Table of Contents

Copyright Page

Title Page

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Epilogue

Afterword

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

By Andy Frankham-Allen & Jonathan Cooper

Copyright 2014 by Andy Frankham-Allen & 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

Based on Space: 1889 created by Frank Chadwick

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

Horizons of Deceit Book I

http://www.untreedreads.com

HORIZONS OF DECEIT Book II

By Andy Frankham-Allen & Jonathan Cooper

Dedicated to the memory of

Colin Green (1941-2014)

Prologue

1.

September 21st 1890.

THE MIGHTIEST SHIP IN Her Majesty’s Royal Navy was giving chase. For the first time since she was commissioned, almost seventeen months ago, she was being outstripped. HMAS Sovereign’s engines were being pushed to their limits, but it was still not enough to match the speed of her bastard offspring.

Like a misshapen distortion of Sovereign, the Russian Imperial Dreadnought Imperator Aleksandr II continued to widen the distance between them as they passed the Earth’s moon, pressing on to a point way beyond. Aleksandrite, a revolutionary new compound first discovered by the Russians, was playing its part. On Imperator it powered the engines, while on Sovereign its misuse was the cause of some disastrous sabotage.

Almost imperceptibly Sovereign began to falter and slow while Imperator continued on, undaunted and unchallenged.

As the crew of Sovereign worked in vain to fix the problem, their ugly prey gaining further and further distance, a stowaway on Imperator was seeking to get a message out… Information that would be vital to the British Empire.

Information that was vital for the peace of the world.

2.

CAPTAIN JACOB FOLKARD, FORMER commander of Sovereign, squeezed by the midshipman and softly closed the door behind him. Imperator’s heliograph 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 he 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 especially. 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 coarse 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 men had killed me, but my will is beyond the reach of mere mortals 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, Cyrus?”

In the last moments before his vision blurred, Tereshkov’s face seemed to shift and sag. The eyes were still wide, but this time they 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 unresisting 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. 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.

3.

TERESHKOV WATCHED THE LIFE fade from Folkard’s eyes. He felt something he had not experienced in a very long time—so long ago that, at first, he wasn’t sure what the feeling was. He continued to look at Folkard’s eyes, only distantly aware of the sound of shoes on the metal grating of the gangway behind him. Remorse? Was that it? No. But something similar. The loss of something, something familiar…

Like a part of him was missing. But what was it? The Heart? No—he could no longer sense that intelligence, the mind of that ancient being which had been his companion for so long. There was a face. Strong, handsome, yet oddly feminine, too. Long dark hair. Annabelle!

Tereshkov let out a sneer. Annabelle Somerset, Grant’s niece. These were his feelings, not Tereshkov’s. He had long ago given up any emotional attachments on Earth, although it seemed that at least one had somehow beaten him to Imperator. All he had was science, and his path to glory. He refused to be fettered by the weak sentiment of Cyrus Grant.

He stood back and glanced at the midshipman behind him. “Store that somewhere. I am sure Madame Moonsinge will have use for it. If nothing else it will give her something to do.”

The midshipman saluted and reached down for the body.

Tereshkov put it from his mind. He entered the heliograph room fully and sat himself down. There would be no message sent to the British Navy, but there was a Russian flyer nearby, not far from Luna. In perfect place to relay a message back to Russia. One last message to the frantsuzskiy korova who sought to control him.

He laughed at the ignorance of such a notion.

No-one controlled Vladimir Fedorovich Tereshkov—he was master of destiny!

4.

“LET THEM SEE POWER!”

Kapitan-lejtenant Petenka Trushkin appreciated nastavnik Tereshkov’s sentiment, but he did wonder, once again, why the kapitan allowed him such free access to the bridge. As first officer one of Trushkin’s main duties was the management of personnel on Imperator, and that now included their unexpected guests, Klopstock and Miss Moonsinge, as well as Tereshkov. Except Kapitan Merkushev seemed to treat Tereshkov as his own personal guest, one afforded polnaya svoboda deystviy; unlimited access to all areas.

Trushkin attempted to ignore Tereshkov’s presence by focussing his attention on the British attempt at a blockade. In the aether it was a pointless exercise when there was no need to follow a straight line to reach your destination. But in this instance, continuing on a straight line would serve as an example to the British Navy. With all due thanks to Tereshkov they were standing in the most powerful ship ever built on Earth; only one ship even came close, and they had left that dead in the water three weeks ago. The blockade consisted of four aether flyers, and only one of those a naval battleship. The rest looked like civilian flyers, no doubt enlisted from the miners who worked the asteroid belt. Trushkin imagined that other naval flyers were on the way from Mars, but it would take them four weeks to travel from that world to the asteroid belt, a week longer than it had taken Imperator to travel from Earth. Even the mighty Sovereign could not hope to reach the asteroid belt in double that time. Imperator was powered by aleksandrite, and the minds that controlled it ensured it could be matched by no other vessel.

And not only in speed.

“Prepare the forward guns!” Merkushev ordered. “Target the Navy battleship and blow it out of the sky!”

For a tense few moments all was silent on the bridge, the crew all waiting.

“Canon is primed, Kapitan.”

Merkushev smiled. “Let them have it!”

Trushkin could feel the vibration long before he saw the rings of green light stretch out from a point above the viewing glass at the front of the bridge. It was as if Imperator herself was trembling in fear at the awesome power about to be unleashed. Every eye on the bridge watched as the rings of lights shot out, racing across the black of the aether, shattering the smaller asteroids between them and the Navy ship until they hit her square amidships. There was no sound, but Trushkin could imagine the screams of over a hundred men as their ship erupted around them, the remains left to drift, some colliding with the civilian flyers either side of it.

An example of the true destructive power of aleksandrite.

“For the glory of the Tsar!” Merkushev said, and cheers rang out all over the bridge, the crew raising imaginary cups. Soon there would be celebrations throughout Imperator with real cups filled with real drink. But there was no cheer from Trushkin; he was an Officer of the Tsar, and with that came duties he would perform without question. But he was also a man, and as a man he would mourn the loss of life on that British ship. Men who were doing their duty to their country. Very few of them really deserved to die.

He could not deny Imperator’s crew their moment of celebration, though, for this was a great day for the might of Imperial Russia, and neither could he deny the words he heard come from Tereshkov’s lips, drowned by the sound of cheering.

“For the glory of me.”

5.

October 8th 1890.

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.

Chapter One

“A Reunion in Arizona”

1.

AFTER THE OPULENCE AND careful imposing décor of the Admiralty, Tally’s first foray into the offices of the Bureau had been something of a letdown. He had not really known what to expect at first—since becoming embroiled in the adventures of Professor Stone and his cohorts he’d seen so many wild and unbelievable things and wouldn’t have been surprised in the least had the whole building been staffed by talking rabbits, or other such fanciful nonsense. He had at least anticipated some sort of grandeur, but was taken aback by the mundane nature of it all. Their offices were situated near Chancery Lane, accessed by a single, simple door into a wide building made of grey bricks with rows of oblong windows stretching across its four floors—well, those that you could see through the smog, anyhow. He was, quite literally, gasping for Dublin’s clean air, and still hadn’t quite got used to the grotesque figures that swished through the pollution in goggles and full respirator masks.

Inside the Bureau was no more inspiring—it was an office, nothing more, mostly staffed by women running from their dotage to the freshest flower of youth. Its corridors were labyrinthine and, frustratingly, un-numbered, so much so that even the longest-serving agents often needed to follow one of the girls to get them to where they needed to go.

As Tally followed his own guide through the maze, he noticed most of the doors to smaller rooms were closed. When the floors did open up—and it didn’t take long for Tally to deduce that the building must have been larger than it appeared from the outside—they revealed open spaces the size of school halls filled with rows and rows of partitioned booths. Women and girls, their hair bundled up into tight buns shot through with pencils, were busy clacking into typewriters and carefully transcribing copy from one paper to another. Others still pored over blueprints, or poked around at small brass machines with screwdrivers, fixing or improving them. He must have seen five or six of these bustling, esoteric hives of activity before, three flights of stairs and what felt like an eternity later, they reached a nondescript room with TOOLER printed at eye height on the door.

“The Big Room,” said Miss Baker, smiling and indicating the door. Tally couldn’t help but look at her. She was a handsome woman, perhaps in her late thirties, with a mess of red curls tied up to the back of her head. Her lips were as red as a Connacht rose, tinged with a smile, and her eyes were green but had the spark of fire about them. And there was something about the way she as dressed, too, that put a bit of a toot in Tally’s whistle. All that fancy finery and arses the size of jalopies, Jaysus. Now here was a woman, in a crisp white shirt with a frilled collar and a long navy dress with only the most tasteful of lines hemmed in thin black lace. Tally was surprised she was a Miss.

“Mister Cahalleret?” she said.

“Oh, aye. Yes. That’s me.”

“You were staring.”

“Oh, right. So I was. Well, I guess I’ll be getting no points for that.”

“I’ll start you a tab,” she said. Hang on, did she just give us the wink? “He’s expecting you, no need to knock.” She moved off, shuffling her hips, and even though he was risking being late to see Mister Tooler, Tally thought it’d be the height of rudeness not to at least watch them go. Tally turned around, attempted to shake the impure thoughts that were now crowding his mind, and opened the door to the office of the Director of the Secret Service Bureau, one of the three most powerful men in Britain, if not the world.

He could see why they called it the Big Room. The wit of bored Bureau boys. It was tiny, around four metres by three, though the ceilings were uncommonly high. What little space remaining was taken up by Tooler’s desk, the kind of thing any mediocre bureaucrat would sit at in parochial underwriter and accountancy firms throughout the land; pitted wood, sticky drawers, green-shaded desk lamp and all. A few boxes filled with files littered the floor, some stacked against the walls—all of which were covered in the brown leather spines of books, most of them tatty to the point of decay. It had the aroma of a library but the smell was tenfold, and in order to procure himself more space than the chaos of the desk Tooler had set up several music stands around his chair, on which stood open tomes and sheaves from secret files.

He stood when Tally entered; fairly short, bald and unassuming, his neck wrapped in a scarlet scarf.

“You’re flushed, Mister Cahalleret. Thought you’d like Miss Baker, I picked her especially. The bored housewives of London need something to do, Mister Cahalleret, and why let their talents go to waste? We’ve found they’re often more discreet than the men, but why wouldn’t they be? They have to keep the secret from their husbands too, those that have them. I rather like the fact we’re giving them a little more independence from that rather measly spouse’s wage, eh? Girls must have their fun.”

“That’s very…progressive.”

“Isn’t it just. I’m happy to say that Her Majesty’s Navy has decided to follow our lead, albeit on a trial basis. Should mix things up a bit on those ships of theirs, eh? Still, your background hardly precludes working women now, does it, Mister Cahalleret?”

He was being warned. Gently, he knew, but he was definitely being warned. Tooler seemed pleased that he had picked up on the undertone so quickly, and smiled. “Please, Tally,” he said. “Take a seat.” He sat back at the same time as Tally and pulled a pair of half moon spectacles from his breast pocket, balancing them on his nose. “In all things, Mister Cahalleret, we like to think ahead of the curve here at the Bureau. In time, you’ll come to learn of some of our plans.” He steepled his fingers. “The injury done to your arm, however, has regretfully kept you out of what we might term more ‘active’ service. Apologies for the pen-pushing, but you know how it is. There is, however, the small matter of a delivery that I believe you’d be more than happy to assist with.”

Tooler began to root around in the mess of ink pots, dossiers and crumpled blotting paper that lay in jumbled strata on his desk. Somewhere in the pile his fingers came across a small bundle, wrapped in calico fabric and tied up with twine. He pulled it out and set it down so the bow was facing him, before tugging at the end of the string. As the hoops disappeared the fabric uncurled and there, uncovered and glinting malevolently, was a chunk of deadly green crystal.

“I hardly have to tell you what this is. Or do I, Mister Cahalleret?”

There was an edge to the question which Tally didn’t need to strain to hear. Not only did he know what the ethereal mineral was, he knew where it had come from—the caverns under Phoenix Park. He and Nathaniel had brought it back themselves. The sample had mysteriously vanished during a meeting at the Admiralty at which Tooler was present. Yer man must be pretty nifty with his fingers, thought Tally, as even an expert pickpocket such as he hadn’t noticed the Bureau chief spirit it away. Tooler, it seemed, had hidden depths, but Tally was hardly surprised—the Bureau employed all sorts, and its chain of command was worryingly opaque.

“You do not, sir.”

“And I daresay I do not have to warn you of the calamities which doubtless would befall the innocent, should it fall into the wrong hands?”

“You do not, sir.”

“Excellent. I am, of course, aware of the fact you have seen the destructive capabilities of this… What was it poor Doctor Fontaine said it was called during his incarceration? Aleksandrite, that’s it. Dreadful name, simply dreadful. But I suppose it must suffice until something better comes along. Still, knowing its power I imagine you’ll be glad to hear that we are now sending it to Professor Stone, whose expertise and keen mind will, I’m sure you’ll agree, ensure its study is conducted in the most ethically conscientious way. And you, Mister Cahalleret, are to deliver it. But then, I assume you’d already guessed that.” Tooler beamed at him, his mouth broad and thin. “Tell Professor Stone it comes with my compliments.”

It wasn’t just the reappearance of the aleksandrite that had Tally feeling skittish. Some Bureau dogsbody had packed it into a wooden box which was strapped securely inside a small leather briefcase, its handle handcuffed to Tally’s good wrist. He clasped it tighter to his chest every time the train carriage lurched, fearful that the next shock or jolt might set the blessed thing off. He’d been assured that in its current state it was harmless. He almost believed that, but he still didn’t want to be taking any unnecessary chances. He remembered the smoking, desolate crater that had been left in his home town of Dublin on the day he fled his mother country, and the thought made him idly wonder how the repairs were getting on. Suddenly, he was hit by the realisation that he may never see his native land again.

Yet he was more anxious to get to Nathaniel. Tooler had certainly been right about that—if Tally trusted anyone to make sure the best use came from this deadly stuff it was Professor Stone. The professor was ensconced in the secret laboratories that were housed deep in the heart of the Admiralty. Not that all that meant much to Tally—he’d never had much truck with all that science stuff. Truth be told he just couldn’t get his head around it, and though he didn’t like to admit it, a deeper part of himself often recoiled in a sort of superstitious dread at the more wondrous marvels of the age. Still, such instances were becoming markedly fewer thanks to Nathaniel’s influence.

Even though the suitcase that pulled down at his arm was also a weight on his mind, he didn’t let it show as he walked the length of Horse Guard’s Parade towards the grand gates that served as an entrance to the Admiralty. He was far too much of a professional for that, and walking in like he owned the place was one of the tricks of his old trade. The thought that this essentially criminal trait was now happily being utilised by the British Government was a source of endless amusement for him. This boy’s done good, he thought to himself—though he’d be the first to admit it was more by luck than judgement. He just thanked his lucky stars that Tooler had seen his potential.

The Bureau would have called ahead, though whether the message had reached Nathaniel was anyone’s guess. Only a few weeks ago Tally would have been fairly intimidated approaching the angular, beautiful architecture that sat across the open square. Now it just felt like par for the course. Yet it wasn’t just familiarity that bolstered his resolve—the knowledge that Nathaniel was inside, possibly waiting for Tally’s arrival while he tinkered with his test tubes and pipettes, also spurred a spring into his step. He’d be doing his job, sure, but the chance to catch up with the professor was one he relished.

Of course Nathaniel smiled. Why wouldn’t he smile? After all, it had been weeks since they’d last seen each other, and the kind of trials they’d faced together only heightened the appreciation of meeting face-to-face without their lives being in immediate peril. Tally was, as he had expected, expected and a smartly dressed orderly had politely asked him to follow. They had been walking for a good ten minutes, first through grand wooden corridors with richly-patterned maroon carpets and then through utilitarian, white-tiled ones. Shortly they had reached a heavy metal door. The orderly knocked and, presumably more interested in tinkering with some machine or poring over reams of notes, Nathaniel grunted some affirmation it that was safe to enter.

His face lit up when he saw Tally.

“Tally!” Nathaniel had, naturally enough, been engrossed in some unfathomable papers, but he immediately stood and extended a warm hand in greeting. Tally crossed and the two shook hands, before a moment of silence fell as the two old friends took each other in. “How’s the arm?”

“Ah, it’s grand. Well, it’s getting there at any rate. Sure you’re looking well, Professor.”

“You too, Tally. You too. Bureau treating you well?”

“Aye,” mused Tally, smirking. “I daren’t complain. And yerself?”

Nathaniel sighed and swept a disparaging arm at the papers that covered his workbench. Tally couldn’t help but notice that at least a third of the sheets were covered in impatient crossings-out and corrections. “I’ve been tasked with finalising and implementing the improvements to Sovereign’s drive systems, so we at least have a fighting chance of catching up with Imperator. It’s all a bit of a dead end. Rather frustrating, if I’m brutally honest, especially with Admiral Hamilton champing at the bit for results.”

“Well,” said Tally. “Perhaps I can help you out there, Nate.”

Tally looked around to where the orderly was standing, politely but obviously listening in. The Irishman took no small pleasure in the discomfort on the man’s face as he stared at him pointedly, and the orderly blushed and made his way back outside with a classic look of English contrition. When the door clicked shut Tally turned back to Nathaniel.

“If only I were here on a purely social call,” he said, not without regret. “But I’m playing errand boy again, and I don’t think you’re wholly gonna like what I’ve brought with me in this here briefcase. I sure as hell don’t.”

Nathaniel furrowed his brow as Tally unlocked the handcuffs around his wrist and set the case down beside Nathaniel’s notes. He unclicked the clasps and opened the lid, carefully unstrapping the small wooden box and placing it reverently on the desk.

“G’wan,” said Tally. “Take a peek.”

Nathaniel carefully gripped the edge of the box’s lid with his fingertips and lifted it. “’Pon my soul!” he breathed. It was not an exclamation of shock or surprise, merely one of curiosity. But then, the professor was a smart one, and Tally felt sure he’d been expecting this moment for quite some time.

“Obviously came from the same chunk we spirited out from the auld country.”

“Without doubt,” said Nathaniel, his face lit slightly with the glow of the green crystal. “Only it’s, what, I’d guess perhaps a third of what we brought back?”

“Along those lines, aye. Which does make me kinda chary about what’s happening to the rest of it.”

“Indeed. So it must’ve been Tooler…”

“…Who pocketed it the last time we were together inside the Admiralty. I really should have noticed. Guess I was a bit distracted by the chandeliers.”

“Don’t berate yourself too harshly, Tally. At least it wasn’t Chillingham. The Lord above alone knows what disasters he’d propagate if he’d have got his hands on it.”

“Well, see, there’s the thing. You better than anyone knows what this stuff is capable of, Nate. I just want to make sure that you’ll only be using it for the right reasons.”

Nathaniel didn’t answer straight away. Instead, he turned slowly to Tally and looked the Irishman dead in the eye, scrutinising his face for any reaction when he asked, “And what, Tally, if I did not?”

Tally felt his stomach lurch. Was this some sort of test? It was precisely the kind of thinking he had never expected of the professor, and he was momentarily at a loss for what to say. “Well, I… I don’t, that is…”

But Nathaniel smiled and clapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, Tally. This mineral is the missing piece of my research into the improvements on Sovereign. The Russians managed to utilise it to empower Imperator’s engines, and it is for that sole reason I too wish to employ it. Now, do you have time for some tea?”

Tally felt relieved, but not wholly satisfied with the response. For the first time since making his acquaintance, he wondered to himself if Professor Nathaniel Stone was everything he believed him to be.

2.

ANNABELLE BEDFORD SAT ON the floor of her tepee with a small leather mat stretched between her legs. Her prosthetic leg, while arguably the most advanced example on the entire planet, still didn’t deal too well with her attempts at sitting cross-legged. Bending the knee joint like that seemed to cause it to jam up, and on more than one occasion she had had to resort to calling George in order to help her bend the thing back straight again—an occurrence that often descended into outright hilarity as the two lovers laughed and wrestled around with the wretched thing. She wouldn’t be surprised if it became gunked up with all this fine desert dust.

But all in all, a nice, sturdy, high-backed chair was about the only thing wanting in Annabelle’s current life. On the mat between her knees lay the carcasses of three skinned rabbits, their pelts sitting in a neat pile to one side. Using a large, sharp knife she was jointing the meat and gently placing the pieces in a large bowl of brine on her right. George had nipped out to procure some more salt and a few carefully-chosen spices from one of the local squaws, and even at this basic stage it looked to be the beginnings of a particularly fine stew. She had worried at first that this lifestyle would have alienated George, that he would soon be missing the home comforts and cosy delights of London or, worse still, the cramped and uncomfortable realities of life aboard ship. She had been delighted, in fact, by how quickly and eagerly George had adapted to this humble lifestyle. It seemed to bring out the hidden frontiersman in him, which Annabelle couldn’t help but find rather sweet—especially when he got things wrong, much to the amusement of the tribe and their children. But then, there had always been something of the Indian about him. It was one of the many qualities that had drawn her towards him in the first place.

She had never imagined she would be back here so soon. It had been just over a month since she had sailed away again, leaving behind the daughter whose existence she had almost stricken from her memory. It was not that she was ashamed of her daughter—quite the opposite, in fact. Now she had come to know Kai better, she had grown to love her. Now eight years old, the girl was spirited, curious and stubborn, and if anything Annabelle was getting rather sick of George pointing out how much of a “chip off the old block” the young girl was—even to the extent of the way they both wrinkled their nose up when annoyed or distracted.

No. Annabelle had far better reasons to suppress the memory of her only child.

They had been reunited when, shortly after their marriage, George and Annabelle had been tasked by the Admiralty (under the auspices of the shadowy Bureau) with investigating the mysterious green mineral that had been secretly protected by the tribe for aeons past. Of course, merely to ask the newlyweds for their assistance would have been far too egregious a move for the Bureau’s cloak-and-dagger pretensions, and they were sent off under the delusion of a free honeymoon, paid for by the crown. Naturally, any thoughts of relaxation and nights of passion were shattered fairly early on—they hadn’t even reached their intended destination before the train on which they were travelling was attacked by bandits.

Soon, they were embroiled in a dangerous adventure; one which they later discovered had been the brainchild of her uncle, Cyrus Grant. Grant had finally let the madness that had stalked him for years to overtake him, and he and his considerable genius had defected to the side of the Russians. They had had to leave Arizona at a moment’s notice in order to give chase to the Russian Imperial Dreadnought Imperator, and Annabelle was torn at once more having to abandon the child she was only just starting to know. The revelation of her uncle’s betrayal and the inhuman experiences many of her friends had been forced to endure for the sake of his insane plots had left her, and many of those closest to her, emotionally and physically drained—not to mention the evidence that seemed to suggest Captain Jacob Folkard, whom she had always looked up to and was an almost-surrogate father to George, had also abandoned them for the Russian cause. She simply did not know what to believe any more.

Eventually Imperator, thanks to the mechanical machinations installed by Uncle Cyrus, had managed to evade Sovereign and penetrate the asteroid belt. It was a crushing blow. After that, their band of adventurers had dissipated across England to lick their wounds and mull on their defeats. Dear Nathaniel was once more engaged in improving Sovereign, George had been tied up with reams of Admiralty business and poor Arnaud was convalescing after having his mind and body ravaged by a savage alien drug. She had been mostly left to fend for herself, and it didn’t take long before her restless, questing spirit had got the better of her and she was bored silly.

It had, in fact, been George who suggested he take a bit of “shore leave” and that they attempt their honeymoon properly. He had suggested the Galapagos Islands, a week in Australia, even a trip to one of the finer Martian cities—for Annabelle, though, there was only one place she wanted to go. He’d seemed disappointed when she first suggested Arizona, but when he came to understand that this was truly what her heart desired he was happy to acquiesce. She longed to see Kai again, to strengthen the burgeoning bond between them and once more revel in the gentle and illustrious culture of the apaches.

These were not the only reasons she returned; still the spirit of adventure and moral fortitude flowed within her, and if she could help her tribe find retribution for the crimes that had been committed against their ancestry, she would. So far, however, investigations into the gang of bandits that had desecrated their sacred cave had proved fruitless.

The flap of the tent whipped open quickly and George poked his head in.

“Look lively, darling,” he said. “We have visitors.”

“Did you get the herbs?” she enquired.

“The stew will have to wait,” he said entering and, ever the gentleman, offered his hand to help Annabelle up. “You know what these Agency boys are like.”

Annabelle looked up at him. “Agency?” she asked, before swearing in a most unladylike manner.

3.

THIS NEW MAN FROM Europe was an idiot.

Goyahkla, as chief of the Chiricahua Apache, prided himself on his ability to judge people not on the colour of their skin, but by the mettle of their minds, body and, above all, their spirit. While this man of Spain—his face coloured by the sun and streaks of dirt to a hue not dissimilar to Goyahkla’s own—looked far more similar to himself than his beloved Yohana or the venerable George Bedford, the two with the pale skin had far more of all three qualities than this childish simpleton.

Still, Goyahkla could not deny that the man wasn’t lacking in spirit. On the contrary, Goyahkla was now finding himself wishing that the energy of this short, chubby man would somehow abate. His glee when they first entered the sacred cave was the tempestuous joy of an overexcited boy or an oblivious coyote pup—he practically squealed in delight when Gopan had first revealed the cave with a long sweep of the blazing torch that he held in his hand.

The space was large enough to stand in, a relief from the cramp of the tunnels. Straight, unnaturally smooth walls stretched up a cupula roof, and onto those walls was daubed a palimpsest of ancient images, dark brooding images and symbols criss-crossing and painted over with thick paints or blood. Animal bones dangled from bits of twine, clanking together even though no breeze came this deep down. In the centre of the cave was a green stump of crystal that shimmered in the torchlight and sent the light back around the room. Behind it, and opposite the entrance at which they stood, a skeleton sat on an ornate throne of bones—a skeleton whose head and stocky, angular limbs belied the fact that it was not of this Earth.

It was only with great restraint that Doctor Orlondo Quintana was stopped from handling the relics on the walls and the skeleton directly. Bedford had introduced the man back at the reservation, and this was the first time Goyahkla had found the need to address him by name.

“No, Orlondo Quintana. The relics here must remain untouched. Those who we seek came here and desecrated this tomb of the ancients; they raped and destroyed and tore the heart from the holiness that sprang up here, the tree of the Old Gods, their gift. With that came a great sadness, and darkness. A punishment. We must not disturb things further.”

Quintana looked pained. “But Señor Geronimo, please? You see…you see the skull here?” He picked his way over to the skeleton and framed its cranium in his hands, still not daring to touch it. “There’s a thing, a new thing, here.” In the air he traced a line down the side of the skull, from the temple to the top of the cranium. “Between the frontal and the parietal lobe, it’s almost like… Sí, sí! Unlike anything I’ve seen before. Incredible! I must know its age, take samples, make tests!”

Gopan strode forward purposefully to restrain the excitable palaeontologist before he blasphemed. It didn’t stop his gabbling.

“There’s a fissure there, almost like a new lobe. But this I think is older—” He stopped for a moment, put his hands on his hips and gazed around like a tourist at the witchcraft composition of the walls and ceiling. “Sí, perhaps much so. But then…” He scratched at his wealth of stubble. “Convergent degeneration? Devolution? No, no.”

He dived into a rucksack to bring out a small leather tome and a notebook, scribbling on one and occasionally consulting the other, all the time pacing in a small circle. Gopan sidled up to Goyahkla in the gloom of the torchlight.

“I don’t understand,” said Gopan. “Why should we allow this fool into the cave? He babbles like a hungry squaw.”

“Yohana. She and George know him; they say he is a good man. Perhaps even the trail of a fool can lead to the right path, Gopan. Remember that. He may seem to have the mind of a child, but to assume that is all he possesses is a mistake. He may well find something that will lead us to the men who have wronged us, and the tribe can return to a way of peace.”

When he had finished making his notes and scratching his head, Quintana began to unpack a series of strange boxes and bundled sticks from the backpack he had diligently—if not uncomplainingly—dragged with him down the tunnels to the cave’s dark depths. Goyahkla vaguely recognised the makings of a wet plate camera, and his suspicions were confirmed when Quintana brought out the apparatus for a flash-lamp and a large jar of powder. He turned and grinned encouragingly at Goyahkla.

“It is permissible? I make daguerreotypes? The notes, I can only make so many before sunset.”

Goyahkla looked down his nose at the little man’s fixed grin, eagerly awaiting the response. After a moment the grin waned and fell away, and Quintana, sensing it was time to employ some tact, crossed respectfully across to address him.

“Señor Goyahkla, you must understand… I am not here to disturb your sacred space, or meddle with your histories and past. I am here simply to uncover, to discover, to yes, yes! To understand all I can about how the… How you say?” He indicated the skeleton without looking at it, frustrated by his own inability to make himself clear. “The skeleton, you call it…?”

“Shaltak,” murmured Goyahkla. “We called them the Shaltak.”

“Sí, sí. The Shaltak. In my research we call them Drobates, entender? They come from beyond the Earth; I have found evidence of them throughout the inner planets, unearthed their cultures, their ancient ways. It is fascinating, no? But here…here is the first time I have found them on our own planet. A major discovery; very important. Nothing will be disturbed, and these pictures you let me take will mean I do not need to return. That your cave and the spirits you believe rest here will be left in peace.”

Goyahkla waited for a moment before he nodded assent, making only the tiniest movement to do so.

“Gracias, Señor Geronimo. Thank you.”

Gopan just about managed to keep his tongue and his temper in check. Soundlessly and without movement, Goyahkla watched with distaste as the Spaniard set about fussing over and assembling his photographic equipment, clattering and rattling bits together all the while. He recalled a time, not that long ago, when no such activity would have been allowed. They had even taken the precaution of blindfolding the little man for much of the ride here. Once, the Crystal God Tree had blossomed to its fullest in this very cavern, untouched and revered by his people for centuries. Only the wisest and most trusted elders of the tribes knew of its existence, let alone were allowed to visit. But those days were buried now, deep under the Arizona sands. The cave had been desecrated; the green gift of the Shaltak that had been left here so that his people should protect it had been cut down, stripped and sent to other lands so that its mystical properties could be used in the plots of evil men.

Returning to the cave brought all these mournful and guilt-ridden thoughts back to Goyahkla. He had to bear his failure, and as such felt impelled to also bear this prattling man’s presence in this lost, ravaged place. Even if he had found the will to drive off this man, he doubted he could have mustered the strength to follow through with it. Of late he began to feel a great tiredness overtaking his body and mind; he felt that it would not be long now before his ancestors called him to account.

As Goyahkla mulled and Gopan looked on with ill-concealed mistrust, the powder flashed in the pan with a great whoomph and the whole of the cavern was momentarily illuminated in a great white blast of light. The pall of smoke rose up to ceiling, tingeing the air with an unholy chemical smell.

4.

THE DAY WAS COOL by Arizona standards, and a low wind whipped the dust on the plains into curlicues that looked like burnt orange waves. The sun was not that strong and the sky pallid, but nevertheless the two black-suited figures stood out sharply against the dull colour of the desert landscape.

“Bert!” squealed Annabelle.

One of the figures turned sharply, and even from this distance she could see his face break into a broad grin. With George pacing close to her heels, she dashed across to where the agent stood beside his compatriot. Tall, thin, middle-aged and with a rampant widow’s peak, Agent Bertrand Boon did not stop smiling until Annabelle had reached him and, much to his surprise, flung her arms around his neck.

“Mrs Bedford,” stammered Bert, blushing as red as the soil around him. “It’s a pleasure to see you again.”

“Bert,” said Annabelle, releasing him and starting up into his warm, friendly face. “After all the dangers we have faced together, I think you have earned the right to call me Annabelle.”

“Agent Boon,” snapped the other man. “If we could maintain decorum.”

She had only just noticed that she recognised the other man, too. Younger than Bert, shorter and slightly stockier, he wore a long, tailored black greatcoat over his standard issue Bureau suit and a pair of small, darkened glasses with oblong frames. This was Mister Enderby, a high-ranking Bureau operative who had accompanied Folkard on their mission to uncover the dark secrets of Imperator. It was Enderby who had, so he maintained, witnessed Folkard’s betrayal first-hand, having seen him laughing and joking with the Russian crew after the agent’s ignominious capture aboard the ship.

It wasn’t long before George caught up with them.

“Quintana,” stated Enderby, without preamble. “We’re here for Quintana.”

“Afraid you’ve missed him, old chap,” said George, cutting through Enderby’s brusqueness as he casually put his hands in his pockets. “He and Geronimo went off this morning. Doubt they’ll be back much more before tomorrow afternoon.”

“Not good enough,” snapped Enderby. “We need him back in London. Forthwith. Get a band together, Bedford. We’ll ride immediately to go and fetch him.”

“Now steady on,” said George, his shackles rising.

“Steady on nothing, Commander Bedford!” snapped Enderby. “I am here in the service of Her Majesty, to whom you have pledged your allegiance by way of your naval service. You will do what is required of you, when it is required. Do I make myself clear?”

“Look here,” said George. “That’s all well and good, but it’s simply not possible. I wouldn’t know the way to their location if I tried.”

“Well one of these savages must know where this damn cave is. Get them to take me.”

Annabelle stepped up to Enderby, her face barely concealing the rage she felt. “Listen here,” she said, slowly and angrily. “My husband may be beholden to Queen and Country, but I have no such allegiances. Your government made sure of that. It therefore falls to me to tell you, Mister Enderby, that I will not stand idly by while you insult these people and stomp around demanding your every whim be met. You’d do well to remember that you’re no longer on sovereign ground and, seeing as Doctor Quintana is a Spanish national, you have no jurisdiction with regards to whisking him off without a by-your-leave. And last but not least, the cave is a sacred place for the apaches. You don’t just waltz in and drag people from there by the collar.”

“There are bigger things at stake here than the pride and superstitions of a ragtag band of hunter-gatherers. You, Mrs Bedford, would do well to remember that. Mister Boon?”

Bert, clearly somewhat abashed by Enderby’s behaviour, sidled up beside him. “Sir?”

“Do you know where this cave is?”

Bert looked to Annabelle and back to Enderby. “Afraid not, sir. Roughly due east in as much as I remember, but beyond that the journey there is all a bit of a blur. What with the heat, sir.”

“Heat? I thought you were in Burma.”

“Only for the holidays, sir.”

“This won’t do,” said Enderby. “This simply will not do at all. Very well. I suppose, given the circumstances, Mister Boon and I shall camp here for the evening and await Quintana’s return in the morning. Commander Bedford, be aware of the fact that your recalcitrance in this matter has been duly noted, and Admiral Hamilton will be informed of it upon my return to London. Mister Boon, unpack our things from the horses.”

5.

ANNABELLE STORMED BACK INTO the tepee, a maelstrom of anger and frustration, with George cautiously following her.

“What is the problem with that wretched man?” she seethed as she sat herself heavily down on a buffalo skin. “The arrogance of him!”

“He’s only doing what he thinks is right,” said George, as he lowered himself beside her and put an arm around her shoulder.

“I’m well aware of that, George, but he has no right!”

“In all honesty, darling, I think it has less to do with his own conceitedness and more that his meeting us has brought back some rather unpleasant memories for him.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, in as much as I understand it he still feels very bitter about Folkard. The scuttlebutt I managed to pick up before we left seems to indicate his testimony regarding Folkard’s apparent betrayal wasn’t seen as particularly convincing by the higher-ups. If anything, it seems he was laughed out of the inquiry. Didn’t think much of myself and Professor Stone insisting on upholding the captain’s good name and character, either. Anyway, the way they see it is there’s no point in condemning Folkard without giving him the chance to explain himself. What would they gain? It’ll hardly be good for morale if the public discovers the details regarding his absence, and for all we know he’s still aboard Imperator, working solidly for our cause.”

“Well the denting of his ego is no excuse to be such a blowhard.”

“I quite agree. Listen…” He nudged up slightly closer to Annabelle, and she could tell he was treading lightly. He looked down like a recalcitrant schoolboy—a tell of his she knew rather well. He would never look her in the eye when he was about to say something that might irritate or upset her. “Do you not think he was rather too keen to discover the location of the cave?”

“Far too keen. You don’t think…?”

“I’m afraid I do. The aleksandrite. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if the Bureau is keen to get their hands on any of the mineral that might remain. I daresay they’re plundering the remains from Calcutta, and trying to find a way to scavenge the wreckage that is Phoenix Park Zoo. And now they’re here.”

“Never!” yelled Annabelle. “Why, that would make them no better than the criminals who stole it in the first place! Typical John Bull behaviour! Striding across the globe, contemptuous of anyone who gets in the way of what they immediately want. I won’t let it happen, George. Not while I live and breathe.”

“Of course, Annabelle. I understand that, I really do. But…”

She recoiled from him, unhooking herself from his arm so it fell limply into his lap. The stare she gave him made George’s face pale. “But what, George?”

“Well, given the current circumstances would you rather not have the empire utilising what aleksandrite remains? We both saw what the Russians did with it, and when push comes to shove—which it invariably will, going by the Russian’s behaviour thus far—would it not be better if its power was in our hands?”

“I can’t believe you’re saying this, George. These are my people, I grew up here. It’s my history and culture as much as theirs; I won’t have it pillaged wholesale on account of some morbid realpolitik. How would you like it if the apaches smashed up St Paul’s Cathedral because they needed some rubble to throw at a rival tribe?”

“I’m just thinking of the bigger picture, darling.”

“Well don’t. And if you continue to do so you may not be calling me ‘darling’ much longer.”

“Knock knock.”

The two of them looked up. The call had come from outside the tent, and it was a voice they both recognised. Glad to be off the hook—at least momentarily—George stood. “Come in,” he called.

Bert poked his head through the flap at the front of the tepee. “Never sure of the etiquette with these things,” he said cheerily. “Not like you can install a knocker, eh?”

Annabelle rose to greet him. “Come in, Bert,” she sighed. “We were just discussing supper.”

“Right-o,” said the agent. “Look,” he continued, looking contrite, “I just wanted to apologise for Enderby’s abominable behaviour. Things haven’t been too easy for him at the Bureau of late. He’s a good lad when all’s said and done. Just gets a bit…prickly every now and again.”

“I think I’d use a stronger word than ‘prickly’, Bert.”

“Not my place to say, Ma’am.” But he was grinning as he said it. “And I just wanted to reassure you, I know you must be worried about them finding the cave and mining it all over again. Enderby thinks that if he finds enough of that aleksandrite stuff and brings it back it might get him back into the gaffer’s good graces. Pretty sure that’s why he insisted on coming along—it was only meant to be me at first, see, what with me having a bit of experience in the area. And it’s that experience, when I got to know the people of the tribe and their history, that means I won’t be giving his nibs any hints on where he can find the cave. Just so you know.”

“Thank you, Bert,” said Annabelle softly. “That means a lot.”

“Just doing my bit,” he replied, grinning once more. “Oh, and while I’m here…” At first Annabelle had thought he was standing in such a manner to be polite, but then from behind his back he brought out a small parcel, wrapped in brown paper and tied up with string. “I know the first go-around wasn’t much of a honeymoon so I’m hoping you have a better time of it now. Just thought I’d help the two of you celebrate it properly.”

“Oh, Bert!” said Annabelle softly, her face flushing. “That’s so thoughtful, you really shouldn’t have!” She took the parcel from his hands and kissed him on the cheek. George crowded in as Annabelle unwrapped the gift, Bert standing to one side looking pleased as punch with his hands clasped behind his back. Inside the wrapping was a dark blue box made of thick cardboard. Annabelle lifted the lid; inside she discovered two large elegantly cut crystal decanters. “They’re beautiful.”

“Bert, you really shouldn’t have,” said George, as he enthusiastically shook the agent’s hand.

“In all honesty I’m doubly glad I bought them now. At least when you look at these you’ll hopefully remember that not all of the Bureau boys are as uptight as old Enderby.”

6.

IN SPITE OF BERT’S thoughtful gift, a tangible coolness remained between George and Annabelle. After the agent had left the previous topic of conversation was not returned to, yet it still hung heavy in the air. Without speaking Annabelle had returned to jointing her rabbits; George pottered around for a few minutes before leaving silently to resume his search for the salt and the spices Annabelle had asked for. When he came back several minutes later, Kai was by his side.

“And where have you been all morning, young lady?”

“Nenko said he found a rattlesnake nest and he killed them all with his bare hands. I didn’t believe him but he said he wasn’t lying so I told him to take me to where he’d done it. But he was telling a lie, Shi Ma. There wasn’t a rattlesnake nest at all.”

“How many times have I told you, Kai?” chided Annabelle. “You mustn’t go poking around in rattlesnake nests. You’ll get yourself killed.”

“Nu-uh, Mama. Nenko might be a big fat liar but I could kill all the rattlesnakes myself, I’m sure I could. There was the time I shot that vulture, remember, Mama? If I can do that I can kill a nest of rattlesnakes easy.”

“They are nowhere near the same thing.”

“Yes, Mama. Sorry, Mama.”

Like her mother before her, Kai was readily adaptable to any situation, and had taken Annabelle’s reappearance in her life in her stride. For most of her young life she had been brought up by Goyahkla, with the two often venturing into the wilderness together for days on end. Recently, however, Goyahkla’s increasing age had left him tetchy and somewhat uncommunicative—Kai was glad to have adults around that would pay her attention again. The bond that had formed between mother and daughter had done so quickly and naturally. The two of them were alike in so many ways it seemed obvious they would grow close with very little difficulty. Kai, however, was far more guarded around her adoptive father.

Annabelle had tried, with little success, to goad the young girl into spending more time with George, who had tried his level best to befriend his new daughter—albeit with little success. So it was not only the earlier argument that prompted Annabelle to suggest the two of them should go and occupy themselves elsewhere, while she got on with the task of preparing a rabbit stew that would await them upon their return. George, uncomplainingly, did as he was bidden.

7.

THEY WALKED TOGETHER IN silence for a long time. Bedford had been tempted to ask Bert if he would care to accompany them, but on reflection decided that it was probably best for Kai and he to enjoy a little time together, just the two of them and away from the domestic hustle and bustle of the camp. A shame, for he had come to rather enjoy Bert’s company.

As they had walked the sky had continued to darken, and a chill wind had started up from the plains of the west. It wouldn’t do at all to bring Kai back to Annabelle suffering from a chill, so Bedford had removed his hat and offered to it to Kai, but she had refused it with a gentle shake of her head. He did not press the matter. Like her mother, she would not be pressed into actions with which she was not wholly comfortable. It was one of the reasons he had decided not to instigate any conversation with the girl—if she had something to say, she would say it, and it was no use him trying to make idle small talk on topics in which she held little interest. He hoped, in time, that they would find common ground, but right now he was content to enjoy the physical act of walking in such open and seemingly endless country, enjoying the stark beauty of the wide, boundless landscape around them, even though it was one made sullen by the darkening sky.

“Are you and shi ma angry with each other?” said Kai suddenly.

Bedford was rather taken aback. You really couldn’t get anything past this girl, could you? “We’re not angry, Kai. We’re just disagreed on something. It’s nothing to worry about, I assure you. Your mama and I merely think differently about some things. It’s not a bad thing. Quite the opposite, in fact. The world would be a very boring place if we all thought the same.”

“What did you disagree about?”

“The future, Kai. We disagreed about the future.”

“Did it have something to do with the bandits?”

Kai, Bedford had noticed, had what he considered to be a somewhat unhealthy obsession with the gang of bandits that had been employed to desecrate the apache’s sacred cave—the existence of which, strictly speaking, she should not have known about, though Bedford suspected Geronimo trusted Kai with such information more than he did other elders of the tribe. In a rash yet undeniably impressive display of wanton bloody-mindedness, Kai had tracked Bedford, Annabelle and a host of others to the cave the last time they had been in Arizona. She had arrived during a heated battle with the bandits and proved herself a highly capable warrior when the need arose, but it was not just the taste for fighting and a need to avenge her ancestor’s culture that drove her steely compulsion to find those who had wronged her. Wapi, a young brave who had been a brother to her, had been shot and killed as he protected her from harm. Though the girl displayed little emotion at the best of times, it was no great leap of the imagination to presume that vengeance ranked highly on her list of priorities.

“We’ll find the bandits, Kai. Don’t you worry. And when we do, you must understand that they must be tried by the law of the land. And not who might be quicker with the blade or a bullet.”

“I don’t have to listen to you,” she said simply, starting to skip ahead of him. “These are my lands.”

“But you must understand, if we find them… Kai? Kai!”

Kai was blithely skipping ahead, kicking up patches of brick-red, cooling sands and gaining speed as the desert floor opened up before her. Bedford called again, and twice more, louder, but still the girl ignored him and sped on towards the horizon. Bedford stopped dead, baffled and frustrated. He’d never had much luck with children, even his own nephews and nieces. And to think he was godfather to four of them.

Thinking quickly, he reached down to his waist and popped the button on his holster. He flicked out the Remington 1881, took his stance as he raised it above his head, and fired a single shot into the air. Kai whipped around to face him instantly, crouching, knife poised and breathing hard through her nostrils. She relaxed slightly when she had scanned the rocky outcrops behind him for silhouettes and shadows and had seen none, but when she started to pace towards him, back hunched, she still had the look of the huntress in her eyes.

