THE NEW ADVENTURES OF RICHARD KNIGHT
Copyright © 2012 Pro Se Productions
A Pro Se Press Publication and a Volume of the Pulp Obscura imprint
Published by Pro Se Press at Smashwords
The stories in this publication are fictional. All of the characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is purely coincidental. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the permission in writing of the publisher.
Edited by - Tommy Hancock
Editor in Chief, Pro Se Productions - Tommy Hancock
Submissions Editor - Barry Reese
Publisher & Pro Se Productions, LLC Chief Execuitive Officer - Fuller Bumpers
Pro Se Productions, LLC
133 1/2 Broad Street
Batesville, AR, 72501
870-834-4022
proseproductions@earthlink.net
“Flying Out of the Past: An Introduction” copyright © 2012 Tommy Hancock
“Hell’s Hand” copyright © 2012 Joshua Reynolds
“Richard Knight and the Stones of Heaven” copyright © 2012 Barry Reese
“The Bapet” copyright © 2012 Terry Alexander
“The Hostage Academy” copyright © 2012 I.A. Watson
“Fear From Above” copyright © 2012 Frank Schildiner
“Crimes of the Ancients” copyright © 2012 Adam Lance Garcia
Front Cover Art by Mike Fyles
Cover Format and Logos by Sean E. Ali
Print Version Formatting by Matt Moring
E-book Formatting by Russ Anderson
The New Adventures of Richard Knight is a work of the PULP OBSCURA imprint
PULP OBSCURA is an imprint of Pro Se Productions and is published in conjunction with titles from Altus Press, collecting the original adventures of lead characters featured in PULP OBSCURA titles.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
FLYING OUT OF THE PAST: AN INTRODUCTION
by Tommy Hancock
by Josh Reynolds
RICHARD KNIGHT AND THE STONES OF HEAVEN
by Barry Reese
by Terry Alexander
by I.A. Watson
by Frank Schildiner
by Adam Lance Garcia
FLYING OUT OF THE PAST
AN INTRODUCTION TO THE NEW ADVENTURES OF RICHARD KNIGHT AND PULP OBSCURA
By Tommy Hancock
There’s something to be said for nostalgia. For that feeling one gets when one hears, reads, sees, or remembers something from their past or even from before their own lifetime that sparks a feeling, a longing. A desire to not only recall a certain time or atmosphere, but to bring whatever about that era or event causes such strong reactions to bear today in some new, yet familiar way. Inspiration often rises from what has come before and although it sometimes goes nowhere except in that initial moment, occasionally it erupts phoenix-like from the ashes of work forgotten, blazing brightly and flying high into the hearts and minds of those who can take what has been relegated to the past and often forgotten and cast it as something viable for the present and destined to be remembered once more.
That is Pulp Obscura.
Altus Press, one of the finest purveyors in Pulp reprint collections as well as a company known for unearthing long lost jewels from the treasure trove that is Classic Pulp, and Pro Se Productions, one of the fastest growing and noted publishers of New Pulp, have found common ground between yesterday and tomorrow.
The concept is simple. Between the two companies, a decision is made as to what characters Altus has produced collections of and is planning to release collections of that might qualify as obscure. That being, characters and stories that aren’t readily known to today’s reading public or even those who consider themselves moderate fans of Pulp fiction. Fantastic concepts that maybe only appeared in a handful of stories back in the yellow paper days of the Pulps or simply have not shuffled off the coils of antiquity to yet surface for modern readers. Once the character is determined to be rare enough to qualify, Altus puts together its reprint collection and Pro Se produces a collection of New Pulp tales featuring the characters in Altus’ collection. The books will then be released simultaneously.
The first volume in this innovative line concerns the adventures of a rather unique member of the Aviator Pulp fraternity. Known in the intelligence community as Q, Richard Knight lives the life of a millionaire dilettante flyboy who spends his leisure time racing airplanes and living life to its fullest. In truth, he is a shrewd detective, an exceptional pilot, and a man who knows no fear, but brings justice and right everywhere he goes.
Created by Donald Keyhoe, Richard Knight did not simply take on the run-of-the-mill enemy pilots and saboteurs other Aviator heroes did in the Pulps. He found himself exploring lost valleys, combating strange beings, and discovering occult secrets long lost to the world. This is no surprise coming from Keyhoe as he later became known as a leading writer in the UFO field.
Knight also stood out in other ways, at least in the earliest stories that this collection is based around. He was not typically a ladies’ man, finding himself drawn to one particular woman. He also didn’t mind having a supporting cast around him, including his best pal and partner Larry Doyle and General Brett, Knight’s immediate superior. And although billed as and spending a lot of time in the cockpit, Knight was also just as at ease mixing it up on land and away from his precious Northrop.
Tackling a character like Richard Knight, one that ended up having a lengthy history in the Pulps that will hopefully be reflected in future PULP OBSCURA volumes, is not a task that can be delegated to just any group of writers. The variety within the concept and Keyhoe’s original tales demanded that the six scribes brought to bear on this collection be as kaleidoscopic as the source material.
All six authors in this collection are known writers in what many call the New Pulp Movement, but they all have their own distinct styles and definitely their own individual takes on Richard Knight. Some stick very much to the source material and reflect rousing tales that easily could have appeared in the original magazines alongside Keyhoe’s work. Others take Knight in directions slightly off the beaten path while still preserving the core of the character as presented in the Altus collection. Each one, however, presents a story with enough action, adventure, plot, and punch to make even the staunchest Pulp aficionado take notice.
THE NEW ADVENTURES OF RICHARD KNIGHT is the first flight for PULP OBSCURA and this maiden voyage could be in no better hands than the people involved in bringing this wonderful hero to life once again.
Tommy Hancock
1/21/12
HELL’S HAND
by Josh Reynolds
It was 1934 and the LZ 120 Skanderbeg slid through the night sky, trailing its reflection across the dark waters of the Atlantic. Then, a shadow fell across the top of the airship as something moved between the Skanderbeg and the moon overhead. The groan of strange motors filled the air. A moment later, a crimson bulk pierced the clouds that lingered in the upper atmosphere and a malign grin that was yards across leered down at the Skanderbeg as if in eager anticipation.
