The War To End All Worlds Pt 05

The whistling wind that roared past the hull of the

Titanic

made my job a lot easier.

I was no adventurer. I was no daring bold hero who starred in the holoviews put out by the dozen by Hollywood. I was just a longshoreman slash glorified gardener. But I had done my fair share of scrambling around on catwalks – and the crude ceilings of the equally crude chambers that made up the main body of the

Titanic

's living space were roughly on par. As I crept from metal slat to metal slat, Tjen moved with the predatory grace of a born hunter.

Our quarry walked beneath us – gesturing about herself as our friend Ollie walked beside her, his face a perfect stone mask. The kind of mask that one must need, if one lived in a country that treated people like you like dirt. Darren Sharpe, pirate captain and supposed communist revolutionary (though I had my doubts about that) gestured to the left and paused underneath an open gap between two ceiling plates.

"And here's the mess," she said. "You can eat here anytime, we have a pot of stew – there's still plenty of fish in the sea, even the Squids can't bugger that up."

Ollie grunted.

"And here's where you can sleep. Tomorrow, we'll figure out what yer good for," Darren said, then pushed Ollie gently into the room. She closed the door behind him and then blew out a slow sigh – as if she had been walking next to a tiger and gotten away with her face un-mauled. I tensed, ready to wait for her to walk away. Then I could wriggle between a grating, push past the vent that allowed access to the very roof I stood on, and get into the room with Ollie. But before I could even move, Tjen grabbed my arm.

"Pause momentarily," she hissed.

I followed her eyes and saw that another figure was walking down the corridor towards Darren. I swore I heard Darren gulp. She turned to start away, but the figure came into view: It was a skinny, gangly looking girl with black hair and the features of someone from the far east. The torrent of Chinese made it abundently clear. Darren threw up her hands, spreading her fingers. "Drusilla, Drusilla!"

"You bitch! You cold hearted bitch! You blackguard! You...you...slave taker!" Drusilla slapped the top of Darren's head. "What is

wrong

with you!?"

"I-" Darren spluttered, only to get slapped in the head again.

"I ought to take this ship and be captain! I ought- I oguht-...I ought..." Drusilla snarled. Then, to my shock, she burst into tears, clapped her hands to her face, turned and sprinted right back the way she had come. Darren groaned and covered her face with her hands. As she hustled off, I looked at Tjen. Tjen looked at me, her brow furrowing. Then she inclined her head, whispering.

"I will get Oliver Law," she said.

The vent behind us

clanged

open. The two of us spun around.

Ollie was crawling out onto the roof, wind ruffling his short cropped black hair. He looked at us. We looked at him. He chuckled, shaking his head. "The fuck are you doing here, Gipp?"

I spread my hands. "Rescuing you?"

"They didn't even put a guard on me. Second most halfassed Shanghaing I'd ever seen." He spat onto the roof. "You didn't bring any guns?"

"Well, I-" I started.

"We did, but Gipp dropped them," Tjen said. "Over the side. Into the Atlantic Ocean. Where they are surely, even now, rusting in the salt water."

Ollie shook his head, laughed, and flashed a grin that was bright as the dawn. He stood and started to move across the rooftop as gracefully as if he had been scrambling around on the rooftops of pirate airships for his whole life. I scrambled up and a gust of wind that roared past the curved lip of the hull slapped me in the back. I swayed, but Tjen caught the back of my shirt and held me in place. I smiled at her – and then the two of us followed Ollie.

"So," I whispered. "I think we need to just stowaway until they land and try and rescue Yalen then. I didn't see any smaller craft here – not even a grav-shuttle."

Ollie nodded. "Not my favorite plan, but-"

"Wait a moment," Tjen cut us both off, her ears perking up. "I can hear Drusilla and Darren."

The three of us crept closer to the roof that Tjen had indicated. It was part of the structure that looked like it had been part of the original design of this ship's interior, and not a junk-built piece of scrap. There were less holes to peek through, but the three of us found an air vent that brought faint snatches of conversation to our ears. Ollie, Tjen and I all knelt down, cocking our heads. We could hear Darren's voice, soft.

"We have to do this."

"You

trust

that fucking kruat!?"

"Oh, bloody hell, no!" Darren laughed. "No, I trust this. Read it."

My brow furrowed.

There was a long silence. Then slowly, Drusilla whistled. "You trust this?"