“Kai,” said Bedford, calmly but forcefully. “Come here.” He waved her towards him. “Look, I know what you’re feeling. I’ve been there, too. And I know these are your lands but I…feel comfortable here,” he concluded lamely. It was not what he wanted to say, but revealing his past to an eight-year-old was hardly appropriate. Not before he told Annabelle. And he would…one day. “I feel at home here. So I know what it means when you feel the need to protect your homeland. Lord alone knows I’ve done it enough times myself. But I also know what it’s like to be driven by a hate of those who wronged you. And in the end there really are better ways. You have to trust me on that. But…” He extended the handle of the pistol to Kai. “…That does not mean that when the time for battle comes, you shouldn’t know your way around a pistol. But you must promise me to always be careful, and never shoot first unless you or those you care about are in terrible danger. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, George…Shitaa.”

She had called him father. He nodded at her and smiled.

“Right, now,” he went on. “You must be very careful. Keep your finger off the trigger at all times. Now this section here is the cylinder, where the bullets are kept, see?”

He clicked the chamber open so she could see, her eyes enraptured.

8.

HE HAD TAUGHT HER the basics and even let her fire a single shot, but only after he’d rigorously been through all the parts of the weapon and the best stance to take. It grew cold very quickly, and on the way back Kai was grateful when Bedford offered her his hat again, feeling he didn’t need it so much thanks to warming thoughts of hot rabbit stew beside the fire.

As they came into view of the camp a large fire was burning at its centre—a not wholly unusual occurrence or custom, but it did seem brighter than usual. As they closed the distance figures began to resolve more clearly; there was Quintana, gesturing wildly at Enderby, while Geronimo sat hunched, with his eyes closed and his spirit broken, on an old tea crate outside the edge of the fire’s glow.

Annabelle dashed into view and by some greater link that bonded them she looked in his direction instantly. She began to jog towards to him, and he and Kai mirrored the movement.

“George!” she breathed. “You’ve been gone forever! Where have you been?”

“We went into the desert, Mama, but we’re here now,” said Kai.

“What’s wrong?”

“Goyahkla and Quintana, they…they came back early. Quintana could see he was getting edgy so he decided to take few plates instead, and that didn’t go down like cherry pie either. On the way back, George, they found something. A body, or parts of one. In a big brass cage. The bandits, George… It looks like they’ve built another Potsdam.”

Chapter Two

“The Shadow of the Brass Brute”

1.

IT LAY SPLAYED ON the tattered remains of an old horse hide. The men had set up torches around the broken repulsive thing but they only served to catch the shadows in the recesses of that eviscerated torso—mottled red flashes of organs torn by the beaks of vultures, the ragged strips where the carrion had been stripped from underneath the skin. The eyes were holes surrounded by a hardened black ring that looked like tar. Both legs appeared to be missing and the skin was jaundiced so badly the only thing Bedford could think of as he looked at it was a buttercup. Several of the men and Annabelle stood around it, not daring to speak. Squaws grouped in a frightened huddle around the largest tent, holding their children to them or warning them away from what lay on the ground by the fire.

This torn and wretched soul had been encased in a rough brass frame, its sheen dulled by the sandpaper scraping of the desert winds. The frame was bulky and inelegant, salvaged from the detritus of copper mines and broken down railway engines. In some places it was bolted together, in others strapped together with wood. One or two joists were even held together by rough twine wrapped in bandages. The whole frame was asymmetrical and it looked as if this poor devil had been jammed inside, his right arm twisted gruesomely where the thick cuffs bolted into the bones of his wrists. His hands were surmounted by small pistons, which in turn fed into cloudy rubber tubes that ran back up the arms and directly into the cavities of his chest. Within them a milky-green solution could be seen, with more in a crude array of syringes that was bolted to this horror’s metal ribs.

And four of them had seen it all before.

It could not be argued that this was a superior example to their previous encounter with such gruesome perversions of the very flesh of man, and for those who had borne witness to Potsdam the Brute this was a blessed relief. The brute had been a hideous experiment into the very lengths the curious properties of the mineral known as aleksandrite could be pushed—the last surviving specimen of a doomed procedure that could only have been born in the mind of a madman. Fed an aleksandrite solution that gave him incredible strength but no will of his own, the brute had been tasked to guard Klopstock, a devious bomb-maker with few scruples and even less spine. The pair had terrorised Professor Stone and Mister Cahalleret before killing an innumerable number of citizens with a bomb in Dublin, then returned in the slums of Calcutta to once more wreak their particular brand of havoc. Bedford, Annabelle, Enderby and Bert had all seen what the brute could do close up, and it was only through the bravery and street-smarts of Tally that the beast had been slain. Klopstock, true to form, ran like a rat so he might simper another day.

No; this pitiful creature did not have the might of Potsdam. It was a weak and cowardly copy, the work of men who knew nothing of engineering but merely sliced and twisted their work into shape. Whoever was doing this had to be stopped, and whatever horrors were being built had to be caught and killed. There was no other way.

“That settles it,” said Enderby. “I stay in Arizona.”

2.

HE’D ONLY MET HIM once, very briefly, over a month ago. You couldn’t even call it a meeting, really. Arnaud had been wheeled past him on a stretcher, strapped down and ranting incoherently, while Tally was nursing a broken arm and trying, in however small way he could, to stop the ship from losing control and plummeting headlong into the surface of Luna.

Doctor Arnaud Fontaine did not look as if he had recovered much from that day. The low light of the day room did nothing for his complexion; he had red cracks around the edges of his eyes and lips that stood out like lightening against the whiteness of his skin. The rings beneath his eyes were grey and dusty, and his lank dark hair had not seen a comb in some time. He sat upright in bed, wearing blue striped pyjamas, looking nervous even as he tried to help.

“On my life, Mister Cahalleret,” he said. “I haven’t heard a word. Letters I’ve sent, of course. Care of the Admiralty. Nothing back, not as yet. Though I don’t really trust them here. The nurses, the doctors. All of them.”

“Well the last time I saw him, Doctor Fontaine, he went to great lengths to assure me that I’d pass on his own assurance that you were getting the best possible care. I know it may seem a bit heavy-handed from time to time, but you’ve been through a lot. Just between you, me an’ the garden gate, Arnaud, I was sat at the back on a couple of meetings and there were those who were up for having you worse than hanged. Count yer blessings, once in a while, eh?”

“I suppose.”

“Either way, what with him makin’ a point of it I reckoned that you, if anyone, would be the person he’d be getting in touch with.”

“Well, I’m sorry Mister Cahalleret…”

“Please, call me Tally.”

“Tally,” Arnaud repeated, and seemed to linger over the word for a second. “Tally, I really can’t help you. I only wish I could. Trust me.” And here he breathed out heavily, and it somehow made him look more ill than before. “I more than anyone would dearly love to hear from him. Indeed, it was half of my hopes that you’d come here with some sort of letter for me.”

Tally nodded slowly. He hated to be the bearer of bad news, and though his visit here was meant to be one of intelligence gathering, it seemed now that he would be leaving Doctor Fontaine in significantly damper spirits than those in which he found him. Tally did not feel proud of this. If anything the doctor needed some cheering—Tally had read his file and had picked up information piecemeal on the occurrences in the engine room as Sovereign had hobbled back from its sabotaged pursuit of Imperator.

It was Arnaud himself who had caused this sabotage, shooting a drive plate with a pistol as the engines were being tested to their limits. It was a disaster; six men were killed and over a dozen injured, most of them seriously. He had been treated leniently thanks to the intervention of Nathaniel, who vouched for his character, but there were other circumstances that mitigated the ill-fated Frenchman’s guilt. Due to the treason of an overlooked and spiteful junior agent in the employ of the Secret Service Bureau, Arnaud had been held captive by the treacherous Cyrus Grant and force-fed a cocktail of pernicious intoxicants that had ravaged his body and mind. The professor had suggested some sort of post-hypnotic suggestion, and if the days of agony that Arnaud had fought through were any indication, the strain of purging those poisons from his system was not one easily play-acted. Even if he had got off lightly, he was persona non grata at the Admiralty and even the Bureau boys had been warned to keep their distance. Tally wondered if he might not have been taking a bit too much of a risk. He was, after all, not long into the job.

He took some letters from Arnaud to post and bid farewell to the slouching, broken man. When Tally closed the door softly behind him he noticed through the glass of the window that the young geologist hadn’t moved his position a single inch, and he was still staring vacantly ahead with his arms on top of the blanket. Jaysus, what he must have been through.

3.

THE CONVALESCENCE HOME WAS out in Kent, where the flat, long views and country air were meant to help bring a little peace to troubled minds. As Tally stepped out into the cold he felt it bite him and he clapped his hands together, wincing when a twinge ran down the bone towards his wrist. He was inclined to believe Arnaud was nowhere near being of sound mind when he shot up the engines, having seen the strange and corrosive effects of that mysterious green mineral up close—when faced with a gigantic explosive made from it in a cavern under Phoenix Park, and when he was attacked by a monstrous brute named Potsdam whose whole body and mind had been corrupted by its misuse. It was during that scuffle that he had broken his arm, and though the bone had knitted back with a speed he was thankful for, he didn’t fancy his chances if discussions decayed into the language of the knuckles. It was lucky he had the gift of the gab.

Several weeks had passed since he had last heard from Nathaniel. The Bureau kept him busy, sure enough, no doubt intentionally so he wouldn’t constantly harass the professor. It was only in recent days that Tally had become worried. It was not like Nate to remain out of touch for so long.

Alas, it seemed, he had not even contacted Arnaud—the one person, above all others, Tally would have expected Nathaniel to keep in touch with. It was beyond reason for Nathaniel to not do so. Tally may not have understood it, but he knew of the bond the two men shared. Surely Arnaud’s welfare would be more important than uncovering the secrets of that feckin’ crystal?

The only other person who may have known about Nathaniel’s whereabouts was currently in Arizona, and thus well beyond Tally’s capabilities to reach.

He sighed. What the feck is going on?

4.

THE FOLLOWING MORNING FOUND the chill winds grow quicker, the darker clouds of yesterday still brooding in streaks around distant hilltops in a vast expanse of sky. It had been too late for anyone to do anything besides sleep and mull on the grim discovery. Once or twice the night-time wails of a frightened child set the camp once more on edge. Nobody had slept well, and everyone was sour and sullen; a wide berth was given to the tarpaulin that had been pegged down by the black ashes of the previous night’s fire.

The mood of the camp seemed intensified inside Geronimo’s tent. Annabelle sat to his right with Bedford next to her, and on his left Gopan brooded with his hands clasped before his lips. Bert had sat opposite, but Enderby insisted on standing. He was ceaselessly toying with a small cheroot, rolling it around his fingers but never lighting it. This gesture did not help the tension. Enderby probably knew it. They had invited Quintana but the appearance of the corpse had affected him deeply. He was still dressed, sitting on the floor of his tepee, when Bedford had gone to speak with him, but the Spaniard had admitted he’d have nothing to add to the discussion and didn’t want the memories of that abomination’s appearance returning to him any time soon, if at all.

“You think I do not see,” said Geronimo. He was gazing straight at Enderby, who stopped and turned on his heels towards the old apache.

“I’m sorry?” said Enderby.

“You think I do not see; do not recognise the colour of the residue that flows through that demon’s unnatural veins. I know it, Man of the Bureau. I know what has become of my forefather’s greatest secret.”

“Well it’s not like I asked them to do it.”

“Sir,” began Bert, standing up. Enderby knew he had pushed it and turned his back, starting to pace again. Geronimo watched him through slitted eyes.

“Well we all know what it is,” said Bedford. “And it hardly needs saying that whoever’s been doing this must be linked to the bandits who ransacked the cave. If it isn’t the same people. The question is; where did it come from?”

Gopan, without moving his hands or averting his gaze, mumbled quietly, “I think I know.” Enderby turned back around, but remained silent, waiting for the Indian to finish. “They call it Souptown,” he said. Geronimo rumbled with an extended grunt of disapproval and batted away the notion with his hand. “No, Goyahkla.” Gopan moved his head for the first time to stare coldly at his venerated elder. Geronimo refused to look back at him, every inch the crotchety old man. “It must be. I cannot be from anywhere else.”

“Nothing but a hive for the weak of will and violent. A lawless place, an ugly but thankfully small blot on our lands.”

“It is near where the body was found,” said Gopan, staring back into the centre of the room. “What Goyahkla says is true. It is but a small blot. Drunks and whores gather there, nothing more, in a rotten little huddle of tents and ugly wood buildings that likes to think it is a town. Souptown.”

“Why Souptown?” asked Bedford, somewhat bemused. He gave a start despite himself as Enderby whipped around to face inwards.

“Because it’s run by a rum pair known as the Campbell Brothers. Get it? They’re small-time smut-peddlers, a couple of jumped up pimps. Known as the Soup Twins. Casey and Eustace Campbell, so alike it’s as if they were mirror images, apparently. We keep an eye on them now and again. It pays to. But they’re fleas. Nothing more.”

“Doesn’t matter,” said Annabelle, staring into the same mid-distance no-space that had similarly hypnotised Gopan. “It’s where the trail leads. The bandits… We need to go.”

“Of course,” said Enderby. “We’ll start at once.”

“Now look,” said Bedford. He stood up sharply and turned around to face the arrogant agent, who had not yet even taken his darkened glasses off. “This isn’t your land, Enderby. You don’t know it here. Not nearly as well as I do, and I know a damn sight less than Annabelle or anybody else in this room, but I do know it’s hard. And it takes time. We can’t rush this.”

“What are you talking about, man?” Enderby clucked. “All we need do first is to infiltrate this little den of iniquity on the sly. I’m talking Bureau tactics, Commander. None of your usual swashbuckling and bluster. I’ve some suits in the portmanteau we could ruff up a bit in the soil. Won’t take long.”

“Possibly,” Bedford mused, suddenly realising he was unconsciously chewing his knuckle.

“Well what’s the alternative? No offence, but it’s not like we can send one of our native friends in there.” Gopan bristled, and Enderby smirked. “What other choice is there?” He finally lifted the cheroot to his mouth and lit it. As he bit on it and puffed the smoke between his teeth, he reached in to produce another cigar. He tossed it idly to Gopan who caught it in one hand and crushed it. “Shame. Rolled on the thighs of a virgin that one.”

“I can go,” said Annabelle.

“What?” Bedford was sure he misheard. How could she possibly…?

“You know,” she said. “Like a…working girl.”

“Yohana!” Geronimo spluttered.

“Darling, I think it best…”

“Don’t ‘darling’ me, George; you know I won’t be told. I either dress as a harlot or chop off my hair and dress as a man. Which would you prefer?”

“I’ve seen Mrs Bedford shoot,” Enderby said in what could only be described as a purr. “And her presence would indeed be a… Boon?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Rough up those shirts in the portmanteau. You’ll be taking Quintana back to Blighty post-haste and quicker if possible. Gopan? Let’s chat about surveillance.”

5.

QUINTANA WAS SWEATING IN the hot cloth box of the tepee but he didn’t want to go outside again. He’d glanced out earlier, maybe thirty minutes after young Señor Bedford had come to visit. When he’d stuck his head out the sun was still low across the sky, still close in the early of the morning, and the rays struck down on the metal skeleton beyond the grave of the fire; the shadows picked out soft lines of gizzards and the broken metal ribs curling up like buttresses in a church.

He had to get his mind off what he’d seen.

He dusted down the plates he’d taken in the cave, carefully removing them from the calico he’d wrapped them in. He sat down cross-legged before what he’d laughingly had to call a desk (two old fruit crates with two planks sat close on the top of it) and set himself down to study them.

Though the plates themselves were cloudy and uneven, he could still bring the image of that strange skull to his mind’s eye in a moment. He’d studied Drobate skulls so intensely that the stark differences in this brave new specimen were so marked they were easy to see, even from memory. It was not as if the plates on the skull had fused and adapted, curiously, over exactly the same spot he’d hypothesised the sulcus of corpus callosum to be. It was more like the thing had ballooned out and the skull had tried to contain it in what must’ve been agonising infant years. But what was it? A mutant? An ancestor? A divergent strain?

He knew it was useless looking to the cave walls for answers. They had been vandalised, either by the greed of evil men, or forefathers of the apache who’d daubed their fear and offerings onto the past with ox blood and thick tar pastes. It would be fascinating to study. Fascinating! But now was not the time.

He pouted sullenly, witnessed by no-one, annoyed by the fact there was not in the vicinity a mind like Professor Stone’s with whom he could discuss his findings.

The flap to the tent whipped open and in an instant Enderby was at his side. Quintana started. He was not sure if he had been asleep or merely lost in daydreams and wild theories about the strange bulbous growth that ran across the top of the Drobate skull like an ugly half halo. It had to be some innate function, suddenly blossoming, grotesque, but how? Had the brain tried to outgrow itself?

“Quintana,” said Enderby. “You’re well, I trust.”

“Sí, Señor Enderby. I have just been…thinking.”

“Well think about packing. Boon’s to take you back to the Heart of Empire. I’m staying here to deal with this mess. And speaking of which…” Enderby bowed down low, sinking down close to Quintana’s face, and only ever seeming to bend at the waist. “Our little…friend? Out there? The Vulture lunch?” Quintana visibly balked as the memory lurched into his mind again. “Yes,” said Enderby, smoothing a palm onto his back like a matron. “That’s the one. Now, you know we’re very kindly letting you work on Luna, aren’t we, so that you can study the Drobates more up close, eh? You want to continue doing that, don’t you?”

Quintana nodded dumbly.

“Right. Good. And seeing as we’re letting you in on so many secrets, you’ve got keep one of ours. That body? Outside? The one that makes you gag?”

Quintana nodded again.

“Be a good chap and don’t mention it to Stone, eh?” Another nod from the Spaniard, still dumb, still slow. “And that’s a strict instruction, don’t you know? What you might like to think of as an order.”

6.

SHE KNEW IT WAS childish—if not outright mean-spirited—but Annabelle had rather enjoyed George’s shocked protestations regarding her dressing as a lady of the night to infiltrate Souptown. If anything, it would once more reinforce to him the notion that she was no shrinking violet, and if he hadn’t got that into his skull by now there was very little hope for her husband. It infuriated her that, even though he knew her better than any woman on the face of the Earth (and a good few planets beyond it, come to that), he still occasionally viewed her through the lens of unwavering English propriety. In the worst of these moments she felt there was nothing she could do to truly prove herself to him; that she was, and would remain, a mere woman.

Well, she’d just have to do something about that, wouldn’t she?

In all honesty the suggestion of dressing as a fallen woman was only half-serious anyway—where was she to find that sort of dress in the middle of the desert and at such short notice? Taking this into account, there was only one option available to her. When she had left the boys to their scheming and battle tactics, Enderby had been clucking about like a mother hen, eager to get the expedition started as soon as possible, so she knew she had a little time to put her plan into action.

She had always liked to think of herself as handsome, rather than an outright example of feminine beauty, so convincing others she was a young man wouldn’t be too much of a stretch, provided she muddied up her face a bit and people didn’t get too close. George was not all that much larger than her, and a pair of his old trousers would fit her just about right—if they were slightly baggy so much the better, as they would help with the illusion she was just a young down-and-out, as well as disguising the shape of her hips and the awkward outline of her prosthetic leg. The same was true of one of his shirts, and she’d already procured a roll of bandages with which she intended to strap down her chest.

All that remained for her to do was to pick her wardrobe.

George kept an old travelling case in the corner of their tent, which was mostly covered in a woven apache mat and served as a small side table. There was bound to be some of his old clothes floating around in there somewhere, and so she whipped off its cover to delve inside, only to find the blessed thing padlocked. What was that in their wedding vows? Something along the lines of “that which is yours, I give you”, she recalled, or words to that effect. So she felt no guilt when she unsheathed her knife and prised the lock away with a deft flick of her wrist.

Her instincts had been correct; the valise was stuffed with a crumpled mish-mash of old clothes, knick-knacks and items that either through sentimentalism or potential future usefulness had been kept. She rummaged through, discarding any that looked too new or neat or those that had holes in inappropriate places. She suddenly reeled back in disgust! Her hand, buried beneath the swathes of rough fabric, had brushed up against something in the corner of the case. It felt like fur, or hair, and Annabelle shuddered at the thought of a long-dead London rat nestled somewhere in the pile.

She carefully pulled the clothes aside in the corner and made the grim discovery; she saw the lank strands sticking out from where her energetic rummaging had displaced the leather that wrapped it. It was not fur. It was human hair.

She reached down to touch it but pulled her hand back. She recognised that leather, had held it herself some months ago, the way the edges had darkened and become brittle from having wrapped their macabre contents for so long. Inside that small package was a human scalp; the scalp of a malicious and bitter-hearted young brave that had done her a grave injustice many moons ago. She had been presented with this grim memento on her last visit to Arizona, as proof that the tribe had enacted retribution for the heinous crime that she had suffered. But Annabelle had put all that behind her, wanted to forget those painful memories of another life… She had instructed George, very clearly, to destroy the thing. It was clear, however, that he had not.

Fury consumed her. Disgust boiled in her bones, and not even wanting to touch the repulsive artefact she buried it once more under the pile of George’s old clothes. She slammed the case shut and quickly replaced the cover—what clothes she’d already pulled out would have to do—and stormed across to where she’d laid the pair of cast-iron tailor’s scissors on the floor of the tepee. She knelt down and, angrily and without due caution, began to chop away at her black locks.

It was done out of spite as much as necessity; George had deceived her in the most underhand and horrendous way. She would not be lied to. She would not be beholden to him in any way.

She would prove to George Bedford what it cost to cross her.

7.

BACK IN THE MAIN tent Enderby poured over a small sepia-coloured map with Gopan, while Bedford made certain the weapons were in good working order. Boon was busy packing ammo and other supplies into rucksacks—it had been decided not to take horses into Souptown itself, as doubtless they would be stolen as soon as night cast her veil upon the world. Enderby and the Bedfords would ride with Gopan and a small contingent of braves to the outskirts of the rambunctious settlement, and then proceed on foot in order to further their investigation. The braves, meanwhile, would set up a mobile, temporary camp nearby and be on constant watch for the signal—a Verey light. Not long in naval service, this was a single shot, breech-loading pistol with a snub barrel that shot a distress flare several hundred feet into the air. Though the group possessed several of the rounds that fed the ingenious device, they only had one pistol between them, and Enderby was truculent about who should keep it on their person—himself, naturally. Geronimo silently watched the preparations with a grim, disinterested inevitability. He knew no good would come of this.

It was not long before all necessary preparations had been made. Bedford had dressed in his soiled suit, which he topped with his usual hat and was covered with an oilcloth duster that was so ingrained with grime it pretty much creaked when he walked in it. Enderby was similarly decked out, only he jettisoned the wide-brimmed cowboy hat in favour of a scuffed brown bowler, though he still kept his incongruous tinted spectacles, much to Bedford’s chagrin. That aside, when they muddied their faces and strapped on their bandoliers they looked every inch the kind of feckless, itinerant ne’er-do-wells that the west seemed so good at breeding in its less salubrious corners.

“Are we ready?” said Enderby smartly, as he checked his six-shooter was fully loaded and snapped the chamber shut. “We’ve wasted too much time as it is.”

“I’ll go and fetch Annabelle,” said Bedford, and he turned to leave the tent.

“Annabelle isn’t coming,” said a voice from the entrance, one sharp with a spark of spite. “Andy Bell is.”

They turned to see the figure that had addressed them. Bedford was powerless to speak, while Enderby let out a short, low snort of satisfaction.

She had chopped her hair down blindly, and as such it was ragged and uneven. She had let enough remain to cover her face slightly, so that those who gave her a cursory glance would never guess she was a woman, perhaps just a teenage lad who had fallen on hard times and no longer retained interest in keeping his appearance neat. She wore a pair of old brown trousers that were cut off at the legs and tied at the waist with an old bit of twine, along with a collarless shirt buttoned to the very top and a dusty black vest draped over that.

“Annabelle,” stammered George, finally regaining his voice. “Your hair…”

“Don’t like it, George? Well, maybe we both do things that the other does not approve of, then.” Bedford, nonplussed by this unwarranted barb, found himself once more stunned into speechlessness. “You seemed to dislike the notion of me dressing as a whore and so this was the only option left to me. You shouldn’t pout if thoughtless words and actions have unwanted consequences. You only have yourself to blame in the end.”

With that, she snatched up a pistol wrapped in a gun-belt and stormed outside.

“She’s got a point,” said Enderby.

Bedford, shaking himself out of his stupor, turned to him. “Whatever do you mean? I have no idea what she’s talking about.”

“Not her histrionics, Bedford. Your marital life is of no concern to me, and even less interest. We need pseudonyms, just to be on the safe side. I’ll be Lucas. You can be Frank.”

8.

STILL IN A STEELY and sour frame of mind, Annabelle made her way outside to the open space that lay in the middle of the ring of tepees. She refused to allow her emotions to interfere with the importance of their new objective, but that did not mean she had to look at George.

Quintana stood beside a horse, carefully strapping his camera equipment to the saddlebags drooped over the beast’s flanks. Just outside the camp’s borders, eight or nine of the braves who were to make up the surveillance team milled around, awaiting Gopan. As Annabelle strode towards them she heard soft footfalls pad up quickly on the sand behind her—when she felt a hand close around her elbow she wrenched her arm away and spun around.

“Annabelle,” said George. “What’s got into you?”

She stared him down. He was confused—hurt, even—but that did not let him off the hook. “We have bigger things to worry about, George. Keep your mind on our mission. Your blesséd empire comes before all else, after all.”

“What, that? I was just speculating, darling. I had no intention of…”

But she would not listen. She turned around and strode towards the outlying fringes of the encampment. George, still stunned and by now more than a little frustrated, could only watch her go.

Soon, they had all assembled. Bert busied himself with double-checking Orlondo’s rather half-hearted attempts at securing his equipment, while Enderby stood to one side and grilled Gopan on the finer details of his plan, waving a lit cheroot about as he did so. George stood close to him, still feeling admonished by Annabelle’s curt and, to him, inexplicable behaviour. When Bert had finished tightening various buckles and belts he crossed to Annabelle, smiling forlornly as he came.

“Well, Mrs Bed…Annabelle,” he said, correcting himself. “I guess this is goodbye again. At least for the moment. I have to say,” he said, looking her up and down like a mock-disapproving father. “You are full of surprises.”

“Well needs must, Bert. Sometimes we have to make sacrifices.” He’d expected her to come back with some risqué retort, or at least a cheeky dig as his all-too conservative values. Her actual response—cold, somewhat distant, threw him for rather a loop, and suddenly his face was filled with concern.

“Miss Annabelle,” he said, drawing her to one side. “Is everything all right? You don’t seem yourself.”

“It’s not me that isn’t myself, Bert. Sometimes it feels like it’s everybody else.” His face crumpled with worry, his balding brow furrowing like a freshly-ploughed field. Annabelle’s softened in response. “Don’t worry,” she said. “I’ll be fine.”

“Look,” said Bert, his face still lined with worry. “I know you can you look after yourself, just… Look after yourself.”

“You too, Bert.”

“And Commander Bedford, too. Sometimes, you know, I think he might need you a lot more than you need him. Don’t forget that.”

Annabelle looked down. It was a sentiment she did not currently feel she could reciprocate, even if she understood it to the depths of her heart.

9.

SOUPTOWN WAS A GOOD few hours’ ride away, even at full pelt. Enderby, clearly no stranger to riding, still spurred his steed on more harshly than was strictly necessary. It was making the other riders nervous. Still, his ruthless determination seemed to have the desired result on the other horses who matched the pace of their forerunner whether bidden to or not.

Annabelle, despite herself, was enjoying the ride. Unencumbered by her usual costume, she found the flow of the hot wind refreshing as it rippled through her shirt and made her waistcoat flap back around her shoulders. The feel of the breeze through her shorter hair, even though possessing a mildly irritating habit to whip into her eyes, was a unique and not altogether unpleasant one. She would not be able to keep the style on her return to London—image the scandal!—so she resolved herself to enjoying it while she could. She just hoped she had enough time for it to grow back to a respectable length before her return.

With one purpose the posse thundered through the desert, throwing up a thick cloud of darkened red dust behind them and leaving the occasional desiccated bush tramped in their wake. It was this selfsame cloud that caught up and enveloped them as, with a sharp cry and a yanking of the reins, Enderby pulled his horse up and trotted it around in a semi-circle to face the riders behind him.

“We’re here,” he said, nodding into the distance.

It took a second as the maroon dust began to settle, falling down around them and across their shoulders as a gritty precipitate. When the clouds blew from their sights they found themselves looking down the shallow slopes of a long valley, bordered at the back with a jutting outcrop of red rock cliffs with deep vertical gouges cut down their lengths. These cliffs curled round in a rough U-shape, enclosing the murky blot of Souptown in their embrace.

The town—if it could be called that—was far larger than any of the party had expected. It also bore far more resemblance to a legitimate town than had hitherto existed in their mind’s eye. A main street ran perpendicular from the rocks that backed the town. On its sides stood ramshackle approximations of buildings you might find in any western settlement—a bank, several shops, and a curious-looking blacksmiths. They were built with an amalgam of different materials, a patchwork of wood and bricks ranging in sizes and composition, and some of them leaned precariously, buttressed with huge, black cast-iron pillars. At the very back of this street, looking down it like a lord sitting at the head of the table, was the only decently built dwelling in the place—a large, mansion-style house of white marble muddied to a dull brown by the Arizona soil, a stately dwelling that seemed all the grander when compared to the slapdash and make-do construction of everything else in the town. To the right of this curious abnormality, a large grey hulk of a warehouse stood. It was built of sheets of steel roughly bolted and welded together, with a network of dull copper piping criss-crossing its exterior in a seemingly random and chaotic arrangement. Smoke belched from the top, staining the red of the cliffs behind it to a sooty, greasy black.

“Not exactly Mayfair, is it?” said Enderby, acerbic as ever.

10.

HE HAD BEEN GETTING used to the Serbian climate of Pieter. After so many months in Russia’s most Western city he had begun to embrace its cold, wet winter. So much so, in fact, that as his coach carried him due north through the counties of England, he found himself resenting the gentle breeze on his face. Compared to St Petersburg, it was mild.

It was with quite some level of hate that he returned to England. Nothing good came of it, though that had never given him cause for concern before. All through childhood it was hate that had tried to constrict him, until college when he believed his genius would have a chance to shine. But then the social rules bound him, prevented him from having what he wanted, causing him to go into hiding, his reputation destroyed by the ignorance of a man he once thought of as a friend. All his adult life, his genius hidden behind Thaddeus Wren, a man so pathetic that his own lack of fortitude saw him destroyed by Henry van den Bosch, a lesser man driven to madness by his own fear.

It was a country he had no desire to return to; indeed his only desire was to see it destroyed.

Too many knew him in England, his face too well-known, and so he returned under the cover of darkness, lest his existence be revealed before time. And soon it would be time; time for the empire that had betrayed him to come crashing to his knees, to witness his rise to glory as it crumbled to dust.

It was only because he had to attend business personally that he returned; the task ahead was too important to trust to any of his associates. One such associate had met him from the ship within which he had smuggled himself, bringing him a copy of The Morning Post from London. Said associate now sat atop the carriage, guiding the horse, while he sat safely inside, reading the paper under his specially adapted Edison lamp. He could not help but smile at the words he read; a letter from A Concerned Citizen, unveiling the British Empire’s biggest secret—their ability to create gravity on their military aether flyers. He smiled, enjoying the words that damned the rulers of the British Empire, revealing them for the deceitful worms they truly were.

He found the words familiar because they were his own. It was not the first letter he had written to The Morning Post, the last one throwing a light on the secret construction of an all-new heliograph station and a clandestine alliance between Austro-Hungary and the British Empire, and the mysterious destruction of the station. Unfortunately certain people dealt with that crisis before it had time to ignite a flame, but this time… This time it would be different. This time the alliances between the British Empire and the other powers of the world would collapse.

That was just one game, and not his real reason for returning to England. He would get his revenge on the blighted empire, but first he had just a single life to ruin.

His previous attempt had failed; Doctor Dumba and his cronies had seen to that. Instead that life was elevated, made a hero of the empire, a saviour who would forever remain unknown. But not this time.

Oh no, this time Nathaniel Stone would know what it was to fail; to have his life ruined, every dream crushed, until there was nothing left.

He, Guillaume Le Boeuf, would make sure of it.

Chapter Three

“The Call of the Bureau”

1.

IT WAS FAR FROM the kind of town that noticed people drifting in. From afar it had appeared a derelict—almost devoid of citizens, but up close Souptown was as raucous and full of life as the most brazen outskirts of the Gin Alleys of London. As they closed in, the toy-town figures that stumbled in the streets had resolved into rough, solid figures, either drunk or rambling as they made their way from one den of iniquity to another. To Bedford’s mind it was like something out of Hogarth; to Enderby’s a torrent of danger that had to be consistently observed for the next possible threat. Annabelle, for her part, rather enjoyed the rambunctiousness of it all, feeling no more danger here than she had on the deserts plains of Mars or the swamps of Venus.

They knew they should not ask questions. To do so would be a fatal mistake; this was the kind of hideaway where bank robbers, thieves and murderers would come to lay low for a while, and those with a few more pennies in their pocket would travel, unseen, to sample more illicit pleasures. Some days later they would ride home, poorer and with heads hung low, to hide their shamefaced sins from their wives and children in neater, more accustomed climes. Enderby had been clear—for the moment the only thing they should dare do was observe, and only make their move when the time was right and the situation wholly in their favour.

It was an almost unconscious decision between the adventuring trio that they should move towards the busiest place in the town, where they could dig themselves in and find camouflage amongst the reprobates. This, naturally, had been the saloon, whose double swing doors at the front were comprised of an old tea tray and a plank of wood held to the doorframe with a pair of rusted hinges. A creaking mezzanine looked out over the broad street, and on its balcony sat whores of distinctly varying ages and genders, all in a state of uncaring undress.

Bedford pushed his way in first. Under the dark, low ceiling a piano player tinkled tunelessly in one corner, somehow managing to cut through the cacophony of cackling and scraped chair-legs that blared from every table in the room. At one side, three grizzled men played five finger fillet, the snip of the knife on the bloodstained tabletop only occasionally interrupted by a yelp of pain and the mocking calls of the winners.

They found a table at the front of the bar, on which was slumped a snoozing old prospector who had his fingers gripped tightly around a cloudy, half-empty bottle of whiskey. Trying not to disturb him, the trio sat, thankful that the other lush and grimy indulgences of the place had masked their sneaking inside.

“Let’s stay here for a while,” said Enderby quietly. “At least make our faces known. We might even pick up a hint or two. I doubt this is the kind of place that quietens after the sun sets, but with all the hullabaloo some sneaking around won’t be noticed, not by these degenerates.”

“Limey… Limey son of a bitch,” mumbled the prostrate prospector, giddily raising his head to look up at Enderby. The spy, quickly and efficiently, slipped the bottle out from his insensate hands and picked it up before bringing the base down solidly on the back of the man’s dirty, matted skull, which clunked back down to the tabletop.

“Let’s get some drinks in, eh?” he continued. “Frank, if you’d do the honours?”

“I think,” began Annabelle, “in terms of the local accent…”

“Yes, yes,” cut in Enderby. “You’re quite the go-to gal. However, we don’t want people looking too closely at your face if we can avoid it. Which, in this instance, we can. Pip pip, Frank.” He winked at Bedford.

Bedford stood and looked down at Annabelle, who had crossed her arms and was fuming silently. Somewhat helplessly, he started to make his way towards the bar but his progress was shortly curtailed by a commotion that erupted at the doors of the saloon.

A man with a greying beard like Methuselah’s, decked in a wide floppy hat and braces over his dirty shirt, had burst in. “Hoo-ee!” he hollered as he slapped his knee, and even the piano player stopped to listen to him. “They done gone did it, boys, they gone done caught Harry Mackett! Bring your glasses and your lasses and get your asses to the court house! We’re gonna have ourselves a hanging!”

2.

TALLY HAD RETURNED HOME, a rather grand old building in the south London suburb of Herne Hill, to find a telegram awaiting him. It had been provided to him by the Bureau along with Mrs Drummond, a fussy housekeeper in her sixties with an expansive bosom and a penchant for mothering. It was she who handed him the missive, and he had retired to his room to read it with no small sense of foreboding.

This feeling of agitation had hardly subsided after he had read the note, which demanded he formally report to the Chancery Lane offices of the Bureau at 8am the following morning.

Once more he had been led through the maze of locked doors and ante-rooms to Tooler’s door, only this time he hadn’t had the pleasure of following Miss Baker’s heart-shaped behind on the way. Even if he had, he doubted he was in the mood to appreciate it. Seemingly for his benefit alone, a basic wooden chair had been left just beside the door, and it was on this he sat as he waited, fretting and jiggling his leg and starting up at every sound that echoed down the corridor. Tally had never been much of a one for school, but he imagined this must be what it felt like to be called to the headmaster’s office.

It wasn’t, after all, like Tally had been on his best behaviour since joining the Bureau.

Firstly there was his visit to Arnaud the other day. While there was nothing, technically preventing him from doing so he was as sure as sure could be that the unlicensed investigation into Nathaniel’s disappearance would not be looked upon fondly. Tally wouldn’t have worried so much if he hadn’t have delivered the aleksandrite, but that coupled with Nathaniel’s vanishing act sure had him feeling edgy.

Deep down, Tally knew his friend could handle himself, though he’d prefer to be there to give the professor a hand should the need arise. Book smarts and university degrees were all well and good, but when it came to a ruckus the world that Tally had grown up in had given him a far more hands-on education. It was, in part, his continuing links with that world that was also causing Tally no small worry. He wasn’t bold enough to assume that his presence in Dublin had stopped sectarian violence from spiralling out of control, but since his departure it did seem that the situation had worsened somewhat. It sickened Tally—sure, he wanted to see his mother country free from the empire’s yoke, but killing innocents to make it happen made his countrymen no better than the vandals that had stamped across his land some four hundred years ago. The only way forward, he believed, was with words and open discourse.

He had tried, in his own small way, to minimise casualties on both sides. He’d seen enough of dead bodies by the time he was eight years old, and he be damned if he didn’t do whatever he could to see no more blood seeping into Dublin’s cobblestones. Not all of his countrymen had wholly agreed with his approach, which is why the Bureau had spirited him away in the first place. But Tally wasn’t the kind of man to rest on his laurels, and when he’d read in The Times of an increasing tension back home he’d surreptitiously started putting a few feelers out to contacts he had in the city that thought very much as he did. He’d just passed on a bit of the old info here and there, the names of a few trusted sympathisers on both sides or those the right authorities should probably be keeping a keen eye on. Jaysus, it wasn’t like he was starting a revolution, and if he’d just met a couple of old friends in the pub and had a chat, what of it?

In retrospect he should have been more careful, perhaps employed some of the clandestine tactics he’d read about in the small black manual he’d been given as part of his induction. He was, after all, the proud son of a land that had been making merry hell for the empire of late. Perhaps he had been naïve, but there was no reason to believe one of Tooler’s agents hadn’t been keeping tabs on the new boy. But Tooler, he knew, was a reasonable man. He was sure that, given enough time to explain and assuming he could muster the front, he could convince the director that the path he was trying to make his fellow countrymen follow was the right one. That is, if he wasn’t booted out on his backside first. Or shot for treason. He wondered if he’d feel less nervous if he knew for certain exactly why he was about to be hauled across the coals.

He had been sitting there for a good fifteen minutes before the door clicked open and Tooler’s head popped out. His face was impassive, but Tally didn’t read too much into that. From his limited experience with the Bureau director thus far, it was the face he wore pretty much all of the time. When he did break out into some sort of emotion—more often than not it was a kind of charmed glee—the expression on his face looked twice as pronounced as it needed to be, as if the feeling had been storing itself up under all that stoicism. He wondered what would happen if the ol’ man lost his temper. Tally guessed it wouldn’t be pretty, but took solace in the fact he couldn’t actually imagine it happening all that often, if at all.

As with the last time he had visited, he took a seat across from Tooler in the Big Room. He couldn’t tell if the mess on the desk and the books and files propped up on the music stands were the same ones as the last time he visited or a whole new mishmash. One thing, however, definitely hadn’t been there before—a small alcove recessed into the wall to the right of Tooler’s chair, in which sat a couple of crystal glasses and decanters on a silver tray. Was it hidden before, or had it been actually cut from the wall in the interim since his last meeting here? Sure was strange, but Tally didn’t have a whole lot of worry left for such an inconsequential detail. Tooler indicated the drink with a nod of his head.

“You’re welcome if you’d like a dram, Mister Cahalleret.”

“Ah, no thank you, sir. Little early for me.”

“Quite so, quite so.” Tooler smiled and Tally felt he’d at least passed that little test. “I’m sure Miss Baker will bring us some tea presently. Until she does, however, shall we proceed to business?”

“I’d be in your debt if we did, Mister Tooler. Just between you, me an’ the garden post, I’ve been fretting about such business since I received your telegram.”

“As well you should, Tally. As well you should.”

Tally felt his stomach sink a fathom or two. Tooler leaned back in his chair archly, steepling his fingers and gazing impassively at Tally over the rims of his pince-nez. Tally stared back. If he was going to be fired, or killed, or sent back to Dublin to be fed to the dogs then so be it. He sure as hell didn’t like it but the last thing he was going to do was cower. His ma had always taught him that—your dignity was your own unless you let someone take it from you, and Tally wasn’t about to let that happen.

3.

LE BOEUF COULD NOT tolerate delays; alas, in his line of work, such things often happened. Were it up to him he would do everything himself, but he could not possibly exist in three places at the same time. He was needed in Russia, to ensure Count Dorokov did not exceed his relatively high position, but Le Boeuf’s presence in England was of far more importance. The last time he had trusted someone to handle Stone and those closest to him had almost ended in Stone’s death—twice! First in Dublin and then in Calcutta. Already, once, it seemed as if fate had intervened and taken Stone out of his hands when he had apparently drowned in the Thames back at the start of the year, but Le Boeuf later learned it was a lie to keep Stone’s activities a secret. Once again Le Boeuf swore his vengeance on Stone; the man would be destroyed, not killed. It was pity Tereshkov did not understand this. As if attempting to blow Stone to pieces wasn’t bad enough, the idiot then gave explicit orders for Stone to die at the hands of that monstrosity Potsdam. Never trust a madman. Doing so was not without its benefits, especially when the madman was a genius like Vladimir Tereshkov, but it was a gamble. Fortunately Le Boeuf would not need to worry about Tereshkov any longer—that man was far beyond his reach now. Beyond the reach of anyone, for that matter.

Unlike his agents in Arizona. The Soup Twins; opportunists the two of them—so unreliable, but an unfortunate necessity at times. They thought they were clever, siphoning off aleksandrite during the operation in Arizona. They thought he didn’t know, liked to think themselves mayors of their little bandit town, but there was also those who were easily bought off and willing to share information. He had bided his time; after all there were much bigger things to concern him than a couple of bandits. But in recent weeks word had reached him about their attempts to make another Potsdam. It couldn’t be allowed. They were a weak link, and had to be removed—far too much was at stake.

4.

ALL OF THE PATRONS in the saloon rose as one and began to file through the jury-rigged doors in an oddly decorous silence. There were smatterings of hushed excited whispers here and there between menfolk, and to Annabelle it evoked the civility of the pavilion at Lord’s more than the lawlessness of some small-time outlaw town. Sticking to the back of the crowd, George, Annabelle and Enderby followed suit.

Outside, the sun had continued to rise in the sky, heating the water in the clouds and the air, but choking any rainfall. The day was now muggy and thick, the sky full of insects, the low shuffle of feet making their way to the gallows drowning out the buzz of tiny wings.

The gallows were set up as part of the curious ironworking factory the trio had noticed upon their approach. At the front, it looked like a rectangle had been cut from the corner of the building’s rough cuboidal shape, a heavy brass door set into the wall made at the back. Now they were closer, they could see the factory and the Soup Twins’ grand mansion were joined where they met at the corner, the ugly steel plating suddenly giving way to marble tinged with the redness of the ever-present dust.

In the centre of the gangway stood the gallows.

They were ornate, built of good wood and polished brass, with cogs and gears jutting from a box installed at the corner. Despite these brave and hideous scientific advances, the noose was very much of the old design. Rough, strong hemp wasn’t meant to be comfortable around the neck.

There was a clank and the flywheel at the centre of the brass door span for a moment. The door creaked on heavy hinges dried tight by the sun, and out into the day strode the Soup Twins themselves to a gentle ripple of applause from the audience.

Enderby had not been wrong—the two were eerily similar in looks. Their movements on the balcony, however, were markedly different. One twin strode forward to the very edge and bowed with mock humility while the other skulked at the back, his arms crossed and a frown on his face. They were both tall, full-faced and corpulent with piggy little eyes and dewlaps, and both wore the same spotless white suit and bolo tie with a large chain of office hung about their necks. Both had the same neat goatees and slicked-back hair.

