Many Words

“This is no’ better than sneakin’ along the catwalks,” Iseabail groused.

Cannon unfolded the deck plan tucked in his waistcoat pocket and studied it. He pointed aft. “All we have to do is get to that catwalk.”

Iseabail squinted, then looked over her shoulder. “Tha’s further than we’ve already come.”

“And we’re already late,” said Cannon, tucking the map back into his pocket. “Come on.”

Emma undid her harness and doffed her flying helmet as Inconstant‘s forward skyhook drew her Kestrel up into the hangar. Past the caution striping, Joe was waiting.

Over Emma’s head, a transfer hook locked through her plane’s arresting hoop, then the skyhook let go. The Kestrel swung side to side as the transfer hook trundled along the overhead rails to clear the hole in the deck.

It jolted to a stop as soon as it was clear, and a ladder appeared against the side of the fuselage. Emma rolled the canopy back on its rails, clambered out of the cockpit, and slid down the ladder.

“Now what was so important you had to call me in?” Emma demanded, walking up to Joe and pushing her helmet into his chest. She had to raise her voice. On the big center skyhook, a twin-engined Albatross transport was warming up. “The only bit of fun I get to have today, ruined.”

“Wouldn’t say the only fun,” Joe replied. “Isea’s grapple gun is on the fritz. Have to do things the old-fashioned way.”

Emma’s glare turned into a grin almost immediately. “And you need me to make the shot.”

Joe spread his hands and inclined his head, raising an eyebrow as if to say, ‘Well? Will you?’

“Why didn’t you just say so?” said Emma. “It’s a way harder shot than anything I’d get beating up on the Reds.”

“The boss is still aboard. Didn’t want to give up the game, in case they’re listening.”

“Fair enough.” Emma glanced over Joe’s shoulder to the Albatross. It was an ungainly-looking, asymmetric thing. A long wing, nearly matching the skyhook’s forty yards of width, played host to two separate fuselages placed side by side near its center. The left-hand fuselage had an engine at its front, then swelled to the cargo hold and slimmed again to a point, decorated on the top and left by tailplanes. The right-side fuselage was much shorter, with a multifaceted glass nose, an engine aft, and a machine gun turret sprouting from the top. “Who’s flying?”

“Choufeng,” Joe replied.

“Just the man for the job.”

Out the pane of bulletproof glass in front of her, Emma could just see the Red Banner running at full speed due west. Inconstant tailed the Soviet airship by a good five miles. Southwest of both zeppelins, the sun sank behind a towering wall of cloud, casting golden rays through its ramparts, leaving both airships in shadow. Well above Inconstant, the fading light caught circling planes as they formed up for the attack.

Emma had launched an hour ago to take up position a hundred miles northeast of Inconstant, at the far end of her scouting line. Just as she reached her place in the formation, the call came over the radio: Inconstant had herself stumbled across the Red Banner. With a good deal of swearing she had managed not to transmit, Emma had turned around. Now, she only hoped to make it back before the party was over.

Her radio crackled. “That you, Green Four?” Joe’s voice.

She thumbed a switch on the flight stick. “What’s the word, Home Plate?”

“Come on in. You’re needed for something.”

Emma raised her eyes to the heavens, then rubbed her glove over her microphone and said, “You’re breaking—”

“Seen that one before, Green Four,” said Joe. “Land as soon as you can. That’s an order.”

This time, before the cursing started, Emma made sure her thumb was on the microphone switch.


With great care, Cannon walked along a four-inch aluminum girder, part of the skeletal framework supporting Red Banner‘s skin, arms held out to his sides to aid his balance.

Cannon took three more steps, then gratefully looped his arm around another girder, part of a ring descending from above and looping away down toward the keel. He swung around it to clear the way for Iseabail. Looking miserable, she shuffled along the girder from the previous ring, twenty-five feet away.

As Inconstant‘s attack begun, they had kicked in the hatch from Volkov’s suite down to the crew deck, raced down the companionway, and jumped the railing on the beam-to-beam catwalk at its base. The crew was scrambling frantically to what passed for their battle stations, and Cannon and Iseabail would never have made it aft to the baggage room sneaking along the catwalks.

Volkov looked up. “You are not archaeologists.”

Cannon lowered his pistol incrementally. “Pirates, actually.”

Volkov nodded. “Is very valuable item in my—”

“Yes, the idol.” Cannon waved the Mauser as he spoke. “That’s what we’re here for. You went and dug up something a very rich man wants for himself.”

“You?”

Cannon snorted. “I’m not that rich.”

The Russian sighed. “I hoped to pay for your service.”

“It’s aye an odd time tae be askin’—” Iseabail began.

Cannon shushed her. “How so?”

