"Take them," the pilot said.
Asshole, Ling whispered mentally. That's my body you're taking risks with.
You knew it was dangerous when you volunteered, Lee answered.
I didn't volunteer. I was bred, chipped, and sold.
We all have these little issues, Lee answered.
Matheson and Retief crouched to either side of the ramp hatchway. Matheson still clutched his submachine gun while Retief held an assault rifle taken from one of the freed slaves. Retief wore the goggles taken from Ling's face.
"How's the armor on this thing?" Matheson asked.
"Armor?" Retief laughed. "What fucking armor?"
"Silly me. Open the hatch."
Retief's hand reached up to a button set into the wall. He pressed it, causing the hatch to slide open with a whoosh. Cold air streamed in through the opening.
"Hamilton? Matheson."
Hamilton eased the muzzle of his weapon out a window, hoping like hell that return fire wouldn't destroy his hands. He loosed a long, and almost certainly futile burst at the landing below. There was shouting and a single man cried out.
Sometimes the law of averages works in your favor, Hamilton thought.
"Hamilton? Matheson."
"I'm a little busy right now, Bernie," Hamilton answered, while dropping an empty magazine and inserting a fresh one.
"Yes, I can see. You're about to get a little, very temporary, relief. Look up."
The corbasi looked up and behind him. He wasn't sure why he did so, then or ever. He was, however, very glad that he had. At first, his mind refused to register the great, raylike shape that swung across the darkened sky without a sound. It was only when he saw the muzzle flashes that the threat registered.
"Duuuckk!"
"We're not hitting shit!" Matheson cursed.
This wasn't strictly true. Both men had fired into the covered alcove over the castle's main entrance. Normally, they couldn't have really expected to hit anything much. The stone walls of the alcove, however, caused bullets to ricochet. Several janissaries went down from these, even though only one was hit by a nonricocheting bullet.
Hamilton heard and answered. "I think you are… or did… or something. They've stopped trying to break through the gate anyway."
"If you say so. We'll be back. I'm going to try to buy you a little time from the people coming from the other castle."
"The other castle?" Hamilton asked. "Fuck! How close are they?"
"Too."
"Not too much further, boys," Sig called out to encourage the flagging spirits of men dragged from Paradise and thrust without warning into something they fully expected to resemble Hell. Worse, they expected to be thrust into Hell without anything so useful as a fire extinguisher… or even an antacid tablet. They were hanging back, as if reluctant. This was something Sig had rarely seen in janissaries.
About half of them were armed with something that could throw a bullet… in theory… if they'd had a chance to clean them… which they hadn't. For those, they had a totally inadequate supply of ammunition for everything except the four shotguns the brothel had held. The other half were armed with a mix of knives, swords, spears, whatever could be found that might be useful.
That, too, added to their already considerable demoralization. Despite his intentions, Sig's encouragement only made it worse.
Thus, when the airship passed to one side, and began to open fire, and the janissaries could barely return fire, half of them (and mostly the half with cutting implements) bolted into the woods.
"Come back, you stinking cowards," Sig screamed. "Back here, you filth," the baseski demanded. The fleeing troops paid them no mind.
"Well, Top," Sig said. "At least the ones we have left are good soldiers and true. Better those than a rabble."
The baseski, who was more observant than the armorer, disagreed. "No, the difference was that those who ran, ran because they felt outclassed and useless. But in running, they also took with them half the spirit, such as it was, of those who remained."
"Hans? Hamilton? Matheson. I think we delayed reinforcement of the garrison by a bit. But we've got a decision to make and I can't make it."
"What decision, Bernie?" Hamilton asked.
"I can have the airship continue to give you the little bit of fire support we have to give. You can't load like that. Or I can have the pilot bring us to the castle itself and you can begin to load. But-"
"But if you do that, the ship's going to be vulnerable while we load," Hans said.
"Worse than that," Hamilton added. "If I stay here watching the gate, I can keep them out even if they manage to batter it down. Or if not quite keep them out, keep them from rushing in and overwhelming us. But if I stay here, you can't hope to load everything, get the kids out, and guard the renegades."
"Well, as far as that goes," Matheson said, "I've got a considerable loading party here aboard the airship, if we have to use them."
Hamilton thought about that for a minute, then said, "Hans, be sure to get Petra where we told her to meet us. Bernie, bring the airship in and start to load."
The corbasi's first thought, when he saw the airship coming back, was that they intended to attack his men again. "Take cover!" he shouted.
He was surprised, then, when the ship continued on its way, circling the castle to the right, without firing so much as a single burst.
Odd, that, the colonel thought. Or maybe not so odd. Maybe-no, certainly- that's their way out.
He pointed in turn at the ten men he'd positioned to cover the twin towers flanking the gate. "You lot! Follow me!"
One of the janissaries shook his head, thinking, I've had this shit up to here.
The cross section of the airship was enormous. In these winds, it took a pilot of Lee's skill and experience to put it in position hard by the castle walls and hold it there. Even then, it was all he could do.
"Hurry, Yankee," the pilot said to Matheson. "We get a sudden gust from the wrong direction and we're paste."
"Roger," Matheson agreed. "Retief, you with me?"
The Boer nodded. "And otherwise miss the chance to do something absolutely right for once in my life? Let's go."
The ex-slaves, some of them armed from the airship's small armory and still others from the galley, followed Matheson down to the hold where the kidnapped Germans huddled in terror.
Ask them to volunteer to fight? Matheson wondered. No… I wish but… no. Look at their faces, every one a mask writ in terror. I can use them for labor, but they're too beaten down and degraded to actually stand on their own feet. And this was a people that more than once made the world tremble? It's sad.
Matheson still wore his makeshift robes and headdress. He was counting on the Germans being too terrified to notice just how threadbare his disguise was. He shouted, "You! You Nazrani filth. On your feet, all you men and the grown women, too." He waited a few moments for the captives to spring erect and ordered, "Now follow me."
Matheson, Retief and the cargo slaves led the Germans upward to the passenger deck. There, Retief opened the hatch and extruded the boarding ramp. Beneath the power buttons there was a small wheel coming from a maneuverable ball, an auxiliary emergency control, that he used to position the ramp on the pseudo battlements next to a tower. A collective moan escaped from the Germans when they realized that their new, temporary master intended to lead them out onto the pitching ramp and into the blackness.
"Stay here to make sure none of them escape," Matheson shouted to Retief. To the German serfs he repeated, "Follow me."
The corbasi and the ten men with him emerged around the corner of the castle. The colonel stopped in shock. The airship-it had to be some new technology from the infidels' pact with Satan to have penetrated so far into the Caliphate-was hovering there. Worse, so the colonel could see by the dim light, the ship was disgorging dozens, scores of soldiers.