Gunpowder God (62 page)

Rylla and I both miss you and Dalla very much. I understand why she had to make the journey to Xiphlon to visit her family; after all, the city had been under siege by the Mexicotál for almost five winters. I hope Dalla finds her family well with fortunes intact. I’m sure the city folk are relieved that the menace they’ve been facing for so long is gone
.

When Dalla returns, the two of you will have to come for a visit. I know you’re buried in administrative work, but no excuses…
.

With Our Best Regards
,

Kalvan

Great King of Nos-Hostigos

W
hile seated on the Iron Throne of Greffa, Verkan Vall felt the vibration of his kit-phone disguised as an idol of Wotan. Talking to one’s personal idol was considered normal behavior in the Middle Kingdoms, as long as one wasn’t too loud or obnoxious about it—but not while on the Iron Throne. He quickly excused himself from the Presence Room and went to his private audience chamber. There were a number of advantages to being king, one of them being able to clear your schedule on a moment’s notice.

“Verkan here,” he said, pressing the transmit button.

“Chief, it’s Kostran. We’ve got problems.”

“What?” he asked.

“You know the conveyor problems we’ve been having?”

“Of course, we haven’t seen one in almost two ten-days.”

“Well, one just materialized.”

“Good!” he exclaimed. “It’s about time.”

There was a pause before Kostran continued. “It was a Paratime Police conveyor and it was badly damaged.”

Verkan didn’t like the sound of that.
By Blaxthakka’s Beard, what’s going on?
“Any survivors?”

“Yes, just one,” Kostran said. “He’s coming around now, but he’s in bad shape. You’d better get here quickly if you want to interrogate him yourself.”

Shortly after taking over as king, Verkan had done some remodeling on Theovacar’s former summer palace. One major improvement was a conveyor-head built into an older wing off his private audience chamber. A large section of what had been a storeroom had been made over into a collapsed-nickel lined conveyor-head station. There was a matching conveyor-head landing pad on Home Time Line, Vargabar Equivalent, as well as one on Fifth Level Police Terminal.

Verkan pressed the idol’s ear and twisted. A door, in what otherwise appeared to be a solid wall, slid open. He entered and stepped into a big chamber, large enough to hold a hundred-and-fifty foot conveyor with plenty of room left for supplies and holding parties. There were about fifty cases of flintlock arquebuses resting against one wall and another dozen boxes containing high-density armor for his operatives to wear during hostilities.

He saw the ripped and scorched silver mesh dome of a fifty-foot conveyor sitting on the staging ground. Smoke was still rising off the mesh and he could smell the astringent odors of burnt permaplastic and metal. Someone had used a cutting tool to remove a large section of the dome and inside were five figures, in Paratime Police issue greens, lying on the floor and three Medicos. One Medico was bent over one of the figures, while the two others were examining the other bodies.

Chancellor Kostran Galth, still in his robes of office, came running towards him. “Chief, we’ve got four dead and one badly-wounded officer.”

“Are they from here?” Verkan asked, since he’d ordered three conveyors out for information gathering, two to Fifth Level, Police Terminal and one to Home Time Line.

Kostran, his face pale, shook his head. “No one I know.” His wife, Zinganna, had left over three ten-days ago to visit Dalla on Home Time Line and had been scheduled to return two days ago.

Verkan ordered, “Everyone step back except the Med Team.”

After a brief wait that would have been interminable except for Verkan’s First Level mental control, the head Medico got up and called Verkan to his side. The wounded officer had a gash in his forehead that had bled out into a large pool, but his worst injury was from a bullet wound to his shoulder. The Medic team had stabilized the bleeding and had hooked him up to a blood pump. It would keep him alive until they got to a robo-doc, although he needed a major trauma center rather than a field doc.

The cloying smell of death filled the conveyor. The Medico looked at Verkan, saying, “I gave him something to ease the pain, but he won’t remain conscious long. He can talk a little so you’d better make it quick.”

Verkan got down on his knees, leaning over. “Officer, can I have your name and rank?”

“Sardrath Darn, Field Agent Second Class, sir,” he mumbled.

“What happened?”

“We were returning to Fifth Level Police Terminal from Fourth Level, Hartley Belt, Chicago, Vargabar Equivalent. When we arrived at the Fifth Level, Vargabar Equivalent subterminal head, we were fired upon by troops dressed in bluish-gray uniforms.” He paused, while a series of coughs wracked his body. “I was hit bad….”

“Fired upon at Paratime Police Terminal?” Verkan asked. “What in the Pits of Kunargh is going on?”

“I don’t know, sir. We bugged out as soon as we could set the controls, but something hit our conveyor.”

He started coughing again. Verkan wasn’t sure he’d survive another bout.

“Where are we, sir?”

“Fourth Level, Aryan-Transpacific, Styphon’s House Subsector, Kalvan’s Time-Line, Greffa City.”

“Oh…we were trying to make our way to Home Time Line.”

Police Terminal
, Verkan thought.
We’re fortunate that the conveyor hadn’t ended up on Fourth-Level Europo-American Chicago. All hell would have broken loose…. If it hasn’t already!

The End