Table of Contents

Copyright

“HORIZONS OF DECEIT

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Space: 1889 & Beyond—Horizons of Deceit, Book I

By Jonathan Cooper

Copyright 2013 by Jonathan Cooper

Space: 1889 © & ™ Frank Chadwick 1988, 2014

Cover Design & Art © Tom Webster and

Untreed Reads Publishing, 2014

Space: 1889 & Beyond developed by Andy Frankham-Allen

The author is hereby established as the sole holder of the copyright. Either the publisher (Untreed Reads) or author may enforce copyrights to the fullest extent.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold, reproduced or transmitted by any means in any form or given away to other people without specific permission from the author and/or publisher. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to the living or dead is entirely coincidental.

Other Titles in the Space: 1889 & Beyond Series

Journey to the Heart of Luna

Vandals on Venus

The Ghosts of Mercury

A Prince of Mars

Abattoir in the Aether

Dark Side of Luna

Conspiracy of Silence

Mundus Cerialis

Leviathans in the Clouds

A Fistful of Dust

The Forever Journey

http://www.untreedreads.com

“HORIZONS OF DECEIT

BOOK I”

By Jonathan Cooper

Prologue

The Bomb and the Dead Men

1.

THEY WERE THE fingers of an artisan, and they worked quickly—he didn’t know how much time they had. The choking smog that descended, night after night, on the streets of Westminster had bought them a few minutes, but no more. They were out in the open, and even with Potsdam on guard he felt vulnerable. The opalescent sheen of soot and chemical residue would mask them only for so long—if the prying eyes of Scotland Yard’s finest got within a few feet of the monument even the dimmest of their number would quickly realise that something was terribly amiss.

He clicked the timing mechanism’s ratchet into place. A proud man, he couldn’t help but feel satisfied by the elegance of his design, one built to please his eye as much as it was built for murder. He’d often been mocked due to the time and effort he took in producing his little devices—but let the others use jam jars, scrap brass and broken watch springs. To him, his trade was as much about producing works of art as it was about making engines of death.

With the timer in place, he began to wind the handwheel like a seamstress at her machine. A constant stream of clicks, inexorably increasing in volume, began to emanate from the clockwork mechanism in the bomb’s elaborate housing. From somewhere behind him Potsdam growled his disapproval—this was too much noise. Klopstock agreed, sweating despite the cold. If Potsdam got riled the clicking would be irrelevant, drowned by noises far louder and fleshier in nature. He looked up from his kneeling position to the eyes of his watchdog, but as usual, the thick round discs of black glass he wore gave absolutely nothing away.

As he wound the wheel he tensed, sympatico with the spring he was tightening. He looked up at the monument. Erected in 1886 to commemorate the British killed at the Battle of Bous, the plinth held two soldiers standing back-to-back, one British, one German. At their feet lay a French shako, tipped to one side. Klopstock bristled. He found the whole thing insulting, and would’ve spat on the ground had propriety and excellent schooling not curbed the instinct. To be relegated to a hat on the ground—that was as much recognition as this ham-fisted sculptor would give the French, lacking the spine and the imagination to go against instructions from his over-privileged, overfed and autocratic paymasters.

With the timer fully wound, Klopstock reached to the back of the device to ensure the clamps holding the dynamite were sufficiently tight. There was only one last thing to do—sliding the polished wooden lever inset onto the front of the device would release a catch attached to the timing mechanism, dropping a ball bearing into a cradle that sat beside the fuse. If the bearing hit the metallic sides of the cradle, it would complete a circuit, activating a clockwork arm that pulled a pin from the timer, causing it to run down almost instantly and then, Klopstock thought—and he couldn’t help but allow himself a wry smile at the vulgarity of it all—boom. His mother would not have been proud.

As he reached for the lever, the sound of boot-steps from behind him made his spine turn to steel and his head whip round. Potsdam stepped forward, one monstrous clodhopper crunching the debris on the cobbles, his dark grey greatcoat almost imperceptible against the night. Klopstock held out a hand to stop him, and Potsdam relented. But only just. Breathing out steadily, Klopstock brought the lever across and heard the almost imperceptible tap! as the ball bearing fell from its housing. Breathing a sigh of relief, he stood up and turned around, suddenly glad for the cool night air and the dimness of a London lit by the hiss of gaslamps.

And found himself looking at an unmistakable silhouette, roughly six feet in front of him. The domed hat, the cape…there was no mistaking a member of the constabulary. If Klopstock could see him he could surely see Klopstock, but Potsdam was standing slightly further behind. The smaller man brushed the grime from his knees and wordlessly urged his hulking companion to step back into the night, and be ready.

“Bit late in the day for a constitutional, isn’t it, sir?”

His nose was pockmarked and ruddied by rum. Under his helmet were bulbous cheeks and a moustache that, despite obvious and continual waxing and trimming, still managed to look unkempt. But his eyes…they were sharp and keen, and despite the ruptured capillaries that betrayed a drinker, tonight was one night when this particular constable had abstained.

“Not at all, officer, not at all!” beamed Klopstock. “For I am, you see, a member of that curious breed known as the artist. My mind is as restless as paper scraps in the breeze, sir. As active as a tiger by night, sir. As fanciful as these great ships that take us to the stars and back, sir. I am here—” and Klopstock breathed in, puffing out his chest and spreading his arms wide, “—for inspiration.”

“Well,” replied the policeman, raising an eyebrow. “I doubt you’ll find it here, sir.” He stepped closer to Klopstock, who smiled at him beatifically. “Have you been drinking at all, sir?”

“Not a drop, constable. Not a drop.”

“And your place of residence?”

“No fixed abode, officer. I am but a dandelion seed on Melpomene’s wind.”

“Melpomene, eh? I see. If you could just step over here, sir? Into the light. I wouldn’t mind asking you a couple more questions.”

“Of course, constable! Of course! Although if you’ll excuse my impertinence, I must beg you to not delay me too long.” The policemen stopped and eyed Klopstock wearily.

“Inspiration suddenly striking, is it, sir?”

“Not at all. It’s more a matter of patience, you see.”

“When it’s police business, sir, you’ll be as patient as I need you to be.”

Klopstock made a noise at the back of his throat, something caught between a tut and a snort of laughter.

“Ah, well, that’s it, isn’t it? The thing is, it’s not my impatience that you need worry about…”

A figure, fully a head taller than policeman—helmet and all—appeared from the smog. A massive hulking rectangle of a man, dressed in a docker’s greatcoat, scarf and an almost comically undersized bowler hat. He seemed to be made almost entirely of black, the only specks of brightness on his person the dim reflections of gaslight in the welding goggles strapped to his face. The policeman whirled round, but too late! Without even time to yell or dash away, the policeman’s neck was gripped and he was lifted, eyes bulging, a full foot-and-a-half from the floor. And yet he did not feel the flesh of man tightening around his throat—there was nothing but cold bars of metal pressing the very life from him.

He began to kick out, booting the monster in the chest and groin, but to no avail. On the contrary, this only seemed to enrage the beast, and he lifted the policeman higher still. For a moment that lasted forever in the unfortunate constable’s mind, and yet was no more than a brief moment in the life of the world, he was held up high and granted one last look at the stars above London, dimmed by a chemical smog. And then with brutality the body was brought down and the skull was smashed on the gritty, sewer-soaked cobblestones of Horseguard’s Parade.

Like a dog with a rag doll, Potsdam straightened his arm and offered the corpse to his companion for inspection.

“Ergh, I don’t want to see that,” said Klopstock. “Throw it in the river.”

Chapter One

The Errant Guest

1.

EVERY GIRL HAS nerves upon her wedding day, but before the day was out the nerves of Annabelle Somerset would be decidedly more fraught than that of the average bride. She was making her way through the streets of Greenwich, and to her left the Thames bustled with sludge and merchant ships. The air had cleared since last night, she noticed, and the day might almost have threatened some of that elusive English sunshine later in the afternoon. This cheered her, and she allowed herself a moment of joyous, schoolgirl glee that she was heading to the church in which she would be wed, Our Layde, Star of the Sea.

Oh, she knew all that old bosh about the bride arriving last. But Annabelle Somerset was a modern woman—the natural upshot of her life of adventure on other planets, in the piston-oil black between worlds, and the battle scars that lingered in her body and her mind. This was her day, and hers alone, and she demanded distraction. She had waited seven long hard months for it, and so she resolved to rise before any other lady had even had their bodice pressed and head to the church to see how the day was beginning.

Perhaps from a hidden nook in the transept, just to be discreet.

And so, having arrived, she ensconced herself thus before the first sparrow had sung. Soon, she heard gentle murmurs begin and the heavy clank of the huge door’s cast-iron catch lifted up and down, hard heels treading softly over stone floors in reverence for the silence. Annabelle suddenly realised she had not thought this through. The nook had seemed perfect at first but as the guests and friends began to enter she felt she’d had to shuffle back piecemeal to avoid being seen, and had now shuffled back so far she couldn’t see a blasted thing. What’s more, more and more people were arriving every moment.

She shrank back as much as she could and tried to think. What to do? Just go out there, yell ta-daaa! and get the whole sorry shambles over and done with? Maybe there was a way yet that she could sneak herself out. But she found herself bundling up more and biting her lip when she heard the crisp, loud smack of men’s fine leather shoes striding straight towards where she was hiding.

Bugger, she thought, and tried to think of a line she could use to brazen her way out of this. She took a deep breath and held her head high, the footsteps two metres, a metre away….

Around the corner from the nave came Nathaniel Stone, and when he saw Annabelle standing there with her jaw thrust impudently out he stopped in his tracks and stared.

“Annabelle,” he whispered.

“Now before you defend all this stuffed-shirt British wedding nonsense, which you will, and perhaps that may do me some good, I’d just like to make a few things clear. To whit… Nathaniel, why are you staring?”

“Annabelle,” he said, shaken from his stupor and beaming widely. “You look radiant.” Perhaps not for the first time that day, but certainly not the last, Annabelle Somerset felt herself blushing, and the pink tinge to her cheeks seemed all the softer and more delicate when compared to the pristine whiteness of her dress. A wide belt in light brown leather was wound around her waist, held by a large gold double buckle with a watch chain looped from one end. She had worried about her prosthetic leg and the problems it may cause—she had tried numerous dresses at the dressmakers and ended up tearing some of the wretched things. So the front of her skirt had been adjusted accordingly, and a suitably demure slit came up the front (tripped with fine lace just to be on the safe side). One shoulder was bare, the other covered with a delicate ruffled fabric that caught the light. Her hair was in ringlets and adorned with pearls.

“I’d be happy just to stand here for the rest of the day, dear Annabelle, and admire the beauty that I’ve seen you become.” Nathaniel grinned. “But I believe you’ve got a wedding to attend.”

“Yes, Nathaniel, but the problem is I’m already there.”

“Hmm,” he muttered. “So you are. Two ticks.”

Nathaniel popped his head back towards the nave and scanned the pews, taking in the faces. He noticed Captain Folkard at the back. He was standing with his hands clasped behind him, upright and resplendent in his full naval regalia; despite his insistence that now their mineral collecting mission was over he wished to resign his commission, the Admiralty had persuaded him otherwise. He was still one of their finest captains, and they had need of him. There was a man next to him, shorter than Folkard but wiry, secretive, and Nathaniel noticed he was dressed more for a funeral than a wedding. Head to toe in black, of all things. He was whispering in Folkard’s ear, and when Folkard looked like he might glance Nathaniel’s way, Nathaniel bobbed his head back and returned to Miss Somerset.

“Folkard’s arrived,” he said. “He’s brought his cloak and daggers. Arnaud’s there, and I heard Commander Bedford is to arrive any minute… All his family’s here, I recognise his father from the squint. Hang on.” Nathaniel stopped, struck by a thought he feared to voice. “If you’re here, where’s your uncle? Where’s Cyrus?”

Annabelle sighed. It seemed that seven months ago her uncle’s mind had settled once again, but after her most recent stop-over at Earth, some two months back, Uncle Cyrus’ increasingly erratic behaviour had resurfaced; a deep and debilitating worry, but now, after being back on Earth for a couple of weeks, it had hardened into a sort of anger. Her parents dead, who else but her only living relative was to give her away? She had feared this and tried to forget it, but the inevitability of the disappointment had caught up with her at last.

“Oh, Nathaniel,” she breathed, the inflection of it filled with the potential of tears. She held out her hands and he let her come to his shoulder, the soft, velvet safety of a life-long friend. Her mind bobbed to the past, forgotten things, tragedies on the great American plains… She thought of Venus, Luna, of Mars and the Phobos, how she had lost her leg to a gunshot. And all the time, Nathaniel, who had dragged her over extra-terrestrial deserts and guarded her surely through nightmarish times, had been there.

“Wait a moment,” she snapped, bolting up, and there was no trace of tears in her voice now. “You can do it!”

“What? Well… Really?”

“Of course! Why, now that I come to think of it, I wouldn’t want anyone else!”

“But… Your uncle, he may just be delayed, and on a day like today, where might haste and imprudence lead us?”

“I do not wish to hear my uncle mentioned again today, and I’d be forever grateful if that sentiment could be communicated to the rest of the guests. The shadow of his madness will not linger on my wedding day.” She looked into Nathaniel’s face and placed her palm upon his cheek. “A brighter and more constant light must lead me down the aisle.”

Nathaniel frowned.

“The only problem being, Miss Somerset—and I realise that that may be the last occasion I ever get to address you as that—is that you are already down it.”

“Well,” grinned Annabelle, “I’ve never been one for convention.”

The hubbub in the nave seemed to subside momentarily and the clank of the door sounded finally. There were hushed congratulations and a decorous smattering of applause, and soon the hubbub had returned, this time infused with a current of anticipation. Nathaniel bobbed his head out again and there, inevitably, was the groom. Annabelle peered discretely from behind Nathaniel. George, dressed in the sharp-lined livery of a career naval man. He was shaking hands warmly with Folkard, the two sharing a moment to reminisce. George looked coy.

“Excellent,” hissed Nathaniel. “That’s bought us some time.”

With all of the attention directed to the groom at the front of the church, Nathaniel tiptoed across to the organist. Annabelle, distracted by the absurdity of it all, idly wondered if the poor fellow had to put up with these sorts of shenanigans often. Nathaniel reached his destination mostly unseen, and had a quick word in the man’s ear.

Moments later he was back with Annabelle.

“He says he’ll do it.”

“Really? However did you manage that?”

Nathaniel raised an eyebrow. “I know my way around the men of the cloth.”

And so, with the organist duly instructed and the guests beginning to settle, George Bedford slowly and solemnly made his way towards the altar. Nathaniel, no doubt estimating his speed, the distance…mentally computed the perfect time to go, which was, in fact, right now, nodded across at the organist while taking Annabelle’s arm, and started walking.

When George saw her step from the transept ahead of him, only a scoundrel would have admitted seeing the groom stumble momentarily in awe at the first sight of his bride. And yet he did not miss a beat, and neither did she, and as the organ resounded with the bridal march the two met at the centre of the alter together, and took each other’s hands.

2.

AT THE RECEPTION, which was held in the Admiralty’s grand ballroom (and grand it was, belonging as it did to the finest Navy of the inner planets), Nathaniel was enduring some ribbing at his expense. Unversed in the matrimonial ceremony he had mostly had to follow the priest’s hissed instructions. His repeated failure to accurately do so had caused Annabelle an unfortunately uncontrollable bout of mirth, and Bedford stepping in to help did not, in fact, help. But when they managed to compose themselves the whole thing went off without a hitch, and the memories of that morning had instantly become cherished. Those same memories were now being regaled, at Nathaniel’s expense, notwithstanding the assistance of champagne.

“And didn’t you tread on the poor fellow’s foot, at one point?” asked the newly-married Mister Bedford, leaning back into his chair.

“I don’t think so. It’s all a bit of a blur, to be honest.”

“Oh, Nathaniel,” smirked Annabelle. “It was memorable, at least.”

“Quite.”

“Don’t pout, Nathaniel. It’s unattractive.” She glanced over at Arnaud, another trusted friend, who was lazily badgering the maître d’ for more champagne.

The wedding feast had been and gone. Almost by mutual assent each guest had settled into their chair, perhaps surreptitiously unfastened a waistcoat button or two, taking a moment to recover from the day and revel in plenitude.

This pleasant malaise, however, did not seem to affect Captain Jacob Folkard. He nimbly wound his way towards the group at the top table.

“Jacob!” hollered Bedford. “Care for some champagne?”

Folkard might have had a reputation of earned respect and results gained when commanding a vessel, but Nathaniel had come to know him more for his wit and warmth. These endearing qualities were always evident when he gave orders to his crew, though they were hidden—when one came to know him as the wedding party did, these foibles became the key to his character. And so it was that everyone noticed something was amiss when those selfsame virtues were all but absent in Folkard’s face and demeanour on this, the happiest of wedding days.

“Thank you, George, but no. May I congratulate you once more on a triumphant day? Not without its surprises, but I would expect nothing less from you, Mrs Bedford.”

“You’re too kind, Captain. Won’t you at least join us?”

“Not right now. Nathaniel, might I show you something?”

Nathaniel, mildly drunk and therefore momentarily nonplussed by being the centre of attention once more, drained the last of his champagne and stood, it had to be said, rather unsteadily. “Of course.”

As Folkard led Nathaniel through the throng of revellers, cutting a swathe between flute chinks and chatter, Nathaniel peered over his shoulder and noticed Bedford, Annabelle and Arnaud exchange an ominous glance.

3.

FOLKARD LED NATHANIEL to the atrium, striding ahead, straight-backed. He suddenly veered to the left to push through a door, and Nathaniel found himself half-jogging to keep up as they traversed a corridor lined with pot plants on plaster columns. Before he could even attempt to protest Nathaniel found himself following through a smaller—though no less ornate—atrium, and out into a well-kept, walled garden where he was finally allowed to catch his breath. Folkard was silent as he did so.

“You made a fine stand-in, Professor,” he said eventually. “It was a joy to see you up there. I feel your brother would have been proud of you.”

“Yes, well,” muttered Nathaniel, appreciating the sentiment, reminded of his and Folkard’s previous antagonism over Edwin’s death. It was good that both men had finally been able to bury the hatchet over that unfortunate event. “You weren’t the only one to find it amusing.”

“I meant that sincerely, Nathaniel. It was just all so…fitting.”

“Unlike your friend in black.”

“I don’t like it any more than you do, Stone. But it was—and remains—necessary.” Folkard crossed to a small gate beyond the rose garden and placed his hands on the top. He seemed to grimace, and Nathaniel looked down to see his knuckles go white as ice.

“Captain? What’s wrong?”

“I’m sorry to have to do this. Today of all days… But you must understand, it had to be you. You’re the least involved.”

“Captain, please. You’re talking in riddles.”

Nathaniel searched for Folkard’s eyes, which were darting and restless. The captain, over the course of their adventures, had demonstrated peculiar mental and telepathic talents. These were inexorably tied to Luna, and the brooding alien relic known as the Heart that ran through the moon’s very belly—the relic that had caused the madness of Annabelle’s uncle, Cyrus Grant, and the grotesque deformation of the insane Russian scientist Vladimir Tereshkov. Madness and the moon, even in this enlightened age, seemed to remain cosy bedfellows.

“It falls to me, Nathaniel,” he said slowly, “to destroy this day.”

“Now steady on…”

“Listen. Keep your peace and be quiet, man! Just listen.”

And so, stunned, Nathaniel listened.

“I don’t hear anything,” he said, unconsciously lowering his voice to whisper.

Folkard hissed. “Precisely…” Having said that, he stood bolt upright and began to pace, his volume returning to normal and startling Nathaniel. “And yet,” he continued. “It is such a bright September day in a choice and, many say, a pleasant part of town.”

Nathaniel listened again, and his face fell.

“Where’s the sound of lovers?” asked Folkard. “Or mothers with their children and fathers with their sons? Commerce. Trade. Noise. Where is it?” Shocked by the shout, Nathaniel heard it: Nothing. London at a deathly, unnatural standstill. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end.

“There has been an attack on sovereign soil and an attempt on the life of Her Majesty,” Folkard said flatly. “Perhaps we should go inside.”

Chapter Two

Introducing Mister Enderby

1.

THE SCENT IN the room was one of ageless grace. The soft musk of panel oak, cognac and polished leather mixed together against a backdrop of book-lined walls and pearled gaslights. The very seat of the Empire. It was in rooms such as this that the fates of worlds beyond Earth were dictated.

“Brandy?”

Nathaniel watched as Folkard crossed to a large mahogany globe, the reach of England’s arm marked out in pastel pink across the continents. Folkard split the world in half with a creak, revealing decanters and crystal glasses, and began to pour himself a drink. Nathaniel silently declined Folkard’s offer, and the Captain gestured for him to sit. Folkard sat opposite him, brandy cupped in his hands but untouched.

“This morning,” he began, “the body of a police officer, one Constable Jeremiah Graves, was discovered snagged on a girder near Blackfriars Bridge. He hadn’t returned from his beat the previous night, but no-one thought much of that. Fellow was apparently a bit of a drinker. More than once the morning watch had picked him up, uniform and all. But it turns out it wasn’t the drink that got him.”

Nathaniel swallowed dryly.

“We originally paid the death no heed. Why would we? Early morning, another corpse. Thought the poor wretch was three sheets to the wind, tumbled into the river and caved his own head in. But when the bomb went off we discovered its location was right on his route, and drowned men tend to have more water in their lungs.” It was only then that Folkard took a sip of his brandy, and a minute one at that.

“And you said,” Nathaniel asked, “Her Majesty?”

“Today is the anniversary of the Sacrifice at Bous, and Her Majesty was scheduled to attend a short service at St Paul’s followed by laying a wreath at the memorial. Ecumenical red tape—or just a slow sermon—delayed Her Majesty. But were she on time there is doubt, Stone, but on God’s good Earth she would have been killed.”

“And Her Majesty?”

“Is shaken, but otherwise unharmed.”

It was not Folkard who made this declaration. The voice came from behind Nathaniel—precisely behind him—and so he whipped around to engage the man who had uttered it.

He had seen this man before, whispering in Folkard’s ear, and later, chewing on a canapé and watching from the ballroom’s corners. And yet when he had walked in to this room, there had been no trace. Nathaniel doubted he would have been far from Folkard’s side today, and suddenly he knew he was faced with a man who only allowed himself to be seen when he wished it.

“This,” said Folkard, “is Mister Enderby.”

Enderby was not a tall man. Folkard and Nathaniel would have easily towered over him, and yet he had a moulded, triangular frame—not stocky, but lithe. He was dressed in plain, neat black, his hands clasped in front of him. He had an almond-shaped face with whiskers and shoulder-length hair that kinked around his ears; you could not guess his age. He might have been a haggard twenty-two or a youthful fifty-five, and when Nathaniel looked back he inadvertently met his gaze. He found a still gaze that neither challenged nor invited an inch.

“Charmed,” said Nathaniel.

“Mister Enderby,” said Folkard, as Enderby crossed to stand behind him, “is charged with the safety and security of Her Majesty’s person, although I do not think he will be overly troubled if I inform you his duties extend rather more broadly than that.”

Enderby smiled, and nodded.

“Hence his presence here today. And I want to take this opportunity now, before events drag us further into turmoil, to say that I am truly sorry to have to do this.”

“But, Captain, it’s…”

“It’s the wedding of your ward and a very great friend of mine. And yet, once more, I find the perfidious attempts of our enemies and the politics of alien worlds has wounded the memories of this day, and it falls to me to administer the coup de grace.”

Folkard was losing his faith in this world. He knew it and Nathaniel knew it. It had begun as 1889 has come to a close, and it continued apace whenever he returned to Earth. Folkard sighed and drank his drink, no doubt wishing he was far away… Far away in the caves of Luna, perhaps. It seemed, to Nathaniel, that sometimes the good captain’s only affinity lay with the Heart and the memory of his wife and daughter.

“Because the only people,” Folkard continued, “that do not know of this attack are the bride and groom. George and dear Miss Annabelle. And it has fallen upon me to tell them.”

Folkard put his head in his hands. Enderby, proud as you like, reached forward and took Folkard’s glass. He padded over to the drink cabinet, refreshed Folkard’s brandy, and returned. Folkard took the glass while Enderby removed and lit a small cheroot from a silver case.

“We were lucky enough to find fragments,” he said. “Enough to go on. Given the right…expertise?”

“I’m sorry, Nathaniel,” muttered Folkard.

It was such a rare occurrence for Folkard to use Nathaniel’s given name. The depth of his guilt over this was obviously huge. But why Folkard should take the blame was beyond Nathaniel. He looked up to Enderby’s eyes, intermittently obscured by smoke as the man breathed out. “Can we not at least give them the rest of the day?” he asked.

“We could,” observed Enderby coolly, “but your presence is still requested.”

“Hell’s teeth, man. I won’t be shanghaied like this.”

“It’s a matter of national security, Professor Stone.”

So much for being considered dead, Nathaniel thought. Only when it serves the government’s agenda.

“And you are giving me no choice but to choose patriotism over friendship?”

“Unfortunately so.”

“Which is why,” Folkard breathed, “It must be me that tells them.”

A silence fell upon the room. Enderby removed the cigarillo from his lips and held it loosely between his fingers, unmoving. Folkard made a move to get up before thinking better of it, and Nathaniel simply stared at his clasped hands.

“No,” he said, finally.

“I’m sorry?” said Enderby.

“No. I will not abandon my friends on the happiest day of their lives in order to thrust myself once more into a world of danger and death. We have all, all of us, seen too much of both, and if we are not allowed respite on a day such as today, then it is a world I wash my hands of.”

“Nathaniel, please…”

“No, Captain. No. You know this is the right thing to do.”

Folkard looked up to Enderby, who stared back impassively. He leaned forward and stepped between the two men, extinguishing his cheroot on a gilt ashtray that sat on the low table before them. It was not even partially smoked.

“These things, we find, have only a small window of opportunity to pursue.”

“You have fragments,” said Nathaniel, bluntly. “Are they to dissolve before tomorrow? And if, sir, you are in pursuit, how are we to assist with that? Bodily? Shall we strap on our galoshes and go tramping through the banks of the Thames for clues?”

“I’m not without sympathy, Professor Stone. But there are greater things afoot than wedlock and revelry.”

“Not today there isn’t.”

Silence.

“I think you have your answer, Mister Enderby,” said Folkard.

Having said this, he drained his brandy and stood, a weight having seemingly lifted. “In the course of the day I will inform Commander Bedford of events. I see no reason for Mrs Bedford to find out, though doubtless she will before long. We will convene at the Admiralty, say, nine o’clock sharp tomorrow morning?”

“Seven,” said Enderby. “Sharp. Doctor Arnaud Fontaine must also be there. Commander Bedford may attend, if he wishes. We believe his experiences may be of use.”

“Very well. Stone?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“You have made your choice, Professor, and bought yourself the day. Be grateful,” Enderby purred.

And yet Nathaniel felt anything but grateful.

2.

THEY RETURNED TO the ballroom to the find the guests reinvigorated. The detritus of fine dining had been cleared and people were milling in the grandiose hall in which entertainment, in the form of a full orchestra and dancing, would be enjoyed. Upon his return to the throng, Nathaniel could suddenly sense that something was afoot. Movements were quick, and panicky—a ringing laugh was stifled unnecessarily quickly, high-ranking elderly man formed in groups to tut and shake their heads.

And in the centre of it all were Bedford and Annabelle, standing by the cake and chatting idly to relatives and guests. Blithe and blissfully ignorant, thought Nathaniel. Let them have their day. He nimbly pinched another glass of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter.

Folkard appeared, and drew Bedford to one side.

3.

LATER, IN THE bridal suite, George and Annabelle gazed into each other’s eyes.

“Mrs Bedford,” twinkled George.

“Husband?” replied Annabelle. They smiled.

“Despite everything,” she sighed, flopping exhausted onto the bed, “it really was a rather glorious day.”

“It was never going to be normal though, was it?” said George, flopping beside her. He put his arm around her shoulder and she nuzzled closer to him, rubbing her nose against his neck.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

This was their time, their first time, together and at peace as a married couple. Each enjoyed the other’s presence, the gentle tingle of a touched fingertip and the closeness and heat of each other.

“A bomb though,” said George. “An attack. I can barely credit it.”

“In a world such as ours, dear George, these things happen all the time. It’s just that on this occasion, it has happened to us.”

“For our wedding day to be remembered as that, though…”

“Is but nothing,” intercut Annabelle. “Do you not think we will also remember Nathaniel’s endearing attempts to give me away? Or the priest who had to limp for the rest of the afternoon? Or Arnaud’s champagne fountain, and the mess that that idea caused? This was our day.” They looked at each other, shoulder to shoulder on the bed.

“And though the worlds may turn and events run riot, this is still the day that we were wed. My darling George. My husband. Let the power-mongers blow themselves to pieces today. And if the day itself was not perfect, what matter? We have the rest of our lives to make it so.”

George, though a gentleman, could not restrain himself. He leaned over and cupped Annabelle’s cheek with his palm. Though this kiss was gentle it was a kiss more forceful and sexual than either had ever experienced before.

After a moment, George stopped.

“Annabelle,” he breathed. “I have never been…”

“Shh,” soothed Annabelle. “The day was taken, but the night is ours.”

4.

THE PARTY HAD continued later than anyone could have reasonably expected. It was almost as if some unconscious drive had pushed the guests to enjoy themselves as much as was possible in the time that remained that night; they all knew, deep down, that with the bomb attack they would wake the following morning in a world that may well have irrevocably changed.

It had, in fact, gone on so long that as the guests filtered out much decorum had been abandoned. They was loud laughter and flirting, promises of dinner dates made and stolen, hard breathed-kisses. Even Bedford’s two maiden aunts, both in their sixties and pillars of the community, had somehow managed to procure a cucumber from the kitchens (nobody dared to ask how) and were waving it around and cackling in the courtyard with an infectious, carefree joie de vivre.

Nathaniel was taking solace in this happiness. His clandestine meeting with Folkard had imbued him with such ambivalence, the joy of the day against the sorrow of the world. At present, he was content to stand in the shadows, near the door to the Admiralty courtyard, and take strength in the joy of people other than himself.

There was a bang behind him, and Nathaniel turned quickly to see Arnaud slam gracelessly into the side of the door. His legs weren’t working particularly well, his eyes were unfocussed and he had a lop-sided, goofy grin on his face. He looked up and spotted Nathaniel, and beamed widely.

“Why Professor Stone.” He grinned, piling on every ounce of his French charm. “Fancy seeing you here…”

“Arnaud,” Nathaniel found himself saying, in a voice that wasn’t entirely admonishing. “You’re drunk…”

“And you, mon toujours, are looking very, very, good…”

Nathaniel looked up, towards the windows of the grand building, but only for a second. It was a movement he knew would not be noticed by Arnaud, who had come with other things on his mind.

With remarkable rapidity Arnaud seemed to throw off his alcohol-induced cloak and strode up forcefully to Nathaniel, who, almost unconsciously, pressed his back against the cold stone pillar behind him. Nathaniel swallowed loudly. They were in the dark, away from prying eyes. Slowly, hesitantly, Arnaud’s strong arms wrapped around Nathaniel’s waist. Nathaniel reciprocated, curling his own arms around Arnaud’s broad back and running them up to his neck. Gently, firmly, Arnaud pulled Nathaniel towards him and they began to kiss deeply, their lips exchanging exquisite, tingling touches.

Arnaud relaxed into the passion, hungry but content, blissful, enjoying the danger and the shame… He let go, began to kiss back, Nathaniel’s playing the same delicate game. The two lovers began that immaculate see-saw of predator and prey, chasing each others’ desires in the moonlight.

And yet, fatefully and disastrously, their passionate encounter did not go unobserved.

5.

FOLKARD, WRACKED WITH guilt over how his duties had so hatefully encroached upon the day, had exiled himself to an upper office in the Admiralty for the remaining hours. He had meant to get some work done, prepare for the meeting the following day, but had in truth spent most of his time gazing from the window in a cloak of self-loathing. It was while he was doing this that he noticed Nathaniel idly watching the revellers, and then Arnaud’s appearance, and everything that subsequently transpired.

Was he losing his mind, or did he really see Stone glance up to look him straight in the eye, moments before the whole vile spectacle had unfolded?

Almost instantly any respect he had for the professor and Fontaine dissolved into disgust, into disbelief and loathing. Previously, Stone’s lack of romantic entanglement had seemed natural—these science boys were all the same, more interested in test tubes and tinkering than the fairer sex—and he’d assumed Arnaud was more of a man-about-town, promiscuous perhaps, but not deviant. And yet here it was, laid before him, and the sickness that he felt, the betrayal, the perversion… It permeated his every nerve, sat heavy like lead in his gut. He gritted his teeth, the anger overtaking him, throwing a full tumbler of brandy to shatter into shivers on the opposite wall.

6.

FOLKARD SLEPT FITFULLY that night.

The blankets around him seemed itchy and hot. He threw them off, and sat dolefully on the edge of the bed to think. He suddenly realised he was grinding his teeth and, only with great mental effort, stopped himself from doing so. He was cold. He reached across to the blankets and draped them around his shoulders where he sat.

Arnaud and Nathaniel’s secret gnawed at him; a sickening, repulsed sensation that would not give him peace. Yet even this turn of events was not the uppermost in his mind, for a far larger and more cosmic fear was searching for him, soothing and teasing in equal measure, an itch that could not be scratched.

He could see nothing in the dark. Only feelings. Insomnia or brandy on an empty stomach made erratic, organic shapes flash and pulse before his eyes. Only in those shapes he could feel them, hear their voices reaching out to him over the yawning chasm of space… Charlotte, Felicity, both gone, but whispering from The Heart. The Heart of Luna. Closing his eyes, he could see them, more real than his own breathing or the cold of the room around him. He tried to soothe them with his thoughts, telling them, I will return to you, my heart, my darlings.

Chapter Three

Rendezvous at the Admiralty

1.

AS WAS TO BE wholly expected, Mister Enderby was already in the room by the time Folkard and Nathaniel arrived. Laid out on the table in front of him was a calico sheet onto which had been arranged charred and twisted relics of metal and glass.

“Where is Doctor Fontaine?”

“En route, and rather the worse for wear,” said Folkard bitterly, removing his cap and hanging it on the hat-stand. “There was talk of a champagne fountain, as well as other…distractions. My apologies.”

“Quite. I see no reason not to proceed,” said Enderby stiffly.

Nathaniel looked across to Folkard. The naval man stared back coldly.

Nathaniel was nonplussed by Folkard’s odd behaviour. It was almost as if Folkard couldn’t bear to look him in the eye. He shrugged it off, and when Nathaniel bent down to examine the remnants laid out on the table, any irritation he felt over the spy’s brusque attitude or Folkard’s rudeness instantly dissipated. If Enderby lacked manners, he could be forgiven for bringing Nathaniel so intriguing a collection. The pieces laid on the sheet ranged in size from an almost complete side of casing roughly five inches long to tiny cogs and brass coils no more than a centimetre in circumference. There were also chunks of thick glass, the inner curve of which was covered in a gritty powder, almost like a pale green sand.

“Fascinating,” muttered Nathaniel, removing a pair of ornate, multi-lensed pince-nez which he quickly adjusted and balanced on his nose, peering ever closer at the fragments.

“Our chaps have already given it the once over, of course,” sniffed Enderby.

“Do you have a copy of their findings?” asked Folkard in a clipped tone, and Enderby removed a sheaf of parchments from a black leather carpet bag and passed them across. Folkard flicked idly though the first couple of pages.

“All ancient Greek to me, I’m afraid. Stone, you’ll have to look.”

“Yes yes,” muttered Nathaniel, distracted. “One moment.” He removed a pencil from his pocket and began to prod at a piece of glass. “This substance,” he said. “The silica. What did your chaps make of that?”

“Possibly some form of copper residue, they thought. Right kind of colour.”

“Hmm.” Nathaniel rubbed his finger on the inside of one of the glass pieces and rubbed the grit between his fingers before sniffing it experimentally. He recoiled.

“I’m not sure I agree. May I remove some of it for study?”

“So long as some of it remains for our chaps.”

Satisfied (at least for the moment) Nathaniel folded his glasses up and replaced them in his case. He took the papers from Folkard and began to pace as his eyes flicked through the figures and sketches at a remarkable speed.

“Your…‘chaps’,” he said to Enderby as he paced, “none of them are horologists, I take it?”

“Clockmakers, you mean? What difference would that make?” asked Enderby shortly, before adding, “Professor Stone.”

“Nothing in terms of function, but a lot in terms of artistry. I notice in these notes that none of your,” (and here he cleared his throat) “chaps seemed to notice the single most interesting thing about these remains.”

“And that is?” asked Enderby archly.

“The design.”

“If I could refer you to the third page of the document, Professor Stone, the design is described as operating at a level above the usual backstreet competence, with a higher than usual explosive yield and several mechanisms inserted to prevent tampering, diffusion or lateral transport of said device.”

“Very good,” said Nathaniel, looking up from the papers. “That was word-for-word. But I’m not talking about the prosaic mechanisms of the device’s function, Mister. Enderby. I’m talking about aesthetics.”

“Aesthetics?” asked Folkard, engaging with Nathaniel for the first time. “Do you mean to say…?”

“That this device was not built by someone blind to beauty, yes.”

At Nathaniel’s beckoning, the three men gathered around the table. He pointed out the largest surviving piece of the bomb’s casing, which was etched with an ornate, curling wave pattern from end to end. “Of course, it could just be that the blackguard that built it used some scrap metal with the design already on it. But then I noticed something more interesting.” Using a pair of tweezers he had removed from the inside of his frock coat, Nathaniel picked up one of the gears from the cloth—about half an inch round, and remarkably intact—and gestured around the circumference with his little finger.

“A cog, I’m sure you will agree, that could be found in any broken watch throughout the Empire. Only look here, around the rim. Any industrially produced cog would be rougher in cast, but this is exquisite workmanship—polished, refined. I’ll wager it was hand-made. The same goes for many other of these pieces, gentleman. We are dealing with a sociopath who takes an uncommon amount of pride in his work.”

“And what about the residue?” asked Folkard.

“I’d need to get a sample to my lab. Arnaud may be of no small assistance there.”

And speaking of the French devil, he appeared. Despite the gravity of the situation, Arnaud’s eyes were puffy and red and his face seemed to sag around his dewlap. More hirsute than usual and with his collar undone, he walked with a stoop and groaned with every step.

“Good night, Arnaud?” commented Folkard, his voice chilled. Without answering, Arnaud flopped into a chair and put his head in his hands. Smirking, Nathaniel crossed to the drinks cabinet and fetched a soda siphon to help alleviate the young geologist’s suffering.

After Arnaud, entered Bedford and Annabelle. The latter looked radiant, and the former had a spring in his step that had never, Nathaniel noted, been noticeable before.

“Mrs Bedford,” smiled Enderby icily. “I did not think you would be attending us this morning.”

“That,” said Annabelle brightly, “is because you did not invite me. However, I decided not to let that one small detail prevent me from accompanying my husband. After all, why should you boys have all the fun, eh?”

“I can assure you, Mister Enderby,” said Folkard, watching as Nathaniel passed Arnaud a glass of seltzer, “that Mrs Bedford is as useful an asset as any here, and probably far more so than Doctor Fontaine, given his current state.”

“C’est des conneries,” muttered Arnaud, sipping and grimacing. “This isn’t brandy…”

2.

NATHANIEL HAD INITIALLY wished to use his own finely-calibrated equipment to continue the investigation, but Enderby would hear none of it. Expanding, as it was, from a grand and rather stuffy seat of military leadership into a substantial interplanetary power, the Admiralty was forever adapting and adding to its myriad corridors and anterooms. Many of these additions had been scientific in nature, with both the Crown and the Navy keen to maintain their technological superiority over the rest of the world. Therefore, Nathaniel and the rest of the party were led through the labyrinthine building to a wing that smelled of ozone and sulphur. Wooden walls had given way to white tiling, the clack of typewriters replaced by the hum and groan of steam and engines.

Having begged a brandy, Arnaud was suitably recovered and was being informed of events by Bedford. Enderby strode ahead, with Nathaniel, Folkard and Annabelle maintaining a discreet distance behind him. He reached a door, spun around on his heels, and waited for the rest of the group to catch up with him.

“Mrs Bedford,” said Enderby. “I’m afraid this is where your journey today must end.”

“Now look here,” scowled Annabelle, “as Captain Folkard so rightfully pointed out, I’ve done my fair share of adventuring across the inner planets, and if you think I’m about to turn back after everything I’ve been through…”

Enderby’s face, usually so stoic, seemed to soften as he looked at Annabelle’s resolution. It seemed he knew something she did not. “Mrs Bedford, please understand that your capabilities are not, nor will they ever be, in question. My reticence to allow you further is rather more…delicate in nature.”

“And which issue,” hissed Annabelle, “is the most pressing this time? That I am a woman, that I am a cripple, or that I am a foreigner?”

“Alas, Mrs Bedford, it is none of the above.”

Enderby’s callous and condescending manner pushed Annabelle over the edge. Before Bedford could even dare to reach forward to hook her arm, she had barged past Enderby and swept through into the door beyond with a swish of her skirts.

To find herself staring into the eyes of her uncle, the volatile genius known as Cyrus Grant. She was taken aback, stopped and stared at her shoes, while her uncle looked down, away from her, gripping the edge of a workbench tightly. The others followed Annabelle in, with Enderby entering last. Faces fell, discomfort and unease were prevalent in the air. Enderby cut through the mire of discontent with typical sang froid.

“I did say, Mrs Bedford, it was delicate.” As he picked a mote of fluff from his lapel, he was the only one who moved.

Moments passed.

Annabelle gritted her teeth.

“Where were you, uncle?” she hissed.

Grant couldn’t look her in the eye, waved a vague circle with his left hand and turned away. “The bombing,” he said, his back to her. “Matter of national security. Have to show them which side you’re on.”

“My wedding,” she begged. And with his back to her he waved her off again, like an idle farmhand would bat away a fly.

“Doctor Grant has been assisting us,” purred Enderby. “He seems to believe there’s a link between yesterday’s bombing and an Irish…connection we have. And if you follow the fuse the match was lit in Russia.”

“Russian dogs,” muttered Grant, hugging himself.

Enderby caught Nathaniel’s eye.

“We were wondering, Professor Stone,” he said sadly. “If you could carry on where the good doctor left off. His notes are in the left-hand pile.”

Nathaniel glanced at the left-hand pile, and saw more the beginnings of a small campfire than scientific rigour. “It’ll… take some time,” he murmured.

“Then perhaps it may be advisable for you to start afresh, Professor.” Both Nathaniel and Enderby looked at Grant, who was pacing in a small circle and muttering to himself. For a second, Nathaniel caught a glimpse of his old friend’s face—a face quite unlike the man he had known, with wild, roving eyes, a sallow, jaundiced complexion and tufted, wrangled hair. Grant looked away almost instantly.

3.

WHILE NATHANIEL TRIED to make head from tail of Grant’s notes—a mishmash of formulas, esoteric sketches and snatches of wild, improbable conspiracy theories concerning the moon and a Russian incursion—Arnaud busied himself with the mysterious green residue found within the bomb. He had set up a workstation opposite Nathaniel and was gazing into an ornate brass microscope. Next to him whirred a powerful clockwork centrifuge while a test tube rack held various brightly-coloured acids and solvents to his left. Once in a while, the two would look up and catch each other’s eye, and more than once Nathaniel found himself gazing at the Frenchman’s cheeky grin. Yet Nathaniel could only muster a wan grin in return. The notes over which he pored were not written by a man of sound mind. Often, numbers would transmute into letters, while formulas mutated into nonsensical, paranoid rants and back again, often employing strange, arcane symbols that were not the written language of any earthly tribe. Whatever Grant had gleaned from his studies of the charred remains of the explosive device, no light would be shed by these madcap scribblings. It was like they were written by two different people holding the same pen.

Grant had remained in the lab after Folkard, Enderby and Bedford had left to discuss events in a room of the Admiralty more conducive to such discussions. As far as he could tell, the erstwhile doctor was now sat at a bench on the other side of the room, his back to everybody else. A collection of seemingly unconnected fragments of machinery was sat on the desk before him, and as he arranged these in patterns and piles he muttered to himself and, more worryingly, giggled occasionally.

Annabelle had declined Bedford’s offer to retire to a more comfortable environment, and elected to stay in the laboratory with her uncle. As yet she had not dared to approach him. She merely sat and gazed across at the old man’s back, her face flitting uncertainly between disdain and concern. She did not even seem to acknowledge that Nathaniel and Arnaud were there.

“Nathaniel, if you please.”

Without lifting his gaze from the microscope, Arnaud beckoned for Nathaniel to join him. Relieved to abandon the perturbing papers, he crossed to Arnaud’s side. “Have a look,” Arnaud said.

Nathaniel peered into the eyepiece. It was much as he has suspected—definitely crystalline in nature, with some of the larger chunks hexagonal in shape. They were a curiously pale green, the colour of desiccated grassland, and yet flecks of a darker emerald shade pitted the insides of the crystals.

“Curious impurities,” he murmured.

“My thoughts exactly.”

“And the composition? Could it be some sort of copper derivative?”

“No, I don’t think so. As far as I can tell, it seems to be silicate in nature. Silicate and… Organic.”

Nathaniel bolted up. “Organic?”

“Oui. And here,” Arnaud gently removed the slide and carefully slid another into the stage clips. “Look at this.” He twisted the lens around to increase the magnification fivefold.

Nathaniel looked again. Another, larger crystal greeted him, and here the impurities were far more defined. While some remained as flakes and grains, others looked like snapped pieces of hollow tubing, running parallel to the crystal’s grain.

“Why,” whispered Nathaniel, “I could almost swear they were…”

“Parenchyma,” finished Arnaud. “Or schlerenchyma.” He grinned. “I could never remember which was which.”

“Schlerenchyma,” grinned Nathaniel back. “The supporting tissues of plants. But that would mean…a plant made of crystals. Of silicon.”

“It’s only a hypothesis.”

“And an intriguing one, at that.”

“Have you ever seen anything like it?”

“Not in my travels, no. But there remains much of the cosmos to explore. It’s hardly worth saying that, if true, this is a plant that has doubtless never grown on this planet before, perhaps not even the inner planets…” He looked at Arnaud, like an expectant teacher before a pupil, and asked “What else do you think?”

