Johnny Graphic and the Etheric Bomb Read Online Free PDF

to his feet and quickly got the pilot’s attention. She glared at the two young interlopers and said that this had better not be a joke. “A hundred thirty lives are in danger here,” she warned them.
    Mel sucked in another deep breath. “Ghosts are shooting arrows at your flying boat, ma’am.”
    “Captain Merrick!”
    Mel cringed. “Sorry, Captain Merrick. My name’s Melanie Graphic and I’m an etherist, a ghost wrangler. From what I can see, we’re under attack by ghosts shooting etheric arrows. They’ve pierced an engine—”
    “Two engines,” the co-pilot said, looking up at Mel. He was a trim young man with olive skin and almond-shaped eyes. “But how can their arrows hurt us? If they’re ghosts?”
    “Because some living person has given them the job of shooting us down,” answered Mel.
    Johnny saw the co-pilot’s eyes suddenly focus intently on Mel’s upper lip. Uh-oh, the young photographer thought, he’s noticed the mustache. Hope he doesn’t say anything. Because this sure wouldn’t be a good time.
    “And I think they’ve put some arrows through the cabin walls,” Mel continued. “I’m very much afraid they’re after yours truly. I belong to a group called the Hausenhofer Gesellschaft. Steppe Warriors have murdered six of our members. The only theories we have are that—”
    Captain Merrick cut her off. “Am I right to assume that your theories won’t provide any practical help right now?”
    “Um, well, no,” said Mel.
    “Then forget ’em, Miss Graphic. Is there anything you can do?”
    “I think my ghosts are already on the job, Captain.”
    “ Your ghosts?”
    Johnny piped up. “Horse soldiers, Captain. First Zenith Cavalry Brigade. Dead since the First Border War.”
    The captain shook her head in disbelief. “At least,” she groaned, “it will be an interesting way to die.”
     

 
    Chapter 7
    Galloping along outside the flying machine, Colonel Horace MacFarlane went from one of his horse soldiers to another. Giving them their orders.
    “Form a perimeter,” he shouted in the blasting wind. “All ’round. They’ll be back. Don’t chase ’em. That’s what they want. At all costs, keep ’em away from Commander Graphic and her brother. Let’s show these people what the First Zenith Brigade is made of!”
    The Steppe Warriors had darted up from below and down from above—perfectly coordinated, highly effective tactics. They came standing in their saddles, arrows nocked, bowstrings pulled and released in blinks. Took just a matter of seconds. Caught us properly by surprise, the colonel thought.
    The boys did get off a few shots with their revolvers. But the attackers were too swift. As quickly as they’d come, they slipped away.
    Having never been in a real fight with ghosts before, the colonel recalled what he knew of the laws of the ether. Specters use the same weapons that they used when they were alive. And a bullet or arrow wound still smarts something fierce, even if you’re a ghost. But it can’t kill a specter, who is already dead. One death, that’s all a fellow gets. However, an etheric head or leg sliced off will cripple a ghost for eternity. Chop him to tiny pieces, and he will find himself in the most horrible torment imaginable.
    Not for the first time, the colonel marveled at how well things had turned out for him. He certainly never could have imagined being dead these seventy years and tonight finding himself in a battle among the clouds. It felt excellent, fighting the good fight yet again.
    Of course, no sensible person would ever want to get stuck in the ether. You couldn’t eat. Couldn’t drink. Couldn’t smell. Couldn’t taste. Couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t dream. Most of all, the colonel missed breathing. He ached to feel the sweet friction of air going down his throat, into his lungs and out again.
    You couldn’t touch or hold anything. Couldn’t play the piano. Couldn’t cradle a baby to your chest. Unless a living person asked