The Calorium Wars Read online

  “HEY!”

  A hand grabbed Crazy Horse by the ankle and he almost disgraced himself by yelling out loud before he caught sight of a familiar and friendly face pressed to the rocks behind him—Apache Chief Victorio’s sister Lozen, a renowned warrior in her own right.

  “Lozen!” he hissed. “How did you …?”

  “There’s a way through the rocks the soldiers can’t see. Follow me!”

  She backed away without raising herself and Crazy Horse threw a stone at Liam to get his attention:

  “The Apaches found us,” he yelled over the gunfire, “let’s go!”

  Crazy Horse slithered around and went after Lozen while Liam shouted to Custer and Chen to follow, thinking as he crawled away from the insane racket that from now on anybody who complained to him about Apache outrages was going to get short shrift.

  “My brother!” cried Geronimo in Chiricahua Apache, throwing his arms around Crazy Horse. A stern, harsh-faced man whose grim line of a mouth reflected a long series of tragic conflicts with the white invaders, he was happy to see an old friend and grateful for the appearance of even a few allies.

  “Goyathlay!” Crazy Horse answered, using Geronimo’s birth name.

  Lozen, a confident, athletic woman in her thirties dressed in deerskins and armed with a knife and two revolvers, stood by smiling at the reunion and watching as the newcomers shook hands and exchanged greetings with the warriors of Geronimo’s band. Their long crawl had taken them around a promontory that formed a barrier between them and the attacking soldiers, and the senseless firing continued to chip rocks and launch ricochets at what was now a comfortable distance.

  Liam approached Crazy Horse: “Can you ask him what his plans are?” he asked.

  Geronimo smiled, and answered Liam in Russian. “All of us speak enough Russian to get by,” he said, “after all, they’ve been trying to force us to learn it ever since they took over from your people. As for plans, we were just trying to decide what to do about the mines when the soldiers landed in their airships.”

  “What do you want to do about them?” Chen asked.

  “If there was any way to do it, we’d destroy them totally,” said Geronimo. “Look at my friends there.” He pointed to several warriors with hideous skin lesions, no hair, clouded eyes and other deformities that made Liam think of pictures of leprosy he’d seen in a freak show in Five Points.

  “They’re the only workers still living from the few who escaped the Russians before we drove them out. There is something in the rocks they were forced to dig out and bring to the surface that creates a sickness none of us has ever seen before.”

  Chen turned to his companions: “I’ve been thinking about the mines and I have a plan, but we have to be able to get close to the entrance without the soldiers turning us into mincemeat.”

  “We had been thinking about starting an avalanche,” chimed in Lozen.

  “That would be splendid,” said Chen. “Can you show me where you were thinking of doing it?”

  “Of course,” said Geronimo. “Come on, let’s go climbing.”

  For the next half hour, they continued around the promontory that separated them from the soldiers, moving steadily higher as they worked their way around, until in the end they found themselves on a tiny plateau overlooking the whole area from a height of four or five thousand feet.

  Everything could be seen from here—in the distance, two Little Russian airships, moored next to a stream that wound through a narrow valley; then, a dirt cart track that climbed to the area where the attackers were entrenched, still firing madly away at uncomplaining boulders and greasewood bushes. And finally, several hundred feet above and a half mile or so behind the attackers, a dark hole in the side of the mountain, large enough even at this distance to suggest a substantial cavern that had been enlarged by human workers.

  “That will do very nicely,” said Chen. “It seems to me that if there were a decent-sized avalanche on either side of the invaders, it would be rather a long time till they could manage to extricate themselves. Especially if there were a few experienced marksmen to dissuade those who climbed too high.”

  “I think we could find those,” said Geronimo with a small smile.

  “I thought perhaps you might,” said Chen.

  “And of course,” Custer said, “that would put the airships and all their contents on the wrong side of the spill as far as the soldiers are concerned. They’ll be counting bullets once they realize they can’t get more by sending a cart down the hill.”

