Air Pirates of Krakatoa Read online

  #

  Doc stepped off the elevator first and into the lounge where Kehla and Augustus, better known as Gus, Ponchartrain were playing chess. As always, Gus was immaculately dressed with a crisp white shirt and bow tie, while his new bride wore more casual clothes. Both were gorillas; Gus was a full-grown silverback. He also held twelve doctorates from some of the most prestigious schools in the country. Like his bride, he was a survivor of a lost city of advanced apes that had been destroyed in a volcanic eruption by the Eldest Flame. They had been engaged since childhood, but Gus had escaped as a youth while Kehla had become the spiritual leader of a resistance group. Now that they were both in the US, they were inseparable.

  “How was the dinner?” Gus asked, picking up his bishop.

  “We saw a movie and a murder,” Vic said from behind Doc.

  Gus paused, holding his bishop in midair. “A movie and a murder? That does sound like a busy night.”

  “We even had a visit from your friend Commissioner Pennyworth,” Doc added, undoing his own tie as he walked over to the bar. He pulled off his tuxedo jacket and hung it on the back of one of the bar seats. “Anyone want anything?”

  “Coke,” Vic said on her way to her usual corner of the leather couch.

  “Gus? Kehla?”

  “Just fruit juice for me, without ice,” Kehla said. “He's got a pot of Earl Grey.”

  Doc busied himself behind the bar, getting everyone's drinks. “Where's Gilly?”

  “I'm not sure, he said something about going out to hear someone play downtown. It's either that or street racing.” Gus sniffed, before pouring himself some tea.

  “He might be at a baseball game,” Vic said, curling up on the couch. “There’s a new team this season.”

  Doc handed out drinks and then reversed one of the seats in front of the bar, a glass of iced tea in hand. “So here's what we know so far: It seems my late cousin Cornelius had an ulterior motive for asking me over for a meal at his club.”

  “Your late cousin?” Kehla asked.

  “I told you we saw a murder.” Vic sipped delicately at her soda.

  “Anyway,” Doc said, continuing his explanation. “Cousin Cornelius had asked me to join him over dinner because he had a problem. It seems the coffee trading consortium of which he was the head is having a piracy problem in the Sunda Strait and they wanted him to ask me for help.

  “Unfortunately, the chef at the club had not prepared the Fugu for the fish liver soup properly before his own untimely demise, and so the first course proved fatal for Cornelius. I would have questioned the waiter, but he had already decamped.”

  “Why not ask the Dutch navy to do something about the pirates?” Gus asked, blowing on his tea. “Those are their waters.”

  “Because the Dutch navy has nothing that can catch up to a flying wing large enough to launch a squadron of torpedo-armed pursuit planes.” Doc shrugged and drank a mouthful of tea. “It's a difficult situation.”

  “But you're going to help him,” Gus said. He drained his tea and stumped over toward the sideboard. Taking down a large snifter, he filled it with brandy and swirled it slowly to release the aroma. “Or rather, we're going to help him.”

  “Well, not him exactly,” Vic offered. “He's dead. We'll help the consortium with their problem, though.” She sighed. “I don’t trust them, but I guess Doc owes it to his cousin.”

  Gus shrugged. “It sounds the same from where I sit.”

  “That's fine,” Doc said, “but we've got a few things to do. To start with, we need to find out what we can about that waiter. I'd also like to know more about the chef who was killed. I'll hit Chinatown. Gus, you can call around and see what you can find out about the piracy problem. Vic, you see what you can do with the coffee consortium.”

  “Right,” Vic answered.

  “What about me?” Kehla asked.

  “For now work with Gus; you don't know the city well enough to go out on your own yet.”

  She nodded, then went back to looking over the chess board. “I'll keep an eye on him.”

  #

  Vic walked out of yet another office building, muttering under her breath. It had taken all the manners her late grandmother had instilled in her to keep Vic from walking out in a fury. Carstairs had been polite, if condescending, but she was no further than she had been this morning. Yes, the consortium was losing ships; no he didn't know why they were being targeted in particular. Nobody seemed to know anything about why Basingstoke had been targeted in particular, nor did anyone seem to care. They were worried about their own protection, but it seemed they'd all written off Cornelius.

