Roar of Sky Page 3

  Flowers abounded here in a way Ingrid had never known, their scent penetrating the sharp stench of autocar exhaust. Walls contained waterfall cascades of blossoms in almost unreal shades of purple, red, and pink, while nearby trees and bushes swayed beneath their fragrant burdens. Nonflowering vibrant greenery sprouted on lawns and small parks even in the thick of downtown.

  The natural beauty stood as an odd contrast to the heavy presence of the military and the patriotic signs and swags that lined the street declaring emperor banzai, navy banzai, and army banzai in both kanji and English.

  The predominant language spoken around them was English, and many of the people here looked white as well; the Japanese government ruled the land on paper, but America’s agreement for use of Pearl Harbor predated Japanese dominion.

  As a lanky white man in working-class clothes, Cy would have blended in fairly well had he been traveling by himself, though he was more youthful than many men around. Most men his age and younger had been conscripted.

  “Something’s going on up ahead,” Cy muttered as their progress slowed.

  Ingrid’s low vantage point only afforded her a view of suited backsides and hats and the brick buildings across the way.

  Autocar horns honked and voices rose, many in complaint, as brass instruments struck up a festive tune nearby.

  “What can you see?” Ingrid asked.

  “Nothing yet,” said Cy.

  “You’re not missing anything,” said the white man beside them. “It’s a damned parade again. They’re doing it every night. Support for the war effort. Ooh-rah.” He spoke, deadpan. “As if anyone feels otherwise. All it does is clog the street.”

  The parade consisted of a caravan of flatbed trucks garishly adorned in banners for the United States, Japan, and the combined flags of both as the Unified Pacific. The first truck held the band—a dozen men in suits, with a drummer a half beat ahead of the rest. Two more trucks rumbled by hosting children who tossed wrapped candies into the crowd. A few boys darted from the sidewalk to scoop up loot, and were nearly squashed flat.

  The next truck hosted three Chinese men hanging in effigy.

  Ingrid sharply inhaled, the sound of her reaction lost amid the cheers that erupted around her.

  The leaf-stuffed cloth bodies bobbed and swayed. They wore yellow brassards on their upper arms that bore the characters for “Shina,” as all Chinese were required to wear in public. This attention to detail was repeated in the paper identification booklets that jutted from their shirt pockets.

  The third figure looked smaller, younger than the other two, its face slender and black hair shaggy.

  It looked like Lee.

  She swallowed down her nausea, but she couldn’t seem to avert her eyes, even as the truck drove on and vanished behind a line of men that jumped and hollered.

  “Ingrid. Ingrid?” Cy’s hand was heavy on her shoulder. That’s when she realized she was leaning forward in a way that threatened to tip the wicker chair. She sat back as the crowd roared again. The next truck held attractive women, both white and Japanese, who smiled and waved to their captive audience. The music of the first truck faded and people around them began to move again.

  “The last truck makes the damned wait worthwhile, eh?” said the man, giving Cy a nudge as he shuffled on. Cy didn’t bother to respond.

  Other people shoved by, the resumption of traffic creating a deafening cacophony. It took a minute or two for the congestion to ease up enough for the wheelchair to roll onward.

  Ingrid stared down at her lap and tried to create a blank canvas in her mind, but she had never had a knack for Zen meditation. She ached to know where Lee was, how he was doing. She twiddled the unfamiliar ring on her finger, trying to think of something to say to break through the gloom that had descended on the two of them.

  “You know, we need a different name for our new lives together,” she finally said, twisting to look back at him. Her heart wrenched at the dispirited expression on his face.

  “Do you have any preferences?” he asked, his tone a bit gruff.

  She thought for a moment. “I don’t mind the name Harvey. I once had a cat by that name.”

  Cy snorted out a laugh. “Fenris would be greatly amused by that, with the grief he gives me about attracting cats.”

  “It’s a nice, nondescript name. Not royal or pompous,” she teased, alluding to his true identity as a member of the Augustus family.