Suddenly, Grant swept his arm across the desk and pitched his assorted detritus across the room.

“No!” he yelled, bolting up and pacing, tugging on his hair. “I won’t have it, no!”

“Doctor Grant…”

“Uncle!” Annabelle, wrenched from her despondent reverie by her uncle’s manic outburst, dashed across to him and grabbed him by the arm. Grant roughly pushed her away and, unsteady on her prosthetic limb, she tumbled into a desk. Arnaud, who was closer, swooped to help while Nathaniel dashed to try and calm the crazed scientist.

“Doctor Grant, really!”

“No, Stone, no! I won’t have it, I just won’t have it! Do you hear me! No!” He barged past Nathaniel and stormed to the door, ripping it open and slamming it shut in his wake.

Arnaud comforted Annabelle, who had settled onto a high stool and was breathing heavily, on the verge of tears.

“Oh Nathaniel,” she breathed, “I try to put him from my mind, I really do. I could do that yesterday, when grander things were happening, but now…to be confronted with his madness… Pain and discord and danger, whenever he appears in my life. To think he is the only member of my family that remains….”

Nathaniel took her hands in his, and smiled gently. “Well, that’s not strictly true now, is it?” Annabelle sniffed, and Nathaniel continued. “I believe that yesterday you made a family of your very own.”

Despite herself, Annabelle looked up and smiled. “Regardless,” she said, “to see Uncle Cyrus so beset by his madness… He’s like a different person, Nathaniel. A person I don’t know any more.”

Nathaniel nodded, grave. That so disturbing a degeneration could follow such brilliance—was that the inevitable price of genius?

It was at that point the door creaked open. Three heads whirled around to see the entrants, and when Bedford saw his bride with puffed eyelids and damp cheeks, he rushed across to take her hand. Folkard stepped in calmly behind him.

“Annabelle,” fussed Bedford, running his hand through her hair, “are you all right?”

“I’m fine, George, fine,” and Annabelle composed herself. “Please stop fussing.”

“I take it,” said Folkard gravely, “That Mrs Bedford’s distress is somehow linked to Doctor Grant’s speedy exit?”

“We saw your uncle make his way down the corridor away from us,” said Bedford to Annabelle. “He was…agitated. We called, but he didn’t respond.”

“Out of nowhere!” exclaimed Arnaud, throwing his hands in his air. “The man just exploded! Pushed poor Annabelle to one side and rushed from the room.”

Folkard looked around for somewhere to sit but, judging a lab stool inadequate, remained standing. “Yes,” he said gravely. “I have been informed that the good doctor’s behaviour of late has been…troubling.”

“To put it mildly,” said Nathaniel. “How on Earth did he come to be working in the Admiralty?”

“Just turned up one day,” Folkard said. “Mad as a March hare and twice as jumpy. Demanded to be let in, then pretty much locked himself away and wouldn’t speak to anyone. I did try to persuade him to attend yesterday, Annabelle. To no avail. I hope you can forgive me for keeping his presence hidden.”

Annabelle nodded her forgiveness.

“His sudden arrival was sinister, to say the least. As are…other developments.” Folkard grimaced.

Arnaud, Nathaniel and Annabelle stared at Folkard. Folkard looked away, disturbed.

“We have intercepted certain heliographs. We can’t as yet be sure of their source but they seem to indicate that one of Doctor Grant’s crazed ramblings is correct. There is, indeed, a connection to the Irish Separatist movement.”

“How so?” asked Nathaniel.

“We’re not sure as yet. All very vague. It will require some digging on ground level, so to speak.” And here Folkard looked pointedly at Nathaniel, before looking away. He crossed to the bench Arnaud had occupied for most of the afternoon and lifted a test tube, held it to the light and peered into it. “Fontaine, Stone… How did your investigations fare?”

“We’ve made some progress,” answered Arnaud, non-committally.

“And that progress is…?”

“We can’t be sure,” said Nathaniel. “The residue seems to be some sort of plant. A plant not known on this planet.”

“And we’re not even sure of that,” added Arnaud.

“Is there a way to be sure?” said a voice.

Everybody wheeled around. Standing nonchalantly by the door was Enderby, once more holding a lit cigarillo.

“Ah, possibly,” said Arnaud, somewhat stunned. “An old associate… Teacher, I guess you would say. When I studied at the Sorbonne. But it may be difficult.”

“My job,” purred Enderby, “is dealing with the difficult. Go on.”

“His name is Garrecreux. Fabrice Garrecreux. A genius when it comes to organic crystallography. As an undergraduate both he and Professor Fournier wanted me to assist each of them with their research. I was flattered at the time, no doubt pompous—though now I realise it was more to do with academic rivalry than my own talents, however substantial they may be. In the end, Garrecreux’s advances were…unwelcome.” Here Arnaud looked down, and didn’t look up. “I chose Professor Fournier, thankfully, and Garrecreux never spoke to me again.”

“Will he speak to you now?” asked Enderby.

Arnaud shrugged.

“The last I heard he had fled France, was living in India. Somewhere near Calcutta, researching the crystalline properties of a hemp plant. Cannabis indica. This was all years ago.”

“I’ll see what we’ve got on him,” said Enderby, stubbing out his untouched cigar on a worktop. “Pack your safari suit, Doctor Fontaine. And a hat for the heat.”

“And that’s it?” Nathaniel asked. “You’re packing Arnaud off to India?”

“And you to Dublin, Professor Stone. Pack a windbreaker. Possibly galoshes.”

Nathaniel shot a glance at Folkard, his gaze furious.

“Captain, you can’t…” Folkard looked him straight in the eye.

“I can, Stone,” he said. “And will. There has been an attack on our soil and on her Sovereign Majesty. And there are calls louder and greater than even the Navy can deny. Is there a problem, might I ask, with you and Doctor Fontaine being separated?”

Nathaniel raised an eyebrow, his posture still and uncompromising. He scrutinised Folkard for a moment.

“And if we are, what of you?” he asked.

“Captain Folkard is required elsewhere,” said Enderby. “Unfortunate, but necessary. Please believe me, Professor Stone. I am more than aware of the dangers you have faced, and overcome, as a group. But when faced with such a pernicious enemy, our only hope is to spread our net wide, and hope to God the gaps are wide enough to catch a kraken.”

“I cannot help but notice,” said a small, sudden voice, “that I have not been mentioned.” The voice came from Annabelle, and it was pure and pointed. “And neither has my husband.”

“Well,” grinned Enderby, carelessly lighting another cheroot, “that may be because you have a honeymoon to enjoy. Courtesy of the Crown.”

Chapter Four

The Spreading Net

1.

THEY CALLED IT Dear Old Dirty Dublin Town.

Nathaniel, for all his travels between the inner planets, had never actually been to Britain’s closest island neighbour. At Enderby’s insistence he was to travel lightly and without ostentation, and so had caught the train from King’s Cross to Liverpool under the watchful eye of one of Enderby’s mute underlings. He had not even been allowed the luxury of first class (an eye opening experience that he instantly resolved to omit from his diary) and was thankful for the small meal of smoked salmon and cheeses he had had his housekeeper prepare. From the Liverpool docks he had boarded the ferry and, after watching England slink into the distance and several minutes staring out to sea, he realised that his sea legs were not so sturdy as his space legs and elected to have a little sit down and drink some weak tea until the whole sorry voyage was over.

Enderby’s lapdog had returned on the ferry, but not before breaking his silence to quiz Nathaniel on the minutiae of his mission. Rankled by the man’s apparent skepticism concerning both his abilities and his short-term memory, his reply had been terse.

“I am to meet a man named Charles Cahalleret—known locally as ‘Tally’—in a public house known as The Bleeding Horse, located in St Kevin’s Port on the city’s south side. And yes, before you ask, I have studied the man’s daguerreotype so minutely I couldn’t fail to describe him to his own mother. He has information pertaining to the gentleman who built the bomb, and I am by no means to trust him. After that, your superior has trusted my instincts as to how the investigation should progress and, by Heaven’s eye, man, I’d be grateful if you did the same.”

Without even a goodbye, the lapdog had left.

Back on solid ground again, a rather picturesque tram ride brought Nathaniel to Pearse Station, and turning south onto Westland Row he met the city proper.

Sectarian squabbles aside, Nathaniel had not been sure how he would react to what was ostensibly the Empire’s “Second City”. He had to admit that, despite having arrived in the chilly air of a September afternoon, he was really rather enjoying himself. Popular belief would have had any visitor imagine the city a destitute hive, inflamed by Times editorials and heated talk of Home Rule. And yet, as Nathaniel paced idly down Nassau Street, the grandeur of Trinity College to his right, he felt curiously at home. Georgian architecture abounded, young lovers and smart-dressed gents took their strolls—the whole thing smacked, he thought wryly, of Putney. There was even a game of cricket being played on the college green, overseen by an imposing and rather matronly pavilion.

One could not deny, however, the squalor that bristled at the city’s edges, in the corners of market squares, taverns and side-streets. Dublin’s population had grown, and with that a need for jobs that fell sorrowfully short. London’s expansion meant a wealth of factories and workhouses which were sadly absent here, and the guttersnipes and destitutes that flitted between the city’s grander occupants—though no stranger to Nathaniel’s eye—seemed all the more dissolute as a result. He saw two women pulling at each other over a shawl, and a small boy wrestle away a man’s pocket-watch before fleeing. But such were the strains of city life, and he instead decided to concentrate on the brightness and curious energy of the place.

He had memorised his route, took a left down Dawson Street and crossed through St Stephen’s Green. Here, the air seemed even brighter—ethereal, almost—the trees halted in their journey to turn an autumnal brown. Nathaniel drank it in, this unspoilt mirror of a London blackened and choked by Industry’s metal-and-mortar maw. Such was the price of progress, he reasoned.

He headed south, out of the park. Before long he had reached St Kevin’s Port, and he looked up at the building in which he was to meet his informant and guide.

The Bleeding Horse was an ugly building, its extended gable and darkened windows looking somehow like a frown. As Nathaniel reached for the big brass handle the door was pushed open and a large man, pock-marked and unsteady on his feet, lurched out. He looked Nathaniel up and down and smirked before tumbling on his way towards the city’s centre. As Nathaniel watched him go, he felt his eyes drawn upwards to the sign that hung on a great steel bar that extended from the building’s front like a warning. The picture showed a great white horse, rearing up, its throat pierced. Its eyes were wide and panicked, a jet of crimson arcing from the wound. Nathaniel made his way into the fug of smoke and fumes of porter, and wondered how Arnaud and the newlyweds were faring.

2.

ARNAUD WAS NOT a natural smoker of cigars, but in this environment it was somewhat gauche to be otherwise. Despite himself, he was finding the thick stub of tobacco silkily decadent, no doubt made silkier by the cognac. The great glass sheets of the observation deck stretched around him like a halo, sunlight flecking from steel girders and chandeliers alike. He found, much to his surprise, that he could actually ease back further into the depths of his chair, and he groaned momentarily in delight. God bless her Majesty! Liberté, égalité and fraternité could all go hang. This was living.

The pleasant tremble of the airship’s engines hummed under his feet, adding to the air of lazy indulgence he was more than happy to encourage, both in himself and the staff on the sidelines. He need only gesture for them to refill his glass, or bring him an amuse-bouche or another fine cigar. He was no longer a simple geologist, and Enderby had insisted that he play the part assigned to him—that of the spoilt son of an exiled marquis who had fled the revolution to the haven of Florence. And Arnaud (or at least, who Arnaud was supposed to be) was in good company. Lords and Ladies took in the day while the landed and the nouveau riche argued over card games, decorated Germans got solidly drunk and relived their past glories with a raucous camaraderie. Arnaud drank it in, all the while drinking cognac.

As he placed his glass back down, a black-clad arm swooped down and picked it up. He looked up into the face of the man Enderby had sent along with him. What was his name again? Ashford, or Ashforth, something like that. Pleasant enough, somewhat mild and milky-eyed, and as Arnaud had adopted the role of the nobility, so this milquetoast had adopted the role of the serf and servant. It was only keeping in character, Arnaud thought hazily, that he could not remember the fellow’s name.

“Bon, Ashton,” he said, waving lazily. “Encore.” Ever the professional, the servant of her Majesty’s secretest of services bowed and left to bring him more booze and nibbles.

Arnaud had noticed the gazes of ladies with their débutante daughters drawn his way. He would often catch their eyes and smile, smirking as mothers pulled their daughters aside to instruct them in the next steps of snagging old French money. He would not give them any truck, of course. But the game and the surroundings would provide him an amusing distraction, he decided, as the airship chugged its inexorable way towards the Indian subcontinent.

It was mostly the British on board the dirigible. Factory owners were expanding their businesses and career soldiers sailed to make their names in hot, uncertain climes. The vagaries of Empire business and the flirting of socially mobile schoolgirls didn’t trouble him much right now, and besides, he had plenty of time to sober up before the ship reached port. Keeping up appearances, especially in these lavish surroundings, never felt so good. He had two days more to enjoy it.

“I hear,” said an excitable matron unsubtly to his left, “that he’s technically a dauphin…”

Arnaud took his drink from his uncomplaining valet and waved him away, smiling. He could get used to this, and wondered idly how his friends were getting on.

3.

“THIS IS NOT how I imagined my honeymoon progressing, George.”

She was furious, and, having been married for the best of two days, the only thing Bedford truly wanted was to make his bride, well…slightly less furious. This was proving somewhat difficult thanks to circumstances that were frustratingly beyond his control. He was becoming used to married life.

Firstly there had been the problems with the luggage. Enderby—or at the very least, somebody in his employ—had been tasked with bringing it to the aerodrome for their departure. But their cases and Annabelle’s grand selection of hats had somehow failed to materialise.

“It’s never easy, is it?” she grumbled, stepping up to board the airship Pall Mall with a swoosh that was, to Bedford at least, dismissive.

In all fairness, Enderby had been apologetic. He was clearly unused to such hiccoughs and was duly penitent, a welcome crack in his otherwise standoffish demeanour. “I guess we’ll have them sent along,” he muttered, avoiding Annabelle’s poison gaze. “All we wanted was for you to enjoy a trip that would prove memorable. Speaking of which, may I introduce Mister Boon? Bertrand Boon. He’ll be joining you for the journey.” And Enderby extended his arm to introduce a black-clad man.

“Really, George,” Annabelle fumed as they’d closed the door on their cabin. “It’s not too much to ask, is it? A little romance and a change of clothes,” and here she raised her voice unnaturally, angling her head towards the cabin door, “and privacy!”

There was the soft clearing of a throat from beyond the wooden portal. Having served on so many ships—both on the seas and in the void between worlds—Bedford had to admit that their accommodation was, to put it mildly, somewhat basic. It was spartanly decorated, all straight lines and a chest for their non-existent luggage, maybe five feet by eight. But what had really been the icing on the cake was the bunk beds.

“I’ll talk to the steward,” he said. “Mister Boon must have some sway, as do I. After all it’s a British ship, and I’ve more than a few shillings in my pocket. We’ll sort something out, my dearest.”

“I am not your dearest,” growled Annabelle. “I’m your wife.” Bedford thought it best to back off. He did so, unsure of what to do next. Annabelle sighed.

“I’m sorry. It’s not the surroundings, it’s the situation. Do you not think something…untoward in all this? That we’re provided with a vacation, all,” she glanced around the room, frowning, “expenses seen to, and to add insult to injury they’ve packed us off to Arizona. Now don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I’m not looking forward to returning, it’s just…” She sighed.

“Oh Annabelle, I know…” Bedford understood the conflict Annabelle must have felt deep within herself. Knowing her pain so intimately, he knew there was little he could offer to truly ease her mind. Arizona was the state of her birth, her home—and yet also the place in which she was captured and incarcerated for two years by the indigenous Indians. It was an experience that had made her the woman she was, and the woman he loved, but also one which had deeply affected her, and left scars and terrible memories far beneath the surface of her skin. Even he was not aware of all the traumatic events that must have transpired—he was not even sure Annabelle recalled the worst of them, and for a woman as strong as she, this must surely indicate some horrific ordeals indeed.

Annabelle looked him in the eye, took his hand. “George, we could be sleeping in a back-alley slum, cabbage leafs and cardboard for our bed, and we would still have each other. And I would be happy if you were at my side. But I fear it will never be the case. I fear we will never have the chance to live happily as a married couple. It’s not the fault of either of us, of course, but the callings of a world that may well never leave us in peace until we’re dead. Had you thought of that?”

Of course he had. In fact, the very same thought had not been far from his mind since Enderby had proposed their surprise excursion. His allegiance to the Navy was one thing, but this was quite another! Yes, Enderby may well have had the safety of her Majesty (and, logically extending from that, the realm) at heart. Bedford had no qualms about that allegiance, and was proud of the fact he shared it—and yet, and yet…he could not shake the fact that he was being taken advantage of, that his good nature and fortitude was being exploited by people whose motives remained worryingly opaque. He had his loyalties—fealty to the Navy, to Crown and Country—but his love for Annabelle and his marriage vows put her above all other pledges, and he desperately wanted to prove this to her.

“Mister Boon!” he called forcefully. The door opened and Mister Boon’s face—thin, cautious, with a grossly receding hairline—popped between the gap beside the jamb.

“Yes, Commander Bedford?”

“Ah, so you are aware of my rank, then, sir?”

The man furrowed his brows.

“I am, sir.”

“Well then kindly look around you, Mister Boon. Do these look like a commander’s quarters? And what’s more, do they look like the quarters of a commander on his honeymoon?”

“They do not, sir.”

“So glad you agree. See to it, eh, Boon?”

Mister Boon smiled wanly, but there was a certain warmth there. “With pleasure, sir,” he said.

4.

EYES FOLLOWED NATHANIEL as he traversed the room. Some were hazed by drink, others were suspiciously sharp. Everyone, it seemed, had noticed him. This may not have been due to Nathaniel merely being an outsider. The inside of the pub, which pretty much resembled a large, hollow cube, was crammed with low, skulking tables and darkened nooks along the edges. A solid wooden staircase climbed the left hand side of the room, inviting drinkers up to a mezzanine that looked down on the main floor. Behind the bar, other rooms and corridors branched off into the darkness. Tally could be anywhere, and in order to make sure Nathaniel did not miss his man he found himself scrutinising every single face, and it was clear that his interest was unwelcome. He had already noticed the barman’s gaze follow him relentlessly, whether the man was idly polishing glasses or pouring a customer their dark, black pint.

Nathaniel suddenly found himself shoulder-barged by a passing drinker, and as he wheeled around, babbling a quick apology, he found the man had already taken offence.

“Why, there y’are, ya gobshite!” he growled, and suddenly Nathaniel felt two arms like iron girders wrap around his waist and yank him down. To the general cheers of the crowd the lout grasped Nathaniel in a headlock and yanked the helplessly protesting professor back outside. As the air of the outdoors hit him he struggled, was nudged around by his assailant and brought upright. Nathaniel raised his fists to defend himself, pistol-keen and ready to duck a punch, but instead found himself looking into the face of a rather familiar man, smiling and brushing off Nathaniel’s lapels.

“Now here’s a piece of advice for you, Professor Stone. If you find yerself walking into an Irish inn, as a Britisher you do one thing. You look at the walls. If you see our fair Isle’s declaration of independence posted up there in English, get out while your legs still can. If you see it written in Irish, well, that just means they just haven’t decided how they’re gonna kill you yet.”

Nathaniel rubbed his throat and got his breath back. “And which,” he asked, gasping, “is the case in there?”

“Neither,” smiled the man, extending a hand. “But that’s hardly the point now, is it? Tally Cahalleret at your service.”

He was much as he had looked in the picture. A hardened man, clearly, albeit a handsome one. In his early thirties, he had jet-black hair, blue eyes, strong jaw line, and was somewhat shorter than Nathaniel had imagined him to be. He wore a waistcoat and open collar and a wide, flat beige cap was balanced diagonally over his head.

“Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mister Cahalleret.”

“Tally, please. Mister Cahalleret was my arse of a father. Sorry about the roughhousing. It’s just I had to get ya out of there before one of them boys heard ya talkin’, or worse, tapped ya for a drink.”

“It’s quite alright.”

“Right so. And speaking of drinks, Professor Stone, can I indulge ya? I believe we have some business to discuss.” He opened the door for Nathaniel. “After you.”

“But…”

“Ah, don’t be soft, man. I’ll tell ’em ya paid what ya owed me and that’s what we’re drinking on. C’mon now. Don’t be shy, but keep your gob shut. At least ’til we’re in private.”

Following shortly after Nathaniel, Tally yelled to the crowd “He’s alright, fellers!” and waved at the barman. “Stephen,” he said, “rack a couple up and bring ’em through. We’ll be in the snug.”

Chapter Five

The Empire’s Second Cities

1.

IT WAS WITH the greatest of sorrows that Arnaud packed his suitcase as the airship prepared to dock. Childish it may have been, but he resented being deprived of the lifestyle into which he had grown so accustomed—over two days, at least. For the rest of the first day he had got solidly blotto on cognac, and then was invited by a certain Lady Hawkston for an evening reception and lunch. In a cramped and second-class cabin she had introduced her daughter Cecily (mentioned many times but not yet seen) as if she were the Duchess of Dubai. Cecily had clearly scrubbed up for the occasion. He had had to concentrate hard in order to not fall over, and in all honesty, had felt more attraction for the Skreelan of Venus.

Then followed lunch in the ballroom, along with wine. Arnaud didn’t remember much after that, and awoke feeling like the Devil’s own cleaver had been brought down hard between his eyeballs. He had stayed in bed until 4pm, and after bathing for another hour and feeling sorry for himself, he threw on some clothes and staggered off to find something to eat. There was no sign of the fellow, Ashpan, or whatever the devil’s name was, the devil take him. An early evening buffet had begun and, using his clout as a potential dauphin, he persuaded the chef to knock up some kedgeree, and sent for a brandy. As he was snaffling the spicy rice, eggs and haddock Lady Hawkston passed by, and turned her nose up. Of poor Cecily there was no sign.

It was only after he’d stuffed himself with the kedgeree, followed by English muffins and three cups of coffee, that Arnaud had begun to feel even marginally human again. Feeling sedated and sleepy, he elected to spend the rest of the day gazing from a porthole and snoozing, only to find the black-clad man waiting back in his cabin, reading a paper with his legs resting on Arnaud’s bed. He uncrossed his legs and put the paper down.

“Feeling better, are we, dauphin?” he asked.

To cut a long story short, it turned out the bugger’s name was Coyne and he was dead set against letting Arnaud stay on the ship to Bombay.

“We’ll be docking south of Calcutta within the hour, Arnaud,” he said, bored, as he passed Arnaud another shirt to pack. “You’ve had your fun, and now we’ve got work to do.”

Arnaud was still mildly hung-over. He packed shirts and prayed for somewhere close to the landing pad where he could sleep. He could already feel the heat of the Indian sun beating at his temples through the window.

2.

THE HEAT WAS also bothering Annabelle and George. Annabelle felt momentarily flushed, and lifted her fan. But not because of the temperature, no—the pleasant Arizona breeze rushing through the train’s open windows kept her cool—but because she was curious to see what would happen if she dropped it.

George was sitting next to her. In order, he maintained, to get into the proper holiday spirit, he would put away his usual histories and biographies and read something a bit different. Unfortunately, this flash of literary derring-do had only occurred to George after they boarded the airship (having thankfully been relocated to a comfortable double room with a nice view. It turned out, incidentally, that the luggage had been in this room all along). He had insisted on scouring the nearest dead-end town and didn’t leave until he ended up procuring several penny dreadfuls and Volume II of Don Quixote. Have discovered Don Quixote to be written in the original Spanish, he was now attempting to enjoy some lurid tale, which, inasmuch as Annabelle could work out, was mostly about soldiers shooting things. He was absorbed, and Annabelle was bored.

And so she raised her fan. This was a test for him.

Affecting a touch of the vapours she tilted her head back and let out a little sigh, then nonchalantly dropped the paper fan. She kept her head back, waiting for George to acknowledge her feigned distress. He did not, and kept his nose in the book. She cleared her throat. He turned a page. She cleared her throat again.

“George,” she hissed.

“Hmm?”

“I’ve dropped my fan, George.”

George looked up, then down at Annabelle’s feet.

He beamed. “Oh, so you have!” He picked it up and dropped it in her lap, and then got back to his book. “I’ll just finish this chapter.”

Annabelle crossed her arms and harrumphed. At least Mister Boon had left them alone for the present, reasoning, she assumed, that he thought there wasn’t much she could get up to on a speeding train. Her eyes fell on the seven or so other cheap novellas George had acquired at such great cost. There was one about an adventure on Venus (full of factual errors on even the briefest glance), an historical one about previous generations of soldiers shooting things in Africa, and another historical one that caught her eye…. The Lusty Knight, it was called. She picked it up, and the frontpiece showed a rough illustration of a wench with a cavernous bosom being swooned upon by a shining, softly handsome knight. Medieval drapes and stone walls swam, badly inked, in the background. Flicking through, she noticed Chapter IV (subtitled ‘A Passionate Encounter’) was by far the longest in a fairly short book, and Annabelle decided she might as well sit and have a read too.

3.

MEANWHILE, AT THE Admiralty, Folkard and Enderby were hardly so pleasantly diverted. They were packing for a trip of their own. Yet they would not experience the pleasure of a first-class cruise, nor the manic squalor of Calcutta’s slums and the danger that waited therein. They would not feel the Arizona winds on their faces nor the warm embrace of a Dublin pub, because for them, the destination was far bleaker.

Folkard was calm. As he packed thick clothes, bully beef and ammunition into his rucksack he gripped each item tightly. The Heart was in his head, his lost ones were singing, and tonight would be a full moon in a clear sky. Enderby watched him, nervously.

4.

MISTER BOON HAD returned and, much to Annabelle’s delight, had brought a covered tray of breakfast with him. George had dozed off and was snoring while Annabelle had immersed herself in a rather racy tale that (on more than one occasion) had caused her to pause and look up to George. Her radiant knight, drooling onto a paperback. He was still asleep when Boon had lifted the platter to reveal poached eggs, toast, grilled kidneys and bacon, coffee, tea and the morning paper. George became instantly awake.

“Little bit of home, Commander,” said Boon. “My treat. It’s your honeymoon after all.”

It was easy to see. George was touched. Boon nodded, pleased, and turned on his heels.

“Bertrand, is it?” asked George.

“Well, Mister Boon, professionally. But in all honesty, I prefer Bert.”

“Well, Bert, that’s… That’s incredibly generous of you!”

“Thank you, Bert,” added Annabelle.

“Thing is, sir. I know how it is.” It seemed as if he’d relaxed a bit, his natural South London accent coming though. “This job, all that. They cart you off without a by-your-leave and half the time you don’t even know where you’re going, let alone what you’re supposed to do when you get there. But they told me all about your wedding, so I felt I had to. Missed seeing my first born, see. Thanks to the job. Anyway, not my place. I just wanted to make it feel like a special occasion for you.”

“Bert, please,” insisted George. “There’s more than enough for the carriage, let alone us two. Won’t you join us?”

“I’d love to, sir. Really would. But I’ve gotta have a quick recce of the rest of the train. Couple other of our fellows aboard, see. Pays to crack the whip. ’Fraid I couldn’t get you The Times, sir. Just a fairly local thing, but it’s got a crossword, at least. Enjoy your breakfast.” And with that, he was gone.

“He’s a boon indeed,” said George, rubbing his hands together and ogling the food before him. “I wonder if I should give him a tip?”

“Don’t be asinine, George,” said Annabelle and, feeling she had just uttered a line worthy of one of Mister Dickens’ heroines, she picked up a piece of buttered toast and nibbled at the edge. George poured himself a cup of tea and tucked into the meat with gusto.

5.

AFTER THEY WERE both sated, George got back to his boy’s own novella and left Annabelle to her own devices. She was tired of her own paperback, the passionate encounter of Chapter IV having been and gone, and so instead decided to riffle through The Blackwater Ledger, the newspaper Boon had so thoughtfully provided. She found the news she read there oddly comforting. It seemed the west had changed little—there were the same old announcements of births and deaths, the opening of a new railroad or the closure of a spent silver mine. Murders and their perpetrators, acts of faith and villainy, tiny type cramped between adverts for horses, brand new ventures and snake oil. And then one headline caught her eye.

Prospectors Spared Indian Savagery! The Reason: Innocence?

Two prospectors, to whose request of anonymity we have graciously conceded, have today returned to Blackwater after a frightful ordeal in the desert—involving Indians! The pair, who had been informed of possible deposits of gold to the west of Horton’s Pass, set out and rode perhaps ten to fifteen miles beyond where they had intended. Lost, thirsty and disorientated, one prospector claims they were set upon by a starving mountain lion, while the other insists it was nothing more than an ill-tempered fox. Irrespective of these minor details, one of the pioneers found himself with a sorely twisted ankle, unable to walk or even move. Thanks to a spot of squirrel hunting and previously packed supplies, the duo managed to survive the night, with the uninjured of the two intending to set back to the nearest town at first light—perhaps four days’ ride away.

And yet! His journey was not to be! He awoke in the silky dusk light to find his friend had been rolled away from him, towards the dying embers of the fire, and that in the stygian gloom he could just make out a hulking figure…leant over the prostrate form of his companion!

Instantly, the prospector tells us, he was alert and had drawn his pistol. The figure had simply raised a great hand akin to that of a bear and waved him off. It was then that the prospector noticed a young girl, perhaps eight or nine years old, standing behind the man, holding out a sheaf of herbs. The old man was chewing on the herbs and rubbing the resulting, foul-smelling mixture on his companion’s ankle, and binding it with strips of cloth and leather.

In what was described as “Excellent English”, the Indian advised the pair to ride to our fair town of Blackwater, far closer than the original destination and, in the opinion of this humble reporter, a far more desirable one. He advised the injured man that he could ride after a day’s rest, so long as he rode side-saddle and kept the weight off the bound leg. With that, the Indian and his young accomplice took three tins of beans and two roasted squirrels, and departed into the night. The following day, the prospectors began their journey to our town, where they sought out our fair publication forthwith, in order that their story might be told.

Could these two men have survived an encounter with the famed Apache outlaw Geronimo? This reporter thinks not. If they had encountered that misanthropic beast of the wilds they would surely have been scalped alive. And yet, perhaps it was the presence of that innocent, the young girl of the tribe, that tempered the savage heart. Even though it is not uncommon for a squaw to be married and bear children at such a shockingly young age, perhaps this Wild Man retains some semblance of humanity, and chose to spare the girl the sight of such unconscionable bloodshed.

It was clear to Annabelle that this was the kind of disreputable journal that sold itself primarily on hyperbole and populist cant; it was all gossip and ill-informed conjecture, nothing more. She tossed the paper angrily aside.

6.

TWO DAYS PREVIOUSLY, in the lounge of The Bleeding Horse, Nathaniel was directed to a booth at the back of the lounge, one of several, all numbered, with doors that could close the occupants snugly in. This room sat at the very rump of the pub, down a short flight of stairs and possibly underground. There were no other tables on the floor and, save the dimmed ruckus from the main bar, the room was silent.

“They nickname it ‘The Confessional’,” smirked Tally, as he closed them in the booth.

Out of politeness more than curiosity, Nathaniel had accepted a pint of Guinness from Tally. It now sat before him, untouched, while Tally’s was nearly halfway gone.

“You not gonna touch your Guinness, Professor?” asked Tally, genuinely interested.

“I’m not much of a drinker, let alone of ale.”

“Well, there’s yer first mistake, as this ain’t ale. G’wan. Give it a go. What’s the worst that could happen?”

Nathaniel couldn’t really argue with his logic. He gripped the glass tightly. It felt slightly heavier than he remembered from carrying it across, and he brought the thick black liquid topped with thick, white foam to his lips, and sipped. A deep, chocolaty goodness passed into his mouth, followed by a rich taste of velvet molasses that coated his throat as he swallowed.

“Dear Lord,” he muttered. “That really is rather pleasant.”

“First taste of Ireland. Welcome to Dublin, Professor Stone.”

Nathaniel smacked his mouth appreciatively and took another sip.

“Careful now,” said Tally. “That stuff’ll leave you with a fair old head in the morning.”

“Yes, quite,” agreed Nathaniel. “And I fear I’ll need my faculties over the coming days. I’m assuming it’s safe to talk?”

“Safe as houses.”

“Then I’m led to believe you have information pertaining to the identity of the Horseguard’s Bomber.”

“Well, that’s the thing,” said Tally. “I do and I don’t.”

“You do and you don’t?” blurted Nathaniel loudly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Whoa there, Professor,” cautioned Tally. “These things are private, but they ain’t soundproof.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “What I mean by I do and I don’t is that I do know something, but I don’t know yer man who lit the fuse.”

“Well,” pressed Nathaniel, “what is it?”

“It’s me nephew. He’s a zookeeper.”

“A…zookeeper?”

“Aye. Up in Dublin Zoological Gardens. You never heard of Dublin Zoo?”

“Does it matter?”

“Aye, I guess not. Anyway, young Simon (for that’s his name), young Simon notices one day the Earth sorta shiftin’ underneet his feet, like a tremor, an earthquake or what-have-you. Pretty soon after that, see, parts of the zoo get closed off, no explanation, and young Simon says he could hear the sound of drilling, an’ explosions. All this over the past couple of months. Anyway, they’ve opened it up again now, but our Simon noticed some shady goings on in that exhibit, the new one, what with stuff from Mars. Visitors after closing time, that sort of thing. When young Simon told the gaffer about it he was told to shut his hole and feed the ferrets.”

“But what’s that got to do with the bomb?”

“Not a lot. But there’s been rumblings in certain…organizations. That an expert was in town, just doing his own thing, but he suddenly opened himself up to giving certain organizations lessons in new an’ deadly ways to make things go bang, if you get what I mean. Apparently, this expert was seen a lot in Phoenix Park, not far from the Zoo.”

“What does he look like?”

“Ah, nobody’s all that sure. The lads who attended his little masterclass have apparently been sworn to silence. But he’s one of your lot, a Britisher. Doesn’t seem to care to hide it, neither. Tweed, leather gloves, an upturned nose and a stick up his arse. Only… Only there’s always this other feller with him, and he’s the type that tends to draw the eye.”

“Oh? How so?”

“He’s built like a side of beef on both sides, is how so. They say he’s got brass hands, always wears these damn welding goggles. Never talks.”

7.

THEY HAD DISCOVERED their destination in the final briefing: Severnaya, Russia, miles from the middle of nowhere. It was here, they had been informed, that the Russians were studying and perfecting dangerous new technologies that had the potential to eclipse those of the British Empire. Grant had provided some information, either through rambling, enraged rants or spidery notes pushed out from under doors as the doctor wailed in the locked room beyond. The Secret Service Bureau was dug in well in Dublin, and though the intel was vague there was a definite Russian connection. Treading on enemy soil—it was by far the most dangerous of missions. Yet Folkard relished the prospect. Not for the adventure nor the protection of his homeland—it seemed that every passing moment brought him closer to the mission, and that also brought him closer to the Heart, and, ultimately his dear wife.

There was no choice. They could not have gone by rail or commercial flyer. This clandestine mission required far much more finesse and resources, and so HMAS Sovereign had been commissioned for their flight.

Folkard felt a strange sense of nostalgia being back on the ship, but not once did he ever feel the need to go to the bridge. He mostly stayed in his room. The rumblings of the engines through the walls—that exact pitch—was one he knew so well, like the close embrace of someone long lost. But with those rumblings came an energy, a direction, that was bringing him closer to the Heart. He could feel it.

He had taken a stroll round, of course. The old girl was looking fit as a fox, he had to admit, and he noted that even some of the improvements he had suggested to the Admiralty following his decommission had been implemented. He felt proud to have made the ship what she was. But he was also aware that many of the men would know his face, catch his eye—he would cause unrest on board if he made his presence obvious. One or two trusted souls he’d like to speak to, of course… But for the most part, he wished his presence to be ghostlike.

8.

ARNAUD WAS RATHER surprised at how easy this was all turning out to be—despite this damnable, oppressive heat. He had felt the temperature rising steadily over the second day of his journey east; by the evening the observation deck of the airship had become sweltering due to the great glass windows, and all but the hardiest of passengers had retired to their rooms to snooze and escape the sun.

That selfsame sun was now beating down on Arnaud like a hammer at a forge. He was wearing a safari suit made of cream-coloured cotton, but even this light fabric was sodden with sweat and clung to his body like a wet bathing costume. After the airship had docked, Arnaud had been one of the first passengers to disembark. The aerodrome (if you could call it that—a more accurate, though less flattering, description would be a raised mound of earth surrounded by a few sorry looking huts, with telegraph poles spidering away from them towards the horizon) was located some miles south of Calcutta, and yet with commendable alacrity Coyne had procured them a sort of rickshaw affair, piloted by a local peasant in a loincloth on a bicycle that had been bolted to the passenger’s bench in a worryingly ramshackle fashion. Neither the driver’s emaciated appearance or the shoddy design of the vehicle were built for speed, and any hopes for relief from the heat by a cooling breeze were remote. Arnaud found himself constantly fanning his face with his hat or wiping the sweat from his eyes with a damp handkerchief. Coyne, still in black, seemed unperturbed.

The city of Calcutta crawled up to meet them. It was not like approaching London, he thought. Or even Paris. Calcutta snuck up on you slowly. First came an increase in locals by the roadway, often walking towards the city, mostly alone, often carrying or carting improbable loads—mangoes, scrap metal, bundles of newspaper tied with strips of leaves. Skeletal dogs trotted beside them or slumped, breathing heavily on their sides, by the edges of the road.

Then the slums began. The first of the hovels had shocked Arnaud—it seemed incomprehensible to him that people could even survive—let alone make a living—in such appalling squalor. From a distance, he had thought the first was some kind of rest-stop dropped carelessly onto the barren landscape, little more than a few wooden boards propped together, topped with a waxed fabric roof. It was perhaps five feet square. As they approached Arnaud saw an ancient looking Sikh sitting cross-legged on a mat beside the door, smoking a sort of upright wooden pipe. Through the doorway he could see figures sleeping, cramped together on woven mats, and on the other side of the hut a broad-hipped woman in a colourful sari was pegging out washing on a line. It was then Arnaud realised that this was not a rest-stop but a home, and he thought back guiltily to his two days of sloth and drunken indulgence.

Thereafter, similar huts began to pepper the roadside, all equally cramped and ill-constructed. He began not to be shocked by them, and then not to notice them at all, and occupied his time drifting off into hazy, febrile daydreams. Occasionally, children would run alongside the rickshaw with their arms outstretched to beg, only to have the driver curse at them in a rapid, angry staccato and wave his arms at them to clip their ears.

“This is nothing compared to the slums in the city proper,” said Coyne. Was Arnaud mistaken, or did he detect a sort of malicious glee in the way the fellow said it? Either way, the Frenchman was too wilted for conversation and grunted non-committally, returned instead to his daydreams and, eventually, thoughts of Garrecreux.

Bizarrely, or perhaps because of this feverish heat, one of the only things that Arnaud could recall of his would-be mentor was his eyebrows. Great, big, black bushy things they were—vast to the point of ridicule. More than once an undergraduate night of drinking had ended with a cooled chunk of charcoal being pilfered from the grate to facilitate an impromptu impression, and Arnaud smiled at the memory of long-gone, carefree days. It struck him that they had mocked Garrecreux because they did not respect him—not in the same way they had respected Professor Fournier. Garrecreux had an insincerity about him that Fournier lacked, a shifty, squint-eyed suspicion that would wash across the lecture theatres like the beam from a lighthouse. Where his gaze was keen, his teaching was dull and dry. To him, rocks were no more than dead objects to be studied, minerals ground down to powder to make statistics out of scientific composition. What was there, was there; they had no more stories to tell after they were reduced into dust. Fournier’s approach—and consequently Arnaud’s, thanks to the former’s tutelage—was to find magic, life and mystery in the floor beneath humanity’s feet.

As well as that, there was Garrecreux’s instance of one-to-one tuition and an alarming penchant to lean uncomfortably close when checking Arnaud’s notes. Arnaud had been little more than a boy then (though at the time, naturally enough, he believed himself to be far more), and even as a man the thought of those weasely eyebrows brushing against his cheek made him shudder. He steeled himself. This was not to be a pleasant reunion of old university acquaintances. His only hope, he reasoned, was to challenge the old man’s pride, and force him to prove that he could, in fact, help.

Yet whatever happened, Arnaud was certain that he would be remembered.

Chapter Six

Intrigue in the World’s Four Corners

1.

THE TERRIBLE SCREECH of a train’s brakes roused George from his idle slumber and punted Annabelle from her seat into the opposing—and thankfully unoccupied—bench. She was relieved to see George instantly awake and tending to her current discomfort, offering his hand to help her rise and asking if, please God, she was unharmed. Troubled, perhaps, but unharmed—she wondered to herself if she might not have taken such a tumble had she possessed two fully functioning legs.

Screams and consternations emanated from other booths along the carriage. George and Annabelle had scarcely got their breath back before Boon pulled open the door to look down upon them.

“Are you all right?” he asked quickly.

“We’re fine, Bert,” replied Annabelle, unfazed. “What’s happening?”

“No idea, miss. Legged it here as soon as this bloody thing stopped shuddering.”

“Well,” said George, dusting himself off pointlessly, “shall we go and find out what we’re dealing with, hmm?”

“Right you are, Sir,” beamed Bert. “Right you are.”

George turned to Annabelle.

“Coming, Mrs Bedford?” he asked, offering the crook of his elbow.

“I thought you’d never ask, Mister Bedford,” she said, and took his arm.

They glanced out of the window but the mound of earth onto which the tracks were built was rather steep. The rails ran round along the left towards the horizon, and it was easily seen that the tracks ran into a plateau near the engine. Already, the driver and a couple of engineers had disembarked. Their bright blue overalls stood out starkly against the burnt orange of the Arizona soil as they approached an ominous black blob that sat, unnervingly still, some twenty metres on the track before the front of the train.

The trio dashed up the length of the carriages until they reached the partition to the hopper filled with coal. When they reached the door, a surly and overweight railway worker had held up his hand to stop their progress before they were even ten feet away.

“Summin’ on the line, folks,” he drawled, bored. “We clean it up, we mosey on. Get back ter ya carriage, drink yer tea. We’s got it all under control.”

“Excuse me!” started Annabelle.

“Now hush hush, little lady! You don’t wanna be getting’ your drawers in a disturbance, you just leave this to…”

And the worker found his drawl curtailed by Annabelle’s knee, which had swiftly and viciously found itself embedded in his groin.

“And to think I was about to invoke Queen and Country,” muttered Boon.

“We’re in my country now,” smiled Annabelle. “Let’s go.”

2.

ANNABELLE, GEORGE AND Bert clambered down the short ladder onto the dusty ground, and within moments were dashing towards where the driver and his cohorts were milling around the blockage on the track, scratching their heads and rubbing their stubble. As they approached, it became clear the problem on the line was animal in nature—not black, but dark brown, lying on its side with two great horns jutting out from the crown of its head. A buffalo! Annabelle recognised it instantly, sped her step towards the corpse of the fallen beast, and as she did so, the train driver extended her arms and waved for her pleadingly to stop.

“Whoa, whoa, missy!” he began to plead, “this ain’t no sight for a lady!”

“I’ve seen more of these gutted than you’ve had hot dinners,” she admonished, stopping the man in his tracks as she finished her jog towards him. “And what’s more, you’re all idiots.”

“Well hold your tongue there, missy! This is Injun country, an’ caution ain’t gonna do us no harm.”

George, breathless, caught up to them, Boon close on his heels.

“I’d listen to her if I were you,” said George, resting his palms on his knees. “Your colleague nursing himself in the train will testify as much. What’s wrong, Annabelle?”

Annabelle had approached the fallen buffalo. Three arrows jutted from the hump in the beast’s back, and with a twist of her wrist Annabelle yanked one out and studied the tip.

“These aren’t Apache arrows. Can’t be. Look at them! The shaft, you couldn’t fire this straight if you tried. And what’s more, three arrows in a buffalo’s hump? It would barely stop the thing from goring you, let alone kill it.” She tossed the arrow aside and dusted off her hands. “Push this thing to the side,” she instructed the two engineers. “I’ll wager we’ll find a great shotgun wound there. And if there is…then where’s all the blood?”

The two engineers, seemingly powerless to resist Annabelle’s barked instructions, hefted their shoulders against the weight of the animal and began to push.

“Come on, boys,” said Annabelle, “Put your backs into it!” Yet her bravado was curtailed by George, who tapped her lightly on the shoulder.

“Darling,” he protested gently, “this all well and good, but I think we may be faced with more pressing concerns.”

Annabelle followed his gaze. On the horizon, a dust cloud loomed, the dark silhouettes of riders and the trembling thunder of hooves cloaked inexorably, terrifyingly, within.

“Injuns!” yelped the driver.

“Indians,” corrected Annabelle. “But which tribe? Are they friendly?”

Under the hoof-beats, the sound of whoops and war-cries began rising steadily in volume. Once or twice came the crack of a carbine being fired into the air.

“Well, I guess that answers that question…” She lifted her skirts and, along with George, Bert, and the ashen-faced railway workers, began to pelt back towards the train.

3.

NATHANIEL HAD AWOKEN at some point in the mid-morning, his head not unpleasantly heavy thanks to a couple of pints of stout. He smacked his mouth experimentally, just hoping that, should he once more desire a taste of Ireland’s most famous export, he would not have to head into the more salubrious of London’s inns in order to satisfy his newly-found craving.

He was stretched out on an old, threadbare divan in Tally’s garret, his feet poking off the edge. He began to recall the previous night. After Nathaniel had quizzed the Irishman on everything he knew about the strange seismic disturbances under Phoenix Park (which turned out to be little more than he had already been told) the two had moved on to other, more diverting topics, including local politics, the state of the Empire and life in Dublin in general. They had ordered a large platter of Dublin Bay prawns from the barman—sweet, succulent, covered in butter and accompanied by heavy and toothsome soda bread. As promised, Nathaniel had picked up the bill and at some point in the early hours the two had stepped out into the warm night air. Nathaniel had enquired about a local hotel he might stay at—even The Bleeding Horse itself—but Tally had insisted on showing Nathaniel the extent of Celtic hospitality. This had turned out to be the aforementioned threadbare divan in a garret, somewhere in the backstreets of the suburb of Rathgar.