  Either that or they didn't want to talk to her because she was a woman.

  A car honked, making her step back from the street before it rushed past, and forcing her attention back to her surroundings. Brightly colored signs told her she was on the edge of Chinatown; many of the consortium members had offices in this area because of their business connections with the Far East.

  Vic had one more office to visit, and she wasn’t looking forward to it. Richard Van Houten, generally regarded as the power behind the throne in the consortium, had his office deep inside Chinatown. That wasn’t a problem; the problem was that he had loudly campaigned for the repeal of the nineteenth amendment at the same time as the eighteenth. With that kind of history, she didn’t expect much cooperation from the man.

  Keeping an eye out for traffic, Vic stepped underneath the brightly colored gate into Chinatown proper; enjoying the spring weather. It was warm enough that she didn't need a heavy coat, but before the sweltering heat of summer really hit. The sounds and smells of Chinatown, especially the smells, reminded her of the first time she visited Shanghai as a girl on the way out of Russia. The sidewalks were almost empty; so she put a little swing in her stride, glad she didn't have to weave through crowds.

  Vic was about a block into the district when she heard a high buzzing sound from the shadows of a narrow alley. Unsure of its source, she took a quick step back. Seconds later, a tiny machine shot out of the alleyway, hanging on four whining propellers. Her eyes went wide as the machine hovered in front of her. A serrated ring a foot in diameter spun like a saw blade around an X-shaped frame with four small engines just inside the inner edge. In the very center of the X was a spherical body topped with an antenna.

  A beam of green light shot out from the top of the antenna and started sweeping toward Vic. The beam flashed past her, stopped, and then swung back to put a green dot on her chest. The moment the light stopped; the blade whined into high gear, spinning faster and faster.

  Without thinking Vic pulled out her pistol, flipped off the safety, and put a round into the middle of the sphere. It didn’t penetrate, but the impact knocked the machine back off the sidewalk as the bullet ricocheted down the alleyway. All four propellers stopped and it dropped like a stone; showering sparks when it hit the sidewalk.

  For a moment, she thought it was dead. Kneeling down, she was about to poke at it with her Walther PPK. Then the propellers started up again and it slowly hauled itself back into the air. The buzzing grew louder, and the ring spun up again to the sound of metal screeching in protest. Keeping her pistol in front of her, Vic started backing up just as another machine zipped out of the alley.

  It shot its green light to the first one, and the two started chattering back and forth across their beams; it looked like Morse code only faster. Seconds later, they rose and spread out like a pair of lionesses on the hunt: cutting her off from the street.

  Vic didn't wait to see what they were going to do next. Kicking her heels off, she turned and ran in the only direction they had left open; straight toward a small apothecary shop.

  Praying it was open, she threw herself at the door. A bell rang somewhere above her head as she dashed into the dark confines of the shop. A musty smell filled her nostrils, but she paid no attention, looking for somewhere to hide. There was a stand of bamboo brooms to her left, set against a shelf of
jars filled with unrecognizable substances. A handful of barrels divided the store into two sections. Metal flagpoles topped with American flags filled a bucket on the other side of the doorway. Vic ducked behind the barrels and started shoving the closest one against the door.

  An attractive young woman came out from the back of the store cursing in rapid-fire Cantonese.

  “Quiet,” Vic hissed in the same language, shoving a second barrel against the door. “Flying machines are chasing me.”

  “What are you doing in my store, you shoeless hussy!” The shopkeeper pointed imperiously at the door. “Who are you hiding from? Shouldn’t you should be at home taking care of your husband instead of hiding out in Chinatown?”

  “I'm not married, and I'm not hiding from any men. There are two flying machines chasing me.” Vic ducked behind one of the remaining barrels and pointed her pistol at the door.