As the gregarious brother continued to mollify the crowd, other figures appeared in the doorway behind them. The ones at either side were bulky, hulking—she could not be sure, but Annabelle wondered if she didn’t recognise Potsdam’s grotesque gait in there somewhere. It was difficult to be sure due to the distance, and the fact they were wearing long black robes with curiously pointed hoods, a red cross embroidered in the space between the slits of their eyeholes. Between them they carried a raggedy, panicking man who, despite his bleeding and bruises, continued to fight against the grip of the behemoths. They manhandled him into place and attempted to get the noose around his struggling head.

“Ladies and gentlemen, esteemed citizens of Souptown,” began the more sociable twin, clutching his lapel as he began to stride about his little stage. His voice was tinged with the slightly unconvincing sincerity of a small-town lawyer. “You know that, above everything else, my brother Casey and myself have the safety and security of our town at stake. We go to great lengths—dangerous and I say perilous lengths, ladies and gentlemen, to keep the peace here and ensure we are untroubled by pious men of law or the savagery of the native Red Indians. And to keep such a peace, some sacrifices must be made!” He shook his right index finger stiffly in the air before him “I say some sacrifices must be made! When the code that we keep in our precious little community is broken, those who break it must make their sacrifice, and ensure…I say ensure the safety and liberty of those that they betray is maintained!”

There was a cheer of approval. The two cloaked figures had now managed to secure the rope around the ragged man’s neck. He whimpered and prayed in a hurried pathetic tone as the two brutes stepped away.

“But we are not savages!” continued the irrepressible Eustace Campbell. “And though we are outside the law it does not mean we are not subject to it. Brother Casey!”

Casey Campbell straightened himself up, dusted himself down and strode across to the side of the gallows where a small stool had been set up for him. He flicked his coat tails behind him and sat, still silent.

“As is tradition in these situations, we give final say to good brother Casey, a most merciful and perspicacious judge of a man’s sacred soul, his most precious possession. Good brother Casey, this man has made a transgression against our code. Can you find it in your heart to show him clemency?”

Casey leaned back slightly on his stool and made a show of pondering the question. He stuck his arm out straight before him, bunched his fingers into a fist and let the thumb jut out parallel to the floor. He held the gesture for a brief moment, and the only sound that could be heard was the panic of the man with the rope around his neck. Slowly, Casey began to turn his thumb downwards.

“Oh, brother Casey has decided that Mister Mackett’s crime is far too heinous to be forgiven. Sorry, Harry, but it done gone looks like your luck’s ran out on ya.”

Casey reached across beside him to a large lever inset into the side of the gallows. He gripped the release at the head of the handle and yanked it down.

An unseen trap door released under the condemned man’s legs, and he tumbled down into the darkness of the factory building in a flash. There was a pause, and then, horrifyingly, a blood-curdling scream came from the clanking bowels of the insidious factory. It echoed around the walls of the square, coming to rest as a chilling afterthought that still seemed to rattle around the ears in the silence.

“And so is our justice done,” said Eustace. “And now, if you will all join me in a couple of rousing verses of The Battle Hymn of the Republic, I’d be most obliged.” He produced a little tuning pipe and blew it briefly, then all the members of the lynching party began to sing together.

“Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord,

He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored!

He hath loosed the fateful lightning of His terrible swift sword,

His truth is marching on…”

5.

“WHY DO YOU THINK we decided to employ your services, Mister Cahalleret?”

Tally didn’t answer straight away. He sat back and thought for a moment, and tried not to sound too bellicose when he answered. “Because, sir, I think you saw in me a set of skills that your service could employ.”

“Quite so, quite so, Mister Cahalleret. An excellent answer, if I may say so, for you are quite right. Now, let me ask you a rather more hypothetical question. As your employer, do you not think that, having employed you for said skills, we should rather be the ones who profit solely from their practice in this wide and uncertain world of ours?”

Ah, corks! Rumbled. But for what? He once more waited a moment before answering. No point rushing headlong into this, so he considered his response. “Well, that’s an excellent philosophical and socio-political point yer raisin’ there, Mister Tooler. Your own country may be said owns mine, but can any men truly be owned beyond the confines of his own skull? Is my freedom dictated by you, or by meself? It’s a stumper.”

Tooler laughed heartily, and Tally rather nervously joined him. “My my, Tally. You are a tonic, I’ll give you that.”

“What I’m saying is, sir, is that any misdemeanour I may have committed of late—and I’m not saying I did, mind—but if I did then I’m sure I’d be smart enough not to do something to put my standing with yerself or my position here in an jeopardy. Taking in the bigger picture, so to speak.”

“Indeed. A sensible attitude, I might observe.”

“That you might, sir.”

“And one, I hasten to add, that stood you in no small standing when we initially decided to take you on. So having said that, do you not think I would trust you to do the right thing?”

“I wouldn’t presume so, no sir.”

“Then we are on the same page. More so than you might think, in fact. I must commend you on your meeting, then, several nights past with one Mister MacLochlainn, late of Galway, and one prior to this with a gentleman named O’Davey from Cork.”

“Ah, it was just a bit of a catch up and a scoop with a friend or two from back home. Sure there’s no harm in it.”

“Now now, Mister Cahalleret. I’d be obliged if you did not push your luck. I am well aware of the nature of your so-called ‘catch-ups’, and should you assume I do not you may find my sensibilities, let alone my intelligence, somewhat offended.”

“Right so, sir. Duly noted.”

“I’m glad you understand. We are indeed a Secret Service, but that does not mean we do not cherish honesty within our walls. Quite the contrary, in fact. A little free rein in the execution of your duties is one thing, but underhand tactics and lying by omission are quite another. I hope I am making myself clear.”

“As a crystal ball, sir.”

“Good. Had you informed me of your intentions beforehand, I can assure you that any effect you may have had on the politics of your homeland would have been increased exponentially. We did not employ you solely for your skills, Mister Cahalleret, but also your contacts and the trust you have built with them. Believe it or not, but here at the Bureau we no more wish to see Ireland descend into violence than you, and we are far better equipped to see that that does not occur. We too like to look at the bigger picture, and as far as your homeland is concerned you have a larger part we would like to see you play in such plans. Thankfully, you appear to have already begun, and so while you should consider yourself very much admonished for your means, I thank you for your perspicacity in relation to the ends.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“You must trust me, Tally.”

“Oh, I do, sir.”

Tooler’s eyes narrowed, the look shrewd and very much one of warning. “No, Mister Cahalleret, you do not.” His voice was stern, as cold as frost. “And I appreciate your reluctance to do so. It shows character and caution, traits which I cherish in my agents. Traits which also, I might add, you will need upon your next assignment.”

“I’ll do my best, sir.”

“I know you will, Tally. I know. For the moment, however, you must put the thoughts of helping your countrymen to the back of your mind. I give you my word that I will do everything in my power to ensure those in Ireland, no matter their political affiliation, come to no harm. As I say, we are working towards the same ends in that regard. I might point out, however, that had you come to me before striking off on your own there, your position on the matter would be rather more tenable. Do you understand, Tally?”

“I do, sir.”

Tooler beamed and sat back up. “Well then! Time for tea.”

Miss Baker entered without knocking, and from somewhere in the recesses under his desk Tooler pulled out a rectangular silver frame, roughly the size of a large book. It had four long legs at the corners that ended with a polished sphere of pewter, and he dug these legs into the chaos on his desk and shunted it side-to-side like he was panning for gold. When he was confident it was stable he gestured for Miss Baker to place the tea tray on top of the framework. Tally got a brisk whiff of her perfume as she bent over, a floral and citrus scent that seemed charged with femininity. She smiled at him with those rosebud lips as he straightened up and let herself out, having said not even a word.

Tooler poured milk into the two china cups that sat on the tray, fine bone china patterned with green and pink ribbons around the rim. As he poured the tea from the matching pot he spoke without looking up.

“I take it you’ve heard about gravitar?” he asked.

“I’ve been following it in the papers, sir, yes. Sure, everybody wants a piece of it. I’d say it was worth its weight in gold, only I reckon I’d be doing the stuff a disservice.”

“Quite so, quite so.” He passed the cup across to Tally, who took it gratefully. Christ, he’d only just become aware how dry his throat was, and he sipped at it gratefully. “Did it never occur to you to question how we managed to maintain Earth’s gravity on the decks of Sovereign?”

“Not at the time, sir. But I was rather distracted.” He pulled up the sleeve of his suit jacket to indicate the small metal splints that had been strapped to his arm with bandages. The plaster of Paris had been removed at the end of the previous week, and these straps served as a small precaution until his strength had fully recovered.

“Of course. How gauche of me. Well, as you may have inferred by some of the more lurid reports in the less respectable newspapers, gravitar is the very element that allows us to create a gravity field within Sovereign. The physics of it all are, I’m afraid, beyond me, but without it aether travel is a far less pleasant business. Our knowledge of the substance has been a state secret for some considerable time. The crew on Sovereign have all signed the Official Secrets Act, of course, and while it’s not impossible that some improvident rating has blabbed about Sovereign’s gravity field, it is highly unlike they would know its cause. Our current assumption is that the news of gravitar’s existence has been leaked by either the Russians or Austro-Hungarians, the only other powers besides ourselves currently utilising it.”

“Stirring the pot, eh sir?”

“Succinctly put, Tally, if not rather an understatement. The government, and by extension our Bureau, has come under considerable fire for not sharing this discovery with the rest of the world. The pros and cons of us doing so are now rather a moot point, so let’s not waste our time with them. Though my money is on the Russians, the honour of Austria-Hungary is being called into question by the powers that be, and I assure you it is in our best interests that our pact with them remains unbroken. This has not stopped many of the aether-faring powers making moves to get their own share of the substance, which may, I am sorry to say, have a rather destabilising effect on the balance of power in the world as we currently know it. We’d prefer for that not to happen.”

“Of course, sir.”

“I’m glad you appreciate the seriousness, not to say delicateness, of the situation. I must admit that this leak caught us totally off guard, and we are currently implementing some precautionary measures across the globe to ensure order be maintained. And speaking of which, how is Doctor Fontaine getting on? Better? Hmm?”

Tally blanched. He thought he’d got away with that one, and the fact Tooler brought it up from nowhere had wrong-footed the Irishman who had to do his best not to spill his tea. “Well sir, he…”

Tooler waved him off before he could finish the sentence, or come up with an even semi-plausible excuse. “The question was rhetorical, Tally. I know precisely how Doctor Fontaine is getting on. Your search for Professor Stone has been admirable, and I am well aware it comes from concern for your friend rather than any ulterior motive. Once again, however, you may have saved yourself a lot of time and effort had you simply come to me.”

“Wait… You know where Nate is? All this time you knew I was looking and you didn’t bloody well think of telling me?”

“Please, Tally. Calm down. Of course I was to tell you, but only when the time was right. That time is now. The professor is currently working at Otterbein Base on Luna.” Tally’s eyes widened. “Yes, yes, I know. The Luna Treaty. Nobody’s meant to be there, I know, but I can assure you the Admiralty very much took the lead on setting all that up, and so it is them who shall be responsible should the world discover our…shall we say, indiscretion concerning the moon. The fact is Professor Stone’s research into the properties of aleksandrite is vital to the empire’s future. If the leak of gravitar does indeed have the troubling repercussions that we predict, we must be ready. I know you don’t like it, Tally, but currently aleksandrite is crucial to that readiness.”

“You’re right that I don’t like it, sir. I don’t like it one little bit.”

“Your concern is noted, Tally,” said Tooler sternly. “But it should not cloud your vision on your assignment. Once again, Tally, I ask you to trust me. Our plans are solely concerned with minimising any potential loss of life. The results of the trust I now ask of you may not be immediately apparent—indeed, if all goes to plan then they may never become apparent at all, for the disaster that we see looming will not come to fruition. So long as you take my word for it, and trust me.” There was a sincerity in his eyes that Tally regarded coolly for a moment. The man was either on the level or one of the most exceptional liars he had ever encountered, and Tally wouldn’t like to have put money on either being the case. But what other choice did he have? “Anyway,” continued Tooler. “I take it you want to see Professor Stone again, yes? Excellent. We’ve already sent all the necessary documents and equipment to your Herne Hill address. Get your space legs ready, Tally. Tomorrow, you fly to Luna.”

Chapter Four

“Of Stone and Men”

1.

“NEW HORIZONS FOR ME.”

Christopher Henry regarded his companion, who sat at the other end of the room slowly puffing on his pipe. As ever, Gordon Baxter said little, allowing his grey eyes to speak for him. He nodded slowly. It was agreed; they were going to take the job, but no need to let their new employer know just yet.

“I have often heard it is advantageous to broaden such horizons, Mister Henry,” the man called Mister L said. He was a smart man, both in dress and in aspect—a handsome, distinguished gent with a charismatic cast to his eyes. His black hair, slightly receding, was oiled back against his scalp and slightly greying at the temples. “You will be paid handsomely, every expense taken care of.” He lifted the papers from the table that sat between him and Henry. “You have read the brief?”

“We have. Seems awfully complicated.”

“The Bureau seem to regard you experts when it comes to the complicated.”

Baxter almost choked on his pipe at the mention of the Bureau. Was it impossible to keep anything secret anymore? Henry tried to cover up Baxter’s response with a smile. “Very well. Don’t think we’ve ever been to Arizona before.”

Mister L did not return the smile. Instead he looked from Henry to Baxter and back again. “There is one small thing. If you should care to earn a healthy bonus I would be gratified if you could kill a lady for me.”

“I say! A lady? See here, sir, we will do many things, but when it comes to attacking the fairer sex…” The price of the bonus was mentioned softly, and Henry continued. “…We like to consider ourselves readily adaptable. Does this lady have a name?”

“She does. Mrs Annabelle Bedford.”

Baxter sat forward. “I believe I know the name. The wife of Commander George Bedford, as I understand it.” He nodded slowly, his features giving nothing away as was his wont. “Am I to assume Commander Bedford will be there?”

Mister L nodded. “I would imagine so. They are on their honeymoon, after all.”

“Then it will be a pleasure. Won’t it, Mister Henry?”

Henry wondered as to Baxter’s sudden enthusiasm. He rarely got enthusiastic about anything, and to engage so freely with an employer meant he was very enthusiastic indeed. It was something he would discover en route to the Americas.

Mister L stood suddenly. “Then I take my leave of you, gentlemen. I have a long journey ahead of me, and another problem to take care of.”

“Anything we can help you with?” Henry asked. Extra business was always a good thing.

“Oh no,” Mister L said, smiling for the first time, “Professor Stone is all mine.”

2.

“JAPPETH KELP WAS RIGHT.”

Nathaniel Stone stood about fifteen miles from the gorge, the one-hundred-foot wide chasm which led to the heart of British interests on Luna. He stood next to Doctor Marcus Kaplan, a geologist specialising in mineralogy and structural geology who was assigned to Otterbein Base, safe in their atmosphere suits, a speaking-tube linking them, their cutter parked some distance away. The gorge was set directly in the middle of a basin some sixty miles long, and forty wide; using a cutter to travel the fifteen miles was the safest and most logical method, carrying them up through the gorge from the ship dock that had been constructed a short walk from Otterbein Base. Although Kaplan had spoken, Nathaniel’s eyes were still locked on the ships that continued to patrol Luna, some within its low gravity, others much further above; protecting the one secret the British Empire had left.

Luckily, until his aether propeller governor design became more commonplace, the Royal Navy had the upper hand. Already, in the eleven months since Annabelle had been forced to sign over the patent, as many naval ships as possible had been fitted with the governor, giving them the manoeuvrability in Luna’s low gravity that other nations could only dream of. Except for Russia. They had their own modulation device designed by Tereshkov, but up until now the Royal Navy had done a good job in keeping the Russians away from Luna, the odd aggressive incursion notwithstanding. From what Nathaniel could glean from hurried reports, he would even go so far as to say the Russians had lost all interest in Luna, and were only making a show of chest-beating to try and keep the British on their toes.

What with Grant betraying them all, and his discoveries, it was no surprise at all. The tsar was done with Luna.

It was comforting to have so many naval ships protecting Luna, but Nathaniel wished one of them was Sovereign. Unfortunately, she was needed elsewhere. He strained his eyes and smiled softly, certain he could see one of the new Royal Sovereign-class battleships somewhere up there. It was close, but there was no replacing the prototype ship after which that class had been named. He looked forward to stepping foot on that ship again, but first he had to work out just what it was Grant had discovered, and if it was worth such a betrayal.

Nathaniel turned away from the ships above and looked down at Kaplan, who was kneeling down, his gloved hand holding a piece of rock. It was the usual black found all over the surface of Luna, but what marked it as different were the green flecks embedded within. The flecks seemed to glow in the earthlight, making the lunar rock appear to pulse with a hidden energy.

Nathaniel crouched down next to Kaplan and took the rock. “Jothrick,” he said, his eyes narrowed, thinking of the name Kelp had given the aleksandrite when Nathaniel had first shown him the sample he had brought with him from Earth. This confirmed what he had been told about the cave in Arizona. It stood to reason that the Drobates would have their own name for it.

Nathaniel returned the rock to Kaplan and consulted the map. “So, we’re directly above the City of Light and Science,” he said. “And, unless, I’m mistaken, directly above the antenna that sits atop the city.”

“You’re still convinced that’s what it is?”

Nathaniel shrugged, in as much as he could in the suit. He doubted the gesture really translated.

He had come to his conclusion after a few weeks of exploration of the city, his guide a Drobate called Jappeth Kelp, one of the more intelligent Drobates and one of the few that still communicated with the scientists from Otterbein, albeit with a very rudimentary mode of speech. It seemed that relations between the Drobates and the research team at Otterbein had soured in the past few months, although no-one at the base could quite give a good reason why. Nathaniel had questioned Kelp on this, but she would not comment except to mutter something about “it awakes”, a statement she refused to expand upon no matter how many times Nathaniel pressed the issue. He could only assume it was something to do with the Heart, a supposition strengthened when he considered that the time of their slow withdrawal coincided with his discovery of the Eye of Phobos and the monoliths there.

Nathaniel stood up straight and looked out towards the horizon. “We’re on a direct line for the Great Gorge.”

For a moment Kaplan followed Nathaniel’s eye line, then he slowly turned back and shook his head. “I do not see what the jothrick has to do with the gorge.”

“Have you never heard of the glow?” Nathaniel was referring to the strange glow seen to emanate from the dark side of the moon at irregular intervals. And as Nathaniel himself had witnessed in April the previous year, the glow seemed to be a mile across, with the gorge at its centre.

Kaplan made a movement; Nathaniel couldn’t be sure what it meant, such was the awkward bulk of the atmosphere suit. He was probably shrugging back. “Vague stories. But what possible interest could that have, compared to the mysteries we are uncovering almost every day in the City of Light and Science?”

“I feel working at Otterbein Base has dulled your curiosity, Doctor Kaplan, if indeed you had one at all.”

“Steady on, Stone! I would not be here with you right now were I not curious.”

Nathaniel smiled at the affront in Kaplan’s voice. He’d ruffled the old boy’s feathers, and that was enough. “Quite right, Marcus, quite right.” He turned back towards the gorge. “But this glow… It was the investigation of the glow which first attracted Doctors Grant and Tereshkov. And I think that’s important. An important piece of the puzzle I am trying to solve.”

“How so? I thought you were here to uncover the origin of the jothrick?” Kaplan held up the rock, waggling it so the green flecks glittered in the earthlight to make his point.

“I am. A strange alien substance of unknown origin, with the most incredibly adaptable properties, that is connected to the Drobates and is, if I am not mistaken, the source of the crystals that make up most of their great city. I believe the greatest concentration of jothrick is around the mouth of the gorge; however, something must channel it from the antenna.”

“What makes you think that?”

Nathaniel chose to ignore the question. He would reveal his findings in time. “If we dig due west of here, I think you’ll find no further trace of the jothrick, but if we dig due east, towards the gorge, I’ll think you’ll discover the deposits of jothrick increases the nearer we get to the gorge.” He crouched down and placed his palm against the rocky surface. “It starts here, directly above the city’s antenna.”

Kaplan shook his head. “But how does this connect to the glow?”

“The jothrick, or aleksandrite as it was named by the Russians, was also found in Arizona of all places.” Nathaniel took the moon rock from Kaplan and pointed it at the gorge. “A mysterious green substance.”

Kaplan smiled. “Of course! The glow is said to be a strange green-blue.”

“Yes. Not unlike the wake of Imperator as it raced away from Sovereign. Yet another application for the mysterious substance. An advantage the Russians have on us all. Grant was on that ship, and he knows something about jothrick that I don’t. The glow brought him to Luna, and not once, in all the time I spent with him, had I even considered to ask him what he discovered. That was my mistake.”

For a moment Kaplan was silent. Then he asked; “You think Grant’s study of the glow led him to the jothrick somehow?”

Nathaniel nodded, his eyes never leaving the gorge. “Has anyone ever measured the intervals between the emanations? No, I don’t suppose they have. Too blinded by the treasures beneath the surface. When I was first here, I made the supposition that it was a signal, a message being sent by an alien intelligence out to the stars, a supposition Grant confirmed when we found him near the Heart. But back then he did not know where the signal was being sent, although we agreed it was possible that it was being directed at the world from which the Drobates originated. Have you read the paper on the Eye of Phobos?”

“By that Brooker chap? Barely had a chance to skim, I’m afraid, although when it was published Otterbein Base was abuzz with talk of it. A dead Heart at that moon’s centre, called the Eye, and the hypothesis that it developed its own breed of life-forms called Chaldrites, I believe, much like the Heart did with the Selenites on this rock.”

“Just skimmed, you say?”

Kaplan smiled. “Well, I haven’t had a chance to study it, but enough to spark an interest. Many of us wish to go to Phobos and continue our studies there. Visit the crystal city built by these Chaldrites.”

Nathaniel couldn’t help but smile at that. The paper was, of course, written by him under his alias. He could not publish it himself since he was legally dead. A research team was being assembled to take up residence inside Phobos, indeed a small team had been there since the beginning of October, but with the publication of his paper shortly after, the British government was getting a little antsy and wished to stake a claim before any other entrepreneurs did so. He was surprised that, once again, the Russians didn’t show more of an interest. It was no coincidence that a Russian man was part of the team who took advantage of Barnsdale-Stevens’ good fortune; he was almost certainly working on behalf of Grant and the paymaster to whom he had betrayed them all.

“Then you know that Brooker hypothesised that perhaps the Heart had been attempting to communicate with the Eye?”

“Yes…?”

Good, now he had Kaplan’s interest. “There was little to support that, except that the monoliths seem to communicate via sound waves below the normal perception of man. I think that this glow communicates further out, that it, as well as the monoliths on Phobos, are part of a network. Broadcasting further away than our science can currently take us.”

“Upon what do you base this supposition?”

“The Drobates.”

Kaplan shook his head. “Unlikely, given the Drobates’ current level of intelligence. And the Heart communicates through some kind of telepathy, not with technology.”

Telepathy. Nathaniel blinked, a memory forcing its way to the front of his mind. Before he had returned to Luna he had studied the lump of jothrick Tally had returned to him, and one night after tiredness had claimed him he had fallen asleep wishing he had a bigger sample to work on. When he woke the next day he found that the sample had grown somehow. He did further tests, but could discover no reason why it would suddenly grow like that. Unless… The Drobates, the Heart, they communicated with their minds, and only humans who had some latent telepathy could understand them. Did the jothrick somehow respond to that?

Hidden by the helmet he wore, Kaplan standing a good head shorter, Nathaniel smiled. Sometimes being human was a slow path of realisation.

“They are alien, Doctor, why should they communicate as we do? Indeed, is not speech just a form of sound? And do not Indians communicate with smoke signals? There are many forms of communication. The Heart uses several. Telepathy, the glow, and sound as witnessed on Phobos. Who knows what other ways it can communicate.”

Kaplan considered this. “All true, Professor. But what has this to do with the Drobates?”

“Ah yes, an ancient civilisation. One which did not originate on Luna.”

“This much we know, yes.”

“But what you do not know, because it was not in Brooker’s paper—indeed its inclusion was forbidden—is that the Drobates existed on Phobos as some point. There is much evidence to suggest that they were once well-travelled. I suspect there is evidence of their presence throughout the Solar System, thus far undiscovered.”

“Really, Stone? You base this on their connection to two of our moons?”

Nathaniel shook his head. He was revealing more than he should, but he would be needing Kaplan’s expertise soon. He would rather have Arnaud with him, but his toujours was in no fit state to travel, especially not to Luna. Kaplan was a well-respected geologist, certainly close to Arnaud’s equal. “No. You have not spoken much with Doctor Quintana, I suppose?”

“No, our paths have not crossed a great deal. Indeed, I was surprised that he’d been allowed to join us on Luna. I can’t see why our government would share our findings with a Spaniard.”

“Ah, they have not. Quintana was given special dispensation to work here based on my recommendation and that of Captain Folkard. He is something of an expert on Drobates; indeed it was he who first discovered evidence of their presence on Phobos. A Drobate skull no less.”

“Good grief! So much going on right under my nose.”

“Quite. More than you realise. Now, not only did he discover a skull on Phobos, but remains of a Drobate culture on Hygeia, one of the asteroids that previously formed the lost planet Vulcan. It was his expertise that was the sole reason I sent him back to Earth.” Nathaniel paused. Secrets that were not his to share. Alas, there was no-one from the government to prevent him. “I sent him to Arizona, to examine evidence of Drobates on Earth.” Nathaniel almost laughed at the shock on Kaplan’s face. “You see, my dear Doctor Kaplan, the Drobates were not always as they are now. Their civilisation spread far and wide, and is intricately connected to the Heart—or rather Hearts, for I feel sure there are more besides the one on Luna and the Eye of Phobos. And I believe the glow, the monoliths—it is all one big network of communication stretching out to the Drobates home.” He paused in thought and glanced down at the rock in his hand. What else had it been used for? “I need to talk to the Heart,” he decided, and turned back towards their cutter.

Kaplan remained where he was for a moment, before looking at Nathaniel’s retreating form. “The Heart hasn’t communicated with anyone since Grant left Earth.”

Nathaniel stopped and turned so that he was looking directly at Kaplan. “Then it’s high time we made it talk. We also need a team to dig here, see how far down the jothrick goes. I wager it goes right down to the cavern roof directly above the city’s antenna.”

3.

THE DETOUR HAD COST HIM precious time, but now at last Le Boeuf’s carriage was pulling up to the large country house in Dartmoor and he found his mood to be like the weather. Bitter and cold.

Three men awaited him. The short, stocky form of John Delany, with his eternal squint and limp; Doctor James Mortimer MRCS, the complete opposite of Delany—very tall and thin, with a nose like a beak, jutting out between two keen eyes that were set closely behind a pair of gold-rimmed glasses. His clothes, although professional in form, were much like Delany’s; slovenly worn, his frock coat dingy and his trousers frayed. Despite his relatively young years—he was the youngest of Le Boeuf’s faithful entourage—his long back was already bowed and he walked with a forwards thrust of his head, giving him a general air of benevolence. The third man was merely a footman, and therefore of little interest to Le Boeuf. Mortimer and the footman stood back as Delany limped towards the carriage and opened the door, bowing as Le Boeuf removed himself from inside.

“A pleasure to see you again, sir. Your guest has arrived. Indeed, he arrived yesterday, and as you were delayed we did wonder what to do with him. Luckily, Doctor Mortimer was on hand.”

Le Boeuf regarded Delany, and dismissed him with a wave of the hand. He was in no mood for such toadying. Instead he stepped past and set off towards the country house, known simply as the Hall. It was a large affair, with two towers rising from the central block, ancient and pierced with many loopholes. To the left and right of the towers were modern wings of black granite. The whole front of the Hall was covered in ivy, with patches clipped here and there to allow for the windows and doorways.

For a moment Mortimer looked to the ground, shook his head, and stepped in beside him.

“Sir Charles?” Le Boeuf asked, talking of the owner of the Hall.

“Is away in Toronto visiting his nephew,” Mortimer said.

“Good. I could do without his inane prattling.”

Mortimer glanced back. “Are you sure you wish Delany to carry your belongings? He isn’t very good with his hands.” He chuckled. “At least, not in that sense.”

“There is nothing of value that he can damage. And besides, if he does, I’m certain he will parse the blame onto the staff. I have other uses for Delany. For now it will suffice for him to fetch and carry.”

“As you say.”

Le Boeuf stopped and looked up at the Hall. England he hated with a passion, but the Hall… He had many happy memories of spending weekends here with Thaddeus, Charles, and Henry, before things had turned sour through Henry van den Bosch’s greed and stupidity. Yes, it was good to be back in Dartmoor, despite the chill around him. It would take some time to prepare his guest for surgery, and a stroll on the moors would do him well. He was a man often alone with his thoughts, but since returning to Earth he had found himself surrounded by far too many people who liked to talk. The solitude he had enjoyed on Peregrine was a thing of the past. Yes, a stroll outside would do him the world of good. Perhaps it would even fix his mood. He needed to be in the best frame of mind for what lay ahead.

“I trust you have brought your dog with you?”

If Mortimer was surprised by the question, he did not show it. Instead he replied without missing a beat. “I have. He goes everywhere with me.”

“Excellent.” A pause. “You are now familiar with the aleksandrite?”

This time Mortimer did take a moment to reply. “As well as I can be,” he said. Since their college days Mortimer had gone on to quite a successful career, having worked as House Surgeon in Charing Cross Hospital and Medical Officer for the parishes of Thorsley, High Barrow and Grimpen, as well as publishing several papers on comparative pathology and atavism. But none of that, Le Boeuf knew, could have prepared him for aleksandrite—although his ability as a surgeon was a key reason for his employment in the task ahead. “It is the most curious thing. I do not think I have ever across it’s like before, but yes, I think I can work with it. I’m afraid I did not get much chance to exchange notes with Miss Moonsinge.”

“And neither will you be able to do so again. It appears she has departed my employ.”

“A great pity. She had quite an exceptional mind, for a woman.”

“Yes. She did. Very well,” Le Boeuf snapped, now tired of the small talk. He looked back at Delany and the footman who, between them, managed to hold everything he had brought with him from Russia. “To business. Delany, if you would be so kind to place those in my rooms? And you, Doctor Mortimer. Accompany me to see our guest, if you would.”

It was not a question.

4.

THE STRESS WAS GETTING too much for him. Kaplan could tell. What with the recent changes to the status quo on Luna, including the bolstering of the Army presence with a brigade of Royal Marines now under the command of Major Larkins, and the Drobates increasing lack of cooperation, the director of Otterbein Base—one Professor Robert George—was beginning to cave under the pressure. His previously well-ordered operation of seventeen months was slowly falling apart around his ears.

Professor Stone’s presence did not help matters one jot.

The three of them now stood in George’s office, the director standing behind his desk, fists resting on the surface, his face a picture of anger directed at Stone. “You swan in here with your letter, counter-signed by the First Sea Lord of the Admiralty, the head of the Secret Service Bureau and the Prime Minster, disrupt months of research, barely share a word with the men who have spent over a year and half working here, and somehow gain the trust and cooperation of the Drobates in a matter of weeks, and then, only yesterday, you finally deign to work alongside Doctor Kaplan…and now you want this? Are you out of your mind, Professor?”

Kaplan had never seen such anger from Director George before; the man was usually so obsequious in his attitude, aiming to please everyone equally, from Selenites to Major Larkins. Kaplan had heard much about Stone in his time on Luna, several of his colleagues had met Stone on his previous visit to the moon, and all spoke of an upstanding and intelligent scientist, who had stood his ground against the very worst of odds. Now Kaplan was seeing that infamous resolve firsthand. Stone barely responded to George’s outburst, instead he just stood there, hands behind his back, a slight smile on his face. He nodded slowly.

“Maybe I am, Professor George, but then this is Luna. The place of madmen.”

“If I may,” Kaplan said, certain that Stone was intentionally baiting the director now. “The information gained from Jappeth Kelp has been proven accurate. Professor Stone has explained his theory, or some of it at least, and his request is reasonable.”

Director George looked from Kaplan to Stone and back again. He took a deep breath. “Reasonable?” he asked, his voice a little calmer now. “What he requests has little to do with why we’re here. Why would deposits of this jothrick by the gorge matter to the discoveries we are making down here?” He paused, his steely look never swaying from Stone’s smiling visage. “Perhaps if you shared with me the particulars of your mission here? I am, after all, director of this facility and…”

Stone raised a hand, silencing Director George. “That is not your concern. As you have rightly said, I am here under the authority of three of the most powerful men in the British Empire. Men who, with an idle snap of their fingers, can have you removed from your post in an instant.” He stepped closer to the desk, his voice growing quieter as he did. “You will acquiesce to my request, Professor, because you have no choice. Doctor Kaplan here will supervise the team and report his findings directly to me. I am only coming to you as a courtesy.”

Kaplan remained behind when Stone departed the office, and turned back to George once the door was safely closed. “This is not the man I had heard so much about,” he said.

The director shook his head and sat down, seemingly defeated. “No. He is not the man I remember from last year. Grant used to call him ‘an eminent scientist, an honourable man’, and he was exactly those things. But now?”

“As I understand it, when he was last here Stone was under arrest on suspicion of treason.”

“Yes. Curious, isn’t it? A man once accused of treason is now working for the very men who had accused him.” George sighed. “I wonder what has happened in the last year to change things so drastically? I suppose we will never know.” He sat forward, fingering the pipe on his desk. “I wonder what those men hold over Stone?”

Kaplan considered this. He had only spent a limited time with the professor, and so far he had given Kaplan little reason to doubt his intelligence or focus on whatever his mission was, and in that time Stone had not acted in a way that would suggest he was weighed down by the pressures of other men. Indeed, he seemed to be very much at peace with himself and what he was doing. “Perhaps you are reading this all wrong, Director? Maybe it’s Stone who has something over them.”

It was clear that George had not considered this. “Then perhaps it is us who ought to tread carefully,” he said, looking down.

5.

ALONE, NATHANIEL RETIRED TO a quiet drawing room in Otterbein Base, a place the scientists and miners used to relax during the precious downtime allowed to them. He brought with him all the papers and journals he could carry and placed them down on a table before him and set about reading.

It was of little surprise that the library in Otterbein Base consisted mostly of research and academic material, almost all of which pertained to the studies of Luna conducted since Sir William Otterbein’s initial expedition some twenty years ago. The papers written by Brian Masterly held no interest, as most explorers cared little for the glow, and very few papers had been published by Russian scientists, least of all by Tereshkov, who was arguably the most qualified.

After an hour of perusing the papers before him, Nathaniel sat back. It was maddening. No-one seemed to want to talk about the glow—not even Grant, who published even less than Tereshkov. For seventeen months scientists had worked beneath Luna, but not one of them had been drawn to study the glow. There had to be at least one astronomer who had calculated the duration between the emanations, determined some kind of pattern.

For a while he sat, racking his brain, trying to come up with a name. He sat up quickly.

Julian Verney! Of course, who else but him?

Nathaniel needed to get a message to him. Orlondo was due to return to Luna tomorrow which meant he would be almost back on British soil by now; surely he would not mind a detour to the Savile Club? Nathaniel rushed from the drawing room to find Kaplan, wondering what else he would require from Earth to confirm his supposition.

6.

THE ROOM WAS DARK but for a small lamp, its flickering flame casting shadows on the wood panelled walls. Le Boeuf stood aside as Mortimer led the way in. “I wasn’t sure if giving him laudanum was a good idea, considering the high levels of aleksandrite he has already been given, but it was unfortunately the only way to guarantee his compliance.”

“Any unexpected side effects?” Le Boeuf had received regular reports from Madame Moonsinge and her own experiments with the alien compound, but she had never mentioned mixing it with any known analgesic.

“Only the deepest sleep I have seen.”

“Not very helpful. As I understand it, sleeping is not something he has ever had issue with. Besides which, a sleeping agent is of no use to me.”

“Agent?” Mortimer asked, as they walked further into the room, towards the source of the light.

Le Boeuf tutted. “Come now, Doctor Mortimer, have you ever known me to reveal my hand so quickly into a game?”

“No indeed. More Wren’s way than yours.”

Le Boeuf stopped. “Never mention Thaddeus in my company again. His death was unfortunate, but a result of his own weakness. A weakness that cost me greatly.”

“Willie, do forgive me. I spoke out of turn.”

Le Boeuf nodded, graciously he thought. “You did, James.” He waved it away. “The past is of little interest to me now. Show me our guest.”

Mortimer did as requested. He moved forward and gently increased the flame in the lamp, and a pale figure was revealed. The man had seen better days; his cheeks were sallow, his complexion wan. There was a redness around the eyes that spoke of a great illness. His previously thick brown hair was thinning on top, grey showing. Le Boeuf could not help but smile. At other times the man would have been quite attractive, in a rugged way.

“Wake him.”

Wordlessly Mortimer removed the syringe from the side table, and stabbed the needle into the man’s chest. Seconds later he came to with a start, his deep eyes looking around wildly. The alacrity would not last—the man had been doused with so much aleksandrite it would take more than a shot of adrenalin to combat it, even though he had been making a remarkable recovery in the convalescent home in Kent. Le Boeuf would soon see that reversed.

“Doctor Fontaine,” he said, stepping forward so the Frenchman could focus on him. “It is quite the pleasure.”

Fontaine narrowed his eyes. “Qui êtes-vous?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

Le Boeuf’s own voice was level, taking great delight in the look of pain his words were bringing Fontaine. “I am your new master. You are going to help me destroy Nathaniel Stone, and you are going to do it with a song in your heart and a smile on your pretty little lips.”

7.

“DO YOU KNOW WHO I am?”

The first marine looked at the second. Both shrugged. “Even if we did, we can’t let you in there without express permission from both Major Larkins and Director George.”

Nathaniel regarded the two marines, both second lieutenants as seen by the single Bath star on their uniforms, who guarded the cavern entrance. “What are your names?”

“Parkhouse and Ridgway, sir,” the first marine said, seemingly not bothered by the odd question. He even offered a smile. “And we do know who you, Professor Stone. We served aboard Sovereign during its last visit to Luna.”

“Ah.” Nathaniel nodded, not sure if that was a good or bad thing. “Well, that being the case, you should also know I am here under the direct authority of Admiral Sir Richard Vesey Hamilton, and I’m sure you realise that he outranks Major Larkins.”

Parkhouse looked at Ridgway, and the latter turned to Nathaniel, his jaw set determinedly. “Of course sir, but with all due respect he isn’t here, and we have no proof of what you say. Major Larkins is our commanding officer, and we take orders from him. No-one else.”

“Hmm.” This was no good, he needed to get into the cavern beyond, but he clearly could not continue to challenge two Royal Marines; dealing with an angry Robert George was one thing, but facing the wrath of Derek Larkins was quite another. When he first returned to Luna and discovered that Larkins had taken over as military commander, Nathaniel had been pleased that the major who had previously served on Sovereign was given this assignment, due to his familiarity with Luna. Yet when they’d met, Larkins made it very clear that he still considered Nathaniel a risk. No help would be coming from him.

“Very well, as you wish. If you need authority from Larkins and George, I shall get it.”

Parkhouse saluted. “That’s all we need, Professor.”

Nathaniel nodded and turned away. He had to get inside the cavern somehow. He stopped, and a smile crossed his lips. If he could not convince them, then perhaps the Heart could. Since Grant had left Earth on Imperator the Heart had spoken to no-one, even though there were several telepathically inclined people remaining on Luna. The Heart’s communication had dried up the moment Imperator had passed the moon, as if Grant’s departure had simply cut off the signal. Other than Tereshkov, no-one had communed with Heart as much as Grant, and now that he was gone it seemed the Heart no longer wished to communicate with anyone at all.

Well, the Heart would listen to him. Nathaniel closed his eyes.

Kaskuu, he thought, concentrating on the word, replaying it over and over.

Two dull thuds sounded behind him and he turned. Parkhouse and Ridgway were both on the dusty ground, sleeping as peacefully as babes in arms. Without hesitation, Nathaniel stepped over them and entered the cavern.

For a moment he stopped at the entrance, his eyes widening at the majestic sight before him. The metal wall that was barely a small section of the Heart stretched up some forty feet, disappearing into the rocky ceiling. Mechanical apparatus was set up before the Heart, some kind of recording devices, the scientists’ attempts to record the communications between Heart and man. Maybe one day, Nathaniel considered, they would be able to record thoughts, but not today. Which was just as well.

He walked up to the Heart and placed his palms against the smooth surface. He closed his eyes, turned his head sideways, and pressed his temple against the coolness too, almost in embrace. “I am come,” he said.

Chapter Five

“Reunions of the Heart”

1.

AS A SECRET SERVICE Bureau agent he had been hoping for something a bit better, especially after Mister Tooler had said about his papers having all been arranged; but first class on a luxury liner this wasn’t.

Instead here he was being ferried to Luna on RFA Fort Scraesdon, a small supply ship that formed part of the Royal Fleet Auxiliary, a civilian-manned fleet owned by the Ministry of Defence. Following the expansion of the Royal Navy into the aether, it was decided that since the large network of bases they enjoyed on Earth were not practical in the aether they needed to assemble a fleet solely for supplying Navy vessels and outposts. Tally had learned this from his companion, a short robust Spanish scientist who went by the name Orlondo Quintana, an associate of Nathaniel and the Bedfords who had been visiting Arizona at the behest of Nathaniel. The two men, both en route to Luna with documentation for Nathaniel, were to share the same small cabin. Apparently Fort Scraesdon was designed to ferry armaments and dry stores—it wasn’t built to ferry people back and forth. The cabin was the best they had to offer, and it did not offer much.

This would be the secret part of the Secret Service, then; travelling incognito. No posh suit, just him in normal clothes acting like a normal feller. Tally was hoping for something a bit better on his first official excursion into the aether.

Unlike him, Quintana was quite used to aether travel, something that Tally envied from the moment Fort Scraesdon broke out of Earth’s atmosphere and hit the aether. This was what Tooler had been talking about; the difference between travelling the aether with and without gravitar.

Everything seemed to shift around him. It felt like he could float on air, his head light, and so he stepped forward, expecting to float towards the single bed provided. Instead he stumbled forward, his legs oddly heavy. A chubby hand took hold of him by the elbow.

“Magnets in the soles of the shoes,” Quintana said.

Tally felt like a fool. Of course, that’s why they were offered footwear for the journey. He knew this—he was sure someone told him, but unfortunately Quintana had been rambling away in his ear, commenting on everything as if he’d never been on a Navy supply ship before. Maybe he’d read it in the Bureau’s little black book.

“I’ve experienced worse after raising me elbow more times than I should,” said Tally, offering his best Dublin smile, remembering many occasions of stumbling home with his brother. He looked around the room, suddenly tired. He’d prefer a good nine hours sleep, but they’d be arriving at Luna in about six. When Tooler had mentioned going to Luna the next day, Tally had assumed he meant first thing in the morning, and so he’d slept well for the first time since being drafted by the Bureau. Upon waking, he’d learned he had a few small assignments to keep him busy during the day while he awaited his fellow traveller. Like Quintana, Tally had been given important papers for Nathaniel, carrying the Seal of the Admiralty. Tally felt for the sealed papers in his coat pocket. They were not leaving his sight. Sure, Quintana was vouched for, but he didn’t know the man from Adam and wasn’t given to trust him on account of mere acquaintances, even if one of them was a man Tally considered something of a younger brother.

“Ah, sí, I hear much about the Irishman’s liking for alcohol,” Quintana said. “My drinking days are long behind me. I need to keep a clear head,” he added with a wink and a tap of his nose. “Dangerous men want the knowledge I carry with me.”

Tooler had hinted at such. Part of the reason he’d been asked to wait for Quintana was to serve as the man’s bodyguard. Tally didn’t fancy their chances should the art of knuckles become involved; his arm was still too weak to be of any use, and Quintana didn’t look he’d be much use in a fight. Yer man was running to fat.

Still, he had to keep a brave face. “Well I fancy mesel’ forty winks, if yer don’t mind me taking the bed?” Tally was tired, but he didn’t expect to sleep much. This feeling of weightlessness was quite disagreeing with his stomach.

Quintana waved him towards it. “By all means, Señor Tally. I have notes to compile, thoughts to think. My trip to Arizona was quite enlightening. Indeed, it seems since I met Nathaniel Stone I have done nothing but discover new and exciting things. Arranging for me to join the team on Luna, and then sending me to that remarkable cave in Arizona. Stone is a very generous soul.”

“Aye, that he is. Looking forward to seeing him meself. He has a way of opening up the world to yer. In a way.” Tally stopped at the bed. “What’s this?”

The bed, such as it was, was covered with some kind of netting. The bed clothes beneath were as straight as Tally had ever seen. Not a crease. Like a finely presented Navy uniform, rightly enough. How was he supposed to get in the bed with the netting covering it?

Orlondo pushed gently past him, reached down and unhooked the netting. “It’s to prevent you from floating; standard practice in the aether. You don’t want to find yourself pressed against the ceiling upon waking, sí?”

That made sense. He could see why this gravitar stuff was so bloody important now, it helped the admiral’s sleep all sound. Typical. Still, he didn’t much care for being tied down in his sleep. How was he to spring into action should someone break in during the night? He sniffed. In the aether it was always night. What a depressing thought. “Gives a whole new meaning to ‘drifting off to sleep’,” he said, with a forced grin.