  “Are you going to take the airships away?” Lozen asked a little anxiously.

  “No,” Custer said with a glance towards Crazy Horse and a somewhat ironic grin. “We have our own means of … ah … transport.” Crazy Horse glared at him but stayed silent.

  “Then we can keep the ammunition?” she asked eagerly. “That’s why I came up north in the first place, my brother Victorio and his band have been staying south of the Rio Grande to avoid the Russians, but we’re running low on ammunition.”

  “There should be plenty to go around,” said Geronimo. He gestured towards the attackers: “At least those fools seem to think so.”

  “Good,” said Chen. “In that case I’m going to do my part now.” He knelt down and laid both hands on the rocks in front of him, closing his eyes and murmuring almost inaudibly in Chinese as he picked up handfuls of soil and pebbles, running them through his fingers and bathing his face with the dirt. After a couple of minutes there was a weird, liquid movement underfoot that lasted just a few seconds. Then at a point several hundred yards ahead of the area where the soldiers were entrenched, rocks started spilling down the side of the mountain—first small ones, then bigger and bigger ones till boulders were cascading down the side of the mountain, bounding high into the air when they struck larger stones, and then crashing into fragments when they landed.

  For the first time, the soldiers stopped firing and milled around in a panic, trying to decide on their next move. At this point Chen stood up briskly and trotted back in the direction of the airships. When he had reached a point several hundred yards behind the attackers’ positions he repeated the whole operation, and this time when the boulders started cascading down the mountainside the attackers fell into an obvious panic, though it was far too late to do anything about escaping.

  Geronimo approached Chen and took his hand between his own hands: “I have never seen medicine that powerful,” he said. “We thank you.”

  Chen smiled and gave him a little bow. “My pleasure,” he said. “But I’m not quite done yet.” And with that he trotted a little further along the path to a point directly above the entrance to the mine. “Now,” he said.

  Again, he knelt down and put both hands on the ground, this time chanting for several minutes until the strange liquid sensation was repeated. This time, however, the liquid sensation lasted considerably longer, until everyone around Chen started getting nervous. A moment later there was a strange shuddering movement all the way along the top of the plateau, followed by a low, grinding, crashing sound like the collision of half a dozen trains at once. Abruptly the earth under their feet seemed to sink a foot or so, and then there was total silence; below them, a huge cloud of dust arose from the mouth of the cavern.

  “Great jumping Jehoshaphat!” Custer exclaimed after a moment. “If you never do that again as long as I live it will be just fine with me,” he said feelingly to Chen.

  “I think I can promise you that,” smiled Chen, who was feeling more than a little bit wobbly on his pins after the effort of the spell. He turned to Geronimo: “The calorium mines have completely collapsed upon themselves and sunk to a point a good half mile below where they were previously. If anyone tries to re-open them he will face a bitter disappointment.”

  Geronimo wrapped his arms around Chen’s skinny form and gave him a heartfelt embrace: “You are a great benefactor of the Apache people,” he said, “and a brother to all Apaches. Whenever you are among us
you will be welcome.”

  Chen bowed to him: “I thank you, sir, and I hope to see you again. For now though, the need to stop the threat of calorium is pushing us forward, and I regret that we must leave at once.” He turned to Crazy Horse: “Unless you want to do the honors?”

  Crazy Horse raised an eyebrow and said: “Hmmph!” Chen suppressed a smile.

  “Very well, then,” he said. “Mr. McCool?” Liam stepped forward curiously as Chen laid his hand flat on a huge boulder streaked with rose quartz. “Gentlemen?” he said to Custer and Crazy Horse, who stepped forward as Liam drew his katana from its scabbard. Chen gestured: “Now, Mr. McCool, if you please …”

  Liam grinned. “Here goes nothing,” he said, swinging the blade down in a two-handed stroke which had barely touched the rock when there was a blinding flash and the four men disappeared.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Becky and Tikhomirov were tiptoeing cautiously down the stairs leading to the basement that housed the central “brain” when she straightened up abruptly and laughed:

  “What a pair of ninnies we are, Lev Alexandrich! If for some reason the fuse was just extra slow and is about to reach the blasting cap, we might as well stand up and meet our fate with a bit of dignity.”