  “That name’ll do just fine, Mrs. Harvey,” he murmured as he stroked her shoulder. The contact tantalized her. She wanted to feel more of him, to take comfort in his warm and strong body. That’s what she wanted most of all right now: a hug, improper and scandalous though it might be. And later, perhaps, much more than that.

  She and Cy had experienced one glorious, intimate night together before all hell had broken loose in Seattle, and she yearned for the opportunity to be with him again. She knew he would be hesitant, though. Not for lack of desire on his part, but for fear that he’d hurt her somehow. He couldn’t seem to accept that she was going to endure some level of pain no matter what she did these days.

  Sitting included. She shifted in her seat with a grimace.

  “I spy a bakery sign up ahead,” he said. She had to take his word on that; all she saw were heads and backsides. “I bought some kashi-pan this morning, but Mrs. Kealoha’s descriptions of the Big Island’s wilderness make me want to buy more rolls, as a precaution.”

  “Good idea. I don’t believe there is such a thing as too many pastries,” she replied lightly.

  By some miracle, an open sign in English and Japanese still draped crookedly against the door glass, and an employee still lounged behind the counter. But before she could express her relief, another issue immediately became apparent.

  “Blast it all.” Cy heaved the wheelchair up the slight lift to the door entrance, but no matter how he angled the chair, it refused to fit. Pedestrians cursed them in multiple languages as they blocked the walkway.

  “Mr. Harvey, you may as well stop trying. You can’t squeeze a kraken through a keyhole. Roll me down there.” She motioned past the building, where tree branches draped low enough to threaten passing hats. Once they were in the shade, she twisted to look up at him. “Now go inside and buy whatever stock they have.”

  “Mrs. Harvey.” The name rang as strange on his tongue, but the warning in his tone came across clearly. They could both see a cluster of soldiers across the street harassing a man of dark coloration beside a parked rickshaw.

  “I trust you’ll be fast. Come now, we’re lucky this place is still open at all, and that could change any minute. The more pastries we have for the sylphs, the less likely we’ll have a mutiny.”

  “That sounds like the setup of a horrific dime novel. Trapped aboard an airship with ravenous fae,” he said in a grim tone. He adjusted the angle of the wheels and rolled her back into a paved recess off the sidewalk. A shoulder-high stone wall stood behind her. “Don’t go anywhere without me,” he said, and dashed away.

  Ingrid curled her fists toward her belly, keenly aware of her vulnerability. In the past, she would have been confident in her ability to wield energy to shove away attackers or raise a shield in her defense. Now she was afraid to expend anything at all lest she draw on her own life force again and worsen the damage to her nerves.

  A group of older Japanese businessmen walked by, arguing the merits of mail-order brides. The music of the brass band carried from somewhere distant, and she grimaced at the thought of that horrid parade passing by again. She understood the reason for the crowd’s enthusiasm, though. People wanted the war to be done, for their men to stop dying, for the survivors to come home. They wanted peace. The most straightforward way to achieve that was to obliterate the Chinese people so that Japan could continue to settle the Asian mainland.

  Ingrid wanted peace, too, but on far different terms.

  “I heard there’s an ambassador coming through,” a white-haired man said.
>
  Ingrid’s head jerked up, her breath frozen in her throat.

  “Coming through, or staying a time?” asked another fellow. “Are they going to do something about these damned strikes? I have three freighters here and no molasses barrels to load. Why, it don’t even smell right down at the docks right now . . .”

  She was tempted to roll after them to ask if they knew which ambassador, but she also knew men of that ilk would probably be stupefied that she was conversant in international politics at all.

  Her breaths came fast. What if Blum could still track her despite the ward and the distance they’d come? If so, Ingrid was doomed. The sylphs couldn’t hide her for an extended time, not for all the kashi-pan in the world. Cy and Fenris would surely die in an effort to save her. Lee and the rest of his people would be slaughtered.

  And Blum would visit Ingrid in her imprisonment and persist in her delusion that they were the best of friends, all while torturing her to the brink of death time and again.

  She breathed deeper, not to calm herself, but to see if she could detect that nightmarish, musky odor that denoted Blum’s presence.

