George Mann - Ghosts of War

Published 2011 by Pyr, an imprint of Prometheus Books

Ghosts of War. Copyright 2011 by George Mann. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, digital, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, or conveyed via the Internet or a website without prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Cover image by Benjamin Carr.

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Mann, George.

Ghosts of war : a tale of the ghost / by George Mann.

ISBN 978-1-61614-367-1 (pbk.)

ISBN 978-1-61614-368-8 (e-book)

1. New York (N.Y.)-Fiction. I. Title.

PR6113.A546G57 2011

823'.92dc22

2011009876

Printed in the United States of America

PROLOGUE

As the rate of disappearances increases to epidemic proportions, New Yorkers look to the skies in fear

S tay indoors is the advice from the police department, as the recent spate of missing persons reaches an all-time high. There are now over fifty reported disappearances on Manhattan Island, spanning the entire festive season, and this reporter has been told that the police department is in a state of panic and has already run out of leads.

It is understood that each of the missing people disappeared in what's thought to be identical circumstanceswhilst walking the streets of the cityand eyewitness accounts refer to terrible flying creatures that pluck their victims indiscriminately from the sidewalk, dragging them away into the sky, never to be seen or heard from again.

These creatures are said to resemble human skeletons with bat-like wings and glowing red eyes. They swoop silently out from the shadows to abduct the good people of New York and carry them away for nefarious purposes that are not yet clear.

Commissioner Montague, in his statement yesterday, assured people that the police were doing everything they could to discover who was behind the abductions and warned citizens to stay indoors unless absolutely necessary until the matter was resolved.

This, however, offers little comfort to the families of the fifty missing people, of whom nothing whatsoever has been heard since their abductions. There have been no ransom notes, no demands, and no bodies. Mothers, fathers, husbands, and wives all over the city are holding constant vigil in the hope that news will come soon and that their loved ones will be returned to them safely.

Profilers report that there are no obvious connections between the victimsthey appear to have been selected entirely at random, plucked from obscurity, representing all different walks of life. Neither is there an obvious pattern to the locations of the abductions, which have taken place at points all over the city, from Central Park to Hell's Kitchen, from the Battery to Union Square.

The people of New York are therefore advised to take the commissioner's advice and remain in the safety of their homes, especially after nightfall.

It seems that in Manhattan this winter, nowhere, and nobody, is safe.

Manhattan Globe , January 6, 1927

CHAPTER ONE

H e was falling.

Tumbling out of the sky, his arms wheeling as the air rushed past him, his black trench coat billowing open around him like a single black wing.

He gasped for breath, but his lungs failed to respond: the blow that had sent him careening over the lip of the building had knocked the wind out of him, causing his stomach muscles to spasm and leaving him struggling to breathe. His heart was thrumming like a beating drum, pounding in his ears, drowning out the sound of everything else: the roar of the biplanes that soared through the sky on spikes of yellow flame, the coal-powered cars that hissed and sighed as they barreled down the avenues, the chattering of the bizarre mechanical things that had sent him spiraling toward his death. It was as if he had been cocooned inside a bubble, as if the rest of the world had been shut out and all that was left was him and the rush of the sidewalk that was coming up to meet him. Falling had become everything. There was nothing else.

He blinked. Raindrops sparkled in bright flashes of neon light, glimpsed in flickering snapshots as he tumbled over and over. He felt unconsciousness tugging at him, threatening to overwhelm him. Blackness swam at the edges of his vision. If he allowed himself to give in to it, to welcome its embrace, then everything would be over. It would only take a second.

For a moment, the Ghost thought that might not be such a bad idea. These days, he didn't have much to live for, save for the angerthat constant, burning fire in the pit of his stomachand he wondered whether it might not be better to allow that fire to burn itself out. Better for everyone. Better for him. To surrender to it would be easy.

The Ghost felt the needles of rain lashing his face, felt it sting his eyes, wished it could somehow cleanse him of the things he had seen and done. He wanted it to be over. He wanted peace.

Then, suddenly, his lungs were working again and he was sucking at the air, dragging at it in grateful gulps. The sounds of the city permeated his bubble. He had only seconds left in which to act. He moved almost mechanically, his instincts taking over. There were people up there who needed him. He had that much to live for, at least.

The Ghost, still tumbling and spinning as he fell, reached inside the lapel of his trench coat and fought to disentangle a thin cord from among the buckles and straps of his black jacket. He yanked it hard and felt his entire body jerk as the twin canisters strapped to his calves ignited with plumes of bright orange flame and he was propelled sideways into the building.

He slammed against the wall, striking his right elbow hard while cushioning his face in the crook of his arm. He called out in paina short, sharp wailand then forced himself to ignore it, to bury it until later. He rebounded, continuing his plummet toward the ground, arcing away from the building on a streak of flame as his rocket boosters propelled him through the air at a tremendous speed. He was only twenty feet from the ground. If he got the next move wrong, all he'd have succeeded in doing was hastening his own demise.

Mustering all of the strength that he had left, the Ghost angled his body, twisting in midair, forcing his legs down and around so that he was upright once again. He bucked and flailed as the upward momentum of the rocket canisters fought against the momentum of the fall. He slowed in midair, almost lost his balance, and then he was streaming upward again, riding on twin spikes of flames as he shot through the sky toward the two raptors who had forced him off the roof.

He looked up and saw nothing but scintillating raindrops and the top of the building, silhouetted against the moonlit sky. In the distance, the searchlights of numerous police dirigibles played back and forth across the rooftops, monitoring the streets, vigilant for any sign of the brass monsters. As usual, they were too slow and ponderous, and had failed to spot the twin raptors that had descended on Fifth Avenue to pluck two unwary citizens from the street.