Volkov met his gaze. “Knock me out too. If I am also asleep, Kopeikin will know I was not guilty. Then, after time passes and I am with my family in Leningrad, bring us out.”

“Can you pay?”

“I will tell you where to find idol.”

Cannon shook his head. “That’s a good down payment. What else?”

Volkov looked over Cannon’s shoulder as he thought. “I have access to museums. In Leningrad, we have State Hermitage. It has art and antiquities to spare.”

“I think we may be able to do business,” said Cannon. He kept the pistol more or less covering Volkov. “We’ll be in touch. Now, where’s the idol?”

“In luggage hold, aft of crew spaces on deck below. Go through hatch at end of hallway, then aft, but you will never get there without distraction.”

At that very moment, an alarm came over the intercom. Captain Rokossovsky’s voice said, “All passengers, return to your cabins at once.”

Cannon grinned. “Well, would you look at that. Isea, keep him covered. Volkov, face the nice girl with the gun, would you?” He walked up behind the Russian and held the handkerchief over his face. “Now breathe in deep.”


Emma Foster squinted at a dial on her cockpit dash, then hunted for a switch on the sidewall. She flipped it on, and the instruments glowed from behind. Plenty of fuel to spare. She pushed her throttle forward. The two Bentley radials behind her rumbled a little louder.

She flew one of Inconstant‘s Kestrels. The Long Nines’ take on the airframe ditched the original inline engine in favor of just under two thousand horsepower of persnickety British motor. The Kestrels were agile and very, very fast, but Emma couldn’t stand them. She preferred the Falcon, a stouter design which took less finesse. Being tall, willowy, and as fond of a good brawl as the next Australian, she had her fill of finesse fighting hand to hand.

The door opened in front of him, and Cannon tensed. Kopeikin stormed through, slammed the door closed, and looked to his left, down the hallway toward the washroom. Cannon flicked the cork out of his vial of chloroform, covered his handkerchief with its contents, and pounced on the Russian from behind. He slapped his left hand hard over Kopeikin’s nose and mouth, holding the handkerchief in place, and wrapped his right arm around the Russian’s throat.

Kopeikin struggled, tried to call out, and then became still. Cannon kept the handkerchief in place for a few moments longer, and lowered Kopeikin to the deck.

Volkov tapped his fingers nervously on the table. A thump came from outside the door, and he sprang to his feet. “What was that?”

Iseabail shrugged. “I didna hear anythin’.”

“No,” Volkov said. His brows came together and his lips thinned. “It was sound of body hitting floor.” He went to the door and pushed it open.

Cannon drew his Mauser and stood across the hall from the door. The door opened again. Cannon leveled the pistol at Volkov. “Easy there, big fella. I’m not looking to kill anyone today.”

Shock spread across Volkov’s face. He looked left, then right, spotting Kopeikin. He let out an anguished cry. “You already have!”

“He’s nae dead,” Iseabail said from behind Volkov. He turned, and Iseabail pointed a Beretta at his forehead. “Only sleepin’.”

“It is me you have killed! Me, and my wife, and my children!” Volkov fell to his knees. “It would be mercy to shoot me now.”

Cannon raised an eyebrow and glanced at Iseabail. She looked as confused as he imagined he did. “You’re going to have to run that by me again. Isea, have we killed anyone today?”

Iseabail tapped her chin. “I cannae bring it ta mind, if we did.”

“They are in Leningrad,” Volkov said. “In Panama, I spoke to American ambassador. About defecting, you see. Kopeikin, he is our political officer. He heard of it. He was taking me back to Soviet Union, never to leave again. Now he will think I did this.” Volkov slumped against the door frame. “And my family is as good as dead.”

Kopeikin’s eyes narrowed. Volkov said, “Go into hallway, turn left. Is second door on your right.”

Cannon excused himself and stood. The vial of chloroform in his jacket pocket bounced against his side. He left the room, closed the door behind him, and walked in place, footsteps loud at first, then quieter. Finally, he took a step up the hall, away from the bathroom, and flattened himself against the wall behind him. He took his handkerchief in his left hand and the vial of chloroform in his right, and then he waited.

“Zep spotted, two points forward the port beam!” the spotter cried.

Joe Copeland, second in command of the Long Nines and, for the moment, the man in charge aboard Inconstant, crossed the control gondola to the spotter’s position by the windows. He held his hand out, and the spotter passed Copeland his binoculars.

Copeland raised them to his eyes and scanned the horizon. There—a zeppelin, much smaller than Inconstant, with a red star on its upper tailplane. “Red Banner,” he said. “Twenty miles out. Go to battle stations. Launch the air wing.”

Alarms sounded throughout the pirate airship. In her hangar bay, airplanes swung on their arresting gear as the overhead rails carried them to the skyhooks. In threes, they dropped free of the zep, clawing back into the sky with the roar of powerful engines and forming up five hundred feet above Inconstant.

