Roar of Sky Page 14

  The crowd rumbled and hushed as the lights blinked out and the pianist began to play. Projector images flickered to life on the slightly askew screen.

  A jaunty tune accompanied images of flowers and a verse on the virtues of spring, followed by baseball news from around the country. Team names evoked cheers and groans. The grainy footage made it difficult to tell one man from another. The fog of tobacco smoke didn’t help either.

  The seat ahead of Ingrid barely contained a boy of about seven. His legs swung nonstop, the chair wobbling with each sway. She found herself looking at him more than at the screen. He was at the age when a slim percentage of the population manifested geomancy or other magical aptitude. But he was likely normal. He’d grow up here, a bright future ahead . . . maybe. Or in another ten years, he could be sent off to war like so many other young men were these days. To die or be maimed or to simply vanish in some bombardment of hellfire.

  That was one kind of grief she’d be spared, she supposed. She couldn’t have children; she could never contribute to the war in that way.

  Her infertility had never bothered her until Blum informed her that the alteration was surgical, not natural. Now she thought of it at random times, haunted by a future that could never exist.

  If they found Mr. Sakaguchi tonight, what would happen? The Chinese likely would be more reluctant to part ways with him now that he’d agreed to fill kermanite for their cause. If she got to talk to him, what would she say? That she loved him, certainly. But how would she broach the subject of her . . . sterilization? She already knew how he’d justify it—her monthly pains would have aggravated Hidden Ones, and the agony of childbirth would have likely had catastrophic consequences, even with other geomancers nearby to absorb the energy released by the earth’s agitation.

  That didn’t lessen her anger, her grief, that he and Mama had taken something precious from her . . . and from Cy, too. Really, that bothered her most of all. Cy had already lost so much. She would have loved to have been able to provide him with something more.

  Cy nudged her with an elbow. She pulled her gaze up to the screen as the pianist began to play a martial tune. The framed white text of the intertitle read:

  behold! america’s excalibur!

  The boys in the row ahead whispered and wiggled.

  The words were replaced by a moving picture of a massive crowd adorned in hats, with many of the people waving Unified Pacific flags. The view panned up to show an island floating in the sky. No, not a mere island—a castle, a Mont Saint-Michel with a thick keep and multitude of towers. The sheen of its orichalcum hull boldly stood out against the pale sky. It looked like an impossibility, a whimsical toy created on some studio lot in New Jersey and somehow spliced onto the film.

  A woman in the cinema emitted a loud gasp.

  made in atlanta by american labor, a secret effort years in the making! factories working on pieces, never knowing how they would fit together—until now!

  “It is impressive how it was kept secret,” Cy whispered. “Though I wonder at the true conditions of that ‘American labor.’ So many Chinese have been sent to Georgia in recent years, under the auspices of labor contracts . . .”

  “You think it was more akin to prison labor?” she whispered, aghast.

  “I suspect so. Many companies have inhumanely treated their workers as they compete with Augustinian. How would they treat those they don’t regard as truly human? Numbers of Chinese have simply vanished. The dead keep their secrets very well.” His face looked gray in the light reflected from the screen.

  the war machine to conquer china, to quell the ambitions of czars, kings, and queens! behold the white cloud fleet.

  The footage changed. Excalibur looked different, its shiny orichalcum now painted white. Against the daytime sky, it scarcely showed up on film, but it still looked like a toy. There was no sense of its size or scale.

  “See the faint white spots around the citadel?” Cy whispered. “Pegasus gunships, I reckon. All in that special paint to make them less visible.” He shook his head. “Early on in the war, the UP painted airship bellies black so that they didn’t reflect spotlights at night and attract gunfire. The Chinese can’t counterattack in any such way now.”

  Below Excalibur lay a grassy plain not unlike the area just south of Los Angeles proper. A cow grazed, oblivious to the hulking technological wonder above.

  Black blurs dropped from beneath Excalibur, followed by an unfurling, expanding cloud. The cow lifted its head and began a clumsy, panicked run almost directly at the camera.

