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  The pilot responded. "Aye aye, Cap'n!"

  With a final glance around, Adena left the bridge.

  Chapter 2

  Greg Cole woke with a start, chain clanking as his foot moved. The leather boot which served as his regular alarm clock thudded into his ribs again, reawakening old hurts. He groaned.

  "Wake up, you dozy devil!" a harsh voice grated above him, and the boot nudged him again.

  He stirred and rolled onto his side, shielding bruised ribs. With an effort, he rose to a sitting position. The chain and fat padlock binding his right ankle to the staple in the wall dragged on the flagstone floor with a teeth-hurting jangle. He grunted and glared up at the ogre standing over him. "I'm awake, I'm awake."

  "Good." The creature leered, exposing rotting teeth like ancient gravestones. Greg thought it was like staring through the gates of a disused cemetery. The creature flung a hunk of black bread into Greg's lap. "Eat quick. You work."

  Greg stared at the unappetizing fare. "The old refrain, you sweet-talker, you."

  The ogre snorted and stalked off to persecute the other slaves. Greg fumbled for the battered tin mug and dipped it in the basin carved in the rock wall. A slow trickle of water filled it over time from a hidden source. He drank. It tasted brackish as always. He guessed it was full of mineral salts. Drink up, Gregory! People pay good money for this stuff back home. He wondered how many times he'd told himself that. His brain shied away from the thought.

  Greg chewed the bread, wiped long hair from his face and stared around the cell. Nothing had changed overnight — or whatever period of time equated to night on this world. The walls were of crude stone blocks, mortared together in slapdash fashion. The roof looked like one solid piece of stone. One side lay open to a passageway connecting several cells together. He could hear coughs and groans, occasional sobs and even screams from other slaves as the ogre went about his business. The air reeked of urine and feces. Greg realized he'd grown used to the stench.

  He muttered a curse and finished the bread. No chance to gain weight on this diet. He felt the bruising on his chest and noticed with a shock how much his ribs protruded. I'm losing weight fast. Thoughts of escape surged up in his mind. He felt his heart beat faster in classic fight-or-flight reaction. A fight's out of the question after what the ogre did to that guy who defied him the other day. The ogre had literally beaten one slave to a pulp before the horrified gaze of the others for daring to stand up to him. Two of them had to drag the bloody remains to the garbage chute. Greg shuddered.

  Heavy footsteps announced the ogre's return along the passageway and Greg stumbled to his feet. He stood ready when the creature appeared to release his chain from the wall. It gestured him out of the cell, cuffing him on the back of the head as he passed to fall into line with the other slaves as they emerged. The scumbag must be in a good mood today.

  The ogre fastened the slaves to a long length of chain with manacles attached, before leading them a mile along a lamp-lit tunnel to the work-face. Another ogre waited here impatiently, its slaves already chained and whipped into line. The two creatures snarled at each other as they changed shifts. Their slaves merely waited listlessly until the spat subsided and the other ogre marched away up the tunnel, all but dragging his workers behind in his eagerness to quit the shift.

  Greg and his fellows were pushed to the pile of tools dropped by the other slaves, mostly shovels, picks and sledgehammers, before moving to the coal-face. Their overseers chained them to a long rod stretching along the work area and barked a command to begin. Greg plied his pick with as much energy as he could muster.

  "A heck of a comedown for a civil engineer to do the donkey work," he groused, his voice covered by the noise of many tools.

  The emaciated man working alongside him glanced his way. "Keep quiet, fool, unless you want to follow Erik down the chute."

  Greg winced at the memory. "Screw you, too, Mungenast," he retorted in a quieter tone. Mungenast cackled and Greg glared at his grimy face where he could see it amid the matted black whiskers. They hadn't been paired off for long before Greg surmised the man was a swivel-eyed lunatic. He wondered how long it would be before Mungenast tried to bite an ogre slavemaster.

  They worked for hours until Greg could hardly lift the pick. The air grew fetid with the stink of coal dust and body wastes. Slaves remained chained at all times. When they needed to relieve themselves, they tried to do so away from the immediate area where they worked. The ogre allowed them this much before kicking and punching them if they didn't move back to work fast enough.

