Fire On the Sand Read online

  "What of you? Your family?"

  "Oh, I'm descended from slaves too. My predecessors were among those who established Penumbra City as refugees, and it became a free city. Other slaves remain on the Dark Side, and a number of them even fight back within the City itself." She glanced at him. "Some will help you find your friend."

  "You mentioned this Portal. What is it?"

  "It's a gateway to your world. It might once have reached other worlds, but again, the Pure Bloods lost the ability to direct it. They're lucky to have a steady connection to Earth. It's their sole means of getting slaves for work — and food."

  "They really do suck blood?" Greg reminded himself he would've been skeptical had he not seen it with his own eyes.

  "Oh yes. They're bloodsuckers. They breed with humans, too."

  He shot her a glance. "Breed?"

  "Yes. They have children, who can have children." Adena looked at him, her gaze steady. "Don't you notice anything unusual about me?'

  "Well, I did notice your canine teeth are..." He cocked his head and a chill ran down his spine. "You're not saying you've got vampire blood in you?"

  "Would it make a difference to our relationship if I do?"

  Greg detected sensitivity behind her question. He shook his head. "No. I mean it. You've been kindness itself." His lips twitched. "I doubt you've brought me up here just to snack on my blood. You had ample opportunity before."

  "Good answer."

  She smiled, and he thought again how pointed her canine teeth looked. At the same time, he knew it didn't matter. "Okay then. I'm a Quadsang – a quarter blood. There’s also the Overseer caste, which I think you call ogres? Big ugly brutes."

  He nodded.

  She went on. "They're three-quarters Pure Blood, but sometimes something goes wrong in their makeup, which makes them big and brutish. The Pure Bloods use them to oversee the slaves and other lesser beings. My parents were Half Bloods. My Pure Blood grandparents mated freely with their human slaves, and the line bred more or less true, which is how I come to be here."

  Greg felt his heart give an extra thump as a thought occurred. "Do you ever feel the need to drink blood?"

  She nodded. "I can drink it, but I don't really need it." Her smile flashed again. "A nice, juicy steak works for me. Our heritage makes us generally stronger than humans, and we tend to have superior night vision." She shivered. "Others get a tolerance for extreme cold, but this is cold enough for me. Let's go down below."

  Adena glanced at her pocket watch as they reached the flight deck once more. "We finished our tour early. I don't have to stand watch for another half-hour. Would you like a drink in my quarters, such as they are?"

  Greg smiled. "That's most kind of you."

  A couple of the crew shared a knowing glance. "As you were," Adena snapped, and they resumed their duties with new intensity. She took Greg's arm, noting the firm muscles there beneath flesh still thin from poor rations. "We'll see about something to eat, too."

  He followed her willingly to her quarters. As Greg stepped inside, Mr. Phibuli seemed to wake up. His head swiveled. "Show us yer boots!"

  Greg stopped and stared. Adena chuckled as she closed the door behind him. "Don't mind him, he's a construct I picked up somewhere to amuse my guests."

  "An automaton?" Greg stepped over to examine the bird closer. "He's a beautiful piece of work!"

  Adena saw the brass parrot's crystal eyes gleam brighter as Greg looked at him. Mr. Phibuli did a little dance on his perch, claws clicking and clattering. "Show us yer — boo..."

  Down in the cargo hold the Silver Lady registered the first electric thrill that marked a closing proximity to The Enemy. She stirred, her eyes coming half open. For a long moment she remained passive, gathering information from all the senses her creators had given her. Something else stirred nearby, something unexpected. Quicker than light she shut down, wary of alerting whatever force she'd unwittingly tripped over.

  "—oots," Mr. Phibuli finished, his head cocked toward the floor.

  Greg chuckled. "It sounds like he needs winding up."

  Adena stared at the bird. "Um, yeah. Please, sit down."

  He looked around. "I could use the head, if you don't mind."

  "Don't mind me."

  Greg disappeared about his business.

  Adena stepped over to the perch. "What's wrong, old bird?"