  The boys in the crowd howled in delight.

  Ingrid felt herself slip into a memory. Hoofbeats thundered through pavement. The cows set free by the earthquake stampeded through downtown San Francisco, their eyes wild. A man was caught among the churning bodies, his body tossed upward and then vanishing in the crush.

  Cy gripped her hand, hard. “Stay with me, here and now,” he whispered. Only then did she realize how she had started gasping for breath. Sweat soaked her dress. His hand was likewise slick. Their eyes met. She saw that he was warring with his own memory of that awful day. She managed a small nod, and he released his grip.

  excalibur can drop a payload directly below, but it can also moor airships at masts at various levels! behemoth class, pegasus, sprite: there are masts for them all!

  The view showed a close-up of Excalibur; judging by the shaky footage, it was shot from another airship on approach. Dark windows freckled the pale citadel. A dozen towers encircled the central keep. Their curvature reminded Ingrid of the sleek, undulating surface of Durendals. Cy leaned forward on his thighs, his gaze narrowing.

  the moorages are protected by gunmen who can strike targets over a half mile away.

  The airship docked, and the footage skipped ahead to show a line of men with billowing coats, hands on their hats to keep them from blowing away. Their movements jerked in an unnaturally fast way, as if they were marionettes bleached in shades of gray. They walked along a parapet, past massive guns and soldiers at parade rest. The camera skipped again to a closer shot of a soldier swiveling around a deck-mounted gun with a tapered barrel. The view shifted inside a spacious cargo bay. Several Durendals sat in a row.

  excalibur can carry a hundred tanks and autocars, up to ten thousand soldiers, and enough supplies to sustain them for months! there are even gardens aboard, fed by rainwater containment.

  The screen showed a broad greenhouse unlike any Ingrid had seen before. The camera moved to show the massive space—the length of an airship hangar, perhaps—but with a ten-foot ceiling. Low tables of plants stretched out in a multitude of long rows, followed by more rows of floor-to-ceiling pillars with tiers of vegetation growing along the lengths of the columns.

  The view switched to a map, a dashed line showing a route from Atlanta across the southern states.

  excalibur is in texas today. soon enough it will be in california, where our boys await a ride overseas!

  What looked to be thousands of troops stood in perfect formation in a field. At some signal, they all began waving, some even jumping up in the air. A band marched along, its members’ jerky movements discordant with the tune played by the theater piano.

  watch out, chinamen! american-made justice is on the way.

  A cluster of cherubic children waved fistfuls of flags, American and Japanese colors together.

  A man at the front stood up as he applauded, blocking the screen; more applause scattered the room. The piano music abruptly stopped. The screen flickered and went blank. Ingrid felt flattened against her chair, unwilling to move even though the hard metal seat made her backside ache.

  Somehow she, Cy, and Fenris had to stop that. The craft already being dubbed the technological innovation of the twentieth century. How could they infiltrate it? Stop it with minimal deaths and damage to those below? The task seemed impossible, and Ingrid had become something of an authority in confronting and surviving the impossible.

  The ne
xt reel began with sober, soft piano keys.

  san francisco. we remember. we mourn.

  A wagon rolled down a wide street flanked with piles of rubble that almost blocked the thoroughfare. It passed by a decapitated statue with upraised arms—but only one arm was intact, pointing toward heaven as if in admonishment.

  Ingrid knew that statue. This was along Market Street. The wagon followed the streetcar tracks. There should be a Bank of Italy across the way. The French bakery the next corner down had the best croissants. And there was a barbershop with a swirling pole, and a restaurant that often blared a Marconi so loud it could be heard from a block distant.

  Gone. All gone.

  She stood, Cy following her a second later. He led the way out through the minuscule lobby. The afternoon light blinded her as she stepped onto the sidewalk. She took in a deep breath, gladly taking in the foulness of autocar exhaust and a whiff of manure in a gutter nearby. Those scents were better than falling into memories of the distinct malodor of collapsed buildings with the fog of pulverized bricks still in the air and shattered wood and the dankness of leaking pipes, and smoke, smoke so pungent she’d never fully wash it away.

