many folks think that they can keep the world from changing… I've got a wife that I only see when I bring in loot to sell in the Free Cities. We've been married for thirty years, and I've got kids and grandbabies. You got a wife, a family, Sullivan?'
'I got nothing.'
His voice was so gentle that it was hard to hear him. 'I don't want my grandkids to grow up in a world run by a bunch of fascists, or socialists, or progressives, or anarchists, or communists, or eugenicists, or any sort of ist or ism. When I get those types, the men who just need to control everything, to tell everybody else what to do, I stick it in and break it off. I'm fighting for freedom.' Proudly, he gestured around the cave at his men. He loved them like a father. 'We ride the air and plunder the seas. We're the last free men and I'll die a free man.'
'Amen,' Sullivan said.
'There's an Imperium dirigible train that's gotten out of their convoy routes because of the bad weather north of here. We're going to take it, and you're going to show me you mean business.' Southunder raised his hand and gestured at the name on the side of the dirigible. 'Mr. Sullivan, I give you the Free Ship Bulldog Marauder, best damn dirigible there's ever been.' Imperium Submarine J-47 Flower of Carnage The Imperium captain watched the dirigible rising from the side of the volcano through the periscope. He was normally lord of this vessel, but in the presence of a Shadow Guard, he had to defer to his betters. Having four of them aboard made him deeply uncomfortable. He moved aside so the elite soldier could look through the glass. 'We could surface and engage with the deck gun before they are in position to return fire.'
'No,' the Shadow Guard commanded.
The darkened sub stunk of diesel fumes and polluted air. They'd been recycling the air for hours. The Shadow Guard's Finder had already vomited all over the deck twice, and the stink was annoying the captain. He had no patience for seasickness. Their orders were specific. He had not been told what they were supposed to be retrieving, but awareness of their presence could cause its destruction. They had been ordered to maintain complete radio silence and only communicate through the Shadow Guard's magic. The waters ran clear here and he knew that his submarine would show up like a vast black shadow so close to the surface. He shouted orders. The dive bell sounded.
The Finder was sitting cross-legged on the grate, eyes closed, deep in mediation. The captain had never seen one such as this. He had removed his loose shirt, and his torso had been crisscrossed with kanji. The captain wore two, as befitted his rank, so he knew a bit about such things, and he could see that none of the Finder's kanji were based in the physical geometries. Rather, all seven of his were attuned to increasing his Power's sensitivity.
The schools had taught him about Finders. They could feel and see through the disembodied spirits that inhabited the shadow of this world. A truly powerful Finder could actually become a Summoner, capable of bringing in servants from other planes and giving them life here, but this Finder was different. He was like a perfectly tuned tracking dog. He imagined that such sensitivity would drive one mad.
Finders were limited by such things as range, and certain materials or spells could thwart them. The disembodied were easily distracted, but looking at this particular strange specimen, he knew that nothing brought within his range could possibly hide. It was if he'd been specifically bred for this kind of mission. Apparently his submarine's job was just to get this man within range of whatever it was he was seeking.
It seemed to take forever, but the captain was used to being patient. It came with the assignment. The heat from the burning kanji permeated the sub. It was like being next to a bank of electric heating coils. The Finder opened his eyes and let out a long exhausted breath. The Shadow Guard leaned forward eagerly.
'I have it.' Free Ship Bulldog Marauder The dirigible train was floundering. The lead blimp's engines were disabled, and the other three were crowding into it. Four individual single-hulls had been close tethered together in a line when the Bulldog Marauder had appeared, and now it was all a jumble of crashing aluminum and fabric, like a herd of injured animals being circled by a cunning predator.
