“It’s Akbar,” Octavia said, clutching my arm. “The imperator’s son. Only he would be so bold as to attack a Black Hand raid.”
“Your raid is being raided?” I asked, wondering if she saw the irony in that.
She nodded, her face pinched with worry. Evidently she didn’t.
Dust rose thick and heavy in the air as madness consumed the people outside. Fifteen or so of the folks who had been loading up big wagons with the cargo had taken cover behind the wagons, and were shooting at the attackers. The Moghuls—I assumed Octavia was correct in identifying them—rode horses across the field in a wave that encircled both the hangar and the airship itself, their strange call rising high over the shouts and sounds of gunfire from the revolutionaries.
The Moghuls evidently had rifles, of a similar type to the handguns in that they made the same dull shooting sound, followed by a blast of reddish orange light.
“Akbar, huh?” I squinted through the dust, amazed she could see enough of the attackers to identify them. Their horses appeared to be wearing some sort of ornate leather and metal armor.
“Yes. That’s him, there, on the black horse.” She pointed as one of the galloping horses leaped over a wagon and spun around, charging the revolutionaries who had been hiding behind it. The man on the horse wore little armor, an odd choice, I thought, given the guns being fired toward him. He was dressed in some sort of a long tunic that reached to his knees, split up the sides so he could ride, with what looked like a yellow sweatshirt beneath it. His pants, also yellow, were tucked into ornately decorated leather boots, and he wore matching leather bracers on his wrists, the same type I’d seen on a friend who was heavily into archery. He had no bow, but did carry a rifle, and had a sword strapped to his belt. On his head he wore a pair of dark goggles, and a white turban, the end of which had been wrapped around the lower half of his face, no doubt to keep the dust out.
“Goggles,” I told Octavia.
“Eh?” she asked, looking confused.
I pointed at the man. “See? He knows how to do steampunk. He has goggles.”
She gave me a look that said she thought I was a few gigs short of a terabyte. While I watched, the Moghul whipped the rifle upward and began shooting at the revolutionaries, crying something at them as the dirt erupted at their feet. They scrambled backward, a few of them shooting at him, but he simply charged them with his horse. They turned tail and headed straight for us.
“Don’t worry—I’ll protect you!” I yelled, filled with the knowledge that I had to keep Octavia and Hallie safe from this latest threat.
“What?” Octavia said, her eyes round. “No—”
“Get back,” I shouted, shoving her toward Hallie. “Both of you—go hide!”
“Mr. Fletcher, I really must object to such high-handed—”
“You can yell at me about my manners later. Hold her, Hallie!” I bellowed, grabbing up a crowbar one of the revolutionaries had left lying behind. I didn’t wait to see if Hallie did as I demanded—she was a smart woman. I knew she wouldn’t insist on being in the thick of a battle when she was unarmed. I just prayed that Octavia would show the same sort of good sense.
I scrambled up on a crate, leaped across it to another one that stood in the center of the opened wall, and narrowed my eyes on the Moghul prince who Octavia had said was known for his ruthlessness. The revolutionaries wouldn’t hurt her, since she was obviously one of them, and I trusted her to keep Hallie safe from them. But the Moghul was another matter.
He charged toward us as the revolutionaries streamed into the hold. I felt, at that moment, in great need of a personal battle cry, something I could yell as I leaped off the box and challenged the Moghul prince, something that would summarize, in a few succinct words, both my personal attitude and beliefs, something dashing and inspiring, along the lines of the war cries that actors screamed so dramatically in period war movies. In the fraction of a second it took before the warlord reached me, I considered, and rejected, the motto of my alma mater, various Tolkien cries that were stirring, but meaningless in this context, and finally the motto of the US Army.
Akbar headed straight for me, his rifle spitting out splats of light on either side. I took a deep breath, raised my crowbar, and yelled in my best Bruce Willis impersonation, “Yippie ki-yay, motherfucker!” as I flung myself onto him.