  “I’m better now,” she said, and wondered if she was lying to herself.

  He was quiet for a long moment, considering her. Rain dribbled down, and Ingrid pulled up her hood. Cy tucked the pastry bag beneath his coat.

  “If the rain’s coming in again, we should head on back. You up to eating? We can grab tamales from a yatai on the way.”

  “You never did explain what a tamale was,” Ingrid said, relieved to change the subject. “Is it some kind of bird?”

  He chuckled, and kept chuckling as they began to walk. “Good God. I needed that.”

  “I’m glad my ignorance serves a purpose.” Her own laugh was shaky. “To see Excalibur, then to see Market Street, like that . . .”

  “We’re here. We’re together. Alive and free,” he said softly. “And tonight you’ll dine on tamales. Pork, if we can find it. And pie, too. The carts often sell pie. You’ll see yatai everywhere in downtown once evening starts, and they stay out until after midnight. Some of the stands are little more than wheelbarrows loaded with hot stones and food parcels, but what they serve up is practically divine, and for mere pennies.”

  “That sounds perfect,” she said, and stayed quiet as Cy babbled on, working out his own anxiety through talk of ground corn and husk-wrapped deliciousness and the food cart where he found the most amazing slice of pecan pie one time.

  Her thoughts drifted back to the cinema and the juxtaposition of Excalibur and San Francisco. If the citadel completed its journey, it’d leave cities razed in just the same way. All at the behest of Ambassador Blum.

  And Blum would use Ingrid for the same purpose, if she caught her. With Excalibur and Ingrid in her arsenal, the Unified Pacific would rule the world.

  Ingrid could not let that happen. God willing, they’d find a way to do the impossible and stop that machine. Stop Cy’s sister. Ingrid would continue her fight to stay free, to fight for peace.

  But for now: tamales, and perhaps some pie.

  Chapter 11

  The address supplied by Lee was in a newer business district, one with fresh paint and mud-packed streets. A lack of streetlights left Ingrid feeling conspicuous as they walked along. The sylphs followed at a distance of twenty feet. They weren’t drawing on their inherent magic but were almost invisible just the same, gray smudges that most anyone could dismiss on this night without stars.

  “This is it,” Cy muttered. The block-shaped structure featured black lettering that read mount whitney building. “You two wait here for a few as I take a gander round back.” He left them at the opening of an alley across the street. His leather coat gleamed briefly in the darkness, then he was gone.

  “Lovely night for breaking and entering,” murmured Fenris. He kept his hands tucked into a corduroy overshirt that looked two sizes too big, more suited for a husky farmer. However, it did an adequate job of hiding the Tesla rod sheathed at his hip.

  “I suppose it’s good weather for all varieties of chicanery.” The sylphs roosted on the roof above. In the distance, dogs barked. Ingrid gnawed on her lip for a moment then faced Fenris. “You reviewed Cy’s latest plans for my braces earlier, but you didn’t say much. What do you really think? Can you two create a workable prototype in time?”

  “Excalibur is like a ticking doomsday clock, isn’t it?” Fenris fidgeted, frowning. “So many things look plausible on paper, but reality is considerably more complicated. These braces need to effectively support you and be comfortable enough to wear.” He paused, and they both listened as more dogs struck up a fuss. “The latter is the tricky part, the one that will take more time to get right. I agree that orichalcum is the best metal, though. Not for the bulletproofing—though that’s a nice perk—but because it’s strong and light.”

  “This kind of project isn’t quite the same as your incredibly fast airship assembly work, I suppose.”

  “That’s proven technology. I based the Bug on existing machinery and innovated from there. When it comes to you, Ingrid, nothing is proven.”

  She softly snorted in reply. There was no point arguing with that statement.

  Footsteps softly pattered in the puddles. Cy emerged from the shadows. “There’s no outward sign of folks around. Back lot is empty.” He motioned them forward.