He could, just about, see Tally in his shirtsleeves, his back to Nathaniel by the fire. A gentle sizzling and the sweet, salty smell of bacon wafted temptingly into the room. Nathaniel sat up to greet the heady aroma, and Tally turned around.

“Ah, top o’ the morning to ya,” he grinned. “And just so’s you know, nobody really says that here.”

“Duly noted,” said Nathaniel.

“Thought I’d whip us up a bit of fry,” said Tally, turning back to his pan. “Bacon and white pudding, the best Dlugacz’s Butchers had to offer. You hungry? Kettle’s on too.”

“Marvellous,” exclaimed Nathaniel, stretching his arms and rising. “What’s our plan of action for the day?”

“Well,” said Tally slowly, prodding at the crisping meat, “I’ve a little business to take care of, but that works well as we don’t want to get to the zoo ’til later. No point in us hanging around the park all day anyways, reckon we’ll be best making our investigations under night’s sultry cover, eh, Professor Stone?”

“I couldn’t agree more,” nodded Nathaniel. “And, ah…if it’s not to impertinent a question, Tally, what is it, day-to-day, I mean, that you actually, ah…do?”

“I get by,” said Tally glibly as he tipped their breakfast onto a couple of plates. He turned around and passed Nathaniel his share of the thick, delicious-looking rashers.

“Tell me,” he continued, folding up a piece of bacon with his fingers and pushing it into his mouth, “with all them degrees and book learning and what-have-you, have you ever cracked a safe?”

Nathaniel let his fork drop down with a clink and stared, slack-jawed, at Tally. The Irishman stared back at him with steely, serious eyes.

“Well, I, I mean, Tally…”

But Tally could compose himself no longer, burst into a huge peal of laughter, and doubled up. “Ah, the look on your face! Priceless. Don’t be worrying your head, Professor. It’s just a couple of acquaintances I’ve gotta see. May not be strictly above board, in the truly legal sense, but we ain’t harming a hair on no innocent’s head. Like I say, just getting by. No need for either of us to run off to confession any time soon.”

“Well, that’s a relief.”

“Ain’t it just? Do you have milk with your tea? Only I can’t afford milk.”

4.

THOUGH FULLY AWAKE, sleep being a commodity Folkard found himself increasingly untroubled by, the dispossessed captain nevertheless ignored the knock on his cabin door. He was lying in bed, wrapped in a rough grey naval blanket, as Sovereign made its way through low orbit to the ice sheets of darkest Russia. The knocks came again, and Folkard drew the blanket around his head tighter still, turning his back to the door.

“Folkard,” came Enderby’s voice. “Folkard!” He rapped again, louder. Like a child in the dark startled by shadows on a window pane, Folkard scrunched his eyes tightly shut and pulled the pillow close over his head. And in the same way this action cannot stop the terrors of the night assailing the imagination, so it did not stop Enderby from opening the door and entering Folkard’s cabin.

Folkard feigned being roused from a deep and heavy slumber, raised himself up on his haunches and slowly rubbed his eyes.

“Mister Enderby,” he groaned sarcastically. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“To your continued absence on board, for one,” sniped Enderby. His tone was curt. “We’re beginning our descent on Severnaya in just over forty minutes. It’s time to get up and get ready.”

“Very well.” Folkard swung his legs over the side of the bed and rubbed his temples. His eyes felt red. His whole body ached. “Allow me some coffee and I’ll be right with you.”

Folkard had intended this to implicitly suggest that Enderby should leave him be, but the agent merely stood with his hands behind his back. He eyed Folkard suspiciously.

“Are you enjoying your return to the Sovereign, Captain?”

“It’s just Sovereign, Enderby, not the. naval tradition. And I’m no longer a captain, at least not of this ship. But yes, I can’t deny a certain…nostalgia.”

“You like this ship then? Are you proud of it?”

Folkard bristled. “What kind of a question is that, Enderby? Barely warrants an answer. Of course I am. In many ways, I still consider this my ship, irrespective of the current situation. We adventured many times, this old girl and I. More of a home than a ship, and more of a friend than a mere means of transport.”

“Good. May I sit? There’s something we need to discuss.”

Folkard idly waved him to the seat next to the cabin’s desk. Every move careful, Enderby pulled out the chair, twisted it around, and sat to face Folkard directly.

“It is time,” he said, “that you learned of the true nature of the threat we are dealing with, and the extent of the conspiracy that digs its foul roots into our most treasured and distinguished institutions. To their very heart.”

Folkard winced at the use of the word. Noticing this but not commenting, Enderby continued.

“As was made clear in our briefings, it appears that the Russians are compiling and experimenting with sets of technologies that may pose the single greatest threat that the Empire has ever seen. What has been kept from you, up until now, is that the basis of this threat is inexorably linked with this very ship, the ship that you hold so dear.” Folkard snapped his head up to look Enderby straight in the eyes.

“How so?” he asked. Enderby returned his gaze, and the glib, slightly mocking tone the agent usually commanded was all but undetectable. This was all business, and serious business at that.

“Are you aware,” said Enderby, “of the mineral deposits we believe the Russians have been searching for and mining, throughout the inner planets?”

“Of course,” replied Folkard. “I’ve read the files. Rumours and scuttlebutt, by the sound of it. But it’s of little surprise that they got wise to the mission of Esmeralda 2 and her gallant crew.…”

“Very true, very true,” observed Enderby. “And there’s the rub. Oh, it pays for us to keep an eye on what occurs in the Siberian climes, and while the Russians are certainly antagonistic, and expanding, their capabilities concerning the art of espionage are, shall we say, somewhat lacking compared to our own. Jackboots and rifle fire is much more their style, though I hardly have to tell you that.”

“Quite,” frowned Folkard.

“So we are left with a conundrum. It’s certain that the Russians lack the kind of intelligence network that helps keep her Majesty’s subjects sleeping so soundly. And yet how, should these unsettling reports turn out to be true, could they possibly undertake such a task without us ever getting any real, solid evidence? Like you say, rumour and scuttlebutt. But they’re certainly looking for something. The same minerals your own “gallant crew” were searching for. From what we have since learned of the situation on Ceres, they got there before you. And almost certainly followed a path similar to your own crew. But why? And why, Jacob Folkard, have we also discovered that the Russians have a full set of blueprints for Sovereign?”

Folkard was silent, dumbfounded. Enderby’s gaze bored into his brow. The answer was obvious, but Folkard could not bring himself to voice it. Enderby had no such problem.

“They are building their own version of the Empire’s flagship, Folkard. And what’s more, they’re imbuing it with the power of these mysterious minerals, in order to create a vessel far more powerful than the one in which we currently sit. While our own scientists toil away with refining the minerals brought back from your previous mission, it would appear the Russians are ahead of us.…”

He forced Folkard, through sheer force of will, to look into his eyes. “There is a spy, sir,” he said gravely. “Someone loose with secrets in the heart of the Admiralty. And treason is a crime Her Majesty’s Secret Service Bureau takes very, very seriously.”

The hum of Sovereign’s engines changed momentarily in pitch, a lowering in tone that signalled preparations for descent. Folkard knew it well.

“A crime,” Enderby said coldly, “that they will happily hang you for.”

5.

RUSHING, GEORGE HELPED Annabelle up the short ladder back into the train’s first carriage. He hopped up after her, followed by the driver and the two engineers. The raiders were perhaps half a mile away, and closing fast.

“You!” yelled the engineer Annabelle had previously—and so successfully—emasculated. He turned to the driver, who had just clambered up. “Billy, this hellcat caught me straight in the family jewels!”

“Shut yer yap, Ignatius,” snapped the driver. “Would you rather have your balls ache or the top of your head cut off? Hmm? Have you looked out the window?” Ignatius duly shut his trap.

“Weapons,” said George. “I’m assuming you have weapons for this sort of contingency?”

“That we do, sir,” said Billy. “Maybe a half dozen Winchesters, an’ fifty shells to go with ’em.”

“Excellent. Bring them. Mister Boon?” Boon smiled and reached into his jacket. With a flourish he produced an elaborate revolver quite unlike anything either George or Annabelle had seen before. A large clockwork housing was bolted on top of the chamber, with a brass belt that automatically fed fresh shells into the cylinder. As well as that, thin copper pipework ran up the length of the barrel, presumably to facilitate an increased and more deadly velocity to the bullets.

“I call her Elizabeth,” said Mister Boon. “Strictly speaking, wasn’t meant to take her from the prototype lab, but well…no-one was looking, and I was a Boy Scout.”

“Well I’m glad you came prepared,” said George with a smile. Billy and one of the engineers quickly returned, awkwardly carrying the seven Winchester Repeaters between them. One was handed to George, another to Ignatius, while Billy held on to his own.

“But…but…I don’t know how to shoot!” whined Ignatius.

“I thought you said you were brought up on a farm, son!” said Billy.

“Yeah, but I just milked the cows, boss! I never shot ’em!”

“Good grief,” muttered Annabelle, yanking the rifle from his hands. She took a handful of cartridges from the engineer and began loading the rifle with a precision and alacrity that had the poor farmhand stunned. She cocked the rifle and aimed down the barrel. “It’ll do,” she said.

“Lord have mercy,” muttered Ignatius.

“Right, how do we do this?” said George.

“If they’re just here for a raid,” said Annabelle smartly, “they’ll generally surround the train and shoot in until we’re subdued. Speaking of which, you, the milk maid.”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Head down the train and tell everyone to keep their heads down, then get back here.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Ignatius waddled off as fast as he could go, happy to be at least moderately useful.

“Fifty shells should be more than enough to send them running,” said Annabelle. “These kind of attacks are rarely more than scare tactics, perhaps a little thieving off terrified passengers. It’s a protest more than anything else. I doubt they’ll even fire at us.”

As soon as Annabelle had said this, the glass window closest to them exploded in a shower of shards.

“Well, bang goes that theory,” said George, before adding, “Darling.” Annabelle frowned at him. They quickly took their places to fend off the attack.

6.

ARNAUD’S JOURNEY TO the heart of Calcutta was proceeding apace. The rickshaw containing himself and the taciturn agent had passed through a huge shanty town on the southern side of the banks of the river Hooghly. The wide expanse of the waterway, its flow sluggish with the effluent and detritus of the displaced thousands, stretched to their right. On the other side of the river more of the same sad, decrepit patchwork shacks jutted and grew from the plains almost as far as the eye could see. Studded into these like islands were larger structures, crudely but at least semi-competently built, the municipal buildings and permanently-manned watchtowers at the eastern end of Britannia’s reach.

“Black Town,” said Coyne. “The arse end of the armpit of the Empire. After this lot decided to rattle their shackles back in ’57 it’s been growing day by day. Didn’t have a lot of trouble here in Bengal, but that didn’t stop ’em piling in and claiming a home wherever they could stick a tent peg. Rest assured, Fontaine, if there’s trouble brewing in Calcutta that’s where we’ll end up.”

Arnaud pondered the possibility. Right now it didn’t look too unappealing, the souks and vendors looking like something out of Byron or The Arabian Nights. It would be a very different story, he knew, when night fell.

“Still,” smiled Coyne thinly. “We’ll dredge that sewer when we come to it. White Town will, I’m sure, be far less trying on your soft French sensibilities.”

Arnaud frowned. Was it treason to punch him? He tossed the thought aside. As the rickshaw zig-zagged up the haphazard track, the river curved out of view before looming back in again, at some points so as the wheels were almost up to the waterline. The water was fetid, bobbing and thickened with God-knows-what. Arnaud, reluctant to demur to Coyne’s stereotyping, gazed into the water unflinching for several minutes. That’d teach this reprobate, he thought stubbornly. Yet when he finally turned around, he found himself confronted by the side of Calcutta that had felt the improvement of a European presence: White Town.

The streets were spotless. The architecture was a mix of blocky, almost Georgian-style housing with trim and fittings in the local style, lots of white and latticed windows in the shape of minarets. There was a needle-shaped cenotaph in the centre of a plaza, and the sudden clang of the bell of a tram startled the driver, who veered towards the pavement so as not to get them killed. Arnaud wondered why they could not have dispensed with the old man’s pedalling and boarded the tram quite some time ago.

“Where are we headed?” he asked, trying to hide his annoyance.

“Where else would one find a world-renowned geologist?” replied Coyne, with a sneer. “The university bar, of course.”

7.

NATHANIEL HAD FELT the need for another two cups of milkless tea and another helping of white pudding, just to make sure he was feeling his best. He would have been quite happy reclining on the divan—with which he had by now formed something of a bond—and pondering this whole affair until Tally had returned from whatever twilight deals he was in the process of completing. But Tally had insisted that the air would do him good, and that a nod was as good as a wink to a blind horse, and by the time he had his shady meetings done with it would be time for them to head west to Phoenix Park anyway. Nathaniel reluctantly agreed, and grabbed his jacket.

It was another fine day in Dublin, a fact that had been hidden from Nathaniel up until that point by the rough cloth Tally had tied to the top of his curtain rails. Grinning, Tally lit a cigarette and offered Nathaniel one, with the latter declining on the pretext that he could smell the tobacco before Tally had even removed the packet from his pocket. The Irishman shrugged, lit his Woodbine and sucked on it deeply. He pointed towards the city centre and started walking, leaving behind a trail of smoke for Nathaniel to follow in the glorious midday sun.

And yet that same warming sun was not the only thing obscured by Tally’s makeshift curtains. It had also hidden a black hansom cab, utterly unnoticeable on any street, looking slightly unkempt with the paint peeling at the edges. The driver tended to draw the eye, though. A huge man, he wore a bowler hat and huge, thick black gloves that held the reins steady and tight as telegraph wires. He only ever looked forwards, unfazed, slightly bored through smoked welder’s goggles, while in the cab his comrade watched Nathaniel and Tally head towards town. The cab’s occupant smoked a cigarette from a long ebony holder. In his head, the seconds ticked down towards the big bang, a glorious, gorgeous expression of his art that had already been set in motion.

Chapter Seven

The Secret of Phoenix Park

1.

NOT ONLY HAD Annabelle been mistaken about the attacker’s use of firearms, she had also been disastrously wrong about their tactics. She had expected them to fan out a few metres from the train, moving around to take the carriages from both sides. Yet they had stayed as a fairly close-knit group, ploughing on relentlessly towards the engine. Something, she thought, was terribly amiss.

Of course, it was dashed generous of them to stay so close together, as it made them a far larger target. Bert had winged one of the horses with his incongruously-named pistol, sending the rider head first into the sun-baked soil, where he lay still. But the riders were sending up so much dust and were approaching at such a pace that finding and keeping a target proved difficult.

As the attackers yanked back on their horse’s reins, the wave of dust they had brought with them hit the carriage and spilled in through the open window, making Annabelle and Billy gasp for breath. They heard muffled shouts from outside, and with an alarming crack the lock was shot from the carriage door.

“Everybody, quick, backwards,” said George, glancing to check Annabelle’s progress as he made his way to the next carriage down. “We can set up defences, pick ’em off!”

The door was kicked open and a bullet whizzed into the space, making everyone duck instinctively. Bert had already crouched behind a table to cover their retreat, and as the first silhouetted assailant boarded the train he took him down with a deadly shot between the eyes. That would give them pause for thought! George ushered Annabelle and the others through, then took his place in the booth opposite Bert. The two men nodded at each other.

“The others will get everyone out and make sure we’re safe to follow them,” said George. “Annabelle knows what she’s doing.”

“You’re a lucky man,” said Bert, and saying this he narrowed his eyes and raised Elizabeth towards another assailant’s face. In a split second he had taken aim and pulled the trigger.

Momentarily deafened, George wheeled around to see where Bert had shot, and caught a glimpse of one the riders falling from his saddle into the dust. A neat bullet hole sat at the centre of the window.

“I’m doubly blessed,” said George.

“I’ll say,” said Bert, winding his gun’s clockwork mechanism once more. “Shall we see about that retreat?”

They pulled the sliding door behind them just as the invaders had begun to storm the carriage. Annabelle had already set herself up to take the shot through the window in the door. She steadied her Winchester and put a bullet straight through to the first attacker’s forehead. She managed a couple more volleys before the strengthened glass became too criss-crossed with cracks to adequately see through.

“We need to open the door,” she yelled.

“What?” came a voice.

“The door, we need to open it to drive them back!”

Ignatius, not the most graceful of gents at the best of times, lumbered forward as quick as he was able. He threw himself heavily to the ground (George was too polite to mention later that he felt the carriage lurch), bullets thudding into the door from both sides.

“Get ready!” he yelled. They readied their weapons.

Ignatius inserted his fingertips into the minuscule gap between the door and the jamb and, using his considerable strength, flung the door wide open before covering his head with his arms. He closed his eyes and whispered a prayer. Already prepared, George, Annabelle, Bert and the armed train workers unleashed a wicked salvo of gunfire through the gap. Three of their assailants dropped almost instantly, the rest diving for cover or fleeing back out into the desert.

There was a moment of calm after the ferocious volley, the air thick with cordite and the iron smell of blood. The advantage was now on the defender’s side as they trained their weapons straight through the door to the corridor beyond. As soon as one of the pinned-down attackers tried to move they were wisely advised not to try by one of Bert’s pinpoint bullets ricocheting from a nearby surface. The attackers returned fire occasionally, but blindly, unable to find a target without exposing themselves to a shot to the gullet.

“Right,” muttered George, mostly to himself. “What do we do now?”

“Stalemate,” agreed Bert. He ducked nimbly across the aisle and took a quick peek outside. Some of the riders had already fled, and as they spurred their horses into the distance, one of the raiders—who Bert could only assume was their de facto leader—was bawling at them for their return, yelling curses and promises of retribution in a mid-western drawl. Definitely not Indians then…

He rode back to where his compatriots milled around the carriage and began banging on the windows, yelling for them to crawl off their yellow bellies and fight like men. Somewhat affronted by this sleight against her sex, Annabelle quickly leaned from her position and took a pot shot at him through the door, taking the man’s hat clean from his head. The bandit reeled and ducked down on his horse before turning the beast around and spurring it into a gallop from the crime scene.

“Your leader has abandoned you!” called Annabelle into the next carriage. “Surrender is your only option!”

There was a moment of silence, and then came a reply. The reply, strangely enough, was fizzing.

A red cylinder had been tossed through the carriage, landing several inches before the prostate Ignatius and rolling towards his face. The farmhand ceased making peace with his creator and opened one eye experimentally. When he saw the fuse sparking away right in front of him, he genuinely wished he hadn’t.

“Dynamite!” he yelled.

“Technically, I suppose that’s another option,” opined Annabelle coolly.

As soon as the explosive had landed the bandits in the carriage had begun to move, grabbing the bodies of their comrades-in-arms and dragging them back outside.

“Quickly, Ignatius, grab it!” said Bert.

Ignatius hoisted himself up and grabbed the stick of dynamite, tossing it from hand to hand like a hot potato.

“What do I do, what do I do?”

Bert leaned himself back and shot out the window nearest to him. “Throw it, you lunk!” he bawled.

Ignatius pulled his arm back and pitched the dynamite out of the window, throwing it some twenty feet from the train. As he did so, one of the attackers took the opportunity from hauling his deceased companion to ready his six-shooter and take a shot at the big man’s frame. The bullet struck Ignatius in the shoulder with the sound of splintering wood and the big man fell heavily to the floor. Not wasting a moment, George raised his Winchester and fired in the direction of the gunshot, taking down the cowardly bandit with hot lead to the heart.

Suddenly, the train was rocked by the explosion of the dynamite. All the windows were blown in simultaneously and the carriage rocked perilously for a moment. The defenders were all thrown to their feet, with George landing heavily on the injured Ignatius. The big man did not react to the impact, and George noticed sadly that his face had gone grey and the wound was bleeding profusely into the fine, first-class carpets.

2.

ONE UNIVERSITY BAR, discovered Arnaud, was very much like another the world over.

In fact, Arnaud was becoming increasingly more stunned by the manner in which certain areas of Calcutta resembled Europe. As well as the clean splendour of White Town, the university building itself wouldn’t have been out of place in the streets of Marylebone or Munich. It was an ornately uniform building, its front decorated with arches on each of its three levels and a large, cuboidal portico supporting two large pillars at the entranceway. The whole building seemed solid and safe, yet somehow stern—not surprising from a building composed of so many right angles, and hardly inappropriate for a seat of higher learning.

They had made their way into the interior, which Arnaud found blissfully cool. Impeccably dressed students, mostly Indian but with a good mix of Caucasian faces, filtered silently through the hallways, carrying books or huddling together momentarily to pass the time of day. Signs written in Bengali and English pointed them to the back of the building, where the bar was located.

Arnaud felt pleasantly nostalgic to be back on a campus, even if it was on the pretence of finding an academic he had no real desire to see. The nooks and crannies of the bar were filled with students smoking, drinking tea and arguing loudly over their chosen subjects. Arnaud noticed with some pleasure that, more often than not, these arguments were conducted in a volume more conducive to elaborating the intelligence of the speaker, rather than getting the point across. That definitely took him back….

“Where do we start?” he asked Coyne.

Coyne shrugged.

“I’m just child minding, you’re the university sort. You sort it out.”

Arnaud could feel his patience running thin.

“Yes,” he said, controlling his temper, “but it was your idea to come here in the first place. I’d have thought you’d have more to offer than just getting me to ‘sort it out.’”

“Well, you thought wrong. Where would you start?”

“The geology department, perhaps?”

“Not my fault if you didn’t think of that sooner.”

Arnaud gritted his teeth and headed to the bar, where a helpful and smartly-dressed Hindu offered them tea, then gave them directions to the geology department.

3.

NATHANIEL HAD ASSUMED, perhaps naively, that Tally was to conduct his business quickly, maybe shunt Nathaniel off to a nearby park or even leave him waiting outside. He did not expect to be part and parcel of the deception.

Tally and he had walked about halfway up to the town centre, with Tally either doffing his cap and waving a cheery hello at his acquaintances or hastily grabbing Nathaniel’s arm and pushing him across the street to avoid someone. Whether the person Tally would greet or dodge was arbitrary—it ran from guttersnipes through to businessmen, from decidedly rough-looking characters to elegant ladies in their dotage. Tally was clearly a well-known man about town, and Nathaniel wasn’t entirely sure whether this was a good or a bad thing. He was gently leaning towards bad.

They had walked several feet up George Street before Tally had hooked Nathaniel’s arm once more and pulled him into a professional-looking office building set slightly back from the main road.

“Stand at the back,” said Tally. “Don’t say anything, and look stern.” Nathaniel then found himself being winked at.

Without even a by-your-leave Tally had pushed into the building and headed straight for a door on the ground floor. He didn’t knock or present himself, just breezed into the office as if he owned the place and sat down in the chair opposite the room’s occupant—a balding, sweaty, harried-looking man in a waistcoat and watch chain, sat before a precarious pile of papers. Mustering all the sternness he was capable of in the circumstances, Nathaniel sidled in and stood at the back of the room, his arms crossed.

“This here’s Mister Walsh,” said Tally, gesturing behind him. “From the Galway branch.”

The harried-looking man behind the desk sputtered and looked up at Nathaniel, almost knocking over his ink pot in the process.

“I didn’t think,” he said nervously, shuffling his papers, “that is, I never imagined, Mister Walsh…”

“Shush, shush now, Cormac. Can I call you Cormac, Cormac?”

The man looked up nervously to Nathaniel. Not knowing what else to do, Nathaniel nodded at him. Cormac transferred his nod to Tally, who beamed.

“See, there we are!” he said. “All good and friendly. Y’see now, Cormac, I told you I’d have it sorted an’ now everything’s nice and easy and above board. So there’s nothing stopping you sorting me out now, is there?”

Cormac, who had begun sweating profusely and tugging at his collar, nodded. “Of course, of course. There’s still a few papers to get through, stamps to, ah, stamp. That kind of thing. I’ll be with you presently.” Slicking his hair back with the sweat from his brow, Cormac rose clumsily and headed to the door. As he passed Nathaniel he looked at him beseechingly, half in terror, half in awe.

“I’m sorry, sir,” he stammered. “I never meant, I mean…” Nathaniel eyed him stoically. “I’ll go and get the papers,” finished Cormac weakly, closing the door gently behind him.

Nathaniel waited a moment.

“And what was all that about?” he exploded.

“Ah, relax. You did grand.”

“I’m not asking for a critique of my performance, Tally, I’m asking what the hell you’ve just got me embroiled in!”

“Nothing serious, nothing illegal. Technically, anyhow. These pencil-pushers just need a nudge every now and again, just to get ’em to see through the red tape. See? Yer man Cormac’ll be back in a jiffy with the papers, then it’s a quick stop by the National Library to see a fella who owes me ten bob and we’re golden. A trip to the park awaits.”

4.

IGNATIUS, IT TURNED out, was bleeding fairly badly but only from a flesh wound. A local sawbones had been enlisted from the petrified passengers in the rear carriages. He looked Ignatius up and down, diagnosed the bullet had grazed his shoulder blade, and set to work patching up the farmhand with a torn-up shirt. Pleased that the man who had proved himself so worthy was going to be all right, Annabelle and the others got down to investigating the body of the attacker George had managed to fell at the last moment, along with that of his fellow ne’er-do-well.

It was like something out of a school play, or a children’s book. These men—they were clearly American, or Caucasian, at least—looked like they’d found their Indian costumes in a dressing-up box. Blankets or hessian sacks had been cut up to make ponchos and rough chaps. Moth-eaten bits of leather or shoelaces had been tied around arms or linked together to make tassels. Feathers from seagulls and ravens were tied onto headbands made of old bandage. Dried mud had been used to simulate war paint.

“It’s ridiculous,” fumed Annabelle. Her relationship with the indigenous American Indians was a complicated one, of that there was no doubt, but this was just plain insulting. “How on Earth could anyone believe that these were genuine Indians?”

“Maybe we were never meant to get such a close look at them,” said George. “If they’re a bandit gang it makes sense. Attack a wagon from afar, maybe convince whoever you’re attacking to drop any valuables and flee… Survivors might report an Indian attack, and any marshals sent out wouldn’t be looking for brigands. Just Indians.”

“But why attack the train?” pondered Annabelle.

“Desperation?” offered George. It was hardly a convincing argument, but at present nobody had any better ideas.

Bert had got down on one knee and was going through the pockets of the two fallen men for clues. He came away with a few rounds of ammunition and a bowie knife, but no real leads.

George turned to Billy.

“Has there been an increase in Indian attacks recently? Anything like that?”

Billy frowned. “Not really, sir. Been much the same as ever. Although…”

“Although what?” asked Annabelle quickly.

“Though there’s been no attacks, there’s been…rumours, I guess. Sightings.”

“What kind of rumours?”

“And what kind of sightings?” added George.

Billy looked down and fiddled with his thumbs. “Well, I don’t give much credence to ghost stories, sir…”

“Well,” said George, trying to calm the man, who was pale and clearly suffering from some sort of delayed shock after the incursion, “we do. Trust me, Billy, we’ve seen it all, and you’re not in some tavern you’re going to get laughed out of. Come on. Take a seat.” He gently took Billy by the arm and set him down on the nearest bench. Billy breathed heavily, composing himself, and looked to George.

“Sorry sir,” he gasped. “I always thought that when it really got down it, I’d be a bit more use in a fight. But when it’s there, right in front of you, and when some Injun is trying to take your life an’ alls I could think of was my darlin’ Babette back at home…”

“You did fine, Billy,” soothed Annabelle, kneeling next to him. “And you’ll see Babette soon enough. But this is important. What have you heard?”

“Mostly rumblings,” said Billy after a deep breath. “Prospectors coming back into town, the odd rancher who’s been out on the plains. Say there’s been a lot of activity roundabouts Greenore Gulch, though no-one in their right mind would have any business there. Tried to mine for silver there back in ’64, only it got abandoned, and there ain’t been much talk of it since.”

“How so?” asked George.

“Well originally, sometime in the spring of ’65, they say the miners were chased off by Injuns who reckoned it was a cursed place, warning the white man off. Now normally I’d just put that down to a savage’s mumbo-jumbo, only my Uncle Tobias spent a bit of time working there. He says the further they dug down, the more strange things started happenin’. Began, he says, with this itchin’ in your head. This crazy feelin’ you couldn’t scratch. Some of ’em even used to say that the ore in the walls used to vibrate somethin’ ungodly, and the seams used to glow bright green in the moonlight. Sent a couple of men stark raving mad, so they say.”

George and Annabelle shared a glance. This all sounded worryingly familiar. “And how about now?” asked George carefully. “What’s happening up there at the moment?”

“Well this it,” said Billy, looking up at him helplessly. “No-one’s quite sure. They say they’ve seen all sorts up there—Injuns, miners, soldiers, the lot. There’s even been talks of skirmishing, gunfire and explosions. One old cowpoke says he even felt the earth move, and green lights blazin’ up the sky like ball lightning. Only I don’t pay him no heed as he’s halfway blind and fully pickled on moonshine.”

“Well, any information is useful.”

“But there’s been no attacks on other trains?” asked Annabelle.

“Not that I know of, miss.”

“So what’s so special about this one?”

Annabelle, George and Bert looked at each other.

“Quite,” said George.

“Bert,” said Annabelle, “did anybody else know of our plans to come out here? Anyone in the Admiralty, or your Bureau?”

Bert shrugged.

“I couldn’t tell you, ma’am. Certainly Mister Enderby and the other few agents sent off with your friends. We were all briefed on that. Captain Folkard knew, of course, and your uncle. It’s highly unlikely many people knew. A half dozen, at most.”

“So if we were targeted, then…” interjected George. He seemed reluctant to finish his sentence.

“It scarcely bears thinking about,” agreed Annabelle.

This sombre and troubling realisation caused the three of them to ponder for a moment. Annabelle, lost in thought, found herself glancing at Billy who, if it were possible, seemed to have gone an even whiter shade of pale. She initially feared he may be having some sort of cardiac seizure and was about to call for the doctor again, but his eyes were wide as cue balls and he pointed to the windows behind Annabelle.

“I…I…Injuns!” he stammered.

“I told you Billy, they weren’t…”

But Bert and George were following Billy’s gaze, and out of the windows, staring through at them into the wrecked carriage, were four very genuine Indian braves dressed in their full regalia.

5.

HAVING TRAMPED UP countless flights of stairs and through corridors ripe with the scent of learning, past lecture halls and professor’s office from which drifted the sounds of mathematics and history in languages exotic and familiar, Arnaud and Coyne found themselves in the reception area of the University of Calcutta’s Geology Department.

A young British girl, maybe seventeen years of age, sat behind the desk at reception looking resolutely bored. Her face lit up when Arnaud and his companion entered, chiefly because they were giving her something to do that didn’t involve a student waxing cock-and-bull on why their essays were late.

“Hullo!” she beamed, sitting upright to look more professional. She wore thin-rimmed spectacles, her hair was up in a bun and she had a chipper, upper-class accent that smacked of a childhood in the home counties. “Welcome to the Geology Department. How may I help you today?”

“Well,” said Arnaud, and the girl’s interest noticeably peaked when she caught his French accent, “we were wondering if we could talk to someone regarding the whereabouts of one of the teachers here.”

“Of course, monsieur,” she said, doubtless feeling very cosmopolitan. “Which of our esteemed professors can I help you locate?”

“We’re looking for Doctor Garrecreux,” said Arnaud cheerfully. “Doctor Fabrice Garrecreux.”

The girl’s face fell.

“Well,” she said, pursing her lips. “I can’t say I’m surprised. Give me a moment, if you would. I’m afraid this is a matter I’ve been instructed to bring straight to the Vice-Chancellor.”

6.

ARNAUD AND COYNE had waited patiently in the ante-room adjoining the reception, pointedly not talking to each other and studying portraits on the walls and the pot plant in the corner. About twenty minutes passed, then the young girl popped her head around the corner and cleared her throat.

“Gentlemen,” she said, somewhat more formally than before, “Vice-Chancellor Bannerjee will see you now.”

She led them efficiently and silently through the department and up a flight of stairs at the end, heading to the administrative heart of the college. Typewriters clacked behind closed doors, punctuated by the shunt of filing cabinet drawers being pushed into place. The wooden walls and air of quiet decorum could have come from any of the colleges in Oxford or Cambridge, though the bright light through the windows offered more illumination than had been seen in those dusty corridors for many, many years. The girl led them to a large set of double doors and curtseyed gently.

“He’s expecting you,” she said. “Go on in.”

Sir Gurudas Banerjee held the distinction of being the first Indian Vice-Chancellor of Calcutta University, and had inauspiciously begun his post by having to deal with a scandal in the geology department that was not of his making, the details of which Arnaud was about to learn.

His office, like much of the university, was a seamless integration of British institutionalism and Indian exoticism. It had wood-panelled walls that eschewed the rectangles of Imperial design, instead choosing curls and onion-shaped domes. A classically large bookcase stood against one wall, an Indian rug covered the floor and a tea set sat before a green leather Chesterfield to the left of where Arnaud and Coyne entered. Vice-Chancellor Banerjee smiled at them warmly. He was a thick-set man, authoritative but welcoming, dressed in a turban atop a morning suit that had the collar open to accommodate the heat.

“Gentlemen,” he smiled, “please take a seat. Can I offer you any refreshment?”

Arnaud and Coyne politely declined, and Vice-Chancellor Banerjee relaxed back in his chair as his guests sat before him.

“Let us dispense with any formality,” he said. “Miss Warrington informed me you have asked after Doctor Garrecreux.”

Arnaud looked at Coyne, unsure as to whether he or the agent should take the initiative. Coyne’s dismissive, feline look told the young Frenchman he was on his own; it was almost as if the spy found the whole mission to be a dull chore.

“That’s true, Vice-Chancellor. We are.”

“And why, might I ask, are you looking?”

“We were hoping to count on his expertise. Did you hear of the bomb attack in London recently?”

“There’s very little of British business that does not get reported here, sooner or later,” sighed the Vice-Chancellor. “And so we heard of it. A terrible affair.”

“Bon. And so we have been sent by Her Majesty’s Admiralty to investigate any possible leads that may lead to the perpetrators, and we believe Dr Garrecreux may be able to assist us with the identification of certain…”

“Please,” said Gurudas, “I am sympathetic to your goals, but am not sure how I can help you achieve them. Doctor Garrecreux is gone, Mister…?”

“Fontaine,” said Arnaud, “Doctor Arnaud Fontaine.”

“Doctor Fontaine,” said the Vice-Chancellor, leaning forward, “while we are more than aware of the Empire’s business on these shores, perhaps the scandals of Her Majesty’s outposts do not reach London. If they did, surely you would have heard of Dr Garrecreux’s…in the words of your countrymen, faux-pas.”

Arnaud shifted in his seat. Coyne gazed away, still bored. The Vice-Chancellor waved away their discomfort.

“Politics is something one must face as the head of a university, Doctor Fontaine. It is nothing new. The pressures of dealing with such issues are manifold in India, on a local and global scale. This,” he cleared his throat, “faux-pas of Doctor Garrecreux was something far less pressing than other difficulties my country may be facing, but was nevertheless an issue I could have done without, both personally and professionally.”

“Of course,” nodded Arnaud, feeling like a chided schoolboy.

“Good.” Having got this out of his system, Vice-Chancellor Banerjee seemed to relax, satisfied he had made his point. It was almost as if he blamed Arnaud for his ersatz teacher’s behaviour on account of their shared heritage.

“Do not misunderstand me,” he continued, carefully. “I have the utmost respect for Her Majesty’s Navy. I have heard tales of the ruthlessness with which the Mutiny was suppressed; the last thing I wish is for such a power to be brought to bear on Calcutta. You have seen, I take it, Black town?”

“I have,” answered Arnaud.

“Then you have seen what the Navy’s guns could do to such a settlement—the people there are barely protected from the weather, let alone cannon fire. And yet I fear, Doctor Fontaine, that Black Town is an area you may have to get more familiar with, should you wish to find Garrecreux.”

“Told ya,” muttered Coyne.

Both Arnaud and the vice-chancellor ignored him.

“Any information you could give me regarding his whereabouts would leave me sorely in your debt, Vice-Chancellor.”

“I’ll tell you what I know, of course, along with any other information I have that may help you navigate Black Town safely. But I would ask you, with all due respect, that you keep the scandalous nature of Garrecreux’s behaviour to yourself. This is a respected place of learning, and I do not want my tenure at its helm to be tarnished any further by that irascible, weak-willed blackguard.”

“Of course not,” said Arnaud, once more feeling he was somehow being blamed by implication. The vice-chancellor narrowed his eyes and studied Arnaud’s face for a moment, and Arnaud knew that any gesture of uncertainty, even the slightest indication that he was not being wholly sincere, would have caused Arnaud and Coyne to leave none the wiser of Garrecreux’s current location.

After a moment, it seemed Arnaud had passed the test.

“Very well,” nodded the vice-chancellor. “I will tell you. As so often happens, the cause of Fabrice Garrecreux’s fall into infamy was a woman. You will not be surprised to learn that she was young, beautiful… And dangerous.”

7.

PHOENIX PARK COULD be found just west of the centre of Dublin, an expansive green space north of the Liffey that provided Dubliners young and old, rich and poor, with respite from the chaos of the city. Despite having quickly and efficiently reclaimed his debt from his acquaintance at the Library (the details of which Nathaniel was spared, much to his relief), Tally had refused to pay for a cab and insisted on walking the mile or so from Temple Bar. The sky had turned ashen as the afternoon had aged, a cold wind blowing in from the bays on the east. Not having eaten since breakfast, Nathaniel found his mood becoming ever more tetchy, not helped by Tally cheerfully reminding him every few minutes he was ten bob up.

“I don’t care if you’re rich beyond the dreams of Solomon,” grumbled Nathaniel, after the fifth time Tally’s suspiciously-gained wealth was mentioned. “Are we nearly there yet?”

“Ah, quit your gabbin’, and be grateful the Zoological Gardens are on the side of the park closest to us.”

Nathaniel had endured many perils and unenviable situations during his adventures, but none had yet had the ability to irritate him quite as much as the combination of an empty belly and a chipper Irishman. Eyes peeled for somewhere he could at least grab himself a snack, he trudged on.

When they reached the park, they walked up through the people’s garden, a delightful evocation of current horticultural fashion, which now seemed mournful due to the cold and the fading light. Dublin’s denizens were scampering back to hearths and home-cooked food, almost as if they were primordially aware of the heinous feats of villainy that the area would be subjected to that very night… And, in fact, had already and violently begun.

Tally strode up to the entrance lodge, a small cottage building with a thatched roof, as proud as you like and as happy as a clam. He greeted the porter who stood in the building like an old friend, but the man’s reaction was such as to make it clear that he didn’t know Tally from Adam, and nor did he wish to.

“Hullo, my good man,” began Tally’s charm offensive. “I was wondering if we might not take a quick squint round, take in the beasts in the dying light, so to speak.”

“Well you can wonder otherwise, and sling yer hook into the bargain. Nobody in tonight. That’s what they told me, and that’s what’s happening.”

“Ah, we’ve still got an hour or two of good light left. Maybe more if the clouds blow over. We’re paying customers.”

“Are your ears blocked, sonny, or do I need ta box ’em open?”

“Now now, no need for that, my man. Truth is I got a nephew works in there, feeding the ferrets and that. Simon, his name is. And young Simon, y’see, his Ma’s awful sick with the gout, an’…”

“Young Simon, you say?” said the porter, stiffening up.

“Aye, that’s him. Simon Sheen.”

“Well if that’s the case his Ma’s got more to worry about than her gout. I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but yer nephew had an accident, not more an’ an hour ago. Seems as if he went and dropped himself in with the lions. Poor bugger didn’t stand a chance.”

“Simon? You’re telling me Young Simon’s dead?”

“Well, what’s left of him ain’t movin’ around so much, so I’d guess so.”

“Well I gotta get in there man, I’m family!”

“That’s as maybe, but the constabulary were pretty firm in tellin’ us there’s no use having all an’ sundry gawkin’ at bloodstains. I’m sorry for yer loss, fella, I really am. But it ain’t gonna happen tonight.”

8.

TALLY WAS SITTING with his head on his hands on the kerbstone. He and Nathaniel had walked away quietly, Tally clearly shaken, and had taken up residence in a darkened stretch of Chapelizod Road, where the Irishman had stopped and sat to gather his thoughts.

“I wasn’t even really his uncle,” he said, mostly to himself. “I was just knocking off his ma….”

Nathaniel wasn’t sure what to say. He genuinely felt for Tally, whose mood of gregarious energy had been replaced by one of sorrow and deep despondence. Once or twice he thought to reach forward to comfort the man, but Tally’s blank-eyed stare across to the other side of the road seemed to indicate that any solace Nathaniel might have offered would have gone at least unheeded, at worst returned with anger. Nathaniel was left in a state of disturbed contemplation. This turn of events was worrying indeed, and the fact that Tally’s contact at the zoo had met such an ignominious end was a coincidence he was sure had grave and dangerous connotations. It was clear that Tally was thinking the same.

“It’s not right, is it?”

“I’m sorry?” said Nathaniel, drawn suddenly from his mulling.

“The fact that Young Simon noticed all that, with the ground shakin’ and him asking questions… That you and I were only talkin’ about it last night, and then he meets his end? Just like that?” Tally’s quiet anger had been replaced by resolution, and the fog of mourning had parted to reveal a need for answers in his heart…and retribution in his eyes.

“I must be honest with you, Tally,” said Nathaniel, easing himself to sit beside his friend. “I’ve found that in these matters there is no such thing as chance, no arbitrary occurrences… These people I was sent here to stand against, to fight… They have no mercy, no remorse, no respect for the lives of young or old, or for families….” He looked Tally straight in the face, and the Irishman’s eyes had turned as hard as old bones. “The plots that I have encountered, the greed, the violence, it goes far beyond any petty squabbles our respective countries may have. They are but trifling when compared with the evil men may do to harness the powers opened up to humanity when we discovered how to fly between the void. I know this may seem harsh, but there is far more at stake at the moment than the freedom of Ireland, or the life of your poor, departed nephew.”

“Oh, I know that well enough,” said Tally. There was steel in his voice. “And that’s it though, isn’t it? Simon, he was a, he was…” And Tally began to laugh, recalling him. “He was pretty feckin’ useless, truth be told. His ma used to badger me to get him along on a few of me jaunts, y’know? Get him to earn a bit more coin, have him as a bit more than the man who tosses grain in the cages. But I knew he couldn’t hack it an’ I knew he was happy where he was. Harmless to boot. An’ these bastards still think it fit to take his life.”

“These are the men,” said Nathaniel quietly, “that must be fought.”

“Then fight ’em I shall,” said Tally. “And a lion’s claws will be like God’s grace compared to what I’ll do when I get my hands on ’em.”

At that sentiment Nathaniel found himself smiling.

9.

TALLY SEEMED RENEWED and, rather worryingly, imbued with a vengeance. Nathaniel knew that those at their angriest were prone to make the greatest mistakes, and while he appreciated how Tally’s zeal may help them, he was also concerned that it might prove to be their undoing.

They had returned the way they had come and were skirting back around the walls of the park. As soon as they had found a sufficiently darkened and quiet section of the wall, Tally hoisted himself up and was offering Nathaniel a hand in order to haul him after him. After a short scuffle accompanied by only the mildest of swearing from Tally, they were both over the brink and into the darkened park. The night was still and cold, illuminated by a frozen and unfeeling moon. The grass seemed crisp beneath their feet, the trees still in the black and breezeless air. Tally, it seemed, was in his element. He slinked around, quickly and half-crouched, with an almost instinctive ability to stay unseen in the shadows. Such was his ability to lose himself in the dark he had to backtrack once or twice to show Nathaniel the way after losing him, and quickly the pair made their way towards the silent stillness of the zoo.

As a child, Nathaniel had been fascinated by exotic beasts, and had spent as much time in London Zoo studying them first-hand as he had poring over them in books and magazines. Nevertheless, he knew his timorous childhood self would have felt somewhat differently having encountered the zoo at night—this was a place of terror. Growls emanated from cages, permeated by the padding of clawed feet more suited to the dust of the African plains. Birds with beaks as long as their bodies would shriek suddenly, the clatter of their black wings filling the air and dying again just as suddenly. Though Tally seemed impervious to these shocks to the senses, Nathaniel felt the need to steel himself against such savage noises. Even a Russian could be reasoned with; the same was not true of a tiger. And yet, if his fears proved true concerning the fate of Tally’s nephew, he was genuinely unsure which killer he would choose to face.

He almost cried out when he bumped into Tally, who had stopped and crouched in the darkness before him.

“Good grief,” he hissed. “You’re like a ghost.”

“Aye, well, when you’ve been about as much as I have, Professor, you know when it pays to keep yourself hidden. Quick question.”

“Go on.”

“Now we’re here, what the feck do we do next?”

It was a good point. Nathaniel had been too concerned with stealth to give much thought to a plan, but now that they had stopped he devoted his mind to thinking about the situation logically and practically.

“If we’re going on the assumption that your nephew was murdered, we must also assume that his observations were correct—that there is, indeed, something rotten under the grounds of the zoo that out enemies will kill to keep secret. So we need somewhere that is deeper than the rest of the park, but close… Now, you mentioned earlier these two men. The English, the bomb-maker, he seems happy to kill from afar, with fire and cowardice. But the other one, well… I think he’s more of the ‘hands-on’ of the two, regardless of what his hands are actually made of. And if he draws the eye, their base of operation must be close to the lion’s enclosure in order that this big fellow is seen as little as possible. Any ideas?”

“Not just an idea,” said Tally, who seemed to have regained some of his previous joie-de-vivre, “but a good one to boot. C’mon.”

Shortly they found themselves outside a darkened, circular building made of thick, solid stone. Though built in an older style, the freshness of the mortar and the cleanliness of the bricks was apparent to Nathaniel even in the sombre lunar light.

“Of course!” he exclaimed, chiding himself. “You said as much yourself. This must be the area that was closed off before….”

“Aye.” Tally grinned. “That it was. And you can smell the lions from here.” He delved into his pocket and brought out a small pen-knife and a lockpick. “Give me a jiffy,” he murmured, before getting to work on a lock that Nathaniel could barely see in the gloom, let alone attempt to open.

