Abominations Read online

  Gloria didn't argue the point, she just nodded and suggested they both get some sleep if they possibly could. Since their next watch came at the same time regardless of how little rest they'd gotten.

  “I know, I set the schedule and I'm a hard ass when it comes to that kind of thing. Start letting people have extra over something like this and the next thing you know everyone's lying around drunk, whining because the cots are all in use.”

  The next day Gwen and Smitty worked recharging the crystals in the thrusters, since they hadn't been switched out in Paris, due to lack of time. Gloria decided that she'd check each of the steam rockets with them each time, so that Smitty could get an idea of what to look for, as far as worn seals and clogged water lines. This gave the other two something useful to do while Gwen recharged each crystal, something she'd found tiring by the time she'd finished with each of the sixteen by the end of the day.

  Groundling nodded to her as she passed him in the hall, but said nothing.

  Just before she slipped into bed, exhausted, the Admiral asked her to meet him in the officers' mess, a small room off the galley proper.

  “So... Miss Westmorland tells me that the immediate situation with Baron Mathews has reached its conclusion? I trust in a way that was... satisfactory to all involved. Except Mathews of course...” He looked grim.

  Gwen nodded and explained a little bit, so that he'd know nothing would come back to haunt him, or his crew, later. She covered the tarp and dumping the body with Groundling.

  “You... helped him dump the body? That's...” A troubled look came over him. “Katherine, I know that almost dying can change a person. I've seen it, lived it to be totally honest, so I know... But don't let it turn you hard and cold. That's too much to come back from, takes too much of your life away from you to be borne, if you can help it at least. Don't get me wrong, you've been amazing so far, almost like a different person altogether, but... keep your bearing straight. No matter how much you change, be true to what's right and good. I'm here for you, if you need to talk.” He touched her shoulder gently, like her Father might have when she was young, before they learned that the best surgeons in the world couldn't fix her problems and everyone kind of gave up on her. If that had ever happened she didn't remember it.

  Then he asked her how she was getting on, being a loader.

  “Good, I think. I mean the people with experience will have to tell you if I'm actually pulling my own weight, but I'm not getting yelled at too much, I don't think. Everyone's been nice to me so far, which I worried about, being a woman, but they don't seem to care overly, as long as I get my work done.”

  Thomas let go of her shoulder and chuckled.

  “Oh, we've got a superior crew here. Most of them were picked by Gloria herself, so if they have a problem working with or taking orders from a woman, they don't make the cut. She served in the Air-Navy as a ship's Engineer for twenty years you know. Saw action over thirty times and lived to tell about it. When I saw her name come across my desk I snatched up her contract faster than you could blink. The only complaints I've had are from a few of the other captains that fill in on the Peregrine. She won't let them stint on maintenance or cut corners. It's a good place for you to be learning about the family trade. Just don't assume that all airships, even in our own fleet, are run this tightly. That's why almost everyone here's ex-military, except you, of course.”

  He laughed then, explaining what Bethany had told him, about how on a Navy Vessel, water or air, she'd be considered an Ensign as the assistant to a Westmorland and in the army a full Lieutenant. Robert and Ethyl would be proud, he let her know, especially since they didn't have to buy her a commission.

  He let her go then, getting to bed only a little late. It felt strange to her, having a family that actually seemed concerned about her, even if they didn't know everything that had really been going on. Gwen's parents had tried, but they eventually had to just give up, her problems being too much for any normal people to put up with over the years. They sent a card at Christmas, but other than that they didn't really talk and honestly, she didn't blame them for it.

  She knew she needed to get what rest she could, the next work day starting in a little over seven hours.

  She dreamed of Baron Mathews, but they weren't nightmares, which took her by surprise. She half expected his head to fall off, or for him to accuse her of his murder, which would be correct, so she knew she couldn't say a lot if he did, even in a dream. For some reason he kept asking her forgiveness instead. Not having a reason not to, she gave it. Whatever helped him rest in peace, she figured. Then rolled over and slept.

  Chapter twenty-six

  It took four days to get back home, and another twelve hours to unload the goods from Paris, Gwen didn't shirk on that. She owed everyone too much to get lazy right at the end, even if there was a criminal to interrogate. When the work had been done and the goodbyes said, Bethany asked her to call up James and see if he'd come get them, even though the hour was getting late. He told them he'd be right out, getting there only an hour later.

  To Gwen's surprise, Bethany didn't have him take them to the Constabulary's district house, but to another government office. The Westmorland didn't give a name for the place, only a numbered address. The building looked more like a warehouse to Gwen than anything else, a large, slightly rectangular building that looked to be two stories high on the outside, but turned out to be mainly one, huge, cavernous space once they got through the door. Inside two men stood, waiting for them.

  “Darrick Westmorland, special service. My associate is Kelvin Westmorland, data acquisition.” The older man with gray hair and steel blue eyes looked at the two women with a coldly professional gaze. “I hear you... removed part of our problem for us? Mathews?”