  “So you're a crazy floozy? Barricading the door and pointing a gun but you’re not hiding from anyone?” The shopkeeper had come out from behind her counter, brandishing a six-inch cleaver like a miniature battleaxe.

  Green light flashed through the window, and the unmistakable sound of a wood saw screamed in Vic's ears. The killer machines were ripping their way through the door. It was too late to hide, so Vic took a two-handed grip on her pistol, even though she had few hopes that it would actually stop the machines. Her spare magazine was already in her waistband, but that only gave her eleven rounds. Kehla had told her she needed a bigger gun, but she hadn't listened. Besides, it wasn’t like Vic could fire one of the twelve-gauge shotgun pistols Kehla favored

  “Maybe it is a machine, but why did you bring it to my shop? There are dozens of others on this street.” The woman had calmed down a little, but she still sounded suspicious.

  “If you have a back door, leave now,” Vic told the other woman. “I'm pretty sure I can slow them down, but I don't think this pistol will stop them.”

  “I'm not leaving my shop, you hussy.” The shopkeeper came out from behind the counter and flourished her cleaver, her eyes flashing. “Anything that comes through that door will have to answer to this.”

  “Just stay behind me,” Vic told her. “But don't hesitate to run if you have to.”

  “Don't worry, I'll protect you,” the young woman replied, a determined expression on her face. “You can't pay for my door if you're dead.”

  Vic shook her head. If she wasn't careful, this woman was going to get them both killed. At least she was on her feet, even if she didn't have any shoes on. The pistol felt light in her hand, the grooves on the grip catching the sweat from her palms. Slow deep breaths, she hated waiting. Her heart hammered in her chest, couldn't the damn things just be through already?

  At that moment, the first one obliged, as its teeth broke through the green wooden door. A spray of sawdust hit Vic in the chest, climbing up her blouse towards her face. She squinted reflexively, and then took a half step to the right, just enough to get a better angle on the killer machine.

  The rest of the blade broke through, spinning wildly as the machine pushed into the shop. Drawing a bead where the crossbar met the inner ring, Vic fired twice. The bullets spanged off the metal; bending the ring and bringing the blade screeching to a jarring halt. The machine vibrated against the door, trying to back the ring out of the hole it had cut.

  Vic grabbed a flagpole and dropped it through the ring, pinning the machine against the door. It struggled for a few seconds, and then went still.

  A moment later, the other one sliced through the wood, backed up and slammed against the door, again. This one appeared to be smarter than the first, possibly because she hadn’t shot it yet. It had made several cuts and was pounding against the door trying to create an opening wide enough to fly through. From the sound of the blade ripping against the wood, it was almost there. Green light flickered through the room as the machine's beam flashed. Once again it settled on Vic; a green dot right above her heart.

  Just like that, she was calm. A smile crept across her face.

  Both hands on the gun, feet spread slightly apart. It was going to cut her in half, the shopkeeper too; if she let it. She couldn't run; she couldn't hide.

  It broke through. Vic fired. One shot; two shots; three shots. Blam. Blam. Blam. The slide locked back on her Walther as smoke wafted form the barrel. Mechanically she went through the process of ejecting the magazine and slamming the other home; her ears ringing from the sound of gunfire in close quarters.

  As if from a distance, she saw the shopkeeper kneeling in front of her, the cleaver rising and falling in time to the ringing in her ears as the woman used it almost like a hammer, smashing the machine to pieces.

  Vic dropped a gentle hand onto the woman's shoulder. “You can stop, it's broken. It can't hurt anyone.”

  She kept smashing her cleaver into the ruined machine.

  “Stop, you'll break your cleaver.” There was still no response but as the ringing cleared from her ears, Vic realized she was speaking Russian, not Cantonese or even English. Changing languages like mental gears, she tried again, this time in Cantonese. “You can put the cleaver down; the machine is broken.”

  As the woman slowly rose, Vic noticed her hand was still on the other woman’s shoulder. Her hand dropped to her side and the woman turned to face her. Once she was standing, the woman flipped her hair back from her face. She was prettier than Vic had expected, maybe a few years younger than herself. She certainly wasn't the angry harridan that her first words had led Vic to think.