Shortly, and with a muttered swear-word of triumph, the lock clicked heavily and the door squeaked open just an inch on its hinges.

“I do wonder about your past, Tally,” observed Nathaniel.

“Bugger the past,” said Tally. “Just appreciate I’m a professional in the present.” Unable to argue with the logic, Nathaniel followed him inside.

10.

THEY FOUND THEMSELVES in a large, doughnut-shaped atrium that arced away to the left and right. The air was humid and still. Lining the walls were glass-fronted exhibition cabinets filled with various earthly environments—the fronds of ferns, thick branches leaning diagonally between them, shallow green pools and patches of desert sand. In the dim light that glowed within them, the animal eyes of reptiles and rodents would flash momentarily before fleeing into the shadows.

“Let’s take a look around,” whispered Nathaniel.

They began to move along the curving corridor. Nathaniel’s eyes scanned each exhibit minutely, ever alert for something out of place. Tally would occasionally cup his hands against the glass to take a curious peek at the exotic beasts rustling around within, but more often than not was unable to see what was inside. Nathaniel frowned. As far as he could tell, everything seemed to be in order—this was just a normal zoo, made marginally spooky by the silence and the dark. Yet he couldn’t shake the keenness of his instincts, which told him that this must be where they needed to be.

“There must be some sort of chamber behind this inner ring,” he muttered, aping Tally and cupping his fingers against the glass to see if there was a hatch on the back wall. A large bearded lizard blinked lazily back at him. “Some sort of access point, perhaps to feed the animals and clean the cages. Hello…what’s this?”

After stepping back from the dragon’s gaze his eyes fell upon an exhibit distinctly different from the rest. It was set inside the inner wall, directly opposite and facing away from the door through which they had entered. He strode up to it purposefully, Tally close behind him.

“Something caught your eye, Professor?”

“Indeed, something has…”

What had piqued Nathaniel’s interest was a free-standing exhibit that purported to show the flora and fauna of Mars. It looked as if it belonged more in a museum than a zoo—a crude diorama of the bleak Martian landscape, with two statues of Martians made from resin standing in its centre. The figures, Nathaniel noted, were rough and inaccurate, as if their sculptor had only the most basic sketches from which to craft their likeness. Seemingly based on the more civilised Canal Martians, their long, elfin features were out of proportion, with eyes that were far too wide and too many fingers on each hand. They were also incongruously dressed in a patchwork of skin and fur, more redolent of cavemen than the actual baroque styles the Canal Martians commonly wore.

“Bit of a rum pair,” observed Tally.

“Quite,” rejoined Nathaniel, “and they’re not the only thing that’s rum here….”

Nathaniel quickly unhooked the maroon velvet rope that served as a barrier to curious hands and restless children, and carefully stepped around the resin figures to the back wall. A pale red Martian sky had been painted there, and Nathaniel started running his hands up and down the wall to gauge if there was some sort of break that could act as a doorway. He quickly found a crack and, tracing it with his fingers, discovered the distinct outline of a door. He tried pushing it, pulling it and even sliding it to one side—all to no avail.

“There must be some sort of switch,” he said to Tally, exasperated. “Have a look around, see if you can see anything.”

Tally got to work on the left of the scene while Nathaniel looked down to his right. Clearly, at this point, the model maker either knew something Nathaniel didn’t or was just letting his imagination run free, for he had built a couple of plants into the ground that resembled nothing Nathaniel had ever seen on Martian soil. They resembled a kind of thistle with a corkscrew-shaped stem from which vicious looking spikes emanated, each being about four inches long, the plants themselves a couple of feet high. These fantasy plants were a pale green colour, looked almost translucent, and were topped with a large black bloom like a sunflower. Nathaniel knelt down to examine them. The thorns, he noticed, were razor sharp.

“Curious…,” he muttered, experimentally prodding and withdrawing his finger quickly. He looked at the base of the plant closest to him, and noticed something odd. Where the bottom of the stem curled into the ground there seemed to be some sort of recess, a break in the otherwise unbroken floor in the exact shape of a circle. It was totally unnoticeable unless you were looking, and was surrounded by a plethora of the angry-looking spikes.

Careful so as not to pierce his skin, Nathaniel edged his hand inside the curling stem and pushed down firmly on the button.

There was a loud clunk and the sound of groaning, and he looked up to see the outline of the door had swung backwards a fraction.

“Bingo,” he breathed. He quickly extricated his hand and stood, and with Tally looking on he gave the door a gentle push. It eased open smoothly on well-oiled hinges. There was nothing but darkness beyond.

“After you,” said Tally cheerfully. Nathaniel frowned at him.

11.

THEY FOUND A couple of lanterns in a cupboard on the wall just inside the door and, having lit them with a couple of matches provided by Tally, took in their surroundings. Nathaniel’s previous assumption had been correct—they were in a circular room at the centre of the ring. A spiral staircase built from wood jutted from the walls surrounding a dark, empty hole at the centre. There were no handrails, and the stairs creaked ominously as they began their descent down the well.

Their journey was a long and careful one, each step tested carefully before Nathaniel, who was leading, would trust his weight to it. They were, he estimated, perhaps two hundred feet down before the stairs stopped at an unevenly-hewed stone floor. A tunnel roughly cut from the bare rock yawned before them.

“Someone’s been busy,” remarked Nathaniel.

“What is this?” asked Tally. “Some sort of mine?”

“I’d guess so. The Russians do seem overly keen on digging, I’ve found. It’s either that or some sort of…escape route? But why?”

“Only one way to find out,” said Tally. He gestured like a valet for Nathaniel to take the lead once more. Ducking his head, Nathaniel entered the tunnel. He had not gone far before the roof began to open out and a soft light from ahead allowed them to abandon their lanterns. They proceeded with the utmost caution, but the closer they got to the source of the light, the more apparent it became that this mine—or whatever it was—was deserted. There was no sound of any sort, not the thrum of machinery or the barked instructions of soldiers, which prompted Nathaniel to wonder why the lights had been left on….

Shortly, the tunnel opened out into a larger cavern. Compared to some of the Russian cave systems and mining operations Nathaniel had seen on Luna, this one was decidedly modest. It was only a couple of hundred feet across and roughly dome-shaped, with a rough ledge carved around the circumference half-way up the wall. Wooden props and staircases were dotted around haphazardly, and the mouths of several lesser tunnels opened ominously into darkness on both levels. Hemp ropes and rusted pulleys hung from the ceiling, deathly still. It was the centre of the cave that proved the most intriguing. A mineshaft had been dug into the floor and, now convinced that whoever had dug it had absconded, Nathaniel jogged up to peer into the dark. He had expected the hole to yawn sickeningly into the depths, but found the shaft was not as deep as he had thought—he could easily see the ground, which was littered with abandoned chunks of machinery, pickaxes and cables that fed the spectral lights. A large tarpaulin sheet covered something in the centre of the pit, and was Nathaniel mistaken, or did he detect a faint green pulsing from underneath it…?

“Whoever they were they must have known the location of what they were digging for to a high degree of accuracy. This is far more efficient than you’d expect….”

“Well that’s just dandy,” said Tally. “Shame the same thing can’t be said about us. We’re no closer to knowing a damn thing.”

“Not the point, Tally. Not the point. What’s important is that we’re finding out. Otherwise, what’s the point of being here?”

“Exactly the question I was asking meself….”

Nathaniel noticed a ladder leaned up against the lip of the pit. “Chin up, Tally!” he said, clapping the Irishman on the shoulder. “Onwards and downwards….”

Relieved that the ladder was at least sturdily constructed, Nathaniel began his descent into the hole. Tally followed him down.

After dusting himself off primly, Nathaniel surveyed the scene.

“It looks like all the answers will be discovered under that tarpaulin,” he noted, and strode across to the wax-covered cloth. It had been tied down firmly at the corners onto pegs that had been drilled into the floor, but there was enough give at the sides to allow Nathaniel a quick peek underneath. He had not been mistaken—he found himself looking at a sheer green wall, crystalline in nature and glowing faintly.

“Remarkable! Tally, have you still got that penknife?”

“No, I left it behind on account of its terrible weight. Of course I’ve bloody got it.”

“Well then don’t be facetious and hand it here.”

Tally did as he was instructed. Nathaniel scratched at the pale, translucent material, hoping to carve off a chunk—but the penknife barely made a scratch.

“Whatever it is, it’s tough,” he remarked, before using the penknife to cut away at the rope that held one corner of the tarpaulin down. He quickly sawed through, and lifted up the corner to reveal a small section of the crystals more fully. They spiked and branched from a central root, looking almost organic in nature. Nathaniel gripped one of the outcroppings firmly, a hexagonal chunk roughly six inches long that tapered into a deadly-looking point. He gave it a yank, and felt it give; put all his weight against it and his shoe against the side before tugging with all his might. With a delicate snap, the piece came away in his hand and he fell backwards into the grit.

“Laterally,” he said, as Tally helped him up, “it’s firm as a diamond, but it’s far more brittle on the horizontal plane. As if it’s composed of some sort of tubing….” His mind began to whirr with possibilities. “Here, Tally, help me undo the rest of these ropes. I need to get a good look at the formation as a whole.”

Tally got to work unfastening the knot at the other corner with his fingers while Nathaniel cut away at another. They both finished their task simultaneously and, catching Tally’s eye and nodding, Nathaniel whipped the tarpaulin up and away with a whoosh of air. His heart fell when he saw what he had revealed.

“Oh dear,” he muttered, swallowing loudly. “Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.”

“I’m thinkin’ you weren’t expecting to find that,” noted Tally, his mouth dry.

“If I’d had my wits about me, Tally, I’m afraid that’s exactly what I should have expected to find!”

The crystal growth had been revealed in all its glory. The main trunk was about two feet high, from which smaller gems branched like fronds of lightning. The top of this trunk had been sheared away like a felled tree. Attached to this plateau was a device whose construction Nathaniel instantly recognised, even though previously he had only seen it in shards and blackened pieces.

With a sinking feeling deep in his abdomen he realised how much bigger this version looked than the one he had examined in the bowels of the Admiralty….

The mechanism and construction of the bomb were almost identical to how Nathaniel had imagined them, as he’d carefully pieced the machine together in his mind. The body was built up of copper, beautifully crafted with intricate fractal patterns and polished to a gleaming shine. A clockwork mechanism jutted from the main section, ticking ominously and surrounded with a glass dome, and Nathaniel felt almost breathless when confronted with the sheer ingenuity and elegant perfection of this device of death. He noted the steel tubing strapped to one side, calibrated, he deduced quickly, to prevent the housing from being moved even a fraction of an inch. Yet there was a distinct difference in this far more terrifying version…. Before, where a glass tube had held the crystalline powder, wires ran from the heart of the infernal contraption and were embedded solidly in the depths of the crystal’s root.

“We need to get out of here,” said Nathaniel. “We need to get out of here as quickly as possible!” Any thoughts of immediate escape for Tally and Nathaniel were curtailed by a sound far more ominous than the soft ticking of the bomb. From the ledge above them came the sound of a slow hand clap, and a nasal voice in clipped, upper-class tones purred.

“Well congratulations, Professor Stone. I knew you’d get there in the end.”

Tally and Nathaniel’s gaze shot upwards. The pit was not so deep that they could not fully see an impish figure sitting with his legs dangling into the hole. He wore immaculate green tweed, a shallow-brimmed hat with a small brown feather in the band and was smoking a cigarette from a long ivory holder gripped tightly between his teeth. Next to him stood a giant of a man, perhaps seven feet tall and nearly half as wide, dressed in a huge, double-breasted greatcoat. He wore welding goggles over his eyes and a black bowler hat, and his hands…his hands were surrounded by a dull brass framework, their hinges and sprockets drilled into the very flesh itself.

“Emphasis on the word end,” said the smaller man, grinning like Mephistopheles.

Chapter Eight

The Succubus of Black Town

1.

THE SHAMEFUL EXTENT of Fabrice Garrecreux’s depravity had been revealed. Vice-Chancellor Banerjee had recounted the scandalous tale in a slow monotone, with no inflection of emotion save a vague, weary sorrow. It was almost as if he were giving a lecture on a point of law in which he had no interest, or was discussing the dull minutiae of college finances.

The tale went as follows: Garrecreux had been a nuisance from the very start. His research was ostensibly into cannabis sativa, a subspecies of hemp that produced a bud infused with a psychoactive crystalline compound. This, Banerjee explained, was a blight on the lower castes who would inhale its vapours to induce an indolent, carefree haze that blunted the realities of their otherwise dismal existence. Garrecreux had procured two dozen hessian sacks of the stuff and had stunk out the geology department for six weeks afterwards. He became less and less dependable in his teaching duties, often missing his scheduled lectures for days on end in order to concentrate on his research into the plant. He attempted, utterly unsuccessfully, to synthesise the active compound and grow larger and larger crystals, analysing its properties and, so it was rumoured, becoming more and more addicted to the thrall of the weed’s euphoric effects.

Much as in Arnaud’s time, Garrecreux had become a figure of ridicule in the university, among the faculty as a whole and, in particular, the students—with the single exception of a young Bengali graduate by the name of Esme Moonsinge. She came from a wealthy family and, to all intents and purposes, seemed an introverted, brooding girl with a fierce intelligence and a terrible temper. On account of her privileged stock she insisted she be called Madame Moonsinge by peers and professors alike, and when a classmate humiliated her in the common room on account of her close association with Garrecreux, the unfortunate boy was found the following morning with his face slashed open by a knife. The boy lost an eye, and yet nothing could be proved—such things happened when the young wandered Black Town at night. Yet the whole thing reeked of suspicion.

If this wasn’t troubling enough, further distressing reports began to reach Vice-Chancellor Banerjee’s desk. Garrecreux and Moonsinge would lock themselves away in labs to which they (strictly speaking) were not allowed access. They were seen together outside the Campus, often frequenting the riskier corners of Black Town’s most notorious slums. When working in the Campus they would cause fires, small explosions and outbreaks of noxious, headache-inducing gasses. Disciplinary procedures were already well underway before talk came of a disturbing shift in the nature of their relationship—Madame Moonsinge had ceased to be the student and had become the mistress, in every sense of the word. Garrecreux, it was said, was now nothing more than a simpering lapdog, so besotted with the young, tempestuous beauty he would wear dark glasses all hours of the day to counter, it was said, the brightness of her radiant countenance.

There was nothing more the vice-chancellor could offer, he admitted with a sigh. He wanted nothing more than to wash his hands of the whole affair and concentrate on encouraging students and teachers who would bring acclaim and recognition to the fine institution he was tasked with running, as opposed to ruin and ridicule.

“Where do you think we can find them?” asked Arnaud, as Coyne—for the hundredth time—inspected the cleanliness of his nails.

“I can direct you to some of the areas of Black Town where they’ve been seen. It’s not a course of investigation I would recommend, however. Black Town is a dangerous place, Doctor Fontaine, and not one for tourists or outsiders. Even the Queen’s Regiments despise being posted there. Yet I can see your resolution is firm, and your mission of no little importance, so allow me to offer a guide, a trusted friend of mine, and a driver to take…”

“That won’t be necessary,” interjected Coyne, idly. “I’m all the protection he needs.”

When the vice-chancellor led them to the door of his office, he shook Arnaud’s hand firmly and, his eyes sharp, instructed the young Frenchman to watch his back at all times, and to always carry a loaded pistol.

2.

SOVEREIGN WAS HOVERING forty feet above the windswept tundra, a blinding and barren sheet assailed by ghostly wisps of snow made living by the wind. Hardy trees as cold as stone stood sentinel hundreds of feet apart, forlorn for lack of warmth or company. Crops of rock would occasionally peek above the ice, the colour of gunmetal and the only hint of the true nature of the terrain below. They were several miles west of the Russian base at Severnaya, and while the blizzard’s white-out offered them almost perfect concealment, the great airship did not dare venture any closer. Folkard, Enderby and four hand-picked men from the Secret Service Bureau would be continuing on foot.

A cutter was deemed too risky in these conditions, and so weighted rope ladders were thrown down from the sides of Sovereign. Instantly the wind hit them, buffeting them wildly and making the ends whiplash around like a viper in the throes of death.

Even with the weight of the men in full kit, the ladders were bucked and buffeted by the gale on their descent, and more than once Folkard had been forced to cease his climb and grip the ladder close to his body until the tempest had momentarily subsided. Yet eventually, with cheeks already chapped red-raw and facial hair peppered with frost, the party set foot on the enemy’s inhospitable turf.

They regrouped quickly and watched as Sovereign began its mournful ascent, soon lost in the maelstrom of sleet and grey cloud. Folkard watched it until the hull became indistinct, then to the point where he was sure he would not be seeing it again. He almost raised a hand to wish her farewell, but checked himself before he could perform this sentimental gesture. Nevertheless, he felt guilty for not having said goodbye to the ship he loved so dearly, and turned to find the rest of his men with a bitter feeling in his heart.

Enderby consulted a heavy-duty compass and a map wrapped in translucent wax paper, determined which direction was east, and the party set off in silence and single file.

The trudge across the wasteland was a long and arduous one. With the lack of vegetation, cover was impossible; they were truly trusting to luck that they should not be spotted. At least the weather was on their side in that respect. Enderby took the lead with Folkard second, and even though the men were only a few yards apart Folkard could not see the last in line when he looked behind him. As the snowstorm worsened the cold became almost unbearable, and as much as it aided them with concealment it sapped all the energy from Folkard’s already exhausted body. It was only the thought of the Heart, and his certain reunion with Charlotte, that warmed him and spurred him on.

After perhaps four hours of hiking, the storm lessened its assault and rough natural tracks began to appear in the terrain. More and more trees began to dot the landscape, lessening the depth of the snow on the ground, and this along with the uneven yet mercifully solid paths allowed them to pick up their pace. The paths soon became paved with large, flat, irregular stones, tessellated as much as was possible. This was the first sign of civilisation the men had seen in hours, and Folkard felt a brief surge of relief—if not amusement—at his joy upon seeing a badly-made road.

They followed the road for another quarter mile or so, before Enderby ducked to his haunches without warning. Instantly, the rest of the men followed suit and Folkard crawled up to see what had startled the spy.

Enderby pointed ahead of him. Just visible, standing around a dimly-glowing steel brazier, two Russian soldiers huddled against the cold. They slapped their hand against their arms for warmth, their incessant, guttural grumbling carried towards the British on the wind. Enderby and Folkard looked at each other nodded. Enderby reached down to his waist and pulled out a stiletto knife, its blade tempered black to prevent any reflection. Folkard did the same and Enderby quickly gestured: You take the one on the left, I’ll take the one on the right. Without prompting, the men behind them readied their rifles should the assassins be detected.

Swiftly and silently, Folkard and Enderby approached the two unsuspecting soldiers until they could feel the heat of the fire on their faces. Enderby counted down on his fingers, three, two, one…and the two men sprang into action, both plunging their stilettos into the base of the soldiers’ necks with deadly, instant accuracy. The Russians fell to the ground, dead weights, and before the blood had even started to colour the ground, the four service operatives who had taken up the rear were bundling the bodies into the undergrowth, where they would be covered by snowfall in mere minutes—if the wolves didn’t get to them first.

Knowing that the Russian presence was a very real danger from here on in, stealth became paramount. Still in single file, the agents and Folkard eased their way up the road at a crouch, scanning the horizons for any sign of trouble. A larger camp containing a small platoon of Russians was deemed to be too much of a risk, so the party once more took to the snowdrifts and skirted around the danger as if they were never there. The increase in troops surely meant they could not be far from their objective.

Before long they came across a large stone bridge. The eaves of its impressive arches were decked with foot long icicles, the bridge itself spanning a gorge at the base of which lay a frozen river, unmoving and impassive. The cover offered by the bridge seemed a perfect place to stop, rest and assess the situation, and it was clear the men were grateful for even the briefest of respites.

They eased their way down a shallow slope to where the buttress met the ground. There was a small stony area, neatly secluded, where the men could break out their tinned rations. Set into the large buttress was a heavy wooden door, locked when they tried it. This didn’t stop Enderby from keeping one beady eye on it as he sliced off strips of tinned ham with his knife.

He threw the empty tin into a bush and looked to Folkard, then the door.

“Shall we see where it goes?” he asked.

“Why not?” replied Folkard, wiping his hands on his trousers and standing.

Though the door was locked it was rotten with age and obviously disused, and it didn’t take much time or force to open. Inside, a dark stone staircase led up, musty, ancient and cracked.

“Like something out of a ghost story,” remarked Folkard.

“Then it’s lucky I don’t believe in ghosts.”

Folkard raised an eyebrow at Enderby.

“Trust me,” he said. “If you’d seen everything I have…”

Instructing the rest of the group to guard the entrance, the two men made their way up the steps. There were four flights, all at right angles, and for a while in the middle the two adventurers were in total darkness. When they reached the top, a thin rectangle of light indicated the presence of another door, and Enderby pressed his ear against it to listen for a moment.

“Nothing,” he noted. “A light step is hardly the Russian army’s forté, so I think we’re safe.”

Once more the door proved no great obstacle, and after a brief peek through to check the coast was clear, Enderby and Folkard stepped out onto the top of the bridge.

“Handy little short cut,” said Folkard.

“But somewhat exposed. Look.”

Enderby pointed across the bridge. A half a mile away, the Russian’s secret base at Severnaya sat like some great, squat beetle. The main building was a vast hangar, surely the resting place of the Russian’s terrifying new weapon of war, and around it several smaller square buildings were grouped, as if in praise or reverence. Several smaller airships were tethered to the hangar, bobbing contentedly in the sky, with cutters darting quickly between them, flies on the bellies of these great beasts of the air.

“We’ve found it,” said Enderby. “Welcome to Severnaya, Captain Folkard.”

3.

BOBBING UP AND down on a horse, Annabelle felt a curious sense of nostalgia that somehow managed to override the apprehension that, by all rights, she should be feeling.

They had left Billy and Ignatius to tend to the rest of the passengers and Annabelle, George and Bert had moved outside to greet the Indians.

“Will we be safe, miss?” Bert had asked.

“Trust me, Bert. These are Apaches. If they’d wanted us dead we wouldn’t have even known they were there.”

“I’ll defer to your judgement, miss.” There was no trace of irony or fear in his voice, and Annabelle realised this man trusted her completely. She just wished he’d stop calling her “miss”…

If Annabelle was convinced that the Indians posed no danger, her assumption was buoyed even more when she thought she recognized the face of one of the braves. She squinted at him, remembering the high cheekbones and soft brown eyes of a boy she had once known—a boy that had grown into a man.

“Wapi!” she exclaimed.

“Annabelle,” replied Wapi from his horse, nodding gently at her. “It has been a very long time.”

“I’ll say!” replied Annabelle. “Look at you!”

Wapi was dressed in a curious fusion of traditional Apache and Mexican dress. A woven poncho covered his shoulders and bare torso, moccasin-clad feet thrust firmly into his horses stirrups. A bandoleer full of bullets crossed his chest one way, the strap of a Winchester rifle the other. She looked at his face, a face she remembered always being blessed with a gap-toothed smile as they had teased scorpions together or chased each other around the tents and campfires of their ever-nomadic home. Though his youthful looks remained, the smile had gone, replaced by a sombre seriousness that indicated their re-acquaintance, however welcome, was not a matter for celebration just yet.

“The years have made you more beautiful as you have grown, Annabelle,” he said, and as she attempted to conceal the reddening of her cheeks she was simultaneously amused that George’s bristling behind her was almost palpable, “but now is not the time to discuss how those years have shaped you. We must ride, and quickly. There is danger in the desert. Evil men are awakening spirits that should be left to sleep.”

“Where are we going?” asked George.

“Wapi, this my husband George,” said Annabelle, stepping to one side to introduce George. “And Bert, our…travelling companion.”

George stepped forward.

“Happy to make you acquaintance, Wapi.” He held out his hand, but Wapi kept his firmly on the reins, looking down his nose at the Englishman whose arm was so comically outstretched.

“There will be time for talk on the journey. Annabelle, you must ride with me. This husband of yours and the man in black can go with Bly and Gopan.” He paused before adding; “Whichever they prefer.”

4.

THEY HAD RIDDEN due south at a fast pace for what, Bedford guessed, must have been around forty minutes. After that, when they had reached a seemingly vast expanse of desert, they had slowed to allow the horses some respite from the heat of the high Arizona sun. They were heading, it seemed, to a mesa in the distance, the only landmark visible in a horizon perpendicular to the unbroken blue of the sky. Wapi led, Annabelle swaying lazily as she sat behind him, and Bedford goaded Gopan into trotting up until they were side-by-side. When she noticed his approach, Annabelle looked back and smiled.

“Enjoying the ride?” she asked.

“The scenery’s magnificent,” said Bedford drily. “But seriously, Annabelle, what’s all this about? It can’t be coincidence.”

“Of course it isn’t, George my darling. And don’t be coy, you know as well as I that the only way to find out why is to follow the route we’ve been given. And find, so to speak, the root of the problem.”

“But the attack on the train. We’ve been targeted, Annabelle, and dash it all but you’re my wife now, and I won’t see you in danger.”

Annabelle turned to him sharply.

“And, as I believe I’ve said before, you’re my husband. Do you think I wish to see you in danger? I trust the Apaches, and Wapi in particular. Though he may represent a time in my life you were no part of, you are a part of my life now, and a significant one at that. I can’t erase my past, however much I’d like to, so trust me when I say that we’ll both be safe if we stick with Wapi.”

“I agree,” chipped in Bert, trotting some feet behind them. “It’s the best course of action. It seems we share an enemy. Or enemies, at least.”

Wapi, who had been gazing off into the distance, seemed to come to out of some mystic reverie and nodded. “Our chief, the wise and revered Goyahkla, has had many visions of the deaths that may have to be dealt. On these walks inside the mind he has seen you, Annabelle, travel the sky with the same ease as a horse steps through a shallow river. On some of those occasions he has been with you in spirit, hearing with your ears and seeing through your eyes. He has told us of those worlds in the sky; those that looks similar to this, our land, and the ones that look so strange he could barely describe them, or the beasts that dwell there.”

“Who’s Goyahkla when he’s at home?” asked Bert, with genuine interest.

“He is better known to you,” said Wapi, turning his head once more to the horizon, “as Geronimo.”

5.

“OH, CORKS,” SAID Tally.

“Corks indeed,” muttered Nathaniel.

“Mister Potsdam, the ladder, if you’d be so kind.”

Following the instructions of his weasely master, the brute thumped across to where the ladder lay against the rim of the pit and lifted it clear as if it were matchwood.

“Can’t have you climbing out and ruining all the fun now, can we, Professor Stone?” said the well-dressed man, licking the tips of his fingers and using them to extinguish his cigarette with a hiss. “Although I’m sure you’ll feel happier going to you death knowing that I’m truly honoured to finally kill someone who appreciates my art.”

“What can I say?” quipped Nathaniel. “I’m a fool for aesthetics.”

“Now now, Professor. Let’s not get catty. You wouldn’t want to meet your maker feeling all cross now, would you?”

“Bit late for that,” Nathaniel muttered to himself.

“I take it you’ve used your not inconsiderable powers of deduction to work out the purpose of that delicately-hued crystal?”

“I’m guessing it’s some sort of accelerant. There was a small amount, perhaps a few ounces, in the Horseguard’s bomb, and that seemed to imbue the device with a significant lethality…. The extent to which that power is magnified with a block this size is scarcely imaginable….”

“Who needs to imagine! You’ll be seeing for yourself in but a few minute’s time. I would ask you what you thought, but then, what’s the point in asking questions of a bloody, vaporised mess, as my dear old mother used to say.”

“Look,” said Nathaniel hotly, “this witty fluff and bluster is all very good but it’s starting to grate on my nerves a bit. Just who the hell are you, anyway? I caught the name of your pet brick wall—Potsdam, wasn’t it?—and yet here you are, content to remain the man of mystery.”

“It’s funny that the doomed have such a fondness for propriety, don’t you think, Mr Potsdam?” Potsdam remained silent and stony-faced. “Still, I suppose my manners have deserted me. My name is Klopstock. KP Klopstock. Inventor, renaissance man, artiste. Also hired killer.”

“He’s off his chops,” said Tally.

“I’ll let that slide, Mister Cahalleret. I’m gracious like that. Nevertheless, Professor Stone, as well as its glorious ability to make things go bang that little bit bigger, this marvellous mineral you see before you has many other curious qualities. It’s quite the wonder stuff, and my employers are as keen to keep it to themselves as your government is in keeping gravitar on the QT. Which is, clearly, not working out so well for them. And so naturally, any Tom, Dick or Harry who goes poking their nose into the wrong places is bound to suffer misfortune of a rather fiery and terminal sort, thanks to my delicate art. I do so hope you like my little masterpiece down there, Professor. I put some extra work into it just for you….”

“I’m flattered.”

“That’s marvellous to hear. Anyway, time does fly when you’re having fun with gloating, as the saying goes. Mister Potsdam and I really must be off. I believe we have an appointment with your dear friend Arnaud in Calcutta, and he’s hardly going to explode himself now, is he?”

Nathaniel’s face became set. His eyes narrowed and his teeth clenched, his hands unconsciously balling into fists. “I swear to you, Klopstock, I’ll be coming for you.”

“Oh right. And how do you intend to do that, may I inquire? As a ghost? Or do you plan to reconstruct your mangled corpse by sheer force of will and shamble after me like some ungodly revenant? Come, come, Professor Stone. Be reasonable.”

“No force on Earth will be able to stop me.”

“Handy, seeing as the forces you’re dealing with here have no Earthy provenance anyway. Toodle pip, Professor. Do die nicely.”

With that, Klopstock hopped up and brushed the grit from the palm of his hands. “Come along, Mister P. Places to kill, people to mangle.”

“Klopstock!” yelled Nathaniel. “Klopstock!”

But Klopstock ignored him, jauntily sidling to the cave entrance with Potsdam lumbering behind him like some mythical behemoth. As the vast man ducked into the tunnel entrance, he turned around briefly and, using his unnatural and metal-infused strength, yanked at a timber beam that supported the roof. He used the length of thick wood to strike at the top of the tunnel and, ignoring the rocks that fell onto his head and shoulders as if they were no more than snowflakes, had soon totally blocked the only available route of escape.

“Well that’s us well and truly fecked,” said Tally.

6.

GIVEN THE CHOICE, Arnaud may well have picked the dank and cold of that deadly underground cavern over the heat of the Calcutta sun—bomb or not. Vice-Chancellor Banerjee had sent information regarding the whereabouts of Garrecreux and the mysterious Madame Moonsinge to the hotel that Coyne had managed to procure for himself and Arnaud. It turned out, Arnaud thought bitterly to himself, that the fellow wasn’t totally useless after all.

After they had washed and dressed and had eaten a light meal (Arnaud had declined the more exotic Indian food on offer, which looked like some sort of pungent stew served with flatbreads—though Coyne had lapped it up like a native) they left the hotel and headed in the direction of Black Town. Arnaud was still impressed by the European elegance of Calcutta’s wealthier side. He almost felt at home strolling down paved roads and comparing the similarities (and differences) of the architecture in Paris. Everyone seemed well-dressed, affluent, busy—if only there were some respite from this damnable heat.

Arnaud saw a bench under the shade of an awning and beckoned for Coyne to stop. Coyne tutted dismissively.

“I’m sorry,” snapped Arnaud, “but I’m just not used to this…this relentless sunshine!”

“Which may have something to do with you sweating out three days’ worth of brandy.”

“Couldn’t we at least hail a hansom? The tram? Even one of those death-trap rickshaw contraptions would do….”

“Do you think you often see a fancy-pants hansom cab in Black Town, Fontaine? Don’t be soft. They’d see us coming a mile off.”

“Oh, and I suppose a sweaty Frenchman and man dressed entirely in black is utterly inconspicuous.”

“More than conspicuous wealth, yes. As it happens. Oh, you’ll see Europeans in Black Town, all right. None of ’em look you back in the eye and they’ll be moving pretty sharpish, as whatever you want in Calcutta that isn’t on the level can be found there, if you jangle your rupees in the right darkened corner. Weapons, hashish, girls…oh, this lot have picked up quick how to cater for tastes that you don’t talk about in the drawing room. You’ve got five minutes.”

Arnaud didn’t even think he’d been given three before Coyne was chivvying him to get up and get moving again. It was almost as if the agent was more keen to find Garrecreux than the man who had actually been charged with procuring his help.

“Do you even know where we’re meant to be going?” whinged Arnaud as he dragged himself to his feet. He was already soaked with sweat and feeling miserable. Coyne turned sharply on his feet and jabbed Arnaud in the chest with his index finger, taking Arnaud aback.

“Listen up,” said Coyne, his voice clipped. “I don’t like you and you don’t like me. I think we’ve established that. Right? Right. So get this into your Bastille-storming, grape-crushing French head, and get it there quick. I was trained for this. This is what I do, right? I don’t tell you how to look at bloody rocks. If I say we walk this way, we walk this way. If I say we go here, we go there. If I say stab this chump in the gut, we stab him. Is that understood?”

“Now look here!”

“No. I won’t. I won’t look anywhere because you haven’t got the first idea what you’re doing. But I do. And that’s enough to mean I don’t have to take any of your guff. Or at least no more than I’ve already taken. So wipe your face, shut your mouth and follow me.”

He’d turned smartly on his heels and strode off before Arnaud could even begin to reply. The Frenchman was stunned. It was not so much the rudeness of the man—it was true Arnaud didn’t like him, and so ultimately his opinion mattered little. But so often on his adventures he had been accompanied by his friends, those he trusted and loved, and now he found himself stuck with a petulant, ill-mannered hothead who clearly could not be relied on when the chips were down. He wondered what on Earth Folkard had been thinking when he chose this degenerate for the job. Arnaud was glad he had taken Banerjee’s advice to heart, and though the loaded pistol was a weight on his side, it did do something to lighten his worries.

7.

“WHERE’S YOUR FIGHTING Irish spirit, Tally?” Nathaniel chided. “Come on, give me a hand.”

Nathaniel began to race around the floor of the pit, inspecting the chunks of machinery and discarded mining detritus. The ropes that hung from the ceiling were out of reach, but Nathaniel reasoned that with both his and Tally’s height, and a little boost from a bit of abandoned equipment, they just might make it to the lip of the hole.

“How long have we got?” asked Tally, as he and Nathaniel hefted their shoulders against an old engine housing.

“I don’t think that madman is prone to leaving much to chance. But we’ll certainly know when our time runs out.”

“Comforting thought.”

“Quite. Come on, man, put your back into it!”

The ticking from the bomb strapped to the crystal seemed to increase in intensity. More worryingly, the device seemed to be giving off a low, reptilian hiss. Tally and Nathaniel had managed to manoeuvre the engine block to the wall, and Nathaniel motioned for Tally to climb onto it. Tally began to protest.

“No time for debates, Tally. You’re stronger and I’m lighter, and as soon as I’m up I’ll put the ladder down for you. Hurry, man!”

Tally did as he was told and scrambled up. Nathaniel followed—with the two of them standing there barely any room remained and the block rocked precariously whenever either of the men moved. Nathaniel squashed himself as close as he was able to the wall and Tally bent down to interlock his fingers and hook them under the sole of Nathaniel’s shoe.

“You ready, Professor?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be.”

“Three, two… Hup!”

His back suddenly wrenched with pain at the awkward weight he was attempting to lift, Tally gritted his teeth and tried to lean his weight forwards, giving Nathaniel as much height as he could. Nathaniel scrambled up the side of the wall, dirtying and blooding his fingernails with every frantic, hard-fought inch of progress. As Nathaniel’s foot passed his shoulder the Irishman howled in pain and effort, Nathaniel yelling unheard encouragements. Mustering all his strength, and still holding Nathaniel’s shoe, Tally slowly, carefully started to stand, wincing with the terrible effort.

“Keep going, keep going!” hollered the Professor. “I’m nearly there!”

With a gasp that seemed to hollow out his lungs and a push from a source of strength unbeknownst in himself, Tally pushed Nathaniel’s leg up as far as it would go. The whole of Professor Stone’s weight was now on Tally’s outstretched arms, the hardness of the heel digging cruelly into his palms. The whole of Tally’s body began to shake.

“I can’t hold it!” he cried. “I can’t hold it!”

“A second more!”

But Tally could not even muster the energy for that one second more, the second that might have saved both of their lives. He let go and fell away, winding himself as he dropped heavily on his back. He had expected Nathaniel’s weight to slam onto him a mere millisecond later, perhaps break a couple of ribs or his wrist, and Tally thought with grim humour that whatever got broke, at least he’d have the pain to concentrate on until the bomb went off and killed him, Nathaniel and goodness knows how many innocent Dubliners.

Only Nathaniel didn’t drop onto him at all.

Tally opened his eyes quickly to see, with a relief that bordered on the spiritual, Nathaniel’s ankles disappearing over the rim of the pit.

“Oh, you little British beauty!” he yelled, wincing as he got up.

“I had a leg up from a very dependable Irishman,” came Nathaniel’s disembodied voice. Moments later, the ladder was manhandled inexpertly back into the pit and Tally scrambled up it with remarkable speed.

“Right,” he said. “What now?”

“Well, it looks like that way is a no-go,” said Nathaniel, indicating the exit Potsdam had blocked with rubble. He furrowed his brow before exclaiming, “Lucifers!”

“No need for that language,” said Tally, surprising himself that the gift of the gab hadn’t deserted him even in these trying times.

“Matches, Tally! Do you have any matches?”

“Aye, here y’are.” Tally pulled a box from his pocket and handed them across. “Time for one last smoke, is it?”

“Don’t be asinine, man! Light one and watch the flame!”

They both took a match from the box and struck it on the sandpapered side. Nathaniel lifted his just above his head and watched the flame intently. Nothing happened—the match just burnt down, agonisingly slowly, half way down, then more… The flame was about to nip Nathaniel’s finger when suddenly, almost imperceptibly, it was caught by a secret breeze.

Both Nathaniel and Tally’s eyes darted in the direction opposite the flame’s movement. A dark tunnel on the other side of a cave, clearly apart from the rest that dotted the walls of the cavern.

“There,” said Nathaniel, already beginning his sprint. “It has to be!”

“I ain’t arguing,” said Tally, hot on his heels.

Sending up a rooster-tail of grit and gravel behind them, they dashed towards the darkened cave mouth. Behind them, the bomb began to hiss louder, a kettle about to over-boil.

The entrance was wide enough to continue their run, the light from the cavern behind them providing a little illumination. It wasn’t long before they were forced to grasp the walls in the darkness, pulling themselves along as fast as they dared. The tunnel branched several times, and the duo had to move onwards solely by instinct, choosing the routes that sloped upwards and the larger openings. In the stygian depths behind him, Nathaniel heard Tally cry out as he slipped and fell. He whipped round, but the blackness was so absolute it disorientated him.

“Tally!” he cried.

“I’m here, I’m here, I’m all right! Just a little—”

But Tally’s sentence was cut short with a blinding flash that seemed to run against the walls of the tunnel like some ethereal beast. The tiniest fraction of time passed, and the sharp, deafening crack and the low, resounding rumble of the blast followed in its fearful wake. The walls of the tunnel began to shake, dislodging dust and pebbles from the ceiling; secondary blasts rocked the very air itself as the deadly chemical reaction made its way down into the roots of the alien crystal. The flash of light had given Nathaniel enough time to reach his arm out to Tally, who grabbed it and hauled himself up. There were the sounds of rocks falling toward them as the tunnel began to collapse. Dragging the dazed Irishman behind him, Nathaniel hurried on—yet it was not mere self-preservation that spurred him, but the thought of protecting Arnaud from the evil plots of Klopstock and his monstrous, mute companion. The ground would not stop shaking. It felt as if the very world was ending, and if it proved that Nathaniel could not escape, the explosion that rocked the city of Dublin that night would be but a fleabite compared to the end that awaited the Earth.

8.

THE REST OF the walk passed in an uncomfortable silence. It was not long before they reached the banks of the Hooghly River, and while the return of its unutterable stench was unwelcome, the soft breeze that rose up from its waters was not. They needed to cross, and head east into the dark heart of Black Town that spread like a stain into the distance. As one approached it, the gentle chatter and clatter of horses’ hooves was replaced by the loud shouts from markets, haggling, threats and wails. They crossed a bridge, Arnaud lagging deliberately behind, mulling silently, and before they’d even crossed its span the poverty and human degradation of Black Town had begun.

It seemed like every second person you encountered was begging. But Coyne had neglected to mention that even raggedy stallholders and the lower-caste Calcuttans were game for the pleas and grasping hands of the dispossessed. Arnaud saw one emaciated boy beaten viciously for snatching a fly-blown hunk of fish from a tabletop, and as the stall’s owner was occupied with his strop other chancers and vagabonds descended to help themselves. British troops watched idly from street corners, smoking, powerless or too desensitized to help. Was this, thought Arnaud, the inevitable price that must be paid for the progress and abundance across the river? Did encouraging culture, life and knowledge always mean suffering for those who lived beyond its reach? And was such a price worth paying?

The crowds, the noise…it was almost too much for Arnaud to take. Tents and shacks were cobbled roughly together at the sides of what passed for roads. Everything was bleached a dirty white by the sun. The further they got in, the more noise assaulted them, the more people jostled them, the more the tension rose. It seemed to Arnaud that every eye glanced in their direction at least once, with some holding their gaze suspiciously for as long as the duo remained in sight. Disregarding his previous unprofessional outburst, Arnaud was almost glad to find Coyne sidle up beside him in the bustle.

“Keep your wits about you, Fontaine. And keep your hand on that pistol you think I haven’t noticed in your pocket.”

Arnaud did so.

“What’s the plan?” he asked.

“We’re coming up to a little cluster of buildings. Here on the right. See ’em? They sell a sort of local rot-gut there, Calcutta moonshine. Don’t touch it, whatever you do. Not even a drop. I know what you’re like. It stings when you get it on your fingers, God alone knows what it does to your insides.”

“So essentially, this is another trip to a bar.”

“Yeah, that’s exactly what is it, Fontaine. They sell roast beef and have the Sunday papers, and the barmaid will call you ‘squire’ and give you the wink. Just stick with me and don’t go aggravating the locals, eh?”

Arnaud was getting increasingly tired of Coyne’s attitude, but felt that for the moment is was best to put up with it. He’d certainly have the upper hand when it came to talking to Garrecreux, and bided his time, mentally preparing a complaint to issue to Folkard upon his return.

Shortly, they reached the building Coyne had indicated. Pretty much the whole of the front wall had crumbled, and a tattered, flapping awning held up by sticks stretched over a small courtyard that sat before the bar. Arnaud suddenly understood Coyne’s sarcasm when it came to the comparison with a pleasant little British inn. This looked more like somebody’s house, filled with clutter and second-hand junk. About two dozen Indian men sat on the ground or, if they were lucky, lounged around on pillows. They drank a milky, oily liquid from tin cups or puffed away on stained hookahs, dropping their conversations mid-sentence as Arnaud and Coyne snaked around their prostrate forms. An impromptu bar—more like a plank of wood held up by bricks and optimism—ran across the back wall. The bartender who stood behind it was conspicuous by his corpulence; he was the only denizen of Black Town Arnaud had seen so far with more than an ounce of fat of him.

He had a large, thick, black beard and restless eyes, and as the two men approached he adopted a stance of wilful defiance and ill-concealed displeasure. In a thick accent, he said;

“I think you gentleman have the wrong building.”

“We’re here to ask some questions,” said Arnaud, matching the man for obstinacy.

“Then you definitely have the wrong building.”

“Listen, chum,” said Coyne, crossing his arms and leaning in menacingly. “I happen to know we’ve got the right place, and you’re the right man. So unless you want a visit from some of the more unhinged members of Her Majesty’s Colonial Peacekeepers at ooh, let’s say, 3am tomorrow, I suggest you start acting a little more helpful.”

The bartender sneered. “British,” he spat. “You are all the same. You are not content with taking over our country, you have to keep the right to threaten us as well. It is a land of cowards, your England. Cowards and bullies.”

With lightning speed Coyne lurched over the bar and grasped the man by his collarless shirt. He bunched his fists tight and yanked the bartender forward, and the agent’s forehead met his nose with not inconsiderable force and a sickening crack. The big man’s legs fell from under him, his face streaming with blood, but Coyne kept him upright. There was a commotion behind them, the smashing of a hookah pipe and the sound of the crowd bolting upright, and Arnaud whipped around. The clients in the seedy bar were all on their feet, eyes sharp and dangerous, edging towards where the intruders stood. With a speed that surprised even himself, Arnaud’s pistol was in his hand and he jabbed it at the encroaching crowd, who backed off warily.

“I think we’ve got his attention,” said Coyne. “Ask your questions, Fontaine.”

“Whatever happened to not aggravating the locals?”

“Well if he’d have kept his manners I’d have kept my temper. Come on, Frenchie. We haven’t got all day.”

Still keeping his gun trained on the mob, Arnaud turned to the bruised and battered bartender, who was whimpering and cursing under his breath. He looked up, dazed, at Arnaud.

“We’re looking for a man,” said Arnaud in a firm voice. “A man and a girl. He’s called Garrecreux, a lecturer from the university. The girl is called Moonsinge, Madame Esme Moonsinge—one of his old students. We hear they’ve been seen around here.”

“Moonsinge,” moaned the bartender. “Yes, I know her. We all know her. When we thought Black Town could not get any more desperate and depraved, she appears like a typhoon and steals out friends and children.”

“Where can we find her?”

“Nobody knows. She is a phantom, an evil that lingers everywhere but can never be found….”

“Stop talking in riddles, man!” yelled Coyne, hoisting the bartender up roughly. “Tell us what you know!”

“That’s all I know, I swear!” he babbled, before slumping down momentarily and, bizarrely, starting to laugh. It started as a low chuckle, but had soon reached a crescendo of a booming guffaw that unsettled Arnaud far more than the baying drunkards that threatened them from the courtyard. “But now, now…you fools! You won’t find her, she will find you. And when she does, I pray that the cruelties she inflicts on your bodies and your minds are a thousand times worse than those she has inflicted on Black Town.”

Coyne released his grip and the man fell back against the rear wall, still chuckling in a low, threatening bass.

“I think we’d better get out of here,” said Arnaud.

9.

