Hard Magic (46 page)

“Frankly, not even the slightest.” He took a seat at the empty communications station. Most of the seats were empty in the command center. Less than a quarter of the
Tempest’
s
crew had volunteered to stay, and that was only after he’d promised some very hefty bonuses.

Two security men had stuck around, and one was a Brute. Grandfather’s Healer had told him politely to go to hell, but at least he’d convinced the man to stick around San Francisco long enough to help Mr. Browning once his Power had recovered. The only other functionary who’d stayed was, surprisingly enough, Mr. Chandler, Grandfather’s accountant. All the rest had assured him that they would see to company business, and he had no doubt that they were currently maneuvering to get the UBF board to somehow get rid of him before Grandfather’s body was even cold.

So he had a handful of barely-mended Grimnoir knights, a drastically undermanned and unarmed prototype ship, and no clue what he was doing. He’d broken a direct order from a Grimnoir elder and would probably be cast out of the Society he’d devoted his life to, if he lived that long. And he still hadn’t even really come to terms with the fact that he was now, theoretically, the richest man in the world.

“Mind if I make a suggestion?” Lance didn’t bother to wait for the reply. “If we’re going to try this, then we need every advantage we can get. The
Tokugawa
is probably still running a skeleton crew, but that means they’ll have five times as many men, and at least one mean son of a bitch of an Iron Guard. They won’t be expecting this, but they will have men on watch, and they’ll probably be doing it from behind mounted guns, which we don’t happen to have. So how about we use that radio bouncer to keep track of ’em, and not get into visual range until dark?”

Francis sighed. “How about I just make you captain?”

The grizzled knight thought about it. “Do I get to wear the fancy hat?”

“You figure out how to get Jane off the
Tokugawa
alive, I’ll have your old cowboy hat gold-plated.”

Banish Island, Micronesia

Pirate Bob Southunder,
Scourge of the South Seas, Terror of the Marianas, killer of men, sinker of ships, and general pain in the Imperium’s rear took the time to pass out treats to all the village children like some sort of kindly South Pacific Santa Claus before joining his men on a mission.

“Where’d you get Mr. Goodbars?” Sullivan asked, as Southunder gave a candy bar to a kid, patted him on the head, and sent him on his way.

“They were on an Imperium cargo ship, believe it or not. Why? You want one?”

“Sure.” As a general rule, Jake Sullivan never turned down anything free. The two of them walked up the forest path toward the remains of what had once been a mighty volcano. There were five heavily armed pirates right behind, and he was sure that was no accident. He’d not yet earned Southunder’s trust.

The pirate had refused to talk further about the Geo-Tel yesterday. He’d slept in the village as a guest, but he’d seen the occasional flashes of cigarettes glowing in the jungle from the men assigned to watch him all night.

He’d woken up with one of the Japanese serving girls crawling onto his sleeping mat, but he’d turned her away as politely as he could without her speaking hardly any English. “No like girls?” “No. Like girls just fine.” “No like me then?” “No. You’re nice.” “Oh. Have girl already.” “ . . . Yeah . . . something like that.” She’d left him alone, and he’d gone back to staring at the tin roof, hating himself because he’d finally fallen asleep again only to catch himself dreaming of Delilah’s body, her soft skin pressed against him, his lips on her neck, and he had awoken again, cursing himself as a selfish, pathetic failure of a man. He’d lain there awake until the sun came up.

They’d eaten breakfast in silence: more fish, fruit, and wild boar. None of the pirates commented on the .45 on his hip or the automatic rifle he’d reassembled. They might not trust him yet, but anybody worthy of sharing your hospitality should be worthy of helping to defend it. The men had been excited. Something was happening. After breakfast Southunder had invited him on this walk.

“Are we going to destroy the Geo-Tel now?” he asked.

“It’s not here,” Southunder answered.

“I don’t care where it is, as long as it gets broken into a million pieces and burned. Are we going to go get it then?”

“I’ve kept it safe since you were wearing short pants, Mr. Sullivan. A few more hours won’t kill you.”