  “You owe me two hundred dollars for my door.” Her eyes flashed, as she spoke English for the first time since Vic had entered her store. She had just a touch of an accent, barely enough to be noticeable. “I’m going to have to pay someone to replace my door, and I’ll lose business because I can’t open the shop with no door. You need to give me two hundred dollars to cover the loss.”

  “I don't have two hundred dollars on me,” Vic admitted. Her purse was lying on the floor next to their broken attacker. She knelt down to pick it up, stuffing her pistol back inside as she did so. “I have thirty-five dollars in my purse. That's all.”

  “That's not enough. My door's going to cost you two hundred dollars; more if I have to close tomorrow,” the shopkeeper said flatly.

  Vic ran her fingers through her hair. “I can get you the money. I just don't have it with me.” She pulled out the thirty-five dollars. “I can leave this with you as a sign of good faith.”

  “How do I know some other machines won't kill you on the way home?”

  The shopkeeper pointed her cleaver at the remains of the machine on the floor. “I don't want to read about the silly white woman who got herself killed owing me money in the papers tomorrow.”

  “If you have a phone, I can call my friend and have him bring you the money.”

  “You have a friend who will bring you two hundred dollars?” The shopkeeper wrinkled her nose at Vic. “I knew you were that type of woman. I don't have a telephone, so I'll have to come with you to get the money. Just let me get my neighbor to watch my shop.”

  The woman opened the door and slipped out of sight, leaving Vic alone in the shop with the machines. Paying for the door would be no problem, but Doc or Gus would probably want to examine the machines.

  Vic took off her jacket and started collecting parts from the machine the shopkeeper had destroyed.

  “Hey, what do you want with that?” The shopkeeper had returned. “It's in my shop, it's mine. You can't just take things that don't belong to you.”

  “It was after me,” Vic replied. “That should count for something.”

  “I'll add it to your bill.” The shopkeeper went back behind the counter and came back with a purse. “Let's go. You're paying for Wong to watch my store, too.”

  “Fine, but before we go I'm Vic, Victoria Frank.” She extended a hand.

  “I'm Li Ming.” Ming didn't take Vic's hand. “Isn't Vic Victoria a bit long for a name?”

>   “It's just Vic, short for Victoria.”

  “Sounds more difficult than it needs to be.” Ming pushed aside the remains of the door and gestured for Vic to precede her. “The clock is ticking.”

  Once out the door, Vic looked for a cab.

  #

  The elevator chimed and Doc turned to face the elevator door; just as it opened to reveal Vic and an Asian woman he did not recognize. There was sawdust up the front of Vic's blouse, and a bundle of something wrapped in her jacket. She had lost her shoes, much to the detriment of another pair of stockings. The other woman watched her like a hawk.

  “You look like you've had a day,” Gus said from across the room.

  “You could say that.” Vic held up the bundle. “I've got a present for you and Doc to play with.”

  “Not until you pay for it,” the Asian woman said quickly, “and my door.”

  “But I get to keep the old door and the thing that's stuck in it.”

  “Fine, but it's going to cost you three hundred, plus another fifty if the door isn't replaced today.”

  “What are you talking about?” Doc interjected, trying to figure out exactly what the woman was talking about.

  “I had just left Carstairs' office and was heading to Van Houten's when I was attacked by some sort of flying disk. It had four propellers inside a serrated ring, like a flying saw. A bullet barely slowed it down, so when it was joined by a second one, I ran into the only storefront they hadn’t blocked off.” Vic explained.

  “She led them right to my shop,” the Asian woman said, glaring at Vic.

  “They were herding me to your shop!” Vic shot back before continuing her story. “I slammed the door, but they cut their way through. We eventually trapped one in the door and smashed the other, but I owe Ming for the price of the door.”

  “And the loss of business,” Ming added. “Plus getting Wong to watch my shop.”

  “That's fine, just let me write you a check.” Doc said, walking over to his desk.