  The creature swaggered along from farther up the line, the leg of some kind of large bird clutched in its hands. Tearing at the greasy-looking meat with its brown fangs, the ogre passed the slaves, black eyes peering from beneath lowering brows. All those upon whom the gaze fell, flinched, expecting a blow. Some weren't disappointed. The ogre had a sporadic view of inflicting punishment.

  The ogre drew near Greg. It took a large bite of the almost-finished leg and kicked out at Mungenast in passing. Mungenast stumbled, caught hold of the creature's foot by instinct and caused it to stagger off-balance — at which point the ogre swallowed the meat and began to choke.

  All the sounds of mining slowed to a stop as Greg and the other slaves lowered their tools and turned to stare at their captor. It staggered, grasping its throat and making choking sounds as its ugly face turned blue. For a moment, Greg considered smacking its back to dislodge the morsel, possibly earning the creature's undying thanks.

  Then reality hit home. He raised his pick, took a step and a good long swing, and buried the vicious point deep in the ogre's chest.

  The impact caused the piece of meat to fly from the ogre's mouth. It took a long deep breath before letting it out again in a roar of pain. It staggered back, wrenching the pick from Greg's grasp. Greg gulped. "Oh crap..."

  Mungenast proved quicker on the uptake. While the ogre clutched at the pick buried in its chest, the man grabbed the bunch of keys hanging from the creature's belt. Bearing his prize Mungenast rolled across the floor to the big lock securing the iron bar. Fumbling, he fitted the key and twisted. It clanked open. Mungenast stood up with a gap-toothed grin of triumph only to be felled by the ogre's fist, but the creature's blow came too late. The slaves were free.

  Greg stumbled back, expecting a wild rush of slaves for the exit. Reality turned out quite different. As one body the slaves hefted their tools and advanced on the ogre, matted hair and half-naked filthy bodies making them look like a wild tribe of savages. The ogre roared and swung its fists, but the action dislodged the pick. It fell out. Thick red-brown fluid began to pump from the wound. The brute swayed with sudden blood loss — then disappeared under a screaming tide of humanity.

  For a horrified couple of seconds, Greg watched the tools rise and fall, each blow accompanied by sprays of gore. Then sense prevailed, and he ran from the scene. The tunnel back to the cells echoed to his footfalls, a mad slapping echoing cadence that seemed to chase him the whole mile.

  Eventually he reached the area of the cellblock. Greg leaned against a wall, breathless and panting, his feet sore and bloody from a myriad of small cuts inflicted by sharp stones on the tunnel floor. A few of the slaves raised their heads and looked at him from their cells, puzzled to see something different about one of their number, but too exhausted to figure out what.

  Greg panted, hoping to regain his breath before the other ogre appeared. For a moment, he wished he'd brought one of the tools to defend himself with, then shook his head. If I have to fight, I've already lost.

  Minutes passed. His breathing returned to normal although adrenaline made his pulse sound hard in his ears. Greg listened, but could hear nothing beyond the fretting of tired slaves. He wished he could free them all, but the keys to the chains remained back with the dead ogre. Maybe one of the others will pick them up and come here. From what little he knew of the place, he stood in the only area with access to the outside world.


  A sound made him raise his head. Noises echoing from the mine tunnel suggested the other slaves were on the move. The sound could alert the other ogre. Greg felt the outcome of any fight between weakened slaves and a healthy alert ogre could go either way, but he didn't intend to stick around to watch.

  Moving away from the wall he steadied himself as his head swam. Lack of adequate nourishment had weakened him. His frantic flight had weakened him more — and he still had to escape.

  He staggered in the direction he vaguely remembered the ogre bringing him and others from the huge train, so many days or even weeks before. Each step left a bloody footprint on the bare rock floor. Some yards farther along, loud snores from a big side chamber indicated where the ogre laid sleeping. Greg eased his way past the opening to the chamber, thankful for bare feet even if his soles felt like they'd been torn to shreds.