  Bethany told him they had, mentioning freely that they'd had help, but no one that would talk about it, since they knew only that the man in question had been responsible for stabbing their shipmate “Curly”. To ensure the man's death, she told them, Gwen had required his head be removed before they threw him over the side of the ship at sea.

  “Good. Too often amateurs fail to make certain of their kills. Not that you two are amateurs in your own tasks, of course, I'm just assuming neither of you is a professional killer. Now, we have your Doctor Debussey, but we've held her, waiting for you to get here. You're the closest interrogation specialist, Bethany. I don't know if your assistant is qualified for situations of this nature?”

  Beth put both palms up suddenly.

  “Strictly speaking? No. But the world she's from seems to use military simulations and Constabulary procedures for entertainment. So far there hasn't been a situation that she's failed in, not at the extremes at least. She still has trouble with some of the background here, but Debussey knows that she's not from this world, so a mistake there wouldn't matter. So... it's your call.”

  The older man smiled at Gwen but shook his head. She just shrugged in response, then, after a beat, realized no one here knew what that meant and told them that would be fine. She could stay out front and wait, maybe catch a nap or something, if the screams weren't too loud.

  “So, if you could keep it down?”

  This got a laugh out of Darrick, the special service guy.

  The bench outside the tiny interrogation space wasn't padded, but she laid out anyway and waited. She'd just started to nod off when the invasion started. Men, dressed in black, with face masks like veils of deep red cloth, and carrying odd sticks that were about four-foot-long came through the doors and windows noisily.

  She rolled off the bench and hit the floor, a jolt of pain going through her arm where it impacted, glad that she still wore the tan-colored work clothes that had been normal on the Peregrine rather than a dress. One of the men – she could tell they were men by their size and carriage – pointed his strange looking stick at her and light shot out the end, it missed her and didn't seem to do much to anything around her, so she pulled the bench around with her
foot, still lying on her back and using both feet kicked it at the men that approached from the side that had fired at her. It flew in a low path, barely above the ground, hitting a couple of them about knee height.

  Rolling, she moved just in time for the light from three or four beams to converge on the space she'd just been in. She didn't know what the light did, but it probably wouldn't give her a back rub, so she wanted to avoid it if possible. Luckily one of the men made a mistake then and approached her, trying to grab her by the throat with one hand to control her, since he still held his stick-gun in the other. Throwing her right hand up to push at his wrist where it touched her neck, she swept her left arm around as hard as she could into the man's elbow, which made a rewarding popping sound. The man cried out from this and then again when she kneed him in the groin.

  As she twisted under his now broken arm, she grabbed the weapon from his other hand using leverage and both hands to pull it from his grasp and kicked him into the men standing in front of her with a stomping motion to the middle. She didn't know how to use the stick-like weapon of course, but she knew how to use a stick well enough. They couldn't fire at her, not without potentially hitting the men around her. At least she hoped they'd see it that way. If these were just some kind of stun weapon, she'd be screwed, because they wouldn't have any reason not to just shoot her, even if they might accidentally get one of their friends.

  The men moved well, professionally, except that they didn't seem to think she could be a real threat or something, so, instead of using their full abilities, they closed with her and tried to subdue her using strength, a grab or simple hold. She had three of them down by the time Darrick entered the fray. He moved well too and didn't bother pulling his punches. A small rectangular device in hand, which he pointed at the attackers one at a time, caused them to simply fall down and stop moving. He seemed to have to get within five feet of them or so to make it work, but inside that range it took them out instantly. She finally noticed a small rubbery hand grip on the stick she held, that made light come out when she pointed it and squeezed. Her first shot hit the ceiling, but from her surrounded position she could safely fire at them, while they didn't really have the same option. She'd hit four of them with the light, causing them to fall, unmoving, before one of them got in behind her and grabbed the stick with both hands.

  She turned, letting go of the weapon and stabbing her fingers into his eyes, which missed, slamming into his cheek instead, but hard enough to give him pause. The straight front kick she aimed at his knee got him to let go of the stick, which she took back and then rammed as hard as she could into his sternum, activating the trigger, or whatever they called it here, as it made contact with his body.

  The numbers seemed to thin suddenly, as Darrick worked about ten feet away from her, pointing his weapon, which could have been a deck of playing cards for all she could tell, and making the attackers suddenly stop.

  “Down!” he yelled at her, pointing his hand toward where she stood. Instead of trying to duck, she threw herself backwards, slapping her forearms into the ground as she hit it, smacking her head against the wooden wall pretty hard, but not enough to take her out. Rolling again she found her feet just as the last man fell.

  “We need to secure the facility. Take a fresher weapon from one of the dead and kill anything that comes in until I say otherwise!”