  Mr. Phibuli shook his head slowly with a soft creak of gears and bearings. "Something isn't right. I thought I..." His beak opened and shut with a sharp clack and he ruffled his feathers with a sound like someone stirring a cutlery drawer. "Forget it. It couldn't be."

  Adena cursed under her breath. "What couldn't be?"

  "Something from my past."

  She stared at him. "Your past?"

  Phibuli made to speak but closed his beak as Greg returned.

  Greg smiled. "I imagine he must be company for you in here."

  Adena forced her puzzlement and unease aside and turned to him with a smile. "I do find myself talking to the ridiculous thing at times, yes." She went over to her drinks cabinet. "I don't have anything from Earth here, but I think I can give you something palatable."

  "Anything like a whiskey would be good."

  He settled on the bench seat under the window, his arms stretched out along the back. Adena poured a finger of Penumbra Panther brand whiskey for them both and joined him. They touched glasses with a soft clink. "Cheers!"

  Greg drank then smacked his lips in appreciation. "Smooth."

  "I know the distillers. They do good work." She sipped her own drink, felt the fire go a long way toward removing the chill in her bones generated by Mr. Phibuli's behavior. Greg looked much healthier. The spell of exercise walking around the ship added to his improved diet obviously helped. "So..."

  A knock sounded at the door, and Adena cursed under her breath again. I cannot catch a break! "Come!" She called with more force than necessary.

  Conner poked his head around the door. "We're coming up on the City, Skipper. Zared's compliments, and he'd like to be on the flight deck as we approach."

  She glanced at the clock. "We've made better time than I expected. There must be a tailwind. Yes, fine, I can see he'd like that." She glanced at Greg and shrugged. "I've got to go. I'd ask you onto the flight deck too, but you must be too tired."

  He stood up, using his cane to take most of his weight. "No, I'd like to see this city, if it's not inconvenient."

  She pushed her frustration aside and managed a smile. "Not at all."

  Chapter 7

  Adena settled Greg on the stool in the starboard side observation bay then took the station next to the wheel. A guy in sage green robes with a crimson fez perched on top of cropped black hair entered the flight deck not long after and took up position in the port bay.

  Greg guessed him to be Zared, the supercargo. He glanced at the guy's profile, struck by his air of suppressed excitement. The supercargo's features looked thin; indeed, his whole frame appeared lanky to the point of emaciation. He glanced once in Greg's direction, but resumed his careful watch on the approaching city with no further acknowledgment of his presence. Greg shook his head at the guy's aloofness and looked ahead.

  What he had first taken to be a dark line of hills on the far horizon resolved into an urban landscape unlike any other he'd seen. As the airship approached, details became clearer. The buildings of the City of Night had a general uniform height of six to eight stories with some higher towers, turrets and spires here and there. Mansard roofs seemed commonplace, made of some dark fired clay-like material that contrasted with the lighter shades of brick and stone walls. The sea of rooftops spread in an undulating mass beyond the horizon and to either side, yet the urbanized zone came to a sharply defined boundary. The buildings reached the edge of the desert then stopped, their structures forming a virtual wall against the world. A pinprick of light showed here and there, which only served to give Greg a sense of unreality. He recalled flights on
commercial airlines that passed over New York City and LA. How can such an urban expanse be so empty-looking?

  Adena walked over to him and grinned. "Impressive, no?"

  Greg nodded and folded his arms. "It looks something like medieval Paris combined with New York City's urban sprawl."

  She gave him an amused glance. "I don't understand your references, but I'll take your word for it."

  "Where are we headed?"

  "There's a broad plaza about two leagues into the city." She pointed. "That building with the cupola and green dome is our way-point."

  Greg followed the line of her pointing finger. He could barely make out the structure, which left him all the more impressed with Adena's eyesight.

  She went on. "We take a bearing from that to another landmark deeper into the city and we should drop right into it."

  "What's a league?"

  She glanced at him. "You're an engineer and you don't know?" He shook his head. "Okay, it's three miles."

  "How big is this city?"

  "Something like five thousand square miles."