IT HAD BEEN a long and terrifying crawl through a tunnel barely the width of Nathaniel’s shoulders. The tremors had subsided and the main shaft had ceased its collapse perhaps twenty feet behind them—Nathaniel could barely stop himself shaking with the adrenalin, and Tally seemed to be in a state of considerable shock. They got their breath back and, having no alternative, continued up the passage with a prayer on their lips that it would lead to some form of escape. As the route began to narrow, Nathaniel noticed the air around them beginning to freshen, and a thin trickle of water on the floor—he even thought he could see the welcoming softness of moonlight ahead of them. The only question was whether the tunnel became too narrow to prevent their escape…. Soon they were on their haunches, then their knees, and finally face down, crawling with barely an inch between their heads and the ceiling of the claustrophobic passage.

“There’s light, Tally! There’s definitely light!”

“Saints be praised,” said Tally, without a hint of irony.

The possibility of finally escaping the dismal tunnel spurred Nathaniel on, despite his almost total exhaustion. There! He could taste it! Fresh air! Even the ice-cold stream of water that froze his fingertips and soaked his shirtfront seemed refreshingly pleasant. He crawled quicker, desperate, excited. Inch by slow inch an opening appeared in front of him, pale with the light of the moon, a small hole that maybe, just maybe, they could force themselves through….

As if acting as some final, cruel appendix to the terror and discomfort they had endured all night, the opening was not quite large enough. Nathaniel gashed his waist as he struggled out, gasping, desperate, fearful he might get stuck. With an almighty yank he pulled himself free and tumbled from the hole, filthy, bleeding and soaking wet. Every part of him ached, and all of his senses seem unnaturally keen and alert. He turned around and helped tug Tally out, the two men falling together as Tally popped from the hole like a cork from a bottle of champagne. For a moment the two of them lay on their backs, breathing heavily.

“Dublin air,” said Tally eventually. “Best in the feckin’ world.”

Chapter Nine

The Daughter of Yohana

1.

WHEN THE APACHE camp came in sight, Wapi deftly dismounted and began leading the horse, Annabelle still resting in the saddle. Once more she felt a curious mix of nostalgia and long-suppressed fears. It almost seemed as if nothing had changed for the Apaches—the tents, the smells, even the atmosphere in the settlement, simultaneously so serious and so happy, were all exactly the same. Only, she reasoned, things were not the same. Not for her, not any more. She had seen distant worlds, befriended aliens and battled tyranny and cruelty, suffered great hardship…she had even lost a leg. And yet all that seemed so trifling compared to the biggest change in her life, the one that had happened only days ago, even if it felt like weeks. She was married now, she and George professing their undying love and commitment to each other, the biggest and best change in her life so far.

As they approached the outermost tepees of the camp, a pair of small figures causing a ruckus became discernible. Two children were fighting behind one of the tents. There was a clear winner, and as the combatants resolved themselves in the shimmering haze that rose from the arid desert floor, it was clear that that winner was a girl. She was perhaps eight years old and had striking ebony hair flowing to her waist, with thick, woven bands of leather wrapped around her chest and waist. She was mercilessly drubbing her opponent, a young boy, with a large stick. Though the blows were not so heavy as to break the skin, the boy had curled up into a foetal position and was wailing at her to stop. She did not seem overly keen on doing so, and it was only when she looked up and noticed the approach of Wapi’s party that she did, instantly dropping her bludgeon and pelting across the dusty floor towards them, her attack on the unfortunate boy forgotten.

“Wapi!” she squealed. She did not decrease her speed or hesitate as she dashed towards them, and when she got within a foot of Wapi she leapt nimbly up to wrap herself around his chest, nuzzling her face into his poncho. “I was so worried about you!”

“My journey was not without danger, little one, but I returned to you safely, just like I promised. But I see you have not kept your promise to me…”

The girl looked up, coy and shame-faced.

“What promise, Wapi?”

“The promise you made to behave, Cactus Flower. Who was that? Nenko? Why were you beating him?”

“It was his fault, Wapi! I swear! He said I’d never be a warrior. He said he was going to marry me and then I’d have to cook for him and wash his smelly trousers. And I don’t want to wash his smelly trousers so I had to teach him a lesson.”

“Well I think he has learnt it, little one. And now you must apologise! Nenko is your friend.”

“He’s not my friend, he’s stupid.”

Wapi laughed and tousled her hair, setting her back down on the ground. It was only then that the girl noticed Annabelle, George and Bert. Beguiled by their strange dress, Annabelle’s beauty and George’s strong, handsome face, she looked down shyly at her bare feet. She beckoned for Wapi to lean down, and as he did so she reached up on tiptoe and whispered something in his ear. Once more, Wapi laughed warmly.

“These are friends of the Apache, Kai. They have come to help us restore peace to our land. You will meet them properly soon, when the time is right. But it is far more important now that we speak with Geronimo, and start our fight against the evil men that would awaken spirits to destroy us. Go, run ahead! Tell him we are here.”

The girl nodded dutifully and scampered off towards the camp. Wapi turned around to look at Annabelle.

She was almost catatonic. Her eyes were wide and her face had blanched to a deathly white. She tried to swallow but her mouth was so dry she was incapable even of this simple, reflexive action. Delirious visions on Mars, memories stirred by an assault on Ceres, and the haunting face of a child stalking her cabin on Esmeralda… Her head felt light, her eyelids fluttered and her pupils shot up into her skull. She could just about feel her prosthetic leg unhook itself from the stirrup as she plunged towards the hard, hot ground.

2.

FOLKARD AND ENDERBY had scouted up closer to the Russian base, taking in its perimeter, the number of guards and the best route to get to the hangar undetected. Night had begun to crawl in like a living thing, and with it came the bright searchlights from the airships, swooping over the base like ominous eyes. A stealthy approach would be difficult, a point that Enderby and Folkard did not feel the necessity to share, both already knowing it far too keenly.

They returned to the bridge to find the men waiting on full alert. Not wasting any time, Enderby briefed them on the situation. The length of fence at the northern side of the base seemed closer to the main hangar than the rest, and so it was decided this was the best point of entry. Speed was of the essence, and though it was unlikely that the base would be less guarded at night, at least the darkness outside the walls would help mask their approach. Once more, the fickle weather had turned its cold shoulder on the mission. The sky had cleared, and in the absence of snow-heavy clouds a plethora of stars stood out starkly against the absolute darkness of the sky.

It took the men mere seconds to pack their supplies and ready themselves for the next stage of the expedition. They took the stairs inside the buttress, once more checking the horizon both ways to see if any Russian patrols were on the approach. All seemed clear, and keeping their heads down, the group of six skirted along the bridge and headed out into the deeper tundra. There was very little cover from trees and vegetation surrounding the Severnaya installation—there was no need for concealment so far away from civilization, and it made sense that all approaches to the base were clear. Expansionist and antagonistic they may be, but the Russians had lost nothing of their guile. To underestimate them would be a fatal mistake.

They were a few hundred metres away from the walls, encroaching upon the west side, when an almighty clank reverberated around the landscape. Instantly the six men dropped to the floor, Enderby’s agents with their carbines instantly ready and primed. Shouts, rushed activity and an alarm bell sounded out from the base, ringing across the desolate white plains. This was followed momentarily by the long, ominous droning of machinery, vast gears grinding together, the screech of metal on metal. The beetle of the huge black hangar was extending its carapace. It was opening.

Even from this distance, the scale of the engineering was awe-inspiring. The curved roof began to flower, pushed open by monstrous iron joists that hinged on an oil-black wheel halfway down their length. As they opened further, an intricate mechanism of flywheels and cogs the size of millstones was revealed, slowly cranking the roof apart. And yet even the noise they made was not loud enough to drown out another sound—an ungodly thundering that came from above their heads, throbbing like a heartbeat from the chest of a Titan. The men looked up.

It moved at such speed that it was upon them before they had a chance to even comprehend the magnitude of the thing—and after the initial shock of the scale, there came to Folkard a greater terror…one of recognition.

The entire body of the beast, from the plates bolted to its hull to the chimney stacks that stretched from bow to stern, was coloured a matt black, and so at first discerning its true shape against the night sky was difficult. And yet as it passed ever closer the light from the stars and the moon’s bright glare picked out details, reflecting dully from surfaces and gun turrets…a shape Folkard knew only too well, down to the very last bulkhead.

Sovereign!

Only this was no sleek, majestic British airship. It was more like Sovereign’s warped, bastard twin. It was, Folkard estimated, perhaps twenty-five percent larger, and where Sovereign had been built with concessions to beauty and craft, this behemoth eschewed any pretence to grace. It had been built as nothing more than a weapon of war. Extra armour plates covered the entire body of the ship, giving a brutish, unstoppable look. Extra fins, struts and gantries criss-crossed the hull, seemingly grafted on at random, the design of a madman. Bulky protuberances emerged from the black behind the armour plates, their purpose mysterious and alarming, and Folkard counted at least a dozen extra guns at either side of the prow, sticking out like poisoned spines. Then there was the engine. It was easily twice the size of Sovereign’s, and was constructed with the same haphazard alchemy that characterised the rest of the ship, covered in exposed gears and a row of pistons beating in and out of the body with a terrifying precision. A faint green glow emanated from within its housing, and in its wake it left a thick cloud of choking black dust that gave the air a scent of sulphur and coal, and something else… Something not of this Earth.

As it passed overhead the noise was overwhelming, forcing the men to cover their ears. The searchlights from the numerous dirigibles tethered to the hangar whipped up in unison to illuminate the warship and guide it in to dock, further showing the patchwork brutality of the Russian’s secret weapon—a truly awe-inspiring and terrifying sight.

It let out a long, low hoot like a bellowing Kraken and, as it did so, a flash of hope leapt into Folkard’s heart. The ship was coming in too fast! He’d steered Sovereign long enough to know when an approach was miscalculated, and miscalculated this one surely was. At its current rate the bow would skew as it turned to descend into the hangar… The Tereshkov-patented propeller governor (Folkard had no doubt that this ship possessed one) would overcompensate, destabilizing the entire weight of the vessel and causing it to list uncontrollably. There was no doubt the ship would suffer a huge, catastrophic crash.

His breath held, Folkard hoped against hope that this mission would be over before its most dangerous segment began, that this machine that could change the destiny of the world would be written off as just another failed Russian experiment. And yet his hope was all in vain. In an almost breathtaking display of helmsmanship, the Russian warship’s prow seemed to hang in the air as it hovered over the open hangar roof. The back end began to slide round with an ease and grace that belied the ship’s monstrous appearance, and deftly stopped dead when the length of the vessel hung over the open bay doors. As light as a feather, with its engines purring and cooling, the dreadnought gently sank into its nest, and once more the air was filled with the gigantic doors clanking shut.

After that, there was nothing but silence. Even the wind, it seemed, held its breath in fear.

3.

THE DRIVER OF the cab had taken some persuading to take Nathaniel and Tally as fares. Considering their appearance and the lateness of the hour, this was hardly surprising, but it was nothing the promise of a few extra shillings couldn’t solve. When they returned to Rathgar and let themselves into the garret, the sight of his lumpy old mattress almost made Tally weep with gratitude.

When Nathaniel awoke, late the following afternoon, every muscle in his body roared with strain. He stretched experimentally, and despite a few bruises and the cut on his side (which turned out to be not as deep as he had feared) everything seemed to be in good working order. Tally, fully clothed, lay face down on his ratty bed, snoring at such a volume that it rattled the windows. Nathaniel got the kettle on and, just as it was coming up to the boil, Tally eased himself up with a groan and rubbed his eyes.

“Christ,” he moaned, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. “When I first opened me eyes I thought, ‘Jayze, old Jenny must have put me through me paces last night’. Then you get to thinking it hurts a bit too much for that, and maybe I’ve gone a few rounds with Slugger O’Toole. It’s only when I sets eyes on you it all comes back, and bugger me blind how I wish it hadn’t.”

“Well it hasn’t seemed to affect your blarney, Tally. Here, drink this.” Nathaniel handed him a steaming cup of tea.

“Right!” said Tally eventually, draining the last of his mug and standing. “Shouldn’t take me long to get my stuff together and then we’ll be on our way.”

“Stuff?” said Nathaniel, nonplussed. “We?”

Tally had turned his back to Nathaniel and was sorting through a pile of clothes heaped on the floor in the corner, occasionally tossing a choice article on the bed.

“Aye, the ferry back to England. I needn’t pack much anyway, your boys have said they’ll sort me out when we reach London. Digs and togs, all that. Part of the deal, they said.”

“Deal?” said Nathaniel, wondering if he’d somehow managed to doze off despite himself and wake in the middle of a totally different conversation. “I’m sorry Tally, I have to confess I’m not entirely sure what you’re talking about.”

“Well what d’ya think all that business yesterday with yer man Cormac was all about? Sorting out me papers.”

“Papers? You mean, passports and such?”

“Aye, that’s it.”

“You mean to say you’re coming back to London with me?”

Tally stopped his rummaging and turned around slowly.

“You mean to say they didn’t tell you I was coming back to London with you?”

“Now that you mention it…no.”

“Why those slimy, double-crossing English sons o’ whores!” exclaimed Tally, before adding; “Present company excepted.”

“Believe me, Tally, I’m tempted to echo the sentiment. What did the Bureau offer?”

Tally sat back down on the edge of the bed and looked Nathaniel straight in the eyes.

“Now you’re not foolin’ me about here, are you, Professor? All on the level?”

“Absolutely.”

“I thought as much. You’re a stand up chap, sure y’are, and it makes sense they’d mess you about as much as they have me. Okay. So here’s the craic.” He took a deep breath before continuing. “Yer’ a smart man, Professor, so you’ll probably picked up that my line of work here in Dear Old Dublin isn’t exactly what you’d call ‘blessed with legality’. And that sort of employment, if you aren’t careful, is wont to ruffle a few feathers here and there. And don’t get me wrong, I love my mother country an’ I want to see us free as much as the next man, but setting bombs and shooting soldiers ain’t the way to go about it, I reckon. That’s just gonna make things worse. And so, when I was given the chance, I may have, well…stopped a few bombs going off and a few soldiers getting shot. Needless to say, my countrymen weren’t best pleased. I needed a way out before I ended up floating in the Liffey, arse pointed at the sky.”

“And that’s when the Bureau stepped in.”

“Right so. They said they’d get it all sorted no bother, just had to help out one of their men with a job. That’d be you.”

“As I gathered.”

“Only it’s me who has to go chasing around to get me papers, and naturally the Bureau contact over here vanishes when you need him most. Guess they hoped the Fenians would catch up with me or I’d just cark it down in that feckin’ mine. God Bless England.”

“Tally, I can only apologise…”

“Sure, it ain’t your fault, Professor. But I’ve got a few choice words for your employers, and not all of them would please your maiden aunt.”

“Rest assured, Tally, they’re not my employers. And it seems like I have a few choice words for them myself. I think it’ll be much more satisfying if we both air our grievances together, don’t you think?”

“You mean you’ll help me?”

“Tally, after everything that happened last night, I feel I’m duty bound to.”

Tally leapt up and pounced on Nathaniel, throwing his long arms around him and slapping him on the back. “Ah, Jaysus,” he said. “Long-live the decent and honourable subjects of Her Majesty!”

“And God Bless Ireland,” said Nathaniel, gently pushing the smiling Irishman away.

4.

COYNE, HIS OWN pistol drawn, was taking the lead, with Arnaud keeping a skittering eye on the rear. They had slunk into the back streets, every sense alert, moving through the shadows with no real plan, or sense of where they were going. Arnaud was only too aware that Madame Moonsinge posed a serious threat, and the grip she held on the slums meant that a reckoning was due. The barman had seemed terrified of her power and influence, and Arnaud had been adventuring long enough to trust his instincts when it came to the greater dangers. Not only that, Coyne was a loose cannon, and he felt himself keeping as much of an eye on the unstable agent as he did their surroundings.

They came to the corner of a derelict building and Coyne stopped. They had been lucky so far; with the exception of a few feral dogs and the odd pair of eyes peering suspiciously from the inside of ramshackle huts, the darkened byways had been deserted. Arnaud found little comfort in this, however, and the state of the back streets—littered with human waste and the stench of poverty and decay—made him all the more sickened and uneasy.

He sidled up to Coyne, who had taken a quick peek around the corner.

“What can you see?” he asked.

“Trouble,” said Coyne, as he brought the butt of his pistol viciously down onto Arnaud’s temple.

5.

THERE WERE MURMURS, the crackling of wood spitting in a fire…then a soothing coolness on her forehead that seemed to gently coax her senses back to full consciousness. She tried to move her arms up to rub her eyes but they felt light and unresponsive; it was only when she moved her head and heard a groan that her body felt like it belonged to her once more, and she was able to open her eyes. Even this basic task felt an uncommonly strenuous thing to achieve.

“Easy, Annabelle, easy….” It was George’s voice that filtered into her ears, hazy and indistinct, but it gave her something solid to concentrate on—something to aim for in the fog that clouded her faculties. Gradually his face came into focus, as pale as a ghost and as fretful as she had ever seen him. He smiled in relief.

“You gave me quite a shock, Mrs Bedford,” he said soothingly, rubbing her cheek softly with his palm. She tried to raise her torso but her head swam, so George curled his arm around her waist and helped her into a sitting position. “Here,” he said, offering her a clay cup. “Drink this, they said it’d help.” She curled both her hands around the proffered drink but it was really George who tipped the liquid gently into her mouth. It was mildly sweet, herbal, and as she swallowed it gave to her throat a pleasantly warm sensation. Already feeling rejuvenated, she drank a little more, and the restorative effects of the infusion coursed into her belly and her bloodstream.

“Thank you,” she muttered, finding her voice but not her memory. “What happened?”

“You passed out… Dropped off the horse like a brick off a bridge and gave yourself a pretty good thump when you landed. Probably this blasted heat getting to you.”

Annabelle didn’t respond and looked around her. She was sitting on a mattress made of buffalo hide in a large tepee. A fire crackled gently in the centre, and dozens of totemic constructions of feathers, sticks and bone hung from the walls. The shaman’s hut, she was sure. She looked down, and with anger and embarrassment found that her prosthetic leg had been removed and was laying a couple of feet to her left. Stiff and ungainly as it was, she had grown used to wearing it, and the weightlessness and uselessness of her stump irked and shamed her. She quickly grabbed for the leg and, not caring for decorum, hoisted up her skirt and began to strap it back into place.

“You shouldn’t have taken it off,” she hissed to George, not looking up.

“I’m sorry, I know, but the fall dislodged it and we were much more concerned in getting you to safety… I’m sorry, Annabelle. Truly.”

She had chided him unnecessarily, and felt guilty. Once more he had made her safety paramount, and she needed to remember that this came not from any doubt in Annabelle’s strength or ability, but from the love he felt for her so sharply in his heart.

She locked the leg into place and tightened the buckles until they were comfortable, then replaced her skirts to a more modest position. It was only then that she properly looked around the tent, and noticed that she and George were not the only occupants. Sitting across from them, at the opposite side of the fire, was Geronimo. He was looking at her with intelligent eyes the colour of obsidian that reflected the fire’s dance. Dressed far more traditionally than Wapi or the other braves she had hitherto seen, he sat cross-legged on a raised bear pelt surrounded by carved poles of wood, like a throne. His face, framed by two braided lengths of black hair, was a roadmap of wisdom through age. It was wrinkled, pinched and sternly serious, the colour of a roasted nut with a strong jaw-line and forehead. Wapi stood at his right, and on his left the young girl, Kai, sidled up to him as a child would to her grandfather. She looked across to Annabelle with wide, apprehensive eyes.

“You have travelled far, Yohana,” said Geronimo. His voice was low, but strong. “At times I have been with you on your journeys, watching, fearing for your life as you have feared for your own. I was with you when you traversed the red planet, when you dug into the belly of the white lady in the sky, and fed and helped her children. I have gazed through your eyes at the stars, and seen our mother Earth from heights that the eagle can only dream of. I have been with you, Yohana, and I have prayed for your deliverance.”

Wapi stepped forward.

“The great Geronimo is wise beyond the skill of many tribes,” he said. “But he cannot see the future. He simply knew you would come when you were needed most, as the rain comes when the earth is at its most thirsty.”

“This need,” said Annabelle, hoisting herself up. “You mentioned that before. Spirits that must be left to slumber. What do you mean? What’s going on?”

Geronimo nodded. “As I had hoped, your spirit is drawn in the wake of your passing, and follows you here. It is this, and the pure hearts of your companions, that will aid us in cleansing our land. Wapi is a brave and noble warrior, and yet what he sees as evil spirits, you and I know, Yohana, in truth come from a far more solid plane. Our lands have been a waypoint for visitors since the lands themselves were young, and as a warrior’s steed leaves its tracks in the sand, so too did these travellers from beyond leave their mark. It is these forgotten footprints that have brought evil men here, men who would exploit powers far beyond their understanding.

“We have passed down secret knowledge over countless generations, acted as the guardians of these forbidden places. Once they were worshipped, but always they are feared. Metal and money are the ways of nations now, not the plants and beasts and land, as our people believe. The balance must be restored, the hunger of this progress must be tempered, not satisfied, a hunger that has no care for the life that blesses the world. If we fail, a great cataclysm of fire will engulf all of mankind.”

“I thought you said you couldn’t see the future?” commented George, before realising his interruption may have come across more accusatory than he intended.

Geronimo looked at him stoically.

“To see the events of futures untold is not necessary, husband of Yohana. Merely to observe the actions of greedy and careless men is enough, for the consequences are always the same. Death. Misery. Slavery. Pain. You know this, or you would not take arms against them.”

“Of course,” mumbled George. “I’m sorry.”

Annabelle put an arm on his shoulder, and turned back to Geronimo.

“What are we to do?” she asked.

“First, we must rest. The days ahead will punish the spirits and bodies of us all. We must focus, become one with ourselves, each other, our purpose. And you, Yohana. You must reconcile with your past, with the crimes that were imposed upon you when you were but a child.”

For the first time, Geronimo moved, he looked down sadly into his lap before looking back up and meeting Annabelle’s eyes. She could almost swear the fire reflected in them had become misty, dimmed by the tears that welled there…

“You must reconcile,” he said quietly, gesturing to his right, “with your daughter.”

6.

TALLY AND NATHANIEL packed quickly. There was no point wasting any more time in Dublin, and Nathaniel was keen to return to the Admiralty so he could make his report and begin his investigation on the chunk of crystal he had rescued from the caverns under Phoenix Park. The city itself was in a state of panic. The news of the bombing was on the tongue of every Dubliner, discussed in loud voices in pubs, in hushed tones in market corners and yelled in newsprint in every paper from Howth to Tallaght. There was shock and consternation, fear and guilt, the city boiling over into a maelstrom of accusation and counter-accusation. Many believed it was a British plot to break the spirit of the Fenians, a show of fearful strength and a promise of retribution. Others believed the Fenians themselves were responsible, experimenting with new explosives and destroying a large chunk of the city in the process. There was political turmoil at the highest levels and a tightrope tension in the streets. Now, where a resting place for lovers and a playground for children had once stood, there only remained a vast sinkhole. Charred debris and twisted metal poked evilly out of the ruined land, mixed with the splinters of uprooted trees and mangled hunks of exotic animal flesh.

The city was swollen with fear and mistrust, and it seemed that if you did not appraise every face in the street with a look of suspicion then you, too, were somehow suspect. Not that it was even that necessary—despite the weather, which was once more balmy and promised glorious sunshine later—the streets were pretty much deserted. This didn’t stop curtains from twitching when Tally and Nathaniel walked past them, and neither of the pair dared to look back inside. Tally, demonstrating admirable sense and forward-thinking, lent Nathaniel a shirt, waistcoat and one of his old, grubbier overcoats to replace his battered and conspicuously British suit. Nathaniel was also conscious that his accent might not be particularly well-received, so as they walked, they walked in silence. This seemed to pair well with the sombre mood of the eerily desolate town.

They boarded the tram at Westland Row and it trundled sluggishly past the famous Martello Towers on the coastline, on towards the port near Ringsend. As Nathaniel had suspected, there was a distinct increase in the number of security measures for those wishing to leave the Emerald Isle. Passports were scrutinised far more closely, eyes were met and held by the squinting, suspicious gaze of officials. Tally did his best not to look shifty; he was sure that the papers he had acquired with Nathaniel’s help were legitimate, but he had been betrayed so many times that any underground deal he’d successfully completed always came with that faint whiff of panic. Normally he’d have enjoyed it—but today was a very different day.

The staunch and humourless official eventually waved them through with an irate flick of the hand, and only then were the two men able to breathe again. They boarded the ferry with a minimum of fuss, and as the great boat’s engine’s hummed into life Tally sauntered to the stern and leant on the aft railing, watching as he sailed away from the city he called his home.

Nathaniel followed him, and leaned next to him in silence. The Irishman was gazing landward, smiling sadly. He took a packet of cigarettes from his pocket, pulled one out and, thanks to the wind, lit it with some difficulty. He looked sideways to Nathaniel, curled the corners of his lips, and looked back to the city with a nod.

“Dear Old Dirty Dublin,” he said, raising an imaginary glass. “Be seein’ ya.”

“This was,” said Nathaniel, somewhat unsure, “your home…”

“What kind of feckin’ stupid question is that? You worry me sometimes, Nath. Yeah, sure it was my home. Born an’ bred. And this might be the last I see of it. Say,” said Tally, turning to Nathaniel with a smile, “sure I’ll be fine. The streets of London are paved with gold! All I needs do is pull up a cobblestone or two. Right?” He looked across to Nathaniel, who was staring back at the land with an eerie intensity.

“Right…?”

7.

THEY BOTH MOVED slowly around the tepee, shuffling wolfskin rugs, making the place their own as a new wife would rearrange her living room. The weight of the day, and the news it had brought with it, was upon them. For Annabelle, years of denial had been replaced by acceptance and anger, emotions that tugged her in opposite directions. George was stunned, and moved around their home for the night as if in a daydream, barely able to comprehend the truths that had been told.

Did he really now have a daughter?

Both were thinking of the sorry tale Geronimo had told, the history that Annabelle had held, hard-pressed against the back of her mind, for eight long years. When the Apaches had murdered Annabelle’s parents and kidnapped her, it was not long before the young girl’s spirit had begun to show itself. She was feisty, adventurous, never content to be a victim and always keen to be a part of the wild world that had captured her. When told “no”, she would always respond with “why?” When forbidden to do something, she would always go out of her way to try it anyway when elder eyes weren’t watching. She’d practise with bows or rifles she’d stolen from the secret cache after dark, or followed the braves out to hunt while the elder women stayed around the fire to weave.

Such fortitude was noted and respected, even if it was never talked about openly. Even the squaws who would harry and chide her for her precociousness would smile with pride when they thought she wasn’t looking.

As she had grown, and grown beautiful, she was accepted as no other outsider had been—totally and with absolute trust. She was known to the women as feminine and wise, and the men knew her as a warrior with a heart of fire. Yet, in such a close-knit tribal group, there were always those who would take more than they had earned, who would want more than they were offered…

Such a man was Deerpak. Even as a child he had a darkness about him, spending too much time on his own and rarely talking to his peers. Where Annabelle’s rebellious nature had endeared her to the rest of the tribe, both young and old, male and female, Deerpak’s natural status of outsider had been sly, quiet and suspicious. Annabelle would befriend young coyotes and tousle with them playfully; when he thought no-one was looking, Deerpak would kick the pups around the dust, or pierce scorpions into the ground with an arrowhead and pull off their legs, one-by-one. He was nearly three years older than Annabelle, and as manhood overtook him, so did jealousy and lust.

Annabelle did not care to remember that night when he found her, alone, still a girl, scratching pictures in the dirt with a stick. How, far beyond the sight of those who would have stopped it, he forced himself upon her, the smell of his teenage sweat and the pain and the bleeding. How, after he had satisfied himself, he had got up and walked away as if nothing had occurred, leaving her to make the red dust of the desert black with the stain of her tears. How she feared to tell the elders or the women; how she cried at night when her lunar cycle ceased and her belly began to swell with a hated, invading seed.

When the women of the tribe knew what was happening, they stood together as one. They took Annabelle, still too young to understand, and quizzed her ceaselessly. The truth was soon discovered.

He tried to escape. Cunning came easily to him, and when his crime had been discovered he knew his time with the tribe was at an end. At night, he stole a horse and supplies, still young, still stupid, for the noble men knew he would attempt to flee. They were ready, and to spare the noises carrying back to the camp, they let him get far enough away before they caught him.

It was Wapi, Annabelle’s childhood friend and confidant, who had insisted on exacting the whole tribe’s retribution. He was fourteen, and it was the first time he had killed a man. Fittingly, after Geronimo had told this sad and sorry tale, it was Wapi who held out to Annabelle a package wrapped in leather; a package containing the scalp of the man who had attacked her. She took it without speaking, and held it loosely in her hands.

That same package sat beside the fire of their tent, unbidden, unwanted. A sore, sorry point. Annabelle breathed in deeply. She looked at George, still tending the fire. He sensed her unease, and looked back.

“Annabelle,” he said.

“George…,” she replied.

It was as much as they could manage. She tried to smile.

“I’m so sorry,” he said.

She sighed, uncomfortable. What could she say? She loved him deeply, and knew that he loved her. Wasn’t that enough? She wanted it to be, wished that that was enough for him…but how would he see her now? She had told only one person of the incident before, and even then it had not been the complete truth. But George, he deserved the whole truth.

“Annabelle,” he said. “I love you so much….”

“And I you, George….”

“No, stop.” He said. “Do you think you have to make excuses, to explain yourself?” His voice was terse with anger, directed, she knew, only towards himself. “You are the woman I love,” he continued. “The woman who I have loved absolutely from the moment I set eyes upon you. To know that that woman I fell for had been through so much, endured so much pain and hardship…. It only makes me love you all the more.”

He breathed in, deeply.

“I love you for your strength, your beauty, for everything that has made you who you are. I love you Annabelle, and am proud to be your husband. I am yours…” He faltered. Looked about, momentarily frustrated, then up to her.

“And that’s all that I can say.”

“Oh, George…”

She skipped up, suddenly happy, and trotted across to him. Resolute as he was, he smiled as she wrapped her arms around him and kissed him on the mouth.

“We’re still on our honeymoon,” she teased, and as she arced herself back she found her waist slipping easily into his welcoming arms. “And you and I in a tepee? Bearskin rugs, an open fire…” She looked him in the eye and smiled, teasing and content. He kissed her.

“Promises promises,” he said.

She leaned back, happy as he held her in his arms and letting out a slow groan of pleasure.

“I need to disrobe,” she said glibly, pulling away. “Just do one thing for me.”

“Anything.”

She looked towards the parcel at the base of the fire.

“That,” she said, suddenly cold. “I want it gone. Promise me, George. Take it out and bury it. Leave it to rot in the desert. Will you do that for me, husband?”

He smiled at her. “Of course, my love.”

She smiled back, coquettishly.

“And I promise that the sooner you get back, the sooner I’ll be here waiting for you. And fur does feel so good against bare skin…”

She pecked him on the lips, and skipped back happily to their bed. She grinned at him; he grinned at her. He turned. Casually, he bent down in his stride and picked up the leather package is if it were nothing more than a piece of rubbish.

“Back soon,” he said, as he flipped the tent’s entrance aside.

“I’ll be waiting,” said Annabelle, beginning to undress.

8.

BEDFORD LOOKED UP. The Arizona night sky was like nothing he had ever seen before. No clouds, no light, and nothing but a thousand stars to dazzle his eyes. He was far from the light of London, and glad for it, too. He breathed in the air, clean and cold. Breathed out. Looked to the package that he held firmly in his left hand.

Annabelle had not unwrapped it. But he wanted to. He wanted to see the dead skin of the man who had wronged her. He did so, slowly, surprised by how human it felt when his fingers touched human hair, and the thickness of the skin that once hugged so close to a living scalp… He held it, for a moment, and felt pleasure. The woman he loved had been avenged, and no amount of stars in the blackest of skies could bring light to the soul of the man who had hurt her. He would always be damned, that man. And he didn’t deserve a burial. Such was the way of their people, Bedford knew. He slipped the scalp into his pocket as a keepsake. Nobody would hurt his Annabelle like that again. He promised.

Chapter Ten

Jacob’s Ladder

1.

FOLKARD FELT DIZZY, but knew he needed to press on. The sight of the Russian aether battleship had engendered a steely determination in his men—now they knew the true scale of their enemy’s plans the importance of success was brought into sharp relief, as were the terrible odds they faced. It was a mutual feeling that linked them, one that did not need to be voiced lest the enormity of their mission overwhelm them. Still, what Folkard wouldn’t give for a battalion of heavily armed men, artillery and air support…

His mind was racing with possibilities as they sneaked up towards the fence. They got as close as they dared and stopped to form a tight-knit circle. Enderby nodded to him to give the men a final briefing and pep talk before proceeding. Folkard nodded back, and looked to each of the men in turn. They were strong, resolute, prepared. None let fear show in their faces.

“Men,” he began, “the display of the Russian’s new technology we just witnessed was a shocking one, and only serves to demonstrate just how important our mission is—though I hardly have to say that. In light of this discovery, our primary mission objectives are as follows: Number one, sabotage. This new weapon represents a threat to the security and safety of not only our home nation, but potentially the entire world. If possible it must be destroyed, or put out of commission as much as is possible with the resources we have at hand.

“Number two: Intelligence gathering. As you have no doubt been made aware, this new ship has been built using the Sovereign’s blueprints, and I need not point out the similarities between this new vessel and the pride of Her Majesty’s fleet—you have seen that well enough yourselves. It is of paramount importance we discover how the Russians managed to obtain these secret plans, as well as how their version differs from our own in terms of build and capability. In short, keep your eyes peeled and grab any files or folders, however irrelevant they may seem. At present, I’d be happy to acquire the cleaning rota if it gives us even the smallest advantage.”

The men smiled ruefully, glad for this burst of irreverence in an otherwise gloomy monologue.

“In short,” continued Folkard, “keep your wits about you and we’ll all see England again. An England which, God willing, will continue to be the glorious seat of the Empire and the pride of the seven continents that we know. Our efforts today depend upon it.”

The men nodded solemnly. “Anything to add, Mister Enderby?”

Enderby shook his head. “I believe you have covered everything, Captain. Eloquently and poignantly, I might add.”

“Thank you. Let’s just hope our actions reflect our sentiments.”

The men quickly checked their weapons and had a last look through their kit. The plan was to employ stealth as much as possible, get as close to the hanger—if not the ship itself—without being detected, though the likelihood of this was diminished greatly by the scores of patrols that paraded around the base. They were to split into two groups, Folkard leading the first and Enderby the second, and should one team be discovered the other was to follow the sound of gunfire and hopefully get the jump on their assailants.

A large, nondescript building sat close to the nearest section of fence, and would offer them some small protection from the Russian’s line of sight. They hurried across, and Enderby quickly and neatly snipped out a hatchway using a heavy pair of pliers. He yanked up the section he had cut free and ushered the men through, Folkard last.

They pressed their backs firmly to the wall of the closest building, ever vigilant. Folkard’s team was to set off first, heading clockwise around the base’s perimeter towards the huge hangar, with Enderby and his group waiting five minutes before setting off counter-clockwise.

“Good luck, Folkard,” nodded Enderby.

Folkard returned the gesture.

“You too. See you at the hangar.”

Folkard ducked down and began to lead his men into the dark and the depths of the base. Cover was minimal. This was a typically sparse Russian set-up; besides the looming shadow of the hangar and the several windowless, redbrick buildings that surrounded it, the ground was mostly bare. Watchtowers peaked at the base’s four corners, with two or three others built inside, their searchlights sweeping endlessly across the bare, snowy floor. Folkard feared their presence would not remain undetected for long. The prevalence of the patrols and the fact that each man had to dash between the outhouses separately meant their journey to the airship’s nest was taking far longer than Folkard felt comfortable with.

They had progressed maybe fifty metres in. Folkard and one of his men were flattened against a building, looking back nervously to where the third of their party was crouched at the corner of the previous hut. He was waiting for a chance to make a break for it. Two soldiers had stopped directly opposite where he hid, laughing idly and passing a lit cigarette between them. Folkard watched them and swallowed drily, sweating in spite of the cold. They smoked to the very nub before tossing the end into the snowdrifts; one of the soldiers gazed lazily about and Folkard unconsciously pressed himself harder against the wall. The soldier who had tossed the butt gestured to his companion to wait for a moment. Folkard caught a snatch of his words, as he vulgarly detailed the satisfaction he would feel after relieving himself behind the building… The very building where Folkard’s other man was hiding. Folkard caught his eye, gestured quickly that an enemy soldier was approaching. The agent nodded his understanding and readied himself, slowly drawing a knife from the sheath strapped to his thigh.

The Russian whistled tunelessly as he ambled towards his death without a care in the world, condensation jetting from his pursed lips in time with the noise. Folkard almost felt sorry for him—he couldn’t have been more than seventeen, and hadn’t even managed to grow the beard that was so necessary for such a desolate outpost. The boy must’ve been so cold…

Before he had even rounded the corner the British agent’s arm had whipped up quickly to choke him. The Russian didn’t even have time to cry out before the black-bladed knife was thrust up viciously into the soft underside of his jaw. Blood began to flow from the wound, soaking the snow and the agent’s arm… The young soldier began to spasm, his leg kicking out wildly, before he slumped down, a lifeless rag doll. The agent laid him gently on the ground and peeked out to where the other soldier waited, signs of impatience already apparent.

“Sergei!” he called back. “Ty, chto tak dolgo?” he emitted an annoyed grunt and tramped across to the building. “Ya zamerzaiu, perestanʹ tratitʹ moye vremya…” The agent was ready again. He leapt up and grabbed the man as he rounded the corner, but this was no boy soldier. The Russian was big, fifteen stone if he was an ounce and covered in muscle. He struggled against the agent’s grasp, sweating and swearing, and with a strong, deft swipe of his paw he managed to deflect the knife before it connected with his throat. He reached back and twisted the agent round, fumbling with his right hand for the pistol in his holster. This brief movement was all the agent needed, and in a split second he brought the knife to bear once more and plunged it into the Russian soldier’s side. The Russian fell back, the hilt of the blade sticking out of him. As he crashed to the ground he yanked his gun up, grimaced in pain, and fired. The shot was like a thunder-crack, the eerie silence of the base shattered in an instant.

The bullet caught the agent in the right side of his face, and once where there was a brave Englishman’s smile, there now only remained a crater of splintered bone and sinew. A livid spray of blood, the shape of a rooster’s tail, coated the wall behind him. The Russian groaned and rolled over, trying to yank the knife from his belly, but before he could even compose himself Folkard had dashed back and dispatched the man by plunging his knife into his chest.

There was no time to hide the bodies—he could already hear yelled Russian commands and the heavy clump of boots running towards his position. Folkard looked back and caught the eye of his remaining compatriot.

There was nothing to do now but try to get to the hangar as quickly as possible. The need for secrecy was long gone, and death was in the air.

2.

OF COURSE HE was tied up. The blitzing headache he could cope with; numberless mornings after too much brandy had seen to that. What really irritated him was the ponderous predictably of it all. Still, he’s never been knocked unconscious in Asia before, so that was something.

He realised he was blindfolded, too. Of course! Naturally, when the blindfold was removed, he would find himself being threatened with some weapon or other. Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose. He mentally shrugged to himself.

And as for that putin Coyne, well… If Arnaud was lucky he’d be stuck wherever he was long enough to think of some particularly grim way to avenge himself. Something ungentlemanly that, at the very least, would begin with a dashed good thrashing at Arnaud’s hands. He might not have been a trained spy but he’d spilled enough acids and corrosive chemicals on his hands during his years as a geologist to put up with a bit of pain. As well as that, the anger he felt over his own stupidity—and how Coyne’s backstabbing may well have put his friends’ lives in danger—had imbued in him a torrential fury that would only be sated by giving the blackguard the drubbing of his measly life. And Nathaniel… he prayed with a sincerity that came from a deeper place that Nathaniel was safe.

Still, the revenge fantasies could wait. More pressing was deducing the situation he faced, however much that was possible. He mused sardonically on the fact that, even though he had been denied the power of sight by his captors, the cretins has not bothered to stop his ears. As smart a man as Arnaud could glean much just by keeping his mouth shut, and listening well.

The low clank of machines—no, tools, in the background. Subtle movements and low footsteps, a few metres directly in front of him. Someone padding around, so the floor was soft. Carpeted perhaps? Closer to him came another chink, glass on glass, but not the sound of drinks. It was a sound he knew equally well, test tubes and conical flasks, the mixing of molecules and formulas. The smell pretty much confirmed this, eggy sulphates and bitter acidic tangs, the familiar fug of the lab.

He also felt warm—not the blazing, oppressive heat of the unyielding Calcutta sun but a pleasant, homely warmth. Interesting. Whosoever had captured him was at least rich enough, intelligent enough or both to keep the temperature at a tolerable level.

Then came another sound—a match being struck, the long slow suck of someone inhaling heavily on what sounded like a pipe. But there was a desperation in the draw inwards, a neediness quite unlike the gent-about-town puffing contentedly on a cheroot. Arnaud’s nostrils were suddenly filled with a dense, herbal aroma that caught the back of his throat with a harsh, chemical haze. He held his breath, desperate not to cough.

“Oh darling, do you have to?” purred a female voice, sultry and seductive, impossibly cool and controlled. It was tinged with the delicate lilt of an Indian accent.

“Yes!” a European male voice barked back. “Yes! Always! Now he’s here… Oh, my angel, my queen, but I didn’t mean to shout…”

It was the voice of Garrecreux. Older, cracked and wheezing, yes, but the nasal drone and Gascon twang were unmistakable. To hear it after so long, after so many years… It was strange. Arnaud had no respect for the man, even less so after his obsequious fawning to the woman, whose identity Arnaud was sure he knew. But Garrecreux disgusted him. Without thinking, the bitter memories and disgust made him sigh, and he breathed in heavily. The acrid sting of the unusual smoke caught the back of his throat once more and, powerless to stop, he coughed loudly.

“Oh tish, Arnaud,” purred the woman’s voice, suddenly close to his ear. “And you managed to last so long…”

The blindfold was whipped from his head so quickly that even the gloom of the laboratory made him blink. After a moment, when his eyes adjusted and he was able to focus, he found himself unexpectedly agreeing with Garrecreux.

He was looking into the face of an angel.

She was, thought Arnaud, quite simply the most exquisite-looking woman he had ever laid eyes upon.

Her face was the shape of a teardrop-cut jewel, wide at the top and gently tapering down to the rounded tip of her chin. Her eyes were open and welcoming, a deep velvet brown, her nose a button in perfect proportion. She had flawless skin the shade of lightened mahogany and her hair was so dark and heavily lustrous that it seemed not a single strand could be defined… It was only the cruel smirk that twisted her full lips that betrayed the malice infesting her veins.

She was wearing a traditional Indian sari modified to accentuate her curves. It displayed her status as half-siren, half-Amazon, a golden breastplate studded with lines of rivets, curved from her shoulder around her chest, with another piece sweeping gracefully across her thighs. The bright, exotic oranges and purples of the material shone through the gaps in her armour, stark and beautiful in contrast. Her smile twisted again, her eyes narrowed and she leaned in to kiss Arnaud fully and softly on the lips.

“I hope you like that smell, my love,” she whispered breathlessly, “for you’re going to have to get used to it…”

As she pulled from the kiss there was an agonised groan from behind her. She turned gracefully, and as her hips sashayed seductively she revealed the pathetic sight of Fabrice Garrecreux cowering behind her.

If Madame Moonsinge was a paradigm of beauty, Garrecreux’s state represented the very basest level of degradation and weakness. He had aged terribly, his skin raggedy and sallow, covered in nicks, bruises and liver spots. Thin, yellowing hair receded from his balding scalp, fronds and snatches of it sticking out piecemeal from behind his ears. His lips were thin with patches of dried spittle in the corners. He stooped like a hunchback, wearing a long, buttoned-up double-breasted lab coat with a high Nehru collar. As Arnaud had heard, a pair of thick, tinted welding goggles were strapped to his face with a thick, studded leather band. Even from here, Arnaud could see the skin around the lenses was sore, weeping and corrupted. It was he that had been smoking the upright wooden pipe that was the source of the noxious odour, and he placed it next to him on the lab and hopped manically across to where Arnaud was tied.

“Arnaud, Arnaud!” he jittered excitedly, “You’re here, you’re here at last. Here to help me, you bright, bright boy!”

Arnaud spat to his right.

“Go to hell, Garrecreux. If you had any decency left in your rotten old corpse, you’d be helping me.”

“Oh yes, oh yes!” Here the madman giggled in a shrill, high-pitched waver. “I heard, I heard about your plan! Oh, I can tell you everything you need to know about our wonderful discovery. Bright boy, bright boy! And what a joyous coincidence it was to discover you were coming for me, when for so long I have dreamed, have dreamed of employing your mind to assist me in my aims! And they brought you to me, they brought you, just as I asked! You know what that means, Arnaud? She’s happy with me! Happy! She wants me to have the things I most desire!”

“You’re deluded, Garrecreux. A drug-addled, degenerate wreck. I’ll never help you, you or your vile succubus.”

Madame Moonsinge spun around in mock surprise.

“Succubus! I like that, the boy’s got spirit. What a pretty little plaything he’ll make.” She gestured to Garrecreux, who bowed and wrung his hands before skipping across to a bench. With his back to Arnaud, he began to unpack a small, wooden box.

“And as for your assistance, my exquisite little pet, I do not recall offering you a choice. You’ll soon see, Arnaud. Beautiful Arnaud. We’ll take you to such places that you’ll beg to help… You’ll beg to have me kick you in the dust.”

Garrecreux appeared behind her, brandishing a large, blunt-ended glass syringe that was filled with an iridescent, pale green solution that glimmered as it caught the light. Arnaud began to struggle against the ropes, but they were too tight. His right arm was bared to the elbow, the crook and its vein open and exposed… Madame Moonsinge leaned in again, and nuzzled against his ear.

“Oh my darling,” she breathed, her hot breath contrasting with the coldness of the needle as it pierced his skin. “The things you’ll see…”

3.

FOLKARD AND HIS remaining agent were dashing full-pelt towards the hangar. Commotion followed them. Folkard guessed that the discovery of the three bodies they’d left behind was still occupying the majority of the guards, and he was glad that this, at least, had bought them some time. But was it time enough? Slapdash and confused as they appeared to be, the Russians would quickly focus their forces on guarding the hangar…and that’s when things would get tricky.