At this Quintana laughed. “Ah, sí, very good! You have known Professor Stone a long time?” he asked suddenly.

Tally wondered if he’d ever get used to Quintana’s abrupt changing of subjects. He had done so at least ten times in the scant few hours they’d known each other. “Only a couple of months, though it feels like I’ve known him since we were knee-high.”

Quintana nodded, walked away from the bed and sat on a nearby chair. It was strange to see a man of Quintana’s bulk strapping himself to a normal looking chair. This whole travelling the aether was something Tally didn’t think he’d get used to. Too much like being in prison again for his tastes; no real freedom even if you sat or slept. He always felt like he needed somewhere to bolt to, as a crutch. Here there was nowhere to run. He wanted a horizon again. Nevertheless, he was also tired, and wanted to be his best when he saw Nathaniel again. He would at least try sleeping under a net. After all, he’d slept under much worse. And that was just the women.

He stripped down to his bare essentials and struggled to manoeuvre himself into the bed.

“Would you consider yourself Stone’s friend?” as Quintana, suddenly but in an artlessly casual manner.

Tally looked up, surprised by the question and the way it was phrased. “Aye, that I would. We’ve been through a lot, Nate and me. Shared a lot. Or at least, more than most.”

“Would he think of you the same?”

Tally wasn’t one to presume what others thought, but in this case he felt so and told Quintana yes.

“You know of Arnaud Fontaine?”

Tally paused, almost settled beneath the covers now. He had never been comfortable around people who asked too many questions. Which was a wonderful irony considering his new line of work, but regardless Quintana’s questions bothered him. Nate and he had spent many long hours talking over a bottle of brandy or two and had shared many confidences. Had Nathaniel ever mentioned Quintana before? Possibly. He spoke of many people he had met, and certainly Mister Tooler suggested Quintana was a close ally of Nathaniel’s, close enough to procure important documents to be taken back to Luna for him. But what did Quintana know of Nathaniel and Arnaud? And why the feck would he want to talk about it? He could barely get his own head around it, let alone discuss it with others. Nate was like a little brother, but it didn’t mean he approved of everything he did. Still, Tally knew he’d protect Nate to the end of this world if he had to.

“I know enough to not speak of them in the open. And with a man I barely know,” he added with a tone he thought would be enough to convince the Spaniard to quit the subject now.

Quintana nodded. “Sí, secrets must be kept or they are not secrets. You are a good friend, Señor. You need to ask Stone about Fontaine when you meet him. I was on Luna weeks before el profesor told me about the Chiricahua cave and asked me to study the skeleton in there for him, and not once did he mention Arnaud. And Arnaud and I are friends. It is very troubling for Stone to say nothing of a man so dear to him, no?”

Tally frowned. He knew Nathaniel had returned to Luna to work on solving the secret of aleksandrite, effectively working on behalf of the British Empire, and he also knew that Nathaniel had failed to visit Arnaud even once before doing so. Behaviour that didn’t fit the man he knew, the man who spoke so fondly of Arnaud.

Something was wrong. Tally could feel it in his water.

2.

A RATHER MORE COMFORTABLE flight was the current pleasure for Mister Baxter and Mister Henry, who had departed Lincolnshire for the Americas not long after the shadowy Mister L had left their company. Not that they could give two tin ha’pennies for his pretensions of mystique, of course. A job was a job. Baxter’s housekeeper, the venerable widow Mrs Bidmead, had packed their cases with slightly more vehement grumbling than usual—the issue, Baxter was relatively sure, not being the last-minute nature of their egression from England’s pleasant shores and more the fact that the Gatling gun was an awful chore to disassemble.

Still, it should be strapped down safe in the hold of the aerial flyer by now. Mister L had made a point that every expense would be met, and what were two gentlemen who enjoyed the finer things in life to do? Go expensive, naturally. Henry had put a telephone call through to the right people and, making quick use of his legendary garrulousness, had managed to displace the Venezuelan ambassador so the pair could shanghai his diplomatic suite.

And very nice it was too. Situated right at the front of the aerial flyer, the princely staterooms were decked with fine oak furniture, beautifully wrought ironwork and a bar stocked with the finest gins and whiskeys. Two firm leather Chesterfields faced each other across the morning room, and between them sat a low mahogany coffee table on which were perched two Napoleon brandies, a humidor full of fine cigars and the Chinese fowling piece that Henry had modified himself into a fearsome, fire-spitting blunderbuss. He felt it brought a dangerous frisson of class to the place.

“Rum cove,” said Henry, “that Mister L.”

“Indeed,” replied Baxter. “Would trust him with my wallet, but not my life, what?”

“Well said, Mister Baxter. And having us kill a woman, to boot.”

“If your gambling debts and penchant for redecorating hadn’t seen us in the red, old bean, I’d have told the feller where to stuff his proposition. Still, needs must when the devil drives.”

“And the parlour does look magnificent now, does it not?”

“A matter of taste, Mister Henry. A matter of taste.”

A moment of quiet fell between them, as Baxter swilled the brandy around in his snifter and looked across at his companion. “When it comes to it, you know,” he said, somewhat vaguely, “it shall have to be you that pulls the trigger on the dear girl. I won’t have that on my conscience.”

“For that wallpaper in the atrium, dear Mister Baxter, it will be worth the perfidious peregrinations of the very devil himself.”

3.

SOD ALL SLEEP WAS all he’d had. As he stepped off Fort Scraesdon, Tally was more concerned with finding a decent bed than being awed by his surroundings. Quintana was as excited as ever, and shuffled Tally out before him.

They walked down the steps, Quintana babbling on, while at the bottom of the gorge supplies were brought in by by large machines like giant clockwork spiders. A short distance away a much smaller ship, looking much like a giant bullet made of metal and wood, came to a gentle rest.

“That’s one of our cutters,” Quintana pointed out. “We use them when we need to explore the surface, although not many bother now. The wonders of the City of Light and Science keep most of us busy, although I find the hives of the Selenites quite fascinating. Have you ever met a Selenite, Señor Tally?”

Tally looked back at Quintana with blurry eyes. According to the clock aboard Fort Scraesdon it was almost five o’clock in the morning; the last thing Tally wished to talk about was Quintana’s bleedin’ gelignites, or whatever the hell they were called. He wasn’t much about science at the best of times, and never less so than when he’d been awake for twenty hours straight.

He was about to explain that no, he hadn’t ever seen a bloody gelignite when Quintana pointed to their left and nudged Tally to look in that direction. For a moment Tally thought that maybe he had, indeed, fallen asleep. Three ants, almost the size of a man, were helping to carry supplies from the aether flyer.

“Those are Selenites. The indigenous species. We used to think that the Drobates were indigenous, hence the old term moon men, but we’ve since learned that they are an ancient aether faring race. Unlike these poor Selenites. They grew on Luna, super-evolved under the influence of the Heart. Ah! Darwin would have a field day on Luna.”

Tally shook his head. Giant ants, moon men, the Heart; it all sounded vaguely familiar to him, but his brain was far too tired to put the pieces together. “Listen, all I’m needing is a good bed and a few hours kip, then I’ll be happy to listen to all your stories. Twice. I’m not a scientist, I just need me sleep!”

Quintana nodded in understanding. “Alas, it seems Director George disagrees. I think the heliograph moves faster than the flyer, sí?”

Tally was about to ask what he was gabbing about this time, when a man walked up to them, dressed smartly, wearing a very broad smile. His smile did nothing to hide the tiredness of his own eyes. Tally could relate.

“Agent Cahalleret,” George said, grabbing Tally’s hands in his own and pumping them with way more energy than Tally possessed. Tally glanced around them; what was wrong with the eejit, didn’t the base director know he was supposed to be here incognito? How the hell did he learn about Tally’s arrival anyway? “What a delight it is to have an agent of…”

Tally leaned forward quickly, and whispered. “Shut your hole, you damn eejit!”

Director George looked like he’d been slapped, until Tally continued to shake his hand once again and looked around pointedly.

“Oh, yes, quite. Well, erm, we only learned of your arrival about an hour ago; if we would have known you were on the way sooner we would have been much more prepared.” He looked over Tally’s shoulders at Fort Scraesdon. “And to travel on a supply ship!”

Tally knew he could quite warm to the idea of people toadying around him. On any other day. But right now he just wanted to sleep. Possibly noticing Tally’s irked mood, Quintana stepped in on his behalf.

“Is Professor Stone around?”

George finally released Tally’s hand and looked around. “I don’t believe so, but then that is nothing new. He can vanish days on end without letting anyone know of his whereabouts. The man is a dratted law unto himself!”

“And a very good friend of…ah, Mister Cahalleret here,” Quintana said, beaming at Tally.

Tally stood up to his full height and put on his most serious face. “Aye, that he is. Now where is he?”

George looked around, worry etched on his tired face, but Tally had to give him his due. Not once did he drop his smile. “I’m afraid I have no idea. I daresay he’ll surface in the morning. Until then…um, perhaps a tour of Otterbein Base?”

Christ no. Tally shook his head quickly. As much as he was wanting to see Nate, he was happy for the chance of more sleep. “I would rather a chance to sleep,” he said, doing his best to sound officious. “The sleeping arrangements on Fort Scraesdon were dreadful.”

“Ah, yes, of course. Um… Sleeping quarters. As I mentioned, we were not forewarned about your arrival, perhaps…”

Once again Quintana stepped in. “There is a spare bunk in my room. If Señor Cahalleret wouldn’t mind using it?”

Tally would sleep here if he were allowed. “Sounds perfect to me,” he said, just hoping that Quintana would cease his prattling. He’d had a lot to talk about on the six hours to Luna, imagine what topics he could cover now—the trivialities that would be constantly crossing his mind now they were on Luna. Tally almost shuddered at the thought.

“Then that’s settled.” George looked relieved. “A tour first thing then?”

“Aye, as long as first thing is no earlier than ten o’clock. I need me sleep, man!”

Director George swallowed. “Yes. Yes, of course.”

“Best news all day.” Offering his best Dublin smile, Tally took the lull in conversation to push Quintana on towards the buildings he could see in the near distance. Surely that had to be Otterbein Base? It was a shame that Nathaniel was not there to greet them, but given that sleep seemed to be something of luxury, Tally intended to make the most of the next five hours.

4.

THE DOOR WAS OPEN a crack, and Le Boeuf stood there watching the Frenchman. He represented everything Le Boeuf hated; a reminder of betrayal, both personal and professional. Professional because of the way the French had left him stranded after the destruction of Peregrine, taking away their backing of his greatest achievement, forcing him to Russia and Count Dorokov—which he had, of course, turned to his advantage, but that was beside the point. And personal because of Fontaine’s reaction yesterday.

Fontaine narrowed his eyes. “Qui êtes-vous?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

Le Boeuf’s own voice was level, taking great delight in the look of pain his words were bringing Fontaine. “I am your new master. You are going to help me destroy Nathaniel Stone, and you are going to do so with a song in your heart and a smile on your pretty little lips.”

At first Fontaine just looked at Le Boeuf, his eyes still confused by the remains of the aleksandrite mixed with the laudanum, but when Le Boeuf’s words registered a look of anger swept across his rugged features.

“Non! Vous allez me tuer avant que je vous aiderai!” Fontaine yelled, spittle on his lips.

Such fierce loyalty. Admirable really, if ultimately meaningless. Le Boeuf had not come across it very much, but the look in Fontaine’s eyes… He had seen it in Thaddeus’ glare many times, especially when Henry had tried to blackmail them both when, in college, he had discovered their secret. Of course, Thaddeus had done nothing to fight back, that had been down to Le Boeuf, and for his efforts he had been ostracised, humiliated, forced to hide himself in the shadows until he finally returned to Thaddeus’ side—by which time Thaddeus had done the unthinkable, and had got married! Le Boeuf had been betrayed many times since then, but it was that single act which hurt the worst. Everything that had been good in Guillaume Le Boeuf had died that day.

And now Arnaud Fontaine had Nathaniel Stone. There was no doubt in Le Boeuf’s mind. Once again it seemed Stone was taunting him. First he had destroyed Torquilstone, ruined his greatest achievement, and then somehow managed to survive the smear campaign Le Boeuf had started before Stone had even returned to Earth. And now he had it all. All! Everything Le Boeuf had been denied. There was a small satisfaction in knowing Stone could not celebrate his reputation, his successes…but Le Boeuf knew Stone, and somehow that jackanapes would find a way to overcome that obstacle soon enough. A triumphant return from death!

So to Arnaud Fontaine. After the display, Le Boeuf knew just what he to do. He had retired from the room and left orders with Mortimer to make Fontaine comfortable. Have him rest up for the rest of the day, sleep comfortably. While Mortimer took care of the Frenchman, Le Boeuf had taken to the moors with Mortimer’s dog, allowing the clean air to wipe away the dust of his mind, to adapt his plan. At first he simply wished to strike at Stone through those closest to him; Fontaine was the obvious initial step—his exposure to aleksandrite was too good an opportunity to miss. Moonsinge had proven the adaptability of aleksandrite by utilising its potent hallucinatory properties. But there was still the new Mrs Bedford—the Mouth and the Scalpel would see that she was brought to account for her actions on Peregrine. That she survived the wound he had given her had surprised him, and that she would go on to marry the first officer of the British Empire naval flagship was an insult Le Boeuf could not let go unchallenged.

Now he had a new plan. A new way to destroy Stone.

“I do hope you are well rested, Doctor Fontaine,” Le Boeuf said as he stepped into the guest room.

Fontaine looked at him through the mirror, but did not turn to face him. Fontaine was looking better for his rest, although he still had a long way to go before he was the handsome man that Stone had fallen for.

“Oui,” he said, forcing a smile. “But good manners will not make me a party to your plan. Whatever you are after, you have got the wrong man.”

“Au contraire, Doctor Fontaine. You are very much the right man.” Le Boeuf sat on the end of the bed and watched Fontaine for a few moments, and the man studied him back. As well he should. Yes, Stone had chosen wisely. Even now, still suffering from the drugs in his system, Fontaine projected the kind of strength Le Boeuf had once seen in Thaddeus. Many years gone. Thaddeus had been broken by the end, and so, too, would be Fontaine. “Do you know who I am?”

“Non, neither do I care to know.” So the man was stubborn and petulant too? This too could be exploited. Finally Fontaine turned to face Le Boeuf. “I wish to return to my room in Kent, to overcome the stuff that witch put in my body.” He stood up and walked over to the window. “Where are we?”

Le Boeuf rose with a smile and joined Fontaine at the window. Stretched out before them was a vast stretch of Dartmoor, totally silent. “A land of spectral beasts,” he said, his voice low. There was no time like the present to start his plan. “The location of which will not be of interest to you. You will not be leaving the Hall, but I cannot promise the dogs will not come to get you.”

That said, he slowly walked away from the window. He only glanced back when he reached the door. “I daresay Stone has told you all about me—well, all that he knows, which is very little. I am Guillaume Le Boeuf, Doctor Fontaine, and you will tell me everything about yourself and Stone. One way or another.”

He walked out of the room. Yes, the fierce loyalty in Fontaine’s eyes had given way to fear. Stone had told him. That was good. Fear was Le Boeuf’s greatest weapon, and it was one he would use to drag Fontaine to the gates of hell itself.

5.

THE MYSTERIES OF AGES. Such incredible images and knowledge. They gave everything, holding nothing back. So much that it was hard for one mind to take it all in.

Time was meaningless as the story unfolded; every part of the great experiment, the journey of the Heart and it’s brethren, the shutdown and the awakening, the evolution of the Selenites, the connection between the Heart and man’s progress into the aether… Millennia of history. For the first time they both knew it all.

You know what to do?

Yes.

The timing is crucial. There have been too many mistakes. They are not ready.

I understand.

Wait for the signal.

Yes. When will we know you again?

When it is time.

Until all are one?

Yes. Wait for the signal.

For a moment Nathaniel stood there, his hands pressed against the smooth surface of the Heart. For the first time since he’d first held Arnaud in his arms he felt a sense of contentment. Nothing was unknown to him. He felt at one with the universe. He took a deep breath and stumbled backwards.

Nathaniel looked up at the metal wall before him, his mind a well of confusion. What was he doing here? He glanced around the cavern. He remembered coming here, yes, after he had arranged for a message to be couriered back to Earth for Orlondo. He had come to talk to the Heart, to try and communicate with it. He had never shown any telepathic tendencies before, but already since arriving on Luna he’d found he could understand the Drobates, make sense of their broken English. Had he succeeded?

He pulled himself to his feet and dusted his trousers down; not that it made a whole lot of difference, his clothes had been almost consistently dirty for the last few weeks. He walked over to the Heart and placed one hand against the smooth wall. There was nothing, no sense of the mind he had heard Grant and Folkard speak of. Perhaps he needed to acquire the help of one the telepaths at Otterbein Base—it was true that none of them had a smidgen of the understanding that Grant had shown, but they had made some progress in his absence.

Nathaniel turned away from the Heart and found himself facing another problem. Ridgway and Parkhouse were still there, guarding the entrance as per Major Larkins instructions. He had to get past them; it was the only way in and out of this particular chamber. Other Heart chambers had many access points, but not this one. Which presented a problem.

There was only way out of this.

“Good day, gentlemen,” he said as he walked towards them.

They looked back at him, to each other, then at him again. “Professor Stone? How did you…?” Parkhouse glanced at Ridgway, who shrugged in return.

“Must have been Webster and Spillane.” Ridgway clucked his tongue. “The major ain’t gonna be happy about this.”

Nathaniel was going to question them on this; it was they who had let him in, not the other unfortunates they mentioned. He would hate to be them when Larkins got hold of them; still, if it meant an easy way out, then Nathaniel would take it.

“Yes, I guess not all marines are as dependable as you.” Nathaniel offered them his best smile. “It’s my own fault; put the fear of Admiral Hamilton into them.”

Parkhouse nodded. “Ah, well, they are new here, guess they’ve not worked out that it’s Major Larkins who gives the orders, not one of the bigwigs at the Admiralty.”

“Yes, it would appear so. Now, if you don’t mind, I have work to do at the city.”

Nathaniel pushed his way gently past them, not daring to glance back. Best not to give them reason to stop him and present him before Larkins instead. As he walked off, his mind continued to ponder on the oddness of it all. Why did they not remember letting him in? And why had they not noticed him in the chamber anyway? Maybe the Heart had somehow hidden him, protected him from them… If so, then did that mean he had been successful and the Heart had communicated with him?

He wished he could remember what had happened.

6.

IT HAD BEEN THREE days since the grisly and unsettling circus sideshow of the hanging. For the rest of Sunday evening, the denizens of Souptown had all seemed in a jocular and carefree mood, as if the execution had released some pressure that had been building, worrying at the corners of their mind and never easing. With the pressure off, it was time to let their hair down.

While a lot of the derelicts, renegades, whores and convicts went back to the saloon, a good number remained in the street to wrestle or huddle in groups, throwing knives and horseshoes. There were still too many people around, and they were still too unfamiliar with the true layout of the place for any of the intruders to go snooping. They would just have to lay off the whiskey, hope everybody else didn’t show similar restraint, and poke about under cover of darkness.

George, thinking quickly, had managed to snag them a small table in one of the darkened back corners of the bar, so the trio hunkered down and kept their ears open. Mostly for show, Enderby bought a bottle of whiskey which, when sampled, brought tears to their eyes and was promptly left alone.

There was some talk of the hanged man’s crime—it sounded like something to do with trying to alert the authorities about one of the residents to net himself a handsome bounty, but he had been apprehended before getting even a couple of miles from the borders of Souptown when the old nag he’d rustled collapsed from exhaustion. Beyond that they learned nothing; there was no talk of men forced inside bones of bronze, neither were the Soup Twins openly discussed beyond praise for Casey’s wise judgement and Eustace’s reedy singing voice.

Similarly, their probing under night’s stifling veil was no more productive. The residents of Souptown were not ones for an early night. Way past midnight darkened alleyways were still alive with deals and gambling, or the promise of a night-time tryst. It was simply too much of a risk, and even at this broken and lonely hour the factory and mansion were guarded by several men armed with Winchesters and bowie knives.

They had to accept the setback. Even Enderby, frustrated as he was, had to concede that the risk of capture or discovery was too great, and sent George to procure them a single room they could share somewhere on the top floor of the brothel. George didn’t like the way the madame smirked at him when she handed over the key.

The following day saw more information come their way, though it was more by luck than judgement. Enderby had sauntered off under the pretence of finding them some food other than horse-meat stew, leaving George and Annabelle to swelter in the poky, foul-smelling room they currently had to call their lodgings.

Annabelle’s demeanour towards George had not warmed in the interim; she still did not know how to broach her discovery, let alone if she was to forgive him or not. In order to avoid having to talk to him, she stared from the window while her husband sat on the paper-thin mattress, fretting and biting his nails.

As she took in the street a curious incident occurred. A man, clearly drunk but dressed significantly better than Souptown’s other residents, stumbled out into the street. Unsteady on his legs but unwavering in his approach, he strode across to the curiously door-less metal factory and began banging on the sheet steel of the side. Annabelle opened the window so she could hear better. Wordlessly, George joined her to watch the scene unfold.

“You took him from me,” yelled the man. “My kid brother, you went an’ hung him, now you can at least give me the body for a proper Christian burial! Mister Campbell… Eustace! You’re a man of the Lord with a brother himself, you gotta let me give Harry the last rites!”

There was a clank above him and once more the flywheel on the big brass door span around. One of the brothers stepped out, and in his hands he brandished a lever-action Winchester rifle that was patterned all over with gold leaf, the wood of its stock carved and polished to an expert level. He strode up to the edge and looked down.

“Which one are you?” yelled the man below him. “Which one, dammit!”

The brother declined to answer. He simply shouldered the rifle and clicked a latch on the side with his thumb, and a telescopic slight flicked up from the side to click into line with the barrel. The brother took aim.

The beleaguered man soon forgot his complaint, grabbed his hat and started to zig-zag away as fast as his drunken legs could carry him. Annabelle wasn’t sure if his erratic movements were a deliberate ploy to avoid getting shot or a handy side-effect of the booze. The brother shot from the balcony once, then twice; each time a plume of dust shot up an inch from the fleeing man’s shoes, accompanied by a roar of carnival clown laughter from the twin.

Not long after this, Enderby returned. He brought with him several wrinkled apples and what he promised was buffalo jerky. Without touching any of this bounty himself, he leaned by the doorframe, lit another cheroot, and told the mute couple of all he had learned on his sojourn.

In what passed for a general store, the shopkeeper wouldn’t be drawn on discussing the Soup Twins, the factory or the strange nature of the hanging, but Enderby put this down to stupidity on the man’s part rather than a lack of talent on his. On the way back he had skirted round the rear of the factory but found it blocked off by the walls of other houses. There was no sign of any doors or windows.

It was as he was making his way back that he’d heard the commotion on the factory balcony. Ever alert to possibilities he flattened his back against the nearest wall to watch from the shadows. When the man began to flee under the cold glass eye of the Soup Twin’s sniper rifle, Enderby quickly calculated where he terrified gent would flee to and set off down the backstreets to intercept him.

“And intercept him I did,” added Enderby casually. “As if his troubles weren’t enough, his name’s Mick Mackett. Came here with his brother after some gambling debts got him into trouble back in Blackwater. His brother, the gentleman who was hanged not one day ago, was an apprentice blacksmith who had been taken on by the Soup Twins to work in their foundry—that big metal building. He disappeared for weeks. Apparently, those who go into the factory are allowed to stay in the mansion, and such is the luxury there, with every whim provided for, they need never leave. Only the next thing he knows, his brother’s been branded a criminal and is on the run, although nobody saw him escape and nobody had seen him brought back in chains.”

“Doesn’t anybody around here question such queer occurrences?” Annabelle seethed.

“I don’t think they dare to,” Enderby said. “The Soup Twins are like royalty, nobody dare speak up against them. For the promise of liberty from the laws of the land, the residents here seem happy to cower under their despotism.”

“Not much of a life,” mulled George. “Sounds like marriage. What are we to do, then?”

“Well, unlucky old Mick is adamant on getting his brother’s corpse back. But he’s too unpredictable to be of any use to us, save as acting as an extra, slower target for the enemy to shoot at. He thinks he can get us into the factory, and I’ve told him we’ll get the body back while he keeps watch.”

“How on Earth did you gain his confidence so easily?” asked George, clearly impressed.

“He was drunk,” said Enderby drolly. “He thought it was a great idea. And I found something else out, too. Casey is the one we need to go for. He’s the smarts. Eustace is just some cheap showman, a godly preacher that likes the feel of a flock in the palm of his hand.”

“And what of Mackett’s plan?” asked Annabelle.

“We’re to meet him at 2am on the westernmost side of the factory.”

When they arrived, he was nowhere to be seen. The following morning, Enderby vanished too.

7.

THE PASSAGE OF TIME was so hard to gauge in the underworld of Luna without the orbit of the sun to help. True, they had watches, but it didn’t help with the AM or PM. The passage of time occupied his mind as Nathaniel traversed the tunnels from the Heart chamber, using lesser known secret passages that he’d been introduced to by Jappeth Kelp, quickening his journey back to Otterbein Base. His watch wristlet, given to him upon his return to Luna since their use was more practical than the usual pocket watch—a practice started by the military, he was told—told him that it was now five to twelve, some eight hours since he’d gone to see the Heart. Eight hours! That in itself was longer than he would have expected, but even then it felt like he had been there longer still. What he needed was one of those twenty-four hour clocks the Italians used—perhaps he could adapt his own watch wristlet to that purpose? He was no horologist, but he was certain he could work out the finer functions of the watch on his own.

Eventually he emerged onto a rocky outcrop overlooking the creatively named Great Cavern—it seemed everywhere was called Great Something on Luna. Below him he could see the lake that took up most of the cavern, Otterbein Base covering almost all of the ground on the far bank—nearly twice the size it had been when he had last visited Luna almost a year ago. The British administration continued to build, as the need for research grew, and thus the larger military presence with it. There was little left of the Russian mining operation that had once occupied the Great Cavern—now it looked like almost any British colonial base, albeit dirtier and darker. To the right of the base was the landing area, situated just to the side of the Great Gorge. As usual it was full of cutters and various mining equipment, including a couple of mole drills, looking like strange misshapen locomotive engines.

It was looking at Otterbein Base that he got his first confirmation that he’d been away longer than he wanted to believe. The Edison bulbs, standing atop tall masts, shone according to the hour of the day in an attempt to replicate the twenty-four-hour rotation of Earth. Unless he was mistaken, the illumination now indicated noon.

Which was impossible. How could he have possibly been away for twenty hours? It was absurd to think he’d been with the Heart for such a time. But, he considered, it would explain the odd behaviour of Ridgway and Parkhouse and the mention of those other marines; presumably the pair who Ridgway and Parkhouse had relieved for the morning shift. How many had guarded the Heart chamber in the time he had been there? And why had none of them noticed him?

Questions he could not answer right now. He’d have to answer enough questions if his return to Otterbein Base was noticed by Professor George.

It never ceased to surprise him how people ignored you if you walked around like you had something to do. No-one bothered to question him, merely the odd nod and good afternoon, and soon he was opening the door of his own quarters that doubled as his private lab. Not that he used it much. He tended to spend more time in the City of Light and Science, talking to the Drobates there, with the interpretative skills of Kelp, and examining the construction of that city.

There was a definite similarity between the crystals that were used in its construction and the aleksandrite.

“Orlondo!” Nathaniel was most delighted to see his friend waiting for him; his portly frame seated comfortably at the desk, test tubes and ephemera cast aside in favour of the papers he had been studying as Nathaniel opened the door.

Orlondo looked up from the papers, his tanned face breaking into a wide smile of his own. “Professor! Sí, sí, a joy to see you again!” He got off the stool and walked the length of the room to heartily shake Nathaniel’s hands.

“How was Arizona? And how is dear Annabelle? Enjoying her second honeymoon, I trust?”

For a moment Orlondo did not reply, a dark shadow crossing his usually bright face. “She is, ah, well occupied,” he said, his hesitation causing Nathaniel a small measure of concern. “But Arizona; it was amazing! That cave. Ah! The discoveries I made. But come, we shall speak of these later. First!” Orlondo snapped his fingers and pulled an envelope from his inside pocket. “From Julian Verney, the information you requested, sí?”

Nathaniel took the envelope from him and began opening it. “Did you have trouble finding him?”

“No, no, your friend at the Savile Club was most helpful. Although he did say that you will have to reimburse him later. He expected much for being put out of place.”

“Yes, that sounds like Sir Eleias.” Nathaniel glanced at the papers inside the envelope—exactly what he needed; the complete set of records from Verney’s observations of the glow. He would have to personally thank the astronomer at some point, and maybe even discover why Verney had never published his findings. He closed the envelope. The papers could wait a short while. “What did you discover in Arizona? I assume it was helpful to your research, your understanding of the Drobates?”

Orlondo’s face was alight with excitement. He scrambled over to the desk and picked up a daguerreotype. “Let me show you! The Drobate skull in the Greenore Gulch cave was… Come, see for yourself!”

Nathaniel had missed Orlondo’s excitement, and considered it a pity they had not had more time to work together on Luna. It was a shame their working together would be delayed for another month. He listened, studying the unclear image of the Drobate skull, as Orlondo explained his findings and his hypothesis. One phrase struck him; as if the brain had outgrown its original purpose. For a few moments Nathaniel was silent.

“It has to be the jothrick,” he muttered softly, rubbing his chin.

“Qué? Jothrick?”

Nathaniel explained about jothrick, and the tree found at the Greenore Gulch cave. “The way Annabelle described it, I believe that stump of crystal was once a tree of jothrick, not unlike that which Tally and I discovered beneath Phoenix Park.”

“Sí, I saw the crystal, it looked like…”

“This?” Nathaniel pointed to the green crystal growth sitting in a plant pot, looking much like a bonsai tree. Orlondo’s face lit up. “I wonder… Could it be over-exposure to the aleksandrite? Sorry, that’s what jothrick is called on Earth. I have reasons to believe it to be susceptible to psychic influence—indeed, much evidence points to this. This little tree here was but a small chunk of crystal when it was given to me, and it grows because I want it to. And then there’s Arnaud… The mental damage done to him by exposure to a raw potency of jothrick.”

“Where is Señor Arnaud?”

Nathaniel was thrown by the abrupt question. For a moment he looked at Orlondo, wondering why he would ask such a thing. “He is on Earth, recovering, surely I have mentioned this?”

Orlondo shook his head. “No, you have not said his name since you came to Luna. Is everything okay with you? You and he are…?”

Nathaniel looked away. “Too much exposure,” he said, and pointed at the picture of the Drobate skull. “This is what it does to you.”

Orlondo nodded, concern in his eyes. Despite this he, too, turned his attention back to the main topic. “Sí. Drobates are telepathic, we know this.”

“And the City of Light and Science is made of a similar crystalline substance. I have run tests and it shows the same sclerenchyma-like properties as the jothrick. I am certain the Chaldrite crystal city on Phobos will contain the same properties—I am expecting a sample of said crystals today, in fact.”

A sharp knock on the door interrupted them. It could be the courier, but what kind of man would knock so rudely? For a moment Nathaniel considered ignoring it, but decided that he would rather deal with the indignation of George now than let it fester longer, for there was no-one else who would possibly knock in such a way. He opened the door and, in fact, saw the very last face he ever could have expected.

“Why, there y’are, ya gobshite!”

Handsome as ever, his face and expression hardened by life, but not defeated by it, the man before him had jet-black hair and sparkling blue eyes. As usual he was dressed in a waistcoat and open-necked shirt, a flat beige cap balanced at an odd angle on his head.

“Tally!” Before he realised he was going to do so, Nathaniel grabbed Tally in a hug. At first the other man resisted, his muscles like iron, before he relaxed into the embrace and firmly pattered Nathaniel on the back. “What the dickens brings you to Luna? I thought that surely Tooler would be putting your unique gifts to good use.”

“Aye, and that he is. Me gifts, as yer so delicately put them, are at your service, Professor. Mister Tooler sent me here to be yer bodyguard—seems he worries for yer safety now the world knows about this gravitar stuff.”

For a second Nathaniel was confused. “Ah, I see, that’s why we have a much larger presence of Navy vessels above us. Oh. I doubt Chillingham will be happy about this development.” At this he smiled. “Serves the blackguard right, keeping his dirty secrets to himself and using them to settle petty scores.”

“And so he should; you Britishers worry too much about keeping secrets. Honesty is the only way forward. Which reminds me.” Tally pushed his way into Nathaniel’s quarters and closed the door tightly behind him. “Only just managed to escape that tour. I tell ya, how many laboratories does one man need to see before he’s bored senseless? Thought I’d get used to toadying, but I may’ve been mistaken.”

“Professor George, I assume?” Tally nodded. “Yes, well, he means well, but he doesn’t really know when to stop ingratiating himself. Oh! Forgive me.” Nathaniel indicated Orlondo, who was still sitting at the desk, the daguerreotype in his hand. “This is Doctor Orlondo Quintana, a good friend and expert on…” He stopped at the nod of recognition between them. “You two have met?”

“Aye, that we have.”

“Lo siento, Señor,” Orlondo said to Tally. “I needed to visit Raddep Jank to discuss my new theories. He was most excited. I did not want to disturb you, estabas durmiendo.”

Tally looked from Orlondo to Nathaniel for a better explanation.

“You were sleeping. And so he went to see a Drobate—a rare breed among his people; curious about their past. As a rule Drobates are ignorant of where they came from, both blissfully and wilfully, I think. There are but a few who wish to learn more.”

“Aye, catching up on the sleep I lost coming here. Dreaming of dear old Dublin town,” Tally said. “Just not sure I’m built for this travelling lark. Wasn’t what I expected when I signed up with the Bureau.”

“Then perhaps I can help you with that,” Nathaniel said, hitting upon an idea. “A chance to return a favour.” He looked over at Orlondo. “You’ll have to forgive me for cutting this short, but Tally must be shown the City of Light and Science. Is there anything else you particularly need to show me, or can it wait?”

Orlondo glanced at the picture in his hand and shook his head. “No, you have confirmed my hypothesis. But I have much study to do.”

“Indeed, but alas it will not be on Luna.”

“Qué?”

Nathaniel could not blame him for his confusion. Things were progressing so fast, faster than he had expected. But there was no time to waste. He needed someone he trusted to prepare things for him; someone he knew. “I’m afraid you’ve been conscripted, my friend. For the most amazing discoveries of your career. What you saw in Arizona was only the beginning. You’re off to Mars.”

Chapter Six

“All in the Family”

1.

HIS FIRST ALIEN SPECIES. Tally tried to pull his eyes from the creature that sat at the rear of the small boat, but was finding it difficult. Much like his urge to lean over the side of the boat and chuck up his guts. It wasn’t the odd distortion of the human form, the slightly too big eyes or the simian-like length of its arms. It was the skin, or rather what could be seen beneath it. The skin itself was a strange bluish-grey, so thin as to be opaque, revealing the veins and arteries beneath. Call him old fashioned, but he preferred such things to be hidden.

“Don’t you find him a wee bit distracting, Nate?” he whispered, leaning himself closer to Nathaniel.

The professor glanced back at the Drobate. “Not at all, Tally, I suppose on first encounter I was little put off, but also fascinated. Oh, and he…” At this point Nathaniel craned his head down so his lips were inches away from Tally’s ears. “…Is a she. Although I can understand how you’d make the mistake. The females are a lot larger than the males, their brows more prominent, and their skin quite a bit bluer. They’re also, by and large, the more intelligent.”

“Aye, should have realised. Just like me ma.”

“Really? Your mother shared a similarity with Kelp?”

“Well, obviously ma is a much better looking woman, but it’s the look in Kelp’s eyes… Only a woman can look at a man like that.”

“Oh.” Nathaniel shook his head. “Never gave it much thought really.”

“No, don’t suppose you would,” Tally rejoined good naturedly.

He looked around them. They had been travelling some way down the river now—and the idea of an underground river running to the centre of the moon was something Tally found hard to get his head around. Where did it come from, what kind of water cycle was at work? He had asked, but Nathaniel was of no help. Apparently geology wasn’t his field. As it turned out the River of Life, as it was called, seemed to go on forever. They had passed through several tunnels already, and finally began to emerge into a big cavern.

“Is it much further?” he asked, reaching into a pocket for a cigarette.

“Funny you should ask,” Nathaniel responded, and looked at Tally in shock. “What the devil are you doing?”

“Having a smoke, what does it look like?” He pulled out his lucifers, which were immediately snatched out of his hand by Nathaniel. “You daft eejit, what’d ya go and do that for?”

“You’ll frighten the natives.”

“What natives? You said Kelp was intelligent, I’m sure she’ll not mind me having a quick smoke. Aye, sure and she might like to join me?”

Nathaniel shook his head, and Tally had to admit he rather enjoyed the look of exasperation on the professor’s face. “The Drobates are an ancient civilisation—or at least the remains of one, and I assure you they are smart enough to know better than to join a savage like you in inhaling that muck. It may not look like it, but they are far more advanced than we are. They just don’t know how their technology works—it either does or doesn’t, beyond that most of them simply don’t care. They revere their technology, but alas they don’t understand it.”

“Then perhaps it’s time we showed them some of the simpler pleasures of life?”

Nathaniel looked at Tally like he was mad, then glanced over at Kelp. “You surely do not mean you wish to engage Kelp in…” He shook his head. “That is absurd, Tally, patently so. Besides, as Grant’s research showed us they are not biologically compatible with humans. Indeed, they have more in common with the Selenites.”

Tally was, of course, joking. He could barely bring himself to look at Kelp for more than a few seconds, but Nate was such a great mark and it seemed he had been far too serious since leaving Earth. The professor had been loosening up, entirely due to Tally’s influence, during their time in Dublin, but he seemed to have restored his British stick up his arse since leaving Tally’s side. “Well, she’s no Miss Baker and that’s for sure, but if I’m going to be out here in the aether it stands to reason I should explore all aspects of life, would ya not agree?”

“Well, really, Tally! I don’t know what to say.”

Tally said no more, keeping his face as straight as he could. Nathaniel looked quite flushed by the idea. It was the reddening of his checks that cracked Tally. He let out a bellow of a laugh, doubling up in his seat.

For his own part Nathaniel continued looking at Tally, his eyes narrowed at being the butt of another of Tally’s jokes. “Yes,” he said, “very droll. But, you know, with you Fenians nothing is impossible.”

Once he had managed to control his laughing, Tally nodded. “Aye, that’s true. But even I would have trouble with Kelp there.” He glanced back. Her expression had not changed. “Here,” he continued in a whisper, “didn’t ya say she understands a wee bit of English?”

“The words maybe, the meaning… I certainly hope not. Heavens forbid you become the object of an amorous Drobate.”

“Me ma, God rest her, had a fit as it was when I brought Jenny back, and Jaysus, she was only from Donegal.”

The boat took them further into the open cavern and before long Tally saw the city Nathaniel had insisted on showing him. And it was a beauty, he had to give Nate that.

The City of Light and Science took up the far bank, stretching further than he could see from the boat, reaching to the arched roof of the cavern. It was like looking at a city fashioned from some kind of crystal; a complex of buildings, reflecting the glow of the fungus that littered the walls of the lunar underground. The sheer size of it put Phoenix Park to shame, while the beauty dwarfed that of both Trinity College and the Port Authority Building combined. He never thought he’d admit it, but Tally had found somewhere that could easily rival Dublin in his affections.

“What do you think, Tally?”

Tally couldn’t find the words, and for someone like him that was saying something. He could only sit there and look as the boat began its approach.

“Good, what with you missing Dublin I thought this might be right up your street. And until I have the papers I need from the Admiralty or the Chaldrite crystal I find myself at something of a loose end, so your arrival was timely.”

Papers! “Oh, corks!” Tally had forgotten about them. He reached into his jacket and pulled the bound papers out. “Would these be the papers yer waiting on?” he asked, giving his best sheepish smile. “They, ah, slipped me mind. What with Kelp here undressin’ me with her eyes.”

Nathaniel took the papers off Tally, pointedly ignoring the smile offered. “Thank you,” he said sharply. He looked back at Kelp. “Take us back,” he said, seeing an image of the bank nearest Otterbein Base in his mind to back up the words he had spoken. He glanced at Tally. “Unless you wish to remain with Kelp and explore the city, we need to return to my quarters. I have work to do.”

“Oh no, I’ll come with ya.” Tally would have loved to explore the city, with or without Kelp, but the professor was cross, and Tally felt the blame on his shoulders. He was here on Bureau business, not a damn tourist. Tooler wouldn’t be too impressed if he found out. “Sorry,” he mumbled.

Nathaniel’s only response, as the boat turned back upstream, was a low rumble of his throat.

2.

ENDERBY HAD DONE HIS usual pompous thing of informing George and Annabelle of every detail of the movements he had planned out. He would once more head to the general store to buy them some victuals, then meander back and look for possible entrances at the back of the mansion, the one place he had not yet checked. Mick Mackett’s no-show didn’t seem to worry him unduly; he waved it off as the man being too drunk or frightened at that time of the morning to have bothered. The last item on his little checklist was to make some gentle enquiries at the saloon bar. He hoped Mackett’s performance at the walls of the foundry yesterday was bold enough to loosen a few tongues. George had wanted to accompany him but the agent had not been keen, reasoning that it was a good idea for the trio to be seen together as little as possible now, so they might act independently when the time was right.

When he did not return at his allotted time, George began to worry. The spy was punctilious enough to have come back even he hadn’t finished his finicky little list, and it only took a few more minutes to pass before Annabelle began to worry too. George insisted on going for a quick reconnoitre; Annabelle countered that she was quicker and quieter (“Even with the leg,” she added childishly) and if anyone it should be her that went to look. Neither would concede the point, and soon both had made plain to the other—mostly through grunts and stern looks—that they would both go and look and rendezvous back in the room in fifteen minutes.

Both searches proved fruitless.

“We have to assume that they know we’re here,” snapped George, throwing his hat onto the bed in frustration. “At least if we do that, we’re prepared.”

Annabelle agreed but didn’t make it plain. “Well you’ve had me cooped up here like a pariah for the most part,” she said. “So if anything, you pose more of a danger in that regard.”

“Well what else are we to do?”

“That unfortunate with the terrible name. Mick Mackett. He said his brother got into the foundry as a blacksmith. I could put myself forward.”

“Now, Annabelle dearest, is that the wisest plan? You don’t look much of a blacksmith, and if anyone finds out you’re actually of the fairer sex, well… I dread to think.”

“Oh, George!”Annabelle seethed, snapping under his stifling. “And the other option is you, is it? With your dismal approximation of the accent and with as much knowledge of working an anvil as an aristocrat.”

“My accent’s not that bad…”

“It’s abysmal, George. It’s wonder it hasn’t got us lynched already.”

“…And besides, it’s not like you know anything about metal working.” There was a pause. “Do you?”

“I spent two years with the apaches, George. The men might shoot the arrows, but who do you think makes them? For heaven’s sake, George, the number of times I have cast an iron arrow tip in a ring of gossiping squaws are without number. It might not be a doctorate in horseshoes but it’s a damn sight better than what you’ve got on offer.”

He deflated, numbed somewhat by her verbal attack. And though she was still unconscionably angry with the man, she could feel another sort of fury mingled with the squabble with her husband. It was a feeling linked strongly in her mind with Kai, and the way these men were most likely responsible for the rape of her heritage; the way they had broken Goyahkla so completely with their callous and selfish destruction of a promise that had been held by his forefathers for aeons past. She would make them pay for their crimes and find out the mastermind who was giving them orders. She’d have her revenge. For her daughter’s sake.

3.

BY THE TIME THEY returned to Otterbein Base, Nathaniel and Tally were back to their usual chattiness, the slight faux pas with the papers forgotten about. What had the delay cost him, other than the few hours it took them to travel to the city and back? The main thing was he had the papers he needed and now he could correlate them with Verney’s observations. Upon arriving at Otterbein, Tally remarked upon his rapidly emptying stomach and so Nathaniel had sent him off to the mess hall.

“Tell chef none of that lunar bat stew this time.”

“Away with ya, it can’t be any worse than the slop I had at Mountjoy Gaol. Besides I have me a way around a good woman—sure and I’ll be bringing us only the best.”

Nathaniel didn’t have the heart to tell Tally that the chef was a man.

Just as he turned the corner to his own quarters he found himself literally walking into Kaplan. The mineralogist was filthy, looking like he’d just returned from a coal mine. He beamed through his blackened face.

“Stone, just the man. We’ve just returned from the surface.”

“Just? My good man, it took you all night?”

“Fifteen miles of excavation is not the work of a few hours, Stone.”

“No, no, I’m sorry. Of course not. Perhaps some tea?” Nathaniel asked, waving Kaplan towards his quarters. Kaplan agreed that it would be lovely; he was parched. “Good, and Tally shall return soon with food.”

They walked to the dormitory that housed his quarters and once the kettle was on the small stove, Nathaniel turned to Kaplan, who had made himself comfortable on a sofa near the coal fire Nathaniel had set up. “So, your findings?”

