Which he did just in time to see Matheson cut down.
"Bastards," Hamilton said. "Fucking bastards. Retief, get yourself and the cargo boys aboard. Now."
Hamilton waited until they were moving across the ramp and then mounted it himself. He walked halfway out, his lower body covered by the ramp's low sidewalls and his upper torso by the body armor provided by Hans. There he stood, stock still, and waited for a janissary to show himself. When the janissary did, Hamilton whispered, "This is for Bernie, you bastard," and shot the man down.
Then Hamilton turned towards the hatchway and walked aboard.
As he entered the ship, he looked down at Matheson's body and knelt beside it. Retief was already retracting the ramp and closing the hatchway.
Quite to Hamilton's surprise, the black man opened his eyes and said, "That was all very touching, to be sure, baas, but I'm not quite dead yet. And, if you can manage to stop this red shit that's leaking out of me, I probably won't be."
"You're a bastard, Matheson, you know that?"
"I didn't know you cared."
The pilot heard in his ear, "Take off now." He didn't have to be told twice. Applying full power to his vertical thrusters, he began to move the ship up and out from the castle walls.
Where's Hans? Ling asked, in his mind.
How the fuck do I know, woman. He's not my responsibility.
I asked you politely, Ling said. Now tell me where Hans is.
Goddammit, fuck off. I'm busy.
The pilot reached for the control to add gas to the central and main lifting cell. Rather, he wanted to do so but discovered that he couldn't move his arm.
For the last time, where's Hans?
"She what?" Hamilton asked incredulously.
"She wants to know what happened to Hans. Who the fuck is Hans?" the pilot asked in Ling's voice. "If I don't come up with a good answer, she's not going to let me fly this airship. She's got me frozen. Look, I've got barely the horses to get up to Switzerland. Will you please tell her."
Listening in on the circuit, Hans asked, "Ling . . . can you hear me?"
"She can hear you . . . if you're Hans," the pilot answered.
"Then listen carefully," the man said. "I want you to release the pilot. It's important to me."
"Okay . . . she's unfrozen me."
"Ling . . . honey," Hans' voice continued. "Someone had to stay behind. I chose me . . . "
"Aiaiaiai!" the pilot screamed, then said aloud, "Goddammit, woman, I felt that."
"Ling . . . I chose me for a lot of good reasons. I'm sorry . . . .more than I can say. They're getting ready to rush me now. I have to go. I love you."
The last Ling heard was the pffft . . . pffft . . . pffft of Hans' submachine gun.
Down below, below the airship and even below Hans, the crematorium was fed from two tanks, each containing a mix of LPG, liquid petroleum gas, and oxygen. These tanks, for ease of installation, had been placed under the floor of the lab. That floor was growing very, very hot.
In those tanks under the floor, the oxygen-LPG mix was likewise growing very, very hot. Indeed, it was beginning to boil. This boiling was forcing more and more of the gas out through the crematorium's nozzles, lowering the liquid volume in the tanks and increasing the pressure on those tanks.
For one minute give me control, Ling demanded.
Too dangerous, Lee answered. Besides, I don't know how to cede partial control. I don't know how you were able to freeze my limbs and still let me talk.
Neither do I. So what? Give me control. Please, she begged. Weren't you ever in love?
That's a low blow . . . Oh, all RIGHT! I wish there were some fucking way to give you only vocal control. But if there is, I don't know it. And do try to keep your hands steady on the controls, eh?
Hans' hands and gaze were steady, steadier than anyone had a right to expect, given that the fire of his former soldiers was chipping away at the edges of the oaken table and wearing at its surface. Already bullets had made their way through, only to be stopped by his torso armor. Even if stopped, they hurt. Eventually—and probably very soon—a bullet would find its way to an uncovered spot. After that? Well . . . After that I die.
They were in the foyer with him now, he knew. More than a dozen but less than a score. And I don't have enough ammunition left to deal with that number if they all lined up and just let me shoot them.
Unconsciously, Hans reached for the dagger at his side and loosened the retaining strap. If he had to die—and he did, and was even "comfortable" with the idea—it wouldn't be without a weapon in his hand.
He heard in his earpiece, "Hans, this is Ling, not the pilot. He won't let me talk for long. But I wanted you to know that in all my life I never loved anyone but you and your sister. And you two I loved with all my heart. Goodbye."