"I know it looks insane. I wouldn't believe it either. But...here." There was a faint clinking noise. "See?"

"That's...wow..." Drusilla breathed slowly out. "Okay. I get it. I do. But we need to tell that poor man that we'll bring him back to his family."

"I know, ugh!" Darren groaned. "I was panicking!"

"So you fell back on the sky pirate routine?" Drusilla sounded amused and tired at the same time.

"What the hell are they talking about?" Ollie whispered. But in my head, all I could see was a brick with a typed missive on it. A warning to keep perfectly quiet. And a phone call to the police that had taken place well before it was needed. This was the

third

time that someone had intervened in my life – not direly, but with eerie foresight. I looked slowly at Tjen, and not for the first time, I regretted the fact she couldn't foresee the future anymore. Because, by god, I wish that she could see the end of this miasma.

Then, once more, Tjen's ears broke into the conversation. They twitched and her brow furrowed. "I am once more hearing things from the distance."

I frowned. Ollie and I listened as well. His brow furrowed slightly. Then he whispered. "Is that..."

The lyrics arrived at almost the same time as a bright wash of fierce white light. It shone across the top of the

Titanic,

spilling from the wedge shaped hull of a military flying craft. The hull had been painted a olive green, a color made all the more sickly by the dull green glow of the exposed anti-gravity nacelles that thrust from the back, like the handles of a wheel barrow. The wings had been daubed with fresh paint. The American eagles that had served as the ensign for the American Air Army had been daubed over with a crude pair of blue Xs with a red field. The flying machine whirred and slewed to the side as the song boomed from the speakers mounted on it – normally used to give orders to soldiers who lacked communicators.

Look away! Look away!

Look away! Dixie Land!

"Where the fuck did the fucking KKK get a fucking flying machine!?" Ollie shouted.

"Listen up you commie sky pirates!" the drawling voice of Mr. Sinclair boomed around the music. "You got five seconds to hand over the Soomie, or we cut your ship to ribbons!"

Alarms started to spring out across the

Titanic

– lights flicked on, warning signals came on, and the shining light of the KKK's stolen flying machine swung around. It lighted on several of the machine guns that had been mounted on the edges of the

Titanic

's hull, where the pirates could get at them. The flying machine's nose opened and I could see Torg himself seated in the glass bubble that made up the turret there. The turret itself had the familiar – and horrifying – shape of a heat ray in it.

Pirates rushed for the machine guns.

I had never seen a heat ray at work. But I had heard the stories and seen the news reels.

But that had nothing next to the real thing.

The front opened and I could almost see into it – a searing, boiling red

eye

. There was no beam, nothing that made the weapon visible, which made it all the more horrifying as pirate after pirate burst into flames. They shrieked, like the souls of the damned in a Baptist sermon. They writhed and tumbled from the catwalks as Torg swung the ray in a swiveling arc. The metal groaned as it was caressed. Several catwalks remained intact, but one was so disturbed by the furious heat washing over it that it exploded apart. The machine guns were spared no less than their poor crews: Water jackets flash-exploded, steam and gunpowder smoke filling the air with debris.

Which served perfectly as I and Ollie, both thinking in perfect unison, sprinted for the

Titanic's

own heat ray. It had been covered with a tarp at some point during our skulking, and so looked like nothing more than a tent over a room. But our movement drew the flying machine's attention and the light swung around to transfix us.

And that was when Darren Sharpe, sky pirate and communist revolutionary, appeared on top of the KKK's flying machine with a bundle of Prussian stick grenades, all tied to a string and contained in a bandoleer. She spread her legs wide, her scarf flapping wildly in the air, and shouted. "For the revolution!"

She yanked the cord while holding onto the bandoleer of grenades and every single grenade's pin went

pinging

away with a clatter. She threw them down onto the cockpit and the flying machine slewed to the side, trying to shake her and the grenades off. But she flung herself down, almost smothering the grenades against the craft.

They exploded all at once.

Ollie gaped in shock and I cried out – but Darren was gone. The flying machine slewed to the side, and I saw that the cockpit and the armor had been cracked and scored – but not breached. It had still given us time. I sprang the last few feet and grabbed at the tarp that covered the

Titanic's

heat ray, frantically yanking and pulling at it as Ollie got into the firing seat. This heat ray was several sizes larger than the heat ray the KKK were toting, and the turret was hooked to pneumatic cables and gears, which let it start to swing slowly to the side. Gears squealed and the cables hissed, several unpatched holes spraying steam into the air.

