The Flux Engine (25 page)

“Who?”

“Wild Bill Hickok.”

The nagging whispers in Morgan’s subconscious suddenly became shouts of alarm. He left Solomon staring, standing on the catwalk in the middle of his story, while Morgan bolted down the stairs to the warehouse floor.

Startled into action by their leader’s sudden movement, the guards Morgan had brought came running, weapons at the ready.

“Secure the ship,” he shouted, waving them back. “No one goes on board until I’ve checked everyone.”

As his guards retreated, Derek Morgan moved up and down the line of identically clad workmen, looking each of them in the face. For their part the workmen regarded him with the bored looks of sheep whose grazing has suddenly been interrupted. The faces were young and old, tired and sweating, but none of them were familiar.

None of them were Wild Bill Hickok.

“I told you he’s dead!” Solomon said. He’d come down from his observation post and followed Morgan on his tour of the workmen and now stood, leaning against a post. Morgan waved the workmen back into action, then reluctantly joined Solomon.

“You said there was someone with him?”

Solomon shrugged.

“An interesting young man,” he said. “Talented. Too talented to be left alive.”

Morgan remembered the lad. Talented was right, and bright. Morgan had liked him.

“He’s dead too?”

Solomon grinned a psychotic leer. It made Morgan’s skin crawl.

“I sincerely hope not,” Solomon said. “I injected him with the Ravager serum.”

Morgan reigned his temper into check. The Shokhlar needed this toad of a man and he would not endanger that relationship by running Professor Solomon through. No matter how seriously he was tempted.

“So you see,” Solomon went on. “You have nothing to fear from Wild Bill Hickok and his talented minion.”

Morgan could see them both in his mind’s eye. Hickok was a worthy opponent, too worthy, it turned out. Morgan had taken steps to make sure the enforcer wouldn’t beat him again, but now he would never know how such a rematch would fare.

“What was the boy’s name?” he asked, suddenly unable to recall it.

“I don’t remember,” Solomon said, and shrugged again, uncaring.

“What about the girl?”

Solomon’s lax face suddenly tightened into a mask of shrewdness, his beady eyes darting back and forth.

“There wasn’t any girl,” he said at last.

The alarm bells in Morgan’s head began ringing again. Robirah Laryn was the daughter of Hiro Laryn, one of the most dangerous men who ever lived. He was a living shadow who could go anywhere and steal anything. Nothing was safe from the thief known as the Cat. From what Morgan had heard, his daughter had learned some of her father’s skills.

What if she had been there? Seen what Solomon did? It would be child’s play for the daughter of Hiro Laryn to sneak aboard his airship and follow him here.

How hard would it be for her to leave Solomon’s ship and board his own amidst all the commotion of the workmen?

Child’s play.

There wasn’t anything he could do about it now. If he searched his ship, she would only flee, melting into the streets of Sharpsburg like the Cat she was.

But, in the air, after he’d left the city, there she’d be trapped with no escape route. If Robirah Laryn was on board, he’d have a prize to offer his master, and if not, then the refueling of the
Vengeance
would go off without a hitch.

He smiled.

Derek Morgan was a practical man, and either way suited him fine.

Chapter 27

The Calm

The Prophet puffed his cigar and watched the smoke drift lazily away. He sat comfortably on his patio overlooking the city of Castle Rock. The fleets of airships that had crowded the sky for days were finally gone, having fled the city’s impending doom. The streets and shops, formerly choked with humanity, were empty. Even the wind was gone.

A pregnant hush hung in the air, as if the city was holding its breath.

He didn’t need to be psychic to sense the tension; it was everywhere, pressing in on him like a weight. He set his cigar aside and took a deep breath to clear his senses, then pushed his mind outward. Instantly the worries, fears, and terrors of the people in the city assaulted him, breaking over him like a wave. Steadying himself, he pushed onward, past the city into the desert plains and mountains to the east.

Somewhere.

Somewhere out there, hovering over a vast, empty plain, doom was coming. He’d searched for them, the volcano makers, pressing his mind outward to its limits, but found nothing. Whoever built the volcano device had somehow shielded it, and the minds that worked it, from his probing.

No small feat.

He broke his concentration with an exasperated grunt. He picked up his cigar and chewed it for a quarter hour before noticing it had gone out.

There had to be a way to find them.

There simply had to be.

I will not let that man beat me. He may be the greatest Architect since Franklin, but I am the world’s most powerful psychic. He cannot hide from me.

He grabbed the unlit cigar from his mouth and threw it over the side of the balcony in irritation. Straightening in his chair he drew in his breath and pushed his mind out again, sweeping his thoughts over the vast emptiness of desert, mountain, and plain.

Searching.

He tried focusing his mind, sharpening his thoughts in an effort to penetrate the shield that prevented him from finding the outlaw Derek Morgan or his associate Sira Corven. The attempt left him exhausted and yielded nothing. Gasping from the exertion, the Prophet slumped down and let his mind drift, unfocused. Thousands of minds touched his. Little minds, of fowls and beasts, covering the desert floor and the mountain passes in a carpet of life that stretched on and … and …

Nothing.