Hell’s Hand, the Red Ship of the North Sea and the Terror of the Atlantic Skies. It had no identifiers or markings as such, but it had a face...a titanic, demonic leer that covered the front of the gasbag. It had been painted without subtlety or artistry. It was the scrawling of a madman or a bevy of paint-splattered apes and in its expression was every negative, primitive impulse of humanity.
In that respect, it was merely an expression of its crew and captain. They had trawled the skies of the Channel, the Hebrides and the North Sea for weeks now and had added to the nightmares of pilots, fishermen and navigators alike. It slithered out of the black clouds like a red dragon, wreathed in flame and smoke.
No one knew where they had come from or where they went. But when they struck, it was obvious where they’d been.
A series of mechanical coughs sounded and mooring cables sliced through the night, hooking into place at varying points across the Skanderbeg’s airbag. Despite the strong ocean winds that coiled and lunged among the cables, a dozen figures shimmied down the lines with practiced ease. Beneath the moon’s idiot grin, these interlopers dropped to the surface of the bag and extended further cables, these semi-rigid to account for the lashing wind. The second set of cables slithered down the curve of the airbag and hooked in at points just above the Skanderbeg’s gondola.
With an agility born of experience and grim necessity, the devil’s dozen began to descend, like men rappelling down a smooth cliff-face. Each man wore a tight-fitting, featureless hooded uniform of black and a military harness of stiff fabric. From the harness dangled the tools of their trade, glinting in the moonlight. One by one, they reached the top of the gondola, their footwear making no sound on the metal.
At a signal from the leader of the expedition, one squatted and gripped the edge of the gondola’s roof just above a set of windows. With his other hand, he pulled a spider-legged canister off of his harness and then leaned over and attached it deftly to the window. The canister exploded a moment later and took the windows with it. Before the smoke had cleared, the men dropped inside. As one, they drew stubby pistols and the leader fired a burst out the window to catch the attention of those passengers unlucky enough to be in the Skanderbeg’s dining room at that moment.
“Abandon all hope, ladies and gentlemen,” he said, letting the smoking barrel of the Steyr M1912 rest on his shoulder. His voice was muffled by the contortions of the mask he wore; it was a grotesque thing, like the face of a vampire bat by way of Bosch, carved in metal and plastic and as black as his uniform. His eleven companions wore similar masks, each one hideously unique.
As the horrified passengers stared in shocked silence at the demonic invaders, two of the latter went to the dining room’s door, which led to the rest of the ‘A’ Deck. They took up places on either side, pistols ready. Somewhere on board the airship, an alarm bell was going off. Crewmen rushed toward the door and the gunmen met them with laughter and bullets as they painted the corridor with blood and bodies.
“Abandon all hope,” the leader repeated as the echoes of gunfire faded. “And abandon your valuables while you are at it.” He gestured and the rest of his men began to move through the tables, checking wallets, passports and travel papers. He heard the rumble of another concussion canister going off to starboard and smiled beneath his mask. A second group of invaders was seeing to the lounge on the opposite side of the deck.
“We’ll be done in a minute, Raum,” one of his companions said, stepping close to him.
Raum grunted. “We still have to check the rest of the ship.”
“Do we have time?” the other man said, his tone betraying a hint of nervousness.
“Do you want to go back to Him without having done so, Shax?” Raum said quietly. Shax swallowed audibly beneath his mask and shook his head. Raum gestured to two of the others. “Vual, Bifrons, come with us. The rest of you, wait here.” Raum led the others to the door. “Report,” he said to the two men on the door.
“Alarms, but we’ve got the crew pinned below decks,” one said.
“Good,” Raum said, stepping out through the door and over the cooling bodies. Shax and the others followed suit. They all had their weapons at the ready as they split up and began to move down the two narrow corridors of sleeping compartments. Most passengers, unless they were sleeping or ill, would be out and about in the public areas or the smoking lounge on the lower deck. Raum checked the lock on a door and then kicked it open. Empty. He began to ransack it, pulling a thin nylon bag from within his suit. Money and jewelry was all that was allowed.
Shax, checking another room, gave a cry. Raum hurried to join him. “What?” he said, entering the room, pistol raised. Shax was hunched over a suitcase. He turned and showed Raum an ornate box. Raum grabbed it out of his hand. “We are not here to loot the luggage, Shax,” he snarled. “Just grab the cash and sparklies.”
“Why shouldn’t we snatch a few bits and bobs for ourselves?” Shax said, getting to his feet. “If we’re here after all...”
“His orders were very clear, Shax, or do you fancy explaining yourself to Him?” Raum said darkly. He gestured toward the ceiling with his pistol and Shax shuddered. He looked at the box and then tossed it back into its suitcase with a sigh. The captain of the red ship did not tolerate dissent. He was, in fact, infamous for that.
There was a thump from the wall. Shax ignored it, but Raum looked up sharply. “What was that?” he said.
“Likely Vual or Bifrons filling their pockets,” Shax said bitingly.
“Unlikely. They aren’t as foolish-or as greedy-as you,” Raum said, heading for the door. “Come on.”
Bifrons was waiting for them in the corridor. He stood beside the stairwell leading down to the crew quarters. “I sealed the bulkhead to ‘B’ Deck,” he said. “But they’ll be through it in a few minutes. We’re running out of time, Raum.”
“Is there any word from the others?” Raum said.
Bifrons shook his head. “As quiet as the grave,” he said.
“Say...where’s Vual?” Shax said.
***
Richard Knight awoke in darkness. He rolled out of his cot a moment later, setting his feet into his shoes and retrieving the M1911 Colt hidden beneath his pillow. Briskly, he dressed, his mind assembling the facts his senses had brought him. He had heard an explosion. Alarms were going off below decks. The temperature in the cabin had dropped; that meant there was a window open-or smashed-somewhere close by.
