Adena woke with a start. The speaking tube whistle over her cot blasted again, and she sat up and clutched at it. Fitting the headband she adjusted the mouthpiece and answered. "What is it?"
Jake's voice spoke from the ear tubes. "Captain, we've sighted a large fire on the horizon off our port bow. I estimate it's where the Pure Blood coal mine is."
"The one by the railroad?"
"Aye. We're seeing big billowing flames over there. It doesn't look normal."
She shook her head to clear it of sleep. "No kidding? I'll come up."
It took a few moments to pull on clothing and splash water in her face from the small vanity unit bowl. Dressed and more or less awake, she headed for the flight deck.
"Captain on the bridge," Jake called.
"As you were. Great gods!" She stared at the yellow glare of light on the horizon. "There's trouble over yonder, all right."
Jake nodded. The light flared bright enough to show his face clearly. "We're on course to pass it by several miles."
Adena rubbed a thumb across her eyebrow. "I'm thinking we should do a fly-by, Jake, at least close enough to make out what's going on. Sound action stations."
He nodded. "Aye aye. Sound action stations." A crewman tripped the alarm switch, and the gondola resounded to the sound of bells. Adena heard feet pounding through the passageway as off-duty crew responded. Jake ordered the already dim red night-lights dimmed further then directed his attention to the helm. "Come about ten-degrees port rudder."
The helmsman acknowledged. Oculus Nightingale swayed beneath their feet as she began a long, leisurely turn. The blaze in the distance swung through a short arc until it hung almost in the center of the view forwards. The relay board aft on the flight deck chimed and small colored disks flipped over to show the battle stations reporting readiness.
Adena crossed to the port window array and put her head into the observation bay. Peering along the length of the gondola she saw the rotary cannon mounted halfway along the length swing slowly back and forth then up and down as the gun crew tested its traverse mechanism. A swift check the other side showed the starboard gun in similar readiness.
Jake checked the bearing. "Midships!" The airship steadied on course. He picked up a sextant and took a reading. "Here we have her, Captain. We should pass about a quarter-mile to the left of the fire and be well clear of the hills."
"Good work, Jake." Adena stepped over to the heavy brass binoculars suspended from a rail that ran around the flight deck roof. She adjusted the height and peered through them. "It looks like somebody torched a flylzem mound over there."
The miles slipped by. The blaze grew brighter. Adena fancied she could feel the heat of it on her face. The contrast between the dark silver-blue of the starlit sands and the bright yellow of the fire made her think of a picture she'd once seen, a copy of one painted by an Earth artist. Van something or other. I think he'd love to see this!
For a moment, Greg despaired. Everything seemed to come crashing down on him. I'm going to die here, on this freezing dark world, far from everyone and everything I've ever known. The bitterness of his fate weighed more than the rock he'd burrowed beneath in the mines. His knees almost buckled.
Then from some hidden depth within his soul, a small hot flame of defiance exploded into life. New strength surged through his limbs and he stood up, clenching his fist. "No!" He roared at the oncoming ogres. "If I'm to die here, I'll damned well go down fighting!"
Lumps of coal and rock had fallen from the carts over time, littering the slope. The ogres seemed lax about the debris, not even bothering to whip the slaves into clearing it up. Greg stooped, picked up a fist-sized rock and hurled it like a baseball at the oncoming host. It disappeared among them, and he thought he heard a yelp of pain. He swept up another rock and sent it after the first. Childhood memories of pitching from the mound at his local ballpark came to mind. I haven't lost the knack.
He found himself surrounded by his fellow escapees. Inspired by his example, they all grabbed and hurled rocks and lumps of coal until the air filled with flying missiles. The ogres stopped in their tracks and cowered under the barrage. Faced with such defiance they began to retreat down the slope.
Greg raised a rock in his fist. "At ‘em!"
The slaves raised a raucous cheer and tumbled down the slope. A few crossbow bolts slashed through the air and found marks. Men fell, but the slaves poured over the ogres, kicking, punching, grappling and biting.