I hit him with enough force that we both went over the back end of his horse, my arms and legs cartwheeling wildly as we fell. He was partly on the bottom as we struck the wooden ramp leading into the hold, his head making a satisfying thump on the ground as we hit.
He snarled something at me in a language I didn’t understand, shoving me off him as he scrambled to retrieve the rifle I’d knocked out of his hands.
“No, you don’t!” I yelled, tackling him. His head hit the ground again, leaving him dazed for a moment. I jerked him over onto his back, raising the crowbar in my hand.
From the hold, I could hear feminine voices. The gunfire had stopped, but not the screaming. I heard Octavia calling my name, and was warmed by the concern she obviously felt, but didn’t want to admit.
The dazed man beneath me coughed, his eyes fluttering behind the dark green lenses of the goggles. He must have seen the heavy crowbar in my hand directly over his head, because he froze. I stared down at him for a few seconds, a war waging inside me. Part of me wanted to bash his brains in for daring to attack Octavia’s ship, and possibly threatening her well-being. But I had always prided myself as having some sort of honor, so instead, I jumped to my feet, hauling him up with me. “I could crack your head open as easily as I could an egg,” I told him, shaking the crowbar at him. “But I’m going to let you go so long as you leave Octavia’s ship alone. Do you understand me? You are to leave her ship alone, or so help me, I’ll make you sorry you were ever born!”
“Jack! What are you doing? Let me pass, please!” Octavia’s voice was annoyed.
“It’s all right,” I called back, without taking my eyes off my captive. “Tell the revolutionaries to stand down.”
“To what?” Octavia asked.
“Stop shooting at him. I’ve got the situation under control.”
Akbar the Moghul’s eyes widened as I picked up his rifle.
“Go on,” I said, nodding toward his horse. “Take your band of thieves and get the hell out of here.”
Around and behind us, people emerged from behind crates, looking with disbelief as I waved the crowbar at him, more or less pushing him back toward his horse, which had stopped at the bottom of the ramp.
“For the love of the heavens!” Octavia yelled, bursting between two revolutionaries. “Jack, stop!”
“It’s all right, he’s not going to steal anything from you,” I called to her. She rushed up, and I half turned my head toward her, my eyes narrowed on Akbar. “Sorry I can’t comfort you, but this bastard looks like the type to carry a knife in his boot.”
“He does,” she said, taking the rifle from me.
Both Akbar and I glanced at her in surprise.
She blushed. “That is . . . I’ve heard he does. The newspapers are full of tales of his atrocities.”
“Well, he’s not going to be performing any atrocities here,” I growled, shoving him backward another couple of steps with the crowbar. “You heard me—get your buddies, and get the hell out of here.”
I thought for a moment that he was going to fight, and I braced myself for an attack, but instead he just made me a little bow, and said in a voice heavy with accent, “I will allow you to speak to me with such insolence for the mercy you have shown me, but do not expect such again.”
I slapped the crowbar against my hand in a threatening way. “Just remember that Octavia’s ship isn’t ripe for your picking.”
He said nothing, just leaped on his horse and, calling out something, rode off, his half-dozen followers on his heels.
Octavia turned to me, her eyes wide as she watched me clutch my hand and do a little dance of
pain. “You stood up to Akbar the ruthless.”
“Dammit, I think I broke my hand with that damned crowbar,” I said, stopping the pain dance long enough to gingerly feel my palm. “Please remind me if I ever want to slap a crowbar on my hand that it hurts like hell. And yes, I did stand up to him, but someone had to. It was clear things would have turned into a bloodbath otherwise.”
She just looked at me as Hallie, making a noise of distress, took my hand and prodded at it.
“It doesn’t look broken to me,” Hallie said, giving it back to me.
“You challenged Akbar just because you didn’t want anyone hurt?” Octavia asked me, her gaze steady on mine.
“Well, no, not just because of that. I didn’t want your cargo stolen. Er . . . stolen by the wrong people,” I said, gesturing with a nod toward the revolutionaries, who stood clustered around us.