Knight felt neither panic nor anxiety. Such things had been beaten out of him by the life he’d led. Racing planes at high altitudes and higher speeds was a place and time where panic led to a messy death. And beyond his hobbies, the job of a freelance espionage agent wasn’t one for the faint of heart.
As ‘Q’, he served the cause of justice, seeking out those who would threaten the peace and stability of the world. Often enough, that task led him into conflict with hard, dangerous men for whom war and slaughter were the holiest of hymns.
He heard the thud of feet on the deck outside his door. Automatically, he checked the clip of the Colt, ejecting it into his hand and then sliding it back into place with a gentle swat of his palm. They were early. He hadn’t expected them until later.
The raiders were becoming a nuisance along the Atlantic air routes, hijacking planes and airships alike with a degree of daring that would put any cinema swashbuckler to shame. Knight had to admit that for sheer theatricality, demon-masked pirates were a new one by him. He flipped open his suitcase to reveal a portable transmitter. Devised after much trial and error, it was good for altitudes and distances far in excess of the normal wireless sets.
“Doyle?” he said softly, into the microphone. Larry Doyle, a former marine and Knight’s partner, was supposed to be shadowing the Skanderbeg from above in Knight’s specially modified Northrop. “Doyle, do you read me?”
“I...ead yo...ick!” Doyle’s voice erupted in a spurt of static and Knight hurriedly turned the volume down.
“I can’t talk, pal. The foxes are in the henhouse,” he said hurriedly. “Light a fire and come out swinging when I give the order. Until then, get a lock on them and keep out of sight, no matter what.” Without waiting for a reply, he switched the device off and covered it back up. No sense in giving the game away if he could help it and he trusted Doyle to keep his head. He was many things, was Doyle, but foolhardy wasn’t one of them.
Then Knight crept to the door and reached for the handle. It rattled before he could grip it and he jerked his hand back. He hesitated for a moment and then moved to the wall of the compartment. When the door opened, he was behind it, out of sight of the intruder. Cool-eyed, Knight surveyed the man who’d entered the compartment. His mind recorded the nylon harness with its myriad safety catches akin to the sort mountaineers wore, the black outfit, and the pistol holster. He elbowed the door shut and cocked the automatic.
“Drop it,” Knight said. He didn’t expect the intruder to reply and he was proven correct a moment later. The man spun and Knight froze as he caught sight of the leering, demonic features. The paralysis only lasted a moment, but the man seized the advantage. A black-gloved hand chopped down on Knight’s wrist and sent the Colt clattering to the floor as a forearm rammed against his throat. Knight managed to slide his hand up between them at the last moment and his fingers dug into the meat of his attacker’s arm like steel hooks. Instinctively, Knight’s foot shot out, hooking his opponent’s ankle. He jerked back and the masked man fell back onto the cot with a grunt.
Knight fell with him and jabbed stiffened fingertips into the hollow of his throat, cutting off his oxygen as well as any cry he might have made. The man jerked and gurgled and his hands flew to his throat. Knight jerked him around so that the demon-face was pressed to the cot and his arms slithered around the man’s neck and head. He jammed a knee into the small of the man’s back and then, with a shake of his shoulders, he broke his opponent’s neck. The man jerked once and then lay still.
Knight rose swiftly and snatched up his pistol. He went back to the door and peered out. More men, dressed like his late attacker, were in the corridor. As one, they looked toward the room and he hastily stepped back inside. He didn’t have much time. He looked back at the body and came to an instant decision. Swiftly, he stripped off his clothes and those of the dead man and then redressed himself in the dead man’s outfit. He shoved his Colt into the provided holster, disdaining to take the automatic pistol. Better a tested weapon than one that might fail him at the wrong moment.
Preparing to put on the mask, he marvelled at its construction. It wasn’t just a disguise, but a breathing mask as well, akin to the kind divers wore. There was a miniature oxygen supply stuffed into the cheek pads and to activate it, all he had to do was bite down on a tab inside the mouth. Shaking his head, he slid it on.
Squaring his shoulders, he stepped out into the corridor. “Anything, Vual?” one of the three waiting at the end of the corridor asked. Knight tensed and shook his head. The one who’d spoken continued, “Are you sure? I thought I heard something.”
“Raum, we don’t have time for this,” another said. “The crew will have gathered their courage by now. We need to go.”
“Yes,” Raum said, his fingers curling into fists. “Come on.” The others hesitated a moment and then fell in behind him, following him out of the corridor. Knight joined them, his mind making note of the names. He’d read them somewhere before, but couldn’t put his finger on it. It probably didn’t matter much anyway.
Knight followed them into the dining room, his palms itching with the urge to put these men down. He felt ill as he looked at the terror-stricken faces of the passengers clinging to their seats. They weren’t all German, of course, though most were, and wealthy. As targets went, the Skanderbeg was a plump one.
“Time to go,” Raum said loudly, gesturing to the windows. Knight watched as the men climbed out the windows one after another, some carrying nylon bags stuffed full of looted valuables. He joined the line and slipped out, experiencing a moment of vertigo as he caught sight of the polished black surface of the night ocean below. Then he was on top of the gondola. Following the example of the others around him, he clipped the hooks and catches on his harness to the semi-rigid lines dangling down the side of the bag.
Taking a breath, he began to climb with the others. If anyone had noticed that he wasn’t Vual, no one said. Either he was lucky or they were unobservant, maybe both. Despite Knight’s physical capacities, the climb to the top of the Skanderbeg’s airbag was a perilous one. More than once, he almost lost his footing. The bag was slick with frost and condensation and it trembled beneath his feet as he reached the top.
