Never Sound Retreat (4 page)

That was the true genius of what he was creating, the dragging of a primitive fallen race into the modern age, though compared to the war he had known on the world of his birth, what he was creating here was but one step removed from barbarity. If not for the human slaves, the task would be hopeless, for no rider of the Horde would ever deem to lower himself to the task of labor. Only those of the lowest caste could be compelled to be the guards in the factories or to run the locomotives or work in the engine room of the ships. It would take a generation at least to transform that thinking. The Tugars never understood that, the Merki were just beginning to grasp it even as they went down to defeat. This would have to be different.

It would be war itself, the very reason for their own existence, that would serve as the catalyst of change. He could promise them that once the Republic was defeated, things could be as they once were, that again they could go with bow and lance on the everlasting ride about the world, harvesting the human slaves who waited to feed them. But he knew the lie of that.

The Yankees had brought an infection to this world, the disease of knowledge, bow and horse giving way to rifle and locomotive, and once the change was started it would never stop. When this war was done he would indulge them in their ritual of the eastward ride for a while, but the rail lines would follow them, linking back to the factories. Only those humans who were trained to labor would then be kept alive, all others would be put to the sword. For the secret of technology had been unlocked, and nothing could ever change it back again. Even if the Republic was completely shattered, its cities leveled, all its populace put to the sword, still the infection was there and would spread. Some humans would manage to escape, fleeing into the great northern forests, there to labor in secret. If he should ever let down his guard and allow his people to revert, twenty years hence, when they returned, it would be to face a disaster.

He knew with a grim certainty that this was a racialwar for control of this world, and the only alternative to total victory was annihilation.

"I still think we should wait," Jurak said, while pensively gazing at the twilight sky.

"Why?"

"It won't be until next season that the rail line up to Nippon and on into the forest where their rail line is located is completed. Even then, there's the difference in gauges—we'll have to convert their line as we advance. Well have a logistical nightmare trying to keep our northern army supplied without that rail link. If we wait till spring, we could have another dozen monitors, a hundred landing ships, fifty or more airships, at least another ten umens converted and trained with rifles and modern artillery. Supplies to the north with a completed rail line would be ensured as well."

"And what of the humans in that time, Jurak? They adapt faster than we do. Their own railhead running down along the western shore is still vulnerable, but it won't be by next spring. They have no airships at the moment, but we can be assured that if we wait till spring, we will see dozens, with wings like ours. Remember it is an old maxim of the master Hunaga, 'If surprise is lost retreat or strike, to do neither is death.' We cannot retreat; therefore, we must strike. As it is, I fear this four-month delay; it gives us but a month, two at most, before the winter storms."

"So it begins then."

"It has to. I expect you to be at the front in the north in five days' time. Remember, you are to draw them in. I do not want a breakthrough, for if you do achieve one, they will fall back on their own rail line and retreat faster than you can advance.

"Bakkth, send airships over their base tomorrow to make sure they have no new airships ready to probe our secrets. Make sure no one flies near our point of attack, we must not let them know of our interest there."

He gazed appraisingly at his companion. Jurak's and Bakkth's personalities were ideally suited for this campaign. Unlike the umen commanders and clan Qarths, they could grasp the fact that victory could be achieved by more than a simple headlong rush.

"Draw them in. I will do the rest."

"So, you liked my umbrella idea."

Jack tried to conceal his shock at Ferguson's drawn and pale appearance as he stood up from his drafting table. Jack could see that his friend had lost weight, his cheeks were sunken, his eyes looked like two coals of darkness sinking into Chuck's skull-like visage. His skin had that almost translucent ghostly white glow typical of those in the advanced stages of consumption. Wrestling down his fear of the tuberculosis that was slowly draining the life from the Republic's master inventor, Jack came across the room, grasped Chuck's hand, and then, to his own surprise, gave him an affectionate embrace.

"You saved my bloody ass with the idea." Jack laughed, patting his friend on the shoulder, then motioning for him to sit down.

"And you said you'd never use it."

"Well, when it was that or burn to death, there really wasn't much choice. Death by fire is one hell of a good argument for jumping."

"Too bad about Stefan."

Jack nodded. In the small circle of men who wore the sky-blue uniform of the Air Corps of the Republic it was an unwritten rule never to get attached to anyone. One of the boys, whose ship never returned during the rescue effort for Hans, had calculated that from the time a pilot got his wings until he turned up missing or dead was a little less than six months—and that was during the period of semi-peace leading up to the start of the war. He had tried not to like Stefan, but the boyish enthusiasm, and his uncanny ability to nail Bantag airships, had won Jack over. And now he was dead.

Before coming to visit Chuck he had gone to see the boy's mother and given the usual lie that her son had died instantly. There was no sense in tormenting her with the truth, that her youngest child had fallen from twelve thousand feet wrapped in flames. She had given her other two boys and a husband in the last war and now all she had as comfort, and which she proudly displayed with tears in her eyes, was the personal letter from Andrew, offering his condolences.

"How's Feyodor?"

"He'll fly again."

"Bad?"

Jack nodded. "Hands, arms. Pretty shaken up as well. Swears he'll never go up again, but he will, it's in his blood."

Chuck nodded. Feyodor's brother had served as Chuck's assistant in the last war, and now headed the ordnance department back at Port Lincoln. It was the burns, as well, that drew his sympathy. His own wife had been horrifically scarred by fire.

Even as they chatted the door behind Chuck opened and Olivia Varinna Ferguson came in, carrying a steaming pot of tea and two mugs. She smiled at Jack and in spite of the scars Jack could still see her beauty radiating through.

