Clockwork Chaos (7 page)

He smiled and ran through the alleyway the enemy soldier had emerged from. He paused and saw the house with the machine-gun. The barrel blazed as it sprayed fire towards Brian’s squad. A pistol shot to silence the gunner would be difficult and Lemwill’s trench-gun would was well out of range.

The sergeant pressed himself against the wall of the alley and glanced either way.

“The lads have their attention, but not for long, sir. We need t’ do this fast n’ melt away.” Lemwill wheezed deeply.

Nodding, Brian did the only sensible thing. He ran across the road. He sprinted and kept his eyes focused on the house the woman had nervously pointed to. He heard an alarmed cry to his right from above. The machine-gunner had seen him. Fear started to rise, but training forced it away. Legs pumping, Brian sped across the cobbled street. Puffs of smoke and bouncing rounds traced after him. The wooden door to the house was closed, but he had no other options. Brian lowered his head and brought his shoulder up. He hit the door like a train off the tracks and pain burst through him. The door fell backward off the hinges and he landed atop it as if it were a sled. Instinctively he drew in his feet and a flurry of bullets showered the area outside the doorway.

A thin figure peered over an upturned couch. He stood slowly, using a cane to support himself. His eyes looked Brian over and he said in smoothly spoken English, “My cover can hardly stay intact with you mucking about in the open. You better have a good reason for being here.”

A sigh of relief whistled through Brian’s teeth. He rose to his feet. The mission wasn’t over, yet. Nodding, Brian walked towards the man. “Yes. The country no longer has need of your services.” He shot him in the face.

Lemwill waited for Leftenant Willox to emerge from the house. Soon as he saw the lanky frame of his officer he leaned around the alleyway entrance and fired his trench-gun. The pellets peppered the building in a wide spray. He highly doubted the machine gunner would be killed, but that wasn’t Lemwill’s objective. He shouted across the street, “Run, sir!”

The officer sprinted, making it to the safety of the alley before the gunners bullets chewed up the brickwork. Lemwill grabbed the panting man and hauled him firmly into the protective shelter between the houses. “You find our spy?”

“I did. I’m afraid he is dead,” Willox said. He turned a ghastly shade of white and braced himself against the wall. His eyes widened and he shuddered. “Oh, God.”

Lemwill steadied him. He often became sick and dizzied after one of his ‘moments’. The men all knew what was wrong with him; everyone knew it except the Leftenant. For a moment, Lemwill wanted to tell him then and there while under fire. Tell him that he was cursed, that some spell from the Prime Minister’s agents had his mind twisted up in knots. He had no proof, none of the squad did, but the tales of soldiers were not to be discounted. Magic was afoot, of the worst variety, he was sure of it. There were tales told of spells that countered a man’s wishes and filled them with the desires of others. They were all certain that was what afflicted poor Leftenant Willox. Only the mad, or possessed, would behave as he did, and Lemwill did not think Willox mad.

“I shouldn’t be here,” the Leftenant whimpered. “I shouldn’t be here.” His eyes fixed upon Lemwill’s.

The Sergeant frowned. “The nation needs you, sir. We need t’ get back now.”

Leftenant Willox’s eyes glassed over. He stood tall and shrugged off Lemwill’s hand. “Quite right, Sergeant. Come on then, we cannot leave our boys waiting and it is a long walk back to France.” He winked. “King and Country, Sergeant.”

He clutched his trench-gun and watched the officer jog toward the sound of gunfire. “King n’ Country, sir.”

M
att Dinniman

––––––––

B
race for impact,” the captain called. To our port, a flak explosion rocked
Wine into Blood
, and I held my breath as our wooden gondola swayed. I looked up at the cables that attached us to the massive balloon. We still looked intact. Behind me, the boiler hissed and groaned. Its door glowed red.

The Zmey’s Breath
, flying just below and aft, wasn’t as lucky. Several holes peppered the reinforced balloon, and it began its quick plunge into the burning city below as I looked on in horror. The crew of seven abandoned ship, their dark parachutes opening up like giant targets into the crackling air.

“Another brick,” the captain said.

“Are you crazy?” I yelled down to him.