A jungle of mooring cables awaited him there. Unlike the others, these were taut. He gripped one, testing it. The others began to climb the cables. Knight was momentarily overwhelmed by memories of boot camp. Then, with a grunt, he began to follow Raum and the others. Soon enough, his arms and shoulders were burning with exertion. He glanced down and immediately wished he hadn’t. For a moment, the ocean and the sky were one, and he lost all sense of direction. Stars spun crazily across the surface of his vision and the vibration of unseen engines in the cable he clung to seemed to grow wilder. It was different in a plane; there, you had a few inches of sheltering steel frame to give you the illusion that you were safe from the yawning void, but outside of that shelter, hanging over the abyss...
“Vual!” someone shouted. Knight’s head snapped up and the vertigo receded. Raum was looking down at him. “What’s wrong?” the masked man shouted.
Knight shook his head and continued to climb. He couldn’t risk speaking more than was absolutely necessary. Even muffled, the risk of someone realizing he wasn’t this ‘Vual’ was too great. Granted, eventually he was going to have to take off his mask, and wouldn’t there be trouble then? He smiled mirthlessly.
As he climbed, he wondered what Larry Doyle would say if he could see him now. The pugnacious former marine would likely call him an idiot for attempting this stunt and quite rightly too. Among the list of Dick Knight’s more boneheaded moves, this one would likely take tops. But some professional instinct, honed to a razor-sharp keenness by a life lived on the edge of danger, was prompting him forward and pitching him into this mad escapade. By nature, spies were curious people and none more so than the man the international intelligence community knew as ‘Q’.
He needed to know who these pirates were. That was it, in essence. If only to insure that he brought enough force to bear to smash them utterly. They had left wrecks and ruined bodies behind them for months now, raiding the coast of Europe and the United Kingdom alike. The Germans were furious and the French were apoplectic. Countries were on the verge of war, each blaming the other for the activities of the pirates. Considering how much of a powder keg Europe was these days, it would only take the smallest spark to set things alight. It was Richard Knight’s job to stave that off for as long as possible.
He looked up again, trying to discern what sort of vessel he was climbing aboard. It was roughly of a size with the Skanderbeg but the clouds that seemed to cling to it obscured any detail beyond its bulk. Whatever sort of airship it was, it had cut its engines to drift along in the Skanderbeg’s wake. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Knight reached the top of the cable where hands were extended to help him up onto a flat, open platform that hung below a wide, blocky gondola. The wind whipped and curled across the platform, which was lit by electric lights and lined by cable winches.
One by one, the men climbed up a metal ladder into the gondola. Knight dutifully joined the line, noting the odd color of the platform...it was a deep, raw red, the kind which put him in mind of unpleasant things. In fact, everything was that same red color, even the ladder!
Heat, intense and sweltering, met him as he climbed the ladder. He could feel the vibration of the airship beneath his fingers and in the soles of his feet. “Up, up, up!” Raum was shouting, gesturing for the men to hurry. As Knight regained his feet, he saw Raum grab a baroque looking speaking tube and say, “Fire the cables!”
A thunderous thrumming caused Knight’s teeth to rattle in his gums and he turned. Through the aperture, he could see several men on the platform, cranking the winches and retracting the mooring cables. Something struck his shoulder. He turned. The man called Shax gestured. “Let’s go. He wants to see us...and the loot.”
Without waiting for a reply, Shax turned and started off through the narrow metal corridor. Knight hesitated. Should he follow? Or attempt to find someplace to hide? Or, better yet, figure out how to force this strange bird to land? All of these thoughts caromed through his mind and his hesitation was only a matter of seconds, but it was noticed. “Vual,” Raum said, grabbing his shoulder. “Snap out of it, fool!”
Knight shook his arm free as Raum went on. “What is wrong with you? You hesitated on the line-that is not like you. Usually you are the first one up...”
Knight was tempted to simply shrug, but knew that wouldn’t suffice, not this time. Instead he coughed, trying to disguise his voice as best he could, and said, “Feel sick.”
Raum stared at him for a moment, and then grunted and turned away. Knight followed after him, observing his surrounding carefully. The interior of the gondola was simultaneously more primitive than that of the Skanderbeg and yet somehow unlike any airship Knight had ever been aboard. Its walls and bulkheads were cluttered with baroque grotesquery. These demonic faces and wrought flames combined with the narrow, oddly angled corridors and the heat to create what Knight could only think of as a floating hell.
Voices chattered through speaking tubes and he felt the leviathan tread of unseen engines rumbling. They were pulling away from the Skanderbeg. There was no turning back now. What had they wanted? Knight’s hands clenched at his sides as he fought to keep his tread calm and steady. Already, he was noting the markings on the bulkheads. If this vessel were anything like other airships, the control cabin was to the fore of the gondola, in the opposite direction to the way he was travelling. That was where any sort of radio transceiver would be. If he could get in touch with Doyle...
Sweat dripped into his eyes beneath his mask. The heat grew stronger as they moved deeper into the guts of the gondola. Black clad figures moved through the bulkheads around him. He estimated the crew to number perhaps forty, including the raiders. Not big, but nothing to sneeze at. The voices were a mix of accents, all speaking English.
“Keep your mouths shut,” Raum said suddenly. Knight nearly collided with Shax. “I will do the talking,” Raum continued. Then, with a stiffening of his shoulders, he stepped through an ornately enamelled bulkhead. It had been crafted to resemble the maw of some great beast and Knight’s muscles tensed with atavistic alarm.
The room beyond was large and the ceiling was nonexistent, being as it was open to the underside of the airship’s gasbag. Red, of course, Knight noted. The room was lined with welded and wrought covered braziers that stank of strange incenses and cast shivering light across the hideous frescoes painted upon the curved walls. As they entered, Knight saw a second group of men enter from another bulkhead. He turned his attention from them to the room’s inhabitants.
Armed men, clad in black, stood at attention near the raised rotunda that was the only three dimensional feature of the room besides a set of oversize scales that occupied the center of the floor. And on that rotunda sat a robed and cowled figure, whose head was bent low and whose robes were the color of dying embers. The figure looked up as they entered.