Most of the locals hated the Imperium, so there was always constant radio chatter reporting where their shipping was. They'd tried to trap Southunder a few times with decoys, cargo ships armed to the teeth, but he had a good nose for such things, and seldom had been caught unaware. They'd come up from behind, doing a steady eighty knots with horsepower to spare. Once the captain had made the call that it was a legitimate target, he'd used his own Power to alter the winds. Sullivan had never seen a Weatherman work before. There wasn't any flash or anything fancy. It was methodical. First they reached out and understood how everything was functioning within their range. Then they had to coax bits of it to work just right. Standing at the very front of the cockpit with his hands pressed against the glass, it had taken Southunder ten minutes to alter the currents until the wind was at their backs.
Once the Imperium train had spotted them, black smoke had puffed from their engines as they cranked up the RPMs. Southunder counteracted that so that the wind slammed right into the nose of the lead dirigible, slowing it, and rocking the crew. Within minutes they were passing through the oil vapor. Then they closed at terrific speed.
When they had gotten into range, a heavy machine gun had opened up from the rear dirigible. Southunder had calmly ordered the pom-pom gunner to silence it, and four solid one-pound shells later, it was done, leaving the cargo blimp's back end a mess of tattered fabric and broken railing and the black dot of the gunner tumbling toward the sea. 'We can't use the bursting shells on the hydrogen ones,' Southunder had explained calmly. 'Can't sell burned cargo.'
They'd dropped altitude then, diving beneath the train. They needed to get alongside to board and this route exposed them to the fewest guns possible. Pirates armed with scoped rifles were tethered to the outer catwalks and they fired at anything that moved on the train above, and when they had a clean shot, they started shooting at the lead dirigibles engines.
'This is the dangerous part,' Southunder had said. 'We've got a very powerful Torch on the crew, and can control any fires that break out if we're in range, but sometimes they'll go suicidal and ignite the whole thing while we're right under them.' He'd smiled, trying to be reassuring. 'That can get exciting.'
Within minutes the engines had been destroyed and the blimps had started to blunder into each other like blinded whales. Southunder had spun his finger, the wings had been turned accordingly, and the outer engines were pointed straight down, driving them right toward the jumble of crashing behemoths.
'Now all we have to do is pull up alongside while they're shooting at us and board,' Southunder told him. 'Piece of cake.'
Barns was the helmsman, and he frowned as he pulled back on the controls. 'By piece of cake, Capitan Southunder means that it's just like elephants fucking while going a hundred miles an hour swinging on a trapeze…'
'Don't forget the elephants are filled with explosive gas,' Sullivan responded. 'Where do you want me?'
Southunder jerked his head. 'Take that ladder up top. Boarding party is in position.'
'Aye aye, Cap'n.' Sullivan said. He'd always wanted to say that since he'd first read Treasure Island as a kid. He made sure all the pockets on his canvas vest were closed and that his automatic rifle was tightly slung, then started up the ladder.
'Sullivan,' Southunder called after him. 'Just so you know, we'll pick up the last piece of the Geo-Tel on our way home. It's not far from here. I just thought we'd kill two birds with one stone this way.'
'About damn time.' Sullivan climbed up through a hole onto the next deck. Ten men were crowded into the tight space, packed between hot pipes in two teams of five. It was dark except for a pair of red light bulbs. He had to crouch to keep from hitting his head. They were armed with a variety of weapons, everything from old Bergman subguns with snail drums, to Winchester trench shotguns, to stolen Jap guns he didn't recognize, and even a Mauser Broomhandle machine-pistol with the shoulder stock. Beyond that they all had little axes or big knives on their belts. Parker was in the lead armed with a double-barreled shotgun that had been sawed off just ahead of the forearm.
'My team heads fore. Ken's team heads aft.' Parker leaned around to see through the columns of ready pirates. 'Ori, don't let us all burn to death, right? If these things catch, we don't have much time 'fore we're all cooked.'
He had to be addressing the Torch. Sullivan turned. He had not seen the other Active tucked into the back of the room and he was surprised to see the serving girl from the previous night. 'Okay, Mr. Parker. No fire.' She waved shyly when she saw Sullivan looking at her, then decided to study her feet.
'That's your Torch?'