“I can’t believe you would endanger yourself for people you don’t know,” Octavia said, a frown suddenly pulling her brows together.
“I know you,” I said, nudging her with my arm.
“But you could have been killed,” she said slowly, little flecks of amber and black glittering in her eyes. Once again, I wanted badly to kiss her, but I figured she wouldn’t appreciate it in front of everyone.
“That could happen at any time,” I said, shrugging, and wishing we were alone. Clearly she wanted to express her gratitude to me for saving her cargo, and I was more than willing to have her do so, especially if that gratitude took a tangible form. I cleared my throat, ordered my groin to stop thinking about being alone with her, and arranged my expression into one of modesty. “I was happy to do it.”
“Yes,” she said slowly, her forehead smoothing out. She gave me a long, unreadable look. “I’m sure you were.”
She turned away to the revolutionaries, speaking briefly to one before marching into the hold without another word. The revolutionaries, with a last glance toward Hallie and me, continued loading the cargo onto the wagons.
I stared after Octavia as she disappeared into the depths of the hold.
“She seems pissed all of a sudden,” Hallie said, frowning after her.
“Yes, she does.”
“She should be happy that you saved her cargo for her revolutionary buddies.”
“You’d think so, huh?”
“Doesn’t make sense,” Hallie said, shaking her head, then shrugging. “Oh well. Where to now, brother mine?”
I pulled out a piece of paper that Octavia had given me. “There’s a pensione not far from here, Suore della Santa Croce, that’s kept by Swiss nuns. Octavia said we should be safe there.”
“Safe from what?” Hallie asked as I looked back into the hold. Octavia was gone.
“That is the question, isn’t it?” I said, but no one enlightened us.
Log of the HIMA Tesla
Thursday, February 18
Dogwatch: Five Bells
It took most of the day before we were released from the Rome offices of Southampton Aerocorps, where the entire crew had been detained by both the Corps and the emperor’s officials.
“We’ll provide you with an escort to the pensione,” Captain MacGregor, the flight leader for this area, said as he gestured for a couple of Corps men-at-arms.
“That’s not necessary,” I told him, waiting for the rest of the crew to climb into the carriages that were waiting outside the main building for us. “We are prepared to take care of ourselves, and indeed would have been able to repel the Black Hand assault had the full complement of the crew been present.”
“I have no doubt that you would have,” Captain MacGregor said, his voice as warm as his eyes. I’d met him twice before, but was aware that there was a bit more admiration in his gaze than was purely proper, even given the situation. “You handled that attack by the barbarians quite easily. It’s just too bad that the revolutionaries overpowered you and were able to get away with the rest of the cargo.”
“Yes, it is quite upsetting,” I said, my gaze not wavering even so much as a smidgen.
“I’m sure the emperor will have nothing but praise for you, since you tried your best to fend them off. And then there’s the fact that we caught three of them. The emperor is bound to be pleased with you for that.”
Drat Etienne. Why hadn’t he posted guards to warn of possible reinforcements? He always was arrogant, and I had no doubt that he felt that his presence alone would guarantee the success of the raid. Now three of his men were imprisoned, and quite likely to be scheduled for execution.
“The emperor is always gracious,” I murmured, thinking frantically. I’d have to contact Alan—he might be able to help with the captured revolutionaries. He wouldn’t like it, since it could threaten his cover with the imperial forces, but he would just have to see the necessity in aiding me with the matter.
“I have asked the vice-provost if I might be present when he questions the revolutionaries,” Captain MacGregor continued, his voice fat with satisfaction. He held open the door to a third carriage for me, his hand on my elbow as he assisted me into the vehicle. “He said that under the circumstances he thought it would be allowed.”
“Really?” I paused on the top carriage step, turning around to face him. “Would it be possible for me to go with you?”
“You?” He laughed and gave me a little push into the carriage, closing the door and leaning casually against the opened window. “My dear Captain Pye, that would be the height of impropriety.”