For the third time that night, Knight froze. He had been expecting another mask; what he got instead was a burnt mass of meat that could only hesitantly be called a face. Two lidless eyes, the color of urine, peered unblinkingly out of deep set, scarred sockets and blackened teeth clicked together in a lipless mouth. The nose was a crumpled chunk of gristle that flared like an animal’s as Raum stopped and sank to one knee. Knight and the others followed suit.
“HhhhhhhRaumm,” the thing on the throne wheezed. “Have you brought me treasures?”
“Yes, my lord,” Raum said, his head bowed. His men laid out their bags on one side of the scale, causing it to dip. The yellow eyes swivelled to another man.
“And you, Orias,” the thing said.
“Yes, my lord,” Orias responded. He snapped his fingers and his men trotted forward, dumping bags onto the scale. The two sides fluctuated, but it was obvious that one side was lighter than the other, if only by a little bit. “Our take was a bit-ah-light,” Orias said lamely.
“Hhhhhhlight,” Another wheeze, but this one gave Knight the impression of a snake’s rattle. The head straightened and gloved fingers gripped the armrests of the seat. “My divinations told me how much would be aboard; Orias...are you saying that I hhhwas wrong?”
Orias hesitated, but said nothing. Knight felt his hackles prickle. It was like being in a very small space with a very large predator. The wreck on the throne should not have been frightening, yet it was. The creaking voice continued. “Thievery is a sin, Orias...” The cowl jerked forward and the burnt teeth clicked again. “Where is the rest of it,” it demanded, its voice cracking and wavering.
“My lord,” Orias began, half-rising. “I swear to you, that is all that I-”
A glove bobbed up in a sharp gesture. Raum threw himself flat. Orias spun, cursing even as he sought to draw the pistol at his side. But he wasn’t fast enough. The men stationed near the throne fired as one, their rifles snarling like a dog pack. Orias was punched backwards as the carbine bullets blew him out of one hell into the next.
“I hhhwill brook no thievery,” the thing in red said softly.
Orias’ body twitched once and lay limp. The gunmen had returned to their previous positions with military briskness. Knight tore his eyes from the dead man and turned them back to the throne. What in the name of God have I stumbled on, he thought.
“I hhhave no need of thieves,” it murmured, yellow eyes scanning the masks of those assembled. “I hunt thieves,” it said, snapping its teeth. “I...smell thieves.” Those horrible eyes seemed to jab Knight in the gut. It rose in a rustle of its robes, arms hanging limp at its sides as it stepped down off the rotunda with eerie grace. “Thieves are why this world almost drowned in blood two decades ago,” it said to no one in particular. “Thieves are why I...burned. They damned me,” it said softly, peering into the eyes of each man standing before it. Knight began to edge backwards. “Thieves and crooks and greedy-gut bankers; they stole the world and we let them.”
The robes hissed as they brushed across the floor. If there were feet beneath them, they made no sound. “Thieves took my name,” it continued. A gloved finger traced the sharp edge of a mask’s cheek. “They took my ffface.”
“Great Bael,” Raum began, rising to his feet. “We stripped the vessel bare of all portable loot. But we could go back and see if Orias missed anything...”
“Yes,” Bael said, as he-or she-reached Knight. The touch was light, and almost gentle. Then it grew stronger. “Your mask doesn’t fffit, Vual. Why is that, Vual?”
“He is feeling ill, he said,” Raum said.
“Hhhe is not ill. He is dead,” Bael said. Fingers like steel hooks bit into the mask and jerked it off of Knight’s head. Knight stumbled forward and more fingers, curling like the legs of a spider, fastened around his jaw and slung him to the floor.
Knight, at his physical peak, rolled with the blow and leapt to his feet, his fist cracking into the center of Raum’s mask. Raum fell back and Knight jerked his pistol from its holster and turned, firing with predetermined wildness. As he’d hoped, men fell to the deck in an effort to escape the hail of lead. He spun, jerking the Colt from beneath his shirt as he moved and he fired that as well, plugging the nearest rifleman.
As that man tumbled, Knight tossed aside Raum’s weapon and grabbed up the fallen carbine. It had a long rectangular clip and a thin strap, which he looped around his arm as he extended the barrel toward the pulsing gasbag above. “Everyone, freeze!” he roared. “Freeze or I shoot!”
The men who’d been rushing toward him stumbled to an ungraceful halt. Knight grinned tightly. “That’s what I thought. Step back,” he said.
Bael took a step forward, robes trailing behind it. The yellow eyes seemed to bulge in their sockets as the gloved hands clenched and unclenched like steel clamps. “HhhhI knew I smelled a thief,” Bael said, head cocked. “Who are you?”
Knight felt a chill sweep through him as those eyes fixed on him. He aimed the Colt at Bael. “Don’t come any closer. I’ll ask the questions here.”
Bael spread its arms. “Shoot me. Burn me. Bury me. Boil me. I will not die again.”
Knight was tempted, but he restrained himself. He needed answers... “Good to know. I’ll aim for the kneecaps then,” Knight said. “What say we land this thing?”
“Or you will do what, thief?” Bael asked.
“I will blow in that bag above and kill us all. I assume it is full of hydrogen. One round from this carbine ought to do it,” Knight said harshly.
“Shax,” Bael said. “Go to the speaking tube on the wall. Tell the gunners to hhhdestroy the Skanderbeg.”
“No!” Knight said.
“Yes!” Bael snarled, his voice rising to a screech. “We will greet Satan together, we and they. We will burn like twin comets and then boil the ocean below. Unless...unless you drop your weapons.”
Knight was torn by indecision. It was possible, just possible, that he could kill Bael before he gave the order. It was possible that he could shoot the bag before the gunners fired. It was all possible. But not likely, he knew. He dropped his weapons with a sigh.
They were on him a moment later. Blows rained down on him with expert precision, striking the vulnerable portions of his anatomy and robbing his limbs of strength. Bael grimaced down at him as his arms were twisted behind his back and his knees bent. “You have hateful eyes, thief. They make me feel like I am burning again. But it is you who will hhhburn. And your eyes and the secrets they have seen will burst into nothingness in the fire we make of this lost world.” It glanced up. “Take him to the sinner’s cage. I want him to enjoy our hospitality before I put the question to him.”