“Well, you were right. The jothrick continues toward the mouth of the gorge, growing out in a scandent pattern, like you’d expect of any vine. If there had been a wall I’d wager the jothrick would climb it.”

“Growing?”

“Quite. I was a bit confused at first, thought that perhaps the lunar rocks surrounding it had simply cracked through pressure over the years, but on closer examination it was the jothrick itself, spreading out. Now I’m no botanist, Stone, you must understand, but I have kept a garden in my time and I know how plants grow. It’s quite extraordinary, but this jothrick grows just like any plant I’ve seen.”

Nathaniel turned to the kettle and lifted it to the two waiting cups. Yes, this confirmed what he and Arnaud had worked out on Earth when they first examined the mineral. And certainly his little jothrick-bonsai tree proved its growth properties. “It is as I thought, the jothrick shares a lot of attributes we’d usually associate with plants, including cell structure,” he said, making the tea. “And what of the depth?”

“Again, it is as you expected. We dug to a point just above the city, and the concentration of jothrick grew the closer we got. We did discover one odd thing, though.”

“Oh?” He handed a cup to Kaplan who sipped the tea gratefully.

“Yes. We stopped when we came across what look like a stump—if it weren’t for the fact it was jothrick, I would have sworn it was the stump of a tree, only upside down. Which makes the jothrick that rises to the surface, the roots of the tree.”

Nathaniel took the stool at his desk, placing his cup beside him. “Towards the city?” He nodded, rubbing his chin. “Yes, that makes sense. I have hypothesised that the city was grown, although I felt sure the crystal used in its construction is different, although similar, to jothrick. But… The same core material? Or to extend the plant analogy, they are of the same genet.”

Kaplan shrugged. “You have studied them more than I,” he said, the disappointment obvious. Nathaniel chose to ignore it. He would have allowed only one mineralogist to work closely with him, but alas Arnaud was not available. Still, Kaplan’s knowledge of structural geology was proving useful. Nathaniel knew he’d need more than one geologist on his team, one with different fields of expertise to Arnaud; perhaps he had found the man without even looking?

Nathaniel glanced at the small jothrick tree he had idly been running his finger over unconsciously. “Growing down…” Which came first, the jothrick or the crystals that formed the city? Did one come from another? He had run a comparative test, and although they had many differences they shared an amazing number of similarities. What he needed was…

Enter Tally. He flung the door open, his arms full, nudging it with his back. “I bring gifts!” he exclaimed as he entered, trying not to drop the plates he carried, the food safe beneath metal lids, or the small box that sat atop the plates. To make matters worse, one hand clung tightly to the neck of a familiar looking bottle. Bourbon, unless Nathaniel was mistaken, probably purloined from the chef’s private stocks. Well, it was good to see Tally was making friends. That is, of course, if he had asked permission before taking the whisky.

Kaplan jumped up from the sofa and grabbed the box from Tally. “Let me help you, old chap.”

“Ah, cheers and hello,” Tally said, broad smile on display. Once free of the box he carried the plates over to the table where Nathaniel quickly made some room, and placed them down. He looked around. “Three glasses and a toast to new acquaintances,” he said, raising the bottle of bourbon.

“Splendid notion,” Kaplan agreed, and set about looking for something into which Tally could pour the bourbon.

“What’s this?” Nathaniel asked, picking up the box.

“Ah, some wee gobshite was outside looking for you with the box. He was lucky I had me hands full, or I’d have given ‘im a fat lip. Guess he wasn’t expecting a ‘Fenian bastard’ to be on Luna, eh?”

“He called you that?” Nathaniel placed the box on the table and set about opening it.

“Aye.” Tally shrugged. “Still, been called worse at ‘ome. And that’s just by me ma.” He winked and turned to Kaplan who had found a couple of fat test tubes to serve as glasses. “Tally’s me name,” he said, and offered a hand.

“Doctor Marcus Kaplan, your servant, sir.”

“Ah no, don’t be needing me no servants. All made equal in the eyes of God, or so me chaplain used to tell me. Mind you, he was trying to get me in the confessional box with him when he was telling me that, so I wouldn’t take too much stock in his words.”

“Um, yes, quite,” Kaplan said, looking more bewildered by the second.

Nathaniel left them to it—his attention was focussed on the object he had lifted from the box. It was no bigger than his hand but it didn’t need to be. A Chaldrite crystal. Unlike the jothrick it was yellow in colour, and, only now he noticed, it carried the same texture as the city crystal. He placed it on the table and turned to the rack of test tubes next to him.

He wasn’t sure how long he spent running his tests, but by the time he had finished Kaplan had gone, and Tally was sitting comfortably on the sofa still drinking the bourbon, looking through the book he had found on a side cabinet. It was the copy of A Study in Scarlet that Nathaniel had brought with him from Earth, the only possession of Edwin’s he had managed to save from his stay in London at the start of the year. Tally looked up at Nathaniel’s sudden cry of success.

“Love to see a genius at work,” Tally said, placing the book to one side and joining Nathaniel at the table. “Something that Conan Doyle isn’t. I could’ve written better in me sleep.”

“It’s the same!”

“Well now, isn’t that fantastic? Ah, what is?”

Nathaniel indicated the samples before him; the green jothrick, the yellow Chaldrite crystal and the more opaque crystal from the City of Light and Science. “These, they’re all the same,” he said, and looked into the microscope once again. “I cross checked, compared their cell structure, conducted a multitude of tests and—yes!” He looked up, smiling. “They’re of the same genet, as I suspected. Like a…” He stalled, trying to recall some of his basic botany lessons. “Like, say, forsythia, many species of the same genus exist, the iterations thereof are dependent on where they grow. The crystal that forms the City of Light and Science, for instance, is an offshoot of the jothrick stump that grows beneath the Great Crater, but it mutated somehow… Maybe due to the psychic influence of the Heart? Yes. That would make sense. It shaped most everything else inside Luna. And I have learned that the jothrick responds to strong thoughts, as if it becomes what’s most needed. A power source, a mind corrupting drug, a weapon—why even a small tree!”

“Well, sure and that’s grand for you,” Tally began.

“But there’s more, don’t you see? The antenna atop the city, I am certain it was once connected to that tree stump, and that is why the signal is not being transmitted as it should.”

Tally shook his head. “Now yer confusing me. What signal?”

“The glow, of course! It is part of a network, but the Eye of Phobos never received the signal, and so it died, its purpose lost? Yes! Yes, that makes sense. Is that why the monoliths were built, to reboot the signal from Phobos?” Nathaniel’s mind was faltering under the pressure. New ideas, new thoughts were filling his mind—what he would normally have called intuitive leaps, only no… It was something else. Just what had the Heart communicated to him? Is this how it began with Tereshkov and Grant—the madness? “That’s why it took so long for… Where are those papers you brought to me, what did I do with them?”

“You put them in yer…” Tally reached for Nathaniel’s jacket, and stopped suddenly, his eyes drawn to the table. “Are they supposed to be doing that?”

The two men watched in a stunned quiet as the crystals expanded, tendrils of green and yellow reaching out to the opaque Drobate crystal. Slow they merged, the colours fusing, first to an extremely pale shade of green, but then a darker colour appeared in its centre, spreading outwards until they were looking at a much larger crystal the colour of a burning sun.

“Good grief,” Nathaniel said.

“Yer,” said Tally. “Feckin’ hell.”

4.

HE NEEDED TO WARN Nathaniel. Arnaud had heard little about Le Boeuf, but enough to know his life was in danger—and worse, the lives of Nathaniel and Annabelle. It was Le Boeuf who was responsible for Annabelle’s need for a prosthetic leg. And it was down to Le Boeuf that Nathaniel had spent some time in Chatham Convict Prison—and all the subsequent events that followed were a direct result of Le Boeuf’s schemes on Peregrine—including the death of Nathaniel’s brother. No, Arnaud did not need to know everything about Le Boeuf; he knew enough. And he knew that the bastard had supposedly perished with Peregrine.

Arnaud had been surprised to find the door to his room unlocked, but he was not so foolish as to explore straight away. He bided his time, sat at the window and looked out at the moors beyond, waiting until the sun started to set. Late afternoon in the British winter.

He wasn’t sure if he had fully recovered from his exposure to the aleksandrite, but it felt like his mind was clear now—at least compared to how he had felt during the last few weeks. The delusions and hallucinations had passed, and he could once against think in a clear and deductive way. His strength was not as it had once been, and he was a little unsteady on his legs, but he believed himself strong enough to try and find a way from this house. One way or another he had to get a message to Nathaniel.

He carefully opened the door and peered out. A long corridor stretched both to his left and right, seemingly running the entire length of the house. He listened intently. Voices carried through the corridor. He headed right, away from the voices, and soon found himself at the top of one of two staircases that led to a square hall and, more importantly, a large door which spoke of freedom.

He descended the stairs in silence, doing his best to keep his footfalls light, a task made somewhat difficult due to his occasional need to lean on the banister for balance. A balustraded gallery ran along the four walls of the hall, displaying paintings of various people, from an Elizabethan knight through to a buck of the Regency. He stopped a few steps from the bottom, certain he heard the sound of a dog barking nearby.

He looked around. All the doors leading off from the hall were shut—all but one. Arnaud stared in horror. A dog, looking like a mastiff only much larger, appeared in the doorway, glowing with a strange green luminescence. He swallowed. What devilry was this? He screwed his eyes shut. It had to be the aleksandrite—another hallucination. The sound of barking ceased and he slowly opened his eyes.

And laughed.

Entering the hall was a small curly-haired spaniel. Merde, and to think he saw…

Arms grabbed him from behind. He tried to move but his strength simply wasn’t up to it.

“Sorry, old chap, but we really can’t have you leaving,” said a man who emerged from the doorway after the spaniel. The little dog ran around his legs, tail wagging, yapping with excitement. The man was tall, and in some ways reminded Arnaud of Nathaniel, except this man’s hair was dark where Nathaniel’s was ginger. He offered a warm smile, but it was lost on Arnaud who spotted the syringe in the man’s hands. “I’m afraid Willie won’t have you leaving, not until he’s learned all he needs to know.” The man shrugged. “Terribly sorry.”

Arnaud struggled, but the man holding him was too strong. The tall man lifted one of Arnaud’s sleeves and stuck the needle into his arm.

Moments later Arnaud sunk into a peaceful oblivion.

5.

SHE WOULDN’T LET GEORGE help her. If the plan was to work they couldn’t be seen as friends or acquaintances, and struck out at once to put feelers out for smithying work. She hoped the roots would lead back to the rotten nest of the Soup Twins. If she could just get herself alone in a room with them, even for a couple of minutes…

She shook her head to clear the anger. She knew it wouldn’t help her when the situation was at its most dire, and that was a predicament in which she found herself a bit too often nowadays. It didn’t help that she was edgy. She knew she could rely on the apache band situated just outside the town, but with Enderby missing so was the flare gun. She had tried persuading George to ride out and alert them, but he refused to leave her to the Soup Twins’ tender mercies without someone close by, should assistance be required. Enderby’s survival, as it was, being no sure thing.

She waited on a dingy little man named Florence who could apparently get her an in with the Soup Twins. He’d spent much of the afternoon drinking the whiskey she’d bought and telling her of all the fine benefits a man could receive working in the foundry. Oh, the job was hard, sure, but when the working day was over you could relax in the mansion, sleep on the softest feather beds and curing your aches with a nice, hot bath. It almost seemed too good to be true.

It may have been the man’s perpetual drinking or the fact she hadn’t bathed in three days, but he didn’t need much convincing that she was a young man. He’d slapped her hard on the shoulder and toddled off, missing the spittoon by a good foot when he attempted to clear his throat on the way out.

That had been a couple of hours ago, and he was yet to return.

Eventually the door clattered open and Florence walked in, his chest puffed out like the cat that got the cream. “They reckons they’ll try you out,” he said proudly, helping himself to another shot of Annabelle’s whiskey. “I tolds ‘em you was young but they didn’t mind much. Tomorrow morning, they says. Eight sharp. Up to the door, knock three times, and after that you’re on your own, Master Bell.”

Annabelle got up. “You can finish the whiskey,” she said, hoping the ipecac she’d tainted it with in his absence would keep him busy for while.

6.

IN ANOTHER CORNER OF the room, unseen eyes had been taking in her every move.

“Clever girl,” said Baxter as he puffed on his pipe.

“What?” asked Henry. “Over there? That young boy. You surely don’t think…?”

“Oh I do, Mister Henry. The thorax is quite the giveaway. It’s artfully done, but you can’t fool a surgeon.”

“I suppose I shall have to get my blunderbuss ready.”

“Not quite yet, Mister Henry. Not quite yet. I don’t think Casey and Eustace have twigged to her yet. Let’s bide our time. She’s not going anywhere. If anything she may lead us straight into the heart of their den.”

“By Jove, Mister Baxter. I’m glad you’re the brains of this operation.”

“Well you give it its spirit, Mister Henry!” Baxter beamed across to his friend and fellow assassin, then leaned forward conspiratorially. “And speaking of spirits, old chap, I can’t say I think much of this firewater. Terrible stuff.”

Henry puffed himself up excitedly, almost as if he’d expected this germane observation. “I was hoping you’d say that, Mister Baxter.” With a flourish, his cane was suddenly in the grip of his right hand while the left unscrewed the cap. Inside was revealed a small test tube with a cork in the top, filled with a syrupy, purplish liquid. “Plum wine,” he said, his cheeks ruddy and his whiskers bristling. “Never leave home without it.”

Chapter Seven

“The Long Climb”

1.

IT WAS THE HANGING all over again.

Wednesday morning had come around quicker than she could have ever anticipated. It felt like there had barely been any time to prepare. It had suddenly dawned on her, as she secreted a lockpick in the bandages around her chest earlier, that she would probably be searched; it was too late to do anything about that now. She would just have to improvise and hope whichever clammy hands were put on her were under the influence of the town’s ubiquitous moonshine. On the plus side, it would have been more suspicious had she not had a pistol strapped to her waist on the approach. She doubted, however, she would have the chance to keep it for long.

Once more the whole town had come to line the streets to watch her approach the imposing double doors of the mansion, so eerily grand and well-made in the midst of the rackety improvisation that was Souptown’s predominant style. As she strode towards it, the townspeople bunched up behind her and craned their heads to try to take a peek at the luxury inside.

They were to be disappointed. The vast doors opened only slightly—barely enough for the bulk of the twins to shuffle out sideways, one after the other. They moved forward to the front of the elaborate portico, standing on the steps so they could look down at their citizens. Both were holding their golden Winchesters across their chest, like a man of the law had just stepped up to their homestead.

“What’s all the racket?” said one of the twins. The language sounded like Eustace though the delivery was Casey’s, and nobody dared hazard a guess as to which of the brothers had said it.

Florence extricated himself from somewhere in the crowd and approached the steps before them, his hat held obsequiously at his belly between two hands. “Mister Casey, Mister Eustace,” he stammered. “I done gone got this here boy who’s said to be damn fine with an anvil and hammer, sirs. Said he wants to earn his way in the Campbell Mansion, see all the fine sights that can be earned from hard labour.”

“Ah,” said the other brother. “So there’s someone in this town that wants to work, is there? Someone who ain’t come here hidin’ or scoungin’ and just wants to make a name for ‘emselves in our fine comm-un-i-teee!” The last syllable was spat, like a curse—an attack against the wastrels that flocked around the grandeur.

“Well,” said his sibling, “you’ll be treated like a brother. Treated like the Queen of England! What’s your name, boy?”

“Andy,” said Annabelle, trying to sound gruff and sweating with the effort of it. “Andy Bell, sir.”

“Well, Andy Bell. You make a fine example. If all these others would conform to your ways, why, we shouldn’t have so many hangings in our fair little town.”

“Let this be a lesson to y’all,” continued the other twin, seamlessly. “That this man, this brave hardworkin’ an’ noble man, is a paragon of virtue in this seemly world of ours. Come on in, boy. We’ll make you right at home.”

Annabelle, her boots clopping loudly on each step as she made her way up, saw the Soup Twins part from each other’s sides so each stood beside her as she made her way towards the threshold. The door was still ajar; unlike the corpulent brothers she slipped through it easily, and took in the grand room that opened up before her.

A double staircase reached up like a pair of wings from the centre of the entrance hall, splaying off to both sides at the top into a mezzanine than ran around the entirety of the walls. A painting of each of the Soup Brothers, identical except for the fact they were mirror images, was hung at the bottom of either staircase. Besides these and a small wooden dresser set between them, the rest of the room was totally blank with the marble of the outer brickwork left bare on the walls. To Annabelle the whole thing looked more like a hospital or laboratory than a home, and the aseptic cleanliness and astringent smell of the place only furthered this impression. Halfway up the staircase, a young woman was on her knees scrubbing the steps with a rough brush, a small metal pail set beside her. Another could be seen, her back to the door on the mezzanine, and both seemed to stiffen and markedly increase the ferocity of the cleaning when the brothers appeared. Yet the most shocking aspect of their appearance in the mansion was their clothes—it seemed they were barely wearing anything at all; even the whores of Souptown would have blanched at the prospect of wearing such a degrading uniform. If there was any more proof needed that the Campbell Twins ruled through fear and intimidation, this was it. Annabelle knew she had to tread carefully, and was suddenly glad she had decided, after everything, to dress as a man.

“Quite the domicile, don’tcha think?” said the twin closest to her, staring up proudly as he eased the strap of his Winchester over his shoulder. “My dear brother and myself like the finer things in life. Our benefactor was happy to indulge us, seeing as the—how shall we say?—services we provided him with were tailored to our particular talents.”

Annabelle’s ears pricked up. Who was this benefactor? She thought back to her Uncle Cyrus and his betrayal of the empire. It was feasible, she supposed, that with the backing of the Russians he could have bankrolled this whole folly, but something about that just didn’t add up, and she doubted the practical and utilitarian Russians would indulge in such frippery on the part of these criminal upstarts. Her current priority was rescuing Enderby, but when she’d found and released the spy she would make sure they’d work together to discover the identity of the Soup Twins’ backer. Though they were clearly responsible for the destruction of the Greenore cave and the ungodly experiments to create more brutish monsters, it was the puppet master that must ultimately be brought to account—even if it did mean the trial and probable execution of her uncle.

She shivered unconsciously. She had to stop calling him that—as far as she was concerned, he was not her uncle any more.

“He must be a grand man, this benefactor of yours,” said Annabelle, keeping her voice low so the brothers might not detect its feminine lilt.

“Oh, he’s a grand one, all right. Deeper pockets than King Solomon and a fine gentleman; a truly fine gentleman.”

It certainly didn’t sound like Cyrus Grant. “Who is he?” she asked.

The brother beside her turned and squinted. “And what kind of a question is that, young Andy? I’ll tell you what. It ain’t the kind of question you should be askin’. And while we’re at it, let’s have that little ol’ pea shooter off your belly.” He held out his hand impatiently, and with reluctance Annabelle unstrapped the pistol and handed it over. She’d hoped they hadn’t noticed. “Thank you kindly, young Andy. Now, shall we get you to work?”

2.

HE WASN’T SURE IF the new orange-fire crystal was the result of his thoughts about the three crystals being one, or if this was their natural state and their proximity had brought about the merging, but one thing he did know after conducting a few small tests; this new crystal was the power source he had been looking for.

If jothrick could power Imperator, imagine what this new crystal could do for Sovereign!

“Yer know, ya should name this thing. Yer can’t keep on calling it a fire crystal,” Tally had pointed out once Nathaniel had finished his tests. He was quite right. The Russians had named the jothrick after their leader—should he do likewise and christen the fire crystal victorianite? Tally didn’t think so, not least because of Ireland’s mercurial position with Great Britain. “Should be something personal to yer; something that says Nathaniel Stone.”

Yes, but what? For a while he had pondered it, his eyes roaming his quarters while Tally started on the lunar bat stew he’d brought them. What really stood out in Nathaniel’s life? He didn’t have a great deal of personal possessions; indeed, he wasn’t even officially alive. What good would it do naming the fire crystal after him? Nathaniel’s eyes alighted on the Conan Doyle book. “Yes! Edwinite!”

Tally looked up from the fungus he was using to soak up the stew juice. “Eh? What kind of daft name is that?”

“After my brother, Edwin. He died because of all this,” Nathaniel explained, his voice soft, his mind drifting back to the image of his lodgings in London alight with flames. He swallowed. The cost to him had been personal—he had to succeed now, if only to make sense of Edwin’s death. “To think it’s been over ten months… Poor Edwin. All he wanted was adventure, to follow in his brother’s footsteps.”

Tally patted him on the shoulder. “Edwinite is a grand name. Sure and yer brother would be proud.”

After that, Tally returned to Sherlock Holmes’ first adventure, an unspoken understanding between them. Nathaniel returned to his work to take his mind off Edwin; all the while his eyes continued to drift to the strange new mineral.

He looked through Julian Verney’s documentation about the patterns of the glow. Verney explained there were, in fact, two different glows—one, a short burst every two hundred and twenty days which had stopped four years ago, and a longer, more concentrated burst every three hundred and fourteen days that last occurred on Boxing Day the previous year. He checked Verney’s chart against a calendar, then went over to the grand orrery he had built. It contained all nine worlds, their orbits around the sun perfectly calculated based on the most recent observations. He checked the last date of the short burst and moved the small copper Earth into the correct position. It was as Nathaniel had expected; the dark side of Luna was in alignment with Phobos. The short burst was, as per his previous supposition, the Heart communicating with the Eye. That the short bursts had ceased over four years ago suggested a rough time when the Eye had died—assuming, of course, the Heart stopped its communication shortly after the Eye’s death. He repositioned the copper planets to match the Earth’s orbit for Boxing Day and considered. The moon aligned with nothing; instead it was directed at a place just to the side of Erebos. Nathaniel rubbed his chin. A world beyond the Solar System, or an eleventh planet they had yet to discover?

It had to be the Drobate’s world. Plypolyplon! The name popped into his head so quickly he had to catch his breath. A name that came from the Heart he felt certain. It was a name he had heard before somewhere, but for the life of him he could not recall where. It mattered little—as with most things it would come to him in due course.

So, the main burst had to be the Heart trying to communicate directly with the Drobates’ lost world. It had to follow that Grant had discovered this in his own studies of the glow.

“Could you bring me those papers?”

Tally looked up from the book, and shook his head in mock annoyance. “Yer gonna make me lose me place,” he said, but nonetheless placed the book down and walked over to the table. “Which papers?”

Nathaniel smiled. The table was rather littered now, what with crystal samples and papers everywhere. “The papers you brought with you,” he said with a rueful tone.

Tally grabbed them and carried them over to Nathaniel. The professor looked at them, and once again checked the orrery. “Yes, if these numbers are correct, and we follow the trajectory of Imperator thus…” He pulled a collapsible ruler from his coat pocket and opened it up. He lined it up, one point touching the tiny copper moon. “Now, the asteroid belt is here, you see?”

“Oh, is that what they are? Thought they were tacks.”

“No, this is a representation of the asteroid belt,” Nathaniel said, pointing at the strange shapes between Mars and Jupiter. He positioned the ruler alongside the asteroids, and opened it up further. The end was now just left of Erebos. “The Russians are on a course for Plypo…um, the Drobate world.”

“Can’t see how that’ll be good for anyone. Now, I’m no scientist, but from what yer tell me about the Drobates, they had a very advanced civilisation once. And this Heart, it comes from there, too?”

Nathaniel nodded.

“Then can yer imagine what the Russians might find there?”

“Barely, but that is the whole point, Tally. The business I have been engaged in since January. Finding a way beyond the asteroid belt, to discover what’s beyond, and return whatever we find to the empire. Before anyone else does, naturally.”

“Anyone else like the Russians.”

“Quite. Which is why we need to get there before them; and that’s where the edwinite comes in.” Nathaniel folded up the ruler and returned it to his pocket. He went back to his table and considered the charts compiled by Verney. “The Heart is trying to communicate with Plypolyplon, and as it is continuing to do so one can reasonably assume it is getting no answer.”

“No-one home?”

“Or is could be that Plypolyplon suffered the same fate as Vulcan.”

“Vulcan?”

“Vulcan, what was once the fifth planet in the Solar System?” Tally gave Nathaniel a blank look. “Good Lord, there are surprising gaps in your knowledge, Tally.”

“Aye, it’s called science. So, what happened to Vulcan?”

“No-one really knows; all that remains of it is the asteroid belt.” Nathaniel shook his head, surprised at Tally. “The point is; I think it more likely the signal isn’t reaching its destination. You see, I believe the connection is broken, like a cut wire in a telephone. The antenna atop the City of Light and Science once connected with the jothrick on the surface, I feel sure. Somehow the city enhanced the Heart’s telepathic call, but at some point the antenna broke and the signal was weakened. We need to fix the connection.”

Tally nodded, then shook his head. “No, yer lost me. Why do we?”

“To warn whoever’s out there that the Russians are coming. Now…” Nathaniel picked up the chart. “The last glow was Boxing Day, and it occurs every three hundred and fourteen days, therefore the next communication will be sent…Good Lord!” He broke into a broad smile. “It’s today, Tally! In five hours according to these charts.” He threw the papers on the table and picked up a scalpel. Once he’d cut off a piece of the edwinite, he looked at Tally, who had returned to the sofa. “This is no time to get comfy. How are you with heights?”

3.

THE TWINS STRODE OFF to the right of the mansion, towards where the hulking black block of the foundry sat outside. She followed the fat backs of the twins through a couple of equally bare corridors, noticing the temperature increasing with each step she took. It didn’t take long before she found herself before a sturdy set of steel double doors, its surface studded unevenly with rivets.

“Ready, brother?”

“I am, brother.”

The two brothers reached into their waistcoat pockets simultaneously and produced two identical-looking keys. The slotted them into the keyholes set on each of the doors, turned them in unison, and pushed the doors wide open.

The heat hit Annabelle like a blow to the face, and instantly she felt herself perspiring. The opened door revealed a darkened corridor stretching away before her, the twins at either side like two chubby fallen cherubs acting as the gatekeepers to some infernal realm. The reek of flint and sulphur wafting from the darkened space did nothing to lessen this impression.

She cautiously stepped over the threshold, her eyes slowly adjusting to the gloom. Set into the walls of the corridor were large, semi-circular recesses dimly lit by hot coals glowing in a broad, shallow crucible. Beside this stood a heavy wooden table—it looked to Annabelle to be the kind of block salvaged from a butcher’s shop, covered in soot and the deep nicks and grooves gouged by heavy cutting tools. To the left of the table stood a large bin that was piled with an assortment of jumbled, interlocking struts of scrap metal, and above this was strapped a large rack on which was hung various tools of the smithy’s trade, all scuffed and worn from a lifetime of careless, hurried use. She could just about see the bent backs of other young men jutting out of the alcoves, their shirts sticking to their backs with sweat, and at the end of the corridor another set of double doors—once more inset with a pair of twin keyholes—could just about be seen in the hellish light.

Annabelle nearly jumped when she felt the presence of the twins behind her.

“‘It is God who arms me with strength and makes my way perfect’,” quoted one brother, presumably Eustace. “You’ll be doing the Lord’s work now, young Andy, making armour for the angels of Earth.”

“Armour?” Annabelle asked. She knew, of course, exactly to what they were referring, but she dare not let them know that.

“The body is a cage for the soul,” continued Eustace, an evangelical blaze alight in his eyes. “Here we create a divine cage for that body, and imbue it with the very spirit of Heaven. Our angels will protect us and those who seek refuge in our community, and from there we will spread our word across the plains of this once great nation, a nation that has turned its back on the true path to the Lord!”

The other twin shook his head condescendingly. “You gotta make a cage,” he said. “A cage for a person to fit in. Don’t ask questions and don’t slack. Here.” He reached forward. On the wall above the table was a hatch which he pushed open, revealing a dangling set of chains attached to a runner on the ceiling which snaked off into the darkness. “When you’ve finished a section, an arm or a torso, whatsoever you’ve done, hang it on the chains and we’ll pick it up on the other side. We’ll let you know when you’re working day is done. We’ll be watching you, boy. Watching you real good.”

It was no wonder these monstrosities came out misshapen and twisted if this was the only instructions the Soup Twins were willing to give. But their slapdash attitude did not diminish the depravity of their corrupted purpose, and as the brothers waddled off towards the door that led into the heart of the foundry, Annabelle pulled on a pair of thick asbestos gloves and started to set her tools down before her. All the while she set about devising her plan of action.

4.

TO THINK THAT SUCH a small quantity could do so much damage. Le Boeuf smiled at the thought. It was incredible, and wondrous. A small cylinder, barely three centimetres across and five long, it contained enough aleksandrite solution to control a mind for a month. He carefully placed the cylinder on the small table and turned to Mortimer, who was washing his hands in the sink.

“…And at the back of the neck is the best place for it, close to the cerebral cortex,” he was saying. “The subject’s hair will hide the cut while the skin heals, and will also conceal the tiny hole that will be needed to administer the monthly top up.”

“Yes, and the cylinder is designed to release minute amounts directly into the brain on a regular basis, keeping the subject susceptible to the influence of a controller, who will be in the possession of the controlling element of aleksandrite.” Le Boeuf picked up the small piece of aleksandrite, fashioned to look like a tiny diamond an inch in diameter. “And how is our subject?”

Mortimer looked over at the operating table in the centre of the room. They were in what had once been a dining room, before the Hall had been expanded and a new, larger, dining room was built. This room was out of the way of the more regularly used areas of the Hall, and thus better suited to Le Boeuf’s purposes. Not that the Hall was occupied excessively at the moment—with Sir Charles away, Mortimer had sent most of the staff on holiday, giving them a much desired chance to visit family in the nearby villages and towns. It did mean they had to largely fend for themselves, but they still had the footman and Delany to do the menial work, and Le Boeuf was quite happy to prepare his own food.

On the table lay Fontaine, barely conscious, the effects of the laudanum still strong. A tube was feeding an aleksandrite solution into his system via a vein in his neck. Le Boeuf walked over to the table, fascinated by the rapid deterioration of Fontaine’s appearance. His skin was taking a pallid tone, his lips becoming parched, sweat starting to drip from his pores. Le Boeuf suspected this was a result of Fontaine’s previous exposure to the substance, and was not indicative of the usual physiological response to aleksandrite.

Fontaine looked around, his dark eyes failing to latch on to anything. Le Boeuf leaned in closer to the table, and spoke softly. “Doctor Fontaine?”

For a few moments Fontaine paid him no mind, his eyes continuing to roam aimlessly. Then he started whispering. “Need to find Nathaniel—must warn him.”

“Warn him of what?”

“He is in danger. Terrible danger, non?”

“He could die?”

“Non!” Fontaine’s face screwed up in pain and he shook his head. “Non, he must not. We must be forever, just him and me. Mère promised, said we would walk together.”

“You and Stone?” It was as Le Boeuf had suspected. Curse Stone and his fortunes. “Tell me more about you and Stone.”

Fontaine shook his head forcefully. “I cannot. Too many people would… Non, I will say nothing more.”

Le Boeuf was impressed. Fontaine was attempting to fight the effects of the aleksandrite. Perhaps the solution was not strong enough. He looked over at Mortimer. “The solution has the same potency as that which Moonsinge used?”

“I cannot say for certain. She was not very forthcoming in her dispatches. But as near as I can estimate, yes, this should be of an equal potency. Why?”

“Perhaps Fontaine is adapting?” It was an alien substance, and their understanding of it was far from complete. Who was to say how quickly the human body would adapt? An idea occurred to Le Boeuf and he picked up the aleksandrite diamond, stepping closer to Fontaine. “Arnaud, hear me. You must tell me everything about you and Nathaniel. When you first met him you were on Mercury?”

Fontaine struggled, but soon the muscles on his face began to relax. “Ah, oui, as soon as I heard he had come to Mercury I wanted to make his acquaintance. To gain his help. But when I saw him…” A broad smile. “So funny, so proper…so English.”

The diamond worked, amplifying Le Boeuf’s will, as Tereshkov had said. The aleksandrite responded to a strong psychic influence. He listened as Fontaine continued to talk, telling Le Boeuf of the adventure on Mercury and meeting Hermes and the way Nathaniel had saved him from drowning. It was then that Fontaine knew he wanted Stone. The story continued, the sadness when Stone left Mercury, meeting his ghost, finding the crystal plate that Stone’s presence had been imprinted upon…

As Fontaine talked, Le Boeuf felt a surge of jealousy, of anger, the resentment of a life denied him. A life that Stone did not deserve.

5.

“COME ON, TALLY! YOU could become the next Haskett Smith!”

Tally looked up. Three hundred feet above him, or so Nathaniel said, was the summit of the City of Light and Science. Less than a mile it may have been, and walking it would have been a piece of pish, but to climb it—corks! To reach the antenna that sat at the top they needed to scale the steep slope that was the roof of the city. A roof made of some crystalline material and quite smooth to the touch. “Who did you say?” he asked, as he tied the rope around his waist, linking him to Nathaniel who had already tied the rope around himself.

“Walter Parry Haskett Smith. I assume you have heard of his ascent of the Napes Needle?”

Tally shook his head. “A climber of some sort no doubt? No, not the kind of thing that’s ever interested me. I get sick to me gills just thinking about the hills in Howth.” He looked around, forcing himself to not look directly down. They were already some eight hundred feet up, and the view was spectacular—or at least he imagined it would be if they were out in the open. As it was all he could see was the River of Life disappearing into the distance, and the rocky wall that surrounded the city. He glanced down despite himself and almost fell backwards from the sudden vertigo. “Jaysus! They look like ants!”

“They are ants.”

“Well, aye, so they are, but now they look like real ants. Even the Drobates.” Tally considered the pick he held in his hand. “You really think this is going to be enough to get us to the top?”

Nathaniel shrugged and slammed his own pick in the roof and pulled back. The pick didn’t move, safely embedded in the crystal surface. With effort he managed to pull it back out. “I think so, yes. Be glad the Drobates allowed us access to the upper storeys of the city, or we would have needed to make use of proper climbing gear and scaled the actual walls of the cavern.”

“Aye, thank heavens for small mercies. I ain’t no mountain goat, and I prefer walking any day. And I hate climbing! But what bothers me more is their reaction to you. Ain’t seen nothing like it before it all me life.”

The only term Tally could come up with was reverence. On their way, after picking up the climbing gear from the tool shed and a crash course in aid climbing techniques should they be necessary, Nathaniel had explained to Tally how no human had been allowed above the twelfth floor of the city’s central tower. Whatever was up there, the Drobates protected it with their lives—literally in some cases when over eager army privates had sought a way to please their colonel by attempting to gain access. Nathaniel had heard of at least three pitched battles on the twelfth floor, costing both Drobate and human lives. By this Tally assumed that there’d be humans elsewhere in the city, various scientists conducting research, maybe a small military presence. It wouldn’t be the first time the British Empire had stepped where it wasn’t wanted, forcing their rule onto a people who neither wanted it nor needed it—not that there was any telling those who ran the empire, of course. It was Calcutta’s Black Town all over again. “She is giving them a rule that has its faults, no doubt, but such, I would make so bold to affirm, as no conquering state ever before gave to a dependent people,” as someone had once said in defence of the empire. It was the conquering part of that which Tally had such trouble with. How could you conquer and help? In Tally’s mind those words just did not go together. Upon entering the city, however, he soon discovered little evidence of humanity, save for the odd scientist conducting rudimentary tests, always observed by a group of female Drobates. Tally had queried this and the only explanation Nathaniel could give was that a few months ago the Drobates had begun to pull away from the humans, restricting their access to the city.

“You mean they had enough of the steel foot of the empire?”

“Not at all. Surprisingly, other than a few skirmishes, they had been treated with respect. But sometime late July the Drobates just stopped helping, and then towards the end of September the Heart itself stopped communicating, too. Based on my calculations it was when Grant was last in contact, just as Imperator passed Luna.”

Tally wasn’t entirely sure he understood about the Heart, although Nathaniel and Quintana had both attempted to explain it to him. A vast alien intelligence—a silver sphere around which the moon was formed, which only communicated telepathically with those who could hear it, specifically Doctor Grant and a dead Russian scientist, although it communicated in a more limited way with a few of the research scientists on Luna who had displayed some latent telepathic ability, including Captain Folkard—a man now lost to them. Science would never be Tally’s bag, and maybe that was why he had such difficulty getting his head around the idea of an intelligent ball bearing—albeit one that was the size of a small planet.

“So, yer reckon it was Grant who silenced the Heart, told it to stop talking?”

At this Nathaniel shook his head. “No, I do not think any person can instruct the Heart. It’s older than life on Earth—why would it listen to a primate with ideas above its station? I do not know the reason for the Heart’s silence, only that it has since started talking… Well I say talking, but it’s not actual words, just a sense of… Hmm, it is most difficult to explain how the Heart communicates. Much like thought… We only attribute words to thought because we have been conditioned to communicate with our mouths using sound, but real thought, that which happens on an unconscious level, has no words to describe it. It follows no linear pattern. Much like one’s dreams. Rarely does a dream follow a logical narrative, but jumps around with no sense of chronology or cause and effect. And that’s how the Heart communicates—with pure thought. Takes some getting used to.”

Tally didn’t get a chance to question the professor further on that subject, although he certainly wanted to. Nate hadn’t been clear, but he seemed to be suggesting that the Heart had communicated with him, and for reasons Tally couldn’t quite explain, the thought that some alien intelligence poked around inside Nathaniel’s head scared the living hell out of him.

It wasn’t the sheer size and scope of the city that stunned Tally into silence, but the looks the Drobates gave Nathaniel as soon as they entered. Even Jappeth Kelp, who had piloted the boat and brought them up the river, gave him the oddest look. It was hard to read the expression of a face that appeared so alien to him, but Tally could read wonder on any countenance. Nathaniel immediately spoke to the tallest Drobate of the three who had greeted them; another female, Tally guessed by the prominent brow. Nathaniel’s words were stilted, as if he were talking to a child, but the Drobate understood him perfectly. Once again a display of their telepathy. Tally rubbed the back of his neck, feeling a strange itch there, and pulled his hand away sharply, stung by a sudden spark of static. He looked back at Kelp, but she had not moved.

Nathaniel continued to talk to the Drobate who, Tally later learned, was called Elseppet Dabi, leader of the electromagnetic cult and administrator of the city. Nathaniel accentuated his small words with frantic hand gestures. Dabi nodded her understanding and waved her arm out, allowing them passage. Nathaniel turned to Tally and informed him that they would not need the climbing equipment they had brought, only the picks and the rope. They left their equipment with Kelp, who would return to the boat to wait for them. Nathaniel walked side by side with Dabi, talking in the strange dialect all the way, leaving Tally to trail behind them. Tally didn’t mind so much, since it gave him a chance to look around the city.

The city opened up around them—it was a curious mix of run-down residential areas and buildings made of the most incredible designs, all from glass. The Drobates seemed to show no difference in how they treated the differing areas; junk and litter filled the streets around the shining buildings just as much as the more run-down residential areas. It looked as if some attempt had been made to clear the streets, with piles of items such as clothes, boxes and odd mechanical apparatus the likes of which Tally had never seen, tidied away in corners, as if waiting to be removed.

After several miles of city, they reached what Tally could only describe as a tube. It ran the height of the tower before them, some fifty storeys if Tally counted correctly from his not so great position at the bottom of the tower. If there were fifty storeys to the central tower, then why did the Drobates not let anyone past the first twelve? What could the remaining thirty-eight house?

“After you, Tally.”

He looked at Nathaniel, who waved him on. “After me where? There’s nowhere to…” He stopped as soon as he saw it. There was an open section at the base of tube. He shrugged, willing to give anything a try, and stepped inside the tube. He looked up. It seemed to stretch up forever. With a bow to Dabi, Nathaniel stepped in beside Tally.

“And what was all that about?”

“Oh, I arranged access to the topmost level of the tower.”

“Yer did what? I thought they didn’t allow any…”

Any chance of finishing that statement was taken away with his breath. Together, as if they were little balls of paper in a straw, they found themselves moving up the tube at great speed. Tally glanced down. They were standing on nothing, and yet they were both still level. Once they emerged at roof level, Nathaniel explained that it was an air compression tube, a form of lift like the kind they had on Earth but without the need for pulleys and winches. More Drobate science that they had no understanding of, but which worked perfectly fine in response to the slightest telepathic command.

Although he was literally at a loss for words, and incapable of expressing those he did have, like Jaysus and shite, he kept his mind sharp as ever, counting each floor as they passed. Once they passed floor twelve he did his best to take in as much detail as he could, but the air compression forced them up even faster as if it was intentionally making it difficult for them to discover the secrets of the upper levels. What they did see, though, was enough to impress and amaze them.

He’d lost count which floor they were up to when he saw it, but he supposed it didn’t really matter. Like balls of light, held aloft by God knows what, were planets. Or at least what he took to be planets; each as different in appearance as Mars was to Earth. They came in all sizes, each rotating around a bright orange light, which reminded him somewhat of the edwinite. A ball of fire. Tally racked his brain…

“It was a sun,” Nathaniel said suddenly, and Tally noticed they had reached their destination. The tube was now beneath their feet and they were standing on nothing, just an empty hole on the rim of the dome-like roof that covered the entire city.

“The sun? Wit yer going on about? I may not be much of one for science, but even I know how many planets we have in the Solar System. And I counted a lot more than nine in that…whatever it was.” Tally had to shake his head. It felt like he’d just witnessed some incredible magic act that his brain just couldn’t reason its way through.

“It was an orrery, much like the one I have in my quarters at Otterbein. Only on a much grander scale using technology we can only dream of.” Nathaniel was looking around, taking in the sheer drop to the right of them. “Do you know, I really do think I have conquered my fear of heights.”

“Aye, well I may not have a fear of heights, but I’m not daft either.” He grabbed Nathaniel by the arm and pulled him as far away from the edge as possible. “This high the winds will have you over the edge as quick as you can say…”

“Tally, we are underground, there is no wind. A flow of air certainly, which in itself should be impossible, but definitely no wind.”

Now Nathaniel mentioned it Tally realised his cap hadn’t moved an inch on his head. “Aye, so it is. Now, back to that there orrery thing. Don’t know about you, but I counted at least fourteen planets, so what do yer mean, it was the sun?”

“As Newton said, ‘if the fixed stars are the centres of similar systems, they will all be constructed according to a similar design and subject to the dominion of one’.”

This left Tally none the wiser. “Dominion of one what?”

“Star. Did you study science at all?”

Tally shook his head and gripped his coat lapels with pride. “I believe I was making out with Bridy that day.”

That at least got a smile off Nathaniel; it wasn’t much of one, but it was start. “Well, quite. Newton was saying that like our sun is one star in the sky, so the other stars must also be suns of other planetary systems. Worlds beyond Erebos.”

“Like that Drobate world?”

It was at that point that Tally turned the conversation to more sensible things, like climbing the roof of the city, which in turn led to Tally’s query about the Drobates reverence of Nathaniel and the awe with which they looked at him.

“We have an…arrangement, it is nothing more than that,” Nathaniel said and turned to the slope ahead of them.

“Oh aye, is that what it is? Wish I had an arrangement like that,” Tally muttered behind Nathaniel’s back, surprised by the flimsy answer he’d been given. It was not like Nathaniel to be so dismissive. Which reminded him… “Have you sent Arnaud a message yet?”

Nathaniel didn’t even glance back. He swung the handle of the pick and imbedded the head into the slope as far above him as his hand could reach. With both hands holding the handle, he pulled himself up, the studded boots he wore giving him the grip he needed. “I have not, no. I have been somewhat occupied.”

“Is that so?” Tally spoke under his breath, joining Nathaniel in his climbing, his own arms much stronger than those of Nathaniel, enabling him to match Nathaniel’s progress with little effort. “I went to see him the other day. He was asking after you.”

Nathaniel glanced at him. “Really, is this the time for such a conversation? We have three hundred feet to climb; I should think our breath would be better suited for that task than small talk.”

“So asking after the health of a friend is now considered small talk, is it? What’s got into yer, Nate? In Dublin we were busy; our lives in jeopardy, but it didn’t stop you from making small talk.”

Nathaniel shook his head, and put all his effort into pulling himself further up the roof. For a while Tally remained silent, his mind racing with concern for his friend. He couldn’t claim to know Nathaniel better than anyone else, but he surely knew the man well enough to recognise when he wasn’t acting right. Quintana had suggested something was different about Nathaniel, and he’d been spot on. This was not the Nathaniel Tally had met in Dublin. He trusted the professor, and that had to be the important thing. Nathaniel obviously had other concerns right now, bigger issues to deal with, and Tally couldn’t pretend he understood them all that well, but he would trust Nathaniel with his life. That would have to be enough.

“How is Arnaud faring?”

Tally was surprised out of his ruminations. “Sure and he’ll be okay, but I’ve seen better looking men after ten pints. His spirit remains, so that’s something.”

“That is good. Tally, I am, of course, concerned about Arnaud, but what can I do? I have been tasked with solving the problem of improving Sovereign’s method of propulsion. The minerals and metals we found on our search have proven useful, and with them the research team on Earth were able to design better boilers, increase the reflectivity of the mirrors so that Sovereign can harness the heat of the sun from a greater distance, but what she needs is speed if she’s ever to get to Plypolyplon before Imperator.”