The hangar was directly before them, and Folkard and his man skidded to a halt behind a building directly opposite the door at the front. Folkard cursed. They were quicker than he anticipated, and the large doors they had to enter to reach the Russian’s secret weapon were now surrounded by perhaps a dozen guards, each one scanning their surroundings with rifles held ready at their shoulders. As each did a sweep they would call to the others; “Nyet… Nyet… Nyet…”

“Blast,” hissed Folkard. “Outmanoeuvred.”

“If I might suggest something, sir?”

Folkard looked at his companion-in-danger—what was his name again? He had been told both his and the other agent’s name during their briefing at the Admiralty, but for the life of him he couldn’t remember it. The last emotion Folkard would have thought he’d be experiencing at this time was embarrassment, but there it was, mixed in amongst the dread, adrenaline and, most startling of all, a sudden memory of Charlotte.

“What’s your idea?” he asked.

“Distraction, sir. I could pelt it back to that building there. I’m quick enough on my heels and it’s not all that far. Should be able to make it before they get too many shots off. If we’re lucky it should draw a few of them away.”

Folkard couldn’t argue with the logic, however risky it sounded. Yet he knew that if he agreed, the agent’s chances of making it out alive were slim to none. He had ordered men to their deaths before, but before he had always known that there was a chance of survival if they kept their wits about them and had fate on their side. This time, however, the chances of this man seeing another dawn were so slim as to be negligible. Embarrassingly so—there was that alien emotion again.

“I know what you’re thinking, sir. But I’ve seen that monstrosity the Russians have cobbled together and if anyone can bring the bastard down, it’s you. I owe you every chance. Countless lives and the safety of nations depend upon it.”

Folkard swallowed. The agent’s brave and noble words cut him to the quick—yes, the security of the world was at stake, and innocents would surely suffer if the Russian battleship wasn’t somehow disabled… But he knew. He knew from the moment he set eyes on it that this ship was the key to him returning to the Heart, and to Charlotte. The two were linked in some strange, ethereal manner that he could sense at the back of his mind, a yawning tug that rose to the forefront of all his senses.

“What’s your name, agent?” he asked quietly.

“Fleming, Sir. Lieutenant Robert Fleming. Friends call me Bobby.”

“Well, Bobby,” and Folkard clasped his hand to Lieutenant Fleming’s shoulder. “You’re a braver man than I. Godspeed.”

“Thank you, sir. Tell ’em I died well.”

Nothing more needed to be said. The two men locked eyes for a moment, and Folkard nodded. Lieutenant Fleming turned to make his way to the other end of the building when a terrible screech and the clanking of gears filled the air around them. The great roof of the hangar was slowly opening again…

“They’re trying to get away before we find out too much! Go, man! Go!”

Fleming nodded and sprinted to the other end of the wall. He paused for a moment, took a breath to ready himself, and ran out into the full sight of the Russian soldiers.

Their yells intermingled with the deafening roar of machinery, the soldiers began firing as Fleming sprinted away from them, a savage volley of bullets in his wake. Folkard took a quick look back—it seemed as if the brave Lieutenant was going to make it to the next hut! As he disappeared around the corner, eight of the guards took up pursuit—a far better number than Folkard could’ve hoped for. Taking out the remaining four would be difficult, but not impossible. He unholstered his pistol. Time was of the essence.

Without thinking he whipped round the corner and brought the gun to bear. His first two shots downed the guard closest to him with ease, the next winged the guard standing next to him. The other two Russians were quick to ready their rifles and returned fire, pinning Folkard to the wall as the shots gouged chunks out of the brickwork inches from his face. The shots stopped and Folkard leaned out again—the soldier he had winged was on the ground, his trouser leg soaked in blood, but he had nevertheless managed to prop himself up and was assisting his comrades with the shooting. Unfortunately for him, his inability to move made him an easy target and Folkard put him down with a single shot to the forehead.

Then came the second volley and Folkard hid again, taking the opportunity to reload. He couldn’t keep this up. Slow as the roof of the hangar was to open, it wouldn’t be long before the airship ascended and his mission—as well as his striving to reconcile with Charlotte—would be for naught.

He tried to return fire but to do so in that interminable hail of gunfire would be suicide. He gritted his teeth, frustrated. He would not let it end like this! A wild notion overtook him, the madness sparking in his brain, to just run towards the guards, pistol blazing, screaming out his lungs… He took a deep breath, and yelled.

All six of his bullets were spent in but a second or two, and all went wide. He screamed at the top of his voice, wide eyed and bestial, knowing he would tear the throats from the Russian dogs with his teeth, even if he had to do so with a slug of lead in his gut.

And yet the Russians were otherwise engaged! One of them suddenly jerked back, the top of his head blown clean off, and almost simultaneously the other was knocked off his feet by two fatal shots to the chest. Still dashing towards the hangar door, Folkard looked across to see Enderby and his two agents running in the exact same direction.

“Folkard!” he yelled, “Quickly man, go! It’s nearly open!”

Folkard redoubled his efforts, the muscles in his legs starting to ache. He reached the door and dashed inside, taking in the sight of the ship once more.

Up close it seemed even more brutal, its stark paint work and sheer scale intimidating and awe-inspiring in equal measure. He noticed on the prow, written in blood red, stencilled Cyrillic, the word Императоръ. Imperator—the Tsar’s self-proclaimed title. Underneath this, wrapped around the claws of a golden depiction of the Russian Imperial Eagle, was the rest of the ship’s name—Александр II. The full title of this monster was revealed.

Imperator Aleksandr II. The rest of the hangar seemed deserted. A huge pit stood in the floor to accommodate the length of the battleship’s aether propeller governor, the belly of the ship resting on huge struts drilled at its edges. The walls were taken up with various pieces of bulky machinery, steel lockers and tools for maintaining the ship. Much of the upper reaches of the vast room were taken up with the gigantic engines which cranked the roof open, and even now Folkard could hear the deafening thrum of Imperator’s engine cranking up to speed.

He quickly looked for the easiest way to get aboard. A gangplank still stood on the right-hand side of the vessel—hardly a sensible procedure, but he guessed the Russians were too keen to get Imperator away as quickly as possible—and so Folkard sprinted towards it.

Enderby appeared at the doorway and quickly took stock of the room. He noticed where the captain was headed and, wishing them luck, instructed his two men to stay by the door and fend off the guards pursuing them. The number of men the British had managed to sneak onto the base was as yet unknown to the Russians, and his men were well-trained when it came to resisting the methods the Russians used to force their prisoners to talk. The Russians would eventually believe the mission had been a total failure—with two captured British agents, and two dead—and any incursion on the Russian battleship would go unnoticed until it was too late.

Folkard sprinted up the gangway. A Russian guard stood at the top before an open bulkhead door and, taken completely by surprise as Folkard raced towards him, fumbled inexpertly with his rifle. Folkard reached him and instantly knocked the man unconscious with a swift, heavy punch to the jaw.

“Folkard!”

The airship began to rise! Folkard turned around to see Enderby flailing with the gangplank. The slight buffeting of the ship had dislodged it and it began to slide away, would leave the scrabbling Enderby stranded…

“God damn it, man! Help me!”

He reacted quickly, grabbing the end of the gangplank firmly and resting his weight there to keep it steady. Enderby launched himself up on all fours. He rested his hands on his knees as he got his breath back, the gangplank clattering to the floor as the ship began its ascent.

“Welcoming committee seen too, I take it?” said Enderby, nodding at the unconscious Russian.

“Not quite. Help me get his clothes off. We’ll tip him over the side when we’re over open territory.”

The two men set to work as Imperator drifted upwards into the chilling night sky over Severnaya.

Chapter Eleven

Returns and Expeditions

1.

ANNABELLE AWOKE FEELING more rested than she had in as long as she could remember. She almost felt absolved, the memories of her terrible ordeals she had endured now behind her. A freshness and a newness seemed to invigorate her mind and senses. George dozed peacefully beside her, naked from the waist up and wrapped in a bearskin rug. She smiled to herself—he really did look rather adorable like that, bear on the outside, teddy bear on the inside. Careful so as not to wake him, she slipped from under the covers and took a deep gulp of the warm, clean morning air of Arizona that blew gently through the flap of the tepee.

She pulled on her blouse and skirts and walked barefoot to greet the day, not even caring that the carved wood and brass-work of her false foot was on full display. It was bright, but not overly hot; the wind across the plains mussing her hair and softly brushing her cheeks. The rest of the camp was already awake, activity in every corner accompanied by laughter and bright, cheerful banter. She spotted Wapi talking with one of the braves that had accompanied them from the train, and waved to get his attention. When he saw her, he smiled, and it seemed for a second that her childhood friend had finally returned. He patted his fellow brave on the shoulder and crossed to greet her.

“Yohana,” he said, nodding to her reverently.

“You seem a lot happier this morning.”

“That is because I may not see the night again, and am enjoying the sun above and the ground below before I become one with them again. Our mission today is a perilous one, Yohana. We may not all be returning.”

“Oh, come now!” joshed Annabelle. “Remember that time in the mountains? With the rattlesnake nest and that blind donkey? We’ll be fine.” Wapi simply stood and stared, his face once more stony, his eyes impassive.

“Where is the man?” he asked.

“Man? You mean George?”

“Yes. The man.”

Annabelle had had enough dealings with men over the years to have a highly-tuned and perspicacious female intuition. She knew jealousy when she heard it, and even with Wapi’s striking cheekbones and a physique toned by a life of wilderness living, pouting was never attractive. The little boy, it seemed, was back.

“Wapi…” she began.

“No,” he said suddenly, looking down at the floor. “I want you to know, Yohana, that had you not left, there was a day, I hoped…even with everything that occurred…that we…”

Annabelle’s face twisted into sudden, violent anger. With a totally automatic reaction she pulled her hand back and slapped the Indian viciously across his cheek. His head whipped sideways with the impact.

“Even from an old friend, I will not be seen as some sort of…object. I am my own person, Wapi, and my experiences—however traumatic—have made me the woman that I am today. I am not the little girl you once knew. I do not need your protection and, what’s more, I certainly don’t need your pity.”

“Yohana, I… I…”

“I what, Wapi? What do you have to say for yourself?”

Wapi could barely speak with the embarrassment and humiliation. He kept his eyes locked firmly on the ground, not even daring to raise them up high enough to glimpse the tips of her toes.

“We ride in two hours,” he mumbled.

2.

BACK ON BRITISH soil, Tally had no time to appreciate his first visit to England as he and Nathaniel rushed to the Admiralty post-haste. A report had to be made, and lines of enquiry followed before the trail of Potsdam and Klopstock ran cold. There was also the crystal shard that still weighed down the pocket of Nathaniel’s borrowed coat to deal with. The professor was keen to see if there had been any news of his friends. If they were facing the same level of danger he and Tally had encountered in Dublin; their safety was not in the least guaranteed. Memories of them all were stark in his mind, clear to see…easy to remember.

They took the train to Whitehall. Tally gazed around him incessantly with a wide-eyed, almost childish glee. Metropolitan as it was, Dublin was on a far more modest scale than the Empire’s beating heart.

“Jayze,” he muttered, his face pressed against the window as the train clattered through Mayfair. “Look at it… The buildings! The landscape! And the people! The buggers are everywhere!” Nathaniel turned to him and smiled warmly. “Not so sure on the air, though. Compared to the homeland it’s a bit, well…ripe.”

As indeed it was. One could hardly blame Tally for his sense of awe and his curiosity towards London. Airships, not an uncommon sight in Ireland, were far more common here. The way buildings had been raised, improved upon—grown almost organically to accommodate the burgeoning population—was a world away of the make-do attitude of his native home. Modern technological wonders were abundant, steam driven contraptions on whose purpose he could only guess, the fashions bedecked with the latest clockwork gadgetry and the rich jewels brought back from the inner planets. And then there was the belt of factories that surrounded the city like an encroaching shadow, their tireless engines steering the course of industry and civilisation, churning out gears, pistons and steel, blackening the sky with the ashen refuse of progress. They threatened from afar, those factories; in a way it was they who controlled, their imposing façades a reminder to London’s people that, in truth the power lay elsewhere, in bodies constructed of stronger stuff than flesh and bone.

“If only me ma could see me now…” said Tally as they strode up to the Admiralty. “And that gobshite Mister Kelly from St Michael’s, he always said I’d never amount to anything.”

“A little decorum, Tally, please.”

“Right y’are.”

They entered the Adam screen, strode across the courtyard and entered the Admiralty through the main gate beyond. Time being of the essence, Nathaniel had not had the luxury of wiring ahead to inform them of his return. As such, when the powers-that-be were informed of his arrival there was a flurry of activity and, before long, some sneering high-level minion appeared to take him through to debriefing.

“Just you, Professor,” said the minion in a nasal drone. “Your…friend is no longer required.”

“Now look here,” started Nathaniel hotly. “This man, who is, as you put it, my friend, has survived an encounter with the very men central to this whole insidious plot. Not only that, he has demonstrated a fortitude and bravery without which I would not be standing here. Even if that were not enough to imbue him with a certain debt of gratitude, the Secret Service Bureau made certain promises to him which I intend to see honoured.”

“Aye,” said Tally, equally impassioned, “and if sticking with the professor is the best chance I’ve got for getting my hands on the bastard that killed Young Simon, then by the Holy Mother you’d better believe I’m sticking to him like glue on a stamp.”

The minion sighed dismissively, clearly thinking himself far above an argument. “Very well, Professor, but don’t blame me if your…friend is out on his ear before you can say Jack Robinson. Fair warning.”

Nathaniel frowned, and he and Tally followed the uppity, overdressed steward to Folkard’s office, nestled in the grandeur of the upper floor of the Ripley Building. He showed them to the door, opening it for them while revelling in his disdain, and strode off without even a farewell. Tally was tempted to punch him in the back of the head. He closed the door behind them as they entered, and watched as Nathaniel slumped heavily into an armchair.

“So what’s the plan now?” he asked, eyeing up the drinks cabinet.

“I haven’t the first idea, Tally. Doubtless we’ll be recounting every last detail of our adventure numerous times before numerous committees, who will then hamstring any action by arguing amongst themselves over the next course of action. Folkard should be here. At least he has the weight and mental fortitude to make difficult decisions.”

“Still, you’ve got your wee bit of crystal there, no? Get the old grey matter onto figuring what that’s all about. Sure, you’ll have the answers in no time, smart feller like yerself.”

“It’s more than just an explosive, Tally. Something far more dangerous. Far older, far more…powerful. Its potential for destruction alone is clearly limitless. That the Russians have obtained it is a catastrophe. For the British Empire to exploit it too… I fear that would be apocalyptic.”

“Still,” said Tally, looking around. “Could be worse, eh? Nice warm digs, fancy surroundings, bet there’s a good kitchen, and oh!” he added nonchalantly. “Is that a bit of a drinks cabinet I spy in the corner? D’ya mind?”

Nathaniel, too troubled to care, waved his assent. Tally could barely contain his glee.

“Necking the finest of the Britisher reserves,” he chuckled to himself as he poured. “Now that’s living.”

3.

FOLKARD AND ENDERBY had successfully stripped the Russian soldier of his uniform and dumped the body over the side before Imperator had gained too much altitude. Locking the bulkhead door behind them, Folkard quickly began to undress.

“I take it you’re taking the initiative then, Captain?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, man. This monstrosity is Sovereign in all but a name. I know it like the back of my hand. As well as that, I speak perfect Russian.”

“You assume I don’t? You also assume I’m not acquainted with the layout of the ship. Knowledge I had, I might mention, before we even started out on our little jaunt to Severnaya. Besides which, any half-informed Russian will know what you look like. No Russian has yet seen my face and lived to tell the tale.”

“Which is why they’ll pay less heed to the man in uniform, and more to the man dressed as a British spy. Now be a good chap and hand me those pantaloons.”

Enderby didn’t argue. They found a porthole and stuffed Folkard’s discarded attire outside, where the high winds whipped them away in an instant.

“Where first?” asked Enderby.

Folkard looked around. The effect of being on the ship was profoundly disturbing for him—like visiting your childhood home only to find it wracked by decay, twisted beyond the happy memories of youth. Here there was none of the pride and fine craftsmanship that had gone into Sovereign’s construction—though each measurement was the same, each strut identical and each seam aligned, the Russians seemed to have cobbled this together from bits of junk yard waste, without care and at great speed. Where wood and burnished coppers adorned his old ship, here were studded steel plates and the ugly scar-lines of welding. Where Sovereign shone, Imperator brooded, angry and insular and brutally functional.

“We should hole you up,” Folkard said to Enderby. “Somewhere quiet, out of the way. That way I can have a proper look around, assess the true capabilities of this vessel. I may even attempt to get some sort of coded message to the Admiralty…”

4.

THE PARTY SADDLED up, preparing to ride. Bedford felt weighted down with the sheer amount of weaponry strapped to his person—two pistols on his hips, a shotgun on his shoulder and two bandoleers of shells across his chest. Mister Boon, who had stayed up much of the previous night enthralling the younger members of the tribe around the campfire with tales of London’s mechanical marvels and his own adventures as a spy, was decked out much the same. Thanks to his eloquence (and a surprising knack for silly voices) he had acquired quite a following among the children, who were grouped around him as he strode towards his horse, tugging on his trouser-legs and begging for one last tale.

“Later, little ones! Later! Old Bert needs to go and find more stories to tell; I’ve already told you all of mine!” The babes whined and pouted until a broad-busted and smiling squaw ushered them away from the war party.

The air was filled with the click of rifles being loaded and the gentle whinny and stamp of impatient hooves. There was Bedford, Annabelle, Boon, Wapi and six other braves. Geronimo, against a unanimous volley of protest, had insisted on accompanying them. The sacred place, now so desecrated by those hungry for power and bloodshed, must be evaluated and cleansed—there was no other Apache with the wisdom or the spiritual strength to do so, and he would not brook any argument.

Wapi remained bitterly aloof after his previous altercation with Annabelle. He did not even dare to look her in the eye, and Bedford could sense the tension between them. Annabelle had not told him what had occurred, but the way she had stamped around the tepee and awoke him, he knew for sure that something was up. It was something that niggled him, certainly, but now was not the time for such discussions. His beloved had endured such mental anguish since arriving at the camp; he knew his fussing would neither be welcome nor helpful. To everybody else she would seem the same old Annabelle: frank, spirited and strong. But he noticed in her both a deflation and a new fortitude, as if the revelations of the previous night had drained parts of her resolve, but drastically bolstered others. He put his worries aside, told himself once more that now was not the time, and concentrated instead on helping her up into her saddle.

Ingenious as it was, the prosthetic leg Annabelle had acquired after being shot by the sadistic criminal mastermind La Boeuf was not designed with horses in mind. She cussed in a shockingly unladylike manner and Bedford was forced to grasp her leg under her skirts and shove, receiving a face-full of thigh in the process.

“I’m not a sack of potatoes!” she squealed.

“More’s the pity,” muttered Bedford.

“George Bedford!”

“Sorry, dear.”

He grunted and gave her one last shove, and she managed to hook her other leg around and settle, after a momentary wobble, into the saddle. Bedford stepped over to his horse, the reins being held by a younger brave of the tribe, and hopped up onto the grand beast’s back. Wapi turned around to face the group.

“If we ride fast we will arrive in good time. Do not spare the horses, they are strong and have been well fed. If there…”

“Shiwoye!” yelled a voice. “Shiiiiwoye!”

With the exception of Wapi, the whole group tugged on their reins to bring their horses to bear on the source of the cry. It was Kai, belting barefoot towards them, looking as mad as all hell.

“Shiwoye!” she yelled to Geronimo. “I’m coming, Shiwoye, I’m coming with you and Wapi and Yohana!”

Geronimo looked down stoically from on high, adjusting his reins as the horse trotted forward. “I have told you, Kai,” he said softly. “You cannot. It is too dangerous for one as young as you.”

“But I’ve been before! With you, with the other braves, I’ve been out in the desert lots!”

“And each and every time you have come, we were sure there was no danger. Yet this time there is much danger, and this time you will not come.”

“But…but…” she stammered. She looked up to Annabelle. “Yohana,” she said, and faltered, before seeming to make a decision that clicked suddenly in her own mind. “Mama. You’re my mama. Shiwoye Geronimo told me all about you, your adventures… I want to hear them all, and you’re my mama, so you have to listen to me!”

Annabelle was struck dumb. This girl…this beautiful, precocious, stubborn little girl did not feel like her daughter. To Annabelle, she was just another child of the tribe, with no more familial connection than she would have with any of the other wild, fierce little youngsters here. Yet she could see her features in Kai’s soft face; even the way the little girl stood with her chin jutting out was a pose Annabelle knew she adopted when she was cross. And it was these tiny reminders that drew out hitherto unknown instincts in her, that knew she wanted to know and love this girl like no-one else could, to protect her. But these were weak stirrings of emotion as yet, and Annabelle, despite all evidence to the contrary, had not become a mother overnight.

“You must stay, Kai. Your shiwoye is right; it’s too dangerous for you. And if I am one day to be your mother, your shi ma, then danger is something we must both avoid. It will happen, Kai, someday. I promise.”

Sensing the finality in her voice, Kai made one last plea. She turned to Wapi, but he merely stared down at her without even saying a word.

“Go back, Kai,” said Geronimo gravely. “Go back and pray that the spirits be with us in battle, and that the wind of the wolves drive us back safely.”

Kai scrunched up her face in anger, turned on her heels and belted back towards the comfort of the camp.

“We’ve wasted too much time,” said Wapi. He yanked on his reins, startling the horse, and viciously spurred it into a ferocious gallop. The other riders, mimicking his speed but not his anger, followed suit.

Chapter Twelve

The Green Gods

1.

HE WAS ARNAUD Fontaine! He knew he was Arnaud Fontaine. And he was having such a great time… Mon Dieu! Brandy didn’t have anything on this. His head was light, full to bursting with euphoria. His arms drifted at his sides like tethered balloons and everything, just everything, was so funny…

They let him wander about a bit, which was nice… But why would he want to go any further? He had everything he needed right here. Right within his grasp! Well there, there…there was Garrecreux! His old mate Garrecreux, bent over some fusty old science or something, crushing up the lovely sparkly bits and well…being a scientist, because that’s what he did, old Garrecreux. They let him help out and he liked it when he helped, because then he felt helpful, and that made him happy. But he was pretty happy anyway. Life was a dream!

And Coyne! Coyne was here, too. Arnaud loved Coyne. If it wasn’t for Coyne, he’d never be here in the first place. Merci, Coyne! Merci! Coyne didn’t seem to care, but Arnaud didn’t really care about that. Arnaud knew Coyne would talk to him if only he could! But he can’t, not where he is, poor Coyne, but it didn’t really matter. Arnaud knew Coyne loved him, too.

And love! Speaking of love, here was Madame Moonsinge again, coming in, seeing how everything was getting on. It was very important Arnaud helped to get everything done, he knew that, because if he did it right he’d get cuddles and kisses, which he liked. If he did it wrong Madame Moonsinge would get mad, and if she did Arnaud would get not love but horrid hurts, and Madame would take all the fun away until he got all shivery and sad and horrid… He had to make Madame Moonsinge happy, because Madame Moonsinge said they haven’t got long left, and everything that Madame Moonsinge said was fine and dandy by him. It was! Yay!

Arnaud was happy. Arnaud was content. Arnaud had been allowed a little rest, and so Arnaud decided he would go and sit outside the lab, in the big cave that—Shh!—is a big old secret from the world. He leaned back against a rock that he knew was a rock but was really very soft and fluffy, like a pillow at home. And look at the cave! It’s oh so nice. In the middle of the cave, so Madame Moonsinge told him, there used to be a big crystal tree. Arnaud giggled at the thought of that, and the sound of the giggle made him giggle again. Trees aren’t made of crystal! That’s silly! Madame Moonsinge is right, though, he told himself in a telling-off voice. Madame Moonsinge is always right.

The tree isn’t there any more. There’s a bit of it, a whatchacallit—a stump! Arnaud giggled again. Stump was such a funny word. There were all these little children and old women and old men and they were ever so careful when they chipped bits of stump—stump! Teehee!—away. They carried it so carefully to bring it up to Arnaud from the big, wide, cave. When they brought it he and his Best Friend Garrecreux would mix it up together into magic potions, and with those they will make the world a much better place! Much better! That’s what they tell him.

But ooh, there’s angry voices from behind him and he knows he’s been naughty, Arnaud knows he must get back to work. Can’t disappoint!

There’s no disappointing Madame Moonsinge!

Arnaud loves Madame Moonsinge.

Madame Moonsinge gave him kisses and the lovely green stuff.

2.

THE RIDERS POUNDED on, sending a torrent of red dust in their wake. The horses were not spared, relentlessly spurred onwards to their destination. Even Geronimo kept his head down low over his steed, his skill at riding and strength of purpose belying his seventy years of age. The vast, burnt topography of the Arizona landscape surrounded them, unbroken and daunting, lethal to the unwary despite its beauty. Wapi pointed ahead, indicating a hilly area that was barely a low, shallow hump on the horizon. Compared to the vivid, rusty sienna around them, this formation seemed to be composed of an entirely different mineral—it was a pale, jaundiced yellow, as if the rich iron pigment of the soil had been leached away, the bones of the rock left to bleach in the sun.

Wapi’s indication was enough. All the riders whipped their reins down on the horses’ necks and lowered their bodies against the wind. The day was already half-old; the sun had begun its descent down the other side of the sky with a lazy impatience that reflected its ambivalence towards the affairs of mortal men. It would fall and set without caring if these riders reached their destination, and if the stories were to be believed, then the riders would be wise to arrive while light still remained to illuminate this dark and accursed place.

3.

AND YET AN unwanted rider followed them. A sneak, a thief who had cajoled a boy she had beaten into helping her onto a horse too big for her, a boy she had threatened to beat again should he breathe a word of her transgression. She was a rider who learned quick, who kept her mouth shut and her eyes wide open, had absorbed the skills of tracking and hunting and skinning without ever being given a word of instruction.

The girl whose father did not deserve life, the daughter of a woman whose spirit had spanned the stars. She had been adopted by Geronimo but knew she did not fit, and in the eyes of Annabelle Bedford she had found that life she had always dreamed of, and so she left her old one in order to pursue it.

4.

NATHANIEL PACED FOLKARD’S office while Tally, who had pointed out that it was the height of rudeness not to enjoy a fine smoke with fine drink, had sat back in a maroon Chesterfield with a thick cigar he had purloined from a humidor on Folkard’s desk. Nathaniel had no patience with all this waiting, and had badgered a steward that he be granted an immediate audience with Admiral Sir Richard Vesey Hamilton, the current First Sea Lord and professional head of the Navy. If he had known how, he would have also insisted that some message be directed to the offices of Secret Service Bureau with a demand that whosoever called the shots in that clandestine faction should also attend. The true extent of the dangers they faced—on a personal, political and global scale—was only slowly coming to light, each possible trail seeming to end, literally and figuratively, in a frustrating stump. It was time for a true course of action to be decided.

The steward returned within minutes to inform Nathaniel and Tally that such a meeting had already been scheduled for later that afternoon but, with the current situation and Nathaniel’s insistence holding considerable sway in the right circles, schedules had been cleared and it was due to commence momentarily. The two were led quickly through the corridors of the Admiralty to the State Room that lay at its heart. Here was a room reserved for the highest level meetings, the whispers within which could alter the fate of the world.

Admiral Hamilton’s secretary, a studiously decorous and professional-looking man in a morning suit, nodded as he opened the grand double doors to the State Room. Inside this opulent space was a vast oval oak table with only two of its many seats occupied. Maps affixed to portable boards surrounded the far end of the table and a magnificently bright crystal chandelier hung low in the centre of the room.

Admiral Hamilton sat forward in his seat, poring over a document. He was wearing a double-breasted naval tunic adorned with braided epaulettes and bright brass buttons, and as the door clicked softly behind Tally and Nathaniel he beckoned them wordlessly to join him. The pomp and ceremony of the admiral’s uniform totally overshadowed the appearance of the man who sat to his right, a man Nathaniel had never seen before. He was dressed in the attire of a clerk or accountant. He wore a dark, nondescript suit with an ash-coloured scarf wrapped around his neck. Roughly fifty years of age, his dark hair was thin and cropped close to his skull. His grey eyes were shadowed under his brow, a fact that did not seem to diminish their intelligence and attentiveness. The other features on his face seemed oddly out of proportion—too large a nose, an oddly-rounded chin, but the overall effect was not one of ugliness, but of the mundane.

Tally stepped forward to take a seat but Nathaniel caught his arm—it would not do for them to sit with a man of such rank unless invited, and so they remained standing.

“Good afternoon, Professor Stone. And this, I take it, is Mister Cahalleret?”

“Indeed it is, sir.” said Tally, somewhat bashfully. “Pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

The admiral smiled briefly at Tally’s nervousness, but the look was soon lost as he turned to more serious matters. Nathaniel noted that the other man had neither been introduced nor introduced himself; his purpose here as yet a mystery and therefore prosaically obvious. Probably best not to make Tally aware of this just yet, lest the Irishman attempt to box his ears in retribution for broken promises.

“Gentlemen, the fact of the matter is that we have very little idea of the current state of play. Everything seems to be in confusion, threads dangling and disappearing almost as soon as they appear. I fear we are being played, to put it in frank terms, and are in a position of being permanently on the back foot.”

“Which is why it is imperative,” said Nathaniel, his tone remaining respectful but bordering on a command, “that Sovereign be commissioned forthwith to take us to Calcutta. It is there, I believe, that the villains who set the Horseguard’s bomb are headed.”

“And why is that?” asked the unnamed man quickly, his voice warm, precise and questioning.

“Because they told me,” said Nathaniel simply.

“Tell me exactly what happened in Dublin,” the man continued. “You may spare me the explosion and its upshot. I read the papers.”

Nathaniel gritted his teeth momentarily. “We discovered a cavern under Phoenix Park. It had been mined, if my guess is correct, by the Russians, and was the provenance of the mysterious green residue that imbued the Horseguard’s bomb with such deadly power. We discovered a sample there, far larger, and it was this that was used an accelerant to destroy all evidence of the operation. The bomb was set by as distasteful a pair of blackguards as I have ever had the misfortune to meet.”

“And who are these… villains?” asked Hamilton.

“An inhuman brute and a degenerate narcissist with a penchant for gloating. They call themselves Potsdam and Klopstock. Beyond that I have no idea.”

“Ever heard of them?” the admiral asked the mysterious man. He shook his head blankly and looked back down at the paper before him.

“Look,” started Nathaniel, leaning down to quietly address the gentleman with the scarf. “I know who you’re here representing. That much is obvious. You must have some knowledge on the progress of Arnaud or Captain Folkard. And while we’re on it, what was the nature of the captain’s mysterious mission? I don’t appreciate being kept in the dark, you know. Who exactly are you? A figurehead? A messenger? You haven’t even told us your name.”

The man looked up at Nathaniel and blinked slowly.

“You can call me Tooler,” he said. “For now. As for your other requests, they are not without merit. We have heard nothing from any of your companions and must therefore assume the worst. However, seeing as you have mentioned Sovereign, allow me to offer you some small relief. It is currently en route to London, after which it has been ordered to seek out and assist the Bedfords in their American investigation.”

“Investigation?” sputtered Nathaniel. “So the honeymoon was all just a smokescreen for your insidious Bureau’s ends!” Tally’s ears pricked up, but he remained calm.

“Regrettably, yes,” said Tooler smoothly. “But rest assured; we are doing the best we can, Professor Stone.”

“And Jacob?”

“Captain Folkard’s mission was of the highest priority, and he was chosen due to his unique relationship with Sovereign. I regret that it falls to me to tell you, but we discovered…”

Tooler’s revelation was stopped short by a commotion coming from behind the doors at the other end of the room. A heated debate had sprung up, and Admiral Hamilton barely had time to utter “what the deuce?” under his breath before the doors were flung open and in strode Thomas St John Curnoble, 28th Lord of Chillingham, his face a dozen shades of red.

“Hamilton!” he bellowed. “By God, I’ll have you strung up for this! Do you really think you could convene such a meeting without me finding out? A demonstration not only of your lack of foresight but also of your lack of respect for my position. Needless to say I shall use these defects of character as principal reasons to call for your dismissal.”

Hamilton seemed unfazed. “Lord Chillingham,” he said coolly. “Please take a seat.” Lord Chillingham! Upon hearing the name, Nathaniel stiffened noticeably. He looked across, and for the briefest of moments the two men’s eyes met.

Chillingham broke the contact as if nothing had occurred. He huffed over and sat to the admiral’s right, dropping his bulk into the chair. He gritted his teeth, looked briefly over the papers on the desk without picking them up before sweeping them to one side with a gesture of impetuous irritation.

“I should have been in on this débâcle from the start, Hamilton,” he said. “If I were, I shouldn’t have let you make such a hash of it all.”

“And to which hash are you referring?” asked Nathaniel coolly. Chillingham barely registered his presence.

“Yes, Stone,” he muttered. “I might have known you’d be here, poking your nose where it doesn’t belong.”

“You haven’t answered my question, Lord Chillingham.”

“Well,” said Chillingham, shifting in his seat. “All of it. Obviously. The whole sorry mess.”

“It appears, Lord Chillingham,” cooed Tooler, a faint whiff of satisfaction in his voice, “that you’re not as well as informed as you would have us believe.”

“And who the devil are you, sir?”

“Oh,” said Tooler offhandedly. “I’m just chipping in.” Lord Chillingham opened his mouth to reprehend Tooler but Admiral Hamilton raised his hands in a gesture of pacification.

“If you wish to be better informed, Lord Chillingham, I suggest you sit back and let our friend here, as he so modestly puts it, chip in.”

“Very well. But I do so only under sufferance.”

Tooler waited a moment, then began.

“As I was saying, Professor, I’m afraid I must inform you that the blueprints of Sovereign have, by means unknown to us, found themselves in the hands of the Russians. It has long been our fear that they have been producing their own version of the ship. As you know, the Russians have been aware for some time of your covert mission on behalf of the Crown, and indeed your own survival was…”

“Yes. Whatever did happen to Mister Fenn?” Nathaniel asked, his mind drifting back to Mars and the prompt arrest of Jack Fenn following his admission of his betrayal of their mission to the Russians.

Tooler waved his question aside. “That is not something I am at liberty to discuss. Needless to say, Folkard was sent with a small team of our men to confirm or deny our fears about the Russians version of Sovereign. Then there is the issue of this mysterious compound. Reports have come to our attention that indicate the two are inexorably linked. The Russians, Lord Chillingham, are making a play for power…but to what end?”

Chillingham’s face burnt a deeper red, as if the question were an insult. “You said it yourself, sir!” he exploded vehemently. “Power! The only goal those quarrelsome swine have is to unseat us as the greatest nation on God’s Earth.”

“Quite,” said Tooler, pointedly. Chillingham bristled, but said no more. A moment of silence descended on the room. Here were the representatives of three bodies—the Government, the Navy and the Secret Service Bureau—all sharing a roughly common goal but having such disparate approaches and conflicting agendas they were barely able to have a civilised conversation. Tally was out of depth, having nothing to add, and so Nathaniel thrust his hand into his pocket and brought out the weight he had carried there from Ireland, the hunk of green mineral he had chipped from the crystal root. All three representatives of England’s foremost powers watched carefully as he set it down neatly on the table before them.

“This, gentlemen, is a sample of the mineral the Russians have been pursuing so ferociously. To uncover its mysteries is to uncover the true reason behind the Russian plot.” He turned to Hamilton. “Admiral, do you know when Sovereign is due to return?”

“It is set to arrive at first light tomorrow.”

“Excellent,” said Nathaniel. “That should hopefully be enough time for me to begin my investigations into the properties of the crystal. I can continue my research on Sovereign, should Doctor Beverly be good enough to let me use the sickbay as an impromptu laboratory. There should be plenty of time during the voyage to Calcutta, via, of course, Arizona to rendezvous with Annabelle.” He turned around. “Tally,” he continued, “can I rely on your help?”

“Ever to the end,” said Tally, smiling, “and at least until I’ve knocked the head of that bastard with the brass hands.” Nathaniel returned his smile, but the moment was usurped by Chillingham slamming his fists on the table and launching himself to his feet, sending his chair crashing back behind him.

“Am I to understand,” he seethed, “that not only are we now taking orders from a civilian—a civilian whose actions on Peregrine Station remain under close scrutiny, and whose character is in serious doubt—but we are also allowing into the Admiralty an Irishman, whose fellow countrymen deem it fit to rabble-rouse with talk of independence from the Empire?”

“Yes,” said Nathaniel simply. “That is what you are to understand. Particularly so, seeing as any fears concerning my involvement in the Peregrine tragedy have long since been allayed.”

Chillingham fumed. He understood Nathaniel’s emphasis well. Chillingham’s own role in Peregrine’s destruction and the subsequent cover-up was less known. As a result, it was almost as if he didn’t know where to direct his substantial ire first, and was therefore left helpless. Admiral Hamilton stepped in.

“Lord Chillingham,” he said, “despite your notorious reach of influence there is nothing you can do to stop me allowing Professor Stone passage to India on Sovereign. And as he says, that course of action may well be the only way to apprehend the terrorists responsible for such death and devastation. If you have a better idea, you’re welcome to share it.”

Chillingham stayed silent, brooding. Nathaniel sensed Chillingham’s petulant mind whirring, thinking of how the right words in the right ear, the right men sent out to snoop in the appropriate places, could bring retribution on those in the room who had emasculated him. Chillingham was not a man accustomed to defeat, but tactical retreat was quite another matter.

“I’ll bide my time,” he said eventually. “But a report will be made to the House of Lords concerning this matter. I’m sure they’ll be interested in how the Navy uses vital resources for holidaymaking, and what’s more, assisting a known saboteur…”

“Who is, officially, dead and was cleared of such a charge,” Hamilton pointed out.

Chillingham barely paused, showing no indication of hearing Hamilton’s well served point. “…and, above all things, a damn Fenian.”

Tally was about to rise to the bait, but Tooler caught his eye and gave him a warning glance. He spoke to Chillingham without looking at him, directing his attention instead to the papers before him like a true bureaucrat. He squinted at them for a moment.

“Mister Cahalleret, so I have been informed, has done far more to stem the bloodshed of an Irish uprising than you are ever likely to, Lord Chillingham. Speaking of which, Mister Cahalleret,” he said, turning in his seat to smile at Tally, “I would rather like a word with you in private at some point. You’ve proved yourself very capable, it seems, and certain promises were made. We have much to discuss.”

“Right so,” said Tally, a note of uncertainty in his voice. “But I was hoping on accompanying the professor, what with having a score to settle, an’ that…”

“Quite so, quite so. I think that’s permissible, is it not, Admiral?” The admiral nodded.

“Then it’s settled.”

“Not in my book,” said Chillingham.

“Your protest has been duly noted,” soothed Tooler, not without a hint of sarcasm.

“I’ll get a telegram off to Sovereign,” said Hamilton. “Professor, we’ll keep you informed, but in the meantime I suggest you prepare for your journey in what little time you have remaining.”

Nathaniel nodded. Chillingham looked at him with a wholly undisguised contempt.

“Then I think it wise I talk to Doctor Grant,” said Nathaniel, ignoring the lord’s petty ire. “If his madness has not subsumed him, he may well be of some assistance.”

Hamilton and Tooler exchanged an uneasy glance. Nathaniel picked up on it instantly, and looked at them with a challenge in his eyes.

“I’m afraid, Professor Stone, that isn’t possible,” said Admiral Hamilton.

“Oh? And why is that?”

“Because, regrettably, it is my duty to inform you that Doctor Grant has disappeared.”

“He seems to be making a habit of that,” Nathaniel said.

Grant was not the only one—disappearances in the Admiralty now seemed to be quite the done thing. If the knowledge of the unstable doctor’s disappearance was not troubling enough, it was only then that Nathaniel noticed the chunk of mysterious crystal he had placed on the table had vanished.

Any of the three men could have taken it.

5.

THE PALENESS OF the earth was eerie. It was almost as if they had ridden onto another world, a sensation Annabelle and George were not unfamiliar with. Yet here the sense of strangeness and dislocation felt far more acute. Perhaps it was because of the way it was their own planet that suddenly felt so alien. Perhaps it was simply the way the wind seemed to die away as soon as they approached, leaving the area cloaked in a still and sudden silence. Whatever it was, it was abundantly clear why the Apaches thought this a cursed place.

The low mesa that sat to the right of Greenore Gulch seemed much taller now they were close to it; this effect was enhanced by the basin in which the mine sat. Yet there was no evidence of this ever being a place for prospecting, a place where hopeful Americans had come with avarice in their hearts and silver in their mind’s eye. The entrance was nestled at the base of the mesa, hidden by an overhang and obvious only to those who were already aware of its existence. The riders approached cautiously—even the horses were spooked.

They looked around them. Everything seemed desolate and deserted. There was nothing on the horizon, no enemy on the approach… A blessing, possibly, which gave the already tense atmosphere a further layer of ill-omen. This was a quiet that should not be trusted. The horses scuffed down the steep side of the basin, sending up clouds of sallow, sickly dust. The group arranged themselves in a semi-circle facing the cave opening, and Wapi hopped down from his horse. There was nowhere to tie their steeds, whose wide eyes and ceaseless, shifting trots indicated they were moments away from bolting.

One-by-one the riders dismounted, with Wapi helping Geronimo down. They grouped together again, each keeping the reins of their horses held tight. Wapi reached into a large saddle-bag and brought out half a dozen wooden torches, the rags tied to the ends infecting the air with the stench of kerosene.

“Gopan and Iki, you stay here,” he said. “See if you can find somewhere to tie up the horses. Bly, Devra—scout the area, you must keep an eye on all approaches. If you see anyone or anything, come to find us, without haste.”

The braves nodded and swiftly obeyed Wapi’s instructions. Geronimo, wrapped in a tight shawl and seeming somehow frailer than before, stared at the young brave with a slow, sad intensity. Wapi turned away. He still could not look Annabelle in the eye, and avoided George’s too. The atmosphere felt as sour as the barren, washed-out landscape around them. Bert, sensing the tension, attempted to inject a little life into the party.

“So,” he said, in his chipper London accent. “Who’s up for exploring a mine, then?”

6.

THE TORCHES WERE lit and the group, with Wapi at its head, descended into the tunnel. Even here, the only indication of previous human interaction with this strange, accursed place was the odd scrape-mark of a pick on the walls. There were no pit-props, no tools…nothing.

“This place holds evil close in its heart,” said Geronimo, as they descended the gentle slope into the tunnels. “The white men who came did not respect the spirits as we do, but still they felt their presence. Their minds became bloated with fear before they could reach the true depths, the Green God Tree that nestles at the centre, the tree that needs neither sun nor water to thrive. It is said that only those who are true of spirit can come close to the Tree.”

“I once kicked a pigeon when I was drunk,” said Bert. “Hope that means I qualify.”

Wapi spun around, and suddenly the flame of the torch was close enough to Boon’s face to singe his eyebrows.

“You think this funny, magaanii? You think this evil place is one deserving of laughter, foolish talk of drinking and pigeons?”

“No, no,” said Bert, taken aback. “I’m sorry, I just…” He faltered.

Wapi stared at him for a moment, before turning around and heading once more into the gloom.

“…Wanted to lighten the mood,” Bert finished lamely. Geronimo placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Excuse him,” he said. “The return of Yohana has brought back many memories, many emotions. They boil within him like a pot on the fire.”

“That’s as maybe,” said Boon, “but he doesn’t have to be so ruddy rude.” Geronimo patted him and smiled warmly, passed by Boon’s shoulder and weaved after Wapi downwards into the blackness. The forms of Annabelle and Bedford resolved themselves out of the dark to join Boon.

“Everything okay?” asked Bedford.

“Well the wind’s got up old Wapi, that’s for sure,” answered Bert. “What’s his problem?”

Annabelle and Bedford exchanged a glance.

“A tale for another time, Bert,” said Annabelle. Bert seemed to pick up on the insinuation pretty quick.

“Righty-ho,” he said. He looked behind him, checking that Wapi and Geronimo were out of earshot.

“Look,” he whispered. “What’s going on? Fact is, when I was sent out here by the Bureau they gave me sweet Fanny Adams to work with, to put it bluntly. Normally I’m a bit more informed than this. It was that slimy git Coyne who was meant to prep me, the one who’s with your French friend. Only he swans off without a by-your-leave. ‘Just look after the lovebirds’ is all he said. It was almost as if he was expecting you to make all the headway, which, credit where it’s due, is exactly what you’ve been doing.”

“Well,” said Annabelle, “we’re no more enlightened than you, Bert. The raiders who attacked us might be linked to this place, but they might not. Fact is, we can’t ignore the possibility we were targeted, and that this place might hold the key to their identity. It’s not much, but it’s all we’ve got to go on.”

“And trust me,” added Bedford. “I don’t like not knowing any more than you do.”

7.

IT DIDN’T TAKE them long to catch up with Wapi and Geronimo. The latter had overtaken the former as head of the party, leading with a confidence that the others were truly grateful for. Suddenly, his already wrinkled brow wrinkled further in the torchlight, a tight pursing of his lips indicating that everything was not, somehow, quite right.

“The feeling,” he muttered.

“Feeling?” asked Bedford. “What feeling?” Geronimo didn’t turn; in fact, it was almost as if Bedford’s question has strengthened his resolve, and he moved forward with a renewed vigour.

“The feeling that always comes,” he called back quickly, “that teases the mind in these tunnels, one I have felt each time I have entered here, somehow, now… It is gone. We must hurry.”

Though the caverns branched and tangled together, Geronimo seemed to know exactly where he was going. The intensity of his purpose seemed to render any further conversation moot. They continued ever downwards, and that keen sense Geronimo had mentioned, the one that allowed him to explore the spaces beyond the corporeal veil, began to tickle the minds of the others in the party. It was faint, indistinct, but unmistakable. It seemed to jar memories of past slights and jealousies in their mind, tug at them, almost mocking them. While at the same time reminding them of moments of pride, passion and success. It was unsettling and alien, the shadow of an intruder in the consciousness.

Geronimo stopped.