  They fell into an agreed-upon order, with Cy in the lead, followed by Ingrid and Fenris. The sylphs trailed them. Cy walked up to the building and around a shed to a side door. The neighboring business cast a deep shadow over them.

  Cy pulled out his Tesla rod and gave it a twist. Thin blue light shone from the crystal tip. Ingrid dryly swallowed and fought against the memory of how that very rod had burned her skin to form the ward against Blum. There’d been no pain, but the stench of her searing flesh, the very act of harming herself in such a way . . . She shuddered, turning her attention back to the door.

  “Maybe it’s wired on the inside,” Fenris muttered. “Window might be alarmed, too.”

  “Or it might not be.” Cy held up a hand for silence. A soft canine whine carried through the door, followed by the sound of claws scratching on wood.

  “They’re not barking!” Ingrid said, grinning.

  Cy managed a tense smile. “Did you notice, we didn’t have a single dog bark at us as we walked together? As soon as I walked around the block by myself, though, I was getting barked at from almost every other yard.”

  She pressed a hand to her chest where she had painted the kanji of inu to utilize dog sorcery again. This time she didn’t inlay an enchantment to ward against kitsune, but instead reinforced that she and those with her were friends to dogs.

  “You think the dogs are the first line of defense, then?” she asked.

  “I surely hope so. I’m reluctant to use the radio flash, in any case. If the Chinese are protecting something here, I want their security to continue to work against other burglars.”

  “My turn to work, then?” At Cy’s nod, Fenris pulled out a lockpicking set. Using the thin light of the Tesla rod, he twiddled with the doorknob.

  “I’d like to hear more stories about your decade on the run from the UP sometime,” Ingrid murmured. “You both certainly acquired an interesting variety of skills for mild-mannered machinists.”

  “You may not like those stories,” Cy said.

  “Oh, come now. Ingrid would surely approve of your Robin Hood–like antics, Cy.” The door emitted a small click and Fenris’s face lit up with a grin.

  The conversation was forgotten as Cy reached for the doorknob. He gave them grim nods and slowly opened the door outward. Ingrid scarcely breathed. Through the gap, three Dobermans bounced in eagerness to greet them.

  “Down, down,” Ingrid hissed, gesturing. The dogs sat, tails still wiggling.

  “Was that the magic, or do they know English commands?” Cy asked, opening the door wider to in
spect the room ahead.

  “By command. That drew nothing from my fever.” She had absorbed energy from a few small pieces of kermanite to wield the dog sorcery and converse with the sylphs, and carried more with her as a precaution. Blum’s trap at the station had left her leery of holding too much power.

  She beckoned the sylphs forward. They balked. “The sylphs don’t want to follow us. They don’t like dogs or enclosed spaces. They’ll wait here.”

  Fenris closed the door, inspecting it as he did so. “Just a lock here. The windows on either side, though, do have alarms.”

  The room appeared to be an average office space, with several desks, shelves, and stacked boxes. Ingrid scrutinized the dogs and tried extending her awareness over them, as she did with the sylphs. To her delight, it worked. Images and emotions flashed through her mind.

  “The dogs are well fed and cared for, just lonely during the night. There’s no one else here.”

  She blinked back tears of disappointment. Where were Lee and Mr. Sakaguchi?

  Cy, however, sagged with relief. “Good. We don’t have to fuss about direct confrontations.”

  “No, just traps that may electrocute or poison us,” said Fenris. “That’s all.”

  “The dogs don’t expect people until sunrise.” She scratched a Doberman’s head, her hand well licked in turn. She was glad for her staff, as the dogs’ enthusiasm might otherwise have toppled her. “Even if my sorcery wears away, I think the dogs have accepted us. We shouldn’t have any problems with them as we exit.”

  “One less worry, then. Let’s find our way to the basement.”

  They found the access tucked at the back of a storage room. Furniture had been stacked in front of the door, hiding it. Cy and Fenris shifted the items over just far enough to allow them passage.

  “I have a hunch that the folks who work here during the day haven’t a clue what their basement is being used for,” said Cy.

  Fenris crouched to pick the lock.