I kicked the last of the tarp away.

And shrieked like a banshee when Darren Sharpe, sky pirate and communist revolutionary and until this moment recent corpse, appeared before me. The air cracked around her and she remained crouched, smoke trailing from under her hair. She looked at me and Ollie, then blinked, and gave us a big thumbs up.

"Good work, lads!"

And she vanished again. This time, she had appeared underneath the KKK's flying machine. Several of the thugs had dropped from the rear of the craft, armed and hooded. They thumped to the deck and found themselves facing Darren with her cavalry saber. Sparks flew as Ollie started to swear under his breath.

"Aim, aim, aim, damn it!" he growled.

I rushed to the side and set my shoulder against the heat ray's side, trying to aide in the pushing. But as we watched, the KKK's flying machine was arcing away from the top of the

Titanic

. It dove and shot away form our field of fire. As it vanished, Darren ducked beneath a wild swing from one of the hooded KKK members, then got caught in the side by another's leg. She went sprawling as the man hefted a pistol and shot her in the chest. Once more, she vanished. I shook my head as Ollie growled, his fingers on the trigger. He was aiming down range at the KKK members. His eyes burned. His thumbs hovered over the triggers...and then he sagged back.

"Damn it!" he swore.

"What!?" I squeaked as the hooded goons started forward.

"I can't burn men the way they burn crosses!" Ollie growled.

"Noble sentiment!" I squeaked as the first of the KKK goons leaped over the separation between the heat ray and the rest of the deck. He had a knife in one hand, a pistol in the other. It was still smoking and the eyes behind the hood looked downright eager. I lifted my fists, ready to take the man on.

"Where's the soomie!?"

"I appear to be behind you."

Tjen vaulted up from the corridor that ran between rooms, landing on the roof with the grace of a hunting cat. Her arms were spread wide, to balance herself. She stood and smirked slightly as the KKK goons turned to face her. Behind me, Ollie was loosening his tie. He was still wearing his borrowed servant's outfit, meaning he cut quite a dapper figure. If somewhat mussed.

"It also not I who you must worry about," Tjen added.

And then Yalen's two upper arms exploded through the thin metal of the roof. They grabbed onto the ankles of two of the KKK goons and pulled down

hard

. I wasn't sure what made me wince more: The popping sound of joints and bone and tendons, or the muffled, hooded shrieks as rusted corrugated metal dug into soft flesh. The two goons swooned, clutching at their disabled legs as Tjen snapped out a quick kick into the wrist of the third goon – shattering it with the impact. He clutched at it and she brought her leg sweeping back the other way, catching him in the temple.

The fourth man swung his knife at her back, fury overriding common sense.

My shoulder met his back. I might have never been in many brawls, but I had played soccer and rugby – though even rugby might have called that an illegal move. I didn't particularly care: It sent the pirate scrambling off the roof and crashing into the corridor below, where pirates began to kick and punch him. As they had him in hand, I looked at Tjen. Tjen smiled.

"I found Yalen and an answer to a mystery," she said, her voice simple. "Though it is troubling in the extreme."

"Great," I said, nodding.

And then...

Hooray! Hooray!

In Dixie Land I'll take my stand!

The KKK's flying machine came screaming back overhead, and Torg used the heat ray with a wild abandon. An invisible finger of death swept along the chambers of the

Titanic

, causing metal to shiver and groan and explode in some places. Fire bloomed and fragile components burst. But the worst happened when he swung left with the skittering movement of their flying machine. The heat ray kissed one of the

Titanic's

engines and sheered it off, like a knife cuts through butter.

The whole ship started to tip to the side, the crew crying out in fear.

My arms flailed wide, then closed around Tjen to keep her rooted. She clung to me, and then Yalen was shouting.

"Get down here!"

I looked back and saw Ollie was still in the heat ray. His eyes were narrowed.

"Ollie!" I shouted.

"Give me..." he said, his voice tight. "Just..."

The KKK's flying machine swept back again – I could almost sense Mr. Sinclair's madness, the furious rage he had always shown when stymied or frustrated. He didn't care if his prize was on the ship. Hell, he didn't even care if his

men

were on the ship. He just wanted to bring it down – and so, his heat ray kissed another engine. This one didn't fall aside. It merely exploded, smoke pouring into the air, alarms wailing throughout the ship.