Copeland checked his watch. Ten minutes.


Iseabail glanced at the clock over her shoulder. Ten minutes to eight.

Suddenly, Kopeikin spoke. Iseabail jumped. “Enough of this,” the Russian said harshly. “Where is Doctor Smith?”

“I dinnae know,” Iseabail replied. “Yon washroom, I’d say, if I were made tae guess.”

Kopeikin snarled and stood, throwing his chair back three feet. “Stay here, Comrade Volkov,” he said. “Keep watch on our guest.”

“What’re ye going tae do? Barge in?”

Kopeikin turned a glare on Iseabail. “What do you have planned? What is your scheme?”

“I have no idea wha’ yer on about.”

Kopeikin stared her down for a few moments. Iseabail returned the look unblinkingly. The Russian shook his head and strode for the door, throwing it open and disappearing through it.

By the time they pushed away their plates, the clock read 7:20. Cannon kept his poker face on as they moved to the sitting room. Half of it was given over to plush red chairs and a sofa, arranged around the window. The half nearer the entry centered on a green felt card table. A crystal glass sat on a coaster in front of each of the four chairs, and the bottle of vodka stood at the middle of the table.

Cannon pulled out a chair for Iseabail and circled the table to sit across from her. The Russians took the other chairs. Volkov poured a glass of vodka for each of them. “Zdorovye,” he said.

“To your health,” translated Kopeikin.

Cannon raised his glass. “And yours.”

They drank. The Russians drained their glasses. Cannon tipped his back, but left a good deal in the bottom of it. Iseabail followed his lead.

Volkov took one deck of cards and passed another to Cannon. Both men shuffled; Cannon set his deck aside for the next hand. The bidding began. The first round went ordinarily enough; after that, the Russians’ bids turned increasingly nonsensical. Cannon was no bridge expert, but he’d heard that skilled partnerships developed a sort of language during bidding. If that was the case here, they were in for a long night. He glanced at the clock, and corrected himself: not so long after all.

The bidding ended with Kopeikin, and Iseabail thought over her first move. She eventually led the jack of diamonds, and they were off to the races. The Russians said very little, despite Cannon’s attempt to engage them in further conversation, and after the second hand, he gave up.

Volkov and Kopeikin were savvy opponents, even with the vodka flowing freely, and Iseabail and Cannon found themselves a little behind in points a few hands in. They had spent most of the trip beating rank amateurs, and coming to grips with decent opposition was proving trickier than they had expected.

Twenty minutes passed in the blink of an eye, and at long last, the flow of stewards bearing many and varied confectionery delights slowed to a halt. Cannon and Iseabail won a hand, edging just a hair ahead. As Kopeikin and Iseabail shuffled, Iseabail raised an eyebrow at Cannon, and tipped her head fractionally toward the clock. Volkov refilled their glasses.

Cannon sighed. Not once had the Russians looked away long enough to spike their drinks. He would have to improvise.

“Beg pardon,” he said. “Might I ask after the washroom?”


Two weeks ago, if someone had told him he would be growing fond of Russian food, Cannon would have been dubious. Beets, cabbage, and excruciating poverty were hardly his favorite ingredients.

The chefs aboard made passable food in the Western European mode, but it wasn’t anything to write home about. After all, Cannon frequently dined in Paris, where a man could throw a dart at a list of cafes and find a culinary masterpiece wherever he ended up. When working in their native style, though, the Russians surpassed every expectation Cannon had. Sometimes the food swam in butter; sometimes it was seasoned and spiced to perfection. For Volkov, the chefs pulled out all the stops.

They talked of archaeology, mostly. Cannon filled in made-up details about one of his invented Indian dig sites. Iseabail did an admirable job coloring around the edges. Volkov was surprised to discover that the Royal Society was less an employer and more a sometime patron; the Soviet system seemed to consider its field archaeologists interchangeable cogs in the grand scientific machine. Fitting, Cannon thought.

He was surprised to hear very little out of Kopeikin; the short man had been the chattier of the two by far at the captain’s dinner. Volkov, on the other hand, talked more than Cannon expected, on a wide array of subjects. He spoke wistfully of his home in Leningrad, but avoided the topic after Kopeikin gave him a warning look.

Cannon eyed the clock. It was already past seven. They were running short on time. The stewards had just laid out a third—or was it fourth?—meat course, the promised stuffed duck, and there was no end in sight.

“Yer goin’ tae stuff me more than yon duck,” Iseabail said, cutting into the dish with a grin.

“Not to worry,” Volkov replied. “Is last real food. After we finish it, we will move to sitting room for dessert and cards.”

“Superb,” said Cannon.

“Do you mean the duck or the plan?” Kopeikin asked.

“Both.”