  As he reached the other side of the opening a waft of colder, fresher air met his nose and the chill made his skin prickle. The foot of a ramp rose not far in front, the slope broad and tall, shiny metal rails for mine carts climbing the tool-worked surface. The way to it was blocked by a gate set in tall iron bars. A big crude padlock held it closed.

  Greg walked up to the bars and shook them in frustration. The oil lamps lighting the ramp glowed a warm gold in the gloom, inviting him to come farther.

  "No help for it," he muttered after a moment and headed back to where the ogre slept.

  The brute laid on his back upon a bed of soiled furs, chest rising and falling in time to cavernous snoring. A ring holding three keys dangled from a length of rope attached to its belt. Greg looked at the rope, trying to figure how to cut it. His gaze fell on the oil lamp burning in a niche hacked into the wall. "Of course."

  Picking up the lamp, he padded over to the ogre's bed and examined the rope. It looked stiff and greasy from close proximity to the ogre's body. Greg hoped it wouldn't burn like a candle wick. Setting the lamp on the floor he held the rope over the flame until it smoked, charred, then parted.

  Greg gasped softly with relief — then the ogre's nostrils flared and it woke. Two yellow eyes with red pupils glared at him with disbelief from only two feet away. For a second they stared at each other. Then the ogre recovered its wits, roared, and lifted a fist the size of a pumpkin to smash Greg into the floor. Pure instinct took over. He flung the lamp into the brute's face. The glass shattered.

  Blazing oil splashed over the ogre's face and chest. It bellowed in pain, swinging its fist. Greg ducked as the fist whistled over his head. Stumbling he turned and ran.

  He reached the opening to the chamber as the ogre batted out the flames and rolled off its bed. It roared. Greg heard heavy feet running in pursuit as he reached the gate and fumbled with the keys.

  The first two didn't fit. Greg's hands shook with increasing panic but the third slid into the lock. Muttering a prayer, he turned the key, and the padlock clanked open.

  At that moment, the ogre caught up. Greg ducked and rolled as the creature swung its fist again. The gate shook under the impact. Scrambling across the floor on all fours, Greg spared a terrified glance at the brute's face. It bore a hideous purple burn, which had puffed up its flesh and closed one eye. The remaining eye glared at him in pure fury.

  His attacker stepped forward. Greg skittered back, trying to work out if he could dodge past it. At that moment, the sounds of furious escaped slaves began to fill the air. The ogre looked up at the noise, nostrils flaring, then back at Greg. For a moment it hovered, undecided. After what felt like a lifetime it snorted with anger and stalked off in the direction of the cells.

  Greg breathed a sigh of relief and hurried back to the gate. The first sounds of combat began to echo up the passageway behind him as he opened the gate and ran.

  * * *

  The air grew colder the higher he ran. Oil lamps burned at intervals, pushing back the dark, but Greg sensed the darkness growing thicker, even palpable beyond the glow of light. He slowed, exhaustion making his head swim. The sounds of battle receded, but he didn't doubt the outcome would be in favor of the slaves.

  Got to find what's up ahead. Need a few moments to breathe is all. Thank God, the air on this world seems thicker than Earth's, otherwise I'd be flat out by now...

  The solid rock of the tunnel wall met his head seconds later. He woke with a start, knees buckling, head swimming, to find he'd nodded off. "I'd be flat out? Famous last words!" He groaned and stumbled into motion again. "Oh, God..."

  Seconds later the floor seemed to level out beneath his feet. Greg felt a definite breeze blowing. It proved a mixed blessing. His head cleared, but he began to shiver violently as the warmth generated by moving dissipated in the wind chill. He staggered, his feet feeling like raw meat. Then he found himself outside under the stars.

  He stared up at the twinkling points of lights grim-faced against their multitude. The Milky Way hung like a gossamer veil on the night sky, but none of the familiar planets and constellations could be seen. In fact, the stars seemed sparse indeed compared to the night sky of Earth. I guess I'm not in Kansas anymore...