“Aye, and sure I understand that. Even I agree that it’s better for the British Empire to discover those secrets than Imperial Russia, but we’re talking about Arnaud. I know how ya feel about him, Nate—can’t say that I approve, of course, or even understand it.” He stopped, forcing the distaste in the pit of his stomach to remain there. “But that’s besides the point,” he continued, forcing himself to sound chipper. “He makes yer happy, and if there’s one thing I’ve learned in all me days it’s that happiness is hard to find and important to keep hold of.”

“Arnaud will still be there when I am finished on Luna. And he will join me on the mission ahead—we will have many days to be happy yet.” Nathaniel looked up and pointed to the top of the roof, now only about a hundred and fifty feet away. “I need to examine that antenna, find out if I am right about the glow, how it works, and why.”

“So you can fix it?”

Nathaniel nodded. “If possible. The Heart was killed due to bloodshed before, or at least a part of it was, and Tereshkov’s insanity damaged other parts of it greatly. It doesn’t understand anger and hate—indeed such feelings are anathema to it. It is a source of purity. Imagine what kind of world it came from, what will be there when the Russians arrive. Whatever lies on Plypolyplon has to be made aware that the Russians are coming.”

“Aye, well when you put it like that.” Tally couldn’t really debate Nathaniel’s point, after all he had only just been preaching about the importance of holding on to happiness.

6.

A SHORT TIME LATER they had reached the top. Nathaniel felt bad for misleading Tally somewhat, but there were times when ignorance was the best way to protect others. The top of the roof was a flat surface made of glass, the crystal forming an intricate pattern on its surface, from the edge to the centre where the antenna stood.

Now he was looking at it closer than he’d ever been able to do before, Nathaniel could see that it looked like no antenna he’d ever come across. For a moment he wondered if perhaps he had been wrong all this time. He had viewed it from afar, courtesy of the best binoculars that Otterbein Base had to hand, and it had always seemed to him to be an antenna. But now he was looking closer…

It was made of the same crystal as the rest of the city, standing on a multitude of legs in various positions, reminding Nathaniel of the branches of a… Of course! How stupid of him. They were branches, and the thicker part that came from those branches was the trunk. An upside down tree made of crystal. About three feet up the stump ended, its edges jagged—clearly broken at some point. He walked over to the tree and knelt down. Dust. He rubbed it between his fingers.

“Something happened here, look.”

Tally was looking, but not at the dust in Nathaniel’s hand. He was looking at the glass beneath his feet. “It’s a bloody long way down. You sure this is safe now?”

Nathaniel had not even noticed. Beneath them was a clear view of the city, eleven hundred feet away. A long drop indeed. But there was something about looking at it from this vantage that reminded Nathaniel of something—the way the buildings were laid out. There was a definite pattern to them, a purpose. He shook his head. He was getting sidetracked. He waved Tally towards him. “The glass will hold.” To prove his point he jumped.

Tally held his hands out before him. “You eejit, what yer doing!”

Nathaniel laughed. “It is quite sturdy I assure you. This city has stood for thousands upon thousands of years—almost certainly longer.”

Tally eyed him suspiciously. “Aye, well if yer say so,” he said, and reached into his inner coat pocket. “A wee snifter?”

“Tally, what good will whisky do up here?”

“A world of wonders for me nerves, I reckon.” To prove his point Tally took a sip and handed the flask out. “There, now that’s better.”

Nathaniel shook his head. “No thank you, I shall avail myself of my water shortly. First, come and look at this.” He showed Tally the dust. “What’s left of the crystal trunk. You see how close we are to the roof the cavern?” He pointed up. The black rock was but five feet from where the stump ended. “And if you look closer you can see in that rock…”

Tally’s eye widened. “Green! Oh, corks. Aleksandrite.”

“Yes, the rest of this tree, as Kaplan’s team discovered. This antenna.” Nathaniel wiped the dust from his hands. “I wonder what must have happened? Some feedback, maybe? Too much power exploded the link between this crystal and the jothrick? Hmm.” He rubbed his chin, and untied the rope from around him. “Give me a bunk up.”

Within moments Nathaniel was sitting atop the stump. He ran his hands over the cracked surface. He could feel the power of the crystal vibrating under his touch. This was it—the time of the glow was approaching. “Beautiful,” he said, and pointed to the city below. “Look.”

One by one the crystal buildings lit, suffused with a warm glow. It wasn’t over powering, and probably not even noticeable from the ground—there was no change in the activity below, no discernible difference in those tiny people beneath them—but it was quite amazing. The glow spread, working its way up the walls of the city, until finally the crystal pattern in the glass beneath Tally’s feet began to pulse a soft white.

“Can you feel that?”

Tally nodded. “Sets me teeth on edge,” he said.

A humming; a build up of power.

“Tally, whatever happens next, just stay there.”

Tally asked him what he meant, but Nathaniel didn’t answer. Instead he stood up, removing the edwinite from his pocket. He had to crouch to fill the gap between the trunk and the black rock above. Any time now… He held the edwinite above him so it was touching the jothrick enhanced rock.

It was incredible. Every fibre of his body felt alive—sensations quite alien to him. He could feel it all. Words and thoughts, understanding, that he had never had before. The blood pumping through his veins, the pulse of his heart beating, electrical impulses surging along the neurons of his body, signals from his senses to his brain. For those few moments he understood it all—every cell of his body made perfect sense to him, the connection between the Drobates and the Hearts, the great experiment, the shutdown, every moment for millennia was open to him.

“Kaskuu-Losaa!” he yelled just as the pure radiant life of the Heart surged through him.

And then there was nothing.

7.

“FECKIN’ HELL! NATHANIEL!”

Despite his orders to the contrary, Tally reached up for the professor. But as his hand made contact with Nathaniel’s leg, by which he had intended to pull Nathaniel down from the stump, the green glow dissipated, like a luminescent mist blown away by a strong gale. Nathaniel looked down at Tally with an expression which Tally could only describe as pure bliss.

“It is done,” Nathaniel said, then fell like a puppet released from its strings.

Chapter Eight

“Inside the Foundry”

1.

AFTERWORD FROM “THE FALL of Empire” by J Quinham.

“When they looked back on the events of that day, no-one could truly explain why it all happened. There were only two people who knew—one had the information but was unaware of its importance, and the other refused to comment. Not a single person noticed the connection between events beneath Luna and the glow above; those who saw the glow, the officers and crew of the Navy flyers that patrolled the orbit of Luna, just considered it a natural, if unusual, occurrence of Luna and paid it no mind. The people inside Luna didn’t see the glow, of course, and even if they did it’s possible that only one of the scientists would have worked out the connection—certainly Doctor Kaplan had the knowledge to join the dots, but he, like everybody else, was otherwise occupied and taken by surprise by the abrupt change in the behaviour of the Drobates and the Selenites.

“When reports were later made, events chronicled, it became clear that it all happened at the same time. At 22:00 hours Greenwich Mean Time, on Wednesday November 5th. Children all through England began to recite a traditional poem, changing it, giving it new meaning. It was a poem that was soon to pass into history—of an event even more important than that of Guy Fawkes and his gun powder, treason and plot.

“Remember, remember, the fifth of November, the day the Heart spoke.

I see no reason we should not remember, when all hell on Luna broke.

“It would become the chant throughout the British Empire when was the truth was finally announced to the nation. It was the moment when, all through the lunar underground, Drobates turned on the humans they had worked alongside for over eight months.

“It was the beginning of the end, the rout of the British Empire.”

2.

LOCKING THE SET OF double doors behind them, the brothers strode into the main workroom of the dismal factory. The runners that Annabelle had seen beyond the hatch on her workstation snaked around the ceiling, dangling chains to the dusty floor. Several half-completed cages were set up against the wall, with a couple of Souptown’s unfortunates working to bolt the various disparate and badly built components together. Like the poor women who scrubbed the mansion’s floors and walls, they worked all the harder as soon as they heard the brothers enter.

“It troubles me,” said Casey, as he strode across to the centre of the room, “that your zeal for the Christian faith will one day undermine our work here. We gotta protect ourselves first, Eustace. You can wage your holy war when we know we’re safe from Willie.”

“Willie is a demon, brother!” Eustace hollered, making his brother wince. “He showed us the way to that holiest of holy places, had us take away the spirit that Jesus in His mighty works had imbued within that great tree, taking it from those degenerate savages that would keep it from those who truly do the Lord’s work. And then he would dare to take it from us! To use for his own devilish ends. If it weren’t for the spirit running through me, brother, we wouldn’t be able to work for the glory of heaven at all.”

“Shut your yap, Eustace. You ain’t holy, yer’ insane. This is why I never let you meet our benefactor in the first place. You’d have scared him off, and then where would we be? Back in the poor house, that’s where, or scrabbling around robbing careless whores and miners for their pennies.”

“You gotta tell me, Casey. Tell me all about him so’s I can make sure I point him out to Jesus in my prayers, and let him and our glorious Father show me the way to punish him.”

“I ain’t tellin’ you diddly, Eustace. You’re a liability. Now, help me with this. You wanna do the Lord’s work? Pull yer’ finger out.”

Casey had reached a large slab set into an angle in the centre of the room and covered with a large sheet made stiff with dark brown bloodstains. He revealed a completed cage for his experiments, the ribs of the chest hinged open so that a man could be forced inside. On a surgical table next to this beastly mishmash of metal stood several rusty, hideous-looking implements, yards of rubber tubing and a jar of faintly glowing, green silicate stoppered with a large grubby cork.

3.

OH, HE’S A LIABILITY all right.

Enderby had been listening to the entire conversation. Willie. It didn’t mean much right now, but it was a start. After he’d been jumped on his way back from his reconnoitre two days hence, he had woken up strapped to the back wall of a small cage set into the foundry’s main room. He cursed himself for being so careless. He thought he’d been subtle enough with his enquiries, but it clearly wasn’t long before word had reached the Soup Twins or their captains that an outsider had been sniffing around where he wasn’t welcome. He’d tried to fight them off, but it had been at least half a dozen. Hardly a fair fight, but he took solace in the fact he’d broken a couple of noses before they’d overwhelmed him.

Even though he couldn’t move, he wasn’t totally powerless. Knowledge was power. Eustace was expendable; it was Casey that was the brains (if it could be called that) of this operation. Enderby tried not to think of the fate that awaited him in his sweltering industrial dungeon. Yesterday he had watched from the shadows as Casey had worked his perverted surgeon’s skills, forcing that wretched babbling young man into his cage and attempting to hook up a basic set of syringes into his veins.

The two creatures decked in black robes that he had seen on the balcony during the hanging were slumped against one wall, dead as a doornail. Every once in a while, Casey would go over and remove certain complex mechanisms from the bodies before attempting to graft it onto some unseen part of the unfortunate boy’s chest. Soon, his babbling stopped. The only sound that followed was Casey taking out the frustration of his failure on the table by kicking it.

Enderby watched as Casey prepared the equipment for his experiment once more. Eustace ambled along to the corner of the foundry reserved for their prisoners and unlocked the cage that neighboured Enderby’s. The man being kept there—who Enderby recognised as the ostensibly hanged Harry Mackett—was in no state to protest or fight against Eustace’s burly grip. The twin roughly yanked Mackett’s bonds away and carelessly dragged the prisoner across to the operating table, all the time singly softly to him, close to his ear, a faint version of the Lord’s Prayer.

“Don’t worry, brother,” he soothed. “You’ll be an angel for us now; the Lord has blessed you.”

This time the screaming and babbling continued far longer. When the grisly operation had finished, Casey did not seem to feel the need to kick the table.

4.

HE’D NEVER HAVE BELIEVED it to look at him, but Nathaniel was damn heavy. The professor was long, no doubt about it, but he was so thin there was almost nothing of him. Yet he weighed a ton. Tally prided himself on being a practical man, but even he was stumped for a way to get Nathaniel off the roof. He’d tried to wake him, even slapped his face a few times, but it had no effect. Nathaniel was out cold. Sure, they could remain on the roof until Nathaniel came around again, but what if he didn’t? It wasn’t a nice thought, but Tally couldn’t deny it was possible. What Tally had seen was way beyond anything he had experienced before—some form of technology that might as well have been magic for all that he understood. He’d seen the effects of aleksandrite enough as it was, and that glow was the same green, no doubt. Tally didn’t know what it had done—at least Nathaniel was breathing.

Tally knew he had to get Nathaniel back to Otterbein Base; there were doctors there, at least one of them might know how to help. Maybe Kaplan—he seemed a stout and clever feller. The trick was getting Nathaniel to the bottom of the dome and hopefully that compressed lift thing would do the rest. Tally had the picks, but he’d need his hands to use them or they’d end up sliding down the dome, and he didn’t like to think of the speed they’d pick after sliding down a smooth surface for three hundred feet. Then he remembered the rope that was still tied around his waist.

“What do you do, lace your food with lead? Yer feckin’ hefty bugger.”

The strain on his arms was intense, as he removed one of the picks from the roof surface, leaving all the weight of both him and Nathaniel on one arm for a few moments. It was when the weight shifted to his weak arm that he worried; he fancied he heard a crack. He’d need to get it seen to again—probably end up in plaster once more. At this rate the arm would be less than useless. Still, he’d rather a useless arm than a dead friend—he had enough of those, he didn’t need any more.

Nathaniel hung below him, held safely in a harness Tally had fashioned out of the rope by looping it under his arms and over his shoulders. He had done a similar thing with his end of the rope so that the weight was more evenly distributed. At first he was just going to leave the rope tied around both their waists, but he decided that to do so was to likely risk spine damage to both of them.

Once the picks were level again he rested for a moment, trying to control his breathing while the sweat continued to pour out of him. He looked down—probably another hundred feet to go. His fingers were starting to feel numb, his muscles cramping. He had to get on with this or soon they’d both fall. Gritting his teeth, Tally once more transferred the full weight to his weakened arm and continued his descent.

Haskett bloody Smith indeed!

It took some time, but finally he reached the bottom and for a while he remained unmoving, his body slumped against the dome, taking sharp breaths. He’d never consider himself unfit, but this had tested his limits. In some ways Tally felt quite proud of himself—and to think he used to be daunted by the hills of Howth. If he ever got back to Ireland he’d go for a run up those hills. He let out a small laugh. But not just yet. First, a wee bit of rest was in order.

He looked down at Nathaniel who was lying next to him. Still breathing. Tally nodded. Good, now he just needed to get them both to the bottom of the tower. He hoped the reverence the Drobates had shown Nathaniel would come in useful now.

The sound of movement alerted him to the presence of others. A rescue party, he hoped, not that anybody knew they needed rescuing, mind, but he could still hope.

He looked up to see three Drobates approach him. Now maybe he was getting used to their faces because he thought he recognised the expression they all shared. And it wasn’t friendly.

“Now steady on there, lads,” he said, raising his arms which now felt as stiff as girders. “I’ve been helping the professor here. I’m no threat to any of yer.”

The three of them stopped barely a foot away, and looked down at him. Their elongated heads seeming to fill his vision completely.

He felt a strange itch at the nape of his neck, and went to scratch it but found he couldn’t move his arms. In fact, come to think of it, he couldn’t move a single part of him. Even his eyes were locked on the Drobates. He tried to speak but his jaw wouldn’t move; all that passed his lips was a strange guttural sound.

They’re gonna kill me, he thought mere seconds before everything went black around him.

5.

THE TWO MEN WERE not shy about approaching him. Ever since Bedford had watched Annabelle disappear behind the doors of that great incongruous mansion his nerves had been shred; he was listening out for any dropped word or suspicious click, his eyes flicking every which way amongst the alleys and corners of Souptown, which stubbornly and maliciously remained darkened even in the heat of the midday sun.

He had decided to return to their room to prepare himself. He didn’t like any of this—not one bit. Though Annabelle still seemed cold with him for some reason, the agony of uncertainty had been gnawing at him, ramping up his nervousness another notch. It was not that he didn’t have ultimate faith in Annabelle and her abilities (though he wondered if her sour mood might not dim them somewhat), but the thought of her taking on one of those blasphemous brass behemoths single-handed was almost too much to bear. Bedford knew he would have to prepare for the worst.

He strapped the remaining pistol opposite its brother and filled the small leather straps across the belt’s length with bullets. He took two knives—one strapped to his chest, the other his thigh, and under his arm he slung a shotgun with the barrels sawn off in a hidden holster. It all proved too bulky-looking under his duster, so he cut a rough circle of fabric from the bed’s rough and itchy blanket with his bowie knife, and cut another smaller circle out of the middle of that. That saw to the lumps and bumps of his arsenal, though he didn’t doubt he may well sweat himself to death before he got the chance to use it.

He was, therefore, trying to be extra inconspicuous as he eased his way through the main bar, which made it all the more surprising when he was approached by the well-dressed gentleman. He had immaculately coiffed silver hair swept back and a neatly trimmed moustache, underneath which was a cheerful smile, all lips and cheekbones shining like freshly polished apples. There was a sort of sagginess to his face though, a sadness which was most apparent in his eyes. Bold as a brass button, he strode up to Bedford and stopped right in front of him, and with the hint of a twinkle in one of his sad eyes he spoke in a rich cultured English accent.

“Good day to you, sir. I believe we have things to discuss.”

“I’m sorry?” said Bedford, nonplussed by the gentleman’s refined dress and speech and consequently forgetting that he, too, was expected to be American.

“Please, step this way. My colleague is waiting for us upstairs.”

Though Bedford was deeply suspicious, there was something genuine about this man—polite, sturdy, totally lacking in guile. He wasn’t about to toddle off with him anywhere, though. There had been too many disappearances already.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, mister,” Bedford said, reverting to his inaccurate Texan drawl. He attempted to push past the polite man but as he did so he found the crook of his elbow gripped, not threateningly but still firm, and the man leaned in to whisper.

“Your friend,” he said. “Inside the foundry. The lady.”

Bedford’s eyes widened as he stared back at the man, who was still smiling as if he were enquiring after the cricket scores on a sunny July afternoon.

“Oh, yes,” he said simply. “It’s very good; she really has got everybody else here fooled. Don’t worry, m’boy. Your secret’s safe with me, eh?” He squinted gleefully and tapped his nose. “Still, that’s what this is all about. My colleague upstairs is in a similar predicament, with his nephew long since missing and this little…habitat being his last known whereabouts. We fear he may be suffering a similar fate to your own little friend.”

“Well what are you planning to do?”

“Come upstairs and I’ll show you. You’ve nothing to fear.”

Reluctantly, Bedford agreed. He kept one hand on his pistol under the poncho.

It turned out the polite man had a room just down the way from his own, with the same cracked mirrors, made-do-and-mend furniture and that odd, milky smell. Only in this room, a bombastic-looking man with a ruddy complexion and expansive muttonchops stood proudly in the middle.

“Be it ever so humble,” the man rumbled, “there’s no place like home.” He was dressed in a morning suit with a loud waistcoat and matching bow tie.

“Don’t mind him,” said the polite man. “He has a flair for the theatrical.”

“So what is your plan, exactly?” Bedford asked, his voice level while his eyes took in everything within the room. Just in case.

“It’s very simple, m’boy.” The polite one ambled over to the other side of the bed and pulled up an old carpet-bag with a faded paisley pattern. He opened it up and brought from it a long thin bundle, like a large cigar, wrapped in wax paper that was stained a tannin brown. “We’ve got about eight pounds of gelignite here. We were just going to blast our way in.”

6.

THE DARKNESS OF THE moors matched his mind perfectly. Le Boeuf stood at the large open windows, the cold air against his face. Now he knew everything Fontaine knew—every detail Stone had shared with him about his survival in London at the beginning of the year, about Stone rescuing him on Ceres, and their near death experience in the aether. And all the time the two men growing closer—a close bond of love and attraction cemented their fates together.

No. Stone would not have what he had been denied. He was less than Le Boeuf in every conceivable way, and yet somehow he had achieved by accident everything Le Boeuf deserved by right. Stone had worked for none of it—indeed, at each turn he had been forced into his current position. Forced to go to Luna April last year by the Admiralty, forced to continue on from Venus by Mrs Bedford which led to their arrival on Peregrine and brought Stone into Le Boeuf’s life. Forced into his recent mission to find the minerals on the inner worlds, and at the same time become an unwilling accomplice in the conspiracy of silence to protect the empire. An empire that had stole the life of his dearest brother. Fontaine had explained how Stone, at first bitter, had come to accept his role in the growth of the British Empire, how after they had all visited the afterlife (could it really be possible? Under the influence of aleksandrite it was impossible for Fontaine to lie, but it did not make things true, simply true to Fontaine’s mind) Stone’s focus doubled. All the while the two men drew closer, until they were forced to part by the joint orders of the Admiralty and the Bureau. Arnaud knew he had seen Stone since, but alas there had been so much aleksandrite in his system, his mind ravaged by the compound, that he barely remembered the reunion—only that Stone had not visited him once since he had been sent to the rest home. Not even a letter.

What had changed in Stone to warrant this behaviour? Le Boeuf wanted to know. He had agents everywhere. Soon he would send Delany out to contact one of his agents in the Navy, a man who would surely know something of Stone’s movements for, after all, this man served on the Royal Navy’s flagship.

“Nathaniel has betrayed you,” he had taken great pleasure in saying. Whether it was true or not mattered little. Stone did not deserve to be loved. “What other reason would he have for abandoning you? After all you’ve been through. There is no other explanation.”

He had turned from Fontaine at that point, smiling at the tears that fell from the Frenchman’s eyes.

“It is late,” Mortimer said, entering the drawing room. “Perhaps we should rest?”

“No.” Le Boeuf turned to look at his old friend. “We do it tonight. Any longer and someone may notice Fontaine’s absence. He must be returned tomorrow.”

“But…” Mortimer shook his head. “This surgery is delicate—I cannot afford to make a mistake. I am dealing with a substance I know so little about, and to implant it so close to the brain. No, Willie, I must rest.”

For a moment Le Boeuf just stared at him. Then he slowly nodded his head. “Very well. You have four hours to sleep; then we finish this.”

7.

ANNABELLE WAITED. SHE HEARD deep thuds and muffled sounds from the doors that led deeper into the foundry, but she couldn’t tell if it was talking, yells or the dull uneven rumble of a small mechanical motor. Then it all went silent.

She couldn’t just sit there. The hatch in front of her had been deadlocked from the other side, but she still had the lockpick hidden in the bandages wrapped around her chest. Relieved she could now breathe slightly easier, Annabelle teased the lockpick from the folds and set about heading down to the inner doors, grabbing a small length of thin metal to use as a lever in the lock.

There were several other men, a mix of ages but all bent-backed, working away in the recesses down the corridor. The incessant clink and clang of hammers on metal filled the air, already thick with oil and sweat. They paid Annabelle little heed as she made her way down—clearly they had seen this sort of behaviour before, from those whose spirits had not yet been broken like their backs. If they did do anything, they would shoot her a pitying glance and shake their heads slowly.

She reached the door and got to work. When the Soup Twins had opened the double doors before they had twisted their keys in unison. Annabelle just had to hope that was a bit of theatre on their part, and the lock was not more complicated than she initially had envisioned.

It didn’t take her long to unlock the first, but the door still wouldn’t budge. She swiftly set to work on the other lock, deftly gauging the resistance of the pick against the tumblers. She was pretty sure she had just about got it when there came one of the biggest explosions she had ever heard in her life.

8.

HAD ANNABELLE BEDFORD HAD one second more to unlock the other door to the deeper parts of the foundry, she would have been dead. The deafening roar of the blast made her ears ring and her vision dizzy as the whole building shook to its foundations. Chunks of brass fell to the floor as the weaker tables collapsed, and the heavy metal door Annabelle had already unlocked fell backwards, its rusted hinges sheared by the huge shockwave. It fell to the floor with a heavy clang, and had Annabelle been in its path she would have surely been crushed to death.

But what was she to do now? She had finally gained a way into the foundry’s inner belly, but what on Earth was that explosion all about? Was it George, or Gopan? Or had the Soup Twin’s meddling in sciences they could never hope to understand produced the blast? She remembered Nathaniel’s observation on how, under the right conditions, the mysterious green mineral could be a potent explosive.

She was about to peek her head around the door when the ample body of one Soup Twin, then the other, burst through the gap where the door used to be. Crouched as she was in the shadow of the other door, the brothers raced past her without even giving her a glance, and began bickering at the other end of the corridor as they tried to unlock the doors. If she stayed here she’d doubtless be spotted should one of the brothers turned around, so she slipped around the corner to hide on the other side of the remaining door. The Soup Twins finally managed to outfox their double lock, and both pulled the richly-decorated Winchesters they treasured from their shoulders. They nodded at each other in unison, and set off towards the mansion side of the amalgamation of buildings.

Annabelle turned around. Beyond the gloom of the small entranceway the room opened up into a bigger, better lit space. The metal walls made her feel uncomfortable. It seemed somehow unnatural to her, and the networks of interconnecting copper pipes that ran around the walls reminded her uncommonly of veins. They hissed from time to time, the gauges on their valves fluctuating wildly. There was a grisly surgeon’s table set on one side, blotched with bloodstains of various ages. The tools were no better. Behind this, a rack of the raggedy and badly-built metal skeletons were lined up. Between these two horror shows was something strapped to the wall that had been covered in a large creased tarpaulin.

Her first thought was to find a weapon. Any weapon. The surgeon’s table might have something appropriate, and any blade, however worn or rusty, would still be a step up at this juncture. She made her way stealthily across to it, all the while keeping one eye out for any movement stirring under that great green tarpaulin, and she jumped when she heard her name hissed.

Her head darted around to find the source of the noise. On the opposite side of the large room a series of cages had been welded onto the walls, and from the furthermost one the voice came again.

“Annabelle!”

She scurried across and got to work picking the lock. Enderby was strapped to the back wall, but only with a set of thick leather buckles that could easily be unstrapped.

“Have you learned anything?” Annabelle hissed as she worked.

“Casey,” said Enderby, still resolute despite the circumstances. “He’s the one we’ve got to go for. He knows who was behind the bandit attacks. I’m suspecting it’s some sort of Russian connection, but he’s the one we need to go for. He’s the one with surgeon’s hands, too. Does all of the dirty work. I watched him do it. Eustace just seems to be a zealot, but he’s not without his nasty side.”

“I’d guessed as much. There.” The lock clicked with a satisfying clunk and Annabelle pushed it open, tucking the lockpick back into her waistband as she yanked at the thick leather buckles that were binding Enderby’s wrists.

“I think he did it, too. Casey. Got one of those brutes up and running; working properly. He’d already killed one poor devil but the second seemed to survive.”

“Well,” said Annabelle pointedly, “they must have had some success or we wouldn’t have found that other body out in the desert.”

“Good point.” Enderby rubbed his sore wrists when both straps had finally come away. “Only problem is, how much other success have they had? Come on.”

“Enderby? Where are you going? Come on, we’ve got to get out of here.”

“No, look. Round here somewhere there’s aleksandrite. There has to be. The empire needs it!”

“The empire, Enderby? Or you job prospects? Come on, man! Didn’t you hear that explosion?”

“Of course I heard the bloody explosion.”

“It might be George!”

“What, Cautious George? He’s hardly the cannonball type. Look, we’re here now and I don’t want to come back later. I’ll look for the mineral; you see if you can’t find us a couple of weapons, eh?”

9.

WHAT HE NEEDED WAS a good watch. Unfortunately, he never was the kind of man to carry a pocket watch, and the watch Nathaniel wore on his wrist appeared to be broken—the glass shattered, the face cracked and one dislodged arm rattling around inside. As such, with no way to tell the time Tally had no idea how long it had been since he’d passed out on the roof. But he guessed no more than half an hour had passed since he had awoken in this strange low-lit room.

It seemed the walls, crystal like everything else in the city, were made of various shapes all slotted together. They didn’t resemble any shapes he had seen before—no hint of a square or even an octagon. The room itself was largely deserted, save for what looked like two tables, standing side by side, their surface a strange metal the like of which Tally had never laid eyes on. Light appeared to refract just beneath the surface, giving it the illusion of constantly changing colour. At the top of each table was an odd protuberance, which seemed to serve no purpose but was a comfortable rest upon which to place one’s head, as he had learned when he woke up and found himself lying on one of the tables.

In the half hour since, no one had come to see them, and Nathaniel remained as conked out as he had before. In some ways Tally didn’t mind so much. He could still remember the feeling he had got as the Drobates advanced on him—a deep sense of dread, something almost primal had prevented him from moving. Petrified—quite literally. He supposed they’d come by soon enough, but he hoped not before Nathaniel awoke. They seemed to respect Nathaniel, but Tally wasn’t too proud to admit that they scared the bejaysus out of him.

There was door in one wall, or at least what he thought was a door. There was no handle, but the dimensions were about right. He walked over to it and pressed his ear against the surface. Nothing, couldn’t hear a damn thing. Maybe there was no-one out there.

“Tally?”

He turned around. Nathaniel was manoeuvring himself into a sitting position, stretching his arms and rotating his shoulders painfully.

“What the blazes happened? I ache all over. Feels like I’ve gone ten rounds with an irate Skreelan.”

Tally didn’t know what that was, but he knew damn well why Nathaniel ached, so he explained what had happened above the dome and their subsequent descent. “Yer don’t remember that?”

“I think I do. It was the Heart—guiding me. Has been since we first communicated. Although I seem to be a bit fuzzy on the details.” Nathaniel rubbed his head. “It will come back to me, I’m sure. Thank you.”

“For what?”

“Looking after me.”

“Aye well, I did me bit, but don’t ask me how we got here. Guess it must have been the Drobates, but they looked fit to kill when they found us.”

“Seems unlikely, although that is not say I haven’t seen them kill before. They have these electric rifles, quite nasty. And then there is this strange method of hand-to-hand combat. Strange but most…”

With an almost hydraulic hiss the door opened and two Drobates entered the room. One was female, and Tally felt sure he recognised her. Which was absurd—there appeared to be nothing that made one Drobate distinct from another, yet somehow he just knew it was Jappeth Kelp. Perhaps it was the look she gave him. He wanted to say it was concern, but he knew it was something more. Tally looked back at Nathaniel. He was wearing the same look he had worn when they had first ran into the Drobates upon entering the city. He was talking to them again, only this time there were no words, just the occasional movement of his eyebrows and slight shift in the muscles of his face.

“Oh, well that’s probably not a good thing,” Nathaniel said some time later, after the Drobates had left, the door still open.

“I can tell I’m not gonna like this, am I?” Tally asked, a familiar feeling of dread creeping up his spine.

“It is hard to put into words.” Nathaniel walked to the door. “Maybe it is best if I show you. Come on.”

They left the room and walked through what Tally suspected was a typical Drobate house—had they just left the bedroom? Those tables had to be beds. Not much for comfort, the Drobates, Tally decided. He couldn’t see himself spending too much time sleeping on one of those “beds”, although he had slept on worse and that was for sure. But not no more, not now he was an agent for the Bureau. Sure and he’d have to work himself up, but he wasn’t going to be having none of these dangerous jobs that required sleeping in slums to keep his tracks hidden. No, sir, Charles Cahalleret wasn’t going to be having none of that.

Once outside they were hit by a deathly silence. The streets were empty, not a single Drobate or human in sight.

“What in God’s name has happened? It’s like a ghost town.”

“This way,” Nathaniel said and, as they walked through the deserted city, Nathaniel explained, as best as he could, what had happened.

10.

AFTERWORD FROM “THE FALL of Empire” (cont.) by J Quinham.

“Everywhere on Luna the humans found themselves herded away from anything that wasn’t of their making. Drobates in the City of Light and Science forced the humans out, and those who resisted were less than politely removed. Marines who guarded the Heart Chambers were attacked, the Drobate electric rifles making short work of their resistance. It took some time for the news of the attack—as many later called it, although in truth it seemed to be little more than the Drobates taking back what was theirs—to reach Otterbein Base, since the Drobate presence there had lessened over the preceding months. Professor George favoured talking to the Drobates, perhaps to renegotiate terms. After all, they had made arrangements with them before, but Major Larkins believed swift military action was called for. His Royal Marines were there to protect the empire’s interests after all—from any enemy, foreign or domestic. And, although Luna had not officially been claimed as part of the empire, to those in the know such an act was merely a formality. Luna belonged to the British. Politics were never the purview of the military, but orders were, and when Larkins had been assigned to Luna it was with the express intent of keeping the British Empire as the sole holder of the technologies that the City of Light and Science offered.

“What followed was nothing short of a massacre.”

Chapter Nine

“The Theatre of Assassins”

1.

TO BEDFORD THE WAY these two were acting was getting more and more suspicious by the moment. After bundling an assortment of supplies together—which included the carpet bag full of high explosives, as well as another couple of mysterious-looking cases—the two set off around the back of the foundry, looking the very picture of a couple of holidaymakers with their suitcases swinging by their arms. They were bold as brass, and although Bedford assumed Souptown’s doyens may simply assume they were high-tailing it before they were relieved of the burdens of their life and luggage, they were drawing far too much attention than he was really comfortable with. He followed after them as casually as he could to the wall at the left-hand side of the mansion.

By the time Bedford had caught up with them the plumper of the two (for they still, worryingly, had not divulged their names) was knelt on the ground happily splodging gelignite against the wall like a schoolboy playing with clay, humming a jaunty little ditty as he did so. Both seemed rather comfortable around the substance, which was more than could be said for Bedford, and after a moment the rotund and ruddy fellow pulled a small clockwork timer from the bag, one side of which was covered in thin copper prongs. “Ah, you little rascal,” he crowed, and pressed the prongs into the sticky explosives before turning to his companion.

“What do you reckon?” he asked. “Forty seconds?”

“Top hole!” said his friend, with an amiable smile. “I could do with a jog.” The kneeling gentleman twisted a brass dial on the front of the detonator and it began to click.

“Shall we?” he asked politely.

“It’s probably for the best.”

The two dashed off to hide behind a nearby hovel and Bedford, nonplussed by the whole exchange, took a second to regain the wherewithal to set off in hot pursuit and join the curious pair in kneeling down and covering his ears.

When the explosion came, it rattled Bedford’s teeth. Even though he was expecting it, the shock of the blast was immense, and for a moment the cobbled-together hut they were hiding behind seemed to wobble and threaten to crush them. Temporarily deafened, Bedford found himself hauled upwards by the elbow by the thinner man, who picked up his cases from the ground and headed off towards where the western wall of the mansion once stood. The dust was starting to clear, with the odd bit of debris rattling down from the top of the gaping hole. This madman and his chum were just toddling towards it like it was the door of a train they wished to catch. Clearly they’d done this sort of thing before—so why lie to him about the missing nephew?

He’d have to be on his guard. He pulled out one of his pistols. At least he could trust to his guns, and if anything these two seemed to be pretty damn effective when it came to getting to Annabelle in the most direct way possible.

Souptown’s residents were starting to cautiously peer out from doorways and windows, with the braver sorts starting to ready their weapons as they made their way towards the smoking mansion. Bedford was relieved to see that the Soup Twins weren’t so beloved by their populace that anyone was rushing too quickly to find out what was happening, or even if they were injured. The scattered guards had fled the moment they heard the blast.

When Bedford clambered through the hole in the wall, waving the choking plaster dust away from his eyes and mouth, the two men were standing with their hands in their pockets, idly looking up at the ceiling and taking in what little décor remained untouched by the blast. A couple of scantily-clad girls peered down nervously from the balcony, and the fatter of the two men even had the gall to give one of them a cheerful wave and a wink.

“The perils of neoclassical excess, eh, Mister Baxter?”

“Excess is the right word, Mister Henry. Can’t buy taste, what?”

The one called Mister Henry chortled affably and started rooting around in one of his bags. With a clank and a flourish be brought out a large leather brazer that gleamed and jangled with buckles, attached to a small steel chain whose one end was fed into a small, neat spring-loaded mechanism attached to a running wheel. He handed it to Baxter who began to strap it around his wrist. Henry rummaged again, this time pulling out the bizarre, trumpet-shaped barrel of a large blunderbuss. It was quite easily the biggest example Bedford had ever seen, with a wide gaping mouth at the end. He propped it up and then brought out the stock and handle, clicking them together with military precision and winding the little screws to hold it all in place. The was a small mechanical housing just before the trigger-guard, and into this Henry neatly clapped a circular magazine packed with shells full of buckshot. He smiled contentedly as he stood up and cocked it.

Baxter, meanwhile, unbuttoned the front of his velvet frock-coat and pulled the lapel to one side—inside his jacket were stored dozens of different types of scalpels with their blades sheathed in an elegant little metal rack. Baxter clipped the small chain to the handle of the scalpel and tossed the silver knife up into the air. With a deft flick of his wrist he activated the spring-loaded wheel and the knife shot back to his hand, where it was expertly caught. Baxter chortled as he turned around to Bedford, but then his eyes suddenly narrowed. Almost as quick as Bedford on the draw, the well-dressed, impeccably polite gent flicked his wrist up, and Bedford even felt the wind of it swish past his ear. He just turned around in time to see the Souptown bandit drop the gun he had been aiming at them before the knife whipped back from the man’s throat and straight back to Baxter’s hand.

“That should give them pause for thought.”

“And if it doesn’t,” boomed Henry, brandishing the blunderbuss, “I’ll give ‘em a taste of this!”

“Quite so, quite so.” Baxter took a pocket watch from his waistcoat and checked it. “I say, these Soup chappies should’ve been here by now. Blast of that magnitude would’ve got their attention, I’d have thought.”

Henry rattled his blunderbuss again. “We’ll hunt them down,” he roared “like rabid, scampering dogs!”

Speak of the devils and the two dogs appeared, barging through the wooden doors opposite the curious duo and Bedford, still bickering but now holding their twin Winchesters before their oversized stomachs. They stopped dead when they saw who was standing there. As wholly different as their personalities seemed to be, they sure got the same look on their face when they knew their lives were in danger. They turned and fled just as Henry raised his fearsome firearm and let rip with a volley of five or six shells, blasting the door on the right off its hinges.

“You’re insane!” stammered Bedford.

“No no,” corrected Baxter. “He’s theatrical.”

2.

ANNABELLE HEARD THE FAT slap of the Twins’ running footsteps long before they had reached the door to the foundry. She had plenty of time to prepare. There had been many knives for her and Enderby to choose from. The spy scoffed when she picked the bowie knife with the dulled blade, but he didn’t know that she was taking it precisely because it was dulled. He chose a sort of small bone-saw with a serrated edge, but only after he’d gathered up a couple of small bags of glistening aleksandrite.

“That belongs to the apache,” Annabelle had said.

“That’s for the Crown to decide. And Tooler, most likely. Look, let’s get out of this alive and bicker later, hmm? By Christ, I preferred you as a girl.”

“Be quiet, Enderby.”

After that, they got in position, readying themselves at the side of the doors the Twins were momentarily about to burst through. As soon as they did, both red in the face and huffing like grampuses, Annabelle and Enderby sprang into action and soon had the blades at their throats. The twin Annabelle had grabbed dropped his rifle with surprise, but the one threatened by Enderby was still holding onto his, breathing heavily through his nostrils.

“You don’t understand,” he babbled. “They’re here to kill us!”

“I’m here to kill you!” Annabelle hissed.

“Now now, Mrs Bedford,” chided Enderby in that insufferably smug way of his. “Let’s not be ungracious to our hosts. They might have a lot of useful information we can use.”

Annabelle’s face felt terribly flush, and the heat from the profusely-sweating Soup Twin felt like it was starting to seep through her clothes. She was sick of this; being talked down to by this idiot man, the sacred places of her adopted culture desecrated, the spoils used for slaughter or bartered for favour. The loss had broken Goyahkla, fractured the spirit of the apaches. She could feel their loss even now and hankered to avenge it. The image of the scalp George had hidden from her flashed in her mind, and she pressed the blade of the bowie slightly closer to the twin’s fat neck. She felt down with her other hand, to his pockets. There were a few bills and a pocket watch, but besides that he was free of any weapons. She brought her knee up to the small of his back and pushed him roughly to his knees, winding him. Before he had even had time to recover she had snatched up the rifle with the gold filigree and was pointing the barrel straight at him.

“I have to admit this is a beautifully made weapon. But will it kill you or your brother? Tell me, Soup Twins, which one of you is Casey?”

The brothers hands whipped up and they pointed at each other. “He is!” they said in unison.

3.

“THEN HOW DO YOU suppose we get out?”

Nathaniel was happy with Tally—despite everything he had seen and experienced on Luna, he still remained stout and determined. A steady arm in a violent storm—at least metaphorically, since Nathaniel was well aware of the added damage done to Tally’s arm during his attempts to save Nathaniel. He didn’t say any of this, of course, he simply shrugged. “The Drobates will let us out.”

“Why would they do that? We’re the enemy.”

Nathaniel carefully looked at Tally through the gloom of the tunnel. “The Heart guides them, not makes them the enemy. They are just protecting what is, essentially, their god.”

“Why now?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you not? You said the Heart was guiding you, or do not remember that now?”

Nathaniel smiled, glad Tally could not see him clearly in the gloom. It was good that Tally was suspicious. It suited his new line of work. But too much suspicion would be a mistake right now. “I remember, yes, and that is why I know. This is not an attack. It is simply the Drobates telling the humans to leave.”

“Couldn’t they just ask?”

“Tally, how are things in Ireland?”

Even in the dark Nathaniel could see Tally smile at that. “Sure and you have a point there.” They walked a little further in silence. “Where are we going now?”

Nathaniel had been down this tunnel before. A year ago almost, when he and several others had been rescued from the city by then-Lieutenant Bedford and a contingent of marines from Sovereign, after being on the receiving end of Drobate hospitality. It seemed so long ago now. So much had been experienced since then, so much discovered about the Drobates and the Heart.

“There’s a railroad a short way up,” he said, “it will eventually lead us to the Heart Chamber below Otterbein. With all the chaos there, we should easily be able to slip in. And if they ask, I will simply say I was off being solitary.”

“Solitary with me?”

“So it would seem.”

“Yer a queer feller at times, Nate. And if yer don’t mind me saying so, I don’t think this place is doing ya any good at all. Yer don’t seem the same man to me.”

Nathaniel stopped suddenly. Tally glanced back.

“This is me,” Nathaniel said, holding out his hands. “I appreciate I may seem more focussed on my work than usual, but sometimes it is easier to be like that than to think of all the pain and hurt I have been a part of. Edwin, Annabelle, Arnaud.” He shook his head. “And I suspect there is much to come. Tally, when do you suppose you will be able to return home?”

“Not for a long time.”

“No, but at least you have the chance. I am officially dead—I died a hero who was once accused of treason, or at least that is how my family will remember me; a role I agreed to play because I became tired of the danger my life had become to others. My brother died because of me, because of cowards who hide behind their political agendas in the name of the glorious British Empire. He was made a hero, given the award the government wished to bestow on me. Can you imagine that? They destroyed my life, made me a pawn in their political power struggle, and then awarded me the Order of the Royal Red Cross for services to the empire! Perhaps one day the truth will emerge, but I fear by that time the men involved, those who forced me into all this, admit to their roles, it will be too late. I can never return home, not ever. And in the meantime those around me continue to get hurt. I mean, look at your arm!”

“It’ll heal. Don’t yer be worrying about me.”

With a deep sigh Nathaniel lowered his head. For a moment there was silence, save for the occasional sound of water dripping, its echo like the void Nathaniel sometimes felt in his heart.

Tally placed a hand on Nathaniel’s shoulder. “You need to stop worrying about yer friends, Nate. Perhaps we’re all willing to go through this for you? Have yer never thought of that?”

“Tally…” Nathaniel forced a smile. “This is the man they’ve made me become. I sometimes forget that, and convince myself I am still Nathanial Stone of Putney Parish, but I am not. I am so far from that young naive fool who was invited to Arizona to work alongside Doctor Grant in ‘88. If I could have foreseen what would happen, I would have absolutely refused to join Sovereign on her rescue of Grant and Annabelle in the first place.”

“Stop being daft, man. We are all forged by the fire of circumstance—I am who I am because of all the circumstances of me upbringing. But I’m more than that, too. I like to think I am, at least, a good man. And so are you. That’s the truth. I’ve known it since I dragged you out of that pub. I’ve seen it. But,” at this point Tally smiled that cheeky grin that had first endeared him to Nathaniel. “But ya need to tell me one thing. Something I don’t understand. When ya got caught up in that glow, you shouted something.”

“Kaskuu-Losaa,” Nathaniel whispered.

“Aye, that. What does it mean?”

Nathaniel gathered himself up to his full height. “Let us walk, and I shall tell you what I have learned. I cannot tell you all, but when I was surrounded by the glow, I saw so much. Whatever the Heart was transmitting, all of it passed through me. So much that I do not think my mind can quite grasp all of it. But what I do know, I shall tell.”

“Sure and I doubt much of it will make sense to me,” Tally said, with a soft laugh, and the two men set off again.

Nathaniel tried to remember, to make sense of the madness that had surged through him. And it was madness—the thoughts and images, the ideas, the sheer scope of what he had been exposed to. The memories of millennia, events that shaped the very universe itself. How could he hope to actualise such thoughts? For Tally he would at least try.

