The rotorkite approached the liftship from astern, rising above it. “We can’t stand off and trade fire with it,” Doc said. He thought about it for a bare second. “So drop me on top.”
“You’re insane,” Noriko said. “Do you remember being so exhausted you could barely stand, less than a chime ago? You’re drained.”
“It wasn’t as bad as the time in Cretanis. I promised less, it took less. And Duncan is tired, too. He had to have put everything he had into holding that cloud together for so long.”
“But his men, his soldiers, aren’t. They’re fresh and have better guns than you. No.”
Doc gave her a surprised look. “When did you become so contrary?”
She looked flustered, also unusual. “I’m simply not going to let you kill yourself so that you will think of me as a good, obedient associate.”
“I won’t kill myself,” he said, keeping confidence in his voice. “Noriko, I have to deal with Duncan. No one else can; he’s a Deviser. No one else has to. Get me to him. If we don’t stop him now, he will be back.”
He saw her expression of resignation. She kept the rotorkite on course and said nothing more.
Duncan heard the distant thup-thup-thup of a rotorkite. He switched to the cockpit view again.
Captain Walbert turned from the wheel to look at him. “Yes, sir.”
“We have more trouble. Doc or some of his men have taken to the air.”
“Yes, sir. I’ve already sent the men to the gun platform.”
The liftship’s gun opened up before Noriko anticipated it, when the rotorkite was still half a stad away. Doc winced as he heard and felt bullets rap against the fuselage. Immediately the pitch of the engines changed, climbed. Noriko veered, lost some altitude, then gained a little back. She began evasive maneuvers, making the aircraft a more difficult target.
She brought the rotorkite in from astern, so close beside the liftship’s great vertical fin that Doc feared a sudden breeze would hurl them into it, so close to the liftship’s skin that the man at the ship’s tail lookout position ducked down into his niche as the rotorkite passed over.
She was so low, in fact, that the men on the armament platform, toward the bow, couldn’t depress their guns far enough to hit her without endangering the liftship. Doc actually felt the rotorkite’s landing gear hit the liftship’s skin; the kite bounced a little higher and continued forward, just above the curve of the ship’s skin, until they were halfway or more to the bow.
“Best do it now,” Noriko said. “Hear the engine? We will not get another pass; I have to land.”
Doc didn’t dare open the gullwing door. He’d be fighting rotor wash and affecting the rotorkite’s flight characteristics. He kicked the window out instead. He leaned out.
Five paces below was the skin of the liftship; the rotorkite’s window, still in its frame, hit it and began bouncing down its curving slope. “A little closer, Noriko.”
The rotorkite’s talk-box popped. Gaby’s voice: “Is anyone there?”
While Noriko slowly brought the rotorkite down, Doc leaned out further, drew out his clasp-knife, and pulled it open. He’d need to use it to anchor himself against falling, then cut his way through the skin. He pulled on a pair of gloves; liftship skeletons were made of steel, uncoated for reasons of weight, their crews wearing heavy uniforms and gloves as protection.
Noriko finally felt steady enough to thumb the button on the talk-box. “I’m here, Gaby. With Doc.”
“Don’t let him get anywhere near Duncan. Duncan’s his son—”
Doc grimaced and leaped free. He hit the rubber-cloth surface of the liftship and bounced, rolling down the slope. On his second impact, he managed to drive the knife into the ship’s skin. He slid further downslope, cutting a rent three paces long in the skin; then he got his free hand into the tear and stopped sliding.
Wash from the rotors pushed at him as the rotorkite banked away. Noriko must have begun the maneuver as soon as she understood Gaby’s statement. But it was too late. He was within striking distance of Duncan at long last.
As Harris got his hands on the lip of the bomb bay, his strength failed him. He hung there, legs wrapped around the trailing rope, and waited for his energy to come back.
It didn’t.
He cursed. He’d just have to do the job without it.
Then Darig MacDuncan, the Changeling, stepped into view above and kicked him full in the head.
Sudden, shocking pain in his temple—Harris’ right hand slipped and he rotated a half-turn, gripping the lip of the bomb bay floor with only his left. He frantically grabbed the rope with his right.
Just in time. Darig, smiling, stepped on the fingers of his left hand. The pain cost him his grip.
The sudden adrenaline was what he needed. He hauled on the rope for all he was worth, popped up over the lip of the floor, and grabbed Darig’s ankle. He yanked. The Changeling fell, scrambling frantically as his legs stretched out over more than a thousand feet of air.
Harris grabbed the Changeling’s belt and hauled. The Changeling, teeth bared, grabbed the sturdy base of a winch and didn’t budge, so Harris used him for purchase. He pulled himself up atop the blond man and onto the metal floor beyond.
He put his back to the wall of this small metal cabin, next to a doorway hatch. “Give up, Darig.” His words came out in gasps as he struggled to gain control of his breath. “Or I’ll kick the hell out of you and you’ll end up a big red smear on a Neckerdam street.”
The Changeling glared. “I am not afraid of death, bug. But I will make it worth something.” He grabbed Harris’ leg and pushed off, rolling out through the hole.
Harris frantically gripped the lip of the hatch beside him. The Changeling’s weight yanked at him, threatened to tear him free; the impact stretched him taut. Another second and he’d slide out the hole, paired with Darig in a skydive to death.
With his free leg, he kicked Darig. He felt the kick land . . . and suddenly there was no more weight on his leg. Harris lay exhausted, gasping, and pulled himself back into the relative safety of the bomb bay.
Duncan flipped his talk-box from empty room to empty room. The only scene that told him anything was that of the hangar, where members of the Novimagos Guard collected his men. He knew his radio transmissions were compromised; he’d heard someone call a testing pattern over his radio on the laboratory squad’s frequency.
The grimworlder signal on his tracer was much reduced. Joseph had to have killed most of the grimworlders. Still, two signals remained, one back at the Monarch Building and one . . .
Here. He scowled at the little screen. One of the grimworlders had to be keeping up with the liftship, either on the ground or in the rotorkite he’d heard.
The view on his talk-box flickered and was suddenly gone, replaced by the face of Gaby Donohue. She was dressed in archaic fashion and her hair was much longer than the last time he’d seen her.
“Goodlady Donohue. What an unexpected surprise. I see Joseph hasn’t gotten to you yet.”
“Joseph’s my friend, Duncan.”
“Not anymore. He’s already killed Harris Greene. He’ll be coming for you and Doc soon.”
He saw her turn pale. He enjoyed giving people bad news. Their reactions were usually memorable.
Her voice was faint. “You’re lying.”
“I have no reason to lie.”
Her breathing became shallow. He thought he could see hatred struggling with despair within her.
One of them won, but he wasn’t sure which. She leaned forward. Her voice was a whisper: “Duncan, there’s something I’ve got to know.”