Knight was hauled to his feet. Bael eyed him. “After he is ensconced there...destroy the Skanderbeg.”
“No! Damn you!” Knight bellowed, jerking free of his captors and lunging for Bael. A gloved hand caught him on the throat and he felt Bael’s crushing grip on his larynx. Bael looked weak and fragile, but it was unbelievably strong. Knight gasped as his feet left the deck and he was hoisted into the air.
“Damn me? Damn you!” Bael hissed. “Damnation awaits both of us, thief, but only one will greet it with open arms. I saw Satan in the fire and he saw me, and offered me everything! And I took it! I am Hell’s Hand, and I have you in my clutches!”
With a shriek, Bael hurled Knight to the floor and turned to the rotunda. Limping and wheezing, it ascended back to its seat and sat heavily, cowled head turned away. It gestured limply. “Take him away. Destroy the airship. Leave no trace of our passage.”
Knight, throat and pride bruised, was dragged away, a grim darkness settling across him as he stared death at the figure on the chair. One way or another, even if he had to die to do it, he knew he was going to kill Bael.
***
The wind whistled and shrieked beneath the gondola like a lost soul. Knight was dragged out of the protective embrace of metal and dragged onto a shaky platform much like the one he’d used earlier to board the vessel. With a start, he realized that the airship was studded with such platforms, though this was the lowest of them, and beneath it hung the cage. He wondered if the vessel ever landed...
Heavy anchor chains suspended the simple cage-one of a dozen-over the sea. It swayed and rolled with the wind, creaking. Knight’s stomach did belly-flops at the sight of it. He contemplated resistance, but the presence of far too many weapons stayed his hand, not to mention the chains wrapped around his wrists. While he lived, there was hope. For him, if not for the passengers and crew of the Skanderbeg...unavoidably, his gaze fell on the burning ruin of the German airship as it settled on the surface of the sea. His jaw tightened and a sensation of sick helplessness struck him.
There had been no reason for it. It had been as ruthless an action as any Knight had seen in his career, and he was determined not to see it repeated. Stewing, he stumbled. A palm caught him between the shoulder blades and he fell painfully to his knees.
One of his captors yanked open a trapdoor set into the platform and another pulled a lever, retracting the cage. Knight’s queasy feeling came back. He’d been in tight spots before, but this was something else again.
“You look a bit queasy, whoever you are,” Shax said. He’d kept a gun on Knight the entire time, and his eyes burned with something that might have been excitement. He was overseeing Knight’s imprisonment. Alone among them, he seemed pleased. “Heights not your sort of thing?” he asked.
“I’ve seen higher,” Knight said.
Shax laughed. “I’ll bet. That was a sneaky trick with Vual. Did you kill him?” When Knight didn’t answer, he went on. “I’m not mad you understand. I didn’t particularly like him. But you upset Bael and that’s not cricket. That crazy warlock is our meal ticket and when he’s upset, we wind up chasing phantom blimps and angels in bi-planes.”
“Why wear the funny costumes? And those are fake names if I’ve ever heard them,” Knight tried, stalling for time.
Shax chuckled bitterly. “I was in a Shanghai prison before Bael found me. If he wants me to wear a damn costume and change my name, who am I to say no?”
Long pole-hooks were used to angle the cage up. Rough hands grabbed Knight. “In you go,” Shax said. Knight could hear the gloating joy in the man’s voice. Knight grunted as he was shoved through the trapdoor and into the cage. He struck the bars with bone-bruising force and scrambled around as the cage door slammed shut. “Enjoy the view,” Shax said as the hooks were pulled free. Knight felt a moment of nausea as he swung out over the sea. He slammed back and forth in the cage, unable to maintain his footing. The bottom of the cage was a gaping grate, with barely enough room for a two feet spread.
He heard the clunk of the lever and then he was hurtling downwards. The world spun, worse than when he’d been on the line. He snatched for the bars, holding tight as the sea and the sky merged in his blurred vision. He crashed against one of the other cages and was greeted by the welcoming smile of a mouldering skeleton. It clattered as the cages struck, became tangled, and then parted with a shriek that set his teeth to itching. He whirled, his aching muscles striking metal as his cage rolled toward the others. For a moment, it seemed there were hundreds of them, a Chinese hell of upside down souls, screaming endlessly into the celestial sea.
Instinct propelled the soles of his feet and the palms of his hands to the four corners of the cage. He closed his eyes and fought down the animal panic that had accompanied the fall. Thus he remained until the cage stopped spinning, and for a few minutes longer.
Taking a breath, he opened his eyes. Rust and sea-air had weakened the bars, he noted immediately. He tensed and pushed and was rewarded with a creak of metal. The cage was being pulled in the wake of the airship and it hung at a slight angle. It was hard to breath, but Knight had climbed taller mountains and flown higher than most pilots. He knew better than most how to conserve oxygen. The cold was a different matter. It cut through him like a knife, eating its way into his brain. Activity was necessary to keep from winding up like the skeleton he’d seen. They wanted him alive, but not necessarily in one piece, obviously. Keeping his limbs braced, he looked up.
At the top of the cage, where the chain hooked in, mould and rust collected in a rainbow of rot. Moving his hands up, he shoved gently at first, then more forcefully, careful not to use too much strength. One wrong move and his cage might hurtle down into the sea below.
“And where would I be then, hunh?” he muttered. His keen eyes examined the chain. It was heavy, with thick links. Condensation formed on it and it looked unpleasantly slippery. Still, there was nothing for it.
Knight had been in traps before. He knew that immediate escape was the best course. To wait was to risk running out of time. Granted, the risk of death in this attempt was higher than most, but equal parts adrenaline and rage lent him confidence.
