Stones throe, p.6
Stone's Throe, page 6
She was younger than I by some considerable margin, and while by the moon's light I could tell that her eyes were light, I could not determine their color. Her cap had been blown away as she fell—the plane she had leapt from buzzed above us, one of many in the night sky that blotted out stars and made shadows in the moonlight—and her lush dark hair quickly lost its shape in the wind. I had never before seen a woman dressed in the SS uniform. It suited her as it suited everyone: strengthened her shoulders, narrowed her waist, made intimidating what might have otherwise been insignificant, as did the command insignia on her lapels; she outranked the officer I had felled at la Palais Garnier. At her hip was her sidearm, visible when the wind whipped her long black coat aside for a moment. A satchel lay over her back, its single strap snugged against her breast. That was not standard for the uniform, and a smile crept onto my lips. "You should have left that in your plane, mademoiselle."
"Commander Knapp," she snapped with high pride.
"Are you sleeping with the Führer to have received such rank?" I wondered aloud, in as deliberately insulting a tone as I could manage when conversation had to be shouted in order to be heard at all. It was true I wished to antagonize her: she was dressed for the cold speeding winds of flight, whereas I was rapidly losing feeling in my extremities, but it was also true that curiosity had me in its grip. I had traveled the world, and knew well enough that women soldiers peopled nearly every war front, but in the skies above Paris was not a place I had expected to encounter a female SS commander, particularly one of such tender years. "How disappointed he will be, when you fail to bring him back the crown."
"The crown is ours!" Against all sense she disregarded her sidearm and surged at me, as if my words were so personal an insult that I must die at her hands, with my life crushed between her fingers.
But I had been fighting since I was fifteen and knew better than to strike in rage. To succumb to emotion in battle was often to lose, even if at the time it seemed to be success. This I had learned at the knee of le Monstre himself, and his spectre, living in Josephine Baker's voice, reminded me of it. I stepped to the side, unwilling to engage with this girl if I did not have to. The force of her approach threw her past me. I inserted a foot before her ankle and laid her out, belly down, on the plane's wing. My own hair finally began to loosen from its tight-pinned waves as I knelt with my weight against her spine, and withdrew the knife that had so long been resting in my thigh-sheath. With a single slice, her satchel came free. My weight still pinning her, I bound the satchel in place against my own back, using the golden silk rope to secure it, then turned the girl onto her back and held her with both fists. "You're young and foolish, mademoiselle. Return home. Better yet, go to England, to America, away from the poison that is the Führer and his ambitions. Do not die for one man's ugly dreams. The world is a better place than that."
The wretched enfant shrugged her knees to her chest and kicked me in the belly hard enough to knock me back. She had not thought it through, though: I retained my grasp on her coat, and thus pulled her with me as I fell. We bounced once on the plane's wing, then flew free, myself breathless from the blow and her face white with terror.
But she rallied well, fear lending her speed: one hand shot out, capturing the lowest strut on the plane as we were swept below it. The strain showed instantly: she could not long hold both my weight and her own. She fumbled once for the buttons on her coat, but gave up as the effort threatened her precarious grip on the strut.
"Surtout, ne bouge pas." To my relief, she did as instructed: she did not move as I used all my strength to haul myself up her lapels and hook an elbow around the strut. Dangling there, I seized her coat more firmly and hoisted her onto the strut before me.
She did not try to dislodge me, but rather went immediately for the satchel I had tied to my back. I made a fist of my loose hand and hit her. She shied back, then, teeth bared, accepted that if she lost me, she would lose her prize as well. With that thought clearly in mind, she scrambled up the biplane's side to swing into the second seat.
I, still dangling, looked at pilot and Commander both with a disbelief bordering on laughter. She offered a hand, and my laughter broke free. "I think not, mademoiselle." There was no grace in hitching my legs around the strut, nor any beauty in humping myself around until I could scramble to the wing, but it was effective, and little else mattered. The pilot bucked the plane once, but Knapp's sharp soprano rang out to stay his hand. Perched between wings, cold as night, and beginning to tire, I wondered what the pschent represented to the Nazi cause, that it was so worth pursuing.