  Greg staggered a few steps more until the slope crested a rise and began to trend downhill. Peering back, he saw behind him a rocky crag, with the mine shaft piercing its vitals. It looked as if it stood at the end of a chain of similar craggy hills that curved away to his right. Ahead the slope spread out and descended in a gentle gradient to a well-lit compound with an honest-to-goodness rail yard, and beyond that a desert, blue under the faint starlight.

  The railroad ran off to left and right, the silver gleam of the rails marking its course until it disappeared over both horizons. The rails seemed farther apart than the ones he was used to on Earth. He thought back over the hazy period of time to when he'd first arrived in this dreadful place and reckoned the train he'd been aboard with the other slaves had come from the right-hand horizon. Somewhere back there lay the huge city where he'd first come to this world.

  The rails from the tunnel ran down to a coal dump where mine carts stood nose-to-tail. More slaves worked there by the light of burning braziers under the supervision of at least a half-dozen ogres. To one side a fenced enclosure contained the rudimentary huts of the quarters allocated to those slaves who worked the heaps. A locomotive the size of an ocean liner stood in a siding not far from the dumps, a yellow glow emanating from the windows of the crew compartment high above the track. A train of coal cars stretched away for three miles behind the huge machine.

  Greg gazed with longing at the fires, his skin crawling with cold. The ogres looked alert. They carried whips, crossbows and huge halberds, the blades gleaming gold and silver in the light of fires and stars. "Not an option," he muttered. His odds of a successful escape had dropped.

  The staccato slap of many feet on rock began to echo up the tunnel behind him. He looked back, thinking to warn his fellows of the danger that waited ahead of them. A shout of alarm from one of the ogre guards told him it was too late. The creature had to have superb hearing — but Greg saw the shadows cast by the escaping slaves playing on the roof of the tunnel, as visible as a cinema screen. With a sick feeling, he realized he also had to be silhouetted against the lit mouth of the tunnel. He stood and stared as a number of the guards began to walk up the slope toward him, weapons leveled. The sounds of his fellow captives’ escape grew louder yet. He was caught between the hammer and the anvil.

  "Ah, shoot."

  Chapter 3

  Oculus Nightingale cruised through the perpetual darkness. Zared sat on his bunk in what was laughably called his cabin. Located on the starboard side of the gondola, it comprised a small booth with the fold-up bunk, a foot-wide strip of floor space, and an electric light. A curtain stretched across the opening onto the short corridor gave a semblance of privacy. It swayed whenever people walked by outside.

  A small window penetrated the outer hull above the bunk. Zared had been warned against showing any light while the shutter was open when passing through the skie
s of Dark Side. He didn't need the steward's advice. After one horrified glance at the ground passing so far below, he'd decided he didn't want to see it again until he stood on it. It gave him little comfort to think a thin metal hull was all that lay between him and a terrible gulf of air.

  To take his mind away from disquieting thoughts, he checked the double-barrel revolver his uncle had given him days before the voyage on the airship had been booked. "It's a dangerous world, nephew," the older man had said on handing it over. "The City of Night is more dangerous than most, but these captains of the air cannot always be trusted either. I'll try to find a reliable one for the job. In any case, you'll have to defend yourself should the need arise, which it might on this mission. A dagger is fine for show, but never bring a knife to a gun fight."

  Zared had felt his insides turn to liquid at the thought of violence to his person. "Is there any likelihood of that, uncle?" he'd quavered.

  "Of course, there is!" Erasmus had looked at him with disgust. "Wake up, boy!" He'd gestured to the pistol. "Go somewhere discrete and practice. Gain what proficiency you can in the time you have. Your life might depend on it."

  Zared had practiced to a point where he'd become proficient with the weapon. His hand still hurt from the bruising inflicted by the vicious recoil.

  Sitting on the bunk he broke the revolver open to examine the components and to ensure the ammunition was free of faults or corrosion. The weapon held seven rounds in a drum-shaped chamber that fired through the main rifled barrel. A smooth-bore barrel under the main held a small shotgun cartridge fired by a separate trigger located behind the first. Zared closed and hefted the weapon, knowing he held the lives of eight people in his hand — possibly more should the shotgun spread catch others close by. It gave him a feeling of unaccustomed power.