Free Khronos (Hanover and Singh Book 3) by Chris Paton

escaping from his lungs like a punctured airship. Vladimir slid to the street, crumpled and still.
    Stepan stalled by the side of the last building in the street before the barricade. He stared at the men manhandling the Puckle Gun, priming the cylinder, aiming the barrel down the street and turning the handle. The first bullet blasted out of the barrel with a crack of gunpowder and a cloud that hid the gunners and masked the emissaries from view. Stepan pressed himself against the wall as the men burned through the first cylinder, scrabbling behind the powder cloud to fit the second, and then a third cylinder. The metallic pling and thud of the square rounds impacting upon the emissaries’ bulbous brass plates continued as the controllers used them as a shield while the riflemen retreated.
    Stepan stooped to look beneath the cloud. Spying Vladimir, eyes open and clutching his chest as he lay against the wall, Stepan waved. Vladimir’s smile pierced the breaks in the cloud of gunpowder from the Puckle Gun as the gunners fitted a fourth cylinder, pushing the riflemen, the controllers and their emissaries further and further down the street. The distant clank of the emissaries, as they moved beyond range and out of the street, replaced the dull ring of lead impacting upon metal. The gun fell silent. The powder cloud dispersed.
    Stepan peered through the thinning cloud at the lithe, swinging gait of a female soldier as she waved at the gunpowder with a gloved hand. Stopping in front of Stepan, the soldier lifted her head, smudging her forehead with lead and soot with a mock salute. Staring, she slipped her hands between her sheepskin smock and the leather bandoliers crisscrossing her chest.
    “Kapitan?” the woman cocked her head and stared at Stepan. “ Kapitan of what?”
    “I am in the navy,” Stepan held out his hand. “Kapitan Stepan Skuratov of the submersible division.” Ignoring Stepan’s hand, the woman continued to stare. “It is customary to shake hands with an officer.” Stepan waited.
    “Not my custom,” the woman shrugged. “You can put your hand down now, Kapitan .”
    “Who are you?” Stepan lowered his hand.
    “I am Lena Timofeyevich,” she turned to nod at the men cooling the barrel of the gun with ladles of water from a wooden pail. “These are my men.”
    “Timofeyevich?” Stepan squinted at the woman’s dirty face framed with long black strands of hair escaping a clumsy knot tied on top of her head. “I have heard of you.”
    “No,” Lena shook her head. “You have heard of my father.” Turning away from Stepan, she began walking toward Vladimir. Stepan followed.
    “Ah, yes, your father. I remember him,” Stepan muttered. “You are a Cossack.”
    “ Da , of course.” Lena tugged her hands free of the bandoliers. Stopping by Vladimir’s side, she crouched down to inspect his chest.
    “I am all right,” Vladimir lifted his hand to ward away further inspection. Lena batted his hand to one side with a swift slap.
    “I will decide if you are all right.” Pressing her knuckle into the centre of Vladimir’s chest, Lena smiled as he grimaced. “You are lucky. Only your ribs are broken. I have never seen a man fight a machine before,” Lena studied Vladimir’s face. “Most impressive, Poruchik.” She turned to Stepan. “You can carry him now, Kapitan.”
    “Where to? Have you established a safe area?”
    Lena stood. “This is your city, Kapitan. My men and I are just trying to get out of it.”
    “With a stolen Puckle Gun?” Vladimir grasped his chest as he chuckled.
    “Stolen? We found it. It is ours now,” Lena reached up, jabbing her finger an inch from Vladimir’s face. “Do you want to say anything about that?”
    “No,” Stepan placed his hand on Lena’s shoulder. “Vladimir...”
    “Remove your hand, Kapitan.” Lena flicked her finger toward Stepan. “I am not in your navy.”
    “No, you are not.” Stepan removed his hand. “But I would be honoured