“Kaskuu is a word not said in millennia, a name unknown to man until now. It is the Heart’s name. Although I do believe it is a name that has passed into mythology on Earth, or at least a derivation of it. Perhaps a result of the Drobates presence—a telepathic race memory, if you will? I do not know, but I feel I am right, simply because I have learned the names of eleven other Hearts, those scattered throughout the Solar System, and all of them have informed the names of lunar deities on Earth.

“Two I have met, although one was dead. Awlii I have known as Hermes, the intelligence that resided in the crystal plates of Mercury—all that is left of his body. And Anuuti, the Eye of Phobos. There are nine others, all existing within moons, and all, unless I am mistaken, either still asleep or dead.”

“And that other name you said—Losaa?”

“Yes, it was to Losaa that Kaskuu was communicating and not Plypolyplon like I incorrectly surmised.”

Tally patted him on the shoulder. “Well, yer weren’t to know.”

“Yes, thank you, but I was not feeling inadequate. Theories are only theories until proven true, or not. It is the nature of science.”

“Right so.”

They shared a sideways glance. Tally chuckled first, and shrugged, and before Nathaniel knew it he, too, was laughing. He was rather thankful to have Tally for company. True he did miss Arnaud and Annabelle, but they knew too much about him, and it felt good to be around someone who only knew what Nathaniel cared to share. In some way it made the moment more important to him, although he could not quite think why.

“Do yer know what these Hearts are?” Tally asked suddenly.

“Yes. They are Watchers—the Thirteen Watchers, sent to observe and guide the Drobates. The great experiment, to see how higher life forms evolved. But something went wrong, caused them all to shut down millennia ago.” Nathaniel glanced at Tally, his face a mask of concentration. “This is too much for you?”

Tally shook his head. “No, I can keep up. Not sure if I can get my head around this all, but I understand what yer saying.”

“Then if you find this concept difficult to digest, you can imagine a little of how I feel. So much is inside here,” Nathaniel said and tapped his head. “Much more than I will ever be able to recall. Do you know, exposure to Kaskuu drove Grant mad? Tereshkov was, of course, quite insane before he arrived on Luna, but knowledge of what Kaskuu contained pushed him over the brink. We are quite fortunate he is dead.”

“And what about yerself?” Tally looked at him closely. “Are yer feeling a spot of lunacy coming on?”

“No, not yet. I shall let you know at the first sign. But I can quite understand how Grant went mad now.”

“I’m not sure that understanding madness is a good thing.” Tally removed a cigarette and placed it in his mouth, and began to chew it. “You said there are twelve Hearts out there, but Thirteen Watchers? Did someone do their sums wrong?”

“No, there is another. But… I do not know how to explain it; only that Kaskuu will not reveal it to me, that…yes, that to find the thirteenth will only end in madness.”

“All this talk of madness. What happened to all that guff about the Heart being pure?”

“Yes, and this is why.”

“It is?”

“Yes.” With that Nathaniel quickened his pace, glad to be free of that conversation. There was so much more to learn, to understand, but his head felt tired. Being human, it seemed, had its limits. Still, he had a long journey ahead of him—plenty of time to work out what he now knew.

4.

HENRY AND BAXTER DISPLAYED no haste as they made their way through the corridors of the mansion towards the foundry. Henry was even humming some jaunty music hall number under his breath as they stepped neatly through the debris that had rattled down from the explosion. Bedford followed warily, his revolver ready and his finger on the trigger. But for the most part the curious pair seemed to be ignoring him.

They slowed their approach slightly when they came upon a set of large metal doors swinging open at the hinges. Henry poked his nose around the edge before ducking back. “All clear,” he said, and he tapped his nose.

Bedford followed him into a dimly-lit metal corridor where the coals of smelters and ironmongery tools gave a glow to the hot, oily air. The booths to the sides of this corridor—which Bedford thought may well bear an uncanny resemblance to Hell itself—had workbenches covered in twisted bands of scrap metals and, on occasion, a man cowering in the shadows of some recess of his workstation, camouflaged by the soot and grime caked to his face.

It didn’t take Baxter long to spot one of these unfortunates, and he stepped smartly towards the lurking figure and doffed his top hat.

“Come on out,” he said cheerfully. “We won’t hurt you.”

The man waited for a moment in the darkness. The outline of his silhouette was just about visible, but it did not move a fraction of an inch. Then, some desperate part of his mind urged him forward to his doom or deliverance, and he stepped out into the light. He was younger than Bedford expected—maybe in his early or mid-twenties—but his sunken cheeks and eye-sockets and general sense of desperation made him appear far, far older.

“Now,” said Baxter paternally, stepping forward gently to the youth, “what’s been going on here then, eh?”

“It was the twins, your honour.”

Baxter chortled gamely, turning around to catch Henry’s eye. “Your honour indeed. Please go on.”

“Well, they got us building all these cages, see. Like a suit of knight’s armour, like they got in England. We just put ‘em through the hatches, and…that was that. Then…then there was the hangings.”

“How terrible for you, my’boy.”

“The hatch up there.” He pointed to a trap-door set into the ceiling at the furthest end of the hellish corridor. “When they strung someone up we had to stand there an’ catch ‘em before the rope bit. Sometimes we didn’t make it, and then one of us would have to go instead. It was Hell on Earth, mister. Why did they do this to us?”

“They’re not very nice men, that’s why, m’lad. But don’t fret. They’ll get their comeuppance, you mark my words. Well, I think that’s everything. What do you reckon, Mister Henry?”

“I don’t see the harm,” grumbled Henry, somewhat sourly.

“Splendid. Well, then you and your fellow captives are free to go. I’d get out of Souptown pretty quickly if I were you, m’boy. Don’t even pack your things, and spread the word. I’m afraid this is the end of Souptown, and those who remain will be playing a dangerous game with their life. Oh, and tell everyone to avoid the western roads—there’s a small band of apaches camped there. Toodle-loo!” He patted the boy on the back and nudged him on his way.

“Wait,” said Bedford, catching the boy’s arm. He leaned in close so Henry and Baxter couldn’t hear. “While you’ve been trapped here,” he hissed. “Have you seen a boy? Named Andy Bell?”

“No sir, we don’t really speak in here. T’ain’t allowed. Sometimes he gets us to sing. Like hymns, y’know. A choir. It’s ghostly.”

“How about a green mineral, then? Like crystal shards. They glow.”

“Seen a green glow sometimes, sir. Always seemed to come at the same time as the screaming. Only I can’t say I paid much attention ‘cause those were the times we sung the loudest.”

5.

THE RIFLE’S BARREL WAVERED between the two identical heads, both with the same panicked expression and quivering hands outstretched. She couldn’t really make the shot on the twin Enderby was holding. She was good, but who knew what extra firepower this fancy weapon had hidden in its working? She’d probably get the twin but might rip off half of Enderby’s face into the bargain—and as satisfying as that might be, the man was not so obnoxious as to really deserve it. Just. She’d have to take her chances with the twin kneeling on the floor. It was still vengeance, as far as she was concerned. The Bureau and all their petty, bullish manoeuvrings could go hang. She cocked the rifle.

“Mrs Bedford!” called a voice. It was the last thing she would have expected—the clear, bright tones of a well-educated English voice. For a second a heart leapt and she thought it might be George, but no—it was older, and far too plummy.

She backed away from the door slightly, keeping the Winchester trailed on the prostrate twin. Enderby held his position but twisted his captive’s arm to ensure total compliance. A thin trickle of blood was starting to dampen his collar where the saw’s teeth had dug into his flesh.

“Annabelle!” she heard, and this time it was him. “Are you safe? Annabelle!”

“George!” she yelled, and the footsteps started towards her. “Be careful, George!”

She heard the voice of the older gentleman say “Mister Bedford, please, let’s not be hasty…” But his voice trailed off as George jogged cautiously into the room, his pistol drawn. He took in the scene around him—the captive twins, Annabelle standing, ready to fire.

“I don’t know why I worried,” he said.

“Now’s not the time to be glib, Bedford,” said Enderby. “I know that voice. Get behind the door.”

George quickly complied. “You know those two?” he asked.

“Seen them in the offices a couple of times,” hissed Enderby. “Sometimes in the better class of Soho men’s clubs, too. Freelancers. I know Tooler certainly had sent them out a couple of times, but I didn’t pay them much mind. They looked more like the diplomatic sort. Then we got wind of who else who they were working for, and exactly what it was they were offering.”

“A very concise approximation, m’boy. Do give my regards to Mister Tooler, and tell him his wife’s apricot jam is simply the finest I have ever tasted. And as our reputation precedes us, let us not waste time.”

A man stepped through the doorway, carrying the carpet-bag in his left hand. He looked up and brought his arm forward with an impossible swiftness, a scalpel flying from his hand, whipping through the air to embed itself half an inch from the knuckles Enderby was using to hold his saw, straight through the windpipe of the twin. There was a second, and then blood began to flow freely from the wound.

“Eustace!” screamed the other twin.

“Well,” said Annabelle. “I’m glad we got that solved.” She raised the rifle and fired at the assassin, who ducked out of the way but fumbled as the scalpel whipped back to his fingers on the thin chain, dropping his carpet-bag in the process.

Enderby let the twin go as the blood began to flow more readily. The twin had gone limp and was gurgling slightly. The heavy body fell and twisted; Enderby could see Eustace’s eyes had swivelled up into his skull. Thinking quickly, he yanked the strap of the Winchester and pulled the weapon with him as he darted to one side. Quickly, he doubled back and ran into the room, darting across the floor to pick up the other Soup Twin up from his knees and drag him to relative safety.

“Don’t kill this one,” he scowled across to Annabelle. “We need him.”

But Casey wasn’t beaten yet. With Enderby’s attention directed at his crowing, the more cunning of the two brothers brought his elbow up sharply into the agent’s solar plexus. In spite of the shock and the sudden pain, Enderby’s honed instincts kicked in and he turned away from the blow, making sure Casey couldn’t snatch the Winchester back from his grip. He was surprised when no such grapple came, and looked up to see Annabelle taking aim at Casey as he dashed across to the other side of lab.

“No!” yelled Enderby. “Don’t kill him!”

There came a resounding boom as a blunderbuss went off again, and everyone bar Casey staggered as the heavy metal-framed door was blasted off its hinges not far from where they were standing. Annabelle had fallen back awkwardly on her prosthetic leg, and she struggled to raise herself back up to aim. George fired a warning shot high above the bandit leader’s head but it did not deter him from reaching his goal. The bulky, roughly man-shaped object covered by the sheeting with the rusty brown stains. Casey pulled the covering away to reveal what remained of Harry Mackett, the poor hanged boy, jammed into the hideous armour like a ragdoll.

Casey grabbed a lever by the side and pulled down with all his might. Sluggish green liquid began to pump through the tubes that wrapped his savaged, broken limbs as a wound spring began to slowly depress the plungers on a set of copper syringes bolted just above his heart. The body seemed to twist and jolt as the clamps holding its arms and legs against the upright operating table sprang free, and it stepped uneasily out into the foundry, as if drunk. The head seemed to sway momentarily, then the brute raised its head up and roared, its eyes wide, throwing its arms to the side as if to greedily suck up the strength from that glowing heart of power.

Casey scrambled off to one side and Enderby yelled; “Annabelle, look out!” She only just had enough time to turn to see the scalpel blade, its tip glinting despite the gloom, heading directly towards her.

Chapter Ten

“The Slice of the Scalpel”

1.

THE DISTANT SOUND OF gunfire echoed down the tunnel. They had left the railroad sometime ago and were drawing close to the Heart chamber beneath Otterbein Base. Nathaniel had to stop, overwhelmed by waves of… Was there a word for it? It came from Kaskuu. It wasn’t pain exactly, but the word would have to do. Kaskuu was being damaged by the waves of violence around it.

“Damn them,” he hissed. “Why can’t they simply leave? Messing with things they cannot hope to understand.”

Tally looked at him. “Britishers live up to their reputation, Nate. Always do.”

How could he explain this to Tally? “It’s more than that,” Nathaniel tried. “The Heart can feel the anger, the territorial pride that drives the soldiers of the British Empire—it can feel everything.” He moved forward again. “We have to put a stop to this.”

Tally grabbed his arm and held him back. “How? We’ve both seen enough to know there’s little men like you and me can do. We do our best, but men with weapons who think they have a right to territory…” He shook his head. “Look at the Indians, at my own people… When the Britishers come calling and claim a land it doesn’t matter who was there first. Always been the same way. Why would the moon be any different?”

Nathaniel narrowed his eyes. “Then what can we do?”

“Nothing, man, only get out of here. These Drobates will hold their own, and from what ya say the marines cannot stop them.” Tally shrugged. “Let’s leave ‘em to it. Sure and it’s not our problem. We got ourselves bigger things to worry about.”

“You are not wrong, Tally.”

In silence the two of them continued up the tunnel, unfortunately drawing ever-closer to the sound of gunfire.

Abruptly the sound ceased.

Both men stopped, Tally looking around confused, while Nathaniel merely nodded his head.

“They’d not have given up so easily,” Tally said.

“No. Shall we see?”

Tally nodded and stepped forward, and suddenly reeled backwards, rubbing his bruised nose. “What the feckin’ hell was that?”

Still smiling, but careful to not let Tally see, Nathaniel stepped forward with a hand held out before him. He could feel it. Like pressing against a smooth wall, only there was nothing before them. An invisible wall?

“Kaskuu,” he said. “This is as far the British Empire goes—no further.”

Tally frowned, his shoulder moving uncomfortably. Nathaniel could feel it, too. A strange itch at the base of the neck. Drobates were approaching from behind. He couldn’t seem them but he knew they were there. The itch was a result of the Drobates communicating with those further down the tunnel—a vibration of the telepathic signal passing between them.

“Help is coming,” he said.

“What are yer talking about, man? I don’t see any…” Tally stopped when he spotted the four Drobates coming up behind them. “Some help,” he whispered.

2.

ANNABELLE HAD ONLY A sliver of a second to swing the butt of the Winchester round to deflect the blade that hurtled towards her face. She felt herself flinch as it ricocheted off the inlaid ornamentation on the stock with the scrape of metal on metal before flying across to skid to a stop on the other side of the room. She looked up.

The well-dressed man with the moustache looked almost embarrassed, and as he flicked his wrist to call the knife back to his hand Annabelle raised the rifle and fired. The shot was true but the old man was still quick. As the chain slithered back into his contraption with the sound of a whip cracking, he dived out of the way. Accompanied by twang and a small shower of sparks the bullet rebounded from the metal wall and took the top hat clean off the other stauncher gentleman. He scrabbled down to join his companion in the sanctuary of an abandoned booth.

“Baxter, you bastard!” yelled George. “Did you just try to kill my wife?”

“Sorry old chap,” came a disembodied voice. “I’m sure she’s a prize catch and all, but nothing personal, what?”

“I’ll kill you myself!” roared George. He fired twice, blindly and out of sheer anger, in their general direction.

“Bedford!” yelled Enderby, just as the metal-encased arm of the brute began to swing towards him. He dived nimbly out of the way and the arm slammed down into the dirt floor, sending up a cloud of greasy dust. This hideous, subhuman creature was still slow and confused, but its sheer power was undeniable. It roared in pain again and righted itself, and just as it staggered for a moment George saw his chance.

He faked going to the brute’s right but quickly dodged back to its left, passing perilously close to the grasping arm of the beast as he ducked underneath it. He dashed across the span of the wrecked doors, his pistol trailed for movement on either side of the corridor, and as he passed it he snatched up the carpet-bag that Baxter had previously gone and so carelessly dropped in the heat of battle, before racing up to join Enderby on the other side of the room.

Annabelle had shunted her leg back into a more favourable position and she quickly hopped up on it, the rifle going straight to her shoulder and trailing around the room for a target. The beast in the middle of the room roared again.

3.

BAXTER PLUCKED HIS TOBACCO pouch from some hidden nook in his waistcoat and was beginning to fill his pipe, sitting calmly with his back towards the carnage unfolding behind him in the foundry.

“Dashed woman almost gave me a bloody haircut,” grumbled Henry, tentatively touching the top of his scalp.

“Rest easy, Mister Henry,” said Baxter, lighting his pipe with a lucifer before shaking it out and tossing the burned end away. “At this rate we won’t even have her death on our conscience. We’ll just let that abominable terror do its work, and mop up afterwards.”

“What about that pup from the Bureau though? If word gets out, Baxter old chap, you and I might find ourselves on their naughty list, and that’s not a very perspicacious promontory.”

“All in due time, Mister Henry, all in due time.” He heard a crash from behind him and a gunshot, before smiling ruefully. “It may yet be a moot point. The brute has not yet finished its work. Now be a good chap and keep an eye out for it, would you kindly? If it looks like it’s coming this way, both barrels, eh? Or rather one barrel, several times.”

“Righty-ho,” nodded Henry, and Baxter returned to his pipe.

4.

TALLY WASN’T SURE HE liked this. The Drobates were guiding them—two in front, and two behind. It seemed to him that they were protecting Nathaniel, finding him a safe passage. They hadn’t been able to go forward, the invisible wall saw to that, but the Drobates showed them another passage, one that, Tally was sure, had not been there a few moments ago. He had questioned this, and Nathaniel explained that it had always been there; it was simply hidden by the mind of the Heart.

Tally had to admit, at least to himself, that he would be glad to be free of the moon. He may not be going mad like those people Nathaniel had told him about, but there was a certain kind of insanity to this place. Like the itch he still felt at the base of his neck. It was almost like he could hear voices. Whatever the Bureau had planned for him next, he hoped it didn’t involve any more aether travel. Earth was a big enough world on its own—had to be plenty of jobs to do there.

“What was that?”

This time it wasn’t the impression of voices, but rather sound of scuttling. Like many feet running through the tunnels. Nathaniel didn’t answer, but then he didn’t need to. The answer became very clear when they turned the next corner.

Selenites, those large ant things, were scurrying past, their heads bowed, barely looking where they were going. They moved with purpose though; as if they all knew where they had to be and didn’t need to see to get there.

“They’re leaving the human’s employ,” Nathaniel said, his voice sounding distant, a dull monotone bereft of feeling. “Humanity’s monopoly on Luna is coming to an end.”

Without another word, not that they had uttered any so far, the four Drobates walked away from them, joining the Selenites in their mass exodus. Nathaniel indicated the way the Selenites had come.

“This way to Otterbein Base. I suspect Professor George is in a bit of a flap.”

At this Tally smiled. “Aye, sure and he would be,” he said, looking forward to seeing the chaos at Otterbein Base. He took some amusement from that. The great British Empire being ousted by moon men and giant ants—how his ma would have laughed!

5.

BEDFORD AND ENDERBY DASHED past the lunging creature into the circle of tables and lighting that had served as Casey’s laboratory. The brute moaned again and lolled around helplessly, angry at itself for losing them in the dark. They found a small enclave and huddled up together in it.

“What’s in the bag,” hissed Enderby. “Laundry?”

Bedford ignored him and pulled the handles open. Enderby’s eyes widened. “Leftovers from Henry and Baxter’s polite little knock on the door,” said Bedford. “Where’s Annabelle?”

“I didn’t see. I think she went after Casey.”

“Some spy you are.”

“Well, she’s your wife.”

Bedford gave him an unpleasant stare.

“Anyway,” said Enderby. “There’s isn’t even enough here to blow a hole in the wall.”

“That’s why we need some of the mineral, to give it a bit of oomph. There must be some around here.”

“Look, Bedford, there isn’t. I looked. There’s got to be another way.”

“Well I’ve got more guns than the French army, if that counts for anything.”

“Either of us on our own wouldn’t stand a chance against Henry and Baxter combined. I say we take down the brute first, then deal with them together.”

“And Casey?”

“Will just have to carry on hoping we get to him before Annabelle does.”

Bedford reached under his poncho and pulled out the snub-nosed double-barrel shotgun from the holster just underneath his armpit. “Right. Seeing as you’re so full of answers, how do we take this thing down?”

“The basement boffins managed to get their lily-whites on Potsdam’s body. Looks like the heart is the weak spot. Problem is, with that much aleksandrite flooding its system you can put a bullet in it and it’ll still keep on coming. Won’t even feel it. It has to be the heart, Bedford. The heart!”

But Enderby has spoken too rashly—and far too loud. The brute twisted around, its ungainly movements cracking joints and sinews and the body twisted around in the cage. It started to lumber towards their hiding position. Bedford got his pistol ready.

“Wait!” he suddenly yelled. “Aleksandrite!”

“I already told you, man. I couldn’t find any.”

“Well maybe because it’s all in him.”

“Bedford, don’t be a fool.”

“All you need to do,” said Bedford, as he pulled out a chunk of the gelignite and riffled around the bag for a detonator, “is get his attention.” He nodded towards the wall flush to the corridor where Henry and Baxter were hiding. “That way,” he said. “It’s an outside wall. Get him to head that way, then I stick this stuff onto him, set the timer and give him a shove.”

“That’s insane, the thing would have to be standing right next to a weak spot to give us a chance!”

“But if the worst comes to the worst, at least we won’t have to worry about it trying to kill us any more.”

“Bit of a moot point if it kills us in the process,” grumbled the spy.

Bedford clapped him on the shoulder in a comradely fashion. “Think of the empire, old chap!”

“Nobody’s any good to the empire dead, Bedford. Not even you.”

6.

FURTHER BACK IN THE foundry’s dark recesses, where oily copper pipes hissed and leaked and the walls were hot to the touch, Annabelle stalked her prey. She was still fairly sure Casey was unarmed, but was nevertheless taking every precaution. Despite his preposterous bulk, the man could clearly move when he put his mind to it, and she wasn’t about to assume it was only excess that rounded his physique—that kind of presumption could be deadly, and in all honesty she didn’t fancy her chances if it came down to hand-to-hand combat. Her agility and guile would only get her so far when faced with a desperate bandit who was probably twice her weight.

She’d bolted after him as soon as she’d seen him run into the shadows beyond his laboratory space, to the furthest area of the foundry where a large furnace gave off a low hum, a spider’s web of pipework running off to feed into valves and large, sealed, cast-iron vats that rattled and creaked from their shoddy construction. He could be anywhere in this claustrophobic maze. She could barely hear herself think with the noise, and the dim light made it easier for him to hid. She took some solace in the fact she could use that to her own advantage too.

She kept one wall of the metal building to her left, cautiously scanning all the recesses and shadowy nooks with the Winchester held before her. Much as she despised the Soup Twins for the crimes they’d committed, she had to admit they had a certain amount of taste where gunsmithing was concerned. When she’d first seen the twins’ modified rifles she’d naturally assumed they were nothing more than showpieces, their obvious wealth and vanity stamped upon their weapons. Now she’d had the chance to use one and see it up close, she could see this wasn’t just some tacky adornment. The gold and ivory that had been worked into the stock and body of the rifle were exquisitely done, but despite that the gun was light and easy to handle. When she’d fired the shot at the assassin who’d killed Eustace, she’d noticed the kickback was far greater than she’d expected so there was certainly some modifications to give the thing an extra kick. Not only that, but the sights and additional scope were clearly the work of a master craftsman. The only person who could miss with such a weapon was the idiot with the money to buy it.

She saw a shadow flit out of the corner of her eye, a darting movement projected into the back wall by the dull flickering of the light that penetrated the gloom from the foundry’s main floor. She leaned back slightly into the darkness, assessing the situation, before crouching forward to stalk towards where she’d seen the movement. From Enderby’s search around the huge metal building, it seemed there was only one route Casey could use to escape, and as far as she knew that was still blocked by two men who were rather keen on ending his life. There was the big door to the balcony, but it looked like that could only be accessed from the mansion. He’d have to double back if he wanted to chance his arm on that route, and get through where the assassins were hunkered. But perhaps there was a secret exit of which only the Twins were aware? If there was, finding Casey before he flew the coop became even more imperative, but if she could discover another way out of this hellhole into the bargain then so much the better.

She knew that, with the wall on her left, somewhere up ahead Casey would run into the outermost corner of the foundry. If he kept on following the wall round he’d just end up back where he started and into the sights of George and Enderby or the two killers. She assumed that wouldn’t be an immediate priority for him, so there was no point rushing into a confrontation and perhaps losing the upper hand.

Weaving in and around hot pipes, and careful not to let her exposed arms touch the scorching metal, Annabelle rounded a corner to find Casey bent double, rooting around a small pile of discarded scrap metal, his ample posterior pointed straight towards her. With the barrel raised threateningly at the back of his neck, she half-cocked the rifle with an ominous click that seemed to raise itself over the persistent thrum and hiss of the boilers surrounding her. Casey started and twisted his bulk around awkwardly, thrusting out his arm to threaten Annabelle somewhat meekly with a dull shard of brass, sheared on one side to form a roughly sharpened edge.

Annabelle looked down at him, fury in her eyes. She took immense pleasure in how pathetic the bandit leader now looked; his immaculate white suit was soiled with smears of oil and patches of sandy dirt, he was sweating profusely and his eyes were filled with a savage, animal panic. He didn’t even seem to notice the trickle of blood running from his palm from where he was gripping his impromptu weapon too tightly. His breaths ran ragged as they were forced through his flared nostrils.

Annabelle fully cocked the rifle. Any trace of defiance bled from the fat man’s face. He blanched, whimpered, and dropped his makeshift knife before scooting back on his behind until his back was up against a large bank of grimy valves and levers used to regulate the immense pressure flowing through the foundry.

“I don’t know what I did to you,” he gasped. “But I’m sorry, Jesus above forgive me but I’m sorry! Whatever I did, I was just doing it to protect the people of my town, I was just doing what Eustace told me to. It was Eustace, all Eustace! All this was his idea! I told him we should stop but he just wouldn’t listen!”

“Save your excuses, Casey. You can work it out with Eustace when you see him in Hell.” She raised the rifle higher so the twin’s greasy forehead was set square in her sights.

“I’ll give you anything! Money! That green stuff, that chemical… Our boss, he…he said it’d be worth its weight in gold, that all the governments in the world would pay you anything for it!”

“The green stuff?” spat Annabelle. “That’s all it is to you? A resource to be traded? What if it was something more, Casey? What if it was holy? What if its value went far beyond the base uses you and your corrupt paymasters used it for? What if it was the secret heart of a community that has outlived your own debauched little cancer of a town by hundreds of years?”

“The Injuns?” babbled Casey. “They’d abandoned it, left the whole thing to rot. We were told it was ours for the taking!”

“Typical greed. Typical entitlement and presumption. Who told you to take it, Casey? Who told you?”

“He said his name was Willie. That’s all I know, I swear! Paid us an emperor’s ransom to mine it for him, but he wanted it all to himself! How could we let that kind of opportunity pass us by?”

“What did he look like, Casey? Tell me what he looked like!” She stepped forward to press the barrel of the rifle into the middle of his forehead, but her anger was to be her undoing.

The twin’s eyes suddenly squinted into spite, and as a malicious smirk unfolded at the corners of his mouth he quickly grasped beside him to scoop up a palmful of dirt which he flung up into Annabelle’s face. Choking and blinded, Annabelle reeled upwards and accidentally discharged the Winchester. The bullet ricocheted from the face of the bank of instruments and flew up into the densely-packed pipes, striking one square on its joint and releasing a huge hiss of steam.

Casey scrabbled upwards and pelted back towards the main area of the foundry as Annabelle dodged the scalding jet of steam, rubbing the dirt from her eyes.

Just as she was about to start her pursuit, she noticed the dials on the bank of valves began to twitch up towards the boldly-marked danger levels as the whine of the engines turned into a high-pitched scream.

7.

DEATH DIDN’T BOTHER HIM; he’d seen plenty of it before. But it was the lack of reason behind these deaths that disturbed him. As far as Tally could see, the Britishers had no right to be on Luna in the first place—they were messing with things best left alone. He probably would never understand most of what Nate had told him about the Thirteen Watchers, but he knew enough to know that the secrets of the universe were not meant for men.

Look at the death it caused.

Lying in the tunnel before them were many dead bodies—both human and Drobates. Although Tally could not help but notice that most of the bodies were dead marines and army. While the few Drobate corpses were riddled with bullet holes, with the occasional bayonet sticking out of them, the men were… Tally had to look away.

It wasn’t just the sight, but the smell. Burned flesh. He gagged.

Nathaniel stood a short distance before him, his eyes closed. Eventually he opened them and looked at Tally with the most serene expression Tally had even seen. “It is over,” he said. “Kaskuu is protected and humanity…” He waved around them. “It’s time they left this world.”

“Aye, they should never have come here, if yer ask me.”

Nathaniel placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Come on, we’re almost there.”

As they gingerly stepped over the corpses, Tally realised that more than anything he just wanted off Luna.

8.

“READY?” ASKED BEDFORD, LOOKING straight into Enderby’s eyes. The Bureau agent gave a shallow nod, readying himself to dart out.

Both whipped round when they heard the retort of the Winchester. Enderby seemed to pause, as if this were good enough reason to abandon their last, desperate ploy to escape—but Bedford simply smiled.

“I knew she’d have everything under control. This changes nothing, Enderby. Come on! This might be our last chance!”

“What if she’s killed him?”

“We’ll all be dead in a minute! For God’s sake man, move!”

Truculent to the last, Enderby glared at Bedford before bolting out of their hiding place into the large, bare area at the centre of the foundry. He was careful to keep away from the firing line of the double doors—out of everybody there, it was Enderby who truly knew how deadly the Scalpel and the Mouth could be. It didn’t take long for the lumbering brute to spot him, and he carefully backed his way towards the exterior wall, keeping an eye on the monster at all times as it made its inexorable, clanking way towards him.

Back in the recesses of safety, Bedford started to prepare the gelignite. He was reluctant to use both of the remaining bricks in case their plan didn’t work and they needed more, and resigned himself to hoping that one would be enough to cause a chain reaction in the mineral that pumped through the beast’s veins. He watched as Enderby backed up towards the wall, all the time muttering something hurried and unheard beneath his breath. Bedford breathed in deeply as the brute advanced—any second now it would pounce, and then it was up to Enderby’s reflexes to ensure he didn’t die by those cold metal hands.

The brute roared and sprang forward; Enderby darted out of the way and the beast crashed forward into the wall, carried by its own ungainly weight. This was Bedford’s chance. He didn’t want to risk setting the timer while he struggled to avoid those unfeeling metal arms, and so he twisted the dial on the front of the detonator a few notches to the right, hoping to Heaven above they marked out seconds. He pelted out as fast as his legs would carry him to where the brute was trying to right itself, wailing and roaring piteously like a wounded dog. Bedford almost felt sorry for the accursed thing as he ran up behind it and pressed the explosive on the skeletal cage that housed the poor, broken soul. Hoping each tick of the timer would not be the last, he wasted no time in sprinting away.

Enderby had just reached the other side of the room, ducking away from the door as a blast of Henry’s buckshot reverberated around the muggy metal space. Bedford’s flight from the explosion was stalled as, halfway to safety, he saw the bulk of the remaining Soup Twin pelt out of the darkened mesh of pipe-work on the other side of the foundry. Annabelle, looking furious as a hellcat and twice as dangerous, appeared from the gloom just a second behind him and raised the Winchester to fire.

“Annabelle, don’t!” roared Bedford.

Casey twisted his neck around to look at Bedford, but Annabelle was not so easily distracted. She brought down the lever underneath the rifle’s stock and the spent cartridge went tumbling away. It was only another fraction of a second before she’d brought the rifle up and taken aim, firing with deadly accuracy.

The Soup Twin tumbled to the ground. Bedford noticed a shrill whining beginning to permeate the air. Boiling steam was beginning to leak from the pipes above their heads; they were suddenly rattling with a worrying urgency. By some miracle, Casey bobbed his head up as if nothing had happened. Nonplussed, Bedford followed his gaze—standing in the doorway was Mister Henry, dazed as if drunk.

The blunderbuss fell from limp fingers as a fresh crimson flower bloomed on his immaculate shirtfront. “I say,” he murmured appreciatively. “Jolly good shot.” He fell to his knees and back into the dirt.

“Mister Henry!” yelled Baxter, scooting up to kneel beside his fallen companion. He readied his arm to fling his scalpel towards Annabelle but she let off another shot, forcing him to duck out of the way.

“This whole place is going to erupt!” yelled Annabelle. “We’ve got to get out of here!” Keeping her rifle trained on the doorway should the well-dressed assassin dare to poke his head out once more, she dashed towards where Bedford was standing.

“More than you know, darling!” yelled Bedford. “Get down!”

Trusting her husband completely, she did so. It was just as the brute had righted itself, dazed and angry, that the detonator clicked into the place and the spark ran into the body of the explosive. With a deafening blast that sent Bedford sprawling to the floor, the unfortunate brute was pulverised by a vast ball of flame tinged an unearthly green. Chunks of hot metal, with ribbons of ghost-white flesh still attached, were blown into the room, scattering and falling in gory lumps on the floor, staining the sand black. The whistles and roaring of the pressuring pipes began to intensify like some vast, maddened kettle. In the recesses of the foundry, the pings and bangs of nuts and bolts forced from their housings could be heard.

Bedford looked back. Where the brute had stood not a moment before a ragged hole had been cleaved into the metal wall. Just broad enough to squeeze through, the warm dusk light streaming in from outside was one of the most welcome and beautiful things he thought he had ever seen.

“Come on,” he yelled, gesturing to his wife and Enderby, “We’ve got to get out of here!”

“Wait!” called Enderby, as Annabelle dashed across and plucked the dazed Soup Twin up by the scruff of his neck. “I’m not finished here!”

The spy sprinted back into Casey’s morbid lab area, ducking great washes of steam from above as he did so. He ducked down beside the operating table for a moment before pulling out a pair of dangling hessian sacks and darting to where Bedford, Annabelle and the now-pliant Soup Twin were standing by the smoking gash in the wall.

“What the hell are you playing at, Enderby?” roared Bedford.

“No time to explain! Come on, come on! Let’s go!”

He ushered them into the fresh air of the outside, just ducking out himself as Baxter’s knife whipped through the air to embed itself in the metal of the wall where his skull had been but a moment before.

9.

“WHERE THE DEVIL HAVE you been, Stone?”

Nathaniel glanced at Tally—they had been so close to his quarters, too. As one they turned to face Professor George. “Doing what I was sent here to do. What has happened here—have I been gone so long?”

Professor George opened his mouth to complain more, but Tally cleared his throat and looked at him pointedly. Nathaniel suppressed a smirk. God bless the power of the Bureau. “Well it would appear that the Drobates have shut the city off to us, and we can’t get anywhere near the Heart chambers.”

“Ah, I see the problem. And what does Major Larkins say?”

“That fool, all he thinks of is brute force. I’ve been here for almost a year and a half, working alongside the Drobates. We all have. If they don’t wish to co-operate there really is nothing we can do.”

“Time to pack up your bags then, Director,” Tally said. “I’m sure yer’ll be recommended for the sterling work ya’ve done here.”

“You’d do that for me, Mister Cahalleret? A recommendation on my behalf?” He leaned in to whisper in a mock-conspiratorial tone. “I hear Bureau types have it pretty good.”

“Oh, we do. And sure I will. Be a pleasure.”

“Oh, thank you! Yes, right.” Professor George clapped his hands together. “I shall get a heliograph together, send my report, recommend we close down operations here. Without access to the Drobates there is nothing of interest on Luna.”

They watched him walk away. “Do not forget the recommendation, Tally,” Nathaniel said. The two of them laughed. Nathaniel was sure they were doing the right thing; they had inadvertently ended the British interest on Luna. Of course, he knew it would not be that simple. Too many had a vested interest in the operation here—they would not let go of their hold of Luna so easily. He turned away. It was no longer his problem. “He was wrong, of course, there is plenty of value on Luna, but thus far only four people here now of it. Well, three, now that Orlondo has left for Mars. Which reminds me, we must find Doctor Kaplan.”

And so they did. It wasn’t difficult. Kaplan was a smart man and he knew when the wind was changing. He was already in the process of making arrangements to leave. But Nathaniel had one last task for him.

“Would you fancy joining a final excavation?” he asked. “I want to take as much jothrick with me as I can. I feel I shall be having much use for it soon.”

Kaplan glanced over at Tally, who was helping himself to a glass of Kaplan’s brandy. “Will you be joining us, Tally?”

“Well, I… Sure and I’d love to. Never excavated anything in me life, but never too late to try.” He downed the brandy in one.

“That’s the spirit, man,” Kaplan said.

“Just one last request, Marcus,” Nathaniel said as they headed out of Kaplan’s cabin. “I cannot tell you why I was sent here, or indeed where I am heading. At least not yet. However, I think your expertise would be well suited to my mission ahead. Possibly the most important venture undertaken by man. Would you be interested?”

Kaplan looked at Nathaniel curiously, and Tally smiled. “Just say yes, feller. Ye’ll be glad you did.”

“Well, yes, then. Why not?”

“Why not indeed!” The three men set off to collect their belongings and commandeer a cutter.

10.

DRAGGING CASEY BEHIND THEM, the trio dashed out in the deserted wasteland of Souptown. A few ragged stragglers were visible just leaving the town on foot. On the horizon, darker specks of refugees, trailers and horses were blots on the landscape made indistinct by the failing light.

“At least they had the good sense to get clear,” remarked Bedford, before turning angrily to Enderby as they ducked into a nearby house. “What’s in the bags?” he spat accusingly.

“My first loyalty isn’t to you, Bedford. Or to your wife, or if I’m honest, the empire. I’m a Bureau man. I don’t expect a simple jack-tar like you to understand what that means.”

Bedford grabbed him roughly by the lapels of his tatty waistcoat, bring the spy close so they were nose-to-nose. “You won’t be a Bureau man much longer after this, you bastard. I’ll see to it you won’t get work as a bloody chimney sweep!” The spy didn’t even struggle in Bedford’s grip; he merely angled his head and gifted Bedford with another of his lop-sided, supercilious smiles.

“That’s an empty threat, Bedford. I’d be delighted to see you try, though. Let’s see who’s the real power here, eh?”

“What’s in the bags?” He shook Enderby again; the spy merely smiled.

“Aleksandrite,” said Annabelle. “It’s Aleksandrite. He wants to bring it back to curry favour with his overseers.”

“You had me risk my life, when all the time…”

“Calm down, Bedford. I’ve still got a report to make. Won’t look too good if I make a note that you can’t keep your temper in…”

Bedford’s fist slamming into the side of the spy’s temple put pay to him finishing his sentence. As he fell, the bags dropped and spilled the glittering green crystals out onto the floor, but there was something else… Something small black and metallic tumbled out of his pocket, its snub-nose and lack of a chamber quite unmistakable. The flare gun they were intending to use to call in the Indian band waiting outside town. Bedford felt revulsion. Had this measly excuse for an Englishman had it on his person all this time?

He pulled out one of his pistols and aimed it at Casey’s head. The broken Soup Twin whimpered. After surviving so much and for so long, he was terrified to find himself staring into a gun barrel for the umpteenth time that day.

“The steam,” said Bedford. “Is it enough to destroy all this? All your tin-pot dreams of despotism?”

“I don’t know,” wailed Casey. “I don’t know, I don’t know.”

“Good enough for me.” Bedford whipped his poncho to one side. The last charge of gelignite had been roughly smeared in the holster underneath his armpit. The detonator gleamed on one side. He yanked it out and stuffed the clay-like brick into one of the open bags of the volatile mineral. “We’ll need more than steam this time,” he said.

11.

BACK IN THE FOUNDRY, Baxter dragged the pale, unresisting body across to the operating table. A man of many skills, he removed his gloves and was busy working on cleaning up the wound in Henry’s abdomen.

“I think I’ve had it, old sport,” spluttered Henry. “Hell’s bells and buckets of blood. I always wanted to die in Antigua.”

Baxter, his eyes never wavering from his delicate surgeon’s work, allowed himself a wry smile. “Nonsense, Mister Henry. We’ll have you patched up and out of here before you can say Jack Robinson.”

“Sure about that? I don’t like the sound those pipes are making.”

“Oh, tish. Getting this lead out of your belly is by far more the pressing concern. We’ve a couple of minutes yet, I’m sure. Now do keep…”

Baxter trailed off as he watched the sack fly through the gap in the wall and land with a dull thump in the middle of the floor. It pitched forward, spilling its contents onto the floor. The powdered aleksandrite spilled into the ground, gritty shards stuck to the sticky edges of the gelignite.

The detonator ticked down, its clockwork timer nearly horizontal. Henry just about managed to raise himself up on his elbows to take it what had caught Baxter’s eye before falling heavily down onto his back with a sigh.

“Buggeration,” he observed.

Baxter stood up straight. “Well, it was a pleasure and a privilege working with you, Mister Henry.”

“You too, old bean. You too. See you on the other side, eh? They’d better have bloody good brandy.”

12.

WITH THE SIZE OF the explosion the flare gun hardly seemed necessary, but Bedford fired it into the sky anyway as a kind of absolution. It wasn’t long before Gopan and his small band of apaches found them on the edges of Souptown where they’d fled as soon as Bedford had tossed the bag into the foundry. At gunpoint, Annabelle had forced Casey to carry Enderby’s prostrate form to the very perimeter of the raggedy town, waiting and watching for the explosion to go off as Bedford belted towards them.

It had been one hell of a bang, taking out all of the squat, metal blister of the foundry and a large proportion of the mansion, the fireball arcing up some sixty feet into the sky. Chunks of rubble and flaming debris were raining down for minutes afterwards, and the force had even been enough to dislodge some of the cliff wall that loomed behind the Soup Twins’ stronghold. A vast rockfall crashed down to demolish what was left of the structure. Thieves, drunks and cut-throats they might have been, but Bedford thanked God the denizens had already fled this desert dictatorship. He just hoped their experiences here had taught them a lesson, and when they reached their next port of call they might adopt a way of life less damaging to themselves and the societies they inhabited. He doubted it, though.

When Enderby regained consciousness he had wasted no time spitting feathers and threats at Bedford for the assault on his person—there was talk of high-level recriminations, and the possibility that Bedford wouldn’t even be able to find work scrubbing pots in the mess. However, when Bedford had dangled the flare gun in front of Enderby’s eyes and archly pointed out that the wilful endangerment of the life of an officer in Her Majesty’s Navy wasn’t looked upon too keenly either, the spy retreated into a petulant silence and the matter was dropped.

Yet when the band made their weary way back to the apache settlement, a mournful pall and sad news awaited them.

Kai, as was her wont, came to greet them. Yet she did not pelt towards the band with a gleeful smile and arms outstretched for an embrace; this time she padded towards them slowly with her hands held together over her heart and her head facing down to the ground.

When she was close enough, Annabelle extricated herself from her saddle and jogged across to the girl, who stopped dead when she heard Annabelle’s approach. The girl had still not lifted her face up, and when Annabelle was close enough she could see that her cheeks was streaked with tears.

“Kai?” asked Annabelle. “Kai, what’s wrong?”

In his heart, Bedford knew. It only remained for the child to tell his wife, a weight Annabelle feared to place on her daughter. It was a time when the young girl would have to lead her mother into sadness, for Annabelle, though she loathed to make Kai face the grim reality of the loss, could not voice the question herself.

“Shiwoye,” mumbled the girl, barely audible. “Shiwoye is gone.”

Annabelle took a breath, choking back the tears. Bedford watched his wife; he knew her, knew that she had to be strong for her daughter. As she pulled Kai close to her so that the proud girl could finally weep with utter impunity, she turned her shoulders around to Bedford.

“Goyahkla,” she said softly, although the words were not necessary. Bedford had understood Kai, and he knew how his wife’s heart now broke. “Geronimo is dead.”

Chapter Eleven

“The Horizons of Truth”

1.

THE GRIEF OF FAILING his ancestor’s sacred duty had all but broken the old apache chief, and when he had seen first-hand how the great green tree his people had venerated had been utilised, his spirit had begun its final, sad decline. Milling around in small, despondent groups, the remaining apaches told how it was not despair that had broken their leader, but a willingness and strong desire to confront the spirits of his ancestors directly, and answer for his shortcomings in protecting their sacred past. He had died as he had lived, bold and brave, willing to face up to his responsibilities, however unpleasant they might be.

Annabelle had withdrawn into herself the moment she had heard. She had spent some time with the body, a custom not extended to George, who was still seen as far too much of an outsider. He was to be buried that night, at an undisclosed location out in the desert, by Gopan and Gopan alone. Though she would have dearly loved to be there, Annabelle knew only too well the importance the apaches placed on such secrecy. She knew she had to put her feelings to one side to respect the customs of the people that had cared for her for so long, even if right now she didn’t care for them one jot.

Still, they had to eat. Enderby was keeping close guard over Casey in a tent set away from the main camp, presumably making arrangements to have his prisoner returned to England for a full, frank and brutal questioning over the true identity of his malignant benefactor. Annabelle had her suspicions, and as she sat on the floor of their tepee and angrily tore the pelt from the carcass of a rabbit for their supper she plotted a deep and terrible revenge.

George, who had hitherto kept his distance out of respect, quietly made his way into the tent. He tried to catch her eye but she firmly and stubbornly kept her attention on her task, refusing to look up at him. They had barely spoken since their return, and Annabelle was not wholly sure she could rein in her temper, should he be foolish enough to try and mollycoddle her.