"Ollie!" I and Tjen screamed.

The flying machine swept overhead again. Another engine exploded.

And for a single moment, the flying machine and the slow, poorly aimed heat ray on the

Titanic's

deck were as perfectly interlocked as if a line drawn by a ruler connected them. In that single moment, Ollie pressed his thumbs down. For a single moment, heat struck the KKK's flying machine – and then the anti-gravity nacelles that thrust from the rear of the ship exploded. Smoke poured from the wings and it started to tumble from the heavens. But another few explosions rocked the

Titanic

– we were going down. I could feel the tumbling, falling motion.

"Ollie!" Tjen shouted.

He was getting off the heat ray. Rushing towards us. The deck was tilting so far, the

Titanic

groaning. Then he was at us, and the three of us leaped down – into the waiting grasp of the pirates. They held us close, and we braced to the walls, the floor, and I could not tell if the screaming was from the crew or from the stressed steel. I clung to Tjen and she clung to me, and she whispered.

"Do not fear, Gipp. We shall be just fine. We shall-"

###

My eyes opened.

I was sprawled on the bottom of a rust red bowl of earth. My body pounded and my head ached – and I had no idea how I gotten here. The ground was shockingly cold and forced me to stand, merely to get my shoulder and side away from it. I shuddered and rubbed my palms along my sides and my shoulders and my arms, trying to warm myself. My breath fogged as I looked around wildly. The sky above was a pale pink and shimmered with stars that shone despite the light of a smallish sun.

But right beneath that sun was a golden building. It was beautiful and yet...distinctly alien. The curves of it seemed to match no architecture that I had ever seen, in pictures or drawings or life. The walls looked more like wings than something to keep away cold or wind, and beautiful eyes had been carved into every feather. The front door was a circular iris, which opened with a quiet

hiss

as I trudged towards it.

The building's interior was only slightly warmer than the exterior, and my breath still fogged as I looked around slowly. The interior of the building was decorated by strange mosaics. They showed figures – human-like, but drawn with exaggerated faces or muscles, wild beards and glaring eyes. To my left, I could see a billowing mass of men and women armed with weapons. Some were recognizable – swords, spears, rifles, revolvers. Others were stranger, but still easily recognized. Beams of energy projected from sleek pistols. Rods of light that seemed to burn anything that drew close. And some people held items that barely looked like weapons at all.

Books. Orbs.

Severed monkey paws.

They faced a massive black cloud. Arms and legs, crooked and spiderlike, emerged from the cloud at random points, while eyes seemed to gleam from within. Looking at it made me feel

colder.

I swept by gaze to the right, and I could see the mural continued the story.

I almost wish it hadn't. It was a grim one.

Slowly, bit by bit, the warriors were replaced with more and more darkness, until at the center of the building, there was nothing but eyes and blackness and stabbing limbs. And before that grim image was a kneeling mat. And kneeling upon it was a figure that was tall, even by Martian standards. They had a pale gray, featureless face with almond shaped black eyes. They lacked even a nose, and yet, I felt myself at peace just looking at them.

Do you see?

It felt like the cosmos itself was speaking to me. "Y-Yes, but I don't understand. W-What is this place?"

The temple to what had/will been.

The words translated in my mind...oddly. It implied the events were

happening

. But...

Elsewhere. Equally as important, but not here.

"Who are you?" I whispered.

The last Sorn. The Tripod Builders took our arts. They used them upon your world. For this, I am sorry.

He inclined his head slightly.

I shook my head. "The...the Tripods didn't...build their own stuff?"

Somehow, the man without lips managed to look like he was hiding a smile.

Beings that could cross intersolar space, build lasers, and flying machines, and yet did not know to wear environmental suits?

I blinked slowly.

He raised a good point.

"Why am I having these visions?" I asked, slowly. "Tjen is the one with psychic powers. Why me?"

The last Sorn paused. He cocked his head.

There exist four layers of reality. Your world but understands the first. The second, only a few understand. Einstein is one of them. Reddy is another. We Sorn tapped into the third to power our machines, and this was the danger. Emissaries from other places came and built this temple, and we restricted ourselves to the laws of Newton. Our secrets, we buried. The Tripod Builders raided such a place – and thus, carried themselves to your world as this one died.