Suddenly and without warning, minds that he touched were extinguished. Vanished as if they had never been.

The Prophet’s drifting mind snapped back to attention, focusing on the empty space. It was big and it was moving. As his mind reached out, he could feel the emptiness sliding across the land, and the tide of life disappearing as it went and reappearing behind it.

The volcano maker’s shield.

It blocked out
everything
.

The Prophet laughed at the realization. His enemy might remain hidden behind his shield, but he was still as easy to spot as a drop of oil in a bowl of water. Now that he knew what to look for, he could see them easily. They were moving closer, and quickly. The Prophet estimated they’d arrive within a day. Worse, if the area of the shield was any indication, their ship was enormous, three times the size of the Alliance’s biggest battleship.

He withdrew his mind, coming back to himself. Clearly the volcano makers were done waiting for the Alliance to accede to their demands. The Prophet knew that no word nor help would come from the Alliance. He, and the people of Castle Rock, were on their own.

Hickok had reported that he might have a way to sneak onto the enemy ship, but even as formidable as Wild Bill was, what could he do against such a massive ship and the men who crewed her?

“Courage,” he said aloud. If any man was up to the challenge, it was Wild Bill.

He reached out for the silver bell that sat on the table and shook it once. It emitted a series of tiny chimes that were being mirrored by a sympathetic crystal in the house. Before he’d even set the bell down, Alistair stood at his elbow.

The man was a treasure.

“Send word to the mayor that the volcano makers are on their way here,” he said, withdrawing a fresh cigar from the pocket of his coat. “I suspect their airship will be here tomorrow morning. Tell His Honor to have the defense guns ready and crewed by then.”

If this news was upsetting or disturbing to Alistair, he gave no sign. He only gave a brief bow and said, “Very good, sir.”“

The Prophet lit his cigar as the sound of Alistair’s footsteps faded away.

Tomorrow would be an interesting day.

O O O

The transport airship
Flintlock
shuddered as its propellers drove it onward at maximum velocity. Derek Morgan had insisted that they make speed back to the
Vengeance
and now the massive airship was in sight. A gust of wind hit the transport, driving it briefly off course, and Morgan glared at the young helmsman.

To be fair, the man knew his business, but Morgan was in a foul mood and felt the need to take it out on someone.

“Get us docked quickly,” he snapped at the helmsman, then left the bridge.

He wanted nothing more than to be back aboard the
Vengeance
, but he was worried. Something about his meeting with the insane Professor Solomon still bothered him. It shouldn’t; he’d searched the
Flintlock
from stem to stern and found nothing, but still the nagging feeling that something was amiss plagued him.

Derek Morgan hadn’t gotten to be the chief priest of the Mimbrae by ignoring those feelings.

The
Flintlock
bucked and dropped suddenly, landing hard on the deck of the
Vengeance
. A moment later the loading ramp dropped down and Morgan strode off the
Flintlock
into one of the
Vengeance’s
seven airship bays. This one opened out on the top side of the ship and sunlight streamed in through the opening, illuminating the bay and those who had assembled.

Sira stood at the base of the ramp along with a young Tommy handler. Behind them a dozen Tommys stood silently, the stacks on their shoulders trailing wisps of smoke as they awaited the command to unload the
Flintlock’s
cargo of flux.

“Your Eminence,” Sira said, bowing low. The Tommy handler bowed as well.

“Have the cargo unloaded immediately,” he instructed the handler, then turned to Sira. “Something’s not right. Watch the unloading, then search this airship. If you find anyone or anything out of place, inform me immediately.”

Sira bowed again and Morgan swept by her. It irritated him to involve Sira; she was already too full of herself for her own good, but she was competent. If there was something to find, she would find it, and he had important matters to attend to. The Shokhlar had put him in charge and he needed to report in. Derek Morgan was not a man to fail in his duty.

“Welcome back,” Kest greeted him when he reached the bridge. The Shokhlar stood at his navigation table poring over a stack of charts.

Morgan bowed and joined the Shokhlar at the table.

“I hear the flux is being loaded as we speak,” Kest said. “Excellent work, as always.”

“Are we still on schedule?” Morgan asked.

Kest nodded, tracing a line on the chart with his finger.

“Castle Rock has anti-bombardment guns,” he said, “Big ones. I don’t want them getting a shot at us before we deploy the weapon.” He tapped his finger on the mountains east of the city. “If we come through Immigration Canyon, instead of over the mountains, we won’t be visible to their guns until the last minute.”

“Sound strategy,” Morgan said.

“We’ll arrive just as the sun rises at our backs. That ought to hide us from the gunners for a minute or two.”

“We’ll have to shoot in that window or we’ll be sitting ducks,” Morgan said. Kest shrugged.

“It takes close to an hour to charge the weapon,” he said. “If we miss, we’ll have to retreat and try again later.” Morgan thought about that, then nodded.

“So what now?” he asked.

“Now we wait,” Kest said, straightening up. “I’m going to get some rest. You should do the same.”