“Nope. But if the Chairman gets it, he’ll kill the whole world.”

Laughter always seemed to come easy to Southunder. “Truth be told, I’ll be glad to be rid of it. I would have gone last night but my ship was still getting patched from our last job. I didn’t dare keep it with me, because if they found me, they’d find it. No, not even Pershing knew exactly where it is for exactly that reason. I’m the only one who knows. It’s well hidden. We’ll dig it up later.”

Sullivan stopped walking, right in the middle of the trail. The men following paused, uneasy. “You
buried
it?”

“Well, of course. I’m a pirate,” he answered.

Sullivan shook his head and went back to walking. “Pirates and buried treasure . . . I can’t believe this. So where are we going?”

“We have a train to catch, and you wanted a chance to earn my trust . . .”

***

The dirigible was sleek, of a design that he’d never seen before. It was a single hull, with one lightly armored bag. It was a hybrid, with two lifter wings folded in so that it could fit inside the hollow formed by the partially collapsed volcanic cone. There were four engines, big gleaming things with propellers longer than he was tall.

Sullivan walked under the cabin, dodging between the tie ropes as the crew let it gently rise. There was no top structure. Everything was under the gas bag, like they used to build them. It was remarkably streamlined for such an older design. Even the front of the cockpit was a circular mass of glass and aluminum struts with not a square edge to be seen. The cabin stretched from the very front to the very back, so seamlessly melded with the gas bag that it might as well have been one piece. It might have been old, but it was well cared for. The brass fittings gleamed. Every inch of hull was freshly painted: light grey underneath, dark blue on top.

On closer inspection, none of the parts seemed to match. The exhaust pipes on one side were different than the other. Two of the engines were different designs. As he studied it, he realized that the whole thing had had so many parts replaced from scavenged or captured vessels, it was hard to tell where the original ship began.

“Isn’t she beautiful?” Southunder asked. “It’s an actual Zeppelin, not some poor Stuyvesant UBF knockoff, but handcrafted by the finest airship Cogs there’s ever been.”

“It looks old . . .” Sullivan said.

“Aged. Like good cheese,” Southunder agreed.

“It don’t have much armor.”

“Two hundred feet of raw speed. I could cover every inch in dreadnought plate, and it wouldn’t help us beat the entire Jap navy. We strike quick and get out. The bag is divided into locking cells. We could lose three quarters of them and still limp it home.”

“Hydrogen?” Hydrogen blimps made him nervous.

“Not a lot of helium out here,” he said. “Don’t worry, I’ve got a Torch.”

A
Torch, as in
one
. And if they lost their man who could control fire and
then
took a hit from an incendiary round . . .”It don’t have many guns . . .”

“We don’t slug it out with Kagas, Sullivan. Twin pom-poms in the nose and two more in the rear, one of our mutual friend John’s big fifty-cals on either side to keep the fighters off, and a few rail-mounted light machine guns, plus we’ve got two fighters onboard, top of the line Curtiss R5C Raptors, most maneuverable biplane in the world.”

Some of the Japanese navy ships carried like
thirty
fighters. After seeing what he had to work with, Sullivan came to respect Southunder even more. The crew was leading the dirigible out from its hiding place and into the sun. They were going on a mission.

“Pershing ever tell you why they ran me out of the Society?” Southunder asked. Sullivan shook his head in the negative. “They said I was too impulsive, too reckless.”

“You use a twenty-five-year-old zeppelin with a few guns on it to harass the most powerful navy in the world . . . They might’ve had a point.”

Southunder ignored him. “Pershing saw it too. He saw that times were changing for our kind. Something big is coming, and the world is going to be one way or the other, and I don’t want it to be the Chairman’s way. Too many folks think that they can keep the world from changing . . . I’ve got a wife who I only see when I bring in loot to sell in the Free Cities. We’ve been married for thirty years, and I’ve got kids and grandbabies. You got a wife, a family, Sullivan?”

“I got nothing.”