They would not answer even if I asked. Knapp clambered over the pilot, pursuing me onto the wings. I swung upward, leaving the comparative safety of the lower wing for the upper's room to move; if it was a fight she wanted, a fight she would have.
All thought of battle was swept from my mind as I stood on the upper wing and an unparalleled vista spread before me. We had traveled a fair distance in our struggles, and la Tour Eiffel rose up before us, presented to me at an angle I had never dreamt of seeing it from. It glimmered in the moonlight, a paean to architectural grace and beauty. Stars shone brilliantly behind it, the moon caught in its highest spires. La Ville-Lumière spread out below, no less glittering or fair than the stars themselves. La Seine glided through streets silenced by distance, its black ribbon steaming here and reflecting the lights of delicate bridges there. Smoke rose in thin lines from chimneys, but no scent of ash was carried to me at this height. The only disruptions in those smooth streaks of smoke were those caused by other biplanes, some distant and some near, as they too roared through the sky. Even their red, swastika-marked wings, though, could not diminish the awesome sight of Paris from above. I forgot all else: cold, battle, wind, fear faded into a simple and sublime joy, that I should be so fortunate as to stand here now and see this beauty stretching before me.
My admiration came to a harsh end as the aeroplane suddenly bobbled in the air and Knapp struck me from behind. Or rather, fell upon me: her intentions of slashing the satchel from my back were made clear by the flash of silver blade that flew past me, and though her weight bore me to the wing, her own startled grunt implied that the wind-induced dip of the wing had thrown her.
As well for me it had; she might have succeeded in her endeavor, so rapt was I in Parisian beauty. But no more: the battle was once more at hand, and together we rolled, thumping and kicking, across the entire breadth of the upper wing. My spine did not take kindly to rolling over the pschent, which had sufficient weight and solidity that I dared think it was truly made of gold. Knapp, having had enough of precarious rolling, seized the shoulder twists of my golden rope and hauled me to my feet; she was smaller than I, but strong.
And, I feared, foolish: her hands were now wrapped around my straps, and mine were free. "Stop this now," I pled, genuine emotion trembling my voice. "One or all of us will surely die if you cannot give up this madness."
Her eyes, so large and wide that my heart demanded that I see her as an innocent, seemed for an instant conflicted, but rather than succumb, she released me to strike a blow.
Too late: I had moved even as I spoke, preparing myself, and when I knew she could not be reasoned with, I threw a right fist that connected with her jaw at speed. The sound was audible even above the engine's roar. Knapp's eyes rolled back, unconsciousness all but claiming her, and she fell backward. She was close to the wing's end, and even with her faculties dulled by the power of my blow, enough awareness remained within her mind for rigid terror to shape her face.
I lunged forward, my hand extended. Her fingertips brushed mine, and she was gone.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Horror struck me, but I had no time to mourn; no sooner did she fall than the pilot pitched the plane as if to follow her. I flew upward, screaming merrily all the way, and through no more than the grace of fortune did I seize the upward wing as the plane passed below my soaring self. I am not too proud to say I gibbered, teeth rattling and body shaking with fear that could only be expressed through nonsensical babbling as I crawled in a terror down the wing while the pilot chased Knapp.
I reached him first, seized his goggles, cut his restraints, and threw him after Knapp. Without hesitation, I swung into his seat, then faced a grim and unavoidable truth: I could not fly an aeroplane.
Motorcycles were my transportation of choice; they were simple things, a few gears, a brake, and the body's own weight to help it corner. I was not of sufficient mass to guide an aeroplane by leaning, nor, I thought, were most pilots: there was not enough room in the cockpit for a person of tremendous size, and so there had to be another answer.