As she poured Chuck's tea she chatted with Jack, pointing out the front page of
Gates's Illustrated Weekly
on Chuck's desk, which showed the last fight of
Flying Cloud.
It was embellished, of course, with four enemy ships going down in flames, along with a small sidebar portrait of Stefan manning his position as fire blazed up around him.

Jack looked around the room. The walls were covered with drawings of Chuck's creations, some of them from Chuck's own hand, others from
Gates—
airships, ironclads, breechloading artillery, field ambulances with coiled spring suspension, locomotives, telegraphs, and drilling rigs for oil. The office was bright, the north wall made of glass to provide Chuck with natural light for his drawings. Behind his office were the beginnings of the college which Congress had voted to fund, half a dozen clapboard buildings housing classrooms, drafting rooms, and research labs. Many of the young men were gone now, up with the army, serving in the engineering, ordnance, and technical units, but Jack could see one class at least was in session, Theodore, his copilot's brother, teaching a small group made up primarily of women.

Another coughing spasm hit, and Olivia motioned for the pilot to leave the room. Standing up, Jack walked out onto the porch of the clapboard building and gazed across the reservoir, which provided power and water for the factories below. The surface of the lake was mirror-smooth, except for the ripples caused by a flock of brightly colored geese drifting lazily along the shore. The geese kicked up, honking, as a blast of fire erupted to the west, beyond the dam, as a fresh batch of iron was poured. Jack looked to the west and the valley of the Vina River, leading down to the old town of Suzdal. Both banks of the dark stream were lined with factories, rail track, and hundreds of new homes for the workers who came from across the Republic to work in the new industries. So much of this had sprung from Chuck's mind, Jack realized. Their very survival dependent on this lonely Leonardo.

"Jack, please don't take too much of his time, he needs to sleep," Chuck's wife whispered, joining him on the porch.

"How is he? Truthfully."

She lowered her head.

"Not good," she whispered, "not good. Sometimes he's too exhausted even to cough. He has to sleep sitting up now. He needs rest Jack, months, maybe a year away from all this." She motioned back to the office and from there down toward the factories.

"He slips out of here, goes down to the factories to check on the work, the buildings filled with blast furnaces, steam, dust, and smoke. It's killing him. He has to go away."

Jack nodded, unable to say what was in his heart, that Chuck was his friend, but the republic was on the edge of a disaster, another war far more brutal than the previous two. Victory was dependent on Chuck's outthinking Ha'ark. He was taking the same risks as Andrew, Hans, right down to the lowest private on the firing line. But Chuck . . . Chuck would never be replaced.

"Hey, Jack, get back in here."

Jack looked at her, unable to say anything.

"It's Dr. Weiss's orders. He's supposed to rest during the afternoon." "The hell with Weiss, there's work to be done," Chuck announced.

Shaking her head, she walked off the porch and back to the simple whitewashed house next to the office.

Jack went back into the office and settled down in the chair by Chuck's desk.

"So how are you really feeling?"

Chuck sighed and looked over at the grandfather clock ticking in the corner of the room.

"They say somebody with what I've got can last ten, even twenty years if they take it easy and move to a cool dry climate."

He chuckled sadly. "Rus is blazing hot in the summer, cold and damp in the winter. Great place for someone with consumption."

"But you can at least rest some more."

Chuck shook his head and laughed, then pointed at Gates's illustration.

"He got the wings on their ships, but I take it that it's all wrong."

Jack examined the engraving and nodded.

"The wings were larger and not at the center of gravity but somewhat forward. The small tail wings were farther aft. The ship was sleeker, and the ones that brought me down had a curious arrangement underneath."

"What was that?"

"Wheels, one under each wing and one astern."

Chuck nodded.

"I was thinking about that myself. From the report that you telegraphed in I was working up some estimates. The gas cells just don't seem to add up to provide enough lift. The wings are lifting surfaces, we know that, they make it more maneuverable as well in turns. I think they've put on engines damn near as good as ours; in fact I'd be willing to bet they stripped an engine off one of our downed machines and copied it. Anyhow, I think they actually have to get the thing moving forward at twenty miles an hour or more on the ground till the wings provide enough lift, then it takes off and flies."

As he talked Chuck pulled out a sheaf of drafting paper and unrolled it across his desk, using his cup of tea to hold down one side.

"By doing that they cut down on the bulk of the actual airship, there's less drag. It means they can't hover unless flying into a significant head wind, but it also means they can go a hell of a lot faster. You also mentioned that you saw what looked like flaps on the end of the wings."

Jack, reaching into his haversack, pulled out his own drawings and pointed them out.

"You said you saw the flaps moving, then the ship banked over and turned?"

"Yup. They don't turn in a flat circle; they bank over and turn." As he spoke Jack held up his hands, tilted them, and moved them through a turn.

Warming to his subject, Chuck picked up a pencil and jotted a quick sketch into the corner of his own drawings.

"That allows tighter turns. They don't just use a rudder to turn. Damn, I never thought of that. It'd be easy enough to put those flaps on our wings and run cables back to a control stick. I've been thinking about that engine on the wing arrangement as well. It cuts down drag with fuel tanks inside the wings.

"The length of the wings is rather long, how about if we tried this?" And yet again his pencil scribbled out a change in design, Jack leaning over the table, watching.

"Cut the wings in half and put one on top of the other?"

"Strange-looking I know, but with support struts going between the two wings it will make them stiffer, a biwing design. I even thought of another change." He pointed to the bow of the ship.