To my left and right, both gunners turned the cranks on their autoguns, which meant we had gliders coming at us from both directions. The
clack-clack-clack
of the tailgunner’s double-barrel shook the floor of the airship. The distinctive smell of gunpowder filled the gondola.

“I said another goddamned brick, and that’s a goddamned order, Boris.”

I indicated the red-hot boiler, even though he couldn’t see it from his position below, dangling in the clockworks. “If I add another brick, it’s going to explode.”

In training, they taught us the boiler was the heart of the bomber. I always liked that description, and I saw myself, as engineer, as the surgeon in charge of keeping the heart strong. A strong heart equaled a strong ship. Too much exertion, and the heart would break.

“If we don’t speed up, we’ll be shredded. Now do it, goddamnit.”

I cursed, picked up a xin rock from the dwindling supply, and shoved it into the hopper, locking it closed. I pulled my goggles over my eyes. The boiler groaned ominously, but the fans quickened.

“It’s in,” I yelled. I closed my eyes, and I prayed.

“Why must you attack?” Zelena asked me the night before. “You haven’t even talked with the Queen, to see if she will surrender.”

That wasn’t entirely true, but I didn’t want to start a long conversation with her about her queen’s barbaric response to our envoy. I tried to sleep, but the drunken singing of my fellow aviators kept me awake. The normally somber tent city pulsed with song and dance, on this, our last night. Many of us would die come morning, and we all knew it. We knew what we faced.

I kissed her forehead. “We attack because we’ve been ordered to attack,” I said.

“You will death,” she said.

I gently corrected her. She’d come a long way in nine months, but she still had issues with certain words in Gremlic. “It’s ‘You will die.’ Or, ‘you will find death.’”

“You will find death. And I don’t want a lesson tonight.”

“If I die, it will be okay,” I said. “My family will be rewarded. It’s an honor to die for the Tsar.”

“And what about me?” she asked, reverting to her native Hellenic.

I’d gotten to where I could understand her language, but speaking it still proved difficult.

“You’ll be fine,” I said in Gremlic. I touched my hand to her belly. “No matter what happens, our baby will be free.”

She looked dubious. A whole generation of propaganda could do that. I’d seen the posters as we first marched into Kozani, of imperial soldiers dangling babies over snarling dogs. All babies born under the Gremlic flag were born free. It was one of our oldest laws. Citizen, slave, felon, or crag. All babies were born free.

She lifted the chain attached to her ankle, shaking it at me. “How can I be fine when I live as a slave? How can I be fine when I know that every soldier I see is responsible for murdering
my
family?”

“Zelena,” I said. “Please. They will hear.”

She went on, ignoring me. “You say our baby will be free? You have told me slaves aren’t allowed to raise their own children, unless their master says they may. If you die, I will plunge a knife into my heart. I’d rather my son die than be raised by strangers.”

“Don’t say such things,” I said, alarmed. I hadn’t told Zelena the full truth about what would happen to her if I died. She believed she would be put back with the other slaves, to be dispersed amongst the far reaches of the empire, as was the current tradition.

I put my arms around her. She quivered with rage, and her heart beat uncontrollably fast. “Please,” I said. “For the sake of our child, don’t. I promise you, no matter what happens. He will be okay. He will be raised as a good, Gremlic citizen.”

“Boris,” she said, tears streaming down her face. She cupped my face in her hands. “You are a fool. You are as much a slave as I am, only your chains are on the inside.”

She said this often, though I never understood what she meant. As long as she stopped promising to kill our child, I didn’t care. “I may be a fool, but I am a Gremlic fool.”

She looked at me, and her angry and scared eyes softened, but only slightly. “You do not look like the others. You do not act like them, either. You are Yong-Shi, not Gremlic.”

“Don’t say ‘Yong-Shi.’ It’s an insult. My skin may be different, but I am just as Gremlic as they are, as our child will be. My people are essential to the empire. In time, your people will be essential, too.”

Zelena spit, and she ground the spit into the dirt with her chained foot. “My child may lower his knee to the Tsar, but in his heart, he will bow to no tyrant.”

“You sound like my grandmother,” I said.

“Thirty seconds,” the bombardier called from his position behind the captain.

Yuri, the supply officer looked up from his spot between the two waist gunners. We locked eyes. Thirty seconds? That might as well be thirty minutes.