He slapped Morgan affectionately on the shoulder, then turned to go. Morgan watched him leave, then mounted the stairs to the observation platform above the bridge. The metal shutters that protected the bridge during combat had been raised and thousands of stars gleamed through the glass. A soft chair had been placed at the far side of the platform, where the occupant could oversee the operation of the bridge and still enjoy the view. Morgan sank into the chair and let his eyes drift to the stars above.

O O O

How long he sat there, staring at the emptiness of space he couldn’t tell, but he was suddenly aware of someone moving along the platform to his side.

“Report,” he said, recognizing Sira’s diminutive form and soft tread.

“The Flux has been unloaded,” she said. “I searched the transport airship again and had every member of her crew identified by someone aboard the
Vengeance
.”

Irritation rose in Morgan’s chest.

“You found nothing?” he demanded. Sira shook her head, the faint ghost of a smile on her lips.

“No, your Eminence,” she said.

Morgan sighed.

It’s just nerves, your mind playing tricks. Let it go.

“Very well,” he said. “See to the refueling of the Flux Engine then get some rest.”

Sira bowed and withdrew.

“Yes, your Eminence.”

Morgan waited until her heard her retreating footsteps vanish before swearing. That girl wanted his job and she made no effort to conceal it. Worse, she had talent. The fact that Morgan was aware of her designs meant that she was nowhere near ready to challenge him, but there would come a day when he would have to deal with her.

In the meantime, he focused on the activity of the bridge below, pushing nagging thoughts of Sira and Professor Solomon out of his mind. Something still bothered him about his trip to Sharpsburg, but he just couldn’t put his finger on it. Sooner or later, he was sure, whatever it was would pop up.

O O O

The lid on one of the drums of Flux popped up and Robi’s slender fingers emerged, easing it silently aside. She peeked over the rim of the barrel, her eyes sweeping the vast, open space of the hangar before ducking back down. The Tommy handler sat at a small desk against the far wall, the control crown glittering among the dark folds of her hair. She appeared to be reading and Robi guessed operating the Tommys in such a mundane, repetitive task didn’t require her full attention.

The drums of flux had been stacked neatly just outside the now still and silent transport airship. The Tommys were moving the drums to an area where a section of the floor had been pulled up and a metal grate put down as a floor. As she watched, the Tommys removed the lid of each drum and turned it upside down on the grate, allowing the thick flux to drain, presumably into a basin below.

Robi gave the handler a final check to make sure she was engrossed in her book, then stood up quickly, lifted herself out of the drum, and dropped back down beside it. The lid went back on with a small scraping sound that got lost in the noise of the moving Tommys.

Crouching so as not to be seen should the Tommy handler decide to look up, Robi moved among the barrels until she found one with a line of chalk drawn around its middle. She knocked softly on its side, twice, and was immediately answered. From the sleeve of her shirt, she produced a short length of flat metal and used it to gently pry the lid up. It released with a rumbling clang, like the crash of a cymbal, that was lost in the noise of the chugging Tommys. Being careful not to drop it, Robi slid the lid aside.

“Get me out of this thing,” Hickok gasped.

The metal drum had been plenty large enough for Robi, but she was small. The big enforcer was folded up like a sardine in a can. Robi didn’t want to risk attracting the Tommy handler’s attention but there was no helping it. After a quick check to ensure the coast was clear, she stood up and grabbed Hickok’s arms, pulling upward and giving him enough leverage to stand.

John’s barrel wasn’t much farther down the line, and in short order, she’d freed him as well, pushing the lid back on each of the barrels as hard as she could. It wouldn’t fool a human, but Tommys were simple machines; if she was lucky, they wouldn’t notice the barrels were empty. She didn’t worry too much. So far, her luck had been good, sneaking aboard the transport airship as one of the barrel moving crew, bringing empty barrels with them. When Morgan had searched the moving crew, she, Hickok, and John were already on board. All they had to do then was hide amongst the barrels and wait for the transport to land. When the Tommys started unloading, they each hid in an empty barrel, and waited to be carried out. Human cargo handlers would surly have noticed the difference in weight and balance between the barrels of flux and those with a person inside them, but Tommys weren’t smart enough to tell the difference. They simply picked up the barrels and carried them off with all the others.

“So what now?” John whispered as they crouched behind the barrels. They’d removed their heavy boiler suits for the barrel ride, but aboard the enemy’s airship they’d stand out in their regular clothes. She’d brought the suits in her barrel and passed them out after retrieving them. Once they were all dressed, Hickok led them through the maze of barrels to the wall farthest from the distracted handler.

“Once we find John’s crystal, we need to get it quick and get out,” Hickok said, moving along the wall to a door.

“How?” John asked.

Hickok jerked his thumb up toward the ceiling where a dozen small boats were secured to a catwalk.

“We come right back here and steal a ride,” he said. “Now can you find your crystal?”

John looked sullen, almost angry for a second, but then closed his eyes and furrowed his brow. Several long moments passed while Robi and Hickok waited expectantly. Finally John shook his head.

“There’s too much noise,” he said. “I can’t hear it.”

“We’ll have to get you closer,” Hickok said. “The Flux tank must be beneath us, and it’s bound to be close to the engine room. We’ll start there.”