  Tikhomirov chuckled, an eerie rasping noise that reminded Becky of a Turkish bass viol she’d once heard in a café in Istanbul.

  “I wish you’d been with us in the People’s Will, Miss Fox, Aleksandr II would never have had a chance.”

  Becky smiled, imagining herself in the pantheon of revolutionary women that included Sofia Perovskaia and Vera Figner and making sure to banish a slight tremor of uneasiness that tried to assert itself as she took hold of the doorknob. Then, once she had permitted herself to breathe freely again, she registered the infuriating fact that the fuse which one of their people had stolen somewhere was not—in the Russian phrase—“of the first freshness,” and had simply gotten tired of burning half-way to the blasting cap.

  “Damn, damn, damn!” she muttered, then—contritely—“Please excuse my language, Lev Alexandrovich, but really!”

  “Let’s use all these blasting caps and all the remaining fuse,” he said, “we’ll make sure that at least one of these sticks of dynamite blows up!”

  “Wonderful idea!” she said (which would have made Tikhomirov blush with pleasure if he could have). “And we’ll braid all the fuses into one long hank and light them all at once!”

  The two of them set to work quickly and it wasn’t long before the blasting caps were all inserted into dynamite sticks and the thick braid of fuses was ready to light.

  “Let’s drape it over something,” she said, “so it gets plenty of air as it burns.”

  Tikhomirov grabbed a couple of chairs, set them up facing each other and draped the rope of fuses over the backs so that they’d be off the floor while they burned.

  “Ready!” he thrummed.

  Becky took a box of matches out of her jacket pocket and took a moment to make sure the fuses were all well alight. She grinned:

  “Now, I think, we should run like blazes!”

  “Very good idea,” said Tikhomirov, and a moment later they were out of the room and off up the stairs.

  Being in the basement had covered the sound of the Gatling gun fusillade from Yurevskii’s automatons, but when they reached the upper level Becky and Tikhomirov were unpleasantly reminded by the sound of slugs caroming off the building.

  “Come on,” Becky said after a moment’s hesitation, “I’d rather die outdoors than in here!”

  She threw open the door, flattened herself on the courtyard paving stones and started crawling rapidly for the nearest cover. Tikhomirov opted for a low crouch and ran quickly after her, only to be hit a half-dozen times in succession and knocked over by the force of the impact. The crash of his falling body got Becky’s attention and she looked back, horrified to see Tikhomirov down.

  “Lev Alexandrich!” she cried.

  “Stay still,” he shouted back, “I’ll shield you.”

  Scuttling forward on his hands and knees, he caught up with Becky in a moment and threw himself down with a clang! so that his huge metal body formed a shield between her and the Gatling gunners.

  “Lev Alexandrich!” she screamed.

  “Stay still!” he rumbled.

  Now the gunners seemed to have gotten their range perfectly, and the slugs started hitting the ground around them with the persistence of a heavy rainfall. Becky closed her eyes tight and started repeating every childhood prayer she could remember.

  A small knot of revolutionaries had collected around Plekhanov, who was staring towards the Central Control Station and grinding his teeth with frustration.

  “Georgii Valentinich,” one of them said, “do you think they’ll be safe that close to the building?”

  Plekhanov looked at him morosely: “Pray!” he said.“And hope that God listens to materialists.”

  Before the man could answer there was a brilliant flash and for a moment they all reeled blindly:

  “We’ve been blown up!” screamed one of them. But as Plekhanov rubbed his eyes to get his sight back he saw a quartet of strangers standing in the street a dozen feet away, looking around a little dazedly. One of them—an athletic, good-looking young man with a mass of curly auburn hair—turned towards Plekhanov sharply:

  “Hey, you!” he said in Russian. “Do you know Becky Fox? Do you know where she is?”