  The only smells she could identify were autocar exhaust and frying fish.

  Maybe this visiting ambassador was Roosevelt. His people had surely told him of the Palmetto Bug’s destination. He might have pursued her for some reason.

  Or it could be any of the other ten ambassadors, several of whom were Japanese and certain to stop here during their flights across the Pacific.

  The cool logic of those odds eased her back from outright hysteria, but her heart still raced, her body slicked with sweat despite the cool evening shade.

  The heavy clop of boots caused her to jump in her seat. She looked up to find Cy, his fists burdened by two laden paper bags. His relieved grin faded as he took in her mood.

  “What happened?” he quietly asked as he checked the area around them. His hand lowered toward his waist, as if to grab his Tesla rod or pistol, and in their absence he clutched the bags tighter.

  “Some men mentioned that an ambassador was visiting Honolulu. They didn’t say a name, but . . .”

  Cy went a little bit pale, but his voice was even when he spoke. “Maybe we can find out more, and if it is her, we’ll know to be ready.” He passed the two bags to her. She set them on her lap and resisted the urge to laugh maniacally. They had no weapons at hand, but by God, they had pastries!

  “‘Be ready.’ What does that even mean, Cy? We can’t shoot her. She’s almost invincible between that ring and her own inherent powers. She killed three men to keep me alive, and she wasn’t even in direct contact with any of us.” Her breaths came faster again.

  Cy knelt to face her. “Ingrid. Sweetheart. Keep your voice down. We’re in public. If it is Bl—the fox—we won’t go down without a fight.”

  “A fight. We know what the outcome of that will be.” Despair threatened to drown her.

  His eyes searched hers, and she read in them his desperate need to kiss her and hold her close. Instead, he rested a hand on her shoulder. “Wait until we have more information before you decide all is lost,” he said, straightening as he took the handles of her chair.

  “Very well. I’ll schedule my existential despair to resume in a short while.”

  “That’s the spirit,” he said.

  “I love you, Cy,” she whispered over her shoulder.

  “And I love you,” he whispered back.

  She feigned nonchalance as they reentered the crowd. “What did you buy?” She rattled one of the sacks.

  “A bit of everything. An-pan, melon-pan, croissants, cream puffs, palmiers. I bought out the place. The shopkeep turned the sign to ‘Closed’ as I left.”

  Ingrid laughed a little at that. “Well, our little friends will experience European pastries for the first time. If they won’t eat them, I happily will.” She resisted the urge to dig into a bag at that very moment. Her hunger had been relentless as her body recovered.

  “Can you believe it!” A man stood with a group at a street corner, a newspaper held up in both hands. “Look at the size of that thing! We’re living in an incredible age.”

  “What size of kermanite is needed to power a craft like that?” asked one of his companions.

  Cy brought the wheelchair to a stop just behind the group. For a moment, he was very still, reminding Ingrid of a cat ready to pounce. “Pardon me, gentlemen,” he said in his graceful way, “I couldn’t help but overhear. Are you referring to something in the evening paper?”

  The papers he had bought that morning had repeated the mainland headlines of the previous week: the prospect of gold continued to lure men north to Baranov, where clashes with Russians were imminent. Across the United States, the Chinese were being imprisoned “for their own good”; an editorial viciously examined if the Chinese could exist in civilized societies at all—the answer, of course, being no. The fires in San Francisco had stopped, and survivors were still scattered in camps across the Bay Area. There had been no mention of the fate of Cy’s missing father.

  “Why, yes, this is the very latest news!” The man with the paper turned to assess Cy, and seeing a neatly attired white man like himself, he grinned and spread the sheets wide again. “Look at this on page two!” Much to Ingrid’s frustration, she couldn’t see anything.

  “Wonder what the damn invention cost?” muttered another man, shaking his head as he walked away.