As he worked at the bars, he let his mind slip into a calm state. Facts assembled like troops in his head and he inspected them one by one. Fact: The airship was big, but outdated. Fact: From what he had seen, this bunch wouldn’t be missed if a round went into the hydrogen bag. Fact: Bael was crazier than an airfield tomcat.
Taken together, the facts meant little. ‘I hunt thieves.’ That was what Bael had said. But for who did he-it-hunt them, and why? And what was this Grand Guignol? He looked up at the red underbelly of the vessel. He had faced masked menaces before...disguise was nothing out of the ordinary for the shadowy world of espionage, but this...this wasn’t play-acting, he feared. This was something else entirely. What had Shax called Bael...’the crazy warlock’? What did that mean?
A bar popped and bent beneath his palm and he grunted in satisfaction. It had taken him close to an hour to work the bar free. The sun was a strip of blazing orange on the horizon. A second bar followed the first. He had his opening; now to take advantage of it before any more time was wasted. Pushing all thoughts of the nature of his captors aside, Knight began to lift himself carefully up through the broken bars toward the chain. They hadn’t taken his gloves, for which he was thankful.
Stretching, he grabbed the curve of the closest chain link. Then, pausing only to whisper a silent prayer, he began to climb the chain.
It rippled wildly beneath him, shaken by the wind, by the vibrations of the airship, and by his own movements. Gritting his teeth, he pulled himself up, inch by torturous inch, slippery link by slippery link. Several times, he almost slipped, but his reflexes saved him.
In truth, the distance was not an impossible one, but the wild undulations of the chain made it difficult to make any headway. He paused for breath and to give his aching limbs a moment to relax and glared at the sky. He wondered if Doyle was up there somewhere, trailing behind them. He hoped so. If he could get to the control room-if he didn’t plummet to his doom-he would find out.
“Of course,” he muttered, “Then there’s the little matter of me being stuck on this bird while Doyle takes pot-shots at it.” He grimaced. “You’re an idiot, Knight. You just had to see, didn’t you?”
Suddenly, the chain began to move in his grip. It shot through his hands, ripping the gloves to shreds and he restrained a howl as he clung on. Someone was retracting the chain and hauling him up! Knight held on, knowing he was only going to get one shot at escaping, and it was going to have to be a good one.
He slid down the chain toward the bars and planted his feet against the curve of the cage. Then he rode upwards, his muscles quivering in anticipation. The hole was just big enough; if he could angle it right...
The gear squealed and howled and he bit his lip as his jawbone vibrated in his skull. Then the aperture to the platform was suddenly within spitting distance and Knight uncoiled like a spring, aiming for the opening like a human arrow. He shot through it, tackling a man and carrying him backwards. They rolled across the platform and the masked pirate shot over the side with a howl. Knight was on his feet a moment later, his fist cracking across the jaw of a second man. The pirate staggered back. Knight snatched the pistol out of the pirate’s belt and fired. The body tumbled through the aperture, hit the cage and vanished into the ocean of clouds below.
He spun, covering the ladder. No one else seemed to be there. They’d only sent two to collect him. He felt vaguely insulted, before putting it down to good luck. Swiftly, he climbed the ladder and hauled himself up into the airship. It was as stifling as ever. He set off quickly. He had to get to the control room.
As he moved through the corridors, he often had to dart into open bulkheads and press himself flat against bends in the corridors as pirates went back and forth about their business. It likely took a lot of effort to keep a floating misery palace like this one in the air. Then, that might explain why neither the RAF nor any other air force had been able to track the pirates to their base. They simply didn’t have one!
It was as ingenious as it was insane. He climbed a set of thin, spiral stairs. Parts of the ship looked like some horrible cathedral, while others looked like someone had crammed together the parts from different airships to approximate a working whole. Once again, he wondered about the red ship’s mad captain, Bael. What was that monster’s story?
Strange chanting suddenly echoed through the corridor around him and he froze. It echoed through the speakers and around the bulkheads and set his hackles to bristling. The sound was wrong, somehow, like a church choir gone topsy-turvy. Knight, unable to resist, followed it down onto the next deck, where he caught sight of men going into what, on any other ship, would be the crew’s mess.
Carefully, cautiously, Knight peered around the edge of the bulkhead. His breath caught in his throat as he saw Bael standing at a podium, his crooked shape leaning out over the kneeling ranks of his crew. Not all of them, but a good many.
“God is dead!” Bael shrieked. “His corpse was seen to cast a shadow over the moon in 1789!” A glove curled into a fist with a pop of knucklebones. “He left the earth to Satan and man has become as a wolf! What was the Great War but wolf killing wolf? Satan pranced across the killing fields of Flanders and he brought to me his words!” Bael spun and spread his arms, indicating a great map stretched across the back wall of the room. With a start, Knight recognized it as a representation of the Atlantic air-traffic corridor-every route and destination marked and mapped.
More than that though, mingled amongst the maps and photographs were scrawled coal sketches of mushrooms-or perhaps clouds-and belching ovens that sent a thrill of atavistic unease slithering through Knight’s brain. What was this?
“The Prince of the Air is angry that man has dirtied the ground and now seeks to do the same to the sky! Thieves ride their chariots of steel and fire through Lucifer’s shadow, free from fear or punishment! And Satan said unto me, ‘Be my hand!’ He caressed me with flame from above and I was reborn, the instrument of his will! If man wishes to sail the skies, he must pay his toll! Nema!” Bael cried.
“Nema,” the kneeling men murmured.
“Nema,” someone behind Knight said. He froze, cursing himself for getting distracted. He turned. Shax stared at him over the barrel of an automatic. “That’s ‘amen’ backwards, by the by. So I said to myself, ‘Shax? If this man is half the man I think he is, he’ll get out of that cage easily enough’, and look at that-I was right. Bael will reward me well for this.”
“Bully for you,” Knight said, turning slightly.