The tunnel ahead of them was illuminated with a faint, pale green glow. He turned back to the rest of the party, looked to each of them in turn for sign of the mental distress that coiled like tentacles from this haunted, foreboding place.

“We have arrived,” he said.

With a sudden caution he began to pick his way across the tunnel floor to the glowing chamber. The others followed suit.

It was not a particularly large space, and compared to the barren darkness of the tunnels, stepping into the cavern was like entering a nightmare from a long stretch of heavy, empty-minded sleep. Here the walls seemed to have had any trace of life or nutrients bleached from them; they were a crumbling, chalky white. Hung on this alabaster canvas was a myriad of offerings and totems. Skulls adorned with feathers hung from blackened strips of leather, wood and animal horns had been carved into grotesque, twisted parodies of people and the creatures of the desert. It was obvious, even to the untrained eye, that these pagan relics came in a myriad of styles and age; they were not the work of just one civilisation. This had been a place that had shocked the hearts and minds of many tribes over countless thousands of years.

Yet their work had been desecrated. Wherever the relics had been reachable by human hand, they had been torn from their moorings and smashed on the floor. All, that is, except for one, which sat at the back of the room undisturbed before a great, green, crystalline stump that rose from the centre of the floor, perhaps three foot high and half as tall, jagged where it had been cut away.

But the malignant shard was not what caught the attention of Bedford and Annabelle. Their gaze was trapped and held by the skeletal figure that oversaw this ancient place, strapped to a rough wooden seat in a sitting pose, monarch of this desolate kingdom. The seat was surrounded by more elaborate offerings of old feathers and intricate carvings, and had the look of some ancient heathen throne.

It had the rough shape of the people of Earth but its proportions were warped, almost apelike. The skull was bulbous and enlarged, the eye sockets large and pushed towards the sides of the head. The face seemed almost squished between the large forehead and long, protruding chin.

Memories of their previous excursion to Luna came rushing to the fore, and Annabelle remembered one of the images rendered on the monolith protruding from the surface of Phobos. It seemed these creatures had travelled further than the moons of the Solar System.

“A Drobate.” whispered Annabelle.

“You know of it,” said Geronimo. It was a statement, not a question. The five of them gathered around the alien, misshapen thing, captivated by its other-worldliness. The very look of it seemed to reach out on a primal level, intrinsically linked to the subconscious pull of this place. It was no wonder that, despite the destruction meted on the rest of the shrine, this reminder of ancient lives had remained untouched.

“They’re a race of creatures that inhabit the deeper reaches of Luna,” said Annabelle, reaching forward to touch the Drobate skull but just stopping short.

“From what we can tell,” continued Bedford, “the Drobates used to be a flourishing civilisation with an astounding degree of technological and scientific advancement. But something happened. Their society declined and collapsed to the point where they live little better than animals, savage and unruly, territorially aggressive—vicious, telepathic fighters. The presence of this feller here would seem to indicate that, at least at one point in their race’s history, they visited Earth.”

“It is said,” intoned Geronimo, “that in the stories passed down about the great crystal tree, that the Shaltak came. The meaning of Shaltak has been lost as languages grew and intertwined, but my own grandfather used to think it could be translated as ‘the spirits of the minds in the sky’.”

“Certainly ties in with your theory,” Bert said to Bedford.

“I cannot claim ownership of the theory; merely sharing what has been discovered by Professors Stone and Quintana, as told to me by Annabelle.”

Geronimo nodded at Bedford, and continued. “Nobody knows if the Shaltak planted the Crystal God Tree, or if they came in search of it.” He indicated the stump in the middle of the cavern. “But the legends state that the Shaltak crawled into the minds of our ancestors and pleaded with them that the tree should be protected and revered. It is my greatest shame, and one I shall carry to my grave, that it was in my lifetime this sacred and ancient duty was betrayed. I relied too heavily on the tree’s power to ward men off. I underestimated the evil in the minds of those who came and desecrated this place.”

“Having faith in the essential goodness of people isn’t something you should beat yourself up about,” said Bedford. He stopped, suddenly realising how trite and unimportant that sounded with the gravity of the situation.

“Whatever the circumstances,” stepped in Annabelle quickly, “the fact remains that we’re too late.”

Geronimo, suddenly leaden with the weight of his years, shuffled over to the stump and bent down to touch it gently.

“Look at it,” he said quietly. “Look at what remains. Beyond the effects it has on the minds of mortals, the Crystal God Tree was a wonder, a thing of great beauty, its branches spanning the whole of this cavern. A thing of nature and awe, Yohana, cut down by the ignorance of evil. It is my failure. No good will come of this.”

Annabelle crossed to him and gently lifted him up. “I understand the pain and disappointment you must feel, Goyahkla. But we have friends who can help, who will work with us to ensure the danger you speak of is fought, curtailed, and brought to justice. Any failure here may only be the start of a greater victory for the entire world. Have faith.”

Geronimo, who had suddenly seemed so aged and broken, stared at her, the light in his eyes reigniting.

“You are wise beyond your years, Yohana,” he said. “You give faith back to this old man. There is nothing more we can do here.”

Taking one last look at the strange and disturbing place, the group grabbed their torches and began the long climb back up the tunnel to the surface. They had got maybe half-way before Gopan came pelting down the passageway towards them, a flaming torch in one hand, the other holding his rifle aloft.

“Riders!” he cried.

Chapter Thirteen

Betrayals

1.

ARNAUD STARED INTO the barrel of the pistol, giggling occasionally and pressing his forehead against the cool tunnel of iron. He was sitting cross-legged on the floor of Garrecreux’s lab, having been given an hour’s rest thanks to the arrival of Madame Moonsinge’s latest visitors—Potsdam and Klopstock.

It was Klopstock who held the gun. He sat on a chair before the stupefied Frenchman, waving the weapon around and watching contemptuously as Arnaud’s eyes followed the barrel around like a mystified toddler.

“Well this is boring,” he said aloud. “Where’s the fun, Moonsinge? Where’s the challenge? I could shoot him in the face now. Pow! Dead. And while the visual impact of doing so would, I think, be rather a thrill, it seems somehow…inelegant.”

“Be quiet, idiot,” snapped Moonsinge. She eyed Potsdam warily, a hulking threat that took up much of one corner of the room. “Anyway, you can’t kill him yet. We still need him. He’s torpid and suggestible, yes, but his skills in helping us prepare the Aleksandrite are no less diminished by its effects. Do you want to answer to our Lord and Master for delays?”

“No more than you do, my sweet. Funny you won’t say his name.”

“Would you?” she snapped back. Klopstock pouted childishly, and waved her away. Moonsinge scowled at him. “Well then,” she said.

Garrecreux, who had been hunched over a lab bench, let out a sudden howl of irritation. “Will you stop all this pointless bickering!” he yelled. He took in the look of utter contempt on Madame Moonsinge’s face, and in an instant he was on his knees before her, his arms wrapped around her waist.

“I’m sorry, so sorry, my mistress, forgive me.”

“Get up, you worm,” sneered Moonsinge. “Prepare the minerals.”

“As you wish, as you wish.” He beckoned for Arnaud to assist him in further refining and producing the various arcane compounds that came from Aleksandrite, which the Russians had named in honour of their Tsar.

Madame Moonsinge nodded at Potsdam, monstrously motionless in the corner, his arms by his side like a mannequin.

“And him,” she said. “The brute. Does he need a refill?”

“Couldn’t hurt, couldn’t hurt,” said Klopstock blithely. “Top him up.”

“I wasn’t offering to help,” said Moonsinge. “You know I can’t stand the sight of it.” Despite the curious effect her demeanour had on the men of this world, Klopstock seemed strangely immune. This was hardly an issue for her, however, as she couldn’t stand the man and was happy to admit it. A cabinet stood against one of the walls. She removed a key from a chain looped around her neck and unlocked the cupboard door.

Inside were rows and rows of phials, each full of a powdery, pale green substance whose minute facets caught the light. Each phial was labelled differently: The true extent of the versatility of Aleksandrite. She pointed down one of the rows, grabbed one of the phials and tossed it casually across to where Klopstock sat. As soon as he saw it flying towards him, he panicked, reached out, desperate to grab the phial before it shattered on the floor. Moonsinge laughed at him.

“It’s no laughing matter,” said Klopstock darkly. “This is dangerous stuff.”

“And you’re nowhere near as dangerous as you make out,” mocked Moonsinge. “Feed the demon.”

Klopstock, gripping the phial of compound tightly, approached Potsdam. The huge man did not even register his approach, and Moonsinge looked over idly from one corner.

“How are his eyes?” she asked.

“Worse,” said Klopstock. He reached up and unbuckled the goggles from the back of Potsdam’s face. They fell away and revealed the true effects of the chemical on this part of his anatomy—his eyes were glowing a bright, burning green, the whole of their surface encrusted with a spiky, crystalline residue. The flesh around them was raw and cracked, crimson capillaries spreading like spider’s web.

“He’ll be blind soon,” said Moonsinge. “Then we can finally put him down like the rabid dog he is. Garrecreux’s the same. How fortunate their usefulness is so soon coming to an end. Maybe we can have them fight to the death?”

“Mistress!” cried Garrecreux from the corner, appalled.

“I don’t remember giving you permission to listen to me, Fabrice,” she chided.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, mistress!” he pleaded, before turning to Arnaud and whispering in schoolboy conference. “Did you hear? She called me Fabrice!” Arnaud giggled idiotically.

“Well,” said Klopstock as he began to unbutton Potsdam’s greatcoat. “I know who my money would be on.”

He finished unbuttoning and, pulling the scarf away from the great brute’s neck, let the greatcoat slip to the floor. The true monstrosity of Potsdam was revealed.

The braces that caged his hands extended up his arms and cradled his torso. Tight bronze bands were clamped to his wrists and neck that made his head and hands unnaturally bloated and ruddy with blood—yet the rest of him was not so healthily fattened. What remained of his body, hung within the burnished framework of metal, was a translucent, deathly grey. Veins and bones stood out on parchment-thin skin, his abdomen distended and sagging low over his groin. The metal cage held his trousers up; the body simply dangled into empty space like a chicken strung up in a butcher’s window. The cavity smelt like sweat and sour milk.

The metal poles and joists drilled into his fingers continued up into the joints of his elbows and shoulders, with pistons and gears fed by tubes running their lengths. These tubes were wrapped around his skeletal limbs, all of them snaking and coiling until six of them were fed into the space on his chest directly before his heart. Klopstock unlocked a clasp on the front of the cage and opened a door. On the back of it was strapped a bulky clockwork mechanism, redolent with the ornate swirls and craftsmanship that typified Klopstock’s deadly art. He unscrewed a lid on the top of the engine and gently began tapping the Aleksandrite compound inside.

“I think I’ll sort of miss him when he’s gone,” said Klopstock. “Do you know how many prisoners we killed before we managed to perfect it? Dozens. A hundred, maybe. But he was the only one with the fortitude to survive. Or the stubbornness. They say he killed nearly forty people before he was caught, you know. At least half of them were children,” he added conversationally.

“You keep such fashionable company,” proffered Moonsinge.

“As do you, dear heart. As do you.”

“What of Professor Stone?”

“Dead,” said Klopstock simply, concentrating on his task. “Blown to bits. Kaput. No more. You’ve got me to thank for that. We met Imperator on a godforsaken stretch of the West Irish coast and, after a thankfully brief pit-stop in Severnaya, came right here.”

“So Stone and Fontaine are accounted for.”

“Indeed. Bedford and the woman, well… they’re too late to do anything. We exhausted that vein weeks ago, and should they unwisely decide to go sniffing around they’ll be dealt with. I hardly think a few savages will be able to withstand the might of the veritable army of bandits our…heh, Lord and Master, as you so delicately put it, has in his pocket.”

Moonsinge did not seem convinced. “Is he ready?” she said, indicating Potsdam. “I’ve a job for him.”

“Oh, goody!” beamed Klopstock. He screwed the lid back on the top of the mechanism and wound a clockwork key set into the side of the device. Potsdam seemed to straighten his back slightly as the new drugs entered his system, the gearwheels and pistons whirring and hissing gently. “There we are. Tip-top shape.”

“Excellent,” said Moonsinge. “Garrecreux, Fontaine!” the two men instantly turned at the sound of her voice like obedient dogs. “Bring him in.”

They scuttled out of the room and, moments later, returned with a man dressed in black held between them. He was struggling violently, a burlap sack over his head. Moonsinge crossed and whipped the bag away.

“Mister Coyne,” she soothed. “Why, you were oh so useful to us, oh so very happy to betray your country and your principles for the promise of so great a reward. And here it is. May I introduce you to Mister Potsdam?”

Potsdam, unheeded, strode towards Coyne’s struggling form. The appearance of his body in motion, and the emaciated torso dangled in the cage like a dead thing as the pistons drove the power, was a vile and unholy sight. The metal-encased hands shot out and grabbed either sides of Coyne’s head and lifted the traitor out of Garrecreux and Arnaud’s hands. Coyne screamed, a horrendous, panicked, animal sound.

“Ah, ah, ah!” said Moonsinge gently, as the giant relented slightly. He looked down at her with dumb and glistening green eyes.

“Take your time with this one,” she said. “Enjoy yourself. Make it slow.”

2.

ENDERBY WAS AT a total loss. Never before in all his years of service had he felt so rudderless, so constrained and frustrated. They had been working for months on the mission to discover the nature of the Russian’s secret weapon, and now they were here, he was powerless.

They had managed to ensconce themselves in a supply bay deep in the heart of the ship. At the back, he and Folkard had boxed themselves off with a few crates where they could easily evade detection and snatch enough supplies to survive. There were no portholes, and the only indication of their movement was the malignant, heartbeat thrum of the engines that assailed them through the walls.

“There’s something about this ship,” said Folkard, pressing his ear against the bulkhead to listen. “It sounds so different to Sovereign.”

There had been something of a breakdown in communications since the men had boarded Imperator. Perhaps, Enderby thought idly, the loss of the men they had commanded had left the two at loggerheads—the two of them were fine having others to lead, but now the balance of power had shifted. It was true what Folkard had said. He did know the layout of the ship far better than the agent, but that did not mean Enderby couldn’t be of some use. It was clear that the captain was deeply troubled by the Russian battleship’s similarity with the vessel he knew so well, but at the same time he sensed a renewed confidence in Folkard that came, he assumed, from sailing once again.

Enderby was a patriot and a reasonable man. He had accepted the Bureau’s offer in order to serve his country, and it frustrated him that that duty of service was being denied to him when it was potentially needed most. It seemed now that Folkard spent much of his time reconnoitring, and it was in those moments that Enderby felt at his most vulnerable. If, by chance, a luckless Russian sailor had entered to grab vittles for the mess Enderby would have snapped his neck and snatched his uniform without a second thought. And yet no such sailors came. He was left in the dark, alone, his head whipping towards each unbidden, unexpected sound, one hand constantly on the hilt of his knife.

He had even thought, once or twice, of heading off on his own to explore. The calculations in his mind ripped at him. If they stayed concealed, which he was sure they could do, they may well be taken somewhere important to the Russian plot, have a chance to expose and counteract whatever machinations they were planning. He could not risk discovery, not here, not now. The Russians would throw the corpses of himself and Folkard in the British government’s face, and war would be inevitable. He sat, biding his time, frustrated and unsure.

The last time the captain had returned he at least had some solid news, having discovered Imperator’s destination—Calcutta, India, where Coyne and Arnaud had been sent to investigate. He bitterly hoped the two were having better luck. Perhaps it was restlessness that made him disingenuous, but surely Folkard should have discovered more than that by now? Then again, perhaps he had, and if he had, why was he keeping the information from Enderby? What purpose did that serve? Did Folkard not trust him? Or did Folkard’s allegiances lie elsewhere? There was still the mystery of how Sovereign’s plans had found their way into Russian hands… Blueprints that Folkard certainly had access to.

He’d been gone for hours now, and troubling thoughts were assailing Enderby in the darkness. For now he wondered at Folkard’s behaviour, and put such qualms down to an over-active, incarcerated mind given too much time to mull over too many uncertainties. Still the worry stayed with him.

The heavy door to the bay smacked open and Enderby, ever alert, already had his knife poised before it squeaked to a halt against the frame. He pressed himself back against the wall, and only the keenest observer would have noticed him grip his knife tighter. From his position, squirreled behind a packing crate, he could not see the entrance. There came the sounds of boots on grating, and Enderby strained to count the steps. Definitely more than two, but whether it was three or four he couldn’t be sure.

The Russian squad were keeping together as a group—a solid tactic when searching for a dangerous quarry. They were moving clockwise around the room, and with a little luck and careful movement he could flank them. There was no chance he could take one out and steal a uniform, not now.

An icy thought struck him, sudden and sharp. Had Folkard been captured…or had he given away Enderby’s hiding place?

The soldiers were approaching, their footsteps slow. Enderby eased around the packing crate and bolted out to hide behind a set of steel shelving lined with tins and boxes stamped with Cyrillic. The soldiers were on the other side. He flexed his fingers across the knife’s handle and moved at a crouch down the length of the shelves. The time he’d spent stuck in this godforsaken supply bay had not been wasted, and he knew if he could reach the end a large crate had been strapped down just beside the wall, with enough space to crawl behind until the patrol had moved on. He readied himself to bolt across, held his breath, and moved out.

There was a click behind him, the solid crack of an oiled bolt-handle nestling home. He froze. Even from the noise he knew the make, one of the newer ones, the .42 Mosin-Nagant. The Russian military, technically, were still testing it. It was hardly a revolutionary design, but then, from this distance it hardly mattered. The barrel was, after all, pressed against the back of Enderby’s head.

He felt sure they must have known exactly where he was.

3.

PELTING OUT INTO the Arizona day, Bedford was blinded by the light. It was as if the tunnel entrance had rushed towards him faster than he approached it. As he suddenly found himself in the air the whole of the world assaulted him with noise and brightness. He took in the situation.

The Apache warriors that had remained above ground were gathered in a tight semi-circle around the entrance to the cave. Two were hunched forward on their knees while the others stood behind them, rifles held aloft to produce a classic wall of gunfire. To his right, some feet off, two of the horses lay dead. The others were nowhere to be seen, and Bedford suddenly realised he had unconsciously shouldered his shotgun and was already aiming down the barrel. All around the rim of the basin, black figures were darting between outcrops of cover. Bedford tried to count. A dozen? Two? The antlike smatterings of movement were impossible to assess. Once or twice the head of a mounted rider would snake into view before pulling his horse back to safety.

“Geronimo!” Bly hollered over his shoulder. “Protect Geronimo!” He quickly brought his Winchester up and fired a round.

Wapi grabbed Geronimo and yanked him unceremoniously back into the mouth of the cave. The old man protested, but weakly, and seconds later Wapi was back with own weapon readied. Boon was at Bedford’s side, cranking the handle of his custom pistol and scanning the overhang with keen, expert eyes.

“Twenty, at the very least,” he said. “And that’s only the ones up close.”

“They’re firing down,” added Annabelle, who had dropped uncomfortably onto her prosthetic knee and was cocking her rifle. “Not only are we horribly outnumbered, but they’ve got the tactical jump on us too.”

“If you weren’t here, darling, I’d be inclined to worry.”

“Oh, George, you say the sweetest things when we’re about to die.”

“Not today we’re not, my sweet. Not today.” He trailed his shotgun over the lip of the crater and let out a powerful blast. A scampering silhouette fell, the buckshot hitting him on his left side. Not lethal, Bedford could tell, but enough to put the bandit out of action and make his compatriots think twice about sticking their necks up.

“Custer’s Last Stand?” opined Boon.

“Rather an insensitive comparison,” countered Annabelle, not without a smirk, as she let off a round of her own that ricocheted mere inches from one of their shadowy attackers’ heads. “Damn and blast,” she muttered.

There was no real cover. To retreat into the cave would be a slow suicide; not only would their line of fire be pitifully diminished it would be all too easy for the bandits to crowd down from the sides of the basin and overwhelm them. No. Their only option was to stand their ground.

Yet these were a ragtag, drunken band of marauders. There was no military training, no finesse—they put too much faith in their sheer force of numbers, that enough men with enough ammunition guaranteed victory. As such they were arbitrary, careless. They took random pot-shots that betrayed the fact they cared more about their own individual skins than their group as a whole. Three, four, were picked off in careful succession by the more measured shots of the braves and their companions. But it was not a tactic that could endure. The Apache Annabelle had noted as Iki was struck with a bullet in his right breast; he fell and gurgled helplessly as the blood began to fill his lungs, the others powerless but to listen to his ghastly death-throes as they fought with their all to survive the onslaught.

Slowly, as the defenders started to become conscious of how many bullets remained to them, the attackers advanced. No longer were they antlike and far off; they would skid quickly down dusty hillsides, finding cover in the rocky outcrops on the slopes of the basin. Onward and down they piled, in such a torrent it was impossible to catch them all with rifle-fire. Soon the only option would be retreat into the cave, and after that, certain death.

The bandits were getting braver now, peeking their heads up for longer, taking more and more shots each time. Bly took a bullet to the knee, keeled over, but momentarily dragged himself back upright and fought on with his teeth so tightly gritted they drew blood. Perhaps seven or eight of the bandits started to crowd toward them across the basin floor. Three were taken out with ease but others, buoyed by their companion’s success, were joining the encroaching ranks. More than twenty of the bandits lay dead or dying, perhaps thirty or more remained.

Yet all of their attention was directed towards the cave mouth—a fatal mistake for the foremost of the attackers who, with a swoosh of wind like wildfire, stood suddenly bolt upright with the knowledge of death in his eyes and an arrow jutting horizontally through his neck. A split-second later, a second fell the same way. As the bandits turned, stunned by this new threat, three more were dispatched by Boon and Annabelle’s fire.

“Kai!” wailed Wapi, a terrible trembling in his throat as he saw the girl approach. “Kai!”

She was thundering down the hillside to the left of their position, her body steady and upright on the back of her stolen horse. With a smooth, practised motion her hand whipped behind her head to pull another arrow from her quiver; quick as a blink the bolt was drawn back and shot, only to miss and thud into the dirt. The braves took full advantage of the distraction, firing into the confusion, but as Kai belted across their line of fire they were powerless to shoot for fear of hitting the girl. Her horse rounded, slowed, and as it did so Wapi leapt towards her.

The great animal Kai had stolen was so large a target the feckless bandits couldn’t help but aim towards it. As a multitude of cordite booms resounded from the landscape’s bleached and shallow sides Wapi leapt up behind Kai, curled his body around her, and put his back towards the bullets.

They struck him mercilessly. He fell away. The horse screamed and tumbled, its forelegs buckling into the dirt. Wapi and Kai fell with it, falling cradled in the nest between the dead steed’s legs and belly, bullets thudding into the beast’s back, while Wapi held Kai tightly in his arms as she struggled to get free.

It had bought them some time, but not much. One or two of the bandits fell, but as they approached the defenders backed imperceptibly towards the darkened cave, where Geronimo knelt muttering a low, strong Apache prayer. More gunfire came, closer, more accurate, and in the dying times Bedford turned to his new wife and reached out to her hand, his eyes pleading how much he loved her, how he would strip the skin from his own bones for it not to end like this, right now.

And then came the boom of the breech guns.

The opposite wall of the dip exploded into fragments, chunks of unnaturally pale rock sent to spin like pinwheels in the air. The bodies of the bandits flew with them, some of them falling into tattered shreds of limbs and sinew as they crashed back down to earth.

A thundering came from above them, and all eyes shot skyward. Slowly sailing into view as its prow breached the cover of the mesa came Sovereign, the strong Arizona light gleaming in bursts from its metalwork, its shadow crawling across the floor of the basin. Two more retorts sounded from the guns, sending up a shower of gravel and taking more of the bandits to their graves. The rest looked up; a couple even had the wherewithal to shoulder their weapons and fire pointlessly at the pride of the British Fleet. Yet when they turned to discover the rest of their band were fleeing, scrabbling up the slopes over the bodies of their dead, they soon followed. All their horses had bolted when the cannons thundered and they were left to flee on foot, panicking and stumbling across the deadly terrain.

With the exception of Geronimo, the remaining Apaches were almost as terrified by the aether battleship as the bandits. They had seen them before, of course, lazily drifting through the atmosphere, but the might and majesty of Sovereign up close was an entirely different spectacle. As the belly of Sovereign hovered into view Boon strode forward to calm them. Annabelle threw her rifle to the floor and ran, breathless, to where Kai still struggled in Wapi’s fading grip. She skidded to the floor before them, and only when Annabelle’s face appeared in his diminishing field of vision did he slowly, and with a palpable relief, let the daughter of Yohana go.

Kai struggled out, got up, turned around. When she saw the extent of Wapi’s injuries, the strength of this precocious warrior failed her. Her whole attitude snapped, her eye widening and her face softening. Where moments before there were battle cries and blood-rage, there only now remained fear and confusion on the face of a little girl.

“Wapi,” cried Annabelle.

4.

HER HANDS QUICKLY felt around his chest and back, assessing the wounds, but they were so disparate and numerous she was at a loss as to where to start. He was slick with blood, pale, his lips trembling as he fought against the weakness overpowering him. Annabelle howled in frustration and rage. Bedford came to her side but she batted him away.

The brave reached up, his eyes fogged and unfocussed, the pupils wide with death. He could barely keep his arm aloft. Kai crowded in but Annabelle pushed her gently away as she leaned down to Wapi, his blood-soaked arm snaking up to pull her closer.

“Yohana,” he whispered. It was only now, Annabelle knew, that he displayed how frightened he was. “Kai. Be a mother to her. Your husband…a father. More than I could be.” He choked. “Promise me, Yohana.”

Before she could reply he was gone.

Suddenly there was a battering on her side. Kai, a furious tempest, was pummelling her with bunched up fists, pushing ineffectively for Annabelle to move. Stunned by the fact that the boy she once teased scorpions with was gone, she half-moved, half-fell sideways. Kai shot towards Wapi’s lifeless form, his head lolling horribly as the young girl tugged at him with arms that lacked the strength to lift him. Squealing, frustrated, she let his dead weight flop back and screamed his name, battering his chest with a child’s ineffectual smacks. Annabelle, her back to the noise, thought she would soon stop. But she did not.

She was grey with shock; cold all over. Suddenly it all seemed too much, this paradigm shift of her life. In the space of only these last few paltry days it seemed as if everything had changed. Her own fate, and the fate of those who she loved, Nathaniel, Uncle Cyrus, George…Kai. There was Kai. The name, the concept, just seemed so alien to her among everything else that had happened. She had gained a husband, a daughter, found a long-lost friend only to see him snatched from her once more, only this time forever. She began to shiver, barely able to control herself. George rushed to her side once more and once more she angrily pushed him away. What more was there to do?

In the faint and still Arizona air, heard by her ears but not registered by her consciousness, came the drone of a cutter, the distant putt-putt of its engines stuttering as it wheeled in to land. Faintly she was aware of Boon’s black-suited form running up to greet it, but he was hazy, indistinct. Kai still wailed behind her. All the strength that Annabelle had accrued through her hardships, her trying days, seemed to seep from her fingers and leach into the pale dirt. She wanted to press her face to it, feel the grit against her cheeks, go to darkness, let the world sleep without her. Even as she thought this, it disgusted her how she could feel so weak, so overcome.

She knew George still stood by her, powerless, and hated herself for making him watch her unravel.

Boots, clumping, the stirring up of dust. The flashed blue of naval uniforms and the glint of gun-barrels in the sun. Sand was in her eyes, her unbidden tears failing to clear her vision, and so it was more the movement, the poise that she recognised when she looked to see him run towards her. She screamed his name in her mind, unable to produce the words with the self-loathing that choked her throat.

She grunted.

Her arms felt like wet rope but she fought to control them, to haul herself up on all fours. She managed to do so, fell back onto her knees, he head hanging back and her arms lolling behind. The thought of Deerpak’s rancid hands filled her mind and it was this image she fought against, that made her grit her teeth. She fell forward again, grabbed at the earth and pushed out, struck against it and managed to raise herself onto unsure legs. As she did so, Nathaniel Stone skidded to a stop before her.

Chapter Fourteen

Illusions of Choice

1.

DISARMED, STRIPPED OF equipment, Enderby was led through the hot, dank corridors of Imperator like a prize on parade. He knew the two men that followed, their rifles aimed at his head and his back, would be keeping a steely gaze on his every movement. When he passed open hatchways off-duty Russian sailors would mockingly raise their tin mugs to him, jeering with rotten or knocked out teeth. Those in the corridors would flatten themselves against walls and hiss threats or derision, once or twice yelling feral obscenities an inch from his face, goading him into a reaction that would surely have him shot. As the procession turned corners, Enderby would flick his glance sideways and back, noting what he saw.

Then he saw Folkard.

The captain, still dressed in his Russian uniform, was standing chatting with a pair of soldiers like they were old chums reminiscing at the bar. All three figures turned to watch Enderby pass, and as they did his eyes locked onto Folkard’s. The captain’s mouth tightened, his jovial chat interrupted, and for a moment the two men simply stared. Then Folkard nudged his compatriot, nodded towards Enderby and made a low comment in Russian. The three laughed bawdily, and as Enderby was marched out of view the mocking hoots followed him.

For over an hour he was marched around the ship. Everyone, it seemed, from cabin-boy to captain, had to take a look. Not that he was brought anywhere of importance, of course—they didn’t even approach the engine room or the bridge—but surely that was half the point. This was all about humiliation, but no matter. Enderby’s mind was still his, and though he knew now was not the time for action, he began to look for the possibilities of a plan.

After his forced march through endless grimy corridors, the kitchens and the comm bay, he was at last taken down to the hangar where the cutters sat in rows like coffins. Enderby had learnt much from his tour; far more, he assumed, than the Russians assumed he would. The other side of the coin being, naturally, that he could learn as much as he wished in what little time remained to him. The knowledge, ultimately, would do him little good. He had no illusions that they were to kill him soon, but it wouldn’t happen just yet. He knew the way these barbarians worked, and something else was planned—something dictated by a power far greater than the boy soldier with a barrel to his back.

Enderby was shoved roughly into one of the Russian’s cramped cutters. There were no windows and the benches were made of tin plate; one had to shuffle to even attempt comfort thanks to the hexagonal rivets that stuck up from the seat. On one side sat the captive, on the other four surly, distrustful Russians that passed a foul smelling cigarette between them. The smoke choked the air and the ceiling was too low; it stank of oil and rough construction. With a jolt that nearly punted Enderby from his pew the cutter took to the skies.

The soldier directly opposite Enderby looked him straight in the eye. He took one last, deep lungful of his dry, powdery tobacco smoke and threw the nub to the floor without even bothering to extinguish it. Still holding Enderby’s bold gaze the Russian—the largest of the quartet by far—reached behind him and produced a hessian sack with a rough hemp rope threaded into the opening. Grinning slavishly, he leaned forward and dumped the sack down heavily over Enderby’s head. When he tightened the cord he did it with a heavy-handed sadism until the brute was sure the rope was cutting into Enderby’s neck. He could barely breathe.

The Russian chuckled to his comrades as he sat back down. Enderby listened for a moment. There was no more noise.

2.

SHE WAS BEATING his chest, pleading with him, she remembered that. She remembered him holding her shoulders firmly, trying to look into her eyes as she shook her head to dodge his gaze. How can I leave now, she was screaming. Not now, I can’t! George was there at her side. She felt the irritation of the Navy boys, a demeanour she had come to know so well, anxious to set sail. Their work in this wasteland was done. Nathaniel’s head bobbed as he tried to look at her, Annabelle resisting, Geronimo looking on sadly from the sidelines.

Shi ma, came a voice. It was small but strong. Shi ma. The Apache word for mother.

I’ll find them, she remembered hearing, that small voice still strong. Me and Shiwoye, we’ll find these men and we’ll find each other again.

She had felt Geronimo’s old hands, strong and gnarled as an oak, turn her round from her daughter so George could wrap his arms about her shoulder and lead her towards the cutter, Sovereign hovering placidly above. She had looked back, seen the strong, small girl and her wise old protector, the defiance in the eyes, the hope that her mother would travel to the stars and right a greater wrong; to unseat a more desperate demon. She kissed her hand and waved it to her daughter; the daughter kissed her own and waved back. The old man smiled. All three, as the door to the cutter slammed shut and the naval slang was yelled back from port to starboard, knew she would return.

3.

“LET HER SLEEP!” yelled Bedford, his knuckles closed and white.

“Commander,” said Stone, without emotion, “I know…”

“You know nothing, Stone!” yelled Bedford, slamming both fists on the desk. “Nothing! It’s like you’re some bloody calculating machine, not a man anymore.”

The two of them had retired to an unoccupied cabin on the starboard side. An ensign had brought them a tray of tea that sat cooling on the table by the bed. Bedford, in truth, wanted a cup desperately, but Stone’s sudden and uncharacteristic callousness had infuriated him so much he wasn’t sure he’d be able to pour without spilling it everywhere—or pelting a china saucer at the professor’s head. He just didn’t understand it. Why was Stone suddenly so insensitive to Annabelle’s health? It was clear she needed rest, even if only for an hour or two, before he quizzed her.

“By Christ man, don’t you care?”

“Of course I care, which is why it’s so important.” Bedford stared at him again. There was almost a flicker in Stone’s eyes, like a tic, that he remembered the friendship he and Annabelle Somerset had shared, or the countless number of times they had saved each other’s lives. Perhaps something had happened in Dublin that had irrevocably changed Stone. He did not know. He had briefly been introduced to Tally Cahalleret, Stone’s companion on that trip, a gent who seemed roguish but dependable and who clearly had a lot of respect for Stone. If only, Bedford thought bitterly, I had the same right now.

“What’s so important about it, anyway?” he asked, finally overcoming his ire and pouring himself a cup of Earl Grey.

“The stump of the tree you mentioned. Tally and I saw one too, in the cave under Phoenix Park. This mineral, Commander, it’s deadly. Its properties are manifold and utterly destructive. I need to find as much information about it as quickly as possible, even the smallest thing you or Annabelle might have noticed may be of the utmost importance. It’s vital. Can’t you understand that? For all our safety.”

Bedford relented somewhat. At least now the professor seemed to be coming from a place that held their welfare at heart. “Of course, Stone, of course,” he sighed. “But I’ve told you all I know, which isn’t much. A stump, much like the one you yourself described. I fear you may have missed a trick, however.” Stone arched his eyebrow and looked at across at Bedford, his head still.

“Trick?” he snapped. “What trick?”

“Old Geronimo. He seemed to know a fair old bit about it, told us about how it used to be some gigantic glass tree. Said his forefathers had been looking after it for aeons.” Stone shook his head sadly, made a gesture of impatience as he turned back around.

“With all due respect, Geronimo’s stance on the crystal is unscientific. It’s jumbled about with superstition and fables half-heard or badly retold, a ransacked and reconstituted oral history. No. What I need are facts. You and Annabelle have no small experience in these matters and, as you know, some sort of psychic resonance may be the key to a greater insight. Even the smallest observation may unearth a wealth of information, however insignificant it may have appeared at the time.”

“Well there’s one thing that isn’t insignificant, dear chap—the presence of that Drobate skeleton. Could they be behind the whole thing?”

“In their current state? Unlikely, especially considering the age of the remains. But there must be a connection. As to whether the Drobates brought the crystal or were in search of it, I haven’t the faintest idea. I’m working with assumptions and half-baked theories, Bedford! Is it any wonder I’m keen to get as much information on this whole sorry mess as I can?”

“No, Stone, it’s no wonder at all.” There—that terseness had returned to Bedford’s voice. He set his cup back down before continuing. “But Annabelle’s health and recuperation must come first. There are…events of which you are unaware.”

The professor cocked his eyebrow, and this time the mildly patronising gesture irritated Bedford to his core, making him start to hate the offhand and supercilious attitude Stone was taking to him, and Annabelle’s distress in particular.

“Which are?” asked Stone testily.

“It isn’t for me to say. And if your emotional intellect was even a fraction of your scientific one, you certainly won’t go asking Annabelle about it until she’s damn well good and ready. And if you upset her, Professor Stone, by God you’ll have me to answer to. It seems to me now that there are many things beyond the comprehension of a genius such as yourself.” He snorted, sardonic. “To think you were the man whom we always turned to for answers. I say that less out of spite, Stone, and more out of pity. But I warn you again: Do not upset my wife. She has been through enough.”

The low thrumming of the engines was tempered by the gentle rattle of the teacup in its saucer as Sovereign cut through the lower atmosphere. Bedford was unsure as to whether his words had touched Stone, made him rethink his conduct, or that the professor had simply retreated within himself and was ignoring them.

The door banged open without a knock. The ensign who had brought them their tea was in the doorway, breathless. Bedford and Stone both stared at him.

“The bridge, gentlemen,” wheezed the ensign. “The captain wants to see you. There’s been news.”

4.

“DECISIONS, DECISIONS.”

They had landed in Calcutta some time ago. Shortly, Enderby found himself in a large stone cell, more-or-less a perfect cube twelve feet square. They had removed the bag from his head—not before the Russian sailors had given him a few hard and cowardly knocks and dragged him here—and now he found himself faced by a semi-circle of six malicious figures, arranged like dolls on show. Two stood to his left, three on his right, illuminated by lamps directed straight down. In the middle, directly opposite him, a man sat in shadow, the one who had spoke. There was no light above to show him—here was a total silhouette, with nothing to discern beyond his outline. The voice buzzed in his ears. Russian accent, drawling yet urbane, and was there the hint of something deeply and disturbingly familiar about it? His head was spinning and his vision was fogged. In his current state he could not be sure.

“There’s a choice on offer, Mister Enderby,” droned the shadow.

Enderby betrayed no emotion, staring ahead at the black form outlined by the other lights. He would not give this torturer the satisfaction of surprise, that his name was known; Enderby was resolute he would not give an inch. The blood from a cut on his eyebrow had dried down his face, and even with the smallest movements of his breathing he could feel this coagulated dribble start to crack and peel away. Still, he stared.

“Not the talkative type,” came the voice again. “Hardly surprising, considering your unenviable position. Poor, poor little British agent. Let me introduce you to the choices on offer. Kindly direct your gaze to the left? Now now, don’t be petulant. A man of your training should take such an opportunity to know his enemies. So I implore you. You’ll surely learn a lot. Excellent, so, going from your far left inwards…”

The man on the far left leaned on a cane, dressed impeccably in green tweed and a brown, shallow-brimmed hat sloped at an angle. His face was ratty, sallow, looked pockmarked and ill, with a neatly trimmed moustache and a flat nothing of a chin. Clearly a degenerate, he smoked from a long ivory cigarette holder clamped between sharp, too-small teeth.

“This man, Mister Enderby, will kill you with fire and fear. Very quick, very violent, but not, it has to be said, neat. It’s the word quick there that’s the problem here. Not to mention that to waste his talents on a single victim is somewhat, if you’ll excuse the pun, missing the target. So, onwards to the left. His companion.”

A great hulking thing, towering two heads above everyone else in the room. Wide and unmoving, dressed for winter even in these scorching Asian climes, the goggles that covered his eyes seemed white with the light’s reflection. He held his hands dumbly by his sides, one holding a ragged and bloody stump of flesh. The hands were surrounded by some sort of metal brace, catching the lamps at odd angles and distorting their light.

“Now, Mister Enderby, this is more my style. I mean, really…look at him! Imagine what a giant like that could do to a man.” He paused, self-consciously dramatic. “Only we don’t have to imagine. If you would, you vile monster, show the man what you can do.”

The behemoth stepped forward. It only took him a couple of strides to reach the seat where Enderby was tied, and he leaned down without ever changing the set, thin-lipped expression on his face. He raised the hand holding the gore-soaked thing and slapped it down into Enderby’s lap, as if he were tossing some begrudged debt. He raised himself upright again like a machine, stepped back into position. As he did, Enderby looked down.

In his groin sat a face. Or part of one, at least. It was the right-hand side of a skull, ripped from its other constituent parts, a claggy maroon around the edges and pale where the skin was, tattered at the side with bone-white splinters sticking out. Still damp on the underside, and soft. Even though the eye had been torn from its socket Enderby recognized the features.

It was half of the face of Edward Coyne.

Trying not to show his disgust, Enderby bristled, and shook his knees sideways to dislodge the lost piece of that man. The brute looked on, impassive.

“I think that neatly demonstrates what our friend is capable of. Though I’m happy to elaborate. No? Then onwards still. Next in line, you’ll notice, is me. Thing is, Mister Enderby, I don’t much go in for the dirty work these days. As such, we’ll pass on, and move to my right. Now, isn’t she a peach?”

The woman was clad in traditional Indian dress with studded brass plates stretching across her breasts and hips, fabric tightly hugging the seductive curves between them. She was flawlessly, effortlessly beautiful, with numerous rings and piercings in her ears, a snarl to her lips and cool lust in the vortices of her eyes. She had the poise of a ballet dancer and was ready to strike.

“This exquisite little example is quite the firebrand, Mister Enderby. She’s been known to make men weak at the knees and she’s oh so very smart. How will she dispatch you? Well, if those looks of hers don’t get you first, she’s quite the mistress of the khukuri. If she doesn’t break your heart, she’ll slice it out.”

The woman smiled at Enderby cruelly, twisted her left wrist around twice and tugged. She was holding a black leather leash that arced down to the clasp at the top of a laboratory coat. The ingratiating animal dominated by the Indian siren whimpered, a frail and beaten, old, half-dead thing with yellow skin stretched across a scuffed, bruised face and hair finer than cobwebs stuck with dust. As with the giant, he wore black-tinted goggles, simpering while his hands quivered ceaselessly around his drooling mouth.

“Now, this one doesn’t look like much, I’ll be the first to admit. Indeed, if you could reach far enough to kick him you could kill him, and if you did you’d be doing him a favour. Ah, but the things he can do with poisons! He’s a master there, not the wreck he appears. Agony for days, weeks, if he chooses. An assortment of chemical brutality or bliss, the doctor with the deadliest medicines. Excuse my foray into the florid.”

Enderby snorted mockingly. The man made a brief chuckle of satisfaction from his diaphragm, equally mocking in return. He waited for a moment, giving Enderby enough time to reply and break his stubborn silence. When the agent still refused to talk, the shadow of a man continued with the jolly tones of a salesman’s patter.

“And so,” he said, affecting excitement, “last but not least, the wild card. The final player in this band. And what do you think of him, Mister Enderby, hmm? What might his speciality be?”

Of course this sadist would leave him for last. Years of training allowed Enderby to feign indifference in the face of trials and physical pain, but that didn’t allay the sickening of his gut and the hot, pure anger that is commonplace to every mortal man. Out of everyone in the room, this last in the line was the only one who did not look at him. He gazed upwards, a bemused child distracted by a passing butterfly, his eyes unfocused and his face a saggy, lop-sided mess. His clothes were covered in filth and he looked malnourished, his arms dangling straight down by his sides.

Arnaud, thought Enderby. By God, what have they done to you?

“If I had to pick,” the silhouette continued, leaning back in his chair. “I think I’d go for our plucky fallen hero on your far right. All the others here, well…I’ve seen their work. Their craftsmanship is a joy to behold, but without putting too fine a point on it, I’ve seen it all before. This new toy of mine, however… What is he capable of? What would he do when commanded to kill? Ah, the thrill of Chaos, Mister Enderby. It’s intoxicating.

“But maybe it’s not for me to pick. And so this is the decision I have for you. If you had to pick, which one would you choose? Poison, dismemberment, the slice of the knife? In all sincerity I’d advise you, at this juncture, how inadvisable it would be to keep to your vow of silence.”

Enderby stared out, desperately trying to make out a feature—anything—of this man who sat and threatened him. But the darkness of the figure was absolute, like a slab of obsidian that drew in and jealously held any light. Still, he continued to stare. He opened his mouth to speak.

“Ah ah ah,” interrupted his torturer. “Before you decide, I should point out that your friends are on their way, so there may well be an audience. An audacious rescue plan is on their minds, I shouldn’t wonder! Hope is such a wonderful thing. Don’t you agree?” He sat forward slightly, but his face was still utterly obscured. “And with that on your mind, Mister Enderby, have you made your choice?”

Enderby swallowed and smiled.

“I’d have the coward do it,” he said, his voice low and strong. “You, you craven bastard.”

A short burst of genuine laughter emanated from the dark shape of a man.

5.

THEY HURRIED THROUGH Sovereign’s corridors, Nathaniel’s long legs allowing him to take the lead ahead of Bedford and the ensign. Their haste seemed perfectly in tune with the mood of the rest of the ship. A restless energy buzzed in the air, naval ratings noticing their swift passage and putting it down, as ever, to trouble ahead. The whole crew seemed to sense that this was no ordinary mission; the rumble of the engines at full steam were felt with an uncommon clarity, and even the smallest tasks necessary for the ship’s wellbeing were performed with an uncommon speed and precision.

The door to the bridge was open, and Stone sprinted in before jerking to a stop. Bedford was only a second behind him, and without even pausing to catch his breath he turned and ordered the ensign to fetch Tally, Boon and Annabelle—so long as the latter were sufficiently rested. The ensign saluted and left.

Nathaniel always felt a thrill on the bridge; there was something indescribable about it, like looking out through the eye of a leviathan. The sleek wooden panelling and the brass glint of instruments that stretched before the observation window, the chink and hiss of delicately tuned apparatus worked by the nimble fingers of highly-trained men, men who went about their work with a quiet, intense pride. Yet there was a ghost at this feast. Even now it seemed as if Folkard’s presence lingered still, a disquieting feeling which still seemed, Nathaniel noted with interest, to affect Commander Bedford. As if to hammer this point home, the captain turned from the bank of instruments at the helm.

It did not help that Captain Benjamin Theobald was no match for Folkard when it came to commanding Sovereign. His experience previous to his promotion had been wholly Earthbound, his rise to captain more a matter of politics than prowess. He knew this, of course, but was a proud man. He was loathe to admit Bedford’s ability greatly surpassed his, yet remained an earnest and solid—if slightly unimaginative—leader. He seemed to have aged slightly; an increase in the grey of the mallen streaks around his temples, a darker shade of black around his eyes. His relief at seeing Bedford, his second-in-command, was almost palpable. It was as if a weight of culpability had been lifted from his shoulders.