Greg found himself in front of a brute the size of a dumptruck. It raised a vicious-looking halberd, ready to cleave him in two. He ducked, leaped, and slammed the rock into an evil yellow eye, pulping it instantly. The beast roared and clutched him about the waist. Greg felt his bruised ribs creak under the pressure, but his arms were still free and on a level with the beast's head. Desperately he swung the rock again and again at the ogre's temple until bone crunched. The beast collapsed, taking him down with it. Its enfolding arms fell away. Greg rolled clear.
Something sliced his shoulder as he tumbled, sending a sensation like ice through his body. He had fallen upon the ogre's halberd blade. Staggering upright, he picked up the weapon and leaned on it for a moment to recover.
The fight surged around him and spilled down the slope. His fellow slaves fought with every ounce of strength they possessed, but Greg sensed the battle wasn’t yet won. The ogres had been surprised, but they were big, tough, well-armed and well-fed — and the slaves weren't.
At his feet, the ogre groaned and rolled onto its side. Greg swung the halberd up and over his head, letting gravity and the heavy blade do the work after that. It took the top off the ogre's head.
Greg stepped back. "Reinforcements. We need help here." He looked around. "Where the heck's Mungenast?" The hairy brute was nowhere to be seen. "Did he survive?"
"Yes. He went further into the mine," one of his fellow slaves said, gasping for air between words. "Took some guys with him."
"Why would he do that?"
The man shrugged and continued on his way.
Greg sighed and looked down the slope. The slaves at the coal heaps milled around, still chained together and unable to escape or to help their brethren. Using the halberd as a crutch, Greg stumbled down the hill toward them, circling the fight as best he could. His feet burned with pain and cold, but the downward slope helped, and somehow he made it.
As he walked into the pool of light from the braziers, desperate men clutched at him, moaning, their eyes wild. Greg looked around. The ogres favored a simple, but standard method of securing their slaves at the workplace. He saw the main rod holding their chains and brought the blade down on the lock, hitting it again and again until it broke apart. Eager hands fell upon the rod and hauled it back, freeing the chains.
"Go!" Greg pointed up the slope. "Get the scumbags who did this to you."
Most left to wreak their vengeance. Others slipped away into the darkness, heading for the slave quarters. Greg felt tired beyond measure. Looking around he saw bigger huts that served as quarters for the ogres, set around a small courtyard. Braziers burned there. The idea of finding warmth over-rode all other considerations in Greg's mind. He headed that way.
Passing a hut doorway, he shrank from the rank odor emanating from the opening. He kicked against something on the ground. Looking down, he spied a cloth-wrapped bundle from which spilled a ration of greasy-looking food, no doubt dropped by some ogre caught in the middle of his snack. Pulling a crate up to a brazier, Greg sat by it, warmth seeping through him, and began to eat.
As he chewed and grew warm at last, he watched the fight on the hillside. A strange feeling of detachment stole over him as adrenaline, shock, and fatigue set in. Reinforced by those he'd freed from the coal heaps, the slaves began to win the fight by sheer numbers. The battle spilled down the slope and spread out as ogres fell or were chased into the darkness.
A brazier overturned, bouncing and rolling down the hill trailing sparks and embers like a meteor. It hit a stack of barrels that oozed a black fluid. A second later the stack blew up in a huge fireball. Barrels and kegs shot out, trailing flames through the night sky to land and explode elsewhere in the compound. Fire spread rapidly, overwhelming crates, barrels, huts and stacks of mine props.
Greg giggled like a drunk and held his hands up to the heat. "Warm at last!"
His body tingled as his circulation returned to life with the warmth. With warmth came awareness of how much he hurt in places. He checked himself for injuries. The soles of his feet looked like ground beef. Tearing the food wrapper in half, he used the scraps of cloth to bind them, hoping without much confidence the wounds wouldn't become infected. As he finished the job, a sudden increase in light made him look up. The fire had found a new source of fuel. A wall of flame rolled toward him, engulfing everything in its path.
Greg hobbled as fast as he could away from the conflagration, heat beating against his bare back. He searched for a way to escape while a tiny part of his mind commented on how ironic it would be to get burned to death after being so cold for so long.
The only path that offered him a chance lay past the end of the locomotive. Everything else either burned or made an obstacle too big for a crippled man to climb. He stumbled over rails and ties as he passed around the front of the engine, cringing as the huge hissing and ticking mass of metal loomed above as if ready to crush him.