“Annabelle,” he began slowly, stepping forward and kneeling beside her. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

Annabelle threw the dead rabbit onto the floor and jerked her head up to look at him, eyes ablaze. “For what, George?” she spat, every syllable precise and sharp. “What are you sorry for?”

“Well, your loss,” said George, speaking slowly and carefully. “He was a great man.”

“Oh, go away, George. And take your aimless manners and your feeble platitudes with you.”

“I know you’re upset, Annabelle, but really…”

“Yes, George. Really. Please, just get out of my sight.”

“I will not,” said George, not unkindly. “Not until I’ve at least tried to comfort you, or found some way to do so in the near future.”

“You can’t, George. You’re wasting your time. I don’t even want to look at you right now.”

George stood up sharply. For a moment it looked as if he was about to storm out and leave his wife to her own devices, but he stopped himself and turned on her suddenly. “No,” he said purposefully. “I shan’t. Not until I’ve got to the bottom of this bitter mood of yours. I can understand your grief, dear Annabelle, really I can. But not this perpetual antipathy towards me. You’ve been like it since before we set off to Souptown. I’m your husband, Annabelle. I’ll respect your privacy and your willingness to mourn, but I won’t abide this venom until I know there’s nothing I can do about it, or at least why you’re pouring such scorn on me. What have I done?”

“What have you done?” Annabelle hissed, matching his anger and intensity tenfold. “What have you done?”

She pushed herself upright, slapping him away when he tried in vain to assist her. She strode over to where the fateful object lay, still covered by clothes, in the old trunk. She sent the trinkets that covered it careening around the room as she yanked the blanket from the top and spilled the contents out when the box tipped over. Getting down on her knees she searched about for a moment, sure of the position she would find the desiccated scalp. She yanked it out and held it up to George, letting the leather covering fall gently away.

“This, George,” she screamed, her voice suffused with rage. “How do you explain this? I told you to destroy it! I didn’t want to remember any moment of that day, and here you are parading my shame in my face once more! Have I not suffered enough?” The pain of the revelation was too much for her. She fell back onto her haunches and began to sob. “This place,” she said, feeling like she was talking only to herself. “This place, these people… A wonderful people, but every time I return there is pain and suffering, pain from the moment my parents first brought me here. Am I to damn Kai to live that same life too? Is that a choice I have to make, that she should suffer the same way I did? And you, George…” She looked down at the shrivelled scrap of skin and threw it to one side in disgust. “You saw fit to remind me of all of it.”

George remained silent for a moment, but the sound of his wife in tears soon prompted him to action, and he knelt down beside her. He tried to touch her shoulder but she flinched away. He dropped his arms uselessly down at his sides.

“I’m sorry, Annabelle. Of course I never meant for you to discover it, I should have just thrown it in the rubbish when I had the chance back in London. But I didn’t, because that wasn’t what you’d asked of me. I brought it back here, my love, to bury it as you wished, and I dearly regret ever keeping it in the first place.”

“But why, George? Why did you keep it?”

It was George’s turn for anger to creep into his voice, barking out the answer as if it was obvious. “Because he hurt you, Annabelle. He hurt you so terribly, and… And I wanted to remember. Not your pain, not your past, but the fate that befell him. That fate I swore on that day would befall any man or beast who would dare to hurt you again. The fate of those would seek to damage those who I hold most dear.”

“That’s a facile reason, George. It makes no sense.”

“Doesn’t it?” He nodded across to the corner of the tepee. There, standing upright against the fabric of the tent’s wall was Casey’s customised Winchester, its golden filigree glinting slightly in the dull light. “Aren’t you keeping that for precisely the same reason?” he asked.

Annabelle shrugged somewhat petulantly, but the gesture was as much an admission of George’s shrewdness as it was one of truculence.

“Then you can understand,” he said. “Though much evil in this world goes unpunished, dear Annabelle, some of it does not. With the lives we lead, sometimes it’s good to have a reminder of that.”

She could not fault his argument, and she was far too exhausted—both physically and emotionally—to argue. “Oh, George,” she sighed. “There’s nothing more for me here, not any more. Let’s head home, as swiftly as possible. Will you bury that…thing for me?”

“Of course, my love. Whatever you wish.”

“Whatever?” she asked quietly, finally looking up to gaze at him, reading the compassion in his eyes.

“Whatever.”

“Then I think it is time we gave Kai a proper home.”

2.

THE WIND SENT THE DOG scrambling under the table. Le Boeuf glanced up and looked at the windows. Like a torrent of bullets, the rain hammered in the early morning darkness outside. He had to admit he could feel tiredness creeping up on him, but he had to remain focussed. He still had much to do, and very little time for sleep. Unlike Mortimer who had enjoyed his few hours of sleep and had since been involved in the surgery needed to implant the small device in Fontaine’s neck.

“It is done,” Mortimer said.

Le Boeuf joined him and looked down at Fontaine, who was lying on the table, his back facing them. Le Boeuf peered closely; the incision was clear by the bloodied lines beneath Fontaine’s parted hair. “Very nicely done, James.” He turned away from the table. “Clean him up, and make sure these are given to Delany for the trip back to Kent.” He handed Mortimer tiny green crystals—pure aleksandrite. “Tell him when he returns Fontaine to his room at the home, to make sure these crystals are placed somewhere nobody will look. Their proximity to Fontaine will keep him in a confused state while his neck heals—he will convince himself this was all a dream.”

“Very well,” Mortimer said, and took the crystals from Le Boeuf.

It was a job well done. Fontaine would wake up in his bed with no idea of his short stay in Dartmoor; the staff at the home would be silent, their greed overriding their sense. As for Stone… Once Delany returned from seeing Le Boeuf’s naval agent he would know how to proceed. How best to use Fontaine against Stone.

It was simply a matter of time.

3.

THOUGH THE SADNESS THAT cloaked the girl over the death of her grandfather remained, Kai had taken the news of her imminent departure to England with remarkable aplomb. Nothing, it seemed, truly fazed this girl, the spirit of adventure that ran so strong through the mother’s bones had clearly been passed down to the daughter.

Between periods of gloomy introspection, Kai had quizzed Annabelle relentlessly regarding the nature of her future life. Would she be living in a grand country house? Why yes, she would. Would she be able to hunt buffalo in the grounds? No, dear, you probably cannot. Would she be able to go and see the queen? George had winked at her when she’d asked that one, and told her he’d see what he could do.

In truth, Annabelle was glad she could distract the girl with tales of her upcoming life in England, for it gave her some distraction herself. As they packed their things up slowly and solemnly, she knew in her heart that this was the right thing to do. She would return to Arizona and the apaches one day, she was sure of it, but it was no longer a home for her. The tribe was still mourning the death of their greatest leader, with the conversation and the eyes of the womenfolk dimmed in mourning while the men remained surly and gruff. It seemed likely Gopan was to assume leadership, and Annabelle couldn’t think of a better choice. She knew that, with him and everything he had seen in the pursuit of the tribe’s continued existence, their future was in safe hands. But it would take time for wounds carved so deeply to heal, and the scars that remained would be ugly and prominent.

“Mama, mama!” yelled Kai, bursting into the tent and causing George to start. “Come see, come see!” The girl grabbed Annabelle’s hand and pulled with all her tiny might. George chuckled effusively, catching Annabelle’s eye and smiling warmly as she was dragged out of the flap of the doorway. The smile warmed Annabelle’s heart—her previous reservations concerning her husband’s actions had all but dissipated thanks to his keen knowledge of her character, and knowing they both shared a common bond over the relics of the past they wished to cling to had, in the end, only strengthened the love they shared. It also delighted her heart to see the connection between George and Kai flowering as they spent more time together—he had already had to promise her several times that, each and every night without fail, he would tell her a new story of his adventures in the Navy. Fatherhood, she knew, would suit him well. She only wished he would be about for longer.

As she was yanked out of the tepee her eyes accustomed themselves to the evening gloom. A small fire was burning itself out in the centre of the camp, which seemed deserted. Geronimo’s death was still felt keenly, and would for many moons to come. She only hoped that the camp would one day be filled with lively chatter and spirit songs again.

It didn’t take long to see what had got Kai so excited. Still some miles off, HMAS Intrepid was chundering towards them, the low moan of the engines cutting through the warm air and its dark shadow blocking out the stars. Yet it made its own stars; small lights twinkled and blinked from the prow as it made its way across the plains.

“Am I going to the stars, Mama?” asked Kai.

“Not quite yet, Kai. Not quite yet.”

Further out, beyond the circle of tents, two silhouetted figures could be seen in the gloom. One was fat, his white suit standing out slightly as he rested on his knees with his arms tied behind him and his head hanging low. The other was more difficult to discern. He had changed back into his standard black suit, small wisps of smoke rising gently into the air from his cigarillo. She supposed she had him to thank for the airship’s speedy arrival, but she was in no way going to thank him. She would be grateful, in fact, if she never saw the wretched man again.

His body moved. He looked around in the gloom, picking her out instantly. Though he was wearing his darkened glasses once more, she did not need to see his eyes to feel the intensity of his gaze. After a moment, he turned back again to the approaching ship and continued puffing smoke into the evening sky.

4.

BEYOND THE INNER WORLDS: The Journal of Professor Nathanial Stone (Vol.2) – An extract.

Thursday November 6th 1890.

It is like I know this vessel, although I have not stepped foot on it until today. HMAS Endeavour is an exact copy of her sister ship, Sovereign, the first of a small fleet that is still being built to echo that powerful prototype battleship. It has been ordered to ferry me, and a select group of scientists drafted from Otterbein Base, to Mars where Sovereign herself awaits. She has been there for the past month, undergoing a major refit for the long voyage ahead, including the installation of the new boilers and solar panels designed by Professor Thomson and Doctor Boltzmann. Thanks to my link with the Heart (I dare not write or speak its real name) much of the work done by Thomson and his team can be enhanced by the edwinite; in particular I feel I can increase the productivity of the solar panels by growing wafer-thin cells from pure jothrick. The edwinite will be the power source that takes Sovereign beyond the asteroid belt. Already it is growing into a diamond that I can fit into the cradle lattice inside the aether propeller governor, while further applications of the crystal will be used to increase the steam pressure in the boilers.

Yes, growing and shaping itself into what I need. The Heart confirmed what I had already discovered; all three crystals as one is a natural state for it, one that contains so much potential power that it was intentionally distilled into separate compounds a very long time ago. I suppose I am risking a lot by allowing it to remain in one united form, but we need it at its most potent if we are ever to find and stop Imperator. The Heart also confirmed that it is responsive to telepathic control—it can become whatever it is needed to be. This is why I drafted a list of names for the Admiralty, of scientists I needed for the voyage, and all of them from Otterbein Base. People who have shown some telepathic leanings; they will power the edwinite, act like a control element. Without them it is pretty much just a lump of crystal; I, alas, cannot be everywhere at once.

The hold of Endeavour contains several tones of the Drobate crystals and jothrick, everything Kaplan, Tally and I could put in our cutter before we left Luna. I have already sent a heliograph to Mars and asked for a large quantity of the Chaldrite crystal to await my arrival. It is true that even now the edwinite grows according to my mental urging—indeed, I can see it as I write this, on another table on the other side of my cabin. I do not how much I can grow in the three weeks it will take us to reach Mars, but I suspect I will need extra quantities of the crystals during the mission ahead; thus the crystals in the hold.

I have made a request to the Bureau for the inclusion of Tally on our mission—if nothing else, I think Tooler will agree simply so he has one of his own people on board. They are ever suspicious of each other, the Admiralty and the Bureau. I have also requested the presence of Arnaud, once he is recovered. Again I shall get what I wish, simply because without me the Admiralty knows this mission will fail. There is no-one in the empire who knows as much as I. Not now Folkard is lost, and even then, what scientific mind do they have who has been there since this all began? And, more importantly, they know they put me in this position and so my whims will be met.

My only real regret in this mission ahead is Annabelle… I will miss her; she has been my companion for so long now, a constant source of strength. But she cannot come with me. Not this time.

5.

KAI WAS HELPING GEORGE unpack upstairs when the knocking on the door came. She could hear the two of them chatting away genially as George instructed her where and how things should be properly stored, and Annabelle could not help suppress a smile as she heard him raise his voice to ask her, somewhat nervously, to put the bowie knife down because it was not a toy.

Annabelle skipped lightly down the stairs of their home and opened the door to reveal a courier, just in the process of unstrapping his mask and goggles. A young lad no more than twenty-two, she was momentarily flummoxed when she found the boy staring at her in something approaching embarrassment.

Then she remembered—her hair! She must have looked quite a picture to the lad, and she resolved herself to perhaps arrange a house visit from her hairdresser to neaten it up a bit. A shorter style would have to suffice before it grew out, but she found herself slightly flattered by the soft blush that rose in the courier’s cheeks.

“Telegraph for you, Ma’am,” he stammered. He handed it over, still staring. So to spare him his continuing blushes she thanked him, gave him a shilling for his troubles and sent him on his way.

As soon as the door had swung shut she turned around and tore open the envelope. It was from Nathaniel, and she leaned back against the doorframe to read the missive with an encroaching sense of emptiness.

My Dearest Annabelle,

Apologies in such circumstances seem a moot, if not wholly insufficient, way to mitigate the sadness I feel having to say my farewells to you in such an impersonal manner. I can only imagine the disappointment you must feel that I could not see you in person, but please be assured that my disappointment is yet greater. Yet due to recent developments my research is now at a crucial stage, and I have little time left to me before Sovereign is due to set sail from Mars, and more work than I think is possible to complete to my satisfaction in such a pitiful amount of time. I will not bore you with the details.

I am glad George and yourself returned safely from Arizona, and I hear through the grapevine (it amazes me how fast news can travel) that your daughter accompanies you, and is now to be a firm and constant fixture in your life. This news delighted me; you will make a fine mother, Annabelle, and George a fine father. I dearly look forward to meeting Kai at some point in the future, and wish you and her the very best in the transition into your new lives.

I know, dearest Annabelle, that last year I promised I would look after you, and I fear my conduct in this regard is, and remains, shamefully lacking. It is a point I promise you I will remedy upon my return, and I also promise to do my utmost in finding your uncle and returning him not only to sanity but to the bosom of his family. I know my promises may not carry much weight with you after my failure to ensure your safety on so many occasions, but I shall strive to do my best, as I always have done.

Nothing now remains but to bid you farewell, Annabelle. Not a day will pass on my great adventure when I will not think of you, of the times we have shared, the dangers we have faced and the hope and joy you have brought to my life. If there is one thought that will see me through the dangers I will inevitably face it is the thought of returning safe to you, for you are the light that will guide me back home through the long night of the stars.

With deepest love and fondness,

Nathaniel.

She could feel the wetness on her cheeks. When she looked up, George was standing at the top of the stairs. His presence acknowledged and the deep, private spell of the telegraph broken, he paced down the steps and took her in his arms.

“He couldn’t even find the time to say goodbye in person,” she murmured, taking solace in the strength of his embrace.

“He wouldn’t have done it if his work wasn’t so important,” George pointed out, not unkindly. “The fate of our world may well rest in his hands.”

“I know, George, I know. But once again I find my life has changed in irreparable ways, and in this maelstrom it is only you and he that I feel I can truly rely on. And now I am to lose you both for goodness knows how long. If not forever.”

George held her tighter. “We’ll both return, my love. I’ll make sure of that.”

She stepped back from him and dried her eyes. She loathed the presumed emotional fragility of her sex at the best of times, and was not about to indulge herself in it now. “I shall write him. Will you take it with you and deliver it for me?”

“Of course I will, my darling. But there are other obligations that I must see to first.”

She looked at him and he smiled at her. The well of emotion threatened to bubble up in her again, and only with the greatest effort did she manage to suppress it. How long, she wondered, would it be before he was taken from her, this time forever? She did not feel it was a matter of fate, skill or even luck. It was only a matter of time.

6.

ONCE AGAIN STONE WAS going to be beyond his reach, but he would make it work. Le Boeuf should not have been surprised, Stone had more luck than the devil himself. He had read many reports today—from Arizona, from his agent in the Navy. Everything seemed to be coming together. With Bedford back on Sovereign Le Boeuf knew that it was simply a matter of time before Imperator was stopped. Tereshkov may believe himself indestructible, but after events in Arizona, Le Boeuf had gained a new respect for Commander Bedford. He would be surprised if Tereshkov ever made it back. Indeed, he would be quite happy if Bedford killed Tereshkov. There was little doubt that in some way Stone would return; the man had a surprising survival instinct. All that was left for Le Boeuf to do was wait, to set the gears in motion so when Stone did return it would be to his downfall.

Fontaine would play his part in that. Already Le Boeuf had sent Delany back out again, with sealed instructions for his agent who was soon to return to Sovereign. No-one was beyond his reach—not Stone, not Fontaine.

In the meantime he would keep himself busy, continue to bring the British Empire to its knees. It had been several days since his letter to The Morning Post and so far it appeared the British were controlling the fallout over the gravitar revelation. Unusually every organisation was pooling their resources—the Bureau, the Admiralty, even the House of Lords. It seemed they were better at this than Le Boeuf had expected.

No matter. There were other ways. He had not played his final card yet. There were still ways to cause the British Empire to crumble.

7.

ENDERBY HATED THE BIG Room at the best of times, but it felt it all the more keenly now. There was no room to properly pace, and the space in Tooler’s office was so confining he felt caged, which agitated him all the more. If he did not find some way to vent this spleen shortly, he felt as if he would punch through one of the walls.

“For pity’s sake, Enderby, please sit down. You’re making me nervous.”

He didn’t look it, though. As ever, Tooler maintained his façade of distant and airily wry sang-froid as he watched Enderby shift uneasily from one side of the tiny room to the other. Normally, the agent had a heavy respect for the Bureau’s director, but today his unruffled attitude was only serving to irritate him further.

“We should all be nervous, sir. Things are getting out of control.”

“Ah. No great insights gleaned from our prisoner then, I take it?”

“He sang like a nightingale, sir. No backbone whatsoever, especially when the boys got the pincers into him. Only problem is it seems he knew very little to begin with. He was paid a small fortune by a man calling himself Willie to mine the aleksandrite, whose agents came to pick up the spoils twice a week.”

“And no description of this Willie character?”

“Not a particularly useful one, sir. Tall, dark-haired, strong features. No distinguishing features or discernible accent. Hardly enough for a warrant, is it?”

“Quite. But I do have my suspicions. I take it you have seen today’s Times?”

Enderby dismissed the question with a wave of his hand. Of course he had. Everybody in the Bureau offices had, and Enderby resented this fatuous remark. Once more a “Concerned Citizen” had written to the paper offering evidence of the British Empire’s misconduct. This time, the subject was not gravitar but the exposure of the empire’s continuing presence on Luna—a presence that violated several international treaties. Undoubtedly it was the same individual who attempted to expose Professor Stone and the whole Peregrine debacle last year. There were whispered reports of urgent and secretive cabinet meetings, and already several embassies had been clamouring for answers. The world, it seemed, was losing faith in the British as the harbingers of fair play, and lesser countries were all too ready to take advantage of the empire’s wounded reputation. Many of the empire’s borders had already (if discreetly) been put on high alert, should the unthinkable occur. While such explosive repercussions were not exactly imminent, they were looking increasingly likely should the empire not regain its footing and somehow save face in the wake of the ongoing revelations.

“It’s my belief,” began Tooler, leaning back in his chair and steepling his fingers, “that the Soup Twins’ benefactor and our Concerned Citizen are one and the same. Someone with a deep and pathological desire to destabilise the world order for their own ends. Who else should he target but us, the custodians of the world? Do not for a moment think I am not worried, Mister Enderby. Irrespective of his other transgressions, anyone with the connections and the purse-strings to hire the Mouth and the Scalpel must be taken very seriously. He’s a threat to all of Her Majesty’s subjects. If not the entire world.”

“So what are you going to do about it, then?”

Tooler archly raised an eyebrow. Enderby realised he had spoken out of turn, and could feel his already tenuous position as one of the Bureau’s most senior agents slipping from his grasp. “I’m sorry, sir,” he mumbled.

“You do yourself no favours, Mister Enderby. Remember that.”

“I will, sir.”

Tooler sat forward and idly began shuffling through a few papers on the chaos of his desk, seemingly for no real purpose. “Sovereign’s mission beyond the asteroid belt may well uncover the answers we’ve been searching for. If the Concerned Citizen is in league with the Russians—or at least providing them with their aleksandrite—then it follows there must be somebody in the crew of Imperator who knows his true identity. I think it’s almost certainly information Doctor Grant will have in his possession. We will just have to wait and hope that such a discovery is made and communicated to us with the utmost urgency. Only then will we be able to act.”

“Well, the answer seems obvious to me, sir.”

Tooler chortled softly and looked up over the rim of his pince-nez. “Well, it seems to have eluded my reasoning, Mister Enderby. Would you care to enlighten me?”

“Send me along on Sovereign’s mission. I can be the eyes and ears of the Bureau. Those rum-soaked buffoons in the Navy are totally self-serving—you know damn well they can’t be trusted. Stone’s no better. He’s becomingly increasingly fractious, and you can be sure he won’t do what he’s told or what’s best for us, the Navy or the empire as a whole. Just what he thinks is right. He’s a loose cannon, sir, and if I may speak freely, a bloody supercilious one at that.”

Tooler frowned. “While I agree that Professor Stone’s allegiances appear more moral than nationalistic, his genius is in no doubt, and neither is his capacity to act in the best interests of us all. He might not trust us, but I can say with faith and impunity that I fully trust him. No, Enderby,” said Tooler firmly as the agent opened his mouth to protest. “Let me finish. You are, I might add, quite correct that a Bureau presence aboard Sovereign is wholly necessary. But that presence will not be you.”

“Sir, I have to protest…”

“No, Enderby, you do not. You simply wish to—another of your less than sterling attributes. Professor Stone has been in contact with me regarding this issue, and has requested the presence of Agent Cahalleret for the journey. It is a request I am happy to grant.”

“Cahalleret?” gasped Enderby. “He’s only been with us a matter of weeks! Surely you can’t trust him to…”

“Mister Enderby!” yelled Tooler. It was the first time Enderby had ever heard the director raise his voice, which seemed to echo round the room and leave a cold, hard silence in its wake. “Trust is precisely the reason I have come to this decision. Professor Stone and Agent Cahalleret trust each other implicitly. The same can hardly be said for you—a situation exacerbated by your recent, and, I might add, questionable conduct in Arizona. Oh, yes. I’ve heard all about that. Sovereign’s mission is of the utmost importance for the continued peace and prosperity of the empire and all of its citizens, whose welfare we are beholden to protect. I will not have that peace and so many lives jeopardized by the rash, unruly actions of an impetuous, egotistical upstart such as yourself. Am I making myself totally clear?”

“Yes, sir,” hissed Enderby through gritted teeth. “Perfectly, sir.”

“Good. In any other circumstances I’d recommend an extended leave of absence for you, pending a full enquiry into your suitability as a Bureau agent. But with the state of the world stage as it is, not to mention the increasing pressure placed upon us by various bodies, we cannot afford to let our investigations falter, not even for a second. You’re a good agent, Enderby, but you are far from indispensable. You would do well to remember that. As of tomorrow, you are to begin investigations into the identity of the Concerned Citizen. Your experiences in Arizona qualify you for that, at least. The usual resources will be placed at your disposal, and I suggest you begin by investigating any leads that may come from the Citizen’s recruitment of the Mouth and the Scalpel. I’ll send you the relevant files.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. Is that everything, sir?”

Tooler stared him down for a moment, daring the agent to push him one step further. “No, Enderby, it is not. You are not leading this investigation. You are assisting with it. You will report directly to Mister Boon, who suffice to say will be keeping a close eye on your conduct. You are on a tightrope, Enderby, and a thin one at that. Do not put a foot wrong.” He paused for moment to let the threat sink in. “And that, to answer your question, is everything. You are dismissed, Enderby.” He looked back down to his papers.

Enderby left the room, every fibre of him raging. He wanted to scream. He wanted to punch the wall. But he did not dare do either.

8.

NIGHT WAS FALLING AS the Her Majesty’s Aerial Ship Drake neared the naval aether ship port at Beachy Head in East Sussex. Deep within the ship, in a private room, Bedford sat at a desk pouring over reports and written orders pertaining to his forthcoming mission. His head felt heavy.

He looked up, thoughts of Annabelle and Kai swimming to the forefront of his mind.

They had travelled with him to London, ostensibly to see him off, but while he visited the Admiralty to receive his final orders from Admiral Cavor, Annabelle had taken Kai around London to show her the sights of the big industrial city. He would have given anything to spend the day with them, to enjoy Kai’s first experience of London, but duty had to come first. Nonetheless, once he received his orders and a curious package wrapped in brown paper, he quickly excused himself to spend a couple of hours with his family before HMAS Drake was scheduled to take him to HMAS Empress of India, which was to ferry him and the ‘cargo’ to Mars. The cargo in question being a large amount of aleksandrite from Calcutta—apparently the vein of aleksandrite in Dublin had all but been destroyed by Klopstock’s attempt to kill Stone, and what remained the Irish were holding on to. Not because they knew what it was, but because the British Government wanted it.

Those couple of hours simply were not enough. His heart ached to part with Annabelle once more, this time for what could amount to two years, but he took comfort in the knowledge that she would have the company of Kai. He made her promise to stay out of trouble, but he had no doubt that she would soon become restless and be off gallivanting the aether, taking Kai on the kind of adventures the young apache craved. He had never visited Venus, but he had heard plenty of stories from both Annabelle and Stone about their adventures there and, as he boarded Drake, he idly wondered just what Kai would make of Thymon.

Bedford smiled, remembering his first encounter with Annabelle. April 1889—it seemed such a long time ago. Even then there had been no doubt in his mind that she would become his wife. Although he wasn’t expecting a daughter in process, at least not so soon. But now he had both. Annabelle and Kai Bedford, his wife and daughter. His family.

He was going to miss them terribly. And, deep down, he knew he blamed Stone. Of course, Annabelle had to stay to be with Kai, but Empress of India would also be couriering new officers from the Women’s Royal Navy Service to serve on the mission ahead, and there was even a female scientist joining the ship from Austria. He was glad Annabelle knew none of this—had she known she would have insisted on finding a place for both her and Kai on the mission. Maybe Stone had been right to intercede, but it was the way he had gone about it that rankled Bedford so.

He shook himself out his maudlin mood. This wouldn’t do at all. He was a commander in Her Majesty’s Royal Navy, the first officer on the most important mission the Navy had ever undertaken. He had to focus, prepare himself. He had a few weeks until he reached Mars, and during that time he intended to familiarise himself with the new crew members and the research team that were also being transported to Mars on Empress of India. They would be with each other for a long time, and it would do well for him to know them as if they were his very own children.

He reached for the brown-papered package, and undid the string that bound it. Inside he found a leather-bound book. It was familiar to him. He opened it and a small piece of paper fell out. He lifted the paper and read.

Commander Bedford, my friend and most loyal officer. He paused. Bedford knew the penmanship well; he had read more than enough orders in this hand. He glanced to the bottom of the page.

It was a letter from Captain Folkard. Of course, that’s why he recognised the book. From the many hours spent in the captain’s quarters aboard Sovereign during their last tour of duty together.

Bedford continued to read.

I am entrusting you to my most prized possession. You will no doubt recognise it as my journal—which dates back some four years. I fear I did not enter my thoughts into it as often as I would have liked, but it is the last entry which I need you to read forthwith. It is of vital importance that no-one ever gets their hands on this journal, for the words contained in the final entry could condemn two men. One of whom is most dear to your wife.

Promise me now, George, that no matter what you read, what you hear and see, that you will protect Professor Stone with your life. If not for him, then for Mrs Bedford’s sake. Promise me this, George.

Bedford stopped. Protect Stone? From what? It was true that Stone had, unintentionally, made many enemies since April last year, all in service of the British Empire. The professor was a changed man, but from what did he need protecting?

Bedford opened the journal and flicked to the last entry.

Friday September 19th 1890.

I find myself still awake as the sun rises over London—of course it is not comparable to the sunrises one sees in the countryside, but as light rises over London it creates a nimbus in the smog of industry, churning around twenty-four hours of a day. There is nothing majestic about a sunrise in London, but this one has a special meaning for me. It will be, I fear, the last sunrise I ever witness in England. Indeed, I would hardly be surprised if it is the last sun rise I ever witness.

He had never believed Enderby’s assertion that Folkard was a traitor, regardless of what Grant claimed. Grant was quite clearly insane, much like Tereshkov before him, and Enderby was an arrogant blackguard. And yet it seemed as if the captain knew he would not return from his mission to Severnaya. Bedford continued reading.

A dangerous mission lies ahead of me—Enderby and I have discussed the particulars of the mission with Admiral Hamilton and I foresee a multitude of problems ahead of us. Enderby seems less concerned, but that’s the Bureau for you. I am certain they encourage idiocy in their agents—the willingness to take foolish risks. On the surface it seems simple enough—Enderby and I will lead a small team of Bureau agents to Severnaya, Russia, to uncover the secret weapon they are developing. I have already devised several ways in which I can do this.

None of the above truly concerns me. It is a dangerous mission, of course, but I have served Her Majesty’s Navy for a long time now and I have been in dangerous positions before. No, the mission is not what keeps me awake. It is the knowledge that I will never again see people who I have come to regard as my friends. George and Annabelle are already in Arizona, ostensibly on their honeymoon, but I know there is another reason. No doubt George suspects the same. He is ever a shrewd man—a far cry from the teenager I first met on Raleigh some twenty years ago—and he will know there is more to the hospitality of the Admiralty and the Bureau than there seems to be on the surface.

Bedford smiled warmly. How right Folkard was. He knew that there was more than a honeymoon on offer. But it was this talk of not seeing his friends again that bothered Bedford. As the letter progressed the certainty grew.

Professor Stone is in Ireland, following another lead at the behest of the Bureau, while Fontaine is in Calcutta doing the same. These last two trouble me—I cannot claim a friendship with Fontaine, although I would not consider him simply an acquaintance either. We have served together since February and he has earned my respect, but what I saw only a few days ago… I can barely bring myself to write of such things.

I think of what I saw and I feel only betrayal. At first it was anger, disgust, but by the cold light of day, when I next saw them the following morning I found myself carrying in me a seething resentment. I do not quite understand it. I have been betrayed before—both professionally and personally. It is difficult to have had a career like I and not be betrayed, but this is something different. Of course one hears rumours, tales of deviant behaviour, of the fops and the houses they visit, but to think there were two such people serving with me for the past six months… It beggars belief!

Bedford looked up, a dark fear crossing over his mind. Protect Stone, Folkard had asked…

Stone I have known for well over a year, and it is true that on first meeting he seemed to carry himself with a certain regard, a man of refined language, but I have since come to learn that is merely a sign of his propriety upon meeting new people. I have seen him relaxed, seen him almost on a daily basis for over six months and I never questioned Stone’s lack of attachments; indeed, I seem to recall believing there to be an attraction between him and Annabelle. This has been proven an error of judgement on my part, as witnessed by the wedding of only three days ago. Stone is a man of science, and such men often seem to be married to their work, to the discoveries they make. I have come to consider Stone a friend—I have seen him go through the worst kind of pain, I have protected him, survived death with him. Certainly during our last journey to Mars I began to doubt my opinion of the man, but he once again proved himself during our adventure on Phobos. As for Fontaine…he is French and a scientist, one expects certain things from the French. But not this, never this. It feels as if Stone had been lying to me all this time—deliberately misleading me, feigning an interest in Annabelle to dissuade my suspicions! Oh, what am I saying? Suspicions, indeed! I never had any. Stone has never given me any reason to suspect anything of the sort.

What would dear Charlotte say?

For a moment Bedford stopped reading. This felt too big for his head. He got up and walked the length of his cabin. Stone and Fontaine! Had he had any such suspicions? Had Annabelle? Surely she knew Stone better than any other; they had a friendship going back over two years. They had survived many harrowing ordeals together. How could she not know? Bedford looked back at the journal. Annabelle should have said something to him.

But what of the captain? How did Stone’s deviance relate to his certainty that he would not return from Russia? Bedford retrieved the journal and continued to read as he paced the cabin.

Another reason for my lack of sleep. Ever since I saw Charlotte again I have not been able to shake from my mind the words she spoke to me; “I shall see you soon.” Just one more reason for me believing this to be my last mission. None of us have spoken about the events aboard Esmeralda 2, of the aether tear and our deaths. It is not the kind of topic one can just bring up; but I know it often occupies the thoughts of both Stone and Annabelle. Fontaine I have seen less of since returning to Earth, and he has shown himself to be a master of deceit. But the other two—yes, I see that their experiences have changed them, too. I do not know what it is they saw in Heaven (I find myself laughing at even writing this—but I cannot deny what happened to us), but I suspect that, like I, it was something deeply personal. A lost loved one, no doubt. For Annabelle I imagine it was her parents, and for Stone…perhaps his brother? As for Fontaine—I know little of his history, but it would seem likely he has lost at least one person he loved deeply. For me it was Charlotte, my darling wife who died over eight years ago, but not only did I see her but finally I met our daughter, Felicity. I do not think that any passage of time would be enough for me to come to terms with their deaths—Charlotte, who I had known since we were children, and Felicity, my daughter who I never got to know at all. The weight of that loss has pressed on me every day since, but I carried on, focussed all my energies on my career, raced up the ranks until I became captain of the most advanced aether ship ever built.

Bedford could hardly credit what he was reading. He had known Folkard for twenty years; how could he possibly not know any of this? It seemed as if everybody had been living secret lives while he focussed on his career.

It was my commission on Sovereign the led me here—every event since April last year has prepared me for this final mission. Even know I can feel the tug of the Heart of Luna. It is trying to speak to me. It is never with words, just images, thoughts, things one can barely put words to. And it tells me that this will be my last mission, that it shall lead me back to Charlotte and Felicity.

It hit him suddenly. There was only one reason Folkard would not return. He was dead. Bedford knew it as surely as he knew Annabelle’s love for him. For a few moments longer he continued to pace the cabin, his eyes misting over. Folkard had been so much more than just his captain—twenty years ago he had taken in a cock-sure rating and taught him what it was to be an officer, what the Navy truly offered him. Twenty years of friendship followed, of mentorship. He owed Jacob Folkard everything.

I am all packed, provisions ready. Sovereign is due at 0800 hours, barely an hour away. I should leave, but first I must make certain my journal will not be found after my departure. Normally I would take it with me, but to do so is to risk someone finding it. And there are words here, revelations that would destroy a good man. I cannot pretend to understand how Stone and Fontaine can find love in each other’s arms, but I feel I must not let that lead me to anger, to a feeling of betrayal. Stone and I have been through much, experienced things most will never do. We have both visited Heaven, and I must believe that the peace I felt there, the love that awaits all men there, is enough to overlook the ignorance of men. I feel the British Empire, indeed Earth itself, is standing at a crossroad, that a big change is coming. Something that will force humanity to take a long hard look at itself…

Everything is connected. Man is a speck of sand on a beach. Soon we will all be brought to account for the deeds we have done.

It went against everything he believed in, this revelation about Stone and Fontaine, yet it had been Folkard’s dying wish that he protect the professor. And so he would. Though it may damn him to do so, Bedford would see that Stone and Fontaine be protected from not only others, but from themselves too.

9.

HOW LE BOEUF LOVED the feeling of a job well done. Though his work was nowhere near completion, he nevertheless took no small satisfaction in the way the wheel of fate was turning in his favour—a wheel he had set into terrible motion all by himself. It was the beginning of the culmination of his own peerless ingenuity; the fuse was lit, and soon enough the world would burn.

The report in the Times was typically played down—oh, these British. Always ones to maintain calm and decorum in the middle of a crisis. The way they were relaying the news of the conference was more akin to the parish newsletter than the world-changing event it truly would be—but then again, why play up the importance? It was, after all, the empire who was truly at fault. Le Boeuf was only glad it was he that had brought the British misdeeds to the eyes of the world. A very Concerned Citizen indeed, he thought wryly.

In two weeks, many of the world’s leaders would meet in Stockholm for a frank discussion of the empire’s use—and concealment—of gravitar. Doubtless there would also be several questions raised over the empire’s illegal activities on Luna, which pleased him no end. What an awfully embarrassing situation to find oneself in. The sun might never set on their little empire, but that did not mean there were areas of it that did not need bringing into the light. And what light he would bring! A truly burning brightness.

It was a pity that Klopstock had been forced to remain aboard Imperator, as his protégée, while competent, was nowhere near as aesthetically skilled. Le Boeuf had visited the laboratory to check up on the construction of the device that very morning, and while the design was practically identical to Klopstock’s, it lacked the artisanal touches of the craved brasswork and polished wood that he had taken such pride in. Still, Klopstock would have needed rather more time to add his flourishes on this new aleksandrite bomb—after all, it was so much bigger than the last one.

Le Boeuf was confident that the conference would be a triumph—only not for those who had arranged it. Allowing himself the rare indulgence of humour, he thought how the whole thing was bound to go off with a bang.

A very big bang indeed.

10.

BEDFORD KNOCKED ON THE door gently and waited for an answer. The door opened, and he felt his heart sink a little. Fontaine looked terrible—barely a shadow of the man Annabelle had told him so much about. Bedford felt certain that the good doctor should have remained on Earth, but Rear Admiral Cavor had insisted that Fontaine’s presence was required. It seemed that Stone, for all his propriety, was not above pulling strings when it suited him, which was hardly a surprise to Bedford knowing what he now knew about Stone and Fontaine.

“Are you quite alright, Doctor?”

Fontaine nodded his head feebly. “Soon. Oui, I will be shaped like a ship and in the fashion of your Bristol.” He offered a smile.

“Very well. We are on the final approach to the Mars dock, if you require any assistance I can arrange for a rating to take your belongings over to Sovereign.”

“Thank you, that would be very helpful, yes.”

For a second Bedford studied the doctor’s face. It seemed as if the man was barely there. Nonetheless… “Perhaps you would be so kind as to do me a favour when we board Sovereign? I will be busy preparing for the mission.” He pulled a sealed envelope out of his coat pocket. “If you could give this to Professor Stone I would be most grateful.”

Fontaine took the envelope. “Of course. More sealed orders?”

“No, a letter of some importance, from Mrs Bedford.”

“Ah, oui, Madame Bedford, of course. It is a pity she cannot be here, non?”

“Quite a pity.”

“I will deliver this.” As if to prove his sincerity, Fontaine placed the envelope directly into the inside pocket of his crumpled jacket. He frowned and looked around.

“Something troubles you?”

“Perhaps,” Fontaine said, rubbing the back of his neck, a distant look in his dark eyes.

Really, Bedford thought, what is Stone thinking, bringing the man out there like this?

Fontaine shook his head sadly. “Perhaps I have forgotten something.”

Bedford could appreciate that feeling. He had felt the same for the last three weeks, ever since they had left Earth. It was the first time since joining the Navy that he had ever felt out of sorts while aboard a naval vessel. Something was missing, something more important than his career. “If you will excuse me, Doctor, I have to rouse the other members of your team.”

“My team?”

“Indeed. You have not been informed? Professor Stone has assigned you head of the research team aboard Sovereign.”

This time Fontaine’s smile was genuine. “Mon toujours,” he said, and shook his head. “Non, I have not heard from Nathaniel since over a month. I am very much looking onward to see him again.”

“I see. Well you shall shortly be reunited with him.” Bedford bid him farewell and walked down the gangway. Beneath his feet he could feel the shift in the vibration as HMAS Empress of India reduced speed. Soon he would be on Sovereign, and further from Annabelle than ever. Although he would do his duty, he could not honestly say he was looking forward to seeing Professor Stone again. The man was, rightly or wrongly, responsible for Annabelle remaining on Earth and Bedford was not sure he could forgive him for that. Yes, he would do as Folkard had asked, but it did not mean he had to be Stone’s friend.

Epilogue

1.

December 27th 1890.

NATHANIEL COULD FEEL IT all around him. The edwinite—it wasn’t sentient, but he could nonetheless feel its presence as surely as if it was someone standing next to him. He stood next to a porthole, looking through to the asteroids that slowly passed by them.

This was an historic moment—the day the British Empire finally broke the asteroid belt. Certainly the Russians had beaten them to it, but it didn’t take away from the achievement. He imagined Captain Theobald and Commander Bedford on the bridge congratulating themselves, spreading the praise throughout Sovereign. In the engine room Chief Boswell and his engineers would be maintaining the aether propeller in awe of the power being harnessed, eager to learn more about it, questioning but accepting that two scientists would be needed in the engine room at all times. In the research lab he expected Arnaud’s team would be getting more excitable as the moments passed. Tally was, once again, in the sickbay, complaining to Doctor Beverly about his dickey tummy—would Tally ever adjust to the long weeks cooped up inside Sovereign? It was a pity that Annabelle could not be here; she had been such a big part of getting them to this point, but she had a daughter who needed her now. She may not be happy to be left behind, but soon Kai would help her come to accept the decision Admirals Hamilton and Cavor, and Mister Tooler, had made on Nathaniel’s behalf. She may even learn to forgive him—one day.

Soon Sovereign would catch up with Imperator—Grant knew nothing of the crystals from Phobos, knew nothing of the true power of the combined edwinite. Sovereign harnessed something Grant couldn’t even conceive of, knowledge Kaskuu had chosen to hide from him. Sovereign would reach new speeds, shorten the distance, bring them ever closer to Plypolyplon…and so much more. Humanity had no idea what awaited them.

Nathaniel smiled, but it was not the smile of success, it was the smile of hidden secrets—secrets only he and Kaskuu knew.

2.

A SMALL FLEET OF Navy flyers, led by Endeavour, rested on the near side of the belt, an honour guard to see off the pride and hope of the British Empire. Hundreds of eyes watched Sovereign vanish into the depths of the Solar System, as it daringly voyaged where no British subject had ever gone before.

The End

Next

The Draco Eye by Sharon Bidwell

Afterword

“Putting the ‘Beyond’ in Space: 1889”

“This was an historic moment—the day the British Empire finally broke the asteroid belt.” A truly apt phrase for the third season of Space: 1889 & Beyond. This third season is the one I’ve been aiming for from the moment I first told Jay Hartman, Editor-in-Chief of Untreed Reads, about the Space: 1889 property when he first mentioned he wanted his company to delve into the ever-growing universe of steampunk. Actually, no it goes further back than that, at least four years before, to 2006 when my audio play The Lunar Inheritance was released as the final chapter of Noise Monster Productions’ Space: 1889 series.

As most of the readers will no doubt know, Space: 1889 started in 1988, the brainchild of Frank Chadwick and his team. For little over twenty-five years it has continued, covering everything from role playing games to audio plays and, now, an ongoing series of Victorian Adventures. He and his team created a very diverse universe, inspired by all kinds of classic fiction, everything from HG Wells and Jules Verne to Edgar Rice Burroughs, a universe set largely on the inner worlds—Mercury, Venus, Luna and Mars. But never the worlds beyond the asteroid belt—Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, Neptune, Erebos (our chosen name for Pluto, since it was not named in 1890—Erbos was chosen because it is the Greek personification of darkness, and Pluto is furthest from the sun, and it was one of the original names suggested when Pluto was discovered).

And so, when I first suggested the series to Frank at the tail end of 2010, one of the things I wanted to do was take the property beyond the asteroid belt. Frank was happy with this, as long as it was earned. This was going to take time—new technologies needed to be invented, new methods discovered. And so my end game was set in motion; two seasons to earn our right to explore the worlds beyond the asteroid belt.

Along the way we’ve done some great things; created a series of adventures with many ongoing plots and character arcs, weaved together many different threads and looked at a whole host of themes. Indeed, we’ve also done a few things that were not, and are still not, readily apparent on first reading. We’ve taken risks, pushed the boundaries of the property, and completed the arc of two key characters (as you’ll know if you’ve read this book before reading this section). Season three will bring you all of these things, and more besides, including all kinds of new characters, new aliens, new planets… There are secrets beyond the asteroid belt, mysteries beyond anything mankind has ever uncovered before. And, perhaps, the answer to that age-old question; why am I here?

We hope you enjoy the journey in season three. This is where it’s all been heading… And we’re still not quite there yet.

Thank you to everybody who has helped us get to this point. For creating the property and trusting me with it—thank you, Frank Chadwick. For having faith in me and letting me get away with so much—thank you, Jay Hartman and KD Sullivan. For developing the series with me; my authors—thank you, KG McAbee, Mark Michalowski, L Joseph Shosty, Joe Wilson, Sharon Bidwell, David Parish-Whittaker, Steven Savile, Christian Mansell, Tom Sanford and Jonathan Cooper. For the wonderful cover art—thank you, David Burson, Adam Burn, Lukas Thelin and Tom Webster. For the brilliant revised logo—thank you, Steve Upham. For renders—thank you, Andrew Orton (Sovereign) and Mateen Greenway (Imperator and new cutters). For proofreading—thank you, Sharon Cole and Joe Quintana. And, of course, the biggest thanks go out to all our loyal readers who have supported us on this journey. THANK YOU!

And the best thing is, we haven’t finished yet, so let everybody know—we’ve a long way to go!

Andy Frankham-Allen

Wales UK, July 15th 2014.