“Gentlemen,” said Theobald, nodding gravely. “Let us not waste time. The matter in hand is twofold, and as ever, Commander Bedford, I would appreciate your views.” The fact he admitted this was worryingly indicative of the seriousness of the situation. “Firstly,” he continued, “we have received reports of a…presence over Calcutta. A battleship, apparently Russian, of a greater magnitude than we have ever witnessed. It is currently stationed above the slums, hovering like some Godforsaken bird of prey. Our forces deployed there dare not take any action against it. While it has not yet exhibited any antagonistic action, descriptions indicate that it is heavily armed and primed for firing. It is a threat, plain and simple.”

“Surely Sovereign can match it?” said Bedford.

“Commander Bedford, I have as much faith in this ship as any man on board, yourself included. But to put her in the line of fire would be too great a risk. Besides which, another matter has arisen, one which has a far greater bearing on how we should proceed.”

“Show me,” said Nathaniel quickly, stepping forward.

Captain Theobald picked up a small piece of paper lying next to the aether tiller controls. “A heliograph,” he said, “apparently received from the comm deck of this mystery dreadnought. You’d… You’d better read it yourselves.”

He held the paper out and Nathaniel snatched it away. Bedford crowded by his elbow to read.

Cyrus Grant is mine. Stop. Folkard is mine. Stop. Come one, come all. Stop. My blackbird will sing in Calcutta. End.

The note was followed by a set of co-ordinates. Nathaniel swallowed dryly, unconsciously crumpling the missive as he dropped his hands to his sides. “Worse than I thought,” he muttered. “Worse than I thought.”

Sub-lieutenant Barry turned in his seat from his station at the horizontal inclinometer.

“On the approach to Calcutta, sir,” he said. “Naturally enough the captain ordered that we keep our distance for now.”

“A wise move,” said Nathaniel. “Seeing as it’s clearly a trap.”

“What choice do we have?” asked Bedford. Though it was said aggressively, the statement held no malice. It was merely a reflection of powerlessness, the panic of the ensnared. “We’ve been chasing shadows, Stone. Putting ourselves and our friends in danger, and for what? To turn around and go home? If there’s hope we can fight back, hope that there’s the slimmest chance that what we know to be right could prevail? Who are we to turn our backs?”

Sovereign’s broad observation window, hitherto misted and specked with the condensation of cloud, began to clear. Suddenly, as the last of the wisps of the nimbus cleared, the city spread before them like a toy thing, a military map on which figures of soldiers were placed and knocked down. The splendour of Calcutta’s noble city, defined by solid brick buildings, wide boulevards and white brickwork, spanned to their left in a serene and careful order. Then came the river, a meandering muddy split, and beyond that the smear of the slums, a cancerous mould of smoke and ruin.

Above the slums hung the great black battleship. Even from such a distance its scale was obscene, its stillness in the air a promise of violence. Like a bruise against the blue of the sky it sat there, angular and squat, the beckoning bully-boy of the horizon, just waiting for the weak to get close enough to punch.

“The result of the stolen blueprints… There is no choice,” said Nathaniel. “All through this… There never was.”

Chapter Fifteen

The Horizons of Deceit

1.

THEY BEGAN THEIR final descent.

The rumble of the cutter belied the silence. No-one spoke. Stone’s cutter was the first down, a small battalion of marines following in the second. Boon and Tally sat side-by-side. They had started chatting soon after being introduced, and even in these tense times a burgeoning friendship was apparent to all. They had spent the trip to Calcutta telling each other stories of times long past and just gone, with Tally quizzing the experienced agent on what Tooler’s offer might entail, and all he might have to look forward to in the service of the Bureau.

Annabelle was rested, but remained edgy. Bedford knew it was pointless telling her to remain aboard Sovereign. For starters there was no guarantee she would be any safer there. Secondly, if she were with him he knew he could protect her better, and thirdly… Well, thirdly he knew if she were with him then he had his own angel of protection. If she were elsewhere he knew he would fret about her safety, become distracted, maybe even make a fatal mistake. With her by his side he felt better in a multitude of ways.

The co-ordinates turned out to be a small patch of wasteland half a mile from the North-Eastern side of Black town. As the cutter approached, Barry turned back from the cutter’s helm.

“They’ve got forces waiting, Commander,” he said to Bedford as he eased their descent. “Russian marines, a couple of dozen. Tanks too. Two other figures there, I can just about make out… Though one of them ain’t hard to miss. Christ alive, he’s the size of a shire horse.”

Nathaniel and Tally caught each other’s eye.

“We need to be very, very careful,” said Stone.

2.

KLOPSTOCK, HIS EVER-PRESENT cigarette holder clamped between his peg-like teeth, puffed contentedly as he brought the binoculars down from his eyes and smiled. The holder jutted up in his mouth like an antenna.

“Second one!” he said, in his quick, nasal tones. “Has to be. If you will, Mister Potsdam.”

Potsdam lurched forward, his tread heavier than usual. Strapped to his right arm with leather braces three inches wide was a boxy, mechanical contraption the size of a small chest of draws. The corner opposite the straps had been cut away to reveal the mechanism inside; a huge and tense lateral spring poking from the bottom in a semi-circle. The whole device was patterned with Klopstock’s trademark flourishes, oak polished to a sheen and gently carved fractal patterns. Parallel to Potsdam’s arm was another arm of less organic origin—that of a finely wrought, clipped-in catapult. A small, brass crosshairs flipped up automatically as Potsdam hefted the weight perpendicular to his body. His smallest movements mirrored that of Sovereign’s second cutter; he stepped back, clenched his fist, and fired.

The catapult arm shot forward, releasing a cylinder that drew a faint black-green mist behind it. It arced into the sky with perfect aim. Potsdam reeled from the recoil but quickly righted himself, watching as the projectile flew, the peaceful and soundless seconds as it whipped through the air. It drew a perfect curve, catching the second cutter square on the port midship. The cutter shot horizontally some thirty feet; far more so than would be expected from a conventional explosive. After that, there was no pretence to lift, no hope left in those engines or for the luckless men that burned inside. The cutter dropped from the sky in a graceless plummet, slamming to the ground without fire or fanfare, a mishmash of metal in which no-one could have survived.

“Y’know,” said Klopstock, turning around and patting Potsdam on his free arm. “The nicest thing about that was how it was all so unnecessary.”

3.

“YOU SAW WHAT we did,” called Klopstock from several feet away, as the door to the cutter swung open. “I assure you we’ve rewound our little trebuchet again, should you desire to leave this world as a flaming mess. Keep your weapons down, your movements slow, and…” He squinted at the figures filing out of the surviving cutter. “Why, dash it. It can’t be.”

He screamed, loudly and uncontrollably.

“Stone!” he screeched. “Stone, you bastard! Baaaaah-stard!” He started stamping, then jumping up and down on the spot in an irritated little circle. “And, and…that bastard Mick you dragged along! Here’s here too? Bastards, bastards, buggery cripes and blasphemy! Don’t you understand!? That was my masterpiece, the months I spent crafting… And you walked away! Walked away like, like…a pigeon! A pigeon from a… Gah!” He started to hop around again.

He finished his tantrum and breathed out heavily. He pinched the bridge of his nose, regaining some semblance of control. Potsdam remained impassive. The bomb-maker turned and addressed the Russian platoon.

Ne trogat kater. Okrujite ih. Svyajite ih. Zavyajite im glaza.

The Russian soldiers began their advance, marching in rows, their bayonets ahead of them.

4.

THE JOURNEY IN the tanks had been rough and uncomfortable, but otherwise the group had been handled gently. Even Klopstock ignored the possibility of a swift, cheap punch while Nathaniel was prone. When they had reached their destination they were ushered out with the same firm but undamaging insistence, each of the party with a Russian hand on their shoulder, guiding the blind and bound.

When the masks were removed, Nathaniel and his party may well have wished their captors had the compassion to keep them in the dark. But compassion was in short supply in the monstrous scene that confronted them. The first thing they saw when the blindfolds were removed was a charnel house of corpses stacked around a green and glistening stump.

They were in a rough cave, the stump sat in a shallow dip. The bodies of the slum’s disaffected and disposable lay in piles, arms and legs entangled, elderly and children alike wrapped in rags. Wide yellow eyes stood out like headlights from emaciated faces, bones jutted from hips, a withered pile of discarded human jackstraws going soft in the omnipresent heat. The buzz of the flies was almost deafening. A semi-circle of Russian rifles was pointed towards Stone and his compatriots, steady, unmoved by the stench and the slaughter. A Russian thug on the right of the line stepped forward, producing a glinting dagger from his waist with a soft, sharp schink. He approached Nathaniel and stood behind him. The barrels of the rifles continued to point.

A thick Russian voice came from behind, made all the more ominous by its mixing of the malevolent and the horribly familiar.

“Nathaniel Stone,” it said. “No, don’t turn around.” As his name was said, Nathaniel felt the rope that bound his hands to his back cut away.

“Commander George Bedford. Welcome.” The soldier with the knife stepped to one side, snipped away George’s restraints with a flick. He moved along the line as each name was intoned.

“Mrs Annabelle Bedford, née Somerset.” When this was said, the voice seemed to crack…Annabelle’s maiden name pronounced with an almost American twang. Annabelle stiffened.

“Charles ‘Tally’ Cahalleret. And last but not least, Mister Bertrand Boon. Welcome. Welcome all.”

The thug with the knife rejoined his line, slung his rifle up and pointed it at the group once more.

“Now you may turn around. No, wait,” there was a pause. “Now I shall allow you to turn around.”

The prisoners did so in unison as the voice continued. “You may think me proud for unburdening you of your bonds. You may think me foolish. But you think that from a lesser position, one of weakness, a place that hopes for the smallest of victories. Let me assure you that no such victory is possible. I allow you total freedom because you pose no threat to me; none at all. No more than a fly can pose a threat to a bear. You are useless. Inadequate. So much so, in fact…” He spoke a command in Russian. Vy svobodny. Vernites na korab. The guards lowered their weapons, faced to the left as one, and marched out.

When they turned, all of them—Nathaniel, Bedford, Annabelle, Boon and Tally—were confronted by a raised stage, behind which lay the grubby windows of a small laboratory. A row of figures stood on the platform. Potsdam and Klopstock, a beautiful Indian woman who held two chains in her arms, one attached to a decrepit walking corpse, the other to Arnaud, now a grinning, insensate fool. Nathaniel almost flew forward at that point, to wrench his friend and lover from that far-off grasp. In the centre of the room, the legs of his chair jammed perilously into another, smaller pile of Calcuttan bodies, was Enderby, his mouth taped up, breath ragged through his nose.

Above this ghastly scene was the face of a man whose appearance made Nathaniel’s blood run cold.

He sat in a high-backed chair, the comfort of it incongruous compared to the death and desolation over which he presided. He was leaning to one side, one knee across the other in a pose of total relaxation.

It was the face of Cyrus Grant, his eyes ablaze with madness.

Nathaniel glanced at Annabelle. The horror in her eyes was intense, although how she managed to keep the emotions from her face was beyond Nathaniel. Bedford looked at his wife, concern and anger quite clear on his own countenance.

Smiling like he owned the world Grant looked down upon his captives. Since their last encounter in the Admiralty labs his face had grown pale and hard. He had shaved and his hair had been neatly slicked back across his skull; a different man entirely to the one who had acted as Annabelle’s guardian, who had worked with intense rigour alongside Nathaniel to perfect the most wondrous scientific advancements of the age. Insanity, finally, had consumed his last shred of morality.

“Uncle!” cried Annabelle, her voice faltering with heartbreak.

“Annabelle, don’t,” warned Bedford.

“Don’t what!?” spat Grant, and again his voice seemed to crack and once more take on his usual transatlantic inflection. “Don’t reason with him? Don’t play his games? Look at me, Annabelle.” He slammed his fists down onto the arms of his chair. “Look at me, all of you! Do you really think—and I say this to you in particular, Professor Stone—that I would have ever granted you even the smallest chance of success? All of you, no more than puppets, dancing to my tune across the four corners of the Earth.

“You saw those stumps of the mineral trees because I wanted you to see them. You cannot imagine how long I have been working against you. Ever since the British government kindly allowed me to set up the research team, while they sent you off on your mission. Guided by the Heart, but working for me without even knowing it! We finished mining weeks ago! All I needed was a little more time to complete my plans, so I got your attention with that little bang on Horseguard’s Parade, split you up and sent you toddling off to buy the time I needed. It was insultingly easy.

“Admittedly, Professor Stone, I would have preferred to have you die in Dublin, but life is full of such little disappointments. More so for you than me, naturally. And yet my victory is only just beginning, and it pleases me that you will witness it—you, above all, will appreciate all I have accomplished. You see, this epic deception of mine was just the start. Your dissolute Empire would never allow a man such as me any real power. You feared my genius, all of you, and so I sought out an ally that would respect and cherish it. I will find Plypolyplon, Stone…”

At this Nathaniel smiled; it was subtle, and with everyone’s attention focussed on Grant, none noticed.

Not even Grant, who continued in his rant. “…and from thence the might of Russia will grow to encompass the entire Solar System. And I will not do it without assistance. There is one final deception, my dear old friends, a betrayal so perfect as to make my ascension truly immaculate. Here is your worthless spy, Enderby. But what of his cohort? What of your friend, the gallant captain?”

“Folkard,” breathed Bedford. “Dear God, no…”

“Dear God yes, Commander Bedford. At present Captain Folkard awaits my return aboard Imperator. Together, he and I will traverse the asteroid belt to discover the worlds beyond. You took me for a raving fool, but the brave, stout, loyal Jacob Folkard… How could any of you have ever doubted him?”

Grant watched with a sadist’s smile as the weight of his words crushed his captive’s spirits.

“I have achieved everything I needed to here. Imperator awaits me.”

He stood to leave, brushed an imaginary speck of dirt from his lapel, and turned to the room. “Potsdam, Klopstock—kill them all. Use your imagination. Moonsinge, come with me. I still have need of your talents.” He started to stride towards the door to the lab, but stopped suddenly and turned, theatrically raising his index finger as if he’d remembered something “Oh! And, Professor Stone?”

Nathaniel glared at him, his expression impassive.

“They’re going to make sure you die last, old friend. The frantsuzskiy korova will not be happy, but…” Grant waved it away with a smile. “Enjoy the show.”

Annabelle, so silent during the whole exchange, suddenly yelled. It was a roar of frustration, of hatred, of pure, blind rage. She whipped to her right with remarkable speed and her hand went into Boon’s jacket. Quick as a dart she had pulled out Elizabeth, his custom machine-pistol, took aim and fired across the room at Grant, the shot only just missing Potsdam’s head as the brute lumbered towards them. A feral grin bisected her face as she watched the bullet fly.

Grant’s crowing gesture was his downfall. Had he not raised his arm to mock Nathaniel, he would never have lost it.

The round hit Cyrus Grant near the crook of his elbow; there was a flowering of flesh with the almighty burst of force. His arm twisted away and dropped in a pathetic arc, its weight snapping tendons as it fell. For a second there was no blood, and then it flowed in a sickening spatter to the floor. Grant stumbled, grimaced—but he did not fall and he did not scream. He leaned back on his back foot and regained his posture.

He looked Annabelle in the eye as the smoke from the pistol barrel rose and wisped away. His teeth were gritted, his right hand clutching the torrenting stump by instinct. “Give her pain!” he half-hissed, half-screamed to Potsdam and Klopstock. “Give her pain beyond the limits of imagining!” He turned to Moonsinge and let her cradle him as she led him away into the laboratory and beyond, dropping Garrecreux’s leash as she went.

As Potsdam passed Enderby in the centre of the room he struck out and batted the bound agent sideways with his tree-trunk arm. Enderby grunted as he fell, but still Potsdam advanced, each step as slow and lethal as the turning of the tide.

Tally watched carefully as the brute stomped towards them. He turned to Annabelle and grabbed the gun from her unresisting fingers. Potsdam was no more than four feet from him. Tally aimed and screamed as he pulled the trigger time and again, each bullet shredding the thick black greatcoat and bouncing off the frame that held the monster’s rotten bones. His flesh inside was revealed; a sour milk stench filled the cavern. The rancid zombie torso was punctured and bleeding, but still the behemoth advanced. Tally tossed the empty gun away. He breathed deep and hard through his nose; he concentrated.

He reached back into his pocket, pulled out the penknife and with a swiftness honed on dangerous streets flicked the blade out. Potsdam reached towards him with a huge metallic hand but Tally, more lithe, dived out of reach between his arms. There was just enough room, and he had just enough skill, to thrust the blade forward though the gaps in Potsdam’s brass ribcage and plunge the point into the beast’s modified, ungodly heart. Pale green ooze seeped weakly from the wound; the monstrosity spasmed and twitched, uncomprehending. As the abomination fell back, his face still an unfeeling slate, he pulled Tally with him, the Irishman’s arm still caught between the bars of the cage that held Potsdam’s rancid and desiccated corpse. Tally screamed as his wrist snapped.

Boon dashed across to free Enderby. Klopstock, his eyes wide, fled suddenly to follow Grant and Moonsinge. Meanwhile, on the platform, another death was unfolding. Garrecreux, seeing his beloved mistress abandon him, had begun to crawl towards the entrance to the lab, but Arnaud, still lost in the vile chemical’s thrall, grabbed his ankle and pulled him backwards. The degenerate scientist twisted onto his back as Arnaud pinned him down with his legs, his arms reaching up to the old doctor’s throat.

“Le vert?” Arnaud hissed through gritted teeth. “Où est le vert majestueux?”

“Lâche-moi, laissez-moi!” Pleaded Garrecreux. “Je peux vous donner c’est… Je peux vous donner tout cela!”

“Pas assez,” said Arnaud, wrapping his hands around Garrecreux’s neck. He gripped tighter, furious, the old man’s eyes bulging as he choked. He had soon lost the strength to even fight back.

A hand on Arnaud’s shoulder whipped him around. A fist, tight and bunched, connected with his jaw within a second. Arnaud fell unconscious as Nathaniel waved his bruised knuckles in the air. He looked down. It was too late for Garrecreux. This was no great pity.

Boon was helping Enderby to his feet, the senior agent pushing him away as if insulted. Nathaniel caught Boon’s eye, called him over. “Pick him up and bring him,” he said, indicating Arnaud. “He’s one of us.” Boon nodded and hefted Arnaud’s passive form between his shoulders.

“We need to get back to the cutter,” said Bedford. “And fast.”

5.

THEY EMERGED FROM a rocky tunnel into an abandoned shell of a building somewhere in a deserted corner of the slum. Sovereign hovered some way to the East, and they dashed towards it. It did not take them long to reach the plain on which the remaining cutter sat.

Arnaud, still unconscious, had been laid between the benches. Bedford chivvied the pilot into getting the cutter airborne as quickly as possible. With all of them inside it was a bit of a squeeze, Boon and Bedford allowing Annabelle and the injured Enderby to sit. Tally nursed his broken wrist but brushed off any attention from the others—he’d had worse. Bedford pulled Nathaniel to one side.

“Is it really wise to pursue them?” he asked quietly.

“What other choice do we have? It may be the only way to discover what Grant’s been working towards all this time, what he’s been using these crystals for.”

“And if it’s some sort of aether weapon? What’s stopping him from simply turning about and blasting us out of the sky?”

“Nothing. Hardly a comforting thought.”

As if in acknowledgement, the cutter was suddenly buffered by turbulence.

“And then,” muttered Bedford, looking down, “there’s Folkard.”

Nathaniel nodded sombrely. “Indeed. Though I am far more inclined to believe Grant is a liar than Folkard a traitor.”

“Folkard’s a traitor alright,” growled Enderby. The duo turned, surprised, not even aware he’d been listening. “He’ll hang.”

A tinge of spite crept into Nathaniel’s voice. “Mister Enderby, I assure you I have known Captain Folkard for quite some time now…”

“Well clearly you didn’t know him well,” said Enderby simply, his voice still low. “I saw him on Imperator, laughing and joking with his damn Cossack friends. He’s turned, Stone. I’m sure of it. Why else wouldn’t he have attempted to rescue me?”

Nathaniel, unsure, stayed silent.

Bedford noticed Annabelle staring ahead of her, the faint ghost of a smile slightly curling her lips. He pushed past Nathaniel and knelt in front of her, careful not to tread on Arnaud.

“Annabelle, are you all right?” Her reverie broken, she looked up at him suddenly.

“Of course I am, George.” She said it matter-of-factly, as if in a conversation in a drawing room. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“After everything we’ve been through, the last few days… Your uncle…”

Annabelle smiled cruelly. “He’s not my uncle, George. Not anymore. He betrayed us. Tried to have us killed. His madness was one thing, but this…?”

The hatred in her eyes was palpable.

Nathaniel watched this exchange, and tilted his head slightly, considering all that Annabelle had been through. What future would she have? What kind of woman was she becoming? It was clear that it was also something Bedford was wondering, too. Nathaniel looked forward to finding out.

6.

FOLKARD DESPAIRED. HE was unsure how much longer his pretence could keep up, and was feeling a great unease regarding Oleg Olkhovsky and Valentin Utterklo, his two new best friends.

They had accosted him as he was making his way towards the comm deck. If Imperator was anything like Sovereign it would be staffed by at least six men around the clock. If he was lucky he might be able to get inside on some pretext and discover any changes between Imperator’s version and Sovereign’s—and how he might exploit them. Either that or somehow lure out, incapacitate and replace one of the heliograph operators there. Folkard didn’t like it. It was a plan in which far too many things could go awry, but in his present desperate state it was the best he had.

He had first spotted Olkhovsky and Utterklo striding down one of the corridors towards him, just as he was making headway towards his objective. He quickly noted their insignias—both the Russian equivalent of a petty officer. In many ways, it had been fortuitous the uniform he had acquired belonged to a mere rating, as the majority of the crew ignored him and it made it easier to avoid the sight of officers who may have been better informed of Folkard’s appearance. The two men were burly, seasoned sailors who took up most of the corridor. They muttered unintelligibly to each other, and did not seem to have noticed him yet. Adopting a stance of respect rather than caution, and careful not to move too quickly, he moved to one side in the corridor to let them pass.

As they approached, one of the men slapped the back of his hand to his companion’s broad chest, and pointed directly at Folkard.

“Oi, you,” he barked in Russian. “What’re you doing?”

Folkard stepped out from the shadows with his chin high, recalling the days it was necessary for him to show deference to a superior officer. “Message for the comm room, sir.”

“Message my arse,” chuckled the other petty officer. “What are you really doing?”

“Skiving, that’s what he’s doing. Probably got some poor muzhlan on the floor he’s supposed to be mopping. What’s your name? C’mon, out with it!”

Folkard’s mind raced. He found himself instantly replying “Kuznetsov, sir.”

“Well, Kuznetsov, let me tell you this: I’ve never liked lazy men, and nobody gets to your age without being promoted unless they’re a very, very lazy man. Christ above, even the galley boys get to cook a borscht sometimes.”

“What’cha reckon, Oleg?” said the other sailor, rubbing his chin. “Reckon we should teach him what hard work feels like?”

“Oh, yes indeed, Valentin. Yes indeed.”

They had frogmarched him away from the comm room. It didn’t exactly feel like he was being press ganged, and Folkard could well imagine this being a tactic these downtrodden, frustrated bully-boys often employed against those they felt they could abuse. He had to hope that was the case now, and not that his deception had been uncovered.

When they put him to work, scrubbing the mess floor on his hands and knees, it almost made him feel relieved. If his true identity had been known he’d be straight to the brig and probably beaten to boot—if a little expenditure of elbow grease was the alternative Folkard considered himself fortunate.

Olkhovsky and Utterklo had not left his side. They now both leaned with their backs to a table, crossing their arms and watching him in silence as he scrubbed.

Utterklo called out. “Where you from then, Kuznetsov? Anywhere nice?”

The time spent labouring had given Folkard ample opportunity to fabricate a story. From their accents these two were Moscow born and bred, so he picked somewhere provincial and replied without looking back.

“Kimra. My father was a cobbler.”

“Oh, Kimra. Your sister lives in Kimra, doesn’t she, Oleg?”

“Used to.”

“What made you leave then, Kuznetsov? The shoemaking life a bit too much like hard work, was it? Thought you could get your meal ticket from the Imperial Navy?”

“Something like that,” said Folkard. “I guess I just wanted to see the world.” Olkhovsky snorted derisively.

As he worked they carried on quizzing him. How did he get into the Navy? Why the hell hadn’t a man his age ever been given a promotion? And finally, the one that stung sharpest of all; “You got a sweetheart back home, Kuznetsov?”

He answered each of their questions diligently, avoiding unnecessary detail that might trip him up later. After he’d scoured the whole floor—his hands red raw and wrinkled from the tepid, greasy water—it was almost like the three of them were old friends. Utterklo wandered across to one of the tables and hooked three tin mugs with his fingers. As he wandered back he used his free hand to produce a small brown bottle from his back pocket.

“Here, Kuznetsov, c’mere,” he said as he poured. It was more an order than an invitation, and he eyed Folkard suspiciously as he handed him the drink. “Keep it to yourself but I’ve a friend in the sick bay. Amazing what he can do with a potato, imagination and a few glass bottles.” Folkard took the mug. Its contents smelled like kerosene. “To the Tsar!” Utterklo said with a smile, and held Folkard’s eye.

“To the Tsar!” parroted Folkard.

As they brought the mugs to their lips a commotion came from outside. Olkhovsky jumped down from the table he was perched on and glanced out the door before looking back to grab Utterklo and Folkard’s attention.

“Hey, you two,” he said, beckoning. “Come and look at this.”

Utterklo pocketed his moonshine and the trio wandered out into the corridor. What Folkard saw made him glad he had a drink in his hand.

He had had to force himself to keep absolute control when he saw Enderby paraded by him. The agent’s face was steely, unperturbed by the insults and catcalls yelled at him. He looked pale but was otherwise unharmed. Folkard quickly assessed the situation—two soldiers led Enderby and two brought up the rear, but with all the hullabaloo it seemed the entire crew was on deck, watching the captive at the height of his humiliation. Realistically, there was nothing Folkard could do at present. That Enderby had been captured was a blow, but he was still at large and while Imperator still sailed his mission was clear.

Olkhovsky hovered back after a brief chat with one of his shipmates. “English spy, apparently,” he noted casually as he knocked back his drink. “Wouldn’t want to be in his shoes, eh, Kuznetsov?”

“Not for all the tea in England,” Folkard quipped, and Olkhovsky and Utterklo roared with laughter.

“You’re all right, Kuznetsov,” said Utterklo, slapping him on the back. “Look, we’ve all been a bit uptight recently, what with everything going on. Big changes happening, too much bloody work, and if clapping some slimy British opezdol in irons isn’t reason to celebrate, I don’t know what is. Come, drink with us.”

Once more, it was not an invitation, but an order.

7.

THE BRIDGE WAS ablaze with activity. Captain Theobald had, with no small relief, shunted himself to the background to allow Bedford to take control. The only vestige of command that remained was his pompous and upright posture. Bedford yelled commands, directing his men, wringing every nanowatt of power from the engines and ensuring each carefully calculated movement of the ship directed it as swiftly as possible through the aether.

Nathaniel suddenly burst in, skidding to a halt. He reached out an arm and steadied himself on the command chair, speaking in breathless bursts.

“I’ve tweaked, George…done as much as I can…without totally overloading the propeller governor. Three, four knots perhaps. Anymore and we risk tearing Sovereign apart.” He breathed in deeply and stood up, his head spinning.

“Boswell agree?”

Nathaniel nodded.

“I defer to your judgement, then. Sub-lieutenant Barry, what news of the Russian vessel?”

“Every time we accelerate it simply pulls ahead, sir. Outstripping us without even breaking a sweat. Whatever’s powering that beast is beyond me.”

“Are you sure,” said Bedford, turning to Nathaniel, “that this is as fast as we can go?”

“Are you?” replied Nathaniel, not without humour. “Any more and we’ll shake the bolts from their housings.”

Bedford nodded solidly. “Very well,” he said. “We’ll chase these bastards into the very mouth of hell if we have to.”

“Commander Bedford.”

Bedford turned. Boon was standing before him, bolt upright.

“If I can help, I will.”

The commander slapped him on the arm, grinning. “Good man!” he said. “Not beyond your remit, though?”

Boon smirked. “I’m sure we can figure something out.” Bedford slapped his arm again.

“As can I,” said another voice behind Nathaniel.

The three men turned. Annabelle stood in the doorway to the bridge defiantly, legs apart and her hands on her hips. She brushed off their stunned looks. “Well, what do you expect me to do? Macramé?” she said brusquely, striding into the room. “If I can help, I will. We’re short-handed as it is. You, darling husband, are needed on the bridge. If anyone can make heads or tails of what the Russian ship is all about, it’s Nathaniel…even from a distance. Enderby is as battered as a snake in a mongoose den, Tally’s wrist is badly broken and Arnaud…” Suddenly, her vigour abandoned her, and she looked at Nathaniel sadly. “Poor Arnaud…”

“How is he?”

“Unconscious. Still. But restless. You should go to him. You may be able to do something.”

Nathaniel frowned.

Bedford strode up to the banks of instruments before the wide window through which blind night winked with stars. Ahead of them, the moon was the size of a ship’s biscuit, but bright and clear, the Russian ship an ink-blot against its pristine surface. He breathed in. Hands behind his back, he turned to his men. Took in the sight of his wife and his friends.

“Onward,” he said, “into the unknown.”

8.

HAVING FOUND HIMSELF at rather a loose end on the bridge, Nathaniel decided to take Annabelle’s advice and visit Arnaud in the sick bay. When Nathaniel had left him there, what fleeting moments of fevered lucidity the Frenchman had were filled with rambling shouts and spasms. He sweated almost constantly but was cold to the touch. The pernicious drugs he had been forced to take were slowly leaving his system, and as they did so they dragged suffering and anguish with them, displaying an almost organic will to torture the man who dared to abandoned their embrace.

He had witnessed first-hand the way this insidious chemical could ravage the human body—a cursory glance at the bodies of Potsdam and Garrecreux would communicate that to even the dimmest of intellects. Their usage had been an addiction, taken to the extreme, and Nathaniel only hoped that Arnaud’s relatively brief spell under its destructive thrall was reversible. He chastised himself for losing the sample of crystal in the Admiralty. What a fool he had been to take his eyes from it, even for a second! If nothing else he could analyse its structure and composition, perhaps synthesise some sort of antidote or dilution to lessen Arnaud’s terrible symptoms…

These fretful thoughts were suddenly curtailed by an unmistakable noise—gunfire! Two or three shots, a pistol by the sound of it, that came from the direction of the sick bay. With an icy dismay that hit him cold and hard in his gut, Nathaniel broke into a run.

9.

OLKHOVSKY AND UTTERKLO, their arms around each other, were onto the sixth verse of some interminable Russian drinking song. They had manhandled Folkard to their quarters, all the while promising him the best home-made vodka he’d have tasted since leaving, well, home. He protested as much as he could, made up a whole sorry story about an unforgiving, sour-faced skipper who’d been gunning for him from the second he stepped aboard, but to no avail. The two petty officers simply brushed his concerns aside, assuring him they’d have a word and smooth things over as soon as the drinking was done.

Without taking a breath they launched into the seventh verse. Between them they had managed to consume a bottle and a half of the rancid concoction, which burned the throat like wildfire and had a metallic, greasy taste. This, Folkard thought, was the kind of thing normally reserved for dissolving piston grease, not drinking. In as much as he could he had avoided the stuff, either only pretending to pour himself a shot or slyly disposing of it when the two burly Russians were distracted. More than once, however, when they proposed a toast and their eyes were on him, he found himself having to drink. He could feel the stuff stinging his stomach and making his head light, but he’d be damned if some Siberian rot-gut would jeopardise this mission. Still he played his part, cackling along with some off-colour anecdote about a one-legged prostitute and joining in with what few words he’d picked up of the song’s chorus.

Utterklo emptied the rest of the latest bottle into his mug and upended it theatrically. He slurred a curse and rose to his feet, but the movement was too much for his sodden brain to take. He wobbled for a moment, tottered and pitched forward, crashing headlong into the ground. Olkhovsky burst out laughing, a deep and rough sound. Folkard joined in.

“Looks like we have a winner,” smirked Olkhovsky, getting down on his hands and knees to crawl across to Utterklo, who had started snoring. Olkhovsky nudged him playfully. “Hey, hey myshka… Now’s not the time for dozing, we’ve gotta look after Kuznut… Kaznit… Ach, you know who I mean.”

His senses dulled by booze, Olkhovsky didn’t have even have time to react as Folkard brought one of the empty bottles down sharply onto the back of his head.

“Sweet of you, Olkhovsky,” muttered Folkard as he pilfered the unconscious Russian’s pistol and checked the chamber. “But I’m quite capable of looking after myself.”

10.

NATHANIEL RUSHED HEADLONG toward the sick bay, any thoughts other than those for Arnaud’s immediate safety stricken from his mind. He skidded around the door frame to the sick bay, his lungs fit to burst. He took it all in in a microsecond—the crumpled body of a sailor, hunched into a foetal position and deathly still. His blood was mingling with the soup he had been carrying in for Arnaud. Stooping over him was an orderly, who had just finished resting the poor man’s head to the ground.

“You man!” Nathaniel snapped. “What the devil’s happened?”

“It’s Doctor Fontaine, sir! He must’ve got hold of his pistol, shot him there and then!”

“Which way did he go? Quickly, man!”

“Ah, he must’ve gone towards the stern, sir. Reckon I’d have seen him otherwise.”

Nathaniel reckoned the same. The orderly’s protestations faded quickly as he, eternally grateful for the mobility the gravitar on the ship brought him, pelted towards the engines. Had they been on any other aether ship, such speed would have been impossible.

11.

FOLKARD MOVED, SILENT as a shadow, through Imperator’s darkened corridors, his thoughts not too distant from Nathaniel’s. Judging by the existence of gravity on Imperator, it appeared the Russians had also been mining gravitar. In every way that mattered, Imperator truly was Sovereign’s sister ship.

What little he had imbibed in the petty officers’ cabin was still having an effect. He was woozy and his step was light; he had to fight to keep his balance and vision steady. He shook his head, trying to ward off the fog that clouded his judgement. Thoughts of the mission, of duty to the Crown and fidelity to his friends and countrymen, spurred him onwards.

His first idea was sabotage. If he could somehow make his way to the engine room undetected he may have been able to disrupt the engines, perhaps scuttle the warship in the aether and, at least for the moment, lessen the threat Imperator posed to the world. But what then? He could not guarantee Her Majesty’s Navy were aware of Imperator’s position, let alone its dreadful capabilities. Not only that, he was certain any damage he might do would only be temporary. This ship may not have been elegant, but its construction was sturdy and methodical—and with that came a veritable army of engineers who’d have it back up and running in next to no time.

Could he perhaps set a fire? Or rig up some sort of explosive? Whatever he needed to do, he needed to do it quick. A sudden, panicked coldness gripped his belly as he took in the vastness of Imperator’s many decks and passageways. He estimated it to be perhaps a third bigger than Sovereign, or was that guess just the vodka needling at his vulnerabilities, making him second-guess himself and ask what, realistically, a single man could do against such might?

He shook his head again, clearing these morbid thoughts. It was true that there was not much only one man armed with a single pistol and five bullets could achieve against such odds, even if that man was Captain Jacob Folkard. But the might of Sovereign and a battalion of fully armed British ships was another matter, and not a force to be resisted even by this grotesque behemoth. He had to let Sovereign know where he was and, if need be, tell them to blast this black beast out of the sky with him inside it.

He had to get to the comm room.

12.

HE WAS DEFINITELY on the right track when he found the marine was still breathing but out cold. Arnaud had clearly got the jump on him, and Nathaniel noticed with dismay that the unconscious man’s pistol was also missing—the next crewmember to encounter Arnaud might not be so lucky. If only he could corner him, restrain him, give it time for these destructive chemicals to leach away so the old Arnaud could return. Only time was the last thing he had. Finding the injured sailor had only served to confirm his worst suspicions—that an armed and unbalanced Arnaud was heading straight towards the engine rooms.

It must be some sort of post-hypnotic suggestion, he reasoned. Nathaniel’s body was charging down corridors but his mind was calmly using the time to make connections, to think ahead and plan. Potsdam and Garrecreux had appeared highly susceptible and weak-willed, and creating some sort of ingrained mental link between withdrawal symptoms and a specific set of instructions would not, he presumed, be all that difficult to do. But how strong would the impulse be? He had to assume that the real Arnaud’s will was stronger, and that only by coaxing his friend’s mind back to full consciousness could the conditioning be shaken off…and that was only if he could find Arnaud before he’d been shot dead.

He was nearly at the engine room when another pistol shot cracked and reverberated through Sovereign’s corridors. It was very close ahead.

Nathaniel just caught Arnaud’s heels disappearing around the corner. In seconds he would be in the engine room. To his left Nathaniel saw a sailor ducked into an ante-room off the main gangway, cocking his pistol and readying himself to lean out from cover and fire.

“Don’t shoot!” Nathaniel yelled as he raced past. “He mustn’t be harmed!” Stunned, the sailor watched Nathaniel blaze by before taking to his own heels in pursuit.

Mere moments after Arnaud had rounded the same corner, Nathaniel followed. But the beast was in control of Arnaud, and that beast was wily and cunning—he sprang out from his hiding place as soon as he had seen Nathaniel. For a split second Nathaniel could see his ravaged eyes, bloodshot and wide, and the crusts of spittle that had dried around the corners of his mouth. With a strength Nathaniel was unaware Arnaud possessed the unbalanced doctor whirled him around and barred his forearm across Nathaniel’s throat. Nathaniel attempted to struggle but ceased as soon as he felt the gun barrel pressed against his temple, still warm from Arnaud’s last crazed shot. He was breathing like a crazed, wounded animal and when the sailor from the ante-room skidded to a halt before them Arnaud closed his arm tighter around Nathaniel’s throat.

“Go!” He growled, gesturing with the pistol barrel. “Leave.”

“Can’t do that, sir,” said the sailor calmly. He began to reach for his holster.

Without pause or compunction Arnaud levelled the pistol and shot the man twice in the stomach, the blasts almost deafening Nathaniel. He was still recovering when Arnaud began to drag him towards the engine room’s imposing door, the barrel of the gun pressed to his head once more.

“You,” he hissed into Nathaniel’s ear, “you try and escape and I swear by God I’ll shoot you where you stand.”

“Arnaud, this isn’t you! It’s that perfidious drug, it’s got a hold of you, man! You’ve got to fight it!”

“No!” Shouted Arnaud. “No Nathaniel, no! You’re not going to talk me out of this, they told me all about you, all of you, how you’d use your guile against me!”

Arnaud kicked open the engine room doors and slammed it shut with his back. Such was the noise of the engine room the bang was barely noticed. Nathaniel’s previous tweaks were really putting Sovereign through her paces, and he noted with alarm the high and fevered whine of straining heat and energy emanating from every pipe and furiously pumping piston. Had he tried to be too clever again, putting his own pompous scientific largesse before the safety of himself and others? At this juncture, the slightest disruption to the systems could be catastrophic…

As Arnaud shoved Nathaniel roughly into the room a couple of the engineers had taken note and began backing away. Arnaud whipped the pistol out to point at the nearest one.

“You,” he spat, “lock the door!” His arms in the air, the engineer complied. Arnaud locked his arm tighter around Nathaniel’s throat again, and put his mouth towards Nathaniel’s ear. “You will tell me,” he whispered, as the professor began to suffocate, “how to destroy this ship!”

“Arnaud,” Nathaniel gasped, “think of what you’re doing. All the lives you’ll destroy…” A sudden bang on the door. Reinforcements had arrived. Arnaud released his grip slightly, alarmed, and pointed the pistol in a frenzy around the room. “It’s over, Arnaud. Come back, come back to me. We’ll make you well again…”

Gentle as they were, the words seemed to strike Arnaud like blows. As the battering at the door was reaching its climax Arnaud roared, a desperate and angry sound that came from some primal and untempered source. He flung Nathaniel aside, raised his pistol, and emptied the chamber into the first bank of instruments he saw.

13.

ON THE BRIDGE, the lights dimmed and flickered for a moment. There was an ungodly screech of metal from the stern and Sovereign began to list, losing precious speed as she did so.

“Lieutenant Sykes!” yelled Bedford. “Get onto the engine room, find out what the hell’s going on. Tally, Mister Boon,” he whipped around to face the two men, “get down there, see if you can help.”

Sub-lieutenant Barry looked up worriedly from a pressure gauge. “We’re losing all power in the engines, Commander. Sovereign... She’s dead in the water, sir!”

As the stricken ship continued to list, outside the menacing hulk of Imperator sailed effortlessly away over Luna’s horizon, the unearthly green of its engines blazing.

14.

SUDDENLY IMPERATOR’S CORRIDORS were alive with activity and excited chatter. Folkard ignored the ruckus, moving with a singular purpose towards the comm deck, grateful the enemy’s attention was directed elsewhere. On the way he picked up half-heard chunks of gabbled conversation, something about a great blow to the British and that Imperator was shortly to bring a great glory to the Russian Empire, but it was difficult to separate hard facts from all the scuttlebutt. If anything, it only steeled his resolve to reach the comm room as quickly as possible.

Ironically, his pace had quickened tenfold now the corridors were full and lively with activity. Folkard could hop from group to group or stride purposefully along, waving and smiling at his purported crewmates. He reached the door to the comm room in no time, and just as he was approaching a midshipman with a somewhat noble bearing breezed out of it. Folkard stopped dead right in front of him, and the midshipman looked him up and down.

“It’s a great day to be a Russian, eh, sailor?” he said.

Folkard nodded eagerly. “Indeed, sir. I never thought I’d see the day…”

“Quite, quite. Do you, ah… Do you have any business in the comm room?”

Folkard stuttered for a second. Through the open door he could see the room was deserted, the power in the lights above the heliograph turned down low.

“Well sir,” he began, stalling for time by scratching the back of his head. “I was just thinking, I’ve a brother back in Kimra, he’s been sick with influenza and this news…”

The midshipman smirked wryly. “Ah, of course. Want to send a message, eh? Cheer up the folks back home. Well, I can’t see the harm. Go in, but don’t touch anything. I’ll send someone by presently to see to your needs.” He stepped to one side to allow Folkard into the comm room.

“Thank you sir, that’s very kind of you, sir.”

“And don’t touch anything.”

“I won’t, sir.”

Folkard squeezed by and the midshipman softly closed the door behind him. The comm room was unnaturally dark, and here and there he could see shadowed backs murmuring into pipes from the dark hoods of cubicles. Ahead of him, the heliograph was unmanned. He strode across and, without bothering to sit, began to take in the controls. The setup was markedly different from the one on Sovereign, but if could just employ a little Russian logic to it… He reached out and flicked a switch experimentally.

The first thing he thought of, in those meagre final moments, was that it all must have been happening to somebody else. That the shot had come from outside, that some drunken officer from Kazakhstan had got overexcited and let off some steam with a bang and a whoop. But no; the shot had come closer than that, much closer, and after a lifetime of realisation the warm, wet patch that had been spreading around his left kidney gave way to a sharper, excruciating pain. He pitched forward onto the controls.

“Ah ah ah,” came a voice from behind him. “Weren’t you listening? He told you not to touch anything.” It was a voice he knew, the inflections, the timbre, all the same but the accent was different. Gasping against the pain he managed to turn himself over to face the man who had shot him in the back.

“I hope you enjoyed your little tour, Folkard. I arranged it specially. Olkhovsky and Utterklo were happy to help. I wanted to show you the very best of Russian hospitality. Hard work and vodka, Jacob. That’s what’ll make you a man.”

It couldn’t be… Before him stood a relic of a man he once knew, the same face, the same voice, but all out of proportion like he was being controlled by a bad puppeteer. His face had hardened and his eyes were wide and maniacally focussed. Folkard noticed that his right arm was bandaged in a stump at the elbow.

“Grant,” hissed Folkard, clutching at his side. “It was you. All along, it was you…”

“Well, yes and no. An exercise in control, if you will,” continued Grant, padding across to Folkard with an insouciant air. “You see, Cyrus Grant isn’t here anymore…” Folkard, overcoming the weakness that had begun to course through him, reached down for the pistol at his side. If he could just get one shot off… Grant casually took aim and shot Folkard in the thigh, and the captain crumpled to the floor.

“We have met several times, Captain. You thought your man had killed me, but my will is beyond the reach of the mortal now.” He strode over and slowly grabbed both sides of Folkard’s head in his hands, and angled it up so Folkard could look him in the eyes. “The perfect disguise to destroy you and your weak little band of crusaders, righting your perceived wrongs and daring to presume you could meddle with my destiny. I am Vladimir Tereshkov, killer of Jacob Folkard, the greatest mind Russia has ever produced, reborn and redefining the horizons of humanity!”

Folkard looked into his eyes, his strength failing. “Grant,” he whispered. “Are you there, Grant?”

In the last moments before his vision blurred, Tereshkov’s face seemed to shift and sag. The eyes were still wide, but this time were filled with horror and sadness. It was Cyrus Grant’s soft Midwestern accent that whimpered “Captain!” with unrelenting confusion, and then Folkard felt Tereshkov take control again and throw his head to the floor. He was suddenly and painfully aware that he was not breathing.

He felt the pressure in his temples ebb, replaced with a soothing coolness and an inky blot that swam on the edges of his vision. He tried to close his eyes but could not, and suddenly there came a blinding whiteness in his mind. Images, information, sounds and senses overcame him, crowding out every other thought and memory, every notion of who Jacob Folkard was, is, or ever would be…

The Heart called out to him once more. It is time. Your journey’s end.

The blank void blazed for a moment and started to resolve itself, images he remembered, picked out in pastel shades and bathed in light. That sunny meadow, the apple tree with his little girl skipping around it, in the distance and slightly out of focus, but he knew his daughter would be everything he dreamed of. A picnic of fine cheeses, wine and baked bread, ham and slices of summer pudding. It was spring, you could smell it in the air, and she sat on the blanket and patted where she wanted him to sit, right beside her.

“Charlotte,” breathed Folkard. He began to smile.

15.

Message begins.

Large Russian vessel designated Imperator has breached asteroid field stop attempted blockade resulted in critical damage to HMAS Tartarus stop source of damage believed new Russian weapon stop request immediate assistance stop

Message ends.

TO BE CONTINUED…