We’d started off as a flight of fifty, and
Wine into Blood
had been 12
^th
in the line of command. Through the choking black smoke and rain of flak, I could only see ten, no, nine remaining dirigibles, with us at the lead. Behind us, the sky filled with parachutes, though not nearly as many as there should be. I pounded my toolbox with my fist.

Our target was the opulent, square palace in the middle of the city, home to the Vinegar Whore, who no doubt was evacuated the moment we began our push. The marble palace looked so small from the shore, where we’d laid siege to the island city for over a month while we waited for the supply train to finally return with fresh troops, ammunition, and food that wasn’t fish. We’d waited too long, and they’d dug themselves in nice and tight.

More explosions rocked the ship, and we swung back and forth. One of the twenty suspension cables snapped loudly, whistling through the air. The red-hot metal of the boiler became unbearable to stand beside. I watched the rivets nervously.

Below, trails of rockets slammed into the walls of the city, but the bricks didn’t crumble. Rows and rows of metal waterships chugged across the bay toward the island, pregnant with transit guards ready to climb the walls and face the defenders.

Fires swept across the city, caused by the crashed dirigibles and prematurely dropped bombs.

We should’ve bombed the walls. We’d already be on our way back if we had. But the generals didn’t ask me for advice. Regardless, the city would fall, if not today, then tomorrow. If the Tsar and his imperial army was anything, it was tenacious. One after another, the whore’s cities had fallen, her fabled vineyards and olive groves trampled into dust. All that was left were two prizes: The Vinegar Whore’s heavily-fortified capital of New Athina, and the Whore herself, a prize the Tsar sought with an unnatural fervor. He demanded her presence before him, thousands of kilometers away in Tupolov, dead or alive.

“Incoming,” the starboard waist gunner cried, firing. I ducked, and
Wine into Blood
trembled as rounds slammed into the gondola. A small, bird-shaped glider looped in the air, and it broke apart as the gunner tore it to shreds.

“Gods, that was too close,” Yuri said as he handed the gunner a new belt for his autogun. He slipped down the hatch.

“Lining up now,” the bombardier called. Below, the clockworks shifted as the pilot transferred control over to him. “Ten seconds!”

Pop, pop, pop
. The boiler trembled with potential energy. At any moment, the heart would break. It would either eject a rivet, the steam melting anyone unfortunate enough to be in its path, or the door would rip off the hinges, tearing me in half as it shot out like a missile. Or the whole thing would just explode like a grenade, taking out the entire crew of
Wine into Blood
. No matter what way it went, the engineer was always went with it.

“Bombs armed!” Yuri called.

“Opening the bomb bay!” the bombardier yelled.

The ship shuddered as the dual wing doors opened underneath. We were at our most vulnerable right now. A single round from a glider could set off a bomb, blowing us out of the sky.

“Bombs away!”

“Bombs away,” we all echoed. Below, another glider attempted to sweep up at us, but he couldn’t find the right current, and he was caught in a flak explosion thrown by one of his own. Behind us, the remaining dirigibles lined up for their runs.

We buoyed up several hundred feet and sped away as the bay doors closed. The satisfying, chest-thumping explosions shook the air as our heavy bombs slammed into the Vinegar Whore’s palace.

I cheered along with the others. If she had been stupid enough to remain within her palace, she would almost certainly be dead. At the very least, the sight of the palace exploding had to be devastating to the morale of the whore’s people.

I grabbed a heavy wrench from my box. This high up, we were out of range of the flak, and only the luckiest of gliders could slingshot up and catch us. The biggest danger was now the boiler. I had to vent.

The heavy bolt could be turned to create a controlled breach. Orders or not, now that the danger had momentarily passed, I...

Ka-boom!
The boiler exploded, throwing me backward halfway across the top level of the ship as the tank soared into the air like a missile.

Even as the iron rocket ascended, cleaving the balloon in two, and taking half the suspension cables with it, I stared in horrified fascination. Very few engineers lived to see how their boilers failed. This one had failed at its base, something I’d never heard of happening before.

Below, high-pitched screams rose above the explosions as both the pilot and bombardier burned to death in a shower of steam and boiling water. It happened so fast I didn’t have time to register what that meant. My friends. Gone. The gondola lurched as the stern plummeted.