The open desert lay beyond the single track, the sand and gravel waste looking cold, dark and empty. The heat on Greg's back stopped as if a furnace door had shut. He trudged onward for another hundred paces or so, wondering what to do next. The desert seemed to suck at his soul. Greg shivered from fear more than from cold. Who knows what's out there? The wild creatures of this crazy world could be far worse than Earth.
A blazing barrel dropped from the sky, slamming into the sand and bursting a short distance away. Burning oil shot out in a spray and spattered on his legs. Greg jumped and howled as he beat at the stinging pain and tripped over a barrel stave as it skittered by, one end burning bright. Cursing the burns, Greg picked up the stave. With a last glance at the emptiness he turned and used the rudimentary torch to light his way across the uneven ground.
He skirted the area of the mining compound, trying to see past fires and roiling smoke to determine how the slaves were doing. Occasional yells and cries sounded over the roar of flames. Once an ogre bellowed, whether in pain or triumph, he couldn't tell.
Greg reached the foot of the crag. The locomotive whistle shrieked, the banshee sound making him cringe. He heard the sounds of the engine stirring to life, the heavy huff and puff of steam at work. Greg stopped.
What the heck do I do now? I know that damned city is back down the track. Do the silly beggars think they'll escape if they go back? Are they going the other way, and to what?
He hesitated, caught between exhaustion and the need to escape. The sounds of the locomotive increased in tempo, but decreased in volume. It's moving away. They're getting away without me. He sagged to his knees, feeling like giving up and letting the cold or any surviving ogres find and kill him.
A soft puttering sound impinged on his hearing. At first Greg put it down to the sound of blood surging in his head. The sound increased in volume. Weary beyond belief he raised his head and looked about, wondering if he heard an echo of the fast-retreating locomotive. Some quality of the sound made him stare upward.
A huge shape blotted out the stars above. The fires in the mining camp reflected off a long silver cylindrical form, and Greg could make out the glint of glass and metal fittings and an array of windows showing a dull ruddy light.
It's an airship! An honest-to-God airship! Fumbling for the smoldering stave, he swung it over his head. The flow of air made the dying embers on the end flare up anew, and the surrounding sand glowed yellow.
Some moments passed. The puttering sound altered pitch, and the airship slowed to a hover directly overhead. A clanking sound came from above. Seconds passed. Greg sat and watched as a cable emerged from the darkness to land on the sand with a soft thump. Two people stood in stirrups attached to it. One, a tall man with reddish hair, shook his feet free and stepped onto the ground. He opened a dark lantern and walked over to Greg, the beam from the lantern lens casting a swathe of golden light. His companion, a woman, unslung a nasty-looking shotgun and kept watch. Both wore leather dusters and ornate brass goggles that reflected the firelight.
The man stood over Greg, raised the goggles and stared at him. "Good heavens! What a poor creature you are."
"Help me." Greg reached out to clasp the hem of the man's coat.
The man stooped and with graceful strength tossed Greg onto his shoulder in a fireman's carry. He made his way back to the cable where he carefully put Greg down and handed the lantern to the woman. Setting Greg's feet in the stirrup and securing a leather strap about his chest the man smiled and nodded.
"Cling on tight, mate. We're getting you out of here."
The woman swung the lantern and the two of them stepped quickly into the stirrups. Someone up above understood the signal, and Greg swayed as the cable jerked then rose swiftly into the air.
He gazed down as the wrecked mining compound spread out below. The fires were dying down. He couldn't see anything moving, but plenty of bodies laid scattered there, most of them human. Away in the distance the locomotive rolled down the track heading for the city, the searing white headlamp and the golden glow from the crew compartment marking its progress. He closed his eyes, too tired and numb with cold to wonder who his rescuers were, or how they came to be in this place in such a craft.
They rose through the night for about a minute and then Greg felt the motion slow. He opened his eyes as he and his unknown saviors passed through a hole in the bottom of a small circular platform on one side of the airship. A winch clunked above his head as it wound in the cable and they stopped level with an open door in the gondola.
Greg looked bleary-eyed at the welcoming party standing there. It comprised a tall woman dressed all in leather and a man wearing a striped jersey and black pants. As the red-headed man guided Greg through the door, the woman took his arm and assisted him the rest of the way inside.