  Greg blinked. "It's bigger than the New York urban sprawl!"

  Adena shrugged. "If you say so. Nowhere near all of it is occupied. The Houses tend to stick to a core of residences and have outposts around the perimeters of their territory. There are areas peopled by escaped slaves, those who're too fearful of the desert and the things living there to try and leave. Resistance groups exist, too. They have their own turf, and we trade with them at times." She grimaced. "Not all of them are friendly. Some can be trusted as long as you keep a gun handy. This group we're heading for now seems stable enough. Excuse me."

  Adena returned to her place at the helm and gave orders to bring Oculus Nightingale to a lower altitude. The engine pitch, a constant sound that Greg had long pushed into his subconscious, slowed and decreased in volume. He swayed a little as way came off the vessel, and the desert rose to meet them.

  "Way ‘nuff." Adena peered down at the oncoming buildings. "Steady as she goes. Sound action stations, Mr. Dyer."

  The bells rang out, filling the gondola until it echoed. Greg saw a gunner already occupied in her turret beneath the flight deck floor and realized the alert was a mere formality. The weapons crew knew they headed into potential trouble and needed no second warning to take their posts. It spoke of good training and probably, hard-won experience.

  Adena glanced back at Greg. "We'll fly into the city a couple hundred feet above rooftop height. It limits our chances of being spotted by potentially hostile forces, while keeping out of range of ground fire."

  Greg swallowed, suddenly nervous. He looked at Adena and her crew; they appeared relaxed. Greg forced himself to relax too, pushing his fear to the back of his mind.

  The ship passed over the boundary between city and desert. Greg looked at the rooftops passing below. Some had slates, most had tiles, others flat stone roofs surrounded by battlements. No one pattern or construction method looked the same, but the whole blended into an undulating cityscape. Occasionally streets and open spaces appeared. One square they passed over had a cobbled surface like those he'd seen in the old quarters of European cities. Another had weird statues and strange geometric features of bronze or brass set into flagstones, the whole effect hurtful to the eye. The sound of the ship's engines echoed from the roofs and narrow streets, disturbing a silence Greg felt had lasted eons. He had a feeling the city watched the airship glide by, and knew it somehow resented its presence.

  Something large and dark shot past the gondola, heading downward mere feet from where he stood in the observation bay. A squawk of shock came from one of the voice tubes. The alarm began to sound. A machine gun rattled from somewhere aft, the staccato beat of gunfire splitting the night.

  Adena stooped to glare out at the darkness. Another dark form swung by the ship. She stepped back. "Crap! Murriks!"

  Greg guessed she referred to the creatures he saw swarming up from hidden nooks and crannies across the nearby rooftops. They were the size of a human, with huge bat-like wings, and glossy dark skin that blended well with the night. With a chill, he realized they'd passed over some on the way, and he'd taken them for gargoyles.

  One creature bored in on the command gondola, claws the size of saber blades outstretched ready to seize and hold. The ventral gunner below the flight deck swung her turret and locked on. The gun rattled with a manic beat and muzzle flashes lit the beast with strobe lighting. Greg saw it stagger in midair, body jerking and spraying gore under the lash of bullets until it dropped out of sight.

  "Good shooting, Penny!" Adena called. The gunner glanced up and gave her a thumbs-up. At that moment a crash came from aft. Adena drew her pistol. "One's gotten aboard!"

  Greg made for the door. "I'll go."

  "No, wait..."

  He ignored Adena's call.

  The gondola echoed with the sounds of battle. Greg could hear air roaring from the other side of the door. He flung it open to see a solitary figure facing off against a crouching murrik. A gaping hole in a lounge window let in rushing air and a frigid chill. Greg recognized Zared as the man glanced his way for an instant. The murrik chose that moment of distraction to leap.

  With the smoothness of a born gunslinger, Zared drew a large handgun and shot the beast in the head, stepping aside with a dainty motion as the lifeless corpse hurtled past him. It thudded to the deck with the back of its head missing and lay twitching. Zared smiled at Greg with a distinct lack of mirth.

