“Darhaven? Good heavens, man!”

Hedgefield ran out of the room, the scientists following.

Rip stood up from the stone chair, feeling more powerful and energetic than ever before. He raced out the door after the men.

The hallway swarmed with people. He heard another loud explosion outside. An eerie siren wailed, reminding him of old movies about the Blitz.

He lost sight of Hedgefield, so he took off running to the right, trying to find a way outside to get a better picture of what was going on.

At last he found a doorway leading to a terrace. He stopped and shoved it open just as a dark shadow fell over the entire building, blocking out the ambient light.

A black airship ominously floated above, low to the ground. Its pointed nose slowly slicing through the storm cloud.

Even the cabin was painted black. Four large guns pointed down from turrets at the corners. One swiveled, aiming for him.

Rip instinctively dove to the left as he heard the choppy report of a 9-50 at full-auto. He kept rolling while bullets chewed up the terrace masonry, making popping sounds as bricks around him exploded on impact.

He scrambled behind a statue, his back pressed against the base. Thankfully, the gunman spied another target and swiveled his weapon elsewhere.

The other three guns fired away at different people out in the open, some less fortunate. Rip watched as three royal guards in the park aimed their Tommy guns up at the cabin, spewing hundreds of rounds in the air. Everything bounced off the wood, the gas envelope and the windows.

Must be enhanced, Rip thought.

One of the four machinegun turrets swung toward the guards, viciously ripping into them. They scattered like toy soldiers, broken and bleeding.

Slowly the ship drifted over the green space between buildings, and ropes dropped from the cabin. Rip watched as a dozen men rappelled down to the ground, dressed all in black.

His eyes narrowed as he focused on them. This was a target he could retaliate against.

With a running jump, he flew off the balcony and dropped down 20 feet, hitting the ground at a roll. Whatever happened back in the enhancement chamber, he felt virtually invulnerable right now. The jump down, even a long one like that, did not faze him at all.

The black-clad men unlatched from their ropes, landing lightly on the ground. They carried broomhandle submachine guns, and all wore gasmasks.

Rip came to the cluster of fallen guards and snatched a Tommy gun off the ground. Then he paused to strip spare drum magazines from the soldiers, stuffing them in his waistband and coat pockets.

He glanced up nervously to see if the turret gunners had spotted him. But the giant airship’s cabin now floated over the royal office building on the other side of the park, its giant propellers at the back softly beating the air.

For a moment he considered squeezing off a few rounds at the propellers. They looked vulnerable. He decided against it when his implant popped up with a message.

[You see an enhanced propeller, est. 40 rpm; custom Daimler engine, 20 hp.]

“That must be my mechanical discernment skill, I guess.”

Discarding any lingering notions of attacking the airship, he went on the hunt for sewer troopers in the park. Gunfire sounded to his left and he took off running again, cutting between trees and dashing past fountains and statuary.

Rip came up behind a trooper using a stone bench as a gun rest, crouching on one knee and holding off several royal guards, their red coats clearly visible through the foliage.

The guards returned fire, spewing bullets, but most bounced off the bench.

They’re firing blind, Rip realized. The trooper’s got them pinned down.

He stood watching at an angle, safely out of the crossfire. He lined up a shot at the trooper’s back and squeezed off a long burst from his Tommy gun.

The bullets knocked the man over. Rip eyebrows rose when the trooper got back up and turned to look at him, ambient light glinting off his gasmask.

“Aw, man.”

The trooper fired back. Rip ducked behind a tree, bullets thunking into wood, splinters flying.

But the distraction allowed the royal guards to regroup. They came out of cover and had clear shots at the man for once. A hail of bullets from five different Tommy guns plowed into him.

He turned, attention torn between Rip hiding behind the tree and the guards shooting at him from the other direction. Now that they had him in their sights, they emptied their magazines.

Hundreds of bullets finally took a toll. His hands dropped, the gun hanging from loose fingers.

Rip sneaked a peek. The trooper looked stunned. At last, some of the rounds penetrated his clothes. Rip could see blood seeping out.

“So he is human, after all.”

Two guards slammed home fresh drums and opened up on him again. He tipped over, falling down to the ground like a tree in the forest.

“Must be weighed down by lead by now. I wonder if he’s dead?”

Before he could investigate, more gunfire cracked through the park. He ran toward it, keeping the trees between himself and the guards to avoid friendly fire.

Rip angled back toward the Lyceum, bursting from the park in time to see four sewer troopers headed for the main door, laying down fire as they approached.

They shot a cop. He collapsed on the steps leading up.

Rip suddenly realized only the royal guards had firearms. The policemen were only armed with billy clubs, which stood little chance against submachine guns.

He slid to a halt and stood in a shooter’s stance, raising his Tommy gun up to fire. He sprayed bullets from left to right, peppering all four men with direct hits.

The troopers froze in place, stunned by the attack. As one, they turned and faced Rip, aiming their broomhandles directly toward him.

His face dropped. He ducked and rolled as the guns burped out a long string of return fire.

Scrambling with a speed he never knew he had, Rip made it behind a fountain, the circular two-foot wall offering good cover from the guns blasting away at him.

They stopped firing when he ducked out sight. Three of the troopers continued up the steps into the Lyceum. The fourth slowly moved to his right for a clear shot.

Rip heard the trooper coming, though, and duckwalked around the fountain, keeping its low wall between himself and the enemy.

The sound of running footsteps came from the park, distracting them both.

Someone yelled, “Heads up!”

A lit stick of dynamite sailed through the air in an arc, landing at the trooper’s feet. He looked down at it. Light from the sparkling fuse reflected in the glass on his mask.

Just as he bent down to reach for it, the dynamite exploded, blowing his body up in the air several feet. He landed with a loud thump, arms and legs spread out. Little chunks of glass fell from the broken gasmask.

Rip raised his head above the fountain as four people stepped out of the woods, two men and two women. All were dressed in the khakis of Venture Society members. One of the girls smoked a cigarette. They looked to be in their mid-20s, save for one older man.

“Don’t shoot. I’m friendly.”

Rip stood, still holding his gun but pointing it at the ground.

The younger man said, “Hey, look! It’s Bixby’s new chap, the traveler from another world.”

The older man, with salt and pepper hair and a square chin, nodded.

“I believe you’re right. It’s Sergeant Coulter from this morning’s hearing. Hard to take on elite troops without explosives, Sergeant. I admire your gumption. You should probably stick close to us, though. At least for now.”

Rip stepped around the fountain to face the four. The women smiled, looking him over with unconcealed admiration.

“Three of them went inside,” Rip said, pointing.

“You can join us temporarily, to help stop them. We’re Sharp’s Swashbucklers, by the way. I’m Baron Glendale, Colonel Jerrod Sharp of His Majesty’s Royal Army, First Infantry.”

Before Rip could respond, they heard a long burr of automatic gunfire inside the building.

Sharp yelled, “Come on!” and ran for the door.