  Gwen looked around and found one of the sticks, a complicated series of pipes with a wooden handle, she saw now that she had time to get a good look. Then she picked up a second, since she didn't know how to tell what the charge was on these things at a glance. One got propped against the wall and the other pointed toward the front, held in both hands the same way the attackers had held them. She hunched down in place, trying to make herself a smaller target if possible.

  No one tried to come in the front, but noise came from the back, where the gray haired, but hyper-fit looking, Westmorland had gone. She didn't know what to do, so she held her position, hoping he'd call for help if he needed it. She'd seen enough military shows to know that you didn't leave your post in combat, not even to help defend from another attack, as hard as that could be to manage. After a few seconds, the plan paid off when three men tried to rush the front door, firing steady streams of light at her. She rolled to the floor and fired at them from there. Her aim, she noticed, wasn't very good, but at least one of the men hesitated to shoot her, which she capitalized on, hitting him on her third try.

  The weapon in her hand had just stopped working when the last man came at her with a knife he'd pulled from his waist band. He seemed to know how to use it, but made a common knife fighters mistake. People, being afraid of knives, tend to freeze when attacked with one, but Gwen still held what amounted to a stick, a superior weapon to a knife. Not as lethal, but it gave her reach. A few repeated blows to the head swinging like she held a baseball bat, caused the knife to drop to the floor, the man followed it a few seconds later.

  She didn't wait for the man to recover, trading her empty weapon for the less empty one she'd propped up against the wall earlier. She shot the man with it, to make sure he didn't get back up. She hadn't been told to try and get prisoners, so didn't make an effort to. Her job here would be to stay alive. Making the others not move did that. She didn't actually know if the men were really dead as far as that went. She hoped that if they weren't, it would be at least a while before they started struggling again, because she couldn't control this many at once, not if they eventually got over the idea that they were fighting with a girl or whatever their problem was.

  She'd played enough computer games that she half expected the men to disappear or respawn, which worked in her favor when the next man tried to crawl through the window. She hit him squarely with a shot. Then two shots. He kept coming at her. The man carried a sword, a curved scimitar-like thing, which seemed to glow softly and cut the beams of light somehow as they hit the blade. Nothing touched him if the sword was in the way.

  So she tried to shoot him in the legs, which dropped him to the floor, his sword moving down, even though he didn't drop it. Then she hit him with a beam to the head. That worked, so she took the sword, which she understood how to use as a normal blade at least, and cleared all the other weapons she could find away from the fallen, making a pile near the wall, away from where the men lay sprawled on the floor.

  Darrick came back a few minutes later, blood running down the side of his head, not seeming to notice it. He looked at her and stopped, then nodded, and went to check on the prisoner.

  “It should be clear. We have reinforcements coming, they'll be teletransporting into this room, so try not to kill any of them. I'll be right back.”

  Gwen took another of the strange stick-like weapons and knelt on the floor, pointing it at the windows, holding it in her right hand and the sword she'd picked up in her left. A few minutes later, small popping noises came from behind her, sounding a bit like someone popping their fingers, rather than a gun going off. When she looked over her shoulder several people stood in heavy looking armor. Giant metallic creatures that only barely looked human. They pointed strange things at her, that looked like lances only shorter, about four feet long.

  “Special Service, drop the weapons! Drop them now! Drop them!” One of them yelled at her, she couldn't tell which one. Without turning she dropped both weapons and held her hands up so that they could see she wasn't armed, hoping these were the back-up Darrick had called in and not the next wave of attackers. Given their armor, she didn't think that anything she could do would do much to them anyway. Maybe throws would work? Some joint locks if she could figure out which directions the armor allowed movement in fast enough to be effective. Kicking wouldn't do much, she knew, maybe knock them back a little and punching would be foolish, might as well punch the wall for all it would probably do to them.

  Still pointing weapons at her, one of the armored forms asked if she was a Westmorland.

  “No, I'm the assistant to Bethany Westmorla
nd. My name's Gwen Farris... She should be around here somewhere.”

  Darrick came out then, calling out who he was and that he held no weapons.

  “Darrick!” One of the armored forms, a smaller one Gwen noticed, with a female sounding voice called out. “What's the situation? I'm counting nearly twenty down here, they look to be Saracen mercenaries. Who do you have back there?”

  Darrick called everyone out, but only Bethany and the younger man, Kelvin, came. Beth looked at Gwen and frowned, shaking her head.

  “They got a single operative into the room with her, for about three seconds, then they both teletransported out. They could be halfway across the world by now. I didn't even see the man, but for a moment from the corner of my eye...”

  The other Westmorland, the data collector recounted the events perfectly. His description of the man that came into the room, while incredibly precise, down to a few ounces in weight and loose threads on the left sleeve, pretty much described all the other men that attacked as well. Gwen worried that she'd let someone slip by her but Darrick admitted that the man had run past his position in the back while he'd engaged about five others.