"Who have we here?" she asked.
"An escaped slave, Captain." The red-headed man gestured to Greg. "He used a burning brand to signal us."
She cocked her head. "Any others down there?"
He shook his head. "None. We think they escaped on the train."
The woman whom he'd addressed as Captain leaned closer to peer at Greg. She swam like a mirage in his vision, a tall, well-built woman clad in leather and brass with killer cheekbones and a haughty expression. Her exposed midriff displayed a sparkling jewel in her navel and a tattoo of a snake or dragon that twined up toward her breasts. Greg felt long-unused facial muscles ache as he formed a smile.
Then he fainted.
Adena wrinkled her nose as she looked down at the unconscious man. He had several weeks' growth of beard and shaggy hair, which might possibly be brown under coal dust and dirt. She detected a pale skin under the grime covering his emaciated body and shook her head.
"He's gone through the mill by the look of him. The poor bugger stinks." She gestured to Conner. "Strip him and toss everything he's wearing overboard. He's lousy and flea-bitten if I'm any judge, and I'll not have my ship infested. Clean him up, tend to his injuries and put him to bed. I'll talk to him tomorrow — if he recovers."
Conner and a crewman picked up the escapee and carried him away.
Adena sighed and rubbed her brow. "We'll resume our course now, Jake." She yawned. "Let's clear the area then we can stand down."
Jake nodded. "Aye aye, Captain."
They returned to the flight deck. Adena used the binoculars to sweep the ground in and around the mining camp. Nothing moved there. The fires had died down. Wreckage lay strewn everywhere. She addressed the helmsman.
"Come about to starboard thirty-degrees. Resume original course."
When he acknowledged, she grabbed the telegraph handles and rang for full speed. The beat of the engines increased, and the crew swayed under the impulse as the two hundred and sixty feet long airship responded.
Adena turned to Jake, waiting quietly nearby. "When we're back on course, drop to cruising speed. No sense in wasting fuel." She glanced out the windows. "Okay, we're clear of the camp. Sound stand-down."
The bells rang again throughout the gondola, a series of shorter peals that sounded less urgent than the continuous alarm signal. Adena heard the repeated clunks and thumps that showed the weapons crews were making safe their charges. By standing order, when flying dark side, only the machine gun crews would remain at their posts until watch change over. The relay board chimed, and the disks flipped to show standard cruising procedure had been established.
With a final look around the flight deck, Adena nodded. "You have the watch, Jake."
He saluted. "I have the watch, aye, Captain."
She returned to her cabin, undressed and slipped beneath the covers. It took her a few moments to realize Mr. Phibuli sat on his perch, a silent presence in her cabin as she reached to turn out the light. "Everything all right, old bird?"
Bronze and brass glinted as he turned his head. He opened and shut his beak twice then blinked. "The jury's out, Adena."
Something in his voice made her sit up. "How so?"
He gazed at her. "At least Zared remained in his booth during the alert."
Adena frowned at the non-sequitur. "That's good to know, but you avoided my question."
He turned his head away and said no more. Adena gazed at him for a few heartbeats then shrugged and settled down. It didn't take long to fall asleep.
Zared laid on his cot and stared up at the ceiling. The alarm woke him with a start. Going to the door to investigate the reason for the disturbance, he jumped when a sharp knock sounded and a crew member stuck her head into the cabin to tell him to stay put. He'd done so willingly, but every change of course made him wonder what was going on. The anxiety and the swaying of the ship as it maneuvered made him feel nauseated.
After several minutes that seemed like a lifetime, the all-clear sounded. The airship moved under way once more. He debated going to the flight deck to find out what had occurred, but thought someone would've remembered him and told him if danger was at hand. He turned onto his side, punched his pillow and tried to sleep. It took time, but eventually sleep claimed him.
He dreamed a woman made entirely of silver or mercury stood by his cot, looking down at him. The expressionless face regarded him silently, then she reached down and touched his mind. An icicle drove into his brain, and he opened his mouth to scream, but the pain vanished as suddenly as it hit, leaving him cool and calm. The woman nodded and withdrew her hand. Zared slept on.