“How so? It was my ship that was attacked, my crew that was forced to undergo hours of interrogation regarding the event. I believe we are owed something for that inconvenience. I agree that it would be unreasonable for my entire crew to appear at the questioning of the revolutionaries, but surely it would be fitting for me to be present.”
“On the contrary,” he said, his fingers lingering on mine until I withdrew my hand. “It is out of the question. As for the so-called interrogation—surely you must realize that the present time of unrest in the empire demands that both the Corps and the emperor’s officials investigate such events as what transpired today.”
“Yes, of course, but—”
“You have not been in Rome in several months,” he said, taking my hand again and giving it a squeeze. I was briefly thankful I had donned a pair of gloves before departing his office. “Much has changed since you were last here, my dear Captain Pye. Rome is a battleground between the barbarian Moghuls and the emperor’s forces. Daily attacks are not at all uncommon, and the streets are not safe for a lady such as yourself to pass through unescorted. I would, naturally, see to your safety myself, but I promised the vice-provost that I would attend him promptly. I’m sure you will forgive me.” He released my hand and gestured. Four armed men on horses moved into view, clearly there to escort our carriages to the pensione that was used by Aerocorps personnel when they were in Rome.
“You will, I hope, grant me the pleasure of your company for dinner tomorrow evening? I will call for you at eight o’clock.”
“I’m afraid I will be unavailable. Another time, perhaps?” I was forced to call out as the carriage suddenly jerked forward. I sank into the cushioned back, my stomach in my boots as I considered what a horrible mess had been made of things.
I was dwelling on that, and what steps I could take to try to free Etienne’s people, when we passed by the storehouses that were used to hold cargo until it could be distributed. As we passed the first one, a man emerged from the side, stepping back immediately into the blackness of the shadows between the two buildings. He wasn’t fast enough, though, to escape me noting the white turban that graced his head and lower face.
I waited until the last of the carriages carrying my crew had passed the storehouses before calling to the coachman to stop at the gate.
“Is there a problem, ma’am?” he called back to me as the horses trotted smartly onward.
I glanced back toward the storehouses, slowly shrinking in the distance. “I believe the
Moghuls are planning another attack on the aerodrome.”
“What, again?” The man’s voice was incredulous. “Well, I’ll tell the guard at the gate, but I think you’re mistaken. No one could get through our defenses now that the imperial troops are here.”
We stopped at the guardhouse at the front gate long enough for me to insist that the man in charge send a note back to the Corps headquarters to check the storehouses. No one seemed inclined to worry.
“Now, then, Captain Pye, ye’re just a bit fashed,” the guard said with the same soothing tone one would use with a truculent child. “Ye’ve had a day, and that’s no lie, but ye jest go on yer way, and leave it to us to keep the cargoes safe.”
“Just do as I ask and notify Captain MacGregor,” I said, returning to the carriage.
“The captain was leaving for the vice-provost, ma’am,” the driver reminded me.
“Nonetheless, a message can be sent to him,” I said, then told him to proceed.
The ride to the pensione was uneventful, although I saw signs on the streets of the recent attacks by the Moghuls. Several blocks had been burned, and were in disarray, while there were few people on the street who did not have an armed guard accompanying them.
I had read reports, of course, of the attacks on Rome by the Moghuls—and occasionally the revolutionaries, although they concentrated their energies on the emperor’s troops—and how William, in response to a plea by the Italian king, had doubled the troops in the area. Supplying those troops was the very reason the Tesla had been sent out. But I had been in Rome four months before, and it had been very different then.
“Because of the incident today, we have been asked to remain available for interviews by the imperial forces,” I told the crew some ten minutes later as they disembarked in front of the Hôtel d’Europe et des Îles Britanniques, a grand name for a modest pensione that was made up of a main building, a stable block that had been converted to rooms, and a small walled garden, all of which butted up against the back of a convent. It was quiet and clean, and the owners, Signore Vittorio and his wife, were most obliging and attentive to Aerocorps members. “However, I have been granted permission to give you all twenty-four hours of leave, so you may consider yourselves free from duty until tomorrow evening.”