Vuka’s heart is not in it, he thought, but mine will be when I at last go to join my ancestors. Already he was forming that plot as well, to make sure that when the time came, the cousins of Jubadi who might pretend to the saddle of the Qar Qarth would be no more and a new lineage would be proclaimed.

  A string of oaths broke the silence, and he looked to his right. A torch flickered, showing a line of wagons, cannons moving forward, whips cracking. The procession passed on, moving down the slope, heading to the rise on the bank of the river. Beside it a solid block of warriors marched, most likely the umens of the black hor
se, he thought, the first wave to go in.

  He turned, looked back to the east, and closed his eyes again, letting his spirit soar.

  You are not asleep, he realized, sensing the stirring, the lying awake, fear clutching at the heart. Good. Be afraid. I am coming for you. Your heart I shall carve out of your living body. Your brain is already devoured.

  He smiled and let the vision form. Today it would begin.

  He opened his eyes, not sure if he had been dreaming or if the vision had somehow been real. He knew, damn him, he was here, inside of me, cutting into me, he thought.

  Shaken, Andrew sat up. The bedsheets were clammy with sweat. He stood and walked over to the window and looked out. Still night. He looked at the clock in the town forum. Almost two in the morning. The narrow street below was empty, but he could sense that few were sleeping tonight. He opened the window shutters and leaned out, thankful for the cooling breeze on his naked body. A soft crying echoed from the house across the alleyway, a woman’s voice sobbing, a man talking soothingly. There was another sound from the next house, of pleasant and gentle lovemaking, and he could not help but listen for a moment, not embarrassed, touched, imagining the fear inside both as they clung to each other. A baby cried from up the street, and a moment later the cry was stilled by a soft lullaby in Rus.

  “Come to bed.”

  He turned and looked back. Kathleen was sitting up, looking at him.

  “Can’t sleep.”

  She slipped out of the bed and came up, putting her arm around his waist, pressing up against him, resting her head on his shoulder. She listened with him, laughed softly.

  “That’s Gregory’s room, isn’t it?” she asked.

  He smiled and nodded. Gregory’s young bride had found a room in the city, a nearly impossible feat.

  Again he had a flash image—the other, standing in the darkness, looking at him, waiting.

  “You’re shaking.”

  “Just chilled.”

  She went back to the bed and pulled a blanket off, came back up and put it over his shoulders moving around to hold him underneath the blanket.