“Yes, rather,” Shax said. “Should I shoot you here? Or should I troop you in there for the rest of the service?” Shax chuckled. “That’d get the old fruitcake frothing, sure enough. That’s why he sent men for you. Occasionally we snag a prisoner or two and the madman likes to read divinations in their guts. I tend to skip his little sermons if I can help it...not my sort of thing, you understand? I always say, ‘money is its own reward’, and that includes the afterlife.”
“A sound philosophy,” Knight said, gauging the distance between them. Could he outrun the twitch of a trigger finger? There was only one way to find out. “You must be popular.”
“Hardly,” Shax said, waving him away from the bulkhead. “It gets to you after a time. In a confined space like this, madness jumps bodies quicker than influenza. Half the crew are singing psalms to Old Scratch and the others are just mouthing the words,” Shax said. “You wouldn’t believe some of the things I’ve seen-”
Knight lunged, his fingers twitching aside the barrel of the pistol as those of his other hand plunged into the eyeholes of Shax’s mask. The man gave a strangled grunt as Knight took tight hold of his mask and slung him off his feet and to the ground. The pistol spun out of Shax’s grip and Knight drove the heel of his boot into the small of Shax’s back. Shax yelped and tried to roll over and Knight fell on him like a ton of bricks, using all of his weight to knock the breath and the fight out of his opponent. He shot a quick glance toward the bulkhead, but Bael’s sermon was continuing unabated.
“You should have shot before you spoke,” Knight said, grabbing Shax’s head in both hands and bouncing it off the floor. Adrenaline surging through him, he stood and snatched up the pistol, checked the clip, and dragged Shax to his feet. “Now, unless you want me to finish the job, you’ll keep talking, chum.”
“W-what,” Shax said groggily.
Knight shoved him forward. “Take me to the control room, now!”
***
The control room sat toward the fore of the oversized gondola, as Knight had thought. Shax stopped in the corridor. “There’ll be men on duty. There are always people on duty,” he muttered.
“When’s shift change?” Knight demanded. Shax didn’t reply and Knight jabbed him with the pistol. “When is it?” he repeated.
“Every three hours,” Shax said grudgingly. “But if you shoot them-”
“Let me worry about that,” Knight said. “Get the door open.”
Shax hesitated, and then rapped on the door. A muffled voice asked a question. “It’s me, Shax. Bael sent me,” Shax said, leaning against the door. He was tense and trembling and Knight knew he was planning something. He found out what as the door opened and Shax threw himself through it and then tried to slam it in Knight’s face. “He’s got a gun! Sound the alarm!” he yelped.
Knight snarled a curse and fired through the door. There was a scream as the thin metal ruptured and he kicked it open. Shax staggered back, clutching at himself. Knight fired again and Shax fell flat. The three crew members on duty stared at him in shock as he kicked the door shut. Then, as one, they rushed him.
Knight caught the first one a blow across the temple with the hard weight of the pistol and then was swept back against the door by the second. Hands scrabbled for his throat and Knight jerked forward, ripping the man’s mask off and throwing him off balance. He brought both fists down on the back of the man’s neck, dropping him even as the third stepped back, going for the pistol holstered on his belt. Knight dove for his own weapon, dropped in the scuffle. He snatched it up and rolled up into a kneeling position, firing once. The pirate gasped and slumped back across his seat.
Alarm claxons suddenly shrilled. Knight grinned fiercely. They’d either discovered his absence or someone had heard the shots. It didn’t matter. Regardless, it wouldn’t be long before they figured out where he’d gone. He rushed to the radio console and began flipping through the frequencies. There was one in particular he was looking for, one known only to he and Doyle. If the tough leatherneck were in pursuit, as he hoped, then he’d know Knight was onboard and alive.
“Larry?” Knight spoke quickly, twisting the knob. Static answered him. “Damn it, Doyle, do you read me?” More static was his only reply. A grim thought fled across the surface of his mind...what if Doyle thought he was dead? If he’d seen the Skanderbeg go down, he might think Knight had been aboard. He hadn’t even thought about that earlier and now he cursed himself for it. If that were the case, Doyle could be anywhere by now.
Abruptly, the radio barked and a hearty voice pierced the veil of static. “Dick? Is that you?”
The obvious note of hope in Doyle’s words made Knight laugh out loud in relief. “Yes it’s me, Larry. Where are you?”
“Back and up,” Doyle replied. “I saw that German bird go down and I don’t mind telling you that my gut went with it, Dick. I thought you were a goner for sure! I stayed long enough to get in contact with a couple of trawlers in the area and sent them to look for survivors. Then I followed that blasted red blister of a ship!”
Knight smiled, imagining the fierce look he knew must be on the other man’s face right at that moment. “Guns blazing, eh?” he said.
“I’ve popped a few balloons in my time, Dick,” Doyle said.
“Right, well, let’s see if we can avoid popping this one while I’m on it, shall we?” Knight said, glancing toward the door.
“And just how do you plan on doing that?” Doyle demanded.
“Do you remember Locklear?” Knight said. He could hear the grating beneath his feet vibrating under the impact of many feet.
“Who-wait-Ormer Locklear?” Doyle said. “That crazy so-and-so who used to walk on the wings of planes?”
“Yeah, I ran into a mutual friend a while back in New York. He taught me a few of Locklear’s tricks,” Knight said brightly. “If you can keep her steady, I think I can get to the canopy of the Northrop. It’ll be close, but we’ve got to bring this bag down and I’d rather not do it with me on board.”
“I’m all ears, Dick,” Doyle said. “How am I even going to find you?”
“Simple,” Knight said. “I’m in the control room. So come and get me before they break the door down, hunh?”
“What?” Doyle’s subsequent curses were lost in a burst of static.
“Control room, fore part of the upper deck!” Knight yelled into the teeth of the static. The door rattled on its hinges. Knight put his back to the radio and readied himself. He heard the rumble of engines and a thin wasp-like whine as something blue and beautiful to his eyes dove out of the rising sun. The claxons onboard the red ship redoubled in intensity. Somebody had spotted the Northrop as it buzzed around the circumference of the airship.