  Suspicious and more than a little frightened, Plehanov said brusquely: “What’s it to you?”

  At that, the man leapt at him like a wolf, grabbed him by the throat and started shaking him:

  “What’s it to me?” he roared wildly. “Not much more than life itself, you schoolmarmish little son of a bitch! Speak up before I rip your liver out and stuff it up your nose!”

  Plekhanov held up his hand and croaked desperately:

  “Stop, damn you! She’s over there!”

  Plekhanov pointed towards the front of the Control Station and Tikhomirov’s fallen body.

  “She’s sheltering behind the automaton!”

  Liam let go of Plekhanov and looked back and forth from the metal body on the ground to the android Gatling gunners, who had kept up their fire without a pause. As Liam took in Becky’s plight, he turned as white as a sheet, then so red with fury that he looked like he’d been parboiled. He strode out into the square in full view of the androids and bellowed at them in English:

  “HEY! OVER HERE, YOU TIN PISSPOTS!”

  The android gunners paused momentarily and swiveled questioningly in Liam’s direction. At the same moment, Liam was raising his hands overhead and spreading them a little beyond shoulder width, feeling the heat of his fury and his fear for Becky swirling within him until he could picture them clearly, spinning and rotating like a sun, throwing off tendrils of pure flame as it grew bigger and hotter:

  “THAT’S RIGHT,” he shouted, “HERE!”

  Now a weird sort of sparkling effect began to appear around Liam’s spread hands, and then a ball of orange-white fire took shape in each hand, swelling until they were about the size of a cannonball. Suddenly, and without further warning, Liam flung both of them towards the Gatling gunners. The fireballs seemed to pick up speed and size as they flew, until—in the last seconds before they hit the gunners—they were each about a yard across, though no one could be quite sure later about any of the details since the moment of contact was so spectacular: it was as though someone had emptied a volcano on top of the shooters, a fountain of fire that spread among them instantaneously, incinerating them and their ammunition with thunderous explosions and a fire as intense and white-hot as the heart of a blast furnace. A few seconds later there was nothing left on the paving stones except a scattering of glowing metal fragments.

  Stanton and Willie had been watching it from behind a curtain at one of the Palace reception room windows.

  “Great God in Heaven,” murmured Stanton. He turned to Will
ie: “Are you packed?”

  Pilkington was nodding so hard he could barely speak. “Yes, sir. Oh, absolutely, sir, been packed since yesterday.”

  Stanton nodded, throwing a grim look across the room towards Prince Yurevskii, who was standing at another window looking downwards and shaking his head slowly.

  “Come on,” Stanton said. “Let’s get to our airship while it’s still in one piece.”

  He turned and strode rapidly across the room with Willie trotting at his heels muttering to himself.

  “That’s the limit,” he was saying feverishly, “those people summoned the Devil! The Devil! That’s all, I mean it. I quit. That’s the absolute limit …”

  As they neared the exit Yurevskii turned and yelled after them indignantly:

  “Where do you think you’re going? What do you …”

  But the door was already closing after them. Yurevskii clenched his fists in a fury and shouted desperately:

  “Boylan? Where are you, damn you!”

  He waited for another second or two, realizing with a sinking certainty that his aide was long gone. Then he started across the room at a run:

  “WAIT!” he bellowed after Stanton and Pilkington. “WAIT FOR ME!”

  In the square below, Liam was running with equally mad energy towards the Central Control Station when suddenly it gave a sort of shudder and then settled in on itself with a slow, thunderous crunching like the sound of the calorium mines collapsing. Liam flinched, ducked, then saw that nothing more was going to happen and re-doubled his speed.

  “Becky!” he shouted. “Becky! Are you all right?”

  “Liam?” he heard her call faintly. “Liam, is that really you?”

  A moment later he was through the gate, helping Becky to her feet, squeezing her so tight she cried out, and then kissing her and being kissed back with enough passion to make up for a lifetime of separation let alone a few days.