His voice was so gentle that it was hard to hear him. “I don’t want my grandkids to grow up in a world run by a bunch of fascists, or socialists, or progressives, or anarchists, or communists, or eugenicists, or any sort of
ist
or
ism
. When I get those types, the men who just need to control everything, to tell everybody else what to do, I stick it in and break it off. I’m fighting for freedom.” Proudly, he gestured around the cave at his men. He loved them like a father. “We ride the air and plunder the seas. We’re the last free men and I’ll die a free man.”

“Amen,” Sullivan said.

“There’s an Imperium dirigible train that’s gotten out of their convoy routes because of the bad weather north of here. We’re going to take it, and you’re going to show me you mean business.” Southunder raised his hand and gestured at the name on the side of the dirigible. “Mr. Sullivan, I give you the Free Ship
Bulldog Marauder
, best damn dirigible there’s ever been.”

Imperium Submarine J-47
Flower of Carnage

The Imperium captain
watched the dirigible rising from the side of the volcano through the periscope. He was normally lord of this vessel, but in the presence of a Shadow Guard, he had to defer to his betters. Having four of them aboard made him deeply uncomfortable. He moved aside so the elite soldier could look through the glass. “We could surface and engage with the deck gun before they are in position to return fire.”

“No,” the Shadow Guard commanded.

The darkened sub stunk of diesel fumes and polluted air. They’d been recycling the air for hours. The Shadow Guard’s Finder had already vomited all over the deck twice, and the stink was annoying the captain. He had no patience for seasickness. Their orders were specific. He had not been told what they were supposed to be retrieving, but awareness of their presence could cause its destruction. They had been ordered to maintain complete radio silence and only communicate through the Shadow Guard’s magic. The waters ran clear here and he knew that his submarine would show up like a vast black shadow so close to the surface. He shouted orders. The dive bell sounded.

The Finder was sitting cross-legged on the grate, eyes closed, deep in mediation. The captain had never seen one such as this. He had removed his loose shirt, and his torso had been crisscrossed with kanji. The captain wore two, as befitted his rank, so he knew a bit about such things, and he could see that none of the Finder’s kanji were based in the physical geometries. Rather, all seven of his were attuned to increasing his Power’s sensitivity.

The schools had taught him about Finders. They could feel and see through the disembodied spirits that inhabited the shadow of this world. A truly powerful Finder could actually become a Summoner, capable of bringing in servants from other planes and giving them life here, but this Finder was different. He was like a perfectly tuned tracking dog. He imagined that such sensitivity would drive one mad.

Finders were limited by such things as range, and certain materials or spells could thwart them. The disembodied were easily distracted, but looking at this particular strange specimen, he knew that nothing brought within his range could possibly hide. It was if he’d been specifically bred for this kind of mission. Apparently his submarine’s job was just to get this man within range of whatever it was he was seeking.

It seemed to take forever, but the captain was used to being patient. It came with the assignment. The heat from the burning kanji permeated the sub. It was like being next to a bank of electric heating coils. The Finder opened his eyes and let out a long exhausted breath. The Shadow Guard leaned forward eagerly.

“I have it.”

Free Ship Bulldog Marauder

The dirigible train
was floundering. The lead blimp’s engines were disabled, and the other three were crowding into it. Four individual single-hulls had been close tethered together in a line when the
Bulldog Marauder
had appeared, and now it was all a jumble of crashing aluminum and fabric, like a herd of injured animals being circled by a cunning predator.

Most of the locals hated the Imperium, so there was always constant radio chatter reporting where their shipping was. They’d tried to trap Southunder a few times with decoys, cargo ships armed to the teeth, but he had a good nose for such things, and seldom had been caught unaware. They’d come up from behind, doing a steady eighty knots with horsepower to spare. Once the captain had made the call that it was a legitimate target, he’d used his own Power to alter the winds. Sullivan had never seen a Weatherman work before. There wasn’t any flash or anything fancy. It was methodical. First they reached out and understood how everything was functioning within their range. Then they had to coax bits of it to work just right. Standing at the very front of the cockpit with his hands pressed against the glass, it had taken Southunder ten minutes to alter the currents until the wind was at their backs.