  "All secure here, Mr. Cole."

  Greg closed his gaping mouth with a snap. "Okay. I'll... go check elsewhere."

  He got out of the lounge as quickly as he could, feeling the supercargo's eyes on him all the way. There's more to that guy than meets the eye. As Greg neared the passageway, he heard snarling and crashing sounds coming from below his feet. An access hatch to the cargo deck sat flush with the passageway floor a few feet ahead. Grasping the inset handle, Greg pulled at it, wincing as his overused muscles took the strain. A crewman appeared, his hand reaching for a holstered handgun. He relaxed when he saw Greg.

  "Oh, it's you, sir."

  "Yeah."

  "What's happening?" the man asked.

  "I think a murrik got in the bay, but I can't open this damned hatch!"

  The man stepped back. "Let's try together."

  Greg took position alongside the man. "On the count of three... One, two, three!"

  They hauled on the hatch. Greg gasped as pain shot through his barely healed body. After a moment of strain the hatch gave way. The sounds from below ceased.

  The crewman drew his pistol and aimed it through the opening. His expression of grim determination gave way to confusion.

  Greg followed his gaze. "What the..?"

  He could see the port side cargo hatch. It was buckled as if it had been wrenched open then replaced. A rope was looped through the cleats on the bulkheads. Scattered on the deck of the cargo compartment were slices of bloody meat. They looked like seventy-two ounce steaks dropped from a truck. The walls and floor dripped crimson and the coppery smell of blood filled the chilly air. If it hadn't been for shreds of blue-black skin and torn leathery wings, Greg would've believed he stood in a slaughterhouse back on Earth.

  The crewman stepped onto the top rung of the ladder and descended a few feet. He glared around. "This is just nuts!"

  Greg knelt to peer through the hatch. He whistled softly. "Somebody did a heck of a job on those murriks."

  The crewman glared at the bloody ruin. "Yeah – but who?"

  Greg shook his head, then realized the chatter and thump of gunfire reverberating through the ship had ceased. "It sounds like the fight's over."

  "Yeah." The man gave a wry smile. "I guess we won, ‘cause I don't see no more murriks coming to get cozy with us." He moved backward up the ladder, feeling for the steps with his heels as if afraid to take his gaze from the cargo bay. "The skipper needs to hear about this. Do you have a weapon, sir?"

&nb
sp; Greg shook his head, and the man handed him the pistol.

  "Air-gun, ten shots. It's charged. Stay here and shoot anything that isn't one of us."

  He left before Greg could protest or agree.

  Alone again, Greg looked around the cargo deck. It filled the four yards' width of the main gondola and stretched back perhaps ten or so yards. The air whistled through the gaps left in the bent metal hatch. Greg winced as he thought of the strength required to wrench the thing open — and the strength required to slice that same strong creature to ribbons. He pressed his back against the reassuring solidity of the bulkhead and waited.

  The few minutes that passed before Adena arrived on the scene felt like hours to Greg. He turned with relief when he heard the clatter of footsteps approaching.

  Adena descended the ladder and took in the scene. Casting a questioning look at Greg, she made a slow, cautious circuit of the bay. She checked the seals on the cargo boxes and prodded one of the lumps of flesh before returning to stand beside him at the door. Greg saw she looked pale beneath her olive skin.

  "This is beyond my ken, Greg. Murriks roost in the city outskirts but they don't normally attack airships. I can't figure out what made them attack us and even break in here." She gestured around. "And whoever — or whatever — met them here is a lot stronger than two murriks combined. That, I really don't want to think about."

  "So..." Greg glanced around. "The cargo hatch is secured from the inside. That means whatever did this is still in the gondola. I know it didn't get past us."

  "The seals on the cargo are all intact." She kicked at one of the crates. The thump of leather on wood echoed.

  "Then where is it now?"

  Adena walked over to stand by his side. She glared at the goods stored in the center of the hold. "I have a hunch it's something to do with this consignment we're shipping for a customer back in PC. If so, I want the lot off my ship, soonest."