The blocks under my feet provided that answer. I pressed one and the plane banked sharply; releasing it sent me back on a steady keel. The other tipped me in the opposite direction, leaving me to face the next uncertainty: gaining and losing altitude. Principally, losing it in a controlled and calm fashion until I landed somewhere wide, smooth, and untrafficked enough for a novice pilot to survive a first landing attempt. L'Avenue des Champs-Élysées, perhaps; I cast a nervous glance beneath me, trying to place myself in regards to its location.
It was behind me, and so were half a dozen Red Barons, as I had started to think of them, all closing in on my location at far greater speed and with vastly more confidence than I had in my own flying skills. Gulping down worry, I pressed forward on the yoke before me, trusting that forward meant down.
It did not. My plane climbed and almost instantly began to choke and sputter: the acceleration was insufficient to the rise. I pulled back and leveled out again, a relief that was all but secondary to my frantic search for speed. Bit by bit I accomplished it, though the old plane had no chance of reaching the speeds of a more modern vehicle. If it had, bien sûr, I no doubt would have been unable to fight on its wings while it flew; it had been difficult enough to keep my feet as it was.
With my lead, if not growing, at least no longer shrinking, I squirmed out of the bindings that held the crown against my back. There was suddenly more room to breathe, though the satchel was awkward on my lap. I checked my pursuit, then hastened to lean over the back of my seat into the one behind me, where I tied the satchel so firmly in place that I doubted it would be removed without a knife's help. Then I slunk back to my own cockpit, tied myself in as best I could with the tattered remains of Madame Baker's gown, and turned the plane to meet my enemies.
It was not blood lust, but pragmatism, which drove me to do so. I believed I could safely land on des Champs-Élysées, but I was not at all certain I could so much as find an airport or field that would be otherwise suitable; I was not accustomed to seeing Paris, much less navigating it, from the air. If returning to territory I knew meant facing down an oncoming Nazi scourge, so be it; the world did not need their sort terrorizing it anyway.
The flash of gunfire against the city-lit night came before the sound of guns rattling, before the sound of bullets whistling by. I lifted my plane higher before the projectiles zipped by, but a tight smile pulled at my lips. They had begun the aerial battle. I would make certain to finish it.
Mastering the controls for the mounted machine guns was less difficult than flight, and flight had been simple. Landing, I trusted, might be another matter entirely, but should the enemy prevail, it would be the least of my many worries. Staccato bursts of light flew from my guns, spattering lead toward oncoming aeroplanes. They were warning shots, nothing more: the crosshairs etched into my window-shield did not contain any enemy planes, but it seemed only sporting to announce my intention to fight. A few bullets clanged against the Eiffel Tower's elegant struts as we came around it again, and I made a silent apology to Monsieur Eiffel even as the thrill of a fight stretched a grin across my face. I had always said that my fists were the only weapons I ever needed, but that did nothing to diminish my enjoyment of the roaring power of gunfire.
I banked sharply, taking a turn around the Tower again, and found one, then two, Red Barons bearing down into my crosshairs. Gunfire exploded toward them, and the first of the Nazi planes screamed and plummeted toward the earth.
Instantly a bullet shattered my windscreen, destroying the crosshairs that had been of such use. I fired in return, only slowly realizing that my survival was thanks to my last flurry of bullets hitting not one, but two marks: not only the plane I had meant to fire at, but the one behind it had fallen to my bullets. The Nazi shot that had shattered my windscreen had been its last, lucky volley.
Lucky indeed, that it had shattered only the glass and not my breastbone as well. I was not afraid, but healthy respect for my enemy's skill made my next sally less rash. Rather than a frontal assault, I gained altitude again, watching the Barons as they roared upward behind me.
Their formation was a tight V, five remaining of the original eight—two I had shot down and the third I had absconded with. Given the state of my windscreen, I could hardly hope to defeat all of them in direct combat; wit and wisdom would be required.
I had seen barnstorming tricks performed, and without daring to think hard on my actions, brought the aeroplane's nose up at an alarming angle. I knew too little: that a plane would stall out in the air was certain, but at what altitude, at what inclination; these things were a mystery to me, and yet the risk had to be taken. Up, up, up and over in a mighty loop so that I might catch my enemy from behind and send them from the skies in a blaze of righteous fire.