  “‘The debut of the Unified Pacific vessel Excalibur,’” Cy read aloud. “‘A craft that is in truth more city than ship, an offensive vessel capable of dropping payloads to level cities while safely transporting as many as ten thousand soldiers along with supplies to keep them aloft without resupply for months.’” He settled back on his heels. No one but Ingrid would have been able to tell that the news had shaken him like a titan.

  “And that picture . . . !” This time when the man flared out the paper, Ingrid caught a glimpse of the full page.

  The black-and-white print fuzzed out fine details, but the photograph was still extraordinary. Excalibur resembled a castle hovering high in the sky. The high sheen of the hull indicated it was some kind of metal, most likely orichalcum, which was incredibly light and nigh bulletproof.

  This was the culmination of the Gaia Project, Ambassador Blum’s top secret endeavor to subjugate the Chinese. This vessel may have been made in America for the cause of the Unified Pacific, but the ultimate purpose was for the glory of Japan, firmly establishing it as the supreme power in Asia. A war machine of this might would certainly intimidate Britannia as it struggled to maintain control of India, and likewise challenge the Russian Empire, which had been engaged in border scuffles with Japan in recent months.

  It might very well intimidate America, too. Theodore Roosevelt had expressed fears that the union of the United States and Japan was bound to fracture, with Japan positioned to dominate its former ally.

  “I bet my bookie is running odds on how fast that Excalibur is versus a Behemoth-class airship. If he’s not, he needs to start a pool going!” A man cackled. “I just got paid, and now I know where that money’s going.”

  “If that monstrosity’s going to China, my God, it’ll have to fly to Honolulu en route! I need to tell my boss. If we hooked that supply contract . . .” The fellow rushed away.

  “Much obliged to you for sharing such extraordinary news.” At that, Cy tipped his hat. The street traffic stopped, and he wheeled Ingrid across the way, dodging oncoming folks by juking left and right. He harshly brought the chair’s wheels up over the next curb. Ingrid caught herself on the armrests.

  Along the next block, there were too many people close by for them to speak with any sort of privacy. Cy’s continued silence draped over her, thick and heavy. She wished that she could see his face or offer some comfort as he rolled her along as fast as the scant walkway space allowed. An industrial area lay ahead. Just beyond, airships hovered like oval clouds attached to tall steel mooring masts. The ocean was hi
dden from view.

  She looked left, and all she could see were more buildings and a plume of smoke. When she had first seen the smoke, she had been afraid that the Chinatown here had been set afire, forgetting that it had been razed years ago after the Chinese experienced an outbreak of bubonic plague. Cy had identified it earlier as a garbage fire that constantly burned in a swampy area.

  Finally, the crowd thinned enough around them that she chanced a whisper. “Cy, please tell me what’s on your mind.”

  “Excalibur.” The word rasped out. “Of course she named it Excalibur.”

  Maggie. Cy’s twin sister, by his account the most brilliant engineer he’d ever known. Newspapers had announced that she’d died in a tragic laboratory fire, but in truth she’d faked her own death in order to escape an oppressive life as an administrator in their father’s company. It was her engineering genius that had made Ambassador Blum’s Gaia Project a reality.

  Ingrid thought back to the day she met Cy. “You mentioned once that Connecticut Yankee was a favorite childhood book for the two of you.”

  “Yes,” he said shortly. “She maintained a fascination with Arthurian tales ever since.” He drew silent again.

  “We’re a week’s flight away from the States. How long would it take Excalibur to get here? Should we wait in the islands?” She wished she had the words to cut through Cy’s jumble of emotions about his sister, but she didn’t. In truth, she didn’t know how she felt about Maggie herself.

  He pulled her chair to one side. She twisted around to look at him. His head was bowed, his eyes narrowed.

  “The article mentioned Excalibur’s route will take it across the southern states and territories to where it’ll pick up its full crew in Los Angeles. By the time we get back to the mainland, more information will be available. Photographs. Film reels. Articles. We need to know what Maggie’s made.”

  “Just the greatest war machine the world has ever known, backed by the might of one of the greatest militaries of all time, all of it orchestrated by a power-mad kitsune at least four hundred years of age,” Ingrid said, tone light.