Up, up—and panic seemed to seize the fuel lines themselves. From the engine's steady roar came a missed beat, then another. Up, and I lay pressed against my seat, heart in my mouth, gaze tipped to see the wide open sky with all its glittering stars and the brightly watching moon. Up, and in an exhilarating moment, momentum carried me over. The earth itself curved above me, Parisian lights becoming a man-made reflection of the distant stars. La Seine ran through them, a black, winding, dark reflection of the Milky Way. But I could take no more time to admire the city as the five Red Barons began to climb toward me while I fell back toward them, back toward the earth, guiding my aeroplane out of its arc and into pursuit of the Barons.
They, finally understanding my tactics, broke off their own rapid climbs too late. Three fell in a hail of bullets before any of them had righted themselves to face me; the fourth I met headlong, both of us blasting away at one another as if rage and determination could win the day. My plane shuddered and twitched with the impact of bullets. I hunched low, barely seeing over the dash, and aloud whispered, "S'il vous plaît, mon dieu, perhaps I will begin again to believe in you if I should survive the next few moments—!"
We passed so close to one another, my opponent and I, that I saw the stricken fear that crossed his face as he realized he had lost our confrontation. Whether it was his voice or the aeroplane's final scream that sounded as they fell, I could not know, but it seemed to me that it was the plane, and not the man, that shouted its last defiance before it hit the earth.
I ought not to have allowed myself to become so distracted: there was a final Baron left. But as I searched the Parisian night sky for it, I discovered it had chosen flight over fight: already it was some distance away, heading for the countryside rather than Paris's center. The impulse to hunt it down seized me and the decision hung in the balance until I remembered Josephine Baker standing bold and beautiful atop the opera house. The depth of her dark eyes called me back to my duties, and I turned my winged vehicle to the streets in search of a landing strip.
CHAPTER TWELVE
"Amelia! What splendid good fortune to hear from you! Of all our brethren, there is none I could have more need of in this hou—good heavens, Amelia, what has happened to you?" The exuberant greeting of my friend and compatriot, Professor Khan, became a trumpet of concern and alarm as he took in my appearance as I stood in the doorway of his professorial suite at la Sorbonne.
I had Madame Baker in one hand—speaking figuratively, of course. She had not so much deigned as to take my elbow when I offered it, although, given my state of dishevelment, she, nor anyone fit for company, could not be blamed. So: Madame Baker in one hand and the gold-wrapped crown in the other, and me between them in a gown that had only hours earlier been long, sparkling with sequins, and fit for the Opéra. Now it stopped above my knee, had nary a sequin to be seen, and appeared—with good reason—to have been in a series of fistfights.
"And," Khan went on, his dismay dissolving into admiration, "do my eyes deceive me, Amelia, or do you bring the divine Mrs. Baker to my humble offices? Madame, it is a genuine honor." With this accolade, Khan swept a bow and, with dark hopeful eyes, extended a hand to Madame Baker.
Had I not admired her before, Madame Baker would have won my affections forever with her next actions. Without visible hesitation she stepped forward and placed her hand in Khan's—and this time I did not prevaricate, not even within the confines of my own mind—in Khan's enormous paw, for my friend and fellow Centurion was a great ape.
The greatest of them, indeed: a gorilla, gifted with intellectual superiority by his warlord father, also called Khan, but my Khan had foresworn violence in all but the most extreme of circumstances, preferring instead to devastate his enemy with his mental superiority and extraordinary wits. Tonight, as most days, he was clad in garb suitable for a being who went among men as their intellectual equal: a kilt that left his magnificent torso bared while according him the basic tenets of modesty. In no way could he be mistaken for human; in no way was he anything less than a person, and Madame Baker treated him as such from that first extraordinary moment of meeting. Khan bowed over her hand, and she graced him with a blinding smile as he released the hand that was so small and delicate in his own.
